THIS IS SO CUTE :(((((

I just wanna be nice to Patrick when he has no one left. When he doesn’t know what kindness is anymore. When he doesn’t think he deserves it. I wanna be nice to him even though he takes advantage of it, even though he’ll try to take and take until there’s nothing left to give. Until he finally feels safe enough to let me in and give it all back.

We moved on from young dad!art too fast his sexy ass

I NEED HIM!!!!!

Young dad!Art who takes his baby to the little gym every Wednesday (the one day he doesn’t have an afternoon practice) to make friends and play :(

Young dad!Art who coordinates his outfits to match when he takes the baby out for shopping or to run errands

Young dad!Art who constantly gets told he’s such a good older brother by total strangers for taking care of his own baby

Young dad!Art who tastes every single jar of baby food before he makes his baby try it because if it’s gross he can’t make them eat it :((

He’s just so…. And it’s getting really…..

what is wrong with you

connor murphy perchance with a cheerleader reader who secretly has the same struggles and they bond over that if not them js getting high together and they confess

french exchange student reader with ATP maybe new kid in the academy or player against Tashi, wanting to get all close!!!

hiiii!!! i loved your requests so much. here’s the connor one first 🤭 umm also im sorry i kind of went overboard and felt angsty… don’t hate me

tw: depression, suicide

—

the thing about being a cheerleader is that people assume you’re always happy.

like glitter and pom-poms are a substitute for serotonin. like cartwheels and short skirts cancel out the quiet panic that curls into your ribs at 3am.

but you know better.

and so does he.

connor murphy sits like a shadow at the edge of the world (or at least the school parking lot), head down, eyes daring anyone to look at him too long. you don’t mean to sit next to him. it just happens. like gravity. or like bad decisions.

he looks over, slow and suspicious.

you offer a half-smile and a joint.

“world’s ending,” you say, as explanation.

he shrugs. “cool.“

you pass the joint back and forth like a secret. like a lifeline. smoke curls around you both, and the silence between you shifts from awkward to gentle.

“you don’t seem like the type, you know,” he says finally.

you raise an eyebrow.

“to sit on the ground with me. and do drugs. and not cry about it.”

you laugh. “give it time.”

when the stars come out, you’re still there. his head tilted back, yours resting against his shoulder in a way that feels accidentally on purpose. you tell him things. not the big things—just breadcrumbs. like how you hate pep rallies. how you once cried during halftime. how you wish you could just… not be this person.

he blinks. slow, languid. “same.”

and it’s stupid. and sweet. and kind of sad. and it’s the first time you feel understood in forever.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

he turns to look at you, like the moon’s caught in his eyes.

“i think i’m gonna like you.”

a pause.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“okay. good. me too. but like… don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold. i’m pretty popular.”

you grin. “oh yeah?”

“oh yeah.”

the joint burns out. the night drips quietly on.

—

you start seeing him more. not on purpose, at first. just… by coincidence. or fate. or whatever cosmic joke put the angriest boy in school and the sparkliest girl in the same orbit.

at lunch, you start sitting near each other. not at the same table, not yet. just close enough for the air to feel familiar. for a certain electricity to linger.

he nods at you. you nod back.

it’s stupid. it means everything.

eventually, he lets you into his world. little pieces at a time.

like how his mom keeps pushing therapy schedules into his hands like they’re birthday gifts. how his dad barely speaks unless it’s disappointment wearing a polo.

how his little sister, zoe, plays four instruments, volunteers at a vet clinic, and still finds time to win at everything.

“they love her,” he says, exhaling smoke out the passenger window. “like, it’s easy. natural. with me, it’s like—i have to earn it. and even when i do… it’s not enough.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just reach over and squeeze his sleeve.

later, you say, “my mom makes me smile in photos even when i’ve just had a panic attack.”

and he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole fucking world.

you hang out on rooftops. in empty stairwells. behind the bleachers, where the grass is too long and the world feels far away. you skip class sometimes. not together, but somehow you both end up in the same hallway, sprawled out on the floor like fallen angels.

one day, he mutters, “i’m supposed to be this freak. the scary one. i hear what they say. maybe they’re right.”

you tilt your head. “do you want to be?”

he hesitates. “not always. not really.”

