WHICH ONE AND WHERE

Greedy

NSFW!

The diner is loud, the chatter and clinking of silverware against plates. The neon sign outside flickers against the windows, casting a glow over Art’s face as he takes a slow sip of his milkshake, eyes locked on you.

“See?” he says, licking a stray drop of vanilla from his thumb. “Told you these were the best in town.”

You laugh, stirring yours with the straw. “I don’t know if they live up to all the hype.”

Art smirks. “You’re saying that so I’ll keep trying to convince you?”

You shake your head, but the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to in this entire place—makes your stomach flip. It’s dangerous, the way he makes you feel. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t something you’ll have to lie about when you go home.

By the time you leave the diner, the air outside is cool, the pavement damp from an earlier drizzle. You follow him to his car, his hand grazing the small of your back as you walk. It’s nothing, barely a touch, but it makes your breath catch.

Then, just as he unlocks the door, you hesitate.

Art notices. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. It’s everything. It’s the way his fingers brushed against yours when he paid for your food. It’s the way he leaned in closer than necessary to hear you over the diner noise. It’s the way your heart pounds every time he looks at you like that.

And then—like he can hear every thought in your head—he steps closer.

You don’t know who moves first, only that one second you’re staring at his lips, and the next, you’re kissing him like you won’t get another chance. His back hits the car door, his hands sliding up your waist, pulling you in. The kiss is messy, mindless, teeth and tongues and a little too much need.

His fingers tighten at your hips. “Get in,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough.

You do and your memories start to mix-

“Come on, come on, like that, keep it up,”

“Don’t stop, keep moving,” you ran to not miss the ball, it all sounds to similar now—

“That’s it, keep moving,” now you try to move faster.

“Come on, you’re a champ, give me another one,” sweat dripped down your forehead, a twist of your hand and SMACK!

“One more, mhm, I know, just give me one more,” you sweat now too, you let yourself fall down and—SMACK!

God, you almost knock his breath away with that one.

“Shit, just like that!” the way he smiled and ran to hug you.

“Shit— just like that...” he readjusts your hips.

It’s like... he was talking to you about tennis, was everything about tennis?

His hands are on your waist, and you feel like you’re going to collapse at any moment. Everything feels so tight—his cologne makes you dizzy, and the streetlamp light barely reflects in the rearview mirror.

His hands go to your back, reaching for the clasp of your bra. “Sorry... can I?,”. You almost laugh, he has you riding his dick in the backseat of his car and still asks your permission to take off the only garment that supports your little dignity.

“Yes...” you hold on to his shoulders, he peels off the bra from you. He looks down and immediately gives them a light squeeze, making you release air that you didn’t know you were holding.

“Fuck— you’re pretty...” He looks into your eyes, and you finally feel naked, your insides clenching at his words. It’s as if he can read your thoughts, how much you’ve dreamed of him like this.

You kiss him to get rid of your thoughts. He sighs and keeps moving you. He kisses down your neck, through the middle of your throat, in the middle of your clavicles, tracing the parallel with his tongue before going down to kiss the mole right next to your nipple. Kissing his way to the other to kiss now only your nipple.

His hot sighs on your wet skin make your skin bristle, and you can’t hold back a moan.

He smiles and soon you erase the smile from his silly face, stamping your hips. Being a double-edged sword since you now feel full.

Right there... there it is.

He seems to notice and lifts his hips. “There it is...” he moves you a little, “yeah...” his moans echo on your thoughts. Eyebrows furrowed as he watches himself going in and out of you.

His expression has you in a trance, wanting to see more changes in his handsome face. He tilts his head back while you accelerate the movement with the help of his hands.

You can’t resist and kiss his neck, over and over, until you reach his lips. He moans even more because of the increased speed.

“Art—“ you moan his name, your breath constant on his cupid’s bow.

God he sounds so good.

He squeezes your ass when you do it, kissing you gently while he feels like exploding, which he doesn’t take long to. He cums inside the condom with a groan and before you can protest a last thrust has you gasping for air and holding his shoulders tighter.

