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amoreva · 2 months ago

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chat, my husband and me 😫❤️

art donaldson x theatre major!!

broadway baby!

frat! art donaldson x theater major! reader

no tw! just fluff i love my sweet loverboy art (i hope you like anon! <3)

you had become used to a certain type of audience. the kind who clapped politely, who carried notebooks and whispered about lighting choices and diction. who wore corduroy jackets and asked deep questions at the talkback, who truly understood the content before them, who were familiar with the work that had gone into it. you were decidedly not used to an audience that included a six foot, bright eyed tennis player wearing a backward cap and a stanford tennis hoodie, sitting in the second row like he was courtside at a match. and yet, there was art. elbows on his knees, baseball cap barely hiding that ridiculously bright golden hair, grinning like he understood shakespeare now because you were saying it. you nearly forgot your line.

you met him two months ago when you were running lines by yourself in a quiet corner of the quad, and he tripped over a bench while trying to eavesdrop. “i wasn’t spying,” he said, brushing grass off his sweatpants, “i just heard someone say ‘what light through yonder window breaks’ and i thought maybe i’d finally cracked open the secrets of the english department,” you laughed, to which he blushed. you told him you were a theater major, not english, but close enough. he started showing up near your rehearsals after that. “just walking by,” he’d claim, while chewing protein bars that he never seemed to run out of. you never expected him to actually come to your show.

it was just a student production of much ado, in a campus black box. your beatrice was a little too sarcastic, your tights a little too itchy, and someone missed a lighting cue in act II. still, the applause at the end felt good, felt earned. but when you stepped out into the lobby, still in costume, eyeliner slightly smudged, there he was. his hands were shoved awkwardly in his pockets, holding a crumpled program like it was a playbook, his eyes lighting up when he saw you. “you were amazing,” he said, “like, i didn’t know shakespeare could be fun?” you blinked back surprise, “you stayed for the whole show?” he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy, “yeah. you told me not to come, so i figured that meant you secretly wanted me there,” you rolled your eyes, “that’s not how that works,” “worked tonight,” he grinned, shrugging. and it did. you were smiling, weren’t you?

he leaned closer, “you know, i was thinking, maybe next time you could come to one of my matches?” you raised an eyebrow, “will i get to wear a hoodie and yell at people to 'crush it’?” he grinned brighter at that, “absolutely,” you nodded, “deal,” you didn’t know what this was yet. frat boy and theater girl, tennis shoes and tap shoes, but for tonight, it felt like something starting.

the cast party was in someone’s off-campus apartment. too many bodies crammed into one space, fairy lights dangling half-dead from the ceiling, and fleetwood mac playing off someone’s speaker like it was the only playlist theater majors had ever heard of. you hadn’t really planned on inviting art. but someone had offered you a ride, and art had flashed you those baby blue puppy dog eyes, and before you knew it, you were huffing and agreeing to let him tag along. and to his credit, he was trying to understand your friends.

he ducked slightly as he stepped inside the party, eyes scanning the room like he’d accidentally walked into a cult meeting. “is that guy wearing a cape?” he whispered. “technically it’s a repurposed curtain,” you replied, “he’s method, very annoying,” “oh, of course,” you led him through the crowd, smiling when you caught him glancing at you every five seconds like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

you introduced him to your best friend, who raised both eyebrows and mouthed art donaldson? behind his back, and to your director, who looked more disinterested than confused. art smiled politely, you passed him a solo cup. he leaned over, nose scrunched, “is this wine?” you sniffed, “boxed, probably expired. drink at your own risk,” he grinned and took a sip, “i’ve survived worse. remember that frat party where someone spiked the gatorade with fireball?” you winced, “i don't typically get invited to those things," “well, we'll have to put a stop to that," he murmered.

someone put on dreams and three of your friends dramatically sang along. you looked to art, who didn't quit look phased. you looked up at him, “regretting it yet?” he shook his head slowly, “no. i mean, i don’t totally get it, but it’s kind of great. you’re kind of great,” that caught you off guard.

you laughed, soft and surprised, “careful, donaldson. you keep talking like that and i might take you to our next experimental monologue night,” "will you be there?" he asked, smiling like he had a secret. you nodded, sipping your wine. "then i'd love to be invited," you reached for his hand absentmindedly, and he let you, running his thumb along your knuckles gently. "you are beautiful," he hummed, voice soft. your cheeks warmed, "you're too sweet," "disagree,"

the party went on around you, soft and quiet in the background. when your eyes had grown heavy with exhaustion, art took your hand and led you outside, his hoodie draped over your shoulders. he walked you all the way to your apartment without hesitation, kept you company the whole way, listened to your stories of castmates and your passion for the arts. at your door, he brushed a lock of hair from your face, smiling fondly down at you. "i look forward to your match," you said softly, eyes on his. "me too," he murmured, "especially to seeing you," he leaned closer, almost imperceptibly. "i should get to bed," you told him, despite the urge to stay out all night just to be by his side. "right," he nodded, eyes flickering to your lips, "goodnight, then," "goodnight,"

he turned away, but before he could go you pulled him back, standing on your tiptoes and pressing your lips to his softly. he was still, surprised, before melting into you, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you closer. you pulled away after a moment, cheeks warm, "goodnight again," "goodnight," he exhaled a soft laugh, his breath fanning your face, "i'll see you soon?" "i'll be dreaming of it," you giggled, watching him walk away, a fondness settled in your chest.

#art donaldson #art x reader #art donaldson x reader #challengers

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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AND GO READ THIS 10 MILLION TIMES, I LOVE

CIVIL OUTCRY ✹ iwaizumi hajime

summary: an inaccurate warning from station x has tensions high among your team as the younger members grow restless and the elder ones grow tired, but on the cusp of a social war, your radio picks up on a private broadcast and suddenly you’re all on the same page.

pairing(s): platonic!karasuno x reader , (future) iwaizumi hajime x reader

notes/warnings: female reader , this chapter is kinda buns but i had to set the scene </3 , we’re pretending daichi’s birthday is in september , mentions of death and violence , tsukishima’s a bit of a dick but it’s understandable , so is daichi low-key but he’s also under a lot of pressure , potentially ooc!characters but my interpretations of them will make sense in due time , no iwa yet but he will come soon , reader’s love language is touch and you can tell (me core) , physical affection between reader and most people she interacts with but it’s in a family way , ennoshita & narita & kinoshita erasure i’m sorry :(

MASTERLIST / PREV. CHAPTER / NEXT CHAPTER

Branches whipped against your skin as you ran through the forestry—hidden, exposed, hidden, exposed—but you cared little for the sting and meaningless cuts as your legs took charge of your thought and drove you closer to the van that was sure to be waiting for you just past the sliver of light ahead.

