It Viscerally Pains Me Whenever Someone Says Tashi Pushes Art To Do Tennis. Pushes Him To Perform On

Pink in the Night

an: in honor of @blastzachilles birthday (i love you), @glassmermaids comeback (i missed you), and international women's day (go us). it's short but hopefully sweet because i love her so

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The rain hitting the roof above your head is taunting. A million little taunts. Each sound of watery, dull impact is a reminder that your skin is crawling to the point it may very well come off. No amount of tossing and turning, pressure to a new spot on your body, is undoing that nauseating tingly sensation. Stupid. You were, are, so, so incredibly stupid. 

She’s still here, sitting at your desk, like she hopes to forget by surrounding herself in familiarity. Your room was safe. Your room was a place of shared secrets and shoulders to cry on. Your room wasn’t the party you’d just left in some frat house. You hadn’t kissed her here. You don’t understand why she had come, much less why she still hadn’t left. A place she spends her nights where she can’t sleep, a welcome distraction from her exhaustion. Those night visits have grown quite frequent. She didn’t have to be here to watch you wallow. She knows that better than anyone. She’s above letting other people’s problems become her own. 

You told her you were drunk, which is probably why she’d still insisted on walking you home after everything. Her hair was damp to prove it, the hood of her sweatshirt still warming your cheeks. Still sweet to you. Just to you. Why you? Because you weren’t drunk. You had never been so clear-headed in all your life. It was still stupid, a moment of false confidence aided by flashing blue lights and glittery eyeshadow on honey brown skin. It wasn’t the grandiose gesture she deserved. It wasn’t a bouquet of white lilies, her flower of choice, it wasn’t candlelit dinner at the fancy steak place she wants to try, but you can’t afford, it wasn’t the carefully crafted note that’s folded into the drawer of the very desk she now sits at. It’s been sitting there for months, waiting for its turn under her eyes, the way most things do. Everyone waits to be beheld by Tashi, because it feels like being looked at by something divine. Even when scrutinizing, or cruel, there’s an otherworldliness to her. And here she is, a goddess watching her fake drunk friend roll around like a petulant child. A goddess who has to pick up her sweatshirt off of old, dorm room carpet when her hoodie is thrown there.

You lift your head just off your pillow, enough to strain your neck, enough to meet her eyes should she choose to reward you with such a thing. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip for a moment, sticky with gloss she hadn’t put there. Cherry-flavored gloss that she knows you gave her. She smiles, lifts her fingers to her lips to feel it. She wants to seal it to her skin. 

And even if she’s smiling, looking at you as she does so, you’re mortified. You’re never going to forget how she’d looked at you, pushing on your chest to recreate the space that you’d so unjustly taken from between your two bodies. She looked shocked, she looked horrified. Scariest of all, she looked disappointed. She’d never looked at you that way. And she was disappointed, yes, because she hadn’t expected it. Because she hadn’t made the move she was convinced she’d get the shot at. Because she hadn’t touched you when she got the chance. You tasted like cherry lip gloss and the Sprite you’d just tasted. You tasted like a diner Shirley Temple, how cliche. And you smelled like lavender and warm nights in and sex and soft skin and she didn’t even let it happen.

Her eyes shine against the glow of lampposts and the moon, aligned with it just so she shines like the light of it came from within her. Aligned with the celestial, aligned with the feminine, glittering and soft and sharp and witty. Sweet words, taut muscles, long, elegant frame. You admired her body not with hunger, necessarily, but with desire. And there’s a difference, not necessarily in intent, but the way it feels. Because each time she turns her head and more of her collarbone becomes visible, the dip of it shallow, the appearance of thin lines of muscle in her neck, is just another thing to worship. Another place to kiss. Another spot to let her know is well loved. Appreciated. Doing a wonderful job in keeping her whole. You love each and every part of herself she’d given you the honor of seeing. The secrets that you held tenderly in your palms, the insecurities you’d whisper praises into her skin to undo, the memories of smaller things in a world that seemed much bigger, missing teeth, frizzy hair, and you will sing a requiem to her past self. You love her, you love her, you love her. 

