THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

Wish I could tell them that everybodys got a thing

challengers x sing

innocence sharpened to a blade — the quiet cruelty of being underestimated — a whisper that rewrites the room

elegance born from exhaustion — the quiet choreography of self-sacrifice — strength mistaken for serenity

fury knotted behind the ribs — longing that forgets how to ask — devotion that tastes like blood

thank you @asheepinfrance @diyasgarden @blastzachilles!

gripping onto my vintage ghostface figurine and giggling with glee

LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

part one ・ part two

summary: After surviving the Stanford massacre, you try to start over—move away, change your name. But Art, Patrick and Tashi were never caught. Strange messages and disappearances begin again, and the paranoia you thought you’d buried resurfaces. You’re not sure if you are being hunted… or if they’re luring you back in to finish what they started.

cw: 1.5k words. apt!scream au. paranoia and stalking. psychological trauma. gaslighting. violence (implied). threatening messages. fear and dread. obsession. loss of control.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams, @sohighitscool, @shahabaqsa0310

You don’t dream about the knife anymore. You dream about the silence that came after it. The moment you realized no one was coming. The moment their hands let go of your throat—not because they took mercy, but because they wanted you to live.

You were their final girl. And you didn’t ask for that.

After the attack, the cops found your dorm soaked in blood—whose? You never knew. Your screams woke up the entire west quad after escaping the athletic building lockers. You gave them names—Tashi Duncan, Patrick Zweig, Art Donaldson—and you gave them details. You told them where the rest of the bodies were buried; little secrets the killers had told you before letting you go. Which drawers held the Ghostface masks. What the blood under your fingernails meant.

But they were already gone. No phones. No footage. No fingerprints. Like the whole thing had been a story you made up during a psychotic break.

But you know the truth. They let you live. And monsters don’t vanish forever.

You moved across the country six months later.

New name. New school. No tennis courts. No whispers of Ghostface. You enrolled in a tiny liberal arts college in Vermont where no one had ever heard of Tashi Duncan or her star-crossed boys. You found an apartment—alone this time. No roommates. No shared keys. The walls were thin, and the pipes moaned in the winter, but at least it was yours.

You even got a therapist. Sometimes you lie to her. Sometimes you don’t. Mostly, you tell her you’re fine. Mostly, you try to believe it because life goes on.

But it starts with little things, at first. A knock on your door when no one’s there. A lightbulb unscrewed. A voicemail filled with static. You chalk it up to anxiety. Or trauma. Or both. The mind plays tricks when it’s lived too long in fear.

Then you find a postcard. No return address. No note. Just a photo of Stanford’s tennis courts. You stare at it for hours. Your hands don’t stop shaking for days.

You start checking your locks.

Twice. Then three times. You push furniture in front of the door. You stop answering calls from unknown numbers. You carry a knife in your jacket, one in your bedside drawer, and a third tucked between your mattress and the wall.

You tell yourself it’s just leftover fear; a scar from a time when your life wasn’t your own. But sometimes, at night, you hear the floor creak, and you know you locked the door.

You see her at the grocery store, just for a second. An hallucination, a dream, something real. A flash of dark curls. Her beautiful skin. That posture you could recognize anywhere—the cocky, impossible tilt of someone who never lost anything in her life.

Tashi.

You drop your basket. Run to the end of the aisle. Gone. You ask the cashier if they saw her, they say no one matching that description came in tonight.

You don’t sleep anymore. You stop going to the store. You stop going anywhere.

You install a camera. Just one, to be sure. Outside your door. You check it every night like a drug you can’t escape, refreshing the feed, watching for a shadow that never appears. Until one day it’s turned around, facing the wall.

Your therapist says you’re experiencing PTSD-induced paranoia and you simply nod at her.

But in your gut, you know, they’re still out there. And they’re not done with you.

The power goes out one night during a storm.

You light a candle. Sit in the kitchen. Try to calm the breathing that’s too shallow, too fast. You try not to think of knives or black robes or dripping masks. Then your phone buzzes. A single message. No number that you recognize.

“Still bleeding, final girl?”

You drop the phone. The screen cracks. You throw up in the sink that night, sweat spilling through every pores of your body with the fear consuming you. It’s like an awake-nightmare.

You go to the police the next morning. Again, like you had done before; a few days after Stanford, a week after Stanford, a month after Stanford – remembering the paranoia.

You tell them someone is stalking you. That you’ve received threats. That you survived a massacre and the killers were never caught. They write it all down.

They promise to look into it. They never call back. They never did.

You start to think you’re losing your mind.

You hear music sometimes. A tennis match broadcast faintly through the walls. A whisper behind your head when you’re brushing your teeth. You hear your name in the shower steam. You unplug everything. Cover mirrors to not see behind yourself. Start sleeping in the tub with the door locked, a knife in hand and every noise waking you up.

But they keep getting in. Somehow. They always get in.

You wake up one morning to find a trail of red shoe prints across your carpet and you almost throw up again. They are tiny tennis court prints. A racket on the table of your living room—you haven’t played tennis since Stanford. You never wanted to hear about it ever again.

Like someone dipped them in blood. You call the cops again. They don’t find anything, no prints, no camera footage; nothing.

The next time you see Patrick, it’s in a dream.

He’s sitting in your kitchen. Perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, sipping tea from your mug like he’s lived here all along. “You’re slipping,” he says without looking up.

“I’m not.” You try to convince yourself – him, it’s all the same. Your heart is in your throat with the fear you feel. He’s not real, he’s not here; but he still has that hold onto you that you can’t escape. “You’re unraveling,” he continues. “It’s okay. You weren’t meant to live through it. That’s why it hurts so much.”

You try to scream, but your voice is gone. Patrick finally looks at you, and he’s wearing the mask. The scream is his now. Quiet and observing.

You try to leave town after a few days. Throw clothes into a bag. Book a motel two states away. You don’t leave a note. You don’t tell your therapist. You just go.

Halfway down the highway, your car dies like it was meant to be. Completely.

You sit on the shoulder, shivering, dialing roadside assistance. Then you check the trunk. Inside—under your spare tire—is a Ghostface mask. And a photo of you sleeping in the Vermont apartment.

You stop fighting it after that. You stop trying to convince anyone. No one believes the girl who lived. No one believes the crazy girl.

And they’ve made sure of that. They’re not just stalking you anymore. They’re gaslighting you from the inside. Everything around feels like a joke they created; a world just for you to suffer the lies and manipulation.

The final straw is the rabbit. You find it on your porch one morning. Tiny. White. Gutted. Its throat slit clean, like a signature – like something to remember them by. Pinned to its side is a note written in perfect, feminine script; the handwriting of Tashi that you can visualize back on the Stanford books.

“You should’ve died when we gave you the chance.”

You move the next day. You don’t care where. Anywhere but here.

The new place is better. Brighter. Busier.

There are windows that face the street, and you can see people. Real people. Families. Kids on bikes. Joggers with golden retrievers. It helps. For a while. You let yourself laugh again. Smile at strangers. Go out with friends you made in the tiny city.

You even start writing about what happened. Not for anyone else. Just for you. Just to get it out of your body before it rots you from the inside. Your therapist says it’s good progress. That you’re reclaiming your narrative.

That you’re healing. That you can be better.

And then, on a rainy Tuesday morning, you get a package. No return address. Inside: a VHS tape and a matchbook from Stanford’s campus bookstore. You don’t own a VHS player, but your neighbor does.

You tell her it’s for a film class and you watch it alone. It’s footages of you, in your old dorm. Sleeping. Showering. Crying into your pillow after the attack. You see Tashi in the corner of one frame. Art in another. Patrick whispering into the camera, smiling.

“We missed you.”

The walls start closing in again. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You let yourself go.

You start hearing tennis balls thudding in the hall at night. You find your own handwriting scribbled across mirrors. You find locks broken that were never touched.

Sometimes you think about just walking into the woods, into the dark, into paranoia. But that’s what they want. They want you gone; but why?

So you start preparing. Not to run. To fight. To take back what’s yours. You buy cameras, wire your windows, train yourself to wake at every sound. You read books on serial killers, on survival, on how to set traps.

You wait. Because they’re coming. They always do. And this time, you’re not going to let them write the ending. But deep down; you know what you really fear.

Not that they’ll kill you, but that they’ll love you while they do it.

And that part of you… will love them back.

Two Birds On A Wire || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (Oral, fingering), drinking, very slow burn, I swear it's too slow, once again- I really don't know what's going on here

Word Count: 9.9k

Two birds on a wire

You and Art became friends only at Stanford. You had opportunities to be friends before; it’s impossible to ignore the fact that both of you studied at the same school since you were 12. But Art was friends with people like Patrick Zweig, and you, well, you were one of the people Patrick Zweig spent too much time laughing at.

So when you both get accepted to the same college, you’re aware of his presence because he’s on the tennis team, and his ugly face (even in your thoughts, you find it hard to lie to yourself so blatantly) is plastered on every poster, in every corner. He finds out you’re there at the beginning of the second semester, when you both end up at the same party. If anyone asks him, he came there with a purpose- to get drunk and forget that Tashi Duncan exists or that she’s dating his best friend. If anyone asks you, you got there by accident- you were practically dragged, and you planned to leave after half an hour. But then he saw you, and his confused expression turned into an amused one, then into a challenging one, and then into a series of other expressions that, to this day, you keep in a small box in your memories of Art Donaldson.

“This is weird,” was the first thing he said to you, and you could see from his flushed cheeks that he had already been drinking. Probably more than one beer. “What’s weird?” you asked in response, and he leaned his curls closer to you, expecting you to ask the question again because it was impossible to hear anything with that music blasting at such volume. “What’s weird?” you repeated directly into his ear. For a moment, you wondered if your breath could reach his nose. If that was something he would even notice. If that little breeze made his hair tickle the nape of his neck. If, if, if. “That you’re here, I guess?” You weren’t sure if there was a question mark at the end or if it was just his facial expression studying you intently. As if you had committed a crime, but he was both the cop interrogating you and the lawyer defending you. All roles at once. The thought made you swallow down a chuckle.

“I study here,” you said briefly and took a sip from the drink Josie had made for you. It had more orange juice than vodka because she knew otherwise you wouldn’t even agree to hold it. “I study here too,” he said, and now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “I know that, Donaldson,” you replied with staged ease. It took a lot out of you. This was probably the longest conversation you’d ever had, if you completely ignored that one time in ninth grade when he saw you crying over something one of his friends had said and just sat down next to you. Actually, there wasn’t much to ignore- he hadn’t said anything to you back then. He just waited for you to stop crying quietly, as if there was nothing he could say that would actually make things better. He placed his water bottle next to you and left when he saw that you were able to open it and drink on your own.

“You just know that?” he was amused. He didn’t seem angry to see you. He didn’t seem like your presence annoyed him, just that it confused him to his core. “Your face is on all the posters,” you shrugged, because it was obvious. Everyone knew Art Donaldson. He never tried to stand out. He never did anything special to make it happen, not even in high school. While people like Patrick Zweig reeked of effort, Art Donaldson drew people in effortlessly and quietly. With a calm that radiated from him in all directions. “Well, if your face were on all the posters, I’d know you were here too. What are you studying?” he asked, with a lightness that was impossible to explain. As if you had been friends your entire lives. As if the fact that he hadn’t known you were so close to him was a crime against humanity.

