HE WAS A BOY, SHE WAS A GIRL… CAN I MAKE IT ANY MORE OBVIOUS?
HE WANTED HER, BUT SHE’D NEVER TELL: THAT SECRETLY, SHE WANTED HIM AS WELL. at school, they’re practically strangers— but the moment the dismissal bell rings, he’s hers and she’s his (even if she likes to suggest otherwise).
NOW PLAYING... “sk8er boi” by avril lavigne.
LOSER!ART… who’s not really a loser in the looks department— thank god for him getting his braces off and swapping thick-framed glasses for contacts— but still falls into the archetype nonetheless. he plays his music too loud in the school parking lot, he doesn’t fall for the various cliques and their social drama, and keeps to himself whenever he and patrick aren’t glued to the hip. decent grades, but has little motivation for anything that isn’t his drum kit, his skateboard, or his video games. his guidance counselor loves to remind him that he’d have more options besides the local community college if he’d just apply himself more.
LOSER!ART… who used to play tennis but gave it up the minute he began high school, despite his father’s complaints about him having the skill to go pro. he was never playing it for himself, anyway; his parents had signed him up for lessons once he had the necessary hand-eye coordination, though having patrick suffering along with him was always a plus. the school tennis coach used to hound him to join the team back in freshman and sophomore year, but finally took the hint after art tossed a tennis ball at his head. he’d had detention for at least a month, then... worth it, though!
LOSER!ART… who can always be seen wearing either his signature red snapback or a beanie (depending on how cold it gets). the baggier the jeans, the better. loose band tees layered over thermals when it’s cold, or solo when it’s not. he lives exclusively in black converse that he’ll wear until there’s holes in the rubber soles, even if patrick claims vans are the better skate shoe. if he doesn’t have his wired headphones in his ears, they’re most likely dangling from one of his jeans pockets or from the collar of his shirt.
LOSER!ART… who would spend his entire life in his garage sat at his drum kit if he could. something about playing— hitting something and making art instead of destroying it, maybe— soothes something in his soul. hey, it’s better than hitting a ball with a racket (or hurling the damn thing at his father’s head).
LOSER!ART… who wouldn’t have given mean girl!reader the time of day if it weren’t for him finding her car pulled over with a flat during spring break. after pulling over his van in front of her much-nicer range rover— would’ve guessed it was her daddy’s if it weren’t for the hot-pink wrap on it— he’d waved off her huffing to pull out her spare and begin swapping it over. he may be aloof, but his grandma didn’t teach him to be rude— especially to women. by the time the tire’s swapped, they both look at one another a bit differently than they did before… and if mean girl!reader starts leaving notes in his locker once break’s over… loser!art’ll play along.
LOSER!ART… who loves mean girl!reader, even if she’s a pain in his ass. while she makes him work for her attention and quick to take it away if he doesn’t go along with her wishes, loser!art knows there’s more to the girl beneath the makeup and pink shield she’s built for herself— and every chance he gets to chip away at that cover, he’ll take it in a heartbeat.
꩜ aloof ꩜ smartass ꩜ honest ꩜ nonchalant ꩜ crafty ꩜ loud thinker ꩜ witty ꩜ patient ꩜ lives in the moment ꩜ loyal ꩜ rule-breaker ꩜ lame ꩜
MEAN GIRL!READER... who’s always been a bit spoiled. born with a silver spoon in her mouth, if she so much as blinked towards something as a baby, she got it. if she cried, she was picked up and held immediately. if she smiled, her parents moved heaven and earth to make sure she kept smiling. it was much easier to keep her happy than it was to cheer her up from a bad mood. needless to say… it’s very hard for them to tell her no when all she’s heard as a kid is yes, yes, yes. maybe that’s why the transition between elementary to middle school was so jarring; being bossy and demanding is only cute for so long, and definitely not when you’ve got your first pimple and lost all your baby teeth.
MEAN GIRL!READER... whose bossy and demanding traits only heightened once she became aware of the social hierarchy at school. you either got picked on people or got picked on, but she never allowed herself to accept that the latter was an option. it came to her as easily as breathing did, though she wasn’t so sure that she was glad about that or not. either way, it makes climbing the social ranks easy when you’re feared and the transition from middle to high school so, so much easier.
