#and slowly it might get more lonely and the people who knew you and your family leave | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

poppy-metal · 3 months

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IM GOING BACK TO COACH PATRICK, FUCK IT

because he like. he knows how awful this is - you're like, probably barely twenty, for christsake. but you look at him with such dumbstruck adoration and he realises what it's like to hold that kind of real power over someone for the first time and he wonders if this is what him and art looked like that sunny afternoon watching tashi play.

and he knows hes a horrible, perverted, gross old man, because your backstroke is as clean and powerful as hers was. your cloying, puppy-dog voice whenever you're trying to get something you want is just like his. and maybe you're just a really fucking good tennis player. maybe he's making the resemblances up in his head.

but it doesnt matter because when you're face-down in your frilly pink bed begging for him to "fuck me harder, daddy, please, fuck--" he can pretend.

of course, he actually comes down to the even more horrible realization he might be in love with you. outside of your resemblance to his former lovers. which is a whole nother can of worms.

as is the first big tennis event you attend with patrick zweig as your coach - running right into the donaldsons. who think your game is great, and wouldn't you like to play with them sometime?

-toxic poly kit ♡

tw for: TOXIC POLYCULE IN THE MAKING. LIKE SO TOXIC. LIKE TASHI AND PATRICK ARE NOT GOOD PEOPLE AND NEITHER IS ART FOR THAT MATTER. READER NEEDS TO BE FAR AWAY FROM THESE PEOPLE BUT HER FATE IS SEALED.

cw: toxic age gap dynamics, cheating (not really but it feels like it), everyone but reader being a POS. age play talk hinted at but not explicitly on page, mommy and daddy kink. some dubcon mentioned as well.

I'm playing with the idea in my head of patrick using you as a distraction (at first) and later on - a way to get art and tashis attention. he knows them. he knows that seeing him be the coach of some up and coming tennis prodigy would grind their gears. you notice how tense he is on the day you play against donaldson - how much seriously he'd taken preparing you for this match. and you can see why. you're excellent, but art wipes the floor with you. you keep up as best you can but you've never gone against someone that intense before. by the end you're dripping sweat in rivers and panting. you feel sick, thinking you let down patrick, but when you meet him he's ecstatic. grinning ear to ear. he said he knew you wouldn't beat art - that wasn't the point. the point was to make him sweat a little, and you had. you'd gained both his and tashis attention with your style. he promises to take you out for ice cream later - he just needs to talk to some old friends first.

you wait for hours before you get antsy and go looking for him, the hotel you're staying at is big and the room is lonely without him. you look but you can't find him anywhere. it takes you awhile before you think to check the donaldsons suite. you ask the desk lady what room they're staying in and are surprised when she gives you a room key. says your name is on their guest list, along with patricks. you blink but take the key anyway. it's strange to you, you'd never met art or his coach - wife - before today. even though you'd seen them plenty on TV. you'd look up to them if you weren't already so spellbound by patrick.

you're naive, because you don't think to knock before going in - your mind just wants to see your coach - be near him, you don't mind at all that it's probably rude to drag him away from his friends.

you should have knocked.

you halt in the doorway as the sight before you registers. slowly like through molasses.

alot of bare skin. you recognize patricks body immediately, having felt it against your own plenty of times.

it's not just his body though. it's his and tashis and arts and they're all undressed and tashi is riding - she's riding patrick like she's done it a hundred times before, moaning loudly as she bounces up and down on that same cock you've felt inside you. patricks hands are on her waist - gripping her like a lifeline. you can hear his grunts too, he's chanting her name - over and over again in reverence. in adoration. your stomach twists.

and art, the man who'd you gone toe to toe with on the other side of the net just hours before is lying beside the two writhing bodies, slowly stroking his cock as he bites his bottom lip, seeming content to watch for the moment.

none of them heard you come in.

you don't know why you stand and watch for as long as you do. some twisted sense of masochism. you feel stupid you think, for thinking you meant anything to patrick other than a tight body to fuck and a ticket to land him where he is now. you feel stupid and so you burn this Image into your head and let it hurt you so you'll learn to not be this stupid ever again.

morbidly, you think of how beautiful they all look together. and how this isn't the first time they've all slept together. the ease of which their bodies move is too fluid.

tashi leans down and you get a view of her bare pussy split around patricks cock - she murmurs something to him, something that makes his fingers come around and dig into her ass as he hisses her name. something that makes arts hand speed up on his cock.

it's when his fist is wrapped around his tip that his eyes flick to the door idily - your eyes connect and his hand freezes on his dick. his pink lips part in shock and he sits up, the motion catching tashis attention and she turns her head, hips still moving on patrick. and something about that - about locking gazes with tashi in particular - sends you stumbling back.

you spin around and dart out of the room. you hear the sound of shuffling, patrick cursing and then calling your name but you're already gone. slamming the door behind you.

you don't really have anywhere to go. patrick drove you here. you're completely dependent on him to go back home. but the thought of patrick finding you right now, all pathetic and confused and heartsick - you can't stomach it.

you don't go back to the room. you leave the hotel entirely. lost in a city you've never been too.

in your pajamas.

people give you strange looks as you pass by and eventually you find a bar. you're not old enough to drink yet - but you're older than 18, so you're allowed in. you wish you could have a shot, but you settle for a glass of coke and cradle the glass in your hands, thinking about what to do.

you'll have to go back eventually.

or you could uber home? it'd be expensive as hell, given you were states away from home. you patted your bottoms stupidly only to realize you'd left your phone in the room.

great. you'd definitely have to face patrick.

you imagined the pitying look he'd give you. like you really thought he had any loyalty to you, that you were special. like his little girlfriend or something. stupid. stupid girl.

you blink in suprise when someone recognizes you from today's match, wanting your autograph. it gives you a moment of levity. at least you have tennis. you did really like the sport. you wanted to keep getting better at it. but could you do that under patrick still? with how you felt? you didn't know. the thought of seeing him at all made you want to throw up.

you spitefully hoped he felt like shit but you doubted he did. you at least hoped he was panicking about where you were. the stress was the least he could suffer.

you dont know how long you sat there. the ice cubes in your coke long since melted. you hadn't yet taken a sip - when you felt someone sit next to you. and a wash of elegant fragrance hit your nose. whoever it was, they had to be rich.

you peeked at them and your fingers twitched around your glass in shock.

tashi.

every hair perfectly in place. dressed to the nines in a simple black slip dress. looking stunning and beautiful and not at all affected by earlier events.

she tilted her head at you, “coke? really?” her lips curl. “don't you think you deserve something stronger?”

your lips part. you dont know what to say to this woman. this woman patrick is obviously in love with. you should spit in her face.

“im not old enough.” is what you say instead. meekly.

“jesus patrick,” she says under her breath. his name on her mouth makes your gut churn. she pinches her brow like she's tired. “at least tell me you're legal.”

“im nineteen” you tell her, a little petulant. you didn't like being treated like a child. well. except those times when patrick - no. don't think about him.

tashis manicured nails tap against the bartop as she studies you. you are reminded of how under dressed you are in comparison to her and twitch under her analytical gaze.

“that's some backhand.” she tells you conversationally and you don't know what to say to that. she's talking to you about tennis right now?

“thank you.” you're compelled to tell her anyway. an automatic response to her praise, which you sense doesn't come often.

it's strange that you want to cry and kick her and ask her for a hug all at the same time.

“have you always been that good?”

you stare down into the liquid of your glass, frowning.

tashi sighs. “you're hurt.” a statement. a noted fact. “patrick didn't tell you about us.”

tears prick your eyes. you don't look at her. so fucking stupid.

“have you been fucking him?”

you glance at her in suprise and she smiles. sly.

“I know you are, actually.”

“he told you?”

“no. but it's obvious.”

you go quiet again.

tashi fills the silence easily. “he's losing his mind looking for you right now. I don't think I've seen him so worried about someone other than himself.”

you try to ignore the way your heart jumps hopefully. fail. stupid. stupid.

“it doesn't matter.” you tell her. “why are you telling me this? you won him.”

she raises a brow.

“there's no winning patrick zweig. hes about as loyal as a dog. which is to say - he'll lick whoever holds a hand out.”

you don't know why you have the desire to defend patrick. you just don't like the way she's talking down about him. you don't think she's right, which is insane to think considering the situation you're in.

but had he ever promised you loyalty?

“you love him.”

another statement.

you don't bother denying it, either.

tashi hums. seeming to appreciate the lack of bullshitting. she shoulders her little clutch and flips her hair smoothly. everything about her is smooth, she moves effortlessly like water.

you can see why patrick wants her.

“come with me.” her hand slips into the dip of your elbow. you don't fight her as she tugs you up. she pays your tab - just an undrunk coke. “I'll get you something real to drink back at the hotel.”

you flinch at the reminder of the scene you walked in on. she sees it and squeezes your arm, guiding you outside. for some reason unknown to you, it comforts you. the touch somehow dominant and maternal all at once. you let her lead you back to the hotel like a lost little lamb.

when you get back to her room - patrick is immediately in your space - he's frantic and relieved and angry all at once. big hands cupping your face. holding you back to inspect you for any damages. worried eyes flicking up and down your body. his fingers dig into your shoulders and he gives you a little shake when he decides you're okay.

“dont ever pull that shit again.” his voice has that serious, pissed tone to it that usually makes your pussy wet. and well, it still does. but now you're genuinely upset.

you smack his hands off you. “don't tell me what to fucking do. you're my coach not my dad. I don't report to you.”

his eyes flash. his jaw ticks. you hate how fucking beautiful he is when he's angry. you hate that you know the reason his hair is wild and stuck in all directions and his shirt is on inside out is because he'd been in the middle of fucking another woman.

said woman who is pouring herself a glass of wine and watching the interaction with thinly veiled interest. art comes up to her, touches her arm, and she gives him a look, seeming to communicate alot with just that. he bites his lip and leans his hip against the dresser, watching you too.

“im not your daddy, huh?” patrick says, mean. “funny because that's not what you said last night when I was inside that tight cun -”

your palm rings from the slap you deliver. his head snaps to the side with the force of it. your eyes burn and you shove a finger into his chest. he looks down at you in shock, his cheek red from your handprint, lips parted as you get in his face.

“and you'll never feel it again.” you tell him, chin wobbling. you force it straight. “I don't want your fucking slimy hands on me ever again.”

patrick works his jaw. licks his teeth and you realize you'd slapped him hard enough to split his lip when he tongues the beading of blood there.

“you're a child.” he tells you. cold.

you glare up at him.

“yeah, one you couldn't keep your dick out of despite being in love with two other people. fucking pervert. I bet you signed up to coach all those girls because no one your age would fuck you and some jailbait pussy would be good for your bruised ego, huh.”

patrick is looking at you like he wants to wrap his hands around your neck and choke you. you almost wish he would. your pulse hammers wildly in your throat, and you shoot a look at tashi and art over his shoulder and she dips her head - something about that motion - like she's giving her approval for you to go on, makes you lick your lips and continue -

“and I bet when I threw myself at you and begged for private lessons it felt real fucking nice to be wanted like that. to have someone in the palm of your hand that thought the world of you, only because she couldn't see the real you -” you step closer, craning your neck to meet him. “- but I see the real you now patrick. and I know you're nothing but a bumfuck loser who couldn't amount to anything on his own, so you had no choice but to manipulate someone more naive than you into thinking you were hot shit.” you gesture to tashi and art. “and they're married, patrick. they're in love. you'll never fully be apart of what they have, but you'll keep taking scraps because you're fucking pathetic when it comes down to it.”

“stop fucking talking.” he grits out. he looks, for the first time, like he hates you. “you don't know shit, little girl.”

good.

“you're right I don't.” you step back. “I don't think I can begin to grasp the dynamic going on here between the three of you, but I do know I want no part in it.”

you reach behind you for the door. “im going back to the room. do what you want and then take me the fuck home tomorrow.”

the snick of the door closing sounds more like a resounding slam. patrick stares at the empty space you occupied and swallows heavily. his chest aches. he rubs his jaw.

“I like her.” tashi says, coming up behind patrick. her breasts push against his back through her dress but he doesn't feel anything. “she reminds me of me at that age. is that why you fucked her?”

patricks lip twist to the side and he steps away from her. turns and glares even though he knows this shit is all his own fault.

“she's nothing like you.” he spits.

“she is and she isn't.” art says. he'd been chewing on his nail, elbow propped up on the dresser. “she has tashis fire. but she's sensitive. vulnerable, too. you really fucked her up, man.”

a pang hits patrick right in the stomach.

“I dont know how to fix it.” he admits miserably. he squeezes his hands into fists. runs a hand through his disheveled hair. puffs out a breath. “she fucking hates me.”

“it'll make her a better player.”

“jesus, tashi. that's not what this was about-”

“I know.” she shrugs. “but it will. she might even beat art next time.”

art snorts, but he doesn't disagree. a big part of him feels so bad for you - he sees himself in you, too. that adoration you had for patrick. that hope and fragile tender heart. it was unfortunate you'd gotten wrapped up in patrick and tashis orbit just like he was, because there really was no escape. you could let it eat you alive and make you miserable, or you could jump into the fire and let the flames consume you. art had made his choice long ago, but the decision hadn't been easy. he just hoped it didn't break you, in the end. he had liked playing with you. would like to do so again.

tashi slid her hand up patricks arm.

he inhaled, “I dont know if…”

“its alright.” she told him, running her other hand down his stomach and cupping his already hard cock through his slacks. patrick moaned, unable to help himself. swaying into her. “I want you to tell me about her while you fuck me.”

arts cock twitched in his sweats despite himself. he swallowed at about the same time patrick did.

“tash.” patrick groaned as she undid the buttons - slid his pants down and gripped his flushed cock. “you're so fucked up.”

tashi just grinned, using her grip on his cock as a leash as she stepped back pulling him with her - art watched like a hungry hawk. already sliding his own hand into his sweats to grip himself.

tashi layed back on the bed like a cat, spread her thighs as patrick leaned over her - guided him inside her -

“tell me how tight she is.” tashi whispered right as he slid home and patricks eyes fluttered shut with a groan as he rocked his hips. tashi gripped his ass to pull him fully against her. “tell me.” she panted.

“she's - fuck - she's so fucking tight. has the smallest fucking pussy -”

tashi hummed and licked her lips - “mm, I bet. did she bleed the first time?”

art cursed as his cock throbbed. tashi looked over at him with a knowing glint in her eyes as he flushed with shame. tugged on his cock helplessly as he waited with baited breath for patricks answer.

“Yeah. shit, yeah.” patrick hunched over tashi, working his hips faster. the smack of their flesh starting to fill the room. “but she wanted it. so fucking much - fucking - fuck - begged me to put it in again when I pulled out.”

tashis eyes fluttered, her own flush filling her cheeks. art realized she was getting off on this too, it wasn't just about teasing patrick. art groaned. his wife was such a fucking sadist and he loved her for it.

“begged her daddy to break her little virgin pussy in -” she goaded, wrapping her legs around him. “know she calls you that. can see it all over her face. you're such a dirty old man.” she moaned, the insult having no heat with how turned on she sounded by it. “she's in her room crying and her daddys gonna cum in my pussy thinking about fucking his little girl.”

jesus christ.

the sound patrick let out was animalistic. he pressed tashi down into the bed - fucked her hard and fast and tashi squealed - wrapped her arm around his shoulder and whispered dark things in his ear that art couldn't hear but just the image of it all - the debauchery of what they were all doing- getting off to you- he was so close -

“should've made her stay - should've fucked the brat out of her while me and art watched - should have fucked me in front of her and made her lick your cum out of my pussy, fuck. I wanna see you fuck her - I wanna see how that tight little pussy takes this big cock - you're not gonna listen to her are you? she doesn't mean it. she wants you to touch her, she wants you to force yourself into her disobedient cunt and show her who her daddy is. she doesn't control you. daddy fucks who he wants. she needs to be punished - she needs - fuck - she needs to be broken in more - you should let me do it - let mommy have a go at her - let me play with your little girls pussy - let art have her too. we'll show her. we'll make her good again for her daddy -”

dark promises whispered and pressed against patricks ear until he came inside her with a roar. imagining you under him, with all of them there, watching him force his load deep inside you.

in your room, you lay on the hotel bed and wondered what the future would hold. for the first time, you were nervous about it.

#ask #okay now this was the right ask #coach!patrick #tw cheating #tw dubcon

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tinytennisskirt · 2 months

Text

Small Victories

Summary: based on a request, Stanford tennis player! reader and Art strike up a new friendship as they're both pretty lonely at Stanford. It's platonic and fun, but reader is taken out of the tennis season after a serious injury ruins her leg. Recovery is hard, but Art is there the entire way insisting you get back to tennis- and as you slowly heal, he slowly falls harder and harder. It becomes undeniable that you two belong together when you finally get back on the court and win your first game post-injury... when things left unsaid can't stay unsaid.

Warning: mentions of broken bones and blood. Mention of sex. Kissing. A little angst, and a tiny bit of miscommunication if you squint. Slowburn friends to lovers. A good amount of fluff and fun. 13k words- brace yourselves.

It was your first day at Stanford after spending your first night in your dorm room. You had some free time so you’d been spending it unboxing and putting away more of your clothes and things. You covered the ugly boring walls with simple patchwork tapestry, and carefully hung your star-shaped string lights. You set up your computer at the provided desk, moving it to the corner where it was level with the table you’d set up your microwave and kettle on. You made the bed, organized your rackets, and you would have never been this clean if you were at home, but you were a little too bored and you were racking up the nerve to go and speak to people. Meeting new people.

It’s not like you were socially inept at all, but the anticipation was killer. Being so far away from everyone you knew, having this pressure to make friends here or being around wouldn’t be all that worthwhile. Yes, you loved tennis. Yes, you were so glad to be at Stanford. But could you enjoy it without any friends? No. When you decided your room was done, you logged onto your computer to look over the campus website to see if maybe there were any events tonight.

You found a few as you scrolled. They had a painting class led by an instructor, not your thing. They had an acapella group info night, which could be fun, but you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. You scrolled down to the sports section. Football team info night, lacrosse recruitment, and you saw it, perfectly dated for today at eight, a tennis mixer for all tennis students in the far corner garden on campus, just a ten-minute walk. You shut your computer off and immediately started going through your clothes.

You ended up in your favourite jeans and a light purple tank top, pairing it with some casual Converse you’d had for two years, a nice belt, some pretty earrings, and the most dainty necklace you had. You did your makeup in the mirror, getting your eyeliner right in one try which was an absolute wonder, and finished everything off with a pairing of blotted lipstick and lip balm. You looked over everything in the mirror, fixing the curl of your hair just a bit before you packed the simple things into a small bag and headed out the door.

The garden was cute, it was a little corner boxed in with hedges, full of picnic tables and lawn chairs. You looked up and down the edges lined with pretty pink, orange, yellow, and purple flowers. The 90s music from a radio in the corner was fairly loud, but more dull than the conversation between who you assumed were your peers. A wave of excitement hit as you looked up and around these people, not exactly watching as you stepped backward, foot hitting the side of someone else’s and tripping just slightly in the same direction. Thank god you caught your balance, because without it you might have ended up on the person behind you’s lap.

“You okay?” He asked, hands up, ready to catch if he needed. You turned, fixing yourself, trying to hide your embarrassment. This was an amazing start, you thought to yourself, chuckling nervously. His eyes were soft and genuine, and he was asking.

“Oh, yeah, just not looking where I was walking,” You smiled. “I’m so sorry.”

He smiled back, “No, you’re good, don’t worry about it. I sit with my feet too far out anyway.” He said, getting up out of the chair he was sitting in with his drink. You noted just how nice his voice sounded, you’d never heard anyone with his tone. “My name is Art… Donaldson.” He extended his free hand to you and you were a little surprised but glad.

“Y/N,” You answered, unable to control the grin that came from meeting someone already, even if you nearly tripped into him. You eyed him up and down a moment. He was taller than you, thin, with blonde curls and a big smile. Bigger than one you would have gotten from anyone else you spoke to if you had ended up speaking to anyone else that night. “You’re in the tennis program?” You asked.

“Yeah,” He grinned. “And you too, I assume.”

“Mhm,” You nodded back. “First year. Nervous.” You admit, feeling like maybe he’d get it. And he did, no doubt.

Art ruffled his hair, “Oh yeah. I’m on residency, so it’s not much different from my previous school, but I don’t know anyone, so it’s a little weird. I had to check the campus website for anything to do to get out and meet people.” He spoke a lot with his hands, you noted along with the fact you had done the exact same thing. He was also just speaking to speak, you noticed as you nodded along, smiling. He was nervous too. “Are you on residency?” He asked, ending his little spiel. You’d let him talk just to hear him talk, finding his voice unique and a little bit pretty. And he was nice.

“I am, I spent the whole day organizing and decorating my room,” You chuckled, stepping aside to grab yourself a can of iced tea, and cracking it open. Art watched as you did, studying the dainty rings on your fingers, the way the one strand of hair fell in your face when you tripped and you hadn’t yet thought to move it. “Things are a lot harder to do without a staple gun.” You told him.

He sipped his own drink, “Mmm, right? Took me seven attempts to hang up my poster today with that stupid blue clay stuff.”

“Oh, that stuff is nasty.” He liked how you crinkled your nose. “I bought this glue-brand double-sided tape. It’s a game-changer, but so sticky.” And the embarrassment from nearly tripping eased away as the conversation enhanced itself. He was sweet and funny and kind and truly seemed like he was hearing what you said. Art was truthfully just glad he found anyone to talk to after Patrick left last night and as the conversation moved over the regular small talk, he found he didn’t really want to talk to anyone else.

The night went on and people were leaving now and then, but you and Art sat on the bench in the very corner of the corner garden unphased, just talking about your histories with tennis. Soon you knew all of his best victories and he knew yours and he also knew you liked music more than most things, tennis included, him making mental note of what songs to listen to when he went back to his dorm room. He felt a lot less alone in Patrick’s absence than he’d expected and you were so interesting. He also knew you were a big fan of iced coffee, had a lucky tennis racket, and had a love for star-shaped things. Just as you knew his best game was his doubles at the Junior US Open with his best friend who you’d heard a lot about now, just as you heard about his past at Mark Rebatello’s Tennis Academy, how his favourite thing to do in tennis is serve, and his favourite post-game meal is chicken wings. Your conversation naturally covered all the simple things and when the night truly had to come to an end, he gladly walked you back to your dorm.

“It’s been really nice meeting you,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as you approached your door. Part of him knew he could probably tell you everything and anything about himself and you’d listen and that’s what he liked about you. “Glad someone spoke to me.”

“Well, I tripped, so we’re just lucky, I suppose.”

He twisted his mouth to the side, “I guess so, but who’s to say I didn’t do it on purpose?” He questioned with a teasing smile.

You laughed quietly, “It’s been nice meeting you too. I’ll see you around the court?”

“Probably,” He replied, shoving his hands into his pockets as you leaned against the door. “I look forward to it.” A grin slowly crept up his face, unable to hide itself. He was not in a particular lack, but gaining you was something he wouldn’t regret and he knew it. “I’ll see you around.”

You couldn’t help but grin right back- his smile was so wide it was hard to ignore. “Goodnight, Art.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You saw him again the next day, more than enthused to see a familiar face around. You had your hair up in a ponytail, sporting a white skort and black tank top and he was in blue gym shorts and a sports t-shirt that was just a tad lighter than his shorts.

“Hey you,” You smiled as you approached. He turned, more than happy to see you as well.

“Hey,” he replied, setting his things down on the nearest bench. You beamed, doing the same. “How are you?”

“I’m good, how are you?” You asked, hopping up and starting to stretch. He had his hands shoved in his pockets. “Co-op doubles today, you want to be my partner?” He asked. You were nodding yes before he even finished the sentence.

It was that day that Art realized just how good you were at tennis and how distracting it was playing doubles when all he wanted to do was watch you play. It was almost hypnotizing to see you do your thing and he was honestly a little proud he’d made your acquaintance before you demolished the other team so he wouldn’t have had to look like a suck up approaching you afterward.

You jumped and high fived him when you two won the scrimmage and Art knew he picked the perfect tennis partner for sure. As for you, he impressed you vastly past your expectations. He was amazing at serving so no wonder it was his favourite.

“That was crazy,” Art huffed, breathing out. “That was amazing.”

“Your serves are crazy,” you gushed, turning to him. “You’re amazing, that was amazing that serve at the end completely threw them.”

Art shook his head, “As if you didn’t completely end the game with that last swing, that was incredible.” He gestured openly, then let his arms fall to his sides. “You want to go again?”

Technically you were supposed to switch partners, but Art just didn’t want to take that chance. He had you as a partner and he would have to swap it out? No thanks.

Your smile turned itself into a smirk, you had other thoughts. “Maybe after.” You said and jogged over to the boy you’d just gone up against and asked him to play with you and Art knew what you were doing. You wanted to play against him.

It turned out to be a problem because now Art had a full view of how you played and it really was hypnotic. You obviously had a well-learned method for every swing and situation and you knew exactly what was in your section and what was in your partner’s. Art was grinning, watching you play and honestly hardly paying much attention to the fact that he himself was in the game. He missed a few balls just because he was watching your swing. You were good, you were really good, and that fact being distracting was not very useful to a scrimmage.

When the game ended and you had a bit of a water break, you jogged over, “What was that?” You laughed.

Art shrugged, chuckling. “You’re really good.” He took a long drink from his water bottle, knowing the reason he gave you wasn’t very detailed but it was honest.

You and Art were partners for most co-op doubles that week, hanging out almost every day after or before. You two were fast friends- him enjoying how passionate you were when you talked and shared the things you liked and the way you went about tennis, you enjoying having a great partner for scrimmages and the things he talked about. Having a familiar face around all the time was the ease you needed to fully get yourself situated at Stanford. It was fun to have someone that you wanted to see every day who happened to want to see you just the same. You two were friends quicker than anyone you’d ever known, like something just clicked and fit into place- he was fun and a little bit wild when he wasn’t shy, and he loved music just as much as you did, it turned out, which was surprising.

You’d sit in his car for hours just talking with music in the background. “Okay, so McDonalds fries versus Arby’s.” You said, picking through the McDonald’s fries you two bought on the way back to campus. Art put the car in park and you were leaned against the car door, sitting facing him. “Don’t say Arby’s, I’m begging you.”

