#pattashi

[tacobacoyeet]

we cry together | patrick zweig x tashi duncan

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing

The ceiling fan above the dorm bed spun in lazy, broken circles, stirring the heavy air just enough to remind Patrick how close everything was — the walls, the heat, the way Tashi’s thigh brushed his even when she shifted away, pretending not to notice. The window was open but the breeze never came, and so the room stayed dense and warm, thick with the smell of sweat and borrowed shampoo and something sharper he couldn’t name, something like resentment curling at the edges.

He watched the afternoon light sink lower, slanting through the slats of the blinds and striping Tashi’s bare shoulder in gold. Her back was to him, one knee drawn up against her chest, toes worrying at a loose thread in the cheap dorm blanket. It should have been a quiet moment, an easy one — one of those afternoons where nothing mattered except how close two bodies could get without disappearing into each other.

But Tashi kept talking.

Her voice was soft, almost lazy, threading through the stillness like smoke. She wasn’t even looking at him as she said it, just tossing off critiques the way she might have listed groceries or homework deadlines: your backhand was late again, you moved too slow at the net, your serve falls apart under pressure. Each word should have been nothing — just noise — but they stacked up inside Patrick, small and sharp, like pins shoved under his skin.

He tried to let it roll off him. He ran his fingers down the curve of her spine, murmuring something dumb and easy — a joke, a question about dinner, a comment about how they could stay like this forever if she’d just shut up about tennis for five minutes.

Tashi laughed — short, soft, almost sweet — and kept talking.

Patrick closed his eyes. He should have known better. This was who she was. This was who they were.

A partnership built on sweat and blood and the constant, gnawing fear that love — if they even had the right to call it that — would never be enough to soften the sharp edges they carried like weapons.

In the space between her words, Patrick could almost hear it: the low hum of inevitability, the storm gathering just past the horizon of their shared history.

He knew what came next. He always did.

And still, he stayed.

Tashi shifted in the bed beside him, shoulder brushing his chest, curve of her spine a clean, aching line against the crumpled sheets. Patrick wanted to memorize the way she fit against him — the small, thoughtless movements, the softness she didn’t even know she was giving him. He wanted this to be enough.

But then she opened her mouth.

Not to tell him she missed him. Not to tell him she was scared, or lonely, or happy just to be here, too. She opened her mouth and talked about his backhand.

Patrick let her words settle on his skin like sweat. He told himself not to take it personally. He told himself she didn’t mean it like that.

But Patrick had never learned how to let anything go quietly. Not when it mattered. And she always mattered.

"You know," he said, rough around the edges, "it's exhausting."

Tashi hummed, distracted, still tracing idle patterns on the sheet between them. "What is?"

"This," he said, shifting, trying to catch her eye. "Lying here and still feeling like I'm auditioning for you."

Tashi snorted under her breath. "You're so dramatic."

Patrick smiled without humor. "Yeah. Guess so."

He waited for her to say something better, something real, but she only rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling fan.

"Maybe I just wanted one night where you weren’t trying to fix me," he said.

Tashi shrugged, the motion careless and cutting. "I'm not trying to fix you. I'm trying to make you better."

"Same difference."

"It’s not," she said, sharper now. "You could be better, Patrick. If you just—"

"If I just what?" he cut her off. "Listened to you? Let you coach me through fucking everything?"

"You don't listen to anyone. Maybe that's why you keep coming up short."

Patrick let out a breath, slow and shaky. "Maybe I’m tired of trying to be good enough for you."

Tashi turned, meeting his gaze, and in her eyes he saw something flash — not pity, but something worse. Disappointment.

"Poor Patrick," she said, soft and poisonous. "Always the victim."

"You love a pity party," she added, voice low. "I won't show up."

The air between them snapped taut, hot and bitter.

"You think you're so much better than me," he said, voice quiet and breaking.

Tashi raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe you are," Patrick said, voice cracking. "But you don't get to pretend you're not standing on my shoulders to get there."

Tashi sat up straighter, gathering herself like a weapon. "Standing on your shoulders? Please. You barely stand on your own two feet."

Patrick barked a hollow laugh. "Yeah? Funny, coming from the girl who climbs over everybody to get her fucking crown."

"You think too small, Patrick. You always have."

"And you think you're God," he shot back. "Every win, every headline — you think the whole fucking world owes you something."

She smiled, slow and cruel. "At least I'm owed something."

Patrick stood, grabbing his shirt. "Hope you enjoy standing on that podium alone."

