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𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter one

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, descriptions of anxiety, swearing, allusions to controlling mother, use of y/n 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: y/i means your initial of your first name. i hope you enjoy the first chapter!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒’ 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟔

Waiting in the entrance corridor that led to the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, you nervously fiddled with the homemade friendship bracelet on your wrist, an anxious habit you picked up over the years. The snapping of the elastic band on your skin distracted you from your spiralling thoughts.

You were a whirlwind of nerves and compulsive overthinking.

Even though you knew with certainty how the match would go that day, you couldn’t shake the anxiety that pulsed through your body before every game.

MOTHER: Duncan’s backhand is going to win her the whole damn Championship if you don’t get your act together.

DAD 🩵: I love you, win or lose. Have fun with Tashi and call me when it’s over! Best of luck. Hugs, Dad.

Making friendship bracelets before big tournaments was a tradition your dad started when you were eleven. It let you relax before nerve-wracking events and allowed you to spend time with your dad amidst your busy schedules. Surprisingly, it ended up being a fun, creative outlet as well. You enjoyed focusing on the details of something other than tennis, and sharing it with your dad only made it more special. Given how many years you had to practise, you were good at creating intricate patterns and now had a vast collection of bracelets. Most of them had your name, Tashi’s name, “Dad,” and the year and location of your favourite tournaments and memories on them.

The bracelets were your good luck charms, and you were comforted by the weight of the beads on your wrist.

The one you wore that day had a T and Y/I interwoven amongst pretty beads, creating deep pink and white flower shapes. They represented the stargazer lily, your favourite flower. You made the same bracelet for Tashi to wear during the US Open Junior Championships, and her beads were light and dark purple to represent her favourite flower, the sword lily. The meanings behind your favourite flowers were accurate for your roles in the friendship, given that Tashi’s sword lily – technically not a lily at all but an iris – represented strength, victory, and pride. Your stargazer lily represented innocence, purity, and prosperity. She was the heated tennis champion, while you were her gentle, equally successful friend.

The two of you thought it was perfect. Having your favourite flowers be lilies was just one of the many invisible strings that tied the two of you together.

Your father used to say that you and Tashi were the sun and the moon, and you had to agree. Tashi was fiery and outgoing, dominating the tennis world, just as the sun dominated the sky. Passionate and intense. You strived out of the spotlight and were introspective in a way that added serenity to your friendship. Warm-hearted and gentle. “The most important part is the balance,” your father would say when you grumbled how Tashi’s attributes sounded better. “The sun and the moon represent harmony. Together, they are day and night. Work and rest, visibility and mystery, rationality and emotion. Beginnings and endings.”

Perhaps that was why your life felt bookended by meeting and falling out with Tashi. It was the beginning and end of your adolescent life and the reason you made such drastic changes when your friendship ended. You couldn’t be the same person without her.

In the corridor, you could hear the crowd getting restless. Each shallow breath you took caught in your throat, and your anxious thoughts swirled like a tornado in your mind. The spectators were rightfully excited for the beautiful game of tennis they were promised if Tashi Duncan was playing. The fact that you, her talented best friend, were playing in the finals against her had them lapping up the match like they were starved for entertainment. In many ways, you supposed they were. The Junior Championships were dull without you and Tashi bringing the heat, and your matches turned the traditional game into a glittering spectacle of excellence.

Somewhere in the stands, Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig nursed disposable soda cups and waited for the match to start.

“Don’t you want to meet Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N?” Patrick wondered, shocked by Art’s indifference to attending the Adidas party that evening. While Art went to the Junior Girls’ Final to see fresh talent in their sport, Patrick knew something far more exceptional awaited them. Art burped, and Patrick stared in disbelief. “You don’t get it, man. You’ve never seen them in person. They’re in another league,” he insisted.

Art glanced down at where Patrick’s knee pressed against his thigh. “You mean their game?” he asked sarcastically. Knowing Patrick as well as he did, Art was aware of the reason for his best friend’s obsession with Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N.

“No, I mean they’re the hottest women I’ve ever seen,” Patrick proclaimed. He was buzzing with an excitement Art rarely saw; Patrick was glowing. A devilish grin painted his lips, and his eyes darted across the court regularly in hopes of catching a glimpse of you and Tashi.

Answering your nervous prayers, Tashi finally joined you in the entrance corridor. “Hey!” She smiled, carefree and confident, like you weren’t about to play in the Junior Championship Final. The sun, you thought. She’s the sun. You wondered what it was like to shine so brightly and effortlessly. “Are you ready?” Tashi wondered, linking hands with you. Your friendship bracelets touched.

You sighed, squeezing her hand as you calmed your nerves. The crowd’s cheers faded in and out, interrupted by intermittent ringing in your ears. Your heart pounded, and you tried not to hyperventilate. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied reluctantly. Your doubts and fears were a suppressive weight, glueing you to the spot.

Tashi nodded encouragingly at you. She knew you weren’t as scared about playing the match as incurring your mother’s wrath afterwards. Her eyes scanned your expression as if it were the map to the inner workings of your mind. She had a sixth sense when it came to reading your emotions. “You’ve got this, Y/I. You’re a fucking tennis player, and you’re going to kill it,” Tashi declared, squeezing your hand back. “Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

She inhaled deeply, motioning for you to follow her with her free hand. You complied, following Tashi as she exhaled slowly. “I’m a fucking tennis player,” you agreed when you caught your breath, trying to keep your voice from wavering. For now, a voice in the back of your head reminded you. It’ll all be over soon.

“And we’re going to play some fucking tennis,” Tashi added.

You chuckled. “Thanks, T.”

“Let’s go.”

As you entered the court, the umpire introduced the two of you, “Winner of the Junior Australian Open, Tashi Duncan!” The crowd cheered as you and Tashi stepped onto the blue hard court with intertwined hands. “Local star and runner up of the Junior Australian Open, Y/N Y/L/N!”

You let the adrenaline rush take over and smiled, waving at your audience as you approached the benches. The applause for you wasn’t quite as blaring as for Tashi, but your home base of New Yorkers was pleased and proud to have you representing them.

From his seat, Art watched with wide eyes as his breath hitched. He watched your lips curve into a grin and felt his cheeks and ears heat up. Seeing you had ignited an insatiable fire in his chest, spreading south quickly. You were like a masterpiece come to life, sending a jolt of electricity through his veins and his senses into overdrive. Patrick glanced sideways at him, empathising with the lovestruck expression on his face.

“See you out there,” you told Tashi, grinning before parting ways and setting your bag down. She pointed two fingers at her eyes before turning her hand and pointing to you, reminding you to stay focused on the game and not let anyone ruin it for you.

It was an appreciated gesture. Tashi had known you long enough to notice when your mind wandered anxiously. You were reminded that your mother was in the crowd examining your every move; each step you made was deliberately catered to appease her. As long as you did what she said and got through the tournament, you could breathe easy. You took a few sips of electrolyte water, stretched your body, took deep breaths, and practised the visualisation methods your dad taught you.

Art leaned forward in his seat, eyes trained on you and periodically flickering to Tashi as you both stretched. “Holy shit,” he murmured appreciatively as the flouncy skirt of your white Nike tennis dress revealed the curve of your ass when you bent over to touch your toes. Forget a moth to the flame. Art was like a starving, panting dog waiting for his next meal. He and Patrick had been silent since you and Tashi walked out, blatantly staring with parted lips, too entranced to clap with the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this final round match will be the best of three tie-break sets,” the umpire declared for the audience to hear. “To the left of the chair, from the United States, Y/N Y/L/N. To the right of the chair, also from the United States, Tashi Duncan. Duncan won the toss and elected to serve.”

At the umpire’s cue, you grabbed your racket and walked behind the baseline. Art’s eyes trailed you, admiring how your hips moved as you sauntered across the court. “Fuck,” he remarked. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at someone and thought they had a sexy walk, yet there he was, helplessly looking to Patrick for an explanation. What was it about you that made you so perfectly captivating? “Patrick…” Art trailed off, powerless to your elegant charisma.

His best friend only laughed. “Just wait until you see them play,” Patrick warned Art eagerly.

Behind the baseline, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You envisioned yourself flawlessly executing aces and volleys, being deliberate with your movements and not getting hurt. Positive visualisation was something you started doing recently when your anxiety got the best of you, but you never pictured yourself winning. Not when you played against Tashi.

For a moment, right before the match started, it was just you and your best friend smiling at each other from across the court with an unspoken understanding. No matter how it went, you had unwavering love and support for each other. You were beyond rivalry, and tennis connected you rather than drawing a line between you. This was one of your favourite moments in tennis: the calm before the storm, the moment of anticipation when nobody knew how the match would play out.

Not you, though. You always knew.

“First set, Duncan to serve.” The umpire motioned to Tashi. “Ready? Play.”

Nothing could have prepared Art and Patrick for the match they were about to watch.

You crouched, waiting for your best friend to serve. Just as it had the day you first met Tashi, her backhand was like a sledgehammer strike each time she vaulted the ball over the net.

“Look at that fucking backhand,” Art groaned appreciatively at Tashi’s powerful two-handed backhand. Patrick merely shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

At one point in the rally you hit wide, and the ball flew out. The umpire called, “15–love, Duncan.” Everyone applauded the point.

You gained the next point when Tashi hit the net. 15–all. Even though Tashi had that lightning-fast backhand, your rallies were thrilling and beautiful. Tashi took the first game, and then it was your turn to serve.

This was where you thrived.

You bounced the ball on the ground a few times before taking a deep breath, tossing it in the air, and firing it over the net so quickly that Tashi and the audience barely saw it coming. Your serve was quick as a whip, and Tashi couldn’t return it. An ace. A murmur rang through the crowd as the monitor displayed the speed of your serve: 120 miles per hour.

Art nearly whimpered, “Holy fuck!” He’d never seen a girl his age fire a serve that powerful, precise, and fast. Art shifted in his seat.

Patrick sighed reverently. “I think I just came,” he quipped.

You took the first set, 6-4 in your favour. Tashi took the next. The final set had everyone in the stands on the edge of their seats, waiting to see how things went. You and Tashi were stuck in a 6-6 tiebreaker, and this next point would decide the game. If you won this point, you would play another set to determine the winner of the match. If Tashi won, she would win the US Open Junior Girls’ Singles Championship Final.

There was an electric energy in the air, and Art and Patrick could hear their heartbeats hammering in their ears. The game unfolded remarkably. Everyone held their breaths in anticipation as Tashi served. You returned each stroke with precision and power, allowing the thud of the ball to echo through the court intermixed with your grunts.

It was a moment of pure bliss.

For once, you weren’t thinking of your mother or her overbearing expectations of you. All you could focus on was you, Tashi, and the ball floating between you. The tension was palpable and thick; nobody in the audience knew how they wanted it to go. Tashi was the clear fan favourite, but her losing this point would mean at least another half-hour of watching the two of you play. Nobody could deny that would be a gripping end to the match.

As if ignited by a rush of raw determination, Tashi struck the ball and sent it soaring across the court, kissing your baseline and winning her the entire match.

With a primal, reverberating roar of passion, Tashi crouched, clenched her fists, and screamed, “Come on!” Her voice echoed through the court, thundering above the crowd cheering for her.

Everyone present knew they’d seen something phenomenal, and they weren’t sure what to do now that it was over.

"Game, set, and match, Duncan. Seven games to six in the final tie break,” the umpire said over the clamour.

You laughed, dropped your racket, and shrieked when Tashi leapt over the tennis court to pull you into a hug. Breathless and sweaty, you wrapped your arms around your best friend and giggled deliriously. All your matches with Tashi were fantastic, but this was one of the most riveting. You pulled away enough to exchange bright smiles, heart pounding with exhilaration from the intense match. Your spirits were high, mirroring Tashi’s excitement and revelling in the knowledge that you had fun and entertained the crowd. For you, that transcended the outcome of the game.

“Now that’s tennis,” Patrick commented, giggling giddily.

Art got to his feet and clapped, speechless.

“Congrats, T! You just won the goddamn Junior US Open,” you exclaimed, lightheaded from the adrenaline rush. After the gruelling match, you felt your muscles twitching from the exertion. Your body was drenched in sweat, physically and emotionally exhausted by the demands of the sport you and Tashi dedicated your lives to.

