#and potentially ruin their lives or kill them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

val-of-the-north · 2 months ago

Text

The "Hornsent deserved it" sentiments make me lose my goddamn mind

Short answer: No they didn't.

Long answer: Oh my gooooooooooood can we NOT do this shit, please???

There are two underlying sentiments to this line of thinking.

The Hornsent hurt Marika's people, thus Marika did nothing wrong, therefore they deserved to die badly

The Hornsent hurt Marika's people + Midra and some others, Marika is still evil, but the Hornsent deserved to be destroyed

Both may even come to the extreme of "Messmer wasn't cruel enough" or some other nonsense in the same vein.

Number 1

To tackle number one, we need to remember a little thing called Elden Ring's base game. The Hornsent's jar ritual is undoubtedly abhorrent, that much is true. But I urge you to remember the things that happened during Marika's reign. She:

Murdered all of the Fire Giants but one, subjecting him to a fate similar to hers but worse, forced into labor confined on the mountain among the remains of his people and culture. She mocked him, to boot. All of this because they might have burnt the Erdtree.

Enslaved the Misbegotten from birth "or worse" because their species just so happened to have made contact with the Crucible.

Rewarded her own loyal Crucible Knights with scorn because of it too, as they didn't fit her current society that they fought to establish.

Made sure the Albinaurics were seen as lesser just because they were graceless, which influenced the way they were treated. She even had her Inquisition, run by Rykard, torture them in needlessly cruel manners, as they appear to be their main victims.

Just in general, she allowed Rykard to run a sadistic Inquisition to torture heretics to the Golden Order in the first place, and she saw nothing wrong with it or their practices.

She entombed the entire Great Caravan over a false rumor, which is the sole reason why the Flame of Frenzy was even a problem during her reign. This has also scarred the remainder of their people greatly.

Made the lives of all Omen a living hell either by cutting their horns just as they were born which often kills them, hunting them down in as cruel a way as possible by using their trauma and body parts against them, or throwing them in a sewer to fester with evil spirits hidden from view. She also used to shackle them, including her two children, just to make extra sure they wouldn't crawl out.

Shunned anyone who saw a vision of the Erdtree burning, regardless of who it was, and chased them away from their homes.

Literally allowed the belief that shorter people are somehow lesser, for apparently no reason at all (her most random discrimination decision tbh). This forces them to band together and take up honorless jobs just to get by, and in turn, people start to spread rumors of their inhuman practices, which are likely all untrue.

Had people literally work as slaves for the nobility just by virtue of "being born into obscurity", whatever that means. As well as other accounts of slavery like the Fallen Hawks (likely tied to the defeated soldiers of ancient Stormveil).

Likely endorsed viewing anyone without Grace as inferior beings, which includes the Tarnished that only exist because she divested them of it. She has done nothing to ease their discrimination (despite potentially seeing them as a future asset of sorts), as even the members of the Crusade are more than ready to kill us, like Fire Knight Queelign.

All of this was done in service to HER religion and order. Killing all the Fire Giants and burying the Nomadic Merchants alive? Oh, they could have ruined her age with those pesky flames of theirs.

Systematically oppressing Omen, Misbegotten, Albinaurics and the likes? Oh, they are impure creatures, unlike her people, blessed with the Grace of Gold, elevated from the rest. (Which is the exact same line of thinking as the Hornsent and their horns for crying out loud).

"Oh but the Hornsent stuffed her people into jars" yeah, and I am not arguing the contrary! It was a cruel, deranged practice, born of simple superstition that their victims would be reborn as "good people". But Marika's answer if you don't fit her vision of the world is to either get rid of you and your people through extermination, by literally hounding you from your rightful home, or by enslaving you.

Both sides are genuinely awful... but there's only one side that people are justifying, and it sure as hell isn't the Hornsent.

Marika's backstory is meant to make her less a god, which is all we have ever known her to be before the DLC, and more a human, which is what she once was. It gives her complexity as a character, it's meant to be the catalyst from which we learn why she took the path that she took. It is absolutely not meant to make us go "holy shit guys, Marika was the good guy all along???", because what she brought upon this world through her burning desire for vengeance has ruined it irreparably, and ruined the lives of most of the creatures who inhabit it.

This includes her ruthless, honorless, pointless Crusade against the Hornsent. Sure, it was her own son that started it, but it was for her sake. It was her who allowed him to wage it, he had her full support... until the thing turned to such a slaughter-fest that even she could not associate with it anymore due to how appalling it all was. And what better way to do that than to seal her own son away to wage war endlessly? And not just because his actions made her look bad, but also for the same crippling fear and prejudice that saw her kill all Fire Giants but one and scar the Great Caravan.

Gratuitous violence across the board, and for what?

(I want to make it absolutely clear that I don't mean you can't like Marika now. In fact, I'd say the DLC made her much more of an interesting character to me as well. I just cannot fathom seeing the entirety of Elden Ring and coming out thinking "wow Marika was the good guy" because she isn't. Heck, coming out thinking that she'd be disgusted with what her grandson Godrick is doing with grafting as if she isn't the queen of having zero empathy for those who are graceless or aren't her family, which the Tarnished he grafts are neither. She'd probably be very proud if anything. Marika is a monster. She became one the moment she obtained godhood, because no milestone would quell her. She did all the wrongs, so take this whole section as a refresher in case you had forgotten)

Number 2

Now, to tackle number 2... this one seemingly has more nuance, but falls for the tried and true pitfall of "the many must pay for the crimes of the few" which is exactly where it rots and collapses onto itself.

Apparently, because of the perpetrators of the Jar Rituals, ALL Hornsent, INDISCRIMINATELY, deserve to be destroyed. They all, each and every single one, deserve the Crusade and the absolute pointless ruin that it brought them. From the children, to the ones who were friends with people with no horns, to the ones who found their own practices grotesque, to the ones that weren't even tied to the Tower's religion and were just simply living their lives.

They ALL, EQUALLY deserve to be burned, to have their cities destroyed, to have their lives ruined. All of them. Ok.

Number 2 works with the assumption that the Hornsent are some sort of hive mind. Some sort of all-encompassing religious order who believes in their superiority. But that's just the Tower's religion. Hornsent are a people. And people are individuals, with their own opinions, their own lives. In fact, from the perspective of the average Hornsent citizen, they were attacked out of nowhere as they were living in peace, which likely means they weren't even at war with Marika before this event.

People also have the assumption that all of the Hornsent were benefiting from their society, which is blatantly false. In fact, outside the treatment of the Shamans, the people that we know the Hornsent have hurt the most are their fellow Hornsent. We know of quite a few of them suffering at the hands of their kin BECAUSE of their religious and cultural practices.

Being Hornsent isn't a "free from mistreatment" card. If anything, the large Gaols where they were imprisoned were built specifically to house them. The main prisoners we find in large numbers are commoners, the same types as the ones scavenging the ruins of their ravaged towns. They are often seen eating maggots off the floor and cowering in fear. All of them were Hornsent too, locked away for who knows what crime. Could have been big and important, small and insignificant, or even just a failure to do something properly (there's precedent), point is, it's clear the Hornsent weren't having a good time in there.

The jar rituals were used mainly as punishment for the imprisoned Hornsent themselves, as a way to have them become "good people". This was just as horrifying for the Hornsent prisoners as it was for the Shamans I assume. Look how terrified this Hornsent seemed at the prospect of sharing that fate. This is the reason why they chopped up Shamans in the first place, as ritual ingredients for a punishment meant primarily for their kin.

And there were more Hornsent who suffered because of the leading ideology. Curseblades were once shunned because they failed to become tutelary deities, and so they were thrown in the Jar Gaols. They were only let out so they could use their expertise and flowing movements to defend their homeland when Messmer invaded, otherwise they'd be rotting with the Innard Shamans and the other Hornsent prisoners the way Labirith is.

It's also worth pointing out that Midra's Mense was filled with Hornsent attendants who sided with their sagely master regardless of his lack of horns and what the Inquisition believed of him. If we were to operate with reasoning number 2, they too would deserve to be murdered in the Crusade because they just so happened to be Hornsent. Because ALL Hornsent deserve extermination for what happened to the Shamans.

And we also know that the Hornsent can find what happens in Bonny Village revolting. In fact, we know that from someone who was born and raised there.

This sounds nothing like someone who thought any of that was ok. So who is to say other Hornsent weren't like this too, especially those who DIDN'T live in Bonny Village? Those who risked being stuffed into those same jars themselves? We make waaaay too many assumptions about an entire race, and that in itself is foolish enough.

If there's someone to blame, it's the Tower's Inquisition. They are the religious order that governs the Hornsent. They have all the power in their society... and yet, would you look at that? Enir-Ilim, their sanctum, the one place where those calling the shots reside, is completely untouched. And what about Bonny, the most structurally fine Hornsent settlement, when you'd expect it to be a black stain of char by now. But nope, no sign of Messmer activity and the Greater Potentates are just running around naked, doing their thing as usual.

The Crusade isn't even a good tool of vengeance, the only ones suffering are the civilians who were likely the ones with a higher risk of ritual jar punishment anyway. If this isn't proof enough that the Crusade is a completely petty, useless revenge war that accomplishes nothing I don't know what else to say. I'll just leave with what the people taking part in it were taking pride in doing.

These are people who, without a shadow of a doubt, would have chopped up most of the oppressed groups described earlier and stuffed them into jars if Marika had told them to do so. (Heck, something like this was being done to the Albinaurics already, as we have seen previously...)

They have zero moral superiority, their deranged zealotry is the only reason they act in the first place. Not to mention that they have no connection to Marika's struggles or past, nor were they informed of them I bet. It's likely only Messmer truly knows the reason for the Crusade, and that's only because he is her child and shoulders all the blame onto himself.

"Those stripped of the Grace of Gold shall all meet death" is LITERALLY their motto. Do you really think they stopped at the Hornsent? They were just their main target, but judging by the way all of Messmer's soldiers, including Queelign and the other Fire Knights, and even HE HIMSELF, attack us on sight for the simple fact we are Tarnished and lack Grace in our eyes, I have no doubt in my mind these people were just rounding up and killing anyone who didn't conform with the Golden Order.

THESE are the people who should be allowed to play judge, jury and executioner with the entire Hornsent race. And people will genuinely, with a straight face, tell you "That's right".

To conclude... I think I actually hate reasoning 2 more than reasoning 1 lol, despite not liking either at all. At least 1 is understandable. Marika is a very interesting character, one that we have known for a few years now. We have an attachment to her, heck, sentiments of her being some sort of misunderstood/rebellious figure were already there before the DLC. In that regard, I understand the emotional response, even though I still think it's a wrong mindset to have. I have at least some hope that it is purely in the realm of fiction because it's a beloved character, nothing more...

Reasoning 2, on the other hand, attempts to be nuanced, or at least pretends to be. In reality, all it peddles is the "an eye for an eye" mentality which is much too common irl as well. Not only that, but it deals in monoliths. All people belonging to a group or race are equally responsible for stuff they didn't even commit, stuff that could have even harmed them, because their leaders decided to commit crimes against another set of people. And don't get me wrong, there will be even commoners from that group or race that will agree with and celebrate that bad deed, but just as many will not, but will be either scared, powerless, already being punished for speaking up through physical violence or elaborate shunning, or currently protesting and doing something to hopefully ignite a change.

But that reasoning only exists to perpetuate cycles; of war, violence, and hate for the most part. And sadly, this mindset is very prevalent, a lot of people fail to see the issue with wanton violence as long as it's to stroke that lust for vengeance. And vengeance is a theme that Elden Ring criticizes multiple times in a row, even beyond the obvious horror of the Crusade.

#elden ring #shadow of the erdtree #queen marika the eternal #hornsent #messmer the impaler #queen marika #marika the eternal #it's just something that has been on my mind for some time #in general though I did want to do a list of Marika wrongdoings #tying it to a post about the Hornsent just felt fitting too #these sentiments are just... so ass #val-post

841 notes · View notes

k-martins · 10 months ago

Text

Updating mine

MY TOP TEN FAVORITE JJK SHIPPS!!!!

10. SHOKOHIME

They stole Jogo and Hanami's place because I got it into my head that Jogo is like the grumpy grandfather and Hanai is the vegan aunt of the curse family! I like them. I think it's a ship with a lot of potential. I need to consume more content, but I love the fanarts!!!

9. HIGUNANA

This crack grew in me and now I'm suffering for them after the last chapter. In a kind universe, Higuruma and Nanami adopted Yuji and they live happily and happily!!! I think the two go together a lot and the fanfics are adorable! These Old Yaoi will be the death of me!!!!

8. CHOSOYUKI

They've come down a little, but man I still love them!!! Even more so now because my thirst for Choso awakened and I started reading fanfics of him being a good big brother and I fell to my knees! I still want to write more and explore his relationship with Yuji. And God, YUKI IS AMAZING!!!! THEY DESERVED TO STAY TOGETHER, AKUTAMI YOU DAMN IT!!!!