“God...” Art groans, his head tilted back against the seat, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. His hands, warm and strong, stay on your hips for just a second longer before they slip away.

The car is thick with heat, the windows fogged, the scent of sweat and him wrapping around you. You shift, legs shaky, reaching for your bra, but Art beats you to it. He holds it up with a smirk, letting the straps dangle from his fingers.

“You’re real proud of yourself, huh?” you say, voice hoarse.

His smirk deepens. “Maybe.” His fingers hooking onto the strap first. “Let me.”

The buzz of your phone cuts through the moment. You check it.

<<Mom: Where are you?>>

Your stomach clenches. You wipe your thumb against your damp skin before typing back, <<Still at school. Be home soon.>>

The lie comes easy now. Too easy.

Art is already pulling his shirt on, checking the time on his dashboard. “I should get you home,” he says, and even though you know he’s right, part of you doesn’t want this night to end.

The drive is quiet except for the sound of the engine, the occasional hum from him as he taps his fingers against the wheel. When he pulls up a block away from your house, he puts the car in park but doesn’t unlock the doors just yet.

You hesitate, not reaching for the handle right away. Art watches you, like he knows what you’re thinking.

Then, with that same cocky ease, he tilts his head, grinning. “Told you the milkshakes were good.”

You scoff. “Yeah. Totally the highlight of the night.”

He chuckles, low and knowing, then leans in. His hand slides up your thigh, stopping just before your knee, and he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s softer than you expect. Less teasing, more something else. Something you’re too scared to name.

When he pulls back, he taps your knee once, like a silent go on, before you change your mind.

You swallow and reach for the handle. The cold air bites at your skin the second you step out. As you walk up the street to your house, you can still feel his lips on yours, his touch seared into your skin.

You don’t look back. Because if you do you might kiss him again.

good luck, babe!

and when you think about me, all of those years ago you're standing face to face with "i told you so." - good luck, babe!, chappell roan

part 2 of black beauty

(↑ i recommend reading that one first)

pairing: tashi duncan x reader

in which: it's been twelve years since you kissed tashi on that beach— what are the odds that you'd see her again at the lobby of the ritz-carlton? she's married now. you shouldn't care. but the way she looks at you says maybe she does.

warnings: a few uses of y/n. lesbian hurt, no comfort. sad ending. tashi is married to art.

note: due to popular demand, here it is :) (i don't know if i'll continue this)

twelve years.

it’s been twelve years.

you wish you’d done things differently, you wish you stayed silent, you wish you just listened to her instead of telling her it’d be okay, you wish— you regret a lot of things. you blame yourself.

you miss your best friend.

you watched as she moved out of your shared dorm as you protested and apologized, just to get her to stay. she was petty, in a way. she was impulsive and upset. you don’t blame her.

why would you?

you couldn’t— you can’t blame her for anything.

for months, you tried texting her, sending endless useless messages, messages you weren’t sure she’d ever read. until you gave up, determined to move on.

but no one could ever forget tashi duncan.

especially you.

you could never forget tashi duncan.

you graduate stanford with your journalism degree and you take a job as a sports journalist— specializing in tennis. because of course you would.

you tell yourself, it’s normal. it’s natural. it’s obvious.

tennis is what you know. you always hung around tennis players during college. you know the rules, the players, the way the game worked— you knew tennis.

you tell yourself it was a coincidence when your first assignment is some second-tier tournament in florida. art donaldson is there too. you give him an awkward half-wave at the press conference which he sends back reluctantly.

you’re secretly relieved. she’s not there.

you’d hear her name occasionally at the offices, someone someone’s hitting partner.

then you get your next assignment a few weeks later— not like you asked for more coverage, you were just good— sharp observations, clean writing. your editor kept putting your name on stories.

of course you were good at writing about tennis, you spent almost two years of your life staring at her play every day—

soon you’re watching art absolutely destroy some guy at the australia open from the press office. you scribble down notes furiously and make the mistake of glancing at the crowd—

there she is.

