#he wanted us to know he did it on purpose but it was meant to be easy to put out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hannieehaee · 6 months

Text

WANTED U

18 + / mdi

summary: everything about your relationship with minghao was perfect, leaving you with no complaints. except maybe in one area: minghao's stoic attitude during sex, making you entirely insecure about whether he wanted you as bad as you did him, or if he was maybe just too in love with you to let you down.

content: misunderstandings, established relationship, he's very very in love with reader, he's just a bit backwards, smut, afab reader, miscommunication (shocker), oral (f receiving), penetrative sex, dry humping, mentions of fingering, etc.

wc: 5.7k

a/n: based kind of maybe a lil bit on personal experience but 100% reimagined for fanfic purposes lmao

masterlist | kofi/patreon

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You were absolutely head over heels in love with your boyfriend. There was no way to fight it - not that you wanted to. It was as if his sole goal in life was to love you. He had even told you that before, claiming that his parents had been the greatest love story he had ever seen, and that he had wanted nothing more in life than to find a love like theirs. He'd said that his father had once told him, 'live to love, and love to live', advice which Minghao took to heart.

His father was a wise man when it came to love, even letting Minghao in on the secret that all his ambitions were driven by his love for his mother. Minghao had communicated their entire love story to you soon after meeting. You had only known each other for a short period of time before Minghao confessed to you, claiming that a friendship would not suffice for his heart, which had been taken by you upon your first meeting. He would've respected your decision if you had decided to remain friends, but was relieved to hear your enthusiastic agreement in becoming his girlfriend.

Being his girlfriend came with endless perks. For one, you got to be with the absolute love of your life; a man who was never shy to express his love to you through any means possible. He was also a successful idol, something that came with its troubles, but allowed you to see and support your boyfriend in all his passionate endeavors. He'd spend every free moment tending to you and showing you what it meant to be loved. There was no world in which you weren't completely enamored by the man.

You'd only been dating for four months by now. He had already introduced you to his friends and family, proudly letting them know that you'd be around for a long time, being completely certain that you were the love of his life. Sure, it might've been a bit soon, but the moment Minghao saw you, he knew you were the one. His certainty always made you a bit shy, a reaction which he'd kiss away by reassuring you that he'd never meet a love greater than yours. It was all perfect. You felt at home with his friends and family, quickly growing used to what would now be your forever family, as you also believed Minghao to be the one and only love you would ever come to know.

He showed you love through every means possible. He insisted on taking care of you financially, while also supporting your independent and professional endeavors. He took care of you emotionally, always lending an ear to listen to your problems and lips to soothe your worries. He'd constantly feed you with words of affirmation, almost as if he'd grow sick if he went a single day without you knowing how enamored he was. He'd make love to you ... and that was it on that matter.

Not to misunderstand, your sex life with Minghao was magnificent. There was no form of pleasure the man could not achieve to give you. He had you delirious with arousal with one single touch, making you beg even when he never demanded it from you. As many of his fans guessed, Minghao was just as experienced as he appeared. There was large variety of things he would entertain in the bedroom, never leaving you dissatisfied.

The issue laid in you, truly. Although you were always enthusiastic in the pleasure your boyfriend gave you, you weren't sure you could say it was the same for him. He would always shower you with endless praise and affection in every other circumstance, but while in the throes of passion the most you could really get out of him was a few muffled groans or one or two short-lived praises. You felt as if there was a imbalance in the pleasure you gave one another; almost as if he didn't want you as much as you did him.

You had recently realized that you were often the one to begin any sexual encounter, never having to beg for reciprocation, but also very rarely being enticed by the man himself. You almost felt embarrassed at the realization, having already been feeling a bit off at his lack of reactions towards you during the fact. Was he simply entertaining you out of pity? Did it not feel as good for him? Was he not into you physically as he was emotionally? You knew he always came when being intimate with you, always letting out a lone groan of your name when he finished. It was still hard to feel confident about your sex appeal when your boyfriend never gave you much to work with. You also felt a bit pathetic knowing he gave you the utmost pleasure while you seemingly gave him the barest minimum of it.

Talking to him about it was out of the question. You knew your boyfriend thrived off of healthy communication, but he hadn't mentioned any issues in your sex life, so you felt embarrassed to bring it up. Not only that, but you didn't want to come off as desperate or ungrateful. He was your best friend; the perfect boyfriend. You didn't want to open a can of worms that would have things go awry. So you decided to come up with a plan; maybe test your hypothesis.

Getting Minghao undressed and ready to fuck you was never too difficult. Just a few kisses and whispers asking him to please take care of you and he was ready to take charge. Currently you were in the middle of it, sitting on the couch as he kissed your neck, pulling breathy sighs out of you as you moaned his name, but received no reaction in return. You decided to act as usual, maybe gauge what got him going and what didn't. So far, he had spoken no words as he simply did what he knew you liked. He ran his hands through your body and kissed you deeply, drawing moans and whines out of you at the simplest of touches.

You felt a bit embarrassed, realizing how easy it was for him to get you going while it was the complete opposite for him. Now on the bed, he ground against you, still making no sound or any other indication of pleasure as he thrusted his hardness against you. You wondered how that felt for him. He was hard, so surely he was aroused, right? Shouldn't that equal some type of pleasurable reaction to the feeling? You weren't able to ponder on this for long, as he suddenly knelt next to bed, going straight to business against your heat.

"H-hao ... fuck!", you pulled at his hair, extremely sensitive to his touch as you usually were.

You couldn't help yourself in pulling at his hair, even grinding against his skilled tongue. You were completely lost to the bliss, moaning endlessly at the pleasure, unlike your boyfriend, whose only sounds were the slick of his tongue dragging against your pussy. If the tables were turned and Minghao was growing delirious on the feeling of your mouth on him, you'd be just as affected, getting off on the sound of his voice moaning out your name. So, you couldn't help but still feel disappointed at him eating you out with no further reaction.

However, the feeling of your orgasm overtook your disappointment, making you forget about any ill feelings and cumming against his tongue. What followed made you hollow out again, though.

He got up from his knelt position, nodding at you and asking a simple, "ready?" before undoing his pants and climbing on top of you, entering you immediately after putting on a condom.

You moaned and whined against his ear, scratching at his back at the pleasure; all things you usually did when he fucked you, but received no reaction in return. He'd give you the occasional muffled grunt, not even seeming like he was holding back, but more like he had nothing to give. It was a conflicting feeling. On one hand, you felt an insane amount of physical pleasure, but on the other, your emotions couldn't help but feel hurt by his lack of arousal towards you. Call you shallow, but you just wanted to feel like your boyfriend found you sexy, damnit!

"F-fuck, Hao! Gonna cum, don't stop. Shit!", it was easy for him to get you there, knowing all your weak spots by now. And it was just as easy for your body to take control of your mind, making you forget all worries as you came once again. He didn't take long to reach you, releasing into the condom with a grunt.

What made it worse was how sweet he was afterwards, calling you his beautiful girl and helping you clean up, only to cuddle you afterwards.

"You okay, my love? Felt good?"

Now, to any reasonable person, this would've been the perfect chance to speak up, maybe let him know about your concerns, but you just felt too pathetic. What were you supposed to do? Force your boyfriend to moan? Force him to give you the reactions you wanted rather than the ones that came naturally from him? You were supposed to accept him as he was, just like he did you. So, you responded with evasion.

"Yes, baby. Felt amazing. Love you."

You decided to go for a different approach this time.

Within the few months that you and Minghao had dated, you had really only spent a little under two months physically around each other. His job had a tendency of pulling him away from you for extended periods of time, so you were lucky if you ever got a whole week with him. This meant that the two of you would always try to make the best of the time you did get to spend together.

Within those two months of physical proximity, you two had a healthy sex life. You had sex for the first time only two weeks into the relationship, then proceeding to have it very regularly after that. Although, you were usually the one to initiate it.

In order to change things up, you decided to stop. You wanted to see how long it would take Minghao to approach you himself. Maybe gauge what it'd be like if you suddenly took it away. Would he react then? Would it feel better for him if you allowed a short period of time for things to mellow out?

The answer was no.

Only three days after your previous time having sex, he came home from dance practice, greeting you with a kiss. Except that instead of pulling away, he kept your lips connected, grabbing onto your waist to pull you close to him. Things went pretty much as usual after that. No words were exchanged (at least not from his side of things) as he undressed you and entered you while laying on the couch.

It was insanely pleasurable as per usual. His pace was slower than normal, and you heard a few more muffled grunts, which excited you like crazy.

"H-hao ..." you couldnt help but sigh as he angled himself perfectly to hit that sensitive spot inside you. You scratched at his back, arching your back against his chest.

He made no response, only going faster as he clearly realized your end was coming. He held you close to him, caressing your body tenderly despite the rapid movement of his hips. It was all perfect, sans the thing you wanted most; his lust for you. He cleaned you up afterwards, sheepishly apologizing for jumping you with no warning, giving you a quick peck as he said it. The conversation regarding sex ended there, with him expanding about his day and you yours. Had this been progress? You weren't sure.

Next attempt felt a bit pathetic.

You looked amazing. You needed no confirmation, you just knew it. You had bought a pretty lacy number, exactly in a style you knew your boyfriend would like. You hadn't had a chance so far to really dress up for him yet. So far, you had worn pretty panties and matching bras while being sexually active with him, but there had been no instance in which you really pulled out a whole set for him.

It felt a bit silly, resorting to perfectly trimmed lace in order to see if maybe your boyfriend would show some lust towards you. You even lit some candles, for god's sakes. This had to work, or else you'd feel like the biggest loser alive. You were a bit anxious, to be honest. You had never dressed up for a guy, but you'd heard it worked wonders in the bedroom. You knew the sex itself would be amazing, but you hoped that everything else also lived up to standard.

It wasn't long until you heard the keys unlock the door, which signaled that you should put into position. You had a matching silk robe, throwing it on as if to hide Hao's gift under a perfectly tied knot. He hadn't noticed you upon entering the room, having to do a double take to take notice of your pretty hair and makeup, way too fancy for an usual occasion.

"Love? W-what's with the look? You look beautiful," he approached you with a sweet smile, arms going directly to your waist

"Just wanted to do a little something for you, Hao. Do you like it?"

"Of course, angel. You look so pretty. Is there anything under the robe?", he lifted his eyebrow at you, hands playing with the knot.

"Find out?", you wanted to give him free rein, wanting to once more gauge his reaction. This was all for research purposes, after all.

"Oh ... Baby, you didn't have to do this ... You look gorgeous ..." he breathed out upon undoing the tie on the robe, immediately pushing it off as he ran his hands up and down your body. Yes, this was a good start. An amazing start, actually. He wanted you? That had been just your goal. His breathy sigh? God, that had you reeling.

He seemed to get distracted by the sight of your body being hugged by the expensive fabric, but eventually snapped out of it, shaking his head as if to get himself out of a trance. He kissed you after that, no longer paying any mind to the lingerie, nor to his previous reaction to you. He kissed and kissed you, same as he always did. Your moans against his lips fell to deaf ears, as he did not reciprocate with more moans of his own. You kissed him back, unable to not match his enthusiasm in making love to your lips.

What had just happened? You were going in the right track! He had suddenly just snapped himself out of it, basically willing the lust away. Had he wanted to hold back on purpose? Did you just need to incite him?

You let him kiss you for a while before gesturing for him to kiss down your neck, playing up your moans a bit and pushing your chest towards him. Eventually you placed his hands on your chest, now being a bit more direct.

"H-hao ... Do you like it? Did I do good?", okay, now you were a bit more embarrassed. You had never really delved into dirty talk with Minghao, much less submissive speech. There had never been a need since the man had no tendency to speak during sex at all - sans the times he'd check up on you. You hoped maybe he would react well to it.

"Yes, angel. You're perfect. Let me take care of you now, yeah?"

That was code for be quiet and let me get to business. Or at least that's how you took it. You were disheartened, but allowed him to continue, still enjoying his touch regardless of anything. You appreciated the compliments, but you did not feel sexy anymore. What you were feeling could better be described as childish and dejected. You felt like you'd shown a desperate side of yourself only to be met with nothing in return.

Your thoughts faded away the moment he began to drag his thigh between your legs, quickly drawing moans and cries of his name out of you. Was it that hard for him to do the same? What more did you need to do?

Logically, it didn't take him long to make you cum. You came in your lace panties, still earning a groan out of him upon feeling your cunt spasm against his bare thigh.

"Hmm, baby. Looked so pretty today ... Are you okay? Need me to clean you up?", he gave you a sweet kiss, running his hands up and down your sides in a caring manner.

"I'm fine, Hao, thank you. I, uh, what about you? Are you ... ?"

"I'm fine, baby. Don't worry about it," he smiled at you despite the obvious boner concealed by his shorts, "Get changed, angel. You'll get sticky and cold."

And that was it once again. Your outfit had given you a favorable reaction, but it died off quicker than you expected. You were back to square one all over again.

You had one final plan. If this didn't give you answers, you weren't sure how to proceed from there.

What if you pulled a 'Minghao' on Minhhao? Would he react if you suddenly became stoic while in his arms? It felt disingenuous, and the mere thought honestly made you feel a little mean, but you had grown desperate by now. It had been months of amazing sex that you were sure was gratifying only to you.

Next time you and Minghao found yourselves in that mood, you decided to lay pliant in his arms; not react to his touches and movements the way you usually would.

It was weird, not letting him know how much you loved his touch. You kissed him back, even held him back too, but your mouth was silent, as was your body. He kissed down your neck, soft hands touching at every corner that usually had your eyes rolling back, but you persisted. There were no reactions out of you, only muffled groans just like his own. You felt some hesitance in his touches, sometimes pausing as he didn't get the desired effect from his actions. He didn't vocalize his concerns, however, only continuing his path as he fingered you. His lips never left your skin as he worked you through your first orgasm.

It had been a feat, truly. The feeling of his lips against your skin was enough to have you mewling for more. His fingers curling inside you usually had you whining his name, but this time the most you could allow yourself to muster was muffled or broken cries as he drew you to completion. Even then he didn't question you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion with the question trapped between his lips. He moved on to undo his pants, prepping you a bit before sliding inside you. He let out the lone moan he always did upon sliding through you, but made no further noise.

You were going insane, toes curling and body completely tense, trying your hardest not to react. It wasn't just the pleasure, but your intense feelings for the man. The way he felt against you and gave you all his love through his touch. You felt like crying at the thought. Which is what you did without realizing. You couldn't help yourself. The love you had for your boyfriend was indescribable, even if you had been dating for so little. He felt the same, which was something he'd always let you know on the tender nights you'd spend sleeping in each other's arms. Right now, though, you felt like shit. It was hard for you to even enjoy his touch, which was a new experience for you.

Minghao must've noticed your cries, which had been louder than you realized, instantly halting his movements and checking on you.

"Angel? My love, what's wrong? Are you hurt?", he pulled away completely, still keeping his arms at your sides in an attempt to soothe you, but pulling his still hard cock out of you.

The sudden lack of proximity only made you cry louder, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath.

"Baby, tell me what's wrong, please. I'm so sorry, I didn't- I didn't mean to hurt you. Where does it hurt. How can I make it better?"

"Why- why don't you want me?", the question left your lips before you even realized, face heating up at your own words.

"What? Want you? What do you mean?"

There was still time to run it back, maybe make some type of excuse about why you'd been crying. But your emotions decided for you, not allowing your brain to formulate a lie before your mouth was opening again.

You took a quick breather, allowing yourself to catch your breath before responding. Minghao seemed to understand this, running his hand up and down your back in a soothing manner.

"I just ... I just don't understand. I love you, Minghao. I love you so much. I want you so much. Why don't you want me back? What do I need to do? I cant ... I can't keep doing this," you had stopped crying by then, but your emotions were still heightened.

"Love? I love you. What are you talking about? I'm in love with you, you know this. Please tell me what you mean? Tell me if you're hurt. I can't- I'd never want to hurt you."

He was now sitting right by you, your legs now closer while his hand came up to your cheek, wiping one of the last few tears remaining on your face. It made you feel like an asshole. He was being the amazing boyfriend you always knew him to be, reassuring you of bis affections while being worried for your wellbeing, not once stopping to care about himself. Meanwhile, you were crying because you wanted your boyfriend to feel lust for you. It was pathetic, really.

"I know you love me, Hao. You're the perfect boyfriend. I'm okay, I just ... fuck. I'm so embarrassed, I'm sorry. I don't want you to worry about me, it's so stupid, I'm sorry, I-"

"Angel, please stop apologizing. Tell me what's wrong. You don't have to be embarrassed. I need to know what you're thinking so that we can talk through it, okay? I'd never judge you," he was sincere in his words, taking on a soft smile as he tried to welcome the idea of an open conversation about whatever was on your mind. It was now or never, you guessed.

You took a deep breath, avoiding eye contact at all costs, "I feel like ... I feel like you don't want me."

"Want you how, angel?"

"I've tried everything Minghao. I've pursued you, I've let you pursue me, I've been loud, I've been quiet. Fuck, I even threw myself at you with stupid lingerie that you didn't even care about, but it never works. You don't want me, and it's driving me insane. I'm sorry, I know it's so stupid. I don't want to- I don't want to force anything on you or make you feel uncomfortable, but I feel so, fuck, I feel so pathetic. Like you have sex with me just to humor me. Like you're giving me something and I have nothing to show in return. I'm so- I'm so sorry."

You weren't sure what you were apologizing for. It was either the embarrassment or the warm gaze that wouldn't leave your own as you rambled.

"My love ... You think- you think I don't want you?"

"You don't have to humor me, Minghao, I already know. I've made peace with it, it's just .. tonight was too much. I tried to keep my emotions out of it, but it only made me break faster."

"Oh, angel," he closed the gap, pulling you even closer to him as he put his palms on your cheeks, drawing you closer while looking into your eyes, thumbs caressing the skin there, "I think I owe you an apology."

"No!", you grabbed onto his wrists, interrupting him before he could continue and separating yourself in the same breath, knowing you could never speak your mind while he held you so lovingly, "You don't have to apologize for anything. I'm sorry. I should've never tried to pressure you, I did this to myself, I-"

"I need you to let me talk, angel, please. I need to explain myself."

"Oh. I- okay. Continue."

"I adore you, my love. You know this. To think that you could ever think I don't want you breaks my heart. It's all my fault, I should've never done this, I- I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I don't ache for you the way you do me. I want you in ways I can't describe."

"But-"

"Let me finish," his hands were back on you, one caressing your cheek while the other ran up and down your arm in an almost sensual manner, "You think I don't think about you every passing moment? That you don't plague my thoughts every day? My beautiful girl ... You're the prettiest thing I've ever had. Holding you in my arms as you writhe under me is the biggest form of pleasure I've ever felt. You- you think-" he took a deep breath before continuing, "You think I don't think about you on my lonely nights away from your touch? That I don't touch myself thinking of you; your curves, your soft skin, the way you cry my name ..."

"H-hao ..." your breath was just as heavy as his by now, mouth dry as you heard him recite his one and every emotion towards you.

"You think you don't plague my mind at the most inopportune moments?", he continued despite your interruption, "I think of you every day. When I'm at practice, when I'm performing, fuck, I think of you when I'm having dinner with my parents. Your body invades my every thought. You beautiful, gorgeous thing. I ... I've had to hold back. Didn't want to scare you away with the impossible lust I feel for you. Every time you let me have you, I have to hold back. I can never fully have you. I don't know what it'd do to me. I've wanted you from the moment we met. I've wanted to explore every inch of your body and make you mine. But your pleasure is my main priority. Always. As long as you're satisfied, I could never ask for more. But to think you ever believed I didn't want ache for you every passing moment pains me. I ... I want to .. Can I show you? Will you let me show you how badly I need you?"

"Please .. Fuck, Hao, please, I-"

He moaned the moment he finally connected your lips, hands going crazy at the way he squeezed and caressed every inch he could reach. His moans against your lips did not halt as you whined desperately at his kiss, relishing in the speech he had just delivered to you. What you were feeling was beyond lust at this point. You felt something you had never before, having waited months for your boyfriend to finally want you the way you did him. You weren't sure if he was playing it up for you, but you didn't want it to stop regardless.

"My love," he finally disconnected your lips, "Going to give you everything. Everything I've been holding back, I- I don't even know where to start."

His eyes could not stay in one place, darting around every inch of your nude body. You had known Minghao to be attracted to you, it was something he expressed many times, but you had never seen the calm man so frantic before. His calm nature was completely gone.

"You can do anything you want, Hao. Just, please ..."

He shut you up with yet another kiss, laying you down on the bed in the process. He dragged his dick against your cunt, groaning at the feeling. You were still drenched from your ruined orgasm from earlier, and he was hard due to your prior interruption, so it wasn't difficult to get the two of you ready for each other.

"Wanna be in you so badly, but .. Fuck, you just feel so good like this angel," he was grabbing onto your thighs by now, lifting them up in order to angle himself just right to drag his cock right against your clit. His eyebrows were furrowed and his face flushed. He was a broken version of himself, with his only purpose in mind being to bring the two of you the most pleasure imaginable. You felt like an idiot for never expressing your concerns to your boyfriend, not imagining that it'd end up so favorably for you. The pleasure you felt at his lack of self-control as he played with you couldn't compare to any previous time in which you'd made love.

