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wosospacegirl · 2 months ago

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no such thing as a private life in Barça

Summary: Y/n's secret relationship with Ingrid is accidentally revealed when the team starts teasing her about something personal.

Warnings: lot of teasing <3 beware!!!

Word count: 2.2k

Notes: this was based on a request + concepts!! <3

Masterlist

The Barcelona Femení was once again gathered around a bar table, trying to fit every single player after an amazing win against Real Madrid. Alexia, Pina, and Vicky had scored, so the three girls were incredibly chatty throughout the night, recounting every moment of the game.

The conversation flowed easily, although all players were still high enough on adrenaline that the topics of conversation began to steen to more intimate, and to some people inappropriate directions.

The girls had no shame when talking about more private topics, though Alexia tried to tone it down as much as she could when things went too far.

"Ei, quedeu-vos quietes! No podem parlar d'això davant de les nenes," [Hey, stay quiet! We can't talk about this in front of the girls,] Alexia said, rolling her eyes.

The ‘nenes’ were technically all in their twenties, but for Alexia, anyone who had been at La Masia less than six years ago was practically a child.

"You know we have lives, right, Ale?" Jana said, taking a sip from her drink.

"We date, and, well… go out with people," Salma chimed in, casually stealing a fry from Y/n's plate. Y/n pretended not to notice. "You can talk about sex around us. We're not kids."

"Yeah, we’re not nenas," Vicky added, wrapping her arm around Y/n’s shoulders. Y/n immediately shrugged it off with a laugh.

"You’re literally nineteen" Y/n teased, raising an eyebrow "If anyone here’s a nena, it's you."

"Oh, va!" [Oh, come on!] Vicky shot back. "You're talking like you're not the only one at this table who hasn't gotten laid yet."

Everybody on the team knew Y/n had never been with anyone. It was a well-established fact, one that came with lighthearted teasing and amused grins. She always shrugged it off, laughing along with something like, "Yeah, I'm scared of pretty women. What can I do?" or some other excuse.

The girls would tease her in good fun, saying things like, "Don’t worry, we’ll find a nice girl for you someday." It was harmless, just another running joke within the team. It never bothered Y/n; she didn’t mind it.

But Vicky’s teasing hit differently this time.

Pina and Claudia tried to stifle their laughs, while Salma and Jana exchanged looks, as if Vicky had said something wrong. Alexia, on the other hand, sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose like a tired mother.

This time, however, Y/n didn’t know how to respond. Because Vicky’s statement wasn’t true anymore. It hadn’t been true for over a month–thanks to a certain Norwegian who sat across the table from Y/n, a knowing glint in her eyes.

And that’s when Y/n flushed.

She never flushed.

Y/n and Ingrid had been secretly dating for two months now, but they hadn’t told anyone yet. They weren’t quite comfortable with the whole team knowing just yet–they were still getting to know each other better, figuring out their relationship.

Ingrid had mentioned a few times that they should just tell everyone one day, not make a big deal of it–just show up to training one day, holding hands, and let the team figure it out on their own. But it hadn’t happened yet, so of course, the girls didn't know.

Another thing they didn’t know was that Y/n, considered one of the "nenas" by Alexia's standard, had finally had sex. Y/n, however, wasn’t sure if this was the right moment to bring it up to the whole team, especially not at a bar table in the wee hours of the night in Barcelona.

Silence settled over the group for a brief second, the same one that comes just before something…changes. Y/n’s fingers tightened around her glass, her eyes darting anywhere but at her teammates, focusing on a pretty painting on the walls.

The usual teasing energy of the team seemed to fade, and the others exchanged curious glances, especially Jana, Vicky and Salma.

"Is there something you wanna share with the team?" Vicky asked, leaning forward, an all-too-knowing grin spreading across her face.

Y/n froze, her throat suddenly feeling too tight to swallow as she held her glass a little too tight, "No." Her voice was a little too flat, and she cursed herself for that.

Not casual at all.

But of course Vicky didn’t believe her, it only made her more persistent. They weren’t going to drop the subjects so easily this time.

Y/n could feel the weight of her teammates on her, some of them had a confused expression on their faces, others had grins. Ingrid's grin was still strong, but the girl was naturally quiet, so none of them were even paying attention to her.

Pina raised an eyebrow, her mouth curving into a playful smirk. "You’re acting weird, Y/n. What’s going on?"

"Nothing," Y/n muttered quickly, but the edge to her voice gave her away.

Ingrid, sitting across the table, studied her with a knowing look, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Y/n," she said softly, her tone more amused than anything. "Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell them?"

Y/n opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She had never been good at lying, especially when it came to the girls. "I… I really don’t think this is the time," she mumbled, looking down at her drink.

"Is there something you’re not telling us?" Jana pressed, her tone light but persistent.

"Come on," Vicky chimed in, her grin widening as the realization started to creep into her mind. "We all know you’ve been acting strange lately."

Y/n shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing over at Ingrid, whose eyes were sparkling with a mix of amusement and something else–something that only made the situation worse.

Now Y/n wasn’t sure if she was supposed to talk about the whole ‘I’m not a virgin anymore’ thing or if she should disclose the whole relationship.

She really hadn’t planned for this to happen when she agreed to take a couple of sangria after the match.

But before she could even decide how to handle either of those topics, it was as though a lightbulb had flickered on all at once, and the entire table erupted into chaos.

“No way!"

"Wait, really?"

"Y/n, you're telling us now?!"

“Yes, guys, it finally happened,” Y/n murmured as her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

She was suddenly bombarded with questions after questions about her from all sides.

"How was it?"

"When did it happen?"

Y/n looked at Alexia, trying to find refuge in her capitana who was, oh so protective of her nenas. But even Alexia wasn’t on her side.

"Okay, okay," Alexia finally said, shaking her head teasingly. "So, who’s the lucky person, huh?" She raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the sudden chaos.

Y/n rolled her eyes at Alexia

“Look, it just…happened okay, it was a last month and–”

“Last month!” Vicky dramatically exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Why didn't you tell us!?”

Y/n sighed, taking a slow sip from her drink to avoid making eye contact with the one person at the table who sat perfectly composed, as if she had no idea what was going on.

"Why would I tell you guys that?" Y/n countered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Because we're basically family?" Vicky huffed, rolling her eyes as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You made me bring my first girlfriend to training on our first date."

Y/n blinked, momentarily taken aback by Vicky’s comment. The rest of the table paused, some of the girls snickering at the unexpected comparison, clearly agreeing with Vicky.

So what if Y/n wanted to know the girl Vicky was going out to make sure she was an acutely good person? That didn't give them the right to know details about her life.

"Okay, well, that’s... a bit different," Y/n muttered, trying to steer the conversation away from the awkwardness that was settling in.

"Tell us who it is!" Jana said , practically bouncing in her seat.

"Okay girls enough! Stop bothering Y/n," Alexia finally intervened, her captain voice cutting through the chatter as she wrapped a protective arm around Y/n's shoulders. "She doesn't have to tell us anything."

The younger girls groaned but relented, shifting into another conversation. Y/n exhaled in relief, thinking she was finally off the hook…until Alexia leaned in and murmured in her ear.

"You'll tell me, right?" she asked, her lips curving into a pout. “After the bar, actually we can pretend to go to the bathroom and–”

Y/n stared at her, her eyes eide. "No, Ale."

“What?” Alexia replied, her face showing genuine disappointment.

“I’m not telling you!”

“Why? You told me about your first kiss when you were fourteen in la masia!”

“Because this is way more embarrassing than me kissing another girl on the pitch during truth or dare!” Y/n said crossing her arms

"But do I know the person?" Alexia pressed, disappointment being changed into mischievous

"No."

Alexia narrowed her eyes. "Liar."

Y/n barely had time to react before Alexia’s gaze swept over the table, studying every single face. "I'm almost sure it's someone from the team, actually…but who?"

Y/n scoffed. "What makes you think that?"

"Because if it was someone else, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to keep it from us." Alexia said, still swiping the table with her eyes,

"Since when do you notice those kinds of things?"

Alexia smirked. "I always did, alright? And I’ll find out who it is."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Good luck with that, Capitana."

Alexia wasn’t as observant as she liked to think, because she surely missed the way Ingrid winked at Y/n after the table had settled down.

But Patri, who had been quiet the whole time, was quick to pick up on it.

Patri suddenly sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Wait, what was that?"

The entire table went silent, following the direction of Patri’s gaze.

"Ingrid... winked,” she said, staring at Ingrid who looked unbothered.

Y/n’s stomach dropped.

Y/n peeked at Ingrid through her fingers, both mortified and grateful for her directness.

The team, to their credit, actually let it go. But as Ingrid and Y/n stood to leave, Y/n could feel their amused stares burning into her back.

And, of course, just as they were walking away, someone wiggled their eyebrows suggestively.

Because, naturally, there was no such thing as a private l"Sh-she didn’t wink… she–blinked!" Y/n blurted, glancing at Ingrid, who remained utterly relaxed, an infuriating grin tugging at her lips.

"No," Patri countered, setting her drink down with conviction. "She winked. Because it was just one eye."

"Maybe you blinked while Ingrid blinked with the other eye," Y/n suggested.

Patri’s brows furrowed. "That would mean Ingrid has some weird eye-blinking pattern."

"Maybe she does. Not nice of you to point it out."

"But—"Patri’s argument was cut short when Pina gently placed a hand on her thigh.

"Babe, just keep drinking. Yeah?" Pina said, her tone calming.

Patri frowned but complied, though not before pointing accusingly between Y/n and Ingrid. "There’s something going on between you two."

Y/n opened her mouth to protest, but Ingrid beat her to it.

"We’re dating," she said casually, as if she hadn’t just set off the biggest gossip at the table, completely unfazed by the attention suddenly directed at them.

The table went dead silent for a heartbeat. Then, it erupted in chaos.

"We knew it" Vicky and Jana screamed in unison, dramatically throwing their arms around each other. "That’s why you’ve been so close during training!"

Y/n gaped at Ingrid. "Ingrid!"

Ingrid only shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. "What, kjære? They were going to figure it out anyway. They can’t help being nosy–it's a Spanish thing."

Y/n could feel the heat in her cheeks. She was not ready for this. She glanced over at Alexia, hoping for some sort of support, but Alexia had gone unusually quiet, her expression both surprised and confused, still processing the information.

"Wait…" Alexia finally spoke up, her voice low as she tried to put the pieces together. "So Ingrid was the one you had your first time with?"

Y/n’s face burned, her brain scrambling for a way out. "I— we… well, you see—"

"Yes," Ingrid confirmed, her voice smooth and calm, almost smug as she leaned back in her chair.

Y/n groaned, dropping her head into her hands as the table erupted once more.

"But," Ingrid added, voice firm, "my elskling doesn’t want to talk about it, so let’s drop it, yeah?"

Y/n peeked at Ingrid through her fingers, both mortified and grateful for her directness.

The team, to their credit, actually let it go. But as Ingrid and Y/n stood to leave–together, Y/n could feel their amused stares burning into her back.

And, of course, just as they were walking away, someone wiggled their eyebrows suggestively.

Because, naturally, there was no such thing as a private life in Barça

Notes: Hope you guys liked it! <3

Masterlist

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #woso community #ingrid engen fanfic #ingrid engen x yn #ingrid engen x reader

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mintyys-blog · 4 months ago

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avengers x nurse! reader: Nurse Knows Best

WARNINGS: none

The Avengers were like a group of overgrown kids who happened to have superpowers, and as their designated nurse, it was your job to keep them in one piece—not that they ever made it easy for you.

You’d worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to know that most agents had a tendency to push themselves too hard, but the Avengers? They were on a whole other level. It didn’t matter if they had a broken rib, a twisted ankle, or a mild concussion; they’d brush it off like it was nothing. And every time, you were there to scold them.

The med bay was bustling after a mission gone sideways. You stood with your hands on your hips, surveying the chaos as various members of the team wandered in, clearly worse for wear.

“Okay,” you said loudly, clapping your hands to get their attention. “Everyone who’s injured, sit down and let me take a look at you. No exceptions.”

Tony Stark was the first to protest, of course. “I’m fine, Nurse Killjoy. It’s just a scratch.”

“A scratch?” You raised an eyebrow, pointing at the deep gash on his arm that was still bleeding. “Sit. Now.”

Tony rolled his eyes but obeyed, muttering under his breath about bossy nurses.

Next up was Clint, who was cradling his wrist. “I don’t need—”

“Don’t even start, Barton. Sit.”

He sighed dramatically but plopped down in the nearest chair.

Steve Rogers walked in next, limping slightly but trying to hide it. You immediately spotted the blood seeping through his suit at his side.

“Captain Rogers,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, his voice calm and reassuring.

“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re leaking blood all over my floor.”

Steve looked down, as if noticing the injury for the first time. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sit down before I make you,” you said firmly, pointing to an empty bed.

His lips twitched like he wanted to argue, but he gave in, sitting with a sheepish smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Natasha was the only one who didn’t fight you. She sat quietly on the edge of a cot, holding a cold pack to her shoulder.

“Thank you for not arguing,” you said as you passed by.

She smirked. “Why would I? You’re the only one here who scares Steve.”

“Nat!” Steve protested from his bed.

Natasha just laughed, winking at you.

Bruce Banner was next, looking drained but otherwise uninjured. You handed him a bottle of water and told him to sit and rest, which he did without complaint.

“Where’s Thor?” you asked.

Bruce sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Last I saw, he was outside arguing with some agents about carrying Mjölnir into the med bay.”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Of course he is.”

As if on cue, Thor burst through the doors, looking as proud as ever despite the torn sleeve of his armor revealing a nasty gash on his bicep. Mjölnir dangled from his hand as if it were a paperweight.

“Lady Y/N!” Thor greeted you with his usual booming enthusiasm. “Fear not, for I am unscathed!”

You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to his arm. “And what’s that?”

Thor glanced at the wound as if noticing it for the first time. “A mere trifle! This is nothing for the God of Thunder.”

“Thor, sit down before you bleed all over my med bay,” you said, pointing to an open chair.

“But—”

“Now.”

Thor blinked, clearly unused to being bossed around, but when Natasha smirked at him from her cot, he sighed dramatically and sat down. “Very well, Lady Y/N. I shall allow you to tend to this insignificant injury.”

By the time everyone was settled and you’d cleaned, stitched, or bandaged them up, you were exhausted. But that didn’t stop you from giving them your usual lecture.

