Projecting

talia liked this

lollipop | tashi duncan x patrick zweig x art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, porn with very minimal plot

The bass is sticky-sweet and sinful, the kind that slides down your spine and coils low in your stomach. Lights strobe like they’re trying to catch secrets midair, but none of them land on you—yet.

You’re leaning against the bar, mouth wrapped around a cherry lollipop and eyes scanning the crowd like you’re on the hunt. But you already know exactly who you’re waiting for.

You haven’t seen them in months. Not since New Rochelle. Not since you told them to lose your number, and Patrick laughed like it was a challenge. Since Art told you, with terrifying calm, that you’d come crawling back. Since Tashi just kissed your jaw, eyes unreadable, and walked away.

You hadn’t planned on seeing them tonight. You’d heard they were in town for the tournament, sure, but you weren’t stalking their schedules anymore. You’d come out with friends. You’d worn this dress for yourself. The lollipop had been a joke. A dare. Something stupid.

Except it wasn’t a joke. Not really. Everyone who knew you knew the lollipop meant something.

You used to walk onto the court with one in your mouth. Superstition, maybe. Distraction tactic. Or maybe it was just habit—your particular brand of psychological warfare. Patrick used to call it bait. Tashi called it smart. Art never called it anything. He just stared.

And now they’re all here.

Art sees you first.

He stops walking mid-stride, mid-laugh. His mouth still shaped around something clever, but no sound comes out. Tashi clocks the shift instantly, turning her head and following his gaze. Her eyes narrow.

Patrick, as always, takes the longest. But when he sees you, his mouth splits into a grin that’s all teeth and no kindness.

You raise the lollipop to your lips and bite down hard enough to crack it.

They cross the club like gravity. The crowd parts. You should leave. You don’t.

“You’re really here,” Patrick says, breath warm near your temple. “Cute dress.”

You twirl the lollipop between your fingers, not looking at him. “I wore it for someone better.”

“Yeah?” Tashi’s voice is close, cool, a whisper by your ear. “How’s that working out for you?”

You turn, smile too-sweet. “Pretty well, actually. Until now.”

Art doesn't speak. He just watches you like he’s memorizing something he plans to wreck.

Patrick leans against the bar beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “Still sucking on candy like a baby?”

You roll the stick over your tongue, slow and deliberate. “You're just mad I'm not sucking your dick anymore.”

“Not mad,” he murmurs. “Only a matter of time.”

Tashi’s hand slides to your hip. Her grip is possessive. Familiar. “We should talk,” she says, but she’s already pulling you toward the VIP section, not waiting for permission.

Art finally speaks. “She doesn’t want to talk.”

Patrick snorts. “Not with words, anyway.”

You go because it’s easier than fighting. Because you want to. Because you’ve already lost.

The VIP room is low-lit and velvet-lined. Music muffled. Private.

You’re barely inside before Patrick sits, spreading his legs like he’s home. Art leans against the wall, arms folded, gaze locked on you. Tashi pulls you to the center of the room and turns you to face them.

“On your knees,” she says softly, like it’s a suggestion. Like you won’t do it unless she asks nice.

You smile, sickly sweet. “I don’t take orders.”

Art pushes off the wall. “Sure you do. Just not in public.”

You sink. Slowly. Lollipop still between your fingers, now sticky with sweat and anticipation.

Patrick unzips with a lazy smirk. “Show us what that smart mouth is really good for.”

You glance up through your lashes, tongue dragging along your lower lip as you stroke him once, slow and warm, before you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock.

The lollipop clatters to the floor.

Patrick groans. “Fuck, I forgot how good you are at this.”

You hum around him, smug, spit already slipping down your chin. He grabs your hair, not hard yet, just enough to let you know who’s in control.

Tashi kneels beside you, mouth at your ear. “No teeth. No attitude. Be useful.”

You glance at her, eyes glassy, and she kisses your cheek like she means it.

Art unbuckles his belt with one hand. The sound is enough to make you clench around nothing.

“You’ll take all of us,” he says. “You love your lollipops, don't you, baby? We’ll see how sweet it tastes with three different flavors in your throat.”

And then there’s no more pretending.

Patrick thrusts shallow and slow, easing his cock past your lips, but it doesn’t stay gentle for long. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your head, dragging moans out of his throat with every wet, messy stroke.

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “You wanted attention? Fucking take it.”

Tashi’s nails dig into your scalp as she holds you still. Her other hand slips down, trailing under your jaw. “Messy little thing,” she murmurs. “You look better like this.”

You choke when Patrick pushes deeper. Your eyes water. Spit drips down your chin, onto your chest, and you don’t care.

Art is behind you now. You hadn’t even noticed him move. His hand slides down the back of your neck, soothing for a second—before he pushes your head farther down Patrick’s length.

“She can take it,” he mutters. “She’s done worse with less incentive.”

Patrick grunts. “Fuck, I’m close.”

Tashi pulls you off his cock with a pop just before he comes. You gasp for air, blinking through tears.

“Not yet,” she tells him, then turns to you. “Open.”

She climbs onto the couch beside Patrick and leans back, spreading her thighs. Her underwear is already discarded. You don’t remember when she slipped them off.

She smells like heat and sweat and control. You lower your mouth between her legs, tongue dragging through her slick folds, and she sighs like she’s been waiting for this since the moment she saw you tonight.

You lap at her slowly at first, just the tip of your tongue, teasing over her clit until she grabs the back of your head and rolls her hips into your face with zero patience.

Her moans are sharp and indulgent. One hand in your hair, the other pinching her nipple beneath the fabric of her shirt. She rides your tongue, thighs clamped around your ears, telling you exactly how she wants it.

"Faster. Right there. Don’t you fucking stop."

Your tongue aches. Your jaw burns. You flick and circle and suck until she gasps, trembling, thighs shaking as she clamps down, grinding into your mouth with a low, shuddering whine.

She comes like it hurts, like she’s been holding it in for far too long. And she keeps you buried between her legs until the aftershocks fade.

When she finally lets you go, you’re breathless, chin glistening, and Patrick is already grabbing you by the jaw.

“You ready now?” he rasps.

You nod, lips red and swollen.

He fucks your mouth without mercy this time, fast and brutal, his cock slamming against the back of your throat as he growls, “Don’t waste a drop.”

You swallow every bit of it.

Art is the last.

He pulls you into his lap on the floor, tilting your head up. His hand strokes your cheek—almost gentle.

“You think you’re still in charge?” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face like he doesn’t want to see a single thing in the way.

You nod, breath catching. Barely.

He smiles. “Then prove it. Make me come without using your hands.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. Just waits, watching.

You sink onto him slowly, tasting salt and heat, letting your lips wrap around the flushed head of his cock. He exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

You go slow. Excruciatingly slow. Hollow your cheeks. Twist your tongue on the upstroke. Let him feel every second of your mouth, every flutter of your throat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. His head tilts back, hips twitching upward as you swallow him halfway, then deeper.

You look up at him as he starts to lose control—his mouth parted, chest rising fast, hands gripping your hips like he’s fighting the urge to fuck up into your throat.

“Keep going,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Don’t fucking stop.”

You don’t. You push until your nose brushes the soft skin at the base of him, until his breath catches in his throat and he chokes out your name.

He comes with a groan, hand tight in your hair, cock twitching as you milk every drop from him. You swallow because you want to. Because he told you not to use your hands, and you want him to know you listened.

When he finally lets go, you slump against his thigh, dazed, used, lips slick and trembling.

Tashi crouches down and lifts your chin. “That’s better,” she says, like it’s a reward.

Patrick chuckles. “Told you it was only a matter of time.”

You close your eyes.

Sticky. Breathless. Satisfied.

And craving another taste.

-----

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

wife, Expanding

TACOBACOYEET BOT REQUEST INFORMATION!

hi everyone! i put this in my bio post when i made my bot drop, but i figured i'd make an actual announcement as well. now that i have dabbled in bot-making and with summer approaching, i am opening a bot request form! feel free to send in your requests, and i will get to them as i have time.

here are a few rules that i ask you follow with regards to this:

this form is for bot requests ONLY. i will not accept fic or moodboard requests via this form.

i prefer for bot requests to be sent here, but i will accept them via ask as well!

if i don't write for it, i won't make a bot. this goes for fandoms and for content.

please, don't crowd me and other creators with the same request. if you've already asked multiple other bot makers for a bot, and they've made it, then there's no need to ask for another one. use it to your heart's content!

i haven't decided how i'm going to be structuring releases just yet, so please don't expect me to have your bots ready as soon as you request them. there is a lot of work that goes into making them, and i want to make sure i'm not doing a half-assed job. please be patient with me, i am still new to this!

this would not be possible without a lot of people, but i would like to close this out by shouting out some of my favorite bot-makers. you are all... 'pillars of the community!' get it? challengers joke. ba dum tss!

anyway... here's just a few of my people. i am so sorry if i miss you!

@jordiemeow

@voidsuites

@grimsonandclover

@tashism

@222col

@ellaynaonsaturn

@soaraes

@happenssweet

thank you to all of you for being such inspirations and for the talent that you constantly share with this community. i love you all! thank you to everyone who has brought me far enough to reach this point. i love all of you as well! happy c.ai-ing!

