Art Donaldson - Tumblr Posts

oh yeah just bae and i out for lunch so cute

i need this man

love is overrated

patrick x reader

The two of you lay sprawled across the couch, the faint glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm light over the room. Your head rests comfortably on Patrick’s firm stomach, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a familiar rhythm beneath you. His hand absentmindedly strokes your hair as you both settle into a shared silence.

“Did you see Art and Tashi today?” you ask, a soft laugh escaping your lips, breaking the quiet. “Jesus Christ.”

Patrick chuckles in response, his body rumbling beneath you, the sound low and comforting. You can’t help but smile at the shared amusement.

“They're so gross!” you continue, shaking your head slightly. “Like, I’m happy for them, don’t get me wrong, but they make me sick.”

Patrick’s hand pauses for a moment, then resumes its gentle caress. His agreement is unspoken, but the easy way he laughs along with you is enough. There's a peacefulness to this moment, a sense that neither of you needs to fill the space with too many words.

You sigh, closing your eyes for a beat before gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes, your head still nestled against him. “Can you even imagine acting like that?” you ask softly, the question lingering between you. “I don’t think any man could make me act like that.”

He shifts slightly beneath you, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns in your hair, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, thoughtful second. There’s something unspoken in the air—something neither of you are quite ready to confront, but it hovers just on the edge of awareness, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.

Patrick doesn’t say anything immediately, but his hand on your head speaks volumes. His presence is steady, reassuring, but there’s a tension in the quiet that suggests the conversation isn't quite over, that there's more than just laughter and casual musings lying beneath your words.

————

The living room felt like a memory, warm and worn, the light dimmed by the fading evening. The once playful chatter between you and Patrick had settled into something quieter, deeper—an unspoken connection neither of you wanted to define. It had been months since that afternoon spent laughing about Art and Tashi, months of you and Patrick spending more time together, slipping effortlessly into each other’s lives.

But tonight, something felt different.

You were sitting on the floor now, leaning back against the couch, Patrick’s legs stretched out on either side of you as he sat behind, his presence as familiar as the space you shared. The TV played softly in the background, though neither of you were paying attention. You could feel his eyes on you, the weight of a moment neither of you had spoken about pressing in around you both.

“So,” Patrick began, his voice softer than usual, a little rougher at the edges. “Are we going to pretend we’re still just friends, or are we finally going to talk about it?”

Your heart skipped, even though you’d half-expected the question to come sooner or later. You stared ahead, not quite ready to turn around and meet his gaze. The sound of the TV buzzed like static in the background, a distant hum that made the silence between you feel louder.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. You could feel his presence leaning in closer, the familiar warmth of him now carrying a kind of urgency that wasn’t there before.

Patrick sighed lightly, his breath brushing the back of your neck. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted. His hands, usually so casual and unbothered when they touched you, now rested deliberately on your shoulders, gentle but sure. “About us.”

Your chest tightened at the words. They hung in the air between you like a tether, something binding you to a truth you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to confront. For months, you’d let the playful banter and late-night conversations keep you afloat, but now… now everything was different.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance back at him. His face was earnest, his green eyes steady, searching yours for an answer. And in that moment, the laughter and easy companionship you had always shared felt distant—replaced by something far more complicated.

“Do you remember what I said that day? About Art and Tashi?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Patrick’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. “That you could never imagine acting like that with someone.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quiet. “I lied.”

His breath hitched, just for a second, and you could feel the weight of those unspoken moments between you. The way his hand would linger on your arm a little too long, or the way you’d find yourself watching him, waiting for him to notice you in a way that wasn’t just friendly.

Patrick let out a shaky laugh, the sound more surprised than amused. “I figured,” he said, his hands still on your shoulders, his fingers tightening slightly, almost as if he were anchoring himself. “I don’t think I could ever act like that with anyone either. Except you.”

You turned around fully this time, kneeling between his legs, your faces inches apart. The air between you felt electric, like the entire room was holding its breath.

You didn’t need to say anything more. There was no need to analyze every moment that had brought you to this point, or to go back to all the times you’d both skirted around the inevitable. You knew it. He knew it. And now, there was no going back.

Patrick’s hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch light but deliberate. For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable but undeniably tender.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispered, almost as if speaking the thought aloud made it real.

“You won’t,” you said, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. And then, before either of you could second-guess, you leaned in, closing the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting to happen for a long time.

It wasn’t rushed or intense, but slow, almost cautious—like you were both testing the waters of something you’d both been afraid to ruin. But as soon as it happened, everything else fell away. The laughter, the teasing, even the conversations about Art and Tashi seemed distant now, irrelevant.

When you pulled away, Patrick rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “So… what now?”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers still lightly touching the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words honest but not uncertain. “But I think we’ll figure it out.”

Patrick grinned, his eyes fluttering open, looking at you with the same affection and ease that had always been there—only now, there was something more behind it.

“We always do,” he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence, as though everything that had happened between you up until this point had been leading to this.

And for the first time in a long while, you believed him.

you’re mine, but i was never yours

art donaldson x reader

You sit across from Art, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across his face, accentuating the features you once found irresistible. His gaze drifts absently over the restaurant, lost in a world you can’t reach. His silence weighs heavy on you, a constant reminder of something unspoken, something you’ve felt for far too long but never wanted to admit.

No matter what he says, Tashi will always hold his heart. She always has.

They met years ago at Stanford, long before you arrived, before you ever knew what it felt like to be caught in the orbit of someone like Art. By the time you showed up in his life, their bond was already forged—unshakable. She was dating Patrick, Art's best friend, but that never seemed to matter. There was always something between them, something no one else could touch, not even you.

When you met Art, you were drawn to him immediately. His kindness, his charm, the way he made the world seem just a little brighter when he walked into a room. It wasn’t just about his looks, though they certainly didn’t hurt—there was something magnetic about him, something that pulled you in before you even realized it was happening.

And when he showed interest in you, it felt like a dream. He was everything you’d hoped for, and for a time, you believed it was real. But that belief was fragile, thin as glass, and beneath it lay a truth you couldn’t ignore: you would always be second to Tashi, the girl who never quite became his but who would forever own a part of him.

Tonight, that truth feels heavier than ever.

You’ve spent the entire evening in silence, watching him drift in and out of conversations, his thoughts miles away. You try to swallow the rising frustration, the familiar ache of feeling invisible, but eventually, the words slip out.

"I'm right here, you know. You haven’t said a word to me all night."

Your voice breaks the stillness between you, and for a second, it’s like you’ve jolted him back to reality. He blinks, his eyes focusing on you, and a crease forms on his forehead—confusion, maybe guilt. It’s hard to tell.

"Sorry, princess… just lost in thought."

The term of endearment lands softly, a remnant of the affection that used to pass so easily between you. It feels hollow now, like he’s reaching for something that’s no longer there, something you both know he can't give.

You sigh, dropping your gaze to the table, tracing the rim of your wine glass with your finger. “It’s always Tashi, isn’t it?” you murmur, the question so quiet it feels like a confession. You never meant to say it, not out loud. But now that the words are there, you can’t take them back.

Art shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t rush to reassure you with comforting lies. Instead, he leans back, running a hand through his hair, his eyes darkening with something you can’t quite read. Regret, maybe. Or resignation.

"Tashi and I... it’s complicated," he finally says, his voice low.

You scoff softly, the bitterness you’ve tried to keep at bay seeping into your tone. "Complicated? She’s with Patrick, Art. She’s always been with Patrick."

He nods, staring at the flickering flame of the candle between you. "Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t change what we had... what we never had." His voice trails off, and you hear the weight of years of longing in those last words.

What we never had.

That’s it, isn’t it? It’s the possibility of something more that lingers between them, the unfulfilled promise that has kept Tashi tethered to him, and by extension, kept you tethered to this endless feeling of inadequacy.

For so long, you tried to be enough. You tried to make him see that he didn’t need to hold on to whatever fantasy he had of Tashi, that what you shared could be real if he’d just let it. But sitting here now, watching him, you realize that nothing you’ve done has changed the way he feels. You will always be competing with the ghost of what could have been.

"I can’t keep doing this," you say softly, more to yourself than to him. You feel the words settle in your chest, solidifying into something that feels like a decision.

Art looks up at you then, really looks at you, as if realizing for the first time what you’re saying. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—panic, maybe, or just the fear of losing you. But he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t stop you. He just sits there, silent.

You push your chair back and stand, feeling the weight of the past few years lift off your shoulders. It’s not the relief you thought it would be, but it’s something.

As you turn to leave, Art speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant to hurt you."

You pause, your hand resting on the back of the chair, and glance over your shoulder. "I know. But I can’t keep pretending like I’m okay. Okay with this. Okay with being second to the girl who doesn’t love you.The girl who never loved you."

And with that, you walk away, leaving him behind with the same silence that’s been hanging between you for far too long.

Outside, the air is cool, and as you step into the night, you take a deep breath, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. You loved him, once. Maybe you still do. But love isn’t always enough, not when you’re competing with someone who will always be just out of reach.

Tashi will always hold his heart. But tonight, you’re letting yours go.

💇‍♂️i miss your crazy hair.

connor murphy x reader

"You should never cut your hair," you had whispered one lazy afternoon, fingers combing through the wild tangle of his long, unruly locks. The sun had filtered through the window, casting a golden glow over the two of you as you lay together, lost in a world that felt like it would last forever. "I love it too much. It's crazy and beautiful, just like you."

He had smiled that slow, easy smile of his, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. "I’ll never cut it," he’d promised, voice soft, filled with a warmth that melted the edges of your heart. "Because I love you."

But promises, like relationships, fade. And now, standing in the hallway, you see him again after all these months, and it feels like the world is falling out from under you. His hair, once a wild, beautiful mess, is gone—cut short, disheveled, like a shadow of the man he used to be. Like a shadow of the love you thought you had.

It’s strange how something as simple as a haircut could feel like the final blow, the last shard of what you once shared being torn away. You’d always thought the breakup itself was the worst of it—the slow unraveling of something that had once seemed unbreakable. But this... this is different. This is seeing, in the starkest way possible, that the man you loved no longer exists in the same form. That he’s shed the last part of himself that still held traces of you.

You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat, but it stays there, heavy and unmoving, just like the hurt in your chest. You hadn’t expected to see him today. You hadn’t prepared yourself for the way his presence would still make your pulse quicken, or how the sight of him would stir up the grief you thought you’d buried long ago.

Your eyes follow him as he walks down the hall, oblivious to your gaze, to the silent devastation you’re cradling inside. His steps are hurried, distracted, and in that moment, it’s clear—he’s still hurting as well. But he’s trying desperately to move on.

And it hurts more than you ever thought it would. Because deep down, you’d held onto that promise—his hair, the little part of him that had once been tied to you. You’d imagined, in some naive part of your mind, that maybe, just maybe, he’d kept it because some part of him still cared, still remembered. But now, standing in this cold, empty hallway, you realize how foolish you’ve been.

He turns a corner, disappearing from sight, and you’re left standing there, your heart breaking all over again, this time in a quieter, more painful way. There are no more promises to cling to, no more pieces of him to hold onto.

It’s all gone now.

You lean against the wall, exhaling shakily, trying to remind yourself that this is what you wanted—to move on, to let go. But the truth is, you’ve been holding on to ghosts. And now, even the ghosts are slipping away.

It’s time to face it: the person you loved is no longer there, and maybe, neither are you.

acting exercises

mike faist x actress!reader

Another press day. Another round of cameras, microphones, and the same recycled questions. It had become routine by now—sit in the chair, smile, deflect, repeat. But this time, the stakes were different. This time, you were seated next to Mike Faist, pretending, as you had for months, that nothing more than co-star camaraderie tethered you together.

You settle into your seat, smoothing the folds of your tailored suit as the interviewer approaches. His handshake is firm, his smile polite but perfunctory. The room is bright with stage lights, the kind that make everything feel more exposed than it should. You glance at Mike out of the corner of your eye, watching as he exchanges a casual word with Josh O’Connor. The three of you have done this dance so many times now, it’s almost mechanical—the smiles, the laughter, the shared glances that don’t mean what they should.

But then, there’s the secret. The small, electric undercurrent that hums between you and Mike, pulsing just beneath the surface. No one in this room knows about it. Not the interviewer, not the crew bustling around with cameras, not even Josh, who’s become like a brother during filming. Only a few close friends and family know the truth—that when the cameras stop rolling, when the world stops watching, the way Mike looks at you is anything but platonic.

The thrill of it buzzes in your veins. It’s almost too easy, this charade. Like an acting exercise you both excel at, slipping into the roles of co-stars, friends, professionals. But there’s something exhilarating about keeping the truth just out of reach, like dangling a secret in front of the world, daring them to catch on. The fans had begun to notice, though. Some had dissected every shared glance, every tiny gesture. The theories were out there, swirling online in a frenzy, but nothing concrete. Not yet.

"Nice to finally meet all of you! The movie was brilliant," the interviewer says, pulling you back into the moment. He shakes each of your hands, his enthusiasm palpable, but it’s the same script you’ve heard all day.

"Let’s talk Challengers. Your performances were all incredible."

The conversation begins, questions flowing smoothly about the film, the dynamic between your characters. You and Josh riff off each other easily, your responses playful and full of light, the way seasoned actors do when they’re deep in promotion mode. And then there’s Mike—quiet, thoughtful, answering in his usual understated way, the way that makes fans lean in, dissecting every syllable for something deeper.

But then, just for a second, his gaze flickers to you. It’s brief, barely noticeable to anyone else, but you feel it like a spark catching in the air between you. His eyes are dark, steady, and in that glance, everything is there—everything you’ve hidden, everything you’ve left unsaid in public. The nights spent together, the whispered secrets, the laughter that only you two share. The press day facade is a mask you’ve worn well, but beneath it, your real life with him simmers, waiting for a chance to break through.

You answer another question, something about the intense dynamic between Tashi and her lovers, laughing as you describe how complex the relationships are. But there’s an edge to your voice now, something just a little too knowing. Mike shifts in his seat beside you, his posture casual, but you know him well enough to catch the slight tension in his jaw.

The interviewer moves on, asking about the emotional weight of the film’s final scenes, and as Mike answers, you catch Josh shooting a playful glance between the two of you, as if he senses something, a teasing smirk barely hidden behind his professionalism. You wonder how much he suspects, how much anyone here really knows.

The interview drags on, each question blurring into the next, but that flicker of tension remains. You and Mike continue your careful dance, weaving through the conversation, but the air between you feels charged, like something about to break. And you realize, with a strange sense of excitement, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the world found out. Maybe it wouldn’t matter if this secret, this thrilling game, was finally exposed.

Because in the quiet moments, when the cameras stop flashing and the lights fade, it’s not the act that excites you. It’s him.

late night rambles

art donaldson x reader

The alarm blinked, casting a soft red glow across the room: 3:00 AM. You and Art were wide awake, tangled in the kind of conversation that only comes at impossible hours of the night, when the world feels like it’s theirs alone. The air was thick with summer warmth, the windows cracked open just enough to let in the distant hum of crickets. They were sprawled out on the floor of Art’s bedroom, tennis rackets leaning haphazardly against the wall—relics of a day spent practicing under the sun.

