#i went with both art and patrick for you since i know you love both of them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 6 months ago

Text

working it out (on the remix)

pairing: art donaldson x patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: you sit in the angry silence, gears slowly turning in your head as you look between your boys. you should have known that this wasn't going to work, clearly just talking isn’t going to get the three of you anywhere.

—or: three tennis players walk into a hotel room.

word count: 5.5k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, fighting as foreplay, mean!reader my beloved, the patrick and art gay agenda, threesome, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y'all!), not quite hate sex more like angry sex, double penetration, oral sex (m!receiving), choking, finger sucking, degradation, creampies, lowkey sub!patrick coded, switch!art ofc, porn with a plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: oh em gee part three is here!!! i literally always say this but i had so much fun writing this one lol thank you so much for showing this series so much love right off the bat! i've loved loved loved reading all the ideas you guys have sent me for future chapters and trust when i say that i'll definitely be featuring as many as i can. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

tftw series masterlist!

Art is fuming. You keep glancing over at him to check that smoke isn't starting to blow out of his ears. It doesn't, but he's just as mad every time. Standing in the doorway huffing and puffing, arms crossed over his chest as he stares Patrick down from across the room.

Patrick is the complete opposite, all relaxed body language and easy half-smiles as he coolly stares back. You’d make a fire and ice joke if you didn’t think it would send Art over the edge.

He’s sitting in the room’s single chair, window cracked open so he can smoke. He’s practically naked, wearing an unbuttoned long sleeve and the tiniest boxers you’ve ever seen. His bare feet are propped up on the corner of the bed you’re sitting on.

You’re perched cross legged on the mattress, basically stuck in the middle of them.

You’re still surprised you even got Art to show up at all. You thought he almost flipped the table when you brought up Patrick at lunch, casually mentioning that you’ve been texting him for the past couple of days and you think the three of you need to talk. He was quiet for a long time before he finally asked if that meant Patrick was, has been, in town. You just shook your head yes.

You didn’t tell him you and Patrick slept together, you didn’t need to.

He went quiet again, stood up from his chair with an excuse of being late to class and stomped out of the dining hall. You texted him the address to Patrick’s hotel an hour later.

Art never responded, but his jeep was still waiting for you outside the biology building after your last lecture got out. He would always drive you back to your dorm since you’d get out so late, but this time he turned out of the campus lot and silently drove until you realized he was going to the hotel.

Now you’re here, and it's been almost ten minutes since you knocked on the door to Patrick’s room. And no one has said anything the entire time. No one has even moved, only Patrick every so often when he needs to flick his ashes out the window. A thick blanket of tense silence falls heavy over the three of you. It makes the room’s temperature feel that much hotter. The shitty air conditioner hums faintly in the background.

“So,” you say slowly, voice finally piercing through the quiet, “Am I gonna have to be the first to talk again or–”

“God, I don’t know,” Art cuts in tersely, not looking away from Patrick as he does, ”I can’t believe I don’t have anything to say to the guy that fucked my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Both you and Patrick ask sharply, opposing tones of shock and amusement blending together.

Art's eyes narrow, a storm brewing in the blue of them. He’s still looking at Patrick, talking about you like you’re not sitting right in front of him. "Yeah, my girlfriend. Did I stutter?" His chest is puffed out just enough for you to notice, his mouth pulled down at the corners in a deep frown.

You blink, caught off guard. Art’s never asked you to go steady with him, you’ve never even been on a date. Unless you count fucking in the back of his jeep at a drive in theater a date, then sure, you’ve been on one date. Regardless, the possessive timbre of his voice has something warm simmering under your skin.

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “Well, this is fucking news to me,” he says through a chuckle, eyes flicking between the two of you bemusedly, “I didn’t realize you guys were playing house, but that does makes a lot more sense now.” He gestures to your chest with his free hand, pointing out the dark blue sweatshirt you’re wearing.

‘Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy’ is stitched across the front in thin black thread; you'd stolen it from Art’s closet when you slept over at his dorm a few nights ago. He never asked for it back.

“It’s cute that you kept my shirt, Donaldson.” Patrick teases, lolling his head to the side lazily so he can look at Art through his lashes. A plume of smoke billows from between his lips, slipping through the open window slowly. “Even after you tried to turn my girlfriend against me and fucked her behind my back first–”

“Fuck you, Patrick–” Art starts, face twisted in a scowl. His hands ball into fists at his side, jaw ticking with anger.

Patrick doesn’t look deterred, leaning forward in his chair as he tries to talk over Art, “You’re such a fucking hypocrite–”

“I’m not anyone’s girlfriend,” you cut them both off, brows drawn together in frustration, “—and I’m not going to let this turn into some weird pissing contest between you two. We’re here to talk.”

Art scoffs agitatedly, casting his eyes to the ceiling. “Looks like the two of you have done plenty of talking without me,” he says bitterly. “Do you get off on this shit or something? On sticking your dick where it doesn’t fucking belong?”

Patrick smirks, leaning back in his chair, arms draped lazily over the armrests. “God, you really do think you’re innocent in this,” he laughs incredulously, leaning back in his chair. “You’re acting like you’ve got some moral high ground, but you don’t. You’re just as guilty of playing the game as I am.”

Art’s face darkens further, anger threatening to boil over. “This isn’t a game to me, Patrick,” he spits, tone hard and low, “I’m so sick of you treating everything like a goddamn joke.”

Patrick’s smirk doesn’t falter. “I never said it was a joke,” he says with a shrug, tone easy and nonchalant. “I’m just saying, maybe you should take a good look in the mirror before you start pointing fucking fingers. I’m not the only one who’s played dirty here.”

“Patrick–” you warn, sitting up straighter. You can feel the way the air changes, the way the animosity gets turned up. The last thing you need is for them to start throwing punches.

Art cuts you off, shaking his head in contempt. “You’re so full of shit. You don’t fucking care about her. You never did. You just want to win, because you can’t stand the thought of losing to me.”

Patrick groans loudly, throwing his head back with it. “We’re really going back to this again? Jesus Christ, give it up man. It’s not like she was ever really yours to begin with.” He takes another slow drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving Art.

The jab hits its mark, you can see it on Art’s face. In the way he physically recoils, the way he takes a ragged breath through his nose, the way the muscles of his jaw work furiously. For the first time since you fucked Patrick, you feel like a fucking bitch. The familiar feeling of guilt wraps its tendrils around you, weighing you down into the mattress like a physical force.

It gives you an idea, the guilt. It's a filthy idea, one that has heat stirring between your legs at just the thought. It’s a good way to make this whole situation up to Art, a good way to let him get under Patrick’s skin the same way he’s getting under his.

You sit in the angry silence, gears slowly turning in your head as you look between your boys. You should have known that this wasn't going to work, clearly just talking isn’t getting the three of you anywhere.

You sigh, overly dramatic and long suffering, scooting down until your legs are hanging over the edge of the mattress. Art and Patrick watch you the entire time, eyes finally leaving each other to watch your hands settle on the hem of Patrick’s sweatshirt.

“You guys are being so difficult. Why did I think that you could behave enough to talk this out like big boys?” You tug it off in one swift move, tossing it to the side carelessly. Two sharp gasps ring out, two sets of greedy eyes roam the bare expanse of your torso. You hadn’t worn a bra today.

You smirk, standing from the mattress and hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your sweats. You push them down your legs slowly, making a show of it until you're only in the pair of light purple panties you slipped on this morning. Patrick smirks, flicking his cigarette butt out the window and yanking it closed. He goes to stand, Art pointedly takes a single threatening step forward as he does but you stop both of them in their tracks.

“No.” Your voice rings through the small room, loud and commanding. Patrick sits back down almost immediately, his brow raising in confusion. Art does the same, freezing with one foot in front of him. They’re both hard, cocks tenting the fabric of their bottoms. Their boners point towards each other, you bite your lip to hide your smile.

“You’ve been so bad, Ricky.” you scold softly, voice syrupy sweet as you lean back on the bed. “Dressed up like an easy whore in here waiting for us, being so mean to Art, fucking his girl…” You trail off boredly, palms braced flat on the bed behind you so you can lean back as casually as you can muster. You let your legs fall open, spread enough to let Patrick and Art see the wet spot slowly seeping into the fabric.

You can hear Art’s sharp inhale from across the room at your words, his girl. You’re still careful not to say girlfriend, that’s a whole other talk. Patrick squirms in his chair, practically itching with the need to say something. You level him with a hard look, a firm shake of your head keeps him quiet. When you finally turn your attention to Art, he meets your gaze easily, eyes already blown out and glassy. Even from here you can see the way his pupils swallow the pretty blue color.

You smile, lips curling up in a wicked smile. “Art,” you coo softly, reaching your hand out in offering, “come here.”

Art’s walking towards you without a second thought, crossing the room in just a few large steps. You smile at him, patting the spot next to you. The bed creaks as he sits down, the mattress dipping under his weight slides you closer to him. ”I think,” you say slowly, resting your hand high up on his thigh, so close to the hard line of his cock straining against the fabric, “that we need to teach Patrick a lesson on manners.”

“What! No fucking way, that’s bullshi–” Patrick fusses from the corner, sitting up straighter in seat, the armrest gripped tight in his left hand.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, whipping your head to the side to glare at him. “This isn’t about you.”

He frowns, pushing out his bottom lip like an actual child. You just barely fight the urge to roll your eyes, an evil smile spreading across your face as you watch him honest-to-God pout.

“This is about Art,” you slide your hand up higher, cupping him through his loose shorts. You can hear his sharp intake of breath, a quiet ‘fuck’ falls from his lips as you apply more pressure to where your hand is steadily rubbing him up and down. “Plus, you’re already in the cuck chair,” you aren’t able to stop the small chuckle that falls from your lips, “you’ve got a perfect view.”

His pink lips part ever so slightly, eyes going wide and hungry at your words. You throw him one last devilish smile before you’re sinking to your knees in front of the bed. The scratchy carpet digs into your knees but you don’t care, not when Art is towering in front of you with the ceiling lights shining around him like he’s an angel.

You smile up at him, dragging the palms of your hands up and down his thighs. “Take your shirt off,” you encourage, slipping your hands up to toy with the hem of his shorts.

He complies beautifully, pulling his shirt up and over his head and tossing it aside, revealing the lean, toned muscles of his torso. You let your eyes linger on him for a moment, appreciating the sight before returning your attention to your task. Your fingers deftly undo the drawstring of his shorts, and start tugging them down. Art lifts his hips enough for you to drag them all the way down his legs, taking his boxers with them to free his hard cock.

Again, you slide your hands up the bare skin of his thighs, inches away from where he wants them. He’s so hard, cock standing straight up in an angry red line against his stomach. The tip drools pre-cum that leaks down the length of him slowly.

Art's breath hitches, his eyes locked onto you with a mix of anticipation and desperation. Your fingers brush lightly over his upper thighs, before you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, feeling the heat of his arousal pulse against your palm. His gasp is sharp, and you silently revel in the power you hold over him in this moment.

You glance over at Patrick, who is staring wide-eyed, his earlier irritation replaced with a raw, unfiltered hunger.

Your lips curl into a smug smile at the sight of his flushed cheeks and the way his chest rises and falls with each heavy breath. “See something you like, Patrick?” you taunt, giving Art a slow, deliberate stroke that has him groaning softly. Patrick’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching, but he stays silent, his gaze locked on the two of you.

Art's hands grip the sheets beneath him, his knuckles turning white. "Fuck," he breathes out, his voice strained, "you're killing me."

You laugh softly, a dark, melodic sound, and lean forward, letting your tongue flick out to taste the bead of precum at the tip of his cock. Art moans, the sound vibrating through you. You glance up at him through your lashes, seeing the way his head tilts back, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

You slide your lips up the length of his leaking cock, teasing and slow. Art stares down at you, not breaking eye contact as he breathes raggedly through his nose.

“Tell him how it feels,” you whisper against the pink tip of his cock, sliding it back and forth across your lips teasingly. Art swallows hard, skin flushing in embarrassment.

“So good…” he whispers, eyes still locked onto yours. His blush goes from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, spreading pink and warm across the strong muscle of his pecs.

You smile, shaking your head softly. “Don’t tell me, tell him.” You jerk your head in Patrick’s direction once before you sink down until your nose is nestled against the soft blonde hair at the base of his cock, working your throat around the length of him.

Art moans loudly, his hands coming up to tangle into your hair. You keep going, fighting his grip on you as you start to bob your head over his cock in a steady rhythm, working your hand in time with your mouth.

He forces himself to look at Patrick, catching his eyes.

Patrick looks fucked, lips slick and dropped open as he stares back Art, hungry gaze not wavering. His cock is still hard, pressed against the seam of his boxers and leaking a steady patch of wetness around the head.

A silent challenge seems to pass between the two of them.

We doing this or what?

Art refuses to back down, hardening his resolve. “Feels so fucking good,” he groans, not looking away from Patrick, “her throat’s so tight, so– God, it’s so good. Best I’ve ever had.”

He’s rambling, not even making any sense but you hum in approval all the same, your tongue curling around the crown. Patrick doesn’t look like he minds too much either, pink tongue coming out to swipe along his bottom lip. "Please," he whispers, almost too quiet to hear. "Let me..."

You pull off Art with a wet pop, turning your head as best you can with his hand still tangled in your hair to fix Patrick with a steely gaze. "You don't get to make requests," you say, your voice hard. "You get to watch and learn."

Patrick's eyes darken, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he doesn't protest. Art lets out a low growl, his hand tightening its grip on your hair and dragging your mouth back to his cock.

“Stop fucking talking to him,” he demands, hips thrusting to fuck back into your mouth. You choke on the sudden fullness, wetness floods your panties as you moan around him.

Yes, you think, eyes squeezing close as you force your throat to relax around his cock, this is what I wanted.

You were waiting to see how long it’d take Art to snap, he lasted longer than you thought he would. The head of his cock punches against the soft, spongy part at the back of your throat. You fight to not gag around him, hands scrambling for purchase on his thighs. His balls slap against your chin roughly, sticking wetly to the drool that's starting to fall from the corners of your lips.

Art meets Patrick’s eye again, a smug smirk on his face as he jerks his head in a clear invitation, “Come here.” He grunts simply, dragging you up and down the length of his cock by his tight grip on your hair.

Patrick practically sprints from the chair, ripping his shirt off while he tries to kick his boxers off before he reaches the bed. He sits next to Art, chest heaving as he stares down at where your lips stretched obscenely over his best friend's cock.

Art pulls you off by your hair, holding your face a few inches away from his spit covered cock. He tuts at you sympathetically, tilting his head to the side with a tiny frown at the sight of you all teary eyed. “Bet you feel real empty, right?” he asks sadly, shaking your head back and forth like a dog. “That greedy pussy wants our cocks stretching her open, doesn't she?”

You whine loudly, nodding your head as best you can as the meaning of Art’s words sink over you. You feel far away, like you’ve already been fucked six ways to Sunday. You cunt clenches around nothing, aching for Art and Patrick’s cocks bullying their way inside you. You’ve never done anything like that before, taken two guys at once, but God do you need it.

Art nods back, brows pulled together in faux pity. “Pat and I will help baby,” he says sweetly, “You just gotta get nice and stretched out first, need to fuck yourself open on Patrick’s cock so you can take us.”

“Fuck yeah,” Patrick breathes, already moving up the bed to lay flat on his back agasint the pillows. His cock sticking straight out from his body, pointing to the ceiling desperately.

Art lets go of your hair, cupping the side of your face tenderly. His thumb rubs against the soft skin of your cheekbone a few times, you know it’s a question.

Do you want this?

You smile, nuzzling his palm and giving his thumb a playful nip. The answer to his question written all over your face.

Fuck yes.

Art smiles back, nodding his head once. You take the hint, rising from your knees to climb onto the mattress. You slide your panties off, tossing them aside as you crawl up the length of Patrick’s body, straddling his hips and wasting no time in sinking down on his cock.

Art settles next to the two of you, hand loosely gripped around his cock as he starts to lazily stroke himself to the sight of you and Patrick.

“Fuck!” Patrick hisses, his hands coming up to grip your hips fiercely as you start to ride him, not giving either of you anytime to adjust. The stretch burns, the lack of prepping before hand makes it sting. You don’t mind, too worked up to care.

“God, you’re such a fucking slut,” He tries, but you cut him off bringing your free hand to wrap around the column of his throat just like he did to you back in the shower.

“You’re the slut,” you growl, fingers digging into his skin roughly. His eyes widen, plush lips going slack. You speed your hips up, the loud smack each time you drop down onto him echoes through the room. “You’re the easy fucking whore that soaked your panties watching your best friend fuck my throat."

Art huffs out a breath, hand slipping over his cock faster as he watches you ride Patrick. His eyes are trained on the way your hand is wrapped against Patrick’s throat. He slips his free hand down, pressing two fingers against Patrick’s cock so you slide down onto them on the next bounce.

“Fuck!” You keen loudly, grip tightening on Patrick’s throat. Art’s fingers add to the sting of your cunt, but your hips don’t stop moving, even as he slips in a third just as fast.

You get lost in it, in the feeling of Patrick’s dick fucking into you so deeply you swear he’s hitting your cervix with every roll of your hips, Art’s fingers stretching you that much wider.

Suddenly, Art drops his cock so his free hand can latch onto your hips, his strong grip forcing you to stop your desperate bouncing. His fingers slip out of you, you immediately miss the stretch.

Patrick groans in displeasure, his hips buck up like he’s trying to slide back into the warmth of your fucked open cunt. His leaking head bumps against your sensitive clit a few times before Art’s dropping his hand down, gripping Patrick’s cock to line it up with his own.

Art slides up behind you, his sweaty chest pressing firmly against your back. “Should be stretched out enough,” He whispers into the nape of your neck, pressing both tips against your fluttering hole.

The shock of it has your hand slipping off Patrick’s throat to anchor onto his shoulders in a feeble attempt to brace yourself. He sucks in large gasps of air, chest heaving as he stares down to where his cock is pressed snug against Art’s, his hand big enough to almost wrap around them both. He throws his head back against the pillows, eyes screwed shut, “Fuck, I can’t watch,” he gasps, voice low and ragged.

Art laughs smugly, but it’s breathy around the edges and you can feel the way his hand shakes on your hip. “Close already, Pat?” He asks condescendingly, as his fingers dig in a little tighter. “You’re not even doing any of the work.”

You try to focus on the sensation of Art’s grip, but your mind is a haze of overstimulation and the throb of Patrick’s cock against you. Art’s mocking tone sends a shiver down your spine, making you acutely aware of how close you are to the edge yourself. Your greedy cunt clenches around them, trying to suck them in you.

Patrick’s breath stutters, his hips jerking up involuntarily, making a strangled noise that’s half-groan, half-whimper. “Fuck you, man,” he manages to grind out, but his voice is trembling and strained, the bite in his tone gets undercut by how wrecked he sounds. You can feel the barely there twitches of his hips, like he’s physically pained from having to wait any longer.

A sharp cry rips from your throat as they finally start to slide in, both heads popping into your tight hole all at once. Your eyes screw shut at the stretch, thighs shaking where they’re spread over Patrick’s hips.

“Someone kiss me,” you gasp desperately, chin lowering to your chest. Art’s moving before the words finish leaving your mouth, gripping a fistful of Patrick’s hair and dragging him up to your lips. You whine into his mouth, letting his tongue slide between your lips to claim your mouth.

The familiar feeling of his lips on yours relaxes you the tiniest bit, letting Art lower you down a few more inches. It feels like hours as you sink onto them, Art’s big hands gently massaging your hips while Patrick’s greedy fingers pull and paw at your thighs.

It’s the quietest you’ve ever heard Patrick. His lips going slack in awe against yours as Art’s cock slides up next to his, moaning into your mouth when your hips go flush with his.

They feel so huge inside you, so thick you swear you can feel them in your stomach. Bullying your insides into making more room for the both of them.

“Fuck," you gasp, nails digging little crescent moons into Patrick’s shoulders. Every inch of you is alive with sensation, a burning mix of pleasure and pain. Art’s breath is hot and ragged against your ear, whispering sweet encouragements, “It’s okay baby, you’re okay, taking us so fucking good–”

You nod, slowly starting to grind your hips back and forth, gasping when they rub up against the soft spot inside of you that has you clenching in pleasure– practically choking them off at the base. A high moan falls from your lips, hips swirling the tiniest bit faster that have both Art and Patrick growl out matching groans of approval.

“Just like that,” Art whispers into your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna make him come first, or are you gonna beat him to it?” The challenge in his voice sends a jolt of heat through you, your thighs starting to shake with every pass of them over that spot.

“God, ah! Art– fuck, mh, Patrick–” You slur, head already starting to go fuzzy

“Fuck,” Art gasps out your name sharply, pushing you down onto Patrick’s chest so he can start fucking into your loose, sloppy cunt. “God, you’re so fucking tight,” his hand grips the back of your neck to pin you down, throwing all his strength behind the snap of his hips.

“Shit, look at you,” Patrick chuckles weakly pinching your hips hard, trying to seem less affected than he really is. “You’re so fucking gone. All that attitude needs is some dick to fix it, huh?”

You crack your eyes open, blearily searching until you zero in on his face. He’s smiling smugly, eyes blown out and hazy.

“Shut the fuck up,” you spit weakly, raising your hand to shove your index and middle finger between his parted lips. You push back far enough to feel his throat constricting against your fingers, letting him gag on you. Your eyes trace the side of his face, down the slope of his nose to where his cherry red lips are lewdly spread around your fingers.

You can distantly hear Art groan behind you, his hips speeding up impossibly faster. His hand squeezes your neck, fingers digging into your sensitive skin meanly. You hook your fingers behind Patrick’s teeth, dragging his face to the side to meet your eye. Patrick moans around your fingers, gazing at you pleading through half lidded eyes. Drool leaks from the corners of his mouth and down his chin, drenching your wrist. His hot, wet tongue sliding along the pads of your fingers feels scalding.

Patrick's hands are everywhere, pulling, pinching, caressing, his touch a maddening mix of rough and tender. The feeling of him inside you, alongside Art, is almost too much to bear, making you gasp for breath. Your moans are a symphony of pleasure and desperation, each one a plea for more, more, more the closer you get the edge.

“Shit, ah, Art, ah!” Your feet scrabbled uselessly against the sheets, the fingers of your free hand twist Patrick’s hair roughly. “I’m gonna come— Mm, ah! I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” Art goads, the rhythm of his hips not faltering, “Come on baby– fuck yeah– fucking soak these dicks–”

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as you come, your vision whites out around you as the entire world shrinks down to the stretch of your gushing cunt around Art and Patrick. The slight burn of them, the fullness, the unrelenting pace of Art’s hips stinging the skin of your ass on each thrust.

Patrick bites down on your fingers with a broken whine just as Art sinks his teeth into your neck, both of them groaning so loud it’s all you can hear. That and the faulty rhythm of Art’s hips snapping against the meat of your ass in loud ‘cracks’.

They come together, and you can feel it.

You can feel every twitch and jerk of their cocks inside you as they spray the walls of your cunt with their releases. Spurt after spurt of hot come claiming you as theirs, filling you to the brim. Art doesn’t stop, working the three of you through your orgasms. Each thrust fucks more of their come out of you, the lewd squelch of it leaking from of your loose hole to gather around the base of their cocks in two matching creamy rings makes your ears burn.

Just as it gets to be too much, when the pleasure starts to give way into biting overstimulation, Art stops. You’re slumped against Patrick, shaking like a leaf when Art starts to pull out as gently as he can. You hiss when the head of his cock slips out, thighs clenching together.

“Sorry,” he whispers sweetly, giving your shoulder a gentle kiss. He practically man handles you off of Patrick’s cock, lifting your hips up and off of him.

Patrick groans, stomach twitching in oversensitivity as your slick walls slide against his spent dick. Finally he slips out, his drenched cock falling to slap onto his stomach. There come rushes out of you, dripping sticky and thick down your inner thighs.

There’s sweat dripping down your temple when you fall onto the mattress, your back sticks to the sheets but you’re too out of it to care. Art collapses next to you, sandwiching you between him and Patrick. The three of you are quiet, chests heaving as you catch your breath. Patrick’s hairy thigh is pressed to yours, firm and toned. Art’s got an arm slung over your waist, his breath puffs hot against your neck.

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other,” you say breathlessly, voice raspy and hoarse. “It could work. We could make it work, the three of us.”

Art and Patrick are quiet, their silence heavy with contemplation. You keep your eyes trained on the ceiling, more nervous bringing this up than you thought you’d be. The room is filled with the sounds of your collective breaths, mingling with the lingering scent of sweat and sex.

Patrick chuckles, you can feel his curls brushing against your shoulder as he shakes his head in dry amusement. "Yeah, because everything about this screams 'healthy relationship,'" he quips, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Art lets out a soft, exasperated sigh, his grip on your waist tightening just a little. "We don't have to decide anything right now," he says, his voice low and steady. "Let's just...see where this goes."

You feel a rush of relief at his words, but Patrick’s hesitancy still gnaws at the edges of your mind. Patrick shifts beside you, his hand skirting lightly over your arm in a rare moment of tenderness.