MEAN GIRL!READER... who loves anything that’s pink, lacy, and soft. if it’s not designer, then she doesn’t want it. lots of camisoles, lots of skirts, and a full makeup routine that she’s nearly perfected. she has a bag for every outfit— but if she doesn’t, then she’ll buy a new one. her walk-in closet is currently teeming with the clothes her father brought her from his most-recent trip to paris, but she still hasn’t unpacked everything from his milan trip last month. at the end of the day, appearances matter; all it takes is one hair being out of place or a smudge of makeup being somewhere it shouldn’t to be plastered all over the high school secrets website she and her clique run by lunch.
MEAN GIRL!READER... who, underneath all the bite and bravado, is deeply insecure. maybe it heightened in middle school, or maybe she’s always been that scared little girl wondering if who she was was enough; either way, she’s worked too hard to let herself fall now. graduation’s only a few months away, and all she has to do is play the part of the perfect student and queen bee until she crosses that stage with her diploma in-hand. just a few more months… then she can work on figuring out who she really is (or who she wants to be).
MEAN GIRL!READER... who wouldn’t have given loser!art the time of day if it weren’t for him helping her with a flat tire during spring break. triple a’s not answering and her parents are across the pond for the next three days, leaving her stranded with none of the skills necessary to fix said tire (she was not getting her hands dirty. no way). while she didn’t make it easy for loser!art to help with all her lamenting and complaining, they both look at one another a bit differently than they before the tire was swapped. his kindness in her time of need sticks with mean girl!reader… so when spring break ends, she makes first contact with the boy who barely faltered under her calculating gaze. waiting for the guy to make the first move was so last year— if she wanted something (or someone), she needed to get it (him) herself.
MEAN GIRL!READER... who loves loser!art despite the many, many fronts she puts up between them. they’re not so much of an accurate reflection of herself than they are shields to ward off those with bad intentions; she’s met plenty of people who have only wanted to get into her inner circle for the social perks, not true companionship. a lesser-willed person might’ve crumbled under all of mean girl!reader’s rules and conditions for a relationship, but loser!art’s holding in there for the time being. maybe it’s the real thing… but in the meantime, mean girl!reader’s still playing hard-to-get. besides, what was the point of being queen bee if she didn’t utilize all the eyes and ears she had around campus to spy on him?
꩜ snippy ꩜ needy ꩜ mean ꩜ keen ꩜ nitpicky ꩜ in vogue ꩜ dramatic ꩜ insecure ꩜ three steps ahead ꩜ bossy ꩜ unbothered ꩜ guarded ꩜
shoutout to my anon who suggested this… will be writing a blurb at some point but thought i’d introduce these two first!!! love you guys 💗💗💗
taglist! @jclolz22 @luckygold13 @scariffs @nozhdyved @elliesmagic8 @floristicgrave @dumbbandpoetic @coochiemama3000 @gelotime @thecontrash @over-caffeinated-after-midnight @pedaltothepetal @moondrunksiren @chrattvibe @222col click here to be added!
summary; it's tashi duncan's first olympics, your second. she's there for tennis, you're there for wrestling. you never would have guessed you'd end up in the same place, again and again and again. 2.5k words.
warnings; canon-typical injury (described, not just mentioned.) this is very badly cobbled together but bear with me guys it's a braindump with a shitty ending.
It seems set in stone that you’d end up here, despite it all. You never knew her before, and then suddenly she was there.
They’d wheeled you into the infirmary, fresh off the mat, and she was there. She stared at you as they transferred you, and watched with intensity as you winced. You couldn’t bend your knees, and bit your lip to hide a whimper when you tried. They’d told you they wouldn’t move and not to hurt yourself attempting it. You did so anyway.
Hers was already wrapped in a suffocating coffin of gauze, making her left leg look much larger than the right. The straight set to her shoulders had only come about when you’d entered, spine upright. It’s utterly ruined by the pallid quality to her skin. In her eyes gleams recognition, and yours reflects right back. Who wouldn’t, even among such elite athletes? Adidas’s star girl, known for her relentless tennis and her dignified media presence, and the flag bearer on top of that. Tashi Duncan’s First Olympics was practically written in the stars.
You moon over her as if you aren’t in the same boat. This might not be your first, but people expected it to be the continuation of a legacy. That you’d swoop in and win, taking home the gold once more. Sponsored and showered with equipment and sports drinks and money, you were a shoe-in.