“You all need to start taking better care of yourselves,” you said, crossing your arms as you stood in the middle of the room. “You’re not invincible, no matter how much you act like it.”

“Technically, I kind of am,” Tony said, waving his hand. “You know, with the suit and all.”

You shot him a glare. “Even you, Stark. You have to rest and recover like everyone else.”

“I do rest,” Tony said defensively.

“Falling asleep at your desk doesn’t count.”

Natasha chuckled quietly while Steve looked at you with an apologetic smile. “You’re right,” he said, surprising everyone by agreeing. “We’ll do better.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint muttered, earning a sharp look from you.

“You will do better,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Once the med bay had cleared out and everyone was patched up, Steve lingered behind, watching as you cleaned up your supplies.

“You’re good at what you do,” he said, his voice warm.

You glanced at him, softening slightly. “Thanks. Someone has to keep you all alive.”

He chuckled, leaning against the counter. “We don’t make it easy, do we?”

“No, you don’t,” you said with a smile. “But I guess I can’t blame you. You’re trying to save the world, after all.”

Steve tilted his head, studying you. “Still, we owe you a lot. I don’t think we say that enough.”

Your cheeks warmed at his sincerity. “You just did, so… thank you.”

He gave you a small nod before turning to leave, but not before adding, “Don’t work too hard, Nurse Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Right back at you, Captain.”

A few days later, they were off on another mission. When they returned, battered but victorious, you were there, hands on your hips and ready to scold them all over again.

But this time, as they filed into the med bay, Steve caught your eye and gave you a sheepish smile.

“We tried to take it easy,” he said.

You sighed, shaking your head with a small laugh. “Sure you did.”

And despite their stubbornness, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for being the one to keep this chaotic, mismatched family in one piece.

The Avengers were many things—heroes, legends, earth’s mightiest—but they were also, without a doubt, the biggest pains in your life. While you loved them (in a professional sense, you often reminded yourself), there were days when they seemed hell-bent on driving you to the brink of insanity.

It started innocently enough. You’d handed Clint an ice pack for his sprained wrist, warning him to use it and not to get into any trouble while waiting for you to finish with Tony.

Apparently, “trouble” was Clint’s middle name.

By the time you turned around, he was using the ice pack as a projectile, aiming it at Thor’s head.

“Barton!” you shouted, but it was too late.

Thor caught the ice pack midair and grinned like a child who’d just been handed a toy. “A fine game, indeed!”

Before you knew it, Thor had launched it back at Clint, narrowly missing your head in the process.

“Guys, stop—”

Steve walked in at the worst possible moment, only to get hit square in the chest by the ice pack. He froze, blinking in confusion, before turning his disapproving gaze on Clint.

“It wasn’t me!” Clint said, pointing at Thor.

“I’m ending this now!” you barked, snatching the ice pack off the floor and holding it like a grenade.

Everyone froze, the room dead silent.

“Good,” you said, your tone clipped. “Now, sit down, or I swear I’ll superglue all of you to the med bay chairs.”

Tony Stark’s caffeine addiction was well-documented. He was rarely seen without a coffee cup in hand, and he had a bad habit of wandering into your office to steal your coffee whenever his ran out.

You’d warned him repeatedly. But today was the day you finally snapped.

“Tony, I swear to everything holy, if you take my coffee one more time—”

“I’m not taking it,” Tony interrupted, already mid-sip.

You glared at him, debating whether it was worth the potential HR complaint to tackle him. “That’s literally my mug, Stark.”

“Is it, though?” he quipped, holding it up to inspect the “World’s Okayest Nurse” lettering you’d bought as a joke.

“Yes, it is!”

Natasha strolled in, took one look at your murderous expression, and immediately turned on her heel. “Nope. Not my problem.”

Later that day, you found a brand-new espresso machine in your office with a note that read, “Bribes work, right? - T”

You should’ve known better than to challenge Thor, but you were running on two hours of sleep, and logic had abandoned you.

“Thor, please stop leaving Mjölnir on the exam tables,” you said for the third time that day. “I can’t move it, and I’m not calling you every five minutes to come and get it.”

“It is perfectly safe where it lies,” Thor said proudly, arms crossed.

“It’s not safe for me,” you shot back. “I’m not worthy, remember?”

Thor grinned. “Perhaps you underestimate yourself, Lady Y/N. You should try lifting it.”

Your eye twitched. “Thor, I don’t have time for this.”

He ignored you, stepping back and gesturing dramatically. “Go on. Prove yourself worthy.”

With a deep sigh, you grabbed the handle and pulled with all your might. Nothing happened, of course.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, grabbing a clipboard and swatting his arm with it.

Thor just laughed, retrieving Mjölnir like it weighed nothing and promising, “I shall endeavor to do better.”

He didn’t.

Bucky had a habit of sneaking up on people, but today, he outdid himself.

You were focused on updating patient files when a voice spoke from directly behind you:

“Whatcha doing?”

You screamed loud enough to send papers flying everywhere.

“BUCKY!”

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound remotely sorry. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Like hell you didn’t!” you snapped, clutching your chest. “Do you even know how jumpy I am?”

“Natasha bet me ten bucks I couldn’t make you scream,” he admitted with a shrug.

From the hallway, Natasha’s voice called out, “Worth every penny!”

The final straw came when you found Steve Rogers—America’s golden boy—eating chocolate pudding out of a biohazard container in the lab.

“Steve. What are you doing?” you asked, your voice unnervingly calm.

He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Uh… eating pudding?”

“In a biohazard container?”

Steve frowned, staring at the container like it had betrayed him. “It was in the fridge. I thought it was clean.”

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Steve, that’s for medical samples. It literally says ‘Biohazard’ on the side.”

He looked so horrified and embarrassed that you almost felt bad for yelling at him. Almost.

“I… should probably stop eating this,” he said quietly, setting the container down.

“Ya think?” you muttered.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted. You collapsed into your chair in the break room, head in your hands, wondering how you were still sane.

Natasha walked in, holding a cup of coffee. She placed it in front of you without a word.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, sipping it gratefully.

“Don’t let them get to you,” she said with a smirk. “They’re idiots, but they’re our idiots.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “That’s the only reason I haven’t quit yet.”

From the hallway, you heard Tony shout, “Who used my arc reactor as a paperweight?”

You groaned, already bracing yourself for the next round of chaos.

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little-fae-hero · 4 months ago

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Linked Universe, The Hero of Legend

My headcanons/aus

Art by Atro

Colored version.

Long talk/Ideas under the cut, warning for slightly dark topics. (Note: I may add stuff over time, but nothing will be deleted from the list)

Twilight. Wind. Time. Hyrule. Four. Sky. War. Wild.

Legend (A link to the past, Link’s awakening, oracle ages & seasons, A link between worlds). Other nicknames: The veteran, grumpy pants, Mr. Hero, Hylia’s bastard, Zelda’s Twin.

Hero’s title: Hero of the past, Hero of Koholint, Hero of the Oracles, Hero of Holodrum, Hero of Labrynna, Hero of Lorule.

God that has claim over his soul: Hylia

Part of First’s soul: Caution

History:

The first adventure was a Link to the past, after defeating Ganon it was revealed to Link that he was not only Zelda’s twin but the biological child of Hylia, the golden goddess. Link didn’t want to believe it so he hopped on a ship and left, leading him to koholint. The wind fish picked Legend for his divine blood to help wake him.

Both saving the orcales came from Link not wanting to be home, however after the second one he was convinced bad stuff would happen where he went so he opted to go home and retire.

Later, hyrule was attacked leaving Link alone to rescue it. He also meets a mysterious merchant called Ravio who basically becomes his roommate. It’s revealed Ravio and his sister, Hilda are Link and Zelda counterparts with their mother being a goddess, the Lorule version of Hylia. The humans of that world wanted to get rid of their triforce, basically destroying and corrupting the gods that once protected them.

Link uses the triforce and wishes for their triforce back, saving Lorule. Originally they destroyed their ability to travel between worlds. However, both Link and Ravio wishing for the other plus their demigod blood allows Ravio to travel back to Hyrule. Link tried to avoid doing another big adventure after that, just helping people like you should before he ripped away to LU.

Death: Legend lives a longer life then most heroes because of his demigod nature, he’s able to see Fable’s granddaughter start to grow up. However his grandniece was curse and the palace taken over by a prince, hell bent on power. Legend at 70 years old ends up running away from Hyrule, taking many magical items with him. Eventually his age catches up with him and lays in a cave, where he passes.He stays as a spirit to give Hyrule his sword to help him survive.

Interest stuff/Headcanons:

Being a demigod is stained on Legend’s body, mostly by his hair which will flow like water when magic is used or high emotions, or faint tattoos that cover his face and body.

All gods have those tattoos when posing as humans, hence why their children have them. However, most are so faint, only about a shade lighter than their skin tone that they are unnoticeable unless in the right light. But they glow when their natural magic is used.

Because of this, Legend refuses to use any of his natural magic, often relying on magical items and jewelry, playing himself off as a lucky adventurer.

He loves jewelry also because of how shiny it is.

The mermaid tail he can get was because of his mother, as one of her domains is water.

Because of the Mermaid tail thing, he can’t really wear pants sense there's a risk of them being destroyed if he hits water.

Legend despises being Hylia’s son and technically a prince, especially since most see male children of the royal family as a curse waiting to happen.

Legend really loved Koholint, he wasn’t a demigod, he didn’t have any weird powers or random quest. It was so bad that if it wasn’t for his mother’s blessing he likely would have drowned.

The only reason Legend woke the Windfish and broke the pocket realm that he came to love was because of Marin.

Koholint was a pocket realm, populated by people that was close enough to the Windfish resting place. Legend doesn’t know this and spent his next couple of adventures looking for Marin, as he physically had some items given to him by her.

Because of Marin he actually uses what little magic leaks out around him and grows the flowers she kept in her hair, always keeping one on him.

You can follow Legend’s path with ease as the flowers mark where he has rested.

He can play any instrument you hand him.

Legend form in dark areas, a pink rabbit, because rabbits are one his mother animals. He despises this of course.

Legend normally is very untrusting after his first two adventures, however something about Ravio made the hero trust him.

Ravio looks exactly like him, same weird faint markings, same face, same body. It’s just the colors that are wrong.

Legend keeps everything from his adventures with the mentality of ‘I rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.’

Because of his mother, Legend picks up on languages and puzzles very easily. It only takes him about a week in a new area before he can speak and read it.

Despite having the Triforce of Courage, Legend’s counterpart Ravio, actually has the Lorule Triforce of Wisdom.

All his adventures have him plagued by nightmares; Legend has to use a bit of magic to get a restful sleep.

He’s good at finding maps and keys, as well as places to eat.

While it’s really hard to poison him, he can still taste the food. So could he eat rotten food, yes, will he? no.

Legend has joint pain, mainly from refusing to use his magic to heal wounds and waiting until he had potion or fairies, the time left its mark.

He has a soft spot for rabbits and seagulls.

Legend is the one who gave Hyrule his first sword. After his death is spirit remained trying to save Hyrule, and ending up looking after the hero as a merchant.

---

Legend is done, let me know you thoughts.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #legend of zelda #linked universe legend #lu legend #linkeduniverse legend #hero of legend #linked universe au #link #loz #lu headcanons #linked universe headcanon #lu au #fae lu au #fae lu headcanons

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jezebelblues · 7 months ago

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dress to impress | h.s

summary: in which you're a famous streamer n you finally let harry join one of your streams. (though the evening ends a bit differently than you expected)

cw: smut18+ oral (m receiving), daddy kink if u squint, spitting, fem!reader, unedited

word count: approx 3k

| yes yes i know that dti didn’t come out till last year just pretend 😔 also btw if this is cringe random then pretend i don’t exist fr i got this idea cause caseoh randomly posted a dti update while i was at the gym so thank u caseoh

not my gif. if u have the info of the original creator, lmk so i can appropriately credit them.

masterlist

December 2021 | London

Snow dusted the window softly, frosting the glass and sending melting droplets downward against the pane, dancing in the direction of the wind. The world was still in the throes of the pandemic, which allowed the lines between professional and personal to blur a bit.

YN had been a popular streamer for a few years now, but her numbers only grew once her relationship went public with the award winning, globe-trotting man that was Harry Styles.

She had been avoiding this moment for months. Not because she didn’t want it to happen—oh no, she had definitely wanted Harry to join her on a stream, like a thousand times—but Harry had this way of throwing himself into new situations with such confidence that it was bound to lead to some seriously chaotic results.

But her fans, their fans, had been relentless. Every single time she went live on Twitch, no matter what game she was playing—among us, fortnite, mario world—the chat exploded with one resounding request: Get Harry on the stream!

At first, she’d brush it off with a smile and a laugh, always saying something like, he’s busy in the studio, or, he’s still getting in the hang of gaming, you don’t want to see him struggling on stream, trust me. But by the time December rolled around and the UK was stuck in another lockdown, YN realized she ran out of excuses to give. It was time to bring Harry on camera.

And so, on a cold December evening, she caved.

Harry was sitting in the same room. It was originally supposed to be an office, but since YN’s online career began to take off, it slowly transformed into a streaming room. Three monitors sat on a white desk in front of a large window. The one that sat in the middle showed the view of the stream and chat, while the other two were to be used for whatever.

Harry sat on a small couch in the center of the room, his head against the arm as he lazily scrolled through his phone, completely unaware of the chaos he was about to unleash on the internet. He looked effortlessly perfect, as per usual, in his gray sweats and oversized lavender hoodie, His growing curls were clipped into a tiny bun that sat on top of his head, a pair of brown glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

The glow of the computers illuminated the room as she finished up last minute technical checks, string lights twinkling around the edge of the room for a warmer glow. YN adjusted the camera, smiling brightly as the viewers started to pile in, the chat exploding from the sight of Harry in the background. “So,” she began with a giggle, averting her eyes from the screen to her boyfriend that sat comfortably behind her. “y’ready to join us, lovey?”

He looked up from his phone, his features softening as he shut it off. His eyebrows quirked in that familiar way as he chuckled. “Oh, honey.” He sighed playfully as he stood up, ambling over to the spot behind her chair. “I was born ready.”

“Uh-huh.” She laughed, tilting her head backward to catch a glance from underneath him. “Sure you were.”

He placed a quick kiss against her forehead before he sat in the chair beside her, settling in and staring at the center monitor which revealed the chat that moved in an insane quickness. He leaned over toward YN, shoulders barely touching as he waved at her camera with a wide smile.