7. HIGUKUSA

A friend on twt is feeding me higukusa art and, god, this crack (not so crack, because that "I'll protect you even if I have to die for it" from kusakabe hit me hard) has taken root in my heart! I'm also obsessed with Higuruma, so I combined the useful with the pleasant!

6. INUOKKO

THEY ARE CUTE OKAY!!!! I AM OBSESSED WITH CREATING HCS FOR THEM!!! I don't consume much of their stuff, but all the fanart I've seen is cute and their participation in the itafushi fics I read is always welcome!!! It's kind of strange to read something where they're not together…

5. NOBAMAKI

MY OPINION HAS NOT CHANGED, OKAY??? NOBAMAKI IS WONDERFUL AND I WOULD KILL TO HAVE MORE OF THEM!!! But since I saw Nobara's flashback I've been wondering if Fumi wouldn't be a good ship too? Does anyone have a fanfic/fanart of him, by the way??? ANYWAY, NOBAMAKI IS STILL MY FAVORITE!!!

4. KIRAKARI

I'M IN LOVE WITH KIRARA!!!! SHE AND HAKARI ARE THE ONLY HEALTHY THINGS IN THIS MISERABLE MANGA!!!! I love imagining what their relationship is like, writing hcs slice to life minis and drawing Kirara! But I'm getting worried because I saw someone saying that Kirara could appear in the Hakari x Urame fight to help her boyfriend and I know what's going to happen and I don't want it to happen! GEGE GET THESE DIRTY CLAWS AWAY FROM MY BABIES!!!!

3. SATOSUGU

YOU RUINED BLACK AND WHITE FOR ME, YOU DEPRESSED BITCHES!!! My friend is obsessed with them and boy can I understand! These two are tragic, with a beautiful dynamic and a happy ending(?). Plus they fucked up my Christmas Eve. I hope these two bitches are causing terror in heaven!

2. ITAFUSHI!!!!

If you've known me for more than a second, you'll know that I have an average of five outbreaks a day because of these two. This whole thing about always trying to save others even if it condemns them destroys me, okay??? Fanfics and fanarts also feed me! And I'm going to convince all my friends to ship this too so I can yell at 2am at them about little details of their dynamic! AND THEY MATCH SO MUCH!!! Of course, no more than our first place!!!!

EVERYONE X THERAPY!!!

Please let the deaths stop and this become canon

Honorable mention for _ Tojikuna (more because a twt artist is obsessed with them and that rubbed off on me) _ Hainana _ Toji x Mamagumi _ Okkofushi (Yuta was Megumi's first crush and you can't get that out of my head) _ Uraume x Sukuna (one-sided) _ Yuta x Maki

#First place is what needs to happen the most!#like #I really want this to happen #two weeks without an episode and I'm freaking out already #itafushi #fushiita #satosugu #nobamaki #inuokko #shokohime #higukusa #higunana #chosoyuki #kirakari

1K notes · View notes

vermiciousyidreborn · 1 month ago

Text

People like to talk about the lessons Jews should or did learn from the Holocaust, as though that's the only genocide we've been through. They like to say it should make us the nicest, kindest people because we've been through the worst so how could we ever inflict pain on others? How could we ever hold ourselves as more important to us than others, having seen the camps?

The thing is, we did learn a lesson. And it's a lesson we've been taught time and time again. That when it comes down to it, not only will non-Jews look the other way when Jews are slaughtered, they will gleefully participate and cheer it on. From Rome to the Crusades, to Spain, to Germany and all the places in between, we've learned that we're in this alone. We want to all be in this together, but everyone else has made it clear that that's never going to be the case.

So we know we're alone, that other than a very small minority, the only people who will ever object to Jews bieng murdered are other Jews. The Righteous Among the Nations are a tiny minority, and for every person who was a member, there are not hundreds who think they would have been. Some of them think they would have been and are celebrating the largest pogrom since WWII today. They're wrong, of course. If the Nazis came for the Jews, they'd do what they're doing: celebrate it.

Yes, we learned our lesson. We learned you all hate us, and Jewish existence has to be secured by Jews, no one else will do it for us or help us. This combined with our ancient longing to return to where we came from and created the modern state of Israel. Then there were more attempts to wipe out Jews, more attempts to drive us into the sea and destroy us, but this time, Jews took our future into our own hands and survived. Were there excesses? Yes. War crimes? Definitely. Have the past decades included missteps, crimes, and all sorts of horrible things? Yes.

But why would Israel do these things? Survival. Why has the war against Hamas in Gaza been so destructive? Why has it expanded to Yemen, to Lebanon, and potentially to Iran? Survival. In the end, Israel is a country with a single mandate written in stone: the Jewish people will live. And on October 7th, 2023, Hamas made it clear that whatever mellowing they'd appeared to do, whatever potential there had seemed for peace, Hamas finds that mandate to be intolerable. They believe the Jewish people must die. And then they killed as many as they could. Then the Houthis and Hezbollah joined in, firing rockets and drones.

If you're a country whose mandate is "the people of my country must survive" and with the historical understanding of "and no one will come to our aid if things get really serious" then what do you do? You, too, would view this struggle as existential. You, too, would likely accept casualties and destruction to try to root out the groups trying to wipe you off the face of the Earth. And you, too, wouldn't trust the people who seem weirdly obsessed with attacking the country that is going to extreme lengths to ensure that you survive.

What did the Jewish people learn from the Holocaust? We're alone. Help isn't coming. We have to deal with threats by ourselves. And that's why Gaza is in ruins, why Beirut is being bombed, and why Biden is trying to persude Netanyahu not to destroy Iran's oil refineries. And amid all this, you all are taking to the streets, calling for our deaths, and proving that those lessons were right, but might not have gone far enough.

#jumblr #october 7 #antisemitism #rambling

364 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

Text

Bitter Sweet Symphony 1

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Thor

Summary: you meet a god in real life but he's not the saviour you think.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You catch Joanie by her knapsack before she can disappear into the crowd. Your heart lurches as you just picture her tiny stature getting lost in the New York crush. You pull her back to you.

“Joan, take me hand,” you demand shakily.

“Sorry, I thought I saw...” she begins then shakes her head. The cat ears on her hat wiggle. She grabs your hand with her small one and you squeeze. “Nothing. I’m just excited.”

“You know mom would kill me if I lost you,” you draw her out of the way of another pedestrian. The man in his suit doesn’t spare you a single thought as he charges by.

“Ha, I’m not going to get lost,” she insists.

You grumble but don’t voice your anxiety. She’s young and it’s all so big and loud to her. She’s still to young to be scared. You admire your half-sister for that but it also fills you with dread.

“I did!” She squeals and jumps in her pink high tops. “I saw him, I saw him.”

She points and her hand bounces off the hip of a woman strutting by. You apologise and once more redirect your sister. You squint and search in the direction she pointed. Yellow taxis honk as they roll by and jay walkers dodge between them.

“Thor!” Your sister hollers and hops up again, waving her hand.

That’s when you see him. You don’t know how you missed him. There’s so much going on that all the buildings and bodies blend together. For as long as you’ve been in the city, you’re still not used to the chaos of it all.

“Thor?” You echo her.

“Duh! God of Thunder! He hangs out with Iron Man.”

“Right,” you shepherd her back before she can get underfoot. “You know what mom says about talking to strangers.”

“He’s not a stranger, he’s a hero.” She argues.

“Maybe but I’m sure he’s just trying to live his life. He doesn’t look like he’s hero-ing right now, kiddo,” you chide.

“But...” her face falls. “But we don’t have heroes at home! What if I never see another one again? I just wanna say hi.”

“I know, Joan, but I...” you pause and glance back. There are others clustering around the tall man. He smiles and welcomes them as he greets them all graciously. You just hate to be in others way. You should have considered that before you moved to one of the most overcrowded places on earth. “Alright, but we’re going to go down and cross at the walk, right?”

She harrumphs and agrees begrudgingly, “right.”

You take her down the sidewalk, clamped onto her as you steer her around the New Yorkers trapped in the tunnel vision of their own existence. You get to the corner and wait and cross with a cluster. You glance down the pavement as Joanie squirms.

“Oh no, I think he’s gone,” she whines.

You look desperately ahead and grimace. You hope you didn’t ruin it for her. You drag her along, hoping that long blonde hair will pop up again. It doesn’t. You get to the exact place you spotted him. He’s not there.

“I’m so sorry, Joanie. I just wanted to be safe.” You turn to her, your chest dropping. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine...” she drones and hangs her head.

You stumble as a man knocks into your hip. You try to make yourself smaller but it’s hard to dodge anyone on the sidewalk even without a little extra cushion. You peer around and your eyes catch on the hanging sign of a bakery.

“How about a treat instead? You love cupcakes, right?” You coax her.

“Mm, I guess,” she shrugs.

Her disappointment stings. You feel horrid. You know she’s going to hold onto this.

“Come on, let’s get out of this,” you pull her to the bakery door.

As you enter, you sigh. You’re happy to be free of the city crawl. You look up at the menu above the counter. You’ve never been in here before. It’s a nice place and the desserts look immaculate. They’re also expensive.

“Look they have a unicorn--” You begin and Joanie rips her hand away as she wiggles.

“He’s here!” She cries out. “It’s Thor.”

Her voice carries across the space and you cringe and you look over to find the man, or god, in question. His blue eyes round as he bites into a cupcake piled with icing. The sugary topping marks his nose as he pulls it away and gulps. He gives a goofy smile.

“Joanie,” you whisper, “he’s just trying to enjoy his food.”

“Little one!” He waves before you can deter her. “You know me.”

Joanie giggles and squeals and skips over before you can stop her. You trail after her reluctantly as she hops up to his table, “your Thor, king of Asgard, God of Thunder!” She jitters. “I know you!”

He booms with laughter and wipes the icing from his beard and nose. His cupcake is forgotten on a small saucer. “An honour to meet you...”

“Joanie!” She nearly hollers. “My name is Joanie.”

“Ah, a beautiful name,” he praises and his eyes wander over you as you hover behind her. “And this lady, your mother?”

“Sister!” Joanie replies before you can and gives your name.

You try to smile as he grins at you and his eyes seem to sparkle. You wonder if that’s a god thing. Your cheeks are hot as his gaze bores into you.

“Are you here for the cupcakes? They are delicious. I recommend the confetti.” He puts his attention back to Joanie. “Would you like to join me?”

“Oh, sir, thanks, that’s so kind but we’ll just be getting ours to go--”

“But--” Joanie begins to whine and you lay your hand on her shoulder.

“If you don’t mind. She’s a big fan.”

“Not at all,” he assures you. “Allow me to treat you. What are we having?”

He stands and you shrink as he towers over you. There aren’t many who can make you feel small. You can’t help but take a step back and herd Joanie with you.

“Um...” you look over, “it’s really—I don’t mind. I can’t get ours. We’ve already bothered--”

“I must insist. As a king, I prize courtesy above all. Please sit and allow me to bring you some sweets.”

“I want the unicorn!” Joanie demands before you can stop her. You give Thor and apologetic look. He only seems amused by her awe.

“That’s very generous of you, what do we say, Joanie?” You say.

“Please and thank you,” she chirps.

“Yes, thank you, Thor. I’m fine with something simple. Vanilla is good for me.” You move Joanie away from him, “come on, let’s sit down. We’ve done a lot of walking.”

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #series #drabble #bitter sweet symphony #au #mcu #marvel #avengers

210 notes · View notes

mamayan · 1 year ago

Text

★LOVE★

Darling! Hisoka Morow x Yandere! Reader

cw: NSFW • Obsessive/Possessive Themes • Fem! Reader • Noncon turned Dubcon • Yandere Themes • Murder • Emotional Instability • Yandere! Reader • Drug usage • HC • PIV

This is not “reader” inclusive as I’d assume nearly 99.9% of you do not exhibit true yandere traits. This is written with a female yandere in mind. No other physical descriptors will be used, but “reader” will have psychological descriptors and habits which will likely not match the majority. Please keep this in mind while reading. Thank you!

To become so obsessed with a psychotic mass murdering clown magician like Hisoka, you’d need to be a special breed. Harley Quinn style if you will, but incorporating an even more massively unhealthy level of adoration and blindness.

Since Hisoka is a whimsical sociopath and amoral character, it’d likely attract someone that is… surprisingly selfless and mildly antisocial. His attitude and way of life likely trigger feelings of envy and jealousy at first within you. Why does he get to be so carefree? Why can’t you just slaughter your entire place of work when they piss you off?

So starts the morbid curiosity. Who is Hisoka Morow?

You’d see him in passing a time or two, maybe you’d even witness him kill or target an individual in battle. You’d stay undetected by Hisoka. This requires great skill in nen-ability and you’d likely be a pro-Hunter or something along those lines. You’d need to be incredibly powerful and a good strategist to have Hisoka as a darling. Specializing in stealth/tracking/spying would all do you well in aiding to observe stalk Hisoka.

He’d take a life so easily it’d stun you. His lack of remorse after even more. How does he feel so little? Why is he so easily aroused in battle? Why can’t you look away? Rationality will need to take a backseat in this budding crush you have. It won’t bloom into what you call “love” until he does something that speaks to you personally.