And now you’re here, head swimming from the pain after your knees popped sickly and left you unable to stand, your support crumpling under you and your coach cradling you, dizzy, in her lap. Terribly ironic, really. You don’t know enough literature to find someone comparable. But you’re sure that someone, somewhere, had penned this. Perhaps with their knees aching as yours do.
You’re fed two pills, small enough to swallow dry. You choke regardless, eyebrows knitting in anguish as your body squirms instinctively. They work quickly, the powdery-white pills—you're drowsy now. Perhaps they’re for the pain. Perhaps you're just too far away for it to matter anymore.
You meet her eyes, watch how they flash in horror. They’re wide and frightened, as if knocked back into her own adrenaline seeing her suffering so violently reflected. Her injured leg draws up instinctively, painfully, as they swarm you—remembering what had happened not long before you arrived.
You share with her that one last moment of pain. The wince on her face brings one onto your own, dragging you briefly back to your body. Not that there’s much time to experience it—you’re yanked under swiftly, lost before the spasm even registers. Your eyes shut in a blink, and don’t open again. Not for quite some time.
For the first month after your surgery everything is… well. Not smooth sailing but… better. The pain relieves slowly, slipping away with each day of strengthening. Waking up tense and aching, something that used to make you lock up and panic, is now a routine that begets a grumble and a shifting towards the floor to do your stretches. Your mobility increases as the swelling falls, and eventually the crutches fall from your sides and never return.
Your sessions with the physical therapist are weekly. Now, weeks after the procedure, they’re check-ins. How much pain are you in? Are your stretches still helping? The works. Usually the sessions are one-on-one, an hour dedicated to just you and their guiding hands. Today, it seems, that is not the case. They say the addition of another person “with an injury like your own” might “spur recovery through companionship.” You’re not quite sure what else they said: it was eight in the morning on a Sunday. Your body craved the sanctity of your bed and blankets and would not get with the program of being up and active.
The U.S. Olympic Team, apparently, sends everyone to the same physical therapist. You know this not because of a teammate’s testimony but because of Tashi’s slow arrival. She emerges much like a star would, having the door opened for her with an indulgent smile. But as she steps into your view you’re hit with the reality of it all. Here, she’s not the perfect athlete, lithe and beautiful and charming. She’s barefaced, pain’s grimace etching new lines between her brows, hair whisping from its ponytail and clothes swallowing her. She looks less pallid than she did before, and she’s not mummified in gauze and bandages, but still she limps, the black knee brace obtrusively strapped onto the joint.
In the weeks since you’ve seen her you think you’ve spared more time towards her injury than your own. You’ve watched the tape of that fateful day over and over, collecting angles and perspectives. They’re saved, hidden in a folder on your phone, needlessly paranoid that her media team might wipe them from the face of the internet. You find yourself curling in bed, overwhelmed by the hotly throbbing ligaments and the frigid ice pressed to them, watching the anguish on her face from the court, from the audience, twenty different looks until all angles are burned into your mind. It feels perverse and cruel to watch her, to make this immortalized version of her relive this moment continually, but the knowledge that you’re tethered by this same-day butchering eases the feeling into the Catholically-guilty corner of your heart that has long since been beaten down into (relative) submission.
Seeing her in person, seeing her walk after weeks of watching her lay on your little screen (tinny speakers muted because hearing her scream was nauseating enough the first time and you’re not that dedicated to your own emotional self-destruction) is overwhelming. You falter, almost falling off the yoga ball they’d carefully planted you on to make your recovery exercises a bit more strenuous. You’re wide-eyed, feeling young and parasocial in a way you hadn’t since you’d left your fangirl days behind.
The quick plant of your foot and the gentle hiss of pain that follows pulls her gaze to you. Instinctively they narrow, and your heart picks up like a startled rabbit’s. Then they soften, her mouth stretching with humor, and you can’t help but smile back. She’s not much younger than you, only a few years, but still she has that unrelenting drive to connect that comes with being juvenile and malleable. Yours, that you thought was stamped out, flairs.
Two weeks later, they decide to merge your sessions, including her in your recovery. The cynical part of you sneers, thinking it a shady way for the committee to save money and mourning the privacy you had to hurt. The other part of you, the one high on a new friendship, cheers.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Tashi seeps into your life and sinks into every part of it. She takes you out to coffee and tea, slides annotated books across the plyo boxes with a conspiratorial wink. You learn she pushes and pushes and pushes until you snap, and then pulls back from you like a wounded animal before you soften and she tries again—getting closer and closer every time. Observing her youthfulness, the warm determination she applies to everything, is inspiring to yourself—feeling old despite the fact that she’s only a few years younger than your ancient twenty-four.
