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sapphire-writes · 8 months ago

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Beyond The Play

college!Art x college!Reader

summary: Tashi needs some time alone with her man, which leaves you without a room for the night.

word count: 3.8k

rating: mature/explicit/18+

warnings: alcohol, fingering, dry humping, p in v sex with a condom, light praise, titty sucking, there's only one bed oh no!!

a/n: thanks for all the love on my first Challengers fic! hope you enjoy this one!

“You are so fucked,” Art says, taking another sip of his beer.

“Shut up.”

“He’s right,” Tashi agrees, sighing heavily, glancing at her cards.

You’re all sitting on the floor of your and Tashi’s dorm room, half-empty beer bottles littering the floor between you. You’d been playing poker for the past hour or so, swindling more of Patrick and Art’s money. It’d become a Friday night habit of yours, card games and beer with Patrick and Art. Patrick was always a maybe, he only came to visit his girlfriend a couple times a semester.

But you, Art, and Tashi were always a solid trio. Tashi and Art had met through tennis of course, and you had met Art through Tashi after rooming with her freshman year of college. You’d become fast friends, and roommates for the next several years. You got along with Patrick well enough, you had to once he and Tashi started dating.

You could tell that had been a sore spot for Art, at least for a while. You’d suspected he’d had a thing for Tashi, and fire and ice hadn’t been the same since. You’d once asked Tashi about it and she’d only shrugged. Even though she was with Patrick for now, you knew Tashi had only one true love.

Whatever Art felt for Tashi was easily molded into friendship, and the three of you became nearly inseparable. Which was good, even if you may or may not have developed some feelings of your own for the blond tennis player.

But your friendship was more important. Those feelings could be pushed aside.

“God damn it,” Patrick curses, “I fold.”

Tashi snickers, revealing her cards and Patrick swears once more.

“I need a smoke,” Patrick says, standing and leaning across Tashi’s bed to the open window.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tashi says, standing at lightning speed, “Outside, we are not getting in trouble for this.”

She grabs Patrick by the shirt collar, dragging him off the bed. He dramatically chokes, but lets her drag him towards the door.

“Art come on,” Patrick insists, reaching for his best friend.

“What? No, I wanna stay,” Art says, sandy hair falling in front of his eyes, “You don’t need a babysitter—”

“Yes I do,” Patrick insists, “C’mon five minutes, I swear.”

The boys tumble into the hall and you can hear their voices fading as they make their way outside. You stand from the floor, gathering up some beer bottles, and folding up the empty pizza box.

“Hey, d’you think you could sleep somewhere else tonight?” Tashi asks, brown eyes wide, “It’s Patrick’s last night, and y’know we really haven’t had any alone time.”

Your chest constricts at the thought. You totally get where she’s coming from but, it’s your room too. The thought of sleeping in the common area is less enticing.

“Or at least just for a couple of hours,” Tashi backtracks, seeing your expression, “Just so we can—”

“Yeah, Tash it’s fine,” you tell her, swallowing your annoyance. Tashi’s been nothing but thoughtful and kind as a roommate, and friend. It’s an inconvenient favor, but nothing crazy. “I’ll get out of your hair for a couple of hours.”

“You’re the best,” she says, kissing your cheek, “Seriously, I owe you one.”

“You sure do,” you tell her, “I expect full payment for this.”

“Do you mean a trip to the movies with slurpees and popcorn?” Tashi asks, raising her eyebrows.

“With extra butter,” you clarify and point at her, “You’re not cheaping out on me.”

“I’d never,” she insists, feigning seriousness before breaking into a grin.

You finish helping Tashi clean up and begin your excommunication from your room. Walking down the hallway you bump into Patrick and Art on their way back from Patrick’s smoke break.

“What’re you doing out here? You start smoking?” Art asks as Patrick keeps walking past you, picking up the pace, “Hey where…”

“Party’s over,” you tell him, as Patrick turns the corner, eager to return to Tashi now that she’s alone.

Art frowns, confused.

“But we were—”

“Art,” you cut him off and place your hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly, “Party’s over. Unless you’re eager to be a third.”

Art’s cheeks flush and he glances away, forcing out a laugh. Something tugs at your heart watching his half-smile appear.

“Uh yeah ... .no thanks,” he says and you pat his shoulders before releasing them, “Wait but where are you going to go?”

You shrug, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You can’t just wander around campus, it’s like 2 am,” Art says, beckoning you with his hand, “Come back to my room, at least till they’re done.”

“Really?” you ask, “Cause if you’re tired I can just—”

“Don’t be silly,” Art says, poking your shoulder, “C’mon.”

Art’s room is in a separate building on campus, about a five-minute walk from you and Tashi’s building. Art is lucky enough to have a single; you’d been there a handful of times before class or practice. He keeps his room neat, aside from some clothes scattered on the floor from quick changes before practice. You smile as he hurriedly picks them up, throwing them into a hamper in his closet.

His bed is unmade, navy sheets messy as though he’d just woken up.

“Sorry bout the mess,” he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m not judging, you’re cleaner than most guys I’ve met,” you tell him and he laughs.

Suddenly, it hits you how late it is, sleepiness hitting you like a train as you yawn. This triggers Art’s yawn and the pair of you stand awkwardly in front of each other.

“Um,” Art says suddenly, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” you agree, stomach sinking, “I can just—”

“You should stay.”

You’re silent at that. You stare at him, as he nervously plays with the hem of his t-shirt, waiting for your reaction. You’re not sure what to say. It’s fine, right? Just a friend, helping out another friend.

A friend whom you have a big fat annoying crush on.

“I mean….it’s just late and you’re tired and who knows when they’ll be done.”

“I don’t have anything with me,” you tell him, voice sounding softer, meeker than you’d like.

“Oh, here I got you,” he says, walking to his dresser. He shuffles through the drawer a moment before revealing a shirt and clean boxers, “Just did laundry today. You can….you can change in the bathroom. I even have an extra toothbrush.”

You roll your eyes at that, taking the clothes from him.

“Okay,” you agree.

“Bathroom’s right there.”

You nod, quickly making your way across the room and into the bathroom. You close the door and quickly change, finding Art’s spare toothbrush unopened in a goodie bag from the dentist shoved into a spare drawer. You quickly wash your face, brush your teeth, and change into his clothes. The shirt is baggy, with Stanford Men’s Tennis written across the front. It smells like him, like his detergent and his cologne and you can’t help but greedily inhale.

When you exit the bathroom, Art dips in, leaving the door open as he brushes his teeth. You place your clothes in a pile on his desk, awkwardly waiting for him. When he emerges, he’s wearing only his boxers and a gray t-shirt.

“I’ll take the floor,” Art says, his face turning beet red, “You can have the bed.”

“Art no,” you insist, “It’s your room. I’ll take the floor, it’s only fair—”

“Yeah that is not happening,” he says, satisfied smirk on his face, “Tashi’d kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the floor.”

“We could…..” you wet your lips, struggling to get the words out, “We could share the bed?”

Art watches you, his eyes wide. You watch his Adam’s apple bobs as he contemplates your question. Suddenly your pulse quickens, and embarrassment floods your body, and your face flushes. You turn away from him, scooting onto the bed.

“I mean only—”

“—if you’re comfortable,” Art finishes and you shut your mouth. You both giggle at the overlapping sentences.

“Yeah, I’m comfortable, Art,” you tell him, patting the space beside you, “Come on.”

Art moves onto the bed and you push closer to the wall. He’s so close when he lies down beside you, stretching his arm above your head. You’ve grown accustomed to the moonlit room and at this distance, you can almost count each eyelash that frames his blue eyes.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, minty breath wafting over your face, making your head spin.

“Mhmm,” is all you can manage as the heat of his body warms you under the covers.

He’s silent then and you lay there for a moment, watching each other, listening to your shared breathing. Art chuckles then.

“What?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, “Nothing, it’s silly.”

“What is it?”

“You’re the first girl I’ve shared a bed with,” he admits, shyly glancing away from your gaze.

“Art Donaldson,” your tone is teasing, “I find that rather hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” he insists, brows furrowing together, “I mean….I’m not saying—wait” he wets his lips nervously, “I’m not a virgin—”

Your eyebrows raise, a smile curling at the corner of your lips. No, you did not doubt that.

“Not that anything’s wrong with that, I just—wait and not to imply—”

“Art!” you cut him off, reaching forward and pressing your fingers against his lips, “I’m kidding. Don’t freak out.”

“M’not,” he mumbles, lips moving against your fingers.

“I’m fucking with you, Donaldson,” you whisper, taking your hand back, “I know you’re a gentleman.”

“Thank Christ,” he says with an exaggerated exhale causing you to giggle once more. He watches you, a smile on his face, eyes flickering to your lips.

Your face heats up as he wets his lips. Suddenly, nervousness flutters in your belly, and your heart flutters in your chest.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning away from him to face the wall.

You wait for his response, hoping he’s not disappointed. Disappointed about what, you’re not sure.

“Goodnight,” he says softly and you close your eyes.

You wake up early. Birds are chirping outside the window, golden sunlight is beginning to bleed into the room, and Art’s chest is smushed firmly against your back. His arm is curled around your middle, hand splayed under your shirt and on your tummy, face buried in the crook of your neck. He’s so warm, his presence so comforting, you just want to close your eyes and melt back into him.

Art groans in his sleep, moving his hips slightly and your eyes snap open.

Oh, Art.

He’s pressed firmly against your backside, rock-hard, hips unconsciously grinding against you. Your mouth falls open slightly feeling him against you, the hard outline of his cock bullying against your ass. Art groans again, hand on your stomach pushing you closer to him.

A breathy sigh escapes you and your head falls back against him slightly.

“Art,” you breathe, answered with another groan, this one edging on a whimper. His hips gyrate, cock pressing against you with need, “Oh God…”

You swallow, breathing becoming more shallow. Your pussy clenches, and you can feel the growing wetness in the boxers Art had lent you, thighs pressing together desperate to relieve some of the pressure.

“Art wake up!”

Art wakes with a start, head pulled from your shoulder. You can’t see him, but you feel him tense, the warmth of his body ripped from yours as he lurches backward, right off the edge of the bed. He falls with a yelp, hitting the floor with a loud thud. You sit up turning toward him.

“Fuck!” he says, scrambling to sit and hide his erection, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” His face is red and he grabs a pillow, placing it over his lap, “God–fuck, I’m so sorry I was asleep—” He keeps stuttering, unable to meet your eyes.

“Art.”

“It’s just biological you know, just morning wood, I would never do anything without your explicit consent–enthusiastic consent!”

“Art…”

“And I would never want to ruin anything between us, ever–”

“Art!”

His head snaps toward you then, eyes meeting yours. His mouth hangs open, eyes watery as he looks up at you. He looks so sad, so embarrassed, and disappointed. And something else as well. Worried, perhaps.

“Get back up here,” you tell him.

Art’s mouth remains open in shock as he glances at the bed.

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Art scrambles to rejoin you on the bed, lying beside you. He faces you just as he did last night, sandy hair falling across his forehead. You smile softly at his disheveled appearance and his flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop talking,” you tell him, reaching forward and brushing some hair from his face. You let your hand trail around to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair. “You have my consent.”

Art’s eyes widen, lips parting in shock.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you tell him, pulling yourself closer. His hand drifts to your hip, anchoring himself to it. “Explicit, enthusiastic, all yours.”

The last word has barely left your lips before he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against your own. They’re warm and soft, he kisses you with innocent eagerness, the hand on your hip pulling you flush against him. You lift your leg, hitching it around his thigh, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly, earning a moan against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he moans against your lips, “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”

Something deep inside your belly warms at his admission.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he answers, kissing you again, “Since freshman year.”

“Why didn’t you…..oh fuck..” your question trails off as Art mouths your neck, sucking and biting the tender skin.

“Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he mumbles, kissing your collarbone.

You hum at his answer, tilting your head to give him better access. His hand moves from your hip bone, up under your shirt—his shirt.

“Is this okay?” he asks, mouth returning to your lips.

“Yes,” you tell him, “Please touch me.”

You can feel his smile against your lips as he does what you ask, fingers grazing the underside of your breast. Pushing against him, his hand cups your breast, squeezing lightly. You pull away from his lips briefly, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it to the end of the bed. Art’s eyes devour you and he kisses you desperately as he continues to play with your tits.

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck until he reaches the top of your chest.

Art’s lips move across the tops of your breasts, as though he’s struggling with choosing which one to lavish with attention. Luckily for you, he decides rather quickly and latches his mouth to your right nipple, thumb, and forefinger, tweaking the opposite. Your back arches as he gently bites down, sucking the hardened peak harshly before releasing it with a pop.

“Art.”

He simply moans, ignoring your cries as he brings his mouth to your opposite nipple, repeating his previous action. Pleasure winds a current in your lower belly, your thighs clench as he repeats his little torture, alternating back and forth between your breasts. You grab his hair, tugging him not too gently until he glances up at you, cheeks red, lips glossy and puckered.

He’s too pretty.

You pull him back to your lips, kissing him feverishly while trying to rid yourself of the clothing you have left. Art feels you squirming and assists, hands moving the boxers down your legs until you’re able to kick them off at your ankles. Your hands move to him next, eager to even the playing field.

You tear his shirt over his head revealing his toned stomach from countless hours on the court. Your mouth waters at the sight before Art is on you once more, lips capturing yours in another heated kiss. His hand returns to your hip, curling against it before he reaches further, squeezing your ass.

You smile against his mouth as he squeezes again.

“You’re just fucking perfect, aren’t you?” he murmurs, returning your smile.

His hand grazes down the back of your thigh before venturing to the front where your legs meet. Your breathing becomes more labored the closer he gets to your hot center.

“Can I?” he asks, so softly, you nearly drown out his question with your heavy breath.

“Yes,” you tell him, and that’s all he needs.

Art slides a curious finger between your wet folds, gently circling your clit. Your mouth falls open as he continues.

“You’re so wet,” he remarks, dipping his finger lower, and finding your entrance.

He lets his middle finger sink into you, met with little resistance. Your walls greedily accept him as he curls his finger upwards, beginning to pump it in and out. Stars explode behind your eyes and you moan, clutching onto his shoulder.

Art smirks, eyes aglow at the pleasured noises you emit.

“That feel good?”

“Yes—fuck,” you squeak as he presses another finger inside of you, “Oh god.”

“Yeah?”

Art crooks his fingers against your velvety walls, pressing against that special spot inside of you that has your head lolling against him, moans spilling from your lips. His thumb joins, caressing your sensitive clit in time with the strokes of his fingers.

“Feels so good,” you moan, “I’m so close.”

“Yeah? You're gonna come for me?” he asks, kissing your neck. Your fingers tangle themselves in his blonde hair, tugging harshly, your orgasm building deep in your belly, “Come on baby, come on my fingers, I wanna feel this pretty pussy come.”

His words send you over the edge and your pussy clenches around his digits as you come, thighs shaking from the intensity as warmth floods through you.

“That was so hot,” Art says, kissing you, still buried to the knuckles inside you, “You’re so hot. Let me fuck you, please.”

You hum against his lips as he carefully removes his fingers from your warmth. He pulls away, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. You watch him awestruck as he moans, eyes closing at the taste of you.

“Get inside me,” you tell him, “Right now.”

Art doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting up and pulling his boxers off as you lay on your back. Your eyes drift down his stomach to his cock. It’s pretty, just like the rest of him. Long, girthy, a neat tuft of dark sandy colored hair at the base. The tip flushed red and weeping as he strokes himself.

“Condom?” you ask, and he nods, walking to his desk and rummaging through the first drawer.

He comes up successful, ripping the wrapper with his teeth and rolling the condom on his length before crawling on top of you. You spread your legs for him as he lines himself up, rubbing the tip along your soaked slit.

“Art, please put it in,” you whine, hips lifting.

“Jesus, I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he says, shaking his head.

Your responding giggle is short-lived as he slowly sinks inside of you, filling you to the brim.

“Oh god,” you whimper, as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you answer, cupping his cheek. He mirrors your action and you smile, a sudden burst of tenderness exploding in your chest, tears welling in your eyes.

Art rotates his hips, pulling back and sinking back into your inviting warmth.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, kissing your lips, “I’ve dreamt of this for years.”

“Me too,” you admit, wrapping your legs around his waist, “God, Art, I’ve wanted this forever.”

This spurs him on, his thrusts becoming quicker, more eager at your confession.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you whimper as he pounds into you, “Wanted this for so long—used to talk to….to Tashi about it—”

Art moves his hand along your side, reaching your thigh and hooking your leg over his shoulder.

“What’d you tell her?”

The new angle sends him deeper, the head of his cock rubbing perfectly against that spongy section of your walls that has your mouth dropping open in pleasure.

“Wanted you,” you manage as Art holds one of your hands above your head against the pillows, “Wanted this so bad.”

“I’ll give it to you,” Art says, his breath catching, “Fuck—oh god you’re so pretty like this, fuck.”

“Art!” you cry his name as your second orgasm builds, sneaking up on you as he slows his pace, “Why’d you—”

“Wanna savor this,” he says softly, kissing the tip of your nose. His thrusts have slowed, hips moving with leisure.

