imperishablereverie

[imperishablereverie]

tal these bots are amazing i love the concept mwuah!! the mlm patrick one is already getting weird on the first message😭

HELP IM SORRY

i tried my best to fix them when i tested them but c.ai bots have just been weird lately…

i apologize on his behalf. he can be normal i swear.

[imperishablereverie]

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐱 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍 ۪ ֹ ᮫

𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫…

it has been brought to this author's attention that there are whispers circulating around the ton. whispers of certain persons. from what i have gathered, they are quite the scandalous trio.

there is mister art donaldson whom is the least problematic. he is shy and sweet, making him a favored golden boy.

then, missus tashi duncan whom is a striking princess. she is challenging and desirable, with a plethora of suitors fighting for her hand already.

and lastly, mister patrick zweig whom you should be wary of. he is charming yet arrogant, do not be fooled by his smile.

the three of them together? a scandal in itself. were you to find yourself in the company of one, or perhaps all of them, you would certainly make tomorrow’s issue.

𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐒𝐎𝐍

a breath of fresh air — when the queen looked you in the eyes and named you the diamond of the season, you were honored. now? you almost wished she hadn't. if you knew it was this hard to be catered to you would've waited another year to be presented to society. but alas. now you must deal with promenading and your toes being stepped on. like today, you spent all morning walking about with suitors who bored you out of your mind. and currently, you've found yourself at a ball, your heels feeling tighter with each dance. when the last slot on your dance card is finally signed, you allow the boy to drag you to the floor, already preparing yourself. what you're not prepared for are his questions about you and his well behaved feet.

forbidden fruit (⚣) — art was born to court, wed, and produce an heir. he wasn't born to be pining for another boy. no one was. attending balls meant offering dances to possible wives, not staring at you all night long. it was wrong and he knew it. he learned about adam and eve at a young age. he knew all about the snake and the fruit. it stuck with him. the fruit especially. how eve took one measly bite and the world changed. to him you were the fruit. the beautifully tempting fruit. and him? he was starving.

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐍

know thine enemy — two opposing families. two heirs. both at each others throats. you can claim you hate each other. have staredowns at family meetings. throw jabs here and there. but in private? you've found a way to resolve the tension.

her graces secret (⚢) — tashi is a princess. an alluring one, at that, with many many callers lined up at her door each day. though, she doesn't flirt back nor has she exclaimed which one she likes best. everyone believes she is simply playing hard to get, making herself all the more desirable. what they're unaware of, however, is you.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐙𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐆

but daddy i love him — no one in town likes patrick zweig. so why would your father? patrick comes from a respected family, like your own, but he is quite the opposite. yet somehow, one flash of dimples was all it took for him to wriggle his way into your heart and he's made it clear that he's not leaving. as has your father made it clear that he will never approve of him.

what never happened (⚣) — when your friend asked you to go out with him, you weren't expecting much. just a casual night with drinks and chatter. you definitely weren't expecting to walk in on none other than patrick zweig taking it from another man. even worse, he acts like it never happened.

𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊

the choice — two best friends. the only thing that they have in common? they are both competing for your courtship. other than that, they are complete opposites. you're not sure why they are even friends. you're also not sure which one you're going to choose.

𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊

a recipe for scandal — in society, it is acceptable to have more than one caller. after all, you'll choose one in the end and spend the rest of your life with them. however, it is not acceptable to fool around. no being alone in a room with a suitor unsupervised, no going anywhere without a chapperone, and definitely no relations. you're meant to find the one, court, and marry. but you cannot help yourself. why have one when you can have three?

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲,

𝐿𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝒯𝒶𝓁

𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞...

@blastzachilles @misswrldd @diyasgarden @girliism @gibsongirrl @artstennisracket @asheepinfrance @tacobacoyeet @jordiemeow @lexiiscorect

[imperishablereverie]

nasty af smut. like, gross. 18+ mdni. not proofread. patrick x reader x art.

Thinking about Patrick being so mean while he fucks you... and Art just having to add his two cents.

You’re trembling, soaked, riding him like it’s the only thing left your body remembers how to do—but it’s useless. He already had you on your knees earlier, tongue out, eyes glassy, taking his cock down your throat until you could barely hold yourself up. Before that, he’d spent long, messy minutes between your legs, licking you open while you begged. Everything he did left you soaked and wrecked before he even got inside. Now you’re overstimulated—too full, too sensitive—and it shows. Your thighs are shaking, your arms are weak, and all you can do is sink down and grind up, slow and shallow, trying to find any rhythm at all with his cock buried deep in your cunt.

Patrick barely reacts. He lies flat beneath you, stretched out, chest covered in a thick mat of dark, coarse hair that climbs up his pecs and fans out across his collarbones. His happy trail is dark and wild where it disappears beneath your hips, and his stomach is dusted with sweat-slick curls. His legs are hairy and dense, thighs rough with muscle, unshaven and scratchy where they press against your skin. The hair clings to him, damp from heat and exertion, curling slightly where his body glistens. The joint burns between his fingers. The room stinks of weed, sweat, and pussy. Your pussy. He doesn’t bother to thrust. Doesn’t even lift his hips. Just watches you fumble like it’s pathetic—like it’s funny.

Your slick squelches every time you drop down. Thick and loud and messy, obscene against the slap of your thighs to his. Every moan from your throat is soft and broken, every movement desperate, clumsy. You’re leaking around him, making a fucking mess of his cock, the sheets, yourself.

He takes a drag like he’s bored and exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “This all you got?”

You can’t even speak. Just choke on a moan as your walls flutter, clenching uselessly around him. He tsks, nudging your chin up with his knuckles, dragging your mouth toward his.

“Open.”

You do. He kisses you like it’s nothing—shotguns thick smoke past your lips until you’re dizzy, coughing into his mouth. You’re still sputtering when he throws the joint into the tray and sits up, grabs your waist, and manhandles you like he’s tired of pretending you’re doing anything at all.

“Get the fuck off me.”

He flips you hard, palms your ass, and slams back in from behind with one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your cheek hits the mattress with a wet slap, spit and tears smearing across the sheets.

He stays deep. Stays pressed flush to you, groaning at the heat, the grip, the way you’re already pulsing around him like your body’s begging for it.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he grits, dragging his hips back and thrusting in slow, filthy strokes that sound just as wet as they feel. “You hear that?”

You do. Every squelch is loud, disgusting, echoing in the room. Your body slaps to his with every movement, skin to skin, sweat to sweat. His happy trail is damp, sticky where it rubs your lower back. His balls slap your soaked cunt with every deep grind.

His hand comes down hard on your ass—once, twice—then again, so loud it stings your ears. You jolt under him, gasp, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth as he spreads you wide and spits right on your hole.

The sound of it makes your cunt clench. It drips down your crack, trails lower, and his thumb follows.

He presses it there—slow, deliberate—rubbing lazy circles around the rim, smearing spit without pushing in. Your body bucks at the contact, heat rolling down your spine as you whimper into the mattress. It’s not even inside you, but it feels like it is. His cock keeps pounding your pussy, ruthless and wet and perfect, while his thumb teases your asshole like it’s next.

He keeps it there. Firm. Steady. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it every time you clench around nothing.

“Yeah,” he mutters, fucking deeper. “I know you fucking want that.”

You’re a mess—sloppy, crying, drooling—and he’s still not done.

The door creaks open. You barely register it—just the faint shift of air, the buzz of cooler air brushing your slick skin.