Your heart thudded in your ears and almost drowned out the dull sound of footsteps pounding behind you. The sound was still somewhat distant, but it was constant. The creatures may be slower than you, but the undead don’t get tired.

The canned food and medical supplies jostled together in the tight-crammed backpack slung tightly across your shoulders as you willed yourself to move just that but faster.

The gap in the trees was growing now, you could see the beginnings of tarmac and the shadow cast by the van Tanaka hijacked within a week of the outbreak. The door was open, undoubtably held by a panicking Sugawara and Kageyama. As you neared, you could hear the engine humming and their urgent voices.

“Hurry!” “Come on!”

It felt as though your body was on the cusp of collapse when you finally reached them, scrambling into the van as they slammed the doors shut and Tanaka peeled down the highway.

You looked through the windows of the door to see the mob that had been chasing you run after the van too, being reduced to miniatures against the horizon before long.

“Arms out.” Sugawara broke your silence with a gentle demand. You looked at him slowly, letting him run his hands and eyes over the skin of your forearms to check for bites or scratches. You said little more as he did the same to your legs and torso. He frowned a little at the nicks from pine needles and splintered trees, but did nothing more than wipe over them with a disinfectant cloth from his pocket.

“Good run?” He asked as he gave you one final once-over before deeming you free of any injury.

“Great run.” You smiled with a faint hint of arrogance, nudging the bag closer to him with your foot and taking a seat beside Kageyama. “Would’ve been better if I’d known a fuckin’ ambush was waiting for me though. Thought the radio said this was green?” You raised your voice at the end so Tanaka could hear you from the front.

“Don’t blame me!” He defended. “Dispatch this morning said it should’ve been clean. My guess is those Shiratorizawa pricks herded them here to keep ‘em away from their farmlands in the west.”

“Doesn’t matter now.” Sugawara chided, looking at your loot in marvel. “We’ve got enough food here to last at least another week and a half. Medicals should last us even longer.”

“Any artillery?” Kageyama asked from beside you. He didn’t smile when you passed him a round of bullets you’d stashed in the pocket of your cargos but he did softly nudge his shoulder against yours and nod in gratitude.

“A few more of those in the front pocket.” You said to Suga. “And two knives down the side.” He took the switchblades from the pack and passed them to you instantly.

You took your knife from your pocket and carved a K into the metal sheeth of both blades before giving them back to Suga for safekeeping.

“How many were there?” Kageyama asked you.

A tired groan escaped you as you shifted in your seat. “Maybe 20? 25 at most.” You twisted your knife between your fingers. “Not the worst we’ve seen but they were a lot more intense—hungrier. They’ll probably starve out before someone hunts them.”

Comfortable silence lapsed the rest of the journey. Tanaka was tuned to Station X, this you could tell by the crackling sounds of repetitive piano medleys that would only be broken by status updates on the hour. Sugawara made quick work of sorting the medical supplies you’d gathered into the kit he carried around, mumbling quiet counts to himself as he did. Kageyama ran his thumb over the hard plastic casing guarding his ammo.

You leaned your head against the cool metal of the van, taking in a deep breath and somewhat off-put by the fact the lingering metallic stench of blood and sweat no longer made you wince. You were used to this now. As your chest rose, you closed your eyes and flexed your fingers, willing every muscle and tendon to relax. Your legs still screamed and ached, but the pain eased as you kneaded your palm into the flesh of your thighs.

In one week winter would be over and spring would crawl through the clouds and it will mark three months since the outbreak. Three months since your life had been stolen from you. What a lovely thought.

You could still remember the day The Strain broke out. It only took 72 hours to change your world. When it first began, scientists claimed it was a mere airborn virus, with symptoms similar to colds or flus. By hour 43, they could hardly believe how wrong they were. Violent mutations took over the bodies of those you’d grown up beside.

It was harrowing, really, to watch the woman you helped cross the street, the shop vendor who always let you off if you were short change, your first kiss and old friends turn angry and murderous.

Before you could think about that first week any more, Tanaka let out a sharp whistle. “Home sweet home!”

Karasuno’s base wasn’t much, but it was something. An abandoned community centre with sturdy walls that was tall enough to provide decent observation from the roof. It was nearing the end of your second week there. You wondered how Yamaguchi was faring on his research for somewhere else.

The four of you neared the entrance, Kageyama slightly ahead as he knocked on the door four times in rapid succession. The sliding panel Asahi built on your first day peeled back to reveal narrow eyes staring out at you. “Injuries?” Kiyoko asked plainly.

“No.” Suga replied, nudging you with his elbow. “Checked her as soon as she got back in the van. The rest of us didn’t go outside.”

Kiyoko hummed, closing the panel once more. You could hear the grating and sliding of the locks you’d enforced on the other side of the door before she pulled it open with a grunt. She nodded at the boys who trickled in ahead of you, but reached out to hold your arm with a tentative hand.

“Are you okay?”

Kiyoko had been your closest friend since you were first learning your times tables. She was one of the few people who seemed to understand you without needing you to explain your every thought. Similarly, she sought refuge in your friendship. In one of your many nights shared, she’d indulged in you a secret she feared to tell anyone else. The perfect Kiyoko Shimizu was lonely. In a world where it seemed she was as good at the attention she gave, Kiyoko knew that by your side she didn’t need to try to be anything. She could breathe with you.

“We got ambushed.” You said, standing beside her as she locked the door again. She turned to you in shock.

“What?! Station X said that area was green.” A deep line furrowed between her brows, concern washing over her face.

“It’s okay, Mizu.” You soothed, placing a gentle hand on her bicep. “It wasn’t anything worse than a light orange. An undead hoard crossed my way when I was going back to the van but I’m fine. They were weak ones anyway.”

“Still.” She insisted. “What if it was worse? You left with enough ammo for a run-in with a walker. What if strikers had caught you?”

Prior to the outbreak, Kiyoko hadn’t been a particularly anxious girl. She tried not to delve too far into hypotheticals and worst-case scenarios, but you supposed this change is expected after so much loss in such little time. You placed both hands on her shoulders to hold her in place.

“Shimizu.” You said slowly, with enough authority to snap her from her spiral but still gentle enough to remind her she was safe. “Yes, it could’ve been worse, but it wasn’t. We can learn from this. I’ll take a few extra rounds on my runs from here on out. We’ll make sure Hinata does the same.”

She hardly seemed satisfied, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, grating against the already cracked skin. But she trusted your faith and relented, walking beside you as you followed the voices in the base’s main hall.