She’s still kneeling on that awful, scratchy carpet, the fabric of her poor sweatshirt in hand, and would hate yourself for making tonight one you regret entirely. You’d kissed her once already, just an hour ago, and she can already know what to expect. But you did it wrong. You did it without any of the soft hands, honeyed praise, fluttering lashes, and absolutely palpable adoration that she deserves. Not deserves, requires. It’s an unwritten rule, but one everyone knows is there. She allows you that second chance, long fingers to tear tracked cheeks, yours ghosting over every part you can reach. The position is uncomfortable, awkward, but you can manage. You will take any amount of pain the world can throw at you if you can bask in her presence as a result. You will continue to try and undo the nonexistent damage you’d done, again and again and again. Even when she’s no longer kissing you back, just giggling at the sensation of warm, soft affection to heated skin, you will continue to try. The rain is rhythmically tapping against the roof with each beat of your heart, each inhale and exhale, each touch of her body to yours. She doesn’t leave that night, and you get to watch her, bare-faced and clad in just undergarments, as she lays in your bed. She sleeps easily, peacefully, close but not atop you. She loves you, she loves you, she loves you, and that victory tastes like cherry lip gloss.

loosely (heavily) inspired by talia's edgy sixth grade poetry. hope you enjoy. comments and critiques welcome as always.

When he was about six or seven, he picked up a racket for the first time. Something to get his small body’s endless amounts of energy out. A way for his parents to spend even less time with him. He remembers poking the tip of his pinky finger through the netting, curling his small fingers around the handle, and suddenly he felt whole. He spent the rest of that day bouncing around the otherwise neglected court in his backyard, playing against the gate. He fell, scraped his knees, and grinned down at the peeling skin, the dotting red of blood rising to the surface. A battle scar of sorts. When he came back inside, the sky had grown dark. His parents had forgotten to make him dinner. He couldn’t have cared less. He slept it with it next to him that night, body thrumming with excitement at repeating the same routine when the sun rose. Patrick Zweig was a child once, full of potential for being something.

Tennis stuck around just like the circumstances that bred his attachment to it, a huge house without the love of a home, a neglectful set of parents that felt love was fulfilling obligations. He struggled to understand how he came from them, someone so vivacious, so full of passion for the very act of living, them having died the second they met one another, and refusing to let go and live again. He felt things too deeply to let himself be sad. Sad didn’t exist for him. Sad was too little. He felt everything in extremes, including a deep-rooted melancholy that only tennis could distract him from. His parents had hired a coach, spent the money on a ball machine. He stands tall at his side of the net, moving swiftly, brash as his voice, uproariously as his laughter. Eyes laser focused at all times on the ball, the machine. He couldn’t wait for the day that there would be another person to focus on. He wouldn’t stop some days until he felt numb, certain that his legs would scream from soreness the next day. Until he forgot that he knew how to feel at all. Patrick Zweig was a soldier, racket wielded like a shield at times, a sword in others, defending himself from the knowledge that this was all he had.

He didn’t miss his parents the way other kids did when he got shipped out to Florida. He didn’t necessarily miss his house, either, outside of the convenience of its large size. He remembers his bunkmate, Art, who he hadn’t learned to care for like it was his job yet, crying on the first night there. He wanted to help, really, but what was there to say? It was late, later than two young boys should be up, and he found his bare feet traveling across old, scratchy carpet and into Art’s bed. There was no acknowledgement between the two of them when he wrapped his arms around Art’s shaking body, nor when Art turned around to hold him right back. It didn’t feel uncomfortable for any longer than a second, like the needlepoint pinch of a shot before all you feel is the application of a bandage. Art fell asleep, eventually, and he watched for a while, as soft breaths left his parted lips, the heat noticeable against his chest. His leg had gone numb about 30 minutes ago, but he wouldn’t move until Art did. Patrick Zweig was a blanket, soft, warm and looking to shelter. 

Tennis and Art were second nature, just the way his vices were. He was prone to a night of drinking, sneaking through the dorm halls to find some of the older students’ stashes of cheap beer, smoking cigarettes because he saw it in the movies and was horrified when he began feeling his hands shake when there wasn’t smoke in his lungs, and then there were the girls. Girls who wore too short skirts and had long, pretty legs for him to hold onto, girls who smiled with teeth and had glinting canines that would leave marks in his neck if given the chance, girls who had voices like a siren, and just a call of his name set his mind racing. He thought dating was just liking someone’s presence for a long time. Simply enjoying their proximity, their being, their taste. He wishes he’d learned that wasn’t true before Tashi. No one had ever really told him otherwise. It’s not like his parents were a great example to base his future romantic endeavors on. She handled him with care, in her own way. Let him ease his way into sharing himself with someone that wasn’t Art. She wasn’t gentle, necessarily, but careful. She held his face when they kissed, he remembers. Like he couldn’t keep it up himself. Like he was fragile. It killed him when she let go of him, some argument that never needed to happen had they both not been scared to let things be more than physical intimacy. Patrick wanted it, needed it, craved it like it was air and he’d had his head held underwater. He regretted every bit of harshness that he’d shown, even if he did mean some of it. She was allowed to be mean to him, it was still her attention. He had no right to act otherwise, he'd done nothing to deserve someone like Tashi's kindness. He left, and wanted her to realize that she was losing something beautiful, or at least, something with the potential to be. He doesn’t know what idea hurts worse: the idea she never realized, or that she did, and still let him go. Patrick Zweig was glass, soft and delicate until it shatters, and slices through you like you’re nothing more than paper. 

