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d1stalker · 8 months ago

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Suspension Bridge Effect [Logan Howlett]

Summary: You saved one of the younger mutants during a mission, and now he's obsessed with you, much to Logan's dismay

Warnings: mainly Logan POV, jealousy, cuteness, fem!reader WC: 2.6k - MASTERLIST

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Logan’s losing it; his thoughts are spiralling to the point where he wonders if he should be locked up.

At least, that’s what he thinks is happening as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. You’re standing near the edge of the mansion's garden, laughing softly as the kid—Johnny, a younger teenage mutant—tries to hand you a bouquet of hastily picked flowers. His face is flushed, eyes wide with admiration, and he’s practically vibrating with nervous energy as he looks up at you.

This punk, this moron, this lovesick blockhead, has been glued to your side ever since you saved him during the last mission.

It was supposed to be a standard run-of-the-mill rescue operation, but when things went south, and he was cornered, you swooped in like the hero you are and got him out unscathed. Now, the kid’s been following you around like a lost puppy, trying to win your attention, your approval—your everything. And it’s infuriating.

Logan can feel his hands clench into fists as he watches Johnny offer you the worst attempt at a bouquet he's ever seen, and sees the youngster's face turning a deeper shade of red as he mumbles something the older man can’t quite hear. Probably some dumb compliment, he thinks bitterly. The kid’s got no game.

You smile at Johnny. It's that soft, kind smile that always makes Logan’s heart skip a beat. But this time, all it does is fuel the fire raging within. He knows that smile isn’t just for him, but damn it, he wishes it were.

He wishes you’d tell the kid to scram, that you’re already spoken for, that you have a lovely boyfriend who could put together a way better bunch of flowers, but instead, you take the flowers with a gentle laugh, thanking the goblin like he’s just handed you a priceless treasure.

And somehow, the torment is never ending, it seems. Because later in the day he find’s himself lurking at the doorway of the mansion library, watching as you and Johnny sit together, heads bent over some book he know knows the little gremlin is just pretending to be interested in. That brat is soaking up every second of your attention, hanging on your every word, and it’s driving Logan up the wall.

“He’s just a kid,” you keep saying whenever he grumbles about it, but you don’t see it. You don’t see the way the bastard’s eyes light up whenever you smile at him, or how he leans in just a little too close when you’re explaining something to him. You don’t notice the small touches—the way his hand lingers on your arm when he’s pulling you somewhere, the way he looks at you like you’re the centre of his universe.

Logan sees it all, because he’s been there before. He knows exactly what Johnny’s feeling because he felt the same way when he first met you. Still does. It's that intense, all-consuming crush that makes you do stupid things just to be near the person you can’t stop thinking about.

“Logan, you’re staring,” Jean’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he turns to see her smirking at him from across the hallway.

“I’m not starin’. Just keepin’ an eye on things,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You’re jealous.”

He scowls at her. “I ain’t jealous of some kid.”

“Sure you’re not,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Why don’t you just talk to her about it?”

Clenching his jaw, he knows she’s right but not wanting to admit it. “She doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s cute.”

“Maybe if you told her how you’re feeling, she’d understand,” Jean suggests gently, though there’s a knowing look in her eyes.

Huffing and turning away from the library, Logan has decided that he’s had enough of standing on the sidelines. He needs to do something before he loses his mind entirely. But it seems he can’t escape this torture, because he can’t even get five minutes alone with you.

He tried to get your attention after you finished up teaching your class, but before he could, the little devil ran in front of him and got it first. His eye twitches as he watches Johnny offer you another “gift,” this time a poorly folded paper crane. You take it with a smile, thanking him kindly, and Logan grits his teeth so hard he swears his molars might shatter.

“Hey, kid,” He grumbles, stepping forward with a growl in his throat that would send most people running. “Don’t you got somewhere else to be?”

Johnny looks up, momentarily startled by the sharp tone, but then just gives a nervous chuckle and scratches the back of his head. “Uh, no, sir. I was just, um, hanging out with her.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got things to do. Don’t you, darlin’?” Logan’s eyes flicker to you, hoping you’ll catch the hint and send the kid on his way.

But you don’t. You just laugh. A musical sound that makes him want to clamp his hand over your mouth because why should that devil's spawn get to hear your beautiful voice? He’s truly about to lose it.

“It’s fine, babe. Johnny’s just being sweet.”

Sweet. Logan wants to snort. Sweet is one word for it. Obnoxious, irritating, and clingy are a few others that come to mind.

“You got a crush or somethin’, boy?” His tone is laced with a dangerous edge as he crosses his arms over his chest, towering over the knucklehead. He’s trying not to outright scare him, but damn, he’s close to it.

Johnny turns beet red, stammering, “N-no, I just… she saved me, and I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all!”

Narrowing his eyes, a low snarl rumbles from his chest, and Logan takes a deliberate step forward, but before he can do more, you place a hand on his arm, pulling him back.

“Logan, that’s enough,” you say firmly, giving him a pointed look.

Well, there goes another piece of his sanity.

You’re too kind, too understanding. You just don't get it. To you, it’s just an innocent crush, something harmless, something that makes you smile. You think it’s nothing, and that only makes his blood boil more.

“Fine,” he finally mutters, stepping back, though his eyes never leave the teenager’s. Johnny seems to take that as some kind of begrudging acceptance and gives you another shy smile before scurrying off, likely to find the next token of his gratitude to bring to you.

Once he’s gone, Logan lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is drivin’ me nuts, you know that?”

You just chuckle again, stepping closer to him and slipping your arms around his waist. “It’s just a phase, I’m sure. He’ll get over it.”

Wrapping his arms around you tightly and pulling you in close, he feels a little bit better in your embrace, but his eyes still track where Johnny disappeared into the mansion. “He better. ’Cause if he doesn’t, I might lose my damn mind.”

You tilt your head up, kissing his jaw softly. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

He huffs, not wanting to admit it, but the truth is written all over his face. “Maybe a little.”

Smiling, you lean up to kiss him properly. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Logan kisses you back, a little more possessively than usual, as if to remind himself that you’re his. And even as you melt into him, he can’t help but keep one eye open, scanning the garden for any sign of that kid returning. He might be crazy, but he’ll be damned if he lets some lovestruck teenager get between him and the woman he loves.

—

The next morning, the mansion is buzzing with its usual activity. You and Logan head to the dining hall for breakfast, with him looking a little more relaxed after a night of holding you close. But the moment you step into the room, he spots a certain demon sitting at a table, eyes locked on you as if he’s been waiting for this very moment.

Groaning under his breath, Logan mutters, “Not again,” before guiding you to a table near the windows, hoping Johnny won’t follow.

You take your seat, smiling up at your boyfriend as he pulls out his chair, and for a brief second, he dares to believe that he might actually get to enjoy a quiet breakfast with you. But just as he’s about to sit down beside you, Johnny swoops in out of nowhere, plopping down in Logan’s seat with a grin like he’s just won the lottery.

“Morning!” He chirps, completely oblivious to the thunderous look on the other man’s face.

Freezing in his place, Logan glares at the kid who’s now sitting where he was supposed to be. He mentally cycles through a list of unflattering nicknames—Useless Idiot, Captain Obnoxious, Motherfu—but none of them seem quite strong enough to capture his current feelings. “You’re in my seat, kid.”

Johnny blinks up at him, feigning innocence. “Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t see your name on it.”

You can practically see the self-control it takes for Logan not to pick the kid up and toss him across the room. His fingers twitch at his sides, his claws itching to come out, but he holds back. For your sake, and only your sake.

“Johnny,” you start, trying to keep your voice gentle but firm, “you do know he is my boyfriend, right? And even if he wasn’t, I’m a bit too, uh, old for you?”

The young mutant's eyes widen, and for a split second, you think you might have gotten through to him. But then he glances over at Logan, his face scrunching up like he’s just eaten something sour.

“Yeah, but he’s, like, hella old,” The idiot blurts out, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if the mutant standing right there can’t hear every word.

Logan’s expression darkens, a storm brewing in his eyes as his jaw tightens to the point where you can almost hear his teeth grinding. Hella old? Is this guy serious?

He's dealt with all kinds of enemies—mutants, monsters, government assassins—but nothing, nothing has tested his patience like this hellspawn has been. “What did you just say?” he growls menacingly.

Johnny, either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, doesn’t back down. “I mean, no offense, but you’ve got a lot of… uh, experience, you know? And you’re like centuries old. Maybe she needs someone closer to her age.”

That’s the last straw. Logan’s eyes flash with anger and something else—something more vulnerable that you rarely see. A part of him knows the gremlin’s just talking out of his ass, but the words hit a little too close to home, stirring up old insecurities he usually keeps buried deep.

Without another word, he slams his hand down onto the table, the sound echoing through the dining hall like a gunshot. The room falls into stunned silence as he then storms out, his footsteps heavy and his anger radiating off of him in waves. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge the whispers that follow in his wake. He just needs to get away before he does something he’ll regret.

“Logan, wait—” you call after him, but he’s already halfway out the door.

You turn back to Johnny, who’s now looking a little less confident and a lot more like he might have made a mistake. Sighing, you lean forward with a serious expression. “You can’t just say things like that. He’s not just my boyfriend. He’s the person I love.”

Looking down at the table, his face falls, and he begins fiddling with the napkin in his lap. “I didn’t mean to make him mad. I just thought—You saved me and I felt something…I thought maybe you’d feel something for me too.”

You soften, reaching out to pat his hand. “Johnny, you’re a sweet kid, but you’ve got to understand that Logan’s the one I’m with, and no one can replace him.”

He nods slowly, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. “I get it,” he mumbles. “I just…”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “You’ll find someone your own age who’s perfect for you. But for now, you need to give us some space, okay?”

Johnny nods again, this time more resolutely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Just… try not to instigate anything else. I’ll go talk to him.” You give him one last reassuring smile before heading toward the exit.

When you step out into the hallway, you barely have a second to process your thoughts and decide where to look before you’re suddenly pressed up against the wall. A gasp escapes your lips, but it’s quickly swallowed by Logan’s mouth on yours. The surprise melts away as the intensity of his kiss overtakes your senses, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

His kiss is possessive and fierce. You can feel the frustration, the jealousy, the need to claim what’s his, pouring out of him with every movement of his lips against yours. For a moment, you lose yourself in the heat of it, letting the world around you fade as you focus solely on him.

Then, through the haze of the kiss, the practical part of your brain kicks in. You pull back just enough to murmur against his lips, “Logan… we’re gonna get caught.”

He growls softly, his lips trailing down to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Let them see,” he mutters between kisses. “Maybe then that damn dunce will get the hint.”

You laugh, though the sound is cut off as he captures your lips again, his hands gripping your waist as if he’s afraid to let go. “Babe, really,” you whisper, trying to sound serious but failing as your body responds eagerly to his touch. “People are gonna see…”

“I don’t care,” he grumbles, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear, making you involuntarily shiver against him. “Shoulda thrown that little shit out on his ass… let him know who you belong to.”

“You’re jealous of a teenager,” you tease, though the words come out breathless and almost lost in the intensity of the moment.

Logan pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark. “Don’t like him sniffin’ around you, thinkin’ he’s got a shot.”

You smile up at him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him back down for another kiss. “You don't need to feel threatened by him. You’re the only one I want.”

He huffs softly, his lips brushing against yours as he mutters, “Damn right I am.”

“C’mon,” you murmur, gently pushing against his chest. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private, huh?”

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering back toward the dining hall, as if half-expecting Johnny to come barreling out any second. But then he nods, taking your hand and leading you down the hallway, away from prying eyes. His grip on your hand is tight, territorial, and you can’t help but smile as you follow him.

As you walk together, you give his hand a squeeze. “Logan?”

“Yeah?” He glances over at you, his expression softening slightly.

“I love you, you know that?” You say it with that pretty grin of yours, and the way his eyes warm in response makes your heart flutter.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I love you too.”

The remaining tension melts away, leaving just the two of you walking hand in hand, ready to steal a few more precious moments together.

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A/N: this was really fun to write!

#deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett fic #logan x reader #x men #wolverine #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett imagine #deadpool movie #deadpool 3 #hugh jackman #james logan howlett #wolverine x you #wolverine imagine #wolverine fluff #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett x you #marvel fanfiction #mcu

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ghstzzn · 26 days ago

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—so confusing

☹︎ because being just friends clearly isn’t working out anymore.

or, your best friend going from avoiding you to letting you dry hump him after an emotional confession.

pairing: yang jungwon x f!reader genre: smut/suggestive, f2l

tags/warnings: smut/suggestive, dry humping, weed usage and mentions, nobody gets too high, completely consensual and he cums in his pants, fluffy shit, he calls her a brat a few times but in a cute way :) MDNI! barely proofread! lmk if i missed any mistakes :3 3.8k words

💭 : yeah its fluffy. idk man. it was supposed to be nasty but i got really emotional.

jungwon was living in the prime years of his life.

a full ride scholarship in one of the best universities in the country, a tight knit group of friends, the professor’s favorite… and yet, here he was, sitting alone in some basement at a party he should’ve skipped out on as he smoked someone else's weed.

you and jungwon had entered this college together, being study buddies bloomed into something deeper and now you both were each other's treasure— best friends.

jungwon never once wanted to stay just friends, in fact, he used to have a crush on you when you first became friends. but you were dating someone— someone shitty, who could never treat you the way he could.

but it didn’t matter now that you both were adults, and in college.

he’d watch as you pranced around from boy to boy with a smile, acting as if it never bothered him. he’s moved on from his silly crush. but the feelings linger deep inside of him.

but it’s only gotten worse for jungwon.

you became confident when it came to him. he was your best friend, the closest friend you had, so of course you came to him when you needed help with boys. when you asked what type of girls his friend jake liked, or if sunghoon had ever talked about you before.

everything went downhill when you accidentally sent him a picture of you in your tiniest bikini, “hows this?” he tried to ignore it, he really did. but it was hard. every time he closed his eyes, he saw your tits squished together and barely covered by the black bikini top. jungwon almost drove himself to the nearest church after he shoved his right hand in his pants while his phone sat in his left.

jungwon was losing his mind.

his feelings grew along with your own popularity. you became a trending name within the university and the parties that were thrown. people started to adore you, they seeked you out in a crowd of people. you were sweet and charming, a rather large friend group but of course—only one best friend.

the male has been avoiding you since you sent that picture. of course you bugged him, asking if you did something wrong or begged him to just talk to you. even though jungwon was avoiding you, he couldn’t deny the burst of pride he felt in his chest when he knew you seeked him out the most out of everyone.

he avoided you so much that he lost track of your daily routine, he had no idea you were coming to this party tonight.

when jungwon saw you skip around in the living room of the large house, he almost started choking on the drink he was ingesting. the small skirt you were wearing was a centimeter away from revealing the panties you were wearing.

he was torn between throwing a jacket around your hips or lowering his chair to catch a good glimpse. both would surely get his ass kicked.

and so he escaped, barely noticing the glance you threw in his direction.

he jogged down to the basement of his friend's ridiculously large house, plopping down on the couch with his head in his hands.

he was fucked, so fucked. jungwon had told you last week that he’d be stuck at the library all night tonight, which is why he turned down your invitation to hang out. he didn’t want to be alone with you on a friday night.

his phone dings, once or twice. your contact name flashed on his screens for a few moments before it turned off, only showing jungwons reflection.

all he can hear is charlie xcx vibrating through the upper floorboards of the basement. he’s never felt this confused in his life. he was sure he was over the small crush he had on you, so sure. he went almost three years without a single romantic thought. now his mind was flashing with images of your lips, plush tits and your thighs.

jungwon’s feelings only confused him more when he found himself getting irritated the more he thought about you. he truly did not know if he hated you or if he was in love with you.

every thought consumes him as he leans back into the couch cushions. your parents loved him, it took awhile for him to gain their trust but he finally did. but now they see jungwon as your protector, a brotherly love, someone who could cherish you but never cross any lines. he wasn’t good enough to be a boyfriend nor a husband like they want, and he was sure that sleeping with you and breaking your heart would result him to be shunned away leaving behind a broken relationship that could never be fixed.

reaching over the coffee table with a huff, jungwon picks up a pre-rolled joint from an unlabeled container. he wastes no time before lighting it and deeply inhaling.

just to pause his mind.

he closes his eyes, listening to the muffled music as he holds the joint to his lips. soft thuds coming from the staircase rips jungwon from his short meditation session. as soon as his eyes open he’s greeted by you skipping down the stairs, turning your head differently directions as if you were searching for something.

when your eyes land on his lazy figure, they widen and you let out an excited “oh!”

jungwon clears his throat, trying not to choke on the last hit he took and attempts to sit up but you had already appeared directly in front of him.

