Challengers X Reader - Blog Posts

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

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

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

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

TRIBBING WITH FTM!ART ‼️‼️‼️‼️

summary: art is a bit shy about telling his girlfriend what he really wants; but once he does, he doesn't regret it. he knows his girlfriend will always take care of him and what he needs.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.1k words. praise. tribbing (vulva against vulva). messy kissing. submissive art donaldson. kind of dirty talking (soft).

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams (to be added)

The air was thick with summer heat, even with the window cracked open. Somewhere outside, a cicada buzzed lazily, the sound distant and muffled under the soft hum of the box fan in the corner of the room. The semester at Stanford was over and you had invited your boyfriend for vacation at your family’s house.

Art sat on the edge of your bed, fingers twisted in the hem of his T-shirt, thighs tense where they pressed together. His eyes flicked up to yours—dark, hungry, but nervous too.

“You sure?” you asked gently, stepping between his knees. The bed cracked.

Art nodded, hidden adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Just… just don’t stop talking. I like when you talk.”

You smiled and leaned down to kiss him—soft at first, your lips brushing his like a whisper. But the moment he leaned into you, you deepened it. His lips parted, eager and open, and your hands found his jaw, thumbs stroking lightly across his cheeks. He tasted like mint and nerves. The kiss was messy from the start, all breath and need and little whimpers that caught in his throat. You loved how easy it was to unravel him with nothing but your mouth.

“You’re already shaking,” you murmured against his lips, your voice low and fond.

Art let out a tiny, desperate sound, hips shifting involuntarily. “I can’t help it. You make me feel—fuck, I don’t even know.”

You pushed his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, a soft flush spreading across his skin. You let your fingertips skim over his scars with reverence, thumbs circling his nipples until he gasped.

“You’re so handsome like this,” you told him. “I love every inch of you. You know that?” Art’s eyes fluttered shut, as though the praise was too much to take. “Say it again.” He almost begged.

You leaned in, nipping gently at his jaw. “I love your body. Love the way you melt under my hands. You’re beautiful, Art.” He let out a shaky breath, hands coming up to grip your waist. His voice was smaller now, breathless. “Please… I want to feel you.”

“You will,” you promised, brushing your nose against his. “Lay back for me.”

He obeyed immediately, scooting up the bed until his head hit the pillow. You followed, straddling his thigh as you kissed him again—this time deeper, wetter, like you needed to taste every sound he made. Your hand slid between his legs, cupping the heat of him through his boxers. Art gasped, hips arching into your touch.

“You’re already soaked,” you murmured, half in awe. “I haven’t even taken these off you yet.” It wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t mocking—just a fact.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he admitted in a whisper. “Thought about you on top of me. Thought about your thighs, your hands, your kisses…” You kissed his throat, then lower—pressing your mouth to every inch of skin you could reach just to hear his beautiful sounds. “You’re gonna get what you want. Just stay still for me, baby.”

He whimpered at that, thighs twitching. You peeled off his boxers with care, and he helped, lifting his hips, baring himself completely to you. The trust in his eyes nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“Look at you,” you said, tracing a line down his stomach to where he was slick and flushed. “So wet for me. So perfect.”

Art keened, covering his face with one arm. “Fuck, stop—you’re gonna make me come just from that.”

You grabbed his wrist and gently pulled it away, making him look at you. “Don’t hide from me,” you said softly. “I want to see every reaction. Every twitch. Every time you fall apart.”

His eyes darkened with arousal, lips parting in a silent moan.

You sat up just enough to strip off your own shirt and underwear, leaving you both bare. His gaze dropped to your thighs, your folds already glistening. His hands gripped your hips as you moved to straddle him, your wet heat pressing against his. You rocked gently, grinding down, and both of you gasped at the friction.

“Fuck,” Art groaned, his head tipping back. “Feels so—God—feels so good.”

You cupped the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss, open-mouthed and slick. Your tongues slid together, and the sound of it—the soft, wet suck—sent heat spiraling low in your belly.

You rocked again, slower this time, dragging yourself along the length of his wet folds. He was flushed and trembling beneath you, hands tight on your waist, mouth falling open with every drag of your hips.

“That’s it,” you whispered into his mouth. “You feel so good like this. So fucking soft. So easy to love.”

His nails dug into your skin. “Keep talking.” You bit his lip gently. “You’re perfect, Art. You make me want to take my time. Make you come slow. Make you feel everything.”

He moaned—long and deep—and ground up into you, searching for more pressure. You shifted your angle, thighs tightening as your clits met again, slick and swollen, sending sparks through both of you.

“There,” you gasped. “Right there, baby. You like it like that?”

He nodded furiously, words failing him.

You took his face in your hands, kissing him through it. It was messy now—spit-slick, desperate, full of moans. His lips chased yours, like he couldn’t stand to be without the taste of you.

“You’re being so good for me,” you said, rocking harder now, your pace growing erratic. “So responsive. So fucking pretty.”

“Please don’t stop,” he begged. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Let me feel it,” you whispered. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

The sound he made then—half whimper, half sob—sent you over the edge with him. His thighs tensed and trembled as he came, grinding up against you, body jerking with every wave of pleasure. You followed seconds later, burying your face in his neck as your own orgasm crashed through you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

You stayed like that for a long time—bodies sticky and tangled, mouths still occasionally brushing in soft, open kisses. His fingers ran up and down your spine in a lazy rhythm, and your hands cradled his jaw as you murmured praise into his skin.

“You did so good for me,” you said. “So perfect. I love how you fall apart. Love how you feel against me.” Art’s cheeks were still flushed, but his smile was soft now. “You make me feel like I’m perfect.”

“You are,” you said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You always are.”