Im Gonna Hold My Knees And Cry

Take It Like a Champ!

or art and reader are loser virgins

an: hey look its talia trying smut out. and it even got the art donaldson seal of approval (see first photo). specialest of thanks to @artstennisracket, @cha11engers, @jordiemeow, @diyasgarden and the BIGGEST special thank you to @newrochellechallenger2019 i love you all. this was the poll thing so wooooo hope you enjoy.

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Trying to watch movies with Art is always a thing. First, he’ll take at least seven bathroom breaks. Every time. Without fail. It’s kind of impressive, but a part of you doubts that he even needs them beyond that weird calm that just comes from sitting in a cold, tiled room for a few minutes. By the time his fingertips have gone pruney from the amount of times they’ve been run under the faucet, he’s digging under his bed for snacks, looking almost canine with the way he scratches at nothing but carpet, legs sticking out behind him. You’ve brought them, too, knowing the routine, but he absolutely insists on pitching in with a three month old bag of unsalted popcorn. But hey, it’s the thought that counts. But you’re finally here, and his hyperactive body just won’t sit still. It wouldn’t bother you if he wasn’t absolutely insistent on holding you between his open legs, back to chest, chin to shoulder, and watching you watching whatever chick flick it is you’d brought (he thinks that’s Mark Ruffalo?). Unfortunately for you, he is that insistent, and so is whatever has been poking at your back for the past 34 minutes and 52 seconds, based on the time left on the movie (‘Wait, you’ve never seen 13 going on 30?).

“Art, if you keep pressing your bony fucking knees into me, we’re gonna have a problem.”

He swallows around nothing, close enough you can hear the saliva in his throat push over itself in a wave and glide down his throat. He nods, spreads his legs a bit wider allowing you more room. Huh. Must be his keys. 

“Art, seriously, can you-”

And then you’re met face to face with a bright red Art with quite the obvious issue. 

“Uhmm…” you both say at the same time, staring at each other, eyes wide, breathing heavy. 

“Shit, sorry. I am so fucking sorry, I can’t control it-”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine! I mean, it’s like, nice? No, it’s flattering, or-”

You both stop rambling at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes and giggling like idiots. Bashful around each other for the first time in the months since you’d started seeing each other. Seeing each other? Sounds too adult. Regardless of a label on things, it’s been months of innocent kisses and this stupid movie night routine, and absolutely nothing beyond a bit of hands under shirts and slipping tongues. There was one time he caught you changing after a shower, down to just some ugly cotton panties you’d never choose to wear if you knew he’d see them and a bra, and he got so embarrassed he left the rest of the day.

“Do you… want me to do something about it?” 

He looks down, and if the fact he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon is telling you anything, it’s that he wants you to.

“No, uh… ‘s fine.”

Oh.

“So… um…”, you both say simultaneously, lips pulling into Cheshire Cat grins. ‘You first!’, ‘Jinx!’ It’s cute, in a way, to be so in sync, but it’s really not getting you anywhere.

“Art… I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, but are you sure you don’t want some… assistance with that? For one, I feel like that’s gotta hurt, but also I wouldn’t offer unless I wanted to.”

He seems to go brain dead for a moment, staring at you with his jaw hanging open, and he doesn’t even notice when you place three fingers under his chin to pop it into place. You can practically see your words slowly bouncing around the inside of his skull, not unlike the DVD screensaver. All at once, he comes back to consciousness, haphazardly tugging at his shirt to pull it over his head. 

“Yeah, fuck, please-”

The sudden transition from entirely reluctant to stripping like his clothes are burning off his skin is a bit jarring, but you aren’t going to even pretend to be upset about it. Especially not when he finally gets his sweats off (‘Ha… sorry, these are… strings are really tight’) along with his boxers and he’s staring at you like you’ve got the solution to all his problems in your potentially capable hands… or mouth. 

He leans up on his elbows, loose and uncoordinated in his movements like a poorly handled marionette, to press a brief kiss to your lips. He settles back down, staring at himself like he’s never seen his own body before, then meets your equally shocked gaze. 

“Um… good luck?”

You roll your eyes, don’t even justify the comment with a ‘thank you’, and start searching your wrist for a hair tie. That’s a thing girls mention when they talk about giving head, as you can recall from drunken conversations with your much more adventurous friends.

“Why are you scratching your wrist so hard?”

You look down. Not one in sight. Awesome.

“Shush. Just let me… do it.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but closes it soon after, shrugging briefly as he lays back. Look down, look up, his eyes are screwed shut so tight his eyelids have wrinkled.

“Why do you look so scared? I’m not gonna, like, bite it or anything. I mean, unless you want me to-”

“I do not.”

You huff, suck in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. You lean down, tentatively poking your tongue out from between your lips to take his weeping tip in. You press a light kiss to his thigh first, smooth skinned and just as red as the rest of his body from some combination of heat and anticipation. 

“Eugh.”

He pops his right eye open, leaving him perpetually winking, his face running even redder. God, this man cannot hide anything he’s feeling to save his life, and especially not right now. 

“Is it bad?”

“No, you just… it’s like pool water.”

“It’s like what?”

He shuts up fairly quickly when you pick up where you left off, thank god, dipping his head back. Right back to the clamped shut eyes, which hopefully isn’t an indication of anything hurting. Hopefully. 