Desks that were once used for science fairs and arts and crafts markets were now repurposed to hold your weapons and medicine. To your right, Noya was helping Kageyama and Tanaka organise the bullets you’d picked up with the dwindling supply you had left. The shorter of the three looked up at you and Kiyoko as you entered and simply bowed his head towards you. You never thought you’d miss his declarations of love, but it seemed the apocalypse leaves no time for devotion.

“Y/n.” Daichi called from across the hall, making his way toward you and Kiyoko. “Can we talk?” He was far too aware of how the rest of your team pretended not to watch with pricked ears as he motioned towards the adjacent room you’d turned into a bedroom of sorts for you, Kiyoko, and Yachi.

You knew it wasn’t a question but instead a gentle demand. He walked two paces behind you as you opened the door.

Three sleeping bags lay strewn across the floor; a yellow one for Yachi, purple for Kiyoko, red for you. The girls’ rucksacks sat beside their sleeping bag, crammed with changes of clothes and small sentimental objects. It was a dull room, but it had heart. The crayon scribbles on the skirting boards reminded you of the children who lived happy lives here before. It was an innocence you’d miss.

“Suga told me about the ambush.” Your leader was as curt as always, speaking in a hushed tone after he heard the door click shut. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. Small scars littered his forearms, something you made a point not to look at but seemed to bulge as he tensed his arm. “The others can’t know.”

Your shock was clear in your voice. “I’m sorry?”

Daichi sighed heavily. “They can’t know Station X made a mistake.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Look, I know how bad it sounds, but they’re on edge as it is. Station X is the one reliable thing they have in this world, and if they find out that they can’t even count on that, then I don’t know what will happen.”

“Daichi, they need to know. What if that mistake happens again when Hinata’s on a run? What if it’s worse than mine?”

“You don’t get it!” You tensed as he raised his voice. Daichi sighed again and shook his head, shoulders deflating slightly. “I’m sorry.” He said in a much softer tone. “I heard Tsukishima speaking to Yamaguchi the other day. He wants to split off. Thinks we’re stagnant here. They’re good kids. They’re quick and they’re smart, but they won’t survive on their own.”

Your feet moved on their own until you were stood beside him. You placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, thumb running across the fabric of his t-shirt. “I understand, Daichi. I really do. But keeping them unprepared is worse.”

He placed his hand over yours. “We can still prepare them, give them extra ammo on runs, make sure they have enough bandages. We can say it’s a precaution.”

“They’ll find out on their own, Dai.” Your voice was soft, like you were speaking to a wounded lamb or fallen fawn. “We have to tell them.”

After a moment or two of silence, Daichi nodded. “Give me a day. I’ll come up with a way to do it right, then we’ll tell them.”

A small smile grew on your face, a comforting thing. “Good call, cap.” Daichi rolled his eyes. Even before the outbreak, you teased him for his authority and he hated it every time. He was a leader, their leader, but he was your equal. He knew it, you knew it too, which is why it was so fun to play the role of subordinate.

“Do Kageyama and Tanaka know they’re not supposed to talk?”

“Suga should be talking to them now. By how pale she looked, I’m guessing you already told Kiyoko?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “But she won’t tell.”

He hummed and you stood in a few more moments of comfortable silence. “We’ll be okay.” He said finally. You weren’t sure who he was trying to convince.

As you and Kiyoko sat on the rooftop, watching the clouds pass over midnight sky, passing a bottle of whiskey you looted three weeks ago between you, no words dared breach the silence. Shoulder to shoulder, you braved the final chills of winter and watched the weather redden her cheeks.

An uneasy feeling churned in the pits of your stomach, something you were hoping the amber liquor would quell, but the earthy cinnamon taste could barely cover the bile lying dormant in the back of your throat. Another swig had you wincing and wiping your mouth with the back of your palm. Strong stuff, expensive. Something your father would’ve gotten for his birthday. The thought made you take another drink.

You wondered if Daichi had been serious in his intent to keep the truth from the others. If he truly wished to guard the secret or just needed to be reminded that telling them was right. He was a man only by law, but still a boy as heart. He was still gentle and foolish in his beliefs. He clung to the fleeting sense of hope and trust he had before the outbreak, but he bore the weight of a king.

Daichi turned eighteen a month before you, almost to the date, barely old enough to drink when his youth was stripped from him and the fates of eleven of his dearest friends were thrust to his trembling hands.

He crumbled only in the presence of you and the other three of your classmates, refusing to be any less than a beacon of strength to the younger members. If he kept the truth of Station X’s mistake, he risked civil outcry when they inevitably drew their own conclusions, but by telling them he risks worse. He risks losing the boys he has strived to protect every day for the last three months.

“Mizu?” You asked eventually. She let out a quiet sound of acknowledgment. “I’m worried for the others.” Her silence willed you to continue. “I can’t stop thinking about what Daichi told me—how Tsukishima and the others are restless, losing trust. He was so concerned about them leaving, he wasn’t planning on ever telling them about the ambush. But what if it’s not just a once-off, Mizu? What if we can’t trust Station X any—”

CREAK.

“What was that?” You asked, head snapping to your left in search of the sound, Kiyoko doing the same to her right. Your gun was already in hand, as was hers. Eyes strained against darkness, even as you lifted your lamp and Kiyoko waved her flashlight, you could see nothing out of the ordinary.

“Maybe it was just the wind.” Kiyoko suggested. “It’s an old building. It was probably nothing.”

The thought did little to put you at ease, and she could tell as much, but without another answer you were left to put your faith in her and settle back into your seated position, albeit with a much stiffer back and a much tighter grip on your weapons. The whiskey remained untouched until Noya and Tanaka came for their shift of watch.

You were woken by Yachi’s voice, muffled, but you could still sense the panic. With a start, you shot up to find yourself alone in the room. You could hear much more now, the raised voices of your teammates and what you swore were fists.

“He’s a fucking liar!” Tsukishima’s distinctly sharp voice rang out as you ran into the main hall to see him being pulled away from Daichi by Suga and Kageyama with a bloody lip.

“What the fuck is going on?!” You asked in a thunderous voice that echoed off the walls. Chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, you took in the scene before you as you waiting for an answer.

Closest to you, Kiyoko had pulled Yachi back with a firm hand on her shoulder, now holding the younger girl close to her with a hand covering her mouth in shock.

Yamaguchi and Hinata stood between Daichi and Tsukishima with red faces and panicked looks. Noya and Tanaka had just ran down the stairs from the roof, panting from the panic and adrenaline of being pulled from their post. It mustn’t be sunrise yet, you realised.