She snorted, pushing against her boyfriend as she leaned over to point to the other monitor with a smile. “Look, baby.” She said softly, adjusting the camera that belonged to that computer before pulling up the game roblox. She gently explained to him the set up of the stream, informing him that all he had to do was sit in his space and the chat would see him just fine.

And they would, it took YN over twenty minutes to set the stream up in a split screen sort of way, which would allow the viewers to see both YN and Harry, and their respective screens for gameplay.

“Oh.” Harry giggled, as he scrolled throughout the roblox website randomly. His gaze shifted between his screen and the center monitor, reading out whatever messages he could since the chat moved so quickly. He scoffed, shaking his head. “How hard can this be? Look at this!” He laughed, nodding toward his screen.

His girlfriend snorted, shaking her head as she pulled up the game dress to impress. “This isn’t grand theft auto or fifa, I don't think you'll magically be good at this.” She grinned as she leaned over again toward Harry, pulling up the same game on his monitor.

“Oh ye of little faith.” He chuckled as he watched the game load in, wiggling his eyebrows at the camera. “I’ve got this.”

harryfan1: OMG ur kidding i literally knew it

ynfan2: no WAY LMFAO

harryfan2: HES ON

YN couldn’t help but laugh as she read the chat aloud. “You guys are way too excited for this,” she teased. “Harry’s not that big of a deal.”

He feigned offense as he looked into the camera with his jaw slack, a huff escaping his lips. “Absolutely bonkers.” He laughed breathily, referring to his girlfriend that sat beside him. He let his shoulders falter as he settled in a bit more, a grin spreading across his lips as the neon lobby of dress to impress loaded in.

YN’s eyes flickered between both the camera and Harry as she explained the premise of the game, smiling at his cocky eye rolls and the flood of heart emojis and keysmashes from the chat that seemed to express a collective internet scream.

“Would you like my help?” YN asked, humor lacing her words as she stared at the theme that flashed over the screen, winter wonderland.

Harry cracked his knuckles, tongue in cheek as he shook his head, darting around the game’s lobby in search for the exact outfit he envisioned.

She laughed at him, quickly putting on a cute outfit with hair and makeup that went along perfectly. Something elegant, a cream colored warmth. Her smile grew as she glanced at the chat, then to Harry’s screen.

user3: whos gonna tell bro

user4: oh honey…

His avatar was dressed in white, baggy jeans with a puffy winter jacket that had a hawaiian pattern on it. Harry could feel her eyes on him as he placed a santa hat on his avatar for the finishing look. The skin tone of the character was still a default gray, completely bald with no face. His smile began to falter as he looked over toward his girlfriend’s screen. “How’d you do that?” He pleaded, his mouth falling into a frown as he watched the timer go down. “I’ve got no face!”

She laughed again as she showed him how to put hair and makeup on, as well as put an actual skin tone on his little avatar. She couldn’t help but ask what the hell he was envisioning for his outfit.

He grinned as he spun his avatar around the lobby. “She’s wishing for Florida.” He said, pointing toward the screen. “She’s dressed in warm clothes but the patterns show she wishes to be elsewhere.”

user5: this guy has got to stick to writing songs

When the voting started, YN’s outfit was praised by the chat and those in the server—many of whom were fans who were able to join the same lobby.

And then came Harry’s turn.

The second his avatar strut down the runway, there was a moment of lag in the chat before it quickly exploded once more.

“Oi!” Harry exclaimed, pointing at the camera with a snap. “Five stars or m’not releasing the third album.”

YN’s mouth fell agape as she watched Harry place first, watching her boyfriend fold his hands together and shake them in victory as he hummed the tune to as it was. (a tune his fans were completely oblivious to) which only let his smirk grow wider.

The next theme was royalty, and YN figured this one would be easier for Harry. After all, the man was basically British royalty in his own right. Surely he could nail this one.

But once again, Harry’s choices were questionable, but of course it made complete sense to him in his own mind.

While YN opted for a pretty gown and tiara, Harry—ever the wildcard—dressed his avatar in what could only be described as a pirate. For royalty.

She stared at his screen, dumbfounded. “H..that’s a pirate.”

“Royalty of the seas, love.” He winked, “captain Styles at your service.”

The chat went ballistic again, loving every second of Harry’s presence on screen.

user6: h pulled out the arrgh 5000s

user7: HARRY PLEASE

They played a few more rounds, with Harry’s outfits growing increasingly outlandish each time, much to the delight of the viewers. The banter between them never let up, and the stream quickly became one of YN’s most popular broadcasts ever.

As the night wore on and the final round came to an end, YN leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head. “You guys are so spoiled.” She grinned in the direction of the camera. “I hope you enjoyed.”

Harry nodded, his smile unwavering. “And what did we learn tonight?”

“That this is why you have stylists?”

He scoffed before he muttered out a no, raising a finger like he was about to make a profound statement. “We learned that I am a roblox fashion icon in the making.”

She burst out laughing again, and this time, she didn’t stop. Her laughter was infectious, and soon Harry was laughing alongside her, neither of them able to take the game—or themselves—too seriously.

“Well baby, fashion icon or not.” She said, poking her boyfriend’s cheek gently. “I think we all learned this might not be your true calling.”

He gasped in mock offense, swatting her hand away and clutching his chest dramatically. “Rude. Just y’wait—next time I’ll come prepared. I’ll have a roblox fashion strategy ready t’go.”

She smirked, titling her head in his direction. “Next time, huh?”

He paused with a smile, considering. “It was a bit of fun, but next time it needs to be guitar hero or something. I’ll wipe the floor with you on that one, gorgeous.”

The chat immediately lit up again, the fans going wild at the thought of Harry in the streams more often than not, especially if he got to show off his musical side. Some were already throwing out more ideas for the future:

Play minecraft!

Get this man on the sims!

Releasing an album simulator (but irl)

YN smiled again, clearly amused by the flood of suggestions. As the stream began to wind down, she and Harry took a few moments to read some of the comments and thank the viewers for tuning in. They said their goodbyes, waving at the camera and promised to do something like this again soon—though YN wasn’t sure if Harry had fully processed just how much the fans would hold him to that.

As she logged off, Harry stood from the chair and stretched his hand above his head with an exaggerated groan, revealing his belly button and the ferns peeking out from the hem of his sweatpants. She rolled the chair in his direction, resting her head against his waist with a content sigh. “Everyone loves you.”

He smiled, letting his hands fall onto her shoulders and rub them gently. “What can I say?” He hummed, a cocky sarcasm laced in his words.

“You’re impossible.” She whispered against the wrinkled fabric of his hoodie, though the words held no bite.

“Oh, please.” He laughed, “You enjoyed it, watching me flounder around.”

She shrugged innocently, tilting her head upward so her chin rested against his abdomen, their gaze fixed onto each other. Her smile was lazy as she parted her lips, “It was funny watching you struggle.”

His breaths caused her head to jut softly back and forth as she continued to lean against him, his fingers running through her hair as he hummed. “Funny huh?” His tone was gentle, delicate, as his fingers ran down from her hair to caress her cheeks, making her shiver. “Y’think its a game to tease me, hm?”

She felt her pulse quicken, a tension settling around them that replaced the previous banter. “I wasn’t teasing.” She said, her voice softer than before, but the hint of a smile still played on her lips.

Harry took the teeniest step back as his hand fell from her cheek to her chin, gripping it ever so slightly. His thumb brushed against her bottom lip, beckoning her mouth open. “No? Cause you’ve been doing it all night.” His voice was low, authoritative, and sent a rush of heat through her. He tutted toward her as he gazed down at her through his eyelashes, wanting her to part her lips a bit wider. His thumb slips into her mouth, the pad of it pressing down against her tongue.

“I think y’like pushing me.” He murmured, his breaths even and slow as he continued to hold her mouth open–which only allowed it to salivate even more. His eyes flickered from her lips to hers, a smile beginning to play upon his lips.

“What should we do about that, hm?” He cooed as he dragged his thumb away from her tongue, wetting her chin as his hand dropped to the side of her neck. Her own salvia glistened in the warm glow of the fairy lights around the room.

Her breath hitched as he bent at the waist, pressing a kiss onto her lips with his hand still cupping her neck. She melted into it, a heat pooling between her thighs as she felt his tongue against hers. His breath was cool with peppermint, his hair the scent of lavender and vanilla.

They part slowly, strings of saliva snapping from the mutual disconnect. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth as he reaches him, gripping the back of his hoodie’s collar and pulling it off overhead. His chest rises and falls quicker than before as YN’s fingers lightly trace over the ink of the moth of his abdomen, the wings fluttering with every breath. His hands find hers as he pulls it toward the hem of his sweats. “Now,” He sighs heavily, watching her through half-lidded eyes, “be good f’me.”

She nodded as looped her fingers underneath both his sweats and his boxers, tugging them down in one continuing, slow motion until his cock slaps against the skin underneath his belly button.

Her eyes find his, to which he grabs her chin once again, jerking it to face upward toward him. He leaned down as her lips parted, kissing her hungrily before pulling her bottom lip down gently. “Open.” He muttered, watching as she held her tongue out for him. She watched as his lips curled before spitting onto her tongue, saliva drooling from his lips to pool onto her tongue.

She could feel her heartbeat in her core as he straightened back up, especially when he combed his digits through her hair and gripped as he reached the crown of her scalp. With her tongue still out, she neared the head of his cock—slick with precum already and the prettiest shade of pink. She swirled around the slit, watching through her eyelashes as his jaw clenched shut, a heavy exhale falling from his nose.

Her lips formed an ‘o’ as she enveloped the tip completely, closing her eyes as she savored the taste of him. She started off slow as she bobbed up and down his length, closing her inner cheeks around his cock with a hum. “Fuck.” He grunted, tightening his grip on her locks as he bucked his hips slightly. YN wrapped her hand around his length as her lips fell from his tip with a wet pop. She spat onto his cock, stroking him as she dipped her head down toward his balls, lapping and gently sucking the skin there, which had him tilt his head back in pleasure. Veins were more prominent in his neck as he groaned, the coil in his belly tightening. “Such a good girl.” He moaned softly as she wrapped her lips around his cock again, taking him deeper, her throat convulsing around the head that swelled with the threat of release. “Taking daddy’s cock so good.”

She hummed again, the reverberation causing his toes to curl against the carpet. He gathered her hair into a makeshift ponytail in his fist, guiding her movements as moans continued to fall from his lips. She could feel him begin to twitch in her throat as she gagged on his length, his movements sloppy. She could feel his quickened breaths from the way his lower abdomen fluttered against her forehead. “M’close baby–” He grunted, loosening his grip on her hair only slightly. “W-where.?” He choked out in pleasure, his abs rippling and tensing under the glow of the fairy lights, glistening from sweat.

She only trailed her hands up his bare thighs, gripping his hips as if to keep him in place. She wanted to taste him, to suck him of every drop entirely.

His cock pulsed against her tongue as he thrusted once more into her throat, shooting white ropes of come into her mouth with a moan. Her head continued to bob as she swirled her tongue around him, licking every drop of his release to the sound of his whimpers–the prettiest sound she’s ever heard.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as she parts from his cock, placing a few lazy kisses along his navel with a smile. He swallows hard, brushing strands of hair from her face with a lopsided smile. “I could get use to this.” He teases breathlessly, watching as his girlfriend shrugged his pants back up his long legs with a grin.

She stood from her chair, pulling Harry into a kiss. His tongue brushes past her lips, his knees weak at the taste of himself mingled with her saliva. She hums against him, cupping his cheek as she parts. “Don’t get use to it, pretty boy. You still sucked.”

He laughed, his cheeks flushing a shade of pink as he shot a haphazard wink toward her. “Actually baby, that was all you.”

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luviisabella · 15 days ago

Text

mind games ۶ৎBNHA UNI.AU

-> katsuki bakugou 🩷

You had him wrapped around your finger.

It started with you two being assigned the same patrol areas, at first in larger groups but eventually it was just the two of you.

He would mumble under his breath but you knew he was more than happy to be paired with you and not one of the other guys.

Per usual, you two were assigned to Shinjuku City for the night. You were surprised reading the chart because usually you had day shifts and before you could question it your thoughts were already answered.

“Mina and Kirishima called out sick, they were supposed to cover the afternoon so they gave it to us”

Bakugou came up next to you scanning the board for anything else you may have missed and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Sick ?” and deep down you knew exactly what that meant, you made a mental note to call her for details later.

—

Once it was 7pm you and Bakugou decided to start heading over. Both of you had a brief conversation with your boss, the lookout was for a guy with what sounds like an interesting quirk who’s been dealing for the LOV.

As the two of you walked down the busy streets you admired the night life. It wasn’t often you went out or saw pretty areas such as this, not unless you were assigned.

Bakugou looked over and scoffed when he saw your eyes wandering in every direction at once.

“We should get something while we’re here”

He looked over at you in surprise.

“What ? We technically don’t start until 9 and are here until 1am so we might as well look around. Maybe we’ll even find him where we least expect it”

He didn’t want to admit it, but it wasn’t a bad idea. Besides.. it meant he could spend more time with you.

You two walked into multiple stores, looking at clothes, jewelry, shoes, and even snacks.

After about an hour you both decided to sit on top of a building and just admire the view.

It was convenient you both had flight quirks, but it wasn’t uncommon to catch you two on a building like this.

If you’re being honest it also helps you scan the crowd from an unexpected distance. Easier to spot who you’re looking for.

You two were both eating mochi, yours was pink and his was orange (the irony), and as the clouds moved to reveal the moon, you couldn’t help but realize how pretty he was.

You stared at him in awe of his looks, you always knew he was good looking, but my God.

“Weird ass” despite looking down he noticed you staring

You frowned, you ignored his words, you just wanted to get a better look.. so you reached over and grabbed the side of his face to turn it towards you.

“The fuck’s your.. problem…” and while he wanted to be mad, he ended up silent.

The look you were giving him sent his heart into shock and your touch was so delicate. He’s never felt anything like that and while he might struggle to admit it, you’re the only one he’d ever let do this.

You softly smile at him, “You do have pretty eyes” and you couldn’t help but fight back a laugh when you felt his face heat up.

He moved his head back, looking back down and trying not to acknowledge what just happened. “Your hands are sticky.” they weren’t, he just didn’t know how to react, let alone say “Don’t let go”.

Despite his ‘cold’ attitude, you knew how he felt, but you were waiting for him to admit it first.

You also looked down and while admiring the view again you noticed something.