He separated himself from you before either of you could come, muttering something along the lines of 'Wanna savor you, my love.' He still seemed frantic, not fully sure where he wanted to touch first or what part of you to enjoy at that moment. He went from kissing your chest to rubbing your pussy with his long fingers. He put you in all positions he could think of to kiss up and down your body, waxing poetic at you repeatedly as he sighed against your skin. The occasional times in which his cock would accidentally grace against you had you burning, wanting him inside you more than anything. Now that you knew he wanted you just as bad as you did him; now that he was fully yours.

"My beautiful girl ... Love you so much. The pleasure you bring me .. You have no idea. How could I ever let you think I didn't carry a torch for you night after night. Is this okay? Is it okay to want someone this badly? To ache for you day and night, only thinking of your touch?," he was finally facing you again, close enough to invade all your senses.

"Gonna have you now, okay, angel? Gonna show you how strongly I feel about you. How you make me lose all my inhibitions."

He entered you with no further warning, letting out the groan he always did, but this time his mouth would not stop running, moaning and sighing your name against your ear, letting you know how your cunt around him made him lose his mind.

"My most beautiful, girl ... fuck. Gonna break you ... I've held back for too long ... Need you every day," the way he was fucking you was nothing short of animalistic, with both his words and the slapping of your skin filling up the silence of the room.

"God, that day you showed up with that pretty set for me? Do you have any idea how difficult it was to not pin you against the wall and rip it off of you? Make you cry as you took all of me until every single drop of my cum was leaking from your cunt? The image has not left my mind for a single moment, angel. Can't think, shit ... Can't breathe without thinking of you," despite his insane dancer stamina, his breathing was becoming disheveled as he continued to piston into you.

You had thought that Minghao had already given you all types of pleasure throughout your relationship, but now that he had finally snapped you had truly reached heaven. And it seemed like it was the case for him too. He was unable to stop himself from telling you his every thought, with his emotions getting the best of him as he fucked into you almost animalistically. His fingers were bruising your thighs as he held you with all bis might; something you thought your soft and sweet Minghao was incapable of doing.

"Hao ... I need .. I'm gonna cum, Hao, please!"

"Yeah? Gonna let me have it, angel? Love when you cum for me. So soft and pretty, all for me. Cum, my love. Cum and I'll give you all of me in return."

The thought of his cum filling you up made you lose control, cumming as your back arched almost completely off the bed. You felt like you'd ascended, being given the most intense orgasm of your life, followed by a warm feeling inside you; the feeling of Minghao's essence penetrating you.

He almost fell on top of you as he finished, breath hot and heavy against your skin.

"My love? Are you okay? Was that too much?," it only took a few moments of silence for him to speak up, showing immediate concern for your limp and breathless state.

You had been more than okay, having never felt more loved and wanted in your life. From his words to his actions, Minghao had managed to make you realize how wrong you'd been all along. It wasn't that he didn't want you, but that he wanted you too much to hold back if given the chance to fully give himself to you. But now it was all out in the open. Now you could finally enjoy each other to the fullest extent.

"I'm okay, Hao. Thank you," you felt shy in the aftermath of it, now fully processing all the words of lust your boyfriend had whispered against your skin as he fucked you into the mattress. You had seen a side of Minghao you hadn't known existed.

"Are you sure? I didn't scare you off, did I?"

"Are you kidding? I've wanted you to do that for ages. I was going insane throwing myself at you!"

He chuckled, booping at your nose lovingly, "You were making my resolve break, my love. Wasn't sure how much longer I could go without going past my limit."

"Could've talked me through it at least once, you know. I wouldn't've objected," you humphed.

"How about I make up for it now, hmm? Let me clean you up in the shower?"

"Yeah? Gonna tell me how much you want me again?", you grinned against him.

"Yes, my angel. Every single day."

a/n: not proofread and i also had no idea how to end it my bad </3

#seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #svt fanfic #seventeen #svt #svt x reader #seventeen imagine #seventeen oneshot #seventeen smut #svt smut #minghao x reader #minghao smut #minghao fanfic #minghao imagines #the8 fanfic #the8 smut #the8 x reader #the8 imagines

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ambrosiagoldfish · 4 months

Note

I've never sent a request before, but I'm fiending for more adam, like anything, anything at all

Benefit of the doubt

Adam x 3rd Spouse! Reader

Viewer discretion is advised

Warnings: Angst(?), Not exactly fluff at the end but it gets better, typical Adam TW’s, reader low-key high-key has a complex about being loved, this is set way before the show, and Gn! Reader. (Also Y/n isn’t used, which also surprised me, the author, LMAO)

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Request Box: Open

Word count: 1760

A/N: Hi! Thanks for the request! I haven’t had a chance to write something that was originally my own idea in a while, so this was very refreshing! I’ve had this idea since I’ve watched the show so I hope you enjoy it!

I’m entirely up for making a small series from this oneshot, but I would need to know y’all’s opinion on it! (So don’t feel scared to let me know if you want some more of this idea in my Request box/the replies on this post!!)

Also Adam may be slightly OOC but please just chalk it up to him not yet getting his ego’s dick sucked 24/7

Anyways, I hope you all enjoy, let me know if you do!

Proofread but of course could have left mistakes!

You’ve existed for almost all of human existence, Almost.

You were the 4th being to be created during the time of Eden. But unlike the other 3, you weren’t human. In fact, you technically never lived before. An honestly hopeless existence, yet it was so beautiful in every way. But for what purpose? Well…

You were created shortly after Eve ate the apple, before she and eventually Adam committed the first act of sin that caused evil to latch onto humanity like a leech.

The reason for your existence was simple. To be Adam’s new spouse, except for when after he died. From the very moment Eve bit the fruit of temptation, it was already decided she would hold no place in heaven. Adam was given mercy due to him not possessing any knowledge of the fruit Eve had shared with him, he trusted her wholeheartedly. Which is exactly why heaven gave him mercy… no, pity would be a better choice of words.

Upon your creation you learned immediately of the happenings before your existence. About Lilith and Eve, and about Lucifer

And so, after Adam and Eve were casted away from the Garden, they continued to live their lives, fostering the existence of mankind for the rest of time. And when they eventually died, Adam was given pity while Eve was thrown to the wayside, the vast unknown.

You thought it was finally your time to experience existence with the one you loved, the one you were made for. Of course you never would know life as he did but surely your life never-after life could be just as meaningful as his.

How excited you were, how completely enamored by the thought of it. But there was a problem with that, Adam had grown into a new person, he was meant to of course, he was human. But he had grown selfish, abhorrent… insecure.

You understood why, to be betrayed by not one but two of his wives for the same person. You couldn’t possibly imagine what he could be feeling. Before you were to meet your future husband, Sera informed you that he had asked for a mask, and once on, he has refused to take it off.

That didn’t bother you, it’s irrelevant to your love for him. You've only heard descriptions of his features. Short Brown hair, gold eyes, bushy eyebrows, some scruff on his chin. All in all, he sounded perfectly fine, ordinary even. But even then it’s his choice to wear the mask, so you’ll respect it.

Finally, the time he arrived in heaven, and when Sera finally introduced you, his new spouse, the one to whom would be by his side for the rest of forever.

He rejected you outright.

“What?” Your breath hitched as you stuttered over the word, the sharp inhale of your lungs through your mouth flicked through the air.

Sera looked just as shocked as you but she quickly regained her composure “What is the meaning of this Adam?”

“If you think I’m going to let my life get fucked over by another one of your “gifts” well, you’ve got another thing coming!” He crossed his arms and shook his head defyingly. “I’ve already learned my lesson with those last 2 bitches.”

“Adam I’m sorry that happened to you but I would never-“ almost like lightning his finger shot to your mouth, shushing you.

“Save it, Sweetcheeks, I really don’t care what you have to say, so just stay there and look pretty, k?” His hand fell and grabbed the sides of your face, squishing your cheeks together, his LED mask flashing a sharp smile.

You saddeningly looked down at the clouds below you.

“Adam!” Sera’s voice sounded through the air, still soft but firm, she continued, placing a hand on your shoulder, “Divine judgment allowed you to be the first human soul in heaven, so I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I expect you to give your new spouse that same grace.”

Slowly your eyes looked up at Sera with a soft smile. Adam only groaned “Ugh, Fine but don’t be fuxking annoying, capiche?” You nod your head quickly.

“Very good, glad we have it settled.” Sera gives a quick smile, “now, I have some business to take care of so I’ll leave you two alone to get to know one another” With that, Sera flew away leaving the both of you alone.

The silence was thick in the air, the only sound being the occasional wind breeze blowing past. The sunlight creeps in through the clouds painting an orange sky above you both. In every sense of the word, it was perfect.

It was almost funny. You had waited so long to finally meet him, your true love, the one you were made for. All the things you dreamed about, the laughs you’d have together, the warm embrace of the person who you loved. But now… you didn’t know what to say…

“I’m… happy to finally meet you.” Your voice is quiet, almost non-audible. “I’ve been waiting for you since… well, forever…”

He doesn’t respond. He seems to be transfixed on something below you both. You train your eyes on whatever he’s watching only to see the dark cavernous abyss below you. Finally he breaks his silence.

“The fuck is that?” He asked pointing down, a sound of genuine intrigue hidden behind his abrasive voice

“That’s hell?” You stated confused “where would-be sinners will go to be punished, didnt you k-“ you suddenly realized that perhaps Adam really didn’t know what hell was. It was only created relatively recently, after Eve and Him ate the apple, of course he wouldn’t know. “it’s also where Lucifer-“

“Don’t fucking say his name.” Adam spoke, his voice rough in his speech. LED mask putting a harsh frown on his face. “Let’s get one thing straight M”Kay babe, if you’re my “new spouse” that’s something you should remember.” The “new spouse” was said with a tone clearly meant to mock you.

“Sorry…”

“Ugh, It’s fine, just don’t do it again.” He groaned before a wicked smile crept onto his mask “Sooo, that means he’s going to be stuck with all the wasteful beings of existence, HA fuxkin’ hilarious. Guess that makes them the losers and us the Winners!”

His laugh filled the air, the sound was like music to your ears, sure maybe it wasn’t really what you’d hoped he’d fine funny, but you loved it all the same but eventually his laugh died down

Silence again… in admits of all of it you suddenly was sparked with a thought “oh!” Adam looked confused at the random exclamation. “I had almost forgotten… I brought you something, as a welcome gift or was it a nice to meet you gift? Both? Eh, it doesn’t matter but the point is-“ you suddenly snap your fingers.

Golden light began shining, the light seemed like liquid hot magma as it moved and molded slowly into a shape. Light seemed to be overlapping and churning into itself, forming your desired outcome. With one final snap of your fingers, the gleaming gold liquid took hold, and quickly hardened to a solid.

The object that had formed quickly fell down, landing in your arms with a light thud.

“I’m still learning this creation stuff, so I’m sorry if it’s not perfect but-“ you hold out the object in your arms as an invitation to grab it “I learned from Sera that you liked to play guitar when you were alive, so I thought you might like to have one here…”

Adam looked at the instrument in your hands. The base color was gold, the neck was pearly white with gold strings. To be honest it looked more like a harp then anything, like if a guitar and a harp had a baby.

Silence again. Did he not like it? Did he hate it? You go to pull it back to you and apologize when suddenly it’s ripped out from your hands.

“Holyshit, this is sick as Fuck!” Adam immediately started playing some rifts on the new guitar. The sound wasn’t what you were expecting but you guess Sera was right about his talent with the instrument. The whole time his mask had a wide and sharp smile as he mimicked guitar sounds with his voice, the occasional laugh leaving his mouth.

“I’m really glad you like it” you say, a sigh of relief leaving your body.

Adam looked at you, one you missed. He saw how relieved you were, how nice you were being. No person who supposedly loved him ever gifted him something, well, one other did. Someone he trusted and loved more than everyone, anyone. But look how that ended, with them being removed from the garden, away from an eternity of happiness until he died. All from someone giving him what he thought was nothing but love, a gift.

But he could see that this was different, you were different. When Eve gave him the apple, she didn’t explain what it was or why she wanted him to eat it, even when he asked her she didn’t explain. But with you, you had not only given him something you knew he liked but also expressed the reason behind it. Yes, you were different, even Adam could see it.

“Anyways, thanks for the axe, I guess…” Adam for the first time was stunned, but quickly he continued “What was the thing that Sera chick said about me and “divine judgment” or whatever the fuck? That she gave me the “benefit of the doubt…”

You were a bit confused but continued listening, “I guess I should at least try to give you a chance, since you got me this sick ass guitar an’ shit.” Your face lit up, you about began to speak before you were, once again, shushed “B-B-But-” his finger tapped your lips with each repeated syllable ”-only a chance. If you betray me like those last 2 bitches then you’re done, got it?”

To say you were overjoyed would be an understatement, a smile quickly plastered across your face as you quickly nodded your head

“Alright good, so uh, what do ya say about showing me the best places to get a bite to eat around here, I could really go for some ribs right about now.”

“ I’d… love to, thank you Adam”

“Yeah don’t mention it Sweetcheeks” Adam quickly wrapped his arm around your shoulder and you two began walking.

Maybe you will get your eternity of happiness.you can only pray you do.

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ssahotchnerr · 25 days

Note

a bit late but i have a request for protective aaron 😓😓 reader and hotch having a date night and they run into someone who claims to be from the fbi like that one guy who prentiss garcia and jj came across?? maybe they play along for while? i love ur writing btw 💕💕 and congrats on 5k!!

brad's back

let's pretend this hasn't been in my drafts for ages, and what if it is the same guy they came across 🤭 cw; jealous!aaron, bau fem!reader, bar setting, light drinking mentions, suggestiveness, brad LOL wc; 1.2k

Saturday night. Date night.

Aaron and yourself had already finished dinner, and had stopped at a nearby bar for a drink or two before heading home. Jack was at Jessica's for the night, having fun of his own at a sleepover with his cousins.

That meant a wonderfully empty apartment was waiting for you, and all of its advantages.

You were giddy with impatience, eager to head out. As you waited for Aaron to return - he had run to the men's room - out of your peripheral you sensed someone lingering, just a few feet away from where you were sat.

You turned your head, subtly brushing your fingers through your hair so your glance didn't seem purposeful. It was a man in a suit, hair swept cleanly, looking greatly out of place in the casualness of the bar.

But your discreet attempt at observing did go noticed; the man took it as a plausible excuse to approach you.

"You should be careful."

Your eyebrows quirked quizzically, evaluating whether or not his statement was a threat or hopeful flirting. "How so?"

"Saturday night. It's getting late. We're in a high crime area."

You widened your eyes in feigned surprise, "Are we?"

No, you were not.

You quickly deemed him harmless, for now. And while you waited, why not play into it; he obviously had some story going, without a doubt a highly entertaining one at that. Not only, with Aaron due back in a few short minutes, you wouldn't mind seeing his protective side in the slightest.

"But lucky for you, I'm around. I just so happen to be a part of the FBI."

"Really." Your chin pointed downwards, not wasting a second to rack through your brain. He didn't look familiar, and you were quite good at remembering faces. You definitely hadn't come across this man before in practice.

When nothing unveiled, "I didn't catch your name."

"Brad."

Holy shit. You've heard the infamous Brad story from the girls, numerous times, and this had to be him. It had to; he was just as they described: vain, a bit gawky. You quickly stifled the laugh that wanted to burst through your chest. It's been months since, and evidently he was still using the same pickup.

"Brad the FBI agent." You nodded slowly, toying with your drink, fingers on the rim. "That's quite the title. What department are you in?"

"That's classified," he answered, leaning against the counter on an elbow. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"I see..."

Your eyes shot to the side as Aaron approached, landing on him just in time to see him stop in his tracks. As expected, a scowl deepened on his face as he saw Brad talking to you, also taking notice of his close, flirtatious proximity. His feet began moving once again, more urgency in his step.

"You must know Aaron then." You gushed, grabbing onto Aaron's arm and drawing him close as soon as he was in reach, and before he could ruthlessly interrogate Brad. Aaron lightly stumbled in surprise at the sudden pull.

Brad blanched, "I, urm-"

"Aaron," you grinned, "this is Brad."

Aaron shot you a look, one that read: 'And why the hell would I care?' but as he gave you said look, he immediately eyed the mischievous, fiery glint in your eyes. You were up to something.

The tension lessened in Aaron (barely), offering a rather stiff, "Hello."

"Brad," you turned, your hand clutching onto Aaron's bicep, your thumb grazing it calmly. "Aaron's in the FBI too."

Aaron's shoulders relaxed, probably coming to the same realization; he's heard the story also, as Penelope all but sprinted into the bullpen to share the hilarious encounter.

"No, I don't believe we have met." He activated his Hotch Stare, "What department are you-"

"Oh, he can't say. Classified." You interrupted, lips developing into a pout. "Strange, isn't it?"

While Aaron's notorious expression was enough to make Brad squirm, he also put an arm around you, keeping you close. Very close, your shoulder was practically digging into his chest.

Brad forced a laugh, his voice painfully strained. "Actually, it's uh... the big one. In DC."

"The big one." Aaron deadpanned, his brows furrowing more into a hardened line above his eyes. "You mean the J. Edgar Hoover Building?"

"Yes sir, that one." He rushed out, his gaze darting to the side. Probably looking for a quick escape.

"And your speciality?"

A dreadfully, humorously weak answer, "Crime."

"Crime." Aaron repeated, with an undertone of idiot.

"Modern day hero, clearly." You inputted. Aaron's lips twitched, holding back a smile.

"Your Superior is?"

"Superior... you see, I really can't stay. My boss wouldn't be too happy with me giving out the details."

"And you are aware that impersonation can be charged as a criminal offense," Aaron laid it on thick, his tone nothing less than strictly authoritative. "Aren't you?"

Brad opened his mouth to respond. Much to his avail, only silence came out.

"If I were you, I would try to find a better use of your time than using a forged title to pick up women. Perhaps being yourself may work? Although, I believe that needs extensive work as well."

Humiliation glassed over Brad's eyes, a blush rising to his cheeks. He turned on his heel, retreating.

"One more thing."

Your heart skipped a beat. From Aaron's tone of voice, the protectiveness you had anticipated - deep emphasis was about to come to the surface.

"I'm not the only one in the FBI." He spoke with pride in his chest, cocking his head towards you. Aaron's lips also quipped into a smile, whereas a smug look was on your face. "She's more than capable to take care of herself. And if for some reason she couldn't, that's where I come in."

Brad merely stood there, helplessly. From the irritation present on his face, he was completely over it.

"Have a good night."

"That was something, wasn't it?" You stated humorously once Brad was out of earshot.

Aaron snorted a laugh into his drink. "I'll say."

"I wonder how often it's worked." You thought aloud, feeling for those who had unknowingly fallen for it.

"Not enough if he's still using it as a ruse."

"It's kinda sad." While it was well deserved, long overdue and hopefully ceased any future endeavors of his, you still couldn't help but feel bad. Partially bad.

"It is, but he doesn't deserve your pity sweetheart." Aaron's hand fell atop yours, giving your knuckles a gentle pat. "Ready to head out?"

You nodded yes, "I've been ready."

After tossing some bills on the counter, Aaron properly grabbed your hand this time. The two of you headed for the exit, Aaron's hold on your hand tightening - to not lose you amidst the crowd, or for anyone else to make a pass at you.

"Is this the part where I say I can show you what a real FBI agent can do?" Aaron teased, a delightful little smirk on his face as he opened the door.

You laughed. "Whatever makes you happy. And benefits me."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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luveline · 1 month

Note

would you ever write about hotch pining after r because he thinks she’s interested in someone else but then she confesses to him that she’s only ever had eyes for him 🥹

You’re shocked Hotch will let them look at him, honestly. When was the last time you saw Hotch receive medical attention? He doesn’t seem happy about it, suit jacket folded in his lap, his shirt cut in three places, most noticeably the left sleeve.

“His arm is definitely broken,” Spencer tells you.

“Do you think he’ll let me give him some comfort?” you ask, the two of you with your arms crossed against the side of the second ambulance, where Morgan undergoes a similarly reluctant checkup for his bloody temple.

“No. You can always try, though. He’ll appreciate the effort.”

You ready yourself with a deep breath and begin the short walk. It feels long then suddenly over at the same time. The only thing between you and Hotch now is a shoe’s width and the EMT securing his temporary sling.

“They’re making me an emergency appointment,” he tells you.

You fight the urge to rub the toe of your shoe into the ground. “Are you in pain?”

“No. They gave me tramadol.”

Hotch pushed you hard out of the way of a brawl and took blows meant for you in turn. He never lets you get hurt in the field. At first you’d assumed him to be the overprotective boss, and careful of women in the team, but you’ve caught on now that his motivation wells from somewhere deeper.

Hotch loves you. He won’t tell you. You have no idea why.

The EMT says she’ll return and takes her leave. You nod to the patch of metal flooring beside him, legs too tired to keep standing, and Hotch moves over to leave a gap between you suitable for turning into. You sit down with a sigh. Face to face, this close, you can see the different colours of his iris and the scar under his eyebrow clear as day.