"Better than dragging dead weight," Tashi snapped.

"You think you're winning?" he said, stepping toward her. "You think your name on a bracket makes you better than me?"

"I know it does," she said coldly.

Patrick rifled through the desk for his keys, heart hammering. "Where are you going?" she asked, arms crossed.

"Anywhere you're not."

When he turned, she was holding the keys, dangling them from her fingers.

"Give them back," he said, low.

"Make me."

He stepped toward her. She lifted the keys higher.

"Real impressive," she said. "You can't even leave right."

He lunged — desperate — but she yanked them away, laughing under her breath.

"Go ahead," Tashi hissed. "Go fuck your little fan club."

Patrick snatched at the keys again, missing by an inch. "Maybe I will. Maybe I'll find someone who doesn't think they’re the second coming of Christ."

"Yeah?" she sneered. "Go fuck all the desperate girls in your phone you keep trying to say aren't there."

"Better than fucking a narcissist who only loves herself."

"Better than fucking a burnout," Tashi snapped back.

Patrick shoved his hands through his hair, furious. "You think you’re so untouchable? You’re a ticking clock, Tash. You’re not special — you're just running out of time."

Tashi laughed, short and sharp. "If I'm running out of time, what the fuck are you doing? You're already finished."

Patrick stepped in, chest to chest now, rage rolling off him in waves.

Tashi leaned closer, mouth curling into a vicious smile.

"I'd rather fuck Art," she spat.

Patrick didn't flinch. His voice broke and hardened all at once. "So would I."

The keys fell from her hand, clattering to the floor.

Tashi shoved him — hard — and he stumbled back into the desk.

"Fuck you," she snarled.

"Fuck me?" Patrick barked, broken. "Fuck you. You think you're the only one bleeding for this?"

"You’re the reason people like me have to work three times as hard!" she shouted, eyes shining with furious, unshed tears. "You're the reason women like me have to fucking bleed to be seen!"

"You think I don’t know that?" Patrick roared back. "You think I don't fucking hate myself for it?"

They stood there, shaking, panting, both too proud and too broken to move.

Patrick’s hand trembled as he reached for her.

"Please," he rasped, wrecked.

And Tashi grabbed him like she meant to kill him.

Their mouths collided — brutal, graceless, all teeth and claws and hate. Patrick fought her — clawed at her hips, tried to flip her — but Tashi shoved him back onto the bed, straddling him, pinning him with her body.

He bucked up hard — a desperate, violent move — and she grabbed his wrists, slammed them into the mattress above his head.

"You want to fuck me so bad?" she panted. "Take it."

She reached down and lined him up — no teasing, no pause — and slammed herself down onto him, making them both gasp, sharp and ugly.

Patrick cursed, bucked his hips viciously, but Tashi just rode him harder, rougher, grinding down like she wanted to break his body open and tear him apart from the inside out.

"Stay down," she hissed into his ear, voice low and wild.

He fought her every inch of the way — thrusting up into her, dragging desperate groans from her throat even as she bit down on his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

It wasn’t fucking. It wasn’t making love. It was survival — bloody, broken, inevitable.

Tashi’s pace turned brutal, savage, sweat dripping down her back, nails raking down his chest. Patrick bit out her name, a curse, a prayer, a surrender.

When he came, it was helpless, ripped out of him with a cry that he tried — and failed — to swallow. Tashi chased her own release through it, using him, fucking him harder until she shattered too, wrung out and furious.

They stayed locked together, trembling, shaking, wrecked.

The room was silent except for their breathing.

Tashi climbed off first, slow, mechanical, tugging her sweatshirt back on. Patrick stayed where he was — sprawled out, used, spent, broken.

She didn’t look at him. He didn’t reach for her.

The bedframe creaked under the silence.

Patrick shut his eyes.

The ceiling fan spun overhead, stirring the heavy, ruined air.

He didn't move.

Neither did she.

There were no apologies.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron@babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

for @gibsongirrl — thank you for inspiring me to finish this <3

[diyasgarden]

any tashi headcanons or pattashi headcanons if you have them 💗💗

some things i think tashi loves 🫀 - pinks and light blue - the beach - late 90s/early 2000 rom coms - green tea and matcha - spring - nina simone, amy winehouse, & beyonce - shirley temples

[peariote]

mourning friends

once morning friends, now mourning friends. two broken hearts they seek to mend. one knew before what was set in stone, but left their twin to break, all alone. —kiera.

tw: emetophobia.

shitty poetry aside: brief best friend sequel ft. patrick zweig. came to me from one of diya's posts, so i guess this is full circle. pattashi. pre-art, post-injury, post-coco. apologies, awkward patrick, tired tashi. disappointed that patrick of all people broke me out of my slump. written in about an hour, apologies for any mistakes. ~950 words.

