Patrick Zweig - Tumblr Posts

𝐀𝐧𝐝…𝐒𝐞𝐭

Pairing- Art Donaldson x !female reader

Summary: Art's determination to win collides with his distant connection with Tashi. You always knew it was a problem, but one incident snapped your band of patience and found the urge to address it. (I suck at writing summaries forgive me!<3)

Warnings- Cursing, fluff, small angst but with happy ending

Word Count- 1.4k

Authors note: Hii! Soo this is my third post and I really hope this one's good in your opinion. I feel like this coudve been written better but I wanted to post something since it has been a minute. Also, I didn't watch Challengers so this might not be as accurate just FYI!! Also againn, this does have a spicy version sitting in my drafts so if this gets enough recognition and you guys want it then I'd be more than happy to post it. Enjoy!

“Art, baby-” You uttered softly while he grabbed his tennis racket from one of the many benches surrounding the tennis court. Sweat covered his forehead and shirt from the summer heat, eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, hands red and irritated from the firm grip he had on the racket when swinging, and Tashi’s stare from the sidelines, right beside where you were, only encouraged it.

  “Don’t ‘baby’ him, you know it'll only distract him from what he needs,” Tashi replied, black sunglasses-covered eyes still set on Art, now beginning his stance as the trainer began to set the ball once more. 

You understood where the woman came from...to a short extent. She’d been your friend since college, both having dreams about becoming the best. But ever since her injury and your lack of motivation, you both stopped doing what you loved. You accepted that. Tashi couldn't.

“What he needs is a break, Tashi, a real one.” She only rolled her eyes in return, not caring if you saw it or not. You wanted to say something, demand something, but you knew how important this was to Art. Knew that if you tried to take the sliver of hope he had at ameliorating his already perfect skills of what he’s trying to love away, then he’d never forgive you.

With a huff of annoyance, you opened your mouth to say anything reasonable that could go through your old friend’s thick skull but was interrupted by a yelp, followed by a tennis racket hitting the ground, the noise echoing throughout the court. Your chest tightened, and a sharp breath caught in your throat as you saw Art lying on the ground, face grimacing in utter pain while hunched over and clutching his right ankle. 

“Art!” You ran to him, not noticing Tashi behind your trail. You knew this would happen; You knew Tashi would push him too far. You knew Art wouldn’t be able to just listen to you-

“Get a fucking medic already!” Tashi exclaimed to the shocked trainer watching over the situation. They stood for a second more before rushing to get help. 

You knelt to Art’s level, cradling his face in your hands. The small movements of your thumbs drew circles against his temple. You hoped, no, prayed, it did him any good. 

“Just breathe, love, you’re okay.” The reassurance in your smile and the soft gaze in your eyes relaxed Art into a consistent breathing pattern. His hand wrapped around your wrist for support as he shook his head in dismissal. You noticed Tashi, kneeling beside him on the other side, looking at him with the same, if not more, deeper concern than you. Her hands shook lightly in her lap as she observed the two of you and if you weren’t mistaken, she wanted to reach out to him herself.

“I-It’s fine. I’m good for another hit.” Art muttered in what tried to be confidence, but the shakiness in his voice said otherwise. His heavy eyes fixated on Tashi when saying ‘another hit’ almost like he needed her confirmation to let him continue practicing. 

“What?” you exclaimed. Tashi’s eyes widened when she noticed Art’s gaze on her. “Art, no. Help me take him to the car.” Thankfully, you majored in specialized healthcare and knew the basics of treating a sprained ankle so taking him home wasn’t a big deal.

“What about the medic-” Tashi began.

“Fuck the medic!” You cut off, mumbling “They’re taking too long” in the process. You hooked your arms around him as Tashi did the same to his right. 

The drive home was silent except for the light grunts Art made with every slight bump in the road. You tried to make him comfortable as much as you could; resting your hand on his knee, reassuring him everything was okay and well, kissing his reddened knuckles once or twice with sympathy. 

You managed to get Art out of the car without struggle and rest him on one of the couches that accompanied your shared living room. Wrapping his foot was the easy part, but convincing him to rest and take it easy was a whole different story. 

“Art, Angel, please just lay down. The court isn’t going to grow legs and leave.” You joked as you knelt before him, one hand clutching his own. He sighed while tilting his head back in final defeat, nodding in understanding.

“I know baby, I get it. It’s just- if I’m going to compete for this season then it’s whatever it takes. Tashi…” He paused.

“‘Tashi’ what?” You deadpanned with a little more forceness than intended. Given his situation, you knew he couldn’t help how he felt about his (toxic) ex and coach. He loved you with all of his fiber and being, no doubt, but Art never could understand that his vulnerability, trust, attachment,  poured out of him without even knowing. You felt the need to close your eyes and take a deep breath. Exhaling all the creeping stress that was about to shoot out your body and attack Art without fault. “Art. listen to me, please, I know you want her to coach you, I know that, and I’ve been trying to let you get to where you want to go with your career. I understand. But do I really have to list everything she’s done to you without an ounce of sympathy? Before and after you married her.”

Art’s eyes averted from yours, finding the couch more interesting than the needed conversation. 

“That’s not fair.” He muttered. You scoffed.

“No, what’s not fair is the constant stress she used to put you in. What’s not fair is the fact that I had to watch you work your ass off and be rewarded with a fucking cuss-out from her because she thought you still weren't good enough…a wife doesn’t do that to her husband.”

Art’s head finally turns to you. The whites of his eyes were red, eye bags more prominent than ever. Blush stained his cheeks, neck, and pouty lips. He looked exhausted. 

“I just wanted her to accept me…I still w-want her to accept me.” his mouth contorted into disgust as if what he said was the most controversial thing in the world. He reached for the bottom of your top and tugged, encouraging you to rest your body on top of his, and you hesitantly obliged. “And I swear to you it’s not because I still love her, you know that. I guess…” He paused. You reached your hand to glide your fingers through the blonde hair that lay on the nape of his neck, looking at him with soft, understanding eyes, encouraging him to use his words. To finally release his true feelings about something hidden for way too long. “I guess it’s partly because of pity? Y’know with her injury and everything. When we were…something, I saw the look of pure agony and anger on her face when she found out she wouldn’t be able to play anymore, and I felt horrible. Just imagining not doing the one thing you’ve worked so hard for kills me.”

“You felt as though you needed to continue her dream through you,” You summarized but shortly chuckled before straddling Art’s waist. “Art you’re too vulnerable for your own damn good.” He sheepishly smiles while shrugging.

“Just say I have attachment issues, I can take it.” Snickering, you playfully rolled your eyes. At least he wasn’t completely clueless, you thought. 

“I would never make you do anything against your will, but I feel like after the world champs you should take a good break for a while and maybe separate yourself from Tashi,” You said, the statement sounding more like a question. “Just to see if she might be the one holding you down.”

His head tilted to the side in peak curiosity, eyes squinted and tense before they relaxed into soft irises. You knew he knew the answer, but what worried you was the sincerity behind it. He would do anything and everything to please you; it was his perfect flaw, but sometimes that flaw overtook him. Trapped him. You just hoped his answer would hold sureness in it. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” He nodded, a lazy smile, that replicated yours, plastered on his face.

“Yes, baby. I love you. I want to make you my wife. I’m going to make you my wife. Why would I fuck that up?” Silence engulfed you as your stomach began to turn. The love you had for him outweighed the stars, fuck, it outweighed the whole universe. And as he looked up to you tired eyes glistening, perfect lips smiling, amazing hands caressing, you knew. You knew he could listen and cherish and understand anything you brought to him; whether it’d be small or big, annoying or reasonable. You knew he would still be there. 

400 lux - art donaldson

cw; sexual content, drinking, language?? (if this is bad no one tell me!)

;; art and reader if he never met tashi 

;we’re never done with killing time, can i kill it with you, till the veins run red and blue? we come around here all the time, got a lot to not do, let me kill it with you 

you met art donaldson at the stanford class of 2010 mixer. you knew him by then, of course, everyone did. he was art donaldson, six time grand slam champion and french open winner. in contrast, you were an english major with no real interest in tennis at all. your singular interest in the sport was art himself, despite not knowing him, you knew he was the most beautiful angelic man you had ever laid your eyes on. it almost seemed like this entire mixer was made for him, the way everyone crowded around. eager to see the tennis prodigy in his prime, eighteen and sipping wine coolers and smiling politely. he was all blonde hair and red cheeks and, “yeah, thank you for having me!” that first night. 

you hovered around the tables, sipping shirley temples and keeping to yourself. you noticed art slowly getting closer to the table you’d been occupying, making his way through the room. his blue eyes met yours and you quickly averted your gaze, desperate to avoid conversation. two minutes later, he stood in front of you, lazy smile on his face. “you enjoying this corner by yourself?” he asked, his tone light and slightly sarcastic. “yes, actually. i’m not a fan of crowds,” you replied. “i can relate to that. art donaldson,” he outstretched his hand to you, “and you are?” you told him your name, your cheeks heating as you shook his hand, “i know who you are. everybody here does.” “yeah, seems that way. do you play?” “oh, no. english major.” “ah, okay. so you’re a writer?” “aspiring, yes. hoping this will get me closer,” you said, feeling yourself slowly loosen up with the conversation. “i’m sure it will,” he smiled, and you wondered how a stranger could have blind confidence in you, “well, would you maybe want to get out of here for a minute? it’s stuffy and i need a smoke.” you tried not to let the surprise show on your face and nodded, “sure, i have a lighter in my bag.” 

you and art sat on the balcony, a cigarette between his lips and his beer in your hand. “so, why stanford? why not go pro?” you asked. “wanted to be good for something else, i guess. not just hitting a ball with a racket, you know? not that there’s anything wrong with that, my best friend went pro straight away, just not for me i guess.”

“patrick, right? your friend?” “yeah, patrick. he’s more of a career player, more confident. he’ll stay pro while i’m here playing.” “i can see you as a career player,” art’s face reddened slightly at that, “i mean, you’re already winning every match, right?” “well, most of them. it’s more than that though, you have to have the stamina to keep it up until your body can’t anymore. and i just don’t have that,” he said. his face looked twisted with an emotion you couldn’t place, but he kept his tone light and let out a quiet laugh. “well, you don’t have to do something forever to be good at it right now. just like you don’t have to win every game to be good,” “i disagree with the second part, but thank you, really. not everyday someone tries to relieve pressure for me.”

“i can imagine it’s not easy, being the art donaldson and all,” you smiled. “oh god, the art donaldson,” he laughed, rolling his eyes playfully. you shivered, the sudden breeze prickling your skin. “are you cold?” he asked, and when you looked over he already had his blazer halfway off. “no, no i’m okay! just a little chilly out here,” you protested, but he slid the jacket off entirely and handed it to you. your cheeks grew hot once again, and you hesitantly wrapped it around your shoulders. “you’re gonna get cold now,” you said guiltily. “no, i’m alright. at least i have long sleeves.” you regretted the strapless dress now, feeling silly for not taking the cool evening breeze into account when getting dressed. “it is getting late,” art sighed, “we’ve been out here for a while.” you glanced over at his watch, reading 1 am on the face. “oh jesus. i’m sorry i kept you out so late. let me take you home?” he asked. you bit your lip, anxious at the thought of being alone with him in his car, despite being alone with him for hours now. “sure,” you smiled. neither of you were ready to let the night end, anyway.

;you pick me up and take me home again, head out the window again. we’re hollow like the bottles that we drain. you drape your wrists over the steering wheel, pulses can drive from here, we might be hollow but we’re brave

you sat in the passenger seat of art’s jeep, your eyesight slightly fuzzy from the drinks you finished off before leaving the balcony. he was a vision of beauty in the glow of the passing streetlights, his wrists draped lazily over the steering wheel. radiohead played quietly from the car speakers, and you couldn’t hold back your surprise. “didn’t take you for a radiohead kinda guy,” you said, leaning over to turn the volume up slightly. “yeah, patrick got me into them,” he shrugged, looking over at you, “do you want the windows down? it’s stuffy.” “ooh, yes please.” he rolled down the front windows and opened up the sunroof, and you sighed with relief when you felt the breeze in your hair. you sat up, sticking your hands out the sunroof and laughing.

“this is so cool, i wish my car had one of these,” you said, raising your voice over the wind. “you’re beautiful,” art said from below you, and your face instantly grew hot as you sat back in your seat. “well, thank you,” you said, unable to look at him. “sorry, i just had to tell you, i didn’t mean for it to come out so fast,” he rambled, a passing light revealing he was also blushing. “no no, it’s okay! i just don’t know what to say, but i appreciate it, thank you,” you replied, subconsciously playing with your hair. “you’re the first, like, real person i’ve talked to at all these bullshit mixers. everybody else is just kissing up or asking me the same five questions about tennis and patrick and tashi.” your eyebrows raised at tashi’s name, having forgotten about her. “were you and her, i mean not to be rude, but i heard she was your girlfriend,” “oh, no. she’s patrick’s girlfriend, we’re just all friends. we met at one of tashi’s adidas events a few months back. i’ve heard the rumors though.” “oh, okay. well you’re also one of the only real people i’ve met since i even started my interviews here. i like that,” you smiled appreciatively, “oh, and you can turn up here. it’s the marriott on the right.” “you didn’t tell me you were staying in a hotel. have you not moved down yet?” “well, i just can’t really afford to rent so i’ve just been driving down and staying the night for the events until the dorms open. kinda embarrassing,” you explained, your face hot.

“i don’t think its embarrassing, stuff happens. you could stay in my extra room, if you wanted. so you don’t have to leave early in the morning for check out,” he said. “oh, i couldn’t. it’s okay, i promise. me and this marriott have gotten pretty well acquainted,” you joked, still freshly embarrassed. “i really don’t mind, i could even help you get your bags from the room.” “no, i promise it’s okay. i didn’t want you to feel bad for me or anything-” you started. “it’s not that i feel bad, it’s just that i have this spare room i don’t use and you’d have to be up early to check out when i’m the one who kept you out late. plus, we could keep talking, and we could get breakfast tomorrow, get you more familiar with the area,” he said, his tone pleading. “fuck it, why not? let’s go get my stuff,” you gave in, unbuckling your seatbelt.

you took the elevator up to the fourth floor, leading art through the halls and into your room. “i don’t have much, just give me five minutes,” you told him, grabbing your toiletries and throwing them into your suitcase. as you entered the bedroom, you blushed as you followed his gaze to your black bra flung onto the floor from the night before. “oh, i’m sorry,” you cringed, shoving it into your suitcase quickly. “no, it’s okay. sorry,” you gathered the rest of your things quickly, trying to ignore the awkward silence that fell over the two of you. “okay, i’m all packed up,” you said finally, wheeling your suitcase to the door and grabbing your purse. “here, let me,” art said, taking the suitcase handle from your hands and closing the door behind you, “all set?” “yep! ready whenever you are.” 

a short drive later, you were pulling into one of the nicest apartment complexes you’d ever seen. he put in his gate code, driving slowly through the lot until you reached one of the furthest buildings. “this is beautiful,” you said, thinking of your parents small house back in your hometown. “it’s nice, i’m very grateful,” art said humbly, parking and turning off his jeep. he got out, rushing around to open your door before you could get out. “oh, thank you,” you said shyly, stepping down out of your seat. “here, just let me grab your bags and we’ll walk up,” he said, pulling your suitcase from the backseat and locking the car. he lead you to his apartment, unlocking the door and pushing it open for you. you walked in slowly, taking in the big open living room and the massive tv on the wall.

“oh, wow,” you mumbled, looking all around you. “it’s not decorated much, i’m only staying here until the dorms open. my parents keep it rented so i summer here and they can stay here when they visit during the academic year,” he explained. “oh, that makes sense. this is really nice, art.” “thank you, i can’t really take credit but i’m glad you like it,” he laughed, pulling your suitcase over to a closed white door. he pushed it open, flipping on the light switch. the guest room had a massive fluffy white bed, another large tv mounted above the dresser.

“you can unpack in here, there’s a bathroom attached if you need to shower or anything,” he said, walking further into the room, “and you can put your clothes in the wardrobe if you don’t want them to get wrinkled. i have extra of my body wash in the shower if you don’t have any, feel free to use it. and my parents usually keep toothpaste in there as well.” “thank you so much, art. i think i’ll take you up on that shower, but i have my toiletries with me. seriously, thank you. this is so kind,” you said graciously. “oh, of course. do you wanna watch a movie or something when you’re done? i’m wired,” “sure, i’d like that. meet in the living room after?” “the living room tv is actually broken, the screen shattered when i was moving it. the one in my bedroom is alright, though, or there’s yours in here. but there’s no dvd player in here,” he scratched the back of his neck, biting his lip. “oh, your room is fine. i’ll be out in twenty,” you said, grabbing your bag and heading for the bathroom. “okay, see you then, just yell if you need anything.” 

you took your shower quickly, nerves growing at the idea of watching a movie alone in art’s bedroom. you felt silly and giddy like a middle schooler, so nervous about being alone with a boy. he made you feel comfortable, though, and you knew he wouldn’t do anything you weren’t okay with. after your shower, you put on your black pajama set and padded into the hallway. “hey art, i’m done!” you called, unsure of where he’d gone throughout the apartment. “yeah, i’m in here! the doors open,” he called back, and you followed his voice to his bedroom. he was sat on his bed, shirt off, awkwardly twisted around applying some sort of a wrap to his lower back. “oh, sorry,” you said, averting your eyes quickly. “oh, no it’s okay. i’m just doing my kinesiology tape, my physical therapist has me doing it every night,” he explained.

“do you need help? that looks like a hard angle.” “i would really appreciate it, actually,” he said,  turning to you, “normally i can do it but it’s a bit farther down today.” “yeah, no problem,” you crossed the room, sitting down beside him hesitantly, “so you just stick it on?” “yeah, just where i have that first piece.” you nodded, cutting off a piece of the tape and studying it. you moved to place it and his breath hitched as you brushed against the bare skin of his back. your face heated up and you hurriedly applied it, your fingers trembling slightly. “is that good?” you asked, biting your lip.”yeah, that’s perfect. thank you,” he said, his voice trembling like your fingers had been. you traced the light pink scar across his shoulder absentmindedly, “what happened here?” “oh, nothing major, i fell during a match when i was a kid and had to get stitches,” he said. you could feel your pulse quickening, the realization of your closeness striking you all at once. you pulled away from him, pulling at the edge of your shorts to occupy your hands. “was the shower alright?” he asked, gaze lingering on your still wet hair. “yeah, it was really nice. thank you,” “of course. i’m really glad you came,” he smiled, leaning back onto his pillow, “you can lay or sit wherever. do you want a drink or anything?” “i’ll take a water if you don’t mind, thanks. do you want me to get the movie started?” “yeah, you can pick whatever you want. the dvds are on the shelf by the dresser,” he said, walking to the kitchen. you picked through his movies, settling on match point and laughing to yourself at the irony. you placed it in the player, settling back onto his bed. he came back a few minutes later, handing you a water bottle and opening a sprite for himself. “match point? really?” he said, laughing under his breath. “i just couldn’t pass it up,” you grinned, heart fluttering at the sight of him. he really was beautiful, hair mussed from his pillow and his eyes half lidded from relaxation. he laid down, stretching out and pulling the throw blanket over his legs. “you can lay down if you want, help yourself to the blankets,” he said, looking over at you. you nodded, propping yourself up with a pillow and pulling the comforter up to your hips. the two of you watched the movie in silence for a while, and you felt your eyes threatening to close from exhaustion. “if we keep just laying here in silence i’m gonna fall asleep,” you said quietly, rubbing your face. art rolled over to face you then, smiling. “let’s talk then. tell me something interesting about you,” he said. “like what? we talked for hours tonight,” you laughed, “i don’t have any secrets left.” “oh i’m sure you have to have at least one,” he grinned, “i’ll tell you one if you tell me one.” “fine. let me think,” you pretended to be deep in thought, finally settling on, “i couldn’t ride a bike until i was fifteen.” he laughed, his head tilted back, and you wanted to kiss him there, just under his jawline. the thought caught you off guard, and you blushed, scolding yourself mentally for being this hung up over someone you had only just met. “that’s hilarious. could you just not get the hang of it?” “no, i just fell every time, it was pathetic,” you said, breathless from laughing. 

