#let’s not even get into how tashi AND patrick are trying to do right by him

[the-woman-upstairs]

Really fucked up that, when they’re young, Patrick and Art are SO tactile with each other, so comfortable sharing the same space. Art lets Patrick touch him and move him and physically overwhelm him and easily acquiesces to it, if not outright enjoys it.

Then in the present, they’ve been so far out of each other’s orbit for so long, held such animosity that when they have their moment alone in the sauna, Art physically recoils from Patrick’s close proximity! It’s so painful to watch because even as Patrick’s goading him, it’s so obvious he wants to be able to get back into Art’s space. But Art has erected all these walls around himself, he refuses to give Patrick an inch or even admit to missing how close they used to be!

AND THEN we see Art and Tashi later and he wants her to hold him, to be gentle with him, and just TOUCH him. Like, he does miss that kind of close physical contact! He either doesn’t know how to ask for it or is uncomfortable being that openly vulnerable. Worth noting that he pretty much always defers to Tashi in regard to initiating physical intimacy (with their first kiss, though he does state his desire, SHE has to be the one to make the first move). And it seems pretty obvious that Tashi herself isn’t comfortable providing that intimacy, whereas Patrick actively seeks to provide it (the hug/forehead kiss after their win together in the early years, dragging the stool closer to him).

Art has tried very hard to act like he doesn’t need physical affection and even though his discipline and devotion to Tashi has made him a stronger tennis player, it’s made him a hollow person, which, in turn, has kept him from becoming a GREAT tennis player.

All of this, of course, is why the ending hits so damn hard.

[sunsburns]

been thinking about dating college!art and you get into a really big fight until he decides to show up at your dorm *cough* make up sex *cough*

i had wayy too much fun with this… SMUT 17+

“i’m still mad at you, you know.” there’s no real bite to your bark, not when your voice is breathless, your cheeks are flushed, and your hands keep running through his hair.

“yeah, i know,” art drawls, his voice softening. he says it because a part of him knows it’s true, but he can’t help the faint smile that grows on his face. he knows you won’t stay mad for long, but he still feels the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. he’d do anything to make it up to you. with every press of his lips, he mutters a quiet “i’m sorry,” against your skin, then grazes his teeth along your ankle before making his way up your leg.

he’d thought of a million different things to say to you, how he would stand his ground or cave to your defences. but all of it was thrown out the window the moment you opened that door. you were wearing his shirt—or maybe it was patrick’s, maybe even tashi’s—and a pair of panties. the sight of your messy desk, covered in textbooks, notebooks, and your open laptop, reminded him you were doing homework, or trying to. but the ache in his chest at the thought of you hating him was overwhelming.

it was killing him knowing you were upset, and he was the cause of it. that’s why art had taken a trip to the nearest farmer’s market the moment he was off the court, and he bought you flowers and your favourite snack and knocked on your door.

now the flowers are forgotten by your desk, the snacks on the floor, and you’re still trying to keep up the act that you’re mad at art. but the truth is, you can’t even remember what you were mad at him about in the first place. 

the way he looks at you, with such earnest remorse and tenderness, makes it hard to hold onto your anger. you sigh, running your fingers through his hair again, feeling the tension between you start to melt away.

“i hate how you do this to me,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. art’s eyes meet yours, and he pauses, his lips hovering just above your knee.

“i know,” he says again, his voice filled with a mix of regret and hope. his hands roam up the sides of your thighs, fingers brushing your ass before they turn into the curve between your legs. “but i’m here now,” he presses a kiss against your hot skin again, making his way up, up, and up. “and i want to make it right.”

as he continues his gentle kisses, moving slowly and tenderly, you feel your defences crumbling. the anger that once felt so strong is now just a distant memory. art’s presence, his touch, his voice, his words, all of him- it’s all you can think about.

he looks up at you, sitting on the bed while he kneels before you. you’re watching him, waiting for his next move when he is still between your legs. 

when you run your nails against his scalp, art doesn't bother hiding the quiet whimper that slips past his lips before he closes his eyes and leans his head towards your arm. 

he lets you hold him while his hands trail up your sides, reaching and groping anything he can before his fingers tug at your panties, and he carefully slips them off you.

when he kisses your clit, you rest your leg over his shoulder, heel pressing against the muscles of his back. his arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you closer while he starts to eat you out. 

art starts slow, calculated strokes of his tongue against you, running it in tight circles against your clit, dipping it lower when he gets a little more confident. when you arch your back and whine, pushing his head closer so you can ride his face, he starts to pick up the pace, hoping to hear that sound come out of you again.

when his tongue pokes at your cunt, it draws a loud moan out of you, blood rushing to your ears. “fuck, art,” you whimper, grinding against his face. “feels so good.”

art seems to like it more than you, eyes closed in bliss, humming and moaning against your cunt, each vibration from his mouth making you spiral. his hips buck up into nothing, but he doesn't seem to mind as his hands hold onto you tighter, as if he is afraid to lose you. 

“you’re so pretty like this,” you barely manage to get out, your heart thumping against your chest.

art moans again at your praise and finally opens his eyes to meet your burning gaze. his low, nearly pathetic whine with his eyes on you was what it took to push you over the edge.

art lets you ride it out, he lets you grind against his face, he lets you use him again and again and again until you’ve had your fill and there is nothing left of him.

and when you cup his cheeks and bring his face to yours and kiss him like you have a one-track mind, he has an inkling feeling that you're not mad at him anymore. you press your forehead against his, hand cupping the back of his neck, and he lets out a sigh and you breathe it in. 

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, one more time, to make sure you know he means it.

you smile, offering him half a shrug and another kiss. “just let me return the favour.”

[serafilms]

the golden quartet

art donaldson x reader, slight tashi duncan x reader, slight patrick zweig x reader, wc: 2k

author’s note: basically just a way less toxic (?) version of the movie with the reader inserted. they’re all still incredibly codependent and tashi/reader are very much in love and art/patrick are very much in love and art/tashi have their own kind of friendship/relationship and so do patrick/reader, but really patrick and tashi are one couple, art and reader are another couple, but like they would all live together and probably sleep in the same bed hypothetically. but in a healthy way. i like to imagine a world where they’re all codependent but skip all the “villain” allegations in their mess, and it’s just a beautiful unspoken symphony of love and four-way fidelity and infidelity. will probably write more in this universe.

part two here

“Tashi, stop it.”

Tashi stops and her eyes lock in on you, racket dropping to her side. “Stop what?”

You watch the way she bounces the ball a few times and don’t miss the way her gaze keeps flitting to your hand.

“Stop analysing me.”

She lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and doesn’t break your gaze. “It’s my job to analyse the opponent so I know how to win the game.”

“Yeah, but you’re not looking at me like an opponent.” Your lips purse. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to calculate how to get me back on the court.”

“You’re on the court right now, aren’t you?”

“You know what I mean, Tashi.” Your racket falls to the court exasperatedly and you manage a step towards the net. “It’s over for me, I’m done playing tennis and I’m okay with that, but I’m not sure that you are.”

There’s just a tiny quiver in her eyes before her gaze steels itself again and she nods. “Fine. I get it.”

She tosses you the ball. “Just help me train.”

You watch as Tashi gets into position, and pick up your racket slowly. Maybe you shouldn’t have snapped at her. You so rarely do, but you’ve closed the door on that chapter of your life now, and you’re sick of her trying to pry it open. You don’t want possibilities of what you could have had. You don’t want to put in more years just to watch yourself fail at something you never really liked in the first place.

There’s a dull ache in your chest as you serve the ball.

Tashi Duncan has been your best friend for five years. For the life of you, you can’t remember the details of the tournament you were at, but you had a game against her. It was electrifying. You’d never played tennis like that before. It felt like you’d never known what it was like to breathe before Tashi Duncan. She basically crushed you, but you managed to get in a good few points, had the audience and line judges on the edge of their seats, and at the end of it, when you shook her hand, you felt like you’d just discovered a missing limb.

She found you afterwards in the stands and sat with you to spectate the next few matches. And hadn’t let you go since. You couldn’t imagine a life without Tashi. She was there for your first boyfriend, she was there when you broke up with him, she was there when you failed a class and your parents threatened to pull you out of tennis, and she was there when your wrist shattered and you quit.

Tashi never really understood why it was so easy for you to walk away. “You’re one of the best,” “You have so much potential,” “You can learn to play with your other hand.”

She never seemed to hear you when you said you didn’t want to play anymore. She’d look at you, with her piercing gaze then look away and move on. But the conversation was never over. It was like you didn’t exist to her without tennis, like it was your one achievement, and she couldn’t gauge who you were without it.

You suppose you were flattered, touched even, that she cared so much about you, in her own weird way.

Tashi looks at you questioningly when you lower your racket. You smile, “You should rest up. Your drills are perfect. You’re gonna crush her tomorrow.”

She takes a look at her watch, then nods. You can tell she wants to stay longer, but there’s really no reason to. Especially when you can feel her itching for a real match. That you can’t give her.

You bump her shoulder as the two of you walk out. “Wanna grab some donuts?”

The unimpressed face she gives you makes you laugh. “Come on, we can get you one of those healthy ones. The gluten-free, vegan bullshit.”

“Sounds delicious,” she drawls, but makes no further comments. You grin. A success.

She says nothing as you swing your borderline crippled arm over her shoulder, but you feel her muscles underneath relax just a little bit.

The following day brings a new round of pretentious young assholes on the court. Some of them eye you up as you make your way into the bleachers, whispering to each other. A girl comes up to you and asks for a picture. You’re a little surprised, and feel a little blindsided, but you suppose it’s only been a year since your injury. And well, considering where you are right now, it sure does seem to the rest of the world like you’re not fully done with tennis.

“Yeah, no problem,” you say with a smile.

The girl takes the picture, thanks you profusely then leaves, and you make your way up to the bleachers, and find a nice spot in the middle. Tashi liked you to be right in the middle of the game so you could watch her and her opponent. You wonder if she’s secretly preparing you to become an umpire.

There’s a flurry of whispers all too close to you, and then there’s a shadow blocking the sun to your left.

Two boys stand facing you, staring at you with their mouths slightly agape. You can’t help the amused smile that splits your face.

“Can I help you?”

The brunet snaps back into reality first. “Sorry, we were just— are you Y/N L/N?”

“Yeah, I am,” you say, eyes flitting between the two. They’re cute. Really cute.

The blond shakes his head slightly, like he’s coming out of a trance, and says, “Sorry, this is just the first time we’ve seen or heard about you since….you know.”

He winces, and his head ducks a little like a scolded puppy. “Sorry to hear about that, by the way.”

You let out a laugh that seems to catch his attention again. His friend jabs him in the side with his elbow. “Oh, don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s been a year, I’m over it.”

“Huh,” he says, nodding a little absently. He glances to the brunet, who’s just grinning at him. “Um, by the way, we’re—“

“Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig, right?”

The blond, Art, looks a little speechless.

Patrick chimes in. “Yeah, that’s us.”

“I watched your game just before. That was quite some victory celebration.”

The way Art’s ears turn red makes you happier than you’d like to admit. There’s a little flip in your stomach as he fumbles, “Yeah, well…”

There’s a flurry of movement as Patrick puts his arm around Art’s neck and pulls him impossibly close in a one armed hug. “Social conduct’s not gonna get in the way of me celebrating with my boy.”

The blond leans away and fights to get Patrick off him, and you smile as you watch. “Don’t worry, it was cute. Plus, I get it. We’re sort of the same way sometimes when it comes to victories. I mean, not the same, but you know.”

That seems to catch Patrick’s attention. “By we, do you mean you and—“

“Tashi Duncan!”

The announcement rings loud and clear through the speakers as she walks onto the court.

It’s almost comical the way Patrick’s jaw goes slack and he slumps onto the seat behind him.

You watch as Tashi waves at her screaming fans, shoots her winning smiles and makes her way to her side. She catches your gaze for a moment and you nod. She looks away and begins to stretch, but you’re not bothered. She knows you’re here, and that’s all you need. Can’t try and take Tashi Duncan out of the zone.

As you sit down, you’re a little surprised to find Art mirroring the action, still looking at you. “So, you’re best friends with Tashi Duncan?”

You nod. “Since we were like, thirteen.”

“Oh wow,” his eyes widen and you can’t help but think how impossibly cute he looks, “that’s almost how long Patrick and I have been friends.”

“Really? Oh, wow.” There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for you to catch each other’s eye and look away with awkward giggles.

Luckily, that’s when the match starts. And your focus locks in.

“COME ON!” Tashi’s scream is palpable in the air.

It feels like the wind has been knocked out of you. You’ve heard it a million times before, but it never fails to strike you.

There’s something akin to awe in Patrick’s eyes. Art looks like he’s in disbelief.

You can’t help but agree with their faces.

“So, are you guys coming to the party tonight?”

Patrick’s eyes flit away from Tashi’s to look at you. “Yeah, we were just talking about earlier. Art was saying how excited he was. He just loves parties.”

You can’t quite decipher the smirk on his face, but he looks like the kind of guy who’s never up to any good, so you turn to Art expectantly.

His eyes meet yours and your stomach does another little flip as he says, “Yeah, I’ll— we’ll be there.”

“Cool,” you reply. “I’ll see you guys later, then.”

You manage one quick glance back as you walk away, and see Patrick grinning and shaking Art’s shoulders. A smile plays at the corner of your lips and you leave.

Tashi finds you at your agreed-upon meeting spot, and wastes no time in grabbing your hand. “Come on.”

“Don’t you need to take pictures with your trophy?”

“Got a few, they’ll take more at the Adidas party. We’ve got to get ready.”

There’s a warm feeling like sunlight dancing in your chest as you let her drag you away.

The party is in full swing by the time you finally spot Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig lurking in the corner of the yard.

You’d just stepped off the dance floor for a moment, telling Tashi you were going to get another drink. The two boys seem to be arguing about something, but as you close the distance, you can see that they’re grinning too.

“Hey,” you greet the two. Their heads turn towards you in unison and they both stand up straight.

“Hi,” they chorus.

You take a sip of your drink as your eyes flit between the two. “So….what are you guys doing all the way over here?”

“You know,” Art says dryly. “Just enjoying the ambience.”

(Cute and funny. Man, you’re screwed).

“It’s a lot less creepy if you actually talk to her instead of just staring at her.” Your words are directed at Patrick, whose eyebrows shoot up. A smirk falls on his face. His charm instantly covers up the awkwardness.

Art barks out a laugh. (It’s a sound you wish you could inscribe in your mind).

“What makes you think I’m here for her?” Patrick smirks, looking you up and down. It’s so clearly a deflection, but it feels so natural that you can’t help but smile, and you feel your cheeks warm just a tad.

You glance back at the dance floor, and see Tashi excuse herself, glancing at you as she goes for her drink. You reach over to pat him on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”

As you turn on your heel and walk towards Tashi, you hear a slap behind you and an, “Ow!”

“Tashi!” The smile in your voice is audible as she looks up.

“Hey,” she smiles back.

Then, her head tilts to the side and she looks at the boys. “Hi.”

“Hi,” they both say.

There’s a quiet moment in which you all exchange looks, a twinkle in each of your eyes. You can almost feel a spark of something in the air, and suddenly you’re thirteen years old again, meeting Tashi for the first time. Like another puzzle piece has finally fallen into place.

You feel your chest warm. If only you knew what your life was about to become.

[murdrdocs]

masturbation mention; handjobs; college!art; fem!reader; no spoilers MDNI 18+ w/ ART DOANLDSON

when art donaldson gets a boner, it's nearly impossible for it to go down. he's tried everything in the book. well, everything in patrick's book—taking a cold shower, thinking about his grandmother in her underwear, changing his position. but nothing has ever worked, leaving him to excuse himself at inconvenient times so he could fist his cock until he was satisfied.

but being here with you, art can't do that. he's already flaked on your study sessions one too many times and he really, really doesn't want to have to flake again. for a reason as trivial and embarrassing as a boner at that.

he really didn't mean for it to happen. but he just happens to be in your space, surrounded by your trinkets, watching you move around in a pair of shorts that reminded him of the pair tashi wore that night. which got him thinking about the situation he was in just a year ago. which made him imagine you and him in a situation similar, perhaps even with tashi and patrick there.

you're speaking to him. your hands are moving in patterns that art should recognize, and you're lips are moving, too. but he's distant. distracted.

he blinks twice, shaking the overgrown blond curls out of his face as he fixes his gaze on you again.

"'m ... i'm sorry. what were you saying?"

you drop your hands and place them in your lap. you look disappointed.

"dude. i'm really trying to pass this midterm."

art drops his head. he initially does it in an act of shame, but then he notices your hands resting along your glistening skin and he's suddenly made aware of his boner once more. he groans, resting his elbows into the decorative pillow covering his lap as he covers his face with his hands.

"i know, i know. i'm really, really sorry." he sniffs, straightens up, and focuses all of his attention on studying with you. but now it's you who's distracted.

you tilt your head and eye him up and down. art, worrying that you might have fucking x-ray vision or something, adjusts the way he’s sitting. he thinks he's being casual, but then he clears his throat and looks off to the side and he can hear your small 'oh'.

“haven’t tried thinking about your grandmother?”

art, embarrassed at having been caught, says nothing.

“want me to help you out?” you offer. you say it like a joke, so art laughs. but then you don’t laugh, too.

you’re staring at him, a small smile on your lips as you push your weight into your hands behind you. the twin XL bed can only allow so much room, so even as you’re leaning away from him art feels like you’re right there.

“you’re joking, right?”

you take a second, and then you shake your head.

and that’s how art ends up digging his hands into your sheets as he watches your hand glide over his cock through heavy eyes.

you’re sitting with your feet tucked under your butt, one hand scratching through art’s hair and the other working on his cock.

art’s free hand is pressing into the line of skin between your top and shorts.

you’re doing so well, making him feel so good, but you still ask for confirmation through a low voice.

“does this feel good?”

and your face is so much closer to him than he thought. your voice is right next to his ear. it travels down through him, making even more blood rush to his cock if even possible.

art nods, tearing his eyes away from your hand wrapped around his cock to look at you. but you’re already looking at him, your hand pulling on a loose curl of his while you smile. art smiles back, just before you pull him closer and press your lips to his.

kissing distracts you, so art takes over. he shifts his cock up into your hand, doing the work for you. he circles his hand around your back and pulls you closer until he can feel your breasts pushing against his arm through your shirt. whatever bra you’re wearing must be thin, because art can feel your nipples poking him.

he means to warn you. he wants to let you know before it happens. but you regain some of your focus and your thumb presses into his tip, and he’s thinking about how you told him he had a pretty dick, and he can feel your tits and suddenly his hips are lifting and cock is twitching and he’s cumming all over your hand and his thighs.

[gladiatorcunt]

hey ryn!!!!! sooo i saw this (nsfw link incoming)

https://x.com/sexarchiv/status/1736871466501648453

and was desperate to hear your thoughts on this w patrick +++ art watching

love you love you🎖️💕

hi!!!!! i’m sorry this is so late but i went crazy over the link and art does a lil more than watch but i hope you like it 💘💘💘

cw: 18+ mdni, art and patrick make out during this (nsfw twt link), implied sub reader / switch patrick / dom art, one use of daddy, gross patrick who whines a lot, art being lowkey possessed by tashi (he’s on something in this one), nipple play (?), teasing, unedited

It’s a quiet night in with your boyfriends, there’s left over pizza in the fridge and the roku city background on the tv casts a soft purple glow over your shared bedroom. You’re too tired to get changed, the three of you lounge on the king sized bed in various states of undress. It’s supposed to snow during the night, so there’s just a sort of cozy vibe in the air. You really weren’t intending on being intimate with your boyfriends for the rest of the day, but absentminded strokes up Patrick’s sweaty torso quickly turn into palming his thick bulge in his boxers. Patrick softly groans, squirming and spreading his legs to give you better access.

Art slips his hand into his matching set of briefs and pumps his dick to hardness, synching his strokes up with yours. He shuffles up the bed to lie down right next to Patrick, using one arm to move Patrick to lay back against him. Art leans his head on Patrick’s, ready to tease and whisper whenever he sees him getting sensitive. Patrick automatically puckers his lips for a kis but Art cruelly denies him, not wanting to distract the other man from your touches. Somehow your hand manages to look small in comparison to Patrick’s girth, and Art squeezes his balls as he imagines it around his own length.

