thinking about Tashi teaching Art how to feed from you properly— how he can drink slow and take his time because you’re his little human pet and there’s no danger. She explains how it feels like heaven for you, how you’ll moan and how wet you’ll get for him, how if he does it right it can feel like one long orgasm for you. And isn’t that what he wants? Mutual satisfaction for him and his little blood bag?
And that’s easy for Tashi, feeding into the sensual nature of feeding. But Art’s young, he’s hungry and the first lap of your blood makes him lose control. He bites too hard, drinks too fast, leaves you all limp and pliant and unconscious in his arms. Tashi pulls him from you before he can drink too much, before he pushes you past your limits. His mouth is all slick with hot blood, he licks at it, rubs his hand over the mess and sucks his fingers into his mouth. Just ravenous and messy and needy.
Sighhhhh. The mental image of Art covered in blood bc he’s a messy eater :((( too cute
RAHHHH RAHHHH RAHHHHH
the thought of art w his chin covered in slick blood - just not clean about it at all - such a messy eater. it's dripping down his throat too. he's still alot of his human self, leaning on tashi to do most of the seduction - though he's plenty sensual himself. something about his cool blue eyes and how tall he is. he's soft spoken and kind and so polite. they both are but tashi is alot more forward, obviously the one driving the charge here - her hand sliding up your thigh on the way to their penthouse. you can't believe your luck, an insanely good looking rich couple who can't seem to keep their eyes or hands off you. arts shoulder is brushing against yours and you feel him lean in to inhale your scent at the top of your head when his wife kisses you. he breathes you in and seems to be taken by you immediately, moaning softly and trailing his nose along your hair, nuzzling.
his wife dominates the kiss - sliding her tongue against yours. she tastes rich and decadent and she tells you that you taste fucking good - and art seems to like that alot - his fingers that had been petting your waist tentatively suddenly dig in sharply.
you think you'd have more questions more reservations, you've never been this easy - but something about them sweeps you up. you feel underwater almost. everything is syrupy and almost dreamlike, like you've stepped into a romance novel - an erotic novel, more like - you blink and suddenly you're inside their home, and you don't remember even going up the steps or seeing any rooms, and you're on arts lap and his hands are big and splayed around your hips and he's looking up at you in awe, his lashes are like cornflower silk, his hair angelic and soft in your hands. you wonder where tashi went but then art is cupping your neck and he's saying, "you're so beautiful." before he drags you down for a kiss and your thoughts are gone again. no conscious thought is left, just sensations. all coming at you and blooming inside you like a kaleidoscope.
you feel another presence - feathersoft, tashi at your back, soft fingers sliding your zipper down. and arts fingers are at the straps, the simple brush of just the pads of his fingers on your shoulders makes you shiver as he helps tashi undress you, and suddenly your dress is a puddle around your waist.
your nipples pebble - hard at the cool air and then they aren't cold anymore and you realize art has ducked down wrap his lips around them, your breasts pushes together so he can fit both in his mouth. a tongue laps down the ridges of your spine and you arch, feeding more of yourself to art - he sucks and pulls your nipples into his mouth and you feel a sharp poke. just a little sting that makes you gasp. but then a feminine hand is caressing your cheek and cooing at you and telling you you're okay - and you realize you are okay. you're more than okay.
you blink and you're on your back and art is over you and his shirt is off and your legs are wrapped around his jean clad waist and tashi is cupping the sides of your head, gentle like an egg, tilting your head so your neck is exposed and arts tongue is there, tracing a vien -
"now, baby." you hear tashi murmur somewhere far far far away even though she's so close and touching you still. "she's ready for you. so soft and sweet under you - she's going to feed you so well."
you feel the vibration of arts moan against your throat, the scraping of something sharp and then that sting again - piercing and painful - for a second - and then bliss. you shudder as your body seems to slip into a pool of euphoria. you feel like you're floating. you feel everything so intensely like fissures of stimuli flowing through you on a torrent.
you moan helplessly and your body is pinned in place - arts body above yours like marble holding you down under him, hard against all your softness, hard between your legs where it's just the small slip of your panties and the denim of his jeans separating you. and you're wet everywhere, wet in your cunt and soaking your inner thighs as you move your hips desperately against the rigid stiff cock above you for relief. wet on your throat, wet somehow, wet sliding down your neck and pooling in your clavicle and there's a pulling sensation like you're being pulled into arts mouth -
tashis fingers massage your scalp tenderly as you start to fade more and more - foggy and blissful. you stop being aware entirely right after you cum so intensely you think you see god.
the reality of the situation is alot less glamorous than your drunken mind led you to believe. art has nearly ripped an artery in his eagerness to feed. he's rutting between your splayed open thighs like an animal, feverish and desperate. his swallows are loud and he moans through every sip, his nails have sharpened, and they pierce the flesh of your soft ass as he anchors you against him, fucking himself against your body- and he wants to be inside inside inside he wants to feel the warmth of your body - the silk soft wrap of your pussy welcoming him in - but he's too wild with his own hunger to stop for even a moment to drag his jeans down and bury himself where he wants -
he's manic and near delirious with pleasure by the time tashi drags him off you. rivulets of blood pour from your neck wound and tashi quickly nicks her own finger and presses it against the marred flesh - sealing the wound and saving your life.
she'd have let art drain you entirely if she knew he could withstand the guilt. still so fragile, her art. still so compassionate and warm towards humans.
you lay limp and passed out on the couch. art pants above you like he just ran a marathon, looking down at your body with both longing to devour you still and fear of the carnage he'd wrecked upon you.