“I’m not even tired,” Art mused, his voice low but clear, breaking the comfortable silence. “Hard to be in your company. You make me feel... I don’t know, energised.” He chuckled, nervously running his fingers through his messy curls. “Is that cringey? That’s cringey, right?”

You laughed softly, rolling onto their side to face him. “A little. But it’s okay. I’ll allow it.”

They’d been friends for seven years—since that first summer at tennis camp when they were just kids, bonded over their shared love for the game and a mutual disdain for the camp’s cafeteria food. Now, at 17, everything was the same, yet different. The conversations were still effortless, but beneath the surface was something heavier, unspoken. A shift they both felt but neither would dare mention.

Art glanced sideways, watching the way you absentmindedly fiddled with a thread on the hem of your shirt, your eyes focused somewhere between the floor and the stars you couldn’t see. “Remember when we’d stay up this late, just talking about which player we’d want to be? I always picked Federer. You were obsessed with Sharapova.” He grinned.

“I still am. She’s a queen,” You replied, your smile stretching wide, though your voice carried a teasing edge.

There was a pause, one that wasn’t uncomfortable, but loaded with memories. Art shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow. “You know,” he began, suddenly serious, “I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but... you’re my favorite person.”

You felt a warmth rise in your chest, like a balloon inflating slowly, filling the space between them. You wanted to say something back, something witty, or maybe something just as sentimental. But instead, you swallowed it down and rolled your eyes. “Okay, now that’s definitely cringey.”

Art laughed, but it was softer this time, a bit more vulnerable. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but it’s true.”

You could feel the weight of the moment settling around them, the unspoken confessions tucked away in the spaces between their words. For all the ease they had with each other, there was a new kind of tension, a nervous energy that felt both thrilling and terrifying. Like standing on the edge of something they weren’t quite ready to name.

“So... what happens when we grow up?” You asked, breaking the silence.

Art blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happens when tennis isn’t the thing holding us together anymore? When life gets in the way? I don’t know, I guess I’m just wondering if this—” You gestured between each other, “—stays the same.”

Art hesitated, the question sinking in. He sat up fully now, legs crossed in front of him. “I think we’ll always have this,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’ll change, but I think it’ll be... better. Like, deeper or something. You know?”

You nodded slowly, your heart beating just a little faster. You weren’t sure if they believed him, but you wanted to. So, so badly.

“Besides,” Art added with a grin, trying to lighten the mood, “if nothing else, I’ll just stalk you at every tennis match. You’ll be winning Wimbledon and I’ll be in the crowd, holding a You Go Sharapova 2.0 sign.”

You laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. “Yeah, and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

“Rude,” Art teased, but there was a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something raw and real, a quiet hope that maybe things didn’t have to change as much as they feared.

The alarm blinked again: 3:15 AM. Time kept moving forward, but for them, it felt like they were suspended in something timeless. Neither was ready to say goodnight, not yet. Instead, they basked in their contentment.

jealousy, jealousy

art donaldson x reader

summary: two ex-lovers reunite unexpectedly, leading to an emotional confrontation that forces them to face their unresolved past.

You clenched your fists at your sides, throat tightening painfully. You weren’t supposed to feel this way anymore. You told yourself it was over—over him, over the hurt, over the stupid idea that maybe, just maybe, things could have gone differently. But standing there, watching him from across the room, your chest constricted with a mix of fury and something far worse: longing.

How did he move on so easily? Why did it seem effortless for him to be laughing, smiling, living his life like you’d never existed? And why her? Why Tashi? Actually, it made perfect sense as to why it was her. She was gorgeously stunning. A tennis player too. Just like you, just like him.

Your jaw tightened just as Art’s eyes met yours. He was watching you now, his gaze sharpening into something cold, almost hostile. “Don’t look at us like that. At her like that. Don’t bring her into this,” he snapped, his voice low, the words slicing through the air like glass.

You swallowed, your tongue heavy in your mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, but your voice cracked at the edges. You hated that you sounded so small, so desperate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Art took a step closer, his expression hardening. “You know exactly what I mean,” he said, his voice rising, the anger simmering beneath the surface now glaringly obvious. “You can’t stand her because she’s happy. I’ve moved on. We’ve moved on. And you just—” He paused, taking a breath like he was trying to stop himself from saying something worse. His fingers twitched at his sides. “You need to stop.”

You flinched, the accusation stinging far more than you’d expected. “Stop what?” you shot back, your words more defensive than you’d intended. “Stop caring? Stop wondering why the hell you could just throw everything away like it meant nothing?”

Art’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. “It didn’t mean nothing,” he ground out. “But this shit you’re pulling won’t change anything. Won’t change the past and it certainly won’t change the future. It’s not gonna make me come back to you.”

The words hit you harder than you thought they would, knocking the air out of your lungs. You took a step back, your vision blurring, your chest hollowing out with the weight of it all. For a moment, the room tilted, and you could barely breathe.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears pricked your eyes. You hated that you were falling apart in front of him. “I never asked you to come back. I just—” You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I just don’t understand why it was so easy for you.”

Art’s face twisted, his anger cracking into something that looked a lot like guilt, or maybe regret. His shoulders slumped as he shook his head. “It wasn’t easy,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “But what do you want me to say? We weren’t right. You know that.”

The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, sliding down your cheeks. You hated him in that moment—hated how calm he could be, how he could stand there and say it like it was some simple truth, while you felt like you were falling apart at the seams.

“I know,” you choked out, wiping at your eyes angrily. “I know we weren’t right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

Art’s expression softened, and for the first time, he looked like he might cry too. He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before reaching out. “I miss you too,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something inside you shattered at those words, and before you could stop yourself, you surged forward, grabbing his shirt and pulling him toward you. Your lips crashed together in a desperate, messy kiss—one filled with all the unsaid words, the anger, the longing, the regret. It wasn’t soft or tender; it was raw, a collision of everything you’d been holding back for months.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, tears mingling between you. Art’s hands were still on your arms, his touch gentle now, and for a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other like you didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Art whispered, his voice breaking again. “I’m so sorry.”

You nodded, your heart aching in a way that felt unbearable. “Me too.”

Art’s gaze dropped to the floor, his breath shallow and uneven. The room felt impossibly small, the space between you both crackling with everything left unsaid. For a moment, neither of you moved, both caught in the whirlwind of shared heartbreak.

Then, as if driven by an invisible force, Art spoke quietly, his voice tinged with desperation. “Come back with me,” he whispered, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your arms. “We can talk, just… come back to my room.”

Your heart twisted at the words, a part of you wanting nothing more than to follow him, to forget about everything outside this moment. The hurt, the anger, the broken promises—they all flickered away for an instant. But reality snapped back too fast, too clear.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slowly, your body trembling as you stepped back from him, breaking the fragile connection. “I can’t,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m not a homewrecker.”

Art flinched at the word, his face contorting in a mixture of pain and frustration. He opened his mouth as if to protest, to explain, but the truth hung heavy between you, undeniable. He had moved on. And you couldn’t let yourself be the one to unravel what he had built, no matter how much your heart ached for the past.

“I’m not her,” you continued softly, wiping the remaining tears from your face, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “I won’t be the one who ruins things. You made your choice, Art.”

His lips parted as if to argue, but the fight seemed to drain from him all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes filled with regret, and he let out a shaky breath. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know.” You nodded, biting back another wave of tears, your heart breaking all over again. "But you did."

There was a silence between you, thick and unbearable, the kind of silence that felt permanent. And then, with a final look that said everything words couldn’t, you turned and walked away, leaving behind the pieces of what you once were, and what you would never be again.

dating art donaldson (social media au)

a/n: wanted to try something new! if you like it, request more and i’ll make whatever 😘😘 reblog appreciated!!!!

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yourusername i’m pooped

❤️ 301 💬 18 ➡️ 2

view comments:

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↳ @yourusername you’re not meant to agree!

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@patrickzweig girl get off the floor we got a game to play 😭😭😭😭😭

liked by @yourusername

@tashiduncan the prettiest 😍

| show more

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yourusername posted on their story !

replies:

@artdonaldson THATS ME!!!!!!

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@patrickzweig where’s my bloody shout out

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artdonaldson yeah we fancy like 😭 stanford prom w the best 💙

❤️ 740 💬 97 ➡️ 4

view comments:

@yourusername I LOVE YOU❤️

↳ @artdonaldson I LOVE YOU MORE❤️

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@user awww😭

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yourusername we’re versatile 🤷‍♀️

❤️ 456 💬 34 ➡️ 7

view comments:

@artdonaldson don’t lie

↳ @yourusername speak for yourself, i’m a great pianist

↳ @patrickzweig PENUS🤣🤣🤣🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

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@patrickzweig IM CRYINGG😭😭😭😭😭

@tashiduncan done dirty as fuck😭

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yourusername yes 💍

❤️ 1,208 💬 105 ➡️ 52

view comments:

@artdonaldson SHE SAID YES 🤗

↳ @yourusername SHE DID!!!!

@patrickzweig art donaldson y/n l/n proposal *NOT CLICKBAIT* 😱 congrats fr tho guys ❤️

↳ @yourusername patrick and tashi next? *not clickbait*

↳ @patrickzweig ah yes 😅

@tashiduncan AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

@tashiduncan AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHBH

@tashiduncan AAAAAHHHHHHH

↳ @yourusername AHHHHH

@yourmother Yay! So happy💍🤗 Congrats!

↳ @yourusername thanks mama!

challengers fans let’s be friends maybe?? let’s kiss??? 😚

call me a jedi because i want yall to swing your light sabers😭😭😭😭😭😭

hit first and hit hard || challengers

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ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴛ ᴅᴏɴᴀʟᴅꜱᴏɴ, ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ᴢᴡᴇɪɢ, ᴛᴀꜱʜɪ ᴅᴜɴᴄᴀɴ

— fem! reader

summary: 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗻𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝘀 𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘂𝗽𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗻𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗴𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗵𝘆

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴/𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ, ʟɪᴋᴇ, ᴏʀ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ 3 ᴛᴏ 4 ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ!

​🇼​​🇴​​🇷​​🇩​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇺​​🇳​​🇹​: 7.9k

Part Two !!

𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙊𝙣𝙚: 𝙃𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙨

It seemed almost trivial when you'd joined your middle school's tennis team as a favor for a friend. She'd prompted you with positive words and affirmations that it'd "just be for the season" and "for fun". Tennis hadn't even crossed your mind only being mentioned for the celebrity players like Billie Jean King or Andre.... well, they weren't important enough for you to remember them. Or the championship with the silly name, "Wimbledon", at first when you'd learned of it you'd thought it was made up.

But it wasn't and you were set up for tennis during your middle school career. But to the shock of yourself and others—you were a fucking good player. You sailed across the court in "gym shoes" (which were really Converse) and baggy school-issued shorts. Being a twelve-year-old girl running around the court and playing fervently was surely tiring but you worked hard and long, strenuous hours.

Every time you'd trip over yourself trying to catch a ball on the other side of the court, you'd get up. You were determined to be good at something; tennis would be it. You didn't particularly know what fired you to work so hard, especially, at a sport you'd joined as a joke.

It seemed strange but lit a deep fire when you stepped on the concrete court, staring at your opponent standing opposite. The fire nipped at your fingertips when you picked up the heavy racquet and the neon atrocity that was the ball.

It made you feel powerful when you slammed, although not the best serve at first, the ball across the court in a serve that would ensue the rally and the pure enigma that followed—the breath of life that was tennis.

You'd worked pretty hard with your doubles partner, the friend who'd invited you, and you both had managed to snag your state female youth's championships doubles title for ages 12 to 14. To say you were pleased was an understatement, you were thrilled. You'd thrown yourself into the sport for the newfound love of it, and it got your parents off of your ass about joining stupid, fucking 'extracurriculars'.

The year after, you were put into the girl's circuit matches during the year and played throughout. Your intense training paid off so much that you'd shed the doubles-only path and managed to play singles. Somehow, by the chance of something holy, you managed to get to the USTA Girls 14s National Championships just before the start of your freshman year.

𝙎𝘼𝙉 𝘿𝙄𝙀𝙂𝙊, 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝘼, 2002

14 years old and deathly terrified, you waltzed to San Diego where you were sure you'd meet your fate (death), to lose to people you were convinced were so much better than you. Even though your love of tennis had thrived, you weren't dumb.

You weren't exactly the richest girl on the block, unlike most tennis players. Tennis, you'd learned that to be extraordinarily good or at least decent, with not a lot of raw talent, required lessons; lessons (the good, professional ones) cost a lot of money. You had benefitted from the fact that your school coach was very dedicated once she'd gauged your true love of the sport and soon forced you into a training routine that you dutifully followed.

But all of that didn't matter as you stepped into the stadium. All that mattered was the talent that you possessed, not the rich girls in their juicy couture, that you wished you could steal off of their bodies, their pristine Nike tennis shoes, or their stupidly expensive tennis outfits. You had yourself and your fabulous Wet Seal white skirt that you'd hand sewn so it looked pleated, sorta.

You walked around the stadium for a while, trying to find the locker room to place your stuff down before your match started. It was against some girl with the sorta name that reminded you of the state of Idaho with how forgetful it was. Nevertheless, you sauntered around the halls until you heard a loud, distracting clamor that came from behind you.

The sound of very loud overlapping voices clouded your mind as they all repeated the same name as if gospel:

𝙏𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙞 𝘿𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙖𝙣

You had turned your head slightly back to be met with a figure. A tall, beautiful girl entered your vision. And that was the beginning of the end for you.

She walked down the hallway with the entourage of players, adults, and coaches alike following around or behind her. Every step she took felt like the world shook around her, hair slicked back into a ponytail-braid, her outfit branded with some sports brand, and her face... A face that read of more conviction and drive than you'd ever seen in your short life.

You were still walking in an awkward position, head craned backward to gaze at the girl who was a few meters behind. She enraptured you, in more ways than one. It was strange how eye-catching she was, and she must've been popular too if she had everyone following her, or that was your thought process at least. Well you were thinking until from that stupid position you were in, you made eye contact with her.

Her deep eyes had met your own quickly, a flash of confusion on her face before it shifted back to its original stone confidence On the other hand, you had let out a small gasp of embarrassment (?) or some sort of flustered emotion, and scuttled along to the nearest door along the seemingly endless hall.

To your luck, it was the locker room, and even better it was emptier than a school library. Walking to the nearest bench you set your backpack down and let out a shutter, "Jesus Christ.."

You sighed and looked at yourself in the mirror, then began to change, and then you were ready. While you were lacing up your gym shoes, ACTUAL tennis shoes, your mind wandered to that girl again.