"Bio-chem," you said concisely, wondering if this would end the conversation, but his face said otherwise. There was genuine amazement at the subject. “Damn, (Y/N), I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you were planning to save the world one day,” the amused look returned as you rolled your eyes. “What are you studying?” you asked, because it was the polite thing to do, and if there was one thing that could definitely be said about you- it was that you were very polite. “Tennis.” He shrugged and chuckled, as if it was the best joke he could tell. He saw the confusion on your face and quickly added, “Not really, Sports Management. But it’s not even a plan B. If I don’t make it pro, then all of this is pointless,” he explained. You wondered if he also felt this wasn’t a conversation suited for a party. If he, too, was asking himself why he was speaking to you so openly.

You nodded, assuming the conversation would end there, especially when one of his friends approached him, but Art stayed by your side, even introduced you- like you were an old friend from high school. Like you two go way back. Talking with Art was effortless and funny. His humor was on point. His manners weren’t far from yours. He didn’t touch you too much, only pulling you slightly closer when he felt you were drifting away. Almost marking territory when one of your friends came over to say hi. When Josie gave him a scrutinizing look, he simply smiled and introduced himself. She nodded, handed you a fresh cup of the same drink, and disappeared just as quickly as she had arrived.

“I could’ve made you a drink, you know,” he said suddenly, the amused look never leaving his face as he studied you. “Josie makes the perfect drink,” you replied, and he took it from your hand, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “The perfect drink is just orange juice?” He raised an eyebrow as he handed the cup back to you. “There’s vodka in there,” you rolled your eyes, trying to regain some of the dignity you felt you had just lost. “Do you want to dance with me?” he asked. “Where did that come from?” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “We’re at a party, and I want to dance,” he shrugged for what felt like the millionth time, speaking as if every word coming out of his mouth was an undeniable fact. “I’m fine right here.” You tried to wrap up the conversation, assuming that would be the end of it and that he’d just let you stay in your quiet corner and eventually go home, just as you had planned when you first arrived.

But he took a few steps back, keeping his eyes on you. “Why settle for fine when you could be having fun?” he asked. And there was something about Art Donaldson, you learned in that moment- he always operated exactly like that. ‘Why settle for fine, when you could be having fun?’

So, you downed the drink in one gulp and decided that this time, you’d dance with him. After all, you wouldn’t see him tomorrow anyway, and you’d both go back to acting the way you did two hours ago. Life would return to normal. So, you danced- sometimes ridiculously, sometimes seriously. His hands were on your waist, and he quietly asked if it was okay. All you could do was nod, because why settle for just "okay" when you could have fun? And with Art Donaldson, you thought you might actually have fun.

An hour later, you were already on your way to your dorm. His fingers brushed against yours, each time a different one wrapping around one of your fingers, gently hinting that maybe he’d like to hold your hand but giving you the option to pull away. You were both half-drunk- him more than you, of course, otherwise you didn’t think he’d be walking away from that party with you. You tried not to focus on intrusive thoughts about high school or Patrick Zweig, because no one else deserved to intrude on this moment. You always knew Art wasn’t like them. He never acted like them. He always looked down, turned away when someone was messing with you. You appreciated that.

"Can I come in?" he asked, half-amused, looking at you. Completely prepared to hear the word 'no' if necessary. "Well, you're already here." For a moment, neither of you could believe you’d said that, but he didn’t wait for you to change your mind and stepped inside. He studied your room like he was looking for secrets. He stared at a framed childhood photo longer than you were comfortable with. He examined the posters your roommate had on the wall and the books you had on your shelf.

His lips were on yours a few minutes later- minutes that felt like an eternity. It started hesitant, restrained, almost cautious. You couldn’t believe you were kissing Art Donaldson. That was all you could think about- Fuck, fuck my life, I’m about to sleep with Art Donaldson. I’m about to lose my virginity to Art Donaldson. And the more you spiraled into those thoughts, the more intense the kiss became. His hands found their way to every exposed inch of your skin as you both settled onto your bed, never breaking apart. He kissed your neck like a starving man, like you were his last meal before execution, like his very breath depended on the exact spot where you had sprayed perfume before leaving for the party.

"I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a sec, okay?" Your voice sounded strange even to you for a moment. "Now?" He sounded confused but not upset, speaking into your neck, making it seem like physically separating from you would be painful. "I have to pee," you blurted out the first thing that came to mind, and he pulled back for a second, looking at you with sparkling eyes- whether from alcohol or something else, you couldn’t tell. He nodded, and you stood up, hurrying to the tiny bathroom attached to your room.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as you applied deodorant, shaved your legs quickly (knowing you’d regret it tomorrow), gargled mouthwash, and stared at yourself again, psyching yourself up to walk back out in nothing but a bra and panties to have sex with Art Donaldson. A sentence you had to repeat to yourself over and over just to believe it was actually happening.

When you walked out, you tried to move as seductively as you knew how. Like in the movies. In Josie’s heels, which were a size too small but, for some reason, were in the bathroom, and panties with a flower on them- but at least you had a lace bra on. You had to work with what you got. You hobbled toward him while he lay in bed with his back to you. He didn’t react at all, which made you frown in confusion and step closer.

"Art?" You murmured toward him, but he didn’t move an inch. That’s when you realized that while you had been shaving and putting on heels that made you wobble, Art Donaldson had simply fallen asleep in your bed.

The level of humiliation you felt in that moment could have been worse if he had been awake to see you limping toward him, half-naked, in those ridiculous heels and questionable underwear. So, all you did was throw on the oversized T-shirt that said "Science is Sexy" (you had your doubts, but it made Josie laugh, and she had bought it for your birthday a month ago), took off the heels, and climbed into Josie’s bed- she had already texted you earlier that she wasn’t coming back to the room that night.

By morning, Art Donaldson was gone, and if you hadn’t slept in a different bed, you might have thought you had imagined the whole thing. . . . Almost a week had passed since Art Donaldson fell asleep in your bed before you found him sitting on the steps outside the Faculty of Exact Sciences. His wave in your direction was hesitant as you kept walking toward him. "Hey," was the first thing that came to your mind to say, because what else could you even add? You felt your heart pounding, and you knew you weren’t doing a great job of hiding your confusion- hiding emotions was never your strong suit. "Hey," he smiled- that same familiar yet foreign smile. The kind that had never been directed at you before, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his smiles.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. You didn’t mean to be rude, but seriously, what the fuck was he doing here? "Finished practice early and thought it’d be nice to invite you to eat at our cafeteria. The food there’s better," he said. If there was any hesitation or nervousness in his voice, you couldn’t pinpoint it. "Oh." Again, you weren’t really sure how to talk to people like Art. "I have a four-hour lab now, so I don’t think I can. But thanks for the invite, Donaldson." The more you spoke, the steadier your voice became.

"Maybe tomorrow?" His hand moved to the back of his neck as he shook his hair, still not fully dry from the shower. "Maybe," you nodded, because what else was there to do. "Are you on Facebook?" he asked as you started walking toward the building, and he walked beside you. "No, why do you ask?" You threw the question back, it felt safer. "Everyone's on Facebook. How are you not on Facebook?" he replied, amused, nudging his shoulder against yours. "I don't know, it just feels like a waste of time," you said, half-truthfully. The full truth was that you had no one to keep in touch with. All your friends were here, at Stanford, and opening Facebook just to stay in touch with your dad felt pathetic.

"Well, do you have a phone?" His voice cracked for a second but quickly recovered. You nodded briefly, and he reached out his hand, waiting for something. "Oh, right, one sec," you said, digging through your oversized bag, which held far too many things that had no business being there, like star stickers and shoelaces. "Here," you handed him the device, and he typed in a number, calling himself so he’d have yours too.

"I wanted to apologize for, you know, falling asleep. I feel like a dick." His hand found its way to the back of his neck again. You decided to start paying attention to when he did that. "Don’t worry about it," you waved your hand dismissively. "It’s a funny story we can tell someday if anyone asks what’s the weirdest situation you’ve been in after a party," you added with a chuckle, completely ignoring the fact that he didn’t laugh. "This is my lab," you said, pointing at the classroom in front of you. He nodded, furrowing his brows slightly, but still nodded.

When you agreed to sit with Art for lunch, you didn’t understand that you had committed to a soul friendship, but when you think about it sometimes, you suspect that he already understood. Sometimes you think he planned it all with endless devotion, from the second he saw you at that party. That he decided to tie his fate to yours without giving you any way to escape. The conversations were deeper than any you’d had with someone your age before. You found yourself telling him about pets you’d had and listening when he told you about his grandmother, who raised him when his parents didn’t have the patience or ability.

The only taboo between you during those months was the years you studied together before. You didn’t bring it up with particular persistence and he didn’t know how to bring it up without feeling self-hatred and remembering bad choices and thinking about the time he wasted. The only time he said Patrick’s name near you was when he introduced you to Tashi as his girlfriend, and even then, he said it and stared at you as if he expected you to fall apart just from hearing the name of his best friend. But you didn’t fall apart, you smiled at Tashi the warmest smile he’d ever seen. And you started a conversation about her scholarship, joked as if you had no worries. As if any connection between you and the quiet girl sitting in the back corner of the class was purely coincidental. As if no one had ever laughed at you. . . . “Do you hate the fact that I’m here?” Art asked as you sat on a carousel outside a fancy building where there was a party he’d heard about by chance. “What?” you took another sip of the wine you were passing between you and mostly didn’t understand where that was coming from. You’d hardly been apart for the past few months; you went to his practices when you had free time and he sat with you in the library during his. On weekends you studied together (you were studying and Art was dozing off on your bed or his, depending on whose room you were in).

“You know what I mean,” he shrugged like a carefree person, even though his brows were furrowed and his hand brushed the back of his neck. “Here on the carousel? Here on the planet? Here in-” you started listing all the things he could’ve meant, because who even knows what Art Donaldson ever means. “Here at Stanford. Here; where you are.” he clarified. “Why would I hate that?” you were even more confused than before. “Sometimes I think you really hate me and just don’t know how to get rid of me,” he tried to chuckle but his expression gave him away. He was really scared of that.

“I don’t think it’s possible to hate you, I don’t think anyone could even not like you, Art” you sighed toward him, and it was the truth. Art pulled people in so naturally. A magnet for humans. He made everyone around him feel like they were lucky at any given moment. You weren’t an exception. The fact that he chose to spend time with you or be around you never stopped surprising you. “You’re full of shit,” he smiled his signature smirk and took another sip from the nearly empty wine bottle. “You never talk about the fact that we already knew each other. It’s like I met you here,” he got to the heart of it.

“You don’t think you really met me here?” you asked. Because to be honest with yourself, you’re not even sure he knew who you were in high school. “I always knew who you were,” you saw in the dim lighting of the park that he was shrugging, guessing exactly what was going through your mind. “Knowing who someone is isn’t the same as knowing them,” you tried to explain, “I knew who you were, I knew who your friends were, I knew you played tennis,” you said all the dry facts that characterized Art Donaldson, “but I didn’t know you. I didn’t know you liked comics, I didn’t know you talk to your grandmother three times a week, I didn’t know you prefer writing in a notebook instead of on a computer. I didn’t know you’re in love with your best friend’s girlfriend,” you said the last part casually, even though he had never told you about his feelings for Tashi. “How did you find out?” He didn’t look scared that you knew. He looked calm, like you’d just told him it was going to be sunny tomorrow. “Because I know you now. I know how you look at people you love,” you said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Art nodded to himself, like someone who just reached a deep realization he had no intention of sharing with you. “Do you really hate him? Patrick, I mean,” he tried to break the imaginary silence pact between you two.

