Ok But WHY IS THIS SO OLIVIA RODRIGO AND LOUIS PARTRIDGE CODED

ok but WHY IS THIS SO OLIVIA RODRIGO AND LOUIS PARTRIDGE CODED 😭😭

When Mike goes to famous!reader’s shows, does he film her? Does he sing along? Does he just watch with his jaw on the floor the entire time?

I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS QUESTION, also featuring in this ask are the songs tejano blue by cigarettes after sex; sex by the 1975; wake me by bleachers

Here are a few fan testimonies from previous shows:

Tell me how the fuck did I just see Mike Faist backstage at her DC show tonight? Babe is getting the groupie treatment.

Mike being at her show tonight isn’t helping the dating rumors and quite frankly knowing all of the words to Tejano Blue isn’t helping either.

Homegirl is really dodging all of the dating rumors but then brings the man in question on tour with her and expects me to act normal about it?

Nobody seems to be talking about Mike Faist backstage at [reader’s] show and recording the entirety of Sex on his little red iPhone. DROP THE FOOTAGE, MICHAEL.

Mike singing the lyrics to Tejano Blue so proudly like, “Yes, we have fucked. This song is about me. Thank you for wondering.”

On most occasions, he will be backstage watching, but if it’s a Columbus show, he’ll probably be in the audience with his family. (She puts them in VIP). He knows all the words to all her songs; his camera roll is full of pictures and videos he’s taken at her shows. He even brings his Nikon to take photos of her. He’s always smiling and laughing at her crowd banter. And of course he always looked the most concerned when she takes a fall – whether that be from spilled water or purely her clumsiness. The most notable moment happened at a Columbus show, of all places, and her foot got tangled in her microphone wire and she fell hard.

“Just leave me here… Don’t worry about me—I’ll finish the rest of the show down here… Anyone who recorded that, I will sue you if you post it anywhere, I fucking swear. Don’t test me.”

And it’s quite funny when she performs the more sexual songs at the Columbus shows, because she gets so shy and embarrassed and will skip over entire lyrics because there is no way she is about to sing about fucking her man in her car, with his mother in attendance. She’ll pass. She even mouths “I’m sorry” into the camera at the more explicit lyrics.

And if you’re one of the few lucky ones who have stood near Mike at the Columbus shows, you’re always in for a treat.

Me @ Mike Faist after every song: honey do you know this song is about you?

[reader] trying to be on her best behavior tonight because her mother-in-law is here

Does Mike know he’s dating [reader] or should I tell him?

SOUND THE ALARMS SHE SAID TONIGHT IS A SPECIAL NIGHT AND BEFORE SHE PLAYED WAKE ME SHE SAID IT WAS FOR ALL THE LOVERS OUT THERE AND SHE POINTED TO HERSELF AND MOUTHED “MY LOVER” AND MIKE’S MOM (presumably) SMILED AT HIM AND HUGGED HIM

[reader] really said “that is my man” and let us go ballistic

[reader] singing the words “I can’t believe I captured your heart” and staring directly at Mike Faist wasn’t on my BINGO card but

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐧

you’re an angel, i’m a dog | au series. no particular reading order. 18+.

art babbles when he gets close to cumming. you find creative ways to shut him up (smut. 18+)

𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐳𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠

patrick is nasty and gross and you fucking love it. 18+

you fuck coach!patrick in exchange for him teaching your son. 18+

patrick gets excited when you ovulate, and he obsesses over your pussy. 18+

you like being patrick’s good girl. 18+

older!stepdad!patrick teaches you how to suck dick. 18+

patrick wears vampire fangs for halloween

𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐝𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐧

𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐲!𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

hot rod | art x patrick x fem!reader (threesome, smut, 18+ only)

Halcyon ~ Art Donaldson

✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°

A/N: this was so fun to write, and I hope you guys like it as much as I did while writing it.

WC: 2,632

Warnings: religious subtext/descriptions (becomes more prominent/apparent as you read), smut, MDNI, fem!reader, older!art, porn w/ some plot, excess amount of making out, fluff

✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°࿐✧˖*°

Art couldn’t think of a better place to be than where he was right now. Nothing mattered at the moment — not his upcoming match, all those sponsorship deals he has to do, or even Tashi’s grueling training. No, all that mattered was you.

He had you cradled against his chest, and a feeling of contentment washed over him as you absentmindedly watched television. He smiled against your hair and intertwined your fingers, his thumb gently stroking against your knuckles as you played with his digits. He could feel the steady beat of your heart against him, the soothing rhythm allowing all his troubles of the day to wash away. 

“Feeling better?” He whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on the top of your head in the process. You mumbled a response and he let out a soft chuckle and drew you in impossibly closer. 

He would stay like this forever if he could, you were all that he needed, all that he wanted.

Art moved his head down and pressed his lips in a light trail along your jaw before gradually moving to your lips. It’s a tender kiss — encapsulating the tranquility of the night. His lips lingered on yours, savoring the warmth and softness of your mouth before pulling away and returning to kiss your jaw. 

 You sighed his name, the sound almost unintelligible, making him smile against your skin. His lips brushed along your jaw and down your neck. He felt your heartbeat pick up slightly, a small shiver running through your body.

“Shh, I know, baby. Let me take care of you.” He whispered, his breath warm against your skin, the words a testament to his devoted faith in you. He continued planting tender kisses along your neck, each gentler than the last — as though he was trying to imprint the feeling of your skin against him in his mind.

Your eyes fluttered shut and your head lulled back onto his shoulder, it tilting in the process to give him more access. Art moved one of his hands up your side, his finger gently tracing along your collarbone before moving towards the nape of your neck.

“You’re so beautiful, I love you.” He breathed out, the words spoken like a reverent prayer before he tilted your head back and captured your lips in a slow, gentle kiss. It was filled with love and adoration, a confession of his devotion and unwavering commitment to you.

You immediately responded to the kiss, unable to stop the small smile that formed on your lips. He felt your smile and it sent a rush of warmth through his entire body, his face mirroring yours. He deepened the kiss, his tongue gently sought entrance to your mouth. Your lips moved together in a slow, languid rhythm, as though you had an abundance of time to explore each other. 

You moaned quietly in the kiss, before pulling away, your need for air overcoming your need to kiss him. “Please…”

Art’s grip on you tightened, his heart rate picking up as he looked at you — a small string of saliva connected your puffy lips.  He looked at you with a mixture of adoration and lust in his eyes. “Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you need.” His thumb traced the outline of your swollen, glistening lips, his tone filled with longing and need. 

“You.”

Art’s breath hitched as you spoke and he brought a hand up to cradle your face. “You have me, my love.” He murmured, guiding you back to his lips. He kissed you with a growing hunger; his tongue explored your mouth as his hands roamed your body, tracing along your curves and committing them to his memory. As you kissed, he gently maneuvered so you were lying underneath him. 

He broke the kiss and began pressing open-mouth kisses along your jaw and down your neck, stopping at your collarbone to gently nip at it. Art continued his assault on your neck as you withered and moaned below him, leaving a trail of kisses and light bruises along your skin. His hands moved under your shirt, gingerly squeezing and pinching your breasts as he kissed your exposed skin — worshiping you with every touch of his mouth and hands. 

You wrapped your hand around the back of his head and pulled him back up, capturing his lips against yours. Art returned the kiss, his passion and desire growing with each moment. He moved a hand to tangle in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he continued to kiss you deeply, his body practically lying on yours.

You broke the kiss, breathing in short, jagged pants. “Art, please… I need you to fuck me.”