"she looks dead." he says pitifully. small and childlike in it's sadness. he's shaking.
tashi cups his cheeks, flushed pink with your blood - his face is a mess, slick with your blood - ruby and staining his lips and chin and throat. she leans in and kisses him. tastes you off his lips and thinks of how you taste like chocolate and berries. decadent and rich. art had a sweet tooth.
"she just needs some rest, my love." she kisses his nose. "you did good. messy, though." she rubs her thumb over his bottom lip, smearing your blood across his cheek. "you like her." she notes.
art shudders. his fingers twitch at his sides as he sits up over you and looks down at you - traces a hand down your bare stomach.
"she's so soft." he says, almost to himself. "and warm."
tashi hums. sees the fascination in his eyes and recognizes it as what she'd felt for him all those years ago. dangerous, maybe. but maybe not. there's alot of women who are warm and soft in the world, so she wonders what it is particularly about you that entrances him so. she's curious, despite herself.
"lay her up in one of the guest rooms." she tells art. "she'll be hungry when she wakes. you'll need to feed her."
as closely as art still relates to humans, she knows he's already forgotten how meek you lot really are. how in need of sustenance and how often. if he wants you as a pet he'll need to take care of you.
I've had this thought in my head for awhile of down on his luck patrick - maybe he's in a dry spell in his tennis career, and hes really way too fucking stubborn to crawl back to his family. he'd rather be homeless - coming in too contact with recently divorced!reader.
you have way too much money. you probably have a steady job as a ceo or a doctor - something big and important. but your marriage was nasty. your husband resented you for having more money than him, claimed it emasculated him - threw it in your face that you were getting into your forties now and couldn't even give him babies. he tore down your self worth, made you feel like less of a woman - made you think you weren't worth loving. you've been separated for some time now - and you're so lonely. you're horrible at dating - you always screw it up worrying about what their expectations of you will be. if you're feminine enough for them - if you're desirable - you come home to an empty spacious apartment and watch your TV shows and think you hate your life.
meeting patrick because he fell asleep on the bench outside your complex. you almost walked right by him but something - something about him called to you. maybe it was the fact that he looked so young - in his twenties clearly. freckle spotted and pink cheeked in the cool night air. curled up on the bench like a baby, using his hoodie as a pillow. your heart strings tug. you'd like to think this first step comes from the good of your heart and not some need to be needed - not some need to fill the void inside you - but you wake him up. and if you notice how pretty his eyes are you fold that into a little square in your pocket and ignore it. you tell him, "you look like you need some tea."
and patrick needs alot of things. he needs a fucking cigarette. he needs to be able to afford a fucking meal. he needs to get into a tournament and get back into the groove of things before he burns out and does something insane like kill himself because he hates his fucking life. but tea works. he's not one to turn down free shit. especially from pretty older women.
and he probably thinks this is a transaction - he probably isn't thinking of you lustfully at all at first - your little granny aesthetic and walls covered in pictures of woodland creatures dressed in 1800s garb weird him out, if hes being honest - but he moves to pull his shirt off anyway - because he knows what a free place to stay for a night means - and pussy is pussy at the end of the day. he just wont look at your walls when he's inside you.
and when you stop him its not because you dont want him - unlike patrick you think hes nearly ethereal. there's something mousy about him - but masculine too. his hair is wild and he has too big ears and a pointed nose. but his eyes are this gorgeous moss green - his lips pink and plush - his body filled out - you can see the defined lines of his stomach when he tugs his shirt up, the v that dips down into his jeans and then disappeares, the smattering of dark hair that peeks out - a man. you're not unaffected, is the thing. but you stop him because that's not what you invited him up for, really.
"you dont want....?" he trails off. looks at you like you're a strange insect under a microscope and he's wondering what the hell is up with you. like he wants to poke you with a stick. ask, 'you could obviously use some, lady, so what gives?'
"i just want you to.... talk with me. over tea, if that's alright. you can sleep here after if you'd like. i dont mind."
he thinks he gets it then. nodding his head slowly. he can talk. he'll talk your fucking ear off. he thinks you're probably lonely as fuck and yeah, its pathetic, but hell. pot meet kettle. misery loves a hot younger guy to ogle. isn't that how the saying goes? either way, you're both clearly lost in life at the moment. your apartment is too empty. he could use your hospitality.
its kinda a match made in heaven. an unlikely bond. love and sex isn't the plan - but then, does life ever go according to plan? can a lonely woman with a kind heart and a man who's made a shit mess of his life but wants to do better stay just friends? mean nothing to eachother?
