RIDING A SCOOTER DOWN A STREET WITH MIKE FAIST WOULD FIX ME 💔💔💔💔💔

i’m gonna ball him up and eat him. like a fucking cake ball. we’re being so fed with all these crumbs

okay yeah maybe i do want super sweet, super soft professor!art who knows its kind of fucked up that he wants one of his students so bad but finds it almost impossible to resist you. he does his best when you’re looking up at him with those big, pretty eyes, sitting on his desk in a skirt that he wishes you’d pull down just a little bit. you stress him out so bad — like, unbutton-his-shirt-and-throw-his-jacket-somewhere-across-the-room-while-overheating-and-maybe-tearing-up-a-little bad.

he feels like such a perv but you’re so pretty and smell so good and you’re so (kind of) smart. it’s not his fault that you just pop into his head when he’s jerking off, it’s not his fault that he’s had to start sitting at his desk for the duration of every class to hide his perma-boner from everyone when you’re around —none of this is his fault.

or at least that’s what he tells himself to sleep at night.

art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson art donaldson

thought!….art transferring his gum into your mouth with a lil kiss before going off to play

stanford!art x tutor!reader

stanford!art who won’t admit it but he actually is having a hard time adjusting to not having a roommate (aka not sharing a bed with patrick)

stanford!art who is having trouble managing his time between tennis and school and partying so the athletic department assigns you to be his tutor

stanford!art who is a lot nicer than you expect given his usual icy demeanor, once you get to know him he’s actually a sweetheart

stanford!art who gets distracted during your tutoring sessions whenever you wear a low cut top, eyes glued to your chest with his mouth hanging open a little. you laugh waving your hand in front of his face “hello? Art? you with me?”

stanford!art who takes you to your first frat party because “i can’t believe you’ve never been but now that i think about it your too smart and definitely too pretty to be hanging out with these people anyway”

stanford!art who thinks you can’t go shot for shot with him but he ends up tapping out first because “holy fuck y/n how’d you get ur tolerance so high?”

stanford!art who ends up stumbling back with you to your dorm room, rambling on and on about how pretty he thinks you are “your face is so distracting jesus. can’t even fucking concentrate. your eyes are so brown, so pretty like chocolate. i love chocolate, so good, sweet, creamy. do you like chocolate?” you laugh it off

stanford!art who admits he has feelings for you during your last tutoring session “do you have facebook?” your confused because you don’t what that is. “i- i’m just trying to ask for you number”

stanford!art who you’ve been seeing for the past 3 months and you’ve been to every stanford tennis match since

stanford!art who is the biggest munch you’ve ever met, eats pussy like his life depends on it, moaning, whimpering into you, and humping the bed when he can to get friction. your slick mixed with his saliva running down his chin

stanford!art who is the only guy you’ve ever met that cums from eating pussy

Hey don’t take that commenter under your Athena post too seriously. They get under everyone’s posts acting purposefully obtuse. We got what you meant!

thank you!! i was worried i came off too strong! 🤍

ONE YEAR OF CHALLENGERS

you’re here, that’s the thing

and i know you said that we’re not a thing but you’re here, that’s the thing - you're here that's the thing, beabadoobee

pairing: teen!patrick zweig x childhood bestfriend!reader

in which: you and patrick have spent summers tangled up with each other. you're in love, he's in denial. and yet— he's here, that's the thing.

warnings: patrick being an idiot

note: patrick and reader are 18-ish. this based off my favorite beabadoobee song, which is very patrick coded (in my opinion). this is my first fic, i hope you like it!!

“so we’re both here, aren’t we?”

you turn around, a stupid grin instantly blossoming on your face at the sight of patrick zweig standing a few steps above you on the staircase.

"you avoiding me or something? you haven't talked to me since you got here." patrick laughs gently.

"no, of course not." you tilt your head slightly, biting back everything you want to say and opting for a smile. you pat the space next to you and he sits down, all in comfortable silence.

whether you’re 10 or 18, you always end up here. with him. an escape from his parents’ suffocating parties and small talk.

patrick sniffs as he lights a cigarette. you scrunch up your nose, “we’re literally indoors, pat.”

patrick scoffs as pillows of smoke escape his mouth. “it’s my house. the window’s open, they won’t care.”

“summer house,” you correct and his eyes fly skyward.