His eyes darkened with want. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” His hand unraveled from your hair and moved down to trace along the edge of your shirt, his fingers lightly tugged at the hem. “Do you want this off?” 

At your nod, he doesn’t hesitate to gently pull your sleep shirt over your head off your body. His eyes raked over your bare torso and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip as his gaze lingered on your breasts. He quickly leaned down and captured one of your nipples in his mouth, licking and sucking on it as he used his other hand to pinch and roll the other with his fingers before switching his ministrations, making sure each received the same treatment. You moaned loudly and arched your back, pressing your breast deeper into his mouth before reaching down and tugging on his shirt. 

Art lifted his head and removed his mouth from your breast with a pop before pulling his shirt off in a swift motion. He tossed it aside and immediately resumed kissing you, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head while his bare chest pressed against yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He shivered at the contact, a low groan escaping his throat as he broke the kiss. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your neck as he nipped along your neck, focusing on your pulse point. His hands moved down your sides and dipped under the waistband of your sleep shorts, his fingers gently toying with your cloth-covered cunt.  

You gasped and tilted your head back onto the pillows, a surge of arousal flowing through you. Your sounds spurred him on, his mouth trailing down the front of your throat before moving around your chest as his fingers continued to tease your core. His fingers moved to the edge of your shorts, and he gently tugged on them.

“Can these come off, sweetheart?” He whispered against your clavicle, wanting nothing more than to worship you.

You nodded fervently, wishing for nothing more than to feel him inside of you. “Please.”

He lifted his head and pressed a delicate kiss to your mouth before moving down and pulling your shorts off, quickly discarding his along in the process. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of your naked body beneath him before intertwining your hands and bringing them up to kiss each of your knuckles.

He lowered his body, his mouth hovering over yours. “You drive me insane, you know that?” He murmured against your lips as his tongue darted out to taste the skin next to your mouth.

“Yeah?”

“You’re the air in my lungs, the beat in my heart. I’m addicted to you. I would spend the rest of my life entangled with you if I could.” He leaned down and captured your lips in a gentle yet passionate kiss, pouring his soul into it. To him, you were a divine being, an entity sent from the heavens with the sole purpose of being worshiped and pampered by him. As the kiss continued, he used his body to position your legs wider, allowing him to settle between them.

Your heart fluttered at his declaration and you couldn’t help but tangle your fingers into his hair, drawing him as close as physically possible before tugging on his short, blond locks. 

Art groaned lowly as you tugged on his hair, the action sending a shockwave of pleasure through his body down to his painfully hard erection. He whispered your name like a prayer, his voice filled with reverence and adoration — at this moment he was merely a devoted man at the feet of his goddess, willing to do anything and everything to please her, to prove his worth to her. His hips rocked instinctively against your core, the motion drawing loud moans from both of you.

He broke the kiss to whisper against your mouth, his voice breathless and shaky. “How do you want me, baby?”

Your chest heaved as you attempted to process his words — your head was already fuzzy and you’d barely started. “In me, please, Art.”

He groaned at your request, his heart racing with desire. “Anything you want, sweetheart.”

Art reached down to position his cock at your entrance, his other hand grasping at your hip for support. He pumped himself a couple of times before gently pushing into you until he was completely seated inside of you. A strained, broken moan escaped his throat as he stayed buried at the hilt so you could get used to the sensation.

He felt like he was in heaven, every nerve in him was ignited while he was worshiping at the altar that was your body. He could feel his restraint slipping away, each touch and kiss exchanged was like a player, each moan and whimper a sacred utterance. 

You moaned as you adjusted to his size, your nails desperately gripping his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he savored the feeling of your weeping cunt wrapped around him. He slowly pulled himself out to his tip before pushing back in one long, languid stroke. 

Art’s head fell to your shoulder as your nails dug into his skin, the pain quickly morphing into pleasure — a shiver wracked through his body, his hips stuttering, and a groan muffled by your clavicle. Each thrust, each connection of their bodies was like a prayer, the rhythm of your love making a sacred dance. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear — a whispered mantra of your name and soft praises on repeat. He had never felt more alive than when he was with you — you were his salvation, each union becoming an act of divine grace in his eyes. 

He lifted his head slightly to look at you, your eyes hazy with pleasure while his filled with a sense of deep, unwavering devotion. “Sweetheart… I won’t… mmph- last long… you feel… so good-” He managed to get out, his mind beginning to blank as your cunt’s walls clenched around him; his hips instinctively rolling with each pulse. You were the only thing his mind could focus on, you consumed his thoughts, your body his church, his sanctuary, in which he is lucky enough to worship you at the altar of your pleasure and love. 

You whimpered his name, your face contorting with pleasure as his cock hit all the right places inside of you. “Me… Me either…”

Art’s grip on your hips tightened at your words, his breath coming out in short pants and groans as his thrusts became more frantic. It was overwhelming — the way you clung onto him, how your bodies molded to perfectly fit the other, how your moans echoed in the hotel room — yet it was just what he needed. 

“Play with your clit for me, my love. I want to see you pleasure yourself.” He whispered, one of his hands moving from your hip to slide your hair out of your face as he gazed down at you. 

You whimpered at his words and moved one of your hands down to your cunt, your pointer finger slowly tracing circles on your throbbing clit. He watched you with hooded eyes, unable to take his eyes off of you as he continued to thrust languidly into you. 

You quickly fell apart, brokenly moaning as your back arched into his chest, crying out his name as you cummed — your body trembling from the force of your climax. Your orgasm triggered his, his hips snapping into you rapidly before stuttering, the overwhelming feeling pushing him over the edge. He buried his face into your neck, his body shuddering against you as he let out a broken mantra of your name while waves of pleasure crashed over him.

As Art came down from his climax, he removed his head from your neck and pressed gentle kisses over your face, his hands grasping at your waist to keep himself grounded as his chest rapidly rose and fell with every breath. You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, your bodies slick with sweat and your combined fluids. After a moment, your mind finally cleared up and your eyes opened. You were greeted with Art’s face hovering over yours, and you couldn’t stop the lazy, blissful smile that stretched over your face. 

He leaned down and pressed a light, gentle kiss on your lips before slowly pulling out of you and settling on his side next to you — feeling a wave of contentment washing over him. He brought a hand up to your face, brushing a few stray sweat-damped strands of hair away from your face while his other hand curls at your waist. “You alright, sweetheart?”

You curled into him resting your head on his chest “Mhm.”

Art smiled at your actions and shifted to pull you close, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he savored the feeling of you against him. He pressed a kiss to your temple and inhaled — breathing in the soothing scent of your skin as you lay together. 

He cradled you against him, occasionally pressing gentle kisses to your head as he rubbed soothing circles on your back as you languidly traced patterns on his bicep, mirroring his movements. His expression was tender and loving as he held you, cherishing the feeling of you in his arms. 

You craned your head up and gently kissed his jaw before settling back into his embrace. “I love you.”

Art hummed at the feeling of your lips on his jaw, his heart somersaulting your soft confession. He tilted his head down toward you and captured your lips in a tender kiss. “I love you too, sweetheart.” He whispered against your mouth, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek. As he gazed down at you, he knew undoubtedly that you were an angel sent from above, his soul’s other half, the reason he kept going. 

As you finally settled, you nuzzled your head into his chest and stifled a yawn — not wanting the moment to end yet feeling the exhaustion creeping up on you. 

Art chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest at your actions, his heart filling with affection. He pressed a kiss to your temple and shifted so that the top half of your body was lying on top of his. He pulled you impossibly closer, wrapping his arms around your torso. 