Patrick was pathetic. At least he was self-aware enough to realize that.

(Suck it, dad, he huffs silently.)

He's sat in his fine-ass hotel room, high from the girl who just left barely even waning and fluids still sticky-stuck to his thighs. But no. He doesn't think of the girl, the total bombshell he'd snagged (curls, brown, deep brown—) at his own victory party (didn't even go into the third set, thank you very much—) no. His eyes are glued to the screen of his shitty, cracked flip-phone, staring at the renamed contact and thinking about calling his ex. He's not even drunk.

DO NOT CALL, MORON. EVEN IF YOU'RE DRUNK. (ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE DRUNK.)

...so maybe he went a little overboard. But there had been multiple incidents leading up to the change. One involving one-too many beers and an eager girl. It didn't even matter that it went to voicemail, he'd still sent it (the sound of the girl smacking him and all.) He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been blocked already, but he had, somehow, snagged some news through the grapevine. If it was true, than... just shit. Everything's shit.

The rings echo in the room, a crush-like curl in his gut—if a horrific amalgamation of it. Calling your ex isn't easy. Especially one you've been tormenting. But he does it anyway, punching the green button with a shaky thumb. He flops back onto the—ew—still gross sheets and tugs the phone up to his ear.

"...Pat. What are you calling about now." Comes an overly-hoarse voice. It's almost unrecognizable—but it's her. He's sure of it. She sounds terrible, but he's not narcissistic enough to assume it's all because of him. He's probably a far twenty on her list at this point.

"I... someone said something about Coco. I wanted to hear it from you."

His words make her inhale shakily, the sound crackily through the phone. Or maybe that's just how her voice was, he can't tell anymore. All he knows is she sounds two seconds from hyperventilating.

He doesn't say a thing. She would have hung up if she did. Any and all attempts before, when he was more than just a heartbreak, were rebuffed as well. I'm not a crybaby, Patrick. Just leave it. She'd huff and puff, as if she wasn't shaking like an autumn leaf with eyes so glossy he could see his own reflection. But he'd left it. And left it. And left it again. Though, in hindsight, it seems even being silent wouldn't stop her from lashing him.

"...she's gone. Cancer. All in her bones and lungs and... everywhere else. Should've fuckin' known, pushed for more when she broke her pelvis—"

Tashi's sobbed rant fades as he recalls, unwillingly, that day. Could he have done something?

He remembered the day she'd told him that—that Coco had jumped from the cat tree, as usual, and fractured her hip. She was an older cat, sure, but she wasn't geriatric. Unusual, but, they couldn't see anything wrong with her. Patrick had actually gone with Tashi on that vet visit. He'd held the unnaturally tired kitty in his hands—must be the sedative—and pet under a weakly purring chin.

And then Coco had opened her sleepy eyes and he almost cried there and then. The look was a familiar one, even if the amber color and the slitted pupils weren't the same. His uncle had the same one.

His uncle who'd died months ago, malignant, speedy cancer wrecking his body. That tired, exhausted look—he'd seen it. Knew it, almost like a second skin.

He had plenty of older relatives. Old age and dementia claimed grandparents and great aunts and far cousins, leaving nothing more than a whisp of memory—if they got that.

But cancer's a different look. A frightful one, but only if you know where to look.

Clearly this vet, fresh as a summer sprig of curling fiddlefern, didn't yet know it. Didn't even think to test.

He didn't know why he stayed silent that day. Why he didn't demand the test, put it on his card and stay there hours, days, racking up bills he didn't care about and eating vending machine candy for sustenance. He can see it clearly, now, so far in the future—he would have done it for that little bugger.

But he didn't.

No going back now. Not when she's... gone. Just as he thought she'd be.

"Tash..." If he couldn't save her now, she'd at least deserve to know. What possessed him to confess he didn't know. He could have schmoozed through the grief, charming and curling close, cooing a sympathetic do you want to talk about it? In person, I mean?

The thought almost makes him throw up. Bile fills his mouth unexpectedly, causing him to sputter.

"What? What, Pat, is so important?"

"...I knew she was dying that day we took her to the vet. For her pelvis."