The pressure in your belly continues to build as he smirks down at you. Tennis has done wonders to his stamina; he fucks you like he could keep this pace for hours, barely breaking a sweat. You whine, throwing your head back against the pillows as he kisses your neck, your hamstring burning deliciously with the stretch.

“Please come for me,” he murmurs, right next to your ear, “I’ve got to feel that sweet little pussy come around my cock, please.”

You do as you’re told, spurred on by Art whispering praises and encouragement in your ear and you fall apart, clenching around his cock and milking him for all he’s worth. You feel his hips stutter, cock twitching inside your warmth as he follows your release with his own. Art’s lips find yours then, and you can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air.

You stay like that for several minutes, his cock softening as you kiss one another, before he slowly pulls out. He takes a moment to take off the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the trash before he rejoins you in bed.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you across his chest.

You lie with your cheek pressed against his pec, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. He strokes your arm with his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asks, face buried in your hair, “About wanting me? This?”

“Mhmm,” you answer, putting all your cards on the table, “I may have harbored a small crush on you.”

Art picks up your hand measuring it against his own before lacing your fingers together.

“I wish I knew that earlier,” he admits, still holding your hand, “I’ve been in love with you for ages.”

You glance up at him between your lashes and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says with a smile.

“And here I thought Patrick was the only one who owned your heart,” you tease, causing him to playfully bite your wrist, “Hey!”

“Not the only one,” he admits, rolling you over onto your back, “I’m glad you got kicked out of your room last night.”

You lean up, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Me too.”

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inactiveaccount-lovendeepsecrets · 7 days ago

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Domestic + Intimate Headcanons

*Minus Caleb only because his myth and cards aren't out yet, and I don't feel confident adding him when there's so much lore and little quirks we still don't know about him. I shall make a separate post for him if this goes well.

But Hi! This is my 1st hc so please go easy on me. I believe some of the bullet points on here are canon, but I can’t help talking abt how cute this all is 🫠 I'm not the best writer and I tried so hard to be impartial, but you can probably still tell where my bias lies LOL

As always these are just my opinions!!

tags: headcanon, fluff, mostly gender neutral, but these lean towards an afab + fem!reader, 18+

***MDNI; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something nsfw despite the warnings and will be BLOCKED***

Disclaimer: I personally think all of them like praise, body worship and are humungous eaters. If the specifications aren't noted under your fav LI, it's because I didn't want this too become too redundant!

✵ ✰ ✷ ✭✮ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ ❅ ❆ ❃ 𓆰· 𓆃

Rafayel

SFW

• Has definitely set up a date where you do that TikTok trend painting portraits of each other

• Hates the caricature you two posed for at the amusement park

• On more than one occasion you've (jokingly) threatened to frame said caricature at his gallery to shut him up during an argument

• Is an escape artist. He has a long history of being captured/on the run. It’s no wonder he could easily untie himself from your ropes

• I don't think we talk enough about how rich this man is, but I think he'd be quite into second hand fashion. Think runway archives, vintage designer pieces, custom couture, etc.

• Always drives over the speed limit

• Will never tease you during your art lessons with him

• THE best bf to take pictures of you for your social media accounts. He’d suggest different poses while contorting himself in odd positions on the ground just to get the perfect angle

• Sings you to sleep

• Surprisingly good at doing hair. If you need help dying, braiding, or putting your hair in rollers, he'd actually do a pretty good job.

• Created an entire album on his phone of candid photos he took when you weren't looking

• Also made a scrapbook of polaroids from all your scenic dates and vacations together, most of them are of you

NSFW

• He’s a mermaid. He is the motion of the ocean. The hip movements? Stamina? Best (and prettiest) dick game goes to him, I’m sorry.

• LOUD, noisy, and talkative. Starts to ramble when he’s close

• Wax play? [in the submissive]

• Nipple play [in the submissive]

• Edging + Milking

• I think his open vulnerability makes people think he’s more sub leaning, but some of it’s for show

• Because of your bond, he’ll submit; but he’ll do it in such a way that you’re right where he wants you to effectively make the switch

• Make no mistake, he doesn’t mind subbing from time to time. He loves seeing you on top of him, using his body. He feels a sense of accomplishment being a vessel for your pleasure

• There was a tweet that explained how Raf would be a bit of a bully as a dom, but in the best way (recommended read)

• Chuckles and coos at you after each of your orgasms

• Isn’t into watersports, but gets a massive ego boost if you squ*rt

• Is sometimes overly arrogant about toys, but is also so obsessed with you, that he made you get molds of each other on the rare occasions you’re apart for too long

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚

Sylus

SFW

• Has asked his private chef for a one on one culinary lesson to impress you with a home cooked meal

• A patron and secret lover of the arts. Dabbles in the opera, theatre and certain musicals

• He’s*slightly* better at drawing and singing than he lets on, but loves taking the piss

• This man is so funny, but his life and profession is all too serious, making the small moments of banter more precious for the both of you

• Will also hum to lull you to sleep

• Secret polyglot

• His way of ending petty arguments with you is by throwing you over his shoulder and going to bed

• Retail therapy connoisseur

• Surprisingly handy

• He of course, only likes visiting Linkon to see you, but also likes your apartment. While it’s microscopic in his eyes, he slowly understands what small things make a home feel cozy and tries to replicate that at his

• He’s intrigued by your self care sessions and will often indulge, joining in with the sheet masks, aromatherapy, massages and waxing (he likes the heat of the wax lol). He’ll put on a brave face and deny the pain, boasting about his high tolerance

• Spoils you in general, but especially when you’re sick or on your period

• Will carry you around just cause -much like a typical cat owner who loves to randomly pick up and cuddle their cat LOL

• Would buy out a restaurant for the night and have the orchestra play a medley of some of your favourite songs you’ve discovered from his record collection

• There’s really no such thing as small gestures with him

NSFW

• Marking

• Nipple play (giving and receiving)

• Blindfolds

• Certified munch; almost loves it more than penetrative sex

• AND HE 10000% HOLDS YOUR HANDS WHILE GOING DOWN ON YOU— WHY ISNT THIS WRITTEN MORE IN FICS

• Pleasure dom. He’s not sadistic or a bully when it comes to overstimulation (unlike Raf), he’s the very definition of “will talk you through it”

• Absolutely the type to coo at the sounds and faces you make. You could not look more adorable in his eyes

• Likes watching you solo

• Your satisfaction is his priority, so he’s not intimidated by toys. That being said, he definitely owns a remote vibrator

• Phone sex. No question

• In addition to phone sex, he bought those long distance bluetooth couple’s toys that sync up with each other so it’ll react to both of your movements in real time

• In the submissive, he really loves to see you in control of your own pleasure. He’ll encourage you to use him (eg face sitting, leg humping, cowgirl, etc)

• Slight masochist; those cuffs, paddles and chains are for him 😭 he’s curious to see how far you’ll go. By the end of it all, he’ll use his evol to free himself of whatever restraint he’s under

•As far as a degradation kink, I don’t see it for him, sorry. He adores you too much to call his sweetie a “slut”, “whore”, “filthy,” and so on

• Not as rough as he appears. Really the only time he’s rougher than he realises, is when he’s biting you

• If you want it more aggressive, you’ll have to ask. Even then, he’ll be cautious not to overdo it. The last thing he wants is to hurt you

• It’s canon he loves praise. Giving and receiving

𓆰· 𓆃 · 𓆩♡ 𓆰· 𓆃 · 𓆩♡ 𓆰· 𓆃 · 𓆩♡ 𓆰· 𓆃 · 𓆩♡

Xavier

SFW

• Low-key likes to carry you around and his fav way is by piggyback ride (loves being physically close to you and the way you cling to him)

• Will fast all day just for Hotpot or Brazilian steakhouse

• Is much better at baking than cooking

• Leaves you Post-it note love letters in places like mirrors, cabinets, and drawers, before he leaves after spending the night

• Unintentional comedian. He's sometimes taken aback by your laughter, but it only encourages him to keep talking just to hear it again

• He honestly loves sharing things with you; food, books, (his) hoodies, etc. He just doesn’t like sharing YOU

• Would plan a scavenger hunt date

• Is always playing coy because he knows it triggers your cuteness aggression

• The pettiest of petty when he's upset or threatened (look up his affinity lvl 140 video call)

• Sometimes stricter than Zayne when it comes to your health & recovery. He hates to see you over-exerting yourself after an injury and has scolded you before about taking it easy

• Loves to get ready for bed with you at the same time. Showering together, doing skincare together, brushing teeth together; whatever you’re doing he’s either tagging along or sitting there watching you

• When he’s spending the night, he can't fall asleep without you playing with his hair and holding hands

• Learned your favourite flower and has been secretly sneaking into Jeremiah’s greenhouse planting and tending to a small bush of them to gift to you whenever

NSFW

• Thigh job

• Mating press

• Morning sex, specifically morning head (f receiving)

• While going down on you, he def seems like the type to keep going after you’ve climaxed, but he slows down his movements, giving languid kisses to your center to help ride out the wave of pleasure vs intentional overstimulation (though he isn’t against that either)

• It seems that the consensus on here is that he's the best eater of the LIs? I don't necessarily disagree; I'm just not completely sure if that title goes to him quite yet

• The most primal and rough of the LIs. Hair pulling, choking (safely), spanking, leashes

• Also likes it when you’re rough with him

[I know I said I wasn’t confident making any hcs abt Caleb yet, but I have a slight hunch he rivals Xavier for most primal]

• Goes feral when you say his name

• This man is a dom, don’t let the puppy eyes and bunny ears fool you 💀

• He's not as noisy as he is talkative, especially during foreplay

• BOSSY

• I don’t put it past him to feel like he’s in competition with vibrators. He’d rather him use one on you, but knows he’s being irrational

• While he’s not really into feet, he’d suck toes during missionary to see how you’d react

✵ ✰ ✷ ✭ ✧ ✸ ✮ ✵ ✰ ✷ ✭ ✧ ✸ ✮ ✵ ✰ ✷ ✭ ✧ ✸

Zayne

SFW

• Alternatively to Sylus, this man is comprised of small gestures that snowball (hehe) over time. One more meaningful than the next

• While he respects and admires your independence, he needs you to need him. He’ll never vocalise it, but he feels most useful and accomplished when you ask for his help

• Won’t let you carry any bags when you’re out shopping, not even your purse

• Like Rafayel, he also has an album on his phone with pictures of mostly you. Though he feels odd taking your picture when you’re not looking, he’s snuck in a photo or two when you were looking particularly lively mingling with the people at his work event

• Knows your go-to orders at all of your fav restaurants by heart

• Stargazing dates. When either of you are out of town for a while and are catching up on the phone before bed, he’ll tell you to go outside and look at the moon

• After a long shift at work, he’ll kneel by your side of the couch waiting for you to embrace him, hugging and nuzzling your waist

• He also secretly loves being the little spoon

• Subscribed to a delivery service that sends you flowers on your birthday every year

• There’s something about Zayne that makes me think dogs absolutely LOVE him even though he’s not particularly fond of their energetic nature

• Spoils you rotten when you’re on your period. Full princess treatment; plushie heating pads, full body massages, raspberry tea, and hand feeding you snacks. Basically Dr Zayne turns into Nurse Zayne

• He’s more lenient with your cravings, letting you have a small portion of desserts or snacks only after you’ve finished your meal

• Loves your laugh but knows his dry wit won’t always work, so he’ll just tickle you if the joke doesn’t land

• Fell in love with you after the Drunken Intimacy card. It made him realise how much he likes holding you and tending to your needs

• Doesn’t even bother lecturing you about how bad high heels are for your joints and muscles anymore. He now keeps a pair of slippers in his car just in case you start to complain

• He can never resist the urge to kiss your cheek or forehead when he sees you’re fast asleep (Canon 🥹)

NSFW

• Has a weakness for lingerie, lace and stockings

• In the submissive, he’d be just like the kitty butler in his card -the goodest of good boys

• …Feet? I’m not sure if it’s anything freaky. Kudos to whoever clocked that for sub! Zayne months prior to the kitty butler quad banner

• Soft dom, but not as gentle as his voice lets on. He’s already a bit strict with you in your relationship, and he’s the same way in bed. How is he supposed to know what feels good if you don’t vocalise it?

• The only time he’s pretty rough with you is when you provoke him. But he checks in with you to make sure he isn’t being too hard

• Once he loses his control, he gets a tiny bit greedy too (“We’re not done here. Quitting halfway isn’t something I would do” —Silent Poem Secret Times)

• His methods of brat “taming” aren’t anything over the top or domineering. Though he enjoys spanking, he thinks there are better lessons he could teach you to combat your brattiness

• Has definitely gone down on you and stopped altogether right before you climax as a form of punishment

• Shibari + Hitachi -girl run!

• Ice play

• Nipple play (giving and receiving)

• The size of your chest doesn’t really matter to him, he just really likes to hold and massage them. It’s his favourite way to keep his hands warm

• This man is so good with his hands and in more ways than one. The placement and movement of his hands in the Nightly Rendezvous card sent me into orbit. The body worship he’d do is insane

• Needless to say he’s the best at fingering

• You’re irresistible to him. He breathes you into every kiss, deepening as your bodies continue to merge. There’s no sex without passion, even the “quickies”

• Quickies usually only happen when you’ve teased or provoked him too far during (or on your way to) an event. Otherwise, he likes taking his time with you

• He knows your body like the back of his hand. He’s memorised what triggers the sounds, faces, and jolts your body makes

• Much like Xavier, he loves to hear you cry out his name

❅ ❆ ❃ ❊ ❉ ❅ ❆ ❃ ❊ ❉ ❅ ❆ ❃ ❊ ❉ ❅ ❆ ❃ ❊ ❉ ❅ ❆

#my headcanons #Soft Dom Sylus girlies RISE #love and deepspace #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #lads x reader #sylus fluff #xavier fluff #zayne fluff #rafayel fluff #18+ mdni #l&ds smut #sylus love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace

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hoshifighting · 3 months ago

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ask translation: today's rant, girls, i can't get it out of my head that jeonghan is totally that "friend" who sends you a message a second after you remove the @ of your last relationship from your bio. "baby, I saw that you deleted his @, did something happen? Is everything okay? you know you can talk about anything with your hannie, right?" "wow, what an jerk, do you want to come over today, princess?" WARNINGS: smut, fingering, doggy-style, friend!jeonghan, recent break-up

PORTUGUESE VERSION

it’s a matter of seconds. you barely take his @ out of your bio, and the “ding” from your phone already notifies you. guess who? that’s right—jeonghan. and you know exactly what he’s going to say before you even open the message. it’s almost automatic; his timing is so damn perfect that you almost think he’s been stalking your profile, waiting for the smallest slip-up, a little sign.

“hey, baby,” he starts, casual as ever, “saw you took his name out of your bio… something happened?” you read it and can practically see his smug little smile while he’s typing, just loving the drama. “tsk, motherfucker,” you mutter to yourself, but you’re laughing. then he follows up: “you know you can tell your hannie anything, right?”

you roll your eyes, but ignoring him? impossible. the next message doesn’t even let you hesitate.

“god, what an idiot. wanna come over tonight, princess? got that wine you love…”

and there he’s got you. he knows it. he knows that the “heart-to-heart” is just a flimsy excuse, you know what he wants, and that “motherfucker” you muttered? already forgotten. the worst part is you don’t even resist. you’re already texting back before you can think twice:

“give me fifteen. actually have the wine, or i’m out,” you shoot back, adding that little side-eye emoji he always teases you for.

not even five seconds later, he replies: “bet.”

at his place, things start slow—he hands you the glass and goes, “spill it all, babe.” you actually try talking about your ex, maybe add some drama for effect… but he cuts you off, saying he doesn’t wanna hear about that “loser,” and before you know it, the conversation’s become something else entirely. he teases you, like always, and it doesn’t take long before that “friendly” vibe slips into something much more serious.

the wine might as well have gone straight between your legs. minutes later, jeonghan’s there, face buried between your thighs, his mouth working over the wet clit while he keeps his eyes locked on yours. he makes it look like an art form, taking his time, slow, drawing you out more and more—and you, impatient as hell, nearly losing it every time he stops just to throw in some little comment. he lifts his head slightly, lips glistening, with that smug glint in his eye.

“how could he lose you, huh?” he’s not actually asking; he just wants to see you needier. you press your thighs against him, trying to make him shut up and eat you out, but he just laughs, naughty.