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. Get some rest.” He murmured, his voice low and soothing. His fingers began to gently play with strands of your hair, his eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion began to set in.

Art felt you relax against him, your breathing slowly evened out into a rhythmic pattern that signaled you were asleep. The sound of your peaceful breathing and the feeling of your heartbeat against him lulled him out of consciousness, his body finally relaxing as he fell asleep with you cradled in his arms. 

The Arkham Knight

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the arkham knight goes after the chink in the red hoods armor

warnings: typical canon violence, threats to the reader including death & implied sa, nonconsensual touching for reader (not nsfw), reader gets cut with a knife, character death (not reader or jason), angst w comfort

**for the sake of this, we're going to pretend that the arkham knight isn't jason -- or that he's from an alternate universe or something if you prefer. in any case, red hood & the arkham knight co-exist in this fic

You wake up to a sensation that takes you a moment to place. Your eyes are still closed and the word conscious is barely even applicable to you, but still, you feel it.    

There’s a hand wrapped around your neck.

Given that it's about one in the morning at this point and it’s not uncommon for your boyfriend to get very touchy after coming home from patrol, you didn’t dwell much on it.

His thumb strokes across your skin delicately, applying no real force with his grip.

You don’t feel his arm, though. Usually, you’d expect to feel the weight of at least his arm on you, as he laid next to you, hand resting on your neck. But you just feel his hand. No other weight on the bed at all, actually. Like he’s standing next to it.

That is something to dwell on, you think. You open your eyes and almost scream, before the hand on your neck swiftly clamps down over your mouth.

“Shhh.” he hushes. 

You probably wouldn’t be too much less scared if it were some random burglar, but it’s not. You look at the helmet hovering above you and you recognize it instantly. That’s the Arkham Knight. Jason hadn’t said much about him but you know he’s been having altercations with him recently from the news.

Standard enough.

What’s not so standard is one of Red Hood’s enemies in your apartment, in your bedroom. That means he knows who Jason is. Not good. Not good at all.

The Knight uses his free hand to yank you up by your arm into a sitting position. Your thoughts are still going a mile a minute trying to process what the hell is happening when he hauls you over his shoulder.

You start to fight back, thrashing in his hold and hitting his back with as much force as you can muster, but you’re not surprised it doesn’t do much. This guy’s as big as Jason and it doesn’t take a vigilante to figure out that this is a fight you can’t win.

He jostles you on his shoulder a little bit, murmuring, “Easy, sweetheart. We’re just going on a little trip.”

You continue struggling against him and when you reach the apartment building hallway you start shouting, though you’re quickly shut up by him.

He plops you down on your feet, hands gripping your shoulders tightly. “Don’t make me hurt you.” He warns with venom. 

If you’re going to get away it could only be now. But you saw the gun holstered to his thigh and based on the little that you know about him, he will shoot anyone that tries to help you without hesitation. 

So you let him shove you outside and into the backseat of a black car without a fight, only starting to feel the consequences with the way he holds you incredibly close with a tight grip throughout the ride.

You end up at a warehouse at the edge of the city, filled with crates and storage containers that you’re assuming are stocked with weapons. Soldiers line the perimeters and block the exits, though you didn’t have much of a mind to try and run from the Arkham Knight anyways. The metallic glint off his gun from the lights warn you every time he moves.

He has you sat on a chair as he leans against a crate in front of you, not bothering to have tied your hands. He doesn’t seem to be in any rush to do anything with you, if anything, the way he idly lazes implies that he’s waiting for something. Waiting for Jason, you’d guess. A long fifteen or so minutes goes by—you know so because you counted the seconds in your head as an attempt to keep your mind away from the killer in front of you.

You’re dressed only in a loose t-shirt and sleep shorts, the Gotham night air bitter on your skin. It only gives you all the more reason to curl up into yourself, doing your best to cover your body. 

He tilts your face to the side with the barrel of his gun. “You are a pretty thing, aren’t you? I can see why he keeps you.”

You snap your head away, eyes down and looking to the concrete floor. The sleeve of your shirt slips from your shoulder and you quickly yank it back up, much to the amusement of the Knight.

His shoulders shake lightly as he relaxes the gun to his side, “So, what? S’he your boyfriend or r’you just fucking each other?”

You try to keep your face neutral, keeping your eyes glued on the ground. “I just help patch him up sometimes. I don’t even know who he is.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you just lied to me, but only because I already know the answer.” He pulls you in close and kisses the side of your head with his helmet before whispering in your ear, “Don’t lie to me again.”

You try not to let your shoulders shake as bad as they want to, though you’re sure he knows exactly how frightened you are anyways.

You huff quietly, attempting to show more courage than you have. “So what, all this for ransom? Just to piss him off?”

He tilts his head at you wryly, “No, I’m going to put a bullet in his head.”

Your mouth snaps shut.

“Ah. Yeah, if you were just fucking you wouldn’t have that look on your face right now.” He tuts, patting your cheek.

A series of gunshots outside the warehouse has you jumping in your seat.

The Knight claps his hands together, “Oh, here we go!”

He stands abruptly and pulls you up with him roughly, wrapping his arms around you to pin you against his chest. The few men scattered around the room drop one by one, quickly, though the Arkham Knight pays them no regard.

“Back away from her.” The modulated voice of his helmet calls out roughly. You can’t quite tell where he is, but he sounds up high—maybe in the rafters or set up at one of the windows.

“Easy, Hood. Pays to be mindful of the stakes.” He pushes your chin up with the barrel of the gun.

You can’t see him but you have a feeling he’s got his gun trained on you, waiting for the Knight to give him a decent shot.

You can tell how incensed he is, even from the distance as he shouts, “Put the gun down. Now.”

The Knight tsks, “Don’t make me do something I’ll kind of regret. She’s got too pretty of a face to die so soon.” He squeezes your cheeks as you try to pull your head away from his hands, with no avail. “And so messy.”

His free hand travels down your neck and squeezes. You try not to look scared, both to spite the Knight and for the sake of Jason’s concentration.

He backs you up into a mess of crates, gun persistently pointed to your head, and he yanks you down with him to duck behind them. You’re both mostly obscured from view, though you think the tops of your heads might still be visible from the angle Jason’s at.

“I’m not asking twice.”

The Knight ignores his threat, continuing on, “No, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of her for you, Hood. She won’t miss a thing.” His glove drifts down your side, squeezing your waist.

Jason fires again, hitting startlingly close to the Knight’s head.

You take the momentary distraction to knee him in the groin which only makes him tighten his grip on you. “Oh, you…” he grunts. “You are a fighter, aren’t you?”

You sneer at him, “Fuck—” he yanks your hair roughly, pulling you into a better angle for him to hold onto you. “You.”

He squeezes your arm very hard, calling out, “On second thought, Jace, I’m thinking about cutting her open and letting her bleed out right here.”

He puts his gun in the holster before one of his hands pulls the bottom of your shirt up, the other flipping out a blade that he presses flat against your stomach. The knife is cold against your skin and the sensation is what allows you to finally admit to yourself that you’re scared.

This is somehow a hell of a lot more terrifying than the gun and you can’t swallow the fact that you’re one unlucky move away from being gutted in an abandoned warehouse at the edge of Gotham. Jason’s quiet and you can’t be sure that he’s not injured or stuck dealing with more soldiers. You visibly shake at the thought of really being on your own now.