“jake said you were down here?” you start, slightly out of breath. “i didn’t know you’d be here? didn’t you hear me call for you upstairs?”

he shakes his head, blowing the smoke from his mouth away from you. you quickly take a seat next to him, your legs resting against his. it takes everything in him not to push your legs off of his and run away.

“do you hate me?” he might. you take a deep breath, toying with the string sticking out from the seam of his pants. “did i do something, won?”

you’ve never really sat down and figured out your feelings for jungwon until he started avoiding you. it started out as a tiny crush on the guy you used to study with, but when he started hanging around more often, your stomach would flutter.

there was an attempt to get rid of the foolish feelings you had for him. it just would never work between the two of you. your best friend has a smile brighter than the sun, he has aspirations bigger than the both of you and a pure heart—surely he was interested in someone else.

and the way he looks at you now just hurts. and it hurts worse than the ways he tried so hard to avoid you.

you tried going for his friends, ones that you knew were good guys, cute boys that could easily take your mind off your best friend turned love interest. but if anything, it all got worse.

every person you turned to had talked about jungwon. it was like you couldn’t escape and you were forced to face your true feelings for him.

so when you saw him tonight, after days of radio silence, you were excited. not just because of your feelings, but because to you—he’s still your best friend.

“you didn’t do anything.” his voice is monotone, dry and weak of any emotion. yet it drives a stake straight through your heart.

“you’re not mad at me?”

he shakes his head.

“were you busy?”

you only wished he told you yes.

“i wasn’t busy.” jungwon sighs, exhaling the smoke from his mouth. and for the first time tonight, he really looked at you.

your hair looked softer than usual, it’s probably the new hair product you showed him in a message he never responded to. he can smell it along with your perfume—one that he picked out. he thinks the scents are too strong but he likes them on you.

“are we still friends?” his heart almost breaks in half when he sees the pout forming on your face. the fact that your glossy eyes and downturned lips were because of him, made him hate all of this even more. what was he even doing?

he can feel the high take effect, it’s subtle yet the room still spins around him as he studies your sad expression.

“i could never hate you.”

you glance up at him, locking eyes.

“but i don’t think i can be friends with you anymore.”

your heartbeat quickens and you feel your hands get clammy. the regret of showing up tonight was starting to sink in, by now, you were wishing he really was stuck at the library for the night. “what?”

“no, don’t say anything.” he sighs and leans forward, stubbing the joint in the ashtray. “i like you. it’s getting to a point where it’s too much for me to handle.” jungwon practically vomits up that sentence, feeling the weight be lifted from his shoulder. “i can’t be around you. it’s like, you control my body and emotions when you’re near me and i just— i can’t pretend to be your friend when you make me feel like an entirely new person.”

you swallow hard at the sudden confession. you want to say something but you feel stuck in your spot.

“i don’t expect you to return my feelings but i need to be honest with you and myself,” he continues, facing away from you because god, he would rather die than see you reject him face to face. “i want you in ways you can’t imagine and i want to be the only one you look at. and you have a right to know this.”

“jungwon, please look at me.” you sigh, pleading with him.

“i literally can’t.”

you roll your eyes and grab his arm, tugging it closer to you which forces him to turn his head. he feels his heart stop when he sees the gummy smile on your face. “i want to ask you to be my boyfriend but only if you’re looking at me.”

“excuse me?” jungwons voice is full of disbelief.

“what? you just confessed to me as if i’m dying or something,” you giggle, studying his furrowed eyebrows. you could tell this was tearing him up inside. “i want you to be my boyfriend but not if you’re gonna be all gloomy about it. i like you too, stupid.”

jungwon couldn’t even hide the smile growing on his face. it’s take everything inside of you to not lunge at him and kiss every inch of his face. the way his dimples are on display and his eyes crinkle as he smiles makes you melt into the couch.

you lean forward onto your knees and cup his face in your hands. “you’re the bravest person i know yet you couldn’t even tell a girl that you liked her?”

“not when that girl is you.” his voice is soft and his face is flushed.

“i’m nothing special,” you respond, leaning close enough so that your lips are ghosting over the tip of his nose. “and i like you a lot.”

jungwon wastes no time pulling you into his lap, earning a giggle from you. it was music to his ears. “and what do you like about me?”

“well, for one, you’re hot.” he laughs, shaking his head at your response. you smack his shoulder lightly. “i’m serious. and, you’ve got such a broad personality—you’re comforting to be around. i can be myself and not feel bad about it.”

“really? all i do is smoke weed and study.”

“shut up and let me finish,” you cut him off, poking his forehead. he reaches up and grabs your wrist, bringing it down and interlocking his hand with yours. “you make me feel so good about myself, you protect me even when i think i can handle myself and you’ve just always been there when i needed someone. you make me feel safe, won.”

this was not what jungwon had in mind for the night. never did he think he would be confessing to his best friend at some random college party after a few hits of a blunt. nor did he think she would be the one to ask him out instead.

“so yeah, i fucking like you a lot. and if you ever ignore me again like that, i’m going to tell my mom because that really hurt, won.”

he lets out a nervous chuckle, “i’m not usually like this.” you nod in agreement, causing him to roll his eyes. “seriously, you know this. i just… didn’t know what to do.”

“well, it doesn’t matter now.” you hum, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck. “okay, boyfriend?”

“mhm… girlfriend.” the room has stopped spinning for jungwon. now, all he could hear was the soft bump of the music upstairs and your breath. he glances up at your eyes but quickly realizes you were focused on his lips. a small smile forms on his face.

“but what about jake?

“seriously? i’m about to kiss you and you’re asking about jake…?”

jungwons eyebrows raise, “i’m just wondering beca-“

you slam your lips onto his, effectively cutting him off. he immediately falls into the kiss, letting his hands wrap around your hips to pull you closer. months of tension had built of to this moment, and it dissipates with every needy pull at his lips.

he starts to regret every minute he spent avoiding you as he holds your body close to his, feeling the warmth against his own. jungwon could lose himself in you, and he wouldn’t mind that at all.

and he’s not sure if it’s the lingering high that's making his stomach flutter as you deepen this kiss or his pure longing for you, but what he does know is that he needs you now.

jungwon pulls back slightly to say something but you peck his lips again, “stop talking.”

“i just wanted to say how pretty you look right now.”

you blush at his words. it was finally sinking in that your best friend returned your feelings, and that you were here in his lap, kissing him as if it were your last night on earth. “are you high?”

he gives you a lazy smile, “a little bit. but that’s not the reason for any of this.”

you purse your lips and shrug. his hands were tight on your hips, rubbing slow lazy circles into your skirt with his thumbs. it sent shivers down your spine. the moodiness of the room plus how good jungwon looked under you was pulling you into a trance.

he looked mesmerizing.

“can you kiss me again?”

his question makes you melt. you nod your head before gently placing your lips on his again. it turns more passionate with every passing second. his tongue brushes against your lips, seeking entrance to your mouth and you let him in.

“‘m so lucky,” he mutters into the kiss. you smile, gripping his hair in your hands as you suck the words out of his mouth. “you’re so pretty… and all mine now.”

you pull back, slightly out of breath. “i’m all yours, so act like it.”

“i promise.” he lifts one hand and pulls you against him once more, this time taking charge of the kiss.

jungwon trails his hand slowly down your side, reaching your lower back. you arch in his touch, rolling your hips against his lap in the process. he lets out a soft groan that makes your ears perk and your heart flutter.

you release his lips and plant soft kisses around the corners of his mouth, against his cheek and down his jawline. giving soft kitten licks against his jawline as you trail down his neck. he leans back and lifts his head, giving you full access. jungwon takes this as a sign and begins gently moving your hips with his hands, guiding you into grinding against the crotch of his sweats.

you pull back, grabbing his hands as you rut against him, just like he wants. “you’re so cute, won.”

“cute?” his voice is breathy, on the verge of breaking. “you think this is cute?”

“i think you’re very cute when you want something,” you whisper, your lips ghosting over his. he nods his head, his breath hitching as you grind against his hardening length.

“i told you earlier how badly i wanted you. i wasn’t lying.”

you giggle, pecking at the corners of his mouth. you’re grateful he wore sweatpants to a house party. “i can tell.”

he groans and leans his head back against the cushions. his cock is twitching against the fabric of his sweats, and the fact that your only wearing panties under your skirt isn’t helping him at all. jungwon could practically feel your warmth and it was killing him that he couldn’t be inside you right now.

“you’re killing me.” his voice is strained, and you can see his jaw tighten with every roll of your hips.

you situate your position in his lap, making sure you’re directly on top of his length. he sucks his breath in and lifts his head, staring down between both of your laps, wishing he could just move your skirt from his view.

“but you don’t want me to stop, do you?”

jungwon shakes his head, gripping your hips tighter and lifting the fabric of your skirt up just enough to see the lace you were hiding beneath them.

“fuck…” he practically moans out. “please don’t stop.”

you bite back a whimper, every word caught in your throat now. “g-good… because i really don’t want to.”

he lifts your skirt higher, bunching it at your hips so he could watch as you grind down onto his clothed dick. the view is mesmerizing, and the sight of it makes him want to bust right there, especially when his eyes catch the damp patch you were leaving behind on the grey material.

“just couldn’t wait, could you?”

you let out a deep exhale, hips stuttering when you hear his voice, deeper and strained. “no… couldn’t wait for this.”

“baby…”

“you think that bikini picture was an accident?”

upon hearing those words leave your mouth, he can’t help the way his hips jolt upwards against you, causing you both to let out some form of whimper.

he lets out a dry laugh and looks up at you, “you’re kind of a brat. all of that was on purpose?”

“i don’t think you know how badly i’ve been wanting you, won.” you admit through breathy whines. “it was all for you.”

“fuck—don’t say that to me, i might cum.”

you lean closer, resting your forehead against his as you quicken the pace of your hips. it was tiring, but hearing that made you gain a burst of stamina.

jungwon groans loudly, trying to hold your hips still but you push against him. “did—did you not hear me?”

“please jungwon.”

it was pathetic how easily he gave into your pleas. it wasn’t an exaggeration when he says he would do anything for you. but when he hears that whiney voice paired with his name, it wasn’t hard to give up anything. so what if he cums in his pants like he’s never been touched before.

that’s how you made him feel.

“i-i missed you so much,” you whine against his lips, feeling his hips meet yours, his cock perfectly nested against your cunt despite the fabric of his sweatpants restricting you from completely feeling him.

“i know, i’m sorry, baby,” jungwon responds, voice breaking as he inches closer and closer. his stomach is tense, holding back his oncoming orgasm just for you. it was hard, he shouldn’t have smoked beforehand knowing how sensitive he gets. but god, this was everything he wanted and he did not want to stop. “i won’t do it again, i promise you.”

you slam your lips against his, eating up every groan and whimper he gives you as you rut against him desperately. and he lets you. jungwon lets you completely take over, he lets you get yourself off—dry humping him with pure need and desire.

his hips stutter and his stomach tenses up, “baby… please s-slow..” his cock is throbbing, begging for release.

“just let go…” you purr, grinding downwards, feeling his cock practically jump at the action.

and he does. he cums embarrassingly quickly just from your words.

jungwon holds you against him, burying his face in your chest as he cums against the fabric of his sweats. the throbbing never goes away and the sounds he lets out are no less than pathetic but neither of you care, both desperate for release.

your own hips stutter when you feel the warm liquid seep through, soaking your thighs and ass.

“won…” you softly cry out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. this wasn’t at all what you planned for the night, but you aren’t disappointed. even as your own orgasm washes over your body, all you can think about was getting back to his apartment for more.

his hips jolt in sensitivity, he pulls back and lifts your hips from his lap. “god, please stop…”

you watch as he throws his head back, eyes shut from the pleasure. a smile takes over your face when you see his chest rise and fall, watching as he tries to recompose himself.

“it’s not funny,” he lifts his head ever so slightly, squinting at you. “just wait… when we get back.”

“don’t over exert yourself, wonnie.”

your giggles only spur him on.

“you might be pretty but you’re a fucking brat.”

jungwon lifts his head and lets you fall back to your original position, wincing when you don’t even try to land softly on his crotch. you lean forward and kiss him once, then twice, traveling to his ear. “don’t talk to your girlfriend like that.” you whisper before nibbling on his earlobe.

“yeah?” goosebumps spread across his skin and he squeezes your ass in response, causing you to pull back and smile widely.

“yeah. especially when you were so mean to her by ignoring her like she didn’t exist for weeks.”

jungwon tilts your head. you weren’t wrong, but he knew why you kept bringing it up.

“then i guess i should take you home and make up for all that time missed, huh? as an apology?”

you tap your finger against your chin, humming as you pretend to be deep in thought. “hmm… i guess you could. just don’t cum in your pants before we get home again.”

he shakes his head, scoffing playfully. “seriously. you’re a brat.”

#enhypen x reader #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #jungwon fanfic #jungwon smut #jungwon hard thoughts #jungwon x reader

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redeemingvillains · 4 days ago

Text

dove - mattheo riddle

─✶⋆.˚ 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰, 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰

summary: fed up with the way the slytherin boys create chaos without consequence, someone seeks to bring them down a notch by going after the one thing their strongest loves most: you.

warnings: this is relatively dark (for me anyway!) reader is attacked + kissed/touched against their will. mentions of blood, knives and violence.

word count: 6.6k 🫣

soundtrack: heathens - twenty one pilots

a/n: i promise this isn't deranged, there is ample flangst and a mattheo that would burn the world to the ground for you ♡

If you'd heard it once, you'd heard it a thousand times.

Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

As if you weren't an adult, perfectly capable of making your own decisions, of reading people, of caring for your own heart.

On paper, you and Mattheo Riddle made no sense. You were quiet and calm, friendly and compassionate, quick with a warm smile and a hug. You were light and laughter and goodness.

By contrast, Mattheo was rough and edgy, quick to anger with a firecracker temper and a biting sarcasm like a venomous snake that kept everyone but his closest friends at an arm's length. But around you? He melted.

It was like you held the key that unlocked his defenses, allowing you to walk straight into the dark center of his heart. He would have mocked any guy who fell for a girl the way he fell for you: immediately, irrevocably and hard. And once he had his mind made up about you, there was little you could say in the matter (not that you were arguing).

He showered you with a depth of affection that was rare for anyone, let along the brooding bad boy of Hogwarts.

Suddenly, he was just there, beside you in class, next to you at meals, and keeping you company in the library as you studied. Before long you began to crave the feeling of his presence, of his warmth next to you, of the low rumble of his voice meant only for you to hear as he shared an inside joke or complimented you. He'd eagerly watch your face light up in return, the twinkle in your eyes, the lift of your lips and your happiness became a high for him that he wouldn't stop chasing; making you happy and keeping you happy became his mission, one that he succeeded at in every way.

Then late one night in the library you were huddled close together as a storm racked the castle outside, sending wind and rain against the large windows. Your heads were close together as you spoke in whispers. You looked at him and smiled and for just the breath of a second your eyes flitted from his eyes to his lips, and that was all the invitation he needed. He leaned in slowly, winding his hand to cup the side of your face as he pressed his lips to yours and he kissed you with tenderness and hunger, the combination of which pulled you out of your seat and onto his lap. And once he realized how bright you shined after he kissed you? He was a goner. And so were you.