Tashi chuckled, beads of sweat dripping from her temples. “Who cares? You just showed me that you’re not ready to give up on tennis yet,” she retorted, smirking triumphantly. You opened your mouth to argue, but Tashi shook her head. “I know you think you want to quit but you haven’t even given yourself a chance yet! Think about it, your mom isn’t going to be riding your ass when we’re at Stanford. You might just fall back in love with it,” she pointed out.

You rolled your eyes and smiled fondly at her. She meant well by encouraging you to keep up with tennis, but nobody could convince you to keep going.

When you and Tashi turned to bow and wave at the crowd, Patrick stood beside Art. “What time did you say the Adidas party was?” Art asked, wonderstruck.

Patrick’s lips curled into a brazen smirk, like a cat that had just caught the canary, and his eyes sparkled with a knowing gleam. “I knew you’d come around.”

𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍, 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐀 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟕, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

“We need to get you some more match time, then,” Tashi decided. She and Art were sitting in their hotel room in Atlanta after his crushing defeat by a French teenager. Grabbing her phone, she checked what other tournaments were happening before the US Open.

“I can play Cincinnati,” Art protested, not wanting Tashi to pull him out.

“No. No, you cannot. Not like this,” Tashi disagreed. It wasn’t that she would be embarrassed if Art lost; she loved and respected him more than his wins. It was the fact that she knew he had more in him. More fight and more passion. Tashi just needed to find a way to reignite the flames. “Okay, how about--” she paused. New Rochelle, New York. Around the corner from where Y/N Y/L/N grew up and currently resided. Speaking of reigniting old flames… “How about New Rochelle?” Tashi proposed.

Art’s shoulders tensed. He exhaled shakily, mind immediately going to you. Tashi wasn’t oblivious to how her husband had a visceral, physical reaction whenever you were brought up. The last time either of them saw you – really saw you up close – was three years ago at the French Open, the year you and Art took home the Singles titles. Art and Tashi were invited to the Nike afterparty celebrating your second French Open Singles win in 2016. Tashi thought Art would faint at the rate he held his breath each time he saw you. His hands clutched the table whenever you laughed; it was like his hands itched to reach for you, like a bee drawn to the sweetest flower.

“That’s a Challenger,” Art stammered, trying to change the subject.

Even though he tried to keep his mind off you, his thumb subconsciously traced the friendship bracelet on Tashi’s wrist. It was one of the many bracelets Lily made for her, a skill their daughter learned from her father.

Tashi recalled when you were teenagers, and you tried to get her to make bracelets with you. You must have convinced her to do it a handful of times, but she never had the patience to focus on anything except tennis and gave up every time.

The only person who ever took the time and care to make you a bracelet was Art Donaldson.

Tashi ignored his obvious shift in topic. “Yeah, I know that. It’s in a couple of days. Maybe we can get you a wildcard,” she suggested. Art scoffed quietly, averting his eyes and fiddling with the colourful beads on her bracelet. “Art?” He hummed nonchalantly. “You need to start winning,” Tashi told him firmly. Moments like these made it hard to walk the line between spouse and coach. “Right now, you’re getting crushed by guys like Du Maurier. So we need to go somewhere, where there’s absolutely nobody on the other side of the net who can shake your fucking confidence. Okay?” Tashi underscored the importance of the Challenger. “That’s why we’re going to--” she glanced at her phone-- “Phil’s Tire Town Challenger.”

Art chuckled. Even when he first started in the professional tennis world, he’d never gone to a Challenger with a name like that. “That’s the only reason we’re going to New Rochelle?” Art asked, smiling knowingly at Tashi.

She didn’t care that he’d caught on to her scheme. “You’re telling me you don’t want to see her?” Tashi retorted, raising an eyebrow at her husband. “If she was right in front of you, you’d just turn around and walk away?” Their silent exchange of glances spoke volumes, acknowledging the unspoken truth that he loved you. Amidst the tension, there was a quiet understanding between them. Tashi knew what it was like to have loved and lost you. Perhaps not in the same way as Art, but in your friendship that once meant everything to her. “Because I think you’d hold on and never let go of her again,” Tashi argued.

Art couldn’t disagree with her. After all, a man never forgets his first love.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: how are we feeling after this chapter?? i hope you enjoyed the way i incorporated the friendship bracelets and lilies (yes art and tashi named their daughter after the fact that your favourite flower is a lily asdfghjhkhl) thank you for reading xx

#𖤓: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 #YOUR MIND??#your mind is crazy #literally had me twirling my hair and kicking my feet #challengers

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sceletaflores · 9 hours

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i’m posting a damn prompt fill today even if it KILLS ME

#𖦹: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 #maybe it’s not the one i WANT to post #that one is draining the life out of me 😖#but something WILL BE POSTED #or at least that’s what i’m telling myself #pls help me #and give me the energy #to do this shit

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sceletaflores · 2 days

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thighs thighs thighs

#𖤓: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 #THEIR DICKS ARE POINTING AT EACH OTHER???#!!!#ARE YOU KIDDING ME?#how am i just realizing this #luca guadagnino the visionary that you are

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sceletaflores · 4 days

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absolutely cooked on this one

Art brings Patrick along to celebrate your entry winning! He also shows off your side-project of collecting intimates, Patrick wants in.

cw; threesomesss! m-recieving oral, spitroasting, consensual voyeurism, more talk of tennis and a man who is not named mary...

Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

“You aren’t even playing tennis in it.”

Patrick Zweig, who really does hate formal attire, tilts his head at the print framed in front of him. The glass of sparkling in his hand doesn’t do much to unlock his creative interpretation. To him, it’s a photo of his best friend smiling like a dork with a racket in hand.

Art jabs him in the ribs. “It’s the afterglow,” he parrots, a weird knowing smile pulling at his lips. “You’re just jealous that I won.”

Patrick snorts and leans into Art. “You didn’t. She did.”

The two of them glance around the venue, a makeshift gallery to display the submissions for the face of sport competition . People crowd the place, pointing at prints and talking between themselves about angles and lighting and composition and everything under the sun that isn’t sport. All of the pictures are the same, though: a close up of a sports player as they train. Their face sweaty and angry as they hit a ball or cross a finish line or do a fucking pirouette.

The boys step out of the way to let an older married couple in front of them look at the winning photo. The husband looks puzzled, glancing from the first-day-of-school-esque photo of Art to a photo of a swimmer diving into the water.

“This is the winner?” the husband asks his wife.

The wife, who is sneaking a few pictures on her phone, laughs and says, “Jeff, honey, you just don’t understand art.”

Patrick snorts at that and looks at his Art, one he also doesn’t fully understand. Art rolls his eyes and steps away, motioning for Patrick to follow. The two fall in step with each other, voices low as they walk through the gallery.

“So,” Patrick dips his head down a little as he speaks, a dutiful whisper. “Are you two dating or what? Have you fucked her yet?”

Art stops abruptly, his shoes squeak against the linoleum flooring, karma for wearing sneakers to an event where champagne is served and people say things like ‘what a peculiar angle’. He looks at Patrick with something in his eyes, and the brunette has to take a moment to try and decode his best friend's silent story.

“Ohh,” he grins after a moment. “She fucked you.”

Art clicks his teeth, he wants to object but he ultimately can’t. “She takes photos.”

“What?”

“Polaroids.”

“Of you fucking?”

“Yes, Patrick, not so loud.”

Patrick’s grin is glued to his face. It’s less amused and moreso smug now, maybe a little excited. There's a moment shared between the two before Patrick chimes in again, a tinge of worry lacing his tone. "And you know she's not going to send them anywhere?"

Art shakes his head. "She lets me keep them."

"Holy shit," Patrick laughs, "I have to see these."

Art scoffs and pulls Patrick along. They continue walking through the exhibition halls, occasionally stopping to look at different prints on display but quickly growing bored of the monotony of each shot. Patrick starts to realise, after the sixth shot of a tennis player hitting a ball, that you were right in catching something different. The pair turn a corner and find themselves in a secluded hall of past entries that no one cares to gawk over a second time; Patrick takes his chance and grabs Art by the arm.

"Come on," his voice is low, and he glances through the empty hallway to make sure he hadn't missed someone standing within earshot. “Let me see.”

There’s a pause, and then Art shakes his head. “No way, my eyes only.”

Patrick grins, “what’s so bad about them? She gets you to dress up in a maid's dress and serve her on your knees?”

Patrick entertains the thought for a moment, and then sees the danger in doing so and shakes his head. “I’m joking, Art. If you don’t want me to see, don’t show me.”

Another pause, Patrick knows Art like he knows himself, even more so maybe. Art wants to share, he wants to gloat about the endeavours he’s been having behind a closed door: he's a man for attention just like Patrick is, it’s what makes them such a good team, everyone’s eyes are always on them. They hold eye contact for what feels like a moment too long, and Art finally lets his lips flip into a grin.

“And how would Tashi feel about me showing you these?”

Patrick shrugs. “You know Tashi, she’s not the jealous type,” he puts on a high pitched voice, despite Tashi having the complete opposite, and points a finger in the air to quote her. “I dont care what you do or who you fuck, Patrick, as long as you play a good fucking game of tennis afterwards.”

Monogamy, not a given in the world of competition, unsurprisingly. Art stands still, hands by his side as he squints his eyes at Patrick. He’s always been able to call bullshit on him, and Art must trust his intuition on this one because he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He pulls two polaroids out of the back slot and pockets one of them, not comfortable with sharing such an intimate photo of yourself with express permission. The other one, the one you had taken your first time together, gets slipped into Patricks awaiting palm.

And he has no telling face as he looks at it, studies it. In the photo, Art Donaldson, his best friend since twelve, is laying on his back, expression lost in a mixture of bliss and overwhelming desire. Sweat sticks to his skin, sticks his hair to his forehead. His face is blushed red and his eyes are blown wide open, pupils expanded as if he were looking at God herself; perhaps he was. His mouth is parted lightly, lips glistening with what could be spit or... and Patrick is hard.

“Introduce me,” Patrick deadpans. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. I’ll give you so much money. I’ll quit tennis.”

Art grins. “You are a fucking liar.”

“Yeah, one with taste and a semi.”

Art hits Patrick in the arm, but ultimately folds. “Fine, but only because she wants to meet you.”

“I could suck your dick right now.” Patrick takes another hit to the arm, this one harder than the last. He moves to rub the spot where pain still lingers, but stops in his movements when a thought crosses his mind. “So you’ve told her about me, huh?”

Art rolls his eyes and plucks the polaroid from Patricks hand. He looks at the picture for a moment.

“Oh he won't shut up about you," a voice sounds from behind the pair. Both boys jump at the sudden presence and spin to face you, smiling laudingly at the pair- a gold medal with a camera engraved into the front hangs from your neck. Your gaze flits between them, and Patrick is suddenly struck by all the times he’d seen you around before. Though he's not often on campus, only when his schedule opens and visits are worth making, he's turned his head as you've walked past before, he knows it.

Art clears his throat and turns to face you properly, placing the hand with the polaroid behind his back. "This is Patrick," he gestures at Patrick while maintaining eye contact with you. You nod, and then look towards the brunette. Your name falls on attentive ears, Patrick rolls it on his tongue for good measure and decides he likes the taste of it. He introduces himself in turn with an extended hand to shake and his signature smile.

"It's good to meet you," you hum as you shake his hand, though your head nods to Art's hidden hand. "I do autograph my originals, if you want."

Art's face falls slightly, caught in the act. Patrick smiles and nods, to which Art mutters an embarrassed apology. Your eyes soften, and the corners of your mouth tug upwards in response. You hold your hand out, and Art sheepishly places the polaroid in your hand. You turn the polaroid around and examine it for a few moments before plucking a permanent marker from your pocket and writing something on the back of it. You waft it through the air a few times to allow for the ink to dry, and then grin at Art as you hand the polaroid instead to Patrick.

Patrick takes it with a dumbfounded half-smile, his eyes darting from you to Art and then back to you and down to the writing you've left behind--- THE ART OF MAKING LOVE, it reads, and Patrick snorts at the pun. Your smile widens slightly.