“then don’t be. be whatever you want with me.”

he stares at you like he’s waiting for the punchline. it doesn’t come. just your hand brushing against his. just the ache of being seen.

he starts texting you. a lot.

everything felt perfect. a perfect friendship, a perfect maybe-more-than-friendship.

until it finally snaps.

you’re curled up together in the backseat of his car, parked under the old oak trees near the edge of town where the stars don’t have to compete with streetlights. the blunt burns slow between you, smoke curling like a lullaby.

he’s lying with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded, mouth a soft line.

“do you ever feel,” he says, “like you were made for sadness?”

you comb your fingers through his hair. “maybe. but then you happened. and now i think i was made for you.”

he looks up at you, eyes glassy but focused. his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile.

you expect a joke. a typical connor deflection. something sarcastic to break the tense moment.

instead, he says, “i love you.”

quiet. like it’s the first true thing he’s ever said.

your heart stutters. the world stills.

you whisper, “i love you too.”

and for a moment—just a moment—it feels like everything might be okay. like the universe hit pause on the bad parts and gave you this night, this breath, this boy who sees you like no one else does.

he kisses you, and it’s slow, deep. his lips taste like weed and that raspberry slurpee he’s always got and something saltier—regret, maybe, or all the things he can’t say out loud.

his hand moves to your cheek, unsure, like he’s checking if you’re real.

you are. you lean into him like gravity’s made of need.

your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer—not desperate, just aching.

the kiss deepens a little. not fast. just fuller. like an exhale you’ve both been holding since the first time you looked at each other and didn’t look away.

you fall asleep with your head on his chest, dreaming of maybe.

—

friday, no text.

saturday, nothing.

you send a stupid tiktok. no reply.

you try calling. voicemail.

you tell yourself he’s just spiraling. that he does this sometimes.

but not like this. never this quiet.

by monday, he’s not in school. you wait by your locker. you wait in the usual hallway. you check the parking lot.

his car isn’t there.

your texts pile up.

you start asking people. zoe doesn’t answer her phone. neither does his mom.

your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

you hear whispers in the hallways. an ambulance? a body found?

no.

he could be fine. he could be in the hospital. he could be anywhere. he could be—

you call again. straight to voicemail.

you leave one more message.

voice shaking.

tears falling.

“connor. please. i love you. you said you loved me too. you promised.”

—

eventually it’s confirmed, a monotone, grim announcement over the intercom.

a hushed assembly.

teachers blinking back tears they never showed him in life. posters about mental health taped crooked on hallway walls. a vigil with candles that don’t stop anything from hurting.

no one knows he kissed you like he was saying goodbye. no one knows you held him the night before. no one knows he said he loved you with the stars watching.

and now he’s gone, and you can’t say any of it without sounding insane.

you’re back in uniform the next week.

lip gloss. ponytail. fake smile stretched like skin too thin.

people pat your shoulder. say vague, hollow things like

“wasn’t he that angry kid?”

or

“i didn’t know you even talked to him.”

and you nod. and you smile.

and inside, something is rotting.

you go through the motions like a ghost trapped in the wrong body.

pep rallies feel like static. he was the only one who knew you hated them.

your bedroom walls are too quiet.

his last voicemail is still saved on your phone,

but you can’t listen to it anymore

because his voice feels like a knife now.

you try to tell your mom you’re sad. she tells you to take a bath.

you try to tell your friends you feel like you’re drowning. they say, “we miss him too,” but their voices don’t crack the same way yours does.

that’s because they don’t know. they don’t know you loved him. they don’t know he loved you.

they don’t know that when he died, he took something from you you’ll never get back.

and now you’re stuck.

stuck in this glitter-drenched version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore.

stuck cheering for teams you don’t care about.

stuck pretending your heart didn’t break in the backseat of his car.

stuck waiting for a text that will never come.

you still walk past that same hallway you always met in. you still glance toward the parking lot.

still half-expect to see him there, hood up, eyes tired, mouth already half-smirking at something only you would understand.

but he’s not. and the worst part?

no one noticed he was your whole world.

and now you’re expected to keep spinning.

taglist of my connor friends

@matchpointfaist @ellaynaonsaturn @elliotlovesmacncheese @newrochellechallenger2019

Projecting

to be loved as someone else should be.

an: credit to @nicodefresas for the dividers!! and thanks to those who offered to beta read. hope you like the finished product.