There wasn't a thing anyone could say to you about Mattheo after that that you would have listened to, because he had you, heart and soul. He treated you like royalty, he protected you like treasure and he loved you with everything he had in him. What more could a girl possibly ask for?

You fell in step with Mattheo's long strides on your walk to breakfast, the early morning light beaming through the stained glass windows.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side, right where he always wanted you, as close to him as possible. You nuzzled into his neck and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

As usual, the sea of students in the corridor dipped and dodged out of your way, leaving a wide berth for your group out of deference and intimidation. It was odd for you at first joining the group that held the rest of the school in such rapt fear because it was immediately obvious that they were just like everyone else, they just didn't care to show that side of themselves to the world; they were fun-loving, goofy, affable and caring and they quickly adopted you as one of their own.

You rounded the corner to the Great Hall and Mattheo went crashing into a figure that hadn't had the wherewithal to get out of his way. He tightened his grasp on you out of instinct and narrowed his eyes towards Seamus Finnegan who had dropped the entire stack of books he'd been holding and looked ready to argue about it until he saw who he was confronting. He bit his tongue instead, averted his eyes, and stepped out of your way.

Mattheo moved by him without a word, the slight already forgotten, but you glanced back with the smallest ounce of pity in your eyes as Seamus knelt to the floor to gather his books and a few Gryffindors came to help him.

"M'fuckin' sick of it" Seamus said quietly once you were out of earshot. "Him, them, walkin' around like they own the school" he shot a nasty glare in the direction of the Slytherin table.

"Good luck doing anything about it" Ron sighed, resigned. "Nasty temper, that one" he added, eyes shifting warily towards Mattheo like he might actually have the ability to hear him from the other side of the loud hall.

"It's cruel is what it is! Neville is still trying to recover from Nott hexing him. He claimed it was an 'accident', but we all know the truth. He should be expelled!" Hermione added hotly, her cheeks flushing at the idea of anyone breaking the rules and getting away with it.

Seamus grimaced as he stared at your group, at the ease with which you had all carried on with your morning, laughing and joking, boisterous, without a care in the world because you knew you were all completely untouchable, above reproach or reprimand.

He knew there wasn't a thing he could do in retaliation without ending up in the infirmary or worse he thought solemly.

What I wouldn't give to take them down a notch his mind whirled, to make them feel something, to feel vulnerable, on edge, afraid like the rest of us.

His eyes narrowed.

Surely there was a weakness, a vulnerability he could find, something something to level the playing field. His eyes skated over Draco and Blaise, over Theo's large frame and Lorenzo's tall figure before they landed back on Mattheo, and finally on you.

You.

He watched the way Mattheo kept his arm around you, as he always did, keeping you close to his side like you were two parts of one whole and Seamus thought about the way he'd seen Mattheo pull you even closer when he'd run into him. He watched, really watched him turn to look at you when you talked and saw a surprising softness in his normally cold, dark eyes.

It was no secret that you two were together, Mattheo loved kissing you openly, unabashedly, anywhere and everywhere he pleased: in between classes, after quidditch matches, at meals, even in class from time to time with a complete disregard to anything the professors said about it.

If there was one thing anyone knew or had learned the hard way it was that you were one hundred percent off limits and to think otherwise was a death wish.

Seamus remembered the transfer student several months ago that had unknowingly asked you out, and how Mattheo had broken his nose over it. Twice. Never mind the time Mattheo happened to overhear a Ravenclaw compliment your outfit, and he ended up puking slugs for weeks.

Seamus shuddered.

Mattheo had an appetite for violence and a temper that never burned hotter than when it came to you, sending him into a fitful spiral.

She's his weakness he realized.

"I have an idea" he said to the group around him.

Weeks later, your feet carried you quickly down the winding stone staircase from Divination. You were first out the door, eager to spend every second of the short break you had between classes with Mattheo as you always did at this time in the neighboring stairwell of the North Tower.

You turned the corner to see him leaning against the wall, waiting for you and your face lit up as you strode toward him in the small, empty space. He stood up straighter as he took you in and he fidgeted with his hands in an unusually nervous way that had you laughing as you approached him and pressed into him, winding your arms around his neck.

"Hi handsome" you breathed against his lips before you kissed him.

But it was like kissing a statue.

His lips sat unmoving against yours, his hands awkwardly at his side.

"Matty?" you asked, pulling back to look at him to see the same look of genuine nerves on his face, his cheeks flushed.

You laughed again, totally confused at his reaction.

"Are you okay?—"

"—Y-yeah" he mumbled before running his hands slowly up your sides. "Yeah, m'so good" he confirmed before tugging you into him.

His lips met yours but something was still off, he was stiff and awkward. You moved to pull away from him again but his grip on you tightened, holding you in place until he swung you around and pushed you against the stone wall so quick and so hard your head knocked against the surface painfully.

Mattheo was a lot of things.

But careless with you was not one of them.

Your heart raced in your chest as your head throbbed. You pushed against him, but he was unwavering as he deepened his kiss aggressively, sloppily, despite your growing protests. And then he bit your bottom lip. Hard. And you tasted blood.

"Ah! Mattheo - what the fuck!" you said, shoving him hard this time as your hand flew to your bleeding lip.

He looked completely disheveled, flushed, his eyes glazed as he stared at you. Your stomach roiled.

And then you earnestly began to panic because for the first time in the year you'd been together you were keenly aware of how tall and how big he was, and how helpless you were in comparison.

Your heart began to race and your breaths came fast and shallow as you searched his face for any sign of the boy you loved and every cautionary word you'd been told came racing back to you: Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

Those fears mixed with how fiercely you loved him in a cocktail of confusion that left tears burning in your eyes as you tried to hold back a sob.

At the sight of that he smirked and a chill ran down your spine.

You tried to run.

He grabbed you.

"C'mon dove" he said, caging you in with his arms against the wall despite how you squirmed. "I know you like it like this" he muttered as lips attached to your neck and he began to suck and bite you.

Dove?

He'd never once called you that.

You scraped against his chest. You tried to shout until he put a hand over your mouth and it was like he was intentionally trying to mark you, sucking your skin so hard you could feel the bruising as you pushed and punched him to no avail. He reached for the top of your shirt and yanked, tearing it as buttons flew off.

You were crying hard now as you fought his hands when suddenly voices echoed in a nearby corridor and he pulled away from you.

His grip loosened and his eyes flashed with fear, and then he left, taking off down the corridor without a word.

You sunk to the floor in disbelief, gasping to catch your breath as cries ripped from you and you wrapped your arms around yourself, your brain a mottled mess as you tried to comprehend what the fuck had happened to your boyfriend.

As soon as you could steady yourself, you grasped your torn shirt with shaking hands and made your way as quickly as you could to the common room through a series of passageways and abandoned corridors to avoid running into anyone.

You snuck into the dungeons, head down, desperate to get to your room, when you heard your friends' voices.

"There she is. Hey! YN!" Blaise shouted.

Shit.

You tried to ignore him, to act like you didn't hear anything.

"YN!" Theo called after you, louder. "Hang on, I'll get her" he said, standing to come after you.

You tried to walk faster, doubling your pace.

"Hey, hey!" Theo said, catching up with you easily with his long strides. "Have you seen Mattheo? He—"

He reached for you and you pulled out of his grasp, turning to face him and he stopped in his tracks, the words dying on his lips as his eyes widened and the color drained from his face.

"YN" he said quietly, intently. "What the fuck happened to you? Holy shit."

He reached for your face, taking your chin in his warm hand, his touch so soft and gentle, so completely opposite of everything you'd just experienced that you immediately began to cry.

"Bella, your lip" he said, panic slipping into his tone both at your reaction and the sight of the blood there. "Who the fuck did this?"

You closed your eyes and shook your head and he slowly wrapped his arms around you. Your head fell to his chest as you grasped him, soaking his jumper with your tears.

By now, Draco, Lorenzo and Blaise had come over and were muttering softly.

"Bloody hell."

"This is fucking mental, mate."

"Matty is going to kill them."

And at just the mention of his name, you pushed further into Theo's chest, burrowing there like you could hide from the world.

"Bella, you're going to have to tell him, you can't protect whoever did this" he said, misreading your reaction.

"Well, we'll have to find him first. He'd better hear this from us" Blaise said.

Find him?

"W-what do you mean find him?" you muttered against Theo's chest.

"Haven't seen him since breakfast. Wasn't in class this morning and didn't come for our smoke" Draco replied.

Your head ached as much from your tears as it did from where he'd pushed you into the wall as you tried to process that. What had he been doing all day? And what the hell had gotten into him?

A burst of laughter, shouts and a loud wolf whistle echoed from behind you and pulled the group's attention to the door. You peeked from the comfort of Theo's arms to see Mattheo walking in... in his underwear.

"Thank you, thank you" he smirked, bowing cockily to the group of onlookers who cheered and gawked at his half-naked body, moving to make his way towards his room until he saw your group.

"There you fuckers are" he said as he approached. "I have had a fucking day - someone's getting their face rearranged—" but he stopped midsentence when he got close enough to see you in Theo's arms.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" he asked, stepping towards you immediately.

Theo moved to let you go but you gripped him tighter, hiding yourself, refusing to move.

Mattheo stopped, startled by your reaction like he'd run into a brick wall. He stood at a distance from you, completely unmoored by the sight of you grasping onto someone else for comfort. His heart began to thump heavily and angrily in his chest and his cheeks flushed in irritation and embarrassment.

He let out a steadying breath, his jaw clenched as his eyes slid to Theo, the decided object of the brewing anger he felt.

"What. The fuck. Is going on?" he asked again, his fury palpable.

"It's not—I don't—" Theo stumbled.

"—She hasn't said anything, mate" Enzo clarified.

You could feel yourself begin to shake and a dam of pressure welled up behind your eyes at how angry Mattheo was, at how afraid you were to be near him, at what he might do or say next and yet at the same time, how much you craved his comfort, how you knew he was the only person who could truly make you feel better.

Your tears came hot and wet down your cheeks as you cried into Theo's chest and Mattheo felt something crack inside of him. He'd never once seen you like this and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him, sick over how upset you were, sick that you were in pain, sick that you didn't seem to want him or to be anywhere near him, sick that he didn't know what to do or how to help.

"B-baby, please?" he said, nearly begging as he tried to move closer.

The tone in his voice and the affectionate nickname tugged at your heart.

You swallowed and turned your head to look at him, gently, tentatively letting Theo go.

Mattheo's eyes met yours before they wandered over your face.

His face fell.

And he stopped breathing.

A cold sensation like the ooze of a cracked egg ran down his body as he looked at you.

Your mascara was smeared, caught in the tears that were running down your face. Your cheeks were red and flushed and your lip was swollen and bleeding. He catalogued the bruises down your neck and marks that looked an awful lot like bites there too that led to your ripped and tattered shirt.

Mattheo had been angry plenty of times in his life, and for good reason. But this was the first time he felt it. He could have told you where and how quickly the rage pulsed in his veins, blooming hot in his chest, pumping into his arms, into his hands that curled into fists and ached to hit something, into his stomach, his legs that wanted to run, to cause chaos and destruction until he fixed this.

But he didn't expect the next emotion that hit him like a dark wave in a stormy ocean, all consuming, nearly bowling him over: deep and overwhelming sadness.

"N-no, no no no who-who did this? Baby" his voice ached with pain as he moved to step towards you again, desperate to hold you, to make it better as quickly as he could.

You took a small, hesitant step back and looked at him with confusion, with trepidation.

And you said the next words so quietly he was certain he'd heard you wrong.

"You" you whispered.

His face scrunched in confusion.

"It was you" you said louder and all the boys turned to look at you and then back to Mattheo.

"In the stairwell? Our spot?" you said pointedly, trying to get him to remember.

"You were there, waiting for me, but you were... off. Different. And then y-you..." you gestured to yourself as you tried to keep from coming undone again at the memory.

Theo took a protective step closer to you.

Mattheo carded his hands through his hair in exasperation where they rested atop his head as he paced a step back and forth before stopping in front of you. It was taking his entire willpower not to lose his composure, and not to launch at his best friend.

"I got jumped this morning" he said patiently, evenly, though his underlying anger was still very much there. "I woke up in a broom closet ten minutes ago with no fucking clothes."

"B-broom closet?" you muttered, confused.

"Yeah, it was maddening, had to break the door down and— look, that doesn't matter. Please please tell me you believe me."

Your mind was reeling. You opened your mouth hesitantly to reply, but you couldn't find your words, your emotions, your fear, everything you felt far too raw.

He let out another deep breath and then crouched in front of you, making himself smaller, less threatening as he met your gaze directly.

"You are the most important person in my world. You know that, right? You are everything to me. Everything that is precious and perfect and right. And I would never ever hurt you."

You met his dark brown eyes that were shining intently up at you, unflinching in their truth and you nodded despite your tears and sniffles. Of course you knew that, which was why everything that happened this morning was so fucked up.

He slowly extended his hand to you, palm up, wordlessly asking you to believe him, to trust him.

"You're okay now, you're safe. No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here, okay?"

And gods you'd needed to hear that. You nodded again, more strongly now.

"We're going to figure this out. And I'm going to fix this, I can promise you I will fix this. Hey, can you look at me?"

Your eyes met his and more hot tears fell down your cheeks at the gentleness and patience in his expression, the way he was nearly on his knees begging for you to trust him, to believe that the boy in front of you in no way could have been the boy from this morning and you pursed your lips.

"I love you" he whispered.

And those words alone healed a significant part of your hurt.

You slowly placed your shaking hand in his and it was like your body immediately registered the difference in his touch, how he tenderly ran a thumb over your knuckles as he continued to speak softly to you as he stood up.

"I've got you, you're going to be okay. It's me, I'm here" he said as he slowly pulled you toward him.

You took one step, and then another, and then you curled yourself against his warm chest and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding as you grasped him. He held you tightly to him, squeezing hard, and his hand held the back of your head as he pressed his lips to your temple.

You sniffed and let out a few more shaky breaths, letting him consume you, trying to replace every memory from this morning with his touch like it could pull the fear from you as you listened to his heartbeat and took in his familiar smell.

Theo cleared his throat as politely as possible.

"Really hate to break up the moment, but if you spent the morning in a broom closet, then how the fuck were you also walking around the North Tower?—"

"—Polyjuice potion" Draco said, without missing a beat, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's the only logical explanation, would also explain why they had to take your clothes" he gestured to Mattheo's half-naked body.

"What?!" Blaise exhaled in disbelief.

"So you mean to say someone planned all of this? Went through all of this effort just to get to her?" Theo asked, and you could hear the fury rising with his tone.

Mattheo's arms squeezed around you, a subconscious reaction to the thought.

"What kind of sick fuck?—"

"—I'm going to kill them" Mattheo said flatly.

And it wasn't a turn of phrase.

He'd said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly that you nearly believed him and hugged him back a little tighter.

"Do you have any idea who it was?" Lorenzo asked.

"No you dipshit, don't you think if she knew it wasn't him this wouldn't have happened?" Draco replied, smacking him in the back of the head.

Theo and Blaise chimed in, arguing the point with one another.

"He did say something weird" you mused quietly, silencing them all as they turned to look at you. "He called me dove" you said, shaking your head at the memory, like you could make yourself forget it.

Mattheo held you that night in a way that made you wonder if he'd ever let you go again. Every minute you spent back with the real him seemed to stitch you together again, to heal and comfort you as you snuggled further into his arms.

He'd apologized no less than a thousand times by now, the guilt steadily eating away at him, even though he had nothing to be sorry for, which you continually reminded him.

"You're a fucking angel" he sighed, unable to stop thinking about it as he traced a thumb over your cheek, his expression sorrowful and raw. "Someone did this to you because of me."

"Matty, that's not—"

"—I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have been there."

"It's okay, it's not your fault. I'm okay now" you said, smiling, feeling the words as you said them, tracing a finger down the bridge of his nose.

You tried to reassure him the rest of the night, managing to coax a few smiles out of him, but his eyes never left you, like he feared looking away for a single blink would leave you in danger. And although a spell had mended your lip and healed your bruises, he continued to trace his fingers over where each mark on your skin had been, like he was reminding himself, committing them to memory.