She catches you unaware one night, showing up after you were already softened and wound down. Her plea for you to come out to the club turned into a movie night, her face glittered purple but her body swamped in your spare Team USA hoodie and a pair of sweats. She snuggles deep into your side, not paying attention to the beautiful film on the screen. It’s some old Armenian movie, tasteful visuals abundant and red everpresent. Still, she’s more focused on how it reflects over the curve of your cheek.
“Hey.” She huffs, obviously attempting to be cool, even with the way she nuzzles into your neck. It says pay attention to me, the burn of her eyes into your skin something overwhelming.
“Hey.”
She squirms closer, throwing herself over your lap and blocking your view.
“What are you doing?” She murmurs, as if she wasn’t the one moving.
“What are you doing?” You laugh, curling your warm hands over her hips. She tenses, seared through the fabric, glaring at you until you falter and smile awkwardly. “What?”
Your recovery is hard, grueling, but it picks up quickly. The mending ligaments, surgically surtured, slowly support more weight with every session and all exercises. The meandering recovery is a gift, at least to you—after running at full, even on an empty tank, for years, the opportunity for a long rest is something to be cherished. Your team talks eagerly about when you can return to the sport. All you feel, despite this being your life’s dedication, is dread.
She asks you about it, some wine-soaked night on your balcony, when your guard was ruined by fuzzy laughter and the press of her against your arm. You’d completely forgotten that she’s nosy, and obviously she listened in on the phone call you took earlier. It’s not a betrayal—not really. You’ve both shared passwords, drunken kisses, and showers. Small taxis and drinks at the club and the lounge chair you’re currently smushed into. It’s encompassing and reciprocal—her business is your business is her business.
Still, it’s sobering. It wasn’t truly a reality, just a lingering suggestion, until she pushed with moony eyes, drunken and eager and slightly envious. Your breath is choked as you respond.
“...I’m not sure I want to, Tash.”
She’s quiet the rest of the night, quiet as you lay in bed together. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Pensive, contemplative, tight. She doesn’t leave, but something in her has departed—floated away, higher and higher, a spiraling worry you see between her brows.
You pull her down with chocolate, breakfast served steaming. It lays, a sweet-bitter smear over and in the fluffy pancakes, and in the iced mocha you present. She eats and drinks and calms, head heavy enough with it that you can take her in your lap, back to chest.
“What’s up, Tashi?” You murmur. Tucking into her neck, she shudders at the brush of your breath. Your arms flex, wide and strong around her stomach. Engulfing, just slightly. “You’re too quiet.”
She sits, ponders, chin against her chest. Letting her keep her silence for just a few minutes more, you wait, warm against her back with your hair tickling her neck.
“It’s just—” she cuts off with a sigh. The sound settles heavy on your heart. “—you could go back. Your injuries are healing better than mine is. Why don’t you want to keep going?”
You don’t exactly have an answer. Wrestling was—is—the love of your life. You’re unsure when that faltered, when the practices you once relished in became a chore and your enthusiasm became sluggish.
“I… really don’t know.” You murmur into her shoulder, smelling the sunshine of her skin and your body wash overtop of it.
She stiffens in agitation, the non answer unsatisfying. “Well, why not?” You stiffen as well, a reflex, and then force your shoulders to fall. This isn’t a match—there’s no rising wave of offense for you to meet or redirect. Just Tashi, warm and willowy in your lap, wrapped in your worn hoodie and smelling of shea butter.
You breathe out, and she shudders at the air’s caress.
“Because I’m really tired, Tash.” Your voice is soft. It’s a confession, one you’ve never told to anyone else. “And I don’t know if I’d love it as much if I tried again.”
You feel her weight shift, and for a single, terrifying moment, you think she’ll get off. Instead she turns, wraps her legs around your waist and nuzzles into your neck. She inhales shamelessly, and for a moment you wonder if she’s just as addicted.
No response to your words come, just a kiss to your collar. Your arms tighten, and she sighs.
“Just… try.” She whispers. “Please.”
“...okay.” You murmur, a promise. She kisses you again, now mouth-to-mouth, swallowing that confirmation, the gasp you inhale wholly from her lungs.
When you get back to practicing, slowly rediscovering the love of your life, she comes with you. She sits on a plyo box and watches you drill slowly, first by yourself, then with a partner.