Tashi...it made your heart clench up and your palms sweat. Everything about today was beginning to make you panic, especially that girl, but you couldn't think about it much before your coach burst into the empty room. She hollered your name and her voice reverberated throughout the room— you blinked you were on the court and the stupid, forgettable girl stood on the other side of the 24 meters, doing whatever stupid, forgettable girls could do. You started your routine, blocking out anything that was deemed a distraction.

The match soon started, and everything seemed drowned out by you and the girl's grunts. The ball sailed across the net, again and again, but it seemed to be quite the easy game. The no-name girl couldn't backhand for her life and eventually, you caught her during the second set. The poor player simply couldn't take your, albeit shaky, jump serve and the ball barely skimmed the tip of her racquet.

You nearly felt bad for the girl, she looked so enraged when she lost. A forlorn battle cry left her lips, her racquet taking the brunt of the anger as it shattered. The girl's expression wrenched, she reminded you of a wounded animal being left for dead, or already on its way.

Bled out and begging.

Nevertheless, you bustled off the court and into the locker room, your coach had already congratulated you on your way out so you were stranded alone. The vibrant cobalt blue of the lockers almost blinded you upon entry but there were more pressing matters, there she was. "Good game," Tashi emitted, standing in the far back of the room. She looked less, terrifying than before... more human. A slight half-smirk or smile on her face flourished, it appeared almost natural.

"Oh! Thank you," You beamed, your smile widening at her praise, it'd felt like winning again. "It's my first time here so I was sorta hoping to win." A laugh escaped your lips awkwardly, slowly trotting over to where the other girl stood.

"I could tell, you looked as if you were about to like to shoot yourself or some shit," She chuckled drily, rummaging through her things while you stood there, like a statue. A very graceless statue.

"Yeah," You answered meekly with a laugh, though it sounded more like a squeak. You didn't know what about this girl made you sweat, you'd never heard of her, who the fuck was this bitch—Your stream of consciousness was soon cut off at the girl's gaze returning to you.

Tashi's expression had slightly toughened, but you chalked it up to being her opponent. She spoke once more, "Well, I got my game," She slung the huge bag over her shoulder and started on her way, before turning again to face you. "See ya..." She trailed off and awaited your name, giving you an expectant look.

Immediately you complied, sputtering out your name and watching the brunette's eyebrows raise in interest? Or that's what you assumed. Your name rolled off her tongue as she said it aloud, and then a second time to you, offering you that intense stare.

"Huh, well, see ya.." Then Tashi Duncan walked right out of the room. Something sparked in you as you saw the girl leave. You didn't know if it was loathing, admiration, or absolute fucking torment. Hell, to this day you don't know what it was. What you did know was that this girl was something; you wanted to be a part of that something. To be a part of her.

So you were.

𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙔𝙊𝙍𝙆 𝘾𝙄𝙏𝙔, 𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙔𝙊𝙍𝙆, 2006

𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘑𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳

The sun beaded down on the courts on the day of the US Open. Unforgiving in its light as it scorched the earth's wide terrain, making sure anyone who left the house that day within the sun's climax would surely get a foul burn. But it didn't matter, everyone was there on the day of the US Open. The fourth and final title any tennis player would need to get a Grand Slam and it all took place in the 'Greatest City' in the world as some say.

New (fucking) York.

You'd finally made it, US Open. It was juniors, sure, but the US Open itself felt like a badge of honor. Being here, aged 17, was everything you worked for the past five years. You felt like it was your birthday, Christmas, and waking up to see the goddamn tooth fairy all in one day. You'd walked past your opponent upon entering the court. Something you'd mastered within the past years was the benefit of the poker face. You set down your bulky bag on your side of the court, got your racquet out, and stretched. Your mind went silent as everything was called to a hush.

There was no coin flip, everyone knew who was serving first. But the question was, who would win?

Tashi had always been the better of the both of you.

You both stood, at opposing ends of the court, staring at each other awaiting the next move. Tashi gripped the ball like a vice and gazed at you. It honestly made you feel naked but you didn't show. There was no place in your world right now to fuck this game up. THWACK THWACK THWACK

The ball took its beating as it wafted from end to end on the green concrete. The loud sounds of grunts and cries intermingled, the sheer forces converging.

When playing with Tashi it almost felt as if you were one. Just as you knew what move she would make, she'd predict yours. You gave her your backhand, and she yielded a forehand. Play after play, you both gave a fight worth seeing. At this point it became a game of endurance, to see who could persist under each other's brutal grasp.

If it was a game of who wanted it badly enough Tashi would've won every single time. But a game of spite? That's something you couldn't afford to lose.

It was the last game. Tashi had won the first one, and you had won the second after managing a dive for a ball for a drop shot, subsequently, skinning practically half the skin off your right knee. But it was all worth it. The third game started with the serve and then you played like hell. Your body was not yours in that moment, it was the games. Your legs pounded into the concrete as they sidestepped, swerving and twisting your body to keep up with the rally. It felt as if the rally had gone on forever. You just needed to tie the set and you'd have the advantage.

You could tell Tashi was starting to break, she looked undoubtedly tired but wouldn't let up. The last hit she gave, a loud THWACK was sent across the court and you plunged to get the ball, it barely touched your racquet... The stands erupted in applause for Tashi as an expression of euphoria broke out upon your opponent's features. She won. "COME ON!" A loud battle cry ripped through her as her tennis racquet tumbled to the ground and a smile broke out on her features. A grin had even broken upon yours, watching your best friend win

Rather than shaking hands as typical at the end of a game, you ran to the net, leaped over it, and enveloped her in an air-tight hug. It was returned with the same amount of vehemence, and a peck to the apple of your cheek.

You wanted to slightly cry or maybe even frown at the aspect of losing but you couldn't. Tashi's win was your win, right?

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It's getting hot in here

So take off all your clothes

I am getting so hot...

The music hovered through the air as you and Tashi danced along the dance floor. The party on Long Island seemed a bit daunting to you, going to a social event right after a grueling day full of a tournament in the sweltering sun. But you sucked it up, put on your fetching little dress with high heels, and danced your heart out next to your best friend.

The dresses swung around in tandem while Nelly blasted through the speakers, you laughed with her hooking hands together, spinning throughout the floor.

While dancing you saw the chick Tashi had played before the final, she was sobbing to her parents, looking distraught. "God would you see that chick," You muttered to Tashi's ear, a small smirk forming.

She looked back at the girl, eyebrows raised and a surprised smile. Tashi spoke your name, "I never took you for a bitch," feigning a scold to you, and held your gaze, before busting out in a laugh.

You followed suit, giggling as well. The Russian girl had cursed Tashi out at the end of their match, needless to say, she wasn't the friendliest girl.

"Karma's a bitch, Tash!" A laugh slipped out of your mouth as you practically leaned on Tashi, keeping up dance in between you two. She looked down at you, smiling at your answer with that signature Tashi Duncan grin. Not exactly a smirk, but not an earnest smile.

You returned it, getting lost in her deep brown eyes for a moment, it felt as if on the floor it was just you two. You and Tashi dancing, you didn't know, and maybe would never know, that Tashi knew how you looked at her at that moment. She merely just didn't care.

However, your moment was interrupted by her words;

"Come on, I'm thirsty," She announced, still giving you that impish smile. You only nodded, your wrist was soon snatched up by your friend and promptly yanked off the dance floor. You followed Tashi, finding a cooler nearby, she snatched up two drinks and then led you onto some chairs.

Tashi down first, sipping whatever fruity nonalcoholic drink and you sat on the arm of the chair, of course. You sipped your own drink and stared out in the crowd, but something, no, some guys entered your peripheral vision— they were walking straight toward you. At first, all you could get from the figures was that one was blonde and the other brunette. Upon further inspection, they were the two doubles players, Fire and Ice.

This caused you to nudge your friend with your leg but they'd already appeared.

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By some form of charm and fascination, you found yourself on the beach, smoking a cigarette and captivated by two young men. You came to find that their names were Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig and that they were undoubtedly head over heels. You had a sneaking suspicion they were already members of the Tashi Duncan Fan Club just based on their awestruck faces.

You sat on the rock next to your friend, legs crossed and head turned toward her before shifting to the ocean. A little smile had been laid on your features since meeting with them. They were so.. appealing. If that was a word to describe them. When asked earlier by Tashi, "Who was fire and who was ice?" There was no straight answer so you made one up yourself. "Y'know, I think I've figured you two out." You declared, turning your gaze to them. They both tore their gaze away from Tashi to you.

"What have you figured out?" Patrick inquired playfully, raising his brows unanimously.

"You're fire," You pointed directly at the brunette, "And you're ice." Then pointing to the blonde, a smug smile replaced the other as you took a puff of the cigarette. "Am I wrong?" Art chuckled at the assumption and shrugged, "I don't know is she, Patrick?" He asked his friend, matching your 'matter-of-fact' tone.

Patrick stared at you for a moment, his eyes sized you up, almost the way Tashi did. Confident, all-knowing. From the tips of your heels to the hilt of where your dress dipped into your chest, all the way up to meet your fierce eyes. He readjusted himself in his chair.

"That's up to you, Art." He replied, never breaking the eye contact. This time, Art didn't respond to anyone and only chuckled at the stupidity of the conversation. Though this didn't satiate you, before you could reply with another quip, your phone buzzed.

This caused your face to change as you whisked your shiny light pink Motorola Razr out of the strap of your heel to see who would be calling you—Your mother. "Damnit," You huffed, screening the call and clutching the phone. "Tash, it's my time to go." You started to stand up from the rock, as Tashi turned her head to gaze up at you.

"Your Mom?" "Yeah, who the fuck else." You muttered in annoyance, brushing off the sand that stuck to your leg. Tashi sent you a sympathetic look but she already knew this routine, it wasn't any new to her that your mom would want you back home. Especially, if she knew you were out with random boys.

"Hey, I gotta go, my mom's calling me." You announced to the rest of the company with an awkward grin and some weird hand motion where you limply pointed past them. "Aw really," Patrick whined playfully, "We'll miss you so much," He took a sip of his Coke with a smirk. "Do you really have to go?"

Art joined in, "Yeah, are we that terrible?" He asked teasingly, his lips upturning into a grin that mirrored his friend.

A slight flush had flitted across your face, the awkwardness replaced with a sense of sheepishness. Your reply died on the tip of your tongue as a familiar hug enraptured you from behind. "Oh don't scare her, she's shy. Aren't you?" Tashi jested, giving the boys a flippant glare, her head leaning on the crook of your neck.

You scoffed lightly and rolled your eyes, "No, just tired." A small huff left your lips as you leaned back into your friend's grasp, before turning around and hugging her back tightly. You loved your best friend deeply, she'd chosen you from the start and you still were in awe.

Pulling away from the hug, Tashi kissed the apple of your cheek as always and you grinned.

"Bye Tash," You chirped, finally leaving the sandy rock and onto the beach, passing by the boys before you were stopped by their silly farewells.

"Rude, no goodbye?" Patrick shouted, incredulously with a grin.

Art called out your name, "Bye, I'll see you at Stanford!"

You let out a small giggle to yourself as you skipped off back to your hotel. The boys stared at your figure as it got smaller and smaller, away in the distance.

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Later that night, while lounging in your room, watching stupid mindless late-night television there was a knock at your door. Perplexed, you walked over to the door and opened it to reveal your best friend.

"Tashi?" You asked tiredly, "What the hell are you doing here?" Your eyebrows drew together at her devious smirk, the way she looked at you made you think she was about to tell you something you really weren't gonna like.

"Well, you remember those two boys?" She inquired with her Cheshire smile, and you nodded slowly. "They want us to go to their room!" Tashi squealed, grabbing you by the shoulders happily.

Your expression shifted to one of confusion, "You mean they want you," You corrected with a thin, wiry smile.

Tashi scoffed, "No, they said 'Bring your hot friend too', " She moved her hands from your shoulders to connect with your own. "Please? It'll be fun I swear! They have beer!"

"Tash, I don't know about this," You pouted, trying to appeal that you didn't want to go, "Maybe we should think about this, I mean-" You were unfortunately cut off by her hauling you out of your room by your wrists.

"No, we're going, it'll be fun," Tashi stated with vitality as if it were fact rather than opinion. She pulled you through the corridors of the hotel, which conveniently, you learned, the boys were staying in the same one.

It seemed never-ending, the red and green carpeting looked dirty, and looking at the skeevy carpet did not help the unsettling feeling you had in your stomach. It just didn't make sense that they both wanted you there or maybe the idea of being desirable by guys that hot threw you off a bit.

"Tashi, please promise me that I'm not just being brought along so one guy doesn't hide in that bathroom while you fuck the other?" You look at her desperately, trying to search for an answer that registers in your brain. Tashi only ignored your question by giving you an expression that read, 'Shut up, you'll be fine'.

You've gotten that look throughout your friendship but it felt more militant now. So, you did shut up and kept on walking until eventually the red-carpeted trail ended at room 206, that was when Tashi released you from her iron grip and you two stood at the door.

The sound of the knock echoed throughout the empty hotel halls. There was silence and no one opened the door. The second time you knocked, more like pounded, but a knock nonetheless. Rustling and hushed voices were heard on the other side of the door, causing you and Tashi to both giggle a bit to yourself before the door was opened.

"Hi,"

"Hey,"

They welcomed you into the room, though they both looked reddened and disheveled. The room smelled like cigarettes and looked sloppy as fuck, but what would you expect from two teenage boys?

You and Tashi both took seats on the carpeted floor, and you brought your legs to a criss-crossed position while the boys took the spots across from you two.

"So, did you take like Mommy and me classes together or what?" Tashi asked teasingly, earning chuckles from around the circle. "You guys just seem like brothers."

Art laughed, "Well that's what the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy will do for you," A laugh simmered once more and you quirked your eyebrow.

"Shit, you guys went to boarding school for tennis?" A curious grin blossomed across your face, "I didn't know they had actually had those."

Patrick nodded his head, "Yep, I've been bunkmates with him," he pointed a finger toward Art, "Since we were 12."

You bobbed your head, "That makes sense," The beer can was finally passed to you and you took a sip. "You both definitely have a gayness to you."

Tashi laughed at your words as the boy's faces dropped, not expecting those words to spill from you. It was deathly silent other than you and Tashi's giggling.

"Well, are you?" Tashi asked between laughs, earning another loud laugh from the two of you at Patrick's smirk and Art's panicked spluttering to defend himself and his friend.

"No, we're NOT gay," He corrected with a nervous smile, "Just because people go to boarding school doesn't mean they're gay. It wasn't even all boys, there were girls too." Art seemed pleased with his own explanation but that didn't stop the onslaught of giggles between you and your friend.

"Okay, sure," You snorted, taking another sip of the beer before it was snatched out your of grasp by Patrick. You shot him a playful glare to only be met with one back.

"Though, does this happen often?" Tashi questioned the boys with a flirtatious gaze, "You bring back two girls to your room?" "Or do you usually..?" The words died on the tip of your tongue as you finished the sentence, giving them an expectant expression. A few seconds passed by with no one speaking until...