Tsukishima had crimson cheeks and rage in his eyes. His pumping lip was pulled into a snarl as he glared daggers at Daichi. Suga held his left arm, Kageyama his right.

You could see Daichi’s shirt was ruffled from what you assumed was Tsukishima shoving him or Asahi holding him back. He had a blooming purple mark on the side of his face.

“Anyone gonna answer me?” You tried once more, giving Daichi a sharp look.

The blond answered you instead. “I heard you an Kiyoko last night. That prick was keeping us in the dark. He’s pathetic!”

“‘Keeping us in the dark’? What are you talking about, Tsukishima?” Yamaguchi asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

“You wanna say it or do you still not have the balls, Captain?” He spat it as a taunt.

Daichi pulled his arm from Asahi’s grip and with a heaving chest turned to face the team. “Yesterday, the guys got ambushed by an undead hoard in the run. Station X was… wrong.”

Everyone held their breath, either waiting for the storm to break or letting the weight of the truth settle in their minds, still riddled with sleep.

“What do you mean ‘wrong’?” Hinata asked slowly, eyes blown wide in fear.

“He means the same thing we base our every move on lead them straight into a hoard and he didn’t want to tell us.”

“Tsukishima, enough.” You warned, but his glare turned to you instead.

“You’re just as bad as him. His right-hand-man. Were you gonna keep this a secret too? Huh? If I hadn’t heard you would I be sent out next? To a fucking striker den?”

“Hey!” Daichi yelled, a deep and grounded thing strong enough to rattle a beast. “Watch your mouth, Tsukishima. Be mad at me, I get it, but she’s the one who convinced me to tell you all today. Don’t speak to her like that.” You sent him a quick look of gratitude and he bowed his head in return.

“You got ambushed?” Yamaguchi asked in a voice so small you would’ve missed it anyone dared to do more than breathe. Everyone turned to look at you.

“I was clearing out an abandoned convenience store when I heard rattling coming from the back. I left straight away, but then I heard more noise from the woods. Twigs cracking, but too out-of-sync to be human steps. Then I smelled them. I nearly got sick where I stood but I threw the bag on my back and started running. There wasn’t too many, and they were much slower than me so I was fine.”

“You said there was 20. 25 maybe.” Kageyama mumbled, looking at the floor when a few members turned his way.

“That’s enough for an orange zone.” Noya realised. “Station X said that entire area would be green. That’s not just a small mistake.” He looked at Daichi with a mix of betrayal and anger. “You weren’t going to tell us?!”

That was all it took for the hell to break loose. Voices piled on top of each other and climbed in volume until nothing said was legible. Insults and attempted defence spewed from the lips of boys who shared soba and victories together not even four months ago.

You weren’t sure if Kiyoko moved toward you or if you moved toward her, but suddenly you joined Yachi being tucked under her arm, watching the spectacle unfold with a sinking feeling of dread.

What managed to catch your attention, however, was the crackling of static as your radio came to life. The 5am broadcast of Station X. You peeled away from Kiyoko to kneel by the desk it was set up on. None of the others took notice.

Seconds spilled into minutes as you waited for the voices you’d grown so used to tell you of newly blackened areas and reclaimed green zones, but the greeting never came. Instead you heard a new voice, more gravelly than you were used to, foreign to you. His words were broken by static, but you could make them out if you focused. He spoke direct, ending each sentence with an army honorific. A military channel.

“I see… south of Saitama… Tokyo coast… Garden… Eden.”

A gasp escaped you. “Everyone shut up!” You yelled, unaware of the timbre in your voice until the team listened, looking in your direction in confusion. Two numbers were rattled off in the radio dispatch, repeated twice before the line went dead. You mumbled them over and over in confusion, as if their meaning would appear as they became familiar to your lips. Then it did.

“Get me a map.” Silence ensued, a stillness of confusion and slight concern settling over the group. “Now.” It was Yachi who scrambled to get you one in the end, looking at you worriedly while you get repeating those two numbers.

Your eyes flitted over the map of Japan like a mad woman, finger pressed against the paper almost hard enough to go through it, following the lines and curves until you saw it. The coordinates.

Slowly and with shaking hands, you stood and looked at the nervous faces of your family. If it was the fear of unknowing that struck them, you were about to grant salvation.

“I know where the Garden of Eden is.”

taglist: @vettelsbuttons @amoreva

#iwaizumi x reader #☄️ east of eden

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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chat I need help finding a fic…

it was either a racetrack x reader or albert x reader and the reader was florist who meets said newsie. and the newsies asked for flowers based on flower language and the florist thinks he has a girl to give them too when really he’s trying to confess his feelings

THANK YOU 🙏

#racetrack higgins x reader #albert dasilva x reader #newsies x reader #newsies fanfic #・°°・。vida yaps!!

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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oh how I love dodge mason

RODEO BRUISES .ᐟ

summary: It took only a few seconds for you to fall down that horse. Legs, hips, back and the aching feeling of bruises already forming on your body. And Dodge, your boyfriend, is worried. But a massage and some fingering later, you both end up relaxed.

pairing: dodge mason x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 2.8k words. praise. overstimulation. fingering. multiple orgasms. dirty-talking. aftercare.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @museboos, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

You should’ve seen the fall coming. The way your horse twitched under you, the crack of something in the trees, the second of stillness before the storm. But you didn’t. One sharp jolt and you were airborne—then earthbound. Shoulder first. Hip second. The wind punched out of your lungs like a slap to the chest.

Now you’re lying on your stomach in Dodge’s bed, your body aching in a dozen places, skin flushed warm from the hot bath he insisted on drawing for you earlier. You’re wearing only an oversized t-shirt—his—and a pair of soft cotton panties. The arnica oil sits on the nightstand beside you, and he’s rubbing it into your sore muscles with quiet, focused intensity.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he mutters, kneeling beside the bed as his hands press gentle circles into your lower back. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. You weren’t moving.”

“I’m okay now,” you murmur, voice muffled by the pillow. “Thanks to you.”

His thumbs press along your spine, just enough to stretch out the ache without pushing too far. Dodge’s hands are warm, rough in all the right ways. You can feel the calluses catch on your skin now and then, but they don’t hurt. They remind you of who he is—of how many times those same hands have steadied you, cupped your face, tugged you close like he didn’t trust the world to keep you safe.

“Can’t believe you’re still lettin’ me touch you,” he says softly, like the guilt’s still pressing into his chest. “I should’ve kept a better eye on you.”

You exhale a sleepy sound. “You weren’t the one who spooked the horse.”

“Still.”

