Hello Beautiful Women In My Phone

Hi jo sorry if this isn’t what you normally write and you can ignore it if you want. I would just love a sort of comfort fic of reader losing their virginity to art but she’s uncomfortable and wants to stop and he’s sweet about it

No pressure I love everything you put out ♡

don't apologise pookie this is sweet :) <3

warnings: 18+ sex (p in v), insecure/uncomfortable reader, loss of virginity, very quickly (+ poorly) written apologies x

This is decidedly not how you expected losing your virginity to go.

Art was a gentleman. Waiting patiently for months, never pressuring you into anything despite the fact he'd spent countless nights leaving your dorm blue-balled and in dire need of a cold shower. Even when you suggested taking that next step, he made you insist several times that it was really what you wanted.

No, he wasn't the problem.

It took fifteen minutes with his head between your thighs for you to cum. That part was great. It was what came next that made things awkward: Art perched above you, one hand entwined with our own while the other guided him into you. The stretch was overwhelming, enough to render you breathless for the next few seconds as he eased in slowly. Each thick, solid inch has your toes curling and your lungs desperately gathering air.

An affirmative nod of your head to confirm that you were okay (you weren't) and he was rocking into you, groaning about how tight and good you felt. Everyone always said it gets better. But it's been two minutes of him thrusting into you, jaw slack with pleasure and eyes screwed shut while he babbles praises senselessly about how well you're taking it, and things are decidedly not better.

You can't take it anymore. The discomfort of having another person so deep inside you, the stretch, the burning pain...

"Art, stop."

He doesn't hear you at first. You're quiet, drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and his ragged sounds of pleasure.

"Art." Your free hand finds his shoulder. Fingers curling into the sweat-slick skin, face strained in displeasure. "Stop, please."

Now you've got his attention. His eyes snap onto yours again, hips slowing to a halt. "What?" He blinks lamely. Despite his initial obliviousness, at least he's stopped moving.

"I just... I can't," you explain weakly, choking on a hitched breath.

It's not the most eloquent reply ever, but what are you supposed to say? This is awful. It's nothing like I expected. I'm having a terrible time. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, it's—

You could say all of that, actually. You just don't want to hurt his feelings.

"Okay," he says, brows furrowing. "Are you, um... are you okay? I'm sorry, was I going too fast?"

His hand moves to push your hair gently out of your face. Sweet boy. You can't find it in yourself to be upset.

"No, you're fine," you reply, trying for a smile. It falls terribly flat.

"Are you—" A pause, hand squeezing yours as he braces himself up on his other one. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you reply, embarrassed by the way his eyes are searching your face with such genuine concern. You wish you could just melt into the mattress and pretend this never happened. "Can you just... can you get off, please?"

"Oh!" He blinks, glancing down. "Right. Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry."

The process of him pulling out is far less agonising, and you breathe a sigh of relief, body relaxing beneath him. He's still watching you with that same worried look as he lays down next to you, fingers twitching by his sides uncertainly.

"Too much?" He asks tentatively. You nod sheepishly, eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't—did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

It feels like the hundredth time he's posed the question, but he's panicking inwardly about your apparent state of discomfort as you shift restlessly, eyes fixated on some point over his shoulder. You feel embarrassed. Guilty. Like a failure.

What's the point in him dating you if you can't even handle sex?

You don't voice any of that out loud, but he can see it in your eyes; the way your bottom lip quivers slightly as the all of the emotions cross plainly across your face. Or how your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice cracking.

"No, no, no. Why are you apologising?" He replies instantly. He lifts a hand, pausing before he makes contact. "Is this okay?" When you nod your head, his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. It's okay."

Your head shakes insistently. "No, I should be able to do it. I mean, what's the point if I can't?"

His knuckles linger against your cheek, and then he laughs. Just a soft huff of amusement, but enough to have you knitting your brows at him.

"What's the point?" He repeats softly, eyes crinkling down at you. "It's just sex, babe."

"Sex is a very integral part of a relationship!" You argue, wiping feebly at your eyes.

"Maybe," Art says, shrugging noncommittally as he watches your aborted attempt sympathetically. "Doesn't mean we have to have sex right now. There's always room to try again in the future, right?"

You hate that he makes sense. It's hard to wallow in your own self-pity when he's looking at you so tenderly, still caressing your cheek. "Right," you mumble reluctantly. "And if the future is never?"