“i love that. do you like to ride them now? or are you scared?” “oh, i love them now. i’d bike everywhere if i could,” “we should go biking together, you’ll need one on campus anyway. much faster than just walking,” you blushed at the idea of art still having interest in you after tonight, let alone into the school year. “yeah, that would be fun. you’ll probably be really busy though, being art donaldson and everything,” you said, slightly teasingly but slightly serious. “i hate being art donaldson if it means i’m too busy to hang out with you,” he said, and you watched as his cheeks reddened to match yours, “i mean, if you wanted to, obviously. i don’t know what your plans are or anything for the year.” “i’d love that. just don’t feel like you have to pencil me in or anything,” you told him. “when are you going home?” he asked, biting his bottom lip. “i’m supposed to leave tomorrow. i’ll be back in two weeks for orientation and move in,” “you could stay here,” he said, and your breath faltered with shock. “two weeks is a long time, art, i mean thank you of course but i couldn’t possibly-” 

“i’d like it if you stayed, if you wanted to. you don’t have to go home, is all i mean. i just, i’m so sorry but can i kiss you?” he rambled, inching slightly closer to you. “yes,” you whispered, and he closed the gap between the two of you, pressing his lips to yours. he tasted like sprite and mint chapstick, and your heart skipped a beat at the feeling of his lips against yours. his hands came to your face, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. you broke away after a minute, your breath erratic and face completely flushed, and art’s eyebrows furrowed.

“are you okay? i shouldn't have moved so fast, i just-” “no, it’s okay. i liked it,” you said, trying to keep your tone soothing, “i just don’t do this, i don’t kiss boys i don’t know, and i really feel connected to you and i just don’t want to be humiliated,” “i wouldn’t humiliate you, i feel the same way. i don’t want you to feel rushed, i don’t usually do this either-” you cut him off, pressing your lips to his once again, and sighed softly into his mouth. he brought you closer, pulling your leg up over his hips and running his fingers through the air framing your face. the two of you grew closer and the kisses more frantic, and you positioned yourself on his lap, deepening the kiss and settling your hands in his hair. he pulled back then, and you could have died and gone to heaven at the sight of his red, freshly kissed lips. “we should slow down, i don’t want to do anything impulsive,” he said, placing a long kiss to your cheek, “not that i don’t want you, i just think we should wait.” you nodded in agreement, sliding off of his lap and laying on your side, facing him. “that was, i mean i’m not used to that and you’re really good at that,” you breathed, acutely aware of how naive you must have sounded.

“i’m not used to that either, patrick was always the one who had all the girls, i’ve never just done that, but i feel like i really know you,” he said, pulling your hand to his mouth and pressing kisses to your fingers, “please think about staying. i don’t want you to feel like you have to, but you could stay here, just in the guest room if that’s what you want. i can show you around palo alto, you could come to some of my matches if you wanted. you should get comfortable with the area, at least.” “i’ll think about it, art. i need to work, though, i’ll have to find a serving job here,” “you can stay here and not worry about bills or anything, i promise. you don’t have to worry about it,” “i can’t just freeload off of you, we just met,” you sighed. “it’s not freeloading, i’m asking you to stay,” another kiss to your wrist this time, “i’d really really like it if you stayed.”

you woke up several hours later, art’s arm around your torso and his smell enveloping your senses. you opened your eyes slowly, taking in his bedroom in the morning light streaming through his windows. you carefully pulled his arm away from you, attempting to roll over, when he groaned quietly. “it’s too early,” he protested, reaching for you again. “just need to use the restroom and brush my teeth, art,” you said, kissing his cheek quickly, “and call my parents to tell them i’m staying.” at this, his eyes shot open, a smile on his face immediately. “you’re staying? really?” “yeah, fuck it, why not?” you said, calling back to then night before, “i’ll be back soon.” you went through your morning routine and picked up your iphone and calling your mom.

“hey, honey,” her familiar voice came through the speaker, “are you headed home?” “hey, mom. i actually wanted to talk to you about something, i know this sounds crazy but i’m thinking about staying?” you said, phrasing it like a question, though you knew she wouldn’t protest. “staying where? i thought the dorms weren’t open for two weeks,” “yeah, that’s the crazy part,” you laughed lightly, “i met this boy, and this is insane but he said i could stay in his guest room and we’re really getting on, mom. i really like him,” “oh god, staying in his guest room? so you’re staying in his room,” she said sarcastically. “no, not now anyway. i don’t know, we’ll see what happens. i have a lot of money put back from serving, in case anything happens. so you don’t have to worry about that. and he’s really sweet, i’m not worried,” “what is this boys name?” you bit your lip at the dreaded question. “um, his name is art.” “art? that’s cute, like that tennis boy,” she laughed. “yeah, actually, it’s art donaldson. you know he goes here, now. it’s his first year too.” she hesitated, before asking, “art donaldson, really? are you sure about all this, honey? i mean, the boy is famous,” “yes, i’m sure, i promise. i’m safe and happy and if anything changes i’ll be home as soon as possible,” “alright, baby. if you’re sure, just please be safe,” she sighed, resigned. “yes ma’am. i’ll send photos!” you reassured, “i love you, i’ll see you soon,” “i love you too, see you soon.”

you re-entered art’s room, smiling as you saw him stretching in the floor. “i talked to my mom, we’re all set. i’m definitely staying,” you said, sitting down in the floor beside him. “i’m so happy you’re staying, i know it was spur of the moment but i promise it’ll be worth your time,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek and leaning back down into his stretch, “i’ll be done in a few minutes, i’m just getting my stretch in. i had some practice matches today with my hitter, but i was able to get them moved. what would you like to see first?” “oh art, you didn’t have to do that,” “i didn’t mind, besides i could use a day off after last night,” “i guess so,” you shrugged, leaning back on your arms to watch him stretch. “there’s a massive farmers market further into the city, if you’d like to go there. we could stock up for our stay-cation,” he said, then cringed, “god, i cannot believe i just said stay-cation.” “that sounds good, but please don’t ever say that again,” you laughed. “i’ll be ready in like twenty, is that good with you?” you nodded, standing up and stretching your arms, “i’ll just run and get dressed for the day then.” 

you threw on one of the only outfits you had left in your suitcase, a black summer dress and your converse, and braided your hair quickly. by the time you were done, art was quietly tapping on the guest room door. you were greeted by the sight of him in running shorts and a us open souvenir shirt, a stark contrast of his formal wear from the evening prior.  “ready?” he asked. you blushed as you followed his eyes to the neckline of your dress, “ready.” 

now we’re wearing long sleeves, and the heating comes on. you buy me orange juice, we’re getting good at this. dreams of clean teeth, i can tell that you’re tired. but you keep the car on, while you’re waiting out front.

art pulls his jeep into the crowded farmers market lot, once again rushing to open your car door for you and helping you out. just like before, you blush, thanking him quickly. “so, where to first? they’ve got everything in sections, fresh veg on one side, fresh fruit, crafts,” art pointed to the various spots in the market, and you were glad at least he knew where he was going. “hm, maybe fruits? i’d love an orange right now, in this heat,” you said, and he nodded. you smiled as he slipped your hand into his, leading you slowly through the winding crowds of people. you stopped at a fruit stand, in awe of the amount of beautiful fresh oranges, peaches, and grapefruits. “just grab whatever you want, i got it,” art said, leaning closer to you, his breath brushing over your ear. a shiver ran down your spine despite the heat, and you nodded, bagging up some navel oranges and passing them to the attendant. art handed the woman a bill, and you were whisked off to the next booth. 

the day was spent with handfuls of produce, and art taking any opportunity to make you laugh. it went by much quicker that either of you would have liked, but you were grateful, in a way, to have art all to yourself again. you hadn’t considered that people would stop him for photos or autographs, but there were at least a dozen tennis fans he had to attend to. you didn’t care much for excessive attention, so it was stressful for you, but you were happy to see how well receptive he was to it. he looked truly in his element, smiling politely and introducing you to anyone who asked. by the time four oclock came around, you loaded everything back into art’s jeep and discovered seventeen missed calls from your mom. your heart rate immediately rose with panic, and you called her back quickly, your breath faltering.

art placed a supportive hand on your arm as you explained and waited on the phone to ring. finally, on the third call back, your mom answered, her voice thin, “honey, i’m sorry to interrupt but we need you back home. your brother’s had an accident, he’s alright but he’s in the hospital in sacramento.” “oh my god. is he okay, what happened? i can be there soon, don’t worry,” “he’s okay, he’s in with the doctors now. his truck flipped on the highway, someone hit him from the side. how soon can you be here?” “give me just a couple hours, mom. i’ll meet you at the hospital, i love you,” you hung up, tears brimming your eyes. “art, i’m so sorry but i have to go home, my brothers been in an accident,” you said, just as the tears started to spill. “oh, i’m so sorry. what hospital? i’ll drop you off, you shouldn’t be driving like this. i can let you out at the door so i don’t disturb anyone,” he said, and more tears spilled as he affectionately wiped some away from your cheeks. “i would appreciate that so much. it’s sacramento community, it’s about an hour and a half. thank you so much,” you cried, wiping your face on your shirt.  

the drive there was quiet, art periodically checking on you and running his free hand down your back soothingly. by the time you arrived at the hospital, you had bitten your lips raw from worry.  he pulled up to the main entrance and slowed the car to a stop, putting his hazards on quickly. “thank you so much, again, i’m so sorry for all of this,” you said, unbuckling your seatbelt. “i promise i don’t mind at all. let me know how he is, okay? here, put your number in my phone,” he said, handing it to you. you nodded, typing in your number rapidly and then, with slight hesitation, typing your home address. “i added my address, if you wanted to come by, or if you need to rest from driving,” you told him, “i’ll call you when i’m done here?” “i’d love that. let me know if you need anything, don’t let me hold you up,” he said. you nodded, waving goodbye and shutting his car door before rushing into the hospital. 

you made it into the room, frantically checking on your family. your brother was in stable condition, but his right leg was broken, meaning he’d need someone to help take care of him once he was released from the hospital. your mom’s face was puffy from crying, and your heart panged at the sight. “here, mom, why don’t you just come sit down? the doctor said he’s alright now, no need to fuss,” you said gently, pulling her to the waiting area. she hesitated but followed you, holding onto your arm shakily. “i’m sorry it took me so long, i was in palo alto with art,” you apologized. she just shook her head, squeezing your hand reassuringly, “it’s alright, honey. i knew you’d be here when you could. did he drop you off?” you nodded, “i gave him the address and told him i’d meet him back there if he wanted to wait.”

“good, i’d like to meet him. visiting hours end at seven, they’re keeping him overnight for observation and we’ll have to come get him in the morning. it’s six fifty now, did you want to go see him before we go? he’s asleep, but you can go in,” she said. “yeah, i’ll go in. i’ll see you back out here soon,” you walked to your brothers hospital room, nervous all over again. he looked so pitiful, your heart just broke at the sight of him. guilt from being so far away when it happened gnawed at you, second thoughts of stanford creeping into your mind. you smoothed your brothers hair gently, kissing the top of his head and leaving the room quietly, careful not to disturb him. after some deliberation with your mom, you decided to ride back to your house, and return for your brother in the morning. on your way down, you called art, your voice timid. he answered on the first ring, “hey, is everything alright?” “yeah, he’s okay. visiting hours ended, so we have to go home,” you explained, “did you end up driving back to your apartment?”

“no, course not. i ran to pick up some pizzas, i figured your family wouldn’t feel like cooking, and i didn’t want you to be hungry. i was gonna drop them off,” your heart swelled, tears falling once again. “oh, art. that’s so sweet, thank you. we’ll be home in about ten minutes, we live close,” you said, “is that okay?” “yeah,  of course, i’ll be there,”

the drive back to your house went quickly, once you explained to your mom what art was doing there. she smiled appreciatively , her demeanor quiet with exhaustion. “he sounds like a sweet boy, baby. i’m happy for you,” “oh, thank you mom, but we’re just friends now. i hardly know him,” “well, regardless, he’s a good man in my books, bringing you home so quickly,” you nodded, undoubtedly agreeing. 

when you arrived home, art was parked in the drive, six pizza boxes in his passenger seat. he rushed to hug you as you approached him, whispering, “you alright?” you nodded into his chest, trying to fight back tears for what felt like the fiftieth time. “he’s gonna be alright, i’m just overwhelmed. you’ve been such a big help, thank you art.” “of course, it’s the least i can do with all this happening. here, i’ll carry the pizzas inside and leave you to it,” “oh, stay for dinner, please. it’s only fair,” “are you sure? i’m sure your mom is overwhelmed, i don’t want to impose,” “i’m sure, i promise. she’ll probably head to bed right after dinner, anyway. it’s been a long day,” “alright, if it’ll make you happy,” he smiled lightly, “i’ll grab the pizzas, just show me the way,” you lead him up the path to your front door, feeling silly once again for the nerves bubbling in your stomach. you’d never brought a boy home, let alone someone like art. you pushed the thought from your mind as you lead him into the living room, calling out for your mom.

“in the kitchen, honey,” she called back. you lead art to her voice, smiling shyly and gesturing to the room. “art, this is my mom. mom, this is art donaldson,” you introduced them. “oh, it’s great to meet you!” she gushed, shaking his hand. “oh, you too, miss,” he smiled. “i’m sorry to disappoint, but i think i have to turn in early. i appreciate the dinner so much, but i just don’t have much of an appetite after today. art, feel free to spend the night, i know palo alto is a ways away. and honey, i’ll see you in the morning, come get me if you need me, alright? i love you,” you hugged her quickly, “goodnight, mom. i love you too,” “so, pizza?” art said quietly, and you nodded, gesturing to the dining table. “i’ll grab some napkins, do you want a drink? we have water, sweet tea and coke,” “i’ll do a sweet tea,” he said, opening up one of the pizza boxes. you poured your drinks and joined him at the table, tearing into your slice quickly,

“god, i was starving.” “me too, i’m glad i picked this up,” “thank you again, art. seriously, i can’t thank you enough, for everything. you didn’t have to do all of this,” “i promise you i didn’t mind.” “do you want to stay? i mean, you don’t have to, but we have my brothers room or the living room, i’d hate for you to have to drive home this late,” “i wish i could, i really do, but i’ve got practice runs in the morning to make up for today. i can come back and get you, though, after they discharge your brother,” he said apologetically. 

“oh, okay. i actually better stay, now, until orientation. mom’s gonna need help taking care of him, and i don’t want to leave them right now,” his face fell, but he quickly recovered it, careful not to let his true feelings sway your decision. “oh, yeah of course, that makes sense. well, i’ll see you in two weeks, anyway. that’s not so long,” he smiled weakly. “yeah, not too long at all. plus i can call you! you’ll have to let me know how your practices go,” “yeah, of course. and you’ll have to let me know how he’s healing up, alright? can i come get you for orientation, or is your mom bringing you? where is your car, by the way?” your face reddened slightly, “um, my mom’s car is my car. i never really needed one, since she doesn’t work full time and i worked so close to home. we figured it would be cheaper, especially since i won’t be driving on campus,” “oh, yeah that makes sense! well, i’ll come get you for orientation, then. morning of, or night before?”

“probably night before, i think that works best,” “perfect. well, i’ll let you get to bed, get some rest. i will see you in 13 days, then,” he smiled, holding his arms out for a hug. you blushed, leaning into his chest and inhaling the fresh scent of his cologne. “13 days,” you repeated, tilting your head back to look up at him. his breath fanned against your face, and you played back the memory of his minty lips on your own. “can i kiss you goodbye?” he said quietly. you nodded, and before you could say yes aloud, his lips were on yours once again. you smiled into the kiss, trying to memorize the feeling in case he changed his mind over the next two weeks. he pulled away hesitantly, resting his forehead against yours, “well, i better go then, or i won’t ever want to leave,” he laughed. “goodnight, art,” you whispered, “see you soon,” he pressed another quick kiss to your lips and pulled away, grabbing his keys from the table and heading for the door. you followed him out, waving to him from your front porch and watching sadly as his jeep departed your driveway. thirteen long days to go.

your brothers recovery was fairly quick. he couldn’t use his leg, of course, but had gotten very adept to wheeling himself in his chair. you talked to art most nights over the phone, smiling to yourself as his crackly voice told you all about his tennis practices and rigorous training. he sounded exhausted, and you felt silly for letting worry creep into your mind. after all, he was art donaldson, he was used to it. you told him stories of your day to day routine, mostly consisting of providing your brother with meals and making sure your mother wasn’t worrying herself sick, or working herself ragged. day twelve snuck up on you, your mom entering your room bright and early to help you pack.

“oh, i can manage, but thank you mom,” you told her, opening up your biggest suitcase and beginning to roll your clothes up. “well, at least let me keep you company before you go,” she said, propping herself at the edge of your bed. “of course you can,” you smiled, happy to get some time in with her before you left. “so, art?” she grinned. “what about him?” “i’ve heard you up at night on the phone with him, honey. sounds like more than a friend to me, with those hour long conversations. are you serious about him?” “nothing is official yet, i do like him, but i worry about school starting,” you said, anxiously biting your lip, “he’s got a really intense schedule, and i’m sure some really intense girls interested in him. i don’t want to get too invested too soon,” “he seems like a sweetheart, but i do understand. just don’t keep yourself too closed off, darling. you’ll know if its right,” she reassured.

“thanks, mom. you’re right, i trust my judgment. he really is sweet, he’s a great person,” you smiled, thinking fondly of getting to know just how sweet he was. “well, you’ll see him soon, so i hope you’re confident in what you’re doing. he’ll be here at six, right?” “yeah, about then. i need to really focus on getting these things packed,” “alright, honey. i’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” and with that, you were alone with your thoughts about art, and your mountains of clothes waiting to be packed away. 

by five forty five, you were pacing in the hallway, biting at your fingernails. ‘this is just art’ you told yourself, ‘i was just with him, it’s nothing new.’ but you couldn’t stop the nagging thought that this would be the beginning of something really great, or you’d shy away and it would meet it’s end. at six on the dot, the headlights of his jeep shone through your window, and you quickly gathered your bags at the door. you’d told your brother goodbye much earlier, before his pain medication induced nap, and your mom was at work for the night. you opened the door, smiling widely as art came up the path.