"Guess we're in uncharted territory, huh?" he murmurs, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

You laugh, finally daring to glance at both of them, a tentative smile forming on your lips. "Yeah, but maybe that's not such a bad thing."

Art and Patrick look back at you with matching grins wide enough to show their teeth, blonde and black hair fanning around their faces like halo’s under the room’s shitty fluorescent light. Your heart swells under the intense stare of two pairs of eyes, one blue and one green. You can feel the room start to fade away until it’s just the three of you and nothing else seems to matter.

Art leans down, giving your right shoulder a quick kiss. “If we’re doing this, we have to be honest with each other.” He looks between you and Patrick pointedly, but he’s still smiling. “No more bullshit games.”

Patrick snorts, letting his head fall back onto the pillows, “Yes sir.”

You nod, not bothering to hide your smile. "No bullshit, no games," you agree, moving to squeeze Art's hand. He squeezes back in a silent promise.

The three of you lie there in a comfortable silence, the weight of your decision settling over you. It's definitely not going to be easy, but maybe, just maybe, it could work.

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queensunshinee · 7 days ago

Text

So sweet- part 2 || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (mention of p in v sex, oral sex), mention of an eating disorder, family drama, death in the family, cheating. It's a mess.

Word Count: 7.9k

(Part 1)

So sweet- part 2:

Art leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you. Since your back was to him, you hadn't seen him yet, and he felt like he had the upper hand. As if he didn’t need to be defensive. As if he was still part of your life. Your hair looked shorter than the last time he saw you. But then again, the last time he saw you, you told him you never wanted to see him again, so maybe he didn’t remember all the details as well as he’d like to.

Maybe he felt that "never" was subjective. That everyone could choose what to take from the word "never." That a year and a half without speaking to you was enough "never" for him, and you'd be a hypocrite if you said it wasn’t for you too. "Are you going to stand there much longer, Donaldson?" Your voice sounded the same. He'd recently discovered he hated a lot of things, but at the top of his list were all the times you called him by his last name instead of his first.

"You really do have eyes in the back of your head," he tried to joke, but he didn’t hear you laugh, not even a chuckle. He hadn’t seen your face yet, but he could guess you weren’t even smiling. "Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?" you asked. If he didn’t know you, he might have thought you were fine. That this was just polite conversation between two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in a while and ran into each other by chance. "My first match isn’t for another two days. I couldn’t miss the funeral," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry for your loss, you know that, right?" He took a few large steps and sat on the bed next to you, hoping you’d give him this moment. Hoping you wouldn’t be angry. Not when he was trying so hard.

"She was a mean drunk," you muttered. "Not a huge loss," you added, glancing at him for a second, allowing yourself to surrender to the moment. He recognized the piercing gaze. Maybe a wrinkle that wasn’t there before, but your eyes were the same eyes. You were the same girl he used to love. Used to. Used to. Used to. Before he went on his path in life and you on yours. Before he made a decision, and then you made a decision, and then both of you made decisions. Before words were said. Before he left and you stayed. Before he opened up and you shut down. Used to.

"You’re a grown man, you should know how to tie a tie by now, don’t you think?" you asked, probably trying to lighten the sadness that filled your childhood room, located right across from his childhood room. He wanted to thank you for that. But he never knew how to talk to you honestly. Why would he start now? "Tashi usually does it," he said quietly, and you stood in front of him, starting to adjust the damn tie. You had no idea what you were doing to his heartbeat. "I’m sorry about your grandmother. I was at your parents’ house afterward. I don’t know if they told you," you mumbled.

He was so angry at you for not coming to the funeral. Because by what right did you take his tragedy and make him consumed with thoughts of you? About your absence. About your hand that could’ve held his tightly, just like you did when he was eight, and Jameson died. Instead, he held Tashi’s hand. She didn’t squeeze. She let go after a few minutes. He was so angry that at his grandmother’s funeral, more than anything, he missed you. So now, a few minutes before heading to your mother’s funeral, he squeezed your hand for a moment while you adjusted his tie, looking at him with big eyes filling with tears you refused to let fall. "Better," you said.

He didn’t think it was better. He didn’t want to argue. He just nodded. . . . Patrick couldn’t focus. Every time he hit that stupid ball, he thought about the fight he had with his dad a week ago and the dumb argument he had with you before leaving for Atlanta. He hadn’t told you yet that his parents decided to cut him off from the trust fund. He hadn’t told you that he was basically broke. Sometimes Patrick thinks you’re the only person in the world who looks at him like he understands something about life. Like he’s capable of pulling off magic at any given moment. Sparkling eyes and a smile. He wonders when was the last time you looked at him like that. It’s been a few good months. He can’t deliver. Not the damn ball and not in real life.

He hesitates. Everything he does comes with a certain delay. He knows that at 24, he’s expected to understand who he is and what he wants from life. But what he wants from life doesn’t want him back, and that’s something he’s not willing to accept. He blames his parents for the fact that he’s too spoiled. That he doesn’t know when to stop. That he can’t let go of dreams. That he has to be the best, even though he’s drowning in his own mediocrity. He moves too fast between knowing how good he is at what he does and the harsh slap of reality that comes with each of his failures. Every tournament he loses in the second round, every person who was once in his life and doesn’t want him anymore. They found something better. Something more put-together.

He saw Tashi from a distance for the second time in the last two days. Always alone, Art wasn’t with her. He wondered why Art wasn’t here. He knew Art was competing. Everyone knew Art was competing. The rising star of American tennis. Motherfucker. His dad screamed it at him when he lost it a week ago— “I wish Art Donaldson were my son, maybe then I wouldn’t be so ashamed.” Patrick won’t tell anyone that it hurt. Not because he cares what his shitty dad thinks of him. Not because he cares that Art is succeeding on an international level, breaking into the world’s top ten. Fulfilling all the dreams they once dreamed together. Patrick cares because he knows that at any given moment, he could beat Art. He’s better than Art. So how is it that Art is ranked eighth and Patrick is a nobody? No one takes him into account.

“You planning to embarrass yourself in another tournament?” Tashi’s voice crept up behind him. “You know that if he competes against me, I’ll win, right?” he asked. Overconfident. Always overconfident. “I know you’re ranked 243rd, and he’s ranked 8th. It doesn’t matter who wins this, you’ll still be a loser, and he’ll still get a Nike campaign. They asked us about a winter collection.” She was trying to hurt him. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her—to hurt him. But he thinks only two people can: you and Art. Tashi isn’t on that list. He doesn’t think Tashi comes close to being on that list.

He thinks Tashi is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman he knows. Maybe you’re the most beautiful woman he knows. He doesn’t really know- it’s blurry and messy. But hearing you moan or say his name softly, sweetly, is the most beautiful thing he knows. So maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe he measures beauty differently than he did four years ago. “Sounds good. I promise to buy a jacket with his name on it. Do you need anything, Tashi?” he tried to end the conversation. He didn’t want her to see the pathetic training session he was having with himself against a wall. “I don’t know, maybe to ask why you’re here?” She shrugged like it was obvious. Like she cared about the useless existence of Patrick Zweig. Like he mattered. “I’m competing, just like Art-” he started, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but Art’s not here. How is it that you are?” she cut off the monologue he was about to throw at her. “I don’t know why Art isn’t here, Tashi.” If it were possible, his eyes would roll so far back into his skull they’d get stuck there. “Because he’s at a funeral, obviously. She’s your girlfriend last time I checked- how are you not there?” The furrow of her brows showed she was genuinely confused. But now he stood in front of her, terrified too. Whose funeral? Who the fuck died? “What are you talking about?” he muttered, feeling his heart pound. Every muscle in his body tensed. “(Y/N)’s mom passed away, Patrick. How am I the first one telling you this?” She doesn’t understand. But he does. And right now he hates Tashi. And Art, who’s with you. And himself- mostly himself- because after four years, he’s still a selfish bastard who only cares about himself. . . . You’re not crying, and you suspect it bothers your father. He looks at you strangely. As if you’re making things difficult. Because this is an event. A funeral is an event, and you need to behave the way you're expected to behave. You just can’t seem to do it. Because you don’t think you have a warm spot in your heart for the woman you called Mom for the pathetic 24 years of your existence. To anyone else, it would sound sad. Pathetic. You don’t say it out loud very often. You don’t want to make things harder for anyone. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You considered cutting an onion before you left, just to save yourself from the weird looks from the extended family you haven’t seen in years, but Art fucking Donaldson hasn’t left you alone since the second he heard she kicked the bucket.

His hand held yours like his life depended on it. Maybe yours. Someone’s life depended on it. Definitely not your mother’s. She’s dead. You wonder if the need for sacrifice died with her. You wonder if your constant need to make everyone feel comfortable all the time died with her too. It’s exhausting. You wish you could be less like that. Your hand is sweating into his. He probably thinks it’s disgusting. He probably doesn’t like it. You miss the time when your whole world was making sure Art Donaldson was comfortable. His parents hugged you, and you’re pretty sure his mom left lipstick on you. He’s been staring at you for an hour straight. Maybe two. Maybe your whole life. You can’t know; it’s an emotional day.

You try to move your hand away from his; there’s no way this is comfortable for him. He grips harder. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t leave you alone. Your father says the Kaddish, everyone responds "Amen" and cries. You don’t. Maybe you really are crazy, like she hinted at a few times when she got drunk and called you at an inappropriate hour. Maybe you really are the reason for every problem she ever had. Maybe you didn’t sacrifice enough. Maybe you didn’t love enough.

Maybe you just don’t know how to love, and then it makes sense that you don’t deserve to be loved. Not really. Not unconditionally. Not like your father loved your mother. Not like Art loves Tashi. Not like Patrick loved Tashi. Not like Patrick hated you. Maybe he still does- sometimes you’re not sure. Patrick isn’t here. Art’s hand keeps holding you both steady. You finally cry.

When you walk into the house, your extended family is already there. Uncles, cousins- you think you saw the grandfather of someone your father goes to synagogue with. All you wanted was to sit quietly in your room for a second. Take off the heels and the damn dress. You felt the thong digging into your ass. That’s what happens when you let a dead woman dictate what you'll wear to her funeral. A woman who had conditions for her own funeral. Who told you what dress to wear. What underwear to put on. Sometimes you wonder how many years ahead you’ll keep dragging her advice, her judgmental looks. The tongue clicks. The general dissatisfaction with the world, wrapped in fake smiles. Maybe that’s where you learned to fake so well. To fake who you are down to your core. To fake and fake until you don’t know what you want or from whom.

“You disappeared. I figured you’d be here.” Art walks into your childhood room like it’s his. Like he always did. “You’re still here?” you mutter, and he hands you a plate of food he picked up from downstairs. “Where else would I be?” he sighs. As if that’s the only answer that makes sense to him. As if you two were in touch. As if you know anything about his fancy life or he knows anything about your painfully mediocre one. “In Atlanta,” you answer and place the plate on the nightstand beside you. “When’s your flight?” you ask, not looking at him as he sits next to you on the bed like he did before the funeral.

“I can stay-” he starts quietly. You know he’s looking at you, almost begging you to see that he means it. "Ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself, but you know he hears. “When’s your flight, Art?” you ask, your voice steadier, looking at him with an almost hollow expression. One that doesn’t show any emotion or maybe shows all emotions at once. A look that scared him. A look that worried you. A look you’ll think about a month from now. You’ll sit at home, writing the structure for one of your classes, and you’ll think about Art Donaldson and the empty look you gave him when your mother died. Embarrassing. Everything is so fucking embarrassing.

“Tonight,” he sums up. You glance at your phone’s clock. Sixteen missed calls from Patrick. Instinct says to call him. But it’s 6 p.m., and his first match is at 8 in the morning. “Don’t you need to pack?” He rolls his eyes, ignoring your attempt to dismiss him. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. “Excuse me?” you snap back, not understanding the direction of the conversation. “Now. In general. What are you doing?” His gaze surrounds you from every direction. You can’t look anywhere that isn’t Art Donaldson. He reflects off the damn mirrors in this room. “Trying to sit quietly in my room, clearly,” you reply stiffly.

You remember how all your conversations used to be warm. Soft. You’d talk about dreams. About books you’d write. About tournaments he’d win. You’d kiss. He’d touch you. You’d touch him. There was curiosity. There was love. Or at least that thing you’ve spent years believing was love. The thing where you become exactly what he wants and needs and disappear when he needs something else, something better. That was the unwritten contract between you. Lately, you’ve been thinking that’s the unwritten contract between you and everyone you know. A depressing thought. You try not to dwell on it too much. On the way you please people in your suffering. Please in deprivation. Please to the point of tears, and more tears, and more tears. You try not to think about all the dreams you had when Art Donaldson -maybe- loved you. You try not to think about the joy of life. About how much you loved seeing him happy, how much you loved making him happy. How much you loved being responsible for his happiness. "Why isn’t Patrick here?" He quietly asked what he really wanted to know. He wanted to understand if you’d broken up. If you were alone. If he could laugh and say he told you so. That he told you; you had no business being with Patrick Zweig. "Because he has a match tomorrow at 8 a.m., and he trained too hard to miss it," you said it coolly, without breaking eye contact. As if it made perfect sense that you hadn’t told your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to be your confidant, that your mother had died. "He didn’t want to come?" Art continued, confused. Ice. That look again. The immediate shift in his mood confuses you, but it doesn’t throw you off balance. You know him. For the past four years, every time he’s seen you, all he’s tried to do is confuse you, to knock you off balance. It never works, at least not in his eyes.

"Hedoesn’tknow," you mumbled the words as if they were one. Quietly, knowing that what you’d done didn’t make sense. Wasn’t reasonable. Wasn’t acceptable. Didn’t fit into the unspoken rules of a relationship. "You’re an idiot." He stood up and started pacing back and forth. "A fucking moron, really." He was angry, as if he was the one who hadn’t been told your mother had died. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t have known either, but his mother told him. Whatever. "I’ll tell him when he gets back from the tournament, it’s not a big deal," you said and shrugged. Art stopped and looked at you like you’d just fallen from the moon. Like you were some natural phenomena. "If you did that to me, I’d kill you. If you thought some shitty tennis tournament in shitty Atlanta was more important to me than you, I’d murder you and then die myself. I don’t like what you have with Zweig, God knows I hate it, but how could you not tell him? Do you even understand the concept of a relationship?" He let out this Shakespearean monologue while looking at you with a half-pitying, half-angry expression. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he thought you were Tashi.

"Art, I’m not your problem. Do you remember that?" You didn’t know what else to say, so you said the only thing you knew for sure in a defeated voice. Art Donaldson was not a part of your life. "You’ll always be my problem. You should know that by now," he said, half despairing at himself. As if wondering how you both got here. As if wondering if there was anywhere else you could be. . . . Patrick was beyond frustrated. He won his first match after two and a half hours, barely. It didn’t come easy. All he could think about was how nothing came easy for him anymore, and how everything used to be so easy.

The thought that you didn’t tell him your mother had died, and then didn’t answer his calls either, hovered over his head like a rain cloud focused solely on him. He didn’t know how to approach it. He knew why you didn’t tell him- because unlike what Art thought, unlike what your dead mother thought, he knew you. He knew how you thought. He understood the mechanics behind your strange decisions. He hated that he had become someone you had to overthink things for.

That afternoon, he went to one of the courts and caught Tashi and Art’s practice. They both saw him sit down. He thinks it made Art play better. He wondered if Art imagined his face when he hit the ball. He thinks he does. Because when Tashi checkmated his relationship with Art, Patrick wrapped his life around yours as if that was how it was always meant to be, while everyone involved knew it wasn’t. While everyone involved knew that you had embroidered Art’s name on bags from the moment you learned how to stitch. While everyone knew that Art Donaldson didn’t know how to exist in the world without you.

So, Patrick took you for himself. Most of the time, he didn’t think of it as something technical, as a game he was playing against Art. Most of the time, he looked at you, really looked at you. Most of the time, he tried to make you laugh and understand the world through your own eyes. Most of the time, he tried to protect you from complex emotions you couldn’t express, from hunger. He tried to protect you from yourself, the way you protect some helpless creature. In some way, you were. In his eyes, you were helpless.

When you first started sleeping together, Patrick treated you with kid gloves, in a way he had never treated anyone before. Like you were porcelain. Like you could shatter and crumble in his hands at any moment. You had gestures and habits, ones you thought no one noticed. But he always saw. You tried to please everyone all the time. You switched from a smile to a sad look in a second, for the sake of the feelings of whoever was in front of you, for the sake of what you thought they wanted from you.

But Patrick didn’t want anything from you. He wanted to give you all the orgasms that you missed and for you to eat at least three meals a day. Some days, he didn’t know how to make you do it. Some days, he raised his voice. When he was desperate, he cried. When he was really desperate, he asked you to eat for him, so that he would be happy. That was the easy way, it always worked. He exploited a destructive mechanism someone had embedded in you (he suspects your dead mother) and used it to get you to do something he thought would be good for you. He wanted to throw up.

Art was playing well. He was playing against Tashi in front of him, and he was playing well. Too well. Patrick no longer thinks he can beat him. Not something he would ever say out loud. He wanted to ask him how you were. He didn’t want to admit that you hadn’t answered his million calls. He didn’t want to admit that he was a loser who didn’t know where his life was going. Not when Art had been with you at the fucking funeral of your awful mother. He hated that woman with everything he had. More than he hated his own father, and that had to be some kind of record. Art looked at him for a moment. The moment passed. Patrick thinks Art won. He’s not sure. . . . Patrick finds Tashi alone in the evening. Completely alone in the middle of the lobby restaurant. She suddenly looks small and fragile to him, holding a drink he can guess is whiskey or cognac or whatever it is that Tashi Duncan drinks these days. He doesn’t know anything about her anymore. Only that a few years ago, he thought he loved her, and in return, she took his best friend away from him.

When he stands in front of her, he is like a streetlight- impossible to ignore. It dawns on him, belatedly, that he is wearing her shirt. She must think he’s pathetic. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t think he cares about being pathetic in front of her. Because he sees her for what she is right now, and she is miserable. She doesn’t have much in life. She clings to what Art has. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but that’s reality. They both cling to things they shouldn’t be clinging to, and his eyes wander to her ring. Massive. Flashy. A bit like her, like the woman she tries to be when she’s not half-drunk and pathetic in front of him.

He places his hand over hers just as she’s about to take a sip of her drink, stopping her. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not from her, not from himself, but his lips find hers within seconds, and she doesn’t resist. He knew she wouldn’t resist- he saw it on her face. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Maybe more. And what a thought that is- that Tashi Duncan wants Patrick Zweig more.

They exit through the back door of the restaurant, go up to his room. Naturally. As if more than four years haven’t passed since the last time he was with Tashi. He wishes he knew what he was doing; it would make this easier. But it’s not particularly difficult, either- otherwise, he wouldn’t be pressing Tashi against the wall. Otherwise, his lips wouldn’t be kissing every inch of her body he can reach.

Hunger. Patrick feels hunger. It’s the only emotion coursing through him as he looks at her. He thinks he wants to hurt Art. He thinks about how Art was there for you at your mother’s funeral, and that was supposed to be his role, but you didn’t call him. So he strips Tashi of her shirt. Only to discover she isn’t wearing a bra. He compares her to you every few seconds. You never go without a bra. He can barely convince you to just be at home, without clothes, without defenses. Just be. He doesn’t think you’re capable of that. He doesn’t think you know how to feel at ease. That worries him more than he’s willing to admit.

“You’re thinking about her?” Tashi’s voice is almost angry as she kisses his neck. “No.” A lie. A complete lie. He can only think about you. He realized that a few years ago and stopped fighting it. You and tennis, as if that’s all there is in the world. What else even exists? What else even matters? “You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters against him, and somehow, the ugly shirt he’s pretty sure was Tashi’s -he doesn’t even know why he wore it- ends up on the floor. ‘You’re not thinking about Art?’ he should have asked, but he’s not here to ask questions. He’s here because he’s angry. At Art, at you, at Tashi for telling him, at the world. So he’s here. And they’re both shedding more pieces of their clothing and maybe their souls, because what they’re doing now has no way back. No forgiveness. They are bad people. Patrick knows it. Tashi knows it.

And after he wrings a heavy moan from her, one that follows an orgasm, she quietly tells him she thinks Art loves you. Patrick stares at the gaudy ring stuck on her finger, the ring that, in another universe, Art would have placed on yours. “Why do you think that?” Patrick asks softly, because what else is left to do? “I didn’t want him to go to the funeral. I wanted him to stay and train, but he went anyway,” she mumbles. Patrick says nothing, just nods. He would have done the exact same thing, and that’s why you didn’t call him. He would have come. Despite the dreams. Despite the tennis. Despite everything.

And Patrick remembers all the times Art called you sweet. All the times Art never wanted to tell him anything about what happened between you two. All the times Art didn’t want to talk about you. And it wasn’t because it wasn’t good. It wasn’t because other girls were better. It was because there was depth Patrick can only put his finger on now. So much happened beneath the surface- so much that Art had no words to describe it. So much that Art drowned in his own emotions. Repressed them and kept them bottled up until he found something shiny to bury his feelings in. Until he found Tashi.

And Tashi is safe. With Tashi, you can’t get lost. With Tashi, there’s a plan. With you, he just has to be himself. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. And that’s terrifying.

For the first time, Patrick understands Art in absolute terms. He lies in a hotel room, stroking the hair of a woman who isn’t you, and understands everything there is to understand about life. Mainly, he understands again- that you are so fucking sweet. And that there’s no way he can win. . . .

You're going over tomorrow’s lesson when you hear the door open. Without turning around, you already know it’s Patrick. Who else could it be? His scrutinizing gaze doesn’t waver from you, even when he says nothing. “How was it?” You find yourself breaking the silence, lifting your head toward him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back. He looks exhausted. The message Art sent you lingers in the back of your mind; He’s cheating on you. -Art Donaldson- Art has his reasons to make something like this up, but you doubt he’d be cruel enough to lie about it. Not while you’re mourning your horrible mother. No matter how angry he is at you. No matter how angry he is at Patrick. You don’t think Art is capable of that. You want to believe he isn’t capable of that. Then again, you also want so badly to believe Patrick wouldn’t do it. That Patrick wouldn’t cheat on you. That he wouldn’t find someone prettier, better, more cheerful and do all the things with her that he probably can’t do with you. You don’t want to think about the possibility that you haven’t sacrificed enough. That you didn’t try as hard as you were taught to. Your fault, your fault, your fault. You don’t want to believe it’s your fault. That another love will slip through your fingers, as if you’re trying to hold water. So, you choose to say nothing, because even if it’s true, even if he was with someone else, he came home. And home isn’t big, to say the least, not grand, not dazzling. But he came back. He’s right in front of you. You’re not alone. He knows you. He knows such ugly parts of you that sometimes you’re scared to acknowledge they even exist. He knows what you refuse to recognize in yourself, and sometimes he reminds you that you deserve more than you think. Which is a bizarre thought in itself. But you let him think it, you let him believe it enough for him to believe it for the both of you. “I lost in the third round. To Peter Michelson,” he says shortly, and you nod. “No choice but to make a voodoo doll with Peter Michelson’s face,” you try to joke. He usually laughs. At least smiles. He does neither. He just stands there like a block of wood, with the same expression. “I’m sorry you lost. I wish I’d been there,” you mumble, not knowing what else to say. “What about you? Anything special happen this week?” he asks, his gaze never leaving you.

Now you could tell him your mother died, but there’s no way to say it without it turning into a fight about the fact that you didn’t tell him the moment you found out. “No, nothing special, you know. My routine is boring.” You shrug and shift your focus back to the lesson you’re supposed to teach tomorrow. The Great Gatsby. A shitty book. “Nothing special at all?” he presses. “If you count the fact that Mr. Grace forgot to put in his dentures on Monday -again- and I had to sub for his class, then no.” It’s a half-lie because the thing with Mr. Grace and his dentures did happen, just not this week. Most of this week, you were at your parents’ house, helping your father deal with shiva and all the people who came by. He was completely heartbroken.

You see Patrick shake his head slightly and close his eyes. You know this is something he does when he’s trying to restrain himself. When he doesn’t want to lash out. When something is bothering him, and he doesn’t want it to turn into the biggest fight in the world. He has a bad history with fights that spiral out of control. “No one was born? No relatives died? I don’t know, maybe the woman who gave birth to you?” he says, his piercing gaze back on you. “Shit,” you mumble. Because what else is there to say in this situation? “Yeah, shit,” he stays exactly where he is, making you feel like a child being scolded. Like you dropped a lollipop and won’t be getting a new one.

“I’m sorry-” you start. “My mom isn’t dead; your mom is dead. I think I’m the one who’s sorry.” Patrick hated when you apologized. He said it was irrational with you. That you apologized more than was normal and more than people around you deserved. “Patrick,” you sigh, scrunching your nose as you try to think of a good way to explain it. “I really need to understand this, (Y/N). When were you planning on telling me your living mother was no longer alive? Another month? Two months? Two years? What was the timeline in that head of yours?” His words drip with sarcasm, like the way he used to talk to you before you became you and Patrick. Before you learned to love who he was and before he started treating you like you weren’t the worst person in the world.