“yeah, yeah. summer house. on the fuckin’, fuckin’— i forget- which island are we on?” patrick snaps his fingers in thought

“santa catalina,” you respond simply, picking at your nails because you don’t think you can look him in the eyes. your insides are already bubbling and he hasn’t even been here two minutes.

“santa fucking whatever-“ patrick snorts, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips and passing it over to you. he doesn’t even ask if you want it or not— he knows you well enough to know that you’ll take a sip.

you wrap your lips around the bottle, and you can taste him. or you think you can. or maybe you just connect everything that reminds you of him to him.

the taste of beer, cigarettes, the subtle hint of his cologne— earthy, citrusy, and unmistakably him

you shut your eyes and swallow down the cold liquid, you try not to gag because you know patrick will make fun of you for it.

“i’ve missed you, y’know?”

you almost spit out your drink, your cheeks burn up and all of a sudden you’re 13 again. “really?”

patrick rolls his eyes again. “yeah, idiot. ‘course i missed you, you’re the only friend i have.”

“you have art?”

“that’s—“ patrick sniffs, “that’s different, you’re like a- a girl.”

“wow, i feel so special,” you can’t help but laugh. “where’s art anyways?”

“he’s staying with his grandmother for the summer this year,” patrick shrugs, taking another long drag of his cigarette. he turns to smirk at you- “why, do you miss him? did you want to see him?”

but you know him enough to know that under all that bravado is stupid, boyish jealousy.

“i’ve missed you too.” you let yourself admit.

he immediately smiles at that. “yeah, you did. you probably dreamed of me every night and fuckin’ cried to thought of me.” he cackles like a maniac, shoving you gently. now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

you reach for the beer bottle and you brush his hands—warm and calloused— and the touch lingers a bit too long. you pull your hand away as you take another sip, your fingers twitch. it’d be so easy to grab his hand right now. you swallow the drink down with your fantasies as you clear your throat.

“so how’s—“ you begin to say

“fuck, this is so stupid,” he groans. he reaches for your chin and tilts your head.

your eyes meet.

his are a shade of blue and green, like when the sun shines on the ocean. that sort of pretty. comforting. you’d like to swim in them. those eyes flicker to your lips. his thumb brushes over your chin, your insides flutter. and he almost— almost leans in.

“you’re being weird, is this because i kissed you last year?”

yes. yes. it is patrick. you want to scream.

“no, why would— i’m not being weird-“

“you are- you are being so fuckin’ weird-“

“patrick- i’m fine,” you scoff.

“it’s wasn’t supposed to be serious if that’s what you’re so concerned about— we’re not a thing. it was like a drunk thing.”

oh.

a drunk thing. not a thing that happened after years of tension. just a drunk thing. that's all it was to him. you swallow that thought like you could wash it down with the lingering taste of beer in your mouth as your heart throbs in your chest.

but yeah, you and patrick were never a thing. it’s something patrick had made clear several times. but each time was a new stab in the chest.

the kiss was a drunken mistake. it was the last day of summer break, you, art, and patrick around six and a half beers in with some weed in the mix, sitting on the sands of the beach. all drunk out of their minds.

you were talking about something stupid while art laughed. patrick stared at the waves crashing into the rocks before he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

it was soft. warm. right.

and even though you were both blackout drunk, you remember it so clearly. and so does he— he wouldn't have brought it up otherwise.

art had laughed at the action. "what, is this, like, a thing? you guys a thing now?"

patrick had pulled away at that point, his hand still on your waist, grip tightening with his jaw. "fuck, no. it's not like that."

your family left the zweig’s summer home the next morning.

and you couldn’t bear asking him about it over the phone in fear of ruining seven years of friendship.

so for the next 350 something days, you convinced yourself it was just some summer fling that couldn’t even be considered “a fling.”

you managed to convince yourself that you don’t care. but that doesn’t stop the burning, tingly sensation at your waterline and a tear or two from rolling down your cheek.

his entire face drops, almost comically. “why are you crying? no- don’t cry- what the fuck-“ he panics. he doesn’t know where to put his hands. they cup your cheeks then fall from your cheeks. hold your shoulders, then your hands. it’s almost like patrick’s brain crashed and he was malfunctioning. it would almost be funny if it didn't hurt so much, just because of that stupid look on his face. you almost smile. "hey, no- stop that." he starts to laugh, that stupid laugh you fell in love with, and when notices your glare, he stops.