“well hey stranger,” you grinned, “is that the art donaldson i see?” “oh, hush,” he said, gently pulling you to him and pressing his lips to yours. you were caught off guard, your balance faltering and you leaned closer into him. he held your jaw with one hand, his other arm circled around your waist, crushing you to his chest. the kiss went on for what felt like hours, two weeks of pent up affection spilling out. all your uncertainty melted away with each swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip, like he was pulling your anxiety from your body. you pulled away, chest heaving, and gazed up at him, “well hello to you too,” you breathed. “i missed you,” he grinned, “felt like you might’ve missed me, too.” “oh, i did, trust me. here, help me with these bags, and we’ll go,” he nodded, grabbing three of your bags and loading them into the trunk. you wheeled your last suitcase over, tucking it away, and smiled as he opened the passenger door for you. “i almost forgot what a gentlemen you are,” you said teasingly, settling into your seat. he got into his own, cranking up the car, and settled his hand on your thigh, “forgetting me that quickly? terrible,” he teased back, his voice low. “i could never,” you reassured him, placing your hand over his, “now let’s try this apartment again.”

the drive back to palo alto went quickly, but the nerves eating away at you reminded you of the drive away from it just two weeks prior. you wondered what the expectations might be, coming to art’s like this, the night before orientation. not that you weren’t interested, but you weren’t sure if the timing was right, and you weren’t sure if art even wanted that. your imagination was running wild with images of the night, though, of what it would be like to be that close to him again. art was quiet most of the drive, too, and you wondered what thoughts occupied his own mind. by the time you arrived back at his apartment, your nails were bitten to the quick and your lip was patchy and raw. “well, here we are,” he smiled, “should we unload your bags, or just leave them for the morning?” “we can just leave them, i’m tired of looking at them,” you joked, “thank you, though.” “of course. well, let’s go then.”

when you re-entered the apartment, you immediately noticed a difference. where the couch had been bare before, it was now covered in fluffy decorative pillows and a plush throw blanket. on the bar sat a vase of white flowers, and you thought you smelled a scentsy warmer. “did you decorate, or are your parents already moving in for the year?” you wondered aloud. “i, uh, i decorated. i figured you’d be a little more comfortable if it didn’t look so department store display here, and it needed a little warming up anyway,” he explained, blushing slightly, “what do you think?” “well, i thought it was beautiful anyway. but it looks great, art, you did a great job,” “and i stocked up the guest bath for you, i didn’t know what scents you liked best so i kinda just picked them out,” he said shyly, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “you really didn’t have to, but thank you, as always,” you giggled, “well on that note, i think i’ll shower. movie night again after?” “of course, i’ll be in my room,” he replied. you nodded, heading off for your shower. 

art had stocked the bathroom to the brim, with vanilla and peach body wash and creams, and a very expensive bottle of perfume placed on the counter. you blushed at the thought of art in the store, smelling these things and imagining them on you. after your shower, you toweled off and got into your pajamas, heading to art’s room. the deja vu from that very first night was impossible to ignore as you entered to a shirtless art on his bed. “was everything in there good for you?” “yeah, it all smelled really nice, good choices,” you stretched out on the bed beside him, feeling oddly at home. he rolled over, pulling you into a hug against his chest and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“you do smell really good,” he mumbled into your hair, and your heart fluttered at the tone in his voice. “thanks to you,” you said quietly. “we could watch a movie, but i could stay here like this all night instead,” “me too.” you tried to ignore the feeling in your chest, and between your thighs, at his proximity to you. “so, orientation tomorrow,” art whispered, “are you nervous?” “not nervous, no. something similar but not quite nervous. i’m sure you’re excited,” “nah, i got enough of pretentious students in high school. training is gonna get really rigorous once classes start. i’m not looking forward to that,”

“i’m sorry, that must suck having that commitment on top of school,” “i don’t mind too much, just less time to spend with you, which isn’t ideal,” “i was thinking about that when i was home. what are we doing? i mean, not to sound weird or anything i’m just unsure of of what exactly we are, and you’ll be so busy,” you rambled, feeling silly and slightly embarrassed, “i don’t want you to feel obligated, just because you kissed me.” “i don’t feel obligated, i like you. can’t you see that?” “i didn’t want to assume, i like you too, of course. it’s just really intimidating,”  “i know what you mean, trust me. i’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” “and what way would that be?” “like if i don’t see you courtside wearing my colors, i don’t see any point in competing anymore,” your face flushed, and you scooted even closer into his embrace.

 “if you’re really serious about this, i want this. even if you’re not, i think i’m too far gone,” you tell him honestly. he tilted your face up to his, his breath fanning over your cheeks, “i’m really serious about this, i promise. i’m all in,” “me too, art.” he closed the gap between the two of you, his lips crashing into yours with the pent up intensity of all the emotions he had just laid bare. his large hands cradled the side of your head, pulling you even closer, like he was desperate for you. he leaned over you, hands all over now, his lips gently tugging on your bottom lip. you moaned into his mouth softly, pulling the edge of his shirt up his back.

the sudden intensity had you writhing in anticipation underneath him. his shirt was off in one fluid motion, and yours soon followed. he pulled away, leaving you gasping for breath, and bit at your neck gently, surely leaving a small mark. “are you sure about this? i don’t want to move too fast,” he panted into your neck, and you noticed his hips rocking into yours, almost absentmindedly. “yes, i’m sure,” you whined, pulling his face back to yours. he stopped you before you could connect your mouth with his, shaking his head, “i need you to tell me you want it, baby. need to hear you say it,” your face flushed scarlet, “i want it, art, please. i want it so bad, wanted it ever since i saw you,” you pleaded. in an instant, his joggers were off, meeting your shorts in a heap on the floor. he sat back on his knees, taking in the sight of you in just your thin bra and panties. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, ghosting his mouth over your thighs, “so pretty.” you let out a quiet moan when he pressed a kiss to your clothed cunt, watching with lidded eyes as he kissed his way back up to your neck. he pulled you to his chest, unclasping your bra with shaky hands, and laid you back down gently. seconds later, his mouth was on one of your nipples, sucking and biting down lightly. you arched your back, tangling your fingers in his grown out hair and moaning out softly. “art, please,” you begged, squeezing your thighs together in an attempt to relieve some pressure.

“please what, baby?” his voice was low and rough as he pulled away from your chest, swiping his thumb over the now wet bud. “want you,” you whined, “please.” “want me where? want me to fuck you, hmm?” you nodded frantically. he looped his thumbs around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down teasingly slow. once they were pooled around your ankles, he pulled off his boxers, and you gasped at the sight of him. he crawled back above you, resting his arms on either side of your head. slowly, still teasing, he positioned his cock against your now dripping cunt, sliding against you. you chased his lips for a kiss, almost sighing in relief when you felt his mouth on yours once more. he slowly rutted his hips against you, kissing you with such a force you thought you might cum right there, just from the feeling of him. “art, please,” you pleaded, burying your face in his neck. “okay, baby,” he said softly, leaning back to take in the sight of you, begging for him, “are you sure you’re ready? is this your first? i just don’t want to hurt you,” you nodded, feeling a slight tinge of embarrassment, “yes, but i know i’m ready. i trust you, i’ll be okay,” you reassured him. that was all it took for him. he pulled your knees apart, his breath hissing as he tapped the head of his cock on your clit. your hips jerked, desperate for more of him. he held one of your hands, running his thumb across the back soothingly. he pushed inside of you slowly, your breath faltering at the feeling of him stretching you out. he stopped about halfway, looking at you with concerned brows, “are you okay, darling? i’ll stop if it’s too much,” you shook your head quickly,

“i’m okay, you can go all the way, please.” he leaned down to you, kissing you slowly and sliding the rest of the way into you. once he was all in, he stopped, pressing delicate, loving kisses to your jawline, “is that alright?” “yes, feels so good, art,” you whispered, “just fuck me, please, wanna make you feel good.” he stroked the side of your face, wiping away your stray tears from the pressure, and slowly pulled out of you, before fucking back into you with a force that took your breath away. his arms came behind your back, pulling you up to meet his chest as he fucked into you, all while leaving sloppy kisses and bites down your neck roughly. “fuck, art, you’re so big,” you cried, holding onto him tightly. “you’re just so fucking tight, baby, you feel so good, taking me so good,” he groaned, and you shivered at the feeling of his breath against your ear. his hands found their way to your clit, rubbing circles into you gently as his hips rocked back and forth quickly. “gonna cum,” you moaned out, digging your nails into his shoulderblades, “art, please, feels so good.” “come on baby, cum for me,” he encouraged, rubbing slightly harder and picking up the pace of his hips. he groaned loudly as he felt the contracting of your cunt around him, felt you shaking and moaning wildly as you came around his cock. “fuck, there you go, good girl,” he cursed, “gonna cum, jesus fucking christ you feel so good cumming around me,” he pulled out quickly, and you gasped at the thick, hot ropes of cum that landed across your thighs. he leaned back, catching his breath, rubbing your hip soothingly. “gonna get a towel and clean you up, baby, i’ll be right back,” he said quietly, standing up on shaky legs. he returned immediately, wiping your thighs with a warm washcloth, pressing kisses to your knees and hips as he worked. you could’ve dozed off just then, from the sheer comfort of art taking care of you, and the sheer exhaustion of what you just did. when he was done, he tossed the cloth into the floor and pulled his comforter around the two of you, his hands never fully leaving your body. “you did so good, love. i didn’t hurt you, did i?” “no, was amazing,” you reassured, your eyelids heavy. “good,” he smiled, “you can get some sleep, i know we have a big day tomorrow,” you cuddled closer to his chest, inhaling the fresh smell of sweat and sex and art. “mm, i guess so,” you said quietly, “goodnight, art,” “goodnight, baby.” 

it will come back - art donaldson

;; dark and obsessive art donaldson

cw; aggressive art, rough sexual content, drinking, manipulation, stalking??, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, kinda icky behavior??

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

than to smile at me, smile at me like that

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

than to hold me just, hold me just like that

things with art started off with a simple, well intentioned smile across the court. you were warming up, stretching your shoulders when you caught his eyes stuck on you, drinking in the tight tennis dress clinging to your skin. his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth, his gaze pin sharp and hair-raisingly intense. you had seen art before, at his matches or just around the court warming up. 

you weren’t nearly as well known, or competitive, as art. you weren’t even on the official team, you really only played as a hobby and as an excuse to get out of studying constantly. it seemed, to you, that his entire being revolved around tennis. if you saw him, it was typically on the court, or just leaving it. he always had his tennis bag slumped over his shoulder, his name ever-present like a brand. 

you brushed off his stare, trying your best to push it from your mind and continue your stretches. you were only able to relax when you saw him headed for the gate, following after his coach. your breathing calmed, and you turned to one of the other girls, gesturing to the net. “wanna hit with me? you asked her, “i only have half an hour.” she nodded, walking over to her side of the court. art’s stare was still at the forefront of your mind by the end of your 30 minutes. 

after you showered off the sweat from your practice, you headed to the library, hoping to cram in some last minute studying before your biology exam. you claimed your table, spreading out your books and walking to the vending machine in search of a red bull. 

when you returned, you were surprised, and unnerved, to see art donaldson himself seated at your table, your notebook open in front of him. “hey, uh, that’s my stuff,” you said awkwardly. his head snapped up, those blue eyes landing on you once again, “yeah, i know. sorry, shoulda asked first, i just needed the notes for bio.” his voice was confident and smooth, like he hadn’t at all been invading your privacy. “oh, didn’t know you had that class. well, i’d love to help out but i kinda need to study, so..” you trailed off, hoping he’d take the hint. “oh, no problem,” he smiled, standing up quickly, “see you around.”

you went back to your studying, but couldn’t shake the feeling of confusion finding art with your notes. you knew for a fact he was not in your class, which was only held once a week, when you knew he was more than likely practicing. you tried, and once again failed, to the push the thought from your mind. you told yourself there was no reason for him to lie, he could have just transferred into the class for an extra credit,  and went on with your reading. 

sure enough, as your bio professor handed out forms for the exam, art was nowhere to be found. you leaned to the boy on your right, your voice barely a whisper, “hey, is art donaldson in this class? i could’ve sworn he told me he was,” “nah, don’t think so. i’ve never seen him, anyway.” you nodded, going back to your own paper, mind a million miles away. 

after your exam, you went to the dining hall, hoping to enjoy a quick snack  between classes. you saw him  before he saw you, this time, and found yourself admiring the fluidity of his movement, the ease of his posture as he talked to one of the other boys you saw him with frequently. you felt crazy for ever thinking anything was off about him reading your notes. he probably took the class privately, considering his insane schedule. a few moments passed, with you continuing to watch him, and finally his eyes met yours, catching you. you smiled shyly, going back to your salad and scolding yourself for staring. 

you saw his bright white nikes from your peripheral vision, just at the edge of your table. “hey, i just wanted to say sorry for stealing your notes like that,” he said lightly, “i’m in molecular bio lab, i thought you were too. just got confused,” “oh, it’s okay! no big deal,” you replied, feeling silly for not thinking of that before. “alright, cool. hey, while i’m over here, you play, don’t you?” “what, tennis?” he nodded, taking a bite of his apple. 

your breath faltered slightly as you watched the juice drip down his chin, entranced as he licked it off his bottom lip. “uh, yeah, i do,” you stammered, “not super well, i just play for fun mostly. why?” “to be honest, i need a hitter that’s not gonna scream at me about precision,” he laughed, “love my coach, but he’s intense, and sometimes i just need to let off some steam.” “oh, i get that. i could ask around for you!” you smiled. “oh, i was wondering if you’d be interested? it’d be nice to hit with someone who’s not super competitive, and i’ve seen you play. you’re good,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “if you have time, i mean.” “oh, yeah, that would be fun! i’m really only free in the afternoons, my last class is out by six everyday,” you tried not to let your confusion show in your voice or on your face. “cool, works for me,” he said, “i could meet you at the west court tomorrow at six thirty? it’s a little more secluded so you won’t have to worry about people critiquing or anything.” “yeah, sounds good to me, i’ll be there,” you smiled. 

on your walk  back to your dorm, you ran over the conversation in your mind, examining every sentence for any deeper meaning. what would art donaldson possibly want to do with you? sure, you were fine at tennis, but you weren’t a pro by any means. you told yourself he was right, he needed someone less intense, less competitive. you were ideal for that, considering you weren’t in a position of power, or a threat, to him. 

your classes went by quickly the next day, and by six you were ready to be on the court, to see if art was genuine with his intentions. you changed into a tank top and shorts, grabbing your racket bag and jogging to the west court. you stopped yourself from entering when you laid your eyes on him. he was shirtless, back muscles flexing as he stretched his arms above his head. he bent down, touching his toes, and you watched as his toned legs flexed along with his back and arms. you could’ve stood there all night, dumb look on your face and blush across your cheeks, until your footing slipped and you stepped on a stray branch. he stilled, turning to look at you slowly, and it struck you how much he looked like a predator stalking their prey in that moment. “well don’t just stand there,” he called, a smug grin on his face. you blushed darker, embarrassed of being caught, and entered the gate. “sorry, i was just making sure it was you before i came in,” you explained, knowing he could probably see through your lie. “oh, no problem,” he reassured, “you all stretched?”  you nodded, though you hadn’t stretched, but too aware of how tight your outfit truly was to stretch in front of him, “did you just want me to hit it back? or did you want like a match?” “we can just hit for now, let you get comfortable,” he said. you nodded again, heading to your side of the net and grabbing a tube of balls. “ready?” he called over the net, racket already in his position. “ready!”

you weren’t ready for the sheer speed of art’s serve, of the way he grunted slightly when the ball left his racket, the way his muscles visibly rippled with the impact of the hit. you just barely managed to hit it back, having to jump slightly to reach the ball, and felt a sense of accomplishment watching it fly back over the net. he looked like an entirely different person than the boy you’d seen in the dining hall the day prior. before, he was all easy, fluid movement, smooth words and lazy grins. now, he was rigid, hard lines, his light eyes set with a determination you had never seen in yourself. you wondered if he forgot who he was playing, forgot that he wasn’t in the french open he had won the year before. 

art was always intense like this, it was the only time he could be himself. he could be as aggressive, as loud, as he needed to be. he could let go, not having to pretend to be polite and easygoing any longer. people asked him frequently, if he felt the pressure to perform, and he wanted to tell them he felt more pressure to perform in a basic conversation than he ever had while playing tennis. until he met you, that is. talking to you came as easily to art as swinging a racket, and that was when he knew you were both in trouble. 

i know who I am when i’m alone

i’m something else when i see you

you don't understand, you should never know  

how easy you are to need

your little practices with art continued for three weeks, with you meeting him at the west court every other day at six thirty pm. you slowly began to look forward to them, and by the fourth week, you were desperate to get out of your last class each day. so desperate, really, that you texted art at four oclock, asking him if he’d want to meet you earlier. you emailed your professor, telling him that you’d come down with a migraine and you’d have to make up any notes next week, and went up to your dorm to wait on art. thirty minutes went by, and you hadn’t heard from him, so you went to change into your tennis skirt and brush your hair up into a ponytail. a knock on your door interrupted you, and you hesitantly opened it, not expecting anyone. art stood in the hallway, racket bag over his shoulder and disheveled hair. 

“hey, sorry i came as soon as i saw your text. sorry, i fell asleep after my match,” he said, and you took in his full appearance. his eyes were still hazy, and he had slight creases on his cheek from his pillow. you couldn’t help but think what a beautiful sight it must be to wake up next to him. “oh, you didn’t have to do that, i just got out of my last class and didn’t have anything else to do,” you said, attempting to downplay your desperation. “well we can go down to the court now, here i’ll carry your bag,” he smiled, and you reluctantly passed him your pink racket bag. “let’s go then,” 

the walk to the court was oddly quiet, with art seeming to be in a bad mood and you not wanting to speak up and irritate him farther. once on the court, as always, he seemed to transform. his hits were much more aggressive than usual, his typical quiet grunts turning into full on groans as he served. you noticed how tense he looked, almost uncomfortable, and after half an hour you dropped your racket. “what’s going on, art?” you asked him, approaching the net. “nothing,” he said dismissively, serving another ball just to send it flying against the fence. “i can tell something’s up, you can talk to me,” you said, tilting your head up at him. you weren’t used to this side of him, so short and borderline angry. “i said i’m fine, do you want to play fucking tennis or not?” he snapped, and your eyes teared up in shock. “i guess not,” you snapped back, picking up your racket and rushing off the court, “i was just trying to be nice.” 

you made it halfway back to your dorm before you heard art calling after you, his tone pleading even from a yard away. “please wait, i’m sorry,” he called, and you heard his steps bounding up to you. you kept walking, desperate to be back in the comfort of your bed, and felt his fingers circle around your wrist, pulling you to a stop. “i don’t want to talk about it, art. just don’t worry about it, i’ll see you around,” you said, your tone clipped. “i am worried about it, i want to apologize. i shouldn’t have snapped, you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m just really stressed out and i shouldn’t have taken that out on you. will i still see you tomorrow?” he rushed out, looking at you intently. “it’s fine, seriously. i get it, i know you’re stretched really thin. we don’t have to do this anymore, i’m sure you get more than enough hitting practice with your coach and in your matches. thank you for the experience, though,” you said, turning away from him once again. “you can’t just blow me off,” he said, his rough tone from earlier creeping back, “i’m trying to apologize, not cancel our practices. if that’s what you want, then fine, but don’t blame it on me.” 

you walked away quickly, ashamed at the tears now slowly rolling down your face from the confrontation. you didn’t want to call off your practices, but you also didn’t want to become his verbal punching bag because he was exhausted. he didn’t come after you this time, and you felt more hurt than relieved. your tears kept coming, even after you reached your dorm room. you were so upset, you never even stopped to wonder how art knew which dorm was yours. 

three days passed, and you didn’t hear from him at all. it took almost all of your self control not to send him a text, or stop by one of his matches, but you held yourself back. on day four, there were flowers outside of your door. you rolled your eyes, squatting down to read the attached note. ‘west court, six thirty. art.’ you opened your door, placing the bouquet on your desk and throwing yourself onto your bed. your mind raced, debating if you should meet him or not, wondering what he would possibly have to say. you felt completely out of control as you changed into your tennis dress from that very first day you saw him, grabbing your racket and locking up your dorm. 

you walked onto the court at six thirty on the dot, with no art in sight. you sighed, sitting on the cold pavement and stretching your legs. ten minutes went by, then twenty, no art. at seven, you rolled your eyes and left the court, pulling out your phone to text him. ‘really nice, art. thanks for the flowers.’ you sent it, turning off your ringer and going back to your dorm, wanting the day to be over. you showered, changing into your pajamas, when you noticed your top drawer was open.  you knitted your eyebrows, sorting through the drawer, but not noticing anything missing. you told yourself you just left it open, and put on a movie on your small tv before going to sleep. 