"We'll tackle that hurdle when we get there," he says, dipping his head to kiss the tip of your nose. "Stop stressing. Let's just put a movie on and relax, 'kay?"

You pout at him for a second longer before relenting. Your head falls back into the pillow with a sigh as he settles back beside you, an arm draped across your middle to reach for the remote. A few more sniffles can be heard as you settle down.

"Thank you."

It's quiet, but he hears it. He sends you a soft smile. "You don't need to thank me."

"Well, I am," you reply, shifting to rest your head against his shoulder. All you get in reply is a light chuckle.

A few moments pass as he flicks through the channels before you speak up again. "Can you maybe put your boxers back on? I don't want to see your dick."

He snorts, tilting his head to press a kiss into the top of your hair. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

The war has returned again, Gaza is under bombardment and my area is being subjected to heavy shelling. We have lost hope in our rights. We must evacuate this city where there is no security. Donate to my family again, you are our only hope.

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Vetted by : 90-ghost

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

this sucks but i haven't written in a while so. here you go

Everyone was horrified by your lack of tears. You could see it on their faces. You were supposed to keel over with your knees pressing into your stomach and wail, pounding on the floor like the vibrations would shake through his body and start up his heart again. If that was going to work, he would’ve come back days ago. The night you got the call, you wished you’d been more shocked. You hung up the phone politely, always cordial with his mother despite everything, and screamed. Screamed like the release was enough. Enough to feel better? Enough to wake him up? Who knows. Certainly not you. Now, you don’t cry. You hardly move. Where was there to go when pinned down by a loss this big? Not to sleep. Not to the awakened world that reality brings, either. Not to the middle ground. It’d be easier to snap your fingers and just phase out of existence. You wonder how it’d feel to be sucked into a black hole. You wouldn’t necessarily mind if it hurt.

You didn’t want to see the body. The worst thing you possibly could do for yourself would be to see the body. When you first heard, you tried to imagine what he’d look like, all paper white and green like the veins beneath his wrists. You had a hard time picturing it, initially, because how could you? He had been livelier than people gave him credit for. He lit up during movie nights, grinned like the sun had shone down just for him when he got the curve of your nose in a drawing just right. He’d been so alive. Soon it got easier. You could wipe off the cheap foundation holding him together just enough to look lifelike while lifeless and see if your imagination was correct, but it’d do you no good. It still hurt to see him all colorful, rosy like the blood beneath his skin still flowed. He looked the same. It feels like he’d been dead this whole time. You fear he had been.

The dirt in the ground beneath you had hardened with the cold air, bunching in on itself to create an uncomfortable, constant press against your spine. You tossed, turned, and the earth didn’t move. Nothing had ever bent at your will, really. You weren’t one of the lucky ones. You learned about this once, how cold slows down particle movement, hardens things, molds them into one set form. The smell of misty, post-rain air was still dancing around, the remnants now shining, silvery coatings over the deep green blades of grass which tickled the skin of your cheek. 

If you reached out your hand just enough, it would touch his, and it would still feel like lighting on fire from the inside out. The cigarette between his lips, which bobbed when he swallowed around nothing, sizzled a bit on the inhale, glowing redder with each breath in, and simmering down when the connection was lost. You think you understand how it feels. You could’ve kissed him if you wanted to, but you’d never liked the way that cigarette smoke lingers on your tongue, wraps around your hair like ivy and burrows itself between the fibers of your clothes. So you just watched as he breathed life into it, cherry glowing brighter, brighter still, a flaming, striking orange, then reducing down to a deeper red. 

If it weren’t so cold, maybe the stars would;ve seem less hazy. The world always seems muddled this time of year, all soft lines and blending colors, like each texture was bleeding into the other. Then again, maybe it was just your eyes. But still, they glowed for you, for him, maybe for the pair you made up. 

“Do you think that you’ll ever be okay knowing this is it?”

He had a way of speaking that makes everything sound significant, like a weight off his chest comes with each syllable that funneled up from his throat. It’s one of those things you love about him, one of many. Sure, he’d had his flaws, like all people do, but when he made something as simple as a greeting sound like a poem, it’s almost indescribable, the sensation of hearing him say that he loves you. 

“I think that’s fine with me. It’s not like things are stuck here. I can still move around a little bit. You know, make friends, get a job. Things that aren’t concrete.” 