He smiled and shrugged a little sheepishly, “They’re thicker.” He reasoned.

“Uh-huh, I see how it is,” you said, rolling your eyes at him. He hid his face in his hands. “McDonald's are so classic.”

He raised his head, “True-“ he spoke with too many in his mouth and you smiled. “- But Arby’s are curly. Which means more.”

“Okay so you’re settled on the fact that it’s more food,” you laughed, popping a small one in your mouth. “Here I was going off of taste.”

“You can’t go off taste alone because quality is so important,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “McDonalds fries are good but the quality is shit.”

“You’re right but you can ignore that-“

“I have to ignore that while you ignore thicket and curlier?” He laughed. “No-“ he couldn’t get through his words laughing, “We are done here.”

“What-“ you laughed. “No, come on.”

He gestured wide, hand on your upper arm, sliding down to rest on your forearm, “You’ve just proven you can’t debate, it’s pointless-“ he couldn’t stop laughing, and from that point on neither could you. It was contagious and spread throughout the car like the air conditioning that circulated. It was good laughter, sweet, and unending because whenever one of you tried to stop, even looking at the other would cause you both to burst out laughing again. It was a cycle that made your ribs ache, your heart beat harder in your chest and your breath impossible to catch. The laughter only ended when you were both in too much pain to continue.

Art rubbed his eyes, leaning against the car's center console, catching his breath. He missed Patrick but not so much when you were around. He was glad he had you and that was one of the only thoughts in his head as he looked at you, catching your breath as well. Your smile was gorgeous was the afterthought but there was no afterthought to that thought itself, just that you were and it was. You moved your hair from your face and he thought again about the fry conversation and he nearly laughed again, but he tried hard not to.

The truth was Art did have thoughts like that often. You saw him every day, you were funny and talented, and Art loved how much you cared about everyone around you. How could he not, even for a moment, think more of you than what you two were? But he didn’t notice how often he had those thoughts because they were forgotten so easily, buried under something subconsciously.

You looked back at him, the atmosphere shifting once again. Art watched you glance at the time, “I have to get to bed, I’m so sorry,” He loved how you apologized for nothing. He’d tried to correct it at first but it was just something you couldn’t help. “I have that game tomorrow, the one I’ve been talking about, are you coming?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it,” he grinned, pulling the car back into drive to bring you closer to your residency building so you wouldn’t have to walk. “Starts at ten?”

“I have to be there at ten, game at eleven.” You nodded.

“Sounds good,” He nodded back, a slight smile pulling at his lip. “I’ll see you there.”

“I guess you will. Or might. I need you there in case I need to make a run for it, I’m terrified to play that Roxy girl, she’s supposed to be so hardcore.” You pressed your hands to your face. “Thank you for hanging out, for a moment I forgot just how scared I am of tomorrow.” Your smile turned to a grin and Art’s followed. He was unable to control his smile around you.

He shook his head, “You’ll be great. You’ll kick her ass.”

“She’s Russian,” you replied. “She’s going to do more than kick mine.”

Art shook his head again, “No. Can’t think that way or else she will for sure. You kick hers, no other way.”

You took a deep breath, grin dulling back to a simple smile. “Thank you. I’ll need all the luck I can get though,” You opened his car door to get out.

“Okay, well, good luck if I don’t see you before the game, leprechauns, four-leaf clovers, break a leg, etcetera.”

You laughed and after saying goodnight, your laugh still echoed around his head. It did so until he went to sleep that night. But he didn’t think anything of it, there was no reason to.

The game the next day really did terrify you. This girl you were up against was hardcore, you spent the morning watching her games trying to figure her out but all you got was that she stepped twice before swinging left, no matter what as well as she was an amazing player. She had long sleek blonde hair that she tied up in a braided ponytail and icy eyes that seemed to stare into your soul when you saw her tennis poster. You wondered if her eyes followed you around as you got dressed into your pink skort and lilac purple tank top combo. Looking nice on the court helped a lot with your confidence.

You tied your hair up in two French braids to keep it away from your face and tried to take deep breaths as you grabbed your things and headed over to the Stanford court. It was a busy day, apparently, as a small crowd of people were waiting to get into the benches and you walked by them and into the building where you met your coach.

“You ready?” She asked and you really wanted to say no, the nerves getting to your stomach. The first big game of the season meant something. This is the beginning of what you were working for. Part of you was so ready for this all to begin, other casual games with small audiences were easy, but there was a Russian girl out there ready to demolish you. You took another deep breath.

“Yeah.” And you took your things to the court and unzipped your bag that you’d packed in a haste this morning out of pure nerves and no real rush to see that somehow, in some extreme mishap, that your lucky racket wasn’t there. You turned to your coach, who knew that when you laid all your rackets out on the sidelines that you were missing the lucky one.

And Art in the stands looked over, knowing the exact same thing. He turned to Patrick, who was visiting as of this morning, “She doesn’t have her purple racket.” He said as if Patrick knew what that meant. Art had spent the morning filling Patrick in on who you were and Patrick listened with a knowing smirk, but didn’t say anything about what he truly thought. “Patrick, she can’t play this without her lucky racket.” He urged as if it made a difference. The game was set to start in five minutes.

“Lucky racket?” Patrick understood. When he was younger he himself had the same thing, he knew the sentiment and the effect it could have on a game. That’s why Art, knowing Patrick, knew you were the same way.

“Fuck,” Art said, looking around to see if there was a clear path out of the bleachers, but there wasn’t. He looked back at you, talking to your coach with your hand over your mouth. He got up and stepped over a few people but was stopped by an usher.

“Game is starting in five-“ the burly man said.

“I know, I need to get out,” he urged.

“Sit. Down. Please.” The usher replied.

Art shook his head, “No, you don’t understand, this is vital to the game about to be played, that’s my friend out there-“

“Sir, if you leave before the first half, you won’t be getting back in.” He said. And that was that. Art couldn’t even make a run for it because this usher would make sure he couldn’t get the racket back to you.

“Fuck,” Art muttered, having to sit back next to Patrick knowing this wouldn’t be good. It put him on edge from the stands he couldn’t imagine the anxiety you were feeling if it was already bad and you didn’t have your racket. He rubbed his face, looking at Patrick, who knew exactly what you were feeling even not knowing you yet. “This is bad.”

You had to use your practice racket. Which was fine if you were anyone else, it worked just the same, but the feeling of confidence was hard to attain. You hit the court as the announcer called out you were to serve. You took what felt like the deepest breath, filling your lungs as you faced your blindingly blonde opponent. You let the breath go slowly, trying to convince yourself that this was fine. And you served.

The rally was good, you both had each other moving, but she was up in points within the first ten minutes. You weren’t doing badly, you were just behind. Art and Patrick were watching from the stands at how intense things were, Art worried the entire time.

You caught up and surpassed her points around the middle, but soon enough she bounced right back surpassing you again. You were getting increasingly more scared that this was exactly what you expected from a game without the purple racket. You took a deep breath and hit the ball as hard as you could upon serve, it going awkwardly sideways and immediately out. You tried not to swear too loudly. Art and Patrick did it for you in unison, Patrick was just as invested as Art.

When they called the halfway point, you were below her points-wise. Art couldn’t pay less attention to the way you walked off the court with your hand to your head because he was running, or trying to, through the sea of people who were going for washroom breaks and getting food from the stands outside. He tried to push through but more people kept coming and the stress of it alone had his heart beating. That was nothing on the beat of his heart as he finally pushed through and he started sprinting across the campus grounds trying to get to your residency as fast as he could.

He didn’t think he’d ever run so fast in his life but this was the only way he knew how to help. This was how you would save your game. He ran through the residency doors and up the stairs to the second floor and grabbed your key from behind the fire alarm trigger, unlocking your door. He knew you wouldn’t mind after this- he looked around seeing the racket leaning in the corner and he grabbed it, locking your door again and jumping the stairs, sprinting back.

It took a lot longer than he thought. He tried a shortcut that was stupidly a dead end and he checked his watch before launching back into his sprint and he had two minutes before you were back on. He was so fucked. This time he just about shoved people as he returned to the crowd.

He could hear the game resume and people did hurry to get back to their seats which helped a little- Art was still pushing to make it back to you, to get the racket to you before the second half truly started. He knew if he just got it out there onto the court you could switch it out between serves and that would be good enough and he was nearly through the crowd, cheers in his ears, people whooping and yelling, getting into the game and all of a sudden it was a simultaneous gasp. Art was confused for about a split second before he heard the scream in the silence of a crowd that held their breath.

Art pushed through the crowd and the sight he saw when he laid eyes on you on the ground was something reminiscent of some horror movie. The detail was too much but visible to him, from far away, was bone. And you were screaming, it was you.

He bolted over but not before the others did, surrounding you immediately locking him out and he looked over as your tennis partner ran to the edge of the court to vomit. The crowd was mumbling but other than that it was silence versus screams and cries and it was you. Art hated that it was you.

He couldn’t do anything, he wasn’t any help, 911 was already called and you were crying and screaming, and thank god the huddle shielded the crowd from the blood that pooled on the court.

Art did the only thing he knew to do and that was collect your things. It didn’t matter what it looked like he was doing, he packed up your rackets and your water bottle, numbing himself to the situation so he could at least do this for you as your screams rang out in the crowd of people still seeming to hold their breaths. He couldn’t get to you if he tried. Sirens in the distance meant it was time to get the fuck out of the way and he moved over as the paramedics worked quickly to tend to you to get you on the ambulance, doing what they could to stop the bleeding.

Art ran faster than he did to get your racket, even with your rackets on him. It was a good thing Patrick had gotten himself out of the crowd, meeting Art at the fence doors to get him to his car. He’d only known you a month or two, but you were still a person he cared a lot about and he knew your entire family was miles and miles away. You’d be alone in this and knowing you, and talking to you every day, he knew you were afraid of doctors and hated hospitals more than anything. He couldn’t let it be something you had to brave alone. He threw your rackets in the trunk as Patrick got into the passenger seat and Art tossed him the keys to start the car before he got into the driver's seat.

“Fuck, this is so bad,” Art said, pulling away a little faster than he should have. “This is so bad.”

He ended up waiting ten hours at the hospital. You needed surgery to fix your leg and nobody in your family could make it over in ten hours. It would take a flight to get to you. Patrick stayed about four hours with Art, trying to keep him occupied so he didn’t lose his mind in the waiting room, but Art wasn’t very talkative, just worried. You had easily become one of his best friends.

He ate hospital food and he slept in his chair against the wall. The nurses knew he was there for you and came to update him until one of the nurses told him to come back the next morning because by then you’d probably be stable and awake properly without the pain meds keeping you asleep. He hated that, he slept in his car.

Patrick came back the next morning, tapping on Art’s window at close to 11:30 in the morning. Art woke with a bit of a start, his hair messed up, his clothes from the days before still on. Patrick held up a bag from Art’s dorm room where he’d stay. You wouldn’t think Patrick to think of something like it, but he brought Art a change of clothes which he took gratefully and changed into in the hospital bathroom before going back up to see you.

Patrick gladly waited in the hallway when he went in. You were awake but you were staring blankly at a wall- it didn’t seem like you even realized he had entered. You’d gotten used to not minding the nurses and doctors that came in and out. Art approached slowly out of understanding and observed how hard you crying so silently. He thought he saw a tear but as he observed, it was a steady stream.

“Hey…” he said quietly.

You turned your head at the sound of his voice and Art swore when you met his eyes he had never seen eyes sadder than yours. It shook him a little to see pain so obvious in someone’s eyes. “Art-“ you sobbed, putting your head in your hands, unable to say anything else. He rushed forward, dropping his backpack at your bedside to give some sense of comfort. He didn’t know what to do, so he crouched next to you and his hands rested on your forearm, careful not to touch the bruising no doubt from the fall. He didn’t say anything else for a long while and neither did you, you just cried as Art crouched next to you, his hands gently grazing over your skin where they could. Soft, back and forth, just delicately.

It was the first act anyone had ever taken to make you feel okay, truly okay. You’d been intimidated and overwhelmed by the hospital lights, the sterile metals, and sounds and processes.

It was also the first true act of many that was something closer than what it should have been for you and Art. It was just you and him in that hospital room, empty aside from the machines, drips, a bed, and chairs, but the silence was so full that it occupied every corner that wasn’t already taken.

You did eventually speak, but that silence was so needed. It was a conversation about what had happened and you explained it all and how it felt, but Art informed you that you were ahead of her in points before it happened. He didn’t tell you he didn’t see it happen- he didn’t tell you anything about where he’d gone at the halfway point of the game.

Art slept in the corner chair later that night when you slept. Patrick eventually left after waiting for so long. When you needed your privacy Art got his meals from downstairs, heading back to the dorm and coming back the next morning every day for two weeks. He came by whenever he could to see you, the conversation was good and kept you distracted. You talked about everything and nothing just to pass the time in your lonely, empty room. Art brought you your iPod and a few other things from your dorm to keep you occupied when he wasn’t there.

Art was the greatest comfort until your parents finally got on a plane and flew out to see you, urging to somehow get you home but you didn’t want to go. You couldn’t anyway, and you were so glad. Your mom was surprised by the flowers you’d received from the Russian girl from the big game, who did come to visit you and was surprisingly very sweet, unlike her teeth-bared photo from her Facebook. But other than that, Art visited almost every day right after your parents did. They stayed at a nearby hotel as you were in the hospital recovering.

Patrick stayed nearby for Art who was fine, other than a little busy most days when he went to visit. Today Patrick came in with Art.

“Hey,” you grinned, sitting up just a bit when the two boys came in with McDonald’s. “Oh my god, you didn’t.”

“But we did,” Art said, kicking your tray over to your bed and putting the food down on it. “Patrick’s idea actually, which I hate- but he wanted to get Arby’s and I told him no.”

You smiled at him slyly, knowingly, but your attention turned to Patrick. “Hey! I’ve heard so much about you, this is crazy. I heard you were at the game.”

He grinned and you noted the dimple he had when he smiled. It was nice. “Yeah. Aside from the whole bone-out-the-leg thing, you were pretty good. I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

“Well, yeah,” you nodded, gesturing to your leg. You were fun, Patrick knew Art liked you but it was finally coming to be something clear in his mind as to why. You had high spirits. But both boys had no idea how hard you sobbed the moment they left. “Thank you for bringing me food, hospital soup and chicken are somehow both dry.” You said, opening the bag.

Art looked at Patrick for some sort of approval which he got with a look Patrick exchanged. “You’re welcome,” Art spun on his heel. He looked at the way your hair fell over your face as you peeked in, how pretty it looked the way it curved inward to frame your face. The hospital had hindered your will to do your makeup but you still somehow looked just as gorgeous, if not more. His fleeting thought lingered this time as he gathered the right words to say. “So how is your leg feeling today?”

“Fucked,” you replied, handing the boys their fries and burgers. “Hurts like hell and I’m still on the super strong stuff.”

“Well you couldn’t tell,” Patrick said, pulling up a chair.

“I think if I asked, they’d give me the good stuff.” You nodded. “But it makes me so tired, it’s awful.” You bit into your burger.

Art pulled a chair closer to you and sat in it, “So all this was just for some drugs, hm?” He teased. “And attention.”

“Oh yeah,” You agreed with a laugh between bites. Patrick chuckled and Art grinned, “All I had to do was fuck up my knee, have a surgery and a half, and ruin my tennis career.” Both boy’s smiles fell almost immediately, watching your tongue press to your cheek. The silence was loud, but you just continued eating. Art opened his mouth to speak but nothing came to mind. It could be true, you could very well never play tennis again, or with proper rehabilitation, you could be back to playing eventually. He didn’t know, he didn’t know what to say. You sighed, your voice monotone, “It’s fine. Most people who can’t play anymore start coaching. I just have to get better at teaching it.”

“No, you can’t just say you’re going to coach, you still have so much work to do. You could get back into it when you get better,” Art said, hating how willing you were to succumb to just… teaching. “You’re only starting.”

“True,” Patrick said, agreeing. “Would be badass if you got back on the court.”

You twisted your mouth to the side, not finding it very easy to even speak on the topic, even if you brought it up yourself. You didn’t want to cry, not right now, you usually waited until you knew Art was down the hall so you had a minute to cry before the nurses came to check on you. “I don’t know…”

Art looked at you with an expression that bordered on unkind- not toward you, but toward what you were saying. He’d played tennis with you- you were amazing and to not even believe that it could even get better was almost disgusting to him. You had so much potential, so much talent, “You do know.” He insisted. “There’s no way you want this to be career-ending, so don’t let it.”

Patrick, despite the seriousness of the situation, smiled watching Art all passionate about something. It had been a while since he’d seen Art so riled up about something even if it didn’t affect him directly. Patrick smiled because he was seeing something he knew Art himself didn’t see. He leaned against his hand propped up by the arm of the chair. And you knew Art was right, but not enough to see past the cast on your leg, not enough to see past the months of rehab, not enough to see the court again. As much as you wanted it, it wasn’t in the foreseeable future, so you let it feel impossible.

Your parents went back home a month or so in with the promise of returning, but it was getting expensive to stay, so they’d go return to their jobs. It was back to being Art and now recently, Patrick, whom you’d grown to be quite fond of. He brought out a side to Art that was not funnier, per se, but broadened his means to be. Patrick sometimes came to see you when Art had class so he wasn’t just sitting around Art’s dorm. Art would swing by after to join the card games and be told to be quiet by the nurses. It always ended up with you laughing so hard your ribs hurt more than your knee, even for a second. It was the only pain that was welcome in the hospital room.

It was evening and you were sitting on your hospital bed, just thinking over everything. It wasn’t rare for you to cry at random periods throughout the day, it was a little too normal, if you were honest. All of this was so hard- continuing school from a hospital room because of all the risks was awful. But tomorrow you’d be seeing a physical therapist and that would decide if you were ready for rehabilitation. You wiped your eyes from the tears that fell just thinking about whether or not you’d be fit to walk on your leg again, which would determine if you could run if you could play.

That’s when Art knocked on the door. He poked his head, looking around, but ultimately looking at you. You had the lamps that your parents had purchased for the room to be less overwhelmingly white in the top right and bottom left corners of the room, making for dim, comfortable lighting. Art swore he forgot how to greet you when his eyes met your tear-filled ones. The way your eyelashes looked when wet was almost hypnotizing, something that wiped all of the words from his vocabulary and out of sight almost completely. “Um-” He cleared his throat, “Hi,” He started, a weird pit in his throat. “You okay?”

“Not sure,” You confessed, wiping your tears off your cheeks. He had seen you cry too many times now, it was getting a little embarrassing. “How are you?” Art smiled just a little at the fact you asked while crying. He hated to answer that question when you were upset.

He pulled up his regular chair, but oddly it didn’t feel close enough. The feeling of it had been creeping up with every one of his visits, every time you were alone. But it got pushed aside. “I’m fine. Class was boring and tennis sucks without you, as usual.” He said, taking a seat. “The girl I’m paired with keeps hitting on me between rounds.”

You wiped more tears away, smiling just a little though your stomach felt just a little odd at the mention, “Really?”

“It’s bad.” He laughed, “She twirls her hair and everything.”

“And that didn’t immediately work on you?” You fake-gasped. Art was just glad you were smiling. “You didn’t get married on the spot?”

He chuckled, looking at his hands, “I don’t think it’s so easy. I don’t think I even know her name.”

“You don’t know Melanie?”

“Is that her name?”

“No idea,” You laughed, really laughed, and it was a gorgeous sound. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m mostly bedridden and confined to this room.”

He covered his face, rubbing his eyes, “That’s enough.” He groaned through a laugh, leaning against his hand, just looking at you.

“I say it’s hardly anything, imagine how fun I could be if I wasn’t broken,” You huffed. “But Melanie, whatever her name is, she’s like… she’s really pretty.” You noted. ‘Melanie’ had all your opposite features, it should be noted. She was pretty just the same, but she was your opposite.

“Mmm, not my type,” Art replied, scooting his chair just a little closer to the edge of your bed.

“So you have a type? What, Kat Zimmerman-like?”

Art groaned again, “I can’t believe Patrick told you that, that’s insane that you’d bring that up right now, I hate that.” He stressed the important syllables and covered his face again. You giggled, unable to keep it in. “No, not Kat Zimmerman, jesus christ.”

“So then what’s your type?” You asked, just curious. You weren’t sure what drove you to curiosity but you didn’t question it.

He shook his head, “I don’t think I have one. I know who I’m not into though and she’s exactly that.” Art said. Once again, to be noticed, the opposite of you was not his type. “She’s nice but we don’t talk much aside from when she compliments my playing and my hair and my arms and… all that.”

You felt a little twinge. It was so awful to be on the inside while life went on outside, you thought to yourself. That was only half the twinge and the only half of the twinge you could understand. The other half was something close to jealousy that went completely unnoticed, but not unfelt. “She does that?” You struggled to sound genuine and that was the only thing you questioned about any of it.

“Yeah, I hate it. What about you? You have a type?”

You thought for a second, “I’m the same, I think. I know sports guys… jocks- are not it.” And Art nodded. Something about it felt weird to hear. He qualified as a sports guy, right? He tried to shrug it off, but he internalized it.

The night went on and you talked about things you hadn’t before and it was all romantic context. Past relationships, elementary school crushes. It was something that was needed out in the open and it made for an occupying conversation though it was a little hard to get through when there were constant little fleeting thoughts in Art’s mind that were thoughts about how jealous he was of these boys who had gotten to kiss you, touch you, and have your romantic attention. However, the thoughts were so fleeting they flew by without being read or registered, but they were there even unnoticed. You were his best friend and nothing more and that was that.

When the doctors okayed you for rehabilitation you were so overjoyed you cried again. It was okay this time, it felt good to cry. All of these months in pain could be undone if you could just get into this and succeed. There was no guarantee it would work, there wouldn’t be at any point a guarantee and you knew that it would be a long, frustrating process, but it felt like it would be worth it. You remembered what Art told you about not wanting that career path to end and not letting this be the end of anything. This injury, in the long run, would not be able to take you from what you loved. Ever. Because you wouldn’t let it. You called to tell Art and you could hear Patrick whoop and cheer in the background. And you had your first session in your hospital room later that week and the now-wilting flowers Art and Patrick had brought you was amazing for motivation.

Your healing journey was up and down as expected but no matter if you could finish your session or not, Art came by to tell you how great you were doing and Patrick to reassure you that you were a badass. You even let them stay for a session and the physiotherapist told them to ‘shut up’ because they were cheering for you the second you started. You just laughed.

Patrick, for amusement, liked to sit back when you and Art were talking. He was no master, he was not a very scientific guy but your body language when engaging with each other was crazy obvious. You’d always sit super close no matter what, you leaned toward each other when you laughed, your eye contact was completely loaded with unsaid words and when you spoke it was 89% flirting. Patrick understood Art- you were gorgeous and you were strong and that itself was hot. You were funny and took jabs but you were honestly one of the most caring people Patrick had ever met. So yeah, he understood why Art liked you so much.

You got better every day, easing onto your crutches at this point, able to somewhat move on your own. Patrick visited that day and he had his intentions. “You heard about that girl who won’t stop hitting on Art between games?” He chuckled, dealing the cards for crazy eights. He watched for your reaction.

You pressed your tongue to your cheek, “Mmm, he mentioned.” You said, picking up your cards. “She’s still at it?”

“Worse,” Patrick said. “Asked him out yesterday.”

You looked up at Patrick with telling eyes and Patrick could have gone off of that alone, but he didn’t yet. He noticed your hands bending the edge of a card as you thought it over. The idea of him and that girl was something you could easily envision. He’d been her partner for over a year now and he had to know her name, they had to have been talking for her to just ask him out. Your jealousy was a fleeting thought that did burn close to the surface. “What did he say?”

“He said he’d think about it,” Patrick said, eyeing your response to that one. It wasn’t true, Art had turned her down at least twice now. The girl was pretty, but oddly persistent.

“Hm,” You nodded, putting down three cards right off the bat. “He said she wasn’t his type.”

Patrick shrugged, playing his card, “He’s pretty diverse I think. Me personally-” He placed a hand on his chest, “- Dark hair, dark eyes. I’m not limiting myself to it, but I think I have a type.”

“That’s very you, I feel,” You said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Are you an ass guy too?”

“Oh yeah,” He grinned a wide grin. You just smiled and shook your head at him. “What about you? You have a type?” He asked, trying not to make it obvious he was playing wingman here.

You picked up a card, “I don’t think so. Maybe tall, not too much muscle but not like bone-breaking thin.” You said. “And a good amount of hair. I can’t imagine being with someone with a buzzcut. I don’t know, I don’t think much about who I could want, more of what I don’t want.”

Patrick pretended like that body criteria wasn’t exactly Art. He smiled just a little, “And what’s that?”

“Okay, easy. No mommy issues,” You put down another card, “No weird patchy facial hair, nobody who doesn’t know the difference between too, two, and to, and no guys in sports.”

Patrick leaned in just a bit. “No guys in sports? You don’t date guys who play sports?” He clarified, a little bit of hope slipping out the window for his wingman act. All of everything could be wrong, could be pointless.

You shook your head, “I say that but I mean football, mostly. Jocks. I had a bad experience with two different football players. Broke my little heart,” You chuckled. “I’ve ruled out jocks.”

“But you’d date a guy in t-” he almost said tennis. He wouldn’t have been a good wingman to give away something like that. “You’d date a guy who plays something else?”

“If he’s normal about it,” You nodded. “I can’t be outloved by a sport. My ex, I swear he’d fuck a football if it had a hole.” You placed down two more cards, “Last card.”

The game finished with your win and Patrick was fairly satisfied with his work, though he intended to ask you a few more things and was cut short from his recon when Art swung in the room with a can of iced tea for you and Coca-Cola for him and Patrick. “How are you?” You asked him, taking the iced tea gratefully.

“I’m good, you?” Art sat at the end of your bed by your feet, putting a hand on your shin (on your good leg) just casually. Patrick noticed it, but it didn’t seem to phase you. He’d seen it the other day when you rested your head on Art’s shoulder, he’d seen it when Art moved your hair over your ear as you were reading a magazine they’d brought. It was painful how obvious this was- he didn’t have to ask anything else. He almost laughed out loud as he thought about it. He made a mental note to talk to Art about it.

