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myladybelle · 7 days ago

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𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter sixteen

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. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.9k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, reference to reader wearing a dress at one point, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: alright lovelies, this chapter reeeeallly love triangles hard. that’s right, it’s the famous sauna scene and we will be going back and forth in time so keep your eyes peeled for the date changes!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗.

The sauna door creaked open, letting in a brief gust of cool air before it swung shut. Art, seated on the bench with a towel draped over his head, felt his heart thud heavily against his chest as his fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of the bench, freezing at the voice that followed.

“Can you do me a favour?” Patrick’s tone was casual, yet it carried that familiar edge—cocky, confident, a touch too rehearsed. Art’s eyes flickered with recognition, yanking the towel off his face, but he stayed silent. Patrick smirked, stepping further inside and closing the door behind him. “Can you not, like, demolish me tomorrow?”

Art tried not to betray the slight shock of seeing his former friend standing there. Beads of sweat clung to his brow, trickling down his temple in the suffocating heat that seemed to press down on his chest. The stifling air felt thick, making every breath a conscious effort and sending a constant prickle of irritation across his skin. The heat amplified the tension in his body, his heart thudding heavily as though matching the oppressive pulse of the sauna. Patrick’s grin widened, closed-lipped, as if he’d expected that exact reaction.

“Hey,” Patrick said lightly. He clapped Art on the shoulder as he propped one leg up on the bench, leaning in too close for comfort. “Congrats on being a Phil’s Tire Town Challenger finalist.”

“Yeah, you too,” Art replied, his tone just shy of sincere. His fingers curled into a loose fist on his lap, his knuckles slightly whitening.

“Hopefully, the wind dies down before tomorrow,” Patrick went on, undeterred, “and we can have a fair fight.”

Art shifted along the bench, putting a sliver more distance between them. The wood beneath him felt slick with sweat, the heat intensifying his irritation. “Yeah.”

Patrick sighed and crouched slightly, leaning in again. “Art. Come on.” His voice dipped lower, almost coaxing. “Can we talk?”

Art met his gaze with a neutral expression, his voice calm but cutting. “Can you put your dick away?”

Patrick chuckled, glancing away briefly before locking eyes with Art again. “This is a sauna.” He shook his head, amused, and Art allowed the faintest smirk to twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Look, we’ve been here a week and we haven’t said two words to each other. It’s silly, man. It’s dramatic.” Patrick walked to the adjacent bench and sat down, draping a towel over his lap. One leg stretched out toward Art, the other planted firmly on the floor. “I mean, really, why are you so angry with me?” He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. Art folded his hands and stared at Patrick, unimpressed. “Look, I don’t buy that it’s because of Tashi, or what happened to her. I think maybe you’re still just really disturbed by the fact that she and Y/N could’ve been into someone like me.”

Art’s gaze didn’t waver. Hearing Tashi and your names leave Patrick’s lips made his blood boil, but he refused to give Patrick the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. A droplet of sweat traced its way down his cheek.

“When we were practically still teenagers,” Art pointed out.

Patrick blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “Huh.” Patrick’s smile turned devilish, echoing Art, “When we were practically still teenagers.”

𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍’𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟐.

The stadium erupted in deafening cheers as you stood tall, racquet still in hand, your chest heaving with adrenaline, sweat soaking through your hair and clothes. The crowd roared, chanting your name, but you barely heard them. You were too focused on the feeling that surged through you—relief, triumph, but also something else. A deep, gnawing emptiness.

A male voice cracked over the loudspeakers, his words trembling with awe, his elation palpable as he shouted into the mic, unable to contain his amazement. “And there it is! Y/N Y/L/N—she’s done it! She’s completed the impossible! A Calendar Year Golden Slam! She’s won all four Grand Slams, and the Olympic gold, in the same year—something only one other player in history has done! This is history! She is now one of the greatest players the world has ever seen!"

A woman’s voice followed, breathless, her tone filled with disbelief as she struggled to comprehend what they had just witnessed. The emotion in her voice was raw, tinged with admiration and shock. “Absolutely incredible! Y/N Y/L/N, at just 24 years old, has redefined the sport. To do what she’s done—winning the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon, the Olympic gold, and now the US Open, all in the same year—this is beyond anything we could have dreamed of. She isn’t just a legend in the making, her name will go down in history forever!"

The sound of their voices faded into a blur, drowned out by the sound of the crowd’s relentless applause. You dropped to your knees, your racquet falling from your hand, landing on the hard court beside you. Your face crumpled, the floodgates opening. Tears streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the court, your chest hitching with each sob.

They weren’t the tears of a champion, though. It wasn’t just about the accolades, the records, the headlines.

You were alone. Alone in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. Your eyes scanned the stands, your heart sinking as you realised there was no one there. No family, no friends. Even your dad—who had promised he’d be there—couldn’t make it. He was with your grandmother, tending to her medical emergency, and you couldn’t be more alone than you were right now.

The sobs turned more jagged, more raw. The truth was, you weren’t just crying because of your accomplishments. You were crying for everything you’d given up, for all the moments you let slip by. For the silence that sat heavy in your chest when you thought of Tashi, of how everything you thought you had with her came crashing down the night you found out about Tashi and Patrick. How Tashi’s words from Stanford echoed in your mind: “You’re going to be fucking miserable, and you’re going to hate your life just as much as your mother hates the fact that she had you.”

You sobbed harder, clutching the ground, feeling the weight of it all—the broken pieces of your heart, the pieces of yourself you hadn’t even known were broken until then. Tashi’s betrayal. Patrick’s disregard. The ones who walked away or stayed just long enough to hurt you, and then vanished.

Your mind drifted back to Art—the one who truly stood by you. The one who could have been it. You remembered how you were supposed to fight for each other, but you let him go. You let him go because of how the end of your friendship with Tashi had broken you. And now here you were—holding this huge accomplishment, yet it felt like a hollow victory, a shadow of what you wanted. Because you didn’t have anyone to celebrate with.

And then there was Patrick. Patrick, who proposed to you, and whom you turned down, convinced you weren’t ready. You couldn’t see it at the time, couldn’t see that the life you wanted was right there, that someone was ready to stand by you. But you turned it down, and now you were here, kneeling on the court, the applause of the world ringing in your ears but not in your heart.

Everything you’d sacrificed, all the love you’d let go, it hit you all at once. Your whole career—these trophies, these titles—were pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t fit together, no matter how hard you tried. The golden trophies, the fame, the fortune... they couldn’t fill the hole inside you.

The crowd continued to cheer, but you didn’t hear them. You didn’t see them. You didn’t see anything but the emptiness that echoed in your chest. You didn’t feel like a champion right then. You just felt... alone.

The tears were a quiet, desperate thing now, and the world had no idea.

Later that night, you sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, your knees tucked tightly against your chest, your arms wrapped around yourself like a shield. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the silence felt almost suffocating. The faint hum of the city outside barely penetrated the thick walls of the hotel room. It was as if the entire world had gone to sleep, and you had been left alone in your own chaos.

You hadn’t expected to feel like this. You had just made history. You had just achieved the unthinkable. The Golden Slam. Four Grand Slams, Olympic gold. It should have been the happiest moment of your life, the pinnacle of everything you’d worked for. But instead, it was just another hollow victory, another trophy to add to the shelf, another achievement that felt like it belonged to someone else.

The weight of it pressed down on your chest, the emptiness expanding with every breath you took. You had told yourself you’d be fine. You had told yourself that you could handle this, that the fame, the success, would fill the spaces where nothing else had. But it wasn’t enough. Not without someone to share it with. Not without the people you loved, the ones who had walked away or who you had let slip through your fingers.

After the interviews, the pictures, the party celebrating your victory, you had retreated to your hotel room, needing the silence, needing space to breathe. But when you closed the door behind you, it felt like stepping into a void. You had crumpled against the wall, the tears coming too fast, too overwhelming to control. You’d stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over you, hoping it would wash away the ache, but it only seemed to make it worse, the sobs shaking your body, the hot water mixing with the salt of your tears.

Now, you sat in the oversized Stanford t-shirt that belonged to Art in college, the soft cotton comfortingly familiar but not enough to ease the pain. You wore the plaid boxer shorts that had belonged to Patrick, the ones he’d left behind at your mother’s house after you broke up, and you hated yourself for keeping them. They felt like a betrayal, a reminder of a past that was both yours and someone else’s.

You wiped at your eyes, smearing the tears on your cheeks.

The knock at the door startled you, and for a second, you sat frozen, unsure if you had imagined it. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, but your eyes were still red and swollen from crying. You didn’t want to answer it. You didn’t want to see anyone, not now, not like this.

Another knock. More urgent this time.

You exhaled a shaky breath, rubbing your face once more, and stood, almost reluctantly, to cross the room. You walked to the door, your heart thudding erratically in your chest. You didn’t know who it could be.

With a deep breath, you swung the door open.

Patrick stood there, his hand raised to knock once more, his expression soft, hesitant. Your breath hitched in your throat. You didn’t know whether to scream, to slap him, or to fall into his arms and let everything out. It was a gut reaction, something you had trained yourself not to feel for so long—resentment, anger, pain, mixed with the overwhelming need for comfort. The betrayal still stung, fresh and sharp in your mind, but the sight of him was enough to break down all the walls you had built.

You felt the tears start again, hot and sudden, and before you could react, his arms shot out, pulling you into him. Patrick didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around you instantly, like he had been waiting for this moment, and caught your weight as your knees buckled. Patrick’s touch was warm and steady, and you clung to him as if he were the only thing anchoring you. Your face pressed into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the familiar smell of him—cologne and something else you couldn’t place—filling your senses.

“I hate you,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt, your breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I know,” he murmured, his hands running gently over your back. “You have every right to.”

You didn’t know if you could hate him anymore. You wanted to, you really did. But as much as he had hurt you, there was still a part of you that never learned to stop loving him, to stop wanting him.

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “Not after everything...”

Patrick’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt protective, comforting. It was everything you hadn’t realised you needed. It was everything you had been yearning for but hadn’t known how to ask for.

“You don’t have to be,” Patrick said softly, his voice low, almost a whisper. He brushed your hair from your face, his fingers gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were red and raw from the tears, but you still saw the same Patrick you’d known—the one who had always known when to show up, when to be there, even if it was never enough.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were red and raw from the tears, your cheeks flushed, but you still saw the same Patrick you’d known—the one who had always known when to show up, when to be there, even if it was never enough. Even if you never let him be enough.

“You came,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as though you couldn’t believe he was really here, that after everything, he was still the one who’d come.

Patrick brushed away the tears that had started to spill again, his thumb gently caressing your skin, his touch soft but full of purpose. “I’ll always come when you need me.”

Your heart twisted, and for a moment, you thought you might break apart completely. You hadn’t realised how much you needed him until this very moment, until he was standing here, holding you, offering you a kind of solace you couldn’t get from anyone else. You were scared, so scared, that this might be a moment you would regret later, but it didn’t matter right then. You didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

You didn’t know why your feet stayed planted, why your hands didn’t push him away. You could feel the heat radiating off Patrick’s body as he stood so close, his presence as solid and familiar as it was agonising. Every part of you wanted to scream at him, to hurl every piece of bitterness and betrayal you carried straight into his chest. And yet, you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The silence between you was thick, weighted with too many memories.

Patrick’s eyes, those warm deep green-blue eyes that you used to know better than your own, searched yours, but for what, you couldn’t tell. His hand hovered near your shoulder as if he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. The hesitation in his movement sent a pang through your chest. He’d never been hesitant with you before. Patrick had always been certain, steady, and unshakable—the kind of person who knew exactly how to reach you, no matter how far you’d tried to run.

“Y/N,” he said softly, your name barely more than a whisper. The way he said it, like it still meant something to him, unravelled you.

You hated the way your body betrayed you. The faint tremble in your hands, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your skin prickled under his gaze. It was like your body remembered him even when your mind begged it not to.

Patrick took a small step closer, and you felt the distance between you collapse. His scent hit you first—clean, with the faintest trace of cedar and something that had always been uniquely him. Your throat tightened, a lump rising you couldn’t swallow down. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, but it didn’t help. Being this close to him, you felt like you were being pulled into the past, into a time when his touch had been your sanctuary, not your torment.

“I saw you out there,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I was in the stands. You were... gorgeous. My gorgeous girl.”

You looked away, your lips pressing into a thin line. Compliments felt like daggers, sharp and undeserved. You didn’t want to be gorgeous. You wanted to be whole. You wanted to go back to a time when being you meant more than trophies and records.

“Don’t,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “Don’t say that like it means anything.”

Patrick’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushed your arm—light, tentative, as if testing your reaction. Your skin burned where he touched you, the contact igniting a million sensations you didn’t want to feel. Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Y/N,” he said again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to, but your eyes betrayed you, flickering up to meet his. The sight of him up close was almost too much. His face was achingly familiar, and yet time had changed him in ways you hadn’t expected. His hair was a little shorter, his jawline littered with faint stubble, but the look in his eyes—that deep, earnest intensity—was exactly the same. It undid you.

“It still means something,” Patrick said, his hand sliding down your arm to your wrist, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch sent a jolt through you, your heart slamming against your ribcage.

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It doesn’t,” you choked out. “Not anymore. Not after everything.”

Patrick didn’t let go. Instead, his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. It was such a small, quiet gesture, but it shattered you. Your pulse quickened beneath his touch, your body reacting instinctively, pulling you back into the ghost of what you used to have.

You felt yourself trembling, your breaths coming shallow and uneven. “Why are you here, Patrick?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Because I knew you’d need someone,” he said simply. “I knew you’d be here, alone.”

The honesty in his voice cut you like a knife. It was the kind of thing Patrick had always been able to do—cut through all the noise and say exactly what you needed to hear. You wanted to push him away, wanted to tell him that you didn’t need him, but the words wouldn’t come.

Your hands, almost of their own accord, found his chest. The solid weight of him beneath your palms sent a wave of longing crashing over you, so strong it nearly knocked you off your feet. You hated him for being here, for making you feel like this again. But more than that, you hated yourself for letting him.

Patrick’s hands slid up your arms, his touch firm but careful, like he was afraid you might break. His fingers skimmed your shoulders, then settled on either side of your face, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t look away. The warmth of his palms against your cheeks was too much. It was everything.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice trembling now, heavy with something you couldn’t name. “I’m so sorry.”

Your lips parted, a soft, shaky exhale escaping you. His apology hung in the air between you, unspoken for so long that hearing it now felt like reopening a wound that had never fully healed.

“It doesn’t change anything,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

“I know,” Patrick said. “But it’s true.”

Your eyes searched his, and for a moment, you thought you might drown in them. The longing you saw there mirrored your own, and it was unbearable. It was everything you had been running from, everything you had tried to forget.

Your heart ached, a physical, visceral pain that spread through your chest as his thumb brushed away the tear that rolled down your cheek. The gesture was so tender, so familiar, that it left you breathless.

The tension between you was suffocating, the air thick with everything you couldn’t say. You could feel your resolve crumbling, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. You leaned into his touch without meaning to, your body betraying you again, seeking the comfort you knew you shouldn’t want.

“Why do you still do this to me?” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Before you could think twice, you pulled him into a kiss, desperate and hungry, the salt of your tears mixing with his lips. It was a kiss that was broken and beautiful all at once, a mixture of longing, regret, and the kind of comfort that only came from someone who had once been yours. Patrick kissed you back, his hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer. The world outside seemed to vanish.

There was no stadium, no trophies, no records—only the feel of Patrick’s lips against yours, the warmth of his arms around you.

It surprised neither of you when you dragged Patrick into your room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝟒:𝟑𝟎𝐏𝐌.

Art rolled his eyes, the sharp motion betraying the frustration that clenched at his gut. He leaned back against the smooth wooden panelling of the sauna, the heat pressing in from all sides, stifling the air. His muscles tensed involuntarily, the strain evident in the way his jaw tightened, veins in his neck standing out like ropes under his skin. The air felt thick, clinging to his skin in a sticky layer of sweat, each bead trickling down his back, a constant reminder of the suffocating heat. His pulse quickened, its rhythmic thudding echoing in his ears, mixing with the oppressive warmth until it was all he could feel. The air felt like a heavy blanket, weighing down on him, making his breath shallow and laboured.

His mind drifted back, as it always did when he let his guard down for even a moment. He thought of the paparazzi pictures from that morning in 2012—Patrick, wearing a baseball cap to hide his face, leaving your hotel the morning after you had secured your Calendar Year Golden Slam at the US Open. The images, splashed across every tabloid, seared into his memory. He could still remember the way the photos twisted in his gut, the bitterness rising like bile in his throat. He hadn’t been prepared for it, not after everything.