There's... nothing. Just silence on the other end of the phone. And then a frustrating dial tone, the sound too-loud and obtrusive, his phone too close to his ear. He wrenches it away, flips it closed, and sighs. Both at the conversation's unsatisfactory end and the sticky coating him, now going frigid, the slick long-cold.

...Fuck. He's got to shower.

Game tomarrow! His coach's excited message rings, lighting his screen bright. He can almost hear the lilting, German-tinged exclamation, all down to the mispronunciation coming through in text.

It makes him want to sink into the shower tile. He slumps against the white, cold things, water rushing over his front. He lets his head tip up and dreams of drowning himself in the warm stream.

[artdcnaldson]

Like sex is fun and all, but honestly I think I’d get off even more with a good sloppy makeout and heavy petting/ dry humping

think pattashi tonguing it out in the parking lot

EXACTLYYYY like aurrrrr dry humping 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Need to make someone so needy that they cum in their pants just from kissing and a little grinding and heavy petting 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ like god I know guys find that humiliating but NOTHING is hotter to me!!!! like awww u like kissing that much <3 😍

[tashiduncandonaldson]

okay, but if people watch netflix "eoe", and eventually get mad at cathy for cheating on adam and doing him dirty on the wedding night ... like okay, fine... but have they SEEN charles?!?!? like no offence to adam... but if my brother-in-law was THAT hot, best it be known that I, too, will be drugging my husband to sleep, before proceeding to fuck his hot brother. 😮‍💨

CATHY AMES, YOU AIN'T SPECIAL GIRL! 😤 (... but also, you're sooo real for that 🤭)

**I'm joking btw before anyone throws hands at me lmao 🙈

you know, i'm curious about the kinds of shippers who are going to come out of eoe because rn it seems like the biggest ships and ship wars are going to be charthy vs adathy (i still don't like how adathy looks and sounds for the adam/cathy ship but that's that for now lol) and then cal/abra vs aron/abra. though i also kind of thing adam/lee is going to become the predominant ship since it's m/m and tbf...i get it lol but the charthy vs adathy discourse is already making me cringe because it's going to be like arttashis vs pattashis all over again RIP

[artdcnaldson]

I have nothing intellectual to add to the discussion, but I truly believe none of the relationships in challengers are strong enough to be end game. The throuple wouldn’t work because of the history, Artrick because of the history and how they’ve changed sm from who they used to be, Pattashi because of tennis and their tendency to both be heated, and Artashi because of the cheating. They all have too much history and tend to bring out the toxic sides of each other, and I just can’t see them having sustainable relationships that last past the movies timeline. The only one that did work longterm (somewhat) was Artashi but obviously there were a lot of issues in that relationship.

anyways, rant over, I love over analyzing movies and tv and stuff.

- 🌞

So true bestie….

[peariote]

𓂃🖊 ๋࣭⭑ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 / 𝐆𝐄𝐍 𝐕.

best mornings 『』 victoria neuman.

guardian angel 『』 victoria neuman. shadow powers!reader.

sugar mommy!victoria 『』 victoria neuman.

death's sweetheart 『』 victoria neuman.

first meetings 『★?』 victoria neuman.

celebration 『★』 sage.

weed-smoking girlfriend 『』 sage.

jealousy, jealousy 『』 marie moreau.

lost arm 『』 cate dunlap.

mind meddling 『』 cate dunlap.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒.

besties 『』 tashi duncan.

best friend 『』 tashi duncan.

cowgirl!tashi 『』 tashi duncan.

robinhood!tashi 『』 tashi duncan.

sugar mommy!tashi 『』 tashi duncan.

sugar mommy!tashi pt2 『』 tashi duncan.

2019!tashi. 『』 tashi duncan.

paper cranes 『』 tashi duncan.

a dragon's claim 『』 tashi duncan.

like them? 『』 patrick zweig.

mourning friends 『』 pattashi. no x reader.

joining kingdoms 『』 arttashipatrick.

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐋.

workplace distraction 『』 alice wu-gulliver.

death's invasion 『』 rio vidal.

𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐄.

body issues 『』 quinn fabray.

after midnight 『』 quinn fabray.

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐄.

the seer 『』 jinx, ambessa, sevika, vi, caitlyn, mel.

darling wife 『』 ambessa medarda.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂.

blessed 『★』 sydney adamu.

★ = smut

[artdcnaldson]

like in the pattashi dorm scene when he runs her nipples (confession: I’ve watched that gif wayyy too many times), I kinda just thought that was for him and him only? was it for her? Both?

Have I been missing something in my self exploration/ hookups all my life?

It’s actually puzzling