“I don’t hate him at all,” you said. There was a time when you did hate Patrick, because he was the villain in your story. But truthfully, you probably weren’t even a character in his. So, you learned to let it go. The anger you carried was mostly toward different life circumstances, toward the fact that some people start from a certain point, and others don’t even have a way to start. You could hate Patrick when you thought about how much luck it took for you to even get to where you are, compared to the fact that Patrick had everything handed to him to get into the best college in the world, and he decided to throw it all away to play tennis.

“How can you not hate him? He was so awful to you,” Art sounded like he was, in a way, demanding that you hate him. Like he needed someone to tell him it was okay not to always love Patrick. He knew you were the right person to tell him that. He wanted to share with you his anger and disappointment and frustration and all the negative emotions that chewed him up every time he thought of his best friend. He wanted you to give him permission to be mad. But that’s not your way. You’re not an angry person- you’re forgiving and calm and level-headed. You don’t have time to be mad. Life will leave you behind if you waste it on negative feelings.

“You know, we never had much money at home,” you started to say, while Art drank you in with his eyes, just wanting to learn more about who you are. “My dad was a taxi driver and my mom used to work three jobs at once,” you explained quickly. “When Damon Jenkins, the headmaster of the Academy, called my mom in for a meeting, he told her I was gifted and that he was willing to cover all the expenses for me to transfer to the boarding school he ran. It was like a gift dropped into our laps. Like winning the lottery, in a way- realizing I could have a different future. That I wouldn’t be stuck in that same cycle. That if I played my cards right, I could actually do something with my life. Something a twelve-year-old shouldn’t have to understand, but I did,” you added, because twelve-year-olds shouldn’t worry about money. But you’d seen your parents worry since the day you were born.

“My mom sewed me two dresses, and to me, they were perfect. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sister and brother, so two new dresses were basically part of the celebration. My dad sat me down before we left for the academy. He told me people would always have something to say. Always. But as long as I hadn’t done anything wrong, that wasn’t my problem.”

“In our first week at school, there was this welcome party- you probably don’t remember. But Patrick laughed at my dress. The same dress my mom made for me. He said it looked like something someone bought secondhand because it was so ugly. Everyone laughed, but I didn’t care, because Patrick didn’t know how much my mom loved me. He didn’t know how much effort she put into that dress. And he didn’t know that that was his problem, not mine. Because I didn’t do anything wrong.” You took a deep breath.

“So no, most of the time I didn’t hate Patrick. I was too busy being grateful for the chance I had to one day get to Stanford. He thought we were playing some power games, but the truth is- I was never playing.” You shrugged and took the last sip from the bottle.

Art looked at you like someone would look at a protected flower. And he knew it was his job to protect you. He didn’t quite understand when that became his role, but people like Patrick weren’t going to get close to you anymore. Even if it cost Art his best friend. . . . The first time you ran into Patrick was completely by chance. He walked around campus like the place belonged to him. Like he was born there- but you suspect that people like Patrick walk that way everywhere. While life taught you to be grateful for opportunities, it hadn’t taught him the same lesson. Your eyes met in the cafeteria and for a second, he looked surprised, but you looked away too quickly for it to mean anything. It shook you enough to lose track of the conversation you were in. It shook you enough to make you want to skip lunch and head back to your room.

You’d promised Art you’d come to his game, and you’re the kind of person who, for some reason, keeps promises. So you dragged Josie along and hoped Patrick wouldn’t notice you in the crowd. You wondered how Art would act if he saw you. You wondered if his personality would shift completely. You wondered if the guy you’d gotten to know over the past few months- like any of your other friends, maybe a little more, to be honest- would suddenly become unrecognizable. You wanted to believe he wouldn’t. But you didn’t want to test that belief, so you didn’t go up to him after he won.

You texted him something short about a paper you had to finish but that you stayed through the end of his game and you were sorry you couldn’t stick around. He replied with a simple "okay". And the knock on your door came after two long hours of reading an article.

“Did he say something to you?” was the first thing Art asked as he stepped into your room without waiting for an invite. “What?” “Patrick, did he say something, and that’s why you left?” He tried to explain himself, but what came out was mostly a stream of half-sentences as he paced back and forth. “Why would Patrick say anything to me?” You looked at him with the most indifferent expression you could manage, not betraying how heavy his best friend's presence sat on your soul. “He’s supposed to go back on tour in two days. He came to visit Tashi,” Art rolled his eyes. “He didn’t even tell me he was coming, otherwise I would’ve told you in advan-” He didn’t even stop to breathe in the middle of his apology. “Art, I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid of Patrick Zweig,” you cut off his guilt with a necessary sharpness. “Besides, you had a good game. He’s probably feeling threatened seeing you play,” you added, trying to ease the tension as Art dropped himself onto your creaky twin bed. “I don’t think Patrick’s ever felt threatened by anything,” he laughed, a bitter laugh that didn’t quite suit him. “I think Patrick feels threatened all the time,” you said almost in a whisper. And even if Art heard you, he chose not to answer. . . . A year and three months later, you walked into your new apartment carrying yet another box of your stuff. Until that exact moment, you still hadn’t fully understood how Art had convinced you to start your third year of college sharing an apartment with him. It had seemed like a terrible idea at first. But over the past year, Art had planted the idea slowly and patiently. Like someone who had all the time in the world to let it grow inside your head. He talked about scholarship money. About Nike showing interest in him and offering to invest in his living conditions while they considered sponsoring him after Stanford.

“It’ll be cheaper than the dorms, and you’ll have your own room- you won’t have to share with Josie,” he’d said so many times throughout the past year. “We can do movie nights with a real TV, not on my crappy laptop,” he’d add little things he knew you liked. Your privacy. Quality time- which you barely had at all during your second year.

Until you gave in. Until you found yourself carrying boxes into an apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen you wouldn’t have dreamed of in a parallel universe.

“Hey! I told you not to carry the heavy boxes,” he shouted from his room, running toward you and tripping over trash bags full of clothes scattered on the floor. “I can carry a box of books, Art,” you almost rolled your eyes at him. “You can also watch tennis matches with me- it doesn’t mean you actually do it,” he said, grabbing the box from your hands and walking it into the room that was about to become yours. It was almost ridiculously bigger than the room you used to share with Josie on campus.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” you said, sticking your head into the empty freezer to cool off. “Took me a whole year to convince you to live a life of comfort. You’ll never be able to go back to the dorms now- not after sleeping on a real mattress and a double bed. I’ve ruined you forever,” his voice was amused as he drank from the cold water you’d left out for him. “I don’t get spoiled that easily, Donaldson. You should know that by now,” you replied, not lifting your head from the freezer to look at him. “I’m working on changing that,” he said with the same playful tone. But if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t look his way to catch the determined look he threw at you. . . . You stood in front of your open closet. Not really looking, just letting your eyes settle on fabrics so you wouldn’t have to think about what was going to happen in an hour. The conversation you’d have with someone you barely knew, the measured smile, maybe a glass of wine to help you forget you didn’t actually want to be there. You pulled out a white shirt, slightly misshapen from the last wash. You laid it carefully on the bed. You didn’t love it, but it was neutral. And right now, that’s what you needed. From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer slamming shut. Too loud for a drawer full of utensils. “How much quinoa does one person need to survive?” Art’s voice came from the hallway- not so much through the question itself, but the way he closed the cabinet. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. “It’s not quinoa. It’s whole wheat couscous,” you answered, not raising your voice. Not looking away from the shirt.

Twenty-seven seconds passed (you counted) before you heard his footsteps down the hallway. He showed up in your doorway with an open water bottle and a towel dragging on the floor. Standing there like it just happened to be on his way. “That new?” he asked, nodding toward the shirt on the bed. “Not really.” He didn’t move. Just looked. And you didn’t ask why.

You pulled out another shirt. Maybe jeans instead of the nicer pants. Not because you were changing your mind- just testing. “What’s this guy’s name again?” he asked, one hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to hold himself back from walking in. “Jamie. I told you already, he's in my lab.” “Huh.” There it was again. That silence. Not heavy. But not easy, either.

You sat in front of the mirror. Looked for earrings. Found a small gold pair. Put them on without using the mirror. When you looked up, you saw his reflection in the hallway mirror. Leaning there, drinking water, checking his phone- or pretending to. “You think you’ll be gone a while?” “No idea.” “Because if so, I might invite people over. Or just leave the apartment dark and play depressing music. See which one messes with your conscience more.” It was a joke. Almost. You smiled, but it was too brief to be convincing. “You want me to leave the light on for you?” he asked. “Or is this one of those nights where you come back only if you really need something from the house?” You didn’t answer. Just grabbed your bag, walked out, and closed the door quietly behind you. The date wasn’t terrible. Jamie did everything right. He wasn’t too focused on himself, didn’t go on about chemistry or your shared lab. He let you lead, which you didn’t even know you needed. You don’t think you’ve ever led anything outside of your lab. You might not say it out loud, but it was nice. Being in a position where you got to decide.

He walked you home after no more than two hours. A completely acceptable amount of time. Kissed you on the cheek. Very gentlemanly. Very modest. You didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that his lips didn’t land on yours by the end of the night. Maybe you were hoping for more and didn’t want to admit it. Maybe his choice to “respect” you affected you the opposite way. You deserve to be respected, your inner voice said. It’s great that there was chemistry and he didn’t kiss you. It’s exactly what you need. To take things slow.

When you opened the door, Art was asleep on the couch in the dark living room, earbuds in. Listening to music at a volume loud enough to reach the hallway. It was metal—something he didn’t usually listen to. Like he was trying to drown out any unnecessary sound, no matter if it burst his eardrums or gave him a migraine. He was blocking out noise like his life depended on it. And all you could ask yourself, as you gently pulled the earbuds from his ears and covered him with a sheet, was what awful thing he thought he’d have to hear when you came back home.

When you woke up, Art was already on his feet, coffee cup in hand. Over time, you’d learned that Art wasn’t really a morning person. Not like you, at least. “You’re not gonna ask how it went, Donaldson?” you tried to start a conversation, and he handed you a cup of coffee exactly how you liked it—with soy milk he couldn’t stand. “Are you going to see him again?” he replied instead. “You don’t want to know where we went? How it was? What time I got back?” you tried to pull a reaction from him, anything. “I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a fork than talk about that nerd before I finish my coffee,” he said flatly, placing his cup in the sink. On his way out, he passed by you, pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, paired it with a half-hug that clearly meant: end of conversation. He threw his tennis gear over his shoulder and left the apartment without another word.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Art was acting like someone who knew something neither of you was ready to admit. . . . “Do you want to come home with me for the holidays?” you asked one evening while you were sitting on the couch watching another episode of Friends. “What?” You could guess from his surprised tone that he was looking at you with a confused expression. “Look, we don’t really do Christmas or anything- Hanukkah is the big thing at my house. And you might have to sleep on the couch ‘cause there’s no guest room, but-” you started rambling, wondering why you even brought it up. You just figured his grandma in the nursing home wouldn’t be able to host him, and two and a half weeks in a house like his sounded lonely. “I figured I’d just stay here, maybe get some extra training in or something.” You could tell he was embarrassed, and for once, you actually looked at him. “That’s dumb. I mean- my house isn’t big or anything, but it’s full of people and everyone’s loud and yelling, and there’ll be food ‘cause my mom’s an amazing cook and-” You tried to pitch something you knew wasn’t exactly appealing: your family. “Okay,” he cut you off. “I’d really like that, (Y/N). Thanks.” You’d known Art for almost two years now, and you couldn’t imagine a more sincere look than the one he gave you just then. So you just nodded, and the two of you went back to staring at Jennifer Aniston talking, without hearing a single word she said.