"Well..." Patrick started, making you and Tashi wheeze in amusement as Art immediately cut him off.

"No."

That was the beginning of the tale of how Patrick taught Art to jerk off. Though you didn't find the conversation all that interesting, hearing about juvenile masturbation wasn't the topic you wanted to listen to. So, you began to space out until the question was turned on the both of you.

"What about you two?" Patrick asked sleazily, a permanent smirk written on his face. "Ever get lonely so you both..." The sentence hung in the air as you and Tashi glanced at each other. You didn't want to answer that question as that was truthfully some personal information that may or may not be true; luckily, Tashi was better at these things.

"That's for us to know and for y'all to find out," She passed the beer to you and you graciously took it from her hands. You resolved to be a bit of an asshole and finish the beer.

"We're out of beer," You put the can down on the carpet and looked at the rest of them, smiling thinly. Internally you were hoping this meant going back to your hotel room and returning to watching infomercials, but unfortunately, that's not what happened. What happened is something that truly signals the beginning of the intertwining between you and these individuals.

Tashi stood up first, her gaze as heavy as lead as she looked down upon the rest of you. The mood of the room had unmistakably shifted into one you weren't sure of, she sauntered to the bed and sat down on it. Her eyes settled on you first as she used her finger to signal you to the bed. You stood up and followed her command senselessly, not knowing what exactly was going to occur.

The two boys had watched the interaction intensely, you hadn't noticed but Tashi did. She always did. Her eyes darted to the boys and then you and a mischievous glint highlighted in her eyes.

She grabbed you by the cheek and stared strongly into your eyes. Your already skittish smile turned to one of confusion as you were confused about what exactly your friend was planning.

Tashi leaned really close to your ear and whispered, "Let's give them the show of their fucking lives," and so you did.

Her lips crashed to yours and before you knew it you were making out with Tashi Duncan. One of her hands had slipped from your face to your ass, and she seized it causing you to exclaim slightly into the kiss but nothing to stop you from it. The intense kissing and touching went on for a while, and her soft hands slid on your exposed thighs as your own hands stayed stationary on her own cheek and waist.

Tashi had pulled away first, her lips pouted from the kissing, to look at you with that same bold gaze but it soon left you in favor of the people who were still on the floor. Your eyes followed her gaze until it landed on them as well; they looked absolutely hungry.

The way they both looked at you reminded you of ravenous lions hunting their prey in the wild. Your hand clutched at Tashi's hair when your mind came to the revelation that the way the boys stared at you made your body feel hot. Hotter than it already was from your make-out session with Tashi.

"Well, are you gonna sit there and watch or join us?" In a flash, the boys clumsily ran to the bed, Art on yours, Patrick on hers. As soon as Art could even lay his eyes on you, his hands and lips followed. Hot kisses were laid on your jugular, but it didn't feel too lascivious, it felt pristine. His touch was soft and once he had dipped his head all the way to your sternum (thank god you had won a tank top), he pulled it away and laid his lips onto yours.

Art's lips were soft and moved rhythmically against yours, you kept up fine and collected his downy blonde curls in your hands. You managed to obtain dominance in the kiss, legs slipping together and locking in with his, your body soon taking precedence over him. His hands moved up and down the small of your back, subtle sounds emitting from his lips that one could classify as moans. It made you feel hotter inside, a deep pool of something warm had clouded your entire bloodstream, only fueled by every movement from the boy who so desperately kissed you. It felt nice to be wanted.

With the eagerness of your own fling you'd forgotten there was an opposite party within your midst, and they were getting it on in the same manner. But what you didn't expect was for Tashi, over the lewd noises, to say anything during the liaisons.

"Okay, switch."

Soon after you removed yourself from Art, begrudgingly, and were snatched up by Patrick. Patrick proved to be the rougher lover, skipping the foreplay and immediately rushing into raw, teeth-clashing kisses that shook you to your core. His hands felt like hot wax over your body as he palmed your breasts and the other slipped into your shorts and onto the smooth skin of your ass, delightfully exemplified by the shortness of them. His kisses were desperate and borderline depraved, you'd never been kissed so passionately before you practically didn't know what to do. Yet you'd let him take the lead after a while, his hand had slipped up from your ass to beneath your shirt, toying with the back of your bra.

Unfortunately for Patrick, the moment was cut abruptly by Tashi, with her ever-persisting smirk, pulled away from Art and nudged him toward you and Patrick, seeing what would transpire. The blonde had slid toward your left and started attacking an open space left at the arc of your neck, leading the brunette to sway to your right side of your neck.

Your whole body felt like it was ablaze, the touch of them both was overwhelming, and the skin-on-skin contact from both boys discerned a deep feeling being dug from you. Your eyes had been wired shut since your switch over to Patrick; they fluttered open for a wink to see one of the most erotic scenes that wouldn't even be found in the chasms of your mind.

Tashi stood a few feet away drinking in the sight with an unreadable but smirking expression. You couldn't tell if she loved the sight because it turned her on, or if she loved that she had this much control over the three of you. Faces and bodies tangled and lips slowly traveled up to your earlobes, and your eyes shut once more as the sensation of the boy's lips traveled to your own within their trail. However, you soon pulled away as the sensation of two people kissing you at once wasn't really a turn-on.

Regardless, by the power of your two open hands, you pushed their heads together as they soon mindlessly locked lips, hands leaving you and they pawed at each other. Leaning back, you watched the scene unfold with ardent interest. This was almost as hot as experiencing it, you suspected as your own smirk spread across your features.

Their kissing continued for a while, you and your best friend watching the boys thoroughly lock lips. But, the moment was not to last, Tashi stepped over and took your wrist, drawing you away from the sinful scene and back into reality.

"Okay, we're done," Tashi announced, a quaint smile on her face while you appeared positively confused and flushed, "It's been nice."

The boys stopped their kissing shortly after to give you both a baffled expression. They both glanced among the two of you, their eyebrows drawn in a line as they tried to configure what the fuck just happened. Patrick always assumed, to this day, that Tashi was just jealous of not being the 'center of attention'. Art, on the other hand, found Tashi to be envious but not about what Patrick presumed about.

"But what about your numbers?" Art asked, sitting up and looking very alarmed. Patrick assumed the same position and expression, they almost looked like twins, if it weren't that they were distinguishable in every way possible.

Tashi paused for a moment, she looked to be in deep thought to the naked eye, but you knew her—she'd planned this. "Well, you'll play for them of course," The words rolled right off her tongue, a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. Expressionless, you turned your gaze back to the boys as they looked stunned.

Tashi looked at you to continue, "Oh, uhm...Yeah, may the best player win.." Your cheeks started to burn once more from the mortification from whatever this tryst was finally setting into your brain. The other girl seemed pleased with your answer and toted you along to the door.

She opened it partly, looking them over with that stare, before saying, "We wanna see some good fucking tennis."

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𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙁𝙊𝙍𝘿, 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝘼, 2007

𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺

Hunger hurts

But I want him so bad

Oh, it kills...

Fiona Apple spilled from the shitty iPod you'd set up in a glass cup as a speaker, working on whatever homework was given to you in your classes. Outside of hitting a ball with a stick, you would like some life skills, so... well your major was something you could worry about later. All that mattered now was two things; Tennis and your friends.

Surprisingly, you weren't a complete social reject and you did have friends outside of Tashi and Art, but they weren't actually welcomed. Tashi could fake many things but fake friendliness? She couldn't bring herself to that low level.

Speak of the devil, Tashi waltzed into your room, clad in athleisure. "God why are you listening to wrist-slitting music," She inquired humorously, an impish smile playing on her face, "Lighten the fuck up, this is California."

"What the fuck do people listen to in California?" The slam of your textbook echoed in the small room while Tashi sauntered to your bed. You leaned back and soon your head was in between her knees and you looked up to her.

"I don't know Pitbull?" Her finger flicked at your nose and you flinched, groaning in the process. "Really?" You asked warily, finally standing up with a crack to the back, "That's news to me..."

The girl giggled at your fatigue and let out a sigh, "You're so lame," Rolling your eyes in response you sighed yourself and trained your vision on her. "So, what's up? Why'd you come from your 'precious time with Patrick', " You mocked, "To see me?"

Tashi scoffed, "You're so damn dramatic," She uttered your name with gusto, moving to make space as you dropped onto the bed. The silence was comfortable, the two of you laying there and staring at the popcorn dorm ceiling.

"I think Patrick is in love with someone else."

Sitting up on the bed, your eyes shot down to Tashi's face. Her expression wasn't even of sadness, anger, or anything you could gage as negative. She just looked bored. "What do you mean, 'in love' with someone else?"

She shrugged and looked away from you, "That's just what Art told me the other day after practice," The bed shifted as she turned her whole body to face you. "He mentioned something about Patrick just wanting this to be a sort of fling, or that he wasn't 'committed' enough for me."

A small scoff left your lips, and a skeptical look passed over your features. "How could Patrick not be in love or committed? It's you, Tashi, he's not gonna do any better." You proclaimed affectionately, trying to present a sense of hope for your friend but you knew the dramatic irony of all of this.

Tashi took in your words with a thin smile and nodded, then yawned. "I don't truly care, you know that," Your name fell from her lips, "I just want to rest now if that's fine with you." A reply didn't come from you as you watched her slowly descend into an unprompted nap.

The music still played softly through the room while you were left alone with your thoughts. You knew two things now; One, Art Donaldson was a shady bitch. Two, now he had made it your problem and you were keen on solving it.

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"Art!" The echo of your voice thundered across the Stanford Tennis Courts, provoking the boy to look your way. You stormed into the court with a dynamic expression and at first Art had waved to you with a grin on his features but soon gauged that you looked like you were about to bash his head in.

The distance between you two lessened and lessened, quick strides made til you were feet apart. "Art Donaldson, what the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

"Playing... Tennis?" He replied in bewilderment, a gesture to the empty court was made with his racquet that was still in hand. "What's up?" He seemed genuinely confused, which only fueled the wrath you held.

"No, Art, you're not playing fucking tennis, you're playing damn mind games!" Spitefully, you slapped the racquet out of his hand and maintained his gaze. A gloss of paleness overrun Art and his confused expression shifted to one of bitterness.

"Listen, whatever you've heard about-"

You cut him off, "No, what I've heard about is that you're spewing bullshit to both of my friends and I don't fucking like it." Art scoffed and rolled his eyes at your statement, "What bullshit is that?" He challenged, crossing his arms over his chest.

"That Tashi doesn't love Patrick and Patrick doesn't love Tashi," You replied with vigor, narrowing your eyes at his aloofness about your remarks. The blonde gave you a thin smile, "And?"

It took a great amount of restraint to not punch his face in as being an asshole is something you'd never taken Art for. "And? What do you mean and?" You paused for a beat to see if he'd respond, it stayed quiet. "You're fucking up both of our friend's love lives," You continued, "That's, oh I don't know? Wrong?"

He had looked like he was listening but still said nothing to you. "Well? Have you anything to say for yourself? About your actions?" This did cause Art to let out a long sigh and meet your eyes.

"I mean, what do you want me to do?" He asked you tiredly, "Watch my best friend basically leave the girl of my dreams for weeks at a time, to come back for only 5 seconds to then leave again?"

It struck a despairing chord within you when he uttered the phrase 'girl of my dreams' but tried to not let it phase you. It wasn't about you, it never was, it was about Tashi.

"Yes, Art! That's exactly what I want you to do," You groaned with annoyance at his selfishness, it amazed you how selfish this boy was. "You're supposed to push your feelings aside for your friends, Art," Admonishing him finally seemed to make him look even smaller in front of you as his shoulders slightly sagged.

He looked up at you for a beat, with those sad teardrop-blue, puppy dog eyes begging for pity. You almost gave in like last time, quarreling and then awakening up to find yourself in his bed the next morning, but it wouldn't be like last time. You were soft back then, you had to stand on business.

When you didn't budge he looked even sadder if that was possible but you kept your gaze on him, "I know it's hard to think of what would've happened if you'd won that match. At this point ask for a rematch if you're this desperate," You grumbled, but this caused Art to perk up a bit with, finally, a passionate look in his eyes to match yours.

"Oh, shut up," Art snarled, "You're so fucking hypocritical as if no one sees the way you look at Patrick. Or the way Patrick looks at you," A nervous flush soon reddened your face, you couldn't deny he was right.

There were flirtations here and there from Patrick but that was just his natural manner, or that's at least what you told yourself. It was normal that he'd walked onto you changing one too many times, or commented on every single fling you'd had since meeting you, or how... You stopped listing the reasons that his actions were 'normal' in your head as you were met with Art's harsh gaze. Which was quite frankly terrifying to be under.

So, you broke first and in one swift motion your hand was on his face and your lips crashed onto his.

Safe to say there was no more discussion.

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Waking up in Art Donaldson's bed is not one of your proudest accomplishments. It's transpired too many times for you to count but every time it happens you feel a little shred of your self-respect wither away. His body was partly laid on top of you and his head was buried in the valley of your chest. You observed how peaceful he looked as he slept, blonde curls tousled and messed up from the night before and pink lips perfectly pouted.

Everything seemed peaceful in these moments, it was even better than the pillow talk Art always seemed to have while you were attempting to get your sleep. Though in your mind everything was but peaceful. You couldn't seem to shake the ache of what Art had said the day before.

The girl of his dreams, eugh, it made you want to crucify yourself on a burning cross. You always knew the two boys were wrapped around Tashi's finger but you had convinced yourself you fit in somewhere right? That you were liked by Art? I mean he had to, you'd been both fucking for about a year since you'd gotten to Stanford! He'd always gotten jealous when you had other men around, he had to love you just as much...or at least a little? You were a person who existed outside the realm of Tashi's Tennis world... Right?

Clenching your eyes shut you let out a shuttering breath before reconnecting back to reality. You had to get out of this damn dorm room. You tried to slip out of the bigger boy's grasp upon you but it worked to no avail. He only whined and pulled you closer.

"5 more minutes," Art muttered and buried his face further into the skin. Sighing you drove him off of you harshly, leaping out of the bed and starting the search for your previously discarded clothes. This action caused an even louder whine from the male as he finally awoke from his tranquil slumber to observe you. He pouted at the sight of you leaving.

"Do you really have to go?" Art asked as if the events of yesterday had never happened, "I know your schedule you don't have any classes today." Throwing on whatever clean shirt of Art's that was available you didn't respond to him, too busy with your own thoughts. The lack of an answer only made the blonde pout more and he sighed dejectedly.

"You know I love you right?"

The blood ran cold in your veins, "Excuse me?" Your head whipped toward the bed-bound boy, an indecipherable expression on your face. This compelled Art to smile, taking this as a sign of you being shocked that he could love you, that this was the shock of happiness. Oh, how the blonde was so wrong.

"I love you," He said your name tentatively, every syllable dripping from his lips like sweet honey, "I've loved you since that day at the beach."