“You okay?”

“Are you?” he asks with nothing more than a single short nod.

“I’m worried about you,” you confess. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I can take care of myself, okay? I don’t like you getting hurt in my place.”

“I’m your Unit Chief.”

“If it were Morgan, you wouldn’t have pushed him out of the way. If it were Emily. And we both know I can hold my own.”

He doesn’t look away from your face. “I know.”

You’re finding it hard to want to scold him. You love him, too. You appreciate what it takes for him to take a fight that was meant for you, and the sentiment behind it. You’d quite like for him to protect you, just not at work. He could glare down potential suitors or argue with people who are rude to you at the grocery store. He doesn’t need to do your job for you.

You raise your hand tentatively to his face, ignoring his confusion as you rake the hair that falls against his forehead back up. “It’s getting a little long for you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Me too. I keep meaning to do so much stuff but we get home and I get to my apartment and I just sleep for days.”

“I wish I did something that sensible.”

You curl your fingers over his shoulder. Without his suit jacket, you can feel the solidness of his muscle and soft tissue clearly. You rub your thumb in a half circle.

“Why don’t you sleep much? I wish you would.”

His eyes flare momentarily. His only tell, a flicker of movement you can’t miss. He’s surprised by something, your question, maybe your tone. “I do sleep.”

“Not enough.”

“No, I guess not.”

You press your cheek to his arm. Can’t help yourself. He’s this strong, stern guy, so used to trying to save everyone that he barely looks after himself, and it makes you sad to think he’d love you and not want to tell you, because why wouldn’t he? Something in him must stop him from acting on it, but that something isn’t in you, not anymore. “Can’t believe you got your arm broken for me,” you murmur, lips to his shirt. You let out a breath, feel the warmth of it pass onto his skin and his following shudder.

“It wasn’t purposeful.”

“No? That’s good.”

“I would do it again,” he says. “I thought you’d be with Morgan.”

“Morgan’s a big boy.”

“As opposed to me.”

“I want to be here with you. I’m worried about you.” You press your face further into his arm, scared to say it even though you know it’s returned. “I care about you so much, ‘n’ you never let me show it.”

“That’s not true,” —his voice climbs higher— “I thought… You and Derek are close.”

“He’s my friend, Hotch. It’s not like that.”

Hesitant, tender all the same, Hotch’s uninjured arm slinks around your side to hold you, to bring you closer to his side where you’re hiding. You’re much too old for this, and still you have to confess.

“I don’t like him,” you say.

“As opposed to me.”

You laugh at his repetition. Too embarrassed to say anything more on the subject but wanting to cement it in his head, you raise your head and your hand at the same time, knuckle to his jawline, nudging him to one side. You lean up and kiss his cheek.

“Please don’t push me out of the way again,” you say.

Hotch smiles at you, a proper, soft-eyed smile. “I won’t.”

It’s an obvious lie.

“Maybe when we go home we can nap together,” you suggest, heart slamming considering the innocence of what you’ve suggested.

His fingers cradle your side. “You want to?” he asks carefully.

“You can finally get some rest.”

He closes his eyes, resting his face against yours.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds

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wannab3-writer · 29 days

Text

Game, Set, Love

ART DONALDSON X READER (18+)

Mature Content Warnings: spoilers if you SQUINT , Forbidden Love, Second-Chance Romance, Age Gap, Mentor and Protégé, cheating ( sorta, not on reader), SMUT, NOT PROOF READ.

WC: 13.2 k

description

After walking away from tennis at the height of his career, Art Donaldson finds himself drawn back into the sport as a favour to an old friend. His new charge, Katrina King, is a talented but emotionally young player navigating the intense pressures of the professional tennis circuit. Art and Katrina's connection deepens as they train for the 2020 US Open but a single night changes everything.

2020 BEVERLLY HILLS CHALLENGER

August 31st, 2020

Art Donaldson sat in the shaded section of the stands, his arms resting casually on the armrests. He'd made it clear to everyone—Tashi and the media—that he was done with tennis. But Martha King, a long-time supporter of his and Tashi's tennis foundation, insisted that he attend, going so far as to cover all his expenses for the weekend so he could attend. Her daughter, Katrina King, was playing her final challenger before qualifying for the US Open, and Martha believed it was something he couldn’t miss.

"It's just one set; I'm not going to sit here and beg you to coach her or anything. Just watch, Art. I think you'll find it worthwhile."

Art nodded slightly, keeping his expression neutral. "I’m here, aren't I?" he said, keeping an aloof facade. He glanced toward the court, where Katrina was preparing to serve and begin the last set. Her movements were fluid and purposeful. He'd heard about her talent and determination, but he wasn't ready to be pulled back into the tennis world.

The game began, and Katrina's serve was powerful, almost explosive. Art watched with mild interest as her opponent, a seasoned French player, struggled to keep up. He watched her body move, head to toe, taking her in. She was tall and lean; her body was nothing less than an athletes that was for sure.

"She's impressive," Art commented, a hint of genuine appreciation in his voice. Katrina’s mother smiled, her perfectly manicured fingers resting on her lap, glancing over towards him.

"She works hard," she replied. "A lot like Tashi used to. I remember watching her play when she was just starting out. She had the same intensity, the same drive."

That had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Art's gaze lingered on Katrina as she moved around the court with confidence and agility. Each shot was precise. He found himself leaning forward slightly, and his interest piqued despite his best efforts to remain indifferent.

Martha noticed the shift in his demeanor and cocked a brow. "It's good to see you out here, Art. I know you didn't want to come, but I'm glad you did," she said, her voice soft yet firm. Art nodded, his eyes fixed on the match.

"I'm just watching; nothing special, really," he replied, unsure if he was convincing himself or her. — Another ace, and the crowd erupted in applause. Art found himself joining in, clapping slowly, though his eyes were locked on Katrina. Something about her—the energy, the focus—reminded him of the early days, the days of fire and ice, Stanford, Wimbledon, and Tashi. It was electric.

As the match progressed, Art's arms uncrossed, and he sat forward, his attention fully on the game. Katrina was dominating, each point building momentum until she reached the match point. The rallies were intense, and the shots were sharp and strategic. With one last ace, Katrina secured the game and title, and her triumphant fist-pump met with a roar from the crowd.

Art stood, clapping with genuine enthusiasm. It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of excitement watching a match. Martha looked at him, raising an eyebrow, her expression expectant.

"Well?" she asked, her voice warm but with an edge that demanded a response.

Art hesitated only briefly, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "I'll do it," he said, realizing that he meant it. The idea of coaching Katrina suddenly seemed like an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

Martha smiled, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "I knew you'd come around," she said. "Katrina will be thrilled."

Art nodded, his gaze returning to the court where Katrina stood, smiling at the applause. Turning towards the crowd after a few seconds, she found her mother’s gaze, and then — Arts, and she held a fiery look in her eyes, sporting a raised brow and sly smirk for what felt like at least a minute. One thing was sure for Katrina, on August 31st, 2020, the match wasn’t the only thing she had won that day, and maybe, just maybe, tennis had a place for him again.

THE MEETING

Katrina King walked down the narrow corridor backstage, sweaty, hot, and short of breath, the adrenaline from her victory still coursing through her veins. She was basking in her win, her smile broad and confident. But her mother's text just minutes after the game was clear: "Come to the players' lounge. Now."

She pushed open the door and saw her mother sitting at a small table with Art Donaldson. Katrina knew who he was—everyone in tennis knew. A former tennis champion, the US Open winner from a decade earlier.

Art looked up as Katrina entered the room, his eyes scanning her with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. Her long hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of intensity and confidence. He noticed the subtle tilt of her chin—she was used to winning, and it showed.

"Katrina," Martha said, gesturing for her to join them. "You remember Art Donaldson, don't you?"

"Of course," Katrina replied, extending her hand. Art stood, his movement deliberate, and shook her hand firmly. His hair was longer than she remembered, resembling his past self, his Stanford days, and recalling his games she'd seen on YouTube. His grip was strong.

"Great game today," Art said, his voice measured. "You played with a lot of confidence. That last ace was a killer."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, a hint of pride in her tone. She could tell he was assessing her and weighing her potential. She didn't mind—she'd done the same with him, reading up on his career and his playing style as soon as she found out he was attending her game. He was known for his

Martha cleared her throat. "But," she said, her tone turning sharp, "there were a few things you need to work on. Your backhand was a bit sloppy today. And you were late on a couple of volleys. If your opponent had been more aggressive, you could've lost points."

Katrina's expression hardened. She knew her mother was right, but the criticism was not something that needed to be said in front of Art; for God sake, she was a 20-year-old woman but felt like she was a child getting scolded in front of her peers, especially after a big win. Art watched the exchange, noting the dynamic between them.

"I'll work on it," Katrina said, her voice steady. "But I got the win, didn't I?"

"You need to be prepared for tougher competition. Complacency is the enemy." Martha replied. “If you think you can win the grand slam playing like that, you’ll be in for a rude awakening, Katrina.”

Art leaned back in his chair, watching the interplay. Katrina definitely had the spark and the drive, but there was also a stubborn streak in her.

So Tashi

When she was younger, she was always pushing boundaries and never satisfied with just a win. He could see the potential for greatness.

"She's got a point," Art said, jumping in. "There's always room for improvement. But you played a solid game today. The key is to keep that momentum going without getting overconfident."

Katrina glanced at him, assessing his words. She appreciated his straightforward approach. He wasn't coddling her, but he also wasn't tearing her down. It was a balance she could respect.

"I'm not planning on slowing down," she said, meeting his gaze. "I want to keep getting better. Whatever it takes."

Art nodded. He liked her attitude. It was raw and unfiltered, just like he had been. But there was also a hint of something else—an edge that could either make or break her career. He'd have to be careful, tread lightly, and guide her without pushing too hard.

"Good," he replied, a faint smile on his lips. "Because coaching isn't just about winning. It's about building a mindset, a work ethic, and knowing when to listen. You up for that?"

Katrina raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You wouldn’t have agreed to coach me if I wasn’t.”

PRACTICE

Art Donaldson stepped into the grand foyer of the White residence, feeling a slight twinge of unease. The housekeepers greeted him politely, their voices formal and distant, leading him through the opulent hallways.

The backyard was large, with meticulously manicured gardens and a full-sized tennis court at its center. Katrina was on the court, stretching with the fluid grace of a seasoned athlete. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and in her matching tennis outfit, everything was neatly upheld, even Katrina.

"Hi," she said, her tone somewhat neutral, almost formal. "Ready for practice?"

Art nodded, his expression detached.

Katrina stretched a little longer, glancing at Art occasionally. He stood with his arms crossed, his posture stiff and unwelcoming. The silence between them felt heavy, and neither seemed eager to break it. Katrina was used to coaches being more engaged and enthusiastic, but Art seemed distant, as if he was doing this out of obligation rather than passion.

"Let's get started," he replied, keeping his voice level. He placed his bag on a bench and scanned the court, taking in the pristine surface and the quality equipment. It was clear that the King family spared no expense on Katrina's training facilities.

Art finally spoke, outlining the plan for the day. "We'll start with your serve. There's a lot of power, which is why you can get so many aces in, but you need better footwork if you want to avoid long-term injuries. Then we'll work on your defense, and after that, we'll focus on your shot selection."

Katrina listened with a mix of uncertainty and skepticism. Art Donaldson wasn't the type to mince words, and despite his unbothered demeanor, his comments were sharp and to the point. What puzzled her was how much he seemed to know about her style, despite only seeing her play once.?

Art continued, his voice even and matter-of-fact. "I've reviewed some of your past games, mostly the ones you lost. It's clear you have the raw strength and power, but you rely on them too much. That's great for getting those aces, but without proper technique and precision, you're risking injuries and inconsistency. We need to refine that raw power and give it more structure."

Katrina couldn't help but feel a flicker of irritation. She knew she was strong, and her serve was one of the best on the circuit, but hearing someone dissect her game so quickly was unsettling. This was only their first practice; they hadn’t even started playing yet, but somehow Art already seemed to know her weaknesses better than most of her previous coaches.

Art continued, unaware of her internal resistance. "So, I've created a set of drills that will help improve your footwork and balance. It's not just about hitting the ball hard; it's about control and accuracy. If we don't work on these areas, you're going to burn out before you reach your peak."

Katrina folded her arms, her brow furrowing slightly. She wasn't one to take criticism lightly, especially from someone who'd barely spent time with her. Art had a point—she'd heard similar comments before—but his bluntness felt a bit too forward for her liking. Who was he to tell her she needed refinement after only seeing her play once?

As much as she wanted to dismiss him, she knew, deep down, that he was right. Her strength was a double-edged sword; it gave her an edge, but it also left her vulnerable. She'd suffered minor injuries in the past due to poor technique, and she'd lost matches because of these errors. Art's critique, though harsh, had truth to it.

Art noticed her hesitation and the slight edge in her expression. "I know this might sound a bit blunt," he said, softening his tone slightly. "But I'm not here to sugarcoat things. If you want to make it to the top and stay there, you need to listen and adjust. This isn't about criticism—it's about giving you the best chance to succeed."

Katrina sighed, feeling her resistance wane. Maybe Art was a bit too forward, but he wasn't wrong. He had seen something in her that others hadn't—or maybe he was just willing to point it out where others had stayed silent. She was stubborn, but she wasn't stupid.

"Okay," she said, her voice steady. "Let's give it a shot."

Art nodded, his demeanor slightly less rigid. "Good. Let's start with the footwork drills. I'll show you what I mean."

As they moved onto the court to begin the practice, Katrina felt a cautious sense of optimism. Art was a mystery; she had only met him once before and couldn’t recall him being this cold, but there was something about his straightforwardness that felt refreshing, even if it rubbed her the wrong way at first. Maybe this coaching thing would work out after all—if she could just learn to trust his instincts.

Art watched her for a while, his arms still crossed. He occasionally offered a brief correction, but his tone lacked enthusiasm. "Keep your elbow in on your serve. It'll give you more control," he said without much inflection.

Katrina adjusted her stance and served again, this time with better accuracy. "I got it," she replied, glancing at Art to gauge his reaction. He simply nodded, his face expressionless.

As the practice progressed, the tension between them slowly eased. Art started giving more detailed feedback, explaining why certain techniques were important. Katrina listened intently, realizing that, despite his aloof demeanor, he knew his stuff. His advice was sound, and when she followed it, she could see near-immediate improvement in her game.

"You're not bad at this coaching thing," she remarked, trying to lighten the mood. Art gave a faint smile, the first she'd seen from him. "Just repeating what I've heard a thousand times," he replied.

Katrina tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her. "Didn't Tashi coach you your whole career? There must have been an adjustment when you two decided to retire, huh?" After those words left her mouth, she knew she had hit a sore spot.

Art's expression changed, the brief smile vanishing. "Yeah, she was." She hadn't meant any harm; really, it was an honest question. Art had a successful career with more than enough titles under his belt, not to mention a prior injury; it only made sense to retire when he did.

His voice grew colder. "Alright, breaks over." He turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.

The rest of the practice was more focused, with Art providing steady guidance and Katrina working hard to apply his advice. As the session drew to a close, Katrina felt a subtle shift in Art's attitude. He seemed a bit more relaxed and engaged in the process.

Before they wrapped up, Katrina decided to ask a question that had been on her mind. "Art, why did you agree to coach me?" she asked, her tone softer, almost hesitant. “No offense, but you didn't seem the most pleased when you got here.” She stopped and laughed. “And I know my mother's paying you well, but I'm sure you do good for yourself on your own.”

Art paused, considering his response. He looked up to the sky in thought, licking his lips only to settle his gaze on her while she rolled out her quads. "When I watched your game, I saw the determination and drive for tennis that I haven't seen in a long time," he said, his voice softer, almost reflective. "Not since Tashi," he added, his eyes distant. The memory of Tashi's knee injury and the end of her career lingered in the air. “It honestly felt like I was watching her for the first time again.”

Katrina nodded, sensing the heaviness in his words. "Thank you," she said quietly. She knew there was more to Art's story, but she also knew it wasn't her place to press further. She got up after her stretch, dusting herself off.

Art nodded, "We'll meet again tomorrow at the same time," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm. Katrina agreed, sensing that this coaching relationship would take time to develop but feeling that they were on the right track. “I think it would be a smart move to sign you up for some challengers; we’ll be able to fully gauge your abilities after a couple of weeks of training and see what we need to adjust.”

AFTER PRACTICE

Katrina stepped out of the shower, the hot water having done little to soothe the tension in her shoulders. The first practice with Art had been intense, and her muscles were starting to feel the strain. Wrapping a towel around herself, she took a deep breath, wondering if she'd made the right choice in agreeing to work with him.

As she got dressed, the scent of dinner wafted through the air, a rich aroma that made her stomach rumble. She hadn't eaten much during the day, and she hoped her mom would let her have something substantial.

Katrina entered the dining room, where her mother was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of wine in hand. The table was set with a carefully arranged selection of dishes, but Katrina noticed the absence of anything remotely indulgent. No desserts, no heavy carbs, just the usual assortment of protein and vegetables.

"Good evening, Mom," Katrina said, forcing a smile as she took a seat. Her mother looked up from her phone, her eyes bright but her expression serious.

"Katrina," Martha replied, her tone even. "How was practice with art?"

Katrina shrugged, picking up a piece of grilled chicken. "It was fine. He's... intense, but I guess that's to be expected from someone like him." She paused, then added, "How did you even get him to come to my match? He's been avoiding tennis for ages."

Martha's smile was tight, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Art and I have a history; we’ve always been interested in his foundational work. I just reminded him of the impact he could make by coming back, even if it was just for one match. And you know, he doesn't say no to me, not when your father and I are as generous as we are during his charity events."

Katrina raised an eyebrow, sensing the hint of manipulation in her mother's words. "So you used the foundation to guilt him into coming?"

Classic

Martha's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's not guilt, Katrina. It's connections; your father and I do a lot for you and your career. There's a difference.” She paused. “The money we put into the foundations were investments for you; we would have preferred Tashi, sure, but after Art retired, she went off to coach some European girls, so we got the second best.” She was irritated. “Besides, I thought you'd be happy to have a coach like Art. You said yourself you needed someone with real experience."

Katrina sighed, realizing that arguing with her mom was a lost cause. "I guess," she said, taking a cautious bite of the chicken. She glanced at the dessert tray on the far end of the table, spotting a small dish of fruit tarts. Her mouth watered at the sight of them.

Martha followed her gaze and shook her head. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly. "Your dietitian would have a fit. You know you're on a strict regimen."

Katrina rolled her eyes, but she didn't push back. Her mom was relentless when it came to her career, and any deviation from the plan was met with immediate correction. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, feeling her appetite wane.

“Where’s Jayden and Judea?” Katrina asked only now, noticing her siblings were missing from the dinner table.

“They went out to dinner with the rest of the kids that train with them and coach Pattcheo.”

“mmh.”

After dinner, Katrina retreated to her room, closing the door behind her. She felt a mix of frustration and curiosity. Frustration with her mom's overbearing attitude and curiosity about Art.

She opened her laptop and started searching for Art's social media profiles. His Instagram was sparse, mostly old tennis photos and a few promotional shots, brand deals, and the foundation. Barley has no pictures of his daughter and no recent ones of Tashi. His Facebook was similar, with long gaps between posts. There were articles about his career, but nothing stood out.

"For such a big shot, there’s not much for me to stalk," she muttered to herself, scrolling through the limited content. It was clear that Art wasn't one for the limelight, preferring to keep a low profile. Katrina found herself intrigued.

She searched for videos of his old matches, curious to see him in action. She found a few highlights from his glory days, watching as he moved across the court with precision and grace. It was easy to see why he'd been a champion—his technique was flawless, and his focus was intense.

"Not bad," she said to herself, watching a particularly impressive rally where he had dominated his opponent.

As the night grew darker, Katrina closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair. Art was weird, and she wasn't sure how to feel about him yet. But one thing was clear—he had a depth that she'd have to uncover if she wanted to make the most of his coaching. And maybe, just maybe, he'd be the one to help her reach the next level.

SIX DAYS BEFORE US OPEN

It was six days before the Open, and Art stood at the far end of the court, watching Katrina as she moved through a set of agility drills. The sun was beating down, but Katrina was relentless, her movements swift and precise. As he took her in, he marveled at how good she looked. The thin layer of sweat that covered her form made her glow in the evening light, with her baby hair clinging to her face as she hit ball after ball. He drank in her curves, nearly forgetting what he was actually here for.

Art was calling out instructions, his voice clear but encouraging. Clearly, the past five weeks of training had brought them closer, both in skill and in the ease with which they interacted.

"Remember to keep your weight centered," Art said, pointing toward her feet. "Don't lean too much into the shot; it'll throw off your balance. Other than that, you’re looking good."

Katrina nodded, adjusting her stance. She enjoyed the sound of his voice, especially when he was praising her. It felt genuine, not just a coach’s platitude. She could sense an unspoken tension between them, but she couldn't quite define it. It was there, in the way his eyes lingered a fraction longer than they needed to, in the way he sometimes reached out to correct her form.