“So, just a reminder- my mom’s name is Sarah, and my dad’s John. My uncles will probably be there, and my grandpa’s this grumpy guy who complains about everything, but he means well. They’ll talk about Hanukkah like the miracle happened in our living room or something. You can ignore ninety percent of what they say and still understand everything.” It was a mantra you’d repeated at least ten times over the past week. But to his credit, Art didn’t comment on it while he drove. You left at six in the morning and stopped twice for coffee, and Art insisted on picking up flowers and a bottle of wine on the way, because apparently he couldn’t show up empty-handed.

“Wanna drive?” he asked at some point. “No,” you said too quickly, making him glance over with a raised eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road. “I don’t know how to drive. It’s not that I want you to do the whole eight hours,” you added, feeling like it was kind of rude to dump it all on him. “You’re twenty-one. How do you not know how to drive?” He sounded more amused than judgy, like he didn’t actually hold it against you- just wanted to understand. “My dad tried teaching me one summer in high school and I crashed into Meredith’s trash bin -she's our neighbor- and cried for three straight hours. After that I decided driving wasn’t for me.” You said it fast, like it was a totally obvious decision.

“That’s insane. You know that, right?” He wasn’t trying to insult you, and honestly, you weren’t even offended. “I can’t believe I didn’t know that. Feels like something I should’ve known,” he added, and you just shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. A lot of super smart people never got a license. I manage just fine,” you said, with your usual conviction. “You could manage in an igloo. Doesn’t mean you should live in one,” he chuckled, and you gave him a light smack on the shoulder. “You sure you wanna pick a fight with me while we’re on the way to my house, Donaldson? My dad will poison you,” you said, and his laugh got louder.

You parked in front of your house, and it looked exactly the way you remembered it. A small garden your dad put way more effort into than he had to, an even smaller set of front steps, and beige-colored walls. You smiled without meaning to, but you knew Art was watching you, so you looked back at him. “It’s smaller than you’re probably imagining, okay?” You tried to prepare him. You didn’t want him to be surprised. Didn’t want him to hold anything your parents lacked against them. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” His smile didn’t waver for a second.

Your mom hugged him before she hugged you, which in a parallel universe might’ve been concerning, but you knew the woman who raised you well enough to understand that she showed love exactly as she felt it- with no delay. “These are for us? You’re sweet, but you really didn’t have to,” she said, taking the flowers and wine from him. “You both look way too skinny. Fancy college and they don’t feed you at all,” she concluded after giving you both a full once-over, acting like she’d known Art since birth. “Ben, Daniela, and Lily are already here. Becca’s coming tomorrow,” she gave you the general update, nodding as you and Art followed her into the house. Your brother, Ben, is nine years older than you and married to Daniela. Lily was born two years ago. They live not far from your parents. You’d never been especially close to Ben- the age gap, the boarding school, the constant distance. But Lily was like an angel dropped into the family.

You and Becca were a different story. Three years apart, and she never got the kind of chances you did. She’d always had to give up clothes she loved so you’d have something to wear, and she was never good enough in school for anyone to offer her a scholarship. College wasn’t in the cards for her. She worked mornings at a checkout counter and evenings as a waitress. Sometimes, when you thought about it too much, you wondered if she resented you for it- for all the times you heard “yes” while she heard “no.” You could cry just thinking about it too much, because she’d never done a single thing to make you feel like that.

Dinner was full of humor, just like you remembered your home to be. Every now and then you glanced over at Art to see if he was overwhelmed by the shouting, the crude jokes, or even Lily’s crying. But he was simply present, weaving tennis stories with his usual charisma. Drawing the room in with every word out of his mouth. You could feel his hand occasionally pinch your knee, a quiet reminder that he was here with you- even as his attention stayed perfectly inside the conversation.

“Sunny, can you get some fruit from the fridge?” your mom suddenly asked. “Sunny?” Art asked, shifting a curious look from her to you. “It’s just a sill-” “When she was little and started making sense of things,” Ben cut in, “she realized the sun goes down every day. And for weeks, she’d wait for sunset, hoping maybe this time it wouldn’t happen. And then when it did, she’d cry for hours about how unfair it was that for us to sleep, the sun had to leave. Every night, for weeks. The nickname stuck.” You hadn’t known Ben remembered the story in all its embarrassing detail.

All you could do was roll your eyes and ignore the way Art’s eyes sparkled as they stayed fixed on you while you pulled out fruit from the fridge. By the time your mom basically shoved you and Art into your childhood bedroom, tossing a couple of blankets your way, it was already late. “You can sleep on the bed, Donaldson,” you told him firmly. “Don’t be stupid,” he shot back. “You’re a guest in my house and you were expecting at least a couch. I didn’t know my grandpa was staying with us for the holiday,” you said, starting to lay out a layer of clothes on the inflatable mattress you found in the storage room a few minutes earlier. “Your room’s cool,” he said, ignoring your comment as he looked over the books on your shelves and the pictures you’d once pinned to a corkboard. You felt absurdly exposed. “It’s fine. I decorated it when I was six,” you rolled your eyes, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

The compromise was that every night you were there, you’d take turns sleeping arrangements. One night you on the crappy mattress, the next one, he will. You didn’t say it out loud, but you suspected the actual mattress on the bed probably didn’t meet Art’s standards either.

“Your house is perfect,” Art said into the dark, almost whispering. It was his way of erasing the awkwardness he knew you felt, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say “thank you,” because you weren’t sure if he meant it. “They really try,” you whispered back. “I don’t think anyone in my family, besides my grandma, ever tried,” he admitted. “I’m sorry,” you said the only thing left to say. “Thanks.” And you didn’t know if he was thanking you for the chance to see a family different from his and be part of it, or for letting him say what he felt without being ashamed.

“Art?” “Hmm?” “I’m glad you came,” you tried to tell him he had nothing to thank you for. “I’m glad I came too, Sunny,” he wrapped up the conversation, and each of you closed your eyes in your corner of the room. . . . It was one of those days where you felt the wind knocked out of your sails. Your last lab was a total failure, showing the exact opposite results from the research you’d been working on, which meant you’d have to redo it over the weekend. The discussion section you TA for part-time, refused to take you seriously in any way, mostly because you were, well... a girl. Which honestly made you imagine those first-year guys going up in flames. So after experiencing failure, catching the lingering sad glances Jamie kept throwing your way since your half-baked date, and a heavy dose of misogyny- you finally made it to the apartment you shared with Art around 9 PM. Wondering if he’d finally bought a corkscrew, because that bottle of wine had been yelling at you from the fridge for two weeks.

“Did you buy a cork-” The person sitting on the couch wasn’t Art. There was no sign of Art. The person sitting fully spread out on the couch, shirtless like he owned the place, was Patrick Zweig. “Oh.” You felt stupid for walking in like that.

He looked at you like you were the one who barged into the wrong apartment, even though this was your living room. Your safe space. And now, suddenly, Patrick Zweig, of all people, was in it. “Art’s in the shower,” he said quietly, and all you could do was nod and head to your room- feeling your heart beating way too fast for someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you anymore.

You were pretty sure you heard Art mutter something like, “I told you to wait in the room, why can’t you ever just do what you’re asked?!” right before you recognized the familiar rhythm of his knock. “Yeah?” you tried to keep your voice steady as you stared at your laptop screen. There was an article open in front of you that you hadn’t read a single word of- just there to make it look like everything was normal. “I didn’t know he was coming, I swear,” Art’s voice was laced with a kind of panic you’d learned to recognize by now. “He got into a fight with Tashi and had nowhere to go, and you weren’t answering your phone all day and-” “Art, breathe. It’s fine. He’s your best friend and this is your home. You can have whoever you want here. I don’t mind.” You looked at him with a calculated calm, hoping it was enough to cover what you were actually feeling. “Wanna go get dressed?” you added, smiling as you slowly took in the sight of him- wearing nothing but a towel.

“Do you want him to leave? I can find him somewhere else to stay-” He wasn’t buying the smiles or the focus on your screen. Sometimes you thought nothing you staged ever fooled him, that he could read you like an open book. “It doesn’t matter, Art. It’s been years since he was part of my life; and even then, it was barely a role.” It was a full-on lie, but he didn’t push. Just nodded and stepped out of the room, like he already knew why you needed him to do just that. You woke up earlier than usual, hungry because you hadn’t eaten anything the day before, and mostly hoping that by some miracle, Patrick would already be gone from your apartment. But there he was. In your kitchen. Holding your favorite coffee mug and drinking from the fancy tea Art bought you half-jokingly when you were both drunk. But the point stood- the tea was yours.

You felt your jaw clench at the sight of his half-smug smile. Your body tensed in front of this person who, just three years ago, made it his mission to make your life miserable every chance he got. “Art went to practice,” he said, like he was trying to break the most painfully awkward silence either of you had ever taken part in. “I’m not his babysitter,” you answered, defensive in a way that didn’t even match what he said.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked. “I can make my own coffee,” you replied, trying to move toward the machine behind him. “It’s fine, I’ll make it- I’m already here,” he said, and somehow, in the middle of the dumb little coffee standoff, his hot tea ended up on your shirt, and your favorite mug shattered on the floor.

“I hate you.” It came out of you half-whimpered, way out of sync with your usual control. Frustration took over every part of your body, along with tears that he didn’t deserve to see- but he saw them anyway. And he looked terrified. “You just have to ruin everything, huh?” you mumbled, crouching to pick up the pieces of your mug.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick sounded lost. “I really am. I- I’ll get you a new glass. I’ll bring it to Art next time I see him,” he said, stepping back while you gathered the broken ceramic. “It’s not a glass. It’s a mug. And it has sentiment. But you wouldn’t get that, because if you had any sentiment at all -anything beyond arrogance and smugness- you wouldn’t be such a piece of shit,” you snapped, dumped the pieces into the trash, and headed to your room to change your shirt and breathe for a second.

You tried to remind yourself that you had a long day ahead. That you needed to finish your lab work. That Patrick Zweig showing up in your life like some cursed reminder of who you used to be would vanish just as easily. That he was the weak one now. The lost one. The one who didn’t know how to appreciate anything. You didn’t need his pity. You didn’t need his apologies. You had friends like Josie and Art. You liked the life you’d built for yourself. You tried to remind yourself that people like Patrick didn’t get to shake you anymore.

“I really am sorry,” he muttered when you came out of your room again. “I could not care less, Patrick,” you said in a firm voice that didn’t sound like you at all- and slammed the door behind you, hoping that when you came back, he’d be gone. . . . When you came back to the apartment, almost at the exact same time as the night before, the one sitting on the couch, alert and ready, was Art. “Hey,” you mumbled as you walked in with way too much stuff in your hands, which made him get up to help you without needing to be asked. “You want this in your room?” he asked. “If you could put it on the desk, that’d be nice,” you said and opened the fridge. You relaxed a little when you realized Patrick wasn’t there. You felt Art’s hands on your shoulders within seconds, his lips on the top of your head, making you close your eyes for a second in front of the half-empty fridge- typical of student life.

“Hey,” it was his turn to say. “I’m a shitty roommate. I should’ve at least warned you he’d be here,” he said quietly. “Art, he’s your best fr-” you sighed. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. You’re my best friend. And I should’ve thought about you yesterday, and I didn’t. Just accept the apology.” He said it formally, still speaking into your hair. “I’m hungry,” you replied. “I made pasta and a salad,” he said and stepped away from you. It made you wonder when you’d gotten so used to his presence that you actually felt his absence the second his body heat pulled away.