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you felt yourself consumed by an indescribable misery from inside. What sick joke was he playing on you? Lamenting on the lack of Tashi's love to express his to you? He was definitely playing with you.

"I... I don't know what the fuck you're playing at Art," Your voice trembled with rage, "But it has to stop right now." Art's once joyful expression shifted to one of confusion, something he seemed to love to do these days.

"What?" He asked, "I'm not playing at anything, I love you?" It sounded like a phrased question that caused you to scoff. You snatched up your shoes from the door and angrily put them on, ignoring the way he had started to call your name.

"No, the fuck you don't Art!" You shouted, silencing the boy in front of you, "You think you're always fucking winning and that you're the good one! That you're not fucking around with other people because no one would ever expect that of you!" Your voice quivered under the overwhelming amount of emotion you felt.

"God, I feel like I'm fucking shadowboxing here, you drive me fucking crazy." The tears felt cleansing against your dried face, "I can't keep playing this game anymore, Art. You're too much."

The room went noiseless for a beat, when you finally turned your teary eyes to Art he looked speechless. It stayed like that for a few minutes, the both of you staring at one another. His mouth finally opened:

"Are we talking about Tennis?"

The door slammed on your departure from Art Donaldson's dorm and you didn't see yourself coming back anytime soon.

​🇪​​🇳​​🇩​ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇵​​🇦​​🇷​​🇹​ ​🇴​​🇳​​🇪​

Part 2 is here! Please read it!

Please like or comment, and thank you for reading <3

hit first and hit hard || challengers

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ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴛ ᴅᴏɴᴀʟᴅꜱᴏɴ, ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ᴢᴡᴇɪɢ, ᴛᴀꜱʜɪ ᴅᴜɴᴄᴀɴ

— fem! reader

summary: the tennis girl weaves her way through simple lover's quarrels and one manipulative blonde boy.

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦(?), 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴/𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 sleepy 𝘛𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪 𝘋𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘯

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ʜɪ! ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ, ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ, ʏ'ᴀʟʟ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴏ, ꜱᴏ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ! ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏ'ᴀʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ.

​🇼​​🇴​​🇷​​🇩​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇺​​🇳​​🇹​: 7.7k

Read Part One here!

𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙏𝙬𝙤: 𝙇𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙁𝙊𝙍𝘿, 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝘼, 2007

𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺

The days following your fight with Art were rife with silence and solitude. Sequestered alone in your dorm, you lay there either working on your piling homework or listening to 'emo'-esque music to help funnel your emotions, but that still didn't help.

As much as you hate to admit it the one thing that did was tennis. Wanting to avoid Art and even Tashi, you went as early as possible. Every morning since the fight for at least a solid week, you got up at 4:30 AM, dressed, jumped the court fence to practice for about 5 hours, and exited just as the other 'early' players showed up.

It invigorated you to be energized early in the day and you sometimes smashed the ball or even your racquet if you felt like it. Being alone wasn't a new circumstance for you but it was certainly novel as of late. You were so used to Art's presence on the court and in your life.

Dinners were spent together, and silly chats you two had were the norm for at least a year. Not to mention the bizarre push and pull with the romantic tension between you two. Even before Stanford, you'd labored to get his phone number, after begging Tashi for a few days and speaking to him on the phone constantly.

Though, the blonde seemed just as ardent as you in your aversion to one another. He had tried calling you multiple times and texting but it was fruitless. You'd picked up the phone once to only put it back down.

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"I'm so sorry," Art sobbed, he sounded as if someone had stabbed him, "I'm so, so sorry." You said nothing and stayed neutral. You, unfortunately, picked up the phone after Donaldson had called it 23 times in the past 2 days, and decided the 24th would be the last. It was time to be the bigger person and end the fight between you two.

"Me too, Art." Muttering drily you heard his hiccups stop, and a loud sigh of relief. You could almost feel the weight being lifted off of his shoulders.

He whispered your name softly, "I never meant to hurt you. I just... I wanted to say what I thought you wanted."

A sharp pain shot through your chest as those lethal words left his lips and pure white-hot vexation replaced whatever emotion had been there previously. It was silent between the two of you, which confused the boy.

Art called your name but was interrupted, "You know what I want Art Donaldson?" You roared, "For your fucking castration to be slow and painful!"

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The poor cutesy, pink Motorola Razr was no longer a phone after the conversation and lay shattered on your floor for days before you finally felt bad and threw it out. Your new one, a hue of bright cherry red, felt much more fitting for this new lifestyle.

Tashi you didn't actually avoid, more like you didn't tell her what was wrong. If beating around the bush was a professional sport you would've left tennis ages ago. Every time you and Tashi would be talking, in your small instants outside of your room or the court that week, Art would approach and you'd immediately give these automated lines;

"Oh shit, Tashi, sorry I got an essay to write!"

"Oops! I forgot I had a thing I have to get to so.."

"It's what time? I gotta go walk my fish!"

Ausispously, these went unnoticed by Tashi because in every single one of the instances you slipped away back to your dorm and to your desolation, without as much as a blink from your friend. If you weren't so content in your loneliness you probably would have been much more uncertain or at least unhappy about her sudden disconnect from you, but chalked it up to Patrick being in town for a longer period.

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𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞

𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞

The loud pounds landed dully against your door and woke you up immediately. Your body sat up and the sun's harsh blare into your tiny room flashed in your face, nearly blinding you upon waking up. You frantically glanced around your dorm room, seeing if it was something inside rather than external.

But no, all in your room were your postered walls full of music artists, art pieces themselves, silly photos of you and your friends from home (though most of those photos were overshadowed by Tashi's), and other miscellaneous items that sat around. In the small moment of silence between pounds, you began to slightly enjoy the pleasing sight of how pretty your room looked in the California dawning sun.

However, you were quickly slapped back into reality because the pounding had not ceased; seemingly getting louder if it was imaginable. What the fuck... That specific thought rattled through your foggy brain and your face contorted to deep confusion—even fear. Yet, you finally got the motivation to gradually inch toward the door, not even knowing who the fuck could be on the other side. The door rattled and shook explosively the closer you got until a hand to the handle.

The metal felt cool and smooth under your grasp. Soon flinching at the pounding and slightly wondered how your neighbors didn't get pissed off yet. But, you focused and opened the door.

Then there he was, Patrick Zweig, in all his glory posed in a mid-pound gesture at your dorm room door, staring straight at you.

"Hi,"

"Hey..."

Patrick soon pushed his way past you, walking into your dorm unphased. "Okay, just come right in.." You muttered, shutting the door behind you before turning to him. He stood in the middle of your room, inspecting it like he's the fucking DA. Nevertheless, he looked quite pretty as he was dressed in a simple white t-shirt with some dorky slogan and jorts—fit for California weather.

The silence was palpable between you two, Patrick seemed unbothered, almost jovial, and the signature devilish glint in his eyes. You, in contrast, glared at him like he was the spawn of Satan.

"Don't you look joyful?" Patrick chuckled, a playful smile soon following. Your scowl didn't budge but despite that, he came toward you with arms open wide, and enclosed you in a hug, "I'm certainly happy to see you." His words were muffled in the tangled mess that was your hair at this early of an hour. You hugged back briefly, then pressed him off.

"Pounding at my door at..." You glanced at the digital clock, "Jesus Christ, 7:15 in the morning?!" A small chuckle left Patrick again at his ability to get a rise out of you. You crossed your arms angrily and pinched the bridge of your nose with a sigh.

"Well, I'm eager to see one of my two special girls," He quipped, leaning back on your window sill with a surprising suaveness. That had become his nickname for you and Tashi over the past months. His 'special' girls were his way of flirting with you and getting on your nerves all at the same time. Both he and your best friend found it hilarious.

"Zweig, you have a pretty fucking odd way of showing 'enthusiasm'," A scoff left your lips just as you sauntered to the bathroom that was tangent to your room. The brunette soon followed and leaned on the doorway as you started your routine.

"I adore you, pookie!" A shutter audibly left you when he drawled out the terribly cheesy nickname. That one was the worst.

"Bleugh," You gagged, "Jesus Christ, Patrick why can't you be normal?" Somehow you frowned even deeper if that was even possible.

The boy laughed in reply, "Because who would be around to force you to have some fun?" Patrick looked at you with those eyes, his pretty forestry eyes that have broken hearts all across the country, they were meant for you. It made you want to stare back with your own, basking in it like a summer's day. And that smile, god— his smile was the sun itself. If Art was the ice, Patrick was the fire, the sun. The sun's light could always melt the winter's snow, you assumed he was with Tash for that similar reason. Opposites attract.

You started to feel yourself blush, your mind overthinking and repeating thoughts that all were about him, Patrick.

Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.

Hastily, you rushed to turn on the faucet and started to forcefully wash your face. Hopefully, it would wash away the shame that overtook the sudden rush of emotions for your best friend's boyfriend. Damnit, this is what happens when you don't get laid for a week... Scolding yourself internally, you washed your face and sighed to look back at him. As you expected, his eyes were still on you. But something had changed, the playfulness just wasn't there. It was something else, but you didn't have the time to place it before he looked away.

"So," Patrick spoke your name, "I haven't seen you for my entire time here, and..." He paused for effect, "I missed you."

You gasped dramatically and put a hand to your chest, "Me? Patrick Zweig misses me?" Teasing him with a smile, "What an honor! What's next, I get taken to the Dollar Tree?"

Laughter bounced off the small walls as the two of you were terribly unfunny and it was mutually known. It didn't stop you two from laughing at the stupidity of it. The laughter endured for a moment or two before it died down.

"But really," Patrick started to pull himself together, "I did miss you. Y'know how Art is these days, and Tashi only wants to talk about fucking tennis..." He stepped closer to you, close enough for his hand to slightly caress your free arm. "You're honestly my only friend right now..."

You laugh awkwardly, eyes darting everywhere from his own. Patrick was looking at you, you knew it, but if you looked now you wouldn't be responsible for what you would do after. Self-control was one of the better traits you'd taken from Tashi—you stepped away from his touch and smiled thinly.

"Oh come on Patrick," The shitty tile of your bathroom floor seemed more and more interesting as the seconds passed, "Tashi's just trying to help you." You knew what he was referring to as Tashi complained of Patrick's inability to listen to criticism.

Patrick scoffed at this and rolled his eyes, regardless didn't reply. He dropped the subject, realizing ages ago you'd always choose to defend Tashi over anyone else. He shifted back to his original plan.

"Okay, that's whatever, would you like to go out tonight then?" He asked, his original jovial tone returning, and suddenly like that, everything was okay. The bizarre tension was gone and you could meet his gaze with a knowing face.

"I'll think about it." That answer seemed good enough for Patrick, you witnessed a cheesy exclamation and a terrible fist pump to follow. You sighed at his absurdity but it finally got him out of your doorway as he sauntered back out to your room.

"Great! I'll see you at 8 tonight," He announced, walking toward the door and out the door before he could hear your faint, "Patrick I don't-"

It was suddenly silent in your dorm again. Which, you were grateful for as it meant now you had time to concentrate; you could possibly continue your new 15-step life plan of isolation and become the second-best tennis-female player of all time, Tashi would be the first. Or get black-out drunk tonight and forget all about everything. Each option was very crucial.

A few hours of homework later, you had determined two things like you had done a week ago. One, yes you did need to get black-out drunk, Two, you had to make more male friends that weren't your best friend's boyfriend or said boyfriend's best friend.

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The club was hot and sweaty, it felt as if it'd swallow you whole with the number of people who crowded around you. Dancing, grinding, touching. You hadn't drunk enough alcohol for you to start to enjoy this feeling so off to the bar you went. Patrick followed in tandem, keeping a good trail on you as he was the "designated driver", though you were sure that both of you were going home in a taxi that night.

Patrick ordered a round of 10 shots of assorted types of strong-smelling alcohol and smiled at you, though the smile made you queasy. It exactly mirrored Tashi's smile when she forced you to do shit.

"My favorite girl, pick your poison," The brunette snickered, taking in the blank features that had taken over. "Unless you're a pussy."

"Oh, I'm a pussy?" You raised your eyebrow in defiance, "Please, Patrick, watch and learn." Mirroring his confident smirk, you picked up one random shot and took it back. Then another, and another, and another... Soon there were only 3 shots left for your friend and your tongue started to go numb. The boy laughed at your efforts and followed your lead by taking the rest of the shots.

Shortly, you were on the dance floor, the colored lights seemed so much more welcoming and the touch of strangers felt like a blaze. You drunkenly danced with Patrick, spinning and moving against each other, hands above the waist for both of you as it felt anything but personal. Occasionally you two would make eye contact for too long and would just erupt in giggles and he'd take you for another spin. Patrick knew how to have fun and pulled you along for the ride.

During some Nelly Furtado song, you'd finally gotten fatigued of the club after who knows how long of dancing, drinking, and other illicit activities that involved a certain plant. You tugged at Patrick's collar of his shirt and he stopped his movement.

"Patrick," You slurred, "I wanna go home.." He looked down at your figure and nodded his head. Patrick led you off of the dance floor and finally outside of the club. You clutched onto his shirt on the walk to the car, which honestly felt like miles. Patrick filled the air with little comments about the people who had filled the club and it made you giggle. Though, as drunk as you were anything could've made you laugh.

"Yes! The car!" The grip on his shirt tightened as you through one of your hands in the air in celebration, "I'm so fuckinggg... tired.." You dragged out your constants as you both made your way to the car. Ultimately, it was more like Patrick was walking and you slanted onto him, trotting along.

"Mhm," Patrick hummed, he'd kept one hand on your waist but you hadn't really noticed it. There were many things you didn't notice in your inebriated state.

Patrick, luckily, hadn't drunk as much as you and was sober enough to drive you home. You laid your head comfortably on the window as you observed the blackened city and yellowed road soar past you. It was serene, you and Patrick. It was the first time in the past week you felt a smidge above the bare minimum. Your head was hazy and everything felt so miniature; boxed in.

The ride home was rather reserved, with no one speaking other than you drunkenly giving him directions to your dorm. Eventually, after he had to call Tashi, he stopped in front of the building.

"We're here, Sleeping Beauty," Patrick murmured quietly, slightly nudging you with his hand. When you responded with a groan, he sighed and got out of the car. You perked up a bit and lazily followed his figure until he opened the door. The lack of movement signaled to Patrick that he would be the one to get you out of this car.

Patrick heaved you out of your seat, to your disdain, and he held you close as he closed the passenger door behind you. Your face was squashed in the curve of his neck. He smelt like really lovely cologne and sweat.

Looking up at him, Patrick met your gaze with his own and smiled, "Hi." You smiled back, "Hey.." His hand stayed trained on your waist and you felt that warmth. The fervor you felt that night in the hotel room. It pooled deep inside of you, and it made the stupid smile on your face grow even wider.

"What are you smiling at?" Patrick grinned at your behavior and his hand that had been unlocking the door moved up to cup your cheek. Both of you stood there under the cloak of the night sky, staring foolishly at one another. He softly said your name, "What are you smiling at, pretty girl?"