He hums, tilting his head up as if he’s going to nod, but he never drops it back down. He just keeps staring up, up and away. Almost like something is looking back at him. You hope whatever God is holding his gaze is one of the pleasant ones, all white, flowing dresses and feathered wings. 

“Do you think you’ll be ok with it?”

He shrugged, took a breath. 

“It’ll have to be enough.”

You itch with disgust at the memory. The stupidity you’d always had. It’d never be enough. Maybe ‘it’ wasn’t anything you could ever understand. He’d been the smarter one. You step outside of the funeral parlor, hands shaking as they dig through your purse, pulling out a small box of cigarettes you haven’t yet learned to stop coughing around. You hope the smoke which fills your lungs doesn’t leave, settling into a hard soot against you. You settle it between your lips, the lighter setting it aglow. You breathe in, choke at the harshness, and suck in harder. It better stick into each and every hair. It better turn your teeth yellow with damage. It’s like kissing him all over again.

fellow tummy hurt-ee

fart donaldson :( he wanted to become a cloud when he grew up :( but he had to do tennis :( and now his tummy hurts :(

thank you @blastzachilles @cha11engers!

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

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

i hope your dream turtles treat you so so well annie this is so cute

annie mon amour!!!! handing over creative liberty to you for a blurb with patrick and the line “Did you know you talk in your sleep?” (because i do in-fact talk in my sleep)

In The Middle Of The Night

Patrick Zweig x Reader

In the middle of the night, Patrick can sometimes hear you talk in your sleep.

Accompanies a Bot Drop -> here!

SFW

1,263 words

Domestic Patrick

Patrick has had years to grow acustomed to uncomfortable sleep enviroments. An air matress of the floor of Art's old dorm while his friend stayed up studying for classes he couldn't focus on during the day; the back of his car among everything he owns under streetlights and the fear that this was the night someone would break in; cheap motel beds that wouldn't pass a blacklight test with a couple the room over either fighting or fucking against the wall. As he likes to put it, he's made his bed and now he will lie in it. It was all for tennis.

Then you came along and turn it all on its head, like you found him in his made bed and decided to take it upon yourself to tuck him in and give him a kiss on the forehead. Meeting you meant finally having a good place to rest.

He was surprised by the simple impact that having you in his life had on his tennis. Who knew a few weeks of proper sleep, actual meals, and a heart to hold on to actually made you a functioning person. Those deep circles you met alongside him initially now faded to a soft, almost impercievable hue dusting below Patrick's eyes. That stubborn ache in his knees, back, and wrist that never quite seemed to go away until your hands and your whispers and time off all together finally gave him some reprieve from the pain. Patrick has never been against settling down and being an honest man, he's been close before, but he's never found someone who seemed to want to do it with him. Then, you grabbed his hand under the stars of an Olive Garden parking lot after taking a peak at his backseat-living arrangement and now he's finally found that someone.

You never expected this for yourself, either. You've been known to be caring, to help whoever would accept your help, but life had a habit of getting in the way of the truly good things in life for you. Keeping a job was never easy for some reason no matter how hard you tried, there always seemed to be someone better waiting for you to slip up. Family called and called but never quite listened, friends drifted off into their careers and travels. It all went too fast for you. The only time you felt like the universe was finally in its place was when you were in your bedroom.

It was a bit of pain to build up, a labor of love. Not that you actually built it, you were only a renter of course, but just getting it to where it needed to be. Renter friendly wallpaper bought on months when work was good, cheap DIY projects when it wasn't and you needed something else to focus on. One time you managed to convince a coworker to help you after work set up a canopy above your bed with an old quilt your grandmother had, and it was one of your favorite additions. It felt safe, like the embrace of your grandmother, and seeing it every night gave you a sense of comfort you didn't have before. Your second favorite addition was the star projector.

You had saved up for that one, and it came after Patrick did into your life. It wasn't one of those cheap ones, it was a nice one, with a bunch of settings and scenes and colors, even functioning as a noise machine. The soft changing colors dancing on your ceiling and canopy made it easier for you anxious or stressed mind to drift off, focused instead on the moving stars and galaxies.

You had so many pillows, all with different covers because matching wasn't something you were interested in. A weighted duvet, soft duvet cover, and an extra, thinner blanket underneath it all juuuust in case you wanted something more to snuggle under.

It seemed like so much when Patrick first laid eyes on it all, your room a true reflection of you; Its warmth, its color, its comfort. Then, the first night he stayed over, he understood the madness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so deeply.