It’s an odd feeling for sure, being close enough to legitimately taste him, and he smells kinda sweaty in a way that’s somehow still appealing? You’ll never quite understand how everything he does manages to have this innate beauty to it, and that includes the gross, human being stuff, too. He’s fucking whiney, too. You’re not entirely sure that he isn’t in agony at this point, considering the way he’s writhing around. Whimpering. Pathetic. Cute. When he grabs at your hair, though, just a bit too tightly to be pleasant, you get the idea you’re doing a good job. Bonus points for removing the need to tie your hair back. You can feel your throat starting to burn a bit from the lack of oxygen, sucking in a sharp breath through your nose, though it still feels inadequate with everything else. Art couldn’t care less, that or he’s genuinely too unaware of his surroundings to notice the incredibly obvious gagging on your end, caught up in babbling up at the ceiling about how good it feels, hands covering his closed eyes. 

“Wait, shit, hold on-”

You register the feeling of something hot shooting down your throat before the words, pulling yourself off of him with a wet pop and a hacking cough. You glare at him through teary eyes, obviously provoked by his carelessness, pushing air out of your lungs and into the crook of your elbow. When you look down at the skin, little flecks of white appear mixed in with your spit. Gross.

“W-hat the fuck, Art?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just thought- I don’t know, I thought you’d take it like a champ!”

This absolute moron. When you’ve caught your breath again, you crawl up the length of his body to press a kiss to his pretty, pouting lips and god please don’t let there be cum on your mouth. With the enthusiasm he returns it with, hands pressed flat on your back, softly humming from the back of his throat, you’re guessing there’s not. Or he likes that there is. Neither would shock you. You sit back on your heels, wipe your lips, they’re clean, and seem all too proud of yourself for having given what was probably just subpar head. 

“So… come here often?”

He frowns, looking genuinely concerned for far longer than was comfortable. 

“Babe, that was the first time we’ve ever-”

“Jesus Christ, let’s just go to bed.”

OKAYYYY 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝

OMNOMNONMONMONMNOMNOMNONM

let's be friends | tashi duncan x reader (patrick zweig x reader)

warnings: SMUT 18+, cheating

It starts with a look.

Not a dramatic one. Not a sweeping, heart-stopping, violins-in-the-distance kind of look.

Just a glance. Too long. Too soft. Too knowing.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor in Patrick’s living room, a beer in one hand, your chin tipped back with laughter—warm and open and a little too loud—over something Art said that wasn’t even that funny. The TV flickers in the background. Someone’s half-finished drink sweats on the coffee table. The room smells like takeout and fabric softener. And Tashi watches you laugh like it’s something private. Tashi’s on the couch behind you, sprawled out like she owns the place—because she kind of does. And when you tilt your head to glance up at her, something in her expression sticks.

It’s not surprise. Not amusement.

Interest, maybe.

And then it’s gone.

You blink. You sip. You look back to Patrick, who’s started ranting about some guy on the challenger circuit who swings like a puppet.

But it lingers. A seed planted.

---

The first time you met Tashi, she barely looked up from her phone.

You’d just started seeing Patrick—two dates deep, that giddy sweet spot where everything is effortless and full of potential. He brought you to a casual post-practice dinner with Art and Tashi, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t them.

Art had been polite. A little cold, but not unkind. Tashi had nodded at you once, then gone right back to whatever was happening on her screen.

You weren’t offended. You were the new girl. You were used to that.

But later that night, she’d called you smart. Offhand. Like she’d been listening the whole time.

After that, you started seeing them more. Group hangouts. Drinks after matches. Late nights in Patrick’s apartment where everyone ended up on the couch together, legs tangled and shoulders pressed close.

Tashi was magnetic without trying. Loud in bursts. Quiet in corners. She made fun of Patrick constantly. She never complimented you directly, but she remembered your favorite lollipop flavor, which bar bathroom had the clean mirror lighting, which playlist you always skipped the third song on.

At first, you thought she just liked knowing things.

Then you started noticing the way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

And the way your stomach flipped every time she did.

You told yourself it was fine. You were just becoming close. Girls got intense sometimes. Friendships could blur at the edges.

But the edges kept blurring.

And she never did anything about it.

Until she did.

---

One night, Patrick’s out getting another round, and Art’s halfway into an argument with the bartender about the definition of a double.

Tashi leans in close. Not too close. But closer than she usually sits.

“Do you always stare that much?”

You freeze. Your beer is halfway to your lips.

“I—what?”

She’s smirking. Lazy. Crooked. Her knee bumps yours.

“I’m just asking,” she says. “Because if you do, I could get used to it.”

You blink. The music is too loud. The lights too warm.

Then Patrick’s back with drinks and a stupid grin, and everything rearranges again.

But you’re not the same after that.

Neither is she.

And you both know it.

---

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It happens in moments. Small, dumb ones.

You start riding with her even when Patrick offers. You ride with her on slow mornings and fast ones, in silence and with music blaring. You ride with her because it’s easier. Because it feels better. Because it’s starting to mean something, even if you won’t admit it. You find yourselves pairing up on game nights, trading insults and high-fives that linger too long. Fingers brushing. Knees knocking. Looks held for just a beat too long. You steal sips of her drinks. She steals fries off your plate. You start texting her things that don’t need responses. She starts answering them anyway.