“god, you’re so impatient, knew you’d be like this…” he knows exactly the effect he has on you.

you let out a frustrated moan, and he laughs again—he’s clearly feeding off this. “relax, princess, not gonna leave you hanging.” he says it, but he doesn’t speed up. you’re practically begging by the time he finally decides to quit playing games.

he fucks you so good that if you’d known it would always be like this with him, the idea of dating anyone but jeonghan would’ve never even crossed your mind.

he’s got you on all fours on his couch, no mercy, thrusting deep with that thick cock, your cries coming out rough and strained, head tilted back as he holds nothing back, fingers gripping your hair just to make you scream his name louder. the angle leaves your gasps sounding suffered, desperate.

jeonghan, obviously, is eating this up. he notices when you’re already dripping all over his couch, and just to make it even worse, he gathers up that little drip and rubs it right on your sensitive clit, making you melt like jelly, your body going limp on his couch until he eases his grip on your hair so he doesn’t hurt you.

he moans shamelessly, the sound probably even louder than yours, and it catches you off guard. he doesn’t hold back, telling you how long he’s wanted this, how many times he’s dreamed about fucking you exactly like this.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this pretty pussy, baby…” he whispers, and you feel that delicious shiver on the back of your neck. “if you hadn’t picked that dumbass… we could’ve been fucking like this ages ago.”

he thrusts deeper, but moving slower, just so you can feel every inch as he murmurs in your ear. his touch is firm, fingers gliding down to squeeze that sensitive spot, giving it a playful pinch just to watch you shiver, rolling your eyes as you gasp out his name.

“this is what you wanted, princess? gonna appear here on my place, begging for my cock again.. and im going to give you what you want... always.”

#seventeen imagines #seventeen reactions #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen headcanons #svt imagines #seventeen #seventeen smut #svt smut #jeonghan smut #jeonghan imagines #jeonghan #jeonghan x reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fic #yoon jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x y/n #jeonghan x you #jeonghan x oc

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luvyeni · 6 days ago

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finally telling hyunjin what you want

𝓲𝓲 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒𓈒 ( 현진 x fem!reader ) ─── ❛ genre smut ⸝⸝ content warning. shy!reader. unprotected sex. word count. 0.6k 「 req? ⦂ yes/no 」 library !

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 yeni’s note .ᐟ im gonna start doing longer fics i promise, these are just so much easier and i get more requests done .

you were always good at getting what you wanted from hyunjin without saying much — and it wasn’t like you couldn’t say anything; no , he wasn’t like that , he always made you feel like you had a say. it was just that you weren’t good at fully expressing yourself , but it seem like it didn’t matter with hyunjin because he knew when you needed something.

except now it seems like all his good sense was gone , because you had been expressing your need for him throughout the entire day but he just wasn’t getting it — you didn’t say much but the hints were dropping should’ve told him.

wearing his favorite outfit only got you a kiss on the cheek and a pat to the butt. sitting on his lap while he was watching tv was also a fail , he just wrapped his arms around you wanting to cuddle while finishing the film.

you even hinted at showering with him and he didn’t even pick up on that and he loves shower sex. you were so horny and he was acting so clueless , you didn’t know how long it was before you just … snapped. “hey muse.” he said seeing you walk into his art room. “hyune.” you wrapped your arms around his neck , watching him paint. “im just finishing up a painting , you hungry?” you smiled because he knew you so well. “we’ll order something in a minute.”

“that’s not it.” you said , he stopped , putting the paint brush down. “are you not feeling well?” he asked , you chewed on your bottom lip , the need for him intensifying. “what’s wrong?” he asked , now facing you , giving you a full look at him , which didn’t help at all. “baby look at me.” he grabbed your cheeks. “what’s wrong?”

“i need you.” you blurted out. “you need me?” he said , you squeezed his hand. “please.” it seems like the please finally made him realize. “oh you need me.” he smirked. “well how so?” he asked , tilting his head to the side. “um …” you stammered , his gaze making the ache in between your legs worse. “don’t worry princess , i know exactly what you need.” he stood up , holding your head. “come on , let’s go to the bedroom.”

“is this what you wanted?” he had your legs pressed against you in a mean mating press; his cock stuffed inside you. “ye-yes , please.” you cried out as he plowed into you softly. “it feels so good.” you moaned , he cooed down at you. “does it?” he smiled. “you like my cock stretching you out like this?” you nodded. “ye-yeah.”

his cock filling you up, kissing your cervix over and over and he held open your legs , using his thumb to trace circles on your clit. “hyune please.” you begged , you don’t know for what , but you wanted more — no you needed more. “come on, use your words like you did before.” he slowed down his movements so you could feel all of him. “what do you need from me muse?”

“m-more , hyune.” you moaned out. “i need more.” he smiled , feeling your warm cunt fluttering around him , sucking him like a vice. “fuck , good girl.” he hissed , speeding up. “using your words , what happened to the shy girl who could barely look at me?” he hit that spot inside you that had you screaming out loudly. “so fucked out pretty , so so pretty; you gonna cum?” you nodded. “go ahead and cum.” with his permission you were cumming. “fuck im cumming.” he let out a huff , then a groan; filling you up with his seed. “hyune.”

he kissed your cheek softly. “so cute baby.” you covered your face shyly. “stop it.” he giggled. “no don’t hide your pretty face , let me see.” he grabbed both your hands , pulling them away. “good girl.”

“now let me eat your pretty pussy for being such a good girl for me.”

©️LUVYENI

#stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #skz hard hours #skz hard thoughts #kpop x reader #kpop smut #stray kids hard hours #stray kids hard thoughts #skz smut #skz x female reader #skz x reader #stray kids x female reader #hyunjin fanfic #hwang hyunjin smut #hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin hard thoughts #hyunjin hard hours #hyunjin smut #hwang hyujin imagines

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bamsara · 7 months ago

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trod au ramble u can ignore

when i say slowburn in an enemies to friends to lovers for Trod I mean slowburn. 300k before Narinder even openly admits he cares for the Lamb, and Lamb actually opens up more than just a shield of positivity and another 100k of character growth, drama, complicated intricacies of grief and anger to communication. The Lamb has boundaries and sticks by them constantly in trod, they're not a pushover, but they don't blow up and react in explosive anger the same way that Narinder does and they are mistaken for soft by him for it, when it's him having to be the one who is constantly re-evaluating his priorities and his behavior because the lamb isn't taking shit from him, despite patience and love, and he's put in this position where he's allowing the grief and the hurt to keep hurting himself and the Lamb in the process, until he risks losing them and Narinder makes the active decision to work on himself. They HAD a healthy, wonderful friendship before, he cared for them. He still does. He wishes he didn't but god he still does.

but i dislike when characters do one change or have one realization and suddenly they're super nice. no I want them to be continuously complex. I want their bad habits and miscommunication to not instantly or quickly disappear, I want continuous effort from the wronger. do you hear me. CONTINUOUS EFFORT. that means a character fucking up again and again and relasping and changing and cursing and being like well he doesn't need to be any different because its not his fault then going back and being like. no. it was my fault. i am wronged and I am the wronger. i need complexities. Let us not forget the definition of 'enemy' in the enemies to friends to lovers here. if they start off soft then where is the growth. Where is the room for growth I want. Where is it.

they get to the processing of emotions they haven't allowed themselves to feel properly for centuries to take this friendship gone sour by betrayal, plagued by anger and hurt to something slowly blooming back into trust and care and soft until eventually its this healthy love of these uberly overpowered pair of gods

Trod bad end is when Narinder just speed runs the 'rehabilitation' part of the rehabilitation of death' and it circles back to him going feral in the head. Still an asshole? okay your lamb is gone. regret your pride and ego because the patient love you were afforded is gone forever and the last memory you gave them was not the love you could have given them but it will be the love that destroys mortality to get them back.

amnesia au Narinder is just happy to be here. no betrayal, no angst. eventually when his memory does return and he gets caught pretending he doesn't remember just so he can be sweet to them without his pride in the way will force a conversation that will essentially fix the horrific communication these two have. speedrun trod x2

Current Trod Narinder is a emo angsty bastard who's rightfully hurt at being imprisoned and (in his heart) betrayed by someone he trusted dearly (again) while Post-Trod Narinder is still a feral bastard but with truly un-constipated, true equal love for the Lamb that wears a wedding ring made of his own blood to the tune of 'i miss my wife tails' and got a praise kink

but if its not absolute hell getting to that point then WHAT IS THE POINT

and all these are mostly about Narinder but don't even get me started on the Lamb's issues. That sheep thang is hiding shit.

Except I can't talk about the Lamb's hiding issues Too Much yet unless you've been in my art streams and have seen some of my comics, then IYKYK but aaaaaaaaaaUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHG

#hi i feel like rambling about au today #cw for suggestive joke #feeling cute might delete this later #sara shush #trod au #the rehabilitation of death #writings #<for tag sorting

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notsolonedesert · 2 months ago

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I LOVE YOUR ART SO MUCH!! idk if you’re okay with this but can i please have some art of Polites-?

Thank you! And of course!! Forgive me you've been waiting for quite a long time :(

Here comes 🎵✨The Boi✨🎵 All smiles for the camera

Yap session underneath

This turned out more detailed than planned because I liked thinking about the design?

First of all, for some reason I'm stuck with the thought that he's an archer, he was the first one to see the winion's island in Full speed ahead so I guess his glasses help him very well?? Haha I know I know. Still, I personally don't imagine him being full on close-combat, for sure in some situations but preferably bow

And second I wanted each of the trio to have at least two of the same colors integrated in their designs,

like Red in Polites' Headband, Ody's cape and Eurys waistband

Yellow in each of the trios jewelry

And Polites' glasses and Eurys clothes are Purple! (Still looking if I can sneak a purple element into Ody's design 🥺)

but like I hope that makes sense?

Thanks for listening to my Ted talk :'D

#epic the musical #polites #epic polites #desert art request #my art

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hvneybuckin · 9 months ago

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art donaldson

cheating, subby art, handjobs, gn reader, art drools on reader, slight implication of a praise kink

18+. minors dni

587 words

Art loved tennis. Art adored tennis. Did he live for tennis? No. Well, yes, he did— but he didn’t do it for him.

Art’s main priority was always going to be his family. Always going to be Tashi. That’s why he pushed himself so hard. He felt as though he owed it to her. Tennis was her dream, and he was going to make it real.

However, even Art Donaldson— one of the best tennis players of his time— needed a break.

That break was you.

And after a particularly shitty match, he thought he deserved a rest.

So it’s really no surprise when he ends up in between your legs, back to your chest while your hand reaches around to tug on his leaking cock. “Is this good?” Your voice is nothing higher than a whisper, bitten lips from the makeout session from just moments before brushing against Art’s ear. “Yeah— yes, just…a little faster, please.”

So, you do what he asks; because how could you say no to him? And you’re glad that you obliged, the broken gasp that slips out of him sounding almost angelic to your ears. His head falls back to rest on your shoulder, eyes clamped shut.

Your fingerpad brushes past his angry, red tip, and Art thinks he might actually see heaven.

“You really needed this, yeah?”

Your tone is always so gentle whenever you’re with Art. As if anything above it could break him. He’s not quite sure if he likes it, but right now— the signs are pointing towards yes.

He nods in response, afraid that if he tries to speak, his voice will betray him.

“I know you did. Been so stressed lately, hm?” You pepper soft kisses all over his face, but never his lips, and the whine that escapes his mouth comes straight from a place of desire. “It’s okay, though. ‘M proud of you, my perfect boy.” Art’s hips jerk up at that, and it makes you giggle simply because he really is so sensitive. “Think ‘m gonna cum soon,” he whimpers into the skin of your shoulder. His words are slurred, and you can already tell he’s not all that much there anymore.

You take it upon yourself to stroke him faster, and you can hear how his breathing speeds up, gets heavier.

“Fuck.”

It comes out whiny and pathetic. He can’t be arsed to say anything else, but that one word does all the work for him. “‘S okay, you can cum for me, Art.”

That’s all it takes to push him over the edge, spurts of milky white shooting out of his cock and onto your hand. He’s babbling mindlessly, most of it coming out garbled— but what you do pick up is the many “thank you’s” and obscenities he spews.

After you let him ride his orgasm out, he’s actually really quiet. “Art? You still with me?” You whisper, looking down at his blissed-out face. A thin string of saliva connects his lips to your shoulder.

He was drooling.

He blinks his eyes open, and once he’s fully brought back to reality, he gives you one of the sweetest smiles you’ve ever seen. “Yeah.” You offer him a slight grin back, hand reaching up to brush some stray curly strands of hair away from his face. “Should we shower? Or would you prefer a bath?”

“…Can we just stay here? Like this?”

And right then and there, you think that maybe Tashi won’t mind if he doesn’t come home that night.

#𐚁 — aiden writes: art donaldson.#art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson smut #art donaldson challengers #challengers movie #challengers smut

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sodaequalsbubbles · 2 months ago

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Okay this is going to be a long ass negative Dragon Age the Veilguard post. So don’t read if you don't care about negative opinions on this game.

First of all, I should have never looked at the veilguard art book. I shouldn't have looked. WHY DID I LOOK THROUGH IT ughhhhhhhhhhh.

Before I just felt disappointed about this game. But now it's a genuine bitter sadness after seeing all of the art book.

I had a feeling that this game was probably frankensteined together, because datv felt so half-baked with chunks of story missing from it. Honestly parts of the game gave me the same sensation as when you skip a cutscene or speed run an area, it felt so off sometimes. So I knew there was probably a lot of stuff that was removed or altered until it was unrecognizable, but I didn't realize how bad it was. We were actually robbed. BioWare stabbed us in the middle of an alley way, made off with our wallets, and stepped on our hopes for this game on the way out. (Dramatic I know, but you get the point)

And before people start saying that it's unfair to criticize this game from its concept art because, "it’s just concept art and ideas. A lot of those concepts don't end up making it to the final game. Especially with the development of a triple a". I know that, but veilguard doesn't feel like they just cut out some characters, levels, game mechanics, etc. etc.

It feels like a whole separate game was cut out, and we were left with the glued together scraps of what could’ve been.(Sorry for the poor screenshots, it was difficult to find online scans for the art book )

What? The South of Thedas was actually going to matter instead of being nuked? Who was chosen as the Divine, and maybe even the rulers of Orlais and Ferelden were going to have more impact on the story? Yeah probably.

______________________________________________________________

The agents of Fen'Harel were originally going to be a part of the game like it was hinted at in the end of Trespasser. And constantly be sabotaging your plans to stop Solas. And instead of elves giving the biggest possible meh response, to the fact that the ancient elven gods were back and trying to restore their empire, by destroying the current world. They actually react as one should in this situation lol.

And many end up joining Solas ( and probably Elgar'nan, and Ghilan'nain as well). Because it kind of makes sense for enslaved, oppressed, and abused people that have been suffering for centuries to throw their lot in with those that promise to free them.

______________________________________________________________

Another cut idea made it seem like the first act of the game was going to start with your party sneaking into Tevinter, to get ahold of the red lyruim idol from DA2. But Solas and his agents are one step ahead, and he takes it before you can. Then turns the idol into the purified lyruim dagger he uses in the ritual at the actual start of the datv. (Better than Varric just telling you where the dagger came from, ah this game really loves telling instead of showing.) So that probably means the scene of interrupting Solas's ritual was going to be further along in the story. Instead of Rook just being air dropped into this mess, with even less of an explanation than the concept art lmao.

______________________________________________________________

Rivain was going to be a trading post, kind of sleazy and a melting pot of different Thedas cultures. Instead of an endless sandy coast with ruins strewn about.

______________________________________________________________

The real Tevinter was going to be seen. Its opulence, pride, and strength built off the backs of slaves and magic. Because believe it or not, outright ignoring slavery in Tevinter is worse than showing it. Instead of giving us the chance to confront it, and put a stop to it like the Shadow Dragons, Maevaris Tilani, and Dorian have been trying to do for years, the game just outright acts like it’s not happening basically. Making me feel like no one in the game gives a damn about these people that are suffering. Pretending it’s not there doesn’t change anything.

A little section in the book shows that we maybe could have started a slave revolt in Tevinter as well.

______________________________________________________________

Whoever was left behind in the Fade after Inquisition, was going to appear when Rook gets trapped there.

______________________________________________________________

Isabela was intended to be an advisor, perhaps alongside Morrigan and Dorian (like Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine were in DAI). And provide you a ship, and a captain for your journey. Instead of being a glorified WWE announcer for a fighting ring. She was also going to have a proper outfit; unlike the absolute mess we got in game ugh.

______________________________________________________________

In the concept art there was more politics. Such as gaining allies from opposing sides, like the Qunari and Tevinter.

______________________________________________________________

There were also perhaps plans for more divisive and conflicting sentiments within the companions. And events where they could betray you depending on choices made in the game. (Real conflict and consequences, in my Dragon Age?!)

______________________________________________________________

The Inquisitor probably was going to have more involvement in the story.

______________________________________________________________

You could ride a GRIFFON while hunting dragons.

So yeah, the art book brought more sadness than curiosity out of me. I will now go into the salt mines, to mourn the game we could’ve gotten instead.

#dragon age #datv critical #dragon age veilgaurd critical #bioware critical #there are things i love from this game #and i love the fanfics and the fanart for it #but the bad just outweighs the good for me i can't ignore it #so i don't think i'll ever replay datv #joplin cut of the game please come back😭#honestly i hate the fact that i care this much #but dragon age has always been a comfort series for me #so having to wait 10 years for what we ended up getting genuinely made me upset #and the fact that this might be the last dragon age we ever get is just heartbreaking #i don't think i'll ever get over it tbh

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tan1shere · 3 months ago

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Passion Painting

Billie Eilish x female reader !