The star projector illuminated your sleeping face brilliantly with sleepy blues and warm greens, like you were something in a dream come true. Patrick's eyes traced over every features, humming to himself in the quiet. It was usually quite easy for him to fall asleep, but some nights like this there's a quiet feeling in the back of his mind that keeps him awake. When he was a kid, his solution was to creep down stairs and hide in the endless garden of his home, watching the fountains and listening to the water and night sounds until sleep finally crept up on him. Here, your soft snores and little mumblings in your slumber were his lullaby.

When he moves a strand of hair from your face, you don't budge, so deep in the sleep you deserve. Patrick even giggles when he notices a small trail of drool on the corner of your mouth, wiping it with his sleeve. You're so... Patrick can't even think of the word. Something about you is just so right, so everything when you're asleep. You're peaceful. You're a picture of tranquility. The wrongs of the world don't bother you. It gives him a sense of relief, like it's the one right thing in this world. Everything feels like it's gone to shit around you, but still you find your peace in the end.

He likes to wonder what you're dreaming about. Sometimes Patrick will turn to lie on his back, staring up at the canopy of your bed and let his eyes follow the swirling trail of stars and light. He used to think the light would bother him, but it's quite the opposite. And as he watches, his mind will drift to everything and anything about you. Call him a fanboy, it's probably a fitting title.

Sometimes you answer his curiosity. It's his favorite when you do.

Sometimes, when he's particularly awake and comfortable and lost in his daydreams, Patrick will hear a small murmer from his side, and then he'll turn and find you talking in your sleep. Often it's too broken up to understand or follow, or just complete nonsense, but he still enjoys listening and trying to come up with what you're dreaming.

"Put the... put it in there. No, I don't want to give it."

"I've got a lot of... mh, she'll understand. Tell mom what it... mh,"

If he's feeling extra curious, a small smile pulled to the corner of his mouth as he returns to lying on his side and watching you, Patrick will ask you things.

"Too much, too much. I can't carry all of that..."

"What can't you carry?"

"Shoe boxes everywhere... that turtle needs to stop."

"Is the," Patrick starts laughing mid-sentence, "Is the turtle giving you too many shoe boxes?"

"Mh, too much."

When you wake in the morning, dream forgotten the moment your eyes flutter open and your arms stretch out, Patrick curls into your side with a long sigh as another smile creeps on his lips. "G'morning. How'd the turtles treat you?"

You give him a confused look, stopping in the middle of your stretch to look down at his covered face and ask him what he means. He does this sometimes, asking you things you don't quite understand when you wake up.

"Nothing." Patrick chuckles, pulling you back down for an extra five minutes of sleep before another day of work. "Just a dream I had."

annie can we kiss under the slide

Snippits from "Endure" [sfw]

A longer piece I'm slowly working on, exploring Patrick's life. It jumps back and forth from the past to the present as he recalls moments from his childhood while also visiting his family properly for the first time in years. If you've stuck around, you've seen me post bits from this before.

I'm taking a mini-break for school right now so I don't have anything new and complete, but I'd like to give you guys a little more from what I've shared before. This is my favorite work in progress right now!

Patrick has a small list of memories he allows himself to think about. He prefers the company of the time he first kissed a girl ('02, Cindie McLoud), or the last time he got a ribeye steak, imagining how the juice pooled down his tongue and throat, the rosemary butter in his nose and the meat in his teeth. They were bittersweet, but they passed the time and dulled the ache in his heart.

His longing heart. How it begged for Patrick to remember more.

There are times he lets himself remember, crystal clear recollections that he calls to only when the cold of winter nips at his bones through the door of his CR-V, the heater cranked too high and Hot-Hands stuffed everywhere he can get them. When the memory of a ribeye does nothing for the groaning rumble of his stomach, as his account mocks him with $27.89, and his tank teasing E. It was a different kind of pain to feel than the freezing bite of cold.

He's biting the end of an unlit cigarette so hard he can taste the filter and even the nicotine, grimacing and spitting it out onto the sidewalk. When he moves to grab another one to light, the pack's empty. Everything Patrick has left is for gas and something to eat tomorrow, so he leaves it, going back to staring at the house before him.

Patrick hasn't been here in almost fifteen years, but it feels like the most familiar place on Earth. He could still map it out, give every corner and every secret and every detail with his eyes closed, tell you the best spots to hide. It almost feels good to be back, like something died in him is giving its last croaking breath and reaching out to that house, and he wants to just shove it back in and turn around.