The tone of his voice was something you'd never be able to interpret in your lifetime. Forgotten among memories and the intoxication, you thought about what led to the position you were in years later, and next to that night in the hotel room, this seemed to be another flick to the dominos collapsing.

Patrick didn't wait for your response, his lips were already on yours. He felt needy in this kiss, it was long and passionate. Your eyes were clenched shut, the euphoria you felt from being so out of it momentarily leaving your body to replace it with stone-cold regret. The kiss was split when you finally pushed one hand to his chest.

"Patrick?" You muttered, "What the fuck?" Patrick's air sobered at your words. He looked at you, the mere panic very visible on his face. Had he fucked up?

"What?" The brunette laughed humorously, "Did I, erm..." He was searching through his lexicon to say anything that could save whatever the hell just happened.

The shame began to quickly devour you, a sickish feeling overtaking your senses. Whatever just happened mortified you to no extent. You staggered back from Patrick, finally meeting his frenzied eyes.

Your eyes started to gloss over and you cried. Tears fell freely down your face as you felt the humiliation slap you in the face. All of it. The humiliation of Art not even liking you, Tashi's carelessness this week, and then this. The culmination of the efforts from the four of you, kissing your best friend's boyfriend. Or rather he kissed you, but what was the true distinction?

"What the fuck Patrick!?" You roughly wiped the tears that continued to fall, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Patrick said nothing, only stared, so similar to his best friend.

"Jesus... The both of you!" You barked, "The both of you two fucking astound me." Your words were sharp and cutting bore into Patrick, apparently, that's what got him.

"What," His voice trailed off as his demeanor only heightened in puzzlement, "What do you mean both?"

"You and your fuck-face friend, that's who!" Your words blended together, as unfortunately, you were still pretty shit-faced. "You and Art fucking around with my head..."

Patrick tensed, "Art's fucking with your head?"

"Yes!" You replied, throwing your hands out in anger, "He's still in love with your girlfriend, and decided to fuck me on the side!"

Patrick's eyebrows raised, he knew Art was trying to manipulate the situation by trying to break him and Tashi apart but he didn't know that you were weaved in here too.

"That's... fucked up." He attempted to comfort you, very awkwardly.

"Yes, it is fucked up Patrick, almost as fucked up as you kissing me." You shot back venomously, narrowing your eyes at him. Patrick went quiet for a beat. He looked at you, looked away, and back at you. He seemed to be deliberating something.

"There's nothing fucked up about it," He finally answered, "I wanted to."

An involuntary gasp slipped from your lips. Your face contorted. "What?"

"I want you."

It felt like a gallon of cold water splashed on you. You stumbled back even further from the boy, your expression no longer confused but mortified.

Thundering down the sidewalk, you callously ran to where you didn't know. You heard Patirck's calls after you but they didn't matter. It wasn't as if he ran after you. The haze from everything that had happened still lingered as you ran. The thoughts bombarded your mind aimlessly, wondering what Patrick meant or what he might say to Tashi.

Tashi...

You'd raced so far that you were there at her dorm, which was seated right next to the tennis courts. Vision hazy, you tumbled into the building. It felt dingy and humid and walking through the corridors you tripped about six times and fully fallen over 3; that didn't stop you though from your destination.

By the grace of god, you handled yourself well enough to place three ordered knocks on Tashi's door, then slump to the floor with a deep sigh. Honestly, you didn't expect her to open the door. You didn't know what time it was but it was late enough into the night (or the early hours of the morning), that the rest of the world was silent.

Everything went silent for a moment as you stared at that wooden door. You focused on a dent in the door itself, right near the handle. You were so immersed in the indentation that you didn't notice the door hinged open.

"Well, well, well... look who it is," Tashi stared down at you with a slight smile. There she was.

"Tashi!" Your mood was instantly lifted at her company and smiled right back. The nastiness, the dread, and the remorse were lifted instantly once you saw her. She let out a sigh once she saw your state— your outfit was skimpy, mascara and eyeliner were smeared all over your face, and you looked like you'd cried a river.

"Christ," She sighed out your name, "Can't you have a good night?"

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♬·

You and Tashi lay on her bed peacefully, and you exchanged no sentiments in those moments. She'd washed you up from your sordid state and now she was tracing designs in the curve of your hip. Tashi laid her chin on your head and you nestled on her collarbone. This was a frequent situation for either of you, as, during tournaments during your adolescent year, nights were spent braiding each other's hair, swapping secrets with smiles, and just being girls.

"So, are we going to talk about it?" Tashi hummed, staring out into her own cluttered room. Smiling like a fool you replied, "Talk about what?"

"Art, he told me about what happened." She continued, her hand moved from your hip to your hair. Tashi threaded her fingers through it gently and you let out a giggle.

"Pfft, Art.. that stupid, dumb blonde," Laughter filled the room, and you drew your head away from Tashi to meet her. "He's just stupid, that's all."

Tashi held back her own laughter at your intoxicated words, "I see.." You nodded in confirmation and laid back down cuddled back in. "Well, I just wanted you to know that this week I wasn't trying to avoid you," She resumed, "Art just told me about your emotional state, and knowing you, I know you like space."

You hoisted your head again and sneered, "You'd believe that twink?" Tashi giggled and rolled her eyes, "I don't think you can say that anymore," She spoke your name in a scold, "But, yes I did, he's pretty fucking convincing you know."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... Convincing my ASS," Your eyebrows drew together in irritation at the mention of the boy, "He's stupid, just like the other one.."

Dead air obscured the room again, the only sound being you and Tashi's breathing. The warmth you'd felt from the alcohol returned again, but it felt different. It didn't feel as murky or slowing, it felt good. Yet, the disgrace from earlier was still in the back of your mind. You knew the next day would hold so much bullshit for you and your friend depending on Patrick's efforts or if Art decided to tell Tashi whatever Patrick would recount to him. The involvement of the two boys had made everything so muddled.

"Tashi,"

"Hm?"

"Promise me you'll love me forever?" You asked quietly, finally breaking the tranquility. The voice you had dawned felt foreign to you, it was desperate, vulnerable. Tashi pulled herself away from you to meet your eyes. Her deep sharp eyes scrutinized you with an unreadable gaze.

"What do you mean?" She asked, trying to laugh it off with a dry chuckle.

"I said what I meant," You slurred in reply, a pout, "Will you love me forever?"

Tashi scoffed, "I'm not fucking Mother Theresa," She said your name with a mocking edge. "You're my best friend, I..." Tashi stopped to carefully phrase her words so you could understand in your blitzed condition. "I like you more than any other person on planet Earth."

Your pout formed into a frown, and you stayed silent. Tashi then exhaled wearily, knowing she'd hurt your feelings but didn't say anything. It was a staring contest that you wouldn't win. Tashi did like you a lot, more than she liked her family, friends, and her boyfriend. But she wasn't good at pretending—she couldn't pretend she loved more than one thing. She loved one thing, and one thing only; Tennis.

"Then I'll love you enough for the both of us." That response caught Tashi off guard and she blanked. "I'll love you seeds and all, Tashi Duncan." The announcement of your love for her wasn't on the list of things Tashi thought she would've heard tonight. A nervousness overtook her but you didn't notice, you just stared in determination.

"Seeds and all?" Tashi questioned, her demeanor shifted to something a bit fainter, similar to yours.

"Yes, Tashi, seeds and all," You said it as if it was the most common thing in the world and laid back down. A sudden wave of exhaustion had washed over you, it was so easy to fall asleep. Despite this, Tashi stayed awake and watched you. It wasn't uncommon for you to say sappy shit and for Tashi to combat it with banter, but this felt more amorous; for the first time in the girl's life, she felt confused.

Tashi glanced back down at your sleeping figure. You looked so peaceful and pretty. An involuntary grin graced her features as she lay next to you. Her face was inches away from your own, bringing her hand to brush away some stray pieces of your hair to simply stare at you.

"I love you too," The girl muttered your name, kissing the apple of your cheek, turning around to her side of the bed, and falling into a slumber soon after. Tashi had assumed you were sleeping and wouldn't remember it even if you weren't. But, unfortunately for her, you had heard.

Tashi Duncan loved you.

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𝘾𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙄𝙉𝙉𝘼𝙏𝙄, 𝙊𝙃𝙄𝙊, 2011

𝘊𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪 𝘖𝘱𝘦𝘯

The hotel bar's music softly played through the speakers, setting a particular homely affection amid the room. A few people were there, tennis players and normal patrons alike, drinking or crying over their loss today. Cincinnati, Ohio was one of the last stops any of these players had of making it to the US Open but unfortunately, they didn't make the cut.

You on the other hand? The 15-step plan was in motion but this time you'd be first. Going pro three years ago was one of the best decisions you'd made, in your life. The dream was cradled in the palm of your hand. Young, beautiful, determined, the brands just ate you up.

Being sponsored by Nike, doing commercials for popular products, and selling out was pretty amicable. The celebrity that came with it was a sweet taste that you sunk your teeth in. People shouted your name on the street and begged for your signature, they wanted you. The only downside was that now and again you'd have to see him.

God, You thought, when was the last time I heard this song... Instead of nursing your drink, you glanced around the room, observing the players. You recognized some from previous competitions and some you'd played today. Suddenly, noticing how everyone had someone to talk to, it was exposing to be the lone person at the bar. At 23 and no man, for now, was a smidge uncomfortable.

So why were you holding her hand?

Is that the way we stand?

Were you lying all the time?

Was it just a game to you...

While scanning the room, you saw her, sitting there with her computer propped up and sporting a shorter hairstyle. A jolt surged through you, you'd seen enough of her today, and you swiveled your head back forward. Another bad move, there he was. The blonde shaggy curls bedazzled you when he strolled in. Art Donaldson walked through the room and the world stopped turning.

Art walked into the bar in search of something. He just didn't know what. For the past few weeks since the Atlanta Open, he'd been on edge; for what he didn't really know. The looming task of the US Open had been teasing him for years, but he was young. He had time to play and win it, this year might just be his year. Though that's what he told himself. The US Open was what he was worried about. Yes, nothing more, nothing less, and absolutely not about certain brunettes.

Art made eye contact with you for a split second. A look flashed across both of your faces, both with varying feelings. Art's face showed an emotion of enchantment, like seeing a rare jewel. You looked like you swallowed sour milk. You shifted your gaze away from him and back to your drink. The alcohol stung your nose.

But I'm in so deep

You know I'm such a fool for you

You got me wrapped around your finger...

Do you have to let it linger?

A shiver strained through you, wondering if the universe was truly trying to get you to buy 30 mg of fentanyl and a bottle of vodka. Art you were used to, both of you were established and young tennis players, it was foretold the two of you would cross paths after that day. Every time it did happen there were formalities exchanged between you two, and then you'd take 4 shots of the choice of alcohol that night and cry.

Art peeked back at you once more before back on his path to Tashi. She was perfect, he had known that fact since the day he met her. Shoved on the pedestal, his fiance typed stormily at her computer, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl.

A smile grazed his face, "Hey," He sat down across from her. Tashi barely acknowledged him with a nod. Art sighed and tapped on the rim of her computer, "Hey Tashi..."

Tashi exhaled and lips thinned, "Hi, what's up?" She curtly replied, "I'm working right now on our deal with Nike," Art's confidence slightly buckled under her glare and apparent annoyance with him.

"Oh, well, nothing..." He trailed off with his smile being replaced with a slight pout, unfortunately for Art, this irritated the coach more. "Well, then get out of my face. You have a game tomorrow," She articulated concisely instructed him with a tone a mother would use, "A game you need to win."

Art straightened up a bit, winning was important, he knew that but he missed Tashi. His paranoia surely wasn't helping her curtness as of recently, but he was still relegating it to US Open nerves. He just needed to win and it'd be fine. "Okay," He agreed, "I'll see you upstairs?" The blonde was met with a quick nod, the sound of typing only emitted.

"I love you."

"I know."

Art left the table with a sullen expression on his features, but you didn't know that. Now you were focused on what type of wood the table was, to avoid thinking about when was the last time the three of you were in the same room. Maybe it's maple.... Your thoughts were soon cut off by a buzz from your phone. The iPhone 4 buzzed madly in your pocket and you pulled it out.

It was some random number you didn't have on your phone.

415-xxx-xxxx

𝘏𝘪, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘵, 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬.

𝘔𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 3𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳.

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦.

𝘖𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺.

A miniature smile begged to come onto your features, even texting you could hear the way he'd talk with his comforting, careful diction. But then the meaning of the message settled deep inside you. He wanted to meet you up? Why? Confusion replaced the thick nostalgia as the cogs in your head started to work. It confused you, but you were intrigued. Plus, what was the worst that could happen?

212-xxx-xxxx

𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯

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Idily standing in the dingy ice room, you'd start contemplating your life choices. Specifically, the ones that led you to this moment. Why did you approve of this? Why did you go to that fucking bar? You're not even supposed to drink the day before a game. Oh, that's right, you remembered, Patrick Zweig.

♬☆♬☆♬☆

Earlier that day...

The cooling feeling of the concrete against your back felt like pertinent compensation after a day of sprinting around in the sun. You'd finally made it to the semi-finals after dominating through the bracket, some you'd played against during earlier tournaments, others were just painless to beat and move on to the following one. Nonetheless, the girl you'd just played had given you a run for your money. Not because she was good, but because you were distracted.

Tashi Duncan, coach of the FAMOUS Art Donaldson, observed your match. You'd noticed her when perusing the stands after the first game when you were looking for your friend who had come to cheer you on. Seeing her was the biggest mistake of your game, serve after serve it'd either be out or barely touched the net. It was utterly embarrassing and you'd lost the second game by 15 love. When it was the break you'd skimmed only to find her gone.

It pissed you off. Who the fuck does she think she is? You clenched your water bottle angrily, your knuckles shy of a shade lighter than normal skin tone. The spite of Tashi leaving your game (or so you thought) had lit that flame that you doused years ago. The flame of insecurity produced by Tashi Duncan.

You were relentless against the girl, hitting the ball with your full strength each and every time. An intense volley had occurred in the middle of the game, so intense that your opponent fell face forward in an attempt to catch the shot (she did not). The stadium was silent other than the loud sounds of your grunts and anger. It was hotter than the concrete you played on but just as hard. It pissed you off so much that when you won, instead of your normal self-indulgent bow, you smashed your racquet to the floor and a roar. The crowd scarfed it down, hailing you as a passionate and beautiful player, tenacious against competition.

In all honesty, you just wanted to go home and cry, but you were hustled off the court to where you are now. Stranded in the hallway and lying in your muddled emotions. It was now the men's bracket, but you didn't plan on watching anyone. Particularly Donaldson. Yet, trying to make it out of the vacant hallway, a familiar face entered your vision.

"There's the golden girl!" No words in a dictionary could express the face you made at that moment.

"Oh my..." You muttered under your breath, turning around to see Patrick Zwieg, in all of his sleazy glory. "What in the ever-loving fuck are you doing here Patrick?"