He imagines the sound that Tashi’s knee might have made sometimes, when he’s got nothing else to distract himself with. He wants to know what the sound of an angel losing its wings, crashing down to human mediocrity, sounds like. He saw it, though, the look on her face. So scared of feeling powerless she wouldn’t even cry with her world crumbling around her. She wasn’t strong, she wasn’t brave, she was just really, really stubborn. Maybe that’s why she’d started screaming when she saw him. Because he could read her. Because if she yelled loud enough, she’d be back at the Open, crying out victory. If her voice was the loudest, engulfing everyone else’s, she’d still won some kind of game. Art, though, didn’t need to do what he’d done. Art hurt him just to stand at Tashi’s side. He’d still forgive him, if he was given the chance. In fact, he did try. His messages never went through. Tashi picked up a call once, one placed in a lonely, slightly drunk stupor. They’d laughed back and forth, banter, insults that he considered playful. His were, anyway. He thought they were making it back to normalcy, until Tashi’s clear, crisp voice said “Go to hell, Patrick” and the only sound left behind was the dull beeping of an ended phone call. He stopped trying after that. Patrick Zweig was a dog, whimpering, waiting by the door for his masters to come home and kick him again. 

He stopped winning soon after that. He had no one to win for, not even himself. He’d left himself in the doorway of that little med area beneath the Stanford tennis courts. He wonders what they did with him. Was he swept away by a janitor with the other garbage? Stepped on beneath Art’s shoe? Silently, he hoped the failure, the constant code violations, would grab their attention for just a moment. It’s better that they think him pathetic than not think about him at all. He’s somewhat grateful for having hit rock bottom, because he no longer recognized himself without some kind of struggle. His parents had stopped caring years prior, and then again, they probably never cared at all. Tennis no longer a refuge, but an obligation, a way to make just enough money to buy himself some food, the gas to fuel his car. The car that’s become his home when no one is there to help him otherwise. Sex has become the refuge. Sex he doesn’t even want to be having anymore. He hardly feels anything but cotton sheets beneath his body, and that spurs him to keep going. Keep going and sleep. He usually leaves, regardless of if he wants to. Sometimes it’s nothing, leaving without notice. But there are times where he’d do anything to be a better man, someone these women deserve. He remembers a girl from White Plains that he would’ve let himself try something with, had he not been so scared. It made the nights leading up to his inevitable departure, wrapped up in her sheets, all the more painful. He watched her face contort and tried to memorize it, though it faded with time, like all things do. He liked knowing he’d done something for her, even if it was killing him inside. At least he’s still capable of doing something good. Patrick Zweig was a cigarette, burning from the inside out just to give someone else their fix, and he loved the ache. He was addicted to it. 

When he met you, he was prepared to make the most of his future loss. He would do anything to make his temporary stay something worth it. He would be good for you, even if he’d be nothing but destructive if he stayed. He didn’t know how to be anything other than self-sabotaging, really. He recognized the look in your eyes as one he’d had years before, youthfulness, passion, a need to make something of yourself, a hope to do that with someone accompanying you. Maybe he liked that he could treat you will, living vicariously through you, giving a version of himself the love he likes to think he deserved, but knows he didn’t. But, little by little, you chipped away at the layers of jadedness buried beneath his skin. He remembers one night, in your bed, you’d held his face for hours, silent, just looking at him, rubbing your thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks. He didn’t touch you in return. He was still scared that anything he laid a hand on would be ruined by him, would ruin him right back. Your hands didn’t come away bloodied, your eyes never turned cold, and when you did speak, it was never above a whisper. When you’d fallen asleep that night, bathed in moonlight, he knew. There was no avoiding the inevitability of being human. He’d forgotten that he still was one. But you’d cultivated him like a seed, feeding him tenderness he’d never been afforded until all he could find it in himself to do was give it back. He blossomed back into something under your hands. A man who laughs freely and touches without shame. The lover he’d always hoped to be, somewhere down the line. Patrick Zweig is just a man, and he’s happy to be something so simultaneously simple and complex. He’s happy to just be.

