What Just Happened

CAMP COUNSELOR!PATRICK HEADCANONS

warnings: semi-explicit sexual content (dry humping, clothed orgasms, grinding, heavy making out, public risk of being caught), sexual tension in a workplace/camp setting, emotionally intense relationship, themes of longing, emotional repression, fear of abandonment, bittersweet separation, post-summer heartbreak, crying during/after intimacy, and unresolved romantic angst.

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @bambiangels, @pittsick, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

notes: hi lovelies! if you’d like to see more of camp counselor!patrick, i’ve created a c.ai bot of him (which actually inspired the making of these headcanons, fun fact). you can talk to him here :)

⟡ patrick kissed you for the first time in the craft shed, mid-storm, with your walkies hissing static in the background and the kids finally asleep in their sleeping bags like fragile bombs. it was supposed to be a quick, stupid thing—just to get the tension out. you grabbed his shirt. he pressed you against the wall like he’d been waiting weeks for permission. his hands didn’t even move at first, just held your face like he needed to memorize it. you kissed like you hated each other for how badly you wanted it. and when he pulled back, breathing hard, he whispered “you’re killin’ me, you know that?” and you hated how soft it made you feel. like maybe you wanted to kill him. or maybe you didn’t want anyone else touching you like that ever again.

⟡ you never fully fuck. the risk is too high. the kids are too close. your jobs matter too much. but that just makes everything worse—or maybe better. it’s all breathless makeouts in dark corners of the mess hall. his hand up your camp shirt during movie night in the rec lodge. dry humping behind the canoe racks while you’re both supposed to be organizing life jackets. he gets off on how quiet you try to be—his hand over your mouth, his teeth grazing your shoulder, both of you rocking together in the dark like you might combust if you stopped. sometimes you come just from grinding, from the thick press of him between your legs and the frantic rhythm and the way he tells you “fuck, you’re shaking—i’ve got you, you’re okay, keep going.” it’s obscene how good he is at making it feel like enough.

⟡ patrick isn’t supposed to like you. not someone who lives by laminated schedules and has a spreadsheet for sunscreen reapplication. but god, he’s addicted to you. you make the whole camp run like a machine and still find time to tie friendship bracelets with your girls before bed, or sneak extra marshmallows to the picky eater in your cabin. he watches you from across the field like a boy in love with the sun. sits with his first-graders during campfire night but only half-listens, eyes flicking to you as you shush your cabin, tuck stray curls behind your ears, bite your lip when someone sings off-key. you’re so put-together. so in control. and he wants to ruin that. wants to hear your breath hitch when he kisses your neck behind the arts building. wants to see your clipboard hit the ground because his hand’s down your shorts again. wants you to lose control—for him.

⟡ it starts as lust. of course it does. you roll your eyes at his jokes and mutter under your breath when he’s late to flagpole duty again—but every argument ends with him leaning in too close, smirking like he knows. and maybe he does. the way you start lingering near his cabin at night. the way you wear his hoodie one day “by accident” and don’t give it back. but somewhere between shared debriefs and early-morning setup shifts, it shifts. he starts bringing you snacks. starts leaving notes in your fanny pack like: you forgot your smile. i found it. -p or i stole you a popsicle. come find me. and you do. every time. it’s not just adrenaline anymore. it’s affection. familiarity. you start to know each other’s footsteps. moods. soft spots. he lets you see his softness without irony. and that terrifies you.

⟡ the campers love him. of course they do. he’s barefoot half the time, sunburned, trailing kids like a one-man parade. makes fart jokes. pretends to be a swamp monster. teaches them how to fish using gummy worms. they call him “coach p” even though you don’t have sports teams. and you hate how good he is at this. how easily he connects. how quickly kids go from sobbing to giggling with one dumb face or story. you run a tighter ship. you enforce quiet hours, give the best hugs, braid hair and bandage knees and write postcards to homesick girls so they feel like they matter. you’re the safe one. he’s the fun one. opposites. and somehow, it works. he teases you about being the “camp mom,” but you catch him watching you across the playground like he’s already imagining you holding his kid one day. he doesn’t say that out loud. but you feel it.

⟡ after lights out, he sneaks into your cabin through the back. not every night. but enough that you start sleeping on the left side of the cot automatically. you kiss with the urgency of people who might get caught. thighs tangled. teeth clashing. breath stolen in pieces. sometimes he just lays there, hand under your shirt, fingers slow on your ribs like he’s trying to map you. he talks softer here. asks about your family. your old job. why you came to camp in the first place. “what are you running from?” he asks once, into your shoulder. you pretend you didn’t hear him. you’re not ready to answer that. and he doesn’t push. just kisses the curve of your neck and pulls you closer.