“I didn’t want you to withdraw from Atlanta. You trained for it so hard.” You sigh again, quietly. This time, you’re the one closing your eyes, not wanting to look at him- and in doing so, you miss the fact that he moves toward you in giant strides. “I wish you’d told me, Little Dove. I wish I’d been with you instead of being there.” His hands cup your face as he crouches in front of you, looking up to catch your eyes. “I’m sor-” You stop yourself mid-sentence when you see his displeased expression. “How do you feel?” he asks, and you shrug in response. Because what you feel isn’t something you can say out loud, not even to Patrick. It’s not okay to feel relieved. A lot of sadness, of course. But also, relief.

“Tell me,” he insists. He has a habit of knowing the things you don’t want to say. He can look at your face and catch the slight twitch of your left eyebrow to understand what you’re feeling. To see what you try so hard to hide. You can’t beat him at this. You can’t lie to him, not too much. Not about your feelings. Not when he spent years of his life learning what to hate about you, and then a few more years learning to love it. “She wasn’t the nicest woman in the world,” you murmur quietly, like you’re confessing the most forbidden secret. Like it’s a secret that could start a world war. Like Patrick would tell someone.

“She didn’t like me.” Patrick lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes glassy as if he’s remembering something. “She used to call me Art all the time and then correct herself, like it was an accident, but she did it on purpose. So I’d know she wanted me to be Art.” His jaw tightens slightly. You can see the anger and frustration behind the fake lightness in his tone. “I’m sorry,” you say because you don’t know what else to say, and he sighs. His large hands wrap around you in an almost crushing hug. Almost making it hard to breathe.

But that’s how Patrick is. Everything he feels is out in the open. Everything he thinks, he says. Everything he wants, he does. And most of the time, he wants to be present in your life, which is ridiculous because there is no one more present in your life than him. He still acts like he needs to prove something to you. “I wish you’d let me take care of you, Little Dove. It would be easier.” He whispers into your hair, not letting go for a second. You can almost feel him thinking, almost see him guessing what might help you. “I know you care about me,” you say, shifting slightly to look at him, to show him that he doesn’t need to prove anything. That you’re okay.

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks, stepping back slightly, scanning you, then moving toward the half-empty fridge. “What did you eat?” he follows up. “I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t keep a journal,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. What did you eat, (Y/N)?” He doesn’t let up. “A sandwich,” you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Since this morning?” His eyes stay locked on you. “Patrick, my mother just died. Can we not focus on what I eat for one second? It’s exhausting,” you roll your eyes and cross your arms, turning your face to the side as he steps toward you and nods. . . . "What do you want to focus on?" he asked. Patrick felt guilty. He looked at you and saw nothing but the fact that just a few days ago, he had been with Tashi. While you were mourning your unbearable mother, he was busy fucking Tashi in a fancy hotel room, at a tournament he lost and that Art Donaldson would probably win. "You," your voice was small as you looked at him, almost pleading for a break from the interrogation and the anger. He hated when you made him the center of your focus, when you tried to do what you thought he wanted you to do. So he nodded and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

Patrick felt like a man on a mission as he dropped to his knees in front of you. "Pat-" you tried to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to. You always tried. As if going down on you was a burden to him, as if all it would take for him to spend a lifetime just like this was for you to fucking ask. "Baby, can you take these off for me?" It was a question, but there was no question mark at the end. Not in that tone. Not when he was looking up at you like that, completely in control of the situation.

So you slid your pants down slowly, trying to hold on to the last bit of control slipping away with every second he stared at you like that. He took care of your underwear himself. Leaving you bare in front of him. "Fuck, Pat," you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall, making him look up at you one last time with a smirk stretched across his face. And then he got to work.

His lips explored you like you were his source of oxygen. Like his natural place was buried under you, his mouth inside you. "Baby, I’d eat you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every fucking day." His grip on your thigh was ruthless. Patrick felt like he was holding on for dear life, like this was all there was left to do. Like it was all he knew. "Sweet fucking pussy," he kept mumbling into you, until his face was coated with his own spit and your slick. He was ready to take it all, everything you gave him. In these moments, everything that was yours became his, and the little that was his became yours.

So he was milking it. He licked your clit in slow, agonizing strokes- for both of you. He took his time. The euphoria would come, but he was going to enjoy it until it did. Your small whimpers made him growl directly into you. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," like a prayer. He felt it. He felt divinity in all of it. He sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. Merciless to the near-sobs escaping from you. "You're so sweet, baby. Do you want to come?" And he wasn’t asking if you wanted to come for him, because he wanted you to come for yourself. Because he wanted you to always, always come for yourself. He wanted to be a vessel. He wanted to erase all the stupid patterns in your head and make sure every orgasm you had was yours and for you. "Patrick." He thought that was the only thing you were capable of saying coherently, and he was fine with that. He was selfish enough to be satisfied if his name was the only word you could say forever.

And when you came with a moan he had learned to recognize and nearly worship, he told you how good you were. How rare you were. That he was yours and that he would always take care of you. He looked up at you from below, saw the tears slipping down your face, and pressed another kiss to your thigh. One that emphasized the word always. Because he didn’t think he could ever let this go. He was too selfish to ever let this go. . . . Art peeked through the door of the room every few seconds, searching for you among the guests. At this point, he didn’t even bother lying to himself about it. Because he didn’t know what else was left for him besides admitting the truth to himself- things he was never able to admit before. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about the nights he used to lay beside you. When you didn’t even fuck. When you just lay in that rickety twin bed in his dorm room. He was willing to take that. He was willing not to fuck you if it meant you’d hold him again. More than that, he was willing not to fuck anyone ever again. But you were too sweet, you wouldn’t let him go through life without sex. The thought made him chuckle for a second. But he was nervous. So fucking nervous.

He was about to marry Tashi, and she didn’t cross his mind even once. He accidentally saw her dress, even though he told her that he hadn’t really noticed it was there. He knew she would be a stunning bride. That months from now, people would still be talking about Tashi Duncan in a wedding dress. He knew people would envy him, he knew everything. His mind knew everything.

But all he could think about was what kind of wedding dress you would have chosen. He was almost sure it would be something less extravagant; you’d try to draw as little attention as possible. But the Art he was today wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve told you that you deserved all the attention the universe had to offer. That you deserved to be seen. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to realize that. Only when you truly weren’t there. Only when you belonged to someone else. Only when you chose Patrick Zweig of all people.

Patrick Zweig, who hated you with every fiber of his being. Patrick Zweig, who Art was almost certain had cheated on you with Tashi. It should have hurt him much more than it did. But all he cared about was figuring out if this would be the thing that made you get up and leave. You had to know you deserved better. That if not him- if not Art, the guy you both knew you loved with all your heart- then at least someone who didn’t want anyone else. That was the bare minimum you deserved. For years, he’d wondered if he had something to do with how little you thought you deserved, with how low your standards were.

He convinced his mother- who probably loved you even more than he did- to take upon herself convincing you to come to his wedding. Which was almost sadistic of him. Maybe masochistic. Maybe both. But he had to see you. He hadn’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. Sometimes he dreamed about that day and how his hand held yours, he wanted it again and again and again. He wanted everyone to die if it meant he could hold you like that again. If it gave him an excuse.

He noticed that everything about you required an excuse. It hadn’t been like that when you were his. Except you were never really his. He didn’t even understand why it had been so complicated- why you hadn’t told him that’s what you wanted (though he could have guessed). And more than anything, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t known what he wanted. Why it hadn’t been clear to him that you were his person. That you knew the deepest parts of him.

He saw you walk in and texted you, almost begging you to come to the room where he was. You could tell him to go to hell, but that wasn’t your style. No, you were sweet. So sweet that all you did was knock on the door and push it open. Looking at him while he already had his eyes on your little black dress. While he was already studying the red nail polish. While he was already focusing on the lipstick he so badly wanted to wipe off of you.

“Your mother asked me to prepare a speech. Was that your idea?” you asked. There was no coldness in your voice, which made him happy. You stepped closer and started fixing his tie. He wanted to close his eyes, but at the same time, he wanted to see you. To remember you like this; in a little black dress, in heels, standing in front of him, helping him with his tie. “What can I say? You’re my best friend,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t the truth. “That’s really sad, Art,” you said, probably referring to the last four years you spent apart. “Are you saying you have a better friend than me?” he asked, hoping you’d deny it because a yes might make him break down crying.

“It’s a mediocre speech. I didn’t know what to say at your wedding,” you sighed, confessing a secret. “Saying you don’t want me to get married would’ve been a good start,” he said, taking a risk. Because he calculated the timing, and you were late, so he had a very short window for this risk. “Don’t be ridicul—” you started, quietly. “If you tell me not to do this, I won’t get married. Tell me not to do it. Tell me it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay,” he whispered. Not looking away from you.

The silence in the room was deafening, and the chuckle that escaped him was bitter. Fake. He felt pathetic and small and miserable, and maybe he was all those things because he never knew what he wanted in time. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. Not knowing what else to add, because what was left to add? He could see the wetness in your eyes. He knew how unfair he was being. “I’m sorry,” he echoed. He didn’t think he had ever told you that before, but he really, truly was. “Did you write something good about me?” he added. “That you’re my best friend. And that my soul will always love yours,” you said, letting a single tear fall as his rough hand wiped it away with whatever gentleness was still left in him.

It was a nice speech. Everyone applauded. Art cried. . . .

Here we are- the second part of So Sweet! Hope it turned out good enough. Thanks for stopping by and reading what I write, it means a lot. Let me know what you think. Love you guys, stay sweet! 💕

#art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #challengers fic #challengers #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #so sweet

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tinytennisskirt · 5 months ago

Text

From Pain to Promise

Summary: based on a dialogue request- Art has been in love with you since he met you at twelve. He's been pining for six years, so it kills him when you get a boyfriend over the summer. He's your friend, he's supposed to be happy for you. Instead, he's just hurt. And jealous. Too blinded by it to see the way your boyfriend is really treating you. After a climactic event outside of a party, you're freed from it all. And Art is right there, waiting, the way he's always been.

MAJOR WARNINGS: violence, abusive relationships, mentions of unwanted sex/attempts at unwanted sex. a fight. mentions of injuries, nothing too graphic, just bruises.

Warnings: pining, yearning, angst, jealousy, mentions of drinking, a kiss. badly edited.

Kat Zimmerman had nothing on you, that was for sure. Only a few nights after his little learning experience with Patrick, you came into the boy’s lives and their worlds were forever changed. Art’s more so. It was that one fateful day when you were picking out a tennis racket, the new girl at MRTA, and those two little boys knew they had to befriend you before Jake Dalton did. Both little boys, stumbling over each other, made their way over to the rackets and said hi, overlapping pre-pubescent voices telling you their names. And you smiled, hair braided, cheeks pink and rosy, exchanging their names for yours.

And you were friends. That’s how it was. You were friends. You, Patrick, and Art. But more so you and Art because Patrick didn’t know how he felt about being friends with girls. Especially when you were such a girl. Patrick didn’t have a painful little boy crush on you the way Art did. You told Art his hair would be perfect for pigtails and he’d let you do what you wanted, clips and bows and all, just so you’d touch him. He bragged to Patrick later that night. Patrick just laughed at him. “She put bows in your hair, dude. That doesn’t count as touching.” He was humbled.

Patrick did feel a little different when fourteen rolled around and you had boobs, but Art was the same, if not deeper in it for you. You remained their friend. You were always around, playing with Art’s hair on the bleachers or studying with them, making sure they actually paid attention. You went to all of Art’s games and maybe, for a few split seconds, he thought maybe you liked him back. But it’s a tale as old as time. He couldn’t ever be sure, so why would he tell you and potentially ruin everything? If he told you and it wasn’t reciprocated, he could say goodbye to all the casual touching and the things you granted him somewhat platonically.

Patrick was one of the only people who knew how bad Art had it because even after their first little incident, Patrick had once or twice heard or walked in on Art masturbating and it was a little obvious who he was thinking about. It was fine, it was nothing new.

One thing was so very clear and that this was all just pining. Pining after you, pulling strings to be closer to you, to hang out with you. Cancelling plans, switching partners, everything. He’d go insane when your hand brushed his, he was there for you every time you needed him. And by twelfth grade, he could say he loved you. It’d been six years of pining, he knew it to be true. So when you called him over the summer to say you had a boyfriend, it just about killed him.

“He’s really nice and he’s a tennis enjoyer, but not a player. It’s refreshing to find someone who doesn’t know every single term and I get to be the smart one for once,” you gushed to him. He was your best friend after all. You’d been friends, best friends, for six years. Art was glad you managed six years without any real crushes for more than a day and he could handle those because they weren’t real, but this was very real. Or you said so. “God, I can’t believe it, he just asked for my number two weeks ago and now we’ve been together a week. It’s so surreal.”

“That’s great, I’m happy for you,” Art said through clenched teeth. Six years of wanting you and this guy asked for your number and had you as his girlfriend in under a week. He wondered if you’d kissed him. He remembered when you had your first kiss just after his. Just about killed him though he’d just kissed Amy White two days before and bragged about it. He hoped it would make you jealous, but you had your own beau. This was worse than that. You were going to Stanford with him in a month or two, he thought if there was any time to make that change and tell you, it would be when he saw you next. And there wouldn’t be any college dating scandals and maybe he could live happily and find some girl to forget you with, though he knew he couldn’t.

“So it’s serious?”

“Very. I’m excited.” Just about took him out.

He didn’t eat for maybe two days. Would have been longer if Patrick didn’t come over and force-feed him nachos. Art told him the whole situation and Patrick, who had, of course, been rooting for you and Art since finding out Art liked you, was pretty pissed off about it. The two went back and forth just emphasizing ‘six years’. Six years of what? Six years of you hugging him and playing with his hair, going to movies with him, helping him study, spending time with him alone for you to just go and find some guy on a whim? And start dating him? You were all Art had wanted and it was then that he confessed that he was probably in love with you to Patrick. Patrick wasn’t surprised, then went and stole some beers from a friend, saying they needed to drink about it.

You still called as you usually did and Art never got to really feel himself heal when every phone call was an update and a fresh wound. The poor boy was yours and you weren’t his. There was nothing he could say to change that, he was a good friend. And he wanted you to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. You talked about dates and how good of a kisser he was though you wished he used less tongue sometimes and every word was a papercut that added up to a bigger hurt. He had never wanted anyone the same way he wanted you and he was so sure he couldn’t. He buried his face in his pillow and got so frustrated it drove him to tears. His stomach hurt constantly and he felt like his heart was being pulled down to his stomach.

He was a little scared of how he’d act when you talked to him in person. He just finished settling into campus, his dorm room. You’d done the same with the agreement to meet him for coffee at the campus diner. You were still you, he noted, still painfully beautiful. And you were two months into dating this guy Greg. He sounded like a dick. You said he liked country music and he wasn’t going to post-secondary, he was older and going to a trade school. An asshole. Art did his best to change the topic.

“Mmm, so they have campus events all the time, they’re showing E.T. this Friday if you want to go.” You said. “We should.”

“We should talk them into playing Mac and Me after. A real movie.”

“Shut up, oh my god.” You laughed. Your laugh was one of his favourite things. He found it just a little painful to be here with you, knowing you couldn’t be the way you used to be now that you had a boyfriend. “Do you want to come with me to E.T. or not though, I’m terrified of new people.”

“No, yeah, I’ll go,” he nodded.

Your boyfriend visited on Thursday, so he didn’t see you then. Usually, you called him regardless of being on the same campus, but you didn’t. And then when you said you’d meet Art on Friday, you didn’t show up until the movie was half over. Art sat there, watching the movie on a stupid lawn chair with stupid Reece's Pieces and you came and joined him, apologetic. Said you were with Greg and Art could only imagine what that meant. It was too dark for him to notice how red your wrist was.

It was Art’s first step to breaking. The movie finished and he walked you back to your dorm. “Just saying, if you have plans with your boyfriend, don’t make plans with me. I’m not that kind of guy,” he reasoned, heading up the stairs with you. He tried not to sound bitter. He was only half-bitter anyway, he was mostly genuine.

You sighed, rubbing your left eye just a little. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Does he know about me?” You were quiet. Too quiet. “Y/N?”

You bite your lip, “He knows we’re friends. He doesn’t know the full extent and he doesn’t need to! There’s nothing to worry about, but I just don’t want to worry him. He knows you’re my friend, he doesn’t know… everything.”

Art pressed his hand to his forehead, “I’m a secret, that’s crazy, that’s… fine, I guess. I don’t want to ruin anything for you.”

“You couldn’t.” You told him. “He’s secure. He’s good. And I’m sorry again for being late, I’ll make it up to you with coffee tomorrow if you’ll let me.”

Art nodded in response. How could he not forgive you? How could you stand here and be so beautiful and so apologetic and have him not forgive you? So he swallowed all his words for the thousandth time. “Coffee sounds good. Bring doughnuts. Campus library?”

“Campus library…”

“3 pm?”

“Perfect. See you then.” You kept your sleeve over your wrist which was still pinkened. “I really am sorry, Art.”

He smiled just a little, forced, “It’s okay. I promise. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Y/N.”

You said goodnight back and slipped into your dorm room again. Greg had gone out to the local bar, he didn’t come back until 2am when he said he’d be back at 12. Came back drunk and wanting to kiss you quite badly, smelling awfully of whiskey and weed.

Art wanted to forgive you for it all, but he felt like he couldn’t. Maybe he was bitter. He was bitter that you found someone and he didn’t, he was bitter that you had someone who wasn’t him. He’d yet to meet Greg, but he wondered if you smiled at him with your eyes... or when something funny was said if you'd lean into his shoulder while laughing. He wondered if you were the same, or if it felt the same when you were alone with him- like you could say anything and be unjudged. And that any darkness could be made a joke and made better just by talking for hours. He wondered if Greg had any of that the way he had. But Greg probably had that and more and Art would have to deal with that. He felt his heart physically slow its beating as it slowly, but surely, was beginning to crack.

You met Art the next day and of course, he noticed the hickey on your neck. It made his stomach do flips and tie itself in knots and he wanted to get up and leave, but you had the doughnuts and coffee. And he was supposed to be happy for you. He had to remind himself of that. He looked at you, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear and laughed and engaged with what he had said and you were still the most gorgeous girl on the planet. Nothing could or ever would change that. He was still head over heels and he couldn’t help it. He would call himself pathetic, he would degrade himself for still wanting you, but after six years, he couldn’t get away from it.

Greg was over quite a bit. You never called when he was around. You said you’d come hang out when Patrick was in town but you were late again, said you tripped down the stairs and the boys thought it was some excuse for sex with Greg, but you had the injuries to prove it, so neither of them could really be mad. “It hurts like a bitch,” you huffed, sitting down with them. “But it’s fine. We should drink tonight.”

“Your dorm room or mine?” Art replied, a smile on his face. He was happy about an excuse to drink, he was happy you weren’t late because of Greg, and he was happy you were here.

Your eyes widened and you answered much too quickly. “Yours.”

The three of you headed back to Art’s dorm. You lay on his bed, checking your phone every minute or so. It looked like you were getting an abundance of messages, but you were never texting back. Your phone rang twice before you silenced it. The boys chalked it up to Greg and the obsessions of an early relationship, but it wasn’t that early. At one point you tossed your phone off the end of his bed and on top of Art’s laundry. “Please, please, please, pass the vodka,” you enthused. Art and Patrick chuckled, watching you take a pretty large swig.

“Might want to slow down,” Patrick said, looking at Art, then back at you. You were out of the three of you, the person who hardly ever drank. And here you were chugging it like water. “Don’t want to return you to your boyfriend off your ass.”

“It’s fine,” you replied. “He’s fine, it’s all fine.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Patrick replied, taking the vodka back from you. Art grabbed it out of his hand and took a swig equal to yours, trying to drown out the way he was feeling. You were in his bed, talking about your boyfriend. It was fucked. And it felt awful. He looked at you, clouded by alcohol and god, he wished he kissed you in high school. He wished he told you how he felt. If he had, maybe you wouldn’t be so far out of reach. It took him all his strength not to tell you that while drunk. Instead he just laid on the bed next to you, laughing with you about some stupid shit Patrick said.

“This is why you’re not in college, Pat,” you laughed, out of breath. You had turned on your side, your hand was resting on Art’s upper arm. Patrick just groaned, laughing as he turned his head down to the floor. Art was too aware of your hand on his arm. The way it moved up and down almost the way a person would soothe another, but it was you. And this never meant anything, so why should Art let himself believe it did now?

“You’re so smart, tell us how good you are with context clues, go-” Patrick teased. But your eyes met the clock on Art’s desk. Your eyes widened a little. You’d lost track of time.

“Oh my god,” you said, a little bit of panic in your voice. “It’s almost midnight, fuck, I have to go.” You jolted upright and literally climbed over Art to get off his bed. “I’m so sorry, guys, I’ll see you tomorrow, please text me.” You grabbed your phone and your bag and in seconds you were gone.

Art just shut his eyes and sighed. “I feel that,” Patrick nodded. “What the fuck was that?”

“Greg beckons,” Art replied bitingly. “Can’t be late to see Greg!”

“Fucking Greg,” Patrick grunted. “You want the vodka back?”

“Yes please,” Art groaned, covering his face with his pillow.

You returned a little tipsy to Greg, who was tipsier. You used to think he was really great. He was funny and nice and he helped you drown out your feelings for Art. It felt like a step forward, progressive, real. Like a real relationship. One you knew you needed so maybe liking Art with no proof he liked you back would be easier. It was for a moment, but bliss is temporary.

“You’re back, doll,” Greg said, greeting you on messed up bedsheets, not even bothering to meet you halfway. “I’ve had a night. C’mere, I missed you.” You’re afraid to say you’re tired and you just want to sleep. You slink into bed with him. He smells like whiskey again. It’s stronger, more potent, and he needs a shower. The second you’re in bed with him, he’s on top of you. “So why don’t you tell me why you didn’t answer my fucking texts, huh? Or when I called you four fucking times. You know how embarrassing to call your girl and she doesn’t pick up, huh? Had to do that four fucking times in front of my friends, were you trying to embarrass me?” His hand is tight on your arm, leaving bruises, the other hand is on your hair as he keeps himself propped up. It’s pulling and you feel the headache starting.

“N-no, I’m sorry,” you manage. “Greg, you’re hurting me, you’re pulling my hair.”

“Thought you liked that?” He smirked. Not once had you ever liked having your hair pulled. Not once had you ever said that to him in any context.

“You’re hurting me!” You repeated. His hand eased out of your hair but his grip on your arm turned into a grip on your shoulder, just as hard. It hurt. You could feel it bruised already. “Greg, off, please.”

He made a noise sort of like a whine, his breath horrible. “But I missed you, thought we could have some fun when you came back.” He kissed you. He kissed you. He kissed you. You didn’t want to kiss him, you wanted air, you didn’t want his hand down your waistband. “Don’t fight, pretty, come on. I know you want this.”

No, you didn’t. You didn’t let it get so far without a fight. You were left to sleep alone as he stormed out. You tended to the injuries from earlier, the ‘stairs’ incident, plus the new injuries you’d have to make stories for because you’d be hanging out with Art and Patrick again. But the bruise that was already forming on your cheekbone looked bad enough that you texted Art saying you couldn’t make it tomorrow and you cried into your knees.

Makeup didn’t do a very good job, especially when every time something healed, there was something new. You did see Art a few days later when Greg had gone ‘fishing’ with a friend. The bruise on your cheek had faded, but not enough. Makeup hardly fixed it either. “Ball to the face,” you sighed, pressing your lips into a straight line when Art noticed it. He grimaced. “I mean at least my partner has upped her miles per hour but it’s…”

“Ouch,”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, walking next to him. “So I was thinking maybe we could hang out Tuesday night.”

He looked at you, “You have something in mind?” As if he could say no.

“Yes, actually. It’s like an improv show thing, it’ll probably be awful. We can get candy and make fun of them behind their backs.” You smiled just a little.

He grinned, bowing his head just a little, “Sounds perfect.”

“Thought so,” you laughed, nudging him a little so he walked off the sidewalk and onto the grass. He tried to nudge you back, but you dodged him and he nearly tripped down the hill you were walking next to. You laughed, but it only laughed so long as his expression turned into the determination to get you back for it. He chased you down the hill until it became a rolling matter, both of you falling into the lush grass and rolling down the last bit of it. He rolled into you, turning it into a chaotic tumble that slowed to a halt with him on top of you. Art breathed out hard, eyes meeting yours, his breath smelling like the mint gum he was chewing. You smiled first with your eyes and then the grin spread up your face. “Ouch,” you mumbled, almost a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours, his face hovering just above you.

His eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips and his brain told him to move, but he didn’t want to. But he had to. You were taken. It would be wrong. But you didn’t move either. You were both breathing hard, smiling at your compromising position until Art did move. Though maybe you didn’t want him to. “You’re okay?”

“I will be,” you replied. He helped you up and once again, your faces were just inches apart. It was dangerous, wanting you.

Greg threatened obscene things in the face of if you ever were to leave him. He’d tell your secrets, said he’d end his life, said he’d hurt you. You cried. A lot. For hours, later. He was terrifying. You cried so hard your eyes were completely bloodshot the next day. Your girlfriends were concerned, but you played it off as allergies.

You saw Art another day and it was good to talk to him about everything and nothing. He was a good distraction from the throbbing pain in your ribs from Greg’s reaction to you mentioning a celebrity crush. He had been drunk. Too drunk. And you couldn’t get away fast enough.