She starts calling you by your last name, in a voice that’s always teasing, always warm. You start finding excuses to touch her—grabbing her wrist to show her a song, brushing hair out of her face like it’s natural.

One night, you fall asleep on her shoulder during a movie, and when you wake up, she’s still there. Arm around you. Her fingers tangled lightly in the hem of your shirt.

Neither of you mention it.

But the next day, she texts you a selfie from her car, lip gloss perfect, eyebrows smug, with the caption: still waiting on my cuddle review.

You laugh harder than you should.

You send her a voice memo back. “Four stars. You run hot and you snore.”

She sends another photo immediately. This one’s worse. Or better. Her middle finger is up. Her lips are still curved in that smile you’re trying very hard not to memorize.

Five stars now? she asks.

And maybe it’s just fun. Maybe it’s just harmless.

But it doesn’t feel harmless when she watches you in group settings like you’re the only one there. It doesn’t feel harmless when you dream about her hands. When you wake up aching.

It doesn’t feel harmless when she shows up to a hangout in a tank top that’s definitely not for the weather, and you can’t stop staring.

And it definitely doesn’t feel harmless when she catches you.

When she licks a little melted ice cream off her thumb and says, without looking up, “You know, you’re allowed to want things.”

You don’t answer.

But you want.

God, you want.

And that’s the part that starts to ache.

Because Patrick is good. He’s kind. He kisses you like he means it and holds your hand like he’s proud of it. You like him. You really do.

But every time his lips find yours, every time his hand slides across your back and pulls you close, there’s a flicker of something traitorous at the base of your skull.

What would Tashi taste like?

It’s not a conscious thought. It’s not even loud. It’s just there. Present.

And when you open your eyes after a kiss, gasping, dazed, flushed from how sweet he always is with you—there’s still a name pressing soft against the edge of your thoughts.

And it isn’t his.

---

One night, it’s just the two of you. Rain tapping against the window, some old movie playing quietly in the background. Patrick’s hand finds yours where it rests on the couch cushion, fingers linking with yours like he’s done it a thousand times.

He kisses you slow, soft, like he wants you to feel how much he means it. And you do. You kiss him back, warm and grateful, even as something coils in your chest.

When you pull apart, he smiles against your cheek. “I’m really glad you get along with them,” he says, voice low. “With Art. With Tashi.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

He laughs a little. “Tashi’s hard to impress. But she likes you. You know that, right?”

You swallow. You try to keep your voice even. “Yeah.”

“She told me she was glad we were dating.”

That makes your chest clench in a way you can’t explain. Your heart aches, confused and guilty.

Patrick presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re my favorite person. And I think it’s kinda cool that my favorite people are becoming friends.”

You close your eyes.

You wish that was all it was.

---

It happens on a night that feels like any other.

You’re at her place. Music low. A bottle of wine cracked open even though you both swore you were only staying in for a quiet night. There’s a half-hearted movie playing, and she’s sitting close enough that your knees touch. Not in a dramatic way. Not even on purpose. Just enough to feel it.

You're laughing at something she said—something ridiculous and small, and the sound sticks in the air between you. She watches you for a second too long. And you feel it.

Your stomach turns over. The kind of flip that’s not new anymore, but still dangerous.

She shifts on the couch, facing you more fully. Her fingers drum lightly on the stem of her wine glass. You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. Your mouth keeps moving, but your brain is stuck on the way her eyes flick down to your lips.

The tension stretches—taut and humming and painfully quiet.

And then she says your name.

Soft. Careful. Not a tease. Not this time.

You stop.

Tashi leans in. Just a little. Enough.

“Tell me to stop,” she says.

You don’t.

So she kisses you.

It's not rushed. It's not wild. It’s gentle. Testing. The kind of kiss you give when you’ve thought about it too many times to pretend you haven’t.

You gasp against her mouth before you can stop yourself. Her hand comes up to cradle your jaw.

And when she pulls back, she doesn't move far. Just enough to murmur—

“Don’t you wanna?”

Your chest rises too fast.

And you nod.

You really, really do.

She kisses you again, deeper this time. Her hands are on your waist, sliding under your shirt, fingers spreading across your skin like she’s trying to memorize you by touch.

You moan—quiet, shocked by how fast it unravels you. Tashi catches it with her mouth, her tongue slipping past your lips with such practiced ease it makes your thighs press together.

“You always this easy to kiss?” she whispers, tugging at your shirt. “Or is it just me?”

You breathe out a laugh—shaky, dizzy. “It’s you.”

She grins against your skin. “Thought so.”

She’s pushing you back onto the couch before you realize it, hovering over you with one hand braced beside your head and the other sliding down your body.

When her hand slips under the waistband of your pants, your hips buck. You gasp again, louder this time, and she watches you—eyes heavy, lips parted, like she’s starving.

“You gonna let me?” she asks.

You nod, too fast.

She hums, pleased, fingers slipping lower, slow but deliberate. The first press of her thumb to your clit has you whimpering.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“God, you sound good,” she mutters, kissing your neck, your jaw, your cheek. “Been thinking about this every time you wore something tight and acted like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you gasp.

Tashi laughs. “Liar.”

And then she’s inside you, two fingers curling just right, and you’re gone—hips rolling, back arching, her name a broken whisper on your lips.

