KIT ౨ৎ nineteen aries uk she rafe’s favourite girl dreaming of the ocean lana del rey lover hoop earrings mini uggs acrylic nails iced lattes cinema pale pink art donaldson lover
Hiii, so I honestly suck at explaining what I want lol, but could you do something where Art is like freshly divorced and decided to start coaching? And he gets with his player who’s significantly younger(if you’re ok with writing age gap stuff! If not it doesn’t have to be included!!) and after a while she has her first time either him and it’s like sweet and soft?
set break | art donaldson x reader
hi, baby! loved this request so much. hope you enjoy!
You'd been his student for a while now— long enough to carve out muscle memory and blistered palms, to mold your discipline into something Art could recognize with a glance. Long enough to make your name known to scouts and whispered about in locker rooms. You were young, all sharp edges and stifled softness, with a game that didn’t ask for attention— it demanded it. Unpredictable. Magnetic. Built from hours no one else was willing to give.
You rose before sunrise. Skipped parties. Trained through birthdays and bruises. Nothing existed outside of the court, and you liked it that way. You were obsessed, but it never felt like a burden. You wanted to be the best, and you lived like it— strict, singular, without distraction. There was no space for softness, especially not for boys who didn’t understand why your hands were always calloused or why your heartbeat aligned with the sound of a bouncing ball.
But Art understood. Maybe that’s why it started the way it did— slow, quiet, unacknowledged. A long look across the net. The rough warmth of his palm correcting your elbow. The way you lingered after practice with half a question on your lips just so you wouldn’t have to leave yet. It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t even conscious at first. But it built, the way pressure always does— somewhere low and steady, humming beneath everything.
He noticed when your breath caught as he adjusted your stance, when your hand brushed his at the ball bucket. You noticed when his voice dropped a little lower than it had to, when he watched you stretch and then quickly looked away. There was no line crossed. Not then. But the line had moved— or maybe it never existed the way you thought it did.
Somewhere in those shared silences, the space between you began to thin. His gaze started to hold longer. Your jokes softened into something more deliberate. His corrections became gentler, slower. And when your knees knocked on the bench, or your fingers lingered a second too long passing him a towel, neither of you moved away.
He told himself it was nothing. A trick of proximity. He’d just gotten divorced, after all— a quiet ending to a long, tired marriage. There was no scandal, no betrayal. Just the slow unraveling of something that had once been love. He and Tashi had parted like two people handing each other back keys. It was civilized. It was kind. But it was still loss.
And then you walked into his court, and it was like seeing that fire again— the one he remembered from the early days with her. Before the touring, before the burnout, before the silences. You had that same glint in your eyes, that same stubborn tilt of your chin, that same obsessive hunger to win.
It pulled at something he thought he’d buried. He tried to chalk it up to memory, to projection, to the ache of nostalgia. But you didn’t let him. You kept showing up— sweaty, flushed, laughing at his driest jokes like they were brilliant. You worked yourself raw. You gave him hell during drills. And you smiled at him like you trusted him with every fragile part of you.
He started noticing things he shouldn’t. The curve of your neck. The way your voice went rough from shouting line calls. How tightly you braided your hair on game days. He started catching himself thinking about you when you weren’t around— in the grocery store, behind the wheel, in the quiet before sleep. And when his hand slipped while correcting your grip, and you didn’t flinch— when you leaned into him instead of away— he realized it wasn’t memory at all. It was want.
Still, neither of you named it. You trained. You pushed. You stayed late. And he let you.
The tension didn’t arrive like a crash. It built— slow and tight and impossible to ignore. In the thwack of your racket against the ball, in the whistle of your breath between points, in the way you held his gaze just a little too long in what should have always been the most innocent moments.
You learned his moods by the shape of his mouth. He learned yours by the way you adjusted your grip between volleys. He started making excuses to keep you longer. You pretended not to notice.
And at night, when the sky was black and the courts were finally quiet, he’d go inside his home with white knuckles, jaw clenched against the memory of your thighs dusted with clay, your voice low and tired asking for just one more set.
It was unbearable. And it was holy.
You caught him once— late May, heat thick in the air, your tank top clinging to your ribs. He was watching you, really watching, and didn’t look away when you met his eyes. You didn’t smile. Neither did he. But something passed between you that made your knees feel loose.
You started thinking about him in places you shouldn’t. In the shower. In bed, staring up at your ceiling fan, heart pounding just from imagining what his voice would sound like in your ear. You hated yourself for it. And you couldn’t stop.
So when the snap finally came, it wasn’t soft or silent— it was ugly. Loud. Tense. It happened after hours in the sun, your forearms screaming from overwork, your throat hoarse from grunts and breathless curses. You double-faulted four times in a row and Art had said something— not cruel, just curt. But it hit too hard, landed wrong.
“Maybe if you’d stop overthinking and actually listen—”
You dropped your racket. “I am listening.”
“No, you’re reacting. And you're wasting energy doing it.”
You stepped in. Too close. “Then maybe you should coach someone else.”
His jaw clenched. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”
You blinked, eyes stinging, your voice rising. “I give you everything—”
“I never asked you to!”
That was the crack. The silence that followed wasn’t calm— it was the kind that pulses in your ears when your heart is racing and you don’t know whether to run or fight.
You didn’t run.
You reached into the minimal space between you, grabbed his collar, and kissed him— hard. Reckless. Like you hated him. Like you needed him. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. You tasted like salt and heat and effort. He froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand sliding to your waist, the other threading into your sweat-damp hair.
It all blurred after that— teeth, breath, hands. He pressed you back against the practice bench, fingers grazing the edge of your sports bra, dragging beneath your top, skin warm under his palms. His touch was firmer than you expected. You arched up into him, more instinct than strategy, wanting more. Needing.
And then you said it.
“I’ve never done this before.”
His hand stilled. He pulled back like he’d been burned, eyes searching yours, chest rising like he’d been running laps.
“What?”
You didn’t look away. “I’ve never had sex.”
It knocked the wind out of him. All at once, the heat and hunger gave way to something else entirely— something tender, something so achingly human he thought he might break from it. He stared at you, stunned. Not with judgment, not even shock. But with reverence.
Your face was still fierce, but your voice had gone soft. “I just... I didn’t want it with anyone else.”
He touched your cheek then, gently, like you were made of glass. “Are you sure?”
You nodded. “I want you to.”
And it shifted— the entire rhythm between you rethreaded itself. No longer frantic, no longer fighting. He kissed you slow this time, guiding rather than taking, hands steady and careful. He let you set the pace. Let you tremble. Let you breathe. He whispered against your jaw, your throat, telling you it was okay to be nervous. That he’d go slow. That you could stop any time. You kept your eyes on his, wide and wet, like you were trying to memorize the way he looked at you— not like a coach. Not like a man with regrets. Like you were a gift.
He didn’t let it happen there. Not on the court. Not with the sun still high and the sweat still drying on your skin. The moment your voice trembled with that confession, everything in him shifted— the hunger in his eyes replaced by something deeper, gentler, more reverent.
“No,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Not here.”
You blinked, confused, until his hands fell to your waist and he pressed the softest kiss to your temple. “Your first time isn’t happening on a tennis bench,” he murmured. “Come inside.”
You followed him into the house without a word, nerves coiling low in your belly. The house was quiet, the air cooler than outside, your footsteps muffled against the hardwood. You’d only ever seen glimpses of it before— a mug in the window, a hallway through the screen door. Now, everything felt achingly intimate. Lived-in. Real.
He led you into his bedroom, the sheets rumpled, sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds. There was a pair of his shoes by the nightstand, a stack of worn books on the dresser. And then there was him, watching you with something tender and unraveled in his eyes, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this moment.
“You okay?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
You nodded. “Just… nervous.”
“I know.” He stepped closer, cupped your face with both hands. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not ever.”
That was what undid you— not the kiss that followed, not even the hands that slid beneath your top again. It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d carry the weight of whatever this was, if you let him.
He kissed you slowly, thoroughly. Not like he was trying to take, but like he wanted to learn. His hands slid beneath your shirt, coaxing rather than rushing, and this time, you let him undress you piece by piece. He laid you back on the bed like you were something he’d prayed for. And when his body came down over yours, warm and solid and so heartbreakingly careful, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
He asked again if you were sure. You said yes. Again.
And then he took his time. Not just in the motions, but in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to read every thought, every hesitation. He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, the soft dip beneath your collarbone. His hands were warm and broad as they traveled across your ribs, your hips, your thighs, not greedy, but grounding— like he wanted you to know you were safe.
"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he murmured against your skin. You nodded, already breathless.
When his hand slid between your legs, you startled— not out of fear, but out of unfamiliarity. He stilled immediately.
"Too much?"
"No," you said quickly, then quieter, “just… new.”
He smiled, soft and real. “New is good. We’ll go slow.”
And he did. His fingers moved with care, coaxing rather than demanding, reading every shift in your breath like it was strategy, like it was gameplay. You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit for the first time, eyes flying to his. He held your gaze.
"That's okay," he whispered. "That’s just you feeling it."
You didn’t know how to be quiet— not with him. You let the sounds happen. The soft whimpers, the ragged gasps, the way your hips tried to chase his touch without you even realizing. He didn’t tease. He didn’t push. Just stayed with you, murmuring encouragement, grounding you with his voice.
When he finally slid a finger inside, your breath caught. It wasn’t painful— just strange. Full. Real. Your muscles clenched around him, and he stilled again.
“Breathe,” he said. “Just like we do on the court. In through the nose.”
You did.
He moved slowly, gently, building rhythm. When he added a second finger, you whimpered, and he kissed your forehead. “That okay?”
You nodded into his shoulder, thighs trembling.
“God, you’re so good,” he whispered. “Doing so good for me.”
You’d never been touched like this. Never had someone take their time, pay attention, listen.
By the time he pulled back and reached for the drawer— a condom, the sound of the foil tearing— you were half-gone with need.
He knelt between your thighs, eyes on you the entire time. "You ready?"
You nodded.
"Words."
“Yes. I’m ready.”
And when he finally pressed inside, it was slow and careful. Your breath hitched, your body tensing despite your trust. He held still, his forehead resting against yours, hand cupping your jaw as if to remind you he was there, fully, completely. His voice was barely a whisper: “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You nodded, your thighs trembling around his waist, your hands clutching at his shoulders. He kissed your cheek, your eyelids, waited for your breathing to slow. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Tell me when.”
It took a moment. A heartbeat. Then another. And then, quietly, you whispered, “Okay. I’m okay.”
He moved in increments, barely-there thrusts, watching your face for every wince, every exhale. You could feel every inch of him, slow and thick and unrelenting, stretching you more than you thought you could take. Your legs trembled, your fingers curled against his shoulder blades, and he kissed along your jawline, whispering your name like it grounded him. Every press of his hips made your body jolt, nerves alive and blinking, your breath stuttering in your throat.
"You're so tight," he murmured, groaning low as your body tried to adjust around him. "Fuck, baby— you're driving me insane."
The slick glide of his thumb over your clit returned, gentle but insistent. Your thighs quivered, heels digging into the mattress, hips lifting just slightly to chase him. You felt stretched, overwhelmed, but full. Filled in a way that settled somewhere between ache and pleasure.
He kissed your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again. “Just let me take care of you.”
The pain dulled, warmth replacing it. The friction started to melt you open.
Your voice cracked. “Don’t stop.”
He paused, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “There.”
So he followed it. Stayed there. Kept it shallow and tender, murmuring praise between kisses, telling you how beautiful you looked, how proud he was, how much you were giving him.
You weren’t sure it would happen. Everything was so overwhelming— your body, his body, the unfamiliar ache that pulsed low in your stomach, the constant tension of wanting more but not knowing how to ask for it. But then his hand slipped between you again, his fingers finding your clit, and he murmured, “Let me make you feel good. Please.”
Your breath caught. You nodded, but he didn’t rush. He adjusted slightly, slowing his hips, angling deeper— and with each pass, his fingers moved in rhythm. The pressure started building almost without your permission. Your thighs flexed. Your fingers clenched in the sheets. You gasped something that wasn’t a word and clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rough now, pleasure curling through it. “That’s it, baby. You’re so good. So fucking perfect. Just let it happen.”