“He’s gonna cum too fast.” Art says, knowing that you don’t take control with Patrick like he does, but goading you on regardless.

“You just feel so good, ‘s not my fault.” Patrick moans as your thumb circles around his pinkish red cock head.

You dip your nail into the slit and lean down to let some of your saliva slowly drip down onto his aching cock. With the added lube, you pump your hand a few more times and put your wrist into it. You’re so lost in the deep groans coming from above you and seeing his pretty cock somehow pull off looking like it’s on the verge of tears that you almost forget that there’s an end goal to all of this. You’re just so in love and in actual awe of how gorgeous a dick can be, Patrick’s nastier overall but it only makes his cock look even better.

The tip is glistening and you peck it a couple times, grinning at the tiny beads of precum that trickle out of his slit. Art reflexively licks his lips and thumbs his own head, just enoying his partners playing with each other and being more than very appreciative of his favorite show. The atmosphere is so sleepy and relaxed that not many words are being spoken. It’s most a flurry of soft grunts, whines, and sweet nothings that are lost to the white noise from different sources around you.

“Go ahead and make daddy cum while I give him kisses, ‘kay?” Art coos, more at Patrick than you as he tilts his chin up with one finger and softly presses their lips together.

The kiss soon turns into a frenzied slide of their lips, swapping so much spit that their tongues actually hardly touch. You squeeze your thighs together before going back to what you were doing, trying your hardest to not cum on the spot because of them. You push your shirt down just under your tits, hissing as a rush of cold air hits your already hard and sensitive nipples. Patrick jumps like he’s been shot when you lower your full tits to brush against his weeping cock, circling your thumb around the head and tracing a vein or two.

He whines into his kiss with Art as you lower yourself even further to press your nipple into his tip. He stops being an active participation in the makeout session, too preoccupied with the teasing touch of your nipple gliding up and down his cock head. Something about your nipples being so small but so soft to the touch, getting him so worked up over the tiniest bit of flesh. It’s a feeling that’s akin to circling a vibrator around his length, but your nipples ghosting along his dick make him want to sob. He relases a symphony of broken sounds into Art’s lips, softly spoken and inhuman.

You grip the base of Patrick’s cock, holding it steady as you gingerly move your nipple up and down the tip. You take your time to really press it in deep, squishing it a bit as you force it all around him. This has you ready to cum too, the chilly air combined with how wet Patrick’s cock is sets your brain on fire, but you’re not about to have to clean your panties and be embarrassed. Art’s right, it doesn’t take much of you dragging your nipples over his slit and around his puffy tip before he’s oozing all over your hand and tits. You work him through his quick orgasm, slowing down the speed of your nipple and moving to drag it along his entire length now.

You even circle it around his balls, heartbreakingly slow but you’re not trying to make him blow his load again. Art soothes Patrick through his twitching, if the wet smacks of lazy french kisses are anything to go by.

You look up to see Art give you a two finger ‘come here’ gesture, and when you’ve crawled back up the bed to join them, you notice how damp his underwear is. Art pulls you into their kiss and drags your sticky hand to cover his soaked bulge, keeping it there as you spend no time rushing this languid embrace with your boyfriends. Before you know it they’ll be back on the court and all they’ll have time for is near bloody quickies in your shower until they head back out to practise.

Art hums, lifting his hand to pet you and Patrick, sucking both of your tongues and giggling at the whimpers you let out.

“It’s my turn now, hm?”

[fruitjoos]

serving up suds!

parings: patrick zweig x fem!reader / art donaldson x tashi duncan

word count: 3.9k

summary: you and the rest of the girls on the tennis team need to figure out a way to earn money for new uniforms. your boyfriend suggests the best idea.

contains: SMUT 18+ with lots of cute boyfriend patrick plot, fluff, only contains art and tashi as side characters (sorry), suggestive language between art and tashi, oral (m receiving), inaccurate numbers probs, if you think anything else should be added, please let me know!

note: wrote this simply because i love and miss pookie patrick zweig so enjoy… i planned to post i choose you but wanted to post this instead! also, not edited – will be doing so shortly.

You stood in front of Coach Williams, arms crossed and brows furrowed, your frustration barely masked. “We don’t even have proper uniforms,” you said, voice tight. “They just told us to wear red tank tops and the shortest white shorts we could find. It’s ridiculous. No one takes us seriously.”

It had been a minor irritation at first, something you could almost shrug off as a small injustice. But when you found out that the boys' team, including your boyfriend Patrick, had crisp, matching uniforms—with collars and the school logo stitched on the chest—your irritation curdled into anger. They looked like a team. They looked respectable. And you? You and the other five girls on the team looked like a mismatched afterthought.

A few of you had approached Coach Williams, hoping she’d understand, hoping she’d do something. You told her how embarrassing it was to stand on the court, mismatched and disheveled, while the boys walked by in their pristine gear. She’d just sighed and said the school didn’t have the funds. “Those boys raised the money themselves,” she added, almost proud. “If you girls want uniforms that badly, you’ll have to do the same.”

You groaned. Right, like it was that simple. You had done the math in your head—the cost would be at least a thousand dollars to get anything decent, something that would make you all look polished and cohesive. You wanted sharp collars, the school name embroidered in neat white stitching over your hearts, maybe even matching skirts. But there were only six of you, and $200 each was a lot to ask from college girls already juggling tuition, textbooks, meals, and a list of other expenses that never seemed to end.

The thought gnawed at you for days, and finally, you did something you never would’ve considered before. You went to Patrick. The two of you were sprawled out on the campus quad, the grass prickling your skin, the sun warm on your back. Patrick was fiddling with a Rubik's Cube he’d picked up from god knows where, twisting it clumsily, his focus entirely absorbed. You were trying to study, your math textbook open in front of you, but the thought of those damn uniforms kept distracting you. You sighed, louder than usual, trying to get his attention. He didn’t look up.

Another sigh, this one practically a groan. Patrick smirked, eyes still fixed on the colored squares in his hands. “Something on your mind?” he asked, voice teasing, as if he was enjoying your distress.

“Actually, yeah,” you said, sitting up and crossing your legs. “The girls’ tennis team needs uniforms.” He finally glanced up, confusion flickering in his eyes. “And I was wondering…” you trailed off, giving him a mischievous grin before reaching out to tickle his side. He jerked away, laughing, and caught your wrist. “...if you could, you know, maybe donate a little to help out.”

“You’re cute,” he said, kissing your cheek. “But I’m broke. Spent my allowance for the month already.”

Your head slumped against his chest, and you whined, letting the sound drag out, like a child who didn’t want to go to bed. “C’mon, Patrick. We need this.”

He chuckled, but you could sense his patience thinning. “Why don’t you do a fundraiser or something?” he suggested. “I don’t know, a bake sale?”

It was a simple idea, but it sparked something. You sat up straight, eyes bright with sudden inspiration. “A car wash!” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We could do a car wash! Who wouldn’t want to donate to a group of girls in bikinis?”

Patrick’s smile faded. “Wait, I meant like selling cookies or something, not—”

But you were already on your feet, packing your things, a plan forming in your mind. Oh you’ll be selling cookies all right. “Thanks, babe! I’ll call you later,” you said, barely looking back as you headed off to find the other girls.

Patrick’s voice trailed after you, a mix of amusement and resignation. “Great. This is going to end well, I’m sure.” But you didn’t care. For the first time in days, you felt a thrill of hope. If it took a little shamelessness to raise the money, so be it. At least the girls’ team would finally have the chance to be seen.

You stood outside Art Donaldson’s dorm room, tapping your foot impatiently, half-wishing you didn’t have to do this. You were almost certain Tashi was hooking up with him. Everyone on the courts could sense the weird tension between them, the way they eyed each other during practice. It wasn’t admiration for his technique, that was for sure. Art was talented, sure, but he played like a baby deer��deft, but awkwardly loose, stumbling into his own brilliance.

Your knuckles rapped softly against the door, and when it finally creaked open, you caught sight of Art’s glassy eyes and his half-buttoned shirt. You had to stifle a laugh. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and not because he was taking a nap. “Uh, is Tashi around?” you asked, already guessing the answer. Art glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he was checking to see if she was still there.

“Yeah, but she’s busy,” he said, with a casual shrug that didn’t quite hide his irritation.

“I’m sure,” you replied, tilting your head with a knowing grin. You leaned past him, raising your voice. “Tashi, come out here! I’ve got an idea!” Art winced, his expression morphing into a tight-lipped smile, the kind you give when someone’s overstaying their welcome. “She’ll be out in a minute,” he muttered, stepping back to let you linger in the doorway.

You could hear the faint sounds of shuffling before Tashi appeared, her hair tousled and her expression caught somewhere between glee and annoyance. “What are you doing here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Patrick gave me the best idea,” you said, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. She didn’t even try to hide her skepticism—those words didn’t belong in the same sentence, and she knew it.

“No, really,” you insisted, giving her a playful shove. “We should do a fundraiser!”

Tashi’s face softened slightly, but her arms remained crossed, a single brow arching. “A fundraiser?”

“Yes! Think about it—tight bikinis, soapy cars, a bunch of frat boys with too much cash to spare. We’d make bank!” You bounced on your toes, grinning—your excitement spilling out uncontrollably.

She scoffed, but you caught the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Maybe she was amused, or maybe it was just the sheer absurdity of the situation. “I’m not selling my body to a bunch of frat boys,” she said, shaking her head firmly.

“You’re literally in there with Art Donaldson,” you shot back, your shoulders slumping with exasperation.

Tashi’s eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, what’s that supposed to mean?”

You let out an awkward laugh, waving your hands. “Oh, nothing. Just making an observation.” You could see her jaw tense, but you pressed on, undeterred. “Anyway, I’m telling the other girls. We’re doing this, with or without you.” You winked, trying to keep things light, but Tashi’s expression was unreadable as she watched you turn and leave.

A week later, you found yourself in your dorm room, sorting through an array of colorful bikini tops. The whole plan felt like a gamble, but you were determined to make it work. You wanted it to be fun, at least, if you were going to be out there scrubbing cars for spare change. Patrick was sprawled on the edge of your bed, watching with a bemused expression. “You’re seriously going through with this?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“You suggested it!” you argued, as you adjusted the lettering on a handmade sign with your glitter gel pens.

“I suggested you bake cookies and sell them on campus,” he corrected, waving his hand as if to swat away the absurdity of your plan. “This is not what I meant.”

“We’re just washing cars,” you said, shaking your head as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And besides, it’s for a good cause.” You added a few more swirls and hearts to the sign, mockingly repeating his earlier words in a high-pitched voice before tossing a pink towel at him.

Patrick caught the towel and laughed, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

Grabbing your keys and the finished signs, you turned to him, flashing a grin. “Walk me over there,” you said, already halfway out the door.

He groaned, dragging himself to his feet. “I better get a free car wash out of this,” he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. The two of you headed down the hall, and as you passed by, you could almost imagine the scene—the sun beating down, water glistening, and a line of cars full of guys willing to fork over their cash just to see a group of girls make a splash. Maybe it was shameless, but you were desperate, and desperate times called for bold, glittery, bikini-clad measures.

The sun was barely up, but the day was already heating up as you and a few of the girls set up the buckets of sudsy water, sponges bobbing in the foam, and wrangled with the nearest hose. Patrick stood nearby, scanning the growing crowd like a bouncer at a club, his eyes narrowing at any guy who dared stare a little too long when you bent over to dip your sponge. He was protective like that, and maybe just a bit possessive, but you couldn’t deny it felt good having someone in your corner, even if he looked ready to body check anyone who ogled you.

You were just about to yell something smart at him when Tashi strolled up, the sound of her flip-flops soft on the concrete, and every head turned as she made her entrance. She was all long, tanned legs, glistening in the sunlight, a tiny bikini peeking out from under her daisy dukes, and she moved with a sort of effortless grace that made you want to both envy and applaud her. You let out a sharp whistle, catcalling her as she approached, unable to resist. She rolled her eyes.

“Careful, those eyes are gonna get stuck back there one day,” you said with a small smile on your lips, and you could tell she was enjoying the attention.

“You look so hot!” you squealed, bouncing on your toes. Tashi flicked her hair over her shoulder, pretending to be exasperated, but she knew she was killing it, and so did everyone else.

Hours passed, the sun climbing higher, scorching the asphalt, and the music thumped from the speakers you’d set up, loud enough to echo down the block. You and the girls took turns yelling at passersby, daring them to get their cars washed, and you couldn’t believe how fast the line grew. It felt like every guy within a five mile radius had suddenly remembered he needed a wash, and they queued up, engines idling, windows down, some leaning out just to get a better look.

Your bodies were practically spilling out of your clothes, skin glistening, slick with soap and sweat. You pressed up against car windows, sponges swirling over the glass, your laughter and chatter floating above the music. “Thank you!” you sang out, flashing bright smiles as you took crumpled bills from hands reaching out of car windows, a parade of faces you didn’t even recognize. You skipped over to where Patrick was standing, collecting the money, and tossed the latest stack of bills into the box he was holding.

The pink, glittery box which you wrote ‘Stick something in me!’ on. It was heavier than you’d expected; you were actually making bank.

Before you could turn back to the cars, Patrick caught your wrist and pulled you close, his hand warm and firm. He cupped your cheeks between his fingers, smushing them slightly, and before you could even register the movement, he kissed you hard, right there in front of everyone. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft. It was a claim, a brand, like he was marking his territory for all to see.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice low, but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. He wanted to remind you.

You blushed, caught off guard, but then a grin spread across your face. “I’m yours,” you repeated, just as firmly, before pulling him down and planting another kiss on his lips, making sure the message was clear. As you pulled back, you saw a few guys in line avert their eyes, and you laughed to yourself, a mix of pride and relief swelling in your chest. You had Patrick, you had the girls, and if things kept going this well, you’d have those uniforms too.

"Six-fifty… seven-fifty," Patrick counted, his voice low and steady, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and purples. You were sprawled out across the lawn, grass tickling your bare arms, and you watched him with a warm, tired smile, the kind of smile you give when everything feels just right for once. It had been a long, sweaty day, but now the breeze was gentle, like a cool kiss against your skin, and you felt almost weightless. Your body thrumming with a sense of accomplishment.

“Okay, that’s great!” you said, grabbing his arm, a burst of giddy excitement surging through you. Around you, the girls broke into their own cheers, hugging and high-fiving each other, still buzzing from the success of the day.

“And $100 from me,” Patrick said, pulling out a crisp bill from his wallet and tossing it into the box with a casual flick. The girls swarmed him, shaking his shoulders and showering him with thank-yous, calling him sweet, generous, the best. Even Tashi, who’d been leaning coolly against Art, broke into a grin, and she nudged him with her elbow. Art, who’d been half-pretending not to care, rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist. With a reluctant sigh, he parted with another $100, mumbling under his breath as he handed it over.

“Fine,” he said, almost as if the word hurt, but he was grinning a little, too, when the girls shrieked and patted his back. Rich people, you thought, shaking your head with a smirk. They always made it seem like giving was a struggle when it barely scratched the surface of their wallets.

You took a breath, pushing yourself up to your feet and looking at the small circle of girls around you, their faces flushed and glowing under the dimming sky. "I just want to say… thank you," you started, your voice slightly hoarse from yelling all day but still earnest. "I know this wasn’t exactly easy, but we did it. And I’m really proud." You reached into your own wallet, pulling out a $50 bill, twirling it between your fingers, and held it up like a trophy. “Here’s to us. And new uniforms!”

The girls erupted, their cheers echoing across the lawn, loud and jubilant, as if they’d just won a championship. For a moment, it felt like they had. The line between a football team scoring a last minute touchdown and a group of college girls hustling for their dignity had blurred, and you all basked in the glow of it, even as the day faded into night.

Later, you stumbled back to your dorm, too exhausted to think but too exhilarated to sleep. You flopped down on your bed, sinking into the mattress, letting out a long, satisfied sigh. You barely had time to close your eyes before Patrick followed, landing on top of you with a playful thud, his chin digging uncomfortably into your stomach.

“Ow,” you laughed, swatting at his head as he tried to adjust, mumbling an absent apology. He shifted, then propped himself up, and you cradled his face in your hands, tilting it up so you could look into his eyes. They were the soft blue of summer berries, glinting with mischief and tenderness, and you felt a sudden rush of affection that made your chest ache a little.

“I have the best boyfriend in the world,” you said, the words coming out soft, almost like a secret you were finally ready to admit. Patrick’s cheeks flushed a faint pink, something he did so rarely it was almost a treat to see. He gave you a shy, crooked smile, and you could tell he was savoring the moment, letting it hang in the air between you.

Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, slow and careful, his mouth tasting faintly of your pomegranate chapstick. It was gentle at first, then firmer, like he was memorizing every bit of sweetness. When he pulled back, his eyes were still half-lidded, and his lips curved into a teasing smile.

“So, what’s the reward for being the best boyfriend?” he murmured, his gaze flicking over your face, taking in every detail as if he hadn’t already committed them to memory. His eyelashes fluttered, casting a silhouette across his cheeks, and you felt a shiver of warmth spread through you.

His reward for enduring the humid, sticky air all day, the sun beating down relentlessly on his already sunkissed skin, was right here, pressed against him. He had been patient, sitting there with the box of crumpled bills, sweat glistening on his forehead, eyes darting protectively every time someone lingered a little too long on you. He deserved something for putting up with the heat, the endless chatter, and the occasional, awkward guy who looked like he wanted to challenge him just for standing there. And this was it. You, warm and pliant under his hands, your fingers tangled in his hair, lips brushing his, teasing, like you were savoring every second as much as he was.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head in mock contemplation. “Hmm, I guess I’ll have to think of something…” you said, running your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer until your noses touched. “Maybe a little more of this,” you whispered, your lips brushing his as you spoke, letting the promise linger in the space.

You rolled over, his back sinking into the worn mattress. You let your lips graze his jaw, then drifted down to his neck. He shifted under your touch, laughter mingling with a nervous squirm as your breath tickled his skin. “You’re so good to me,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his earlobe. “So supportive,” another kiss at his temple. “And so, so handsome.” A faint smile broke across his face, eyes closed, lost in the moment.

You let your fingers glide over the cool, metallic buttons of his shorts, tracing each engraved design as if it were spelling out something only you knew. You helped him pull them off, giggling as you threw them across the room. Your hand dipped into the dark mouth of his boxers, rummaging past his trimmed bush of curls, until your fingers closed around the smooth, familiar shape.

His hard cock slid out, catching the light above, precum gleaming, almost tauntingly. You held it up to your mouth, breathing in the faint trace of scent that lingered, delicate but intoxicating.

You stared at it for a moment, feeling a slow, subtle warmth unfurl in your chest. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at your lips, like the beginning of a secret, and you could feel the tension building under your skin, pooling low in your stomach. Something about holding it in your hand made you feel powerful, like you were in control.

The head was your favorite color—deep, cherry red and glistening like a polished gem when you pulled back his foreskin slowly. You slid it between your lips, supple and sweet. Your tongue circled over his tip, feeling the tiny slit. His sap dissolving against your taste buds. You closed your eyes, savoring the taste.

His arousal melted on your tongue, sweet and syrupy. A thin string of saliva stretched between your lips and the tip when you pulled it away, snapping when you moved it too far. It was deliciously wrong, like sneaking a piece of forbidden fruit.

"You’re so sweet," you murmured, almost to yourself, but loud enough for Patrick to hear. He glanced up, his expression lustful and high.

“Wanna taste it?” you asked, slightly lolling your head to the side. The way you said it was innocent, almost playful, but there was a glint in your eyes, a subtle edge to the offer. You leaned up to him, grazing your tongue over his lips. He moaned at the contact. You grabbed his jaw, letting the glob mixed of your saliva and himself fall onto the heart of his tongue. He groaned, letting it slide down his throat. “I love you.” he whimpered, sloppily inhaling your lips.