She takes her time. Watches every twitch, every breath. Brings you right to the edge and holds you there, kissing you slow until you’re trembling beneath her.

“Let go,” she whispers. “Come on. Let me have it.”

And when you do, it’s with a cry you couldn’t hide if you tried.

You collapse into her, flushed and panting.

And she kisses your shoulder like she's done it a billion times before. Maybe she has. Just not in real life.

---

After that night, nothing feels casual anymore.

You don’t talk about it. Not directly. But the way she touches you changes—more often, more deliberate. She stands too close. She doesn’t look away as fast.

And you let her.

You let her every time.

But it twists something sharp in your stomach when you see Patrick. When he kisses your cheek or brings you coffee or grins like he still thinks he’s the only one who gets to make you blush.

You can’t meet his eyes when he says, “Tashi says we should all hang out again this weekend. You in?”

You say yes.

You always say yes.

But it feels like lying now. Even though it technically isn’t.

Technically.

You think maybe you were fine until the second time it happened. The second time Tashi kissed you like she couldn’t help it. The second time she made you come with her mouth on you and a growl in her throat.

Because this time, when it’s over, she doesn’t move.

She stays. Curled up behind you on the couch, hand splayed on your stomach like she belongs there. Like she wants to be there in the morning.

You lie there wide awake, her breath warm on your neck, and you realize something you really didn’t want to know.

You’re not the only one who caught feelings.

And now it’s harder to pretend.

Tashi holds you like it means something. Like it has meant something. And you let her, night after night, long after the tension gave way to touch.

But something shifts in the quiet. In the way she presses her face into your neck when she thinks you’re asleep. In the way her fingers twitch when Patrick texts you.

You start noticing things.

Like how she doesn’t meet your eyes when she says his name. How she jokes about him less now. How she touches you softer after.

It should make you feel wanted.

Instead, it makes you feel split down the middle.

Because Patrick’s still sweet. Still good. Still smiles at you like you’re his whole world.

And you keep smiling back.

Even as part of you starts to wish he wasn’t in this picture at all.

---

It happens by accident. And then, almost instantly, it doesn’t feel like one.

You're at Patrick's. All of you. A lazy Saturday stretched too long, half-dressed in your comfiest clothes. Tashi’s curled in the armchair. You’re on the floor with your back to the couch, between Patrick’s knees. He's absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair while watching something dumb on TV.

And Tashi says something—something that makes you laugh. You throw your head back, and she catches your eyes. The smile she gives you is soft. Real.

Patrick notices.

You feel his fingers pause against your scalp.

“You two have been really tight lately,” he says, not accusing, not suspicious. Just curious.

You freeze.

Tashi shifts, unfazed. “She’s fun,” she says. “You did good.”

Patrick hums. “I mean… yeah. You’re both fun.”

There’s a beat.

Then he says it.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Your heart stutters.

“Thought about what?” you ask, even though you know.

He leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice low. “You and her. Together.”

You don’t speak.

You feel the way Tashi goes still across the room.

Then Patrick adds, quieter—

“If I walked in on something… I wouldn’t be mad.”

He squeezes your shoulders once. Just once. Then gets up to grab more drinks.

And the silence he leaves behind is electric.

You look at Tashi.

She’s already looking at you.

And there’s no hiding now.

---

He brings back beers and popcorn like nothing happened, and you pretend for a while. All of you do. The show keeps playing. The room keeps breathing. Patrick settles back into the couch behind you like the air hadn’t just changed.

But then you stand to stretch and say you’re gonna help Tashi grab something from the car.

There’s nothing in the car.

You don’t even make it to the door.

The moment it closes behind you, she grabs your wrist and pulls you in. Mouth on yours. Desperate. Sharp. Messy.

You kiss her like it’s your last chance.

“Is this what you want?” she breathes against your lips.

You nod. Hard. “Yes.”

Then Patrick’s voice calls out from the other room—“You two making out in there?”

Silence.

You look at her. She’s breathing hard, lip bitten, pupils blown wide.

Then he steps into the hall.

Patrick sees you both—disheveled, pressed together, the heat still clinging to your skin like fog.

He smiles.

“About time,” he says, and walks toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t. You expect tension. Jealousy. Confusion.

Instead, he kisses you. Then her.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “just ask if I wanna watch.”

And when Tashi grabs his shirt and pulls him in, you realize this is happening. Not a fallout. Not a crisis.

Just heat.

Just yes.

And when the three of you stumble into the bedroom, laughter and tension and hunger all tangled up in your mouths and hands, you think maybe it was always going to end like this.

Messy.

Beautiful.

Loud.

Tashi’s mouth is on yours again the moment you hit the bed, her hands already dragging your shirt up, exposing skin she’s seen but never rushed. Patrick’s behind you now, his breath hot at your ear as he lifts it the rest of the way, tugging it off like it’s a ribbon, not a barrier.

“Pretty,” he says, voice low and rough, as his fingers graze down your spine.

Tashi kisses your shoulder. “We know.”

Clothes hit the floor like they’ve been waiting. Hands overlap. You don’t know whose grip is tighter, whose mouth is lower, only that you’re unraveling fast and you haven’t even been fucked yet.

Patrick slides down first, tongue slow and sinful between your legs, while Tashi kisses you through every twitch of your body. When he moans against your clit, it sends a shock straight through your spine.

“Jesus,” you gasp.