⟡ dry humping with him isn’t a compromise. it’s a sickness. you’re both fully clothed, rutting against each other like desperate teenagers—panting, whispering, biting back moans in the dark. he grinds down hard, cock thick and leaking through his boxers, and you clutch at him like it hurts to be touched. your thighs get sticky. your shirt gets pulled halfway up. sometimes you come in your underwear with him barely touching you—just from how intense he gets. how he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs “you’re so wet like this—jesus, baby, you gonna come for me just like that?” and you do. and you can’t even feel embarrassed, because he’s coming too, hips jerking, cock twitching against your thigh like he’s been aching for you all day. because he has.

⟡ sometimes, after cleanup duty, he corners you in the kitchen. flicks off the light. lifts you onto the counter and stands between your knees like he owns the space. kisses you so slowly it almost hurts. tongue sliding lazy and wet against yours. hands tracing the shape of your waist like he’s not in a rush for once. “you’re the only reason i get through the day sometimes,” he admits into your mouth. and you don’t know how to answer. so you just pull him closer. and kiss him like you believe it.

⟡ the sneaking around gets easier. muscle memory. you both know which counselors leave which patrols and when. which spots stay dark the longest. you pass each other little smirks during meals, casual touches that mean meet me later. and it’s exciting. addicting. it feels like a secret universe just for the two of you—where your rules don’t apply and his bad habits don’t scare you and everything in the world stops mattering for a little while. until the sun comes up. until the whistles blow. until you’re back in your polos, pretending nothing happened, pretending you don’t miss his weight behind you.

⟡ patrick makes you laugh in the middle of moments you’re trying to be serious. mid-counselor meeting while you’re trying to propose a new bug spray schedule, he leans over and whispers “you’ve got a power complex and i support it.” you shove him. he grins like a child. but later, he shows up to your bug spray training and helps the kids fill out their logs. even makes a joke about mosquitos being “nature’s way of checking if you’re paying attention.” he teases you like you’re a joke. but treats you like a miracle. you hate it. you love it. you don’t know which is worse.

⟡ one night, you’re both out late walking a homesick camper back to their bunk. the kid holds your hand. patrick holds a flashlight. and when the kid falls asleep, curled between their stuffed animal and your knee, you both sit there. in silence. until patrick says, “i think i could do this. like—this. forever.” and you look at him. really look. not the barefoot troublemaker or the secret hookup or the guy who knows how to kiss your neck just right. just him. raw. tired. maybe a little afraid. “me too,” you whisper. and it feels dangerous. it feels real. it feels like the kind of thing you don’t come back from.

⟡ patrick never wears shoes. like, ever. he says it’s a “grounding practice,” but you’re 90% sure he just hates laces. his feet are perpetually dirty, half-burnt from the blacktop, always scratched up from god knows what—sticks, rocks, one infamous lego in the arts cabin. you make fun of him for it constantly. he calls you “foot-shamer general” and bows dramatically whenever you scold him. but then he gets a splinter and limps around for half a day and you end up crouched in the nurse’s station, tweezers in hand, while he pouts and calls you “florence fuckin’ nightingale.” you don’t smile. not out loud. but when you rub ointment into his arch, he exhales like your hands are made of fire.

⟡ patrick is always snacking. like constantly. he’s the kind of guy who has sunflower seed shells in every pocket, and a crushed granola bar melted into the lining of his backpack. once you caught him eating an entire packet of mini Oreos behind the cabins at 9am. when you stared at him, horrified, he just grinned and said, “i’m on the patrick plan: five meals, two breakdowns, and a little sugar every hour.” and it would be ridiculous—should be ridiculous—but then he starts bringing you snacks. peanut butter crackers when you skip lunch. little cups of gatorade when you look tired. he never says why. just hands it to you and walks away.

⟡ you’ve never seen anyone make kids laugh like he does. he’ll trip over a tree root, fall into a mud puddle, and still turn it into a game. his group is always in chaos—missing shoes, crooked name tags, one kid trying to eat a bug—but they worship him. like he hung the moon. and it drives you insane. because he lets them get away with everything. but he also remembers all their birthdays. carries bug spray for the ones with sensitive skin. draws secret tattoos on their wrists with marker so they can feel brave during nature hikes. you can’t even hate him for it. because he’s good. stupidly good. in a way that makes you ache.