“Patrick and Tashi broke up,” he said after you’d nearly finished the bottle of wine you’d been dreaming about since yesterday, and were sitting on the couch together in front of the TV. “Oh. You gonna shoot your shot, Donaldson?” you asked what you felt like you had to, but you didn’t want to hear the answer. You didn’t want him to say he was going to try with Tashi. “I don’t need any more luck than what I’ve got, Sunny,” you caught the smirk in his tone. “I’m not into Tashi. It ended the same way it started. Some things are more important than chasing someone who used to date a guy who used to be my friend.” His hand was on your knee, giving a light squeeze with a meaning you couldn’t afford to examine. You felt that if you thought too hard about it, you’d start crying.

“He’s still your friend, Art,” you said, not moving your leg away from his touch. “I don’t think so,” he replied quietly. “Why?” you asked softly, assuming the answer would be Tashi, or distance, or time. The things life just naturally leads you to. “Because I can’t love someone who treated you the way Patrick did. I tried. I can’t,” he said with a kind of honesty that sliced through whatever defenses you had left. “Why?” you asked again, your voice even softer, slightly shaking. “You know why.” Where your voice trembled, his steadied. And his face was suddenly in front of yours so fast you didn’t fully understand how you ended up at this point.

“I-” “Can I kiss you?” Art looked at you in that moment like you were holding the universe in your hands. All you could do was nod, and his lips were on yours. His hands explored every inch of your body they could reach. It felt desperate and deep and right. Like oxygen after the two days you’d both just been through. “This is all I’ve wanted to do since the second I fell asleep in your stupid dorm,” he mumbled into your neck, running his tongue over a spot just after biting it gently.

“This makes no sense,” you managed to say as you pulled his shirt off. Your hand wandered over the muscles of his stomach like a sculptor admiring his most precious work of art. He didn’t answer, but the two of you moved silently toward his room, only breaking apart to breathe and keep shedding layers of clothes. “You’re so beautiful,” he said as his hand unhooked your bra and cupped your left breast.

It was ridiculously erotic, the kind of thing Josie would giggle and roll her eyes at when you told her about it- but you didn’t care. His mouth was on your right nipple, and for a second you forgot your own name. The high-pitched sound that came out of you came from deep in your stomach. You tried to stay composed, to hold on to some dignity, but Art’s eyes met yours just as you saw your nipple in his mouth, and your breathing completely fell apart. Your hand found one of the curls at the back of his neck, and somehow you got a groan out of him without even doing much.

His mouth kept moving across your body exactly like you’d only ever let yourself imagine in your most repressed nights over the past two years. “Can I?” he asked as his face hovered near your underwear, his voice so turned on it sounded like speaking actually hurt. You were the reason. Maybe the blame. Depending on who you asked. “You can do anything,” you declared. And it was true. You felt like if he wanted to start painting you fully nude right then, you’d let him. “That’s the sexiest thing you could’ve said to me,” he said, and your underwear ended up on the floor.

“No one’s ever-” You felt a little embarrassed as you started to say no one had ever been where he was right now, but you caught the look in his eyes. Calming. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, with a calm you had no idea where he summoned from. “No!” It came out almost as a yell.

“Okay,” he nodded, and his mouth started to explore your pussy- first in light, teasing licks, then in slow, swirling motions you didn’t think a human tongue could make. The sounds coming out of you made him moan into you. His fingers joined in, and you could feel the intensity of the orgasm building so fast you didn’t even have time to warn him, but he stayed exactly where he was, whispering into you that you were perfect. That he’d never tasted anyone like you. Only when your legs stopped trembling did he start kissing his way up your stomach, soft and slow, until his forehead rested against yours. It felt like a small victory. You didn’t know whose, but you wanted to believe neither of you had lost.

“Do you want me to...?” you asked softly, reaching for the waistband of his boxers. He was clearly struggling. But he only shook his head. “Tonight was about you. I want it to be about you.” He smiled and lay down beside you, playing with your hair while you felt your eyes start to drift shut.

You think this might be the definition of peace and calmness. And somehow, all these years had been hiding it from you. . . . In the morning, you were hit with panic when you woke up and Art wasn’t next to you. Even if you weren’t in his bed, you knew you wouldn’t be able to forget the night you’d just shared. It wasn’t like the first night -at that party- when he’d fallen asleep and you never talked about it again. This time, there was intimacy. The kind you were scared to lose. A person so deeply part of your life, it sometimes felt like he filled every inch of you.

When you came out to the kitchen, you saw your broken mug on the table, glued back together with what you could only assume was some shitty glue he found at the house. 'Went to practice. Tried to fix it, but water still leaks through the cracks. Sorry, Sunny. We’ll get you a new one.' The note was short, the handwriting barely legible. But you looked at that mug with tears in your eyes and knew that the sentiment had completely changed- and somehow you loved it just as much.

Maybe even more. . . .

So, I honestly don’t even know what this is. As always, I’d love to hear from you- my DMs are always open. And hey, I hope at least some of you weren’t bored out of your minds reading this...... Talk to me ❤️

ava. oh ava. my god you pull each nerve in my body until everything thrashes with hurt and need and still there's tenderness in the fact that you even know where to search to effect me at all. you are an artist, truly

lavender haze (acoustic) | art donaldson x reader

warnings: age gap (10 years), divorced!retired!art, divorce mention, cursing

The world is a blur of cameras and neon when you find him again.

Outside the Monte Carlo hotel, somewhere between a post-match press conference and the second glass of something too expensive, you see him—backlit in the haze of dusk, hands in his pockets like they don't remember how to hold a racket. Art Donaldson, former world number one, standing like a myth trying not to be remembered.

You don’t call out to him. You don’t have to.

He turns like he already knew you were there.

For a moment, you just breathe the same air. He in his shadow. You in your spotlight.

The lavender dusk of the city softens everything but him.

He looks the same as when you saw him this morning. Maybe a little undone. Hair slightly unruly from fingers running through it too many times. 

You’re still sweaty from the match. Still painted in makeup for the cameras. Still dizzy from the reporters who asked more about him than your fifth straight win on the tour.

Is it true you two were seen together in Ibiza?Are you dating a former champion to boost your media appeal?How does it feel to win on a court he made famous?

Your lips had twitched. You’d smiled like a good girl. Like you weren’t screaming underneath.

But now, here he is. And suddenly, you don’t want to be good anymore.

He doesn’t speak, just opens the door to the hotel like it’s a habit. Like you belong there. Like you always have.

And you do.

You’ve been in a committed relationship for nearly a year, not that it stops the press from acting like it’s still gossip. Like you’re still a secret. Like he didn’t sit courtside for every match of your first major title and kiss you in the hallway when no one was looking. Like he didn’t leave behind a legacy and ten million dollars in endorsements just to stop pretending.

You’re twenty-three. He’s thirty-three. It’s never mattered more than it does to everyone else.

To you, he’s just Art. Tired, brilliant, infuriating. To him, you’re the only thing that doesn’t make him feel like a ghost.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And the world falls away.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

Instead, he walks to the kitchenette, opens the mini fridge, and pulls out a bottle of water. Tosses it over his shoulder. You catch it one-handed, cap already half-twisted before he turns back around.

"You’re still favoring your right hip on the cross-court," he says.

You unscrew the cap. Take a sip. Let the silence stretch.

"You think I don’t know that?"

Art shrugs, leans against the counter. "Didn’t say that."

"Didn’t have to."

You cross the room. He doesn’t move. You stand close enough to feel the warmth of him through your sweat-damp dress.

“You watched from the lobby again?” you ask.

“Better view of you than the court,” he murmurs.

That pulls a breath from you. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. You let your forehead rest against his chest, eyes fluttering shut. His arms slip around your waist like he’s been waiting all night to remember how you fit.

He smells like something clean and simple. Not soap. Not cologne. Just him.

“God, they wouldn’t shut up about you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Just runs his fingers up and down your spine, slow enough to still your nerves, steady enough to make you ache.

“Then don’t talk,” he says eventually, like he’s trying to spare you. Like silence is something he can give you.

The words hit. Harder than they should. Not because they’re untrue. Because they’re too true.

“Come shower,” he says, fingers tracing the fabric at the small of your back. "You smell like sunscreen. And sweat."

“And you smell smug."

“Worked hard on that.”

You laugh against him this time, and he kisses the top of your head like punctuation.

There’s a comfort in this. In him. And it terrifies you, a little.

Because nothing this good stays untouched forever.

---

The bathroom is warm and fogged by the time you step out. Art hands you a towel without a word, like he’s done it a hundred times, like the rhythm of care comes easy to him in a way it didn’t used to. Not when he was still married to someone who saw him less as a person and more as a strategy.

He brushes a curl of damp hair from your cheek and presses a kiss just below your temple. Not hungry. Not possessive. Just there. Quiet and certain.

You dry off slowly. He changes the sheets.

Neither of you rush.

It’s the kind of night that unfolds like fabric—creased and familiar. You sit cross-legged on the bed, a hotel robe slung loose around your shoulders, watching him move around the room like he doesn’t need to be looked at to feel known.

You pick at your cuticles. The ring light burn still lingers behind your eyes.

“I don’t want to do media tomorrow,” you say softly, not really to him.

“I know.”

You nod. You want him to say more. Want him to say he’ll fix it, or call someone, or take you away from all of it.

But he won’t.

Because that’s what he used to want from her.

And she knew better than to give it.

Later, you both end up under the too-crisp hotel sheets, the TV glowing in the corner like an afterthought. Art flips through the channels until he lands on coverage of the day’s matches—your match. A rebroadcast already looping into highlights. Neither of you speak. He leaves the volume low.

You watch yourself on the screen, hair slicked with sweat, mouth tight with concentration. You know how it ends. You know the score. And still, your fingers curl into the duvet like you’re bracing for something.

Art’s hand finds your knee beneath the covers. It’s instinctive, steady. Grounding.

“…and while her performance today was characteristically aggressive,” the commentator says, “some are wondering if the pressure of dating former world champion Art Donaldson is beginning to weigh on her—certainly a lot of eyes on her for reasons that aren’t strictly tennis.”

You flinch.

Not much. But enough for Art to notice.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for the remote.

You stop him. “No. Leave it.”

He hesitates, then rests it on the nightstand.

You both keep watching, but something shifts. Not the volume. Not the camera angle.

Just the quiet.

A few seconds later, your voice comes through the screen. The post-match interview. You’re smiling like your cheeks are glass.

“I’ve been working really hard on my serve, and I’m glad it paid off today,” you say.

The reporter laughs. “And is Art Donaldson part of that training routine?”

The smile on the screen falters—barely. A blink. A breath. The kind of flicker no one notices unless they know you.

You feel Art watching you now, not the TV.

You shift your gaze toward the screen and force a smile. “They never asked you about her, did they?”

His hand leaves your leg.

“They did,” he says. “They just worded it differently.”

---

The next day, you win your semifinal in straight sets.

Your serve is sharp. Your footwork clean. Your game ruthless.

You walk off the court flushed and breathless and so full of adrenaline it feels like your skin might split open. You're about to head to your first Open final. The crowd roars. Your chest aches with something like disbelief.

A ball kid hands you a towel. A line judge nods with something close to reverence. Even your opponent lingers at the net longer than usual—something like respect in her eyes.

And then comes the press.

The room is cold. Bright. Every chair filled. You’re barely given time to sip your water before the first hand is up.

Microphone passed. Camera rolling.

“Congratulations on the win,” the reporter says. “You played an incredible match today. Given that you’ve now made it to the final—do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose if you take the title?”

The question lands like a bruise.

Your smile doesn't falter. You’ve practiced it too much for that.