the next morning, you woke up to a text from art. ‘i’m so sorry, i meant to come but got caught up in one of my classes. can i make it up to you?’ you ignored it, going about your morning routine and turning your phone off once you got to your literature class. when you exited, someone grabbed your wrist, yanking you out of the door frame. you gasped, your heart rate spiking, but immediately relaxed when you saw his familiar head of blonde curls. “what the hell, art? scared me to death,” you scolded, putting your hand on your chest. “you didn’t reply to my text, i just wanted to see you,” he said softly, rubbing your wrist where he had grabbed you, “did you like the flowers?” “would’ve liked seeing you more, but yeah, they were pretty. what’s going on with you? you’re acting so weird,” “i told you, i’ve just been stressed out. do you wanna get dinner or something? i feel like we’ve spent all this time together and we barely talk,” your eyes softened, and you nodded, “yeah, i’d like that. don’t stand me up this time,” “i’m not, promise. i can pick you up at seven?” “what should i wear?” “i’ll have something sent up to your dorm. see you at seven,” he said, and left you standing dumbfounded in the crowded hallway. 

at six, you climbed the stairs to your room once again, this time finding a department store garment bag hung over your doorknob. you blushed to yourself, taking it off the knob and entering your room. art had sent you a beautiful dark red dress, a silver necklace hung around the neckline to pair with it. your face reddened even more, your mind going to how much money he must have spent on this. as you pulled the dress from the bag, you saw a small note tied to the hanger. ‘you’re gonna look gorgeous. art’ you giggled to yourself, feeling like a high schooler giddy in love, and held the dress up to your body. he had somehow picked your perfect size, and only after looking in the mirror did you recognize the signature stanford color. 

you quickly straightened your hair, putting on the new dress and digging into your closet for shoes to pair it with. you sighed loudly when you came up empty handed, pacing around the room barefoot, unsure of what to do. you heard a knock on your door and ran your hair through your hair anxiously as you went to answer it. art stood in the hall once again, this time in a white button down and pressed black dress pants. your breath caught in your throat, all thoughts of your shoes gone as you took in the way he filled out the thin white shirt. “i realized i forgot shoes, and i had some time to kill so i hope these are alright,” he said, holding out a black shoebox. “oh, thank you so much. i was just thinking i didn’t have any wear,” you breathed a sigh of relief, moving back to hold your door open, “you can come in, i’ll just put these on and be ready.” he nodded, his eyes darting all around your room as he entered. you sat on the edge of your bed, leaning over to open the box. your breath faltered once again as you saw the gorgeous black heels. “these are beautiful, art. thank you,” you said, taking them out carefully. you slid one on, fumbling with the clasp. “do you mind helping? sorry, i can’t get the clasp with my nails,” you said, blushing slightly. he shot up from his seat, nodding, “yeah, here,” 

he kneeled in front of you, taking your calf into his hands gently and clasping the shoe with ease. he gently took your other foot into his hands, his thumb rubbing circles on your ankle as he slid your foot into the heel. you could feel your pulse all through your body, heart racing at the simple feeling of his gentle hands on your legs. “hey, how’d you know what size to get me?” you asked suddenly, realizing you hadn’t thought of it before. his face reddened just barely, and he said, “oh, i must’ve just noticed when you were stretching or something. i probably just guessed.” you nodded, still questioning it in your mind but not pushing it further. you closed your eyes in pleasure as he ran his hand up your calf, before standing up and holding the same hand out for you. “shall we?” 

he took you to a dimly lit, obviously expensive italian restaurant just off campus. “this is beautiful, i’ve never been here,” you said, in awe of the detailing on the walls and the subtle beauty of the design. “i’ve been once, with my parents when they were in town for a match. it’s pretty nice, nice wine selection,” he said, pulling out your chair for you. you thanked him, smoothing your dress down and sitting down. he took his seat across from you, immediately opening the drink menu, his eyes raking over the options. “do you have a preference?” he asked, peering at you over the menu. “no, i’m not much of a drinker so whatever you recommend is great,” you told him. the server came over, and you noticed how he instinctively turned toward art first, like he commanded all the attention in the room. “what wine would you like, mr. donaldson?” the server asked, and the realization struck you that art wasn’t just famous on campus, but more than likely all throughout the country. “we’ll do the 2005 pinot noir, thank you,” art replied, handing him the menu, “and you can just leave the bottle.” “perfect, i’ll be back shortly with that,” you smiled at art across the table, your eyebrows raised, “so, mr. donaldson,” you giggled. “yeah, unfortunately. nineteen years old and getting called mr. just because i won a few games,” he laughed, but you could see the tension underlying his laughter. “well, i think its cool. you’re a big deal,” you said reassuringly.

the waiter returned quickly with your wine, pouring you both glasses and asking art what you’d both like for your main course. “i’ll do the eight ounce wagyu with a caesar salad,” he replied, then nodded to you, “and she’ll have whatever she wants,” “oh, i’ll just have the ricotta ravioli, thank you so much,” the server nodded, heading to put your orders in, and art grinned at you. “you’re so polite, it’s endearing,” he said, his eyes gleaming. you blushed slightly, “i was just raised that way,” you said. “tell me more about how you were raised, i wanna hear all of it,” 

there was not a quiet moment the entire evening. you talked all about your life, growing up in the south, while art told you all about his busy upbringing in palo alto. his life was all tennis lessons, private school and flashy cars, something you were not accustomed to. you found yourself wishing you could have known him when you were both young, before the world had shaped him into the hardened version of himself he was now. he seemed calmer through dinner, like you could see the tension melting from his body with every laugh that left your lips, or every brush of your hand against his over the table. 

with all your talking, you didn’t notice his one glass of wine to your four, didn’t notice how his jokes started to get much, much funnier, how the touch of his hand started to feel almost euphoric. when he said it was time for him to get you home, you protested, telling him he couldn’t drive yet. “oh, i’m alright,” he assured you, “i had one glass before our meal even came, i promise i’m fine to drive,” you pouted your lips, confused why he had stopped but let you keep downing glass after glass. a slight pang of anxiety formed in your chest at the thought that maybe it had been intentional, but you quickly pushed it away, telling yourself that art wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, or make you uncomfortable. 

the drive home was full of laughs and his hand was on your thigh, rubbing small circular motions. you sighed, leaning your head back against the seat. “tonight was really fun, art. thank you again, for the dress and the shoes and everything,” you said sweetly, adoration in your eyes as you watched his skilled hands around the steering wheel. “of course, it was my pleasure,” he said, glancing over at you. the streetlights made his blonde hair look like a halo. “we should do it again,” you said. “yeah, absolutely. whenever you want,” he smiled, “i’d love that.” 

he walked you up to your dorm, holding onto your arm the whole way to keep you steady. “i think i’m a little drunk,” you finally admitted, halfway up the stairs. “yeah, i can tell,” he said, grinning down at you, “you gonna be alright in here alone?” “oh, yeah, i should be fine. you could stay for a little, if you wanted,” you said, focusing your eyes on his lips as his grin widened. “oh, i don’t know if that’s a good idea tonight,” he said, “but next time, of course,” you pouted slightly, but nodded, agreeing. “well here’s your door,” he said, gesturing to the doorway, “do you want me to unlock it for you?” you nodded again, handing him your keys, watching as his fingers wrapped around the key and twisted the lock. “thank you, art,” you giggled, “thank you for the whole night. no one’s ever taken me to dinner before. not a boy, anyway.” “i find that hard to believe, but i’m glad i could be the first,” he smiled, pushing a stray curl from your face, “you should get some rest. goodnight, love,” he leaned down, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to your cheek, and he was gone before the warmth of it had time to fade. 

you woke up the next day, head pounding, dress still on. you smiled to yourself as you remembered the events of the night, trailing your fingertips across your cheek where art had kissed you. you got dressed for classes with a skip in your step, unable to wipe the giddy smile off your face all the way through the day. you didn’t have practice with art that evening, so the thought to surprise him popped into your head. 

you approached one of his tennis friends, michael, in the dining hall. “hey, sorry if this sounds weird, but do you know art’s dorm number? i had something to give him, and-” he cut you off, smirking. “yeah, it’s 38. second floor, third door on your right. knock yourself out,” he said. you blushed, thanking him quickly and leaving. the embarrassment of his presumption stunted your confidence in your actions, but you proceeded to his dorm anyway, sure that he’d want to see you. 

when you approached room 38, you hesitated to knock, questioning yourself once again on if this was right or not. as you stepped closer to the door, you heard quiet moaning, so faint it was barely noticeable. it was definitely a man, all breathy grunts, but you couldn’t tell if it was art for sure. you told yourself he must have a roommate, surely he didn’t have a girl in his room, surely he wouldn’t do that to you. your mind raced, until all thoughts were halted by the clear moan of your name through the door. your heart skipped, and you dug your teeth into your bottom lip, confusion clouding your thoughts. you should just leave, you thought, just go and never speak a word of this to him. but curiosity got the best of you, and suddenly you were knocking on his door, cheeks red and eyebrows furrowed.

you heard some clambering inside, before moments later, a sweat sheened, pink cheeked art opened the door. “jesus, what are you doing here? you scared me,” he said, and you took note of how breathless he was. “oh, i just wanted to say hi, since we didn’t have any practice today,” you said, “can i come in?” “yeah, of course, come on in,” he said, quickly recovering his face and smiling down at you. you entered his room, taking in the tennis posters covering the walls, the dark comforter on the twin size bed. it was clean, cleaner than you’d expect a male dorm room to be, but smelled distinctly of art. “this is cozy,” you complimented. “it’s alright, about as good as one of these shitty dorms can be. i’m just waiting for my sophomore year so i can live off campus,” he said, shrugging, “i like yours much more. here, you can sit anywhere.” you sat on the corner of his bed, not wanting to make yourself too comfortable, “so, were you busy when i came? i’m sorry if it was a bad time,” you could’ve sworn his face reddened, but he quickly recovered, insisting that he hadn’t been busy at all. “did you want to do something? or were you just saying hello?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “just saying hello. i need to get home, i have a seven am lecture. i’ll see you at six thirty tomorrow?” you confirmed. “yeah, of course. i’ll see you then,” he smiled, and you gave the room one last scan before heading for the door. “well, goodnight art,” you smiled, walking out into the hallway. you couldn’t shake the feeling that the light pink panties shoved just under his bedframe had been yours.

two hours later, you were laying in bed, unable to sleep. all you could think about was what you had clearly seen in art’s floor hours prior, and your mind raced with the possibility that they were yours. he could’ve snagged them when he came in to give you your shoes, but you couldn’t understand why he would possibly do that. your imagination ran wild, filthy images of your panties wrapped around his cock, the sound of him groaning out your name as he fucked into fist, his cum all over the pink fabric. your thighs squeezed together, hot tension building between them. you wondered what it would feel like for him to touch you, for those long, skilled fingers to work their way into your core, to make you fall apart for him. you wondered if the sounds he made during tennis were anywhere near as alluring as the sounds he’d make while he fucked your throat. you couldn’t ignore the burning, intense desire anymore, and slipped your hands into your pajama shorts. you tried your hardest to suppress your moans as you circled your fingers around your clit, thinking about art, about his toned arms, his long fingers, his plush pink lips. how good it would feel to have those lips wrapped around your clit instead of your fingers, how beautiful he’d look pumping you full of his cum. you came quickly, art’s name shamelessly tumbling from your lips as you bucked your hips to meet your own hand. you fell asleep thinking of him holding you. 

don't let me in with no intention to keep me

jesus christ, don't be kind to me

honey, don't feed me, i will come back

the next day, you went to your classes, trying your best  not to let art completely consume your thoughts. hot shame burned the forefront of your mind from what you’d done, the things you’d thought about him. part of you was worried from the intensity, the suddenness of your closeness and attraction to art. part of you wondered if you should end things before they got to be too much. you weren’t used to this, to this all consuming need for another person. you told yourself this wasn’t like you, touching yourself to the thought of a man you’d only been on one date with. and you worried about why, and how, art had your things in his room. you were ashamed at how hot you’d found it, now acutely aware of how dangerous it could be, a man being that interested in you that he would stoop to stealing your panties from your room, to moaning your name behind closed doors. most of all, you were ashamed of how you didn’t care, how you wanted to fall into whatever this was with art, how you’d let him do whatever he wanted with you. 

at six thirty, you entered the court you’d become all too familiar with. art was serving to the fence again, beads of sweat already rolling off his back. “how long have you been out here?” you called, smiling when he turned to face you. “not too long, got bored waiting on you to get out of class,” he replied, crossing the court to stand before you, “maybe we could do something else, instead of practicing. i’ve worn myself out,” you found this hard to believe, but didn’t protest. “like what?” “whatever you want, we could go to dinner or see a movie or you could come to my room. whatever sounds best to you,” he said, already putting away his racket. “maybe we could go for a walk? if you’re not too tired, of course. i’ve been cooped up in classrooms all day,” “yeah, of course. a walk sounds great,” 

the two of you walked all around campus, talking about your days and how exhausted you both were. “i don’t know how i’ve never asked you this, but are you staying off campus next year too?” he asked you suddenly. “uh, no,” you said honestly, “i can’t really afford to move out of the dorms, to be honest. i’ve got my tuition and housing covered, and i really don’t mind the dorms, they’re comfy,” “you could always stay with me,” he said, and you stopped in your tracks. “i actually wanted to talk to you about that, well something like that,” you said, your anxiety almost tripping up your words, “do you think maybe we’re, well whatever we’re doing, is moving a little fast? i know we were practicing together for a while, but we’ve only just started really talking, and i’m just not used to this kind of thing,” his expression hardened quickly, his eyes darting everywhere but you. “yeah, that’s fine, it’s not really a big deal to me,” he said dismissively, “i was just being nice.” “oh, yeah of course. i feel silly now,” you rambled, laughing awkwardly, “it’s just, you know the date was really lovely and i’d love to do it again, but i didn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” “and what idea would that be, specifically?” “just, y’know, didn’t want us to get ahead of ourselves. didn’t want you to get the idea that it was more than it was or anything,” “and what is it exactly?” “oh, i don’t know. we’re friends, and i really like you, and i like getting to know you-” he cut you off, his jaw tight, “friends? that’s what you think we are? friends?” 

your brows furrowed, confused, “well yeah, i thought we were friends. are we not friends?” “i didn’t know that’s all this was, no. but that’s fine, if that’s what you want,” he backed away from you slowly, looking like he had the night he yelled at you. “art, wait, i didn’t mean-” “no, i get it completely. i’ll see you in a couple days, yeah? have a good night,” “wait, don’t go,” you protested, but he was already quickly walking away from you. you tried to ignore the irony in your position, how you had left him standing there in your previous fight. you tried to ignore the flashes of pain in his eyes when you said you were friends, the look of betrayal across his face. you focused on coming up with a plan to make it up to him, as he had with you, and this occupied your mind your entire walk home. 

art spent the next few days miserable, throwing rackets during matches, snapping at his coaches, straining his muscles to the point that he spent each afternoon with the team’s physical therapist. he couldn’t believe the audacity, the stupidity of you to say you were just friends. you had to have known, had to have felt the intensity in his feelings for you. he told himself you didn’t mean it, but each time he pictured the certainty on your face, his anger made his concern for your feelings on the situation dissolve entirely. it was like you did it on purpose, talking to him so sweetly on your date, showing up at his fucking dorm, just to claim you were friends. friends didn’t touch themselves to the thought of the other, didn’t moan friends names as they came, alone in their dorm room. granted, you didn’t know that he had seen, didn’t know that he had almost came at the high pitched moans you let out. he was sure, now, that he’d never get to hear them for himself. 

a week after your fight, you worked up the courage to send art a text. ‘hey, miss you. i’ve been trying to plan some grand gesture, but they all feel wrong after the date you planned. meet me at the court tonight? we can talk, or we can play. whatever you want, just come please,’ you sent it, biting your lip with anxiety awaiting his response. 

it can't be unlearned

i’ve known the warmth of your doorways

through the cold, i'll find my way back to you

oh, please, give me mercy no more

that's a kindness you can't afford

i warn you, baby, each night, as sure as you're born

you'll hear me howling outside your door

he responded to your text an hour later, a simple, ‘i’ll be there,’ but it was good enough for you. you once again put on the tennis dress you’d worn the first time art had noticed you, putting your hair into a neat ponytail and lacing up your nikes. at six thirty, you waited anxiously for his arrival, reapplying your chapstick to busy your hands. he walked in, a careless, lazy expression on his face, but you could see the squareness of his shoulders, the hardness of his jaw. “thank you for coming,” you said, your voice timid. “of course i came,” he said, his voice as tense as his muscles. “i thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see me, after what i said. i need to apologize, i don’t think we’re just friends, i just didn’t know what else to say. i don’t know what this is, but i really like you, and it scares me,” you rambled, your face hot. he quickly crossed the distance between you, his gaze intense. “and?” he bit out. “and what? and i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, art. i don’t want to just be your friend, i never wanted that. it’s just, you make me feel all these things so strongly and it really is scary-”

 “you don’t think it’s scary for me? all my life, i’ve only been good at tennis, at shutting the fuck up and playing the game, and that was fine with me. i didn’t care about having a fucking girlfriend, didn’t need real friends, didn’t want to spend my time hearing someone else tell me their bullshit problems, nothing. i just played the fucking game, minded my business, if i needed to get off i’d fuck some randmon fan, i didn’t care. and then i saw you, and fuck, you’re just so pretty, and you looked so oblivious, so fucking sweet. i just had to have you. do you know how that felt? all my fucking thoughts, everything, just you. i waited, i was so good and i waited but then i had you, right on the tips of my fucking fingers i had you. then you look me in my face and tell me we’re just friends? fuck that, i’m not your fucking friend. i have sat by and been patient and i’ve kept it to myself but i won’t wait anymore, i won’t fucking do it. i need you, goddamn it, i think about it all the fucking time,” 

before you could say anything, he tilted your jaw up to face him roughly, crashing his lips into yours. you were taken back by the force, your feet stumbling slightly, but his hand on your low back righted your posture. the kiss was rough, teeth clashing and his tongue searching desperately for yours. you moaned into the kiss as he sank his teeth into your bottom lip, the taste of your blood filling both of your mouths. he pulled away, his bloody lips kissing down your neck, biting roughly as you just gasped above him. his hand held your jaw still, his thumb digging into your pulse point, choking you slightly. “you don’t know how long i’ve waited for this,” he growled, kissing back up to the shell of your ear. he raked his teeth over the sensitive skin, his breath echoing in your eardrum, “wanted to fucking bruise you and bite you and make you cry for me.” he pulled away from you suddenly, pulling you over to the edge of the court, right against the fence. “art, wait,” you protested weakly, your hands coming to his chest.