Two Birds On A Wire || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (Oral, fingering), drinking, very slow burn, I swear it's too slow, once again- I really don't know what's going on here

Word Count: 9.9k

Two birds on a wire

You and Art became friends only at Stanford. You had opportunities to be friends before; it’s impossible to ignore the fact that both of you studied at the same school since you were 12. But Art was friends with people like Patrick Zweig, and you, well, you were one of the people Patrick Zweig spent too much time laughing at.

So when you both get accepted to the same college, you’re aware of his presence because he’s on the tennis team, and his ugly face (even in your thoughts, you find it hard to lie to yourself so blatantly) is plastered on every poster, in every corner. He finds out you’re there at the beginning of the second semester, when you both end up at the same party. If anyone asks him, he came there with a purpose- to get drunk and forget that Tashi Duncan exists or that she’s dating his best friend. If anyone asks you, you got there by accident- you were practically dragged, and you planned to leave after half an hour. But then he saw you, and his confused expression turned into an amused one, then into a challenging one, and then into a series of other expressions that, to this day, you keep in a small box in your memories of Art Donaldson.

“This is weird,” was the first thing he said to you, and you could see from his flushed cheeks that he had already been drinking. Probably more than one beer. “What’s weird?” you asked in response, and he leaned his curls closer to you, expecting you to ask the question again because it was impossible to hear anything with that music blasting at such volume. “What’s weird?” you repeated directly into his ear. For a moment, you wondered if your breath could reach his nose. If that was something he would even notice. If that little breeze made his hair tickle the nape of his neck. If, if, if. “That you’re here, I guess?” You weren’t sure if there was a question mark at the end or if it was just his facial expression studying you intently. As if you had committed a crime, but he was both the cop interrogating you and the lawyer defending you. All roles at once. The thought made you swallow down a chuckle.

“I study here,” you said briefly and took a sip from the drink Josie had made for you. It had more orange juice than vodka because she knew otherwise you wouldn’t even agree to hold it. “I study here too,” he said, and now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “I know that, Donaldson,” you replied with staged ease. It took a lot out of you. This was probably the longest conversation you’d ever had, if you completely ignored that one time in ninth grade when he saw you crying over something one of his friends had said and just sat down next to you. Actually, there wasn’t much to ignore- he hadn’t said anything to you back then. He just waited for you to stop crying quietly, as if there was nothing he could say that would actually make things better. He placed his water bottle next to you and left when he saw that you were able to open it and drink on your own.

“You just know that?” he was amused. He didn’t seem angry to see you. He didn’t seem like your presence annoyed him, just that it confused him to his core. “Your face is on all the posters,” you shrugged, because it was obvious. Everyone knew Art Donaldson. He never tried to stand out. He never did anything special to make it happen, not even in high school. While people like Patrick Zweig reeked of effort, Art Donaldson drew people in effortlessly and quietly. With a calm that radiated from him in all directions. “Well, if your face were on all the posters, I’d know you were here too. What are you studying?” he asked, with a lightness that was impossible to explain. As if you had been friends your entire lives. As if the fact that he hadn’t known you were so close to him was a crime against humanity.

"Bio-chem," you said concisely, wondering if this would end the conversation, but his face said otherwise. There was genuine amazement at the subject. “Damn, (Y/N), I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you were planning to save the world one day,” the amused look returned as you rolled your eyes. “What are you studying?” you asked, because it was the polite thing to do, and if there was one thing that could definitely be said about you- it was that you were very polite. “Tennis.” He shrugged and chuckled, as if it was the best joke he could tell. He saw the confusion on your face and quickly added, “Not really, Sports Management. But it’s not even a plan B. If I don’t make it pro, then all of this is pointless,” he explained. You wondered if he also felt this wasn’t a conversation suited for a party. If he, too, was asking himself why he was speaking to you so openly.

You nodded, assuming the conversation would end there, especially when one of his friends approached him, but Art stayed by your side, even introduced you- like you were an old friend from high school. Like you two go way back. Talking with Art was effortless and funny. His humor was on point. His manners weren’t far from yours. He didn’t touch you too much, only pulling you slightly closer when he felt you were drifting away. Almost marking territory when one of your friends came over to say hi. When Josie gave him a scrutinizing look, he simply smiled and introduced himself. She nodded, handed you a fresh cup of the same drink, and disappeared just as quickly as she had arrived.

“I could’ve made you a drink, you know,” he said suddenly, the amused look never leaving his face as he studied you. “Josie makes the perfect drink,” you replied, and he took it from your hand, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “The perfect drink is just orange juice?” He raised an eyebrow as he handed the cup back to you. “There’s vodka in there,” you rolled your eyes, trying to regain some of the dignity you felt you had just lost. “Do you want to dance with me?” he asked. “Where did that come from?” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “We’re at a party, and I want to dance,” he shrugged for what felt like the millionth time, speaking as if every word coming out of his mouth was an undeniable fact. “I’m fine right here.” You tried to wrap up the conversation, assuming that would be the end of it and that he’d just let you stay in your quiet corner and eventually go home, just as you had planned when you first arrived.

But he took a few steps back, keeping his eyes on you. “Why settle for fine when you could be having fun?” he asked. And there was something about Art Donaldson, you learned in that moment- he always operated exactly like that. ‘Why settle for fine, when you could be having fun?’

So, you downed the drink in one gulp and decided that this time, you’d dance with him. After all, you wouldn’t see him tomorrow anyway, and you’d both go back to acting the way you did two hours ago. Life would return to normal. So, you danced- sometimes ridiculously, sometimes seriously. His hands were on your waist, and he quietly asked if it was okay. All you could do was nod, because why settle for just "okay" when you could have fun? And with Art Donaldson, you thought you might actually have fun.

An hour later, you were already on your way to your dorm. His fingers brushed against yours, each time a different one wrapping around one of your fingers, gently hinting that maybe he’d like to hold your hand but giving you the option to pull away. You were both half-drunk- him more than you, of course, otherwise you didn’t think he’d be walking away from that party with you. You tried not to focus on intrusive thoughts about high school or Patrick Zweig, because no one else deserved to intrude on this moment. You always knew Art wasn’t like them. He never acted like them. He always looked down, turned away when someone was messing with you. You appreciated that.

"Can I come in?" he asked, half-amused, looking at you. Completely prepared to hear the word 'no' if necessary. "Well, you're already here." For a moment, neither of you could believe you’d said that, but he didn’t wait for you to change your mind and stepped inside. He studied your room like he was looking for secrets. He stared at a framed childhood photo longer than you were comfortable with. He examined the posters your roommate had on the wall and the books you had on your shelf.

His lips were on yours a few minutes later- minutes that felt like an eternity. It started hesitant, restrained, almost cautious. You couldn’t believe you were kissing Art Donaldson. That was all you could think about- Fuck, fuck my life, I’m about to sleep with Art Donaldson. I’m about to lose my virginity to Art Donaldson. And the more you spiraled into those thoughts, the more intense the kiss became. His hands found their way to every exposed inch of your skin as you both settled onto your bed, never breaking apart. He kissed your neck like a starving man, like you were his last meal before execution, like his very breath depended on the exact spot where you had sprayed perfume before leaving for the party.

"I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a sec, okay?" Your voice sounded strange even to you for a moment. "Now?" He sounded confused but not upset, speaking into your neck, making it seem like physically separating from you would be painful. "I have to pee," you blurted out the first thing that came to mind, and he pulled back for a second, looking at you with sparkling eyes- whether from alcohol or something else, you couldn’t tell. He nodded, and you stood up, hurrying to the tiny bathroom attached to your room.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as you applied deodorant, shaved your legs quickly (knowing you’d regret it tomorrow), gargled mouthwash, and stared at yourself again, psyching yourself up to walk back out in nothing but a bra and panties to have sex with Art Donaldson. A sentence you had to repeat to yourself over and over just to believe it was actually happening.

When you walked out, you tried to move as seductively as you knew how. Like in the movies. In Josie’s heels, which were a size too small but, for some reason, were in the bathroom, and panties with a flower on them- but at least you had a lace bra on. You had to work with what you got. You hobbled toward him while he lay in bed with his back to you. He didn’t react at all, which made you frown in confusion and step closer.

"Art?" You murmured toward him, but he didn’t move an inch. That’s when you realized that while you had been shaving and putting on heels that made you wobble, Art Donaldson had simply fallen asleep in your bed.

The level of humiliation you felt in that moment could have been worse if he had been awake to see you limping toward him, half-naked, in those ridiculous heels and questionable underwear. So, all you did was throw on the oversized T-shirt that said "Science is Sexy" (you had your doubts, but it made Josie laugh, and she had bought it for your birthday a month ago), took off the heels, and climbed into Josie’s bed- she had already texted you earlier that she wasn’t coming back to the room that night.

By morning, Art Donaldson was gone, and if you hadn’t slept in a different bed, you might have thought you had imagined the whole thing. . . . Almost a week had passed since Art Donaldson fell asleep in your bed before you found him sitting on the steps outside the Faculty of Exact Sciences. His wave in your direction was hesitant as you kept walking toward him. "Hey," was the first thing that came to your mind to say, because what else could you even add? You felt your heart pounding, and you knew you weren’t doing a great job of hiding your confusion- hiding emotions was never your strong suit. "Hey," he smiled- that same familiar yet foreign smile. The kind that had never been directed at you before, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his smiles.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. You didn’t mean to be rude, but seriously, what the fuck was he doing here? "Finished practice early and thought it’d be nice to invite you to eat at our cafeteria. The food there’s better," he said. If there was any hesitation or nervousness in his voice, you couldn’t pinpoint it. "Oh." Again, you weren’t really sure how to talk to people like Art. "I have a four-hour lab now, so I don’t think I can. But thanks for the invite, Donaldson." The more you spoke, the steadier your voice became.