The Knight clicks his tongue, tilting his head down at you as he watches you tremble. “Aw, I’m sorry. Am I scaring you?” He knicks your skin, purring, “It’s not personal, sweetheart.” He lets the blade drag a bit, widening the size of the cut. “Well, not for you.”

You grimace at the feeling of being sliced open, trying your hardest not to give him any reaction. Your body involuntarily slides down to the ground until you’re on your back with him crouched above you. 

He pulls the knife back and you both take in the sight of your blood lining the side of it. Your eyes well with tears as he points the end of the knife down at your stomach, readying to pierce your skin in a far less superficial way.

A gunshot fires far closer than you were prepared for, making your entire body jump. The fear becomes visceral then, because your automatic reaction to the noise was to assume that you had just been shot by the Arkham Knight. But in actuality, the Knight himself gets knocked to the floor, the shot having hit the side of his helmet. A flash of red out of the corner of your eye has you flinching, though it darts right past you and onto the Knight.

Hood slams him fully onto the ground by the shoulders, trying to remove his helmet so he can fire a shot that's actually effective. The Knight fights against him, pushing him off of him and reaching to draw his own gun.

You’re dragging yourself backwards, crawling away to safety. You keep going until you can’t see them anymore; you’re too scared to see it play out, too scared to help, too scared to think.

The clamor of grunts and punches landing drowns your senses as you try to fold in on yourself into the smallest ball possible on pure instinct.

A shot fires, though the sounds of struggling persist. Another shot, followed by a curse that you can’t make out who it came from. You can see debris littering the air around one of the crates where one of the shots must have hit. A few seconds go by before a third shot echoes out and the scuffle slows to a halt.

It’s quiet for the longest few moments of your life and in the panic, you begin to lose all sense of what you’re waiting for. You forget to look up when you hear someone approaching you rapidly, only finding cessation to your concern when a pair of hands grabs your face, pulling your head up so he can see you.

You’re only barely able to process that it’s your boyfriend knelt in front of you, blood splattered on his armor. You know this is good, you’re grateful to see him, but you can’t feel anything but panic.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, taking in your emotional state. “Are you hurt?” His helmet scans over you frantically, hands trying their best to remain gentle on your face.

You try, but you can’t push the words out of your mouth.

Honestly, you just want to see him, see his face so you can start to feel safe again. But the sight of another inanimate helmet is doing nothing to calm you, in spite of you wholeheartedly trusting the person under it with your life.

His gaze finds the small pool of blood seeping through your shirt. He rushes to lift your shirt up, fussing over the laceration. It’s about two inches wide, but it’s shallow enough that it won’t need stitches. Once he determines that you don’t need immediate medical attention, he drops your shirt back down, leveling his face to yours.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers desperately, “Baby. Talk to me,” he brushes hair out of your face gently and the contact makes you jump on instinct, your adrenaline nowhere near lowering. If you were in any real state of mind right now you’d feel awful for flinching like that when he touched you, you know exactly how sensitive that is for him. But right now, you didn’t even completely register that it was him that touched you.

Your eyes stay fixed on the concrete and the only response you can manage is a strangled hum and a shake of your head, no I can’t talk right now not right now not now

“Okay. Okay,” he lifts you up off the ground from your knees and holds you close, like he’s trying to prevent you from disappearing again. You’re staring blankly at his glove holding up your thigh, trying to center your focus on that instead of all the bodies in your peripheral or the memory of the blade pressed against your abdomen.

You don’t notice it, but he’s looking down at you constantly, scanning your face for anything, any signs of change.

The entire ride back to your apartment you’ve got a death grip around his torso and he’s thankful for it because he can’t have his hands on you while he’s driving the bike.

He gently helps you inside, handling you like your bones are made of float glass. His helmet finally comes off once you’re back home, but you’re a bit too out of it to even notice.

The wave of lucid emotions don’t kick in until he sets you gently on the bed and you realize you’re back in the place where you woke up to his hand around your throat. You can feel the bottom of your shirt sticking to your skin, the blood slowly starting to dry.

The tears fall before you could even realize that your eyes started watering and Jason could swear on his life that he physically felt his heart break. 

You feel like a little kid the way you cry, chin low and shoulders shaking. You don’t even know what you want, what could possibly help right now.

“Can I touch you?” He asks in a strangled whisper, desperate to try anything he can to make this better for you. He absolutely hates that you have to be in such distress because of something that he brought into your life, something that he should’ve been able to prevent. He’d rather relive all his worst days again and again than see you so pained ever again.

You give no response so he takes the chance and does it anyway because he can’t stand to see you hurting so badly and while he just sits here watching. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap and into his chest. Thankfully, you respond in kind and squeeze your arms around him tightly, sobbing harder.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He presses his mouth against your head, trying to keep it together as you shake in his hold.

He won’t tell you this, especially not right now, but he was absolutely terrified. He couldn’t have gotten home more than ten minutes after you’d left, being met with little things ever so slightly out of place. The bedroom door ajar, when you usually keep it closed. The lamp in the living room that you always leave on for him was off. The bolt on the door was broken, the turn locks unlocked.

He’s panicked plenty of times before in false alarms, thinking you were gone or dead when in reality you’d just been tired and skipped a few steps in your nightly routine. So he kept his thoughts at bay as he crept into the bedroom, opening the door to find the bed empty, sheets oddly messy. He booked it down the hall and checked the bathroom, checked the spare room. Nothing. He’d whipped his phone out immediately and could literally feel his stomach drop when he heard your phone ringing in the bedroom.

It didn’t take him long to piece together what had happened, who had taken you. He’d been having increasing altercations with the Arkham Knight lately and they were beginning to get very annoyed with each other. Occasional accidental run-ins had given way to full on ambushes and planned assaults, leading both of the men to lose their patience quickly.

A couple nights earlier, mid-shootout, The Knight had shouted out something that should’ve raised flags for Jason. “I’d hate to let this get personal,” he’d said.

But he was in the heat of the fight and barely even allowed himself to register the words, let alone sift through their implication. That’s no excuse though, is it? He’s supposed to keep you safe, that’s his job—that’s his only job. He should’ve seen the tail that was following him, he should’ve installed better security measures at your apartment, he should’ve checked on you, should’ve stayed with you, should’ve left you alone all together. But he was selfish and careless and now you’re bleeding and traumatized from being pulled from your bed in the middle of the night, having a gun pushed in your face, and being cut by a psychopath.

You sit on his lap, completely zeroed in on the feeling of his touch and how drastically different it resonates than the Knight’s burning hold on you. Jason’s hands on you don’t have that scorching fire sensation, but warm and comforting like an emergency blanket. You can feel his Red Hood armor pressing into you uncomfortably, but you want more of it. You need more. You can’t possibly get enough of it right now. 

“Please hold me tighter,” you pipe up for the first time in several minutes, your words are hushed and exerted. It makes you sound like you’re hiding, trying not to be caught.

He nearly squeezes the breath out of your lungs and it’s still not tight enough. The tears run out soon after and you sit lax against him. You focus on the feeling of his breath against you, his exhale wavering your hair a little. His breath is steadier than yours and you try to match up with him, but you’ve found that even in normal times, his breathing is always a little slower than yours.   

There’s a nearly imperceptible creak of a floorboard in your living room that has you jolting in Jason’s lap. His head snaps up, one of his hands immediately flying to your hair. His hold prevents you from turning your head, though you're not sure you even want to. You prepare yourself for the sound of gunshots, modulated voices, punches landing.  

You’re confused when Jason remains stationary on the bed and he relaxes slightly. A few long seconds go by before he calls out lowly, “Go.” 