Inside of ATP’s Tennis bags

Special mention to my girl who gave me the idea @bl4ncanievess 🫀

what is wrong with you

connor murphy perchance with a cheerleader reader who secretly has the same struggles and they bond over that if not them js getting high together and they confess

french exchange student reader with ATP maybe new kid in the academy or player against Tashi, wanting to get all close!!!

hiiii!!! i loved your requests so much. here’s the connor one first 🤭 umm also im sorry i kind of went overboard and felt angsty… don’t hate me

tw: depression, suicide

—

the thing about being a cheerleader is that people assume you’re always happy.

like glitter and pom-poms are a substitute for serotonin. like cartwheels and short skirts cancel out the quiet panic that curls into your ribs at 3am.

but you know better.

and so does he.

connor murphy sits like a shadow at the edge of the world (or at least the school parking lot), head down, eyes daring anyone to look at him too long. you don’t mean to sit next to him. it just happens. like gravity. or like bad decisions.

he looks over, slow and suspicious.

you offer a half-smile and a joint.

“world’s ending,” you say, as explanation.

he shrugs. “cool.“

you pass the joint back and forth like a secret. like a lifeline. smoke curls around you both, and the silence between you shifts from awkward to gentle.

“you don’t seem like the type, you know,” he says finally.

you raise an eyebrow.

“to sit on the ground with me. and do drugs. and not cry about it.”

you laugh. “give it time.”

when the stars come out, you’re still there. his head tilted back, yours resting against his shoulder in a way that feels accidentally on purpose. you tell him things. not the big things—just breadcrumbs. like how you hate pep rallies. how you once cried during halftime. how you wish you could just… not be this person.

he blinks. slow, languid. “same.”

and it’s stupid. and sweet. and kind of sad. and it’s the first time you feel understood in forever.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

he turns to look at you, like the moon’s caught in his eyes.

“i think i’m gonna like you.”

a pause.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“okay. good. me too. but like… don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold. i’m pretty popular.”

you grin. “oh yeah?”

“oh yeah.”

the joint burns out. the night drips quietly on.

—

you start seeing him more. not on purpose, at first. just… by coincidence. or fate. or whatever cosmic joke put the angriest boy in school and the sparkliest girl in the same orbit.

at lunch, you start sitting near each other. not at the same table, not yet. just close enough for the air to feel familiar. for a certain electricity to linger.

he nods at you. you nod back.

it’s stupid. it means everything.

eventually, he lets you into his world. little pieces at a time.

like how his mom keeps pushing therapy schedules into his hands like they’re birthday gifts. how his dad barely speaks unless it’s disappointment wearing a polo.

how his little sister, zoe, plays four instruments, volunteers at a vet clinic, and still finds time to win at everything.

“they love her,” he says, exhaling smoke out the passenger window. “like, it’s easy. natural. with me, it’s like—i have to earn it. and even when i do… it’s not enough.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just reach over and squeeze his sleeve.

later, you say, “my mom makes me smile in photos even when i’ve just had a panic attack.”

and he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole fucking world.

you hang out on rooftops. in empty stairwells. behind the bleachers, where the grass is too long and the world feels far away. you skip class sometimes. not together, but somehow you both end up in the same hallway, sprawled out on the floor like fallen angels.

one day, he mutters, “i’m supposed to be this freak. the scary one. i hear what they say. maybe they’re right.”

you tilt your head. “do you want to be?”

he hesitates. “not always. not really.”

“then don’t be. be whatever you want with me.”

he stares at you like he’s waiting for the punchline. it doesn’t come. just your hand brushing against his. just the ache of being seen.

he starts texting you. a lot.

everything felt perfect. a perfect friendship, a perfect maybe-more-than-friendship.

until it finally snaps.

you’re curled up together in the backseat of his car, parked under the old oak trees near the edge of town where the stars don’t have to compete with streetlights. the blunt burns slow between you, smoke curling like a lullaby.

he’s lying with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded, mouth a soft line.