Nothing could have prepared you for the tension of the days that followed.

The whole group was on edge, like a pack of rabid dogs, ready to snap at anyone that got too close to you. One if not all of them walked you to every class, to every meal, to every event, to Hogsmeade and back again; Mattheo even insisted on showering with you and sleeping with you every night, much to you sincere enjoyment.

The boys spent their days eyeing everyone with suspicion and their nights trying to plot out who might have attacked you. Five guys were walking around the castle with black eyes, but no one had come clean and it was slowly driving them mad; the lack of answers was taking the situation from a serious problem to a personal vendetta.

Two weeks passed. And though the tension remained, you were settling into the heightened level of protection, finding a sense of calm in the way the boys surrounded you like a security blanket. You had every confidence that they would figure this out and until then all you could do was seek a return to normalcy, to focus on the present.

You grounded yourself with the task at hand, potting bundles of dittany during Herbology class shoulder to shoulder with your friends at a long table in the warm greenhouse, the boys acting as a veritable wall between you and the Gryffindors.

Your eyes caught Mattheo's across the narrow table from you and you watched the way the spring sun caught his dark locks. He sent you one of his signature smirks and a quick wink that made you blush and smile.

Your classmates chattered back and forth quietly until a phrase wafted down the table as Seamus Finnegan leaned over to Hermione Granger.

"C'mon dove, help me out?"

And it was like someone sucked the air out of the room. The warmth in the greenhouse suddenly felt stiflingly hot and you could hear the blood rushing to your head as it whooshed in your ears.

Time slowed to seconds like the tick of a broken time-turner.

Five.

Your eyes lifted and met Mattheo's whose had lost all warmth and peace in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. They were devoid of color, clouded, jet black. His jaw ticked as he looked at you, asking you wordlessly to confirm what he'd just heard.

The trill of Finnegan's voice, the accent was all too familiar, it was undeniable and it sent you spiraling back to that morning in the stairwell in a way that had you woozy on your feet. You nodded, small and quick back to him.

Confirming what you'd thought so many times before, that there was an inexplicable bond that linked the boys together, four sets of eyes wordlessly confirmed the same.

And then chaos erupted.

Four.

Lorenzo ran for Finnegan and Theo dropped the plant in his hands, sending shattered pottery and dirt flying in his rage, hot on Enzo's heels.

Three.

Your eyes followed them both but fell to Draco who had started moving in the opposite direction, frantically pushing past classmates who were looking around in panic as he tried to reach Mattheo.

Two.

You glanced at your boyfriend.

He hadn't moved.

He wasn't making a scene, but he'd pulled out his wand, and for the life of you, you couldn't remember a time when he'd favored his magic over his fists.

Oh no you thought as you began to move towards him yourself.

One.

Mattheo stood straight and tall, brandishing his wand with unflinching confidence and surety as he pointed it directly at Finnegan's head.

"AVADA KE—" his voice boomed.

"—Not like this, mate!!" Draco shouted, grabbing his arm at the last possible second.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Mattheo roared, the contact breaking him out of his stupor as he thrashed in Draco's arms.

By now the others had wrangled Finnegan whose face was as green as the detail on their robes; he knew he was utterly and hopelessly fucked, and if you weren't sure before you were certain now that it had been him, the guilt so clear on his face it might as well have been written on his forehead. Your skin crawled.

The rest of your classmates were running and screaming, tearing by you to flee the room as your feet kept you cemented to the floor.

"You're dead! You're fucking dead!" Mattheo's voice echoed, as he screamed and thrashed in Draco's arms.

"You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it, Finnegan! How dare you, how fucking dare you!!!"

Draco was barely holding onto him as they all walked quickly towards the back of the greenhouse.

You moved to follow until Blaise came up beside you and gently reached for you, pulling you into the throng of people fleeing.

"C'mon" he said, softly but firmly guiding you the other way, back towards the castle. "They've got this, you don't need to be here for this—"

"—But this is because of me, Blaise" you urged, pulling back, frantically looking between him and the disappearing figures of Mattheo and your friends, his raging threats echoing off the glass walls in a way that amplified them.

"No, this is because of Finnegan" he said coldly, following your gaze. "And he'll get what's coming to him."

Blaise guided you quickly back to the castle, back to the common room and he tried his best to keep you company, to keep you occupied, though neither of you could properly focus on anything else.

"It'll be alright, right?" you asked quietly, for the hundredth time.

He nodded steadily. "It'll be alright, YN" he reassured you.

You sighed.

"This is just... a lot" you admitted.

"Babe, if you wanted someone to be level-headed and normal about you, you're with the wrong guy" he said in attempt to make you smile.

You smiled weakly and toyed with the fringe of the blanket that you pulled into your lap.

An hour passed.

And then four more.

You skipped dinner and sat in the secluded corner of the common room with Blaise until it emptied and the embers in the fireplace burned low, nearly out. You had sat quietly together now for hours. You were exhausted of conversation and exhausted from the wash of emotions from the day, a mix of relief, of pain in reliving the memories upon hearing Finnegan's voice, of worry about what exactly was going on.

You'd never seen Mattheo like that; he had been completely unhinged and you recalled his words the day it all happened. "I'm going to kill them" spoken like a vow, an oath.

It was beyond late before the door snicked open quietly and the four boys walked in without a sound. You and Blaise stood and they met Blaise's eyes first, nodding at one another before your friends departed, leaving you with somber smiles to be with Mattheo.

You navigated around the couches to him, your footsteps quickening to close the distance and you pulled him into your arms. His body was stiff with tension, but you felt it begin to melt away the second you touched him; he nuzzled into you and you could feel the tired on him, mixed with a burdened sense of relief.

"Come on" you said, taking his hand and leading him to your bedroom.

He sat down on the corner of the bed in the dim light and let out a sigh like he was trying to unload the weight he'd been carrying, his shoulders slumped as he ran his fingers through his hair. You stepped between his legs and reached for his hands the way you always did, ready to tend to them.

"They're fine" he croaked, his voice hoarse as he met your gaze, smiling softly at you, taking you in. You could tell he was trying to distract you and when he rested his hands on your hips and moved to pull you into him, he almost succeeded.

You pressed a quick, searing kiss to his lips and then reached to pull his hands off of your hips and he relented, sighing again.

His knuckles were badly bruised and bloodied, at least two of them looked to be broken from what you could tell and a frown crested your lips to know that the same hands that were so gentle with you could be capable of such violence.

But it was the crimson blood that stained his palms, that gathered under each fingernail that made you pause. That was new.

"Mattheo" you whispered, the question lingering in the air unspoken. What did you do?

"He's gonna be gone for awhile" he said plainly in response before his eyes met yours straight on, intense.

"And he is never, ever going to touch you again."

You pursed your lips and nodded, acknowledging that this was his way of apologizing, of making things right, of balancing the scales of justice as judge, jury and executioner.

He brought his bloody hands to your face, cupped it gently and kissed you.

Seamus didn't come back until well after spring solstice, weeks later.

Despite the rampant rumors and speculation, he didn't say a single word about what happened, like the boys had taken his very voice from him.

His face was still mottled with multicolored bruises, one eye swollen shut, evidence that even magic couldn't heal the extent of the damage they'd caused.

But even despite that, something you'd learned about your friends is that they were not quick to forgive and they never, ever forgot...

You were lounging by the Black Lake on an unusually warm afternoon, sprawled on a large blanket with your friends, your shoes and socks forgone and your skirt and shirtsleeves rolled up in an effort to catch a tan.

Mattheo himself was shirtless beside you, his eyes closed against the warm rays as you rested your head on his bicep. Theo, Enzo and Draco were sitting next to you playing exploding snap while Blaise flipped through a book, and you sighed, reveling in the rare moment of peace, which didn't last longer than fifteen minutes.

"Bit warm for a jumper, isn't if Finnegan?" Draco shouted.

Your eyes fluttered open and you turned your head to see a group of Gryffindors nearby.

Sure enough, the group was dressed like you, short sleeves, bare feet, but for Finnegan who was covered head to toe and was visibly dripping sweat. His faced flushed even redder at the comment as he averted his eyes, immediately shrinking in pure terror.

"Should take it off, mate" Lorenzo chimed in cheekily. "Enjoy the sun, no?"

Seamus swallowed but wouldn't meet their eyes.

You turned to look at Mattheo but he hadn't moved. His eyes remained closed though you could see a muscle tic in his clenched jaw.

"C'mon then" Theo said, sitting up like he meant to move. "Need our help? We'll come lend a hand."

Seamus looked like he was about to cry as his face crumpled.

You didn't know what they were playing at, but you could tell it was torturing him, and for the briefest moment you pitied him, until your memories came wading back, threatening to overwhelm you with the feeling of sickening fear and betrayal.

And it was like Mattheo could sense it, his eyes fluttering open to look at you as he tried to tug you back into his arms.

"Just ignore them" he said, his voice still scratchy.

But you saw Seamus pull his sweater over his head out of the corner of your eye and as it came away from his body you noticed the crimson lines covering his arms. Even at your distance you could feel the sickness of them, the curse of dark magic in the air and several people gasped and scrambled away from him.

You sat up and stared closer as you realized the lines spelled something.

On his left arm, MUDBLOOD in deep angry jagged letters, in wounds carved into his skin.

On his right, RAPIST.

He took one fateful look at your group and then got up and nearly tripped over himself as he ran back to the castle.

"Aww, was it something I said?" Draco cried after him.

"Bye!" Lorenzo waved cheerfully.

Blaise blew him a kiss.

And Theo watched his every move under dark lidded eyes.

But Mattheo was looking solely at you, trying to gauge your reaction, your understanding. He reached for your hand and twined his fingers in yours, pulling you back to lay down with him as he looked at you with vulnerability and caressed your cheek. Now you knew the truth. You knew just how dangerous he could be, just what lengths he would go to for you.

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest and your mind raced and for a moment it occurred to you to be scared.

Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

You thought about broken knuckles and black eyes, of blood-stained palms and the lingering feeling of dark magic in the air. You heard his voice rattling the panes of the greenhouse with his rage, 'You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it!'

And then that same voice, from the same boy, sweetly, softly ‘No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here. I love you, YN.'

And you thought about the caress of his lips against yours on a stormy night, of his warm arms around you, of the feeling of his calloused hands on your bare skin, and the rumble of his voice in his chest as your head lay on his heart.

"It'll never heal" he said quietly, bringing you back to the present moment. "No magic can fix it. He'll wear that reminder on his skin for the rest of his life."

His chocolate eyes warmed as they looked at you, asking you, one more time, to trust him, to tell him that you understood.

You smiled softly, and traced a finger over his lips and a calm comfort settled over you, a reassurance that no matter what life threw your way, this boy would be standing by your side, that he might burn the world to the ground but would never let a flame touch you, that this was simply how he loved: deep, sincere, serious and unrelenting.

“I love you” you whispered in reassurance before leaning in to press the sweetest kiss to his lips that melted his heart and proved to him that every sin he committed along the way would always be worth it, for you.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii, @darlingshecried, @girllblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen, @chelawrites, @loverliner, @smut-anarchy, @locknco, @pizzaapeteer

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #slytherin boys #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle flangst

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headspace-hotel · 3 months ago

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This year has, so far, been for me a series of rapid realizations of what I have been unlearning.

I went to the library. This was a couple weeks ago. I knew I needed to read a book, fiction. I hadn't done so in over a year and it was the longest period of time I had ever gone without doing so. I made a rule: I would only pick books I had never heard of, by authors I had never heard of, and I would not do any preliminary research or even bother to look at what the book was about. I would make my decision on whether to read or not purely on my impression of the title, cover and opening lines.

The book was The Connoisseur by Evan S. Connell. It was kind of a random selection. I sat down with it in a corner of the library and straight up devoured it. I tore through the book within a few hours, without taking a single break. I was captivated. I couldn't put it down.

It is a book about a guy who buys a Mayan figurine in a knickknack shop while he's on a business trip. and becomes obsessed with pre-Columbian sculptural art. There isn't really much of a plot apart from this. He goes to sketchy antique shows, has conversations with museum curators, wealthy art dealers and forgers, and seeks to learn how to distinguish a genuine pre-Columbian piece from a fake one. It was written in the 1970's, so the views on Native Americans are antiquated and sometimes offensive, and there is the troubling thread of the very concept of looting another culture's treasures and treating them as collectibles, though the book is not without commentary on this.

All the same, it was a completely intoxicating read. The vicarious experience of becoming fascinated with a topic and having it unfold a whole world for you was ferociously gripping, and so was the intrigue of the art collecting world itself. The frauds, forgeries, smuggling, museums, academics, aristocrats, auctions and seedy flea markets. Will he ever be able to tell if a piece is "real?" Does it matter if it's "real?" Why does he want to own and possess a piece of art, and how does its "realness" affect that desire? The book leaves you not knowing what to think.

It is a book about curiosity, portrayed in the narrative as a totally unreasonable lightning bolt that strikes a man who has never been fascinated by anything and changes him forever. Why? Why does a Mayan figurine, in particular, speak to him? Why does any piece of art, or any fascinating thing in the world, speak to anyone? It is unknowable.

I went to the library again. I picked a new book using the same rules. This book was Fragile Beasts by Tawni O'Dell. Just like the last time, I was totally captivated. I couldn't put it down.

Did I have a couple major problems with the portrayal of some important aspects of the story? Yes. (It would make the post much longer to discuss.) Was I completely captured by and invested in the story for the time I was reading it? Also yes. The book braids together several very different strands-- the story of a legendary Spanish bullfighter and a wealthy American woman that he loved, two brothers stuck in an ugly family situation after their father's death in a car accident, and a rich old heir to a Pennsylvania coal mining fortune and to the sinister underbelly of her family's business.

There was a lot about baseball, which I know nothing about, and bullfighting, which I know nothing about, and I certainly don't know anything about being a teenaged boy who resents and mistrusts his estranged mother, or an aristocratic old lady who lives in a mansion and eats fancy Spanish food. It was fun to experience so much unfamiliar stuff and to care about things I wouldn't normally care about. Once again I couldn't stop reading until I had finished it.

I don't know that either book was "good," though I thought they were both well written; I just know that reading them was like being hooked up to an IV of something essential and life-giving and feeling it reanimating my body.

It had been a year since I had read any fiction, but it had been much, much longer since I had loved to read. As I became an adult I had become picky and critical about books, and developed a highly sophisticated sense of my taste and the books I considered good- which were very rare. My taste in books became so sophisticated, eventually, that I didn't like books at all anymore.

I had almost withered away from deficiency of that essential nutrient known as STORY. I'd almost crumbled myself into dust from pretentiousness! I may have been terribly wrong about the kinds of things I liked to read, on top of it. And I certainly hadn't realized that story was such an essential nutrient.

"Just entertainment" the pretentious sorts of people might say of a book they think is useless-- but what is entertainment but to absorb your mind in something, and what is absorbing your mind in a book but to experience things you would never have experienced? It expands you and makes you more complicated. It is the study of human existence itself.

Now all I have been able to think about today is finishing my work and going to the library again...

#books #reading #stories

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enden-k · 6 months ago

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yes this is abt me assembling a new bookshelf once again to rearrange my books once again bc i once again bought too many in the past time - getting annoyed with myself - falling asleep on the floor - waking up to a mountain of books everywhere and no end in sight. i will stop buying books i cant do this anymore istg (me when i lie)

one thing you need to know about me is that im the type of person who is like "this is hell. id rather die than do it again" and then he does the exact same thing again with the same exact conclusion of not doing it again etcetc 🔁

#this is a 20+ yrs book collection im unfortunately a natural hoarder/collector and reader. or smth like that #wish i could just jam them in wherever theres some space and be done but unfortunately i #am a slave to my aesthetics and have a hunters need to display my most beloved treasures properly or smth #if this keeps going i have to move in a bigger place where i can just. have my own ass home library #I DIDNT EVEN PUT MOST OF MY NOVELS INTO SHELVES THEYRE JUST SAFELY TUCKED AWAY BC NO ROOM AHAJBAHJAKCS #i also might have to sell some merch of fandoms/characters i dont need anymore tbh #babbles #tbd

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pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago

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Overlooked Treasure

The Batfamily had always prided themselves on being tightly knit—at least, that’s what they claimed. But for you, the quietest member of the family, it was clear that their bond never quite reached you.

