⟢ tags: friends with benefits?? skinny dipping, kinda exhibition, thigh/pussy fucking (no piv), d jayin, Aerion being a flirt (yum)
⟢ an: I hate this so much but whatever we roll!!! Thought it was fitting to write with the heatwaves we’ve been having. I’ll be turning on my requests so please put them in!! (Primarily taking one shots/drabbles, I’ll detail it in my navigation) <3
diary navigation
13:52
You had stared at that tiny clock on the dashboard for what seemed like hours now. Well, it's not like you had anything else to do, phone dead, book read and now parked at the side of a lake in the middle of a rather spontaneous road trip.
It would have been relaxing, an escape even, if it wasn't for the weather that had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.
It was hot, the sweltering heat of the sun unrelenting at this time of day.
Sweat was already clinging to the skin of your chest and above your brow, yet you hadn't strained any muscle in the passenger seat as the air conditioning fanned at your face. You huffed, rolling down a window to shout at your friend, and accomplice in this road trip, Aerion to complain yet again.
“Does this aircon even fucking work?” You grumbled loud enough for him to hear as he scouted out the lake you two decided to stop at.
“I don't fucking know!” He yelled back from a distance. His car was certainly on its last legs, and the lack of air conditioning was starting to make you feel queezy. A dizziness consumed your body for a fleeting moment, and you decided that you'd had enough. Your hands moved before a thought could even be registered in your overheated brain, nudging open the car door and stumbling out into the piping hot air.
You couldn't stay cooped up in that furnace of a car any longer, or you feared that you might in fact faint from heatstroke. Being affected by the heat seemed inevitable anyway, so you slowly waded your way through the overgrown grass to the edge of the lake Aerion was standing by.
In this pearlescent light, he looked far more ethereal than you were used to. His silver-gold hair caught the light's fragments and shone brightly. His chiselled features were illuminated against his pale skin, which glimmered, mirroring the lake’s water. Handsome was a word that seemed far too mediocre to describe him now, and despite his rugged and irritating personality you found yourself rather captivated by him.
Perhaps it was just the heat, you thought to yourself. Surely such weather was capable of causing hallucinations?
“Done gawking?” He said with a smirk that snapped you out of your trance and made you realise you had perhaps stared for a moment too long. You merely rolled your eyes in retaliation, an attempt at playing off what you had been caught doing.
“Gawking? You wish.” you echo back, trying to find a suitable phrase to bite back with. “It's the uh… the heat, it's getting to me.”
It wasn't your best comeback, but it would do. Your words earned a wider grin from Aerion, one that showed more of his perfect teeth as he shook his head to bite back a laugh. He considered your feeble attempt at an insult cute, something he wouldn't ever get bored of.
“Really?” he said with a slight scoff before yanking the hem of his sweat-stained shirt up and over his head. The sight made your eyebrows raise in confusion. The cotton fabric landed on the grass with a barely audible thud, your eyes following it intently.
“You gonna swim? We have no swimsuits.” Aerion chuckled again softly at your words, looking down at the floor then back up to your face as his long fingers settled on the waistband of his shorts.
The most single-handedly aggravating thing about Aerion was surprisingly not how presumptuous he usually was, but that he knew he was attractive, and that he also knew how to utilise his looks. He always saw you staring, of course he did, so stunts like this merely served the purpose of making your heart stutter. So far, he was victorious.
“Yeah, so what?” he shrugged while his hands slowly began to unbuckle the belt he was wearing and discard his denim shorts as well. This was cruel, he knew it was too; stripping off in front of you? It was torture that made every drop of your blood sing.
You mumbled something incoherent in response, taking it upon yourself to turn your head around and spare yourself from a sight you had so often, and regrettably, dreamed of witnessing.
“What?” Aerion called to get your attention, which worked to the astonishment of neither of you. You turned yourself around unhurriedly, anticipating him to at least be in a state of propriety. Yet, there he stood in his naked glory; every inch of his unscathed skin on show for your eyes to feast upon. He was rather lean, athletically so, and just exquisite. Your mouth dried up and the back of your throat constricted. No matter how much your heart told you to look downward, you couldn't bear to do anything but stare at his smug complexion.
“Stop acting so surprised.” He conversed with that exact relaxed lilt to his voice as if nothing was different here, as if the tension couldn't be severed with a blunt blade.
Yet again, you fumble with your words as you try to find a phrase worth voicing out loud. You found none, swiftly looking down to your feet where everything was perfectly normal; uttering something along the lines of Aerion being utterly aggravating.
“Come on.” You heard his voice ring as you hauled yourself back from the confines of your mind. He was already stepping into the cool water, up to his waist. Beckoning you forward with two fingers, you eventually caved in.
Each article of clothing you wore was gradually peeled off, the thin fabric of your tank top adhering to the skin of your back. Just an innocent way of cooling off, you supposed in a futile attempt to compile your wandering thoughts. This wasn't how you were expecting to be cooling off, undressing in front of your (very bare) friend and joining him in the chilly water.
The temperature difference was a shock, an impulse of satisfaction that calmed your seething skin as you finally, and reluctantly, waded into the body of water before you. Hands wrapped over your chest to hide yourself, you finally reached a depth where you could relax your muscles.
“See, not so bad…” Aerion said a little quieter this time as his eyes roamed over your figure shamelessly. He often did this, and you passed it off as merely being his naturally flirty personality, but this time it felt more real.
“Yeah…” Your awkward response caused him to smile a little more, he noticed the way your arms wrapped tightly around you to shield yourself.
“Stop hiding yourself, ain’t nobody else around.” He added gruffly, his voice betraying the surge of want he now felt. You were embarrassed, of course you were… but Aerion thought he could fix that.
“Come on, don’t be embarrassed darling.”
The nickname made your heart flutter, the tips of your ears turning a shade of red as your arms loosened slightly but they didn’t move. Aerion moved instead, slowly wading closer to you in the water till you could feel the heat radiating off of his pristine body.
“It’s so hot.” He stated, and usually you’d say something witty like “no shit” but right now you feared that you would faint from the proximity between you two. “I’ll wash you.”
Face burning up from both embarrassment and desire, you nodded your head and his firm hand settled you down in the water adequately, running over your figure. You noticed that it was plausible this was just a reason to touch you, but who would decline such a proposal?
“So pretty…” he mused under his breath behind you as wet hands ran over the planes of your back and your shoulders.
Your skin prickled at the feel of his breath brushing against your damp skin, the tension palpable in the air as Aerion’s hands snaked down to grope at the flesh of your hips beneath the water's surface.
Aerion situated his body behind yours, chest pressing firmly against your back. A small groan escaped from his lips as his hardened length made contact with your skin, rutting slowly against the firm flesh of your posterior.
“So perfect for me…” You flushed at his utterances, incapable of thinking properly in this compromising situation. You'd fantasised about such a moment, and now it had materialised into reality.
His lips peppered kisses on your neck and shoulders, tongue darting out to lick at your skin. His hands followed a routine of grazing your hips, waist and breasts as he slotted his member between your plush thighs.
A faint gasp tore from your lips as his tip dragged through your folds, not penetrating you. But his unburdened hand crept from your hips to rub circles against your pearl in a delightfully torturous rate.
Aerion didn't shy away from being vocal as he ground against your sopping wet pussy, the water of the lake aiding in his movements. He groaned and moaned into the shell of your ear and the skin at the base of your neck between kisses.
“Feels so good…” He whined out as the pace of both his fingers and the rutting of his hips increased. “Wanted this for so long baby, m’not gonna last long.”
A choked moan escaped your parted lips in response to the movement of his fingers against your sensitive clit and the sensation of his cock dragging against your wet folds. You came undone like that, leaning back against Aerion as your thighs quivered in the aftershocks of your high.
“Fuck-” Aerion sounded as he pursued his own high, rubbing your through your orgasm and fucking against your perfect pussy. He finished with a conclusive jolt of his hips, painting your inner thighs with spurts of his warm seed.
Aerion relaxed his head on your shoulder in the aftermath, heart pounding and breathing laboriously in a way that matched you.
“See? No need for aircon...", You couldn't help but smile, perhaps finding the cure for summer heat; that being skinny dipping with Aerion.
he had found himself in your trailer. again. obviously.
but this time aerion was anything but relaxed. he had been complaining for the better part of an hour about some event he had to go to, or a dinner, or some kind of party. whatever it was you were hardly paying attention. all you heard was my father and looks bad if i dont show up and my father again. all said in that whiny, annoyed tone he used more often than not.
so there he sat, on the edge of your creaky bed, with his black button up shirt unbuttoned and his black sleek tie untied, and in the dim light of your trailer he looked beautiful.
in between his constant whining he had lit a cigarette and the warm glow from the lighter that cast on his face only made his features much more clear. more devastating.
his hair was a mess like usual from his constant distressed hands running through it and it was clear he had no idea what he looked like. no idea what he was doing to you. sitting there. looking like that. with his shirt unbuttoned and tie untied and his dry lips parted around a cigarette and the fact that he was completely unaware of it all made it so much worse.
one moment you were leaning against your desk and the next you found yourself stood in front of him. he had been so focused on trying to ignore all the thoughts plaguing his mind and instead rambling them all out to you, he hadn’t noticed you moving until you were standing directly between his parted thighs.
he looked up.
you stared down. that look was in your eye. the one he had became very familiar with over the last past year.
the look that said im bored, im waiting, do something.
he leaned back on the sheets with both hands to give him a clearer view of your expression. his cigarette lay in between his lips, the smoke ever so slowly filling your room, making the small space between you rather cloudy. but this look on your face was one of his favourites. he liked when you got impatient. angry. and he liked it even more when it showed on your features.
so he tested how long you could wait.
waiting for his whining to stop. waiting for him to finish his cigarette. waiting for him to stand up and do something. just waiting.
and you were waiting. until you weren’t. you lasted 30 seconds.
your hands found his loose tie hanging on either sides of his neck and pulled. hard. he stumbled up from the bed and before he could even register the movement your lips were on his. the force of the action caused you to stumble back into the wall, hard enough you heard the faint clattering of plastic on the floor . lip glosses probably.
your hands wrapped around the back of his neck in a tight grip, pulling him impossibly closer into you. you heard a faint crackle as he extinguished the cigarette into a nearby glass of something from last night. then his own hands found your ass eagerly, squeezing and grabbing and pulling, needing the soft flesh there. the wet sounds of tongues and spit filling the room.
one of his legs found the space between your own, parting your thighs to encase his. his fingers were digging into your hips as he pulled your waist forward and the middle of your legs caged the top of his thigh.
then he started moving. a torturous drag of your hips up and down the muscle of his leg. your mismatched socks just barely grazing the wood of your floor, then beginning to slightly tremble and flail as he kissed you.
it was a rough sensation, through the seam of your shorts and the fabric of his trousers, your core was grinding against the constant friction he was making sure you couldn’t escape.
your lips parted against his own to let out soft gasps and he smiled smugly against your mouth. maybe if you weren’t moaning, the “prick” that fell from your lips wouldn’t have sounded so desperate, would’ve had more bite. instead it sounded more like a plea and he only smiled wider at that.
you could feel the heat that was your own in your thighs and stomach from pressure of his movements. but also the heat from him, his exposed chest and stomach from the undone buttons of his shirt, letting you feel the warmth from him pressing against you.
and as if that wasn’t enough for him, as if you weren’t close enough and he needed to be closer, the grip on your hips tightened near enough to call painful and he hauled you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his hips instantly. your mouths never left one another but yours was open, parted, barely breathing as your core was now pressed against that hard buldge in between his legs.
aerion continued to roll his hips against your own, the hardness of him grinding perfectly against your most sensitive spot. which he knew. he always knew.
you gasped louder now.
he chuckled softly, almost breathlessly. “yeah?” he smiled.
you glared at the clear smugness on him, but another roll of his hips caused the look on your face to contort into one of pure pleasure. your forehead dropped to his own and softly, so faintly you nodded. a small tip of your head towards his and a gasp that just barely had the sound of agreement laced into it and his eyes lit up immediately.
you felt him push you harder into the wall as his lips found your jaw and your neck and kissed and bit and-
his phone. a loud ring. and another. and another- the sound coming from his back pocket. he groaned against your throat. your head tilted back and you huffed out in annoyance to the ceiling.
you heard a faint “shit” fall from his lips against the warm skin of your throat.
while you were still being held by him, one of his hands left your ass and found his trouser pocket, pulling out his phone. he stared at the screen a moment.
“fuck.”
“hm, your dad?”
“obviously.” the faint sound of a click as he turned his phone off and looked back to you. “i’m late.” the agitation in his voice incredibly obvious. and if his voice wasn’t clear enough, the clench of his jaw and tight grip on your hips made it ever so apparent that aerion was upset.
“well..” your hand patted against his shoulder, then pretended to dust it off. “you best go then.”
it was hard to hide the smile on your face, but the look he made when he was pouting was incredibly hard not to find funny. his head tipped forward and landed on your chest with a soft thud. then a long sigh.
you felt the floor under your feet after a moment as aerion finally put you down and took a step back to look at you. all of you. your thin pyjama shorts and even thinner pyjama shirt. the mismatched socks. the crooked necklace he gave you last year that you’ve never taken off. your messy hair. the faint lace of your underwear peeking out over your waistband. pink.
even to aerion it sounded ridiculously untrue. but there was a smile on your face as soon as he said it, because you knew what he really meant. that in his own way he was telling you, you look beautiful.
“you can’t be talking.” obviously a lie as your eyes raked over his form. the shirt and the tie and the messiness of it all and the reason you started suddenly dry humping against the wall in the first place.
aerions eyes followed your own, looking down at the state of his upper half. he looked back up.
“yeah?”
“mhm.”
“you gonna help me out then?”
a light laugh left you as you pushed off the wall and walked towards him. you brought your hands to the buttons first. slowly completing each one, not caring how obvious it was that you were totally feeling him up. caressing his abs, then his chest, then the last button, and you were done.
then the tie. and- oh.
your hands stopped at his collar.
what was it? how did it start? the thicker one or the thinner one under? or over?
fuck.
you could feel the flush on your face. the embarrassment. something that to him was maybe the most simplest thing in the world but something nobody had ever taught you, no father or mother or brother who bothered to explain. who bothered to stay.
he waited for a moment, “what?”
you tutted loudly and swatted his chest.
“i’m not one of your fucking maids.”
with that you walked away and trailed into the kitchen, not wanting him to see the look on your face, leaving him standing there completely and utterly confused.
aerion raised a brow, then followed soon after.
“what’s with the sudden attitude?” he scoffed.
you sighed, “nothing, i just,” you scratched the back of your neck, “can you just go?, i got shit to do.” you slightly turned away from him after suddenly starting to fuss with the dishes in your sink. all he could see was the side of your frame. your tight jaw, and just barely your narrowed eyes.
he leaned his shoulder against the thin doorway with crossed arms and hummed in pretend thought.
“well can’t really go with my tie like this can i?”
a short laugh. an ugly one. an angry one. even though you didn’t know why it bothered you so much. why were you so angry? was it your pride, maybe embarrassment? fear? that he would laugh? would he laugh? maybe it was the undeniable fact of your upbringing or rather your lack of one compared to his, the barrier between you that you never wanted to fully acknowledge.
“yeah like i would know.”
he noticed you were angry. the aggressive scrubbing of plates that were already more than clean. the sarcasm and aggressive tone of your voice.
but why?
all that was left was his tie. why won’t you tie his ti-
ah.
he stood there for a moment in his discovery and stared at you. he tipped his head sideways until it tapped against the doorway alongside his bicep.
“come here.” his voice was even, deliberate, but not soft. not yet.
you gritted your teeth. “fuck off aerion.”
he sighed in fake, exaggerated disappointment and watched you for a second longer.
“but then how am i gonna teach you, hm?”
you stopped scrubbing. you glanced over. eyes finding his frame filling the entirety of your small doorway, shirt tight around his chest and shoulders from crossed arms.
“come here.” he repeated, his voice quieter now, but still in that same even tone.
after drying your hands and staring at the cracked cupboards above the sink for a second, you turned, swallowed your pride and walked. slower than you did when you stormed away from him before. quieter.
he pushed his side off the frame and uncrossed his arms, so they rest on either sides of him. he had a light smile on his face as you walked over, one that you didn’t see as you were staring straight down at the floor. you were finally in front of him, too embarrassed to make eye contact and staring begrudgingly at the small floor of space between you two. separating you.
he took the final step forward and the loss of space you could call your own made your head raise. your eyes locked onto his. you tried to hide the embarrassment you were feeling and only hoped he couldn’t see the hints of it on your face.
“okay.” aerion pulled your hands upwards softly so they lay near his chest. his hands wrapped around the backs of yours, they were warm, and they were guiding you. your fingers flexed at the contact.
he moved them to the two sides of loose tie surrounding his neck and your hands gripped them instinctively. you glanced up at his face only to find him staring at you, the look on his face making your heart stutter. you swallowed.
“you gonna teach me or what?” you shot out, but the words sounded softer out loud than they did in your head.
he laughed quietly. “so impatient.” his hands tightened around yours and began to move them. “this piece,” he held one side of his tie, “goes underneath this one,” he motioned to the other side. “then this side,” his hands were careful as they moved yours, “ wraps around this top part, okay?” you looked up at his face then back down quick enough that he didn’t see.
then you cleared your throat and nodded, “sure.”
“and then..” he lent in closer and leaned down slightly to give you a better view, “this part… goes underneath then over, yeah?”, his voice was barely a whisper, and you found your own words stuck in your throat. “then through this piece, and pull.”
then his finally tied tie lay against his front. it wasn’t the tidiest or best a tie has looked but it was done.
your hands were still on his tie when his eyes found your face, noticing the prideful glint in your eyes, the smile. the sight of it made him stop and stare for a moment.
he was quiet enough that you looked up in confusion, but instead found him closer to your face than you had expected. just an inch away. there was a small moment where you just looked at each other, hands still touching. he squeezed lightly.
then his hands moved slowly under yours and started lacing your fingers together. you let him. you laced back.
he laughed softly, “such a drama queen.” he whispered against your lips.
you rolled your eyes at him but there was a small curve of your lips.
then his head dropped to your shoulder and he groaned loudly. “but i really gotta go, sweet.”
you tutted against his temple. “then go.” you tried to ignore the tightening in your chest at his words, unlacing your fingers and stepping backwards so to not get so upset for when he finally leaves. so to not get so used to his warmth. so comfortable.
aerion exhaled through his nose then scratched his eyebrow. he could see the look on your face, what it meant. that you didn’t really want him to go.