“do you ever feel,” he says, “like you were made for sadness?”

you comb your fingers through his hair. “maybe. but then you happened. and now i think i was made for you.”

he looks up at you, eyes glassy but focused. his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile.

you expect a joke. a typical connor deflection. something sarcastic to break the tense moment.

instead, he says, “i love you.”

quiet. like it’s the first true thing he’s ever said.

your heart stutters. the world stills.

you whisper, “i love you too.”

and for a moment—just a moment—it feels like everything might be okay. like the universe hit pause on the bad parts and gave you this night, this breath, this boy who sees you like no one else does.

he kisses you, and it’s slow, deep. his lips taste like weed and that raspberry slurpee he’s always got and something saltier—regret, maybe, or all the things he can’t say out loud.

his hand moves to your cheek, unsure, like he’s checking if you’re real.

you are. you lean into him like gravity’s made of need.

your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer—not desperate, just aching.

the kiss deepens a little. not fast. just fuller. like an exhale you’ve both been holding since the first time you looked at each other and didn’t look away.

you fall asleep with your head on his chest, dreaming of maybe.

—

friday, no text.

saturday, nothing.

you send a stupid tiktok. no reply.

you try calling. voicemail.

you tell yourself he’s just spiraling. that he does this sometimes.

but not like this. never this quiet.

by monday, he’s not in school. you wait by your locker. you wait in the usual hallway. you check the parking lot.

his car isn’t there.

your texts pile up.

you start asking people. zoe doesn’t answer her phone. neither does his mom.

your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

you hear whispers in the hallways. an ambulance? a body found?

no.

he could be fine. he could be in the hospital. he could be anywhere. he could be—

you call again. straight to voicemail.

you leave one more message.

voice shaking.

tears falling.

“connor. please. i love you. you said you loved me too. you promised.”

—

eventually it’s confirmed, a monotone, grim announcement over the intercom.

a hushed assembly.

teachers blinking back tears they never showed him in life. posters about mental health taped crooked on hallway walls. a vigil with candles that don’t stop anything from hurting.

no one knows he kissed you like he was saying goodbye. no one knows you held him the night before. no one knows he said he loved you with the stars watching.

and now he’s gone, and you can’t say any of it without sounding insane.

you’re back in uniform the next week.

lip gloss. ponytail. fake smile stretched like skin too thin.

people pat your shoulder. say vague, hollow things like

“wasn’t he that angry kid?”

or

“i didn’t know you even talked to him.”

and you nod. and you smile.

and inside, something is rotting.

you go through the motions like a ghost trapped in the wrong body.

pep rallies feel like static. he was the only one who knew you hated them.

your bedroom walls are too quiet.

his last voicemail is still saved on your phone,

but you can’t listen to it anymore

because his voice feels like a knife now.

you try to tell your mom you’re sad. she tells you to take a bath.

you try to tell your friends you feel like you’re drowning. they say, “we miss him too,” but their voices don’t crack the same way yours does.

that’s because they don’t know. they don’t know you loved him. they don’t know he loved you.

they don’t know that when he died, he took something from you you’ll never get back.

and now you’re stuck.

stuck in this glitter-drenched version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore.

stuck cheering for teams you don’t care about.

stuck pretending your heart didn’t break in the backseat of his car.

stuck waiting for a text that will never come.

you still walk past that same hallway you always met in. you still glance toward the parking lot.

still half-expect to see him there, hood up, eyes tired, mouth already half-smirking at something only you would understand.

but he’s not. and the worst part?

no one noticed he was your whole world.

and now you’re expected to keep spinning.

taglist of my connor friends

@matchpointfaist @ellaynaonsaturn @elliotlovesmacncheese @newrochellechallenger2019

YUCK!

Or: Art and Tashi really should’ve thought harder about becoming friends with benefits

an: sorry the formatting is so wonky?? posting from my phone so it looks odd. anyways this is for the peoples princess @diyasgarden . My wife. Heart.

————————————————————————

To be fair, she wasn’t thinking straight, so she can’t really be held accountable. Sure, she’d always been conscious of Art’s incredibly conspicuous feelings for her, and she wasn’t stupid enough to miss the envy he had for Patrick. All over her. You can’t blame a girl for getting a little high on the power trip. So, when it happened the first time, laying in bed entirely bare besides the brace on her knee, and she rolled over to see him staring at her like that, all warm and gooey like melted chocolate, she knew she’d regret this before it even started. It was so sweet. Gross. But hey, she wasn’t thinking straight. After all, your frontal lobe isn’t fully developed until you hit 25, and she’s skating through the end of her teens.