Living under the same roof as Gotham’s greatest heroes didn’t mean they actually noticed you. Bruce insisted he cared, but he was always too busy with crime-fighting. Dick smiled at you but never stayed long enough to ask how you were. Tim would sometimes forget you were even in the room. And Damian… well, Damian barely considered you worth his time.

So, you turned to books.

They became your escape, your comfort. Worlds made of ink and paper welcomed you more than the family who shared your home. Books never ignored you, never forgot you.

And the Batfamily? They never noticed.

Until they did.

Maybe it started when Bruce, during one of his late-night patrols at the Batcomputer, saw security footage of you reading alone in the manor’s dimly lit library. Or when Damian passed by the study at 3 a.m. and found you still awake, buried in yet another novel.

Maybe it was the guilt creeping into Tim’s chest when he realized he had no idea what kind of books you liked—despite you reading in front of him every day.

Whenever it started, things changed.

At first, it was subtle.

Dick began leaving new releases from your favorite series on your nightstand. Jason, somehow, got his hands on rare collector’s editions and casually dropped them off in your room. Tim started asking what you were reading—then, analyzing your choices like a puzzle he had to solve.

And Damian, who once dismissed you, now argued with you about literature, challenging your interpretations as if your mind was a battlefield he needed to conquer.

But then… things got strange.

One day, you told Bruce you were heading to your favorite bookstore. His response? A firm look and a simple, unsettling statement:

“Why would you leave? You have everything you need here.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

Dick’s once warm smiles now felt suffocating. Jason started investigating the bookstores you frequented, ensuring that “no one gave you the wrong kind of books.” Tim dissected your reading habits, not out of curiosity, but to understand how your mind worked—how to control it.

And Damian?

Damian, who once barely acknowledged you, now treated you like a mental challenge. Every discussion was a test, every debate a way to shape your thinking, to mold you into someone he approved of.

Then, one day, you realized—

To them, you weren’t just a person anymore.

You were a book.

Something to study, analyze, and—most terrifyingly—rewrite.

But you refused to let them write your ending.

@welpthisisboring

@lilyalone (I wrote about your request but Tumblr deleted it and I apologize for the late reply. )

---

#batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #batfamily x reader #batfam #yandere batfam x reader #bruce wayne x reader #batfamily #yandere x reader #damian wayne x reader #yandere dc #yandere dick grayson x reader #yandere tim drake #batman x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam #yandere damian wayne x reader

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orphicsun · 2 months ago

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hi!! could u pls write about prison vi or ellie x sweetheart reader who works as the librarian at the prison <3

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮. (𝐕𝐈)

content: fem reader who works at stillwater's library, prisoner vi, fluff, powder mention, mention of implied sa, kind of angsty because i can't write stillwater without mentioning the injustice.

a/n: hi anon sorry for the long wait for this request i've been brainstorming for it but decided to wait until frenzy was out to start it. as for ellie, i have an ellie and sweetheart reader fic i've been working on! it's still deep in the drafts though. i hope you enjoy this:)

Stillwater's contents are harsh and hard to look at. The walls, stacks to the highest of heights, are simply grey bricks with cracks that will never see maintenance. The cafeteria's lighting is low and depressing, and the view of the prison from afar is of the alcatraz, only that prison would be a heaven for stillwater's inhabitants.

The cells are even worse, and that is where prisoners stay most of their sentence. Writings on the drab-toned walls is not uncommon. The beds are made of cheap steel, the springs imprinting into the backs of prisoners even through a mattress layer. Stillwater is the type of place you'd see parents make up scary stories about to keep their children out of inevitable trouble.

However, inside the high fence surrounding the institution, there lay one part that is less Edgar Allen Poe-esque.

You take pride in the library you've been given. Just on the first floor and to the right, prisoners can enter through the doors if they are permitted free time. Inside is your job and where you try to make the miserable a bit less miserable.

You were born in Piltover to a wealthy family, though you didn't care for the life of arts and exquisite tastes. Instead, you secured a well-paying job at a prison most people would rather gauge their eyes out than step foot in. It was when you caught a glimpse of a face through a dark, hidden cell that you accepted the job, and from there, you've tried your best to correct enforcer wrongs.

You sit at the front desk, a pen in your hand.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Around you is the library you've furnished with books-some your favorites, some you've found as donated treasures or upon a relative's dust-collecting shelf. Though it isn't much, you work with the budget given to, as the council calls it, "provide prisoners with educational resources." You'd like to say that it's more than that for you, however.

You've grown fond of a few prisoners, and some are regulars. Many don't bother with the library, but the ones who do are often the people that you think about at night. Their stories keep you up.

A single mother whose choices were limited, while the mouths she needed to feed were needy.

A man whose daughter was spotted on the street by a group of thugs, a man who would rather be put on trial for murders than know that the men walked freely.

Countless stories of people who deserved a lesser sentence or none at all, while the council's own crimes stack like a pile of dirty magazines.

One girl in general separates herself from the rest, however. You find yourself thinking about her the most.

Click, click, click, click.

You hear the door open, two enforcers present behind Vi. They shut the door behind her, and she walks towards you without much hesitation.

"Got anything new for me?" She asks, eyes briefly glancing over the stack of paperwork at your desk before meeting yours.

"It's been a while since you've visited." You notice, as if asking for an explanation.

"What, you miss me or somethin'?" Vi teases, laughing at the small, embarrassed huff that slips past your lips.

"I'm allowed to care for the people here, especially you. Please tell me you didn't get yourself into anymore trouble, Vi. I told you it worries me." Your tone carries a hint of worry that Vi is unfamiliar with in other people. She doesn't get much bonding behind bars, and to be frank, she doesn't know how to take it.

"It wasn't my fault." She says quietly, not quite meeting your concerned gaze. "I just want something to read. Anything new for me?"

You nod, stepping behind the desk and leading her to an aisle a few rows down. It's further out from your desk, and your heels are loud on the ground, especially loud with just you and Vi in your library.

"I'll never get how you walk in those shoes." You hear Vi say from behind you, and you laugh despite the jab.

"I'm used to it." You simply tell her, leading her down through the aisle.

"I forget you're a Piltie." Though that is another insult, there is something fonder hidden behind it. You know how much Vi hates the better-off, and if she forgets she hates you, isn't that a good thing? "You know, when me and my sister were little, I remember how much she wanted a pair of shoes just like those. I always thought they looked silly, but they kinda suit you." She says quietly, a softness in her voice.

You stop at the end of the aisle and grab a novel from the fourth shelf. You turn back to Vi and hold it up for her eyes to read over the title.

"Your Native Land, Your Life." Vi reads aloud, brows furrowed in confusion. "A poetry collection?"

You nod, a small smile on your face. "Yup. Some of her poetry took me a while to understand, but I think the read is worth it. Really beautiful stuff."

Vi nods, and you're glad she doesn't make a move to leave. You take in her tattoed face and the sharpness of her jaw. It always bothers you how little they feed Stillwater prisoners, but at the same time, something in Vi carries a beauty that you like to admire when you're allowed to.

You think that there is something sweet in Vi that can't ever truly die. You see many prisoners harden with their experiences in here, but not Vi. She carries herself with violence in her cell and throughout the hallways with the rest of the group, but the bits of information she shares with you regarding her sister tells you otherwise. The way she speaks to you makes you want to ask what you are to her, but you refrain. It's mere kindness, and you should be professional.

Still, you don't move away or scream for the guards as she currently leans in. You let her breath hit your face.

"You confuse the hell out of me." She tells you, quietly and intimately. When you seem confused, she continues. "I know you've heard the stories about me. The things I've done to people in here. Yet you still look at me like I'm as innocent as a doe."

"You aren't automatically a horrible person because you're here, Vi."

She scoffs, but doesn't step away from you. "I've done shitty things. Doesn't that make me a shitty person?" She speaks, low and vulnerable. Her voice is unusually small.

"I don't think you are." You say quietly. You can't help but smile at each other. Before you can even think, Vi's lips press against yours in a soft, hesitant but sweet kiss. You process what is happening and return the kiss. Your hands cup her jaw, fingers threading through her soft hair. She presses you against the shelf with a hand around your waist, but she doesn't press for more. Her lips move against yours affectionately for a few more seconds, lingering before she reluctantly pulls away.

This is what always gets you-that look in Vi's eyes, vulnerable and loving. You see it when she talks about things she loves, and you long for it when the prison weighs her down. Her thumb makes contact with your cheek and strokes the soft skin.

"You need to get back to your cell. It's almost lights out." You reluctantly say, still not pulling away. Neither of you can seem to seperate, wanting to prolong the moment. "Promise me you'll stay out of trouble?"

"If it means I can visit you again." She plants one last kiss on your lips before letting you go.

You truly feel sympathy for all of Stillwater's prisoners. You think of them and their situations. You think about their families back in the undercity. However, you think of Vi the most, in the dark of your room. You'll let yourself think of her until you drift asleep tonight, and imagine if she were with you, her hands keeping you cozy and tight in her embrace.

taglist: @witzs, @bewareofmyglock, @ruelezz (if the tag doesn't work it's because of your settings!)

#requests #vi x reader #vi smut #vi headcanons #violet arcane #vi #vi arcane #arcane

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queensunshinee · 4 months ago

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So sweet || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex), drinking, mention of an eating disorder, again, I really don't know what's going on here. It's so weird. Just a small but important reminder: English is not my first language, so please don’t be mad if there are any embarrassing mistakes- I’m really trying my best!

Word Count: 7.3k

So sweet

Patrick wanted to know what is it about you that makes Art lose it. You're not the funniest, not the best at tennis—or at anything Patrick has ever seen you do, to be honest—and you're definitely not the prettiest. You're not the best. You're just not.

"She’s just so sweet," Art had said when the two of them were sitting in one corner of the Stanford cafeteria, and you were in another. Patrick didn’t see it; he thought you were scheming. That you were the least sweet person he knew. And because Art has known you for so many years, Patrick has known you long enough not to trust you. Who picks a college just because the guy she’s sleeping with also chose Stanford? Only a conniving witch. Someone who wants to pull Art away from him and Tashi. Someone who wants to pull Art away from his dreams. From tennis. Someone who wants Art all to herself. Patrick figured it out years ago. You can fool Art. Fuck it, you can fool yourself if you want. But you can’t fool Patrick.

And it doesn’t matter at all that you and Art have known each other since you were six. It doesn’t matter that all the evidence points to your parents being responsible for your academic choices. It doesn’t matter that it’s only since you got to Stanford that you started sleeping together; he never touched you inappropriately even once before college. Patrick didn’t like you before you two started having sex, so he sure as hell doesn’t like you now. You didn’t even bother to sit with them. You didn’t even bother to say a simple 'hi' to him. You don’t respect him enough to sit at the same table when he comes to visit Tashi and Art. You don’t respect him. Period.

“Do you think she’s ever eaten a burger?” Patrick suddenly asks, completely ignoring Art’s rambling about competitions and trying to inspect your plate from afar. He can’t see what’s on it, but he’s sure there’s nothing nutritious enough there. “I know for a fact she’s eaten more than one burger in her life,” Art rolls his eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with her?” he asks for the millionth time. He asked it every summer. He asked it after Patrick went on about how insane it was that you and Art were going to the same college.

“I’m not obsessed. I just think there’s no way her pussy smells normal with that diet,” Patrick says, earning himself a well-deserved elbow jab from Art. Art never talks about you that vulgarly. Art doesn’t talk about you much at all. That’s part of what annoys Patrick: that they can talk about any other girl, but with you, it’s never an option. Even about Tashi, he managed to talk to Art. He gave him the signal. He told him. But Art doesn’t share anything about what he does with you.

Patrick knows about Melanie from statistics that Art slept with. Patrick knows about Georgia or Regina or whatever her name is who works at the library and made it to second base with Art. He knows down to the exact books they leaned on. But he doesn’t know anything about you. Art keeps you to himself as if you’re some treasure he needs to guard at all costs. Patrick hates you and the broccoli you’re shoving into your mouth while reading a book, ignoring the outside world. You’re such a fucking smug witch. You won’t be able to fool him. . . . Art will never tell Patrick that there are moments when he thinks he loves you. Sometimes. Most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he knows he loves Tashi. The same Tashi that Patrick took for himself. Snatched her right out of Art’s hands.

But with you, it’s different. With you, it’s been building for years. You’re the one he smeared snot on when you were six, and somehow, you kept coming over to his house to watch cartoons with him. You kept showing up at the tennis court, reading a book while he practiced. You kept being an inseparable part of him.

Art knows you love him. It’s so clear to him, almost as clear as the fact that his first dog was named Jameson and that he died when Art was 8-years-old. You held his hand when he forced his parents to bury him. He didn’t want you to hold it, tried to shake you off for a few seconds, but you insisted. He never told you, but it felt nice.

Your first kiss was with Art. He insisted. Of course, he insisted. You love him so much, and you’re so, so sweet. Always polite and blushing at the right moments, and at 14, he kissed you. Explained to you that you couldn’t start high school without knowing how to kiss. He was doing you a favor. You said “thank you” afterward, like the polite girl you always were.

You kept kissing after that, as if it was the natural thing to do. Every time he came to visit in the summer and you’d come over. Every time he went to your place. You’d end your time together with his lips exploring yours. So sweet.

He will never tell Patrick that he knows you better than he knows himself. That he knows all your secrets just as you know all of his own. That sometimes he melts under your gaze and would be willing to tell you his ATM code if you asked. He will never reveal this to Patrick. Or you. He will never tell him that sometimes he feels like you’re such a deep part of him that you are simply him. And he is simply you. And when he thinks too deeply about that, he’s capable of barging into your lecture, telling the professor there’s been an emergency, dragging you into the janitor’s closet, staring for a second at your terrified face, and fucking you there on one of the shelves. Not that it happened. Maybe. He won't tell anyone.

And he will never give you the chance to go all in for him because it’s too terrifying. Because with you, he feels helpless, out of control, almost embarrassed. And because Patrick hates you. He’s never seen Patrick hate anyone as much as he hates you. And Art doesn’t think he can be in a relationship with someone Patrick doesn’t like. Which, in itself, is a crazy thought.

But Patrick loves Tashi, and Tashi has nothing sweet about her. No look that radiates tenderness or sweetness. She doesn’t smell like cinnamon and vanilla. She doesn’t have a soul that wants to share secrets with him. Tashi doesn’t look at him like he holds the moon. Tashi doesn’t look at him as if he could fill an empty space in her heart. Because she has no empty space in her heart. Tennis fills her heart. Tennis and Patrick. Art looks at her heart from the outside. He’s not a part of her story. He so badly wants to be part of her story. He thinks it's a need at this point.

And every time his mind fills with Tashi, he finds some random girl willing to stroke his ego (and his dick) just enough to make him forget. He never goes for the easy option; he doesn’t go to you. He only wants to be with you when he’s thinking of you. When you fill him so completely that he can’t breathe. When he physically needs you in front of him. Not when he wants someone else to touch him. Not when he wants Tashi Duncan so badly he could cry.