His father, narrow-browed and imposing at the head of the table, sipping from wine as he fired accusations across to him.

"How's your forehand? It better be improving."

"I've spoken to your coaches, do you think you're doing good? Don't lie to me, boy"

"Your teachers say you've been slacking off. Is this how your mother and I raised you? A slacker. A failure?"

The last one spoken as he loosened his tie, the table quiet and as tense as a pulled bow. Everyone waited for his fingers to slip, for the arrow to shoot. Patrick could feel it strike him right in his heart. His longing heart.

"Your mother and I've decided you're staying during the breaks. It's a waste of time— I'll pay someone to keep coaching you there."

He was bleeding into his lap, sputtering onto the table, pooling across the floor beneath him and soaking into his socks, and nobody cared to ask.

The next Christmas break is spent on the court, hitting targets and biting the inside of his cheeks. Going back to climb into his empty room with his arms screaming exhaustion and legs shaking with every step, Art's side silent and empty, with a small envelope on his bed and $500 inside. Flipping the envelope upside down. Maybe, just maybe... no. No card.

His eyes stayed on the flashing red and green lights out his window, wondering what they're doing back home, listening to Backstreet's Back low on Art's stereo. Imagining the taste of his grandmother's challah and brisket and wishing his father was pulling that bow and pointing it to his chest at the table. Patrick whispered what he thought he'd say, harsh and cutting and accusatory, the words seeping into the wallpaper and holding them for him.

He couldn't look at it, at those walls holding his pain in its pores. Patrick could hear them spoken back like an echo, and covering his ears did nothing to stop them. The words like water seeping through the cracks in his fingers, pouring and absorbing into him until they became everything he is. His whole body the voice of his father across the table. Even now, at thirty-one, he's never been wrung dry.

life is the most beautiful it's ever been

you can't look at tashi whenever the two of you are intimate; she's just too pretty (nsfw)

like right now, as she lay on her stomach, hands gripping the fat of your thighs as her mouth went to work on your eager pussy. you can feel her everywhere at once and it drives you insane. the grip she has on your thighs has you hissing in pleasurable pain every time you try to get away from the overwhelming feeling and it tightens, pulling you impossibly closer to her mouth. the feeling of her hair in your hands as you grasp onto anything to keep you tethered to solid ground, silky strands slipping through the gaps between your fingers and framing her devastatingly beautiful face. and of course the feeling of her mouth on you, tongue licking up any trace of arousal before she's gently sucking your swollen clit into her mouth.

you know, without a doubt, that she looks beautiful right now, between your thighs, as she steadily guides you to another mind-numbing orgasm. you also know she's looking at you, waiting for your eyes to meet hers so that she can finally push you over the edge you've been teetering on forever now. yet you can't do it, you can't open your eyes and look down because you know the sight alone will leave you breathless, and this'll all be over way sooner than you'd like.

you still feel her pull away from you though, hand leaving your thigh to intertwine with your free hand that had the bedsheets beneath you in a death grip. she coos at you softly, sweetly urging you to open your eyes and you can't find it in you to disobey her so you do just that, finally willing yourself to look down at the girl perched between your spread thighs.

and when your eyes meet hers, you swear you can see them light up, a small smile stretching across her glossed lips at your compliance. the sight of her alone has you clenching around nothing, the knot in your stomach pulling more and more taut as you watched the way the bottom half of her face glistened with traces of you. the way the loose tresses of hair stuck to her cheeks, baby hairs matted to her forehead from sweat and the way her dark eyes stared at you half-lidded as if the holy grail was right between your legs. "keep your eyes on me, okay?" she says, and you nod without hesitation, yet when you see her head lowering once again, you have to stop yourself from throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath you.

she's licking a slow path up the expanse of your cunt, eyes unmoving from yours and so intense it makes you shudder with a punched outmoan. when her mouth finally meets your clit once again, eyes crinkled in amusement at your blissed out face, you feel the floodgates finally burst, white spots in your vision as your hand tightens its grip on her hair, just to feel her moan against your pussy. your hips buck wildly into her face, drawing out your orgasm for as long as you can and she takes everything you give her, not stopping until she feels your grip in her hair loosen and hears the way your head finally plops down on the pillow. you're beyond fucked out, breathless and drifting on cloud nine, and don't have to look at her to know she's sporting a smug smile.