His posture loosens again a moment later and though you don’t hear the intruder retreat, you’ll later realize that was your biggest clue as to who it was. But for right now, you bury your face as deep into his neck as you can, letting him run his finger through your hair in an attempt to cancel out the brief adrenaline jump you just got.

His next words come at a volume so low you nearly miss them all together. “Did he touch you?” He sounds like he’s biting back nausea at the thought.

“No. Not like that.” you mumble back, just as quiet. Your voice is more detached than his, and while the words themselves are a relief, your tone makes him hurt inside.

His head drops against your shoulder for a second before he glances up at the door again, letting out a tense exhale. “I…fuck. Can I…I need to go in the living room for a second. Just a second.”  

The thought of being separated from him right now makes you literally want to throw up, but tonight has been nothing if not another reassurance that you trust him more than anything.

He pulls back from you and looks you in the eye, hand stroking along the side of your head as he checks for certainty. You do your best to let him find it and when he does he kisses your forehead softly. You slowly climb off of him and he makes sure to wrap you up nicely in the comforter before he goes.

He stands intentionally in the doorway, closing the door enough so that there’s only just enough room for him to stand.

“What happened?” you hear the gruff voice of the Batman, followed by Jason shushing him. You can’t quite make out what he mutters back, though you can tell the sentence is short. 

You think you can hear Batman ask if you’re hurt and you see Jason hesitate and then shake his head. You let yourself fall into a reclined position on the bed, consumed by your cocoon of blankets. Jason was really onto something with this.  

Batman sighs, “Alright. We’ll discuss this more tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow.” Jason says shortly. His meaning is clear, he’s not leaving you again any time soon. Especially not to fill Batman in on something that’s done and over with. Something that he’s hoping to never have to talk about again. A few beats pass before Jason closes the door with a soft click and returns to you quickly.

He takes your hands in his as he sits, rubbing reassuring circles with his thumbs. 

“I need to get you bandaged up.” He whispers reluctantly, knowing that’s not what you want to hear right now. You drop your head on his shoulder wordlessly and he takes in the sight of your blood on your hands. Now it’s his turn to feel sick. “We can—” he pauses, “Do you want to shower first?”

Oh. That would be good, yeah. You nod slowly and languidly unwrap yourself from your blankets.

He wants to ask but he refrains, so you just take his hand and guide him into the bathroom with you. He’s very thankful you do.

He gets the shower started for you, letting it get warm how he knows you like. You watch the steam begin to fog up the mirror as he pulls his shirt off next to you.

He gets down to his boxers when he turns to you and sees that you’ve made no progress in removing any of your clothes. You just stand still, watching the water run.

“Sweetheart?” He calls out gently. “You need help?” He tries to hide the concern in his voice, though not to much avail.

You blink vacantly, “No, I just…” you waver for a moment before climbing into the shower, clothes on.

He stutters between stopping you and letting you go, ultimately deciding on the latter. He follows in after you, sitting side by side with you under the stream of hot water. He has to fold in on himself to fit like this but he doesn’t think twice about being here with you, however you need him. 

Your clothes darken quickly and adheres to your skin, and you find it difficult to tear your eyes away from that patch of your shirt that remains ever so slightly darker than the rest of the wetted fabric.

Jason picks your hand up from its resting place on your stomach and envelopes it in his. You close your eyes and let the water run over your face, sprinkling off your eyelashes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, sounding nearly in pain.

Your head falls to the side, coming to a rest on his shoulder. The water pounds against your ear, stray drops ricocheting against your cheek. You squeeze his hand and he returns the action, understanding the temporary sentiment. He kisses your head and keeps his lips there, eyes closed too. 

You’ll stay like that in the shower until the heat runs out. He’ll help you out of your soaked clothes and leave them in the tub for now before lifting you up out of the shower and wrapping you in a towel. He’ll set you down on the bed and apply a bandage to your cut as delicately as he possibly can. Neither of you bother to get dressed again, simply enveloping yourselves in the covers and lying together like that until you’re ready to move.

He didn’t go out on patrol again for nearly two months.

💙 REBLOGGING = SUPPORTING 💙

confessions

note: i'm not a good writer i apologize in advance. but i have challengers brain rot and can't stop thinking about it so i had to write this. thinking about writing fem!reader x tashi next (reader is lowkey in love with tashi as well in this one in my mind) lmk if u like this and maybe i will

pairing: stanford!art donaldson x fem!stanford!reader

summary: since you started at stanford, you’ve been avoiding your close high school friend, art, and you’re pretty sure he’s been avoiding you, too. when he shows up to the tennis courts while you’re playing with your roommate and asks to talk, some confessions are made.

warnings: nsfw 18+ (MDNI!), smut, sub!art donaldson, soft dom!reader, angst, fluff, grinding, hand job, praise, aftercare (reader loves art sm), art is pathetic (in a good way i love him), please lmk if i forgot anything

word count: 1.9k

posted: may 27th 2024

It’s been a little over a month since you started at Stanford. With the stress of all your classes, homework, club meetings, and private out-of-season training for tennis, it feels like you can never catch a break. To make things even worse, you’ve been actively avoiding your close high school friend, Art. You promised each other you’d stick together at school while your best friend, Tashi, and her boyfriend, Art’s best friend, Patrick, are touring. Now, you haven’t heard from him, and haven’t tried to reach out to him either. When your roommate found out you’re a tennis player, she asked if you’d be willing to teach her how to play. You happily agreed, so you’ve been going down to the courts and playing with her once a week. Today, your heart jumped out of your chest and you almost dropped your racket when you were teaching your roommate how to backhand and Art walked in, sitting down in the stands.

“You okay?” your roommate asks, concerned by your sudden change in demeanor. She looks back to where you were looking and sees Art, then turns back to you confused.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine” you say unconvincingly, and serve the ball. She doesn’t press any further, so you continue with the lesson, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach.

You can’t help but keep glancing up at Art. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since he got there. Once you finish up her lesson, you say goodbye to your roommate and nervously walk up to the stands where Art is sitting.

“Hi.” you say softly, scratching at your palm anxiously.

“Hi. How have you been?” he asks, seemingly genuine.

“Um… I-I’ve been good. How about you?” you stutter, your heart racing.

“Can we talk?”

“Yeah, sure.” you sit down next to him, but he shakes his head.

“Privately?” he looks around at the few people who are on the tennis courts, including your roommate who’s still slowly packing up her bag and glancing up at you confoundedly.

The knot in your stomach twists even tighter, but you nod your head in agreement, standing up. You follow him out of the tennis courts and towards one of the dorm buildings. He unlocks a door on the first floor, gesturing for you to enter. As you walk into your friend’s dorm room for the first time, you look around. Your lips curve up slightly and you feel a warmth in your chest when you notice a photo of yourself with Art on a wall of photos of his friends and family. Your apprehensive look returns when you turn back towards the door as he shuts it behind him, standing awkwardly in the middle of his room. You’ve never been a fan of confrontation, but you should have prepared for it when you decided to completely ghost one of your best friends with no explanation.

“You can sit down, you know.” he says casually.

You glance between his desk and his bed, ultimately opting for the desk chair. You face the chair out away from the desk and sit down. He sits down on his bed, facing you.

“Nice room.” you say awkwardly, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Why did you stop talking to me?” he says plainly. You suddenly feel like you might vomit at any second. You would rather be six feet underground than in Art’s dorm room having this conversation right now.

“I didn’t mean to, I’ve just… been so busy with classes and clubs and training I guess I haven’t gotten the chance to text you.” you lie. And he sees right through it.