arms crossed, her hair tied behind her back, her hand pushes her sunglasses up— the same pair you’d steal off her face. her eyes constantly follow the ball and art.

everything rushes back, how she used to sit like that on the bench, complaining about professors and girls on her team while you tried not to stare at her lips.

when art wins, art yells in triumph and rushes over to her, you snap out of it. you scribble down another note.

the next article you write is: ‘art donaldson wins australian with guide from new tennis coach, tashi duncan.’

you felt sick.

maybe there was a part of you who craved to stay attached to a part of her in some way.

maybe that’s why you didn’t quit.

so you watched as art grew in success.

you watched as tashi go from art donaldson’s coach to coach tashi donaldson.

it was inevitable that you saw them a lot.

fucking tennis journalist.

invited to opens, flown around the world— writing articles about how art donaldson won yet another open.

you could never get away from them. from her.

so your press conference questions were always directed to him, not her. you wanted to be petty too. you knew she was looking at you while you asked art about before game rituals with a smile. a smile you used to give her.

you don’t look at her. you don’t write about her.

and slowly you get used to it.

you get better. you’re a well-known name. you get invited to tournaments, opens, games— you go to press conferences. you board flights—

you convince yourself that you don’t care anymore. you’re not the same girl you were ten or something years ago. you try to forget about tashi donaldson.

you type your articles in the office and during some random conversation with your colleagues that you half listen to—

“donaldson’s pulling out of the finals this tournament, which’s an advantage to rodriguez, you might want to mention that in your predictions article—“

“wait, why?” you find the words coming out before you can stop them.

you’re just a journalist you shouldn’t care— but tashi would never do something like that. she’d never pull art out of a tournament- not when he’s on a winning streak-

“oh, tashi just had the baby— lily, i think? but their publicists don’t want coverage on it yet-“

lily.

your stomach churns.

and it finally— really does hit you.

she’s moved on.

she has a new life.

she has a family. you have deadlines.

AUGUST 2019

your fingers fly over the keyboard—

‘Art Donaldson: Finalist at Phil’s Tire Town New Rochelle Challenger— Will a Challenger Finally Get Him Out of His Losing Streak?’

you tilt your head— what is tashi’s goal here? a challenger? sure, art’s lost his confidence but a challenger?

you scroll through the matchups as you sip your espresso—

no. fucking. way.

ranking 271st national player— patrick fucking zweig.

you want to laugh. not because it’s funny, but because of course— of course you’re stuck watching the past play out in a goddamn place called phil’s tire town.

the last time you saw patrick—

“you’re, like, into girls.”

you can still smell the smoke that blew into your face as your jaw dropped on stanford campus.

you shake off the memory and continue typing your article- because you have a deadline.

6-time Open Winner and Star Player Art Donaldson seems to be winning games at the New Rochelle Challenger just a week before the US Open. Is this Tashi Donaldson’s grand scheme to help Donaldson gain his confidence before the US Open? A known title he’s been trying to win for a while. And what happens when he loses? Is the inevitable end of the Donaldsons’ reign on tennis finally happening?

you sigh, pausing to take a sip.

there’s a presence behind you.

you feel it before you hear it.

a voice sharp as a blade, one that’s stabbed you before—

“he’s not going to lose.”

you freeze

and the words take a second to register- too long.

tashi donaldson.

in the flesh.

your brain stutters, your heart does something it hasn’t done in years. you shake off the initial shock— but it lingers deep inside your veins.

she looks good, of course she does. she always looked good, even when she was wearing your sweatshirt with a messy bun and ranting about doubles practice. but now— she looks untouchable.

a shoulder-level cut, sleek blonde highlights, layered gold necklaces- she looks every bit like ‘legendary couch donaldson,’ the one you’ve written about for years. the one who turned art donaldson from a rank sixty-eight to a five–

and you almost forget how to speak.

then you remember-

you’re a tennis journalist. a professional.

you flash a media-friendly smile, fuck it- be petty.

