#challengers x reader

[saintzweig]

you've had a crush on art donaldson since the day you joined the stanford tennis team during your first year, while he was in his second. and with his charming boy-next-door personality, it was no doubt that everyone else had a crush on him.

you were in the same friend group, all within the tennis team. he was nice and sweet to you, but he was nicer and sweeter to everyone else. everytime you'd hang out, he would always be flirting with atleast one person in the group but never with you. at first you came up with reasons, maybe it was because you joined the group last, maybe it's because he doesn't know you as well as everyone else, maybe it's because you're younger.

if someone says that they're cold, art is pulling them closer or giving them his jacket to warm them up but when you do, he only offers to turn up the thermostat. someone's thirsty? they're free to drink out of his bottle but when you are, he only offers to fill up your bottle for you.

okay, maybe you're overthinking this but as time goes on you're starting to feel like he's deliberately leaving you out, maybe you did something to him? maybe you did something he didn't like.

but you've been nothing but nice to him, always striking up a conversation and asking all about him. perhaps you were too nice that it weirded him out.

so with that conclusion, you decided to avoid him. staying busy and far during trainings unless you two were grouped together, and when you are you barely spoke a word. excusing yourself from hanging out with the group, telling your friends that you're too busy with school works at the moment. only saying yes if you know he isn't coming, and when he catches up you just do your best to sit as far away from him as possible.

you didn't know it yet but it upset him, tashi knew though. she pulled you aside while you were at a diner after practice. "what's going on between you and art?"

"huh?" you tried to play dumb, but really there was nothing to play about consider you don't know anything but your side. "nothing?"

"you've been avoiding him, why?" you only gave her a sheepish look, which then implied that there was something.

"i'm not, and isn't he your boyfriend? he's always with you and whatnot" you really didn't mean to let the bitter tone slip as you replied to her. she only laughed as if the dumbest thing just came out of your mouth, "i'm dating his best friend, he's like that with all his friends"

so maybe you're not his friend, "oh"

before she can say anything else, art came up from behind, placing his arm around tashi's shoulder. "just paid the bill, you're riding with me, tash?"

she locked eyes with you before shaking her head, "nah, i'm catching a ride with the girls. she can ride with you" she nodded her head towards you, and your heart broke at the way his expression changed. was it discomfort? disgust? disappointment?

"oh, that's alright. i'm taking a cab back to campus" you swallowed the lump in your throat. tashi only elbowed him at the side, prompting him to say something.

"no, no i can drive you, it's fine" and that's how you ended up on his passenger seat, blinking away your tears as you faced away from him. it was awkward, maybe that's understating it. art's drumming his fingers on the wheel, you can't see it but he looks like a fish trying to figure out what to say to you and backing out the last second. maybe you're asleep? he can't see your face that well.

until you accidentally let out a sniffle, art's head whipped towards you. "are you– are you okay?"

you really tried to keep it in, there's nothing more humiliating than scaring the boy you've liked for years by crying out of nowhere, while he was driving you back to your dorm. his question only drove you to sob harder, your hands pressed against your face to hide your tears from him.

"y/n?" you only shook your head, hiccuping as you sob. you don't even know what you're crying about anymore but you can't stop.

art breathes out of his nose, pulling over the side of the road before facing towards you. "hey, look at me?" you sniffed, refusing to turn to him. god, you must look like a mess right now.

you quiet down at the sound of his sigh, your sobs fading and replaced with hiccups. how could you face him now?–

art grabs your wrist gently and pries them away from your face, well, there goes the answer to your question. his eyes scanned your tear stained face, the way your eyes look up at him through your wet lashes, your nose red and lips plump. he could barely let out a word at the sight "i–"

you cut him off, "i'm sorry" you sniffled, "i didn't– i just"

"hey, it's alright" he pushes the hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. even in your state, you couldn't help the way your stomach fluttered at the gesture. this is the first time he's been this close to you after all, probably not with everyone else. has he done this with your other friends? is this how he comforts them when they cry out of nowhere? they're probably not stupid enough to cry like this, they probably don't even have any reason to–

your thoughts were cut off as he lowered his face to meet your gaze, "y/n? y/n?" you blush, shaking your head and pulling away from his touch. "sorry, just zoned out for a sec" you wipe your tears with the sleeve of your shirt, and art frowns in the driver's seat.

"what's going on?"

"no, nothing. i'm just tired, had a long day i guess" you laughed it off, only to come out as a weird noise that further embarrassed you.

"is it me?" his voice sounded smaller than usual, defeated even. your head whips towards him and he looks so ... anxious? "you've been avoiding me"

"i– no?" he scoffs, his fingers anxiously tapping on the wheel. "i just– fine, i have been avoiding you" you sighed, you figured since you've already embarrassed yourself by breaking down in front of him, you might as well do this now.

"it's just ... how come you're nice to everyone but me?" he raises an eyebrow at your question, "am i not nice to you?"

"no, i mean ... well, you're kind of ... flirty with everyone ... and it's making me feel left out" you wish the seats would swallow you right then and there.

"oh"

oh.

should you get out of the car and just walk to your dorm and leave your friend group and maybe leave stanford and maybe leave your tennis dreams behind?

"i'm sorry" art ducks his head, "i didn't mean to? i mean, no i did– not that i was purposefully leaving you out– well, i was but i didn't mean to make you feel left out, i just–" he sighs, dropping his head onto his hands. "i didn't want to make you uncomfortable, and my friends know me well enough to know that it's never serious and i don't want you to think that as well"

now you're confused, "you don't want me to think that you're never serious?"

"i mean, if– when i do flirt with you, i don't want you to think that i'm just playing around" he lifts his head and meets your eyes.

"and i just get really nervous around you that it makes me all jittery and i don't know, i was scared that i might end up doing too much and you'll think i'm weird so i just ... don't."

you shake your head in disbelief, "wait, back up– what do you mean you don't want me to think you're just playing around?"

he shifts his gaze and ruffles the back of his hair, "i know this is really stupid and you might hate me for it but i've actually ... i actually have a crush on you"

"and i know it was cruel of me to flirt with everyone right in front of you and i have no good reasons for that, a part of me thought that maybe you'll initiate something because i was too much of a pussy so i'm really sorry ... and you can call me stupid and dumb for as long as you want ... if you'll still have me?"

you stare at him in disbelief, but the way his usual charisma is gone and is replaced by a jittery and blushing art led you to believe that he's sincere. "so i can call you my idiot?"

[parkerluvsu]

day 15: begging <3 (aka what i think art says during sex)

"you smell so good. how do you always smell so good"

"just use me.. please just use me i only wanna make y' feel good.."

"i’m sorry.. i’m sorry, it’s just- fuck.. god, you’re so tight-"

"so good.. so good.. i love your pussy, fuck - thank you - thank you"

"fuck it feels s' good.. hold my hand, please"

“ah..ah..ah feels so good, oh god. ‘m not gonna— fuck, not gonna last long.”

"i need it, i need it s' bad.. please lemme have it.."

"can I cum.. please, fuck, i need it, need it.. you.. fuck, please?"

“can i please? oh god, please, i need to come, i wanna come for you.."

“is this good? am i doing good?”

“i love you, i love you, i adore you, i need you.. don’t leave me”

"'m sorry, im cumming inside you, im cumming, im so sorry.." <3

[myladybelle]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter sixteen

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬����𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 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: 9.9k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, reference to reader wearing a dress at one point, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: alright lovelies, this chapter reeeeallly love triangles hard. that’s right, it’s the famous sauna scene and we will be going back and forth in time so keep your eyes peeled for the date changes!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗.

The sauna door creaked open, letting in a brief gust of cool air before it swung shut. Art, seated on the bench with a towel draped over his head, felt his heart thud heavily against his chest as his fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of the bench, freezing at the voice that followed.

“Can you do me a favour?” Patrick’s tone was casual, yet it carried that familiar edge—cocky, confident, a touch too rehearsed. Art’s eyes flickered with recognition, yanking the towel off his face, but he stayed silent. Patrick smirked, stepping further inside and closing the door behind him. “Can you not, like, demolish me tomorrow?”

Art tried not to betray the slight shock of seeing his former friend standing there. Beads of sweat clung to his brow, trickling down his temple in the suffocating heat that seemed to press down on his chest. The stifling air felt thick, making every breath a conscious effort and sending a constant prickle of irritation across his skin. The heat amplified the tension in his body, his heart thudding heavily as though matching the oppressive pulse of the sauna. Patrick’s grin widened, closed-lipped, as if he’d expected that exact reaction. 

“Hey,” Patrick said lightly. He clapped Art on the shoulder as he propped one leg up on the bench, leaning in too close for comfort. “Congrats on being a Phil’s Tire Town Challenger finalist.”

“Yeah, you too,” Art replied, his tone just shy of sincere. His fingers curled into a loose fist on his lap, his knuckles slightly whitening. 

“Hopefully, the wind dies down before tomorrow,” Patrick went on, undeterred, “and we can have a fair fight.”

Art shifted along the bench, putting a sliver more distance between them. The wood beneath him felt slick with sweat, the heat intensifying his irritation. “Yeah.”

Patrick sighed and crouched slightly, leaning in again. “Art. Come on.” His voice dipped lower, almost coaxing. “Can we talk?”

Art met his gaze with a neutral expression, his voice calm but cutting. “Can you put your dick away?”

Patrick chuckled, glancing away briefly before locking eyes with Art again. “This is a sauna.” He shook his head, amused, and Art allowed the faintest smirk to twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Look, we’ve been here a week and we haven’t said two words to each other. It’s silly, man. It’s dramatic.” Patrick walked to the adjacent bench and sat down, draping a towel over his lap. One leg stretched out toward Art, the other planted firmly on the floor. “I mean, really, why are you so angry with me?” He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. Art folded his hands and stared at Patrick, unimpressed. “Look, I don’t buy that it’s because of Tashi, or what happened to her. I think maybe you’re still just really disturbed by the fact that she and Y/N could’ve been into someone like me.”

Art’s gaze didn’t waver. Hearing Tashi and your names leave Patrick’s lips made his blood boil, but he refused to give Patrick the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. A droplet of sweat traced its way down his cheek. 

“When we were practically still teenagers,” Art pointed out.

Patrick blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “Huh.” Patrick’s smile turned devilish, echoing Art, “When we were practically still teenagers.”

𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍’𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟐.

The stadium erupted in deafening cheers as you stood tall, racquet still in hand, your chest heaving with adrenaline, sweat soaking through your hair and clothes. The crowd roared, chanting your name, but you barely heard them. You were too focused on the feeling that surged through you—relief, triumph, but also something else. A deep, gnawing emptiness.

A male voice cracked over the loudspeakers, his words trembling with awe, his elation palpable as he shouted into the mic, unable to contain his amazement. “And there it is! Y/N Y/L/N—she’s done it! She’s completed the impossible! A Calendar Year Golden Slam! She’s won all four Grand Slams, and the Olympic gold, in the same year—something only one other player in history has done! This is history! She is now one of the greatest players the world has ever seen!"

A woman’s voice followed, breathless, her tone filled with disbelief as she struggled to comprehend what they had just witnessed. The emotion in her voice was raw, tinged with admiration and shock. “Absolutely incredible! Y/N Y/L/N, at just 24 years old, has redefined the sport. To do what she’s done—winning the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon, the Olympic gold, and now the US Open, all in the same year—this is beyond anything we could have dreamed of. She isn’t just a legend in the making, her name will go down in history forever!"

The sound of their voices faded into a blur, drowned out by the sound of the crowd’s relentless applause. You dropped to your knees, your racquet falling from your hand, landing on the hard court beside you. Your face crumpled, the floodgates opening. Tears streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the court, your chest hitching with each sob.

They weren’t the tears of a champion, though. It wasn’t just about the accolades, the records, the headlines.

You were alone. Alone in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. Your eyes scanned the stands, your heart sinking as you realised there was no one there. No family, no friends. Even your dad—who had promised he’d be there—couldn’t make it. He was with your grandmother, tending to her medical emergency, and you couldn’t be more alone than you were right now.

The sobs turned more jagged, more raw. The truth was, you weren’t just crying because of your accomplishments. You were crying for everything you’d given up, for all the moments you let slip by. For the silence that sat heavy in your chest when you thought of Tashi, of how everything you thought you had with her came crashing down the night you found out about Tashi and Patrick. How Tashi’s words from Stanford echoed in your mind: “You’re going to be fucking miserable, and you’re going to hate your life just as much as your mother hates the fact that she had you.”

You sobbed harder, clutching the ground, feeling the weight of it all—the broken pieces of your heart, the pieces of yourself you hadn’t even known were broken until then. Tashi’s betrayal. Patrick’s disregard. The ones who walked away or stayed just long enough to hurt you, and then vanished.

Your mind drifted back to Art��the one who truly stood by you. The one who could have been it. You remembered how you were supposed to fight for each other, but you let him go. You let him go because of how the end of your friendship with Tashi had broken you. And now here you were—holding this huge accomplishment, yet it felt like a hollow victory, a shadow of what you wanted. Because you didn’t have anyone to celebrate with.

And then there was Patrick. Patrick, who proposed to you, and whom you turned down, convinced you weren’t ready. You couldn’t see it at the time, couldn’t see that the life you wanted was right there, that someone was ready to stand by you. But you turned it down, and now you were here, kneeling on the court, the applause of the world ringing in your ears but not in your heart.

Everything you’d sacrificed, all the love you’d let go, it hit you all at once. Your whole career—these trophies, these titles—were pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t fit together, no matter how hard you tried. The golden trophies, the fame, the fortune... they couldn’t fill the hole inside you.

The crowd continued to cheer, but you didn’t hear them. You didn’t see them. You didn’t see anything but the emptiness that echoed in your chest. You didn’t feel like a champion right then. You just felt... alone.

The tears were a quiet, desperate thing now, and the world had no idea.

Later that night, you sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, your knees tucked tightly against your chest, your arms wrapped around yourself like a shield. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the silence felt almost suffocating. The faint hum of the city outside barely penetrated the thick walls of the hotel room. It was as if the entire world had gone to sleep, and you had been left alone in your own chaos.

You hadn’t expected to feel like this. You had just made history. You had just achieved the unthinkable. The Golden Slam. Four Grand Slams, Olympic gold. It should have been the happiest moment of your life, the pinnacle of everything you’d worked for. But instead, it was just another hollow victory, another trophy to add to the shelf, another achievement that felt like it belonged to someone else.

The weight of it pressed down on your chest, the emptiness expanding with every breath you took. You had told yourself you’d be fine. You had told yourself that you could handle this, that the fame, the success, would fill the spaces where nothing else had. But it wasn’t enough. Not without someone to share it with. Not without the people you loved, the ones who had walked away or who you had let slip through your fingers.

After the interviews, the pictures, the party celebrating your victory, you had retreated to your hotel room, needing the silence, needing space to breathe. But when you closed the door behind you, it felt like stepping into a void. You had crumpled against the wall, the tears coming too fast, too overwhelming to control. You’d stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over you, hoping it would wash away the ache, but it only seemed to make it worse, the sobs shaking your body, the hot water mixing with the salt of your tears.

Now, you sat in the oversized Stanford t-shirt that belonged to Art in college, the soft cotton comfortingly familiar but not enough to ease the pain. You wore the plaid boxer shorts that had belonged to Patrick, the ones he’d left behind at your mother’s house after you broke up, and you hated yourself for keeping them. They felt like a betrayal, a reminder of a past that was both yours and someone else��s.

You wiped at your eyes, smearing the tears on your cheeks.

The knock at the door startled you, and for a second, you sat frozen, unsure if you had imagined it. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, but your eyes were still red and swollen from crying. You didn’t want to answer it. You didn’t want to see anyone, not now, not like this.

Another knock. More urgent this time.

You exhaled a shaky breath, rubbing your face once more, and stood, almost reluctantly, to cross the room. You walked to the door, your heart thudding erratically in your chest. You didn’t know who it could be.

With a deep breath, you swung the door open.

Patrick stood there, his hand raised to knock once more, his expression soft, hesitant. Your breath hitched in your throat. You didn’t know whether to scream, to slap him, or to fall into his arms and let everything out. It was a gut reaction, something you had trained yourself not to feel for so long—resentment, anger, pain, mixed with the overwhelming need for comfort. The betrayal still stung, fresh and sharp in your mind, but the sight of him was enough to break down all the walls you had built.