"Nice volley," Art said as she expertly returned the ball over the net. "You're really getting the hang of these drills."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, giving him a small smile. "I learned from the best."

Art chuckled, shaking his head. "Flattery won't save you on the court, but it's appreciated." He watched as she moved into position for a backhanded hit, a play that had been a weak point for her. She swung, and the ball clipped the net.

Maybe she was just tired, or maybe he just looked too good; either way, she was distracted. How was she supposed to focus when he was standing with his broad shoulders and arms crossed and that damn backwards Sandford snapback observing like a hawk? She understood that’s his job; he’s quite literally getting paid to be here. Something was different though; the look he gave her five weeks ago, shit even two weeks ago, was nothing near the way he looks at her now.

“Stop.” He says, and she halts her hit.

Art moved closer, taking a pause, before walking behind her, closing the distance between them. "Here, let me show you," he said, reaching around her to correct her grip on the racket. His breath was warm on her neck, and Katrina tensed, feeling a heat that wasn't from the sun. His touch was gentle but firm, guiding her into the proper position.

"Like this," Art said, stepping back slightly but still close enough to feel his presence. "Keep your elbow straight and your wrist firm."

Katrina nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and swung again, this time clearing the net with ease.

“There we go, atta girl.” He whispered while cracking a smile.

She felt hot, oh god, and it definitely wasn’t the sun. How could he say that so casually? She didn’t have to just deal with the fact that she’s now all hot and bothered, but also the guilty embarrassment of realizing she has a fat crush on her 30-sum-year-old tennis coach, who just happens to be a husband and father.

Right

Pulling away, she changes the subject, considering he’s been silent for the past minute and a half. "How's your daughter doing? And Tashi?" She felt the atmosphere shift as Art cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Lily's doing well," he replied, his voice controlled. "She's on tour with Tashi, who's coaching her for the season." He left it at that, his eyes avoiding hers as he focused on the court. "Keep hitting the ball with that form," he added, his tone all business now.

Art adjusted his pants, his expression tight, and turned to leave. "I'll be right back," he said. "I just need to run to the bathroom."

Katrina watched him go, her heart still racing from the moment he'd been so close. She tried to push the thoughts aside, focusing on her training, but the lingering warmth of his presence was hard to ignore. The open tournament was coming up, and she needed to be at her best, both on and off the court. The challenge would be to keep her focus where it needed to be.

“Oh, what the fuck, Art?” feeling his own disappointment, he said to himself as he did his best to fix the hard-on that was growing by the second. What would he give to be able to take a cold shower right now?

Scurrying to the bathroom, he quickly shut the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and leans against the door, contemplating what just happened and palming himself.

“Fuck” was uttered in a raspy and hushed manner.

He turns to look at himself in the mirror. He felt guilty forgetting hard for a girl over a decade younger than him. But that wasn’t what he really felt guilty about. He felt guilty because he liked it. She was fiery; she was driven, and the way she looked at him, with admiration, was long since Tashi looked at him with any emotion of the sort. Katrina made him feel good about himself. And fuck, was she hot. He was almost certain that as the days of training passed, the length of her skirt shortened and her tops got tighter, or maybe he just started paying attention to it.

He needed to stop thinking of her for his sanity and his cocks, because leaving every practice with blue balls for the last week and a half hasn’t been pleasant.

Splashing himself with cold water and tucking his dick into his waistband, he walks back out before she starts questioning anything.

"All right, that's it for today," he called out, clapping his hands to get her attention. "Good work. We'll take it easy tomorrow, then hit the road the day after."

Katrina straightened, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Thanks," she said, her voice a little breathless from the intense workout. "I feel good about it. I think we're ready."

Art nodded, watching her carefully as she walked toward him. There was a grace to her movements, even in her exhaustion. She carried herself with confidence, but there was also a vulnerability that he'd come to recognize. It was in the way she sometimes hesitated before speaking or the way her eyes softened when they shared a joke.

"Thanks for, you know, doing this," Katrina said, her eyes meeting his. "I know you didn't have to, but... I'm glad you did."

Art felt a strange warmth in his chest, a sense of connection that he'd been avoiding, or perhaps suppressing. There was something about Katrina that made him want to stay, to guide her through the ups and downs of the game. And it wasn't just about tennis. It was something deeper, something that made him feel almost protective.

"It's been a good few weeks," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "You've got a lot of potential, Katrina. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could go far."

She smiled, a genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you."

There was a moment of silence, a charged pause where neither of them moved. He knew he should step back and create some distance, but he found himself drawn in, his gaze lingering on her lips, then her eyes. There was something about her.

"All right," he said, finally breaking the silence. "Get some rest tonight. We've got a long drive ahead of us, and I need you focused."

Katrina nodded, her eyes locking with his. The tension was palpable, a mix of excitement and something else, something neither of them wanted to name. Art felt the stirrings of something almost primal, a desire that had been dormant for a long time. He knew it wasn't appropriate, but it was there, simmering just beneath the surface.

"Good night," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

"Good night," he replied, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than they should. "Rest up. I'll see you tomorrow." With his things packed, he walked off the court, leaving her to stretch.

The US Open tournament was coming, and with it, a new set of challenges—both on and off the court.

THE DRIVE TO SAN DIEGO

This was unexpected. Somehow, Katrina was sitting in the passenger seat of Arts Blue Bronco and had managed to snag herself a one-on-one tournament weekend with the Art Donaldson himself. Her mother had only missed three of her games throughout her entire career. The first time was when Katrina was 12. Her mother didn't attend because Katrina had just started playing tennis, and her mother assumed she wouldn't be good enough to watch, so she spent her time on holiday with the neighborhood housewives and was pleasantly surprised when Katrina returned with her first trophy. The second time was when Katrina was 16. Their grandmother had passed away, but Katrina's mother insisted that Katrina should play in the game instead of staying home to grieve like a normal person. She told Katrina that every win was one step closer to a successful career; bad things happen all the time, and you simply “need to get over it and move on." The third time was today, when Katrina was 20, after her little brother's appendix unexpectedly burst at 4 a.m. in the morning, and he and their mom had to rush to the hospital.

"How do you feel about your mom not being here this time?" Art asked, leaning back in his seat. He took a sip of his coffee, glancing at Katrina's expression carefully.

Katrina shrugged. "Honestly? I'm kind of happy she's not here. It's like a weight off my shoulders. I don't have to worry about her criticizing every move I make or every shot I miss."

Art nodded, sensing the relief in her voice. "Your mom seems pretty tough on you."

"She is," Katrina replied, swirling her drink. "She talks a big game, but sometimes I think she doesn't really know what she's saying. Like when she criticizes my plays—she doesn't really get the game, you know? She just wants to be involved, but it's not always helpful."

Art felt a twinge of sympathy. He'd known parents like that, always pushing, always expecting perfection without understanding the sacrifices involved. "I'm glad I could be here for you, then," he said. "You shouldn't have to go through all this alone. It's hard enough without extra pressure from someone who isn't really helping."

Katrina shrugged, her lips curling into a small, ironic smile. "It's been like that since I was a kid. I never had much of a childhood, anyway. The little bit of teenager-like stuff I did, I had to sneak around to do it. Mom was always watching, always pushing me to be the best and to win. I never really got to be a kid."

Art felt a pang of something deep in his chest. It wasn't just empathy—it was a sense of injustice, of the things Katrina had missed out on. He'd seen it before in other athletes whose parents lived vicariously through their children, expecting them to carry the weight of their own dreams. It was a burden no young person should have to bear. Shit went through it himself with Tashi, and it eventually cost them their relationship.

"That sounds rough," he said, his voice gentle. "Everyone deserves a chance to be a kid—to have fun, to make mistakes, to figure things out without a constant spotlight."

“I definitely have to make mistakes." She paused and giggled in embarrassment. “This might be T.M.I. But my first time was with a random guy around my age that was dragged to a dinner party at his parents house.” She side-eyes Art for a moment. “Of course, while the adults did whatever adults do, we snuck off into the liquor cabinet, got so hammered, and then decided to go up to my room.”

Art only looked at her with a raised brow, waiting for her to finish.

“Long story short, by the time we were done, everyone was looking for us — of course we were too stupid to think that anyone would notice we were missing for over an hour.” She sighs with a smile. "Anyways, it turns out they were serving desert, and when the housekeeper came in looking for us, she couldn’t hold back a scream. It's safe to say I can’t even remember how long I was grounded for.”

Art was fully laughing now, not sure if it was from second hand embarrassment or because of how unexpected this was.

“Mistakes aren’t something; you escape, believe me.” He seemed nostalgic.

"Yeah," Katrina replied, her gaze dropping to the table.

“Anyways, I’m sure instances like that’s what made me basically one of the strongest tennis players of all time,” she concludes, sarcastically exaggerating.

Art sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Strength isn't just about winning," he said. "It's about finding your own way, making your own choices, and being okay with who you are, even if it doesn't fit someone else's expectations."

Katrina looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. "That's what I want," she said. "I want to play because I love it, not because I'm trying to prove something to someone else. I just... I wish I had more time to figure it all out."

Art nodded, understanding her struggle. "You'll get there," he said. "You've got a lot of potential, and you're doing it for the right reasons. Just remember, it's okay to take a step back sometimes. To enjoy the game, to find joy in the small things,

Katrina smiled—a real smile that reached her eyes. "Thanks," she said. "I needed to hear that."

Art returned her smile, feeling a connection that went beyond coach and player. It was a moment of genuine understanding, the kind that made all the effort and hard work worth it. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but at least they had each other to navigate it together.

AT THE HOTEL

After a two-hour drive, Art and Katrina King arrived at the hotel where they would be staying during the tournament in San Diego. The hotel was upscale, with modern decor and spacious rooms. They'd been given a suite with two separate bedrooms connected by a shared living area. It was the perfect setup for coach and player.

Art had just finished unpacking when he decided to knock on Katrina's door. It was only 7 p.m., and he thought it might be nice to have dinner together. A little bonding before the tournament might help ease some of the tension they have been feeling lately. There is no harm in a friendly dinner.

Right?

Katrina opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw Art standing there. "Hey," she said, her voice softer than usual. "What's up?"

"Want to grab dinner?" Art asked, keeping his tone casual. "There's a nice restaurant downtown I've been meaning to check out every time I come down here."

Katrina hesitated for a moment, then nodded with a hint of a smile. "Sure, why not?" she replied. She felt a slight flutter in her stomach—this wasn't just a quick meal at the hotel lobby; it was a proper dinner out.

"Great," Art said, checking his designer watch. "Meet you back here in 40."

Katrina agreed, closing the door to get ready. She picked out a simple black dress, something a little fancier than she normally wears. Her brown hair, usually tied back in a ponytail, cascaded down in curls. When she checked her reflection in the mirror, she felt a mix of excitement and nerves. This was just dinner, right?

When she stepped out of her room, Art was already waiting in the living area. He glanced up and immediately did a double take. Katrina looked stunning, the soft curls of her hair framing her face perfectly. Her dress hugged her figure in a way that made it hard to look away. Art felt like a high school boy going out on his first date. He could already feel himself stiffen.

Blinking, he gives up a smirk. "You look great."

Katrina blushed slightly. "Thanks," she replied, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "You don't look too bad yourself. Nice seeing you outside of tennis attire."

The place was dimly lit with candlelight, adding to the intimate atmosphere. As they sat down, Art felt a sense of ease with Katrina that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was nice to know that for once, something in her life wasn't just about tennis; it was about getting to know each other on a personal level.

As time passed, they got into a comfortable conversation, talking about anything and everything.

"So," Katrina began, looking across the table at him, "you mentioned your daughter earlier. Tell me about her."

Art smiled at the mention of Lily. "She's great," he said. "She's 10 and a total fire cracker; she’s starting boarding school next year. She’s got this energy that lights up a room. She loves tennis, too, but I'm trying not to push her too hard. I want her to find her own path."

Katrina nodded, appreciating his perspective. "Sounds like you're a good dad."

Art chuckled softly, then his expression turned a bit somber. "I try to be. Things have been complicated at home. Tashi and I are technically still together, but it's more for Lily's sake than anything else." He paused, glancing at Katrina to gauge her reaction. "We're not really happy, but we're making it work—for now. Nothing has really been the same since I retired, you know."

Oh, that makes sense. She tensed.

Katrina felt a guilty glimmer of hope. If Art and Tashi were essentially separated, then maybe her fantasies weren't so impossible after all. The thought made her blush, and she took a sip of water to hide it.

As the dinner progressed, they subtly flirted with each other. Art ordered a bottle of wine to keep the conversation going, which prompted Katrina to raise an eyebrow. "Isn't this off-limits?" she teased. "My mother and my dietitian would be so disappointed."

Art smirked. "You have to live a little," he replied, pouring her a glass. "Besides, a glass of wine won't ruin your career. It's all about balance, right?"

Katrina laughed softly. "Isn't it ironic that a thirty-something-year-old man is telling a twenty-year-old to have fun?"

Art chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Maybe I know a thing or two about loosening up," he said with a playful wink. "Life's too short to be serious all the time."

“You sure look like you know how to have fun,” she said in a teasing tone. It was clear her words had a double meaning.

Art smirked and quipped, “I do; you just have to pry it out of me, I guess.

As the evening went on, the tension between them grew more palpable. The candlelight, the soft music, the wine—all of it added to the atmosphere. There was an undercurrent of attraction, a pull that neither of them could ignore. By the end of the night, you could’ve cut the tension with a knife.

Art leaned in slightly, his voice lower. "We should probably head back," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "I don't want to overdo it before the tournament."

Katrina nodded, feeling her heart race. "Yeah, probably a good idea," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they left the restaurant, the night air felt cooler against their skin, but the heat between them hadn't cooled at all. They walked back to the hotel in comfortable silence, each aware of the unspoken desire simmering just beneath the surface, steeling glances here and there.

The tension had been building throughout dinner. As they reached their suite, Art turned to Katrina, his expression neutral but his eyes holding a hint of warmth.

"Well, I guess we should call it a night," he said, reaching for his key card. He didn't want to cross any boundaries, especially with the multiple games she had tomorrow. But the way Katrina looked at him during dinner made it difficult to ignore the desire simmering just beneath the calm exterior.

Katrina held up a finger. "Okay...” she paused, feigning a thought. “But we didn't finish the bottle of wine," she said with a playful smile. "And my mom's going to be back for the second day of the tournament. This might be our only chance to… get to know each other; we’ll have to throw it out if we don’t finish it tonight, just sayin’."

The wine was definitely hitting.

Art hesitated, then nodded. "You're right. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

They moved into the shared living room, which had a small kitchenette and a comfortable seating area. Katrina grabbed the bottle of wine and two glasses while Art flipped through the channels on the television, settling on a random movie for background noise. It was an action film with a lot of explosions and fast-paced scenes, but neither of them paid much attention to it.

As they settled onto the couch, Katrina poured them each a glass of wine. The atmosphere was relaxed, but there was an underlying current of flirtation. They started talking about the tournament, about tennis, and then about life in general. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and playful banter.

"You know," Art said, taking a sip of wine, "I didn't think I'd enjoy coaching, but I'm glad I came back for this."

Katrina raised an eyebrow. "Coaching? You're more like a mentor," she teased. "Plus, you're not that old to be called a coach."

Art chuckled. "Careful, or I'll make you run extra laps tomorrow," he replied, giving her a mock stern look. "I'm not that old, but I've seen a lot in my time."

"Sure, sure," Katrina said, rolling her eyes. "You're practically ancient."

They both laughed, the sound filling the room. As the conversation continued, they found themselves leaning closer to each other, the space between them shrinking with each passing minute. The flirting became more overt—the playful touches on the arm, the shared smiles, and the lingering glances.

Art felt the tension building and the pull growing stronger. He knew he should keep his distance, but the way Katrina looked at him, her eyes sparkling in the dim light, made it difficult to resist.

"You know," he said, his voice low and smooth, "you're more than just a talented player, Katrina.” He looked at her with a dark gaze. “There's something about you that makes it hard to stay away. Even when I know I should."

Katrina's eyes widened slightly, her heart racing at his words. The air between them felt electric and charged with anticipation. There were no words left to be said; they leaned in without even noticing, and there they were, on the hotel couch, lips smashed together. The wine glass in Katrina's hand tilted, spilling a few drops onto the couch, but neither of them seemed to notice or care.

The kiss was intense, filled with the desire that had been building for weeks. It was risky, even dangerous, given their roles as coach and athlete. But in that moment, none of it mattered. The world seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them caught in a whirlwind of emotion and longing.

Sprawled out like a couple of horny teenagers making out on their parent’s couch, it was almost comedic.

When they finally pulled apart, their breathing was ragged, and their eyes locked in a mix of surprise and exhilaration. The movie played on in the background, the noise a distant echo as they sat there, close together, knowing that everything had changed in a single moment.

“We shouldn’t do this.” Art broke the silence first.

“Yeah, we really shouldn't.” She pulled back for a moment. “But we already did.” She moved up to fix his nonexistent collar. “Unfortunately, I have this really good coach, and he’d hate to see me not finish something I started.” Sha gazed up at him as she finished giving him a cheeky smile.

She was giving him that look, a look that said nothing less than fuck me.

Art couldn’t do anything more than chuckle and give in. “Well, I’d hate to be the reason you disappoint him.“ He told her as he lifted her up into his lap.

“You’ve gotta live a little, you know.” She said it in-between kisses. His lips, his neck, and his jaw. There wasn’t an inch of him; she wasn’t going to kiss tonight.

“You’re right.” Their mouths dance together, their tongues fighting for dominance. Arts hands were taking all her in. Her dress pooled around her waist as he slipped his hands under it, grasping her tits. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this, Katrina.” He breathes out in a hushed manner, biting at her lip.

“Prove it to me, Art.” She says she is pulling her dress over her head. He stopped taking a moment to drink her in; she was beautiful.

“Holly fuck.” He rasps out, unclasping her bra, leaving it to be forgotten, much like the wine.

Katrina could feel the raging hardness beneath her. Grinding into it, she lets out a moan as he kisses and sucked on her exposed breast. “Every time I’d walk on the court, and I’d see you wearing your tight little tennis outfits, god,” he rasped while bighting his lip. “All I could think about was how I wanted to bed you over and fuck you right then and there.” He picked her up and started walking to her bedroom. “Now, I get to be a good coach and teach you a thing or two.” He threw her on the bed, peering over her with hungry eyes and breathing heavily. “Will you be a good student and let coach fuck some knowledge into you, huh, baby?”

“I’ve never let you down, have I?” She answered him, looking up at him from the bed, her big doe eyes saying everything for her. “Show me how it’s done, coach.” She wet her lips seductively.

“Well, first, pretty girl, it’s important to get warmed up. You need help warming up, babe.” Art drags his finger from her thigh to her stomach and back down to her panties. Slowly pulling them off. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he gazes up at her with hooded eyes. He kisses along her thighs, sucking now and then, making his way up to her sopping cunt. When he does reach her, he begins lapping at her like a man who’s been deprived of water for forty days and forty nights.

“Oh my God, Art, it feels so good.” She could feel herself getting short of breath. It was so good, better than anything she had fantasized about while taking the shower head for a spin. Grasping his hair in her hand, she can’t help but grind her pussy in his face, making both him and her a sloppy mess.”

“You’re so good for me; you've always been a fast learner, you know.” He pulled up, leaving trails of kisses as he made his way up and onto the bed. “My pretty girl,” he says, looking down at her with a smirk, his chin wet with her juices. He gets off the bed and starts to strip. His shirt comes up first, giving her the opportunity to get up on her knees and run her hands over his toned abs as she continues to kiss his neck. He follows with his. Belt slipped off his pants, his cock springing up, strained by his boxers. Katrina can’t help but feel her mouth damn near water. Pulling his boxers down, she lets a glob of her saliva leak on his cock before taking him into her mouth with a moan. Art only grabs her hair in his fist before letting out a deep moan and letting his eyes roll back. “Really got a mouth on you, huh, pretty girl.” He caresses her cheek. “Taking me all in.”

He pulls out, a string of saliva following, only to drip down from her chin onto her chest as he motions for her to lay back down on the bed. “You ready to get that pretty pussy fucked?” he leans down, sucking on her nipples. “You’ve warmed up enough, don’t you think?”

"Yes.” Its barley is above a whisper.

“What was that? You’ve got to use your words, Kat." He says, slightly pulling away from her lips, waiting for a better response.

“Please fuck me, Art.” She moans out, “I need you now."” She pulls him back down for a kiss, lining her hips up with his. He’s teasing at her entrance for a moment before she grabs his lower back and pulls him in the whole way. They both let out a sigh of relief as she felt her walls stretch around his length and he felt her wetness embrace him.

He’s fully thrusting now, with his whole strength, his hips snapping into hers with purpose. Grunts and moans are coming out of both their mouths.

"Switch,” she says, suddenly pushing him back a bit, only for her to get on top, grinding her hips in circles while riding him. “You’re so good, Art; you make me feel so good,” she’s breathless, guiding his veiny hands onto her chest. “I’ve ouched myself so many times fantasizing about this, thinking about how I’d take your cock.” She slips his fingers into her mouth, sucking on them for a second. “Even better than I dreamed,” she smirked. She could feel the pit inside her tighten; she was close, and she could tell that he was too.