He looks at her and Patrick, unable to understand what she sees in him. What she finds in his best friend. The scatterbrained guy who doesn’t shower every day, who wears the same underwear longer than is acceptable, who snores while laughing, who eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants, like he isn’t trying to make a living as a pro. Like everything is a joke. Art doesn’t understand how Tashi can waste her time on a joke. . . . "What are you studying, Little Dove?" Patrick pulled out one of your earbuds when he found you tucked away in a corner of the library. He saw how you physically recoiled at the nickname he’d given you the first time you met. Not a nickname you liked. That only made him want to call you that enough times for it to be engraved on your gravestone when you die. For you to maybe one day think it was your real name. For it to become a part of you. Little Dove. He didn’t even know why he called you that. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. But it wasn’t necessarily bad.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, half-indifferent, reaching out for him to give you back the earbud he’d so brutally yanked. "Killing time. I had a fight with Tashi, so I can’t go to her match. Art’s obviously there because well, he’s in love with my girlfriend." He paused to study your reaction, wanting to see how you’d respond to the fact that Art didn’t love you. That he loved what belonged to Patrick, and you didn’t belong to Patrick, so he would never love you. Not really. Not entirely. "You’re the only person I know here. It’s your job to entertain me," he said, flashing a fake smile.

Everything about Patrick was fake. That was something you’d learned to be indifferent to years ago. Every time he jabbed at you or said something vulgar to disgust you, you knew it was fake. There was no point in taking him seriously. You pitied him the way you’d pity a little kid whose ice cream cone had fallen and no one was willing to buy him a new one. "I’m not a clown, Patrick. I have a test tomorrow," you said and snatched the earbud from his hand. He didn’t retaliate. He simply sat down across from you, examining you more intensely than you were comfortable with. His gaze pinned you like a scalpel. You tried to breathe evenly. He’s always like this. He’s always like this. Remember that he’s always like this, and everything will be fine. This is not the time to panic. Not in front of Patrick Fucking Zweig. He can’t win a war you’re not actively fighting.

"How’s life, Little Dove? Happy at Stanford with Art? Better now that he finally agreed to fuck you?" He was blunt to the point that it made you glare at him and wrinkle your nose for a second. That only deepened the smirk plastered across his face. "Do you need something?" you asked, trying to sound as though his vulgarity couldn’t faze you. As though everyone around you spoke that way all the time. As though your pathetic sex life wasn’t plastered on your forehead like a billboard. He was laughing at you. Patrick Zweig was laughing at you.

The thought that he might know every intimate detail of what you and Art did in bed made your entire body shiver. He could see it on you. He knew he’d won. But you weren’t even playing. You wanted to scream you weren’t even playing. No sound came out. He’d won. He knew it, and you knew it, and there would never be a draw again. Because you would both always know he’d won. That Art had told him how you moan. Maybe Art had even figured out that you fake all your orgasms because you’re probably broken so he told Patrick that too. Maybe it was all more humiliating than you could imagine. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to talk to Art ever again. Maybe-

"You’re overthinking it, Little Dove. I can see it on your face. It’s not that deep," he rolled his eyes and took a bite of an apple he’d pulled out (you had no idea from where). "You can’t eat in here. This is a library," you mumbled, grateful for the change of subject. Any change of subject. You’d be willing to talk about cactuses at this point if necessary. "I’m not a student here," he reminded you, as if you’d forgotten. As if that wasn’t the sole reason for your fleeting happiness- that you didn’t have to see his face here 24/7. Only sometimes. Only when he was visiting people who actually mattered to him.

You put the earbud he’d pulled from you a few moments ago back in your ear, signaling to him that the conversation was over and that you hoped not to see him again for the next year. Or ever, if you're being honest. You wanted to go back to studying in peace. To not think about the brazen guy in front of you. The one so emotionally entangled with the boy you loved that sometimes you felt there was no way to win. No way to beat Patrick Zweig. Because he came gift-wrapped in a package deal with Art. And once, you tried so hard to make him like you. You tried to fit into their conversations, laugh at the crude jokes, nod when Art nodded. Just so Patrick would stop looking at you with disdain, stop looking at you like you were a stray cat too wet to save. Like one that had rabies. Like one that needed to be put down.

He just kept staring at you, eating his apple as if rules didn’t apply to him. As if he were above what was allowed and what wasn’t. Making you hate him a little more, but admire him just as much because you would never have the guts to act like the world belonged to you. You thought it had something to do with the amount of money he grew up with. Art once told you Patrick had two pools (in one of his houses). Who needs more than one pool in a house anyway? But that was all you needed to know about him—he was privileged enough to believe he had the right to treat people like they were beneath him. And you’d never admit it, but you didn’t want to be beneath him. You didn’t want to lose to Patrick Zweig. You didn’t want to lose when you knew the prize was having Art. . . . He finds out that Tashi got injured completely by accident. He leaves you alone in the library because you bore him. You don’t let him sink his claws into you, something he realizes he liked doing only when he's around you. So, he goes out to smoke a cigarette, what else is there for him to do when he’s stuck here while Tashi plays and Art makes eyes at her from the crowd? What else does he have to do when you're sitting in front of a book and ignoring his existence and the nasty words? And then someone said something about seeing Tashi's knee fly through the air, and Patrick’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

He asked three different people where the athletes' clinic was. Two ignored him, and one gave him wrong directions. He found the clinic on his own, trying to make sense of the campus signage. He felt like it was taking him forever. In hindsight, maybe it was better that it took him longer. Because Tashi looked devastated, Art looked lost, and both of them screamed at him. Art’s scream hurt more. He wouldn’t admit it, but he felt Art’s scream all over his body. It made him shiver.

And that’s how he lost Art Donaldson forever. Checkmate by Tashi Duncan. He didn’t expect that. He thought only you could take his place in Art’s life. Never Tashi. He thought you were the only one Art would lose control for. Maybe he looked at everything wrong. What a terrifying thought, to realize you spent years trying to beat someone without noticing the other players. Absolute blindness. He felt lost. Stuck in your disgusting university. Stuck in the loop that his life dragged him into. No matter how much he tried to think about it in the last half hour, he couldn’t find a way out. He couldn’t see a world where he and Art could be friends again.

‘I've got your bag, you forgot it in the library,’ his phone beeped with a message from you. Another message with your room number. He nodded to himself, even though no one could see. He wiped away some of the tears that had fallen from him, hoping no one would see that either.

He knocked on your door loudly, not caring about the other students living in the hallway. You opened quickly, intending to say everything you think about him, but in the hour and a half he’d been gone from your sight, something in Patrick’s gaze had changed. You’d never seen him like this, and it made you lean against the doorframe, mouth half open. You know for sure that he cried, the trail of tears was obvious. You know for sure that he was confused, his gaze zigzagging. The famous smirk he dedicates to you at every moment wasn’t there.

"Who died?" you asked quietly, because you couldn’t find any other reason for what you were seeing in front of you. He just passed through you, as if your room was his own. As if he had an invitation. As if you had to let him in. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked. His leg was shaking. He looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. "What happened to Tashi's room-" "Please (Y/N)," he used your actual name, "I’ll be out of your hair by morning. You won’t even feel like I was here, there are no more buses, and my car’s at the tournament site," he explained incoherently but clearly enough for you to nod. For you to understand that something terrible had happened. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Tashi’s. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Art’s. The thought of it made you cringe because the only thing that could have happened, the only thing that could have caused Patrick to fold in front of you like this-

"Am I overthinking this?" you asked after what felt like an eternity. When you were lying on the bed in the dark, and Patrick was lying on a makeshift pile of sheets and pillows on the floor next to you. You hoped he’d tell you that you didn’t need to think about it too much. That he’d tell you the same thing he said to you in the library. "Not this time," he said almost in a whisper, "I’m sorry," he added. Neither of you knew what he was apologizing for; For how he acted all these years or was he apologizing on behalf of Art? On behalf of the person who until just a few hours ago was his best friend. Patrick thinks an apology won’t be enough for either of you. He tries to sleep. When he leaves, he doesn’t write you a note. But there’s a flash of understanding when he looks at you before he walks out; Art was right, there’s something sweet about you. Patrick will never admit it. But what reason would he have to admit it now? Art is no longer part of his life, and he’s pretty sure Art won’t be part of yours just as quickly. You and Patrick both lost him, you just don’t know it yet. He almost feels sorry about how out of the loop you are. And what connection do you and Patrick have without Art? He thinks he’ll miss you. He saw you move slightly, one leg sticking out from under the blanket. He’s sure he’ll miss you. What a humbling thought. . . . You haven't seen Art for a week. And that's okay. Because he doesn't owe you anything. He made sure to remind you at every opportunity that he doesn't owe you anything. Not with words. Never with words. With actions. By acting like he doesn't see you, even though you both know he does. He never sat with you in the cafeteria. He never introduced you to his friends from the tennis team. He never introduced you to Tashi. He drew a very clear line about who you are to him, and you decided years ago that it's okay. That it's enough for you. That Art is yours in the summer. That Art is yours at night. That Art is yours when he wants to be yours.

He doesn't want to be anymore. You can see it in him because on the rare occasions you do see him in the cafeteria, he looks away the second your eyes accidentally meet his. On the rare occasions you do see him this week, his arm is half-wrapped around some girl you don't know. He's trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. Hurt you without really hurting you. He's trying to remind you that he doesn't owe you anything.

You'll never tell him it hurts. You'll never tell him that when you were ten, your mom, half-drunk, told you that to be loved, you'd have to sacrifice a lot. You don't know why you remember that, but you do. And since then, all you've done is sacrifice and sacrifice and sacrifice until sometimes there's nothing left to give. And now is one of those times when there's nothing left to give. You look at him from across the room, and he's a stranger to you, and you're a stranger to him.

You expected him to say something when it happened. You expected a hug, and if he were sensitive enough, a kiss. You expected life to flip upside down and for the sun to stop rising. But life went on, and your sacrifices stayed behind. Along with secrets and hugs and caresses and tears and memories. So many memories. All of it left behind. You can handle heartbreak. Everyone can. You won't be the first to sacrifice and not be heard by God. You won't be the first to starve yourself, and you won't be the first to wait for a phone call that never came. You won't be the first to cry and cry and cry.

After two weeks, you stopped waiting for a message. You stopped expecting a 'hello' in the hallway. You stopped hoping that Art Donaldson would knock on your door in the middle of the night. After two weeks, you looked at him one last time with pleading eyes. With an almost tortured look. After two weeks, you decided you wouldn't sacrifice anything more for Art Donaldson.

After two weeks, you ordered pizza and ate the whole box. He doesn't love you. He doesn't owe you anything. It's okay. You're okay. If not now, then soon you will be. . . . Art spent all his free time helping Tashi recover. He missed Patrick the way you'd miss a vital organ that had to be removed in an emergency surgery. He missed Patrick's messages from the tour. He missed his stories. He missed hearing him talk about a show Art had never watched and never planned to watch. He missed Patrick, but he had Tashi. He missed Patrick, but it was necessary, and one day he wouldn’t miss Patrick anymore, and he’d still have Tashi.

It’s different with you. He doesn’t just miss you—he’s hollow without you. He doesn’t know who he is without your admiring gaze. Without your nose brushing his in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know who he is without you ever since he learned how your skin feels under his touch. And he thought he’d be brave enough to walk into your room and just tell you that he can’t keep doing what the two of you have been doing your whole lives. He can’t keep playing this game. Because it’s not fair. Because he wants to be somewhere else. Because you weigh him down.

He knew he’d be in trouble if things got too serious with you, so he followed all the rules. He never introduced you to his friends. He never took you on a date. He never called you his girlfriend. He did everything right, and he’s still in trouble. That frustrates him more than anything.

He’s noticed that you don’t seek his gaze anymore. That you don’t try to catch his attention. That you’ve stopped sending him messages. He’s noticed that you understood the painfully obvious hint of “no,” and he hated himself for it. He showered that day for almost an hour. Scrubbed himself until his skin was red. As if trying to wash you off his body. As if trying to cleanse the filth he carries in his soul. As if trying to convince himself he’s not a bad person.

He found comfort in the fact that summer was almost here. That it wouldn’t be up to him. That there would be family dinners. That your parents would invite him, and his parents would invite you. That someone would force you both to be in the same room. He found comfort in knowing he wouldn’t have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. He wanted to see how you were handling it. He always sees you immersed in a book. Immersed in a conversation with someone he doesn’t know. Immersed. So immersed. Once, he thought that look -that ability to see into someone’s soul- was reserved only for him. How presumptuous of him. How foolish. How fucking selfish. . . . Patrick sent you a picture of a pigeon that wouldn’t leave him alone while he was eating pita on a bench in some park. He didn’t know why he did it. You’re not friends. You were never friends. But he saw that ridiculous pigeon and wondered if there was something about it that might remind you of him. He wondered if you and Art were still you and Art. He wondered and wondered until he sent the picture. Maybe you wouldn’t reply, but ignoring something wasn’t your style. You’re too good to ignore someone. You don’t have any malice in you. He doesn’t know when he started thinking you didn’t have any malice, because up until two months ago, he thought you were a scheming witch.

'You don’t know how to take pictures.' -(Y/N)-

'Look at you bothering me while I'm eating, little dove' -P- He smiled as he typed.

'Are you bored?' -(Y/N)-

'Maybe I miss you like you clearly miss me' -P- He didn’t know why he wrote that. He didn’t know what he wanted from you, if he was being honest with himself. But he wanted something. He wanted someone. Everyone deserves someone, and Patrick deserves someone too.

'You’re full of shit' -(Y/N)- He could imagine you rolling your eyes as you typed that. He knows you don’t talk like that. He thinks it’s something reserved just for him.

He decided to call because typing with food in his hand was too much effort. You answered quickly, out of breath. “Are you in the middle of sex?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “Why do you always have to say the grossest thing possible?” you shot back. He was glad you couldn’t see him because if you could, you’d hold the grin on his face against him. “What’s gross about sex, little dove? It’s natural-” “Why did you call?” you cut him off, not giving him any more points. “Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.” His voice sounded smaller. Embarrassed. You’re not friends. You never were. That’s not the nature of your relationship. There’s nothing he loves about you.

“I’m fine. Busy with school.” He could imagine you shrugging. “You’re going home soon, right? Summer break.” He knew what that used to mean for you and Art. He didn’t know what it meant now. He was fishing for answers, trying to figure out where things stood between you two. He wanted to know if Art had cut you out of his life with the brutality of a killer or if he was still keeping you wrapped in a ribbon, belonging only to him. He thought the former sounded more like Art.

“I’m probably staying at Stanford, for obvious reasons.” He could hear your voice, quiet as though you didn’t want to admit it. “It’s not fair,” Patrick said. “You’re supposed to enjoy your summer.” He added, growing frustrated with how inconsiderate Art was, with the monopoly Art held over your shared neighborhood. Bull-fucking-shit; “I’ve got two weeks off, and my parents are abroad. You could come to my lake house if you want a change of scenery,” he said, spitting the words out quickly before he could regret the invitation. Art was the only one who’d ever been invited there.

“That’s nice of you.” You said. He could hear the surprise you tried to hide in your voice. “I mean it,” he said, much more determined now. “It’ll be fun. My parents have the most impressive alcohol collection you’ll ever see.” He didn’t know what he was doing or which part of his brain was speaking for him right now. “I’ll think about it,” you said, wrapping up the call with a few more sentences. It felt like a win. And more than anything, Patrick needed a win. . . . "Is it true?" you heard Art's voice before you lifted your head from the book you were reading. "Hey, Art," you said with the most genuine smile you could muster, ignoring your racing heartbeat that only quickened. The truth was, you hadn’t seen him this close to you in two months. "You’re not going home for the break?" He sat down across from you without an invitation. "Nope," you said, as if it were obvious. As if that had been your plan all along. As if three months ago, you hadn’t whispered to each other in the dead of night all the things you’d do over the summer. As if you’d never loved him.

"You weren’t planning to tell me?" he asked, his gaze never leaving you. All you could do was raise an eyebrow because, honestly, where did he get the audacity? Where did he get the nerve to sit down across from you and make demands? Where did he get the idea that he owed you nothing, but you owed him everything? It’s your fault. You know it’s your fault. You taught him that you’d give every part of yourself for just a sliver of attention. But you don’t need that from him anymore. He’s a stranger. A stranger whose favorite scent you know. A stranger you’ve seen cry at Titanic. A stranger whose taste still lingers on the tip of your tongue. A stranger you know too well.