“That’s him.” pointing towards the very obvious spot, that ironically being the top of another smaller building.

You stood up and looked over at Bakugo who was already on his feet. No words were set before you both took off.

You both caught him off guard because from the looks of it he was in the midst of a drug exchange, but something didn’t feel right. You had a vague description of the guys quirk and when the villain revealed his hand that’s when you realized.

Past heroes or people that tried stopping him were either in the hospital on meds for temporary paralysis, fever, or were thankfully recovering. It wasn’t injuries, his quirk was venom. That’s why your boss told you to look out for any cuts, bruises, etc. on his body, because he’s been transferring his blood into bullets and using it on heroes.

The villain looked as if he was aiming at you but judging by the smile on his face he knew you caught on and quickly turned to Bakugou.

In a panick you immediately ran to cover him, barely making it in time before the bullet hit your upper arm.

You cursed before looking over, trying to minimize losing sight of the villain but he was already making a run for it.

“We have to-“ shit..

..his quirk. You took a weak step forward before falling to the floor.

“Y/n !” He was internally cursing himself out, by the time you figured out his quirk he did too and was reaching towards the guy before he turned to him.

Bakugou reached down to pick you up, letting your head rest on his bicep as he was talking to you. Except, his words weren’t clear, you could only hear what sounded like a faint voice.

“I can’t move” you were fighting back the pain coursing through your body. It felt like every limb was being compressed and your senses were all blocked. You couldn’t even lift your finger, slowly every muscle in your body began to go numb.

Your nervous system was slowing down.

You were going in and out of consciousness, you could see him calling for backup and when you blinked again he was now looking down at you. The same eyes you thought were so pretty moments ago now looking down at you with fear.

He held you just a little tighter, afraid if he let go you’d fall apart.

“Come on, stay with me… please.”

part two ?

made by luviisabella۶ৎ

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withahappyrefrain · 5 months ago

Note

Ok hear me out. I just saw your 60 Meet Cutes list and, I know you already technically kind of wrote a fic about Bob being high off his meds after a training exercise puts him in the hospital. But I saw #5) A is a doctor/nurse treating B for an injury, but B won't stop flirting, and all I can think of is Bobby high of his rocker following an injury/surgery after a training exercise gone wrong and all he keeps doing is flirt with his doctor. And the dagger squad was visiting him post-surgery and they’re all cackling from the normally quiet Bob rizzing up his doctor. And then maybe that’s how he meets his wife 😂

Working at the Naval Medical Center meant several things.

One, there would always be patients. Whether it was the soldiers themselves or their family. Primary care, immediate care, your workplace did it all.

Second, no injury was too abnormal. A patient’s needs could range from needing a sling due to falling in the middle of bootcamp to delivering a baby.

Third and most importantly, don’t fall for a patient. The chances of them being married were high, plus it made things complicated.

You were doing a great job at following all three. Until today.

Lieutenant Commander Robert Floyd was a WSO for the Navy. He and his pilot had to eject from their jet during training due to a bird strike. While he got out of the jet okay, it was the landing that got him. His left arm was definitely sprained and he had a fractured rib. Combined with all the bruising that littered his left side, needless to say he was in a lot of pain. Thankfully, he didn’t need surgery, but he did need quite the cocktail of pain medication.

No amount of bruising could hide his handsome face. It was the first thing you noticed when you walked into his room. His long lashes fanned his face. Faded freckles scattered across his face and neck, like constellations. You had seen him before, visiting other pilots and checking in on their family members. Even spoke to him a few times when he asked how they were doing. But never anything in depth.

When he was first brought in, he was barely conscious. You had explained to him what was happening, that they were putting him under to do a full body inspection. He had looked up at you with those big blue eyes and God, he was just so cute. You could admire how cute a patient was, nothing wrong with that, right?

At the sound of the door opening, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes bluer than sapphires.

“Hi Mr. Floyd. Are you doing alright?” Your voice was lithe and gentle, he was still waking up after all. He mumbled something in response.

“What was that Mr. Floyd?” Moving closer, you hoped you could hear him better. It totally wasn’t to admire how cute he was. No, not at all.

“’m Bob,” His words were slow, but clearer, “Mr. Floyd’s my dad.”

“Bob it is,” you couldn’t help but giggle, “I’m just checking in on you, see if the medication is working. I’m going to help you sit up, alright?”

Bob nodded, his eyes never leaving your face. Placing your chart down on the nightstand, you gingerly helped him sit up, just enough to do your job.

“This is an important day f’me,” there was a slight twang, complimenting the richness of his voice.

“Oh really now?” Already, you were creating a list of possibilities; birthday, partner’s birthday, anniversary-

“Yeah. Not every day you’re touched by an angel,” a soft, droopy smile graced his face as he looked up at you.

Oh.

It was far from the first time a patient had flirted with you. But it was the first time it had sent a warm rush throughout your body.

“That’s um, very kind of you Mr. Floyd-”

“Bob,” he corrected.

“That’s very kind of you Bob. But I’m no angel. I’m actually about to do some things that may hurt,” you warned.

Bob was quite coherent while you checked his vitals. He answered all your questions with great ease, even had some questions for you. It felt more like a first date than checking a patient-

No, you couldn't think like that.

“Alright Bob, it's time to check your injuries. Let me know if any of the places I touch cause me pain,” you warned.

His brows furrowed in concern, “But I…I haven't taken you out to dinner yet.”

Holy shit, he was darling.

You began at his shoulders. He watched your nimble fingers move about. “You don’t have a ring,” he stated. Probably should have asked that before referencing taking you on a date but again. Meds.

“Um no, I don’t.” Usually pain medication would cause some patients to be blunt, to make odd statements. Usually, you could ignore it and continue on with your responsibilities.

“Well that’s stupid. How has someone not married you yet?” Just ignore him, just keep working.

“Well,” you laughed nervously, “That is a whole can of worms that I doubt you want open. Does it hurt here Bob?”

“No. But how has someone not married you yet? You’re so sweet and smart and patient, also funny too. I still laugh when I think about how you told Jake to sit down and shut up a few months ago. What am I not getting?”

“Well,” you sighed, “For starters, I work long and unusual hours.”

“So do I,” He replied. His body was deceivingly muscular, smooth and firm. Not even a hospital gown could hide it and holy crap, that was so inappropriate.

“So as a result, not a lot of people see me as dateable. I also just moved to the area less than a year ago and it’s been hard finding people,” you confessed, trying to swallow the bitter pill as you moved to his arms. It was easier since you had his huge biceps to focus on.

“Well, those people are stupid. If you care about someone, you’d make it work.”

“I wish more people thought like that. How is it here? Any pain?” You slightly dug your fingers into his sides, watching his face for any reaction. Bob Floyd either had a high pain tolerance or he was high as balls. You guessed it was the latter, given how he could barely shake his head.

“Is there any part of your body that’s in pain Bob?” You asked, fighting the urge to push back the strands of sandy brown hair that had fallen over his forehead. Bob nodded and grabbed your hand. He placed it over his heart.

“Your-your heart?” Panic rose in your voice, if he was experiencing pain in his chest, that meant you needed to alert the cardiologist and the-

“Doesn’t so much as hurt. Just starts beating real fast whenever I see you. I also forget how to breathe when I see ya too, but I know that’s due to your beauty,” He explained, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

Without breaking eye contact, he brought your hand up to his mouth and kissed your wrist. His lips were soft and warm. You were a goner. Yes, it was all slightly cheesy and it totally worked. You prayed he couldn’t tell that you were flustered, that your body felt warm all over, that butterflies were exploding in your stomach.

“Since when the fuck do you have game Bobby?” You were thankful for the voice that interrupted. Turning around, you saw a group of pilots standing at the doorway, holding cards and flowers.

“Um, are you friends of Lieutenant Floyd?” Even your voice was shaky, the professional composure that always got you compliments in med school now completely gone.

“We’re friends, and I apologize for my coworker’s outburst,” You recognized the mustached pilot, having seen him a few months ago when his wife delivered their first child. Lieutenant Bradshaw.

“Oh please, I know you’re just as shocked as I am to see Bob finally making a move on the woman he’s been crushing on for months,” The blonde pilot retorted, completely oblivious to the glares he was receiving from the other pilots.

“I said I was waiting for the right time!” Bob hadn’t let go of your hand, “I know it should have been sooner. I’m sorry.”

“Um, Lieutenant Floyd isn’t ready for visitors yet. Could you please move to the waiting area?” Letting go of Bob’s hand caused him to form an adorable pout with his pink lips.

Once the group has gotten out of your hair, you look around the room, frazzled. Grabbing his chart, you began checking things off.

“Alright, minimal pain though we’ll check again later when your medication has worn off. Heart rate is normal, as is your blood pressure and-”

“I'm sorry,” looking up, there was Bob with a concerned expression written all over his face.

“Oh Mr. Floyd, you're fine. I know you're on a lot of different medications and that causes people to act-”

“I shouldn't have waited so long to talk to you. Was just so nervous because you're so beautiful and kind.”

Good lord, this man was going to be the death of you. The fact he was so sweet, so endearing when he said all these things. It didn't feel sleazy, it felt genuine.

But it couldn't be that. It was due to the medicine. So you'd just have to play along.

“Don't worry about it Bob. There's always tomorrow. Or, in your case, three days after tomorrow.” The comment got a laugh out of Bob, revealing a melodic giggle.

“You mean it? I can ask you out after I rest?” His eyes were now full of hope and excitement.

Nodding, you decided to not add if you remember it. Once the pain medication had worn off, Bob wouldn't remember a thing.

But his friends mentioned a crush that had been developing long before today.

Maybe…..

*************

“I am so sorry.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, surprised to find Bob sitting up in the hospital bed, face redder than a tomato.

“Um, good morning Bob! How are we feeling today?” You walked over to the bed, looking at his vitals.

“Mortified. The way I acted towards you yesterday was so…..God, I'm so embarrassed,” he buried his face into his hands, “If I've- scratch that, I know I offended you yesterday. I made you so uncomfortable and I'm so sorry.”

You thought about his friends’ words, what they said when you came out of the room.

“Yeah, he’s usually not that….bold. But honestly, good for him, he’s been pining after you for months.”

“Without all those meds, he’s still sweet. Just not as talkative.”

Bob continued to ramble, failing to notice how you were using the clipboard to hide a huge grin, “My momma would be so ashamed of me right now. My sisters would be smacking me upside the head. You’re a doctor and a darn good one at that and I just acted like such a…..why are you smiling?”

“Because I think you’re cute. Like super, incredibly cute. I've thought that ever since I saw you here four months ago to check on Lieutenant Garcia.” Your confession made Bob's eyes widen.

“And I was hoping that after you’ve had your three days of mandated rest, maybe we could go out to dinner?” You paused, “Now that I think about it, we should wait four to five days. I’d feel really bad if I caused a patient to reinjure himself.”

A slightly crooked and small smile appeared on Bob’s face, “Do you like Italian food?”

#my writing #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #robert floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd oneshot #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd x y/n #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x you

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sometimesanalice · 8 months ago

Note

for the prompt party, how about: “i can’t help it, i feel so sleepy and cozy now.” with our fave blue eyed WSO?

💖 @callsignspark

A reason to write a sleepy, cozy, domestic Bob?!?! Don’t mind if I do, Elle! 🫶🏻 (ps I still owe you a birthday fic, but please accept this humble offering in the meantime!)

There were a lot of things you liked about Bob Floyd.

You liked that he’d made a point to read your favorite book when you’d first started dating, because he wanted understand the things that made you you.

You liked that he was the type of man to remember an offhand remark, it was as if he wanted to collect every crumb of you and nothing was too small to escape his notice. Like the time you mentioned being excited for summer fruit season, and he’d brought you a box of peaches from the farmers market the moment they’d arrived.

And you really liked the way he whispered the sweetest things as he fucked you into the mattress, the intoxicating sound of his baritone murmuring in your ear as he rendered you thoroughly boneless. His honeyed tongue was just as good at making you swoon as it did at making you come.

But one of the most unexpected things you’d learned about him since he’d become your boyfriend, was that he could not seem to make it past the first 40 minutes of a movie without falling asleep.

The two of you had sailed through that tentatively affectionate part of starting a new relationship, where every inch moved the two of you moved closer to each other felt like a new milestone.

From sitting a respectful distance, pinkies just barely touching, in the getting to know you stage. To sitting snuggled close with his arm over your shoulder, enjoying getting to be curled up against him because you could and he was yours. To straddling his lap, those big hands roaming everywhere, and missing whatever was on TV completely because close enough wasn’t close enough.

You’d been a big fan of each phase, but your favorite was easily when he was sprawled out on top of you like your own personal weighted blanket.

The first time he’d done it was after you’d made him your family’s favorite chicken soup recipe. The weather had just started to change, which in San Diego didn’t mean much, but you’d decided that since it was technically Fall it had been time to woo him with something warm.

He’d just finished doing the dishes, at his insistence, since you’d been the one to cook. You were lounging across the couch trying to find a movie to watch when he’d come over- with a groan and stretch that had revealed just a peek of skin- and flopped himself right on top of you, still ever careful in that way of his. All of his warmth, all of his sturdy weight pressing you into the cushions of your couch.

No one had ever made you feel as safe and secure as he did.

You were only a few minutes into the comedy you’d put on when you felt him stir, trying to sit up. “‘m sorry, honey, I’m probably squishing you.”

“I can take it,” you’d teased, with a wink before wrapping your arms and legs around him, keeping him in place.

He didn’t protest further, only inched himself over a little bit so that the couch was doing most of the work, while you combed your fingers through his hair.

The movie hadn’t even reached the half way point when you heard the first of his soft snores. You’d smiled to yourself and let the movie finish playing, not wanting to disturb him by reaching for the remote.

What you didn’t expect was for it to become a thing.

You thought it was a fluke the first time it had happened.

The second time it happened, you thought he might have been messing with you.

By the third, you were entirely amused.

When the two of you were curled up together on the couch, Bob was always slipping a hand under your shirt, his fingers idly tracing patterns onto your skin until slowly but surely they stopped moving at all. Usually right around the time you hear those first deep, slow breaths and quiet sighs of sleep.

But tonight, you’d decide to put your theory to the test. With your handsome blue eyed boy draped across you, you cued up a movie, stealthily starting the timer on your phone at the same time you’d clicked play.

And sure enough, around 33 minutes in those long fingers of his stopped their circling. And just past the 40 minute mark you’d heard that gentle snore.

