need Pat to fuck you and tease you about how he knows you’re thinking about Art even while Patrick is stuffed deep inside your little pussy. He’s so mean, teasing about how Art isn’t going to be as deep as he is, he’s not going to know what the fuck to do with pussy this tight, this wet, this sweet.
It’s adorable that you don’t even care that Art’s not going to fuck you better than Patrick can. You’re in love with each other. But Patrick doesn’t have to love you to make you feel good, he just has to love your pussy <3
Well yes! 😁🫶
well. yes. (again, had to break the laptop out for this ur so yummy)
"a terrible sweetness" (a patrick interlude)
tags: patrick zweig x fem reader, p in v, mild daddy kink, implied patrick zweig x art donaldson, implied art donaldson x fem reader. nsfw. minors DNI.
You didn't ever mean to fuck him more than once. Patrick was supposed to be a hookup, a momentary balm to soothe your seemingly insatiable need. He's a frat party fever dream, a fantasy through amber-coloured glass. And he's a saved contact on your phone and a text message at one in the morning:
patrick (frat) 1:47 am
in town, wyd?
So you start to fuck him a little more regularly. With Art's permission, of course, you're a lot of things, but you're not a cheater, for fucks' sakes. It's weird for Art, grabbing lunch with Patrick knowing he's been inside Art's girlfriend, and probably will again before his weekend visit is over. But he almost likes it. Because that's his Patrick and his girl. You've managed to inextricably connect two of the most important people to him, and by having both Tashi and her boyfriend, you've tied the final knot. The four of you, all tied together because you can't keep your pretty hands to yourself.
"You're thinking about him again, aren't you?" Patrick taunts, scissoring his fingers open inside you.
Some days, he doesn't bother with much prep - the tight feeling of him bullying inside you, your walls struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, is dizzyingly addictive - but there are nights where it's like he can read your mind, and he finds sick satisfaction in drawing things out so he can tease you. About Art, his Art, his sweet Artie, your lovely, doting, idiot boyfriend, who, for all the goodness in the world, wouldn't ever be able to fuck you like Patrick does.
And he likes knowing he's caused all of this. Patrick knows Art better than Art knows himself. Fucking you is like fucking a part of Art by proxy, and the fact that you're both thinking about him is almost laughable.
"I'm always thinking about him," you return, balling your hands up in your sheets.
He's got you splayed out on your bed, his body between your spread legs, his hand reaching between your bodies to fuck in and out of you with two quick, strong fingers. Patrick's head is right above yours - you could have kissed him, if you wanted. But that's not really what he's for, sweet presses of lips while you 'make love'. Patrick is for the clash of teeth and tongues while you fuck. His eyes are impossibly beautiful, bluish green, the pupils ringed with a sunburst of hazel and gold.
"So am I," Patrick spits back, and it makes you clench around him, hearing confirmation of that single unifying detail, the single nexus between the two of you.
Art.
"But he can't fuck you like I can," Patrick continues roughly.
He pulls his fingers from you, much to your disappointment. (And excitement: not cumming on Patrick's hands just means you'll cum more around his cock.) He brings the slick, shiny digits to your lips, smiling roughly at you.
"Clean that off for me, will ya, doll?"
Patrick likes that he can treat you in a way he can't treat Tashi. She's a lot of things, but she won't let him degrade her. Not the way he degrades you; he's using you as much as you're using him, and he won't let you forget it. He likes that when he holds his fingers up to your mouth you suck them willingly into your mouth and swirl your tongue around him to really make sure you're licked all of yourself off him, likes that you seem genuinely disappointed when he takes them away. Like a dog losing it's favourite toy.
He lines himself up, dragging his cock meaning up and down your slit. Kisses it against your clit, slaps it there for good measure. You moan, eyes fluttering shut, rolling back in your skull. Patrick knows what he's doing, always does. Patrick knows how to fuck. Patrick knows how to make you feel so, so good.
His palm slaps across your face, not very hard, just as a reminder. The crack of skin forces your eyes back onto his smug face.
"No, no, keep your fucking eyes open," he goads. "I want you to look at me, and think about him, when I fuck you."
It's with that promise that Patrick finally spears himself in you, all at once, bottoming out in one rough, steady thrust. It takes everything in you to keep your eyes open as you all but scream, walls stretching to take him, clenching around his cock when he finally lands home. He gives you no time to adjust, though, pulling out again, almost all the way, and slamming back in.
"He couldn't fuck you like, this could he?" Patrick groans. His eyes are half-lidded and his pupils are blown so wide they look black. Lust. That's all this is. That's how you like it.
"N-no," you gasp, rolling your hips up to meet him. "Not like this, fuck, you feel so good."
"Yeah, I do," Patrick says, dragging a hand down your body to palm at your tits, rolling one nipple between his fingers.