You furrowed your brows, mocking the desperate look in his eyes. You watched him, a slow smile curling on your lips. You hadn’t realized how much you’d loved being in control. It reminded you that, for once, you weren’t following the rules, and that felt more delicious than anything you’d tasted in a long, long time.

You pumped your hand up and down his shaft, practically begging him to release all over your pretty face. “You wanna come for me?” you asked with a sweet, honey tone. “I’m so close,” he panted, fingers tangling between your strands of hair. “Fu– please,” he cried, mouth gaping open while hips desperately bucked toward you.

Taking him in your mouth again, you slapped his stiff cock against your tongue, the familiar sensation flooding your mouth as saliva pooled in your cheeks. His fluids mixed with spit, oozing down your lips and pooling on your chin. It felt disgusting, the wetness creeping along your skin, but deep down, every drop was a small victory for making him feel good.

With each stroke, you watched the fizzy mixture drip, the mess clinging to your hand and wrist as you pumped vigorously. You squeezed him in your palms, watching him sputter. Come painting across your face. You bit your lip, trying to steady your hand, hoping you milked him empty. His slit deflating a little more with every squeeze. You could see the droplets peeking through, mocking you.

He threw his head back, catching his breath. “Feel good?” you teased, sucking your fingers. You slid your body up his, his bare cock still hard, brushing against the skin of your thigh. His body jolting at the touch.

"Thank you for your help today, baby," you murmured, letting your lips brush gently against the tip of his nose, a soft, affectionate kiss.

“Anytime,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “And don’t hesitate to bring me any other problems you’ve got,” he added, only half-joking, clearly savoring the reward you’d just given him. “I’m always glad to help.”

You laughed, the sound light and warm, as you slipped off the bed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased, padding across the room toward the bathroom to shower. You glanced back at him once more, a smile still tugging at the corners of your mouth, “You coming?” you ask, disappearing into the bathroom.

He slid off the bed in a hurried, awkward motion, the springs letting out a sharp, staccato creak that echoed through the room. His feet barely touched the floor before he was shuffling off, making his way into the bathroom behind you.

[miley1442111]

(part 6) ladies choice- a.donaldson

------------------------------

------------------------------

a/n: dw there are more parts after this :)

summary: how you start moving on, and how Art starts moving away.

pairing: art donaldson x fem! reader | patrick zweig x fem! reader

warnings: smut, piv (wrap it up plz), reader is mad mean to Tashi, usual upset and depressed Art, etc.

PART 6 of 12

------------------------------

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked. 

“I wanted to talk,” Patrick shrugged. His loose t-shirt hung off his well-hidden muscled torso and arms. 

“About what?”

“Your break-up.”

“If you’re about to try and convince me to get back with him-”

“No way!” he assured you.  “I wanted to see how you were. Art’s broke up about it but it’s not like he’s the one who got cheated on.”

You were both silent for a moment.

“How are you?” Patrick asked, fiddling with the straps of the tote bag over his shoulder.

You sighed. “Honestly, I’m kind of shit.” 

“I guessed. That’s why I brought ice cream,” he smiled sheepishly. “And I thought we could watch something?”

You smiled. “That sounds nice.”

“So let me in then,” he smiled. You opened the door and the night was full of laughter, ice-cream, and hazily falling asleep in his arms in your bed. 

------------------------------

“Stay in touch, yeah?” he smiled from the end of your bed. He had to leave, his train was in an hour and he wanted to be at the station before he missed it out of pure idiocy. He’d never been good with being on time. 

“Yeah,” you agreed and took his hand, lazily bringing it into your own. “Thank you for last night Pat.”

“Thank you, you make a lot of things a lot better.” 

You smiled at his compliment, and smiled even harder when he pressed a soft kiss to your hand before he left. 

------------------------------

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Art cursed, watching Patrick leave your dorm room. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Patrick shot back, a satisfied smirk on his face. 

“Visiting Y/n-”

“You mean your ex-girlfriend, right?” Patrick mocked and Art rolled his eyes. 

“I have some of her old stuff, I wanted to give it back,” Art admitted. “Now, what are you doing here?”

“You shouldn’t care. We’re not friends anymore, remember? And you and Y/n are broken up, because you cheated on her, remember?” 

Art felt the stab in his heart when he remembered his infidelity. He didn’t love Tashi. He loved you. He’d always love you. But Tashi and he made sense. Before you, he’d wanted Tashi. Now he couldn’t have you, Tashi was his second choice. 

“See you around, Arthur,” Patrick smiled, walking past him. 

Art was seething. 

------------------------------

“Are you fucking Patrick?” Tashi demanded, stalking onto the court as you ran drills. 

“No,” you answered, your focus staying on the balls being thrown at you by your coach.

“Then why did Art tell me you were?”

“Because he’s a liar?” You sighed after missing a ball. “Keep me out of your relationship, you’ve already fucked one of my boyfriend behind my back.”

Tashi rolled her eyes. “Why are you-”

“Focus on your injury, Tashi. Maybe one day you’ll be able to beat me,” you snarled. 

Tashi’s face fell. 

“Oh wait, no you fucking won’t. ‘Cause you’ll never play again,” you snapped. “Now get off the court, actual athletes are trying to play.”

Tashi walked away, a certain shake in her step as you watched her retreat. 

You had to call Patrick. In recent weeks, he’d been your only real friend. The only person who understood you and the pain you were under. Tashi had fucked Art, Patrick was cheated on as well, right? You two were one in the same. 

“Patrick?” you questioned. 

“Hey honey,” you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Everything alright?”

“Can you come visit soon?”

“Of course. It would be my pleasure,” he smiled. 

"When can you come down?" you asked, biting your nails.

"How about Friday?"

"Perfect."

------------------------------

When Patrick opened your dorm door, he found you studying over some material for a biology test.

"Hey beautiful," he smirked and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Hey Pat," you sighed. "How are you?"

"I'm good, happy to see you. How are you?"

You held back tears as you explained what had happened earlier that week, but when he pulled you into his arms you broke.

------------------------------

It felt good having Patrick fuck you. You didn't know how it had happened. One second he was comforting you about your fight with Tashi, the next his lips were on yours, the next you were being fucked into next week on your bed.

------------------------------

“So beautiful,” he smirked, pummelling into you. “So pretty like this, taking me so well.”

“Patrick-” you whined, grasping at the headboard of your bed as you bucked off the bed. You could feel every inch of him, and trust me, there was a lot. His fingers swirled over your needy clit as you bucked into his hips, fucking yourself onto his cock.

“Such a pretty girl, too pretty for Art,” he groaned into your neck. He took notice of how you clenched around him when he called you pretty. "You're too good for them, for both of them. Art and Tashi. I'll make you forget all about them, yeah pretty?"

You honestly could've cum for his words right there. He looked so good right now, a thin layer of sweat across his naked body, his curly hair on his forehead wet with sweat. “I-I’m gonna-” 

“You gonna cum? Come on, cum on my cock,” he whined. This is what he had wanted, he wanted to be with you, sure. But the sex was a big part of it too. You were drop-dead gorgeous, and from what Art had told him, you were incredible in bed. Art hadn’t lied.

It was all too much, too good. His hand on your waist, his way-too-big cock inside you hitting spots Art could only dream of hitting, his fingers swirling around your throbbing clit, it was all too good.

“Fuck!” you shouted and came around him with a shudder. He bit down on your neck as he came inside the condom, broken moans leaving both of your mouths as you rode out your highs. 

Patrick lay beside you, his hands wrapped around your bruising waist. 

“So…” you took a deep breath.

“I wanna go out with you,” he admitted. “Not just to get back at Tashi and Art, because I think you’re really interesting and special.”

You smiled. “Alright.”

“So, can I take you out on a date?”

“Yes.”

------------------------------

Everything was going wrong. "We want you to go pro," his coach smiled at him. He nodded, no excitement behind his blank expression.

"Can't wait," he plastered on a fake smile.

"You'll be represented by Nike, your female ambassador is Y/n Y/l/n. We're so excited for you."

Art smiled but it was fake. everyone knew it was fake. Seeing you at practice everyday was sure to kill him, if Tashi didn't first. Their relationship was slowly falling apart, and it was all because of him.

------------------------------

"I think we should see other people," Tashi sighed over dinner. Art just nodded along.

"I agree."

"You have to get over her Art, she's with Pat now-"

"What?" he snarled, venom in his confused voice.

"She and Patrick, they're going out now," she explained. "I told you-"

"No you didn't. You never told me."

Art's head was spinning, you were moving on. You were moved on. He'd lost you.

To Patrick.

Great.

------------------------------

art donaldson masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

[artdcnaldson]

sex lessons au where reader learns about squirting and somehowwwwww patrick and art turn it into a competition on who gets to make her squirt first (maybe the hardest too) #needthat #wantthat

You’ve been thinking about it since Patrick showed you that fucking video— an hour of random amateur clips stitched together. It had stuck with you ever since, something about the physicality of it all. When you came with your hand between your thighs, it was just tense muscles as you held your breath and let it rush over you. They were all so… unabashed about it. You wondered if you could be like that.

The three of you are in Art’s dorm room when you bring it up, interrupting his video game. “Have you ever made a girl do like… the squirting thing? Like that video.” He chokes, dies onscreen and pauses his game. You continue, nervously word vomiting. “Because my friend Amy told me that it’s fake and just a porn thing, but it looks real there, so I just—”

“I made Tashi do it once,” Patrick says. Art sits up, eyes wide.

“How?” You and Art practically ask at the same time.

Patrick grins, feels the full weight of both of your attention on him like the sun. He likes when it’s like this— when you and Art are both clueless and interested in whatever he’s saying. He shrugs, plays it cool. “I’ll see if I can do a demonstration.”

Pat: hey can u do me a favor??

Tashi: no

Pat: pls let me make u squirt again it’s important

Tashi: kill yourself

He frowns in annoyance at the text, runs a hand through his hair. “Well, Tashi’s out.” He pauses, meets your gaze with a sly grin. “I can make you do it.”

You swallow, leaning forward curiously. “What if I can’t?”

He smiles, bites teasingly at your jaw. “Then you get to cum a couple of times. It’s a win for everyone.”

That’s how you end up naked on Art’s bed, laying on top of some towels while Patrick fucks you with his fingers.

“Keep her distracted, Art,” was the only order he gave the blond up until that point, and Art happily obliged. It’s hard to think straight at all with Art’s tongue in your mouth and his warm hands pawing at your tits. Even harder with Patrick between your thighs, thrusting two fingers inside of your cunt and pressing steadily at your g-spot as his lips seal around your clit.

Your first orgasm hits and you moan softly into Art’s mouth, pressing your forehead to his as you catch your breath.

You sigh as you come down, frowning in disappointment. “I didn’t do it.”

“That was just a warm up,” Patrick insists. He kisses your thigh, licks up your release with slow, messy laves of his tongue. You whine, thighs twitching as he teases your overstimulated count with his tongue. You’re about a million times more sensitive, whining into Art’s mouth. “Stop thinking.“ Patrick’s words are firm, demanding.

You try, you really do. Art’s doing his best to keep your mind just focused on feeling good, not worrying about whether or not you’ll squirt. Patrick’s focused, rubbing at your g-spot as he rubs your clit— it makes your eyes roll back, toes curl into the fucking towel beneath you.

“That’s it,” Art says against your lips. You’re so wet you can hear Patrick’s fingers slick, rubbing fast against your clit. You feel it deep in the pit of your stomach, just how badly you need to cum.

“Alright, you’re going to feel like you need to pee, but that’s not a bad thing. Just lean into it, let it happen.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, this is a pee thing?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not a— fuck off. Just trust me.” He waits until you nod before he keeps going.

It doesn’t take much to bring you to the edge again, when you start feeling a hot, insistent need for release in the pit of your stomach. And he’s right, because you do get that feeling, like you’ve been holding it and need to pee.

But you trust him. And if it’s actually a piss thing, you’ll kill him. You relax as best as you can, keep kissing Art until the need grows so inescapable that you make yourself let go. And…

Nothing.

You come down whining as Patrick kisses your clit, squirming to escape the feeling.

“C’mon, one more then you can be done,” he says against your cunt. “Let me make you cum one more time.”

You whine, so sensitive that you’re aching from it. Every moan escaping you feels more like a whimper as he presses hard against the front wall in your pussy, rubs at your clit like a man on a mission. Your eyes roll back— your nails claw at Art’s shirt for purchase and you pant soft weak protests into his mouth.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

But your body says differently. You grind up against his fingers, wanting them deeper, wanting more period.

Maybe it’s because the first two orgasms have you so relaxed and open to him, or maybe third time’s the charm, but when you cum that time, hard and fast, you feel a release of pressure that you’ve never felt before. It’s intense, and Patrick works you through it, rubbing at your clit until you feel it again and let go, gasping and crying into Art’s mouth.

You’re completely drained by the time Patrick’s stopped, when he’s kissing your wet, slick thighs and smirking like an idiot. You’ve made a mess— soaked the towels beneath you, Patrick’s hands down to his forearm. Art’s sporting a wet spot in his boxers and he’s mouthing at your throat.

“Tell your friend Amy she’s full of shit,” he says as he cleans you up.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Pathetic (Art Donaldson)

Description: Y/N loves Art but thinks he’s pathetic for still being in love with Tashi even though she’s using him.

Word Count: 1,327k

Y/N met Art in college along with Tashi, who at the time was dating Patrick. Art was obsessed with Tashi and Y/N was the victim. She had to hear about it all the time and it was annoying. He even went as far to try and ruin Tashi and Patrick’s relationship. Tashi was pissed at Pat but Y/N knew all along that it was Art. I mean he wouldn’t shut up about her. Art was there for Tashi when she had her injury, like a little puppy he bowed down to her. Y/N snorted when Art told her that he was going to help her recover and be there for her. She watched as Art left her room, she shouldn’t but she does care about him.

And maybe that’s why she feels the way she does about the situation. Tashi liked Art but not like that. Which Art couldn’t see but Y/N did. It was crazy that Art and Pat were no longer friends over Tashi. Bros before Hoes was always the saying but it wasn’t that anymore. Y/N watched as Art bent over backwards for Tashi but got nothing in return. She cared about his Tennis career, not him. Tashi would always bitch to Y/N about how Art wasn’t taking anything seriously and that he needed to focus on his career. To which Y/N replied, “He’s in love with you, Tashi.” Tashi laughed at her words and brushed them off but Y/N was right. 

10 years later, Art was still in love with Tashi but nothing ever came about it besides sex here and there that Art wore on his sleeve. Y/N had watched him all through his career and lost a lot of respect for him. Every time he lost a game, Tashi would get so mad and make him cry. He cried to Y/N about it and she put on a fake pity smile and comforted him. But not this time, never again will Y/N act like that. She was over it, over all of it.

He came into her room with tears in his eyes, sad that Tashi was mad at him for losing. Y/N rolled her eyes but let the man in. He sat on her bed, “I just don’t understand, I try and do everything for her and I get nothing in return.” He’s saying the words but they aren’t clicking in his head. Y/N just stared at him as he whined. She didn’t hug him like she usually does or coo in his ear. She was annoyed with him. When she hadn’t said anything, he looked up at her, “Why do you look so annoyed?” He asked her. “Cuz you’re pathetic.” She spits at him. He looks at her confused and hurt by her words. “What?” “Yeah, you’re a pathetic little boy that is dying for her love and attention. Well guess what? You’re never gonna get it.” She tells him. He couldn’t believe what she was saying, she never said things like that to him, especially when he’s upset.

“Don’t say that. She loves me.” “Are you that delusional? Art she only cares about your Tennis career because she doesn’t have one anymore!” She yells. He stood up, “Don’t say that about her!” He pointed a finger at her. She scoffed and rolled her eyes, “Get the fuck out!” She told him. He left and didn’t look back. Y/N sighed and sat on her bed, where Art was just sitting. She laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She wished that Art would just see that Tashi didn’t love him and that he needs to let that go. 

A week later everything seemed to go back to normal for now. Well besides Art. He didn’t talk to Y/N but maybe that was for the best. Tashi on the other hand begged Y/N to talk to him. “He needs you Y/N. He’s not focusing.” “He’s Pathetic.” Y/N told her. Tashi agreed and told Y/N that’s why she needed her help. But Y/N refused, she was done with Art and his bullshit.

Y/N and saw that Patrick was there as well and that he wasn’t doing the greatest. “Maybe if you were as delusional as Art, life would be better.” She joked. Patrick rolled his eyes at her, “Still in love with Art?” her smile dropped. He looked at her and chuckled, “It’s been obvious since the day you met him.” She shook her head and downed her drink. “Yeah well he’s in love with Tashi.” “Who wouldn’t be?” “I don’t get it. She only cares about his career, not him.” Patrick saw how sad that made Y/N. “Well he’s an idiot for not being in love with you.” She looked at him, a smirk on his lips. She shook her head, “Yeah well that’s never gonna happen.” He shook his head and downed his drink.

“You both are sitting on things that are never going to happen.” She looks at him, thinking about his words. “Art loves Tashi and you love Art, that’s not gonna happen.” “So we’re both pathetic.” She said as she stood up. He stood up as well, “Well I don’t think you’re pathetic.” She shook her head, “No, I am. And it ends here.” “What are you going to do?” “Leave.” She begins walking away but Patrick caught up with her. “Wait, you’re just gonna leave?” She nodded. “Why? He’s not the only thing here.” “Yeah, but I was here for him.” She said. He took her hands, “Stay here for me.” She looked at him with a confused look. “Wait, what?” She took her hands back. “Don’t leave just because of him. Show him what he’s missing.” Y/N thought about his words and realized that it wasn’t worth it. “I tried Patrick. It didn’t work. Goodbye.” She said and walked to the elevators.

He watched her as she walked away but realized how Pathetic Art was for not wanting her. “Y/N.” He called and ran into the elevator. “What?” “Don’t leave. Please.” He begged. “Why do you want me to stay?” She asked, he sighed. “I want you to and not for Art. He’s a dumbass for not wanting you.” She turned to him. “Are you telling me to stay for the reason I think you are?” She asked, he nodded. Truth be told she’s always found Patrick attractive but never looked too much into it thanks to Art. “Art would never forgive us.” She said. “Yeah, but do you really care?” She didn’t, not anymore. 

Y/N showed up to all the practices they had. Art saw her and was shocked that she wasn’t cheering for him but for Patrick. Patrick could tell that he was upset and smirked at him when he won and Y/N ran up to hug him. Art stared at them and everything hit him. He was pathetic and he lost a great woman because of it. 

“Y/N, wait up.” Art called as he saw Y/N in the lobby. She turned towards him as he came running up to her. “What do you want?” He caught his breath and looked at her. “I’m sorry for what I've been doing all these years.” “Oh now you see me with Patrick and you realize?” “Wait, you're with Patrick?” She rolled her eyes, “Maybe.” He sighed. “Y/N please i’m sorry. You’re right I am pathetic. Tashi doesn’t love me and she never will. I know that now. I can’t let you walk away with him.” She sighed and looked down. He needed to be taught a lesson. She needs to walk away and be with Patrick, Art deserves that. But she loves him and no matter how many times he’s made her mad, she can’t bring herself to leave. She looked at him and pulled him in for a kiss. A kiss that he gladly returned. I guess we’re both pathetic, she thinks as they make out in the hotel lobby.