Art recalled how, after the finals, he had spent hours at his kitchen table, knotting friendship bracelets in vibrant colours to commemorate your achievement. Each knot was a silent wish, each bracelet a small piece of himself he had hoped would mean something to you. He had left the envelope of bracelets with the concierge at your hotel, telling himself he was giving you space, that he didn’t want to intrude. The heat of that day still lingered in his chest, a fire that never quite burned out.

But, as always, Art had stayed on the periphery, never pushing, never demanding. He was respectful of your boundaries, even when his heart ached in ways that were hard to explain. And Patrick, with his effortless charm and unrelenting persistence, had wormed his way back into your life, into your heart.

The thought of it made the room seem even hotter, the suffocating air pressing harder against Art’s chest.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice flat. “I do find it disturbing.”

Patrick shook his head, still smiling, though the edges of the grin seemed too tight, too practiced. The words came out with an almost exaggerated nonchalance, as if he were trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “There’s no need, man. Lots of girls were into me.” His gaze flickered over Art briefly, the smile on his lips wavering before he shrugged, a smooth, almost imperceptible gesture meant to veil the hurt. “None of them wanted to marry me.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, as if they were a well-rehearsed line he had said too many times, and yet it was clear now that they didn’t come out as easily as they once had. Patrick’s gaze darted away, focusing on some indeterminate point across the room, and the usual mockery in his tone seemed to fade. “That’s not what I was for.”

Art could hear the subtle shift in Patrick’s voice—the crack beneath the surface of the confident facade. It wasn’t just about Tashi, and they both knew it. The truth lingered in the spaces between their words, unspoken and raw. Patrick’s hurt was subtle, but it was there, tucked away behind the deflection of casual dismissal. Art could feel it, could see it in the way Patrick’s shoulders tensed, the way his voice faltered just for a fraction of a second.

It was about you. Patrick’s failed proposal, his hopes that had crumbled into dust when you had turned him down. Art knew, even without the words being spoken, that Patrick still carried that rejection, as sharp and fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

And Art? Art couldn’t help but feel that old pang in his chest—the twisted mix of sympathy and guilt that always followed Patrick when your name came up. Art hadn’t been the one to hurt Patrick—rather, him sleeping with Tashi the night of the proposal had tormented Art unspeakably—but in some strange way, Art felt like he had inherited the consequences of Patrick’s heartbreak.

The weight of it pressed on both of them, invisible but undeniable.

“What were you for?” Art’s words came quick, sharp, like a sudden gust of scalding air.

Patrick’s grin widened, and Art matched it with a wry smirk, but there was something about the way the smile stretched across his face that felt off—too forced, too quick. Then, just as quickly, Art’s expression shifted. The smirk faded, and his gaze dropped, as if he couldn’t hold it up anymore. He shook his head slightly, a subtle movement that didn’t quite match the energy in the room.

The air felt thick, the heat pressing in on him, amplifying the thudding of his pulse until each beat felt too loud, too insistent in the silence between them. Art leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly to steady himself. The breath he exhaled was heavy, drawn out as if he were trying to hold on to something that kept slipping away, something unspoken but present.

Patrick followed his lead, leaning back on his bench with his forearms propped behind him. The heat pressed down on him, making his breaths shallow, the steady drip of sweat from his brow adding to the suffocating tension. His thoughts churned uneasily, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features as he tried to maintain a composed façade. Beneath his casual posture, the weight of unspoken guilt pressed against his chest.

“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy I was in the draw. I mean, you always wanted to beat me in a tournament,” Patrick said, the grin creeping back onto his face.

Art rolled his head around his neck and grinned knowingly, staring ahead at the wall. “I know what you’re trying to do right now.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Art,” Patrick said, chuckling. “This is a challenger. I don’t need to play mind games with you.”

Art turned to him, his expression finally cracking into something sharp and incredulous. The layers of frustration he'd buried for so long surfaced in a flash, something between anger and disbelief. “Right. You don’t give a shit,” he said, voice low but cutting.

Patrick’s gaze flickered, shifting away briefly as if he could find something else to focus on—anything to avoid the sting in Art’s words. But there was nowhere to hide. When he finally looked back, his face was a little more guarded, though the guilt in his eyes was undeniable. He lifted his hand in a half-hearted gesture, an open palm meant to calm the air but failing to ease the tension between them.

“I didn’t say that,” Patrick replied.

A pause hung heavy between them as they stared at each other, tension thick in the humid air. Sweat dripped steadily from Patrick’s chin onto the towel across his lap. Art stared at him for a beat, feeling the weight of all the years they had spent together, now stretched thin and fraying at the edges. It wasn’t just tennis, it never was—it was about their ruined friendship. It all seemed so disposable to them now, something that had never truly mattered.

“We both know you have considerably more at stake here than I do,” Art said finally, his tone measured and factual. His fingers drummed on the bench, but his jaw remained locked tight.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do I?”

Art chuckled, the sound low and dismissive, but Patrick joined in, their laughter more like a contest than genuine amusement.

“Oh, fuck,” Art said through his chuckles, rolling his head back. “Where do you get your swagger from, man?” Patrick laughed, and Art sniffed. “I mean, you come in here swinging your dick around like I’m supposed to be afraid of it, but do you realise how embarrassing it is that you’re here right now?”

Patrick’s grin tightened, though the slight twitch of his jaw betrayed a ripple of tension. The oppressive heat magnified his discomfort, the pulse in his temples pounding harder as he fought to maintain his composure. “Not quite as embarrassing as you being here.”

Art leaned forward slightly, his smile turning sharper. “I’m just stopping by, man. This is where you live.” He tapped his fingers on the bench and tilted his head. “You know, I always tried to figure out what happened to you. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realise—” He sighed, his voice dropping into a lower, almost pitiful register— “It’s what didn’t happen. You never grew up.”

Patrick’s simper vanished instantly. His eyes flickered with something raw and unguarded, a mix of anger and unease. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against his towel.

Art pressed on, his words measured and devastating. “You still think you can talk to me like you’re my peer because we came from the same place. But it’s not about where you come from in tennis, Patrick. It’s about winning. And I do. A lot.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint hiss of steam rising from the heated stones. Patrick’s gaze dropped to his hand resting on the bench, fingers curled tightly around the edge as if holding on to something that had slipped beyond his reach. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, the words weighed down by something unsaid. “You’ve never beaten me.”

Art’s laugh was quiet, almost dismissive, but there was a sharp edge to it—like the sound of something fragile cracking beneath pressure. “So what? I haven’t beaten most of the guys who play at these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.”

Patrick looked up at him then, the vulnerability in his eyes stark and raw, something that Art hadn't seen in him for a long time. “I don’t matter?”

Art’s gaze was unflinching, his expression unreadable. But there was a flicker, a hesitation before his eyes locked onto Patrick’s. His lips tightened, and for a moment, Art could almost feel the weight of their shared past, the things they had been—things that neither of them fully understood anymore. “Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world.”

Patrick’s lips twitched, pulling into a sad, almost self-deprecating smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re not talking about tennis.”

The words hung in the air, and the deeper meaning of them—what they had both been avoiding—was unmistakable. Art’s facade cracked slightly, the layers of detachment that had protected him for so long slipping just enough to reveal a crack in his own carefully constructed armor. He was talking about them. The friendship they had once shared, the way Art had been so central in his life, and now how distant everything felt. Patrick wasn’t talking about tennis—he was talking about Art, and how he had come to feel like an afterthought in Art’s life.

Art’s tone sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. “What the fuck else do I have to talk to you about?” For a fleeting moment, his mask slipped, and something painful flashed in his eyes.

Patrick blinked, then pressed his lips together and nodded slightly. “I wanted to come in here and wish you luck, Art,” he said quietly.

Art turned his head away, staring at the opposite wall. He shook his head slightly, his voice firm. “That makes no sense.”

“I wanted to say I’m looking forward to it,” Patrick insisted. His voice softened. “And I miss playing with you.”

Art looked back at him, a sceptical smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” Patrick nodded. Art stood, looming tall and intimidating, his movements deliberate, almost menacing. Rather than feeling threatened, Patrick leisurely ran his eyes from below Art’s waist to eventually meet his gaze. “I don’t miss playing with you, man.” Art’s voice was cool, resolute. “I’m too old for it.”

The oppressive heat clung to Patrick’s skin, amplifying his sense of isolation as the Art pounded the door open. “And don’t think you’re the only person Y/N comes to when she needs someone,” Art declared before he left the sauna.

Then, the door slammed shut behind Art. The faint sting of his words lingered, and for a moment, Patrick felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like the suffocating air in the sauna. Alone in the thick, suffocating heat of the sauna, he sat and stared at the now empty spot Art had occupied.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 – 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔. 𝟏��:𝟒𝟔𝐏𝐌.

You padded quietly around your Airbnb in the outskirts of Paris, your bare feet brushing against the cool wood of the floor. The space was expansive, a beautiful kitchen stretching out in front of you, gleaming under the soft light of the chandelier. You were comfortable, a stark contrast to the intensity of the party you'd just left—celebrating your victory at the French Open, yet still feeling the weight of the exhaustion that came with the adrenaline of the match.

A bruise was starting to bloom on your knee—right behind the scrape—visible below the hem of your soft pink pyjama shorts, but hidden during the party earlier. You had lunged for a ball in the last set, your foot slipping and your knee grazing the clay court when you fell, but the pain was nothing compared to seeing Art at the party.

The soft sound of ice cream scooping echoed through the kitchen as you searched through the drawers, finally finding the ice cream scooper buried beneath a stack of utensils. A small smile tugged at your lips as you pulled the French Vanilla ice cream tub from the fridge. The rich, creamy sweetness was exactly what you needed after the whirlwind of the evening. You knew you should've gone to bed, but something about Paris at night—this quiet, unfamiliar stillness—was drawing you out, making you want to linger in the calm before tomorrow's inevitable whirlwind of travel and heading back home.

The doorbell rang.

You froze mid-scoop, the motion of your wrist halting. You glanced at the clock—it was so late, and you hadn’t been expecting anyone. Your heart did a quick flutter, your body tensing in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You set the ice cream down carefully and padded barefoot to the door, wondering if it was someone from the party, perhaps your publicist or a late-night well-wisher. But when you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat. Standing there, with a rueful half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, was Art.

Your heart skipped, but you couldn’t find the words. Not after the way you’d nearly kissed only an hour ago—at the party, just before you'd stopped yourself. You hadn’t been able to let yourself cross that line, not with everything that had come before. Not with Tashi.

“Art?” you asked, still trying to process the unexpectedness of it all.

He smiled, the same easy grin you remembered from college days, though something about the way his eyes looked at you now made your stomach flip. “I know this is random,” he began, his voice casual, though there was an undertone of something deeper, something you couldn’t quite place. “But I really had a craving for chocolate ice cream.” Art held up a tub, looking a bit sheepish. “And I walked on foot to the only 24-hour store in Paris, and I asked your publicist where you were staying at the party, and noticed it was closer than my hotel, so I figured I’d stop by.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “And I really, really had a hankering for chocolate.”

You stood there, mouth agape, not quite sure if you should laugh or stare at him in disbelief. Of all the things he could have said. Of all the things you could have expected from him. A soft laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “You walked all the way here... for ice cream?” Your voice was amused, though part of you didn’t know what to make of this. Art wasn’t the type to do things without a reason—at least not in the straightforward way he just had.

“Yep.” He shrugged, unfazed, holding out the tub. “So, do you have an ice cream scooper, or what?”

You chuckled again, stepping aside. Art gave you a sheepish smile, clearly not expecting to be let in so easily, but you had already moved aside, and he couldn’t help but take a step into the kitchen, where the ingredients for your sundae were spread out on the kitchen island. Sprinkles, whipped cream, fresh strawberries, chocolate syrup.

His eyes flicked over everything, and a small, knowing grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Well, looks like we're both craving the same thing.”

You couldn’t help but smile back. “You’re in luck. I was just about to make a vanilla sundae. But—” You gave him a pointed look as you took the chocolate tub from his hands, “Vanilla is nowhere near as good as a vanilla and chocolate sundae. Perfect timing.”

Art laughed quietly, more to himself than to you, and you felt something inside you flicker at the sound. It was easy. So easy, almost like you hadn’t missed a beat since college. Even though everything between you had changed, this moment felt like something you used to share—a small, silly comfort. You grabbed a bowl and opened the vanilla tub, preparing to scoop when Art moved beside you without hesitation.

“I’ll cut up the strawberries,” he offered, already grabbing the knife from the block and beginning to slice the berries with deft movements. His arm brushed against yours briefly, and your breath caught. Each accidental touch—quick and fleeting—sent a jolt through you, a rush of electricity that felt like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The silence in the kitchen felt thick, filled with the weight of unspoken words. The tension was back. The same tension that had nearly spilled over at the party earlier when you’d almost kissed. It hadn’t gone away, not really.

You could feel his presence in every corner of the kitchen. The quiet press of his arm against yours as he worked, his slight chuckles every time he added a new ingredient to the sundae. His movements—steady and confident—had an easy familiarity that made you feel like you were slipping back into something natural. Something you both understood.

You felt a warmth inside your chest as you watched him—his hand, notably ring-free now that the party was over, moving with fluidity, and the muscles in his arms flexing as he sliced the strawberries. You couldn’t help but notice how close he was. How comfortable it felt, even in the midst of the strange charge that simmered just beneath the surface.

You reached for the whipped cream, your fingers brushing against his again, and this time, the touch lingered. It was barely a moment, but it was enough for you to feel it—his presence, his energy pulling at you in ways you couldn’t shake.

When Art turned to look at you, the light from the kitchen catching in his pale blue eyes, you felt the pull again. That familiar, dangerous pull. You swallowed hard, catching your breath for a moment, before you forced yourself to focus on the sundae.

“Here,” you said, handing him his bowl with the sundae now complete.

Art took the bowl, his fingers grazing yours as he accepted it. He smiled, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. And you couldn’t stop yourself from looking back. Neither of you had moved. The kitchen, the air between you, felt too heavy with what was unsaid.

For a moment, the world felt small and simple again, like it was just the two of you in this kitchen. But the tension was impossible to ignore. You both knew why you hadn’t kissed earlier. You both knew why you couldn’t kiss now.

Yet somehow, neither of you seemed willing to walk away. Not just yet.

You and Art sat side by side on the barstools by the kitchen island, your sundae bowls in front of you. The silence between you was comfortable at first, but as you ate slowly—more for the moment than the sweetness of the sundaes—you both became aware of just how surreal it felt to be here, together, in this space, in this quiet. The night had been full of noise, both the celebration of your shared victory at the French Open and the tension that had been simmering between you all evening. But now, here in this soft light, there was only the faint hum of the fridge and the gentle scrape of spoons against the sides of bowls.

Your eyes flicked over to Art, watching him take slow, deliberate bites of his sundae. His focus seemed entirely on the sundae, but there was something else in the way he sat—relaxed, at ease, like the tension of the day had melted away in the presence of this simple, sweet moment.

You smiled, the sugar kicking in, and you couldn’t hold back a small giggle. Art’s gaze snapped to yours, his brow furrowing in playful confusion.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice light and teasing.

You couldn’t explain it, but the way he looked at you—so genuinely confused, like he was just as caught up in the moment as you were—set something off. It was silly, but you giggled again, harder this time. The laughter felt contagious, and before you knew it, Art was laughing too, your giggles tumbling into one another like two little kids who couldn’t stop. Your laughter echoed in the quiet of the kitchen, filling the space with a warmth that was entirely different from the heat of your earlier exchanges. It was pure, unburdened, and—for the first time all night—completely real.

You finally calmed down, the sugar rush mixing with the exhaustion of the day, and you found yourself staring at Art. The absurdity of the moment—the ridiculousness of you two sitting together in a foreign city, eating ice cream like you were the only two people in the world—made your chest swell with something you hadn’t expected. Affection, maybe. No, it was more than that. It was the kind of warmth that made you feel like everything was somehow... right. Even if it wasn’t.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you leaned in and kissed him, your lips crashing against his with an intensity that surprised you both. The kiss was fierce, hungry, driven by everything you had been too afraid to say, too careful to act on. It was everything that had been building between you for years, a collision of emotions, of past hurts and desires that neither of you could shake off.

Art’s hands came up to your waist, pulling you onto the kitchen counter in one fluid movement, as if the space between you had never existed. The kiss deepened, sweeter now, but still urgent, as if neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips were soft against yours, his hands gentle as they cupped your face, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you let yourself fall into it. Let yourself fall into him.