“i’m done fucking waiting,” he snarled, his hands roughly grabbing your ass, “not gonna wait anymore. gonna make you all mine, see if you ever try that friends shit again. if you don’t want this, you tell me to stop,” his fingers came between your thighs, pressing into your cunt through your dress, “but i don’t believe you want me to stop, i can feel you through your slutty little dress.” you moaned as his fingers curled against you, grinding your hips into his hand desperately. he turned you around suddenly, your face pressed against the chain link of the fence. the cold air surprised you as he flipped the skirt of your dress over your ass, yanking your panties to the side. “we can’t do this here,” you protested, trying to straighten out your back, “someone will see.” “why do you think i always bring you here, baby? nobody’s gonna see a fucking thing,” he said, his tone smug, “nobody’s gonna hear you moaning under me, hear you cumming on my cock. we’re all alone out here.” 

you gasped loudly as he kneeled beneath you, his tongue sliding between the folds of your pussy. your legs immediately began to shake, your knees nearly buckling. his tongue slid inside of you, fucking you with the tip of it as his fingers came around to rub at your clit. “art, fuck, please,” you moaned, grinding against his face roughly. he pulled away, his fingers continuing their motions, “please what? you want me to fuck you against this fence like the fucking whore you are, hm? is that you want?” when you just moaned in response, his free hand smacked your ass roughly, digging his nails into the sensitive skin, “fucking answer me.” “yes, please, want you to fuck me so bad, i’m sorry just please,” you begged, your voice nearly breaking into a sob. he was behind you in an instant, his clothed hips rubbing against you, his breath on your neck. “gonna fuck you so hard, you’re gonna forget why you ever told me we’re just friends,” he said, biting down on your neck roughly. you knew you’d have marks the next day, could feel blood bubbling to the surface of your barely broken skin. 

his joggers came down, and your breath hissed as he teased your entrance, rubbing his cock between your folds teasingly. “tell me again you want me to fuck you,” he spat, gripping your hip with one hand. “need you to fuck me, art, please,” you pleaded, trying your hardest to rub your hips against him, gain some friction. without warning, he slid into you, both hands on your hips roughly now. “fuck, oh my god,” you all but screamed, hands clinging to the chain link desperately. he fucked into you at a vicious pace, one hand on your hip, one underneath your stomach holding up. “you look so fucking pretty taking my cock,” he groaned, leaning over to you to press hasty kisses down your back, “feel so fucking good,” “feels so good, thank you,” you moaned, near tears from the intense pleasure. “thought about this for so long, you have no idea what i’ve done, what i’ll do to you if you ever try to leave me,” he growled, his thrusts getting even rougher. his balls slapped against your clit, the added stimulation sending you even closer to the edge. “want you to cum on my dick and fucking suck it off,” he moaned,  and you could tell from the stutter of his hips he was close too. he changed his position, fucking into you faster, and you nearly screamed at the new sensation. “art, gonna cum, fuck,” you moaned out, your walls constricting around him tightly. his hand came down to your clit, rubbing harshly, desperately, and you let go. 

your orgasm hit you roughly, crying out and your knees giving way completely. he fucked you through it, holding back his own orgasm until he was sure you were through. when the spasms around him slowed, he pulled out of you roughly, forcing you to your knees in front of him. “open your fucking mouth,” he moaned, holding your jaw tightly. you opened for him, sticking your tongue out as far as you could manage, and he slid his cock into your mouth, groaning loudly as he did. you could’ve cum again just from the taste of you and him, all mixed together, a filthy reminder of what you’d just done. he fucked into your mouth roughly, hands holding your ponytail tightly. “gonna cum down your throat,” he moaned, his hips stuttering once again, “so fucking close, you’re doing so good,” as soon as you cast your eyes up to make contact with his beautiful blue ones, he lost it. he came straight down your throat, hips bucking wildly and profanities flying from his mouth. you swallowed as it came, and his hips slowed eventually, until he pulled out of your mouth entirely. “did so fucking good,” he panted, pulling you to your feet, “kiss me,” and you did, your mouth still tasting of his cum. he groaned into the kiss, his hand going to your hair once again. 

you pulled away to catch your breath, leaning your forehead against his chin. “that was so good, baby. are you okay?” he asked you, his voice softer than you’d heard it in days. you nodded, still catching your breath, and he tilted your chin up to face him. “don’t ever do that again, okay? don’t want you to ever question what we have. you’re all mine, and i’m all yours, and nothing else matters, yeah? isn’t that right?” “mhm, you’re right. i’m sorry again, art, didn’t mean it,” you said, resigned to anything but him in this moment. “it’s alright now, baby. you know better now,” 

he had you right where he wanted you.

twilight - art donaldson

;; tashi always had everything, including art. 

cw; infidelity, emotional abuse, sexual content, lots of angst, mentions of suicide, injury, tashi is evil hehe

word count; 9.1k

stanford, 2007    -

“did patrick tell you he’s coming to my match next week?” 

your voice pulled art out of his thoughts, bringing him back to your lunch together. 

it had been this way for weeks now. same exact spot, same conversation, but nothing ever changes. art still found himself waiting, searching desperately for a change, just a slight break in the usual conversation, the usual emotions. the same jealousy rose within him at your every mention of patrick zweig. the two of them had been inseparable since childhood, though an invisible string of competition had always run through their friendship. competition over girls, over tennis, over grades. 

girls had always favored patrick, with his cocky grins and unpredictable attitude. art wondered, bitterly, if he’d ever manage to make it out of patrick’s shadow. when they met you, six months prior, the shadow swallowed art whole, all your light shining on patrick. a bitter reminder of all the pent up resentment art had formed over the decade.

art brings himself back to the present, sighing at your question. he feels the pathetic, yearning look in his eyes as he focuses on you once again, feels how sad he must look. if the sports commentators could see him now; art donaldson, stanford star, crying over his best friend’s girlfriend. “no, he didn’t, but that’s great,” he says unenthusiastically, “i’m kinda surprised you two are still seeing each other,” he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, biting his lip forcefully. guilt bubbles in his stomach, but he forces it down, as always. relationships are like tennis, at times, he reminds himself. and art always plays to win. 

your brows furrow, your posture straightening defensively, “why are you surprised? i thought you’d be happy for us, art,” he almost laughs, but stops himself, picturing the hurt on your face if he did. he pauses, feeling like he’s backed himself into a corner, and finally says, “you know i want you to be happy,” “and what about patrick?” you ask, surprised at his hesitation to include his best friend. 

“patrick’s happy, i guess,” art says spitefully, hoping you can’t detect it in his voice, “he’s on tour, traveling the world, playing tennis, all things he loves. what more could he want?” “and he has me,” you say, hurt lacing your words at his lack of acknowledgement. the words strike him as if you had reached across the table and slapped him. 

“yeah, he has you,” he says, the bitterness impossible to ignore now, “i couldn’t forget that,” “art, what is going on with you?” you ask, leaning further towards him. he just stares blankly at you, unsure of how to even start. he flinches as you place your hand on his across the table, his heart rate increasing pathetically. your gentle, heartfelt touch snaps something inside of him. 

“you really want to know what’s wrong?” he asks, and you flinch in return at the harshness of his tone. “please,” “i’m jealous of patrick, okay? you got me, found out my big secret,” he snaps, taking an unsteady breath. his eye twitches as he looks at your hand laying over his, resentment like acid on his tongue. “jealous?” you ask, confusion lacing your voice, “of his touring? i thought you didn’t want to go pro until after school,” art scoffs, shaking his head, “i’m not jealous of the touring and you know that, come on,""of what then? i don’t get it,” you tell him, desperate to understand what’s bothering him.

“he has something i want, it’s nothing new,” he says, fighting to keep his voice calm, “i’ll grow up and get over it, you don’t have to worry about it,” “something you want?” you’re even more confused now, “what, art? you play, too, arguably better than he does. you have money, you have excellent grades, your girlfriend is fucking tashi duncan,” he can’t tell if he imagines the poision in your tone as you spit out her name. “yeah, i have all of that, so i’ll be fine,” he says, his breathing growing more erratic. “what is it, then? really, i just want to understand. i promise you i won’t tell patrick,” you assure him, your tone low. he studies your face, accepting this could be the last time he has you like this, all to himself. 

“it’s you, okay? it’s you, it’s been you,” he pushes up from the table, not sure if he’ll be able to control himself when he sees your reaction, whatever it may be, “and i’m so, so deeply sorry to tell you that. you have no idea how sorry i am,” your eyebrows pull together, your head clouded, “art, wait, sit down. you cannot be serious,” “i can’t sit here and listen to you tell me it’s a horrible thing to do, or i’m a horrible friend, or you don’t feel the same. i won’t subject myself to it. please, please don’t tell patrick,” he says, his jaw set, “he’d never look at me the same, and i can’t lose you both,” 

he stalks out of the dining hall, and you follow him like a lost puppy, trying your very best to hold in tears. “art, stop,” you plead, catching up to him just outside, “does tashi know this?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re completely insane, “absolutely not. tashi would ruin my fucking career,” he laughs sadly, “there’s nothing to come of it, so i’m keeping my mouth shut,” “how long has it been?” you ask softly. “jesus, now you want details,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “it’s been six months,” he says, cringing at how pathetic he knows he sounds. “art, it’s been six months since we met,” “yeah, i know, alright? i might as well get it all out now. i knew when i saw you, i just could tell, you’re so,” he makes a sound like he’s being strangled quietly, “patrick wanted you, alright? he’s my best friend,” your chest tightens as his voice breaks, guilt and regret welling up into tears in your eyes. 

“i wish you’d told me,” you said softly, “i really, really wish i’d known,” “it wouldn’t have changed anything. you’re with patrick, i’m with tashi, i’ll grow out of it,” he insists, disregarding the pain obvious in his voice. “i won’t,” you all but whisper. “won’t what?” he asks, eyes finally meeting yours. “i won’t grow out of it, art,” you tell him, heart breaking all over again as his eyes open wider. “what are you saying?” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, “please, i can’t do this if you’re not serious,” “if you’d told me, i would have turned him down,” you admit, shame burning in your stomach, “you were always so set on tashi, i thought,” “i only asked tashi out because i couldn’t handle seeing patrick parading you around anymore,” he sighs, “i don’t love her, i respect her so much as a tennis player, as a friend, but i have never been in love with tashi,” 

“we can’t talk about this here,” you say, only now taking the time to notice the hoard of fellow students walking past you, “come to my room?” he glances at his watch, running his hands through his hair roughly when he sees the time, “i have training in fifteen minutes. tonight?” you nod, hope filling your thoughts, “tonight.” he hugs you tightly, hoping it appears as a friendly gesture to anyone around you, and you nearly sob as you feel his tears in your hair. “we’ll sort it all out tonight,” 

you waited for hours for art to show up, to make it all alright. by midnight, you’d given up, a hollow sort of pain forming in your chest at the realization that he probably regretted his admission. patrick would be arriving for your match in eight hours, and all you could do was cry over his best friend. you thought about texting him, asking if he just got caught up at practice, asking why he didn’t come to you. the fear of tashi seeing the message, of thinking you’d arranged something to hurt her, of her telling patrick and ruining their friendship, stopped you in your tracks. you were asleep by two am, and art’s knock on your door never came. 

the next day, you woke up to patrick’s rough knock on your door, disturbing you from your restless sleep. “coming,” you called, willing yourself not to cry at the sight of him, and opened the door slowly. he stood there, goofy grin on his face, duffel bag in his hand. “good morning, sleepyhead,” he said teasingly, entering your dorm, “guess who i saw this morning,” you rubbed your eyes, caught off guard by his sudden energy, “who?” “art! it was so funny, i pulled into the visitors lot and he was there, running laps,” your heart contracted, and you forced a casual smile onto your face, laughing halfheartedly, “you know how art likes to condition,” you just prayed it sounded natural. 

you prepared for your match, averting your eyes when you passed tashi on her walk to the men's locker room, undoubtedly to coach art on his game. ever since her injury, she was intensive in her treatment of him. she spent thirty minutes before the match hyping him up, reviewing strategy, scolding him. if he lost the match, he was met with hours of cold shoulders, berating, and complete neglect of his exhaustion. if he won, he was allowed a short reprieve, only to be met with reviewing what he could have hypothetically done better. you pitied him endlessly. 

you sat in the locker room for the entirety of the men’s matches, desperately trying to avoid art. when your set started, you stupidly looked into the crowd, hoping for your normal routine of waving to art, tashi, and patrick. you were met with an intense, judgemental stare from tashi, a brief thumbs up from patrick, and an earth shattering, pitiful gaze from art. you lost your first match of the season. 

after your match, you avoided them at all costs. you headed straight to the locker room, taking your time showering off and redressing, gathering all your things. after half an hour, tashi enters the room, stopping your breath instantly. “patrick sent me to see what was taking so long,” she says, and you’re taken back, like always, at the smooth confidence of her voice. “just taking my time getting everything together since i don’t have anymore matches this week,” you lie easily, swinging your bag over your shoulder, “i’ll be out in five,” she nods, starting out of the room, before turning back to eye you. “not everything is a game,” she says, her voice tighter than you’ve ever heard it. “i’m sorry?” you say, face flushed completely. she just shakes her head and leaves you alone with your thoughts.

you silently pray art and tashi have left, that you’ll only find patrick left in the stands when you exit the locker room, nearly sighing in relief when your prayers are answered. patrick sits alone, observing the next match that’s gone on, smiling as he sees you. “good match,” he praises, but you know it’s a total lie. “yeah, not good enough to win it,” you say bitterly, avoiding his hands when he reaches for you. “still, you played well. first lose of the season, i’ll take it,” he smiles, and your heart aches at his support, knowing you were confessing your love for art only one day prior. 

“art and tash are meeting us off campus for dinner,” he tells you. you stop in your tracks, turning to look at him with wide eyes, “patrick, i really don’t feel up to it,” he rolls his eyes, throwing his arm over your shoulder, “you’ll be fine, you’re just feeling bad because you lost. i’m only in town tonight, i’d like to see my friends and my girlfriend,” his use of the term makes you cringe, but you just nod, accepting it. 

your entire afternoon leading up to the dinner is spent filled with anxiety, trying to dodge patrick’s attempts at affection, and desperately trying to figure out what you’ll even say to art. at six pm, patrick tells you to hurry and get ready, irritating you even further. you put on a simple black dress, more concerned for your facial expressions than your outfit, and agree to meet the other couple at art’s car. 

patrick, almost immediately upon getting into the car, enters an irritatingly fast paced conversation with tashi about strategy, leaving you to sit awkwardly listening to their debate. it was like this, most times, when they really got going about tennis. it wasn’t that patrick was particularly passionate about strategy or rules, you swore he just enjoyed riling her up, and she enjoyed yelling at him without fear of having to deal with his emotions. it worked out perfectly, almost like they were the ones made for each other. 

at dinner, you try not to snap as art pulls out tashi’s chair, the perfect, sweet boyfriend. he sits across from you, avoiding your eyes, and tashi casts sideways glances at you, confusing you further. had you imagined it all? had art never announced his love for you, never promised to come to your room, to fix it all? you tell yourself you must have, the blatant lie easier to admit than the glaring truth. “baby, i was telling tash that i’m gonna be touring again next year,” patrick’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “and i was wondering if she’d coach me. that’s what this dinner was for, honestly,” you pause, turning towards him, “tashi coach you on tour? where did that come from?” you were genuinely shocked, neither of them had ever mentioned anything about this. 

“we’ve been texting about it,” she replied for him, fixing her cool eyes on you, “it would be a good move for patrick’s career. i’ll be taking over as his travel coach, effective in two months,” you subconsciously look at art, wondering how he’s taking this, only to find his gaze fixed on patrick, betrayal evident in his eyes. “pat, you said you were taking a break from touring,” you said, turning back to your boyfriend, “what happened to that?” “tash thinks it’s best for my career if i keep the momentum up, people lose interest if you take a year off,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “well art, are you excited to tour?” you ask, braving the dreaded moment of speaking to him directly. he looks up, startled, “i’m not touring, what do you mean?” “i figured since your girlfriend was going with patrick, you’d just leave school. wasn’t the plan always to go pro after college, anyway?” 

for the second time that night, tashi answered for the boys, almost challenging you with her glare, “art’s not ready to go pro. his footing needs work, as well as his serve. he’s winning against college kids, but that doesn’t mean anything in the real world,” “the real world? i’m sorry, tashi, did art not win the junior US open, same as patrick?”  you snap, feeling your face get hot. “patrick is showing more promise than art at this time,” she said, her calm, condescending tone furthering your anger. “last i checked, art’s stats are more consistent than patrick’s. you push art to his limits, and then punish him when he doesn’t perform,” “i don’t want to hear this shit from someone losing matches to a fucking freshman,” she seethes. “oh, whatever, tashi. i lost one fucking match. sorry we can’t all be the duncinator,” you scoff, standing from your chair with shaky legs, “fuck this, i’m calling a cab back to campus. patrick, i’ll put your bag in the hall,”

not one of them tries to stop you from leaving, no one chases you from the restaurant, no one even calls your name. your hands shake with anger as you dial a taxi, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk as you wait. your phone screen lights up, and your pulse rises even higher as art’s contact photo is displayed on the screen. “hello?” you answer, confused by his phone call. “i couldn’t come after you, i’m in the bathroom, i left them at the table,” he says quietly, his voice thin, “i didn’t know about the tour. i promise i would’ve told you,” “i waited for you all night,” you tell him weakly, trying to hold it together, “i don’t give a fuck about the tour, i don’t care what either of them do. i care about you, art, she’s so fucking mean to you,” “i’m so sorry i didn’t come. i can’t explain now, but i will, i promise. i have to go, please be safe,” and he hangs up before you could even say goodnight.

you’re restless when you get back to your dorm, too busy rolling over your brief phone call to sleep. 

it crossed your mind on the short taxi ride home that maybe there was something more going on with patrick and tashi, besides coaching. you wished, bitterly, that they’d fall in love on the tour, leave you and art alone, right all the wrongs made by the four of you. that was never tashi’s style, though, to fall in love with anything but tennis. least of all a man she couldn’t control. 

in the back of your mind, you thought of the pain on art’s face when he heard the news, and your anger only burned hotter. ten years of friendship, and patrick still didn’t have the consideration to tell art anything. your ever present resentment for tashi only grew. the things you would do for art, the way you’d be so good to him, completely wasted on her. eventually, you slept, another restless night taking you. 

you woke to three texts from patrick, ‘i thought you were kidding about putting my bag in the hall. what the fuck, babe?’ then, ‘you didn’t have to freak out about the tour, honestly. tash knows what she’s doing, and it’s being wasted on art, you know that.’, and finally, ‘we should talk in the morning. tash thinks you’re a distraction, with you acting like this about my career and all. just call me’. 

you seethe, almost laughing at the irony of the situation. surely she sees how ridiculous it is, to need to have this hold on both of them. ‘nothing to talk about, then. if your “coach” thinks i’m a distraction, you should probably get rid of me, yeah? she’ll make you do it eventually, anyway, when she gets bored of art completely. have fun on tour, zweig.’ you hit send before you can talk yourself out of it, before you find out that he extended his trip, that he’s downstairs in the dining hall reading your texts to art. 

you went downstairs, skipping breakfast and going straight for the court, your appetite diminished by your anger. it was seven am, and thankfully you had the court to yourself, serving practice shots into the fence in an attempt to channel your still climbing emotions. you thought again of art’s face, his stricken expression, of tashi’s calm, methodological expression. the taut wire in your mind snapped, and you threw your racket down roughly, nearly screaming with frustration. you sat there, sunk to your knees, your thought too loud to hear footsteps approaching on the pavement. 