His touch lingers at the small of your back. The room is dim—sunlight gone, leaving only the amber glow of the bedside lamp. You hear him open the oil bottle again, feel the warmth of it as he rubs it between his hands.

He starts again, slow and purposeful. First at your shoulders, then your back, kneading the soreness from your muscles in long, deliberate strokes. But this time, he doesn’t stop there. His hands slide lower—tracing the curves of your hips, then down, until his palms are resting over the swell of your ass. He does it in a way that you know is not sexual.

You shift slightly, breath hitching, still. Because it’s Dodge, and every little attention coming from him makes your body boil. Hot like summer, heat pooling inside your stomach without permission from your brain.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, low and close to your ear.

“Yes,” you whisper, and your body betrays you by arching into his touch just a little.

His thumbs move in careful circles across the soft flesh there, rubbing out the tension like he has every right to touch you this way—and he does. It’s tender. Reassuring. But there’s something else behind it too, simmering slow. The edge of want.

“You’ve got the prettiest ass I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs like it’s a confession. “Soft, even when you’re bruised.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still face-down in the pillow. “You’re not helping me rest, you know.”

“You want me to stop?”

You shake your head. Of course you don’t.

Dodge hums like he already knew the answer. His hands glide over your thighs, up again, then closer—until his thumbs brush along the crease where your thighs meet your core. The fabric of your panties is thin, barely separating his hands from the heat of you.

“You’re warm here,” he says quietly, almost reverently. “Real warm.”

You bury your face deeper into the pillows.

“You’re blushing,” he teases softly like he knows without needing to see your face, and he’s kissing the back of your thigh. “What, just from a little massage?”

“It’s not just the massage,” you mutter, and he laughs against your skin—low and fond.

He’s careful as he touches you, rubbing slow circles over your clothed pussy. One hand slips under your shirt again to rest warm on your lower back, grounding you. The other moves between your legs, teasing along your slit through the dampening cotton.

“You’re wet already,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower. “All this just from me touchin’ you like this?”

You nod against the pillow, your breath shuddering.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft, baby. You always get like this when I take my time with you.”

A soft whimper escapes your throat, hips twitching as he touches you through your panties with maddening patience. He presses a little harder over your clit with his thumb, the pressure slow and steady, and you make a strangled sound into the sheets.

“That’s it,” he praises. “Let me take care of you.”

He slides the fabric to the side then, baring you to the warm air of the room. His fingers glide between your folds, wet and hot and already pulsing for more. When he dips a finger just against your entrance, you whimper.

“God, you’re so ready,” he groans. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

His fingers stroke back up, teasing around your clit again before he leans down, breath hot over the curve of your ass. “You make the sweetest sounds, you know that? Every little cry just for me.”

You cry out again as he presses a finger inside—just one, slow and steady. It slides in easy, thanks to how wet you already are. You clench around him instinctively. “There we go,” he whispers. “That feel good?”

You nod, moaning into the pillow. “Yes. Yes, Dodge—”

He adds another finger, stretching you carefully, curling just enough to make your thighs tremble. The hand on your lower back strokes comfortingly, holding you in place as he fucks you slow with his fingers.

“You’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he groans. “So fuckin’ needy tonight.”

“I c-can’t—” your voice cracks as you try to hold still. Your hips grind back into his hand on instinct. “You can,” he coaxes, voice going impossibly soft. “You always can for me, baby. Give me that first one. Let it out.”

It rises fast—so fast your breath can’t keep up. You come with a cry muffled in the pillow, your body shaking as you fall apart under his hand when his fingers hit your spongy spot multiple times. Tears slip down your cheeks and Dodge catches them with his thumb.

“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing the dip of your lower back. “That’s it. So fuckin’ good.”

He keeps going—slow, unrelenting—and the overstimulation hits like a wave. You whine, writhing against the bed as his fingers work your soaked cunt. “You’ve got more,” he whispers, low and certain. “Don’t hide from me.”

“I—it’s too much—Please—More…”

“It’s perfect,” he counters, and his voice is full of something warm and molten. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cry.”

The second orgasm crashes over you, harder than the first. You sob into the mattress, trembling as he talks you through it, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his free fingers as your cunt pulses around his digits.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

You lay there panting, body shaking. He slows, finally withdrawing his fingers, and you hear the wet sound of it, slick coating his hand. He presses a kiss to the small of your back, then one to your thigh, then higher. “You alright?” he asks quietly, hand smoothing over your back.

You nod, still breathless. “I’m so good.”

He kisses your shoulder. “That was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You let out a laugh, exhausted and floaty. “You’re gonna kill me with compliments.”

He chuckles, laying down beside you and resting a hand on your lower back. “Only if it gets you to cry like that again.”

You’re still trembling beneath him, cheek pressed into the pillow, your body limp and warm with the afterglow of two back-to-back orgasms. Your skin feels tight and glowing, like you’ve been cracked open and poured full of honey. Dodge’s hand is now resting between your shoulder blades, gentle and grounding.

“You alright, baby?” he murmurs again, his voice a little hoarse with want.

You hum a breathless yes, too gone to say much else. But your hips twitch when his palm trails back down, between your thighs again, where you’re slick and aching. He groans softly at the sight.

“Goddamn,” he says low, reverent. “You’re even more soaked.”

You bury your face deeper in the pillow, embarrassed—but it only makes him smile. He leans over you, kissing the back of your neck, your shoulder, the warm patch of skin just behind your ear. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he teases softly. “Not when your pretty pussy’s beggin’ for more.”

You shiver, and your legs part instinctively as his fingers return. He strokes along your folds again—slow, lazy, just enjoying the feel of you. You let out a soft sound, half-whimper, half-plea.

“You want more?” he asks gently. “You gotta say it.”

“Please…” Your voice is rough, sweet with exhaustion. “More.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He pushes two fingers back inside you easily, curling them deep. You gasp, your hips rolling down into the bed, your thighs twitching. “Still so fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs. “And you just came twice.” You moan, the pressure of him filling you again like a balm and a brand. He adds a third finger slowly, easing you open with care, watching your body stretch around him.

You gasp, the stretch bordering on too much—but just barely. Your muscles clench, trying to adjust, and Dodge strokes your back soothingly, kissing your spine.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Just breathe through it, baby. You’re takin’ me so well.”

He works them slowly, twisting and curling until your thighs begin to tremble again. You feel full, stuffed, stretched in the most tender way—your hips pinned to the mattress, your whole body reduced to sensation.