The thing about Patrick is he fucks you like he doesn't care about you. Which, to an extent, he does, you're dating his best friend and you've slept with his girlfriend and you're actually really funny and smart and interesting so he can see why Art likes you, but Patrick isn't in love with you. You both know it.
"So good, so fuckin' good, god, you fuck me so good, you're so big," you chant helpfully.
His hips move with a fluidity that is almost mesmerising - strong, fast, powerful. He's a hurricane. You can't bend Nature to your will, but if you're very clever, you can learn how to move with it, to learn to ride the waves, match the tide. That's what you have with Patrick. Organised Chaos.
"He wouldn't know what to do with all of this," he pants. "And when he does fuck you, you're gonna miss me. Because no one's gonna fuck you as deep, no one's gonna take care of this sweet little princess pussy like I do."
The idea of that gets you both going. For Patrick, it's the idea of Art's sweet, blushing face, his fumbling hands, his shaky moans, moans Patrick's become too familiar with at the Academy, the late nights when Art thinks no one can hear. But Patrick can. Patrick always can. For you, it's the idea of the tables turning. It's the horrible, taboo idea of Art finally, finally fucking you, and getting a reminder of Patrick. You can practically see him in your head, the expression he had when he was fucking himself into your sheets.
You know Patrick's right, and it hardly matters. You're in love with Art, not Patrick. One of these days, you'll probably marry him, (he's won you over to the idea, honestly, the whole kids and a house life. With Art, the idea becomes sweet.) and you'll have a gorgeous wedding and his ring on your finger. You're not going to marry Patrick, he's not for that. He's for this. For the now - college dorms and too much beer, texts too late at night or too early in the morning. So you tell him.
"Yes, yes, fuck, you're so good," you whine, and every word comes out shaky and fucked. "No one's ever fucked me so good, only you, Patrick, only your cock, god."
"Yeah, that's it, baby, tell me how good I fuck you," Patrick moans. "Tell me how well I cuck your fucking boyfriend."
That's it. That's all it takes for you to cum around him, because it's gross, and it's a fucked-up thing to say, and it's so mean, and you're trying to picture Art saying something like this to you, doing something like this to you, and you can't. Patrick fucking laughs when you clench around him, shaking. But he doesn't stop. He fucks you straight through it, and then he just keeps going. It's unfair, the fact that he has the stamina of a fucking race horse when he wants it. You've had nights where you've cum four times before he's cum at all, and by the end of it you're only half there.
You don't really have words, but you try. What comes out is a broken, "Patrick-- fuck, Art-- can't-- fuck."
"I bet he wants to put a baby in you," Patrick teases, slamming in and out like he wants to break you. "Bet he wants you to make him a daddy."
He's starting to think maybe he's thinking of Art while he fucks you, too. Keeps seeing images of Art in his head - Art writhing under him, Art begging for him, Art's voice, not yours, chanting, "fuck, yes, daddy, daddy, fuck!"
Patrick slips one hand down to play with your clit. It makes you sob, voice climbing another octave. Your whole floor probably hates you. Your RA probably hates you. Your neighbours definitely hate you, and maybe they hate him too. They're probably all jealous.
"Come on, doll, you've got another one. Cum on my cock. Pretends it's Art's."
He's kind of pretending your cunt is Art's ass, so you'll at least be even. You sob, legs shaking, hands fisting in the sheets so hard they might rip. It's good, so good, too good. Your entire body is on fire. You're clenching around him, and it's like every thrust drives his cock right up into your cervix.
You gush around him right as he fills you up. You're on the pill, of course, but for a moment you pretend you aren't, pretend it's Art emptying his balls into you, filling you up, pretend you're making Art a daddy. It's a nice thought.
You're never going to marry Patrick Zweig. It's probably why he fucks you so well.
Approaching Art to ask if hooking up with girls is okay <3 that you met Tashi one of your classes and you might be interested in seeing her if he’s okay with that. And maybe he’s a little conflicted, he didn’t know you were into girls too, it makes him feel a little insecure about it maybe. First he has to worry about Patrick, and now Tashi?
And maybe it’ll make him feel better if he just watches. Just that once. Not because he’s a perv, just because he needs to know what it would be like, if he’d be okay with it again.
cat i need you to know i waited until i could sit with my laptop home from work for this <3
eyes on me (tashi's interlude i)
tags: tashi duncan x fem reader, voyeurism, cunnilingus, fingering, cucking (arts cool with it). nsfw. minors DNI.
"Baby, I'm not... homophobic," Art says, staring at you, nonplussed.
You fluster a little at this -- of course he isn't, one of his friends on the tennis team is gay (the only openly gay man at stanford as far as you're aware) -- but you were genuinely nervous. Art has a rosary hanging on his wall. He prays before bed. Your reservations were warranted.
"I-I know," you frown, "but I'm just asking if you'd be okay with it."