he chooses to stare at you in silence, reaching over to wipe some of your tears. you push his hands away, it's petty. he sighs. "i dunno what i did wrong, i- i thought you wanted it to be a drunk thing. you didn't— you talk about it after we did it. I mean— girls usually talk about this kind of shit, right? to-"

you look at him through your tears, in a 'are you fucking stupid?' kind of way and he shuts up. through your tears you manage to finally say, "imfuckinginlovewithyou, youstupidfuckingidiot"

patrick's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but not in— 'wow this girl loves me' confusion. no— more in a 'what the fuck did you just say, because i don't understand the words that come out of your mouth when you cry' kind of way. you breathe deeply, calming your shaky vocal chords, and wipe your tears. "i love you, you idiot."

patrick's dumbfounded. he opens his mouth to say something. closes it. opens it again— then closes it for good. he's like a fish. a stupidly handsome fish. then he finally manages an "oh." "oh?" you repeat, then the frustration spills out. "the fuck you mean 'oh'? i just said something that could change the trajectory of our friendship—" without warning, he kisses you. grabbing onto the back of your neck and shutting you up.

your hand drops and you grab onto his shirt. your mouth moves with his, and it's so... right. he tastes like the smoke of his cigarette, he tastes like the beer— he tastes like patrick.

when you pull apart and just stare at him, he laughs. fucking laughs. like an idiot. you roll your eyes. "i like you too." he smirks slightly, pushing a hand through his curls and sighing.

"i just told you i love you, and you're saying you like me?" you tease with a smile. "wow, patrick. i'm hurt." he cups your cheeks again, inching closer. "please don't start crying again."

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"i love you too." — tags: @hyuneskkami for the divider

black beauty

but oh, what can i do? to turn you on or get through to you? oh, what can i do? life is beautiful, but you don't have a clue - black beauty, lana del rey

pairing: stanford post-injury!tashi x roommate!reader

in which: tashi’s world ended the day she wrecked her knee. you remind her that there's more to life than tennis. that it can still be beautiful— but she can't seem to see the color in anything anymore.

warnings: hurt without comfort, just hurt. lesbian yearning. brief mention of patrick x tashi. reader has beef with patrick.

note: and they were roommates…

tashi’s world is tennis.

it always was, and it always would be— until it wasn’t.

you were at the game when it happened. sitting a few rows above art, holding a little ‘duncanator!’ sign with a wide smile. you were at every game. she always won.

you say there, waiting for her to win again—

then her knee twisted at an inhuman angle, a loud, sickening crack echoed through the court. she collapsed to the ground with a scream.

art was on his feet instantly and ran to her side while you stood there. frozen in shock, covering your mouth,

when it finally clicked to you. tashi was already being rolled away on a stretcher.

you spent the night with her and art, rubbing circles into her back when she cried and gave her space, standing in front of the medic’s door with a sinking feeling in your chest.

soon, patrick heads towards the door and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “don’t. she doesn’t want to see you.”

patrick stops, his eyes narrowing. you know that look, it's the same look he gave tashi before the match. the one she ranted about in the locker room as you helped her get ready. "he's just— he pisses me off. like, patrick's the type of guy who wants a fucking cheerleader. he doesn't want to listen to my advice, complains about how all i do is talk about— tennis-" she rambles as she yanks on her wristbands, "-and plays like shit. what am i supposed to do, not give him advice?" “you deserve more than him,” you’d whispered as you tried not to look too hard at her bare collarbones, you never knew why you were like this. roommates usually watch each other change. it’s completely normal. and platonic.

“i know.” she’d shook her head gently, “trust me, i know.”

you always hated him. you never thought he was good enough for her.

you could be better for her.

patrick's voice drags you back to the present— “my girlfriend’s been injured. i don’t get what your problem is with me, you’re like constantly at my neck.” he leans in towards your ear, “i didn’t know you were the gatekeeper of who gets to check on her. maybe you’re being a good friend or maybe... you just miss the way she used to suck on your throat.”

you scoff as patrick shoves past you into the medic room. you let him go, you know tashi won't want to seem him, anyway.

as expected, the shouting starts quickly. you sigh, leaning your head back against the concrete wall. you wince at the particularly harsh— 'get the fuck out, patrick' from art.

patrick passes you, defeated. you bite back your tongue to keep yourself from saying, "i told you so."

before she leaves for the hospital, you press a kiss against tashi’s forehead. “it’ll go well, trust me.” you murmur against her skin. “you’ll be back, and you’ll demolish those fuckers.”

tashi’s in the hospital for a month.

the room is too quiet without her.

no more godforsaken 5 am warmups, no faint traces of beyoncé drifting from the other room as she gets ready, no smell of her morning coffee, no knock on the door, no murmur of her voice telling you to wake up.

it feels empty.

you miss the way she’d slip into your bed at night. it started when you couldn’t sleep— she’d always help you out with that.

tashi helped you a lot.

when your ex-boyfriend couldn’t get you off, she did. but that’s because she was such a good friend.

you visited her in the hospital, and you can tell she was suffering. badly.