“right.”
but he made no effort to move, he looked at you. your hands that now felt cold and empty from the lack of contact from his rested on your hips as you chewed the inside of your bottom lip. he noticed.
he looked to be in thought for a while, then finally he moved. but not towards the door like he should have, not with with feet. instead, his hand came up and loosened his tie, then he pulled harder, completely undoing it.
“whoops.”
your eyes widened in shock at first then narrowed in confusion, but before you could speak he moved closer. impossibly close again.
his eyes moved from your face to his undone tie then back to your face. a silent challenge.
you grinded your teeth as you stared at him.
“childish.” you muttered.
he scoffed, “says you.”
you shot him a look.
but you gave in, moving your hands to the tie, then stopping to think for a moment, then moving them again, going back over the steps, remembering what he said, how he guided you.
and you pulled.
and you were done. this time not with his hands over yours, just your own on his stupidly expensive sleek tie and the reason for the current tension between you that was probably you being slightly very dramatic. nevertheless, you had done it.
all while he was watching you, every furrow of your brows, and biting of your lip, every time you paused for a moment and he watched you go over the memory in your head and you remembered and you pulled. he looked down at his tie.
he straightened his back slightly and turned to find the mirror (the reflection of your small microwave he could barely see in) and adjusted himself. the collar down, the tie tightening, his shirt straightened, hair tidier. he turned back to you.
“do i still look like shit?”
you huffed in amusement as you watched him, then you looked him up and down, inspecting him, and then you hummed. he opened his mouth to say something again, but your hand was on him, well his tie, the top part, the circle around his neck. your finger laced through it and you dragged him to you.
your mouth found his roughly and aerion made a sound into your against your tongue, half from surprise from being grabbed so suddenly, half from surprise from liking it so much. your hands unsurprisingly found his hair, tugging at the strands, earning more noises from him. then you gripped his shirt, clawing at his shoulders and back, feeling every part of him.
you disconnected from his lips with a wet pop and despite his efforts to chase you and continue to bite at your mouth you moved back just far enough he couldn’t reach. you both ignored the quiet whine that left his throat.
“there.” you said with an unmistakable proud tone in your voice as you looked upon your work. his newly tidied form was now messy once more. ruffled hair and a crinkled shirt and so much better than the neatness he had to pretend to wear. “much better.”
aerion stared at you for a while after that, then he looked down at his messy shirt. finally he looked up and kissed you once again. slow and gentle and nothing like the previous kisses you had shared earlier. instead of his hands on your ass they were cupping your face, your warm cheeks. yours lay on his neck, just above his collar. it was sweet and you were both smiling into it and-
his phone rang again.
you felt him register the sound then he moved back suddenly and brought his hands down his face while groaning, which earned a laugh from you.
“fuck okay, i really gotta go now.”
you nodded in agreement feeling slightly less upset at the thought of him leaving now.
while he grabbed his jacket from your bedroom you moved to open your front door, cringing at the loud creak.then he walked out. down the even creakier steps and you waited at the top of them as you watched him. the last step. then he was on the ground. then he stopped. then he turned back and went back up the stairs. and he planted a soft kiss on your lips.
“okay, now i can go.”
you giggled softly. “well.. if you can sneak out early call me,” you placed your hands on his shoulders, “and don’t lose your tie.”
aerion raised a brow.
“why not?”
you leaned down to whisper in his ear. “because i like pulling on it.”
his eyes widened, and he was still for a second, then he laughed and kissed you again.
a/n - just wanna say that it’s not a bad thing if you can’t tie a tie, i just wanted to do it for the plot and i literally can’t do it either LOL it’s completely normal if you can’t i promise 💔 i literally had to watch a video to try and understand what i had to write 😭
fic warnings: non con. dub con. incest. super dark content. primal play. violence. obsessive and very possessive boys, jealousy, heavy smut. equally messed up reader. mutual pining. really fucked up relationships. past child neglect. serious daddy issues. 18+
a/n: i can't label this as an actual series because im rubbish with long chapters and plots. this will be more smut / build up to heavy smut with longer pieces and drabbles that fit together in a sort of timeline.
synopsis: so I have this sick and twisted idea of Aerion and Valarr living on a ranch with their family and their cousin who is like Aery’s daughter. She only been visiting like every summer since she was seven and then any other time she’s in like a boarding school. But basically they’re obsessed with each other and when she gets older her dad threatens to take her away and as much as you’re thinking they’d like be rivals i genuinely think they’d work together to keep her with them.
This is like very dark content. It’ll be less of a series and more of a dark smut with parts and lots of parts because I’ve been dreaming about this for like weeks I can’t lie…
lore - background to this story
prologue - in which you realise you could never truly escape them
one - in which you arrival doesn't go as planned
two - in which tensions start to rise
three - in which you think you might be making a mistake
-18+ explicit content, i was struck with inspiration after watching the movie lols, unprotected sex, spanking, morning sex, riding and doggy and slight hair pulling! i think thats all xoxo!
sunlight was already filtering through the blinds, casting long, lazy shadows across the room, but the warmth radiating from the body next to you felt much more potent.
bobby was awake before you were, which was a rare sight, pressing soft lazy kisses against your forehead and the nape of your neck. it was a grounding, intimate sort of wake-up call that had you melting back into the pillows, not quite ready to face the day ahead. when he finally pulled away, you felt the sudden emptiness of the space beside you, but you were still too sleepy to protest.
he slipped out of bed, the mattress springs creaking softly in protest, and padded barefoot toward the bathroom. you trailed after him a few minutes later after you slipped into the oversized t-shirt he’d left draped over the back of the chair. it swallowed you whole, smelling unmistakably of him, and you felt a sudden wave of domestic contentment wash over you.
in the bathroom mirror, you stood practically staring at him shirtless, blonde hair still messy from sleep.
you leaned against the sink counter next to him as he brushed his teeth, watching him in the reflection. he hands you your toothbrush without even asking, the gesture is so automatic that neither of you think about it anymore.
soon you're both standing side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth in comfortable silence. the morning light spills through the small window above the bathtub, painting everything gold.
he finished quickly, spat into the sink, he turned off the water and turned to you, “gonna go make breakfast,” he says, his hand rubbing over hip in soothing motions, “you want coffee, or you good?”
“no coffee, thanks,” you mutter, he gives you one last look before reaching back to give your ass a firm, playful slap then wandering out to make breakfast.
you finish up and pad back the bed, sliding back under the covers. you’re not quite ready to fully start your day yet, not when the world outside feels so far away. the bed dips as he returns, a bowl of cereal in his hand, and you watch him from the blankets.
he’s shirtless, the morning light catching the lines of his chest and the dusting of hair that leads down toward the waistband of his pajama pants. he’s slurping the cereal loudly, the sound loud in the quiet room, but you barely notice. you can’t take your eyes off him. he looks so good like this. so effortlessly handsome.
you watched him finish his cereal, the spoon scraping against the ceramic bowl, the sound echoing in the quiet room. he set the empty bowl on the nightstand, his movements languid, still heavy with sleep.
“you are so sexy.” you say straight up, his eyes found yours in the dim light, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
"am i?" he drawled, the corner of his mouth ticking up into a smirk. he set the bowl down with a soft clink and shifted, turning his full attention to you. the languid sleepiness evaporated from his eyes, replaced by a sharp, predatory glint.
“mhmm” you hummed as he leaned closer.
then he reaches out, hooking a finger into the collar of the oversized t-shirt you wore, his shirt, and gave it a little tug. “why don't you come over here and show me just how sexy you think i am?"
he didn't wait for an answer. he closed the remaining distance, his lips crashing against yours.
"come on," he muttered against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. "put in a little work for me babe." he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and intense. "get on and ride me."
he guided you, his hands strong and sure as he positioned you to straddle his lap. you could feel how hard he was already, his arousal pressing hot and heavy against you slightly.
"that's it," he praised, his hands gripping your hips, encouraging you to move. "grind that wet pussy on me, yeahhhhhh. just like that."
you started to move, a slow roll of your hips that had him groaning, his head falling back against the headboard. his eyes had a look of pure, unadulterated lust.
the oversized t-shirt was now rucked up around your waist, every nerve ending was on fire, screaming for his touch, his weight, his anything. his pajama pants doing a piss-poor job of hiding the now full on erection straining against the fabric.
"get your cock out, bobby-" you demanded, your voice a raw, desperate whine. you tried to grind your hips up toward him, to get any kind of friction.
"patience, baby," he cooed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. he leaned forward slightly, the movement causing the bulge in his pants to brush against your core, and you let out a choked sob.
"bobby, please!" you cried, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes. your entire body felt like a live wire, humming with a desperate, frantic energy. "if you don't shove your dick in me in the next 5 seconds i'm gonna scream-"
"fuck- alright, hold on-" his composure finally cracked, he fumbled with the drawstring of his pajama pants, his fingers clumsy in his haste. yanking the pants down just enough to free himself.
he was hard and flushed in his hand, the rosy pink tip already glistening with precum. he gave himself a few rough pumps with his fist, his eyes locked on your exposed, needy cunt, and the sight of him so undone by your desperation sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"spread your legs wider," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "wider. let me see that pretty little pussy."
you complied instantly, you opened yourself to him. he didn't wait another second. he lined himself up with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock teasing you, and then, with one sharp, powerful thrust, he was inside you.
the sudden, brutal stretch of him stole your breath. his hips flush against yours, his balls pressed against your ass. he gave you a moment to adjust, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow.
"fuck, you're so wet," he groaned, his voice strained.
he started to move you then, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that had you seeing stars. each thrust up his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that made your toes curl.
"is this what you wanted?" he panted, his voice a raw, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire body.
his fingers were digging into the flesh of your hips, hard enough to leave bruises, using the leverage to pull you down onto him with every upward snap of his own hips. the sound was obscene, a wet, rhythmic slapping that echoed in the quiet room, mingling with the creak of the bed springs and your own ragged breaths.
"you wanted me to fuck you like this? hmm?”
you could only moan in response, a high, desperate sound that was half pleasure, half surrender.
your hands had flown up to tangle in the messy blonde hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers clenching and unclenching with each powerful thrust.
the angle was perfect, the head of his cock brushing against that sensitive spot deep inside you with every stroke, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure shooting up your spine. all you could do was hold on and take it, your body a pliant instrument for his pleasure.
suddenly, he stopped. his hips stilled, and he was just buried inside you, throbbing and hot. the sudden absence of movement was a jolt, a denial that made you whine in protest. he pulled his head back, his hands still gripping your hips, forcing you to stillness.
"hey," he said, his voice sharp, cutting through the haze of your arousal. "answer me. m'talking to you."
the command cut through the fog. you blinked, trying to focus your vision, trying to form words. "y-yes!" you stammered, your voice trembling with the effort of speaking. "yes! i said yes!"
a slow grin spread across his face, a look of satisfaction. "yeahhh," he breathed, the sound a low, approving rumble. he gave you one last, hard grind of his hips, making you gasp, before he abruptly lifted you off him as if you weighed nothing. he maneuvered you, his hands firm and directive, until you were on your hands and knees in the center of the bed.
"get on all fours," he commanded, his hand coming down in a sharp, stinging smack on your exposed ass. you yelped, more from surprise than pain. "ass up, c'mon. present that pretty little pussy to me."
you scrambled to obey, arching your back and lowering your shoulders to the mattress, pushing your ass up into the air. you felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable, and the feeling sent a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling in your core. you could hear the rustle of fabric as he moved behind you, and then his hands were on you again, spreading your cheeks apart.
"look at that, baby" he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. he ran a thumb through your slick folds, circling your entrance but not entering, teasing you until you were squirming, pushing back against him in silent supplication.
he positioned himself at your entrance and, with one powerful, relentless thrust, he was buried to the hilt. the new angle was deeper, more intense, and you cried out, your fingers digging into the sheets as he set a punishing rhythm, his hips slapping against your ass with each brutal stroke.
"that's it," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as he fucked into you. "take it-”
his words were filthy, degrading, and they only made you want him more. you pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, your body moving in a primal rhythm as he chased his release, dragging you along with him.
he leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth next to your ear. "come on, babe," he whispered through loud pants, moaning and huffing into your ear. "cum, let me feel you cream on my cock. fucking do it."
“ohmygodohmygodbobby!-” you moan loudly,
"shhh, shut up, shut up," he suddenly hissed, his hand came down hard on your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the quiet room. "you're going to wake everybody up-"
"god, you're so fucking tight," he groaned, removing his hand from your mouth to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back. "such a good girl, ive got such a good ass girl-"
the condescending tone was still there, but now it was laced with a desperate need that mirrored your own.
you buried your face in the sheets, muffling your cries. your hands fisting in the sheets as he drove into you, his thrusts became more desperate and his hand coming down to rub your pulsing clit. "cum, cum f’me," he panted, his voice strained.
and with his words, the coil in your stomach snapped, pleasure washing over you in intense, dizzying waves. your vision went white, your body arching as you cried out his name. he followed you over the edge moments later, his warm cum pumping into you in spurts, leaking out on the sides of his cock.
he pressed a soft, almost tender kiss to one of your ass cheeks, a stark contrast to the brutal fucking he'd just given you. you felt the bed shift as he moved, and then the sudden, empty feeling as he pulled out. a moment later, you felt the warm, sticky evidence of his release begin to trickle down your inner thigh.
and then it hit you. a jolt of cold, sobering reality that cut through the post-orgasmic haze.
"bobby," you said, your voice flat as you collapsed onto your side, pulling a pillow against your chest. "you didn't use a condom."
he looked back at you, "hey," he said, shrugging as he grabbed his pajama pants from the floor. "you were the one who got all horny and demanding. 'shove your dick in me,' i believe were your exact words. what was i supposed to do? say no?"
the sheer audacity of it made you sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest.
"i was supposed to say no? you're the one who forgot! god, you're such an asshole," you snapped, the anger warring with the lingering pleasure still humming through your veins. "now i have to go get a plan b."
"alright, alright, calm down," he said, his tone dismissive as he pulled his pants back on, not even bothering with underwear. he stood up, running a hand through his messy hair. "i'll go get you one."
he disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the sound of the faucet running. you laid back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the anger slowly deflating into a weary resignation. a few minutes later, he returned with a warm, wet rag.
he sat on the edge of the bed, his touch surprisingly gentle as he carefully cleaned you up, wiping away the sticky mess between your thighs. he didn't say anything, just focused on his task, his brow furrowed in concentration.
when he was done, he tossed the rag toward the hamper.
"no, i'll go, i think we have one in the medicine cabinet" you said, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. you needed the air. you needed a moment away from him and his infuriatingly casual attitude toward potentially life-altering consequences.
"hurry back."
you got up, pulling on the oversized t-shirt and a pair of your own underwear that had been discarded on the floor.
you padded out of the bedroom and over to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen, pulling open the doors and rummaging through the different medicine boxes. nothing.
ur boyfriend doesn’t care about your shitty retail job.
backrooms movie spoiler free!!. part 2 . smut. wc 5k
you sat behind the large reception desk, surrounded by endless corners of untouched furniture. sofas untouched beneath faded promotional banners, dining tables gathered dust in perfect rows.
being promoted to assistant manager by Clark, the store’s owner, should have felt like an accomplishment. instead, it felt like a joke. no one ever came in and the store was always quiet, but lately the silence felt different. ever since Clark had claimed he’d found ‘something’.
you still remembered the excitement in his eyes that day. Clark had burst through the front doors. he’d been talking so fast you could barely keep up.
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“found it in the basement.”
“everything’s going to change.”
then, somehow, everything had. not in the way he’d promised. instead of expanding the business or finally paying for decent advertising, Clark practically vanished downstairs. days would pass without seeing him. when he did emerge, he looked exhausted and distracted. and every time you asked what he’d found?
the answer was always the same, “Not yet.”
so, that left you in charge of the entire store. not that there was much to manage. you glanced at the front windows. the parking lot was empty except for your car and Clark’s beat up honda, which hadn’t moved in three days.
another thrilling shift. your chin rested in your palm as you half heartedly counted inventory sheets scattered across the reception desk. not that it mattered much. the numbers never changed, the furniture never moved. the customers never came.
you were halfway through recounting a stack of end tables for the third time when unexpectedly, the front door opened. the bell above it gave a cheerful ding
“There she is.” the familiar voice instantly pulled you out of your boredom.
you looked up, and your entire expression brightened
“Bobby?”
your boyfriend stepped through the showroom, hands tucked casually into his pockets. a warm smile spread across his face as he spotted you behind the desk.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, unable to hide the grin tugging at your lips
“I could ask you the same thing” Bobby teased as he approached.
he stopped at the reception desk and leaned against it, resting his forearms on the countertop. his gaze wandered across the nearly empty showroom, taking in the endless rows of untouched couches and dining sets.
then he glanced back at you. “You’ve got this whole place to yourself again?”
“Looks that way.”
“Where’s Clark?” bobby hesitantly asked.
you let out a long sigh, dropping your pen onto the desk. “Clark? I don’t know. somewhere.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow.
“I saw him for about ten minutes and then he disappeared somewhere downstairs.”
“sounds like Clark.” Bobby chuckled, but his smile softened when he noticed the tired look in your eyes.
“Rough day?”
you slumped further into your chair, your brows now furrowed.
“Rough month.”
his expression immediately turned sympathetic noticing the visible frustration.
“hey” he said softly, your eyes closed for a moment as bobby’s thumb brushed gently across your cheek. the simple touch melted away hours of boredom faster than anything else could.
when you opened your eyes again, he was smiling at you.
“better?” he said softly.
you rolled your eyes, though the grin tugging at your lips ruined any attempt at looking annoyed.
“look.” his elbows rested on the reception desk as he leaned closer. then he reached across the desk and gently squeezed your hand.
“For what it’s worth” he said, “I think you’re doing a better job running this place than Clark ever has.”
you rolled your eyes. “That’s an incredibly low bar.”
“Still counts.” bobby laughed.
the sound echoed pleasantly through the empty showroom. And with that Bobby pushed himself away from the reception desk with a dramatic groan and began wandering through the showroom.
his sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as he looked around at the endless rows of furniture.
“fuck” he muttered, letting out a low whistle. “This place is creepy.”
you laughed, following after him
“Creepy?”
“Yeah.” he gestured broadly at the empty store. “look at it. nobody’s here, half the lights are buzzing, and you’ve got all this shit here”
“You don’t actually get scared in here?” he asked.
“nope”
you stepped closer, folding your arms. “Why?” you asked, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “You scared?”
Bobby’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he fought a grin.