A/n: Was watching my show when I got a little inspired by an episode :D kinda quoted a line from it too because it was fitting. I'll make it bold so you guys know ! - I literally need this woman rn (or even a dom in my asks that'll be great too.)

Summary: you get a gift so you and Billie spice things up a bit ;)

Warnings: smut ! Scissoring 🥰 bills being a bit rough 😫 (i personally love how this turned out)

Tags: @trulyy-yourzz @eilishslut @brat-at-the-disco @iluvapplesxh @chrissv4mp @n0vabug

masterlist

The door opens, hearing keys jingle. Billie was finally home and you had missed her all day. But she doesn't come empty handed. You had just come into the room, greeting her. "Hey baby, what's that?" She sets it down. "Well, it's an early Christmas gift from Claudia. She said we can open it whenever? Whatever that means." You tilt your head. "Do we open it now?" She takes her shoes off, looking at you. "I mean if you want to, she didn't say otherwise. So I'd say its fine." She smiles at you, going over to give you a kiss.

"Good day?" - "It was ok, bit slow work wise but apart from that it was good." You say, going to pick up the box wrapped with festive paper. Bringing it over to the dining table. "How's Finn and Claudia? Did you get much done today?" She nods. "They're good, and yeah a little bit thank goodness. Glad to be home, missed you." You go to kiss her again. "I missed you. Right lets see what we have here." You say, ripping the thin material. Reading the box outloud.

Confusion strikes you. "What is it?" Billie asks. You turn it around so she can see, reading out the words to her. "Passion Painting Erotic Art Kit." She makes a face of realization. "So that's why she said to do it at night time and maybe after a date. I was so confused." You look at her. "You wanna do it?" She thinks for a moment, smirking to herself. "What? Slather you in paint and fuck you? Without a doubt babe." You grin widely. "Sounds like a plan then."

Giggles echoed though the house as you open the front door and speed over to the kit. Billie close behind. "I've actually been thinking about this all day." You admit. "Oh yeah?" She comes close to you. "Sitting in your desk at work, clenching your thighs as I smear paint all over your body. Over your curves." Your faces were close to one another, inches away. You bite your lip, averting your eyes to look at hers. They were natural apart from a little liner making them look plump and inviting. You lean in to kiss her but she pulls back.

Causing an annoyed groan to leave you. "Billie." You whine. She chuckles. That fucking chuckle. It was menacing. "Why don't we make this a little challenge." Your head tilts with intrigue. "I'm listening." She goes to unbox it, waiting a moment before she speaks again. "Let's see how long we can go without kissing one another." - "What-?" She turns around. "Don't think you can?" You think for a second. "Fine, let's see who looses." She smirks. "I think we both know who that's going to be." Your eyes roll. "Yeah yeah." But her hand grabs your jaw.

"Such an attitude for someone whos about to get fucked on the floor." Your throat closes up finding breathing to be the last thing on your mind currently. You both spread the canvas out. But in reality, you're going to be the canvas spread out at the end of the night. She'd make sure of it. You pick up the paints. Gold and blue. "Which?" She looks at them. "Hmm blue." You hand her the blue. "Right well I better get out of this." You began, back facing her. Slightly bent over as you stand back up. She smirks to herself grabbing the zip at the top of your dress. And swiftly pulling it down.

You gasp as the air hits your nipples. Since the dress had no straps you went against wearing a bra. Now standing almost fully naked in your kitchen, you two had moved some furniture around so you'd have the right space. "Oops, well I mean now all you need to take off is that tiny. Tiny. Pair of underwear." You had to process how fast she was with the dress you almost didn't register her hands pulling the thin material of your underwear off. It was only then when you realized how cool everything got. A shiver running down your spine. You wanted to kiss that smirk right off her face.

But you couldn't, you had to remember the game. "Your turn." Her smirk stays, grabbing her shirt from the back with one hand, lifting it off her head. Hair becoming messy. She takes off her pants next because she too, didn't put a bra on. There was no need. But you definitely weren't complaining. Your eyes stare for a moment. Maybe if you focused on that and not her really, inviting lips you'd be fine. But God were you wrong. You just wanted to grab her and kiss her. You both stand fully naked infront of one another.

Your nerves getting the better of you as she stalks closer to you. The lid pops off the paint. As she hands you the blue one. "We have to put it on one another." But her words went out one ear and out the other. "Hey." She says getting your attention. "Focus baby." Your eyes meet hers, handing her the gold. There was still some plastic on it so she brings it up to her mouth, getting ahold of it and ripping it off. All while keeping intense eye contact. You were going to be dripping soon. And not with paint. Her lips come to the cap, popping that off and out of her mouth. She squeezes a good amount into her hand. "You're going to be so gold you'll look like one of my Oscar's."

You gulp back saliva, you were almost drooling. Even more so when her hand makes contact with your skin. The paint was a little cold, but her burning hands soon get rid of that. Your body starts to become hot. Nerves coming back more prominent. She rubs it all over your chest, moving down to your tits, having it around most but leaving your nipples free. She had plans. Her movements were incredibly slow, making you more needy. She made sure she got your whole body, minus the places she needed access to. Standing back and letting you take over on hers.

Your shakey hand comes in contact with her neck. "Nervous?" You shake your head. "That's not really an answer huh?" You couldn't look at her, you just couldn't. You were close to giving into everything how was she so God damn calm? Your mind races as you come to her breats, you were hesitant but eager to touch them. "Why so Nervous huh? It's as if you haven't touched them before, when we both know that's not true." She was getting you to break, to give up on the game. "You're making this harder.." You whisper out. "Is that so? Darn, I didn't even realize." You pout slightly. "Can't go on?"

You think for a second, shaking your head. "Im fine." You say as your hands move over the rest of her body. "So shy, sweetheart." You swallow. "N-no I'm not." Her brow raises. "Don't lie." But she softly grabs your hand, moving them over her body. "See like that, not hard is it?" You whimper. "You're making it hard Bills." Your eyes look at her with a pleading glint. "Shame." Her eyes look down at your body. "Think its time we have our fun." She says, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you down on the paper. Letting her hands move to your breasts. She had the left a part of your neck blank, bringing her lips to it and kissing.

"Billie.." You breathe out, but she moves her hands and grabs your ass tightly. "Uh uh, say it correct." Your head spins. "Mommy." - "Good girl." Your eyes shut. Trying so hard to resist the urge to kiss her. "Mommy please." You say, grabbing her arms and moving them down to her waist as she begins to move her cunt on your own. Your first moan of the night slips out. "What? Are you all sad you can't kiss me darling girl? You agreed to the challenge no?" You zip it. Hating that you did agree to it, you didn't care anymore. You go to switch positions getting ontop.

"Please let me kiss you please." Her hands rest on your lower back as you desperately move your pussy on hers. "Please Mommy, need it so bad." She smirks. "I can see angel. You've never done that before I guess you truly mean it." You pout again at her, she was playing with you and it was driving you mental. Moving down to attatch your lips to her own. But she serves, loving the little frustrated whines you let out. "You're so mean." Her hand instantly wraps around your throat and in the blink of and eye she was back ontop.

"What was that princess?" Her grip tightens making your words float away. "Hm??" You try to talk but it's no use. "Exactly what I thought." Her hand grips your thigh, hoisting it up to dangle on her shoulder. Her hand remains around your throat while the other is on the paper, close to your head and surely leaving a handprint on the almost covered paper. Your body's making art. Surely a night to remember. Her movements become harsh making your mind race, your mouth hangs open at the feeling of both of your wetness together. She watches your eyes roll back, and slowly seeing your lids drooping.

"there you go, fall into subspace that's it. You beautiful being." You had no thought other than her, the way she was fucking against you. Absolutely no words left. Her hand stays firmly around your throat. Your bodys soon come close together. Your breasts touching, nipples grazing one another and that was it. That was all it took for you two to gush against the other. Her lips come crashing down onto your own, loosening her grip to hear your sinful moans travel into her mouth. She groans as she rides out both of your orgasmns. Flopping on you to catch her breath. "Wow." You say. "Wow indeed."

You had a nice soothing shower together, getting comfortable in your bed. Snuggling up close. Until you grab your phone. "What're you doing?" She asks. "Thanking that amazing woman for even thinking of this for us." She smiles, letting out a laugh. "Thank her for me too." You then smile to yourself. "You do know you lost your own game right?"

"A wins a win when you get to fuck your girlfriend and showcase it on a wall for everyone to see and know that you're all. Mine."

#billie eilish #billie elish icons #billie ellish lyrics #billie eilish imagine #billie #billie eilish smut #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fandom #billie elish moodboard #billie eilish x reader smut #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x you

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ohproserpine · 1 year ago

Text

vi. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and blood, overdose, murder, death, hunting, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder, heated scene (making out)

˚୨୧₊♱

You never really liked cars.

The first time you had ridden in one was in the 1930s.

It was after one of your shifts, the wet streets illuminated only by the flickering glow of the rusting lampposts. There you stood, still in your glad rags and wrapped in a coat, the misty drizzle kissing your face. Alastor arrived a few minutes later with a honk of his horn, surprising you with a ride home in his latest purchase—a stunning red car with a sleek roof that gleamed in the dim light, its long, sweeping fenders and rounded body cutting a striking figure against the darkness of the night.

As you got into the car, excitement tingled in your veins, eager to experience the wonders of modern transportation. However, the thrill quickly turned to fear as the speeds increased, and your husband, the ass he was, seemed to enjoy nothing more than pushing the accelerator and hearing your horrified screams. Each time the car accelerated, you found yourself clinging onto him for dear life, the rush of wind slamming against your flushed face, your heart racing in your chest.

Since then, you swore never to get into a car again, preferring the safety of solid ground beneath your feet, the memory of that terrifying ride haunting your thoughts whenever you heard the roar of an engine.

Now, standing outside and shivering in the cold, you watched as a long royal blue limo pulled up before you. The sleek vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding city. The doors, adorned with gold accents, were automated and opened up for you, revealing a plush interior illuminated by soft, warm lighting. Small steps extended gracefully from below, inviting you to step inside.

Velvette wasted no time and went in first, her stiletto heels clicking against the polished floor as she settled into one of the luxurious seats. Already engrossed in a phone call, her voice echoed faintly through the open doorway, mingling with the low hum of the engine.

Meanwhile, Vox stood by your side, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the pavement. You knew he was making sure you wouldn't attempt to escape, although the thought barely crossed your mind.

After all, where could you possibly run to now? Any endeavor in that direction would likely prove futile and possibly even fatal. The evidence of your soul being sold was clear, evident in the now black color of your sclera.

"Well," Vox drawled, his voice carrying a subtle edge of impatience as he gestured towards the open limousine door. "Aren't you going to go in?"

You hesitated, biting your lip as you reluctantly took a step back. Vox eyed your actions warily.

"Is it safe?" you found yourself blurting out, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

"Is it safe?" Vox repeated with a scoff, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Of course it's safe! I made it!"

He pointed to the VoxTek logo on the car—as though he were a seasoned salesman promoting a product. The metal emblem gleamed under the faint streetlights. Yet, rather than assuring you, the sight of the branding only heightened your unease.

Vox noticed the lack of change in your expression and sighed, deciding to take a different approach. With a faint glimmer of empathy, he motioned toward a nearby building which had a large billboard featuring his face and image.

"See there?" he gestured, his tone adopting a persuasive edge. "See what that billboard says? VoxTek is a symbol of power and security. You're in the safest hands possible. This limousine is equipped with state-of-the-art safety features."

His attempt to reassure you only rang hollow in your ears, and despite his words, a sense of unease continued to gnaw at you. Yet, Vox still persisted, his voice softening as he stepped closer to you. You had to crane your head up to look at him while he stared down at you, his figure casting a shadow over your form.

"I assure you," he pressed, his tone gentler now. "You have nothing to fear."

With no other choice but to comply, you reluctantly stepped forward, your movements stiff and hesitant. Vox held your hand as he guided you towards the waiting limousine. As you entered the luxurious interior, the door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing your fate as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color as the limousine sped through the streets. With each passing moment, the distance between you and Mimzy's torn-down lounge grew.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely noticed when the limousine finally came to a stop, the sudden silence jolting you back to reality. As the door opened with a soft hiss, you gazed out to behold the imposing V Tower looming before you.

Its grandeur was undeniable, with its towering floors and striking red windows gleaming in the night. At the very top, a massive antenna sat, reaching towards the sky like a beacon, while a studio sign was plastered along the building's front, featuring red lips nestled within the arches of the middle V, an iconic symbol of the entertainment empire housed within.

Vox and Velvette emerged from the limousine, their presence causing a few loiterers on the street to scurry away in fear.

Oh, how you wished you could do the same.

Inside the car, you hesitated, nerves coiling in your stomach as you fidgeted with your hands. Then, unexpectedly, Vox turned to you, his expression unreadable as he extended his hand.

Surprised, you paused for a moment before accepting his hand, allowing him to guide you down the steps. The chilly night air enveloped you as your feet touched the pavement, the distant sound of the limo's engine fading away as it drove off.

Seconds passed, and Vox still maintained his grip on your hand, his hold firm. Confusion flickered in your mind as you turned to him, noticing the irritation in his gaze as he eyed your wedding ring.

"Is there a problem, mister?" you asked as you followed his gaze to your ring.

Vox's expression remained inscrutable for a moment before he finally responded, his tone cool and detached.

"I suggest you ditch that," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It's a liability now. Doesn't do any favors for your image, doll."

"But I'm awfully attached. It's…" you began, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find a good enough excuse.

You knew all too well the consequences of revealing your connection, especially in your current vulnerable state. The mere mention of Alastor's name could unravel everything, plunging you deeper into this mess. With two powerful overlords and a soul contract hanging over your head like a guillotine, caution was not just a choice but a necessity.

"It's a symbol of your past life," Vox interjected, his voice cutting through your hesitation.

"And we're leaving that behind now." He extended his hand, the glint of his metal claws catching the dim light, mirroring the uncertainty in your expression. "Hand it over."

With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly slipped the ring off your finger, a pang of loss gripping your heart as you handed it to the overlord. Vox accepted it with a dismissive nod before tucking it into his pocket, his attention already turning back to the looming entrance of the V Tower.

As you entered the building flanked by both Vox and Velvette, you were immediately struck by the brash, modern atmosphere that engulfed you. The walls were painted in bold hues of pink and red, illuminated by the glare of oversized LED screens that flashed with images and advertisements for upcoming events. The floor beneath your feet was polished to a sterile sheen, reflecting the harsh neon lights that bathed the space.

Velvette, with her usual air of haughty superiority, led the way to your room, her steps brisk and impatient. She barely spared you a glance as she gestured towards the metal door that stood before you, its surface cold and unwelcoming.

With a swish of her fingers, she conjured an obtrusively bright star decoration on the wall, reminiscent of celebrity door decorations found in Hollywood, with your name scrawled in cursive on its surface.

"Right, if there's anything you need, you just go down to the lobby and find someone named Shalom," Velvette barked, her tone sharp and impatient, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

"Say, is there a chance I could lay my mitts on a radio?" you asked, hoping to grasp onto some semblance of familiarity in this alien environment, your eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them.

But instead of a response, Vox began to buffer, his screen flashing with bright neon glitches, while Velvette's lips curled into a sneer, her expression one of thinly veiled contempt and amusement at your request.

"Guess I'll take that as a no then?" you smiled tensely, your attempt falling flat.

To your surprise, Vox shook his head, and his screen flashed back to his face, the glitches disappearing as quickly as they had come.

The TV demon reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. Without a word, he plopped it into your hand, and you turned it over, confusion evident on your face.

"A phone?" you said, flabbergasted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. You blinked in astonishment, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you. You were more surprised by the fact that it came from his pocket. Does he keep random smartphones on him at all times?

"Yes, a phone," Vox confirmed with a smirk, a hint of pride dancing in his eyes. "Consider it a courtesy from VoxTek. No need for a radio when we have such sleek products. This is the future! You don't need old shit from the past. Those radios barely pick up anything worth listening to, just crappy, barely audible broadcasts."

"Oh," you said, the air deflating from your lungs as a pang of disappointment settled in your chest. The phone was a thoughtful gesture, but it wasn't going to fix your longing to speak to Alastor. "Well. I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't mention it," Vox replied casually, his demeanor shifting back to its usual aloofness, his tone devoid of any genuine warmth or concern.

With a resigned sigh, you turned and stepped into your new room. You looked around the décor curiously, taking in the sleek modern furniture and it's peculiar design.

Velvette followed closely behind you, her eyes, framed with smoky eyeshadow, narrowing as she regarded you with disgust. The glint of her perfectly manicured nails caught the harsh overhead lights as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Really? A hooverette dress?" Velvette sneered, each syllable dripping with disdain. "You're like a relic from the '40s. Outdated."

You felt a surge of anger at the comment. Sure, you died near the 1940s, but that didn't mean you were outdated. Before you could even muster a response, Velvette raised a hand, and with a flick of her fingers, she effortlessly transformed the fabric of your dress. It rippled and shifted, morphing before your eyes into a pink silk pajama robe, trimmed with a cream-colored fur. She stepped back, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips as she admired her handiwork.