"I didn't know you liked girls," he says, casually avoiding the question. He's good at that, you've noticed. Sidestepping the uncomfortable stuff. (It's probably why he's never told you about Patrick.)
"I like this one," you tell him nonchalantly. "Her name's Tashi -- she plays tennis, actually, maybe you know her. We met in my kinesiology class."
For a moment, you swear his expression flickers. Swear something dark and angry and hurt flashes in his eyes. But the second passes, and it's gone, quick as it came. He smiles. Nods.
"Yeah, I do. She's good, really good. She won the US and the Australian Junior Opens."
"So... you're cool with it?"
Art pauses, cocking his head to one side. He pretends to consider it. Pretends like this is really weighing on him. He waits until he sees that moment of doubt in your eyes, like you're about to take it back, offer up something else to soothe the ache, to speak. He knows you better than you think. And he knows how to use it, more than you know.
"I don't know," he says slowly, rolling each syllable over in his mouth. "I'd have to think about it... maybe. I mean, it's so different from just some guy."
He makes you think it's your idea. It's easier that way, if you think you came up with it all on your own, if you think you're the one pulling the strings. (Both believe the other clueless. Both believe themselves the one in control. Both are sorely mistaken.)
Tashi was the one who suggested it to you.
"He could always watch," she'd said lightly, over your coffee and her weird green energy smoothie. "You know. Sit in. Cum in his pants, or pray, or whatever it is good Christian boys do when they watch their girlfriend fuck another girl."
You'd laughed. "I don't think good Christian boys watch their girlfriends fuck at all, girls or otherwise."
But the seed had sprung. She'd planted the idea in your head, and now it bloomed anew.
"You could aways watch," you say mischievously. "See if you're on board. Do some research."
His ears go red, and you giggle. It's adorable, how sweet he is. Art reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and that damn ring catches your eye. One day, you promise yourself. Soon.
"You're so pretty," you mumble into Tashi's hair. Her lips catch on your neck, biting the skin soft enough that it won't leave a mark. "You're so so pretty."
She laughs breathlessly, and it tickles. You're in your bedroom. Art's sitting on your desk chair while Tashi hovers above you. You lost all your clothes a long time ago, and she's well on her way, in nothing but a thin pink bra and matching panties. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you think she prepared for this. And you like it.
"You ever see her naked before, Art?" Tashi asks. (Something about the way she speaks to him is familiar. Like she's done it before.) But you can't think about that when she shifts above you, clears the view for Art to get an excellent view of your slick, sweet cunt. She spreads your folds with her right hand so he can see your perfect hole.
"N-no," he says, and you can't see him, but it sounds choked.
Tashi smiles above you. Her fingers - sweet, clever, calloused and warm - slide up your cunt, gather the wetness. Slit to clit. And then, slower than you expected her to be, she pushes a single finger into your quivering hole. You gasp, because Tashi doesn't waste any time. She curls right up, searching for that single perfect spot inside you. She wastes even less time finding it.
"Oh, fuck, Tashi, right there--" you moan, hips bucking wildly into her touch. Her wrist brushes your clit, and you sob.
Art's never seen you like this. You're so firm with him. Kind, gentle, loving, but firm. You're sweet, but he has no doubts about who you are. Didn't, anyway, before this. You're fire, you're thunder, you're lightning in a bottle. You're wild and wonderful and brilliant. But right now, you're a just quivering mess melting on Tashi's fingers.
Tashi pulls her two fingers out of your and brings them to her mouth. You watch her suck them clean with a vicious smile.
"Why don't we put on a show for the boyfriend?" Tashi asks you, and she's wicked.
Her bra and panties fall to the floor. She straddles your face. You take it willingly, licking and sucking at her folds. No technique, really, you've only done this once before, drunk at a party, but what you lack in skill, you make up for in enthusiasm. You eat her out like she's your last meal on death row, like she's water to you, the drowning girl.
Tashi laughs, but it's a little shaky. "Oh, babe. You've got a lot to learn. It's okay, I'll teach you."
She leans over, dipping her fingers back into your cunt. Two, and her other hand comes to toy with your clit, bracing most of her weight on her knees - on either side of her head - and her elbows, balanced gently on your hip bones.
"Watch closely, Art," she says. "Your girlfriend's gonna cum on my hand, and then my mouth."
Art whines. But he's good, he's patient, he's nice. He's not a sinner. He's only here to watch. And watch he does. He watches you come undone on her hand, true to her word. He watches her cum on your face - she's beautiful, the arc of her back pushing her tits up, her skin shiny with sweat.
"Fuck, yeah, that's it," Tashi moans, riding your face eagerly. "Yeah, god, you're good. No fucking -- god -- clue, what you're doing, but good."