“Not quite,” Tashi whispers, fingers sliding into your mouth as she watches you fall apart. “But close, right?”

It doesn’t stop. It just layers. Hands, lips, sounds, heat. You feel Patrick’s cock brush your thigh as Tashi pulls you into her lap, and when you sink down onto him, it’s all dizzy, all stretch and pleasure, with her mouth right at your ear.

“You’re so fucking good like this,” she purrs. “Look at you. Perfect.”

You ride Patrick with Tashi’s hands on your hips, her mouth on your neck, all three of you lost to it, to each other.

And when you come again, it’s Tashi who whispers you through it, and Patrick who groans into your skin like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear the sound you make falling apart between them.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You don’t care.

It ends in breathless laughter, bodies tangled, limbs sticky and flushed.

And when you finally open your eyes, they’re both still there.

Watching you.

Touching you.

Smiling like they’ve always known.

Like this was never a mistake.

And somewhere on the floor, someone’s sock is inside the popcorn bowl. Patrick swears it’s not his.

No one believes him.

-----

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

Mel strikes again and we all say thank you

Heartbreak Girl! ib: Heartbreak Girl by 5sos please listen while you read :)

pairing: stanford!art donaldson x fem reader

cw: nsfw(18+), just a lot of yearning fr

i’m right here when you gonna realize, that i’m your cure

It was the same old story. You and your on again off again boyfriend would break up and the next minute you’d call Art. He was honestly exhausted quite frankly.

You sounded like a broken record. Every time it was My heart just hurts Artie or How could he get over me so fast?, until eventually you start crying on the other end of the phone.

Art would push all of his feelings down to comfort you. Lying, saying things like I’m sure he’s not over you yet, she’s just a rebound. In reality he knew your ex didn’t respect you and it was debatable whether or not your ex ever really loved you in the first place.

He prided himself on always being able to make you feel better despite making himself feel worse. Your crying would die down enough for you to say Thanks for always being there for me, you’re such a great friend. That last word always stabs him in the heart.

But he would let you rant about your ex as much as you wanted because at his core, Art really was just a sucker for anything that you do.

It was so draining but he would never say anything to you because you were his best friend. When the two of you had met at Stanford’s freshman student athlete orientation it was like magic. You two vibed so well together and Art hadn’t connected with someone so well, so fast since Patrick. And since moving to Stanford, he had a Patrick size void to fill.

Art developed feelings for you quickly. His friendship boundaries are almost non-existent due to the nature of his only previous close friendship being with Patrick. You two hung out anytime you had free time. Your schedules always aligning since you're both student athletes.

He would constantly be invading your personal space. Whether that was cuddling during movie night or just resting his head on your shoulder or in your lap so you’d play with his hair.

You found it a little weird at first, never really having a guy best friend you were that close with physically, but the novelty wore off as time went on and you grew accustomed to it (after Patrick came to visit you realized where Art got it from).

When Art realized you had a boyfriend he was crushed. But he never let that show. He was still just as ‘supportive’ of your relationship regardless. Draining his energy, going in circles over and over again listening to you talk about the same problems in your relationship a million times over.

The next time you called, he picked up as always. You’re crying, mumbling through your tears about how you and your boyfriend ex-boyfriend have called it off for the so-called final time. You guys are done for real. All Art wants to do is scream out You can be with me now, but he bites his tongue.

It’s not the right time. As much as Art wants to tell you how he feels, it’s too soon. You’re not ready and it’s so frustrating. Your ex treats you so badly while Art treats you the way you deserve to be treated, with respect.

So he tells you what you want to hear instead. More reassurance that he’s sure your ex still loves you and it’s your ex’s loss anyway. You still feel like shit but it helps somewhat. Art always makes you feel better, so you end the call with I’ll call tomorrow at 10 after practice.

And here Art was, waiting for your call the next day, still stuck in the friend zone again and again.

A few months had passed by without any calls about your ex, so Art was hopeful that meant you were over him. He still didn’t feel like it’d ever be the right time to confess his feelings because he didn’t want to ruin your friendship.

It wasn’t until a day that Patrick came to visit Tashi but still tried to convince Art he was really here to see both of them. Sure.

“Did you ever end up asking out that girl?” Patrick questions from his place seated on Art’s dorm bed.

“Huh?” Art was confused because he never told Patrick how he felt about you.

“That girl that you always follow around like a sick puppy. It’s obvious you like her, so did you ask her out?”

Even after two years spent apart Patrick could still read him like an open book.

Art shakes his head no, “You mean Y/N? No, I feel like she just got over her ex so. And I don’t want to ruin the only real friendship I have here.”

Patrick laughs, “You’ve always been such a pussy.”

Art gets defensive because who is Patrick to tell him what he is, “Fuck off. Just cause I think before I speak and realize my actions have consequences? Maybe you could learn a thing or two.”

“All I’m saying is, tell her how you feel. No harm no foul. It’s clear you’re in love with her. Just tell her.”

You had been standing in front of Art’s dorm room for the better part of 10 minutes, eavesdropping. You were meant to be coming over around this time. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop but once you heard your name your ears perked up and pressed against the door.

Your feelings towards Art have always been complicated. Of course you liked him. He was cute and smart and always there for you. But you had been with your ex for so long, you ignored the butterflies in your stomach whenever you and Art would cuddle during movie night.