Then, suddenly, you pulled back, gasping for air, your heart racing as the full weight of what you had just done crashed down on you. Your mind scrambled to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions, but the only thing you could think was, What have I done?

Art’s gaze softened, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes that was almost... vulnerable. “Angel,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. His old nickname for you made you want to cry. “Tashi and I—we have an agreement. We’re separated. We don’t owe each other anything anymore.” He looked directly at you, his expression earnest. “And if I want to kiss you, I’m going to kiss you. No excuses, no apologies.”

Your chest tightened. You felt the sting of guilt, the part of you that still couldn’t ignore the fact that he was still married, still tied to someone else in ways that you couldn’t simply overlook. “I know,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I get that. But it’s complicated.” You paused, trying to gather your thoughts. “I don’t want to get involved in something like this, not unless you figure out what you want. If you’re really done with Tashi, then... then maybe we can talk. But I can’t—” You stopped yourself, looking away, unsure of what to say next.

Art watched you closely, his eyes steady, understanding. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “I don’t want to drag you into something that’s unfinished. But I also can’t ignore what’s between us. I can’t pretend like I don’t feel it.”

You felt a surge of warmth and confusion inside you. The tension between you was still there, so palpable it nearly hurt. “I’m not sorry I kissed you,” you said, meeting his eyes, your voice firm. “But it doesn’t change anything. Not until you figure this out. Either you leave Tashi for good or you stay with her. And when you know what you want, then maybe... maybe we can talk about us.”

Art nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I will,” he said quietly, the weight of his words settling between you. “I promise, I’ll figure it out.”

A week later, pictures of Tashi and Art kissing on a beach in the south of France were plastered across every corner of the internet. You saw them—your heart sinking just a little as the image confirmed what you’d feared. You were right to let him go.

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. – 𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟏𝟖, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟕.

Missing the Australian Open because of a wrist injury was your worst-case scenario, but it was also unavoidable. Your physical trainer had been insistent: “No playing tennis with that wrist. Take some time off, get a cup of coffee or something. Just take a break.” You had smiled and nodded, but even stepping into the little coffee shop on the corner felt like a defeat. Alone on your day off—what did that say about your life?

The shop smelled of cinnamon and espresso, the warm scent wrapping around you like a blanket, though it did nothing to settle the knot in your stomach. You were alone. You weren’t used to it—especially not in places like this, where couples sat close together at tiny tables, their conversations a soft hum in the background. You hovered awkwardly at the counter, your fingers brushing the edges of the cup in front of you as if it might somehow offer you solace. You ordered a cappuccino to-go, the barista’s friendly chatter seeming far away, out of reach.

You stood at the end of the counter, scrolling absently through your phone, your thumb moving on autopilot. It was a tactic you used when you wanted to disappear into the background. No one noticed you then—not as the tennis star, not as the girl whose life was constantly under a magnifying glass. Alone in a coffee shop, you were just another person trying to navigate the awkwardness of solitude. You didn’t fit in, not completely—too self-conscious about how you stood, how you held yourself, as if everyone was watching, waiting for you to do something wrong.

The soft chime of the doorbell snapped you out of your thoughts, but your eyes darted nervously to the woman near the window, phone raised high, aimed straight at you. Not discreet. You tensed, your heart skipping a beat. The woman’s gaze flickered between you and the screen, the kind of look you had become too familiar with. A gawker, someone who saw you less as a person and more as a curiosity, an object to capture.

You didn’t even check your cup when the barista called out your name. You grabbed it and bolted, the weight of the warm cardboard in your hand a poor substitute for something more comforting, something that might hold you together. You pushed through the door into the cool afternoon, the winter breeze biting at your cheeks as you rushed down the street, head low, fingers gripping the cup as if it were a lifeline.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

You froze, your shoulders stiffening. The voice was male, sharp but not unkind, and too close for comfort. Your pulse quickened. You turned, hands shaking, clutching the coffee too tightly. A man was jogging towards you, holding out a cup that looked identical to yours. He was tall, his black hair slightly tousled, and his almond-shaped eyes were dark and warm, framed by soft brows. His expression was a little unsure, but his gaze was steady, sincere—something about him made you feel like maybe you weren’t invisible after all.

He was wearing scrubs, the deep blue fabric slightly rumpled from a long shift, and his sneakers—the kind worn by people who spent their days on their feet—scuffed at the edges. His hands were slightly calloused, evidence of years of hard work. He was just... normal.

“You grabbed my coffee,” he said, his voice awkward but genuine. “I think I’ve got yours.”

Your eyes flicked to his cup, your name scrawled messily on the side in the barista’s hurried handwriting. You glanced down at your own, noticing the name August written in thick, bold letters. For a moment, you stood still, dumbfounded by the absurdity of it all. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside you, but it was small, shaky.

“Sorry,” you murmured, feeling heat creep up your neck. You reached for his cup. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No problem,” August said, his smile shy but genuine. He handed you the drink, his fingers brushing yours, and you couldn’t help but notice how soft and unguarded he seemed. “Your name’s Y/N, right?”

You nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “That’s me. August, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, hi!” He tilted his head, his smile widening in a way that made him seem almost endearingly unsure. “Sorry, you’re just very radiant and it’s throwing me off my game a little.”

You paused, the absurdity of the situation suddenly making you feel lighter. “You think I’m radiant?”

August studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though considering the question seriously. After a beat, he tilted his head again, his smile softening. “I really do.” Then, he smiled shyly, and there was something about the way he said it that made you feel like you were meeting him for the first time in a way you hadn’t expected. There was no attempt at impressing you, no flashy gestures. Just an honest, unpolished interaction that felt completely normal.

You weren’t sure why, but it made you feel seen. In a good way, for once.

“I don’t mean to pry,” August said, glancing at you carefully, as if trying to gauge whether you wanted to talk. “But you seemed like you were in a bit of a hurry. Everything okay?”

You hesitated. The instinct to hide was strong, but his tone wasn’t intrusive, just... curious. “Just didn’t want to stick around,” you said, your voice quiet.

“I get that,” he replied, shifting his weight, his eyes sparkling with that awkward, kind energy that made him so unexpectedly likable. “Crowded places can be... a lot.”

You could tell it was a lie; a soft, white lie to make you feel less self-conscious. But it made you feel seen, in a way that had nothing to do with fame or expectations. He wasn’t asking for anything, not even for you to acknowledge who you were.

“You seem like you like coffee,” August said after a beat, his hands shoved deep into his scrub trousers. “Maybe we could grab one together sometime?”

You blinked. It had been so long since someone had asked you out without a second thought, without some hidden agenda. His eyes didn’t flicker down to his phone, didn’t try to sneak a picture. He just looked at you like you were... just another person. And it felt normal.

You could say no. You could keep your walls up and walk away. But hadn’t you been doing that long enough?

“What about dinner instead?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them. Your heart raced, a quiet thrill blooming in your chest.

August’s smile was slow, hesitant, but genuine, and you could see something softening in his eyes. “Dinner works too. It’s better, actually. I was just too nervous to ask you to dinner.”

You nodded, a spark of warmth flickering in your chest. For the first time in ages, it didn’t feel lonely. It felt like something was beginning—like you could finally stop hiding and start fresh, without anyone’s expectations or judgements hanging over you.

August fumbled in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a card with neat, embossed lettering. He handed it to you. Dr. August Lee, Paediatric Surgeon. You stared at it for a moment, processing. A surgeon? Your eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, but the warmth in his eyes was unchanged.

“Maybe you’ll want to double-check I’m not just handing out fake business cards,” August said, his voice laced with self-deprecating humour.

You smiled, feeling the first genuine connection you’d had in a long while. “I’ll call you.”

August blinked, clearly surprised, but his smile softened, and the warmth in his eyes deepened. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, his voice almost shy, like a promise he wasn't sure he was allowed to make. He raised his hand to wave at you in an endearingly awkward gesture, and you shared a quiet smile before turning away.

As you walked back to your car, the cold afternoon air brushing against your skin, something shifted inside you. Your footsteps slowed, then lengthened, as though the ground beneath you was softening, lifting you in tiny, unspoken ways. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were just moving through space, ticking off the minutes until the next obligation, the next camera flash. Your body hummed with something you hadn’t felt in so long: the gentle, fluttering sensation of anticipation, like the first stirrings of spring in the heart of winter.

It started low, deep inside you, a faint stirring that quickly blossomed, like the first warmth of sunlight breaking through the brittle branches of a cold, tired tree. You weren’t sure where it came from at first, but it swirled inside you, dancing like tiny sparks of light gathering into something more—a fire, maybe, or a sparkler, and you felt it twine through your chest, threading along the spaces where something had once been hollow.

Your body hummed with the sensation of something new, something real. Your breath caught in your throat with the awareness of it—how your chest rose and fell, almost quicker now, as though it were catching up with the rhythm of your heartbeat. There was a soft tingling beneath your skin, not the kind of restlessness that made you want to escape, but something else—a pulse, something warm and steady, that made you feel more alive than you had in years. It was as if your body were waking up from a long, dull slumber, its senses more alive, more attuned to the world around you.

And then it hit you all at once—this was what it felt like to want something. To feel something. To not hide from it, but to embrace it. You hadn’t realised how long it had been since you’d truly felt this alive. You’d been running for so long, trying to outrun the emptiness, the loneliness, but now—now, in this simple, ordinary moment—something had changed. Something had shifted, and it was like you had suddenly found yourself standing in a new light. The world wasn’t so cold anymore. It wasn’t so distant. There was a new rhythm to it, a pulse that felt connected to your own.

You paused beside your car, your hand on the door handle, and let out a soft breath, almost laughing at yourself. You felt like you had just rediscovered something you had thought you’d lost forever. Maybe it was too soon to call it hope, but it was something. A beginning. A whisper that made you think—just maybe—there was more to life than being the person everyone expected you to be. You could be more than a tennis star, more than a picture in a tabloid. You could be you.

You smiled, your heart beating a little faster, your chest lighter than it had been in years. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you weren’t running away from yourself. You were just... standing there, breathing it all in, and feeling the kind of excitement that filled you up, that made you believe in the possibility of something different, something new.

For the first time in years, you weren’t thinking about your mother, or your father, or Tashi, or Patrick, or Art. You were just thinking about yourself, and the handsome doctor whose coffee you had accidentally taken.

#art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson imagine #patrick zweig imagine #art donaldson x you #patrick zweig x you #challengers #challengers fanfiction #challengers x reader #challengers fanfic #tashi duncan #mike faist x reader #josh o connor x reader #fic: guilty as sin?

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lovesculprit · 2 months ago

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a/n: slow intro with a fair bit of dialogue & little plot twist at the end? + if you don't like gunplay, i promise this is not the one for you, don't read it wc: 5.7k

the rest of kinktober here + (toji art credit) + special tag @risararelywrites <3

As the night crept on, the thrill of the scare park hung thick in the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and muffled shrieks from other visitors. You walked arm-in-arm with Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru, revelling in the pulse of adrenaline that shot through you whenever an actor lunged from the darkness. Together, you’d gone through nearly every haunted house in the park, each one more elaborate than the last.

But now, as you drifted toward the edge of the grounds, the lively sounds began to fade, swallowed up by the sight of a lone haunted house standing apart from the others—a grim silhouette shrouded in eerie, rolling fog.

This house looked different. It was darker, older, with an unsettling aura that seemed to thicken the air around it. Unlike the other exhibits, there were no bright lights, no cheering guides or costumed actors welcoming you in, just an open doorway that hinted at cracked wood, grimy windows, and shadows that seemed to hang around and watch.

"Why isn’t anyone going in?" you murmured, stopping to stare at the building. "Did they close it for the night?"

Shoko glanced at Suguru, exchanging a look that sent a tiny ripple of unease through you. “No, it’s open. Just not exactly popular,” she replied, her voice low.

“Not popular?” You smirked, letting the hint of a challenge seep in. “Is it really that bad?”

“Depends who you ask,” Satoru replied, his usual playful tone missing as he stared at the house. “People don’t go in alone.”

“It’s a scare park.” You scoffed, waving off his warning. “How scary could it actually be?”

Suguru placed a hand on your shoulder, a rare seriousness in his eyes. “This one’s different. People say there’s something… wrong with it. Nobody wants to find out for sure.”

“Wrong?” you echoed, crossing your arms. “How, exactly?”

“Some say there’s a man who hides in there,” Shoko murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “They don’t know if he’s some rogue actor or just… some crazy man. But he’s armed. Supposedly, he sneaks around pretending to be part of the act.”

You looked at the house again, half-amused, half-spooked. “So you’re telling me there’s a real psycho in there hiding out? Right.”

Your friends exchanged wary glances, their usual bravado notably absent, which only deepened your curiosity. “You’re serious? This is over some urban legend?”

“It’s not a legend,” Shoko muttered, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting to see someone creeping out of the fog. “People say they’ve seen him covered in blood. They say he blends right in until it’s too late.”

“Staff avoid it too,” Satoru added, his tone unusually flat. “So if you’re thinking about going in, maybe reconsider.”

A thrill shot through you, half defiance, half intrigue. The house loomed ahead, daring you. “So you all think he’s in there tonight?”

Suguru’s hand tightened on your shoulder. “It’s not worth finding out. There are plenty of other places we can check out.”

But the challenge tugged at you, almost tauntingly. You took a step forward, drawing exasperated sighs from your friends.

"Are you actually going in there?"

"This is a hard no for me," Shoko insisted.

“Come on, we’re not kidding around,” Suguru said, his expression sombre.

You gave them a shrug and a smile. “I’ll just peek in, five minutes, that’s all.”

Shoko crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. “Right, nothing bad ever happens in ‘just five minutes.’”

“Remember, if he’s in there, we’re not coming to save you.” Satoru jokes as he rolls his eyes.

"Noted," you replied, dancing around him with a grin. "If anything happens, at least I'll have a story."

But as you moved toward the darkened doorway, the memories of the warnings hounded you, and crossing the threshold, a small voice whispered, maybe they're right.

Inside, the shadows clung to the walls, warping and shifting with every flicker of the dim yellowing light bulbs. The air was heavy, still, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting. With each cautious step, the floor remained eerily silent-no familiar creaks, no whispers from other thrill-seekers echoing from somewhere in the darkness. The quiet was suffocating.

"It's just another haunted house," you whispered, trying to break the silence. But even your voice seemed to be swallowed up by the shadows.

You reached the edge of a dusty, darkened room when a soft dragging sound cut through the quiet. You whirled around, your heart hammering, but the hallway behind you was empty. The moment you began to steady your breath, a low rumbling chuckle echoed through the room, crawling down your spine.

"Didn't think anyone would wander in alone," a voice drawled from the shadows, smooth and dripping with dark amusement. "You've got guts.”

Your breath caught as a figure began to take form: a tall, wide man whose eyes glinted in the poor light. He moved like a shadow off the wall, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as he took another step forward, the faint glow illuminating a pistol in his hand, his finger lazily resting near the trigger.

You swallowed hard and forced a grin, hoping to mask your unease. "Are… are you part of the show?"

He chuckled, his eyes raking over you with dangerous curiosity. "I'm part of an experience," he told you, that taunting smile twisting. "But not the kind you paid for.”

Your heart was racing as he closed in; his eyes were razor-sharp and predatory. He didn't hurry-if anything, he drew out the fear across your features. The pistol glinted in his hand, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, like he was reading every flicker of emotion.

He moved forward with a nearly lazy step; his head fell to the side as his smile grew, watching you inch backward. "So, you thought this was just another haunted house?" he asked, the tiniest thread of dark thrill weaved in. "Guess it's too late to warn you some rumours are worth listening to.

Your back hit the wall, and his eyes lit up with a spark of satisfaction. He leaned in closer, pressing the gun against his temple as he did so, an intense gaze and a chilling gleam in his eye. "You've got that look-the one which says you're curious. Brave, maybe a little too much so." He paused, smirk deepening. "So, how brave are you feeling now?”

You clenched your jaw and wouldn't flinch. "Maybe I am not as easy to scare as you think," you muttered, though your own voice quivered ever so slightly. "Oh?" His smirk whittled just a little sharper, a flash of mirth dancing in his eyes. "Then let us see.”

He let go of your wrist, only to trail the gun’s barrel along your jawline, his eyes drinking in every flinch, every shiver. He seemed to delight in drawing out the silence, each second weighted with his slow, deliberate movements. And in that quiet, somehow, the unspoken threat felt far more sinister.

As he studied you, his gaze lingered, savouring the fear that glinted in your eyes. “I have all night to see what it takes to break you,” he murmured, his voice almost playful. “And something tells me, this is going to be fun.”