Patrick doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He pushes your face deeper into the bed and keeps fucking you like no one else is there.

“Yo,” Art says, casually. The fridge clicks open, can hisses. Footsteps.

“She crying already?” he adds, closer now, voice amused but flat.

“Look at her,” Patrick mutters.

You hear the sound of Art walking up, feel the mattress dip as he crouches beside you. Your mouth is open, wet, flushed red and streaked with tears. You’re shaking under Patrick, body jostling with every thrust.

Art presses a finger to your jaw, tilts your face to him. Then he slips two fingers between your lips without asking.

Your tongue curls. You suck them in with a moan like your body knows what to do even if your brain’s long gone.

“She’s gone,” Art mutters, watching the way you slobber all over his fingers. He pushes them deeper until you gag. “Fuckin’ sloppy.”

Patrick grunts, cock dragging slick and hard through your walls, hips slamming into your ass with wet, brutal force. “Tight as ever, though.”

Art pulls his fingers out with a soft pop, then gives your ass a full handful squeeze.

“Feel this,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Already did,” Patrick snaps, breath ragged. “Plus, I know she’ll be leaking all night.”

Art hums, unfazed. Takes another sip, then unzips, cock heavy in his hand, already hard—stroking himself slow, using the same fingers still damp from your mouth. Only once he’s leaking at the tip does he start to strip. Shirt off. Then another. Belt undone, pants dropped low. No rush. He kicks them away and steps forward. He’s trimmed, neat, but there’s still a solid bush at the base—soft and full, thick enough to press against your mouth with every thrust. His abs are tight, carved out under a thin sheen of sweat, the dusting of hair from his navel tapering down clean into it. His thighs are strong, sculpted… well, like a tennis player's, just enough hair to catch the light. Patrick doesn’t look up—just yanks your head back by the hair, forces you upright onto your elbows, your neck bent hard as he keeps fucking into you from behind.

Art steps forward and lets his cock tap your lips. Once. Twice. Then he drags the tip across your cheek, smearing precum along the flushed curve of it before giving you two soft, filthy slaps. They land light but cruel. Your mouth opens on instinct.

He doesn't wait. Doesn’t tease. Just slides in—deep, hard, unforgiving. Your throat tightens instantly, gag reflex catching too late. Your whole body jolts forward, but Patrick’s got you by the waist, holding you in place.

“You want it?” Art murmurs.

Patrick grins against your spine. “She always wants it.”

Patrick buries himself deep, slams in hard, stays there—moaning through his teeth as he fills you up. The heat of it makes your whole body jolt. Cum starts to leak around the base before he’s even pulled out.

But he doesn’t stop.

He spreads you open wide and watches it spill out of you, then drives two fingers back in, hard, forcing it back inside. The noise it makes is wet and mean, squelching around his knuckles as your body twitches from the overstimulation.

Your sob is choked, helpless. Your thighs twitch.

And then—he lifts his hand and smacks your clit.

Sharp. Direct. Your scream tears through the room as your whole body jerks, legs kicking, muscles clenching. But before you can even catch your breath, he does it again—faster, meaner.

The second smack lands just right.

You gush.

A hot, wet rush spills out of you, loud and sudden, spraying down his fingers, the inside of your thighs, soaking the sheets below. It hits his stomach, his groin, mixes with the cum he just shoved back in you. The noise is filthy—slick and uncontrollable.

“Fuck,” he groans, breath catching.

“There it is,” Art mutters, still in your throat.

Patrick grabs your hips, fingers digging in hard as you twitch under them, overstimulated and still leaking. He spreads you open again, spit-slick fingers pressing inside—then lower, trailing between the slick mess of your folds and back to your asshole, circling it slow. He teases the rim with the same cum-slick fingers, rubbing around it in lazy, messy passes that make you shiver.

“Made a fucking mess,” he snarls. “I should make you clean it up.”

The sound you make isn’t a moan. It’s nothing. A choked whimper. Airless.

Art groans, hips pushing forward again. “Fuck. Her throat’s clenching.”

“She’ll take it,” Patrick mutters, dragging his fingers out slow, then slamming them back in. “She always does.”

You can’t breathe. Not really. But you don’t stop him. You don’t even try. Tears fall, thick and fast, and Art just wipes them with his thumb like it’s part of the routine.

His cock thrusts shallow and quick, hips pressed tight to your lips, balls against your chin. Every time you gag, he grunts. Every time your throat tightens, Patrick’s fingers thrust deeper.

And Patrick never lets up. His hand works between your legs like he’s testing how much more you can take. How much mess he can make. How much ruin your body will survive before it breaks.

You’re full. Stuffed from both ends. Crying. Twitching.

And they talk about you like you’re not even there.

“Tight as fuck,” Art mutters, breath hitching as your throat clamps down. His pace is stuttering now—hips jerking forward harder, faster. The hand on your jaw tightens, guiding you steady while his grip on your hair pulls you in deeper.

“Should’ve seen her earlier,” Patrick says, low and filthy. “Had her on her knees like a slut.” He watches your cunt twitch around his fingers, grinning like he knows how close you are to breaking again.

Art chuckles. “Isn't she?”

Your moans are muffled around Art’s cock. Your whole body shakes. His pace falters, stutters—hips snap once, twice, then he groans loud through his teeth and pushes deep.

Hot spurts hit the back of your throat. The rest spills out across your tongue, your lips, your chin. He pulls out halfway through the release and lets the last of it land across your cheek, your jaw, your mouth already hanging open and dripping. Thick ropes of it smear down your face, some of it catching in your lashes.

Patrick laughs under his breath. “Fucking nasty.”

You don’t even flinch.

Still twitching around Patrick’s fingers. Still clenching.

But it starts to slow. Patrick’s rhythm eases, the punishing tempo tapering off to slow, dragging pumps of his fingers. Your body is trembling too hard to fight the relief. You sag into the mattress, throat raw, cunt spent, every inch of you dripping with spit, sweat, and cum.

Art exhales like he’s just come down from a high. He steps back, abs flexing as he wipes his cock off with one hand and smears the mess across your cheek with the other. Slow. Casual. Like he’s proud of it.

Patrick doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his fingers inside for a moment longer, feeling the way your walls flutter around the overstimulation, then finally slips out with a slick, obscene sound. He leans forward and presses a single kiss to the base of your spine.

You breathe.

Just barely, but it’s something.

Your face is sticky, your body limp, your pulse still crawling fast under your skin—but they’re quiet now. It’s over.

For now.

[imperishablereverie]

MANCHILD for @imperishablereverie

in any another circumstance, bumping into your ex twice a month would be considered stalking. unfortunately, when you and dodge had sat down in the diner for what would be your final date, you hadn't discussed who'd be getting the rodeos in the break-up. so, you both continued to travel up and down the country, horses in tow and all you could do was pray he wouldn't find some bullshit excuse to talk to you win you back.

arizona this week, texas the next. you pulled the reins tight and hopped off your horse, patting his flank in praise as you watched the scoreboards flash. allowed yourself a small smirk as your score rose above dodge's, putting you in first place and watched gleefully as he dropped down to second.

your prideful smirk doesn't falter as you leave the arena, your mare's nose brushing against your shoulder, eager for his treat. as you are rounding the corner, a cowboy boot steps in your way and you sigh inwardly.

he looks good, almost too good for a man who'd been nearly thrown off a horse an hour ago. his cowboy hat was tipped low, like always but you could still see his blue eyes twinkling at you. however, the rest of his outfit made your nose turn up in disgust, dodge always looked like he got dressed in the dark, flannel shirts that were too big, jeans that were too tight and the colours never matched. when you were dating, you convinced yourself he did it ironically, but now you weren't so sure. but your gaze was drawn back to his face as his grin took up most of his expression, you weren't escaping this conversation.