“Feels good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “So full, Dodge—”

“I know,” he croons. “You’re doin’ perfect. Always so sweet for me.” You sob into the pillow, overwhelmed by the heat pooling in your belly again. You didn’t think you had anything left, but the pressure’s building fast, sharp and hot and electric.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, pressing kisses between your shoulder blades. “Give me another. Come for me again. Let me see you fall apart.”

You try to hold it, just for a second longer—but it slams into you without warning. You cry out, hands clutching the sheets as your whole body tenses, shudders, and breaks. Your thighs are soaked now, his fingers working you through it until you’re gasping for air.

Tears wet your face, hot and steady. Dodge strokes your hip, coos into your ear like he’s trying to settle a wild thing.

“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my girl.”

You don’t know how long you lie there, panting and shaking, skin flushed and nerves blazing. Dodge is still behind you, still touching you—gentle now, tracing circles into your skin with the pads of his fingers. His lips ghost along your spine, your shoulder blades, your ass.

“You still with me?” he asks finally.

You nod, still face-down in the pillow. “I’m here.”

“Did so good,” he says, voice thick with awe. “Let me fuckin’ ruin you without even movin’ you.”

You laugh weakly. “I don’t think I can walk anyway.”

He laughs too, kissing your hip. “Good. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” You can feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, but he hasn’t taken his own pleasure—not yet. He’s too focused on you. Always has been. “Want me to stop?” he asks, even now. Always checking. Always careful.

You shake your head, arching weakly into his touch. “Don’t stop. Just… slower.” He hums, satisfied. “You wanna give me one more?”

You gasp, half-laughing, half-delirious. “I don’t even know if I can.”

“That’s alright, baby,” he whispers, settling back between your thighs, his hand already moving again—slow and purposeful, dragging your pleasure out like he has all the time in the world.

And Dodge?

He’s gonna make sure you remember it with every inch of your trembling body.

The room is quiet again, save for the sound of your breathing—still a little unsteady but settling, and the soft rustle of the sheets beneath you. Dodge stays close, his lips brushing your lower back, his hands warm where they rest on the swell of your hips.

You hum, soft and dazed, face still turned into the pillow. You’re boneless, stretched out and melted, your skin tingling everywhere he touched. You can feel your thighs still wet and sticky, your panties damp and clinging to the side, your body flushed with the aftershocks of everything he gave you.

But Dodge doesn’t rush. He never does.

"Alright, sweetheart," he murmurs into the small of your back. "Gonna get you cleaned up. Don't move, I’ve got it."

You feel the bed dip as he gets up, hear him padding across the room. The sound of a faucet running, a towel being wrung out. His care is quiet, reverent. Like he’s handling something precious.

When he comes back, he slides down beside you, and you flinch at the first contact—the towel is warm, wet, and soft as he eases your legs apart just enough to wipe gently between them. He murmurs something under his breath when he sees the mess, but it’s not dirty, not crude. It’s wonder. It’s pride.

“Look what you gave me,” he whispers, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “You were so good for me. So damn perfect.” You blink, eyes glassy from overstimulation and tears. Your lips twitch into a lazy smile.

He’s so careful as he cleans you, wiping you down with slow, tender strokes. He presses kisses to the backs of your knees, your thighs, the curve of your spine. And then, with the towel tossed aside, his fingers return—but not to tease, not to start anything new.

He starts massaging you again.

Same as before—like it’s still about your fall, still about the tight muscles and tension from the saddle and the ground. He starts at your ankles, kneading slow and steady. You sigh, letting yourself go limp all over again.

“You weren’t lyin’ earlier,” he says softly, voice full of affection. “Took a hell of a hit.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Was worth it.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Don’t say that. I’d rather you keep your pretty bones in one piece.”

His hands glide up your calves, thumbs pressing into the flesh, gentle but firm. You twitch a little when he hits a sore spot, but he kisses your ankle in apology, smoothing the tension with a few more careful passes. "You like me takin’ care of you like this?" he asks quietly.

“Mmhmm.”

“You deserve it,” he says simply, like it’s fact. “Deserve to be touched real nice. Spoken to sweet. Made to feel good.”

Your chest tightens at that. There’s so much love in his voice it makes you ache.

He continues the massage, now at your thighs, avoiding your sore hips but stroking the surrounding muscles with steady care. The sensation is grounding. His touch, worshipful. There’s no rush now—no teasing, no game. Just love.

He kneads the small of your back, gentle over the spot that took the brunt of the fall. When you flinch a little, he pauses, kisses the ache, and moves around it. “Gonna need to ice that tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But for now, I’ll be your heat pack.”

You let out a sleepy giggle into the pillow.

He eventually stops massaging and shifts up the bed beside you, slipping under the covers, arms sliding around your waist. You’re still on your stomach, too dazed to flip, but he just wraps himself around you from behind, chest to your back, one hand slipping beneath the hem of your oversized shirt to stroke your waist.

“You know I love you, right?” he murmurs.

You nod instantly. “Yeah. I know. I love you too.”

“Good,” he says, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “’Cause I do. More than I know what to do with, sometimes.” You press your hand to his forearm where it’s draped over your side, squeezing lightly.

His voice dips lower, soft and sure. “Next time you fall off a horse, don’t wait for me to come find you, alright? You come to me right away.”

You smile against the pillow. “You’d always take care of me like this?” He laughs, husky and low. “Girl, I’ll take care of you like this every night if you want.”

“You’d wear your fingers out.”

“You’re worth it,” he says without missing a beat. “Every damn second.”

You turn your head just enough to see his face—his messy hair, his sleep-heavy eyes, the soft curve of his smile. He kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth. “Sleep now,” he whispers. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And he is. Always.

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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man…am I a SLUTTT for a good vampire x hunter au. AND IT’S W/ ART 🤩🤩

little bat ; art donaldson

art’s role in town had never been a mystery. being a donaldson came with expectations—the kind etched into stone long before he was born. from the moment he could string a sentence together, he knew his future was tied to the family’s work. their “business,” as they liked to call it, wasn’t something you advertised in the town square. the donaldsons were protectors—an old family, quiet and enduring, bound to the village by duty and blood. they didn’t run shops or farms. they hunted what most people tried to pretend didn’t exist.

monsters. spirits. the things that slipped through the cracks.

they didn’t brag about it. they just kept the town safe. and art—well, he was expected to do the same.

he preferred to work alone. nights when the moon hung low and full, when the crisp autumn air cut through the trees like it had teeth—those were his favorites. that’s when the swamp came alive. curso swamp didn’t pretend to be tame. it breathed and moved like a living thing, all wet shadows and whispering reeds. he knew it well. out there, away from the polished legacy and family name, he could move in silence. unburdened. focused.

hunting in curso was like slipping into a second skin.

now, he hadn’t expected company. especially not yours.

you didn’t mean to be curious about him—but you were. a vampire taking an interest in a hunter was stupid, really. he could kill you in an instant. you’d been watching him for weeks now, maybe months, though he hadn’t noticed at first. or maybe he had, and ignored it. either way, your curiosity had gotten the better of you.

a vampire taking an interest in a hunter was asking for trouble. the kind that got you staked, decapitated, or worse. and yet, you couldn’t help yourself. he was different from the others—clever with alchemy, deadly with a blade, quiet in that intriguing, dangerous way.