“Not even a little.”
“Oh, you definitely sound scared.” you pressed
“I do?”
you hummed softly, you took another step forward until barely any space remained between you.
Bobby’s eyebrows lifted. “Funny” he said quietly. “I was gonna say the same thing about you.”
you huffed, “I’m not scared.”
“No?”
“No.”
his gaze flickered briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.
the corner of his mouth twitched. “Then why’s your heart beating so fast?”
“It’s not.”
“Sure.”
“I swear”
“yeah?” his head tilted slightly as he leaned in, eyes softening.
you knew exactly what he was trying to do and absolutely not. the moment he got close enough, your palm landed squarely against his face.
Bobby stopped mid motion.
“I’m at work Bobby!” you pushed him back with a laugh.
he groaned dramatically, stumbling backward.
“you’re practically all alone here.” he rubbed the spot where your hand had blocked him and shook his head. Bobby sighed heavily and wandered off toward a display bedroom set, he dropped onto one of the beds dramatically, the cushions sank beneath him.
a second later, he bounced slightly, the foam springing back with a satisfying recoil.
his face lit up. “Oh.”
“What?”
“This bed is incredible.”
he thrust his hips upward, bouncing rhythmically on the mattress, his hands positioned in front of him as if he were holding an imaginary body ontop of him.
“This would be great in our bedroom” he spoke honestly
the sigh of seeing your boyfriend practicing his thrusts in the middle of a public retail store was enough to send an embarrassing warmth down your neck.
“Bobby please!” you whined, in a breathless plea. you stepped forward, grabbing his arm and tugging firmly, refusing to look him in the eye. “Get off.”
Bobby didn't get off. instead, he leaned into the tug, “Baby cmonn.”
he used the momentum to roll onto his back and pull you down with him.
“Bobby-“
the unexpected pull threw off your balance. with a surprised yelp, you stumbled forward and landed beside him on the mattress. he laughed a sound that echoed in the quiet showroom.
“you're such a-" before you could finish, he kissed you, not a peck, it was a deep, slow kiss, mouth open against yours, tongue warm and coaxing, a kiss that made you forget about your boss right below you two.
"im working" you mumbled against his lips, but you didn't push him away
"I know” he said, teeth brushing your lower lip, breath coming faster now. and then he kissed you again, harder this time. his thigh nudged between yours, pressing up till your hips shifted instinctively against him, betraying yourself in the needy way your body wanted more.
his hand slid down, fingers grazing past your shorts and down your inner thigh as your breath caught, mouth parting just as a door creaked somewhere down the hall.
you both froze, his body still flush against you, your chest rising and falling fast against his.
they were just casual, wandering footsteps. Bobby didn't move. his hand still gripped your ass, and when your eyes widened, he just gave it another squeeze and murmured
"just Clark doing bullshit" he reassured.
you gave his chest a hard smack, he looked so good like this. sprawled across the bed, his shirt had ridden up, exposing the ridge of his hipbones. one arm was tucked behind his head, the other lazily fiddling with his belt, metal clinking soft and slow. click, tug, loosen.
your hand moved, fingertips brushing along his stomach, just above the waistband.
"we shouldn't. he’s ..."
"in the basement" bobby murmured, pushing up just a little, rising onto one elbow so he could press his mouth to your partially exposed collarbone.
“can't see us here. won't hear us either"
he wasn't wrong. his hand slid beneath your shirt, warm palm flat against your ribs, pushing the fabric up slow inch by inch
"Fuck" he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on your chest like he was starving for it "come closer. let me taste."
and you knew better. you knew how easily he could undo you. but your body moved anyway, breasts right at his mouth's reach as he sat up fully, his mouth dragging across your skin just below the neckline before his lips closed around you. he pulled the fabric upward, bunching it over your bra again, exposing the soft curve of your belly. his lips followed, kisses slow and open mouthed, tongue flicking over the dip of your bellybutton
you bit your bottom lip, trying not to moan when his tongue flicked across your breast, then beneath it as his hand tugged your bra down rough and needy. the cool air on your wet skin made you shiver, his mouth quickly sucking on your skin, sucking the chill away
"Bobby" you whispered, half scolding but already breathless
"Mmhm?" he said, not stopping for a second, lips wrapped around the swell of your breast, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you against him till you felt his growing bulge.
you slid your hands into his hair, you felt him groan low when your fingers tightened, his mouth sucking harder in response.
his hand dropped back to his belt buckle again, metal clinking. Bobby’s fingers pulled at the hem of your shirt. your shirt and bra eased down together, your own fingers curling, tugging until both cups peeled free, your breasts spilling out just inches from his face
he looked up at you, grinning. boyish, yes. but there was nothing innocent in the way his eyes looked at you, his lips were already wrapping around your nipple before you could say anything
"Mmm" he groaned low against your chest, tongue curling over your nipple, sucking deep and slow. his free hand came up to pinch and roll your other nipple between his fingers, teasing until it stiffened under his touch. you head dropped back, a gasp catching in your throat. you bit down hard on your lip, trying to stay quiet, but with the way his tongue flicked and swirled, switching between lazy flicks and sharp little flicks you couldn't help it.
then, pop. he released your nipple with a loud, wet sound, his lips glossy and parted as he sat up moving between your legs, his hands gripped your hips, tugging you against him. his belt brushed your thighs as he settled in between .
you gasped, a surprised little sound escaping as your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
"bobby..." you moaned, not even sure what you meant to say. "my boss-"
he grunted against your neck, hips grinding forward just enough to make you whimper again "he’s not fucking here."
that was all he said, like it settled everything. and in a way it did
"just lay back for me" he said and you did.
you got comfortable on the plush mattress, your legs stayed around his waist, spread just enough to cradle him in between your thighs, your breasts still out and glistening from his mouth.
Bobby moved closer, hands smoothing up your legs, pulling your shorts lower as he went. his belt came undone with a rough clink, then in one eager motion, his pants and boxers were shoved down, caught halfway down his thighs as his cock sprang free, thick and veined, tip glistening.
he spread your legs open around his hips as he leaned in between. his hands ran up your thighs, rough palms skimming over your skin.
he reached your waistband, kissing just above the elastic of your shorts, then slowly dragged them down, inch by inch, mouth trailing behind his fingers as he exposed your hips, your lower stomach, the fabric of your panties already slightly damp, clinging between your thighs
he pressed one last kiss just below your bellybutton, then looked up at you as he dragged your panties right along with them until both were bunched around your ankles. and then he saw you wet, aching, from nothing but kissing and friction and his fucking mouth on your tits. he stared for a second, his lips parting, chest rising harder
he stood between your legs, cock flushed, already brushing against your folds. he rubbed himself through your pussy slowly, letting the head glide along your slickness, sliding between your lips without pushing in, but just enough friction to make your breath hitch. he nudged at your entrance and then pulled back, teased you again and again, just grinding with that curve in his cock that rubbed your clit each time
"Bobby" you gasped, hips jerking forward
"Fuck" he muttered, then finally, finally he aligned himself with your entrance and pushed forward.
the stretch was slow and deep, your sweet pussy welcoming him. your mouth fell open, lips parted in a silent cry. no sound came out. you couldn't afford it not with Clark still somewhere nearby, maybe just behind this thin wall
Bobby's jaw clenched tight, his eyebrows furrowing as he bottomed out inside you. he exhaled long through his nose, his hips flush with yours now, every inch buried deep
"Fuck" he mouthed silently, eyes closing shut, his hands tightening on your hips
you both lay still for a second, trying to breathe through the fullness and the thrill of getting away with it, of doing this, fucking like this, with your boss in the room right below.
he moved first. small, slow strokes, careful not to let the bed creak beneath you. his cock dragged through your tightness, his cock brushing every sweet spot inside you as his hips moved slowly, without noise
you pulled him down, hands fisting in the front of his shirt until his face was buried against your shoulder, your mouth brushing his ear now with every soft moan that slipped
"Baby your moans" he groaned, voice cracking and hushed against your skin
"You can't fuck me like this and expect me not to" you whispered back, breath catching at the end of your sentence
his lips found your shoulder, kissing it, biting it gently to muffle his own groan, his hips pressing harder now, movement still slow but deeper
then, he couldn't take it anymore. "Shit, I can't" he whispered against your shoulder, and suddenly his mouth was on your breast again. he latched onto your nipple, sucking hard, moaning around it like it was the only thing keeping him quiet.
your fingers were in his hair, holding him there, cradling his head as he sucked your tits with those wet, open mouthed sucks
your back arched, mouth open again but silent, the pleasure building up with every thrust of his cock
the room was filled with quiet slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out and Bobby groaning into your chest, cock buried to the base, arms trembling from holding himself back, he looked up at you and whispered
“you feel so fucking good baby. gonna cum just from this tight little pussy around me. fuck"
"Don't cum" you breathed, voice shaky, your mouth against his temple as his cock fucked deep and slow inside you, barely keeping rhythm anymore. "we have nothing to clean it up with."
you felt his smile, the curve of his lips pressed against your breast
"And?" he mumbled around your nipple, his tongue flicking lazily before he kissed the soft underside of your breast again, lips sticky with spit. that single response told you everything. because you knew bobby, knew exactly what that smug little word meant
he didn't give a fuck. if he could fuck you full of him right now, raw and messy, and walk away without wiping a thing, he would. he wanted to. you could feel it in the the tremble in his hips, the twitch of his cock throbbing inside your wet pussy.
he was holding back with everything he had, but barely. and then with one full hard thrust. his hips slammed his cock into you, knocking the sound right out of your mouth. the bed creaked loudly and your moan shot out before you could stop it, loud and needy, echoing out into the open space.
you exhaled hard, pressing your hand to his shoulder.
"Baby..” you whined, quiet and pleading, even though your pussy clenched around him just for being inside you like this "please."
Bobby groaned softly, head dropping into the crook of your neck. his breath was ragged now, his cock twitching as he slowly rolled his hips once more.
“i’m gonna-” you started, but the words turned into a sharp moan as he shifted his angle, hitting that sweet spot inside you. your legs shook harder, your body arching off the bed despite the ache in your muscles
“gimme one” he groaned as he picked up the pace
“Fuck.” you whimpered, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes
“let me feel you” and that was all it took as your orgasm came over you, your walls pulsating around him, pulling him deeper.
Bobby groaned loudly, his thrusts becoming messy as your release triggered his own. “baby fuck” he gasped, his cock twitching inside you as he cummed into you, adding to the sticky mess between your thighs.
for a moment, the two of you stayed like that, panting, clinging to each other as the aftershocks rolled through you.
This didn’t let me go and I wrote it in one sitting so here ya go.
The click was deafening, a sound barely distinguishable by the human ear, mostly ignored. The rush of a closing door and you and Art were plunged into darkness.
“Fuck,” Art cursed, the rattle of the door handle sounding and then silence. You were locked in. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He huffed and you felt the brush of his breath across your naked shoulders.
“I can’t see anything,” you were calm as ever, nothing could rattle you. Especially not a locked door. You felt along the wall, searching for a switch, trying to ignore the unsteady breath of Art behind you. “Maybe if we can see there’ll be a way out.”
“There won’t be. There’s no window, no second door,” Art started to breathe heavier the walls around him starting to close in.
“Maybe there’s a key stashed somewhere. There has to be.” You continued to feel along, foot catching over something. A squeal rushed past your lips before competent hands caught you at your waist.
“Be careful,” Art snapped, his voice harsh as he straightened you. This was the first time Art ever talked to you in that tone. He was always so friendly and composed, never raising his voice at anyone at the club.
When you were assigned as his trainee you were worried at first. You knew Art Donaldson, everyone in the tennis world did. A freshly divorced, retired tennis player didn’t make for a good coach you had thought. Too much resentment and hurt pride standing in his way. But surprisingly Art didn’t carry any of it.
He was punctual, at the court even before you were. Art always had a friendly word for the mothers lingering on the sidelines to watch their kids play. Or watch Art. You weren’t stupid, you knew Art was attractive, the women on the sidelines were loud enough about it.
“My god, how I wish I could have a piece of that,” Glinda had murmured into her glass of Martini as you picked up the leftover tennis balls from the court.
Sandra chuckled. “You’re too late. He’s divorced there’s only one way he goes now.”
“What way?” The clink of a glass and a devilish grin told you what was coming wasn’t something you were going to like.
“Younger of course. Divorced men always go younger. Where everything still sits perky and tight.” Sandra said with a sour face.
You really tried not to listen, your whole face flushed at the glances they kept throwing at you.
“Lucky them, I bet he fucks like a pornstar. With that stamina.”
Apart from the very loud opinions of the women, Art was also great with the kids. He was very patient in teaching them, correcting their mistakes without making them feel bad.
And most importantly he was really nice to you. Never crossed any lines or made you feel uncomfortable. Despite what the mothers of the kids said you didn’t even think Art was interested in another romantic relationship.
“Any plans this weekend?” You’d asked while dragging the court sweeper across the clay. Art was reading through the forms he kept for the kids progress, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration.
“I’ve got a sixpack of beers calling my name and a new season of stranger things.”
You’d stopped and he looked up to see you staring at him with a grin. “Stranger things?”
Art rolled his eyes, flushing despite his age. “Lilly got me hooked on it and I promised her we’d watch the new season together so I have to catch up on the last one.”
You softened slightly. “It’s really good. The new season.”
He looked at you surprised then but didn’t say anything. You went back to cleaning up and he continued to look through his notes but not without throwing you a few glances every other minute.
It wasn’t like you didn’t notice the steady increase of looks he kept shooting you. The way his eyes would linger on the hem of your skirts or the way you bend over to pick up the heavy baskets filled with tennis balls. But you knew he’d never actually act on it and you were glad for it. You needed this position, needed to finish your program because you’ve worked to hard for this little attraction to ruin your future.
But it was getting harder to ignore. One night, training had ended early due to a storm warning and you were still out on the court cleaning up as the wind whipped your hair into your face.
At the call of your name you looked up surprised to see Art approaching you, squinting through the pelting rain. His white polo clung to his body, the material see through and making every line of his body visible. Despite his retirement, Art was still fit. His stomach was less toned, pressing hardly against his shirt but he looked devastatingly handsome as he approached you.
“What are you doing out here?” He stopped in front of you, inviting most of the brunt of the storm to hit him instead of you.
“Cleaning up?”
“Cleaning up? There’s a blizzard warning, fuck the cleaning up.” Before you could protest again his hand was on your back, warm and big guiding you towards the parking lot. Your bike was locked in the stand but Art pushed you past it, ushering you towards his SUV.
“Art, it’s fine I can—“
“Get in.” There was no room for discussion and with an irritated huff you got into his car. The immediate quiet from the storm calmed your nerves as the leather squeaked beneath your wet thighs.
“Buckle in.” He ordered again and you did. You were shivering slightly and Art dialed the heater up without a word as he maneuvered the car out of the parking lot.
“I appreciate how hard working you are,” Art started. “You’re gonna be a good coach one day. But when something like this happens you pack your stuff and go home.”
You felt weirdly scolded by him, despite the gentle look on his face. His hair was stuck to his skin, wet and curling only slightly. It was still too short to curl properly but you’d looked up plenty of pictures of him in his youth to see the full brunt of his curls.
You shifted in the seat, suddenly awfully nervous. You never found yourself in this close proximity to Art. There were traces of his private life in his car. A pink glittery bracelet hanging from the mirror, multiple scrunchies wrapped around his gear shift.
There was a take out menu with various receipts stuck to his sun visor and you couldn’t help but smile slightly. Art was so awfully human it was funny how some people idolized him and made him appear like a god.
“It won’t happen again,” you settled on agreeing and watched him nod satisfied. The line of his jaw was as sharp as ever and when he caught you staring, you flushed despite yourself.
When he parked the car in front of your apartment complex he stopped you before getting out of the car. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.” His fingers tapped against your wrist once sending a spark up your arm.
You stared at him with parted lips.
“Your bike’s still at the court,” he explained with a soft smile.
“Oh,” you breathed. “That’s fine, I can walk.”
“Be ready at eight.” He turned to look past you at the building, again not letting you protest and your gaze sharpened.
“And here I thought you didn’t enjoy ordering people around.”
His lips tipped into a boyish smile and you wondered if that was the way he would pick up girls with when he was on college. “Honey, I’m a tennis coach, ordering people around is my job.”
His eyes dipped for a moment and you clumsily reached for the handle, trying to get out of the enclosed space.
Now there was no where to go. There was only darkness, Art’s hands on your waist steady and sure.
“There has to be a light switch,” you insisted, stepping out of his hold careful not to trip again. After a few tries your fingers caught on the switch. Once you hit it a lightbulb barely came to life, buzzing softly.
You squinted at first before your eyes got used to it. When they did, you finally saw Art, standing as far away as the room would allow, his face turned away from you.
The space was familiar, you’d been in and out of it most of the times, bringing rackets for kids who wanted to try out the sport without committing fully, bringing spare nets and poles out.
You turned back to the door searching for a key, hitting the door, yelling for help but nothing worked. When you turned, slightly out of breath, Art hadn’t shifted a bit, still staring at the grey wall as if it held all the answers.
“Do you have your phone with you?”
“No. Left it with my bag.”
“Fuck,” you cursed and leaned against the door. “Well, I guess we have to wait. Someone will turn up once you don’t appear at practice.”
Art nodded, hands pushing in the pockets of his shorts as he still refused to look at you. You frowned.
“What’s wrong?” You shifted forward, shoes dragging and watched him flinch at the sound.
“Nothing.” His answer came quickly, voice scratchy.
“Are you…Art are you claustrophobic?” You realized with a surprised sound and Art grimaced. His gaze snapped toward you as he shook his head. He tugged at the collar of his polo, swallowing.
“We’re gonna be fine. Someone will start looking for us pretty soon,” you tried soothing him but he was still flushed, eyes jumping hectictally.
It wasn’t a surprise he didn’t like confined places, Art was a person highly dependent on his routines. He turned up at coaching the same time every day and left at the same time. He loved structure and order when it came to anything and you valued him for it since it played right into your little irks.
“You’re gonna be fine,” you repeated and his eyes dipped to your lips, breath slowing slightly.
“What did you do last night?” You asked and Art huffed a small laugh.
“Finished the Stranger Things finale with Lily.”
“Yeah?” You smiled, having inched closer. “What did she think?”
“She cried for an hour and only stopped when I took her through the drive through to get some ice cream,” Art smiled not even noticing that you reached him. You leaned against the wall beside him and nodded. “Very wise choice. I would’ve liked some condolence ice cream after that finale too.”