The feeling crested slowly, the way a wave might swell before it crashes. You arched beneath him, breath shaking, lips parting as the world narrowed to sensation— his voice, his fingers, the sweet ache of him inside you. And then it hit.
You came with a soft, gasping cry, every nerve ending lit up, your back bowing, your thighs trembling around his waist. He didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, holding you like you were breaking open in his arms.
“That’s it,” he said again, so tender it made you want to cry. “So good. So good for me.”
And only after, when your body relaxed, when your eyes fluttered open and you saw the way he was looking at you like you were some kind of miracle— did he let himself go. Thrusts stuttering, jaw clenched against your shoulder as he followed you into it, hips rolling once, twice, and then still.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your breathing slowed in sync. He rested his forehead against yours, still inside you, his hand cupping your jaw with aching care.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded, eyes wet. “Yeah. I’m really okay.”
He kissed your nose, your cheek, your shoulder. And then he pulled you close and didn’t let go.
It didn’t last long. It wasn’t perfect. But it was yours. Real and raw and impossibly tender. And when it was over, when he curled around you with one hand stroking your back and the other cradling your face, you felt something settle inside you— quiet, certain.
Later, when you were rested against him in bed, fingers drawing patterns over his chest, he’d think about the walls you carried and the way you finally let him see past them. He’d think about the trust it took to open up. And he’d promise— silently, fiercely— to take care of you, just like you deserved.
If you saw me post this and accidentally delete the ask and everything, no you didn’t 😭
But yeah anon. Patrick would do anything for him. Make a mess of him before his first hook up with the prettiest girl in school. Just because he feels like it, just because he can. Because Art’s his best friend. His.
He’s an amazing friend.
CW: 18+ NSFW
——-
“Is it okay?” Art asks. He’s dressed up so nice in one of Patrick’s smaller sweaters, its cloudy blue like his eyes. He’s got on fitted black jeans, and a brown leather jacket. He looks so good, smells so good, like black cherry and tobacco, this expensive cologne that he only wears when he thinks he might get laid.
He’s visibly nervous. Chewing incessantly on spearmint gum. Always nervous about his first time with a new girl. Patrick doesn’t know why, if he was a pretty girl he’d be wet the moment Art turned that shy little smile in his direction. He doesn’t need to dress up, pretty boy. He got Kennedy Sawyer’s attention in sweatpants and a t-shirt while he was arguing with Patrick over final fantasy play styles at breakfast.
But that’s not important. What’s important is Patrick just wants to help. Art is his best friend after all. He sits up on his bed, dropping his game controller. “Come ‘ere,” he says. Art checks his hair in the mirror for the third time and then approaches Patrick, eyes dilated, nerves making him run his sweaty palms awkwardly over his jeans. That’s when it catches Patrick’s eye. He teases his finger tips up Art’s thighs up to the bulge along his hip, it’s not obvious but Patrick knows him so well, knows how he tries to hide it, but Patrick can tell that he’s hard. “I can’t calm down,” Art admits quietly.
“You wanna know my secret?” Patrick asks, gripping at either side of his unzipped jacket and pulling him closer. “Like how I stay cool when I’m out with a beautiful girl?”
Art looks hopeful that Patrick’s about to tell him the secret to life. “How?”
Patrick tugs Art a little bit closer so he’s got a leg on either side of one of Patrick’s thighs. “I like to rub one out first… just to help my nerves.”
“I um—really?” Art studies him, trying to decide whether Patrick means it or if he's full of shit. “No fucking way,” he decides, followed by that stupid pretty smile of his, the one that makes Patrick want to get on his knees.
“I’m so serious,” that smile is contagious even when Arts annoyed. Patrick keeps his grip on Art’s jacket to hold him in place. “It helps, I promise. Especially if she’s really pretty, like Kennedy is. Plus it helps so I don’t finish too fast when we…” he looks up at Art's pretty blue eyes, letting him fill in the blank.
He’s chewing again. Anxious. He definitely has that “too fast” issue. He gets so excited. Patrick still touches himself remembering the night Art asked him, red faced and shy to please show him how to French kiss. Not even two minutes with Patrick’s tongue in his mouth and he’d already cum in his pants and got so embarrassed he nearly cried. Doesn’t even get how gorgeous he is.
Oh. Patrick just wants to help him. Wants to help him so bad. He’s his best friend after all. Patrick can just imagine Art, soft and sweet and so gentle with her. Fucking into her, losing it too fast and promising he can do it again. Tears of shame in his eyes. God, Patrick kinda wants to be her.
“I guess I should…” Art says quietly, bringing Patrick back from his thoughts. His expression thoughtful, his tongue, eager as he plays with his gum in his mouth.
“I mean… what could it hurt?” Patrick shrugs, grabbing at Arts belt buckle.
“Um…” Art blinks, confused. He’s so smart but stupid about some things. He gets with the program fast enough, once Patrick’s got his hands on him. God, he’s hard. So fucking hard he’s already leaking into his boxers, can’t calm down. Let’s Patrick pull him onto his lap as his breathing picks up. “Patrick, no, it’s late. ‘m gonna be late,” he sounds a little panicky, but he’s gripping at Patrick’s biceps as they both look down at his lap, Patrick’s hand working inside his boxers.
“No, it’s okay, I promise,” Patrick whispers. Not sure what he’s promising, he’s already lost the plot. Art smells so good. Patrick always wonders if he tastes as good as he smells in this cologne. He licks a stripe up the side of his throat, kisses his way up to Art's lips. Petal soft and minty, Art opens up right away. His mouth heated and… oh so wet. He scoots closer, his neatly ironed shirt getting wrinkled because he’s pressed up against Patrick’s body. His fingers tangled in Patrick’s hair. The kiss getting sloppier, sticky gum sliding back and forth between them. He’s chaos. So good at keeping it all in until he can’t.
If Patrick wasn’t hard from the moment Art got back to the room to get ready for his little date he’d be gone by now. Patrick is dizzy, swallowing on Art’s helpless little gasps, the kinda kissing that can make Art come untouched. But Patrick wants to touch him, bucks his hips up so Art can feel him. It’s not too long before Art is just mouthing him, no technique no nothing, just opened mouth moaning against Patrick’s lips. Patrick’s heart is racing, the blood pounding in his ears. He’s on the brink.
“Tell me what you wanna do to her?” Patrick mutters hot, against his lips, hand gripping tighter, moving faster. You’ve been so patient for two months. So good… I bet you can’t wait to fuck into her wet dripping cunt…”
“God Patrick…I want it so bad,” He whines. “I wanna— wanna fuck— fuck—”
“Yeah?” Patrick coaxes, as if any of this is coherent.
“God Patrick, Patrick,” it’s all he can manage before spilling it everywhere, heated sticky pearls of white all over that neatly pressed blue shirt and black jeans. The image of it makes Patrick lose it, breathless in his pants. They’re both sitting there, catching their breaths. A soft sheen of sweat visible on Art’s forehead, his skin mildly flushed.
”Fuck,” Art whispers after a minute. “My…my clothes.”
“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, leaning back on the bed, letting the mess on his palm spread onto his sheets. “Shoulda done it before you got dressed probably…”
Art takes a deep breath and pushes himself up to his feet, while simultaneously trying to straighten himself out. Patrick watches him, mildly amused. “I have to change… do you um… do you have another shirt?”
”I mean… I think what you were wearing is perfect. God. It really brings out your eyes.”
”Well I can’t wear it now, and I’m already late, god I’m supposed to meet her out front in ten minutes. We’re gonna miss the movie and the next show is not till 8 and we won’t make dinner before curfew and Ms. Henderson will be sitting outside the girls dorm and—” He’s started talking so fast he’s getting pitchy.
“Hey I got a crazy idea,” Patrick interrupts and Art stares at him, so pathetically frustrated but also covered in jizz. It almost makes Patrick laugh but he stops himself. “This is supposed to be special, right? Why don’t you wait till tomorrow night? You can wash everything and you know… we can do it before you get dressed next time.”
”No we are not doing that again,” Art says determinedly, because he’s so sated and in his right mind.
“Well you can then,” Patrick shrugs, smirking.
Art rolls his eyes and goes to pick up his phone from the charger to text her the change of plans. Patrick goes into the bathroom to clean up a bit.
“I’m gonna be hungry, should we order pizza?” Art calls from the room.
“Yeah,” Patrick says, smiling to himself in the mirror. “Definitely.”
summary: after divorcing Tashi, Art is left hollowed by years of quiet shame over his erectile dysfunction, something that still makes him flinch at the idea of intimacy. But when he finds love again with a new partner, softness and patience replace pressure. On the night you finally decide to be together, you don’t expect him to perform, you only want him, just as he is. With slow touches, gentle praise and the kind of worshiping that asks for nothing in return, you help Art rediscover what it feels like to be wanted.
pairing: art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.
cw: +18. mdni. 3.8k words. emotional trauma / low self-worth, past relationship fallout, performance anxiety, vulnerability, ED (erectile dysfunction), praise, gentle sex, handjob, worship (Art receiving), touch foreplay (kisses), crying during sex (Art), aftercare.
The divorce papers had been signed at a table that still smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. Art had worn a collared shirt that didn’t fit right and tried not to fidget while Tashi sat across from him in something clean and white and almost offensively composed. He couldn’t remember what she said when it was done. Maybe she hadn’t said anything at all.
It was a Thursday.
He remembers that, because he’d driven back to the condo alone after kissing Lily’s forehead from the backseat of Tashi’s car and sat on the edge of their—no, his—bed for a long time, staring at a racket propped in the corner like it had something to say. The silence was louder than anything he’d heard on court.
The next few months were a blur of returning to familiar routines, but without the warmth they used to hold. Seeing his daughter every week-end, being friendly to Tashi because it wasn’t like they hated each other; no. He still played, still trained, still ran drills and went through the motions like muscle memory could save him. But even the crack of the ball didn’t land right anymore. His rhythm was gone, and it wasn’t just physical.
It was like someone had scooped something out of him and left a hollow space that refused to fill.
Art hadn’t wanted to admit it, but something had been wrong with his body for a while. It started during the first year with Tashi, quietly, and he hadn’t wanted to face it then either. At first, he’d chalked it up to stress, to exhaustion, to pressure. There were always reasons. Athletes knew how to push through pain. That was the gig.
But when it kept happening—when he couldn’t stay hard, when he couldn’t finish, when even the idea of touching her made something in him seize up, after Lily—he’d stopped trying. And so had she.
That made it worse, somehow. Like he wasn’t worth trying. Like his body had betrayed him and her. Like he was just one more disappointment she had to learn to tolerate.
Tashi never said anything outright, but Art could feel her eyes sometimes, heavy with something he didn’t want to name. Pity, maybe. Or worse—confirmation. Maybe that made him think of Patrick, because surely Pat never had this problem. Art had always been the weaker one. The less brilliant one. The one who needed someone else to move first.
After the three of them imploded—no, fractured; it was always fractures with them, never clean breaks—Art carried the guilt like a second spine. And the shame. The shame of a body that wouldn’t cooperate. Of desire that flickered and stuttered and died out when it mattered most.
Even now, alone, that fear clung to him.
Because it wasn’t just about sex. It was about his manhood. About his worth. About the ability to be chosen and to keep being chosen. To be loved, to be seen more than a racket and a court and a win.
He met you at a friend’s fundraiser. One of those events where everyone stood around with glasses of white wine and tried not to admit they were all a little tired of pretending they liked mingling. You hadn’t been trying to talk to him. You were laughing at something someone else had said, a soft sound he heard over the hum of the crowd. He remembered the way your eyes crinkled, the way your voice carried lightly, like the first warm breeze before spring really arrives.
He wasn’t trying to flirt. Honestly, he barely knew how anymore. But you had asked him a question about tennis—not the rules or his stats, just something simple: Do you still love it?
And he’d paused, startled by the honesty of the question.
“I used to,” he’d said.
You didn’t push. You just nodded, like you understood something in that. That’s what stuck.
It took a few weeks before you saw each other again. Another friend, another event, this one smaller. You ended up sitting on a couch in the corner, both of you trying to avoid the spotlight. He asked about your work. You asked about his injuries. There was a warmth to the conversation, casual but not shallow. When you laughed, it didn’t feel like you were trying to impress him. You just found him funny. Or maybe just easy to be around.