"Much better," she declared with a clap. "Listen, you're representing VoxTek now. Even when sleeping, we can't have you looking like a washed-up has-been, can we?"

Swallowing your pride, you forced a tight-lipped nod, suppressing the urge to lash out in defiance.

"Yes, ma'am," you managed to grit out, your voice strained. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she retorted, her tone sharp and dismissive. "I've got a lot of work to do, and you've got a long way to go before I can get you stage ready."

With that, Velvette stormed out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each brisk step. As she disappeared from view, Vox leaned in, his shadow casting a long silhouette against the wall. He reached for the doorknob, his fingers gliding over the cool metal.

"Goodnight," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. With a gentle pull, he closed the door with a thud, sealing you in with your thoughts and fears. The latch clicked shut, and you were left alone, enveloped in the eerie silence of the unfamiliar space.

With a heavy sigh, you turned to survey your room even closer.

Your eyes swept over the tall walls adorned with abstract artwork, bursts of vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the subdued hues of the furniture. The wide windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, with skyscrapers twinkling in the distance like distant constellations.

Approaching the plush king-sized bed, you sank into its cloud-like mattress, feeling its comforting embrace envelop you. It was definitely an improvement from Mimzy's lounge. And yet, despite the luxurious trappings, a sense of confinement lingered. After all, a gilded cage remains a cage.

As you assessed your situation, it became clear that you were going to be the star attraction in Velvette's upcoming fashion extravaganza. Her shows were always a hit, and this year's circus-themed spectacle had her buzzing with excitement. The lead model was a singer-actress you'd heard of; you'd seen her the day Mimzy dragged her into the lounge. Pity the poor girl died.

Given the circus motif, it was apparent why Velvette had chosen you. Your background as a singer, coupled with your doll-like appearance, made you the perfect fit for the role.

The best course of action now was to play it safe. Going along with her plan was sure to draw attention, from the lowest imps to Lucifer Morningstar himself. Your face was bound to be plastered on every screen in the infernal realm, broadcasted to demons and damned souls alike. Even with his hatred for the picture shows, Alastor would have to be both blind and deaf to miss this.

He would come for you, you knew it deep in your bones, and yet a pessimistic voice in the back of your head whispered doubts.

Did you even deserve to be taken back after all of this?

With these thoughts weighing heavily on your mind like an anchor dragging you into the depths, you closed your eyes, seeking solace in the darkness behind your lids. But sleep remained elusive, evading your grasp.

As the night wore on, exhaustion crept over you like a heavy fog, its tendrils enveloping you in a suffocating embrace. Despite the turmoil raging within, your body succumbed to weariness, and gradually, you slipped into your dreams.

˚୨୧₊♱

Both you and Alastor embarked on a slow journey through the darkened streets of Louisiana, the car's headlights cutting through the enveloping gloom like beacons. Carefully navigating the labyrinthine city, you avoided the occasional patrol car with its blinding flashlights, skirting through shadowed alleys and side streets to evade detection.

Finally reaching the outskirts of town, where the forest awaited, Alastor brought the car to a halt, the engine's low hum fading into silence. Turning to you, he noticed the fear etched on your face, your wide eyes reflecting the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

With a tender touch, Alastor took your face in his hands, calling for you. "Cher?"

You turned to him, your lips parting slightly as tears welled in your eyes. Alastor's touch was feather-light as his fingertips traced a delicate path along the curve of your cheek. With a gentle brush of his thumb, he coaxed your eyelids closed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving a trail in their wake. As you blinked your eyes open again, you were met with the tender press of his lips against yours.

"We did what we had to do," Alastor murmured against your lips, his voice a low rasp that sent goosebumps dancing across your skin.

With his eyes closed, he leaned in closer, his kiss growing more urgent, almost desperate. You responded in kind, the roughness of the kiss igniting a fire within you.

Feeling his fingers threading through the back of your hair, you whimpered and melted into his embrace, your hands clutching onto his broad shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Alastor groaned in response as he lifted you effortlessly from the passenger seat and settled you onto his lap. Your chest pressed flat against his, the rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own.

As the sky grew darker, the moon mingling with the fading hues of sunset, the wind whispered through the open windows of the car, carrying with it the promise of a new beginning.

Alastor eventually pulled away, his gaze lingering on your tousled hair and puffy lips as he leaned back in his seat, taking in every detail of your appearance. Seeing you in such a ruined state stirred something within him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. You nodded meekly in response, your heart racing.

Truth be told, you didn't think you could ever truly be ready for what you were about to do.

Your husband hummed in acknowledgment, allowing you to slip off his lap as he straightened his brown coat, the fabric rustling softly with each movement.

Guiding you out of the car, he then reached into the backseat, retrieving his hunting gun. The metallic click of the firearm being loaded echoed in the quiet night. And you damn near fainted when he handed it to you, the weight of it feeling heavier than you could bear. The metal surface was icy against your palm, and you fought the urge to recoil, but Alastor pressed it firmly into your hand, his touch reassuring yet commanding.

"You'll need this," Alastor spoke lowly, bending down to your height, his glasses slipping further down the bridge of his nose. "Use it for safety. There might be wild animals out."

You hesitated, the weight of the weapon heavy in your hand, but the urgency in his tone spurred you to nod in agreement.

"Do you remember when I taught you how to hunt?" he questioned, slipping on a pair of dark leather gloves he had pulled out of his pocket. His voice was low and smooth, laced with a hint of nostalgia. "You remember how to shoot, no?"

You nodded, eyes still glued to the gun, unable to tear your gaze away.

"Words, cher. Use your words."

"Yes, love," you whispered, finding your voice. Alastor smiled, the rough texture of his glove grazing gently against your cheek as he pressed his hand to your face one last time before stepping away.

Your husband made his way to the trunk of the car, the soft glow of the taillights casting long shadows across the forest floor. With strong pull, he opened it, revealing its contents. Your breath caught in your throat as he retrieved a shovel and a black body bag, the sight sending a sickening feeling through your stomach.

Alastor slung the bag over his shoulder and began walking, his steps confident, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The weight of the bag seemed inconsequential to him, swinging lightly with each stride. There was an odd, almost unsettling look in his eyes as he whistled a tune, the sound echoing eerily through the silent woods. A glint of something primal and untamed flickered within their depths.

Nonetheless, you followed him, drawn to his presence like a moth to a flame.

Trudging deeper, the shadows seemed to grow darker, more menacing. The silence pressed in on you from all sides, broken only by Alastor's whistling and the sound of your footsteps crunching on the forest floor. Each step felt like a descent into madness, the unknown lurking just beyond the reach of your flashlight's beam.

Suddenly, Alastor halted in a secluded corner, where the trees were decaying, their long branches resembling gnarled fingers reaching out for you in the darkness. He turned to you, the dim light of your flashlight reflecting off his glasses, giving his brown eyes an otherworldly glint.

In that moment, illuminated by the pale beam, he looked almost demonic, his features twisted by the play of light and shadow.

"I'll be back shortly, cher," he hummed with a smile, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. You couldn't help but notice a darkened spot on his brown coat, the collar of his white button-up now stained with crimson. "Stay here."

With that, he disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving you alone amidst the looming trees.

Time stretched on endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity as you stood alone. Faintly, you could hear the distant sound of Alastor's shovel breaking through the earth's surface, its metallic scrape and the muffled thud as it struck the soil sending another wave of nausea curling in your gut, each noise a grim reminder of the task at hand.

All you wanted was to escape, to return to the safety of your quaint house in the city.

More than anything, you longed to open a bottle of whiskey, to drown your fears and sorrows in its comforting embrace. Maybe have a second, or a third, and just forget.

Forget about all of this. Forget it all ever happened. But deep down, you knew that no amount of alcohol could erase the memories of tonight, each image now etched into your mind like scars on your soul.

All of a sudden, a rustling sound behind you sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins, followed by the distant but unmistakable bark of dogs. The sound seemed to come from all directions, surrounding you in a menacing chorus.

With a sharp gasp, you spun round and round in a whirl, your vision tunneling with fear as you scanned the darkness, eyes wide and frantic. Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig, seemed to magnify the sense of dread that gripped you. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the cool night air burning in your lungs as you struggled to keep your composure.

And then, without warning, something lunged from the darkness, a blur of movement that sent your heart racing even faster. Instinct took over, and without thinking, you raised the gun and fired, the deafening sound reverberating through the silent forest.

You gasped for air, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you found yourself sitting on the damp, muddy ground. The recoil of the gun had sent you sprawling backward, leaving you disoriented and breathless.

With trembling hands, you clutched the gun closer to your chest, the cold metal providing a shaky sense of security in the darkness. Despite the fear coursing through your veins, a surge of determination propelled you forward, your muscles tensed and ready for whatever danger lay ahead. Scrambling to your feet, you pushed yourself onward.

Each step was punctuated by the crunch of underbrush beneath your boots, the sound amplifying in the stillness of the forest. Amidst the shadows and foliage, you caught a blur of brown, relief flooding through you like a wave crashing against the shore.

Oh, heavens, it was just a deer.

As you trudged towards the poor animal, your foot caught on a branch, and you stumbled, the unforgiving forest floor meeting your body with a painful thud. In the fall, your gun slipped from your grasp, skidding off into the shadows.

Wincing, you pushed yourself up to your knees, the earthy scent of decay mingling with the metallic tang of blood. You looked toward the fallen creature, its form now visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the trees. But as you crawled over, dread crept into your heart.

There, lying face down on the dirt, was Alastor, his once-immaculate brown coat now dirtied, blending seamlessly with mud. His glasses lay shattered and discarded in front of him, glinting faintly in the dim moonlight that danced across the forest floor. A pool of crimson blood seeped from his head, staining the earth beneath him.

Your eyes widened with renewed horror as the truth dawned upon you, and you fell onto your back, scrambling away from the corpse of your husband, the damp earth sticking to your palms as you clawed at the ground in your panic.

The bark of the dogs were louder now, closer. Ignoring the dizzy vertigo in your head, you pushed yourself to your feet, your senses on high alert.

You choked out a broken apology but found that you could not hear it, that you could not make any sound at all.

You breathed, it was all you could do, all you could manage at the moment, and with the terrible weight on your chest, even that was made difficult.

What have you done?

˚୨୧₊♱

"Salutations! It's Tom back on the airwaves! Hold onto your hats because we've got some news that'll knock your socks off! Alastor Caron, the big shot radio host and husband of underground singer Dolly, also known as Y/N Caron, has been found pushing up daisies out in the sticks of Louisiana!

That's right, folks, he's dead!

Word on the street is, ol' Alastor met our maker with a bullet to the head in what can only be described as a real tragic whodunit. Sources close to the case are whispering in the wind, suggesting that Dolly herself might be mixed up in this spicy little affair. The coppers found her fingerprints on the gun! Can you believe it?! Stay tuned as we peel back the curtain and spill the tea on this sto—"

You shut the radio off with a frustrated slam of your fist, the sound echoing through the desolate living room.

Eviction papers and newspapers, crumpled and worn from countless readings, are strewn haphazardly across the table.

"Gone Girl," "Husband-killer," "Missing Marionette," "A Doll's Vanishing Act," "Manhunt underway for Suspected Murderer," "Louisiana Radio Host dead; Wife blamed."

The headlines scream, each word a painful reminder of the nightmare engulfing your life.

Empty bottles litter around you, their contents spilled and forgotten, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the drowning feeling of grief that permeates the room. Sirens wail in the distance while red and blue lights dance along the walls, cast by the dim light filtering through tightly shut curtains.

As you reach for another bottle, the drinks blur into one another, their labels indistinguishable in the dark room. The burning sensation as the liquid courses down your throat offers temporary relief from the turmoil raging inside your mind, numbing the pain and grief threatening to consume you. Each sip takes you further into a haze.

The room spins around you, items warping and dancing in a twisted mockery of your predicament. There are whispers now, soft and insidious, slithering into your ears like serpents. You try to push away the accusing voices echoing in your mind, drowning them out with your bottle's numbing embrace. But with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations grows heavier, dragging you deeper into despair.

Nausea churns in the pit of your stomach, and you finally stop moving, the dizziness overwhelming you. A deathly coldness settles over you, seeping into your bones like icy tendrils, causing you to shiver involuntarily. Your fingers lose their grip on the bottle, and it crashes to the ground with a shattering sound that echoes in the stillness of the room, shards of glass scattering across the floor like stars falling from the sky. You follow suit, collapsing onto the floor, limbs heavy and muscles twitching.

You stare vacantly ahead, unable to move, your eyes glazed over with a hollow emptiness as a sense of dread washes over you, suffusing the air with an oppressive weight. Each breath feels like a battle, your chest tightening with every inhalation, as if your lungs were filled with water.

Your breaths grow more labored, each one shallower than the last, until they eventually cease altogether, leaving you gasping for air that refuses to come.

The world around you fades into darkness, the edges of your vision blurring as consciousness slips away, leaving you engulfed in a silence broken only by the faint echo of your last heartbeat.

˚୨୧₊♱

There was screaming.

Footsteps thudded along a path nearby, accompanied by the fluttering of wings as creatures soared overhead.

You awaken with a startle, disoriented and groggy.

Slowly sitting up, you find yourself surrounded by a crimson landscape, a pentagram shimmering ominously in the air above you. As you move, your hand sinks into something cold and wet, a sickening squelch accompanying the sensation.

Horror grips you as you realize your hand is touching a corpse, its monstrous form adorned with twisted horns, jagged tails, and rows of sharp teeth. The pair of lifeless eyes shift and stare into you, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Frozen with terror and panic, you scramble away from the grotesque sight, the ground slick with crimson ichor, each step leaving bloody handprints and footprints in your wake.

The evening light of this place reveals a grim environment surrounding you – a lumpy, uneven field of corpses and bones, a mass grave unlike any you've ever seen. But these corpses are not human; they are demonic, twisted and contorted in death.

Before you can even make sense of this grotesque scene, a spear slices through the air, its sharp tip gleaming in the dim light. With a thud, it embeds itself into the ground beside you. A sharp, stinging sensation follows as your cheeks burn, crimson liquid trailing down your skin.

Gasping for breath, you look up and catch sight of a figure soaring overhead, its massive wings spread wide against the crimson sky. Each beat sends a gust of wind rushing past you, whipping your hair around your face. The figure's single eye fixates on you, its gaze piercing through the darkness, the other obscured by a large 'X' mark.

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you run away, the cold sweat of fear prickling your skin.

Your surroundings blur into a chaotic whirlwind as you race through the labyrinthine alleys of Hell. With every stride, your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. Each footfall echoes in the narrow passageways, the walls closing in around you like a vice, but the chase of the angel behind you drives you forward, your muscles burning with exertion as you push yourself to your limits.

Suddenly, you're yanked to a stop, your body colliding with a stone floor as you're pulled into a hidden doorway. Pain shoots through your arm, and you wince, clutching it tightly against your chest. It throbs with a dull ache, bruised from the fall.

As you cautiously lift your gaze, you find yourself in a familiar setting—a speakeasy, though more rugged and rundown than you were used to. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. Mismatched furniture and a barely held-together bar give the place a sense of makeshift charm.

"Well, look who it is."

The voice freezes you in place, and your eyes nervously move upward to see a familiar blonde woman before you, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, her eyes dark and intense.

"Mimzy?" you whisper, disbelief coloring your voice.

"It's me!" she cheers, swinging her legs and jazzing her arms up in the air. With a jump, she plops onto the ground, circling your hunched-over form with a mischievous grin. "How you doin', Dolly?"

"How?" your mind scrambles. "You-You…"

"I know! You thought I was dead?" she snickers before knocking you upside the head playfully. "Welcome to the afterlife, you ditz!"

"What?" you rasp, eyes frantically darting from her to your surroundings. "What are you talking about? Why do you look like that?!"

"Look what? Adorable~?" Mimzy hums and waltzes over to a gramophone, inserting a disk and starting a scratching melody that fills the speakeasy.

Hello, Dolly! Well, hello, Dolly! It's so nice to have you back where you belong~

"Come on, Dolly," Mimzy says, her voice low and melodic as she sways to the music. The bedazzled fringes of her dress sparkle in the dim light as she twirls, her heels dragging along the floorboards. "You haven't been living under a rock, have you? Or did'ja just arrive?"

You're lookin' swell, Dolly I can tell, Dolly You're still glowin', you're still crowin' You're still goin' strong

"I don't understand," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to comprehend what's happening. Everything feels like a dream—a nightmare, more accurately. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"We're both dead," Mimzy chuckles, tapping her heels along to the beat.

We feel the room swayin' While the band's playin' One of your old favourite songs from way back when

"What do you mean?" you manage to croak out, the words barely audible over the music.

Mimzy pauses mid-twirl. "Oh, Dolly," she sighs, shaking her head. "Hell, darling. We're in Hell."

Your blood runs cold at her words, the reality of your situation sinking in like a heavy weight on your chest. The memories of that fateful night flood your mind, filling you with a sense of guilt and despair.