“ah, coach donaldson, such a surprise to see you here. i had no idea we were staying at the same hotel— i really do love art’s career and was counting on his steady recovery— he really deserves it.”

tashi’s lips press together, if you weren’t looking hard enough, you’d miss it.

art’s career.

not her’s.

“y/n. seriously—“ but she stops herself.

you see the moment she decides it’s not worth it.

that you’re not worth it.

she simply rolls her eyes. like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing.

and for a second you feel sorry for her.

there’s a pause—

a pause long enough for her to scan your face, searching for something

as if she’s wondering if under this ‘sports journalist,’ there’s a 19-year-old girl that once loved her

“i just wanted to say hello to an old college friend.” she says with a smile so tight it looks painful. her head tilts, trying to make it casual.

it’s not.

“i’ve been keeping track of your career, y’know— i always wondered what my best friend was doing in life.”

of course she kept track. she’s tashi duncan- or donaldson- whatever.

“that’s truly an honor, mrs. donaldson—“ you want your words to sting, to finally pierce through her skin.

she laughs lightly— it almost feeling condescending. “no, don’t be— i’m sure you kept up with mine.”

she says it like it’s obvious. it’s worse because it’s true.

“tashi!”

mrs. duncan calls out from the elevators in the distance, she’s holding the hand of her granddaughter, lily, you assume.

“well, nice chat. i have to go,” tashi smiles thinly. “i’ll see you around.”

and just like that she’s gone.

you take another sip of your coffee

you are fucked.

this prediction article is due in four hours.

and the words started blurring after your last sentence, which you wrote three hours ago. right before you saw her.

fuck it.

it’s not going to work, you need to clear your head— you need—

you need a drink.

and maybe it’s the special ‘new rochelle challenger related guests’ fucking discount but one drink turn to two. then to another. and another—

and you see her.

tashi.

wrapped in some cardigan, asking the receptionist for something that’s a part of her husband’s routine tomorrow before the game—

and your brain no longer controls you legs and you’re in her face.

“heyyyy, tash,” you laugh like she just said the funniest thing in the entire world—

“y/n.” her eyebrow’s raised. you probably reek of alcohol.

“mrs. donaldson- we can escort this… hm.. person away-“ the receptionist starts.

“no, it’s— it’s fine.” tashi sighs. “if you don’t have what i’m looking for, it’s fine— um- we’ll just use a substitute. thank you.” she turns to look at you again.

she scans you, half-exasperated, half-something else. you wobble on your feet with a grin.

“jesus, y/n, how much did you drink?”

“just enough to stop thinking about you.”

her eyebrows furrow and she looks like she might just walk away. but she doesn’t. she just takes one good look at you and—

she grabs your arm. “c’mon,” she mutters. “what’s your room number?”

“why? you wanna hook up with me?” you laugh again.

the receptionist looks between you and her with a concerned expression—

“it’s fine. leave it.” tashi shakes her head as she hoists your arm around her shoulder.

and before you can process, she’s practically carrying you across the lobby. like she knows exactly how to take care of you, whether you like it or not.

she sighs and adjusts her grips when you’re finally in the elevator. “give me your room key.” she squints— “where the fuck is 2755?”

it’s late, she’s tired, you don’t blame her— but your drunk mouth can’t help but giggle, “you’re really bad at this.”

tashi just sighs again, the elevator door slides open. the hallway stretches ahead, but she doesn't leave you down it and pushes you towards the glass door.

"forget it. i need air," she mutters.

you both step onto the hotel terrace, the doors open and the chill winds of the outside air hit your skin—

tashi leans against the balcony and takes a deep breath.

you stare at the soft city glow, the flapping of the tarp hitting against the tennis court in the distance. the alcohol in your system softens into something else.

you open your mouth and let out what's been rotting deep inside you for the last twelve years—

"do you ever think of me?"

the answer comes after a pause.