She looked down at her and motioned for Art to open his mouth, and when she did, she let her spit trickle down into his mouth with a satisfied grin. That was it for him; after she did that, he started hammering on her mercilessly.

“Oh my god, harder art.” She says this with her head tucked into the crook of his neck. He obliged his vice like a grip.. Her ass was so hard, she wouldn’t have been surprised if it bruised tomorrow. His pace was uneven with labored breaths; he let out one loud moan before pulling out and cumming all over her stomach, some even getting on himself. She didn’t even have the time to process what happened before she was pushed onto her stomach.

There he was again, nose deep in her aching pussy, only this time it was from behind, and he was going between her cunt and her asshole. Moaning into a pillow, it didn’t take long for her to finish all over his face, collapsing onto the bed, flat on her stomach.

After a long and hot shower, Art lay on his back, his arm around Katrina as they were in bed, enjoying the stillness of the night. The hotel room was dimly lit, casting a soft glow that created an intimate ambiance. Katrina's head rested on his shoulder, her hair cascading over his chest. It felt comfortable and natural, like they belonged there.

Art turned slightly to look down at Katrina, her face peaceful and relaxed. He traced his fingers gently along her arm, a simple, affectionate gesture that made her shiver slightly. It was a closeness that was rare for him, something he hadn't felt in years, and he cherished it.

"You're something else, you know that?" He said, his voice low and warm. "You've got this way of making me feel like I'm twenty again. I don't know what it is, but you bring out a side of me that I thought was long gone."

Katrina smiled, her eyes still closed as she nestled closer against him. "That's a good thing, right?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur.

Art chuckled, his hand gently stroking her hair. "Yeah, it's a good thing," he replied. "I really enjoyed tonight. It was... different from what I'm used to, but in the best possible way. I wasn't sure I wanted to get into coaching, but being your coach has been one of the best decisions I've made in a long time."

Katrina opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze warm and inviting. "I'm glad you did," she said. "I don't know where I'd be without you. It's not just about tennis—it's about everything else. You made me realize it’s not just hitting a ball with a stick."

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, a simple, tender gesture that spoke volumes. "You've got a lot of talent, Katrina," he said.

Katrina blushed, feeling a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the physical closeness. "Thanks," she said, her voice soft. "That means a lot coming from you. I feel the same way, you know. You make everything seem a little easier, like it's all going to be okay."

Art nodded, his heart swelling with a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. It was more than just affection—it was a sense of connection, a bond that he knew was special.

Katrina sighed contentedly, her head resting against his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat was soothing, grounding her in the moment. She felt safe, secure, and genuinely happy. It was a feeling she hadn't had in a long time, and she wasn't ready to let it go.

Art tightened his arm around her, holding her a little closer. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about the depth of their connection. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with Katrina by his side, he felt like he could take on anything.

THE TOURNEMENT

Katrina woke up to an empty bed. The warm spot where Art had lain the night before had cooled, and there was no sign of him in the hotel room. She rubbed her eyes, feeling a twinge of disappointment. It was early, but she figured he had probably gone to start prepping for the tournament—they had a busy day ahead. It had been a long night.

She sat up, stretched, and looked around the room. Everything was in its usual place; nothing seemed out of order. Art's clothes were gone, and her things were neatly put away, almost as if he had never stayed there.

Strange

Katrina didn’t dwell on it. It made sense that he might have moved his things back to his room to get ready for the day. After all, he was her coach, and today was important.

She got dressed in her tennis gear, taking her time in the bathroom to brush her hair and freshen up. The uncertainty about where Art had gone was starting to creep in, but she pushed it aside. There was no need to get worked up—he'd turn up soon enough.

Katrina made her way to the living room and kitchen, expecting to find Art there, but he was nowhere to be seen. She checked her phone, but there were no messages from him. It was odd; usually, he'd leave some sort of note or text. She grabbed one of her pre-prepared meals from the fridge and ate it while waiting for him to return, her mind running through the drills they’d be doing later that day.

After what felt like an eternity, Art finally walked in, holding a cup of coffee from the café downstairs. Katrina felt a rush of relief. "Hey," she said, trying to sound casual. "You went out for coffee?"

Art nodded, but his demeanor was noticeably colder than usual. His eyes were distant, and his responses were curt. "Yeah," he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. His tone was flat, lacking the warmth she had come to expect from him.

Katrina felt a flicker of anxiety. "Is everything okay?" she asked, trying to engage him in conversation. "You seem a little off."

Art shrugged, barely looking at her. "Just focused on the tournament," he said, his voice detached. "We've got a lot to do today."

Katrina felt a pang of confusion. This was a complete 180 from the night before. They had shared something special, something she thought was meaningful. She wasn’t expecting a proposal. But now he was acting as if it had never happened. So she pressed the issue.

"Art, why are you acting like this?" she asked, her tone edged with concern. "Last night was... well, it was nice. What changed."

Art set his coffee cup down, his expression hardening. "I'm being a responsible coach," he said, his voice cold. "You have important matches today. We can't afford distractions."

Katrina was taken aback by his abruptness. "Distractions? Is that what last night was to you?" she asked, her voice rising slightly.

Art sighed, rubbing his temples. "Katrina, we can't do this. You need to be focused. What happened last night." He stopped, choosing his words carefully. "It was a mistake, and I need you to be serious about this tournament."

Katrina felt a surge of anger and hurt. "A mistake?" she said, her voice sharp. "So that's it? We just pretend it never happened. You can't just switch like that!"

Art's expression was stern. "You need to act like you've got an important game today, because you do. And I have to be the coach you need, not something else."

Katrina felt her heart sink. This wasn't the Art she knew. The warmth and connection from the night before were gone, replaced by a wall of professionalism and distance. But there wasn't time to press further—they had to get to the court and start their warm-up drills.

The argument left Katrina feeling disoriented and hurt, but there was no time to dwell on it. She had to focus on the tournament, even if her coach seemed to have turned into a different person overnight. As they headed out the door, she tried to shake off the feeling, knowing that the game ahead demanded her full attention.

FIRST MATCH

The stadium was buzzing with anticipation as the announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, introducing the players for the Challenger tournament. The crowd applauded as Katrina King and Alexis Grace stepped onto the court, each acknowledging the fans with a wave. Art Donaldson watched from the sidelines, his eyes focused on Katrina as she moved to her position.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first match of the US Open," the announcer said, continuing on.

Art knew it would be a challenging game. Alexis was a good opponent who could hold her own, but based on states alone, this should be an easy win, for lack of better words. Art felt a pang of guilt for how he'd acted that morning. He'd been cold and distant, trying to maintain professionalism, but it wasn't what he wanted. He wished he could go back and handle things differently, but now wasn't the time for regrets—Katrina needed his support.

The first set began with Katrina serving. She delivered a somewhat strong shot, but Alexis returned it with ease, sending the ball back with a blistering forehand. Katrina scrambled to keep up, her movements swift but slightly off-balance. She managed to return the shot, but Alexis was already at the net, volleying the ball with precision.

Art watched, his heart racing. Katrina had the talent, but he could tell she was getting into her own head. The missed points seemed to weigh heavily on her, and she was starting to lose her composure. He couldn't blame her—his behavior hadn't helped.

Katrina's next serve was strong, but Alexis anticipated it, returning the ball with a slice that landed just out of Katrina's reach. The crowd murmured, sensing the momentum shift in Alexis's favor. Art clenched his fists, trying to stay calm. He needed to be there for Katrina, even if she didn't want to hear it right now. Her errors were becoming more frequent. A double fault here, a missed volley there—it was starting to add up.

Art's internal thoughts were filled with frustration and guilt. He knew he had to do something to help her, but he also knew her head wasn’t focused on the game. As the set progressed, the tension in the stadium grew. Katrina's shots were becoming more erratic, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake.

Finally, the set ended with a decisive point from Alexis, securing her the first set. The crowd erupted in applause, but Art felt a sinking feeling in his chest.

Katrina King sat on the bench, her racket resting between her knees, and tried to catch her breath. The set break was supposed to be a chance to reset, to gather her thoughts, and to prepare for the next game, but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Her body felt tense, and her heart was heavy with doubt.

This match was supposed to be a warmup, and I’m making a complete fool of myself. She thought, scrunching her brows as she looked up at the sky.

Her hand gripped the racket tighter, the familiar texture offering a semblance of comfort.

A mistake

This morning kept replaying in her mind, each word like a weight pressing down on her. It had thrown her off and shaken her confidence. She couldn't understand why he'd suddenly turned so cold.

What the fuck did I get myself into? She wondered, feeling a mix of anger and confusion.

She glanced at the sidelines, where Art sat, his arms crossed, watching the court with a distant expression. He was focused, but not on her. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and his detachment made her stomach twist. It felt like a betrayal, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was alone out there.

He's just a coach. I don't need him to win. I've been doing this on my own for years.

But the more she tried to convince herself, the more her emotions swirled. Last night felt like a turning point, like they were connecting on a deeper level. And now, all that warmth and all that understanding were gone. It left her feeling hollow and unsure of her next move.

Forget about this morning. Forget about last night. Forget about Art. Just play the game. That’s all you're good at anyway.

She couldn't forget, not when it felt like her world was shifting beneath her feet. The pressure of the tournament, the expectations from everyone, and now the unexpected 180—it was all too much. She needed to find her focus, but it felt like she was battling more than just an opponent on the court. She was battling her own doubts and her own insecurities, and it was starting to show.

The umpire's call signaled the end of the break, and Katrina stood up, her legs feeling heavier than usual. She couldn't afford to let this slip away. She had to find a way to center herself and regain the focus and determination that had brought her this far. But as she walked back onto the court, she knew it wouldn't be easy. The shadows of doubt were growing, and she wasn't sure if she had the strength to push them back.

The final set was about to begin, and the energy in the stadium was electric. Kat had lost the first set to Alexis, barely clawed her way back to win the second, and now faced the challenge of closing out the match.

A whirlpool of frustration was consuming her. She knew she should be playing better than this. Alexis was a competent player, but she shouldn't have been able to pressure Katrina like she was doing now. The missteps, the errant serves, the missed volleys—it was all spiraling out of control. She knew she had to get her head back in the game.

"Come on, Katrina," Art muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. He knew he should’ve never said what he had this morning, and God did he regret it. Not even because it threw her off her game, but simply because it wasn’t true.

I didn’t mean it, Kat.

Alexis returned Katrina's second serve with a deep forehand, forcing Katrina to run to the back of the court. She managed to get the ball back, but it was a weak return, and Alexis took advantage, hitting a powerful backhand down the line. Katrina struggled to reach it, her footwork sloppy.

The crowd murmured, sensing the shift in momentum. Katrina felt her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Get it together," she told herself, trying to drown out the negativity in her mind. She took a deep breath and prepared for the next point, knowing she couldn't afford to lose her composure.

Art clenched his fists, watching Katrina's struggle. He wanted to shout words of encouragement; right now, he needed Katrina to find her focus and to play like he knew she could.

The next few points were a back-and-forth battle. Katrina managed to win a couple of rallies, showing glimpses of her usual skill, but Alexis was relentless. Katrina's errors were piling up, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake. A missed serve here, a poorly timed volley there—it was all adding up, and Katrina felt like she was falling apart.

He knew he had to do something to help her, but he wasn't sure what. She was slipping, and he could see it in her eyes—the doubt, the frustration. He wished he could just rewind the morning and start over.

Katrina's frustration boiled over as she missed yet another shot, sending the ball wide of the sideline. She clenched her racket, her anger turning inward.

What the actual fuck kat? She felt herself slipping.

Art watched as Katrina's confidence seemed to crumble. Every point felt like a battle, and she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. The crowd's cheers seemed distant, drowned out by her own inner turmoil. She needed to find her focus and remember why she loved the game in the first place.

Katrina King stood at the baseline, bouncing the tennis ball as she prepared to serve. The pressure was immense. The score was tied, but this was match point for Alexis.

"Just get this right," she told herself, bouncing the ball one more time. "Keep it simple, focus on your form, and breathe."

She threw the ball up and swung, her serve powerful but lacking the usual precision.

The umpire's call was clear: "In!"

Alexis immediately raised her hand, signaling her challenge.

Katrina tensed, holding her breath. Fuck. She had already accepted defeat.

The electronic system, designed to track the ball's trajectory, sprang into action. The large screen above the court displayed the replay, with the lines highlighted in bold white against the blue surface.

The slow-motion replay showed the ball’s descent, curving slightly in its flight. It landed, from this perspective, millimeters inside the line, causing the crowd to murmur in anticipation. The pause felt longer than it actually was, with everyone waiting for the official verdict.

Alexis stood with her racket resting on her shoulder, her expression tense and unimpressed. She glanced at Katrina, who remained at the baseline, her stance rigid.

The electronic system confirmed the umpire's call: "In!" The word flashed across the screen, accompanied by a graphic showing the ball's exact position—just inside the line. The crowd erupted in applause, and Katrina allowed herself a small smile. She was relieved that the serve was good, but she knew she couldn't let her focus slip.

Alexis nodded curtly; her challenge was unsuccessful. She adjusted her grip on her racket, preparing for the next point. The moment of doubt had passed, and the game resumed its intensity.

Art saw Katrina's moments of ease, but he also saw the hesitation in her footwork and the slight tremors in her hands.

Alexis's return was a deep shot to Katrina's backhand, forcing her to pivot quickly. Katrina reached for it, but her timing was slightly off. The ball clipped the net, but it went over. Katrina breathed a sigh of relief as Alexis scrambled to reach it. and get her racket under the ball just in time.

The volley was clumsy, but it kept the rally going. Katrina's heart raced as she tried to regain her rhythm. She could feel the momentum slipping away, and she knew she couldn't afford another mistake. Alexis, however, was relentless, keeping the pressure on with precise shots to the corners of the court.

Art clenched his fists, chewing his gum while watching Katrina's struggle. He felt the intensity of the moment, knowing that this point could determine the outcome of the match. He wanted to find a way to ease her nerves, but all he could do was watch and hope she could pull through.

The rally continued, with Katrina barely managing to keep up. Alexis played a drop shot, and Katrina lunged to reach it. She got there just in time, but her return was weak, giving Alexis the upper hand. Alexis moved in for the kill, smashing the ball toward the baseline.

Katrina dove to reach it, her body hitting the ground as her racket connected with the ball. It went over the net, but it was a high lob, an easy shot for Alexis. Alexis jumped, delivering a powerful overhead smash that Katrina couldn't hope to reach. The ball hit the court with a decisive thud, and the umpire called the point.

Art felt a pang of disappointment as the crowd erupted in applause. He knew Katrina had fought hard, but the internal turmoil had cost her the match. He saw the frustration on her face as she stood up, brushing off the dirt from her fall. She glanced toward him, her eyes filled with a mix of anger, defeat, and tears.

Katrina knew she had given it her all, but it hadn't been enough. She felt the weight of the loss, knowing that her own doubts and the fight with Art had played a part in her performance. As she walked off the court, she felt a mix of disappointment and a lingering sense of confusion about what had gone wrong—both on and off the court.

Art made his way down to talk to Katrina. She was sitting on the bench, her head down, a towel draped over her shoulders. Art approached, trying to keep his voice steady. "Hey, it's okay," he said, his tone gentle. "It's just one game; you’ve got three more today. You can still turn this around. Just focus on your game, okay? Don't let this get in your head." He finished and tried to embrace her in his arms for some sort of comfort, but his efforts proved futile because before he could fully hug her, she pushed him off.

Katrina looked back at him, her eyes watery, cold, and distant. "Oh, now you're being supportive?" She shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What happened to the coach who was so concerned about being professional this morning?"

Art winced, feeling the sting of her words. He knew he deserved it, but it still hurt. "I know, I messed up," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Katrina shook her head, her expression hardening. "I don't need your fake support, Art," she said, standing up. "Just let me play my game."

“Kat, don’t be like that.” He said he was stepping forward, trying to get a hold of her.

“Be like what, Art?” she said, feeling her anger rise. “I shouldn’t act like you treated me as if I were a late-night tinder hookup.” She paused, her lips trembling. “I wouldn’t be like this if you would have had the human decency to treat me with a little respect, even if you regrated it!” She took a breath. “You know what the worst part is; you could have waited for the tournament to be over to shit on me, on us, like that. At least I would’ve left this stupid fucking weekend with a champion title and cup.” She started walking away from the locker rooms. “Guess once your balls are empty, you come to your senses, huh?” She hadn’t even bothered to turn around for the last bit.

"Kat, wait!" he said, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. "Please, just give me a minute."

Katrina turned, her eyes blazing with anger. "What do you want?" she snapped. "Haven't you done enough today? Did you finally decide to be a good coach?"

Art knew he deserved that, but he needed her to hear him out. "Just let me explain," he said, his voice desperate. "Not here. Let's go outside, away from everyone."

She hesitated, clearly still furious, but she didn't pull away. Art led her through a side door and out into the area behind the arena, where it was quiet and they could talk in private. He released her arm, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"Katrina, I'm sorry," he began, his voice soft but urgent. "I'm sorry for everything I said this morning and for telling you it was a mistake. I didn't mean it. I was just... scared."

"Scared?" Katrina's eyes narrowed. "Scared of what? Scared of actually caring about someone? Scared to give up the overdone, nonchalant act you’ve got going for you?"

Art shook his head, struggling to find the right words. "I was scared that I was crossing a line," he said. "I was scared that I was too old for you and that being your coach and being with you would mess up your career. I was worried that we'd end up like... like me and Tashi."

Katrina's anger flared. "I'm not Tashi!" she shouted, stepping closer to him. "So stop comparing me to her; I'm my own person, and I'm nothing like her!"

"I know," Art replied, his voice gentle but firm. "I know you're not her. But that's what scared me. I don't want what happened to me and Tashi to happen to us. I didn't want to mess up your game, your career, or... anything."

Katrina huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, you sure did a good job of that," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look at what happened today! I lost because you couldn't make up your mind about what you wanted!"

Art felt a pang of guilt, knowing she was right. "I know," he said, his voice low. "I was selfish. I shouldn’t have acted like I did. I just didn’t want you to get hurt because of me. But now I see that I hurt you anyway, and that’s the last thing I wanted." He is groveling.

Katrina looked at him, her eyes still blazing. "So, what do you want now?" she asked. "Are you just going to apologize and then go back to being cold and distant?"

Art stepped forward, taking her cheek gently in his hand. "I don't know what we are, Katrina," he said, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "But I know I don't want to stop whatever this is. It's special. You make me feel things I haven't felt in a long time, and I can't keep ignoring that."

Katrina's anger softened, her eyes searching for any sign of insincerity. Art felt the connection between them, the tension that had been building for weeks, and he knew he couldn't let it end like this.

"I was wrong this morning," he continued. "I was scared, and I acted like an idiot. But you... you're amazing. You didn't deserve the way I treated you, and I know the game today was my fault. You were distracted because of me, and I'm sorry. But I know you're going to win this. I believe in you. I always have, and that hasn’t changed."

Katrina's expression softened, her anger giving way to something else—something that felt like forgiveness. Art leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss, his hand still gently cupping her cheek. She responded with equal intensity, her arms wrapping around his neck as they pressed against the concrete wall.

The kiss was long and intense, filled with the emotions they’d both been suppressing. When they finally pulled back, their breathing was heavy, and their eyes locked in a shared moment of understanding. Art pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before laying his against hers.

“Are you ready to bring another title home, pretty girl?” He says, gazing into her eyes.

She looked up, her eyes glistening with a familiar spark. “You wouldn’t have agreed to coach me if I wasn’t.” She held a soft smile, bringing him in for another kiss.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fic #challengers #challengers fic #challengers x reader #mike faist #mike faist x reader #challengers universe #x reader #smut #Art donaldson x oc

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eff-plays · 9 months

Text

The way Astarion reacts depending on how you compliment him in the mirror scene (I have no interest in insulting him so I won't be covering that here, have fun though!) drives me fucking insane.

"I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me. What you see."

And you get two types of responses. First, your choices for compliments are

Strong, piercing eyes.

The creases when you laugh.

Pick the first, and he's pleased. "Go on," he says, sounding very seductive. You're giving him exactly what he wants, and he's encouraging it.

Pick the second, and he gets upset. He's an eternally young vampire, not your doting grandmother! You can do better than that. Even if you meant it as a compliment (I know my Tav definitely did), he doesn't seem to take it that way.

Your second options are

That dangerous smile.

The way your hair curls around your ears.

Once again, the first one pleases him, and he even praises your efforts. Very good. Now finish the scene and tell him he's beautiful.

But if you say the second, he gets exasperated. This is meant to be flattery, not poetry. Just tell him he's beautiful and we can call it a day, he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. He doesn't need to hear this crap, just tell him what he wants and fuck off.

Of course, it doesn't matter how you get to this point, and every dialogue option at the end of the scene nets you the same amount of approval. If you call him beautiful, it's +1. Call someone else beautiful, it's +1. If you ask whether he just wants shallow praise (aka don't call him beautiful), you get +1. So this is me pulling this out of my ass I guess.