“Very nice.” Patrick comments softly, holding the polaroid between his fingertips and glancing down to it pointedly.

"I know," you reply simply. "Thank you for coming, by the way, both of you. I would have skipped it myself if I didn't win."

Art chuckles. "It was our pleasure, this place is nice."

You laugh in response and Patrick thinks he's heard heaven's bells. "Some lady asked if I'd read the part about the entry having to be sports-related."

Patrick pushes in before Art can speak. "Ah, don't listen to them," he takes a step forward and glances down to the polaroid still between his fingers, you don’t know if he’s talking about the photo he’s holding, or the winning entry. "I think you really captured the... afterglow."

If Art could roll his eyes completely into the back of his head he would, he can't hold his laughter in at Patricks attempt to sound like he knows the first thing about photography, and your laughter sings out too, picking up on the parroting of your own words to Art. The sound echoes across the empty hallway, bouncing off the walls and filling the space like music.

"Patrick doesn't know what he's talking about," Art runs a hand through his own hair, eyes settling on you in a dorky grin you've grown to adore.

"I'm better in front of the camera than behind it," Patrick offers.

Silence meets his words as you look between the boys, committing both of their features to memory. You imagine, only for a moment, getting them both in front of your lens. The imagined sight is enough to press an offer to your lips. Patrick and Art stand in silence, staring at you as you watch them.

"I already got my medal" you toy with the award around your neck. You tilt your head to the side, "wanna get out of here?"

"Yes," said in eager unison by the best friends, fire and ice.

You smirk, turn on your heels and lead the way down the hall. Patrick and Art fall in step behind you, Patrick still holding your polaroid between his fingers-- Art plucks it from him in a quick movement and pockets it. Patrick, in childish turn, shoves Art against the corridor wall. He hits a framed photo of an elderly woman with a feeding tube in her nose, titled 'the woes of age', and it crashes to the floor with a loud clatter. The frame's glass shatters across the floor, and you whip your head around to find Patrick and Art both staring wide-eyed back at you.

"What was that?" A voice from the main gallery calls out, thudding footsteps follow.

And you stifle a laugh, looking down at the broken frame of a probably now-dead elderly woman's portrait, then up to your two accomplices. Art and Patrick look between each other, a silent agreement between them. All of a sudden, they're sprinting past you, and both grabbing a hand of yours to pull you down the corridor.

Your shrieks of laughter fill the space between you. You run faster than you've ever ran before, your heart pounding in your chest and blood rushing through your veins; it's exhilarating, it's terrifying, you're alive.

SIX YEARS LATER

A burly old man with tattoos from head to toe stands behind the counter at MARY'S PAWN SHOP— YOUR TRADE, YOUR TREASURES. Patrick Zweig walks in with two tennis bags slumped over his shoulders, looks at the balding man with ‘leisure’ tattooed under his eye and smiles, “I’ll take it you aren’t Mary.”

"No," says the man of few words.

Patrick raises his eyebrows and exhales, his social battery already malfunctioning. He walks to the counter and sets each tennis bag down atop it with a padded thud. "There's uh, there's rackets, wristbands, a pair of shoes- I think, a few balls. All in good condition, nothing cheap, nothing dirty..."

The man nods, still silent, and begins looking through the tennis bags. He pulls a racket out to check it for wear and tear, and then another, glossing his eyes over and finding no damage. He checks the shoes for dirt and scratches, the balls for wear, and once he's happy with the quality of the first bag's contents, he moves onto the second. He unzips the side pocket with a short tug to reveal something other than tennis equipment— a polaroid.

It only takes a glance at the photo from the stocky man before he's slamming it face down on the counter. "Fucking Christ, kid. Check your shit before you pawn it off."

Patrick looks puzzled, "what?" he slides the polaroid towards himself and flips it up to look at it— his lips twitch. "Oh."

"Yeah 'oh'," the man scoffs in reply.

Patrick stares down at a photo he hasn't seen in years, and while red tinges his face as he stands in Mary's Pawn Shop, it's nothing compared to his flushed red look of desperation in the polaroid. There he sits, with Art Donaldson sitting behind him pressing wet kisses to his neck, hands splayed over Patrick’s bare chest. His legs are spread, the photo is taken from between them— at the bottom of the frame his cock sits rock hard and at rapt attention, your manicured fingers wrapped around his length: he can even see the glisten of precum beading at his tip.

"Jesus," Patrick exhales shakily, quickly pocketing the polaroid and only barely managing eye contact with the clerk. "That's, uh..."

"I don't care," he snaps a finger to the store's entrance. "Out."

"Wait," Patrick scrambles to show him that the rest of the bag is indeed only full of tennis gear. "Seriously, please, I need the money," his tone softens, but is still pleading. "Look, I'm a tennis player, Patrick Zweig, if you plaster my name on the sale I'm sure you'll get more sales. Can you just—"

"I just got a faceful of your cock, Patrick Zweig," the old man barks. "Get the fuck out."

Patrick lets out an exasperated sigh and zips up his tennis bags, slinging one strap across his shoulder and taking the other by the handle. He turns and walks gingerly out of the store, a 'please come again soon!' sign hangs awkwardly from the door he walks through, and rattles when he slams it shut behind him.

The trek to his car is an embarrassing one, the old tattooed man's eyes still burning into him as he unlocks the trunk and throws his tennis bags in. The moment he's situated in the driver's seat, he's turning out of the street and praying silently to god that he gets hit by lightning or something to that extent. He's been doing that a lot lately.

Once he's reached his apartment, Patrick's mind is reeling, and every thought has to do with you. He leaves his stuff behind in the car, mind too occupied to care about bringing them in.

His front door creaks when he pushes it open and slams it shut behind him, he's walking straight to his laptop, which sits at the counter because he hasn't had the time nor funds to buy a table, and opens up the screen. Your name is tapped into the search browser in seconds, his index finger clicks the enter button and Patrick Zweig holds his breath as the search results load. There's a funny feeling in his chest, a deep sense of anticipation that makes him feel almost giddy.

The page loads a display of your photography but no display of you. Patrick scrolls further down, scanning through articles about your photographs and a few links to reviews of your work. Nothing. His fingertips drum against the keyboard as he tries another search— your personal website.

There you are. A photo of you behind a camera headlines the page, and below are examples of your work. They're mostly photos of people, some of them are tame and shot against the sun in fields canvased with colour, others are sultry black-and-white boudoir style photos, though each subject has the same look on their face that you've been chasing since the day he met you. Patrick takes the polaroid from his pocket and sits it against the screen, as if on display with the rest of your shots, and he can't help but smile. It's very you.

BOOK A SHOOT! — GET IN CONTACT is written in bold towards the bottom of the page next to an email and a phone number.

Patrick Zweig knows he isn't the best person to grace this earth. He knows he has a habit of placing himself in the arms of people that would be better off without bearing his weight. He knows his voice can be a jarring one— so he skips past your number and starts typing an email instead. Because he’s trying to be thoughtful, you can delete an email, but also because he’s a few minutes away from stroking his cock to that polaroid of yours until his wrist hurts and he’s cumming dry and you’d certainly hear the building desperation in his voice.

Your email goes in first, and then a subject line— he flips the polaroid over and smiles at the smudged writing on the back, and then gets to typing:

‘Zweig, your plus one.’

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“So what am I here?” Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette, leans back against the tree he sits under and blows his smoke into the air. “A third wheel?”

You laugh, so does Art, who is sitting across from him on the grass, beside you with an arm around your shoulder. He has a cigarette in hand that he offers you every now and then, but you’re busy feeding new instant film into your polaroid. Though your head is down as you work, you reply with a sweetness to your tone nonetheless.

“No,” you laugh. “More like a plus one.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows and looks from you to Art, something in his eyes that only his best friend could read. Art shrugs, a playful smile pulling at his lips as he mouths 'told you.' Before Patrick can ask what exactly what you mean by that, he sees you lift the polaroid in front of your face and snap a picture, the flash sending Patricks eyes wide in the otherwise dim night. When you lower the camera from your nose he finds you grinning at him like you've just won the lottery, and he laughs low in his throat.

The polaroid prints from the camera, and you waft it in the air a little to let it develop before looking down at it. "You looked good," you hum, and give Patrick the opportunity to lean forward and take a look for himself. He does so immediately, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward and angles his head. He sees himself, cigarette in hand and smoke blowing softly from his lips as he sits.

He takes another toke of his cigarette and then taps it out into the ashtray beside him. He nods at you, catches your gaze, "do you play tennis?"

You laugh, a genuine laugh that rings in Patricks ears. Art laughs too, and nudges you with his arm. "She's a natural."

Patrick can tell Art is lying, because he can always tell. A grin pulls at his lips as you shake your head and cover your face with your hands for dramatic effect and dissolve into your laughter once more. Art nudges you again, and you push his arm away gently, but there's no malice in your movements, "I'm about half as useful with a racket as I would be if I was blind. I'll leave the big leagues to you two... you're playing professionally right?"

Patrick nods, and spends a fair few minutes going into depth about the world of pro tennis. You listen tentatively, nodding along to his words and asking questions when you aren't sure of something. Art chimes in too, at some point, and the conversation shifts from pro tennis to all types of stories from the boys' years of playing together. It all feels so familiar, and yet so foreign. Patrick can't remember the last time he's talked about tennis with someone that isn't aching to get pointers from him, or lecture him on how to improve. You just listen, and you throw in your own stories of childhood sports leagues and extracurriculars here and there, and Patricks not quite sure how but by the time the conversation wraps up, the three of you are sitting an awful lot closer than you were when you'd first found the secluded spot on campus.

"How long are you visiting for?" You tilt your head as you look at Patrick- your legs are draped over Art's lap, though you have a hand on his knee.

"A few more days," Patrick nods, looking from you to Art who has a sly grin plastered on his face, "what?"

Art shrugs nonchalantly, leaning slightly forward as he rubs a hand over your legs. “Patrick is staying in my dorm,” he looks to you, something knowing in his eyes. “I forgot to tell him I wouldn’t be there tonight.”

Patrick looks between you and Art.

“Oh but your doors locked,” you sound genuinely concerned as you turn to Patrick and ask, “do you have a spare key?”

Arts door isn’t locked— he always forgets to lock it. Even at boarding school Patrick would chide his inability to remember to lock their room up when they left, they’d always fall victim to someone coming in to steal a racket or swap out their pillows for the less comfortable ones that would circulate the dorm.

“I don’t have a spare key,” Patrick lets your hand crawl a little further over his thigh. A glance to Art offers him an equally hungry look, a heat, a taste for more than that night in the hotel with…

Should he tell you about Tashi? He knows she’s unbothered by his endeavours as long as his performance doesn’t slip for it, but some draw a line at sharing. He looks between you and Art, takes in the burning from the both of you and almost laughs, something tells him sharing isn't off the cards for you.

“You said earlier that you’re better in front of the camera than behind it,” your voice is soft, sultry, it sends a twang of something needy through Patricks spine. “You wanna take some pictures, Zweig?”

It’s all a rush, from his acceptance to the trip to your dorm room, a haze of hushed laughter and lingering touches he can’t tell who from. He wants to put on a face for you, woo you like he does every other girl he’s slept with. But with Art it’s easy, they're best friends… soulmates. They’ve kissed before, they've seen the most intimate parts of each other— in a way, Art's presence settles his nerves with you.

The second your dorm room door clicks shut, Art’s lips are against Patrick's and he’s guiding him to the edge of your bed in a mess of sloppy implacable kisses, his slender hands run through Patrick's curls, tug at the base of his scalp in a newfound dominance Patrick was unsure Art had in him. This is the second time they've made out, if you don't count the time when they were thirteen and practised on each other for their first girlfriends… which neither of them will admit ever happened.

The back of Patrick's legs hit the edge of your bed and at the same time, Art's tongue slips dutifully into his mouth and slides over the expanse of his teeth. He tastes like cigarettes and chapstick, which Patrick assumes is yours because it tastes like cherries and everything else narcotic, in this sense he kisses you also. There's a heat licking at the pit of his stomach and it spreads like wildfire through his chest and down his arms. Tugging at the hem of Arts shirt, he gets his point across and is able to lift it and run his fingertips over his abdomen as Art removes it completely. Patrick follows suit shortly after, grabbing his own shirt by the collar and lifting it over his head: it's tossed to the side despite its price. His jeans soon follow.