It’ll be entirely mundane too.

He’ll do one thing that will capture your heart. Maybe it’s when he spares Gon and Killua. He’d claim it’s because they’ll make worthy opponents later. You’ll see it as something else.

Once your feelings for him are established, it’s impossible to find fault with him anymore. Everything he does is perfect, utterly adorable and fascinating, and he’s a silly kitten who can do no wrong in your mind. His clawed finger nails are proof that the most harm he can do is claw up some curtains.

Hisoka is constantly on the move, traveling often and usually very light. He does have a few spaces he uses more like storage than actual living quarters. This where you spend time when you aren’t observing him. Going through his things, envisioning a future with him, imagining him tied to the bed.

You’ll be delusional but no so much you believe you can have him without force. Wild cats are hard to tame after all, and a superiority complex over Hisoka will begin to develop the longer you watch and learn about him. You’ll likely have dug up all the skeletons of his past. You believe you know him best, who else understands him so well but you?

This dig includes any lovers or even potential lovers. They’re in the way and need to be gotten rid of. You can’t let them ruin him now can you?

Finding all of his past lovers isn’t easy, especially without alerting him to anything suspicious at first. Thankfully, despite his track record of murders, his love life is stale at best. A few hookups when he was younger, no long term relationships, but he does have a notable relationship with a female from the Phantom Troupe.

Machi, a beautiful woman which Hisoka blatantly flirts with. More than the usual too, it holds a level of sexual tension which invokes unparalleled rage inside you. It’s ironically not directed at Machi, but she’ll bear the brunt of it anyway.

Hisoka is given both a sick and delightful surprise when Machi’s severed head is delivered to his hotel suite in a box. A love poem hand written by you in it, but it’s a warning for him too.

It’s a grotesque combination, but it’ll most certainly catch his attention. A bouquet might’ve sufficed too, but Hisoka will now know of your existence. He doesn’t think this is a love note though, he thinks this is revenge. He’ll be angry too, because whether Machi was ever a real love rival or not, she was someone he wanted to fight. His designated prey was caught and killed before he even had a true chance of tasting victory over them. That must mean you are an even better treat.

It’ll drive you wild seeing how desperate he becomes to track you down and find you. He comes close a few times too, but always just out of reach. His real niche laying in combat unlike you. It feels romantic in a sense, and it’ll drive the fantasy further that you two are meant to be together. He’s meant to be yours isn’t he? As you begin leaving even more obvious hints of your presence in his life, he’ll realize it’s not revenge you’re seeking.

He’ll figure out he’s got a perverted little stalker when he finds your cute lace panties left for him to find. No need to mention you’d touched yourself on his bed to the thought of him and came in them. It’ll be fairly obvious from the fact that he hasn’t been to this particular hideout in a while and it’s spotless. No dust. Everything perfect, but he didn’t clean before he left this one. Then he’ll see on the unmade bed, a clear sign of a woman having intruded and marked the area. Strands of your hair. Your scent. Your clothes.

Still, he won’t catch you. He’ll bait you too, and sometimes you wonder if you’ve been caught only to realize he just knows he’s always being watched now. He doesn’t know your exact location or if you actually are there. “I liked your gift… hmm, but it would’ve been a nicer surprise to see you in them~” he’s flirtation and goading. It’ll be difficult to resist him, when he’s seemingly speaking straight at you. You know the moment you reveal yourself though, he’s not going to drop to his knees and offer himself to you. It’ll be a battle on sight. Though the thought of him getting aroused because of fighting you… makes you itch to throw caution to the wind.

Instead you clear any and all traces of your presence for several long months, until Hisoka grows avidly annoyed and then slowly disinterested, moving on to other opponents and amusements. Being in your line of work means a very much endless cash flow, the resources available to keep up with your favorite pass time of just watching him in all his glory. He’s perfection, even as his face twists up into a manic monstrous expression as he slaughters his victims, you see nothing but an angel. Never mind the screams and begging for mercy, isn’t he so cute when he plays a magic trick for them? It’s easy to become overwhelmed with jealously occasionally, but you’re good at being patient and reminding yourself that person isn’t special, Hisoka is just entertaining himself.

It’s also hard to remind yourself you aren’t special either. While it takes a certain sense of superiority over a darling to develop yandere tendencies, you’re also affected by an inferiority complex about the world. This means you’re isolated in how you interact with the world, no close friends or relatives, no real hobbies outside of what assists you with your work, hardly any social interactions that aren’t required. This is what makes Hisoka so fascinating, and it’s also what starts your real downward spiral to depravity.

What makes you truly snap and lose control to your yandere tendencies , is nothing other than Hisoka himself.

He’s coming down from a recent high of a fight in Heaven’s Arena, only showing up due to being challenged as a floor master, but the fight had been surprisingly up to his standards. His opponent was both entertaining and thrilling until their end. He was in a good mood, a very good one, so when a spectator approached him batting their lashes and hinting at spending the night in his suite… he said yes.

That was strike one.

Strike two was the audacity of the piece of shit throwing themself at him. You carefully followed, silent and untraceable as sexual tension began to rise in the elevator all three of you shared. Only they thought it was just them.

Strike three. Wasn’t your presence at least somewhat obvious? It’s highly delusional on your end to become enraged at other’s ignorance to your presence despite your mastery of hiding it. It’s what allowed you to watch Hisoka so long after all, but illogical as it is, you were still pissed. Furious at both of them but now mostly at Hisoka. Who was leaning over them, letting his height and teeth aching sugary tone seduce this common stray off the street like they were his personal favorite. They weren’t. He didn’t have any real favorites. Only toys that were disposable and this was no different but it didn’t matter because he was yours. And it seemed he needed to learn this.

Even Hisoka can be taken off guard, especially with his pants feeling too tight and the piece of ass before him being all to eager to please.

He’s unconscious when you finally reveal yourself. The deafening scream echoing throughout the elevator as it finally reached Hisoka’s designated floor and opening. Unfortunately for the poor soul screaming who was just looking to get laid, you weren’t in the mood to grant them anything less than a brutal death.

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up shut shut up!” Your fist broke bone with each strike, until your victim lay unrecognizable and very dead. You’d released your nen, and every nen user in this entire Arena now knows you’re here, all because anger got the best of you.

It didn’t matter, because even with the corpse at your feet, you were still furious.

You took both Hisoka and the body out of the elevator and swiftly worked to clean up the damage and fluids. You didn’t need the Arena fining you again. Hisoka was out cold, but he’s quick to recover so you work on getting him into his suite and bed, working his wrists into nen blocking steel cuffs. He’s spread like a star fish, each limb hooked to the fancy bed posts. You muttered anxiously as you dug around your bag, hands shaking as you pulled out a small leather pouch about the size of your palm.

It might seem overkill, but chaining and drugging ensured your personal safety once he woke up.

Never mind the fact that you could just leave after disposing of the body. Your heart fluttering and cheeks flushing as you looked upon his unconscious body on the bed prevented you from acting within reason. No, you wanted him to see you, if for no other reason than to establish where he was.

Beneath you.

Hiding your presence and that of the corpse, you quickly left the building with Hisoka’s key card to properly rid yourself of the responsibility and allow yourself to fully focus on Hisoka.

Returning was quick and painless, this time not revealing your presence until back in Hisoka’s suite.

His face was angelic while he slept, though his head would likely ache from the powerful blow you landed to the back to get him in this state. You contented yourself with just watching him for the next hour or so, until with no warning, he woke up. It was odd how he didn’t even twitch. Just suddenly aware of his situation and surroundings, alertness to his features immediately. You wished it was a sleepier and cuter wake up, but you still found it adorable how on guard he was instantly.

Those lovely gold orbs landed on you and narrowed, despite his sly smile. He might appear relaxed and languid for someone chained up and hardly able to move their body due to relaxants circulating their system, but you knew he was furious. Hisoka, as much as he loves playing with others, hates being played with. You stayed silent, letting him observe and calculate, allowing him time to run through his options and every plausible scenario.

“Well… good morning Ms. Stalker.” His airy words sent visible shivers down your spine, his eyes and focus, for the first time entirely on you. He also seemed to note your reaction, his smile sharp and predatory. “Oh? You like the nickname? Bad girl… don’t you know not to play with magic?” He tested his restraints, with surprisingly more strength than you thought he’d have after injecting him. He’d require another dose then. You were quick to work on that, his eyes tracking your movements and realizing your objective.

“Not even going to let me play?” He didn’t resist as you sterilized his arm before injecting him with a fourth dose. Three should’ve been enough to tranquilize an elephant but Hisoka wasn’t a normal human. He flexed his hands and twisted his wrists, copying the same with his feet and ankles. The cuffs were made specifically for him. You’d kindly taken off his shoes and socks, but his shirt and pants remained on. You felt your throat constrict and thighs clench at the thought of him naked. You’d already seen it a multitude of times but he hadn’t known you did. Watching him shower and change so shamelessly.

“You look ready to eat me. Is that what this is dear? You got jealous when I brought another up here?” His nickname for you threw you off, your eyes widening and meeting his teasing gaze. He looked sinfully beautiful like this, at your mercy yet still so him. You licked your lips, feeling mildly nervous now that you were about to speak to him. This was too good an opportunity to pass up though.

“Yes,” he paused when you finally answered, “I…I was very jealous.” Your hands gripped the bottom of your shirt, the material bunching as the earlier annoyance was brought back to your attention. You grimaced, “This wasn’t really how I intended for you to meet me for the first.”

“Oh? But we’re here nonetheless aren’t we?” His tone was a bit snarky, but he was correct. What did you do now? Make every little fantasy you had come true?

“How about this, yes? You take these off and I give you a painless death. Isn’t that nice of me?” His words have your eyes snapping up to his face, his words not matching his sweet expression. He wanted to kill you? Not even fight? You frowned, a low boiling of rage in the pit of your stomach.

“You think you hold any power here?” You sneered back at him, walking to look down at his sorry figure chained up and at your mercy. He was being a brat. You backhanded him swiftly, his head cracking to the side at the force and momentum. His pale skin already reddening as a small trail of blood tricked down his chin. His gaze was on fire as he turned back to look up at you. Defiant and piercing, but his smile never wavered. “How about this, Hisoka, you stay right where you are, and maybe I’ll be nice and let you finish tonight.” His eyes widened, a small moment of shock taking over his features but he quickly schooled them again.

You began undressing swift, throwing your clothes to the floor until you were only in your underwear. Your chest heaved, nipples tightening under the cool air of the room and Hisoka’s gaze. You couldn’t place his expression exactly, a combination of desire and rage most likely. You climbed atop the bed and thus him, knees on either side of his hips as you made light work of his shirt. Shredding the garment and tossing it to join your clothes. His pants were next, now both of you almost completely naked and staring at one another.

“Is this your idea of a good time Ms. Stalker? Tying up innocent magicians and having your way with them?” You laugh at this sentence, because it was silly to think too much about. He was still being light and teasing but he was exuding a little bit of bloodlust.

“No Hisoka, my idea of a good time is just you in general.” You placed a cold hand on his abdomen, sliding it up gently until it reached his throat. “Watching you, hearing you, smelling you…” your eyes trailed up his naked torso to his lips for a moment, before connecting your gazes. “This is your fault really. I didn’t ask to be haunted by you, I didn’t ask to feel like this, I didn’t ask to want someone so badly I’d gladly watch this word burn if it meant you’d be entirely mine.” It was a deeply disturbing confession. You sat down, right over his erection where you could grind your pussy against him and elicit a beautiful hiss of pleasure and pain from him. “I can’t, oh, I can’t decide if I want to own you or be you really,” you panted, beginning a slow rock of your hips as your arousal soared. The object of all your affection beneath you, looking so much like a cat being bathed it brought a small smile to your lips. This was all turning you on, and he seemed to also be enjoying himself somewhat.

“I very much would love to humor you dear, but I really do recommend you remove these.” He dropped his facade, his expression turning dark as he realized how unlikely you were to release him. You were clearly deranged, maybe more so than himself. He tugged against his chains, the rattling echoing around the room but it only served to make you amused. Despite his words, his hips had begun to lightly buck up into you now. Both of your underwear soaked through, a combination of your slick and his precum. His voice and tone sent your hormones flying to cloud nine, your face starting to look intoxicated as you gazed down at him with obsession.

“You say you want them off but do you really want this to end? I could just… leave you here. All night. Maybe I’ll come back just to make sure you, haah, stay hard?” You were panting and a little sweaty, breasts heaving as you became more intoxicated by the moment and him. You looked spelled bound and he looked downright menacing. Of course, because out of all things, Hisoka likes control. His flirtatious attitude can not be mistaken as submissive, but here you were forcing him into such a role. Threatening him with a punishment if he didn’t behave like a dog.

It made him want to bite you like one.

“Pretty Ms. Stalker could’ve told me she wanted her little pussy filled, no need to go to such lengths-tss!” He flinched when you finally fished his cock free, your soft cool hand a striking contrast to his pulsing hot shaft.