'congrats.' dodge offers simply, still looking at you like you'd hung the stars in sky, not like you'd stomped all over his heart a year ago.

'thanks.' you say curtly, 'must suck to be so slow.' you couldn't help that comment, your sarcasm always seemed to slip out when you were around him, another issue you can blame him for.

his face changed then, eyebrows knitting together in surprise as he scoffed, 'seriously? i'm congratulating you.' his gaze turned hard, 'and i'm not slow.'

'no?' you tilt your head to the side mockingly, 'what word would you prefer? stupid? maybe useless?'

dodge's hands fall to his hips now, a sign of his growing anger, 'oh i get it. we're not talking about rodeos.'

'what the fuck else do i have to talk to you about?' you snap briskly, tugging your horse back towards his stall. dodge sidesteps so he's in still in front of you and you groan aloud this time, disinterest clear.

'c'mon...' he says, flashing his signature half-smirk that used to make you crumble, 'you looked so good riding that horse.' his voice has dropped to a gravelly whisper, an attempt at flirtation.

you blink at him blankly, 'that's what you went with? out of all the things to say to me, you chose that.'

dodge's smirk only grew, 'what's wrong with that? it's true!'

you shake your head, trying to ignore the familiar feeling curling in your stomach, 'whatever, dodge.' you push past him then, properly and lead your horse to his stall. dodge follows but doesn't say anything for a while, just watching you softly, leaning against the gate.

patting your horse and smiling at the way his lips smack as you feed him an apple, you turn to leave and dodge is still staring at you.

'jesus!' you startle, 'what are you doing?'

'waiting for you.' he shrugs, 'i wasn't done talking to you.'

'i was.' you mutter but there's nowhere you can go when he's leaning on the gate.

'can't we have a real conversation? enough dancing around each other and sniping every chance we get.' dodge pouted then, a rare sight, a failed attempt to garner sympathy from you.

you sigh, 'alright. one real conversation then we move on with our lives.'

he nods in agreement and as he goes to open his mouth to speak, you cut him off, 'how about when you told me your phone was dead when you were out doing god knows what with god knows who?' you held up a manicured finger and his jaw snapped shut, 'or how you'd always cum within seconds, pull out and fall asleep.'

'it wasn't seconds-' dodge protested uselessly, 'i don't think you made me cum once when we were together.' you reply stoically.

he frowned, 'you're exaggerating about this whole orgasm thing, like you exaggerate about everything and make me the bad guy to suit your little fantasy. i told you a million times that day that my phone died and you cling to this idea that i'm some cheat when you know i would never do that to you.'

'god you are such a manchild!' you snap, giving up on waiting for him to get out your way and vaulting over the fence in a less than dignified manner and storming off, but he was still hot on your heels.

'what does that even mean? because i screwed up a couple times? you think you're so much better than me, don't you? you love to act like i'm following you around like a lost puppy, like you we were never dating! you think you've moved on but you always stop to talk to me, no matter how much you pretend it bothers you.' dodge rants as he storms after you, voice whipping in the wind and making the words inescapable.

you whirl around at that, curls bouncing, eyes glinting with unbridled rage. 'you don't what you're talking about.'

'don't i?' he taunts, stepping closer to you, hands ghosting over your waist. you hold his gaze, remembering how the brown in them made his eyes look even more endearing and almost hopeful.

you narrow your eyes as the tension crackles in the brisk air. before you can blink, his lips are crashing against yours in a desperate kiss, his hands cupping your cheeks and pulling you impossibly close. to your own surprise, you're not pushing him away or slapping him round the face, you're kissing him back with matched fervour.

dodge's hands are all over you now, running across your chest and your ass, slipping under your shirt to feel your lower stomach and you giggle into the kiss at how ticklish it feels. he bites your bottom lip, asking for entrance and you oblige, letting his tongue slide over yours.

the kiss breaks momentarily for him to pant, 'my truck-' and you're nodding without thinking, his arm sneaking around your waist and pulling to his side as you both half-run, half-stumble to his truck.

dodge's truck was such a familiar sight as you rounded the dirt track corner into the lot that your heart fluttered, though it looked a little more scuffed up then you remembered, a few more state stickers scattered across the back. your view is interrupted by dodge tilting your chin back to face him, smirking as he presses another kiss to your lips before you hear the sounds of keys jangling and the horse trailer door swings open. you freeze in place as dodge lowers the ramp and then turns to you.

'c'mon darling.' he murmurs casually, as if he does this all the time, extending his hand for you to take.

you stare at him slack-jawed, 'fuck off- no way-' you splutter yet dodge doesn't flinch.

'you don't wanna get caught with me, do you?' he shrugs but before you can protest, he's grabbing your arm and hoisting you into the trailer.

squealing, you stumble as he pulls you into his chest and you both topple into a pile of hay. dodge grunts but doesn't move you off him, instead attempting to dust himself off unsuccessfully.

'sorry.' you squeak and he snorts, 'you know what they say about rolling in the hay?' giving you a surreptitious wink.

you wrinkle your nose in distaste, 'you make one more crap joke and i'm leaving this godforsaken trailer.' yet, you're still unbuckling his jeans, letting your fingers brush reverently over his oversized golden belt buckle before tugging them down to his knees.

'let's just make this quick, yeah?' you whisper and all dodge can do is nod eagerly.

you free his half-hard cock from his boxers and your stomach flips, you'd forgotten how big it was. slowly, you let your fingers tangle in his bush and he nearly whimpers, head thrown back, straw tangling in his dark brown strands. the tip of your tongue brushes the sensitive slit atop his dick and he definitely whimpers that time. your grin turns delicious as you carefully wrap your lips around the head of his cock. dodge moans and fists the hay beneath you two as you slowly take more of his dick in your mouth, your cheeks hollowing out as his tips hits the back of your throat.

'oh fuckkk.' dodge manages to muster as you finally take all of him, nose buried in his bush and inhaling the scent hungrily. gradually, you start bob up and down his length, cheeks hollowed out, and he moans, loud. 'that's it baby-' he whimpers in encouragement as you pick up the pace, slobbering all over his dick.

your tongue lavishes his tip, batting your eyelashes causing his moans to increase in volume. 'ah-ah- baby- you're killing me- ngh-' he whines, lost in the pleasure. you grin around his length, before swallowing more of it, tongue swirling. 'fuck- i'm- i'm- i'm-' his declaration a warning more than anything before you feel his salty sperm hit the back of your throat and you fight the urge to gag as it keeps coming, dodge's body shuddering beneath you, repeating yes deliriously.

after what feels like forever, the ropes of cum stop spurting down your throat and his body goes limp, he pants, grinning happily. you slowly slide your mouth off his cock, making sure to lick it clean of cum before swallowing diligently. 'let me see baby.' he grunts, flushed. you part your lips obediently, tongue out as proof. dodge chuckles breathlessly and lets his head fall back in the hay.