[222col]

sugardaddy!patrick finally has you to himself, an unfortunate tale of events for sugardaddy!art | part three of sugardaddy!au | 18+

art wakes, arms reaching out for you. you're not there, he rubs his eyes and sees your note on the nightstand.

i love you, art donaldson.

the two of you had never uttered those words to each other. he wanted to, so badly, so many times. but he knew the arrangement, and didn't want to make you uncomfortable. he slips on a pair of boxers and heads downstairs to find you. he stumbles into the kitchen, still half asleep. tashi is sat at the breakfast bar, handing him a protein shake. "let's go, you've got training in an hour." she carries on typing on her laptop. "what? you said i had today off," he lifts the shake up to his lips. "well, now you don't." she shuts her laptop. "where is she?" he questions his wife. "gone, i sent her away." it's like art's world just stopped moving. he's ready to call his lawyer immediately and get the divorce papers together. "get her back, now tashi. you can't do this to me. i love her." tashi puts her laptop in her handbag. "and that's exactly why she had to go."

patrick wasted no time pulling you into his room and fucking the life out of you again. you're becoming like a drug to him already. the two of you lay together on his hotel bed. "now, you gonna explain to me why you were sat with tashi yesterday? leaving with her and art?" walking over to the open window, he lights a cigarette. "she told you, i'm modelling for her new campaign." even after the hurt she's caused you, you still lie for her. he shakes his head, taking a drag of his cigarette. "the real reason, not some weird pr reason that tashi uses to cover up." you debate telling him everything, tashi took art away from you, you doubt patrick would tell anyone anyway, given him now being in the same situation with you that art was. not yet, you think. "can i tell you some other time?" you sit up. patrick shrugs, "sure, princess."

he throws his cigarette out the window, pulling a clothes bag out of the wardrobe. "i bought you this, to wear later, to my match." he unzips the bag, showcasing a white loewe dress. "you want me to come to your match?" you question, eyes not leaving the beautiful garment patrick is holding out for you. "well yeah, what if i want my cock sucked after i win?" it's like he knows. knows that's exactly what you did to art only minutes before he caught you in the hallway yesterday. he's smirking too. "well, you gonna try it on or what?" you jump up, almost snatching the clothes bag from his hands. "there's some lingerie in there too that i want you to wear, oh and i got a girl at sephora to pick out some make up for you, that's in the bathroom, so you don't need to go home and get ready." your brows furrow, looking up at patrick. he's so thoughtful when he's not being an arrogant fuck. "what?" he laughs, finally handing you the outfit. "i told you, you look after my needs and i'll make sure you look extra pretty as you do."

you carry the clothes bag into the bathroom, giggling as you go. you jump into the shower, washing yourself quickly before pulling the lingerie out of the bag, white lace to match the dress. you don't even want to know how the hell he got all your sizes right.

(he called up a stylist you'd worked with, telling them he was a stylist too, who'd lost the document with your sizes on. he's very resourceful when he needs to be)

you apply your make up and blow dry your hair, exiting the bathroom, still just in your underwear. he'd gotten ready for training in your absence, tiny black shorts and a matching tank. fuck. art's tennis shirt is still in your purse. the purse with his initials on. you pray that patrick has bought you a new matching bag.

"god, you're ridiculous." patrick mutters, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling your body towards him as he kisses your stomach. "christ, if i wasn't already late to practise i'd fuck you again right now." he looks up to you as you smile. "you'll just have to be patient then, patrick." you turn around, he falls backwards on the bed at the sight of your ass. "jesus christ," you laugh walking back to the bathroom. "put your dress on, you're coming with me to training." you keep the door open, slipping the dress off it's hanger and placing it on your body. fits like a glove. "you're sure? you don't want me to just make my own way later to watch the match?" patrick stands, zipping up the back of your dress. "i'm not letting you out of my sight princess, i wouldn't dare, can't risk someone else coming along to try and take you from me." he places a kiss on the back of your neck. he points over to the chair in the corner of the room, matching shoes and bag wait for you. "when did you even do all this?" you question. "yesterday." he's smug in his answer. "but i hadn't even said yes yesterday!" you jokingly shove him. "i knew you would."

you're nervous in the car there, patrick drives with his hand on your thigh. what if art is there? what if tashi is there? what if either of them see you with patrick? patrick carries his bags on his shoulder, linking his free hand with yours, leading you to his dressing room. it surprises you, art kept you so private, never touched you in public unless he knew for certain no one was around. yet here's patrick, holding your hand, in the middle of a tennis tournament, not even considering the thought of caring who might see. frankly, he wants people to see. he wants people to know you belong to him now. he drops one of his duffles in the room, keeping the other on his shoulder. "c'mon princess, you can sit on the side and watch me practise." you can't believe it, he seriously isn't hiding you in any way, shape or form. there's a few rows of bleachers at the practise courts, he walks you over to them. kissing your mouth, winking and meeting his coach on the court. "i know, i know, i'm late," his coach looks at him, then you. he laughs at patrick, throwing a ball to him. "can't even blame you, patrick, i would be too."

for the first time since arriving at patrick's hotel this morning, you check your phone. 27 missed calls. from art. you open up your texts, reading through the mass he's set you along with the attempted calls.

baby, please come home.

don't worry about tashi. i'll work it all out.

you don't have to be scared of her. i miss you so much.

i love you too baby please just come home.

you can't reply. for fear of tashi, you ignore them all. you're sad, of course. heartbroken. but falling in love with art was never part of the deal. you let it go too far, he was married for god's sake, you won't let it go that far again. you look up, back to patrick. he winks to you, carrying on with his serves. you lift your feet onto the chair in front of you, returning to your phone. scrolling through your social media for a while before patrick appears at your side. he's sweaty, his skin glistening in the sun. "you know i can see your lacy little panties from down there with your feet up on the chair like that." he takes a swig from the water bottle he's holding. gasping, you move your feet back to the floor. you're blushing, he loves it. leaning down to you, his lips grazing your ear. "put them back." he orders. he's so dirty, you're revelling in it. he moves his hand between your legs, teasing you. you're so grateful his coach is turned around picking up the stray tennis balls. you moan into his ear. "you're so easy to turn on, baby." he lifts your legs back onto the chair in front, kissing your knee and walking down the stairs of the bleachers. "don't fucking move them or you're in trouble."

despite his distraction, patrick plays well. following all instructions from his coach. wrapping up after an hour or two. he rushes up to where you're sat, pulling you down the stairs and back to his private room just as quick. he sits on the bench in the room, pulling you onto his lap, legs straddling him. "we've got a couple hours before my match starts," he's kissing your face as he speaks. "so i say we get some food, get you some drinks, give me some pussy, what'd ya think, kitten?" you're grinding slowly against him as you reply. "can we do it in reverse order?" you tug on his earlobe with your teeth. "oh christ, absolutely." he hitches your dress up, letting it bunch up around your waist. shimmying his shorts and boxers down his legs, pushing your underwear to the side. you reach between your bodies, lining patrick up with your pussy. you pump his shaft as you hold him there for a few seconds, he bucks his hips up, forcing his way inside you. "stop fucking teasing."

he pulls out of you before he comes, his load landing over his tank. "you're lucky that didn't land on my dress." you giggle into his neck. "oh no, then i'd have to buy you a new one." he mocks you, kissing the side of your head. he cleans himself up, changing into a white polo. "let's go, princess, i'm ready to eat after that." he takes your hand again. "are you sure you want to leave to do that? i'm all for you eating me out in public but that might get you disqualified." you joke with him, taking his hand. rolling his eyes and laughing. "we'll have to wait until later before i lap up my dessert." he kisses your lips, opening the door for you, leading you to the bar. his hand doesn't drop yours, as you thought it would, only once he finds a table. pulling out a chair for you to sit. you peruse the menu of light lunches the bar has on offer, telling patrick your order as he leaves the table to order at the bar.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" tashi has occupied patrick's seat. "i told you to stay away from us." you're scared, and anxious, but you can't let tashi see through you so easily. "i'm not here for either of you." tashi scoffs, folding her arms. "bullshit. why are you here then?" patrick returns to the table that moment, placing his smoothie and your tequila lime soda on the table. "oh you've got to be kidding me." tashi scoffs again. "look, tashi, i don't know what business the three of you have going on. but i can tell that whatever it is, is over." her gaze leaves you, looking up to patrick in disbelief. looking tashi in the eyes as your name leaves his lips, placing a hand on your shoulder, "is here with me, as my date. so can you maybe leave us to it?" holy fuck. he's defending you. to tashi. calling you his date. so openly. tashi stands, breathing deeply as she leans down to whisper in your ear. "didn't take you long to jump from art's dick to his best friends, did it now? wonder how art would feel about that?" goosebumps rise on your skin. she walks away, patrick sitting down opposite you. you know she'd never tell art, it would break him even more than she already had, meaning he'd grow even further away from completing his grand slam, the one thing tashi actually cared about.

patrick's legs touch yours under the table. "hey, fuck her, okay? whatever she said, ignore it. you're with me now, don't worry about it." you nod your head at patrick's words. sipping your drink, rubbing your leg against his. food arrives as you and patrick share more about yourselves, his interests outside of tennis, your life outside your career. you're more compatible then you thought you would be. after eating, sharing more about your lives and a few more drinks, patrick walks you over to your seat in the stands, it's the best seat in the house, the first row, right in the middle of the court, the net mere feet away from you. you grow shy with the amount of looks on you, patrick leans over the barrier that separates him on the court and you in the stands, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before speaking sweetly to you. "i told you baby, i'm not letting anyone take you from me, so i gotta show them you're mine." he pecks your cheek before taking off to warm up and get ready for his match.

you check your phone again while waiting for it to start. more calls and texts from art. you can't even open them, instead opening instagram, snapping a picture of the bottom half of your outfit, purse on your lap, legs crossed, showing off your new shoes. the picture shows how close you are to the court. captioning the image 'day two of a tennis filled week' and uploading to your story. you're texting your friend about a date she's about to go on when art replies to your story.

are you at patrick's match???

is this becoming a mini series yes i think it is idk about u guys but i cant get enough

[amymbona]

IRRESPONSIBLE

TW: young adult pregnancy and parenthood

2006, the year of Play station 3, Hannah Montana, Britney Spears filling the clubs and your unexpected pregnancy with Patrick Zweig. It happens so quickly, you barely remember any of it; one moment you're tagging along your best friend at the US Open, the next one, you're hidden in a random bathroom and clutching onto the tennis boy's blue polo. Few weeks later, you're prying his number from Tashi's phone and sending him a blurry picture of your positive pregnancy test.

Patrick ignores you for two long weeks, not texting you back even after the twenty six calls you leave in desperation. When he finally answers, he denies any connection to the image and proceeds to call you a slut before hanging up, so you're left to try and reach out for another three weeks. When you finally break the news to your parents and book a doctor's appointment, where the suspicion unfortunately gets confirmed, you snap Patrick a picture of the black and white ultrasound photo you were given. He's at your door the next morning.

Things get set in motion and the two move into a flat in the city, one that is close enough so your parents are available if you ever need them. But Patrick, being too afraid of your father, assures them he's gonna give you the same treatment a princess deserves. Being the rich kid, the rising tennis star, he fills your new home with everything times two, as if that could substitute the lack of experience the two of you have, as you're both mentally still children.

He's there for your next appointment, palms sweating when he gets a peek at the little bean that slowly grows in your stomach. Is it already that big? Wait, is it a girl or a boy? That's when it hits you both that there is a whole new human growing inside of you, someone so vulnerable who will be absolutely dependent on you. Someone, who the two of you will have to give hundred and twenty percent of your time, care and attention to. There's no way the two of you will be able to do that, at this age.

When the day finally comes, both of you are a goddamn mess. You're sobbing, holding onto Patrick and unable to bear all the ache that your body absolutely wasn't prepared for, and Patrick is panicking, refusing to let you out of sight even though he shouldn't even care for you that much. The two of you are not even dating. He should only care for the child, not you. Then why is his heart breaking every time he hears you cry?

He swears you have never looked more beautiful before than right now, with your cheeks read and hair tossed into a messy ponytail, completely out of breath and clutching your new born babygirl to your naked chest. He almost faints right here and there, unable to accept the truth.

The first few weeks at home are a walk through hell, filled with constant high pitched cries, sweat and tears of your own. The two of you barely get any sleep and your whole body hurts, there's no time to be dedicated to getting to know the father of your baby better that you could actually consider building a relationship with him. You both sleep in separate beds in separate rooms, each one of you trying to get as much comfort as possible when the little one's asleep.

If it's not the baby crying, Patrick is awoken by your sobs, as you deem the night time the only possible opportunity to let your feelings flow freely. You're in pain, you're tired, you're fucking miserable. And you can't help yourself but hate the little human who has changed your life forever. And for worse.

Your depressed state is what finally gets Patrick to be responsible, to push through everything that was holding him back and google how the fuck to take care of an actual baby. He manages to clean the place somehow, at least partially, and make it look a bit predentable (not that there is anyone visiting the two of you, besides your parents once or twice a week) and makes it his task to wash the baby and change her diapers. Now he just has to squeeze you in between all his responsibilities. He should be taking care of you as well.

Patrick finds it funny when you get all bashful while breastfeeding the baby, trying to cover yourself from his sight, as if he hasn't literally seen you give birth. If only you knew how beautiful Patrick finds you, how he has to hold back from reaching out and caressing any part of your body that is still so filled and plump. He never brings the fact that he has heard you cry so often, fearing that it would send you back into something deeper. He knows how you (don't) handle embarrassment.

It's rare for you to get out of bed for anything other that the basic hygiene and breastfeeding, but after almost two months, you finally manage to contribute to the living arrangement. Even though you barely speak - to both Patrick and the baby - you're working, and that's good. Partially. The more time passes, the harder it hits you that this really is forever, that this little human with light freckles on her chubby cheeks will be dependent on you for the rest of her and your lives, and there is no way this cycle could ever be broken.

You do break down in Patrick's arms once, after a particularly tough day when the little one couldn't stop crying and your head felt like a hot air balloon that might explode. Everything just crumbles down and instead of yelling at you, instead of pushing you away and telling you to suck it up, Patrick just holds you like you're the most precious thing in this world - like you're his girls - and tells you that everything will be okay. He spends fourty fucking minutes repeating the same phrase; you'll be okay, you'll be okay, you'll be okay. You have to be okay.

The two of you don't speak about that encounter, especially after you wake up in Patrick's room, in Patrick's bed, in Patrick's arms. And you're back to being silent. Somehow, things seem to have improved, at least partially. You have split the work in half; Patrick changes the diapers and baths the little one while you cook and breastfeed. Play time includes the two of you sitting in a carpet in the living room, offering your baby any of the toys you've both and making stupid sounds to entertain her.

Somehow, Patrick slowly transforms into a gentleman - if he could be called one, for not even a twenty year old - and really does his best to overcome whatever barriers are there between the two of you. He does not only attend to the baby but to you as well, offering to wash your hair or massage your back. The first time he touches you - the actual very first time his hands are properly on your body since the night you magically conceived - everything feels so different. Patrick is suddenly gentle, tenderly sliding his palms over your bare back and digging his thumbs into the dimples above the waistband of your sweatpants. Each grunt that leaves your lips goes straight to his core, filling him with something warm and unknown.

Almost automatically, you begin sleeping in Patrick's bed (argumenting that it's comfier than your own) and it's clear that the effect it has on you has been more than needed. When you find yourself surrounded by muscular arms every morning, it messes with your brain in a way that's difficult to describe. Usually, it's a mix of appreciation for being cared for so tenderly and fear that all of it was just a dream.

One day, it couldn't be past four in the morning, the two of you are awoken by the little one's cries, Patrick tells you to sleep, baby, I'll handle it and presses a kiss to your cheek before slipping out of the bed to tend to the baby's needs. It's safe to say you have trouble falling asleep after that.

These displays of affection turn into something automatic, much to your surprise. Never ever would you expect Patrick to act like a pretty decent father and an attentive romantic partner (not that you're in that kind of relationship at the moment), but slowly but surely, this whole thing is turning into something which could resemble a family. You're still a bit reserved though, at least compared to Patrick who's aware that his daughter need a functional family and is slowly falling in love with you.

Finally, he is able to muster enough courage and ask you out on a date. A proper fucking one. At first, he's tempted to hide it behind the two of you just need to get a breath of fresh air when your parents offer to babysit, but he's unable to hide his intention. He really fucking wants you. So the two of you go for some fancy dinner, then a walk through the local park where Patrick really wants to kiss you, but he doesn't dare to. When you come home, with your baby fast asleep in her small room, it's hard to resist each other and you end up naked in your shared bed.

Post sex clarity hits you the following morning and things go back to awkward, bouncing between wholesome moments of the two of you getting somewhat physical and then both of you ignoring each other for unusually long periods of time. It seems that both of you are equally as afraid to move it to another level. But Patrick can't stop wanting you.

Unfortunately, tennis enters the equation and begins wanting Patrick before you could, as the season is approaching once again. In the words of his agent, Patrick still has the potential to be one of the most seen faces despite spending the last half a year not playing the sport at all. He is torn between pursuing his career, something he's been working to master ever since he was able to walk and hold a racket, and possibly throwing it all away for the two people that entered his life so suddenly. And since it is Patrick Zweig we're talking about, he chooses the first option.

It doesn't take a single week that he gets back into the routine for the whole household to collapse completely. Coming back late in the evenings, he's a witness to your broken self, messy place and his crying baby daughter. There's no way this could possibly go on without you turning crazy in a few weeks, so Patrick decides to abruptly change his decision. He's sitting this season out, even if it means he has to quiz tennis. He couldn't bear watching the mother of his child turn into a lifeless ghost and become unable to take care of their baby.

So from now on, it's not Patrick Zweig, a professional tennis player, has transformed into Patrick Zweig, a full time dad. Stay at home dad, shopping for groceries dad, bathe his babygirl dad, care for the mother of his child dad. This is what Patrick is, this is what his life has been upgraded to and, honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

[woodle-isbae]

Say Yes

Art.D x Black!Reader

Warnings: love sick! Art , cowgirl , choking, spit play , voyeurism, humiliation, Patrick is a jealous perv , Sub! Art , Dom!reader ,

Kinktober Masterlist! ♡

The IT couple.

When people think of the most Dominating and powerful couple , They'd think of all the relationships Art Donaldson has been in, and you'd easily be the winner.

Being the blondes confident and bold girlfriend was a strong title you held proudly at Stanford. Nobody daring to bother art as you would easily catch word of this , tormenting the rat who so even dared spew your boyfriends name.

That didn't mean he wasn't gonna fight for you. Nearly cutting off his long lasting friendship with Patrick when he spoke about you , trying to see if you'd sleep with him. Luckily a few shoves from Art had him apologizing right in your face and never speaking about you unless brought up.

You two were the best fit , constantly bring seen with eachother in public , him glued to your hip like he was attached to you. People envying the way you had him wrapped around your finger , constantly obeying any request you believed was fit for him to do.

"Artsie , please get my..."

"Art , would you be a dear and..."

"Sorry to bother you darling , but can you..."

He never even objected , going to do what he was asked with a smile and faint blush dancing across his skin. He would often ignore the complains he would get about how he was so submissive , Patrick refusing to belive that Art was actually tapping that with the way he was being so....Art?

"You sure she isn't the one wearing the pants in the relationship?"

"Yes , I'm sure..it's my relationship."

They were discussing over some tennis practice, Patrick comming over to see Tashi..and attend one of the frat parties being hosted.

"I mean...it sure looks like she pegs yo-"

"Patrick!"

Art threw a ball at his head , getting annoyed with the pestering he was faced with and the things the brunette was spewing.

"Sorry!...jeeze , you need to let loose!"

"And what is your idea of letting loose?"

He held a ball in his hand , stopping mid serve to give Patrick a bored stare , one hand on his hip to show how he was getting tired.

Poor guy

Patrick making his way across the court , comming extremely close to his ear as if they weren't the only ones there. Taking in a breath before whispering something and backing up.

"You should say no.."

The moment those words left his lips , you would swear Art saw a Ghost, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

"No fucking way dude."

"C'mon man , just for tonight...it's that party ,I'll pay you a hundred bucks too and I doubt she would care."

Patrick persuaded Art into doing it , trying to have their relationship (in his eyes) be normal. The two stood in silence for a while before Art began nodding.

"Okay...fine , just for tonight."

"There ya go!"

He tackled him and lifted him up , swinging him around like a doll until he was placed down. The situation Art was about to place himself in not dawning apon the duo.

"You should take me out for drink ,since I gave you this big idea."

"Uh...No."

"Oh? She doesn't get a No but I do!?"

He huffed and pushed himself away , going to get the tennis balls that sat in diffrent areas of the court before heading out for some lunch.

Time skip 😛

You were currently getting ready for the party , it wasn't anything formal so you wore a simple outfit that wasnt too heavy, expecting it to get warmer with all the dancing. You headed over to arts Dorm to go with him. Making your way in as he was still trying to find a shirt to put on.

