Cowboy!art Donaldson X Farmer’s Daughter! Reader Text AU

Remembered that there was a scene of Art eating pussy but they cut it ……

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

Thinking about art who grew up in the church choir or used to be a theatre kid

patrick bullies him mercilessly for it and hes screaming when he finds out that when he goes back to his home town on break from his tours, no matter how old or famous he gets, art still participates in the local theatre/panto, ...he might have grown out of it but he does it for his grandma.

Patrick secretly buys tickets because he needs to witness this

AWWWWW baby 🥺🥺🥺

When he goes home with art one time (he got caught cheating on one of his exams and his parents didn’t let him come home for their spring break skiing trip), Art’s grandma shows off all of the pictures of baby Art in his choir concerts and theatre productions 🥺 all the way back to a 6 year old art playing a wise man in a church nativity play. And then he’s flipping through and there’s little Art the summer before MRTA with whiskers and a lion costume in a production of the wizard of oz…. ANGEL!!!

And ofc there are shitty vhs tapes of all of it and Art is beet red with his face hidden in his shirt while Patrick watches him sing show tunes and hymns for hours.

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers ♡

possibly a hot take(?) on zendaya in nolan's the odyssey:

as a really big greek/roman mythology nerd: i don't think that zendaya (supposedly) playing athena is a great idea. not because she doesn't have the acting capability or she doesn't look that part or that she's in too many movies (which is a really dumb reason in my opinion). i don't think it's a good idea because tom holland is playing telemachus (odysseus's son). athena acts a motherly guidance/figure to telemachus, navigates his journey to adulthood, mentors him, and inspires him. with zendaya and tom being together, i don't think that that's going to translate to the screen that well.

i really hope that that's a rumor because as much as that movie is going to be a complete disaster (inaccuracy issues), i think this will be another factor that'll add on that. i'd MUCH RATHER prefer zendaya to play someone else, maybe circe??? i love z but no thank you.

(I COULD BE COMPLETELY WRONG ABOUT THIS AND IT COULD BE REALLY GREAT!! JUST MY THOUGHTS CURRENTLY)

watching obx for the first time and i get the rafe cameron hype… he is 🤭🤭🤭

Florence Pugh and Mike Faist on a press tour together FUCK

spam posting rn but I thought this was funny

i made these giggling and kicking my feet back and forth

anyways 70s!patrick picking you up off the side of the road in his cadillac. it was so hot outside and you looked like you were struggling to carry this huge suitcase all by yourself. and that’s totally the only reason he stopped in front of you. to help. not just because you had on the tiniest shorts he’s ever seen.

“hey.” he called out to you from the open passenger seat window.

“hi.”

you gave him the sweetest smile, and he almost felt bad for the dirty thoughts he was having about you.

“need a ride?” you contemplated the offer for a moment before ultimately giving in. “hm… sure!” patrick parked his car a few stops ahead then got out to grab your bag.

“i’m patrick by the way.” he said. you nodded introducing yourself. “so where are we headed.” he asked you, sliding back into the car. “la.” you answered. kicking off your shoes and throwing you feet up on his dashboard, before sinking into the passenger seat. “i’m gonna be a movie star.” you giggled. patrick hummed, his eyes closing in on the smooth skin of your thighs that had a slight sheen of sweat on them. “the new american dream.”

he let you take control of the radio switching from station to station singing to every single song.

“i just wanna say thank you for picking me up. been walking for forever.” you dropped your hand on his shoulder, playfully tugging at his ears. patrick flinched at the sudden action before chuckling. “you uh- look a long ways away from home. how’d you get so far out here.” you sighed. “well, i hitched from nevada with this trucker who ended up creeping me out, so at our last stop i jumped out with my bag and have been walking since. my legs are so sore.” you pouted.

patrick dropped one of his big hands on your thigh, and squeezed. moving his hand up and down massaging your leg.

you “subtly” clenched your thighs together whenever his hand got a little to high, and patrick had to hold back his smirk leaving his hand to just rest at the top of your inner thigh. “you know, i have a friend who’s a photographer for… magazines. i could totally get him to take you headshots, and introduce you to people.” patrick turned to look at you, catching how your face lit up.” “really?!”

patrick nodded and you huffed a laugh, jumping in your seat a little. “that’s amazing, oh my god. how could i ever repay you?”

“we’ll think of something.”

-

that something being you riding him outside his condo in palm springs.

“fuck, babe your body was made to be on film.” your t-shirt was lost somewhere in the car, and patrick had his rough hands groping at your exposed breast. your thighs were starting to ache again from moving up and down on his cock.

“you’re so big, can’t -fuck- can’t do it.” your movement flattered down into slow grinds. “uh uh.” patrick held you up by your waist, and started moving you again. “movie stars don’t quit do they? i’m already helping you out so much just be a good girl ride me. ok.”

he wasn’t exactly wrong. he was helping you out. giving you a ride, letting you stay with him, getting his friends to do your head shots.

“ok.”

you planted your hands on his clothed shoulder holding on tight as you started bouncing again. your whimpery moans sounded as sweet as the smile you gave him earlier looked.

“atta girl.” patrick locked his arms around your waist, and dropped his head in the crook of your neck. he bucked his hips up in fast thrust. “patrick!”

his hand found place on the back of your neck forcing you to keep eye contact with him. “god, your pussy feels amazing. so glad i picked you up.” you nodded along with his words. “would’ve been so lost without me, get picked by some creepy old man.” he says as if he isn’t one them.

“thankyouthankyouthankyousomuch” you mumbled.

“and you’re so fucking sweet.” he pushed back against the steering, the both of you jumping when the horn went off. laughs mixed in with your moans.

patrick let his hand travel down body his finger finding your clit, and he rubbed figure eights on you feeling your walls clench tighter around him. “gonna cum baby?” you nodded your head fast. your bodies moving in the same fast pace, from the outside anyone walking by would be able to tell what’s going on.

“oh god -fuck!- cumming!” you moans filled up the space along with the slapping of skin, and some you gushing all over patrick’s cock with light scream. “shit!” patrick’s rhythm got sloppy and he completely stilled inside of you, fill you up with thick ropes of cum.

the two of sat there in each other’s catching your breaths, your mixed orgasms dripping down onto patrick’s leather seats.

“the industry’s gonna love you.” you smiled at his comment threading your fingers through his hair not knowing you two were thinking about very different industries.