You felt the tears start again, hot and sudden, and before you could react, his arms shot out, pulling you into him. Patrick didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around you instantly, like he had been waiting for this moment, and caught your weight as your knees buckled. Patrick’s touch was warm and steady, and you clung to him as if he were the only thing anchoring you. Your face pressed into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the familiar smell of him—cologne and something else you couldn’t place—filling your senses.

“I hate you,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt, your breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I know,” he murmured, his hands running gently over your back. “You have every right to.”

You didn’t know if you could hate him anymore. You wanted to, you really did. But as much as he had hurt you, there was still a part of you that never learned to stop loving him, to stop wanting him.

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “Not after everything...”

Patrick’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt protective, comforting. It was everything you hadn’t realised you needed. It was everything you had been yearning for but hadn’t known how to ask for.

“You don’t have to be,” Patrick said softly, his voice low, almost a whisper. He brushed your hair from your face, his fingers gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were red and raw from the tears, but you still saw the same Patrick you’d known—the one who had always known when to show up, when to be there, even if it was never enough.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were red and raw from the tears, your cheeks flushed, but you still saw the same Patrick you’d known—the one who had always known when to show up, when to be there, even if it was never enough. Even if you never let him be enough.

“You came,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as though you couldn’t believe he was really here, that after everything, he was still the one who’d come.

Patrick brushed away the tears that had started to spill again, his thumb gently caressing your skin, his touch soft but full of purpose. “I’ll always come when you need me.”

Your heart twisted, and for a moment, you thought you might break apart completely. You hadn’t realised how much you needed him until this very moment, until he was standing here, holding you, offering you a kind of solace you couldn’t get from anyone else. You were scared, so scared, that this might be a moment you would regret later, but it didn’t matter right then. You didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

You didn’t know why your feet stayed planted, why your hands didn’t push him away. You could feel the heat radiating off Patrick’s body as he stood so close, his presence as solid and familiar as it was agonising. Every part of you wanted to scream at him, to hurl every piece of bitterness and betrayal you carried straight into his chest. And yet, you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The silence between you was thick, weighted with too many memories.

Patrick’s eyes, those warm deep green-blue eyes that you used to know better than your own, searched yours, but for what, you couldn’t tell. His hand hovered near your shoulder as if he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. The hesitation in his movement sent a pang through your chest. He’d never been hesitant with you before. Patrick had always been certain, steady, and unshakable—the kind of person who knew exactly how to reach you, no matter how far you’d tried to run.

“Y/N,” he said softly, your name barely more than a whisper. The way he said it, like it still meant something to him, unravelled you.

You hated the way your body betrayed you. The faint tremble in your hands, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your skin prickled under his gaze. It was like your body remembered him even when your mind begged it not to.

Patrick took a small step closer, and you felt the distance between you collapse. His scent hit you first—clean, with the faintest trace of cedar and something that had always been uniquely him. Your throat tightened, a lump rising you couldn’t swallow down. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, but it didn’t help. Being this close to him, you felt like you were being pulled into the past, into a time when his touch had been your sanctuary, not your torment.

“I saw you out there,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I was in the stands. You were... gorgeous. My gorgeous girl.”

You looked away, your lips pressing into a thin line. Compliments felt like daggers, sharp and undeserved. You didn’t want to be gorgeous. You wanted to be whole. You wanted to go back to a time when being you meant more than trophies and records.

“Don’t,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “Don’t say that like it means anything.”

Patrick’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushed your arm—light, tentative, as if testing your reaction. Your skin burned where he touched you, the contact igniting a million sensations you didn’t want to feel. Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Y/N,” he said again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to, but your eyes betrayed you, flickering up to meet his. The sight of him up close was almost too much. His face was achingly familiar, and yet time had changed him in ways you hadn’t expected. His hair was a little shorter, his jawline littered with faint stubble, but the look in his eyes—that deep, earnest intensity—was exactly the same. It undid you.

“It still means something,” Patrick said, his hand sliding down your arm to your wrist, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch sent a jolt through you, your heart slamming against your ribcage.

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It doesn’t,” you choked out. “Not anymore. Not after everything.”

Patrick didn’t let go. Instead, his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. It was such a small, quiet gesture, but it shattered you. Your pulse quickened beneath his touch, your body reacting instinctively, pulling you back into the ghost of what you used to have.

You felt yourself trembling, your breaths coming shallow and uneven. “Why are you here, Patrick?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Because I knew you’d need someone,” he said simply. “I knew you’d be here, alone.”

The honesty in his voice cut you like a knife. It was the kind of thing Patrick had always been able to do—cut through all the noise and say exactly what you needed to hear. You wanted to push him away, wanted to tell him that you didn’t need him, but the words wouldn’t come.

Your hands, almost of their own accord, found his chest. The solid weight of him beneath your palms sent a wave of longing crashing over you, so strong it nearly knocked you off your feet. You hated him for being here, for making you feel like this again. But more than that, you hated yourself for letting him.

Patrick’s hands slid up your arms, his touch firm but careful, like he was afraid you might break. His fingers skimmed your shoulders, then settled on either side of your face, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t look away. The warmth of his palms against your cheeks was too much. It was everything.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice trembling now, heavy with something you couldn’t name. “I’m so sorry.”

Your lips parted, a soft, shaky exhale escaping you. His apology hung in the air between you, unspoken for so long that hearing it now felt like reopening a wound that had never fully healed.

“It doesn’t change anything,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

“I know,” Patrick said. “But it’s true.”

Your eyes searched his, and for a moment, you thought you might drown in them. The longing you saw there mirrored your own, and it was unbearable. It was everything you had been running from, everything you had tried to forget.

Your heart ached, a physical, visceral pain that spread through your chest as his thumb brushed away the tear that rolled down your cheek. The gesture was so tender, so familiar, that it left you breathless.

The tension between you was suffocating, the air thick with everything you couldn’t say. You could feel your resolve crumbling, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. You leaned into his touch without meaning to, your body betraying you again, seeking the comfort you knew you shouldn’t want.

“Why do you still do this to me?” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Before you could think twice, you pulled him into a kiss, desperate and hungry, the salt of your tears mixing with his lips. It was a kiss that was broken and beautiful all at once, a mixture of longing, regret, and the kind of comfort that only came from someone who had once been yours. Patrick kissed you back, his hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer. The world outside seemed to vanish.

There was no stadium, no trophies, no records—only the feel of Patrick’s lips against yours, the warmth of his arms around you.

It surprised neither of you when you dragged Patrick into your room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝟒:𝟑𝟎𝐏𝐌.

Art rolled his eyes, the sharp motion betraying the frustration that clenched at his gut. He leaned back against the smooth wooden panelling of the sauna, the heat pressing in from all sides, stifling the air. His muscles tensed involuntarily, the strain evident in the way his jaw tightened, veins in his neck standing out like ropes under his skin. The air felt thick, clinging to his skin in a sticky layer of sweat, each bead trickling down his back, a constant reminder of the suffocating heat. His pulse quickened, its rhythmic thudding echoing in his ears, mixing with the oppressive warmth until it was all he could feel. The air felt like a heavy blanket, weighing down on him, making his breath shallow and laboured.

His mind drifted back, as it always did when he let his guard down for even a moment. He thought of the paparazzi pictures from that morning in 2012—Patrick, wearing a baseball cap to hide his face, leaving your hotel the morning after you had secured your Calendar Year Golden Slam at the US Open. The images, splashed across every tabloid, seared into his memory. He could still remember the way the photos twisted in his gut, the bitterness rising like bile in his throat. He hadn’t been prepared for it, not after everything.

Art recalled how, after the finals, he had spent hours at his kitchen table, knotting friendship bracelets in vibrant colours to commemorate your achievement. Each knot was a silent wish, each bracelet a small piece of himself he had hoped would mean something to you. He had left the envelope of bracelets with the concierge at your hotel, telling himself he was giving you space, that he didn’t want to intrude. The heat of that day still lingered in his chest, a fire that never quite burned out.

But, as always, Art had stayed on the periphery, never pushing, never demanding. He was respectful of your boundaries, even when his heart ached in ways that were hard to explain. And Patrick, with his effortless charm and unrelenting persistence, had wormed his way back into your life, into your heart. 

The thought of it made the room seem even hotter, the suffocating air pressing harder against Art’s chest.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice flat. “I do find it disturbing.”

Patrick shook his head, still smiling, though the edges of the grin seemed too tight, too practiced. The words came out with an almost exaggerated nonchalance, as if he were trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “There’s no need, man. Lots of girls were into me.” His gaze flickered over Art briefly, the smile on his lips wavering before he shrugged, a smooth, almost imperceptible gesture meant to veil the hurt. “None of them wanted to marry me.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, as if they were a well-rehearsed line he had said too many times, and yet it was clear now that they didn’t come out as easily as they once had. Patrick’s gaze darted away, focusing on some indeterminate point across the room, and the usual mockery in his tone seemed to fade. “That’s not what I was for.”

Art could hear the subtle shift in Patrick’s voice—the crack beneath the surface of the confident facade. It wasn’t just about Tashi, and they both knew it. The truth lingered in the spaces between their words, unspoken and raw. Patrick’s hurt was subtle, but it was there, tucked away behind the deflection of casual dismissal. Art could feel it, could see it in the way Patrick’s shoulders tensed, the way his voice faltered just for a fraction of a second.

It was about you. Patrick’s failed proposal, his hopes that had crumbled into dust when you had turned him down. Art knew, even without the words being spoken, that Patrick still carried that rejection, as sharp and fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

And Art? Art couldn’t help but feel that old pang in his chest—the twisted mix of sympathy and guilt that always followed Patrick when your name came up. Art hadn’t been the one to hurt Patrick—rather, him sleeping with Tashi the night of the proposal had tormented Art unspeakably—but in some strange way, Art felt like he had inherited the consequences of Patrick’s heartbreak. 

The weight of it pressed on both of them, invisible but undeniable.

“What were you for?” Art’s words came quick, sharp, like a sudden gust of scalding air.

Patrick’s grin widened, and Art matched it with a wry smirk, but there was something about the way the smile stretched across his face that felt off—too forced, too quick. Then, just as quickly, Art’s expression shifted. The smirk faded, and his gaze dropped, as if he couldn’t hold it up anymore. He shook his head slightly, a subtle movement that didn’t quite match the energy in the room.

The air felt thick, the heat pressing in on him, amplifying the thudding of his pulse until each beat felt too loud, too insistent in the silence between them. Art leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly to steady himself. The breath he exhaled was heavy, drawn out as if he were trying to hold on to something that kept slipping away, something unspoken but present.

Patrick followed his lead, leaning back on his bench with his forearms propped behind him. The heat pressed down on him, making his breaths shallow, the steady drip of sweat from his brow adding to the suffocating tension. His thoughts churned uneasily, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features as he tried to maintain a composed façade. Beneath his casual posture, the weight of unspoken guilt pressed against his chest. 

“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy I was in the draw. I mean, you always wanted to beat me in a tournament,” Patrick said, the grin creeping back onto his face.

Art rolled his head around his neck and grinned knowingly, staring ahead at the wall. “I know what you’re trying to do right now.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Art,” Patrick said, chuckling. “This is a challenger. I don’t need to play mind games with you.”

Art turned to him, his expression finally cracking into something sharp and incredulous. The layers of frustration he'd buried for so long surfaced in a flash, something between anger and disbelief. “Right. You don’t give a shit,” he said, voice low but cutting.

Patrick’s gaze flickered, shifting away briefly as if he could find something else to focus on—anything to avoid the sting in Art’s words. But there was nowhere to hide. When he finally looked back, his face was a little more guarded, though the guilt in his eyes was undeniable. He lifted his hand in a half-hearted gesture, an open palm meant to calm the air but failing to ease the tension between them. 

“I didn’t say that,” Patrick replied.

A pause hung heavy between them as they stared at each other, tension thick in the humid air. Sweat dripped steadily from Patrick’s chin onto the towel across his lap. Art stared at him for a beat, feeling the weight of all the years they had spent together, now stretched thin and fraying at the edges. It wasn’t just tennis, it never was—it was about their ruined friendship. It all seemed so disposable to them now, something that had never truly mattered.

“We both know you have considerably more at stake here than I do,” Art said finally, his tone measured and factual. His fingers drummed on the bench, but his jaw remained locked tight.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do I?”

Art chuckled, the sound low and dismissive, but Patrick joined in, their laughter more like a contest than genuine amusement.

“Oh, fuck,” Art said through his chuckles, rolling his head back. “Where do you get your swagger from, man?” Patrick laughed, and Art sniffed. “I mean, you come in here swinging your dick around like I’m supposed to be afraid of it, but do you realise how embarrassing it is that you’re here right now?”

Patrick’s grin tightened, though the slight twitch of his jaw betrayed a ripple of tension. The oppressive heat magnified his discomfort, the pulse in his temples pounding harder as he fought to maintain his composure. “Not quite as embarrassing as you being here.”

Art leaned forward slightly, his smile turning sharper. “I’m just stopping by, man. This is where you live.” He tapped his fingers on the bench and tilted his head. “You know, I always tried to figure out what happened to you. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realise—” He sighed, his voice dropping into a lower, almost pitiful register— “It’s what didn’t happen. You never grew up.”

Patrick’s simper vanished instantly. His eyes flickered with something raw and unguarded, a mix of anger and unease. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against his towel.

Art pressed on, his words measured and devastating. “You still think you can talk to me like you’re my peer because we came from the same place. But it’s not about where you come from in tennis, Patrick. It’s about winning. And I do. A lot.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint hiss of steam rising from the heated stones. Patrick’s gaze dropped to his hand resting on the bench, fingers curled tightly around the edge as if holding on to something that had slipped beyond his reach. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, the words weighed down by something unsaid. “You’ve never beaten me.”

Art’s laugh was quiet, almost dismissive, but there was a sharp edge to it—like the sound of something fragile cracking beneath pressure. “So what? I haven’t beaten most of the guys who play at these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.”

Patrick looked up at him then, the vulnerability in his eyes stark and raw, something that Art hadn't seen in him for a long time. “I don’t matter?”

Art’s gaze was unflinching, his expression unreadable. But there was a flicker, a hesitation before his eyes locked onto Patrick’s. His lips tightened, and for a moment, Art could almost feel the weight of their shared past, the things they had been—things that neither of them fully understood anymore. “Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world.”

Patrick’s lips twitched, pulling into a sad, almost self-deprecating smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re not talking about tennis.”

The words hung in the air, and the deeper meaning of them—what they had both been avoiding—was unmistakable. Art’s facade cracked slightly, the layers of detachment that had protected him for so long slipping just enough to reveal a crack in his own carefully constructed armor. He was talking about them. The friendship they had once shared, the way Art had been so central in his life, and now how distant everything felt. Patrick wasn’t talking about tennis—he was talking about Art, and how he had come to feel like an afterthought in Art’s life.

Art’s tone sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. “What the fuck else do I have to talk to you about?” For a fleeting moment, his mask slipped, and something painful flashed in his eyes.

Patrick blinked, then pressed his lips together and nodded slightly. “I wanted to come in here and wish you luck, Art,” he said quietly.

Art turned his head away, staring at the opposite wall. He shook his head slightly, his voice firm. “That makes no sense.”

“I wanted to say I’m looking forward to it,” Patrick insisted. His voice softened. “And I miss playing with you.”

Art looked back at him, a sceptical smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” Patrick nodded. Art stood, looming tall and intimidating, his movements deliberate, almost menacing. Rather than feeling threatened, Patrick leisurely ran his eyes from below Art’s waist to eventually meet his gaze. “I don’t miss playing with you, man.” Art’s voice was cool, resolute. “I’m too old for it.”

The oppressive heat clung to Patrick’s skin, amplifying his sense of isolation as the Art pounded the door open. “And don’t think you’re the only person Y/N comes to when she needs someone,” Art declared before he left the sauna. 

Then, the door slammed shut behind Art. The faint sting of his words lingered, and for a moment, Patrick felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like the suffocating air in the sauna. Alone in the thick, suffocating heat of the sauna, he sat and stared at the now empty spot Art had occupied.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 – 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔. 𝟏𝟏:𝟒𝟔𝐏𝐌.