Honestly a lot of the fights you’d get into with your ex were about Art (and the endless cheating from your ex but you know, also your friendship with Art).

He didn’t like how close you guys had gotten no matter how often you reassured him you guys were just friends and nothing more. In the end it was actually you who decided to break it off. Your ex gave you an ultimatum to choose between him and Art, and you didn’t want to lose your best friend. It still hurt and you still cried to Art about it but you never told him what really happened.

Hearing his confession made your heart rate pick up and your stomach twist in knots. You lose your balance falling against Art’s door with a thud. Fuck.

Before you can soothe where you hit your forehead on the door, it swings open and you’re face to face with Patrick. Seeing Art out of the corner of your eyes sitting at his desk.

Patrick smirks before stepping past you, “Have fun,” he winks. Leaving you standing in the door frame staring at Art.

“How long were you standing there?” he asks standing up from his desk abruptly.

“Long enough,” you respond, walking over to him and crashing your lips together. You didn’t even realize what you were doing until you were doing it. Two years of pushing your feelings down to prioritize your relationship. Two years of denying the way Art made you feel when he’d look at you with those eyes. Two years of giving your all into a relationship that didn’t serve you, needing a change but not realizing it until this very moment.

He’s startled. Strangled moan leaving his lips before his hands fly to your waist, gripping hard. Like he’s scared this isn’t real, and it’s all a dream.

You pull away, pushing his shoulders down so he’s sitting back down on his desk chair. You climb into his lap while he asks, “What about your ex?”

“Over him,” you say shortly before bringing your lips back to his. You're grinding down against him, feeling him grow hard under you.

His hands are back on your waist, before moving down to grab your ass, “Fuck,” he mumbles against your lips.

Breaking the kiss again to pull your shirt off and unclip your bra. His eyes are glued to you, watching your every movement with his mouth hanging slightly open. Now with your tits in his face he couldn’t focus anymore.

You reach down, pulling his hard length out of his shorts. Spreading the pre-cum that pooled at his tip so you can start to jerk him off.

“Shit,” he gasps as you start to stroke him. He leans in to take one of your nipples into his mouth. Flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. You moan, still grinding down against his lap while picking up the pace of your strokes and tightening your grip slightly.

“Want you inside me,” you whine, your freehand tangling in his curls to pull his mouth off you. You stand up to pull your shorts and panties off quickly before returning to your place on his lap.

He nods quickly and dumbly, like there’s not a single thought behind his eyes. Only thing on his mind is you, you, you, your tits, your ass, your pussy. Everything made him feel dizzy.

His pink tip leaks more pre cum as you guide him to your entrance. You rub it against your hole to cover him in your own juices for extra lubrication. Art almost cums from that alone. He wants to ask about condoms until he remembers you’re on the pill from the various alarms you had that would always go off at the same time everyday. When he asked you about it you explained it to him why.

You start to sink down on him, your walls closing in around his dick. Thank god you fingered yourself when you were masturbating this morning because Art was bigger than you expected. A reasonable length but the girth was a lot. You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, “Fuck Art, feel so full,” you moan out.

When you finally sank all the way down to the bottom, Art let out a groan, “Holy shit. You’re so beautiful. Gripping the fuck out of me, fuck.” He pulls his t-shirt up, holding it in his mouth so he can see your hole stretched, gliding up and down his cock.

You start to ride him, bouncing up and down, rocking back and forth , and occasionally grinding down, “Fuck Art, you feel really fucking good.”

He’s watching your tits bounce in his face, and the stimulation of you riding him is way too much, he’s already close. He grabs your hips and starts pounding into you with fast, hard strokes.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” your moans getting louder as he assaults your g-spot. He’s grunting, t-shirt still captured between his teeth. Abs flexing as he lets out a deep breath through his nose. He moves one hand so his thumb can swipe back and forth over your bundle of nerves. “Yes fuck, right there,” you gasp.

His hips stutter, faulting his rhythm. He holds your hips down so he’s completely inside you before spilling inside you, filling you up.

The pressure of his cock against your gspot and the stimulation from his thumb grazing over your clit push you over the edge, “I’m—coming fuck.” You finish right after him, walls spasming, squeezing every last drop out of him.

He drops his shirt from mouth, catching his breath. “A-Are you sure you’re over your ex?”

“Sheesh you couldn’t wait until you weren’t inside me anymore to ask again?” you laugh.

He blushes like you guys didn’t just have sex, “‘m sorry.”

You climb off of his lap to make your way to his bathroom so you could clean yourself up, “Yes Art. I am over him I swear.”

He nods, grabbing a rag from his drawer to clean himself off, “I don’t know, it could've been like a rebound hookup thing and I didn’t…”

“You didn’t what?” you ask, going to grab your shorts to pull on.

“Didn’t wanna get my hopes up,” he finishes, slowly and methodically.

You plop down on his bed, laying on your side, “We broke up because I didn’t want to stop being friends with you.”

Friends. That’s what he was afraid you’d say. The F word haunts his dreams, his nightmares, every second of every day that he’s in your presence. He should’ve never got his hopes up. Fuck. That’s what he gets. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he so stupid? Of course sex doesn’t mean anything. He shouldn’t of—

“Hey I’m not done,” you say softly, hoping to pull him out of his head. He was clearly zoned out and you knew Art could get in his head sometimes. He refocuses on you as you say “I want to be with you Art. Not just friends.”