“if you’d channel that into your game, you wouldn’t lose again,” tashi’s voice cut through the breeze, and you snapped your eyes up to meet hers. “what the fuck are you doing here, tashi? last night wasn’t enough?” “jesus, you’re dramatic. i saw you hitting to the fence, i brought my racket so i could get in some practice since you’re already down here. hate me too much to serve to me?” a terrible thought crossed your mind, the secret joy you’d get from serving to her when last you checked, she couldn’t even go after the ball, “sure, i’ll serve,” 

as it turns out, tashi had healed up much better than she was letting on. she was able to keep up with most of your swings, grunting quietly when she put too much weight on her leg, but keeping up nonetheless. it only fueled your anger, seeing her persevere like this, just to prove a point. you let your anger get the best of you, swinging particularly hard, subconsciously aiming for her knee, but she somehow managed to deflect it, hurling the ball back to you. you jumped for it, desperate to win now, so caught up in your intensity that your footing faltered. for the first time in your tennis career, you tripped over your own feet, falling from your jump directly onto your right wrist. 

you hit the ground with a startling snap, immediately screaming, feeling the delicate bones give way to the weight of your fall. you hear yourself screaming like it’s through someone else’s ears, not recognizing the carnal agony coming from your chest. “tashi,” you gasp, “please call someone, it’s broken,” you force your eyes open from their squeezed shut position, your vision spotty from pain, just to see her smug face, standing right over you. she smirks, even as she calls for the campus medic, even as you sob. 

she squats down, kneeling by your head, stroking your hair soothingly. her tone is cloyingly sweet, and she leans ever closer, “i saw you aim for my fucking leg. i told you, not everything’s a game,” she strokes your arm, her smirk widening slightly, “you can have art. i’ll be nice, since your career’s over,” in one quick, fluid motion, she presses all of her weight onto your broken wrist, pushing herself into a standing position. a guttural scream tears its way from your throat and your vision gets almost entirely white, “tashi, please,” you sob. she cuts you off, “the medics will be here in just a minute. get yourself together, you know how spectators like to flock when they see commotion,” 

you lay on the cold court, sobs racking your body as the emt asks you what happened, as they help you stand, as they slide you into a wheelchair, pushing you to the medical building. you think of the look in tashi’s eyes, in the pure hatred on her face. you cry for what she must have felt like when she suffered her own injury, for the loss of her career, her passion. you nearly scream for the loss of your own, your life’s work, over in one stumble. you’d never be able to play with your left hand, far too late in your life to teach yourself to be ambidextrous. you can do nothing but brace yourself for the x-rays, for the final say on your recovery time. 

the doctor on staff gives you a mild sedative to keep you calm, and soon you find yourself dozing off on the table as you wait for them to return with your imaging. a doctor comes in after a long, dragging hour, smiling softly at you. 

you stare at the manila folder he holds, almost laughing at this stranger holding your fate in his hands. “are you gonna tell me there’s good news and bad news?” you joke dryly, your throat raw from your prior screams. “i’m afraid there’s not much good news here,” he tells you, his tone gentle, “you shattered your radius, ulna, and completely tore your dorsal ligaments. we’re sending you out for surgery within the hour, at palo alto regional medicine. they’ll place two rods for your radius and ulna, you’ll get stitched up, and you’ll have a stint and brace for, ideally, six months,” your face falls at his words, “then what?” “well, i can’t say for sure. after six months, you should be able to return to low motion, gentle activities, like writing and brushing your hair. after a year, most patients see roughly half of their previous dexterity,” “and my tennis?” he looks at you, his eyes full of pity, “the full recovery rate for an injury this severe is less than twenty percent. with the intense, repeated motion of your sport, i don’t see you being able to make a full return. it’s just a question of your range of motion at the time of your recovery, and how well the rods and pins set in your wrist. if you exacerbate it, you run a high risk of doing much more damage in the  long run,” 

you lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. you think of the feeling when you won your first game, a juniors match when you were only six. you think of your first tennis coach, of your first trophy, of your first loss. you think of tashi’s screams when she broke her leg, of your own when she further broke your wrist. you think of the first time you saw art and patrick, fire and ice, of the way they played, the way art came alive on the court. you think, finally, of the way you’ll never feel alive, in that way, again. 

the doctor’s voice pulls you from your reverie, “there’s people here to see you, just outside. would you like me to invite them in?” “who?” you ask, voice weak. “art donaldson and a patrick zweig,” you just nod in response, figuring now is as good a time as any. “you’ll make a great recovery,” the doctor tells you, heading for the door, “i’ll be back within the hour to help move you to the ambulance. it’s outpatient, so be sure to have someone ready to drive you home,” 

he opens the door, and you suck in a breath as you hear both the boys’ voices. you close your eyes once again, unable to look at them, to see the inevitable pity they must have all over their faces. art is the first to your side, and you flinch as he places his hand on your leg gently, “are you okay? tashi told patrick what happened, got here as soon as i heard but they wouldn’t let us in,” he rushes out, your heart clenching with every crack in his voice. “dude, obviously she’s not okay, she broke her fucking wrist,” patrick’s voice startles you, your eyes snapping open, all the anger from the previous night rushing back. “get out,” you bite, glaring at him. his eyes haze over with confusion, “me?” “yes, patrick, get out,” you repeat, your teeth gritting subconsciously, “i thought you were already gone.” 

“i stayed to say bye to art, and to go over some things with tashi,” your breath falters at her name, “patrick, get the fuck out,” “i just wanted to check on you-” “patrick, she said get the fuck out!” art yells, his face red, surprising the both of you. patrick throws his hands up defensively, shaking his head, “whatever, i don’t need this,” 

you sigh with relief when he walks out the door, your body relaxing as much as you can manage. “what did the doctor say?” art asked timidly, eyes focused sharply on your contorted wrist. you haven’t been able to look at it, to survey the damage for yourself, this entire time. “i won’t play again,” you tell him, eyes straight ahead, “they’ll take me in for outpatient surgery, i’ll have a stint and brace for six months. there’s less than a twenty percent chance of full recovery,” “i’m so sorry,” he whispers, his tone so soft it hurts, “what happened? i’ve never seen you fall,” 

your mind raced, the events replaying rapidly, “i lost my footing on a lunge, it was my fault. me and tashi were just hitting casually, and i just missed it somehow,” “you and tashi? she told me she was just walking by and saw you,” your eyes snap to him, eyebrows raised, “she said that?” “yeah, said she went for a walk this morning and heard you scream and saw you. she said you were in the court alone?” “huh. well, okay,” you laugh bitterly, “whatever she says, then,” “did she do this?” “no, she didn’t fucking do this,” you snap, guilt immediately burning in your chest, “i did it to myself, she just happened to be there.” he nods, flinching only slightly at your tone, and trains his gaze on your wrist once again. “did you look?” he asks quietly. 

your face burns, eyes welling with tears, “no, can’t make myself,” “you’re gonna have to look eventually,” he said,  the hand he’d placed on your leg rubbing small circular motions now, as if to soothe you. you nod, knowing realistically he’s right. “can you go over there? i can’t look in front of you,” you admit, humiliation burning in your stomach. “yeah, of course,” he nods, crossing the room quickly. 

you hold your breath as you force your eyes down to your wrist, gasping as you take in just how mangled it is. your bones are visible, jutting out under your thin skin, and the inside of your palm is completely raw and skinned from the impact of your fall. “oh my god,” you sob, your chest heaving. art rushes back to your side, concern ever present in his face, “what? is the medication wearing off? what is it?” “it’s so ugly,” you sob, your uninjured hand clinging to his shirt, “it’s over, art, i’m never gonna play again,” his hands come down to your hair, running his hands through it soothingly, “it’s gonna be okay, i promise, even if you don’t play again, you’ll be alright,” 

the weight of the last three days collapses onto you, art’s confession, patrick’s betrayal, tashi’s smirk. the sound of your wrist snapping replays in your ears, and you bury your head into art’s shirt, desperately searching for an escape. your entire body shakes with the forcefulness of your cries, and you will it to stop, feeling pathetic enough as it is. you remember the shame you felt when art didn’t show up, the feeling of waiting for him, and almost laugh at how much worse this is. 

you pull away from his chest, looking up at him and wiping your tears roughly, “you never came,” you manage to choke out. he cringes at the memory, his eyes going to the floor instead of resting on your own. “i couldn’t,” he said quietly, “tashi found out, one of her friends overheard us arguing, she said if i left her, embarrassed her, she’d ruin both of our careers. i feel like such an idiot now, my career doesn’t fucking matter, i should’ve let her. she says i won’t make it without her as my coach, anyway, so her stunt with patrick was her way of getting back at me regardless. i thought i could buy us more time, make her see that i wasn’t happy, that this was the right thing. she just had me so convinced, she said she’d coach someone to compete against you,” you laugh angrily, your breath heaving, “even if she did, it wouldn’t have ruined my career. she forgets i beat her when she was still competing. art, you should’ve told me, i don’t care about that shit. she was going to leave with patrick anyway,” “i didn’t know that,” he said desperately, “i didn’t know until that dinner, i had no idea or i would’ve-” you cut him off, pressing your lips to his in a moment of frenzied weakness. 

you can taste your own tears on his lips, salt and heat and his mint gum, and a choked sob leaves you even as you kiss him. the realization that you’ve wasted six months, spent six months in love with him, six months settling, six months afraid of tashi. he pulls away from you, eyebrows knit, cheeks red, “please don’t kiss me to get over him,” you flinch, rejection slapping you in the face, confusion following, “get over him? art, i’m not, there’s nothing to get over,” “you broke up with him, he told me,” he said, his eyes welling up with tears now. “i broke up with him because i’m fucking in love with you, art,” you sob, “please don’t do this, don’t turn me away,” his hands come to the side of your face, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb as they fall, “i’m not turning you away, please don’t take it that way, i just need to be sure,” you press your lips to his again, rougher this time, trying desperately to make him understand. 

before he has the chance to pull away, the doctor re-enters the room, startling the two of you apart. “i’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, laughing briefly, “i’m just here to take you out to the ambulance, they’ll take you to the surgery center,” you nod, mentally preparing yourself as best you could. he looks to art, whose face is blushed fully, “you wanna ride with her? they’ll let one person in the back,” art looks at you, eyebrows raised. “i need someone to drive me home from the procedure,” you recall, “you might have to meet us there?” “i’ll call a taxi,” he said, shaking his head, “i’m not leaving you,” 

the doctor rolls you out to the ambulance, and you nearly cry again at the sight of it, at the hopelessness you feel. you sit in the back, art holding your good hand soothingly, the entire way to the surgical center. neither of you speak, except for art’s constant check ins, but you feel so much more soothed knowing he’s right here, that he didn’t leave. 

the surgery is fairly quick, the doctors expertly working to insert the rods and tightening the pins. you keep your eyes focused on a stain on the wall the entire time, trying your best to escape inside your mind, to anywhere but here. you think of how different everything would be now if you’d just told art how you felt, about your blossoming, childlike crush you’d developed, if you’d rejected patrick. you think again of tashi’s pain, of her devastating injury, of the parallels of your lives now. her words echo in your head, ‘not everything is a game.’ you wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s hearing her sobs echo through her head, too. you wonder, most of all, if she really believes you would’ve stolen art from her, if she really ever thought he was hers. 

when they finish the surgery, setting your brace and writing your pain prescription, they tell you to come back in six weeks for an exam. you agree warily, exhaustion overtaking you. art keeps his word, having a taxi ready when you’re discharged, and holds your good hand the entire way back to your dorm. he helps you get settled in bed, your eyes half lidded already, and his eyes linger on your lips. “the doctor said someone should stay with you tonight, make sure the medication doesn’t put you asleep too deeply or something like that,” he said, sitting at the edge of your bed, “do you want me to ask one of the girls on your hall or something?” you shake your head quickly, “can you stay?” his eyes soften, and he nods, “i’ll sleep on the floor. just wake me up if you need me, i’ll check on you every little while,” you agree meekly, too exhausted to argue that he could just sleep in your bed with you, and let yourself fall into sleep. 

you wake up with a gasp, your room pitch black, panic gripping you, heart pounding. art’s at your side within seconds, concern in his eyes, “are you hurt? what happened?” he whispers. “just a bad dream, i’m okay,” you tell him, calming down slowly, “can you maybe stay here? in my bed?”  his eyes soften and he nods, “i’ll be right here,” you fell back asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

you woke up several hours later, your heart dropping when you find art gone from your bed. you get up shakily, wrist aching, and search for your phone. you found it on your nightstand, with a text from art saying he went to get you breakfast and he’d be back as soon as he could. to pass time, you open your laptop, going to the stanford news page from habit. the first article is about your fall, and your heart dropped. ‘record breaking sophomore out indefinitely following major wrist injury’. tears pricked your eyes, and you scrolled on, your cheeks heating when you see an article about tashi. ‘stanford’s own, tashi duncan, announces plan to drop out and pursue coaching full time.’ you click read more, anger already simmering, and continue reading. ‘duncan was set to leave in november, but has announced she will now be joining up and coming pro player, patrick zweig of fire and ice, effective immediately. duncan previously coached stanford’s art donaldson, the other half of the aforementioned duo, but they have officially gone their separate ways.’

you slammed your laptop closed, going to take a shower, wash off the stress and the pain and the tension. you waterproofed your brace, allowing a few tears before forcing them down, stepping into the hot water. you scrubbed your skin, frustration building at the limited use of your left hand, and washed your hair, nearly moaning at the feeling of the water on your scalp. as you closed your eyes, rinsing out your shampoo, your bathroom door opened and you gasped, anxiety spiked.

“fuck, i’m so sorry,” art said, closing the door quickly, “i didn’t hear the shower and i couldn’t find you,” your face heated, but your heart rate slowed with relief of it just being art. “it’s okay,” you told him, “could you actually maybe help me? i’ll cover up, i’m just having a really hard time washing my hair,” “yeah, just tell me when to come in,” art replied, his voice muffled through the door. you sat down in the bathtub, pulling your knees up to your chest, “you can come in,” he entered slowly, and you heard his breath hitch when he saw you, his pupils dilated. “what do you need me to do?” he asked softly. “just need you to grab the showerhead and rinse my hair, and put in my conditioner and rinse that. i’m sorry, i was just having a hard time,” he kneeled down beside the tub, his sudden proximity making you suck in a breath, and grabbed the still running showerhead, letting the water fall over your hair. 

“please don’t apologize,” he choked out, “i’d help you with anything,” your face flushed, “i don’t want to have to depend on someone to wash my hair,” you told him, “not you or anyone. though i’m glad it’s you,” “i know it’s hard, but it’s not forever, i promise. i’ll be here to help as long as you need me,” he ran your conditioner through the ends of your hair gently, and you shivered at the feeling of his hands ghosting over your back. 

“tashi’s gone,” he said quietly, still combing his fingers through your hair, “she left this morning with patrick,” “i saw, i’m so sorry, art,” “it’s alright. she wasn't that great of a coach, she was a bad friend, and barely my girlfriend at all. and me and zweig are done. well, i guess all of us are done,” he laughed bitterly, his breath tickling your neck as he did. “it’s for the best, i’m sure,” you reassured, “you and patrick will make up eventually. he loves her, yknow? he’d do anything for her, i’m sure it was her idea. he settled for me because she was out of his league, and i can’t even be mad because i did the same thing,” his hands stilled in your hair, his breath hitching, “i should go,” you turned your neck to look at him, rejecting once again stinging you, “why?” “it’s too much, being in here like this, i can’t do it,” he said, averting his eyes from your gaze, “i’ll help you rinse, i just need to breathe for a second,” he turned to leave but stopped in his tracks when he heard you sniff, fresh tears falling to your cheeks. “please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. 

“we’ll never get it right, will we? is there too much history, too much damage?” you asked him, turning back to face the shower wall. he sunk back to his knees beside the tub, his hand coming to your shoulder, “i can’t stay in here because the sight of you, and the smell of your shampoo in this room and being so close to you, i can’t-” he made a sort of strangled noise, reminding you of the day he confessed his feelings, “you’re hurting and i have to pull myself together and i’m trying so hard but i just have all this need for you and it’s choking me,” 

you blushed, turning back to face him, “i’m not going to break, art. you don’t have to keep it all to yourself,” “this isn’t the time for me to be having thoughts like this,” he said, still not looking directly at you, “i’m being so selfish and i’m so sorry,” “art,” you reached your uninjured hand out to touch his face gently, “i’ve wanted this for so long, for you to have any kind of thoughts about me at all, and now you’re here in my bathroom and you have me, and you could take me if you wanted,”  he hissed out a breath, “please, please don’t say that. i’m barely holding myself together, this isn’t the right time,” “i’m the one who’s injured and i’m telling you it’s the right time, there’s never been a time, i’m here and i’m willing and i’m hopeful and i’ve been in love with you for six months and they finally left, art, it’s just us here alone and i’m telling you, please, just be with me,” 

something seemed to snap in him, his eyes darkening and his breath getting slightly rougher, “let me help you up,” he said, his tone gentle despite the obvious need all over his expression. you nodded, turning off the water and relaxing into him as he pulled you up by your arm, careful not to let you slip. you blushed at the stark difference between the two of you, your still naked body compared to him fully clothed. he looked away, still ever the gentlemen, and wrapped you in a towel, walking you back to your bedroom. 

you laid down slowly, careful to avoid your wrist, your towel draped over your torso. “you look like a painting,” art said quietly, eyeing you from three feet away. you laugh softly, rolling your eyes, “you don’t have to lay it on extra thick because i’m injured,” he crossed the room to join you on the bed, resting a hand on your calf, “i’m not laying it on. you’re so beautiful,”  “art,” you say, attempting to capture a million emotions in one word. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on,” he trailed his finger along your calf muscle, edging closer to your thigh, “you’re so strong, so inspired,” you nearly moan at his feather light touch, combined with the soft intensity of his words, “come here,” 

“i’m taking my time,” he said, massaging your thigh gently, “i want to take all the time in the world with you, make up for all we lost,” you let out a shaky breath, watching his hand work the tension from your muscles, “all we have is time now,” “doesn’t stop me from wanting to savor this. do you know how long i’ve thought of this? how many nights i spent tossing and turning in bed, your voice clouding my thoughts,  picturing touching you, making you understand just how much i care for you,” his breath shutters, “how much i think of you, how much i love you. i could spend the rest of my life telling you, showing you, how i’ve felt. you don’t understand, but you will,” 

you watched him through heavy eyes, biting your lip as he slowly parted your thighs, leaning closer to you. your towel was pushed in the floor by art’s roaming hands, which made a temporary home on your hips, pulling you down the bed, even closer to him. his breath fanned against you, your thighs parting farther, opening up for him. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned quietly, and you gasped as he leaned in, licking a stripe up your clit. “art, oh my god,” you sighed, your hands desperately searching for hold of his hair. he held onto your hips, holding you still as his tongue dove into you, lapping at you frenziedly. 

your back arched into his touch, loud pants leaving your mouth. “you taste so fucking good,” he moaned into your skin, his nails digging softly into your thighs. “art, please come kiss me,” you begged, dizzy from the pleasure and needy for his lips on your own. he complied hesitantly, pulling himself away from you and pressing wet kisses up your stomach until he found his lips on yours. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, moaning into the kiss at the taste of your own cunt on his lips. 

he ran his hands up and down your sides, desperate, like he thought you’d disappear if he stopped touching you for even a second. he slowly pulled away from your kiss, placing small, gentle bites down the side of your neck. “can feel your heartbeat,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, “do i make you that excited?” he didn’t sound cocky, more genuinely curious, flattered even. “yes,” you whimper, “want you so badly, art. want you to be a part of me,” 

he groaned, from deep in his chest, pausing his kisses only to pull off his own shorts. “are you sure this is what you want, right now?” he asked, looking into your eyes with a slightly concerned expression. “yes, i promise i’m sure,” you nodded without hesitation, reaching for him again. he leaned into your touch, kissing you roughly, passionately, like he was starving for it. 

without breaking away from you, he lined himself up between your thighs with shaky hands, hesitating before he made any movements. “gonna go slow,” he said softly, kissing your jawline and running his free hand through your hair, “can’t, don’t know how long i’ll last,” you titled your head back to look at him, taking in his disheveled state. he looked like he was barely holding himself together, pushing at the edge of his restraint. “i’m not gonna break, art,” you reassured him, your left hand sliding between the two of you, positioning his leaking tip just on the edge of your cunt, “give it to me,” he moaned at the slight touch of your hand, obeying and sliding into you in one fluid motion. 

you nearly screamed, kissing him to shut yourself up, to occupy your mouth that so desperately wanted to let go and scream his name. his pace was erratic, six months of longing, of fantasizing about this. he leaned back, his forehead against yours as he thrust into you, “tell me it wasn’t like this with patrick,” he choked out, “please, need to hear you say it,” “it wasn’t like this with him, art, only you,” you moaned, his possessiveness adding to your pleasure, basking in how fraught he was at the thought of you with patrick. “never fucked tashi like this,” he groaned, pounding into you, “never felt this good, always pictured your face,” you buried your face in his shoulder, biting down gently, muffling your moans. 