well yes!!!! i don’t know when because i do not plan my fics well at all LMAO i just let the ideas come to me as i write but tashilennon truthers (ME!!!!!) will have their moment 😽 there are, at minimum, eleven more chapters of match point so trustttttttttt tashilennon homoerotic codependent friendship til death
wait why is gracie abrams on the little match point banner? is supposed to he lenon? shes pretty but i can’t stop thinking about how icky the stranger things comment she made is whenever i see her 😭😭
gracie abrams isn’t lennon like 100%, i want lennon to be kinda faceless and have you guys decide what she looks like! gracie, iris apatow, and chase sui wonders are who i had in mind when i created her character so that’s who i base my descriptions off of! i just thought that picture of her was cute for the match point banner!!! (also what stranger things comment……. should i change the banner….. i don’t listen to gracie abrams like that 😭)
EEEEE NEW MATCH POINT IS UP!!! i wrote this in one sitting and i love love love it i hope you love it too 😽😽😽😽😽😽😽😽 as always talk to meeeee i love hearing your thoughts
— In which the fabric of Lennon Caddel and Tashi Duncan’s friendship starts to change when they meet Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig.
content warning : smut? not explicit at all though <3
TASHI DUNCAN WASN'T FORCING LENNON CADDEL TO PLAY TENNIS. At least not anymore. With Patrick and Art in their lives, getting Lennon to play had gotten a lot easier. Her two best friends and her boyfriend were so passionate about it that she found herself wanting to be passionate about it too. Lennon was so fascinated with Patrick that she would've done anything to relate to him, even if was pretend to enjoy playing tennis. But after a while she wasn't even pretending. She had stopped lying to her physical therapist and was finally on new medication, trying to gain control over the pain tennis was causing her. And it was working. She went to practice and matches with a smile on her face. Patrick and Art had pulled a few playful duos games out of her, which she looked forward to when he visited. She looked forward to playing tennis. She almost couldn't believe it. If the rest of the season were to go well, she planned on going pro in May. When she told Tashi that she had changed her mind, that she desperately wanted to go pro, she thought she was going to cry. The two of them, a professional duos team next summer. It was everything they had dreamed of. When they were ten years old, laying on their backs on Lennon's at home tennis court, pointing up at constellations, this is what they talked about. They had decided on their duos name when they were eight years old and it was finally going to happen for them. Sugar and Spice is what they had chosen all those years ago. It was cringy to them now, but they kept it. For old times sake. Five more months and the dreams they had shared at countless sleepovers would be a reality. Tashi would need to thank Patrick.
First semester went just as fast as it had came. Patrick had kept his promise to Lennon and was at almost every single match she played that fall. The season didn't actually start until January but he was in the stands at practice matches and rallies, cheering when she won. Which was every time. Patrick, Lennon, Tashi, and Art had become the most recognizable group. When the three Stanford attendees walked across campus together, people couldn't help but stare. All of them were so smart and talented and just so fucking attractive, they (Tashi) understood the eyes that followed them. They were the poster children for college student perfection. Tashi, a business major, had grabbed the attention of professors with the amazing questions she asked during lecture. Art and Lennon were both communications majors and shared a lot of the same classes, causing people to turn heads when they walked in together. They were always carrying both their tennis bag and a regular backpack, a smoothie from Stanford's café sweating in their hands. All of them, Patrick included, had laughed loudly in the student center and picnicked on the campus green. The Dream Team. That's what people had started to call them. And it was true. All of them felt like they were living a dream when they were together.
It was harder for Lennon and Patrick, though, no matter how much of dream they felt they were living. Patrick had asked Lennon to be his late one October night after one of her matches. Tashi had an exam early in the morning and had gone to bed, and so Lennon and Patrick had slipped out of her dorm building to sit on the wide open courtyard. Their posture mimicked what it was the first night that they had been together all those months ago. Lennon's arms were wrapped around her legs which were pulled up to her chest, head on her knee, staring at the side of his face. Patrick's legs were splayed out, arms behind him as he gazed up at the sky. Lennon was nervous just looking at him. He wasn't talking as much as he normally did and he was chewing on his bottom lip deep in thought. She found herself wanting to reach out and pull it from his mouth, offering her own lips for him to chew on instead.
"What's wrong?" She had muttered, one of her hands toying with and ripping up the grass beside her.
He sighed and shook his head as she pulled him from his thoughts. "It's nothing," He mumbled and turned his head to look at her. She looks so pretty, he thought. The only light around was a lamp post a few feet away and the glow of the moon. She was a little sunburnt from her practices and her cheeks looked permanently rosy while the rest of her body was covered in a light tan. She was wearing his t-shirt, "Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy" plastered across the front. She was smiling at him softly and he could just melt into the grass.
"It's not nothing... You're gonna bite your lip until it bleeds." She had given in, bringing her thumb to pull at his bottom lip. "Pat, you gotta stop doing that." He relented and had let her pull his lip from in between his teeth. He had never been one to get flustered around anyone, much less a girl he thought was attractive. But Lennon's softness almost canceled out his hard, cocky demeanor.
"I know." He locked eyes with her, his green ones looking deep into her brown. "I really like you, Lennon."
Her breath hitched and she had been fighting the urge to look away from his intense stare. She stuttered out a reply which made Patrick grin. He liked making her flustered. "I... uh... I like you too. A lot."