"Let me help y-"

"No...uh I just found it!"

You frowned a little but decided to ignore it , heading out to the party with art in your car, instantly being met with the smell of alcohol, weed and Sex.

"Art dear..would you please get us drinks.?"

"Uh...N-No..?"

You were taken aback , never hearing him say No to you. You stared at him for a brief moment, mabye he would change his mind, but when he didn't say anything you huffed and walked off to find the drink bar.

You came back a few minutes later to him with a drink already in hand. When did he get that? Nevertheless, you downed the cup that was ment for him and approached him with only one cup.

He barely even noticed you were here , if it wasn't for him glancing your way. There was definitely something going on and it pissed you off.

The whole night , he kept denying request from you, shrugging and mouthing 'no' whenever you asked even for the simplest things. But he'd be so quick to agree with anyone else? Was there something wrong?? Had you said something that made him fed up.??

You were making your way back from the drink bar, slipping through people until you spotted something you weren't sure were for your eyes.

Patrick slipping Art a twenty.

You waited for the Brunette to walk away so you could approach, tapping art on his back, making him jump up. He turned over and gave you a smile, you copied his actions to make it seem as if you didn't know anything.

The night continued on as usual..but you didn't ask him anything, dancing and drinking with him but never asking him to do a thing. He must've not noticed until he glanced to the side and saw Patrick.

"We should get a room Artsie."

He nearly complied, the use of that nickname had all the blood rushing south. His mouth opening to mutter yes ,until a figure bumped into him. Patrick wrapping his arm around Arts shoulder, looking at you with a smirk.

"Heyy you twoo! I..wanna speak with Art!"

He mumbled the last part , pulling your boyfriend away for a brief moment until the came back , Arts face still flushed and bulge even more prominent.

He nearly lost the bet because of You. You only smiled and gave him a quick peck to the cheek, dissapearing off into the crowd, leaving him a mess.

You were avoiding him for the whole night , knowing he was right after you, and Patrick following suite to try stop him. You slipped into the darker areas of the place , finding yourself in a dimly lit bedroom, lit up by only the moon.

You made your way in and stood by the door , shutting it once Art came in.

"Y/n! I..uh-"

He stumbled over his words , all he wanted now was for you to bounce on his swollen cock until he could barely walk straight.

"You need me..hm?"

You whispered into his ear, sending shivers down his spine. He eagerly nodded , whimpering a slight bit.

"Words , Art. I need your words."

He sighed, giving in to your request since he knew he could simply lie and say he never said yes ,right?

"Yes..fuck yes please."

That was all you needed to hear , smashing your lips onto his while he lifted you into his arms , laying back onto the neatly done bed behind you two. You straddled his lap , kissing at his while grinding onto him, stopping your movements whenever he began getting loud.

"But-"

"You don't want Pat to find out you broke off a bet?"

He let out a whine , muttering a soft no while you made work of both your clothes , your cunt so slick he could slip in easily. Your hand snaking its way around his throat as you bounced up and down his cock, squeezing softly.

"You really thought you could listen to Patrick? Fucking stupid."

He choked out a whine , getting light headed from to lack of oxygen flow and stimulation down south. You brought your face closer to his , slowing your movements briefly

"What would he say now huh? You can't even keep a fucking bet, cause your so pussy whipped."

His eyes rolled to the back of his head , his fingers dug so deep into your hip, you were sure they'd brush up. You let go of his neck , opening his jaw to spit into it, just as you did that someone barged in and let out a defeated sigh.

"C'mon Art? Not even for a few hours!?"

Patrick stood at the door , arms crossed and shaking his head in dissapointment knowing he would have to take back his money. Although he seemed to be dissapointed, he was purely staring at you two go at it, the moon making a silhouette of your figures moving against eachother.

"F-fuck off Pat-!"

Art managed to speak out , flipping his friend off as he walked out and shut the door.

"Your own friend can't believe you're this weak over me?"

He let out a deep whimper , grabbing your hips to position himself properly, fucking into you like a jack rabbit. Your moans luckily muffled by his mouth and the loud music that played behind the thick walls.

The drive back home was silent, Art passed out in the back seat while you drove and Patrick sitting in the passenger seat next to you.

"Don't ever pull that dumb shit with him ever again."

"What- what do yo-"

"Don't fucking play dumb with me Zweig."

"Yes ma'am."

The silence filling the car back up, if you don't count the blonds soft snores behind you and the cool air of the night flowing through your window.

[poppy-metal]

we as a nation don’t talk about how much patrick loves to be degraded. because he hates himself, and a twisted part of him loves his fears to be confirmed, to give himself over to being terrible and debauched and for someone, a hot girl, you to tell him you know what he is, you know he’s bad and dirty and you know how little respect he deserves because of it. it’s such a relief to let go of the guilt of being terrible, and just be terrible. fucks you so nasty. legs spread in a v beneath him, kept open by his gripping hands. digs your pussy out, lunges forward and forward and forward inside you like he hates you. whimpers and grunts above, and looks into your tooth-gritted face with so much adoration. you try as hard as you can to maintain some composure, but you growl in stifled pleasure: “you’re a cheap fucking whore. you’d fuck anything that moves if i let you, wouldn’t you?”

“yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

brainless and guiltless, he chases the suckling heat of your cunt.

“yeah?” you sneer.

his spittle flies onto the pillow under your head and his cheek throbs, the sound of the cutting slap to his face mingling seamlessly with the slap of his thighs against your ass. he moans deeply, and his hips stutter but never still. your cunt tightens around him.

“you don’t even know what you’re agreeing to, you- you big dumb slut. listen to me when i speak or you’ll have to jerk yourself off for a fucking change.”

he swallows, and you pant as his adam’s apple bobs.

“no, no. please. please.”

“if you want to fuck this pussy you better prove to me you deserve it.”

and he will. he’ll do anything to deserve it.

YEWWWW GET IT

he hates himself so much that he needs degradation as much as he needs praise. when he's especially worked up - on the edge of self destruction or self sabotage - you pull him back to you with claws and teeth, reminding him his place is beneath you.

when he's being an asshole for no particular reason, and usually that's your perogative, the one picking petty fights - and it doesn't take him long to piss you off, get under your skin. think he probably calls you pathetic. you're really wasting your time on a deadbeat like him? just for some dick? what does that say about your self confidence?

and you know what he's trying to do. it's not about you so much as it's about himself and his own self confidence issues. thinks he's not shit and you're just going to drop him one day like art and tashi did - hell, hes practically inviting you too - holding the door open and promising to drink himself stupid as soon as you do.

and it's that knowledge that truly pisses you off- more than any of his words could. you're so sick of this smarmy asshole forcing his way into your heart and into your bed and twisting you all up inside only to act like a sad sack of shit because of his stupid childhood insecurities that you had nothing to do with.

maybe you could talk it out with him - truly get to the bottom of the problem. except you're not exactly the model for healthy behaviors either.

you fuck him instead.

when he tells you to fuck off and stop nagging at him you make it halfway to the door before you spin around and stalk back to where he's slouched into his ratty little couch - you yank his bottle of beer out of his hands and fling it across the floor, ignoring his sharp "the fuck?!" when you do.

your hand whips out to slap him, careening his cheek to the right - a bright red mark immediately appearing as blood rushes to the surface of his skin. he looks at you incredulously, his eyes wild and his lip split and bubbling with a bead of blood - he looks enraged, like he's about to stand up and choke you out - and if this had been a fight you started, you might let him do just that - hell, it'd be the exact outcome you wanted.

instead, before he has the chance - you lean down and crash your mouth to his. tugging his bottom bloody lip between your teeth and biting down hard, until he groans in pain and grips your waist in his hands. you pull back just to wrap a hand around his throat as you shove his head back against the couch, crawl into his lap and glare down at his flushed face.

"you're such a piece of shit and an asshole." you snap - reaching down with your free hand to yank at his belt, ripping it through the straps roughly and moving onto his zipper next. "you're like a fucking child, you know that? throwing tantrums because you can't communicate. you don't want me to leave." the hiss of the zipper as you drag it down. patrick still seems stunned by your slap - in a daze almost as you dip your hand into the hole of his jeans and fist his cock. "you'd fucking cry yourself to sleep thinking about me fucking some other guy."

finally, patrick snaps out of it - hips jerking as you grip his thickening dick in your hard grasp - hissing when you fish him out - "you're such a bitch." he volleys back at you, a weak insult. "I don't give a fuck - shit - what you do." he grits his teeth to near breaking them when you lean up and pull your panties to the side. the flash of your cunt just under your skirt blanking his brain. he'd make a comment on what a cockhungry slut you are, coming by his apartment with such a short skirt, but he's not on his A game today.

"yeah you do." you answer. you tip his chin even further back with your hand around his throat as you sink down on his cock with one push down of your hips. he groans, lashes fluttering. you grip the couch behind his head for leverage. "everyone thinks you're this devil may care playboy - but I know what you are -" you slowly drag your aching cunt up his thick cock, until just his fat tip is plugging your hole. " - you're a little pussywhipped bitch."

you slam your cunt down on him and feel his throat spasm under your palm as he chokes. "oh fuck -"

you start bouncing then, vigorous and mean - taking what you want. everyime you come down your clit catches on his belt buckle and the friction is so fucking good - you know you won't last long. and that's okay, because you'll be making him cream you up quick.

"trying to be shitty to the only girl who puts up with your loser ass, the fuck are you thinking, huh?" you slap him again, the scruff of his cheek scratching against your palm. you let your genuine anger come through your voice as you ride him. "what if I really left? you'd probably kill yourself you're such a goddamn health hazard. you're lucky you have such a huge cock."

patricks eyes roll back and his lips fall open. your pussy squeezes like a vice around him, hot and tender and fuck - he knows you're right. he'd literally be lost without this - he's become so dependent on this, on you - he'd fall apart if you genuinely went away. his fingers slide under your skirt and grip the fatty meat of your ass - groaning helplessly as you fuck him stupid on his cheap ass couch.

"s - shit. goddamn.," he can't think. no smart remarks in his head. just the sweltering bliss of your pussy sucking on his dick. "fuck. fuck - "

you wish you'd had the mind to get him fully naked - but you'd been so mad - you want to feel his bare skin on yours, his hips pounding yours into the couch - until the ratty thing collapses. your hands dive into his thick dark hair, gripping the strands roughly as you bounce furiously on and off his dick. "you piss me off," you grunt, half angry half horny as hell. "you piss me the fuck off."

"I know." he whines. squeezes your asscheeks as if in apology. "im sorry - I'm sorry, baby. I'm the worst - worst fucking man alive -"

you nod. "uh huh. stupid - f- fucking asshole. god, if I didn't love this dick so much -" he's hitting so deep inside you, but you want it even deeper. plunging and tunneling in and out, thos fat balls of his beating up against your asshole as he takes your tight pussy.

"fuck. use me. use my dick, baby - tell me how to fuck that pussy so she'll k- keep comin' back for more - "

"on top of me," you gasp, rutting back and forth in his lap, your hands kneading his shoulder - wanting his shirt off, wanting him naked. "pound my pussy - "

you're underneath him immediately.

[bweeeb]

TENNIS CLASSES

Art Donaldson x Reader

Notes: Age difference (Art is 29/31 and Y/n is 19), Dirty content, Smut, P in v and whatever...

Notes: This writing was very messy and I apologize for that.

Summary: When Tashi convinces Art to continue in the tennis business, he agrees to teach Y/n Adams, but he didn't know that the 19-year-old girl would be such a problem for him.

Art Donaldson thought the house he lived in was fancy, but when he arrived at the Adams' residence, he almost thought he'd stopped at the wrong place. The house was surreal. As he stepped out of the car, looking for the entrance, the front door was opened by Y/n, wearing an extremely short white skirt and a Nike sweatshirt in the same shade.

To Y/n, the skirt looked normal, but it was definitely the first thing Art noticed about the new student. — Hey, sorry for the visual confusion this place is. My mom loves trees around the house. Not that she likes dealing with dirt, because she hates it, but you get me. — Y/n said while descending the stairs with a gentle smile for the man, who smiled back.

— Nice to meet you, Art. I'm Y/n.

— Hi, sure, I'm happy to be here. — He said, grabbing the hand she had extended as a greeting. Art didn't know how many times he repeated in his head how soft her hand was.

— My parents are out for a while, but if they were here, they'd show you around. Since they're not, you've got me, so... I can show you the court out back if you want.

— The house is pretty cool. I'm curious to see the back. — Art said, looking at Y/n who was ahead of him, and it was almost inevitable for him not to check her out entirely when she turned to walk.

— So, how much tennis do you know? — He asked as Y/n stopped and opened the door leading them to the back of the house.

— Not much. My dad likes to play, so I learned a thing or two, but you know how it is.

— If he knows, why doesn't he teach you?

— Well, he wants me to learn from the best. — She said, glancing sideways at Art who chuckled as they passed by the pool and walked towards the tennis court.

— I think that's flattery. — He said and Y/n laughed.

— No, come on, I saw your last match, it was insanely good.

— Well, I... thank you. — Art nodded, a brief memory of Patrick's gesture before serving the ball flashing in his mind. He and Tashi had fought many times after that match, and even though he loved tennis, he didn't want to compete anymore. That irritated Tashi, so as a solution, she convinced Donaldson to at least continue practicing what he loved most, and she convinced him by arranging private lessons for Y/n Adams.

— So, where do we start? — Y/n asked, snapping Art out of his thoughts.

— Let's start by watching you play, then I can try to help you with any mistakes. — He said, and Y/n complied, grabbing her racket, taking off her sweatshirt and cap, and most importantly, capturing Art Donaldson's attention when her serve was practically perfect.

— Lower your elbow a bit and aim lower. — Art said, unfolding his arms and moving closer to the girl.

— Here. — He said softly, standing behind her.

— Position your feet better. — Art placed one hand on Y/n's waist and the other on her right arm.

— This way, you'll hit it perfectly. But you did well. — The blonde said, and Y/n looked up at him behind her and smiled in agreement.

— Alright, coach. — She would be a big problem for Art.

A month had passed since Art and Y/n started training together, and it was almost undeniable to Art that he noticed Y/n flirting with him naturally and spontaneously. Art reciprocated without any guilt. Tashi had no position to be mad about it, she had ruined their marriage before.

— I think that's it for today. You're good, Y/n. You impressed me a lot. — Art complimented Y/n, who was too distracted looking at him. Art was wearing a black Adidas T-shirt, black shorts, and a white cap worn backward, and Y/n had lost count of how many times she'd lost her breath looking at him.

— What? Sorry, what? — Y/n asked while laughing awkwardly. Art, on the other hand, smiled and bit his lower lip as he leaned against the fence behind him.

— Something distracting you? — He asked, and Y/n smiled at him, rolling her eyes and leaving the court with his eyes fixed on her and the tiny red skirt she was wearing.

— Are you going to stay there or can I leave you on the court? — Y/n shouted, and Art grabbed his tennis bag and ran after the younger girl, who slowed her pace for Donaldson to walk beside her. The sun was setting, and as they entered the house, Mr. and Mrs. Adams were coming down the stairs.

— All done? — Y/n's mother asked, looking in the mirror and smiling at the two of them.

— Art, how's my player doing? — Mr. Adams said, giving Art two pats on the back.

— She's been playing well, much better than many of my friends who played at Stanford. — Art said, and Y/n smiled, taking off her shoes on the sofa near the entrance.

— Be careful, because this girl is not modest at all, my friend. — Y/n's father said, and the girl opened her mouth in shock.

— I am modest!

— Yes, you are. — Her mother agreed with Y/n, giving her a kiss on the head, and she smiled, picking up her shoes from the floor.

— Art, it was great to see you, but now we're leaving, dear, or we'll be late. Bye, guys. — The two left the house, leaving Art and Y/n at the entrance, looking at the door.

— So... I think I should go...

— Do you want something to drink? Water, coffee, wine, beer? — Y/n turned quickly to look at Art, who laughed and adjusted his cap on his head.

— I don't want to intrude; you probably have more things to do...

— I don't, actually. I was going to the pool, you know? It helps relax the muscles after playing. — Y/n said, approaching the man.

— If you want to join me. — She offered, stepping up a stair and leaning on the railing, looking at him with puppy eyes.

— Uhm, I don't know if it's a good idea, it's late and you know... — Art cleared his throat and squinted, thinking of the right words — I don't know, you know, there's Tashi and...

— Shit. Shit, you're married, and I forgot about that. Right, don't worry, you... Y/n closed her eyes momentarily, remembering the existence of his family.

— But I think she wouldn't mind, it's just tennis, right? Art said, taking a step towards the stairs, and when Y/n opened her eyes, he was already closer than she imagined he would be.

— If you don't want to stay, it's okay... I just...

— It's important to relax after a game, and you need to learn that. I'm your coach, and I can help you, Y/n. — Art said, touching the girl's forearm, who smiled and nodded.

— Okay then, I can get my brother's swim shorts if you want. — She suggested, and the man agreed without thinking much, he just wanted to follow her and not be alone down there.

The two went upstairs while Art followed Y/n like a puppy. It was almost humiliating for him because if she asked, he would do anything she wanted. Y/n grabbed a pair of swim shorts for Art and went to her room.

— I'll change quickly, but you can stay here; I'll be right back. — Y/n said, and Art agreed, sitting on the edge of her bed and watching her enter the closet without doors. Y/n made a move inside, and her figure's reflection appeared in the mirror in front of the bed. Y/n took off her tennis clothes, that skirt Art wanted to take off so badly, and her underwear, and at that moment, Art shifted on the bed, feeling his cock getting hard.

— You can change there if you want, you can't see anything from here. — She shouted, and Art got up from the bed without taking his eyes off her.

— From here, you can see a lot. — He murmured while taking off his shorts, trying to adjust his length that wanted to jump out of his underwear.

— Damn. — Donaldson put on the black shorts and heard the girl again.

— So, you went to Stanford, right? — She didn't want to make the atmosphere awkward.

— Yeah, I did, and you? Are you in college? — He asked.

— I'm studying at Columbia. You know.

The brief conversation was the right amount of time for Y/n to come out of the closet wearing a black strapless bikini on top, and there was Art again, almost falling to the ground with the weight his cock was becoming.

— That's... that's cool, yeah.

He said, following her downstairs again, ignoring the fact that he shouldn't notice how her ass bounced with every step she took ahead of him.

Both walked to the pool, chatting about college and life until they entered the pool and kept staring at each other.

— So... feeling better? — Art asked as he approached the girl, who smiled at him.

— I don't know; my coach should teach me how to relax. — She said, and Art laughed. He murmured a small "okay" and brought his hands to her waist, pulling her further from the pool's edges.

— Is your wife okay with this? You touching another woman? — Y/n asked provocatively, and with a harsh movement, Art pulled her close to his body, making her feel his hard erection against her ass.

— She cheats on me with my best friend; she doesn't care at all.

— Damn, sorry, but she's really dumb. When the words left Y/n's mouth, Art laughed genuinely and brought one hand to her neck.

— Relax... — He said as his hand traveled down her body, passing over her breasts, her belly, and stopping at the waistband of her bikini bottom. When Y/n started grinding against his hard cock, Art lowered his hand and touched her sensitive spot.

— Damn, you're so wet. — Art said, moving his fingers inside her while bringing his other hand to her already bare chest. In a desperate move, Y/n turned her body and wrapped her legs around Art's waist, kissing him hard. Art's erection brushed against the girl's clit, and suddenly both were naked in the pool.

— Fuck me, please. — Y/n moaned against Art's mouth, who squeezed her ass hard. He and Tashi hadn't had physical contact in a long time, he could say he wasn't attracted to Tashi at all anymore, not after this.

— Damn, you're so hot. — Art said, attacking her neck and positioning himself at her entrance.

— Art, please. — As she begged, Art slid inside her and looked into Y/n's eyes for confirmation that everything was okay. When he received that confirmation, both of Art's hands fell on her ass, lifting her up and down on his cock. With not-so-fast thrusts, Art then picked up her body and turned her towards the pool's edge, making her bend over.

— Fuck, Art. — She moaned, and Art increased the speed inside her.