“You’re so pretty Hisoka.” You were lost to your own fantasies, not really registering his words anymore. He realized it quickly as you focused all your attention on his leaking cock, impressed by the size and girth. It would hurt, taking him, but the thought of stretching around him was driving you wild.

But first… you dropped your chest low and opened your mouth. Your tongue had him groaning low, the sound of his teeth grinding together had you even wetter than before. You licked from base to tip, slow and sensual. He tasted sweet. Not salty or bitter like you imagined and it had you quickly and messily taking him into your mouth.

For all you were, you weren’t experienced. This was your first blowjob but you prayed not your last, because as you choked and gagged to take more him, he was losing it himself. What you lacked in experience and skill, you were making up for in enthusiasm and pure need to please. Observing his reactions as you let his tip finally sink into your throat even as tears pricked your eyes and fell down your cheeks. It burned and ached, but you pushed the pain down as you watched him. He finally gave in and kept your gaze as you worked to make him cum, sucking and taking him as deep into your throat as you could. You were making an absolute mess of his cock and balls, slobbering all over him. It was erotic and truly enticing, and the only indication he was close was the twitch of his lip and his hips trying to make you take even more of him.

You tried to get all of him in your throat when he came, but you failed by an inch or so. You stayed still as his hot cum coated your throat and mouth, moaning at his musky sweet flavor and making sure to suck and milk him for any leftover until he was choking on his own moans for you.

You made sure to clean him up nicely, licking and making sure even his balls weren’t missed. When you finally pulled back to look at him, you nearly passed out at the sight.

He was slightly sweaty, breathing a little heavier with half lidded eyes glaring and grinning viciously at you. His cheeks flushed, the left slightly bruised from your earlier hit. His lips red and bitten, a bit of blood still leftover on his chin. He looked gorgeous. You couldn’t be blamed when you were stumbling off the bed to grab your camera from your bag. No need to turn the flash off since he knows of your presence now.

He scowls as you snap his picture, looking beautiful and ruined just for you.

“I- sorry- I just need this okay?” You set the camera down, eager to return and continue touching him and exploring.

He snorted, looking at you in disbelief with mild amusement. “Is that so? You needed to photograph me naked?”

“What? No. I have lots of those already. I wanted one of your face after I made you cum.” He seemed flabbergasted at your answer, but you couldn’t help your eager hands from cupping his cheeks and leaned down over his face. “You’re just so pretty I can’t help it.” You told him honestly, his expression relaxing into something neutral as he observes you. Fine by you, as you begin kissing his face, hair, cheek you hit and then his neck. You lick and suck over his pulse, enjoying the masculine groan as you mark him up and lick his sweat. You’re trembling as you wiggle down to his chest, playing with his nipples. Swirling your tongue elicits the best response, his back arching lightly and proving your theory that his nipples are sensitive.

His hardening cock beneath you all the proof you need, your own nipples pebbled and aching as you drag your chest against his while you work.

When he bucks up again underneath you, you finally release his nipple with a pop. Looking at his tossed and adorably fucked appearance, you shiver. His hair messy from throwing his head into the pillows. You licked your lips, finally clumsily trying to get out of your underwear but failing because of your position. With a huff of annoyance you just tore them off, finally completely naked and slightly embarrassed by his stare.

It hardly mattered if he liked what he saw, you weren’t so far gone that you thought you looked anything like his earlier willing catch which you’d crushed- “Pretty thing aren’t you?” You paused your internal rambling when he spoke. His voice low and husky, not as flirtatious and teasing like his usual tone. You’d never heard him use this voice before, you eyes meeting his with curiosity.

He chuckled, but his bloodlust from earlier was gone like it had never happened, “What’s wrong? You were so eager just a moment ago, don’t tell me you’re shy now? Is Ms. Stalker a virgin?”

His goading voice was back, covering up his earlier tone like it’d been a mistake. Though you were surprised he hit the nail on the head. You were a virgin. Not because you lacked people willing to fuck you, but because you lacked interpersonal skills to have a normal relationship. Intimacy terrified you before you’d fallen for Hisoka, but after it was all you seemed to want. To touch him, feel him, make him feel good. You wanted him desperately.

“I won’t be much longer.” You looked away and solidified your resolve as you moved to hover above him again, your dripping cunt begging to be filled. You balanced using one hand on his hip, the other gripping his once more hard cock and lining him up with your entrance. You let his tip brush through your sensitive folds as you shakily released a breath. You took one small peak at his face, his eyes watching you like how a hawk might watch it’s prey.

You let his tip breach your entrance, no surprise that it stung. You didn’t prep yourself at all, and though you were wet enough, you wished you’d thought to carry a little lube in case this scenario ever occurred. It didn’t matter though because even if it hurt you were being connected to him and it made your chest swell with pride and happiness.

“Fuck, you’re tight- ah” he threw his head back and grit his teeth again, your gummy walls simultaneously sucking him in and pushing him out. It had him close already embarrassingly enough. The pleasure and pain mind numbing.

You’d only taken half of him but it was leaving you breathless, “m’trying” you could only gasp as you struggled to push more of him in, tears pricking your eyes once more as the pure stretch of his cock inside you was turning your brain off. It hurt but it felt good too.

“If you take these off, I’ll happily finish the job you’ve started dear~” Despite his tone, his face looked just as aroused and strained as your own. It was tempting, but deep down you really didn’t trust him. It came from knowing him that you didn’t trust him in the least. You shook your head, denying his prompting. His laugh is dark, even as his hips surge up to force another few inches into you. You cry out, bracing against his chest as you fall forward a bit. He does it again, sinking into you until finally you feel your hips meet and his tip kiss deeply into your cervix. You lay panting against his chest for a moment as his cock pulses inside you, your body pathetically struggling to adjust to his size.

“Take them off while I’m being nice.” He’s not asking, but still you shake your head and push yourself up, moaning as he sinks even deeper. Your hips take on an unsteady rhythm, testing the depth that feels the best but his hips throw you off each time you find the perfect angle. The stretch and friction drive you wild, your mind numbing to the pain and pleasure as you feel the coil inside you close to snapping.

“Feels good~” your moaning loudly, face fucked out and teary eyes locking with Hisoka’s. His eyes are burning, face scrunched up in frustration because your pace isn’t quite fast enough, nor is he hitting as deep as he’d like. His chains clink against the steel posts, you’re too distracted though to pay attention as you desperately work your hips towards your finish, bouncing on his dick. “M’gonna cum Hisoka” your deliriously close, the coil right about to snap-

When his chains do first.

“Huh,” You only get a split second to panic before he’s on you, breaking each steel bedpost and freeing his movement up again. His cuffs are still secured for a second but it’s meaningless a moment later when they shatter. His nen stored up enough to cancel their purpose of restraining him despite how much you’d paid that specialist who guaranteed no one could get out of them. Never mind that he should still be drugged up enough to he struggling to move at all.

You find your positions switched, your back hitting the mattress as you gaze up into his eyes now.

It’s silent for a moment, save your own pounding heart and icy fear now filling your veins. He just… looks at you. His face blank, eyes calculating but just when you decide it’s best to fight than let him slaughter you like this, he laughs.

Not like normal. This is borderline hysterical laughter, his hand wrapping around his torso as he howls with laughter.

Before you can activate your ability, he’s got a hand wrapped around your throat and squeezing just enough to warn you. “Did you think this would all just work out how you wanted dear?” You were scared, that was true, but as he nudged your thighs apart and dragged his still hard cock through your folds teasingly, you realized you were also horrifically aroused too.

All of your fantasies had you on top, because you didn’t trust him not to kill you if he was, if he even wanted to willingly touch you at all.

“Look at you~ poor thing,” he’s mockingly sweet as he leans over you, long tongue coming out to lick your tears off your cheek. As he leaned back, you truly didn’t expect his hand to leave your neck and slap you across the face. The sting follows after his hit lands, but it shocks you silly more than it actually hurts. You don’t have too long to think before he’s shoving himself back in, and your too far gone to stop the orgasm that slams into you. “Wait!” It too late even as you cry out, hands desperately grabbing on to something to anchor you. Him.

He hisses, face vicious as he stares down at you, “Did you really just cum?” His voice somewhat incredulous as he feels you twitch and writhe beneath him. He stayed still, letting you shakily come down from your high before he’s rocking into you.

Then he’s fucking you just how he likes. Hands gripping your hips in a death grip as he slams himself into your overstimulated cunt over and over. He leaves you mewling and fucked stupid beneath him as he mercilessly thrusts into you like a rag doll. You can’t keep up. Can hardly speak besides useless babbling, only making him laugh and sarcastically mock you for it.

“What’s wrong dear? Isn’t this what you wanted? Am I just so deep inside you~?” Cooing as you nod and cry harder.

It’s when he kisses you that you cum again. He tastes like bubblegum and you’re gone, creaming his cock as his tongue tangled with you own messily. It all feels too good, your arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist, while you just struggle to take it. His tip pounding away in a spot that has you gasping and sobbing below him, because despite everything, this is the most pleasure you’d ever felt. It was disorienting and left you mildly numb, his sharp claws trailing down your chest softly to settle his thumb over your clit and press until you came again.

This one was slightly painful, your muscles constricting so hard Hisoka finally fell over the edge himself. His moans so pretty, soft and deep as his hips still move despite him emptying himself inside you.

He recovers first, staring down at the pretty thing in his arms struggling to catch her breath.

You’d given quite the headache for a while now, but tonight really took everything up a notch. You certainly weren’t halfhearted, something of which he respected. You weren’t a weak thing either, his thrusts harsh enough to break a normal human’s hips, but you just looked fucked stupid. It was cruel of him to be so rough, but then again you’d really brought it on yourself hadn’t you?

You’d brought all this onto yourself, and whatever happened in the future too.

Because now he was a little hooked as well, and you were just too cute and interesting to leave alone now that he’s tasted you. Had you first.

He easily reached over to snag your camera, switching it on and snapping a picture of you still shaking and twitching with his cock still buried inside you and beginning to grow hard again.

Realization dawned on you, but even as you tried to move and get away from him, he had your wrist locked above your head to stop that nonsense.

“Nu-uh dear, I’m not finished. Not even a little.” His lustful gaze and sadistic smirk had you looking like a frightened animal, but it only served to rile him up further.

It’s after all, your fault for loving someone like him, right?

It’s important to note that once Hisoka becomes interested, he treasures it. But something he treasures one day can become trash the next… until you.

Hisoka is surprisingly a willing darling. Don’t think this reverses any roles, he’s not submissive to you in the slightest. He acts like a total brat but he’s dominant through and through, don’t expect to ride him unless he’s got full control to just fuck up into you.

He’s needier than you’d expect too. Not just with sex, that’s constant, but also in just having your company. He likes when you talk to him, interact with him, don’t expect to go back into observing from the sidelines. He’s all to happy to give you front row seats.

He’s just as jealous as you are, but he’ll purposely play into your jealousy by flirting with other women to rile you up. He just likes how you look enraged, finds it cute. If you do the same, he’ll make that individual sit tied to a chair while he fucks you in front of them until you can’t even apologize anymore. Then he’ll kill them. He welcomes the same treatment. You get a bit shy acting it out.

Bonnie and Clyde duo!

He’s not a yandere, though he gets jealous, he’s just a psychopath in general. He’ll still be Hisoka no matter what. While you can interact normally with others when necessary, your fixation on him will remain an outlier. Hisoka is just trash to everyone, and surprisingly decent to you. By your low standards.

He likes ice-cream and ice-cream dates. He’s an ice-cream date man.

Illumi doesn’t understand your relationship but respects your devotion. Wonders why more women can’t be like you. Hisoka likes that his friend is envious of what he has.

Enjoy your darling, he’s frustrating and difficult but all yours now!

Dividers by @benkeibear

#tw: dark content #tw: dubcon #hisoka morow #Hunter x Hunter #hisoka HxH #hisoka x reader #hisoka x fem! reader #hisoka morow smut #darling hisoka #hisoka smut #yandere #yandere reader #fem! Yandere #yandere x darling #yandere HxH #dividers by benkeibear

1K notes · View notes

tinytennisskirt · 2 months ago

Text

From Pain to Promise

Summary: based on a dialogue request- Art has been in love with you since he met you at twelve. He's been pining for six years, so it kills him when you get a boyfriend over the summer. He's your friend, he's supposed to be happy for you. Instead, he's just hurt. And jealous. Too blinded by it to see the way your boyfriend is really treating you. After a climactic event outside of a party, you're freed from it all. And Art is right there, waiting, the way he's always been.

MAJOR WARNINGS: violence, abusive relationships, mentions of unwanted sex/attempts at unwanted sex. a fight. mentions of injuries, nothing too graphic, just bruises.

Warnings: pining, yearning, angst, jealousy, mentions of drinking, a kiss. badly edited.