"A lot?" He had teased, which earned him an eye roll, a shove, and an order to 'Shut up!' He laughed at her, trying to lighten the mood. "'M sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the moment. But I can't just go on like this. Having you bat your eyelashes at me and me have to act like I don't want you."
Her smile faded, something akin to relief taking over her face. He wanted her just like she wanted him. Not sexually, not yet at least, but the want to be close to him. To be his. "Y-you want me?"
He tskd and looked away, bewildered. "'Course I do. What you think I was coming to all your matches and spending all my hard earned money on gas because I just wanted to be your friend?"
She smiled, now biting her lip to keep her from giggling. She shrugged. "Well I don't know... you do it for Art."
Patrick laughed and tipped his head back before turning back to her. "No, no I don't. I only go to Art's matches if he has one while I'm here to see you." He watched her intensely as she connected the dots he had presented her with.
"Oh." That's all she said.
"Yeah, oh." He bumped her leg with his, tilting his head at her. He reaches up to brush a hair out of her face just like he did two months ago outside of her hotel room. "I'm going to kiss you. Is that ok?"
Lennon looked at him, blinking slowly. She parted her lips and sucked in a shaky deep breath before dropping her legs to the ground, allowing his an easy path to her. "Please."
And then his lips were slotted against hers, both of his hands cupping her face. She leaned into his touch like she was dying of thirst and the only thing that could save her was the wetness of Patrick's mouth. Patrick kisses her like a starved man, he has to remind himself to chill out. He didn't want to scare her. He didn't want to fuck this up. He pulled back, albeit hesitantly, and rested his forehead against hers. Lennon had whined and chased his lips, desperately searching for more. He laughed breathlessly at her urgency.
"Slow down, baby," He breathed as he brushed his thumbs across her cheeks. The pet name only made it harder for her, the need in her growing. But she didn't chase him again. He could tell her to follow him to the ends of the earth and she would've done it. No questions asked.
"I-I'm sorry." She frantically apologized. He looked so pretty like this. Lips swollen, eyes closed as he tried to come down from the high of kissing her. He was thinking the same thing about her.
"Fuck", he swore under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut, "Don't apologize. Please don't apologize." He pulled back slightly with his hands still cupping her cheeks, keeping her at arms length.
Patrick just stared at her, taking in her beauty. His heart had been pounding in his chest when he asked her what he had been wanting to ask her for months. "Lennon," He started. He looked at her with the softest gaze he could muster. "Will you please be my girlfriend? I genuinely think I need it like I need water." He couldn't do it without making a joke. He likes hearing her laugh.
And she does. Lennon doesn't think she's ever said "Yes!" more enthusiastically in her life.
The month before the tennis season started, Lennon and Tashi had an unspoken agreement that they deserved a break. It was winter break and they had been working so fucking hard during the semester. Both of the girls were on track to come out on top by the end of the season and they had both ended the semester on the presidential honor's list. Just the thought of going home and having to deal with their parents was enough to have them groaning. They brought this up to Art a week before break over their hundredth shared bowl of fries in the Stanford café. He had the perfect solution.
"Why don't we," He swallowed the fry in his mouth, dusting the salt off his fingers, "Why don't you just ask Patrick if you can stay at his parents' summer house? That's what I'm doing."
Lennon and Tashi shared a look, to which Tashi rolled her eyes with a smile. They knew that Patrick was wealthier than all of them, but it always made them giggle when it was brought up. The boy who stole all of his friends' clothes had more money than all of them combined.
"Do you think he would let us?" Lennon asked while she twirled the straw of her drink in her fingers.
Art chuckled, brushing off her question. "Are you kidding? He's obsessed with you and he starts to go stir crazy if he doesn't see all of us together for a while."
Lennon blushed at the thought of Patrick being obsessed with her. She knew he was her boyfriend (which still made her giddy to think about) but still. Tashi smiled at Lennon’s blush and at Art's offer.
"Lennon's parents don't care where she is as long as they know she's alive. And my parents let me go anywhere Lennon goes. So... we'll be there.
The four of them had Patrick's summer house all to themselves for an entire month. You would think that would be a disaster, but it was actually the most fun any of them had ever had. The pool was heated, a jacuzzi tucked away in the corner. The fucking floors and tennis court were heated. Every single day for a month they would wake up at noon, play a 2v2 match, drive Lennon's car to dinner (which Patrick paid for every time), and come back and watch horror movies until they were too tired to keep their eyes open. They each had their own room in the house but every night they would curl into each other on the huge couch, opting for the company of their best friends over the comfort of an actual bed.
Many a pillow fight, wrestling match, and game of chicken was played in that house. It brought them closer together, individually and as a group. Even Tashi found herself laughing so hard she was crying at Patrick and Art's tennis academy stories.
Lennon wanted to cry every time she caught a glimpse of Tashi laughing with Art or shoving Patrick when he beat her in a tennis match. She wasn't sad, quite the opposite actually. She was so overjoyed that it made her misty eyed. Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe Tashi wasn't the only one who could love her despite her insecurities and flaws. Maybe Tashi wasn't the only one could see her for all the she was and keep her around regardless. Maybe Art and Patrick could give that to her too.