For a moment, Art remembered not even thinking about Tashi anymore. Not even about Patrick. Not about the vulnerability in his chest; how badly he wanted to be seen.
The first time you kissed, it was outside a late-night diner, a few days later. You’d split fries and talked about terrible movies, and when he leaned in, you met him halfway, soft and sure. It had been a long time since someone kissed him like that—not with hunger or demand, but with quiet affection.
He’d gone home shaking and his head full of thoughts about you.
Dating you was different. There was no game to win, no invisible net he had to serve over. You didn’t prod at him. You didn’t seem to want anything from him except him. Which scared him more than he’d like to admit.
Because what was left of him, after everything? A man with knees that ached in the mornings, who couldn’t get it up half the time, who’d lost the only two people he ever really loved in the same breath, the same passion, the same pain.
He didn’t feel like a man anymore. Not in the way he used to.
He felt like a ghost wearing the skin of a tennis champion. Still broad-shouldered, still strong, still tall. But hollow in the places that used to burn. With a heart empty of a passion that used to devour him whole.
You never brought up sex. Not once. Even after weeks of dating, of kissing slow on his couch and curling up under blankets during thunderstorms. You never reached under his clothes without asking. You never made him feel like he was failing you by being cautious. That terrified him too, in a way. Because it meant you knew he was afraid.
You were being gentle because you saw the cracks. And instead of recoiling from them, you stayed.
One night, he lay beside you in bed, the two of you tangled in sheets and quiet breath. Your hand was resting lightly on his chest, your thumb stroking absently over his sternum. His heart beat too fast.
“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t move. Just waited. He swallowed hard. “I’ve… had trouble. For a while now. With—” You didn’t make him finish. You just nodded, your hand still warm on him.
“Okay,” you said softly. Like you knew; or like you didn’t care because it wouldn’t change anything.
“I don’t know if it’s going to be any different with you. I want it to be. But I don’t want to let you down.” You turned your face to his. “You’re not letting me down.”
His throat tightened. “It’s not just physical. It’s—it’s shame to me. It makes me feel like I’m not—fuck, like my body is falling me sometimes.”
You leaned up, brushing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “You are alright, Art, you don’t have to worry.” His eyes burned. He hated that he was getting emotional, but your words cut through something cold and deep, through shame and vulnerability.
“I don’t need you to perform,” you said. “I don’t want the tennis player or the guy everyone stares at on court. I want you. All of you. However you show up.”
Art had no idea what he’d done in life to deserve that kind of gentleness. But he knew he wasn’t letting go of it.
That night, you held him tighter than usual. Not sexually. Just close. Your hand on his jaw, your lips brushing his cheek, your voice low and steady in his ear. “You don’t have to be hard for me to be close to you,” you murmured. “I want to make you feel good. Not just get you off. But hold you, touch you, love you. All of it.”
He exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in years.
That was the moment he knew he was going to trust you. Really trust you. Not because you fixed anything, but because you weren’t asking him to be fixed. You just wanted him. Soft, scared, healing. You wanted him.
The first time you touched him in bed, really touched him with intention, it was raining.
Soft, steady drips against the windows, the kind of rain that made the whole world feel like it was wrapped in cotton. You’d both been reading on the couch, legs tangled, your feet on top of his thigh, Art’s hand resting absentmindedly over your shin. At some point, your book slid shut in your lap and your head tilted against his shoulder.
“You tired?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.
“Not really,” you said. Then, quieter, “I just like being close.”
Art glanced down at you. The golden light from the floor lamp softened everything—your features, the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes when they flicked up to meet his. He felt the pull of it then. Not lust. Not urgency. Just the slow, thick draw of wanting to be near you in ways that meant something.
“Do you wanna lie down?” you offered gently.
He nodded. Said nothing. Just followed you to bed, his pulse already starting to rise. Anxiety, want, love; he didn’t know.
He kissed you for a long time before either of you even got under the sheets. Standing at the edge of the mattress, your hands sliding up under his t-shirt, Art let himself lean into the feeling of your mouth. You kissed him like there was no rush. No script. No performance. No rush at all. By the time his shirt came off, he was shaking.
“Cold?” you asked, brushing your fingers over his ribs. “No,” he murmured. “Just nervous.” You looked up at him, so close, your noses almost touching.
“Tell me what you need.”
Art swallowed. “To not fuck this up.”
“You won’t.” You took his hand, laced your fingers through his. “Let’s go slow. Let me love on you a little. Just that. No expectations.” It was everything he needed to hear.
And still—his body didn’t cooperate right away.
You were so patient. You always were.
Lying beside him, half-draped over his chest, your lips soft against his collarbone while his shirt was gone, you whispered things into his skin that made him ache in new ways. Not the ache of shame or failure—but the ache of being seen. The ache of being wanted.
“You’re so good, Art,” you whispered, kissing down the center of his chest. “So warm. So beautiful.” His breath caught. “You don’t have to get hard for me to be proud of you.”
He closed his eyes. “I’m already proud of you.”
You took your time with him, letting him feel your hands first—just your hands. Stroking his arms, his chest, the dip of his waist. You didn’t go for his member. You didn’t even hint at it. You just touched him like he was something sacred.
When you kissed his stomach, he made a sound low in his throat and gripped the edge of the mattress. “You okay?” you asked.
He nodded, unable to speak. “Too much?” You asked him quietly.
“No. Just… not used to this.”
You smiled against his skin. “Then I’ll teach you.” At some point, you sat up and guided his hands to your body, both of your clothes had been discarded on the floor for a moment now but you still took your time. “You can touch me too,” you said. “If you want to.”
He did. God, he did.
But even then, he went slowly. Ran his fingers up your side, over the swell of your hip like he was searching for a treasure on your skin–the map of Love. His hands were huge on you, and you didn’t flinch or squirm or giggle. You just breathed, steady and open, like you had all the time in the world for him.
You let him kiss your neck, your collarbone, the top of your breast. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, reverent.
You smiled. “So are you.”
His cock stirred slightly, tentative and uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a pass/fail test. It just felt like… curiosity. Like his body was starting to remember what it was like to want and not be afraid. And still, you didn’t grab at him.
You leaned down instead, pressing your lips just below his navel, and murmured, “Can I touch you now?” His voice broke a little. “Yeah.”
The first time your hand wrapped around his cock, he nearly cried. Not from arousal. Not exactly. But from relief. He wasn’t hard in the way he’d have liked, not soft enough to feel ashamed but in the middle that made him feel like it was alright.
From the way your palm cradled him like he wasn’t broken. Like there was nothing to fix. Just warmth, skin to skin, fingers stroking him with care and reverence, not pressure.
“You feel so good in my hand,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his chest. “I love touching you.” His hips twitched, breath stuttering.
“I want you to feel loved, Art,” you murmured, voice heavy with affection. “I want you to know how good you are. How worthy. How beautiful.” And just like that, something in him unlocked, like his brain was finally sending signals to his length–to say he was safe. He was loved. He was enough.
His cock started to harden beneath your hand, slow and unsure, but undeniable. He gasped, stunned. “I—”
“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing perfect. You don’t have to rush.” Art had never cried during sex before. But your praise was undoing him. Your gentleness, your unwavering calm—it was dismantling every wall he’d built around his shame.
He turned his face into your neck, his voice cracking. “Thank you. I’m sorry it’s been like this.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair, not pulling; digits making ways through his dirty blonde strands. “You’re not a machine. You’re a person. And I love this body. Every inch of it. Even when it’s scared.”
His cock was fully hard now in your hand, twitching slightly, leaking at the tip. You looked at him, beaming, and said it like a blessing: “There you are, baby.” He laughed—wet, trembling, disbelieving.
You worked him slowly, deliberately, lips on his jaw, your breath warm against his ear.
“You’re so good for me,” you murmured. “You make me feel safe. Held. Seen.”
His hips moved again, this time with more confidence. You met his rhythm with your fist, curling your hand just right, your thumb brushing over his tip. “Can I…?” he asked, voice shaky.
“Whatever you want,” you said.
“Can I be inside you?” He asked like he was afraid all of this was a dream, like all of this would disappear at any given minute. Your smile was all the answer he needed. You helped him settle between your legs like he was something fragile and beloved.
Art's body trembled as he hovered above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other pressed to your waist like he needed to make sure you were real. You were warm and soft beneath him, your thighs cradling his hips, eyes half-lidded with affection, not lust. Not hunger. Just care.
He looked down at you, cheeks pink, eyes glassy. “Are you sure?”
“I want you,” you said simply. “I want you like this. However you are.”
That was the difference. That had always been the difference. You weren’t waiting for him to impress you. You weren’t expecting the Art who used to dominate the court or light up cameras. You wanted this Art. The man who shook in your arms. Who needed to be told he was enough.
Who was learning how to believe it.
He moved slowly. Everything about this was slow.
You guided him with your hand, lining him up at your entrance, your body slick and ready for him—not because of some pornographic fantasy, but because you’d wanted him. Because you’d been touching him, loving him, coaxing him open like the petals of something that only bloomed under moonlight.
His cock slid in an inch, and he froze, gasping.
“You okay?” you whispered, brushing a thumb across his cheek. He nodded, nearly overwhelmed. “Yeah. Just—feels like a lot.”
You smiled and kissed him softly. “Then take your time.”
And he did.
Bit by bit, he pushed inside until he was sheathed in your warmth, your body pulling him in like he belonged there. Like he’d never belonged anywhere else.
The first few strokes were almost too much. Not because of friction or sensation, but because of everything else. The way your eyes fluttered shut. The way you sighed his name. The way your hands curled around his back, not clinging, not dragging, but holding.
He pressed his forehead to yours, moaning quietly as he moved inside you, a slow, languid rhythm that wasn’t about getting off — it was about being here. Inside you. With you. Wanted, loved, seen.
“God, you feel so good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “So fucking good.”
“So do you,” you breathed, arching slightly. “You’re perfect.” That word again. Perfect. He didn’t feel like it, but he believed you when you said it. You whispered things the whole time. Not dirty. Not vulgar. Just praise with the soft.
“Just like that. You’re doing so well.”
“You’re making me feel amazing.”
“You’re so gentle. So good to me.”
Every word went straight to his chest. To the part of him that had shriveled under years of cold looks and quiet disappointment. The part of him that used to flinch when someone touched his shoulder too suddenly, that recoiled from compliments like they were traps.
But you didn’t lie. He knew that now. You said what you meant. And what you meant was that he was enough.
His rhythm stayed slow. You were wet around him, tight in that perfect way that made him feel anchored to your body, like he could finally stop floating through his life and just be here. The drag of his cock in and out of you made him shudder, every thrust sending a pulse of warmth through him—not just arousal, but relief.
“Look at me,” you whispered. He did. Your face was flushed, lips parted, your hands moving to cup his jaw. “I’m so proud of you.”
He didn’t know if he was supposed to cry during sex, but the tears came anyway. Hot, stinging, shameful. Until you kissed them away. “Let it out,” you said softly, kissing his cheek. “Let all of it out. I’m here.”
Art pressed his face to your shoulder, thrusts faltering, body shaking as a sob tore from him. Not loud. Not ugly. Just raw. A sound like he hadn’t made since he was young enough to cry into his pillow without swallowing it down.
You held him tighter. Wrapped your legs around his hips. Ran your fingers through his hair again.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He moaned against your skin, not from pain or pleasure, but because he didn’t know what else to do with all the feeling. The release. The unbearable sweetness of not being punished for breaking down.
Eventually, he started moving again. Slower than before, but steadier. Your bodies moved in sync now, sweat slicking between you, breath tangled, the air heavy with trust. You kissed him again and again—his jaw, his cheek, his lips, his throat.
He whispered your name like a prayer. You whispered his back like a promise.
You came before he did. Quietly, trembling, your walls pulsing and clenching around him as he gasped, stunned at the sensation of your body squeezing him, holding him. You didn’t scream or cry out. You just shook in his arms, biting your lip and sighing, “Art, oh my god, Art,” like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
That’s what did it for him. Not the friction. Not even the pressure. Just you.
The way you looked at him. The way you said his name. The way your voice cracked when you told him how good he was. He came with a groan that was almost a sob, hips pressed deep, his whole body locking up as he spilled inside you. It was messy. It was imperfect. It was the best orgasm he’d had in years.