Oh. When those words fell past your lips, it didn’t definitely didn’t feel real. The words he was praying to hear for the past two years.

And so what if he had already mentally planned out your first date? Two years is more than enough time to have planned something.

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template by: cal-kestis

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 ❤️

you already know

fancy

chewing on him like a ravenous wolf

Casual dominance but with dilf!patrick???

the same as art in the sense he wouldn't bat an eye if you went out in a short skirt. he takes pleasure it in it, actually, a hand on your backside to give everyone a peek of your panties. when you send him an affronted look, he just gives an unrepentant smirk. whoops! probably the wind. he DOES like to choose your clothes. prob like the sluttiest thing possible when you're meeting his parents (a huge fuck you to them).

definitely into the whole "bimbo girlfriend thing." makes you make eye contact with him when you're talking... or fucking. "ah-ah-ah, eyes on me." and never lets you get away without verbally asking him for something. "c'mon, use your words if you want something. my baby has good manners."

knows how indecisive you are and calling the shots just comes naturally to him. doesn't even bat an eye when the waiters give you a concerned look after he gives your order for you. just knows you inside out at this point. or if he's grabbing himself something from the kitchen, he doesn't bother asking if you want one, he just grabs two by default (because he knows you'll say no and end up asking for a sip of his water or stealing his chips)

doesn't matter where you are, he's always touchy. a hand on your thigh when he's driving, or around you while you're walking. if he has a pretty thing on his arm, why not show you off? always whispering filthy things to you when you're out and about just to watch you avert your eyes when your cheeks heat up. you never scold him, though—you both know you love it.

also loves manhandling you. guiding you when you're walking, or big hands on your hips to move you out of his way in the kitchen or throw you over his shoulder to carry you off to bed. if you aren't walking side by side, he's always keeping an eye on you. never more than an arm's length away. follows the sidewalk rule religiously.

comes off as a little controlling sometimes, too. patronising as fuck when he wants to be. he bought you a drink? you have to finish it, otherwise you're ungrateful. going out with your friends? either he's coming with you, or you don't go at all. he just loves you too much!! if you’re gonna be ogled, he has to be present for it. he’s just looking out for his pretty girl <3

always zips up your dress for you or helps you put your jewellery on. he doesn't even need to ask; as soon as he sees you getting ready, he's behind you to lend you a helping hand (and probably a playful pinch to the ass for his troubles)

anyways shoutout to oomfs in diya's the queen's gambit watchparty for thirsting over patrick w me for this <3

gripping onto my vintage ghostface figurine and giggling with glee

LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

part one ・ part two

summary: After surviving the Stanford massacre, you try to start over—move away, change your name. But Art, Patrick and Tashi were never caught. Strange messages and disappearances begin again, and the paranoia you thought you’d buried resurfaces. You’re not sure if you are being hunted… or if they’re luring you back in to finish what they started.

cw: 1.5k words. apt!scream au. paranoia and stalking. psychological trauma. gaslighting. violence (implied). threatening messages. fear and dread. obsession. loss of control.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams, @sohighitscool, @shahabaqsa0310

You don’t dream about the knife anymore. You dream about the silence that came after it. The moment you realized no one was coming. The moment their hands let go of your throat—not because they took mercy, but because they wanted you to live.

You were their final girl. And you didn’t ask for that.

After the attack, the cops found your dorm soaked in blood—whose? You never knew. Your screams woke up the entire west quad after escaping the athletic building lockers. You gave them names—Tashi Duncan, Patrick Zweig, Art Donaldson—and you gave them details. You told them where the rest of the bodies were buried; little secrets the killers had told you before letting you go. Which drawers held the Ghostface masks. What the blood under your fingernails meant.

But they were already gone. No phones. No footage. No fingerprints. Like the whole thing had been a story you made up during a psychotic break.

But you know the truth. They let you live. And monsters don’t vanish forever.

You moved across the country six months later.

New name. New school. No tennis courts. No whispers of Ghostface. You enrolled in a tiny liberal arts college in Vermont where no one had ever heard of Tashi Duncan or her star-crossed boys. You found an apartment—alone this time. No roommates. No shared keys. The walls were thin, and the pipes moaned in the winter, but at least it was yours.

You even got a therapist. Sometimes you lie to her. Sometimes you don’t. Mostly, you tell her you’re fine. Mostly, you try to believe it because life goes on.

But it starts with little things, at first. A knock on your door when no one’s there. A lightbulb unscrewed. A voicemail filled with static. You chalk it up to anxiety. Or trauma. Or both. The mind plays tricks when it’s lived too long in fear.

Then you find a postcard. No return address. No note. Just a photo of Stanford’s tennis courts. You stare at it for hours. Your hands don’t stop shaking for days.

You start checking your locks.

Twice. Then three times. You push furniture in front of the door. You stop answering calls from unknown numbers. You carry a knife in your jacket, one in your bedside drawer, and a third tucked between your mattress and the wall.

You tell yourself it’s just leftover fear; a scar from a time when your life wasn’t your own. But sometimes, at night, you hear the floor creak, and you know you locked the door.

You see her at the grocery store, just for a second. An hallucination, a dream, something real. A flash of dark curls. Her beautiful skin. That posture you could recognize anywhere—the cocky, impossible tilt of someone who never lost anything in her life.