But something in your eyes flickers. The corner of your mouth. The twitch of a muscle in your jaw.

You laugh. Not joyfully. Not even politely. Just—mechanically. Enough to smooth the space around the tension.

“I think I’m focused on the match,” you say. “Let’s keep the attention on the tennis.”

They laugh, too. Some of them. But it’s the kind of laugh that says we’re not done asking.

You field a few more questions—strategy, surface preferences, what you’ll do differently in the final, what the color scheme of your potential wedding may be, what Art's impact on your win was. You answer all of them. Not perfectly. But well enough.

Still, when you leave the room, the only part that echoes is Do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose?

No one asked if you thought you could win.

No one asked what it meant to be here.

No one asked about you at all.

---

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.

Art doesn’t ask how the press went. He must have watched it—he always does—but he says nothing, just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the space between you like he’s thinking about reaching for you and deciding against it.

You stare out the window, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on your knee.

The city moves past you in golds and grays. Traffic, sky, noise. None of it feels real. Your pulse is still drumming from the match, your skin still humming with everything unsaid.

In the room, he unzips your gear bag before you can. Peels your wristbands off. Unlaces your shoes. Not a word. Just care, mechanical and precise.

You pull away when he reaches for your towel.

“I’ve got it,” you say, sharper than you mean to.

Art’s hands drop back to his sides. He nods once and takes a step back.

You pace the edge of the bed, towel in hand, still breathing like you’re on court.

He stands by the desk, watching you for a beat longer than necessary.

“You played well,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“I thought maybe we’d order in. Celebrate a little.”

You laugh. It comes out wrong. Bitter, high in your throat. “Celebrate what?”

His brow furrows. “The win.”

“Oh, right.” You toss the towel onto the floor. “The one I apparently earned just to get proposed to. Lucky me.”

Art flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He says your name, quiet but firm.

And that—more than anything—makes you snap.

“You know what the worst part is?” you ask. “It’s that I knew it was coming. The question. I felt it before the words even left her mouth. I knew. And I still had to sit there and smile like some fairytale ending was more important than my fucking game.”

“That's not what they—”

“Yes, it is. That’s all they see. I could win a goddamn Grand Slam and they’d still find a way to make it about you. About us. About anything but me.”

His voice is low, careful. “You think I want that?”

You look at him, eyes blazing. “I think you’ve lived through it already. With her. And I think you still don’t know how to stop it.”

The silence is heavier this time. He doesn’t deny it.

---

The next day, you win the Open.

Straight sets. You don’t drop a single game in the second.

It’s one of the cleanest matches of your life. And when the final ball hits the back fence, you drop your racket and scream, but it doesn’t feel like joy. Not really.

You wave to the crowd. You thank the chair umpire. You wipe your face with a towel you can’t feel in your hands.

Art’s waiting at the edge of the court, behind the camera crew. His arms are open. He looks proud. Cautious. Already bracing.

You walk past him.

Not cruel. Not theatrical. You just keep walking.

He doesn’t follow.

And the cameras catch all of it.

---

Back in the hotel room, the trophy sits on the table beside the TV.

You haven’t spoken since the ride back.

Art ordered room service. He didn’t ask what you wanted, just got the usual. Pasta, grilled chicken, a green juice you’ll pretend to drink.

You eat half of it standing up. He eats none of his.

He moves around the room like a ghost—quiet, competent, unbearably gentle. Every drawer he opens, every charger he plugs in, every shirt he folds feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

The match plays on mute in the background.

You sit on the edge of the bed with your knees drawn up, watching yourself lift the trophy in slow motion.

Art disappears into the bathroom. The door doesn’t lock, but he closes it anyway. The sound of running water fills the silence.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest and breathe. In. Out. In.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

You lie down while he’s still in the bathroom. Face turned toward the wall. Back to where he’ll be. If he comes to bed at all.

He does. Eventually.

He doesn’t touch you.

You don’t ask him to.

---

You wake to light on your skin.

Gentle, warm, not quite golden yet. It filters through the curtains, spreads across the bed. The kind of light that feels like a hand on your back, like the world trying to tell you it’s okay to open your eyes.

You blink slowly. Turn your face toward the window.

And then, toward him.

He’s sitting in the armchair by the balcony doors. Hair a mess. One ankle tucked over the other. Elbows resting on his knees. Awake, but not fully. Holding the mug you always steal from him.

He looks like someone who stayed up too late thinking, then woke too early from not enough sleep.

You sit up.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice rough. Honest.

He doesn’t ask what for. He just waits.

“I shouldn’t have walked past you like that,” you go on. “I was angry, and I didn’t know where to put it. And I—” Your voice catches. “I wish I could take it back.”

His jaw works, like he’s trying to decide how much to let you see.

“You’ve got nothing to take back,” he says finally. “You were angry. You were right to be. I just wish it hadn’t hurt you so much to prove it.”

Your eyes sting. You pull your knees to your chest.

“I think I needed someone to blame. And you were there. And kind. And that made it worse, somehow.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just stands. Crosses to the bed.

He sits beside you, not too close. Not yet.

“I knew what they’d say about you,” he says. “When we got together. I knew what they’d reduce you to. I told myself I could protect you from it.”

You look at him. “You couldn’t.”

“I know,” he says.

You lean your head against his shoulder. This time, he lets it rest there.

And when he wraps his arm around you, it feels like morning for real.

Not just another day. Not just damage control.

But something softer. Something that forgives you both.

Something worth building from.

You sit like that for a long time. Not speaking. Just breathing. Just being.

And then, quietly, almost like you’re afraid to break it, you say, “I do want to marry you someday.”

You feel the way his body stills. The way his breath hitches. He turns just enough to look at you—like he needs to see your face to believe it.

His eyes are glassy. Open. Younger than they usually let themselves be.

And then he smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just… honest. Hopeful.

The way someone does when something they didn’t dare ask for is suddenly being offered.

You don’t need him to say it back. He already has.

You just lean a little closer.

And this time, he meets you there.

-----

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

Nibbling on this comme une souris qui mange du fromage miam miam miam

tashi x reader - take me to church

disclaimer: i am not religious in any shape or form so this is just an outsider's interpretation pls don't cancel me, thanks to @artstennisracket for the idea!!!

let's please ignore that this took me over a month to write, thank you to all my beta readers, @tacobacoyeet @artstennisracket @diyasgarden @blastzachilles @cha11engers @asheepinfrance

word count: 3.2k, mentions of internalised homophobia based on religion!

the sound of feet stumbling to stand fills the hallowed halls of your church as your priest enters, making his way to the pulpit with an earned grace. your grandmother bows her head, nodding before he's even said a word, your mother is poised, eyes on the cross at all times as you're uncomfortably sandwiched between them.

'please...be seated' comes his booming voice, hands outstretched to you all as everyone sits, a hushed silence falling over the crowd as the priest straightens himself up in preparation.

as he opens his mouth to speak, there's the sound of the church doors banging against the wall as they swing open, followed by muttered 'sorry- so sorry- are we late? so sorry-'. heads turns to see who's interrupted the ceremony, your family's eyes narrowing as they take in the family of three trotting up the aisle and that's when you see her.

she’s pretty, almost too pretty, enough to make those thoughts you'd tried so hard to get rid of swirl around your head yet again. her converse are scuffing the floors as she trails behind her parents, her curly hair tied up in a bun but you could see the way she tugged at strands, letting them fall and rest against her shoulders, a silent rebellion. her mother ushers her and her father into a pew that's right behind yours and you fight the urge to flush red over something so normal.

your mother purses her lips in distaste, leaning over you to whisper to your grandmother, 'the duncans...i hear his father died and they inherited the house' and your grandmother nods knowingly, 'his wife apparently runs some sort of athleisure brand.' they both shudder in offense at the thought, 'new money' wasn't welcome here, certainly not people from the city either, you knew that much.

the priest is smiling, benevolent as always, 'thank you for joining us, the Lord can always make time for his followers.' everyone claps at his wisdom, nodding in unison and agreement, even a few murmurs of 'amen' among the small congregation. he picks up the bible and starts to flick through pages, searching for the sermon he intends to preach this sunday.

'blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven' he begins, voice echoing throughout the church. sermon on the mount, one you knew very well, with but you made sure to listen with rapt attention, your mother mouthing the words with the priest as your grandmother rests her head against her hands, eyes closed.

you're drinking in every word, letting the words seep into your veins and feel that familiar warmth wash over you from the Lord's teachings. until there's a soft rustle behind you and one of her curls brushes your neck and you stiffen, impure thoughts filling every crevice of your brain too quickly for you to hold them back, especially when her breath hits your ear as she murmurs 'sorry' as she scrapes her hair back into that bun. you're too stunned to speak, only offering a small shake of your head in response.

stuck in between your family members, there's not much you can do besides try and focus back on the sermon, on the feeling of the lord's words, not the feeling of her hands on your body. you felt acutely aware of her eyes boring into the back of your head and just as you had half a mind to turn around and tell her to quit bothering you, applause grew around you, choruses of 'amens' filling the pews. you hadn't been listening, she'd distracted you.

your grandmother ushers you to stand and the walk up to the priest begins. 'wonderful sermon as always father' says your grandmother, clasping the hand of the priest in both her own, 'that's very kind’ the priest nods politely but she can't ever take the hint, continuing, 'i damn near felt the Lord's hands on me hearing you speak-’ ‘you know, my daughter was so honoured that you’d suggested her as one of the christian camp counsellors this year.’ your mother’s hands dig into your shoulders as she nudges you forward, just when you thought you could escape your grandmother’s devout speeches, your mother always found a way to make it worse. the priest brightened at that, ‘oh really? that is wonderful news, i know there’s so many kids who look up to you.’ you manage a stiff smile at that, feeling someone’s sharp elbow hit you in the back, ‘hey princess’ she whispers and you cough, the priest’s brow furrowing, ‘yeah…i’d love to help out…’ you manage, trying to ignore her nudging from behind, ‘meet me at the lake tonight’ she murmurs, her breath tickling the the hairs on the back of your neck and you flush red. ‘thank you father.’ you say quickly, excusing yourself and marching towards the door, and yet not missing the condescending smile, wink and wave she gives you as her father introduces them all to the priest. 

the midday sun was unusually bright, enveloping the grassy verges in a warm glow and you could see flowers start to blossom on the trees as the three of you made your way across to your mother’s car, and you felt a warmth in your chest that you hadn’t felt for a long time, your eyes looking over in the direction of the lake and wondering what awaits you there, what that girl’s plan was. 