Before you can voice your thoughts, Mimzy grabs your hand and pulls you into a dance, the gramophone's melody swirling around you like a sinister lullaby.

"So, take her wrap, fellas," Mimzy sings along, her laughter echoing off the walls. Her eyes gleam with a mischievous light as she leads you through the steps of the choreography you once knew so well. She twirls you around and drops you into a dip. "Find her an empty lap, fellas!"

"Dolly'll never go away again~"

You feel a surge of frustration building within you, the absurdity of overwhelming your senses. With a shout of anger, you push Mimzy away, a scowl etched deep on your face. She stumbles back, nearly losing her balance in her heels, her smile fading into a look of annoyance.

"Will you cut it out!" you snap, your voice echoing in the empty speakeasy. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Killjoy." Mimzy rolls her eyes and lets out a scoff, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She moves over to the gramophone and turns it off, the melody abruptly silenced.

"I just told you what was going on, you doof!" Mimzy retorts, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The speakeasy falls into an uneasy silence, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint sound of distant screams echoing outside the building. You gesture toward the source of the noise with a look of shock.

"Alright, I know well enough why I'm here, but what is that?" you inquire, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"An extermination. Angels come here to rid of sinners and such," Mimzy shrugs, her expression nonchalant despite the gravity of her words.

"Well, what about Alastor?" you press, the worry evident in your voice.

Mimzy's expression darkens, a flicker of anger crossing her features before she quickly masks it with a smirk. "Oh, you mean your darling husband? He's probably causing chaos somewhere, as usual. He'll be fine."

"I don't think he even knows you're here," she adds on with a yawn. "He probably thinks you're up in the shiny gates of heaven with his momma or something."

"Al knows I'm already dead?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yup!" Mimzy chirps, her grin widening. "Your death came out in the news months ago. But only Lord knows why it took 'em so long to get you through purgatory."

The barrage of new information leaves you dizzy, your head spinning with the implications. "Wait—my death? The news?"

Mimzy moves over to the bar, kneeling down the worn floorboards as she digs through the bottom drawers.

"Didja know there's this little killin' business in Hell? I.M.P.—the Immediate Murder Professionals. And there's this cute little fella named Blitzo who does deliveries for me. I was his first costumer and poor guy needs the extra money so—"

"Mimzy, why are you telling me this?" you interject, confusion evident in your tone.

Mimzy's grin widens as she peeks at you from over the counter, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well, sweetcheeks," she purrs, continuing to leaf through piles of paper, "if you paid attention to their name, they do murder. Murder in the human world, to be exact. And I hired them to go snuff you out!"

"But lo and behold, to my surprise," Mimzy continues, her tone laced with amusement, "you did their job for 'em! And this is what they brought back as proof."

With a flourish, Mimzy procures a newspaper from the depths of the cabident, her hands waving it around in excitement. She throws it to you, and you catch it, fumbling to see the headline. Your stomach churns as you take in the bold letters.

'LAST SWING: Speakeasy Star Suspected of Husband's Murder Dies in Alcohol Overdose.'

"Hi-larious!" Mimzy snorts as she presses a finger against the title, her expression gleeful. You hold the paper up, your hands trembling as you read through the article detailing your own death.

With a cackle, Mimzy jumps onto a nearby table, her movements lithe and energetic as she snatches the paper away from you.

"So, did'ja do it?" she taunts, leaning in close to your face with a devilish grin. "Didn't take you as the type. What was it? Poison? Housewife classic, I tell ya. Maybe a knife? Good ole push him down the stairs? Or was it a gun?"

You tense up at her last words, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. Mimzy smirks, her snicker ringing out like a sinister melody. Curls bounce around her face as she leans in closer, her lips practically ghosting against your cut.

"You shot him?"

"I—" you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as you run a hand through your frazzled hair, the disheveled strands tangling under your trembling fingers. "I didn't mean to! Heavens. I thought he was a deer!"

At that, Mimzy bursts out in loud laughter, tears streaming down her face as she clutches her stomach, doubling over with mirth. The sound echoes off the grimy walls of the speakeasy.

"Is that right?" she wheezes between fits of laughter, slapping her knee while still shaking with amusement. "No wonder he looks like a deer! Oh! The irony!"

"Deer?" you whisper out in confusion, your mind struggling to grasp the implications of her words amidst the chaos of her laughter. She laughs even harder at your response, kicking her feet in the air with unrestrained glee.

After a few minutes, she finally calms down. With a skip in her step and a glint in her eyes, she saunters over to you. Humming a tune, Mimzy twirls around you again, her movements fluid and graceful despite her earlier outburst.

"I know something you don't know~" she sings.

"What do you mean?" you frown, your voice trembling as you gaze at her, searching for any hint of what she's hiding.

"All in good time. I've told you a lot already, didn't I?" Mimzy replies cryptically, her tone snappy. "Let's see—I graciously saved you from that angel that was ready to spill your guts out, I've given you a wonderful welcome, helped you learn about your death, and, well, you were involved in my murder. I'd say the scales aren't balanced! You owe me. A lot."

Guilt churns in your gut as you nervously wring your hands. "Mimzy, no words can express how much guilt I feel about your—"

"Oh, cut the weeping dame bullshit. I don't care about that," Mimzy interrupts with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. Her eyes gleam with a predatory intensity as she leans in closer.

"I'm feeling generous today," she purrs, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "So, I'll make you a deal."

You eye her warily, the guilt in your gut twisting into a knot of apprehension. Despite your unease, you nod, silently urging her to continue, bracing yourself for whatever devil's bargain she has in store.

"In exchange for absolving your involvement in my murder and providing information on your husband," she whispers, her voice dripping with malice, "you'll owe me a favor. A big one. I want you to work for me again."

You tense, your mind racing as you process her proposition, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. "What?"

Mimzy's smirk widens at your reaction, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she relishes in your discomfort. "That's right, sugar. I want you back on the job, working for me just like old times."

"Well I… I don't have much of a choice, do I?" you reply, clenching your fists in frustration.

Mimzy's laughter reverberates through the speakeasy, each chuckle sending shivers down your spine.

"Of course not! Would you prefer to go running to Alastor instead? Oh, dear hubby, please shield me from the consequences of my sins! My apologies for putting a bullet in your skull!" she mocks your voice, drawling the syllables out as she clasps her hands together and bats her eyes at you.

A surge of humiliation and guilt washes over you, weighing heavy on your shoulders as you struggle to come to terms with the choices before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. Despite the overwhelming guilt and shame swirling within you, you know that you're cornered. Mimzy has you right where she wants you, and the only way out is to play her game.

"Fine," you say through gritted teeth, your voice tinged with resignation. "I'll work for you again."

Mimzy's grin widens, her sharp teeth flashed at you. "Excellent choice, darling. You won't regret it."

With a snap of her fingers, a contract materializes in her hand. She hands it over to you, and you read through it. Funnily enough, it looks almost identical to your previous employment contract in the living with her, but one detail catches your eye.

"To settle the debt incurred due to the aforementioned act, Y/N Caron, acknowledging the gravity of her transgressions, agrees to become a singer for Mimzy's Lounge for a duration of ten decades," you read the line in shock. Turning to Mimzy, you clutch the contract tightly, your nails threatening to break the paper. "Ten decades?!"

"What?" Mimzy scoffs, her voice dripping with derision. "You stuck here for all of eternity anyways, and so is your husband. Might as well do something."

With a theatrical flourish, Mimzy reaches into her chest and pulls out a pen, waggling it teasingly in your face. "So? What will it be? Are ya gonna sign the contract? Or am I gonna have to throw you out where those angels can tear you to pieces?"

You read through the contract again, your eyes frantically scanning the paper for any loophole or escape route, but you come up empty-handed. With a sinking feeling in your chest, you realize that you're in this for the long haul.

"But what about Alastor?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your voice.

Mimzy's laughter filled the speakeasy, bouncing off the walls like mocking echoes. "Oh, sweetheart," she cooed with faux sympathy, "haven't you read the fine print? Your dear Alastor is strictly off-limits. Can't have him interfering with our little arrangement, now can we?"

"But… I need to see him," you pleaded, desperation lacing your words.

Mimzy's smirk widened into a wicked grin as she leaned in closer, mischief gleaming in her eyes. "And I need to make sure my end of the deal is fulfilled," she countered firmly.

Glancing down at the contract, you saw her pointing to a specific section. "Y/N Caron's husband, Alastor Caron, is strictly forbidden from being physically present around her in any way, shape, or form for the safety and integrity of this agreement."

"But… can't we find some middle ground?" you asked, a sliver of hope lingering in your voice.

"Ah, I've got an idea," Mimzy grinned , reaching into her drawer and pulling out an old radio. She extended it towards you. "You can talk with him as much as you like. This little radio will be your hotline to him. But there's a catch: he stays far, far away from you and this joint. How's that sound?"

Twisting the radio in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of the decision settle heavily on your shoulders. The device seemed ancient, its surface worn and its knobs slightly rusted, yet it held the power to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between you and Alastor. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly brought the pen to the paper, the ink blotting the sheet as you signed your name away, sealing your fate.

"It's a deal."

#sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel velvette

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solxamber · 4 months ago

Text

Coughing up Love - Idia Shroud x reader

You don't think much of it when Idia starts acting weird because let's be real, that seems to be his default around you. Wait are those flowers he's coughing up?

There’s something odd about Idia lately. He’s acting weird—well, weirder than usual, and that’s saying a lot for someone who’s mastered the art of avoiding people for weeks at a time. It’s subtle at first. His normally snarky, rapid-fire commentary seems more hesitant, his usual screen-lit complexion a bit paler, and he’s excusing himself mid-game way more often than usual.

And, most bizarre of all, every time you hang out, he always seems to keep something in his mouth. Gum, candy, or, more suspiciously, a fist pressed against his lips like he’s hiding something. You know Idia— he's socially awkward, sure, but when it’s just the two of you gaming or chatting, he’s rarely this strange.

Today, the two of you are halfway through an intense raid when he suddenly stands up, his chair creaking violently as he jerks upward.

“Pause! Time out, emergency bathroom break,” he blurts out, yanking his headset off with lightning speed and scrambling for the door.

You frown, watching his character get obliterated on screen. “Dude, you could’ve at least—”

“BRB!” he shouts, voice trailing off as he disappears into the hall. He’s gone in a flash, leaving you blinking at the door, wondering what just happened.

But that’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. Over the next few days, Idia pulls more disappearing acts than a badly programmed NPC. Mid-conversation? Poof, gone. Halfway through a snack? Vanished.

It takes a while, but eventually, the pieces staet to click together. You catch him out of the corner of your eye, face flushed pink, a hand pressed firmly to his mouth as he stifles a coughing fit during one of your game nights. At first, you’re concerned—it’s not like him to get sick, not seriously anyway. You suggest getting him medicine or a trip to the infirmary, but Idia adamantly waves it off.

“I-it’s nothing!” he stammers, trying to hold it together while choking down the coughs. “Just, uh, allergies! Y’know, dust and stuff. Old consoles… gotta, uh, clean them more…”

Suspicious. Old consoles? In Ignihyde? Yeah, right. You narrow your eyes, but drop the subject—at least for now. It’s not until later, when you see something float from his mouth—something blue and oddly petal-like—that you realize what’s happening.

You’ve heard of Hanahaki before. It’s practically a meme among some circles—an outdated trope, really. People coughing up flowers because of unrequited love? What is this, a 2000s anime fanfic? But now, watching a crumpled blue petal fall to the floor in slow motion, you realize that your very own shut-in gamer might be the rare exception to the rule.

The worst part? He’s really, really bad at hiding it.

A few days later, you invite him to hang out at Ramshackle, hoping the quiet environment will calm whatever’s been causing his weird behavior. Things seem fine at first—until you notice him coughing into his sleeve again.

This time, he has a backup plan.

“Are you okay?” you ask, brow raised as he muffles yet another cough.

“Yeah, totally! Just, um…” He rifles through his bag and pulls out a—oh dear sevens, is that a mask?

You can’t help it—you burst out laughing. “You’re… you’re seriously wearing a mask now?”

“It’s for—” He coughs violently again, eyes darting around as if looking for an escape. “For, uh, germs! You know, flu season! Gotta… gotta be prepared…”

You squint at him. “We’re indoors. And it’s summer.”

“Exactly!” he says, as if that makes sense. “The germs are, like, in the air! Sneaky buggers!”

The mask stays on for the rest of the evening, and every time you glance at him, you see his eyes flick away like he’s hiding something worse than a little cough.

His next attempt is, frankly, genius in its stupidity. You’re in his dorm, playing a co-op game, when the inevitable happens: he starts hacking up petals. At first, he plays it off with a hurried gulp of water, but soon the coughing becomes too much. With a gasp, he fumbles for something on his desk—a box of tissues? No, it’s a full-on dust mask this time.

“Idia, what the fu—”

“Pro-gamer tip,” he interrupts, voice muffled behind the mask. “Always be prepared for, uh… dust allergies! It’s, uh, a top-tier strat. Totally not s-suspicious.”

Dust? When he has Ortho making sure that he doesn’t perish? You stare, absolutely dumbfounded. “I’m starting to think you’re more allergic to honesty than dust.”

He laughs—well, tries to. It comes out as a garbled mix of coughing and awkward chuckles. “W-what are you talking about? I’m fine! Really!”

“Fine?” You raise an eyebrow, watching as more petals spill out of his sleeve. “You’re literally falling apart, dude.”

At this, his face burns bright pink, and his hair flares up, turning from it's usual blue to a mortified rosy hue. “N-no I’m not!” he protests weakly. “J-just a little springtime cold, that’s all.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, crossing your arms. “Because spring colds definitely involve coughing up whole bouquets.”

There’s a brief pause as you both stare at the mess of petals on the floor. Idia winces, clearly defeated, and slumps back into his chair.

“...Crap.”

The look of his face tells you to let it go and you do, believing that it'll probably resolve itself. You weren't from this world, maybe it was common here and you were the one that's overreacting?

After another week of weird excuses, mask-related antics, and watching him suffer through increasingly ridiculous attempts to hide his Hanahaki, you’ve had enough. You’re going to get to the bottom of this once and for all.

You catch him mid-cough during one of his solo raids, bursting into his room without warning. Idia practically jumps out of his seat, slamming the pause button and whirling around with wide eyes.

“W-what are you doing here!?” he yelps, trying (and failing) to hide the petals littering his desk. “I—uh—this isn’t what it looks like!”

“Really? Because it looks like you’ve been coughing up whole flowers,” you say, deadpan, as you point to the pile of blue petals strewn across his keyboard. “Seriously, Idia. What’s going on?”

He freezes. For a moment, the room is deadly silent—except for the faint sound of digital gunfire in the background. His face, already pale, turns ghostly white, and his flames flicker pink in embarrassment.

“I…” He stammers, looking everywhere but at you. “I didn’t… It’s not…”

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Spit it out. Or should I say, ‘cough it out?’”

It’s the worst joke you’ve ever made, and yet, somehow, it breaks the tension. Idia lets out a wheezing, awkward laugh, though it quickly dissolves into another coughing fit. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it—just pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his arms, defeated.

“I’m such a loser,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “I thought maybe… maybe if I ignored it, it’d just go away. Y’know, like a glitch or something.”

Your heart clenches at the sight of him, all curled up and vulnerable. It’s so unlike the cocky, trash-talking gamer you’ve come to know. You crouch down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Idia,” you say softly, “you’re not a loser.”

He peeks out from behind his arms, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Y-yeah, right. I’m just the guy who gets Hanahaki because I can’t even confess like a normal person.”

You blink. “Wait—Hanahaki? Like actually?”

You did not expect that. You expected it to be some weird disease that was native to twisted wonderland and not actually Hanahaki of all things.

Idia winces, his hair turning a bright shade of pink as he realizes what he’s just admitted. He looks away, fiddling nervously with the edge of his sleeve. “...Yeah. It’s stupid, I know.”

For a moment, you’re speechless. All those strange behaviors, the coughing, the flowers—it all makes sense now. He’s got Hanahaki, and he’s been trying to hide it because…

“Idia…” you whisper, heart pounding. “You love me?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body trembling. “I-I mean, i-it’s not like I expect you to feel the same! I know I’m not, like, Vil-level handsome or anything. I just… didn’t want to ruin things.”

You feel a warmth spreading through your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Idia goes completely still. His hair flares up, a brilliant pink, as he slowly opens his eyes in disbelief.

“Y-you…” he stammers, voice barely a whisper.

You smile softly. “I love you too, you dork.”

For a second, he just stares at you, as if he can’t quite process what you’ve said. Then, with a choked sob, he flings himself into your arms, burying his face in your shoulder as the last of the petals fall away.

“I’m such an idiot,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of relief in his voice. His arms tighten around you, and you can feel the rapid thumping of his heart against your chest.

"You’re not an idiot," you murmur, gently running your fingers through his hair. The flames have cooled down to a soft, warm pink, flickering faintly in the dim light of the room. "And you don’t need to be Vil-level handsome. You’re just you, and that’s more than enough."