He went back to the dorm early that day, leaving just you and Art. “Hm,” You hummed, pulling your hair to one side. Art snapped out of the trance he was in, hoping you hadn’t noticed that he was staring. It was something about the way you looked in purple, it was like it made your skin glow. That and your eyelashes as they fluttered when you looked around the room, that and the way your lower lip rested between your teeth as you checked over your textbook quickly making sure you were done with your schoolwork for the day. Art blinked all the thoughts away, but they clung on to your square-necklined purple t-shirt. Something about the way you looked in purple.

Art rubbed the back of his neck, taking his eyes off of you, but looking back a moment later. Your lip between your teeth had his full attention, his own lips parting just a little at the sight. And then there was your hair draping over your face now and Art wanted so badly to move it like he had before. At this thought, as it crossed his mind it stopped dead centre in his brain. Like a shift, but a shift from his own burying and blatant ignorance of any feelings to being completely in the know. You were here, and you were perfect and you weren’t even doing anything, and Art knew he liked you as more than a friend at that very moment.

But that was the issue. He was supposed to be your friend.

And that troubled him the next week or so. He was fine seeing you, being one of your close friends wasn’t an act, it was true to him with the addition that maybe he liked you but he always told himself ‘just a little bit’, he liked you a little. If it was full blown then it would be a crisis and the truth was that it was absolutely and completely full blown and there was nothing he could say to himself that would change that. He thought about you when he wasn’t with you, when he woke up, and when he went to bed. He thought about you when he saw something you liked, he thought about you in every spare moment he could get. It was so bad he couldn’t even tell Patrick- as if Patrick didn’t know and constantly teased him about it.

You were getting better and better and it was a surprising recovery, doctors said. Your mobility was far ahead of schedule and set to stay that way. Any setbacks from this point would be minor and you were making progress almost miraculously. And you were so glad to hear it every time they’d say it. Your parents came back around the day you took a real step alone and you wouldn’t forget your mom’s shriek of complete happiness. Your knee would work again.

Just Art brought you flowers that day, not him and Patrick.

But things stayed the same. You could leave and come back in for therapy and you were more than glad to be out of the hospital, though you’d gotten a bit used to it. Everything was falling into place, Art was there pretty much every step -literal and physical- of the way. He was amazing support and made things feel so much easier. When Patrick came around it was fun to have two people who’d add into the motivation. You got better and better and soon enough you swore you could walk just fine aside from your slight limp. That day you walked across the room when Art turned his back, he was surprised, to say the least.

When you could go out with a wheelchair and crutch the boys took you to the court. It was your first time on it since the incident. Your eyes fell on the spot where it happened. Patrick followed your eyes, grimacing just a bit. You’d forgotten Art didn’t see it- you still had no idea where he’d gone at the halfway point of the game. “I can almost feel it,” You said, a look of disgust on your face. “I think the gasp from the crowd was the worst part.”

“It was loud,” Patrick said.

Art looked at where they were looking. “But you almost have full use of your knee again. Who knows, you could be back out here in a few months.” He shrugged. You turned on your crutch, away from the spot, and looked at Art. “Okay, don’t give me that look, you know you just need to try.”

“I know,” You nodded slowly. “I just don’t know to what extent. I don’t think I could follow through with Stanford.”

“Why not?”

“It’s so top-notch,” You answered. Patrick kicked around on the court, grabbing one of Art’s balls and rackets and dribbling it around. “The people here are here for a reason and it’s to go pro.”

Art stepped closer to you, “But you don’t think that’s you?”

“Not anymore,” You replied, meeting his eyes. “Recovery is amazing but the risk is so high… I’m not even sure I can run yet, let alone sprint and lean side to side on this leg. I want to, I wanted to, but going pro after something like this just doesn’t happen. If I can play again at all, it won’t be good.” You explained. Art nodded through, listening with eyes that held sympathy and a little speck of sadness. “It’s okay, I just… It’s going to take me forever to get over it.”

He shook his head, “You still don’t need to get over it yet. There’s still so much t-”

“I know. I just can’t see it ever happening.” You said. Art pressed his lips into a straight line and he spun on his heel. Comfort wasn’t what you needed- it was a racket. Art lunged and snatched up the one Patrick was toying with and handed it to you. “What?”

Patrick caught on quickly. “Hit the ball.” Art said. “In any form.”

“Art…” You shook your head.

Patrick threw it anyway and even with the crutch, you instinctively stuck out your racket the way you knew how and hit the ball back to him, your aim still on point. “That was good! What the fuck,” Patrick chuckled. Even he couldn’t hit the ball with that much precision. Art laughed, clapping once- and you had your mouth a little open at the tennis reflexes that hadn’t gone anywhere after all this time. You looked at both of them in minor shock and awe and Art just smiled. He wouldn’t let you give up. He couldn’t. You spent the rest of the evening hitting balls where you stood, feeling a lot better about things.

Recovery continued, but so did tennis. In your spare time you were on the court, practicing your serves, hitting the ball, everything to do with arms and eventually when the therapist had you on the treadmill walking, jogging, he cleared you to do it with supervision. That was one of the biggest things you’d heard in a while. Art was out in the hall when you’d heard it and you left the doctor mid-sentence just to go tell him, Art surprised at the speed which you approached him at, being used to you only ever walking. “I can jog!” You said, enthusiasm and passion in your eyes and the familiar fire he knew from when you would play tennis with him.

Your soft hands grabbed his forearms in excitement and Art was a little bit more than aware of it, but the news was amazing. “That’s amazing, that’s crazy, you can jog?”

“I can jog!” You squealed a little as your mom who was in the room with you swung her head into the hallway.

“When he said could he didn’t mean away from him, Y/N, get back in here please!” She called, but she wasn’t pulling the full mom card, she was smiling ear to ear just as you were. “And hi Art.” She said, waving to him. Being your main visitors meant they were acquainted. Art went to coffee with your parents while you were in therapy the week prior, he wondered if they had mentioned it. He hadn’t. Art just waved back.

Soon it was you, Patrick, and Art on the court and your crutches were propped against the bench. You were still a little slow but you’d gotten good at playing where you stood, relying on reach alone and it was quite impressive. You worked on side-stepping instead of lunging and leaning and it helped a lot with having to move around when you needed. It was a lot of laughter but also took a lot of practice and focus to get right. Sometimes you could go for a while, other times not so long, but the rehab had done wonders. This time when you said you were done, Art served the ball and you did lunge for it- both boys afraid, cringing as they watched you rush and lean forward in what seemed like slow motion. But you hit the ball and it flew right at Patrick’s chest and came back into standing position like it was nothing.

“Oh my god,” You gasped. “I’m so sorry.” Patrick put a hand to his chest but both boys looked at you in wonderment, eyes wide, mouths a little open. To tell the truth they both thought you were done for again as you lunged but you were fine, no complaints, no second thoughts- but a second gasp. You realized the move you’d pulled and the second you realized, both boys started blurting out praise and pride and disbelief and you joined in on it. That was tennis. You’d done everything a tennis player needed to do and it was completed with the simplest lunge. Small victories every day.

Art was more than proud. Seeing you back on the court was amazing. He’d take you there alone most days when Patrick didn’t feel like it. This particular day you were both a bit disracted, but the reason why was something you both couldn’t place. Art gave up before you today and you both stood by the edge of the bleachers against the metal bar.

You took a sip of your water, “Are we going back out or are we done?” You asked. Art set down his bottle just past you, reaching around. He looked at you and for the moment he had nothing else in his mind but you. Not tennis, not anything, you.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” He said. You smiled immediately, leaning more against the bar next to you. But it just so happened to be closer to him. And you didn’t mind it, it wasn’t anything new but it was definitely close. Very close. You were close and you were smiling at what he said. He blinked a few times, observing your eyelashes, “Your recovery… I mean. It’s a miracle you’re back here.”

You nodded, that perfect smile on your face. You knew how close you were to him, but you didn’t think much of it. You were more focused on his words. Art was always sweet, you enjoyed that about him. “I’d probably be sitting somewhere with a book on how to coach tennis if you didn’t push me this far. You, you are incredible. I am just grateful.”

He laughed, “Me? I might have pushed but you snapped the bone in your leg but you’re out here on the court again because you’ve been at it everyday.” He said, sincerity coating every one of his words. “It’s all you.”

“It’s not all me-”

“With help and support, yes. But if you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be. You want this, getting here to this point was all you.” He swayed just a little closer, not even on his own account just because being close felt right. He wanted you to feel that it was the truth. You looked up at him and he could see his words meant something as your eyes reflected him in the golden light of the early evening. He’d never seen just how gorgeous your eyes are in this light… And you were thinking the very same thing as your lower lip found itself between your teeth.

You and Art shared a thought before stepping back and it was the reminder that you were best friends. Just friends. Good friends. And nothing more. It was the first time it had crossed your mind, but the hundredth time on Art’s. Neither of you would risk it.

The practice continued carefully. You had rest days. You’d been lunging on both legs at this point and your game was coming back around. You were off at a meeting with the Stanford tennis coach about returning properly in the fall, having the meeting so that you could make some exceptions. Art and Patrick sat in his dorm room, Art upside down on his bed, feet up on the wall, and Patrick in Art’s computer chair, spinning. The conversation had been about what to have for lunch when Patrick sparked something else up. “Are we meeting Y/N after her meeting?” He asked.

Art tilted his head back, “Not sure. I could call her when it’s over if you want. Why?”

“What do you mean why?” Patrick said, throwing the hacky sack he was fiddling with at Art’s head, hitting him in the face and chuckling. Art sat up, whipping the bean bag right back at him. “Oh come on-” He groaned. “I know you want to see her.”

“I saw her earlier,” Art deflected, recognizing Patrick’s tone.

“Yeah and?”

“So you want to see her?”

“Sure.” Patrick shrugged. Art shrugged back, pulling on a sweater, whenever Patrick was over, he turned the AC in the room way up. Wasn’t relevant, but the silence while Art was putting on his sweater was near unbearable. Art had the sweater half over his head when Patrick stuck his leg out and kicked him over. “I know you like her!”

“Huh?” Art said, sitting up and fixing the sweater. Patrick pushed him right back over.

“You like her! Y/N!” He said. He couldn’t take it anymore, the obviousness, how clear it was that you two liked each other. It was getting to be sickening. “I know you, I know you like her and you can’t tell me you don’t because I’ve waited this long for you to-” he shoved Art over again when Art came back up laughing- Patrick couldn’t help but laugh too, “-tell me!”

There was no purpose in a lie. “Yeah, I guess so,” Art admit, bracing himself to be shoved again and instead, punching Patrick right in the stomach as revenge. Patrick sat back in his chair in pain. “But Patrick, she’s my best friend. And your friend. It’s tricky.”

“I don’t think it’s that tricky, I mean, she likes you too and it’s obvious,” Patrick said through his stomach pain.

Art laughed again, “She does not. I’m not her type. We’re just friends.”

“You are entirely her type, her criteria is tall and normal build and that’s exactly you!” He gestured widely to Art.

“She did not say that to me when I asked. She told me she doesn’t date guys in sports.”

“She has two football exes, of course she doesn’t date jocks.”

“She said sports.”

“She meant jocks.” Patrick straightened out. “She likes you, Art. She pretty much admit it to me, you can’t tell me otherwise.”

Art just blinked. Patrick wasn’t right- there was no way. He’d had it in his head that he wasn’t even thought of when it came to anything like that with you. But Patrick was usually right, no matter how much Art hated it. “No, she’s-” he groaned, putting his head in his hands and bending to put his head between his knees. “She’s one of my best friends this would fuck everything up.”

Patrick shook his head, “It would be fine, you-”

Art groaned again, “And I tell her I like her and then what?” He brought his head up again. “She thinks I’ve just been here to fuck her? To get on her good side, to be with her through this just to get to her? I only started liking her, really liking her after the incident but I have no way to prove that! What would she think if all of a sudden I tell her and she actually doesn’t feel the way I do? This is so bad, Patrick.”

Patrick just laughed at him, but Art was now able to think about these things aloud. So he was loud. “I promise you she likes you. She’s flirting with you all the time, she’s touchy, she cares a lot about you- more than me, I can attest. She wants you. And as for the injury part- Art, it’s been over a fucking year. She’s not going to think you’re playing the long game.” Art just sighed, but Patrick shoved him over again. “Don’t be a pussy!”

“I’m not a-” he rolled his eyes and shoved Patrick right back, “-pussy. I just- she’s gorgeous and she’s friendly and she’s kind and caring and amazing and I don’t want to risk losing that just because I have some fucking ninth grade crush on her, you know?”

He nodded back, “But it’s not. I’ve seen you with your ninth grade crush and you were a lot more horny about it. You like her. She likes you. I don’t care if you tell her now, but I don’t want you thinking she doesn’t want you too. She does, it’s painfully obvious. And I’ll admit she’s hot as fuck, so I’d hate to see you miss the opportunity!” Patrick explained, hands wildly gesturing. “Plus the tension is fucking awful to be around, I don’t know how you do it.”

Neither did he. With it out in the air Art might have gushed a bit about you. Patrick had never seen him this way- he had so much to say about you and he ended up not calling you, just talking about you for what felt like forever to Patrick. But he didn’t mind.

You continued to get better and better and it was amazing. You felt amazing about your progress. You got up in the morning and your knee only hurt if you hit it off something. And that was normal for most people, so you took pride in it. You hurried over to Art’s dorm in a tank top and shorts, your hair in two braids. It was early morning, you knew that, but you knocked on the door anyway. Art, woken, opened the door and squinted in the light from the hall. He was gorgeous, you thought. His hair wild and messy from bed and his shirt hiked up a little too high from sleep, leaving his waist and mid-line exposed. “Hey.” He said, opening the door for you to come in, fixing his shirt.

“Hi,” you said, trying not to grin too wide. You couldn’t wait, you couldn’t. “I got cleared for a real game!” You squealed and you covered your mouth. You’d only found out late last night so you decided to wait until morning, but it really couldn’t wait. Art took a deep breath in but before he could say anything you were talking again. “It’s a small game. It’s local, it’s a tiny game but it’s a real one and it’s singles. I thought you’d want to know!”

“I- I do want to know, that’s amazing, oh my god!” He was almost as excited as you without the squealing and bouncing around. You were cute when you were excited. “A game is a game, it’s incredible, it’s- you- I-” He stopped himself. The excitement nearly got the best of him. But you were grinning ear to ear over tennis and that was all he cared about. “When is the game?”

“It’s next Sunday,” You giggled. “You’ll come?”

“Is that a question?”

“Well, yeah,” You said, your hands on his forearms like they usually were when you were passionate. Almost like you were scared the passion would sweep you away if you didn’t hold onto something. He loved it.

“No, I’ll be there. And on the sidelines if you let me.”

“You’re absolutely not sitting in the stands again.” You said, chuckling. He grinned.

And when the day of the game rolled around, your mother braided your hair in two french braids for you. She had ironed your entire outfit, even your socks. It was her nerves. But the most nervous one in the room at all times was you. You couldn’t eat, you had a hard time falling asleep, but you got up in the morning refreshed and heart pounding at the impending game. It meant a lot of action but you’d worked for this. It was a small local game at a local court with a few bleachers. It was hardly anything, you reminded yourself. This was your second chance just beginning. You slipped on your dark purple skort and your purple tank top and you made sure you had your lucky racket this time.

Your mom drove you to the court much earlier than needed because you were so on edge and you sat in the hall between changerooms under the bleachers, just doing your breathing to maintain yourself. You were more than glad when Patrick and Art showed up. They didn’t ask if you were ready, they knew it. They just asked where you wanted to go for lunch after the game and debated over if a hot dog counted as a sandwich until your Stanford coach walked in.

“You’re ready?” She asked, grin on her face. You blinked.

“What are you…” This was a local game, not Stanford. You looked at Art and Patrick who were bad at hiding their smiles.

Your coach nodded, “You’ve got this one.” She said. “Now hop to it, they’re waiting.” You looked back at Art and Patrick and they ushered you toward the door. It sounded a bit like a badly-engineered fan at first, going down the hall. Your stomach was already in knots.

They came completely undone as your coach opened the door and the roar of the crowd was near-deafening. You blinked in the daylight, half-shocked by how loud it was before you realized that it was the sound of people. And as your eyes adjusted, you realized that the tennis court bleachers were absolutely packed full of people and they were loud, cheering. It was a local game, you expected families of the players but no, there must have been hundreds of people in the stands. On the side with no stands there were people lining the fences and you could see people beyond people. You turned, taking it all in as they were calling your name, calling your praise. You covered your mouth seeing your peers from Stanford in the front row, including the girl who had been hitting on Art. You recognized all of them and more.

You looked at Art and Patrick who were behind you, unable to control their grins at this point and elbowing each other just a bit. Art was only looking at you. You felt so overwhelmed with gratitude, it rose in your stomach like the drop of a rollercoaster. “How did this- How- there’s so many,” You managed to say.

Patrick beamed, dimples on display, “They’re here for you, if you couldn’t tell.”

Art tugged one of your braids. “Patrick and I might have… posted about it on facebook. But it wasn’t an invite, just the general information of what had happened and that this was your first real game, so technically it was all you.” He smirked, but it couldn’t stay a smirk, just a really big smile. It matched yours.

“It was not me,” You sighed exasperated, but more than happy. Scared. But happy.

“If you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be,” He repeated to you. His thumb grazed your cheek when he let go of your braid. You wanted to hug him, you wanted to jump for joy and scream your head off at how amazing this all was. But you got called to serve.

The screams didn’t die down for any part of the game. You served and the game began and the girl across from you did not feel bad for you and that was clear. She was harsh and hardcore and violent with her swings but you hit almost all of them right back at her at a force and accuracy she couldn’t handle. Art and Patrick on the sidelines were into the game, cheering, calling out remarks on your moves. The moves they’d helped you get back. You were more than grateful with every point you scored. The crowd cheered for both you and your opponent but it was your name you heard screamed out in the crowd.

It got a bit intense at times, you fell behind for a while but came back, then went back down again, then came back up. The halfway point you spent thanking your best friends profusely while they urged you to rest and have water. You got back on the court after that, swinging, hitting, forehand, backhand, pulling a few moves that required the use of the leg you’d broken and though the crowd held their breath, they were more than impressed. Patrick watched Art stop cheering and clapping for a second, noting the way he was so honed in on you, Patrick was sure a bomb could go off behind Art and he wouldn’t notice. Art was proud, that was what he felt. Proud to know you, proud to be your friend, proud to feel the way he did about you because he knew that you were amazing and resilient and so fucking strong. He had never met anyone like you.

You locked eyes with him before your opponent served and he swore he felt something shift, really shift. When this game ended he had to tell you how he felt. He couldn’t go without it, he had to tell you.

The last quarter got increasingly more intense. You fell once at a move that required the leg you’d broken. The crowd gasped and Art lunged to help you up but you did it yourself. And you got right back up. The fall hurt, but no more than it would have a regular person. That was something that drove your confidence way up. You couldn’t even hear the score anymore. You just knew that you were there and you were playing and you couldn’t have been happier, even if you lost. But the buzzer went off and the game was done and it was almost like you went deaf. The cheers stopped, though they really didn’t, in fact they roared louder than ever before and the crowd launched itself into standing, their hands over their heads, mouths open wide absolutely wild.

You knew you’d won. But it wasn’t that important. You had one thought- find Art.

And he wasn’t hard to find. He was there on the sidelines or rather one of the many people who surrounded you when you won. Your other friends, your parents, your coach, Patrick, the staff of the game, and apparently a few nurses who came to see their patient play. But it was Art you reached for. You grabbed his forearms, bracing yourself, your eyebrows furrowing, “I won?” You questioned over the noise, over the hands that congratulated you.

Art, biggest grin on his face, “You won.” He answered. And he didn’t have a second to himself before you reached up, cupping his face and kissing him hard. There was nothing else to do in the presence of the win but kiss him. And he kissed you back just as hard. It felt like all the noise and all of the world was sucked away for a moment when his hands fell on your waist, pulling you closer.

It was a small game with big victories.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds but it was strong, and the feeling of him lingered on your lips when you parted. Nobody was surprised that you kissed. Not your mom, not the nurses, they’d known. You looked at Art and tried not to smile but it was over the second he grinned. You couldn’t help but grin right back as Patrick came in for a crushing hug.

“That was fucking incredible!” He told you. Your cheeks began to hurt from smiling as you hugged everyone over your win. Thing eventually died down after a while, people happily funnelling out, congratulating you. But at the end of things it was just you and Art. Patrick had headed out to bring the car around.

You twisted your mouth to the side, “I can’t believe how many people turned up.” You sighed, content.

“You have that pull.” Art shrugged. “You are probably my biggest tennis inspiration now.”

“Mhm? You want to be me when you grow up?” You teased, stepping closer. Art smirked, but once again he couldn’t maintain it, he just smiled down at you. “I’m your biggest inspiration…”

He wasn’t afraid to put his arms around your waist. “Maybe, maybe not. But you are amazing. And so fucking good at tennis, I’m scared for your real comeback.” He said. You laughed and it was gorgeous. The front part of your braid fell out and around your face. “You’re going to kick my ass.”

Your smile was brighter than the mid-day sun. “You bet.”

Your heart fluttered when he tucked your hair behind your ear again. You both heard the car horn as Patrick beeped from outside the court. “Can I kiss you?” Art asked, pushing your hair behind your ear. You nodded. And this time it was his hand on your jaw, his lips pressing against yours with all of his feeling. It was a kiss untouched by the rush of adrenaline and it was sweet. And it was slow. His lips grazing over yours between kisses, his breath minty from the gum he had just spit out two minutes ago. He held you close and the kiss was full of words yet to be said. You both couldn’t ignore anything anymore. It had been a long time coming. Patrick honked again, but it took you another second before you both pulled away with small smiles. Your hands gently holding his forearms, bracing yourself.

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

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tenjikyu · 11 months

Note

imagine a child male reader whos siblings w scaramouche and was also abandoned so they only had eachother and encountered many people throughout their lives (fatui, traveler, that little kid who passed away, etc..). i can only imagine the heartbreak everytime scara gets hurt bc of the betrayals throughout ur travels and how the reader is tryibg his best to comfort him since hes still young and doesnt fully grasp the situation theyre both in idkk

srry for being specific i just rlly like sibling stuff 😭😭

𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 - 𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘪

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ scaramouche x m!brother!reader , angst and fluff , comfort and reverse comfort .

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ reader and scaramouche slowly age throughout the book, so keep that in mind.

the wanderer and his little brother apart is a sight nome of the seven nations have ever witnessed. wherever one is, the other is trailing behind either with excitement, worry, concern or grumpiness trailing their figures. the wanderer loves his little brother more then anything and everything in this shithole and that has never changed, nor will it ever change.

upon the creation of kunikuzishi, raiden ei (or ‘mother’) had encountered an ‘issue’ that might be solved if he had something instinctual to protect. kunikuzushi was a gentle soul, and while he loved his mother more then life as he knew it, if he was so weak that he could not hold the gnosis then what was all this for?

and so, the creation of the second kunikuzushi was in production.

“(y/n)” she had named you. you loved your name, you loved your mother who gave you your name and most of all, you loved your big brother kunikuzushi. he was your everything, and for awhile raiden ei’s plan had seemed to have succeeded.

kunikuzushi was getting stronger, he was overcoming his sensitivity and his ability to cry at every given scenario. she thought she had finally done it.

until she realised, it was all a massive lie.

she had caught you coddling your teary eyes big brother near the shine, cradling his head against your little chest and combing his hair in hopes his tears would cease. you could sense your mothers presence and you knew if she found out that he was still as vulnerable as the day of your creation, it would have major concequences.

the gods weren’t in your favour, to put it lightly.

wandering the ever so lonely woods of inazuma, you and your brother faced two more instances in which would eventually trigger his switch.

the first? a simple blacksmith that had taken you both in. he was another good soul, cheerful beyond belief and a truly comforting person to be around.

he taught your brother the craft of weaponry. he taught your brother it is okay to be vulnerable at times and for awhile, you truly believed that you had found someone who cared about you enough to love you and your brother for who you truly were.

that dream died alongside his once genuine love for you both, riddled with fear of the both of you.

kunikuzushi’s tears echoed through your ears that night, it was so loud you couldn’t even hear the rain that was ever so loudly crashing against the two of you. his body was small and shrunken, and you didn’t know how you could help. your little mind may be synthetic, but it does not mean that you comprehend things as an adult would.

you only hoped holding your big brother against you and hiding your own tears would comfort him enough to stop crying.

you couldn’t stand his tears, they broke your little heart.

the last was a young boy, only a few years younger then your current mortal state.

raiden ei claimed that to keep kunikuzushi’s guard, she would have your body ever so slightly age, until you would stop abruptly by the time your form would hit 14. this would match up with kunikuzushi as his body would go from the form of an 18-22 year old physique.

this boy was once more, a very loving being. he was full of love and wonder about the world, seeing everything as an opportunity and a blessing.

your little head couldn’t comprehend his views until it was far too late for blessings or miracles.

there, lying lifeless and devoid of emotion, going everything against you knew of the boy he lay.