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When you lift up your leg, the imprints of the blades of grass beneath you run angry across your skin. If it was something else, something sharper, you’re sure it would hurt, maybe bleed, maybe turn white from lack of circulation. You peek out of the corner of your eye at Tashi. You decide not to mention it. You offer her a hand, she stares at it a moment, then looks back out in front of her. 

“Tashi… come on.”

“No.”

You open your mouth to speak, but what is there to say to something so concrete? What is there to say to someone like Tashi, who is so desperately trying to hold her head above water?

“Is this about earlier, because if it is-”

“I wish you would’ve been meaner.”

You anxiously pick at a piece of dried skin on your lip, one that she never brought up when she’d kissed you a few hours ago. It’s unlike her. You place your hand on the one spot she wished you wouldn’t, bending your thumb so your nail is pressed into the jagged line of her skin, up and down. Usually, it’d be soothing. Now, she wishes your nails were sharp enough to split her open. The way you look at her, like she deserves affection in any way, does. She fears looking down to find herself open. 

“You… wanted me to be mean?”

You laugh, and it’s the worst possible thing you could’ve done. Her eyes are darker now, thin slits peeking out from soft, velvet skin. She’s hurt without any right to be, but then again she’s been hurt without any right more times than she’d have liked. She wants to bite. She wants you to walk away and sting, even if you’ve only ever been good to her, and she swears she’s not a mean person. Cold at times, defensive, but sweet. You’d seen her be sweet. You know she can be when she lets herself out of the mindset of winning, mentality fixed to the court, where love is interchangeable with aggression. She’s almost always stuck there, an invisible string guiding her to the home her own body forced her out of. But she’d seemed calmer with you, if reluctantly. Slowly but surely, pulling her out of exile, back into the world she’d once been so indispensable in. The bite, though, never went away. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but apparently, you can’t teach it unlearn the former ones either. So she bites at the hand that feeds her, and comes right back to lick at the wounds. 

“If you’re gonna let me treat you like shit, then treat me like shit back. Stop walking around and fucking taking it. Get angry at me, for once in your fucking life.”

“Tashi, I-”

“No, I’m sick of it. Stand up for yourself for once. Get in my face. Come on, yell at me! Tell me off for being a bitch!”

Drops of harsh, stinging saliva speckle your face, and you can’t even find it in yourself to back up. All you’d wanted was to help. All you were good for was help. Who were you if not obedient?

A guard dog. Loyal to a fault.

“Tashi, you’re not- don’t call yourself that…”

“God… you are such a fucking pussy. If you’re gonna let me kick you around, then I’m done. I won’t let myself be taken care of by someone who’s too weak to take care of herself.”

She hardens, shuts down, curls in on herself. How dare you think her good. How dare you not want to insult her, when she so obviously has not given you half the care that you’ve provided her. How dare you accept a life of mediocrity when she can’t seem to do it herself. She needs you to be angry at her. She needs to feel horrible. She needs you to know you’re better than this. You don’t seem to agree.

“Tashi, I said I was sorry earlier. If this is about me trying to help you out, it’s-”

“I don’t need your god damn help. Help yourself.”

You swallow around nothing, though you’re sure you can feel the contraction of muscles in your throat. It’d be pathetic to speak. It’d been pathetic to help. You stand with ease that Tashi pales at. She wants to move. You offer her your hand, a smile, a sign that all would be forgiven if she just stopped needing you to be someone you’re not. If she stopped needing someone that she used to have. She stares at it, then back up at you. You swear you can hear her whimper. She never takes it. Tashi was the cruelest woman you’d ever met. 

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“You know, I was thinking we could get dinner tomorrow night. I could get a babysitter, see if Tashi’s around, have a night to ourselves. Sound good to you?”

You turn over your shoulder, staring at Art staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair got so much darker with age. The blankets beneath your skin have turned scratchy with age, but they’ve been there since you moved in. They’d probably been in there since before he signed those papers that placed him in your lap. A chance encounter with a chance connection. You both tended to avoid her name like speaking it was some kind of curse. You hear the distant pitter-patter of Lily’s feet across hardwood flooring. She’d been put to bed an hour ago. 

“We could do that if you want to.”