The glint in his eyes held a dark promise, and you knew, too late, that you’d wandered into a trap—the kind that left you wondering just who, exactly, was meant to be scared.

You swallowed, struggling to hold his gaze, fighting the instinct to look away. But he had you cornered, and he knew it—knew you were trapped in his snare, just like he’d intended. The glint in his eye sharpened as he watched, a spark of twisted satisfaction lighting up his face as he took in every flicker of fear.

The man’s grin stretched wider, dark and mocking, as he watched you. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered the gun, tracing the cold barrel down your jawline, his eyes studying every inch of your face with a predatory intensity. The silence between you pressed in, suffocating and tense, somehow worse than any threat he could have made.

“You’re trembling now,” he whispered, voice dipped in dark humour. “But it makes me wonder…” He tilted his head, a false look of innocence softening his gaze even as his smirk stayed razor-sharp. “Is it fear making you shake? Or is it something… else?”

Your breath caught, a barely perceptible hitch that he didn’t miss. His smirk grew, as though he’d stumbled on a private joke, something only he was in on. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re the kind who gets a thrill out of all this?” he mocked, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, as if he were sharing a secret with you. “The type who’d never admit it, but… can’t help the way their heart races anyway.”

You tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let you off so easily. With a nudge from the gun, he forced your chin up, his gaze locking with yours. “I see you,” he continued, inching closer, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “People like you walk in here alone, pretending it’s just for the thrill.” He leaned in, his voice lowering to a near murmur against your ear. “But maybe you wanted more.”

His words sent a shiver through you, mingling fear with something you didn’t want to acknowledge. He leaned back, watching your reaction, fingers brushing the side of your face in a touch that was disturbingly gentle. “Maybe that’s why you’re here,” he said, a rough laugh slipping from his lips. “I doubt someone like you would admit it, though.”

Your mind raced, and your voice caught in your throat, a knot of indignation and fear keeping you silent. He noticed, smirking like he’d already won. “Right on the mark, aren’t I?” he murmured, his hand resting on your cheek. “It’s always the innocent ones—scare the easiest, break the fastest.”

Your heart pounded, and though you willed yourself to pull away, your body seemed frozen under his touch. He held your gaze, thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “Just say it,” he teased, leaning close again. His thumb pressed lightly against your throat, tracing the beat of your pulse. “You didn’t come in here just for the scare, did you?”

The mocking smile he wore softened slightly, his voice lowering to a nearly intimate whisper. “I can feel it—the way you’re responding. The thrill, the nerves, the part of you that’s not sure if you want to run… or stay.”

You hated the way he seemed to read you, hated that he saw through the mask you wore to the part of you he’d awakened, a part tinged with something reckless and dangerous. He bent down further, enjoying how he had you at his mercy. "That's it, isn't it?" he mumbled, "It's a game-this line between predator and prey." His voice dropped to a purr. “Between fear… and whatever this is.”

You tried to steady your breath as he studied every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the touch feather-light but charged, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“How much would you actually enjoy being pushed?” he wondered aloud, eyes glinting. “Maybe you’d even beg for it. Maybe you’d even like not having control.”

A thrill of panic mingled with something darker, something that made your heart beat faster. He could see it, knew the effect he was having, and the satisfaction on his face only grew. “Just admit it,” he murmured, his tone insistent, his thumb grazing your jawline. “Admit how much you’re enjoying this.”

His fingertips lingered on your hip, a reassuring touch that was highly unsettling, as if he were daring you to let those words pass your lips out loud. "Come on," he seduced, the devilish glint dancing in his eyes. "I promise I won't bite… unless you're asking.

His hand slid around to the small of your back, pulling you against him. The heat of his body reminded you just how close he was, how easily he could overpower you if he wanted. His voice dropped to a near-growl. “Last chance to back out.” His lips ghosted over your earlobe. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t…”

His grip tightened, teeth grazing your ear, and then he pulled back, his gaze sharp as he slipped the gun into his waistband. His eyes were fixed upon yours with such intensity and something so akin to hunger; it sent the shiver down your spine. "So," he breathed, his voice low, with just a hint of challenge. "Ready to play?

Your heartbeat pounded against your rib cage, each thud a resonating drum in the silence between you. His words, his touch, the heat radiating off his body, it threatened to overwhelm you, drowning out every rational thought. You knew you should tell him to stop, should put space between you, but something kept you frozen there, curiosity mixing with the thrill of the unknown.

"I… I don't.", you stuttered, all but a whisper, while shallow breaths betrayed you, even in protest.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk edging toward a full grin. “You don’t what?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “Don’t want me to stop… or don’t know if you should?”

Closer still, he leaned in until his nose brushed against yours, his gaze burrowing into yours with an intensity that made your knees feel weak. “I think you want this more than you’ll admit,” he murmured. His hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head, exposing your neck. “Just say the word,” he whispered, his lips hovering over yours. “I’ll give you everything you’ve been too afraid to ask for.”

He caught your bottom lip between his teeth, a playful nip that he soothed with his tongue, his voice softening to a near-coax. “Come on, sweetheart,” he breathed, every word a slow, dangerous promise. “Let yourself stop fighting it.”

"Okay," you whispered, just barely audible, the last shred of resistance dissolving as his lips claimed yours-hard and demanding. The kiss bruised with its possessiveness-he took your mouth with such hunger that robbed your breath, his tongue delving deep inside to consume you. His hand tangles in the strands of your hair, keeping you firmly in place, the other roaming along your body, mapping out every curve.

But the next instant, he pushed you away, and you tumbled backward, falling against a stack of old props that tumbled with you, a flicker of fear crossing your features. He saw it.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he mocked, stalking toward you on lean legs with a predator's ease. "Scared off so soon?"

His eyes shone with a feral light, a cruel smirk playing about his lips. "I thought you wanted to play."

He leaned over you, grasping at your chin roughly to force you to look up at him. "Maybe you're not as brave as you thought," he sneered. "Or maybe", the tone darker, "you just need a little more incentive."

His hand had gone to his waistband, drawing out his gun. He pressed the cold metal against your lips, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that chilled you to the bone.

"Open up, sweetheart," he ordered in his voice, a thick coating of mockery. "Let's see if you're as good with that mouth as I think you are." A hand twisted in your hair yanking your head back to bare the line of your neck. "Or maybe," he mused, "I should just shut you up completely."

He traced the gun along your jaw, down your throat, stopping at the hollow at the bottom of your neck. His eyes never once strayed from yours as he watched for the effects, feeding off your growing fear. "What's it gonna be, baby? Want to play nice, or should I get rough with you?"

He leaned closer, his eyes glinting with sadistic glee as he savoured the tension. "Tick tock," he murmured, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Time's running out, and my patience is wearing thin. Choose wisely, baby—it might just save your life."

A wicked grin spread across his face as he saw you open your mouth, lips parting just enough for the barrel of the gun to slide between them, the cold metal pressing against your tongue. "That’s it," he purred. "Good girl."

He pushed the gun deeper, savouring the sight of you as the taste of metal filled your mouth. "Suck," he commanded, his voice thick with lust as he watched you obey, your lips stretched around the barrel, tongue swirling over the smooth surface. His hand in your hair tightened, and he let out a low, satisfied groan.

"Fuck, that’s hot," he breathed, his hips pressing forward as he ground against you. "You’re a natural at this, aren’t you? I bet you'd look even better with your lips wrapped around something else."

He watched with rapt attention as you continued, cheeks hollowing, mouth working the gun with an obedient rhythm. His gaze darkened as he took in the sight of you, debasing yourself at his command.

Finally, he withdrew the gun, a string of saliva briefly connecting it to your lips. "Kiss it," he growled, voice low and commanding. "Show me how much you want it."

You pressed your lips against the barrel, kissing it softly, your eyes flickering up to meet his gaze, exactly as he demanded. Seeing you so submissive, so compliant, sent a rush of satisfaction through him.

"Atta girl," he murmured approvingly, his voice a soft purr of pleasure.

He pulled the gun away, resting it on the side as he freed his cock from his pants, stroking it slowly, teasingly, as you knelt before him. He smirked down at you, his eyes glinting with dark promise. "Put that pretty mouth to work, baby. Show me what you can do."

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, guiding your head towards his cock, the musky scent of him filling your nostrils. His other hand gripped the base of his shaft, slapping the head against your lips, leaving a smear of pre-cum.

He pushed forward, forcing the head of his cock past your lips, groaning as your warm mouth enveloped him. "Fuck, that's it," he growled, his hips rocking gently, pushing deeper.

He groaned as your lips stretched around his thick, veiny shaft, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head. His cock was long and hard, the skin smooth and hot against your tongue. The musky, masculine taste of him filled your mouth as you took him deeper, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked.

Saliva dripped down your chin as you bobbed your head, your hand coming up to grip the base, stroking what you couldn't fit in your mouth. He tasted of sweat and arousal, the flavour heady and intoxicating on your tongue.

Lewd, wet sounds filled the air as you slurped and sucked, your nose buried in his pubic hair, breathing in his scent. His balls were heavy and full, bouncing against your chin as you worked him over.

"Fuck, just like that," he grunted, his grip on your hair tightening, his hips snapping forward, fucking your face with shallow thrusts. "Take it all, baby.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he hit the back of your throat, your gag reflex working overtime, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you relaxed your throat, letting him slide deeper, taking him to the hilt.

He threw his head back with a groan, his abs clenching, his thighs trembling as you swallowed around him, your throat fluttering around his sensitive flesh.

"Goddamn, you're a natural," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure.

The click of the safety being disengaged sent a jolt of fear through you, even as you continued to suck him off. The cold metal of the gun brushed against your cheek, a stark contrast to the heat of his cock in your mouth.

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending vibrations through his shaft. "You like that, don't you, baby? The danger, the thrill. It gets you hot, doesn't it?" He pressed the gun to your temple, the barrel cold against your skin as he fucked your face harder, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper down your throat.

"Bet you're soaking wet right now," He groaned, his grip on your hair tightening as he neared his peak. "Fuck, I'm close," he grunted, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing in your mouth.

He pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, his cock slick with your saliva. "Not yet, baby," he growled, his voice low and guttural. "I'm not done with you."

He grabbed your arm, hauling you to your feet, spinning you around and shoving you so you were bent over the wooden table. The rough wood scraped against your skin, the edge digging into your hips as he kicked your legs apart, exposing you to his gaze.

He flipped up your skirt, tearing your panties away with a sharp rip. His fingers dipped between your folds, teasing your entrance, circling your clit.

"Fuck, look at you," he purred, his hand coming down hard on your ass, making you yelp. "Already so wet for me. Yeah, you’re not innocent at all, are you?” He leaned down, his breath hot against your skin as he spat directly onto your pussy, the warm liquid trickling between your folds before he licked a stripe along your slit.

He dove in, his tongue delving deep into your folds, lapping at your juices. He teased your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, flicking the sensitive bud with rapid strokes. The hand holding the gun rested against your ass as the other held one of your thighs, exposing you completely to his hungry mouth.

He alternated between long, slow licks and quick, darting flicks, his tongue exploring every inch of your pussy. He growled against your flesh, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. His nose rubbed your clit as he buried his face deeper, his tongue probing your entrance.

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them to stroke your G-spot as he continued to eat you out. He added a third finger, stretching you, filling you, as his tongue swirled around your clit.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he groaned, his words muffled against your pussy. "So sweet and wet for me. I could eat this cunt all day."

He sealed his lips around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive nub. His fingers pumped in and out of you, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet room.

His cock throbbed, rock hard and leaking pre-cum as he feasted on your pussy. The taste of you, the feel of your wetness coating his tongue, the sounds of your moans and whimpers—it all drove him wild with lust.

He fucked his fingers harder into you, curling them just right to hit that spot that made you see stars. His tongue flicked rapidly over your clit as he sucked, nibbled, licked every inch of your sopping folds.

He pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. His eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight of you, spread out and desperate for him.

"Mmm, you're so fucking wet," he purred, his voice low and dangerous. "I could eat this pretty pussy all night long."

He trailed the gun along your inner thigh, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. "But first, I think I need to prep you a little. Get you nice and ready for me."

He teasingly ran the barrel of the gun along your folds, the cold metal sending a jolt of sensation through you. "What do you think, baby? Think you can handle this?"

You looked over your shoulder at him, stealing a glance as his eyes gleamed in the moonlight, a faint nod of your head as you wanted it.

"I don't know," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "Can you?"

He circled your clit with the tip of the gun, the metal cool against your heated flesh. Your hips twitched, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"Look at you, so desperate for it," he purred, his free hand coming down on your ass in a sharp slap. "Even with a gun to your cunt, you're still begging for it."

“Tell me-” he says as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, “Use those words.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the moan that threatened to spill from your lips. His touch, his words, they were driving you crazy with need. You wanted him, all of him, and you didn't care how twisted it was.

"Please," you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire. "Please, I need it. I need you."

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "That's more like it”

He trailed the cold metal of the gun along your slit, teasing your entrance, circling it slowly. You could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze on your body as he watched you squirm

He pressed the tip of the gun against your entrance, the metal cool and unyielding. Your breath hitched in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest as he applied just the slightest bit of pressure.

He pressed the tip of the gun inside you, the cold metal sliding in teasingly slow. You gasped, your body tensing at the unfamiliar sensation. He went deeper, inch by torturous inch, stretching you, filling you in a way you'd never experienced before.

"Fuck, look at you taking it," he groaned, his voice low and approving. "Such a good girl, so eager for me."

He worked the gun in and out, fucking you with it, the metal gliding along your walls, hitting spots you didn't know existed. Your pussy clenched around it, trying to adjust to the intrusion, the friction.

He pushed the gun deeper, the metal sliding in with a slick sound, your wetness easing the way. You whimpered, your body trembling as he filled you, stretched you, claimed you in the most primal way possible.

He pulled it out slowly, the metal dragging along your folds, teasing your entrance, before pushing it back in.

He twisted the gun, the barrel rubbing against your sensitive walls, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. Your pussy clenched around it, trying to adjust to the intrusion, the friction.

The wet, obscene sounds of the gun pumping in and out of your pussy filled the air, mixing with your moans and whimpers. He angled it just right, hitting that spot deep inside that made your toes curl, your eyes roll back in your head.

He pulled the gun out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. You whimpered at the loss, your body craving more.

"Patience, baby," he purred as he tossed the gun to the side. "We're just getting started."

He lined himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

He pushed inside you slowly, inch by throbbing inch, stretching you, filling you. Your pussy clenched around him, trying to adjust to his size, his heat. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as he sank deeper.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, his voice strained with pleasure. "Feels so good wrapped around my cock."

He bottomed out as his massive frame engulfed you as he leaned over your back, his balls heavy and full against you as he remained deep inside you. He stayed there for a moment, letting you feel every inch.

Then he started to move, his hips rocking, his cock sliding in and out of your slick heat. He set a slow, deep rhythm, pulling out until just the tip remained before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt.

Your pussy fluttered around him, your walls clinging to his shaft, trying to keep him inside. He grunted with each thrust, his fingers digging into your skin with a pressure that you know will leave marks.

He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you back against him, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper. His other hand slid up your body, coming to rest at your throat. Not squeezing yet, just a gentle reminder of his control, his dominance.

"That's it, baby," he growled in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Take it. Take my cock like the good girl you are."

He fucked you harder, faster, his grip on your throat tightening just a fraction. The dual sensations of pleasure and pressure, of being filled and controlled, sent waves of heat coursing through your body.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he panted, his hips pistoning, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Gonna fill you up with my cum. Pump you full until it's leaking out of you."

His fingers tightened around your throat, not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your heart race, your pussy clench around him. He was so close, his cock throbbing inside you, his body tensing.

His grip tightened on your throat, his fingers pressing just hard enough to make your pulse flutter beneath them. His other arm cinched around your waist, pulling you back harder, his hips slamming into you with bruising force.

"Fuck, gonna come," he grunted, his voice strained and guttural.

He pounded into you relentlessly, his cock stretching you, claiming you, branding you from the inside out. His balls slapped against your clit with each brutal thrust, the wet, obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air.

His hand on your throat squeezed again, not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your head swim, your vision blur. The dual sensations of pleasure and pressure, of being filled and controlled, pushed you closer to the edge.

His fingers found your clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles as he fucked you harder, deeper, his cock pounding into your pussy like a jackhammer. The added stimulation was too much, sending you careening over the edge into a mind-blowing orgasm.