— Are you going to cum, baby? Uhm. Art asked as he moaned and continued thrusting deep into Y/n.— Are you going to cum for me? I'm going to cum too.

— Yeah? Cum in me Art, please.

— I'm going to cum inside that tight pussy, damn, so good, I've wanted to do this for so long. Art said and with a few more sloppy thrusts they both came.

— Cum. Y/n moaned and her body fell against Art's chest, who hugged her right after they both reached their peak. —That was good. — She whispered and he nodded in agreement behind her. The comfortable silence between the two ended when the front door slammed, both of their eyes widened.

Art thought about getting out of the pool but Y/n refused. Head quickly. They would see art naked if he decided to stand up. — Get down, below me. Get down. She said and Art lowered himself beneath her, with his head right between her legs, she smiled under the water and slowly came up for air for the last time. Y/n looked at the figure of her mother coming towards her and did her best to hide her nakedness.

— The restaurant went wrong, your father is irritated, I'm going to bed okay, dear. Her mother said just a few steps from the pool.

— What a shame, good night THEN. Y/n's tone unintentionally increased when Art stuck a finger into her.

— Are you well? It's getting late, don't stay there too long.

— Of course, I'll be right out. When he was about to leave the area she came back with Art's fingers in her pussy.

— Art left much later than us? Such a good man, it's a shame he's old for you, right, love. She said and Y/n just agreed, we received a strange look from her mother.

— Ok, good night. As soon as she left Y/n opened the clinic he was ecstatic and threw his forehead against the edge of the pool. Art's head shot up again and a mischievous look came with it. — This wasn’t fair. She complained and Art grabbed her waist, sat her down outside the pool, spread her legs and buried his face in them, sucking her like she was ice cream. — Art, my parents…my parents can see. Oh. She moaned as Art ran his tongue over her swollen clitoris. — uhm, right there. She moaned, taking her hands to his blonde hair, forcing him for more. — fuck, Art. That's it, uhm. She moaned softly and aart inserted two more fingers into her before she came once again.

— You are my sin, Y/n Adams. He said looking at her before getting out of the pool, grabbing a towel and keeping her out of the cold of the night. — I think I have to go.

— You come back?

— We still have class tomorrow, right?

Art knew that from now on he would need her like he needed air to breathe, Y/n Adams would be his biggest problem and he already knew that.

>>>>>>>

Requests are open ✨

[queensunshinee]

Time Of Our Lives || Part 2

Part 2:

Tashi Duncan was a force. Everyone knew it. Everywhere Tashi went, a crowd of people gathered, seeking some form of contact with her. A brief conversation about her day, their day, the fucking weather. Just so they could say they talked to the Tashi Duncan. Liana hated her. She didn't hate her personally; she hated the fact that even at Stanford, everything revolved around tennis, and accordingly, everything revolved around Art Donaldson and his blonde curls. Art, who showed up at her dorm at unreasonable hours with a box of fries he didn't even eat but knew she liked, Art, who was at every party she attended, Art, who wouldn't stop babbling about Tashi Duncan. "Look, I just think she's not the right girl for him..." Right now, Art was lying on her bed, bouncing a ball while she was trying to finish a paper for her Intro to Economics class. "I don't understand why you're here..." she mumbled in response. Somewhere in the second week at Stanford, she had stopped fighting his presence. He refused to let go. Every scowl she sent his way only encouraged him to do stupid things like waiting for her after class to walk her to the cafeteria or calling her mom and casually asking if she knew why Liana stopped coming to his open practices (she never attended his practices anyway, the little shit was an unbearable liar who made her mom talk for half an hour about how you can't neglect friendships like the imaginary one between her and Art). "Because you didn't come to practice today. Again." He looked at her. "Are you back with James?" he asked casually. "You know his name is Jake," she rolled her eyes, realizing she'd been reading the same line for fifteen minutes and deciding to close her laptop. "Are you sure?" he asked with a half-smile, pleased that for the first time that evening, he had her attention. "Why do you care that Patrick and Tashi are together?" she asked. "I don't care. I just know Patrick, and you know Patrick-" "Do I?" she cut him off, causing him to squint for a second. "You know Patrick well enough to know how he treats girls. He doesn't take them seriously, and now he's with Tashi. He's going to mess her up and ruin her season." He shrugged, as if it was the most logical thing anyone had ever thought about his best friend. "Aren't you supposed to worry about Patrick's season, Art? Like the good friend you are?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Everything felt too charged with tension she couldn't figure out. "You didn't answer me about James. Are you back with him? He's kind of a loser," he changed the subject, not taking his eyes off her. "You're kind of a loser. Sitting in my room and whining about your best friend dating the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. Get over your crush and move on. Use your blonde hair to find a hookup instead of bothering me while I'm studying." She turned her back to him and opened her laptop again. "And no, I'm not back with Jake," she concluded the topic, not wanting to reopen the wound of that relationship. Certainly not with Art Donaldson, who had started moving towards the door, finally getting the hint.

Liana put Patrick on speaker while she searched for her earrings. She had promised Daria (the only friend she had managed to find so far) that she would go out with her to the bar across from the university, and they would try out their fake IDs. Liana was sure no one would believe she was 21, no matter how revealing the dress Daria forced her to wear, how much makeup she put on, or how high the heels she wore were. No one with eyes would believe she was old enough to buy alcohol. "The referee kept making mistakes. I think Marcus paid him off. His dad probably promised the guy a new Aston Martin if I lost." Patrick, who had been complaining for the last ten minutes about the terrible game he had today, continued talking while she tried to apply lipstick as straight as possible. "I don't know much about tennis, but that sounds exaggerated, Pat." Liana didn't know what to say to cheer him up. The truth was that since the season started and Patrick decided he was pursuing professional tennis, Liana didn't know how to support him. "I'm telling you, something was off there." He spoke, maybe to her, maybe trying to convince himself. "I think you should call Tashi or Art. they would understand better than me what went wrong..." she said, wiping off the lipstick, the bright color felt too much. Like she was trying too hard to draw attention to herself to show everyone she was pretending to be an adult. "Oh, if you think Tashi hasn't already called me and told me everything I did wrong in that game while reminding me of all the mistakes from the previous game, you're wrong." He answered. She recognized the bitterness in his voice. "That sounds like a healthy relationship. you should write a book." She tried to lighten the mood, again not knowing how to help him. She didn't know Tashi, only heard stories about her, and currently, they weren't great. "Art will just keep saying I should have taken the Stanford scholarship like him and be with you guys in the beautiful college bubble, drinking beer from a keg." He continued, ignoring the jab about his relationship. "Imagine how much fun you could have had with me at Stanford, Pat. I'm on my way to use my fake ID at a bar. In heels and everything." Liana tried to do everything she could to steer the conversation away from tennis. "Whoa, Liana Levi, breaking the law. Who would have believed we'd reach this moment? What's your fake name?" he laughed, which made Liana smile. Something about hearing Patrick so broken felt wrong to her. It didn't fit the curly-haired boy who always tried to make her laugh and include her in everything he did when she was around. "Amanda Jacobs," she replied. Silence fell on the line. "Amanda Jacobs like Amanda James who went to boarding school with me and Art?" Patrick asked, and she could hear the octaves in his voice change. She already knew he wouldn't let this go. "I had to come up with something on the spot. I panicked," she defended herself as his laughter slowly became the only thing she could hear. He couldn't see her right now, but it made her smile even more, even though it was at her expense. "Alright, Amanda, don't drink and drive. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He said after he calmed down. "Okay, Dad." She rolled her eyes. "You know I love it when you call me-" he couldn't finish the sentence because she hung up.

Art was sitting on her bed when she came back from the bar. Not only had her fake ID worked, but the bartender had also been hitting on Daria all night, so he kept pouring them free shots. It was safe to say Liana had never drunk that much alcohol in her life. "Am I imagining you?" she asked with utter seriousness. "What? No. I was waiting for you." He looked confused. "Are you drunk?" he asked the obvious while Liana tried to take off one of her heels and almost fell, causing Art to quickly get up and stand next to her so she could lean on him. "How did you get in here, Arthur?" she put her hands on her hips, causing him to look at her and flash his most charming smile. The kind that made all the girls melt. "Your dad gave me a key for emergencies," he said, without taking his eyes off her as he sat back on the bed and she approached him with clumsy steps, a little disappointed that taking off the heels didn't help her stability much. "Do you want to sit?" his tone was amused. He had never seen Liana so drunk. Almost every summer, they managed to sneak a few beers when Patrick came to visit. But it was never serious. "My dad gave you a key? You realize that's not normal, right? We need to talk about boundaries, Donaldson," she turned her head to him while he was already looking at her, just inches separating them as they sat next to each other on the bed. "Patrick told me you were going to a bar, something about a fake ID? wanted to see if you're ok" he said, not moving. A little afraid she'll be the one who suddenly moves away. He couldn't remember the last time Liana was this close to him. He didn't think she would ever get this close to him again. "Patrick is a snitch, and I'm not telling him anything anymore," she sighed and threw herself on the bed dramatically, spreading her arms, causing Art to do the same and land on her arm, closer than she would tolerate any other day. "I can't believe you didn't invite me. I'm disappointed," he tried to sound amused, but he was genuinely disappointed. By this point, he was sure she understood they were friends, that they were connected by such a strong bond that he sometimes doubted if he could ever unravel it. If he even wanted to unravel it. He just didn't understand how, while he saw her so clearly, she didn't see him at all. Sometimes he wondered if she even knew his name. Then he would see her in the crowd at one of his games, and the world calmed down; he always won when she was there. "You don't drink anyway," she noted quietly. The fatigue started to overcome her, and Liana's eyes closed on their own. "Hey, I do drink," he defended himself, even though they both knew he was lying. He tried to maintain his diet as correctly as possible, as fitting as possible for his athletic lifestyle. "I think Patrick is sad," she suddenly said, and Art felt his heart beating quickly. "How do you know?" he asked in a quiet, almost defeated voice. "Because when I talk to him, I'm sad too."

sooo, here's the second part. I think we're getting somewhere, but it's going to be a slow burn, so stick with me, I guess. I'm kinda clueless as to if you like it or not, so feel free to tell me what you're thinking ❤️

[pparacxosm]

sigh like a chime

(postcanon!patrick zweig x infant halfsister’s au pair!reader; idk either man; came to me in a dream; title from the sound of music let’s all act shocked; major tw for suicide talk; tw depressive behaviour; tw disordered thoughts about eating; tw vague implication of alcoholic dependency; patrick zweig is generally not doing so hot; like at all; tw strained father son dynamics; tw grown adults projecting childhood trauma onto a baby; warning you now: this is a long one !! ; make a day of it; atp coexisting; lily donaldson being a weird little girl ™; tw airports during holiday season; whoever came up with the headcanon that patrick was late for his circumcision and it got cancelled i owe you a kidney; so cw smut obviously; cw religious ((Christianity, specifically Catholicism + Judaism briefly)) motifs; tw splicing of said motifs with the aforementioned smut; tw vomit)

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him,” Patrick tells Tashi, “I really am, you know I mean that.”

He paces her kitchen impatiently, running fingers through dark, dishevelled hair.

At such times, he still looks like the boy wonder sprinting carelessly across electric blue asphalt, eyes shimmering, as if he were part of that riot of colour. Some of his athletic maturity is replaced with the facetious, callow mannerisms of a hungry novice who wants to skip the necessary steps. Who wants to swallow experience and spit out the bones.

Tashi straddles a stool at the vast marbletop island. She’s pattering away like bulletquick rainfall on her MacBook. She doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Patrick makes an effort to rein in his temper. He drops into one of the stools. He swivels left and right and cranes his neck, staring up at the coffered ceiling moulding.

“It’s almost Christmas, Patrick. Go home.”

I am home, he wants to say, but that would be revolting and stupid and he doesn’t even really mean it. Art and Tashi aren’t home for him. Nothing is. And he likes that, he likes being a nomad.

Lily clicks in like a pony. Lily—well, Lili, Lieselotte—is also the name of his little sister. He likes the coincidence. The trick of the mind he can perform, imagining an alternative family. 

Family is just being nomads together.

“Hey, I told you no tap shoes inside,” Tashi says, eyes still swimming through the pixelmire of her computer screen.

Perhaps Patrick ought to feel flattered by her attention at all. His familial woes are just as perturbing to Tashi as Lily fucking up the flooring with her ball changes.

Patrick’s still quashing his irritation. She doesn’t even fuck him, anymore. He actually doesn’t fuck much of anything at all, of late. What with how tired he is all the time, how his flesh and bones deplete with each exertion. In a way, that’s her fucking him. But it’s also just the scorn of getting older.

It gets harder to shoulder things. His patience corrodes quicker. He should lean forward, take that laptop, and lob it across the room. She’s not even wearing those stupid bluelight glasses she’s supposed to be wearing.

“Do you just not care about anything?” It’s a petulant attempt at stoking her, but it’s too meandering and abstract to really matter, let alone take effect.

She doesn’t respond for a whole five seconds, still typing, and when she does, it’s a distracted whisper of, “What?”

Her power over him is such that she can afford to be so blindly condescending. But it still stings.

He groans into the air, and it’s such a thundering sort of noise that Lily spares him a weirded out scowl on her way to the pantry. “Do you really want me in Germany? I’ll sit on my ass and start drinking beer again all day, Coach.”

Three years into their partnership, he often uses her title to signal his annoyance.

Tashi sighs like she’s disappointed. Not disappointed that he’s trying, but the fact that he’s making such meaningless, childish stabs at it. Instead of just going for it. As in, yes, smashing her MacBook over his knee and yelling pay attention to me! She’d respect that more and he knows it.

But, anyway, she lowers the screen halfmast and looks at him. “Are you jeal—”

“I’m not jealous of the baby.”

“Okay…”

“But he’s sixtyfive, Tashi! It’s ridiculous.”

Tashi does something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking her head. She rolls up the sleeves of her sweater and narrows her eyes at him. “And how old did you say the new wife was?”

“Thirtytwo, Tashi.”

Tashi laughs properly now, dropping her head and dragging her thumb and forefinger over her lashes. Patrick smiles at her amusement, albeit at his expense.

“That is pretty ridiculous.” She looks up at him again, clearing her throat, “Don’t try to bullshit me and pretend you don’t still drink beer.”

He wants to contradict her, but he decides he wants to make her laugh more. “He met her because she was his masseuse for a hot stone treatment.”

Tashi sputters, her giggles spilling everywhere, and she’s waving her hands like she’s calling timeout.

“And then he calls me,” Patrick continues, before miming a phone to his ear and straightening and dragging his voice down like an anchor with an affected distinguished rumble, “And goes, Son, I am moving back to Germany. I have love again.”

“I have love again!” Tashi wheezes, her elbows thunking on the marble and her face falling into her hands. Her shoulders are shaking with laughter.

“Like it’s a fucking disease.”

“It is.” Art’s voice still manages to quaver delivering a glib oneliner. Maybe because he doesn’t mean it. Patrick’s willing to chalk it up to his brisk stride as he enters the kitchen. Always a fucking pep in his step these days, the fucking asshole.

Patrick doesn’t turn his head. He feels a sharp instance of vertigo when Art’s hand lands on his shoulder. But both the touch and nausea are gone as soon as they arrive, and he passes off the motion of his own hand going to grab Art’s fingers as a scratch to his nose. Tashi’s too busy wiping her tears away to have noticed that, thank God.

“Oh my God, please tell him,” Tashi cackles, still gathering lost breath as Art slides her bluelight eyeglasses onto her face and enswathes her body with his, caressing her arms with his knuckles.

“He knows,” Patrick says dismissively, even though that’s a lie. He hasn’t told him.

“What do I know?”

Tashi recounts the story with the engaging enthusiasm of what Patrick is beginning to recognise as schadenfreude. But even that is still a salve, and he feels a little foolish for forgetting its effect. Not just the laughter, but all of this. He wishes they would just throw him a bone and let him stay for Christmas. He feels like a dying dog made to live too long. He offered to dress up as Santa, but Lily herself informed him that she’s far outgrown such folly and resents his assumption otherwise. She’d kicked him in the shin with the metal plate of her tap shoe. He’d let her.

Art’s smile quirks up at the image. Mean old Mr Zweig laid nude across a spa bed, cock jumping for the meek masseuse.

“Bet he slipped her eight grand to fold the towel a little lower,” Art mumbles into Tashi’s hair, the strands buttery against his lips.

She makes a face at this. She raises her hand to swat his arm reproachfully.

But Patrick only chuckles. Spares a glance over his shoulder to where Lily is sprawled on the couch, gripping the handles of her shockproof iPad case with the focus of a pilot at the yoke of a plane, her little head swallowed by a pair of AirPod maxes. Turns back and looks up at Art with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Probably had her stroke his dick with two hot stones,” he murmurs.

Tashi thinks that’s even less funny. But Art thinks it’s even more funny.

He laughs very loudly and does a less than polite impression of an old German bastard wincing and coming.

“Ah—” he hisses, “The next one up my bumhole, yes?”

It sounds like a botched Hitler lampoon, and it’s ostensibly a caricature he’s done many times before. Sometimes, they spend whole days just wading through their ancient morass of shared memories and inside references and running gags. Sometimes, even now, it's just easier that way.

Patrick laughs so hard he falls out of his chair.

They do let him stay for dinner.

It feels like they’re mocking him, but he’s hungry. So he stares into the middle distance and listens to Lily spiritedly declaim facts about deep sea turtles. She keeps surreptitiously slipping Brussels sprouts from her plate onto his. It wouldn’t be his place to mention it. And, for her part, she quaffs down her mashed potatoes like an endurance test. He tells her they’re not going anywhere. She kicks his shin again and he’s pretty sure she should have taken those shoes off by now.

He watches every gentle graze of Art and Tashi’s limbs and shoulders.

He sighs and chews his sprouts until his jaw aches.

There are worse things in his head to beat himself up with than wishful thinking.

“What’d Sassy say?” Art asks as he uncorks a Montrachet.

The corner of Patrick’s mouth quirks up almost imperceptibly. Like the reflexive twitch of a bad muscle. But he can tell Art discerns it by the way he starts to chuckle preemptively. That grin that spreads across his face like fire on dry grass.

Patrick huffs. “She said she hopes the baby chokes and dies.”

“You’re killing me, Sas.”

It’s December eighteenth at JFK. Patrick feels like a fucking sardine. Everyone is everywhere. The emetic odour of tarmac and jet fuel embues him. His fingers are red and stiff and so tightly coiled around the stainless steel handrail of the escalator that he thinks they may just pop off like caps. There’s an acetous chill to the nighttime air, and he probably should’ve worn more layers, but the sweat on his back is already soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t mind. It’s better than being late.

Patrick’s dad used to enforce punctuality like a jailhouse warden. Saskia knows that.

He has his phone tucked to his ear against one shoulder.

His sister’s voice across the receiver sounds warped and liminal. His stomach is grumbling.

“You’re fucking me, Sas, you’re fucking me right over,” Patrick says. “What’s in Brazil?”

“Well, warmth, for one.”

“What about me?”

Saskia laughs. That loud, tocsin laugh she used to do when he’d wet the bed. “You boycotted the christening, Brutus.”

“Why would I fly to Germany to watch a baby take a bath?”

“Why are you flying to Germany now?”

Patrick’s teeth are on edge as he schleps his weighty duffel toward the terminal. He fishes a cigarette out of his windbreaker pocket and shoves it through his lips. He wants to spark it, even though Tashi’s psychologically tortured him into quitting, and he’d get thrown out for sure. There’s a line of security guards at every corner, and he’s seen the German Shepherd sniffer dogs.

He chews on the cigarette instead. Grinds the tip between his molars to get that stark jounce of nicotine even if it’s mostly tobacco and paper.

Saskia is saying something in his ear, and he’s only halfpretending to listen. His eyes are fastened straight ahead, singeing holes into the back of a woman’s head. Her hair is pulled into an absurdly tight ponytail. And he is so taken by the movement of the strands as it bobs with each step that he is only dragged back to reality when Saskia says his name loud enough to stab his eardrums.

He blinks. “What, bitch?”