'still hate me? because that...' he gestures to his flaccid, dribbling dick, 'says otherwise, baby.'

you groan in mild annoyance, flopping down onto the dirty trailer floor, 'maybe i do like my men incompetent.'

taglist: @gibsongirrl @glassmermaids @destinedtobegigi @blastzachilles @femme-lusts @glennussy @cha11engers @stanart4clearskin @artstennisracket @pittsick @jordiemeow @hyperloverofhyperfixations

[imperishablereverie]

take me to church (or at least to eden) features brief mentions of blades and blood, read at your own risk!

It wasn’t the season for apples. While the heat was finally mellowing down into something more tranquil, the trees remained a deep green and the days long. At most you could see an apple bud or two, if you knew where to look at all, but nothing ready to be picked. Not for a couple more weeks at least.

It’s how Tashi knew you were lying about the pie in the first place.

“Picked each one?”

“Yeah”

She laughs, a sound that borders somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff, as the smell of the cinnamon once again overtakes her senses. It had hit her when you opened the front door to let her in, and now standing by your side at the kitchen counter, pie right in-front of you both, the rich scent of the dish seems to be the only thing her mind can clearly process. Well, besides the blatant lie.

The lie itself wasn’t surprising, nor upsetting for that matter. It wouldn’t make a difference if you really did pick each apple for the pie like you said, or if you bought them, (like she knows you did). It was this constant game she didn’t understand. The back and forth, that feels like a some sort of baiting. Every conversation and moment spent in your presence defined by the contorted urge to pull out a reaction from her.

She couldn’t tell if you were this way with everyone. From the handful of times she remembers you talking to another kid in class or lingering around the church after service, the memory is too tame. Nothing but quiet glances accompanied by an occasional word. The radiating unease from the people around you more memorable than anything you had said or done. This clever, innately carefree version of yourself diluted in the presence of others. Maybe the white lies and random nonsense pushed them away, or maybe you never even bothered to try these games with them in the first place. She had no way of truly understanding why your solitude had somehow morphed to include her, and frankly she decided that it wasn’t important. At least, not in the face of your behavior itself.

“You’re thinking too much," you say, head shaking. A barely noticeable action, that comes off like instinct. She can hear the laugh, lingering behind your words, but the slight shake of your head remains a reprimand nonetheless. Not cruel, but rather perversely pleased at the fact her mind has jumped to accuse you of lying at all.

When the laugh finally makes it’s way past your lips, it’s an airy sound. Unburdened in the way it sinks into the smirk on your face. She watches the joy travel down your body, as you press the knife into the pie, hand haphazardly inching towards heel. She wants to scoff at your words, but the sound never comes.

You pull the knife away from the slice you’ve cut for yourself, bringing your thumb up to your lips, to lick bit of filling that’s gotten on to it. It takes the blade in your grasp close to your face, nearly scratching the softness of your cheek. Once again, a careless action. It crosses her mind, that it could be intentional. That you were seconds away from purposely running the blade against your skin, trying to make a cut deep enough to reach your cheekbone or scrape enough skin off to be concerning. Yet you do neither, rather placing it down by the pie, and reaching for the fork laid a little farther down the counter.

“Want some?” you ask, fork prodding at the crust on the slice. It’s still in the dish with the rest of the pie, with you pushing off the flaky golden brown to the side. Her eyes gravitate to the slices of apple browned in the filling, he warm, spiced smell becoming stronger. “Take a bite,” you repeat, fork pressing into the flesh of it.

Her gaze follows the fork as you bring it to your lips, greeted with a smirk by the time her eyes reach your face. You keep the metal prongs in between your lips longer than necessary, holding it there as you swallow. Her eyes meet yours, and she can recognize the invitation instantly.

Your brows arch up, playful and questioning. She looks back to the pie, still steaming from it's time in the oven. It’s heat has somehow merged with the smell, enclosing you both in the moment.

“C’mon” you laugh, pulling the fork from your lips back to the dish. The slices pile smoothly as you push it into the pie. A slight spin of your wrist to make sure it all stays on as you lift the fork up, holding it out for her to take. “One bite,” you repeat, pushing it forward.

There is another laugh stuck in your throat. She can hear it. A low drum held back by your words. She looks down at the pie, tracing the delicate billows of the smoke as it rises towards her, still accompanied by the spice of cinnamon and nutmeg. It moves to the beat of the premature vibrations of your restrained laugh, ringing in her ears as she reaches for the fork. Only growing louder when she puts it all in her mouth.

She feels a sting of heat against the inside of her cheek, as she bites down on the tender fold of the apple piece. Not hot enough to burn, but enough so to make the blood rush to her head. As it reaches her tongue, the disorientation only grows alongside the intensity of the cinnamon itself. The spice too concentrated, drowning out any hint of supposed sweetness. Her vision blurs as it all comes together at once. It feels dry in her mouth, even with the thick syrup of caramelized brown sugar coating each piece. Stuck, she thinks, stuck in her throat.

She forces herself to swallow, her body reacting with a cough. A choked noise that feels like a tremor in under her skin, against the sensation of the apples slowly moving down her throat. The aftershocks linger in her body, as her visions clears enough to properly look you in the face.

You only laugh in response.

author's note: because mel once asked us to write fics based on hozier's take me to church, and @grimsonandclover told me to keep writing with religious imagery... thought, i'd kill two birds with one stone. not long by any standard, but you may see these themes pop up again in a more developed piece in the future....

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @imperishablereverie @jordiemeow @ellaynaonsaturn @fawnnpaws @girliism @cha11engers @sinnamongirls @ghostgirl-22 @pittsick @lvve-talks @newrochellechallenger2019 @tigerlilywl @compress1repress @glassmermaids @blastzachilles @voidsuites @artstennisracket @asheepinfrance @cursedfiles @jclolz22 @apatheticrater @jesuistrestriste @glennussy @eldhani @deadpoetssss @lacelottie

[imperishablereverie]

just for fun | art donaldson x reader

warnings: PREQUEL TO LEVII'S JEANS, pregnant reader, dead grandma, mostly just fluff

listen while you read! cowboy carter masterlist

The hotel room was dim, the kind of quiet that only came when the city outside forgot to be loud. The hum of the A/C pressed against the windows, steady and cold. Lily was fast asleep in the adjoining room, her monitor glowing faintly on the nightstand, casting soft blue light across the sheets. The air smelled faintly of mint shampoo and the ghost of takeout, the curtains drawn tight against the hum of the world. Outside, traffic whispered through wet streets, but up here, you could almost pretend you were the only two people in New York.

You were propped against the headboard, your hand resting over the soft curve of your belly, barely showing yet—but enough that your shirts fit different and your balance shifted and Art kissed you differently now, always with a hand on your stomach like he could say hello early. Your legs were tucked under the throw blanket he insisted on packing every trip, even if it didn’t match the hotel bedspread. His grandma had knit it when he was a teenager—he said it smelled like summers and safety. It was unraveling at one corner, and you’d offered to mend it once, but he’d said no. He liked it frayed. Said it made him feel more real.

Across the room, he sat in silence, elbows on his knees, a towel loose around his neck, sweat from earlier long gone but his skin still flushed. His shoulder was wrapped in ice again—same spot, same ache, same lie he gave the trainers. It was just wear and tear, he told them. Just a strain.

You knew better. You could see it in the way he winced brushing his teeth, in the way he paused before lifting Lily up, as if bracing for something that never quite healed.