"no."

liar. tashi donaldson's a fuckin' liar.

you laugh.

clear, bright, bitter.

"pussy. you can't even admit it." you smile widely because it hurts. it really does. you can feel your nails scrape into your palms.

tashi rolls her eyes. “y/n—“ she starts.

then she stops.

"i should go. i need to tuck lily in and..." her eyes shift, "art needs me to give him a review before his match."

you shake your head laughing again. "nevermind. you're never going to admit it."

"what is there to admit?"

"you loved me."

she exhales sharply, "that was literally ten-"

"twelve"

"-twelve years ago." she give you a hard, stony look. "get some sleep, y/n. you probably have a deadline."

and just like that, she's gone. again.

you stare at the glass door that she'll turn back.

but she doesn't.

and night is quiet.

-

tags: @hyuneskkami for the dividers

if you dont continue the black beauty thing i fear im going to explode

i honestly hated black beauty 😓

but if y’all REALLY want it, i have some ideas for pt. 2…

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.

masterlist

symbol key: smut = ✧ , fluff = ꨄ︎, angst = ❀, favorites = ♥︎

ART DONALDSON: ♥︎ me & you together song ꨄ︎ PATRICK ZWEIG: you're here, that's the thing ꨄ︎, ❀ TASHI DUNCAN: black beauty ❀

↳ part 2: good luck, babe! ❀

lucky you | tattooartist!patrick x reader

warning: oral sex, m! receiving

the back of patrick zweig's tattoo shop smells like ink, antiseptic, and cigarette smoke, the faint hum of a tattoo machine still buzzing somewhere in the front. it's dimly lit, the overhead fluorescent flickering slightly, casting long shadows across the cluttered counter and the worn leather couch pushed against the wall.

but none of that really matters—not when you're on your knees, fingers curling against the rough denim of his jeans, mouth stretched wide around his cock.

patrick leans back against the counter, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping the edge behind him like he needs something to brace against. he's trying so hard to keep himself together, to maintain that usual cocky, unbothered demeanor—but you can hear him breaking. his breath shudders every time you sink down, his jaw clenching as he fights the little moans and groans threatening to spill from his lips.

"fuck," he breathes, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. "such a good fucking mouth. all it's good for, yeah?"

the words send a sharp thrill through you, and you whimper around him, throat tightening as you take him deeper. he feels it—his whole body jolts slightly, fingers tightening at your scalp as he exhales a sharp, broken sound.

"shit—look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "making such a fucking mess."

sloppy doesn't even begin to cover it. your spit glistens along his length, slick and dripping down your chin, your tongue working him over with desperate, eager strokes. every time you pull back, a slick, obscene sound follows, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock before you take him in again, gagging softly as he presses deeper. patrick groans, low and guttural, trying to swallow it down, but he can't help it—your mouth is perfect, warm and wet and eager, and he's unraveling fast.

his shirt is bunched up just enough for you to catch sight of the ink just above his cock, black cursive letters etched into the sharp plane of his hairy pelvis: LUCKY YOU.

it makes your stomach twist with something dark and needy, makes your thighs squeeze together, makes your lashes flutter as you blink up at him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. patrick groans, his head tipping back.

"god—" his voice cracks, and you feel his thighs tense beneath your hands. his grip in your hair tightens, guiding you, pushing you down until your nose brushes against the base of him, until your throat flutters around him in a way that makes his whole body seize up.

it doesn't take much more than that. his breath catches, a curse tumbling from his lips, and then he's spilling hot and thick across your tongue, holding you there as he shudders through it. you swallow it all, greedily, eyes flicking up to watch the way his jaw goes slack, how his chest rises and falls in uneven pants.

when you finally pull back, licking your lips, patrick stares down at you, chest still heaving. and then—slowly, lazily—he smirks, shaking his head like he can't believe it.