“Paddy, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I don’t wanna throttle the little shit. I’m pushing forty and I cried because he bought it a fucking babysize tiara.”

Patrick closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. He swallows a bit of that tobacco wad on his tongue. He nearly gags. He belatedly catches that a couple of security guards are looking at him with some suspicion. He holds up a finger as if to say, sorry, and turns around to walk away.

Saskia’s still on the line, and she starts singing something, though he doesn’t understand why. He has to hold the phone a good foot away until she shuts up.

“Wh—” he scoffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Hey, maybe you’ll get along with it.”

“Unlikely.”

“Maybe you’ll get along with dad.”

“Un—fucking—likely,” he retorts.

He ducks into a corner of the empty terminal and drops inelegantly onto a hard plastic seat. He is hyperaware of the sweat fumes under his arms, the way his track pants cling too snugly to his thighs.

“Actually, hey,” Saskia says, and he can hear her perking up. He imagines her in a hammock in Rio. She’ll burn so bad. No earthly SPF could ever keep her from shedding like a crimson serpent. “She has this au pair.”

Patrick glances up at the TV monitor over his head.

Departures to Berlin 23 30, it reads, flashing jarringly in red LED lettering, accompanied by a blinking graphic of an airplane taking off.

He makes a noncommittal grunt. “That tracks,” he mumbles.

“I’m saying you don’t have to be lonely,” says Sassy, “Make friends! She’s nice. Bit young.”

“Reckon dad’ll try to knock her up next?”

Saskia laughs herself to piggish snorting. The bigeared little boy within him, tugging at the pantleg of his sister’s pyjamas for attention, is vaguely mollified by that laughter. Albeit at his expense.

He should spend the flight feeling guilty for not getting a gift for the baby, but he listens to a true crime podcast instead.

They’re talking about a young girl who was found unconscious by the side of a road. The truck driver who spotted her was a little drunk at the time, and he was afraid that if he called the cops he’d lose his job, so he just moved her body further up the road where someone else could find her.

Apparently, she was still alive, but the truck driver thought she was already dead.

It’s not certain if she would have made it, had he done The Right Thing, but maybe it would've made a difference.

“He should've just called the cops and driven away,” one of the hosts says.

“If you’re reporting an accident, you can’t just remove yourself from the premises,” the other one replies.

“Well no, but if you report a homicide—“

“Same thing. Also, how can you just leave a person bleeding by the side of the road?”

“Was she visibly bleeding?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Patrick closes his eyes and leans his head back. The clouds roll by like lambhide.

He can picture it clearly, driving away from this fucking mess, leaving a body by the side of the road. He’d do it if he could. But he thinks he’s the body.

He shudders with a pang of cold. He doesn’t know why this image sticks. It’s like ghosts, floating in between the clouds.

Saskia texts him. Suffocate the baby with a pillow. Also delete that text. And that one.

And he, the body by the side of the road, doesn't say anything.

The plane jostles a little in a patch of turbulence. They descend into Berlin at eight in the morning.

His knees hurt from keeping them bent at an angle for so long, his ass is going numb. He should feel sorry for himself, being alone like this.

As he deplanes, a few fellow passengers glance in his direction, their noses wrinkling. He can’t tell if it’s the bitter rot of cigarette between his teeth or his sudor stench or his mouldering heart.

People converge in the baggageclaim like a throng of cattle. Patrick shoulders through. Swallowed up and spat out and alone again.

No one pays anyone any attention. Everyone is hurrying to make this flight or get to the next. When Patrick finds a men’s room, he realises he should be glad for that. In the reflection of the large mirror above a long stretch of white porcelain sinks, he can see shadows like cosmic abysses under his eyes. Some of the veins in his arms—which are sticking out from under his sleeves like pythons—are slightly swollen and purple.

His duffle bag bangs against his hip as he shuffles onto the tarmac and joins the taxi queue.

Berlin greets him with an onslaught of sleet.

His bones rattle like clicking spoons in the cold. He’s cursing under his breath and trying to remember the last time he was sincerely back in Germany.

Not just a brief cut across for a match, a layover, a hamfisted excuse to see his sister.

He was probably nine.

Patrick lumbers up the walkway to his father’s home. It looks like it’s been shoveled already today but has endured several hours of snowfall since. That and—well—he guesses his dad’s playing humble now.

Sas had dubbed it a latelife crisis. But it’s not shabby. In fact, it’s nice. It’s no limestone portico. Far cry from the august Georgian Revival mausoleum he and Sas gleaned their nascent wounds in.

Lili gets a Hallmark ass two story colonial, strung with Christmas lights. Deep green door, ornate bronze knocker, festooned with a wreath. The doorbell echoes through his empty bones like a deathknell.

His teeth chinkle like coins as he waits.

When the door opens, he releases a protracted, puerile whine. “Fuck.”

You’ve never been cause of such overt disappointment.

It’s almost flattering.

But your smile quickly metamorphoses into a grimace.

His shoulders are drooping and he looks liable to topple facefirst to the snowswathed gravel at any moment. His eyelids keep fluttering, like he’s fighting a losing battle against the urge to just shut down.

“Is this the right house?” he groans, pained and shivering.

You’re marginally certain this is your boss’ son and not a homeless vagrant.

Either way, you’re nodding emphatically. “Of course it is.”

In the kitchen, he stands in the corner like a newly housed stray. Hands tucked into his armpits and chin touching his chest as he watches you spark up the cooktop through snowdappled lashes.

The powdered creamer, as you pour it into the teacup, reminds him, too, of snowfall. You keep flicking him conspicuously concerned glances.

“So you’re Patrick…” you say, spooning sugar.

He clears his throat and hums in a way that says, yeah, I’m not too thrilled about it either. His head is bowed, his eyes fallen shut, and he’s swaying vaguely on his feet. He looks like he’s making devotions. The kettle sings.

His fingers are bonetight around the cup and saucer. He lifts the cup and presses it to his cheek, like leaching the warmth from the ceramic. When he sips, you’re reminded of cats lapping milk.

There’s a moment of silence, and it’s awkward. And then he sneezes—once, twice. His throat clicks.

“Uh… tennis,” you try, folding closed the box of Five Roses.

The steam plumes up and curls around Patrick’s face, flushed and sallow. He clears his throat again, his eyes unfocused. He glances toward you and knows he should reply, but the only thing that comes out is a damp, congested sniff.

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Tennis,” he repeats, the word muffled by the cup still pressed to his lips.

You nod slowly, rapping your knuckles rhythmically against the counter. “Wimbledon,” you say then.

Patrick scrunches up his face as if he’s in pain. He’s trying to force some simulacrum of synapse action in the conversational skills faculty of his brain.

“Yeah,” he manages. He takes another gulp of tea and tries to clear his throat again. It hurts. Everything hurts. He hurts.

You nod some more. You can’t help but think that this feels a bit like a tennis game. You and he, volleying oneword utterances back and forth. “Impressive,” you offer, cocking your brows at him.

“Thanks,” Patrick mutters.

He does actually want to be witty. And he does actually want to be charming. And he wants to make a good first impression. But right now he wants to sleep, preferably through a few decades. Certainly, the last few of his father’s life. Which, speaking of,

“Hey, where is the bastard?”

He glances around, as if to see his father lurking in a crevice somewhere. You raise a brow. Could it be an affectionate nickname? Perhaps. But you’re starting to connect some dots.

You smile like you’re trying not to provoke a sabertoothed creature. But Patrick can see in your eyes that he’s amusing you, which he doesn’t mind. Of course he doesn’t mind.

There’s a vast window above the counter, pictureframing an expansive, snowshrouded back garden that, knowing his dad, is probably a rigorously manicured viridescent green in the warmer months. How warm do things get in Germany these days?

He squints against the luminous white splay as you point beyond the glass. There’s a distant brown pinprick that lets him know this property is larger than it seems. Larger than it needs to be. But the kid needs frolicking room, he guesses.

“He’s in the den,” you say.

Patrick throws the rest of his tea back like a shot, placing his cup and saucer onto the counter with a twinkling thunk.

“Alright, then let’s go.”

“My balls are gonna freeze off before we even get there,” Patrick hisses.

Every step forward sends his feet an inch deeper into the snow, and you watch him shake out his running shoes with displeasedness. You laugh at him, and he turns back to face you, and he makes this face that could either be a smirk or an indication of great turmoil. You are struck by his ability to wear that lopsided grin in his current circumstances, to look at you like that. Well, like what? You don’t know.

It’s just that the scarf and wool peacoat you’re wearing make you look like a well-loved heirloom doll. He can see the faintest wisps of your breath in the bitter air. Your smile is so kind and so warm, he thinks, smiling wider.

He appreciates you joining him on his doormat pilgrimage. A better guy would tell you that, but he just turns around and keeps footslogging.

Together, you trudge forward across the sprawling, sleety landscape.

The door to the den is unlocked.

Patrick casts a glance back at you before he pushes it all the way open, hitting the opposite wall with a hollow bang.

It creaks a little on its hinges as it opens into a long corridor. He takes a step in first.

“Hello?” Patrick yells, his voice lilting. “Armed robbery. I have guns and knives and… bombs. Got your pretty nanny.”

You feel the little smile on your face quavering with amusement as you close the door shut behind you.

The floors are clad in dark oak panels. The walls are lined with copper sconces. There’s an ostensibly hideous and probably hilariously expensive rug in the middle of the floor and Patrick makes a show of wiping his shoes clean on it. 

“Sure as fuck not taking this thing,” he mumbles, digging his hands into his pant pockets. 

He glances toward a long sideboard on the side of the corridor. It’s laden with antique trinkets and mahoganyframed pictures, and he reaches out to prod at an ivory figurine sitting at the edge.

You stay in silence for a few moments, looking at him. 

Then, the faint creak of footsteps comes from upstairs, and you both look up at the ceiling. Seconds later, it fades to your right, and, soon enough, there appears Rupert Zweig. Cashmere jumper, tapered joggers.

There is no denying the family resemblance. And if the way Patrick’s eyes narrow as his father descends the staircase is anything to go by, he is not gonna wanna meet—

“There you are,” says Rupert, corners of his eyes crinkling. He stops at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets. The two regard each other like snipers. You have the sharp sensation you shouldn’t be here, but where would you go?

Patrick clicks his teeth wryly. “Here I am.” His hands are also in his pockets. Their deportments are uncannily kindred.

You think Patrick shouldn’t be so putout by that. Rupert Zweig is a handsome sixtyfive. Tall and broad and still in trim, despite most his days being ornamented by cognac and cigars. His silvery hair sheens like tinsel, and has not thinned much to speak of, if at all.

You figure maybe they’ll hug, as Rupert approaches. You know Rupert to be a hugger. But he only claps Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick’s bones look like they’ve been swapped for concrete, and he watches his father give him a once over, like surveying an old car.

“I hope things are well with you,” Rupert says. Which isn’t strange paternal commentary. But his voice is tinctured with a concerned edge at the overall impression that his only son has been dragged along the pavement by the tail of a motorbike and then beaten with sticks to boot. I thought things were better, now, he’s really saying.

You think it’s concern, anyway. You, too, know Rupert to be quite concerned, and caring. But Patrick takes it as scorn.

He wears a bitter smile. “Things are peachy, Pa.”

His nostrils flare, he shifts his shoulders. Like he wants to shrug his father's hand off, but is keeping still for the sake of seeming mature.

And then it happens. A pule from the ether like the resounding stroke of a viola.

You perk up. “Oh! I’ll go—“

“Yes, dear, she’s with Giselle in the drawing room.” Rupert’s eyes crinkle, a kind brush of his fingers to your elbow.

Patrick—you glimpse, as you shuffle past him and out the passage—looks furious. And a bit queasy.

In the drawing room, Patrick stares at Giselle’s hands. She’s twisting her emerald engagement ring around her finger. The stone is big as a pebble, its facets winking.

He doesn’t let himself look to where you are. On an ivorycoloured foam playmat on the ground, doing something that is causing the baby to squeal and giggle like a strident string of bells and clap her pudgy hands together. He can hear the yarn of drool gurgling from her gummy mouth.

An angeltopped pine tree scintillates with fairy lights in the corner.

Giselle is slender porcelain. White sweater, skinny jeans, milkblonde hair. She crosses her legs at the ankles, knees to the side, like she’s the fucking queen of England. She is polite to varying degrees of genuineness.

“Lili’s so happy to see her big brother.”

Patrick’s knee shudders violently. Cut the shit, Giselle, he wants to spit.

But he knows he won’t. He doesn’t feel he can. Maybe it’d be easier, if she really was just some nympho naif. Then he could call his dad a perv and move on.

But no. Giselle is three years his junior but tenfold his put-togetherness. There are two infants in the room, and neither are her.

The room is so warm and well lit. There are bookshelves teeming with hardcover tomes whose rapiersharp corners look ostensibly untouched. A globe of the world, a framed Picasso original. Baroque vases and potted ivies and the permeating waft of jasmine and rose and leather.

It’s an intimate microcosm of his father and Giselle’s interwoven lives. Their very fumes amalgamate. And then there’s that puny thing, gossamer flesh, babbling like a brook. He doesn’t look. He can’t.

When his dad walks back in, Patrick is on his feet like a springing coil.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” says his dad, handing Patrick a set of keys.

Patrick shakes his head and feigns remorse. “Nah, Sas asked me to water her plants, so.”

Rupert looks like he’s going to say something, but decides against it.

“Right,” he nods and reaches into his pocket, retrieving a slim silver case. He flips open the lid, revealing a neat row of hand rolls. He plucks one between his long fingers. Patrick would say no, if he offered, but resents his father’s lack thereof enough to head for the door.

You think he’ll say bye to you, or maybe offer just a parting wave, but he doesn’t.

You hear him and his dad at odds like a cobra and a mongoose in the hall. You daub tender kisses onto the fleshy pink soles of Lili’s feet. You discern misty fragments of Patrick’s scathing whispers.

“... newage, hippie bullshit... nice guy act... fucking sweatpants... —christen the baby! What the fuck are you doing christening the baby? You never even took us to temple!”

However Rupert responds, on the other hand, is vaguely inaudible. It’s just a deep, cautiously placating rumble of syllables. 

You hear a bit more mumbled venom before the door creaks open and slams shut.

“He thinks he’s got everyone fooled, but I’m fucking onto hi— where is your alcohol?”

Patrick’s disembowelling every cabinet in his sister’s kitchen. On all fours like a hound rooting in the snow. He can hear the hot waft of tropical winds from Saskia’s end of the receiver. Crash of surf. Squawking birds. The staticky tempo of Brazilian phonk in the background.

“Ugh, Paddy,” Saskia mumbles like she’s disappointed.

He tears the fridge door open so fervently, the cord comes loose from the socket. There’s nothing there but bottled water, yoghurt, and salad dressing. He makes a strangled noise of agony into the ear piece.

“Saskia May,” Patrick groans with a sonnet’s desperation, resting his head against the icy fridgeshelf, between the organic grassfed butter and the handcrafted balsamic glaze, “I know you may be in a fucking beachside cabana right now, dipping Portuguese cock into your piña colada with the little umbrella in it and then sucking it off, but it is late here, and it is winter, and I am dying.”

“What do you mean you didn’t see the baby?” she asks.

“No, well, I saw her, just…” Patrick’s withdrawing all her earthenware now, “I just didn’t look.”

“What, like the fucking Basilisk?”

“Sassy, for the love of God, tell me you’ve left even a drop of liquor in your home.”

Saskia laughs, and he can hear the chime of ice. “Did you meet the au pair?”

Patrick stumbles back to the stillopen, halfway gutted fridge. He identifies with it. He sticks his head back in. “She thinks I’m a mess.”

“Wow, what a stupid whore,” his sister laughs. As everything, it is at his expense. He’s in emotional arrears, but it’s okay. It’s all okay.

He hears Saskia’s inbreathe. Marijuana? Probably. He doesn’t mind her lungs. He doesn’t mind that she’s always been more beautiful than him. He doesn’t mind that she’s warm in Rio. He knows it’s harder for her. She never got to be Rupert’s little princess. He wants to protect her in that asinine way baby brothers think they can protect their sisters. In that asinine way Patrick Zweig thinks he can protect everyone.

“Have pity on me, Sas.”

She directs him blindly like a game of Marco Polo. He wades through the ransacked bombsite he’s made of her kitchen. Avocados rolling across the slate floor. Spilled milk, which feels symbolic.

He unearths the bottle of Gordon’s dry gin from under the sink. Holds it aloft like a holy grail.

Patrick can’t remember the last time he set foot in a church, if such a time has ever occurred. Part of him expects the parishioners to take one look at him and know he doesn’t belong, for them to demand he leave.

For the things he has done, the things he has felt, the things he has wanted. Certainly for the things he cannot bring himself to believe.

He is struck by the towering stonework of the cathedral. The wooden cross in the apse is immense. Behind it, stained glass windows paint the icedover morning in vivisected coloursplays. Soft motes of sunlight waft in shafts from the ceiling.

He never thought he’d see the day—the Zweigs done up in their Sunday best. His mother would laugh herself to tears.

Rupert’s broad shoulders are ramrod straight, his argent hair slicked back handsomely. Giselle is wearing a ribbed knit dress in eggshell. Princess Lieselotte—finally, a worthy heir—is wearing a knit tunic dress embroidered with blooms, a scallopcollared ivory shirt underneath, and a crocheted woollen baby bonnet.

They look like an affiche for Norman Rockwell.

At first, he’s still trying not to meet the Basilisk’s gaze, but then he gets this disarming glimpse. The peonypink hue of her. Her comically outjutting little ears. Gibbous blue eyes, lapping up the world through cornyellow lashes. Those are Giselle’s. But the rest…

Unlucky little shit, Patrick tells her telepathically. And now he is looking straight at her, like the spell has been broken. He needs to let her know he’s onto her, and her bullshit doting father. You look like dad.

But what that means is she looks like Patrick, too.

He watches you hold her in your arms, rubbing your nose against hers.

Giselle had had you press Patrick’s shirt—his father’s shirt; of course he didn’t pack a buttonup—for him this morning. He was only kind of embarrassed. But he sat carefully in the car, leery of creasing your hard work. 

The linen of your skirt reaches your ankles. You’re wearing this creamcoloured slouchy knit turtleneck, and you’ve got a little lacy chiffon infinity veil halfway canopying your hair. Patrick is pleasantly amused by all this fabric. All the things he cannot see. Because of God, or the cold, or God and the cold.

The Zweigs find their pews, stopping frequently to greet their fellow churchgoers, and whisper inquiries after names Patrick doesn’t know. He shakes half a dozen hands if he shakes one, introduces himself as ‘Rupert’s son’ more times than he can count.

You, too, are pleasantly amused. Because Patrick is notably discomfited. You fish your little pewter cross necklace from beneath your collar. You hold it between your fingers and out toward him like an exorcist.

“He can smell your fear,” you whispergrowl, fauxominous. Lili giggles all saliva in your arms. That’s the voice you use when you pretend to be the babyeating ogre. She takes the cross between her tiny teeth. Patrick watches. You smile. “And so can she.”

Patrick looks at you for a moment, feigning indifference. “They’re both smelling how little they matter to me.”

Your smile widens.

Patrick—who has never endured a mass—takes his cues from the brush of your shoulder on when to stand, when to sit, and when to supplicate himself. The priest oscillates from English to Latin and back again. Seemingly on a whim. When Patrick fumbles trying to find the right page for the hymn, you tilt your book slightly so he can read along. 

He thinks the rosary looks good where it dangles from your lithe, supple fingers. Looping and weaving through your pretty knuckles like drops of blood. 

You are flawless in your devotion.

You slip to your knees with a fluidity that makes his tummy fasten.

You sing quietly and sweetly and when you turn to Patrick to wish peace upon him, your grin is so sweet and earnest it takes a moment for him to contend with that blessing.

Everyone falls down to the hassock again and Patrick is beginning to find the rhythm of the whole affair. At least enough to let his thoughts maunder and his body be at mercy to the motions.

It’s soothing, in its way. He can almost understand it. What blessed relief in lifting your human pains to be scoured clean.

The priest closes out the sermon with a few nice words about Jesus. Guy’s birthday’s coming up, after all.