"Maybe tomorrow?" His hand moved to the back of his neck as he shook his hair, still not fully dry from the shower. "Maybe," you nodded, because what else was there to do. "Are you on Facebook?" he asked as you started walking toward the building, and he walked beside you. "No, why do you ask?" You threw the question back, it felt safer. "Everyone's on Facebook. How are you not on Facebook?" he replied, amused, nudging his shoulder against yours. "I don't know, it just feels like a waste of time," you said, half-truthfully. The full truth was that you had no one to keep in touch with. All your friends were here, at Stanford, and opening Facebook just to stay in touch with your dad felt pathetic.

"Well, do you have a phone?" His voice cracked for a second but quickly recovered. You nodded briefly, and he reached out his hand, waiting for something. "Oh, right, one sec," you said, digging through your oversized bag, which held far too many things that had no business being there, like star stickers and shoelaces. "Here," you handed him the device, and he typed in a number, calling himself so he’d have yours too.

"I wanted to apologize for, you know, falling asleep. I feel like a dick." His hand found its way to the back of his neck again. You decided to start paying attention to when he did that. "Don’t worry about it," you waved your hand dismissively. "It’s a funny story we can tell someday if anyone asks what’s the weirdest situation you’ve been in after a party," you added with a chuckle, completely ignoring the fact that he didn’t laugh. "This is my lab," you said, pointing at the classroom in front of you. He nodded, furrowing his brows slightly, but still nodded.

When you agreed to sit with Art for lunch, you didn’t understand that you had committed to a soul friendship, but when you think about it sometimes, you suspect that he already understood. Sometimes you think he planned it all with endless devotion, from the second he saw you at that party. That he decided to tie his fate to yours without giving you any way to escape. The conversations were deeper than any you’d had with someone your age before. You found yourself telling him about pets you’d had and listening when he told you about his grandmother, who raised him when his parents didn’t have the patience or ability.

The only taboo between you during those months was the years you studied together before. You didn’t bring it up with particular persistence and he didn’t know how to bring it up without feeling self-hatred and remembering bad choices and thinking about the time he wasted. The only time he said Patrick’s name near you was when he introduced you to Tashi as his girlfriend, and even then, he said it and stared at you as if he expected you to fall apart just from hearing the name of his best friend. But you didn’t fall apart, you smiled at Tashi the warmest smile he’d ever seen. And you started a conversation about her scholarship, joked as if you had no worries. As if any connection between you and the quiet girl sitting in the back corner of the class was purely coincidental. As if no one had ever laughed at you. . . . “Do you hate the fact that I’m here?” Art asked as you sat on a carousel outside a fancy building where there was a party he’d heard about by chance. “What?” you took another sip of the wine you were passing between you and mostly didn’t understand where that was coming from. You’d hardly been apart for the past few months; you went to his practices when you had free time and he sat with you in the library during his. On weekends you studied together (you were studying and Art was dozing off on your bed or his, depending on whose room you were in).

“You know what I mean,” he shrugged like a carefree person, even though his brows were furrowed and his hand brushed the back of his neck. “Here on the carousel? Here on the planet? Here in-” you started listing all the things he could’ve meant, because who even knows what Art Donaldson ever means. “Here at Stanford. Here; where you are.” he clarified. “Why would I hate that?” you were even more confused than before. “Sometimes I think you really hate me and just don’t know how to get rid of me,” he tried to chuckle but his expression gave him away. He was really scared of that.

“I don’t think it’s possible to hate you, I don’t think anyone could even not like you, Art” you sighed toward him, and it was the truth. Art pulled people in so naturally. A magnet for humans. He made everyone around him feel like they were lucky at any given moment. You weren’t an exception. The fact that he chose to spend time with you or be around you never stopped surprising you. “You’re full of shit,” he smiled his signature smirk and took another sip from the nearly empty wine bottle. “You never talk about the fact that we already knew each other. It’s like I met you here,” he got to the heart of it.

“You don’t think you really met me here?” you asked. Because to be honest with yourself, you’re not even sure he knew who you were in high school. “I always knew who you were,” you saw in the dim lighting of the park that he was shrugging, guessing exactly what was going through your mind. “Knowing who someone is isn’t the same as knowing them,” you tried to explain, “I knew who you were, I knew who your friends were, I knew you played tennis,” you said all the dry facts that characterized Art Donaldson, “but I didn’t know you. I didn’t know you liked comics, I didn’t know you talk to your grandmother three times a week, I didn’t know you prefer writing in a notebook instead of on a computer. I didn’t know you’re in love with your best friend’s girlfriend,” you said the last part casually, even though he had never told you about his feelings for Tashi. “How did you find out?” He didn’t look scared that you knew. He looked calm, like you’d just told him it was going to be sunny tomorrow. “Because I know you now. I know how you look at people you love,” you said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Art nodded to himself, like someone who just reached a deep realization he had no intention of sharing with you. “Do you really hate him? Patrick, I mean,” he tried to break the imaginary silence pact between you two.

“I don’t hate him at all,” you said. There was a time when you did hate Patrick, because he was the villain in your story. But truthfully, you probably weren’t even a character in his. So, you learned to let it go. The anger you carried was mostly toward different life circumstances, toward the fact that some people start from a certain point, and others don’t even have a way to start. You could hate Patrick when you thought about how much luck it took for you to even get to where you are, compared to the fact that Patrick had everything handed to him to get into the best college in the world, and he decided to throw it all away to play tennis.

“How can you not hate him? He was so awful to you,” Art sounded like he was, in a way, demanding that you hate him. Like he needed someone to tell him it was okay not to always love Patrick. He knew you were the right person to tell him that. He wanted to share with you his anger and disappointment and frustration and all the negative emotions that chewed him up every time he thought of his best friend. He wanted you to give him permission to be mad. But that’s not your way. You’re not an angry person- you’re forgiving and calm and level-headed. You don’t have time to be mad. Life will leave you behind if you waste it on negative feelings.

“You know, we never had much money at home,” you started to say, while Art drank you in with his eyes, just wanting to learn more about who you are. “My dad was a taxi driver and my mom used to work three jobs at once,” you explained quickly. “When Damon Jenkins, the headmaster of the Academy, called my mom in for a meeting, he told her I was gifted and that he was willing to cover all the expenses for me to transfer to the boarding school he ran. It was like a gift dropped into our laps. Like winning the lottery, in a way- realizing I could have a different future. That I wouldn’t be stuck in that same cycle. That if I played my cards right, I could actually do something with my life. Something a twelve-year-old shouldn’t have to understand, but I did,” you added, because twelve-year-olds shouldn’t worry about money. But you’d seen your parents worry since the day you were born.

“My mom sewed me two dresses, and to me, they were perfect. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sister and brother, so two new dresses were basically part of the celebration. My dad sat me down before we left for the academy. He told me people would always have something to say. Always. But as long as I hadn’t done anything wrong, that wasn’t my problem.”

“In our first week at school, there was this welcome party- you probably don’t remember. But Patrick laughed at my dress. The same dress my mom made for me. He said it looked like something someone bought secondhand because it was so ugly. Everyone laughed, but I didn’t care, because Patrick didn’t know how much my mom loved me. He didn’t know how much effort she put into that dress. And he didn’t know that that was his problem, not mine. Because I didn’t do anything wrong.” You took a deep breath.

“So no, most of the time I didn’t hate Patrick. I was too busy being grateful for the chance I had to one day get to Stanford. He thought we were playing some power games, but the truth is- I was never playing.” You shrugged and took the last sip from the bottle.

Art looked at you like someone would look at a protected flower. And he knew it was his job to protect you. He didn’t quite understand when that became his role, but people like Patrick weren’t going to get close to you anymore. Even if it cost Art his best friend. . . . The first time you ran into Patrick was completely by chance. He walked around campus like the place belonged to him. Like he was born there- but you suspect that people like Patrick walk that way everywhere. While life taught you to be grateful for opportunities, it hadn’t taught him the same lesson. Your eyes met in the cafeteria and for a second, he looked surprised, but you looked away too quickly for it to mean anything. It shook you enough to lose track of the conversation you were in. It shook you enough to make you want to skip lunch and head back to your room.

You’d promised Art you’d come to his game, and you’re the kind of person who, for some reason, keeps promises. So you dragged Josie along and hoped Patrick wouldn’t notice you in the crowd. You wondered how Art would act if he saw you. You wondered if his personality would shift completely. You wondered if the guy you’d gotten to know over the past few months- like any of your other friends, maybe a little more, to be honest- would suddenly become unrecognizable. You wanted to believe he wouldn’t. But you didn’t want to test that belief, so you didn’t go up to him after he won.

You texted him something short about a paper you had to finish but that you stayed through the end of his game and you were sorry you couldn’t stick around. He replied with a simple "okay". And the knock on your door came after two long hours of reading an article.