He spits into the basin of the sink, water running a moment as he turns to you, looking weary regardless of how much sleep he gets. He’s never looked fully awake in all the time you’ve been with him, even if he lights up like a child on rare occasion. Maybe that exhaustion runs soul deep, and there’s nothing a night’s rest can do. There’s only so much that a break can do.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You try to laugh, and it just comes off as a neutral hum. He feels the stab of perceived disinterest run through his stomach and come out the other end. You’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, though, so he can’t be mad for too long. He seats himself next to you, lowering his head into your lap. Like a cat. Like a child seeking comfort in their mother. So unfit for adult life. So unfit to parent someone when still functionally a teenager himself. 

“We can go out, ok?”

 You look down at him, stroke a hand through the cropped hair on his head, and he chases after it when it leaves his skin. He shifts, presses a tender kiss to your knee, one that squishes up his cheek against the solid bone beneath it. 

“What was that for?”

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You both know the answer to it.

“I forget sometimes, you know.”

“You forget what?”

He looks you over, reaches a hand up to brush some hair behind your ear.

“You’d look cute with shorter hair.”

You laugh quietly, bring a hand to his cheek. 

“Yours would look cute longer.”

He lets out a deep breath through his nose, shuts his eyes as if its meditative. He turns his face to press a kiss to each of your fingertips. 

“Maybe we can do dinner next week.”

You force a smile that he can’t see, look down at your legs. There had to be something close by sharp enough to give you the scar he wishes was there. You’ve never felt more inadequate for being untainted. Maybe there is only beauty in pain, and that’s what he misses. He wishes you had suffered just that bit more. At least then, you’d match. You run a hand over the thickened skin of his shoulder where his shirt sleeve lifts up. You didn’t feel human. If being human was hurting to be able to know that there is good, then why can’t your body have suffered? Maybe you’d never been alive at all. Maybe he knew that.

“Yeah. Next week sounds good, babe.”

He never moves, neither do you. He sleeps comfortably, gripping at your unmarked skin, murmuring his praises against it. The name that comes after them isn’t yours. Your leg begins to go numb. You let it happen. Feel the bad to know there’s good. He never turned the sink off.

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The car smells like sweat, trapped in its small, enclosed metallic body. Despite the heat, the fogged windows, the refusal to leave his proximity, he offers another source.

 “You smoke?”

You huff a laugh, lift your damp cheek from his bare shoulder, and it peels like skin to leather on a summer day.

“Does it seem like I do? Besides, aren’t you an athlete. I thought you guys were meant to take care of yourselves.”

He shrugs, flips open a lighter he’d pulled from the flannel crumpled on the floor, along with a cigarette from a packet he’d stored in the same pocket.

“I started when I was a kid so, you know… whatever, man. If it was gonna kill me, it would’ve done that years ago.”

He turns his cheek to yours, glowing red center pointed between your eyes like a laserbeam. 

“You wanna try one?”

Normally, you’d adamantly refuse. But you look at your bare ring finger, your body that never quite fit that role it needed to, undressed and appreciated for once, and decide to stop valuing yourself. You weren’t someone who had enough worth to have values to uphold. 

“Why not?”

He grins, pops your cheek open with a squeeze of his thumbs, and presses it between your lips. He offers no advice, just a wide, smug grin. He hopes to see you fail, just so he can feel good about himself after building you back up. You suck in a breath, cough, plumes of smoke bursting out with each harsh puff of air, and he laughs, cheek pressed to yours. A part of him hopes the nicotine reaches your brain.

“Your beard is scratchy, you know. You should shave it when you get home”

He bristles slightly, offers a quick nod.

“Yeah. When I get home.”

“I’ll get to visit sometime, right? Maybe next time?”

You look up at him like you genuinely want to, like the idea of seeing him again doesn’t disgust you, and he wants to push you out the door. He hasn’t ruined you yet. If that cigarette doesn’t light the car on fire, he hopes to shove it down your throat. He offers a tight-lipped smile. He is home.

“I’m sure you will.”

You grin, place the cigarette between your lips. You cough again, but don’t break. Inhale, exhale, break, continue. He hasn’t been someone’s teacher in how to ruin themselves in a bit. He doesn’t think you really deserve to be hurt, and that makes him think you deserve it more. Because you’re hurting him with your stupid innocence, and your sweet disposition, and the absolute unbearable way your nose crinkles when you laugh. It’s sending him reeling. He feels like he’s sharing contraband cigarettes with an old friend again, watching himself make another person worse in real time. Watching them get addicted to it. He taps his fingers restlessly against the back of the passenger seat. 