For a moment, it's just the two of them, all clothes bar their boxers discarded to the floor and hands exploring bare skin. The warmth of Art's fingers digging into his chest, his ribs, his hips, the hard planes of his body, their bodies pressed together as if to become one. Their lips connect again, hungrily, their teeth knocking together with every brush of tongues. Patrick takes Art's lower lip between his teeth and bites hard enough to elicit a choked groan from the back of Art's throat.

They part, and are given only half a moment to mourn the loss of each other's touch before their kiss-swollen lips upturn into grins, and a gentle laughter is shared between them. Art's smile is wide, and he turns his head from Patrick to you, sitting at your desk writing on the back of the polaroid you had taken outside.

"Busy over there?" Art teases, smiling as you turn to look at them.

"Just letting you have your moment," you hum complaisantly, then lift your camera up to take a quick photo of the pair, hot and flushed and still panting slightly, "just let me know when you two feel like being productive with yourselves…"

Your tone trails off, and then you're standing quickly, grabbing your camera as you saunter over to the boys, who part from each other to glue their eyes onto you. You survey the scene, their tousled hair and matching vibrant pink cheeks. Patrick’s boxers are a light blue, Art’s are black, and you like the contrast of colour but decide they should exit the scene completely.

You run a nail down Art’s chest, watching as his shoulders roll back as you flick over one of his nipples and continue down to the waistband of his boxers. You pull the elastic towards you, and then let it snap back against his skin. He hisses at the contact, plasters a dramatic frown across his lips as you smile in turn and nod to the bed, though not before tugging down at his boxers just enough to expose the trail of light brown hair leading to his hardened cock— a suggestion if nothing else: take them off.

Art obliges, sparing only a glance to Patrick before tugging his boxers down and kicking them to the side. You steal a good look at his cock, licking your lips at the sight of his growing hard-on. He catches your gaze and gives you a sly smile before climbing onto your bed and sitting back.

You’re quick to guide Patrick into position as well, taking him by the wrist and giving him a pointed look when he uses his free hand to caress the curve of your ass. He’s a lot more assertive than Art, lets his hands roam when Arts would stay clasped behind his back. You like it, you like the contrast, and you like the thought of having Art take control of his ministries for once.

You pull Patrick to stand in front of where Art sits and then, with a cheeky lopsided smile, you push him backwards and watch as he falls to sit just in front of where Art is settled. You take a step back and watch as Art moves forward, hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and sets his gaze on you.

“Direct away,” he rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, and the pair watch as you ready your camera.

“You’re good like this, actually,” you hum, looking between the boys. Rather than snap a photo, though, you reach back out and lift Patrick’s chin up to offer him your gaze. Your fingers trace the expanse of his jaw, up to his cheek before returning to his cocky smile. You slip two fingers into his mouth, his lips closing around them without guidance nor hesitation. His tongue lays flat against your digits as he sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, eyes boring into yours.

When you pull your fingers from his mouth his arrogant smile returns ten-fold. You’re pressing your lips against his in only a second, rolling your tongue into his mouth in an attempt to shut him up despite not a word falling from his lips. He brings a hand up to cup the side of your face, an attempt at dominance despite quite literally being the one stretching his back to keep his lips against yours.

His hand travels to the nape of your neck, tugging you forward until you practically fall into him, your legs giving way as you drop to your knees against the cold hardwood floors. You find purchase by splaying your fingers over his thick thighs, his lips still locked with yours in a frenzy of tongues and teeth and shared oxygen. It's an unspoken battle for the upper hand, something you never had to wager with Art, who's happy to melt under your touch until the sun rises. You take your turn by slipping one hand past the waistband of his baby blue boxers and palming his rock hard erection; a harsh intake of breath from Patrick allows you to pull your lips from his and gaze up at him with the most innocent expression you could muster.

"Can I suck your dick now or are you going to keep me waiting? I'm kinda starving."

A breathless chuckle escapes your lips as Patrick stares at you with heated eyes and opens his mouth to reply but no sound comes out. The words die on the tip of his tongue and he closes it quickly before swallowing audibly and looking between you and Art, who has pulled himself up just enough to get a look at you from over his best friends shoulder. When Patrick's eyes lock onto yours again, his grin widens even further and he leans back against Art's chest, looking down at you through lidded eyes and nodding eagerly.

You waste no time on lingering touches and feather-light strokes. Your free hand is tugging Patrick's boxers down, with his help as he lifts his hips to allow you to do so, and with your other one you're squeezing his shaft, moving your hand up and down in deliberate strokes that send his mind into overdrive. Once he's biting his own lip, you wrap your around his glistening tip and swirl your tongue around the head of his cock before sucking him deeply into your mouth.

A gasp from Patrick, quickly muffled by the turn of his head and Art stretching his neck to meet his best friend in a ravenous kiss. You flatten your tongue against Patrick's length, take a moment to hum contently and listen to his hitching breath at the vibrations you offer him, and then start bobbing your head rhythmically. You cup his balls with one hand, offer him gentle squeezes in tandem with the movement of your tongue, and rub grounding circles into his thigh with your other hand. Your cheeks hollowed out, you suck Patrick Zweig's pulsing cock until he deems himself desperate enough to start bucking his hips upward into your mouth. You know he'd hold your head in place and throat-fuck you until you'd lose your voice if he had you alone, but Art's doing well in distracting him with his tongue, his lips and his hands.

It's when Patrick breaks the kiss to look down at you, eyes glossed with a yearning lust, that you know he's close. Breathing laboured, fingers digging into the edge of your mattress, hips snapping upwards for any chance at fucking deeper into your throat. His desperation only doubles when Art starts nibbling at his ear, then kissing down the stretch of his neck, hands feeling up his chest.

You know he’s close, walking on the fence of a ruined orgasm and a zenith climax that would taste better than it feels, though you place your hunger aside to do what you do best— take the shot. You pull your lips from Patrick’s cock with a pop, and replace your mouth with your right hand, wrapping your fingers around his length and stroking him just enough to keep him on that edge.

You reach over his trembling thighs, grab your camera and line up the shot. Art’s mess of blonde hair is a contrast to Patrick’s darkened look as he works bruises into his neck, fingers splayed over his chest. Patricks face, the look of looming bliss melted over his features, and the tension in his corded muscles as he opens his mouth to beg for sweet release. You make sure his pulsing cock is in frame, too, held in reverence by your own hand. The flash momentarily brightens the room, illuminates the scene at hand but only for a second before the Polaroid prints your photo and you pluck it with the hand that had held Patrick's cock on the edge of orgasm.

He whines as you smile up at him, nearly moving to stroke himself to completion but stopping in favour of starting an argument.

"What the fuck?" He has to swallow twice to keep his drool from spilling out of his mouth. "That's unfair, fucking-"

You press a kiss to Patrick's knee and then stand, stepping back once and placing your finger against your lips in a gesture of silence.

He watches, his brows furrowed as you turn on your heel and wander back to your desk. You don't bother to look over your shoulder as you pick up a permanent marker and start writing on the back of your developing Polaroid.

'ZWEIG, OUR PLUS O—'

A pair of arms around your torso pull you backwards, and you smudge the last few letters with your thumb as the man behind you pulls it from your grasp and smacks it face-down against your desk. You can feel his erection pressing against your clothed ass, his sweaty chest against your back and his hot breath against your ear as he speaks, low and sinful.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Patrick Zweig bites. "But I don't get off on being used like a toy. I'm not Art."

You turn your head in the direction of his voice, let his breath fan your cheek; you smell cigarettes and remnants of Art's chewing gum. "I know you're not," you coo, pressing your ass back against his painfully hard length. "Art made me cum twice before I ever got on my knees for him. You're selfish."

"Damn right I am," Patrick breathes, tightening his grip around your torso and near-dragging you back to the bed. "Always have been, too."

You're walked to the bed where Art waits, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you get manhandled into position. He'd offer you a hand, a way out, if you weren't smiling so wide, giggling beneath your breath as Patrick pushes between your shoulder blades and bends you over the edge of your own mattress. You catch yourself with your hands on Art's knees, face dangerously close to his now rock-hard cock as Patrick uses both hands to pull your bottoms and panties off in one go. His eyes linger on your exposed cunt as he slips two fingers through your folds, grinning- "fucking soaked, huh?"

"Fuck yes," you breathe. You think he's going to stretch you out on his fingers and you're about to object, tell him you don't need it, when you hear a condom packaging rip open and the tip of his cock presses against your entrance. You can only gasp in response.

"Tell me yes, say you want it," Patrick breathes.

"Fuck me, Zweig."

You make eye contact with Art as Patrick slowly presses into you, using your own wetness as lube. Art watches you with sinful eyes, something deep inside of him like watching you fall apart under his best friend's touch, but you refuse to reduce him to a cuck. You let Art lift your chin just enough to press a tender kiss against your lips as Patrick starts to thrust into you, slowly increasing his pace as he feels you adjust more and more to his size. You love the taste of Art's kisses, the gentle way his lips take yours, but you're hungry for more of him, so you pull away and try not to focus on those sad eyes of his.

As Patrick snaps his hips into yours and bottoms out inside of you, you lean down and take Art as deep into your mouth as you can manage. As soon as Art finds your rhythm, his eyes flutter closed and a sigh leaves his lips. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, and he holds you there, rocking his hips into your mouth as Patrick tries to match his rhythm. You move in tandem with the ministrations of your boys, with each thrust of Patrick's hips, you're choking further on Art's cock. And with each snap of Art's hips, you're pushed backwards onto Patrick's length, and each time he manages to fill you just that little bit deeper.

"That's it," Patrick's voice is breathy. "Good fucking girl, taking us so well, like you were fucking made for it, huh?"

With each movement, every moan from either boys' lips, you're pushed closer towards the edge of a new level of pleasure, and you can feel warmth beginning to gather in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers dig into the sheets, holding onto them tight and keeping you anchored as you push against Patrick's cock harder, faster... fucking yourself on him in the spirit of competition. You're full to the brim, lips wrapped around Art's cock as you work him close to the edge, eyes looking up at him through your lashes to find a face so fucking pretty you forget to even think of taking a picture. Not that you could even if you wanted to, with his cock embedded in your throat and your arms the only things keeping you up.

The pressure in your stomach, the searing stretch of Patrick's cock makes you wonder if you're a masochist at heart, because you never want that dull pain to end. His moans fall from his lips and permeate the air, a symphony of wants and needs, and you think you could get lost in it forever.

"Oh Jesus Christ," Patrick groans, voice cracking as he nears climax. Art's hips start to shake, his thrust into your mouth becoming erratic and harsh and so much better than it should be when you can feel sweat dripping into your hairline, the sting of tears forming in your eyes as Patrick pounds into you. It takes everything in you not to come undone as his hips jerk forward. It feels too good, too good to last, and you're seconds away when you feel Patrick fucking Zweig reach an arm around your waist to rub fast circles against your clit, less selfish than he proclaims to be.

The three of you cum in perfect unison, your bodies wracked with tremors of a shared climax unlike any you've had before. Patrick presses as deep into you as he can, near-kissing your cervix in instinctual desperation to fill you up despite his condom. Art shoots right into your mouth, pulling back a little so his load lands on your tongue as well, offering you a taste of his lust, one you take happily. Though you're unable to keep it all in your mouth as he pulls out and allows you space to take a breath as you come down from your high. His seed glistens on your lips as Patrick pulls out of you and lets you turn onto your back and lay on your bed, panting heavily as the haze of ecstasy starts to fade.

Art soon joins you, laying down beside you in a dizzy haze of exertion. When you turn your head to look at him, he's already smiling at you, and reaches a hand out to swipe his thumb against your lips, gathering his own cum and pushing it back into your mouth. You bite his thumb with a playful grin and Art laughs in response, the moment between you sweet until the flash of your own instant camera dazes the both of you into silence.