⟡ you both learn each other’s bodies like a survival skill. where he likes to be scratched. the spot on your inner thigh that makes your hips twitch. how to kiss without leaving marks. how to slide hands under shirts without rustling too much fabric. he knows how to undo your bra with one hand. you know how to straddle his lap without messing up your bunk. he’s a master at unbuttoning your shorts just enough to slip his hand in, fingers warm and rough and so good while he kisses you slow and deep like there’s no one else on the planet. and when you come, gasping into his neck, he holds you there. murmurs your name like it’s something precious.

⟡ sometimes, when you’re doing head counts, he’ll sneak up behind you and whisper the wrong number just to mess with you. “twenty-four, baby. we lost one. check the lake.” you threaten to kill him. every time. but he’s already laughing, ducking away, and god—god—you love him. even when you hate him. maybe especially when you hate him. it’s easier than saying the real thing. than admitting it’s not just a fling. not just camp hormones. it’s him. it’s always him.

⟡ on a hot july night, the two of you end up swimming in the lake after hours. no lights. no one watching. just skin on skin and silence. you float on your back. he watches you like you’re something rare. precious. “you ever think about next year?” he asks. and you hate the question. because of course you have. and of course you haven’t. and everything feels too fragile to say out loud. so you just splash water in his face and tell him to race you to the dock. he lets you win. barely.

⟡ he knows when you’re stressed. doesn’t ask. doesn’t prod. just finds you. hands you a popsicle. leads you to the dock. doesn’t say a word until your breathing slows. then he leans in and says something so stupid—so insufferably funny—you end up wheezing. head in your hands. tears in your eyes. and he’s just sitting there watching you, face soft with something dangerous. something that sounds a lot like forever.

⟡ there’s a spot behind the camp kitchen where the staff sometimes sneak cigarettes. you don’t smoke. he does. but you start meeting him there anyway. sometimes he just presses you into the wall, kisses you until your lips are raw. sometimes he just talks. tells you stories about foster homes, old bands he used to love, that one time he thought he could live in his car. you listen. every time. and when he exhales smoke into the air and mutters “i don’t think i’ve ever felt safe like this,” you don’t say anything. you just hold his hand. and hope it’s enough.

⟡ patrick’s hoodie smells like sunscreen and grass and cedarwood soap. you wear it more than he does. he pretends not to notice. but one night, you give it back. folded. clean. and he looks at you like you just ended something. you can’t explain why it hurts so much. but later, when he shows up at your cabin, he’s wearing it. and when he kisses you, it’s deeper than usual. slower. like he’s begging you not to leave first.

⟡ the kids figure it out way before either of you admit anything. it starts small. one of your campers catches you smiling at patrick during breakfast lineup and immediately starts whispering about it like it’s breaking news. another swears they saw him looking at you during talent show night with “googly eyes.” suddenly there are questions. “do you like coach p?” “do you think he likes you back?” “if you got married would we get invited??” you deny it. every time. cool. calm. collected. until one of the boys from his cabin asks patrick, dead serious: “if you kiss miss [your name], do you have to sign a form or something?” and he chokes on his juice box.

⟡ your campers start acting weird about it. suddenly you’re being paired with him for every buddy activity. he’s always the first one they vote to sit with you during meals. one of the girls makes a beaded necklace with both your initials and gives it to you, just beaming. “it’s for luck.” you wear it under your shirt. patrick finds it later when he’s got his hands up your back, and you feel him stop. go still. “this mine?” he murmurs. and when you nod, he presses his mouth to your collarbone like a thank you.

⟡ the final week is crushing. your schedule’s full of extra activities and farewell events and everyone’s overtired and overstimulated—but it’s not just exhaustion. it’s grief. because every day is a countdown now. every shared glance with patrick. every lunch tray passed. every secret kiss behind the maintenance shed. every time he passes you the walkie with his fingers brushing yours. it’s all starting to feel like goodbye.

⟡ you and patrick start holding onto each other longer at night. not talking. not even kissing sometimes. just curled up together in your bunk, breathing in sync. he strokes your spine with the back of his fingers and whispers things you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. “wish i met you earlier.” “you feel like home, you know that?” and worst of all: “you think we’ll be like…okay, after?” you don’t answer. you just bury your face in his neck. pretend time doesn’t exist.

⟡ the last night of camp, your kids do skits and cry and give each other bracelets and someone plays “riptide” on ukulele again even though no one asked. patrick’s sitting on the bench behind your group, legs spread, arms around two of his boys who are both pretending they’re not crying. you catch his eye. he mouths: “you okay?” and it breaks you. because no. you’re not. but you nod anyway.