Kat Zimmerman had nothing on you, that was for sure. Only a few nights after his little learning experience with Patrick, you came into the boy’s lives and their worlds were forever changed. Art’s more so. It was that one fateful day when you were picking out a tennis racket, the new girl at MRTA, and those two little boys knew they had to befriend you before Jake Dalton did. Both little boys, stumbling over each other, made their way over to the rackets and said hi, overlapping pre-pubescent voices telling you their names. And you smiled, hair braided, cheeks pink and rosy, exchanging their names for yours.

And you were friends. That’s how it was. You were friends. You, Patrick, and Art. But more so you and Art because Patrick didn’t know how he felt about being friends with girls. Especially when you were such a girl. Patrick didn’t have a painful little boy crush on you the way Art did. You told Art his hair would be perfect for pigtails and he’d let you do what you wanted, clips and bows and all, just so you’d touch him. He bragged to Patrick later that night. Patrick just laughed at him. “She put bows in your hair, dude. That doesn’t count as touching.” He was humbled.

Patrick did feel a little different when fourteen rolled around and you had boobs, but Art was the same, if not deeper in it for you. You remained their friend. You were always around, playing with Art’s hair on the bleachers or studying with them, making sure they actually paid attention. You went to all of Art’s games and maybe, for a few split seconds, he thought maybe you liked him back. But it’s a tale as old as time. He couldn’t ever be sure, so why would he tell you and potentially ruin everything? If he told you and it wasn’t reciprocated, he could say goodbye to all the casual touching and the things you granted him somewhat platonically.

Patrick was one of the only people who knew how bad Art had it because even after their first little incident, Patrick had once or twice heard or walked in on Art masturbating and it was a little obvious who he was thinking about. It was fine, it was nothing new.

One thing was so very clear and that this was all just pining. Pining after you, pulling strings to be closer to you, to hang out with you. Cancelling plans, switching partners, everything. He’d go insane when your hand brushed his, he was there for you every time you needed him. And by twelfth grade, he could say he loved you. It’d been six years of pining, he knew it to be true. So when you called him over the summer to say you had a boyfriend, it just about killed him.

“He’s really nice and he’s a tennis enjoyer, but not a player. It’s refreshing to find someone who doesn’t know every single term and I get to be the smart one for once,” you gushed to him. He was your best friend after all. You’d been friends, best friends, for six years. Art was glad you managed six years without any real crushes for more than a day and he could handle those because they weren’t real, but this was very real. Or you said so. “God, I can’t believe it, he just asked for my number two weeks ago and now we’ve been together a week. It’s so surreal.”

“That’s great, I’m happy for you,” Art said through clenched teeth. Six years of wanting you and this guy asked for your number and had you as his girlfriend in under a week. He wondered if you’d kissed him. He remembered when you had your first kiss just after his. Just about killed him though he’d just kissed Amy White two days before and bragged about it. He hoped it would make you jealous, but you had your own beau. This was worse than that. You were going to Stanford with him in a month or two, he thought if there was any time to make that change and tell you, it would be when he saw you next. And there wouldn’t be any college dating scandals and maybe he could live happily and find some girl to forget you with, though he knew he couldn’t.

“So it’s serious?”

“Very. I’m excited.” Just about took him out.

He didn’t eat for maybe two days. Would have been longer if Patrick didn’t come over and force-feed him nachos. Art told him the whole situation and Patrick, who had, of course, been rooting for you and Art since finding out Art liked you, was pretty pissed off about it. The two went back and forth just emphasizing ‘six years’. Six years of what? Six years of you hugging him and playing with his hair, going to movies with him, helping him study, spending time with him alone for you to just go and find some guy on a whim? And start dating him? You were all Art had wanted and it was then that he confessed that he was probably in love with you to Patrick. Patrick wasn’t surprised, then went and stole some beers from a friend, saying they needed to drink about it.

You still called as you usually did and Art never got to really feel himself heal when every phone call was an update and a fresh wound. The poor boy was yours and you weren’t his. There was nothing he could say to change that, he was a good friend. And he wanted you to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. You talked about dates and how good of a kisser he was though you wished he used less tongue sometimes and every word was a papercut that added up to a bigger hurt. He had never wanted anyone the same way he wanted you and he was so sure he couldn’t. He buried his face in his pillow and got so frustrated it drove him to tears. His stomach hurt constantly and he felt like his heart was being pulled down to his stomach.

He was a little scared of how he’d act when you talked to him in person. He just finished settling into campus, his dorm room. You’d done the same with the agreement to meet him for coffee at the campus diner. You were still you, he noted, still painfully beautiful. And you were two months into dating this guy Greg. He sounded like a dick. You said he liked country music and he wasn’t going to post-secondary, he was older and going to a trade school. An asshole. Art did his best to change the topic.

“Mmm, so they have campus events all the time, they’re showing E.T. this Friday if you want to go.” You said. “We should.”

“We should talk them into playing Mac and Me after. A real movie.”

“Shut up, oh my god.” You laughed. Your laugh was one of his favourite things. He found it just a little painful to be here with you, knowing you couldn’t be the way you used to be now that you had a boyfriend. “Do you want to come with me to E.T. or not though, I’m terrified of new people.”

“No, yeah, I’ll go,” he nodded.

Your boyfriend visited on Thursday, so he didn’t see you then. Usually, you called him regardless of being on the same campus, but you didn’t. And then when you said you’d meet Art on Friday, you didn’t show up until the movie was half over. Art sat there, watching the movie on a stupid lawn chair with stupid Reece's Pieces and you came and joined him, apologetic. Said you were with Greg and Art could only imagine what that meant. It was too dark for him to notice how red your wrist was.

It was Art’s first step to breaking. The movie finished and he walked you back to your dorm. “Just saying, if you have plans with your boyfriend, don’t make plans with me. I’m not that kind of guy,” he reasoned, heading up the stairs with you. He tried not to sound bitter. He was only half-bitter anyway, he was mostly genuine.

You sighed, rubbing your left eye just a little. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Does he know about me?” You were quiet. Too quiet. “Y/N?”

You bite your lip, “He knows we’re friends. He doesn’t know the full extent and he doesn’t need to! There’s nothing to worry about, but I just don’t want to worry him. He knows you’re my friend, he doesn’t know… everything.”

Art pressed his hand to his forehead, “I’m a secret, that’s crazy, that’s… fine, I guess. I don’t want to ruin anything for you.”

“You couldn’t.” You told him. “He’s secure. He’s good. And I’m sorry again for being late, I’ll make it up to you with coffee tomorrow if you’ll let me.”

Art nodded in response. How could he not forgive you? How could you stand here and be so beautiful and so apologetic and have him not forgive you? So he swallowed all his words for the thousandth time. “Coffee sounds good. Bring doughnuts. Campus library?”

“Campus library…”

“3 pm?”

“Perfect. See you then.” You kept your sleeve over your wrist which was still pinkened. “I really am sorry, Art.”

He smiled just a little, forced, “It’s okay. I promise. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Y/N.”

You said goodnight back and slipped into your dorm room again. Greg had gone out to the local bar, he didn’t come back until 2am when he said he’d be back at 12. Came back drunk and wanting to kiss you quite badly, smelling awfully of whiskey and weed.

Art wanted to forgive you for it all, but he felt like he couldn’t. Maybe he was bitter. He was bitter that you found someone and he didn’t, he was bitter that you had someone who wasn’t him. He’d yet to meet Greg, but he wondered if you smiled at him with your eyes... or when something funny was said if you'd lean into his shoulder while laughing. He wondered if you were the same, or if it felt the same when you were alone with him- like you could say anything and be unjudged. And that any darkness could be made a joke and made better just by talking for hours. He wondered if Greg had any of that the way he had. But Greg probably had that and more and Art would have to deal with that. He felt his heart physically slow its beating as it slowly, but surely, was beginning to crack.

You met Art the next day and of course, he noticed the hickey on your neck. It made his stomach do flips and tie itself in knots and he wanted to get up and leave, but you had the doughnuts and coffee. And he was supposed to be happy for you. He had to remind himself of that. He looked at you, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear and laughed and engaged with what he had said and you were still the most gorgeous girl on the planet. Nothing could or ever would change that. He was still head over heels and he couldn’t help it. He would call himself pathetic, he would degrade himself for still wanting you, but after six years, he couldn’t get away from it.

Greg was over quite a bit. You never called when he was around. You said you’d come hang out when Patrick was in town but you were late again, said you tripped down the stairs and the boys thought it was some excuse for sex with Greg, but you had the injuries to prove it, so neither of them could really be mad. “It hurts like a bitch,” you huffed, sitting down with them. “But it’s fine. We should drink tonight.”

“Your dorm room or mine?” Art replied, a smile on his face. He was happy about an excuse to drink, he was happy you weren’t late because of Greg, and he was happy you were here.

Your eyes widened and you answered much too quickly. “Yours.”

The three of you headed back to Art’s dorm. You lay on his bed, checking your phone every minute or so. It looked like you were getting an abundance of messages, but you were never texting back. Your phone rang twice before you silenced it. The boys chalked it up to Greg and the obsessions of an early relationship, but it wasn’t that early. At one point you tossed your phone off the end of his bed and on top of Art’s laundry. “Please, please, please, pass the vodka,” you enthused. Art and Patrick chuckled, watching you take a pretty large swig.

“Might want to slow down,” Patrick said, looking at Art, then back at you. You were out of the three of you, the person who hardly ever drank. And here you were chugging it like water. “Don’t want to return you to your boyfriend off your ass.”

“It’s fine,” you replied. “He’s fine, it’s all fine.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Patrick replied, taking the vodka back from you. Art grabbed it out of his hand and took a swig equal to yours, trying to drown out the way he was feeling. You were in his bed, talking about your boyfriend. It was fucked. And it felt awful. He looked at you, clouded by alcohol and god, he wished he kissed you in high school. He wished he told you how he felt. If he had, maybe you wouldn’t be so far out of reach. It took him all his strength not to tell you that while drunk. Instead he just laid on the bed next to you, laughing with you about some stupid shit Patrick said.

“This is why you’re not in college, Pat,” you laughed, out of breath. You had turned on your side, your hand was resting on Art’s upper arm. Patrick just groaned, laughing as he turned his head down to the floor. Art was too aware of your hand on his arm. The way it moved up and down almost the way a person would soothe another, but it was you. And this never meant anything, so why should Art let himself believe it did now?

“You’re so smart, tell us how good you are with context clues, go-” Patrick teased. But your eyes met the clock on Art’s desk. Your eyes widened a little. You’d lost track of time.

“Oh my god,” you said, a little bit of panic in your voice. “It’s almost midnight, fuck, I have to go.” You jolted upright and literally climbed over Art to get off his bed. “I’m so sorry, guys, I’ll see you tomorrow, please text me.” You grabbed your phone and your bag and in seconds you were gone.

Art just shut his eyes and sighed. “I feel that,” Patrick nodded. “What the fuck was that?”

“Greg beckons,” Art replied bitingly. “Can’t be late to see Greg!”

“Fucking Greg,” Patrick grunted. “You want the vodka back?”

“Yes please,” Art groaned, covering his face with his pillow.

You returned a little tipsy to Greg, who was tipsier. You used to think he was really great. He was funny and nice and he helped you drown out your feelings for Art. It felt like a step forward, progressive, real. Like a real relationship. One you knew you needed so maybe liking Art with no proof he liked you back would be easier. It was for a moment, but bliss is temporary.

“You’re back, doll,” Greg said, greeting you on messed up bedsheets, not even bothering to meet you halfway. “I’ve had a night. C’mere, I missed you.” You’re afraid to say you’re tired and you just want to sleep. You slink into bed with him. He smells like whiskey again. It’s stronger, more potent, and he needs a shower. The second you’re in bed with him, he’s on top of you. “So why don’t you tell me why you didn’t answer my fucking texts, huh? Or when I called you four fucking times. You know how embarrassing to call your girl and she doesn’t pick up, huh? Had to do that four fucking times in front of my friends, were you trying to embarrass me?” His hand is tight on your arm, leaving bruises, the other hand is on your hair as he keeps himself propped up. It’s pulling and you feel the headache starting.

“N-no, I’m sorry,” you manage. “Greg, you’re hurting me, you’re pulling my hair.”

“Thought you liked that?” He smirked. Not once had you ever liked having your hair pulled. Not once had you ever said that to him in any context.

“You’re hurting me!” You repeated. His hand eased out of your hair but his grip on your arm turned into a grip on your shoulder, just as hard. It hurt. You could feel it bruised already. “Greg, off, please.”

He made a noise sort of like a whine, his breath horrible. “But I missed you, thought we could have some fun when you came back.” He kissed you. He kissed you. He kissed you. You didn’t want to kiss him, you wanted air, you didn’t want his hand down your waistband. “Don’t fight, pretty, come on. I know you want this.”

No, you didn’t. You didn’t let it get so far without a fight. You were left to sleep alone as he stormed out. You tended to the injuries from earlier, the ‘stairs’ incident, plus the new injuries you’d have to make stories for because you’d be hanging out with Art and Patrick again. But the bruise that was already forming on your cheekbone looked bad enough that you texted Art saying you couldn’t make it tomorrow and you cried into your knees.