You notice how she squirms when you’re working with someone else—the easy clap of your hands against their shoulders, thighs, anywhere, is overwhelming. One day, instead of calling anyone who lingers on the mat, you gesture at her with two fingers.
“C’mon, babe.”
She’s hesitant—obviously. In tennis, the connection is less physical and more mental. There’s no touching, not until the end, and that is just a bare clasp of the hands. The clasp of the hands, for you, starts it, the overwhelming physicality and intimacy of being intertwined with another person, slinging them around and being thrown back.
But she slides off, takes your hand, and replicates the stance you show her. It’s quite similar to the one she always knew, so she slips into it like water.
You take her slow, and then intensify. By the end of the hour she’s flushed but giddy. Drilling pushed aside she scraps with you, the open ease of it—no winning, no losing—so unfamiliar.
You’re fluid as you lock under her arms. Her spine straightens with yours, and bows as you drop—strong arms locked tight around her waist. Your knee presses into the back of her braced one, and she flails in panic—
You lower her. She doesn’t drop, nothing to support her. Her leg doesn’t crumple under her, your knee there to hold her as you guide her over your thigh and down, back to the mat. It’s no quick slam. She feels—well. Light. The ease at which you lower her should be embarrassing, but it just feels like that fairytale catch a much younger her dreamed of. A prince, haloed by light—no matter how fluorescent—here to keep her safe.
She flushes as you laugh, half-worried by the startled look on your face.
“Hey, you okay, Tash? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” You murmur, soft and low.
She leans up to kiss you, pushing hard enough to put you on your back. The cooing of your teammates fades out as her hands box your ears and she settles to devour you. You exhale and she inhales, only pulling back when all of the air between you has totally depleted.
“What was that for?” You huff, skating your nails over her cheek. Her lips twitch, betraying her, and she finds she doesn’t have an answer.
“Just because.” She settles down, pushing her legs blissfully straight. Her knee creaks softly, but there’s no twinge of pain. Not anymore. Just an ache, beating in tandem with your heart against her cheek.
IT’S an act of sorts— a performance, if you will— being a notable figure. plaster on a smile in front of the camera, dress to the nines whenever you go out in public, and always thank the fans for getting you to where you are. none of this is new to art at this point in his career, but it’s never been so apparent and in his face until now.
it shouldn’t be. it’s just a few test covers for the next vogue issue— he’s done plenty of magazine photo shoots this far into his career— but it’s never been both him and you modeling together. it’s brand-new territory.
your smile, all pearly and sweet, plastered on your lips from the moment the first shutter was removed. your hand perched atop your favorite spot on his body as of late, lithe fingers curled around his shoulder in a way that feels more staged than affectionate. he’s smizing, his expression cool while his hand curves around your hip. if he squints hard enough, art can tell just how firmly his fingers are digging into the fabric of your outfit. he’s stiff, rigid— just like the ken doll that lily tucked into his suitcase because it “looked like daddy.”
and he does look like art in the photos, down to the cropped haircut, fixed posture, and subtle upturn of his lips. huh. does he look this plastic in real life?
… he can’t ever relax, can he? this kind of thing was always your element— the front-facing side of your shared fame— since he was more than content to stick to the sidelines. smile for the camera. sell the story. prove to the world that your knee blowing out in college isn’t a sore spot between you two— that it should be art prepping for a promising run at the u.s. open and not you.
but besides his fingers digging into your hip like you’re going to slip out of his grasp in the preferred option, the covers are good… really good. it’s the perfect way to generate buzz as you two head into the open, with art taking point and you right behind him leading his coaching team.
“they came out good,” you say from behind him, fresh from the shower if the lingering scent of your body wash gives anything away. your hand drops to that same spot on his shoulder like clockwork, and art’s minuscule flinch doesn’t go unnoticed. “… what’s wrong?”
nothing, he wants to say, nothing, don’t worry about it. however, it’s futile to even try and get away with a lie that even he’s not confident in telling.
“do you ever feel like all of this is just… fake?” art asks, ignoring the way his stomach turns when he looks up at you. just like he expected your eyes are narrowed, your brow raised slightly like you’re waiting for him to continue. so he does.