You bite your lip, trying not to giggle. "Bob."

There's a long beat. “Hm.”

"Are you awake?” you ask, rubbing his back.

“Just resting my eyes.” It’s a sleepy mumble.

“Oh, really,” you muse. “Well then, can you tell me what just happened? It was pretty big plot twist.”

He lifts his head up, propping himself up on an arm to look at you.

“If you get me a couple minutes to google it I can,” he says with a sheepish smile.

You tip your head back and laugh, entirely and thoroughly charmed by him. “Is that what you’ve been doing after every movie night? Because I’ve been keeping track, and you sir, have yet to make it all the way through any of movies we’ve watched in the last few weeks.”

“Busted, huh?”

“Very. I had a theory and everything, backed with some serious scientific evidence,” you tease, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

Bob huffs a laugh, his ears a sweet shade of pink. “I can’t help it,” he says, doubling down and nuzzling his face into your neck, “I feel so sleepy and cozy now. You’re so soft and you smell really nice.”

Fond. You’re just so fond of him.

“Let’s make a deal,” you suggest, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “As the official resident de facto cinephile in the relationship, I’ll handle all the movie related questions the next time we go to trivia night with your friends, sounds good?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” You feel his smile pressed against your neck.

“Ok, you can go back to ‘resting your eyes’. I’ll send you the wiki article for you to read later.”

He chuckles softly. “I love you, honey. You’re the best.”

You were already warm with him on you, but now it radiates all the way down to your toes. “I love you too.”

#it’s a prompt party 🪩#bob floyd fanfiction #Bob Floyd x reader #Bob Floyd x you #bob floyd x female reader #robert bob floyd #Robert Bob Floyd x you #robert bob floyd x reader #Robert Bob Floyd x female reader #Robert Bob Floyd imagine #Bob Floyd imagine #Robert Bob Floyd fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction

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helenanell · 1 year ago

Text

Contempt of Court || Challengers

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.)

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late.

(This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked.

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers.

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more.

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months.

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer.

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you.

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace.

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you.

Another thing to fail at.

Another thing to lose.

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition.

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree.

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it.

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent.

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it.

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away.

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights.

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained.

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly?

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.”

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?”

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully.

“Nike.”

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you:

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot.

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ”

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack.

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.”

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway.

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice.

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened.

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying.

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse.

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final.

You would never forget his answer:

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy. He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable.

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour.

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile.

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer.

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.”

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors.

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply.

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation.

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago.

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in.

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have.

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?”

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum:

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!”

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door.

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call.

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.”

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be.

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign.

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded.

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well.

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art.

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him.

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating.

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court.

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal.

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans.

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?”

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours.

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold.

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.”

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.”

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile.

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk.

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

You want to tear it off the wall.

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.”

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation.

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult.

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute.

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?”

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad.

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off.

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline.

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating.

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach.

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter.

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted.

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit.

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house.

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue.

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you.

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes.

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that.

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.”

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.”

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?”

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm.

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.”

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you.

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist.

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond.

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever.

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious.

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.”

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water.

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself.

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace.

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank.

“What are you doing?”

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars.

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin.

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water.

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt.

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water.

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge.

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do.

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.”

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism.

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air.

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you.

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own.

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet.

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches.

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines.

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear:

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.”

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him.

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight.

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight.

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him.

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene.

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided.

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap.

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.”

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art.

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real.

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes.

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water?

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands.

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.”

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.”

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin.

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him.

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?”

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten.

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.”

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you.

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver.

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his.

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall.

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin.

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first.

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up.

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away.

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts.

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly.

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?”

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up.

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him.

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond.

Not the night sky.

Just a pond.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell.

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete.

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes.

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this.

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality.

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good.

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side.

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief?

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember.

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond.

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says:

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly.

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away.

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.”

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal.

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows.

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut.

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone.

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside.

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart.

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself.

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement.

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move.

“That was the plan.”

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?”

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?”

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out.

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you.

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board.

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?”

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in.

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him.

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest.

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him.

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.”

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself.

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum.

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there.

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one.

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle.

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh.

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear.

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?”

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk.

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet.

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return.

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place.

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin.

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs.

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.”

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers:

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.”

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.”

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth.

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.”

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you.

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further.

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin.

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead.

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel.

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you.

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh.

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again.

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you.

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied.

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck.

“I think I got my answer.”

“Shut up.”

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier, his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions.

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you.

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.”

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers movie #art donaldson smut #mike faist #tashi duncan

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genshin-scenarios · 11 days ago

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across the spiderverse!

Summary: We’re back with more guys in the Spiderverse AU! For more like this but different characters, check out my previous Spiderverse parts one and two! My pinned post also has more about Lyney’s route if that’s your thing.

Characters: Childe, Albedo, Scaramouche, Dahlia

Warnings: Reference to details of Scaramouche and Albedo’s lore, but otherwise no large spoilers! Very brief mentions of injuries, kidnapping, human experimentation, blood drinking (vampires) and surgeries. (It sounds bad but this post is safe for general/teen audiences I promise.)

Childe

Your life as Spiderman is pretty uneventful until the masked villain Tartaglia shows up in town — around the same time a new cutie is enrolled in your highschool (completely coincidental, you’re sure)

Childe’s villain persona, Tartaglia, is basically his Foul Legacy form (and a version of the ‘Green Goblin’ in your world, flying around and causing explosions). ‘Tartaglia’ kind of takes over Childe’s mind and he isn’t completely in control of it — leading to wreckage in the city and general chaos that the regular him probably wouldn’t like.

On the bright side, even Tartaglia draws the line at harming children! One time, you see a mix of headlines on the news: ‘Tartaglia attacks’ to ‘Supervillain protects kids?’

Childe fell into the abyss during his childhood (yes, it exists even in this modern AU) and gained an unknown power that turns him into Tartaglia! After some time he gets a hold on his persona, though, so your villain x hero fights slowly grow into something he’s more conscious for.

Anyways! Childe is also your new classmate who’s taken a liking to you from day one (call it instinct or whatever, but he could feel that you were something special.)

Later on, your bond is less determined by your superhero and supervillain statuses, but more on how you’re both not quite human. Childe feels less alone and dangerous around you — and what can be better than having the love of his life beat his other self into submission keep his alter ego in check? The main thing he worries about is doing irreversible damage, so technically speaking this is a very romantic and ideal life you’ve got!

Ah, but backtracking to how you reveal your identities: …Well, Tartaglia kidnapped you once, for the purposes of a date. (Do not try this at home.) During which you found out that it was Childe behind that mask and was so surprised that you called him by his legal name (“Wait, don’t scream! It’s just me!” “Ajax?!”)

At this point, he has a handle over ‘Tartaglia’ enough that he’s just acting like his usual self (save for his freakish strength and agility). Childe explains that he wasn’t planning on kidnapping you (just daydreaming about it) but sensed something dangerous was around → turns out he wasn’t being delusional and it was a Doc-Oc spying on you situation (Dottore), which will become more relevant in Season 2 (stay tuned!)

During this impromptu kidnapping-date you have an entire crisis because sure you had a crush on Childe but this is crazy! Are you supposed to just pretend this never happened the next time you’re Spiderman?

A few weeks later Childe gets injured really badly from a fight (abyss creatures came out of some rifts and Tartaglia unexpectedly cleared them out before you) — so you end up taking him in for medical treatment because, well, the police would otherwise unmask him, and even though Tartaglia was annoying he never did anything unforgivable. And you’d still like the chance of potentially dating him if this works out.

There’s a whole arc of you bonding throughout his recovery, resting in your room and hiding him from your family and friends (his injuries are too severe to make excuses for.) But now that both your identities are revealed Childe feels like a fool because damn, he really did just reveal his identity to his ‘rival’ all because of a crush (to be fair, he didn’t care for the secret identity thing too much in the first place.)

You learn that Tartaglia was a type of self-defense mechanism that developed from when he fell into the Abyss. When placed in a regular modern world however, his instincts to fight for survival still linger.

—Yet all things considered, this could’ve ended really differently if you just decided to turn him in: ‘You must’ve found me really cute, huh? Was it my boyish charm?’ ‘No, it was your cyclops mask’ ‘...Now I see that spider-snark.’

Tartaglia would still cause trouble on occasion and you’d be the one to reel him in (just a little less violently than usual, though Childe does request for you to ‘treat him rougher’ at times. And you don’t know how to respond because whacking him on the head is just giving him what he wants.)

Sometimes you have encounters that are more akin to playfights, and whenever Childe does get the upper hand and cages you in, leaning close… you realise that maybe sparring is one of your love languages too — not that you’d ever admit it. You’re still in disbelief over the last time you arrested him as a joke:

’Oh? What’ll you do with me now that my hands are tied?’

…Next time, you’ll throw him off the building. There’s no way this ginger has that much of a grip on you!

Albedo

You were bitten by a radioactive spider that escaped from Rhinedottir’s lab! Rhinedottir is a super-genius scientist who specializes in creating synthetic life, who only realized the connection after Albedo did a sweep of their lab and found a test-subject missing.

So of course, Rhinedottir assigns him to investigate who you are. This is a great opportunity to study how the spider’s changed your biology, after all!

It takes about a month for Albedo to figure out that Spiderman is none other than his own classmate in high school — he may be a synthetic human, but has been living more or less like a regular person since his body functions the same (needing to eat, breathe, and age).

With his heightened intelligence and senses, Albedo does act a little inhuman sometimes — but that’s mostly because Rhinedottir was his main parent figure and less to do with his genetic makeup.

You guys never interacted before because of how big the school cohort is, but this year you were sorted into the same class! Shortly after Albedo sussed you out, you started to sense that eyes were on you via your spidey-sense, but couldn’t figure out who it was. Eventually, Rhinedottir formally invites you to her lab and an agreement is struck: you’d visit biweekly for check-ups and tests, while Albedo will assist you if anything unusual happens due to your spider traits.

Said tests range from sitting in a scanner to doing crazy stunts, but at least Albedo is there as a cute lab assistant!

He’s generally kind and understanding to you (which you later realize is only directed to those he’s interested in, due to his aloofness at school despite his delicate looks,) and you both build a rapport through mutual secret-knowing (you find out about his synthetic makeup, too, after Rhinedottir explains that this lab is top secret and that no one should know it exists.)

Albedo didn’t immediately try to hang out with you outside of the lab, but eventually you grow close enough to admit that being a superhero makes it hard for you to maintain friendships. You have to bail if a villain appears, and can’t really explain where you disappear to — which makes Albedo suggest:

’In that case, I could keep you company.’ ‘Wait— Really?’ ‘Of course. But I must warn that my hobbies aren’t as exciting as your usual work.’

Despite this, you learn that genius scientists aren’t also dubbed as crazy for nothing. During missions or lazy afternoons where you declare your boredom, Albedo suggestions on what you could do always manages to surprise you. ‘...Hm, too much?’ ‘I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to arrest you one day.’ ‘If that day comes, I’d look forward to our fight.’

You went from thinking Albedo would be just a cool, calculated friend into wondering if you’re the only thing keeping him from running morally-questionable experiments. On the other hand, this makes him very objective when you’re struggling on what to do during a fight — and your values of saving the most people possible pushes Albedo to consider other ways to resolve situations. Sometimes he’d handle the rescuing, so that you can pursue the villain who’s getting away.

However— his quiet, ethereal charm is very much still there. And there’s just something disarming about spending golden afternoons with someone that knows the biggest secret in your life; sketching flowers and working on assignments as if you’re just human.

Albedo also does a bit of research based on his own curiosities; such as… to what extent do your senses try to protect you from harm? Does it register flusteredness as a state of vulnerability, like when he gains a sudden boldness and traces his fingers over your skin?

Sometimes, you can’t process how he plays both sides of himself so well; an effortless student with a thoughtful smile and clever glint in his eyes, then a lab assistant who coyly asks about your day, knowing full-well that he spent the entirety of it testing your reflexes. But the biggest debuff you have is how you feel some part of you melt, or shrink, or burn whenever Albedo fixes his gaze on you like that. As if he’s drinking in every little detail and cares for nothing else but you.

You tell yourself it’s for science, but even Rhinedottir knows Albedo’s invested much further than that. He’s never had this much pursuing a line of enquiry, before. Maybe it helps that he has a cute partner?

On a regular day where you’re testing out a new gadget Albedo’s designed (he appreciates how tools of potential destruction become acceptably used in your hands), your world is thrown off-kilter when a lookalike appears on the street. An earlier product of Rhinedottir’s research, who now goes by the name Rubedo, or Ruby for short.

Scaramouche

The spider-hero Scaramouche is otherwise known as Kuni in his civilian form, known for his sharp tongue but otherwise perfect track record as Inazuma’s local hero. He has a somewhat strained relationship with Ei (his mother who owns a giant tech company, that everyone expects him to inherit) and tries to keep people behind a ten feet pole. But of course, being a hero makes him soften up a little bit, swallowing his pride to help a lost tourist or explain an assignment to a peer.

His canon event was losing Niwa, which he blames himself for (if only he’d decided to be a superhero earlier, he may have been able to save his friend.) However, he does find the strength to persevere after he saves a young boy from an accident, who then requested to be swung around the city a little more so that he can experience what it’s like to fly (Scaramouche tells the kid that he can’t fly. But the kid is not picky about specifics.)

The young boy has an unknown illness, and isn’t expected to live past adulthood — but is somewhat doing fine while Kuni visits him on occasion (normally as Scaramouche, to cheer him up.)

Kuni’s also put some of his savings into being an anonymous sponsor for the illness’ research, which did catch Ei’s eye but she knows better than to pry. There’s a little moment of connection where she pats his head and tells him the funding will go to good use, and he huffs before leaving to sketch out new gadget designs in his room.

Being flawless for most of his life (skills come easy to him), Kuni does fear deep down that when there’s something he finally cares for — something big — he may fail in a manner that is unsalvageable to him.

That’s why being a hero has helped a little, as even saving a person from a road accident helps him realize that that’s a life saved, regardless of the scope. His suit and powers are electro themed, with the ability to collect static and store it in his body, enough to prompt lightning-fast dashes mid air or shock an unconscious person back to life.