CLICK

you attempted to grasp your big brothers hand, but you did not see a boy who once more needed comfort, all you could see was pure loathing.

you didn’t see your big brother in that moment. you saw a stranger in the skin of kunikuzushi. his tears were not in need of wiping, in fact no tears were to be wiped at all.

you lost your brother that day, and it would be a long while before you would see him once more.

in a sense, you lost yourself that day as well, you no longer felt that out in your stomach that lingered endlessly. only a cold numbness filled the gaping hole in which a heart should lay wishing your chest.

by the time you had reached the fatui, the both of you were completely different people.

scaramouche was cold and sharped tongued, and as for yourself? you were reserved and shrunken. you had both completed the aging process that ei had implemented for the two of you, and it was as clear as day.

you had gotten ever so slightly taller, your hair a little longer and your frown weighed heavy on your lips.

your big brother was still as short as ever, but his face was no longer chubby and round. he was sharp and cold, a glare that never disappeared unless i’m the presence of one person.

you.

you hated the fatui. you hated how they treated you and your brother. unlike the humans, they didn’t even bother to pretend to care for either of your well-being’s. you were scared of most, not daring to make any form of contact with any of them. there was only one harbinger that ever spoke to you of his own volition.

tartaglia.

an annoying redhead who treated you as if you were his own kin. that alone had scaramouche seething in his seat. who was this filthy mortal and how DARE he treat HIS little brother as his own? this had the balladeer absolutely livid and so for the sake of your dear brother, you did your very best to escape the mortals clutches.

as his time in the fatui progressed, you soon found yourself truly taking on the roll as his little brother. you seemed to be the one who was there for him, never much the other way around.

of course that’s not to say he wasn’t there, it was just normally him who needed you more then you needing him. you were the one with him against your chest, not the other way around, and honestly you never cared too much. he’s you brother, why shouldn’t you be there for him?

you didn’t realise just how sad that fact had made your big brother until it had genuinely switched.

scaramouche, as you now seemed to have to adresse him as, not once even entertained the idea of you becoming a full blown fatui member. you simply sat in his office and kept him company throughout his everyday chores and when he went in missions? you rested in his quarters until he came back.

the fatui knew of your immortality and the fact you were not human, and henceforth never bothered to check in on you, not that you cared much.

the doctor struck fear in you that you couldn’t quite comprehend and columbina was almost too cheery to be trusted. the knave seemed interested in you, however you soon came to understand she ran an orphanage and decided she was only looking for a potential member of the hearth. the rest of them never much interacted with you and you therefore have no good or bad opinion on them, all you knew is that you could only trust yourself and your big brother in this hellhole.

you had lost count on how many days it had been since you escaped the clutches of the fatui, but you couldn’t care less. you were with your big brother and he had you, and that’s all you needed in life.

scaramouche thought different.

he wanted to laugh in the faces of the mortals and god who wronged his brother and himself, to mortify the deities and to have the humans begging at his feet. he wanted absolute power, and he had finally obtained the key item to acquire this dream of his.

had anyone asked you if you feared your brother kunikuzushi, you would have laughed in their face. if someone asked you if you feared your brother scaramouche, even just slightly, you could not give an answer.

you were yet to meet this ‘damned blonde runt’ that your brother so very much despised, however you could only hope in a time like this, she might just be able to save your big brother. he claims she is nothing but a pathetic little worm that he could easily discard by the time he reaches divinity, however you had heard of the deeds she had performed for the other nations of teyvat, and you had a feeling she was going to do the same thing for sumeru.

your feelings were correct.

your big brother was falling, and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. he told you to not interfere by the time lumine came, to stay hidden in order to protect you from exposure. to protect himself from people who would use his little brother to exploit him.

too bad you love him a bit too much to allow him to fall like this. he had just quite literally lost his heart right after gaining it, and the pure horror within his vocal cords as he begged the archon of dendro to spare his heart was heavy on your little ears. you couldn’t take it any longer.

“KUNIKUZUSHI NO” you pleaded, you begged the girls to help your brother, however they just watched as he fell lifelessly. so, as you’ve always done and will continue to do, you ran to him.

he only mumbled a ‘get away from me’ and a ‘what if they see you?’ before he finally fell into unconsciousness, and that was the last straw.

all you felt in your body was a frozen and bitter hatred. you felt disappointed. wasn’t this supposed to be the ever caring saviour of teyvat? the girl who makes friends with the snap of her fingers and fights to protect ALL??

all you saw was a fake, a fraud.

ice shot out from the bottom of your heels, icing the entirety of the floors around the workshop. you were screaming.

the room was slowly icing itself around you as you held your unconscious brother in your arms. the panic was visible in the travellers companions voice, freaking out that they’re trapped in the room and that the ice is closing in, however you could only feel your imaginary heart beating harshly within your chest, pounding on your synthetic rib cage and begging to be released from the clutches of ice growing within it.

the only thing you heard before your body collapsed was a gentle tune, a tune of true harmony.

you awoke to the soft breathing of your brother next to you, seemingly in a blissful rest. instinctively, you raised your body and clutched him tightly, startling him awake. you took in your surroundings before letting him go, him reluctantly sitting up and grasping your shoulder, slouching on you.

in came the little nahida, with a tray of tea and some traditional sumerian snacks on the side.

“you’re finally awake you two! i’ve been waiting for the both of you for ages!” her little singalong voice chimed, puffy cheeks graced with a warm smile. you and kunikuzushi share a glace at eachother, almost in a “what the fuck are we doing here?” kinda look. the young archon took note of your confusion and decided to explain.

“we rescued the both of you from the doctors clutches and have been nursing you back to health! after (y/n) had gained his cryo vision, another vision slowly descended and rested on the chest of the balladeer. the anemo vision seemed to swirl a warm breeze around the both of you as the ice spread as the room started to freeze in on itself. thankfully, i was able to get everyone out uninjured, however we had unfortunately encountered the 2nd fatui harbinger, also known as the doctor. he claimed the fatui had ownership over the both of you and wanted both you and the gnosis, however i bargained that as long as he shut down all his twins, as well as giving us the both of you, he could have both of the gnosis’ i possessed!”

nahida seemed almost too cheery, however you refused to comment on it. all you did was squeeze your bothers free hand as he held you protectively, his guard instinctively high in the presence of a god. smiling softly to yourself for the first time in forever, you rested on the shoulder of your big brother.

you were finally in safe hands.

sumeru’s most notable duo, the young wanderer and (y/n) explore around the lands together, hand in hand. one in his early 20s and the other in his teenage years. though they never seem to age, sumeru does not question it. the elder with a sharp tongue and the younger apologising profusely for his big brothers harsh words. the elder studying in the akedemiya under the request of the lesser lord, and the younger encouraging him to do his best.

the elder keeping his guard up so the younger can finally enjoy his everlasting youth, after giving it up for so many years for the sake of himself. hand in hand, kunikuzushi knew you two would finally be able to rest.

just the two of you, until the end of time. <3

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin x male reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x male reader #scaramouche #genshin scara #scaramouche x male reader #scaramouche x reader #kinda angsty but it gets fluffy #sibling hcs #family hcs #genshin sibling hcs #this actually took me so long you have no idea #the burnout went CRAZY #but i’m proud of it (kind of)

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d-dixonimagines · 6 months

Text

PROMPT REQUEST from this list from @daryls-wife

A/N: I'm sorry it took so long to get this posted! I honestly have no idea what my plan was for this one, the direction changed every time I started over! But nevertheless, I hope you still like it! Warnings: mild language, a lot of typos probably

PROMP 17: "You're bleeding--how long have you been hiding this?"

A lot had happened the past few days while you and Daryl were out doing an exchange with The Kingdom; giving weapons in exchange for some crates of fruits and vegetables. It was a never ending run-in with walkers, a couple encounters with lone individuals who were desperate enough to try and steal some of the food you were bringing back.

For as short of a trip this was supposed to be you were completely exhausted. Eventually you convinced Daryl to stop for the night, though he didn't fully understand why you felt you needed to when you were so close to home. It was only a few more hours, but you were desperate as well.

Finding a run down convenience store, you cleared the area for walkers and tried to make yourselves comfortable. Daryl found a spot on the floor by the window, adjusting his position against the hard tile. "I don't think we'll be gettin' much sleep, my ass is already goin' numb," he grumbled as he moved once more before finally settling.

"I'm sorry," you smiled a little in response. "I just needed a break. We can keep going and make it back before it gets too late, but I really just need to rest for a while." You settled next to him, moving slowly and wincing slightly when your side brushed against one of the crates.

"Nah, we'll be ok. Looks like we might get some rain anyway." You nodded in agreement. Daryl watched you for a moment. "You doin' ok, though?" he asked gently, noticing how you sat down. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm just sore, and my feet are killing me. It's probably time to be on the lookout for different shoes."

He gave a nod, not really responding. The rest of the evening went on pretty much like that. Small talk here and there. Daryl took watch first and let you sleep before switching a few hours later. You got going again just before the sun came up, arriving back at Alexandria as people were starting their day.

After getting the crates dropped off where they needed to be, you and Daryl headed back to your shared abode and planned on relaxing a bit before tending to whatever else needed to be done. "I'm gonna take a long shower, if anyone needs to find me." Daryl nodded, his eyes catching glimpse of your side and a wet sticky substance that was seeping through the fabric of your shirt.

He caught your arm to stop you. "You're bleedin'... how long have you been hidin' this?" You turned your body slightly so his hand would drop. "It's nothing, just a scrape from a scuffle we had with a walker." "On which day?" His gaze was direct, probably already guessing when it had happened. You hesitated a second before answering.

"When we were at the tracks.." "That was three days ago." "Yeah, so? I told you, it's nothing." There was another silence. You knew it was more serious than you were trying to let on, but it wasn't anything you couldn't handle. You just needed to clean it and bandage it up and you'd be good as new.

"Can I see it, then?" You gave a defeated sigh and peeled the shirt back so he could take a look. "I was going to go to the infirmary after my shower," you defended. "Why didn't'cha just say somethin'?" "I didn't want to turn it into a bigger deal than it was. We were close enough to here that I knew you would have probably made me turn back, and I didn't want to leave."

"Comin' back wouldn't've been a big deal. Waitin' three days and practically bein' forced to acknowledge is what's doin' that, let alone the risk you put yerself in for infection. So now it is a big fuckin' deal." You dropped your hands and took a step back, wanting to just walk away from the conversation. You knew he was coming from a place of protection and concern, but you didn't have the patience or the energy to be scolded at.

"I have it under control, Daryl. I can take care of myself." You turned and headed for the bathroom, Daryl following close behind. "I know ya can, just wish you'd be more open about stuff like this. If you're hurt, you should be able to tell me.." "Oh, because you're so open with me? Mr. guy who leaves for weeks at a time without saying a single word about it? Open like that?" "That's different and you know that."

You shook your head. "It's really not. Your reasons might be different, but the concept is still the same." You walked over to the tub and sat down on the edge, feeling sick and drained, and you didn't know if it was because you were tired and hungry or if it was because of the aching, oozing wound on your side. All bets were probably on the latter.

"...I don't feel so hot.." you placed your hand on your forehead. "I mean, I do feel hot, but still..." "A fever's probably settin' in. We should get to the infirmary." Daryl helped you up, with zero protests from you, and let you to the doctor. At some point you must have passed out because the next thing you remember was waking up in a bright room and Daryl right next to you.

"Mornin', sunshine," he smirked slightly. "What happened?" "Ya passed out on the way here from dehydration and an infection startin' to set in. The doc got ya fixed up, though, so you'll be okay."

You nodded, processing the information. You hadn't realized how bad it had gotten. There was a silence that fell between you, and you could tell that he wanted to say more.

"If you want to say 'I told you so', go ahead and do it," you chuckled slightly. "I can see that you want to." He shook his head. "That's not what I wanna say, I'm not gonna rub anythin' in, I just.. I hated seein' you like that. Ya can't mess with infections." His tone was soft. "I know... I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm also really sorry about picking that fight with you earlier. I didn't intend for anything to go that far."

"That was just the fever talkin', yer good. I'll make a deal with ya, though.." "Oh, yeah? What deal is that?" "I'll open up more about stuff if you will. Doesn't hav'ta be everythin', just if you're hurt or going somewhere. We just check in with each other. That sound fair?"

You let out a quiet sigh and paused a moment before agreeing, hoping he wasn't making that deal because he felt like he had to. Him leaving didn't have to be anybody else's business, it was just disappointing when you couldn't find him and found out from someone else that he left.

You weren't complaining about the deal itself, though. You were relieved that he was going to start saying something, but you hoped he was doing that because he wanted to and not just because he thought that was the only way to get you to open up. "That sounds like a fair deal." You gave a smile regardless, accepting it all for what it was.

"Alright then.." he gave a satisfied nod. "I got us some food. I figured you'd probably be hungry when you woke up." "Yes, please, I'm starving!" Your eyes brightened as he handed you a plate of food, some eggs and fruit from the crates you brought back. As bad as things got, you were relieved that it wasn't any worse, and you felt pretty lucky to have Daryl by your side through all of it.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon x reader #d-dixonimagines #norman reedus #twd daryl dixon

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illubean · 8 months

Note

I have an obsession with viper, so can you do a Valorant Viper x fem reader with a bubbly personality. Where viper gets jealous over another agent flirting with the reader plz🙏

Jealousy is Green

Characters: Sabine "Viper" Callas Type: Fluff, Oneshot, Fem!reader

I would pay for this woman to be possessive over me. actually, I'd pay her to ruin my life

Warnings: none

After hearing about Viper bringing back another recruit, the agents of the Valorant protocol were buzzing with talk and excitement. They all wondered who this new mystery agent could be, and how you managed to impress their cold blooded Viper.

Upon meeting you, nearly everyone was elated. You weren't hard to get along with like many of the agents feared, instead being quite the opposite. You were an absolute joy to be around. You were helpful, a team player and always had a positive attitude. Even the self proclainmed 'lone wolf' Yoru warmed up to you quickly.

Viper was conflicted to say the least. Yes, she had expected you to get along well with majority of the team but not this well. Despite her usual attitude, she had taken a liking to you much more than the others. She knew you even before your recruitment, and you are one of the few people she trusts completely.

It's been about a week or so since she first brought you to the base. She watched from afar, sipping her coffee as you chatted with some of the deulists. She smiled ever so slightly at the sound of your laughter, before looking up to see the source.

Phoenix.

One of the most charismatic agents of the protocol. And he knew this. He was young, cheerful and insanely cocky. He currently had an arm over your shoulder, telling you bad jokes that for some reason still managed to get you to laugh. Viper's grip on her mug tightened ever so slightly as she failed to notice a certain frenchman walk into the room.

"You're green with jealousy, mon ami," he speaks, walking past her to open up a cabinet. Viper scoffs, drinking the rest of her coffee before setting her mug down and leaning against the counter.

"What the hell are you talking about, Chamber?"

"You have an eye for the new recruit, oui? You better act quick before someone else sweeps her off her feet. It might even be me!" He says, chuckling while returning to where he came from, now with a cup of coffee in hand.

Viper huffs before turning back to where you had been. She hates to admit it but Chamber was actually right for once. One thing she did know is that she refuses to lose, especially not to Phoenix. Finally, she leaves her spot in the kitchen to approach you.

"Oh, hey Viper!" you chime, noticing her before your male companion.

Without a word, she grabs your hand and pulls you off towards the lab she often worked in.

"Hey! What's going on?"

Once you get inside the door, she lets go of you, turning to face you.

"I don't like seeing you with Phoenix."

"What?" you question, raising an eyebrow at the woman. "What's wrong with- OHHHHHHHH!"

You cut yourself off with your own realization as a playful smirk makes it's way across your face. "I see what's happening here. Viper, you're greeennnnnn~"

"What does that even mean?" she sighs.

Giggling, you step closer to the woman before wrapping your arms around her.

"It means you're jealous. Jealousy is green," you answer, nuzzlng your face into her shoulder. Viper stood frozen for a moment, not used to physical affection. Slowly, she begins to relax and returns your embrace.

"Y'know, there's no need for you to be jealous. You're my favorite."

#viper valorant #valorant viper x reader #valorant viper #viper x reader #viper headcanons #viper #sabine callas #viper x you #sabine callas x reader #sabine viper callas #valorant x reader #valorant x you #valorant headcanons #valorant fanfic #valorant fanfiction

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nishloves · 8 months

Text

unsurity (tartaglia)

words : 1.4k // childe x reader // fluff, narrative

you were always sure that tartaglia wouldn't notice you at all; he valued strength before anything and you weren't strong— at least not stronger than him— not strong enough to be even called an "outstanding" paladin. but the day he saw you defeat a bunch of fatui agents in chess and soon got defeated himself when he challenged you, you saw a switch flip in his eyes.

you were sure that you won't get any special attention from the harbinger; he always knew that you were a capable agent but you weren't anything worthy of his attention— after all, you were just a normal but clever agent; slowly but surely climbing up your ranks in fatui. but soon, he started to observe just how easy it is for you to learn even the most complex of plans, understand nexus of convoluted theories and researches and how easy it is for you, to put those said plans in action, even leading when required to.

you were sure that childe was a man who valued strength above all; yes, he was a straightforward, serpentine and a loyal man, but under that mask of friendly-outgoing man, was a war hungry lunatic, who swore his life to the tsaritsa, who survived on the lone adrenaline of battles and mysteries to be unfolded, a brute living with lust for bloodshed, it was hard to surprise him but— for him, you were a sweet enigma, a cerulean bead sewn with green ones.

you were sure that the ginger-haired male always knew more than he let on; he was a man of many talents after-all; may it be his negotiating prowess, diplomatic nature or simply his strength— you always assumed it impossible to surpass him. but one day, when you were left in charge on account of his absence and were still able to pull off the best deal (which even he might've had problem to get), the male was sure that there's obviously more to you than what met the eyes.

you were sure that the eleventh always assumed for people to bow to him— to be scared of him, like hello, as if he's not one of the most dangerous persons in the world— but, the day you sheepishly admitted that answering to the eleventh harbinger made you quite nervous, his eyes were wide with shock. the sole harbinger who was never known to exploit his sub-ordinates, if he could, he certainly became even kinder to them— rather than tripling their training in case of mistakes, he only doubled them now. well, it was still better than the way the other harbingers disposed of the weak links to their dungeons or simply put up their 'wanted' posters.

you were sure that a fighter like "lumine" would be the one to catch his eyes— she might just be a bit above average with her brains, but her brawns, connections and integrity compensated for everything else— you wondered if she was even stronger than the harbingers— which didn't seem too far-fetched a theory, she was an outlander after all. but she also hated the fatui, without caring about about their end goal; there were evil people everywhere, no? so why would she hold prejudice against every fatui member? you wondered just why it was hard for lumine to grasp that fact— yet, you chose not to say anything, you weren't in her shoes.

you were sure that your leader was head over heels for the traveller, calling anyone "comrade" was probably the highest honor he could present to anyone. you chuckled as you witnessed one or two of their ministerings, panicking slightly as you found his eyes catch yours as you watched them but you simply bowed and left, you sincerely wished for him to stay happy.

all talents are recognized by the tsaritsa and she certainly didn't let your talent go to waste, soon you climbed up the ranks to become an official diplomat from the nation of snezhnaya, you weren't just an agent anymore. your position didn't surpass that of harbingers but, you certainly didn't need to work under them anymore- you were also shocked to know that a few harbingers- la signora, the doctor and marionette had themselves vouched for your promotion. it scared you to the core, you weren't under childe's protection now- you were free, independent- but shackled enough for other harbingers to use you as a puppet for their missions- and you wouldn't have enough authority to deny them either.

you were sure of the fact that you were fucked when the doctor asked you to visit sumeru with him- to handle political and diplomatic issues from his behalf as he works on his own research- but, another harbinger had requested of your help at the same time and the tsaritsa deemed it more appropriate, to aide this other harbinger at work. the other work wasn't a piece of cake- none of your work is, but ningguang was quite hard to please, you would pray that you never negotiate with her again.

you were sure that no one would care to console you after your probably hardest mission till date- you were exhausted- spent, your brain felt fried. so when you felt a strong arm grip your shoulder you didn't even have enough strength to shake it away- honestly, you probably couldn't even if you were healthy. you tilt your head as you looked at the ruffled red locks- they seemed fluffy. you smiled as you stared up at him. "good evening, lord," you said as the harbinger smiled at you- passing you a coffee to drink- your favorite one too! you giggled as you took the drink from his hands, to exhausted to register what was happening in front of you as you grinned at childe.

"your girlfriend might get jealous, my lord."

you saw his brows quirk up quizzically as he stared at you, "what girlfriend?"

"lumine?"

"she's not my girlfriend- neither do i like her."

you were sure that this man was devoid of being vulnerable- yet when you sat next to him as he looked over at the red sunset over the white silky stretches of snezhnaya, you could feel him shiver- if only for a second. he chuckled as he closed his eyes and leaned back, "signora hated the chilly air, you know? now that i think, she hated the wind itself."

ah, so it was about her today,

"and the balladeer would scowl at me as i asked him to spar- sparring was perfect to not feel the cold."

so it is about both of them.

you simply nodded at your ex-boss, listening to him retell stories about his past days, with smiles and chuckles all along, until he falls silent- his eyes gazing at the shadow of what was the blazing red sun.

"at least one of them is alive- i am sure of that, he wouldn't die this easily."

you stared at your master as your hand involuntarily went over his, gingerly tracing small circles over his knuckles as he smiled. he didn't push your hand away and neither did he punish you.

"thankyou." was all that you heard.

you didn't expect him to drag you to snezhnaya's market at the break of the morning- on your holiday. and you certainly never expected him to loiter around the market, asking your opinions on clothes for his siblings that you haven't even seen before. he scrambled here and there for numerous souvenirs, rambling about how he can't return to morepesok empty handed.

he wasn't so cruel as to not reward you for making you work extra hard, he bought you a ridiculously expensive piece of gramet despite your protests and wrapped it around you by himself, singing praises of how you look even cuter now, and promised you to a fairly exquisite lunch too!

not before asking you to come with him- to morepesok.

you were sure that his eyes wouldn't linger on you for any longer than a few mere seconds. so when he stretched his hand across the table and held yours, you wondered if he was the "person of your dreams", someone you would readily give your heart to. you wonder if people like him, needed people like you. because you were always sure, that he'd never notice you, at least not for long.

maybe you were awfully wrong.

#genshin impact #anime #genshin x reader #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x you #tartaglia #childe tartaglia ajax #ajax #childe x reader #childe #childe x you #childe tartagalia #childe genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #genshin fanfic #nish recs : anime

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azzibuckets · 5 months

Text

For the Love of the Game [Pazzi | Part 8/10]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: in which the “fake” in fake dating starts to rear its ugly head

a/n: probably the most painful thing i’ve ever written

word count: 2.2k

masterlist w/ all parts

“How was practice?”

Azzi gently stirred the mug of hot chocolate as she carefully brought it over to Paige, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

“Pretty good. Worked on our box and one defense.” Paige brought the mug to her lips but Azzi halted her, leaning over to blow on the steaming liquid first. “Careful. It’s hot.”

The younger girl took a seat on the couch, bringing Paige’s feet onto her lap. This is how their past few nights had looked like - Azzi rubbing Paige’s legs while recounting practice detail by detail, from the conditioning to the drills to the scrimmages. It was slightly exhausting giving such a complete run down of their entire three hour practice, especially since Paige tended to asked questions that seemed irrelevant, making the whole spiel last even longer, but from the way the blonde listened intently, Azzi knew that this was how she was coping.

So these days she’d found herself stopping to take notes during practice, of important things that Geno said or observations she made of their plays, so that Paige would have something interesting to hear about.

“That’s good.” Paige pressed the heel of her foot against Azzi’s thigh, sending her a soft smile. “I missed you today.”

Azzi pinched Paige’s skin, a playful grin on her face. “You just saw me yesterday.”

“I know, but it’s not enough. It gets so lonely in here. Going outside is so tiring with crutches and shit.” Paige leaned her head back, breathing hard. When Azzi didn’t respond, only comfortingly patting her leg, she took it as a sign to continue. “I can’t even hang out with the girls no more because I feel like I’m dragging everyone behind, pathetically limping and trying to catch up.” Paige was on a rant now, her pent up anger seeping through her words. “But then I can’t go out alone, cuz sometimes people will start swarming me like I’m an animal at a zoo, and I can’t even escape because of my stupid leg.”

Paige was heaving now, and she was surprised when she looked down and saw that a wet drop had fallen on the collar of her shirt. Touching her cheek with her fingertips, she’d realized that tears had started to fall. “This is so stupid,” Paige grumbled. “I don’t know why I’m getting emotional over this shit.”

“Hey.” Azzi’s voice was gentle, a soothing balm to Paige’s wounds. “It’s not stupid. I get what you mean. I tore my ACL in high school. People always talk about the obvious struggles like not being able to play and stuff, but they don’t know about all these little things that make even daily life so hard.” She gently swiped her thumb over a tear rolling down Paige’s cheek. “I might have a solution to your problems, though.”

“What?” Paige perked up, suddenly interested.

Azzi smirked. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

————————

The next day, when Azzi opened the door of Paige’s apartment with the key that she’d been gifted, she came with a shiny wheelchair in tow.

She heard Paige moving around in the bathroom, so she rushed to hide the wheelchair behind the couch before the blonde could step out. The water from the faucet started running, and soon Paige limped out on her crutches.

“Oh my god, you scared me for a second,” Paige laughed.

Azzi slowly winded her arms around the older girl’s waist. “Guess what?”

Paige kissed the corner of Azzi’s mouth, trying to calm her heart that was now racing just from seeing the girl. “What?” But Azzi didn’t respond. She merely grabbed Paige’s crutches with one hand while supporting her waist with the other. She tossed them to the side, laughing at the confusion on Paige’s face.

“Are you gonna magically heal my knee?” Paige asked sarcastically, gripping into Azzi’s elbow for dear life.

“Nope. But today we’re going out, and all you’ll need is this.” Azzi slowly guided Paige to the couch, where she pointed at the wheelchair.

The blonde’s eyes widened. “No way!”

“Yes, way.” Azzi made sure Paige was steadily holding on to the couch before jogging to retrieve the wheelchair. “When I tore my ACL I had the same issue. I felt all pent up in my room but crutches were way too big of a nuisance. So my dad surprised me with a wheelchair and he’d just take me to the park and stuff so I could get some fresh air without having to hobble everywhere.”

Paige situated herself into the wheelchair, still in disbelief at the kind gesture. She felt Azzi run her hands through her hair, collecting and bringing it back, exposing the nape of her neck for her to brush her lips against. “Ready?” she murmured against her skin.

“Fuck yes.”

————————-

Paige never thought she’d be so happy to be in a wheelchair. But here she was, being pushed by Azzi around the Storrs campus, and she’d never felt so giddy.

At first, they walked quietly, without aim. Paige would occasionally point things out and Azzi would respond with a hum. Every so often Azzi would let her fingernails lightly scratch across Paige’s shoulders, a soft reminder of her presence, and both were content.

“Oh my god, Az. There’s ice cream.” Paige turned around and gave such adorable puppy eyes that the dark haired girl could only roll her eyes affectionately and give in. When Paige started quietly chanting, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream,” Azzi shook her head, marveling at how to everyone else, Paige as a big and intimidating all star athlete, but to Azzi, she was just a dork.