"such a slut," he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement, satisfaction. "think i might have to keep you around, huh?"

his thumb swipes across your chin, collecting a stray droplet, and he holds it up to your lips. you take it without hesitation, sucking the pad of his finger into your mouth.

yeah. he's definitely keeping you around.

spam posting rn but I thought this was funny

salivating, you would deadass have to PRY me off of his man

me & you together song

i've been in love with her for ages and I can't seem to get it right i fell in love with her in stages my whole life - me & you together song, the 1975

pairing: stanford!art x friend!reader, slight patrick x tashi

in which: art’s been in love with you for ages, and he can’t seem to muster the courage to tell you.

warnings: patrick and tashi are dating in this, art being an absolute loser and dork, severe pining

note: i just really like writing friends to lovers okay???

“seriously man?”

patrick snap his fingers in front of art’s face. “i come back from tour, just to visit you and you can’t even look at me because you’re busy— what, busy starin’ at a chick?”

“she’s not just some chick—“ art snaps his attention back to his best friend.

“no, she’s the girl of your dreams—“ the other boy mocks in a dreamy tone. “you’ve been doing this since the tennis academy days. since you saw her on the fuckin’ court when we were twelve.”

“shutup- shutup-“

“no! i will not shut up, donaldson.” patrick rolls his eyes. “you’ve been doing this for forever, and we’re in college now. ask her out, it’s not hard to—“

“shut up— PATRICK.” art says loudly. he clears his throat and he turns his head to you approaching. his cheeks flushing up from the sight of you. “hey.”

“hey.” patrick snorts casually.

“hi.” you smile politely. “um, art. do you know when practice starts today? i lost my schedule.”

“um. yeah- it’s- uh— it’s at- at- two.”

“oh okay, thanks, art.” you smile and wave before turning away and joining your friends at their table.

“it’s— uh— uh— uh— at— at— t-t-two,“ patrick teases with a smirk. art slaps his chest with a scoff.

“whatever man.”

“let me be your wingman!”

“no.” art says stiffly.

“oh come on, why not?” patrick groans as if he’s in physical pain.

“the last time you offered to be my wingman, you told her—“ he looks around and lowers his voice, “—that i have an intense boner.” art hisses, his pale skin turning red at the memory.

“what? was i wrong? no!” patrick cackles then slowly stops as he catches his friend’s glare, “besides, she laughed! she thought it was a joke. girls love a funny guy-“

“she didn’t laugh because it was funny, patrick. she laughed because she was mortified.” art says stiffly.

“whatever you say man.” patrick chuckles to himself, wearing that stupid, condescending grin. “i’m just saying— if you don’t ask her out, you’ll be pining after her until you’re forty-fucking-five.”

art’s mouth shifts in a thin line, because for once, what patrick’s saying is true.

at practice, art rallies the ball back to his hitting partner. his grip’s loose, his footwork’s sloppy, but he’s barely paying attention to that because you’re right there.

you laugh at something one of your friends said, the way your face shifts, perfecting that smile. the way your ponytail blows in the gentle wind, the way—

“donaldson! come on, this is the third time!” his hitting partner yells as the missed ball slams the fence behind him with a thwack.

“fuck— fuck- yeah, i’m sorry.” art says quickly, he snaps back to attention and turns around to pick up the ball. but when he bends over to reach it, another hand is already picking it up for him.

he looks up and his cheeks redden again.

“here.” you smile gently, like an angel— no— no- a goddess, and hands the ball to him.

for a moment, art stares, his mouth agape, speechless. his eyes never leaving your eyes, he freezes in place.

you furrow your eyebrows together in mild confusion and you laugh slightly to break the awkward silence. “art?”