Your pussy clamped down around him, fluttering and clenching, milking his cock for all it was worth. Your body shook and trembled, your moans echoing off the walls as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He groaned, his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering as your pussy worked him over. "Fuck, yes, come for me," he growled, his fingers pinching your clit, prolonging your climax.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he emptied himself inside you. His thick cum filled you, painting your walls white, marking you as his.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight pinning you to the table, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. For a moment, you both just lay there, basking in the afterglow, your bodies still joined, your hearts beating in sync.

He rolled his hips, his semi-hard cock still buried inside you, drawing out your pleasure. He pulled out slowly, a groan escaping him as your walls clung to him, trying to keep him inside.

He watched, transfixed, as his cum leaked out of your pussy, dripping down your thighs. The sight of you, so thoroughly used, so marked by him, sent a fresh wave of arousal through him.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "So fucking beautiful, covered in my cum."

He leaned down, pressing soft, teasing kisses along your spine as you lay there, trying to catch your breath. His hands roamed over your body, tracing the curves and dips, the marks he'd left on your skin.

"You did so well, baby," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear.

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing. “Come on, up, lemme get a look at you.”

He helped you up, his hands steady on your hips as you wobbled on shaky legs. He turned you around to face him, his eyes dark and hungry as they roamed over your body, taking in the marks he'd left, the cum still dripping down your thighs.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he growled, his hands cupping your face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. "I could look at you like this all day."

He kissed you then, hard and deep, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, tasting himself on your lips. He pulled back, his eyes searching yours, a question in them.

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks as he helps you redress, along with himself.

"No," you breathe, your voice hoarse and trembling. "It was... intense, but not painful."

You lean into his touch, savouring the warmth of his hands on your face, the solidness of his body against yours. Despite the darkness of what just transpired, there's a strange comfort in his presence, a sense of belonging.

“The gun-” you begin before he chuckles and interrupts you as he approaches the gun and picks it up, “Looks pretty real, huh? Feels it too.”

You laugh a little at that, “Yeah, it definitely felt it.”

“I’ll have to thank your friends for getting me such a good prop” He says, “And for arranging this whole place…You think they’re waiting outside?”

“God no, Shoko made it very clear yesterday that she wouldn’t wait around whilst I came in here to get fucked by my boyfriend. They’ll be long gone, we can call a cab.”

“Cab it is.” He smirks as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

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@jays-adventure3 @nctislifue @eeveedvck @needtoloveoutloud @yowumi

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bakerstreethound · 1 year ago

Text

Etched in Stone

Relationship: Benedict Bridgerton x afab!reader

Warnings: 18+ spicy times (MINORS DNI), flirting, fingering, mutual pining, childhood friends to best friends to lovers, exposed ankles, fluff, softness, gentle/possessive Benedict, brief mention of alcohol and slightly tipsy momma Violet Bridgerton makes an appearance

Summary: Bored at yet another party hosted at Bridgerton House, Benedict seeks solace (and a strong drink) in the quiet of Anthony's office only to find you there, one of his oldest friends and buried feeling resurface.

All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound (Do NOT copy, repost, claim, or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username)

Word Count: 4.1k+

A/N: I wrote this fic for my lovely friend @frostandflamesfanfic a while back but wanted to take my time posting it because this was such a joy to work on and wanted to savor every moment. El was there for the beginning of this story so it's only fair I dedicate it to them as well. Thank you for trusting me to write one of your beloved fictionals. I drew a lot of inspiration from both book and show Benedict. Any era inaccuracies are fault of my own as well as where Benedict's room is located in the house. Graphic by @firefly-graphics . Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!!

His piercing gaze hadn’t left you all evening, making your shoulders rise on the verge of danger, but the way his gaze bore into yours, and you couldn’t deny the shallow thrill or the pulsing in your heart.

You hadn't wanted to come to the ball and despite your family’s protests and prodding you found yourself at the Bridgetron ball, dressed in the prior season’s attire, not caring about the gossip. It wasn’t like you had anything to prove to the ton or Lady Whistledown. A soft smile graced your lips at the thought and you round a corner, sipping on your lemonade, weary and the night was still young. You longed to be reading one of the adventures in your novels, whisking you away to another place and time, holding hands with your beloved.

******

Benedict sighed for the third consecutive time in a row, making Eloise roll her eyes. “Brother, surely you can find some enjoyment from this party.”

“When I tell you, I’ll let you know,” he grumbled, watching the couples swirl along the dance floor, his eldest brother Anthony pulling Kate close in his arms, a bright smile lighting her face. Benedict tried to hide the disdain, the ache resounding in his chest. He’d rather be locked away in his room, working on his art, perfecting the curve of a hand, the slope of a shoulder, silk between thighs. He shook his head, groaning before tossing back a glass of lemonade he’d picked up during yet another turn around the room.

It did little to cool his blood.

When he made his way to the study, he half expected to see Colin there sneaking a glass of Anthony’s secret stash, however, he didn’t expect you draped across a chair, nose buried in a book, legs curled over the arms of the chair, exposing your ankles. The smirk crawled along his lips for a fraction, enraptured by your stone-cold expression and you flipped another page, not uttering a sound. He poured himself a drink, trying not to chuckle, and watched you intently.

“Do you intend to stare at me all evening, Mister Bridgerton? Or are you going to ask me to pull myself together to dance in front of the entirety of the ton?”

The drink almost lodges itself in his throat as he choked it down, the bewildered expression on his face the cause of your pursed lips. For the love, you were laughing at him!

“Cat got your tongue, Benedict?”

Oh, it was more than the cat that got his tongue, he wanted to swallow yours, combat your wit, fill himself with your words and beauty tenfold.

Good gracious, what had become him?

Here you were and he’d been watching you like a hawk all evening barely making a move and your ankles were there, tempting him, tricking him, enticing him. How ready he was to fall, the hold you had on him was indescribable. He’d been this way since he first laid eyes on you all those months ago. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on you. But how he wanted to fall with you, drag you along the dance floor show you off for the world to see. No, he would do no such thing.

He would enshrine you in a painting, etch you into stone, a carving upon his heart.

Warmth flooded your body as you continued watching Benedict pace around the room and you doubted he realized he had done so. A bedraggled state was becoming of him, accentuated by his ruffled hair as he muttered under his breath, stopping to refill his glass with something stronger than lemonade.

You smirk, perusing the pages of your novel, which sparked an idea.

“Benedict?”

Your voice, oh your voice was a guiding light, his anchor, steadying him through the whirlwind of a storm conjuring in his head.

“Yes?” His gaze met yours, and he stopped pacing standing before you and giving you a good look at his chest, the rise and fall of his breaths, reminding you to steady yours.

You crane your neck up, looking him in the eye. “Read to me.” It’s a simple request, but you hide the quivering of your lip. He leaned in closer, engulfing you in his scent, causing you to bite your cheek to keep from groaning. It was heady and intoxicating and it was all him.

“What?”

Focus, you ninny! You cursed softly to yourself gathering your thoughts as you clung to your novel.

“I asked if you would read to me. Literature is the art of words is it not?” You shifted in your seat, your feet now resting flat on the floor as any respectable proper person would have done from the start. You let out a soft groan when the balls of your feet touch the floor, and he leaned down further, his index finger barely stroking along your jawline. Your ankles were definitely covered now, but you suspected his reaction didn’t stem from that.

He cocked his head. “You would prefer me to read romance to you rather than show you firsthand?”

“Why ever would I need to experience such things firsthand? I have everything I need here.” Your stomach fluttered, almost dropping when he kneeled before you, his fingers brushing along your sides before grasping your thighs and squeezing gently.

“You do have one thing right for this evening. We have everything we need right here.” Another squeeze of your thigh sent your mind reeling.

“Does one intend to enact upon such desires, Mister Bridgerton? Or does one who reads such novels suppress them?”

His hands traveled further up your thighs a silent challenge, one you were not backing down from despite the pounding of your heart. You were here with Benedict Bridgerton alone in Anthony’s study, someone you had known for years, a constant fixture throughout your youth, the source of countless daydreams and now, rather passion-induced dreams.

“Do you know how long I’ve imagined this?” He growled low in his chest and you forget to breathe. None of the books you read prepared you for reality, not that you would confess. Benedict didn’t need his ego poked any longer, the more he knew he could unravel you slowly.

You squirmed against him, tugging his vest. “I’ve wanted you for years but denied myself. I didn’t - couldn’t- imagine you felt the same,” your voice came out as a whisper, a plea for him to see you and he did. Benedict saw you and gazed at you with hope and adoration.

He growled low in your ear, sliding his hands around your waist, rising to his feet pulling you against him, the racing of his beating heart restarting yours. He was your desire, your soul ached for him, knowing he was the only one you could ever hope to give yourself to.

No one else in the world was meant for you or could compare to him.

His heart beating in tandem with yours, clinging to each other, a lifeline. It felt like a lifetime before clarity finally made its way into the world, making its intentions known between you. It was more than the slow-burning passion and affection blossoming between each other.

His lips brushing along yours sent your heart soaring, connecting your souls and you welcomed him, and you were home, he pulled you flush up against him, groaning softly, digging his hands into your waist. He couldn’t breathe, utterly weightless, intoxicated by your scent, everything. He was high on you, your touch, oh how lovely it felt your fingers digging into his back, melting against him, needing him as much as he did you.

This was love. It was Benedict in a new form, one you awoke, taking him back home, a home he’d always known for you were there through it all. He wanted to give you everything you desired, everything you deserved. And you would receive the best in return. But not in his brother’s study on his favorite reading chair.

“Anthony will kill us if we do anything here,” He pulled away in a moment of clarity, holding you close, your legs trembled, overcome with your passions. You ached for him dearly, more than you knew possible.

“I’ve done worse, I assure you,” you snicked, gathering your bearings, brushing off your outfit, ruffling out the wrinkles as if that cleared off any evidence of Benedict having his hands over you wasn’t obvious. “I’ve defiled my mind with notions of unrealistic nonsense.”

He raised a brow, looking unamused, a flicker of amusement flashing before boisterous laughter, likely caused by Lady Featherington passing by the door and you inhaled sharply, the anticipation ticking by each moment. As soon as it came it went, hopefully, spurred on in good spirits. Lady Featherington surely didn’t have half the mind to break into Anthony’s study.

Benedict cracked open the door beckoning you over, taking your arm by the elbow, “Up the stairs, second door on the left. I’ll knock three times so you know it’s me.”

You nodded, taking in his appearance, his disheveled hair, mused vest, and undershirt beneath. You would be lying to yourself if you denied the excitement of what lies beneath but the other side of you was equally terrified.

******

Dashing up the stairs was easier said than done, the events of the evening causing your head to spin in a mixture of wonder, anxiety, and borderline delirium. You were sure you were dreaming but the stairs beneath your feet are solid, beckoning you up to the elegant quarters where the Bridgertons slept. You glided your hand along the banister admiring the railing, willing yourself not to fall, raucous laughter closing in, dangerously close by from the sound fluttering through the halls.

Perhaps Lady Featherington sought to uncover your dalliance after all. That would be the talk of the ton, however, you knew the Bridgertons could afford some slander from Lady Whistledown, but fortunately, all she commented on was the growing size of the family, the lovely grandchildren Vicountess Bridgerton had the pleasure of seeing when Daphne and Simon returned to town.

You silently cursed your attire and its restricted movement when you made it to the landing, stopping for the briefest moment to catch your breath. You didn't bother asking if his younger siblings were asleep, but he didn’t seem to care at that moment, the way his eyes glanced along your body, and the smile along his lips was far too distracting anyway.

Your minds were busy with other thoughts, the taste of his lips still freshly imprinted into your memory. You did everything as he instructed, the door to his room groaning on its hinges making your heart race, but you peeked out the door to be certain.

No maids padded down the corridor, the only sign of life was the music and laughter intermingling for what you could imagine would be all hours of the night. The Bridgertons could throw a grand party, no doubt about it.

Benedict's quarters greeted you with the scent of him, masculine and comforting. It felt like home, the furniture dark and handsome, the shelves lined with countless books, figurines along his desk not to mention his infamous sketchbook lying on his desk in the corner by the fireplace. Charred pieces of crumbled paper jutted out from the embers.

Curiously, you reached out for it turning to a page. It didn't take you long to figure out the odd figures as you pieced each frame together, a culmination of finished pieces, sketches, and half-started attempts, frustrated pen strokes deft in their quest to uncover the beauty ready to bloom.

Hands. Intertwined, graceful elegant, smooth lines, hardened ridges, callouses palms, delicately resting ones. Upon further inspection, you noticed the tried and failed attempts at an all too familiar pair of hands. It was odd to look at how he depicted yours, strong, yet graceful, adept at anything you put your mind to between needlework, horseback riding, the leather a fine feel in your hands.

You had to admit some were quite good while some lacked depth and luster. Practice made it worth it in the end, some of the figures he drew resembled a striking resemblance to his family, almost as if he were imitating the artist of the figurines, which when you looked longer were small likenesses of his mother, father, and siblings. The sight warmed your heart.

"Benedict! You're missing the partyyy!" A shrill giggle outside the hall pulled you from your exploration, your heart racing in tandem. You hoped and prayed it wasn’t Gregory and Hyacinth. From your previous encounters, you knew they were sharp, keen-eyed, and inquisitive about a multitude of subjects on top of their general mischievousness. Plus, you weren’t in the mood to ask any questions, but where the hell was Benedict?

Despite yourself you began pacing, desperately trying to avoid glancing at the bed draped in fine sheets, a fine rich deep velvety blue coverlet gracing it giving the piece a regal appearance. You wanted nothing more than to lose yourself between the downy softness of it all and fall into blissful dreams, and yet, there are other pressing matters to attend to.

The giggling resumed and you sighed, thinking better of yourself, not wanting this to be a joke.

You found yourself opening the door, greeted with the voice of none other than Violet Bridgerton whispering, on the verge of a quiet yell to her second song, grasping onto his elbow at the lower landing of the stairs. “Benedict! Good heavens, you’re to retire so earlyyyy???”

He rolled his eyes half in amusement and exasperation. “Mother, I have matters to attend to, plus the other mothers merely want to hunt me for sport and pair them with their retched daughters.”

His eyes flashed, glancing up, his gaze boring into yours, flooding your body with warmth. He quirked a brow, challenging you while his mother rambled drunkenly along, still grasping his elbow while he shifted his weight on his feet.

Shut the door, he mouthed to you, causing your lips to quirk in the barest hint of a smile.

“Quite right, you have a fair point. But there was that one lovely person you danced with twice back in the orangery perhaps…”

At that exact moment, you opened the door further to grant yourself a better view of Benedict’s struggle and also partly in retaliation to his protests, only for the grand door to let out a massive agonizing wail. The giggle left you of your own volition at Benedict’s bewildered expression rendering you completely helpless as Violet looked up at you, the same Bridgerton eyes, older, wiser and so kind smiled at you, albeit borderline tipsy.

“I see now I see. That’s the pressing matter you have to attend to. Don’t mess it up dear boy,” she slewed, chuckling to herself, before whispering in his ear, his face flushing in response. Violet released his arm, winking up at you before traipsing down the stairs, leaving a flustered Benedict behind to collect his thoughts before he came back to his senses, scurrying up the stairs while you slipped back into his room, posting yourself right in front of the door, keeping it cracked just so. When he arrived you only catch a glimpse of his eyes flashing before the door sealed you completely from his sight.

Silence greeted you and you feared you might have ignited his wrath, alas you merely wanted to tease him.

The seconds tick by then three knocks follow.

Were you going to answer him? Oh, he was going to make you pay for this with many kisses. He huffed before composing himself.

You still didn’t answer.

“Don’t play with me, dear unless you wish for them all to hear us when we should be dancing.” When he knocked for the second time, you decided to open the door, the scowl imprinted on his face illuminating a side of him you desperately wanted to see. You did this to him. Without hesitation, he locked the door behind him and immediately pressed you against the wall, a scowl forming along his lips.

“You wouldn’t dare flash me before the eligible men of the ton tonight if you had to.” You whispered, brushing a stray hair off his forehead. “I belong to you, Benedict. Even if I am an old maid.” Your heart thundered in your chest. You were home, you belonged to no one else, nowhere else but here in Benedict's loving arms.

“I am yours, oh love I’m yours.” His voice cracked, overcome with realization and the emotion of it all, his scowl replaced by pursed lips, wandering hands, lavishing your body in the simplest yet heat-induced touches and you wanted - craved - more. More of him. Benedict. Your Benedict.

“Benedict, Benedict…Benedict,” Your was all you can muster with the meeting of his lips upon yours, feeling the depths of him, pulling to you crashing over you like a tidal wave. You were a sailor lost at sea who made it to the safety of the harbor and oh, it was blissful beyond anything beyond your wildest dreams.