You padded quietly around your Airbnb in the outskirts of Paris, your bare feet brushing against the cool wood of the floor. The space was expansive, a beautiful kitchen stretching out in front of you, gleaming under the soft light of the chandelier. You were comfortable, a stark contrast to the intensity of the party you'd just left—celebrating your victory at the French Open, yet still feeling the weight of the exhaustion that came with the adrenaline of the match.  

A bruise was starting to bloom on your knee—right behind the scrape—visible below the hem of your soft pink pyjama shorts, but hidden during the party earlier. You had lunged for a ball in the last set, your foot slipping and your knee grazing the clay court when you fell, but the pain was nothing compared to seeing Art at the party.  

The soft sound of ice cream scooping echoed through the kitchen as you searched through the drawers, finally finding the ice cream scooper buried beneath a stack of utensils. A small smile tugged at your lips as you pulled the French Vanilla ice cream tub from the fridge. The rich, creamy sweetness was exactly what you needed after the whirlwind of the evening. You knew you should've gone to bed, but something about Paris at night—this quiet, unfamiliar stillness—was drawing you out, making you want to linger in the calm before tomorrow's inevitable whirlwind of travel and heading back home.  

The doorbell rang.  

You froze mid-scoop, the motion of your wrist halting. You glanced at the clock—it was so late, and you hadn’t been expecting anyone. Your heart did a quick flutter, your body tensing in a way you couldn’t quite explain.  

You set the ice cream down carefully and padded barefoot to the door, wondering if it was someone from the party, perhaps your publicist or a late-night well-wisher. But when you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat. Standing there, with a rueful half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, was Art.  

Your heart skipped, but you couldn’t find the words. Not after the way you’d nearly kissed only an hour ago—at the party, just before you'd stopped yourself. You hadn’t been able to let yourself cross that line, not with everything that had come before. Not with Tashi.  

“Art?” you asked, still trying to process the unexpectedness of it all.  

He smiled, the same easy grin you remembered from college days, though something about the way his eyes looked at you now made your stomach flip. “I know this is random,” he began, his voice casual, though there was an undertone of something deeper, something you couldn’t quite place. “But I really had a craving for chocolate ice cream.” Art held up a tub, looking a bit sheepish. “And I walked on foot to the only 24-hour store in Paris, and I asked your publicist where you were staying at the party, and noticed it was closer than my hotel, so I figured I’d stop by.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “And I really, really had a hankering for chocolate.”  

You stood there, mouth agape, not quite sure if you should laugh or stare at him in disbelief. Of all the things he could have said. Of all the things you could have expected from him. A soft laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “You walked all the way here... for ice cream?” Your voice was amused, though part of you didn’t know what to make of this. Art wasn’t the type to do things without a reason—at least not in the straightforward way he just had.  

“Yep.” He shrugged, unfazed, holding out the tub. “So, do you have an ice cream scooper, or what?”  

You chuckled again, stepping aside. Art gave you a sheepish smile, clearly not expecting to be let in so easily, but you had already moved aside, and he couldn’t help but take a step into the kitchen, where the ingredients for your sundae were spread out on the kitchen island. Sprinkles, whipped cream, fresh strawberries, chocolate syrup.   

His eyes flicked over everything, and a small, knowing grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Well, looks like we're both craving the same thing.”  

You couldn’t help but smile back. “You’re in luck. I was just about to make a vanilla sundae. But—” You gave him a pointed look as you took the chocolate tub from his hands, “Vanilla is nowhere near as good as a vanilla and chocolate sundae. Perfect timing.”  

Art laughed quietly, more to himself than to you, and you felt something inside you flicker at the sound. It was easy. So easy, almost like you hadn’t missed a beat since college. Even though everything between you had changed, this moment felt like something you used to share—a small, silly comfort. You grabbed a bowl and opened the vanilla tub, preparing to scoop when Art moved beside you without hesitation.  

“I’ll cut up the strawberries,” he offered, already grabbing the knife from the block and beginning to slice the berries with deft movements. His arm brushed against yours briefly, and your breath caught. Each accidental touch—quick and fleeting—sent a jolt through you, a rush of electricity that felt like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.  

The silence in the kitchen felt thick, filled with the weight of unspoken words. The tension was back. The same tension that had nearly spilled over at the party earlier when you’d almost kissed. It hadn’t gone away, not really.  

You could feel his presence in every corner of the kitchen. The quiet press of his arm against yours as he worked, his slight chuckles every time he added a new ingredient to the sundae. His movements—steady and confident—had an easy familiarity that made you feel like you were slipping back into something natural. Something you both understood.  

You felt a warmth inside your chest as you watched him—his hand, notably ring-free now that the party was over, moving with fluidity, and the muscles in his arms flexing as he sliced the strawberries. You couldn’t help but notice how close he was. How comfortable it felt, even in the midst of the strange charge that simmered just beneath the surface.  

You reached for the whipped cream, your fingers brushing against his again, and this time, the touch lingered. It was barely a moment, but it was enough for you to feel it—his presence, his energy pulling at you in ways you couldn’t shake.  

When Art turned to look at you, the light from the kitchen catching in his pale blue eyes, you felt the pull again. That familiar, dangerous pull. You swallowed hard, catching your breath for a moment, before you forced yourself to focus on the sundae.  

“Here,” you said, handing him his bowl with the sundae now complete.  

Art took the bowl, his fingers grazing yours as he accepted it. He smiled, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. And you couldn’t stop yourself from looking back. Neither of you had moved. The kitchen, the air between you, felt too heavy with what was unsaid.  

For a moment, the world felt small and simple again, like it was just the two of you in this kitchen. But the tension was impossible to ignore. You both knew why you hadn’t kissed earlier. You both knew why you couldn’t kiss now.  

Yet somehow, neither of you seemed willing to walk away. Not just yet.  

You and Art sat side by side on the barstools by the kitchen island, your sundae bowls in front of you. The silence between you was comfortable at first, but as you ate slowly—more for the moment than the sweetness of the sundaes—you both became aware of just how surreal it felt to be here, together, in this space, in this quiet. The night had been full of noise, both the celebration of your shared victory at the French Open and the tension that had been simmering between you all evening. But now, here in this soft light, there was only the faint hum of the fridge and the gentle scrape of spoons against the sides of bowls.  

Your eyes flicked over to Art, watching him take slow, deliberate bites of his sundae. His focus seemed entirely on the sundae, but there was something else in the way he sat—relaxed, at ease, like the tension of the day had melted away in the presence of this simple, sweet moment.  

You smiled, the sugar kicking in, and you couldn’t hold back a small giggle. Art’s gaze snapped to yours, his brow furrowing in playful confusion.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice light and teasing.

You couldn’t explain it, but the way he looked at you—so genuinely confused, like he was just as caught up in the moment as you were—set something off. It was silly, but you giggled again, harder this time. The laughter felt contagious, and before you knew it, Art was laughing too, your giggles tumbling into one another like two little kids who couldn’t stop. Your laughter echoed in the quiet of the kitchen, filling the space with a warmth that was entirely different from the heat of your earlier exchanges. It was pure, unburdened, and—for the first time all night—completely real.

You finally calmed down, the sugar rush mixing with the exhaustion of the day, and you found yourself staring at Art. The absurdity of the moment—the ridiculousness of you two sitting together in a foreign city, eating ice cream like you were the only two people in the world—made your chest swell with something you hadn’t expected. Affection, maybe. No, it was more than that. It was the kind of warmth that made you feel like everything was somehow... right. Even if it wasn’t.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you leaned in and kissed him, your lips crashing against his with an intensity that surprised you both. The kiss was fierce, hungry, driven by everything you had been too afraid to say, too careful to act on. It was everything that had been building between you for years, a collision of emotions, of past hurts and desires that neither of you could shake off.

Art’s hands came up to your waist, pulling you onto the kitchen counter in one fluid movement, as if the space between you had never existed. The kiss deepened, sweeter now, but still urgent, as if neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips were soft against yours, his hands gentle as they cupped your face, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you let yourself fall into it. Let yourself fall into him.

Then, suddenly, you pulled back, gasping for air, your heart racing as the full weight of what you had just done crashed down on you. Your mind scrambled to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions, but the only thing you could think was, What have I done?

Art’s gaze softened, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes that was almost... vulnerable. “Angel,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. His old nickname for you made you want to cry. “Tashi and I—we have an agreement. We’re separated. We don’t owe each other anything anymore.” He looked directly at you, his expression earnest. “And if I want to kiss you, I’m going to kiss you. No excuses, no apologies.”

Your chest tightened. You felt the sting of guilt, the part of you that still couldn’t ignore the fact that he was still married, still tied to someone else in ways that you couldn’t simply overlook. “I know,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I get that. But it’s complicated.” You paused, trying to gather your thoughts. “I don’t want to get involved in something like this, not unless you figure out what you want. If you’re really done with Tashi, then... then maybe we can talk. But I can’t—” You stopped yourself, looking away, unsure of what to say next.

Art watched you closely, his eyes steady, understanding. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “I don’t want to drag you into something that’s unfinished. But I also can’t ignore what’s between us. I can’t pretend like I don’t feel it.”

You felt a surge of warmth and confusion inside you. The tension between you was still there, so palpable it nearly hurt. “I’m not sorry I kissed you,” you said, meeting his eyes, your voice firm. “But it doesn’t change anything. Not until you figure this out. Either you leave Tashi for good or you stay with her. And when you know what you want, then maybe... maybe we can talk about us.”

Art nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I will,” he said quietly, the weight of his words settling between you. “I promise, I’ll figure it out.”

A week later, pictures of Tashi and Art kissing on a beach in the south of France were plastered across every corner of the internet. You saw them—your heart sinking just a little as the image confirmed what you’d feared. You were right to let him go.

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. – 𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟏𝟖, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕.

Missing the Australian Open because of a wrist injury was your worst-case scenario, but it was also unavoidable. Your physical trainer had been insistent: “No playing tennis with that wrist. Take some time off, get a cup of coffee or something. Just take a break.” You had smiled and nodded, but even stepping into the little coffee shop on the corner felt like a defeat. Alone on your day off—what did that say about your life?

The shop smelled of cinnamon and espresso, the warm scent wrapping around you like a blanket, though it did nothing to settle the knot in your stomach. You were alone. You weren’t used to it—especially not in places like this, where couples sat close together at tiny tables, their conversations a soft hum in the background. You hovered awkwardly at the counter, your fingers brushing the edges of the cup in front of you as if it might somehow offer you solace. You ordered a cappuccino to-go, the barista’s friendly chatter seeming far away, out of reach.

You stood at the end of the counter, scrolling absently through your phone, your thumb moving on autopilot. It was a tactic you used when you wanted to disappear into the background. No one noticed you then—not as the tennis star, not as the girl whose life was constantly under a magnifying glass. Alone in a coffee shop, you were just another person trying to navigate the awkwardness of solitude. You didn’t fit in, not completely—too self-conscious about how you stood, how you held yourself, as if everyone was watching, waiting for you to do something wrong.

The soft chime of the doorbell snapped you out of your thoughts, but your eyes darted nervously to the woman near the window, phone raised high, aimed straight at you. Not discreet. You tensed, your heart skipping a beat. The woman’s gaze flickered between you and the screen, the kind of look you had become too familiar with. A gawker, someone who saw you less as a person and more as a curiosity, an object to capture.

You didn’t even check your cup when the barista called out your name. You grabbed it and bolted, the weight of the warm cardboard in your hand a poor substitute for something more comforting, something that might hold you together. You pushed through the door into the cool afternoon, the winter breeze biting at your cheeks as you rushed down the street, head low, fingers gripping the cup as if it were a lifeline.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

You froze, your shoulders stiffening. The voice was male, sharp but not unkind, and too close for comfort. Your pulse quickened. You turned, hands shaking, clutching the coffee too tightly. A man was jogging towards you, holding out a cup that looked identical to yours. He was tall, his black hair slightly tousled, and his almond-shaped eyes were dark and warm, framed by soft brows. His expression was a little unsure, but his gaze was steady, sincere—something about him made you feel like maybe you weren’t invisible after all.

He was wearing scrubs, the deep blue fabric slightly rumpled from a long shift, and his sneakers—the kind worn by people who spent their days on their feet—scuffed at the edges. His hands were slightly calloused, evidence of years of hard work. He was just... normal.

“You grabbed my coffee,” he said, his voice awkward but genuine. “I think I’ve got yours.”

Your eyes flicked to his cup, your name scrawled messily on the side in the barista’s hurried handwriting. You glanced down at your own, noticing the name August written in thick, bold letters. For a moment, you stood still, dumbfounded by the absurdity of it all. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside you, but it was small, shaky.

“Sorry,” you murmured, feeling heat creep up your neck. You reached for his cup. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No problem,” August said, his smile shy but genuine. He handed you the drink, his fingers brushing yours, and you couldn’t help but notice how soft and unguarded he seemed. “Your name’s Y/N, right?”

You nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “That’s me. August, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, hi!” He tilted his head, his smile widening in a way that made him seem almost endearingly unsure. “Sorry, you’re just very radiant and it’s throwing me off my game a little.”

You paused, the absurdity of the situation suddenly making you feel lighter. “You think I’m radiant?”

August studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though considering the question seriously. After a beat, he tilted his head again, his smile softening. “I really do.” Then, he smiled shyly,  and there was something about the way he said it that made you feel like you were meeting him for the first time in a way you hadn’t expected. There was no attempt at impressing you, no flashy gestures. Just an honest, unpolished interaction that felt completely normal. 

You weren’t sure why, but it made you feel seen. In a good way, for once.

“I don’t mean to pry,” August said, glancing at you carefully, as if trying to gauge whether you wanted to talk. “But you seemed like you were in a bit of a hurry. Everything okay?”

You hesitated. The instinct to hide was strong, but his tone wasn’t intrusive, just... curious. “Just didn’t want to stick around,” you said, your voice quiet.

“I get that,” he replied, shifting his weight, his eyes sparkling with that awkward, kind energy that made him so unexpectedly likable. “Crowded places can be... a lot.”

You could tell it was a lie; a soft, white lie to make you feel less self-conscious. But it made you feel seen, in a way that had nothing to do with fame or expectations. He wasn’t asking for anything, not even for you to acknowledge who you were.

“You seem like you like coffee,” August said after a beat, his hands shoved deep into his scrub trousers. “Maybe we could grab one together sometime?”

You blinked. It had been so long since someone had asked you out without a second thought, without some hidden agenda. His eyes didn’t flicker down to his phone, didn’t try to sneak a picture. He just looked at you like you were... just another person. And it felt normal.

You could say no. You could keep your walls up and walk away. But hadn’t you been doing that long enough?

“What about dinner instead?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them. Your heart raced, a quiet thrill blooming in your chest.

August’s smile was slow, hesitant, but genuine, and you could see something softening in his eyes. “Dinner works too. It’s better, actually. I was just too nervous to ask you to dinner.”

You nodded, a spark of warmth flickering in your chest. For the first time in ages, it didn’t feel lonely. It felt like something was beginning—like you could finally stop hiding and start fresh, without anyone’s expectations or judgements hanging over you.

August fumbled in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a card with neat, embossed lettering. He handed it to you. Dr. August Lee, Paediatric Surgeon. You stared at it for a moment, processing. A surgeon? Your eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, but the warmth in his eyes was unchanged.

“Maybe you’ll want to double-check I’m not just handing out fake business cards,” August said, his voice laced with self-deprecating humour.

You smiled, feeling the first genuine connection you’d had in a long while. “I’ll call you.”

August blinked, clearly surprised, but his smile softened, and the warmth in his eyes deepened. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, his voice almost shy, like a promise he wasn't sure he was allowed to make. He raised his hand to wave at you in an endearingly awkward gesture, and you shared a quiet smile before turning away.

As you walked back to your car, the cold afternoon air brushing against your skin, something shifted inside you. Your footsteps slowed, then lengthened, as though the ground beneath you was softening, lifting you in tiny, unspoken ways. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were just moving through space, ticking off the minutes until the next obligation, the next camera flash. Your body hummed with something you hadn’t felt in so long: the gentle, fluttering sensation of anticipation, like the first stirrings of spring in the heart of winter.