"No," you answered honestly. Because frankly, what else is there to say to him? "Are you serious? Why aren’t you going home?" he demanded answers. Demanded and demanded and demanded, after you gave and gave and gave. It’s your fault. Your mother’s fault and her foolish advice. You spoon-fed him love. "Because I have other plans. I’m sorry, am I missing something here, Art? We haven’t talked in two months, and I don’t understand what the issue is now." You didn’t want to be rude. Not to Art. Not to anyone. Sometimes to Patrick, but only because he was the most vulgar person you’d ever met. But Art was gentle and sensitive and beautiful, and harsh words had no place in your conversations with him.

"What plans?" he ignored your jab, but you could see him swallow hard, his eyebrows knitting together as if you’d sent him to work in a coal mine all summer. "I’m going to a friend’s," you found yourself shrugging. "Who? Someone I know?" he asked. "No," you felt guilty for the lie, "Why is this your business, Art?" you tried to make him leave or at least give you an answer. "We had plans too," he said quietly, as if revealing one last secret to you.

"I don’t remember." His expression changed in seconds. It was the look you’d only seen when he played tennis or tried to fend someone off you at one of the parties he told you to come to. Ice. He stood up and walked away within moments. Maybe this is the closure you two needed. Maybe it’s for the best. . . . Until the very last moment, Patrick didn’t believe you’d come. He waited for your bus by the side of the road, and when you got off, dressed in a floral summer dress and an oversized hat, signaling to the driver that you had a suitcase in the luggage compartment, Patrick stood frozen in place, his mouth agape. Because if someone had told him six months ago that he’d want to spend his free time in the summer with you, he would have laughed in their face. If someone had told him you’d show up in this remote place, in that ridiculous outfit, he probably would have snorted.

"Little dove, I was sure you’d chicken out," he said. Back when you talked about it, he treated it like a challenge. He spoke about your arrival at the lake house like it was a mission on a reality show. Impossible to pull off, with so much to lose. "I told you I’d come." You shrugged and smiled a smile he’d once seen you give to Art. Patrick had never received a smile from you, at least not a friendly one. Always a fake one. The kind he wanted to wipe off your face. "Are you going to help me with my suitcase, or are you going to keep standing there like a statue?" you asked with a chuckle. Patrick thought he was ready to sell the Porsche he’d come in, just to hear you chuckle again.

"This car is ridiculous," you said as you sat down beside him and raised your hands for emphasis. The convertible top was too much for you. Patrick had chosen this car on purpose. He wanted you to have the full Zweig family summer experience. He wanted you to feel what it was like to be in his inner circle. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he could buy your friendship. He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. He went to sleep with your messages and woke up to them. Neither of you had any other friends, not real ones at least. It would’ve been sad if it didn’t make him so happy. He was such a loser. But it didn’t seem like you cared, and maybe the Porsche would grow on you by the end of these two weeks.

He showed you the rooms and the massive windows that let an unreasonable amount of light into the "cabin," which was supposed to be modest but was larger than most of the houses in your and Art’s neighborhood. Patrick knew that. He studied your reaction to everything he showed you. Watched as you stared at the lake right outside the cabin. Sat on the sofa in the living room for a moment. Placed your belongings in the guest room.

"We need to go shopping," you announced after opening the fridge to find it completely empty. "We don’t have to. You don’t eat anything anyway," he blurted out, and he saw you pale. "What are you talking about?" you mumbled, looking everywhere but at him. "Nothing, I’ve just never seen you eat." He tried to say it casually, but the truth was, it had always preoccupied him. Every time he visited Art in the summer and found himself at gatherings with you, you’d take food onto your plate but never actually put it in your mouth. He couldn’t understand how it didn’t bother Art. He couldn’t understand how Art just ignored it. As if it were completely normal behavior to sit with someone you called your best friend and not eat.

"I eat." Your entire face was scrunched up, the way he’d learned it does when you overthink. When you’re trying to get the most out of a situation you’ve found yourself in. When you’re trying to be nice to Patrick but don’t want to because he doesn’t deserve it. "Whatever, little dove. Let’s go shopping. I’ll show you the main street. There are some cool spots there," he concluded the conversation because he didn’t want to argue. And honestly, it wasn’t his place to comment on your habits. So he decided to let it go.

The main street of the small village you were in was almost empty. It could have been suspicious if Patrick hadn’t been here dozens, if not hundreds, of times since he was born. This was one of his dad’s favorite vacation homes. After an hour of wandering between stores, they found themselves sitting across from each other at a diner. Patrick watched as you ate fish and chips in front of him like your life depended on it. Like you had something to prove. He just rolled his eyes, shoved three fries into his mouth at once, leaned back, and chuckled.

Everything was peaceful. Patrick was sure it would be much weirder, at least at first. But no. You fit into his summer as if you’d always belonged there. From conversations with the elderly neighbors at the cabin next door to the meals you cooked together- it was domestic. Patrick was afraid to talk about how different this was from anything he’d ever done with a girl. He was afraid to mention that you were sleeping in the room that used to be only Art's. He was afraid to admit that he thought you were pretty in a way he hadn't thought before.

He thinks you’re most beautiful in the morning, before you’ve had your coffee. If he’s lucky and goes for a morning run, even before you’ve brushed your teeth. He’s discovered you’re funny. That you can deliver the funniest line with the perfect timing. He thinks it’s because you read a lot. Because you’re smart. Because you know things. He loves that you come to watch him train, even though you’re busy with your own things and only steal occasional glances his way. He thinks he could replace Art in your life. He thinks you think so too.

But deep down, you both know nothing could ever replace Art. And one of the times you’re sitting across from him at the diner, he takes a picture of you sipping a milkshake while smiling and uploads it to Facebook. Because Facebook is the new 'it' thing, and everyone has it. And if Patrick’s lucky, you’ll make it your profile picture. Then he can look at it and remember that he made you laugh, that he made you happy, and for two weeks, he beat Art Donaldson at something. And it felt sweet. So sweet.

The night before you plan to go back to university, you and Patrick get drunk on his dad’s fancy tequila. He’d never seen you drunk before, so like many things, this was new. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and you were wearing shorts that were far too short because August’s heat was unbearable. And the more both of you drank, the fuller your lips seemed to him, the rosier your cheeks, the larger your chest.

He just wanted to touch something. To feel something.

When one thing led to another and you were straddling him, your lips on his, he let out a deep bassy groan he never thought he could produce. Patrick had been with girls before- God knows he’d been with enough girls not to lose his cool over someone agreeing to kiss him. But something about how delicate you were and how much he had hated you a few months ago, how much he’d wanted to erase every trace of you, made him so hard he found himself grinding against you like some kind of desperate dog. He fucked you on the couch in the living room, and though the couch was comfortable, he wasn’t proud of it. He thinks he should’ve restrained himself, taken you to a bed. He thinks you deserve more than him being lazy, drunk, and not at his best. But if there’s one thing Patrick Zweig is terrible at, it’s delaying gratification. And he wanted you so badly. You didn’t seem to mind the location, at least not outwardly.

His lips were everywhere, as if he was trying to swallow you whole in one go. The sounds coming out of you were pornographic. Every so often, the thought crossed his mind that Art was the only other guy who had ever heard you like this, seen you like this- so needy, so vulnerable. It made his cock twitch even harder than it already was.

When he touched you, you were so wet that he told you how dirty you were for him. He talked to you like he still hated you. Like it was all punishment. Like he was about to get up, point at you, and laugh at how pathetic you were. But you couldn’t think about that now. You didn’t have the bandwidth. Not when his hands were teasing your nipple. Not when his lips were marking your neck. Not when he entered you in one hard thrust, making you almost cry out.

At some point, your heels found their way to his shoulders. He looked at your face with the little focus he could muster, and it was a sight he needed to preserve. To remember until the day he died. And he pushed deeper with that thought, drawing sounds out of both of you that neither of you knew you could make. In the end, he felt you clench around him, making him release everything that had built up in his balls with one long groan.

He just lay over you for a few minutes, still wearing the condom. With the sweat, the tears, the marks- you looked so utterly fucked. And it was because of him. He hadn’t felt this proud in a long time.

“So this is what it feels like,” he heard you mumble. “What feels like?” he asked, finding himself playing with your soft hair. “To have an orgasm.”

He hadn’t expected that, so he shifted slightly to look at your face. Your eyes were still glassy. You weren’t focused. If you were, you probably wouldn’t have said that. “What did you say?” he asked, wanting you to repeat it. “I’ve never come before. I thought I was broken,” you chuckled like it was a joke. But Patrick’s heart pounded harder than he expected. He knew for certain that you and Art had slept together before. That wasn’t a secret. He knew you and Art had done things that weren’t just sex even earlier. “You and Art-” He was confused. “I’m not proud of it,” you sighed quietly. “I faked it so he wouldn’t feel bad. I read in a magazine what to do to make it seem real,” you explained quickly, as if saying it faster would make it less scandalous. “You don’t have to fake orgasms to make someone feel good, Little Dove,” he sighed. “You’re the one who's supposed to feel good. That’s the whole point of sex,” he declared, explaining it to you like reciting a rule to a confused puppy.

Patrick needed a win, and this—this was the biggest victory of all times. He had beaten Art Donaldson in every damn set, and it felt so fucking sweet.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written anything, so this came out super weird and unclear. I hope you like it tho! Please DM me and let me know what you think. That’s it, byeeeeee

#challengers fic #so sweet #art donaldson #patrick zweig #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #challengers #tashi duncan #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut

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harrysfolklore · 11 months ago

Note

plsss can you make a fake instagram where the reader is a lawyer

you know how to ball, i know aristotle - op81

i really liked how this one turned out ! we love sino oscar 🥰 make sure to leave your feedback

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 18,637 others

yourinstagram greetings from the library 🧐 keeping an eye on my angel boy who started kindergarten (aka formula one) last month

tagged: oscarpiastri

view all 498 comments

username1 serving cunt in the library we love to see it ♥︎ by author

username2 fellow columbia student right here 🙋‍♀️

↳ yourinstagram omgg we should hang out soon

username3 since when are you into f1 bestie

↳ yourinstagram since i’m dating one of the drivers 🤔

oscarfan1 THIS IS OSCAR’S GF??? SHES GORGEOUS ♥︎ by author, oscarpiastri

username4 i’ve been following for ages now but i just found out that she’s dating a famous athlete 😭

oscarfan2 i was ‪hoping that oscar was single but now that i found out that he has a beautiful AND smart gf i want them to adopt me

logansargeant I’ve been taking care of him in the playground, don’t worry

↳ yourinstagram i wouldn’t expect any less from you

↳ landonorris We haven’t met yet but I’m also taking care of little Oscah ♥︎ by author

↳ landofan1 OFC HE HAD TO COMMENT

↳ yourinstagram well thank you, little lando norris

mclaren When will we see you in papaya gear at a race? 🧡 Ps. The last picture is so real

↳ yourinstagram omg when college stops kicking my ass

↳ oscarfan1 i love her already

oscarpiastri I miss you so much, but I’m so happy to see you in your dream school, smart girl🤍 ♥︎ by author

↳ oscarfan2 IM SOBBING THIS IS SO SWEET

↳ yourinstagram i love you 🥺

liked by yourinstagram, landonorris and 457,296 others

oscarpiastri The smile on my face could only mean one thing: It’s home race weekend 🇦🇺

view all 12,027 comments

oscarfan1 BABYYYYY

oscarfan2 he looks so kissable

mclaren Australia’s National Treasure 🧡

oscarfan3 MANIFESTING A PODIUM SO HARD

logansargeant Good luck on your home race bro 🙌 ♥︎ by author

↳ oscarfan1 bestiesss

username1 i’m still waiting for his girlfriend’s paddock debuttt

alex_albon The superior papaya boy ♥︎ by author

↳ landofan1 LANDO WAS FOUND CRYING

↳ oscarfan1 i love them

landonorris I’m going to categorically ignore what alex albon just said

↳ landofan1 HES SOOOO😭

landonorris Don’t to fool your audience, your smile is because your girl is finally coming ♥︎ by author, yourinstagram

↳ landofan2 OMFGGGGGGGGG

↳ oscarfan2 OSCAR AND YN PADDOCK DEBUT CONFIRMED BY LANDOOOO

↳ oscarfan3 goddd i was praying for this

↳ yourinstagram but can you blame him? ♥︎ by author

↳ username2 I LOVE THIS RELATIONSHIP SM

yourinstagram i can’t wait to see you, squish 🥺 ♥︎ by author

↳ oscarfan1 SQUISH I COULD SOBBBB

↳ oscarfan2 they’re so adorable i can’t do this

↳ oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️

yourinstagram added to their stories

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, oscarpiastri and 47,836 others

yourinstagram took a break from law school to finally go to my first race 🕺 SO PROUD OF YOU @oscarpiastri

view all 611 comments

username1 AWEEE your wag era finally

oscarfan1 QUEEN OF THE PADDOCK ♥︎ by author

carmenmmundt It was so lovely to meet you ✨ ♥︎ by author

↳ yourinstagram likewise beautiful carm 💓

↳ username2 i just want to be one of them

oscarfan2 thank you yn for giving us a weekend of blushy and smiley oscar and the best boyfriend content ever

oscarfan3 COME TO EVERY RACE PLEASEEE

↳ yourinstagram i would love to but i have to get my degree 🥲

mclaren You’re officially a papaya girl now 🧡

username2 they make the best couple ever bc she’s all brains and he’s all muscle ♥︎ by author

landonorris Go get that degree now, I need someone who can get me out of jail for free

↳ landofan1 WHY IS HE LIKE THIS 😭😭

↳ yourinstagram 🫡🫡🫡

username3 she’s stronger than me because is oscar piastri was my bf and i had the chance to travel around the world with him and look pretty u would drop out of college already

↳ yourinstagram just a few months till graduation i can do it okay

↳ oscarfan2 I LOVE HER

oscarpiastri Having you here made this weekend the best ever. I love you ❤️ ♥︎ by author

↳ oscarfan1 BOYFRIEND OSCAR I CANT

↳ username1 why can’t my boyfriend simp for me like this

↳ yourinstagram i loveeee youuuu

liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 654,386 others

oscarpiastri The perfect home race weekend 🇦🇺 I miss you already @yourinstagram 🤍

view all 15,099 comments

oscarfan1 AWEEEEE

oscarfan2 MY HEART

georgerussell63 I need more of those grandma Piastri cookies ♥︎ by author

↳ danielricciardo Same

↳ username1 LET ME INNNN 😭

mclaren We love Australia 🦘🌏

oscarfan3 yn and oscar shouldn't be separated that's like a crime ♥︎ by yourinstagram

oscarfan4 THE THRID PIC MY HEARTTTT

landonorris Your girlfriend is cooler than you btw ♥︎ by yourinstagram

↳ landofan1 and teammate of the year award goes to lando norris

↳ logansargeant I agree

↳ username2 imagine the entire grid loving you

↳ oscarpiastri You're supposed to be my friend

↳ landonorris And she’s going to be my personal lawyer soon so

↳ yourinstagram 😭😭😭

yourinstagram i love you so much, angel. thank you for this weekend 🥺 ♥︎ by author

↳ username2 their relationship is the purest thing ever

liked by yourinstagram, georgerussell63 and 764,389 others

oscarpiastri Little mid season recharge. Visiting my favorite future lawyer 🤎

tagged: yourinstagram

view all 16,036 comments

oscarfan1 AWEEEEEE

oscarfan2 we love softie oscarrrr

username1 oh to be a columbia student

landonorris My kids ❤️❤️

↳ landofan1 lando is the biggest shooter for this relationship

↳ yourinstagram you’re just two years older than me..