Afterward, he didn’t move, not right away. You stayed wrapped around him, stroking his hair, kissing his temple. “Still with me?” you asked after a while.
He made a small, exhausted sound. “Barely.” You laughed softly. “That was amazing.”
He nodded against your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” There was silence then. But not the kind that used to live between him and Tashi. Not the heavy, brittle quiet of disappointment. This was soft. Full. Complete.
When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly, almost reluctantly, like he didn’t want to lose the connection. You whimpered softly at the sensation, and he kissed your shoulder, your stomach, your hip. He cleaned you gently with a warm cloth, hands careful, reverent.
Then he climbed back into bed and curled around you, his hand on your waist, his face pressed between your shoulder blades. “You okay?” you asked.
“I think I’m better than okay,” he whispered.
You turned in his arms and looked up at him, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “You were incredible.” He smiled, dazed. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again. Not like this.” You leaned in, kissed his nose, then his lips.
“You didn’t get it,” you said. “You made it. With me.”
He kissed you back, deeper now, more sure. “I think I love you,” he said, almost afraid of saying it out loud. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, didn’t grimace.
“I love you too.” You whispered back at him.
Later, after you’d drifted toward sleep, Art stayed awake a little longer, just holding you. Tracing the slope of your arm with his fingers. Breathing in the scent of your skin.
Trying to remember the last time he felt this calm in his body. It wasn’t that the shame was gone completely.
But for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t louder than the love he had for someone.
stanford!art who can’t help but cum too fast </3… u have my whole heart baby
he’s at a party with patrick, nervously chuckling and nodding his head to everything the girl who’s surrounding him says. he knows he’s attractive, and it’s not like bailey— or, no, bridget… wasn’t. it’s just… harder for him to connect with people than it is for patrick.
and then he saw you. babysitting a red solo cup, pretending as if you’re eventually going to drink the contents of it. he can’t even act like he’s listening to whatever britney’s talking about anymore.
eventually you’re talking, and then after that you’re taking him to your dorm, and he doesn’t register that you’re about to kiss him until you do. your hands are in his hair, his hands are gripping your waist, and oh god the hottest girl he’s ever seen is into him—
he can’t wrap his head around it. despite that, he lets you tug his shirt over his head. he lets you push him down onto your creaky college bed, watches with starry eyes as you climb on top of him. he’s already painfully hard, and he knows you know. it’d be silly of you to not recognize what you do to him. his breath catches in his throat once you start trailing your kisses further down, he doesn’t know if he should focus on you or the way he can feel your hand working at his jeans.
he tries to keep his cool, he really, really does. he tries. the eye contact was hard as is, but once your lips wrap around his tip… he’s a goner. how you look up at him and how your mouth surrounds him, wet and warm— his hips jolt up. he inadvertently pushes himself further down your throat, whimpering out a pathetic “no, no, nonono—“ the poor thing can’t help but shoot his load so far down your throat, his eyes stinging with embarrassment.
he doesn’t know how he’s gonna retell this to patrick. he can fucking hear his snarky little “no, dude, i’m— i’m not laughing at you! it— it happens, alright?” he’s going to say. while laughing at him. fuck.
“so… how was it? did she let you go in raw? wait, wait— did she make you pull out?”
“…uh, i… nah, i thought it would be better to wrap it up, y’know? like… stds and shit.”
summary — after moving across the country to go live with your aunt and participate in panic, you’re wary of the boy who works at the diner she owns. he’s wary of you too
pairing — dodge mason x fem!reader
track six— “the band and i” by maisie peters
warnings — this isn't a band au the title is deceiving, reader's dad's awful, dodge's dad is dead, this takes place in the summer before season 1
word count — 2.5k
note — mike faist pls come home our kids miss you. i love dodge mason so much but i would NEVER ask for panic to be renewed i don't love him that much. this isn't a band au that's just the song title also i forget if dodge's mom like. owns dot's so, i changed that if it's something that needed to be changed also idk if wary was the right word to use but i wrote the description like a month before the fic and then retroactively changed my mind
Summer in Carp felt endless some days. It was indescribable, the golden glow over the fields, the sound of steady rain on the roof of your aunt’s home, the low but constant buzz of the metal fan in your bedroom. It felt even more endless working the afternoon shift at Dot’s.
Your apron folded over your waist, sweat collected in your elbow, hair kept up in a claw clip. He’d watch you from behind the bar, dish towel slung over his shoulder, condensation from the soda glasses he’d slide across the bartop at the customers on his hands, only half looking at them. His eyes wandered back to you, a plastic bucket wedged to your hip as you used your free hand to collect the stray dishes from the tables, moving through the diner.
Dodge had been working at your aunt’s diner for longer than you had, but not by much. He didn’t come off like it. He was quiet, sure, slightly withdrawn, but not an outsider.
He’d kept a close eye on you when you’d started, your Aunt Dorothy leaving him in charge of showing you around the diner. Then, once you were trained, he kept an even closer eye on you.
“You from Austin?” He’d asked you the first night you closed together. You’d nodded.
“How’d you know?” You’d been drying up glasses and handing them to him to be put away. There was a collection kept on the shelf right by the bar for ease of access, but most of them were kept in the upper cabinet to prevent overcrowding.
He’d shrugged noncommittally, like he wasn’t sure.
“Guess us city folk all look the same to you guys,” you’d tried to tease him. One side of his mouth quirked up.
He’d given you a brief, watered down version of his history: he’d moved to town a couple of weeks ago, Dorothy had hired his mom to manage the diner now that she was getting too old. His mom did more of the admin stuff while Dodge worked the front.
You noted he hadn’t mentioned Panic.
He probably thought you didn’t know about Panic. It was a tightly kept secret, something you’d only found out through internet sleuthing. You’d seen a post online from someone saying they’d played a game a few years ago in their town that had netted someone ten grand. Knowing Dorothy lived in the town had been a stroke of luck. It hadn’t been hard to convince your mom to let you go stay with her for your last year of high school. She’d almost suggested it herself.
It made sense why he didn’t mention it. The more people playing, the more people to beat. And the way he looked at you made it clear – he didn’t want to have to beat you.
You’d enrolled in school, as had he, and neither of you were looking forward to being the new kid. You both saw the whisperings of the older kids – the freshly graduated seniors – and you knew what they meant. The game had started.
You weren’t allowed to play, weren’t allowed to watch. Shouldn’t even know it existed. So you kept an eye out, when there were signs, but didn’t dig too deep. Instead, busying yourself with earning as much money through Dot’s as you could before going into your senior year.
He’d watch you during your shifts together. You’d shoot him gooey smiles, ripping off pages of the tiny pocket notebook you keep in the front of your apron and flattening them against the bar. You’d keep your hand pressed palm down until he’d come over, prying your fingers from the page. He’d take them and shove them in his back pocket like the words on them didn’t matter, only that they’d come from you. He’d read them after the closing shift was done, back pressed against the foot of his bed, the moon high and bright in the clear sky and illuminating the pages. Drawings and little comments, jokes he didn’t get.
The first time he’d kissed you it had been a sweltering afternoon and he’d ached with the want to be close to you. You’d both had the day off and he’d taken you down to the creek, letting you sit on the edge with your feet in the water. He was sitting in the shallow water, stripped down to his boxers and charitably ignoring the flush in your cheeks from it.
Occasionally he’d reach out and grab your foot, and you’d splash him back. He’d warned you to wear a bathing suit but apparently hadn’t bothered to bring his own. You had a paperback in one hand, letting the morning sun wash over you and giving him the perfect position to stare at you.
Legs stretched out in front of you, one swaying back and forth through the water slowly, one of his shirts draped over your shoulders, open and unbuttoned. He reached for your foot more suddenly than any of the other times had been, and you jumped. You giggled and tried to get out of his grip but instead he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your shin.
You softened, stilling in your movements as he leaned forward. Putting your book down, you leaned back on your hands. Dodge used your thighs to steady him, ignoring the hitch in your breath as he rose to his knees.
“H-hey there, cowboy,” your breath stuttered.
Dodge looked up at you, face just below yours. “Hi, pretty.” Dodge had never intended to get here. They’d moved to Carp and he had a mission – to win Panic and get revenge for Dayna. When the owner of the diner had told him her niece was coming to work with him, he’d been kinda grateful he’d at least get more days off. He just hadn’t expected you to look so fucking pretty, one side of his shirt slipping off and hanging by your elbow.
“You’ve got pretty eyes,” you said lightly, shifting your weight so you could lift up one of your arms, brushing a strand of his damp hair back. “Didn’t notice the brown ‘till now.” Sickeningly blue, so inviting it felt like cliff jumping, fading into a warm brown that took up half his right eye. Despite the static that crackled in the air between the two of you, when it came down to it you and Dodge were friends. You were, by sheer nature of your solitude, his best friend in town. He’d spent countless afternoons up in your room, listening to the rickets of the metal fan on your desk. You’d lay on your stomach, one arm hanging off your bed to come rest on top of his head, scratching his scalp. And he’d talk, really talk. Tell you about his sister, about his mom, eventually even, about his dad. The summer rose and soared like the morning sun. Every day, more and more information about you, pulling it out like a thread. Like the bucket of a well. “Got a bit of a staring problem, though.”
“Not my fault,” he hummed. His hands moved up, brushing the outside of your thighs like he was testing to see if you’d flinch. You didn’t. “Wanna remember you,” he said simply. Your hand trickles down his face, following a droplet of water to his temple and eventually resting the flat of your thumb under his eye. He leaned into your touch like he hadn’t realised how much he needed it. “How you look now, like this.”
You didn’t say anything, instead trailing your feather light touch down to his jaw. You looked down at him, soft and curious, his face hot under the pads of your fingers, warmed by the sun. You gave him a slow, dizzy smile and then he was kissing you. Not hard or messy, but like it meant something. It had been in the back of his mind all summer, Panic, the whispers, the secrets, the consequences. All he had to focus on was the way you tasted, like strawberries and saltwater, and how your fingers curled into his hair like you’d thought about this too.
The days blurred together, falling into an ease like a muscle memory. Kisses pressed to your collarbone, late night closes and early mornings where he’d come to pick you up. Dorothy didn’t say anything, not even when you very innocently insisted you just needed a ride to work. She knew when a boy showed up smelling of your shampoo and stealing bites of your cereal that things were beyond question.
Your mom called sometimes, wanting to check up on you, make sure you were settling in okay. One night you’d been on the phone, laying in bed with his hand on your stomach, kissing your palm absent-mindedly, one of your books in his hand. “Yes, mom,” you said, exhaustion and affection seeping through, “She’s taking very good care of me. I’m sure you’ve been talking to her.”
Dodge was half-listening as you hummed along to your mother’s words.
“Of course I miss you,” you moved your palm away from Dodge’s restless mouth, instead coming to scratch at his scalp. He, fidgety and too close to you to think of anything other than the scent of your skin, turned his lips to your stomach. Not intending to start or finish anything, just placing slow, open-mouthed kisses where your shirt folded up, sitting above your belly-button. “Yeah, I guess I am. Yes, mom, I’m making friends. Yeah.” Dodge squeezes the part of your arm closest to his hand. “No, I am.” Dodge dropped the book along with his pretenses, rolling over so his nose is pressed to your abdomen fully. “Yeah, mom.” You had a hand on the back of his neck. “Okay, sure.” You patted him gently twice and he pulled back.
Not much, but enough. “Yeah, okay,” you were still talking to your mom. “Love you too.” You said your goodbyes and hung up, putting your phone on your nightstand. “Busybody.”
Dodge kissed your stomach again, shifting his weight to look up at your face. “I wasn’t listening,” he said. “Just happened to be in close proximity.”
You smoothed down his hair and he caught your wrist with his lips. “Touchy,” you tsked. “Close? Is that what you call this? You’re acting like you want to wear my skin.”
Dodge shuffled so he wasn’t lying on you anymore, instead on his knees beside you, hunched over so you were still as close as he could physically be to you. He leaned down to kiss you, hand travelling back under your shirt, pinned between your back and your bedsheets. He didn’t really have intentions, just kissing to kiss you.
When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth and then laid down beside you, hand still at your back. The cicadas were screaming outside your window. The fan hummed.