Idia snorts, though it’s more out of disbelief than amusement. "Yeah, right. I’m just the weirdo who plays video games all day and coughs up flowers. Super attractive."

You pull back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes. "Hey, I don’t care about that. Do you think I’d be hanging out with you all the time if I didn’t like you? I’m here because I care about you, Idia."

For a moment, Idia just stares at you, his mouth slightly open like he’s trying to come up with some kind of retort, but nothing comes out. He looks… overwhelmed, his usual sarcastic defense mechanisms short-circuiting under the weight of your words. His eyes dart away, then back to you, and finally, with a shaky breath, he mutters, "I don’t get it… Why me?"

You smile, brushing a stray petal from his hair. "Because you’re kind, even if you don’t realize it. You’re funny, you make me laugh all the time—even when you’re not trying. And you’re smart, way smarter than you give yourself credit for. I like being with you, Idia. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t."

His face flushes a deeper pink, his flames flickering erratically as he shifts nervously in your arms. "I-I… I don’t know what to say…" he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "I thought for sure you’d think I was a weirdo or something."

You chuckle softly, resting your forehead against his. "Well, you’re my weirdo, then."

That earns a shaky laugh from him, though it quickly turns into another coughing fit. You gently rub his back as he coughs, but this time, instead of petals, there’s just the sound of his breath gradually evening out. He looks at you, wide-eyed, as if expecting to see more flowers—more proof of his self-doubt.

But the petals are gone. The weight that’s been crushing his chest, suffocating him with every breath, has finally lifted.

Idia stares at you for a long moment, his expression softening as the reality of the situation settles in. His arms loosen around you, but he doesn’t pull away—he stays close, resting his head on your shoulder with a sigh that’s both relieved and exhausted.

"Does this mean…" He hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. "Does this mean we’re… together now?"

You grin, tilting his chin up so he has no choice but to meet your gaze. "If you want us to be."

Idia’s face erupts into a brilliant shade of pink, and for a moment, you think his face might actually catch fire. He quickly looks away, fiddling nervously with the hem of his shirt, but there’s a small, shy smile playing on his lips.

"I-I guess that’d be… kinda nice," he mumbles, almost inaudible.

You laugh softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "It’s more than nice, Idia. It’s perfect."

For the first time since you’ve known him, Idia doesn’t argue. He doesn’t self-deprecate or brush off your words with sarcasm. Instead, he lets out a soft, content sigh, resting his head against you again, his flames warm and steady.

"Yeah," he whispers, his voice filled with quiet relief. "I think it is."

And for once, Idia Shroud—the boy who always felt like he didn’t deserve happiness—finally lets himself believe it.

You stay like that for a while, curled up together in the quiet of his room, the low hum of his gaming console filling the background. It’s peaceful in a way you never expected with Idia, who’s usually so frantic and anxious. But now, with the weight of unspoken feelings finally lifted, he’s calm. Happy, even.

After a long moment, he pulls back slightly, glancing at the screen. "Uh… w-we left the raid halfway through," he mumbles, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "My bad. We probably wiped the whole party by now."

You laugh, ruffling his hair. "I think they’ll survive without us for a bit. But we can jump back in if you’re up for it."

Idia hesitates for a second, then shakes his head. "Nah… I’d rather just… stay here. With you."

The admission is so soft, so vulnerable, that it makes your heart ache in the best possible way. You smile, pulling him close again, and this time, he doesn’t flinch or make any excuses. He just rests his head on your shoulder, his pink flames flickering contentedly.

Maybe it’s not the typical "fairy tale" kind of love. It’s awkward and a little messy, filled with gaming mishaps and coughing up flowers. But it’s real. And for Idia, that’s more than enough.

he's reminds me of a pathetic wet cat left in the rain but god do I love him

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #idia x reader #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud #idia #hanahaki #hanahaki au

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myladybelle · 5 months ago

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𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter thirteen

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.7k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, descriptions of anxiety, swearing, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hi my loves i’m back!! thank you all for your patience while i was sick and preparing for the new semester, i appreciate all your kind messages so much x 𝐩𝐫𝐞�� | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐖𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒’ 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎

“Newcomer on the professional tennis scene, Y/N Y/L/N surprised virtually everyone when she won the Ladies’ Semi Final two days ago,” an English-accented sports journalist said on TV as you waited for your cue to step onto the court for the finals. “She’s not only the most technically excellent player of her age, but she has the fastest serve on the WTA tour.”

“She’s a remarkable player,” the other journalist agreed. You watched them play back a clip from your most recent match, highlighting one of your aces. “But if she wants to win on Centre Court here at Wimbledon for the very first time, she’s going to have to start embracing her volleys. Maybe she should take a leaf out of her boyfriend’s book.”

“Patrick Zweig? He only made it to the second round!”

“Yes, but he played some very entertaining tennis this week. It was a joy to watch and very well suited to a grass court!”

“It’s true, Zweig plays a sneaky game of tennis. He keeps his opponent on his feet.”

“In any case, the whole world is sure to be watching Y/N Y/L/N tonight, eager to see her take on Anna Mueller.”

“Now, this isn’t the first time Y/L/N and Mueller have played. They faced off numerous times in junior tournaments, and Y/L/N already beat her at Indian Wells, Milan, Roland-Garros, and the US Open last year. They have yet to play each other in a final, though, and Y/L/N has no grand slam titles to Mueller’s two.”

“Will it be experience and longevity that give Mueller the win, or will new talent Y/L/N take the match with precision and speed?”

“We will soon see.”

You had never been this nervous before a match until your second time at Wimbledon.

For the first time in your professional career, just a year and a half after entering the tennis world, you made it to the final round of a grand slam tournament. The other tournaments you had won within the last year put your name on the map, allowing you to garner attention and recognition from your peers and spectators.

But a grand slam title meant you would be a part of history.

It was everything you wanted, everything you worked and struggled for. Your heart pounded so quickly that you thought it might leap out of your skin, and your quickening breath made spots appear in your vision. The pressure mounted, not just because your life goal was an arm’s length away, but from all the people who had their eyes on you. Some scrutinising, some rooting for you.

Bracing your hands on your thighs, you closed your eyes and tried to breathe deeply. It felt like you were losing control. Everything you did to maintain your anxiety felt like it was slipping through your fingers, just like your dream of becoming a grand slam winner.

Tashi’s voice rang in your ears. You’re going to be fucking miserable, and you’re going to hate your life just as much as your mother hates the fact that she had you. Art’s voice joined Tashi. Everyone knows that tennis is more of a mental game than a physical game. You have a lot of anxiety, and…

The sound of your phone getting a text message interrupted your tornado of negative thoughts.

PAT 💞: Don’t listen to any of those assholes, they don’t matter. I love you so much and I’m proud of you no matter what happens today. Hold your head up high and do your best, nothing else matters. Don’t forget to breathe, pretty girl. P x

As you stepped onto the court, the cheers of the crowd were deafening. You could feel the vibrations of their applause through the soles of your shoes; the energy was electric, and the buzzing of quiet chatter set you on edge. Remembering Patrick’s advice, you breathed deeply and waved to the crowd, smiling as you headed for your bench. Everyone on your team was sitting in the player’s box with Patrick and your dad, and it was a relief to see them there supporting you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this final round match. This match will be played as the best of three sets,” the umpire said. “To the left of the chair, from Switzerland, Anna Mueller. To the right of the chair, from the United States, Y/N Y/L/N. Y/L/N won the toss and elected to serve.”

From his seat in your box, Patrick chuckled. “I bet Anna Mueller’s terrified right now,” he commented. “Going into a match against Y/N and having her serve first would push me over the edge if I was playing her.”

Next to Patrick, your father happily declared, “If Mueller wasn’t nervous to play Y/N before, she will be once she realises how many aces she has up her sleeve.”

Mueller crouched behind the baseline, nervously twirling her racket between her hands. Her poker face wasn’t nearly as good as yours, betraying her fear as you bounced the ball and prepared to serve. Knowing that you had this effect on your opponent, even before the game had started, made you feel powerful.

With a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through your veins, you tossed the ball in the air and served it over the tennis net. Mueller ran in the wrong direction, expecting you to serve to her backhand, and cursed when she couldn’t change courses fast enough to return the ball.

Your first ace of the game. 15-love.

Mueller played nervously. She knew your baseline game was strong, but her mistake was assuming that you could only play from the baseline. You decided to play closer to the net, consistently hitting gently when Mueller expected you to go hard and fast, making it impossible for her to generate the power needed to return well.

When you took the first set 6-0, Mueller cursed and turned to her box to yell something at her coach. During the changeover, you could hear her muttering to herself, failing to compose her posture and expression. She looked panicked and angry. From experience, you knew that the right amount of anxiety could help you focus on the match, but anger would destroy a player’s self-control and concentration.

When you served an ace at the beginning of the next set, Mueller stomped her foot angrily and challenged the call. The call held up, declaring your serve was in and awarding you the point. You watched in shock as Mueller’s face twisted with fury, her eyes blazing as she smashed her racket against the ground. Over and over again, the crowd gasped and booed as the frame cracked and the strings bent out of shape.

“Code violation, racket abuse. Warning, Mueller.”

From his seat, Patrick smirked, applauding the action while you maintained professionalism. He was the type of player who occasionally broke his racket or committed other code violations, so Patrick admired your ability to hold back. There was something rewarding about watching your opponent fall apart as you waited for her to get it together so you could keep playing.

The atmosphere of the game changed after Mueller’s outburst. Releasing her anger had done Mueller well, and one of her backhands shot forth like a lightning bolt, making it impossible for you to return. She got a few points in, making you run for it. Sweat glistened on your brows, and your heart pounded, a steady drum beat that echoed the rhythm of your feet as you struggled to return some of Mueller’s balls. The crowd watched in awe as she started finding her rhythm, pushing through the fatigue with a newfound unwavering focus.

Mueller looked incredibly smug to have caught up with you. So, you let her win a little bit.

Your father frowned when you served into the net twice, giving Mueller the point. “What’s she doing?” he muttered quietly. “Are the nerves getting to her?”

Patrick shook his head, chuckling as he realised, “She’s throwing the set on purpose.” A smirk graced his lips when he remembered how you used to do the same thing when you played Tashi. “She wants Mueller to think she’s beating her.”

You let yourself enjoy it, toying with Mueller and never letting her know what you planned next. When you volleyed the ball back to her, she sprinted to the net. Just when she got used to playing close to the net, you hit a flat groundstroke past her. Once Mueller realised your pattern, she stayed closer to the baseline, and you hit her with your drop shots, far too close to the net for her to return.

Quickly, you caught up, 7-7. You needed one last game to win the match, and it was your turn to serve.

Two aces in a row. Mueller yelled in frustration and anger when she missed both serves, once to her forehand and once to her backhand. Your focus sharpened with each passing moment. Serving was your area of expertise. You had the match exactly where you wanted it.

With each point you won, your confidence grew. Your movements were fluid and instinctive; your racket felt like an extension of your arm, sending powerful, precise shots that left Mueller scrambling to return them. Like always, your serves were lightning fast, unerring and spectacular, kissing the line every time without fail.

Mueller chased down every ball, but exhaustion was setting in, and her anger had returned. She was irritated that you had let her win, annoyed that it had boosted her ego so much, and furious that she couldn’t get in your head the way you got in hers.

You were playing the best tennis of your life, each moment a testament to your skill and resilience over the years. The beauty of your game captivated the spectators, leaving the crowd in awe of your mesmerising strokes and masterful returns. The more points you won, the closer you got to winning the tournament. Tension and excitement were palpable, mounting in a crescendo of enthusiastic applause and standing ovations.

“Match point.”

The cacophony of cheers faded into the background as you bounced the ball in your hand. You were good at keeping the pressure of winning off your shoulders, but the enormity of this point pressed down on you heavily. With your stomach in knots, you adjusted your grip on your tennis racket. Amid all the stress, anxiety, and fear, you felt a spark of determination.

You didn’t just want to win; you deserved it.

You served her backhand, which Mueller anticipated and hit back with equal intensity. The ball hit the ground awkwardly on your side of the net, creating minimal bounce with little power. Regardless, you hit it hard. As the two of you rallied back and forth, you followed the sports journalist from earlier’s advice and used a trick shot Patrick had taught you. When Mueller hit your forehand, you pretended to miss the ball. She celebrated, prematurely stopping while you hit the ball back between your legs, surprising Mueller and making her trip as she tried to return the ball.

As Mueller landed on the floor, the ball bounced on her side of the net for a second time, earning you the point and the Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles title.

An overwhelming surge of triumph and disbelief hit you all at once. Your ears rang, drowning out the cacophony of the crowd’s ecstatic roars as you collapsed to your knees, dropping your racket. The weight of victory crashed upon you, and tears streamed down your face as you sobbed. Each teardrop released the intense pressure and emotion you had carried through the gruelling tournament.

You cried for your mother, who you no longer needed to please; for Tashi, your former best friend who would not be here to celebrate this moment with you; and you cried for yourself, the person who got through it all and made it to the other side.

When you wiped the tears from your cheeks and stood to shake your opponent’s hand, the world around you blurred back into focus. The cheers and applause of the crowd went from being a distant echo to a deafening roar. Mueller barely touched your hand before going to shake the umpire’s and—for a brief, solitary moment—you were enveloped by a profound sense of accomplishment.

You did it.

After waving to the crowd and thanking the umpire, you turned to your player’s box. There, Patrick stood applauding your victory. His heart swelled with immeasurable pride and love for you, feeling an overwhelming admiration for your strength and dedication. You laughed, running across the court towards the box and excusing yourself as you squeezed past ball boys and line judges. Stepping up on one of the nearby benches, you lifted yourself closer to your boyfriend, who leaned over the railing, giggling.

Up close, Patrick’s eyes were misty, and a broad, genuine smile spread across his face. Every sacrifice you made, every early morning and late night, came rushing back to him in a flood of memories. He could hardly contain his excitement.

“You just fucking won Wimbledon!” Patrick yelled. “You were incredible!”

“I love you,” you replied, equally breathless and giddy. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Pat.”

Pushing up on your toes, you hooked your arms around Patrick’s shoulders and kissed him. The crowd cheered even louder around you, but you didn’t care. Nothing and nobody else mattered at that moment. All you knew was that you had just achieved something incredible and Patrick was the only person you wanted to celebrate it with. He held your head carefully and kissed you hard, expressing his passionate pride with every press of his lips.

“Thank you. For reminding me to breathe,” you acknowledged when you parted, gazing up at your boyfriend with sparkling eyes. “And for teaching me your favourite trick shot.”

Patrick chuckled, taking one of your hands and pressing several kisses to the back of it. “That was all you, gorgeous. I had nothing to do with it. This win belongs to you,” he said sincerely. “Fuck, I love you, pretty girl.”

Art Donaldson stood in the crowd, his heart heavy with pride and melancholy as he watched you give Patrick a final kiss before returning to the court for your interview. It was a privilege to watch every powerful swing of your racket and every point you earned. Art was reminded of the countless hours you had poured into your practice, the determination that had always driven you while you were at Stanford. He had once been the one to share in those moments of victory with you, celebrating every win with the joy you now showed on the court.

But now, as Art saw the happiness in your eyes and heard the crowd’s cheers, a wave of sadness washed over him. He was no longer part of your triumphs. He was just another face in the sea of supporters, knowing your victory wouldn’t be shared with him.

Art’s gaze flickered between you standing on the court and Patrick sitting with your father in the player’s box. His former best friend looked happier than Art had ever seen him, and knowing that your memory of this day would always be intertwined with your relationship with Patrick filled Art with an ugly jealousy.

He knew he had no right to your life and joy, but Art wanted to celebrate with you. He wanted to tell you that he was proud of you and always knew you had the talent and perseverance to succeed. In fact, there were a lot of things Art wanted to say, including a sincere apology for what he said the night you broke up. But you had moved on, and you were happy, and the last thing Art wanted to do was ruin any of that for you.

So instead, Art got up and pushed through the crowd, making his way to the exit as he heard your voice thanking Patrick for his love and support over the loudspeakers.

𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟏𝟑, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎

It felt good.

Sitting in the booth with Tashi was almost like when Art used to sit in the dining hall with her at Stanford, back when you, Art, and Tashi were all attached at the hip.

A month ago, Art and Tashi graduated and began working in the professional tennis world, but it meant nothing to either of them without their best friends by their sides. Neither of them could have guessed that you and Patrick would leave behind such a huge hole when you stopped being friends with them.

“Maybe you wanna jump ship?” Art said, half-joking as he signed the bill and paid for their meal. “Come be my assistant coach?” When Tashi stared dumbfoundedly at him, he grinned. “Oh, I get it. You want to work with someone who has a little bit more potential.”

“No!” Tashi protested. “No. No, it’s not that. I mean, you have plenty of potential. It’s just–” she cut herself off, nervously observing the blond sitting in front of her. It had been years since you and Art broke up, but it felt like yesterday. “You think that would be a good idea?”

“Why not?” Art retorted. Tashi gestured vaguely, referencing their complex shared past. “That was a long time ago–”

“–It was not that long ago,” she disagreed, interrupting Art’s attempt at nonchalance.