You attend the same school as Kuni and caught his eye because of your big aspirations! The thing is, you’ve never been vocal about that and always chased them quietly (what aspiration/hobby is up to you) — working on your projects during your spare time, sometimes in the less frequented spots on campus or the library. Both of which Kuni is familiar with

There’s just something about the focused pinch in your brow and little smiles — it’s cute, and endearing, and maybe he’s projecting a little but whatever — you’ve just charmed him without even realising he’s been crushing on you. And eventually, Kuni takes some chances to interact with you more, both as a student and Scaramouche.

He’s often reading, listening to music, or sketching tech ideas in his notebook (it has a lock on it courtesy of his paranoia) — borrowing you his pen whenever yours runs out of ink or offering to show you a quieter corner when the noisy kids have taken over the main hall. Then as a hero, he’s saved you a couple of times from normal-human nuisances and swinging you to campus when you’re late and frazzled!

Scaramouche is more mellowed out around you because the mask helps him be less self conscious, while Kuni is reluctantly nice (still prickly). But once you find out about his identity, you'll be one of the only people that know of just how much good he's done for the world. He’ll start to openly shift between ‘both sides’ of his personality, which is kinda hilarious whenever his civilian sassiness comes through during his patrols (he’s very much a smart-mouthed spiderman).

Your romance does develop, but there's sort of an odd love triangle before you found out his secret (his fault for approaching you in both forms). The breaking point is when you’re gazing out of your bedroom window (can’t sleep) and Scaramouche knocks on the glass. A short late-night rendezvous occurs, where you vent (without too much detail) to the stars.) And that’s when Kuni realizes that he really can’t screw this up.

Once you’re official, you’ll start to see parts of Scaramouche in Kuni and vice versa. LIke when he rescued Childe once and you could tell he really didn’t like the idea of bridal carrying the guy to the infirmary, so you volunteered to make sure Childe survives, instead. Or when a stray baseball almost hits you and Kuni effortlessly pulls you out of the way without a flinch.

People say you've changed him but really you just made him comfortable enough to reveal the other sides of himself. The upside-down kiss trope also happened during one of your night-time escapes (yes it’s an ongoing theme) and it still lives rent free in his head!! He's a romantic deep down and now spends part of his time thinking of other date activities (he finds a match in you)

You’ve helped him on missions a few times (desperate moments where he can’t do everything alone), but the fact that you’re the first person he goes to for help — not Ei, not the police, not even Aether — is very telling of how much trust he places in you. All that echoes in his mind is the thought of you: resulting in ‘I need your help’ and your prompt ‘Just tell me what you need.’ (Yes you’re a little reverse of that Anna/Kristoff moment!)

In the past, this may have been a moment where he feels his vulnerability threatened… but the idea of that isn’t even on his mind. He knows you — that just shows how far you’ve both grown!

Dahlia

Note: very brief biblical and church themes used, mentions of you as a type of monster/demon as perceived by the public. Feel free to skip Dahlia’s entire part if you aren't comfortable with these!

In a gothic medieval city without much tech and a strong Cathedral vibe… You're a vigilante hero who solves crimes in morally questionable ways (by the public's strict standards, at least).

You're a vampire-spider with the ability to paralyse people with your venom! No other side effects exist, for now, but you do have an increased appetite for foods high in iron, and the change in your physical features (fangs and unnatural color of your eyes) are becoming harder to hide.

At first, they’d only appear whenever you were using your powers. But as you get used to swinging around and climbing on walls, they’ve been appearing whenever your spidey-senses kicked in. And you have a bad feeling that if nothing is done, they may be on display forever.

You haven't committed any actual crimes, but the nature of your vigilantism and blatant disregard for the local police puts you on a general ‘wanted’ list. Open-minded folk thank you for your help while others call you a monster that needs to be caught by the Church. Deacon Dahlia is an important person in said Church but he doesn't really think there's a need to start a hunt; true to Barbatos’ ideals, he’s one of the more carefree and understanding figures amongst his peers, well-liked for his graceful demeanor and ability to keep calm under any and all pressures.

…That is, until you break into the Cathedral’s gardens and kidnap him one day, out of desperation when your spidey-traits don’t seem to be turning back like they should. Your fangs and eyes won’t be possible to hide from your friends and family — which will either land them in a tight spot as they try to keep your secret or land you immediately behind bars!

Your intent was to ask for his help in a way that hopefully keeps your identity secret. Dahlia and the other deacons and deaconess’ have the ability to heal people from illnesses (small miracles enabled by Barbatos through their prayer), so surely he can do something! Fix your features, or take away your ‘curse’ altogether — anything works! (At this point you’ve been trying to do good as a hero, but it was mostly prompted by just horrible things happening in front of you that you couldn’t ignore. You’re still very early into your career.)

But, of course, Dahlia accesses your strange demeanor, request, and mode of approach (next time don’t commit borderline blasphemy by kidnapping Barbatos’ Herald) and finally tells you that he doesn’t have the answers you’re looking for. Blessings are for regular, small sicknesses — not exorcisms or curses like you described.

It’s not anger or frustration that fills you, but instead a hollow sense of helplessness. ‘...What am I going to do?’

Dahlia was just going to leave, now that you don’t seem intent on keeping him on the Cathedral’s rooftop — but pauses. He looks at the way you’ve lowered yourself onto the ground and buried your face against your knees, and asks:

‘What did you need my healing for?’

The dam breaks. You tell him everything — the day you got turned, poisoned by some animal in the woods, to the first time you used your powers to this morning, when your features transitioned fully. It all spills out without mentions of your personal background, but Dahlia gets the idea and decides to help you.

You look at him warily, your surprise strong enough for him to sense even with your disguise. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. So long as you help me with a matter of my own…’

Thus begins an odd dynamic of you using a spare room in Dahlia’s private quarters (being Barbatos’ Herald does have its perks of extra living space), in an almost beauty and the beast type of way (except the only thing making you the beast is your spider-powers, and Dahlia is only a little surprised — mostly intrigued — by how your eyes have turned into an unnatural variant of its original color, while your fangs seem to be made for delivering venom, but not exactly for eating meat like carnivores do.)

He’s a lot more laid back about this than you expected, helping you get basic necessities and food without letting any of the others in the Church know. It helps that you can hide and crawl outside pretty easily if needed, to hide — and you start to grow curious about Dahlia yourself when he finally gives you your mission brief — to investigate some small crimes around the city that he suspects are connected, based on Rosaria’s reports.

The mystery quickly proves to be bigger than either of you imagined, and it becomes a battle to keep the peace in Mondstadt while nefarious forces linger in the shadows. Meanwhile: What will the public think when they find out Deacon Dahlia has enlisted the help of a monster, of all things? A person whose powers (in a world with only blessings from gods or curses from demons) is most likely from a dangerous, nefarious source?

Because of how close you’re working together, you discover sides of Dahlia that even the longest term Sisters haven't seen before (mostly because he works with them in a professional setting).

“You're less pious than I thought you'd be.” “Well, no point doing that in front of the person who decimated Barbatos’ statue.” “...Touché.” “You’re helping with the repairs, by the way.” “How many jobs are you having one person do?!”

And the first time you hear a genuine, happy laugh fall off his lips? You know that deep down, even if Dahlia was to turn against you someday… You may never be able to truly cut yourself off from the friendship you’ve built. Even if it was only you visiting the remnants of it, chasing after phantoms in the courtyard where bloody flowers bloomed — you’d stand there and wait, eyes angled away from the shadows swarming beneath your steps.

#i also had ideas for kazuha and kaeya but this post is already way too long #childe x reader #albedo x reader #scaramouche x reader #dahlia x reader #wanderer x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #genshin x reader #genshin reader insert #genshin impact imagines #genshin x you #genshin dahlia #albedo genshin impact #childe ajax tartaglia #traveler wishes #genshin headcanons

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allthesethingswillendsoon · 9 days ago

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SUMMER LOVIN'

CHAPTER TWO: SUPER RICH KIDS

SUMMARY: The end of their first summer together marks a few new milestones in Azzi's life, her first high school party, her first time drinking, and a few other things.

WORD COUNT: 3.6k PAIRING: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd WARNINGS: Underage drinking, mentions of drugs/drug use

NOTE: Okay sorry for disappearing again, this one was meant to be longer but then it wasn't so what was meant to be in this chapter will just be in the next one i suppose. This chapter is a much more different tone then the last one, a lot more like bad i think so let me know what you think. Also I've never really written like this so idk if people will like it, also I didn't really proofread so keep that in mind. I think what makes this one weird is the stark jump from strangers to close friends that happens. It's like they sprint 100 metres in this chapter, then they're probably gonna go about a mile back and the slowburn will resume as scheduled. Thanks for sticking with me and stuff, I really appreciate it. I hope everyone enjoys the chapter.

AUGUST, 2019

CAPE COD, MASSACHUSETTS

“You ready Az?” Paige called from her spot sprawled out on Azzi’s flowery pink bedspread.

“Almost! One sec!” She yelled back from her ensuite.

Over the course of the summer they had grown impossibly close, attached to the hip, staples in each other’s homes.

It was just so nice to have a friend like Paige. At nearly every one of their sleepovers Azzi had been the last one awake, taken aback by her utter luckiness at meeting Paige. She felt like the universe had just dumped the most perfect person she had ever met at her doorstep - or, technically speaking, the doorstep next to hers.

Paige had been waiting patiently for about thirty minutes, she didn’t mind though, happy to just lie down and wait, as long as she got to control the music that played.

Halfway through the third Drake song she had queued, Azzi emerged, dressed in a light-wash pair of denim cutoffs and a strappy purple tank top.

“Can you get the back please?” She turned around, revealing the tangle of straps, “Couldn’t get it myself.”

“‘Course, no worries.” Paige responded as she started to align the strings of fabric.

Even though the aircon was blasting, every brush of Paige’s fingers against the bare skin of her back felt like pure hot heat.

“How do I look?” Azzi asked earnestly as she spun around to face her.

Her nerves were palpable, she had never gone to a party, too nervous and awkward to despite her friends relentless attempts back home. When she revealed this fact to Paige she insisted that she had to come to the last one of summer. The younger girl only agreed after Paige had said she would stick by her side the whole night - a fact the blonde thought was a given.

Paige smiled at her and grabbed her hand, raising it above her head and spinning her around, “Perfect.”

Azzi looked at her, the smile plastered on her face unabashed, the look in her eyes disarmingly affectionate.

The older girl’s heart swelled, “C’mon, let’s get a move on”

They walked downstairs, Azzi giving her parents hugs, and Tim giving the girls a quick, stern talk about the dangers of driving under the influence, and a firm reminder about Azzi’s midnight curfew.

It was a mile long walk to the house, and with every step Azzi felt her anxiety increasing at the prospect of her first high school party.

To make things even worse, it wasn’t even going to be a normal party, it was like, a rich person party.

Over the course of her first summer she had heard from Paige about all the crazy stuff that kids in Cape Cod did, all the rehab stints and the sex parties (she was sceptical about that one). But whether it was fully true or not wasn’t important - those kinds of rumors didn’t appear out of thin air, they had to be based upon some semblance of truth.

How pushy were these kids going to be? Would she arrive at the party and be force fed tabs of acid? Would they grab her arms and stick her with dirty needles of heroin and miscellaneous disease?

It was only when they came to a stop in front of the house that she realised her anxiety had sent them into silence.

She looked over at Paige, expecting her to be staring at her like the silence had personally offended her. Instead, she gave her a gentle smile and reached out to squeeze her hand.

“You ready?” She asked gently.

Azzi took a big breath, “Yeah.”

Paige held onto her hand as they walked up to the house. Azzi’s anxiety dissipated, her whole brain zeroing in on the way that Paige��s touch made her feel the way she imagined that drugs would.

The whole summer had kind of been like that. Azzi’s brain running through every single impossibly horrible thing that could happen, and Paige just being there, content and willing to bring her back down to Earth whenever she needed.

A part of her was worried about what would happen when she had to go back to Virginia without her, but the part of her that was high on Paige’s touch said that maybe she should just enjoy the blonde’s presence while she had it.

The house was massive, two stories and a rooftop deck.

They wandered in through the open, double front doors. The marble floors were slightly sticky with the remnants of spilt drinks.

Slowly, they pushed through the crowd, still hand in hand. Eventually they made it to the back of the house, where the living room was. There were floor-to-ceiling windows that took Azzi aback. The view alone was worth at least five million dollars, it was nearing nine o’clock and the sun was halfway down, stars slowly slipping into the sky.

Nearly thirty people were packed into the kitchen. Sure, it was much larger than a normal kitchen, but even then everyone was still shoulder-to-shoulder.

Azzi stood with her front pressed up against Paige’s side, who was concocting some alcoholic mixture for them. She watched intently as the girl mixed together sprite, vodka, and some random orange syrup.

Paige passed her the drink. She brought the red cup up to her nose and sniffed, even the generous helping of sugar couldn’t fully kill the hand-sanitiser scent of the vodka.

Azzi sloshed it around a little, giving Paige a sceptical look, “How much alcohol is in this?”

“Like a shot and a half at most,” Paige responded honestly, “Don’t worry, you probably won’t even feel it, and if you do I’ll look after you.”

“Didn’t you do the same for you?” Azzi questioned, brow raised in concern.

The older girl nudged her, “Yeah, but I’m not a lightweight. I’ll be right, I’m a vodka pro.”

“I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.” Azzi joked, trying her hardest to not look as inexperienced as she felt next to Paige.

Paige simply grinned, and for the second time that night, she slipped her hand into Azzi’s, connecting them as they pushed through the crowd and out of the kitchen.

Under a minute after they had left the kitchen a voice was calling Paige over to them.

Paige led them to a stop in a cramped corner, in front of them were two almost creepily identical girls. They were dressed in matching sundresses, one with blue flowers and the other in pink.

Their high-pitched voices mixed together, words slightly slurred, as they hugged Paige, both of them leaning up on their tiptoes.

“Paige! I missed you!”

“Oh my gosh! I haven’t seen you in, like, forever!”

Even as she hugged them she held onto her hand, and Azzi suddenly understood how people could become addicted to a feeling.

Paige let out a chuckle at the girl’s antics. Azzi got the feeling this is how they were all the time, “I missed you guys too.”

She slipped her hand out of Azzi’s and for a second her whole being ached with the loss of contact, that was until Paige draped her arm around her shoulder, pulling her in, half-against her chest.

“This is Azzi. Azzi, Kitty. Abigail, Kitty.” Paige explained gesturing at each of the girls.

“It’s so nice to meet you!” One of the girls greeted - Abigail, she was ninety-nine percent sure.