“You wanna share?” Paige asked, studying the menu with the most concentration and thoughtfulness that Azzi had ever seen from her.

“Only if we get mint chip.”

“So you like toothpaste. Gotcha.”

Azzi leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You weren’t saying that last night.” The blonde immediately blushed, recalling how while they’d brushed their teeth last night, Azzi had looked so gorgeous that she couldn’t help herself but kiss her right then and there. Azzi had shrieked and pushed her off, but Paige had chuckled, pressing another toothpastey kiss to her cheek.

But Paige quickly recovered. “Well, anything tastes good when it’s on your lips.” This time it was Azzi’s turn to blush furiously.

For the rest of their “walk,” Paige focused on slurping her ice cream cone, occasionally lifting it up for Azzi to take a bit.

“You ate basically all of it,” Azzi complained once Paige had popped the last piece of cone into her mouth.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you asking for a bite from all the way up there,” Paige mocked.

Azzi leaned over the back of the wheelchair, staring at Paige upside down. “You’re an idiot,” she’d laughed as she’d pressed her lips to Paige’s.

“Very nice,” Paige approved once they broke apart. “Like Spider-man.”

The girls heard a high-pitched squeal come from behind them, and they both turned around, surprised to see Leo barreling towards them.“That was so cute!” Paige looked down, noticing the camera in Leo’s hand. “But do you think you could redo that kiss, with everything exactly the same? My lens went out of focus so the video came out kinda blurry.”

“What?” Paige looked at Azzi to see if she was just as confused as they were, but Azzi was staring icily at Geno’s daughter, her jaw clenched and rigid.

“Uh, for the documentary?” Leo held up her camera, as if that explained everything. “Azzi, I knew I agreed not to come yet, but this was so great! I think after this we can just move onto the interviews. I won’t be needing any more content.”

“Leo,” Azzi said roughly, taking a menacing step towards her. “Please leave.”

“What?” The peppy brunette looked taken aback.

“No, don’t leave,” Paige interjected. She looked between the two of them in disbelief. “Does someone wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Now Leo looked confused. “Azzi? I thought you told her?”

“Fucking hell.” Azzi let go of the wheelchair, pressing her palms against her temples. “I was going to,” she mumbled. “I swear I was, but-”

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on right now.” Paige heard her own voice, and it took even her by her surprise. She hadn’t used a tone so filled with malice and aggression against Azzi since before they’d started this whole thing, and right now that felt like decades ago.

Leo looked hesitantly at Azzi before saying softly, “Um, I know the truth about you guys. That you two aren’t actually dating.”

Panic rose up in Paige’s throat. “Fudd, you told her?”

“I didn’t tell her!” Azzi said quickly, her voice all nervous and high pitched. “She overheard one of our conversations and asked me about it.”

“But I told her I’d keep the secret to myself, including from my dad, as long as you guys would agree to keep doing my segment. It’s way too late into the semester to throw my whole project away,” Leo defended.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Azzi’s heart lurched at the wounded look in Paige’s eyes. She glanced at Leo. This was not the way she’d planned for this conversation to play out, in front of Leo and in public, with some people now staring at them.

“I-”

“Wait.” Paige interrupted. “So why is Leo here right now? Can someone explain that?”

Leo looked guiltily down at her camera, as if she’d just been caught red handed. “Well, you’ve been out with your ACL, so you haven’t really been around to help film for my doc. Which I totally understand, it’s really terrible what happened. But then I realized I was really running short on scenes, and they’re due in a week, so I asked Azzi if there was any chance that I could get any more candids of you guys.” A headache was starting to form behind Paige’s eyes, throbbing and threatening to split her skull. “Azzi texted back and said that she was taking you around campus today, and that I could come get some shots if I wanted,” Leo finished, staring at the ground.

“I told you that you could get some shots after I gave you the say so.” Azzi spit, her eyebrows drawn together in fury as she glared at Leo. “Not whenever the fuck you wanted, just following us like creeps.” Azzi leaned down until she was eye to eye with Paige. “Listen, P. I was planning on telling you that Leo knew. And I was planning on asking you for permission for her to come take some shots at the end of the day, so that she’d have enough to turn in. I was planning on doing all this before Leo came, but I forgot.” Azzi’s voice came out patched and broken. “I swear I wouldn’t have let her if you’d said no.”

Paige‘s knuckles clenched tight, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hand so hard that she started to draw blood. Of course.

Why else would Azzi show up to her apartment with this godforsaken wheelchair, with that stupid big grin of hers, and offer to spend her entire day pushing Paige around like a servant? Azzi hadn’t cared that Paige had opened up to her, been vulnerable to her about how difficult it had been to be stuck on crutches, helpless and incapable. No, she’d wheeled Paige around in order to look like a hero, to look like the model girlfriend in front of Leo’s dumbass cameras, motivated to save her own ass from being kicked off the Europe trip.

All of the times Azzi had shown up to her apartment, groceries in hand, had stayed for a movie and fallen asleep on Paige’s shoulder? Those moments had meant everything to Paige, and nothing to her. Paige cursed herself for letting her guard down, for letting herself fall in love with Azzi Fudd. For letting herself believe that they could be anything more than enemies.

She turned to Leo. “Take me home,” she demanded, her voice cold.

“Paige, wait.” Azzi scrambled furiously to stand in front of the wheelchair. “Please, you don’t understand.”

“Understand what? The fact that you know I have a hard time opening up to people, yet when I finally opened up to you about my insecurities about using crutches, you immediately took advantage of that?” Paige laughed, but it was bitter and hollow because right now, nothing was funny.

“That wasn’t my intention at all. You can’t-”

“You know what?” Paige interrupted. “I can’t even be mad at you. This is what we agreed to after all. Fake dating. Nothing less, nothing more.” She laughed bitterly. “In fact, I should thank you for being the reasonable one. For not being stupid enough to get your feelings involved like I did.” Paige bit the inside of her cheek so hard she could taste blood. “This was really a genius plan. Lugging the cripple around, getting her ice cream like she’s a poor child that needs to be saved. You’re smart, Fudd, I’ll give you that.” Paige hated it, the way Azzi was recoiling into herself because of her words, but she couldn’t think. She could only feel, and right now she was feeling a whole lot of hurt.

Leo nervously took ahold of Paige’s wheelchair.

“Paige, you don’t even know what you’re saying,” Azzi said. And apparently Paige was better at controlling her emotions than Azzi was, because Azzi was crying now, forcing words through her tears.

Paige cut her off again. “Save it.” She motioned for Leo to push, and they began heading in the opposite direction. “Don’t bother coming to my surgery.”

Paige hadn’t meant that. Oh god, she hadn’t meant that. They’d talked about her surgery just days earlier - Azzi had joked that she would fill up Paige’s entire apartment with stuffed animals to await her return; she’d joked that she’d show up to her hospital room from the first visiting hour and stay until the last, nagging and bothering Paige the entire time until Paige begged her to leave; she’d joked that she’d bring the biggest and brightest bouquet of flowers she could find so that she would outshine all the other measly attempts at flowers that people would bring. Paige had laughed, but in her head, she’d thought about how much she wouldn’t have minded if Azzi actually followed through with her words. About how the first face she wanted to see after her surgery was Azzi, and only Azzi. But she hadn’t said any of that, had instead giggled and swatted Azzi on the shoulder.

But now, the distance between them grew further and further, and it took Paige everything not to break apart right then and there.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #uconnwbb #wbb #wcbb #angst

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i-literally-cant-with-this · 10 months

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A/N ::: There are a couple of people who are wholly responsible for me going off the rails like this. Thank you … I think you know who you are. I’ve NEVER dabbled in anything like this. Daydreaming or writing. So this is all very new territory to me. Cut me some slack. I know very little about this dynamic. This might be the beginning of something, it might be the last time I ever write about anything like this. I don’t know. I will list the C/W as thoroughly as I can.

TW ::: Piss stuff and a sexual relationship between DD's/lg. If that bothers you, kindly back away slowly.

C/W ::: F!reader (adult, 30’s), DD’s(2)/lg, yes, 2 daddies, separate sleeping quarters for DD’s and lg, piss denial (is that a thing?), Daddy Ei = Daddy Eijiro, Sir = Katsuki, very very slight age play/age regression (like, very little), pet names, sweetheart, good girl, sweet girl, baby girl, sweets, angel, sweet little, sweet little girl, oral F!->M & swallowing, slight exchange of precum from kiss, unprotected P->V, more F!->M oral, hair pulling, cuddling/aftercare. I think that covers it all. If I missed anything that you think is important, let’s talk. I’ll see what I can do.

WC ::: Just under 2500.

You woke up in your bed across the hall from your daddy's room. It was curious how you ended up there because you distinctly remember falling asleep in their bed, between the 2 huge men. The sky cast a gray gloom throughout the space. But that didn't dull the cute and bright decorations they had put up all around on the walls for you.

There were no noises coming from anywhere else in the house. Did they know you were awake? Were they awake? "Daddy Ei? Sir? I have to go potty. Can someone come get me please?" You used your words. Politely. Just like they had both drilled into your little brain so many times before. Sometimes gently, sometimes more rough. But you knew it all came from a place of love.

Eijiro disentangled himself from Katsuki's arms. "Our sweet girl is up. You want me to take care of her?" He whispered into Kats' ear after he kissed his cheek a couple of times to rouse him from his sleep. "Stay. You had a late night, I'll get up and get her." Eijiro tossed the blankets off of his warm, naked body and padded across the cold hardwood floor. Your room was across the hall from theirs. They liked it that way so they could easily hear you if you needed them for anything.

"Daddy Ei, Sir!? I - I gotta -" Eijiro peeked his head through the door and into your room. Your face lit up when you saw his wild red hair and the soft smile that graced his sweet face.

"I'm here, I'm here, sweet little girl. What do you need, now? Tell daddy what you need, baby." His half-hard cock bobbed side to side with each step he took toward you. He was tying his mane of hair back with a band. And his arms stretching up like that only accentuated the muscles of his arms and torso. You couldn't help but stare at him. A little string of drool that had been pooling in the corner of your mouth slipped past your freshly wetted lips.

"Daddy." You stood at the edge of your bed and raised up your arms to him. He bent over and wrapped his long limbs around your waist and hoisted you up so your legs wrapped around him. His cock was harder now than when he walked in and you could feel it brushing against your ass.

"Good morning, sweet little. Did you have good dreams last night? Where's my morning kiss, hm?" You wiggled in his arms, excited by the invitation to kiss him. "What's got you so excited this morning, huh? Were you lonely last night? Poor baby. Maybe tonight Sir will say it's ok for you to sleep in bed with us?" You nodded furiously at the prospect of getting to spend the night with both of them.

"Gotta pee, daddy. Pee with me?" Eijiro kissed your forehead and carried you through the hall to him and Kats' room. You slid down the front of his body to the floor. Your pussy brushed over his abdomen and it made you shiver with pleasure. "But ... gotta pee."

"You're so sensitive this morning, baby girl. D'ya think you can wait to go potty? Here. Down ya go, onto the bed." You stood there while he pulled your panties down. "Oohh, your panties are even wet. Do you need your daddies? Hm, right after you wake up you need your daddies to make you feel good? Come on, lay down. Be my good girl. Let’s see if we can’t all make each other feel good, yeah?” His voice was so soft against your ear. It made you melt right down where he laid you.

Eijiro stood at the edge of the bed, presenting himself like it was Christmas morning. You wrapped your hands around it, bringing his cock to your mouth and you looked up at him while slowly sucking on the dark pink tip like it was your favorite pacifier. "That's my good girl. Fuck, that's right, baby. Suck that cock like you need the milk. Uh-huh, yesss baby girl. Good girl, good girl." Eijiro played with his balls while you swirled your hands around the base of his dick and rolled your eyes back into your skull as your cheeks hollowed out around him.

Eijiro follows your mouth as you move to the middle of the bed and lay down next to Katsuki. He's awake but his eyes are closed. "Oi, what's this shit I hear about her being "my good girl"? 'S too damn early in the morning for that kinda talk. She's our good girl. Don't make me tell you again or there'll be consequences." Katsuki rolled over beside you as you continued working your lips around Eijiro. He took your chin in his hands and pulled you off of his cock with a pop. He kissed your slobbery, precum covered lips. "Good morning, sweets. Are you making daddy Ei feel good?"

You nodded, "Mm-hm. I wanted to help him, too. Do ..." Your voice and eyes trailed off from Katsuki. Feeling too shy to even ask him what you wanted. Katsuki laughed and took your hand and placed it over his heart.

"Ya wanna ask me something, sweetheart? You started to say something but stopped." Ever the observant man, he read you like a book.

"I - I wanted to know if you wanted to feel good, too, Sir." He smiled down at you. "You are such a good girl. Asking if I want to feel good, too. Yes. Of course I do. I love it when you make me feel good. Do you want to be in here, just you and me? Or do you want daddy Ei here, too?" You squealed with joy and put your arms up. Katsuki lifted your nightgown from your head slowly and gently. It made you feel so safe and loved when he was like this with you.

You moved up onto his lap. Your clothes discarded and his arms wide open, you climbed up onto his large legs, straddling his lap. "Like this, Sir?"

He hummed in approval. "Mmm-hmm. Just like that, angel." He wrapped his arms around your waist and began to guide you over the growing bulge in his boxers. "Want to see what daddy has for you, baby?" You nodded, drooling all over yourself and the thought of what he was about to show you.

Katsuki pulled his boxers down to reveal his throbbing cock. It stood up straight and proud, ready for your attention. "Go ahead, baby. Touch it." You slid your hands up his chest and down his arms and around to his waist before grabbing his dick. Tucking your chin shyly, you looked up at him and blushed. "You like it? You like Sirs hard cock, baby girl?" He asked.

You nodded. "Mm-hm. It's so pretty, Sir. May I?" Your lips pouted and your eyes pleaded with him. "Yes, baby. Go ahead and suck it." You slid down his body on your knees and leaned over, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock and sliding down as far as you could.

"Oh, fuuuck, baby girl. Just like that. Sssuch - fuck, such a good girl for me." He said, not thinking that he had chewed Eijiro out for saying something similar not too long ago. It just felt too good with your hot, wet mouth around him for him to have any actual thoughts other than blowing his load in your sweet little mouth.

"Mmmm, Sir, can I suck you until you cum in my mouth, please? Pretty pleeease? I want to make you feel good." He growled at your words, feeling himself already getting closer and closer to cumming.

That was until Eijiro spoke up. He was so quiet that you both forgot he was in there. "What was that you were saying about her being our girl? Not 5 minutes ago, Katsuki. Tsk tsk tsk. And here you are, doing the same thing. Without an ounce of shame."

Katsuki smoothed your hair down on the back of your head and gave you a little extra push further down his shaft. "Shut up, dumbass." He huffed through his nose. "Yeah yeah yeah. Ok. Whatever. You wanna join us, idiot?"

Eijiro nodded slightly as he palmed his cock through his robe. "Wouldn't want to let our baby down, so yeah. I'll play."

"She's not ready to handle both of us just yet. We can't do that right now. She's not ready for that." Katsuki said, matter-of-factly. "But she can suck me off while you fuck her from behind." Eijiro grinned, taking his robe off and revealing his own, equally thick cock.

"Good idea. Go ahead and get up on your hands and knees for Daddy Ei and me, sweetheart." You obeyed, scooting off of Kats' legs back onto the bed on all fours. Smiling up at them both, you shook your ass at Eijiro and opened your mouth for Katsuki to pick up where you left him.

"You want me to take this sweet little pussy from behind, baby?" Eijiro said as he slid his cock along your dripping wet slit. He spread your lips with his fingers and ran his thumb over your clit, causing you to moan and push your ass back into him. "So wet already, so so wet, fuck. What a good girl." He saw your pussy clench around the tip of his finger as he praised you.

"Daddy Ei, still gotta pee, though." They looked at each other and laughed.

"Yeah. Yeah, we know, angel. Just do the best you can for us, ok?" You whined and began to protest but Katsuki filled your mouth before you could say anything else about it.

"Oohh-hohh, that's it, baby. Good girl. Takin’ me so deep right away. Fuck yes, baby." You moaned again as your nose brushed against Katsuki's wiry tufts of hair. You loved it when they praised you. You knew you were a good girl for them, but it felt so good to hear them say it.

Katsuki's hips started to buck as he got closer and closer to cumming in your mouth. You felt your own orgasm building up from the back as Eijiro rubbed your clit and fucked you. He grabbed your hair and pulled back so your head was up, your throat was stretched, and your mouth was open wide for Katsuki to finish.

"Fuuuck, baby girl, gonna - cuh, g- gonna - fuuuuck!" He cried out, pumping his hips faster and faster into your mouth as his seed shot out of him. He watched you swallow it all down and he pulled his cock out, dripping with your spit and his cum.

He kissed the top of your head and moved to the side, letting Eijiro get closer. "You ready, sweetheart? Want me to fuck this pretty little pussy until you cum all over my cock?" Eijiro said, rubbing your clit faster and faster.

You whined out loud. "Yes, daddy Ei. Please, please fuck me! Fill me up with your milk, daddy!"

Katsuki sat beside you and took your face in his hands, wiping away the tears that had pooled in the corners of your eyes from sucking him off. "That's my good girl. So fucking pretty like this." He whispered into your ear. "Now, be a good girl and cum for daddy Ei, ok?" You nodded as he continued to whisper in your ear. "Good girl. Cum all over his cock, yeah? Can you do that for us, baby? We want you to feel good, too.”

Eijiro thrust harder and faster into you, feeling his own orgasm building up. He wrapped his arms around your waist and hoisted you up, still on your hands and knees, but with him on his knees behind you. He pushed himself all the way into you and you both cried out with pleasure.

"Nnghh, gotta pee, daddyyy Eiii, still gotta peeee!"

"Go ahead, sweetheart. You're so good for us. Just let go. Let it all out." Katsuki said, still whispering in your ear. He reached down and began to rub your clit and kiss your neck as Eijiro continued to pump his hips into you and press on your bladder.

"Gonna, gonna p- OHHHH, FUCK! C- CUH- I'M CUMMING!!!" You screamed as your orgasm rocked through your body. Leaving you a shaking, soaked mess. The blankets beneath you were drenched, as well. "Oh no, sorry, Daddy Ei, sorry Sir. I - you said to, though." This was the first time they let you do that in bed.

Katsuki and Eijiro held onto you tight, letting you ride out the waves of pleasure with them. Eijiro groaned and came, filling you with his sticky cum.

You collapsed onto the bed, panting and covered in sweat, piss and cum. Katsuki pulled you close to him and wrapped his arms around you. Eijiro curled up behind you and wrapped his arm around your waist.

"We love you, baby girl. You're so good for us. Such a good girl." He kissed the back of your neck and stroked your hair. "Let's get you cleaned up. We've got a lot of work to do today, so let's get you nice and clean. Then we'll make you a big breakfast, ok?" You nodded and snuggled up against him, feeling safe and loved.

"I love you, too, Sir and daddy Ei. I'm sorry for the mess, though."

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It's ok. We'll take care of it." Eijiro kissed your shoulder and smiled. "You just relax. We'll handle the rest." You nodded again and closed your eyes. Feeling content and happy, you drifted off to sleep for just a little while longer in their arms.

Taglist ::: @millennialmagicalgirl @dcsiremc @darkstarlight82 @callm3senpaii @arlerts-angel

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hvly · 11 months

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most prized secret ft. getou suguru

— ⋆｡˚｡⋆ ｡˚ 𓆩𖥔𓆪 ˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆ —

sᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ : posted this on the wrong blog, but look who’s finally here ! i told y’all i’d post it on tuesday 🤭 never said which tuesday though. it was a long time coming, but i finally delivered. thank you @gayblade & @cu7ie for the help. truly saved this from going in the trenches. happy halloween, everybody 👹

𓆩𖥔𓆪 — disclaimer ! the following contains: getou's a straight up freak, kidnapping, body horror/amputation, mention of blood, wound kissing(?) implied noncon, reader is referred to as “his girl”, but there’s nothing gender specific

𓆩𖥔𓆪 — word count : 3.2k

“These are so pretty ! They don’t even look like they were ever damaged !” the woman exclaimed, gently placing her palm against the glass that separated her from the porcelain doll on the other side.

Getou smiled warmly as the woman marveled at the massive display of antique dolls, her head turning slowly in awe as she explored his workshop.

The last thing anyone would expect Getou Suguru to do for a living was play with dolls. Or at least that’s how it came across when he would casually say he collects and fixes antiques. When he was met with disbelieving stares and surprised “oh wow’s”, he would offer to show them his shop and let his handiwork do all the talking for him. He knew most people found it strange that a grown man would spend time fixing up dolls intended for little girls and lonely old ladies, but there was much more to it than that.

“They are, aren’t they?” he smiled, hands buried into the pockets of his smock as the woman continued to admire the delicate figures. She nodded, mouth agape as she returned to the counter Getou was leaning against. “You really fixed all of these up by yourself?” she asked, eyes unable to stray from the dolls on display for too long. Getou hummed, pushing himself off of the counter’s edge to admire his art. He opened a case, carefully taking out a doll in a white and blue laced dress into his hands, smoothing her honey blonde hair down her back as he gazed at her.

“When these precious things get sent to me, most of them are in pretty good shape.” He muses, rubbing a thumb over the doll’s delicate face. “Some are just a little dirty and faded. Nothing a little soap, water, and paint can’t fix. Others, like this pretty girl here,” he says, gently holding up the figure for the woman to see, “Are stripped of their beauty entirely.” He places the doll back on its display, slowly closing the case once it’s secured safely in place. “Broken with missing pieces, clothing torn; stripped of all their luster and dignity.”

Getou’s expression darkened a bit, his hands lingering on the display handles for a moment longer. “That someone could show such little care to something so delicate; it bothers me,” he said, indignation clear in his tone.

“But, no matter !” he exclaimed, throwing out his arms with a flourish, “I give them all the care they need to be returned to their former glory.” The woman stared, taking in all of what he had said. There was no doubt that he was talented at his craft. Restoring them didn’t seem easy, considering how half, if not all, could’ve been older than either one of them. It was nothing short of impressive.

Her eyes landed on the figurine Getou was previously holding, the doll’s subdued features a stark contrast to the rest of her bright lolita-esque appearance. “Is that one your favorite then?” the woman asked, motioning to the case the doll was in. Getou peeked over his shoulder to where she was pointing before turning back around, a gentle smile on his face as he answered.

“I love all my girls. But,” he paused, turning on his heels slightly. He motioned for the woman to come closer and whispered the last part, as if to not offend any of the dolls. “To be honest with you, there’s one I’m still working on that might just take that spot.”

The woman’s eyes lit up with intrigue as she looked around once more. Getou silently walked behind the counter as her head whipped from side to side in search of his current work in progress. He undid his smock and pulled the paint splattered piece over his head, his long raven hair messily draping his shoulders. The woman approached again as he was pulling his hair up into a more manageable style.

He smiled kindly as she returned, grabbing his apron and wiping his hands on a spot that was relatively clean. “Were you able to find what you were looking for?” he asked playfully, fully aware that the woman was never going to. The woman sighed in defeat, shaking her head with a good natured laugh. “No, but I doubt you’d just have an unfinished project out in the open for all to see, right?” she said, taking one last glance around the many cases in the store.

Getou chuckled lightly as he hung up his apron. “Well, this one’s a bit of a passion project. So it’s for my eyes only I’m afraid,” he spoke over his shoulder before turning to move from behind the counter space. “I like to work on it when I have some free time,” he added, kicking one leg over the other and leaning slightly against the counter’s edge. He stood with his fingers interlocked, a patient smile on his lips.

The woman hummed, catching onto Getou’s silent signal that it was time to wrap up her little visit. “Well, that’s a shame. I’m sure it would’ve been beautiful,” she said, pushing herself from the counter to take her leave. Getou thanks the woman for the compliment, walking her to the store’s entrance. The overhead bell rings as he opens the door for her, the conversation coming to an end with ‘thank yous’ and ‘take cares’ being exchanged.

Getou stands at the store entrance, waving after her until he was certain she was out of sight. With a sigh, he locked the front door and flipped the “open” sign to “close”, signaling the end of his day.

“Now then,” he muttered, walking over to a display far in the back and reaching behind it. A loud click sounded from behind the shelves before it began to slowly swing open, rumbling softly as it did. An engraved wooden door revealed itself from behind the shelf, an intricate design carved into the mantel overhead. Getou dug a key out of his pocket, unlocking the hidden door and pushing it open.

The heavy door groaned as it slowly opened, a steady shhh as the bottom of it dragged across the floor. The inside of the room was barely lit, overcasted in a soft white light. It wasn’t enough to see anything in detail, but it was enough to make out there was indeed furniture. A bitter sweet smell permeated throughout the room. A combination of cleaning products and a faint trace of a sickeningly sweet perfume. Getou clicked his tongue upon the scent hitting his nostrils, his face scrunched up in discontent. He had to remember this room didn’t have the greatest ventilation system and to maybe tone back the cleaning.

Getou reached over to the light switch, slowly turning the dial to an appropriate brightness. The room was cutely decorated, cream colored walls with various accents of soft pinks and white. Pretty stuffed animals and plush throw pillows were scattered freely (but neatly) around the room. It looked like something straight off of a soft girl’s pinterest board.

Well…with the exception of the operation cart and the statuesque person who sat silently in bed in the farthest corner of the room.

“Hello, my love,” he said, his voice soft as he made his way across the room. “I see you’re sitting up today. That’s quite the improvement,” He gazed at you tenderly, his hand gently caressing your face. He placed a gentle kiss on your temple and his lips lingered for a few seconds longer before he moved back, a placid smile gracing his features. You made no motion that would suggest you acknowledged his presence or if you even recognized someone was there to begin with.

You stared far off into the distance, eyes void of any emotion or awareness. Getou tucked his leg under him as he sat on the bed, pulling the medical cart placed beside it closer to his side. An array of medical instruments were neatly lined up on the stainless steel tray, along with various bandages, gauzes and antiseptic cleaning sprays. “Maybe we'll work on using our voice today, hmm?” He asked as he pulled on his latex gloves, watching you intently as they snapped against his skin.