“Did he say something to you?” was the first thing Art asked as he stepped into your room without waiting for an invite. “What?” “Patrick, did he say something, and that’s why you left?” He tried to explain himself, but what came out was mostly a stream of half-sentences as he paced back and forth. “Why would Patrick say anything to me?” You looked at him with the most indifferent expression you could manage, not betraying how heavy his best friend's presence sat on your soul. “He’s supposed to go back on tour in two days. He came to visit Tashi,” Art rolled his eyes. “He didn’t even tell me he was coming, otherwise I would’ve told you in advan-” He didn’t even stop to breathe in the middle of his apology. “Art, I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid of Patrick Zweig,” you cut off his guilt with a necessary sharpness. “Besides, you had a good game. He’s probably feeling threatened seeing you play,” you added, trying to ease the tension as Art dropped himself onto your creaky twin bed. “I don’t think Patrick’s ever felt threatened by anything,” he laughed, a bitter laugh that didn’t quite suit him. “I think Patrick feels threatened all the time,” you said almost in a whisper. And even if Art heard you, he chose not to answer. . . . A year and three months later, you walked into your new apartment carrying yet another box of your stuff. Until that exact moment, you still hadn’t fully understood how Art had convinced you to start your third year of college sharing an apartment with him. It had seemed like a terrible idea at first. But over the past year, Art had planted the idea slowly and patiently. Like someone who had all the time in the world to let it grow inside your head. He talked about scholarship money. About Nike showing interest in him and offering to invest in his living conditions while they considered sponsoring him after Stanford.

“It’ll be cheaper than the dorms, and you’ll have your own room- you won’t have to share with Josie,” he’d said so many times throughout the past year. “We can do movie nights with a real TV, not on my crappy laptop,” he’d add little things he knew you liked. Your privacy. Quality time- which you barely had at all during your second year.

Until you gave in. Until you found yourself carrying boxes into an apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen you wouldn’t have dreamed of in a parallel universe.

“Hey! I told you not to carry the heavy boxes,” he shouted from his room, running toward you and tripping over trash bags full of clothes scattered on the floor. “I can carry a box of books, Art,” you almost rolled your eyes at him. “You can also watch tennis matches with me- it doesn’t mean you actually do it,” he said, grabbing the box from your hands and walking it into the room that was about to become yours. It was almost ridiculously bigger than the room you used to share with Josie on campus.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” you said, sticking your head into the empty freezer to cool off. “Took me a whole year to convince you to live a life of comfort. You’ll never be able to go back to the dorms now- not after sleeping on a real mattress and a double bed. I’ve ruined you forever,” his voice was amused as he drank from the cold water you’d left out for him. “I don’t get spoiled that easily, Donaldson. You should know that by now,” you replied, not lifting your head from the freezer to look at him. “I’m working on changing that,” he said with the same playful tone. But if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t look his way to catch the determined look he threw at you. . . . You stood in front of your open closet. Not really looking, just letting your eyes settle on fabrics so you wouldn’t have to think about what was going to happen in an hour. The conversation you’d have with someone you barely knew, the measured smile, maybe a glass of wine to help you forget you didn’t actually want to be there. You pulled out a white shirt, slightly misshapen from the last wash. You laid it carefully on the bed. You didn’t love it, but it was neutral. And right now, that’s what you needed. From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer slamming shut. Too loud for a drawer full of utensils. “How much quinoa does one person need to survive?” Art’s voice came from the hallway- not so much through the question itself, but the way he closed the cabinet. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. “It’s not quinoa. It’s whole wheat couscous,” you answered, not raising your voice. Not looking away from the shirt.

Twenty-seven seconds passed (you counted) before you heard his footsteps down the hallway. He showed up in your doorway with an open water bottle and a towel dragging on the floor. Standing there like it just happened to be on his way. “That new?” he asked, nodding toward the shirt on the bed. “Not really.” He didn’t move. Just looked. And you didn’t ask why.

You pulled out another shirt. Maybe jeans instead of the nicer pants. Not because you were changing your mind- just testing. “What’s this guy’s name again?” he asked, one hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to hold himself back from walking in. “Jamie. I told you already, he's in my lab.” “Huh.” There it was again. That silence. Not heavy. But not easy, either.

You sat in front of the mirror. Looked for earrings. Found a small gold pair. Put them on without using the mirror. When you looked up, you saw his reflection in the hallway mirror. Leaning there, drinking water, checking his phone- or pretending to. “You think you’ll be gone a while?” “No idea.” “Because if so, I might invite people over. Or just leave the apartment dark and play depressing music. See which one messes with your conscience more.” It was a joke. Almost. You smiled, but it was too brief to be convincing. “You want me to leave the light on for you?” he asked. “Or is this one of those nights where you come back only if you really need something from the house?” You didn’t answer. Just grabbed your bag, walked out, and closed the door quietly behind you. The date wasn’t terrible. Jamie did everything right. He wasn’t too focused on himself, didn’t go on about chemistry or your shared lab. He let you lead, which you didn’t even know you needed. You don’t think you’ve ever led anything outside of your lab. You might not say it out loud, but it was nice. Being in a position where you got to decide.

He walked you home after no more than two hours. A completely acceptable amount of time. Kissed you on the cheek. Very gentlemanly. Very modest. You didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that his lips didn’t land on yours by the end of the night. Maybe you were hoping for more and didn’t want to admit it. Maybe his choice to “respect” you affected you the opposite way. You deserve to be respected, your inner voice said. It’s great that there was chemistry and he didn’t kiss you. It’s exactly what you need. To take things slow.

When you opened the door, Art was asleep on the couch in the dark living room, earbuds in. Listening to music at a volume loud enough to reach the hallway. It was metal—something he didn’t usually listen to. Like he was trying to drown out any unnecessary sound, no matter if it burst his eardrums or gave him a migraine. He was blocking out noise like his life depended on it. And all you could ask yourself, as you gently pulled the earbuds from his ears and covered him with a sheet, was what awful thing he thought he’d have to hear when you came back home.

When you woke up, Art was already on his feet, coffee cup in hand. Over time, you’d learned that Art wasn’t really a morning person. Not like you, at least. “You’re not gonna ask how it went, Donaldson?” you tried to start a conversation, and he handed you a cup of coffee exactly how you liked it—with soy milk he couldn’t stand. “Are you going to see him again?” he replied instead. “You don’t want to know where we went? How it was? What time I got back?” you tried to pull a reaction from him, anything. “I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a fork than talk about that nerd before I finish my coffee,” he said flatly, placing his cup in the sink. On his way out, he passed by you, pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, paired it with a half-hug that clearly meant: end of conversation. He threw his tennis gear over his shoulder and left the apartment without another word.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Art was acting like someone who knew something neither of you was ready to admit. . . . “Do you want to come home with me for the holidays?” you asked one evening while you were sitting on the couch watching another episode of Friends. “What?” You could guess from his surprised tone that he was looking at you with a confused expression. “Look, we don’t really do Christmas or anything- Hanukkah is the big thing at my house. And you might have to sleep on the couch ‘cause there’s no guest room, but-” you started rambling, wondering why you even brought it up. You just figured his grandma in the nursing home wouldn’t be able to host him, and two and a half weeks in a house like his sounded lonely. “I figured I’d just stay here, maybe get some extra training in or something.” You could tell he was embarrassed, and for once, you actually looked at him. “That’s dumb. I mean- my house isn’t big or anything, but it’s full of people and everyone’s loud and yelling, and there’ll be food ‘cause my mom’s an amazing cook and-” You tried to pitch something you knew wasn’t exactly appealing: your family. “Okay,” he cut you off. “I’d really like that, (Y/N). Thanks.” You’d known Art for almost two years now, and you couldn’t imagine a more sincere look than the one he gave you just then. So you just nodded, and the two of you went back to staring at Jennifer Aniston talking, without hearing a single word she said.

“So, just a reminder- my mom’s name is Sarah, and my dad’s John. My uncles will probably be there, and my grandpa’s this grumpy guy who complains about everything, but he means well. They’ll talk about Hanukkah like the miracle happened in our living room or something. You can ignore ninety percent of what they say and still understand everything.” It was a mantra you’d repeated at least ten times over the past week. But to his credit, Art didn’t comment on it while he drove. You left at six in the morning and stopped twice for coffee, and Art insisted on picking up flowers and a bottle of wine on the way, because apparently he couldn’t show up empty-handed.

“Wanna drive?” he asked at some point. “No,” you said too quickly, making him glance over with a raised eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road. “I don’t know how to drive. It’s not that I want you to do the whole eight hours,” you added, feeling like it was kind of rude to dump it all on him. “You’re twenty-one. How do you not know how to drive?” He sounded more amused than judgy, like he didn’t actually hold it against you- just wanted to understand. “My dad tried teaching me one summer in high school and I crashed into Meredith’s trash bin -she's our neighbor- and cried for three straight hours. After that I decided driving wasn’t for me.” You said it fast, like it was a totally obvious decision.