You sit up on your elbows, looking towards Patrick Zweig, who stands with your camera in one hand and a freshly developed photo in the other. He flicks it a few times, unaware of how to speed up the development process, then looks at it as if he's analysing each aspect of his shot. After another beat, he turns the print around to let the both of you see, and grins proudly at his work. The photo is a sweet one, your teeth bared around Art's thumb, the calm after such a storm of pleasure.

"Turns out, I'm great at both sides of this thing," Patrick holds your camera up in show and smiles cheekily, to which you roll your eyes. Though you can't help the laughter that rumbles from your lungs when Patrick flops down onto the mattress, making both you and Art move over to make room for him. Art follows suit, laughter spilling from his throat in harmony, and it spreads quickly to Patrick.

Once the air is silent, Art turns his head to greet the both of you. With a smile, something simple falls from his lips— "dinner?"

You hum in response, nodding your head as your mouth starts to water, though Patrick clears his throat. "Yeah," he sits upright and looks between you before grabbing at one of your thighs and pulling you closer to him, his head dips to the juncture of your neck and shoulder and he speaks simply against your skin. "I'm not done with either of you yet."

taglist;

@lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lovezclub @s-u-t @sceletaflores @24kmar - cont. in comments!

#𖤓: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 #literally biting my sheets rn #and kicking my feet #and twirling my hair #challengers

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sceletaflores · 6 days

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if you speak a second or third language art donaldson begs to limit dirty talk to that language just saying he doesn’t know what you’re saying but he luuuvs hearing it

#𖤓: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 #that’s enough #i need to be put down #(pretending like i don’t have a fic with spanish dirty talk rotting in my notes app rn)

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sceletaflores · 7 days

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not trying to like eat my own ass or anything but this art fic is actually cooking up rn. like my pen? it's flaming. burning. hot.

#𖦹: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 #almost 2.000 words down #there's not even smut yet #and i don't think i'm even halfway done #I'm in awe of myself #like oh my god #now I know why I got so many awards in school #like i'm literally jane austen #literally william shakespeare #art donaldson #challengers fic

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sceletaflores · 7 days

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sugar baby reader x art donaldson is calling me

stole this pic from @murdrdocs idk the original twt acc 😭

#𖤓: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 #this kills me every time i see it

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sceletaflores · 7 days

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i wanna suck on patrick’s sweat soaked shirt like it’s a hand towel soaked with water and i’m eight years old again.

#𖦹: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 #natalia’s lost it #again #someone put me down #but like i need to wring the sweat out into my mouth #so bad #patrick zweig #challengers

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sceletaflores · 7 days

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I'd do whatever she asked of me.

#𖤓: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 #that’s mommy right there #i’m literally in heat #i need her more than i need to breathe basically #tashi duncan give me a chance

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sceletaflores · 8 days

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oh you devoured this

good luck, babe!

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader x patrick zweig x art donaldson

summary: patrick zwieg invites tashi duncan and art donaldson to join him at your engagement party. you think they came to celebrate you and your new chapter and put the past behind you, rebuilding lost friendships, but tashi hopes to stop you from marrying a man you never wanted.

—or: the trio crashes your engagement party

word count: 10k+ (i have a serious problem)

contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, post-challengers movie, fluff & comfort, angst, tashi’s pov but lowkey get's mixed up around the end, foursome, oral (fem receiving), oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sed (wrap it before yall tap it), homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, three-way make out, four-way make out, dom!tashi, patrick being nasty, art being a loser, no use of y/n, situationship that lasts 13 years.

author’s note: this fic is based on this request with inspo from the greatest song on earth: good luck, babe! it was supposed to be a quick smut blurb but at this point, you all know i can’t write smut without some kind of angsty plot. everyone is super messy and there is some of the dirtiest smut i’ve written so far (it’s only going to get worse from here). this one is a roller coaster.

It didn't make sense to any of them, how you could've possibly ended up with him.

Tashi remembered him from Stanford vividly. He came from a white-collared family, with daddy's money that bought him everything he could've ever asked for, yet he still wanted more. He played golf and polo and even dabbled with tennis but never had enough guts or skill to take it seriously. But his dad funded most of the programs and events at the school, so everyone had known him, his charm, his family, and his inability to stick to one thing even outside of sports. He clung onto a new girl every other week, a new girl wrapped around his finger only to be ultimately tossed aside like the rest of them.

"What a dick," Tashi remembered you saying once, stabbing your fork into your salad while glaring daggers at him from across the cafeteria as he bragged loudly to his fan club about how he beat you in a game of tennis.

Which he didn't.

You let him win.

His parents had been paying you to coach him, paid you extra every time you let him win a set or two against you, even if it was off the record. God knows you needed the money.

"I think I'm gonna quit." You said, turning back to glance at Tashi.

"About damn time," she snickered, shaking her head. "I told you you're wasting your time with him when you could be doing something better. Like training with me."

You had rolled your eyes and poked her arm with your fork, "If I'm still trailing after him this time next week, shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery."

Almost thirteen years later, you're walking around with his ring on your finger at your engagement party. A party where your fiancé announced your upcoming retirement after a tennis career run that Tashi would’ve killed for: a six-time US Open winner; two-time gold medalist at the Olympics; and brand deals that would ensure you and the next four generations of your family lived happily under your trust fund.

Clearly, you weren't marrying him for his money.

It made Tashi anxious, because, in some way, she could see that the marriage you will have with your fiancé is far too similar to how Tashi's would have been if she and Patrick stayed together.

Okay, maybe that was a reach.

Or maybe it's how it would've been if neither of you had gone up to Art and Patrick's hotel room that night. Or maybe it would've been Tashi's ring on your finger instead.

She couldn't shake the bitter taste in her mouth as she watched you laugh with him, your eyes lighting up in the way they always did when you were truly happy. It used to be her who made you smile like that. She remembered the late-night practices, the shared victories, and the quiet moments shared in the comfort of her dorm room. She remembered the promises you both made and dreams of dominating the tennis world together.

But she shouldn't dwell on the past, she shouldn't think about what-ifs. At least that's what Art tells her with a hand on her shoulder. Tashi glances at his hand, noting the wedding band that rests on his finger. The squeeze he gives is meant to be reassuring, but instead, it feels suffocating.

"I'll never know how he bagged her," Patrick tuts from her other side, a drink already in his hand. He holds it close to his mouth, biting the rim of the glass before taking a swig, his eyes never leaving you. His gaze is shameless, tracing the way your dress hugs your curves, how your hair shines under the chandelier lights, and the way your lips move as you speak.

"Lucky, lucky man..." Patrick shakes his head, a bitter edge to his voice.

A waiter passes by, offering hors d'oeuvres, and Patrick takes enough for the three of them for himself, setting his empty glass on the platter. As he stuffs an appetizer in his mouth, he begins to walk away, his eyes fixed on you.

"Where do you think you're going?" Art asks, his hand slipping from Tashi's shoulder.

Patrick spins around, mouth full, and shrugs. "To congratulate the future bride."

Art and Tashi stand there, watching, almost dumbfounded when they see Patrick sneak up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and lifting you into the air. You shriek, champagne spilling from your glass, but once you see who it is, a wide smile breaks across your face.

"Patrick!" Tashi can hear you from across the hall. Patrick lifts you again, hoisting you into the air. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he spins you around, your laughter ringing out—a sweet melody that draws the attention of everyone nearby. "You made it!"

Tashi feels a pang of surprise.

You and Patrick had been in closer contact than she imagined. It stings, a reminder of the distance that had grown between you after her injury, much like the distance that had grown between Art and Patrick. She never knew you had turned to Patrick for comfort. Though it made sense—Patrick was the one you invited, not her, not Art. Patrick was the one who had to ask if he could bring two guests instead of the traditional plus-one.

But surely, you must have known that if you invited Patrick, Tashi and Art would come too, right?

Right?

The question churns a pit of dread in her stomach as Art starts to lead her closer to you out of courtesy.

Patrick's arms are wrapped tightly around your torso, his hand resting too low to be innocent, but you seem happy nonetheless. Happier in Patrick's arms than in the arms of your future husband. You embrace him close, the ring on your finger glimmering under the chandelier lights as you hold onto the back of his neck, your laughter finally subsiding as the spinning stops.

As Tashi and Art approach, the reality of the situation hits her harder. She's watching from the outside, a spectator to your happiness, feeling the sting of what could have been. She forces a smile; your engagement to the worst person in the world can't possibly be the thing that makes her break. Not after everything she's built since she started coaching.

Art tries to catch your eye, offering a polite smile once you let go of Patrick. "Hey."

"Hi," you say breathlessly, a bright smile across your face while Patrick swings his arm over your shoulder. You seem happy, almost relieved that Tashi and Art were here as if you doubted their attendance. "Wow, it's been so long. You guys look great."

"Thanks," Tashi finally says, the words weighing on her tongue like lead.

"You look beautiful," Art tells you, and it's rushed as if he's been trying to keep it to himself but couldn't help it once he was close enough to you.

Before you can get a word out, another arm wraps around your waist, discreetly pushing Patrick away from you to slide into your side. Patrick lets out an annoyed groan, stepping aside as your fiancé squeezes you tightly and says, "She does, doesn't she? Hey, killer."

You turn to him, about to say something, maybe greet him back, maybe introduce him to everyone. But he doesn't let you, he's leaning closer until his lips lock with yours. It takes you by surprise—you flinch at first before finally letting him kiss you properly, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pushing you as close to him as humanly possible.

Art lets out a low, awkward sigh while watching it happen before him, and Patrick rolls his eyes, stepping back in search of a waiter for another drink.

He holds onto you like you're a prize he's won. Almost as if he's been competing with everyone in the world to finally hold you and show you off. As if that's all you had to offer.

You blink, clearly embarrassed, as you clear your throat to disperse the awkward tension in the air. "These are some, uh," you stumble over your words before nodding towards Art, Tashi, and Patrick, "some old friends from college. I'm sure you remember—"

He's interrupting you again, reaching out with the hand that's not on you to shake Tashi's hand. He holds it tightly, his thumb pressing against her wedding ring. "Tashi Duncan, how could I ever forget? Still beautiful as ever."

She has to force herself to smile, for your sake. "Good to see you too—"

"You know," your fiancé starts, cutting her off, "I still remember the time you told me to suck a bag of dicks 'cause I took up your court time. Best day of my life."

"Yeah," Patrick laughs. He's found another glass of champagne to sip on, and it's by his lips when he says, "who doesn't love getting cussed out by Tashi."

You wince. "Patrick—"

"No, no. He's right. It's one out of a million. I took it as a compliement," your fiancé says, glancing at Tashi again, his eyes darting up and down, lingering on her wedding ring once more before she finally pulls her hand out of his grasp. He spots the arm Tashi has been clinging to. "Art Donaldson, I'm a big fan."

Art stiffens as if taken by surprise. "Really?"

Your fiancé is nodding, and when Art glances your way for a split second, he tugs you closer. "You're incredible. Watching you play, it's like, woah! He's killin' it out there. Too bad you've retired though, would've loved to see you play longer."

There's a faint redness to Art's face when he nods. "Oh, thank you."

"I've always wondered if I'd turn out the way you did if I stuck to tennis." Then he laughs, nudging your side. "If only this one put me to work like Tashi did to you, maybe we would've competed in the US Open a few times."

You snort and shake your head, the idea of watching the two of them even standing on the court together amusing you. "You couldn't beat Art if you tried."

Your fiancé shrugs. "Maybe Patrick."

"Stop kidding yourself. You can't even beat your nephew and he's twelve."

He hums, turning so that he'll face you. He holds your waist with both hands, caressing you gently. "You sure know your way into a man's heart, baby," he says lowly before kissing you again. It's rough and messy, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth. You shriek and press your hands against his chest. He doesn't let go immediately, peeking a glance towards the trio while kissing you.

Tashi feels a knot of disgust tightening in her stomach. The audacity of him to touch you like that in front of them, as if he’s marking his territory, sets her blood boiling just a little bit. God, did no one teach this guy any kind of etiquette?

She catches Art's expression out of the corner of her eye—his jaw is clenched as he turns to look away. Patrick's lips curl in a sneer, the glass in his hand trembling slightly. He fights the urge to throw it.

Your fiancé reaches down and gropes your ass over your silky white dress before finally separating from you.