“You have such a beautiful aura! Has anyone ever told you that?” Kitty fawned, her voice light and almost airy-fairy as she waved her arms around Azzi’s head.

She stuck a smile over her confused expression, “Uh, no they haven’t.”

“Has anyone ever told you guys that you’ve been drinking too much?” Paige teased lightheartedly - though she definitely wasn’t wrong, they were absolutely plastered.

“Nooooooo, you guys are just behind!”

“Yeah! You both need to catch up”

Seemingly from thin air, Kitty whipped out a half-full bottle of vanilla vodka and motioned for their cups excitedly.

They both spoke at the same time, equally as sure of themself as the other.

“Nah, I think we’re right”

“I want some.”

Paige did a double take at Azzi, confusion etched hard into her features.

“You sure?” She said with a reassuring squeeze to the shoulder, Azzi’s skin warm to the touch.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, me too then.”

With that the twin’s smiles grew impossibly bigger, and the liquid in their cups doubled nearly instantaneously.

They had nearly finished the half-bottle of vodka when Azzi realised that she was actually really tipsy, and that she actually felt really good.

It was amazing, it was like all of her anxiety had just dissipated, like her worries had gone away and she could just be happy without feeling anything else. Well, the only other thing she could feel was Paige’s body, warm and solid against hers, but at that point in the summer ‘Paige’ and ‘happiness’ were basically synonymous.

The conversation hadn’t stopped since they started drinking, unreserved laughter echoing around the vaulted ceilings as they spoke about anything and everything.

And, to be fair, she had really overestimated how crazy rich kids were. Apart from Kitty’s disturbingly detailed anecdotes about her sexcapades with her boyfriend -who was a horrifying fifteen years older than her, they were actually quite tame.

Azzi couldn’t even remember what they had been talking about, then all of a sudden Kitty was arranging strands of Azzi’s hair, making a ‘halo’ as she called it, and Abigail was tapping her dimple in amazement.

“You’re so cute Azzi!” Kitty praised, stepping back to appreciate her handiwork with Azzi’s hair. The ‘halo’ in question was actually just pieces of hair from the back of her head that had been dangled over her head, not that Azzi minded, she was too happy to care.

“And you’re like, so nice!” Abigail agreed, index finger still placed flush against her dimple.

“Why have you hid her from us all summer Paige!” Kitty half-whined, Abigail trying to push Paige’s shoulder good-naturedly, but missing by quite a large margin.

Suddenly, Paige pulled her impossibly closer, arms wrapped tight around her waist, nuzzling her head into the crook of Azzi’s neck. “‘Cause she’s all mine. Mine, mine, mine.” she mumbled back in answer, her hot breath fanning across the soft, perfumed skin just below her ear.

Maybe if Azzi were a little less drunk she would’ve had the sense not to lean into the touch. To at least try and hold back the little noise that escaped her throat when she could’ve sworn that Paige pressed a feather-light kiss behind her ear.

Azzi broke out of her trance when she registered laughter coming from the twins, but to her pleasant surprise they seemed to have completely ignored the charged moment between the two girls in front.

Paige had moved her head, resting her forehead against the back of Azzi’s head, arms still holding her tightly as she swayed offbeat to the song blasting.

Azzi smiled, thinking back to how Paige had swore that she was one-hundred percent not a lightweight. Later, when everything felt a little less fuzzy Azzi was going to absolutely grill the blonde for her boasting.

The music was reverberating through the entire house, practically shaking its very bones, when someone’s panicked voice cut through the fanfare, “POLICE!!!”

Immediately everyone scattered.

Kitty and Abigail immediately took off, long tanned legs carrying them through the crowds with a confidence that suggested they were quite familiar with police-related evacuations.

Time moved in slow-motion. Azzi spun around taking it all in.

It was pure pandemonium. Bodies tangled separated within seconds. Glass shattered in the room next door. Someone dumped their coke into an urn. She did a double take at that one, that was just plain weird.

She snapped back into reality when the weight of Paige’s body against hers disappeared. The older girl’s hand grabbed onto hers, rough calluses pressed gently but tightly against her palm.

Paige motioned with her head to the back veranda doors, sure of herself in a way that made Azzi think that she could’ve been sober, and then dragged them out of the room, pushing through the wall of bodies.

They ran down the beach, hand in hand, till the sound of the party and the sirens were nothing but a memory.

From the corner of her eye Azzi spotted their houses and slowed, stumbling over herself slightly. They flopped down onto the grassy, dry sand, hands still clasped tightly between them, arms overlapping.

“We should go to parties, like, everyday next summer.”, Azzi spoke between heavy breaths, words warbling a little bit.

Paige laughed, breathy and staggered. She wondered for a second why she was so out of breath from a four-hundred metre run when she practically did that every day during the school year; then she glanced down at their interlocked hands and stopped wondering why her heart felt like exploding.

“Whatever you want Az.” She said softly. She turned around, entranced by the way the moonlight danced against her side profile as she stared out at the night sky.

They laid in silence for a minute, or maybe an hour, or maybe forever - the timing wasn’t important. Paige was just glad that Azzi let her stare at her in peace for much longer than she should have.

Slowly, Azzi rolled over to face Paige. She raked her eyes over her face and Paige flushed the prettiest, most endearing shade of pink Azzi had ever seen in her entire life.

She reached her hand up and tenderly traced the dips and valleys of her face, felt the tiny bumps and the gingerly-sculpted line of her cheekbones.

Her heart swelled with affection, “I’m gonna miss you so much Paigey.”

She trailed her hand down to cup Paige’s jaw, rubbing her thumb gently against the delicate skin. She watched intently as Paige’s brain appeared to short-circuit, her mouth parted just a little as she struggled to push whatever she wanted to say back.

“I-uh, yeah… yeah, I’m gonna miss you too Az.” Paige replied, stumbling over her words like she had never spoken a full sentence before.

Azzi hummed in agreement, a slow smile spread across her face as she shifted closer, leaving them chest to chest.

Paige reached out as slow as humanly possible and placed her hand on top of Azzi’s elbow.

“You’re freezing.” Paige lied, moving her hand up to squeeze the muscle of Azzi’s bare biceps.

“Yeah?” The younger girl replied, voice light as she took Paige’s free hand and brought it up to the side of her face, her skin flushed warm and pink from both the alcohol and the promise of something new.

“Yeah.” Paige answered, her lungs seemingly devoid of any semblance of oxygen.

Azzi swore for a second that her eyes flicked down to her lips, and suddenly under the starlit sky with alcohol coursing through her veins she gained courage she never thought she would have.

In as quick of a motion as she could manage in her tipsy state she rolled them over, landing on top of Paige, her thighs bracketing hers.

She leaned in close, her mouth right by the blonde’s ear, and whispered, “Think you can help with that?”

Paige let out the tiniest gasp. Azzi moved her head, pulling back so she could look hard into her eyes -so blue even the ocean envied them- as they searched her face for any slight remnant of a joke.

“Y-yeah.” Paige breathed, somehow even more breathless than she was before.

Paige’s hands found purchase on the curve of her waist, her index fingers lightly playing with the purple fabric of her shirt. Azzi smiled as she threaded her hands through the thick golden locks that had plagued her in the best way possible since she met the older girl.

Azzi inched forward, almost imperceptibly. She raked her eyes over Paige, trying to etch everything about the moment into the deepest parts of her brain; the way Paige’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, the way her hands felt holding tight onto her waist, to the mingling of their hot, heady breath as their mouths got closer together.

She let her eyes flutter shut, a little sad to not be able to see her anymore, but when she felt their noses bump she could’ve sworn that the angels sang, it felt so right.

They must’ve been nanometres apart, for a second their eyelashes brushed. Azzi was really glad that she had drunk so much liquid courage, but she was ready, so ready to feel Paige’s lips mesh against hers.

Then her mother’s voice hollered so loud that she probably broke the sound barrier, “AZZI. JAZLYN. FUDD. I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE! COME HERE RIGHT NOW YOUNG LADY”

They came crashing down back to earth.

They broke apart breathing heavier than either of them ever had before, Azzi rolling completely off of her.

The silence was all consuming, the reality of what had been milliseconds away from happening hanging heavy in the air.

Both girls were staring up at the night sky, eyes boring so hard into the starry expanse of the sky that they could’ve burnt new stars into the fabric of the galaxy.

Somehow they both turned at the exact same time and made eye contact. They broke out into the most hysterical laughter of all time, chests heaving again but for a much different reason.

“Holy shit.” Azzi laughed once her breathing had evened out a bit.

“You’re in so much trouble.” Paige chuckled.

“Sooo much.” The brunette agreed, turning her head to face the blonde as she asked, “What time even is it?”

Paige pulled her phone from her pocket, grimacing as she answered, “Two.”

“AM?” Azzi near-yelled incredulously, voice echoing out on the empty beach, a little too giggly to be serious, “Oh my god, they’re going to lock me in a tower.”

“Rapunzel style?” Paige clarified with mock-seriousness.

“Rapunzel style.” Azzi agreed with matching faux-solemnity.

Paige paused for a split second, and Azzi watched as she mulled over her response before she asked with a dopey grin, “Does that mean I get to be your Flynn Rider?”

The flirting wasn’t new, what was new was the fact that Azzi had been ready to lose her virginity to a girl she met three months prior only moments before, and now that same girl was joking about disney characters.

Instead of saying any of that, she settled for a scoffed, “You wish.”

Before Paige could even make a silly comment back, her mother reminded her of the impending end of her existence, “AZZI. COME. INSIDE. RIGHT. NOW.”

Paige gave her a look of sympathy, wincing at the palpable outrage dripping from her friend’s mom, “Well, I guess there’s no saving you now.”

Azzi took a deep breath and accepted her fate, “Y’know what scratch the tower, I’m getting guillotined.”

“I think you might be right.” They both laughed at that.

Despite the overwhelming urge to stay in this moment forever -even if it didn’t go the way she wanted it to- was overwhelming. But begrudgingly, she got up and attempted to brush off as much of the sand that seemed to be caked into her very being as she could.

“See you tomorrow, Paige.” She smiled as she stood.

“I don’t know if tomorrow is in the cards for you anymore.” Paige joked back, wishing desperately that Azzi would turn around and do something (preferably kiss her, but that didn’t feel like it was on the cards at that moment).

Azzi let out a little laugh and started the walk back to her house. Paige froze in place until she realised that Azzi had reached her back gate, then her brain sparked back to life.

“Wait! Az, wait!” Paige called out frantically, chasing after her as she tried to wrangle off her hoodie with as much grace as she could, breathlessly she explained, “Don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Yeah, thanks, yeah, I wouldn't want to catch one of those. That would be, um, bad.” Azzi agreed, nodding her head over and over since apparently that was the only thing her body could remember to do.

When Paige pressed the soft, grey fabric of the jumper into Azzi’s hand, their fingers brushed, and the electric heat that erupted from the point of contact would have been enough to burn the world alive. But yeah, wouldn’t want to catch a cold.

Azzi pulled it over her head, and smiled up at Paige, clearly quite happy with her acquisition, “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She was about to turn away when she felt Paige’s warmth against her body. The older girl was hugging her tight, in a way that felt soft but just as important as all the other touches of the night. She whispered into the crook of her neck, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When they finally pulled apart, Paige watched, stuck in place, as Azzi turned and walked back up to her house.

Much to both of their displeasures, they didn’t see each other the next day. They didn’t get their perfect ‘See you next summer!’ moment that was supposed to happen before they returned to their respective homes for the dreaded start of the school year.

Instead, Azzi’s parents felt the appropriate punishment for her missing curfew was to get the whole family up at five am and start the eight-hour drive home, followed by a seven-mile family run.

To say that Azzi was tired at the end of the day would have been the greatest understatement in the endless, ever-expanding history of the universe.

But when she finally got to lie in her bed and drift off to sleep she couldn’t help but smile at the fact she got to be cuddled up in the coziest hoodie she’d ever worn that smelt like the person that was starting to feel like home more than anything else.

NOTE: I hope you guys enjoyed. Once again sorry for the wait. Thanks so much for reading. As always feel free to leave reactions and feedback and questions in my inbox!

Divider from @sweetmelodygraphics

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn huskies #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #wcbb #paige x azzi #pazzi #azzi fudd fic #paige bueckers fic #summer lovin #lesbian #sapphic #wlw #wnba #dallas wings #wnba players #wbb #uconn

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bettystonewell · 4 months ago

Text

What Happened Last Night? - Part 1

Dean Winchester x Reader

After burning the Book of the Damned and escaping the Styne’s, you all have a night of harmless celebrations back at the bunker. At least, it was harmless until Charlie suggested a game of Never Have I Ever, and the rest of your night became a blur. MDNI 18+ only 3.3k words

Tags: friends to lovers language, Pining, Dubious Consent (implied drunk sex), SMUT in part two

A/N: Hey 👋 This is my first time posting a fanfic on Tumblr. The names’s Beth (Aussie/Dean-girl/tired mum). I’ve been on AO3 (and Wattpad) for over a year now and thought it was about time I put my big girl pants on and join the community here because it looks fun (though the social media side of this scares my close-to-midlife-crisis-ass). So, yeah, newbie in terms of everything here - please be kind. If you recognise me from the other sites, please say hi 😊 This is a cross post - there are two chapters total. Let’s see how this goes!

Part 2 || Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

in vino, veritas

in wine, there is truth

Five bodies sat around the mess room table that night, drinking their troubles away and eating their fill.

You, Dean, Sam, Charlie, and Cas at the end, sitting on a wooden chair he’d brought in from the library to make more space for those of you who did eat.

"This won't work," you said to the other four, though it was technically directed at Charlie. Your tone was as condescending as you could make it under the influence of the alcohol you’d already consumed.

Three beers and two sneaky sips of Charlie’s Harvey Wallbanger you’d taken while she wasn’t looking.

It was one less ounce of bounce in her step for your at-the-time more than tipsy gal pal and well deserved. Especially now she’d revealed her true intentions on why she’d encouraged you to partake in drinking in the first place.

In her overly enthusiastic state, she’d suggested a game to get “The Party Started.” A phrase she’d attempted to sing in vain as only you seemed to understand its reference.

Though Sam might have had a clue. His mouth had turned up around the lip of his bottle he’d conveniently sipped during the rendition of the Black Eyed Pea's early noughties banger.

Dean was one hundred per cent clueless, of course. Nothing past the eighties was decent to him. Nothing except that one Taylor Swift song you’d caught him listening to when he thought no one was watching.