“That’s insane. You know that, right?” He wasn’t trying to insult you, and honestly, you weren’t even offended. “I can’t believe I didn’t know that. Feels like something I should’ve known,” he added, and you just shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. A lot of super smart people never got a license. I manage just fine,” you said, with your usual conviction. “You could manage in an igloo. Doesn’t mean you should live in one,” he chuckled, and you gave him a light smack on the shoulder. “You sure you wanna pick a fight with me while we’re on the way to my house, Donaldson? My dad will poison you,” you said, and his laugh got louder.

You parked in front of your house, and it looked exactly the way you remembered it. A small garden your dad put way more effort into than he had to, an even smaller set of front steps, and beige-colored walls. You smiled without meaning to, but you knew Art was watching you, so you looked back at him. “It’s smaller than you’re probably imagining, okay?” You tried to prepare him. You didn’t want him to be surprised. Didn’t want him to hold anything your parents lacked against them. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” His smile didn’t waver for a second.

Your mom hugged him before she hugged you, which in a parallel universe might’ve been concerning, but you knew the woman who raised you well enough to understand that she showed love exactly as she felt it- with no delay. “These are for us? You’re sweet, but you really didn’t have to,” she said, taking the flowers and wine from him. “You both look way too skinny. Fancy college and they don’t feed you at all,” she concluded after giving you both a full once-over, acting like she’d known Art since birth. “Ben, Daniela, and Lily are already here. Becca’s coming tomorrow,” she gave you the general update, nodding as you and Art followed her into the house. Your brother, Ben, is nine years older than you and married to Daniela. Lily was born two years ago. They live not far from your parents. You’d never been especially close to Ben- the age gap, the boarding school, the constant distance. But Lily was like an angel dropped into the family.

You and Becca were a different story. Three years apart, and she never got the kind of chances you did. She’d always had to give up clothes she loved so you’d have something to wear, and she was never good enough in school for anyone to offer her a scholarship. College wasn’t in the cards for her. She worked mornings at a checkout counter and evenings as a waitress. Sometimes, when you thought about it too much, you wondered if she resented you for it- for all the times you heard “yes” while she heard “no.” You could cry just thinking about it too much, because she’d never done a single thing to make you feel like that.

Dinner was full of humor, just like you remembered your home to be. Every now and then you glanced over at Art to see if he was overwhelmed by the shouting, the crude jokes, or even Lily’s crying. But he was simply present, weaving tennis stories with his usual charisma. Drawing the room in with every word out of his mouth. You could feel his hand occasionally pinch your knee, a quiet reminder that he was here with you- even as his attention stayed perfectly inside the conversation.

“Sunny, can you get some fruit from the fridge?” your mom suddenly asked. “Sunny?” Art asked, shifting a curious look from her to you. “It’s just a sill-” “When she was little and started making sense of things,” Ben cut in, “she realized the sun goes down every day. And for weeks, she’d wait for sunset, hoping maybe this time it wouldn’t happen. And then when it did, she’d cry for hours about how unfair it was that for us to sleep, the sun had to leave. Every night, for weeks. The nickname stuck.” You hadn’t known Ben remembered the story in all its embarrassing detail.

All you could do was roll your eyes and ignore the way Art’s eyes sparkled as they stayed fixed on you while you pulled out fruit from the fridge. By the time your mom basically shoved you and Art into your childhood bedroom, tossing a couple of blankets your way, it was already late. “You can sleep on the bed, Donaldson,” you told him firmly. “Don’t be stupid,” he shot back. “You’re a guest in my house and you were expecting at least a couch. I didn’t know my grandpa was staying with us for the holiday,” you said, starting to lay out a layer of clothes on the inflatable mattress you found in the storage room a few minutes earlier. “Your room’s cool,” he said, ignoring your comment as he looked over the books on your shelves and the pictures you’d once pinned to a corkboard. You felt absurdly exposed. “It’s fine. I decorated it when I was six,” you rolled your eyes, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

The compromise was that every night you were there, you’d take turns sleeping arrangements. One night you on the crappy mattress, the next one, he will. You didn’t say it out loud, but you suspected the actual mattress on the bed probably didn’t meet Art’s standards either.

“Your house is perfect,” Art said into the dark, almost whispering. It was his way of erasing the awkwardness he knew you felt, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say “thank you,” because you weren’t sure if he meant it. “They really try,” you whispered back. “I don’t think anyone in my family, besides my grandma, ever tried,” he admitted. “I’m sorry,” you said the only thing left to say. “Thanks.” And you didn’t know if he was thanking you for the chance to see a family different from his and be part of it, or for letting him say what he felt without being ashamed.

“Art?” “Hmm?” “I’m glad you came,” you tried to tell him he had nothing to thank you for. “I’m glad I came too, Sunny,” he wrapped up the conversation, and each of you closed your eyes in your corner of the room. . . . It was one of those days where you felt the wind knocked out of your sails. Your last lab was a total failure, showing the exact opposite results from the research you’d been working on, which meant you’d have to redo it over the weekend. The discussion section you TA for part-time, refused to take you seriously in any way, mostly because you were, well... a girl. Which honestly made you imagine those first-year guys going up in flames. So after experiencing failure, catching the lingering sad glances Jamie kept throwing your way since your half-baked date, and a heavy dose of misogyny- you finally made it to the apartment you shared with Art around 9 PM. Wondering if he’d finally bought a corkscrew, because that bottle of wine had been yelling at you from the fridge for two weeks.

“Did you buy a cork-” The person sitting on the couch wasn’t Art. There was no sign of Art. The person sitting fully spread out on the couch, shirtless like he owned the place, was Patrick Zweig. “Oh.” You felt stupid for walking in like that.

He looked at you like you were the one who barged into the wrong apartment, even though this was your living room. Your safe space. And now, suddenly, Patrick Zweig, of all people, was in it. “Art’s in the shower,” he said quietly, and all you could do was nod and head to your room- feeling your heart beating way too fast for someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you anymore.

You were pretty sure you heard Art mutter something like, “I told you to wait in the room, why can’t you ever just do what you’re asked?!” right before you recognized the familiar rhythm of his knock. “Yeah?” you tried to keep your voice steady as you stared at your laptop screen. There was an article open in front of you that you hadn’t read a single word of- just there to make it look like everything was normal. “I didn’t know he was coming, I swear,” Art’s voice was laced with a kind of panic you’d learned to recognize by now. “He got into a fight with Tashi and had nowhere to go, and you weren’t answering your phone all day and-” “Art, breathe. It’s fine. He’s your best friend and this is your home. You can have whoever you want here. I don’t mind.” You looked at him with a calculated calm, hoping it was enough to cover what you were actually feeling. “Wanna go get dressed?” you added, smiling as you slowly took in the sight of him- wearing nothing but a towel.

“Do you want him to leave? I can find him somewhere else to stay-” He wasn’t buying the smiles or the focus on your screen. Sometimes you thought nothing you staged ever fooled him, that he could read you like an open book. “It doesn’t matter, Art. It’s been years since he was part of my life; and even then, it was barely a role.” It was a full-on lie, but he didn’t push. Just nodded and stepped out of the room, like he already knew why you needed him to do just that. You woke up earlier than usual, hungry because you hadn’t eaten anything the day before, and mostly hoping that by some miracle, Patrick would already be gone from your apartment. But there he was. In your kitchen. Holding your favorite coffee mug and drinking from the fancy tea Art bought you half-jokingly when you were both drunk. But the point stood- the tea was yours.

You felt your jaw clench at the sight of his half-smug smile. Your body tensed in front of this person who, just three years ago, made it his mission to make your life miserable every chance he got. “Art went to practice,” he said, like he was trying to break the most painfully awkward silence either of you had ever taken part in. “I’m not his babysitter,” you answered, defensive in a way that didn’t even match what he said.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked. “I can make my own coffee,” you replied, trying to move toward the machine behind him. “It’s fine, I’ll make it- I’m already here,” he said, and somehow, in the middle of the dumb little coffee standoff, his hot tea ended up on your shirt, and your favorite mug shattered on the floor.

“I hate you.” It came out of you half-whimpered, way out of sync with your usual control. Frustration took over every part of your body, along with tears that he didn’t deserve to see- but he saw them anyway. And he looked terrified. “You just have to ruin everything, huh?” you mumbled, crouching to pick up the pieces of your mug.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick sounded lost. “I really am. I- I’ll get you a new glass. I’ll bring it to Art next time I see him,” he said, stepping back while you gathered the broken ceramic. “It’s not a glass. It’s a mug. And it has sentiment. But you wouldn’t get that, because if you had any sentiment at all -anything beyond arrogance and smugness- you wouldn’t be such a piece of shit,” you snapped, dumped the pieces into the trash, and headed to your room to change your shirt and breathe for a second.

You tried to remind yourself that you had a long day ahead. That you needed to finish your lab work. That Patrick Zweig showing up in your life like some cursed reminder of who you used to be would vanish just as easily. That he was the weak one now. The lost one. The one who didn’t know how to appreciate anything. You didn’t need his pity. You didn’t need his apologies. You had friends like Josie and Art. You liked the life you’d built for yourself. You tried to remind yourself that people like Patrick didn’t get to shake you anymore.