On one of the rare afternoons Lennon and Patrick were alone in the living room, Tashi showering and Art napping in his bed, she confessed this to him. His hand was buried between her thighs, his mouth pressing soft kisses and bites to her neck, her head leaned back. She was sitting in his lap with her chest pressed to his, his hand moving between them. She was whining and whimpering and grinding her hips slowly into his touch. Her eyes were squeezed shut when she said it. She whispered it like she was sharing her most close kept secret.
"I think... fuck, I love you."
Patrick's touch faltered and Lennon could feel his breath stutter with his mouth pressed to the column of her throat. The once regulated and calculated thrusts of his fingers became stuttered pushes and pulls, like she threw him off of his game. "Y-you think?" His voice sounded strained and he picked up the pace of his fingers, her confession making him want to please her even more. Which he didn't think was possible.
"Uh huh," She nodded frantically, pulling Patrick's head up so that she could look him in the eye. Both of their cheeks were flushed and their lips were a tad bit swollen. Lennon's from biting them and Patrick's from the hungry way he had kissed her. His eyes were half-lidded while hers were wide with admiration. She cupped his face in her hands, which he understood. He pressed his lips to hers. This kiss was different than the ones the had been sharing over the course of the past few months. Instead of frantic and hungry kisses, teeth clashing and tongues rolling together, this one was softer. Like instead of saying her loved her too, he wanted to show her.
"A-ask me again... shit, Patrick... ask me la-ter."
His head falls to her shoulder, biting it softly. She let out a broken moan as she let go around his fingers, which Patrick covered with his own groan. The softness was rare from him and something about it made her even more sure that she loved him. She knew he wasn't going to say it back, that wasn't his style. Not yet at least. They had met each other less than six months ago. They had only been dating for two. She knew it was naive of her to say but she didn't care because she did love him. She loved him and the way he always knew what to say to make her laugh. She loved the way he let her play whatever music she wanted in his car even if it was what he called "whiny girl music." She loved his friendship with Art and the way they had pulled her and Tashi into their duo with open arms. She could tell him that she loved him over and over just for that.
being lily's best friend - you grow up with her - you're in the donaldsons orbit for all your formative years. you develop a crush on art that turns into love as you grow older. your home life isn't so glamorous. you spend lots of weekends at the donaldsons. art has tucked you in. brought you snacks when you stayed up late for movie nights, making you and lily promise not to tell tashi. you were there when art and tashi got divored, held lilys hand and pretended not to be happy inside at the thought of getting closer to art.
lily gets into college - a big smart one because she has tashi's ambition and leaves you behind, you're still stuck at home because your dreams have always been smaller.
maybe its not appropriate, to still spend time with art. but he's lonely. tashi left, and now his daughter has and you're the only one left in his life that actually wants to be around him, that has always looked at him with stars in your eyes. its probably not healthy. there should be a boundary there. your lilies, not his.
but you like being around him and he likes having someone to take care of. you come over and he makes you eat something healthy and you needle him about spending all his time at home and how he should get out more, and he rolls his eyes, tells you he should be saying the same to you, you're young and beautiful and you should be dating around.
but how can you date around when art donaldson is your dream man? when you're happiest at his side, eating what he makes you. you want more though. you want to share his bed, warm it for him, you want to make him not so lonely, you want him to stop seeing you as a little girl and as the adult you've grown up to be - so you start wearing less and less around him. start acting more and more like a housewife.
art accepts it without even realizing. now you just need to find the right opportunity to pounce.
WHEW. this one is long so buckle up
“art?”
“mr donaldson.”
you roll your eyes.
“mr donaldson, how come you never started dating again?”
he chopped the lemon with a deft clunk, eyes never leaving the knife.
“never felt the urge.”
“what does that mean?”
“what i just said. never felt the need to.”
“hm.”
you sat on the island, next to the chopping board. your legs swung haphazardly, and you watched art as he chopped.
why was he playing this game? he could’ve told you to leave, to stop coming back and bothering him, that this was inappropriate. and yet. he didn’t even tell you to get your sorry butt off the counter, or some such dad-ism. the low glow of the many warm lamps that adorned such a luxurious house illuminated art so softly, he looked as young as the day lily was born. he was as fit as back then, if not meatier. he didn’t have the pouch your dad had, but the years had given him a thickness. instead of wasting away like most lean men did, he struggled to the other side. he got broader. layer upon layer of muscle encased in a thin finishing of fat. he was skinnier when you were a kid, but he had no reason to be lean now. under his chin a tiny hammock of pudge rested as his head tilted down, kissed by light stubble. his blonde hair was streaked in silver, but that somehow made him younger looking. made him glow. he had grown it out, by your suggestion. he was everything in the world a man should be.
“what about you?”
“i hate boys. they’re all stupid.”
“you got that right. you’re too good for all of them, never settle.”
“maybe it’s just boys my own age. theyre so immature.”
arts wide chest heaves. his eyes flick to you then flick back down. you see it all, and cross one leg over the other.
“maybe.”
“what were you like when you were my age?”
he laughs at the memory.
“stupid, immature, evil. if i was anything to go by you should swear off men entirely until menopause.”
air left your chest cavity.
