What Is Wrong With You

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

Thwwackkkkkk!

template by: cal-kestis

im about to fucking climax in the pyjama aisle of sainbury’s because yet again they’ve absolutely smashed out a bean flicking collection of pjs

Inside of ATP’s Tennis bags

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

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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FUCK ITS EVERYWHERE

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

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

In The Middle Of The Night

Patrick Zweig x Reader

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

Accompanies a Bot Drop -> here!

SFW

1,263 words

Domestic Patrick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What can't you carry?"

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

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

"Mh, too much."

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

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

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

nibbling him politely

patrick zweig x fairy!reader where he just kind of corrupts her and when they're fucking he's like 'you're just so /stupid/' but he's smiling about it all the same

+ FAIRY READER AND PATRICK PLEASE

fairy!reader x patrick zweig

summary: patrick loves making you dumb from his touch

cw .ᐟ nsfw, creampie, slapping

you were the easiest girl patrick had ever gotten. too busy batting your lashes to notice the way he’d ruined you. letting him grope you in public, art’s seen your naked pictures more times than he can count.

you were so fucking cute about it too. always giggling away as patrick shoves your hand down his shorts during parties. pushing you onto your knees in locker rooms, he couldn’t give a fuck that there were still people in there. you looked too pretty with mascara running down your cheeks as you choked around him.

but nothing beat the feeling of you around him. cock drunk and drool dripping down your chin, letting him do whatever he wanted to you. high pitched pants, screams of his name, it was even better when art was in bed five feet away.

“so fuckin’ stupid, baby,” he smirks, hands boxing you in beneath him. cock pounding into you without a care in the world. head empty, filled with only his name. mindlessly nodding along to his words.

you’re always so complacent, patrick eats it up. saying the meanest things while you’re tight around him. “just need my cock, don’t you? nothin’ else.” he taunts, damn near splitting you open.

one harsh slap across your cheek wakes you up from the fucked out space he’s put you in. “hmm, yeah— hnnph! just your— your cock.” you finally answer, jaw slack as moans echo around the room.

“c’mon baby, bounce on it, know you like it.” he mumbles, dragging you into his lap. you’d like anything if he was telling you that you did. your rhythm was off, too dumb off his cock to control your movements. hands groping at the flesh of your ass, forcing you up and down on his lap.

one hand moves to your face, pushing your cheeks together. "such a dumb little slut," he mocks, he fuckin' means it too.

lips too squished by his fingers to murmur out a coherent response, just mumbles of agreement and a nod of your head. "couldn't live without me, could you, babygirl?"

"mm hmm," you mumble, pouting through his grip on your cheeks, shaking your head. his hips start to rut up into you, sounds of skin slapping loud in the small dorm. "know you couldn't," patrick grunts between thrusts.

"too fuckin' stupid." he smirks, both hands digging into your waist, forcing you to bounce up and down. his skin is sweaty, sticking to your own as his hips pump up into you once more. painting your walls white, he loves watching it drip out of your cunt. too dumb to tell him to pull out.

throwing your body down onto the mattress after he's finished, grinning at the wet spot forming on the sheets below you. god, he can't wait to fuck you again when art's back from training.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

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Can't Be That Bad

aka patrick gets a taste of his own medicine

an: based on a convo with @artstennisracket we had a while back. this is kinda short and silly but i felt like getting something small out while i try and source my energy into another bigger thing ill write tomorrow or sunday.

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You lay on your side, curling in on yourself tighter, tighter, tighter still till there was no closer you could get to your own insides without popping. Knees to chest, chin to knees, arms wrapped around your bare legs like the ribbon atop a gift, holding things in place until the long-awaited relief of getting the product you want. The ache was dull, deep beneath your skin, festering like a wound, and it was sharp at the same time. Sharp, thudding, pulsating, echoing. Reverberating off the walls of your abdomen until it hits each piece of flesh within you, a muscular soreness that spreads where it shouldn’t. Even the expansion of your lungs with much needed oxygen seemed to hurt, the sharp feeling widening, pulling, growing taller with your chest, then shorter with exhale. It made your voice come out funny, shaky, like a sickly child. Patrick looked down at you from his place standing, which he so aggravatingly gets the continuous capacity to do, at the dresser, naked from the waist down. Why he would ever dress himself shirt first is beyond you, but if he ever changed his routine, you’d think the world was freezing over. The words come out muffled behind the cotton of the white tee he’s pulling over his head, but they’re there all the same.

“Seriously, babe. It can’t be that bad.”

And your body which once felt like it was heated by an internal coal furnace has suddenly frozen over. You must be glaring, not even with intention, because he briefly raises his hands to his shoulders as if to call for mercy. That smug little boy of an adult man can’t even bother to verbally apologize, but then again, you can’t verbally respond. You’re still heaving for air like you’d run a marathon. 