Art smiled. “Next time call me, I’ll pick you up.”
You flushed at his offer, knowing he didn’t mean it literally. You and Art never hung out privately. You had nothing in common except from tennis obviously. He was older than you and…well, he was him. You never reached out via texts except when Art needed to change the schedule. Which happened rarely.
“Better now?” You asked quietly and Art looked down at you, nodding. His gaze slipped again and your heart jumped at the glimmer in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Any time.” You words were whispered more than spoken, disappearing into thin air at the look he was giving you. He was leaning in, shoulder curving around you and a shiver ran down your spine at his proximity.
When Art leaned down, you turned your head away, his nose brushing against your cheeks. “That’s a very bad idea,” you whispered.
Art closed his eyes as if in pain, his forehead pressing against your temple. “I know, believe me, I know.”
Still he didn’t move, his hand coming up to grip your hip, fingers driving over the slip of skin between your skirt and shirt. His touch was electric and you bowed right into it.
“Step back then,” you urged him.
“I can’t.” He let out small breathy laugh and you shivered again. His lips grazed over your cheek, hand wandering up to stop on your sternum, feeling for your fluttering pulse.
The words of Sandra flashed in your mind and you took a step back, watching him frown at you.
“I’m your trainee,” you stated and he nodded, jaw tight.
“I know that.”
“This is unprofessional.”
“Aware of that too,” Art huffed, hands flexing at his sides.
“We can’t do this. It’s just…I won’t risk my position because of physical attraction.”
At this Art hesitated. “You think I wanted to kiss you because I find you attractive?”
You scoffed, crossing your arms in front of you. “Why else?”
Art laughed slightly. “Because you’re smart? And kind? And I like spending time with you.”
You relaxed slightly. This was Art after all. You knew him. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re my boss and I’m way younger than you.”
“Technically, the academy is your boss not me. And I’m aware that you’re younger, believe me, I’ve spend a lot of time thinking about it,” Art huffed, jaw flexing again.
You watched him for a moment, eyes drawing over the lines of his shoulders. “You have?”
He looked at you then, eyes darker than they usually were. “You think I just drive any woman home most nights?”
He inched closer. “You think I let anyone scribble notes onto my paper system? Let anyone steal my lunch sandwich?”
“Those were yours?” You gasped mortified. You thought they were just prepared by the lunch lady that brought the refreshments every afternoon. “Why didn’t you say anything? I ate them right in front of you!”
Art arched a brow. “Why do you think?”
You felt the heat spread down your throat and Art followed the color as if entranced.
“So what you’re telling me, you’re into me?”
Art huffed. “Do you say it like that these days? Then yes, very into you.”
Oh.
He was inching in again and this time you let him, head tilting back shyly as he bend down. “I still think this is a bad idea,” you whispered as his lips grazed yours.
“I know. But it’ll only be this one time.”
“Only once?” You stared up at him and he nodded.
“Only once.” And then his lips finally met yours.
Art kissed like he talked, kind and gentle and ever so careful. His movements were slow, languid, like he wanted to capture the moment forever in his mind. His hands were on you immediately, drawing over your body, mapping every curve and dip.
His lips parted on a groan and you tasted him as he pushed you into the wall. His body was all hard planes beneath your hands, skin smooth and soft. You sighed as his lips trailed along your jaw, back arching and tits pressing into him.
Art groaned, hand coming up to squeeze at your tit, knee driving between your thighs as he slightly urged you forward to rock against his thigh. You whimpered at the friction, leaning up to chase his lips again.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, jerking your body faster. Your hands drove down his tummy, reaching for his shorts but he gently drove your hands away.
“I’m fine,” he murmured, biting at your skin and nuzzling your neck.
“You think you can cum like this?” He asked against your skin and you squeezed your eyes shut.
“Yes—god—yes, I can.”
“Good,” he murmured before tasting you again. His fingers were squeezing your ass as he pressed you tighter against him. You could feel the muscle of his thigh clench as your clit dragged deliciously against the fabric of your panties, fully soaked by your arousal. You blushed at the wet feeling a little self conscious that he got you this worked up.
“Art,” you moaned, hands driving into his hair as he angled you just right.
“Doing so good for me. Keep going. Use me for your pleasure.”
“Fuck,” you breathed, the scent of his cologne in your nose, his scalp beneath your fingers. He sucked at your sweet spot and the orgasm was sudden and hard.
You whimpered against his skin, body drawing tight. Art jerked you harder against his thigh. “That’s it. Fuck—you’re incredible.”
Once the heavy shivers let loose, you sacked forward, Art hugging you to him gently. Your breath hit his skin and you felt him shiver but when you tried to slip your hand into his shorts he stopped you at your wrist again.
You looked up at him surprised. “You don’t want me to…?”
He shook his head pressing a gentle kiss against your lips. “It’s better this way.”
You nodded, trying to understand but he was kissing you again, so long and hard you almost grew dizzy. A telltale click sounded and you both turned surprised, jumping apart as you came face to face with Sandra and Glinda. “What on earth are you doing in here?”
“Well, I’ve got to thank you Ladies. We’ve been locked in without a key,” Art put on his charming grin, shielding your flushed state with his body.
Sandra grabbed the handled from inside and frowned. “It’s a twist knob. You just need to twist it from inside before pulling.”
Art turned to look at you sharply and you flushed glancing away. “Jeez, I really need to take some time off.” Art chuckled and Sandra and Glinda joined him, albeit reluctantly. Art stepped outside and you followed with red cheeks, avoiding the women’s gazes as you shifted right back into work mode.
summary : when you almost cheat on art, he has no other way to show you how much he cares better than fucking you.
warnings : (almost) cheating, nsfw!!!, insecurity, rough handling, bdsm, humiliation, so much dirty talk, fingering
consider reblogging if u feel kind 🤍
master list here
It’s very vague how you got to this situation, exactly.
Blurry cut up scenes of passing around a joint, taking shots of some mystery liquid, having at least 4 beers, throwing up on someone’s lawn.
But there’s one specific scene you remember pretty clearly. You weren’t even that drunk yet, just took a hit or two off Art’s blunt and that was it. But for some fucking reason, Patrick was enticing you more than he usually does. He’s good looking, obviously, but more now than ever.
A little sweaty, dancing in the endless sea of people, alongside Art, your boyfriend, who you honestly barely noticed in the moment, curly, dark hair bouncing with every movement, the faint white powder around his nose, his little smile at you like somehow, he knew. He knew you were checking him out. Knew the feeling you were having because he was feeling the exact same way. You both were feeling this sudden, intense connection and were willing to risk anything for it.
But the moment vanished as soon as it came and soon your little group dispersed again. Art went to get another drink, Patrick went upstairs to the bathroom, you waited. You waited til Art disappeared into the mass of people flooding the kitchen holding red solo cups and you slipped upstairs, following after Patrick, pressing your hand against the door to let yourself in before he can close it.
And.. yeah. Guess you were wrong.
Not entirely wrong, actually. He let you rub up on him a little, let you tell him how bad you’ve been wanting him all night, let you tell him Art doesn’t need to know about anything, pretty sure he squeezed your ass once or twice. But he didn’t even let you kiss him before he was reeling his stupidly handsome face back and grabbing your wrists and peeling your hands off his body and laughing at your whine.
“C’mon. You’re hot. But I wouldn’t do that to him, okay? You’re drunk, too.”
And that’s how you get here.
Completely, 100% stone-cold sober (unfortunately), having to deal with your cross faded selfs decisions, in the sudden freezing temperatures of Art’s dorm room. He’s standing in front of you, arms crossed.
Of course he found out. It’s stupid to think maybe he wouldn’t have. You knew they’d been friends forever, how could you get away with sleeping with his best friend?
You just wish you’d thought of that before you tried.
You can practically feel the anger coming off of him, rolling off his overheated skin in red, hot waves.
“What the fuck do I even do? One of the only times we all three are together and the second I turn my back you’re trying to get him to fuck you?”
He spits his words out with so much irritation it almost scares you. It makes you feel ashamed, slutty even. He’d never been able to do that before.
“Sorry — I mean, I was drunk, Art, you know that..”
“Don’t. Don’t try to blame this on something else. You can control yourself. You were barely tipsy.” He groans, running his hands through his already messy hair. “What do I do? What am I supposed to do?”
He just stares at you. As if he’s actually expecting an answer from you. You open your mouth to say some bullshit, but he interrupts.
“You know — most guys would break it off over this. Do you get that? I’m being so fucking kind, letting you even in my room right now. Nevermind having a conversation with you, after you tried to fuck my best friend.”
It makes you close your mouth instantly. You actually have never heard Art be mean to you. It’s always ‘I’m sorry’s when you fight and ‘thank you’s when you make up. He’s probably the most push-over boyfriend you’ve ever had, agreeing and nodding to whatever you say like a dog.
You avert your eyes to the floor, shrug, mumble another sorry apology.
“Were you even gonna tell me? I had to learn from him, two days later?” He scoffs, tilting his head. “Are you, like, some sort of slut?”
That word makes your eyes widen. Makes you redirect your attention back to him, makes your toes curl in your shoes.
“What?”
He’d never called you that before. Not even when you fucked. Which, you guess, is normal, because you’re usually the one calling him names and slapping him around. Which he enjoys.
“Are you,” he takes a step forward, “a slut?”
That word stings the same and makes your stomach hurt a little. You shake your head, eyes falling from him again. “I’m — no — what — “
“Come on.” He laughs a little. “You tried to fuck my best friend. There’s a word for that.”
He’s being mean. He’s never been mean.
It was just a lapse in judgement. I was drunk. I was high. I was both. I didn’t mean it. It was nothing.
100 excuses run through your head and you can’t find the energy to open your mouth and say any of them. You feel defeated, lost, silenced. His words make your stomach hurt and all you wanna do is sink into the floor of his dorm, and maybe then he’ll feel bad for you.
You hear him let out a sigh, see his hand gesture to something.
“Get on the bed.”
It feels like a demand more than a request, so you comply. You walk to his bed, sit down on the edge, rub your thighs nervously with your hands.
“On your back.”
Your brows furrow a little. Where the fuck is this going?
You lay down on his pillows after toeing your shoes off. The smell of his sweat and warm body against his sheets doing nothing to settle you like it usually does. All you can focus on is him. The way he’s acting, the way he’s being so fucking mean all of a sudden, the way he crawls between your legs and pries them open to get closer to you.
“Since you wanna act up,” he states, running his hands down the inside of your thighs. “I’m gonna teach you why you shouldn’t. Yeah?”
His touch makes you squirm a little, your breathing picking up.
“What — what do you mean?”
He cups your pussy over your shorts. You’re not wet at all yet, but the touch still makes you shiver.
“How would Patrick fuck you? Have you thought about that?” He mumbles, softly, rocking his palm against you.
The question takes your breath away. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. What the fuck?
“C’mon.” He whispers, tender all of a sudden. “Is that why? I don’t fuck you good enough? Patrick would do it better? He’d give you what you want?”
“No — that’s not — “ you gasp a little, trying to sit up to get away from his hand, which he immediately grabs your hips in reaction to, keeping you in the exact same spot.
“You don’t get to run away from this now. Tell me how you want it. You think I’m too soft on you? You wanna be fucked like a whore? That’s why you go around throwing yourself at everyone who looks your way?” He pulls his hand away from your core, sits up onto his heels like he’s gonna fuck you.
“No,” you whine, shake your head and sit up, reaching for the waistband of his shorts, which he quickly hits away.
“No.” He repeats. “I’m not fucking you. You really think you deserve that from me right now? You are such a slut.” He laughs a little, mean. Not like you’ve ever heard before, not at you. He guides you back down to the mattress with his hand to your chest and you go easily.
You can’t think of anything to say but a pathetic ‘sorry’, so that’s what you say.
“You think you being sorry is gonna help? You think Patrick’d be rougher on you? Answer my question.”
Your mouth feels dry, your brain feels empty. You’ve always been in control with him. This sudden shift is making your head feel like it’s been caved in.
“I — yeah,” you mumble, looking up at him. He just hesitates a moment before nodding slowly, and it almost makes you feel bad. Almost.
“Okay.” He breathes. He reaches up to the waistband of your shorts, watches your face as he peels them off. You notice his shaky hands as he does it. He sits up, leans down against you to kiss you.
It feels more robotic than usual, but that feels okay because at least he’s kissing you at all. It feels like a kiss an ex would give you during a quick fuck that didn’t really mean anything. Art fucked you like it meant everything. Everytime.
“Tell me how Patrick would fuck you,” he mumbles against your mouth, shoving his hand under your panties and quickly finding your clit with his fingers.
You gasp into his mouth, shifting against his pillows. Telling your boyfriend about all the ways you’d let his best friend fuck you doesn’t sound like an excellent idea. “I don’t — I don’t wanna tell you that, Art,”
“I wanna know. You want him? Right?” He reaches down, spreads your increasing wetness over you. You just nod because you assume it’s what he wants to hear, somehow, and it makes him huff air out of his nose in frustration. You can’t figure out what the fuck he wants. “Yeah. So I’m gonna fuck you with my hands and make you come til you cry,” he breathes, “and then kick you out of my room.”
You just nod again, hips bucking up into his hand. You want more. He can tell you want more. “C’mon,” you mumble, eyebrows furrowing.
“Tell me what you want.” He slows his fingers on your clit, smiles evilly at your whine.
“Finger me.” You say quietly. “Please.”
He pulls his hand out of your underwear and sits up. He pulls off the shorts that are hanging around your thighs and then the panties around your hips. Now you’re half naked on his bed, and you’ve only kissed once. But somehow you’re.. insanely turned on. Maybe you are a slut.
He reaches up to your face, guides your mouth open with one hand, and glides his fingers that had just been on your clit, into your mouth. “Get them wet,” he mumbles, and you do. You swirl your tongue around his fingers, looking up at him in that way he likes so maybe he’ll finally take his fucking pants off.
He smiles a little and pulls his fingers out. He slides them down to your entrance, swirls them around your slit. He listens to you whimper. “That’s where you want it? Right here?” He glides his middle finger against you. So fucking close to where you want it. You usually enjoy when he teases you, but not now. Not after he’s been so mean.
You nod frantically, hips rolling up into his hand again.
He chuckles. “You’re fucking soaked. I thought you didn’t want me.” He presses one finger in and relief fills your body. He presses another. You let your head tip back against his pillows. “Just whoever can get their hand in your pants, huh? That’s who you get wet for,” he mumbles, presses onto that spot that makes stars bloom behind your eyelids.
“Fuck,” you hiss, hips bucking up again. His other hand comes to the bare skin of your hips.
“Stop fucking moving. You wanna be fucked like you’re worthless so bad, so stop moving. You’ll move when I tell you that you can.” He presses you down into the mattress, beginning to finger you faster with his other hand. Your brows pinch together as you fight the urge to thrust up into his giving hand. He’s giving you what you want and you still want more.
The sounds of wet skin slapping against wet skin and your desperate, muffled sounds fill his room.
“That feel good?” He mumbles, fucking into you with more purpose. “Finally fucking you how you want it? None of that soft shit anymore? Just wanna be fucking nailed.. hm.” He hums.
You let your mouth fall open, back arching.
“I’m actually being very kind,” he starts. “What I should do is get you on your knees and fuck your stupid mouth til you can’t see. Then maybe you’d realize you have what you want right here. Don’t you?” He reaches down with his other hand, rubs your clit with his other hand. “You can have what you want. I just gotta know what it is. If you want me to use your little pussy, I have to know. You don’t have to go throwing yourself at Patrick.” He scoffs, mean. So mean. “What does he even have? You know he probably fucks a new girl every night. But that’s probably what you want, isn’t it? To be fucked and tossed away? You are a fucking slut.”
He leans down and you swear the image you see almost sends you to heaven. He bends down, spits right on your core. Fuck.
“But you’ve got such a pretty pussy,” he laughs a little, pumping you even harder now. “How he said no..” he laughs again, watching your face, hearing your sounds.
“Gonna come.” You whine into his pillows, hands coming up to restlessly grab at his pillowcases. You let your hips buck up into him and he doesn’t stop you.
“Yeah? Whose name you gonna say?” He tilts his head, watching your chest heave faster with every breath.
“Art — Art,” you gasp, feeling like you’re teetering off the edge of a cliff.
“That’s right,” he mumbles. “C’mon. Come for me.”
And you do. Hot, messy, loud waves, that have you practically screaming into Art’s pillows. He pushes up your shirt and kisses to your mouth and pulls his hands away when you’re done. He pulls your panties and shorts back over your hips and while you’re still coming down, he doesn’t make you leave at all. He curls up next to you and goes to sleep with his hard-on.
asshole babydaddy!patrick would def try to convince you to let him stay the night for completely non emotional reasons and get scared the next morning when your kid asks whats going on with you guys! ok bai!!
he insists it's not a big deal if he crashes on your couch for the night because "it's late" and he's "too tired to drive" and also "the hotel is on the other side of town anyway." it's totally normal, no ulterior motive!
you know it's a bad idea. you know exactly how it goes every time he's in your space like this. but then somehow he ends up in your bed rocking into you anyway because apparently neither of you have learned anything in the years you've been bouncing back and forth like this.
and he's so annoyingly comfortable afterward, arm slung over your waist half the night, all warm and sleepy and affectionate in a way he'd never be during the day. he mumbles against your shoulder "stop overthinking it, who cares?" when you point out this is exactly how things got messed up last time. you're pretty sure patrick's logic is if he doesn't define it, then it doesn't count, and somehow you find yourself hearing him out anyway.
the next morning is when it all goes to hell. your kid wanders into the bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily, mumbling something about wanting pancakes for breakfast. he falters at the sight of patrick, who looks completely stricken, sitting up fast and running a hand through his hair. the fact that he's shirtless in your bed is telling enough.
and then your son, all innocent and curious, prompts, "are you guys married again?"
you were never married, but you're too shocked to correct him. he clambers onto the bed happily, settling himself between you. and patrick, coward that he is, immediately fumbles.