It started low, deep inside you, a faint stirring that quickly blossomed, like the first warmth of sunlight breaking through the brittle branches of a cold, tired tree. You weren’t sure where it came from at first, but it swirled inside you, dancing like tiny sparks of light gathering into something more—a fire, maybe, or a sparkler, and you felt it twine through your chest, threading along the spaces where something had once been hollow.

Your body hummed with the sensation of something new, something real. Your breath caught in your throat with the awareness of it—how your chest rose and fell, almost quicker now, as though it were catching up with the rhythm of your heartbeat. There was a soft tingling beneath your skin, not the kind of restlessness that made you want to escape, but something else—a pulse, something warm and steady, that made you feel more alive than you had in years. It was as if your body were waking up from a long, dull slumber, its senses more alive, more attuned to the world around you.

And then it hit you all at once—this was what it felt like to want something. To feel something. To not hide from it, but to embrace it. You hadn’t realised how long it had been since you’d truly felt this alive. You’d been running for so long, trying to outrun the emptiness, the loneliness, but now—now, in this simple, ordinary moment—something had changed. Something had shifted, and it was like you had suddenly found yourself standing in a new light. The world wasn’t so cold anymore. It wasn’t so distant. There was a new rhythm to it, a pulse that felt connected to your own.

You paused beside your car, your hand on the door handle, and let out a soft breath, almost laughing at yourself. You felt like you had just rediscovered something you had thought you’d lost forever. Maybe it was too soon to call it hope, but it was something. A beginning. A whisper that made you think—just maybe—there was more to life than being the person everyone expected you to be. You could be more than a tennis star, more than a picture in a tabloid. You could be you.

You smiled, your heart beating a little faster, your chest lighter than it had been in years. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you weren’t running away from yourself. You were just... standing there, breathing it all in, and feeling the kind of excitement that filled you up, that made you believe in the possibility of something different, something new.

For the first time in years, you weren’t thinking about your mother, or your father, or Tashi, or Patrick, or Art. You were just thinking about yourself, and the handsome doctor whose coffee you had accidentally taken.

[intomepang]

how’d i get so lucky?

boyfriend!patrick zweig x reader

note: just needed some cute bf patrick!!! first time posting something like this so i hope you enjoyy!! sorry if there are any errors, barely proofread this.

patrick’s been sitting on the edge of your bed for a while now, one leg stretched out, the other bent as he leans back on his elbows. he got to your dorm just a few hours ago, doing his usual visit before leaving for tour.

as you sit at your desk, working through your skincare routine, you can feel his eyes on you. it’s not unusual since he always watches you with this quiet focus, like you’re the only thing in the world worth his attention. when you glance up into the mirror, there he is, his expression softer than usual.

“what?” you ask, meeting his gaze in the reflection, your tone light but curious.

“nothing,” he says with a small shrug, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “you just look... peaceful, i guess.”

you roll your eyes to mask the sudden fluttering in your chest and turn to face him fully, twisting the lid back onto your moisturizer. “want me to do it for you?”

patrick blinks, not expecting that offer. “what, like... your skincare routine?”

“yeah. don’t look at me like that,” you laugh, standing up and grabbing a few of your products.

he huffs out a soft chuckle, but when you walk over and nudge him with your knee, he doesn’t hesitate to sit up straight, giving you room to climb onto his lap.

“alright, alright,” he says, settling his hands instinctively on your waist to steady you.

your favorite playlist softly fills the background as you settle on his lap, a couple of skincare products around you. his eyes are closed, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips as you swipe a cotton pad across his face, your legs draped comfortably on either side of him.

“you’re way too good at this,” he mumbles, voice low and content. “are you sure this isn’t just an excuse to manhandle my face?”

you huff out a laugh, dipping your fingers into a jar of moisturizer. "do you want me to stop? you need this, especially since you’re out baking under the sun all day playing tennis." you tease.

he opens one eye lazily, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin. “i love it when you’re bossy, you know that?”

“close your eyes,” you warn, tapping the tip of his nose with a teasing finger. he chuckles but complies, leaning further back against the headboard as his grip on your waist tightened slightly.

as you smooth the cream over his skin in small circles, you catch the way his jaw relaxes, the faint smile softening while his thumbs brush absentmindedly against your sides, making your heart flutter.

“i miss you a lot when i’m away,” he admits, his voice cutting through the quiet. “always thinking about you.”

your hands still on his cheeks as his words sink in. there’s a vulnerability in the way he says it, like it’s a thought he’s been holding onto for too long. his eyes open, meeting yours.

“i know. i miss you too.” you whisper, smoothing your thumbs along his cheekbones. “you can always call me when you can.”

“it’s not enough.” his hands press more firmly on your waist, grounding himself. “every tournament, every match—i think about what it would feel like to come home to you, instead of some cheap motel room.”

your heart squeezes at his honesty. you trace the curve of his jaw with your fingertips, trying to pour all the reassurance you can into your touch. the two of you can be away from each other for so long yet somehow, in moments like this, it feels as though the distance never mattered.

you’re about to respond, but he speaks again. “how’d i get so lucky to have someone that supports me and understands me the way you do?” he says it with smile.

your own lips curving upward to match his. “you make it easy, you know,” your head tilting slightly. “loving you, cheering you on— it’s never felt like a choice. it just comes naturally.”

patrick lets out a shaky breath, his hands slipping up to your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. he presses a kiss to your shoulder, lingering there and cherishing the moment.

“i love you.” he whispers, his lips brushing against your skin.

you pull away and smile, cupping his face again to tilt it toward yours. “i love you, patrick.” you whisper, your hands sliding into his hair as you kiss him.

[artdcnaldson]

Cat i may be going crazy but f2f by sza is so reader who dated Art and they broke up so she fucks Patrick to feel closer to him are you seeing my vision here

🪞

I’m literally seeing the vision so clearly…. You know it’s serious when I add a gif or a picture…. So….

Sighhhh… thinking….. maybe you were just an affair for Art. Kind of prodigy AU in the sense that you’re a tennis player who clearly idolizes him and starts an affair with him, but you get a little too obvious in interviews. You talk about how great and wonderful Art is and how he’s improved your game so much and you’re so grateful for his mentorship and all this gushy shit. It would be sweet if you could shut your mouth. It would be sweet if you weren’t clearly in love with a married man.

Like oh it’s so obvious. You look at him with these wide fuck-me eyes and cling to his side at events… so it’s not a surprise that he has to brush you off. Tashi’s going to figure it out (as if she hasn’t figured it out already), so you need to split so his marriage isn’t ruined. The marriage that he complained to you about every single time you got together and fucked. That marriage that he apparently cares so much about now.

You’re at a 250 in Florida when you meet Patrick. Well, you actively seek him out, really. You swipe left on every man on tinder until you find him. You look at his profile, littered with some bullshit about not wanting anything serious and having a huge dick. Whatever. You swipe. You instantly match.

You know Patrick. Know of Patrick. Not just from his remarkably atrocious reputation, but from Art too. He might have just been using you as his own personal fuck toy, but you were good listener too. You retained all of that angst and longing and hatred for his former doubles partner, you remembered.

Patrick knows you. Knows of you. He knows that pathetic little voice as you coo into a microphone about how lovely Art Donaldson is, how he’s a legend, how you’re his biggest fan and you’re oh, so lucky to experience his skill in person. And he also knows how just last week, when someone brought Art up in an interview, you shut it down fast, you pivoted in this beautiful, media trained way that he had to admire.

He knows why you’re across from him at a low lit bar. It smells like cigarettes and the floor is sticky. Your shoes are too expensive to wear in a place like this, but he’s glad you wore them. They’ll look really nice dangling over his shoulders. He doesn’t feel bad for jumping to that conclusion, not when your conversation had been so blunt.

Patrick: Do you want drinks first or do you want to come straight to my hotel?

You: Drinks. We’ll see if we make it to your hotel.

“Your boyfriend broke up with you, huh?” He says as you sit at the bar beside him, looking far too pretty with your manicured nails picking at a bar that’s been carved into by pocketknives and broken glass.

You make a face, annoyed, hurt— big puppy dog eyes that make Patrick think that make he should fuck you on all fours so he doesn’t have to see that pining expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You order a cosmo, and you talk about tennis… for a little while.

But it’s not long before his hands start wandering, and when he touches you, you think about the videos of them celebrating big tournament wins as teenagers— jumping and grabbing at each other, so close they could have kissed. It’s like Art’s touching you when he touches you, in a way.

And you don’t make it back to his hotel. You barely make it to the car before he’s pinning you to the scratched paint job, slipping his big, warm hand between your thighs so he can cup your cunt. You melt into it, relish in it. His hands are calloused, a bit like Art’s were, only Art’s were softer, better cared for.

Maybe Art will find out. He wouldn’t Like it. He’d call you a crazy fucking bitch for fucking someone like Patrick, just to get back at him. Well, it’s not revenge if he’ll never know.

It’s just Patrick, with his big hands groping your ass, and his hot mouth on your tits. It’s the feeling of crumbs digging into your skin when he gets you on your back, and you have to throw a half-drunk Gatorade bottle onto the floor to get comfortable. He peels off your panties with his teeth but doesn’t bother to go down on you.

The first time you fucked Art had been in the big backseat of his Jeep. God, he’d even planned for it, because he had a blanket for you to lay on top of. Parked in the corner of the tennis club where you were practicing. Cramped into the backseat, and he still made a point to eat your pussy until you were slick with spit and cum and begging for him to fuck you properly.

You do end up with your legs on Patrick’s shoulders, with your heels dangling precariously from your toes as he rocks your body (and the axels of his car) with rough, punishing thrusts. Folded in half in the backseat, he fucks you like he knows that you’re using him. Might as well return the favor. There’s no kissing, no sweet nothings whispered. He doesn’t even rub your clit to get you there. That’s your job.

He does take the time to be a grade-A asshole, though. “You’re so tight,” mumbled into your ear. “Can’t believe Art fucked you. You feel like a virgin.”

And, well, if the mention of Art gets you off, if you cum with nothing more that the feel of Patrick’s cock bullying into your cunt and the whisper of your ex-lovers name in your ear. Well, that’s not leaving the dirty backseat of Patrick’s CR-V.

[leftoverghosts]

(doubt comes in)

is this a trick that's bein' played on me? 

Art's devotion is almost worshipful, comparable to Orpheus' dedication to Eurydice.

art donaldson x reader.

warnings: implied depression after injury. use of she/her for reader. no use of y/n. not beta read.

nori says: this is an expansion of my orpheus!art blurb okay!!! i hate it!! idk if this is what i wanted, but it's what i have to offer. please love me still. send me ideas if you want to! xoxo.

word count: 2,206

“You’ll get better,” Art says quietly, walking up to the net as you smash your racket against the ground. “You’re only a week post-op from your surgery.”

But you don’t want to get better—you want to be whole. You want to be as you were. What greater glory was there than being you on the court?

Your throat feels raw, imaginary bile rising like a torrent rushing through a gorge. You want to spit, to seethe, to yell.

Instead, you cry, and that only upsets you more.

Art comes around to rub your back, but his words are muffled, drowned out by the water plugging your ears.

He is Orpheus, trying to lead you—Eurydice—out of the underworld of your suffering, wading with you in a river too deep to tread.

He sees through your attempts to abandon him first. And you hate him for it.

Who the hell is Art Donaldson, with two healthy knees, to say he loves you—your pain, your anger?

How could he be so good? So self-sacrificial? How could it be real?

A voice in your head, that you don't recognize as your own, whispers: he too will turn around to watch your demise.

You feel the weight of Art's hand on your back, his touch a reminder of his unwavering presence. But the comfort it once brought now feels like a burden, a shackle tying you to a reality you desperately want to escape. You shrug off his hand, the movement sharp and dismissive, mirroring the jagged edges of your fractured spirit.

The tears keep falling, each one a bitter reminder of the dreams that slipped through your fingers like sand. The sobs choke you, stealing your breath and your voice.

"I'm here," he murmurs, his voice a lifeline in the tempest of your despair. "I'm not going anywhere."

You turn to face him, your eyes searching his for any hint of pity or regret. Instead, you find only love, pure and unwavering, shining like a beacon in the darkness. It's almost too much to bear, the intensity of his devotion, the depth of his commitment. You want to believe him, to trust in the strength of his love, but the voice in your head whispers its poisonous doubts.

"Don't," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the roar of your inner turmoil. "Just… don't."

Art's eyes, those mesmerizing pools of blue and brown, search your face, seeking a glimmer of the person he once knew. But you avert your gaze, unable to bear the reflection of your broken self in his loving stare.

You limp away from the court, each step a painful reminder of what you've lost. The mangled tennis racket dangles limply from your hand, a useless appendage, a cruel mockery of your former glory. Art follows, his footsteps echoing behind you like a persistent heartbeat, a rhythm you can't seem to escape.

"Please, talk to me," he begs, and it sounds like weeping, his voice laced with desperation. "Let me help you."

But how can he help when he doesn't understand? How can he fathom the depths of your despair when he stands on the precipice of his own success?

You whirl around, your eyes blazing with a fire born of anguish and frustration. "I don't need your pity, Art! You can't fix me!"

The words tear from your throat, raw and bleeding, like shards of glass embedded in your vocal cords. Art flinches, his face contorting with the pain of your rejection. But still, he persists, reaching out to you with an open heart and unwavering devotion.

"I'm not trying to fix you," he says softly, his voice a soothing balm against the ragged edges of your soul. "I just want to be here for you, to love you through this."

But love, you realize, is a double-edged sword. It has the power to heal, but also the capacity to destroy. And right now, with your dreams lying shattered at your feet, you can't bear the thought of dragging Art down into the abyss with you.

You turn away from Art, your shoulders sagging under the weight of your anguish. The sun beats down on your back, its warmth a cruel mockery of the ice that has settled in your veins. You want to run, to hide, to disappear into the shadows and never emerge. But your knee, that traitorous joint, holds you captive, anchoring you to this moment, to this pain.

"I can't do this," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "I can't be the person you need me to be. Not like this."

Art's hand settles on your shoulder, his touch feather-light yet impossibly heavy. "You are exactly the person I need you to be. Broken, whole, it doesn't matter. I love you."

The words hang in the air between you, a lifeline and a condemnation all at once. You want to believe him, to lose yourself in the comfort of his embrace and let his love wash away the stains of your failure. But the voice in your head, that insidious whisper, won't be silenced.

"You say that now," you murmur, your gaze fixed on the horizon, on the future that seems to slip further away with each passing moment. "But what happens when you realize I'm not worth it? When you see that I'm just a shadow of who I used to be?"

Art's fingers tighten on your shoulder, a gentle pressure that draws your attention back to him. His eyes, those captivating pools of blue and brown, bore into yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

"If you are a shadow, then me be swallowed whole by the darkness.” He says, his voice low and fervent. "You mean everything to me - your strength, your passion, your fire - they still exist inside you, even if you cannot see them at this moment. And I will spend every day reminding you of that until you believe it too."

Tears blur your vision, hot and stinging, as the walls around your heart begin to crumble. You want to believe him, to trust in the unwavering faith that shines in his eyes. But the road ahead seems so long, so daunting, and you're not sure you have the strength to walk it.

"I'm scared," you admit, the words tearing from your throat like shards of glass. "I'm scared of failing, of never being the same again. I'm scared of losing you."

Art's arms encircle you, drawing you into the shelter of his embrace. His heartbeat thrums against your cheek, a steady rhythm that anchors you to the present.

"You could never lose me," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "I will be here, by your side, every step of the way. We'll face this together, one day at a time. And even if you never set foot on a court again, you will always be a champion in my heart."

Tears well up in your eyes as you hold onto him tightly, as if he might vanish from your embrace. "You're too good to me, Art. I love you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

As you stand by the clay courts of Stanford, memories flood back to you. Memories of a time when your name was synonymous with tennis greatness, when you were the future of the sport. But now, even as a New York Times best-selling author and respected ESPN commentator, you felt like a mere spectator in the world you once ruled.

Your attention is immediately drawn to the court on the far left. It was where you and Art spent countless hours, with his arms wrapped around you as the two of you worked through your injury and anger. Even though you had already mastered the basics, you allowed him to guide your hands and correct your form. Your motivation for these lessons went beyond just regaining your abilities; it was also a way to ease Art's worries and show him your love.