“Can you be serious… Why haven’t you talked to me since we got here?”

You take a deep breath, and look down at your hands. Trying to think of any other way you can stretch the truth and not have to tell him what you’re about to tell him, but your mind has gone blank. You look back up at him, realizing you have no choice but to be honest.

“Art I-” you try to find the words, your heart racing even faster. “I, um… back in high school, I had this… huge crush on you." Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you stutter through the confession you've held onto for years, and you continue awkwardly, “And I knew you had a thing for Tashi, and it hurt because obviously who could ever compete with Tashi. She’s literally perfect. So over the summer, like a week before school started, Tashi and I were drunk and I decided to block your number. I thought maybe it would help me move on, start fresh, you know? I didn't want to keep being just friends and feeling, I don't know, awkward around you." You shift uncomfortably, the weight of your words heavy on your shoulders. "Honestly, I forgot I even did it until now. I thought maybe you were avoiding me, too, or… I don't know, I guess I just didn't think it through. I'm sorry, Art. If you don't hate me now, could we maybe try being friends again? I've moved past that crush, I promise. I won’t let it get in the way again.”

You try to make the last part sound as convincing as possible. You don’t think you’ll ever be over your crush on Art. He just sits there and listens as you talk. His expression is unreadable, and for a moment, you fear you've said too much. You look down again, fearing his response.

“Why didn’t you tell me before… that you had a crush on me?”

“Cause you liked Tashi. Like everyone else.”

“Tashi was always just a friend to me. I liked you.”

You look at him as if he must be lying, searching for any hint of irony in his tone or facial expression.

“I still do.” he says softly, and the knot in your stomach is replaced with butterflies.

You stand up from the chair, and Art looks at you with concern, thinking you’re about to walk out. You take a few steps forward and sit down next to him on his bed, your knees brushing together.

“I still like you, too.” you whisper and put a hand on his cheek. You slowly lean closer to him, and press your lips against his. His lips are soft and they taste of cigarettes and watermelon lime ChapStick, his favorite. You’ve dreamed about this taste for years. He places a hand on your thigh, deepening the kiss. You quickly move to straddle his lap. Your hands twist in his soft strawberry blond hair as you kiss him sloppily, as if you were trying to consume him. You feel his erection growing under you and grind your hips down against him, making him moan softly into the kiss. You tug at the hem of his shirt and he quickly removes it, tossing it carelessly across the room, then smashes his lips back against yours hungrily. His hand moves up your thigh to the waistband of your skirt.

“So impatient.” you say with a smirk, moving your head down to kiss his neck and taking his hand in yours, moving it away from your waistband. He whimpers at the feeling of you sucking and nibbling gently on his neck. You kiss up his neck and jawline then back to his lips quickly before pulling away. You move off his lap and sit further back on his bed, spreading your legs slightly and patting the space between them.

“Come sit here.”

He looks at you a bit confused, but he obeys. He sits between your legs on the bed, his back to you. You move your hands slowly over his arms and chest, kissing his neck from behind, bringing back the sweet sounds of his whimpering. He closes his eyes and leans his head back on your shoulder, giving you better access to his neck. He moans softly, reveling in the feeling of your lips and hands on him. You tease him, moving your hand slowly down his abdomen and stopping just before his waistband, then moving back up slowly. You do this a few times before he can’t take it anymore and his hips buck upwards, begging for your touch.

“Such a pretty boy… you want me to touch you?” you tease, speaking softly against his neck and driving him insane. He whimpers, nodding his head eagerly.

“Use your words.” you whisper in his ear. His hips buck up again, a needy whine escaping his lips.

“Please,” he gasps out, his voice soft and needy, “please touch me, I want you so bad.”

You smirk and move your hands to the waistband of his pants, tugging down gently. He wastes no time pulling his pants and boxers off in one quick movement.

“Good boy.” you say softly, sliding your hand down his abdomen. A strangled moan leaves his lips as you wrap your hand around his cock and start to stroke him. His hips jerk up, desperate for more friction.

“Fuck” he gasps out, his voice a husky whisper. You continue to stroke him slowly, your other hand wandering over his chest and abs, kissing his neck occasionally.

“Love hearing your moans… such a good boy for me.” you say softly in his ear. He can’t contain his whimpers as you continue.

“Feels… so good.” he chokes out through moans, leaning his head back on your shoulder again. He lets out a low moan as you kiss his neck again, panting heavily.

“Such a good boy.” you emphasize, playing with his hair with your other hand.

“Yes, I am… such a good boy for you.”

You can tell that he’s close to the edge.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?”

“Yes… yes.” he gasps, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathes heavily. You stroke faster now, and he lets out a loud moan as he finally lets go, cumming hard on your hand. He pants heavily as he leans back against you, trying to catch his breath. “Thank you.”

You move your hand up to your mouth, licking some of his cum off and swallowing it, then moving your hand to his mouth. He knows exactly what you’re asking of him. His breath hitches at the sight, and he leans forward to lick the rest of his cum off your hand. He swallows then closes his eyes and leans his head back against your shoulder.

“You did so good for me, angel. My good boy.” you wrap your arms around him, holding him close and rubbing his stomach as he recovers. He lets out a contented sigh as he leans back into you further, his body still trembling slightly. He puts his arms over yours, holding onto you tightly as he catches his breath. You let him lean on you for a few more minutes, still rubbing his stomach, before the two of you lay down, you still holding him from behind. He turns over to face you, his lips curling into a smile. You smile back at him and put a hand on his cheek, stroking it gently.

“I missed you so much. Please, don’t ever leave me again.”

His words are like a shot to the heart. You still feel like a horrible person for the way you hurt him, but one thing about Art is he could never hate you, no matter what you do. You pull him close, stroking his hair gently as you whisper, “I won’t. Ever. I promise.”

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter one

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, descriptions of anxiety, swearing, allusions to controlling mother, use of y/n 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: y/i means your initial of your first name. i hope you enjoy the first chapter!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒’ 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟔

Waiting in the entrance corridor that led to the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, you nervously fiddled with the homemade friendship bracelet on your wrist, an anxious habit you picked up over the years. The snapping of the elastic band on your skin distracted you from your spiralling thoughts.

You were a whirlwind of nerves and compulsive overthinking.

Even though you knew with certainty how the match would go that day, you couldn’t shake the anxiety that pulsed through your body before every game.

MOTHER: Duncan’s backhand is going to win her the whole damn Championship if you don’t get your act together.

DAD 🩵: I love you, win or lose. Have fun with Tashi and call me when it’s over! Best of luck. Hugs, Dad.

Making friendship bracelets before big tournaments was a tradition your dad started when you were eleven. It let you relax before nerve-wracking events and allowed you to spend time with your dad amidst your busy schedules. Surprisingly, it ended up being a fun, creative outlet as well. You enjoyed focusing on the details of something other than tennis, and sharing it with your dad only made it more special. Given how many years you had to practise, you were good at creating intricate patterns and now had a vast collection of bracelets. Most of them had your name, Tashi’s name, “Dad,” and the year and location of your favourite tournaments and memories on them. 

The bracelets were your good luck charms, and you were comforted by the weight of the beads on your wrist. 

The one you wore that day had a T and Y/I interwoven amongst pretty beads, creating deep pink and white flower shapes. They represented the stargazer lily, your favourite flower. You made the same bracelet for Tashi to wear during the US Open Junior Championships, and her beads were light and dark purple to represent her favourite flower, the sword lily. The meanings behind your favourite flowers were accurate for your roles in the friendship, given that Tashi’s sword lily – technically not a lily at all but an iris – represented strength, victory, and pride. Your stargazer lily represented innocence, purity, and prosperity. She was the heated tennis champion, while you were her gentle, equally successful friend.