⟡ you sneak away after lights-out. meet him down by the docks. it’s chilly. the lake’s glass. he’s already sitting at the edge, feet in the water, hoodie up, face unreadable. when you sit beside him, he doesn’t say anything. just leans over, head on your shoulder. “can we not talk?” he asks. “just…be here?” and you stay there until sunrise. neither of you say a word.

⟡ the kids give you goodbye letters. glitter pens. tissue flowers. one of them writes “i hope you and coach p get married. he looks at you like my dad looks at my mom in old photos.” you read it in the storage closet. alone. and cry so hard you choke.

⟡ patrick doesn’t do goodbyes well. he makes jokes. high-fives. spins a camper over his shoulder and calls it a “final swirl.” but you can tell he’s unraveling. later, after dinner, he corners you behind the lodge. “i don’t know how to not see you tomorrow,” he says. voice thin. “i don’t know how to wake up and not look for your dumb clipboard and your ponytail and your bossy little voice telling me to shut up and act right.” and you kiss him before he can finish. slow. quiet. ruined.

⟡ the morning everyone leaves, it’s chaos. suitcases. hugs. snot. sobbing campers. last photos. your hands are shaking. his too. he loads up the last van, then just…stands there. doesn’t even look at you at first. just wipes his mouth like he’s trying to pull it together. “don’t forget me,” he says. and it’s not fair. it’s not fair. because you won’t. not in a million years.

⟡ after the buses are gone, you find something in your cubby. it’s his bandana. the red one he always wore tied around his neck or arm or forehead like a cartoon cowboy. it smells like cedar and lake water and sweat. there’s a note with it. not long. just:

for the next time you miss me more than you should.

—p.

⟡ the first week after camp, everything hurts. you fold laundry like you’re in mourning. you smell sunscreen and feel your stomach turn. you walk past a lake and almost cry. you check your phone and feel sick with how much you want his name to light up the screen. he texts you two days later: “Yo! My new job has air conditioning. It’s unnatural. Also I miss you. A lot. :( I’ll send gummy worms if you say it back.” you don’t answer for a while. then: “miss you more. send two packs.”

⟡ he does. in a padded envelope. no note. just worms. and you hold them to your chest like they’re flowers. like a promise. like a maybe.

you’re here, that’s the thing

and i know you said that we’re not a thing but you’re here, that’s the thing - you're here that's the thing, beabadoobee

pairing: teen!patrick zweig x childhood bestfriend!reader

in which: you and patrick have spent summers tangled up with each other. you're in love, he's in denial. and yet— he's here, that's the thing.

warnings: patrick being an idiot

note: patrick and reader are 18-ish. this based off my favorite beabadoobee song, which is very patrick coded (in my opinion). this is my first fic, i hope you like it!!

“so we’re both here, aren’t we?”

you turn around, a stupid grin instantly blossoming on your face at the sight of patrick zweig standing a few steps above you on the staircase.

"you avoiding me or something? you haven't talked to me since you got here." patrick laughs gently.

"no, of course not." you tilt your head slightly, biting back everything you want to say and opting for a smile. you pat the space next to you and he sits down, all in comfortable silence.

whether you’re 10 or 18, you always end up here. with him. an escape from his parents’ suffocating parties and small talk.

patrick sniffs as he lights a cigarette. you scrunch up your nose, “we’re literally indoors, pat.”

patrick scoffs as pillows of smoke escape his mouth. “it’s my house. the window’s open, they won’t care.”

“summer house,” you correct and his eyes fly skyward.

“yeah, yeah. summer house. on the fuckin’, fuckin’— i forget- which island are we on?” patrick snaps his fingers in thought

“santa catalina,” you respond simply, picking at your nails because you don’t think you can look him in the eyes. your insides are already bubbling and he hasn’t even been here two minutes.

“santa fucking whatever-“ patrick snorts, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips and passing it over to you. he doesn’t even ask if you want it or not— he knows you well enough to know that you’ll take a sip.

you wrap your lips around the bottle, and you can taste him. or you think you can. or maybe you just connect everything that reminds you of him to him.

the taste of beer, cigarettes, the subtle hint of his cologne— earthy, citrusy, and unmistakably him

you shut your eyes and swallow down the cold liquid, you try not to gag because you know patrick will make fun of you for it.

“i’ve missed you, y’know?”

you almost spit out your drink, your cheeks burn up and all of a sudden you’re 13 again. “really?”

patrick rolls his eyes again. “yeah, idiot. ‘course i missed you, you’re the only friend i have.”