In the beginning, you had hoped those lessons would heal you, but after a while, all you longed for was to stand across from Art on the other side of the net and volley with him at full strength once again - not for glory, but for the joy it brought both of you.

"God," a voice calls out, as if that were your name. You turn, already knowing it is your husband who has followed you here. He rarely lets you out of his sight, afraid that you will slip back into your defenses after all the time he spent using love as a Trojan horse to get into your heart. "You shone so brightly on that court."

You wince, realizing that he has spoken your inner thoughts. Art senses your unease and foresees your attempt to escape. Before you can flee, his hand grasps your shoulder, halting your retreat with a firm grip.

You plaster on a smile, your feigned cheer clearly confusing him. He hadn't wanted to come to this event in the first place and seeing how these ghosts still terrorize you, Art is upset.

You allow his touch to anchor you in place. He utters your name like a familiar prayer, drawing you back to the present. You've long accepted that he will always worship at your altar. But the raw sincerity shining in his eyes in this moment feels too genuine, too exposing.

"Are we leaving?" He inquires softly, and his ring on your finger feels like a symbol for safe passage over the river Styx.

"I just wanted to stay for our speeches," you say as he brushes hair away from your face with tenderness. Even in your most tempestuous moments, he shows compassion.

"Baby—"

"I'm sorry for—"

You both start at the same time, but you wave him on benevolently.

"Come back to me," he pleads obediently, "don't go somewhere I can't follow."

His words ignite a fire inside you. No matter what storms may come, he seeks shelter within you and continues to fan your flames. Art's devotion is almost worshipful, comparable to Orpheus' dedication to Eurydice. You can't help but reminisce about moments spent together - showering, Art supporting your injured knee, or him feeding you when your sadness weighed down your hand and you couldn't eat on your own.

He always made sure to remind you that his success was also due to your support. The fruits of his labor - his career - were meant for both of your enjoyment. Without you, he could not thrive.

"I'm here. I'm with you." You say after a moment. Reaching up, you cradle Art's face between your palms, your thumbs gently caressing the smooth planes of his cheeks. His skin is warm beneath your touch, a tangible reminder of the life and love that flows between you. As you trace the contours of his jawline, you marvel at the strength and tenderness that coexist within him, a perfect balance that has sustained you through your darkest hours.

Art leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he savors the intimacy of the moment. His golden curls, tousled by the gentle breeze, tickle your fingers, eliciting a soft smile from your lips. In this instant, the world around you fades away, and all that exists is the connection between you, a bond forged in the crucible of adversity and tempered by the power of unconditional love.

"I love you," you whisper, the words a sacred oath, a promise to hold onto the emotions that have rescued you time and time again. Gripping Art closer to you, your fingers entwine in his hair as you bring his mouth to yours.

Art's lips dance against yours with a reverence that takes your breath away, each brush of his tongue a silent prayer, a vow to stand by your side through every trial and triumph.

When you finally part, breathless and flushed, Art's hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the lone tear that has escaped your lashes. "I love you too," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "More than anything in this world."

[cellophaine]

Chapter XI: TIEBREAK

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader, Art Donaldson x Tashi Donaldson.

Warnings: Angst, discussion of miscarriage and women's reproductive health problems.

Author's Note: I'm so so so sorry for being late for one week and three hours ohmygod. I barely have time to write as is because of my work schedule, which has taken over my life in a way that exhausts me every day. This is far from my best chapter, and I'm so so sorry for that.

GIF Source

2019. New Rochelle.

Your eyes locked from the distance, and you realized it didn't hurt as much anymore when you looked at him. At the time of the unexpected run-in with Art in the elevator, old memories and long-buried pains came rushing back like tidal waves, reminding you that there used to be a time when the mere mention of his name would pull a reaction from you, the kind that was nestled deep in your guts and painful as its exterior would lacerate your insides as you tried to expel it. Now, being in this proximity with Art, there was only a dull ache. His gaze followed your every movement, burning hot on your skin as you approached him. When he settled down from across the table, you allowed your eyes to fully drink him in, to note the small changes that the brief exchange two days ago didn’t allow you to.

An abstract shadow cast on his face, shading in the sharp angles of his features, turning his boyish charm into the contemplative man sitting before you. He looked great, still, but he didn't look happier when he had every reason to be. The familiar yearning for the man you loved so much that you were willing to look the other way when the warning signs flared their signals tugged at your heartstrings, but you knew better now than you did thirteen years ago. Art was the baggage that took a long time to shed, the heartbreak that took a long time to recover from.

As much as you wanted to blame Art for ruining other men for you, but you knew you weren't innocent in this game of two. You couldn't bring yourself to commit to the few men you dated over the years before giving up dating entirely after a painful engagement. Your failure in relationships that came after Art was not a reflection of how you were still caught up in him. It was the way you loved like there was an expiry date to the love you gave.

You weren’t hungry and didn’t feel like eating, but you ordered an appetizer anyway. Art did the same, casually said to you after the waitress dropped off your drinks and went away with your food order.

“We can share.”

He had said it so casually. You didn’t correct him. The two of you took the time to observe each other in a comfortable silence before Art disrupted it.

“How have you been?”

“I’m doing good. My career took off.”

Just like you said. But you didn’t say that part out loud.

“So I’ve heard. I see your name everywhere.”

“It can be annoying, can’t it?”

You said, tongue in cheek.

“Never.”

A simple word, accompanied by a bright smile, yet you couldn't help but feel bashful at the undeniable pride that he radiated. It felt genuine, more than the time your parents demanded to see you in San Francisco. All of a sudden, as your book's sales kept climbing up and up, no distance was too much to drive for your parents. At a high-scale restaurant of their choosing, they swooned over your brilliance and told you how proud they were, that they knew you would succeed. You owed them your success, they said, since they brought you up and you wouldn't be here without them. They admitted none of the abuse, and they congratulated themselves on their talented daughter. Your dad eagerly asked about the money, and unashamedly rewarded himself and your mother a bonus from your royalties. To fix up the house, he said, and they needed a new car so they didn't have to drive the old thing that could croak any day. You only nodded, feeling numbness spread all over your senses and body like a self-defence mechanism. You ended up paying for the meal, telling them that they needed to contact your accountant for what they wanted. Knowing June, the accountant of your trusted team, she would die before giving your parents a penny.

On your part, after that day, you decided not to entertain them any longer. You chose to protect yourself, and that meant going radio silent on their calls and texts. Every once in a while, you would receive demanding messages, asking for compensation. None of them received an answer.

Art interrupted your train of thought.

“But how are you really doing? Are you still with–”

You shook your head quickly and cut him off.

“Same old. How about you?”

Your fingers ran over your naked ring finger almost in defence. Art could see your attempt at a distraction and he allowed it to slip past.

"I'm just … alright."

"Come on. You’re doing more than just alright for yourself."

He huffed, and its bitterness wasn't lost on you.

“Not as well as Tashi would like me to.”

You hummed, taking a sip of your soda.

“I could tell as much judging by what you told me at the hotel.”

Art offered a self-deprecating smile and said nothing. He said thanks to the waitress as she settled the trays of entries down. Neither of you was in a hurry to take a bite. You leaned back on the leather seat, barely concealing a weary sigh.

“What am I doing here, Art? If it’s to listen to your marriage problems, then I don’t think I’m equipped for that kind of task.”

“I don't expect you to do that."

He tapped on the glass of water distractedly, seeming to consider his words.

"I just want to tell you that you were right.”

“About what?”

“About Tashi.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was the truth, it always has been. Especially now. What you said about her.”

Your eyes widened as you realized what he was talking about. The fight between you before you broke up for good. You still remembered how you said Tashi was only using him. You dipped your head, feeling shame crawl to your cheeks.

“Look, it wasn’t my best moment, and I was harsh. I don’t know Tashi enough to talk about her like that.”

“But you were right. I just … didn’t think about it in the way you framed it. Her living through me because she couldn’t play. I ignored it because she made me a better player. For the longest time, I was okay with it."

You stayed quiet, watching as Art worked through the inner monologue in his head. Art didn't look at you, staring at the untouched plates of food instead, while his hand played with the straw wrapper. You had a feeling that he wasn't quite done.

"And then, I started to see … it. I can't remember a day that she didn't talk about tennis. The way she’s only happy when I win. She would reprimand me if I didn’t apply her guidance at times. I thought I could make her happy if I could be the person she wanted me to be. Still, I could feel it. Her resentment."

He swallowed before kept going.

“It was worse after my injury. I recovered from it, and she didn't. I think Tashi resents me for that as well. I’m still playing for the both of us, years later.”

You let the weight of his confession settle in. His shoulders slightly sagged, and you couldn't help but think about how he probably couldn't talk about this to anyone.

“Art, if you’re really unhappy, you can walk away. You know that.”

“I know, but we’ve been together for so long. It's not easy.”

You knew that feeling all too well. But that was where your difference split. You knew there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

Art looked at you, pondering over your question. A sad smile deepened in his frown lines.

“I thought I could talk to you, as a friend.”

“It sounds like you want something more.”

He licked his lips, contemplating his words.

“What if I did?”

You sighed, feeling memories of the past flapped their wings, overlapping with the present.

“What do you want me to say, Art? That I still love you and I want to run away with you? That's not who I am, and that’s not who you are, either. Deep down, you’re devoted to Tashi and your family. Look at you. You'll sacrifice your own happiness if that means your family can stay together. If it means staying with your wife even though you know she hates you. You’re not going to leave her.”

You knew that deep down because when he was with you, he yearned for Tashi. A part of him wanted Patrick, too, but it went unspoken due to the rivalry Tashi inspired. Yet, here he was, in this dimly lit restaurant, looking at you like you held the key to his heart, and if you said the words, he wouldn’t even question them. If you asked, he would leave this place with you.

“Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if we were still together. I will be happier. Would we have our own family? A little boy, or girl …”

His words rattled you to the bones. You grabbed your drink and took a large sip. All of a sudden, you were the one that couldn't look at him, while Art was on the opposite. His eyes on you were electrifying one moment, and intruding the next. He could see something was off in the way you went completely silent. You only realized that you hadn't said anything for a long moment, until Art softly called your name. You swallowed the lump in your throat that wouldn't go away, trying to find the words that you barely used outside of therapy sessions and many phone calls with your sister.

“I can't– I couldn't have given you what you have now. Maybe a nice house. But not a family."

You took a steadying breath.

"I’m … I have … endometriosis.”

You received the diagnosis a little while after your engagement to Isaac, your now ex-fiancé. After over a year of dating, when things had been serious between you two for a long time, he expressed his want to have kids. You didn't want any and were firm on the matter. But Isaac was nothing if not a sweet talker with a sharp silver tongue. He made the idea of having kids sound easy. Even heavenly. Your book sale was better than good and with Isaac's rich background, you were more than comfortable to have a kid. You decided to go for it. The first positive pregnancy test came with a proposal from Isaac shortly after. You were nervous but happy, and Felix always looked at you like you were his golden ticket. That statement turned out to be true, you couldn't help but laugh at the irony when you realized it later on.

The miscarriage happened just almost a month after you found out that you were pregnant. Recovery was tough, and after running some tests, the doctor told you that you had endometriosis. Some things started to make sense. The painful cramps, nausea and prolonged fatigue. The nights spent upright in your bathtub and bedroom floor because you didn’t want to puke or bleed on your beddings. Isaac was pensive when the doctor broke the news, and his first question was if you could still get pregnant. The doctor responded with methods and treatments you could follow. But you didn't care for any of that anymore. The pain was all you could think about, its haunting memories plagued your mind. Your heart went completely numb when the searing pain took your breath away as you crouched on the floor of your bathroom. You could never forget the searing pain that sucked the air from your lungs as you collapsed to the floor of your bathroom, the sight of your clothes after you took them off. The bloody mess soaked through the materials and stained the white marble floor seared into your eyes while your heart pounded in your chest, knowing that something had gone very wrong. You needed time to recover, and possibly rethink the idea of having kids. But, Isaac, only a few days after you came back from the hospital, brought up many different sources and pamphlets and ideas on how he wanted to try different methods for kids right away. But you didn't want to. You didn't want to look at the evidence of your shortcomings, your harrowing experience with the pregnancy. But for some reason, Isaac insisted. When you asked if he wanted a baby or you more, he couldn't answer. You broke off the engagement, and Isaac moved out of your apartment two weeks after that.

A month later, Isaac's sister reached out to you, offering her sympathy and shedding some light on why he wanted to have a baby so badly. Their grandfather was old, dying, and most importantly, filthy rich. In his latest will, he stated that a part of his inheritance would be saved for his great-grandkids' education, paying for the best private schools in the country until they could go out into the world independently. Isaac wanted a cut of that money as well, and he needed to have a legitimate child to get a cut from his sister's two kids, who were the sole beneficiaries. It was another hard truth in a whirlwind year, and you thought that was the end of you. With the help of your sister, a few friends and a therapist, you eventually came out the other side. You poured your heart and time into your next book, forgot about dating, and kept on living the quiet life you craved.

After wrapping up the story, you glanced at Art to see his reaction. You were grateful to find compassion, and not pity as you had learned to expect from the few you told this story to. That was all you needed.

Art reached over the table and grasped your hand. You allowed his hand to linger on yours, his thumb caressed your skin soothingly. After a long moment, you pulled your hand away. Art pushed the dish of calamari forward, offering you a bite. You humoured him by taking a bite, feeling the crispy crumbs on your tongue. After the bite, you spoke with a resolve you'd learned from all these years.

“Tashi was who you wanted all these years ago. I knew it, even back then. You couldn’t quite break away from her.”

“I know, and it was unfair to you. But I hope you know that I truly loved you.”

You nodded. He didn't need to say it. A mutual understanding that was so deep that it would take both of you a lifetime to unlearn was something that you shared. Despite how your relationship ended, it didn't diminish your meaningful connection. The heart and mind were the strange and curious things despite their proximity to the body that contained them. You could control them in a way, but in the end, the heart wanted what it wanted, even though the morality deemed it wrong. You still cared for each other deeply, and even though years had passed since you last spoke, the connection was nurtured and forged in stone, becoming a part of your history that neither of you could ever forget. The concept was foreign, and you lived through it before you could truly understand it.

“Despite what happened, and I know I should hate you for it, but I’m glad that you got what you wanted. A great career. A family. Lily seems like a sweet girl.”

There was a touch of hesitation when Art spoke.

“She is. But there's … something else.”

You waited for him to go on. He eventually did, with doubt riddled his words.

“I think Tashi slept with Patrick after our engagement a few years ago.”

You blinked. You didn't anticipate that to come out of him.

“I was on a tour, and I … I couldn't sleep. She wasn't with me, so I went down to the lobby to find her. Then I saw her and Patrick sitting together. Someone distracted me, and when I turned around, they were gone.”

You considered your position, and decided to stay quiet.

“Maybe they went out for a smoke.”

“Tashi doesn’t smoke.”

“A drink, then?”

“There were two on the table by the time they left. Going to another place for drinks seems redundant. I’m not stupid, you know?”

You felt torn. Art deserved to know the truth, but it had to come from Tashi herself. You didn't want to meddle more than you had just by being here with Art and listening to the admission of how much he had missed you.

“Art. You have to ask yourself why you're thinking about the past and having doubts.”

When he didn't answer, you went on.

“Was it worth it to break your friendship with Patrick for Tashi? Are you happy with the choices you made?”

Art remained silent. He averted his eyes, a weariness weighed his shoulders down. You wanted to reach out, to almost say sorry for confronting him, but you kept your hands to yourself.

“It’s strange, how all of us are here.”

“Patrick is here as well?”

Art nodded.

“Yeah. I’m playing against him tomorrow.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Like we’re still playing for Tashi’s number.”

A sarcastic chuckle left his lips.

“He’s still the same. Cocky. Overconfident.”

“And still somehow got under your skin?”

“No. We’re too old for that game.”

A tentative look passed Art's eyes, and you could almost tell what he was about to say.

“He said that you two ran into each other a few years ago.”

“We did.”

“He mentioned that you spent the night together.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing. What you did with him is none of my business.”