“I really am sorry,” he muttered when you came out of your room again. “I could not care less, Patrick,” you said in a firm voice that didn’t sound like you at all- and slammed the door behind you, hoping that when you came back, he’d be gone. . . . When you came back to the apartment, almost at the exact same time as the night before, the one sitting on the couch, alert and ready, was Art. “Hey,” you mumbled as you walked in with way too much stuff in your hands, which made him get up to help you without needing to be asked. “You want this in your room?” he asked. “If you could put it on the desk, that’d be nice,” you said and opened the fridge. You relaxed a little when you realized Patrick wasn’t there. You felt Art’s hands on your shoulders within seconds, his lips on the top of your head, making you close your eyes for a second in front of the half-empty fridge- typical of student life.

“Hey,” it was his turn to say. “I’m a shitty roommate. I should’ve at least warned you he’d be here,” he said quietly. “Art, he’s your best fr-” you sighed. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. You’re my best friend. And I should’ve thought about you yesterday, and I didn’t. Just accept the apology.” He said it formally, still speaking into your hair. “I’m hungry,” you replied. “I made pasta and a salad,” he said and stepped away from you. It made you wonder when you’d gotten so used to his presence that you actually felt his absence the second his body heat pulled away.

“Patrick and Tashi broke up,” he said after you’d nearly finished the bottle of wine you’d been dreaming about since yesterday, and were sitting on the couch together in front of the TV. “Oh. You gonna shoot your shot, Donaldson?” you asked what you felt like you had to, but you didn’t want to hear the answer. You didn’t want him to say he was going to try with Tashi. “I don’t need any more luck than what I’ve got, Sunny,” you caught the smirk in his tone. “I’m not into Tashi. It ended the same way it started. Some things are more important than chasing someone who used to date a guy who used to be my friend.” His hand was on your knee, giving a light squeeze with a meaning you couldn’t afford to examine. You felt that if you thought too hard about it, you’d start crying.

“He’s still your friend, Art,” you said, not moving your leg away from his touch. “I don’t think so,” he replied quietly. “Why?” you asked softly, assuming the answer would be Tashi, or distance, or time. The things life just naturally leads you to. “Because I can’t love someone who treated you the way Patrick did. I tried. I can’t,” he said with a kind of honesty that sliced through whatever defenses you had left. “Why?” you asked again, your voice even softer, slightly shaking. “You know why.” Where your voice trembled, his steadied. And his face was suddenly in front of yours so fast you didn’t fully understand how you ended up at this point.

“I-” “Can I kiss you?” Art looked at you in that moment like you were holding the universe in your hands. All you could do was nod, and his lips were on yours. His hands explored every inch of your body they could reach. It felt desperate and deep and right. Like oxygen after the two days you’d both just been through. “This is all I’ve wanted to do since the second I fell asleep in your stupid dorm,” he mumbled into your neck, running his tongue over a spot just after biting it gently.

“This makes no sense,” you managed to say as you pulled his shirt off. Your hand wandered over the muscles of his stomach like a sculptor admiring his most precious work of art. He didn’t answer, but the two of you moved silently toward his room, only breaking apart to breathe and keep shedding layers of clothes. “You’re so beautiful,” he said as his hand unhooked your bra and cupped your left breast.

It was ridiculously erotic, the kind of thing Josie would giggle and roll her eyes at when you told her about it- but you didn’t care. His mouth was on your right nipple, and for a second you forgot your own name. The high-pitched sound that came out of you came from deep in your stomach. You tried to stay composed, to hold on to some dignity, but Art’s eyes met yours just as you saw your nipple in his mouth, and your breathing completely fell apart. Your hand found one of the curls at the back of his neck, and somehow you got a groan out of him without even doing much.

His mouth kept moving across your body exactly like you’d only ever let yourself imagine in your most repressed nights over the past two years. “Can I?” he asked as his face hovered near your underwear, his voice so turned on it sounded like speaking actually hurt. You were the reason. Maybe the blame. Depending on who you asked. “You can do anything,” you declared. And it was true. You felt like if he wanted to start painting you fully nude right then, you’d let him. “That’s the sexiest thing you could’ve said to me,” he said, and your underwear ended up on the floor.

“No one’s ever-” You felt a little embarrassed as you started to say no one had ever been where he was right now, but you caught the look in his eyes. Calming. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, with a calm you had no idea where he summoned from. “No!” It came out almost as a yell.

“Okay,” he nodded, and his mouth started to explore your pussy- first in light, teasing licks, then in slow, swirling motions you didn’t think a human tongue could make. The sounds coming out of you made him moan into you. His fingers joined in, and you could feel the intensity of the orgasm building so fast you didn’t even have time to warn him, but he stayed exactly where he was, whispering into you that you were perfect. That he’d never tasted anyone like you. Only when your legs stopped trembling did he start kissing his way up your stomach, soft and slow, until his forehead rested against yours. It felt like a small victory. You didn’t know whose, but you wanted to believe neither of you had lost.

“Do you want me to...?” you asked softly, reaching for the waistband of his boxers. He was clearly struggling. But he only shook his head. “Tonight was about you. I want it to be about you.” He smiled and lay down beside you, playing with your hair while you felt your eyes start to drift shut.

You think this might be the definition of peace and calmness. And somehow, all these years had been hiding it from you. . . . In the morning, you were hit with panic when you woke up and Art wasn’t next to you. Even if you weren’t in his bed, you knew you wouldn’t be able to forget the night you’d just shared. It wasn’t like the first night -at that party- when he’d fallen asleep and you never talked about it again. This time, there was intimacy. The kind you were scared to lose. A person so deeply part of your life, it sometimes felt like he filled every inch of you.

When you came out to the kitchen, you saw your broken mug on the table, glued back together with what you could only assume was some shitty glue he found at the house. 'Went to practice. Tried to fix it, but water still leaks through the cracks. Sorry, Sunny. We’ll get you a new one.' The note was short, the handwriting barely legible. But you looked at that mug with tears in your eyes and knew that the sentiment had completely changed- and somehow you loved it just as much.

Maybe even more. . . .

So, I honestly don’t even know what this is. As always, I’d love to hear from you- my DMs are always open. And hey, I hope at least some of you weren’t bored out of your minds reading this...... Talk to me ❤️

Zendaya for On: Zone Dreamers

Send me 15 million dollars if you want to see him again

FUCK ITS EVERYWHERE

Big Shoes to Fill

or, lily follows in her parents' footsteps.

an: i've only ever written small portions of stories from lily's perspective, and i think this was a fun little challenge at expanding that. i feel she needs more love. thank you @tashism for choosing this story, i hope i did you justice. extra thank yous to @newrochellechallenger2019, @artstennisracket, @ghostgirl-22, @grimsonandclover, and @diyasgarden for their willingness to help me out. it is not unappreciated.

tag list: @glassmermaids

Lily’s new shoes are pink, and the white rubber toes shine when the sun hits. She had wanted the pretty ones with the rhinestones, the ones that light up when she stomped her feet, but Mommy said no. She insisted the tennis ones were so much prettier, baby. That they were ‘professional’, the kind the big girls wear. As she looks down at them now, laces tied in a haphazard tangle by small fingers on the left, and a precise, delicate bow on the right by her mother’s hand, she thinks she should’ve fought a little harder for the light-up shoes. Her skin is tacky with sunscreen and perspiration, cheeks flushed, hands just a bit too clammy to hold the racket the way she’s meant to. 

“Fix that grip, Lils!”

And then a flying yellow blur floats over the net and to her side, she stretches her little arms to reach, and hears that little tink of connection. It bounces, rolls, rolls, rolls… then stops like it’s proud of itself, right against the bottom of the net, the white line amongst the yellow fuzz beaming smug and stuffed to the brim with schadenfreude. Lily hears a sigh, the steady tap, tap, tap of a foot against the clay court, and then the half-hearted smack of hands against thighs. Mommy does this sometimes, when she’s upset at Lily. Or upset because of Lily’s playing, as Mommy insists is different. But, as far as she can tell, it’s still her fault. Mommy wouldn’t be sad if she could just figure out the tennis thing. And she just can’t. Not with all the coaching, or the miniature rackets, or the nights spent falling asleep on the couch because Mommy and Daddy are up too late watching matches to tuck her into bed. 

Mommy went inside, probably for a break, maybe a little AC, maybe to stare at old photos of herself and breathe just a little bit harder. Sometimes, she swaps Lily out with Daddy. In terms of tennis, he’s rare to disappoint the way Lily was. He racked up win after win after win, smothered in trophies and sunscreen and something blue and bruised beneath his skin, and that’s what he was known for. So, he became therapeutic, in a way. A distraction, a lover, a means of vicarious victory, and the target of misplaced frustrations. Lily sits on the grass for a bit and blows some dandelion fuzz into the breeze. She thinks about what it’d be like to be a flower.

Mommy went to bed right after dinner (Mommy and Lily had a burger and fries, Daddy just ordered a salad), complaining of a headache that just wouldn’t quit. Her lips are quirked politely, something like a smile that never quite made it all the way resting on her cheeks. Lily knows that’s a fake one. She’s learned the difference. Lily knows it’s fake because her chest isn’t burning with that warm, golden feeling. Mommy really smiles when Lily makes a good serve, or when her drawings are deemed good enough to hang on the fridge with a little U.S. Open magnet. And Lily watches her face lift and her eyes crinkle and thinks, for a second, she really is as special as her parents say she is. She doesn’t feel that now. Daddy brushes Lily’s back with his fingers when he passes behind her to put the used forks in the sinks, Mommy doesn’t like the plastic ones, and she doesn’t move. 