‘what a rude girl’ muttered your grandmother as she got in the passenger seat, leaving you in the back yet again. ‘who?’ you say as casually as you can muster, thoughts of her still swirling in your head. ‘that duncan girl, she was so fidgety, clearly uninterested in the Lord’s teachings’ huffs your grandmother, as if someone’s disinterest in church was of personal offense to her. ‘i thought she seemed nice’ you shrug, wrong move, two heads whip around to stare at you in the backseat like you’ve just dropped a bomb. nice?!’ your mother repeated incredulously, ‘she couldn’t even be bothered to put on her sunday best! i’m sure her parents can afford something other than that raggedy hoodie of hers.’ your mother gripped the steering wheel tightly as she starts to drive home, shaking her head. ‘...right’ you say quietly, not wanting to argue about this any further, looking down at your hands that fiddle with the hem of your white dress, the one your grandmother spends all of Saturday meticulously ironing and steaming so it’s perfect for church. 

as the grey sedan pulled into the driveway, you got out and meekly followed your family into your modest home. the conversation between them had moved on, complaining about some meal served by your neighbours last sunday. however, within seconds of the key turning in the lock, you’re taking the creaky, wooden steps two at a time to your bedroom, barely hearing your mother’s cries of, ‘i left the camp flyers on your desk! it’s important!’. 

opening your wardrobe, purity stares back at you, long skirts and white garments and for the first time in your life, you feel oddly disgusted by it all. reaching for the shortest skirt and tightest top you own, forcing all thoughts of sin out of your head. you liked this outfit, you repeated like a mantra, you weren’t doing this for her, so she’d think you were cool or something, you liked this outfit. it was only when you were looking at yourself in the mirror that you noticed it. you’d been wearing the silver band so long it almost felt like a second skin, a permanent reminder of your beliefs. clouded by thoughts of her, you’re tugging the purity ring off your finger and tossing onto your crisp sheets, wincing as you notice the red mark left behind, a physical representation of your blasphemy. you took a deep breath as you cracked your window frame open, trying to ignore the cross hung on your bedroom wall, muttering ‘our heavenly father…’ under your breath as you hit the grassy ground. 

dusting yourself off, sun still blazing, you start to trek over to the lake, traipsing through the undergrowth to avoid being spotted. you can’t bear to be the next topic of gossip at church, the disapproving looks and clucks of dismissal, the shame of it all would be too much to bear. eventually, the trees part and the lake comes into view, twinkling in the sunlight. you look around, trying and failing to spot her nonchalantly, your gaze turning desperate. the sound of water hitting the grassy bank draws your attention to the lake, and that’s when you finally spot her, a mix of relief and dread sending a shiver up your spine. 

her curls are dripping with water, oversized band t shirt clinging to her body in a way that makes your greeting get stuck in your throat. ‘you actually showed’ she said with a grin, breathless from her swimming. ‘you’re crazy’ is all you can manage, ‘that lake is…’ you wrinkle your nose. ‘gross? disgusting? infected’ she supplies playfully, shaking herself off like a dog and you squeak, jumping back in fear, ‘god you really are a princess’ she laughs. you frown, ‘i am not! and you shouldn’t use the lord’s name in vain-’. her laugh only grows at your comment, ‘oh my- you’re serious?’. ‘stop it’ you frown further, stood like a pouting child. she catches sight of your expression and steels herself, ‘okay’ she holds up her hands in defense, ‘i’m sorry- i’ll stop’. 

she pulls her tshirt off and tosses it to the ground, only left in a bra and shorts and you mutter prayers for repentance under your breath as you fight not to stare at her chest. she flops down onto the grassy bank, her hand coming up to shield her eyes from the sun, ‘are you too much of a princess to sit down too?’ she challenges. you shoot her a look before flopping down beside her, watching the clouds pass across the bright blue sky. ‘i’m tashi by the way, and i am sorry for teasing you’ she says, looking over at you with earnest brown eyes. ‘tashi’ you repeat softly, letting her name roll off your tongue, it felt nice to say. you introduce yourself and she smiles, a toothy grin that catches you off guard at how real it is, how real she is. 

‘so, how long have you been a churchgoer?’ the question is serious but there’s a playful glint in her eye. ‘all my life’ you answer honestly, ‘i was christened…i did sunday school…i’ve done it all’. tashi stares at you, eyes narrowed as if you’re a code she’s trying to crack, ‘wow’ is all she replies with. ‘wow?!’ you say incredulously, surprised at her lack of teasing, ‘what do you want me to say?’ she retorts, ‘i don’t know! i thought you’d poke fun or something’ ‘do you want me to?’ tashi’s smirk grows on her face again, ‘no’ you sigh and her smirk only grows further, ‘thought so. look, i think it’s a load of bullshit-’ you let out an indignant squeak at the swear word and her brown eyes twinkle with mirth at your reaction, ‘but my mother thinks we should do it so we look good or whatever’ her forehead crinkles in disagreement. ‘look good?’ you pry, perplexed. ‘you know…new to town, fit in with the community, act all pious’. ‘oh…so you’re not? at all?’ you murmur astonished, you were used to the kids your age rebelling against their parents and turning on religion, but to show up to church with no belief at all was strange. tashi scoffs, ‘no- no way, my grandfather was but he never made my dad go with him so it never got passed onto me.’ you nod along, musing on the idea for a minute or so. tashi shuffles closer to you, her side pressing into your own and making your skin tingle at the contact. 

‘penny for your thoughts?’ she nudges her shoulder against yours, expression playful. ‘nothing.’ you shrug, not willing to share how your thoughts had turned from worship to worshipping her in the bedroom, ‘what’s the big secret, huh?’ tashi teases, but there’s a new flirtatious edge to it and still no response from you. you blink and she’s on top of you, damp curls hanging down and dripping onto you. ‘tashi- stop!’ you gasp in surprise and she’s grinning again, ‘c’mon…answer the question’ and before you can speak, she’s leaning in close, her plump lips nearly brushing yours. 

‘tashi! i’m not-!’ you shriek rapidly in panic and her eyes widen, pulling back and getting off you immediately. she doesn’t say anything for a while before, ‘you’re not?’. her voice is quiet, near timid, so different to the cocky girl you’d seen. ‘no! i’m not- i- it’s a sin!’ you splutter in protest, trying to convince yourself more than her as you sit up, grass tickling your legs. ‘a sin…right’ her hollow laugh makes your heart ache, she won’t even look at you. you stand up, stomach churning, ‘i should go- this was a mistake- i shouldn’t have come-’ but she stands too, her damp brown eyes boring into yours, searching for an answer, ‘why did you come?’. the words hang in the air, both of you locked in eye contact as your mind scrambles for an excuse, coming up with nothing. 

you step towards her, ‘tashi…’ you say quietly but she’s stoic, unmoving. ‘answer the question.’ she repeats but there’s no playfulness this time, just bluntness. ‘it’s not that simple…’ you plead, stepping closer again, she’s not stepping back which you take as a positive. ‘it is, i see the way you look at me.’ tashi grits out, ‘are you gay?’. her words hit you like a punch in the throat, all the air sucked out of your lungs and suddenly you’re back in your bedroom, praying over and over again and losing sleep because a new youth pastor came and gave you a talk on peer pressure but all you could focus on was how pretty she was, how kissable her lips were. 

now it was tashi who had taken a step closer, ‘are you?’ she repeated but her voice was more gentle now, more coaxing. ‘i-’, you start but her fingers brush your chin, tilting it towards her, ‘can i?’ tashi says with an unusual amount of delicateness and you find yourself nodding. the moment her lips meet yours, the world around you falls away and all you can focus on is her, your hand moving to cup her cheek as the kiss deepens. her tongue starts to prod at your bottom lip, asking for entrance and reality comes crashing back down into view. you break the kiss, choking back tears, shaking your head. tashi’s brow furrows, ‘hey…’, she says softly, ‘i’m sick!’ you yell, ‘this is wrong- it’s- i was born sick- i shouldn’t want this- i shouldn’t want…you.’ you pant, staring at her with tears rolling down your cheeks. stunned, tashi slowly wipes your eyes, ‘listen to me’ she whispers, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek and the fight drains out of you, unable to push her away. ‘there’s nothing wrong with us’ she murmurs, kissing across your face till she reaches your lips again and this time, you fall into the feeling. 

your hands tangle in tashi’s tousled curls, her tongue colliding with your own as the kiss grows feverish. it’s broken by her kissing across your face, down towards your neck, ‘not there’ you breathe, there can be no evidence of this. tashi makes a face of reluctance at you but agrees, her hands sliding down your hips as she sinks to her knees before you, and you flush at how reverential it feels. ‘how about here?’ she purrs, her hands pushing up your skirt as her face slips between your legs, licking a long stripe along your underwear and you gasp, ‘tashi-’. her face peeks out from your thighs, ‘relax…nobody comes out here anyway’ she murmurs, before mouthing at your clothed pussy again. 

you squeak in surprise, trying to stifle how good that little stimulation feels after years of abstinence. her laugh vibrates against you and only doubles the feeling, her finger hooking into your panties and pulling them aside, her face pressed against your bare cunt and you whine. with tashi’s nose rubbing your clit, she starts to lick at your folds and you whimper, ‘wow- oh-’. tashi grows bolder, tip of her tongue penetrating you and you screech, nearly toppling over in pleasure, hands gripping her shoulders. she pushes your legs apart a little further so she can nestle between your thighs properly as she’s on her knees, her tongue pushing deeper into your hole and causing you to pant, ‘tashi- ngh-’. slowly, her tongue starts to thrust in and out of you and your moans grow louder, nails digging into her shoulders so hard you fear you’ll leave marks. 

tashi’s nose brushes your clit again as her eating grows more furious and you’re shocked by the obscene noises your soaked pussy is making, ‘tashi- you are- you are temptation incarnate’ you manage breathlessly and her tongue hits your g spot, ‘but don’t stop- ah-’. she pulls away just to grin up at you teasingly, her chin soaked with your juices before diving back into you.

your legs start to shake as she moves to suck on your sensitive bud, ‘tashi- wait- i feel-’ but she doesn’t let up, slurping on your cunt like it’s her last meal, ‘please- something- ngh- feels weird-’, you whimper, legs shaking violently, head thrown back in lust. suddenly, it was like a dam burst and you’re gasping for air as you’re lost in the throes of pleasure, ‘holy shit- tashi-’ you moan throatily, blinking rapidly as you try to come back to the world of the living. tashi’s lapping it up, still sucking on your oversensitive pussy, making sure to drain every last drop from you, before she’s unhooking your panties, letting the fabric cling to your soaked cunt.

she looks up at you with a devilish smirk on her face, ‘did you just swear? and use the lord’s name in vain?’ she laughs and you pout, ‘shut up!’ you push her shoulder and she falls down onto the grass dramatically, but not before pulling you down on top of her, ‘i don’t know what that was…it was like i lost my mind for a second…’ you murmur, reliving the moment of bliss in your mind over and over. ‘you had an orgasm baby’ tashi says bluntly, finding your reaction amusing, ‘i did?! woah’ comes your shocked reply, ‘i know, i’m just that good’ she smirks, and you can taste yourself when she presses her lips to yours for a hungry kiss. ‘thank you’ you murmur against her lips and she offers you a smug smile, though secretly flattered, ‘you’re welcome, you know where to find me’ she purrs. you rise to stand, leaving temptation behind as you make the trek back home, legs still shaking, prayers and apologies already on your lips. 

tags: @pittsick @femme-lusts @glennussy @stanart4clearskin

i want to line them up and tuck them into bed with the blanket just below their chins all snuggly

meet… STANFORD ERA LESBIAN!ATP .ᐟ ★

a/n: hi guys the much promised part two of lesbian!atp headcanons… stanford edition! so sorry it took me three weeks to get these out i am in an insane slump right now…… i’ll be free soon (hopefully) i have so much i want to get out. and also thank you @peariote some of these are taken from conversations we have had… and thank you @diyasgarden my lovely for helping me flesh out tashi. anyway. please enjoy. smiles. 

CW: hints at nsfw

ART - VISUAL ARTS MAJOR .ᐟ

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who swears you’re her muse. Always begging you to let her use you as a model for whatever she’s working on, he’s positive her work simply turns out better when it’s of you. Nevermind the fact you’re almost always nude. 

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who is always covered in charcoal and paint, to the point he’s like a magnet. Even if she’s not doing a project with those mediums, it still finds its way onto him. Little do you know it’s because you said you loved the way she looks with it one day, and she’s never looked back.