Tuesday rolled around. You kept your hair down to hide the bruise on your temple. It still ached, along with where your hair was pulled once again when you refused to have sex with Greg again. He was sitting bitter on your bed, angry still. You put on your jean shorts and a t-shirt. “Where you going dressed like that?”

You looked up, “Like what?”

“Why the fuck do you instantly talk back? What’s your fucking problem. I’m asking you where you think you’re going dressed like a slut?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “Just getting dessert with Bea from my tennis program. She’s got this-”

“Go change.”

You weren’t looking for a fight. You put on jeans and a sweater. It made you five minutes late to meet Art and you hated it. You looked at Art with sadness in your eyes and he recognized it but didn’t know what it was. “Are you okay?” He knew you.

“Yeah, can we just… go make fun of bad improv?”

“I brought the gummy worms,” he nodded. You leaned slightly against him as you walked down to the outdoor theatre. You were glad to be out for the evening. Glad to be away from Greg and his anger and his hurtful words and the way he treated you. Art was the calm. He was the safety. He didn’t even know it, but he was what kept you going. If you ever got away from Greg, maybe you’d tell Art how you felt. As the feelings for Greg dissipated, your feelings for Art resurfaced.

“The clown bit was actually so good,” you laughed, walking back up the steps of the campus theatre. ”Reminded me of what Patrick said the first time we got high.”

His eyes widened and he swallowed the gummy worm he was eating, “Mm- I was thinking the same thing. It was him for sure.”

“You think I’d be a good clown?”

“Mmm, no.” He shook his head. “Your feet aren’t big enough.”

“And yours are?”

“One, who said anything about me being a clown and two, big feet are supposed to mean something, right?”

You laughed, “Shut up, so boyish.”

His hand brushed your upper arm, just slightly, and you were all too aware of it. In fact, you were all-too aware of how close you walked to him. It was always an unconscious thing. A forever type thing, always walking close, always leaning against each other in the cafeteria lines, always near each other- never near enough. He then nudged your arm again, this time on purpose, so you opened your hand so that he could dump a few more gummy worms in it and you just smiled. It had never, not once, been more apparent that finding someone to replace your feelings for Art was a mistake. Not when this boy, blonde curls and crooked grin was putting a pile of gummy worms in your hand. Wordlessly. Seamlessly. He just got you and the feeling to kiss him right there, right then was overwhelming. And wrong.

It was wrong. You pressed your lips together for a moment before eating a gummy worm. If your boyfriend was around he’d smack them right out of your hand saying you don’t need more sugar. Maybe that’s why he was so bitter, you thought. Lack of sugar. You tried not to think too hard about the urges Art brought with him. He was so lovely, he was such an escape, and he was only your best friend. It was all he could be. You had no idea he was fighting the very same urge, paying extra attention to the fact he didn’t even have to ask you to open your hand, you just knew. But it was wrong. You had a boyfriend.

You said goodbye to Art at the entrance to your building, rather than your dorm. If Greg heard you talking out there, you’d be in for something for sure. “Thanks for coming out with me tonight-” you started. “I needed it.”

Art’s hands slunk into his pocket and he tilted his head just a little, “Yeah, about that. You’re doing okay?”

“Oh, yeah, my mood lately has been down, it’s nothing big. I’m just extra appreciative of anything that brings it back up.”

His eyes were understanding and a little apologetic. “If you want we can do something tomorrow? See a movie or play Scrabble or something stupid. We can get takeout? Takeout and going through Patrick’s Facebook and making fun of him.”

That made you grin. You scrunched your nose just a little, “That sounds good! Really good. I’ll call you tomorrow and I’ll let you know. I have to check with Greg.” Of course you did. Greg. Fuck. “But I’ll call you, I promise.”

“Okay,” he nodded. His gaze lingered on your lips. He wished they wouldn’t. He wished his mind wasn’t on who you were going back to after he said goodbye. He walked back to his dorm room in this perpetual state of angst and longing. There was no pain like it. Ever. In any part of his life he’d never known a greater emotional turmoil. You weren’t his. And he loved you, he didn’t even like you, he loved you and he knew it and you didn’t and there was nothing he could do.

He went back to his dorm and got into bed in his jeans and his shoes, not bothering to turn the light off, not bothering to pull the covers over himself. He just hugged his pillow and thought about you and it and everything until he fell asleep. You didn’t have that luxury.

“You’re late,” Greg said, sitting on your bed. He’d been smoking in your room, you could smell it. Potent and cheap, assaulting your nose. You’d give anything to walk out and not return, but this room was yours. If you left now, he’d have you back in your room with some threat or worse. “Care to tell me why?”

“I thought I was home early?” You set your bag down on the chair. “You said 11.”

“I said 10:30,” he replied.

“Did you?”

“Did I stutter?”

“No. Look, I’m tired, can we just go to bed?”

“Of course we can, doll,” he smirked a little bit evilly. You sighed, running your hand over the back of your neck. He wanted to fuck you. And you wanted to go to bed. “Come over here.”

“Greg, I’m tired,”

“Too tired?”

“Yes. I’m too tired. I’m just going to wash my face and go to bed.”

“Fuck you.”

“Greg, that’s uncalled for.” You said, standing your ground, just a little. “I’m just tired.”

He shook his head, “Yeah? You go out for hours and come back and don’t even want to fuck. Sounds an awful lot like you’re getting your fill somewhere else. Hm?”

You pressed your hand to your temple, “It means I’m tired, god, Greg, I’m not cheating.” And some voice in your head told you that you wished you were. “Please.” You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door, just in case. You washed your face and changed into your pajamas before getting in bed next to his heavy scent. As he wrapped an arm around your waist you thought maybe you could tune him out, but his hand slipped over your chest, coming to rest with your breast in his hand. You couldn’t pretend anything. He was himself. Even if you wished it was someone else, it wasn’t.

The next morning, he was gone. Where to? You had no idea. You were just glad. You spent the morning with windows open, cleaning your things, wiping down surfaces and sorting laundry, spraying air freshener. And it dawned on you to call Art. Greg wasn’t around. You hadn’t asked him, but you would make some excuse, maybe.

“Hey!” You greeted him, laying back on your bed, fresh sheets beneath you. “You still want to get takeout and make fun of Patrick’s facebook?”

Art walked to the side of the tennis court, his partner yelling at him to make it quick. He smiled, sitting on the bleachers. “Yeah, if you’re up for it. My dorm, around seven? Does that work?” His smile grew to a grin.

“That works,” you replied, smiling too. “Who is yelling at you right now?”

“My partner for singles today,” he answered with a chuckle. “He’s telling me to get back on the court.”

“Doesn’t he know you’re super busy making super important plans?”

He looked at his partner, frustrated in waiting on the court. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Right?” You rolled onto your stomach. “I’ll let you get back to him, I’ll see you later, Art.”

“See you later, Y/N,” he said. You wished he didn’t have to go. You had nothing to do, Greg wasn’t around. Patrick was touring for another week before he came back around here. You decided to go out and meet up with some girlfriends for the afternoon. It was nice to be out and unbothered by having a set time to be home. There was no pressure. Greg didn’t call or text, not once, and it was a strange sort of peace. You talked to your friends about tennis and classes and their current crushes and it was fun and it was good. You retired back to your dorm around six thirty, showered, and did a little makeup. You were just about to leave to meet Art when Greg walked in.

It was like the light was sucked out of the room along with all the air. Or the fresh air. He smelled gross. He tasted worse, kissing you disgustingly. “Hey baby, I missed you,” he slurred. He needed to shave. “Where you headed?”

“Bea’s,” you replied. “She’s having a movie night.”

“Stay,” he breathed. “Missed you all day. Need to feel you.” He disgusted you. Hands on your chest with the door not even closed yet from his entry. “Come on, doll. Said no yesterday, can’t say no today.”

“No.”

“Don’t give me that attitude, come on. I’m being nice.”

“Greg, I have plans, I’m going to be late,” you tried to laugh it off nervously, but his hand was around your wrist in seconds. “Greg, please. Come on.”

He narrowed his eyes, “You’re staying. Bea can fucking wait. Don’t your little friends know that I’m more important than them? Jesus christ, the company you keep.”

You avoided his gaze. His hand slipped down to undo his belt. You debated running. He’d catch you, he was fast. You debated an argument. You didn’t want to fuck him, you didn’t want to have sex with him. He was expecting it more than wanting it. Like all you were was some object, some toy, some possession. His eyes were dark with lust and his words laced with alcohol. You were afraid of him. “Greg, I have to go. I’ll be back around eleven.”

“You’re not fucking going,” Greg made it known. Flat out. He shut the door behind him.

“I am. I made the plans, I can’t bail.”

“For me, yes you fucking can.” He said, pushing you back onto the bed. “Come on, Y/N. You’ll like it soon enough.”

“No. Greg. I’m serious. I have to go.”

“You know better than to talk back to me,” he warned. As if you were a dog. Or a child. “You don’t fucking listen? You’re not going out. Cut the attitude before you regret it.”

“Greg.”

“What did I fucking say?” He yelled, then dropped his voice. It was nasty, his breath, his tone. “I’m gonna fuck you and you’re gonna like it.”

“No-” his blow came like lightning through your body. A shock. A volt. And then the sting. “Greg, please-” another. And more. And then he left again. You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to, it hurt. Your ribs ached, your head pulsed. Your lip was bleeding. What could you do but cry and cry and cry? You wanted to call Art, you really did, but you knew if you cried on the phone he’d come over here and with Greg on the loose, it wasn’t a good idea. So you curled up into a ball and cried yourself to sleep.

Art sat in his dorm room waiting all night for you. Until about 2 am, when he gave up calling and texting and went to bed. You called him the next morning and he didn’t pick up.

You couldn’t reschedule for any day nearby because of your fat lip and new bruises. Greg came back and apologized like usual, dismissing the purple and blue on your face. His doing. His work. When he was in the bathroom, you called Art again, leaving a quiet voicemail.

“Art, I’m so sorry about my no-show last night. Something came up and I couldn’t make it and I’m so sorry I didn’t call or text. I feel like such an asshole. But next week, for sure. We’ll do whatever you want, my treat. I want to make it up to you, I feel terrible about this. Please call or text me when you get this. I’m sorry.”

Art gazed over his screen. He wasn’t sure how to feel. Loving you was choking him out and these no-shows and being late and canceling, it was just… too much. You were you and you were everything he could ever want, but you had other priorities, it seemed. He could want you all he wanted, wish for you as often as he could, but you didn’t wish the same. That was all he knew, not knowing the whole truth. Not calling him that night was one of the hardest things to do, but it was for safety.

You couldn’t even see Art if you wanted to for a few days. Not until the bruises faded enough to be covered by clever concealer. You wanted so desperately to go over to his dorm. You wanted to see your friends. Anything to feel better. Anything to get out of this fucking room, but you called in sick to your classes and worked on the material in your room, completely unable to really exist in the outside world. It was just you and Greg in this tiny little room. And he didn’t stop the aggression. You couldn’t escape it.

You called Art again when he left for an hour or two to go to the bar. You had stifled your crying, feeling so completely alone, needing to hear his voice. Maybe he’d save you for even a moment. He was the light, he made things better.

He picked up this time. “Hey.” It was singular, a little quiet.

“Art, hi,” you said. You weren’t sure why you were so overwhelmed with emotion at his simple greeting. “Did you get my messages? I left a voicemail, god, I’m so sorry for the other night. We made plans and I made a commitment but I got tangled up. I wanted to call, I’m so sorry I didn’t.” You gushed. “I understand if you’re angry. I know I promised you I wouldn’t do what I did, but you have to believe I didn’t mean to. And I’m really sorry.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I know.” He wasn’t sure what to say. What you did wasn’t okay, but it was you, so he’d always forgive. “I get it.” But he didn’t. “You have a boyfriend, I can’t expect you to be free all the time. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t.

“Art, really, I-”

“I forgive you. Just call me next time? Please.” His words were so easy, it hurt you. “I heard your voicemail, if you still want to make it up to me, I’m free Friday night. There’s a party, Patrick wants to go. You should come with us.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. A party would be hard to lie about. But it was Art and he was asking and you so desperately wanted to see him that you agreed. You agreed. And the conversation mellowed into something normal. Your usual conversation and banter, slight teases, and warm words. And it felt better. You had plans for Friday and that was that. You wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop you this time.

Getting ready for the party with Greg around sucked. You did your makeup modestly, you couldn’t look too nice or he’d stop you from leaving. The concealer didn't quite cover the bruise, but your lip had healed over pretty nicely. The dim lighting would be your friend for sure. You put on a long skirt over a mid-length one. You couldn’t be too careful, he once called a skirt slightly above the knee slutty. And you wore a dollar store t-shirt over your black tank top.

“Where are you going?” Greg asked.

“Sleepover at Bea’s, remember?” You said. You loved lying to him. It was the best you could get away with. “You said I could go.”

“Yeah. It’s fine. Talk to you later.” He didn’t make you stay or make you kiss him goodbye, which was a relief. You walked over to Art’s dorm with what felt like pep in your step. You didn’t have to be home at any certain time, you were free to roam, to have fun. Greg wouldn’t know. Greg couldn’t know. Patrick let you into Art’s room. He’d been debriefed on the stunt you pulled, but he couldn’t hold it against you.

“You look like you’re going to church,” he remarked, looking over your outfit.

Art peered over from where he sat, “Amish?”

You chuckled, pulling the shirt off over your head. Both boys were a little taken aback as you tossed the shirt to Art’s laundry. “Not quite.” You undid the button on the side of your skirt and took that off as well, revealing the shorter skirt underneath. You were beautiful, Art thought. He always thought it. But that was because you always were. Wanting you was hard and disruptive and wrong, he reminded himself. But you stood there and everything reminded him of just how fucked he was. Head over heels for a taken girl. Both of them were too distracted to pay attention to the covered-up bruise on your outer thighs. They didn’t pay close enough attention to the multitude of bracelets that covered the bruised fingerprints on your wrist. Your face was another story. Another lie.

Art’s mouth was just a little open, watching you shed the outer layer of clothes. Patrick tossed you a shooter. “So what’s with the coverup?”

You thought he meant your makeup over the bruise on your face and you held your breath for a half-second. He meant the clothes. “Oh, Greg wouldn’t like me out in a skirt and tank top.” You tried not to cringe at the words. Were they telling?

“Why does Greg have a say in that?” Patrick replied, leaning forward in his chair just a little. Art looked away, he had to. His face would say something he didn’t want you to know. Patrick was overstepping, he couldn’t bear that either.

You unscrewed the cap of the shooter, “He’s not… I don’t know. But I don’t give a fuck, I’m going out anyway,” you said, trying to ignore that line of questioning. “I’m in the skirt and the shirt. Thoughts?” You did a little spin. Art couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were so perfect it hurt. It hurt.

“Hot.” Patrick nodded. He unscrewed his own shooter, standing and grabbing one to pass to Art. Art pushed past his thoughts and the three of you did a little ‘cheers’, downing the small bottles. You would take hot. Hot was good. Hot was the opposite of how you were feeling. Greg made you feel so gross, it was hard to be anything else. And with staying cooped up in your room, bruised and marinating in the feeling of being ugly- so hot was good. He said what Art was thinking. It was a little less than he thought, but it was a good summary.

The three of you headed out soon after, drinking on the way. You were leaning on Art as you walked, the three of you laughing at some inside joke. Your laugh was beautiful and rang out in the street. With the soft buzz of alcohol in his head, on his skin, you were an angel. You were always an angel, bathed in streetlight. And your hand was around his bare forearm and boundaries with you were always blurry but this felt odd. He was enjoying it, it was wrong, but he was letting it pass with the excuse of the alcohol. Your hand was so soft on his skin, the perfect temperature, perfect everything. When were you not perfect?

“Okay so Patrick is set on bringing a girl back- but bringing a girl back where?” You laughed, turning onto one of the little pathways between the rented residencies.

“I don’t think he’s thought that far ahead,” Art chuckled, nudging Patrick just a little. Patrick raised his hands in surrender, both hands filled with shooters. His pockets were also full. “You were going to say my dorm room, weren’t you?”

“Nasty,” you teased. “Poor Art. He sleeps in that bed, you know.”

“Uh-huh. You’re one to talk, you’ve always got some form of hickey on your neck, you don’t even try to hide it. Me, nasty? You.” Your hand immediately flew to the side of your neck. “Sit with that one.”

Art’s heart always fell at the mention of it. Every time, without fail. You moved away from him just slightly at the mention. You would usually have a retort to something like that. But you didn’t. Your hand just stayed on the side of your neck, covering the fingerprint bruises you didn’t know were visible. You pulled your hair over it. “Pass me another shooter, please.”

Art, sweet, feeling pretty shitty over the way he was viewing you, stayed quiet. Mostly. Until you were just outside the party. Patrick pat him on the shoulder, heading in right away. Art, sweet, stopped you with the extension of his arm. “You’re quiet.” He said.

“So were you,” you replied.

“Just wondering if you’re okay?” He said. Posing it as a question. “You’ve seemed upset since we were at mine, I just wanted to know before we go in there and it’s too loud and I get too drunk to ask.”

“You’ve never been too drunk you ask,” you smiled. You were standing a little bit close to him, your toes inches from touching. “You got soooo drunk at the Miller’s party last year and you still asked me if I was having fun. I wasn’t and we left and you threw up, remember?”

“I don’t,” he chuckled, eyes soft. But he nodded, “You’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I need more to drink and I want to find Bea and dance. My plans. Your plans?”

“Drink and save women from Patrick,” he nodded, his grin coming back.

You, just a little clouded from alcohol, pressed your palm to the side of his face just for a second. “You’re a saint, Art Donaldson.” He felt his skin flush. Your hand slipped away and went down his forearm once again, pulling him into the party. It was natural you let go of him, Art made a beeline for Patrick who was already talking to some girl. She was weird, flirted with Art too once he showed up.

You needed to lie to Greg more often, you thought, taking a shot from some girl you shared a 3pm class with. Bea’s hands on your hips, dancing together, hands raised over your heads. This was living, this was uncontrolled, unbridled by any abuse, any threat. You could have fun and not feel guilty about it after. Greg had too much trust in a girl he hit. You felt- though you weren’t- free. Just a little bit.

Art watched you with Bea, watched the way you moved. He was out of it. Just a little. Not too drunk at all. But enough. Numb, watching you. Hard, watching you. He hid a little behind Patrick to hide it, watching your hips sway, watching how close you and your best friend were. He couldn’t have cared less about Bea. Just you.

He should have told you he liked you in high school. Not saying anything had to be one of the biggest regrets of his entire life. You were perfect for him in every way and you were warm and inviting and you were witty and fun and you knew each other like the backs of your hands and it would have been worth it to tell you. He knew that, looking at you, that it would have been easiest to tell you when he still could. He was bitter about it. A missed chance. Patrick told him he’d regret it and watching you under purple lights, he knew Patrick had been right. It was all bullshit.

Patrick suddenly grabbed Art’s arm pretty hard, yanking him closer, “That guy over there. That’s Greg, right?” He said, voice low even in the loudness of the party. He gestured over to the guy in the weird sweater and jeans, leaned up against the wall, arm hanging above a short hardly-dressed girl. Faces close. So close. Noses touching kind of close.

“Oh, fuck,” Art breathed, eyes locked on them, watching Greg’s hand touch just under this girl’s chin. You didn’t know Greg was there, that was apparent. But of course, the dirtbag was. Art’s heart pounded hard in his chest. He looked back at Patrick, whose expression was filled with hatred. As it should be because what the fuck? Regardless of how much he was rooting for Art, always rooting for Art, Greg was still the guy you were with. Your boyfriend. And he was with someone else.

“I need a reason not to fuck him up right now,” Patrick said. “What the fuck do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Art answered truthfully. “She doesn’t know he’s here, he doesn’t know she’s here.”

Patrick shook his head, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, visibly pissed off. At least Patrick could be pissed off, Art’s stomach was just in knots. It was almost nonsensical. No way he would cheat on you. You? You were everything, you were gorgeous in all ways and you had a personality. How could he cheat? He looked back over at Greg in a liplock with this other girl and the anger did rise, but his eyes fell back on you and it eased. This was fucked all around. Every bit of this was fucked up. “We have to tell her, we can’t keep it to ourselves.”

“I agree but how are we going to say it? We’re in a crowd of people, it’s not exactly fun news.”

“Fucking asshole. I’m pissed. He’s slobbering all over that girl like a fucking dog. You know, I should…”

Art couldn’t keep listening to Patrick’s rant. He didn’t even want to look back at Greg. But Greg was very obviously invested in his cheating schemes. Art wondered how long he’d been doing it to you. How long had this guy been cheating? Did you not satisfy him? How could you not satisfy him, you sported hickeys so often and you were late to meet up and it was all sickening, but it didn’t add up. This guy was the world's most unsatisfied, apparently. It, he, was disgusting. Art felt his face crinkle up just thinking about it, but he had to now. Your feelings were in the balance here.

“- in the face. Knock his goatee right off. Art. Art, I’m telling her.”

“Patrick, give me a fucking second,” Art said, holding a hand up. He looked back at you, Bea pouring a shot in your mouth. You were smiling. Grinning. And you were beautiful and he hated the idea that you’d stop soon. Fuck. Neither of you deserved this. Not you, not Art. “We’ll tell her it’s time to go and then we’ll tell her outside, no bullshit.”

Patrick nodded, “This is bad.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m so fucking angry.”

“I know.” Art’s heart was leaping out of his chest. He held his hand out and Patrick dug in his pocket for a stronger shooter. Art drank it all quickly, letting it burn his throat. His heart didn’t slow even a bit. “Fuck.”

Patrick leaned over to the girl who he’d just been talking to, saying something about having to leave. Art watched her roll her eyes and walk away. It was fair, she’d been standing there for a bit listening to him trash talk your boyfriend. Art rubbed his eyes, trying to sober up just a little, but after that shooter, it was a little bit pointless. Regret seemed to be a theme around here. “He’s gone.” Patrick said. Art let the fuzz from rubbing his eyes melt and sure enough, Greg wasn’t where he was before. Just a little panicked, he set his eyes on you. There he was, towering over you, rage in his eyes. It was clear to Art what was going through your head, he knew you too well, you were cowering. Patrick was still scanning the crowd for Greg, but Art watched as Greg’s fingers locked onto your upper arm and he yanked you so hard that your shoulder went funny for a second.

Art, a little shocked, watching him drag you out of sight. And he launched into action. He started into the sea of people dancing, drinking, leaving Patrick behind. Patrick was faced the other way, by the time Art was absorbed into the crowd, it was a little late to find even him. Art pushed through people, trying to keep his sight on you, but he lost you in it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbled. He’d never seen anyone grab anyone the way Greg just grabbed you. It was violent and harsh and the way it happened, it couldn’t have been good in any way. He pushed through people, accidentally pushing a guy as he passed him, the guy went to push back but Art just darted out of the way. He made his way to the door, you weren’t around it, so you had to have left.

“Art Donaldson, my man,” one of his tennis buddies greeted him, stepped in front of him and Art just stepped around him, trying to find you. You, where were you? His heart rate was raised higher than he’d ever felt it. Rapid, as if he’d run a mile. He ran out onto the street, looking around, but there wasn’t any sight of you. What he would do when he found you, he had no idea, he just knew he needed to find you. Nobody just grabbed someone like that with good intentions.

Greg wasn’t a good guy and he knew that, he just thought it was his bias. That maybe he was overreacting, but it didn’t look so much that way now. “Greg, please!” You yelled from his left. Art turned his head to see two figures head into one of the thin alleyways between buildings. He could hear a man speaking back to you, Greg, obviously, but his voice was too much of a growl to understand. Art started jogging toward the sound, cautiously. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry I lied,” you cried out.

“Little fucking whore. Lie to me to go party with your friends? Dance on some fucking guy, cheat one me? That’s what you wanted?” Art’s heart was about to break his ribs. He ran just a little faster.

“No, fuck, Greg, stop! I was with Bea, I was with Bea!”

“At a fucking party. If you wanted to be a slut you could have said so. Fucking lying to me, you’re disgusting. Fucking bitch.”

“Greg!”

“Don’t even start talking back to me now! You’re a lying, cheating whore who deserves to be treated like one!”

Art was almost there, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. “Greg, don’t fucking touch me. I’m dead serious, I’ll scream. Get off me, get off me you asshole!”

The sound of the blow made Art’s entire body go cold. He felt himself drain of colour, he felt his heart stop for just a second. It was a sickening noise. The entirety of him tensed up to a point he felt like a coiled spring, his chest tight, ribs pressing in. He hit you, that was the sound of him hitting you, he hit you. Art made it over and came at Greg with a surprising force, shoving him off of you and onto the ground. He was drunk, it was easy to do. Your hand grabbed Art’s upper arm, but missed as Art’s body followed through with the movement.