“you have art?”

“that’s—“ patrick sniffs, “that’s different, you’re like a- a girl.”

“wow, i feel so special,” you can’t help but laugh. “where’s art anyways?”

“he’s staying with his grandmother for the summer this year,” patrick shrugs, taking another long drag of his cigarette. he turns to smirk at you- “why, do you miss him? did you want to see him?”

but you know him enough to know that under all that bravado is stupid, boyish jealousy.

“i’ve missed you too.” you let yourself admit.

he immediately smiles at that. “yeah, you did. you probably dreamed of me every night and fuckin’ cried to thought of me.” he cackles like a maniac, shoving you gently. now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

you reach for the beer bottle and you brush his hands—warm and calloused— and the touch lingers a bit too long. you pull your hand away as you take another sip, your fingers twitch. it’d be so easy to grab his hand right now. you swallow the drink down with your fantasies as you clear your throat.

“so how’s—“ you begin to say

“fuck, this is so stupid,” he groans. he reaches for your chin and tilts your head.

your eyes meet.

his are a shade of blue and green, like when the sun shines on the ocean. that sort of pretty. comforting. you’d like to swim in them. those eyes flicker to your lips. his thumb brushes over your chin, your insides flutter. and he almost— almost leans in.

“you’re being weird, is this because i kissed you last year?”

yes. yes. it is patrick. you want to scream.

“no, why would— i’m not being weird-“

“you are- you are being so fuckin’ weird-“

“patrick- i’m fine,” you scoff.

“it’s wasn’t supposed to be serious if that’s what you’re so concerned about— we’re not a thing. it was like a drunk thing.”

oh.

a drunk thing. not a thing that happened after years of tension. just a drunk thing. that's all it was to him. you swallow that thought like you could wash it down with the lingering taste of beer in your mouth as your heart throbs in your chest.

but yeah, you and patrick were never a thing. it’s something patrick had made clear several times. but each time was a new stab in the chest.

the kiss was a drunken mistake. it was the last day of summer break, you, art, and patrick around six and a half beers in with some weed in the mix, sitting on the sands of the beach. all drunk out of their minds.

you were talking about something stupid while art laughed. patrick stared at the waves crashing into the rocks before he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

it was soft. warm. right.

and even though you were both blackout drunk, you remember it so clearly. and so does he— he wouldn't have brought it up otherwise.

art had laughed at the action. "what, is this, like, a thing? you guys a thing now?"

patrick had pulled away at that point, his hand still on your waist, grip tightening with his jaw. "fuck, no. it's not like that."

your family left the zweig’s summer home the next morning.

and you couldn’t bear asking him about it over the phone in fear of ruining seven years of friendship.

so for the next 350 something days, you convinced yourself it was just some summer fling that couldn’t even be considered “a fling.”

you managed to convince yourself that you don’t care. but that doesn’t stop the burning, tingly sensation at your waterline and a tear or two from rolling down your cheek.

his entire face drops, almost comically. “why are you crying? no- don’t cry- what the fuck-“ he panics. he doesn’t know where to put his hands. they cup your cheeks then fall from your cheeks. hold your shoulders, then your hands. it’s almost like patrick’s brain crashed and he was malfunctioning. it would almost be funny if it didn't hurt so much, just because of that stupid look on his face. you almost smile. "hey, no- stop that." he starts to laugh, that stupid laugh you fell in love with, and when notices your glare, he stops.

he chooses to stare at you in silence, reaching over to wipe some of your tears. you push his hands away, it's petty. he sighs. "i dunno what i did wrong, i- i thought you wanted it to be a drunk thing. you didn't— you talk about it after we did it. I mean— girls usually talk about this kind of shit, right? to-"

you look at him through your tears, in a 'are you fucking stupid?' kind of way and he shuts up. through your tears you manage to finally say, "imfuckinginlovewithyou, youstupidfuckingidiot"

patrick's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but not in— 'wow this girl loves me' confusion. no— more in a 'what the fuck did you just say, because i don't understand the words that come out of your mouth when you cry' kind of way. you breathe deeply, calming your shaky vocal chords, and wipe your tears. "i love you, you idiot."

patrick's dumbfounded. he opens his mouth to say something. closes it. opens it again— then closes it for good. he's like a fish. a stupidly handsome fish. then he finally manages an "oh." "oh?" you repeat, then the frustration spills out. "the fuck you mean 'oh'? i just said something that could change the trajectory of our friendship—" without warning, he kisses you. grabbing onto the back of your neck and shutting you up.

your hand drops and you grab onto his shirt. your mouth moves with his, and it's so... right. he tastes like the smoke of his cigarette, he tastes like the beer— he tastes like patrick.

when you pull apart and just stare at him, he laughs. fucking laughs. like an idiot. you roll your eyes. "i like you too." he smirks slightly, pushing a hand through his curls and sighing.