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Lilybug?”

She shrugs, huffs a little bit, doesn’t giggle when he blows a raspberry into her temple. She wants to, but she’s got to make it clear this is serious. Adults never laugh when things are important, she thinks. That’s why Daddy looks so angry during matches. He pulls back and frowns a bit, hands on his hips. She turns his way, and the visual makes her lip puff out and tremble a little. She can’t help it, really, but she just keeps upsetting people. She’s tired of making everyone so sad. 

“Do you think Mommy is mad at me?”

He does something funny then, curves in by his tummy. It looks like the fallen Jenga tower from last week’s game night. Daddy always chooses Jenga, says he’s too good to beat. Lily always beats him, and it’s the only time he looks happy to lose. She thinks that’s silly. He pulls up a chair at her side, and she doesn’t like the way the metal sounds against the wood floor. It’s easier to be sad when it’s quiet. 

“No, baby, ‘course not. Why’d she be mad at you?”

She shrugs, places a small chin in a smaller hand, stares at the granite countertop like it’s personally offended her. Like it’s staring back.

“‘Cause I’m supposed to be like you guys, and I’m not. It makes Mommy angry that I’m so super bad at tennis.”

He wants to smile, but he can’t, not when this little girl at his side is feeling things bigger than her body, than her vocabulary can provide her with a word for. Sweet girl, too, that she cares. That she just wants her mama to be happy, proud, something that isn’t going to wrack her with guilt for being herself. Still, he takes in that miniature pout, the one her mother so often wears in moments of her own frustration, and places his fingers in her hair, puffing up what had been pressed flat by a ponytail moments ago. 

“She’s not angry. She’s just… well, it’s hard. You know what happened to Mommy. You know how bad she misses it. She just wants to see you grow so, so strong, like she was. That’s all.”

Lily nods. She knows. She knows as much as she’s been told, at least. Not with words or stories, but through little tell-tale signs. Through her mother’s insistence on long skirts, or taking extra with her lotion at the bend of her knee, right where the little white line is. She got hurt. Something band-aids and boo-boo kisses couldn’t make go away. She’ll get an ice pack for Mommy next time she sees her.

“But, what if I can’t grow big and strong like she did? What if I can only do it the Lily way?”

He pauses his hand’s movement in her hair, breathes through his nose like the air was pressed out of him. He wants to say that Tashi could take it, that she’s an adult woman who’s worked through these things, because she’s supposed to have done so. She’s meant to be able to feel pride in other people’s successes, rather than hate that they’re doing what she can’t. But, Art knows the resentment. He feels it some days, when he loses a match she’d have one. When Anna Mueller wins. So, he smiles, presses his lips to the curve of her nose, watches it scrunch. 

“Then you do the Lily thing, and we watch you shine.”

She hums when she smiles, the way Daddy does sometimes when things are only a little funny, but mostly make her feel like her head is a balloon, and it’s flying away from the rest of her body.

“But she’d like me more if I did it the Mommy way, right? If I was good at tennis?”

He squeezes her shoulder with his palm, and finds that it doesn’t fit right in the cup of it. He thinks she’s grown too fast, and yet she’s still so small. And she’s too smart to lie to. He’s too dumb to know.

“I’m not sure, Lilybug.”

The answer is yes.

A few months later, Christmas lists were being made, toy catalogues searched, circled, conspicuously left by coffee machines and Daddy’s yucky green ‘First thing in the morning’ drinks. But they don’t make her all jumpy and giggly, the way a good gift should. So, when Grandma calls, her face shaking in and out of view on the screen of Mommy’s phone, and Grandma asks ‘What does our Lilybug want for Christmas?’, she replies,

“I want more tennis lessons.”

And she watches Mommy smile like she’s never smiled before, even though she tries to bend her head down into the paperwork she’s doing at the coffee table to hide it. It’s still see-able, and Lily can feel herself fill with that gold feeling again, from her toes to the top of her head. She just wants to make Mommy smile. 

She’s been staring at this assignment for hours, and for all her might, she just can’t make sense of these numbers. Stupid logarithms. Stupid math. She shuts her laptop, watches her face turn a glowing white to a healthy gold in her vanity’s mirror. She’ll do it tonight, probably. Or in the morning, before early practice. She hopes her eyes are functional enough to write real, understandable symbols at two in the morning. She hopes she gets enough sleep to even wake up in time. She knows she can help it, but she still feels her stomach sink at the sight of a big, red ‘F’ on a page. She’s glad she does well enough in tests to make up for it, or her spot on the National Honor Society would be someone else’s, and, most importantly, Mom and Dad would flip their shit. 

She flips her phone over where it laid next to her laptop, the screen flashing a text from Amy.

“Sorry babe can’t do tonight i’ve got dance and sth with andrew at like 7 :((( tm tho?”

Dance. It’s always dance. She remembers watching those clips of Amy on her Instagram story like they were miniature blockbusters, watching the way the fabric of her skirt moved when she bent her leg a certain way. How her arms flowed like waves, even if they were made up of jagged bone. Fucking dance. It’s not even a real sport, and Amy breathes it more than air. 

“That’s alright :)) tomorrow then”

She pushes herself out of the spinning chair, pockets her phone and snags her earbuds from off the foot of her bed. Ignores the way her knees pop a bit. She’s been sitting for a while. Besides, she could use the practice.

“Where you going, Lils?”

Her mother calls from the kitchen, not looking up from some ad mock-up. Looks like another Aston Martin thing, if she can read it properly from where she is.

“Practice.”

She calls over her shoulder, stuffing one earbud in. She sees her mother nod, hide a smile behind the palm of her hand. Rare Tashi Donaldson, nee Duncan, approval. Her shoulders roll back, and her spine straightens just a little bit before she makes it through the sliding glass door. 

She came back inside at 11 pm. Four missed calls from Amy and a ‘Hey plans got canceled you still free???’ lighting up her lockscreen, blocking out the tennis ball in the photo of a little her, fairy wings, missing front teeth, and a racket half the size of her current one. Maybe she should change it to her with friends. 

She walks past the empty dinner table, bowl of something still steaming and waiting for her at her usual spot in the corner, dropping with a haphazard flop onto the couch, clicking the TV on.

“So, pick me, choose me-”

“Fifteen found dead in Oakland, Cali-”

“And little Ms. Duncan, daughter of famed tennis couple Art Donaldson and the former Tashi Duncan has had a great season so far. So far, undefeated, and with just a few weeks before the Junior Opens, she really has a shot at the win. Thoughts?”

She sits up a little, watches pictures of her flash, half-way through a grunt, braid whipping behind her. There had to have been a better photo of her.

“Well, Rog, I’d just like to see a little more out of her. I mean, what with her mother being what she was, it’s just a shame to see it look so much more aver-”

The TV is off with a click. She shuts her eyes, rubs at her temples, lightly raps her knuckles against her head like it’d knock out the sound. She thinks they’re wrong. She hates that they’re right. She wishes it was more natural. Everyone knew her mother was dead in a living body till she stepped on that court, and it all clicked into raw, animalistic passion. With Lily? Procedure. She didn’t feel adrenaline, or a spark, or anything but duty. Steps. Tired. She falls asleep in the fetal position, alarm unset. She only has enough time to step out the door before early morning practice when she’s up. 

Her opponent’s get a birth mark on her right shoulder the shape of a ballet slipper. It’s just a little darker than the rest of her skin, only visible when she served. Her mother is sat on the stands behind this girl, hands braced on the rails like she’s ready to pull herself over and onto the warm clay ground beneath her if things go south. But, for now, the score’s even, like it has been the whole match, and that wedding ring is glinting in the light. She’s not even the court and she’s controlling it, back straight and face stony like an emperor watching two gladiators in the colosseum. She just hopes she’s not the one ending with her head detached. 

She can’t see Dad, thinks he’s probably gone to get a hot dog, now that he can eat them again, or maybe he’s just too non-threatening to matter to her right now. But, vaguely, she thinks she remembers hearing a ‘That’s my girl’ in that stupid, slightly nasally voice she pretends to hate as much as she can. You’re not supposed to like your parents at her age. Her mother is staring, she can tell. Those sunglasses don’t hide a thing. She can read her mother better than that, and they both know it. She’s thinking. Something. Something sharp, biting, maybe hurtful. Maybe hurt. She doesn’t see her opponent set up to serve, she doesn’t see the birth mark slip into view, just a bright yellow blur headed her way. She lunges as best she can, practically on the tips of her toes to make it, and she hears a tink. And then a crunch.

She kisses the concrete like it grabbed her by the hair and pulled her in, and her teeth scrape her tongue and leave gapped indents there, heavy and bleeding. She doesn’t hear her mother, or the gasps of the spectators, or the medics asking the other girl to clear the ground. She can hear her own breath, her pulse, and laughter. Wild, hysterical laughter she only notices is coming from her when she looks down and sees her stomach contracting with it. And then she sees it, that abnormal, jagged looking leg of hers. Bone not made to wave. And she cries as hard as she’d laughed.

“Hey, Dad?”

It’s later than he’s normally up. Generally, he’s out at 9 p.m., still careful to be healthy where he can be. Where it’s normal. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? You’ve got prac… what’s up, Lily?”