“Say it again,” he pleaded, each kiss awakening desires long suppressed, ones you hadn't acknowledged since they only came about throughout the course of your friendship with Benedict. Only he could put you under his unique spell, craving his lips, the brush of his hand against yours and here you are getting more than you dreamed.

“Benedict,” You sighed blissfully as he kissed you once more, kisses languidly savoring the feel of you as he guided you up onto the bed, the coverlet as luxurious as you surmised. You’ve not come close to feeling something so heavenly as this and Benedict, oh, he was more than you ever dreamed. The novels you’d read didn’t hold a flame to each sensation buzzing through your body, the magnetizing gaze of his upon yours, already undressing you with his eyes. You wanted to take your time, alas it was getting harder to resist. Benedict was one thing if not impossible, but he was yours, irrevocably so.

A fire in the fireplace crackled to life, startling you for a moment, while Benedict caressed your jaw, memorizing every inch, and you selfishly wonder if he'll draw your portrait one day, trying to capture the first moment he had you to himself in his chambers. He moves his exploration from your jaw to your shoulder, then your hands, leaving kisses where he can, murmuring sweet nothings, soft praises that have your knees weak and you wanting him all the more.

“Your hands are lovely, nothing can compare to me holding them,” he whispered, caressing them softly, continuing to place kisses of adoration along them while you gazed at his soft loving eyes. “I cannot capture their beauty, their essence onto the page. I’ve tried and failed for months.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’ve done a fine job, Benedict. Your art is beautiful, never lose that passion inside you, it’s ethereal strong, spellbinding, and magnetic.”

“As are you. You’re everywhere in my waking hour, in my dreams and sleepless nights. You’re my muse. You inspire me.” His voice wavered, a tear sliding down his cheek. Every bit of him belonged to you, there was no question, no doubt about it.

Without another word, you tug on his vest, a beautiful shade of the signature Bridgerton blue, his shirt embellished with small bees. Everything looked wonderful when it was on him, but you wanted more, to lose yourself to him countless times throughout the night.

“You’re pretty much the only reason I get out of bed most mornings,” You swallowed as he turned to face you, his hands cupping your face.

“My love, oh my love,” he kisses you softly, in equal parts awe and reverence intertwined, making you forget where you are, the time and place. It’s you and him safe in each other’s embrace. His kisses trailed from your hands up to your neck, nipping softly, eliciting soft groans from you and you returned them in kind, his fingers stroking along your back, pulling you closer in his embrace.

You brushed away another tear from his cheek, one falling from your eye as well and he wiped it away, kissing you gently before wrapping around behind you, desperation, adoration, awe, and passion guiding him. His lips connected with your neck, and you sighed in satisfaction, his hands wandering down your torso, lighting you up on the inside and you groan leaning back into him, leaving your mind to wander while you savored his touches.

“Good, you’re not thinking, that’s right. Much better see?” His hand wandered lower, down stroking you just so, warmth blooming through your body. He relished your moans, biting into your neck as he watched the effect he has on you, wishing he could have done this to you earlier all the wasted time you have to make up for now.

You urged him on through desperate kisses as you pull clothes from your bodies, every inch of him visible to you, eagerness and passion alike driving you both.

“Keep going, please.” The last of your clothing fell to the floor and he pulled you back onto the bed while assuring him you have all the time in the world. “I want you, Benedict, always have, always will.”

He needed nothing more but your constant assurance, his fingers dipping into you, gliding along your body making you fall into his ministrations, your breathing ragged as you fell into bliss, his fingers replaced with his tongue sending you soaring into another place another time and it felt so irrevocably right, your fingers digging into his mass of curls encouraging him along, more than eager to assist your release. And when you were spent, his lips met yours hunger and desire battling, intertwined as you tasted yourself on his lips. You wanted more, you wanted all of him, however, in the midst of it all you found yourself asking a question as you kissed him once more, this time slower, unrushed.

"What did your mother say to have you flustered as you are?" You batted your eyes, casting an impish smile, a look you know he couldn't resist. He hummed, his free hand stroking your side, his voice low in your ear. "My dearest mother told me to treat you well and that we best enjoy ourselves a little bit before our union. Told us to enjoy ourselves."

“Her intuition is uncanny, I never want to be on her bad side.” You huffed as Benedict groaned, pulling you in for yet another kiss, trailing down your body, making you squirm, not listening in the slightest, for he was far too distracted, focused on you before him. He would never tire of the sight, thanking his lucky stars.

Finally, after years of yearning and pining when you’re joined, it’s a bliss, unlike anything you’ve known. You stifled a moan at the feeling, Benedict brushing a stray hair from your eyes, trapping you against him. “Love, I want to hear you, alright? Can you do that for me?” Your eyes widened at the request but when he moves against you, pleasure filling every fiber of your body you cry his name to the heavens.

Oh, how he loved it the soft whimpers, you begging for more and your name sounding just as sweet and sinful falling from his parted lips, swollen from your nipping and kissing. You want the moment to last for oblivion yet when you both lose yourself to your bliss, delirium hits and you pulled him closer in your arms, his face resting in the crook of your neck, the bed and sheets in disarray. You smirked to yourself more than pleased with the outcome.

He continued to kiss your neck, nuzzling more, your hands stroking his curls. “I love you, Benedict.”

“I love you more, my love.”

“I’ll love you forever.”

“How about eternity?” He intertwines your hand with his own, kissing your ring finger. “Will you marry me?”

Your heart thrummed erratically but warmed at his loving gaze full of joy, hope, and wonder. It was a face you wanted to wake up with a kiss and love for all your days.

“Yes, Benedict, a thousand times yes.”

The smile that shot across his face kickstarted your heart and he kissed you for the thousandth time of the evening, not that you were complaining. For you have an eternity to kiss, love, and be loved by him. You settled against his chest, his embrace warm and reassuring, his hands settling on your belly soft and warm, while you drift off to sleep of bliss thinking only of Benedict and what the future holds.

******

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #bridgerton netflix #benedict bridgerton x afab reader #afab reader #my writing

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art-missy · 5 months ago

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"Give them back."

You looked down from the ceiling beam you were sat on to see Percival's little frown that you found endearing.

"But you look so cute without them on, dearest." you chuckled to which he sighed.

Percival's irritated scowls were more visible without his glasses on and you were always the first one to admire them. His green eyes seemed to shine as he glared in your direction and your lips wanted to kiss the quiver of annoyance that animated his. You wanted to smoothe the crinkle between his brows. You wanted to caress the fair skin of his cheeks.

You loved when his face was so expressive. He was a piece of art that you wanted to keep for yourself and admire until the end of your days.

"I don't have time for your mischiefs," he groaned and started pacing under you.

"Well I do," you chuckled.

He stopped pacing with an annoyed huff, looked up at and froze. He saw badly without his glasses, but he could see your legs swaying above him and feel the intensity of your gaze on him. He could almost feel how your pulse quicken when your eyes met his. He felt like he was on the middle of the stage of a theatre and your eyes were the totality of the audience and the lighting. You had the unique talent to irritate him and to make him nervous.

"I can see your eyes better without your glasses on."

The awe and reverence in your tone rose goosebumps in the back of his neck and reddened his ears. Percival felt flustered under your eyes. Your pupils were relishing the sight of his breathing hitching.

"Please Percy, let me admire you."

#percy de rolo x reader #tlovm #the legend of vox machina percival #percy x reader #percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii #the legend of vox machina x reader #the legend of vox machina Percival x reader #critical role x reader #critical role tlovm #tlovm fanfiction #tlovm imagines #tlovm x reader #percival x reader #percival de rolo x reader #the legend of vox machina imagines #the legend of vox machina #★nana is writing…

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hotheadedhero · 7 months ago

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Learning Curves

Being in a relationship with a mutant turtle comes with its challenges and not always the kind you would expect

2012 Turtles x Reader

Turtle of choice ___________________

When it comes to new dating, there's a fair share of hurdles to overcome. Whether that be understanding what makes your partner tick, how to manage certain boundaries, and so on. Dating a mutant turtle who has been trained in the ancient art of ninjitsu comes with a different set of hoops to jump through.

With him being a vigilante, you expected to endure sleepless nights in which you'd worry for his wellbeing. You anticipated that it would get easier over time. You were wrong. The evenings drag out, painstakingly slow, until you finally receive a message confirming that he's okay. Despite your best efforts to remain rational, you can't help your wondering mind from firing horrible images of his demise. It's something you try to keep quiet but he eventually catches onto it and that's when he suggests you sleep over for the first time.

When you each get over your initial bashfulness, it is a truly heavenly delight - wrapped up in his arms and lulled into a safe security. You both have to wonder why you never suggested this earlier but things are still new. Without a doubt, it's the best you've slept since the beginning of your relationship.

Morning comes and you awake atop his plastron. It feels like one of those moments in cheesy, romantic movies and you can't help but entertain indulgence. With a satisfied sigh, you make yourself comfortable, pressing your ear against his chest. A few moments pass and it dawns on you that you can't hear his heartbeat. In a short, ferocious wave of fright, you sit up and call out his name over and over. Your sudden wails and shaking of his body wake him up in a panic. When you realise he isn't dead, you let out a heavy breath and relieved tears quickly follow. He first worries that you had some horrific nightmare and tries his best to calm you down. For the most part, you're still shaken up but you manage to explain to him what had happened for you to get so worked up.

You do not appreciate the bellows of laughter that follow.

"It's not funny!" you cry.

You hit his arm and roll onto the bed, turning your back to him. As he takes you back into his arms, he's still laughing his stupid little head off. He isn't making fun of you. Well, he is but he just hadn't expected that to be why you got into such a tizzy. In all honesty, your concern is adorably sweet and he feels honoured to have someone who cares so much about him.

Researching the matter later, you understand why it was so impossible to hear his heart in the first place:

'With their thick protective shells, listening with a stethoscope for a heartbeat is impossible. The best way to check for a heartbeat is to use a doppler ultrasound to pick up on a pulse.'

You almost have to snicker at yourself for how absurd it is to research your boyfriend's anatomy. Typically, these kinds of searches entail how to kiss properly or birthday gift ideas. Normal stuff where having a new boyfriend is concerned. Yet again, you should have known this kind of relationship would be anything but normal.

Dating a mutant comes with obstacles but you know you would never have it any other way.

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2012 #tmnt x reader #x reader #leonardo #raphael #donatello #michelangelo #leo #raph #donnie #mikey #tmnt headcanons #headcanon #turtle of choice

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puttersmile · 3 months ago

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Crittertember Day 16: Sleeping

Yes have some more Puppylove! And a oneshot to go with it!

When the skies darkened Dogday had a sinking feeling it was too late to leave. He’d lost track of time and without warning a sudden thunderstorm rolled in. The thunder rumbled, making Dogday tense up and his tail sag. He had always tried to hide his fear of storms, even though his friends knew.

Bobby didn’t like it much either, but as the storm intensified and it became clear that Dogday couldn’t leave, she nervously suggested,

“Why don’t you, uh, stay the night? We could… keep each other company?” Bobby saw the rain pouring in sheets outside her window. “ Like maybe we could–”

“S-sleep together? Like… in the bed? Under the covers? The same bed? The both of us?” Dogday stammered, trying to play dumb to mask his own nervousness.

Bobby blushed but nodded.. “Yes, in the same bed. We’ll be more comfortable that way, and it’s not like I want to face this storm alone.”

Dogday gulped. “I mean, I can always take the couch…”

Bobby shook her head quickly. “No, really. I’d feel better if you were with me. It’s already late enough as it is.” Bobby genty pulled his hand. "Promise I won't bite."

Dogday couldn’t help but laugh, albeit shyly. “Well, when you put it that way… Okay, I’m in. But fair warning, I might need to hold onto something if the thunder gets too loud.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Well, as long as that ‘something’ happens to be me, I think we’ll be just fine.”

She lead him to her room, the storm outside seemed to boom only half as hard as Dogday’s heartbeat. Yet it also made the space feel cozier despite the crackling tension in the air. They settled into bed, a timid excitement bubbling up as they cuddled close.

Dogday was hyper-aware of her warmth, the scent of her fur, and the steady rhythm of her breathing. It felt right, yet the newness of it all made his pulse race.

Another boom of thunder rolled through, and Dogday instinctively pulled her closer.

“You weren’t kidding about needing to hold onto something, huh?” Bobby teased.

Dogday smiled sheepishly. “Guess not.” He glanced around, “You know, this is pretty scandalous. What will our friends think?”

Bobby grinned, playing along. “They’ll probably be jealous they’re not getting a warm hug from someone as awesome as me.”

Dogday snickered as he eased his side into one of Bobby’s oversized pillows. “You’re probably right.”

At that moment, Bobby leaned in and began peppering his face and neck with soft kisses, each one sending a thrill through her dog friend, his tail thumping against the blankets wildly. Enraptured by her affection, he managed to joke,

“H-hey, Bobs! You know, I’m starting to think you wanted the storm to get me into this kind of position!”

Bobby pulled back just enough to smirk at him, her eyes gleaming. “That’s a strong possibility, but I’ll admit nothing.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, the storm outside no longer feeling like a threat but more like a backdrop to this moment.

Bobby broke the silence with a soft voice, “You know, I’ve imagined this… falling asleep with you. It’s nice, even if I didn’t picture the thunder.”

Dogday’s heart swelled, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Me too. And I don’t care about the thunder as long as you’re here.”

Bobby giggled. “It can’t hurt you as long as I’m around.”

Dogday yawned. “My hero.”

Bobby smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the blankets wrapped around them. “Well, in that case, I guess we’ll have to make this a regular thing.”

Dogday chuckled, the sound soft and comforting as he started drifting into sleep. Finally his tail rested.

“I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

AN: I doggedly continue making Crittertember art. They should be under the blankets but I drew them first and didn't want to erase half their body lol.

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mediumgayitalian · 10 months ago

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“I made this for you.”

Nico stares, blankly, and the freckly hand extended out to him. Twisted around the long, calloused fingers, snagging on a black-lacquered chipped nail, is a bracelet.

Hesitantly, Nico takes it.

It’s woven in some way. He doesn’t recognize the exact pattern; Annabeth probably would. Not a braid, certainly, not any particular shape he can recognise. It’s bi-coloured, a twist of black and yellow, strings wrapped around them in an aborted spiral, almost. There’s a snag a third way into the bracelet, a tiny little error betraying its homemade status.

Under the guise of still inspecting the bracelet, Nico peers through his eyelashes. Will’s attention has long since shifted to somewhere to the left of him, rocking back on his heels, teeth gnawing into his lips as he hums. No longer extended out between them, waiting for Nico’s next move, his hands pick at the colour on his nails, picking off the polish chip by chip.

Dozens of similar bracelets stack his wrists, his ankles; rainbow of colours clashing horribly with the mint green of the cheap plastic shoes.

“What…” He pauses, clearing his throat. He feels Will’s attention on him, the warming rays of his soft smile. Surely this can’t be…

“It’s a friendship bracelet! We were makin’ pottery in Arts ‘n Crafts; I got distracted and the whole thing went squelch.” He blows a raspberry, smacking his fist into his hand. Nico jumps. “Totally collapsed! Anyways. Made a friendship bracelet for all my friends, yellow for me, black for you. I got a matching one!” He holds up his his wrist. It takes Nico a second of squinting to find the matching one — yellow and black, twisted, just like the one he’s wearing, nestled against the others like he’s been wearing it for years.

I made one for all my friends.

“You, uh.” His palms sweat. He tucks them behind his back before Will notices, although the twinkle in his eye tells him he might have an idea. “You’ve done this before.”

It’s not much of a question. Will takes it as one anyway.

“Mhm. You don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want to, I can take it —”

Nico wrenches himself away. Will blinks.

“Absolutely not,” he says, before he realizes what’s coming out of his mouth. “You made it for me. It’s mine.” In a flurry of movement, he tugs the bracelet over his hand, twisting the loosely hanging part around his thumb.

Slowly, giving him time to pull away, a freckly hand comes back into his space. When Nico — frozen — doesn’t flinch away, they rest on the jut of his wrist, the scar on the palm of his hand.

“I got it,” he murmurs. Nico glances up to find Will already looking at him, blue eyes wide and imploring and soft.

Nico has never associated blue eyes with softness. Intensity, maybe. Clarity. Softness, to him, has long been the understanding brown of Reyna’s, the softly glowing embers of Lady Hestia’s. The golden glow of Hazel’s, especially, ever-smiling. (The gentle, endless, sun-warmed clay brown of Bianca’s. Too big for her face, hidden behind her bangs; except, of course, when Nico was overwhelmed and miserable and needed her, needed her, needed her. Or when the lawyer came to their room door, steel-faced, giving the same news, and Nico would slide a small hand in hers, squeezing.)