“I think you should get dressed.”

“...What?”

“I think you should get dressed. Now, please.”

He rips the cigarette from your hands, places it between his own lips, picks up what he guesses are your things and forces them into your arms. 

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t really fucking need to.”

Slowly, as if waiting for the length of time to drag long enough for him to change his mind, you pull the supplied shirt over your head. It’s his. Some gray, graphic tee with some text that’s so faded you can hardly read it. You slip your cardigan over your shoulders, look at him. He doesn’t look back. He can’t even bother to get out of the car, just climbs into the passenger seat, despite the space being too small for the maneuver to be comfortable for a man of his size. You breathe in the scent of his space one more time, now riddled with smoke, and open the door, walking into the night. You watch him speed off, reckless, skidding. You pull your cardigan a bit tighter around yourself. You choose a direction to walk in. You will find a new place to come second in.

the lgbt community wants to fuck him 🤐

im about to fucking climax in the pyjama aisle of sainbury’s because yet again they’ve absolutely smashed out a bean flicking collection of pjs

art donaldson is going to HELL ❤️

thank you @cha11engers!

chewing on him like a ravenous wolf

Casual dominance but with dilf!patrick???

the same as art in the sense he wouldn't bat an eye if you went out in a short skirt. he takes pleasure it in it, actually, a hand on your backside to give everyone a peek of your panties. when you send him an affronted look, he just gives an unrepentant smirk. whoops! probably the wind. he DOES like to choose your clothes. prob like the sluttiest thing possible when you're meeting his parents (a huge fuck you to them).

definitely into the whole "bimbo girlfriend thing." makes you make eye contact with him when you're talking... or fucking. "ah-ah-ah, eyes on me." and never lets you get away without verbally asking him for something. "c'mon, use your words if you want something. my baby has good manners."

knows how indecisive you are and calling the shots just comes naturally to him. doesn't even bat an eye when the waiters give you a concerned look after he gives your order for you. just knows you inside out at this point. or if he's grabbing himself something from the kitchen, he doesn't bother asking if you want one, he just grabs two by default (because he knows you'll say no and end up asking for a sip of his water or stealing his chips)

doesn't matter where you are, he's always touchy. a hand on your thigh when he's driving, or around you while you're walking. if he has a pretty thing on his arm, why not show you off? always whispering filthy things to you when you're out and about just to watch you avert your eyes when your cheeks heat up. you never scold him, though—you both know you love it.

also loves manhandling you. guiding you when you're walking, or big hands on your hips to move you out of his way in the kitchen or throw you over his shoulder to carry you off to bed. if you aren't walking side by side, he's always keeping an eye on you. never more than an arm's length away. follows the sidewalk rule religiously.

comes off as a little controlling sometimes, too. patronising as fuck when he wants to be. he bought you a drink? you have to finish it, otherwise you're ungrateful. going out with your friends? either he's coming with you, or you don't go at all. he just loves you too much!! if you’re gonna be ogled, he has to be present for it. he’s just looking out for his pretty girl <3

always zips up your dress for you or helps you put your jewellery on. he doesn't even need to ask; as soon as he sees you getting ready, he's behind you to lend you a helping hand (and probably a playful pinch to the ass for his troubles)

anyways shoutout to oomfs in diya's the queen's gambit watchparty for thirsting over patrick w me for this <3

FUCK ITS EVERYWHERE

Get a job. Take some writing classes.

okay, let's talk about this for a moment. a lot of my moots/oomfs have been getting a similar message in their inbox. i don't know if they're coming from the same person or not, and frankly, i don't care.

you are wasting time out of your day to leave a message that you are too cowardly to put an account behind, on a website that was created for the purpose of publicizing self-expression.

i don't care that you don't like my writing. i don't like my writing. i am upset because you are putting legitimate effort into bringing down other people who have absolutely zero impact on your day-to-day life. if anyone needs to get a job, anon, it's you.

i do not know what is possessing you to act with such cowardice, but whatever it is, i hope it gets better for you. in the mean time, stay out of the inboxes of creators who are volunteering their time and their efforts to enrich the lives of others.

i wish you good luck in the future.