“i don’t wanna wait. i want a fully formed one.”
you watched the muscles in arts forearms flex as he squeezed the lemon onto salad. the main course was cooking, was singing loudly on the stove. art had gotten into cooking after the divorce. it took all his attention and put it in one place, something complex and delicate and time consuming. it helped to clear his head. it wasn’t helping right this second.
“i shouldn’t say that,” he said curtly,”boys your age aren’t so bad. give them a go and quit hanging out with an old man.”
“but i like you, old man.”
art was so harsh on himself. he really wasn’t that old. and you really weren’t that young.
he pressed his lips together and kept squeezing. his pink lips, that gave his face the everlasting youth it held. he shrugged his shoulders in that way he did when he was confronted with the truth of your arrangement. there was something going on. something very, very, very wrong. you were the same age as his daughter. 3 months younger. he was the worst man in the world. the worst person to ever breathe. what could he do though? tell you to go? tell you to leave his house and never come back? what would become of you then? without him, what pillar of paternity would you rely upon? what new low would you reach? what men would you come across, and what would you do to please them? while he gingerly entertained you, you dangled something in front of his face that others would not have the restraint or morality to resist. if you had to move to another target, your next victim might not care so deeply for your wellbeing. were you not altogether safer, sitting in his kitchen, eating his caesar salad, rather than inhaling second hand cigarettes from old wrinkled fucks who might murder you, or worse-
“art?”
“mr donaldson.”
“you got a bunch of lemon pips in the salad.”
“oh.”
he set down the lemon.
“are you ok? you seem tense.”
“i’m good. are you cold? i can turn on the heating if you like.”
“no. it’s actually quite warm in here.”
he hears the zip of your hoodie and starts away from the island, under the pretence of getting a paper towel to deposit the lemon seeds on. your jumper clatters to the counter, and you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. low cut top. he knows that’s what you’re wearing. because that’s all it’s been for the past 2 months. your mini skirt flowers around you as you sit, but when you stand each swish and sway of the fabric is a death sentence. god forbid you take the stairs for some ungodly reason.
“hey, you know what you said about never having the urge?”
oh, fuck off, he thought. fuck off. leave him be. leave him alone. release him.
“yes.”
“you can’t really mean that can you?”
“sure i can.”
“i mean, you can. but i don’t think you do.”
you twirled a strand of hair in between your fingers. your stomach grumbled, loud enough that he could hear. you were so hungry you could die, but if you ate what art was frying your breath would smell like fish all night.
“let me check the salmon.”
“i’m not that hungry. you can’t mean that you never had the urge to. everyone has urges.”
“well sure. but after tashi, i needed a breather. a grace period, if you will. you can’t go from marriage with a woman like her right into dating.”
“but it’s been 3 years. you must be over it by now?”
he ignored the hope in your voice. ignore, ignore, ignore.
“i am over it. but. women scare me.”
he walked languidly over the salmon. it was ready.
“i don’t scare you, i’m a woman.”
a woman. he turned off the stove, and turned to fix you with a stare for the first time tonight. a woman. that was not the word he would use to describe you. your eyes were the size of saucers, and you bat your lashes languidly, like you knew how much you were making him suffer. you sat up pin straight, and twisted your spine to make eye contact with him. your body. he tried not to look. tried not to look in front of you and see the twisted grin come across your lips. but he was a weak man. the weakest of men, and his eyes dragged over where a fatherly view should never cross. your perky new tits, the press and curve of your ass against the counter, the plush of your thighs. it seemed you had grown up overnight, and didn’t know you were still a baby. you’re a baby. you knew what you were doing to him. you knew. he blushed involuntarily.
“you scare me most of all.”
his voice trembled. he hadn’t meant to say that. hadn’t meant to dignify you will any response at all. it had crossed his mind and then it crossed his lips.
your eyes lit up with extreme delight. he liked to make you happy, but his stomach churned with the thought of why.
“why?”
he turned back around, and plated up your salmon, adding potatos and asparagus from the same pan, drizzling it all in the residual oil.
“why art?”
“mr donaldson.”
a twinge of irritation tickles your stomach. what was he fighting this for? you’re all grown up now. you both knew what was going to happen. he was resisting fate, the inevitable.
all your life you had known he was the man you were meant to be with. from that first time he kissed your forehead as you dozed off on the couch, thinking you were asleep. when his strong arms would carry both you and his daughter, flinging you around, threatening to dunk you in their backyard pool. when he would catch your eye in the rear view mirror as he drove you around and winked. he was so nice. so nice and brave and kind and warm, and if you had to be with any man it should be him because you’ve loved him since you were 8, and now you’re old enough to claim it. you’re not just a dumb kid with a crush. you love him. you understand it being one sided back then. but it isn’t anymore, and you wouldn’t let him deny it. with gliding footsteps you approached him, drawing closer every second he didn’t turn around. a hand rests on his shoulder blade.
“just stop,” you breathed after a pause.
his spatula clattered to the pan with a metallic thunk. you pull your hand away like he burnt you. he gripped the counter with a sigh and hung his head.
“you stop. stop it now,” his voice was stern. you felt yourself shrink. art was never stern.
“i know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen. this has gone on far too long and it stops right now.”
a mere few paces from his wide curved back, you blink. the urge to touch him is overwhelming. you want to press your hand to his back, feel him under your palm and tell him you know he wants this. you know he wants this just as bad as you do.
but you don’t, because he’s angry at you, and he’s never been angry at you before.