“oh— yeah— yeah, sorry- zoned out.” art says frantically, standing up and taking the ball. as your fingers brush— just for a second—his heart stutters. “th— thanks.”

as he turns to toss the ball back to his partner, the coach yells— “ok, five minute water break! good work.” his partner groans and throws his hands up in the air.

art stares longingly at you from a distance as you tip your bottle back. he wishes he was the bottle. fuck— what is wrong with him?

from the bleachers, patrick catches the look in his friends eyes, and scoffs. he whistles. when art looks, gestures lazily in your direction. he then mimes drinking from an invisible cup. ‘ask her out for drinks,’ he mouths, just for good measure.

art mouths back— ‘how?’

but patrick’s already distracted— his hand finds tashi’s waist as he whispers something in her ear. she scoffs showing him off as he kisses her cheek. some wingman, art thinks to himself with an eye roll.

for once, art musters l the courage to talk to you. he takes a few heavy steps, scrambling for the right words. ‘hi, i’ve been in love with you for the past seven years.’ too strong. ‘how are you?’ too vague.

he decides on a ‘hey. are you free tonight? do you want to go get drinks? i know a good spot.’

yet, as he reaches where you are and has you staring at him expecting him to say something— he squeaks out a “drinks?”

you blink, “drinks?”

“you— do you— you want— do you want drinks?”

you tilt your head with a half smile, “n-no?”

“i mean— fuck, uh.” he clears his throat, twice. “do you— do you want, do you want to go out with drinks with me? tonight? if you’re free- if you- have time.”

“as friends?” you smile slightly as you brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

fuck. fuck. abort mission. his brain screams at him to run, but his feet won’t move. okay, so you want to go as friends? sure— he can do that.

“well, duhhhhh—“ he says, way too loud. “um— yeah— as— um— the bestest friends. yes. from mark rebellato’s tennis academy. friends.”

everyone on the stanford tennis team is staring at him at this point. even patrick lets out an exaggerated sigh from the bleachers.

“…oooookay then, is seven good?” you ask gently

“yup. amazing. so good.” he grins— way too wide with his teeth clenched— and bolts.

he drops down next to tashi and patrick, exhaling like he’s just run a 100 miles. “i did it.” he lets out a breathless laugh, almost in disbelief. “i asked her out.”

patrick snorts. “you call that asking someone out?”

“i mean— technically, yeah?”

“did you actually— or-?” tashi raises her eyebrow.

“our big man did it, tash.” patrick laughs. “he’s going out for drinks with her. as the ‘bestest friends from mark rebellato’s tennis academy,’ of course.”

“shut up,“ art groans, holding his head in his hands.

“no- because, you weren’t even ‘bestest friends’— you were barely friends with her at the academy.” patrick points out. “you barely spoke to her, all you did was pine after her and jerk o—“

art’s cheeks flush up and covers patrick’s mouth, looking around frantically. “OKAY— okay, patrick. we get it.”

tashi sighs, patting her boyfriend’s arm. “just don’t be weird and scare her off.”

patrick grins, “like that’s possible.”

“patrick,” tashi gives him a look. patrick rolls his eyes, then turns to art, squeezing his cheeks.

“fine, good luck. just remember, you can’t fuck up more than you already have,” he pauses, “probably.”

for the past half hour, art’s been gripping on his drink like his life depends on it.

you’ve been going on and on about tennis practice, this girl who borrowed your lip gloss and lost it, and that time you fell on your face during a junior league.

but he’s completely distracted because at the moment, he doesn’t know whether he’s looking at you too much— or not enough. if his outfit says ‘causal friend hangout’ or ‘please love me and run off with me to a cabin where we can live happily for the rest of our lives.’

so he just laughs when you laugh. nod at the right times. says “yeah” when it seems appropriate.

and he prays that you don’t notice how he’s completely freaking out about this.

“art.”

he snaps out of it instantly.

“…mm yeah?” he mumbles like complete, fucking idiot.

“are you even listening to me?” you smirk, laughing slightly.

“of course, i am.” he tries to put on a winning smile but it comes out strained.

you raise your eyebrow, taking a slow sip from your glass. art, desperate to seem composed, mirrors you and drinks from his.

as you set your drink down, you casually mention, “y’know, i used to have the biggest crush on you?”

art chokes.

“what?” he coughs.