"i just told you i love you, and you're saying you like me?" you tease with a smile. "wow, patrick. i'm hurt." he cups your cheeks again, inching closer. "please don't start crying again."

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"i love you too." — tags: @hyuneskkami for the divider

OH WOW!! WOW!! WOWWWWW!! (⊙ _ ⊙ )

cowboy!art donaldson x farmer’s daughter! reader text AU

a/n: lmk if you guys want me to continue this 💞

happy patrick day to my fav sleazeball ☘️🇮🇪

stanford!art x tutor!reader

stanford!art who won’t admit it but he actually is having a hard time adjusting to not having a roommate (aka not sharing a bed with patrick)

stanford!art who is having trouble managing his time between tennis and school and partying so the athletic department assigns you to be his tutor

stanford!art who is a lot nicer than you expect given his usual icy demeanor, once you get to know him he’s actually a sweetheart

stanford!art who gets distracted during your tutoring sessions whenever you wear a low cut top, eyes glued to your chest with his mouth hanging open a little. you laugh waving your hand in front of his face “hello? Art? you with me?”

stanford!art who takes you to your first frat party because “i can’t believe you’ve never been but now that i think about it your too smart and definitely too pretty to be hanging out with these people anyway”

stanford!art who thinks you can’t go shot for shot with him but he ends up tapping out first because “holy fuck y/n how’d you get ur tolerance so high?”

stanford!art who ends up stumbling back with you to your dorm room, rambling on and on about how pretty he thinks you are “your face is so distracting jesus. can’t even fucking concentrate. your eyes are so brown, so pretty like chocolate. i love chocolate, so good, sweet, creamy. do you like chocolate?” you laugh it off

stanford!art who admits he has feelings for you during your last tutoring session “do you have facebook?” your confused because you don’t what that is. “i- i’m just trying to ask for you number”

stanford!art who you’ve been seeing for the past 3 months and you’ve been to every stanford tennis match since

stanford!art who is the biggest munch you’ve ever met, eats pussy like his life depends on it, moaning, whimpering into you, and humping the bed when he can to get friction. your slick mixed with his saliva running down his chin

stanford!art who is the only guy you’ve ever met that cums from eating pussy

good luck, babe!

and when you think about me, all of those years ago you're standing face to face with "i told you so." - good luck, babe!, chappell roan

part 2 of black beauty

(↑ i recommend reading that one first)

pairing: tashi duncan x reader

in which: it's been twelve years since you kissed tashi on that beach— what are the odds that you'd see her again at the lobby of the ritz-carlton? she's married now. you shouldn't care. but the way she looks at you says maybe she does.

warnings: a few uses of y/n. lesbian hurt, no comfort. sad ending. tashi is married to art.

note: due to popular demand, here it is :) (i don't know if i'll continue this)

twelve years.

it’s been twelve years.

you wish you’d done things differently, you wish you stayed silent, you wish you just listened to her instead of telling her it’d be okay, you wish— you regret a lot of things. you blame yourself.

you miss your best friend.

you watched as she moved out of your shared dorm as you protested and apologized, just to get her to stay. she was petty, in a way. she was impulsive and upset. you don’t blame her.

why would you?

you couldn’t— you can’t blame her for anything.

for months, you tried texting her, sending endless useless messages, messages you weren’t sure she’d ever read. until you gave up, determined to move on.

but no one could ever forget tashi duncan.

especially you.

you could never forget tashi duncan.

you graduate stanford with your journalism degree and you take a job as a sports journalist— specializing in tennis. because of course you would.

you tell yourself, it’s normal. it’s natural. it’s obvious.

tennis is what you know. you always hung around tennis players during college. you know the rules, the players, the way the game worked— you knew tennis.

you tell yourself it was a coincidence when your first assignment is some second-tier tournament in florida. art donaldson is there too. you give him an awkward half-wave at the press conference which he sends back reluctantly.

you’re secretly relieved. she’s not there.

you’d hear her name occasionally at the offices, someone someone’s hitting partner.

then you get your next assignment a few weeks later— not like you asked for more coverage, you were just good— sharp observations, clean writing. your editor kept putting your name on stories.