Patrick laughed with faux hurt, "Aw, aren't you just a ball of sunshine!" He tried to get closer to you but you edged back. He gauged your expression and sighed, "And here I thought you'd be happy to see me..."

You scoffed in disgust, "Christ Patrick, seeing you is like seeing a dog with cancer, it should be put down already." The brunette's lips pulled into a smirk, he crossed his arms and gave an irksome look.

"Well, I'm not a dog," He corrected, "I'm a cat and we got 9 lives." An exasperated sigh left your lips, your eyes meeting his with a tiredness. After the mind-fuck of seeing Tashi, you had no bandwidth for Patrick's bitchiness.

"I don't fucking care, Patrick," You hissed, finally starting back on your walk. Patrick started to slightly slip from his confidence, he hadn't expected this. He usually was able to keep you around for a good banter but you'd genuinely just stopped it this time. To keep you from going he snatched your forearm, keeping you from going any further.

Your glare deepened, "Let me go!" He didn't budge and kept you in place, although you started struggling to try and escape his strong grasp.

Patrick spoke your name calmly, "I just want to talk..." He sounded like he was talking to a feral cat. Grunting and now starting to whine, you struggled in an attempt to get away from him and this conversation. "About what? How you fucked over my best-" You stopped yourself, the word 'friend' died on the tip of your tongue. You two weren't friends, you hadn't been for years. Patrick caught this moment of vulnerability and used this.

"Friend? Please, she left you once you got better," He goaded with a sinister grin, "She couldn't stand that you could play and she couldn't."

The struggle became relentless as you started to shout for 'help' but it was useless. You were isolated. The best you'd gotten was dragging Patrick an inch or two across the floor, no escape was foreseen. A thin line formed on your lips as you glared.

"Shut up Patrick, don't fucking project your bullshit with Art on me,' You spat venomously, "He won, you're fucking losing, so what?"

Patrick chuckled drily, "Won what? The match? In case you forgot I won that-"

"NO!" You cut him off with a shout, "God no Patrick, he won at life. He's getting married to the girl you, and only you Patrick, lost because you're a dipshit." Face contorted into one of pure hatred for the man in front of you, and his hold finally slackened for you to draw your arm back.

Patrick rolled his eyes, "Newsflash, I slept with the girl I lost like.." He stopped speaking to count on his fingers, "Three weeks ago!" A triumphant and smug smirk graced his features.

"Great, so you can add home-wrecker to your tennis accolades?" You raised a brow and scoffed again, "You astonish me Zweig, you really do."

Patrick's grin didn't budge, "I aim to please," He did feel quite pleased with himself, and was even more pleased because he confidently believed you were jealous. Jealous that Tashi Duncan slept with him again and you didn't. He was sorely mistaken.

A heavy breath was taken in and you became focused. You knew exactly what you wanted to say to him, "Patrick, you may've fucking one that on match, let's say a battle." You began harshly, "But you didn't win the war, Art did."

Coming closer to Patrick to look him square in the eye, "Art is going to marry Tashi, he won. He will continue to win and be remembered." Patrick clenched his fists to try and calm himself, your words cutting in like serrated blades, "Who will you be Patrick?"

The question echoed throughout Patrick's mind, but you didn't waste time on his reply. Quickly, you stormed away after and resolved that the finest thing to do was to drink this moment away.

♬☆♬☆

A disgusted exclamation softly left your lips as you remembered that instant from today. Patrick always knew how to rile you up, to push your buttons until they'd break. At this point, you thought he enjoyed pissing you off. However, your internal monologuing was cut off by approaching footsteps. Darting up from the checkered carpeted floor, the blonde approached.

Art felt his palms begin to sweat when he saw your languid figure up against the vending machine. You looked so effortlessly beautiful to him, even when looking like you wanted to kill him. He sauntered into the small corridor and shut the door behind him.

Then, he pivoted around to face you. A hush swallowed both of you. It had been the first time you two were alone in around 3 years, at least. Art looked nervous meanwhile you looked disinterested.

"So?" You asked expectantly, "What did you need to talk about?" Art uncoiled and bit his lip. What did he want to talk about again..?

"Oh uhm.." He stuttered, "Hi, so..." Art desperately combed his mind for an answer, "I just saw you and I..." He coughed awkwardly and shifted his weight, "I just wanted to know how you were."

You took a deep breath and then let out a sigh, "Great, so you wanted to waste my time?" Art visibly flinched at your response and his lips twitched in apprehension.

"No, I just missed you," He asserted quickly, trying to meet your tone. Art's deep blue eyes met your own and something tugged at your heartstrings. "We both missed you."

"We?" A wiry laugh echoed in the room, "I don't think Tashi misses me, Arthur, but a cute way of guilt-tripping me." You cooed mockingly with a smirk. A sour expression fell across Art's countenance at the use of his full government name.

Sighing, he leaned against the wall and; after a beat spoke, "We watched your name today," Art stared at you intensely, "You were good, but what fucked you up during the second game?"

You clenched your fists, annoyed that he had been there too. "I don't know, it's called none-ya."

"What's none-ya?" He asked, confused by your retort.

"None of ya fucking business, Donaldson," You shot, "We aren't friends, we don't have tea parties and talk about fucking tennis."

"Well," Art started calmly, holding himself together, "Why don't we talk about anything but tennis?" You smiled fakly at his offer and stepped toward him, the height difference not really being too big, close enough to meet eye to eye.

"Then why the hell are we talking, Art, if we're not talking tennis?"

Art was silenced by your reply and stared down at the floor. He understood why you were acting the way you were, you were hurt. Aching. He would be too if he were in your shoes. The boy knew it wasn't him that should be talking to you. If anything would be solved between you and him, it'd first have to be solved between you and his fiance.

So, he looked back up at you, "I don't know why are we still talking?" The way Art said your name triggered some deep-buried emotions you had killed many years ago along with your insecurities. It was the seductive, whiny nature of Art Donaldson that kept you awake during the hard, lonely nights and right now it was your reality.

The space between you two was barely existent, lips almost touching... Your phone buzzed. The moment was ruined instantly and you quickly plucked out your phone. It was your coach, texting you verbatim to 'GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, NOW!' with five angry emojis.

Art's eyes searched your movements as you read the message. He was so intent on solving or fixing things with you tonight that he hadn't acknowledged that other outside forces could interfere. When he saw you play today and then back at the bar? It fell into place for him, he just had to have you again. He had to. He deserved it right?

You shoved Art aside and opened the door, focused on now going to sleep and preparing for your game tomorrow. Simply put, you didn't have time for stupid boys like Art Donaldson who wanted to play tennis with two balls. It was ineffective.

But, just as you were down the hallway he shouted, "Tashi misses you!" You ignored him, "She told me to tell you."

"Tell her," Turning around so he could directly hear you, "Tell her that she can go fuck herself, and," You had stopped speaking, storming off to right in front of the man, "Go fuck yourself too." It was easy to snatch the collar of his old grey hoodie and capture him in a kiss.

The clash of lips was a brutish one, Art being caught off guard and you kissing forcefully as if he was the last thing on earth. His hands traveled to your jaw and let you take control of the kiss.

It was a longer one, almost juvenile, letting yourself clash teeth or slightly push up against him. You finally pulled away, his bottom lip sliding through your teeth slowly, keeping eye contact while it bounced back in place.

The both of you were flushed a deep crimson, now both frustrated and sexually frustrated you let out an exclamation of anger and strode furiously down the hall, into the stairway.

There left was Art, his attempts hopeless and now he was alone. His hand shakily rose to his lips where you had just been. Fingers gently grazing his lip before letting out a shaky sigh. It'd been forever since he'd been caught so off-guard, it shook him inside. You always did, pushing his own buttons instead of yours. Art was always susceptible to your touch and words.

Yet, frowned when he thought of the way you had spoken to him tonight. You had become so jaded, so much more.. mean. It reminded him of how Tashi used to talk back at Stanford. Before the injury. How confident she was, somehow more than now, and how she had the world at the tips of her fingers. Art silently wished he'd handled that day differently than he did. But, deep down, he knew he didn't. Art got what he wanted at the end of the day, wasn't that beautiful?

ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

Hi! I really hope you guys liked this chapter, I really wanted to explore the character dynamics more and just flesh out the relationships. It'll get spicy, trusttt!

Please like or comment!! I would love to hear what y'all think or want for the plot, you guys were literally so, so nice in the last part!

Thank you for reading <3

🇹​​🇦​​🇬​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​:

@jackierose902109

@bloodyrevengedbullets

@ssababe

@skylerwhitwyo

HIT FIRST AND HIT HARD WAS SO GOOD OMGGG!!! pls tell me a pt3 is in the works

Yes! There is, I've just been slow with writing lol. Tbh, I feel like a lot of the challengers fanfictions often are the same and like have the same plot points and other shit and I've been trying to think of ways to make it different yk? But trust, the 3rd part is coming soon 🙏🙏🙏

***PLEASE HEAR ME OUT AND DONT HATE ME FOR THIS***

This may be controversial, but, besides the obvious reasons, I think one of the reasons there is Tashi erasure from Challengers is weirdly because she’s played by Zendaya.

In my mind, I know why this may be a cause but I don’t know how to explain why, if that makes sense.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who thinks this. 😭

I’m not saying this because I don’t like Zendaya or anything because I think she did a WONDERFUL job portraying Tashi in Challengers.

Am I the only one who prefers reading fics with sub Patrick and dom art wayyy more than sub art and dom Patrick? 😟

Probably just me 😸🔫.

This is true, authentic literature right here

good luck charm

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖽!𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝖽𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗑 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖽!𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 4,474 words; 24,496 characters

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: penis in vagina sex, oral sex (male and female receiving), fucking on a couch, praise kink, pet names, cursing, art is lowkey kind of a freak here, oral fixation, needy! art donaldson, established relationship, lovesick fools, brief mentions of future plans yada yada ya, reader is also a tennis player.

𝗮/𝗻: hey... i'm ovulating right now so i had to crank out another art donaldson smut fic. i am genuinely obsessed with the man, it's a little scary. but, i am actually starting to write smut more and mayhaps have another art fic coming out soon that involves a kitchen countertop... anyways. this is a medium length piece, not as long as the other art donaldson smut fic, but still a decent read (I hope). Don't be a ghost reader, and if you have any requests for anything, feel free to dm me.

Art loved you. You were always there for him. In the stands at every match, patching up minor scrapes after a fall. You were always there when he needed you.

He craved your attention like a drug, like it was the oxygen he needed to breathe. A bit needy, in your eyes. But you never minded.

"But you always come to my matches."

He had a small frown on his lips, his hands gripping your waist as you stood in front of him, your hands gently massaging the nape of his neck.

You smile softly at him and his antics. "I know, but I have my own match tomorrow. I can't miss it."

His pout deepened, whining a bit as he pulled you down on the couch next to him, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you onto his lap, making you straddle his thighs.

"But you're my good luck charm," he whined again, burying his head in the crook of your neck, lips planting gentle kisses over your skin.

Your breath hitches slightly at the feeling of his lips against your skin, but you still manage to speak. "Y- you don't need luck. You're a good player, baby."

He continues kissing, moving upwards to the spot on your neck that he knew you loved, his hands running up your thighs, slowly but teasingly.

"Sure, I don't need luck, but I want it," he mumbled against your skin, his hands now slipping under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers tracing patterns along your sides.

Your head instinctively tilts back to give him better access to your neck, as you struggle to focus on anything other than Art's mouth pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. "Are we really... talking about this right now? It's hard to... think rationally right now."

His lips curved into a smirk as he nipped at a sensitive spot on your neck, knowing full well the effect he was having on you. His hands continued to wander, moving higher on your sides, thumbs gently rubbing over your ribs.

"Thinking never got anyone anything, sweetheart," he whispered, his warm breath against your skin doing nothing to help your current state of arousal.

His lips slowly make their way to your ear, his mouth nipping at the lobe before he spoke again.

"Besides, thinking is overrated. You should just 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭."

With that, his hands found your waist again, and in a swift motion he had you pinned against the couch, his body hovering over yours as he looked down at you with darkened eyes.

His mouth continued its work down your neck, moving along your jaw until he reached your lips, his mouth claiming your own in a deep, passionate kiss.

Art shifts, trapping your legs between his as he grinded his hips against yours, a low growl escaping him as he continued to devour your mouth.

You gasp into his mouth at the sensation, hands holding onto the side of his stomach. You're breathless, hungry for him.

He takes advantage of your gasp, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth and exploring every inch of you.

His hands move lower, finding the hem of your shirt and starting to tug at the fabric. He breaks the kiss to pull the shirt over your head, tossing it aside before his eyes roamed over your exposed skin.

He leaned down, his mouth returning to your neck, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone and between your breasts.

"You taste so good," be murmured, his fingers tracing over the lace of your bra, teasing you as he moved lower to your stomach.

His hands went back to your hips, holding you in place as he continued to shower your skin with kisses. He moved down your stomach, his lips tracing the lines of defined muscles, marking you as his own.

He could feel you squirming under him, your breathing becoming ragged, and he couldn't help but smirk against your skin. He loved having you like this, all flushed and needy, completely at his mercy.

Art's hands moved behind your back, easily finding the clasp of your bra and freeing you from the lace. He pulled away from your stomach to look at you, his eyes roaming over your exposed chest, a hungry glint in his gaze.

"So beautiful," he whispered, his calloused fingers gently tracing the curves of your body. The way he was looking at you made you feel exposed. Vulnerable. It was something only he could make you feel. You were okay with that.

His mouth was on you again, his lips attaching to one of your breasts, teasing and pinching your sensitive flesh. His teeth latch on to your pebbled nipple, nibbling on the hardened bud.

He heard you moan, the sound going straight to his groin, making him grind against you again, trying to get some friction.

He pulled away, his breath hot on your skin as he spoke. "You like that, sweetheart?"

He watched as you tried to nod, your eyes half-lidded, your body arching up against his touch.

He chuckled under his breath, his thumb and forefinger gently pinching your nipple.

"Use your words, baby."

You bite your lip slightly, trying to form a coherent thought, chest flushed and littered with love bites, gaze hazy as you look at him. "Y- fuck, yes-"

He smiled at your response, pleased with the sound of your voice as you spoke.

"That's a good girl," he murmured, his mouth continuing its journey down your stomach, his teeth nipping at the skin.

He moved lower, his lips trailing over the waistband of your sweatpants, his hands pushing the fabric down your legs.

He sat back for a moment, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in the sight of you sprawled out on the couch, completely exposed to him.

He smirked, his tongue poking out to wet his lips as he leaned back down, his mouth attaching to the inside of your thigh.

He left a trail of kisses up your thigh, his teeth gently biting at the sensitive skin. His hands held your hips down, keeping you in place as he slowly but surely made his way to your core.

He inhaled deeply, the scent of you driving him on as his tongue slowly traced over your folds, tasting you. He'd thought about being mean, teasing you, but his own desire overruled that thought process.