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who loves that he has to learn photography because it means she can always capture moments of you for forever. Always has a camera on him whenever he’s with you to make sure she doesn’t miss anything. Anything from being in the shower to falling apart under her. She even teaches you photography just so you can take photos of her between your thighs or when her hands are too busy elsewhere to hold a camera.

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART whose exhibitions always feature at least one piece of you, whether it be painting, photo, or sculpture, and are always dedicated to you. Whenever he sneaks you in for ‘early access,’ he always shows you these with the biggest grin on her face. She swears one day he’s going to do an exhibition solely of you (Never including the nude pieces. Those are hers and hers only). You know she will.   

PAT - FINANCE MAJOR .ᐟ

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who went into finance for his parents, who want her to take over after graduating. He absolutely hates it, but listens and goes for the four years anyway. Their grades are average, simply because she cannot care enough to do more than scrape by. Despite the hatred, she still becomes the biggest finance bro possible. 

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who has in fact been attempted to be recruited to a frat before. Walking past a tent during rush week had them handing him a form until they opened their mouth and spoke. This is his favourite story to tell when trying to get someone into her bed (“Come on, I was basically a frat brother. I can show you a good time too.”).

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who is somehow at a new party every night. Brings a new girl home every night too, partially in thanks to the frat story above. Is known around campus for being the biggest sleazebag ever, but no one really cares if it means they get a night with her. 

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who meets you and decides maybe you can change them. A one night stand where you treat her the best he’s ever been treated absolutely changes her world, and one night turns into two, and then three, and then she decides maybe there is more to life than just sleeping around and finally locks you down for herself (but it does take time for her to get used to just the one person, and there are some flirting incidents in the beginning). 

TASHI - COGNITIVE SCIENCE MAJOR .ᐟ

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who is the most disciplined person in college. Like poster girl of discipline level discipline. She creates a schedule and actually sticks to it. As you spend more time with her, you eventually catch onto it as well, and start doing most things together.

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who is incredibly dedicated to her studies. One of the top students in her classes. She is always studying whenever she has time, but hates not being around you. Her favourite kind of date is studying with you at a library or cafe, where she doesn’t need to choose between you and her work. 

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI whose favourite courses are the natural sciences, particularly chemistry and biology. Something about learning how the body’s natural chemicals and processes draws her in, but she wants to make a difference with it, to make it mean something. So she minors in sociology alongside cog sci. 

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who eventually takes the MD and PhD route, so she can do research and help in a medical setting. She spends her time in class one day, volunteering at a hospital and shadowing a doctor the next, and uses what she learns to do exactly what she wanted to. To do something bigger than herself.

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @jordiemeow @cha11engers @kaalxpsia @apatheticrater @tacobacoyeet @tigerlilywl @newrochellechallenger2019 @compress1repress @artspats

want to join my tag list? fill out this form!

nibbling him politely

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

+ FAIRY READER AND PATRICK PLEASE

fairy!reader x patrick zweig

summary: patrick loves making you dumb from his touch

cw .ᐟ nsfw, creampie, slapping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

꒰ taglist ꒱ @khartalks @bluestrd @appleaali @chrattvibe @tacobacoyeet @lexiiscorect @glassmermaids @voidsuites @donteventry-itdude @matchpointfaist @stanart4clearskin @s0ftcobra @artaussi (to be added)

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 he helped her cheat) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

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

loosely (heavily) inspired by talia's edgy sixth grade poetry. hope you enjoy. comments and critiques welcome as always.

When he was about six or seven, he picked up a racket for the first time. Something to get his small body’s endless amounts of energy out. A way for his parents to spend even less time with him. He remembers poking the tip of his pinky finger through the netting, curling his small fingers around the handle, and suddenly he felt whole. He spent the rest of that day bouncing around the otherwise neglected court in his backyard, playing against the gate. He fell, scraped his knees, and grinned down at the peeling skin, the dotting red of blood rising to the surface. A battle scar of sorts. When he came back inside, the sky had grown dark. His parents had forgotten to make him dinner. He couldn’t have cared less. He slept it with it next to him that night, body thrumming with excitement at repeating the same routine when the sun rose. Patrick Zweig was a child once, full of potential for being something.

Tennis stuck around just like the circumstances that bred his attachment to it, a huge house without the love of a home, a neglectful set of parents that felt love was fulfilling obligations. He struggled to understand how he came from them, someone so vivacious, so full of passion for the very act of living, them having died the second they met one another, and refusing to let go and live again. He felt things too deeply to let himself be sad. Sad didn’t exist for him. Sad was too little. He felt everything in extremes, including a deep-rooted melancholy that only tennis could distract him from. His parents had hired a coach, spent the money on a ball machine. He stands tall at his side of the net, moving swiftly, brash as his voice, uproariously as his laughter. Eyes laser focused at all times on the ball, the machine. He couldn’t wait for the day that there would be another person to focus on. He wouldn’t stop some days until he felt numb, certain that his legs would scream from soreness the next day. Until he forgot that he knew how to feel at all. Patrick Zweig was a soldier, racket wielded like a shield at times, a sword in others, defending himself from the knowledge that this was all he had.

He didn’t miss his parents the way other kids did when he got shipped out to Florida. He didn’t necessarily miss his house, either, outside of the convenience of its large size. He remembers his bunkmate, Art, who he hadn’t learned to care for like it was his job yet, crying on the first night there. He wanted to help, really, but what was there to say? It was late, later than two young boys should be up, and he found his bare feet traveling across old, scratchy carpet and into Art’s bed. There was no acknowledgement between the two of them when he wrapped his arms around Art’s shaking body, nor when Art turned around to hold him right back. It didn’t feel uncomfortable for any longer than a second, like the needlepoint pinch of a shot before all you feel is the application of a bandage. Art fell asleep, eventually, and he watched for a while, as soft breaths left his parted lips, the heat noticeable against his chest. His leg had gone numb about 30 minutes ago, but he wouldn’t move until Art did. Patrick Zweig was a blanket, soft, warm and looking to shelter. 

Tennis and Art were second nature, just the way his vices were. He was prone to a night of drinking, sneaking through the dorm halls to find some of the older students’ stashes of cheap beer, smoking cigarettes because he saw it in the movies and was horrified when he began feeling his hands shake when there wasn’t smoke in his lungs, and then there were the girls. Girls who wore too short skirts and had long, pretty legs for him to hold onto, girls who smiled with teeth and had glinting canines that would leave marks in his neck if given the chance, girls who had voices like a siren, and just a call of his name set his mind racing. He thought dating was just liking someone’s presence for a long time. Simply enjoying their proximity, their being, their taste. He wishes he’d learned that wasn’t true before Tashi. No one had ever really told him otherwise. It’s not like his parents were a great example to base his future romantic endeavors on. She handled him with care, in her own way. Let him ease his way into sharing himself with someone that wasn’t Art. She wasn’t gentle, necessarily, but careful. She held his face when they kissed, he remembers. Like he couldn’t keep it up himself. Like he was fragile. It killed him when she let go of him, some argument that never needed to happen had they both not been scared to let things be more than physical intimacy. Patrick wanted it, needed it, craved it like it was air and he’d had his head held underwater. He regretted every bit of harshness that he’d shown, even if he did mean some of it. She was allowed to be mean to him, it was still her attention. He had no right to act otherwise, he'd done nothing to deserve someone like Tashi's kindness. He left, and wanted her to realize that she was losing something beautiful, or at least, something with the potential to be. He doesn’t know what idea hurts worse: the idea she never realized, or that she did, and still let him go. Patrick Zweig was glass, soft and delicate until it shatters, and slices through you like you’re nothing more than paper. 

He imagines the sound that Tashi’s knee might have made sometimes, when he’s got nothing else to distract himself with. He wants to know what the sound of an angel losing its wings, crashing down to human mediocrity, sounds like. He saw it, though, the look on her face. So scared of feeling powerless she wouldn’t even cry with her world crumbling around her. She wasn’t strong, she wasn’t brave, she was just really, really stubborn. Maybe that’s why she’d started screaming when she saw him. Because he could read her. Because if she yelled loud enough, she’d be back at the Open, crying out victory. If her voice was the loudest, engulfing everyone else’s, she’d still won some kind of game. Art, though, didn’t need to do what he’d done. Art hurt him just to stand at Tashi’s side. He’d still forgive him, if he was given the chance. In fact, he did try. His messages never went through. Tashi picked up a call once, one placed in a lonely, slightly drunk stupor. They’d laughed back and forth, banter, insults that he considered playful. His were, anyway. He thought they were making it back to normalcy, until Tashi’s clear, crisp voice said “Go to hell, Patrick” and the only sound left behind was the dull beeping of an ended phone call. He stopped trying after that. Patrick Zweig was a dog, whimpering, waiting by the door for his masters to come home and kick him again. 

He stopped winning soon after that. He had no one to win for, not even himself. He’d left himself in the doorway of that little med area beneath the Stanford tennis courts. He wonders what they did with him. Was he swept away by a janitor with the other garbage? Stepped on beneath Art’s shoe? Silently, he hoped the failure, the constant code violations, would grab their attention for just a moment. It’s better that they think him pathetic than not think about him at all. He’s somewhat grateful for having hit rock bottom, because he no longer recognized himself without some kind of struggle. His parents had stopped caring years prior, and then again, they probably never cared at all. Tennis no longer a refuge, but an obligation, a way to make just enough money to buy himself some food, the gas to fuel his car. The car that’s become his home when no one is there to help him otherwise. Sex has become the refuge. Sex he doesn’t even want to be having anymore. He hardly feels anything but cotton sheets beneath his body, and that spurs him to keep going. Keep going and sleep. He usually leaves, regardless of if he wants to. Sometimes it’s nothing, leaving without notice. But there are times where he’d do anything to be a better man, someone these women deserve. He remembers a girl from White Plains that he would’ve let himself try something with, had he not been so scared. It made the nights leading up to his inevitable departure, wrapped up in her sheets, all the more painful. He watched her face contort and tried to memorize it, though it faded with time, like all things do. He liked knowing he’d done something for her, even if it was killing him inside. At least he’s still capable of doing something good. Patrick Zweig was a cigarette, burning from the inside out just to give someone else their fix, and he loved the ache. He was addicted to it. 

When he met you, he was prepared to make the most of his future loss. He would do anything to make his temporary stay something worth it. He would be good for you, even if he’d be nothing but destructive if he stayed. He didn’t know how to be anything other than self-sabotaging, really. He recognized the look in your eyes as one he’d had years before, youthfulness, passion, a need to make something of yourself, a hope to do that with someone accompanying you. Maybe he liked that he could treat you will, living vicariously through you, giving a version of himself the love he likes to think he deserved, but knows he didn’t. But, little by little, you chipped away at the layers of jadedness buried beneath his skin. He remembers one night, in your bed, you’d held his face for hours, silent, just looking at him, rubbing your thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks. He didn’t touch you in return. He was still scared that anything he laid a hand on would be ruined by him, would ruin him right back. Your hands didn’t come away bloodied, your eyes never turned cold, and when you did speak, it was never above a whisper. When you’d fallen asleep that night, bathed in moonlight, he knew. There was no avoiding the inevitability of being human. He’d forgotten that he still was one. But you’d cultivated him like a seed, feeding him tenderness he’d never been afforded until all he could find it in himself to do was give it back. He blossomed back into something under your hands. A man who laughs freely and touches without shame. The lover he’d always hoped to be, somewhere down the line. Patrick Zweig is just a man, and he’s happy to be something so simultaneously simple and complex. He’s happy to just be.

Inside of ATP’s Tennis bags

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