I always choose to call him beautiful becuase 1) he is and 2) my Tav thinks so too and would oblige him if he asked for it that directly.

But I am obsessed with the different routes you can take to get to this point and what they imply.

Strong, piercing eyes and dangerous smile pleases him more outwardly, but doesn't actually affect the outcome. He's satisfied and confident with these compliments. They confirm what he's trying to project into the world, what he aspires to have and to be.

The creases when he laughs? The hair curling around his ears? Those are things he can't control, can't use against someone else. But he asked to be seen, and if this is what Tav sees, then what does that mean for him?

Why are they complimenting his laugh lines? Why are they speaking poetry at him? Why are they seeing things he has no control over, and why are they revealing them to him?

He doesn't want shallow praise. Questioning this nets approval, and giving it to him doesn't increase approval. What he wants is assurance that what he's trying to be is what the world sees, that he's in control.

And if you actually act as a mirror, point out the things unique to him that you see, he gets uncomfortable, because you're showing a reflection of someone he thinks he's not, of someone he has no control over. And that's scary, even if it's supposedly complimentary.

Because what's scarier than losing control?

But then, compared to how genuinely upset he seems when you insult him (I looked these up on YT for context), the laugh lines and hair curls are still accepted as compliments. So what does he think when Tav says these things?

They see past his piercing eyes and dangerous smile. They see something else that they like even more, things he's not aware of or doesn't appreciate as much. What does that feel like, to cultivate such a perfect image of oneself for the purposes of seducing and tricking others, and then be stumped when someone walks past all that and points out something entirely different that they noticed and found endearing?

Do you do him a favor, and tell him you see only what he wants to be? Or do you speak the truth, and show him what he actually is? Which one is better? Which one is worse?

#i have my own headcanons of course and this is influenced by those #but i just ... AUGH the mirror scene!!!#bg3 #bg3 meta #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #long post #also 'strong piercing eyes' lmao #sad wet puppy eyes more like #also he says he feels seen with tav later on like!! AUGH #DO YOU SEE HIS WANT FOR CONTROL!! OR DO YOU SEE HIS NEED FOR RECOGNITION!! WHICH ONE DO YOU ENFORCE!!

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catscidr · 2 months

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// how genshin men would kabedon you //

i. note — im stuck in bed because of cramps help me i wanted to be productive today but eye can't write good…… so i wrote something self indulgent silly to get my mind off of the pain instead _(´ཀ`」 ∠) _ ueue ii. cw — fluff/crack, gn!reader, suggestive if you squint rly hard, you're shorter than them in the third part for convenience's sake, not rly proofread im melting

standard kabedon with one arm ↳ alhaitham, diluc, zhongli ˎˊ˗

immediately understood what you meant when you asked if he could “kabedon” you. he either he read it about it somewhere or it’s just something he picked up from overhearing others talk about it in passing— you’d tease him for being “nosy” if you weren’t so flustered at the sight of him looking down at you with such a straight face.

your gaze travels down from his face, to his neck, to his bicep… close to you… and his forearm… that’s even closer to you… you’re so focused on his strong masculine arm that you don’t catch the slight blush tinting his cheeks.

whew. is it just you or is it getting hot in here?

standard kabedon but with both arms ↳ albedo, xiao, lyney ˎˊ˗

he either knew what a kabedon was already or you had to explain it to him and he… misunderstood a little bit.

or maybe he didn’t. maybe it was on purpose. maybe caging you in with both of his arms was what he was planning all along while you sheepishly explained what a kabedon entailed…!

or maybe he doesn’t want to admit that he zoned out while you were talking because all he thought about was how cute you looked, all flushed and embarrassed. yeah. that’s definitely not what happened. of course not

invades your personal space and backs you up into the wall without even using his arms ↳ pantalone, ayato, dottore ˎˊ˗

he pretended not to know what a was kabedon because’s he’s mean. while you tried to explain what it entailed (while sweating nervously from how hard he was staring at you), he slowly closed the distance between the two of you before you realized just how close he was.

he was taller than you, so he had to bend down at the waist to be at eye-level with you… and the action didn’t help your poor little heart. you could smell his cologne and gods did you feel your knees go weak.

but on the bright side, if your legs give out he’ll be close enough to catch you before you bust your head open! such a gentleman

forget using arms, he’ll use his leg to pin you to the wall instead ↳ itto, cyno, childe ˎˊ˗

why be like everyone else when he can show off instead? you think he might have been a bird in another life because this isn’t a kabedon, it has to be some sort of courting ritual or… something.

at least it’s working, though. your face is flushed, you’re holding back a smile and your heart is racing against your ribcage.

the only downside if that your face is buried in your hands; if it wasn’t, you’re sure your curiosity would get the better of you and you’d end up looking. don’t ask where, you know what i mean

….you kabedon him. ↳ wanderer, baizhu, neuvillette, webttore ˎˊ˗

he either straight up refused to do it or was so utterly puzzled by what on earth a “kabedon” even was that you had to show him.

cue a strained gasp, his brows either raised to the heavens or furrowed so hard he would immediately get wrinkles, and a blush that you would never let yourself forget. maybe you should do this more often.

but be careful, he might turn the tables and catch you off guard to kabedon you someday as payback. oh no! terrible, i know

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pellucid-constellations · 10 months

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Are You Bored Yet?

Pairing: College!Bucky x Tutor!Reader

Summary: God, you hated Bucky. Bucky probably hated you, too. Maybe. It was hard to tell when he was drunk and calling you pretty at a party you shouldn't have gone to.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: Alcohol, annoyance to lovers, a bit of angst, a scary man in a parking lot, frat!bucky c:

a/n: I am so excited to finally post something!! It only took me four months 😅 If you enjoy it please please let me know ❤️❤️

Masterlist

12:59 pm.

The birchwood table nestled in the back of the library was long but otherwise empty, the only thing occupying it being your laptop and quite a few books. He wasn’t late. Yet. You weren’t going to hold onto that hope, however.

Tutoring Bucky Barnes was not what you had in mind when you volunteered for the peer assistance program at your university. It was true you were only using the club to boost your resume, but you had assumed the only people reaching out for help would be those that actually wanted it. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Sure, Bucky wanted help. Just not with anything that actually warranted the word. He wanted help sweet talking the cops so they wouldn't shut down his parties. He wanted help recruiting girls to show up to his parties. And—the one thing you could actually do—he wanted help passing his classes with the minimum GPA required to not get kicked out of his frat. So he could continue to throw parties.

Everything in his life revolved around his fraternity, which made you very important to him. When he wanted you to be.

With your apparently astounding knowledge of biology (you took notes during lectures), you became the star in Bucky’s life every Monday and Wednesday from 1:00 pm (give or take ten minutes) to 2:00 pm. He was also very attentive during the thirty minute phone calls he initiated prior to tests, and always looked happy to see you when he passed you devouring a bagel at the crack of dawn in the dining hall.

Every situation in which you had come in contact with Bucky was isolated and purposeful (minus the bagel). You didn’t hang out or invite each other places, and you were almost positive that if you were to see him in his natural habitat, you would want to tutor him even less than you did now, and that was saying something. So you were important to Bucky during the times you were supposed to be important, and he was important to you in the sense that he was a job.

But as your laptop blinked the numbers 1:22 pm back at your unimpressed expression, Bucky became much less important today. You took in a long, tortured breath before sending your gaze up to the ceiling, giving it another three minutes before you truly gave up on him for the day.

One minute.

Two minutes.

The library really needed new ceiling tiles.

1:25 pm and you snapped your laptop shut. Your fingers itched to send yet another complaint about this whole ordeal Natasha’s way, but you stopped yourself. She had already heard plenty about Barnes at this point, plus she always gave you a weird look every time you came stomping into the apartment, grumbling about something else he had done.

You hated her weird looks, all raised eyebrows and stiff lips.

With your backpack heaved onto the table and your things slowly funneling in, you figured a nap was the best reward for sitting in the library for an unnecessary twenty-five minutes. Your last prickle of irritation was stifled at the prospect of a warm bed as you stood, only to find that irritation had returned to you tenfold. In the form of Bucky Barnes.

“You going somewhere?” he seemed to taunt, his bag slung casually over one shoulder.

Your jaw ticked. “Home.”

His mouth turned up at one side, an expression you had learned meant he found you amusing. He never seemed to outright laugh at your annoyance, but apparently, it was hard to tamp down all of the joy he got out of it. Bucky took two long strides to meet the table you were attempting to abandon.

“But I still got about—” he checked his watch “—thirty-three minutes? And an arsenal of questions about amino acids. Help a guy out.”

“And I still got—” you checked the nonexistent watch on your wrist “—no patience for this today. You’re over twenty minutes late, Barnes. Use that watch to set an alarm on Wednesday and I’ll tell you everything you’ll inevitably forget about amino acids then.”

He groaned, rounding the table to set firm hands on your shoulders as he hovered behind you. “Sit. I’ll buy you a coffee and I promise I won’t be late on Wednesday, okay? I was dealing with something before this and lost track of time.”

“Were you dealing with another sorority girl in your bed? Who was it last week? Amber? No, Michelle?”

“It’s a Monday, y/n. Cut me some slack.”

“You came to me on a Wednesday with a hangover,” you deadpanned.

Bucky grimaced, the expression visible to you as he managed to guide you back into your chair. “Oat milk, right? A double?”

You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest as he tossed his bag by your feet and jogged over to the coffee cart just outside the library. He fumbled with his wallet when he went to pay, and you watched him point to the carton of oat milk the barista had yet to reach for. His greek letters were printed on the gray hoodie he had haphazardly thrown over his shoulders, and you held the reprimand on your tongue when you saw the matching sweatpants he donned.

The last time he had shown up in his pajamas—late—you’d had some choice words for him. Bucky turned around with your coffee then, poking the straw through the lid and sending you a sheepish smile through the window.

He was lucky you accepted bribes.

“Please,” the boy across from you continued to beg, a pen held loosely between pliant fingers. “Just ask her, that’s all I want. You can even come too.”

“Oh, wow, the great frat president letting me come to his stupid toga party? How could I ever thank you enough?”

It was Wednesday now, and Bucky was surprisingly on time to the tutoring session. You’d gotten through about half of the last bio lecture before he started asking you ridiculous questions that had nothing to do with the content. Today, he was dead set on getting your lab partner from chemistry to go to his party this weekend.

“Okay, yeah, you could come to whatever party you want, you know? I put you on the list—but this one will be even better if you’d just do this one thing for me.”

You finally tore your eyes from your laptop, glancing lazily at him. “And what would make this one so��wait, what list?”

He waved you off. “The one at the door. Did it like… the second week we started this? Anyways, Wanda?”

You let this new information settle and tried to ignore whatever implications came with being on some frat list thanks to Bucky. He had never explicitly invited you to any of his parties over the past few months and you had never asked to come. Apparently, you could have shown up whenever you wanted to and had a grand old time.

Not that that sounded the least bit grand.

Bucky was looking at you still, all pleading features and a soft, infuriating smile on his lips. When he wasn’t talking to random girls in the library or taking annoying phone calls in the middle of your sessions, he was sort of endearing. In a terrible, awful sense.

You groaned, throwing yourself back against your chair in begrudging defeat. “I don’t even talk to her outside of chem. Don’t you think it’d be a little weird to invite her to a party that I’m not even going to?”

“So come,” he answered simply, as if that was in the realm of possibilities.

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Sure, I’ll come to your party, Barnes.”

“Great,” he grinned. “Vision’s gonna be so hyped.”

You watched as he pulled his phone from his pocket and kept your lie to yourself. He wouldn’t notice that you didn’t show up on Friday, and likely wouldn’t even bring it up the following Monday. He always had such vibrant, headache-inducing stories that you were sure your absence would be nothing more than a fleeting footnote.

“You have a toga, right?” he mumbled, face still screwed up in concentration as he continued his text.

“Isn’t it just a sheet all twisted up?” you asked, shutting your computer. Tutoring was obviously over.

Bucky pocketed his phone again, brows raised in amusement. “Depends on your motives for the night.”

“And my motives wouldn’t be to… wear a toga?”

He chuckled and huffed out your name, resting an arm along the back of the chair to his right—your chair. “Other motives. Like if you’re trying to get someone’s attention.”

You blinked at the warmth along your back. “Oh, of course. Then I would twist up a pillowcase instead, right?”

“Something like that.”

He smelled like coconut. Like a day at the beach but afterwards, when the sunscreen still lingered in the air but fresh clothes covered skin that had been warmed by the sun. You could usually ignore whatever expensive combination he had on his skin, but when he got close like this it was almost impossible.

Part of you always wanted to chuck his arm away when he leaned over you, but another part of you liked that he kept it there. It was a strange part of you, the same one that relished the looks you got from sorority girls in the library and harbored a sense of pride each time he made a blatant attempt to touch you.

You had spent fleeting moments analyzing these emotions and chalked them up to some internalized desire for validation. Nothing else. Bucky was a hot guy and everyone knew that, so having his attention—in any capacity—felt nice. Sometimes. Meaning right now it was nice that he was looking at you with his arm practically glued to your back, but next week when he showed up late with a hangover and tried to steal the jacket off your body it would be not so nice.

The duality of man.

It helped your partial insanity that Bucky would never actually be interested in you. You weren’t in a sorority or interested to his parent’s money, and, worst of all, you didn’t know how to maneuver a sheet into a toga. When he put his arm around you or moved your hair from your eyes as you leaned over a book, it was probably out of habit. It felt nice, but you knew reality. This was a passing phase, and by the summer you wouldn’t even speak to him anymore.

“I’ll text you more info about everything,” Bucky called, pulling you from your thoughts. “You can come early and I’ll help you with that pillowcase.”

You froze, the book you were shoving into your bag pausing in your hands. “Uh, maybe.”

“No, seriously, it’d be better if you came early. I was kidding about the pillowcase but if you come on time it’ll be too crazy for me to show you around.”

“You don’t have to show me around, Bucky. I’ve been to a house party before.”

“Y/n, are you not coming to this thing?” Bucky accused, swiping the book from your hands and softly tossing it on the table. It still made a loud thud that had a few bitter looks thrown your way.

“Dude!” you whispered, meeting each mean gaze with your apologetic one. “Why does it matter if I come? You just wanted Wanda anyway.”

He knocked your hand away when you went to reach for the book again, encircling your wrist with his fingers. “You just lied to me. Straight to my face. You said you’d come and now you gotta.”

You gave his fingers an experimental tug, but he was unrelenting in his soft grip. You glared at him through your lashes, meeting his uncharacteristically stern gaze that contrasted the humor on his lips.

“You ever hear of sarcasm?” you whispered with a half-hearted bite.

“Unfortunately, that’s about all I hear outta you,” he smirked back.

You rolled your eyes, finally yanking hard enough to free yourself from him. “Then you should have known I wasn’t going to come. No matter what ‘list’ you put me on.”

“What else could you possibly have going on on a Friday night?”

Ouch. You felt your brows furrow even though you didn’t will them to, and even worse, you felt a rash defensiveness lodge itself in your throat. You hated the heat that now prickled along the skin of your neck, and you hated even more how it extinguished all of the good warmth you had felt from him earlier.

This was humiliation, surely—the kind that only came from feeling small.

“You don’t have to be a dick,” you seethed, snapping up the remainder of your belongings. “Just because I don’t want to go to your stupid frat doesn't mean I have nothing to do. I don’t spend all of my time hoping to get invited to ridiculous parties.”

Bucky shifted up in his seat, eyes blown just a fraction wider. “Whoa, I didn’t mean—hey, stop a sec, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever, Bucky,” you droned, as a new temperature seeped into the skin of your palms and made them clammy. Any semblance of delusion you’d fallen into earlier was long gone now, but you knew to expect that. He wasn’t interested in you and you weren’t interested in him. But embarrassment wasn’t a good feeling, regardless of a multitude of reality checks.

Bucky got up when you did, his clothes looking creased and lived in. “We still have time in our session,” he defended, arm jutting out to the table. “C’mon, I didn’t mean you don’t have friends.”

Your glare sharpened. “Great, another insinuation.”

Bucky sputtered out incoherent words as you continued your trek outside, resorting to grabbing your wrist again, this time with more urgency. You felt the heat in you simmer down to a dull throb as he made contact, mostly out of respect for your future self. If you made this a huge deal it would only embarrass you more.

“Look, it doesn’t even matter, okay?” you huffed, but he just tugged you forward. It was then that you realized you were in the doorway of the library, effectively blocking it off from anyone trying to leave. Bucky pulled you close enough to his chest that you weren’t in the way anymore. His cologne was back with a vengeance, your nose just inches from his collar.

You took a steadying breath, blinking away the remnants of shame. “It doesn’t matter, I overreacted.”

He clicked his tongue. “I’m still apologizing. I didn’t mean any of that stuff you were talking about.”

Of course he did. You were sure he thought it all the time. He just didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“It’s fine,” you rushed. “I have to go, anyway. Office hours.”

“Okay,” he nodded, soft and low, like he just remembered he was in a library. “You’ll still come this weekend, right? Even if Wanda can’t?”

“You have some kind of girl quota you need to meet?” you pressed.

Bucky smiled, still so close to you that you could feel the small breath that accompanied the expression. “And she’s back.”

You left without promising anything, and Bucky left feeling like you had.

Sometime between Wednesday and Friday, your detestment for frat parties had snowballed into determination. You were going to go and you were going to look like you were having so much fun it was ridiculous. Then, on Monday, when Bucky would usually poke and prod about what you’d gotten up to over the past few days, you were going to pretend that it was nothing for you. That you did that every weekend.

Of course, you didn’t. Your weekends typically consisted of calm nights with friends or dinners near campus. You’d been to a party before, sure, but you didn’t exactly frequent those kinds of scenes.

Bucky had continued to make it clear that you were invited. He had texted you a few times, prompting you to come and thanking you for getting Wanda to agree. The messages looked strange under the plethora of biology related questions, but that just spurred you further into action. You weren’t just a tutor with no social life, and Bucky was going to see that tonight. You couldn’t remember doing something out of pure spite before, but you figured having fun to prove a point wasn’t the worst thing.

Wanda pulled you out of your thoughts as the Uber rounded the last dark corner and revealed an overcrowded house with too many lights on. She rambled on about some guy she couldn’t wait to see and confirmed that she would likely be spending the night. You expected as much; it hadn’t taken much convincing to get her to come. If this night resulted in anything good it was apparently the blossoming relationship between your new friend and a man you’d never met.

Wanda continued to chat as she yanked you out of the car and past the yard littered with sparse grass. The music was loud already—the type of loud that you needed to be at least a little drunk to enjoy. And that was the plan.

“Okay, if I start dancing on a table you pull me down. And if you start dancing on a table I support you, right?” Wanda giggled, her voice now raised as you walked past the threshold of the house.

“Exactly,” you yelled back. A guy nodded to you as he leaned against the front door, his eyes glancing up from his phone and then returning. It seemed Bucky’s ‘list’ was a page on some guy’s notes app. How luxurious. “Let’s drink.”

The next hour was a blur. You tried your hardest to get as drunk as possible and Wanda tried her hardest to find the British man she was enamored with. You hadn’t seen Bucky, but you figured he wasn’t looking for you too hard since you hadn’t responded to any of his texts. Not out of anger, but because you didn’t know what to say. Somehow, with alcohol warming your blood and music vibrating your skin, none of that mattered anymore.

You: Your house is soooo dirty

Your phone jostled in your grip, people bumping into you from every side. When he didn’t answer in the thirty seconds you spent staring at the screen, you locked it and continued on with your mission.

After a few too many shots of hard liquor, you switched to beer. Gross, but decidedly less likely to make you pass out on the staircase of this house. Because you weren’t lying in your text—it was slightly disgusting. You figured you should clarify that with Bucky. You reached for your phone once again, knocking your head against the wall in the process and giggling to yourself. You had no idea where Wanda went.

The device was snatched from your hands just as quickly as the screen had lit up your face.

“You ever answer this thing?” an accusing voice called out. “Or do you just insult people and put it on do not disturb?”

The look on Bucky’s face would have made you roll your eyes in any other circumstance. Right now, however, it had a startled laugh bursting past your lips. You clutched at your stomach as the laugh grew and you found yourself tipping forward until your forehead met his chest. You felt delirious, almost silly. A hand came around to rest on the back of your neck.

“Alright, alright.” Bucky’s words rumbled against your face. “I get it, this is hilarious.”

“Your… your face,” you breathed out, catching your breath enough to part from him. “It was all—” you mimicked the straight line of his eyebrows, voice raising in a mocking tone. “—You don’t ever answer your phone. You’re so boring, y/n, answer your phone.”

“I didn’t call you boring. Hey—hey,” Bucky stressed, reaching for you as you leaned too far to the side, a smile still lingering on your face. “Jesus, y/n, how much did you have to drink?”

You went to mock him again, but his fingers on your jaw stopped you. He tilted your head up and to the left, and although he was much more composed than you were, you could still smell the alcohol on his breath. You scrunched up your nose as he continued his inspection.