You stand there, looking flushed and embarrassed, letting him whisper something in your ear before he walks off, joining a group of men who whistle and catcall at him as he nears them. Each jeer and hoot feels like a slap to the face.

"Uh, sorry," you apologize, unable to meet their eyes as you blindly wipe at your chin to fix your lipstick. "That was... I don't know what's gotten into him. He's not usually like this. He's, uh... he's great."

Patrick scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, real great."

Tashi can’t help but frown, her heart aching as she watches you fumble. "You can't possibly want to marry him," she wants to say, but the words get stuck in her throat. She can't bear to hear the answer, especially if it's the one she fears.

Art steps forward, his face a careful mask of neutrality. "If you’re happy," he says, but there's an edge to his tone, a challenge. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air: "Are you?"

You nod quickly, too quickly, as if trying to convince yourself as much as them. "Sure, sure. I mean, what’s not to be happy about? His family loves me. I'm retiring this year, and gonna spend more time with my family. Hopefully more time with some old friends?"

"Old friends?" Tashi repeats, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. The casual way you say it, as if years of distance and silence can be bridged with a few meetings, stings more than she cares to admit.

"Yeah, before I get busy with the baby."

"Baby?" Patrick's voice is sharp, almost disbelieving. "You’re pregnant?"

"What? No!" You quickly sputter, shaking your head. Then you pause, a thought crossing your mind and you lighten up a little bit, a hopeful smile gracing your face, "But I do want kids one day. I want three."

"Does he want kids?"

"We've talked about it, but he shuts it down all the time."

"You poor thing." Patrick puffs out, pinching your arm before reaching for your hand and leading you toward the bar. "Let's bring this conversation outside, ladies. I need a smoke. And you all need a drink stronger than his champagne."

The idea of fresh air and a strong drink is appealing. After grabbing a bottle of finely aged wine, the four of you make your way to the garden outside the grand hall. The shift from the stuffy indoor atmosphere to the cool night air is a relief.

The moonlight casts a silvery glow over the meticulously maintained garden, illuminating the path with a soft, ethereal light. You glow in your pretty white dress, the fabric shimmering as you take a seat on a patch of grass near the rose bushes. The scent of roses mingles with the crisp night air, creating a tranquil yet poignant backdrop. You glance up at the three of them who stand there, watching you.

Tashi raises a brow as you take a long swig of the wine. She didn't remember you to be much of a drinker.

"It's not that big of a deal," you say, passing her the bottle when she finally sits next to you.

It's as if her movement had woken the two guys and then Art takes a seat on your other side while Patrick lies down on the grass a few feet away to light a cigarette.

You pout, "If he doesn't want kids, then we won't have kids."

"But you want kids," Tashi reminds you, but it's more of a question as if she's wondering if that's truly what you want. Don't get her wrong, Tashi loves being a mother, she would kill anyone for Lily, but you wanting kids barely before confirming your retirement threw her off a little bit.

"Of course I do." You hiccup, reaching for the bottle again. "I'm not getting any younger. It's just... he'll come around."

"And if he doesn't?" Art asks, his voice gentle but probing.

"Can we not talk about that right now? I just want to get shitfaced and party."

"Now we're talkin'!" Patrick interjects, his grin wide as he takes a drag from his cigarette. The embers glow briefly in the dark.

"Come on, everybody gather." Patrick flicks his cigarette off to the rocky pathway and snags the bottle from Art's hands. He raises it, nodding at you with that same smirk he's had for years. Snarky, cocky, and yet endearing. "To celebrate new beginnings. Even if your future husband's a dick and can't make you cum nearly half as hard as I can. Good luck, babe."

The rest of you all make a noise of annoyance, rolling your eyes. "Seriously?"

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick," Art scoffs, though there's a faint smile tugging at his lips as you let a giggle slip out past your fake annoyance.

Patrick's smile only widens at the sound of his friends' protests. It reminds him of the good old years when his biggest worry was which shorts he'd wear to his next game. "Cheers!"

As the bottle is passed around, Tashi can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia mixed with bitterness. The comradery of the past clashes painfully with the reality of the present. Is this how things are going to be like now? Is this night a call for a truce, waving the white flag so that all of you could be friends again, now as adults, making plans for brunch and getting the kids together for birthday parties?

You take another sip from the bottle, your gaze drifting towards the moonlit sky. "To new beginnings," you repeat softly, though the hope in your voice is tinged with uncertainty.

Tashi leans back, her eyes lingering on you, a mix of longing and regret pooling in her heart. Art sits quietly beside her, lost in his thoughts, while Patrick’s laughter rings out, masking deeper sentiments beneath his forced cheerfulness. The chatter and music from the hall spill into the garden, the warm lights casting a golden glow over the scene. Patrick talks animatedly about the seasons he thinks he has left in him, and to Tashi's annoyance, you encourage him.

She shakes her head at the way Patrick's eyes light up, glancing at her with a knowing look. Despite her irritation, she can't deny the comfort of slipping back into their old dynamic.

Suddenly, Art hums thoughtfully. He has been mostly quiet, listening to the conversation with occasional quiet laughs. Now, as he puts down the empty bottle of wine, he looks at you, his eyes more alive than they have been in a long time. "I had a burger for the first time in years," he announces, a smile spreading across his face as if he is proud of it.

You gasp, perking up as you reach over to hold his hands. "How was it?"

"Amazing," Art says fondly, "like heaven inside a bun."

"You should've seen him," Tashi smirks, shoulder to shoulder with Patrick, playfully kicking Art. "He was drooling just looking at the menu."

He rolls his eyes, "I wasn't drooling." When you fall silent, he looks at you again, frowning. "You haven't had one in a while, have you?"

You shake your head, "No, I think the last time I had one was when we graduated."

Patrick scoffs, "Bullshit."

You laugh, "It's true! I've been very strict with my diet. And now that I've retired... I don't know..." You shrug, suddenly getting shy as Art starts tracing stars against the back of your hand. "There are so many options, I wouldn't know where to start."

"It doesn't have to be anything fancy," Tashi says.

"Pretty sure I saw an old diner on the way here," Patrick suggests. He stands, stretching and groaning before bending over to take Tashi's hand and help her up.

You sputter, watching them all start to stand before you. "Shut up, we're not driving, you're drunk."

"But sober enough to see how badly you want this," Patrick teases, waving a finger near your face and smirking. "You're drooling."

"No, I'm not!"

"Sure you are," Art joins in, pulling you up to your feet. He swipes a thumb at your chin, "Look right there, by your lip."

"Oh," Tashi grins, "I see it."

"Shut up, Tash, no you don't." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. The old nickname fits too smoothly as if it hasn't been years since you've called her that. Tashi smiles, feeling like a teenager again, messing around with you. She starts to walk off, Art and Patrick following her while you stand there, dumbfounded and a little breathless from their teasing.

"Where are you going?"

"To get a burger?" Tashi shrugs, and she smirks at you, a mischievous smile that makes you wonder if any of you have ever grown up at all. "You coming or what?"

You try to be reasonable, "I can't just leave."

"We'll bring you back before anyone notices," Patrick bargains, jogging back to your side and taking your arm to lead you to the exit. "Lighten up, when was the last time you had some fun?"

You don't even look back.

You find yourself laughing, nodding as the four of you make your way out of the garden. The moonlight guides your steps, casting long shadows on the path.

The walk is a blur of laughter and shared stories, the kind of carefree joy that you haven't felt in years. Before long, you arrive at the diner. The neon lights buzz softly, casting a nostalgic glow over the parking lot. You can smell the greasy, comforting aroma of burgers and fries even before you step inside.

The few people in the diner stare, watching as what seems to be a runaway bride and three wedding guests stumble and giggle over each other, lips a little purple from the wine you've all had and ordering burgers to go.

Once you have your food, you all find yourselves sitting on the curb of the diner's parking lot, the warm night air wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. Patrick hands out the burgers, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light as he makes a show of presenting yours to you. "First bite in... how many years?"

"Too many," You take the burger with a chuckle, unwrapping it and taking a bite. "Oh my God," you mumble around your mouthful, "this is amazing."

Tashi watches you, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Told you."

Art takes a bite of his own burger, nodding in agreement. "There's nothing like it."

You shake your head, going in for more, "This is the greatest thing I've put in my mouth."

Patrick, already halfway through his, lets out a loud laugh, "Yeah, I bet."

The parking lot felt like a little bubble of the past, untouched by the years that had separated you. It was strange how easy it was to fall back into the rhythm of your old friendships, how natural it felt to banter and laugh as if no time had passed at all.

Tashi rolls her eyes, though you don't even seem phased by Patrick's joke. "I can't even get mad," you say, swallowing, "I feel like I'm eighteen again."

"Tell me about it," Art agrees. Then he pauses for a beat, chewing on her burger a little slower before turning to you. "You know, this reminds me of that time... when, you know."

"Oh," You snort and nod, scrunching up your face at the memory. "Yeah. It kinda does."

"What?" Patrick looks between the two of you, raising his brow in interest. "What time?"

"It was a long time ago," you tell him.

"Like back in Stanford," Art explains, and then he points between Tashi and Patrick with his burger, "when you two were still a thing."

Tashi sits up straight now, her full attention on you and Art. "Oh, really?"

"It was that time Patrick came for a surprise visit in the middle of our girls' night," you say, nodding your head at her, hoping she'd catch up with the memory. "And you kicked me out of your dorm so you and Patrick could... you know."

Tashi nods. "Have some alone time." She finishes for you.

She remembers that night well: you were both nestled in the haven of her dorm room, the soft glow of the television casting gentle shadows on the walls as the movie played on. You were curled up under her covers, your bodies intertwined, legs tangled together in a comforting knot. The world outside ceased to exist in those moments, leaving just the two of you in your little cocoon of comfort.

Tashi can still feel the sensation of your fingers running through her hair, the tender, rhythmic motion soothing her in a way nothing else could. The warmth of your touch lingered on her scalp, your fingers traced lazy patterns, and she remembered the way her body instinctively relaxed into yours.

But then came the knock on the door, and she felt her heart jump at her throat as she swung her legs out from under the covers and padded softly to the door.

When she opened the door, there stood Patrick, his presence almost surreal. He was holding a bouquet of carefully picked-out flowers, their vibrant colours contrasting sharply with the dim light of the hallway. His smirk was both nervous and charming

"You kicked her out?" Patrick gasps, and Tashi gives him a blank stare. He's acting as if he wasn't even there, as if he didn't stand by her desk while watching her scramble to clean up the mess the two of you made in her dorm and shove you out the door before locking it.

Patrick shrugs, that stupid smirk painted on his lips again before he finishes his burger. "Would've let you stay if it were up to me," he tells you, "The more, the merrier."

"No way," you poke your tongue at the inside of your cheek. "She wanted you all for herself."

"Please, I would've been too distracted with you to even give him my time of day," Tashi admits. "I did you a favor, Patrick. Saved you from blue balls."

He holds a hand to his heart. "I'm so honored."

"But anyway," you start, "while I was walking back to my dorm I bumped into Art, who got stood up on a date."

Patrick blinks, turning to Art. "You got stood up?"

"Was it that girl from marketing?" Tashi asks.

Art's cheeks start to turn red, the flush growing from his neck and up to his ears at the attention. "Yeah, she, uh, she bailed on me last minute."

"I remember you telling me the date went well," Patrick says. "That you guys went out late, bought takeout... you made out in your car," Then, to fuck with him, he adds, "You came in your pants 'cause she kissed your neck. Remember?"

"And that did happen," Art confesses begrudgingly, glaring at Patrick while Tashi laughs. "It’s just... it wasn't with her..."

"It... it was me," you admit.

Tashi wishes she could say she's surprised, but it's nearly impossible because anyone who knew you back in college knew very well about the big crush you harboured for a certain blonde. She knew the way you swooned after him, even if you never tried to admit it because it was too embarrassing.

"Wait, so," Tashi starts, poking at your side and drawing a nervous giggle from you. It makes her smile. "Is Art that guy you told me about, with the puppy eyes and pretty smile?"

"Okay," you puff out, blushing, "I did not say puppy eyes."

"You think I have puppy eyes?" Art asks you, his gaze softening.