Makeup didn’t do a very good job, especially when every time something healed, there was something new. You did see Art a few days later when Greg had gone ‘fishing’ with a friend. The bruise on your cheek had faded, but not enough. Makeup hardly fixed it either. “Ball to the face,” you sighed, pressing your lips into a straight line when Art noticed it. He grimaced. “I mean at least my partner has upped her miles per hour but it’s…”

“Ouch,”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, walking next to him. “So I was thinking maybe we could hang out Tuesday night.”

He looked at you, “You have something in mind?” As if he could say no.

“Yes, actually. It’s like an improv show thing, it’ll probably be awful. We can get candy and make fun of them behind their backs.” You smiled just a little.

He grinned, bowing his head just a little, “Sounds perfect.”

“Thought so,” you laughed, nudging him a little so he walked off the sidewalk and onto the grass. He tried to nudge you back, but you dodged him and he nearly tripped down the hill you were walking next to. You laughed, but it only laughed so long as his expression turned into the determination to get you back for it. He chased you down the hill until it became a rolling matter, both of you falling into the lush grass and rolling down the last bit of it. He rolled into you, turning it into a chaotic tumble that slowed to a halt with him on top of you. Art breathed out hard, eyes meeting yours, his breath smelling like the mint gum he was chewing. You smiled first with your eyes and then the grin spread up your face. “Ouch,” you mumbled, almost a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours, his face hovering just above you.

His eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips and his brain told him to move, but he didn’t want to. But he had to. You were taken. It would be wrong. But you didn’t move either. You were both breathing hard, smiling at your compromising position until Art did move. Though maybe you didn’t want him to. “You’re okay?”

“I will be,” you replied. He helped you up and once again, your faces were just inches apart. It was dangerous, wanting you.

Greg threatened obscene things in the face of if you ever were to leave him. He’d tell your secrets, said he’d end his life, said he’d hurt you. You cried. A lot. For hours, later. He was terrifying. You cried so hard your eyes were completely bloodshot the next day. Your girlfriends were concerned, but you played it off as allergies.

You saw Art another day and it was good to talk to him about everything and nothing. He was a good distraction from the throbbing pain in your ribs from Greg’s reaction to you mentioning a celebrity crush. He had been drunk. Too drunk. And you couldn’t get away fast enough.

Tuesday rolled around. You kept your hair down to hide the bruise on your temple. It still ached, along with where your hair was pulled once again when you refused to have sex with Greg again. He was sitting bitter on your bed, angry still. You put on your jean shorts and a t-shirt. “Where you going dressed like that?”

You looked up, “Like what?”

“Why the fuck do you instantly talk back? What’s your fucking problem. I’m asking you where you think you’re going dressed like a slut?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “Just getting dessert with Bea from my tennis program. She’s got this-”

“Go change.”

You weren’t looking for a fight. You put on jeans and a sweater. It made you five minutes late to meet Art and you hated it. You looked at Art with sadness in your eyes and he recognized it but didn’t know what it was. “Are you okay?” He knew you.

“Yeah, can we just… go make fun of bad improv?”

“I brought the gummy worms,” he nodded. You leaned slightly against him as you walked down to the outdoor theatre. You were glad to be out for the evening. Glad to be away from Greg and his anger and his hurtful words and the way he treated you. Art was the calm. He was the safety. He didn’t even know it, but he was what kept you going. If you ever got away from Greg, maybe you’d tell Art how you felt. As the feelings for Greg dissipated, your feelings for Art resurfaced.

“The clown bit was actually so good,” you laughed, walking back up the steps of the campus theatre. ”Reminded me of what Patrick said the first time we got high.”

His eyes widened and he swallowed the gummy worm he was eating, “Mm- I was thinking the same thing. It was him for sure.”

“You think I’d be a good clown?”

“Mmm, no.” He shook his head. “Your feet aren’t big enough.”

“And yours are?”

“One, who said anything about me being a clown and two, big feet are supposed to mean something, right?”

You laughed, “Shut up, so boyish.”

His hand brushed your upper arm, just slightly, and you were all too aware of it. In fact, you were all-too aware of how close you walked to him. It was always an unconscious thing. A forever type thing, always walking close, always leaning against each other in the cafeteria lines, always near each other- never near enough. He then nudged your arm again, this time on purpose, so you opened your hand so that he could dump a few more gummy worms in it and you just smiled. It had never, not once, been more apparent that finding someone to replace your feelings for Art was a mistake. Not when this boy, blonde curls and crooked grin was putting a pile of gummy worms in your hand. Wordlessly. Seamlessly. He just got you and the feeling to kiss him right there, right then was overwhelming. And wrong.

It was wrong. You pressed your lips together for a moment before eating a gummy worm. If your boyfriend was around he’d smack them right out of your hand saying you don’t need more sugar. Maybe that’s why he was so bitter, you thought. Lack of sugar. You tried not to think too hard about the urges Art brought with him. He was so lovely, he was such an escape, and he was only your best friend. It was all he could be. You had no idea he was fighting the very same urge, paying extra attention to the fact he didn’t even have to ask you to open your hand, you just knew. But it was wrong. You had a boyfriend.

You said goodbye to Art at the entrance to your building, rather than your dorm. If Greg heard you talking out there, you’d be in for something for sure. “Thanks for coming out with me tonight-” you started. “I needed it.”

Art’s hands slunk into his pocket and he tilted his head just a little, “Yeah, about that. You’re doing okay?”

“Oh, yeah, my mood lately has been down, it’s nothing big. I’m just extra appreciative of anything that brings it back up.”

His eyes were understanding and a little apologetic. “If you want we can do something tomorrow? See a movie or play Scrabble or something stupid. We can get takeout? Takeout and going through Patrick’s Facebook and making fun of him.”

That made you grin. You scrunched your nose just a little, “That sounds good! Really good. I’ll call you tomorrow and I’ll let you know. I have to check with Greg.” Of course you did. Greg. Fuck. “But I’ll call you, I promise.”

“Okay,” he nodded. His gaze lingered on your lips. He wished they wouldn’t. He wished his mind wasn’t on who you were going back to after he said goodbye. He walked back to his dorm room in this perpetual state of angst and longing. There was no pain like it. Ever. In any part of his life he’d never known a greater emotional turmoil. You weren’t his. And he loved you, he didn’t even like you, he loved you and he knew it and you didn’t and there was nothing he could do.

He went back to his dorm and got into bed in his jeans and his shoes, not bothering to turn the light off, not bothering to pull the covers over himself. He just hugged his pillow and thought about you and it and everything until he fell asleep. You didn’t have that luxury.

“You’re late,” Greg said, sitting on your bed. He’d been smoking in your room, you could smell it. Potent and cheap, assaulting your nose. You’d give anything to walk out and not return, but this room was yours. If you left now, he’d have you back in your room with some threat or worse. “Care to tell me why?”

“I thought I was home early?” You set your bag down on the chair. “You said 11.”

“I said 10:30,” he replied.

“Did you?”

“Did I stutter?”

“No. Look, I’m tired, can we just go to bed?”

“Of course we can, doll,” he smirked a little bit evilly. You sighed, running your hand over the back of your neck. He wanted to fuck you. And you wanted to go to bed. “Come over here.”

“Greg, I’m tired,”

“Too tired?”

“Yes. I’m too tired. I’m just going to wash my face and go to bed.”

“Fuck you.”

“Greg, that’s uncalled for.” You said, standing your ground, just a little. “I’m just tired.”

He shook his head, “Yeah? You go out for hours and come back and don’t even want to fuck. Sounds an awful lot like you’re getting your fill somewhere else. Hm?”

You pressed your hand to your temple, “It means I’m tired, god, Greg, I’m not cheating.” And some voice in your head told you that you wished you were. “Please.” You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door, just in case. You washed your face and changed into your pajamas before getting in bed next to his heavy scent. As he wrapped an arm around your waist you thought maybe you could tune him out, but his hand slipped over your chest, coming to rest with your breast in his hand. You couldn’t pretend anything. He was himself. Even if you wished it was someone else, it wasn’t.

The next morning, he was gone. Where to? You had no idea. You were just glad. You spent the morning with windows open, cleaning your things, wiping down surfaces and sorting laundry, spraying air freshener. And it dawned on you to call Art. Greg wasn’t around. You hadn’t asked him, but you would make some excuse, maybe.

“Hey!” You greeted him, laying back on your bed, fresh sheets beneath you. “You still want to get takeout and make fun of Patrick’s facebook?”

Art walked to the side of the tennis court, his partner yelling at him to make it quick. He smiled, sitting on the bleachers. “Yeah, if you’re up for it. My dorm, around seven? Does that work?” His smile grew to a grin.

“That works,” you replied, smiling too. “Who is yelling at you right now?”

“My partner for singles today,” he answered with a chuckle. “He’s telling me to get back on the court.”

“Doesn’t he know you’re super busy making super important plans?”

He looked at his partner, frustrated in waiting on the court. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Right?” You rolled onto your stomach. “I’ll let you get back to him, I’ll see you later, Art.”

“See you later, Y/N,” he said. You wished he didn’t have to go. You had nothing to do, Greg wasn’t around. Patrick was touring for another week before he came back around here. You decided to go out and meet up with some girlfriends for the afternoon. It was nice to be out and unbothered by having a set time to be home. There was no pressure. Greg didn’t call or text, not once, and it was a strange sort of peace. You talked to your friends about tennis and classes and their current crushes and it was fun and it was good. You retired back to your dorm around six thirty, showered, and did a little makeup. You were just about to leave to meet Art when Greg walked in.

It was like the light was sucked out of the room along with all the air. Or the fresh air. He smelled gross. He tasted worse, kissing you disgustingly. “Hey baby, I missed you,” he slurred. He needed to shave. “Where you headed?”

“Bea’s,” you replied. “She’s having a movie night.”

“Stay,” he breathed. “Missed you all day. Need to feel you.” He disgusted you. Hands on your chest with the door not even closed yet from his entry. “Come on, doll. Said no yesterday, can’t say no today.”

“No.”

“Don’t give me that attitude, come on. I’m being nice.”

“Greg, I have plans, I’m going to be late,” you tried to laugh it off nervously, but his hand was around your wrist in seconds. “Greg, please. Come on.”

He narrowed his eyes, “You’re staying. Bea can fucking wait. Don’t your little friends know that I’m more important than them? Jesus christ, the company you keep.”

You avoided his gaze. His hand slipped down to undo his belt. You debated running. He’d catch you, he was fast. You debated an argument. You didn’t want to fuck him, you didn’t want to have sex with him. He was expecting it more than wanting it. Like all you were was some object, some toy, some possession. His eyes were dark with lust and his words laced with alcohol. You were afraid of him. “Greg, I have to go. I’ll be back around eleven.”

“You’re not fucking going,” Greg made it known. Flat out. He shut the door behind him.

“I am. I made the plans, I can’t bail.”

“For me, yes you fucking can.” He said, pushing you back onto the bed. “Come on, Y/N. You’ll like it soon enough.”

“No. Greg. I’m serious. I have to go.”

“You know better than to talk back to me,” he warned. As if you were a dog. Or a child. “You don’t fucking listen? You’re not going out. Cut the attitude before you regret it.”

“Greg.”

“What did I fucking say?” He yelled, then dropped his voice. It was nasty, his breath, his tone. “I’m gonna fuck you and you’re gonna like it.”

“No-” his blow came like lightning through your body. A shock. A volt. And then the sting. “Greg, please-” another. And more. And then he left again. You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to, it hurt. Your ribs ached, your head pulsed. Your lip was bleeding. What could you do but cry and cry and cry? You wanted to call Art, you really did, but you knew if you cried on the phone he’d come over here and with Greg on the loose, it wasn’t a good idea. So you curled up into a ball and cried yourself to sleep.

Art sat in his dorm room waiting all night for you. Until about 2 am, when he gave up calling and texting and went to bed. You called him the next morning and he didn’t pick up.

You couldn’t reschedule for any day nearby because of your fat lip and new bruises. Greg came back and apologized like usual, dismissing the purple and blue on your face. His doing. His work. When he was in the bathroom, you called Art again, leaving a quiet voicemail.

“Art, I’m so sorry about my no-show last night. Something came up and I couldn’t make it and I’m so sorry I didn’t call or text. I feel like such an asshole. But next week, for sure. We’ll do whatever you want, my treat. I want to make it up to you, I feel terrible about this. Please call or text me when you get this. I’m sorry.”

Art gazed over his screen. He wasn’t sure how to feel. Loving you was choking him out and these no-shows and being late and canceling, it was just… too much. You were you and you were everything he could ever want, but you had other priorities, it seemed. He could want you all he wanted, wish for you as often as he could, but you didn’t wish the same. That was all he knew, not knowing the whole truth. Not calling him that night was one of the hardest things to do, but it was for safety.

You couldn’t even see Art if you wanted to for a few days. Not until the bruises faded enough to be covered by clever concealer. You wanted so desperately to go over to his dorm. You wanted to see your friends. Anything to feel better. Anything to get out of this fucking room, but you called in sick to your classes and worked on the material in your room, completely unable to really exist in the outside world. It was just you and Greg in this tiny little room. And he didn’t stop the aggression. You couldn’t escape it.