↳ landonorris And? You’re my kids

↳ oscarfan2 I LOVE THEMMMM

username2 yn’s curls are so prettyyyy omg ♥︎ by author

nicolepiastri Our smart girl ! 👩‍⚖️ ♥︎ by author, yourinstagram

↳ oscarfan1 aweee mama piastri

↳ yourinstagram love you 🥺

username3 imagine chilling in the library procrastinating some homework and you turn around and oscar piastri is there

yourinstagram i love you so much squish 🫶 ♥︎ by author

↳ oscarfan1 why are her pet names for him so damn adorable

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 49,635 others

yourinstagram i can’t believe it’s my last week here and i’m going to be a real lawyer soon 😳

view all 633 comments

username1 GRADUATION IS SOOOON OMG

username2 i’ve been following you since you graduated high school and posted tips about college applications and now you’re about to finish college omg ♥︎ by author

oscarfan1 OMG OSCAR MUST GO TO HER GRADUATION

lilymhe congratulations smart girl 🤍🤍 ♥︎ by author

↳ yourinstagram thank you lovely 🫶

oscarfan2 THE LAST PICTURE IM YELLING

username3 she has the coolest life ever

mclaren Everyone in the papaya department is super proud 🧡

↳ yourinstagram ilysm mclaren admin

logansargeant How come you’re still dating my friend, who barely finished high school 😂 congrats!

↳ yourinstagram he’s cuuuuute 🥺

↳ oscarfan1 oscar’s friends are always dragging him help

↳ landonorris And can’t win a GP

↳ oscarpiastri You surely got confident after Miami, Lando Onewin ♥︎ by author, georgerussell63, alex_albon

↳ landofan1 STOOOOOP😭

oscarpiastri I’m always proud and in awe of you, but specially now 🤍 ♥︎ by author

↳ oscarfan1 I LOVE SIMP OSCAR

liked by oscarfan1, oscarfan2 and 2,936 others

f1updates “My girlfriend graduating from Columbia Law School next week so as soon as the job is done here I’m heading to New York. I’m really proud of here and I wouldn’t miss this moment for anything else.” - Oscar Piastri for SKY Sports

view all 288 comments

oscarfan1 OMFG IM CRYING

oscarfan2 smile heart eyes and blush make an appearance again

oscarfan3 he’s super proud you can tell by his eyes

oscarfan4 flexing his lawyer girlfriend as he should

oscarfan5 SO HIGH SCHOOL IS ABOUT THEM

oscarfan6 my definition of a simp

yourinstagram has added to their story

liked by yourinstagram, landonorris and 865,388 others

oscarpiastri My girlfriend is a lawyer 💙

view all 27,034 comments

oscarfan1 I LOVE THISSSSS

oscarfan2 WHAT IF I CRY

username1 that cake is too iconic i need it

georgerussell63 Congrats YN! ♥︎ yourinstagram

oscarfan3 the cake is that tiktok audio 😭😭

nicolepiastri We’re all so proud of you @yourinstagram 👩‍🎓🤍 ♥︎ by author, yourinstagram

↳ oscarfan1 mama piastri loves her they’re getting married

↳ yourinstagram love you! thank you for the unconditional support 🥺

charles_leclerc Well done 👏👏 ♥︎ by yourinstagram

lilymhe 💓💓💓 ♥︎ by yourinstagram

username2 imagine having a columbia degree AND a hot boyfriend i can’t relate

mclaren Our favorite lawyer 🧡 ♥︎ by author, yourinstagram

↳ oscarfan2 the mclaren intern just loves yn

oscarfan4 good time to remind everyone that oscar barely finished high school but he somehow bagged a lawyer girlfriend

landonorris Yooo congrats @yourinstagram I can speed while driving and pass red lights now that I have someone who can get me out or jail for free

↳ landofan1 LANDO PLEASE 😭

↳ yourinstagram please do not do that i beg you

landonorris You’re welcome for the cake idea btw

↳ oscarfan1 I KNEW oscar could never come up with that

↳ yourinstagram so it was you ! huh

↳ oscarpiastru Shhhh

yourinstagram i love you so much ❤️❤️ ♥︎ by author

liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 69,736 others

yourinstagram you know how to ball, i know aristotle 🤍 proof that we’re both awkward for pictures

view all 904 comments

username1 CUTIES

oscarfan1 I LOVE THEM SO MUCH 😭

oscarfan2 they really said 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️ ♥︎ by author

mclaren 🧡🧡 ♥︎ by author

oscarfan3 they match each other’s freak

alexandrasaintmleux ❤️ ♥︎ by author

username2 you look so cute together

nicolepiastri My babies 🥺 ♥︎ by author, oscarpiastri

landonorris Hug your girlfriend wtf @oscarpiastri

↳ landofan1 😭😭😭

↳ oscarpiastri Don’t tell me what to do thank you very much

oscarfan4 that lyric is literally THEM

username3 pretty, smart and a swiftie we love to see it

oscarpiastri I’m the trophy boyfriend 🤍 ♥︎ by author

↳ username1 ugh i need a man like him

↳ oscarfan1 exactly oscar know your place

2K notes · View notes

jadeshifting · 3 months ago

Text

— WAITING ROOM IDEAS.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

the underwater grotto

the skybound library

the retro bowling alley

— THE UNDERWATER GROTTO: A WAITING ROOM OF SUBMERGED SERENITY

when you first arrive, it’s not with a splash but a weightless drift. the world around you is suspended in a quiet, shimmering blue, as if you’ve stepped into the embrace of the ocean itself—but don’t worry, you can breathe easily here. the water is more like liquid light than anything else, wrapping around you in a way that’s both warm and cool at once. it carries the scent of salt and the whisper of something ancient, like the world has been waiting just for you

THE GROTTO’S HEART. at the center of this space is the grotto itself, an expansive underwater cave sculpted by time and tide. the walls glisten with iridescent corals and bioluminescent algae, casting a soft, shifting glow that dances over every surface. stalactites drip with glowing pearls, and when you run your fingers over the walls, they hum softly, as if the grotto is alive

a large, smooth rock—almost like a natural daybed—rests in the heart of the cave, cushioned with lush, silky sea moss that adjusts perfectly to your shape when you sink into it. little fish, impossibly small and glowing like stars, swirl lazily around you, as if they, too, are waiting for something. the water moves with you but never against you, carrying you into the perfect state of weightless relaxation

SMALL, IMMERSIVE DETAILS

THE WATER’S EMBRACE. it’s not cold or suffocating—it’s soft, intentional. it moves around you like an extension of your own energy, never heavy, never overwhelming. you can float in it endlessly without ever needing to surface

SOUNDSCAPE. no overwhelming noise, just the distant song of whales, the occasional soft crackle of coral shifting, and the rhythmic lull of water moving through unseen tunnels. if you focus, you can even hear the hum of the deep sea’s energy

BIOLUMINESCENT LIGHT. the glow isn’t harsh—it pulses gently, like the heartbeat of the ocean. whenever you move, the water glows around your fingertips, tracing your presence in soft, shimmering ripples

HIDDEN NOOKS & CRANNIES. if you explore, you’ll find small alcoves filled with treasures—polished sea glass, old ship trinkets, and even delicate shells that whisper to you when you hold them close

A PORTAL OF ENDLESS POSSIBILITY. when you decide to be in your DR, a large, glowing veil of water appears at the grotto’s entrance. it doesn’t ripple like normal water—it moves like silk, waiting for you to step through. the moment you do, you find yourself in your DR

CUSTOMIZATION & PERSONALIZATION

GUARDIAN/COMPANION CREATURE. maybe a massive, lazy sea turtle that watches over you with its intelligent eyes, or a pod of dolphins that whistle and chirp excitedly when you’re about to enter your DR

KEEPSAKE. a glowing pearl or a carved piece of driftwood that you hold onto tightly, feeling like it grounds you every moment you’re there and is always waiting when you get back

DRINKS & TREATS. a goblet of glowing, sweet nectar that leaves a lingering warmth in your chest, a pearl-encrusted platter of sushi or sashimi, a crystal bowl of shrimp cocktail

A MIRROR POOL. a shallow, moonlit basin where you can gaze at yourself—not just at your physical self, but at your deeper energy and all the possibilities you can embody

ENTERING YOUR DR

when you feel ready, you don’t have to do anything drastic. when you think about your destination, the water will shift around you, pulling you gently toward the glowing veil. the grotto sighs—a promise that it will always be here when you need to return. as dappled light dances around you, moving towards the rippling curtain of light, you pass through it in only a few moments

on the other side, you realize you’re there

this waiting room is pure immersion, a space where time doesn’t rush you, where the water itself cradles you in preparation for your journey. it’s designed to be peaceful, fluid, and weightless—a soft transition between realities that feels like an extension of your own energy

— THE SKYBOUND LIBRARY: A WAITING ROOM OF INFINITE STORIES

you arrive with a gentle weightlessness, as if you’ve stepped off solid ground and into the open embrace of the sky. there’s no harsh wind, no fear of falling—just an endless expanse of soft, golden clouds stretching infinitely beneath you. the air is crisp and cool, tinged with the scent of old parchment, ink, and something subtly sweet, like vanilla and aged wood. above, an eternal twilight sky swirls with soft hues of violet, pink, and deep indigo, with stars peeking through like distant fireflies. before you, the library reveals itself

THE LIBRARY’S HEART. towering bookshelves stretch impossibly high, spiraling into the sky, growing like trees. made of dark mahogany and golden filigree, their surfaces are inscribed with delicate constellations that shift and realign every time you blink. some bookshelves float freely, drifting through the air like islands, while others form grand hallways and sweeping balconies

the books themselves glow faintly, some pulsing like they contain a heartbeat, others humming softly when you pass by. each one is a portal, a fragment of a different world, holding stories that have been told and those yet to be written.

SMALL, IMMERSIVE DETAILS

THE AIR ITSELF FEELS ALIVE. when you breathe, it fills your chest with a gentle hum of energy, a subtle reminder that this is a place of boundless possibility and knowledge

FLOATING STEPS & BRIDGES. there are no rigid pathways here—if you wish to go somewhere, the air itself solidifies beneath your feet, forming shimmering glass-like steps that guide you. some lead to secluded reading nooks, others to grand observatories where you can watch shooting stars carve their way across the heavens

A DESK THAT KNOWS YOU. near the center of the library, a massive circular desk carved from celestial marble awaits you. whenever you approach, it shifts and rearranges itself, offering exactly what you need—perhaps a blank notebook for scripting, a cup of warm jasmine tea or rich cinnamon-spiced cocoa, or a book containing the wisdom you’ve been seeking ( even if you didn’t realize you were )

SOFTLY GLOWING LANTERNS. suspended in midair, floating paper lanterns illuminate the space, each one carrying a whispered dream or memory from your desired reality. If you listen closely, you might hear echoes of stories that you haven’t been told yet, or lives you didn’t know you were going to live

A LIBRARY CAT… OR SOMETHING ELSE? a small, mischievous creature—perhaps a sleek black cat with glowing eyes, or it might be a tiny dragon made of ink and stardust—wanders the library, curling up beside you whenever you need reassurance. it doesn’t speak, but somehow, you always understand each other

CUSTOMIZATION & PERSONALIZATION

YOUR PERSONAL BOOKS. with your name embossed on the covers, volumes that contain all of your scripts, records of your journey and all of your experiences, so you can look both backwards and forwards

A TELESCOPE. in the highest tower of the library, an ornate golden telescope allows you to see glimpses of your desired reality, as if you are peeking through a tear in the universe. you can feel closer to your special people and look forward to your experiences, while also dispelling any nerves you may have by seeing it from afar ( like dipping your toes in )

A HIDDEN READING NOOK. a space just for you—perhaps a velvet window seat with endless cushions, a hammock woven from clouds, or a grand armchair that shifts to fit your comfort. think of it like your sanctuary within the sanctuary

ENTERING YOUR DR

when you decide it’s time, the library knows. you hold a single book, different every time, in your hands. its cover glows with a faint golden light, and the moment you open it, the words begin to swirl, lifting off the page and wrapping around you like a warm breeze. the ink stretches outward, forming a shimmering doorway in the air—a portal made entirely of words and possibility

you step through, and just like that, you’re there

this waiting room is designed to be infinite yet intimate, a sanctuary in the sky where knowledge, magic, and dreams intertwine. it’s a place that doesn’t just prepare you for your journey—it celebrates it, reminding you that every shift is just a new chapter, and you are the author

— THE RETRO BOWL: A WAITING ROOM WITH OLD-SCHOOL CHARM

the air is warm and faintly scented with buttered popcorn, leather seats, and the sharp tang of a well-waxed bowling lane. overhead, glowing neon signs hum softly, casting a dreamy pink-and-blue glow over the space. a jukebox in the corner spins vinyl records with a warm crackle, crooning out old-school rock, jazzy swing, or whatever tunes suit how you’re feeling. the floor beneath you is that classic checkerboard tile—smooth, cool, and impossibly clean despite decades of history. you can hear the rolling thunder of a strike and the distant ring of an old cash register, as if the place is alive, but waiting just for you

THE ALLEY’S HEART. stretching ahead, the lanes are pristine, their wooden surface glowing under rows of dimmed, flickering lightbulbs. each lane seems to go on forever, disappearing into a hazy golden glow at the far end, like they might just lead somewhere else entirely

the best part? there’s no pressure to play unless you want to. you can roll a ball and watch as it slides effortlessly into a perfect strike, or you can just sink into a booth and soak in the atmosphere. here, everything works in your favor

SMALL, IMMERSIVE DETAILS

YOUR LOCKER. off to the side, a row of old-school metal lockers stands waiting. one of them has your name on it, and when you open it, you’ll find whatever you need—maybe a comfy bomber jacket, a pair of custom bowling shoes, or even just a little note written in looping, vintage cursive that simply says, “see you soon.”

MAGIC SCOREBOARD. even if you’re not playing, the massive retro scoreboard above the lanes flickers with little messages just for you—reminders, affirmations, or even details about the DR you’re planning on going to

A SHIMMERING BALL RETURN. the bowling balls themselves are something special—one is deep violet with tiny constellations twinkling in its surface, another has a swirling ocean trapped inside. when you roll them down the lane, you catch glimpses of different realities reflected inside before they return, waiting for another turn

SNACKS & DRINKS. a cozy 1950s-style diner counter sits to the side, where a friendly ( weirdly familiar and slightly mysterious ) attendant hands out thick milkshakes, warm pretzels, and soda in shiny glass bottles. everything is exactly how you feel like you remember it—whether that’s a real memory or something straight out of a dream

A SECRET DOOR BEHIND THE JUKEBOX. if you run your fingers along the edge of the jukebox and press the right button, the wall beside it shifts. a door, lined with glowing pinstripes, slides open to reveal a hidden lounge—maybe a plush speakeasy-style room with velvet chairs and low jazz, or maybe something even stranger… a back alley leading straight into your desired reality. whatever you’d like, it’s your secret space

CUSTOMIZATION & PERSONALIZATION

YOUR BOWLING NAME. up on the old-school leaderboard, your name is displayed in flickering neon letters. maybe it’s your CR name, maybe it’s a nickname or your name in your DR, or maybe it’s a totally out-of-left-field alias that you only use in this in-between place

YOUR LUCKY BOWLING SHIRT. hanging near your locker, there’s a retro bowling shirt waiting for you. it’s embroidered with something meaningful—maybe the name of your hometown city in your DR, a lucky number, or the initials of your DR name or your s/o’s name

ABSTRACT BOWLING PARTNER. you’re not alone here. whether it’s a comforting but shadowy figure you never quite see or a laughing companion who seems to be made of light and always lands a perfect strike, there’s someone keeping you company. they might even prompt you excitedly, “you ready to go?” just before you enter your DR

ENTERING YOUR DR

when you decide it’s time, the lanes darken slightly, leaving only one lit up in a neon glow. the air hums, the jukebox plays something that feels just right, and a single bowling ball appears at your feet—this one shimmering with a portal-like swirl. your roll it, smooth and easy, and as it glides down the lane, the pins at the end don’t just fall—they dissolve into light. the entire space stretches, the ceiling fades into a cosmic expanse, and suddenly—

you’re there

this waiting room is designed to feel like a warm, nostalgic pocket of time—somewhere that’s both familiar and surreal. it’s a place where the past lingers in the best way, where every sound and detail is tuned for your comfort, and where shifting feels as smooth as rolling a perfect strike

PNG CREDS: @florietas @snailspng @bydollita @ioveartfilm @s4dpngs @treasuregamble

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