“Like, I’m sure it sucks, yeah, but… can’t you just, like, tough it out? Trust me, I’ve been hit in the stomach with a tennis ball, like, more times than I can count, so I think we’re both even, anyway.”

He’s putting on his pants now, boxers having been slipped on somewhere distant, hazy and blurred through your simmering anger. If looks could kill, the sheepish smile he sends you while buttoning his jeans up tells you that he’d have died a painful death about a minute ago. He makes up for it, momentarily, by striding to your side of the bed, leaning over to press a kiss to your damp hairline, your eyes sliding shut like he’d connected his lips to yours. It’s salty and gross. You know it’s gross, you know he thinks it’s gross, but he doesn’t mention it. 

“Left you some meds on the nightstand, kay? I’ll be back later.”

It’s a little ‘I love you’ without the heavy weight of actually saying it. He’s got a little stubble on his cheeks, he last shaved three days ago. You know this because he does. It’s one of very few things that Patrick is consistent about. Call it vain, but he likes to keep his appearances up as best he can. If the world is going to see him panting and sweaty most of the time, he better have a clean face doing it, even if flushed red from exhaustion. He left the room before you had the chance to meet his gaze without any annoyance, and you sigh, slowly straighten out each bend and curve of your bed until you’re on your back. He’s an idiot. It is that bad, and no tennis ball to the gut, eye, or crotch is ever going to change the fact that your entire body is beating like each cell was a little heart all its own. You’d seen so much red that the room now looks like it’s made up of mottled shades of gray. He’s an idiot. But, then again, he doesn’t have to be.

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“Jesus fucking Christ!”

He hisses through his teeth, eyes screwed shut like he’s bracing himself for impact, more accurately, like he’d already been hit. Badly. He’s certainly behaving as if that were the case. The dial in your hand reads an embarrassingly small number: 5. A 5 out of the possible 10 levels, and he’s practically writhing around against the plush cushions of your couch. You almost feel bad about it, almost, considering you’re only standing over him, watching with sinister glee, because of those painkillers he so kindly supplied. However, your friend had lent you the actual cramp simulator, and only one of those things is actively teaching Patrick he’s a dumbass. You’ll have to Venmo your friend something letter, just for an accurate measurement of gratitude.

“Aw, come on, P. Man up!”

He’s gripping his stomach like he wants to pull it off and suddenly things are less fun, your thumb twitching over the dial, until he looks back up at you and tries to steel himself. Emphasis on ‘tries’, because all he really does is grimace. You turn the dial to 8. 

“Fucking- Just turn it off, please!”

“Why? Can’t be that bad.”

He raises a hand to give you quite possibly the most pathetic middle finger you’ve ever seen, all wobbly and brief, like one of an elementary schooler believing themselves to be rebellious. His entire body is twitching, like it no longer knows what to do with itself from the sheer amount of sensory input. The overflow of pain signals. A civil war in his body, and one that you’re controlling. He looks like he might cry if he’d let himself do so without believing it to be embarrassing, which he won’t. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to, though. You slide the dial back to 0. 

“ ‘M sorry.”

You grin, kneeling between his bent legs to pull the adhesive pads from his stomach, feigning ignorance. 

“What was that?”

“I said I’m sorry, you evil-”

He cuts himself off, shakes his head. Meh. Not worth it. If that’s what he felt like upon waking up, he’d be evil, too. You’re well within your right. You place a kiss to his knee, which bounces in place. Still on high alert, even when there’s nothing to be scared of anymore. Besides pissing you off, maybe. You left him water and Advil on the coffee table beforehand, just in case. A small ‘I love you’ without verbally saying it. ‘I love you, even if you’re so, so painfully dumb.’ Patrick Zweig was an idiot. It can be that bad. He knows this because you do.

:( i love him im gonna crumple him up

bodyguard | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, this is a blurb

It almost ends in silence.

That kind of silence that isn’t soft or thoughtful or pregnant with meaning—it’s thick, charged, bitter. The kind that fills a car when one person wants to speak and the other refuses to be heard.

Patrick’s hands are clenched on the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Jaw tighter than it needs to be. You’re staring out the window, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. Not crying. Not yet.

The fight—if you can call it that—wasn’t loud. It never is with him. Just a deflection here, a shrug there. You asked a simple question. Something like "How are you, really?" Something like "Let me in."

And he did what he always does. Shut the door.

You almost got out when he pulled into your building’s lot. Almost left him there, sitting in the blue wash of streetlights with his hands still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

But something in you stayed.

Because even in the worst of it—even when he’s all teeth and armor—you can see the boy behind the racket. The one who’s tired of being hard all the time.

So you twist in your seat.

He’s still facing forward, and you can see it—the crack in his armor. The set of his shoulders isn’t quite as stubborn. His grip on the wheel is no longer furious, just tight. Like he’s not sure if he should let go.

And you know this version of him.