"uhhh, what?"
the non-answer doesn't bother your kid, who turns to you with a gap-toothed smile, all his sleepiness suddenly gone. "is daddy gonna live here now?"
as messed up as the situation is, you do get some perverse sort of enjoyment watching patrick realise that maybe repeatedly sleeping with the mother of his child in the same apartment where said child lives has created implications he's not equipped to deal with. and then reality sinks in, and you're panicking too.
hear me out! nerd!patrick whos actually a perv and once he gets to be with the girl he has a crush on he fucks her stupid
nerdy!patrick who is oh so quiet--soft-spoken in class and quick to avert his eyes away from yours, speckled green trapped behind fingerprinted glasses. the lenses are thicker than you thought; you notice when you're close to him. and patrick doesn't realize that so many girls aim to get closer to him: dropping their pens strategically near his desk, asking him for the notes. random text messages that he looks at quizzically, unsure of how anybody got his number--he only gives it out to his closest friends. he always sits at the very front of the classroom. always has a clicky black pen and smears of ink on his arm because he prefers to handwrite his notes instead of type them out--it helps him pay attention more.
his professors love him enough to break their sworn promise at the beginning of the semester: I do not give out A+s. but everyone sees the perfect marks on his papers and the long-winded notes of praise on the midterm. women professors love him the most because he reminds them of the men they've always wanted in their lives. handsome and tall and freckled and hanging on to their every word. mesmerizingly intelligent and humble, so messy yet put-together.
its spectacular how unaware he is of his perfection and the constant flitting of girls' eyes up and down his body goes unnoticed by him. maybe he just has a girlfriend? it's what many girls have posited yet hoped and prayed it wasn't true and that maybe alongside that they were his perfect type.
and maybe patrick seems like the innocent type, but really, it's just nerves and an unwillingness to embarass himself. he honestly has to adhere his eyes to the confines of his spiral bound red notebook to keep himself from running his eyes over your legs in that tennis skirt of yours, your tits loose in the tank top you threw on without a bra this morning.
while it should be a blessing that it's getting hotter outside, he sort of resents it because god he has a crush on you and its hard to hide his boners and he's more apt to growing this insane blush on his cheeks that creeps down his neck when he's already overheating.
every single monday and wednesday he promises himself he will ask you for your number--there can't be any pretext--he's the student who knows everything so it's not like he can bother you for lecture notes--but he never follows through. the end of the semester creeps towards him, a strange, bitter reminder that you'd probably forget about him.
so he asks for it in the second-to-last class, just before the professor begins class. its so strange to see patrick near the back of the classroom, spinning a pencil through his deft fingers--so everyone is looking at him. he's quiet when he asks you, almost too much so.
"can i get your number?" his eyes meet yours and you see their depth for the first time, although still hidden behind square black frames.
you shrug and act cool and you feel the hot laser-focus of the other girls' stares on your back.
you feel dumb admitting it to him, the smartest in the class, but you do anyway, aiming to get something in the books with him before the semester ends and he's off to wherever he calls home for the summer.
"would you mind helping me study for this class? i have no idea where to start."
and patrick had every intent of helping you; he made a study outline and flashcards and came over to your house with the textbook you'd barely skimmed past the first chapter.
but your pointed questions and strong eye contact made it hard for him, made him stumble on his words and gnaw on your pencil eraser before apologizing profusely.
"are you nervous?" you leaned forward and took the pencil from his mouth.
"i mean--sure." he admitted. yes, he was, obviously.
the test was tomorrow, on wednesday. you had asked him to help you study and he felt really bad but he also had a fucking boner and your room was unbearably hot. his temples were wet with sweat, the kind that lingered.
"do you want to study or should we focus on something else?" you meant it earnestly, in the most innocuous of ways, and patrick should have been more respectful in his response but his dick was straining against his shorts and your hand was on his knee.
the depth of his puppy-dog eyes boring into you made the blow of his response a little less severe.
"i really wanna fuck you."
you looked away instincively and patrick thought he fucked up but then you perched yourself on his lap and tugged on the hem of his heather grey t-shirt. watching him peel it off was mesmerizing--the tautness of his muscles and the peppering of chest hair. the happy trail that forced you to see his cock pressing against his shorts--was he on the tennis team? he looked too strong for tennis: too unlike the scrawnier boys she had seen running laps around the track last fall.
god he's hot--but the way he was looking at you was with more lust, more fervor, more obsession. he had been waiting for this for months and he didn't have a ton of experience but he knew how to tug your bottom lop into his mouth and swipe his tongue through your teeth to pry you open for him. he knew his hands were big and strong and how to press them against your ass, wrap them around your waist, guide you against him. he groaned into your mouth and laid you down on your bed. spit in his hand and into your mouth and pushed your panties to the side. he wanted it to be like this--rushed--to prove something to himself, that he could do the spur-of-the-moment, that he needed you so bad even one more minute was a century too long for him.
he plunged his fingers inside you, forehead pressed against yours. curling them, he let you push his shorts down just past his ass to free his cock. you were so wet and he told you that and you felt the loose smirk against your neck as he licked your skin and pushed himself inside you. the sweetness of his general demeanor, the nervous lack of eye contact, and the stuttering of his questions to you made you think he would fuck you slowly. he didn't. he asked if it was okay and he made sure you said yes, yes it was--but then he fucked you hard and deep, snapping his hips and lifting your own, hands dug into the flesh of your ass so he could plunge himself inside you the way he'd dreamt about it, cock in his fist, chest heaving so hard he thought he would fucking pass out.
his hair was plastered to his forehead and he grunted into your neck, your mouth, the cotton of your pillowcase.
"fuck me--" he plead, seemingly begging you, although he was in complete control. "you like that?" he taunted. you didn't know he had it in him--this cockiness you'd seen mostly in fraternity boys.
and maybe before you had had this trance over patrick, but that was long gone as you could barely mutter a word from beneath him. you were all gasps and a flurry of grabbing hands, wanting to find purchase on his ass, his hair, the silver chain around his neck. you were being loud and you knew it but god you didn't care. patrick pushed his fingers into your mouth regardless, slowing his thrusts because he was about to cum and he could tell you were too.
nsfw, masturbation, explicit language, substance use, cum eating (i'm sorry)
summary: a house party results in the union of Art's loves, you and Patrick. Though maybe not in the way that he had hoped.
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thx for reading !!
It was a normal Friday night in the UES. Someone’s parents' absence had welcomed a hoard of people into their home, super rich kids killing time the only way they knew how.
You had arrived with Art and Patrick after having pregamed in the latter's car. Soon as you arrived, you all dispersed and when the alcohol had overtaken your system you found yourself back in your boyfriend's embrace.
As the two of you sat on a couch you noticed that the features of his face had been smoothed out with whatever substance he had been taking. The jello shots he’d downed alongside his tennis teammates had embolden him.
He kisses your jaw in a way that translates his neediness in a language you knew fluently, you sigh into the feeling. With your eyes closed, you feel someone else’s looking at you hard enough to feel invasive. You open your eyes and see Patrick on the opposite side of the crowded room.
Art looks up as well before winking at his friend, an idea enters his head. When you feel his lips on your ear you expect him to ask you to go into a room together, or even an attempt to persuade you back to his place.
“I want you to go to the bathroom, wait a minute and when he comes in, which he will, let him have another taste okay?” The request sobers you up, you suddenly get the sense this isn’t you being looked out for.
If he wanted to kiss Patrick, you’d let him but it didn’t seem he was prepared to bare himself fully. His eyes say please, in a manner words couldn’t. You can’t bring yourself to decline.
Patrick sees Art whisper something in your ear and before he knows it, you’re off his lap and on your way down the crowded hall. Art looks at him and nods his head towards your direction, Patrick’s feet move faster than his train of thought. He ditches his drink, leaving it to sweat on a book shelf.
He knocks tentatively at the bathroom door before pushing it with a gentleness he rarely moved with. He couldn’t recall the last time his heart had beat at this rate.
“Hi,” you don’t recognize the cadence of his voice, was he really that nervous? You wave, getting off from the sink you had been sitting on. When you get in front of him, the room feels all the more suffocating, the smell of tobacco and gin not helping. He leans in but before he can touch you, you make him stop.
“Wait.”
“Don’t touch me,” you might be wet but your ego makes sure that you torture him a bit while the opportunity lies infront of you. Your hands against his chest make any attempts of playing it cool futile, his heart thudding against your palm. You can't help but smirk. The expression on his face says that he had accepted the fact that he had entered the room with no poker face at hand.
When your face comes close enough to his you begin unbuttoning the blouse you had on, eye contact unwavering. Both of your mouths are open, breathing the same air as you fill up your lungs with each other. You don’t discard your clothing, you just leave it open enough for him to get an eyeful of your breasts in your white laced bra.
Normally he’d make a comment, virgin white, but he held his tongue. He had stared at the photo of you in a swim suit that he’d stolen enough times to be able to close his eyes and picture it, but the intimacy of the moment makes your covered chest more erotic than any fantasy. You undressed yourself, not his imagination. That meant more than the sight itself. Your nose touches his before moving to rest on his cheek, he could cry.
“Touch yourself.”
He steps back to look at you properly not knowing what to say, only a scoff comes out. “Like you did that night,” his face falls. Of course he told you. The guilt Art had been feeling after the night that he and Patrick touched themselves as they spoke of you without filter had made telling you an act of relief rather than one self harm. You had only laughed. “You know which one I’m talking about.”
Art had only asked you to kiss him, but you were sick of playing middle man. If they were going to bridge their love through you, you’d have to do whatever you could to turn it ugly. You didn't want to stay long enough to become a liability. He hesitates, his wants warring with his pride. How could he yield? You had always been bossy but your voice had carried a conviction that made him unzip his pants.
You grab his shoulders and adjust him so that he is now staring at his reflection in the full length mirror, your body standing behind him like a shadow. He wanted for you to touch him so badly but he didn’t feel like he had enough leverage to write the script of what was going to happen tonight. For a boy so bashful, the way he grabs his dick is shy at best. To rub salt in the wound, you can hear Madonnas like a virgin from the other side of the door. Neither of you take note of it.
He sticks his hand in front of your mouth, your spit coating it in a second before he spits into it as well. As he wraps it around himself, you move your face closer to his neck. Your nose tracing an imaginary line on it before diving your teeth in. It makes him feel like you’d draw blood, the possibility tightens his grip.
When he begins to pump himself with more confidence you decide to reward him with the sight of you, moving to stand beside him. “Yeah, like that,” your head rests on his shoulder, you hated to see that his reputation had preceded him. He was undoubtedly well endowed.
The sounds he had been making got louder as he circled his tip, but the music put a lid on the chance of anyone but you hearing. Was Art outside the door? The possibility makes him squeeze himself harder, gaze locked on you. You hadn’t expected his surrender to come so easily but it pleased you to see him shut up for once. His eyes move from your face, to your tits. Even though they were covered in lace your hardened nipples made a clear enough outline for him to see.
“I’m close.”
“Finish yourself off then.”
His hand speeds up and he can’t seem to keep his eyes open, eyebrows scrunching in pleasure. When Art had told you about their circle jerk that night after you’d called him, you had dismissed it with a laugh. But in hindsight, if this was the sight that Art had in bed next to him, how could he possibly exclusively come at the thought of you and not the stuttered movements of his best friend's hand?
You feel sort of left out.
His spend shoots out of his cock onto the mirror standing before you. Your eyes move to the stain, then to him and his heavy breathing.
“Eat it.”
The anger that had been brewing in you at Patrick’s attempts of homewrecking your relationship fueled the command. You fear it had been too much but after a moment of hesitation his hand moves toward the mirror, finger collecting a decent amount of come before putting it in his mouth. He hadn’t known why he had obeyed but in the moment he wouldn’t have done anything to disappoint you. Certainly not when you had your shirt unbuttoned with a head messy hair that made you look like an angel.
His tongue swirls around his finger before letting it out with a pop. He moves to kiss you but you push him back, a hand on his chest. “No way, I don’t swallow.” it made no sense but you refused to put his lips against yours. If he had tried stealing Art from you it’d only be akin to the kiss of Judas.
“Do you always sound like a virgin?” you button your blouse and comb your hair with your fingers, he only shoots you a glare and tsks. You were upset at the fact that he was eating up your every attempt at humiliating him, “Bye, bye.”
You don’t need to tell him to wait a couple of minutes before leaving the bathroom, at least he had common sense. Art sits in the same spot that you had left him, smile making its way onto his face at your reemerging figure. You retake your spot on his lap, his hand making its way to rest on your legs.
“Took you long enough”
You smile and your face leaves him with no doubt that you were up to no good. If he was going to keep his cards close to his chest, refusing to acknowledge his feelings for Patrick you weren’t showing your hand either.
synopsis: when tashi duncan sends a dinner invitation, nobody declines. that includes you, her former flame and best friend, and your husband, patrick. a very awkward reunion over dinner ensues when past feelings resurface.
tags: 18+ mdni, features artashi/patashi/artrick (& all of them x reader), brief breast/nipple play, f!receiving oral, foreplay & lots of making out, dom!tashi through most of it, bratty!reader, everybody wants to fuck each other, mostly tashi x reader bc i'm yuripilled
wordcount: 9.2k words
notes: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! was very glad to be able to revisit these evil bisexual idiots. dynamics are a lot harder to write when it's a foursome buttt this is what you get take it or leave it :P & i’d like to apologise for edging you with the last scene but i’m sure i’ll circle back to this eventually so they can all fuck nasty in peace <3 i have drafts for a few more flashbacks that didn’t make the final cut bc this has been in my drafts for months so if you want any of those maybe i’ll clean them up and post them at some point. all of this taking place at dinner and i dont mention food once... alright
VALENTINE’S DAY at a place like this is either very romantic or a very bad idea. There is no in-between.
The restaurant you find yourself at is polished within an inch of its life: floors gleaming, glasses so thin you’re already nervous to hold them wrong, and candles flickering in little gold halos in front of couples that make them look more in love than they probably are.
You wonder distantly if that’s the point.
You’re acutely aware of your husband’s hand resting on the small of your back as the hostess leads you through a maze of white tablecloths. He’s dressed up for once in a rented two piece suit. The tie you picked out for him rests in the passenger seat of his Honda CR-V, hastily torn off before you exited the car because “I’m not a fucking priss, babe. This makes me look stupid.”
Not a priss, he said, right before leading you into a restaurant that neither of you can afford to dine in with a couple that neither of you should be seeing.
“Breathe,” Patrick murmurs into your ear.
You don’t realise you haven’t been until you try. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve just spent twenty minutes running laps instead of sitting in your car to hype yourself up. It was your idea to say yes, so you refuse to let him know you’re panicking to avoid some petty jab about being a pussy over dinner.
You could have declined. You could have laughed and told Tashi you had plans. You could have pretended that spending Valentine’s Day with your husband’s ex-girlfriend—who is also your ex-girlfriend—and your own ex-boyfriend—who is now her husband—wasn’t some kind of elaborate emotional suicide mission.
Instead, you’re here, ready to face the guillotine. And isn’t this about to be a shitshow?
You see them immediately. They’re settled in a corner booth that somehow manages to feel both intimate and exposed to all the eyes in the room. Art Donaldson is not what you remember from college. He looks like he belongs here now, in a navy suit with a crisp collar and posture so straight you have to force yourself to stand taller to match it.
It hurts to look at him, akin to the way it’d feel to press on an old bruise to check if it still hurts.
It does, your brain adds helpfully.
Tashi sits next to him. You almost laugh, because of course she looks like that. You’ve seen her on magazines, TV screens, every social media platform you own, but the severe cut of her hair now makes your footsteps falter. She looks older. More mature than the young prodigy you used to giggle with in her dorm bed. Her dress is dark with an elegant cut, and you catch a glimpse of those long legs beneath the table, the strap of her heel glinting under the cloth.
For a second, you’re seventeen again, standing across the net from her and trying not to flinch when she smiles like she already knows exactly how the match is going to play out. You hate that your stomach still flips.
The most notable thing about them all—even if you have to squint to see it from this distance—is the matching wedding bands on their hands. You twist your own subconsciously. It’s a beautiful ring. Patrick managed to convince his father into giving it to him somehow. It still doesn’t feel like it’s enough to scream married couple when your husband is glancing around the room to eye the cleavage of the women you pass.
You force a smile on your face. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine.
Art looks up at first, his smile faltering when his eyes find the pair of you. The crack in the polish lasts a microsecond before he rises to his feet to offer you a greeting. “Hey.”
Patrick’s hand tightens against your back as you stop in front of the table.
“Hey,” you echo, forcing something light into your voice. “Happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Bold choice,” she says. “A double date.”
You laugh, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? “Your idea.”
“Yes,” she says smoothly. “It was.”
You sit. Patrick pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t remember the last time he’s done that without being prompted. You know he’s auditioning for Husband of the Year purely because of your company, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. Art waits until you’re both settled before taking his seat again.
Two married couples. Four people who have, at various points in their lives, slept in each other’s beds; whispered promises; thrown rackets and said things that can’t be unsaid.
The waiter appears and Tashi orders two bottles of wine. Something red—you don’t recognise the name, only that it sounds fancy enough that it has to be excessive (and way too expensive for your bank account.) But you have a feeling you’re going to need it.
The first ten minutes are polite. Too polite.
“How’s the tour?” Art asks Patrick.
“Fine,” he shrugs dismissively. “Nothing glamorous. Mostly challengers. You know.”
The word lingers between you all. Challengers. While Tashi has managed to make a household name out of Donaldson, your husband is still playing challengers. You almost snort.
Tashi’s gaze flicks to you, sharp but curious. “And you?”
“Coaching some juniors,” you say. “Playing some smaller events when I feel like it.”
You don’t mention it’s because you can’t afford it consistently. For the most part, rent falls on you when Patrick is halfway across the country. Coaching keeps you both afloat.
There’s the faintest twitch in her jaw. She doesn’t say it aloud, but you know why: you’re coaching of your own volition while it’s the path that the universe thrust unfairly upon her. Your stomach twists guiltily.
She tilts her head slightly. “Not playing seriously?” The words are mild, but the implication isn’t.
You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Depends what you mean by serious.”
“I heard you had a good run last spring,” Art says, stepping in the way he used to when things got too heated. You manage a grateful smile in his direction. “Charleston?”
He’s been paying attention. You don’t know how to feel about that.
“Semis,” you confirm. “I lost, though.”
Tashi’s fingers tighten around her glass and your stomach sinks. God, you hate that you still want her approval.
“To who?” Patrick asks, though you know he knows the answer—he’d been there, after all. He just wants to hear you say it. You don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Tough draw,” you say instead. Tashi’s mouth curves slightly and you know she can see right through you. “Everyone played well.”
Art offers you a reassuring smile. It almost makes up for the scoff Tashi is biting back. The waiter arrives with the wine, sparing you from elaborating any further. You practically gulp down your first glass.
By the time you’ve all started on the second, the edges of restraint begin to blur, polished facades falling away. Art has loosened his tie, posture softened. Tashi’s shoulders have grown less rigid, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind her. Patrick’s hand rests loosely over your knee, thumb ghosting along the bone absently as he recounts some disastrous afterparty in Cincinnati. His version of events is so dramatic you wonder if he even remembers you were there to know otherwise.