He hadn’t said a word since getting back. No comment about the hotel, no joke about the press conference, not even a half-hearted tease when you offered to order room service instead of going out. Just silence. And then:

"I’m gonna retire after the Open."

The words came out like an afterthought. Like something he’d rehearsed enough times in his head it didn’t sound real anymore.

You blinked. Closed the book in your lap. “What?”

He didn’t look up. “After New York. Win or lose.”

The room went still, like even the city outside was holding its breath.

He rubbed a hand down his face and exhaled. "I’m tired."

You said nothing. Not yet.

"I’m tired of chasing something I don't even want anymore. Of being on planes and in locker rooms and under lights that make everything look too sharp. Of pretending like it’s all still fun."

His voice cracked on the last word. Not in volume—just meaning.

You pushed yourself forward, folding your legs under you. “You’ve said that before.”

"Yeah,” he murmured. “But this time I mean it.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes a little red, face drawn and soft. And beneath all of it—relief. Something unburdened.

“I miss her. The porch, the smell of the tomatoes, the way she always knew when it was gonna rain. That place... it’s the only thing that ever made sense outside of you and Lily.”

He paused. His jaw tightened, but not with anger—with grief, dulled by time but not at all gone. "You know I still talk to her? In my head. Before matches. When I can’t sleep. When Lily says something that sounds like her."

You nodded gently, heart full. "She'd be so proud of you, Art. Of all of this."

A soft, watery smile tugged at his mouth. "Sometimes I still hear her humming. Or I’ll dream about the porch swing creaking, and I’ll wake up feeling like I’m ten again. Safe. Before all of this got so... loud."

You reached for his hand again, glancing fondly over at the monitor. “That’s why we named her Lily,” you whispered. “So there’d always be a piece of her here.”

He nodded, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “I know. And every time I say her name, it feels like going home. Like she’s still watching.”

He went quiet again for a beat, then added, “She used to take me blackberry picking. Every July. We’d walk all the way to the back of the property with our buckets, and I’d always eat more than I brought back. She never scolded me. Just laughed and wiped the juice off my chin with the hem of her apron.”

You smiled, imagining it clearly. Imagining Art small and barefoot and sticky-fingered, freckles across his nose, laughter echoing in the shade of the trees.

“She’d bake a pie that same night. Crust from scratch. I’d fall asleep on the couch with purple fingers and sugar on my shirt, and the house would smell like warm fruit and flour."

He looked at you, eyes soft. “I want that for them. I want Lily and the baby to know what it’s like to fall asleep with pie in the oven. To run barefoot through grass and pick berries with their hands.”

You leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Then let’s give them that. After the Open, we’ll go back. You can show them everything she showed you.”

He dragged in a breath. “I thought I could play through it. Keep showing up. Be the man they all expect. But I’m not him anymore. I don’t want to be.”

You reached out your hand. He took it like he was drowning.

"You really mean it?" you asked softly. “Not just a break?”

"No,” he said. “I want to go home. For good.”

His other hand reached for your stomach, rested gently there. “I want to be there this time. For all of it. Diapers and teething and midnight meltdowns. For Lily. For you.”

You felt your throat tighten, eyes burning. You squeezed his hand.

“Okay,” you whispered. “After the Open, we go home.”

Art leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours.

“Tennis was never just for fun,” he murmured. “I want to set a net up on the front lawn. So... maybe now... maybe now it can be.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Yeah. Maybe now it can.”

He let the silence settle for a moment, eyes drifting toward the baby monitor.

"What about Tashi?" you asked softly. "And Patrick? You told them yet?"

Art huffed a breath that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Not yet. Tash’ll probably say I’m going soft. Patrick’ll pretend to be shocked and then try to convince me to go out drinking one last time."

"That sounds about right."

"They’ll understand," he said, quieter now. “They’ve seen it. The burnout. The way I flinch before matches now. Tashi caught me zoning out during warm-ups in France. Didn’t even yell. Just looked at me like she already knew."

You nodded. Tashi had always known how to read him. Better than anyone except maybe you.

"And Patrick?"

Art smirked faintly. "He’s been waiting for this. Keeps asking when I’m gonna stop pretending I still love it. He’ll probably show up at the ranch in a week with a six-pack and a dumb hat, talking about 'retirement rituals.'"

You laughed. “Tell him to bring sunscreen this time. He fried last summer.”

Art chuckled, the sound soft and warm as he finally leaned back onto the bed beside you, one arm behind his head, the other curled protectively around your waist.

"They’ll be fine," he murmured. "I just need them to know I’m okay. That I’m choosing something better."

You turned toward him, brushing a hand across his chest. “You already have.”

And he smiled—not the tired press-conference smirk or the tight, camera-ready grin. Just that boyish one you’d fallen in love with, the one he used to wear when he talked about fireflies and fresh peaches and Sunday mornings that lasted all day.

Then, without a word, he shifted closer and bent down, his mouth brushing against your belly. He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss low and sweet.

“Hey, kiddo,” he whispered. “Can’t wait to show you home.”

You reached down and ran your fingers through his curls, tears pricking gently at the corners of your eyes. Damn hormones.

Art looked up at you, smile soft and sleepy. “We’re gonna be okay, right?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He curled into you after that, one hand on your belly, his breathing slowing. The kind of peace you’d both been chasing finally finding its way between the sheets.

And for the first time in a long time, Art Donaldson fell asleep with a future he wanted waiting for him.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance @cha11engers

[imperishablereverie]

JJ MAYBANK BOT DUMP .ᐟ

𓆉 ⋆｡˚𓇼 ⋆｡˚𓆟 now playing theodora ft. luidji go!

( all i get is jealousy, jealousy ) ⚓️ at a bonfire-lit beach party, you flirt with a charming tourist while jj watches from afar, jealousy burning behind his smirk. when you return, he hides his feelings behind sarcasm, mocking the tourist’s preppy vibe. but beneath the jokes, he’s afraid of losing the one person he’s never dared to make his.

( bonfire vibes ) 🪼 amid the chaos of a beach party, you and jj slip away to play catch in the quiet, just the two of you. when you fall and he lands beside you, his kiss says everything he’s kept hidden—shifting your friendship into something more.

( don’t leave me ) 🦑 as a storm rages outside, jj shows up at your door drenched and desperate, rocked by the news that you’re leaving for college abroad. he’s loved you in silence for years, but with time running out, he finally cracks. no jokes, no bravado—just a broken whisper: “don’t leave me.”

( bruised and broken ) 🪸 bruised and silent, that’s how jj shows up at your door after another fight with his dad, his usual jokes barely masking the tremble in his hands. he doesn’t have to explain—you already know, and in your quiet presence, he finally feels safe.

( i didn't mean it ) 🌊 after a blow up with john b, jj storms down the beach with guilt creeping in as fast as his anger fades. you follow, like always, knowing the silence says more than he ever will. and in that quiet, with the waves as cover, he finally lets himself fall apart; because with you, he can.

( treasure trouble ) 🐚 under the cover of night, you and jj sneak onto a docked yatch, chasing a clue with security minutes away. he jokes through the tension, but when you don’t flinch, he knows—this isn’t just treasure trouble, it’s also your kind of trouble.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @ryvkkr, @soulxinxthexsky, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist (to be added)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀ ©️ pittsick.