He had sulked then and had been sulking on and off again since last night. Brooding over the fact he’d lost his one chance to remove the mark. Unbeknownst that Sam had not burnt the Book of the Damned like he, Charlie and Cas thought, but in a better mood thanks to the booze and pizza he’d brought home.

You knew better.

Both about his demeanour and what had really happened with the ancient text.

You’d seen Sam swap it with a replacement and you’d promised him you’d keep your mouth shut. Something you were hating your past self for.

Past you was a fucking idiot.

A fucking idiot who was about to get drunk from a game of Never Have I Ever like Charlie had suggested, and at risk of spilling more than one can of beans if you didn’t think of something fast to stop it.

Charlie, the conniving little… She knew way too much about you after the last time you’d had a few with her and the glint in her eyes that you’d seen when she suggested the damn game was enough for you to know that what she was planning was dangerous.

A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts. Or something like that.

And she was almost there.

“What do you mean, it won’t work?” she said with far too loud a pitch that made even Cas uncomfortable.

Well, more uncomfortable than normal.

“Umm. The angel, for starters.” You directed your gaze at Cas, realising too late that you were going to give him a complex. “I think most of our everyday human experiences are going to be a never for him. And whatever he did in heaven will be the same for us. It’s unbalanced.”

“You’re thinking too much. He’ll get drunk. We’ll get drunk. That’s the point of the game,” Charlie said.

But her grin left her when a gruff, “I won’t,” interjected itself into the conversation.

Hah. Won’t. It was as if you’d sucked the happiness out of Charlie and taken it all for yourself to then rub it back in her face. “See. Cas doesn’t want to play. And Sam and Dean clearly don’t want to play either.” They'd said nothing against the suggestion and nothing against you now.

“Actually, you don’t have enough liquor here to get me drunk,” Cas added.

Don’t have enough… “Seriously?” You looked at him again and he nodded. An apologetic look on his face.

Which brought a ‘challenge accepted’ one into Charlie’s.

Looking around the room for support from the guys, you noticed Sam hiding a silent chuckle behind the bottle in his hand.

While Dean, who had been quiet since Charlie had burst out in song, locked eyes with yours. “Well, if there aren’t any more arguments from you, sweetheart, let’s play.”

And you thought Cas’ claim that there wasn’t enough booze for him was a surprise.

Fuck. Your head was pounding.

Your mouth was drier than a desert with a chalky sensation in your throat and lips that felt like they had cracked.

Yup. Cracked alright. They stung as you splayed your tongue over them, attempting to nourish the skin with what little wetness you had left in your mouth. A fat lot of good that did, though.

They weren’t the only part of your body feeling uncomfortable. Pins and needles from where you’d slept funny on your arm tingled from your funny bone to your wrist.

‘Ow. Fuck.’ Well, that hurt.

You were hung without a doubt, and just all over feeling seedy.

At least you’d slept some of the alcohol off and were no longer drunk. You thought.

The strands of hair that had made their way into your mouth and the saliva you strung along with it as you pulled it out would say otherwise. Urgh. Gross.

Had you been drooling? No wonder your throat was dry.

You groaned and forced your eyes open. Yes, you had. There was a wet patch on the white pillowcase below you.

Odd. You didn’t own white sheets.

You’d decorated your room in the bunker with as much colour as you could. What with the hunting life full of black, brown, denim and blood, you didn’t need any of that spreading into your personal space.

Of course, white was colour(ish), but again, you didn’t own white sheets, and your room didn’t have a solid wall where you were facing. Curiouser and curiouser. Your door was supposed to be right there.

You were at the correct end of the bed for it. A headboard behind you and a pillow underneath you, meaning you were lying on the right side. Yet all you saw was more bricks, a tall boy in some kind of brown and clothes that weren’t yours scattered on the surrounding floor.

Amongst them, a pair of jeans - okay, they might be yours. But the flannel? One plaid with various browns and greens. The very same Dean had been wearing last night?

Fuck.

Dean’s clothes. Dean’s room.

This was Dean’s room?

This was Dean’s room.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

What were you doing here? The last thing you remember was… Fuck.

Those lips. Dean’s lips, plump and whiskey-tainted, had peppered kisses on you in more than one place. Over your mouth, your cheek and your neck. Lower...

You’d learnt the spot at the base of your ear above your lower jaw was quite sensitive. Dean had learnt that, too. He’d also learnt a few other things if your tainted memory served you correctly, and you, the same about him.

The way his muscles contracted around his chest and back. Every little ridge, taut and firm, continued even down his arm and into his hands. Those talented fingers had a way of placing pressure in just the right places to make you blush. They’d found their way under your shirt and bra and…

Oh… Oh…

Had you slept with him and not remembered the main event? Was that possible with Dean? Your friend. The guy you’d wanted to be more than for the longest of time.

You've fallen for him the day you’d met. With that charming smile and those dazzling green eyes.

And that was before you’d gotten to know him.

Now you knew the man behind the shit-eating grin. The playful, sometimes scary nerd (who refused to admit it) was loyal to those he cared about. A self-righteous martyr, who could be a bit of a dick sometimes and followed it too when the time was appropriate.

Not that he’d done it so much lately.

Except, maybe now.

You were screwed and without asking him, there weren’t too many ways to check if indeed you had been by him.

You turned your head slowly to find an empty bed next to you.

Thank fuck. There was plenty of time to ask, but his bed was not the place.

You stretched your legs out, noting they felt normal. Stiff if anything, but not in a way you’d expect if you’d partaken in good sex.

Of course, that meant nothing. Maybe the rumours you’d heard about Dean were untrue?

Yeah right.

You’d seen the satisfied faces from all of his past hook-ups as they fled his motel room the next morning. Possibly one in every state. He had brought none of them to the bunker though, meaning you were the first to sleep in his room. In his bed.

Go you... That was something to be proud of, not.

You’d hightailed it out of his room after all that. Slinking off down the hall to your own to get changed out of the clothes you’d been wearing the night before. You hadn’t been wearing them when you’d woken up, of course. Oh, no. You’d been wearing one of his henleys, braless underneath, and your underwear surprisingly still on.

While you’d think that would be a comfort for you, you knew that meant nothing. Though everything felt normal down there, so maybe it did.

You weren’t sticky when you had a shower, but you noticed the love bites above your breasts when you looked in the bathroom mirror after it. There were bruises on your hips too. Ones shaped like fingerprints that fingers had pressed into you on either side.

Hmm.

There was only one way to find out what had happened and once you’d primed and prepped yourself, wearing clothes that covered you from your neck to your toes, you made your way to the same room where everything had gone down the night before.

Stupid Charlie and her stupid fucking game.

“Hey, Charlie,” you greeted when she saw you enter. Her eyebrows raised, along with her grin. “Where’s everyone else?”

In other words - Where’s Dean?

Only Charlie sat at the table. The rest of the room was clear. There were no more pizza boxes, no more alcohol bottles and no one in the kitchenette. Not even someone’s head in the fridge.

Just Charlie, with the smell of bacon and freshly ground coffee lingering in the air around her.

Coffee. You needed some of that.

“Sam’s got his head in the books again. Can you believe he was up before eight?”

Actually, you could and you hummed in response as you took your fresh cup of steaming goodness up to your lips to sip.

“I think Cas has left the building. We may have gotten him drunker than we thought.” She smirked. “And I figured you knew where Dean was.”

Your mouth spluttered over the rim of your cup. Coffee now dripped down your shirt and a few of the drops had landed on the floor.

You flicked your eyes to your friend as you placed the cup on the table opposite her. Towels. You needed towels.

“Don’t give me that look. I saw you two after I left. And I checked on you this morning when I first got up. You weren’t in your room,” she said.

There was a knowing look on her face as you made your way between the pantry and back again that you ignored. Stooping down low to wipe the spill you’d made on the tiled floor below, only joining her once you’d discarded the paper towel in the bin along with your dignity.

Your hands went straight back to your cup, sipping on the rim and avoiding Charlie’s prying eyes.

“Come on. Let me live vicariously. What happened between you two?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

“You don’t know? I set this all up for you and him and you don’t know?”

“Ssshhh.” Your shoulders slouched, and you reached across the table to grab her arm. “I don’t remember, okay? I woke up in his bed but…”

“Did you two?” She made a crude gesture with her hands.

“I. Don’t. Know.” Your eyes were open wide as you enunciated every syllable to get your point across.

“How do you not know?” Charlie blinked a couple of times.

Drawing in a long breath, your mouth agape and ready to sigh it all out, you looked back at your friend and trembled your head in a quick shake. “I remember fooling around a bit but I don’t remember much more than that.”

“So you just woke up in his bed and don’t know how you got there?” she asked.

“I mean, I know how I got in his room, I remember that much, I think, but I don’t remember lying down or, you know.” The look you gave her was enough. You didn’t need to elaborate and even if you had wanted to, a heavy thud of boots echoed through the corridor outside.

Sure, it was possibly Sam, but that distinct gap between steps could only have been made by one bow-legged Winchester. And when Charlie’s face lit up opposite you and you heard the sound abruptly stop from somewhere near the door, you knew it to be true.

“Morning Dean,” she said. The chirpiness in her voice made you want to slap her silly but as you only had access to the hand that still held yours in the moment, you dug your fingernails into the skin below them instead. “Ow. You want some breakfast? There’s bacon still in the pan.”

Dean grunted and you felt eyes boring into the back of your head.

You refused to look behind you to where you knew he was pouring his own coffee by the sounds of it and released Charlie’s hand to pick up your cup. You took slow sips, keeping both your mouth and the rest of your body occupied while your elbows rested on the table, defending yourself from Charlie and her quips.

“How did you sleep?” she asked this time. Her eyes flicked between you both.

Could she be any more obvious?

“Fine,” he grumbled. “You got any more questions, or are you gonna leave us in peace to sort our own shit out?”

Fuck.

You looked over at Charlie with a pleading look that said ‘Please don’t go.’ My how things had changed. But she grinned back at you and wagged her eyes, before standing and leaving the room in haste. Damn traitor.

As her footsteps trailed off down the hall, the room grew uncomfortably silent. Making your sips the loudest thing to have ever existed in the world.

Your coffee was more bitter than it had been and you needed sugar pronto if you ever wanted to finish it.

You brought your cup down and placed it on the table before you to let your fingers fidget over the thin porcelain. Paying attention to each sharp angle between the curves and painted decorations. More so than was ever necessary.

Your eyes fixated on it, even as Dean took Charlie’s place across from you, watching you with caution. “So,” he cleared his throat. “How’d you sleep?”

Seriously? Taking Charlie’s line was how he wanted to start this. Well alrighty then. “Um. Fine, I guess. You?” You braved a glance at him, noting he was more serious in his disposition than usual.

“Like a log,” he said before silence filled the room again.

Right. You weren’t sure what you should say next. There was that big question on your mind, but you wanted, no, needed to approach it carefully. You didn’t want him to know you didn’t remember what if anything had happened between you.

Not for his ego, but for yours.

You took another glance at him and saw his tongue run along the inside of his cheek, making it stick out under the five o’clock shadow he was yet to get rid of. He always looked his best like that.

“I uh, I was surprised you weren’t there when I came back to my room just now.”

Wait. He was? “You were?”

“Yeah.” There was a defensive twang in his tone. It was subtle, but it was there. “I only went to take a shower and then I found you’d bolted… I thought…” He shook his head.

He thought. Thought what?

You looked him up and down. It wasn’t just his tone that was unusual. The way he held his shoulders and the way he gripped his coffee cup before him was odd. In anyone else, you’d say they were lacking in confidence, but Dean wasn’t like this.

The last time you’d seen him in such a way was after he’d killed Randy and the thugs in Pontiac and had come home dishevelled and broken over what he’d done.

“What did you think?” you asked, stretching your arm out to brush his hand across the table. Hoping that by doing so it might relieve whatever tension he was feeling.

There was a warmth there, that spread under your fingertips as your skin touched his and brought flashbacks to your mind of you touching other places on his body.

You’d seen him with his shirt off last night. Been up close and personal with his tattoo and the scars that adorned his chest. You’d felt the dip in his spine and the pressure of his waistband pressing into your thumbs when you’d hooked them under the denim that sat around his waist.

Had you gotten into those jeans last night?

“Last night,” he said, watching your hand with interest. “After what we talked about.”

What we talked about? You’d stayed up well into the night with him. Long after Sam and Charlie had gone to bed and Cas had disappeared to do whatever Cas does. But just like your memories of what took place in his room were drawing blank, so too were whatever words you’d exchanged with him.

All you could see were the grins and smirks he threw your way, and you nodded your head to stall. It didn’t do you any favours.

He was looking at you with a scrutinising gaze and just as your cheeks had burned when he found that spot under your ear, they did the exact same to you now and gave everything away. “You. You don’t remember? Do you?”

You bit your lip and shook your head. “I ah. I’m drawing blanks. Some of it, I remember, but I couldn’t tell you what we talked about after the others left. And…” You hesitated.

“What?” His eyes locked onto yours and while they made you nervous, you couldn’t pull away.

“Dean. Did we…”

He seemed almost disappointed. But rather than wait for you to finish your question, or answer it even though it was as obvious as Charlie had been, he stood up, scraping the chair along the floor as he did so to storm off.

‘What the fuck just happened?’

You had drunk a lot and been drunk because of it. You’d spent time with Dean alone after the others had gone to bed and had talked with him about something.

Something that led you to his room and into his bed.

There’d been action. Kisses and touches. A bit of groping and clothes being removed. Small flashes of that continued to form in your mind. But while marks had been left on your skin and you’d stayed the night in his bed, you couldn’t remember the physical act of him being inside of you. Or you giving him a happy ending either for that matter.

And now, he was disappointed.

Could it be that he felt the same way you did?

Part 2 || Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Up next in part 2:

Rather than answering, Dean walked around to the nightstand on the back wall next to his bed and picked up something small enough to fit in his hand. It crinkled under his touch, sounding more like the soft plastic of a candy bar than anything else.

Your suspicions told you otherwise though, and when he came back around and took your hand to place the object in your palm, you didn’t need to look at it to recognise the feel and shape of a condom still inside its wrapper.

There was the definite answer to your question about protection.

Thank you for reading! I’ll try posting part two same time next week - or you can read it now on AO3 here. In the meantime, I’ll be trying to work this site out (and finishing my WIPs whose updates are overdue… 🙃

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you #spn fanfiction #spn reader insert #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #dean winchester fic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester smut #one shots

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