Will’s eyes are soft, though, he realizes. Like cotton candy at DC fairs, like grape hyacinth, like the blanket he toted around as a baby. Like a sunny smile and golden hair and teasing winks when everything is too too much.

“There.”

With a gentle tug, the loose strings of the friendship bracelet tightly pull the bracelet snug against his wrist. Looser, barely even touching, Will’s fingers follow the contours of the bracelet. He lingers. Nico wonders if he can feel his pulse, pounding, endless.

“Thank you,” he manages, finally. His throat is dry. “For.”

The rest of his sentence won’t come out. Before he can panic, Will smiles; beams, really, eyes crinkling shut, and the short breaths clattering his lungs fizzle out entirely.

“Oh,” he says, several things slotting together at once. “Oh.”

“Anytime,” Will responds grinning, squeezing Nico’s wrist once more before bouncing off. “See you around!”

He’s far gone before Nico finds his voice again. But he smiles, still, eyeing the pretty bracelet, and whispers, “You, too.”

#will making nicos first friendship bracelet. yeah #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #nico di angelo #will solace #solangelo #will/nico #nico/will #dialogue prompts #100 ways #100 ways to say i love you #my writing #fic

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some-bunniii · 9 months ago

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— self indulgence time, say howdy to my hellaverse oc! [+ a fic]

Kokabiel, one of Hell’s original celebrities and fashion icons [art by mamma_hisa]

I have a 6k word fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for awhile, and i worked long enough on it so i think it deserves some sunlight

i wrote the first chapter to a lucifer x oc story in an AU where Lilith leaves when Charlie is a baby and Kokabiel accidentally becomes her maternal figure, and it was going to be long but then I never touched it again ☠️ she was made originally made for the fic but she’s so gorgeous and mommy i spent days fleshing her out as my main bbyg.

working on a few things so take this for now to get a taste of her and some morningstar love! no romance, just introductions.

“Charlie, please go to sleep” The pearlescent figure next to the small bed begged the toddler, who was trying to scramble out of his grip and away from the covers that were wrapped around her waist.

The man’s platinum-blonde hair was disheveled, dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep that was quite evident on his features as he tiredly pulled the girl back onto the bed, holding her still as she whined against his hands.

His mouth opened in a wide yawn, his shark-like teeth glinting in the soft light that emanated from the bedside lamp next to him. He blinked slowly, trying to rid himself of the exhaustion that was trying to overtake him, his eyelids beginning to droop even as he continued to wrestle his daughter.

Charlie shot her father a nasty glare, brows furrowed as she frowned deeply. The bright red spots that graced the chub of her cheeks lowered as her lips curled downward. They were one of the many features she shared with the pale man before her, including those soft, sun-kissed locks and snow-bathed skin.

She also shared the same tired eyes that met hers sternly, but her mind was too active to allow her body those much-needed hours of rest.

The rest her father, Lucifer Morningstar, also needed.

“I know you’re sleepy, sweetheart! Just lay still so daddy can get some shut-eye too, hm?”

“No!” Charlie whined, lips puckered in distraught as her strength began to wane. Why would she sleep when she could be playing with her stuffed goats instead?! It just wasn’t fair!

“Yes!” Lucifer commanded, before he growled softly and lifted a finger towards the small child, a glint of golden light lit on the tip of his claw as he pressed it softly against Charlie’s forehead.

For a moment it flickered against her pale skin, and Lucifer removed his finger as Charlie froze at the sudden tingling sensation.

Her mouth was in the shape of a small o as she tried to get a look at whatever her father had placed on her, but the only clue in her vision was the twinkle of aurum light. A warmth began to seep into her skin, emanating from the magic blooming across her face.

Like a firework launching into the night sky, the tiny orb shot from her forehead up towards the ceiling, before it burst into a flurry of sparks that glimmered in the darkness, casting the walls with their vibrant hues.

The golden light danced above Charlie’s head, her eyes wide and in awe as the golden sparks began to melt into rippling waves that spiraled across the ceiling.

Lucifer flicked off the bedside light, the room darkening slightly as the magic above basked the room in a subtle warm glow as it pulsed rhythmically.

He still sat beside the bed, hand resting limply against Charlie’s chest as the interest in her eyes soon turned to sleepiness, and her eyelids began to droop.

Lucifer watched with a small smile as a magical display began to lull Charlie into sleep, and it only took a few more minutes before her face relaxed into a peaceful expression and her breathing swallowed.

Roughling rubbing a hand down his face with a sigh, Lucifer stood from the floor. His fuzzy pink robe drooped from his shoulders just enough to expose his bare, finely chiseled chest.

Quietly, he tip-toed across the bedroom, stepping over dolls, stuffed animals, and other trinkets that littered the floor. As long as he was careful, he wouldn’t risk waking the child.

Lucifer’s fingers wrapped around the door handle, before he waved his hand in the air, and the golden light dispersed, showering the room in shadows once more.

Cracking open the door just a tad, he slipped into the hallway. Lucifer’s back hit the door’s solid, oak frame as he exhaled a sigh of relief. The fallen angel felt like he could slide down onto the plush red carpet and hibernate right there, but he was the King of Hell, he had too much self-respect for that.

Raking a hand through his disheveled hair, Lucifer began to drag his feet down the hall, fatigue gnawing at his mind as he passed by the large paintings that hung upon the dark red walls, a perfect backdrop to the fair-skinned figures that posed elegantly inside the gold-framed portraits.

A man, his apple-red cheeks practically brushing against the edges of his face as he smiled brightly. A woman stood tall beside him, a dark purple dress hugging her curved figure as she posed regally. Her fingers entwined with her counterpart, their intimacy evident.

Lucifer would take that down, eventually. It only ever reminded him of painful memories, of that violet, sultry gaze through which she would send him as they basked in the warmth of the large fireplace in the large lounge in their castle.

Wine glasses emptied again and again as the King listened to her gentle humming, her fingers laced with his as she pulled him closer. Her lips left wet, sloppy kisses against his chin. The faint trail of black lipstick as her mouth connected with his in a passionate embrace of body and soul, intertwined.

Lilith, the previous Queen of Hell. Lucifer’s ex-wife, Charlie’s mother.

How long had she been gone now? Lucifer knew the exact day, he practically memorized the minute and hour when she left. When Lilith had sent him one last look from the open front door, her gaze unreadable through the black shades on her face, her honey-colored hair flowing like water around her figure as the two lovers locked eyes for the final time.

“Goodbye, Lou,” Lilith had whispered, her voice like silk against his ears even in such an anguished moment. Strands of hair covered her features as she spoke, shielding her expression as she turned her head, her back facing the fallen angel as she stepped through the threshold.

Out of his home, out of his world.

And, Charlie’s too. It’s hard explaining to a child that their mommy went on a very, very long vacation. He’d have the courage to tell her… eventually. Except, that meant she might one day blame him, too.

What could Lilith have been feeling, happiness, sorrow, anger? Lucifer would never know, he had tried so desperately to even understand why she had left in the first place. Had there been signs? An argument of some kind he had forgotten? What had he done wrong, that his first love and the mother of his child, would leave him to care for Charlie and the realm, all alone?

It was Lilith who held most of the influence when it came to the lower-classed demons, her words and songs enlightening the residents of Hell, cultivating the realm like a garden as she watered the needy and uprooted those with dark intentions like invasive weeds.

To the people of Hell, Lucifer was the epitome of complete, ultimate power. The embodiment of pride, and the reminder of who would always have control.

He was rarely seen in public, especially in his own Ring, full of the very demons he despised the most. Sure, he had his covers on magazines and face plastered all over LuLu World, but that was where it ended.

Instead, the King kept his duties strictly to those most loyal and most powerful. The rest of the Deadly Sins, the Ars Goetia family, and once in a while joining on an overlord meeting.

As long as they understood who not to cross, the safety and security of his family would never be at risk, if one could even try and pose any threat to one of the first creations. The Morningstar that shone before Lilith, before Earth, before everything.

In all honesty, Lucifer didn’t really do… anything, when it came to his subjects.

It was Lilith whose appearance was imprinted into the minds of her subjects through her many concerts and powerful political influence. It was she who had given them the confidence to defy Heaven, to stand against their exterminations that plagued the Pride Ring once a year.

Now, Lucifer was left to hold up face, to keep the realm from divulging into chaos, as the stability of the hierarchy of Hell slipped slowly and slowly through his fingers. No matter how many demons he could smite with the snap of his fingers, the sinful on Earth would always be sent to him as punishment, for the both of them.

He needed to keep them all in line, as respectfully as possible.

Which meant Lucifer was alone to take care of Charlie, who was insanely active and needy for attention, like any demon her age. She couldn’t stay out of trouble, and Lucifer had to juggle her, his own volatile emotions that had been causing him to skip more and more meals, and the piling events that always filled his days this time of the year.

The annual gatherings with the Ars Goetia that he had to attend symbiotically to keep their unwavering loyalty, the meetings to make sure the rest of the Sins were keeping their rings afloat, and flaunting a little bit of his power to the Overlords in Pentagram City that liked to stir trouble in his own ring.

Hell needed a future so that his daughter would have something to rule over when she came of age and wisdom. No matter how he tried to push the thoughts of his little girl growing up and leaving him, sooner or later, the fledgling would have to leave the nest.

Lucifer could see it, clear as day, his spirit and creative spark deep in her gaze when she listened to his many ideas and visions of what could have been and what surely will be. The way she giggled quietly as he presented her toys of his creation, her soft gaze looking at each little trinket with adoration and inspiration.

If she was anything like the man Lucifer used to be, that meant she would no doubt rebel against his views of Hell and his subjects, and that scared the King.

Lucifer continued to pass more portraits, dimly lit by the warm glow of the wall lamps dotting the hallway. Pictures of his daughter, the other Sins, and the grand opening of LuLu World. The final portrait next to his bedroom door was a small painting, an almost-perfect recreation of the only Heavenly creation he still held close to his heart.

The Morning Star.

The large ball of bright, white light illuminated against the oily-black backdrop that was also speckled with smaller, glittering stars. Some shone in vibrant, multi-colored hues that lit the painted night sky with a soft celestial light.

Except, none of those stars shone as bright as his star, the star specifically created for him by a face whose familiarity had been long lost in time. A face that still gnawed at the edge of his mind every time he stared at that painting, those long-buried memories slowly crawling from the depths of his soul.

Maybe, one day, he’d have the strength to remember.

When the door to his room was pushed open softly, Lucifer’s eyes hit the digital clock on his nightstand. It was one in the afternoon, and Charlie would only nap for a few hours before she awakened with renewed energy.

The toddler has grown restless lately, anxious to see a new face, to take a peek outside of the confines of their large home. No matter how many magical displays Lucifer presented the child, she always grew bored, and that frown was becoming more permanent on her lips as the days passed.

It must be tiring waking up and practically seeing your reflection almost every minute of your day.

There was no one Lucifer could trust in the presence of his daughter, though. No one he could see fit enough to care for her, not even himself. He struggled, being a father, for his little apple pie.

Parenting was not easy, especially when you had no idea what you were doing. It was especially hard when you were too afraid to upset your daughter with stern words and an authoritative voice, which meant the toddler ran the house.

The most powerful being in Hell would have to put his foot down to his little girl… eventually. After this quick nap, maybe.

The large bed, much too big for only one person, beckoned Lucifer with an irresistible invitation. His legs moved with renewed strength before he fell face flat into the soft, cool duvet that welcomed him kindly. His muscles relaxed instantly, his feet dangling limply from the end of the bed as he finally opened his mind to the idea of sleep.

Slowly, Lucifer’s consciousness began to ebb, and his snores echoed around the room as his mind stilled into blackness.

What he wasn’t aware of, as the fallen angel sunk deeper into the plush, red blankets, was that the small bed on the opposite side of the hall was empty. Its previous inhabitant was currently tottling towards the door to his workshop that had been slightly ajar just across from her bedroom.

With wide eyes, Charlie scanned the room as she poked her head through the crack in the doorway, her little button nose twitching as she drank in all the little knick-knacks and prototypes of fantastical ideas that would never see the light of day.

It was dimly lit, save for the faint red glow pouring in from the large circular window above the desk across the room. There was nothing of interest on its smooth, wooden surface to the tiny awe-struck eyes. Instead, it was the soft, chromatic light that caught her gaze on a low shelf right next door.

Floating elegantly above a short, circular pedestal were seven glowing rings, stacked above each other a few inches apart with zero gravity. Each held a unique hue, from green to pink, as they lured Charlie with their ethereal glow. If she could lift her little body just slightly onto the chair against the desk, she could reach them.

What could they be, so pretty just floating like that? They looked just like glow-stick necklaces! Would Daddy think she was pretty if she put them on and showed him?

With a large smile and slightly unsteady steps, Charlie crossed the room, her tiny feet pitter-pattering against the soft carpet as she beelined for the colorful display. When she reached the wooden chair, her chin barely grazed against the cushioned seating as she placed her palms gingerly against its plush surface.

With a mighty heave and a sharp inhale of breath, the toddler began kicking her legs wildly as she tried gaining momentum to hoist herself onto the chair.

Charlie sputtered for breath as her grip loosened due to her sweaty palms, but then her leg hooked onto the seat railing, which gave her momentarily support to pull herself farther up until her knee grazed the top of the cushion.

Placing one arm underneath her for support, the toddler reached the other out towards the ring. Her fingers splayed out, the whites of her eyes glowing red as they reflected the ring’s vibrant hue.

Charlie held her breath, beginning to tip over just as her index finger grazed the very edge of the ring’s surface. Red energy shot down her spine, sending her hair to stick out with static

The girl barely got a squeak in before she vanished in a burst of lightning that barely resonated a sound as it zapped her away.

The red ring flickered once, faltering above the rest for only a moment, before it stilled into place.

And the room was empty once more.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀🤍🤍🤍

On the outskirts of the Pride Ring was a small, white villa nestled against a rocky cliff face, surrounded by tall, black fencing that ended in sharp, spiked ends. Purple magic sizzled off of the tips, a clear warning to anyone who wanted to enter: They would not be welcome.

Inside the powerful barrier, was a large garden filled with a surreal combination of beauty and decay. Vibrant flowers bloomed amidst twisted, blackened trees that seemed to reach out with gnarled branches like skeletal fingers.

The floral scent that wafted from the blossoms permeated the air, mixed with the slight tinge of sulfur of Hell’s odor.

Nestled among the dark purple bushes and other hellish flora, were tall snow-white sculptures of men and women, their stone eyes staring lifelessly across the garden’s expanse.

A diverse cast of figures, short and brawny, too tall and lanky. Each unique from the rest.

Except, for their facial expressions, in which they each held a similar look of terror. As if they had been frozen in place during a time of anguish, of a terrifying encounter that left them to rot inside their pretty stone casks.

They were positioned across the lawn in a perfect, meticulous manner. As if someone spent day in and day out holed up inside the black fencing, with nothing to do but continuously cultivate their blooming garden.

One particular statue, which held the image of a goat-like man, staring up at the sky as if in one final prayer, was currently being inspected by a gracefully poised woman standing before it. Painted on his frozen cheek, was a small black lipstick-stained kiss.

From a distance, you’d think she was human. The silky, black dress that hugged her curves was reminiscent of ancient Greek fashion. Her shoulders were fully exposed, garment held up by a high neckline that tickled at her throat as she leisured, a glass of alcohol in her hand.

Her rich, deep brown skin stood out among the pearlescent, marble statues. Practically shimmering against the red hues that basked her home with the midday light.

An ethereal radiance seemed to seep from her skin, giving her silhouette a faint, golden glow that made her skin shimmer like light on morning dew.

Her hairstyle was similar to a ponytail, a partial updo that sat at the top of her head like a bun, before the long, white locs cascaded down her back.Along with two large strands that framed the sides of her angled face.

The big differential between her and a woman strolling down the street? The horns that graced the top of her head. They curved to end just above her forehead, a black crown that cemented her place as another resident of Hell.

Travel a bit farther down her figure, and you’d find those large, white tendrils of hair that swished as she turned slightly had a funny texture to them that most would mistake for thick braids.

Except, braids aren’t made of scales, are they?

At her ankles, a multitude of snakeheads stuck out their tongues, tasting the air as their beady red eyes scanned across the grassy scape.

They twisted around each other, curling into themselves to keep a tighter form as they wriggled against the woman’s back, interest peaked at their surroundings as their tongues flicked in and out.