“What the fuck?!” Greg exclaimed. You moved behind Art, backward, away. Tears streamed down your face, you were choking on sobs, cradling the side of your face with one hand and your upper arm with the other. Art stepped back with you. He was so angry he himself couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look at you, he kept his eyes on Greg, breathing hard. Shoving was tame, shoving him off of you was going to have to be enough, Art wasn’t violent. The shock of all this hadn’t settled, it wouldn’t settle. “Who the fuck are you, tough guy?” Greg advanced on Art who was nimble, but between anti-car poles, stuck. Shoved against the wall, he just avoided having his head hit the wall by putting his hand up.

“Art!” You yelled. “Greg, stop! GREG!” You screamed, you hoped someone would come. You hoped someone would call the cops.

“Art fucking Donaldson, huh?” Greg smirked, face close to Art’s. “You been fucking my girlfriend? Hm? This the one, Y/N, really? Just friends my ass, you probably came here with him.”

“Fuck you,” Art seethed. Greg was bigger than him.

“Get off of him, Greg, I’m begging you, don’t hurt him!”

Greg fumed, “Used me to get over him, huh? Big-eared, fuckass, twinkie little pretty boy, here?”

“Shut up!” You yelled. Your head pounded, your skin stung. “Stop. Now. I’ll call the police, I’ll get someone to call the police, Greg, get off of him!”

Art shoved Greg backward again, but he just walked right back. “I don’t want to fight you.” Art said, his eyes dark. “Fuck off. Leave her alone, fuck off.”

“He’s playing prince charming, Y/N. You’ve been fucking him on the side. Yeah, that’s why you never put out, you slut. Getting his pathetic skinny boy dick on the side.” Art kneed Greg in the groin, pushing him off again and stepping over to you. “Oh, you’re fucking dead.” His eyes burned with rage and he came at Art with a pouncing force, grabbing him and bringing him down to the ground. You screamed, watching Greg tackle Art to the pavement. The brawl began, Greg holding Art down, trying to punch him but being blocked. Art wasn’t violent, he was avoiding hurting Greg. For you. For your sake. You had no choice, you had to intervene. What was a few more bruises? You tried to push Greg off, but he kept at it, trying to hurt Art.

“Hey! Hey, what the fuck!” It was Patrick and he dragged you out of this with too much ease, putting you to the side and going right back to push Greg off of Art and onto his back. A bystander behind Patrick had their phone out, calling 911, thank god. You watched in pure shock, Art get punched in the shoulder rather than the head and in a swift blow, Patrick punched Greg in the jaw. And he went limp. You grabbed Art, you grabbed whatever you could on him, his shirt, his opposite shoulder, on your knees. He looked at you with eyes sadder than you’d ever seen them. You moved closer.

His hand reached up to your face desperately but also gently, despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “You’re okay? You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you nodded a little too much, looking him over just as he looked you over, noting the way your cheekbone was bleeding. He really hit you. “God, are you okay? I’m so sorry, Art, I’m so sorry.” You were crying a steady stream of tears, lip trembling, and you were still so beautiful.

“Don’t be sorry, don’t be sorry,” he said, trying to wipe your tears a little more desperately than he had just done. “He hit you, he hurt you, how-”

“I wanted to tell you. I was scared. I was so scared he’d do something awful. I don’t love him, I don’t want him, I want you. I want you, I’ve wanted you.” You blurted, sobbing just a little more. Art messily moved your hair out of your face. “Art, I-” You were crying so hard, it was hard to breathe. “I couldn’t leave him.” You looked over at Patrick shaking his hand out, at Greg’s unconscious self. Hands gentle, he turned your head away from it.

Art’s lips were just a little parted, eyes looking over the damage to your face. “How long has he been?”

“A long time,” you swallowed hard. “Three months in, maybe two- two and a half.” You said, biting your lip trying to stop crying. “I wanted to leave him. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn’t. He’s- he’s why I didn’t show up those times, I wanted to be there, but he’d… he was… I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for, this isn’t your fault,” he said, bracing you with soft hands. “It’s okay. He’s not getting close to you ever again, Patrick is making sure of that.”

“He was right about the using him part, I was using him to get over you and it was- wrong. It was wrong and he started hurting me and then it was too late to get out.”

In the heat of the moment, your ‘I want you’s had slipped past him. He wanted to make sure you were okay, he wasn’t focused on that. You were blurting things out, he’d missed it. His eyebrows furrowed, he lowered his head just a bit, “Over me? What do you mean?” His judgment also wasn’t the best. But it didn’t matter. You sat up just a little, still clinging onto his clothes, hands shaking. With Greg out, going to be out of the picture the words just spilled from your mouth. Rolling off your tongue in light of what was soon to be true freedom.

“I’ve wanted you forever, god, it kills me that I never said anything. It’s you, it’s been you, I don’t know why I thought I could ever try and be with anyone to forget that. It’s just, you’ve never…”

“What? No, no. I’ve liked you since I met you, we were twelve, it was bad and it’s been you. You never said anything either-” the sound of a cop car approaching interrupted. “You liked me?”

“Yes! So much. Too much, sometimes. God, I’m so stupid.” You were crying still, even more now. “You just… you never said anything, so I never said anything and then I got stuck, but it never stopped. It’s bad, it’s so bad, I probably love you, it’s awful.” The alcohol was still running the conversation.

“That is awful,” Art chuckled just a little bit. On the pavement with you, cop car approaching, lights flashing. This conversation would be over in a minute. Your eyes met his, sad, angry, mutual thoughts and mutual expressions.

“It’s bad?” You smiled just a little through your tears.

He grinned just a little, “I've been in love with you for as long as I've known what being in love feels like”

Art’s thumb wiped your tears with a little less desperation now. His heart and yours were still beating hard. “That’s so bad, that’s six years,”

“I know.” He said, grinning his wide crooked grin. The conversation had strayed from the real problem, but it was a good distraction. A welcomed one, in fact. Proof that things could and would be better. “It’s okay. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m going to be okay,” you nodded. The policemen, two of them walked over and began their spiel, asking about what happened and Art helped you to your feet. The night was still young, the persecution was easy to figure and a diary you kept detailing his abuse was a great help to the case. You, Patrick, and Art all spent the night at the police station with forms and questions and people trying to get a grasp on the situation. A blurry security camera was also a great amount of help. Greg was charged properly, put away. It was easy to see who was the real problem. You sat with ice to your face in one of the police chairs, being offered therapy and counseling and numbers to call for trauma and crisis. Everyone was so sweet, one of the policewomen held your hand for a good while until it stopped shaking.

You still cried a lot. Sorry that everyone had to go through this just because you couldn’t leave a guy. Just because you had tried to forget your feelings for Art in someone else. But the words, ‘it’s not your fault’ were thrown around a lot. And that you’d be safe. And it felt good to know. You’d sobered back up, obviously. So did the boys. You had the most extensive questioning, the boys waited in the main room.

“All the excuses, the ball to the face, the stairs…” Patrick sighed heavily, staring forward into a void.

“It was him.” Art nodded. “I feel like such an idiot, how the fuck did I not know? I know her better than myself, she hid it and I didn’t want to think about her and Greg. It was… it hurt.” He admit. Patrick looked over at Art.

“He’s gone. He won’t hurt her again. If he tries, best believe I’m doing more than knocking his ass out. I can’t fucking believe this shit. I’m glad I got off, but jesus fucking christ, I wish I’d done enough to be behind those bars.”

“No you don’t,” Art sighed, leaning forward into his hands. “Fuck. I didn’t even fight back.”

“You’re not that kind of guy,” Patrick reasoned. “Which is fine. You got him off her, that was all you needed to do.”

“I guess, but… fuck.”

“She told you she wanted you,” He reminded Art with a slight sly smile on his lips. He gave Art a gentle little push off the shoulder. As if Art had been able to stop thinking about it. He’d sobered up just the same and the confession might have been badly timed, but at least it happened. He meant it, he hoped you did too. He was trying not to let it eat him alive alongside the fact your now-ex hit you and he hadn’t known. Maybe he missed the other clues? How did he not know? “She likes you too. It’s all you’ve wanted.”

“I know,” Art sighed. “After that, though?”

“Means she’s yours.”

Art looked up and met Patrick’s eyes, trying to verify if he meant it. As if Patrick was the dictator. But Patrick was only the reality. The gravity of the situation hung above him, but you were in front of him, free from the questioning. Your cheeks were pink and tear-stained still and your eyelashes were still wet. Patrick tipped his head toward you to gesture to Art and the second Art saw you, he was on his feet. His eyes were wide like a doe’s, hands in his pockets.

He met you halfway down the blue-painted precinct hallways. Your eyes said more than words did as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He pulled you in the rest of the way into a hug that had more sincerity and life than the walls had ever seen. His arms wrapped around your waist, grabbing onto the fabric of your shirt on your sides, holding you tight and close. He kissed your shoulder, his chin resting in your hair. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He mumbled. You shut your eyes for a moment, allowing him to envelop you in his arms. He held you so tight, it felt like he was keeping you from falling to pieces. It would take you a while to get over all of this, but right now, it felt like you’d be okay.

He was refreshingly cold, the precinct was warm and you’d been upset, so of course you were warm. He held you for a minute or maybe five. Nobody had to use the hallway and anyone who did just went back around. Patrick didn’t watch, instead, he went to the counter to ask about getting a ride back to campus.

Eventually, you pulled away from the hug. Not entirely, just almost. His arms slid over your back, his grip just loosening, not leaving. In fact you didn’t get very far in pulling away. Your heart beat fast in your chest. Even in the upset, even after the fact, Art was still your peace. He was quiet and he held you as long as you needed him to. He was always there and you knew he would be. With everything that happened just then, with that confession… Your forehead pressed against his. Gentle. Safe. You were safe. You felt safer here, like this, than you did in that room with the officers who asked you so many things.

You looked at him through your eyelashes. He must have read your mind, he must have known you too well. With a tilt of your heads, your lips met. There was the slightest, softest bit of hesitation, but it was soothed over in seconds, your hand sliding to cup Art’s cheek. He pulled you back in with slow, easy hands that didn’t grab too hard. The kiss was patient, calculated, and warm. It sent what felt like tiny sparks through all of your veins leaving goosebumps in their wake. It felt like completion, like a satisfying end to a movie, like putting a book back on the shelf after reading it. It was easy to kiss him, your heart slowed for the first time as his pace matched yours. However, out of understanding, the kiss wasn’t too long. Maybe a minute, nothing more.

You’d been through something. He couldn’t be the one to fix all of that, but he’d be there for you until it felt better. Stepping in now felt wrong, felt like it was one thing to another. You needed the time to yourself. Art didn’t kiss you again for another five months. All of which were spent the way they usually were, aside from being a little closer than usual and hanging out so much more. You were free to do as you pleased. Free to see him. Free to stay home- and you spent a good amount of your time alone healing. Physically and mentally.

Patrick was often around to help you laugh it off, but when you needed to cry, Art was always right there. After some time, you were feeling like yourself again. And you were laughing too much, smiling all the time again, spinning in a new skirt and crashing into Art. Who you then kissed, after so much time thinking about it, replaying it, wanting it again. It was finally okay to do so. After seven years, it was only fitting that he welcomed it, fully, and entirely. You were giggling, your lips pressed to his, and he knew it was okay. There was no bruise on your cheekbone to be cautious of, both of his hands held your face, your head tilted back just a little as he kissed you the way you were meant to be kissed. The way Greg couldn’t. It would never mean so much.

Greg was in your past, but Art was your past. And your future, now. Because now that you had each other, neither of you was going to let go. He promised you that between kisses. You promised it back.

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa @ladystardust-thinks @ke4s @ellzbellz18

#challengers #art donaldson #patrick zweig #tinytennisskirt #challengers x reader #challengers fic #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson fic #art donaldson angst #art donaldson imagine #challengers fanfic

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lovebot444 · 5 months ago

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Sweet angel of mine - Ballet!Art AU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi!”

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

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

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Art”

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

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

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

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

And he got to know her.

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

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

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

“When was the last time you touched yourself?”

“What’s your porn search history?”

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

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

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

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

“Get some music playing then.”

What?

“You don’t actually have to do it!”

“Yeah Patrick is just being a jerk!”

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck is she doing.”

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

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

“And why the fuck is nobody stopping her.”

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

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

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

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

#art donaldson #mike faist #challengers #tashi duncan #zendaya #art donaldson x reader #artashi #patashi #patrick zweig #ballet dancer #ballet #ballerina #challengers fanfic #slight smut #slightly suggestive #rooftop #this is gonna be fun

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shecriestotheclickingoftime · 3 months ago

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everything and nothing - 1.4k words

college-era!patrick zweig x childhood bsf!reader

um ok guys i wrote something to post??? i’m scared bc this kinda sucks but i’ve been writing a lot of random stuff for patrick and I finally feel ok enough about this fic to publish it i guess 😭😭 this is not really proofread or edited much, so yeah 😭😭

childhood best friends, mutual pining, fluff, first kiss/admission of feelings, and all of the things.

TW for drinking/alcohol use

Patrick had been one of your closest friends since kindergarten, and ever since you two had met, you were attached at the hip. Even after Patrick had gone off to Mark Rebelatto’s Tennis Academy, even though you didn’t see each other as much, he always made sure to text and surprise you whenever he was home. As you both grew up, you watched Patrick change- he went from the goofy kid with big ears to a tall, and honestly hot guy. And he was well aware of it. Everywhere you went, you saw how he acted- he was so sure of himself, so cocky, and he acted brash and loud. But you knew him better than that.

When it was just the two of you, Patrick was gentle and sweet. He had always been touchy, somehow always managing to go from across the couch to having his arm around you on your movie nights. He was just like that with his friends, totally.

Throughout your friendship, he was always there to protect you; he always kept you close during your parent’s parties, knowing that you didn’t like events and social gatherings the way he did. He always guided you everywhere and took over conversations when he could tell that you didn’t feel like talking. His hand on your waist, he would guide you through the crowds, always making sure you were close to him. He could see right through you, and somehow in these times he understood exactly what you needed. Ever so often, he would slip his hand into yours and give it a tight squeeze to comfort you. This was just your routine, and you knew that Patrick was the only reason why you still agreed to go to these events.

Patrick had always been there for you. He came home from boarding school just for the weekend to take you to your senior prom, he came over and helped you pack for college, and he never forgot to call. Your relationship with him was so perfect… But there was just one problem.

You were in love with your best friend. And you watched him go on dates, sleep with girls, and you knew that he just didn’t want you like that. Every time he would pull you close, hold your hand, or cuddle you on the couch, you just had to remember that this was just his personality. He could get any girl he wanted, and you two were just meant to be friends.

You were good at holding your feelings in, terrified of disturbing the perfect relationship you had with Patrick- you couldn’t risk losing it all over a crush.

—--

Tonight was just like any other night with Patrick and Art- you were all hanging out in Patrick’s living room, drinking random cocktails Pat had mixed up for you, and watching a movie. The three of you were apart most of the year- you in college on the east coast, Art at Stanford, and Patrick just traveling around playing pro tennis. So every summer, you made sure to hang out at least a couple times all together, usually just getting drunk and talking about everything and nothing.

The three of you were lounging in the living room watching some stupid horror movie that none of you really cared about. You and Patrick were on opposite sides of the couch, and Art was comfy on the armchair next to you guys. As the movie progressed, the three of you got drunker, and you started to feel more hazy- so when Patrick pulled you into his arms, holding you as you two watched the movie, you couldn’t help but nuzzle closer into him, melting into his touch. While you two cuddling was nothing new, this was different: it felt a little more sweet and intimate than normal.

You whispered to him, “Hey, I missed you while I was at college”, closing your eyes, tired from the drinking.

Patrick’s face turned red when you whispered that, and he looked away. It wasn’t fair of you to be sweet like that when he was trying so hard to not lean in and kiss you. You understood Patrick in a way that no one else did, and you were the only person he could be completely vulnerable with. He was different with you than with everyone else, and he loved to care for you. Since late in high school, he had been desperate to tell you that he wanted you, but he couldn’t lose you. The commitment was terrifying, and also, Patrick wasn’t even sure if you wanted him that way. So, he had carried that with him for years- but he still couldn’t help himself from needing you close, and he couldn’t stop himself when he cupped your face with his hand, and tilted your head up at him.

“I missed you too”, he whispered. It was already hard for him to not confess to you while he was sober, but now that he was tipsy, it felt almost impossible to keep his words from spilling out. You two locked eyes for a moment, and the way he looked at you felt almost unreal. He looked at you like you were some sort of angel, his eyes filled with an adoration and sweetness that was so unlike the Patrick Zweig you were familiar with.

After a moment, he looked away, his face turning slightly red. Feeling bold, you nuzzled your face back into the crook of his neck, just wanting to be closer. You knew that you would regret being this obvious in the morning- he was just drunk, he probably didn’t actually love you- but you couldn’t help yourself. He held you tighter in his arms as the movie played, and the night got later.

At this point, Art had fallen asleep on the armchair- and as soon as he opened his eyes, he smiled and announced that he was going to bed- this movie sucked anyways. He looked at you and Patrick curled into each other, and he didn’t even seem surprised- he knew how much Patrick liked you, even if Patrick tried to hide it. So, he went upstairs, leaving the two of you on the couch. You both were silent for a couple minutes, unsure if you should say anything. Patrick pretended to be into the movie, but all he could think about was you in his arms.

He whispered your name, looking into your eyes as you glanced up at him. You saw him glance down at your lips and then staring back up at you, and he looked more nervous than you had ever seen him. His hand cupped your face gently, as he whispered, “is this ok?”. You nodded, holding back a small smile as he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss felt natural for the two of you- like it was something you had done a million times before. Patrick couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, barely believing that he was actually, finally kissing you. Patrick had been dreaming of this moment for years, even though he would never admit it.

He pulled away from your lips gently, pressing small, sweet kisses all over your jaw. You laugh softly as he moves his hands from your face and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

You closed your eyes, the lateness of the night sinking in. You felt so relaxed and content as Patrick continued to press soft kisses down your neck.

You both eventually laid down on the couch, Patrick’s arm slung across your waist as you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck. Your drunkenness took over and the world spun around you, but Patrick’s strong arms around you made you feel held in place. You drifted off to sleep, trying to avoid thinking about what things would be like in the morning- because for now, you were happy.

Patrick’s hand rubbed lazy circles into your back as he held you close to him, and felt his stomach twisting with anxiety and happiness, his heart beating faster as he pulled you tighter. He heard your breathing slow down as you fell asleep against him, and he wished to himself for this moment to never end.

Patrick eventually fell asleep against you, and he held you tight for the rest of the night.

#challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #josh oconnor #art donaldson

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artssslut2 · 8 months ago

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“You Just Have to Copy Everything I Do”

Art x Patrick x Reader

Summary: Patrick finds out some big news and looks to his best friend for advice.

Dad!Art + Dad!Patrick

A lot had happened since Lily was born it had been about five months. Patrick had purposed to y/f/n last month. It was soon but when he knows something he knows it. Patrick was crazy about her. You and art also loved her of course. The four of you would often spend time together, go on double dates or hang out at your house, they both adored Lily, you couldn’t blame them.

Tonight you had a little get together planned with Patrick and his fiancé just dinner and maybe a card game or a movie after Lily was down for the night. Art was finishing getting Lily I’m her pajamas and rocking her to sleep when you heard the doorbell ring, it was a little early but you didn’t mind you went to answer but it was only Patrick. A pale distressed looking Patrick, leaning against the doorframe. Before you could say anything he opened his mouth

“Hey, Um can I talk to Art?” He said a little shaken up. You didn’t ask any questions you just hoped he was okay this was weird

“Yeah he’s with Lily let me go grab him” you said

“Wait I mean if he’s putting her to bed I can jus-“

“Patrick it’s okay I’ll go get him.” You smiled, you knew this was serious, you could finish your daughters night routine.

You walked into the nursery and saw Art in the rocking chair with Lily fast asleep in his arms with a blanket and her pacifier.

“Babe Patrick’s here he needs to talk to you.” You whispered to not wake the baby

“He can wait a minute” Art said looking down at his daughter peacefully. This was Arts version of heaven

“Art you should go now I think he needs you” you told him, Art looked up then got the message. Standing up taking Lily with him

“Alright but I’m taking my baby with. We didn’t get our full cuddle time” he said leaving the room quickly kissing you in passing as you chucked at him.

Art came out into the dimly lit living room where Patrick was sitting.

“This better be good” Art said sitting across from his best friend, adjusting Lily so she was laying in his arms. He expected Patrick to say something stupid

“She’s pregnant.” He said immediately staring at the wall. Arts mouth opened in shock

“Y/f/n?” He asked knowing the answer. Patrick nodded slowly

“And are you guys… happy?” Art carefully asked a little shocked. Patrick looked at Art then Lily then back at Art, he waited a minute

“I don’t know. We’re getting married, and I love her. I really love her. I just- I don’t-“ he tried to find the words but couldn’t

“Your terrified.” Art finished

“Yeah. I mean we talked about having kids in the future but I didn’t think it would be right now” Patrick breathed out “we aren’t married we don’t have a house we haven’t talked about what to do when the baby is born” Patrick fell back leaning on the couch his hand on his eyes

“You guys will figure it out. Pat you’ve never really been a traditional guy and you love her and she loves you that’s all that really matters. As long as you have each other’s backs it will be fine” Art told him

“I don’t want to mess this up Art. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me you know? “

“Yeah I do. It’s scary. I know it was a little different with me and y/n but Jesus Patrick I was scared shitless” Art said letting out a small laugh thinking back on the time he first found out he was gonna be a dad.

“Are you still scared?” Patrick asked looking at the sleeping baby

“Cmon of course I’m still scared. Everyday. But Patrick trust me it’s all worth it, when they look at you and grab your finger, it’s like nothing else matters. It’s scary but you figure it out as you go. Just the other day Lily had a cold and we had no idea what to do. We had to call my mom and she almost flew in because we were so freaked out… I know you don’t have the best relationship with your parents but me and y/n are right here. We’ve already done this we can help.” He told his best friend meaning every word. Patrick smiled at Art “I’ve known you forever and I know your gonna be fine. You’ll be a great dad Pat… mabye not as good as me but good.” He joked making Patrick chuckle.

“Thanks man.”

“You know this will kind of be fun our kids can be best friends and grow up together now.” Art said relizing that this might just be perfect.

“Yeah I guess so. Lilys gonna have a new best friend pretty soon” Patrick smiled looking at his niece. Patrick stood up and Art followed

“You just have to copy everything I do don’t you Zweig” Art smirked. Patrick rolled his eyes smiling.

“I gotta get back to y/f/n.” Patrick said heading for the door.

“Yeah remember it’s scary for you but it’s a lot more scary for her” Art told Patrick, patrick agreed then left Arts house. Art smiled to himself thinking about how much he and his friend had grown up, now they were both gonna have kids. He didn’t know if Patrick would settle down but now he’s having a baby and getting married. Art looked at Lily and laughed a little

“Uncle Patrick is giving you a friend champ, can you believe it” he kissed Lily’s head and brought her to her crib.

#art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x you #challengers fic #patrick zweig #art donaldson fluff #tashi duncan #challangers #make first x reader #art #josh o'connor #zendaya #patrick x reader #patrick zweig x reader #lily donaldson

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gallavichsreddie1128 · 9 months ago

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You Belong With Me (Patrick Zweig)

Description: Y/N is in love with Patrick but is convinced he doesn’t feel the same

Word Count: 2,007k

Author’s Note: Please send in requests! I have a few that I’m working on right now but I’m open to whatever

Y/N was in love with Patrick Zweig. She has been since they first met. She met him and Art at a Tennis game and they became close friends. They were a trio and everyone knew it. There was even rumors that they were all fucking each other but unfortunately that wasn’t true. Patrick loved sleeping around but the idea of fucking Y/N never seem to cross his mind. Art saw how Y/N looked at Patrick and he knew that she loved him. Y/N was super jealous anytime that Patrick got a girlfriend or bragged about hooking up with someone. Anytime she’d ask him why he was telling her any of this he just told her that “you’re one of the guys.” That hurt.

She had to hide back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes as she gave him a fake smile. He never saw her like that. It got so much worse when Tashi Duncan came into their lives. Both boys were swooning over her and it made Y/N jealous. Tashi was nice to Y/N though. She teased her about her friendship with both guys but never had any ill feelings towards her. Patrick and Art reassured Tashi that y/n was just a friend after the homewrecker comment. Y/N had to hide her jealousness and sadness hearing about the night the three of them had together. Patrick wouldn’t shut up about it but like a good friend Y/N just told him that was crazy and awesome for him.

“Yeah she said whoever won our tennis game could get her number.” Y/N hoped that he lost it. He didn’t and thus began Tashi and Patrick’s relationship. Y/N watched them be all lovey dovey while her and Art were seething. Art had it bad for Tashi and y/n wasn’t oblivious to it. Y/N and Art went to Tashi’s game together and waited for Patrick. “Where is he?” Y/N asked. Art decided to text him and got a response back moments later. “They are fighting so he’s not coming.” Y/N sorta felt happy that they were fighting but she knew that was wrong.

She could see on Art’s face that he felt the same way. Y/N gasped as Tashi broke her knee. Her and Art got up immediately and ran to her. Her cries and screams sounded awful and Y/N felt so bad. Her and Art sat with her when Patrick arrived. Tashi screamed at him to get out but he wouldn’t listen so Art did, “Get out Patrick.” Patrick looked at them and looked at Y/N. She opened her mouth but words didn’t come so he walked out. Y/N debated on going after him but knew it wasn’t right. She would have to talk to him later. “Why didn’t you say anything in the room?” He asked her as he showed up to her room.