“i’ve let you come here and cooked you food and watched movies with you because you’re a good kid. because i knew you as a kid and i know your problems with your father and i wanted to be there for you when lily is away. but you have taken this too far. you’re my daughters best friend. i have cleaned up your vomit twice, i baked you a cake for your 13th birthday- it’s not right. i’ve tried to be understanding, i’ve tried to ignore it, but you never drop it. never. your lack of self respect is staggering. you have to drop it right now or, im sorry but you can’t come back here anymore.”
every muscle fibre was clenched. if the counter top wasn’t marble it would’ve crunch and fell away under his grip. he couldn’t take it anymore. he didn’t know how much longer he could be good. didn’t know how much longer he could take resisting you.
maybe he was harsh. but it was the right thing to do. the only thing to do. he rested his elbow on the counter, and between his forefinger and his thumb held the bridge of his nose. he exhaled loudly. he hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, hadn’t planned it. but now it was out. he had stared the elephant in the room dead in its eyes. he felt lighter, somewhat liberated.
until he turned around after a few too many seconds of silence to see you turned away from him, slightly hunched over. he stepped closer, and saw your hands covering your mouth. you body jolted, and you drew in quick, grasping breaths. you were crying. he said your name, and you didn’t turn to look at him.
“i’m sorry. i’m sorry mr donaldson.”
all the relief he felt was replaced by swift, acute, crushing guilt. your hair fell over your face, shielding you from him. he said your name once more. you sniffed.
“hey, hey hey hey.”
against his better judgement, and because of the aching of his heart, he took you gently by the shoulders, and turned you to face him.
“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”
tears spill from your eyes and you wipe them away with a heavy hand, refusing to meet his eyes. his neck craned down to your eye level, his thumbs began tracing circle in your shoulders. a thoughtless gesture but one that made you cry even harder.
“i’m sorry. i don’t know what i was thinking. im just so sorry.”
“hey, it’s ok. it’s alright.”
“it’s not alright. i’ve ruined everything. i’ve made it- so- weird. i just thought that you- you wanted me. i’m so stupid.”
your mascara runs, painting your face with your turmoil.
how could you be so dense? you had been making him uncomfortable. he didn’t want you. the only reason he even let you hang around was obligation. because of what you meant to lily. you didn’t mean anything to him. you were just some kid. did he even think you’re pretty? you bet he didn’t.
worse than that, you had disappointed him. him. he was supposed to be everything your dad wasn’t. and now he was disappointed. you had failed. you had ruined everything. what even were you? were you even human?
“don’t. you’re not stupid. don’t say that.”
“i’m sorry. i just- i wanted to make you happy. that’s all i ever wanted. i wanted you to be happy with me. you were so- so- so crushed after the divorce, i-i just-“
he guides you over to the bar stool, and you let him. you sit across from each other. his hand touches your cheek, the other holds you shoulder still. the touch of his hand quietens your babbling, your eyes round and wet and open.
“you do make me happy.”
your lips parted, plump with crying.
“i do?”
he cringes at the hope in your voice, at the feeling in his chest that it stirs. the feeling in his whole body at touching, after so many years, your soft skin. the last time he held your face you were 8, crying over a bumped knee. he had very different feelings now than he did then. sympathy and concern had ebbed, making way for much darker, much more corrosive emotions. he felt guilt and want broil in the chambers of his stomach, and the evilness inside him told him how easy to would be to get what he wanted. how close he was.
“yes. you’re my favourite buddy, we have a great time together,” he ruffled your shoulder like you pat a dog, speaking quick to placate you.
the hope in your eyes dwindled.
“so,” you sniffled, “you don’t feel anything for me? you don’t-don’t want me at all?”
with your convulsive sobbing your chest rose and fell, and with each jolt you spilled further out of your thread bare top. he closed his eyes, and swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing. inhaling deeply, his fingers released your shoulder.
“it doesn’t matter what i want.”
“yes it does, it matters the most,” you answer immediately, tears gone from your eyes, now sliding down from your water line and down your cheek, “what do you want?”
what does art want? when was the last time he asked himself that question? years. at least. he drew away from you. you felt sick.
he turned on the stool, ducking his head and cradling his face in his hands
“i want…”
what the fuck was he saying? he couldn’t say this to you. he couldn’t. but he was.
“i… you’re a very gorgeous girl. you’re sweet. you’re smart. you’re funny. i like you very much.”
he said it like he was confessing to murder. elbow resting on his knee, his hand covered his eyes with splayed fingers. god, he was going to hell for this. even saying the words felt like the deepest sin imaginable, and he was sanitising his truth extensively. what he thought about at night, when you went home and his house became cold again, when he got into the shower and mechanically relieved himself into the drain, that was truly deplorable. when he touched himself, it was you he thought of. invariably. everything a man could possibly do to a girl, everything a girl could possibly do to a man, he had laid up in his bed and touched himself to with you in mind. ropes and ropes and ropes of cum in your honour, so gently splattered on shower walls and bedsheets he needed to wash anyway. sometimes he came on his torso, just to feel young and frivolous, like you were. and when he did his brain would turn back on, and he would feel so guilty that he would lay there to soak up his guilt, a punishment for himself from himself. so yes. he wanted you. he wanted you very, very badly. with every fibre of his being, he craved you. and with every fibre of his soul, he hated himself for it. but apparently he was still talking. what his morality urged him his mouth couldn’t hear, or wouldn’t obey.