The two of you thought it was perfect. Having your favourite flowers be lilies was just one of the many invisible strings that tied the two of you together.

Your father used to say that you and Tashi were the sun and the moon, and you had to agree. Tashi was fiery and outgoing, dominating the tennis world, just as the sun dominated the sky. Passionate and intense. You strived out of the spotlight and were introspective in a way that added serenity to your friendship. Warm-hearted and gentle. “The most important part is the balance,” your father would say when you grumbled how Tashi’s attributes sounded better. “The sun and the moon represent harmony. Together, they are day and night. Work and rest, visibility and mystery, rationality and emotion. Beginnings and endings.”

Perhaps that was why your life felt bookended by meeting and falling out with Tashi. It was the beginning and end of your adolescent life and the reason you made such drastic changes when your friendship ended. You couldn’t be the same person without her.

In the corridor, you could hear the crowd getting restless. Each shallow breath you took caught in your throat, and your anxious thoughts swirled like a tornado in your mind. The spectators were rightfully excited for the beautiful game of tennis they were promised if Tashi Duncan was playing. The fact that you, her talented best friend, were playing in the finals against her had them lapping up the match like they were starved for entertainment. In many ways, you supposed they were. The Junior Championships were dull without you and Tashi bringing the heat, and your matches turned the traditional game into a glittering spectacle of excellence.

Somewhere in the stands, Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig nursed disposable soda cups and waited for the match to start.

“Don’t you want to meet Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N?” Patrick wondered, shocked by Art’s indifference to attending the Adidas party that evening. While Art went to the Junior Girls’ Final to see fresh talent in their sport, Patrick knew something far more exceptional awaited them. Art burped, and Patrick stared in disbelief. “You don’t get it, man. You’ve never seen them in person. They’re in another league,” he insisted.

Art glanced down at where Patrick’s knee pressed against his thigh. “You mean their game?” he asked sarcastically. Knowing Patrick as well as he did, Art was aware of the reason for his best friend’s obsession with Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N.

“No, I mean they’re the hottest women I’ve ever seen,” Patrick proclaimed. He was buzzing with an excitement Art rarely saw; Patrick was glowing. A devilish grin painted his lips, and his eyes darted across the court regularly in hopes of catching a glimpse of you and Tashi.

Answering your nervous prayers, Tashi finally joined you in the entrance corridor. “Hey!” She smiled, carefree and confident, like you weren’t about to play in the Junior Championship Final. The sun, you thought. She’s the sun. You wondered what it was like to shine so brightly and effortlessly. “Are you ready?” Tashi wondered, linking hands with you. Your friendship bracelets touched.

You sighed, squeezing her hand as you calmed your nerves. The crowd’s cheers faded in and out, interrupted by intermittent ringing in your ears. Your heart pounded, and you tried not to hyperventilate. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied reluctantly. Your doubts and fears were a suppressive weight, glueing you to the spot.

Tashi nodded encouragingly at you. She knew you weren’t as scared about playing the match as incurring your mother’s wrath afterwards. Her eyes scanned your expression as if it were the map to the inner workings of your mind. She had a sixth sense when it came to reading your emotions. “You’ve got this, Y/I. You’re a fucking tennis player, and you’re going to kill it,” Tashi declared, squeezing your hand back. “Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” 

She inhaled deeply, motioning for you to follow her with her free hand. You complied, following Tashi as she exhaled slowly. “I’m a fucking tennis player,” you agreed when you caught your breath, trying to keep your voice from wavering. For now, a voice in the back of your head reminded you. It’ll all be over soon.

“And we’re going to play some fucking tennis,” Tashi added. 

You chuckled. “Thanks, T.”

“Let’s go.”

As you entered the court, the umpire introduced the two of you, “Winner of the Junior Australian Open, Tashi Duncan!” The crowd cheered as you and Tashi stepped onto the blue hard court with intertwined hands. “Local star and runner up of the Junior Australian Open, Y/N Y/L/N!” 

You let the adrenaline rush take over and smiled, waving at your audience as you approached the benches. The applause for you wasn’t quite as blaring as for Tashi, but your home base of New Yorkers was pleased and proud to have you representing them.

From his seat, Art watched with wide eyes as his breath hitched. He watched your lips curve into a grin and felt his cheeks and ears heat up. Seeing you had ignited an insatiable fire in his chest, spreading south quickly. You were like a masterpiece come to life, sending a jolt of electricity through his veins and his senses into overdrive. Patrick glanced sideways at him, empathising with the lovestruck expression on his face.

“See you out there,” you told Tashi, grinning before parting ways and setting your bag down. She pointed two fingers at her eyes before turning her hand and pointing to you, reminding you to stay focused on the game and not let anyone ruin it for you. 

It was an appreciated gesture. Tashi had known you long enough to notice when your mind wandered anxiously. You were reminded that your mother was in the crowd examining your every move; each step you made was deliberately catered to appease her. As long as you did what she said and got through the tournament, you could breathe easy. You took a few sips of electrolyte water, stretched your body, took deep breaths, and practised the visualisation methods your dad taught you. 

Art leaned forward in his seat, eyes trained on you and periodically flickering to Tashi as you both stretched. “Holy shit,” he murmured appreciatively as the flouncy skirt of your white Nike tennis dress revealed the curve of your ass when you bent over to touch your toes. Forget a moth to the flame. Art was like a starving, panting dog waiting for his next meal. He and Patrick had been silent since you and Tashi walked out, blatantly staring with parted lips, too entranced to clap with the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this final round match will be the best of three tie-break sets,” the umpire declared for the audience to hear. “To the left of the chair, from the United States, Y/N Y/L/N. To the right of the chair, also from the United States, Tashi Duncan. Duncan won the toss and elected to serve.”

At the umpire’s cue, you grabbed your racket and walked behind the baseline. Art’s eyes trailed you, admiring how your hips moved as you sauntered across the court. “Fuck,” he remarked. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at someone and thought they had a sexy walk, yet there he was, helplessly looking to Patrick for an explanation. What was it about you that made you so perfectly captivating? “Patrick…” Art trailed off, powerless to your elegant charisma.

His best friend only laughed. “Just wait until you see them play,” Patrick warned Art eagerly.

Behind the baseline, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You envisioned yourself flawlessly executing aces and volleys, being deliberate with your movements and not getting hurt. Positive visualisation was something you started doing recently when your anxiety got the best of you, but you never pictured yourself winning. Not when you played against Tashi.

For a moment, right before the match started, it was just you and your best friend smiling at each other from across the court with an unspoken understanding. No matter how it went, you had unwavering love and support for each other. You were beyond rivalry, and tennis connected you rather than drawing a line between you. This was one of your favourite moments in tennis: the calm before the storm, the moment of anticipation when nobody knew how the match would play out. 

Not you, though. You always knew. 

“First set, Duncan to serve.” The umpire motioned to Tashi. “Ready? Play.”

Nothing could have prepared Art and Patrick for the match they were about to watch. 

You crouched, waiting for your best friend to serve. Just as it had the day you first met Tashi, her backhand was like a sledgehammer strike each time she vaulted the ball over the net.

“Look at that fucking backhand,” Art groaned appreciatively at Tashi’s powerful two-handed backhand. Patrick merely shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

At one point in the rally you hit wide, and the ball flew out. The umpire called, “15–love, Duncan.” Everyone applauded the point. 