“yeah. back at the academy. i really, really liked you,” you laugh.

his heart practically leaps out of his chest and he swears his cheeks are probably heating up and shifting to some shade of pink.

but he plays it cool— or at least, he tries to.

"you said you used to? so- so, not anymore?" he stammers.

"i mean, i could like you, if you like me back," you tease. "but we're here as friends? right?"

he screams internally. fuck him. fuck his idiocy and not being able to ask the girl he loves on a real date. "...right." he looks down at the beer swirling in his cup.

you pause slightly, scanning the expression on his face. "do you like me?"

art raises his head, looking you in the eyes. this is his chance, whoever's up above has given him an opportunity. he cannot fuck this up.

"ye— i mean— pff, no."

fuck.

fuck.

patrick's voice rings in his head, 'just remember, you can’t fuck up more than you already have,' and look what he's done.

why, why would he say that? what is wrong with him? so many questions swarm his head and he has the urge to slap himself.

your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion and you look almost... disappointed? but you shrug anyways, "oh, okay then."

for a moment there is silence, before you clear your throat, "should we get another round of drinks?"

"yeah— sure." art murmurs, nodding slightly.

art donaldson is a fucking loser.

he repeats this in his head as he walks you back to your dorm. he opens his mouth several times to scream out about how much he loves you. about how he needs you. about how he wants to be with you for the rest of his life, despite it being only the first technical date.

but he can't.

he turns his head to look at you, because you're so pretty. and amazing. and perfect. he sighs and looks straight ahead.

he fucked it up.

patrick's right, he'll be pining after you until he's forty-five. actually, no, he'll be pining after you until he dies.

art's convinced he might explode because both of you haven't said a single word. he wants to rip his skin off or get on his knees and cling to you like a toddler.

after another two minutes of silence, he stops walking and bursts.

"i really like you."

he scans your face for a reaction but you stare at him.

"like— i really, really like you. i'm in love with you, i mean— who wouldn't be? you're so amazing— you're good at tennis, you're smart, you're nice, you're gorgeous— fuck- i should really shut up." he rambles, "i've just- i've just liked you since we were fucking twelve because you let me borrow your tennis ball after i hit mine over the fence. i thought you were really thoughtful— i mean, you still are—"

"art." you laugh, grabbing his shoulder.

"no- no- i know what you're going to say- like- we're friends. we're not even friends actually, i don't- i don't talk to you- at all—"

"art."

"-and i don't care if you don't like me back- i just wanted to get this out-"

"art!" you finally yell. you roll your eyes. "i know."

art stops talking.

"i know," you say again with a shrug. you brush a blonde hair out of his face.

art suddenly notices how close you are. "y-you know?"

you smirk, "i'm not an idiot. i have eyes."

is it just him or have you gotten closer? his cheeks are probably red again. like they always are around you.

"huh." his teeth worry into his lip in thought, he tries hard not to stare at your lips but ends up glancing at them.

you giggle softly, catching his glance, “i think you’re cute.”

“cute?” he squeaks.

“yeah, cute,” you grab his face a gently press your lips against his.

a few minutes later, art is running back to his dorm. his steps light and fast, he smiles like an idiot. his heart flutters so fast, he thinks it must be pounding out of his chest. he’s dizzy. he thinks he might faint.

but he stops, pulling his blackberry out of his pocket to type a message with shaky hands.

ART DONALDSON: you will not believe what just happened

he stares at the message with a grin, finger hovering over the send button, then presses it.

PATRICK ZWEIG: ?

PATRICK ZWEIG: dude

PATRICK ZWEIG: dude???

PATRICK ZWEIG: art??

PATRICK ZWEIG: hello?????

art laughs to himself still in disbelief.

ART DONALDSON: i dont even know what to say

ART DONALDSON: but it’s all happening

he leans back against the wall, laughing out loud again. he lets out a breath, grin never fading—

he’s definitely still an idiot, but maybe now— he’s a lucky one.

-

tags: @hyuneskkami for the divider

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 ♡