Now, Art on the other hand, was not grieving quite as much as Tashi was. No ended relationships, at least not romantically, and certainly no career-ending, or at the very least damaging, injuries. Of course, these would only hit him in his 30s, when he’d been molded into the shape Tashi should have taken. To him, this was his shot. I mean, really, he can’t be held accountable. All’s fair in love and war and whatever he and Patrick had going on over Tashi could definitely constitute both. So, yeah, when he was walking her to her dorm from a failed attempt at a practice match, Tashi throwing in the towel early, or more accurately, her body throwing in the towel for her, and she looked up at him with those big, wet, sad brown eyes, it’s really not his fault that he kissed her. I mean, who wouldn’t?

So, it’s been a month or two. A month (or two) of Art dedicating himself to learning how Tashi ticks better than she does, like he’s trying to master a new craft. He handles her with all the delicateness of an ancient masterpiece, careful brushes of his fingers against hard lines and curved edges. He’s clearly been studying, taking mental notes on what makes her brows pinch together in that way he’s quickly come to adore, and what doesn’t. Tashi likes x, Tashi doesn’t like y. Tashi kisses softer than you’d expect her to.

She should’ve expected it, really. And yet, she was still surprised when she looked over one night, Art still gooey-eyed and kiss-swollen from an hour or so well spent, and he manages to croak out a ‘Hey Tash, what are we?’ Tash. That stupid little pet name he’d chosen. As if chopping off the last letter of her name makes her his in a way. Reassigning her from Patrick’s possession to his. It made her chest flutter. It made her stomach roil with nausea. She turns to the other side, pulling the blankets tighter around herself. She doesn’t object when he places a hand on her cotton covered hip. It’s thick enough she can’t feel anything but the weight of it.

It’s not like she didn’t like Art. She did. She wouldn’t bother with dealing with him if she didn’t. The attention was nice, of course. Feeling wanted again. Patrick stopped wanting her, or at least she tells herself so to kill the guilt, and tennis most certainly wasn’t going to accept her with open arms anymore. But Art wanted her. Hurt, healed, grieving, unstable, remarkable her. And, yeah, the sex was good. Very. But she liked him, too. Art who still played against her on the days she was convinced she could still play, and picked her up when she inevitably fell. Art who spent more meal credits on her than his own food. Art who was still waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know.”

She’d have a better answer someday. He nods, she knows so without seeing it, his breath always hitches the same way when he does. She doesn’t like the realization that as much as he might know her, she knows him back. Really knows him. He couldn’t keep a thought to himself to save his life. But the thought of doing anything beyond casual fucking and pretending their interactions mean nothing makes her nose crinkle. Nuh uh. Not right now. Maybe someday, but not right now. She’d feel too bad about it.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder where it sticks out, mumbling a goodnight before he drifts off. Her skin prickles. Her brain gets fuzzy. Yuck

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

OKAYYYY 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝

you already know

fancy

makka pakka akka wakka mikka makka moo or something

I envy that igglepiggle, man. I want a Tiny Boat to be rocked to sleep on under the stars with the sounds of the gentle lapping waves to lull me to sleep. Instead all I've got is Rock Hard Pillow and Bad Mattress and three different people in the same room snoring.

AVAAAAAAAAAAA congratulations angel <3 thank you for putting in so much work to feed my brain with challengersisms. You deserve every bit of 600 and beyond

ava's 600 follower celebration bot drop!

wow, these milestones are flying by so quickly! thank you to every single person who has made this possible. i love all of you, so, so much, and there are not enough words to describe just how grateful i am.

i've received quite a few requests to make bots based on some of my fics, and while i have never made bots prior to this... how could i refuse any of you? without further ado, see below. i hope you enjoy :)

fics are linked to titles!

patrick zweig:

sun on the sidewalk bot

jitters and the vibe bot

art donaldson:

love me harder bot

until the tournament bot

tashi duncan:

let's be friends bot

tagging mutuals and taglist (so sorry if i miss you!): @cha11engers @soaraes @apatheticrater @guadagninolover @glennussy @cherrygirlfriend @peachyparkerr @jordiemeow @asheepinfrance @cybertink @misswrldd @lvve-talks @artspats @jesuistrestriste @empthy0 @slushfaerie @cursedfiles @tashism @grimsonandclover @gibsongirrl @dazedandconfusedlvr @patrickbtman @enterthebadlandss @newrochellechallenger2019 @mirclealignr @ghostgirl-22 @blastzachilles @voidsuites @roryheartz @happenssweet @diyasgarden @foralltheprettygirls @faistology @itsrensfairygardenn @stanart4clearskin @artstennisracket @ellaynaonsaturn @coolgrl111 @222col @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @awaywithtime @artdonaldsonbabygirl @soulxinxthexsky