Tashi.

You drop your basket. Run to the end of the aisle. Gone. You ask the cashier if they saw her, they say no one matching that description came in tonight.

You don’t sleep anymore. You stop going to the store. You stop going anywhere.

You install a camera. Just one, to be sure. Outside your door. You check it every night like a drug you can’t escape, refreshing the feed, watching for a shadow that never appears. Until one day it’s turned around, facing the wall.

Your therapist says you’re experiencing PTSD-induced paranoia and you simply nod at her.

But in your gut, you know, they’re still out there. And they’re not done with you.

The power goes out one night during a storm.

You light a candle. Sit in the kitchen. Try to calm the breathing that’s too shallow, too fast. You try not to think of knives or black robes or dripping masks. Then your phone buzzes. A single message. No number that you recognize.

“Still bleeding, final girl?”

You drop the phone. The screen cracks. You throw up in the sink that night, sweat spilling through every pores of your body with the fear consuming you. It’s like an awake-nightmare.

You go to the police the next morning. Again, like you had done before; a few days after Stanford, a week after Stanford, a month after Stanford – remembering the paranoia.

You tell them someone is stalking you. That you’ve received threats. That you survived a massacre and the killers were never caught. They write it all down.

They promise to look into it. They never call back. They never did.

You start to think you’re losing your mind.

You hear music sometimes. A tennis match broadcast faintly through the walls. A whisper behind your head when you’re brushing your teeth. You hear your name in the shower steam. You unplug everything. Cover mirrors to not see behind yourself. Start sleeping in the tub with the door locked, a knife in hand and every noise waking you up.

But they keep getting in. Somehow. They always get in.

You wake up one morning to find a trail of red shoe prints across your carpet and you almost throw up again. They are tiny tennis court prints. A racket on the table of your living room—you haven’t played tennis since Stanford. You never wanted to hear about it ever again.

Like someone dipped them in blood. You call the cops again. They don’t find anything, no prints, no camera footage; nothing.

The next time you see Patrick, it’s in a dream.

He’s sitting in your kitchen. Perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, sipping tea from your mug like he’s lived here all along. “You’re slipping,” he says without looking up.

“I’m not.” You try to convince yourself – him, it’s all the same. Your heart is in your throat with the fear you feel. He’s not real, he’s not here; but he still has that hold onto you that you can’t escape. “You’re unraveling,” he continues. “It’s okay. You weren’t meant to live through it. That’s why it hurts so much.”

You try to scream, but your voice is gone. Patrick finally looks at you, and he’s wearing the mask. The scream is his now. Quiet and observing.

You try to leave town after a few days. Throw clothes into a bag. Book a motel two states away. You don’t leave a note. You don’t tell your therapist. You just go.

Halfway down the highway, your car dies like it was meant to be. Completely.

You sit on the shoulder, shivering, dialing roadside assistance. Then you check the trunk. Inside—under your spare tire—is a Ghostface mask. And a photo of you sleeping in the Vermont apartment.

You stop fighting it after that. You stop trying to convince anyone. No one believes the girl who lived. No one believes the crazy girl.

And they’ve made sure of that. They’re not just stalking you anymore. They’re gaslighting you from the inside. Everything around feels like a joke they created; a world just for you to suffer the lies and manipulation.

The final straw is the rabbit. You find it on your porch one morning. Tiny. White. Gutted. Its throat slit clean, like a signature – like something to remember them by. Pinned to its side is a note written in perfect, feminine script; the handwriting of Tashi that you can visualize back on the Stanford books.

“You should’ve died when we gave you the chance.”

You move the next day. You don’t care where. Anywhere but here.

The new place is better. Brighter. Busier.

There are windows that face the street, and you can see people. Real people. Families. Kids on bikes. Joggers with golden retrievers. It helps. For a while. You let yourself laugh again. Smile at strangers. Go out with friends you made in the tiny city.

You even start writing about what happened. Not for anyone else. Just for you. Just to get it out of your body before it rots you from the inside. Your therapist says it’s good progress. That you’re reclaiming your narrative.

That you’re healing. That you can be better.

And then, on a rainy Tuesday morning, you get a package. No return address. Inside: a VHS tape and a matchbook from Stanford’s campus bookstore. You don’t own a VHS player, but your neighbor does.

You tell her it’s for a film class and you watch it alone. It’s footages of you, in your old dorm. Sleeping. Showering. Crying into your pillow after the attack. You see Tashi in the corner of one frame. Art in another. Patrick whispering into the camera, smiling.

“We missed you.”

The walls start closing in again. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You let yourself go.

You start hearing tennis balls thudding in the hall at night. You find your own handwriting scribbled across mirrors. You find locks broken that were never touched.

Sometimes you think about just walking into the woods, into the dark, into paranoia. But that’s what they want. They want you gone; but why?

So you start preparing. Not to run. To fight. To take back what’s yours. You buy cameras, wire your windows, train yourself to wake at every sound. You read books on serial killers, on survival, on how to set traps.

You wait. Because they’re coming. They always do. And this time, you’re not going to let them write the ending. But deep down; you know what you really fear.

Not that they’ll kill you, but that they’ll love you while they do it.

And that part of you… will love them back.

today I offer you this. Tomorrow? Who knows 🩷