You blinked at the sound, something reminiscent of a flinch. Getou cooed at your – frankly, interpreted – reaction, his hands coming to gingerly cup your face. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, dearest,” he reassured, rubbing calming circles on your cheeks with his thumbs. He adjusted to face you, carefully pulling the blanket that covered you to the side to reveal what should have been your legs.

Instead, there was a white casting that ended right before the knee. Same for your arms, surgical tape wrapped securely around where the rest of your forearm would be. Getou exhaled, cautiously taking one of your legs into his hand. He slowly and carefully unwrapped the material, going over and under in one smooth motion until it was fully unraveled into a pile on the floor. He breathed a sigh of relief upon the sight of your wound. The dark purple bruises along the stitches were clearing up, fading nicely into your natural hue. The stitches themselves also seemed to be faring well, the material less prominent against your skin from when it was first put there.

The wound was in the early stages of healing, your skin starting to mend back together with a fresh scab to aid in the process. Getou rubbed a gloved thumb along the suture before looking back at you with a small grin. “It’s healing really well,” he said, reaching over to grab gauze and saline solution to care for your stitches. He hummed to himself as he wet the cloth, being careful not to over saturate it. “In a couple more days, I’d say these stitches will completely dissolve.”

With his free hand Getou steadied your leg and prepared to clean your wound. He glanced at you one more time. “Alright, you know the drill. If you feel any discomfort,” he paused, giving your thigh a firm but gentle squeeze. “Let me know.” The last bit sounded something like a plea rather than a general statement. You continued to stare flatly at the wall and Getou took your occasional blinks as confirmation that you understood him.

Getou took a deep breath before exhaling, dabbing the damp gauze along the stitches. Once it was thoroughly cleaned, he took a dry gauze and patted it dry. He quietly repeated this process again on your other leg, the clattering of objects on the surgical tray being the only sound in the room. As he worked, Getou let his mind wander to fill the silence.

How long has it been since he last heard your voice? A couple weeks now? Maybe longer? God, it felt like an eternity had passed since then.

You were someone who frequented Getou’s shop often. Bouncing around display cases, enamored by the beauty of the countless dolls, childlike wonder dancing in your eyes. At first he paid you no mind, treating your visits like he would an elderly woman coming to reminisce and tell him stories of “how she had a doll just like this” when she was younger. Polite and available if you had any questions or just wanted him to lend an ear. But the more you visited, the more he felt drawn to you. Your guilelessness intrigued him, your excitement to see dolls you had already seen at least 50 times by now never waning.

Then one day you bounded up to him, smile wide and eyes bright.

Full of joy and genuine curiosity. It was like a bottle of pure sunshine was opened right in the center of his shop. He felt warm in his soul when you looked at him, your jovial energy palpable and infectious to any and everybody. Getou couldn’t remember when he genuinely felt so calm and happy in the presence of another person. He wanted to bottle up this feeling and get drunk off it for the rest of his life.

“Do you have any new dolls you’re working on? I’d love to see it when you finish.”

At the time, he hadn’t received any damaged or donated dolls. But he knew at that moment, you were what his shop was missing. What he was missing. Among the shelves upon shelves of porcelain figurines he possessed, he had nothing that encapsulated what you embodied. Full of glee, full of youth, full of wonder. He needed you for his shop. For himself.

In the beginning, you kicked and screamed, swearing someone would find you and expose him for the sick bastard he was. Cursing his existence and spewing phrases and words that he was positive you didn’t mean. Getou let you vent your frustrations with no threat of punishment. He let you scream, hit, bite as much as you wanted. It worked more in his favor than it did yours. Besides, it’s not like you could run away. He had made sure of that from the start. But now…

Getou was pulled from his thoughts when he heard something. A choked cry. Your voice.

“____?” He snapped his head up with wide eyes, sure his ears were deceiving him. He looked at you in stunned silence. Your face was wet with sadness, tears and snot steadily streaming down your cheeks and collecting to drip off your chin. Your mouth was open as your chest rose and fell rapidly, occasional sniffles and whines leaving your lips. Getou’s eyebrows scrunched in concern, his hands instinctively coming up to wipe your face. “What’s wrong?”

He paused, gloved hand inches away from your tear stained cheek. Where his palm should have been blue, it was red. He looked down at your leg, quietly gasping at the sight. The sheets underneath you had also been stained, a consistent line of crimson seeping from the once closed wound. Your stitches had torn from the pressure, peeling back your scab and opening your wound again. That would’ve been an easy enough fix had Getou not been lost in his thoughts and applying anything but gentle care to it.

He clicked his tongue, cursing under his breath at his negligence. He removed his gloves, tossing them somewhere on the ground and cupping your face with his hands. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said softly, wiping underneath your eyes with his thumbs. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You know that, right?” He looked at you fondly, but expectantly. Silently praying that after so long, you’d acknowledge him again. That you wouldn’t look at him with empty, blank eyes.

That you’d speak to him again.

He searched your misty eyes for that sign, but was met with nothing but silent tears and quiet sniffles. Getou sighed and stood from the bed, gathering the soiled bandages and gloves to be disposed of. He made his way across the room, opening a drawer to gather more bandages to dress your wound. Various sized bandages rolled to the front, snow white fabric unraveling then neatly wrapping itself back up. Getou stood for a moment, hands placed on either side of the counter space.

He gripped the corners tightly, the cool marble squeaking underneath his hands as he stared into the drawer. He was so close to hearing your voice. So close to that pure, unadulterated joy you possessed. And you were denying him that. Was this your way of trying to get back at him? Keeping him from the one thing he wanted most? What he so desperately needed?

Getou was a relatively patient man. He could wait for the things that were worth it. But, this? You? There was no more waiting.

He closed the drawer and turned on his heels in your direction, taking steady strides back to your bedside. Your eyes were closed now and your breaths were steady and even. Getou’s gaze was locked on your face. Dried tears streaked your cheeks, giving you the appearance of a crying angel. Even so, you were still as beautiful as ever. He sat in his previous spot, looking down at your reopened wound.

The opening glistened in the soft lighting, the former trail of blood drying and beginning to start the process of scabbing again. He hovered a finger over the tear, following the outline down to the blood soaked sheet. He would never hurt you. He lowered himself to your residual limb and gently kissed it, following the stitch line. He continued leaving kisses up your leg, leaving a trail of bloody lip prints up to your thigh

Getou peeked up at you, lips still pressed to your supple skin. You stayed still, eyes still shut as if you didn’t feel a thing he was doing. He would never hurt you. Getou opened his mouth to let his teeth graze against your skin, saliva dripping out of his mouth. He bit into it hard enough to leave a mark, but not hard enough to really hurt. His black eyes were trained on you, ready to catch any change.

He bit harder, spit dripping down your leg. His other hand snaked up to cup your leg, fingers sliding underneath it. His knuckles rested on the bloodied sheets as his thumb traced over your wound. He would never hurt you. Getou pressed lightly into it, his digit being met with soft meat.

Your eyes fluttered for a moment, but remained closed. Getou frowned, digging his teeth into the meat of your thigh. He would never hurt you. A small whimper rumbled in your throat, your eyebrows scrunched together in discomfort. Getou kept biting while continuing to push his thumb into you. You were almost there. He just wanted to hear your voice. The last thing he wanted to do was..

“Pl-”

His mouth was no longer attached to your thigh and he felt a cool breeze on his thumb. You were looking at him again, eyes wide open. You looked like a frightened deer. Big eyes glittering with tears that threatened to spill with one blink. Your lip quivered as you opened your mouth. Getou sat up, watching you intently.

Your voice barely came out above a whisper. It was shaky and breathy. “Pl…Please…stop. Hurts.”

Getou stared silently before chuckling softly to himself. He pushed a few strands of hair out of his face, an unsettlingly soft smile spreading across his face. He inched closer to you, stopping mere inches from your face. You looked away, eyes averted towards the ceiling to keep yourself from crying.. He gently pulled your chin back in his direction, stroking your bottom lip with his bloodied thumb before kissing you.

“There’s my girl,” he breathed. He placed kisses along your jaw and into the crook of your neck, whispering sweet words into your skin with each one. You took a shaky breath, closing your eyes tight as he slowly ran his hands up your sides and under your gown. “Please…,” you whispered, warm tears beginning to stream down your face. Getou shushed you, placing a kiss to your wet cheek. He looked at you with the same kind and tender eyes he had when you came to visit him in his shop. The same eyes that lured you here. And you couldn’t help but sob

“You know I’ll never hurt you. I take care of all of my girls.”

— ⋆｡˚｡⋆ ｡˚ 𓆩𖥔𓆪 ˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆ —

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farfromstrange · 9 months

Text

Do No Harm

CHAPTER THREE: Broken Glass

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You have a really shitty night, and it only gets worse until a man in a black mask saves your life.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, graphic description of domestic violence (flashback), panic attack, mention of blood & injury, alcohol abuse, sexual assault, Reader tries to play the hero and it backfires (might piss you off)

Word Count: 7.6k

A/n: I worked very long and hard on this one, that's why I didn't post it last week. This is very heavy, so heed the warnings. I hope you all had a lovely Christmas! I’m spending New Year’s in London, and I won’t have my Laptop, so I’m already wishing you guys a happy new year! Spend the day with people you love. Do something that you love. Just enjoy yourselves and we’ll see each other again in 2024!

Read Chapter 3: Broken Glass here on AO3

The loneliness eats you alive like a parasite. As soon as the door of your apartment shuts behind you, the noise coming from the city disappears into the distance, and you are faced with the silent reality of being utterly alone.

It feels like you are living in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere, not a small apartment in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

There are no picture frames on the dresser in the hallway. The two plants you bought for yourself are slowly dying of thirst. The fridge is empty. You don’t own any decorations—you don’t even have a shelf for all of your books, and more than half of them are medical research material, anyway.

You may be living in this place, but it isn’t yours. After two years, you are no closer to settling down than you were when you first came to New York.

Every day, you ask yourself how long this peace is going to last, and every day ends the same—you’re still safe, but you are deeply unsettled. Your thoughts keep turning against you like demons that you can’t exorcize. Every day, you wonder when you will have to run away again because your past has a way of catching up to you when you least expect it, so you remain on edge. That’s how you live your life.

If you knew how to accept peace, maybe you would have settled down and personalized your apartment by now, but then again, do you even know who you are? Do you remember the girl you once were? Your memories of the past are scrambled.

You can only remember what it was like to live in a bubble, to be forced into a cage like a bird and turned into someone you never thought you would become. You remember running. You haven’t been yourself in years. Even if you wanted to, there is nothing left for you to put up that would feel like it belongs to you without feeling like pretentious bullshit at the same time. So, you don’t even bother.

It’s lonely though, having nothing and no one. Claire is your friend, sure, but you had nothing and no one back then, and you still barely have anyone now. She’s your friend, but that’s all she is.

You can’t admit it out loud, of course. You can’t admit that you feel lonely, and you can’t pick up your phone and call the one friend you do have to take up on her offer because of reasons not even the rational part of your brain wants to understand.

The lamp in the living room casts a dim light over the main area of the apartment and the open kitchen. You place Matt’s business card on the kitchen counter.

Should you call him? A million questions go through your mind, firing rapidly like bullets from an automatic gun. You’re not even sure if you want to call him. You felt comfortable around him, but enough to abandon all your principles? If you call him, he might ask you out, and what do you do then? You don’t date, not anymore, and you definitely won’t let a stranger into the mess that is your life. You can’t do that to a kind soul like him. Matthew is special in a way that you can’t put into words, and that makes the decision so much harder.

You know exactly what’s holding you back. It’s the same invisible string of feelings that is keeping you from personalizing your living space. You don’t know when you might need to run, and then what?

Your lungs contract. Air is a lot harder to come by when you’re all wound up. You hope that a nice glass of white wine will help put some things into perspective. Fooling around with someone can’t hurt, but anything more than that could lead to a catastrophe. You have had enough of those for a lifetime.

You like keeping to yourself. It keeps your heart safe. What happened today, meeting Matthew after you so miserably sought a place to be alone, it was a coincidence—a welcome distraction. And you seemed so like-minded at first glance. He was intriguing and you’re still wondering about his injuries and how he got them, but that’s not the point. None of this is.

The point is that you are not the kind of person he thinks you are. That’s why you can’t call him. And strangely, that hurts a lot more than simple heartbreak, knowing that you have been ruined for all relationships to come because you made one wrong choice and fell down the rabbit hole—unfortunately not into Wonderland.

“Shit!” you curse when a drop of wine lands beside the glass.

You lick your finger, trying to wipe the liquid on the counter with a paper towel. In the process, your hand accidentally brushes against the glass, and the sole touch sends it hurdling to the floor. You try to catch it, but the fragile glass has already hit the tiles of your kitchen floor. It shatters into a million pieces.

The sound reverberates in your ears. Like a shot in the dark, your body is jolted awake into a state of panic. The crash reminds you of hell, and the all-too-familiar flames start touching your skin again, set out to burn you alive. It’s a feeling you know by heart—a feeling you wish you weren’t so painfully aware of.

Glass breaks before your inner eye.

You were trying to make him a drink, you remember. He wanted Whiskey, no ice, and at perfect room temperature—it was always the same. After the first black eye that you had to hide under mountains of concealer, you taught yourself to perfect it. You didn’t want to disappoint him. You didn’t want to get into trouble.

You spent more money than you could afford on the one brand of Whiskey he always told you to get, even if that meant traveling to a store miles away from home. He always wanted that Whiskey, and who were you to deny him?

You didn’t pay attention for one second, and the glass shattered on the kitchen floor. Your heart stopped. The last drops of the brown liquid spilled everywhere, including your clothes. The glass was his favorite. Expensive, too. It broke because you weren’t looking. You were so stupid.

Fear froze the blood in your veins. Your heart stopped beating. You couldn’t breathe. You reached for a cloth with shaky hands, trying to pick up the pieces in time, but the sound of the glass breaking—that godforsaken loud sound that reminded you of obnoxious screaming—was instantly followed by an even louder echo of angry footsteps.

Over time, you became painfully aware of those footsteps. You knew how they sounded on wooden floorboards, carpet, and the stairs in the hallway of the apartment building. You still remember how they sounded when he was wearing those squeaky sneakers on the linoleum floors of the hospital.

It’s a sound that always sends shivers down your spine; everyone has those sneakers, but his footsteps were much heavier, much more demanding even when he wasn’t demanding anything.

And back then, you knew what would follow as soon as you heard them.

“What is this?” his voice reached your ears.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t even dare to look up. If you had met his eyes, you would have seen your fate in them, and the empty black hole that was his soul. “I’m sorry, I– I lost my grip and–and I dropped it,” you said. You thought that would fix it. How foolish of you, to have faith in someone who never had faith in you. “I’m so sorry,” you couldn’t stop repeating it.

You thought this time, he would listen to your apology. He would let you fix what you broke. You would have done anything for his approval, for his praise, and for him not to be mad at you. You didn’t want to fight. The evening had started so well. He even kissed you when he came home because you finished dinner in time. He smiled because you managed to clean even the last crevices of his apartment after your shift. He promised he would reward you.

You fucked up. You knew you fucked up, but you prayed to God that his good mood would keep you safe this time. That he would give you a pass because you have been so incredibly good. You’ve been the best girlfriend he could have asked for, so obedient, never questioning, and always on his side—you were wrong. So, so wrong.

He saw the empty bottle of Whiskey. He picked it up. “That was the last sip of my good Whiskey,” he remarked.

You stopped moving.

“I’ll pick up a new one,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “Stores are still open. This is my fault. Let me clean this up and I will–”

“You had one job.”

The sound of his voice turned cold, colder than usual. You exhaled a shaky breath.

“You had one job,” he said. “I go to work, I save lives, and I teach young, useless doctors like you how to do the same. All I asked of you was to cook dinner, clean the apartment and make me a fucking drink.”

With each word, his volume ascended. Your shoulder started vibrating, but you forced yourself to hold your breath. You couldn’t let the fear show. Being afraid, in his eyes, equaled weakness, and he would prove to you time and time again what weakness truly meant to him. He would turn you into a weak mess and laugh about it. You were trying your hardest to avoid any more unnecessary punishment. You had to tread lightly. He was in charge, not you.

And you breaking the glass was so stupid, all you wanted was to surrender. In your twisted mind, he was right. It was just a glass, but he told you how useless you were many times before, and you were slowly starting to believe it.

Without him, you were nothing. No one else could have possibly put up with you.

“What do you do?” He reached out and slammed the empty bottle on the ground.

You barely had time to react before some of the bigger shards hit your cheek, slicing the skin. It took you a second to process, the pain not even kicking in because you expected his hand to come down on you, not an entire glass bottle. The trajectory almost hit your eye. Almost.

“You spill my fucking drink!” this time, he yelled.

A sob escaped your lips. There it was, the smallest sign of fear and pain.

He rolled his eyes. You shouldn’t have sobbed, you knew that. “Get up,” he said.

You winced when he grabbed you and yanked you off the floor. The trail of blood ran hot on your cold cheek. It stung. Your heart was pounding in your chest, hammering against your ribcage and the fresh bruise that still hadn’t healed.

You were scared, and the tighter he grabbed you, forcing your chin upward to look him dead in the eyes, the harder it got to hide what you were truly feeling. In his eyes, you were nothing. And you were so weak, all you could do was to submit.

“Look at me,” he said. His eyes roamed your face.

You couldn’t not look at him. It was impossible. What you saw made you sick to your very stomach. It tied a noose around your neck, threatening to kick you off the high chair. Your feet were dangling dangerously close to the cliff.

“You’re pathetic, you hear me? Useless. You had one job. One. And you couldn’t even do that right.”

You opened your mouth, but instead of letting you speak, his hand tangled in your hair and he pulled, hard. “No!” he bellowed. “You have lost the right to speak to me.”

He said your name. He always said it in a way that made you want to vomit. Your first and last names were tainted because of him. He used them in vain. He used you. He used everything as he saw fit and believed he was entitled to it.

You hated him, but you also loved him.

“You’re going to clean up the mess you made, and then you’re going to go to the store, buy me another bottle of Whiskey, and you’re going to make me another drink. I don’t want to hear a single word out of you,” he said. “Are we clear?”

You nodded. He pulled a little harder.

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir,” you choked out.

When he finally let you go, you fell to the floor, your chest heaving with dry sobs. Perhaps he was too annoyed or maybe leaving you alone, finally, was a display of humanity.

The man you once believed to have loved you turned out to be a monster that would not have wept, not possibly, if you had died. He only wanted to control you, and whenever he felt like he couldn’t, he punished you. You stayed way too long because you believed in someone who was never there in the first place. The real him you believed to know once had never been real. He had been a fraud. He did anything he possibly could to lure you in, and then you were stuck.

But even knowing this, you wanted to please him, and you took what he gave you. You ate it up like a starved cavewoman. You had no one else but him, and that alone is a sad thought that you keep entertaining now.

The sound of broken glass has haunted you since that day. Whenever it happens, either to you or someone else, you find yourself in a state of shock. It’s never the same memory, but always alike. And it hurts. It hurts so much, you can’t breathe.

You touch your left cheek. The scar is barely visible anymore, but whenever you touch it, it feels like a mountain of regret. You can still feel the blood pooling under your fingertips, the liquid as sticky as it was hot.

You stumble over to the sink, circling the broken glass. Cold water; your senses need a sudden slap across the face or you will cower in a corner and surely die. Your heartbeat is racing in your ears, and your fingers shake as you form a bowl with your hands to catch the water from the tap.

Air returns to your lungs. Burying your face in the cold water, you focus on the way it seeps into your hot skin.

Broken glass triggers you. Squeaky footsteps in the hospital hallways trigger you. You zone out so easily. You can’t talk to strangers without suspecting the worst. Every time you pass the hospital administrator’s office, you’re scared you will get fired—that you will lose your job and your entire career.

He took everything from you. He broke you and the optimistic young woman you used to be. You were so bright, so ready to change your life for the better. You worked hard to escape the toxicity of your childhood, and you still managed to run into the arms of an abusive narcissist who saw you as nothing but his property.

It’s sad, and it’s utterly ironic; you told yourself you would never make the same mistake your mom made before she died, and you still did. You were foolish, and you’re still foolish now.

You can’t call Matthew. You can’t trust anyone, not even yourself, and even if he is trustworthy, he doesn’t deserve someone as damaged as you.

The business card lands in the trash can under the sink. You give it one last teary-eyed look before slamming it shut. It’s better this way. The excitement you felt when you first held it in your hands was bound to only be temporary. You knew reality would screw it up, maybe it truly is for the best. Or maybe this is the trauma talking and you’re sabotaging yourself, but even then it’s better this way.

It’s early in the morning, and you leave the broken glass on the sticky kitchen floor. You can’t touch it, not even with gloves. Every time you do, the scar on your cheek stings, and you lose your breath. Every bone, muscle, and nerve is hurting in your body, and every breath tears right through your soul.

You don’t want to live like this anymore.

The warm water of your small shower rains down on your clothes frame. The bottle of wine in your hand is no longer cold and mixed with water, but you don’t care. Your mind is fuzzy, intoxicated, and in agony. It’s a raging wave of anger with no possible point of release. You’re drowning in despair, buried in a grave of your own making. Alcohol knowingly doesn’t mix well with heartache, but it’s the only thing that will make the voices go away. It silences your thoughts just long enough for you to find a sliver of rest in this stormy ocean, something to hold onto so you won’t drown completely.

Your heartbeat aligns with the rhythmic pattering of the water. It serenades you. The fog engulfs your brain, weakening your already strained muscles. The cocktail in your veins is poisonous. You should know better than to do this to yourself. You’re a doctor, after all. You are well aware that liquor is not medicine, but it’s the closest you can get. You don’t care as much about your own well-being as you should.

Getting drunk all by yourself under the hot shower stream fits right into your miserable state.

The sun rises and falls over the next couple of hours. Your alarm goes as night befalls Hell’s Kitchen, but you don’t hear it. Only after it has gotten dark and your phone has started ringing with calls from the hospital does your mind registers that something isn’t quite right.

You wake up in a cold sweat. Your head is pounding. The wine bottle lies empty on the nightstand next to you, together with a bottle of tequila that you decided to open. Glasses are strewn around with empty takeout containers that are more than a few days old. At first, you’re disoriented, reaching beside you for your phone, which is still in the living room next door.

You forgot to close the blinds, but you were so out of it that you didn’t notice the hours pass by. The analog clock on the bedside table tells you that it’s a few hours before eleven. At night.

Your shift was supposed to start at ten.

The information takes a moment to connect and process, but as soon as it does, you snap out of whatever hungover state you are in and force yourself out of bed. You stumble over empty bottles and dirty laundry on your way to your phone.

“Shit, shit, shit!” you curse. You almost step into the pile of broken glass in the kitchen. “Fuck me! Shit!”

You are screwed, you know that. You’re not even sure if all the alcohol has left your system. You might as well lose your job tonight.

With one hand, you dial the hospital administrator’s number, who called you over thirty times over the past hour, while you try to find something to wear with your other hand.

The line finally clicks after what feels like an eternity. “You better have a damn good reason why you aren’t here, Olivia, or I swear to God–”

You cut her off. “I’m so sorry, Shelly,” you say. Your voice is slightly shaky, but you keep it together. “I didn’t hear my alarm a-and I slept in. This has never happened before. I’m usually a very light sleeper. I… I’m already halfway out the door, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“You slept in?!” Shelly answers, her voice resembling a screech. “What— Liv, seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just… I slept in, that’s all. I’m so, so sorry. I know I screwed up.”

“Unbelievable. First Claire calls out with a mystery illness that apparently still hasn’t gone away, and then my best trauma surgeon sleeps in.” You can hear her shake her head over the noise of the hospital in the background. She sighs. “You’re lucky that this is your first tardy,” she says. “I’ll let it slide just this once. Just… hurry, okay?”

A weight falls off your shoulders. You let out an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you tell her. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I–”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just make sure you get here before midnight. And you will have to work the time that you’ve missed, even if that puts you at risk of having to pull a double shift. This is not up for debate. I feel like I’m working at a children’s daycare.”

You’re not sure if that was meant for you or if she simply forgot to hang up.

You grab your bag and your keys in one swift motion. “I’m leaving now. See ya!”

The bus you usually take to work at this time of night is long gone. There is one more that could take you to your destination, but you arrive at the bus stop just a millisecond too late. It takes off right in front of you, refusing to turn back even when you start sprinting after it, flailing your arms around wildly.

It’s late, it’s dark, and you’re all alone. The walk to the hospital is over half an hour long, and you promised Shelly you would make it in time before midnight. The next cab is miles away; you’ve checked the app twice, and anything beyond that would be too expensive.

Hell’s Kitchen is dangerous at this time of night, but you don’t have much of a choice. If you don’t try, there is a high chance Shelly will fire you. If she fires you, you would have to find another country to start over in—you burned bridges in all possible States, and anything closer to where you came from would be too dangerous for you.

Darkness doesn’t scare you; broken glass and loud footsteps scare you, but the dark of the night has always been somewhat of a soothing companion to you. What scares you is what could be lurking in that very darkness, and the thought makes you walk a little faster.

Your head is still pounding. Every step you take delivers a punch to your temples. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat. The streetlights are suddenly too bright for your sensitive eyes, but you push through. You have to.

“So stupid,” you mutter under your breath. “Universe, if you can hear me, just kill me now.”

Passing a particularly dark part of town with the mace on your keychain clutched tightly in your hand, a loud scream pierces the air. Your feet glue themselves to the ground.

Some things you can only understand if you have experienced the paralyzing feeling of dread that would cause a human being to scream bloody murder.

You would be lying if you said that the scream you heard coming from that alley wasn’t in any way familiar to you. Perhaps that’s why you choose to abandon all rational thought and run toward danger rather than away from it. Adrenaline is a funny thing, and when it interacts with trauma and anger that has been building for years, there is no knowing what the human body might be capable of doing.

With the mace in your hand, you walk toward the alley. The closer you get, the louder the desperate pleas grow. The helplessness in the woman’s voice paints a clear picture of what is happening.

“Hey!” your voice resembles a shout in the poorly lit alley. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” you ask. Your voice becomes a foreign language.

The man, dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a hoodie, is towering over a terrified woman. The bottom of her dress is slightly ripped, and it keeps riding up as she struggles against his grip.