You aren’t really listening, anyways. You’re focused on the way Art is looking at you. His expression is hard to read—not quite longing, nor regret. It’s something softer you can’t quite put your finger on.
Whatever it is makes you feel uncomfortable enough to remember the last time he was in your dorm all those years ago. You can picture it perfectly.
APRIL 8TH, 2007
Your room feels too crowded to have an argument in.
It barely feels big enough for the two of you when things are good. When Art would sit cross-legged on your bed with his back against the wall, trainers kicked off, explaining some minute adjustment to your backhand while you pretended to listen. When you’d steal his hoodie and argue it fit you better. When you’d both pretend you weren’t exhausted from practice just to stretch the night out a little longer.
“How is she?” You ask. You didn’t mean to open with that, but there it is.
He sighs, standing in front of your desk. The distance between you feels cavernous. “Rehab started yesterday.”
“I know.”
Of course you know. Everyone does. It was all around campus, and all over the tennis network. Commentators were using words like devastating and tragic and career-altering. You can still hear the sound it made before she tumbled to the floor when you close your eyes, that piercing scream ringing out over the court.
“She’s in pain,” he continues. “They’re saying at least nine months minimum before she can even think about competing.”
Nine months. That’s a lifetime in sports.
“And?” You prompt.
“And she’s not taking it well.”
You almost laugh at that. No shit. Tashi had been built on momentum. She was always moving, always doing something, and now she can’t even walk without crutches.
“I’ve been over there most nights.”
“I know,” you repeat.
“You know?”
“I’m not stupid, Art.”
He shifts his weight, defensive already. You hate that you can already see it coming. “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he deflects.
You lift your gaze to him. “You’ve been busy.”
“That’s not fair.”
You let out a slow breath through your nose. “What part?”
He frowns. “I can’t just disappear on her because you’re feeling insecure.”
There it was. “Insecure?” You repeat incredulously.
“Yes. Insecure!”
You stand up quickly. “That’s what you think this is?”
“I think you’re making this about you.” Your chest tightens at the accusation. “Her career just imploded,” he continues, voice raising slightly. “She might never come back the same. And you’re upset that I’m helping her?”
“I’m not upset that you’re helping her.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m upset that it’s like I’m not even there anymore!”
“What?”
“You act like it, Art.”
“That’s not true—“
“Yes it is!”
“You’re imagining things.”
You hate that phrase. You have to fight the urge to just storm out of your own dorm at those words alone. “I watched you at the hospital,” you continue quietly. His mouth presses into a thin line. “You didn’t even realise I’d left.”
He looks away. “I thought you went to call your coach.”
“Yeah, I did. After I left.”
Art exhales sharply. “She was coming out of anesthesia.”
“I know.”
“She was scared.”
“I know.”
“She asked for me.”
“And you went,” you finish.
“What did you want me to do?” He asks, frustrated. “Ignore her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know! Just… just remember that I’m there, maybe?” It sounds childish even to your own ears, words smaller than they felt. You want to tell him he’s been a bad boyfriend for months. That he’s not as committed to this as you are, and his priorities lie elsewhere. But in your anguish, all you can do is sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum about not getting enough attention.
Art runs a hand through his hair, agitation creeping into his voice. “You’re acting like this is some sort of love triangle.”
“Isn’t it?” You stare at him.
“No!” He denies instantly, eyes flashing.
“It always has been, I think—“
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” You challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“To go back. Patrick’s out of the picture. Why the fuck not?”
His expression hardens. “I was never with her. And he has nothing to do with this.”
Never with her. Not officially, sure, but you’ve seen the way they move around each other since starting at Stanford. There has always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Tashi was with Patrick, and Art struck up a relationship with you shortly after. But you’d be blind not to recognise there’s unfinished business there following the Junior Open.
“I’m not in love with her,” he adds.
You hold his gaze. “Say it again.”
“I’m not in love with her.”
“You’re lying,” you laugh, an ugly and bitter sound, shaking your head. “No. No, I’m losing you both. Oh my god.” You drag your hands over your face in frustration. You refuse to let him see you cry, but you can feel it building up.
“What?”
“You think this is about jealousy? I’m not that shallow, Art,” you say. “She hasn’t spoken to me since the surgery. She looks at me like I broke her knee myself.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
You’d gone to see her once, bringing flowers after her surgery. You remember trying to sit at the edge of her hospital bed like you used to sit on the floor of her dorm, legs tangled, talking about rankings and dreams and futures together. She’d barely uttered a word to you the entire time. The resentment had been suffocating.
“I can’t compete with an ACL tear, Art,” you say bitterly.
“You’re not competing.”
“I am! I’m always competing with her.”
“You’re twisting this because you want me to choose!”
“Yes.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but you are. Denying it would be futile. You love Tashi, maybe even more than he does, but you can’t put yourself through this any longer.
“I’m not doing that,” Art says, shaking his head. Your heart sinks, even though you expected that answer. “I’m not abandoning her.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon her.”
“You are.”
“No. No, I’m just asking you to tell me I matter more!”
“You do.”
“Then prove it for once!”
He falls silent. You can practically see the walls forming behind his eyes. The compartmentalizing and logic, trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation with both of you.
“You don’t trust me,” he says finally, and you hesitate, because you don’t know anymore. You want to trust him, but wanting can only go so far when he’s proven time and time again that she comes first. “That’s it.”
“That’s not it,” you say, trying desperately to salvage the results of an ultimatum you gave him.
“I can’t do this.”
“So- so, what? You’re breaking up with me, then?”
“I’m saying if you think so little of me—“
“This isn’t about thinking little of you,” you cut in. “But I know you, Art. And I know that if she was the one asking you to choose her right now, you would.” He doesn’t answer and you feel something inside you give way. “I can’t be second.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Then I will be. As soon as she asks.”
Silence swallows the room. Distantly, you hear someone laughing down the hallway, a door slamming, and life going on outside your room while you’re stuck going in circles with this conversation.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, like that could still fix it.
“I know.” That’s the worst part. You know he loves you. You also know he loves her, and the difference between those two loves is about to ruin everything.
“Maybe this is just bad timing,” he offers.
You stare at him in disbelief. As if timing is why Tashi got injured on the court. As if timing hadn’t just exposed every crack that had been forming in your relationship for months.
“Yeah,” you force out. “Maybe.”
Art turns towards the door. You see him pause, and for a second you think he might come back. Might close the distance and kiss you and promise something concrete, and finally just choose you for once in his life. But he doesn’t.
His hand rests on the doorway. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says meekly.
“I know.”
Art leaves anyway, the door clicking shut behind him. In the quiet of your too-small dorm room, you’re left to realise that Tashi’s injury hadn’t just torn her ACL. It had torn straight through the middle of you and Art, too.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
The memory dissolves like the sugar at the bottom of your wine glass. You down the rest of it. Art is still looking at you the same way he used to when he was trying to read your mind. You wonder what he sees now.
Regret? Guilt? Longing?
“God.” Patrick leans forward suddenly. “Remember when we were Fire and Ice?”
Art groans immediately, his gaze falling away from you. His cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Don’t.”
Tashi’s mouth curves upwards. “I liked it.”
“Of course you did,” Patrick says, ego stroked.
“It was juvenile,” Art says.
“Uh, no. It was cool,” Patrick corrects.
You watch them fall back into that old rhythm like muscle memory. For a moment, they don’t look like two grown men with mortgages and press obligations and complicated wives. They’re just like two boys in locker rooms, convincing themselves the world isn’t ready to see how they play.
“You guys were insufferable. The entire junior circuit hated you,” you chip in.
“The girls loved us!” Patrick protests.
“You loved the attention,” Tashi says.
“You ate it up, too,” you say, shaking your head at her. “The two of them orbiting you like idiots.”
Patrick grins. “We weren’t orbiting—“
“Yes, you were,” you and Tashi say at the same time. It earns a shared look between you, instinctive, the kind that used to happen across nets or over dorm beds. You swallow thickly. Art notices. His smile fades slightly.
“US juniors,” your husband continues obliviously. “That final was brutal.”
Tashi’s gaze shifts to you. “You almost had me.”
Almost. Like almost means shit in tennis. You remember the heat of it: screaming crowds, your legs trembling in the third set, the look of determination on her face opposite you.
“You broke me in the second. That was light work for you,” you say, injecting lightness into your voice.
“You let up,” she counters.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You always got in your head playing me. You could beat anyone else, but every time I was across that net, you doubled under the pressure.”
Your chest tightens, and you force out a quiet laugh. “You’ve always thought that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Art clears his throat gently, sparing you. “I liked the afterparty.”
Patrick laughs loudly. “God, what a night.”
You remember it too vividly. Tashi’s blue dress on the dance floor, fingers brushing against yours, two sets of eyes following your every move.
“You two were practically chest-bumping over her,” you say, and you hate how bitter it comes out. You clear your throat, continuing lightly, “It was embarrassing to watch.”
“Competition,” Patrick smirks over the rim of his glass.
“It wasn’t like that,” Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.
His wife arches an amused brow. “No?”
He hesitates, and Patrick laughs again. “It was exactly like that.” There’s a beat of silence between you all, the memory hanging between you, before he braces his elbows on the table. “Remember what happened when we went back to the hotel?”
“Yeah. You knocked over an ice machine,” Art rolls his eyes.
Patrick waves a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. I mean after.”
Your pulse ticks faster. “Wha happened after?”
Art closes his eyes briefly, because he knows where this is going. You’d made an excuse on the walk back from the beach. “I don’t want to be a part of your ego boost of a two-man, Tashi,” you’d laughed, shoving her up the path. “I’m too tired for that.”
“We kissed,” Patrick grins, lazy and unbothered. Art’s cheeks flush faintly red and Tashi catches your eye over the table.
“You what?” You say, feigning mild surprise.
Patric rolls his eyes. “Don’t act shocked. I bet she told you the morning after.”
“I’m not shocked,” you reply. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit it.”
Art exhales. “It wasn’t planned.”
Tashi’s lip twitches. “Nothing about that night was planned.”
“You didn’t seem mad about it,” Patrick says, looking at her.
“It was stupid,” Art adds.
“And then you all went to sleep?” You ask. Tashi stifles a snort into her wine glass.
“Yeah,” Patrick affirms.
You lean back into the booth. “That’s not what happened.”
Both men look at you, puzzled. Patrick’s hand squeezes your knee questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“I went to her room,” Tashi clarifies. She doesn’t look at either of them, gaze fixed on you.
Art blinks. “Her room?”
“What, to brag?” Patrick laughs uncertainly.
You shake your head. “She said she couldn’t sleep. Said the adrenaline wouldn’t come down.”
“What does that mean?” Art’s throat bobs. Patrick’s expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension.
“Art,” Tashi presses, sending him an amused look.
“What?”
SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2006
By the time the knock finally came, you’d half-convinced yourself she wasn’t going to show. Too busy with her new entertainment for the night while you were left to huff and puff over your loss alone, your second-place trophy glinting mockingly where it sat on the hotel dresser.
You recognise the two deliberate taps to your door immediately, shooting up out of bed like you haven’t been agonising over it for the last hour.
“Hi,” you say, trying not to sound breathless.
“Hi.” She leans against the doorway instead of walking in immediately. “Can I come in?” That part is new. Usually, she doesn’t ask. You step aside anyway.
She walks in slowly, eyes flicking curiously over the space. It feels like she’s already been here before. She has, sort of—different hotels, different rooms, the same agonisingly familiar pattern. By the end of the tournament, she’d always ended up in your bed at least once.
“You played well,” she says, like she hadn’t told you the same thing hours ago. She runs a lazy finger over your finalist trophy and you groan, slumping onto your bed petulantly. You’ve tried not to look at it since you got back.
“You played better,” you shoot back.
“I know.”
The lack of smugness almost makes it worse. She slips off her shoes and picks up your trophy to inspect, probably with the intention of getting a rise out of you, before perching on the edge of the dresser.
“How was your fan club?” You cross your arms.
Her mouth twitches. “Exhausting.”
“Poor you,” you say, lip jutting out in faux-pity. “It must be so hard having every boy in a ten mile radius in love with you.”
Tashi laughs. “They were arguing by the end of it.”
“Over you?” You huff a laugh despite yourself. Her amusement is infectious, regardless of how petty you’re feeling.
“Obviously.”
“And?” You study her face carefully.
“And what?”
“Did you have a good time?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She pushes off the dresser to sit on the edge of the bed instead, trophy abandoned, her palms smoothing over her thighs absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the movement before you can stop them, fingers itching to reach out and touch that smooth skin yourself.
“We went back to their room,” she says. There it is—the thing she’d really come here to rile you up with.
“I assumed.” A beat of silence passes before you finally give in, pressing for more. “And?”
“You want details?” She tilts her head playfully.
“No.”
A small smile graces her lips. “They kissed me.” You nod once. “Both of them,” she adds. Your jaw tightens in a way that might be imperceptible to anyone else, but she knows you too well not to notice. “That bothers you,” she observes.
“No, it doesn’t,” you deny instantly. It does. A little. But not in the way it might have months ago.
“Oh, it so does.”
“Does not,” you insist. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”
That’s always been the unspoken rule between you. Whatever happens in public—the flirting, the rivalries on court, the boys trying to get into either of your pants—it doesn’t follow you through the door unless she wants it to.
“Did you have fun?”
“A little.”
“Only a little?”
“You know how much fun I have with you.” Her fingers find your jaw, thumb smoothing out the slight jut of your lip. “Don’t pout.”
“I’m not—“ You start to argue, then give a reluctant huff. “You made me wait.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She laughs at the petulance in your tone. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. It was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”
“It will be if you kiss me already.”
She catches that hopeful lilt in your voice like a hook, and her smirk softens into something more tender. A second later, she crawls to straddle you, one leg on either side of your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath, fingers finally curling into the soft flesh of her thighs. And finally, finally, her mouth slots against yours.
You melt instantly. You always do. The whimper into her unbearably soft lips is undignified, her tongue sliding over your bottom lip before your brain can even catch up. It’s still maddeningly slow, and you make a quiet sound of protest when she pulls back to murmur:
“You really are jealous. I can feel it.”
The tease in her voice makes heat pool low in your belly. “Tashi,” you groan into the space between kisses, half-exasperated and half-desperate. You try to draw her back in for more, and she relents enough to bite playfully at your lip.
“That wasn’t a denial.”
Any witty protest is undermined by the gasp that her palming at your tits over your pyjama top draws out. Your hands slide up from her thighs to grip the back of the jacket she still hasn’t taken off.
“Why do you taste like tobacco?”
“Patrick smokes. They both do, actually.”
“Ugh. Gross.”
“Jealous,” she taunts again.
“M’not jealous,” you manage as she kisses her way along your jaw.
“You’re kissing me like you want to eat me.”
“I do.”
She pauses, breath hot by your ear as she debates whether to take that literally or not. Then she leans back, unzipping her jacket to reveal no shirt underneath, just a skimpy little bralette that does nothing to conceal the way her nipples are hard with arousal. Your brows knit together.
“Why are you— no shirt?” You say eloquently, too starstruck by the sight of her breasts in your face to speak properly for a moment. “Was that—“
“For them?” She interjects, smirking down at you. You nod. “God, no. For you.”
Your stomach twists in a way that shouldn’t feel so appealing. She shrugs the jacket off, guiding your hands up to cup her breasts.
“You want to eat me, huh?” She teases. Another shaky nod is all you can muster. “Words. You were so good with them earlier.”
You don’t have it in you to glare at her right now. “Yeah. I do. Can I?” The way her breath hitches when you pinch her nipple over the thin fabric is more satisfying than it has any right to be.
“How bad do you want it?”
You bite back a groan of frustration. Your brain is already fogged over, but you manage to make an attempt to sound less wanton than you actually feel. “Please, Tashi.”
She tsks softly, right on the playful side of condescending. “You can do better than that.”
A huff of impatience, and you fight the urge to pinch her nipple harder just to be a brat. Disobedience never gets you anywhere when she’s in a mood like this. The deal is whoever wins is in charge, and Tashi wins more often than not.
Not that you mind.
“Please, I need it,” you say, eyes shining pitifully up at her. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You looked so hot on court. And at the afterparty, in that dress… fuck.”
“Were you thinking about it when I was with them?” She presses.
“Yes. God, yes.” Your head thumps against her chest, mouthing at the stiff peak of her nipple over her bralette. “The last two hours have been torture. I thought you’d stay with them all night.”
She arches into you with a sharp inhale, fingers finding the back of your neck as you suck harder. By the time you pull back, the fabric is stained dark with saliva.
“Thought about it,” she says, just to see the look of offence on your pretty face. “I’m joking. Take it off for me.”
You obey without hesitation, fingers slipping beneath the underband of her bra to drag it up and over her head. It’s barely hit the floor by the time your face is pressed against her again, a sigh of longing slipping past your lips as they drag up over her breasts.
“You’re so beautiful.”
She seems pleased by the compliment—not in a smug way, either. A girlish sort of bashfulness that’s quickly quashed as her hand guides your head down to kiss her abdomen. “How about you show me how beautiful you think I am?”
You smile against her, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. “Yeah? Can I?”
She slides off your lap to stand, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for her. Instead, your fingers curl back into the sheets, waiting as her fingers hook into her shorts. She eases them down slowly, enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench together in anticipation. When she steps out of them, her panties follow, an even more agonisingly slow drag down her legs until they hit the floor.
You lick your lips.
“Lay back.”
“Huh?” You reply, dazed.
“Lay back,” she repeats, amusement lacing her voice.
You scramble back to do as asked, hastily adjusting a pillow for your head as you settle against the mattress. You feel it dip before you see her above you, swinging a leg over your torso as she comes to straddle your chest. You’re granted with the sight of her sweet cunt, already shining with arousal. You feel like a dog inhaling the scent so eagerly, lashes fluttering, but she only grins down at you.
“This is supposed to be my reward for winning, but something tells me you enjoy it just as much.”
“Uh huh,” you hum in affirmation.
And she’s absolutely right—you have no issue with losing every match if this is what you get. She shifts up higher, her knees braced on either side of your head, sinking down onto your face. Your eyes flutter shut, a muffled moan pressed against her when your mouth latches onto her. She’s always tasted divine. Good hygiene and diet, you imagine, or maybe you’re just so tragically in love with her that every part of her is like nectar.
“Fuck. There we go,” she sighs softly as you lap up into her.