You gained the next point when Tashi hit the net. 15–all. Even though Tashi had that lightning-fast backhand, your rallies were thrilling and beautiful. Tashi took the first game, and then it was your turn to serve.

This was where you thrived.

You bounced the ball on the ground a few times before taking a deep breath, tossing it in the air, and firing it over the net so quickly that Tashi and the audience barely saw it coming. Your serve was quick as a whip, and Tashi couldn’t return it. An ace. A murmur rang through the crowd as the monitor displayed the speed of your serve: 120 miles per hour.

Art nearly whimpered, “Holy fuck!” He’d never seen a girl his age fire a serve that powerful, precise, and fast. Art shifted in his seat.

Patrick sighed reverently. “I think I just came,” he quipped. 

You took the first set, 6-4 in your favour. Tashi took the next. The final set had everyone in the stands on the edge of their seats, waiting to see how things went. You and Tashi were stuck in a 6-6 tiebreaker, and this next point would decide the game. If you won this point, you would play another set to determine the winner of the match. If Tashi won, she would win the US Open Junior Girls’ Singles Championship Final.

There was an electric energy in the air, and Art and Patrick could hear their heartbeats hammering in their ears. The game unfolded remarkably. Everyone held their breaths in anticipation as Tashi served. You returned each stroke with precision and power, allowing the thud of the ball to echo through the court intermixed with your grunts. 

It was a moment of pure bliss.

For once, you weren’t thinking of your mother or her overbearing expectations of you. All you could focus on was you, Tashi, and the ball floating between you. The tension was palpable and thick; nobody in the audience knew how they wanted it to go. Tashi was the clear fan favourite, but her losing this point would mean at least another half-hour of watching the two of you play. Nobody could deny that would be a gripping end to the match.

As if ignited by a rush of raw determination, Tashi struck the ball and sent it soaring across the court, kissing your baseline and winning her the entire match.

With a primal, reverberating roar of passion, Tashi crouched, clenched her fists, and screamed, “Come on!” Her voice echoed through the court, thundering above the crowd cheering for her.

Everyone present knew they’d seen something phenomenal, and they weren’t sure what to do now that it was over.

"Game, set, and match, Duncan. Seven games to six in the final tie break,” the umpire said over the clamour.

You laughed, dropped your racket, and shrieked when Tashi leapt over the tennis court to pull you into a hug. Breathless and sweaty, you wrapped your arms around your best friend and giggled deliriously. All your matches with Tashi were fantastic, but this was one of the most riveting. You pulled away enough to exchange bright smiles, heart pounding with exhilaration from the intense match. Your spirits were high, mirroring Tashi’s excitement and revelling in the knowledge that you had fun and entertained the crowd. For you, that transcended the outcome of the game.

“Now that’s tennis,” Patrick commented, giggling giddily. 

Art got to his feet and clapped, speechless.

“Congrats, T! You just won the goddamn Junior US Open,” you exclaimed, lightheaded from the adrenaline rush. After the gruelling match, you felt your muscles twitching from the exertion. Your body was drenched in sweat, physically and emotionally exhausted by the demands of the sport you and Tashi dedicated your lives to.

Tashi chuckled, beads of sweat dripping from her temples. “Who cares? You just showed me that you’re not ready to give up on tennis yet,” she retorted, smirking triumphantly. You opened your mouth to argue, but Tashi shook her head. “I know you think you want to quit but you haven’t even given yourself a chance yet! Think about it, your mom isn’t going to be riding your ass when we’re at Stanford. You might just fall back in love with it,” she pointed out.

You rolled your eyes and smiled fondly at her. She meant well by encouraging you to keep up with tennis, but nobody could convince you to keep going.

When you and Tashi turned to bow and wave at the crowd, Patrick stood beside Art. “What time did you say the Adidas party was?” Art asked, wonderstruck. 

Patrick’s lips curled into a brazen smirk, like a cat that had just caught the canary, and his eyes sparkled with a knowing gleam. “I knew you’d come around.”

𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍, 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐀 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟕, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

“We need to get you some more match time, then,” Tashi decided. She and Art were sitting in their hotel room in Atlanta after his crushing defeat by a French teenager. Grabbing her phone, she checked what other tournaments were happening before the US Open.

“I can play Cincinnati,” Art protested, not wanting Tashi to pull him out. 

“No. No, you cannot. Not like this,” Tashi disagreed. It wasn’t that she would be embarrassed if Art lost; she loved and respected him more than his wins. It was the fact that she knew he had more in him. More fight and more passion. Tashi just needed to find a way to reignite the flames. “Okay, how about--” she paused. New Rochelle, New York. Around the corner from where Y/N Y/L/N grew up and currently resided. Speaking of reigniting old flames… “How about New Rochelle?” Tashi proposed. 

Art’s shoulders tensed. He exhaled shakily, mind immediately going to you. Tashi wasn’t oblivious to how her husband had a visceral, physical reaction whenever you were brought up. The last time either of them saw you – really saw you up close – was three years ago at the French Open, the year you and Art took home the Singles titles. Art and Tashi were invited to the Nike afterparty celebrating your second French Open Singles win in 2016. Tashi thought Art would faint at the rate he held his breath each time he saw you. His hands clutched the table whenever you laughed; it was like his hands itched to reach for you, like a bee drawn to the sweetest flower.

“That’s a Challenger,” Art stammered, trying to change the subject.

Even though he tried to keep his mind off you, his thumb subconsciously traced the friendship bracelet on Tashi’s wrist. It was one of the many bracelets Lily made for her, a skill their daughter learned from her father.

Tashi recalled when you were teenagers, and you tried to get her to make bracelets with you. You must have convinced her to do it a handful of times, but she never had the patience to focus on anything except tennis and gave up every time. 

The only person who ever took the time and care to make you a bracelet was Art Donaldson.

Tashi ignored his obvious shift in topic. “Yeah, I know that. It’s in a couple of days. Maybe we can get you a wildcard,” she suggested. Art scoffed quietly, averting his eyes and fiddling with the colourful beads on her bracelet. “Art?” He hummed nonchalantly. “You need to start winning,” Tashi told him firmly. Moments like these made it hard to walk the line between spouse and coach. “Right now, you’re getting crushed by guys like Du Maurier. So we need to go somewhere, where there’s absolutely nobody on the other side of the net who can shake your fucking confidence. Okay?” Tashi underscored the importance of the Challenger. “That’s why we’re going to--” she glanced at her phone-- “Phil’s Tire Town Challenger.”

Art chuckled. Even when he first started in the professional tennis world, he’d never gone to a Challenger with a name like that. “That’s the only reason we’re going to New Rochelle?” Art asked, smiling knowingly at Tashi. 

She didn’t care that he’d caught on to her scheme. “You’re telling me you don’t want to see her?” Tashi retorted, raising an eyebrow at her husband. “If she was right in front of you, you’d just turn around and walk away?” Their silent exchange of glances spoke volumes, acknowledging the unspoken truth that he loved you. Amidst the tension, there was a quiet understanding between them. Tashi knew what it was like to have loved and lost you. Perhaps not in the same way as Art, but in your friendship that once meant everything to her. “Because I think you’d hold on and never let go of her again,” Tashi argued.

Art couldn’t disagree with her. After all, a man never forgets his first love. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: how are we feeling after this chapter?? i hope you enjoyed the way i incorporated the friendship bracelets and lilies (yes art and tashi named their daughter after the fact that your favourite flower is a lily asdfghjhkhl) thank you for reading xx