From the corner of your eye, you can see the shiny handle of a knife sticking out of his boot; there is no telling when or if he will pull it. And when you look into his empty eyes, you realize you overestimated yourself.

“Get lost!” the man tells you. He must be around your age, judging from his features.

You shake your head. “I have no intention of letting you live out your disgusting rape fantasies on a real-life human being,” you retort. “Let her go, or I will call the cops.”

He takes a step toward you, his hand reaching for the knife. Instinctively, you extend your keychain and spray the pepper directly into his eyes. You empty the entire bottle on him, the adrenaline in your veins locking your thumb to the fragile button.

The woman slides out of her attacker’s grasp when he topples over in agony. He cries out. The spray is quickly causing the skin around his eyes to redden and swell. For a moment, he’s completely incapacitated.

You can tell that he didn’t calculate for this to happen. He also doesn’t seem to know the woman he decided to attack personally. He just saw a woman walking alone at night and thought he could take what he wanted like the animal he is.

Your eyes flick toward the woman. Sweat is starting to pool from your pores, mixing with the adrenaline.

She adjusts her dress, her sobs turning into heavy panting. You know that look on her face all too well. She has scratches on her thighs and arms. It’s hard to tell just how badly he already hurt her before you came along, at least in this lighting and from where you’re standing.

You reach out to support her. “Are you alright?” you ask her.

She looks down at her shaky hands, then back at you. She reminds you of a deer in headlights. With a gentle tug, you pull her further out of the alley. The man who attacked her is still blinded, clutching his skull and scratching at his eyes, making the effects of the pepper spray worse. In your mind, he can’t hurt you anymore, but you still need to get her away from him—as far as possible, too.

“A few cuts and bruises,” you observe, trying not to touch her as you assess her injuries. “Listen, I’m going to call the cops and we’re gonna get you to a hospital, alright?” You search her eyes until she finally looks back at you. “This is nothing I can’t stitch up in a few minutes,” you say, “and then I’ll get you someone who can help you process what happened. Just know that he can’t hurt you anymore. I promise. I’m a witness, and I will make sure he gets what he deserves.”

You should know better than to make promises, especially in the heat of the moment. This is not something you can confidently promise because things might not turn out in your favor.

The woman pulls her arms away suddenly. “No! No cops, no hospitals,” she pleads.

“I know you’re scared, believe me, I do, but–”

“No!” She shakes her head again, her voice becoming more determined as the seconds tick by.

You wish the world wasn’t as cruel as it is. You can’t force her. If it were easy, you probably would have turned to law enforcement too, but it’s not easy. What hurts the most is that you understand why she is so adamant about not calling the police and not going to a hospital, even with so many variables still unknown; you understand too well what it is like.

Shame and fear are powerful emotions—when all else fails, they take over.

“I’m sorry,” the woman’s voice quivers. She looks between you and her attacker once more. “Thank you, really, but I can’t—I have to go. I’m so sorry.”

“Wait!” You try to stop her, but she slips through your fingers before you can convince her otherwise.

She disappears down the street. Calling the police seems almost futile now. You look down at your phone. You’re still a witness to a crime. You should speak up about what you saw. You should try to get justice, even if it will be your word against his.

Your finger hovers above the call button, but a dark voice from the alley stops you in your tracks. “You bitch!” the man shouts. His voice carries, making you shiver. Now that you’re alone with him, you realize how helpless the situation really is.

You can’t move. You can’t run. You can’t hide. Your eyes widen. Even half-blind, he has managed to pull the dirty knife from his boot, and he is charging right at you. As if you are the substitute for the woman you just saved. You should have run with her. This was a bad idea.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. You press down on your keychain, but it’s empty now. You’re weaponless with a lot of fake confidence that is slowly swindling, and somehow, you still can’t move.

You’re frozen in place. Your own recklessness will get you killed. No one will miss you. Your corpse will be buried in a strange cemetery in a strange city that has only been your home for two years, and no one will ever know who you truly were because you told Claire to take your secrets to the grave with her. You will die alone with the familiar feeling of fear and despair spreading through your veins like wildfire.

Something inside of you cracks, and it melts your frozen muscles. You snap out of your haze when he is only a few inches away from you. In an instant, you have started backing out of the alley almost entirely. You’re running, and you’re running fast.

You believe that karma comes back around, but sometimes, it takes the wrong direction. You lose your footing suddenly, stumbling over your own shoes, and your ass hits the pavement with a force that knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your wrists bend at a painful angle as you catch yourself, and you look up into the red eyes of what you expect to be your certain demise.

The impact from the knife never comes. You know what it feels like to be impaled by a sharp object. You know what pain feels like—but it never comes.

You open your eyes when your ears pick up on the sound of bone breaking—the sight you’re met with startles you, and for a second, you wonder if you’re still alive. You touch your wrist to check for a pulse; it’s still there. You’re not dead, and you’re not hallucinating, either. This is real.

You’ve seen the news reporting on a man in a black mask scouring the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at night. For weeks now, gang bangers, suspected rapists, and drug dealers have been piling up in the emergency room with several fractures, some of them severe enough to require extensive surgery, but none of them were ever hurt enough to die from their injuries.

A Russian was dropped from a building a while back. He fell into a coma and then died suddenly a few nights ago, but that was the only patient who got beat up by the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen who lost all quality of life.

You don’t like to judge, but there is something about him that makes you feel safe rather than afraid. He only beats up those who are in the business of committing injustice and pose a danger to innocent lives. He’s there when the law fails. And so far, he has never killed anyone. The injuries on the patients you treated were quite severe and suggested that whoever did it has a great collection of anger issues, but he has enough self-control not to kill.

He’s not a threat to people like you. He is, however, a threat to the kind of man who tried to rape an innocent woman and then threatened you with a knife.

Your attacker drops to the ground with a pained grunt. The man in the mask is towering over him, his chest heaving. You admire his physique for a moment too long. Your eyes trail from his toned chest in that tight black shirt to his backside in those tight-fitting black pants.

He seems oddly familiar yet, at the same time, he is a total stranger. A stranger in a mask. A stranger who throws fists like a professional boxer. A stranger who could crush your head within seconds. And still, there is something about him that reminds you of someone else, someone you just recently met, but you can’t put your finger on it. It wouldn’t even make sense if you tried.

You’re still sitting on the cold asphalt, staring up at the man who saved you. He turns his head toward you, slowly. His plump lips glisten in the moonlight.

“You hurt?” he asks.

Your throat is all dried up. One glance down at your palms tells you that you only scraped the skin, but you’re not injured. So, you shake your head. Maybe there is a little fear mixed into your stunned eyes, but only because this is a very strange situation to find yourself in, and you have been in a lot of very strange situations in the past.

He tilts his head ever so slightly. His nostrils flare. “You’re bleeding.”

You don’t even want to know how he knows that.

“Just a scratch,” you finally manage to speak up, although your voice sounds embarrassingly small.

You wipe your palms on your pants and slowly rise to your feet. Every bone in your body hurts. Standing across from him, you realize how much taller he is in person.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“I know.”

He stops. You can’t see his eyes, but the lower part of his face reveals the confusion that has taken him over.

“I’ve dealt with men worse than you,” you state. “I’m not scared.”

He chuckles darkly. “You’re welcome.”

People usually don’t talk back at him, it seems. At least those he saves usually don’t.

“I could’ve defended myself. In fact, I already did.” You lift your keychain. “I don’t know if playing the hero is your thing, but I’m not a victim.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t trying to play hero,” he clarifies, a humorless smirk resting on his lips, “I was saving your life ‘cause you were trying to play the hero. Next time, I suggest you don’t bring mace to a knife fight.”

“And I suggest you don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong,” you retort.

You were grateful for no longer than a second. Now, you’re just annoyed.

The alley is still. The atmosphere is heavy with the aftermath of the danger you only narrowly escaped—thanks to him, and you hate admitting that even to yourself. He seems unfazed, almost amused, by your attempts at asserting your independence, and the arrogance radiating off him is hitting the wrong nerve.

“This guy was gonna kill you because you decided to do the right thing,” he says, adjusting his leather gloves. “I decided to save your life. We both made decisions tonight, and it doesn’t matter whether we are happy with them or not. What matters is that no one got hurt.”

“Tell that to the woman he traumatized for life.”

He sighs at your words. “You still did the right thing.”

“I know,” you say.

“Are you always this feisty?”

“Only to masked vigilantes who think I’m some damsel in distress that needs saving and that everything can be solved with their pretty little fists.”

“Well, my pretty little fists are the reason you didn’t end up stabbed, so,” he answers, and his lips curl into a smug smirk. He shrugs, his black shirt riding up only slightly, revealing a sliver of marble skin. You can’t help but let your eyes wander.

“I don’t need a thank you,” he says, “but you need to be more careful next time. Don’t go into dark alleys alone, especially at night. It’s not safe.”

You want to give a snarky remark, but the sound of church bells in the background signal to you that it’s midnight, and you are supposed to be at work. Checking your phone would be a death sentence. Sirens can be heard in the background, but they are not headed for you.

Maybe Shelly won’t fire you if you’re honest with her about what conspired tonight—if you bare you allow her a glimpse into your soul—but you will suffer the consequences of your own stupidity gravely in the days to come, that much you do know.

You exhale an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this,” you mutter.

“Got somewhere to be?” the masked man asks you.

“As a matter of fact, I do. But that’s none of your business.”

You wonder if he’s frowning under that thin cloth that is hiding his real identity. He still seems so familiar to you. How can he fight if he’s keeping his eyes covered? It’s not the first question you have asked yourself about him, but it surely is the most prominent one because no explanation for it makes sense to you; at least not one you can think of. You want to ask, but you also don’t want to keep encouraging him. You shouldn’t care.

You look back down at the man he knocked out. He’s still unconscious, and he’s bleeding profusely. The angry woman in you wants to let him rot here and let the masked man have his fun, but the doctor in you can’t just leave him there.

“What about him?” you hear yourself asking, but your mind is far away.

He tilts his head toward where you’re pointing, not actively looking. How could he? His eyes are covered. His eyes… You can’t make sense of this, and it is affecting your judgment. It’s making you frustrated.

“He can’t touch you anymore,” his dark voice suddenly sounds so soft.

A sliver of humanity shines through his facade. Your angry demeanor cracks. “You beat him up pretty good. He could have lasting brain damage,” you remark.

He pauses, tilting his head further toward the man on the ground. “No,” he says, pouting a little. “He’s still breathing.”

“He could still have brain damage.”

“He has a few broken bones, cuts, bruises, but he’s alive.”

“Those things are totally unrelated. You’re not a doctor, you wouldn’t understand. I’ve already treated more bad guys in the past month than I could possibly count on my fingers, and all of them seemed to fear the same man. Now, not many things can scare a gangbanger to death. Not many people can deliver blows so deliberately without actually fatally wounding anyone. I know it was you,” you say. “Everyone knows it was you, and they’re afraid of you. I’m not, but I am a doctor, and I took an oath to do no harm. I vowed to help those in need, including those I believe may not be worthy of my help. This has nothing to do with judgment. I know you don’t kill; I see it with my own eyes every damn night, but the Russian you beat up a couple days ago?”

That catches his attention. His head whips back around to you, his upper lip twitching slightly as if he is tasting the air. His attention is entirely on you. The question, “What?” gets lost as nothing but a breathless whisper in the cold night air.

“He was in a coma,” you continue, “and then he died. It’s probably unrelated to what you did, but there was only a small chance he would have ever woken up again anyway. Just because someone is still breathing doesn’t mean their brain is alive. What makes us human, who we are, that is all anchored in our brains. We can’t survive without it. You may not have killed him, but that guy barely had any brain activity left, and that is not something you can consider life.”

You didn’t expect him to sneer. You must have hit a nerve with your words, but it must have hurt him deeply.

“My point is, I am not letting you do the same to this guy. I’m calling an ambulance and the police, and I will let them figure this out.”

“He’ll walk,” he says, and his voice is dark again. It sends shivers down your spine.

You look at him, your confidence not wavering this time. “Then so be it, but I am not letting him die,” you say.

“How is having a rapist walk the streets of this city not doing harm?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Beg your pardon?”

“He will do this again, and maybe next time there will be no one to step in and he will hurt another woman.”

“So what, you want to kill him instead of surrendering him to the authorities?”

“That’s not what I do.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I’m trying to make this city a better place!”

His voice bounces off the walls building a cage around the alley. “And I’m just trying to save a human life, even if it’s a shitty one!” you shoot back. “It’s not our choice who gets to play God, okay? Death would be too kind for a man like him, and leaving him here won’t solve anything either. Like it or not, but I’m not breaking my oath.”

You made a promise when you became a doctor, and you are not going to risk letting someone die on your watch. That could get you into a lot of trouble.

You approach your attacker’s limp body. When you kneel next to him, a gush of wind blows through your hair. You assess his skull, his abdomen, and his limbs. So far, all you can see are superficial wounds, and the same fractures you have seen pass through the emergency room more than once in the past couple of weeks. He did a number on him, but his pulse feels normal and he is breathing.

You lift your head, but when you do, you find the spot before you empty. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has disappeared into the darkness, leaving you to fend for yourself. You should have seen this coming.

The ambulance takes a while to arrive after you’ve dialed 911. You try your best to keep the man stabilized, but he remains unresponsive. When help finally arrives, the emergency responders are followed by police, and you don’t hesitate to give your statement. You leave the masked vigilante that saved your life out of it—you may not have seen eye to eye just now, but you don’t want to rat him out either. You owe him as much.

Just as you’re picking your purse off the dirty ground to follow the EMTs to the hospital in the ambulance, giving you the perfect excuse to give to Shelly on why you are even later than you already were, a glimpse of silver in the shadows catches your attention.

“You did the right thing,” the Devil speaks only loud enough for you to hear, hiding in the darkness protecting the fire escape of the nearest building.

You swallow your pride. “Thank you,” you finally tell him.

He chuckles. “For telling you that or saving your life?”

“Both,” and you even offer him a small smile with your gratitude. That is all you’re capable of giving him, for now.

“Take care,” he says.

The glimpse of silver disappears, causing the metal of the fire escape to shake under his weight, and he is long gone before you even whisper, “You too.”

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14

#matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock angst #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #reader insert #doctor!reader #matt murdock imagines #charlie cox #do no harm

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seeingstarks · 1 year

Text

the cream on the cake wants to escape

summary : being newly signed to all elite wrestling, you don't know many people and expect no one to show up to your birthday party but end up with company of the devil himself and mr. best in the world. pairing : mjf x cm punk x plus size afab!reader cw : cursing, many sexual innuendos, teasing, breast grabbing/kneading, daddy/babygirl/daddy dynamic, implied cmjf references, thigh riding, cock/clit teasing, begging, male masturbation, blowjobs, dirty talk, double penetration, creampies, butt-plugs, slight bondage, ass slapping, utter filth. a/n : my birthday is in three days and with cm punk coming back soon i just had to whip something up also i love cmjf but basically this is something small i made for myself. i hope you all enjoy it though and as always reblogs are very much appreciated!! my ask box might be open soon for drabbles as i'm slowly getting the inspo for writing again. <3 there may be a few spelling/punctuation errors. word count : 2,518 words tag list : @josiewrites , @baysexuality

some of the talent backstage had their suspicions when you became apart of bullet club gold in just a matter of months after being signed to all elite wrestling.

the rumours began to spread, hushed whispers down the halls the moment you left a room. there was no getting away from your ex - however none of them knew what actually happened.

you carefully hand-wrote each invitation to your birthday party being held later that night, allowing everyone to bring a plus one. in each envelope corner you curled a cursive letter heart with your initials on it.

not knowing many people at all elite, you felt doubt that anyone would come. if you had known more people maybe they would have thrown you a surprise party instead of doing one for yourself.

with a sigh you sat down at catering after grabbing a boxed cupcake juice robinson gave you earlier but didn't have time to sit down and eat until now.

glancing around, not many seemed to even care or notice it was your birthday. they were either too wrapped up in their own lives or didn't see you sitting all alone.

pulling out a lighter from your jacket pocket you attempted to ignite the flame a few times but had no luck. "seriously, the one time where things go to absolute shit and it's my birthday!?" you cursed out weight shifting as you felt someone's presence next to you.

anyone but him. "how is my switchblade babe doin', aye? need a light?" jay questioned with a smirk before pulling out his lighter and igniting the candle on the cupcake as if it were nothing.

you rolled your eyes before even taking a glance at jay, "didn't need your help, and don't call me that. we're not together anymore. don't even know why we're in a stable together." you crossed your arms at your ex.

"wow.. last time i help a friend out. well, i'll leave ya' be then." jay stood up and walked away while you took the wrapper off your cupcake and took a bite from the sweet treat.

a single tear fell down from the corner of your eyelid, today of all days you felt most lonely. the salty liquid ran all the way down to your lips and you didn't want anyone to see you crying. luckily bullet club gold wouldn't be needing the locker room today as you booked it and locked the door behind you.

the rest of the day seemed to go by at an agonizingly slow pace, you began to set up pastel decorations and blew up a few balloons as the clock ticked down nearing the time for guests to arrive.

walking into the washroom, you fixed up your h/c hair and brushed it off to the side while fixing your black dress which hugged your curves perfectly. not having the time to put a bra on or even caring about it, you shrugged while looking in the mirror and threw a light jean jacket on over the dress while slipping on a pair of combat boots, comfort and style.

once ready, you took a seat on the sofa and waited a good ten minutes before someone knocked on the door, "coming!!"

once seeing who was in your doorway your mouth fell agape, so many questions filling your mind but words unable to form.

"you 'gonna just stand there or welcome me in, i'll move ya' if i have too." shaking your head, you simply giggled and stepped aside.

"how- when- where?" you questioned and raised an eyebrow while looking the chicago native up and down who did indeed age like fine wine.

"okay.. see lemme' explain. me and uh- let's say a co-worker of mine paid off the others not to come in order for you to have a special night, that is... if you want."

you punched phil on the chest, who didn't flinch the slightest. the chicago native pretending to be hurt and scrunching up his face, "ouch that hurt soooo much."

"i was crying earlier and this so called co-worker of yours is nowhere to be seen!" you yelled at him and punched the man once again.

"shhh, babygirl. there he is." your eyes left his and looked up to meet with a pair of dark hues belonging to the devil himself who locked the door behind him.

"aw, are you two getting started without me?" maxwell asked.

gulping thickly you hid you your face in the crook of the chicago native's neck, your cheeks starting to heat up the moment phil wrapped his large hands around your waist and gave a slight squeeze.

"so brave before and now look at her hiding... we're gonna' have fun with you tonight, such a shy doll isn't that right?" maxwell taunted and approached the two of you, the heat of his breath running down your own neck sending chills down your spine, "but tonight is all about the birthday girl.. tomorrow me and phil have our fun.. that is if you can still walk by the time we're done."

stepping away from phil momentarily, you allowed him to still hold your hips as you looked up at him with a soft smile. "well... i've always wanted to try thigh riding.." you admitted shyly while glancing between the two men as they each shared a knowing look which could only mean trouble.

"oh? whose thigh do you wanna ride first?" phil pulled you in closer, rubbing his hands along your curves and pressing his growing hard on up against you, "look what you're doing to me already baby.."

maxwell smirked as another pair of hands went behind your figure, going under your shirt and massaging your breasts as you let out a soft moan for the devil, "fuck- not wearing a bra, is that just for daddy?" he asked and pinched your nipples causing a whine to escape your lips all at the same time when phil brushed the tip of his cock up against your clothed entrance.

"n-no it mm- happened by coincidence but i will make sure to wear em' less for both my daddies." you responded with a grin.

"did you hear that phil? she's got two daddies now- will be fun adding a chick into our little adventures, hm?" max questioned the chicago native who simply nodded as the two men continued to tease you.

throwing your head back you let out another moan, your underwear soaked at this point simply by the fact of phil teasing your clothed clit with his cock and maxwell tormenting your breasts with his hands, kneading at them as your nipples hardened under his touch, "more daddy- please-" you begged and took a sharp breath.

lifting your arms up, maxwell helped rid you of the black dress and phil briefly picked you up off your feet to slip the combat boots which were discarded haphazardly toward the floor.

you looked down and attempted to take your underwear off which caused phil to shake his head, "not yet, baby. don't think we forget about your little request."

phil took his clothing off and laid back on the sofa, luring you over with a finger wave as you straddled his thigh he pushed his knee up against your clit.

"go ahead and get off on my thigh, babygirl." your cheeks heated up once given permission as you began to ride his thigh, soft whimpers and moans already falling from your lips at the friction being created from your underwear.

"look at you.. soaked already and you haven't even had a cock inside you yet. just imagine how messy you're gonna be with both me and max inside you." the mere thought of what phil just said caused you to ride his thigh even faster, the moans becoming louder, your attention being adverted for a moment as you looked over in the corner to see maxwell jerking himself off in the chair, "don't stop doll, 'wanna watch." he spoke with a pant and you kept eye contact with maxwell while moaning out, "mmm-fuck!"

you were clearly falling apart on the chicago native, his cock hard while watching the curved beauty above him get off on just his thigh. "daddy- i'm so close-" you whined and grinded up against the man before making even more of a mess in your underwear.

"fuck- i'm close too babygirl-" maxwell spoke in broken breaths and phil gave you the okay to leave his thigh but not before he took your underwear as a sort of token to his accomplishments.

you crawled off the sofa, ass in the air which was definitely a sight to see for phil as your clit was still soaked from moments before. you dropped down to your knees infront of maxwell who had cum already dripping from the tip of his cock.

you stuck your tongue out and gave him kitten licks, looking up at maxwell with hooded eyes as his hands wrapped around in your hair and tugged gently while you took more of his length in and sucked lovingly. the man was already edging himself so it didn't take long for him to fill the entirety of your mouth with his warm seed, "i forgot to buy cake but that was some good as hell frosting." you smirked and wiped the remainder of the cum off your lips.

"always more where that came from, baby. however when the clock strikes midnight we get to have fun our way."

"what does your way entail exactly, phil?" you asked in a shy tone.

"well.. let's just say instead of crying over a stupid ex it will be because of overstimulation or.." phil looked around the room, a smirk growing on his lips, "cause we tied you up with this pastel ribbon. all depends if you're a good girl for us or not. isn't that right?"

you nodded your head, "yes sir, but i rather like that idea."

maxwell stood up from the chair and approached you, "what do you say we try it out tonight?"

you nodded your head so fast if you were a bobble head it would have popped off, eager to have more fun with the two men. "yes, pretty please."

"oh.. look how desperate she is to be tied up and filled with two cocks... think she can handle us both at the same time?" maxwell asked phil.

"let's find out and see."

phil picked you up and carried you to the sofa, placing kisses on each wrist before tying them together with pastel ribbon.

"ass up, legs spread." maxwell used a demanding tone of voice which had you dripping, he ran his fingers along your folds, "such a good girl already. prepared for the devil to corrupt you?" it wasn't a question, more of a warning as he slid into your entrance, giving you little time to adjust in attempts to grasp at the sofa.

"fuck, such a beautiful sight. look at her already clenching onto you so tight max.." phil hummed and entered himself slowly into your asshole, nearly hissing at how tight you were.

"p-phil- you're huge!" you yelled out, head barely able to think of a single thought while being stuffed full of two humongous cocks.

phil slapped you on the ass while entering the rest of his cock into you slowly as maxwell started to thrust, "that's daddy to you, got it?"

"uh-mhmm! yes daddy!" words became incoherent mumbles once the two men picked up speed, both making sure you were okay but at the same time whispering absolute filth into your ears as you clenched around their lengths as if your life depended on it.

"f-fuckk! you both feel amazing!" grunts and groans alike fell from both their lips and you could've sworn you heard them both call each other daddy, leaving you to wonder what they did in the midnight hour before adding a woman into the mix. you were never one to judge but with you there it was three times the charm.

the moans became increasingly louder as they pounded into you relentlessly, you'd all probably end up with a noise complaint sooner or later.

"go ahead and cum babygirl.. we can feel how close you are." you felt the heat of the chicago native's breath up against your ear, "yes sir." the flood gates were open as you came around maxwell's cock and he released inside of you while phil did the same. the three of you continued to ride out the high but you were the most worn out.

phil was the first to pull out as cum dripped from his tip all the way down from your asshole, "i was 'gonna save this for later but.. you should open it now." he handed you a small black box wrapped with a gold bow, the contents inside being a butt-plug.

your eyes went wide as you looked over at the chicago native, "what am i supposed to do with this?"

"think y'know.. sweetheart.. want you to sleep with it in as a reminder who owns that ass." he smirked and took the plug from your hand before inserting it inside your body.

"y-yes sir, thank you for the gift daddy." you placed a kiss to the chicago native's lips which he then returned and nipped at your lower lip, leaving you to want more.

maxwell had been keeping you warm in a way with his cock as you felt him continue to twitch inside you, a whine falling from your lips when he pulled out aswell.

"don't worry baby. there is much more where that came from." maxwell revealed a brown gift bag with the words burberry inscribed on the outside.

you sat back on the couch, still panting a bit while opening the gift from max which was a matching set of burberry lingerie in just your size, on the side was a pair of angel ears.

pouting you looked between the two men and they each furrowed their eyebrows, "what's wrong, baby?"

"just wanted something to keep this cum inside me. love being full of both my daddies icing like a cake." you grinned up at them as phil had something hid behind his back, a matching plug to the one gifted, "you're in luck."

yawning, the night activities started to take a toll on you so you got dressed in the lingerie which would surely be torn apart by morning and you kept the chicago native's gifts quite warm aswell.

once returning from the washroom, maxwell and phil were in their boxers and you cuddled up between them on the sofa before shutting your eyes as they each placed a kiss to your cheek.

"how was your birthday?" maxwell asked as you rested against his shoulder and you scratched the chicago native's beard softly, noticing him start to drift off toward slumber with your loving touch.

"best birthday ever. thank you both so much. now get some sleep, knuckleheads."

phil slapped your ass playfully in response, "goodnight, babygirl."

#mjf #cm punk #maxwell jacob friedman #cmjf #mjf x reader #mjf x female reader #mjf x fem reader #cm punk x female reader #cm punk x fem reader #mjf smut #cm punk smut #aew smut #all elite wrestling #aew #cm punk (gn)#all elite wrestling smut #wrestling fanfiction

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dumplingsjinson · 2 years

Note

Hey! I love your prompts! I haven't seen many prompts for a cold woman falling for the warm man prompts. If it's not too much, may I see one?