You’ve seen him at ten—spinning, sharp-tongued, manic with energy he doesn't know where to put. You’ve seen him on the court, teeth bared, eyes wild. You’ve seen him explode and implode all in the same hour.

But you’ve also seen him at zero. At nothing. The mornings he can’t get out of bed. The press days he skips and blames on jet lag when really, it’s the weight in his chest.

You know how to read his silences. The kinds that ask you to stay even when he won’t say it out loud.

You’ve never wanted to fix him. You’ve just wanted to be there. Wanted to be the one thing in his world that didn’t want anything from him.

You speak softly, like you’re talking to a wounded thing. “Patrick, I’m not trying to fix anything.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“I just wanna know what’s going on in there,” you add, tapping lightly on the side of your head. “You don’t have to make it nice. You don’t even have to make it make sense. I just… want to know you’re here.”

Another pause. This one stretches.

He finally exhales through his nose. Barely audible.

“I don’t talk about shit like that,” he mutters. “Never have.”

You nod. “Yeah. I figured.” You shift, turning to face him fully. “But you let me be here. Every time. So either you want something real, or you don’t. And if you do... I need you to stop pretending you're alone.”

That lands. You see it in the way his fingers loosen on the steering wheel.

And then he finally looks at you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

You blink. “What, talk?”

He almost laughs, but it dies in his throat. “Yeah. That. All of it.”

“Then don’t talk,” you say. “Just let me in.”

And that’s when you move.

You lean in slowly. Not to comfort. To reach. You press your mouth to his—soft, sure, no hesitation. He responds like it hurts. Like it heals. Like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart.

Your hand slips into his hair. His jaw slackens. The car windows fog.

It’s not a rush. Not at first.

But soon you’re climbing into his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, the console digging into your thigh and neither of you caring. His hands settle on your waist, unsure.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper against his jaw. “Just let me be here.”

And when you grind down, he gasps like he’s breaking.

You kiss him again. Deeper. Messier. Like a promise made with tongue and teeth and breath.

You press your forehead to his and say, “Let me take care of you.”

And when you rock your hips again, when his hands grip you like you’re the only real thing he’s ever held, he lets you.

For once—he lets you.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are heavy, lips parted, chest heaving. You guide him gently, tugging down the waistband of his sweats, freeing him fully. He’s already slick in your hand, the head flushed, and his breath stutters as you shift your hips.

“Can I?” you murmur.

He nods—almost frantic—and you line yourself up with shaking fingers.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow and devastating. Your breath catches at the stretch, the fullness, the feeling of him beneath you, inside you, finally here. His hands clutch at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The car is too small for this, too cramped, but it doesn’t matter. Your bodies find rhythm anyway. A language made of friction and breath and everything you’ve never needed words for.

The smell of his cologne has long faded under the weight of everything else—sweat, sex, and the faintest trace of smoke from the ashtray by the gearshift. There’s a lipstick-stamped cigarette butt half-buried beneath a crumpled parking receipt. He hasn’t cleaned this car in months. It smells like late-night drives, like sweatshirts in the backseat, like every fight you’ve almost had and every kiss you didn’t mean to give.

The cracked vinyl seat beneath your knees sticks to your skin. Somewhere in the background, the faint click of the hazard light ticks like a metronome. The windows fog faster than you can clear them. The Honda rocks with every roll of your hips.

The ceiling liner droops slightly overhead. The rearview mirror is useless now, fogged over and tilted sideways from where his elbow knocked it loose.

None of it matters.

You’re the only thing that matters.

He curses when your hand returns to where your bodies meet, when your fingers circle just right. You smile, not teasing, just full of something fierce and warm and steady.

“Let me take it,” you whisper. “All of it. Just for tonight.”

His head falls back. His mouth falls open.

You keep going until he’s shaking. Until he’s saying your name like it’s the only thing left that’s his.

When he comes, you hold him there. Through it. Around it. Until he’s panting against your neck, hands still gripping your hips like they’re his last prayer.

You follow a heartbeat later. The kind of release that steals your breath, curls your toes, and makes your chest ache.

And after—you don’t move.

You just breathe. Let the sweat cool. Let the quiet settle.

You press your palm flat against his chest and feel it thudding wildly beneath your skin.

You don’t ask him to say anything. You don’t need him to explain.

You hold him the way he’s never let anyone hold him—without expectation, without question.

Like softness is a shield.

Like love can be a place to rest.

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

my angel princess

As a slut for Tashi I feel so bad that in most challenger stuff she's always the least picked. Where's the love for my pretty princess? 🥺

right!!! :( </3

seems v apparent she is Not gonna win my last poll but i do have a few reqs for her so... tashi stuff on the horizon! but yeah i get the white boys are hot and u want to see them kiss but cmon... the original fujoshi is right there and i want her just as bad

ugh just look at her... my baby :(