“i can hear you, bat,” he said flatly, not even bothering to turn. his voice carried easily through the stillness—dry, unimpressed, like this had become a routine.

it sort of had.

he glanced up finally, catching sight of you dangling upside down from a crooked branch, your smile bright in the moonlight. “hello, hunter!” you chirped, giving him a wave. he rolled his eyes, the faintest tug of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “you again.”

“i live here,” you said, letting your hair sway in the breeze. “you’re the one trespassing.” he leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, then sighed. loudly. the kind of sigh someone gives when they’re pretending they’re annoyed but secretly don’t mind all that much.

you hung there, upside down and utterly at ease. perks of being undead—no blood rushing to your head. no dizziness. no awkward leg cramping. you could stay like that all night, watching him.

humans were so fragile.

“what are you doing here?” he asked, voice clipped.

“just checking in,” you said casually. “making sure you hadn’t been eaten by a bog hag or, i don’t know, tripped and fallen on your own sword.”

he scoffed. “touching. you really care.”

you grinned wider. “maybe i do.” he gave you a long look, eyes narrowing just slightly. you weren’t sure if he was suspicious, amused, or just trying to figure you out again. probably all three.

you wiggled your fingers cheerfully. “mortals fascinate me. you simply must tell me stories.”

he blinked. “stories?”

“yes! of your life. your village. your weapons. do you really keep your silver dust in that little pouch on your belt?” you pointed, then gasped. “oh, can i touch your sword?”

“no,” he said immediately. “absolutely not.”

“but i’m very gentle,” you offered, landing gracefully on your feet. “and curious.”

“too curious,” he muttered, glancing warily at you as you stepped closer.

“i’ve never really met a human before,” you confessed, circling him slowly like you were inspecting a very delicate piece of artwork. “well—met, sure. but not… like this. talking. not screaming. that’s new.”

art tilted his head. “why me, then?”

you paused, blinking at him. “you’re interesting. you don’t scream. or run. or smell like fear.” you sniffed dramatically. “just steel and moss. oh, and a little salt.”

“you’re not helping your case.”

you smiled. “wasn’t trying to.”

he stared at you, long and hard. “you’re not going to leave, are you?”

“of course not. you’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in decades.” you beamed. “i want to know everything. like, do all hunters carry salt in their boots? or is that just you?”

art pinched the bridge of his nose. “yes. fine. ask your questions. but walk with me.”

“oh?” you perked up, trailing behind him as he turned and began heading deeper into the woods. “where are we going? is this where you store the holy water? are you going to show me your secret stash of cursed daggers? wait—do you have a cursed dagger?”

“stop talking,” he muttered.

“not likely!”

he sighed again, but there was no real weight behind it. and as the trees closed in and the swamp whispered low around you, your steps fell into rhythm beside his. you smiled to yourself. humans were fascinating. and this one—this grumpy, brooding, utterly confusing one—might just be your favorite.

the two of you walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the distant rustle of reeds and the soft squelch of mud beneath art’s boots. your feet didn’t make a sound, of course. you floated more than walked, which he hated—though you liked to think it secretly impressed him.

he kicked a pebble as you walked, letting it skitter ahead. “so—do all hunters learn alchemy, or is that just a weird donaldson family thing?” you piped up once more.

he didn’t look at you, but his brow twitched. “it’s not weird. it’s useful.”

“useful and weird,” you corrected. “what’s the strangest thing you’ve ever bottled? essence of fear? ghost spit? oh—was it that time you exploded a toad with that powder stuff?”

“that toad was already dead.”

“was it?”

he finally glanced over, exasperated. “yes.”

you hummed, unconvinced. “you’re very mysterious, you know. you act like you hate questions, but you answer. it’s very suspicious. are you trying to lure me into a trap?”

“i don’t need to lure you,” he said dryly. “you just show up on your own.”

“fair point.”

the conversation faded into the rustle of wind through trees and the soft, rhythmic sound of his boots in the damp earth. “why do you always come out here alone?” you asked eventually. “you have a whole family of hunters, don’t you?”

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze swept the dark path ahead, sharp and practiced. “i work better on my own.”

“that’s not really an answer,” you said. “is it because you don’t like people? or because you don’t trust them?”

he glanced at you sidelong, brow furrowed. “why do you ask so many questions?”

you grinned. “because i’ve never gotten to know a human before. you’re all so… temporary. and dramatic. it’s delightful.”

he gave a quiet snort. “most people would say the same about your kind.”

“i know,” you replied, almost proudly. “but most people also throw garlic at me before i get to introduce myself.”

that earned a flicker of something in his expression. not quite a smile, but close.

you tilted your head, floating backward now so you could face him fully. “have you always wanted to be a hunter?”

“no,” he said simply.

you blinked. that was unexpected. “really? but your family—”

“doesn’t mean i wanted it,” he said, gaze dropping to the mossy trail beneath his boots. “it was just… expected.”

the quiet stretched between you for a moment, broken only by the soft rustle of wind through the trees. “i wanted to play tennis,” he said suddenly, so quietly you almost missed it.

your eyes widened. “tennis? truly?”

he gave a small nod, barely a tilt of his head. “when i was younger. i used to sneak off to the courts outside the village. play until my hands were blistered. i liked the rhythm of it. the focus. it made sense.”

you smiled, touched. “that’s beautiful.”

“it’s stupid,” he muttered.

you floated a little closer, intrigued. “that’s not stupid at all.”

he let out a dry laugh. “try telling that to my father. said it was a waste of strength and time. that i was soft.”

your expression softened. “wanting something for yourself doesn’t make you weak.”

he looked at you, jaw tense, eyes shadowed. “doesn’t matter now.”

“it does,” you said quietly, sincerely. “even if it’s just to me.”

art looked at you, really looked, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. you weren’t sure if he was annoyed, uncertain, or just tired of pretending not to enjoy your company.

“you ask too many questions,” he said again, but softer this time.

you grinned. “and you never answer enough.”

he shook his head, but didn’t push you away when you finally landed on the ground, falling into step beside him. you could feel the chill in the air start to sink in, curling around the trees, fog beginning to rise through the swamp floor like ghosts.

but still, the space between you felt a little warmer.