The hours bled together like the bleached edges of a polaroid until eventually he had to head home. He’d leaned in to kiss you one last time when you’d grabbed his hand. “My dad…” you started. Dodge froze. He’d told you about how his dad had died, and you’d reacted like someone who’d suffered loss and knew exactly what not to say. But you hadn’t offered information in return. “We found out he had another family… while he was with my mom.” You took a deep breath in. “Before he was with my mom. We were the ‘another’ one.”
You weren’t looking at him, and he didn’t ask you to. Instead, you let him hold your hand. “My mom found out and just…” you shook your head. “She lost it, started screaming, threw all his stuff out. Told him to never come back they- they lived in Arizona. He said fine, took his shit and went back to his wife and kids. My mom’s job, her boss was friends with him, so the news that she’d kicked him out was enough for us to go from a dual income household to having no money. That’s why I’m here.” Your eyes met his.
Dodge, kneeling at the side of your bed with you sitting off the edge, squeezing your hand. “Knew you weren’t just a bored city kid.”
You let out a breathy laugh, letting your head fall so your forehead was on his. “You thought I just came here to steal your shirts?”
He kissed the underside of your chin, trying to reach you wherever he could. “You look pretty in them,” he said. “Hmm? My pretty girl?” He felt like there should’ve been a better, more poetic way to describe you but fuck, he couldn’t think when he saw you.
“That’s not just something I offer up, by the way,” you said, though you were pretty sure it was obvious. “So do with that information what you will.”
Dodge knew you were downplaying it, not wanting to talk about it. So instead, he changed the subject. “There’s…” he probably should’ve told you earlier. “There’s this game.”
“I know,” you stopped him.
His breath hitched. “Are you…?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed like that had been the answer he was afraid of. He wasn’t going to stop you, how could he ask that after what you’d told him? And sure, part of it was selfish, he didn’t want you as competition. But Panic was dangerous, people got hurt. The summer earlier, one boy had broken his wrist. He didn’t want you involved in that stuff. He supposed he shouldn’t have kissed you then, so it was a nonissue by that point.
“If I had half a brain I’d be trying harder to stay away from you,” he said quietly.
You kissed him quickly. “Good thing I’m not after a guy with half a brain.”
Dodge stayed later than he probably should have that night, not that his mom would get angry. He left you that night with a note tucked into your nightstand drawer and so many kisses that you’d been breathless by the end. Get rid of your fan, please, baby. It’s so loud. You’d found it the next morning while looking for your lip balm, leaving it tucked away while you went to open. There was a heart next to the Y.
You weren’t displeased to see Dodge waiting for you out the front of Dot’s when you got there, but you were surprised. He greeted you by tugging your hair and kissing your forehead and moving through the dining room to fix the chairs. Someone not surprised was Dorothy, who didn’t spare him a second glance.
The summer was dying down, Dot’s was getting quieter, and Dodge was still staring at you from behind the bar. He’d kiss you hello by the walk-in and kiss you goodbye in your twin bed. You didn’t get rid of the fan, instead taping the note to it. The fan rattled more with the addition of the paper, but you liked watching it flutter.
Three months into what can tentatively be called their 'throuple', Patrick gets to fuck Art for the first time. Both parties are extremely normal about it, of course.
In other words, this is my take on bottom Art for once (this one goes out to you mel @artstennisracket)
6.6k words [AO3 VERSION]
cw: 18+, mdni, fingering, anal sex, etc
The first time Patrick fucks Art, he loses his mind a little. Or a lot. It doesn’t happen until just over three months (97 days to be exact, but who’s counting?) into this thing the three of them have going on.
He’s got Art underneath him, laid out completely flat on his stomach, face against the pillows. Opening him up was hard enough, but he could distract himself, focus on talking to Art, asking how it felt, if he wanted another finger, if he could take it. He spoke about Tashi, he knows she’s pegged him before, and opened him up like this. So he can ask Art about that, ask how Tashi fucked him - was she rough or gentle? He wanted to make Art blush, but he was also trying to figure out for himself, how he wanted to do this. As if asking about Tashi would give him the answer.
He wished she was there, uncharacteristically he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants Tashi ordering him. Or maybe he does know what he wants but it makes him so pathetic that he wants an excuse, for it to be Tashi’s idea. For her to tell him to be gentle and sweet and everything else that is so completely embarrassing.
She’s not there. Tashi had done this for all of their ‘firsts’, his and Art’s, where she’d give them alone time, ‘privacy’. Well, for the first time Art fucked Patrick, and the first time Art sucked his dick at least. Patrick had happily taken Art’s dick down his throat for the first time when they all stumbled into a hotel room after New Rochelle; Art on his back, his head in Tashi’s lap and a hand over his eyes like he couldn’t bear to watch. Patrick had kept eye contact with Tashi while Art came in his mouth, so that hadn’t been a private affair. But Art getting on his knees a few weeks later had been.
Patrick had come so hard and fast he saw stars. He also didn’t have time to give Art a warning which meant Art coughed and spluttered and dribbled the come out onto Patrick’s foot. If it had been the other way around, if Patrick spilled come on Art’s feet, he would’ve licked it off. Instead, because he’d been in such a good mood from having Art’s mouth around his cock for the first time ever (Jesus Christ!), he had apologised for surprising him and let Art come all over his face as ‘payback’.
Anyway, Tashi’s not here now either. Patrick used to think it was something she did for herself, so that she knew they weren’t just doing all this for her. Although that never really made complete sense to him. Now he suspects she was doing it for him, so he knew that Art wanted this, properly and actually. And so that Art couldn’t make any excuses about just wanting to perform for Tashi. They both did want to perform for her too, obviously, because she got off on watching them together, directing them and telling them how to touch each other, where to come and when. They got off on it too. If he asked, she probably wouldn’t tell him but Patrick knows she’s doing it out of kindness to him. It is kind, except it makes the whole thing more intense because he knows for certain that Art wants Patrick to fuck him. Without any pretense or games or anything, and Patrick is struggling. He can’t pretend either, he can’t act like he’s being gentle because Tashi wants him to.
It had been so much easier when Art fucked him for the first time. It had been only a few weeks in, and Art had been so angry still. Patrick knew how to deal with that, knew how to push and push and strain every last drop of anger from him. Anger was the easiest emotion to deal with, it was familiar and it was shared between them all. Patrick had planned to just do the same this time, because he had been angry too, really he still was sometimes. Art was a fucking snake, Art had left him for over a decade with no fucking contact, and Art was also underneath him right now, waiting. All Patrick wanted to do was make him feel good.
He lines himself up, rubbing his dick against Art’s ass, pressing his tip against his rim but not going in just yet. He’s wearing a condom, and he’s not sure why it’s necessary but it had been placed rather purposefully on the bedside table so Patrick had put it on without question. Maybe being fucked was one thing, but having another man come inside you was just a step too far?
He keeps grinding his dick against Art, still not pushing in.
“C’mon, Patrick, stop making me wait,” Art wiggles underneath him, impatient like he so rarely is. Patrick hadn’t even meant to be teasing, but he’ll go with it if it’s working.
“I think you can wait a minute more,” he keeps pressing against the ring of muscle, not quite entering, “you made me wait months for this. I let you fuck me about 10 days in.”
“Sorry we don’t all take dick as easy as you do,” Art snaps, but he’s trying to push back.
“You’re not exactly a virgin,” Patrick reminds him, it’s not like he’s a stranger to Tashi’s toy collection.
“This is different,” Art’s rocking back and forth, the head of Patrick’s dick bumping against his hole as he rubs himself against the mattress.
“Hmm, because I’m so much bigger than Tashi,” his hands hold Art’s waist, thumbs massaging his lower back.
“Sure, let’s make it about that,” he can hear the eye-roll in Art’s voice, “because everything comes back to your big dick.”
Patrick takes the opportunity, he strokes at Art’s ass, making him breathe in sharp, “don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”
There we go. He’s going to be gentle with him. It’s for Art, and it’s slightly condescending, and it’s about showing off that he really does have a big dick. It’s not about anything else.
“Are you even capable of that?” Art sasses, and Patrick is grateful because now it’s a challenge too.
“You ready, sweetheart?” he says, sickly sweet, and joking. If he was serious, what would he want to call him anyway? Baby, honey, sweetie, darling, handsome? Dude, bro, man? Maybe none of that. Or all of it. Or just Art, Art, Art.
“You know I am,” is all he needs to say, Patrick holds his hips, firm but not rough, and starts pushing in.
Art’s breath hitches, and then Patrick can tell he’s holding it. He is too, trying not to shake as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch.
“I can be gentle,” he bottoms out, holding himself up, his hands now at either side of Art, flat against the bed.
He pulls out slowly, not all the way, shallowly pushing in and out. Art doesn’t speak. Patrick can just about make out his face from where it’s pressed sideways against the pillows. Art’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s biting his lip. Fuck, he looks good like this.
“You’re so tight,” Patrick looks down at himself, buried all the way inside Art, “you okay?”
Art just hums in response, which isn’t really an answer, so Patrick tries again, “Art, talk to me.”
“M’fine, just,” he buries his face a little more into the pillow, “you are big, okay. Give me a second.”
Patrick can’t help it, he lowers himself down over Art’s body, and he complains a lot but Tashi’s insistence on a vigorous workout routine means he’s been doing more push ups than he ever has. Which means it’s easy to lean down and kiss the back of Art’s neck, hovering just above him so he doesn’t completely squash him, “anything you need.”
“Stop pretending to be nice,” Art’s words are muffled.
“I am nice,” Patrick feels vaguely defensive that he can’t be gentle without Art thinking it’s a joke or a performance. Even though that’s what he wants. Something to hide behind.
“I know you want to start fucking me,” Art moves out of the pillows a little, his voice clearer.
“I am fucking you,” he keeps up his slow, shallow pace.
“You know what I mean. You want to fuck me properly, even if i’m not ready, even if it hurts a little,” Art’s trying to get a look at Patrick but he can’t.
Patrick feels Art start to rock back and forth again, he laughs a little, “I think you’re projecting,” he pulls out almost all the way, “but in the spirit of being nice, I’ll let you have it.”
He pushes back in, not fast, but deep. He repeats the movement, making Art take his entire length slowly, to feel the whole thing. Art’s eyes close again, a quiet oh slipping out.
“Is this what I want?” Patrick manages to get his words out smoothly, despite the effort it’s taking to hold back. Not because he can’t be gentle but because, fuck, he is impatient.
“You want more,” Art breathes out, “go on.”
“I need you to be more specific,” he teases, dragging himself along Art’s rim slowly.
“Faster,” Art almost snaps, “you want to go hard and fast.”
Patrick could tease him some more but honestly he can’t hold back anymore. He pushes forward hard, and immediately pulls his hips back before slamming forward again. Art actually gasps as his body is pushed further up the mattress with the force of it.
“Fuck,” Art mouths into the pillows.
“Is that another order or…” Patrick jokes, keeping up his pace.
“Shut up,” he’s breathless from the movements, “and that one is an order.”
“I think I’ll stick to the first one,” Patrick pulls back and snaps in fast.
Art doesn't speak, again his eyes are closed and his face is half shoved into the pillows. Patrick can see he's blushing, can see his brows furrowed, and his mouth slightly open letting out deep breaths. He thrusts a little faster and draws a moan out of him.
"You wanted this position because you didn't want me to see how much you liked this, huh?" Patrick keeps pumping, wanting more and more noises out of him, "couldn't look me in the eyes because I'd know how good you felt?"
"No," Art manages.
"Hmm, you just wanted to lay there and make me do all the work," he pushes in particularly deep at that, "pretend like you don't love this."
He can hear the whines that Art can't quite keep trapped in his throat. Even if his face is mostly hidden, Patrick can see all the signs of pleasure. And yet part of him feels nervous.
Art speaks up again, "it's what you want. You want to just make me take it, force me to, fuck, force me to take your dick."
"No I don't," and even though Art makes it sound so hot, that's not what he's doing this time, "I want to make you feel good, Art."
"Fuck off," his voice is strained.
"Seriously, man, I want to fuck you how you like," Patrick suddenly feels desperate with it, can't keep up the teasing anymore, "you've got to tell me, I want to make you come, tell me how to make you come like this."
"I know you've been thinking about this," Art ignores his pleas, "you might as well just do what you've been jerking off to."