You sucked your teeth before letting it go with a soft cluck.

“It’s funny. After all these years, you still can’t say what you really want to say. At least, Patrick was upfront about wanting to sleep with me.”

“So, you two didn’t …”

You waved a dismissive hand.

“Relax. For the record, we didn’t. I still loved you then. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“I know that I don’t have any right to feel jealous, but I can't help it.”

“You really don't.”

“I know. I’m the fucking worst."

You didn't feel the want to revel in the admission of guilt he had shown you. What you wanted to do was to tell him about how you felt after everything that happened.

“You really hurt me, Art. I couldn’t understand why you got engaged with Tashi so quickly after we broke up. I accepted why you wanted to be with her, but I couldn’t fathom the timing.”

“You broke up with me. And I desperately wanted to get over you. I was envious of Patrick and Tashi’s relationship for so long, and I wanted her attention for so long that I thought it was the only way to get over you.”

You sighed deeply, seeing the invisible repeating patterns that had started to resurface. You leaned over to the table and took his hand.

“You have to move on. If the three of you can’t find a way to be together, then you have to break apart. Don’t let this consume you. And stop punishing yourself. Tashi’s shortcomings aren’t yours to carry.”

Art nodded, his brows furrowed in a way that made you feel like he understood you completely. After a long moment, he turned to the jacket he left on the seat. You went to pull your hand away, but Art held onto it as if he didn't want to let you go. You let him hold you, running soothing circles on his skin. The evidence of his fidelity to Tashi gleamed under the dim light, and the solidness of it cut into your heart. He pulled out a badge and placed it in front of you.

“It’s for you. Come, see me play. I’d love to have you there.”

You shook your head.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Please? I was hoping to have at least one person who has always been in my corner to be there.”

You rolled your eyes in good humour.

“You have plenty.”

“They’re not you.”

His eyes on you were serious and unwavering. You searched for an ounce of insincerity but came up with none. Eventually, you gave in with an exhale.

“Fine. I seem to have a soft spot for you.”

“I can say the same about you."

"Oh yeah?"

You whispered. Art locked you in with a searing look, arousing a warmth that spread all over your skin and inside. The space between you was compressed by a new proximity, so close that you could see the flutter in his long lashes.

"You are, somehow, still holding the best part of me. I have never stopped thinking about you.”

You reached out with your free hand and caressed his face. His lips kissed your palm, and you allowed him to linger for a moment.

“Too bad we aren't meant to be.”

/

Art drove you back to the hotel. Neither of you said too much, knowing everything was already laid out on the table back at the restaurant. You got out of the car first, and Art followed. You went in for a hug at the same time and met each other in the middle. His body was solid and warm, and a sense of wistfulness laved at your emotion receptor. Art wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling you flush against him as if he didn’t want to let go. After a while, you broke apart. You walked away first since you didn't want to be seen together. Art called after you when you got into the elevator.

“I really hope to see you there.”

Your eyes locked to the very last moment. And then, you were alone with your reflection.

/

It was ten minutes past three in the morning. You fell in and out of sleep with Art's words echoing in your head. Frustrated and tired, you decided to seek a little assistance at the bar downstairs. You had about a finger of rum left when Tashi came in. You didn't bother to look away from her when she noticed you. She approached the bar and got herself a tea. You knocked back your drink and prepared to leave when she said.

“You know, I was surprised when Art offered to arrange the hotel.”

Your face was a blank slate. Tashi's carefully articulated what she wanted to show you.

“Then I found out that you were here as well.”

“I didn’t plan this.”

“I know. Art did. He saw an opportunity to see you and he took it.”

You met her pragmatic demeanour with your own unsentimental tone.

“Hm, sounds like you need to tighten your leash.”

“Look, I don’t care what he did, or has done with you tonight–”

“Does he need your permission for everything he does?”

“–as long as you don’t distract him from his game.”

She was unfazed. But so were you.

“Don’t worry Tashi. All we did was talk. I wouldn’t come between you two.”

You meant it, and Tashi's resolve softened. After a quiet standstill, she spoke with a sincerity you didn't expect.

“Art keeps tabs on you. He reads your books. He even annotates them.”

You were about to shrug her off when she said it.

“He still has the scarf you made him.”

The scarf. How could you forget? Taken aback by her confession and Art's affection, you could only stare. You had to come to terms with the outcome of your relationship with Art a long time ago, and no matter how intimate the new details were, they no longer held significance. What difference would that make now? You shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re the one that he wants.”

The bartender nodded as you gestured for another drink.

“Take care of him. He really loves you. ”

“Then why do I feel like I’m still second to you?”

“I felt the same way when we were in college.”

You shared a rueful smile. Her outfit picked at your curiosity.

“Why are you out so late?”

“I went out for … a smoke.”

“In this weather?”

“I'm just … worried about tomorrow.”

“I see.”

You nodded and didn't question her any further. Tashi stood up from her seat.

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

She left the bar, leaving you alone with your drink.

/

You arrived early, grabbing yourself a seat in a familiar spot. The bleacher was filled with people and even more whispers on how it was a fated match between Art Donaldson, who had been on a losing streak, and Patrick Zweig, whose career had never taken off. Started from the same place, yet they had two wildly different paths and ended up in this place today.It had been a long time since you saw a tennis match in person, and you couldn't help but feel a little excitement.

The tension was palpable, knowing what you knew. You caught the looks exchanged between Art and Tashi, and Patrick's sneaky glances between the two of them. After the first set, they went on a break with Patrick in the lead. Art's eyes roamed over the audience, looking for you. You waved, and his eyes brightened when he found you. He gave a soft smile and a subtle nod. Your eyes stayed on each other until he broke the connection first.

Everything changed in the third set. Patrick copied Art’s serve. The atmosphere shifted. Art didn’t react. When he served, the ball hit the back wall hard, and the shout he emitted was something you’d never heard from him. Primal. Pained. His gaze shifted from Tashi to Patrick, before settling on you. The sheer vulnerability behind his eyes was heartbreaking. He held your eyes for a brief moment before turning away to get a new ball. Tashi noticed that, and craned her neck to look at you. You gazed back at her, sharing the same confused expression that she wore. Something Patrick did trigger Art, and while you didn’t know what it was, you could understand the severity of it.

The match went on. It was the most intense game you had ever seen. Your heart hammered in your chest as the rally kept going. The distance between Patrick and Art grew smaller and smaller. Art jumped, and the movement propelled him over the net. Patrick dropped his racquet, catching Art as he descended. Tashi’s scream pierced through the crowd's cheer. You exhaled in relief. It was something you’d never witnessed before. Based on Art and Patrick’s faces, it was the closure they needed. You stood up from your seat and left. You didn't need to know who won at the end. Something was unlocked between the three of them, and it was all you needed to see.

You didn't see Art’s longing gaze as he tried to find you in the audience when the match was over.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

For updates, please follow @cellophaine-archives

[vendetta-ari]

Romeo, Juliet, and a blonde Romeo.

Patrick Zweig x Fem!Reader x Art Donaldson (mentions of sex but no written smut, implied relationship with Art Donaldson, implications of At Donaldson ed (the food kind) cheating?,Reader is a lil bitch, not proofread)

"Hey, i made you breakfast..!" Art chirped as you sat up from your fluffy bed, ever the morning person, the blonde was already dressed and awake- holding a gross looking green smoothie in his hands. somehow, this grown man still has yet to understand what casual means. whatever, free food.

Thanks again for making breakfast," you tap your foot rhythmically against the tile, watching Art pick at his own pancakes and not eat them. "you gonna eat..?"

"not hungry." he quickly bites back, looking away for a moment before meeting your eyes with a soft smile. you pause, and the rythem your leg was bouncing to halts as you question him—"why would you make food if you weren't hungry?" one arched brow later and the blonde is chuckling nervously, cleaning up your empty plate and shrugging frantically "yknow, i. actually don't know- I guess i just wanted to make you something but I didn't want it to be awkward so-"

"Art?"

"yeah?"

"stop acting like my boyfriend."

he stammers a quick apology, before making up some excuse about needing to go to practice. (he doesn't, and you know that too, you aren't dumb.) and just like that, the blonde is gone. you'd feel bad, but this isn't the first time you had to remind him that your relationship is purely just friends (with amazing benefits) who knew pathetic men could have such good dick? after cleaning up the rest of the kitchen you go to your room to change, only to hear a familiar pattern of knocks.

tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap.

annoying bastard.

Patrick Zweig.

you open the window anyway. you're a woman of weak morals.

"miss me, baby?" he purrs.

you debate pushing him out the window, but the drop isn't very far.

after rolling your eyes and pulling him through the window, you meet his lips for a kiss. the kind where it's not light or tender and very much sloppy, with tillted heads and kitten licks.

so yeah, maybe you were playing with Patrick and Art. but could you really be blamed?

"hey, what's that?-" Patrick's stupid mouth isn't on your lips, but it's enough to pull you out if the moment, dazed and ticked.

"what's what?" you look around, trying to gage where his eyes have landed now.

Fuck.

Art left his Stanford hat. bright red, almost like a stop sign.

braindead blonde, he's gonna ruin your shot at getting laid (again) today.

"it's nothin, my uh..brother came over today. left his hat."

"am I supposed to belive that?"

God you could pull your hair out right now, you kick the hat under your bed. "can we get back to it?" you snarl, sitting on the bed and pulling him to stand between your legs.

he hasn't budged yet. it's been 5 minutes and he won't even kiss you, the cap is in his hands and he's inspecting it like some sort of fuckin' detective.

"im not fucking you if you don't tell me who's this actually is."

why does that even matter? since when has Patrick ever been monogamous? just last week he asked for a three way between you and this secret somone- the way he described the man though, sounded like he was in love.

"yknow, he's not too skinny, he's fir and built perfectly. white, blonde, he's got those two colored eyes...what's that called again? heterophobia?"

"Patrick i dont care, I'm not trying to get an STD."

"no he's safe, I swear!"

"i said no already!"

Patrick sniffs the hat, like the weirdo he is. you swear his pupils dialate, like a cat.

"what?" you murmur, almost defensively. you didn't mean for it to sound like that- but oh well.

"nothing. I'm going home."

"what? hey!? what about me-"

Art's stupid little hat gets thrown at your face, you sputter and go to chase after Patrick, but he's already hopped out of your window.

well. that's one less good lay.

atleast you've still got Art?

you quickly text him that he left his hat at your place, you make it sound a little flirty too. you didn't just get all worked up for nothing.

Patrick hadn't even stepping foot through the door and Art is already trying to leave.

"look I know we made plans man- but I gotta go do something important!"

"Important like what? whats more important than hanging out with me, am I that insignificant to you?!"

"no- it's not like that, stop being fucking dramatic!"

"just tell me what it is that's soooo important!"

"it's a girl, okay?! I left something at her dorm."

"you're dating—?"

"n-no..not exactly. it's complicated."

manwhore. that's what patrick wants to say. but he relents and let's his best friend get away. as much as he'd love to dig his claws into Art and never let go, no one can resist those eyes.

"fine. go then, just leave, not like I care." He's talking to the air at this point, because Art's already flown off like a puppy hearing a clicker. but hey, maybe Patrick's just being dramatic. he's sure to find some hot chick on campus- right?

maybe Patrick is an idiot. maybe he's a fool for thinking somone as gorgeous as you wouldn't sleep around. but fuck, for once he wanted domone all to himself.

yet here he stands, in Art's doorstep, watching him hold the red Stanford cap he just saw in your house. he isn't overthinking it. underthinking it, if anything. he should really see if he's got an STD.

"so..you're saying she's fucking both of us?" Art finally breaks the silence. looking dejected after Patrick's convoluted explanation when he came back from your dorm.

"dunno. I guess so." Patrick breaks eye contact. he really can't stand to look at his best friend right now. why can't he have anything to himself? why does he always have to share? it's not fair.

He feels like he's back in the tennis academy. sharing his very being with Donaldson. everything he every owned or would own, would be shared. he didn't mind back then, but with a girl like you? call him selfish for wanting you all alone. just his luck.

he needs to prove he's better. for his own fucking sanity.

To be continued.

-xoxo, Ari

[t1ts-4-donaldson]

i need to know more about alien art he's so :(

Oh Alien Art my beloved where do we start. (I got carried away).

Thinking about how he brings you outside when the night sky is clear dragging the telescope he begged you to buy with him. You're both standing in your backyard as he points out different constellations trying to tell you about each of them in his broken english. He gets so excited too using his hands to explain everything pacing back and forth gushing about the galaxy, his home and the missions he's been on. His heart soars when he see's how engaged you are, nodding along attempting to understand him, he adores how much you really care about what he has to say. He'd pause and gaze into your eyes a sliver of a smile on his face, "will take you one day" he mumbles staring all starry eyed like you hung the moon. You look at him confused and flustered and he just smiles and points up at the sky.

Or him admiring you while you're putting makeup on, patting glitter onto your eyelids and he's glimpsing over at you as he flips through one of his favorite tennis magazine's he picked up from barnes and nobles. You peer up and meet his gaze, "you want some?" you lift up the palette he basically jumps off your bed and clambers onto your lap eyes already shut. He giggles as you create a look the make up brushes tickling his skin. Oh and he loves the final result jaw dropping when he see's himself in the mirror "you like it?" you ask cupping his cheek and he grins and nods leaning in for a closer look loving the sparkles (reminds him of stars).

When he's fitful at night unable to sleep so he makes his way to your room sneaking into your bed hoping you don't mind, he taps you awake begging you to hold him face so crestfallen. You immediately wrap your arms around him and hold him close kissing the top of his head and humming one of his favorite songs, he smushes his face into your chest your heartbeat lulling him to a peaceful sleep.

oh sweet alien art

also not proofread at all oops

[castiwls]

I love you, period .ᐟ

Paring; art x reader

Synopsis; periods sucked. they sucked even more when your boyfriend happened to be away

Notes; writing this as i suffered from cramps was an experience (I need a boyfriend)

Masterlist

The blinking red of the clock was almost mocking. The red colour of the number is ironic almost as you lay there curled up in the only position which seemed to offer some semblance of relief from the relentless stabbing feeling in your stomach.

Art had joked once that you could open a pharmacy with the amount of medication in your drawers and you’d simply rolled your eyes before throwing your pillow at him but now you were wishing you actually did have a pharmacy in your room.

You’d tried everything. Boxes of painkillers, heat pads and hot water bottles (sometimes together), hell you’d even resorted to breathing exercises yet the pain would not pass. 

Art had called only a few hours ago - something which felt like a lifetime to you now. You were pretty sure he was spending more time on the phone with you than he was practising for the tournament he’d left go away for and the selfish part of you was glad.

Of course, he’d get dragged away to another college the weekend your body decided to turn against you. Just your luck! He’d felt bad, horrible almost when you’d called this morning almost in tears after waking up to the cramp in your stomach and the overall disgusting feeling which came with your period.

He’d almost got on the first bus back before you’d reassured him that you’d be okay. Though neither of you really believed that statement. Even three hours away he was still somehow managing to continue being overprotective and doting in a way which left a smile on your face even as you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

“Make sure you take the painkillers on time.”

“Eat and drink so you don’t feel sick - oh I left cash in your draw for snacks!”

Words couldn’t describe how grateful you were yet as much as you enjoyed the calls you still wanted him with you. 

The red numbers flashed 3:01 am as you rolled over, wincing slightly at the movement before taking a breath. You could call him. He’d pick up you knew he would. But you also knew he had a game at the moment and the last thing you wanted was to make him too tired to play. 

Before you could stop yourself you were reaching for your phone and finding his contact. Just talking wasn't what you wanted - all you wanted was to melt into his hold and try and forget about the pain in your abdomen.

Maybe you should get one of his hoodies - scratch that you were definitely stealing one for this reason when he got back.

“Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep and a pang of guilt shot through you. You’d woken him up. “Baby? You okay?” Art sounded slightly more awake now as he heard your shaky breathing down the line. 

You silently cursed yourself as tears began to swim in your vision - your hormones really were fucked. “I shouldn’t have called.” You shook your head wiping at your eyes. Art sighed rubbing a palm over his eyes. “No. No, you’re okay. It’s okay I don’t mind.” He soothed rolling over to check the time. “I need to get up soon anyway. Needa be on the court for 5.” 