She bites her lip, shifts back and forth on her feet the best she can. Her right leg is just a bit more bent than the left, wrapped in soft, beige bandages. She didn’t like the brace. She doesn’t want to look at him, so she looks at the wall. There’s a photo of Mom, fist raised, mouth agape in a scream, dress white and pristine. The Junior Opens. She sniffs.

“Can I just… I don’t know. Can we pretend like I’m little again?”

He shifts, pats his lap, smiles like it’s the only thing keeping something aching and raw at bay. Something that’s needed to be touched for years.

“‘Course, Lilybug.”

And she falls into place like it hadn’t been ages. Like she’s allowed to like her Dad, head on his thigh, eyes trained on the coffee table. There’s a letter from some college there with her name on it, somewhere cold and rainy. Somewhere they could use a name to their tennis team. 

“How’s Mom?”

He tilts his head to look down at her, the side of her head, the shell of her ear, the soft lashes of her eyes that are slightly damp. 

“Oh, Lily… how are you?”

She swallows, places a hand on his thigh and squeezes there, not tight, but firm. Like it was a natural place to settle. Something unharmed and soft and a healthy, functional leg. Her throat tightens. The world looks blurry. She thinks the letter says Yale. The water makes it hard to tell. Her voice is just a bit too quiet when she responds.

“‘M fine.”

It’s silent for a moment, one heavy breath, then his lighter one. A volley. She rolls onto her back to look him in the eyes, and finds a spot of brown in the left one. How had she never noticed that before? It looks like the color of Mom’s eyes. Even he’s got her little territorial marks on him. 

“Can I say something stupid?”

He nods, hums his affirmation, waiting like it’s all he wants to do. To look at her and wait and let it just be quiet. She appreciated the stillness. It’s easier to be sad when it’s quiet. It’s easier to love then, too, melancholic and bittersweet and sticky like saltwater taffy. 

“I always wanted to dance.”

He buries her face into his stomach when her lip trembles. She wouldn’t want him to see. He doesn’t want her to see his watching teartracks. In the room over, Tashi sits with her head in her hands and her eyes downcast. She hopes Lily would consider a coaching position.

HELLO?????????????????????

Thwwackkkkkk!

template by: cal-kestis

OKAYYYY 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝

i don't like this, nor am i really sure of what it is, and it is certainly not i wanted it to be, but it exists as it does, and maybe that's alright for now.

As a child, Art spent a lot of time in the nurse’s office, complaining of the typical childhood ailments that Ms. So-and-So, name and face turned beige and fuzzy in the backlogs of his memory, was so weary of seeing. Headaches from staring too long at small font and big numbers, scraped knees from trying just a little harder than everyone else in gym, and stomachaches. Mostly stomachaches. Whenever she asked him to describe the feeling, voice tinged with the sticky-sweet honey of thinly veiled aggravation, he found himself struggling to. It wasn’t pain, per se, or at least not in the traditional sense. No feeling a pulse where there was no heart beneath skin, nothing to dig at with bitten down nails. All that was there was the awareness that something wasn’t normal, or if other kids his age felt that way, they’d never made it known. He chose the word nauseous, usually, and took the time to lay on the old leather bench in the corner of her office, covered in a thin sheet of paper which crinkled each time he moved. The stomachache would never really leave before he went back to class.

When he thought about it, it wasn’t just a feeling beneath the skin that he wasn’t normal, because they clearly felt it, too. Not that he couldn’t hold conversations, tell the right jokes to pull a laugh from a light, youth-filled chest, he could. In fact, he did so quite well. Nana’s little comedian. But he never had friends to come home with after school, crammed in backseats next to the booster of a younger sibling. No one to giggle with over carrot sticks and crustless peanut butter sandwiches at lunch, over girls, sports, maybe just nothing at all. No one who’d send him smiles sans front teeth without having one sent their way first. 

His Nana always said he was perfect, his mother always said it was a maturity thing. The other kids would catch up someday, as if he existed on some superior form of youth more akin to adulthood. An incoming peak in college. But he didn’t know that that was true. He was born a middle-aged man, ready to sleep his days away and eat more than his fill to distract himself from that ache emanating from his very core. And if he was already that old, by the time his peers reached that age, he’d be dead in a living body. He hoped, though, that his mother was right, more for Nana’s sake than his own. He doesn’t think she could bare the weight of a second unlovable child, even if he’s not truly hers.

Tennis had given him something, though. An outlet, in all the ways that didn’t matter. A means of venting his frustrations with himself, his family, his ‘friends’. In the ways it did matter, however, it was medicinal. A balm to alleviate that inherent wrongness within him. The discomfort from being thirty at the age of seven. The overwhelming anger he never showed to anyone, because a boy his age should have no reason to be as upset with the world as he was. It worked magic, though, making strength from thin arms, chiseling stronger features into the stone of a hard-set jaw, pulling new muscle from old bone. It was the youngest he’d ever been, when he was on the court. He hurt afterwards, yes, from soreness, but it felt righteous. Like his suffering, in some form, was meant to be there, even if he hadn’t learned what it was all for yet.

It gave him Patrick, too. The first person who met his eyes and seemed to see through him, not just see what he presented. Patrick was smart, even if he pretended not to be. Art couldn’t understand that for the life of him, why Patrick so often pretended to be stupid. He was naturally more open, confident, out-spoken than Art, yes, but in the quiet of their dorm he found Patrick could be quiet, too. Soft-spoken, gentle if need be. And no one would believe him if he said the boisterous Patrick Zweig had it in him to be soft, much less sweet. But he learned, eventually, as Patrick must have done at a younger age. When Patrick spoke, loud enough to swallow up a room and fill it with himself, and just dumb enough to give people something to poke at, he got attention, validation that he was worth looking towards. Art learned to understand. Art learned to be dumb, too. He learned to become what he wasn’t, or more accurately, who he wasn’t. He felt sick most times for it, the restless, hungry pit in his stomach not necessarily satiated by it, but it quelled it some days. 

When Patrick slung his arm around his shoulders one day, likely only in an effort to show off the corded muscle to the giggling blonde across them, he spoke for Art like he knew what he wanted. 

“We’re going to pro together, y’know, after this is up. Don’t you wanna be able to brag about fucking a tennis player?”

The language made Art wrinkle his nose a bit, but he laughed anyway, entranced by the way Patrick followed up his words with a swig of whatever it was in his cup. Maybe to wash away the gluey, cloying feeling of significance. Maybe just to wash down the guilt. They’d never discussed the matter together, come to think of it, because Art didn’t know what he wanted. He loved tennis, yes, loved Patrick just the same, but he didn’t quite know what it was he wanted to do with himself. It felt like he’d figure himself out if he just waited a bit, after all, that incoming college peak was nearer and nearer to rounding the corner and actually being his life. They still didn’t discuss it when Patrick came home later that night, tugging a shirt back into place where it clearly hadn’t been seconds ago, and he dropped onto the pillow with a heavy sigh, nuzzling his face into it. That asshole couldn’t even be bothered to stay the night. And still, he knew that if asked, he’d do it. After all, who was he without stitching himself to Patrick’s side? He wasn’t sure he knew. It made the offer he’d accepted from Stanford feel that much worse.

After Patrick came Tashi, bright, beautiful, lovely Tashi. And after that Tashi came the hardened one, legs always crossed at the knee like anyone could forget what was hiding. And Tashi saw him reborn into his own greatness, shaky on his knees like a foal. Each time she looked his way, he felt some jagged piece within him, one he’d never known to be out of place, click into position. Maybe it was that she’d kissed him like he thought he’d wanted when he was eighteen, bright-eyed as he could be, but never quite as bright as the other hopeful suitors surrounding her. Maybe it was that he got the attention which she gave out so sparingly. Maybe it was the surgical precision which she stared at him, like she was peeling back each layer of skin to find the brown, softened beginnings of rot. She was like a scalpel in that sense, always opening, opening, opening, and never quite cracking in return. Not even a chip. Each remark, about him, about his game, the occasional reference to a boy they once knew who would never truly be a man, nameless like it’d kill them to say aloud, was a knife. Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, she can practically feel a stab wound forming where their tongues brush in a kiss, the rising copper from it. He thinks she’d still look beautiful with crimson-soaked teeth. She’d be beautiful if she hurt him.

He called Nana about Tashi quite a bit, her voice always shakier than the last time. It always took more and more effort for her to speak, and less and less words would come out. But he took each one gratefully, like a small gift which he’d never done anything to deserve receiving. Just like Patrick’s stolen personality, or Tashi’s stolen career. After all, where he was was just an amalgamation of his only loves’ stolen dreams. He sometimes wonders where he’d be if he didn’t naturally suck the life from all he touched. Nana seemed to like Tashi. The usual questions always came: marriage, children, the future proposal plans. He always laughed about it, huffed and shook his head like he was already an exasperated father, saying ‘someday’ to placate her. Maybe he would make that true, and maybe he wouldn’t. Because when he looked to Tashi, Tashi brushing her hair, Tashi tying the laces of her shoes, Tashi humming just a bit too loud at six in the morning as she brews her coffee, he thinks he’s never deserved anything less. Then again, maybe it’s not about deserving things. Maybe love can genuinely be unconditional, even if it’s for him. He shudders to think. He feels warm. His stomach hurts.