He heard you gasp, your body arching against his mouth, and he couldn't help but smirk against you, knowing how wet you were for him.

He continued to explore you with his mouth, his tongue swirling and tasting as he found the spots that made you moan and jerk against him. His hands kept you in place, his strong fingers gripping your hips as he worked you into a frenzy.

You felt like you were floating, the pleasure making your head spin. God, he was fucking good at this.

One of your hands grips his hair, while the other squeezes your breast, giving you that extra stimulation. Your head lolls back against the couch, half delirious and hazy, as you let out needy whines and moans.

"Art- Art, fuck- s' good... so good..."

His mouth never left its place between your legs as he heard you call his name, the sound going straight to his cock. He hummed against you, the vibrations against your sensitive cunt making you squirm even more, your hand in his hair tugging at the locks.

He pulled away for a moment, his mouth slick and shiny with your arousal as he looked up at you.

"That's right, sweetheart. You're being so good for me," he purred, his voice gravelly and low from arousal.

His mouth returned to you, his tongue picking up its pace as he devoured you. He could feel you getting closer, your body tensing, moans growing louder and more frequent.

He held you down even more, his fingers gripping your hips almost painfully as he pressed you into the couch, his mouth never stopping its relentless assault.

Your moans are rising in pitch, voicing his name repeatedly like a prayer. Your cunt is clenching around his tongue, and your chest is heaving up and down. You're going to cum very soon, and he knows it.

He could feel you getting closer, your body practically shaking with need. He doubled his efforts, his tongue working overtime as he pushed you higher and higher.

He looked up at you, watching the expressions of ecstasy on your face as he brought you right to the edge.

"That's it, that's my girl. Come for me," he growled against you.

His words combined with his tongue send you careening into your peak, hips canting up, core clenching, moaning his name almost pornographically.

"Oh, god- fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck- s' good to me, Art-"

He keeps mouthing at you through your climax, prolonging it by never letting up his efforts. He loved this, the feeling of you coming undone under him, the sound of his name leaving your lips in between gasps and moans.

He pulled away once he was sure you were spent, but he couldn't help but tease you just a bit more, his tongue darting out to swipe up the last bit of your arousal.

You whine, hips twitching at the overstimulation. Your gaze is hazy, lips bitten, eyes dilated, as your head tilts back against the couch, half delirious from your orgasm.

He watches you for a moment, a satisfied smirk on his face as he moved up your body, gently pressing a kiss to your stomach before capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss.

He pulls back to look at you again, his hand cupping your face.

"You're so pretty like this," he murmured, his thumb tracing your bottom lip where it was bitten red.

As Art's thumb presses into your mouth, your tongue darts out to trace it. He swallows hard as he slips his middle and ring finger into your mouth, and you keep eye contact with him as you suck on his digits, eyes blown wide with desire.

He watches you intently, the way your lips wrap around his fingers and your tongue swirls around them nearly making him shiver in anticipation.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering over your ear as he speaks, his voice low and seductive.

"You look so good with your mouth full, sweetheart."

You moan around his fingers, tongue still coating his fingers with saliva. You've always been a sucker for praise, especially from him.

He chuckles quietly at your response, his eyes darkened with lust as he watches you take his fingers deeper into your mouth.

"You like that, don't you? You like it when I tell you how good you are?"

He pushes his fingers deeper, his other hand holding the side of your neck, thumb rubbing over the skin gently.

You moan again, eyes fluttering. You both have a heavy oral fixation, you know it, and he knows it, too. Your hands go down to his jeans, fingers grazing over his erection. You want to please him, too, just as he had done for you.

He can feel your hand on his jeans, the gesture not going unnoticed as he sees your eyes flutter. He growls lowly, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

"You want to take care of me too, sweetheart? You want to show me how good you can be for me?"

You whine, needy and uninhibited. You want to make him feel good, too. Your mind is fuzzy with only one thing, him.

He smirks faintly, watching you get lost in the feeling, the sound of your whine making his cock twitch inside the denim confines.

"Alright, baby," he purrs, taking his fingers out of your mouth and gently lifting your chin with his hand.

"You know what to do, don't you?"

You're quick to discard him of his jeans and shirt, and underwear, as you lightly push him back on the couch, his legs spread. You settle in between his legs, on your knees on the floor, sucking and biting the skin of his thighs and hipbones, your slender hands pressing down gently on his thighs.

His head rolls back at the feeling of your lips and teeth on his skin, a low moan leaving his lips. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his muscles tensing as your touch sends jolts of pleasure through him.

"That's it, sweetheart," he gasps breathily, his grip on the couch tightening. "You're so good to me."

One of your hands move to cup his base, squeezing gently, and you begin to leave teasing kitten licks at the top, the other hand gripping his thigh.

Art hisses at the feeling of your hand on him, his hips involuntarily bucking at the contact, his toes curling against the carpet.

"Fuck..." he gasps, his hands finding your hair and fisting the locks, trying to control himself. "You're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart."

When your tongue runs up from his base to his tip, and flattens against his slit, he nearly loses it. And you haven't even put your mouth over him fully yet.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands trying to ground himself in your hair. He's never felt so wound up, so worked up, the touch of your tongue making him lose his mind.

"Baby-" he gasps, his head rolling back against the couch. "I- I won't last if you keep this up."

When your mouth closes around him, his mind goes blank. It's so warm, so soft, so good. Your tongue is swirling around his slit now, hands gripping his legs as you take him in fully.

Art can't think, can't form a coherent thought, can't do anything except feel the sensation of your mouth on him. His hips twitch, his hands gripping your hair tighter, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps and moans.

"Oh, god-" he gasps, his back arching off the couch slightly. "That's- that's good- s' so good, sweetheart-"

It isn't long before his hips are stuttering forward into your mouth, and you're taking it like it's nothing, mouth wrapped around his cock. You aren't letting up, and he's on the cusp.

He knows he can't hold on much longer, the pleasure building higher and higher, his hips involuntarily bucking into your mouth, needing more friction.

"I- I'm gonna-" he chokes out, his hands gripping your hair tighter again. "I'm gonna- sweetheart, I-"

After a few seconds, you ease off, and he scrambles to get himself the rest of the way off. His hand frantically moves up and down, he's so close, so, so close- he cuts himself off with a strangled moan as he cums, releasing on his hand, and all over your chest, dripping down the valley between your breasts.

He can barely catch his breath, his chest heaving as he comes down from his high, his body shaking slightly from the aftershocks.

He looks down at you, a mixture of satisfaction and awe in his eyes as he takes in the sight of you, your chest covered in his release. The sight nearly does him again.

"You're- you're amazing, sweetheart," he gasps, his voice hoarse from the strained vocal chords. "So fucking good to me."

You look at him then, eyes hooded and half-lidded. Then, you take your index and middle finger, scooping up his creamy spend on them, and suck your digits clean, all while keeping eye contact with him.

𝘖𝘏 𝘔𝘠 𝘎𝘖𝘋. He could come again just from watching you.

Art's eyes widen as he watches you, a guttural moan escaping his lips. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

He reaches down, grabbing you by the upper arms and pulling you up onto his lap, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, messy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

You moan into his mouth, hands cupping his face, hips rolling against his. God, you're soaked, he can feel the wetness against his exposed cock.

He breaks the kiss, his mouth trailing down to your neck, biting and sucking at the skin, leaving his mark on you. His hands are on your hips, gripping them tightly, helping you move against him.

He can feel how wet you are, how much you want him, and it drives him wild.

"You want me, sweetheart?" he murmurs against your neck, his breathing ragged. "You want me inside you?"

You gasp, tilting your head back to give him better access to your neck. His cock is hitting the right spots to make you squirm, and that's all you can think about.

"Yes- fuck, please- need you-"

He smirks against your skin, his hands roaming all over your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"You need me, huh?" he teases, his mouth now on your ear, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. "You want me to fill you up, sweetheart?"

Your voice takes on a high and breathy tone, bordering on begging. At this point, you are.

"Please, please- I need- need you to fucking fill up- Art-"

He leans back slightly, his eyes roaming over your body, raking over every inch of skin. He takes in the sight of you, desperate and needy on top of him, and it takes all his self-control not to give in right then and there.

He captures your mouth in a rough, hungry, messy kiss, mostly teeth clashing and tongues licking into each other's mouths.

"Get on your knees, baby."

You do as he says, as he places a cushion under your hips. Always thoughtful, he is, even when he's completely feral for you.

He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to your spine, as he positions you comfortably and prepares you.

He takes his time, his mouth and hands roaming over your back, leaving a trail of kisses and bites in their wake.

He positions himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his breaths hot on your skin as he speaks.

"You ready for me?"

You nod so fast he swears you could've given yourself whiplash, moaning softly, needily. "Yes, yes- please-"

He holds your hips steady, his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing ever so slightly.

He leans down, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth by your ear.

"Take a deep breath and relax," he murmurs, his voice almost sultry.

He takes a moment to let you adjust, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your hips, waiting until you give him the okay to continue.

When you do, he pushes into you slowly, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. It's a struggle to not start pounding into you immediately, but he's coherent enough to recognize you need a minute.

You moan once he fully bottoms out, your hands curling into the fabric of the couch, arching up against him. You feel so full, so stuffed.

Art holds you close, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth leaving tender kisses on your shoulder. He takes a moment to gather himself, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

"You okay, sweetheart? M' not hurting you?" he asks, his voice thick with arousal, his hands on your hips holding you still.

You take a second to adjust to the stretch, and when you feel like you're ready, you tell him. "I'm good. Y- you can move."

He nods against you, his hand coming up to gently grab onto your hair, pulling lightly to get your attention.

"I want you to look at me. Can you do that for me?"

He watches as you turn your head to look at him, your face flushed and your eyes hazy with desire.

"That's my girl," he praises, his grip on your hair tightening slightly. "Now hold on tight."

Within a second, he's pulled out, turned you over so you're on your back, and gone back in. He wants to see your face as he makes you feel good. And you already look wrecked.

He looks down at you, his eyes scanning your face, taking in every little expression— the way your mouth hangs open, how your eyes flutter shut, the moans and gasps leaving your lips.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, his hands coming up to cup your face, holding your head in place so he can watch you come apart under him.

He continues to move, slowly at first, his eyes never leaving your face, taking in every reaction you have to his every touch and movement.

He watches as the pleasure builds within you, your body arching up towards him, your hands coming up to cling to his shoulders.

He leans down, his mouth finding yours in a deep, messy kiss, his tongue delving into you, tangling with your own.

He feels your legs come up, wrap around his waist, pulling him even closer, deeper, the new angle making him let out a guttural moan.

You moan into his mouth, as he hits a deeper angle inside, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving half crescent moons in their wake. The room is warm, not only from the hot summer air, but also the heat coming off of both your bodies.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as his breaths come out in ragged gasps. He can feel your nails dig into his shoulders, and the stinging sensation only serves to drive him wilder.

"You're so good to me," he pants, his hands roaming over your body, tracing over every curve and contour. "So goddamn good to me."

He quickens his pace, his hips snapping forward harder and rougher, his eyes locked on yours, not wanting to miss a single expression.

He can't even think coherently anymore. All he can focus on is you. How you feel, how you look. Every noise that is drawn out of you with each thrust of his hips.

He can feel his own release building, the pleasure coiling in the pit of his stomach like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment.

He continues to move, his motions growing sloppy and erratic as he begins to lose himself to the sensation.

"I'm gonna-" he gasps, his voice strained and uneven. "I'm gonna-"

He's determined to bring you over the edge first. He reaches down in between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and applying pressure.

You moan, eyes fluttering, lips parting, jaw going slack. Your nails dig into his shoulders, as you clench around him. You're so close, he can feel it.

The feeling of your walls clenching around him drives him insane, the moans and gasps escaping your lips only adding to the sensation.

He keeps up the pressure with his thumb, his own release building, his muscles tense and taut with effort, but he refuses to let go until you've come undone first.

"That's it, sweetheart," he gasps, his voice low and rough. "Come for me. Let me see you come apart."

"F- fuck- Oh, oh god-" His thrusts hit just the right spot inside you, and it sends you careening over the edge, eyes rolling back, voicing his name over and over like a prayer.

He watches as you fall apart beneath him, your body writhing and trembling, the sight of you coming undone pushing him right to the edge.

His movements become erratic, his hips stuttering as he clings onto the precipice, the sensations almost too intense.

"Oh god-" he moans, his voice trembling. "Gonna- I'm gonna-"

When you clench around him again, it's enough to finish him off. He moans hoarsely, hips thrusting through his own release.

His release hits him like a freight train, his hips stilling, his body shuddering with the intensity of it. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps against your skin.

"Fuck-" he pants, his grip on you tight, his whole body shaking from the aftershocks.

He tries to catch his breath, his body still slumped over you, his heart racing in his chest. He lifts his head up slightly to look at you, and god, the sight of you, so utterly wrecked and breathless, nearly does him in again.

You look down at him, eyes hazy and filled with affection, as your hand comes up to gently card through his sweaty hair.

He practically melts under your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he lets out a contented sigh.

He moves slowly, carefully pulling out of you, trying not to hurt you. He then collapses beside you on the couch, his head resting on your stomach.

"You're going to be the death of me, y'know that?" he mumbles sleepily, his voice rough but fond.

You laugh quietly, a faint smile appearing on your face. "That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

No, it wouldn't. It really wouldn't, he thinks. You are marked with love bites, put there by him, you're this wrecked because of him. You love him.

He grins at your comment, his eyes drifting up to take in the sight of your marked skin. He feels a sense of pride at the sight of the love bites he left behind, a silent claim that you were his.

He lifts himself up, propping himself up on his elbow so that he's staring down at you, his gaze soft but possessive.

"You're right," he answers quietly, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your skin. "It wouldn't be so bad at all."

The adrenaline is wearing off, and you're both tired. Art can feel his eyelids drooping, the allure of sleep calling to him. And you're not faring much better, drowsy and content being here.

He can tell you're just as tired as he is, both of you coming down from the adrenaline high and now feeling the exhaustion seeping into your bones.

He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest. He burrows his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of you.

"Let's take a nap," he murmurs sleepily. "Just a little one. We can clean up later."

You hum softly in agreement, body perfectly melding into his. As Art drifts off, he's only thinking about how much he never wants this to end. He never wants to stop having you.

The last thing he remembers as he slips into unconsciousness is the feeling of your body against his, the sound of your breaths, and the gentle beat of your heart.

He falls asleep dreaming of a life with you, filled with love, laughter, and happiness. And he knows, deep down, that he'll do anything to make those dreams a reality.

This gif is my holy grail, literally can’t go a day without seeing it THE WAY THEIR NOSES FLICK ON EACHOTHER

why is THIS the hottest photo of mike faist. no photoshoot can top this pic. the ARMS. the DARK CIRCLES. the ADAMS APPLE. the mouth PARTED.

im going straight to hell tbh