You winced slightly at the idea - you really thought he was torturing himself sometimes when it came to his training. “Have you slept at all?” 

You shook your head before remembering that he couldn’t actually see you and murmured a small. “No.”

Art sighed sitting against his headboard as he pursed his lips in thought. He had a good idea of how to get you to sleep - though it would be easier in person.

“I need you to do something for me okay?”

PAGE BREAK

You couldn’t remember falling asleep. All you knew was that one moment you were talking about your plans for the next day and Art’s match and the next moment the sun was up and the call was ended. 

The pain had subsided a little but you still felt miserable. You were sore and tired and just wanted your boyfriend back. He’d done everything he could last night even when he’d had a busy day coming up.

“I’m gonna be playing all day but I’ll call you on Sunday alright? I’ll text when I can.”

You’d texted him once to say you were feeling better but other than that you'd left him alone. You’d been enough of a pain last night and the last thing your hormone-addled brain needed was the thought that you were annoying him.

The movie you’d settled on after finding every blanket you owned and gathered all your chocolate was working slightly to distract you yet time seemed to be moving at a snail's pace. Every time you’d checked what had felt like 5 hours had max been 10 minutes and you’d long since given up hope that Art would call.

It was just you, your blankets, the hot water bottle, and all the snacks you could think of to distract yourself from the pain still stirring in your stomach and your boyfriend's absence. Falling asleep had done nothing but make you miss him even more than before.

The thought of your phone ringing was the only thing that kept you sane.

PAGE BREAK

Thump

“Shit…” 

Your eyes slowly open, and you take a moment to adjust to the darkness that is now in your dorm. When did you fall asleep and who was in your room? You frown at the wall for a moment before your eyes widen. 

You only gave one person a key to your dorm.

Faster than you’d moved all weekend you turn over a smile pulling at your lips as your eyes land on your boyfriend smiling sheepishly from by your desk. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Art murmured kicking his tennis bag to the side.

“You're back early.” Your voice broke slightly as the onslaught of emotions you’d been holding in all week seemed to finally topple over as the relief of finally having him back hit. 

Art turned in alarm at the sound of your breath hitching his hoodie being discarded onto the floor as he moved closer to your bed. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” His hand smoothed down your hair a small smile pulling at his lips as he looked you over. “Why are you crying?” He couldn’t help the small laugh that seemed to escape his lips as you sat up immediately crowding into his space. 

“Missed you.” You sniffled feeling his arms wrap around you as he pulled you into his lap. “I missed you too.” He hummed rubbing a hand over your back. He’d taken the first bus back the minute his match had ended. He’d barely been able to focus on the match knowing that you’d probably been staring at your phone hiding away in your room by yourself. The idea alone made his heart hurt.

“C’mon.” Art gently shifted you back to the bed before standing. He sent you a reassuring smile before quickly stripping out of his hoodie and pants and climbing back into your bed. The moment he was in reach your fingers curled around his arm before shifting closer until you were pressed right against him.

A small sigh of contentment left your lips as you shifted slightly to lay your head on his chest, your fingers tracing shapes over his chest as you finally relaxed. “You feeling any better?” He asked after a moment. His voice was quiet as he pressed his lips to your head for a moment as his fingers ran over your shoulder.

“A little.” Your lips pressed against his shoulder for a moment as you breathed in the lingering scent of aftershave which always seemed to stick to his skin. Art’s hand travelled to your hair his fingers tangling into the strands as he left himself relax knowing that you were at least content again.

He made a mental note to go to the store first thing and buy you anything and everything you wanted as an apology for leaving you alone. 

Next time you were coming with him.

[saintzweig]

art's the type of boyfriend to follow you wherever you go ... even when you're just inside the home you share. you're doing your make up in the bathroom? he's sitting on the toilet just yapping about whatever. what about when you're pooping or taking a shower? he's pulling up a chair inside the bathroom just to hang out with you, he'll bring the pet in with him too if you have one. he has the be in the same room as you pretty much all the time or he's going to get sad, like that man is an actual puppy

[parkerluvsu]

day 13: shy sex <3

authors note: sorry this is so late!! i was so tired last night i literally fell asleep writing it..

every time you have sex with art it's shy sex.. but the most shy he's ever been, was the first time you two had sex.

art is nervous. more nervous than he's ever been, probably ever in his life. he'd said he was going to the bathroom to "freshen up" after you'd scooted closer to him on your bed. it's not like he didn't want to have sex with you.. he really, really did, but he's just so scared of embarrassing himself and having you laugh at him that he needed to excuse himself. art splashes water on his face, taking a deep breath and using one of your towels to dry off, lingering and smelling the left over scent of your shampoo. art doesn't want to keep you waiting though, so he checks his hair in the mirror, smells his breath and walks back out to meet you on your bed.

"s-sorry i- i had to wash my hands.." art explains, not really realizing that his excuse doesn't make sense. you nod, smiling at him. "it's alright art.." you know why he left, and you want to confront him about it. "you know.. we don't have to do anything tonight right? if you're nervous, we can wait, you know id wait forever for you, yeah?" you reassure him, tilting your head to the side. art blushes, realizing he's been caught. "n-no! it's not that.. i- i don't know.. it sounds stupid but you're just so smart and pretty and nice and-" before he can continue to ramble, you press your lips to his.

"well if you want to.. we can go slow, okay? ill take care of you.." art nods at your words, pretty much hypnotized by you. yes.. he wants to have sex with you.. yes he wants you to take care of him, he needs you to take care of him. you smile, pulling him closer by the sides of his face, and kissing him again, satisfied with how easily his mouth opens up and lets you swirl your tongue around. art mewls softly against your lips, spurring you to move his hands to rest on your hips. He moves so he’s pressed against your side, with his arms slung around you to hold you closer.

you can feel that he's hard and drooling precum against you, getting even wetter when you slide your hand down his chest, cupping him through his jeans. art groans, and muffles his whines in your hair. he's extremely eager, slipping his slightly cold fingers under the hem of your shirt, helping you pull it up and off. art doesn't even open his eyes and look at your breasts, waiting for your signal that it was okay. you giggle, grabbing his hands and placing them on your boobs, watching as his face flushes.

art is blushing like a maniac as he opens his eyes. he isn't a virgin by any means, but there's something special about you that makes him more nervous than anyone has ever made him before. it’s cute how quickly he got so shy, but you tell him it’s okay. art nods, lowering his head to suckle at your breasts like it's second nature to him. you don't know how he's so good at it, but you don't question it, allowing him to soothe himself while you pull off his shirt as well, rubbing your hands on his milky, freckled skin.

you're practically straddling his lap at this point, letting him roll his hips into you. you help art lay down on your bed, shucking off his jeans and watching his cock slap against his stomach, strings of precum sticking to his skin. art whines, flinging an arm over his face to cover his blushing cheeks. you smile, taking off your shorts as well, pressing your body to his. you move his arm away from his face, pressing kisses on his cheeks and nose. art whines, squirming on your sheets as he bucks his hips against nothing, the flush in his cheeks spreading to his chest.

you lean over art and grab a condom from your bedside table, sitting on your knees to pull it over his cock. art muffles his groans by biting his lips, embarrassed about the moans that threaten to escape them. you finally meet his eyes, "are you okay? we can stop any time if you want to.." you coo at him, trying to calm his mind. art nods eagerly, pulling you closer to his neck so he can nuzzle into you. you hover over him and sit down on him slowly, unable to stop yourself from squeezing tightly around him. art throws his head back, moaning loudly before he realizes how loud he's being.

you start to move up and down on him, scratching down his chest with you nails. art wraps his arms around your lower back, pulling you to lay against his chest as he plants his feet on your bed, fucking up into you with abandon, his previous shyness gone completely. you can't do anything but fall limp against his chest, letting him take what he wants from you. art pants and whines against your neck, licking and biting the soft skin there. you can tell that arts getting close by the increasing loudness of his whines, combined with the fact that he's jackrabbiting his hips into you, using all his adrenaline he's built up all night. art is trying to stay focused on making you cum.. but when you pop a couple fingers in his mouth to quiet him down, he's a goner.

art moans around your fingers, giving you deep strokes that you're sure would get you pregnant if he wasn't wearing a condom. art is content to lay there and let you take what you need from him, watching you rock your hips back and forth until you too tremble and shake with the force of your orgasm. coming back to earth, art sighs shakily, helping you slide off of him and lay down beside him. "are you okay?" you turn on your side and rest your head on your hand, swiping a couple of golden hairs from arts forehead. "y-yeah.. im great actually.. can we just.. stay like this for a little bit?" art looks away as he talks, his shyness taking over once again. you giggle and nod, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "of course art.. as long as you like" <3

[gladiatorcunt]

oooh art would be lowkey freaky. i feel like he’s also a super munch. he’ll let you sit on his face for hours!!

cw: 18+ mdni, cunnilingus, ambiguous era, afab reader, slight brat!reader, teasing, like two spanks (+ one instance of ass play + very slight anal fingering)

Art devours you like no one else ever could, burying his tongue into your pussy for hours on end. If he could, he’d do it 24/7. He does it enough as it is away. As a wake up call, a way to say goodnight, in the shower, on your period, from behind while you’re cooking, in a pool chair, you get the gist. If you asked what he favorite sexual act to do with you was, there’s not a single doubt in your mind that it would be slurping up your pussy.

You’ve never sat on his face before though, too scared to break his neck after reading a story on your phone about that happening to someone else. It’d be a real mood killer to come down from you high to see your boyfriend dead to the world, literally. You didn’t talk about it again after the initial awkward discussion that ended with you dismissing it. But he just looks so hot in the early morning sun, a rare sleepy day in where you actually get to marvel at what Art looks like when he’s relaxed.

You bite your lip and shake him gently, trying not to shy away and curl up into a ball when he eventually groans and rubs his eyes open.

“Morning, baby.” He grunts in his husky morning voice.

He immediately puckers his lips for a kiss that you provide with less casual confidence than usual. His brow furrows, and he caresses the inside of your wrist with his thumb.

“What’s up? Are you hungry?” He asks you, thinking that you’re needing him to run and get you coffee or something.

You say no and play with your hands, the ache you’ve been feeling between your thighs only grows the more you look into his eyes.

“I just…. I need you.” You whisper.

Art squints his eyes, not sure what you mean. Then he recalls how he usually wakes you up in the morning, “Oh. You need me, huh?”

You nod and spread your legs, giving a view of your bare pussy. You took your underwear off earlier when the feeling got to be too much.

“Can you say it for me, angel? Tell me what you need and i’ll give it you.” He grins, teasing you. “If you woke me up, you must need whatever it is really bad.”

You roll your eyes and straddle him, sighing in bliss when he latches onto your hips. You’d put up more of a fight if you weren’t so horny, but you’ll let Art have his fun this time.

“I need you to eat me out.” You hold back the ‘obviously’ that you want to tack onto the end of your sentence.

Art’s grin widens and he makes you rock back and forth on his clothed bulge. He waist until you’re juices are wetting the fabric of his underwear before he pats your thigh, telling you to get off. You don’t budge and allow him to get into the typical position. Instead you lift your hips and shuffle up the bed until you’re hovering over his face.

“I want you to eat me out like this.”

Art’s grin falters as his eyes widen in shock for a second, you must really be pent up if you’re being this bold. He’s not complaining, he’d been waiting patiently for you to get comfortable enough to use him like a chair. You’re enough of a brat to change your mind if he acts too smug about getting what he wants even if you want it too though, so he tones it down.

“Get to it then, angel.” He smirks, his words trailing off into a satisfied sigh. “Give me a taste of this pretty pussy, don’t hold back.”

He flattens his tongue expectantly and leans his head back against the pillows.

Before you can even hesitate, Art snakes his arms under your legs and yanks your body down, making you drop your weight on him. You yelp but he doesn’t let you squirm away from his mouth. The sensation of his tongue lying still beneath you feels strange for a second, but a slap to your ass snaps you out of it enough to start moving your hips.

You shout and grab onto the headboard, getting yourself off on your boyfriend’s face. You play with one of your tits as you start to bounce on him, craving more of his tongue.

You reach down and tug on his hair, suddenly feeling too shy to make eye contact. He hasn’t looked away from you this entire time, and your cheeks warm in embarrassment at the thought of how messy you already look.

He winks at you, not moving at all and letting you take your fill. Well that’s not what you want anymore, so you tug his hair harder and beg.

“Please, baby, just tongue fuck me already. Don’t you want to? ‘m getting tired…” You whine, pouting down at him.

You stop your hips when you don’t get an answer. Art’s eyes crinkle in delight at your predicament, but he gives in to you. He always does, you just don’t like when he puts you on the spot and makes you wait like this. Secretly you kinda enjoy how he acts in bed, but you like putting up a fight way more.

Art curls his tongue around your clit and you throw your head back. He gives the throbbing bud a few customary sucks and then he jabs his tongue into your wet hole. You moan and grab onto his hair, bouncing on him in time with his tongue’s short thrusts. You roll your hips down against the slick appendage and cry out when it hits the right spot, grasping onto the headboard for dear life.

“Oh my god, feels so good! Wanted you in my pussy, need you there, sucking me dry-what the fuck, yes!” You squeal, firmly keeping his face nuzzled into your pussy and your thighs around his head.

His hands are playing with your ass while he eats you out. You’re mid bounce when you feel one of his thumbs prod at your ass hole, and the barest hint of having two of your wholes filled gets you moving faster on him. He spread your cheeks wider and kneads the flesh, jiggling them in his hands.

Art responds in kind and slides his tongue around whatever parts of your juicy pussy he can, scooping up your juices and guzzling them down as he stabs his tongue through your sopping folds.

You’d normally pull him back by his hair when you got close, not wanting to get him too dirty with your cum. But now you’re tightening your thighs over his ears and and stuffing his nose into your trimmed pubic hair, bouncing like your life depends on it.

Art spanks you again when your walls spasm around his tongue thirty seconds later. He gulps your orgasm down with love in his eyes and a heartbeat in his dick. He coos at your soft sniffles and massages your trembling thighs when you get up and collapse beside him.

“Thanks for breakfast, angel, I’d rate it 5 stars”. He laughs, half jokingly and half seriously.

“Whatever, perv.” You weakly smack him on the chest and groan, trying to keep your soul in your body. “Go get coffee… please.”

[sceletaflores]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor, to the toilet seat, from the dining room table, to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink, to the shower, from the front porch, to the balcony, vertically horizontally, quadratic, exponent, algorithmetic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, forward, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in a car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back aching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw-dropping, hair pulling teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, over stimulating, vile, sloppy, moan-inducing, heart-wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, blackhole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark-worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcanic erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, hip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail snatching, spectacular, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, malforming, heavenly, devil's tango. please.

[kolsmikaelson]

AND THEN THERE WERE THREE…

NOTES — just saw challengers today and absolutely needed to write smth for these two! only used a gif of art because theres none of the two of them and almost none for patrick </3, i’m a little rusty with smut so bare with me

WARNINGS — 18+ content mdni, slight challengers 2024 spoilers, fem!reader, kinda dom!art, pure smut/little plot, art/patrick interactions, talk of previous art/patrick sexual encounters, spit play, oral (m receiving), tit sucking, dirty talk, mentions of anal, little bit of aftercare, not proofread, lmk if i forgot anything!

REQUEST — Pls write a smut fic with reader and Art fucking in the hotel room (with Patrick watching) and reader asking if Patrick can join them and ofc Art can’t say no because he finds the idea of this super hot. Maybe reader makes Art and Patrick make out like in the movie 👀

WORD COUNT — 1.6k

join my taglist or follow @rodrickhefley to see when i post

None of you were too sure how exactly this had started. You, Art, and Patrick had stumbled back into their hotel room after leaving the beach, each of you finding your own place to sit after Patrick opened up a beer, took a swig, and passed the can to you. You’d taken a seat closer to Art, having naturally gravitated towards him more so than Patrick. And quickly, you and Art were making out, leaving Patrick to watch. 

You blamed the beer. And the fact that you found both Art and Patrick incredibly hot. One minute you’re at a party, dedicated to your best friend, Tashi Duncan, and the next you’re sitting on the beach being invited back to the guys’ hotel room, and the next after that, Art is stripping you of your clothes while Patrick takes a seat leaned up against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. 