“Why’re you being so uptight?” you slurred, trying and failing to push away from him. “I thought you were all like, ‘I’m Bucky and I party and get drunk and have sex with girls.’”

Bucky pulled you forward as you laughed at your impression of him, his shaking head making you blink away a bout of dizziness. You toppled over a set of stairs as he threaded his fingers through yours, and then you stumbled through a doorway and onto carpeted floors. Being pressed into an uncomfortable chair was the most jarring action, the world still spinning as you sat.

“You’re even more mean when you're drunk,” you heard Bucky mumble. You couldn’t quite catch him as he moved around whatever room you were in. “And I don’t talk like that.”

You let out a careless sigh and leaned back. “You soooo talk like that.”

Something cold pressed to your hand, followed by another touch to the back of your neck. You gazed down at the water bottle being guided up to your lips and couldn’t find it in you to fight against it, despite the small spark of defiance on the tip of your tongue. After about four large swallows, Bucky was satisfied.

He asked again how much you’d had to drink.

You answered that you didn’t know—that it didn’t matter because he wasn’t your dad and you were having fun like you always did. He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything for the next few moments.

And then, “Thought you weren’t gonna come tonight.”

You hummed, rolling your head against the chair to look up at his standing form. “Of course I was going to come. I love parties. Love drinking alcohol.”

His expression twisted into something you couldn’t recognize. “God, you’re so drunk.”

“M’not even that drunk!”

“You’re willingly in my room right now. You’re plastered.”

“Maybe I want to be in your room.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

You chuckled breathily, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see the pretty flush of Bucky’s face. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Don’t know much about me though. Or biology.”

Bucky kneeled down to the height of the chair. “And what do I not know about you?”

“So much.”

“How much?”

You bit into your lip and cracked an eye open, catching the amusement that had slipped past the strange mask of his emotions. With blissful ignorance, you heaved yourself forward on the chair, your nose a few inches from Bucky’s. His eyes didn’t waver from yours as you swayed.

“You don’t know that I’m the most interesting person on Earth,” you boasted, fingers gripping the upholstery of your seat.

“That right?” Bucky probed, his voice a melodic hum.

“Yup, I’m always really busy and even though you think I’m some boring biology tutor I’m actually super cool and, like, go to raves and stuff.”

His brow twitched but his mouth stayed soft. “I’ve never said you were boring. And I don’t think you’ve ever been to a rave.”

You groaned loudly and flopped against the backrest of the chair. “See! I’m telling you I do all this cool stuff and I’m so drunk my fingers are buzzing and you still don’t believe me.”

You crossed your arms with a huff, a small pout forming on your lips. In any other context, this behavior would probably embarrass you to no end. In the dim light of Bucky’s room where you felt the feeling leave your fingers and the care leave your mind, you were just disgruntled, not embarrassed. If you remembered this tomorrow the latter would surely catch up to you.

Bucky stared at you from his spot on the ground, his gaze a bit foggy and unfocused. He was clearly intoxicated, as you deduced earlier, and it made him look more wild. Mused hair and pink cheeks, he looked like he’d been having plenty of fun before he found you. It was distracting. He was distracting you from proving that you were having a blast.

“What?” you snapped, the tone a testament to the drunken fit you were throwing.

“You’re so fucking pretty.”

He must be really, really drunk. Despite your clouded mind, you knew that, but the words affected you just the same. Your lips parted as a new lightness both lit up and compressed your chest, and Bucky watched the movement.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, but it was hardly a scoff. “Sure, Bucky. How much did you have to drink—”

“I’m not lying. I’ve thought about you in my room for weeks and now you’re here and you’re so pretty. Even when you’re yelling at me.”

“You’ve… thought about me in your room?”

Bucky shuffled forward and you subconsciously parted your legs to allow the space for him. “I think about you everywhere.”

This was crazy. It was certifiably insane. A voice in the back of your head—Natasha’s voice, it sounded like—was screaming at you to stop and think about the situation at hand. He was drunk, you were even more drunk, and he was far too close to you. He had ushered you in here with good intentions and had sobered you up a fraction, but things had taken a turn and this was a sensitive situation. The kind of sensitive that altered your reality and his and probably a bunch of other people’s you’d never met.

Or it could be nothing and you were over exaggerating.

But then Bucky’s hand was warming your thigh. You’d felt the press of it on your back and your shoulder and your head before, but it had never been on your thigh. It felt heavy there, hot. His other hand moved to touch your face and he propped himself up on one knee. His thumb brushed your cheek. Words tumbled from your mouth before you registered that you were speaking.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Why would you ask that? Who asks Bucky Barnes if he’s going to kiss them?

“Would you let me?” he responds.

“Yes.”

He didn’t waste any time, his mouth hot against yours. He tasted like mint and vodka and his lips moved so slowly it ached. You had expected a fervor behind his lips, but instead you got a build up, an orchestra reaching its crescendo. He was kissing you like you were important, like this wasn’t some random hookup in his bedroom at 1 o’clock in the morning, and you had to catch your breath when he parted from you.

But he moved back in so quickly after your brief respite, and you were eager to give him more. This was crazy, insane. This was the best kiss you’d ever have and also the worst. This was months of staring at his stupid lips when he tried explaining concepts back to you, but this was also weeks of feeling small in his presence. Bucky slid his hand back to press against your hair and you didn’t feel small anymore.

A loud thud from the hallway interrupted the silence you’d created, and Bucky pulled back, keeping his hands on you as he craned his neck around to stare at the door. He waited a beat, and then two, and then he turned back to you. The moment was gone, but he was still touching you. You weren’t sure what you wanted—if you wanted him to kiss you again or run out the door—but when he slid his hands from your body and rubbed them down his jeans, it became clear that was not what you wanted.

A knot formed in your stomach when he met your gaze again, and you tried blinking the feeling away. It didn’t work.

“Um,” Bucky began, his voice sounding more clear, his tone not holding the weight it had.

Your plan had backfired. Severely. This was a mess and you needed to save yourself before you ended this night even more humiliated.

You were still drunk. Pretend you were still plastered.

You giggled airily, the sound burning your throat. “That was loud.”

Bucky blinked at you in what you assumed was disbelief. “Probably just someone trying to find the bathroom,” he clarified.

You shrugged, nudging him back with your knee as you stood from the chair. “I’m bored now.” You took fast steps to the door, your words foreign to you. “Thanks for the water,” you all but gritted out.

You expected him to get up. Not to run after you or proclaim his love or even say anything. But you expected him to get up.

He didn’t, and you couldn’t understand how the knot in your stomach had moved to your throat. Or how it made tears spring to your eyes when your feet hit the sidewalk outside. Your Uber came and you couldn’t understand how you felt hot and cold at the same time. How it was freezing outside but you were sweating.

You couldn’t understand why you were crying over a boy that so often infuriated you, or why he kissed you in his bedroom. The reasonable side of you sent gentle reminders that he was in a frat and kissing people is just what he did. All the time. But the unreasonable side of you won out tonight, and it was telling you that this felt different.

That you should be different, somehow.

Bucky: You’re here???

Bucky: Where are you?

Bucky: Y/n answer your damn phone

Bucky: This place is fucking packed tonight I thought you weren’t coming

You stared at the text messages you hadn’t read last night, the bright light of your phone burning into your retinas. You had a brutal hangover, and the memory of the disaster in Bucky’s room felt like an even bigger one.

You’d gone through a myriad of emotions the night before, tossing around excuses and speeches in your head until you were so exhausted you let the alcohol in your system lull you to sleep. With all of that delirious thinking, you’d landed on blacking out. You were going to tell Bucky you blacked out last night and couldn’t remember a thing. He obviously wouldn’t care and would probably appreciate it.

Saturday was slow-moving. Reruns of television shows and bags of popcorn and overthinking. Natasha was at her parent’s house in the city, so you had no one to bounce your racing thoughts off of. You certainly weren’t going to text her about it.

When the evening finally rolled around and your attempts at distracting yourself with mind-numbing movies failed, you checked your email. You always tried not to on the weekends, but doing anything else sounded much less appealing.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get past the first one.

From: University Peer Assistance Program

Dear Y/n Y/l/n,

This is an automated message from the campus peer assistance program. We thank you for your continued devotion to the betterment of students at this school. At this time, your tutoring placement with James Barnes has ended. We will search for a new placement to fill your current hours.

Thank you,

University Peer Assistance

You blinked at the email, then blinked again. The breath left your chest and the muscles on your face twitched, but you were otherwise frozen.

This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be free from the haughty frat boy that didn’t even listen to you when you tried to help him raise his grades. You wanted someone nice, someone that had the same goals as you and appreciated the color-coded notes you took for them. Bucky only tried to get a rise out of you. He sat too close and made fun of you and put you on lists you didn’t ask to be on.

But he had kissed you. He had kissed you and then tutor-dumped you.

You knew you weren’t his type, but were you really that bad? Was the kiss so terrible?

Every inferiority complex you had developed exploded. You over-analyzed things that had already happened, things you had said. Not just at the party, but in the library, the coffee shops, the lecture halls.

Was he really willing to risk his position in the frat just to avoid you?

The strangle tickle of tears itched to be released from your eyes again, but you pressed it down. No, this wasn’t on you. He had kissed you. He had dragged you into his room and stumbled on pretty words. If he didn’t want you to tutor him anymore because of his stupid mistake, fine.

His mistake.

That word felt wrong.

You tossed your phone on the couch with vigor. The clock above the television read out 10 pm, but that meant little to you as you slid on your shoes at the front door. You were wearing sweatpants and a jacket that was far too big on you, sadness and frustration and raw confusion propelling you down your apartment stairs.

Ice cream would fix this.

The only place open at this time was the gas station at the edge of campus. It wasn’t university affiliated and was usually overrun with belligerent greek life trying to buy alcohol, but the decision-making part of your brain was currently shut off.

Ice cream, anger, probably watching tiktoks until your eyes were too heavy to keep open—those were the only things rattling in your head.

You yanked open the gas station door after your short walk, the glass smudged and fogged from the cold night. The fluorescent lights aggravated the headache you’d been sporting all day and the floor made sticking noises with each step you took. To add insult to injury, there were only three cartons of ice cream left, and they weren’t even the good flavors. Grabbing the least offensive one, you made your way to the small line of people by the register.

“Nice outfit.”

Too enthralled by the disappointing ingredient list on the side of your ice cream, you had missed the tall man now looming at your shoulder. You whipped your head around with a start, taking a step back, smelling menthol and asphalt and nothing good.

“Thanks,” you quietly replied.

He waited until you turned back around to continue. “You go to school over here?”

You kept your gaze forward. “Um, yeah.”

“Nice. I graduated a few years back. Marketing.”

“Cool,” you replied. What had compelled you to leave your phone on the couch? This night sucked.

You found reprieve in the line moving, the employee calling you over to check out. As soon as you paid—a few dollar bills funneled out of your pocket with shaky hands—you booked it. Your ice cream burned in your palm but you didn’t care, feet carrying you out the door and into the dimly lit parking lot. You fisted your keys in your fingers; pointless, you knew, but a small comfort.

The man’s voice returned with the chime of the bell over the gas station door. “Wait! Wait, I’m Beck. I own a business nearby.”

You should have kept walking, but one of your fatal flaws was, apparently, people pleasing. You turned to him. He smiled at you but it made your stomach twist.

“Oh, nice,” you responded, rocking back on your heels.

“We should connect. Maybe go for coffee or something?” He took a step forward. You fought the urge to take one back. His beard was unkempt and he held a six pack in his white-knuckled grip.

“Um, I don’t know. I’m pretty busy with finals coming up. Plus, I’m not really in the business field.”

“Not for business then,” he smiled again, teeth dull in the streetlight.

Just agree. If you agreed you could block him soon after and everything would be fine.

You took too long to answer. He took the final step forward to arrive in your space and wrapped his fingers around your bicep. “C’mon, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything.”

Frozen by fear, you let out a weak laugh. The pint in your hand was sticking to your skin now in a way that would be painful when you tried to let go of it later. Your breath rattled in your chest when you laughed again.

“Sure, okay.” But he didn’t let go of your arm, instead sliding it down to the bone of your wrist.

“What about now?” he posed. “You don’t look too busy. I can make you something at my place.”

He was at least ten years older than you. You attempted to pull yourself from his grasp to no avail. Maybe reasoning would work.

“My roommate's waiting for me,” you lied. “Could you let go? I sprained my wrist at the gym last week,” you lied again.

He refused with a shake of his head. You took a panicked glance inside the gas station to your right. No one was looking.

“Please let go of me.”

The call of your name from the other side of the parking lot initially sent more unbearable fear down your spine. But then the owner of that voice registered in your brain, and although it had been the cause of your recent internal strife, you couldn't be more grateful to hear it.

He said your name again, closer now and questioning. Bucky jogged up to the pair of you, saw your wrist and the man holding it hostage, and looked back up at you with confused, wild eyes.

“You know this guy?” he asked, jutting his thumb out at Beck.

“No,” you whispered. The word was short but the syllable still trembled.

Bucky didn’t look confused anymore. He looked pissed. “Wanna take your fucking hands off her?”

Beck was tall, but Bucky was taller. And angry. Beck released your wrist and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa, man, no need for the theatrics. I’m guessing you’re here to stock up for a party? I used to be in Sigma Nu.”

When Bucky’s silent glare failed to dampen, Beck continued with, “We were just planning a night at my place, right?”

His nod in your direction made your breath catch. Bucky took his piercing gaze off of Beck and softened it as it fell on you. You wanted to respond, but words were gone. They were impossible. Your ice cream was melting.

“Yeah, I think we’re done here,” Bucky scoffed, placing his arm around your shoulder. He guided you past the wall of a man, making sure to drive his shoulder into his chest as he went. Beck went to say more, to protest or whine, but Bucky shot him such a scathing look it almost made you wither.

The smell of coconut and spices and a hint of whisky met your nose, and it was familiar. It was safe. You fumbled with the keys in your hands as your feet guided you wherever Bucky was going, and then you fumbled even more, soft jingling disrupting the softness of footfall. God, why wouldn’t you stop shaking?

A hand fell atop yours, crunching the keys to a halt. You stared down at them, unsteady breath hitting the tanned fingers that served as your current anchor.

“Look at me, y/n.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything.

“Sweetheart, eyes up. All you gotta do.” Bucky’s voice was as soft as it was last night. That was the only reason you were able to follow his request. “There she is,” he hummed.

He removed his arm from your shoulders and shifted in front of you, placing his hand on your cheek. You ignored that it felt the same as it had last night. You ignored that you wanted it to feel the same for him, too.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his neck down to better see your face. His thumb brushed under your eye. “He hurt you?”

You shook your head, whispering no, whispering that you were fine.

Bucky nodded to himself, eyes tracking down to your toes and then back up again. He must have mistaken your shaking for coldness because the next thing he did was guide you into the car behind him. You didn’t know it was his.

He blasted the heat the second he got in. He had shuffled you into your seat with his hands before that, smoothed your hair down and closed the door after you were settled and not shaking as hard. The heat dried out your eyes. It distracted you enough to let words form.

“Thank you,” you said. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t bring my phone with me. I should’ve.”

“Of course.”

There was a beat of silence. The relief you had felt earlier had been muddled down to an awkward pit in your stomach, and you weren’t sure if Bucky felt it too or if he was still riding a testosterone-fueled adrenaline high.

You wanted to go home now; this was uncomfortable and you had felt Bucky’s lips on yours less than twenty-four hours ago with no closure. He obviously didn’t want to be around you. This was probably a responsibility thing for him.

“I can… I can walk home now. The guy left. I’m just a quarter mile away and you probably have to stock up or whatever.”

He looked at you with a pinched expression. “I’m not letting you walk home after that. You kiddin’ me?”

“I’ll be fine, really. I walk over here all the time.”

“You get harassed all the time too?”

“No…”

“Exactly. So you’re not walking home.”

“Bucky—”

“Look I’m not gonna kiss you again, alright? So you don’t have to turn down a ride because of that.”

Your ice cream was soup at this point. You let it roll into your lap as you clamped your mouth shut just to open it again. Bucky ran a rough hand through his hair before dropping it on the steering wheel, clutching at it with no place to go.

“I’m not following,” you finally relented.

A loud sigh released from his nose. “You don’t have to worry about me kissing you again. I just want to make sure you get home safe and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Worry about—you’re the one trying to avoid me,” you snapped, frozen fingers pointing to your chest. “You tutor-dumped me.”

“Tutor-dumped? How do you…” he trailed off.

“I get an email when you make a change request, Bucky.”

He stared at you for a moment, lips parted and unmoving. He clenched his jaw a moment later, a red tint adorning his cheeks.

“Well, you—you—look, I know you don’t like me, y/n. You’ve made that clear,” he stuttered, words getting louder as he moved his hands around with each one. “But I like you. I like when you get mad at me and when you yell at me for not listening and when you get all embarrassed when I play with your hair. And I’ve been trying to get you to come to one of my parties since we started this whole thing, but every time I talk about them you seem to like me even less.

“If I had known insulting you would get your attention, I woulda done that week one,” he exasperated. You sat up in your seat but he continued. “I didn’t mean any of that shit you thought I did. You’re not boring. And I didn’t mean to kiss you, but you looked—well, I already told you.”

“So you don’t want me to be your tutor anymore because you like me?” You spoke slowly, each word careful.

“No,” he sighed, frustrated. “I can’t be around you because I kissed you and you didn’t care. Because I’ll want to kiss you all the time and you didn’t even wanna kiss me once. I know we were drunk, I get that, but I’ve wanted that for a long time and I need to move on. It’s nothing against your… tutoring skills. If that’s what you’re worried about”

“But you talk about hooking up with other girls all the time, Bucky. To me.”

“You ever hear of lying?”

“Why would you—”

“You really gonna make me live out all of my failures with you?”

You’d read so many things wrong. Taken so many things the wrong way. You figured the email earlier was the final nail in the coffin, but this was something else entirely. This was Bucky, sitting next to you in his car looking distressed and frazzled with his hair six different directions, telling you that he’s been trying to get your attention since he met you. That you weren’t small or insignificant or boring.

It was probably a terrible idea to follow through with your next thought. You’d probably get hurt in the long run. But you did it anyway.

“I wanted you to kiss me.” Bucky’s head whipped towards you. You bit the inside of your cheek and said, “I want you to kiss me all the time.”

He whispered your name. It sounded like the air had left every corner of his body. But he didn’t move, and you needed to rectify that.

“You’re infuriating,” you began. Bucky cringed, but you needed to explain as he had. “You’re like the antithesis of everything I want out of college. You don’t care about classes. You’re always late. You talk too loud in the library.”

You took a deep breath, fiddling with the loose thread of your pants. You couldn’t make eye contact with anything but the ground.

“But then you know my coffee order when I’ve never told it to you. You save me from losers in parking lots and make sure I’m not drunk out of my mind at your obscene party. You make me feel… you make me feel stupid sometimes. And I thought it was because you’re everything I’m not, but I really think it’s because you’re everything I told myself I should stay away from. But I don’t want to.

“I wanted you to kiss me at that party and I want you to kiss me now.”

“Then get over here. I’m not kissing you over some bullshit center console.”

You twisted to follow his directions, gasping as his hands clasped around your waist to tug you into his lap. It wasn’t seamless—there was laughing and your head briefly connected with the roof of the car—but Bucky’s touch was everywhere, soothing the uncertainty and fear and slight headache.

His forehead connected with yours when you felt secure in his arms. His fingers slid down from your waist over the material of your sweatpants and when he spoke next you felt the words on your own lips.

“You’re wearing sweatpants. You get so mad when I wear sweatpants.”

You laughed. “I get mad because it usually means you just rolled out of bed, and you’re usually. late.”

“I got a secret,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours. “I’m never late. And I only wear those sweatpants around you. You get cute when you’re pissed at me.”

“Well, I’m about to be really cute—”

He kissed you. You’d have plenty of time to argue later.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #college!bucky #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes #college AU #frat!bucky #marvel imagine

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explorevenus · 2 months

Text

baby steps ♡ yandere!leon kennedy x reader

nsfw (18+) - minors dni or i will call ur mom. and also the cops

word count: 5k

description: moving to raccoon city with leon, your long-term boyfriend and childhood sweetheart, doesn't go as planned. while you consider moving back home to lick your wounds, leon conspires to keep you right by his side, where you were always meant to be.

tags/warnings: yandere!leon kennedy, specifically rookie cop leon, squishy soft dom leon, manipulation and generally toxic behavior, baby trapping (via tampering w condoms), daddy kink, praise kink, pet names, no use of y/n, fingering, p in v, creampie, cockwarming, mention of vomiting

a/n: this piece was commissioned by #1 Soft Dom Rookie Leon Truther and My Feral Puppy Wife @nexysworld ,, pls pls check out her work, she's so very talented and sweet and i am lucky to call her a friend ;w; <33

hopefully if u made it this far u read the tags and know what ur in for, but out of an abundance of caution i would like to reiterate that this is a yandere!leon fic and therefore contains dark themes a la dubious/uninformed consent and unhealthy relationship dynamics. if that's a no-no for u, pls kindly move on and take care of urself !!

my masterlist ♡

my ao3 ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;

-venus ♡

Leon had it all figured out from the day he met you, the first day of kindergarten. The two of you were going to be just like the movies, just like the storybooks– you would grow up as friends, blossom into lovers, marry young and start a family, and everything would be exactly as it should be. He would have fulfilled his purpose, and you would have fulfilled yours. All would be right in the universe.