Patrick leans forward a bit to glance at his father’s fingers, tapping on the dry leather of the psalmbook.

In the photo, little Lili is wearing a white linen nightgown that mantles her whole, like a tiny tarp. His dad cradles her, and everyone’s standing around a marble pool. He can see Saskia off to the side, hosting a very conspicuous hangover behind her mask. You’re in the picture, too. Apparently, you had been Giselle’s doula, in the beginning, and you just ended up sticking around. Which he finds more than a little strange. Patrick often sees life as a series of measures to get further away from his family.

On the edge of the photo, he can see the broad back of a becloaked man, plashing his fingers the water.

Patrick feels an inkling of discomfort at the sight of that man.

“She still sleeps in that dress, actually,” you say, rocking the babe.

The wallpaper of Lili’s room is printed with pale pink linework of woodland creatures. He’s straddling the vintage nursery rocker—a plush weathered lamb; it used to be his and Saskia’s—and his knees are hiked comically high on either side of him, his slacks riding up his ankles.

Patrick stares at the baby girl in this framed photograph. She looks too small—almost tenuous—underneath the white shift. Her eyes are flushed and still wombswollen.

“What’s the point?” he asks, trying to imagine that man softly slooshing water over her boneless head.

You smile. “It’s to protect her.”

“Protect her from what?”

You lower Lili into her French Provençal style woodcarved bassinet.

You look up at him, eyes flitting over his face. “Shame, I guess.”

It doesn’t quite make sense. A fullimmersion baptism means commitment. You have pledged yourself to God. You are bound to follow His laws. Shame is essential to these laws. Isn’t it?

You don’t know why he’s still here. Giselle is taking her Sunday nap, and Rupert’s playing solitaire or reading Guy Sajer or something in the den. Lili, too, is dead to the world. You need to do the laundry. The laundry room is too strait for him to be lingering, leaning against the doorframe, interrogating you. He likes watching the linen of your skirt gather at your feet as you crouch to the floor, depositing the armfuls of bedding into the mouth of the washing machine. All that fabric.

“It’s a different kind of shame,” you try to explain. “I can be ashamed of myself, of my body.”

“Why are you ashamed?”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t know. I’m alive.”

“Alright. And this helps?”

“A little, yeah. It takes you out of your body. Then returns you to it. And you feel brand new. Like you belong to Jesus.”

You laugh a little at the concept, but he can tell you treasure this belonging, deep down.

He walks toward you, taking the empty wicker hamper from your hands and setting it aside. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed in the first place.”

You shrug, noting his proximity. “It’s probably good to feel shame from time to time.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

He doesn’t ask you if you feel ashamed right now. Face smushed against the top of the palpitating washing machine. If you said yes, he’d be unhappy. If you said no, he’d be unhappy.

He’s happy, now, hiking your skirt up around your waist, shucking your gauzy tights halfway down your thighs. Best not to ruin it.

So he doesn’t ask if you’re ashamed. He doesn’t ask if you’re a virgin. He does ask if you’re on birth control, and furrows his brows as his strong hands caress the flesh of your ass.

“Why not?” he laughs, dragging the beige skin down his rigid cock, rubbing the deep blush head against your hirsute pussy and bending over you. “Isn’t that shit free here?”

He burrows his head beneath your sweater, kissing your back through the cotton of your longsleeve. He doesn’t search for more bare skin, just keeps a good grip on that which he has, fingertips digging into the flesh of your hips.

He fucks into you and feels your body shudder around him with the jostle of the machine.

He doesn’t ask of shame or chastity or how long Giselle and Lili usually nap for, how far his dad is into The Forgotten Soldier. He does, however, feel it necessary to ask,

“Feels good, right?” Even though you’re drooling against the zinc and your hoarse groans are rivalling the churning noises. You roll your eyes but they stay there, your lashes fluttering.

“Yes,” you pant, clutching the edge of the machine. “It feels good.”

He bends over you, pinning you, elbow to elbow, his chin resting on your clothed shoulder. Your veil slips off your head and drapes around your neck. He quickens his pace. “It’s fucking big, isn’t it?”

You turn your head to look at him. His eyes look like they want to fuck your eyes. His mouth hovers over your drooling mouth as if to kiss you. The shaggy hair of his crotch abrades your tailbone.

“Verdict’s still out,” you say, voice quavering, and you let him lave your tongue sloppily with his.

His sister has a guestroom, but he sleeps in her bed. Reads her Audre Lorde and Laurie Colwin. Uses her toothbrush. God, she’d kill him. But he likes the transgression of violating her space. He doesn’t use her vibrator, or anything. He finds it, but he doesn’t use it.

He has his few ways of having people. So he’s always taking what he can get.

That’s why he fucks the nanny in the laundry room, and lets Art’s kid bruise him with her tap shoe, and sits on the kitchen tile drinking Saskia’s gin.

He has to hold on to the granite countertop, as he straightens from his haunches. His back is a wreck, but the ache is nothing compared to the relief and vindication and victory he feels. He can’t say for sure what the prize is. Maybe it really was just your pussy, and that’s where this all starts and ends, which is fine. The feeling of winning is so rare and precious and precious and rare and, as he unscrews the cap and raises the bottle to his lips, it’s as if he’s just slain a mighty monster.

He places the little tiara he’d filched from Lili’s room on Saskia’s mantel.

He’s less than compos mentis come Christmas Eve.

He lays in Saskia's bed for a bit, inhaling lime and ambergris, trying to figure out what to do with himself. He checks his phone: No Service.

He sighs and tumbles out the sheets like a rockslide. He figures he might as well go for a run before the blizzard clocks in since there’s nothing else to do. His feet already feel numb and damp. Everything has felt numb and damp the whole time he’s been here.

Running buzzed probably isn’t his smartest idea, but it doesn’t feel like his worst one either.

Patrick frenetically tugs two pairs of thermal leggings on. The radiotor whirrs but the house is still arrestingly gelid. He pulls on his sister’s comically inflated neon orange down jacket.

He looks at himself in the mirror.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he whispers.

He loots and pilfers some mittens, goggles, and a neck gaiter from Saskia’s closet. She could never take to professional athleticism, but she’s a reasonably devout runner, and is partial to a halfmarathon or two most years. Which means free activegear for Paddy. He walks to the front door and slips on his dank shoes.

He steps outside once he feels decently covered head to toe, a skill he’s found refining itself as the week has shouldered past him.

Patrick strides the roadside briskly for almost a mile. His legs feel halfway atrophied, so he gives them time to warm up. The neighborhood seeps into copses of snowdusted forestry. He feels the beauty of the landscape flicker through him like a spark.

He starts jogging.

He has no mapped course, no mile time to hit. He just wants to move forward. For once. His goggles fog up with entrapped bodyheat crowning the cold air but he doesn’t fix them. The compressed insulation of his clothes, the whirring thump of his shoes to the tar—it engenders a strangely hypnotic effect. He realises, only after miles have elapsed, that he's forgotten to turn any music on. He doesn’t need it now.

He comes upon a clearing in the trees that discloses a river he hadn’t recalled.

He abates to a walk before stopping completely and removing his goggles. 

He knows a breathtaking scene when he sees one. That was never his problem, the discernment of the good thing. It was never even the obtaining of it. It’s that—well—if Sas actually had left plants for him to nurture, they’d be dead by now.

But anyway. The river.

Snowfall has burgeoned somewhat, but light is still breaking through. The sun reflects tenderly off the surface of the frozen water as if it’s all being illuminated from beneath the ice.

Patrick swears he can see evidence of a current still rushing below, but he can’t be sure that’s all too possible at these temperatures.

He tries to take a picture for posterity (or Lily; she’s ‘into vistas’ lately), but all the light is so strange and coruscating. Hardly anything can be captured in earnest.

Patrick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

He pulls his gaiter down and doffs his hat. Allows his florid skin a few moments to feel the glacial squall, the moist sting of melting snow. He thinks he’s missed this weather, harsh as it may be.

He takes the opportunity to check his watch, vaguely hoping the GPS tracker’s been running. And hope seems to count for something here.

4.7 MILES

A surge of accomplishment and anticipation shimmers through him. He grins, breathless, at the thought of being able to tell Tashi that he’d done a cool ten miles. And the prospect of being able to eat a guiltless meal is emerging as an actual possibility. 

Patrick gears back up and begins to walk again in the direction he came. He takes advantage—always taking advantage, always taking what he can get—of the trodden path he’d made in the road. The surer grip of his shoes.

His head starts feeling strange as he’s walking. As though it’s sloshy inside, like the dirty snow he sees on the curb. But he pushes forward and chalks it up to temperature. Picks up the pace again. 

He finds himself less mesmerised by his own footfalls now and slips his AirPods in. Slips inside the eye of his mind. His sister used to have a ‘(What's The Story) Morning Glory?’ CD. Patrick’d scratched it, probably. He hopes Oasis can get back together some day. It's not so hard to reconcile. Mostly, anyway.

About a mile into the returning trek, Patrick feels his legs suddenly get heavier. He’s felt as much before. He assumes he’s just hitting the wall. It’s a little early for him, at such moderate mileage, but he knows inclemency and altitude can do things to a body.

He’s deliberate with his strides as he proceeds. He wants to be sure that his torpid legs are parting with the ground. 

It’s around the two mile mark that his spine rattles with an odd enough sensation—sharp, like an incision down the length of it—to bring him to a stumbling halt.

Patrick’s clumsily reaching around and groping at his neck and back the best he can through his layers. It feels almost like someone has poured water on his skin. Soused him like a baptism.

He tells himself he needs a second to breathe. Starts walking again. Eventually feels very marginally centred enough to pick up the pace. His knees feel like cinderbricks. Dense and angular. But he should be capable of making it home. Or at least determined enough to do so. He’s seeing houses again. He can’t be more than a mile out.

He’s thinking of raiding Saskia’s toiletries and snorting her cornucopia of bathsalts when a billow of abject nausea rolls through him. He’s stumbling again.

He moans vaguely with turnsickness. The trees are blurring together.

He sways.

Sidesteps jerkily over the curb into a stark white alloy of fresh and shoveled snow.

Doubles over.

Dissolves to his knees, bracing himself on his palms. All fours again.

He maintains this position for several minutes. He’s heaving in and out forcefully with his eyes screwed shut. It feels a bit prayerful. He’s praying to be made to vomit. Just wants to feel better and move on and he’ll never touch his dick again, he prays. Which isn’t true, but need it be?

Things go sloshy again, and warm, this time. Overwhelmingly warm, actually. He flounders in the wet, rips off his gear, and uses his bare hands to grab handfuls of snow off the ground and push it onto his face. The heat feels like bloodshed.

Patrick tears off his jacket. Patrick lays his entire body facedown in the snow. Everything is numb and damp.

“Oh my goodness, Patrick?”

One imagines the voice of God to be a little less frantic.

He’s confused by how weak his muscles feel when he tries to push himself up. How he only sees lucent whiteness when his eyes flicker open. Shit, is this it? He thought for sure he’d end up at the other place.

“Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!”

Oh, alright. So not yet. Not yet, and certainly not Heaven. Close, though, with how relieved you sound. He is the body on the side of the road, and you’ve stopped to triage him instead of driving off. He squints up at you. Floral puffer. Scarf and muffs. You look like a fairytale illustration.

His blood’s gone cold in his extremities, and he’s mumbling, “Sorry.”

“You’re a mess.”

There it is.

For your part, you don’t sound malicious, or anything. You say it like a forgone conclusion, a fact of the matter. The way a person in an Ionesco absurdist play would say, oh, it looks like I’m wearing pants right now.

He tries to make a stab at indignity. Like maybe if he denies that he’s a mess, that should suddenly make him clean. What blessed relief. But all he manages is a whimpered grunt of protest.

“What happened? Were you attacked?”

Patrick shakes his head, suddenly aware of just how wet he is.

“Patrick, tell me.” You sound concerned, but not in pieces. He knows this is all coincidence. That you simply happened to be driving by. But the fact that you’ve found him prone in the snow, the fact that you knew to call his name, knew it was him who’d ambled to the woods and buried himself in the ground like a coldblooded mountain climber, like a defiant zealot, staring into Earth, his back to God, taunting you with his dickish solipsism—he thinks all this should terrify you. He isn’t dead. Not yet. But maybe he’d already made up his mind. Perhaps you’re just picturing him as another baby. Something small and soothable. “What happened? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Patrick shakes his head again and takes your assistance in getting up. All his things are gathered in your arms.

“You’re soaked, Patrick. What were you doing in the snow?”

He looks around and feebly brushes some of the debris off of his leggings and thermal pullover.

“I... I don’t know? I’m pretty sure I started feeling sick, and then I got hot, so I took all my shit off,” he explains. He’s all nonchalant about it, too.

At first, he won’t tell you where his sister’s house is. You’re going all Nuremberg on him, like he really is a baby who will drop the knife if you tell him no sternly enough. But he soaks through the polyester of your passenger seat and grins and defies you. It’s like he’s challenging you to take him back to his dad’s. Like he’s a kid acting up in school for attention.

It takes a while. You circle the block twice. Then he sees the way his fingernails tinge cobalt, and thinks of how disappointed his father’d be. Concerned, you allege, but he doesn’t buy that.

Still, he confesses like a sinner.

He asks you—as you stand on the concrete steps to the quaint, Tudorstyle home, and he holds his cap in his teeth and fishes the keys from his pocket—not to hold the state of the place against Saskia. He says there’s a lot of damage he can do in a week. He’s always making a mess. Messing things up. Has he messed you up? He doesn’t ask, but has he?

He’s even sorry for fucking you. He doesn’t tell you that, either. And he’s about to do it again. But he is sorry. That has to count for something.

You stink. Not in a really bad way, not in a noticeable way, but the stale perfume and deodorant have turned into a cool film against your skin, trapping your sweat and guilt and other gross things which you’re too tired to name. You’ve been out buying gifts all day. You’re always so last minute. You feel like you might fall asleep on Saskia’s couch.

News says blizzard’s on its way. News is all choppy static pixel kaleidoscope, too. Even if you left right now, you wouldn’t make it home before the roads got dangerous.

You’ve heard enough hypothermia horror stories to know he should be taking a shower right now, warming himself up in increments. And you’ve heard enough suicide horror stories to know you’d be wrong to leave him anyway, after how you’ve just discovered him.

Was she visibly bleeding?

He doesn’t look like he’s about to call it quits.

On the contrary, he looks relaxed, calm, selfpossessed, sitting on the arm of the couch, one knee drawn up, cigarette dangling between fingers. Also his cock is out. He’s naked.

Has he already made up his mind?

How many times has he lain like that, in the snow, lucid about his slide into the abyss? 

He finishes his cig and takes a knee by your feet. Your bare feet. You shouldn’t have taken off your shoes. They stink.

You try to tuck your feet under you, but he reaches out and grabs your ankle and tugs like you’re the baby.

“What happened to your leg?” you croak, your voice a little fraught.

His thumb keeps brushing up and down the arch of your foot, like trying to ease your tension. He leans back and looks down, past the leavening weight of his dick, to the navy bruise bloomed through the hairs just below his knee.

You watch that Cheshire cat smirk spread his mouth apart. “Violent tap dancer.”

You do kind of wish he wouldn’t do the whole slapping your pussy and calling you a good girl thing. It feels weird and Freudian and it even makes you feel kind of guilty.

Not because of his stupid uncut Jewish cock all swollen against his thigh, nor the virgin’s innards mangled in a manger at this very moment two thousand years ago. You know that’s not how you measure innocence. There’s something idiotic about that, something primeval and pathetic, something no one should be proud or ashamed of.

It’s just that he doesn’t seem fully committed to the pastiche.

He spits a thin globe of saliva right onto your clit. His fingers sweep through your coarsehaired folds. Slow, methodical, like a cartographer mapping the world with his compass and pen.

Then, he raises his fingers and strikes them down against you. You flinch, you whimper. He groans straight into you.

“Good girl. Good girl.”

And it's hot, sure, but he could stand to be crueler.

You’re this nice twentysomething with no real bearing on his life. You pray. You care. You wipe his sister's shit. He suspects he didn’t take your virginity, but he could easily imagine he did, if he wanted to. That he’s teaching you something. This could all be a lot more plastic and pornographic.

But it isn’t. Not really.

He climbs over you, all over you. He’s all over you like the flu. He wants to crawl inside of you, burrow and fester. His knee is pressed between your thighs and he’s breathing into your neck, his head tucked under your chin. His nose is the colour of raspberry syrup and he drags the cold tip of it up the column of your neck.

He smells like smoke and snow. Like sweat and musk and something stale and dry.

You crane your neck with a piercing cry when he bottoms out. He cracks your hips open like a lobster claw. You feel his fevered heartbeat thumping through your body. He seems to think the heat of your flesh is enough to warm and cure him.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you slaver into his hair.

“I don’t get sick,” he assures you, puffing throatily. “I never get sick.”

He licks Saskia’s bathsalts from the swollen underside of your tits. You gather palmfuls of warm water and pour them over his freckled skin, watching it bloom florid. Are you clean now? Are you shameless? Has the stink gone? Sort of.

Maybe, for a second there.

But Christmas day seeps in like another reek. You feel bad when you catch whiff. You feel the stroke of midnight in your bones, and you think you can hear Carol of the Bells. You feel especially bad, because you’re holding onto his shoulders and fucking yourself on his unhewn cock, the bathwater swashing tepid around you. And he licks the silver crucifix in the dewy valley of your breasts into his mouth, and sucks on it, and looks at you like he’s trying to make a point. He sees you frown.

The pendant glints between his teeth as he says, “Don’t worry, He’s not paying attention. It’s His birthday.”

And you duck your head to laugh.

The water ripples. He wraps his arms around you in a halfway embrace, halfway detainment. You can tell he is worried you will find your morals and leave him cold.

But you won’t.

He’s big enough that he won’t just slip out of you, even in the water. You’re all steamdizzy, eyes halfmast. You watch rivulets of condensation dance down the tiling.

Are you really about to fall asleep on this man’s cock in his sister’s bathtub? Perhaps. There is something grounding about his heavy presence in all four corners of you. You feel that mollifying pressure in your head. Your hands scrabble and slip all over the skin of his shoulders. You kiss all these droplets off his skin.

“I think I’m about to throw up,” he whispers in your ear.

You pull back and sigh. He does look quite waxen and wheyfaced. You feel bad. You were starting to think that you alone could break the fever.

Your knee knocks against the tub. He has to tug himself out of you. He clambers out of the water, puddles splashing everywhere. He slumps to the ground like marmalade, his arms drape the toiletseat, his head in the bowl. Runnels drip off him and sop the bathmat. He spits and heaves. Then he retches. There is nothing solid to the bile. When was the last time he ate something? His viscera slops out of him and into the water. The gin scalds twice as sore on the way up. He sounds horrifying. His lips drip with mucus.

He feels your soft, moist flesh against his back. Your arms around his toned middle. You feel his ribcage tremble against you.

He feels the bone of your chin against the crown of his head.

Patrick knows this is all very repulsive. He's not sure why you're holding him. Maybe you're picturing a baby again.

“What would you get me for Christmas?” he murmurs, his heavy breath echoing around the toilet bowl.

You can smell his puke.

“Um— well... you know, Giselle actually—”

“No,” he grunts stubbornly. “I mean, if you could get me anything, what would you get me?”

“I don’t know,” you say, pressing your wet breasts against his wet back. The humidity is starting to disperse, the trickles cooling off. You do get sick. You get sick quite frequently, actually. This will definitely make you sick. He’ll be gone soon enough, and that’s probably for the best, but who will hold you in your ailing?

“Come on, babe.”

You drag your fingertips down the hair on his abs until you reach the thatch between his legs. “I don’t know… A hot stone massage?”

And it’s cruel and stupid and funny—it’s something only a few people would ever understand. He and Art and Sas and Tash and you. Maybe Lili, one day.

You and Patrick burst into laughter at the same time. He chuckles until he’s wheezing. The sound of it catches in his throat like a fishbone. This is what constitutes a happy moment for him.

“That’s perfect,” he mumbles into the shitter.