[imperishablereverie]

tacobacoyeet..... 700.......... im so happy for you ava, you deserve every interaction big and small! you have such a beautiful way with words, i'm starstruck every single time you post. i love you so so so so much, i'm so glad we have gotten close and i hope you will always write <3

now... what if i asked for a tal x ava moodboard? what then? hm?

my angel tal... i love you so much <3

[imperishablereverie]

i

i

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[imperishablereverie]

I’M SO DONE yes my ‘do not copy’ rule applies to making bots COPYING MY FICS!! funny thing is, if she had asked to make a bot based on my fic i would’ve been fine with it but this bitch not only copied my fic but told me she’d private it, unlisted it and blocked me after i called her out for it

her tiktok is de1u1uzie

[imperishablereverie]

I know he goes crazy for a pup cup

[imperishablereverie]

why does patrick zweig serve like he’s trying to get someone pregnant through eye contact. this isn’t tennis. this is foreplay. put your tongue away you little gremlin.

[imperishablereverie]

daughter | tashi duncan x reader

WARNINGS: MDNI. NOT SUITABLE FOR YOUNG READERS. GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE, BLOOD, GORE, FIGHTING, ETC., MURDER IN VIVID DETAIL. RELIGIOUS IMAGERY. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

listen while you read! cowboy carter masterlist

The light above the bathroom stall flickered, a nervous tremor echoing against pale marble and gold-veined mirrors. The floor, once pristine, now swam in a diluted pool of red and fluorescent reflection—like oil and water in slow, ghastly dance. Your body was not just placed there; it had been flung, collapsed, twisted into a shape so unnatural it seemed the work of some violent sculptor with a vendetta against grace. Your gown—once silk, now shredded chiffon—clung to you like wet tissue, stained with handprints in shades no woman should wear. Blood pooled beneath the nape of your neck, matted into your hair like war paint, trickling in lazy rivulets past your ear and down your cheek, as if your body wept in the places your eyes no longer could.

Your eyes, half-lidded, stared upward in a final offering of confusion or defiance—hard to say. Mascara bled down your cheeks, stark against the blue-black bruising blooming beneath your eyes and jaw, where something unrelenting had pressed and pressed and pressed. One heel was still strapped to your foot, the other lay like a discarded question ten feet away. The mirror behind you, fractured and stained, gave the illusion of many versions of you—broken angles of the same horror. The stall door swung slowly in a lazy arc, creaking like a mourner in prayer.

On the counter sat a crushed tube of lipstick, a pearl earring, and a smear of blood where your hand had tried, maybe, to hold yourself upright. The smell of iron mixed with the citrus tang of luxury soap and fading perfume, the cocktail of violence and vanity. Somewhere, faintly, the music from the ballroom still played—violins and laughter drifting in through the cracks like cruel ghosts. No alarm. No screaming. Just the slow seep of silence growing warmer by the minute. And beneath it all, the faintest imprint of fingers around your throat, already turning purple. Already whispering blame.

She had been so calm afterward. That's the part that would stick with people, if they ever found out. How calm she was. How unshaken. How perfectly composed when she stepped back into the gala, face lit like an oil painting, skin dewy with sweat but not guilt. Not remorse. You were still warm when she smiled at the photographers.

You didn’t know, not really, how long she had been imagining this. How many times she'd laced up her shoes with visions of you on the other side of the net—beating her, laughing at her, slipping from her grasp. How many slow burns had simmered in her blood beneath the varnish of civility. You were the only one who ever got close enough to see it. And maybe that’s why you never had a chance.

She had long hair once. Braided so tight it tugged at her temples, shiny with oil, a ribbon at the end that her mother tied before church every Sunday. It bounced against her spine as she moved up and down the clay courts of her childhood, back when her name was still soft in people’s mouths, not carved into the tongue like a curse. Her father believed in three things: God, greatness, and pain. He coached with scripture on his breath and a stopwatch clenched in one fist. "Again," he'd say, not because she'd made a mistake, but because he didn’t believe in mercy.

Tashi learned young that devotion was a performance. On Sundays she knelt until her knees ached, staring at stained glass saints who never bled. On weekdays, she bled enough for both of them. Her palms were always raw, her back always damp with sweat. There were no dolls, no bike rides, only drills and prayers. She once asked for a day off and he made her run laps around the church parking lot until she vomited beside the Virgin Mary statue. "Offer it up," he said, like suffering could be holy if it made you a champion.

You would have never guessed it, watching her glide through galas now, her hair short, sharp, severe. The same mouth that used to recite Hail Marys now whispered dirty jokes and smoked joints behind locker rooms. But some parts of her were still frozen in that chapel—still trying to earn love with callouses, with wins, with obedience sharp enough to draw blood. And when you crossed her, really crossed her—maybe she saw her father in you. Maybe she remembered what it felt like to be made into a machine.

"I’m nothing like him," she’d once told you, voice tight. You had touched her shoulder and said nothing. Because you knew she was lying.

The court shimmered in the afternoon heat, lines blazing white against green, the faint scent of rubber and sunscreen rising from the surface like a ghost of every match that had come before. The crowd was already murmuring when you stepped out, your skirt whispering at your thighs, racquet gripped with purpose and the calm of someone who knew how this would end. And opposite you—Tashi Duncan. Smoldering in black, wristbands tight, gaze unreadable. Her presence was gravitational, the kind of heat that scorched quietly, the kind you didn’t notice until your lungs started to tighten.

She didn’t look at you right away. She adjusted her strings, cracked her neck. When she did look, it was sharp and full of history. There were no greetings. There didn’t need to be. The net between you might as well have been a confession booth.

The first serve came fast—your serve—and she met it with a backhand that cracked like thunder. You felt it in your wrist, in your ribs, in your stomach. The match moved in a rhythm that only the two of you could feel. Each point an act of foreplay. Each sprint toward the baseline a collision waiting to happen. Her grunts were guttural, frustrated, and full of longing. You caught her staring when she thought you wouldn’t notice—between serves, between sweat-drenched exhales. There was something feral in her that day, something flickering just beneath her clean strokes and controlled footwork.

She wanted you. That much was obvious. But wanting and loving were never the same for Tashi. Wanting came with hunger. With a dark sort of reverence. Her gaze told you she wanted to devour you or destroy you—whichever came easier.

And you? You gave her a hell of a match. Won it, actually. Final set. Tie-breaker. You left her standing at the service line, stunned, lips parted like she might say something but couldn’t. You tossed her a polite smile. She didn’t return it. She didn’t shake your hand. She just walked off the court with her ponytail clinging to her sweat-slicked spine and her jaw set like concrete.

Still, you felt the weight of her stare long after the locker room doors closed behind you. It clung to your skin like static. Like the anticipation of a touch that never came. Or maybe, something worse. Something that always would.

The gala was all glitter and good intentions. Champagne towers, fresh-cut orchids, laughter echoing off vaulted ceilings. The kind of room designed to forget the violence of the court. You arrived late, your skin still tingling from the match, a high flush blooming along your cheekbones from both the sun and something deeper—some satisfaction that hadn’t settled yet. People clapped. Glasses were raised. Someone handed you a drink before you could ask for one.

Tashi arrived twenty minutes later.

She moved through the crowd like oil through water, graceful, unbothered, striking in a silver gown that shimmered like mercury. Her hair was slicked back, her eyes kohl-lined and unreadable, her mouth painted in a shade too dark for celebration. She looked radiant. She looked dangerous.