And he wasn’t exactly far off, for a long time. You were attached at the hip through elementary school, somehow managed to stay friends through middle school and after an awkward, smitten kiss shared in the empty auditorium, you began dating in high school. It was perfect, he thought. He didn’t even have to pull that many strings.

You went to prom, got drunk for the first time, learned to drive, all in each other’s company. You had each other’s virginity. You’d seen, touched and savored every inch of each other. There was almost nothing you didn’t share.

It wasn’t too long after graduation that Leon applied to begin training at the police academy, just like he’d always dreamed of. It was a solid profession with plenty of benefits for both of you and it would give him the opportunity to help people, ticking off all the boxes of what he wanted for himself. It was perfect, it was safe.

No one was surprised when he soared through the police academy with impeccable marks. You were such a little angel when he graduated, showering him with kisses and sweets and letting him pound you into the mattress for a whole weekend to celebrate. And when his application in Raccoon City was accepted, you did exactly as he hoped you would and you followed right along with him.

Of course you would follow right along. You didn’t know what life without Leon meant. You couldn’t even conceptualize what that would feel like and you had no intention of finding out, but that was fine by him. He was happy to be your rock, your guidance, your big, strong boyfriend who would hold your hand and follow you through everything.

With Leon, you would never be alone. You would never be far from home. After all this time, he was your home, exactly as your lives were designed.

For the first few months of living in Raccoon City, the two of you shared a cozy apartment. It was a little worse for wear, but it was cute, and it was a fun way to start your adventure into young adulthood together. He was happy to handle all of the spiders and quadruple check the locks every night if it made you feel safer, if it gave you an excuse to come crying to him like a beautiful angel whenever you were frightened.

Bumps in the night, creaks of the pipes, the skittering of the upstairs neighbor’s little dog, they all sent you folding into his arms, shaking like a leaf, crying for him to protect you. He was your knight, and God were you his perfect little princess. The apple of his eye, the one and only object of his affection. No, not his affection, his obsession.

You were all he thought about, day and night, for more than half of his 21 years of living. Everything he did, every breath he took was with you in mind. You were the only living manifestation of complete and total perfection, every inch of you crafted with care and divinity. Your lives fit together like puzzle pieces– hell, your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. You were meant for each other.

It wasn’t long after you moved that the job you had lined up fell through, and you were left reeling. Moving away from home just to fall flat on your face was a massive blow to your self esteem, especially considering your parents practically screamed a hole through the phone at you about it. The next few days were spent sulking around the apartment, trying to pick up the pieces and choose a completely different path for yourself.

And there was Leon to hold you while you cried. To make dinner every night and dote on you endlessly, to pamper you with gifts and to insist over and over that he could make rent on his own, that he didn’t mind if you needed a little more time to wallow before finding a job… and to console you when your search for employment would prove fruitless once again.

He was there to tell you it wasn’t your fault, that the job market was just rough right now and that no matter what, he would be there to take care of you.

Weeks stretched into months and you still felt like you were spinning out, even with Leon by your side. Every single day was beginning to feel the same and you didn’t know what to do, all you knew was that you couldn’t imagine living the rest of your life like this. Something had to give and Raccoon City clearly wasn’t it.

Leon came home with a big smile on his face, just like any other day, but today was extra special. He’d finally had his one year review at the police station, and he was getting a sizable raise. He couldn’t wait to tell you he was gonna get you out of this shitty apartment and into somewhere nicer. He couldn’t wait to sneak his way down to the jeweler in search of a ring. The storybook life he had laid out for you was coming to fruition right before his eyes.

But you were quiet over dinner, and you looked exhausted. You wouldn’t even meet his eyes as you picked at your plate.

He was just about to ask you what was wrong when you finally spoke up, “I-I think I need to move back home with my parents.”

Silence. He felt like he had been shot.

“It’s just that… I know you said you’re happy to take care of bills and everything, but I just feel terrible every day being a burden and I think I need a chance to figure things out and get back up on my feet. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life anymore.”

His expression fell and his heart ached, any and all excitement he had about his situation now gone in an instant. All the money in the world meant nothing to him if he couldn’t share it with you, and to see you so lost and scared made him feel like he fucking failed you, his poor, sweet princess who looked to him for purpose and protection and partnership.

Leon wasn’t stupid. He knew that allowing you to move back in with your parents could potentially be a death sentence to your relationship. When people aren’t around each other anymore, it’s only natural that they drift apart, and Leon could not let that happen. It wasn’t even an option in his brain. Something had to be done and something had to be done now, before your lease was up in a few months, before push came to shove and you would finally have to make your choice.

He wasn’t even really sure where he got the idea. It wasn’t something he’d ever considered before, mostly because he didn’t think he’d ever be put in this position.

A few nights after that conversation, Leon couldn’t sleep. It was well past two in the morning and you were peacefully asleep beside him while he stared at the ceiling, entirely lost in thought. He witnessed the worst and darkest of humanity at work every single day, but nothing scared him as deeply as the idea of losing you.

Eventually he got out of bed as carefully as he could manage, not wanting to wake you with his troubles. He only planned to get some water and maybe a minute or two of fresh air to clear his mind, but what he didn’t plan to get was some inspiration.

You had asked him to stop at the store on his way home from work to pick up a few things you needed, and the bag was still sitting on the counter. He took it upon himself to grab a few things he needed, too, and among the items left in the bag was an unopened box of condoms. At first his eyes skimmed over it without much interest, but it wasn’t long before he froze where he stood and turned to look at the bag again.

Leon wasn’t sure what came over him. He didn’t really feel like himself, it was like he was watching his next moves from a third person perspective, hovering above, detached. For a moment he even wondered if he was sleepwalking, or if this was a dream. He stared down at the box in his hand, carefully opened it, and pierced a hole in the center of each and every one. He tucked the packets back into the box and brought it with him on his way back to the bedroom, stashing it in the usual spot in the bedside table.

On his side, of course.

He tried to go back to sleep, but he couldn’t help but just watch you. You were so pretty, so peaceful when you were dreaming, such a nice contrast to the stress and insecurity over finding your life’s purpose that plagued you in your waking hours.

But Leon already knew your life’s purpose. He reached out, gently brushing your messy hair away from your sleepy face so he could admire you more fully, and all he could think about was how much happier you’d look with a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly. Maybe an unexpected nudge in the right direction would set you back on the correct path and make you come to your senses about moving back in with your parents.

You huffed out a sleepy little breath from between your plush lips, stirring in the bed and peeking open your eyes to look at him. It was clear you weren’t fully conscious yet, but you were trying, squirming closer to him to tuck yourself into his chest.

“W’time is it?” You mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

He smiled fondly, petting your hair and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head as you cuddled up to him like a sweet little baby bear, and he tried to pretend he hadn’t accidentally made himself hard as fuck thinking about knocking you up just to get you to stay with him. Somewhere deep down, he knew it was gross, he knew it was wrong, he knew it could violate your trust in so many ways.

But Leon was nothing if not a yearner, a hopeless romantic who couldn’t bear the thought of life without you by his side. He’d done everything right by you and you were still straying away from him, and that just wouldn’t do. It’s an act of desperation, he thought to himself, justifying his actions into the ground, I just want her so badly I’m not thinking straight, all pleas for forgiveness he would store for later use.

“It’s late, baby,” He mumbled into your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

You just shook your head and tightened your arms around him, clearly on the verge of dozing off again. Perhaps if the circumstances were different, he would have just let you, but he wouldn’t be awake in the first place if it weren’t for the extreme sense of urgency he felt.

His broad, warm hands engulfed you, one cradling the back of your head while the other rubbed your lower back, tapering off to paw at your hip. Your shirt– well, his shirt– had ridden up nearly to your waist, baring your cute panties, your soft belly and your plush thighs to his gaze. He swiped the pad of his thumb along your hip, imagining your bone structure spreading open to make room for his growing baby.

Leon didn’t take the time to talk himself out of it before his fingertips were sneaking down between your legs, slipping beneath your panties and finding your clit with practiced ease. The sensation was enough to jerk you awake again, a quiet mewl tumbling from your lips as you rocked into his hand, so sleepy and out of it and just so very cute.

“Leon?” Your voice was thick with sleep, but airy and light with sudden onset desire. That was all he needed to know he had you right where he wanted you.

“Shh, shh, you’re alright,” He cooed softly, following up the soothing whispers with a few gentle nibbles and bites to the shell of your ear, knowing that such attention always melted you into a puddle. “You’re alright, pretty baby, I just wanna play with you. Can daddy play with his sweet angel?”

You squirmed in his hold for a second, pondering his proposition while barely awake, but it wasn’t long before you were nodding into his shoulder and peppering his collarbone with wet kisses in return. It never took much to convince you when he spoke to you like that, so adoring and saccharine.

“That’s my good girl,” He mused, invigorated by your consent. Almost instantaneously he became more heavy-handed with his touches, fingertips massaging firm, purposeful circles around your clit, occasionally dipping down to collect your growing arousal and bring it back with him. “You’re all mine, you know that? Never gonna let anyone else have my baby.”

Poor you. Clueless of his intentions, you interpreted that sentence in a much different way than he really meant it. But, ignorance is bliss, and what you felt right now was nothing short of blissful.

You poked your head up just to catch his lips with your own in a wanton grasp for more intimacy, a signal of your agreement, like you were giving yourself to him. He knew it was wrong that you didn’t fully realize what you were agreeing to, but again, he compartmentalized that, deciding that was a problem for his future self. What mattered right now was securing your place at his side for the rest of your lives.

He could feel the way your hips were stuttering, he could feel how short your breaths were becoming against his lips, and he knew you were getting close. Grunting into your mouth, he forced his hand further down your panties and sank two thick fingers into your hole, stretching you open for him. The intrusion was quite a bit less gentle than you were used to from him, drawing a shocked whimper from you, but you soon began to relax once more when he curled up into your sweet spot, sending you boneless.

“D-Daddy,” You whined, nails biting into his shoulders. “Hurts… Slow, slower…”

A shiver rolled over his body, that of immediate guilt. He knew he was being a little rough with you, and he certainly didn’t want to hurt you, but…

“Fuck, I can’t help it,” He groaned, “Been thinking about this pussy all night, princess, I need you like air…”

You could hear the desperation in his tone, and even more you could feel it in the way he touched you like he was starving, like he was stranded in the desert and you were an oasis. Softened by this– and entirely hypnotized by his praise– you resigned to the feeling, allowing him to play with your body as he pleased. He was rutting into nothing without even thinking about it, his cock woefully hard and straining against the front of his grey sweatpants.

He wanted to prepare you properly, he really did, but he was so revved up and needy, he didn’t want to risk blowing his load anywhere but inside you. That wasn’t an option. Hands shaking, he pulled away from you just long enough to kick his sweatpants off and reach for one of those condoms, silently resenting the fact that he had to wear one at all, but he had an appearance to keep up.

He tore the package open haphazardly with his teeth and rolled the condom on, shuddering deeply. His grasp was tight on your thigh as he pulled it up and over his hip, his other hand pushing your dainty purple panties aside to guide his cock into the heavenly, pillowy walls of your ethereal cunt.

Fuck, you were so fucking tight, clenching around him, whimpering and whining and writhing like a perfect little puppy in heat. Leon’s teeth sank into your shoulder as he bottomed out in you, and he almost could have sworn he felt the tip of the condom rip open even wider. The image alone had him moaning like an animal, pinning your quivering body to his own while he rolled his hips, fucking you deep and hard and slow, savoring every single stroke of your slippery walls around his aching cock. Every meeting of your hips was joined by obscene squelching with the way you were practically sucking him in.

“G-God, fuck,” Leon growled, his face contorted with pleasure. You and Leon had always had what you considered to be an active and healthy sex life, but you’d never seen him quite so beside himself with raw lust. Whatever drove him in that moment was primal, and you could feel it in his every movement, his every breath, see it in the wild look in his eyes.

His pupils were like dinner plates as he gazed down at you, stamping your forehead with kisses and feeling over every inch of your body. “Look at you, just look at you… Such a perfect little dolly for daddy to love on forever and ever, huh? Oh, my princess…”

You were lightheaded with arousal, every nerve ending in your body lighting up with white hot pleasure. You could barely even form a sentence, just nodding along as he moaned out his praise and letting him manhandle you like a ragdoll. Perhaps his words had more than a modicum of truth to them.

“F-Feels so… so… fuck, daddy, feels so good,” You babbled mindlessly, head falling back to the pillows beneath you. He was overwhelming your senses, taking over every corner of your mushy brain. The room was dark and you were still a bit delirious with sleep and to that effect, nothing existed in your world right now but daddy, daddy, daddy…

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the spot on your shoulder he’d so harshly bitten earlier, the pace of his thrusts not faltering for a second. “Yeah? I’ll bet it does, judging by the look on you,” He teased, nipping at your throat. “So pretty when you’re all fucked out.”

Your back was arching up off the bed, your eyes rolling back and your walls pulsing around him. Addicted to eliciting pleasured reactions from you, Leon wedged one hand between your two bodies, flattening his palm on your lower belly before pressing down.

Stars. You saw stars. A broken, high-pitched cry ripped from your throat, and you didn’t even have the capacity to hope the neighbors didn’t think you were being murdered, because you didn’t care. You could feel every rigid inch of him inside you, dragging over every nerve, his cock stuffed so deep that you swore you could feel him in your throat. Toes curling and your nails raking down his naked back, tears were beginning to prick at your eyes– you were close.

That was a good thing, though, considering he was too, and he could only hope the wet heat of your release would mask the feeling of his own. Leon sealed his lips over your own once more, swallowing your broken, needy cries as he fucked you to completion, letting his hand fall a little bit lower until his fingertips were on your clit again.

Your body twitched at the stimulation, thighs clamping down tight around his hips as you sobbed into his mouth and soaked his cock with your gushing sex. “Daddy,” You wept, clinging to him for dear life as he fucked you through your high, his own spilling out in sync. “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

“Shh, I’ve got you, baby, I’m right here,” He cooed, taking your bottom lip playfully between his teeth before pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose. “Just stay put, you’re doing so good for me, angel…”

His hips continued to piston forward as he hoped to force as much of his cum into you as he could manage, while still maintaining the believable illusion of protection. He intended to put every last one of those tampered-with condoms to use, though he wondered silently to himself if you might give up and just let him take you raw once you were to inevitably find out you’re pregnant.

You were a weeping, shivering mess in his arms, thighs clenching and twitching around him as he shushed you and babied you, petting your hair away from your tear-stained face and stamping you with delicate kisses, still stuffing his cum into you with shallow thrusts. He couldn’t wait to see you blossom right before his eyes. He couldn’t wait for you to realize your purpose was right here with him. He couldn’t wait to have you to himself for the rest of your days, his princess.

Leon remained sheathed deep within you, even as he softened, wanting to make sure you stayed plugged up well. But, he also couldn’t resist the warmth and wetness of you, how comforting it felt to be enveloped by you.

“You just stay put right there, okay, princess?” He reiterated quietly, lips brushing over your brow in a loving kiss. “Want you to keep daddy warm for the rest of the night. Can you do that for me?”

As if he even had to ask. You would have done practically anything for him when reduced to such a bleary, agreeable state of mind. He knew you all too well.

You just nodded like a bobblehead, dreamy, doe eyes staring up at him through teary lashes, hanging off his every word like gospel. He tucked you in even closer to his chest, cradling you with such adoration, his hips rocking forward every now and then just to get a reaction out of you, and to remind himself this was real.

He wasn’t at all surprised that you were able to fall asleep like that, stuffed full of cum and sated like a good little princess deserved to be. In a perfect world, you would never have to move again, just stay there in his lap forever and soak up every drop of him you could take.

In the coming weeks, that box of condoms wouldn’t last long. The only thought on his mind day in and day out was bending you over every surface in the apartment, and you thought nothing of it. Of course you noticed his sudden, insatiable lust for you, but you assumed it was a symptom of knowing his beloved girlfriend was just a few short months away from potentially leaving. He was only grasping at every inch of you he could commit to memory, right?

In all fairness to you, you weren’t exactly that far off.

Your tired eyes pried open at the familiar feeling of Leon rutting up against you, gripping at your hips like you would disappear if he didn’t. The morning sun was just barely beginning to peek through the windows and the bed was warm, it was a lovely way to wake up, one you would never get tired of.

Or at least you never thought you would. You loved Leon— and his sexual prowess— very dearly, but you also loved being able to sleep through an entire night without interruption, and you hadn’t been getting much of that over the past several weeks.

“Mnh… Leon, babe,” You grumbled, burying your face back into your pillow. “Not today. I’m exhausted.”

He was taken aback by this at first, and then his expression fell with disappointment. Leon had gotten so used to breeding you dumb every morning before work that he wasn’t confident he could go back to functioning without it. Regardless, Leon knew that continuing his attempt to seduce you while you were this grouchy would be a death sentence, so he opted to take the path of least resistance.

After the moment or two it took for him to process that decision, Leon’s touches quickly shifted from provocative to soothing– he was no longer grasping at your hips but wrapping you up in his arms, pressing gentle kisses to your temple and cheekbone as if to regain your good favor.

You hummed contentedly, relaxing back into his embrace. Leon always warmed up like a heater in the night, and you were more than happy to bask in it. His muscular frame was like a weighted blanket and his presence alone was usually enough to knock you out like a light, but for some reason, you were struggling to fall back asleep. Every second felt like five minutes and despite your best efforts– and your complete and utter exhaustion– sleep refused to reclaim you.

Biting back the urge to blame Leon for waking you up in the first place, you huffed out a breath and rolled over in his arms, hoping the change in position might be just what you needed.

Wrong. Very, very wrong. Something about the movement made you dizzy, nauseous, your stomach twisting into knots. You wanted to say something, but you weren’t even sure what to say. It came on so suddenly that it caught you off guard and you weren’t even fully confident you would be able to get up at first.

You whined his name quietly, nuzzling into his chest and wrenching your eyes shut in an attempt to reorient yourself, your arms closing around your middle instinctively.

“You alright? What’s the matter?” Your sweet boyfriend asked quietly, brows furrowing with concern. He could feel your body trembling against his own, your back rising and falling with short, shallow breaths.

Now it was your throat tightening, too, and the second your mouth started to flood with saliva, you knew what was about to happen. Leon didn’t stop you when you writhed out of his embrace and stumbled out of bed, depending on muscle memory alone to get yourself to the bathroom with how woozy and ill you felt.

You just barely made it to the toilet in time to vomit. The cold tile felt nice on your knees, but the impact, not as much. It wasn’t long before Leon materialized at your side with a glass of water and a cold washcloth to hold over your forehead, rubbing your back and already silently conspiring to call out of work and give his poor, sick angel the princess treatment all day.

You collapsed back into his chest with a deep shudder, reaching for the water in a desperate attempt to wash the taste of bile from your mouth. He ended up grabbing it for you, raising it to your cracked lips and helping you take slow, measured drinks.

“There you go, pup,” He hummed, rocking you gently in his lap, his poor little darling princess. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, a sense of relief washing over you at last. Maybe you just caught a bug, or ate something your body didn’t agree with, or your stress and exhaustion were finally catching up to you. Surely you would feel better within a few days.

“I’m okay,” You whispered, reaching for his hand and squeezing it affectionately. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

Leon smiled, a burst of warmth spreading through his chest. You couldn’t possibly imagine what that meant to him, considering he chose to interpret it in whatever way felt most validating. After all, no one could take care of you like Leon could, and they wouldn’t have the chance to try, anyway. Not over his dead body.

Stooping down to kiss the crown of your head, Leon’s every word was thick with syrupy sweetness, “My baby, I would be so lost if I didn’t. Taking care of you is like breathing to me.”

And he meant every part of it. He didn’t just mean it, he showed it. He showed it when he held your hair back, and he showed it when you realized you couldn’t even remember when you’d had your last period. He showed it when you sent him to the drugstore in the middle of the night for pregnancy tests, and he showed it when you broke down crying at the results, wondering how this could have happened.

His favorite part was showing it when you tearfully called your parents and told them you were staying in Raccoon City, not because you had found a job, but because you were pregnant.

“I can’t believe they’re choosing to react like this, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. They should be happy for you, and it’s awful that they’re anything but happy for you,” He said, voice low and soothing, tone purposeful. “I’ve got you, princess. I’ve got you. I’m gonna take good care of you and this baby, and we’re gonna be happy. Alright?”

Leon tipped your chin up with his knuckle, making you look at him. Your cheeks were red and your eyes were puffy with tears, droplets still clinging to your little dolly eyelashes.

It was hard not to believe him when he spoke with such conviction, when he looked at you with those rich blue eyes that bled from an endless well of love. The pad of his thumb skimmed over your pouty bottom lip as you unknowingly submitted to his grand design.

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