When you take a few seconds too long to answer, Patrick claps his hands together and swings his arm over yours and Art's shoulders, pulling the two of you closer to him. "Aw," he teasingly coos at the two of you getting all flustered, "you think he has puppy eyes."

"It was so long ago," you say, running your hands over the soft fabric of your dress. "I don't even remember."

"I'm so sure you don't," Patrick hums, a knowing look in his eyes before he presses a sloppy kiss against your cheek.

You groan, shoving your hand in his face to push him off before you stumble to stand on your feet again, wiping your cheek from his spit. "You're disgusting," you huff, but there's no real bite in your words because there's a faint smile threatening to appear at the corners of your lips.

You stand there for a beat or two, brushing off your dress and feeling the weight of the night settling in. You stare down at the three of them sitting on the curb, the neon lights of the diner buzzing behind you. You can see the hall where your engagement party is from where you stand; you almost don't want to go back.

"Okay," you tuck your lower lip between your teeth as you hesitate, "this... this has been fun."

"Don't leave yet," Tashi says while Art's smile drops, his face falling in disappointment.

"Yeah," Patrick rushes to stand, reaching for you, "the party was just getting started."

"I really have to get back," you step away. "If anyone finds out I left, I'll hear about it for days. This has been great. Like, seriously, I don't think I've ever laughed this hard since before..." You trail off, your tongue getting tied as you glance at Tashi, then at her knee, covered by the length of her dark purple dress. You clear your throat. "Well, uh, I better go. But thank you again, for the beer and the burgers and the memories. I hope you guys can make it to the wedding."

You start to walk away before they can say anything. Like, on purpose, as if you know that if they tried to make you stay and ditch your party, you would. You would cave to their defences.

The sound of your heels is deafening. Tashi watches you go, she watches how you wrap your arms around yourself, and it all feels too similar to how she watched you go all those years ago and never chased after you.

"Don’t marry him," Tashi stands from the curb. She's shaky on her feet, taking long strides to walk past Patrick and hoping to catch up to you. She sees you freeze in your steps, barely out of the parking lot. You turn to look at her quickly, face falling in shock at her demand.

"What?" Your voice is quiet, hoping that your ears are betraying you.

Tashi slows down once she is close enough, the distance between you is almost nothing but the gap feels like miles. The red and blue lights from the neon sign blend into a deep purple against your skin, casting an ethereal glow that makes this moment feel suspended in time. She watches your face, sees the way your brows knit together, the flicker of anger and confusion in your eyes.

Her heart is pounding, the blood rushing in her ears almost drowning out her voice. But she forces herself to speak, her voice low and urgent. "Don’t marry him," she says again, each word feeling like it's being ripped from her chest. Her resolve, which had held firm all these years, finally crumbles.

Getting Patrick back into her life had been one of the most complicated, tangled pains she had ever undertaken. The late-night calls, the awkward meetings, the painstakingly slow rebuilding of trust between herself and Art.

None of it had been easy.

Yet, even with Patrick back, there had always been something missing—a void that only you could fill.

She looks into your eyes, her gaze unwavering, despite the tears welling up. "Please," she pleads, her voice breaking. "Please, don't marry him." The words hang heavy in the air, a desperate plea that carries years of longing and regret. She knows that having you back won't make up for the lost time, and won't magically fix all the mistakes and missed opportunities. But she can at least try, can at least fight for the chance to make things right.

"Tashi, you can't possibly be asking me to—"

"It’s not worth it," she tells you anyway, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken truths. She knows it’s a risk, a gamble she's taking by laying her heart bare, but she can’t hold back any longer. The years of resentment, of silent longing, bubble to the surface, fueled by the sight of you with someone else's ring on your finger. It's a bitter pill to swallow, the realization that she resented you not for leaving, but for never coming back.

Why didn't you come back?

Tashi's words hang heavy in the air, a desperate plea born from years of unspoken desires and regrets. "Both of you want different things anyway. You don't love him," she continues, her voice raw with emotion, "it's not gonna last. One day you're gonna wake up in the middle of the night and realize I'm right. You'd hate to admit it, but I will be right. I am right. He doesn't deserve you. He's no good for you."

You scoff, "And you are?"

"You said it yourself," she presses on, her voice barely above a whisper, "You've never laughed the way you do with us. And you kept in touch with Patrick, so that's gotta mean something." It's a feeble attempt to grasp at straws. "Marrying him will just be another excuse, another stupid reason. I thought you were better than that."

Then she remembers that night before you left for London, back in 2012. It's like a distant memory now, a flicker of what could have been. The air was thick with anticipation, the tension palpable as you stood on the precipice of something new. She remembers the way your eyes met hers after your exchange with Art at the hotel bar, a brief greeting with an old friend, both of you at the peaks of your careers. It is a silent exchange of longing and regret. For a moment, it felt like time stood still, like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

She remembers the smell of your perfume, the bitterness of the drink you were having and how she could taste it when she kissed you; tongue running over your teeth, nails clawing at skin, hair tangled between fingers, hot breaths and unkept promises and false apologies and a night of regret.

And then the morning came, and with it, you had to leave. And she never stopped you.

"Tashi… I can't just throw this all away for you. For any of you. You were the one who told me to leave."

"I know."

"Because you know everything, right? Because you know he's not good for me, you know it all."

"I know you."

"No, you don’t," you say, your voice tinged with hurt. "Not anymore.”

Tashi huffs, shaking her head before she reaches out, cupping your cheeks gently in her hands. Her lips hover over yours for a moment, a silent plea hanging in the air between you. She waits, her heart pounding in her chest, for you to make a move—to kiss her, to push her away, anything.

You gaze into her eyes, tears glistening in the dim light, before finally closing the distance between you. The kiss is tender, and bittersweet, a culmination of years of unspoken longing and regret. It's a brief moment of solace amid chaos.

Your hands dig into the nape of her neck, where the short ends of her dyed hair tickle the skin of your wrist. The heat of your engagement ring nearly burns her, the edge of the diamond scraping against her skin.

When you pull away, breathless, Tashi fears this will be the last time she will see you.

"Tashi, this doesn’t change anything," you say, your voice trembling.

"It changes everything," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You know it does."

But you step back, breaking the contact, the distance between you growing with each passing moment. "I have to go," you murmur, the weight of the decision heavy on your shoulders. "I need to think."

As you walk away, Tashi watches you go, her heart heavy with uncertainty. She clings to the memory of that fleeting moment, a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

Back in the hotel room, an uneasy silence settles among the trio. Tashi steps out of the shower, her mind a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The press of your lips still lingers on her own, a persistent buzz that crawls under her skin.

As she rubs lotion into her arms, she takes her time, methodically moving over each inch of her skin as if she could somehow rub away the confusion and yearning. She finishes her skincare routine, staring at herself in the mirror, almost meeting the eyes of the eighteen-year-old girl who had her whole life ahead of her. It's a constant chant in her head not to dwell in the past.

She has to focus—she needs to find a way to pull Patrick Zweig out of the top 200 ranks and get him qualified for the US Open by the time the next season starts.

Speaking of the devil, when Tashi steps out of the bathroom, she finds Patrick lounging on the loveseat by the open window. Naturally, his shirt has found itself a home on the floor, and a cigarette dangles from his lips.

He perks up when she walks out, sitting up to greet her, "Don't beat yourself up."

Tashi rolls her eyes and climbs into the bed, letting herself sink into the soft comforter. "Shut the fuck up, Patrick. And put that shit out."

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette out the window, grinning when he hears Tashi scoff. "She's a stubborn little shit," he says as the hotel door clicks open and Art walks in. Patrick hums, "Probably only marrying him to piss us off anyway. Been trying to talk her out of it for months. Never listens."

"She might listen to Tashi," Art says, turning to his wife with a hint of optimism in his voice. "Lily's asleep, by the way."

"Right, because my word is stronger than both of yours," Tashi retorts, pulling the blanket over her legs.

Art and Patrick glance at each other before nodding, "Yes."

"Well, yeah."

They all sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own little bubble. The hotel room is quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of the bedspread.

Art joins Tashi on the bed, absently flipping through the channels on the television, the remote clicking softly in his hand. Beside him, Tashi pretends to read a book, her eyes scanning the same sentence over and over again without really absorbing the words. Meanwhile, Patrick rummages through the mini fridge, the sound of bottles clinking and wrappers crinkling breaking the stillness.

A quiet knock on the door makes the three of them freeze, their heads snapping up in unison. They exchange hesitant glances, each wondering if they imagined it. Then three raps against the wood sound again, more insistent this time. Patrick scrambles to the door, Art and Tashi close behind him, their curiosity piqued and their hearts pounding.

Patrick swings the door open, and there you are, a sight for sore eyes. You're still in the same dress, though one of the straps has fallen off your shoulder, and your makeup is smudged around your eyes. You hold your phone close, dropping it from your ear.

"I tried calling," you say, turning your phone so they can see Patrick's contact, a simple 'pat' with a cute tennis ball emoji next to his nickname. "You never answered."

"My phone died." He shrugs.

You let your hand fall to your front, where your fingers pull on each other nervously. Tashi can't help but notice the lack of a ring on your finger all of a sudden. She raises her brows at you, a knowing look flashing across her face before she tells you, "Something's changed."

You roll your eyes and step into the room, sliding between Art and Patrick easily. "A lot has changed." You walk until you reach the middle of the room.

It's a big hotel room, not nearly as big as the ones Art and Tashi are used to staying in, but big and luxurious nonetheless. You fit in perfectly with your white gown and styled hair, a vision of elegance even in your dishevelled state.

You turn, facing the three of them again. "I hope whatever offer you guys were hinting at earlier still stands... I don't exactly have anywhere else to stay, unless I want to hear my mother telling me how she was right the entire night."

Tashi smirks. "You know I'm about to tell you the same thing too, right?" She closes the space between the two of you, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind your ear. Her nails brush against your jaw in a feather-light touch until her fingers pause below your lips.

"Yeah, I know."

You don't seem too upset about it. Instead, you're grinning, letting Tashi push her thumb between your lips. The gesture is intimate, charged with unspoken emotion. You're standing face-to-face when she says, "I told you so."

She leads you to sit on the bed, and you let her, nearly tripping over your heels before you land on the soft duvets. Tashi leans down, her nose brushing against yours, and you swallow your heart racing.

"You were right," you murmur. It's hard to maintain eye contact when your skin is buzzing with heat and when there's so much going on in the depths of her eyes that it dizzies you. "I hate it, though."

Her nose is cold against yours, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her breath. You let your eyes fall shut as she slowly traces patterns under your chin, pressing her thumb harder into your mouth before pulling it out. She catches the side of your face with it, making a mess with your spit.

She smiles, "I know you do."

Instinctively, and embarrassingly, there's a shiver rolling down your spine.

Tashi releases a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, her lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as her lips, warm and smooth, explore your own.

It's a little fumbly, nervous and making you tremble under her hands. Tashi loves every second of it. Her fingers grip your face tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into her hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, she slips her tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.

Tashi ends up straddling you, making out like you're both teenagers again, putting on a show for Art and Patrick. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too.

You moan softly as she pulls away from your mouth, her attention shifting to your neck. As you watch Patrick and Art make their way to sit next to you on the bed, the bed dipping, you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to Tashi. You whimper as you feel her lips drag over your exposed skin. She nibbles and sucks until she finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.

"Fuck," you whimper. You tug on her air-dried curls, coaxing her back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of her mouth on yours. Tashi sighs, and you can feel her smiling into it while beckoning Art and Patrick to join in.

Their lips are on you in a split second, with Art pressing soft, ticklish kisses against your collarbone, and Patrick sliding his tongue from your shoulder to the back of your ear. He's moaning at the taste of you, sucking a bruise under your jaw while digging his hand into the back of your hair.

He slowly starts to bring his sloppy kisses to your mouth, lips brushing against Tashi's and your own before she draws back. You whine, pouting as you watch her take a few steps away before making herself comfortable in the cushioned seats by a small dining table. You can't pout for too long, because now Patrick is kissing you, tugging softly at your hair until your back arches.