of course you were good at writing about tennis, you spent almost two years of your life staring at her play every day—

soon you’re watching art absolutely destroy some guy at the australia open from the press office. you scribble down notes furiously and make the mistake of glancing at the crowd—

there she is.

arms crossed, her hair tied behind her back, her hand pushes her sunglasses up— the same pair you’d steal off her face. her eyes constantly follow the ball and art.

everything rushes back, how she used to sit like that on the bench, complaining about professors and girls on her team while you tried not to stare at her lips.

when art wins, art yells in triumph and rushes over to her, you snap out of it. you scribble down another note.

the next article you write is: ‘art donaldson wins australian with guide from new tennis coach, tashi duncan.’

you felt sick.

maybe there was a part of you who craved to stay attached to a part of her in some way.

maybe that’s why you didn’t quit.

so you watched as art grew in success.

you watched as tashi go from art donaldson’s coach to coach tashi donaldson.

it was inevitable that you saw them a lot.

fucking tennis journalist.

invited to opens, flown around the world— writing articles about how art donaldson won yet another open.

you could never get away from them. from her.

so your press conference questions were always directed to him, not her. you wanted to be petty too. you knew she was looking at you while you asked art about before game rituals with a smile. a smile you used to give her.

you don’t look at her. you don’t write about her.

and slowly you get used to it.

you get better. you’re a well-known name. you get invited to tournaments, opens, games— you go to press conferences. you board flights—

you convince yourself that you don’t care anymore. you’re not the same girl you were ten or something years ago. you try to forget about tashi donaldson.

you type your articles in the office and during some random conversation with your colleagues that you half listen to—

“donaldson’s pulling out of the finals this tournament, which’s an advantage to rodriguez, you might want to mention that in your predictions article—“

“wait, why?” you find the words coming out before you can stop them.

you’re just a journalist you shouldn’t care— but tashi would never do something like that. she’d never pull art out of a tournament- not when he’s on a winning streak-

“oh, tashi just had the baby— lily, i think? but their publicists don’t want coverage on it yet-“

lily.

your stomach churns.

and it finally— really does hit you.

she’s moved on.

she has a new life.

she has a family. you have deadlines.

AUGUST 2019

your fingers fly over the keyboard—

‘Art Donaldson: Finalist at Phil’s Tire Town New Rochelle Challenger— Will a Challenger Finally Get Him Out of His Losing Streak?’

you tilt your head— what is tashi’s goal here? a challenger? sure, art’s lost his confidence but a challenger?

you scroll through the matchups as you sip your espresso—

no. fucking. way.

ranking 271st national player— patrick fucking zweig.

you want to laugh. not because it’s funny, but because of course— of course you’re stuck watching the past play out in a goddamn place called phil’s tire town.

the last time you saw patrick—

“you’re, like, into girls.”

you can still smell the smoke that blew into your face as your jaw dropped on stanford campus.

you shake off the memory and continue typing your article- because you have a deadline.

6-time Open Winner and Star Player Art Donaldson seems to be winning games at the New Rochelle Challenger just a week before the US Open. Is this Tashi Donaldson’s grand scheme to help Donaldson gain his confidence before the US Open? A known title he’s been trying to win for a while. And what happens when he loses? Is the inevitable end of the Donaldsons’ reign on tennis finally happening?

you sigh, pausing to take a sip.

there’s a presence behind you.

you feel it before you hear it.

a voice sharp as a blade, one that’s stabbed you before—

“he’s not going to lose.”

you freeze

and the words take a second to register- too long.

tashi donaldson.

in the flesh.

your brain stutters, your heart does something it hasn’t done in years. you shake off the initial shock— but it lingers deep inside your veins.

she looks good, of course she does. she always looked good, even when she was wearing your sweatshirt with a messy bun and ranting about doubles practice. but now— she looks untouchable.

a shoulder-level cut, sleek blonde highlights, layered gold necklaces- she looks every bit like ‘legendary couch donaldson,’ the one you’ve written about for years. the one who turned art donaldson from a rank sixty-eight to a five–

and you almost forget how to speak.

then you remember-

you’re a tennis journalist. a professional.

you flash a media-friendly smile, fuck it- be petty.

“ah, coach donaldson, such a surprise to see you here. i had no idea we were staying at the same hotel— i really do love art’s career and was counting on his steady recovery— he really deserves it.”

tashi’s lips press together, if you weren’t looking hard enough, you’d miss it.

art’s career.

not her’s.