“you’ll be able to play tennis again. everything’s going to be fine, tash.” you mumble as you lay your head on her chest, your thumb idly tracing circles on the back of her hand.

“what if— what if i— can’t? what if it goes wrong?” tashi asks, breathing into your hair.

“even if it did go wrong, and i’m sure it won’t,” you tilt your head up to look at her. “there’s more to life than tennis, y’know?”

she stares at you. like you’ve said something confusing. or horrifying.

another day on campus. without her.

you zone out as you scan the places that used to feel like home.

you used to sit there with her after every practice, eating ice cream. she’d laugh as she wiped away at the excess on your chin. you burned after every touch.

then— a disturbance in the peace.

patrick zweig smoking a cigarette against a tree.

you never noticed how big this place was until tashi wasn’t here to fill it. now, even patrick fucking zweig has room to linger.

you roll your eyes as you walk towards him. “what are you doing here? you don’t even go here.” you pause. “and i’m pretty sure that tashi most definitely broke up with you. didn’t she make that clear when told you to get the fuck out?”

he squints his eyes at you. “i’m here to see art.”

“like fuck you are,” you scoff. “i’m like 99% sure he doesn’t want to see you again.”

patrick glares at you, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. he blows towards your face. “didn’t realize you were fuckin’ campus security. gonna call the cops on me now?”

you sigh. “what are you doing here patrick?”

he shrugs, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “just killing time before i go back on tour,” a pause, then he smirks, “y’know— the plan was to sleep with my girlfriend and hang out with my best friend for two weeks. but, yeah, that didn’t go as plan.”

“so— you’re here—“

“—hooking up with stanford girls and partying at the frats,” he shrugs. “i’d ask you to hook up with me too, but…” he gives you a lazy once-over, “you’re not really my type and,” he pauses, “you’re like, into girls.”

your whole face flushes up. “what?”

“i mean, i’m totally chill with that- y’know?” he adds, like it’s barely worth mentioning. “be who you are or whatever.”

“i’m not—“

“well, it’s quite obvious that you are.” patrick exhales smoke, raising his eyebrow. “but i mean… sure, whatever.”

your mouth opens then shuts.

it hits you. staring at tashi, wanting tashi— that isn’t… normal, is it?

“i mean, everyone wanted her, i don’t really judge you for it.” he takes another drag, “and, yeah, she gave you hickies, like, that was kind of… weird, i guess.” he snorts

you don’t say anything— can’t say anything.

patrick exhales another cloud of smoke, watching it disappear into the air. he shrugs, “anyway, see you around.” he flicks his cigarette and crushes it under his shoe before wandering away.

you just stand there… staring at the space where he was. but all you can see is her.

you’ve always just wanted her.

when tashi comes back from the hospital, she pretends everything is fine.

she does her morning stretches and runs as usual, though you notice her small winces of pain that spread on her face. she jokes about having ‘battle scars’ but her hands endlessly fidget with the velcro of her knee sleeve.

“you shouldn’t touch it,” you remind her gently. “the doctor said to leave it be while it finishes recovery. it might get better than it is now—“

she glares at you and the words die in your throat.

“might.” she smiles joylessly.

she rips at the velcro anyway.

you sit on the bleachers as tashi and art do rallies.

“stop being a pussy and actually serve,” tashi yells. “actually hit the ball, donaldson.”

you bite your bottom lip gently, teeth worrying at the skin.

“i don’t- i don’t want—“ art stammers.

“you don’t want to hurt me?” tashi raises her eyebrow. “oh fuck off, i’m not doing this.”

“wait-“ art moves into position to serve. he hits the ball- thwack!

tashi hits back, it goes back and forth a few times, before tashi’s knee gives out under her.

she yelps and falls to the ground. you stand up immediately and art runs towards her. but she puts her hand up- “i’m fine, i’m fine.”

she gets up and screams in frustration, her chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. then— bam, bam, bam—her racket slams against the floor of the court, splintering with every hit until it’s demolished. art just watches, his hands half-raised like he wants to stop her but he doesn’t know how.

the racket clatters to the ground.