He's being so difficult. He's being so Art.
He has jerked off to this, of course he has. Sometimes it was angry, it was rough, it was pushing Art against a wall and getting him to admit he's sorry. Admit that he's missed Patrick. More often it was the same scenario but the roles were reversed.
One time in 2011, after Atlanta, after seeing Tashi again, he would jerk off to the idea of fucking Tashi in front of Art. It would all blur together, depending on who he missed more, who he was more angry at. He felt both all the time but it came in waves, and sometimes he'd be fucking Art in front of Tashi, and Art would be writhing around with how much he loved it.
None of that was the point. None of it was surprising. He can jerk off to anything but right now he wants something else. Like being inside Art makes him want to unravel him, in any way he can.
"Yeah, 'course I touched myself to this, you know I did, but it doesn't matter," he keeps going, sliding in and out, "I want to know about you, did you ever think about this back then?"
"No, no I never did," Art tells him immediately.
"It never slipped in your mind, you didn't try it out just to see if it fit?" He's panting with the effort, hoping if he fucks him hard enough he'll get the truth.
That's what he did, try it out, the first time he properly thought about it. He had all these brief flashes of Art, in dreams and when his hand was around his cock, about to come. Then, some time after the kiss, he decided to really try it. Get it out of his system. No harm in it, just try it on for size. A full orgasm dedicated to blond curls, skin turning red under his hands, and fingers in his mouth pretending they were more. He remembers coming face down in the mattress, imagining a pair of hands holding him there. It fit. It fit really well.
It was a little something he kept in his pocket, something that didn't feel urgent. Bubbling away beneath the surface. Sometimes Tashi would bring Art up during sex, and mostly it was light and fun. He wondered, back then, if she ever slipped a hand down her underwear and tried Art on for size too. He always hoped she did.
Back then it wasn't anything material, it wasn't solid and it didn't need to be. Just a little something on the backburner, it didn't need to be thought about too deeply. It didn't need to be rushed.
He always thought he'd have more time.
After everything, he couldn't think about it too often but he allowed himself little pockets of time to lose himself in it. To think about Art and Tashi. Sometimes it bled out of those pockets.
Art's not like him though, and he tells him as much, "no because some of us don't indulge every chance we get."
"Really? Never?" Patrick pushes, c'mon give me something. He shifts a little, the angle changing and Art moans.
"I made sure to not think about it, that's how I know I never did," Art rambles now, "I didn't think about you fucking me, I didn't want to think about it. I put some fucking effort into not thinking about it."
He can see the Tashi in Art in that moment. It makes him smile. Berating him for not being more dedicated in keeping his jerking off fantasies free of any ass fucking. That's got Tashi written all over it.
At its core though, it really is Art. He wonders if he even realises what he's saying. Maybe he doesn't because Patrick is drilling into him relentlessly, or because he's become better than ever at lying to himself.
Either way he wants to tell Art that dedicating so much time to not thinking about something is basically the same as thinking about it. Might be worse even.
He grins again.
"What about when Tashi did this to you? You ever think about it then?" He moans at his own words, struck by the image of how good Tashi would look fucking Art. How has he not asked to see that yet?
"I didn't, but Tashi tried to make me," Art's hips press into the mattress for more friction, "she wanted me to say your name."
"Oh fuck," Patrick can't hold back his groan, "did you say it?"
"No, I just shoved my fingers in my mouth and bit down hard," Art's pushing his face into the pillow, mouth open gasping, "that's how much I didn't want to say it. Had fucking bite marks for days."
Oh my God. Oh my God!
Patrick could actually cry with how hot the imagery is. How hard Art had to try to not say his name.
He knows that Art thinks he's insulting him. Thinks he's making a point of being so above Patrick. That while Patrick was pathetically jerking off over him, Art didn't even think about wanting him. Art didn't want him so much that he would physically restrain himself from saying his name.
That's not how Patrick takes it. Not how any sane person would take it, probably. If Art had said his name it would've been hot but this is better. People say anything during sex to get off, to get the other person off. Art following Tashi's directions wouldn't be a shock.
No, this is about what Art doesn't say, what he can't say, what he won't say. Art having to bite down on his own fingers to keep up all the hard work he's put into not thinking about Patrick.
"Shit, dude," Patrick suddenly feels very close, "can I see you?"
"Hmm?" Art's response is muffled because his open mouth is panting into the pillow.
"On your back," Patrick clarifies, "got to fuck you on your back."
"Yeah, fine okay, just-" Art cuts himself off with a gasp when Patrick slides out.
"I'll be quick," Patrick answers what Art couldn't say, which was most likely, hurry up.
He does make quick work of flipping Art onto his back instead, and only falters when he gets a look at him. His chest flushed, his hair messed up, and a mark on his cheek from the pillow. His eyes are dark and heavy. His cock is pink and leaking.
It’s the same revelation he’s had about fifty times in the last hour, but it’s a good one. It’s Art. He’s got Art underneath him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Art complains while his own eyes struggle to find a place to land between Patrick’s face, his dick, and a very interesting spot on the ceiling.
“No,” Patrick just grins, leaning in to get their lips together, finally.
He lines himself up at the same time, he had promised Art he'd be quick, and pushes in again. Art gasps at being filled again, and Patrick swallows all the noises. He’s got his tongue shoved in Art’s mouth, forcing his own moans down his throat.
He pulls back to catch his breath, just resting their foreheads together and panting. He looks down at their bodies, Art’s abs contracting, the way his dick twitches when it bumps up against Patrick’s stomach.
“You look so good like this, Art,” he rubs a hand down his body, as his other arm props himself up above him.
"Stop making fun of me," he gets out through a groan.
Instead of asking why the fuck would I be making fun of you? Patrick goes for, "I'm serious, you look good, fucking perfect even."
"When are you going to quit this sappy act?" Art is probably trying to glare but his eyes keep fluttering shut.
"What's wrong with sappy? Scared it's contagious?" Patrick starts mouthing at his jaw, licking at Art’s neck when he tilts his head to give Patrick more access.
"Just wondering where your dirty talk is," Art ignores Patrick’s questions, "think you want to talk about how your big dick is destroying my tight hole."
Patrick doesn’t know whether to laugh or moan. Or physically shake Art out of it and get him to talk.
"I'm saying everything I want to," well, certainly more than Art is anyway, "I want to know what you want to say."
Art pulls him in for a kiss which Patrick gets lost in for a moment before realising it’s an excuse not to talk.
He doesn’t ask Patrick to touch him. Hasn’t even touched himself. That would be too desperate, too straightforward he guesses. Instead he lets his dick stand at attention between them. It’s pink, dripping, and painfully neglected. Which is much better of course.
He won’t say anything, won’t do anything, but his passivity never made his wanting any less obvious. He can’t help the way it’s written all over him
Patrick grabs at Art’s waist for purchase, pulling out and snapping back in quickly, it makes Art moan, open-mouthed, and squeeze his eyes shut. It gives Patrick a chance to urge him to talk again, "c'mon, speak to me, make me get you off."
"Fuck,” Art’s head is thrown back, “touch me.”
There it is.
"Yeah?" Patrick grins, finally something. He doesn’t make Art wait, he spits in his hand and immediately reaches a hand down to grab at his dick, “like this?”
"Mhmh," Art affirms, then brings his own hand down over Patrick’s, speeding the movement up and breathing heavy.
“Jesus,” Patrick exhales, following Art’s direction, pumping his hand faster, “I’ve got you.”
Art lets go, his hand gripping the sheets instead, and the other at Patrick’s back, nails suddenly digging in.
“Too much?” Patrick checks.
Art opens his eyes, they’re heavy, and his lips are swollen from biting at them but he manages a smirk, “not enough.”
It’s weird how fucking happy that makes Patrick.
“How about this?” Patrick shifts the angle, hitching Art’s hips up a little higher, simultaneously jerking him off with a tighter fist.
“Oh, shit,” Art basically convulses with a sudden wave of pleasure, “close.”
“Me too, me too,” Patrick fucks into him more aggressively, “fuck, see what happens when you talk to me, when you ask for it.”
Art brings his hand to his mouth, trying to bite at his fingers but Patrick knows what that means. That he’s holding back. He lets go of Art’s dick to grab his hand, bringing it down and encouraging him to jerk himself off with it. He then puts his own hand back around Art’s, keeping him there, touching him together. He leans down, his head at Art’s neck which traps his other hand.
“No, want to hear you,” he says into his ear, the position meaning Art can’t kiss him either, “you’re almost there.”
“More,” Art gasps out now that he can’t stop himself.
Patrick complies, thrusting impossibly fast, the sound of slapping skin loud in the room.
He wants Art to get there, the moment right before he comes when he starts rambling. The problem is that he’s also close, which means he’s started mumbling nonsense into Art’s ear, “wanted this, needed to make you come like this, thought about it forever. I’d do whatever you want me to do to you.”
“Patrick,” Art whines.
“Yeah?” he’s breathing into his neck, so close but waiting for Art to get there first.
“Patrick,” Art just says again and he realises he’s moaning his name for the sake of it, because there’s nothing to stop him.
“Fuck, you’re going to kill me dude,” Patrick is putting everything he’s got into keeping up the brutal pace, all while holding off his orgasm, “how is it?”
“There, right there,” Art’s voice is so strained now, sharp little highpitched sounds escaping him, “I need- don’t stop, Patrick, don’t fucking stop.”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Patrick is almost sent over the edge by Art finally talking like that but he holds on, pulling away from his neck because he has to get a look at him.
Art’s sweating, his hair sticking to his forehead and he locks eyes with Patrick the best he can, but he’s clearly struggling to keep them open. He looks so good that it’s really not Patrick’s fault he gets so pathetic. He’s fucking his best friend, he’s making him feel this good, and it all spills out of him, “you’re so pretty, Art. I always wanted you, I thought about you all the time, I fucking missed you, man.”
“I- Patrick,” Art is trembling with it, so close, and almost speaking.
“Please, just tell me, tell me you thought about me or just anything,” he’s vaguely aware how stupid it is that he’s the one getting this fucking desperate but he’s too close to care. Art’s moans are crescendoing so Patrick makes it even easier for him to speak, a question so that he only needs to get out one word, “did you even miss me?”
Art looks up at him, flushed pink and damp. This expression on his face like he’s going to cry or scream, or throw up. His lips part, twitching a little, and Patrick thinks maybe Art’s going to say yes.
Instead Art surges forward, sinking his teeth into Patrick’s shoulder and biting down hard.
Art keeps his mouth on Patrick, a deep groan still audible as his back arches and he comes over his own abs, some clinging to Patrick's stomach hair.
"What the fuck?" Patrick manages, and because of who he is, the sight of it all and the sharp pain of the teeth in his fucking flesh, are more than enough to send him toppling over the edge.
The pleasure of it rolls through him as his hips stutter forward, spilling inside the condom.
Patrick is catching his breath, just letting himself grow soft inside Art because he's still attached to his shoulder. He lets him stay there for a little.
"I can't pull out if you don't let go," he says gently.
Art lets go, flopping back down against the pillows, he's not making eye contact with Patrick, just staring up at the ceiling.
Patrick pulls out, tying off the condom and chucking it in the bin before laying down next to Art on his side, just watching him stubbornly keep his eyes away from him. He's worrying at his lip and he's blushing all over.
"Art," Patrick tries.
"What?" His voice comes out weak and he still doesn't make eye contact.
"Look at me," he urges and when Art does he smiles at him, darting forward to capture his lips, speaking into his mouth "you're fucking crazy."
"Fuck off," Art breathes back, but continues the kiss.
"In a good way," he assures, "that was so hot, all of it, I mean Jesus Christ, Art."
Art turns on his side too, so they're properly facing each other, “think that means you’ve got issues too.”
“Obviously,” he snorts, then brushes at Art’s sweaty hair, “how was it?”
“Must've been good,” Art brings a finger up to trace at the bite mark, “clearly I came pretty hard.”
"And I'm going to treasure the evidence of that for as long as it lasts," he reaches a finger to touch it himself, it stings, "which will probably be a good few days. That was some orgasm, huh?"
"Yeah, I already said that," Art rolls his eyes, but he does keep looking at the bite mark like he's proud of it, "stop fishing for compliments."