“y/n. seriously—“ but she stops herself.

you see the moment she decides it’s not worth it.

that you’re not worth it.

she simply rolls her eyes. like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing.

and for a second you feel sorry for her.

there’s a pause—

a pause long enough for her to scan your face, searching for something

as if she’s wondering if under this ‘sports journalist,’ there’s a 19-year-old girl that once loved her

“i just wanted to say hello to an old college friend.” she says with a smile so tight it looks painful. her head tilts, trying to make it casual.

it’s not.

“i’ve been keeping track of your career, y’know— i always wondered what my best friend was doing in life.”

of course she kept track. she’s tashi duncan- or donaldson- whatever.

“that’s truly an honor, mrs. donaldson—“ you want your words to sting, to finally pierce through her skin.

she laughs lightly— it almost feeling condescending. “no, don’t be— i’m sure you kept up with mine.”

she says it like it’s obvious. it’s worse because it’s true.

“tashi!”

mrs. duncan calls out from the elevators in the distance, she’s holding the hand of her granddaughter, lily, you assume.

“well, nice chat. i have to go,” tashi smiles thinly. “i’ll see you around.”

and just like that she’s gone.

you take another sip of your coffee

you are fucked.

this prediction article is due in four hours.

and the words started blurring after your last sentence, which you wrote three hours ago. right before you saw her.

fuck it.

it’s not going to work, you need to clear your head— you need—

you need a drink.

and maybe it’s the special ‘new rochelle challenger related guests’ fucking discount but one drink turn to two. then to another. and another—

and you see her.

tashi.

wrapped in some cardigan, asking the receptionist for something that’s a part of her husband’s routine tomorrow before the game—

and your brain no longer controls you legs and you’re in her face.

“heyyyy, tash,” you laugh like she just said the funniest thing in the entire world—

“y/n.” her eyebrow’s raised. you probably reek of alcohol.

“mrs. donaldson- we can escort this… hm.. person away-“ the receptionist starts.

“no, it’s— it’s fine.” tashi sighs. “if you don’t have what i’m looking for, it’s fine— um- we’ll just use a substitute. thank you.” she turns to look at you again.

she scans you, half-exasperated, half-something else. you wobble on your feet with a grin.

“jesus, y/n, how much did you drink?”

“just enough to stop thinking about you.”

her eyebrows furrow and she looks like she might just walk away. but she doesn’t. she just takes one good look at you and—

she grabs your arm. “c’mon,” she mutters. “what’s your room number?”

“why? you wanna hook up with me?” you laugh again.

the receptionist looks between you and her with a concerned expression—

“it’s fine. leave it.” tashi shakes her head as she hoists your arm around her shoulder.

and before you can process, she’s practically carrying you across the lobby. like she knows exactly how to take care of you, whether you like it or not.

she sighs and adjusts her grips when you’re finally in the elevator. “give me your room key.” she squints— “where the fuck is 2755?”

it’s late, she’s tired, you don’t blame her— but your drunk mouth can’t help but giggle, “you’re really bad at this.”

tashi just sighs again, the elevator door slides open. the hallway stretches ahead, but she doesn't leave you down it and pushes you towards the glass door.

"forget it. i need air," she mutters.

you both step onto the hotel terrace, the doors open and the chill winds of the outside air hit your skin—

tashi leans against the balcony and takes a deep breath.

you stare at the soft city glow, the flapping of the tarp hitting against the tennis court in the distance. the alcohol in your system softens into something else.

you open your mouth and let out what's been rotting deep inside you for the last twelve years—

"do you ever think of me?"

the answer comes after a pause.

"no."

liar. tashi donaldson's a fuckin' liar.

you laugh.

clear, bright, bitter.

"pussy. you can't even admit it." you smile widely because it hurts. it really does. you can feel your nails scrape into your palms.

tashi rolls her eyes. “y/n—“ she starts.

then she stops.

"i should go. i need to tuck lily in and..." her eyes shift, "art needs me to give him a review before his match."

you shake your head laughing again. "nevermind. you're never going to admit it."

"what is there to admit?"

"you loved me."

she exhales sharply, "that was literally ten-"

"twelve"

"-twelve years ago." she give you a hard, stony look. "get some sleep, y/n. you probably have a deadline."

and just like that, she's gone. again.

you stare at the glass door that she'll turn back.

but she doesn't.

and night is quiet.

-

tags: @hyuneskkami for the dividers

happy challengers anniversary month to those who celebrate 🩷

HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY TO OUR BABIESSSSSS