And then he watches her eat you out, and by God does she know. She knows exactly what she's doing, tongue flat against your slit licking all the way up until she reaches your clit. She flicks that around, swirls the bud around gently. Sucks on it. You lace your hands in her hair and cry out her name, right up until you look up for the first time without anything in your path of vision and lock eyes with Art.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, cumming-- Art," you choke.
Tashi won't admit she enjoyed listening to you fall apart on her tongue, moaning your stupid cuck boyfriend's name. Art won't admit he's probably going to get himself off to the sound of you crying Tashi's name (he gets it, he's been in the same place). You won't admit you really enjoyed being watched. Especially by your sweet, lovely, innocent boyfriend.
ohhhhh idk something about both of them trying to get you back into their lives at once, behind each other’s back. for themselves, yeah, but as a gift to the other. They just need to figure out how to get their claws in you first!!
and when Tashi breaks through first— when she invites you out to a “business dinner” that ends with the two of you in the backseat of her fancy ass car and you’re on your knees taking care of her the way you used to— the way art didn’t know about <3 messy and slick and her hand is in your hair and she’s telling you what a good job you’re doing, that she needed this, needing you.
But she’s Married. And you think about Art and feel that sad ache in your chest, like a missing part of you. You’ve always had a soft spot for him, of course you did. He was a good boyfriend, until the end when he started getting distant. You couldn’t hurt him the way you currently were. With Tashi’s taste on your mouth and her looking at you like you’re some magical missing piece that can fix her life.
So you’re the first to leave. Tell her it’s a mistake and you Can’t do it. You think about texting Art, but he texts you first. “Can I see you?” And you think he knows, that you’re going to have to explain and apologize. Then you get a second text from him. “I just miss you.”
And you’re sitting there thinking about how fucked up their marriage is.
Okay byeeeee
being possibly The Only Person privvy to how absolutely fucked up the donaldson marriage has to be the best and worst position on earth.
because you didn't, nay, couldn't imagine tashi had ulterior motives when she invited you to dinner. how could you? you've seen their press conferences. hell, you were invited to their wedding. (a shitshow for another day). they have a beautiful marriage and a beautiful daughter and a beautiful life.
still, you've never been able to feel totally... secure around tashi. so you shave every inch of yourself. you polish your skin in the shower until you glitter. you do your hair just the right way, perfect around your face. you put on your favorite dress, a gorgeous little black number that laces up the back and shows off perfect, tennis player legs. you remember the way you were - just before art, when it was just you and tashi, and you spent ages together under covers, trading kisses, tangling limbs.
(there wasn't ever an overlap, but you always did feel a little guilty never telling art you and tashi used to hook up. probably it would have fucked with his head. or he would have cum his pants.)
so you're astonished when you end up in that backseat. tashi tastes so familiar, and it feels so right to be back like this, doing the one thing you knew you did best: please her. she might have been the better tennis player, but you'll be damned if you aren't the best lay she's ever had. and for a moment, it's nothing but perfect as she looks down at you, ankles braced on the front seats, smiling coyly. telling you how much she's missed you, how much she's "missed this, baby, you're doing so good for me, that's it, that's it, fuck, just like that--" and it's amazing how well you still remember exactly what to do with your tongue, exactly how to drag her orgasms from her sweet, sweet cunt.
you leave, hop out of her car and take yourself home. you tell her this can't happen again, and maybe its best if you avoid each other at events for the near future. tashi doesn't expect that to hurt, but she also didn't expect you to be able to turn her down like that. you never did before. oh, my darling, she thinks, you've grown. tashi loves to get what she wants, and she will. but shes a little bit pleased you're so assertive now. it'll be that much sweeter when she finally does land you.
it'd kill art to hear it from you. a betrayal of the worst kinds, to the boy you dated all those years ago and the man you're still a decent friend with - the one who greets you with a hug at every social event, the one who danced with you at your first olympics event, when you hovered awkwardly at the edge of the dance floor. the one who texts you updates about his life and meets you for brunch if you're both in town. the friendship with art is distant, and you rarely meet in person, but it's there. you're bound together by that year at stanford. by the loss of your virginity on your ballet-slipper pink dorm room bedsheets. by the locket with his face in it he gave you for your six months. by the leather bracelet you wrapped around his wrist. by every kiss, every hand held, every sweet nothing in the middle of the night. and every bit of purely platonic friendship after.
but you should tell him. bear the brunt of his hurt. you deserve it, you tell yourself. and you're going to, too, you draft the text in your notes app and everything. prepare yourself, the next day, to send it but you don't need to.
art 🌻 3:23 pm
can i see you?
your heart falls into the floor and you think, oh, god, he knows, he knows and i didn't tell him and its all my fault and he knows--
but then the second message comes in. after a minute or two, like he was debating sending it.
i just miss you.
and you realise for all their publicity, for all the game changers posters and the matching public smiles, the donaldsons are one fucked up couple.