She wanted to scream that she loved him and she was tired of being one of the guys but didn’t. “I don’t know. Everything just happened so fast.” She said softly. “He wants her, you know that right?” “What?” “Art wants her so he caused all of this.” Y/N looked at him confused. “What do you mean Art caused this?” “The whole reason we were fighting was because of Art and cuz I suck at Tennis?” Y/N was shocked that Art would be the cause. Did Tashi like Art? “You don’t suck at Tennis.” She tells him. He smiles but shakes his head. “According to her I do.” “Well she’s wrong.” Y/N thought that he was great at Tennis. Art and him kinda had a fallout after that but Y/N still kept in contact especially since they all went to the same college and even after that.

Patrick was a mess that Y/N had to clean up constantly. “Thanks for being here.” He says to her as they drive to a hotel. “No problem.” “Are you sure you don’t mind paying? I’ll pay you back as soon as I get the money.” She laughs and shakes her head. “All good.” They got to the hotel and y/n paid. Y/N had a big girl job and never went pro in Tennis but still made a lot of money. “Are you hungry?” She asked as they got to the hotel room. “Yeah, a lot.” “Let’s go get some food then.” She said. While they were getting food she got a text from Tashi that told her they would be at the challengers. Y/N jaw dropped and looked up at Patrick who was scarfing down the food they got.

“So I have some news and I don’t know if you’re going to like it.” She says. He looks at her with a mouth full of food. He motions for her to keep talking. “Art is going to be there. Playing against you.” Patrick almost chokes on his food. “What?” He asked, Y/N nodded. “Tashi just texted me.” Y/N was excited to see her old friends. Patrick wasn’t. “Girl it’s so good to see you.” Tashi said and hugged her old friend. Y/N hugged her back and said the same. “Hi Y/N.” Art said and hugged her. “I missed you both so much.” “Did Tashi tell you that I was here?” Art asked, not knowing that Patrick was here. “Yes.” Y/N gulped. Neither of them knew of Patrick’s presence. “Awesome! I’m glad you came. I have to go practice.” He said and walked away.

Tashi looked at Y/N suspecting something. She never was good at hiding anything. “What is it?” Tashi asked. Y/N looked at her and shrugged. “I just can’t believe you guys are here.” Tashi raised an eyebrow at her. “He’s here isn’t he?” Y/N nodded and Tashi rolled her eyes. “He was here before you guys were. I got your text at the hotel.” She told her. “Art’s gonna freak out and think that I planned it all.” “I don’t think Art’s gonna think that.” Y/N tried telling her. “We gotta keep them away from each other.” Y/N agreed. Patrick won all of the rounds leading up to the finales as did Art. For the most part they hadn’t seen each other but knew that they were there. As Y/N and Patrick were drinking and talking he kept looking away from her and staring at something else.

“What’s wrong?” She asked him and he snapped out of it. “Nothing.” He lied. Y/N looked behind her and saw Tashi. She looked back at him with a “really?” face. He sighed, “She’s married.” Y/N exclaimed. He nodded and understood but still got up to go talk to her. Y/N could tell that the conversation wasn’t a pleasant one. Tashi seemed annoyed and when Patrick came to sit back down he told her, “She wants me to stay away from Art.” “I do too.” He looked at his best friend, “What?” She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Patrick it’s not good for you guys to be around each other and for you to be all over her still.” “I’m not all over her!” “Patrick, yes you are. You have to let her go.” She was right. “I asked her to be my coach.” Y/N’s jaw dropped. “You did not?” He nodded his head. “I did and I think she might do it.” Y/N sighed, “You’re a dumbass.” She breathes out. “It could be good for me,Y/N.” She knew that Patrick wanted her and it disgusted her. She sighed and shook her head, “I don’t know what’s good for you, Patrick.” Though that night he got exactly what he wanted.

With a price of course that he wasn’t even sure he was going to do. “I want you to lose.” Tashi said to him. He wanted to laugh in her face but he also wanted to fuck her so he was in between. “I’ll do it.” He ended up telling her but there was always a I’ll do it but you have to do…with Patrick. So when it was all said and done Tashi looked up at him. “She loves you, you know.” He looked down at the woman with confusion written all over his face. “Who?” She rolled her eyes. “Y/N.” Patrick didn’t believe that, not even for a second. “Yeah right.” He said and pushed Tashi off him the best that he could.

She sat up and huffed. “I know it’s ridiculous that she loves someone like you but it’s true.” “And you fucked me? Knowing this.” “I’m not her best friend, you are.” He sat up as well. “Okay let’s say that you’re right. Why haven’t I noticed?” She looked at him like he was stupid. “Cuz you’re stupid.” He took in her words as they sat in his car. Was his best friend really in love with him? “Why hasn’t she told me yet? It’s been 15 years.” “Cuz Patrick you’ve been with girl after girl. She doesn’t think you feel the same way.”

He got back to the hotel around 2:30 am. Y/N sat on the bed waiting for him. He opened the door to be greeted by her. “Where were you?” She asked in a whisper. “Out.” She rolled her eyes, “clearly but what were you doing?” “Tashi wants me to throw the competition.” He ignores her question. She sighed. “Of course you were with her. Patrick she’s married she doesn’t need you to fuck things up for her.”

“You act like she didn’t call me to hook up.” Y/N stood up from the bed. “She what? You what?” He rolled his eyes. “We had sex okay? But only so I would lose tomorrow.” “Patrick, that's not okay at all. That’s really shitty.” “You know what else is shitty? Not telling your best friend that you’ve been in love with him for 15 years.” Her eyes widened at his words. “What?” She whispered. “You’re in love with me and you’ve been for 15 years!” She breathed out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding.

“I am. But I shouldn’t be. I mean you’re a bum, Patrick. And it seems like you use me and even though I know I shouldn’t. I do and I would die for you, Patrick. But you love her and you always have and you always will. I’m just one of the guys to you.” She had tears in her eyes as she said those things. Patrick looked at her, “you really feel that way about me?” He asked. “Yes but I still love you. I’ll always love you Patrick Zweig.” She said. He walked up to her and cupped her face. The tears that were falling from her face landing on his hand. “I’m such an idiot.” “What?” He kissed her, hard and full of passion.

She kissed him back like she waited 15 years for this kiss. Standing in the room, in the moonlight as they moved their lips together until they need air. “But Tashi. You love her.” He shook his head. “No I don’t.” He said and kissed her again. This time they fall onto the bed not breaking the kiss. She moved to straddle him, not breaking the kiss. His hands moved up her back and hers placed on his chest. She moved to cup his jaw and deepened the kiss.

This was a dream come true for her. No matter how shitty he was, she would always love him. She pulled away from the kiss and started kissing his neck. “Wait stop.” He said and she pulled away, confused. “What’s wrong?” She asked. “You don’t deserve this.” She stared at him with the same look. “I want to take you on a date before we have sex.” She was shocked by his words. Patrick was never known to be a date guy. “After I win tomorrow. I will take you out.” “So you aren't throwing it?” He shook his head. “Hell No.” He said, making her laugh. “And if you lose?” “I’ll still take you out.” “You’ll pay?” He nodded and kissed her again. “I’ll pay.”

#challengers movie #challengers 2024 #patrick zweig #art donaldson #tashi duncan #mike faist #josh o'connor #zendaya #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig imagine #patrick zweig x you

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artstennisracket · 1 month ago

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Idk if this is your thing BUT I’d love to see your take on Patrick making Art drink a bunch and then piss himself

yesssss I love this! please ask me your deepest darkest fantasies lol

cw: nsfw (18+), piss, dom/sub undertones, kink negotiation, public(ish) masturbation

Art and Patrick were walking around the mall trying to find christmas gifts before they went home for winter break. They had actually just got out of the movie theater after going to see Wicked. They always get a large popcorn and a large drink to share. However, this time Patrick had intentionally not touched the drink at all. He wanted to see Art finish it all by himself without even noticing.

By the time they got out of the movie theater and made their way back into the mall Art really had to pee.

“wait I have to pee,” Art says stopping in his tracks.

“are you sure? we’re so close to sephora I wanted to get tashi something for christmas.” Patrick asks trying to delay them.

“no patrick I need to go like right now.” Art says before he starts speed walking to the nearest bathroom.

Patrick is quick to follow, he can’t let his plan go down the toilet already (literally and figuratively). Art makes his way to the bathroom, not thinking twice before he walks into the family restroom since it’s a single bathroom. Even in his haste, Art still holds the door open for Patrick knowing he’d follow him in.

Patrick locks the door behind them, placing their bags down on the floor. He wastes no time going to close the toilet lid and sit on top of it.

“what? patrick, i need to piss man.” Art is standing in front of Patrick, making Patrick eye level with Art’s navel.

Patrick shakes his head no. “not in this toilet you don’t.”

Art scoffs, “what are you talking about?”

“i want you to piss yourself” Patrick smirks. He pulls Art closer by his waist, zipping down Art’s fly.

Art groans, clearly frustrated. This was not the time or the place. They had fooled around a few times during their time dorming together but never like this. They both had their respective kinks and had the philosophy of always trying something once but they had never talked about this beforehand, so Art just wanted to use the bathroom like normal.

“c’mon patrick, I gotta go,” Art whines. His bladder was not going to hold up for much longer.

“it’s okay baby, i’m not stopping you from going i just wanna see you.” Patrick says as he nuzzles his face into Art’s navel, leaving a soft peck right under his belly button, and pulling away shortly after.

“..i can’t do it.” Art says softly, years of being a potty trained adult doesn’t really make it easy to break that and piss yourself.

“yes you can, and you will.” Patrick states looking up at Art.

“but I don’t have clothes to change into after, i can’t walk out of here covered in pee.” Art responds.

Patrick is running his thumbs up and down Art’s sides as he continues holding on to Art’s waist. “hey don’t worry about that, i always take care of you, don’t i?”

At this point Art realizes Patrick really isn’t going to give up so he starts to cave. It’s really hard being a naturally submissive person because it makes it very hard to say no, especially to Patrick.

“do you need help?” Patrick asks

Art nods in response. He can feel his eyes start to tear up because he’s already starting to feel embarrassed. Patrick takes one hand to cup Art’s semi-hard cock through his briefs. He uses his other hand to press lightly on Art’s lower stomach/upper pelvic area.

Art still feels like his body is physically not allowing him to let go. His eyes are still watery, not even about the embarrassment of it all but now he’s upset that he’s not being good for Patrick. “i told you, i can’t do it.”

“hey it’s okay, you just have to relax. take a deep breath, close your eyes and just listen to my voice.” Patrick says.

Art closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His stomach is starting to hurt and his bladder is getting no relief.

Patrick presses harder on Art’s lower stomach, still cupping Art’s dick in his other “i need you to just let go, can you do that for me baby? i just wanna watch you make a big mess. want you to be good for me and make a mess, that would be so fucking hot.”

Art’s not sure if it’s because of the pressure Patrick’s applying to his stomach, Patrick’s dirty talk, or if Art’s bladder has just given up but shortly after Art is pissing himself. He can feel the warm liquid start to wet his briefs before it runs down his legs.

Patrick keeps one hand on Art’s dick, as it starts to get wet Art starts to get hard. He stands up and moves his other hand to unzip his pants and palm his own erection. “fuck that was really fucking hot. you’re so wet baby, being so good for me”

Art opens his eyes and before he can even look down to assess the damage, Patrick pulls him into a kiss. They’re making out for a minute until Patrick pulls Art’s wet cock along with his own. He starts jerking off the both of them.

“did you like that? like that I made you piss yourself?” Patrick asks as his hands pick up the pace.

Art nods, moaning, “yes fuck, i made a mess.” Art goes to lean forward, his forehead resting on Patrick’s shoulder.

“you made a big fucking mess all over yourself, and now i’m gonna make you cum.” Patrick moans directly into Art’s ear.

It’s not long before they’re both spilling over Patrick’s fists, they both get a little in their shirts too. Patrick pulls away to get some damp paper towels to clean them both up.

“did you have fun? I definitely did” Patrick smirks as he finishes cleaning up the both of them.

Art nods taking off his soaked pants and underwear, “yes I did, but i’m the one covered in piss not you.”

Patrick keeps his smirk on his face when he says “we can have that arranged”

And Patrick did have to leave Art in the bathroom, surprised there wasn’t a line considering how long they were in there, while he went to go buy Art some new sweatpants and underwear.

#anon asks #art donaldson #challengers #patrick zweig #artrick #art donaldson x patrick zweig #artrick smut #challengers 2024

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idciminlove · 1 month ago

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Take a Slice

Part Eight- Sitter

f!reader x Tashi Duncan x Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig

Cinnamonacid on AO3

warnings- age gap, implied sexual content, and nothing rlly

You don’t realize that you have an audience.

Patrick leaned back in his seat, taking a deep drag from his cigarette as his eyes followed your form. He watched as you ran back and forth across the court, moving quickly and strategically, listening to Tashi’s every command. It made sense why she liked you so much. You had her fire, her drive, but at the same time you were so eager to please, doing whatever she says. It was an interesting combination, one he didn’t see often, only when he brought that fire out of people, like he did with Art.

He wondered what he could bring out of you. He wondered what he could push you to do.

For the time being, he can’t know. He’s sidelined. Unable to speak to you or even get close. Not until Tashi thinks you’re ready to handle it. Not until Tashi thinks you’re ready to handle him.

Once again, he’s left out, helpless watching as the only two people he’s truly ever loved devote all their time and attention to you. It stings. Especially with how easy it was for you, how you were able to just fall into their laps and enter their lives on a whim, while Patrick had to struggle and fight for years on end.

It wasn’t long until Tashi saw him. She locked eyes with him for a moment, pausing briefly before she finally stopped. She gave you a break to go drink some water and catch your breath. You went inside to fill up your water bottle and she made her way over to the stands and over to him.

“What are you doing here?” She asked in that same accusatory tone she always uses when he’s in trouble. The one with venom and heat behind it, when she’s stressed and wound up tight, one he could probably fix, if she let him. But judging by the way she was looking at him, she looked more like she wanted to slap him than fuck him right now....maybe she’ll do both. He hoped so.

“Am I not allowed to come watch your training sessions? You have no problem when I watch you coach those other girls from the foundation.” He played innocent.

“You know that this is different. I told you to-”

“Listen, we both know that you can’t send me away forever. If she’s going to be involved in this, she’ll find out sooner or later. Wouldn’t you want her to hear from you rather than someone else? And it’s not like I’m going to try to steal her away. You really need to loosen up, Tash.”

“Fuck you.” She hissed.

He slumped back in his seat, smirking at her. “Yeah, I know you want to. I mean, you’ve been so uptight lately, I could help you relax.”

She dug her nails into her arm, biting the inside of her cheek. She was stronger than this. She should be stronger than this. But you’ve been getting her wound tight with those tiny tennis skirts and your shaky breaths after she works you hard, your grunts and moans and it took everything in her to not dig her nails into you and keep you there forever. Keep you as hers forever.

She inhaled deeply. “You have ten minutes.”

–

You stood in the lobby that was right next to the courts, filling up your water bottle at the fountain. You took a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of the air conditioning against your heated skin. Tashi was pushing you today, like always, leaving you hot, sweaty, and exhausted. You appreciated the breaks she gave you. She was so aware of when she pushed you past your limits, and when to stop. Most coaches you had before either pushed you too hard or never hard enough, but she was perfect. It was like she knew you, inside and out. Probably since she was the best of the best. You’ve never had a coach as good as her. You were so lucky.

You gazed around the building, at the photos of Tashi lining the walls. Pictures of her when she was younger, playing tennis, winning trophies, and her adidas campaign. There was a small gap between the pictures, just the pale white space of the wall, and then there were more, from when she was older, coaching at the foundation, along with some magazine clippings.

A familiar voice echoed down the hallway, getting your attention. It was Art, holding the hand of a young girl. His daughter. “You did great, honey. I’m so proud of you.”

“Does that mean we can go get ice cream now?” You gazed at the two as they approached. She looked just like Tashi.

“If you want, but Mommy’s almost done with her coaching session. Don’t you want to wait for her?”

Finished with filling up your water bottle, you turned on your heel and approached them. “Evening, Mr.Donaldson. Who’s this?”

“This is my daughter, Lily.” She gazed over at you nervously, flashing you a small, polite smile.

You smiled warmly in return and introduced yourself. “So you’re getting ice cream, huh? That’s really cool. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Chocolate.” She replied coyly.

“Oooh, I love chocolate. What’s the occasion?”

“I finished my math homework.”

“She’s been having a bit of a hard time with math, but she’s doing great now.” Art admitted. He was already having a hard enough time getting her to focus, and it was the only way he could really motivate her. But he didn’t mind too much, he was just happy to spend time with his daughter.

“Nice.” You leaned down and gave her a high five.

Just then, Tashi entered the room, from the opposite hallway where the bathrooms were. Weird. You never even saw her come inside. She was fixing her hair and wiping away the wrinkles in her shirt.

“Coach? What are you doing here?” You couldn’t help but ask.

“I was looking for you. C’mon, we have to get back to it.” Lily ran past you and threw her arms around her waist. “Mommy! Are you going to come with me and daddy to get ice cream?”

“In a little bit, okay baby? We just need fifteen minutes to finish up.” She spoke so sweetly to her daughter, patting her head gently. She gazed at you and tilted her head to the side, gesturing for you to go out to the tennis courts.

You did as told, but not before you turned to Art briefly. “You know, if you ever needed a babysitter or anything, I could totally help. It’s basically all I did every summer until I turned eighteen.”

You didn’t know how appropriate it was to suggest that to your coach/mentor’s husband, but it was a great opportunity. Babysitting for rich retired tennis players? You could really use that money. There was a reason why you didn’t go pro after you graduated high school. It was extremely expensive. The only way you were able to play in college was due to the full ride scholarship you had gotten. And if it weren’t for Tashi offering to cover almost all the expenses, you wouldn’t have been able to say yes. So, why not?

Tashi followed you out to the courts, and soon enough, you were practicing again. But for some reason, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Maybe if you paid more attention, you would’ve noticed him, with his messy black curlsand tousled shirt, sitting at the very end of the stands and smoking a cigarette, watching and waiting.

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bookshelf-dust · 7 months ago

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can u pleaaaasseeeeee write something rly cute w patrick and reader where she takes care of him:((( maybe after the match where tashi gets injured he doesn't know where to go and he goes to her, and she comforts him and yk. like i just wanna give him a hug so bad

patrick zweig x fem!reader

word count: 1,208

warnings: a little swearing, overwhelmed/frustrated patrick, reader tries to straighten him out but also make him feel better, fluff (i can’t think of anything else)

a/n: hii baby!! i don’t usually take requests, but i loved this idea too much to let it slip away!!! i turned it into a little baby fic for you, and left it so you can interpret reader and patrick’s relationship however you’d like. and i made sure to give him that big big hug!! it takes place right after art and tashi tell patrick to get the fuck out lol. thank you for sharing this idea with me and i hope you enjoy it!!! <33

————

“I didn’t go to the match.”

Patrick says your name desperately, like he needs you to make this better somehow. You don’t have the heart to tell him this is out of your wheelhouse.

The man is pacing, fingers weaving in between his knotted curls and tugging at them, making his hair greasier by the minute. He’s sweaty, wearing a shirt you thought belonged to Tashi. In truth, his manic state is making you dizzy.

“You didn’t go?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. You sink further into the couch cushions.

“No. I fucked off after we fought and—”

“And,” you finish for him, “now the headlines are blowing up because Tashi fucking Duncan’s been injured and might’ve just jeopardized her entire career.”

Patrick kicks the base of the oversized chair you keep in the corner of your living room. “Fuck!” he shouts.

You stand up quick enough to make your vision blur, but ignore it. “Hey! Shithead! Don’t go fuckin’ with my furniture.”

He raises his hands, his cheeks flushed. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—

“No, you shouldn’t. Now sit your pretty ass down and tell me why you’re so panicked. I don’t have time for minced words.”

Patrick sits down. He watches as you lean over the side of the couch, the soft leather creaking, your oversized pajama shirt riding up to reveal cotton shorts. He realizes with a start that you’d settled in for the night when he barged in.

Being hit in the stomach with a ball snaps him out of his reverie. “There,” you say. “Squeeze that instead of hurting my shit.” He looks down at the stress ball in his hands and sits in the chair he’d just brutalized.

He’s quiet for a few more minutes, and you’re just about to say his name when he speaks.

“I told Tashi I didn’t want to be her groupie. I don’t even know why I said it, I-I just got fed up with planning everything around her tournaments and Art’s at fucking Stanford and I…I just think I’m pretty damn good at tennis too…right? When will it be my turn to be number one?”

Your brow creases. “If you didn’t go to the game, how’d you know she got injured so fast?”

That’s not what Patrick was expecting you to say, but he supposes it’s a valid question. He’s not used to having someone be so assertive with him. But maybe that’s why you work.

“I, uh, I went down to apologize, and you know word spreads pretty fast about that shit, so when I heard someone talking about her knee, I just started walking. And then Tashi and Art were in the infirmary, and obviously she’d told him what I’d said and they both—”

He’s rambling, and you’re not sure he’s taken a proper breath at all since he got here. “Patrick.” You stop him before he keels over on your rug. “Come sit over here with me.”

He does what you say because he can’t form a single coherent thought and instructions sound really nice.

“You stood up for yourself, alright? That’s okay. I’m sure Tashi did the same. I’m sure you both said things you didn’t mean. But…it’s not any of my business.” You pause.

You love Patrick. He's one of the few people you’ve been able to connect with and never worry about where you stand or whether they’ll be there for you if you’re in deep shit. And right now you just want to be a neutral party. He never worries about things going wrong like this, and then he’s never prepared and can’t handle it.

You inhale and continue. Patrick’s eyes are glued to your face, taking in every feature and waiting desperately for you to give him the lifeline he needs. He looks young and scared, and pleading.

“You have to give Tashi some space. She’s a strong woman, a total badass, but this is fucking huge, Patrick, y’know? Don’t overwhelm her any more. Give Art some time too, okay? If you go to them now it’s gonna be a shit show.”

He nods, his eyes bordering dangerously on the edge of becoming watery. All he hears is alone, alone, alone. Patience is not his strong suit.

“It’s not your fault Tashi got injured, Patrick. It’s just bad timing. You never could’ve known she’d get hurt a few hours after you ripped her a new one.”

He snorts. He knows you’re trying to make him feel better. And what else did he come over here for?

“I know,” he finally says. “I just got so pent up, and admittedly I’ve been a dick lately, but I don’t know what to do.”

You shrug, a little smile appearing on your face. “So don’t be a dick.”

Patrick blinks at you. “Don’t be a dick?”

“Yeah, don’t be a massive dick and don’t let yours control your decisions either, Zweig.” He almost protests, but you hold up a hand. “You know I’m right. For now, just focus on doing your job, and it will all sort itself out.”

He lets out a low laugh and starts shaking his head. He can’t believe this is his life right now. Honestly he should though, because of course it’d wind up being a shit show after such a good streak.

“Patrick?”

The gentle tone of your voice snaps him out of his reverie. He finds your gaze with impressive speed. “Hm?”

“Would you like to lay down? We could—

“Yes.” Patrick sits up on his knees, eyes shining and waiting for whatever embrace you’ll give him.

Without speaking, you lay down on your side with your spine pressed to the back of the couch. Patrick lays down next to you so quickly you think he might’ve gotten whiplash, and buries his face in your collarbones. He tucks one hand under his cheek and wraps the other one around your waist. You let him rest his temple on your arm and hug him close to you.

“It’s all gonna work out, okay, sweetheart? I’ll be here when the shit hits the fan.”

He looks up at you. “And when it doesn’t?”

“I’ll still be here anyway. You don’t ever have to suffer alone.”

Patrick lets out a little laugh. “You’ll suffer with me?”

You scratch at the base of his scalp with your nails. “Of course. I love suffering with you, Mr. Zweig.”

Patrick smiles, amazed at how he landed you for a best friend. You’ve never judged him a day in your life, even when he’s made the shittiest of all decisions and pushed everyone else away.

He lowers his head and burrows back into the warmth of your embrace. “Me too,” he mumbles.

“And Patrick? I just want you to know that you are fucking stellar at tennis. You’re great, and you’re talented, and you don’t need validation from anyone else to recognize that. But if it helps, you’re always number one in my heart.”

He squeezes you, closing his eyes so he doesn’t cry because you’re being so sweet. You give him tough love, but that’s what he needs.

“Thank you,” he says. And he means it. He believes what you’re saying, and he realizes he always has.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

#savannah’s fics #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig x y/n #patrick zweig x fem!reader #patrick zweig x female reader #patrick zweig fic #patrick zweig fanfic #patrick zweig fanfiction #patrick zweig imagine #patrick zweig one shot #patrick challengers #patrick zweig challengers #patrick zweig comfort #patrick zweig fluff #patrick zweig angst #patrick zweig oneshot

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apolloscastellan · 6 months ago

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Never quite buried | loss of my life chapter 4

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan x Patrick Zweig x FemaleTennisPlayer!reader

Summary: Your life had always been divided in two: before you met Tashi and after you met Tashi. The second you had laid eyes on her for the first time you knew you had been changed. You were soulmates, meant for each other Nothing could ever tear you two apart, or so you had thought. You could've pinpointed the junior U.S. Open as the night that changed everything. Now you have to juggle your hate-love relationship with tennis with your love-love relationship with Tashi and the two guys who you can't seem to stay away from. Tennis, after all, was only one of the most fucked up relationships of your life.