Patrick just laughs, then gets gentle again, "really though, how do you feel?"
"Fine," Art shrugs, "but sticky."
"Oh shit, yeah, give me a second," Patrick rolls out of the bed to get a washcloth from the ensuite.
He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror as he gets the washcloth damp with warm water, admiring the bite mark now he can see it. It looks red and angry - it makes him smile.
He feels sort of giddy, maybe because he's insane or Art's insane or they both are.
It's just that Art could've said yes, he could've moaned out anything, a simple one word to appease Patrick. But he didn't. Instead he fucking bit him hard enough to leave a mark. That mark isn't proof of how hard Art came, it's proof of the effort it took to stop himself from talking. From saying something like I missed you too.
That's how Patrick knows he means it, because he won't say it. Art never says the hard stuff. The real stuff. It would take a lot more than one good fuck to get the truth out of him.
He's still grinning like an idiot when he climbs back into bed with the cloth, cleaning the come off Art's abs. He can see the way Art is watching him, like he's suspicious about Patrick being in such a good mood.
Patrick tosses the cloth in the laundry hamper, looking at Art again, "anything else I can do for you?"
"I'm kind of thirsty," Art says while narrowing his eyes at Patrick, like he's testing him. Patrick is determined to pass.
"I'll be right back," he even puts on some underwear before heading to the kitchen which he hopes Art will appreciate.
Tashi is sat at the kitchen island looking at her phone and drinking a cup of tea. It's a new spiced apple and camomile blend that she's been enjoying lately, and the mug is a poorly painted gift that Lily had given her for Mother's Day. She drinks out of it as often as she can, even when Lily's not around to see. These are the types of things Patrick gets to know now.
If he wasn't already grinning like a maniac he would smile wider. Jesus it's a sappy day for him.
"You done?" Tashi asks at his footsteps, then looks up at him, "nevermind, I'm taking that proud grin as a yes."
"I'm getting him some water," he just smiles at her stupidly, squeezing her waist when he slips past her to get to the sink.
"What did you do to him?" She raises an eyebrow.
"I don't think he even needs water," he grabs a glass from the cupboard, he knows where they keep things now, "he's just testing to see if I'll actually do it."
"Makes sense," she puts her phone down, turning to watch him, "it's sweet of you to do it anyway."
"That's what I've been trying to tell him," he puts the full glass down, leaning back against the counter as Tashi fully swivels in her chair to face him.
"So how was he?" A hint of nervousness tinged her words and Patrick isn't sure who she's nervous for. Herself, him, or Art?
"Hot," is all Patrick offers at first, smirking at her but she keeps her face neutral, wanting more, "I mean he was very Art about it but yeah, it was really fucking good."
"Sounds about right," amused as she takes a sip of tea, then she catches sight of his shoulder, "what the fuck is that?"
"I think it means he likes me,” he says, exaggeratedly wistful, moving closer to stand in front of Tashi.
She reaches up to brush at the mark, a look on her face similar to Art’s, almost proud, “it’s pretty aggressive.”
“He must really like me then,” Patrick watches the smile tugging at her lips, “you looking forward to watching next time?”
“Why? You think you’ll put on a good show?” Tashi looks up at him expectantly, using her mug to cover up what Patrick knows is a smirk.
“I think we can rise to the occasion,” he shrugs, “and as director you can always step in if our performances aren’t up to par.”
Tashi exhales out of her nose, an almost laugh that makes Patrick feel fond. He plays with the string of her silk robe, eyes trained on her, “you know if you had been in there, I think it would’ve been easier.”
Tashi puts her mug down, eyes narrowing at him, tone sharp, “you’re saying I should’ve been there?”
Patrick knows this tone, the one that some people see as angry but is actually anxious. When she’s scared that she’s being misunderstood.
“No, I wasn’t saying you should’ve been there,” he wasn’t, and he doesn’t think that.
“You want me to make it easy for you,” she looks disappointed (read: hurt), “is that what you’re saying, what you expect from me?”
“No, I was trying to say thank you,” he makes sure to hold her eye contact, hoping his sincerity will translate.
That he’s not just saying ‘thanks for giving me space to fuck your husband’. He wants her to understand that he gets her, that it means something to him. That he’s impatient, and selfish, and has fiercely resisted her help in the past but he still hopes that she never makes it easy for him. That would mean she didn’t care.
So neither of them really talk about what they want he guesses. Art is worse, and he offloads his wants onto everyone else so he can act like he’s so selfless. So that you’ve got to read between the lines, the gaps between words, the pauses for breath. Having to look for what he’s not saying. It’s exhausting. Patrick’s going to do it anyway.
Tashi doesn’t always talk either, she can be brutally honest yet also evasive with her wants, her feelings. It’s actually pretty obvious once you get her, or pretty obvious in general. She says it all the time, that actions speak louder than words.
And because she sticks to her principles, she embodies that. It’s not what she says, it's what she does. That’s where you look if you want to know how much she cares. Her wants are a more complex issue. He wishes she could talk about wanting things just for the sake of it, things that are not productive to want, but he’ll meet her where she’s at right now.
Looking at her face he wonders if she’s psychoanalysing him too. Probably.
He brings a hand to her thigh, stroking then giving it a little squeeze, saying thank you with his hands as well as his words. The tension in her face has softened, like she’s relieved. She doesn’t verbally acknowledge his thanks, but she gives him a nod of understanding, her thumb brushing over his hand, “you should get back in there.”
Patrick smiles at her, grabbing the glass of water, “you coming?”
“I’ll finish my tea first,” which means, ‘I want you guys to talk a little more’.
He nods at her before heading back to the bedroom where he finds Art sitting up in bed, hands fidgeting over the duvet.
“Your water, my liege,” Patrick hands it to him, bowing after.
Art takes one sip before immediately placing it on the bedside table. Thirsty my ass. That was definitely a test.
“Long time to get water,” he comments.
“I bumped into your wife,” Patrick climbs into bed next to Art, “I think she knows what we just did in here.”
Art snorts, then asks, “is she not coming to bed?”
“Relax dude, she’ll be here in a minute to tuck you in,” Patrick grins when Art glares at him, “sorry, I’m lashing out because you didn’t even thank me for the water. It’s very rude, you know, Art.”
“You got to fuck me, you don’t need my thanks,” Art’s lips twitch in a smile.
Patrick laughs, but he has to ask again, “did you enjoy it?”
“Jeez, man, were you always this needy for praise?” Art teases, and all Patrick can do is shrug, Art looks away for a moment, “yes, obviously yes I enjoyed it. Happy?”
Patrick answers by kissing him again, pulling him down so they’re laying instead of sitting, “I’ll be even happier if you let me spoon you.”
“Fine,” Art grumbles but he moves onto his side easily, letting Patrick wrap an arm around his waist as he presses himself up behind him.
Maybe because Patrick can’t see his face Art finds it easier to talk, “you know, I always thought you’d be more aggressive, like ‘I’m gonna fuck you with my big dick’ or ‘I wanna put a baby in you’.”
He ‘always thought’ huh… interesting. Patrick won’t say anything, he’s not going to ruin it.
“That’s all a little cliche for someone as insane as you,” Patrick muses, “is that what you wanted me to say?”
“I don’t know, it’s the sort of thing that works when I say it to you,” Art fiddles with Patrick’s fingers absentmindedly.
“Well, yeah, I’m kind of a slut,” Patrick nibbles at Art’s ear.
“Of course,” Art laughs, “I guess I didn’t expect you to be so…”
“Gentle? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he squeezes him tighter, deepening his voice to half-joke, “wanted it to be romantic for you, baby.”
“Enough with the baby,” Art complains then looks over his shoulder at Patrick, “baby.”
Having Art all light and playful for a moment feels good but now Patrick feels a wave of sincerity wash over him again, “I meant what I said though, I did miss you, you know?”
“I know,” Art breathes out, then grabs the hand that Patrick has been rubbing his stomach with, bringing a finger to his mouth and biting it. Not as hard as before, but it’s still a bite. Patrick will take it.
The door creaks open and Art releases the finger, both of them looking expectantly at Tashi entering. Patrick holds his hand up in joking surrender, “I think we’ve been caught.”
She shakes her head, a smile on her face as she looks at Patrick, “I thought you were supposed to be my side chick, what are you doing in bed with my husband?”
“He seduced me,” Patrick defends and he knows Art is rolling his eyes.
Tashi slips in bed at Art’s front, addressing him now, “hope he’s been treating you well.”
“He’s been awful,” Art teases.
“That would be more convincing if he wasn’t the one with an imprint of your teeth in his shoulder,” Tashi jokes back, “you had fun then?”
“It was alright,” Art says noncommittally, which drives Patrick a little crazy.
“I guess you won’t be doing it again,” Tashi shrugs.
“Well, Patrick’s already planning the next time, and he wants you to watch,” Art basically lies, because, yes, he had been planning it but Art didn’t know that, “so I guess it’s not up to me.”
Tashi looks over his shoulder at Patrick, he looks back and hopes he’s communicating something along the lines of ‘yes, this is the type of thing I’ve been dealing with tonight’. He’s pretty sure Tashi gets it.
“Oh yeah, it’s for research purposes. I need a few more sessions with his ass to figure out what type of bottom he is,” Patrick jokes in retaliation, “at first I thought he was a pillow princess but I think he’s more of a bossy bottom, do you agree Art?”
“I don’t know what those terms mean,” Art says stubbornly.
“I always pegged him as a power bottom,” Tashi joins in, and Patrick appreciates her double entendre, “since we’re on the topic, what type do you think you are, Patrick?”
“Anything you want me to be,” Patrick winks.
Tashi was probably going to call him bratty or something along those lines but Art gets there first, mumbling out, “fucking party bottom.”
“Party bottom?” Patrick snorts in genuine disbelief, “thought you didn’t know any of these terms?”
“I don’t know those terms,” Art swears and Patrick can feel his skin heating up in embarrassment.
“So just party bottom then?” Tashi also teases, grinning at Patrick.
“Wonder where he learnt that one,” Patrick raises his eyebrows at Tashi, laughing.
“Fuck off,” Art grumbles, “heard it in a movie or something.”
Before Patrick can suggest exactly which type of movie he suspects Art learnt that, he elbows him in the chest.
“Alright, I’ll stop,” he concedes, “you’ve had a big day, you should get some rest.”
Art elbows him again, actually a little painful this time, and Patrick just keeps spooning him. He gives Tashi one last smile over Art’s shoulder thinking - it would take a whole lot more than a couple bruised ribs to get rid of him. He’ll happily work for it. Maybe his complete excess of wanting, the need inside him that has always spilled over, will rub off on them both.
Everyone talks about homeless Patrick Zweig this. Hobosexual Patrick that. We get it. We all love seeing him messy. He sleeps in his car, and fucks girls to crash in their hotels. But what about you?
What if you’re the one without a place to sleep? What if you’re the one sleeping in your car?
Yeah. You.
What if you’re the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? You’re the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. You’ve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night… for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.
Then it buzzes.
“You’ve got a Match. Start chatting now!”
Then…
Match.
Patrick, 32.
Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isn’t the only thing that’s hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.
You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.
His pics are… something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.
You type:
Is your bio real or just bait?
He replies fast.
Come find out. 9 pm.
And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if he’s not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if you’re a killer or not. But you’re already changing your top in the front seat like it’s instinct.
Because honestly?
You’d use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybe…maybe… a cock if it comes free with room service.
Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs don’t touch the steering wheel. And if Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?
Fine.
He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.
By 8:55, you’re walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrick’s in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like it’s own his place. He’s got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says as you slide into the seat beside him.
“Didn’t think you’d be hot and real,” you tease him, chuckling.
He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like he’s someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesn’t ask what you like, just says, “She’ll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.”
Your pussy clenches like it’s trained when he said that.
You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time… mouth, throat, legs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, “You keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.”
You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. “Maybe I’m just bored.”
Patrick laughs like that’s the right answer like it’s his favorite thing you’ve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.
“Come upstairs,” he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesn’t feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. It’s just a simple, filthy suggestion, like you’ve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and he’s letting your mouth part.
You don’t answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like you’re supposed to.
The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because you’re… well… you’re here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?
Room 804.
He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.
You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means he’s going to.
Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like he’s deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.