List of “the classic story of how the ice princess fell for the warm ray of sunshine dude” prompts

“Do you know just how annoying you are?” “Not annoying enough to have you ignore me, apparently.”

“You’re smiling because of me! Don’t deny it, it’s right there in plain view,” Character A says, cupping the side of Character B’s neck. “But you know, you should smile more often,” Character A adds, voice softening, drawing Character B closer. Character B’s heart picks up with speed, breath hitching on the inhale. “Because you’re even prettier than usual when you’re smiling.”

“Why are you so nice to me? Everyone else hates me, but then there’s you.” “That’s because they can’t be bothered getting to know the real you — but then if they knew the real you, then I’d have to share you with all these other people and I don’t think I’m too hot on that idea.” “…I just— you can’t just say things like that and maintain a straight face the whole time!”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever complimented anyone.” “It’s not— it’s not a compliment. It’s me stating the mere truth.”

Character A does something Character B would usually find annoying, but for some reason, when Character A’s the one who does said thing, they find it more endearing than irritating. (That’s kind of when they realise something must be wrong with them.)

“I can’t get your smile out of my head and it’s worrying me a lot.”

“Admit it — you’re in love with me.” “You’re delusional.” “Love, you’re blushing.”

Character A has always been Character B’s bane of existence, but in between the affectionate smiles and soft touches, Character B starts melting and isn’t quick enough to catch themselves from a very, very steep fall.

“…Stop hugging me.” “Then don’t hug me back if you want me to stop hugging you.”

“It’s okay, I promise I’ll be there to catch you when you fall.” “Don’t say that, because I might actually end up falling.”

Character A being the only one who can elicit a heartfelt smile from Character B.

“I think I’ve come to care about you more than I want to admit.”

Character B’s complaining about Character A to their friend when they stop and question, “Why are you staring at me like that?” Then Character C answers, “Because you’re listing off every good trait about Character A, disguised as a rant. Sounds fishy if you ask me.”

Character B being withdrawn and closed off at first, but Character A slowly but surely brings them out of their shell. Slowly, but surely, Character B starts taking a liking towards Character B, with the feelings going beyond your usual friendship, and upon realisation, they pull themselves away to avoid getting hurt; before they’re unable to catch themselves. “Why are you pulling away from me?” Character A confronts them one day, words tinged with a hurt Character B’s never heard from him before. “Because I think I’m starting to fall for you,” Character B whispers, “and it’s so scary, because I’ve never felt this way for someone before. And it’s also such a lonely feeling at the same time.”

Character B finding it harder and harder to not think about Character A and their dorky grin and stupid face and warm, warm hugs.

“I built up all of these fucking walls for a reason, and now you’re out here demolishing them and making me feel so vulnerable. I hate it.”

“You’re one, icy case to break, aren’t you? But I’m going to try my damndest to completely melt those walls away.”

Character A complimenting Character B and making them all flustered and everything — it’s not like they’ve never heard compliments directed at them before. They’ve had many people complimenting them before, but for some reason, Character A’s compliments mean so much more, and makes Character B feel an inexplicable amount of giddiness, which is so unlike them.

“It’s not that I don’t want to love. It’s that I don’t know how to.” “Then let me teach you, yeah? Promise I won’t do you wrong.”

“I keep pushing you away yet you keep coming back. Why?” “Because you’re worth both the effort and the heartbreak, and I want you to remember that.”

#romance prompts #otp prompts #writing prompts #dialogue prompts #prompts #writing scenarios #angst prompts #hopefully this is what you were after <333 #grumpy x sunshine prompts #request

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it-happened-one-fic · 1 year

Text

Waiting For You - Jack

Author Notes: Haha! Jack fic in time for the Portfest event! That aside, this fic actually doesn't have anything to do with Porfest and, furthermore, I should not be allowed to write fics while listening to 80s ballads and feeling sad. I wrote this fic while listening to "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx and, as per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-neutral reader/ Angst with comfort/ Fluff/ sfw/ Can probably taken as platonic even though I wrote this with romance in mind

Word count: 1871

It was a strange thing. To ponder if you were truly loveable or if everyone just simply accepted your presence because they had little choice in the matter. Because you were present, it was easier to just accept you rather than just shun you.

Maybe it was because you were useful to them. You knew Crowley used you, so who was to say others didn’t?

And maybe you really were only worthwhile when you were being useful. When you were facing overblots, giving others a place to stay and hide from dorm drama, or making it so they could stay in this school by forming a half of a student.

They were bitter thoughts, but sometimes, in weak moments, they came. And when they came, they seemed to devour you.

To swallow you whole and threaten to destroy everything you’d built up for yourself in this strange world of magic.

The friends you’d made, the dorm you’d been repairing, the home you’d slowly built for yourself. You suddenly found yourself questioning it all and wondering if you would ever return home to where things had at least pretended to make more sense.

Where you weren’t burdened with expectations and the lingering fear that the only reason anyone stayed close to you was because they felt they had to.

And did you even want to get home? It was a terrifying question to have. Especially when you feared that the people you’d come to love so much—the people who made you want to stay here with them rather than go home—might not care for you in the same way.

“If we leave them be, they’ll never make it.”

“They’ve saved my life; I should help them at least once.”

Were these the thoughts your friends had? That without them, you couldn’t make it? That they had to repay a favor?

It felt horrible to question others and their reasoning. Did it really matter why they lingered nearby? Wasn’t their presence enough for you? Or were you really so greedy that they had to genuinely care about you?

The sadness that suffused your entire being seemed to be beyond anything you’d felt in the past.

You were lost, and, now that you had realized you were living merely by the grace of others, you were terrified.

It was hard to believe that they cared for you when you could have such selfish thoughts. Why would they, after all? Who would care for and love someone who questioned whether or not their friends, who’d been with them through near life-and-death situations, cared?

But question them you did. Because they didn’t willingly go through those situations. They’d just been at the wrong place at the wrong time. And being by your side often seemed to be the wrong place, given how many things had gone wrong since you’d come to this school.

Your hands gripped at your legs tightly, your tears muffled by the way you curled in on yourself as you questioned if perhaps your presence here as something from outside this world had somehow caused a domino effect that resulted in the overblots.

It was an illogical thought, but one that plagued you and had become the root of all the fears that were now assaulting you as you cried within your dilapidated home. Alone.

It was almost a blessing that Grim had gone off to wander around the campus and left you alone. Because while you were lonely and did want reassurance that someone cared, you didn’t want to be seen like this.

Crying over fears that you had no proof of and that were an insult to the very idea of the friendships you mourned. Because if you were truly friends with the young men here at this school, you wouldn’t be questioning them in such a fashion.

Questioning everything and everyone like the uselessly emotional person you were. You couldn’t blame people if they didn’t like you, because why would they? You didn’t even like yourself right now.

A small logical part of you whispered that this was all just brought on by how exhausted you were, mentally and emotionally. But did that really matter? Exhaustion was just an excuse and didn’t change the fact that you were behaving like a small child right now. Hardly fitting behavior for a Prefect who took care of everyone else.

Your throat ached with restrained sobs that you forced yourself to keep muffled should someone enter. And, like a cruel answer to both your hopes and fears, someone did enter.

The front door opened downstairs, and you heard them long before you saw them, their familiar voice calling out your name in an almost curious tone, “Y/n?”

Jack. It was Jack.

Dear Jack, who was so like a stalwart companion and actively did his best to protect and look out for you. Like so many others, Jack had done so much for you.

You didn’t want him to see you like this. So broken and filled with ungrateful thoughts, even though everyone, including him, had done so much for you.

Your entire form tensed, somehow curling tighter on itself as you willed your tears to vanish like the sun behind a cloud. Praying that your eyes wouldn’t appear puffy by the time he reached where you crouched in your room, somehow unable to bring yourself to hide even further.

It was almost like there was some small part of you begging to be found and comforted while the rest of you recoiled at the very idea of it.

You heard his footsteps on the stairs, and then the door to your room creaked open. You felt yourself freeze even as he spoke once more.

“Y/-” Your name was cut off in the middle, and you heard a sharp intake of breath that caused your fingers to twitch before you slowly looked up with a forced, wavering smile and made eye contact with the young man who stared at you from the doorway.

Jack stared at you in shock, with something akin to horror in his golden eyes that were now wide, and he stood frozen in the now open doorway.

“Hi Jack, how… How are you doing?” You managed a fakely cheerful tone, as if that could hide the fact that you’d just been sobbing your eyes out for senseless reasons that you couldn’t bear to tell Jack. Not when he’d already done so much to help and asked for little to nothing in return.

You didn’t get to say anything else as the young man darted across the room to where you sat on your bed and knelt, his hands finding your tear-stained cheeks even as you attempted to pull away and hide your face. “I’m fine, Jack. Really it’s-”

“You’re not fine,” His tone was firm, and the way he was looking up at you from where he knelt on the ground brooked no argument. And something about that steady gaze of his had you nodding and biting your lip as the emotions started to overwhelm you once more.

Your eyes filled with tears that slowly began to stream down your cheeks before you gave way. Sliding off the edge of your bed and all but collapsing into Jack’s secure embrace as he held you tightly to him. As if he could hold you together even as you tried to crack into a billion pieces under the pressure of your own thoughts.

And he sat there with you, rubbing your back soothingly and not saying anything as you sobbed into his shoulder without explanation. He didn’t ask any questions but just accepted you, as he so often did. Serving as a support against the maelstrom of emotions you were currently experiencing.

Guilt, fear, sorrow, and even a little heartbreak. It was like you were mourning for all the things that you hadn’t let yourself consider since coming to Twisted Wonderland. It had been a long time coming, but you’d finally cracked under the pressure of everything and given way to your own feelings.

Slowly, you calmed down, though. Your sobs gave way to quiet sniffles before you leaned back and wiped your face as Jack met your gaze. He was still quiet as he watched you, continuing even now to rub your back in the most soothing manner possible.

His ears were down, and worry shone in his eyes, but he waited. Waited until you were ready.

“I’m sorry,” Your apology was mumbled, almost like your voice was still buried under the weight of all the emotions you’d just let loose, but Jack simply shook his head.

“It’s fine… Do you feel better now?” You nodded quietly, feeling oddly small in this moment, as you shifted backwards to give both him and yourself some room as the embarrassment and slight mortification of having just bawled on his shoulder like a small child set in.

But if Jack was judging you, he didn’t show it. Instead, he just continued to watch you carefully. Almost like he was trying to see where you were hurt even though there was no physical injury, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head again, “No… maybe later.” The two of you fell silent, you resting in his presence and Jack just sitting there and silently supporting you, even at a distance. Waiting until you were ready and willing to talk to him. Until then, he would be there waiting for you.

You glanced hesitantly at him, meeting his gaze once more, and he looked at you almost expectantly, waiting for whatever it was you had to say.

��Can I… Lean on you?” It was an odd request in many ways, but it didn’t seem to phase him. In fact, he just nodded and held out one arm, fully prepared for you to cuddle up against his side and lean on him in exhaustion.

And as you leaned against him, tucked up against his side, safe and sound, you felt yourself slowly begin to relax and then, slowly but surely, smile despite yourself.

You had no idea how you'd questioned the people of this world... how everyone... how Jack cared for you. Because wasn’t this what love was? Sitting with someone, comforting them, and waiting until they were ready to talk to you.

And it was nice to let yourself rely on him for support, and there was a sort of catharsis to having finally let all of those messy emotions out in the form of tears.

You would have to talk about it. You couldn’t just sob on Jack and then not explain it. And it would be hard to put all of those messy feelings into words, but you would. And when you did, you somehow knew that Jack would accept it.

Because even if you doubted and needed reassurance sometimes, it was a simple truth that Jack cared for you. And in the end, if it was with Jack, you knew you could face those emotions once more without drowning in them this time.

Because if Jack could wait for you like this, then you knew he cared for you just as much as you adored him. And that was enough.

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lazybutsmexy · 2 years

Text

Bird hunting

Ghost x fem!reader x Soap

Chapter 4: The Hound Dogs

Ch. 3 < Series masterlist > Ch. 5

Warnings: probably inaccurate police procedures, misogyny, referenced/implied human trafficking, cursing, non-con elements.

Summary: Ghost and Soap are missing a piece of their unit, but the search unit finds a piece of the puzzle.

Do not read if you're under 18. This work contains mature and triggering themes.

Word count: 3000~

Simon didn't move an inch while Johnny used his shoulder to block the world from around himself. It was unusual for him to see Johnny so distraught. Out of the two of them, he had always been the most emotional of them, less inhibited to show his emotions towards other people he trusted. Of course, if the situation called for it, Johnny would always keep a tight grip on his emotions - their job demanded it, after all.

Making friends is not in the military handbook, he had told him once, and he was right in a sense. Making close relationships with people they knew could die the very next time they walked out of base could only destroy them.

But it would be very hypocritical of him to not admit that growing closer to his team, particularly to Johnny and Canary, hadn’t made him better at his job in a way. He was more aware of his and his team’s surroundings, and less likely to put his life in the line of fire unnecessarily and do reckless things, knowing that there were at least two people who would chase him to the pits of hell to tear him a new one.

There was also the perk of looking forward to getting back to his house, knowing that he had a home to come back to, and that someone wanted him to come back alive.

He felt Johnny stir slightly, and he slowly let go, allowing him to stand straight. Simon looked into his eyes, finding a newfound determination shining through. Johnny’s hands moved up to cup his face through the skull balaclava, and Simon let him pull it up to his nose. His hands stroked Johnny’s wrists as he let himself be pulled down to meet his lips. He would have stopped him, but decided to humor him as there was no one around them - and they both needed it.

The kiss was slow, almost calculated in every fraction of a move. They both took their sweet time enjoying the weight of each other's lips, and the warmth of each other’s skin. It was bittersweet, knowing that there was a missing piece to their unit - one of the many reasons they never kissed during missions, even if they were by themselves. It was lonely, quiet, and cold. It felt like they were in the middle of Siberia, trying to huddle for warmth in front of a dying fire. The world grew silent around them, the only sound being the soft, quick intakes of breath through their noses. They let themselves be taken away from reality, and shut away everything else around them.

In their small fraction of the world, only they remained, along with their grief, their pain, their fear, and their hope.

~~~~~~

Hartford ended his call with the station and put his phone in the inner pocket of his jacket, stifling a groan. The cold wind had picked up and his old knee wound began to sting again, as it would every winter. He paid it no mind, though - he had assured his old friend that he would treat this disappearance as a personal case. He didn’t have many of those, but he couldn’t deny the heaviness in his heart when he first spoke to John Price about Canary.

It was obvious that, not only was she an important part of his task force, but also she was the kind of person who nestled herself into the hearts of those around her, and made them her home. He saw it all through John’s eyes - the worry that she was missing, the fear when he announced the discovery of a body, the bittersweet relief that the body didn’t belong to her.

“John, you might want to call your boys back,” he told the captain while he adjusted the neck of his sweater. Price nodded and brought both pinky fingers to his mouth, blowing hard on a long, loud whistle that crossed the air into the forest.

Seconds later, both Ghost and Soap walked out of the tree line, and Hartford noticed there was a different look in their eyes. They were determined, hungry for action, like men on a mission.

Or like dogs in a hunt.

It ran a shiver down his back - although he pretended it was the wind’s fault -, and he let himself feel slightly sorry for the poor sod that got in their way.

As soon as Ghost and Soap joined them, the detective cleared his throat with a grunt, getting everyone’s attention. “In about twenty minutes, a unit will arrive to the start of the trail,” he pointed in the direction opposite to the bridge, “and we will begin combing through the grassy area between the forest and the road, the trail, and as much as we can of the edge of the forest.”

“You can participate in the search but only as volunteers and not as appointed officers,” he sighed, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair as he looked directly at Price, “HQ told me that until there’s a hint that this is something related to the people you told me about, or anything bigger than a one-man crime, this is a police case through and through.”

Price frowned, clearly unpleased, “So, we have to discard the military gear and weapons, and follow your lead, am I right?”

“Exactly,” Hartford sighed, “they don’t want the military to conduct searches without previous police authorization.” Price considered it for a moment, but thought that it was better than nothing. He moved to the back of the jeep and opened the trunk, nodding at the men.

Ghost was the first one to move, reaching towards his vest and unfastening it, shrugging it off and tossing it into the jeep’s trunk. His tactical belt and holsters followed, but he would keep the skull balaclava. Soap and Gaz followed, leaving their gear in the trunk and being left only with their uniforms. They weren’t entirely in civilian clothes, but it would work for their purpose. Price was the last one to shed his gear and close the trunk, fixing his fishing hat a little tighter on his head.

Hartfort nodded at the men, “Alright, let’s go meet my boys now.” He climbed on the passenger seat, and Price behind the wheel. Gaz sat behind price, Soap in the middle, and Ghost climbed on last - these last two pressing their thighs against each other a little tighter than necessary.

~~~~~~

“So, this is how things’ll go,” the detective raised his voice so the entirety of the search squad would hear him over the passing cars. Price’s task force was among them in their uniforms, sticking out like a sore thumb against the small sea of officers in dark blue. Once a quick introduction had been made, it was decided they would walk between the officers in a side-by-side line.

“Each of you will have a few of these little ones,” Hartford raised a long, straight pole, no thicker than a straw, with a little red flag in one of the ends, “if you see anything that you think suspicious, no matter how apparently insignificant, you stick one of these next to it. The boys and gals from evidence,” he pointed at a smaller group of officers standing at a side, carrying cameras and briefcases, “will follow you and take care of whatever you found.” Then he clapped his hands, peeking a glance at the position of the sun, “I say we have about two hours of sunlight left, so let’s not waste any more time.”

A few minutes later, a somewhat crooked line of people were slowly combing the terrain, using sticks to peer through the bushes, their faces pointed to the ground below them. It was slow, tedious work. A patrol car had parked at the beginning of the search area, and an officer was slowing the passing cars to make it safer for the team to work.

After almost an hour, a few tiny flags had been littered around the bushes. Most of them were signaling candy wrappers and cigarette butts. Gaz had placed one right next to a used condom, wondering what was the appeal of making such an open area a place to bone, chalking it down to just college kids being weird. The officers in charge of evidence were close behind, photographing and processing every element found, knowing that the smallest object could become a big lead in the case.

Still, Ghost felt like they were making too little progress. His eyes scanned the tall grass methodically, but his mind was set on Canary. He wondered if she was hurt, or if she was being tortured for intel. From experience, he knew that she had built up her pain tolerance as she climbed the ranks, but everybody had a limit.

Almost a full day had passed since the moment Canary had left her apartment, and he wondered if she was hungry, or thirsty, or cold. Judging by the clothes that were missing from her bedroom, he guessed she was only lightly dressed, fit for a jog but not for spending a night in the cold.

If she was being held for ransom - Laswell and her communications team were on high alert for any incoming calls to her personal phone and all phones in base, by the way - Canary was probably being maintained at least healthy enough to survive.

His thoughts were interrupted when an officer, who had been walking next to the trail, noticed a strange shoe print in the mud and called out for the detective. Hartford mentioned that it looked like someone had slipped on the slope. Little by little, other officers in the line noticed the trace as well in their positions. Price took a closer look, crouching over the trace and noticing there were two sets of shoe prints.

“The trace looks spaced out,” he offered, “two people came running from the trail, probably a chase.”

This alerted Gaz, Soap and Ghost, and Hartford couldn’t help but compare the sudden change of their posture akin to hound dogs finding a trace, or a sheep dog smelling a wolf. The combing of the terrain didn’t stop, however. The officers stepped over the trace to avoid contaminating the clue, but this time it was Ghost who called it out, after his eyes caught the sight of something very familiar among the thin branches of a tiny bush.

“I found something,” he bellowed, causing the skin of the officers around him to erupt in goosebumps, and looked straight to Price and Soap with a strange look on his eyes, “it’s one of her gloves.”

~~~~~~

The drive to the trail was mostly silent, but definitely less tense than the stuffy environment of the basement. The only permanent sound was the constant click and buzz of the radio changing stations.

“...Nothing fancy your taste, Your Grace?” the young driver teased, his eyes fixed on the road, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, his fingers tapping along the ever changing rhythms from the radio.

“Ugh, I miss the time where fewer DJ’s were obsessed with Latin pop,” Baldy groaned, “Bad Bunny my ass,” he spat, still changing stations until he stumbled upon one playing Arctic Monkeys. He stared at the radio for a few seconds, then shrugged and finally put his hand down, fishing his cigarette pack and a lighter from one of the pockets in his jacket, “Eh, at least this is in English.” He lit a stick, then offered one to the other man, “Fancy a cig, Luke?”

Luke didn’t hesitate to fish one for himself and light it, taking a slow drag before exhaling the smoke through his nose. He kept his eyes ahead, only occasionally looking to the sides when he faced an intersection. After a few more minutes, he decided he should speak his mind. “...You know, Charlie, you should stop clashing with Alan so much,” he immediately felt the other’s glare on the side of his head, but he remained unfazed, “you know he’s kind of right about this whole thing.”

“...About me being an idiot for losing the fucking dart? Or for losing it and killing the other wench?” Charlie puffed out a cloud of smoke in Luke’s direction, who simply shot him a side-eye glare.

“I was referring to the last one, about controlling your impulses,” Luke sighed as he stopped at a red light, “you know that if you lose it on every girl who doesn’t want you to fuck her, we won’t have any product to sell,” he took another drag of his cigarette, quirking an eyebrow at his companion, “the girls don’t look that alluring on video if they’re all red, black and blue.”

“They do if you’re sick in the ‘ead,” Charlie chuckled deeply, unable to keep down a wolfish grin.

“Alan doesn’t want to sell snuff videos, idiot,” Luke sighed, starting the van again as the light turned green, “he wants to sell the girls, the videos are just…for catalog.” He grumbled a curse as a biker overtook a bit too close for comfort, then drove the van into the road that led them through the campus and to the trail, “It’s like when you worked in the bakery, you wouldn’t be able to sell the cake if you ate all of it.”

Charlie thought about it, briefly reminiscing on his old job, before tilting his head. “What if I want to have a taste of the cake before selling the rest?” he wondered, his eyes fixing on the younger once again, “y’know, to make sure the product is tasty.”

Luke snorted a chuckle, shaking his head at his logic, “then you should do it on video, just make sure not to take too big of a bite.”

Charlie cackled, nearly sucking his cigarette into his throat, and looked ahead, “got it”.

As they rounded the campus and neared the area they were supposed to look, they immediately went into high alert as they noticed a patrol car. They tried their best to greet the officer standing there nonchalantly.

“...If they ask what we’re looking for, we’ll tell them-” Charlie immediately interrupted himself, his eyes going wide as he caught sight of the number of police officers in line, looking through the grass. “...shit.”

As they drove nearer, Luke gulped out loud, his cigarette nearly falling from his lips, as something caught his eye. “...Are-... Are those soldiers, too?”

~~~~~~

Officer Melanie Kirk had always been indecisive about what she wanted in life. Every morning meant a twenty-minute long decision on whether to have waffles or toast with her jam for breakfast. She always took the longest to order at any restaurant she went to, wondering if she should pick something new or stick to what she already knew she’d like. Before joining the evidence department at the police station, she even toyed with the idea of joining the bomb squad - in her own words back then, to have more adrenaline in her life. She desisted when she realized she could lose her fingers and never get a manicure again.

Right now, as she carefully photographed and processed the tactical glove that was found in the bushes, under the heavy, unnerving stare of the behemoth of a soldier with a skull balaclava, she felt as if she was defusing a bomb with less than a minute left in the timer.

With safely gloved hands, she carefully lifted the glove to put it in the transparent evidence bag, when she noticed something in the inside of the glove. She picked a tweezer from her briefcase, and with trained delicacy she dug it into the glove, pulling out a small, empty dart.

Melanie held it up and looked at the detective, who stared at the tiny object with a confused frown, “A tranquilizer dart, with traces of what I’d bet is blood in the needle,” she explained, “I’ve seen larger ones being used on animals like rhinos and giraffes when I worked in a conservation program in Tanzania.”

“Those are tricky to use on humans,” Ghost commented, “there’s a much smaller margin of error, and clothes can be thicker than most animals’ skins.” Melanie looked up at him, slightly bewildered at the ‘how’ he knew about that fact, but chose not to comment on it - probably the easiest decision in her life so far.

“Whoever used it must’ve been a bloody good shot, then,” concluded Hartford. Then, he looked around where he stood, and turned to Price, who stood next to him. “This is also where the trace ends, I reckon this is where she was finally captured.”

“But not where the dart got her, if she managed to run, pull it out and stuff it in her glove,” Price continued, “I’ve seen this lass get shot and still be able to move for almost a kilometer before finding a place to lay low and patch herself up, then keep going.”

“Even if she managed to pull it out,” Melanie pondered out loud, taking her camera to photograph the dart and process it, “the drug would have entered her system the moment it dug in her skin. I’d say the dose was very strong, if she only managed to run up to here.”

Ghost stayed silent, his eyes following the trace back to the trail, picturing Canary desperately trying to run away as her body quickly faltered. His mind filled in the details he didn’t know yet and only imagined, like her eyes wide open in a terrified expression, and her skin clammy with sweat as she tried to force her body to respond as she ran from the trail towards the place he was standing on.

He turned towards the road, searching over the surface of the road for any traces of tire marks, when he noticed the gray van driving by. A gut feeling told him to look at it more carefully, and locked eyes with the driver.

The man behind the wheel visibly tensed up and discussed with the passenger, before speeding away towards the bridge. Ghost’s eyes remained on the van until it disappeared from view, and turned to look at Hartford, dictating the license plate to him.

A/N: aww kissy Ghost and Soap

Taglist: @died-in-a-field-of-flowers @rafaelacallinybbay @namenotimportant1373 @ragingbookdragon @zinfairy @scrumplump @speckel @omgitstatertot @fullmoon-94 @kalamataolivesssss @embers-of-alluring @warenai @frazie99 @kee-0-kee @littlezarp @scaredknight @kendahl757 @sweetybuzz25

To be added to the taglist, make a comment on the Bird hunting masterlist (link above)

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