Warnings: challengers spoiler, challengers content warnings, super minor character death, terrible mother figure, use of y/n, polyamory.

Word count: 6.5K

A/N: Please let me know what you think bc my motivation is severely lacking rn, i feel like i'm writing into the void

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Tashi remembers perfectly the day your retirement from singles hit the news. It was all everyone could talk about. First, it was the statement on your social media. A well thought out paragraph about your struggles with continuing to enjoy tennis the way you used to and deciding to take a new route, it ended with a promise for more and better news soon. Then it was the teasing posts from Adidas, the “she is not done just yet” and the “love conquers all”. It all came to a peak with the release of the pictures of you and Patrick. Both of you wearing matching Adidas apparel, practicing in the private court you had in your backyard. The chemistry between the two of you was obvious to everyone who saw them. There was a glint in your eyes that no one had seen since you went pro. She knew the smile you were giving Patrick all too well, it used to be reserved for her.

Her and Art, who had just very recently reconnected, sat on his couch for hours watching the tennis channel, waiting for updates. The relief they felt when it was announced that you were not quitting because you were fatally injured, as everyone had originally thought, was short lived. Neither of them spoke as the commentators showed the images of you and Patrick. Practicing, giggling, getting closer, him giving you that teasing smirk they both knew, you throwing your head back laughing, him beaming at you when you weren’t even looking, both of you focused on the ball, kissing… They both thought about turning off the TV, hitting some balls to work out how they were feeling, but then you were introduced into the set, a vibrant smile as you walked in, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt too big to be yours. The Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy logo only confirmed the obvious. You shook hands with everyone, sitting on the sofa they had reserved for you.

“Y/n Y/l/n, thank you for being here” the older man said, over the clapping of the crowd.

“Thanks for having me!”

“What a day it’s been for all of us, tennis fans. You’ve had us on the edge of our seats! First we mourned, now we’re celebrating… Please tell us why did you do this to us?”

“I am so sorry! I am, I really am” you laughed as the man teased you, God how they missed that laugh. “I have a flair for the dramatic, I must admit, and I am, in a way, saying goodbye to my career as I know it. It’s the start of a new chapter, and it’s really exciting, but it is also a goodbye and it felt right to give it its proper moment. I didn’t realize so many people were going to be so upset about it.”

“Why the switch? Why decide to give up singles completely?”

“I wasn’t enjoying it anymore, it was painful and I had started dreading every second of it. Fortunately, I am in a position where I can decide I don’t want to keep doing something that is bringing me down, so I took advantage of it. I didn’t want my stubbornness to completely ruin my love for tennis. I thought I could step back, maybe take up teaching and try to find that passion again. I was going to quit regardless, so this playing doubles thing happened at just the right time.”

“Yeah, let’s talk about that! You’ve decided to become a full time mixed doubles player with Patrick Zweig, who is a challengers player, somewhere in the two-hundreds. You are currently ranked number one in the world, how does this happen?”

“I think rankings and numbers can be misleading sometimes. Sometimes a player is not playing their best because of external reasons, or simply because they are not meant to be where they are. I think me and Patrick are meant to play together, I really do. And if you can’t trust anything else, trust this: I am really competitive and I hate losing, I would not put myself in a situation like this if I really thought we couldn’t win.”

“From what I’ve heard Zweig and you are committed to each other both on and off the court. You’ve never been open about your private life in the media, and he is the first boyfriend you’ve ever made public, what’s different about him?”

They couldn’t take their eyes off you as you let a bashful smile spread on your face.

“I mean… Everything. I am pretty possessive of my privacy and we still don’t plan to share everything we do, but the truth is that I have never been open about any boyfriends because I have not had any serious relationships since I went pro. Patrick and I will be playing and training together so I thought it was bound to come out, so to me, I'd rather have that happen on my terms. And I do think Patrick is very different to all relationships I’ve had before, in the best way possible”

Art swallowed, refusing to look at Tashi when she turned to watch him. He didn’t deserve to be jealous. He knew that, if he had treated you right, you would still be together. That knowledge didn’t change how he felt.

“How does that happen? How does one manage to make the Y/n Y/l/n fall in love with them?”

“Well, me and Patrick met each other a while ago, at the U.S Junior Open, actually. He won it, I got second, we hit it off instantly. But it was one of those situations where it’s never the right time, you know? We kept missing each other, we were in relationships with other people, and we ended up drifting apart when I went pro. And then, funnily enough, we bumped into each other at an Adidas party about a year ago, and the rest is history.”

Art couldn’t bring himself to be angry when the TV shut off. He turned to look at Tashi who stood there with the remote in her hand, not looking at him.

“I’ll see you in ten in the court. We need to work on your serve.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, grateful for the excuse to take his feelings out on the ball. To think about anything that wasn’t your smile as you talked about Patrick. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew Tashi felt the same way, the sudden urge to train had not come out of nowhere.

New Rochelle, New York. August 24, 2019:

You look down, shaking your head as Patrick crashes his racquet repeatedly against the floor. The umpire’s voice ominously announcing the score. You raise your face back up when Patrick gets given a penalty. Art walks nonchalantly back to the bench, you can feel Tashi’s smug grin beside you. You make eye contact with your husband and shake your head, he rubs his face with both hands, then nods. As much as you both don’t really care to win this tournament, he knows you’ll be angry if he just lets it go, gets angry and in his head and lets Art have it on conduct alone. So he sits back and waits, ready to be better, to prove himself to you once again, like every time he steps on the court.

Earlier that week. New Rochelle, New York. August 18, 2019:

Tashi is working, writing stats on her computer when she sees Patrick walking towards her from the corner of her eye. She rolls her eyes as he stops behind her, pointing at her screen before he speaks:

“He’s not bad, I played him at a few of these things when I did singles.”

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be practicing to not humiliate your wife before she carries you through the U.S. Open?”

“I just finished, thanks for caring.”

“Wonderful” she says, not a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Hey, come have a cigarette with me, I have to talk to you.”

“Yeah I don’t smoke, and I’m not talking to you.”

“Neither do I. It was just an excuse.”

She looks back at him, unimpressed, but he doesn’t let up. He stands there, staring at her until she gives in, closing her computer and standing up. Patrick is not sure what he is doing. He probably shouldn’t be doing anything at all, if he’s honest with himself. But he has dug a hole too deep to jump out of now, so he is going to follow through. He is doing this for you, he reminds himself, no matter how angry you’ll be with him at first, he is doing this for you. They find an empty alley and look back at each other, Tashi waits for him to speak, he takes his time collecting his thoughts before he does.

“I’m gonna propose something to you and it’s going to make you angry. It’s going to make you very angry,” he can’t help the smirk growing on his face, her expression doesn’t let up. “I want you to be our coach next season.”

“What?”

“Our coach is retiring, we need someone else. I want you to be our coach from next season on.”

“Does she know you’re offering me this position?”

“No, not yet. But she will, and she’ll agree with me.”

“You know that’s bullshit. Plus, why would I want to coach you guys? I already have a highly successful athlete under my wing.”

“Yeah, but even if he wins the Open and completes his career grand slam, Art’s still gonna retire as someone who was really, really good. That’s what you guys will have done together. But imagine if you could get your hands on us. Imagine if you could make us great. You’d go down in history. We have a couple more seasons. We still have a couple more good seasons and I need you to bring it out of us. What do you think?”

He doesn’t expect Tashi to slap him, turning his face completely, although he really should have. He mumbles a curse under his breath.

“How fucking dare you?” she sounds angry, too angry for his stupid proposition. “You want me to give you my best piece of advice? To coach you? Ok, quit.”

Patrick can’t even begin to think of a response, the murderous gaze Tashi gives him fixes him to the spot.

“Quit right now, right fucking now, quit.”

“What are you talking about?” he is too shocked to be offended.

“You’re dragging her down. She should’ve gone down in history as the best ever player. She would have broken records. She should have been good enough to beat the men, and she is what? Going around playing mixed doubles with you? It’s pathetic. Quit, and maybe she’ll have a chance at being an ounce of what she should’ve been.”

“You’re fucking joking”

And now Patrick is angry too. Because he is tired. He is so tired of the endless comments and judgment. He is tired of being blamed for ruining you and your career as if it hadn’t been your decision. As if it hadn’t been your idea. As if he was capable of ever doing that to you. As if he hadn’t begged for you to think it over a million times before you took a step that you wouldn’t be able to come back from. As if he hadn’t been the sole reason the world of tennis hadn’t lost you completely. As if he didn’t try harder than he had ever tried to be enough for you and make sure you never resented him or regretted being with him in any way. The thing that makes him the most angry, though, is that it’s Tashi. And how dare Tashi, the woman who had abandoned you and ruined your love for tennis in the first place, blame him for something she had pushed you to do. Something that was nobody’s fault but hers.

“You must be fucking delusional if you think for just one second that I would ever, ever, ask her to give up on her career for me. You know whose idea it was to play mixed doubles only? Y/n’s. She thought of it, she asked me to do it, she orchestrated every single little detail. And you wanna know why she did it? Because she hated tennis. She was going to quit. She couldn’t stand the thing she loved the most anymore. And you wanna know what made her start to hate tennis, even though her love for it never wavered before, not even with her borderline abusive mum who only loved her for her talent in it? You, Tashi. You did. You ruined tennis for her. So get the fuck off that high horse you continue to ride everywhere, because if there’s one person here to blame for ruining her career, it’s the one I’m looking at.”

He is out of breath when he finishes speaking, and he doesn't know what to do. He has so much shit he wants to throw at her, so much resentment for all that she had put you, and him, through. But he can’t say anything else, the second Tashi’s expression falls, even if it is only for a moment, he can feel his heart shatter inside his chest. No matter how much he hates Tashi, how much he resents her, he loves her. He loves her so much it hurts deep inside his chest, like an ache that is so present he had almost forgotten it existed. But looking at her right now, he feels it, pulsating all through him, and he knows, with a certainty he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge before, that he will never not feel this way about her.

“You don’t know what you’re saying” her voice is stern, but Patrick knows her too well to believe her tone.

“You hate me” it’s not a question. “And you hate her too. Me, for having her. Her for having the career you deserved. And it’s driving you crazy, because as much as you hate us both, you also love us. And as much as you love Art, you hate him too.”

“Excuse me?”

“You hate him because he is just Art, that’s all he can ever be. He will never be me, and he will never be her. And as much as you love him, just Art will never be enough for you.”

“I don’t know what gives you the right to speak about my marriage…”

“The same thing that gives you the right to speak about mine. Does Art know about Atlanta?” he cuts her off.

The pure, unfiltered shock on her face lets him know he has caught her off guard. She did not expect him to know about it. She collects herself quickly, but she doesn’t say anything.

“You keep saying you came here because Art needed matches, but I think you came for something else.”

“You think I came here for you?”

“And for her” he says nodding. “I’ve been signed up for this tournament for months, there’s no way you didn’t see my name in the participants list.”

“You think I came here, to throw it all away for you?”

“Maybe you just wanted to see us…”

“I don’t need to see you to know that you look like shit, and she should get as far away from you as soon as possible.”

She starts to walk away, decisively.

“I’m going to beat him,” he says, it stops her in her tracks, she turns her face to look at him. “If we both make it to the final I’m going to beat him.”

“Even if you did, it wouldn’t change anything.”

“It would break him, you know it would.”

She shakes her head and starts to walk away, too exasperated to come up with another hurtful retort about his failed career. She jogs after her, catching up with her pace almost effortlessly. He grabs her arm, makes her stop walking. He pulls up a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans.

“My number, in case you change your mind about the coaching… Or about seeing us again.”

“I won’t.”

He nods, shrugs his shoulders. Then, he watches her put the note in her pocket. He smiles.

New Rochelle, New York. August 24, 2019:

Patrick hasn’t looked away from you even once. You know even though you are looking into your lap. You are hyper aware of every single person around you. Most accurately, you are hyper aware of the woman next to you and the two men playing against each other. You play with your ring as you feel Tashi tell Art to focus. When you finally meet Patrick’s eyes he doesn’t smile. He raises his left hand and kisses the ring on his finger without breaking eye contact as the umpire announces the start of the next set. He crosses paths with Art as he makes his way to the other side of the net but he doesn’t move his eyes from you until he is getting ready to serve. You know then, with absolute certainty, that he is doing this for you.

Atlanta Open, Atlanta. July 18, 2011:

Even though Patrick and you both know why you are sitting in the stands during practice time instead of walking around the venue, or actually practicing, you are still shocked when you see Tashi and Art walk into the court. Your hand reaches for Patrick, holding on to his thigh as if on a rollercoaster that is suddenly going down. You both try to look composed and careless, but you don’t know if you are doing a good job. Art and Tashi do the same, pretending they can’t see you, even though you are the only other ones there and you stick out like a sore thumb. Patrick and you talk to each other, although neither of you would be able to recall anything said during your conversation, and share the fries you had bought before walking over. You pretend you just casually stumbled to sit there for a snack, that you hadn’t checked the schedule to figure out what time and what court Art Donaldson had for pre-match practice. Art hits the ball like he hasn’t been able to hit it in a while, grunting as his racket made contact with it. Tashi looks at you for a second, then back at Art. She nods, satisfied. You want to run away, want to erase that satisfied smirk from her face and your memory. But you stay glued to your seat, hand in your boyfriend’s thigh, heart pounding, and you take the way they ignore you like a punishment.

New Rochelle, New York. August 23, 2019:

The wind is relentless, the trees hitting against the window making repetitive thwack noises that remind Patrick of the sound of the ball hitting the racket. You have been answering emails and making calls to finish preparing things for tomorrow, the U.S. Open, and whatever lies in store for you both after that. Patrick knows that you’ve been messaging potential coaches and though the guilt pit on his stomach keeps growing, he can’t bring himself to say anything to you. He hopes you haven’t set in stone anything, because he is still delusionally confident that Tashi will accept his offer. He knows he should help, whatever you are doing affects him too, but he is too nervous to do anything productive so he just lays around, throwing a ball against the ceiling, or the wall, or whatever he can find. After the third time the ball slips from his hand too early or too late and hits you, you stand up and point to the door.

“Leave, right now” he makes no attempt to move. “Patrick, I mean it. I’m working and I know that you are nervous but you’re stressing me out so go down to the sauna, or get a drink or something that’s not going to make me ask you for a divorce or have to spend the rest of the night finding a place to hide your body.”

Patrick smiles as he stands up. He picks one of the keys from your bedside table and walks over to you, kissing your head before making his way to the door.

“I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, love you too. Leave now, please.”

He giggles all the way down the elevator. He doesn’t feel like drinking, which means he doesn’t feel like making a fool of himself tomorrow for getting drunk the night before a match, especially not in front of Art and Tashi. So he walks around until he finds the sauna, maybe that will help him calm down. But as he gets naked and opens the door he can’t believe his bad luck. Although there is a white towel covering his face, there is no denying the naked man sitting right in front of him is Art Donaldson. Patrick doesn’t think there’s a world where he wouldn’t recognize him, no matter how much he’s changed from that scrawny blonde boy he once knew like the back of his hand. He thinks about turning around, walking out, pretending he never saw him, and finding something else to do for the night. But there’s no way Art hasn’t heard the door opening, and Patrick has never been one to run from conflict, not really. So he steps forward, lets his mind get a little bit caught up in the past, sue him he hasn’t seen this guy in years, and opens his mouth:

“Can you do me a favor? Can you not like, demolish me tomorrow?” He says it with the inflection of a pick up line, and before he can even finish his sentence Art is pulling the towel away from his face and looking at him like he already knew that it was him standing at the door, even before he said anything.

They are both smiling as Patrick pulls the sauna door closed and walks toward Art. He is acting far more comfortably than he feels, but if he stops to think about what is actually happening he might start shaking and poop his pants, which would be a terrible thing seeing as he isn’t wearing any. He gets way too close to him, and raises one of his legs on the bench, dick fully on display. Art makes a valiant attempt pretending he doesn’t look down.

“Hey, congrats on being a Phil Tire’s Town Challenger finalist.”

“Yeah, you too” Art says, looking forward to not have to look at Patrick, who is smiling far too wide for the situation they are in and the past that they have.

“Hopefully the wind dies down by tomorrow and we can have a fair fight” Patrick lets himself pretend this is normal, like they are two competitors getting ready for the final, maybe even pals catching up after not having seen each other in a while.

Art doesn’t let him have a second of the little fantasy he’s made up in his head, though. He slides down the bench, getting as far away from him as he can without looking like he is actually running away.

“C’mon, can we talk?” Patrick says, and his voice sounds pitiful even to his own ears.

“Can you put your dick away” Art’s voice is stern, but he looks him in the eye for the first time since he walked in, so he counts it as a win.

“This is a sauna,” Patrick scoffs, putting up a fight so Art won’t notice he’d do anything he told him to. “Look, we've been here for a week and we haven’t said two words to each other. It's just… it’s silly, man. It’s dramatic. I mean, really, why are you so angry with me?”

He sits down, obeying Art and covering his dick. Art is finally looking at him, really looking at him. It has the same effect it did back when they were kids, Art looking at him makes him feel brave. He can’t stop himself from rambling on.

“Look, I don’t buy that it’s because of Tashi, I don’t think it’s because of what happened to her. And I hope it’s not about Y/n, because you have no right… So, I think, maybe, you’re just really disturbed by the fact that they could’ve been into someone like me. Both of them”

“Tashi liked you when we were teenagers.”

“Sure, but I just got married to the girl you said was the love of your life.”

“I ended things with her.”

“And you regret it every single day of your life,” Patrick knew, because it was the same way you and him felt about him and Tashi, “and you know that Tashi does too.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We both know that if Tashi had been a little more brave back then, she would’ve never taken either of our numbers. If she had been a little bit more honest with herself, she would’ve swept Y/n away and neither of us would’ve had a chance with either of them.”

“That still happened when they were teenagers. When we were teenagers.”

“Huh” Patrick looks thoughtful. “When they were teenagers…”

Atlanta Open, Atlanta. July 18, 2011:

You slip out of your room in a t-shirt that is definitely not yours and the first shorts you stumble across on your way to the door. You can’t sleep and Patrick’s soft snores, which you often find endearing, are getting on your nerves. He doesn’t stir, even as you close the door softly behind you. You don’t know what you are doing, or where you’re going. You take the stairs down, needing to move your body for a little bit. You walk outside, feeling like no matter how hard you breathe in there’s not enough air in your lungs. You lay your weight against the brick wall of the hotel. You get your breathing under control after a couple minutes of staring at the sky trying to look for constellations you don’t know the name of anyways. When you turn around, to go back inside the hotel, you realize that right next to where you were standing there’s a window to the hotel’s bar. There, sitting down, nursing a glass that you can only assume contains something strong, already staring at you, is Tashi Duncan. You don’t know what you’re doing, but you let your feet guide you inside. Then, instead of going up the stairs like you should, you take a right turn and walk right into the bar. Tashi finds you immediately, having been looking at the door. You don’t understand what you’re doing, but before you can think about it you are sitting right in front of her. You haven’t looked at her this up close in years. You search, but you can’t find many differences. She looks exactly like the girl you knew with her hair a little shorter. You wonder if it’s the same on the inside, if the million secrets you knew about her still hold true. If you could still tell which of her smiles were fake, or when she was about to cry but was trying to hold it down.

“I heard you gave up,” she whispers after a minute of staring into each other’s eyes.

“I quit singles, I didn’t give up,” but you can tell she doesn’t really believe you, so you scan her, trying to find something else to talk about. Your eyes lock on the ring in her finger. “That’s a gorgeous ring.”

Your fingers find your own ring instinctively. You don’t know if you’re trying to make sure it’s still there, or if you are trying to ask your dad for strength. Her gaze lowers, first to your ring, then to her own.

“It’s his grandmother’s.”

You nod, you know what that means. Art had always talked about wanting to propose to his future wife with his grandmother’s ring. Back when he fantasized with you about it, it was your hand that ring ended up on. He always talked about taking you to the residency so you could meet his grandmother, completely sure she would love you and give you her blessing immediately. You think of your own sentimental family ring, unsure you would ever be able to trust anyone enough to carry it, no matter how much you loved them.

“How is she?” you ask, more out of politeness than anything else, you never got to meet her, after all.

“She died. Stroke”

You grimace, knowing the feeling of losing the one person who truly believes in you too well. You look around, trying desperately to find something to say, you will your brain to remember the million icebreakers and conversation starters you had been forced to memorize for the awfully boring networking parties your mum used to throw for you. You come up with nothing, so you look back at her and lean over the table and she imitates you. Your faces inches away from each other. You feel drunk even though you haven’t had a single sip of alcohol all day. You don’t question it, Tashi always made you feel like you were going crazy and a little bit drunk. It must be that what pushes you to say what comes out of your mouth next:

“I miss you.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she leans further over the table, getting impossible close to your face without touching it. Then, when you are completely sure she is going to tell you to go fuck yourself and leave her alone, her hand makes her way to the back of your neck pushing you towards her until your eyes meet. There might be a million things that have changed since the last time you did this, but kissing Tashi Duncan feels exactly the same as the first time you did it. It feels like coming home.

New Rochelle, New York. August 23, 2019:

“You’re right” Art says finally, leaning his back against the wall. “I do find it disturbing.”

“There’s no need, man. Lots of girls were into me, but only one of them wanted to marry me. I’ve always thought that was not what I was for, so I don’t know how I did it.”

“Yeah, neither do I.”

Patrick feels his entire skin burn with the way Art looks him up and down. He curses in his head the years they’ve spent apart and the secretive, mature person Art has become, he can’t read him like he could. He can’t tell if he is teasing, or trying to humiliate him. He can’t tell if he’s angry, or just as desperately sad as he is.

Atlanta Open, Atlanta. July 18, 2011:

You don’t know how but you and Tashi have stumbled onto a hotel room that you don’t recognize. It’s much bigger and fancier than yours so you assume it’s hers. You want to ask where Art is, if he is about to walk in on the two of you making out on his bed, but the way she is kissing you makes you forget about everything. You roll onto the bed, hands on either side of her face as hers roam your body freely. It’s too much and not enough simultaneously and you moan and pant on her lips. It’s everything you’ve always dreamt of and you can’t help wanting more. More of her and her body, of her lips, more of her heart. You try to not be greedy, take what she gives you, and soon you’re seeing stars and rolling over, breathing with difficulty.

“That was…”

“Yeah” she mumbles.

“So… What happens now?”

“What do you mean what happens now?” she seems confused as she stands from the bed, walking around until she finds your clothes.

“We just had sex,” you say, obviously.

“Look, we shouldn’t have done this. It was a mistake.” She throws your t-shirt at you, you put it on slowly.

“A mistake?” you’re getting angrier by the second, but you don’t want to yell and alert whoever is sleeping in the room next to this one.

“Yeah, we will act as if nothing happened.”

“What about Art?

“He doesn’t need to know,” you shake your head as you finish putting on your clothes.

“That’s fucked up.”

“Do not act as if I was the only one who cheated! Aren’t you and Patrick dating?”

“I never said that! You can’t just run away from everything you refuse to accept. You haven’t talked to me in years!”

“Yeah, and it should have stayed that way.”

“One day you’re going to wake up and realize that everything you’ve refused to accept all your life is catching up to you, and by then, it might be too late.”

“Get out” she says, instead of replying to what you said, you don’t need to be told twice.

You manage to hold back your tears until you are standing in front of the elevator. You’re fully sobbing when the doors open, revealing a very confused Art. You see him step towards you, but you refuse to let either of them continue breaking your heart. You step backwards, then turn around. You run until you find the stairs. By the time you make it back to your room you look like a mess. You knock on the door, you must have left your key in Tashi’s room but you are too upset to care about that or waking Patrick up. His entire face changes when he opens the door. Worry taking over his expression.

“Y/n, what happened? Where were you?

You fall onto his arms, sobbing. He leads you in, closing the door behind you. You don’t speak until you’re both seating in bed.

“I saw Tashi… And I… We…” you don’t say anything else, but you don’t need to, he understands.

He holds you through the night. The next morning, you forfeit the tournament and go home.

New Rochelle, New York. August 23, 2019:

“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy I was in the draw” Patrick is not ready to let it go, to shut up and walk away from Art, he doesn’t know when’s the next time he’ll be able to talk to him again, so he runs his mouth. “I mean, you’ve always wanted to beat me in a tournament, and two weeks before the open… It’s the perfect confidence booster.

He settles on cocky because he doesn’t know what else to do. He has never been very good at being vulnerable, not with Art, and no amount of therapy is going to make him start now, when he can see how done he is with him from a mile away.

“I know what you’re trying to do right now,” Art smiles.

“I’m not trying to do anything, Art,” but he doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth. “This is a challenger, I don’t need to play mind games with you.”