“You want another drink?” he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You don’t know if it’s the whiskey or you.
You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.
He watches you drink. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like he’s sizing you up, or deciding what position he’s going to do to you.
“You always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?” he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.
You swallow. “Only the hot ones.”
That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. You’re close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t actually care what your answer was.”
Then he reaches for your waist.
It’s not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard it’s almost a gasp.
“You don’t seem like the type to waste time,” he says, breath skating your ear.
And you don’t answer, you don't need to because your brain’s already gone mushy.
His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like he’s had enough of the games and already knows you’ll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like he’s got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.
“You wore this for me?” he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, that’s barely there, probably slightly damp already. “Or you always like this?”
It shouldn’t turn you on. It shouldn’t. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you won’t admit out loud. Like he’s reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.
He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. But he’s not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you don’t even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.
Never pretended to be nice just to get something.
“You’re lucky I’m letting you in my room,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s daring you to object. “You walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like you’ll beg for it.”
You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.
“…and you think I’m gonna play nice?”
You can’t speak. You can even barely breathe.
And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.
And that’s the moment it hits you: you’re not here because he’s hot. You’re here because he doesn’t care why you are here. He doesn’t even have to dine or wine you.
You raise an eyebrow but don’t move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like you’re weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.
Then, slowly, you start walking… left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like you’re posing for a photo shoot he wasn’t invited to.
“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. “You always bark orders before your dick’s even out?”
He hums. “You always talk this much before opening your legs?”
“I just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.” Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. “Tennis pro and… ‘Above average dick’ was it?” You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.
That makes him pause.
Then he starts walking.
“No pressure,” you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. “I’m sure it’s hard to live up to all that… size.”
He’s at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure… just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.
“Tell you what,” he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. “Why don’t you keep talking shit… while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.”
You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. “Wow,” you say breathlessly, “that’s… motivational”
And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And he’s lining it up.
Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. You’re hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You don’t have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, that’s it.
“You always find pussy this easy between matches?” you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. “Or just desperate ones who’ll take you raw off an app?”
He snorts but doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like he’s deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” you whisper, just enough to mock him.
He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.
“You talk a lot for someone this wet,” he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Your body… or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.
You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part he’s sliding between your legs.
“F-fuck,” you whimper.
He’s not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe he’s nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.
“Should’ve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,” he growls in your ear. “Would’ve skipped the drink.”
Then he flips you.
He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like you’re just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didn’t want you to move at all.
“Ass up,” he mutters. “Don’t make me say it again.”
So bossy. So annoying. But you’re already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like he’s checking to see if you’re still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.
“Jesus,” he huffs. “You’re soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?”
You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, he’s pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.
And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.
Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just leans over, like he’s waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.
He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like he’s enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. You’re breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole body’s trying to compute what the hell just happened.
His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.
“Say it.”
Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You won’t. You won’t. You are not that desperate, right?
But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like you’re trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like he’s testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.
“Say it,” he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. “Say you needed this.”
You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.
You love how it feels.
He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like you’ve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.
Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.
“Jesus,” he groans, voice ragged now. “You’re fucking made for it, aren’t you?”
You’re not… you’re not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.
His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like you’re not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive ‘come with me upstairs’ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like he’s making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.
You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesn’t let you move. Not really.
“You’re not saying anything,” he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.”
You grit your teeth. “I’m just… getting used to being split in half, thanks.”
He laughs. Like there’s something funny. Fuck there isn’t. He probably thinks you’re pathetic. “Yeah?” Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.
“Let me help you get used to it.”
Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.
Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.
“Fucking made for it,” he growls again, more to himself this time, like he can’t believe how tight you are, how wet, how much you’re already falling apart for him.
You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your forehead’s mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. He’s panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like “fuckin’ tight,” and “so wet for a stranger,” like it’s a compliment and a threat rolled into one.
He doesn’t stop moving. Don’t pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.
“Should see yourself,” he grits. “Fucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.”
You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you can’t swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you don’t say it. One hand fists the sheets. The other’s somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole body’s gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.
Then he slows.
Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.
“Bet you say this to all the girls,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. “Any city. Any hotel.”
He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.
“Nah,” he murmurs, hips pulling back.
Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. “Just the ones who take cock like you do.”
You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, he’s even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like he’s never pulling out again.
You’re half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own body. He’s still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like he’s trying to teach it something it won’t forget.
And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.
“Jesus,” he pants.
You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. He’s close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his body’s trying to warn you.
And then you hear it.
That groan.
That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says he’s about to come and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like you’re about to snap in half.
“You gonna pull out?” you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.
He doesn’t answer.
Don’t slow down.
Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answer’s already happening.
You know it. Feel it.
The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.
Then…
Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.
You freeze. Your mouth opens. “Patrick,”
“F-fuck sorry,” he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell he’s not really sorry.
“Patrick.”
He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.
“Felt too good. Couldn’t help it.”
Bullshit. He didn’t even try.
You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like it’s no big deal. This is just what happens now.
“You’ll be fine,” he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.
“Don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.
You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. “It was… good,” you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, “You’ll, um. Cover Plan B, right?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.
He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like he’s getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what you’re gonna do next.
You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like it’s not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isn’t already doing its humiliating thing. “It’s late,” you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. “Didn’t even realize it was almost three.”
Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you won’t. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, “Kinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.”
Still, he doesn’t bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now.
“Would it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like… might as well just crash and go in the morning or whatever…”
Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, he’s just holding himself not laughing. “Are you asking if you can stay?”
You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. “What? No. I’m just saying it’s late.”
He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, “Jesus. Just go to sleep.”
This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t do this. In normal times like this? It’s clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like “You get home safe, okay?” while he’s already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whatever’s easier. He doesn’t let them stay. Doesn’t let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.
But he hasn’t moved. And you’re still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.
He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. “And, no cuddling or whatever,” he says, like it’s an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.
You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.
Hiii! I saw on your pinned that you’re a fan of RDR2, so for your alphabet challenge, would you please write NSFW letter X for Arthur Morgan? Thank you!
ohhhh anon you have TASTE. i’d be DELIGHTED to write this for you.
x is for x-ray | arthur morgan
warnings: explicit sexual content, nudity, detailed anatomical description, language consistent with 1800s setting, voyeuristic focus on male body, light exhibitionism, use of second person pov, erotic fixation on physicality, unprotected sex implication, emotionally intimate context, mild praise kink undertones
notes: hey angels just a lil note—i absolutely love writing for challengers and the bear, and i’ll always be down to explore more of that, but if you ever feel like sending in asks for other fandoms too, please do! it really helps me stretch my creativity and explore new voices/vibes. writing for arthur morgan was such a joy, and i’d love to dive into more worlds like that. don’t be shy! okay i’m gonna stop because my hands hurt, i wrote a lot today 😭 enjoy!
The room in Valentine is nothing special—wood-paneled, narrow, scuffed floors and faded wallpaper peeling at the edges—but it doesn’t matter. The second Arthur strips off his coat, it ceases to be a hotel room. It becomes a cathedral. A shrine. A holy place built around the gravity of his body. And for the first time, you get to see him not as he’s dressed for the world—layered in denim and dust and guns—but raw. Bared.
It starts simple: the shrug of that trail-worn coat from his shoulders, the soft thud as it drops over the back of the chair, the flick of fingers undoing buttons down his shirt. But there’s nothing simple about the man himself. Arthur’s frame commands the space like it was built to worship him. Broad. Thick. Weather-hardened and sun-fed. His shoulders stretch the fabric of every shirt he owns, and once he peels it off—slow, like it’s never occurred to him someone might want to watch—it becomes impossible to look away.
He’s built like the frontier. Rugged. Untamed. A map of sweat and sun and scars. His skin is the color of oak bark in summer, golden and burnished with the kind of tan that doesn’t fade—it’s in him. Part of him. A deeper warmth than just skin-deep. His chest is massive, pelted with a coarse dusting of tawny-blond hair that gathers dense across the sternum, softens as it trails down his stomach in a thick line. His pectorals are full, heavy, not sculpted like a statue’s but lived-in—flesh formed from years of labor, from chopping wood, breaking horses, dragging bodies.
The hair down the center of his chest glows golden in the angled light, catching the color of the sunset leaking through the curtains. It creeps over his collarbones, softens the harsh ridge of old scars. One scar slices diagonally across his left pectoral, paler than the rest of him, like a whip cracked hot against the skin long ago. Another curls near the hip, a jagged crescent hidden in the shadow beneath his ribs.
And then the suspenders fall. The belt buckle clicks. He kicks off his boots, and his pants sag low on his hips. Wide hips. Solid hips. Built for carrying weight—saddlebags, corpses, the weight of guilt he doesn’t speak of. When he pushes those pants down, slow and unceremonious, he steps out of them like a man shedding his sins.
He is naked in the truest sense. And it’s devastating.
Arthur Morgan’s cock hangs thick between his thighs, flushed deep red at the head, darker toward the base where the hair thickens into a coarse nest of dirty blond. It’s big even soft. Long enough to demand respect. Heavy, veined, the foreskin resting back just enough to tease the slick pink of the glans beneath. A single bead of precum shines there, like he’s been holding back too long. And you know he has.
As you stare—open, shameless—he twitches. His cock thickens slowly, like it’s waking, like it’s watching you as much as you’re watching it.
Arthur notices. His smile is shy, but crooked, a hint of self-deprecating charm. “Ain’t exactly a prize hog,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, but you can see it—the flush crawling down from his cheeks to his chest. He likes being seen. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.
His thighs are thick and wide-set, dusted with blond hair, dappled with fading bruises, knotted muscle flexing under skin every time he shifts his weight. There’s a line of scabbing down his shin from a ride through bramble or a botched dismount. His calves are strong, veined, the kind only years of walking, climbing, riding could build. Everything about him is earned.
And that stomach—not flat, not soft, but strong in a way that’s real. A faint curve over the belt-line. Muscles beneath the skin, not gym-trained but carved by work. He’s got a fine dusting of hair there, too, curling tighter below the navel, guiding the eye downward toward the dark root of his cock.
His arms are worth their own chapter. Thick biceps that stretch the seams of his shirts, veins standing prominent, forearms like sculpted stone. His hands? Massive. The kind that wrap around the butt of a rifle like it’s nothing. The kind that grip reins and throats and thighs with the same ease. They’re calloused and dirt-streaked and holy.
And the more you look, the more detail unfolds. His neck is thick, corded with sinew, shadowed by stubble. There’s always a touch of sweat just at his temples, the scent of him musk-heavy—leather and iron and firewood smoke, cut with the faint sweetness of molasses if you get too close to his throat. His beard is full, well-kept but untrimmed, flecked darker around the chin and mouth, soft-looking despite the thickness. And then there’s his hair—messy, sun-lightened, curls catching at the nape like he’s been riding all day with his hat off.
He’s staring now, too. Watching you watch him. That stormy gaze softened around the edges with something quiet. Something almost vulnerable.
“I know I’m rough,” he says low, voice catching like wind in a canyon. “Ain’t got much polish to me. But… well. I clean up all right, don’t I?”
And you want to laugh. Want to cry. Because this man—this towering, muscle-bound, scar-splattered outlaw—is standing bare before you, cock heavy and leaking, chest heaving just a little from the weight of your gaze, and still he wonders if he’s enough. If he’s worth looking at.
He’s more than enough. He’s obscene in his beauty.
You reach for him like gravity pulls you there. Your hands span his hips, your fingers brushing the wiry curls at the base of his cock, and he shivers. That flushed cock jumps against his stomach. The skin there is so hot it burns, a furnace under your palm. You drag a thumb over the slick head and he grits his teeth, groans low and deep, a sound pulled from somewhere in the belly of him.
“Fffffuck, sugar,” he gasps, shoulders flexing like a draft horse under harness. “That’s—s’tender. Been thinkin’ about this too long.”
But you don’t stroke. Don’t tease. You just look.
You memorize the shape of him. The texture of his skin. The way every part of him—from the pink of his nipples to the curl of his toes—is alive with anticipation. And when he leans back on the bed, thighs wide, cock resting against his stomach and glistening, one arm propped behind him to hold his weight—he looks like a goddamn vision. Like something carved out of the dirt and sun and blood of the West itself.
pixelskylines
dailybridgerton
snowghoul
janainaart