Once in a while, a head would spot some small, hellish critter skittering across the yard looking for food. And, before one could blink, its jaws would open wide as it shot forward, pulling slightly at the woman’s scalp as it clamped its maw around the tiny creature.

It would slink back near her ankles, trying to gulp down the tasty delicacy as the other snakes around it poked and prodded for a taste. They hissed and snapped at one another, fighting for a morsel.

The woman turned her head, shooting the reptilian mass a glare as they wrapped around her legs. Milky white pools met multiple red, glowing eyes as they slunk back slightly at her scolding, giving time for the one snake to finish gobbling up his snack without fuss.

The two smaller serpents that framed her face weren’t as long as the rest of their siblings, instead reaching to her breasts as they lazily rested on the fabric of her dress.

Tenderly, the woman lifted an arm, and her shorter serpent curled delicately around her hand, until its head rested gingerly on her palm.

Gently, she brushed a thumb along its snout, and it hissed softly with pleasure, its eyes closing shut as it nestled farther into her warm skin.

“Jameson, another margarita, please.”

“Yes, Lady Kokabiel,” a small imp butler bowed, his cropped, curly white hair bouncing slightly as he lowered his head.

Turning, the imp trotted towards a shaded area underneath a weeping willow tree, its low-hanging branches that grazed against his shoulders were dark red, shielding the large mixture of alcohol from the heat of the day as he poured another glass of the blue liquid.

When Jameson returned, Kokabiel handed him the empty glass before plucking the margarita from his grasp. She sent him an appreciative smile, her white freckles sparkling like starlight as they curved with her lips.

She swirled the alcohol in the glass, watching the small vortex for a few moments, before lifting it to her lips and taking a sip.

That’s how Kokabiel spent most of her days in Hell, nowadays. Getting a buzz off of fruity liquor and fawning over her snakes, as she lounged in her garden with no one to bother her.

It had been a long time since she left the spotlight, previously a fashion and sex icon, Kokabiel had flaunted her good looks and curves to promote all kinds of products and events, dominating the biggest runways. She even starred in a couple of A-list movies, growing her until she reached the peak of stardom.

Kokabiel had earned her place at the top of the pyramid, right next to many older, successful celebrities in the industry. Lilith was a big name, even bigger than Koko’s with how beautiful of a singer she was, pulling in fans like a siren with her honeyed voice.

Even with such cutthroat competition, Kokabiel never felt that she was fading out of the audience’s vision with how fast her mailbox would fill with writings from her fans

Fanart, declarations of love written in sparkly pink ink, and invitations to large parties and prestigious events. Even now, she still received fan mail here or there, although they were usually left unanswered.

She had never wanted to retire in the first place, her plans for the future only confining to grow bigger by the day. Until one night, during a party hosted by the overlords of the city, was Kokabiel confronted with an ultimatum.

“I know your secret,” he had smiled devilishly. That flat-faced, know-it-all smirk the man sent her one evening, as he confronted her in the darkness of a hallway.

“What secret?” Kokabiel laughed dryly, shooting him a question glare.

“Oh, you know,” his pixelated eyes lifted to the darkened sky through the ceiling-high windows nearby, Heaven’s white glow cascading through the panes, “The one about where you really came from, not the Lust Ring lie you like to spin to the audience.”

The alcoholic buzz in Kokabiel’s system faded in an instant, and her snakes coiled against her back, hissing loudly as she shot him a deathly glare. It had seemed he had chosen to give the news from a safe distance, too far for her snakes to reach. A smart man.

How did he find out, and what did he plan to do with that information?

That smile of his had only widened further, giddy at the fact he had her in his grasp. He could pull the strings, keep her away from his industry. This secret, that he had only stumbled upon accidently, was going to make sure she stayed gone.

Kokabiel had never caused trouble, never flaunted her power to rise up Hell’s hierarchy, never made any public displays of how easily she could rip demon’s souls out of their bodies if they got too close.

Nor did any demon claim to be owned by her, as they were too busy being decorative pieces to tell their tale.

Kokabiel’s presence was a mystery to her powerful counterparts. Her aura was too clean, too ethereal to be a sinner or an average hellborn. But, she had never actually said the words ‘Yes, I’m from Heaven.’

She didn’t need to, anymore. After that little conversation, the talking TV had made a deal. Keep that pretty face away from the cameras, and his lips were sealed for eternity.

Kokabiel had announced her retirement a day later, not answering a single question about why or where she was going. Those cameras and microphones that had gotten shoved in her face received no words as received hurried into her limo.

How could Kokabiel, someone whose face was once plastered onto entire sides of buildings, fall so hard because of some up-and-coming overlord with the intent to control the masses? She’d had bigger spats with the paparazzi on the side of the street than this!

Now, she didn’t have to worry about those annoying flies anymore, with their constant flashes that always anguished her snakes and the peppering of questions.

Finally away from any prying eyes and those awful, bright flashes that plagued every step Kokabiel took out in public. Here, she could do and say anything, without someone waiting to jump at the opportunity to sell a shitty, non-contextual picture to the highest tabloid bidder.

Solitude gets boring, though. Even with her snakes to crawl over and her garden to tend, one could only vent to the marble figures for so long before they felt their sanity slipping.

That was until an imp had squeezed his way through the thick pickets of her fence, those short white curls singed at the tips from the magic that stung him.

Whatever was chasing the small man was more dangerous as he continued to beeline toward the bushes that could shelter him.

The imp had turned his head, catching the sight of his pursuers as they reached the fence. Three burly, tall shark demons roared as his tiny frame sped off.

That only led him to meet horns first into the stomach of the owner of the fence, and the land he was currently trespassing on. With an oomph he landed on hit, gaze darting at the being standing above him.

Kokabiel had quirked a brow, unamused as she wiped the dirt from the front of her dress. It wasn’t until one shark demon rammed into the fence, did she lifted her head and a dark frown played on her lips.

He had seen it, the power behind her gaze, when the loan sharks blew up one of her favorite rose bushes as they broke through the gates.

“How dare you,” she had hissed, her white gaze boring into the thugs, glowing with a much fiercer intensity as she bared her teeth, “Get out!”

The imp had flinched, but Kokabiel’s anger was not directed at him as she stepped right above his quivering body, and he could feel the soft grazing of scales against his raised arms before he turned to watch the woman continue to meet the loan sharks halfway.

“Not without our little friend there,” one sneered, his teeth glinting as he gave the woman a silent warning of his strength.

“Unfortunate that you aren’t the one making the demands,” she retorted, putting herself between the sharks and their prey.

With a loud, collective hiss, the bodies of her snakes lifted, encircling her head, and they opened their maws with extended fangs, displaying their own grim warning with bright red eyes.

The aggressor didn’t like that so much, as he opened he pulled out a large, glowing steel-laced ax and charged right for the duo. The imp squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow.

The Kokabiel’s pupils shifted from that starlit glint into black pools of emptiness, and the air sizzled with a powerful energy right as the shark-faced man swung his weapon to connect with her shoulder. At the last moment, the fallen angel ducked and backpedaled, right as one of her snakes lashed forward, jaw wide to reveal twin, deadly fangs and struck the demon right in the eye.

The scales of her snakes pulsed with a golden shimmer, and the demon’s mouth opened in a painful scream as his feet took on an ivory color, hardening to stone.

The other sharks near him tensed, the rage on their faces instantly draining as their comrade's feet cemented to the ground, that stone plague creeping farther up his waist as he writhed in place, clutching his eye as black blood seeped from the large gash.

They took a step back, then another, and another as the only blubber left on the struggling man was his large head. His teeth gnashed in mixture of anger and pain, but his good eye only showed fear, right as it was glazed over by white stone.

After that, the rest of the loan sharks had fled, huffing and puffing as they tumbled through the broken fence.

Then, the snake that had bit the demon began to convulse, writhing with an open maw like it had something stuck in its throat as black blood from its victim landed on the grass below.

Like some hellish form of mitosis, the scales of the serpent began to stretch and split, revealing a mirrored version of the reptile that began to take form and separate from its twin.

With wide eyes, the imp watched the two snakes finally , this new, fresh face shaking its head in confusion, before the rest of the scaly follicles began to surround and inspect their new friend with flicking tongues.

Kokabiel only watched the demons scurry off, before she sighed and adjusted her dress. Pivoting, she turned to face the imp, her arms crossed as she regarded him curiously.

The scrawny demon gulped as he stared wide-eyed. Was he next?

“What’s your name?”

“W-what?” The imp replied hoarsely.

“Your name. You have one, don’t you?”

“it’s… Jameson, madam,”

“Thank you, and I assume they’ll kill you if you try and go back into the city?”

Jameson nodded slowly, rising tentatively from the ground to look up at the woman.

“Well, it seems you are out of options, Jameson,” Kokabeil had quirked a brow, a small smile on her lips, “but, it appears I’m in need of a butler. What do you say to free room and board in exchange for your services? I’ll let you keep your soul, I promise.”

He had looked at her, suspicion in his gaze as his eyes darted to the snakes that coiled around her, shooting him hungry glares. How could someone with power like that be so… nice? If it were any overlord back in the city, they’d have taken his soul and his free will.

But, the offer didn’t sound too bad, and she didn’t look crazy. Just… lonely. Maybe, staying here would be so bad.

That’s how Jameson had begun working for the retired celebrity he now called master. Weirdly, he didn’t do many things a butler would do.

Sure, he cleaned and was at her beck and call most of the time, but Kokabiel did most of the things on her own. She cooked, tended to her garden which was slowly growing by the day, and kept up on the juicy rumors that circled the city.

Usually, Jameson spent the day as entertainment for her. As an ex-clown in the circus, Jameson had a few tricks up his sleeve he’d showcase for the fallen angel, and she seemed to eat it up with amusement.

Kokabiel’s thoughts towards him? He wasn’t exactly sure. Obviously, she was much kinder to him than anyone else he’d worked for, but her zipped lips on anything related to her past or what kind of demon she was made him unsure.

There were times she got… sad. That was the best way to put it. Jameson never saw her cry or have a tantrum, but sometimes she’d get so sullen even her snakes seemed rather depressed.

And, once a year there was a day that Kokabiel would lock herself away in her room, and would not call for him at all the entire day. Not even for food to feed her snakes. What could make her so depressed for that one day? A lost loved one? Her death day, perhaps?

She rarely mentioned her influential era as one of the largest fashion icons and models Hell had seen, although she didn’t need to with her collection of the seductive, sultry gazes she on the many ripped out pages of magazine covers she had framed on her walls.

The few times he did go into the city, heavily disguised to run errands for Kokabiel, he’d pick up the newest tabloids or fill her ears with the latest gossip circling the entertainment industry.

“That’s what that old fart is up to now?” She had chuckled about an old acquaintance as she moisturized her snakes with a scale-safe lotion, “He used to be an A-list actor, and now he’s selling retinol cream? Ha!”

The snakes had hissed with a chuckle-like sound, mirroring their mother as she coddled them. They still made Jameson nervous, even after all these years, they had a mind of their own, each individual one it appeared. But, they all seemed to have the same thoughts when it came to him: hungry.

Watching the snake finish its snack made Jameson a little uneasy as Kokabiel turned away from the statue and she took another sip of her drink.

“I’m getting tired, Jameson. I think I'm going to go inside, maybe take a nice, warm bath to relax.”

“Would you like me to get the water heated?”

“No, thanks. I can do it myself.” She said, beginning to walk towards the patio doors.

Jameson’s eyes flicked past her shoulder, at the very moment the statue began to sizzle with a powerful energy that even made his curls stand on end.

Red sparks erupted from the front of the statue, right on the pedestal it was standing on which raised a few feet in the air. Jameson could only stare in disbelief as the sparks began to swirl like a vortex, until they burst and sprayed like confetti and a figure materialized an inch off the marble surface.

The tiny stranger landed with a quiet oomf, before she stood on her feet with a slight wobble, her little hands held out in front of her for balance.

Jameson’s eyes flew open at the sight. It was a child! Her platinum-blonde hair disheveled, and her large eyes were darting around the area with confusion and fear.

When her eyes landed on him, she took a tiny step back, her eyes growing wide as she stared nervously at the new face.

“M-m-madam!” Jameson finally croaked, his finger pointed towards the girl with a slight quiver as he tried to get the words out.

“What..?” Kokabiel quirked an eyebrow at his stammering figure. Jameson’s eyes never left the strange girl, and she slowly followed his gaze to the statue.

The toddler and the fallen angel locked eyes, before Kokabiel’s mouth fell open and she stood there silently for a few moments. Charlie’s eyes widened, and she pulled her arms to herself in comfort at the shocked faces.

“What…. is this?” Kokabiel finally spoke slowly, eyes trained on the little being standing awkwardly on the statue. Her snakes lifted their heads slightly, tongues flicking the air as they tried to get a scent of the girl.

“It’s a child, madam,” Jameson whispered.

“I know that! But, how did it get here? What’s the point of having a magical fence if everybody can just walk right through it?!”

“She didn’t get through the fence, madam!” Jameson squeaked, shaking his head furiously as he explained, “She just… appeared here, like out of thin air! I saw it all!”

How could that be possible? There’s no way a child could harness such strong magic. It must be some kind of illusion, trickery by a powerful demon trying to use her empathy to get the best of her!

“You!” Kokabiel pointed an accusatory finger at Charlie, taking a small step forward “How did you get in my garden?”

“Um…” Charlie started, but her words—of what little she had—died in her throat. She only took a step backward, trying to escape from the attention

“You’re trespassing on private property!” Kokabiel continued to stalk forward, she was only a few feet away now, her snakes becoming antsy as they curled around her, hissing softly.

“Oh…”

“Who are you?”

Charlie took another step back, her hair grazing the leg of the marble figure. Where was she?

“…Char—eep!”

Charlie’s heel hit the foot of the statue, and she tripped, her back hitting its leg as she slid awkwardly sideways. Her tiny fingers grasped desperately at the smooth, white stone, but to no avail, as she tumbled right off the edge of the pedestal.

Jameson squeaked in terror, before throwing his hands over his eyes to protect him from any grisly sight. He heard Kokabiel gasp, but no sickening thump or terrible crack of bones meeting the firm ground.

Slowly, he splayed his fingers and lowered his hands, his eyes widening. He stood there gobsmacked at the scene, mouth agape in silence.

Yes, Charlie had been unable to save herself, falling helplessly in the air…. right into the arms of a shocked Kokabiel.

Kokabiel stared wide-eyed at her own reaction to the split second of instinct that propelled her to catch the child. Charlie was tightly secured in her hands, being held at arm's-length as far as possible.

Charlie blinked, before her eyes met those glowing white pupils with a slowly growing smile. She had one hand wrapped around the wrist of the taller woman, as she lifted up her free hand and sent a small, shy wave.

“Hi!”

[art i commissioned for the chapter by ruspettaa]

woahhh nice little(ha!) introduction to my oc, with some cute art of charlie! If I were to ever continue writing this fic, the relationship would be more focused on charlies than lucifers, at least at first. Slow-burn/co-parenting kinda thing bc Koko can def exist without being a relationship with our handsome king. she’s sipping margaritas free as a bird rn.

kokabiel is a loosely based version of the biblical figure with the same name who created the stars and constellations. One of the reasons she fell was for teaching humanity astronomy. A few others fell with her too, but she instead melded into demon society instead of her heavenly counterparts.

the only people that know of her true identity are Hell’s royalty, and Stolas probably has a signed autograph of hers somewhere around his office seeing as his duties are closely bound with her creations.

she’s a business woman too, though i am trying to figure out whether she sells snake-skinned accessories as a fashion line or diluted venom that’s a psychedelic drug which makes you feel all euphoric and stuff. l

I also have no idea who her voice claim is 😭 i imagine it being smooth and buttery like Beyoncé, but i’m sure there’s other voices similar to hers that I haven’t found yet.

i’ve got a comm [by wkyarts51243] in the works that will be styled closer to the show, so here’s a sneak peak i guess ☠️ I’d say her height is slightly shorter than charlie (not counting her horns lol), but I haven’t settled yet.

i have more art (one of her and luci hehe), which i might share either. but you can have the full version of the first art pic, with an extra piece from the same artist 🤭

also making this post so i can cement her backstory and stop changing it up ☠️ it’s its writing officially now yall

anyway, enough rambling, back to writing!! have a great weekend 🤍

#kokabiel 🤍#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel oc #helluva boss oc #look at her so yummy #a literal goddess #hazbin hotel au #hellaverse #lucifer morningstar x oc #that one fic forgot #yes her snakes are souls #they have the same personality as before but cuter

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