“so don’t think you’re delusional. you had every reason to think i might reciprocate.”
you watched him, glossy eyes wide as ever. he peeked from beneath his fingers, immediately covering his eyes again when he saw you watch him. he shouldn’t have said that. he shouldn’t have. that was bad, it’s only giving you hope, and there is no hope. he can’t, he can’t. he want to so badly but he can’t. god, no he can’t. it would be so easy but easy isn’t right and how could he ever look his daughter in the eyes again if he did? how could he look at tashi?
“mr donaldson?”
“mm,” he replied miserably.
“kiss me.”
slowly, exhausted, he lifted up his head. mistake. now he was thinking about it as he looked at your face, puffy and damp and shining like a star.
why did he look so disgusted? what was so wrong with you? you couldn’t stop yourself from barreling ahead, feeling his premature rejection like a rock in your stomach.
“just once. then i’ll leave and i’ll never bother you and you won’t see me anymore and i’ll go to church and ill get a therapist, but just once.”
he looks so tired. so tired and so fucking good. his eyes smouldered with deep thought, the thought only a mature man can have. he was so mature. he was so much larger than you. he could hurt you if he wanted to. he could make you do anything but all he did was look at you so tired it made you squirm inside. as your sobs died in your throat, regret and embarrassment become indistinguishable from desire.
he blinked slowly, and opened his mouth. the white of his teeth glittered. his tongue pawed the inside of his cheek. he was thinking about it.
how could he be thinking about it? he was the worst person in the world. and yet. and yet. one kiss. he could control it with one kiss. one kiss wouldn’t hurt. one kiss. he had kissed your head before. your cheek. what was so different about this?
wordlessly, he moved off the stool. heart in your mouth you waited. a tremulous breath shuddered from your chest as he took one step. two steps. three steps. until he was stood above you. his face was unreadable. not cold. not warm. just looking, appraising from above his brown lower lashes, down his strong kissable nose.
“one kiss?”
his hand rose slowly, palm facing upwards. his finger tips grazed your jaw, your chin, tilting your head up. fireworks burst in your stomach, and you resisted the urge to moan.
“one. that’s all.”
one. that would be all. one kiss and he would put this silly fascination away for good. a kiss is deniable. a kiss is nothing.
he stoops down, can feel the nerves vibrating from your skin. his head tilts slightly, and your eyes lock as he descends to your level. his hand moves into your hair, a combing hold. and you kiss. no tongue. your lips connect, mush and expand over the others. his nose touched your cheek. your arms remained stiff by your side as they gripped the stool. you felt the pinkness of his lips, felt the edge of his cupids bow. and then he pulled away.
there. one kiss. he had done what he had to to get you to drop it. had fulfilled your criteria, and now you could move on. now he could move on.
but if that was true, why was he leaning in again? why did almost tasting your saliva, a substance he had thought about in great detail, make him hungrier for it? why was almost having it worse than never coming close? why did he pull gently on your hair, making your head tip back, opening you mouth so he could kiss the part of you he craved; the inside part? why was he hard if it was over?
his tongue flicked gently inside, asking permission. your mouths closed together, making the kiss noise you hate hearing but love making. they open quickly and in sequence. your hands rise up to gently hover over his chest, barely grazing his shirt. you didn’t want to touch him too hard in case he dissipated into a cloud of smoke, an illusion.
but he was very real, and under your timid girlish touch he was undone. a soft exhalation like a groan into your mouth, and his tongue protruded. it touched yours and you tasted the salt on it, shivering. his other hand fell back to your shoulder, gripping so hard it was like had no idea what he was doing. feeling your mouth against his was all that there was. there wasn’t right, there wasn’t wrong, there was only sensation.
all the want he had saved for solitary and depressing masturbation now burst through his veins, into his actions and he kissed you with all the passion in him. with everything he’s never said, with all the times he held back with you, with tashi. he kissed you like if he didn’t he would die, breathing and groaning and grunting involuntarily. he mashed his face to yours, crushing your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before recapturing your mouth in a sloppy open mouthed kiss. it felt like steam evaporated from where your met, so hot and wet.
you didn’t know what was your and what was art, where you finished and art began. you meshed like the broken pieces of a vase slotted against each other. his tongue became so wild it clipped the side of your mouth in its frantic exploration, and you sighed.
ultimately it was you who had to pull away. you pulled your hands into your own chest, gasping for breath. he didn’t move an inch. he gripped your shoulder still, cradled your face the same. he opened his eyes, chest rising and falling graciously.
he surveyed you, still too high from your touch to feel guilt, with lazy eyes. he was so fucked. your eyes sparkled like glitter. your lips shined pearly with his spit. his.
match point secret 😽 i was gonna make tashi and lennon kiss on the beach but i didn’t know how to incorporate it without fucking up the tension they have going….. sorry tashilennon shippers
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