You called Art again when he left for an hour or two to go to the bar. You had stifled your crying, feeling so completely alone, needing to hear his voice. Maybe he’d save you for even a moment. He was the light, he made things better.

He picked up this time. “Hey.” It was singular, a little quiet.

“Art, hi,” you said. You weren’t sure why you were so overwhelmed with emotion at his simple greeting. “Did you get my messages? I left a voicemail, god, I’m so sorry for the other night. We made plans and I made a commitment but I got tangled up. I wanted to call, I’m so sorry I didn’t.” You gushed. “I understand if you’re angry. I know I promised you I wouldn’t do what I did, but you have to believe I didn’t mean to. And I’m really sorry.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I know.” He wasn’t sure what to say. What you did wasn’t okay, but it was you, so he’d always forgive. “I get it.” But he didn’t. “You have a boyfriend, I can’t expect you to be free all the time. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t.

“Art, really, I-”

“I forgive you. Just call me next time? Please.” His words were so easy, it hurt you. “I heard your voicemail, if you still want to make it up to me, I’m free Friday night. There’s a party, Patrick wants to go. You should come with us.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. A party would be hard to lie about. But it was Art and he was asking and you so desperately wanted to see him that you agreed. You agreed. And the conversation mellowed into something normal. Your usual conversation and banter, slight teases, and warm words. And it felt better. You had plans for Friday and that was that. You wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop you this time.

Getting ready for the party with Greg around sucked. You did your makeup modestly, you couldn’t look too nice or he’d stop you from leaving. The concealer didn't quite cover the bruise, but your lip had healed over pretty nicely. The dim lighting would be your friend for sure. You put on a long skirt over a mid-length one. You couldn’t be too careful, he once called a skirt slightly above the knee slutty. And you wore a dollar store t-shirt over your black tank top.

“Where are you going?” Greg asked.

“Sleepover at Bea’s, remember?” You said. You loved lying to him. It was the best you could get away with. “You said I could go.”

“Yeah. It’s fine. Talk to you later.” He didn’t make you stay or make you kiss him goodbye, which was a relief. You walked over to Art’s dorm with what felt like pep in your step. You didn’t have to be home at any certain time, you were free to roam, to have fun. Greg wouldn’t know. Greg couldn’t know. Patrick let you into Art’s room. He’d been debriefed on the stunt you pulled, but he couldn’t hold it against you.

“You look like you’re going to church,” he remarked, looking over your outfit.

Art peered over from where he sat, “Amish?”

You chuckled, pulling the shirt off over your head. Both boys were a little taken aback as you tossed the shirt to Art’s laundry. “Not quite.” You undid the button on the side of your skirt and took that off as well, revealing the shorter skirt underneath. You were beautiful, Art thought. He always thought it. But that was because you always were. Wanting you was hard and disruptive and wrong, he reminded himself. But you stood there and everything reminded him of just how fucked he was. Head over heels for a taken girl. Both of them were too distracted to pay attention to the covered-up bruise on your outer thighs. They didn’t pay close enough attention to the multitude of bracelets that covered the bruised fingerprints on your wrist. Your face was another story. Another lie.

Art’s mouth was just a little open, watching you shed the outer layer of clothes. Patrick tossed you a shooter. “So what’s with the coverup?”

You thought he meant your makeup over the bruise on your face and you held your breath for a half-second. He meant the clothes. “Oh, Greg wouldn’t like me out in a skirt and tank top.” You tried not to cringe at the words. Were they telling?

“Why does Greg have a say in that?” Patrick replied, leaning forward in his chair just a little. Art looked away, he had to. His face would say something he didn’t want you to know. Patrick was overstepping, he couldn’t bear that either.

You unscrewed the cap of the shooter, “He’s not… I don’t know. But I don’t give a fuck, I’m going out anyway,” you said, trying to ignore that line of questioning. “I’m in the skirt and the shirt. Thoughts?” You did a little spin. Art couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were so perfect it hurt. It hurt.

“Hot.” Patrick nodded. He unscrewed his own shooter, standing and grabbing one to pass to Art. Art pushed past his thoughts and the three of you did a little ‘cheers’, downing the small bottles. You would take hot. Hot was good. Hot was the opposite of how you were feeling. Greg made you feel so gross, it was hard to be anything else. And with staying cooped up in your room, bruised and marinating in the feeling of being ugly- so hot was good. He said what Art was thinking. It was a little less than he thought, but it was a good summary.

The three of you headed out soon after, drinking on the way. You were leaning on Art as you walked, the three of you laughing at some inside joke. Your laugh was beautiful and rang out in the street. With the soft buzz of alcohol in his head, on his skin, you were an angel. You were always an angel, bathed in streetlight. And your hand was around his bare forearm and boundaries with you were always blurry but this felt odd. He was enjoying it, it was wrong, but he was letting it pass with the excuse of the alcohol. Your hand was so soft on his skin, the perfect temperature, perfect everything. When were you not perfect?

“Okay so Patrick is set on bringing a girl back- but bringing a girl back where?” You laughed, turning onto one of the little pathways between the rented residencies.

“I don’t think he’s thought that far ahead,” Art chuckled, nudging Patrick just a little. Patrick raised his hands in surrender, both hands filled with shooters. His pockets were also full. “You were going to say my dorm room, weren’t you?”

“Nasty,” you teased. “Poor Art. He sleeps in that bed, you know.”

“Uh-huh. You’re one to talk, you’ve always got some form of hickey on your neck, you don’t even try to hide it. Me, nasty? You.” Your hand immediately flew to the side of your neck. “Sit with that one.”

Art’s heart always fell at the mention of it. Every time, without fail. You moved away from him just slightly at the mention. You would usually have a retort to something like that. But you didn’t. Your hand just stayed on the side of your neck, covering the fingerprint bruises you didn’t know were visible. You pulled your hair over it. “Pass me another shooter, please.”

Art, sweet, feeling pretty shitty over the way he was viewing you, stayed quiet. Mostly. Until you were just outside the party. Patrick pat him on the shoulder, heading in right away. Art, sweet, stopped you with the extension of his arm. “You’re quiet.” He said.

“So were you,” you replied.

“Just wondering if you’re okay?” He said. Posing it as a question. “You’ve seemed upset since we were at mine, I just wanted to know before we go in there and it’s too loud and I get too drunk to ask.”

“You’ve never been too drunk you ask,” you smiled. You were standing a little bit close to him, your toes inches from touching. “You got soooo drunk at the Miller’s party last year and you still asked me if I was having fun. I wasn’t and we left and you threw up, remember?”

“I don’t,” he chuckled, eyes soft. But he nodded, “You’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I need more to drink and I want to find Bea and dance. My plans. Your plans?”

“Drink and save women from Patrick,” he nodded, his grin coming back.

You, just a little clouded from alcohol, pressed your palm to the side of his face just for a second. “You’re a saint, Art Donaldson.” He felt his skin flush. Your hand slipped away and went down his forearm once again, pulling him into the party. It was natural you let go of him, Art made a beeline for Patrick who was already talking to some girl. She was weird, flirted with Art too once he showed up.

You needed to lie to Greg more often, you thought, taking a shot from some girl you shared a 3pm class with. Bea’s hands on your hips, dancing together, hands raised over your heads. This was living, this was uncontrolled, unbridled by any abuse, any threat. You could have fun and not feel guilty about it after. Greg had too much trust in a girl he hit. You felt- though you weren’t- free. Just a little bit.

Art watched you with Bea, watched the way you moved. He was out of it. Just a little. Not too drunk at all. But enough. Numb, watching you. Hard, watching you. He hid a little behind Patrick to hide it, watching your hips sway, watching how close you and your best friend were. He couldn’t have cared less about Bea. Just you.

He should have told you he liked you in high school. Not saying anything had to be one of the biggest regrets of his entire life. You were perfect for him in every way and you were warm and inviting and you were witty and fun and you knew each other like the backs of your hands and it would have been worth it to tell you. He knew that, looking at you, that it would have been easiest to tell you when he still could. He was bitter about it. A missed chance. Patrick told him he’d regret it and watching you under purple lights, he knew Patrick had been right. It was all bullshit.

Patrick suddenly grabbed Art’s arm pretty hard, yanking him closer, “That guy over there. That’s Greg, right?” He said, voice low even in the loudness of the party. He gestured over to the guy in the weird sweater and jeans, leaned up against the wall, arm hanging above a short hardly-dressed girl. Faces close. So close. Noses touching kind of close.

“Oh, fuck,” Art breathed, eyes locked on them, watching Greg’s hand touch just under this girl’s chin. You didn’t know Greg was there, that was apparent. But of course, the dirtbag was. Art’s heart pounded hard in his chest. He looked back at Patrick, whose expression was filled with hatred. As it should be because what the fuck? Regardless of how much he was rooting for Art, always rooting for Art, Greg was still the guy you were with. Your boyfriend. And he was with someone else.

“I need a reason not to fuck him up right now,” Patrick said. “What the fuck do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Art answered truthfully. “She doesn’t know he’s here, he doesn’t know she’s here.”

Patrick shook his head, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, visibly pissed off. At least Patrick could be pissed off, Art’s stomach was just in knots. It was almost nonsensical. No way he would cheat on you. You? You were everything, you were gorgeous in all ways and you had a personality. How could he cheat? He looked back over at Greg in a liplock with this other girl and the anger did rise, but his eyes fell back on you and it eased. This was fucked all around. Every bit of this was fucked up. “We have to tell her, we can’t keep it to ourselves.”

“I agree but how are we going to say it? We’re in a crowd of people, it’s not exactly fun news.”

“Fucking asshole. I’m pissed. He’s slobbering all over that girl like a fucking dog. You know, I should…”

Art couldn’t keep listening to Patrick’s rant. He didn’t even want to look back at Greg. But Greg was very obviously invested in his cheating schemes. Art wondered how long he’d been doing it to you. How long had this guy been cheating? Did you not satisfy him? How could you not satisfy him, you sported hickeys so often and you were late to meet up and it was all sickening, but it didn’t add up. This guy was the world's most unsatisfied, apparently. It, he, was disgusting. Art felt his face crinkle up just thinking about it, but he had to now. Your feelings were in the balance here.

“- in the face. Knock his goatee right off. Art. Art, I’m telling her.”

“Patrick, give me a fucking second,” Art said, holding a hand up. He looked back at you, Bea pouring a shot in your mouth. You were smiling. Grinning. And you were beautiful and he hated the idea that you’d stop soon. Fuck. Neither of you deserved this. Not you, not Art. “We’ll tell her it’s time to go and then we’ll tell her outside, no bullshit.”

Patrick nodded, “This is bad.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m so fucking angry.”

“I know.” Art’s heart was leaping out of his chest. He held his hand out and Patrick dug in his pocket for a stronger shooter. Art drank it all quickly, letting it burn his throat. His heart didn’t slow even a bit. “Fuck.”

Patrick leaned over to the girl who he’d just been talking to, saying something about having to leave. Art watched her roll her eyes and walk away. It was fair, she’d been standing there for a bit listening to him trash talk your boyfriend. Art rubbed his eyes, trying to sober up just a little, but after that shooter, it was a little bit pointless. Regret seemed to be a theme around here. “He’s gone.” Patrick said. Art let the fuzz from rubbing his eyes melt and sure enough, Greg wasn’t where he was before. Just a little panicked, he set his eyes on you. There he was, towering over you, rage in his eyes. It was clear to Art what was going through your head, he knew you too well, you were cowering. Patrick was still scanning the crowd for Greg, but Art watched as Greg’s fingers locked onto your upper arm and he yanked you so hard that your shoulder went funny for a second.

Art, a little shocked, watching him drag you out of sight. And he launched into action. He started into the sea of people dancing, drinking, leaving Patrick behind. Patrick was faced the other way, by the time Art was absorbed into the crowd, it was a little late to find even him. Art pushed through people, trying to keep his sight on you, but he lost you in it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbled. He’d never seen anyone grab anyone the way Greg just grabbed you. It was violent and harsh and the way it happened, it couldn’t have been good in any way. He pushed through people, accidentally pushing a guy as he passed him, the guy went to push back but Art just darted out of the way. He made his way to the door, you weren’t around it, so you had to have left.

“Art Donaldson, my man,” one of his tennis buddies greeted him, stepped in front of him and Art just stepped around him, trying to find you. You, where were you? His heart rate was raised higher than he’d ever felt it. Rapid, as if he’d run a mile. He ran out onto the street, looking around, but there wasn’t any sight of you. What he would do when he found you, he had no idea, he just knew he needed to find you. Nobody just grabbed someone like that with good intentions.

Greg wasn’t a good guy and he knew that, he just thought it was his bias. That maybe he was overreacting, but it didn’t look so much that way now. “Greg, please!” You yelled from his left. Art turned his head to see two figures head into one of the thin alleyways between buildings. He could hear a man speaking back to you, Greg, obviously, but his voice was too much of a growl to understand. Art started jogging toward the sound, cautiously. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry I lied,” you cried out.