“Well, it feels like a long time ago,” Art mumbled.

“So, you’re saying you’re not in love with her anymore?” Tashi argued, raising a questioning eyebrow at her old friend.

Art schooled his expression, not wanting to give his lingering emotions away. But Tashi saw through it, recognising the familiar signs that indicated his love for you still ran deep. His features softened at the mention of you, and there was a faraway look in his icy blue eyes.

Back when you were dating Art—and Tashi and Patrick were casually seeing each other—Patrick used to describe the look on his best friend’s face when he first laid eyes on you. That look of pure, absolute adoration and love never once faded from Art’s face at the mention or sight of you. Tashi knew with certainty that it would never fade.

“Well, I’m not holding my breath waiting for her,” Art retorted. “That ship has clearly sailed.”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t clutching the hull for dear life,” Tashi remarked, using Art’s ship analogy against him. “Did you see her at Wimbledon?”

“Of course I did,” Art replied, fiddling anxiously with the napkin on the table.

“She was incredible, wasn’t she? I mean, I always knew she had it in her, but watching her win that final…” Tashi sighed.

If she was as good a friend to you as she always thought, she would have noticed that you used to hold back to help Tashi pursue her dreams of being the best tennis player in the world. Upon reflection, Tashi realised she would never be as good a friend to you as you were to her, and she should never have considered you to be less talented, hard-working, or capable than herself.

“It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Tashi said proudly.

Art agreed, “She’s officially a grand slam winner, the whole world was watching her that day.”

Tashi nodded. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” Her lips curved in a disappointed frown, recalling all the times you and Tashi promised you would always be there to celebrate each others’ accomplishments when you were teenagers. “All of a sudden, the whole world feels entitled to a part of her. Instead of going through this journey with her, we’re on the outside looking in, just like everybody else.”

“It was pretty surreal,” Art affirmed. “I mean, I always knew what she was capable of. I remember all those late nights, talking about what she would do if she ever won a grand slam. And now that she has, I can’t help but feel a little lost.”

“Like you should be there with her,” Tashi guessed. She gave Art a sympathetic smile, her eyes soft with understanding. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Art sighed, leaning back in his booth. “We used to be the people who knew her best in the world,” he recalled. “And now, we aren’t a part of her life anymore. It’s not just about tennis or success, it’s about her. She didn’t just hold us all together, she was seeped into the essence of everything I did and everything I dreamed.” The vulnerable honesty in Art’s voice made Tashi swallow harshly. “What am I supposed to do without her now? None of my plans ever accounted for me reaching this point in my life without her in it.”

Art’s words rendered them both silent.

You used to take up so much space in their lives, filling a void neither of them knew existed until you left them. Thinking about you and reflecting on your absence was always bittersweet. There was so much warmth and joy in their memories of you, but they were constantly paired with painful reminders of how much they hurt you. You, who only ever wanted to love and be loved.

“Maybe this is what we deserve for hurting her in the first place,” Tashi offered. “The things I said to her that day–” she inhaled sharply, pain filling her chest as she recalled the argument that ended your friendship– “I don’t blame her for wanting nothing to do with me.”

“The look on her face when I told her I went to see you the night you fought…” Art shook his head in disappointment, his jaw clenched tightly as the frustration simmered beneath the surface. “I should have told her I went to confront you for hurting her. I should have told her I was desperate to figure out why she was inconsolable, but I let her believe I went to you because I was on your side. I was so angry and frustrated during the break up that I told her things just because I knew they would hurt her. Who does that to someone they love?”

“Us, apparently,” Tashi said, grumbling like she couldn’t believe what they did to you. Reaching across the table, Tashi covered Art’s hand with hers, offering a small, bittersweet smile. “My mom says that Y/N was my life lesson,” she explained. “That losing her was supposed to teach me something.”

“Yeah?” Art met her eyes and frowned. “What did it teach you?”

“To hold on,” Tashi declared. “When you meet someone like her, someone who’s warm and loving and far kinder to you than you deserve, you hold on to her. Because going through life without her is unimaginably worse than when she’s by your side.”

It hurt to reflect on how much worse life was without you. You had been everything to Art for so long, and his eyes stung with tears every time he thought of you. The emptiness you left behind felt insurmountable, a constant ache he couldn’t escape. Every moment without you reminded him of what he’d lost, of how your presence had once filled his world with light and purpose.

Now, that light was gone, leaving him to navigate the shadows of what used to be; the pain of your absence was a relentless companion.

Art pulled his hand away and cleared his throat, staring at his lap. “This is really stupid, but, uh… After your injury… I couldn’t help but just think about what would have happened if I had beaten Patrick,” he confessed.

Tashi froze at the mention of how you met Art and Patrick.

She knew Art well enough to understand that everything he did led back to you and how he lost you. No matter how badly Art wanted to change the past, Tashi knew you would always love him and Patrick throughout your life.

In a way, Tashi, Art, and Patrick were the three great loves of your life.

One for a friendship that was supposed to last a lifetime, one for the boy who made you realise what it was like to be loved, and one for the man who would wait a lifetime just for a minute of happiness with you.

No matter how much you once loved Art, Tashi knew you would love Patrick in every life, too. It didn’t matter what order you met them in; you were the catalyst that changed each of their lives.

Tashi thought she was the only objective spectator to your relationships with Art and Patrick. She was your best friend at Stanford when you dated Art, and she was practically a stranger now that you were with Patrick. Watching your romantic relationship unfold on TV and in newspapers and magazines was entirely different from having a front-row seat back in college, but Tashi knew you well enough to see how deeply and genuinely you loved Patrick, just as you had loved Art.

“So you want me to join your team because you couldn’t win Y/N’s number that day?”

Art lifted his head to meet Tashi’s gaze. “No,” he denied. “I want you to join my team because I want to win.”

Tashi suppressed a grin. She should have known that if it wasn’t about you, it was about Patrick. “I think you’d beat him now if you guys played,” she commented, sipping her coffee. “Don’t you think?”

It was a challenge that Tashi knew Art would easily see through.

Perhaps Art could beat Patrick if their history wasn’t complicated by you entering their lives. If the two of them were just best friends trying to make it in the tennis world, Art had the skills, practice, and tenacity to win now. After all, he had dedicated himself to the sport at Stanford and had an excellent team supporting him, while Patrick continued to rely on raw talent. As Art steadily climbed the ranks with every game, Patrick floundered somewhere in the lower 200s.

But all of this was negated by one simple fact. Patrick had the one thing that Art truly wanted: you.

If Art and Patrick played a match tomorrow, you would be in Patrick’s player box, cheering his name and applauding his wins. Your presence at the match—and in Patrick’s life—would be more than enough for Art to lose every time he faced his former best friend, just as he lost you. The only thing that could give Art a chance to beat Patrick would be having you on his side.

“Don’t know,” Art replied cryptically. “We, uh… haven’t played professionally, and don’t keep in touch.” Tashi laughed, nearly choking on her coffee. “What?”

She cleared her throat. “Just… She never saw it,” Tashi explained. “The rivalry between you and Patrick. Ever since that night we first met, she always assumed the two of you were after me.” She shook her head, visibly entertained. “She used to say that I was the sun and she was the moon. But, God, wasn’t she just everything? The moon and the stars and everything in between, that was her.” Tashi and Art shared a soft, sentimental expression. “I never understood why she couldn’t see it. Everything was over the moment you and Patrick met her, and I knew none of us would ever be the same.”

A small smile stretched across Art’s lips. “Yeah…”

Tashi was right—you had been everything to him.

Art felt it the moment his eyes first met yours, an instant connection that went beyond mere attraction. It was as if something within him recognised you, a deep and undeniable pull that resonated in both his body and heart. It wasn’t just about your smile or how you moved; it was how your presence seemed to complete something in him, filling a void he hadn’t even known existed.

You became his anchor, the one person who made everything else make sense, and from that moment on, he knew his life would never be the same without you.

“We joked that we weren’t homewreckers the night we met you, but…” Tashi trailed off, sighing as she set her mug on the table and crossed her arms. “I never thought it would come between me and her. I always thought I was a better friend than that. And I hate it, but running into you today is the closest I’ve felt to her in years,” she confessed.

Sitting there opposite your former best friend, Art couldn’t help but agree. So many parts of you lived on in Tashi, remnants of your lifelong friendship that had shaped both of you in ways he could now see clearly. The way she tilted her head when deep in thought mirrored your own, a habit you’d both picked up during your countless late-night conversations. That amused, all-knowing expression on Tashi’s face when Art tried to lie to her was uncannily similar to yours.

Even her choice of words, the little phrases and inside jokes that only you two shared, brought you vividly to life at that moment, making it feel like a part of you was still there, sitting right across from Art.

“Yeah, me too,” Art agreed, trying to keep the sudden gust of sadness out of his tone.

To make matters worse, seeing Tashi was the closest Art had felt to you and Patrick in a very long time.

It brought back memories of his former best friend, who had once been his world. There was a time when the four of you felt inseparable, and now, sitting there, Art could almost hear the echoes of those days. The way Tashi absentmindedly rubbed her forearm was like Patrick used to, a nervous habit that always surfaced during serious conversations. Tashi’s honest recount of how much she missed you felt like a mirror image of how much Art missed Patrick. Being with Tashi now, it was impossible not to feel the empty space left by the absence of the friendships that had once defined them both.

That night, as Tashi stepped into Art’s hotel room, the invisible string that still bound them both to you seemed to tighten, pulling them a little closer to where you slept just a few floors away.

𝟐 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟐𝟖, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎

“I just got off the phone with Elora,” you declared, stepping into your shared hotel room with Patrick and finding your boyfriend lounging on the bed with the TV on. “I’ve been asked to play an exhibition match tomorrow. Just something quick and fun before the first round to boost ticket sales for the qualifiers. A bunch of American players from the tour will be there.”

You dropped onto the bed beside Patrick, kicking off your shoes and curling up in his awaiting arms. The two of you had been travelling together for over a year, sharing rooms while on tour and cohabitating in every aspect of your lives. It was like a reward after enduring a long-distance relationship during your final year at Stanford. Instead of just talking on the phone and occasionally getting surprise visits from Patrick, you went everywhere together and supported each other at every match and tournament you attended.

The two of you had slipped into an easy routine. Having the same profession meant that you were constantly going to the same places, and it made travelling and sightseeing so much more special. After working hard for over two weeks at each tournament, exploring new cities with Patrick was the ideal way to wind down and relax. There was something incredibly special and romantic about doing every day of your life with him.

Your relationship had been grabbing headlines ever since the press caught on to the fact that you were together over a year ago, but the attention ramped up exponentially after you won Wimbledon.

What used to be short articles about an up-and-coming, attractive couple in the tennis world had snowballed into detailed timelines of your dates and public appearances with Patrick. Luckily, the public adored you, and there was very little criticism or negativity surrounding your relationship. Other players on the WTA and ATP tour often teased you about being real celebrities, pointing out how rare it was to win public favour as much as you and Patrick did.

Even though this shift was odd, and you had yet to get used to the constant eyes on you, there were perks to having your picture taken professionally every time you went on a date with your boyfriend. You had framed your favourite newspaper clipping, a beautiful picture of you kissing Patrick after winning Wimbledon, with the heading The Darlings of the Tennis World written above it in a large, bold font.

“Great,” Patrick drawled, blinking lazily as he wrapped his arms around you. His hands gravitated under your shirt to draw circles on the bare skin of your midriff, immediately sending butterflies to your stomach. “Which unlucky girl’s getting her ass handed to her while you beat her in straight sets?” he joked, knowing any match you played would end in a crushing defeat for the other player.

“Actually…” you trailed off, sending him your best smile as Patrick drew his head back to meet your gaze.

He observed your innocent expression with quizzical, unsure eyes. Even though you were giving him your sweetest look, there was something mischievous about the glint in your eyes. When realisation hit him, Patrick sighed and said, “I’m the unlucky girl, aren’t I?” His distraught tone made laughter bubble from your lips.

“Smart and handsome? I really hit the jackpot,” you teased, buttering him up with compliments so that he would agree more readily. “Come on, Pat, it’ll be fun!”

“Oh yeah, really fun!” Patrick agreed sarcastically, matching your energetic tone. “Like how a lion treats a lamb during slaughter!”

You rolled your eyes, stifling your laughter at your boyfriend’s dramatics. “Don’t worry, pretty girl, I’ll go easy on you,” you said, imitating his voice and tone. He had never used those exact words about playing tennis, but Patrick’s tone was always thick with the same arrogant confidence. “Think about it! If you play against me, you’ll get to see that winning serve of mine up close and personal.”

“Excuse me, I’ve been on the opposing end of your winning serve plenty of times during practice,” Patrick defended. “I always knew you were better than me, gorgeous, but I don’t remember agreeing to public humiliation when we started dating!”

“Drama queen,” you accused. “It really will be fun! We’ll be mic’d up and we can talk and joke the entire time. It’s the best of three sets and it’ll be just like practising together. Come on, what do you say?” At Patrick’s uncertain expression, you sat up in bed and swung a leg over his lap to straddle him. The fire that instantaneously burned in his gaze made you smirk triumphantly. “I’ll be really grateful if you do it,” you said suggestively, placing your hands on his chest and grinning. “Pretty please?”

“Well, since you said pretty please,” Patrick joked, unable to keep the wide smile off his face when you tilted your head at him. “Sure. What’s one more event where everyone thinks you’re out of my league?”

Happily, you exclaimed, “That’s the spirit!”

“Wait–” Patrick frowned when you got up from his lap and began scurrying around the room looking for your phone– “I thought you were going to show me how grateful you are?”

You snorted. “Nice try. You can have your reward after the exhibition match,” you declared, chuckling quietly.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Patrick complained.

“Don’t act like you don’t love the chase,” you retorted, winking as you texted Elora that you and Patrick were happy to participate in the exhibition match.

From his place on your shared bed, Patrick rolled onto his stomach and observed you. It was hard to imagine that he had only known you for four years. Your participation in his life felt so insurmountably important that it was like he had known you his entire life. You had seamlessly woven yourself into the fabric of Patrick’s daily existence, shaping his world with a depth and significance that defied the brevity of time.

Unlike Tashi and Art, Patrick realised early on that you were someone he should hold on to. His life before you had been filled with disappointment from his family, and Patrick recognised what a rarity you were. Having already lost you before when his relationships with Tashi and Art ended, Patrick knew losing you meant losing something irreplaceable. Your presence filled gaps he hadn’t noticed before he met you, making it obvious that you were someone worth cherishing.

As you picked up a phone call from your coach, Patrick went on his laptop and checked how much money was in his savings account. He won enough matches to pay for plane tickets, tennis equipment, and other daily necessities, saving an immense amount of money because the fat cheque you got from Nike every month more than covered your shared accommodations. Over the last year, in particular, Patrick had started saving for something very special.

An engagement ring.

As much as Patrick wanted you to have the very best, an engagement ring from Harry Winston or Bulgari just wasn’t within his budget. He was entitled to a family heirloom ring, but Patrick didn’t want to give you something from his family. Any engagement ring he chose had to represent you and your relationship with him, rather than the generations of unhappy, reluctant marriages his family seemed destined to repeat.

After carefully perusing different stores and comparing the cost and quality of various rings, Patrick found the perfect one at Cartier. It was simple and classic, exactly the style you had mentioned you preferred offhandedly on several occasions. To his surprise, it didn’t cost an arm and a leg, and he had almost saved enough to get you the exact ring he wanted you to have.

After Wimbledon, you noticed and commented on the fact that Patrick was training harder than ever. To you, it seemed like he was finally starting to take himself more seriously. Instead of coasting on his natural talent, Patrick began seeing your physical trainer with you and even quit smoking to improve his stamina. What you didn’t know was that he was doing all of this to increase his chances of winning more matches at the US Open, where a significant amount of prize money was on the line.

In Patrick’s mind, the more matches he won, the more money he could take home, and the nicer your engagement ring could be.

“Hey, do you know what ring size you are?” Patrick asked as casually as he could when your phone call was over. “Jess got a bunch of rings that don’t fit her and she was wondering if you want them instead?”

“That’s so sweet, I can’t believe she thought of me,” you acknowledged, grinning. Ever since you met Patrick and his extended family last year, you were constantly invited to spend time with his cousins Jess and Alex. While Patrick wasn’t best friends with them, they were the closest family he had, so you had accepted several invitations over the past year. “I would love that, Jess has amazing taste in jewellery! Tell her I’m an eight in ring size, but I’ll squeeze into anything she wants to give me,” you joked, not thinking much of Patrick’s question.

With shaking hands, Patrick sent a text with your ring size to the sales associate at the Cartier store in New York, who had been keeping him updated on when the exact ring he wanted was available. Once the US Open was over, all Patrick had to do was head to Manhattan and pick up the ring. It had taken him almost four months to find the perfect one for you, and then it was just a matter of winning enough prize money to afford it. As long as Patrick won two rounds at the US Open next week, he’d have enough to buy your engagement ring.

Then he would have to decide how and when to propose to you.

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

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