“not gonna last,” he breathed, leaning down to wrap his lips around one of your nipples, sucking needily. “want you to cum for me, wanna keep you inside,” you told him, even closer at the thought of him spilling out of you. he grabbed your hips, positioning himself even deeper. his thrusts grew sloppier, more desperate, his moans turning into whines of your name as he twitched inside you, spilling into you. 

“fuck, fuck it’s so good,” he mewled, slowing down as he rode out his orgasm, his eyes on the two of you joined together, “so good, oh my god,” he panted against you, your chests heaving, and pulled out slowly, leaving you gasping at the sudden feeling of emptiness. “did you cum?” he asked, his fingers tracing your clit. “no, almost did, but it’s okay, just lay-” 

before you could finish, tell him you didn’t even need to, his mouth was on your cunt again. you could feel his cum seeping out of you, into his open, wanting mouth, and you came almost immediately just from the feeling of it paired with his slow laps against your clit. “oh my god,” you breathed, pulling him back up to you hastily, pulling him down into a kiss. 

you could taste the both of you on his mouth, growing dizzy at the taste, at the thought of what he’d done for you, at his devotion to your pleasure. he rolled onto his side, his arm slung over your hips, catching his breath. “was that everything you dreamed of?” you asked, half teasingly, half curious. “i could’ve never dreamed of just how good it would feel,” he sighed, kissing your shoulder, “i don’t have words. like you were made for me,” 

“maybe i was,” you smiled, kissing his cheek, “we just got a little lost on the way,” he smiled sleepily, nodding and pulling you up onto his lap. you laid your head on his chest, just above his heart, closing your eyes blissfully at the feeling of his warm skin against your cheek. “not gonna know what to do now, having you all to myself like this,” he told you. “mm, i think we should just enjoy it, god knows we earned it,” you laughed sadly, “i wanted to talk to you, not now, but sometime, just go over everything that’s happened, i guess,” 

“we can talk now, might as well get it all out in the open. what’d you want to know?” “what was going on with you and tashi? and you and patrick, even. i don’t understand the dynamics,” his breath hitched, but he kept his hand on your back reassuringly as he answered you, “me and tashi were just, i don’t even know what to call it. we weren’t in love, weren’t even really friends, i guess. it started out just casual, but then her injury, and she wanted to coach me. she ran me ragged pretty quickly, just constant practicing and conditioning, and there were times when i was so tired, i just wanted to end it,” your eyes welled up at his words, “i don’t want to blame it all on her, but it was hell. it was just constant, and if i needed a break she’d just tell me what a fucking loser i was. i guess in a way, that was the only thing i loved about her. she told me what i already knew,” 

you sat up, staring down at him, confused, “what you already knew? art, you’re fucking incredible at tennis, come on now. you know you are,” “i’m not as good as patrick, never have been. i don’t mind it as much now, now that he’s pro and i’m here in my own bubble, but i know it in the back of my mind. why do you think i came to stanford? college was the one place i could escape competing against him,” “oh, art,” you said sadly, “you’re so talented, everyone can see it but you,” 

“patrick and i, i don’t know, he was my best friend, and then something changed, the competition got to be too much. he’d hold these over me, you, my emotions, my losses, whatever. he kissed me once, and when i kissed him back, he told me i was pathetic,” he laughed bitterly, “i didn’t even want to kiss him, i just didn’t want to disappoint him,” he stopped, the cracks in his voice becoming more frequent. 

“i’m so sorry,” you said, your chest aching at the sight of this beautiful boy, so eager to please, so misused, “they never should have put you through that, neither of them. they’re not real people, they’re just tennis players, just mean and spiteful and they’ll use people up, art. it’s not your fault,” “i know it’s not my fault they did it, but i let it happen, i guess. i’ll be fine, i’ll get past it, i promise. that’s it, though, all the complicated bits at least. i don’t want to think about that shit anymore,” 

“we don’t have to,” you promised him, cupping your face in your hands, “we’re past it, we’ll be alright, okay?” he nodded, pulling you down to him and kissing you softly. you stayed like that for a few minutes, slow, gentle kisses between the two of you, your hands still resting on his cheeks. 

he pulled himself away hesitantly, eyes going to your wrist, the bulky brace around it. “you’re gonna heal up, and i’m gonna spend all my free time helping you get your motion back, alright? if you want to play, i’ll help you play. if you don’t, i’ll support you, but i’m not giving up on you, injury or not. you’re the most passionate player i’ve ever seen, and this won’t put an end to it, i won’t sit by and let it, alright?”

you teared up, nodding and trying your best to hold your sob in. “thank you,” you whispered, overwhelmed with the gratitude and love you felt for him in this moment. “i’d do anything for you,” he promised, pulling you to his chest, stroking your hair until you fell into a restful sleep for the first time in days. 

common tongue - art donaldson

;; you’ve spent five years hating art donaldson, and he’s spent five years trying to pry the hate from you

cw; sexual content, degradation, angst, spitting, slapping, biting, art and reader are both kinda evil!

this is really short i just couldn’t stop thinking ab it! sorry! literally wrote this in like 15 mins the urge was killing me

when the meanings gone, there is clarity

and the reason comes from the common tongue

of you loving me

and it’s easy, darlin, don’t need a remedy

and the reason comes from the common tongue

of you loving me

you watched art’s match intently, your eyes darting back and forth between him and his opponent, who was currently demolishing him. with one last, echoing hit of the ball, art had lost. “40, love. zweig takes the match,” the announcer called, and you watched as art threw down his racket, frustration lacing his every moment, and stalked off the court.

you found him just outside the men’s locker rooms, sweat still dripping from his hair, his muscles taut as he stood there. “you let him beat you,” you said, your voice breaking the silence of the empty hallway. “i don’t want to fucking hear it today,” art snapped, his voice raspy with anger, “i’m serious.” “like that ever stopped me before,” you laughed sarcastically, “seriously, art, what was that? you’ve beaten him before,”

you reflected on your time at stanford, when art beat nearly anyone he competed against, especially patrick zweig. “fuck off,” he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, “if you came here to instigate, i’m not in the mood, honestly,” “i’m here to tell you you played like a fucking bitch,” you snapped back, “you lost to a fucking loser,”

his hands were on your jaw in an instant, yanking you closer to him, his voice slow, “shut the fuck up. you’re so high and mighty, like anyone even knows who you are,” he spat. you flinched slightly, the anticipation wound tightly inside you, “yeah? nobody knows who i am, art? then why are you so obsessed with me?”

his lips crashed into yours roughly, five years of tension and hostility pent up into this moment. “you think i’m such a fucking loser,” he seethed, “but you come here time and time again, antagonizing me into fucking you. i’m so pathetic, but i know you don’t ever want to leave my hotel room in the morning. you act like you hate me but you come here begging for me like a fucking slut every time i’m in town,”

you relish in the sound of his voice, stretched so thin with self restraint, with violent anger, his breath hot against your face. “don’t fuck me then,” you say breezily, “tell me to leave and i’ll go. look me in the face and tell me you don’t think about me every time you’re on that court, and that’s why you lose every fucking time. because you know i’ll be waiting for you and you’ll get to bury all your problems inside me,”

he grabs you by your throat roughly, pushing you against the wall. “i’m not even gonna wait to get you back to the hotel, since you wanna act so needy for it,” he says, inches from your ear, “gonna fuck you right here in this hallway. maybe patrick will come, see what a fucking loser i am making you scream for it, huh?” you whined underneath his grip, prying at his fingers. he released his grip on your throat, his now free hand coming to the waist band of your shorts, pulling them down roughly.

“art,” you snap, “you’re not fucking me in this hallway, you’re fucking insane,” “if you don’t want me to, you tell me to stop, otherwise i’m doing what i want with you,” he said, his voice dripping with anger, a layer of possessiveness, “don’t get to act like that and then tell me what to do,” he kissed you roughly, pulling one of your legs up around his waist, his fingernails scraping you as he grabbed at your thigh.

your back arched off the wall, leaning into his touch, hating how easily you gave into him. he pulled away, glaring down at you as he pushed down his own shorts just enough to free his cock from the fabric, and your mouth watered at the sight. he pushed your panties to the side, a sarcastic laugh leaving his mouth as he felt just how wet you were against his fingers. “not even gonna take these off, just gonna move them to the side. treat you like the fucking whore you are,” he said, his voice low.

you gasped as he slid into you in one quick, fluid motion, not taking anytime for you to adjust before he fucked into you roughly, his hand returning to its position around your throat. “tell me i’m a fucking bitch now,” he spat, a strangled groan leaving his throat. “you’re a fucking bitch, art,” you mewled, and you swore you felt him get even harder inside you, “only good thing about you is your cock. i’m sure patrick could even do this better,”

something in him snapped, and he squeezed the sides of your jaw, forcing your mouth open, his jaw tense as he spit into your open mouth. your mouth twisted into a smirk as he released your jaw, and you swallowed it, eliciting another groan from art.

“you’re so fucking pathetic,” he panted against you, his theusts growing rougher, “this is the only thing you’re good for,” “don’t act like you don’t love me, art,” you whimpered, “i know you think about me,” “i think about you like this, in your fucking place, but nothing else,” he snapped, his gaze unbelievably intense as he glared down at you still, “this is all i’ll ever love you for,”

you slapped him before you could stop yourself, raking your fingernails down his cheek, your face hot with humiliation and frustration and years of art refusing to admit his feelings for you. his hips only faltered for a second, before he was grabbing your hips roughly and fucking into you harder, biting down on your neck, “fucking bitch,” he growled into your skin.

your back arched into him again, your body betraying you as you shook against him, your high pitched moans echoing through the empty hallway. “gonna cum for me? hm? i can tell you’re close,” art groaned, his hand between the two of you rubbing your clit roughly. you dug your nails his shoulders, your breath rapid as you came around him, nearly screaming his name. “good fucking girl,” he moaned, his head tipping back, his cum spilling into you as his hips jerked against you.

you pulled your leg from around his waist, your eyes stinging with tears as you pulled away from him, pulling up your shorts. “hey, wait,” art panted, eyes wide as you started to walk away from him, “what’re you doing?” “going home, wouldn’t want to inconvenience you staying around your hotel in the morning,” you snapped, your face hot with shame, “this will never happen again,” “wait,” he grabbed your wrist, “i didn’t mean that, come on,” “how am i supposed to know what you do and don’t mean, art?” “you told me what a fucking bitch loser i am,” he said, his voice cracking with exasperation, “it’s just what we do, don’t go,”

“i don’t want to keep doing this,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair, “it is just what we do, i know, i’m just tired of acting like there’s not something here,” his eyes softened, “you think there’s something here? i’ve felt it, but i thought,” he laughed bitterly, “i guess i kinda thought you hated me,”

“hated you? jesus, art. you’re not that pathetic,” you said sarcastically, “i’m not saying i’m in love with you or anything. just maybe i don’t want to hear about how you don’t want me there in the morning,” “but i do want you there in the morning. please, come back with me,” you sigh, feeling yourself giving into him, “yeah, fine. you should win something at least,” you say, glaring at him with the fresh anger still on your mind. “yeah, whatever. i’m gonna flaunt you in front of zweig, see if he stays cocky after that.”

oh my lord!

if anyone’s on challengers twt lets be mutuals 😈😈😈 comment ur user!!!

god bless the fanfic writers of the world🙏

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.

“shouldn’t you be prostituting yourself for a place to sleep tonight?”

patrick x reader

a/n: send submissions! i’ll do them all😻

The restaurant is dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting flickering shadows across the polished wood of the tables. It’s the kind of place you wouldn’t normally find yourself in—a little too expensive, a little too perfect, a stage set for lovers who whisper empty promises over wine and imported appetizers. But tonight, you’re here for a work dinner, the kind where everyone pretends to enjoy the pretense of sophistication while trying not to check their phones under the table.

You’re swirling the last sip of red wine in your glass, your attention only half on the conversation drifting around you when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of someone familiar. It’s a face you’ve tried not to think about for the past few years, a face that, despite all your efforts, still lingers in the corners of your mind when you least expect it.

Patrick.

Patrick Zweig.

For a moment, you think you must be mistaken. The Patrick you knew wouldn’t be in a place like this, and certainly not in the state he seems to be in now. His once easy confidence is gone, replaced by something hollow, something broken. He’s sitting at a table near the back, across from a woman who’s laughing too loudly, her voice cutting through the murmured conversation of the room like glass. She’s wearing a dress that clings too tightly, a shade of red that demands attention. But it’s Patrick that your eyes keep returning to.

He looks stronger than you remember, yet his clothes hang on him as if they belong to someone else. His hair, once neatly kept, is disheveled, and his face is drawn, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. But it’s the way he holds himself that strikes you most—the slumped shoulders, the defeated tilt of his head, the way his eyes dart nervously around the room as if he’s waiting for something, or someone, to catch him in the act.

Your heart clenches, the memories of your time together rushing back with a force you weren’t prepared for. You’d broken up in college—two people who once fit together so seamlessly, only to unravel when life’s pressures became too much. He’d gone one way, and you’d gone another, each of you convinced it was the right thing to do. But now, seeing him here, something unspoken grips your chest.

You’d heard the rumors, of course. His parents had cut him off after some fallout you never got the full details of. You’d heard whispers about how he’d been scraping by, taking odd jobs, doing whatever he could to keep his head above water. There were stories, too, about the dates—the endless string of women who’d taken him in for a night or two, offering him a bed to sleep in, a reprieve from whatever storm he was running from. It was ugly, but it wasn’t hard to believe. Patrick had always been charming, able to talk his way in and out of any situation. But this—seeing it play out in front of you—was something else entirely.

The woman reaches across the table, her hand landing lightly on Patrick’s wrist, her fingers trailing in a way that’s meant to be seductive but feels rehearsed. Patrick forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You know that smile. It’s the one he used when he was hiding something, when the weight of whatever he was going through became too much to bear, but he didn’t want anyone to see it.

You can’t look away. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this one moment, to the space between you and him, even though he hasn’t noticed you yet. And maybe he won’t. Maybe it’s better that way.

But then, as if he senses something, his eyes flicker upward, locking with yours. For a second, there’s no recognition, just a tired man glancing at a stranger in a crowded room. But then you see it—the flicker of surprise, the widening of his eyes as realization dawns. His body stiffens, his smile falters, and for a moment, everything between you, all the history, the pain, the love that once was, hangs heavy in the air.

The woman, oblivious, keeps talking, her voice a distant hum in the background as Patrick stares at you. You can see the conflict in his expression—the way he’s torn between the person he used to be with you and the person he’s become. His eyes, once bright with mischief and hope, are clouded now, dulled by whatever desperation he’s been forced to live with. He looks away quickly, his hand pulling back from the woman’s touch as if he’s been burned.

You don’t move. You can’t. Part of you wants to go to him, to ask him how it came to this, to offer something—anything—that might help. But the other part of you knows that whatever he’s going through, he won’t let you in. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Patrick shifts in his seat, his hand brushing through his hair in a gesture of discomfort. He stands suddenly, mumbling something to the woman that you can’t hear from where you’re sitting. She looks up, confused, but he doesn’t offer an explanation. Instead, he walks away from the table, from her, from the façade he’s been clinging to. He doesn’t look at you as he passes, his steps hurried, as though he’s trying to escape before reality catches up with him.

And just like that, he’s gone.

You sit there, the noise of the restaurant returning to its normal volume, the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations filling the space he left behind. Your heart is racing, your hands trembling slightly as you set your wine glass down.

In the years since your breakup, you’d often wondered what had become of him. But this? This was never what you’d imagined. The boy you once loved, who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who kissed you under the stars like you were the only person in the world, had become a shadow of himself.

You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again. And maybe it’s better that way. But as you gather your things to leave, you can’t help but feel the weight of his absence, a heaviness that settles deep within you.

The night moves on, but something in you stays behind, lingering in the space where Patrick once stood.

-

You leave the restaurant with the night heavy around you, the cool air brushing against your skin like a reminder of all the unspoken things weighing down your heart. The city moves in its usual rhythm—cars humming by, the distant chatter of people spilling out of bars and cafés—but you’re somewhere else entirely, trapped in a haze of memory and the sight of Patrick, so different and yet somehow the same.

You walk slowly, your mind spinning in circles around what you just saw. Each step feels disconnected, like you’re walking in a dream, the world blurry at the edges. You think about the way his eyes looked when they met yours, the brief flicker of recognition, and how he walked away without a word. Part of you aches to let it go, to chalk it up to the past, another chapter closed. But then there’s that other part of you, the part that still remembers the way he used to laugh, the way he used to hold you like you were something precious. That part won’t let you walk away so easily.

By the time you reach your apartment, you’re pacing, your phone in your hand, staring down at it like it might hold all the answers.

Does he still have the same number? Should I call him?

You sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the blank screen. Your fingers hover over the numbers you know by heart, the muscle memory still strong. You wonder what you’d even say if he picked up. Would it matter? Would he even care? After everything that’s happened, after the years that have passed, does it even make sense to reach out?

But then you think of the way he looked tonight—lost, adrift—and something inside you shifts. You can’t just walk away. Not like this.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you dial the number. The phone rings, once, twice, a hollow sound that echoes in your chest. For a moment, you think it will go unanswered, that he’s long since moved on, changed his number, disappeared into whatever life he’s carved out for himself.

But then, on the fourth ring, there’s a click. Silence hangs in the air for a beat too long before his voice comes through, low and hesitant.

“…Hello?”

Your breath catches. It’s him. There’s a weariness in his tone that wasn’t there before, a tiredness that speaks to everything he’s been through. But it’s unmistakably Patrick.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry, the words you’d rehearsed in your head crumbling under the weight of reality. “Patrick,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, barely above a whisper. “It’s me.”

There’s a pause on the other end, the kind that stretches too long, heavy with the unspoken history between you. You wonder if he’s going to hang up, if he’s regretting answering at all. But then, finally, he speaks.

“Hey,” he says, the word drawn out like he’s trying to find his footing in a conversation neither of you ever expected to have. There’s a tremor in his voice, something fragile.

You close your eyes, steeling yourself. “I saw you tonight,” you continue, your voice steadying, though your heart is racing. “At the restaurant. I wasn’t sure if I should call…”

He lets out a breath, one you can almost hear over the line. “Yeah, I saw you too.” he mutters, and you can hear the exhaustion, the weight of whatever he’s been carrying.

There’s a stretch of silence, the space between you filled with the static of the phone line, and you can almost picture him, sitting somewhere dark, head bowed, running a hand through his hair the way he used to when he was nervous.

You’re not sure how to begin, how to bridge the years and the pain that’s grown between you both. “What happened to you, Patrick?” you ask quietly, not out of judgment, but from a place of deep, aching concern. “What are you doing?”

His laugh is bitter, a sound that cuts through the air like a dull knife. “I don’t know,” he admits, and there’s a rawness to it that surprises you. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

You shift, leaning forward, gripping the phone tighter. “I heard things,” you say cautiously. “About your parents. About…everything.”