It should be a little humiliating just laying there, nose nudging at her swollen clit as she rolls her hips against your tongue. Once upon a time she was concerned about her supple thighs suffocating you when she took her perch above you, but Tashi quickly learned you were right where you wanted to be.
Your hands come up instinctively to hold onto her, but she smacks them away like one would discipline a dog. “No. You gave up today.”
“I didn’t—” You try to argue, though it’s hard with your face smothered in arousal and the folds of her cunt pressing against your lips every time you open your mouth.
“Yes, you did. Any time you lose your footing against me, you give up.”
Her hips shift again and you latch onto her clit, alternating between flicking your tongue and sucking as if that might make her disappointment in you fade away. It lasts about all of two minutes before another thought occurs to her.
“It’s your forehand holding you back. You roll it in when you should be driving through it. You’re not losing because you’re worse,” she says. You’re actually a little offended that she’s coherent enough to speak through her pleasure when you’re currently worshipping her pussy to the best of your ability. “You’re losing because you’re passive.”
Somehow, that jab digs its heels into your chest, and you have a feeling she’s talking about more than just the final today. Your head falls back against the pillow to breathe again, panting up at her.
“... Are we still talking about tennis?” You ask, breathless.
She blinks down at you, caught off guard by the question. “We’re always talking about tennis,” she dismisses, right before her cunt hits your face again.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
“—She used to call it sitting on her throne after she won,” you recall, laughing as you lean back into the booth. The memory warms your chest in a way the wine hasn’t quite managed to yet.
For a second, it’s just you and Tashi again. Not this table, not the wedding rings, not the years in between and the unanswered texts. Just her rolling her eyes at you while you both know she’s pleased to be talking about your time together again.
Next to you, Patrick is looking between you both with his brows drawn together, confusion sitting awkwardly on his face. Art’s expression is almost identical as he shifts uncomfortably.
“Wait, what are you talking about?” He says.
Patrick gives a short laugh beside you, though it sounds a little forced. “Is this an inside joke? You’ve lost me. Her throne?”
You glance between them, then back at Tashi. There’s a split second where you debate downplaying it to keep things neat and digestible… but the wine is doing its job. And so is the way she’s looking at you—dark eyes amused, a little daring, and it’s enough to push you over the edge.
“What? You guys didn’t know?”
Patrick’s confusion deepens. “Know what?”
Tashi leans back, completely at ease as her arm drapes back behind her husband again. “That I went to her room,” she says mildly.
Art frowns. “Yeah, you said that part.”
“And stayed,” she adds.
There’s a stretch of confused silence before you see the moment it clicks for them both. “Stayed,” Patrick repeats.
Art blinks. “You mean—“
“Use your words, Art,” Tashi says, lifting a brow.
“You… didn’t just talk,” he says stupidly, his throat bobbing.
You snort into your glass. “God, no. She might have left you both high and dry, but I got laid.”
Patrick barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. The thought of you, his wife, having a sexual history with his ex-girlfriend is both as baffling as it is thrilling. “No fucking way.”
“What? Is that surprising?” You glance over at him.
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yes, absolutely it is.”
Art is still processing, trying to figure out the timeline of it all. If you were sleeping with Tashi, and then Tashi dated Patrick, and you dated Art… the entire thing is confusing. “You guys—“ he gestures vaguely between you both, “—that was… a thing?”
“On and off,” Tashi shrugs, lips curving up.
“More on than off,” you add, unable to help yourself.
She shoots you a look. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not!”
Patrick leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. “That’s crazy.”
“You never said anything,” Art says.
You shrug lightly. “You never asked.”
“That’s not—“ He stops himself, shaking his head. “I feel like that’s something you mention.”
“Why?” You counter. “You guys were busy with your own thing.”
There’s a flicker of something between him and Patrick, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but you are. You share a look with Tashi over the table.
“We didn’t have a thing,” Patrick denies, though his mouth is twitching.
“Sure,” Tashi hums.
“We didn’t,” Art says, shooting her a look.
“Okay,” she says, clearly not believing him in the slightest.
“You shared hotel rooms for years,” you laugh.
“Because we were touring together,” Patrick says. “It was cheaper.”
“And?” You press, brow raised.
“And nothing.”
Tashi lets out a soft, knowing laugh. “Right.”
“Nothing happened,” Art denies again, jaw tightening just slightly. You almost feel bad, but the way he can’t meet anybody’s gaze—Patrick’s least of all—is just too endearing for your tipsy mind.
“Didn’t say it did,” Tashi replies smoothly.
Neither of you push it further. You don’t need to. The implication hangs there the same way the rest of your history together does: unresolved. Instead, you take another sip of wine, letting the tension settle into something playful again.
“Anyway,” you say lightly, “the point is—“
“That you ditched us,” Patrick cuts in, pointing a finger at Tashi good-naturedly.
Tashi just smirks. “I upgraded,” she replies haughtily, lifting her chin.
You choke on a laugh while Art shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to chuckle or be annoyed. “That’s unbelievable,” he says.
“You survived.”
“Barely,” Patrick mutters. This time, you catch the faint edge of something beneath the humour. You don’t think it’s anger. More like curiosity. He’s always been more open-minded towards that sort of thing, and you have no doubt he would have gotten off to that knowledge if he’d been told sooner. Then he just laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. My wife and my ex—“
“Your wife and your ex that’s also your friend’s wife,” you correct sweetly.
“Ex-friend,” Tashi chips in.
“You’re making this worse,” he bemoans.
Finally, Art joins in on the laughter. “This is a lot.”
“Welcome to the table,” you jest.
The laughter doesn’t die down right away. Patrick’s raucous as always, and a nearby couple glances over in mild irritation, but none of you care enough to quiet down. For all your anxieties about tonight, you’re glad it got to this point where the past isn’t a sharp, fragile thing to be danced around. Now you can joke about it without feeling hollow inside.
Some time later, another round of drinks appears—this time something stronger, in four little glasses. You don’t remember anyone explicitly ordering it, but Tashi thanks the waiter like she did.
“Shots?” Patrick says, already reaching.
“Absolutely not,” Art replies immediately.
“Yes,” Tashi counters at the same time, and he looks surprised. You have a feeling it’s unlike her new polished self, the Tashi on all the billboards and sports magazines, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Oh, come on. Just one,” you say.
“You too?” He says, sending you a betrayed look.
“Don’t be a bore.” You nudge the glass towards him, and he relents with a sigh.
“Patrick’s a bad influence on you.”
Tashi watches the exchange in amusement, then lifts her own glass. “To terrible decisions.”
“To terrible decisions,” you echo.
Patrick’s glass clinks against yours before he downs it. The burn hits fast, and you wince, sputtering out a laugh as you set the glass down. Patrick coughs dramatically at your side.
“Jesus—what the hell is that?”
“Expensive,” Tashi says lightly.
“Of course.”
She leans back, stretching slightly, then glances around like she’s just remembered where she is. “This place is boring.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you laugh.
“Exactly.”
Patrick nods immediately in drunken agreement. “Too polite in here. Everybody looks like they have sticks up their asses.”
“It’s a restaurant,” Art points out.
“And we’re done with it,” Tashi decides, rising to her feet before anyone can argue.
“We are?” You blink up at her.
“With the restaurant? Yes. With the night? No.”
“What does that mean?” Patrick says.
She picks up her wine glass, tipping her head back to gulp down the rest of it. “Let’s go somewhere more interesting.”
“Like where?” Art replies warily.
Mischief sparks in her brown eyes. “Where do you think?”
The journey to her hotel room doesn’t take long. Across the street, up the elevator, all of you cramped together and giggling. You cling to Art’s arm as you stumble down the hall on their floor, and you don’t even realise it’s not your husband until Tashi laughs at you. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just loops her arm through yours and tells Patrick to hurry up as he lags behind.
When you get into the room, you make a beeline for the arm chair, slumping down with a sigh. “Take my shoes off for me.”
“Take them off yourself,” Patrick groans, collapsing onto the bed.
Art and Tashi are a little more dignified, not that you’re surprised. Art shrugs off his jacket to hang up while she takes off her heels next to him.
“There’s wine in the fridge if you want any,” she offers.
“I think I’d die,” you lament, leaning forward to clumsily unbuckle your heels. It takes a moment to get them off before you stretch out your legs, wiggling your toes. Patrick’s face down in a pillow now, a silence falling over the room. Then you sit up suddenly. “Do it for me.”
“Do what?” Art says, peeling his tie off.
“Recreate it.”
“Be a bit more specific, babe,” Tashi indulges with a laugh. The pet name makes your heart stutter.
“The… the hotel thing. The three of you.”
Patrick lifts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Like, when I wasn’t there. Pretend I’m not here and it’s the night of the Junior Open.”
“Well, we just drank shitty beer and sat around the floor,” Art says, a little uncertain, though he’s smiling over at you with flushed cheeks.
“No. No, not that part,” you say, waving a hand. “The kissing part. You said you all made out.”
“What? No,” he laughs.
“You don’t have to,” you shrug, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just thought it’d be funny.”
Tashi watches you. She knows you well enough to hear what you’re not saying—that it’s not just curiosity, not just a joke. “Funny,” she echoes, amused.
Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up fully now. “C’mon, man. For old time’s sake.” Nobody seems surprised that he’s up for it without question.
“This is a terrible idea,” Tashi snorts.
“Everything tonight has been a terrible idea,” you point out, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Are you going to give me a show or not?”
She seems amused by your drunken confidence. Art looks to her questioningly—a lap dog, even now—before she nods. “You heard the woman. Give her a show.”
She moves to sit on the bed, patting either side of her. Art hesitates, but just like in 2006, as soon as Patrick moves he’s right there with him. Both of them bracket her sides, hands in their laps, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breaths. Tashi glances between them both, before her gaze settles back on you.
Suddenly, it feels a lot more real when they’re all in front of you. You exhale heavily, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “It was like this?”
“Mmm. They were both so desperate.”
“Who’d you kiss first?” You can’t help but ask.
Tashi smiles, turning her head. Patrick leans in slightly, breath ghosting over hers, but she turns before their lips can meet. Her mouth finds Art’s instead. He kisses the same way you remember—a little tentative at first, before his confidence builds and his hand finds her thigh, his kisses growing more fervent.
When she finally breaks apart and turns to Patrick, you find yourself unsettingly okay with it. A part of you thought you would have been jealous. You’ve been married to Patrick for four years, dating for even longer, and yet now your stomach is twisting with arousal at the thought of him kissing her.
He doesn’t ask for permission. As soon as her head turns, his mouth is on hers. He’s hungrier than Art, not just because they haven’t kissed in years. It’s how he always kisses. Sex with Patrick always feels like some all-consuming kind of lust, and your brain feels foggy watching Tashi shudder when his tongue shamelessly slides against hers.
You find your gaze flicking curiously towards Art for his reaction. He doesn’t seem as off balance as you would have thought, though that might be the alcohol talking. He’s just as enraptured by the sight of the pair of them devouring each other, his hand still squeezing Tashi’s thigh.
A string of saliva connects them when they break apart, and you wet your own lips. “So this is it? You just made both of them take turns kissing you?”
Art turns pink before she can reply. “Do you really think I’m that boring?” She laughs. She leans back, head tilted ever so slightly to expose her neck. And while she makes eye contact with you, Art and Patrick lean in, kissing along opposite sides of her neck.
It’s not shocking—nothing about tonight has been shocking, really—but it makes the wetness building up between your legs worse. The part that really undoes you is Tashi’s eyes staying on you. It feels like this isn’t just a reenactment for your benefit. It’s like you’re part of it, even from across the room. Always part of it, even back then.
A quiet exhale escapes her when Art’s grip tightens on her thigh, thumb pressing in unconsciously under the slit of her dress, while Patrick’s hand slides higher along her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. They don’t look at each other, but they’re aware of each other. You can see it in the way they move: careful not to collide, but not exactly avoiding it either.
“Shit,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
Tashi’s mouth curves faintly at the sound. “You’re looking between them like it’s a match,” she says.
“Feels like one,” you swallow thickly.
She huffs a quiet laugh, breath hitching slightly as Patrick’s mouth presses just under her jaw, teeth grazing boldly. “And who’s winning?”
Your gaze flicks between the three of them, slower now to take it all in properly. “You.”
“Always,” she replies.
Her hands lift to find their jaws, guiding them back upwards. Your breath catches, fingers curling into the plush arm of your chair when their mouths meet together. All three of them. It’s a strange sight, all of them alternating between lips and tongues, but it makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest nonetheless.
You aren’t sure how long it goes on for before she leans back again.
“You know what to do,” she prompts both men.
Art blushes furiously, ready to protest. “Tashi—“
“Art.”
His complaint dies on his tongue. Patrick is smirking, though you aren’t sure why until it becomes clear what you know what to do means. He leans across her, where Art hesitates for a moment before he does the same. Your jaw almost drops when they kiss, and Tashi grins at the delight in your eyes.
You’ve never been blind about Patrick’s attraction towards men. He’s ogled them shamelessly for years, and you’ve always had your suspicions about how close he was with Art. Tashi made more than enough jokes at Stanford about teenage boys sharing beds during their formative years turning out a certain way.
It’s a different thing entirely to see him making out with a man. Especially when that man is Art, who’s still a furious shade of red but melting into the kiss. It’s drunk and sloppy, but it might be the single greatest thing you’ve ever seen.
You don’t realise Tashi’s talking to you until she says your name. Dazed, you manage a, “Huh?”
“I said don’t you feel left out?” She repeats.
“Well—” You swallow, shifting a little so your thighs press together. “I’m having fun watching.”
“You’d have a lot more fun kissing me.”
It takes you aback, but you’re nodding your head eagerly before you can really process it. You almost trip on your discarded heels in your haste to get up. Tashi slides back from between the two men, ignoring their questioning look.
“You look nice tonight,” you offer clumsily when you sit next to her, tongue feeling thick in your mouth.
“Nice?” She laughs, hand settling on your knee to give it a comforting squeeze. “You used to call me beautiful.”
“Well, you were. I mean— you are,” you correct yourself.
“Don’t get shy on me now. You were so confident ordering us around,” she teases.
“She’s always like that,” Patrick chips in. Art’s panting against his jaw, pressing kisses every now and then while trying to keep his gaze on the pair of you. “So bossy but as soon as she gets a little attention, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tashi snorts. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Art’s mouth again.
“You’re beautiful,” you repeat, softer now, as she cups your jaw with her other hand. Her expression shifts slightly into that bashfulness you’ve missed so much. It boosts your confidence enough for you to lean in first, closing the distance like you’ve done a hundred times before.
It’s soft at first, slipping back into something that feels like it never really went away. You hear Patrick make a low, amused down somewhere behind you, but it’s distant. Everything is, except the way Tashi’s hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you.
“You see? Wasn’t that hard,” she murmurs against your lips.
You huff out a quiet laugh, breath catching. “Shut up.”
She smiles into the next kiss, a little sharper this time, more like the version of her that thrived on pushing you. It pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat before you can stop it. The hand on your jaw tips it gently to the side so she can kiss her way along your cheek and to your ear. When your eyes open, you’re met with the sight of Art in the same position, your husband’s mouth sliding down his neck while one hand works at the top few buttons of his shirt.
“Do you miss him?” She breathes, low in your ear.
“Mmm?”
“Art. Do you miss him? Miss kissing him?” she continues, biting the lobe of your ear playfully. “Miss fucking him?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, shivering when she licks a stripe down your neck.
“Invite him over, then. I’m sure he misses kissing you, too. I know I did.”
You call his name, but it comes out more of a moan than anything when Tashi sucks against your neck. She stifles a laugh. “Art,” you repeat, a little louder. He looks towards you, pupils blown wide. Whether it’s from arousal or the alcohol, you can’t tell. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”
Art obeys, despite Patrick’s groan of protest, though your husband follows him across the bed. Tashi continues to lavish your neck with attention while Art leans in with that same hesitance before melting into you. Your drunken mind deduces that he tastes better than Patrick. Not that Patrick tastes bad, but you’re used to kissing someone who tastes of tobacco, not just wine and traces of mint.
“Man, this is like a wet dream,” Patrick sighs.
“We should probably stop while we’re ahead,” Art adds half-heartedly, though he doesn’t stop kissing you.
“Yeah? You want to stop?” Tashi reaches across, fingers sliding between his legs to palm his bulge. His breath hitches against your mouth.
“No. No, I’m just saying…”
“Stop talking. Don’t ruin this for me,” Patrick says.
So Art doesn’t. Clothes start to come off in pieces, entirely uncoordinated. You’re half-laughing and half-serious in a way that only happens when there’s too much history and too much alcohol in the room. Patrick tugs at the hem of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before, a bit distracted, his attention splitting between the three of you.
Tashi doesn’t hesitate, though. She moves between all of you the way she always has, slipping her hands under fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and guiding more than asking.
You catch yourself laughing at something—nothing, really—as Patrick loses his balance trying to step out of his shoes, collapsing half on top of you and mouthing at your shoulder instead of getting up again.
“God, we’re a mess,” you say, breathless. “I really want to fuck you, though.”
“You fuck him all the time,” Tashi says with an eye roll, her fingers currently making quick work of Art’s belt.
“No. No, I mean all of you.”
And she’s about to take you up on that offer when her phone buzzes where it was discarded near the head of the bed. Tashi freezes, brows furrowing slightly. “Hold on—“ She says, already reaching for it.
“Don’t tell me you’re taking a call right now,” Patrick groans against your shoulder.
“It’s probably important,” Art adds, though you can tell by his frown and the bulge in his pants he’s just as disappointed as Patrick.
Tashi looks at the screen, her expression shifting. “Oh my god.”
“What?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter and shoving Patrick off. He collapses into Art instead.
She turns the phone around without a word. It’s a photo, bright and blurry, taken by someone with too much enthusiasm. A card smeared in glitter and doodled hearts, with a grinning little brunette holding it up to the camera. Scribbled across the front, it reads:
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY MOM!
For a second, everyone is quiet. Then you laugh, not because it’s funny—though you suppose it is, in a way—but because the contrast is so absurd it knocks the air right out of you. Patrick follows a second later, loud and incredulous.
“Are you serious? Right now? This is why we haven’t had kids,” he laments. You smack his arm, but you’re still laughing.
“That’s—shit. That’s timing,” Art exhales his own laugh.
“I told her I’d call her before bed,” Tashi huffs, but she’s smiling down at the screen when she turns it back to her.
“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Art says, glancing around at the half-undressed state of all of you.
“Speak for yourself,” Patrick mutters, adjusting himself shamelessly.