“tashi, wait—“ art sighs. but she’s already walking away.

you pace down the stairs and out of the practice court.

she sits under a tree, wiping tears.

“you okay?” you whisper.

she doesn’t say anything in response, you sit beside her, close but not touching. you gently press your hand against her back, rubbing small circles

“it’s okay.” it’s not. it’s clearly not, but you hope telling her that will make it better.

she starts to cry, and you let her, pressing her body into your chest. you play with a few strands of her hair, whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

“hey, hey— hey.” you pull her face into your hands, wiping her cheeks. “stop. there’s more to life than ten—“

“—stop saying that.” she pulls back, wiping at her eyes with a sharp breath.

you shut your mouth, not knowing what to say to make it better. you want to make it better for her, take away her pain. but you had no idea how.

you sigh again. you hesitate, teeth sinking into your lip again before asking, “want… want to go to the beach?”

she looks at you, eyes unreadable.

you think she’s about to refuse, shut you down again, push you away—

then she sighs.

“sure.”

you glance at tashi every once in a while throughout the car ride. she stares out the window, tapping her finger against her knee sleeve, lost in thought.

the ocean slowly comes into view as the sky begins to darken. a soft, muted blue.

“are you going to park now, or are you going to drive in circles?” tashi laughs gently. “just— pull in there, dumbass.”

you grin with an eye roll, doing as you’re told.

you open the door, the scent of sea salt hitting your nose. the waves crash against the shore. you move to tashi’s door, opening it and pulling her out of the car with your hand.

a few strands of her brown hair sway in the air and you share a small smile.

“it might be a bit cold for the beach, but hey. we’re by ourselves?” you brush a few strands behind her ear.

you start walking, hand in hand, and you find a spot on the sands.

"it's really pretty," tashi whispers gently. she leans her head against your chest and you wrap an arm around her waist.

"mhm," you muse but you can't help but look at her. she's prettier than the waves, you rub your thumb in shapes against the back of her hand.

"it's just, hard." tashi tilts her head. "i've played this my whole life, this is like— probably the only thing i'm good at-"

"-no, it's not, you're good at a lot of things-" you protest.

"then it's the only thing i think i'm good at," she sighs. "i mean, i came to stanford because i wanted— i wanted to figure out what else i could be good at-" she scoffs. "and really— all i am good at is hitting a ball with a racket."

your arm around her waist grows tighter. "that's fine— you'll still- you'll still be great. y'know? like- you're always amazing at whatever you do," you say.

"you think so?" tashi doesn't believe you, but she hearing it makes her feel better.

"yeah— we'll- we'll figure it out."

she laughs bitterly. "and what if we don't?"

the words die in your throat again, something that happens more often recently— you just want to help.

you don't know how to answer her, so you don't. you just—

you pull her into a kiss. messy. desperate. hoping, praying that this will make it better. that this will make her pain go away.

but tashi doesn't quite move at all. she tenses the second your lips touch. a sharp intake of breath—

then she pulls away.

“uh—“ she blinks then lets out a nervous laugh. “ok— wh— wow.” tashi looks away from you.

your stomach drops.

the waves keep rolling in.

“i—“

“no-“ she gets up, “no, just— just- forget it.”

you sit in the sand, heart pounding. she walks off towards to shoreline. the wind feels so much colder than before.

you sit there, frozen. maybe you should let her go, stay here, watching the waves pull in and out and drown in your misery.

but your body moves before you can think—

“tashi— tashi- wait—“

she doesn’t stop.

you run a bit more, and face her. grabbing her shoulders.

“i’m sorry- i didn’t— i shouldn’t have—“

she puts her hands on the hands of your shoulders, taking them off of her. she shakes her head. “no— no- i— said- forget it.”

your eyebrows furrow. “please— i-“

"i think you should go."

"tashi—"

"i think you should go"

you bite your tongue so you don't say anything, but you end up blurting out a— "i can drive you back to campus?"

"i'll figure that out myself."

she turns, walking without looking back.

the waves keep rolling in.

the winds howl.

you sniff, a stray tear rolls down your cheek.

you shove your hands into the pockets of your hoodie, but you’re still freezing.

-

part 2: good luck, babe!

tags: @hyuneskkami for the dividers