He’s quiet for a moment, the weight of your words hanging in the air. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost broken. “Yeah, they cut me off. I don’t even blame them. I screwed up—badly. I’m a shitty, has-been tennis prodigy. And now I’m just…” He trails off, the words dying on his lips. “I’m just trying to survive.”

You close your eyes, his pain seeping into you through the phone. You can hear it in every word, the way he’s been scraping by, doing whatever he can to stay afloat. The Patrick you knew, the one who seemed so invincible, so sure of himself, is gone. In his place is someone who’s been stripped bare, exposed to the harshest parts of life.

“I saw you with her,” you say, the words gentle but deliberate. “That woman.”

Another pause, this one heavier, more deliberate. When he finally responds, there’s no denial, no attempt to explain it away. “Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s…not what it looks like. But it’s not far from the truth either.”

You wince, a mix of sadness and helplessness flooding you. “Patrick…”

“I know,” he cuts in, his voice tight, almost angry—at himself more than anything. “You don’t have to say it. I know how far I’ve fallen.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I was going to ask if you need help. If you’re okay.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence. You can hear the faint sound of his breathing on the other end, the way he’s struggling to hold himself together. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, almost a whisper.

“I don’t know if I’m okay,” he admits. “I don’t think I’ve been okay in a long time.”

Something in you breaks at his words, the vulnerability in his voice. You close your eyes, leaning back against the wall, the phone pressed tightly to your ear. “Let me help,” you say softly, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them.

“I don’t deserve your help,” he says, his voice cracking. “Not after everything.”

“It’s not about what you deserve, Patrick. It’s about what you need. And I want to give you what you need. I know we’re not together, but I still care about you.”

There’s a long silence again, but this time, it feels different. Less heavy. Less broken.

“…Okay,” he finally whispers. “Okay.”

And in that moment, something shifts between you—something tentative, fragile, but real. Something that might just be enough.

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.

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.

“shouldn’t you be prostituting yourself for a place to sleep tonight?” part 2

patrick x reader

a/n: thank you for enjoying this enough to warrant a part two😭❤️

his vulnerability is palpable now, the bravado he used to wear like armor has long since crumbled, leaving him raw and uncertain. "thanks for letting me come over," he says, voice low, almost unsure. you offer him a small, tentative smile, still unsure of what to say. it feels like meeting him for the first time again, only this time, he's a little more broken, and you're a little more cautious.

"it's fine," you murmur, though the awkwardness lingers like a thick smoke, curling in the silence between your words. it’s strange, how once you shared everything, and now you can’t even find the right way to ask him if he's doing okay.

he shifts, clearing his throat, his eyes flicking toward you, and for a moment, it’s like the old patrick peeks through—a faint shadow of the boy who used to tease you relentlessly, just to see you smile. “you know, you haven’t changed much," he says, voice soft with an edge of something you can't quite place. you laugh, but it’s a nervous, light sound, and you shake your head.

"you have," you reply, maybe more bluntly than you meant to. his smile falters, but he nods, gaze falling to the floor. “yeah,” he whispers, “i guess i have.”

your eyes linger, skulking over his unshaven beard, his bright blue eyes still brash, yet weary. the same eyes that used to gaze at you with so much love, affection. now with caution.

for a moment, silence wraps around you both again, the weight of what’s been lost too heavy to carry into conversation. and then, in a voice that's just a bit too careful, he tries to break the tension, offering a half-hearted flirt. “you ever think about… us? like, back then?” he asks, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart twist. you don’t answer immediately, and he fumbles, quickly adding, “not that i’m—i don’t mean…”

you smile gently, shaking your head. “i do,” you admit quietly, and for a moment, the tension softens, the past stretching like a bridge between you both. but you both know it’s not the same anymore.

he leans back, sighing, a small, tired laugh escaping him. “i missed this,” he says, almost too softly, and there’s a warmth in his voice that you haven’t heard in so long. you smile only the tiniest amount, exhaling gently.

smoothing out your jeans, you glance toward the small, cozy bedroom down the hall. “you can take the bed,” you say, almost too quickly, trying to avoid any more awkwardness. “i’ll sleep on the couch. it’s fine, really.”

patrick’s brows furrow, his eyes narrowing slightly in offense as he straightens up on the couch. “what, do you think i’m some kind of barbarian?” he says, his voice laced with mock indignation. “you seriously think i’d let you sleep on the couch in your own house? come on.”

you open your mouth to protest, but before you can get a word in, he stands up, crossing the room with a sudden burst of energy. “i’m a gentleman!” he exclaims, a playful edge creeping into his tone. “do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? i would never let you do that.”

you blink, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “patrick—”

he cuts you off with a dramatic wave of his hand, his expression shifting into something more earnest, though there’s still a spark of mischief in his eyes. “no, no. we’ll both take the bed. but—” he raises a finger, like he’s just come up with the grandest idea, “we’ll put up a partition, like we’re children or something. afraid of cooties.”

you can’t help but laugh, the tension easing a little. “a partition?” you ask, crossing your arms, amusement dancing in your voice. “and how exactly are we supposed to do that?”

he glances around your living room as if searching for something to use. “pillows,” he says, nodding decisively. “we’ll make a wall of pillows. you stay on your side, i stay on mine. it’s foolproof. totally respectful.”

you raise an eyebrow, trying to stifle your laughter. “and you’re sure this is the best solution?”

“absolutely,” he grins, the first real smile you’ve seen from him all night. it’s like a flicker of the old patrick—confident, playful, always pushing boundaries just enough to make you laugh but never too far. “you’ll see. i’m a perfect gentleman. nothing to worry about.”

shaking your head, you relent, half-amused, half-unsure how you got roped into this. “alright, fine. but if you cross the pillow wall—”

he interrupts with a hand over his heart. “i solemnly swear, i won’t cross the pillow wall. i’ll be on my best behavior.”

you roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile pulling at your lips. “okay, okay. let’s do this.”

as you both make your way into the bedroom, you can feel the strange mix of nostalgia and vulnerability between you. patrick starts arranging the pillows with a kind of exaggerated seriousness, making you laugh despite the lingering tension. for a moment, it feels like you’re back in the past, before everything got complicated.

when the bed is finally set, with a lumpy, but passable pillow barrier between you, patrick flops down on his side, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “see? foolproof,” he mumbles, his voice softer now, as if the weight of the day is finally catching up with him. “thanks for this, really,” he adds, quieter, more sincere.

you lie down on your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin, the soft hum of the city outside filling the quiet space between you both. “it’s no problem,” you whisper, staring up at the ceiling, your heart beating a little faster than you’d like to admit.

there’s a long pause, and you almost think he’s fallen asleep when he speaks again, voice low and tentative. “i don’t… i don’t really know how to be this person anymore,” he admits, and in the darkness, you can hear the vulnerability in his words. “but i’m trying.”

you turn your head slightly, looking toward the wall of pillows that separates you. “i know,” you say softly. “and that’s enough.”

for a while, neither of you speaks, the air between you settling into something that feels less awkward, more familiar. the silence feels heavy, but it’s a comforting weight, like you’re both slowly relearning how to exist in each other’s lives.

and somewhere between the rustling of sheets and the soft rhythm of your breaths, you fall asleep, the pillow wall standing firm, but the distance between you both somehow feeling a little less vast.

—

the morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, and you blink awake, feeling the warmth of something—or someone—pressed against you. your heart skips a beat as you realize the pillow partition is gone, and you and patrick are clung to each other, bodies entwined like vines, arms wrapped so tightly you feel like you might snap apart if you move. it’s like the earth itself has cracked between you, splitting the continents, and you’re clinging to the only thing that’s keeping you from drifting away.

for a moment, you stay still, your heart hammering in your chest as you process how close you are. patrick’s arm is draped over your waist, his leg tangled with yours, and his breath is warm on your neck. he stirs, and suddenly, you feel him realize the situation too. his body tenses, and then, almost in slow motion, you both awkwardly pull away, limbs fumbling as if you’re unsure where one person begins and the other ends.

you clear your throat, sitting up and avoiding his gaze, hoping your flushed face isn’t too obvious. but then you glance over at him, and his situation is definitely not helping matters—patrick, fully aware of his morning wood, shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “uh, sorry, i—” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, clearly embarrassed. “it’s, uh, it’s morning, you know?”

you laugh nervously, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “yeah, i know. it’s, uh, fine.” you quickly get out of bed, trying to pretend this is totally normal, not at all weird or intimate or… whatever it was. “do you, um, want to take a shower?” you ask, eager to shift the focus.

“yeah,” patrick says, a little too quickly. “that’d be great.”

you lead him to the bathroom, still feeling a little flustered. “towels are in the cabinet,” you say, pointing without making eye contact, because the sight of him is making your heart do weird things again. “just, uh, help yourself.”

as he steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, you exhale, trying to calm the fluttering in your stomach. get a grip, you tell yourself. it was just… sleeping. innocent. but the way you held each other, like the world would break apart if you let go—that wasn’t just sleeping, was it?

shaking off the thought, you busy yourself by heading to the kitchen to make breakfast. you crack some eggs, fry up bacon, anything to distract yourself. the sound of the shower running helps, but it also gives you too much time to think. you don’t have clean clothes for him. what’s he going to wear when he comes out? you wrack your brain, and then it hits you.

when patrick finally steps out of the bathroom, damp and only in a towel slung low around his hips, your mouth goes dry. he’s standing there like some kind of ridiculous rom-com cliché, water droplets still clinging to his chest, and you can feel yourself blushing again.

“sorry,” he says sheepishly, running a hand through his wet hair. “i don’t have any clothes…”

you blink, tearing your gaze away. “right! uh, hang on. i… might have something.” you dart past him to the closet, rummaging around until you find them—his old college clothes. you’d kept them, hidden away at the back, not thinking you’d ever have a reason to pull them out again. but here they are, and you’re holding them in your hands.

“here,” you say, handing them over. “they’re, uh, yours. from… college.”

patrick looks at the clothes, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “you kept these?”

you shrug, trying to play it cool, but the warmth in his voice, the look in his eyes—it’s making your heart race again. “i guess i did,” you mumble, turning away before he can see how flustered you are.

“awww,” he teases softly, pulling the clothes from your hands. “didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “just put them on,” you say, trying to sound exasperated, but the blush creeping up your neck betrays you. “breakfast is almost ready.”

as he disappears back into the bathroom to change, you lean against the counter, heart pounding in your chest. what is happening here? this was supposed to be just an awkward sleepover. a kind gesture to an ex boyfriend going through hardship. but it’s starting to feel like something else entirely. and the fact that you still had his clothes—his old clothes—it’s stirring something deep inside you, something you thought you’d buried a long time ago.

taglist:

@diorrfairy @fallout-girl219 @blahox

comment if you’d like to be on the tag list !

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!!!!

———

yourusername i’m pooped

❤️ 301 💬 18 ➡️ 2

view comments:

@artdonaldson you look a little pooped

↳ @yourusername you’re not meant to agree!

↳ @artdonaldson kidding! love you 😘

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

liked by @yourusername

@tashiduncan the prettiest 😍

| show more

———

yourusername posted on their story !

replies:

@artdonaldson THATS ME!!!!!!

—

@patrickzweig where’s my bloody shout out

———

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

❤️ 740 💬 97 ➡️ 4

view comments:

@yourusername I LOVE YOU❤️

↳ @artdonaldson I LOVE YOU MORE❤️

@yourusername had the best night

↳ @artdonaldson best nights with always w u

@patrickzweig yeah we fancy like denny’s

↳ @artdonaldson thank you for getting it

@tashiduncan gorgeous couple 💙

↳ @artdonaldson yeah can’t disagree there

@user awww😭

| show more

———

yourusername we’re versatile 🤷‍♀️

❤️ 456 💬 34 ➡️ 7

view comments:

@artdonaldson don’t lie

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

↳ @patrickzweig PENUS🤣🤣🤣🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

@artdonaldson WAIT WTF IS THE LAST PIC???

↳ @yourusername so handsome😊

@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 😅

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@yourmother Yay! So happy💍🤗 Congrats!

↳ @yourusername thanks mama!

but i’m a tennis player!

tashi duncan x fem!reader

summary: after your family and boyfriend accuse you of being gay, you talk to your close friend tashi to work out these strange feelings.

warnings: use of y/n please forgive me 😭

a/n: idk how i thought of this buttt woohoo!

it felt like any other day, until i walked into the living room and saw everyone gathered—mom, dad, my friends, even patrick. their faces weren’t just concerned; they were studying me like i was something delicate, about to shatter. my stomach churned, but i forced a smile, wondering why the room felt so off.

“y/n, we need to talk,” my mom said, her voice soft but lined with something that made my skin prickle. she gestured to the couch next to her, and as i sat, i felt a weight pressing down on me. the air was thick with unspoken words, and my heart raced.

“we think you might be… confused,” my dad added, his eyes searching mine for some kind of understanding. i glanced around, confused myself—confused about what? then my eyes landed on patrick. he looked at me, but not like he usually did. his eyes were filled with pity, not the warmth i’d grown used to. he shifted in his seat, avoiding eye contact, and that was when the dread really sank in.

“we’ve noticed some… changes,” my mom continued. her tone was too careful, like she was trying to cushion the blow of something she knew i wouldn’t want to hear. “the way you act around patrick, the things you say, how distant you seem.”

i could feel the blood drain from my face as i glanced over at patrick. he wasn’t defending me. he wasn’t saying anything at all.

“and you spend so much time with your friends, especially that girl from tennis,” mom added, her voice dropping like it was some kind of revelation. she was obviously talking about tashi duncan. “you’re just not as… affectionate with patrick as you should be.”

i blinked, trying to make sense of the absurdity. was this really happening?

“you’re a vegetarian now,” my dad chimed in, as if that had anything to do with it. since when did not eating meat mean anything about who i was?

“that’s just part of my diet plan, dad. and tashi is just my friend.”

but they kept throwing out these little things—how i dress, the music i listen to, how i wasn’t all over patrick like they expected me to be. my mind reeled as the pieces fell into place.

they think i’m gay.

it was like the room spun for a moment, the realization hitting me harder than i could have imagined. i felt the heat rise to my cheeks, my heart pounding so loud i was sure they could hear it. they weren’t asking, they were telling me. they were sure. they’d convinced themselves.

“we just want to help you, y/n,” my mom said softly, reaching for my hand, but her touch felt foreign. all of them felt like strangers. and patrick—he hadn’t said a word.

i turned to patrick, my voice trembling with disbelief. “you really believe this, pat?” the words hung in the air between us, the weight of them making it hard to breathe. he still wouldn’t look at me, his eyes focused somewhere far away, like if he didn’t make eye contact, none of this was really happening.

he shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “y/n, it’s not like that. they’re just… worried. i’m worried.”

my heart twisted in my chest, and i stepped closer, desperate for him to see me, to really see me. “worried? about what, exactly? because i don’t act the way they think i should? because i don’t hang all over you like some… stereotype?”

his face tensed, and for a second, i thought i saw something in his eyes—guilt, maybe. but he pushed it down, forcing a sigh. “it’s not just that, y/n. they just want to make sure you’re okay.”

i scoffed, feeling the sting of betrayal sharper than ever. “i’m fine, patrick. but you’re standing here, letting them convince themselves that i’m broken, that there’s something wrong with me. is that what you think too?”

finally, his gaze met mine, and for a second, i saw the boy i thought i knew. but then he shook his head, glancing at my parents, his voice quieter than i’d ever heard it. “i just think… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone, y/n.”

it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me. i stared at him, disbelief flooding my entire body. “you really believe this, don’t you?”

—

the next day at school, i found myself gravitating toward tashi like i always did, feeling more anxious than ever. she was leaning against her locker, her usual calm confidence wrapping around her like armor. but when she saw me approaching, her eyes softened.

“hey,” she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “you okay? you look like you didn’t sleep.”

i let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the locker next to her, the tension from last night still weighing on me. “i didn’t,” i admitted. “patrick, my parents… they sat me down last night. they think there’s something wrong with me.”

tashi frowned, pushing off her locker and standing a little closer to me. “what do you mean?”

i shifted, uncomfortable just saying the words out loud. “they… they think i might be… gay.” the word still felt foreign on my tongue, heavy like it didn’t quite fit, even though deep down, something about it resonated. “patrick barely even defended me. i asked him if he believed it, and he practically said yes.”

tashi’s brow furrowed, her eyes flicking over my face with concern. “that’s insane. they’re just… what, jumping to conclusions?”

“yeah, pretty much.” i rubbed my arm, looking at the floor. “but the thing is… they’re not exactly wrong. i mean, i don’t know, tashi. it’s like they’re seeing something i’m too scared to admit to myself.

her face softened as she glanced around, making sure no one was listening, before stepping even closer to me, our shoulders brushing. “y/n… that doesn’t make you broken. it’s… it’s okay to feel confused about this stuff.”

her voice was so gentle, it almost undid me. i looked at her, seeing the faint blush spreading across her cheeks as she spoke, like she was nervous too, like she was feeling something she wasn’t used to acknowledging either. “you don’t think i’m crazy?”

“no,” she said quickly, her eyes holding mine a little too long, something unspoken passing between us. “you’re not crazy. not at all.”

my heart did a strange flip in my chest. i’d always felt closer to tashi than anyone else, but standing there with her, after everything that had happened, something clicked into place. and when i noticed her blush deepen, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something more but couldn’t, i felt it. maybe i wasn’t the only one confused.

the air between us felt thick, like it was charged with something unspoken that neither of us had dared to confront before. tashi looked at me, her eyes full of uncertainty, but also something deeper, something I couldn’t quite name yet. and I realized, standing there in that quiet space between classes, that I wanted to figure it out, even if it scared me.

“y/n,” she began softly, her voice almost a whisper, “you don’t have to explain yourself to them, or to anyone. but… do you know how you feel?”

i swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “i don’t know,” i whispered back. “i mean, i never really thought about it until… until they brought it up. but now? i just feel so confused. and… being around you, it’s like…” i trailed off, my cheeks burning as the words failed me.

tashi’s gaze flickered down to my lips, and then back up to my eyes, and suddenly the distance between us seemed almost unbearable. she shifted nervously, her hand brushing mine for just a second, sending a jolt through my whole body.

“y/n, you can talk to me,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper now, her cheeks glowing with that same blush from earlier. “i’m here. always.”

i didn’t even realize i’d moved closer to her until i felt her breath on my skin, warm and a little unsteady. i looked up, meeting her eyes again, and for a split second, everything else fell away — the confusion, the fear, the expectations from my parents, patrick… all of it faded, leaving just the two of us in that charged moment.

before i could think, before i could talk myself out of it, i leaned in. our lips met, soft and tentative at first, like we were both testing the waters of something neither of us fully understood. but the second her hand slid up my arm, a wave of warmth crashed over me, making my head spin.

then, just as quickly as it had started, panic seized me. i pulled back abruptly, my heart racing, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “i… i’m sorry,” i stammered, backing away from her like i’d done something wrong, even though the kiss still lingered on my lips, sending a strange thrill through my whole body. “i don’t know what… i just—”

tashi looked just as flustered as i felt, her hand instinctively reaching out toward me before she dropped it, unsure. her lips were still slightly parted, her cheeks flushed, but there was no anger in her eyes, only understanding, maybe even longing. “it’s okay,” she said, her voice soft and a little shaky. “y/n, it’s okay. you don’t have to apologize.”

but i could feel the walls closing in on me, all the doubts and fears from the night before rushing back. “i… i need some time,” i muttered, stumbling back a step, then another, until i was nearly running down the hall.

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

BABY

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.

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♬·

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

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♬·

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

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@jackierose902109

@bloodyrevengedbullets

@ssababe

@skylerwhitwyo

I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a Patrick girl, but I can in fact say that I’m a Josh O’Connor girl.