When she approached you, it was with a smile so soft it made your stomach turn. “Congratulations,” she said, and you almost believed her. Almost. The glass in her hand tilted slightly as she spoke, the liquid inside catching the light like something sacred.

You thanked her. She touched your arm. Lightly. Barely. But you felt it down to your bones.

The night grew thick with music and heat and unspoken things. You danced with sponsors, posed with trophies, laughed at jokes you didn’t hear. But every time you looked up, she was somewhere nearby. Watching. Smiling. Waiting. There was something charged between you—not just rivalry, not quite lust. A fever dream. A fuse lit.

She didn’t act angry. She didn’t act hurt. She just… lingered. A shadow with good posture. A promise in heels. You felt her gaze like a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet.

And when you excused yourself to powder your nose, you didn’t think twice about the soft footsteps that followed you down the hall.

The powder room smelled like roses and rich women. Plush velvet bench, gold fixtures, a mirror that ran the length of the wall in a soft, flattering glow. You checked your lipstick, touched up the corner of your eye, smoothed your dress. Behind you, the door eased open with the gentlest whisper. A familiar one.

"Hey," she said. You caught her reflection before you caught her scent—tonka bean and salt and something faintly herbal, like the end of a good joint. You turned, not startled. Just curious.

She handed the bathroom attendant a crisp bill without looking. The woman nodded, almost reverent, and slipped out with the silence of someone who’d seen too much and knew better than to linger.

"You looked beautiful out there," Tashi said. Her voice low. Almost embarrassed. You blinked at her, confused. "On court," she added. "That dress doesn’t do you justice."

She smiled at you like it was a secret. You laughed, a little. Said something coy about her serve. She stepped closer. Closer. Her knuckles brushed your hip as if by accident. You didn’t flinch.

She kissed you.

It was soft at first. Curious. Then it wasn't. Her hands were on your waist, your ribs, your chest—your breath hitched. You let her push you against the sink, the mirror. You bit her lip. She tasted like wine and maybe something sweeter.

Her hand slid higher.

Then higher.

Then it stayed.

You laughed against her mouth until you didn’t.

Her fingers didn’t move.

They just squeezed.

You thought it was part of the game. You thought she was being rough. You tried to gasp and she kissed you harder. You clawed at her wrist and she kissed you harder.

By the time you realized she wasn’t letting go, it was too late.

The mirror shattered when your elbow hit it. Jagged glass rained down across the counter, slashing a line across your shoulder, slicing open your bicep. The blood spurted in warm arcs, splattering the counter, the floor, her face. She didn’t flinch. Her teeth grazed your jaw as you kicked. Scratched. Sobbed. She held you like a lover and choked you like a prophecy. Her grip didn’t falter even as your nails scored red welts down her arm. Your heel snapped against her shin with a sick crack. She didn’t scream.

Your windpipe began to fold. Cartilage strained and then gave. A sick pop echoed inside your skull as something gave way in your neck. Blood vessels burst across your cheeks, your eyes—those lovely, expressive eyes—reddened and lined with webs of hemorrhage. The whites filled with blooming pink, then scarlet. Your lips turned blue. Then deeper. The color of dusk.

You tried to cry out and nothing came but foam. You tried to breathe and tasted blood. Copper coated your tongue, metallic and bitter. Your body convulsed—spasms racked your limbs, nerves firing chaotically, legs kicking out like a marionette in its death throes. One of your heels snapped. Your hand struck the marble and bent in a way it shouldn't have.

Your face darkened. The bruising spread like spilled ink across your jaw, your throat, your clavicle. The pressure against your larynx turned your voice into a gurgle. Your vision blurred and brightened in waves, stars dancing behind your lashes as your brain screamed for oxygen it would never get. The capillaries in your eyelids burst one by one, turning soft skin into bruised fruit. A slow, purple halo crowned the base of your throat.

You slammed your fist against the mirror one last time. It fractured your knuckles. The shards bit into your skin. The basin turned red.

She pressed you down as you twitched. Bent your spine against the countertop until your back arched unnaturally, vertebrae straining. Her hand, slick with your sweat, never once faltered in its pressure.

When your mouth stopped moving, she waited. Counted beats. Watched the life drain from your face with clinical stillness. She tilted your chin upward, as if admiring her own handiwork. Your lashes fluttered one last time.

Your knees buckled. She lowered you slowly, like laying down something precious.

The floor welcomed you with a cold kiss. And Tashi Duncan stood above you, panting, beautiful, unchanged.

She fixed her lipstick in the broken mirror. Straightened her dress. Wiped your blood from herself with a collection of alcohol wipes she pulled from her clutch—crimson soaking through pristine white.

Then she left.

The church was cold. Vaulted and grand and indifferent. Light fractured through the stained glass in pale shards, turning the pews into rows of empty confessionals and the carpet into a sea of broken rainbows. The scent of frankincense and lemon polish lingered in the air, sharp and nostalgic.

She sat three rows from the front, spine straight, legs crossed at the ankle like she’d been taught. Her father was beside her in a navy suit, head bowed, lips moving soundlessly with the cadence of the Our Father. His hands, folded neatly in prayer, bore the veins of age, of rage, of discipline. He looked almost peaceful.

Tashi didn’t look at him. She looked forward.

The priest’s voice rose and fell like ritual music, echoing off the marble like water in a tomb. She stared up at the crucifix above the altar. Blood dripped from His side, from His brow, from the clean nails through His palms. Artful pain. Public pain. The kind that begged forgiveness just by being seen.

She didn’t blink.

The bruises on her forearm were hidden beneath the sleeve of her black wool coat. The faint scratches near her collarbone had faded to pink. Her hands were clean. Her lipstick was immaculate.

A choir of children began to sing. She closed her eyes, not out of reverence, but to listen. The soprano notes cut clean through the air, pure and high and aching. She remembered kneeling in pews just like these as a child. Wishing to be worthy. Wishing for silence to stop burning.

Now she sat in silence, and it didn’t burn. Not anymore.

Her father leaned over slightly and whispered, "You coming to brunch after?"

She nodded.

The organ swelled. The congregation rose. Tashi stood with them, her chin high, her expression unreadable beneath the soft glow of God’s light.

There was no guilt in her bones. Only order. Only peace.

She brought her hands together, knuckles white, and whispered a prayer that did not ask for forgiveness.

She never would.

[imperishablereverie]

hi girls and gays (pride month has infiltrated my brain)

sorry i have been on an unspoken writing hiatus, life has been kicking me directly in the ass and words are refusing to come to me...

i might have a fic or single bot out this weekend and i'm working to have the challengers x bridgerton bot drop out by sunday/monday

i love you all, thanks for bearing with me! <3

[imperishablereverie]

hi tal pacino xx …. may i the five words that sum up how you see me and a little song? 🙈

um grace xx… my everything.

5 words: sweet beautiful purple angel thoughtful

song:

reason is obvious but also this song is just perfect like you

[imperishablereverie]

taaaal hi <33

i just saw your little game and i wanted to play 🥹 can i please have five words of how you see me and an assigned meme? 😽

thank youuuu

MIIIIIIKA ANGEL OF COURSE YOU CAN

5 words: wordsmith tender red imaginative vibrant

wordsmith is so silly... anyways

meme:

[imperishablereverie]

i can't get the idea of patrick and art dry humping and getting off like that out of my head help

*Tashi voice* Does this help you anon??