“Can I-” He begins, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt, desperation clear in his eyes. At your nod, Art quickly yanks your shirt over your head and immediately pulls your body flush against his. He’s planting soft, wet kisses up and down your neck as his fingers work the back of your bra. His eyes widen the moment it drops to the ground. 

Giving you a moment's glance he quickly sucks one nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking and biting. Feeling as though he’s neglected the other one, he pinches and tugs on the opposite nipple, smiling around the one in his mouth at the moans you let out. 

“Yeah, baby? You like this? Me with your tits in my mouth and my best friend jerking off while watching us?”

For a moment, you’d forgotten about Patrick. Your eyes shoot open, landing on him instantly. The sight of him, slouched against the wall, his hand already wrapped around his cock, with his eyes fixated on both you and Art. He looked so hot, you weren’t sure how you’d forgotten that he was even there. 

“Mhm, ‘s hot.” you admitted, turning Arts face back to you, tugging his bottom lip back into your mouth. The blond pushes you back onto the beds that were pushed together - Patrick’s idea if anyone were to ask - and begins kissing up your stomach only stopping long enough to kiss each of your nipples. He grabs your face, pushing his fingers into your cheeks, making you open your mouth, before letting a large glob of spit fall from his mouth into yours. 

“Swallow.” He smiles when you do so without complaint, even going as far as to look as if you wanted him to do it again. 

Patrick moans at that, louder than before. Sure he and Art had messed around before, when they were both single and bored and needed a good fuck, that wasn’t new, but hearing that commanding tone in the blonds voice sent a shiver down his spine. 

“God, that was hot.” Patrick sighs, laughing when Art gives him the finger. 

“Fuck off, Patrick.” Both of them know he doesn’t mean it, if he wasn’t wanted there, you or Art would’ve said something, but you didn’t. whether Art knew it or not, both you and he wanted him to stay, and keep watching.

At some point during that interaction, you weren’t sure when exactly, Art had shed his pants and underwear. He was dragging the tip up and down your slit, up and down, stopping every few seconds to slap your clit with it. When your eyes finally landed on his length, it made your jaw drop. He was big, bigger than you’d seen before, he was long and girthy with veins running along the bottom of it. 

He slowly slides into you, admiring the look of pure bliss on your face. He’d never seen anyone look so angelic. The closest comparison he could make was how Patrick looked when he’d first given him a blow job. He wouldn’t call the look on Patrick's face angelic perse, but it was hot, really hot. The reminder of that, and the way you’ve begun clenching around him, spurs him into you. His hips snapping into yours, his heavy balls hitting your ass with each thrust. It was unlike anything either of you had felt before. 

I want him to join.

You weren’t sure that the words had actually left your mouth until the blond on top of you stopped his thrusts, looking into your eyes for a moment. 

“That what you want, baby?” He murmurs, kissing sloppily up and down your neck, shivers running through your entire body at his touch. His fingers falling to your clit, flicking at it. The pleasure was almost enough to make you forget that he’d even asked a question. 

Almost. 

“Please,” Even in your fucked out state, you couldn’t help but want more. 

“Come on, Zweig. You heard her.” Patrick grins, hopping to his feet, although slightly hesitant. He wasn’t sure where to go, or what to do. But his nerves dissolved the moment Art turned around, and gave him that look, one that he knew meant that everything would be okay. It meant that he just needed to get over himself and have a good time, everything would work out. After that he’s on the move towards you, giving Art a harsh slap to the ass as he goes past him, laughing when Art swats back at him. 

Patrick all but flies onto the bed, having kicked his underwear off the moment he stood up, and his shirt is long gone, a mix of yours, his, and Arts clothes are scattered around the hotel room, sure to have lost at least one thing. But none of you had it in you to care, too overwhelmed with pleasure. Your mouth opens before he’s even fully on the bed, but he gets the message, quickly positioning his tip in front of your mouth, thrusting a few times before losing control and fucking your throat. 

The three of you move in tandem for minutes, or maybe it was hours, Art would thrust into you, rubbing your clit with his fingers, while Patrick would be pulling himself out of your mouth at the same time. It felt as though this was a regular occurrence, as though it were normal. And god did you hope it would become a normal thing. The three of you, together, making each other feel good. 

Tapping Patricks thigh lightly, you hum happily when he pulls out of your mouth, giggling at how quickly he begins to check and make sure you’re okay. 

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” The words come out of his mouth at lightning speed and it’s difficult for you to understand, but Art had and his thrusts slowed to a stop, hands leaving your body, giving you a questioning look as if repeating everything his friend had just said. 

“I’m fine baby,” And then you say something neither of them could quite hear. 

“Gotta speak up for us, sweetheart. Can’t do what you want us to do otherwise.” That comes from Patrick, Art nodding along with him. 

“Want you two to kiss.” The words fly out of your lips and you’re suddenly shy, pressing your face into Patricks thigh, nipping at it softly. 

Both men smirk at you before making eye contact with each other, giving a subtle nod. 

“Well c’mon man, you know how I like it.”

The combination of Arts words, his sudden thrusts and Patrick taking it upon himself to flick at your clit, push you over the edge. The power of your orgasm makes your legs shake, your mind empty of anything this isn’t you, Patrick, or Art. 

They’re still kissing, it’s all teeth and tongue and spit. It’s messy, and it only stops long enough for Arts mouth to fall open, moans spilling out as he comes inside of you, hot spurts of his come flooding your insides, leaving a white ring around the base of his cock as he fucks you through both of your orgasms. 

At this point, Patrick has taken a step back, and is watching again. He’s stroking himself with one hand, squeezing just right and out of nowhere, Art reaches out, cupping the dark haired man's balls, tugging and rubbing on them just the way Patrick likes. The added pleasure sends him crashing over the edge, he barely has the time to move and aim his cum to where you and Art are connected, spilling himself all over your cunt and Arts cock. 

Art pulls out and the three of you fall into a pile of heavy breathing, sweat, spit, and cum on the beds pushed into the middle of the room. Once you all catch your breath, Patrick is the first to speak. 

“Wow.” It was simple, but it made you all burst out laughing. 

“Wow, indeed.” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his pec, turning to do the same to Art. 

“That was fucking hot.” Arts words make you all giggle yet again. 

“Okay,” Patrick leans you into Art and pushes himself off of the bed, “‘m gonna get you two cleaned up, be right back.” He reassures you, hearing you whine at losing his presence. He comes back with a warm washcloth in hand, and a small cup of water in his other. He hands the water to Art motioning for him to take a drink and then give you some as well, while he bends at the waist, resting his knees on the floor and taking the cloth to your core, cleaning you as gently as he could before moving onto Art. Tossing the cloth to the corner of the room he pulls both you and Art into his embrace, enjoying the quiet for a moment before you break the silence. 

“Round two? Whoever makes me cum harder gets to fuck me here first.” You smile slyly, placing your hand on your ass, giggling when Patrick snatches you from Arts hold, muttering something about how he ‘got you first last time and that it’s his turn now.’

[artdcnaldson]

NEED art and patrick to find out I'm a virgin and offer to teach me how to kiss and how to fuck and use eachother as examples and guide me and tell me I'm doing a good job and reward me for being such a good student and come back later and quiz me to see if I remember everything they taught me ugh obsessed with them individually and as a unit

This has lived rent free in my mind for literally forever. I can’t stop thinking about it, it haunts my every waking moment.

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: Making out, Handjob lessons, guys being pervs, not a love triangle they just all want to fuck each other

A/N: unedited bc I wrote this while on the clock okay whatever. Enjoyyyy and if u want me to continue this lmk >:)

“I think it’s sweet,” Patrick said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice, practically dripping from every syllable. “The last American virgin. You belong in a museum.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your empty Taco Bell cup at him— the ice rattled and it leaked a puddle of condensation onto the ground. “You could try not to be a dick about it.”

Art’s dorm room was hot and sticky thanks to a faulty AC, which meant the three of you lounging on the floor by his open window, sucking down soda watered down by melted ice cubes. You were down to a T-shirt and shorts, they were down to their boxers. It wasn’t lost on you that it was an intimate situation to be in— barely dressed, crammed into the shoebox of a dorm. And of course Patrick had dug his fingers in until you admitted your secret— you had made it all the way to college totally unfucked.

Patrick leaned forward, smiling the smarmy smile that tended to wear at your last nerve. “So you’re a virgin, but like,” he leaned in, so close you could feel body heat radiating from him. He dropped his voice, just above a whisper. “How much of a virgin, really? You’ve at least gone to third, right?” You glared, but shook your head.

“Second?” Art supplied, suddenly jumping in with an eager sort of curiosity.

“What? No, I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted. You sighed before you spoke up. “I’ve only ever kissed one guy and one girl, and it was during a game of spin the bottle, like, junior year.”

“How?” Patrick asked.

Your brows furrowed. “How? I spun the bottle, it landed on the person, I leaned in, put my lips against theirs, and that was it.”

Patrick sighed. “Just fucking show me how.” He looked at you expectantly, inching even closer.

With an annoyed sigh, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his— mouth closed, lips firm. When you sat back, Patrick and Art were both grinning.

“What?” You asked with a frown.

“That’s how you kiss on the playground in elementary school,” Art said, unable to contain his laughter. “C’mere.”

You crawled forward, stopping in front of the blond. His hand settled on your jaw, coaxing you forward.

His lips met yours softly, sweetly. It was easy to lose yourself in the feeling of Art’s mouth, in the gentle brushes of his lips against yours and the way he held your face so tenderly.

The feeling of his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips was strange, but you welcomed it, letting him lick into your mouth.

Each pass of his tongue against yours drew you deeper and deeper into it, into him. You moved into his lap without realizing it, kissing him with sweet, timid laps of your tongue.

Art pulled back first, his cheeks soft and pink and so pretty. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kiss someone. That was really good.”

You laughed softly, and moved off of his lap sheepishly. Patrick leaned forward, brushing your hair back, holding your face in his hand.

“Okay, show me what Art showed you,” he instructed, then leaned in.

Kissing Patrick was different than kissing Art. He was hungrier, more insistent. His tongue pressed into your mouth like he wanted to chart every inch. You did your best to match what he offered, to kiss the way Art had just shown you, sweetly, like you really meant it.

And you did mean it. Patrick’s hands moved along your side, up until they cupped your tits through your shirt. You moaned softly into his mouth— the sound was muffled, met with a moan of his own. He gave an experimental squeeze of your tits and you whined softly. So he did it again, amused by the pretty, sweet noises you mewled out.

Patrick was getting hard, pressing against your thigh. It was a new sensation that you were hyper aware of as you unconsciously ground yourself against him.

You pulled back first, cheeks burning hot after you remembered Art was right beside you. You tucked unkempt hair behind your ear, smiled bashfully. “How was I?”

“Good,” Patrick said.

At the same time Art supplied, “So good.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. Cool.”

Art was squirming, fidgeting, holding a pillow over his lap. Patrick was less covert— opting to openly adjust himself, drawing more attention to the fact that he was hard. You rolled your eyes and stole the nearest cup you could find, sipping at watered down Mountain Dew.

“Do you want me to leave?” You teased, raising an eyebrow. Your teeth dug into the plastic straw as you looked between the two of them.

Art stammered, mortified, but Patrick just smiled dizzyingly over at you. “I can teach you something else. You got to first base, so why don’t you steal second?”

You rolled your eyes, but heat flared behind your cheeks. Jesus Christ, he was such a smug asshole. “I still don’t know what that means,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.

He grinned and mimed jerking off. Your eyes widened, and you laughed softly. “That would be weird,” you said, half-believing it. “Like, if I did jerk one of you off, that leaves one of you just watching.”

You glanced at Art, who looked just as interested as Patrick did, and your heart stammered nervously. “What if I show you how you do it on Art? Look at him— he’s the perfect little practice dummy.” Patrick reached over, pinching at Art’s cheek until the blond kicked his shin.

“Show me?” You echoed. “Like… you’re going to do it to him, and I do it to you?”

Patrick nodded, leaning into Art’s side, his smarmy smile dissolved into something needier. Art swallowed hard, lips parted slightly as he looked over at Patrick.

Patrick’s lips met his slowly, hungrily. You watched wide eyed as Patrick deepened the kiss, as Art eagerly accepted the other boy’s tongue into his mouth.

Patrick threw the pillow out of Art’s lap and sent it careening into the desk on the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widened at the sight of Art, hard and tenting his boxers. Patrick palmed him in his large hands making the blonde whimper into his mouth and buck up, seeking friction.

You swallowed hard, biting down on the straw as you watched Patrick tug at the elastic of Art’s boxers. Art lifted his hips to allow Patrick to tug them down his thighs, just enough to expose his cock to both of you.

“See,” Patrick gasped, leaning back from their kiss. Art chased his lips fruitlessly, mouth ajar, waiting for more. “He’s so fucking easy. Come feel.”

You moved closer, looking at Art for permission. When he nodded, you reached out, letting your fingertips graze the soft skin of his shaft. He exhaled a shuddery breath, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick’s hand covered yours, guiding you to squeeze around his length.

He was warm under your touch, silky soft, pulsing in your grip. Your heart hammered just at that— at the feel of him in your hand. “Feels nice, huh? Knowing how much he wants you.” You nodded, then slid your fist up, testing the waters. Art moaned softly, throbbed in your grip, aching for more. Patrick smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Hands off, just watch me.”

Patrick spat into his hand and replaced your hand with his own. The second Patrick curled his fingers around Art and started stroking him slowly, the blond was mewling for more. “Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead knocking against Patrick’s, mouth open, panting. “That’s good, feels good.”

You watched Patrick rub his thumb over Art’s tip, eyes widening as Art really whimpered for it, hips thrusting up into Patrick’s fist, chasing more of the pleasure the brunet offered.

“You get it now?” Patrick asked. You nodded quickly, and he tugged down his own boxers. “Fuck, okay— fucking show me.”

Your heart hammered with nerves, but you nodded. You held your hand out and spit into it, mimicking what Patrick had done before you wrapped your hand around his cock.

He felt bigger in your hands, but you didn’t say that. One, you worried it might piss Art off, and two, he didn’t need the ego boost. And he was slick, beading precum at his tip so each pass of your hands felt slicker and slicker.

And you couldn’t help but want to be an asshole. “You’re wet like a girl,” you said with a smirk, gliding your thumb over his tip.

And he was shameless, nodding with a sly grin. “That means I like you.” He panted, moaning softly. “Besides, I bet your fucking panties aren’t dry right now.”

Well, fuck. You tried to ignore the rush of heat in your belly that those words caused, to focus only on the glide of your hand on Patrick’s cock— up and down, copying his pace on Art, copying the ways he’d squeeze and twist his hand.

Art was moaning, rutting up into the tight sheath of Patrick’s fist, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and relaxing in unsteady jerks beneath his soft skin.

“Fuck— switch, switch,” Patrick said quickly. Art whined when Patrick stopped touching him, but it was ignored. “Want you to feel it when he comes.”

He guided your hand back onto Art’s cock and nodded for you to move. “Fuck, your hand’s so soft,” Art groaned. “Faster, faster, fuck—“ He was practically begging. You swallowed, increased the pace, squeezed him a little tighter.

Art was touching Patrick— jerking him off while you brought him closer and closer to finishing. Patrick leaned in, kissed you deeply, pulled Art in too until the three of you were a mess of tongues and lips and spit and hands.

Art came first— coating your hand in warm, slick cum, throbbing in your grip. He was panting into your and Patrick’s mouths, moaning softly as you continued to slowly work him through it. Patrick came next, once Art redoubled his effort, focused on making Patrick add to the mess covering your hands.

Patrick was loud, pornographic, messy. Art brought a cum covered hand between his lips, cleaning it up. Your eyes widened.

“Art, c’mon, you’re scandalizing her,” Patrick said, like you weren’t even there.

“Shut up,” you said, shoving him. He laughed and pulled his boxers back up. Art followed suit, and the three of you were left gross and sweating in the heat. You wiped your hand off on one of their discarded shirts and gave a sheepish smile.

They sat there, expectantly. Waiting for you to make the next call. There was a level of want in you, need, but the thought of asking for them to take care of it was mortifying. “Do you want to watch a movie or something now?”