“Little fucking whore. Lie to me to go party with your friends? Dance on some fucking guy, cheat one me? That’s what you wanted?” Art’s heart was about to break his ribs. He ran just a little faster.

“No, fuck, Greg, stop! I was with Bea, I was with Bea!”

“At a fucking party. If you wanted to be a slut you could have said so. Fucking lying to me, you’re disgusting. Fucking bitch.”

“Greg!”

“Don’t even start talking back to me now! You’re a lying, cheating whore who deserves to be treated like one!”

Art was almost there, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. “Greg, don’t fucking touch me. I’m dead serious, I’ll scream. Get off me, get off me you asshole!”

The sound of the blow made Art’s entire body go cold. He felt himself drain of colour, he felt his heart stop for just a second. It was a sickening noise. The entirety of him tensed up to a point he felt like a coiled spring, his chest tight, ribs pressing in. He hit you, that was the sound of him hitting you, he hit you. Art made it over and came at Greg with a surprising force, shoving him off of you and onto the ground. He was drunk, it was easy to do. Your hand grabbed Art’s upper arm, but missed as Art’s body followed through with the movement.

“What the fuck?!” Greg exclaimed. You moved behind Art, backward, away. Tears streamed down your face, you were choking on sobs, cradling the side of your face with one hand and your upper arm with the other. Art stepped back with you. He was so angry he himself couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look at you, he kept his eyes on Greg, breathing hard. Shoving was tame, shoving him off of you was going to have to be enough, Art wasn’t violent. The shock of all this hadn’t settled, it wouldn’t settle. “Who the fuck are you, tough guy?” Greg advanced on Art who was nimble, but between anti-car poles, stuck. Shoved against the wall, he just avoided having his head hit the wall by putting his hand up.

“Art!” You yelled. “Greg, stop! GREG!” You screamed, you hoped someone would come. You hoped someone would call the cops.

“Art fucking Donaldson, huh?” Greg smirked, face close to Art’s. “You been fucking my girlfriend? Hm? This the one, Y/N, really? Just friends my ass, you probably came here with him.”

“Fuck you,” Art seethed. Greg was bigger than him.

“Get off of him, Greg, I’m begging you, don’t hurt him!”

Greg fumed, “Used me to get over him, huh? Big-eared, fuckass, twinkie little pretty boy, here?”

“Shut up!” You yelled. Your head pounded, your skin stung. “Stop. Now. I’ll call the police, I’ll get someone to call the police, Greg, get off of him!”

Art shoved Greg backward again, but he just walked right back. “I don’t want to fight you.” Art said, his eyes dark. “Fuck off. Leave her alone, fuck off.”

“He’s playing prince charming, Y/N. You’ve been fucking him on the side. Yeah, that’s why you never put out, you slut. Getting his pathetic skinny boy dick on the side.” Art kneed Greg in the groin, pushing him off again and stepping over to you. “Oh, you’re fucking dead.” His eyes burned with rage and he came at Art with a pouncing force, grabbing him and bringing him down to the ground. You screamed, watching Greg tackle Art to the pavement. The brawl began, Greg holding Art down, trying to punch him but being blocked. Art wasn’t violent, he was avoiding hurting Greg. For you. For your sake. You had no choice, you had to intervene. What was a few more bruises? You tried to push Greg off, but he kept at it, trying to hurt Art.

“Hey! Hey, what the fuck!” It was Patrick and he dragged you out of this with too much ease, putting you to the side and going right back to push Greg off of Art and onto his back. A bystander behind Patrick had their phone out, calling 911, thank god. You watched in pure shock, Art get punched in the shoulder rather than the head and in a swift blow, Patrick punched Greg in the jaw. And he went limp. You grabbed Art, you grabbed whatever you could on him, his shirt, his opposite shoulder, on your knees. He looked at you with eyes sadder than you’d ever seen them. You moved closer.

His hand reached up to your face desperately but also gently, despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “You’re okay? You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you nodded a little too much, looking him over just as he looked you over, noting the way your cheekbone was bleeding. He really hit you. “God, are you okay? I’m so sorry, Art, I’m so sorry.” You were crying a steady stream of tears, lip trembling, and you were still so beautiful.

“Don’t be sorry, don’t be sorry,” he said, trying to wipe your tears a little more desperately than he had just done. “He hit you, he hurt you, how-”

“I wanted to tell you. I was scared. I was so scared he’d do something awful. I don’t love him, I don’t want him, I want you. I want you, I’ve wanted you.” You blurted, sobbing just a little more. Art messily moved your hair out of your face. “Art, I-” You were crying so hard, it was hard to breathe. “I couldn’t leave him.” You looked over at Patrick shaking his hand out, at Greg’s unconscious self. Hands gentle, he turned your head away from it.

Art’s lips were just a little parted, eyes looking over the damage to your face. “How long has he been?”

“A long time,” you swallowed hard. “Three months in, maybe two- two and a half.” You said, biting your lip trying to stop crying. “I wanted to leave him. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn’t. He’s- he’s why I didn’t show up those times, I wanted to be there, but he’d… he was… I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for, this isn’t your fault,” he said, bracing you with soft hands. “It’s okay. He’s not getting close to you ever again, Patrick is making sure of that.”

“He was right about the using him part, I was using him to get over you and it was- wrong. It was wrong and he started hurting me and then it was too late to get out.”

In the heat of the moment, your ‘I want you’s had slipped past him. He wanted to make sure you were okay, he wasn’t focused on that. You were blurting things out, he’d missed it. His eyebrows furrowed, he lowered his head just a bit, “Over me? What do you mean?” His judgment also wasn’t the best. But it didn’t matter. You sat up just a little, still clinging onto his clothes, hands shaking. With Greg out, going to be out of the picture the words just spilled from your mouth. Rolling off your tongue in light of what was soon to be true freedom.

“I’ve wanted you forever, god, it kills me that I never said anything. It’s you, it’s been you, I don’t know why I thought I could ever try and be with anyone to forget that. It’s just, you’ve never…”

“What? No, no. I’ve liked you since I met you, we were twelve, it was bad and it’s been you. You never said anything either-” the sound of a cop car approaching interrupted. “You liked me?”

“Yes! So much. Too much, sometimes. God, I’m so stupid.” You were crying still, even more now. “You just… you never said anything, so I never said anything and then I got stuck, but it never stopped. It’s bad, it’s so bad, I probably love you, it’s awful.” The alcohol was still running the conversation.

“That is awful,” Art chuckled just a little bit. On the pavement with you, cop car approaching, lights flashing. This conversation would be over in a minute. Your eyes met his, sad, angry, mutual thoughts and mutual expressions.

“It’s bad?” You smiled just a little through your tears.

He grinned just a little, “I've been in love with you for as long as I've known what being in love feels like”

Art’s thumb wiped your tears with a little less desperation now. His heart and yours were still beating hard. “That’s so bad, that’s six years,”

“I know.” He said, grinning his wide crooked grin. The conversation had strayed from the real problem, but it was a good distraction. A welcomed one, in fact. Proof that things could and would be better. “It’s okay. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m going to be okay,” you nodded. The policemen, two of them walked over and began their spiel, asking about what happened and Art helped you to your feet. The night was still young, the persecution was easy to figure and a diary you kept detailing his abuse was a great help to the case. You, Patrick, and Art all spent the night at the police station with forms and questions and people trying to get a grasp on the situation. A blurry security camera was also a great amount of help. Greg was charged properly, put away. It was easy to see who was the real problem. You sat with ice to your face in one of the police chairs, being offered therapy and counseling and numbers to call for trauma and crisis. Everyone was so sweet, one of the policewomen held your hand for a good while until it stopped shaking.

You still cried a lot. Sorry that everyone had to go through this just because you couldn’t leave a guy. Just because you had tried to forget your feelings for Art in someone else. But the words, ‘it’s not your fault’ were thrown around a lot. And that you’d be safe. And it felt good to know. You’d sobered back up, obviously. So did the boys. You had the most extensive questioning, the boys waited in the main room.

“All the excuses, the ball to the face, the stairs…” Patrick sighed heavily, staring forward into a void.

“It was him.” Art nodded. “I feel like such an idiot, how the fuck did I not know? I know her better than myself, she hid it and I didn’t want to think about her and Greg. It was… it hurt.” He admit. Patrick looked over at Art.

“He’s gone. He won’t hurt her again. If he tries, best believe I’m doing more than knocking his ass out. I can’t fucking believe this shit. I’m glad I got off, but jesus fucking christ, I wish I’d done enough to be behind those bars.”

“No you don’t,” Art sighed, leaning forward into his hands. “Fuck. I didn’t even fight back.”

“You’re not that kind of guy,” Patrick reasoned. “Which is fine. You got him off her, that was all you needed to do.”

“I guess, but… fuck.”

“She told you she wanted you,” He reminded Art with a slight sly smile on his lips. He gave Art a gentle little push off the shoulder. As if Art had been able to stop thinking about it. He’d sobered up just the same and the confession might have been badly timed, but at least it happened. He meant it, he hoped you did too. He was trying not to let it eat him alive alongside the fact your now-ex hit you and he hadn’t known. Maybe he missed the other clues? How did he not know? “She likes you too. It’s all you’ve wanted.”

“I know,” Art sighed. “After that, though?”

“Means she’s yours.”

Art looked up and met Patrick’s eyes, trying to verify if he meant it. As if Patrick was the dictator. But Patrick was only the reality. The gravity of the situation hung above him, but you were in front of him, free from the questioning. Your cheeks were pink and tear-stained still and your eyelashes were still wet. Patrick tipped his head toward you to gesture to Art and the second Art saw you, he was on his feet. His eyes were wide like a doe’s, hands in his pockets.

He met you halfway down the blue-painted precinct hallways. Your eyes said more than words did as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He pulled you in the rest of the way into a hug that had more sincerity and life than the walls had ever seen. His arms wrapped around your waist, grabbing onto the fabric of your shirt on your sides, holding you tight and close. He kissed your shoulder, his chin resting in your hair. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He mumbled. You shut your eyes for a moment, allowing him to envelop you in his arms. He held you so tight, it felt like he was keeping you from falling to pieces. It would take you a while to get over all of this, but right now, it felt like you’d be okay.

He was refreshingly cold, the precinct was warm and you’d been upset, so of course you were warm. He held you for a minute or maybe five. Nobody had to use the hallway and anyone who did just went back around. Patrick didn’t watch, instead, he went to the counter to ask about getting a ride back to campus.

Eventually, you pulled away from the hug. Not entirely, just almost. His arms slid over your back, his grip just loosening, not leaving. In fact you didn’t get very far in pulling away. Your heart beat fast in your chest. Even in the upset, even after the fact, Art was still your peace. He was quiet and he held you as long as you needed him to. He was always there and you knew he would be. With everything that happened just then, with that confession… Your forehead pressed against his. Gentle. Safe. You were safe. You felt safer here, like this, than you did in that room with the officers who asked you so many things.

You looked at him through your eyelashes. He must have read your mind, he must have known you too well. With a tilt of your heads, your lips met. There was the slightest, softest bit of hesitation, but it was soothed over in seconds, your hand sliding to cup Art’s cheek. He pulled you back in with slow, easy hands that didn’t grab too hard. The kiss was patient, calculated, and warm. It sent what felt like tiny sparks through all of your veins leaving goosebumps in their wake. It felt like completion, like a satisfying end to a movie, like putting a book back on the shelf after reading it. It was easy to kiss him, your heart slowed for the first time as his pace matched yours. However, out of understanding, the kiss wasn’t too long. Maybe a minute, nothing more.

You’d been through something. He couldn’t be the one to fix all of that, but he’d be there for you until it felt better. Stepping in now felt wrong, felt like it was one thing to another. You needed the time to yourself. Art didn’t kiss you again for another five months. All of which were spent the way they usually were, aside from being a little closer than usual and hanging out so much more. You were free to do as you pleased. Free to see him. Free to stay home- and you spent a good amount of your time alone healing. Physically and mentally.

Patrick was often around to help you laugh it off, but when you needed to cry, Art was always right there. After some time, you were feeling like yourself again. And you were laughing too much, smiling all the time again, spinning in a new skirt and crashing into Art. Who you then kissed, after so much time thinking about it, replaying it, wanting it again. It was finally okay to do so. After seven years, it was only fitting that he welcomed it, fully, and entirely. You were giggling, your lips pressed to his, and he knew it was okay. There was no bruise on your cheekbone to be cautious of, both of his hands held your face, your head tilted back just a little as he kissed you the way you were meant to be kissed. The way Greg couldn’t. It would never mean so much.

Greg was in your past, but Art was your past. And your future, now. Because now that you had each other, neither of you was going to let go. He promised you that between kisses. You promised it back.

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa @ladystardust-thinks @ke4s @ellzbellz18

#challengers #art donaldson #patrick zweig #tinytennisskirt #challengers x reader #challengers fic #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson fic #art donaldson angst #art donaldson imagine #challengers fanfic

320 notes · View notes