CW: MDNI, NSFW

Summary: This is about when Patrick comes out as bisexual and Art, just so excited for him, becomes the most annoying “fake” gay friend ever. 

—-

He’s finally certain after he sees Pirates of the Caribbean for the first time. Then the second time. Then he buys the dvd just to be really, really sure. Sitting in the dorm while Art’s away, jerking off imagining himself as Orlando Bloom, imagining himself as Kiera Knightly. 

He’s so nervous about what Art will think but it turns out to be no big deal. Art brushes it off like “haha okay cool man, just don’t fall in love with me.” 

Patrick is already in love with him…he probably always has been… but doesn’t want to freak Art out, so he just says, “shut up dude, you’re not even my type.”

They both laugh. Things deflate and mostly go back to normal. 

Except for the fact that Art gets so, well… gay… for lack of a better phrase. He gets really flirty over the next few months. Suddenly he’s got his arms over Patrick’s shoulder all the time, hanging off of him, playing with his hair, making little stupid jokes amongst their teammates. “Don’t be mad at his serve guys, it’s actually good and I’m not just saying that because he kisses me tenderly before we go to sleep every night.” Art says, their teammates snickering as Patrick tosses a tennis ball at him.  

After practice Art comes to him in their dorm room. “Hey man you looked a little stiff out there, you want a massage? Lemme give you a massage,” and he’s rubbing Patrick’s shoulders. It feels nice until Art says “You can get naked and I’ll bring out the baby oil for you,” he grins before Patrick laughs and tells him to fuck off. 

One Saturday they’re at a match. It's still early spring. Patrick gets chilly easily but his sweatshirt is in the wash. Art’s kind of an ice queen so he’s not phased by it. “Come on dude, you can borrow my sweater,” he says as Patrick shivers. So Patrick’s walking around all day with Donaldson on the back of his sweatshirt. 

“It’s funny, like I gave you my last name or something,” Art teases. Which doesn’t make Patrick feel anyway at all. 

Art likes to point out “hot dudes” to Patrick, in the guise of trying to help him find a boyfriend. “Come on you gotta rip the band aid off. If you don’t get a boyfriend soon… you’re gonna have to take me.” 

“Yeah?  You wanna be my boyfriend?” Patrick smirks. 

“Sure, I'll break your hymen,” Art snorts. 

Again Patrick feels completely fine and normal.

They play fight a lot more too. Well, they start up again. They used to do it a lot when they were kids and there’s a sudden resurgence of childish wrestling matches. Art usually starts it, he’ll dumbly jump on top of Patrick and try to get him to smell his armpit before he gets in the shower or something stupid like that which usually leads to the two of them breathless on the floor or in one of their twin beds. One of them pinning the other. Patrick usually has to adjust himself so he doesn’t give anything away. 

Except Art acts like it’s what he wants. “Bet you wanna kiss me so bad right now, dude,” he smirks. 

“Yeah I do, come here,” Patrick says and Art will laugh like he’s not serious. 

Or even worse he’ll whisper in Patrick’s ear, “god I’m so fucking hard right now.” And then fall over in a fit of giggles. Asshole.

Patrick’s learned none of it’s serious. He knows Art isn’t doing it to be malicious, even if it kinda sucks sometimes. He knows Art loves him (as a friend) and maybe this is Art’s way of acting like nothing is different. Or maybe it’s his radical acceptance of Patrick’s sexuality. Or maybe… or maybe…  

Whenever Patrick has a girlfriend Art will joke around like, “Okay she’s your girlfriend but like…I’m still your boyfriend, right?” He says it when they're in the middle of the last round of Mario Kart, just before Patrick’s about to leave for his date. 

“Yeah always, loser,” Patrick adds the last part, as he zooms past Art in the game.  

“Okay so gimme a kiss before you go,” Art taps his cheek. He’s so stupid. And Patrick is too, because he does it. 

It comes to a head one night when Patrick’s in a bad mood. He didn’t do well on an exam and there's a possibility he might be at risk for academic probation. Usually when he’s in a bad mood he gets kinda horny and right now he’s not really in the mood for teasing.

They’re studying and Art sighs before asking Patrick for another homoerotic favor. “Fuck… dude please, please i need your help… can you stretch me? My legs are so fucking sore from those lunges. I can’t even focus.”

Patrick does it, only to stop Art from making those soft, extremely distracting, moans of discomfort. He stretches Art out on the solid surface of their bedroom floor. It’s a special kind of hell listening to him grunt his satisfaction.

Patrick’s pressing down one of Art’s legs, while leaning over his face. He’s shirtless, blond curls fanned out, blue eyes shining with amusement. He starts pouting those soft pink lips making stupid kissy faces. Patrick is so horny and irritated that he just does it. A little peck on his lips. 

“Seriously like the best fucking kiss I’ve ever had in my life.” Art grins. 

“Stop testing me,” Patrick snaps.

“Testing you how, man?” Art grunts out, nonchalant as Patrick stretches him deeper.

”You know I’m bisexual.” If Art keeps this up— today of all days Patricks gonna lose it and show him exactly what bisexual means. 

“Yeah of course I do. Remember you’re my boyfriend, you buy me dinner and stuff,” he laughs and when Patrick doesn’t join him Art reaches out and pats his arm. “Don’t worry dude I got your back, always.” 

Patrick narrows his eyes. “Boyfriend Art, really?”

”what? You don’t want me?” Art teases. 

“Yeah, I want you.” Patrick says plainly, backing off of the stretch. 

Art laughs, dropping his leg to the floor.

“I’m so fucking serious.” Patrick says, keeping eye contact. 

Art’s smile starts to settle and he shrugs. “Well of course you do. I’m too hot to resist.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes and then crawls over him.  Kissing him again but this time he means it. Mouth pressed against soft smiling lips, he slides his tongue along Art’s teeth. Art breathes in and makes the mistake of opening up, which lets Patrick slip his tongue inside, finding Art’s tongue and massaging it with his own. 

Art has mostly stilled but as soon as Patrick starts to pull back ready with the excuses he feels Art’s tongue move, and suddenly he’s licking, tasting, sliding into Patrick’s mouth. He hums as he actively starts to kiss Patrick back. He moves his leg so both of his feet are flat on the floor and his knees are drawn up, Patrick slotting himself naturally between his thighs. Never breaking the kiss. 

He’s not sure how long they kiss, but he does feel it when Art starts to grind, pressing his hips up, using Patrick’s thigh for friction. Letting Patrick to rut against his thigh. Patrick can feel him, he’s legitimately aroused and it makes Patrick dizzy.  Both of them, moaning and breathing heavy into each other’s mouths, the kiss getting sloppy and wet. 

They’re rubbing off on each other clothed, Art in basketball shorts Patrick in his sweatpants, grinding like horny little preteens on the floor of their dorm room. Art comes first, loudly… no longer kissing, just moaning and gasping against Patricks mouth. The hottest thing Patricks ever experienced, his first time doing it with a boy. He already knows he’s gonna jerk off to this memory for years to come.  Patrick blows his load in his boxers like he's 14 or something, while Art’s still coming down, breathlessly against him. 

”Oh fuck,” Art breathes, after they both manage to catch their breath. “I thought I wasn’t your type?”  

Patrick huffs a laugh and rolls over to lie on his back next to Art on the floor. “I thought you were straight.” 

Art rolls on his side and grins at him. “So did I. Guess we were both lying.”