“No, I think that’s pretty definitive,” you laugh, tugging the straps of your dress back up. Your heart is still hammering in your chest.
“Probably for the best.” Tashi meets your eyes, something warm flickering there again. There’s a quiet agreement in the room, unspoken but shared. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, but at least none of you are groping each other anymore.
“I need water,” Patrick declares.
“Same,” Art says, and the pair of them shove at each other on their way to the fridge, sporting matching tents in their slacks.
You watch them, lips curving up faintly while Tashi texts her mom back. Some things change, some things don’t.
“Hey,” you say lightly, looking back at her. “Tell her I said happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi glances up at you, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m not sure how to explain who you are, but I will.”
The night ends less explosively than it might have had things continued. But when Tashi settles back next to you, phone extended to show you the picture again while Art and Patrick bicker behind you, you don’t think you’d change a thing.
nsfw, heavy make out (in a chapel..), explicit language.
summary: Art helps you and Patrick rehearse for a play you're both starring in, his help meaning a suggestion neither of you had expected. part 4 of a series !!
1.8 thousand words
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happy challengers anniversary !
September 29th. The season of fall had begun taking ahold of the city. Trees that had been adorned with green leaves began turning orange, the scorching sun had finally extended some mercy to new yorkers, and the catholic school, St. Mary’s, which you all attended, had started with its auditions for the autumn play. This year the school was putting on Romeo and Juliet.
You and your sister had watched DiCaprio’s version enough times to know it by heart, so signing your name up for the part of Juliet had been a no brainer. Auditions passed, you were almost guaranteed the part but you didn’t want to jinx it. On your walk to school you tried your best to guilt trip your boyfriend for not auditioning for Romeo.
“Why didn’t you? You’re perfect for the part”, a frown made its way between your brows.
“I’ll smash the role of Tybalt, Romeo is too much to chew on”, Art wasn’t shy by any means but his stage presence didn’t work as well in the theater as it did on court. You continue to complain as the two of you walk up the steps to the school, your bag weighing down on Art’s shoulder. There’s a big group of people standing in a clump in the middle of the quad.
“The roles have been announced!” you don’t even look at Art as you ditch him to get through the crowd and to the paper on the cork board. Your eyes scan to the top of the page, finding your name beside Shakespeare's tragic heroine. The smile that had begun spreading across your face falls at the name that stood beside Romeo’s.
Romeo Montague, male lead: Patrick Zweig.
What the hell? You didn’t even know he had auditioned. You feel Art’s presence beside you when his laugh reaches your ears. “He is going to flip”, Art knew Patrick only auditioned to appease his mother who had practically forced him to do so after reading about the upcoming production in the weekly school letter.
“Who’s going to flip?” you roll your eyes at Patrick who is now standing beside you as you point at his name with your manicured finger. This just wasn’t happening. The thought of having to endure him when you were with Art was painful enough, now you’d have to spend every day with him after school for the next three weeks. “Oh fuck” he groans.
“Yeah oh fuck. How did you even get the part?” your annoyance weirdly works as a balm for the dread that was spreading through his body. He’d do anything to keep your brows etched together like that, he was now grinning at the compromising position you found yourself in as his Juliet.
“Oh come on I’m a total Romeo, hello?” Art nods at his friend, smiling at the whole situation. “C’mon angel, let's get to class before you get an aneurysm”. You follow him, posture sagging, before you shoot the brunette a glare and mouth “You’re fucked”. He just winks at you with an air kiss.
Playing Juliet came easily, despite the glaring gap between your personality and her character. You had enjoyed rehearsals and memorizing lines with Art and your sister. Of course there was the odious task of playing opposite Patrick Zweig. Two weeks had passed, two weeks of dealing with Patrick’s unshaking commitment to tormenting you.
The three of you were sitting in the chapel, the only place that had been empty on campus, to run your lines together. Art was just there as an audience (and let’s be honest, as a mediator). You’d rather be anywhere but here. You had decided to channel your irritation into the play, something that backfired when it was time to do the death scene. It took an herculean effort to act dead. At least you didn’t have to do it until the performance.
“Here's to my love. O true apothecary thy drugs are quick” he pauses longer than he should and you all know in that moment that you’d have to restart the scene. “Line!”, he sighs. “Thus with a kiss I die” you and Art say simultaneously, he’s forgotten this line more times than you could count.
“Then we kiss?”
“Yes, and then you die”, you emphasize the last part. Before, you had always avoided running this scene. If you had thought sharing a cigarette with the boy was enough to make you a germaphobe what would be the consequences to follow his lips against yours?
“God how many more times can you mess this part up?”.
Art had the feeling that his friend was stalling, he had gotten through all the other scenes easily.
“Easy for you to say, all you have to do is lie there”
“Yeah so this should be a breeze, I mean don't all your dates freeze up like a corpse at your unwanted advances?”
He was about to fire back when Art interrupts,“Guys chill out, it’s just a peck”
Both you and Patrick turn your necks to look at the blonde, who seemed to be dismissing the kiss with ease. Just a peck? Sure it was but it was a peck between you and Patrick.
The two of you couldn’t leave a fight unfinished. Any chance to mess up your polished exterior, he took. Any chance to humble his cocky nature, you took. The chance of seeing you lock lips, rest assured Art was going to be there to see it happen.
“Go on, just try it”
“What now? I know I don't need practice. He might need some though”. Patrick rolls his eyes but doesn’t cut in, letting your denial stand. Art shoots you a glance that makes it clear that his directorial note still stands. You cave and turn to Patrick who looks surprised at your change of heart.
“Cucking in the house of God? I don’t recognize you, Art”
“Let’s just get it over with” you say, adjusting yourself so that you’re now sitting close to him. He takes it as an invitation to place a hand on your waist. You smack it away and mutter “don’t push it” before closing the gap between you. The kiss is chaste, neither of your brains register what was happening before you pull away with a fake gag. Art shoots a disappointed look at the two of you.
“How anticlimactic. Give it a proper go, then it won’t be so bad at opening night”, you get the feeling that his idea was less helpful and served more to his role as puppeteer, making you and Patrick act on his whims.
You didn’t say anything though, the curiosity of what all the fuzz around Patrick Zweig was, was gnawing at your pride. Art’s encouraging expression made you agree to his request. You didn’t want to kiss him, you were just doing it for the play, right?
Patrick seems to tire of your hesitance and grabs your face with his hands before smashing his lips onto yours, your body instinctually arches into his making your chest push against his. You really were an angel, gifting Patrick with his ultimate wet dream, what you hadn’t known was that Art apparently had the same one.
You feel a third hand, now resting on your thigh. Not to put a stop to the kiss but to give the green light for you to reciprocate. If anyone asks, you didn’t enjoy it. Still, you take Art’s signal and push your tongue between Patrick’s lips to which he groans. If it’s because you taste good or because it’s an indirect kiss with his friend, you’ll never know.
The brunette moves his hands to your waist, pulling you closer. You bite his tongue to remind him of the circumstance. Sucks for you that he seemed to be into it.
The kiss wasn’t so bad, all of you seemed to lose the sense of time. Even Art, who you could feel breathing down your neck was getting lost in the scene playing out in front of him. You tug on Patrick’s hair, the nail in the coffin for him.
If he in the past had been able to deny his attraction to you, this was the end to it (even though he has touched himself to the thought of you to the point of exhausting all imagined scenarios, he only dismissed it as a side effect of already having fucked every other girl in school).
His hand moves to your leg, landing on top of Art’s. The smell of your hair and the sounds you and Patrick were making made Art forget all about his surroundings and where you all found yourselves. You’re all pulled out of the moment as you hear the echo of steps in the church, you’ve never seen them move quicker.
The three of you sit innocently, scripts covering the boys’ laps, hand covering your bruised lips, as the drama teacher comes in. Thankfully she’s none the wiser and leaves as soon as she lets you know you can pack up for today. You stand and choose not to address what had occurred.
“Well great job guys, I don’t think we need anymore practice”
Patrick's hand creeps up your skirt but stops when you kick his leg. “C’mon Art, let’s go”, you insist as you straighten up your uniform. The blonde grabs your hand and stands up.
“Ou will thou leave me so unsatisfied?”
Patrick really is relentless, but did the both of you really expect him to leave now that he had found room for himself in your twosome? You shoot him a glare before turning.
“Good bye, Romeo”, the look in Art’s eyes as he bids his farewell is akin to the one he had the night he discovered Patrick’s crush on you. He leaves and the arm he puts around you feels like a dagger to Patrick’s heart.
It clicks for him that this had been a test, a test to see if he had any lingering feelings for you left or if that night had just happened because of his horniness and some weed. He doesn’t know if he failed or not.
Art clearly didn’t mind and the way you let him touch you tells him that you didn’t either. You never did anything for anyone but yourself, and Art’s request had been a big ask. It wasn’t all for his sake, right?
The problem that you had represented now became one that he couldn’t fuck out of his system. He got a foot in the door and he wasn’t about to lock it and toss the key away. This must be the first time he had been grateful to have been pressured into something by his mother.
nsfw (for the first time so if you cringe, don't tell me), heavy homoerotic vibes, substance use (weed), masturbation, explicit language. basically my 4 favourite pass times.
summary: The best friend's had shared rooms more times than they could recall. This night wasn’t any different. A blunt and a call from you, Art's girlfriend, does more damage than anticipated. part of a series of (linked below).
2.1 thousand words
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You and Patrick had the routine of sharing Art down to a T. No, not like that but in the way divorced parents share a child. It was Saturday night and it was Patrick's turn.
Him and Art had been killing time all day since coming back from practice. Art’s parents had been out of town so getting high had been a no brainer. They passed the blunt between each other whilst playing their 5th round of mario kart.
Before you came along this was pretty much how the pair spent every weekend, at least if they got their way. Theirs was the kind of closeness that would thread the fabric of life and make it seem worth it. Nights like these weren’t foreign to the pair.
After the blunt was finished they went back to Art’s room. As they were about to get in bed, Art’s phone started buzzing, they both knew who it was. He leaves the room leaving Patrick in his solitude.
When he came back to the room a silence settled over them and for the first time in a while it wasn’t a comfortable one. Art waited for his best friend's retort while making it to the other side of the bed.
The fact that they never had slept in a separate bed on their nights together didn’t need to be pointed out, it was just as instinctual as the nature of their dynamic. Patrick notices the bulge in Art’s shorts.
What the fuck? Had it been the phone call? The weed? Him? Did you send him a photo? Nah, you wouldn’t do that.
“Art Donaldson, if you expect me to be the little spoon with that thing between us you’re mistaken”. Art tosses a pillow at him before finally laying down, not bothering to get under the sheets.
“Give me a break. At least I still can drink from the fountain of youth” he was referencing the story the brunette had told him of the time he couldn’t get it up when Kat Zimmerman had tried to go down on him.
“Tsk that happened one time” he pauses and before he can stop himself, the question leaves his lips, “What did the princess say to get your blood rushing south?” he did his best to sound aloof.
It would’ve worked if it weren’t for the fact that he had never inquired about your relationship before, certainly not sexually. He weirdly had never asked. Not because he wasn’t wondering but because asking would be showing an interest in you, something which he had sworn to avoid at all cost. If Art would point it out, he could always blame the weed.
Art masks his surprise and tries his best to articulate a response. “I don’t know man, it’s nothing” he says, sort of embarrassed by the look of the slight blush spreading across his face.
In reality the call hadn’t been anything special. He had given you the rundown of his day which you reciprocated before calling Patrick something along the lines of “bad influence”, you both knew it wasn’t fully true. The sound of your sleepy voice and the weed in his system had caused the hard on (and maybe the fact that he was about to go to bed next to his best friend, but he’d never admit that).
Patrick could leave it alone but when had he ever done that?
“What do you mean ‘nothing’? Did you have phone sex during the 4 minutes you were away?”.
Art sighs before denying. “Nah, I wouldn’t be any good when I know my walls are thin enough for you to hear. I don’t perform well in front of a crowd” he knew that to be untrue but he says the words anyway, Patrick returns a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“So what? It was just her voice?” he asks incredulously. He glances at Arts lap. Yup, still there. Art shrugs and concedes with “Yeah, pretty much”.
The response does nothing to make the brunette’s unease go away. He had never seen his friend like this before, and the thought scared him. Did he miscalculate the situation? Were you not as forgettable as he’d hoped? He himself had hardly forgotten about you, you occupied his thoughts more than he had liked but he had always blamed his disdain for you as the reason why.
He does his best to muster up a joke.
“Boy am I a victim of disappointment in you. Don’t ever let her know she can do that. You know she’s good at abusing power, and knowing you I know you’d let her”. It was supposed to land with some sort of irony but none of it makes it through.
Patrick’s warning was in vain. Of course you knew how much Art liked you. When it was just the two of you, you could hardly keep your hands off of each other. And when it came to “abusing power”, Art didn’t really mind your doing so.
His best friend had just assumed your libido was as stagnant as your patience for him. Little did he know that the “lack” of sex you and Art had was an illusion consisting of wishful thinking and Art’s adamant pursuit of self control around him.
Not because Patrick had ever extended the same courtesy to him (he had many times made out and once had under the blanket action with a girl, when the blonde was in the room). But because he knew it was different with you.
The state of their relationship was never addressed, but he knew better than to rub his relationship in Patrick’s face. The girls Patrick had fooled around with never mattered to Art because they never mattered to Patrick. You on the other hand did.
Art tries to return the joke but it’s hard to make lies up when high, “Yeah not like it’d matter”. Patrick tenses at the thought of you and Art, a thought that was now as difficult to ignore as Art’s boner.
“No but seriously, what’s the appeal apart from her hard body?” the weed had removed Patrick’s sense but not his crudeness.
Art knew better than to be offended.
They both settle into Arts bed before he responds. “Well apart from that, I like all the things you don't like about her. Yeah, she can be cold but that only makes her interest in me feel like it’s something I should cherish even more”.
Sweet words really, but Patrick didn’t want to think about love.
Not when the image of you on the other side of the phone clad in just a night slip or maybe one of Art’s shirts (and therefore the possibility that it might be one of his) had entered his brain and made his shorts uncomfortable.
“So how’s the sex?” fuck it.
“Is this your way of trying to get rid of my boner? Cause it’s not working, it only does for you” Art jokes, he doesn’t get to laugh before the tent in Patrick’s boxers enters his line of vision.
A confused expression spreads across his face. Patrick takes notice and drapes the sheets over his lap, but it’s just an act of futility. It’s hard not to feel betrayed by the discovery of Patrick’s attraction to you but Art is too horny to let it sting.
“She’d skin me if I told you” which yeah true but when had he ever kept something from Patrick? His friend’s boner did more of the persuasion than the question itself.
“She once let me go down on her in school”. The little nonchalance Patrick had left, exited his body.
“Bullshit”.
Art shakes his head, the memory of his mouth dragging your panties off from under your skirt in the boys locker room made his cock throb. “Don’t fucking tell her that I told you though or she’ll never let me do it again”.
Was that all Art was going to concede too? If he already went to the trouble of revealing his boner for the both of you it wasn’t gonna be to get blue balled.
He knew his friend didn’t mind eating box, he himself had never felt the same.
He was far too selfish.
“I know you think of her as some sort of prude but eating her pussy is one of the best feelings man” Art began palming himself over his shorts, he doesn’t tell him about the part where he came in his pants.
If the picture of your legs spread with Art between them didn’t do the trick, seeing the blonde begin to do something about his erection sure did.
Patrick surrenders and removes the sheets off his lap before mirroring his friend's hand. “How fitting. She always had a knack for taking things”.
Art would say something but he knows Patrick is just saying it to express his rejection of you, even as his dick was getting harder at the thought of you muffling your sounds while his best friend was working between your legs.
If Art had no honor then Patrick was a slave to his.
“In the summer she had this tan, when she took her clothes off it was the hottest thing ever. I could see where her bikini had been covering her tits” the thought of it makes his hand speed up.
Patrick's mind drifts to the photo of you that he had stolen that was now resting in his night stand beside a cum-stained sock. They glance at each other's lap, then at each other before discarding their boxers, wrapping their hands around themselves.
Art pauses for a second, would this count as cheating? The question hangs for as long as it took to form, a good 5 seconds before he continues pumping himself.
You’d be flattered, he knows you would be.
“Does she let you fuck her raw?” the speed of Patrick’s hand doesn’t halt. “Some- Ah shit. Yeah sometimes” Patrick almost cums at the sounds Art is making.
He spits into his hand and keeps at it. “God her legs”, Art says in his fucked out state. “Uh huh” is all he hears from the brunette. One good thing about uniforms was that the girls had to wear skirts, they weren’t short by any means but give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile.
He imagines your legs wrapped around Art, who would be sporting the same expression he is now as he spreads the beads of come that are leaving his tip. Patrick licks his lips.
“Is she as whiny in bed as you?” he had gotten a preview back at your house when he walked in on you and Art but he had to know. Art shoots him a glare, pretending to be upset at the dig before nodding with a groan.
He is close, they both know it.
“You might think you have nothing in common but you both seem to enjoy fucking with me, besides you do- uh don’t hate her” he’s talking about the fact that they’re both jerking off as they talk about you.
Patrick recoils at the thought of sharing anything other than Art with you. He had always rationalized the hard-ons you’d cause with your digs as part of his insatiable nature. He’d hump anything.
“Two things can be true at once. I thought you were a man that understood nuance” he returns with a strained voice. He’s also close.
Art mutters, “whatever man”, not lucid enough to retaliate. The room is filled with groans, whines, and the sounds they make as they hump into their hands. Patrick does his best not to stare, he turns his neck to the other direction.
There you are. No, not in person but on Art’s night stand. The picture of the two of you almost drives him over the edge. Your smile, one you’d never gifted him, and Art’s arms wrapped around your waist after one of his games will forever be tattooed in his brain from now on.
Fuck why’d you have to be gorgeous.
In pursuit of release their minds cloud. Your laugh, your ass in your school skirt, you kissing Art, your whines, insults, your legs in that chanel dress, your tits, tanlines, Art between your legs, the thought of you jerking them off at the same time-
Their cocks shoot out ropes of cum, almost simultaneously. Fuck what a mess. It hadn’t been premeditated.
They lay there for a couple minutes, spend all over their laps before Patrick takes a few tissues from the nightstand, ignoring the photo that had made him come. It hadn’t been the first time they’d jerked off together but it had been a while since they last did.
In an attempt of restoring the dynamic the three of you had, one load ago, Patrick states “You tell her I’ll-”. Art doesn’t let him finish the threat, “What’s there to tell?”.
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