“Right, you don’t give a shit.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that…”

“We both know that you have a considerably higher stake here than I do.”

“Do I?”

Art laughs, but there’s no real humor to it. Patrick does too, trying to conceal the way he is sure his entire body is shaking.

“Oh, fuck… Where do you get your swagger from, man?” Patrick can tell, from the way Art is looking at him, that this is the part that’s going to hurt, he doesn’t try to stop it. “I mean you come in here swinging your dick around like I’m supposed to be afraid of it but do you realize how embarrassing it is that you are here right now?”

“Not quite as embarrassing as you being here,” Patrick has never known a way to back down, so he stirs the pot.

He’d rather have Art yelling at him or humiliating him than not talking to him at all. His therapist would not be very proud.

“I’m just stopping by, man. You would live here if it wasn’t for her” there’s a pause, suddenly Patrick wants to take everything back, run away with his tail between his legs, but it’s too late. “You know, I’ve always tried to figure out what happened to you, but the more I thought about it the more I realized… It’s what didn’t happen. You never grew up. You still think you can talk to me like you’re my peer because we came from the same place, because you’ve managed to stumble into some of the same competitions. But it’s not about where you came from in tennis, Patrick, it’s about winning. And I do, a lot. And you only do because you tricked Y/n into playing with you. But one day, she’s going to wake up and realize she wasted her entire fucking life in a pathetic man who thinks he’s the shit because he won the junior U.S Open a trillion years ago. And then, you’ll be left with what you deserve: nothing.”

“You’ve never beaten me,” he says, as if it’s what matters out of everything he said.

He says it because if he focuses on what Art said about you, he might cry. He doesn’t want to cry, not in front of Art, not right now. He doesn’t have enough willpower to fight him, like he knows he should, like he did with Tashi.

“So what? I haven’t beaten most of the guys who play in these things, or the ones who only make it into the big tournaments playing doubles. This is a game about winning the points that matter.”

“I don’t matter?” he doesn’t know why he says it, or what he is expecting to get in return.

“Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world,” his voice is monotone, tired, Patrick wants to crawl out of his skin.

“We’re not talking about tennis.”

“What the fuck else do I have to talk to you about?”

“I wanted to come in here to wish you good luck, Art,” he says, and he means it.

“That makes no sense,” Art scoffs, looking away, he’s talking to himself more than Patrick.

“I wanted to say that I’m looking forward to it, I miss playing with you,” he is being vulnerable, but he knows Art won’t believe him, which is probably why he says it in the first place.

“Yeah,” he nods his head and he looks amused, but Patrick can see right through him, he’s about to finish him off. “Well, I don’t miss playing with you, man. I’m too old for it.”

As soon as the door is closed behind Art, Patrick lets himself drop onto the bench. He tells himself he is not going to cry. There’s tears running down his face by the time you open the door of your room to him. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, you understand.

#challengers x reader #challengers #art donaldson #tashi duncan x reader #tashi duncan #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #annie writes challengers #patrick zweig x art donaldson x tashi duncan x reader #patrick zweig x art donaldson x Tashi Duncan #loss of my life series

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staciesometimeswrites · 2 months ago

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Thank you to @alliwantforchristmasislou for setting up this amazing thing! <3

Warning: I don't know how not to ramble, or make sense.

I don't work during the winter, and I'm trying to pay down debts so I can buy a house in 2025, so I unfortunately don't have any money to spare, but I wanted to express my gratitude to the BuckTommy nation for the joy they've brought me.

I started this silly little show last winter on a total whim. Ms. Angela Basset was always there on the title card whenever I opened Hulu so, bored with my endless amounts of reading, I decided to give it a go. Immediately I was drawn in. I loved their dynamics. The stories. Peter Krause's acting, especially in the scene where he breaks down on the couch with Hen and Buck? Yeah, my overly empathetic self was like, this show is mine now.

Mind you, I didn't binge watch it all at once. I took short little breaks, never feeling the need to power through them all. And then, BuckTommy happened. All of a sudden, I had a reason to catch up and catch up I did. I can't tell you precisely why I was so drawn to them, but I have some ideas.

For once, we had a pair of equally masculine men showing affection towards each other. Neither of them could be relegated to the "woman" role. They weren't stereotypically effeminate, but they went against the alpha male stereotypes. You had two men who had been mentally neglected all their lives, into adulthood, who came out the other side being people that wanted to serve and protect for all they were worth. They had trauma, but outside of Buck's sex addiction - Buck 1.0 - they didn't let their trauma define them. They showed affection, not just to the women around them, but to their friends and chosen family. They said "I love you" with their actions. Buck was allowed to have "feminine" hobbies without being effeminate, and maybe to some that's not a big deal but to me that is. Tommy, who could be questionably called more effeminate, was allowed to have more stereotypically "masculine" hobbies despite being a Kinsey 6.

That's a huge deal on broadcast TV. The general audience has certain expectations, as much as they sometimes suck - they're not known for being the most progressive folks in the world - so the fact that the show was allowed to stick it to them was just... an amazing experience. As someone who's only other experience with masculine GAY men on TV was Ian and Mickey, whom I love dearly, it was such a nice change of pace. Also, the fact that they're both mature men? Also a huge deal. I love Alec, from Shadowhunter's, but he's still pretty young, and he's known he was gay for a very long time. Patrick and David from Schitt's Creek? They knew, and David(?) still has a very effeminate air about him, despite being confirmed pansexual.

All this is to say, that BuckTommy drew me in until they had a chokehold on me. I started using Tumblr again, started diving back into fanfiction in a way I hadn't since Kuroko no Basuke. I've produced more fics for the 911 fandom in six months than for any other fandom I've ever written for. And I've been in fandoms since circa 2007? And that's insanely impressive. BuckTommy drew me back into broadcast TV. I literally yell at my brother when the show is on to not talk to me, or bother me, for the next hour. I've got like... Four shows I wait for weekly now, TV antenna and all.

BuckTommy's have also been some of the kindest, most interesting, people I've had the pleasure of "knowing." Every single day I have things to look forward to in the tag, whether it's fics, or art, or headcannons, or honestly - my favorite - complaints about how the relationship ended and how the writers done fucked up. You guys are so amazing, and I love all of you that I've ever interacted with.

I'm PRAYING to see Lou, and Tommy, again in 2025, but even if he doesn't, I'm back for the long haul. You guys dragged me back from the brink of destruction after the break-up, I've never lost it over a fictional ship like that before in my LIFE, and I've decided that I'm here for good.

Merry fucking Christmas, and Happy Holidays to you all.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #tevan #lou ferrigno jr #kinley #911 on abc #911 abc #all I want for Christmas is Lou #alliwantforchristmasislou #BuckTommy Nation #BT nation

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queensunshinee · 6 months ago

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Time Of Our Lives || Part 25

Part 25:

Patrick stood with a cigarette outside the building where Liana worked. He knew it wasn't ideal, but he'd been debating for half an hour whether to go in and say he had an appointment with her. He wondered if there were people who knew him, who had heard stories about him, who knew who he had been in her life. Maybe there were people who would recognize him from tennis, who would recognize him as the one who beat her fiancé.

He threw the cigarette away, not bothering to pick up the butt, and went inside after popping a gum in his mouth. "Hey, love, I'm looking for Liana Levy's office," he said to the girl sitting at the reception. She looked at him for a moment, probably trying to figure out where she knew him from. "At the end on the left," she muttered and smiled at him. He nodded and smiled back, walking confidently.

Patrick knocked on the door and heard Liana's gentle voice telling him to come in while she continued talking to someone who was already inside. "Hey," he muttered. He suddenly felt stupid. Not understanding why he came at all. She looked so confused when she saw him that he regretted the decision the moment he saw her face, but there was nowhere to run. "Can we continue this later, Paul?" she asked the guy she was talking to, and he nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Well?" Liana looked at him after a few seconds of silence. Patrick didn't say anything, leaning on one of the cabinets in her office and shifting his weight from his heels to his toes. He felt like a lost four-year-old seeking attention from his mom. "Patrick, why are you here?" she asked after he didn't say a word. "It's been a while since we talked." He tried to sound determined. "It's been two weeks since France. Before that, we didn't talk for a year, and you didn't show up here. Did something happen?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing. Always so practical. Always looking to solve a problem. "No," he chuckled.

"Do you need something?" she added another question. Liana didn't understand what was happening. Her heart was racing, and Patrick refused to explain himself. But when did he ever explain himself? When did he ever bother to answer one of her questions? "Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to build me a house, I'm not an Asshole" he indirectly jabbed at Art, about that time he practically demanded Liana build his house, which over time became her house (just like Patrick told her it would, but he wasn't petty). She sat down in her chair and sighed, closing her eyes for a moment.

He sat in the chair opposite her and examined her and her office in general. Her degree was framed on one of the walls, there were some letters of appreciation, a strange frog toy standing on a shelf, and Patrick swore it was looking back at him. "That's a gift I got from a client," she said quickly, almost justifying the creepy frog Patrick was staring at. "Was it a real frog once?" he asked, almost horrified. "No. Why are you here, Patrick?" she answered, and he returned his gaze to her. "To invite you to dinner," he said quickly, and she raised an eyebrow, the horrified look seemingly taking turns between them. "Both of you, of course, I have boundaries." he added quickly. "You're at my workplace, and you're talking about boundaries?" she chuckled. "I see the irony, yes." The familiar smirk appeared on his face. "It's not appropriate, you know it's not appropriate," Liana said, still looking at him as if he was the craziest man she had ever encountered, maybe he really was the craziest.

"Why not?" he asked, "You're getting married, and I'm in a stable relationship. We were all friends once, I don't see why it can't happen again," he tried to sound convincing. "What's the catch?" Liana asked, raising an eyebrow. "A man can stop being in love with you and miss his best friend." he said, looking at the picture of her and Art on the desk. "You two haven't been friends for a long time, Patrick." Liana sighed. "Whose fault is that?" he asked. And it came out with a lot more venom than he intended. "I'm sorry, Li, it's lonely. Okay? You have each other, and I don't. I'm not allowed to miss you, but I'm allowed to miss him." He sounded so vulnerable that all Liana could do was nod. Even though there was no way it would work.

"He won't like it." Liana muttered, trying to make Patrick give up. "You're good at ultimatums. I'm worth an ultimatum, Liana. Waste one on me." he moved towards the exit. "Still the same number?" he asked, and Liana nodded quietly, looking at him with almost pity. "I'll text you the address. This Friday," he didn't say an arrogant 'see you later' before he left because he wasn't sure if they would really see each other. And it was sad and exciting at the same time.

When Liana came home, Art was lying on the couch, flipping through TV channels, looking either bored or completely exhausted, one of the two. He smiled at her and glanced at the clock. "This isn't a reasonable time to come home, Ms. Donaldson," he said, and she heard the sarcasm. "I'm not married to you yet. I can still call the whole thing off, you know," she leaned against the doorframe, looking at him amused. "You won't do that." He smiled. "You're very confident for someone who didn't wait for me with takeout and flowers in a vase," she replied with a half-chuckle and moved towards the kitchen, hearing him stand up and follow her.

"Hey," his large, rough hands from holding a racket most of his life, wrapped around her from behind as he kissed her neck. "Hey." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, letting herself sink into his warmth, the security that only he could provide. "It really is late, Lia, you're working too hard." He murmured and bit her earlobe before she could respond. "It was a long day. And two hours of it, I sat with your mom and picked out napkins. It was really fun." She replied, feeling his chuckle against her neck.

Art gently turned her to face him, examining her and seeing the dark circles forming under her eyes. She was exhausted. "Oh no, you look worried," Liana said suddenly, and his smile was partial. Because he would never get used to how well she knew him. It always caught him off guard. "You're putting too much on your shoulders, Lia, and I love those shoulders too much for them to collapse." He gave her shoulder a small squeeze, not taking his eyes off her. "I can handle your mom, Art, she loves me more than she loves you anyway." Liana rolled her eyes in response. "Christine needs to stop telling you things like that, I can't handle your ego anymore." He said, amused.

"Do you love me?" Liana suddenly asked. Art couldn't help but chuckle and take a step back. "A bit of a weird question to ask in the middle of the kitchen in our house, a month and a half before you become my wife," the amused look didn't leave his face until he realized how serious she looked. "Art." She said, demanding he say it. "Of course I love you. How is that a real question right now, Lia?" He would have rolled his eyes if she didn't look so shaken in front of him. "Hey, what's with this talk all of a sudden?" He added, standing close to her again and hugging her as tightly as he could. If he could, he would have absorbed her into himself. To be part of him every moment.

"Patrick came to my work today," Art recoiled from her in a second. How did Patrick always show up in his life like an ambush? How did he always manage to surprise him? Why was Art never ready for the attack? Why did he always have to defend what was his? He looked at Liana with a look she probably couldn't read because he couldn't organize what was going through his head, he just felt his heart start to beat rapidly and his mind racing with all the worst thoughts forward. "Son of a bitch." Art muttered with a chuckle that came out more bitter than he planned, but it was all he had. "Art-" Liana sighed. "What is it this time? What does he want?" Art asked. His fingers danced uncontrollably. He felt how he couldn't stop his level of anger, how his tension was increasing, how he wasn't the person he wanted to be.

"He invited us to dinner. He wants to leave the past in the past." She sounded confident in what she was saying. Art chuckled. "He can shove his dinner up his ass and let it come out of his nose," Art said and started pacing back and forth in the kitchen. "Art." She sighed again. "Don't talk to me like I'm a 12-year-old, Liana, I know that tone," he interrupted her again. "Not what I wanted to do." She clarified. "My head is starting to hurt; can you stop?" She added, referring to his pacing. "Are you serious?" He looked at her after he stopped, "You want to go? Unbelievable." He muttered. "How did he convince you, Liana?" He asked.

"He didn't convince me of anything." She muttered and looked at Art. "He convinced you of something if you're even bringing it up." Art leaned on the table in front of her. He looked like a man ready for an attack. One who wasn't willing to let go until the other side surrendered, and Liana didn't plan to surrender anytime soon. "Would you prefer I hadn't told you?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'd prefer if you were smart enough to know he doesn't want to have dinner with us, not with me at least." Art said with disdain that didn't characterize him, not when he talked to Liana. "Call me stupid again and see what happens, I dare you," her jaw clenched after she said that, her anger evident in every syllable that came out of her mouth.

Art sighed, looking at the love of his life standing in front of him, furious. "I don't think you're stupid, Lia," he sighed in frustration, feeling all his anger leaving him. He couldn't be angry when she was angry too, one of them had to compromise, and after how he treated her in college, he swore to himself he would always be the one to compromise. That he would never let his anger be what led his words when he was with her. "So what do you think?" She asked, her gaze piercing, and luckily for him, couldn't actually kill. "I think you're naive," he said, searching for the right way to say it, "and that you'll always have a soft spot for Patrick," he added, examining her. "And you don't?" She asked, "You don't care about him? You won't care about him ever again? Wasn't he part of your life too?" She added the questions that hovered over them for years.

Of course, Patrick would always be part of Art's life. Sometimes Art dreams about him. Distant dreams, about the academy, about games they played together, about competitions they won together. There are entire conversations Art has with Patrick in his head, they're never about what really matters. They come up when Art eats a date before a workout and manages to imagine Patrick laughing at him. He sometimes knows in what intonation Patrick would say things or what would be the crudest joke to think of so Patrick could say it in the middle of a bar full of potential sponsors. Art misses the moments they smuggled beer when they were minors. The talks about their hot math teacher. Tennis.

"I've come to terms with him not being in my life anymore, Liana, I came to terms with it a long time ago," Art said, his eyebrows furrowing for a second. No one in the world besides Liana would have noticed it, but he stood in front of her, and she recognized the lie. "Okay." She surrendered and heard him chuckle, "What? You've come to terms with it, what can I do about it?" She added. "Clearly, you have something to say, so say it." He said. "I'm tired of fighting with Patrick and about Patrick, it exhausts me. I'm too old to carry this anger. I think you are too. I love you, and I don't think I can keep trying to convince you that nothing and no one can change that."

"You're quite convincing, Ms. Donaldson," he started moving closer to her until he finally stopped in front of her, moving his hand to her back pocket while hugging her possessively. Even though no one was around. "I'm not married to you yet. I can still call the whole thing off," She muttered into him what she told him every night from the moment he proposed and started calling her that. He just nodded and pulled her even closer to him.

"I can't believe he lives here," Art muttered as they stood at the entrance to Patrick's apartment. The suburb was uncharacteristic. None of them imagined Patrick would live in such a... quiet neighborhood. Liana ran her hand over Art's collar, straightening his sweater as she always did before they entered places together. "Behave. It's just one evening, and we can leave after half an hour if we want." Liana told him, seeing his eye roll.

Casey, Patrick's perfectly blond girlfriend, who wasn't actually a million years younger than him as Liana initially thought, enthusiastically opened the door. "You came," she smiled. It seemed genuine. Genuine enough for Liana to find it hard to be mad at her. "We brought wine and flowers," Liana handed her the wine, and Art handed over the flowers he was holding. Patrick stood behind her, looking amused but not saying a word. "Good to see you," he smiled at them. Liana nodded as Patrick extended his hand to Art, who took his time but eventually shook it. "Do you want a tour of the house? That's what adults do when they invite someone over, right?" he added, trying to lighten the mood, knowing Liana wouldn't refuse to see a house she had never been to. It was one of her favorite things to do. When they lived in London, she would drag him to various open houses, and they would pretend they were about to buy homes they couldn't really afford, just so she could see them.

"We'd love to," Liana said with a smile. Patrick's house looked like it was taken from a magazine. Like a catalog of how a home should look. She saw his mother's touch in the pictures he hung in the living room, in the candlesticks she saw on one of the shelves. "This is a good neighborhood to live in. My dad is big in real estate, and he recommended the area," Casey didn't stop talking, and secretly, Liana wanted to thank her for it because otherwise, they would have been walking around in awkward silence, moving from room to room as if they were on one of those London tours, surrounded by strangers.

"Who wants something to drink?" Patrick suddenly asked, and everyone raised their hands. Thank God. In the dining room, more people had already gathered, some of their mutual friends from the tennis academy. Liana thanked every god she knew that it wasn't just the four of them. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, and Liana couldn't help but wonder if she was the reason Art didn't spend enough time with his friends. If he was wasting too much time keeping her company. She would have to ask him about it when they got home.

Casey was sweet. It was infuriating how friendly she was and how she tried to include Liana in a conversation about Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. It was almost infuriating when she asked her how the wedding preparations were going and made everyone interested in her and Art's wedding arrangements.

Art and Patrick went out to the balcony with beer. It was inevitable; after all, that's why Patrick organized all this, to put the past behind, to lie to Art's face, to find the right moment to return to the lives of the two people who were once his greatest motivation. "You're getting married," Patrick said suddenly, and Art swallowed, looking at who was once his best friend. "You won't be able to stop it, Patrick," Art said. "I'm here because she needed this, but I know what you're doing." He continued, not taking his eyes off the guy in front of him, who was once so close but today, when Art looked at him, all he saw was ruin. He saw Patrick destroying his life without blinking, without thinking twice. He had already done it once. Art wouldn't let it happen again; he was more prepared this time.

"I'm not trying to ruin things for you, man. I'm happy for you. For you both. Isn't this what you wanted?" Patrick asked Art while the latter took another sip of beer, leaning on the balcony and watching Patrick light a cigarette. "Want one?" he offered Art the pack. "I don't smoke," Art muttered, almost ashamed of the fact that he didn't live his rebellious youth like Patrick clearly still did, almost ashamed of the fact that their achievements were starting to look similar, but Art was doing everything by the book while even Patrick's expressions were smug. "Of course not," Patrick nodded his head, talking half to Art and half to himself, causing Art to roll his eyes.

"I'm not trying to ruin things for you," he repeated. "So what are you trying to do?" Art asked. "You don't care about Casey; I can see that. I know you." He continued, trying to press, trying to find weak spots. He couldn't leave this house without understanding the endgame of his most important competitor. "She's nice. It's fun with her," Patrick shrugged in response, and Art nodded. "It feels strange that you're getting married and I'm not part of either of your lives. Isn't that strange, Art?" Patrick sighed. "You haven't been part of our lives for a long time, Patrick," Art stated a fact. "I know," Patrick muttered. "Do you remember when you came to ask me for her key?" Art suddenly asked, and Patrick looked at him confused. "She and I had the fight, and about a week later, you asked me to give you the spare key to her room," he reminded him, and Patrick nodded slowly. "I told you not to do it. You made your choice that day," Art shrugged as if it no longer mattered to him. "Are you going to hold that over my head forever, Art? That was almost seven years ago," Patrick looked at him from the chair he was sitting on. "It was a pretty defining moment, Patrick," Art explained. "Look, man, she wants us to be okay, so we can be civil to each other." He continued, "I'm not at a stage where I'm looking for friends. I have everything I need."

"I didn't do it to ruin things for you, Art. It was never to ruin things for you," Patrick said suddenly, laughing in frustration and taking another drag from his almost finished cigarette. "So what was it?" Art asked. He looked at Patrick as if he were dirt he needed to scrape off his shoe. A problem he needed to solve. An obstacle to overcome. "It wasn't about you. It was for her. I would do anything for her. You're about to marry her; you surely know how that feels," Patrick sighed, feeling defeated.

"So that's why you cheated on her?" Art suddenly asked. It bothered him. Because for years, he managed to find logic in Patrick's behavior. He knew he loved Liana. He knew he cared for her in London. He imagined their relationship in his head as ideal. They were always closer than he and Liana were. They never fought just to fight; she never looked at him like she hated him because he ordered ice cream she didn't like or forced her to watch tennis or said something that made her parents laugh at her expense. She and Patrick were always ideal in Art's mind, and he envied that quite a bit when they were young. He regretted more than once that he introduced them, that he didn't keep his worlds separate. He envied them before he even realized how much he loved Liana. Then he found out Patrick cheated on her. And more than he hated him for how he made Liana feel, he hated the fact that all those years he believed she was in a relationship with someone more deserving than him. With someone who loved her more than Art knew how to love her, while Patrick was lazy, cruel, and unfaithful. And for that, he couldn't forgive him. For the time he took from them. For the illusion he shattered for both of them. "That's between Liana and me, Art," Patrick muttered. "You're saying choosing her all those years ago was inevitable because you loved her, and I would have accepted that two years ago. I would have, really. I would be sitting here thinking it made sense and that I would also choose Liana without hesitation because, it's Liana, and I love her, and I thought you loved her like that too. But then I saw you cheat on her and found out it wasn't the first time." Art stopped to catch his breath, his hand clenching into a fist irrationally. "I would never do that, Patrick. You ruined our friendship and didn't really choose her. Why? Was it worth it?" He didn't take his eyes off him. "You don't know how it was, Art. When it was just me and her. You don't know the level of expectations and disappointments. You don't know anything," Patrick felt the need to defend himself. Because if there was one thing that couldn't be taken from him, it was his love for Liana. "Poor Patrick, someone loves him and expects him to fulfill his potential. How could anyone not sympathize?" Art spoke in a mocking tone.

"Do you want to know what I think, Patrick?" Art approached him after a few seconds of silence. "Go on," Patrick's jaw clenched. "I think you don't love her. I think you love the idea that you can take what's mine. But you can't. You can beat me in tennis. But that's not what's important. It's a means to an end. The end will always be a good life for Liana and me. I think you're still sure you're hot shit, that without effort, you can keep taking what's not yours. That without looking people in the eye, you can hurt them, and they'll keep letting you off." Art stopped to breathe as they both didn't blink for a moment. "That's not the case. I'm not buying what you're selling here. Do you want to be invited to our wedding? Fine, I don't care. It's up to Liana, but you're not part of our lives, and you won't be." He finished, and Patrick let out a laugh that sounded like a deep breath.

"If you go to her workplace again, I'll make sure your next sponsor is painkillers." Art said as he moved toward the balcony door, feeling done with this conversation and the evening in general, wondering if it was too early to leave. "Good talk, pal," Patrick said sarcastically. "Yeah, good talk." Art muttered and left, leaving Patrick in a house full of people yet completely alone on the balcony.

When Art sat next to Liana on the couch, she was in the middle of a conversation with Brody's girlfriend. Art wasn't paying enough attention to remember her name. "Everything okay?" she whispered in his ear a few minutes later. "Everything's great." He felt her lips brush against his cheek for a moment. "We need to use our excuse?" she asked, and he looked at her for a moment, seeing her feel more comfortable with the people and not wanting to take that away from her. "Soon, it's all good." He smiled and nodded, watching her return to the conversation. He could endure another half hour in the hell called Patrick Zweig's apartment. He could do it for Liana.

Come to think of it, he could do almost anything for Liana.

Hey guys!!! It's been so long and I'm sorry. As you know, my computer was dead for a while, and then I was kinda taken aback by those hate comments. But we're back! What do we think? What does Patrick want? What about Art's reaction? Any thoughts at all? Hope you are still enjoying it. Talk to me and feel free to send more ideas for blurbs as well <3

taglist (if anyone wants to join, just ask): @lydiaxkirby @suzysface tqd4455 @soberbabes @nina357 @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

#the time of our lives #challengers fic #art donaldson #patrick zweig #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #challengers #tashi duncan

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