His tongue presses against yours, pressing as far back as he can reach, swallowing your every moan and whimper. You bring your hand up to scratch at his beard, then run your nails over his scalp. This is when Art starts to get a little bolder by running his hands up and down your thighs, pulling and pulling the long skirt of your dress until he reaches the end of it and he can touch your skin and take off your heels, tossing them aside somewhere.

Patrick traps your lower lip between his teeth, watching it bounce back into its place as he leans back just the slightest bit. You break apart with a whimper. Your half-lidded eyes meet his, then flick down to the trail of spit strung between your glistening lips. He stares at you, cheeks a little red as he smirks, "I've missed this. Missed you."

You smile, breathless as Art's hand makes its way up higher and higher and closer to your heat, his mouth is relentless with its attack at your neck. He grinds his crotch against the side of your leg and you cradle the back of his head with your other hand.

"You saw me last week, Patrick."

"Last week?" Art pulls away. His lips are parted, eyes a little dazed but focused enough to stare between you and Patrick in confusion. Tashi smirks from where she sits and shifts in her place.

"We're not all perfect, Art." You groan, rolling your eyes as Patrick laughs, reaching over you to start pulling down Art's pants who shifts in his place to let him. Once they're off, he looks at you, and it's embarrassing how fast you tangle together, melding together into a pathetic heap on the bed for Tashi and Patrick to see.

Your lips move in tandem, his soft, pouty lips slitting against yours with ease as you lead his hands to your chest and shove them under your dress.

Art squeezes and fondles your breasts over your bra, his hips jerking against your leg again, almost desperate as his boner presses against the fabric of your dress as it has fallen down again.

Tashi startles you as she settles behind, one knee on the bed while her other long leg steadies her on the carpeted floor below. You let her tilt you backward, parting you from Art and she draws you into an upside-down kiss. The salacious kiss leaves your legs parting for the two men beside you.

Patrick makes quick work of taking that damn dress off of you and you sputter out a pathetic moan when Art's soft hands tease your hardening nipples once Patrick gets half of it off.

Your dress eventually falls into a heap on the floor in front of the bed, you’d matched with it a white paired set underneath.

"No fucking way," You peek one eye open slightly to see Patrick scowling while Art runs his hands everywhere he can reach, across your stomach, your thighs, under your boobs, down your back.

Patrick tilts his head and groans, "I can't believe you wore this shit for him."

Your hand cups Tashi's jaw to deepen the kiss as you both ignore Patrick, only Art snorting out a laugh as he tugs his shirt over his head.

Patrick slots himself between your open legs, stopping just a breath short of your aching cunt to nip teasingly at your soft inner thigh before dragging his mouth up to your neck again. He revels in the moans he's able to draw from you as he finally comes to caress your face.

You pull away from Tashi and gasp in a breath. "Kiss me, Pat," You bite your lip, feeling your heart race as he eyes you up so openly.

"Beg me," He counters with a quirked brow, challenging you.

Your nose crinkles, "I'm not doing that."

"I'm not kissing you, then."

"Shut up and kiss her, Patrick," Tashi groans, attached to Art. She holds his face the same way she did with you, pulling him closer and letting the man crawl to her. But she's glaring at Patrick with venom behind it you know she can’t mean when she's trembling under Art's gentle touch as he slips off her silky nightgown.

"Come here," You beckon Patrick closer with a fiendish look in your half-lidded eyes.

"Yes, ma'am." Patrick nods, dazed as he obliges. "Anything you want, beautiful," His voice slightly slurs as the space between you diminishes once again. "I'll do anything for you," His husky voice drapes around your name like velvet as it's whispered against your plush lips.

Your hands easily find themselves tangled in Patrick's curly hair and tug him to your lips with aching want. You dive in immediately, lips meshing against and, eventually, catching against his chapped lips.

A moan escapes from your throat and he uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. From there, it's another flurry of saliva, tongue and entirely too much white-hot pressure building below.

When you break for a breath, a string of saliva stretches between each of your red, puffy lips. Patrick groans at the sight and pulls you in for a slower, raw kiss that leaves you slick and trembling for more. When you pull apart again, Patrick plants a sweet kiss on Art's mouth before focusing back solely on you, his hand slowly approaching your white thong.

When he starts to rub, you moan into his mouth and start trailing your hand to his crotch, palming his dick. Patrick reciprocates easily and tugs at your lower lip with an impish look in his eyes.

Lips attack your neck again, pulling you higher up on the bed. You hear pants and clothes being shed from every angle around you before you're surrounded again, hands everywhere.

While Art pulls Patrick into a kiss, Tashi cups your face again and draws you into a gentle one as you settle between her legs, your back to her chest. You rest your head on Tashi's shoulder as you heave out another breath, her hands travelling from your navel to tracing shapes on your clit, over your wet panties, spreading your legs apart with her own.

"Please, Tash," you whimper as her fingers curl around the edge of the fabric and tug so it strains against your leaking cunt perfectly. She then decides to skim a whisper of her touch against your pulsing ache.

You gape as Patrick wraps his hand around Art's dick, stoking it, and he lets out the prettiest little whine. Patrick slowly works his way down Art's body, running his tongue between each curve of his muscles, collecting the sweat that's been building on his skin before wrapping his mouth around him, taking all of it in one insatiable bob of his head.

Tashi's nails tickle lightly up your stomach, then in the valley between your breasts and then back down again. It has you spiralling, arching your back as she presses a kiss at your neck.

"You're being so good," she coos into your ear. Your name is only a breath out of her mouth, and she's edging your clit with a gentle roughness that could only come from a woman of her calibre. Tashi pulls your panties aside and flicks and flits about your dripping cunt like she already knows how to make you come undone.

It makes you tremble. You'd sworn up and down earlier about how Tashi didn't know you anymore, and here she is, proving to you that she still does, that she knows every curve and divot of your body, that she still knows what makes you whimper and twitch.

Your hand quickly reaches behind you, between the heat of your back and her body and finds her clit and you try to emulate how she's making you weak. Each quiet gasp you earn from her has you moaning back tenfold under her saccharine trance and she quickly starts pumping two fingers into you.

One particular flick of Tashi's thumb on your clit coupled with her lips gliding against and sucking your own in a wanton kiss sends you over the edge. You moan and cum, back arching as you relentlessly force Tashi's hand against your cunt, searching for more delicious friction.

She takes you all, and lets you ride it all out on her fingers while swallowing every moan you let out in a lewd, wet kiss. Art and Patrick moan appreciatively at the two of you, then focus back on each other.

Before you're able to come down from your high, Art's shoving his come down Patrick's greedy throat. He swallows it all, pulling off Art's red-tipped cock with a vulgar pop that creates a trail of saliva in its wake.

Patrick smiles down at you and leans closer, and you think he's about to kiss you but then he swerves and kisses Tashi instead, who removes her hand from your cunt and slowly works it up his thigh until she cups his balls and gives them a gentle squeeze. He moans into her mouth, winking at you amid his impromptu make-out session you were tempted to join.

You shimmy back and turn on your stomach, positioning yourself between Tashi's long tanned legs. "Can I eat you out?" You ask while kissing up her leg, and you want to hear how much she needs you. You bite at your bottom lip as you nuzzle into her juicy cunt. "Tashi?" You look up at her from where your face is pressed against her. Her sweet smell makes you sigh as you tease your tongue with her hip bone. "Please, Tash, let me taste you."

"Yeah, go for it," Comes her breathless plea.

You finally pull her lips apart, revelling in how she squirms against your hold on her hips.

You're on your knees, trapped arching between Tashi's long legs when you hear Art clear his throat. You give one long lick up Tashi's twitching cunt before turning around with her slick dribbling down onto your chin to where Art has sidled up behind you.

Art crawls closer to you, "Can I touch you, beautiful?" He tilts your chin up as he awaits your answer.

When you nod, he easily descends upon your lips, placing a sure hand behind your head as he deepens the kiss into something absolutely filthy. As soon as you break apart, he kisses your shoulder, then down your spine.

Tashi guides you back to her. You allow her nails to tangle in your locks as she forces your head back down against her arching hips.

"Shit," Patrick huffs, rough hands reaching for the globes of your ass while Art's smoother ones trail up your spread, inner thighs. Tashi tugs at his dick a little harder, which has him panting against her lips.

Tashi gasps as you flick at her clit then quickly move to tease her entrance with the tip of your tongue. You flatten your tongue, dragging it across her length and repeat the motion until she whines for you to stop.

You slurp the combination of drool and slick as you pull away with a pussy-drunk smile. She meets it with a panting, dazed one and removes her hand from your hair to push her own out of her eyes while Patrick sucks at her neck.

"Ah!" You startle forward into Tashi's tits as Art finally breeches your entrance with his index finger.

"Eat our girl out, Art," Tashi motions for Art to lie down under your spread form to get a better angle. You can't deny that the new nickname drives you a little crazy. "Show her she's ours."

Art's soft hands draw another moan out of you as they assuredly grip your hips to keep you in place while he unleashes teasing licks against your pussy.

Tashi draws you back to her. You'd know that look anywhere—she's ready to cum.

"I want you," Her breath hitches around your name while your tongue steals the rest of her coherent words until she's a withering mess under your touch.

Her pornstar-worthy moans ring out across the room like a beautiful symphony. Tashi's wanton noises coupled with the wet whines you're unleashing against her folds until the two of you create the lewdest duet this hotel's ever heard.

She arches against the bedframe as she tells you her near release, tugging at your hair as she draws closer and closer to the edge.

Panting, she draws you against her lips for a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss.

"Fuck, Tashi," You groan against her plump lips, feeling your own impending orgasm drawing near. "You're so fucking hot, I-"

She cuts off your rambling with another wet kiss. Her tongue flicks out to tease yours before sucking it into her mouth with a lewd slurp. Your hand works alongside hers to leave her shaking and whimpering against your lips as she comes undone by your hand. You smack her cunt lightly, eating the groan she feeds into your open mouth as she rides it out.

Tashi eats your moans as they echo against your messy tangling of lips and tongues.

Art's fingers start to pick up a pace as Patrick, feeling left out, starts thrusting his throbbing cock in the middle of your sapphic kiss with Tashi. You eye the two with half-lidded eyes as you share Patrick's cock with her. After only a few moments in your mouth, Patrick pulls out and releases across Tashi's and your expectant tongues.

"So fucking good to me," Patrick pants as he splatters the last of his come across your faces with a shaky groan. "Best fucking orgasm ever, swear it," He says as he encases his lips around yours, swapping his cum between your mouths before moving to Tashi to do the same.

Art moves out from under you, offering your knees relief as he lays you back against Tashi's stomach to fuck into you.

It's a slow and cruel pace, only made crueller by how Patrick and Tashi touch you like they already know where you want to be touched. Each brunette takes a side, Patrick sucking your tit into his mouth while Tashi's mouth draws you in for a kiss. Her nails tickle at your other erect nipples until you're arching off of her and into Art's thrusts, making him whimper.

"Just like that," Art whines your name. "You're so fucking tight."

It's when Patrick and Tashi move their attention down to your clit that you know you're fucked. Patrick spreads your folds with two fingers, watching as intensely as Art does as his cock disappears in and out of your hole.

"He could've never made you feel like this, right?" Tashi rasps. "He has no strategy, no real game. Just a fucking waste of space. Could never make you feel this good, this loved."

You don't need her to say his name, you know what she means. You're panting, shaking your head against her shoulder. "Never."

"Told ya," Patrick laughs into your skin. "Make her cum, Art. C'mon, man."

"Fuck- please," You whimper, nodding. "I need to come, baby-" Without warning, you arch off of Tashi. Neither she nor Patrick stops their jerks against your clit as you gasp, eyes rolling back in your head with the thrum of a second wave creeping up on you with a steady building heat. Waves of pleasure roll over you as the tantalizing sensations become too much. You come loudly, arching pathetically off the bed as you desperately reach for Art, to hold him.

You're wriggling in Tashi and Patrick's arms as Art pulls out and releases across your expanding and retracting stomach as you pant out the remnants of your orgasm.

"Shit," He moans, and his voice sends waves of aftershock across your body while his steady hands draw you against his naked chest for a toe-curling kiss.

You'd never been happier to have invited Patrick Zweig to your engagement party.

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#𖤓: 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 #literally shaking because of this fic #everyone read it NOW #challengers

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