“do you still play?” you asked quietly.

“no.”

“why not?”

he didn’t answer.

so you let the question hang in the air, unsaid but not forgotten. and instead of pressing, you just walked beside him, hands clasped behind your back, gaze lifted to the moonlight threading through the trees.

eventually, without looking at you, he asked, “do you miss it? being human?”

you blinked. then blinked again. it was the first time he’d asked you anything.

“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “i don’t remember much of my human life.”

he looked at you. you didn’t smile this time. you just let him see you. he nodded once, and said nothing more. but his steps slowed, just a little, to match yours perfectly. and that—quiet, simple, unspoken—was enough.

#art donalson x reader #challengers #art donaldson x you

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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DOOMED FROM THE START 😔💔

Rumi & Jinu from Kpop Demon Hunters

#kpop demon hunters #・°°・。vida yaps!!

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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girl looking at your fandoms i think we might be the same person…

TWIN? IS THAT YOU 🤩😝　

(there’s so many more I’m in, but I had to limit it 🥲)

#・°°・。vida yaps!!

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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THIS IS ABOUT TO BE SO GAS, I CAN’T WAIT

EAST OF EDEN ✹ iwaizumi hajime

THE OFFICIAL PLAYLIST as created by voguesriot and semi eita

most people got to spend their eighteenth birthday eating cake and celebrating with loved ones. yours was spent running away from zombified versions of your parents. picked up by the volleyball club you assisted coaching, you found ways to survive. scavenging bush side here, looting abandoned lots there, anything was fair game in the apocalypse. but when your team catches wind of directions to the elite’s safehouse, your mission of survival becomes more like a hunt. you need to find the garden of eden.

pairing: iwaizumi haijime x reader

warnings: violence , gore , depictions of insanity , anxiety , paranoia , bad language , slow burn af , angst , death , orpheus and eurydice inspired , tragic.

taglist: open! either dm, comment, or send an ask into my inbox to be added :)

table of contents:

000. GLOSSARY / SURVIVAL INDEX…

001. TBD

#iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi x you #haikyuu

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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WAS THIS WAYY OUT OF LEFT FIELD TO BE POSTING CHALLENGERS HCS? guys please…i just rewatched the movie—the ideas were brewing. do i do more? 🫣

also…I just figured out I could arrange photos like that—i’ve been using ibisPaint for the social media posts for FFY 🥲

#・°°・。vida yaps!!#do I become a challengers blog while we wait for s2 pjo #I was starving for art content #I eat that shit up everytime there is a new fic on the tag #I have to make a challengers master list now…

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amoreva · 2 months ago

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stanford!art x reader

some 18+ headcanons below, minors dni

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

STANFORD!ART, who was your blind date during an event between your sorority and his frat—he hit it off with you. You guys talked the night away over dinner (he paid, ofc). The lightning paired with the ambience made you radiant. He swore he fell in love right there and then.

STANFORD!ART, who asked you out with flowers and that sweet, nervous smile of his. You said yes. How could you deny him?

STANFORD!ART, who insisted he walks with you to your classes even when his are across campus (he enjoys your company)

STANDORD!ART, who kisses you like it’s the first time all over again. He holds you like you’re the most precious thing ever. He’d devour you only with your explicit permission and even then…you can’t help but give in when he gives you those puppy eyes begging for you. What is the phrase? A man who yearns is a man who earns.

STANFORD!ART, who lets you stay in his room when the party goes into the early hours of the morning. His frat house is too far from the campus dorms. Staying in his room for a night is better than walking to your dorm half sober.

STANFORD!ART, who began to find your things in his room from your nights over: your lip liner, mascara, your notes for a GE class?? He doesn’t return them right away, instead he makes a small space on his shelf for your stuff. The next time you stay the night—boom! The makeup you’ve left behind is there and awaiting your use. You don’t have to leave early in the mornings, away from his arms, his warmth, his need for you. You can get ready in his room.

STANFORD!ART, who took written notes on your skincare products and takes photos of your makeup and bought a set to keep in his bathroom: minimize the time you have to travel to your dorm and once again you can sleep in and cuddle with him more.

STANFORD!ART, who memorizes what perfume you where on what days when he buries his face in your neck during sex. He fucking you into the bed, deep thrusts to pull those pretty moans from your lips. He gets the sweetest whiffs on your perfume as he mumbles sweet nothings into your neck. The Wednesday one is his favorite.

STANFORD!ART, who admires you (without fail) as you get ready. It starts with small questions of what does what like the different makeup brushes or what your skincare products does. He really is interested in what everything does! You have to trust him! He would NEVER use his curiosity as a chance to annoy or disrupt you. You tell him it’s an art, a routine, you enjoy: looking pretty for yourself and taking care of your skin.

STANFORD!ART, who noticed his skin breaking out after tennis practice. All that sweat and the fact he uses body wash to wash his face—He grumbled and tried the pop the not-ready-yet pimple and winced when it hurts. His eyes avert to your skincare products neatly arranged in the order you use them. He tried to remember what bottle was for what. He gave up and ended up using a small a mouth of each bottle, from left to right, he completed your skin care routine hoping the not-so-ready-yet pimple would go away.

STANFORD!ART, who asked about doing face masks one afternoon. He was laying in your arms after a tennis game against Pepperdine. The pimple hadn’t gone away unfortunately. You couldn’t say no and brought her some over the next day.

STANFORD!ART, who was teased about being pregnant by Patrick because his skin was glowing after all the spa days you and him had in his room. Art stole his churro as payback and made a comment about him wanting to take care of his skin.

STANFORD!ART, who suggested bathing together during a spa day. Bubbles, essential oiled, lush bombs, candles, alcohol—the whole package and…some wandering hands when you massaged his aching muscles, whispering how proud you are of him and how good he was doing at tennis. Art buried his head in your neck and groaned each time your hand moved just right. The bubbles clinging to your body. He places kisses to your skin. He loves those spa days in his shitty bathroom.

STANFORD!ART, who tried to teach you how to play tennis, or at least rally back and forth with him. You’re not the greatest compared to him, but he’s happy he’s getting to show you the thing he loves just as you did for him with your nightly routines.

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

#art donaldson please come home the kids miss you #yk that one tongue face movement thing people do #yeah that’s me rn with my husband art #GUYS IS THIS OUT OF LEFT FIELD FOR ME?#i had an idea and ran with it #art donalson x reader #art donaldson #stanford!art #challengers #challengers x reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x y/n #what if I write more for challengers???

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