“the photo shoots, the commercials, the brand deals… it all just feels fake,” he sighs, and art turns back to the spread of potential covers laid out on the coffee table. “i-it’s all staged, and why is anyone supposed to care that i’m trying to win the open again when the article’s focused on what cologne i wear—”
“it’s a personality piece,” you supply easily, running the towel in your hands over your hair to dry off while your robe hangs loose around your frame. “letting the people in on who you are, who we are. that we’re not just out-of-touch celebrities who haven’t been human since 2006.”
he scoffs. “it’s ridiculous.”
“you’re ridiculous.” you shake your head before stepping towards the hotel suite’s closet to find pajamas to change into. “i don’t know why you’re so upset about this.”
art stands from the desk, following you towards the closet while his stomach continues to ache. “because i shouldn’t have to prove that i’m a real person to the world by telling them my cheat meal between dieting and training— i’m a real person because i fucking exist.”
(it’s a happy meal: cheeseburger. fries. substitute apple slices for extra fries. extra-small coke if he’s feeling especially risky, milk if not. no toy unless it’s something lily would like. but that’s besides the point.)
“you can’t tell me that you like this,” he sighs, clearly exasperated as you drop the robe and move to pull one one of his shirts. if his eyes flit elsewhere instead of the bare stretch of your back, he doesn’t say. “it just feels like we’re pretending to be people we’re not, all for the sake of money. attention. bullshit.”
you fix his shirt over your shoulders while you spare him a glance. “it’s a part of the job, art.”
shaking his head, art moves around the edge of the california king and goes to unbuckle his watch from his wrist. “yeah— well i didn’t sign up for this.”
“art.”
“i’m going to bed,” he replies, somewhat thankful that he’d showered and changed earlier when you both got back to the room. it’d be more awkward for him to be all pissy like this, then have to walk past you to go into the en-suite.
“art.” the mattress sinks behind him, and this time he doesn’t flinch when your hand falls on his shoulder.
and this time, he doesn’t snap as he turns around to face you. “what?”
your lips purse when his eyes meet yours, and the pit in his stomach is back. “… we need to let them know what cover we want them to use.” a pause. “did you have a preference?”
his pinched expression mirrors yours. art knows you don’t really mean it— the magazine execs really did a response sooner rather than later— but the synergy’s off and he’s just ready to leave today in the past. no more pretending.
“… i don’t care,” he sighs, hand meeting your thigh as his fingers dig slightly into your skin, “just pick your favorite, babe.”
he doesn’t let you respond as his lips meet yours, but the kiss is more fleeting than they normally are. less hungry, less needy… less art. and even though he’s reluctant to let go of you and turn onto his side, he does.
he wish he didn’t. mottled blue eyes meet the ultramarine, painted-on irises of ken on his nightstand and his stomach starts to ache again.
“goodnight.”
silence. then the mattress shift again as you go to look over the tests covers. art wonders if you recognize just how plastic he looks in the photos (and whether or not you still see it as his eyes shut).
“SORRY… just give me a sec,” the blond man above you huffs, muscular arms on both sides of your head as he keeps himself propped above you. he adjusts on his elbows with a small grunt, eyes narrowed in enough frustration to create that familiar little crease between his brows. “one second, i promise.”
he’s making you— your body, really— wait. not intentionally, of course, but it’s happening regardless. there’s been a handful of moments in art’s life where his body’s put him in this kind of position; freezing under pressure when he needs it to perform.
it’d happened the night he’d asked tashi to be his coach— she’d said yes, they’d gone back to her hotel room, things had gotten heavy— but of course he’d got caught up in his head and things hadn’t… risen to the occasion. they’d gotten there eventually with tashi’s encouragement, but it’s just humiliating that it’d happened then— and now it’s happening again.
tashi had always been able to coax it out of art with her no-nonsense outlook, and before her it’d been patrick and his devil-may-care attitude. they both knew how to read him in their own unique ways, whatever needed to get done to get art where he needed to be and to get things over the finish line.
so maybe he’s still figuring things out— figuring you out. where you fit in into all of this… whatever role you’re meant to play in the twisted process of getting art out of his own head. are you going to coach him up or goad him into oblivion?
“i’m sorry,” he hisses again, and with another grunt he drops to the mattress beside you and lays flat on his back. it takes all of the strength within him not to just fist his fingers into his hair and pull it out in clumps. “fuck.”
he can’t bear to look at you; you’re probably looking at him like he’s some broken thing that you hadn’t signed up for when you agreed to go steady. you’re younger— younger than he’d normally go for considering he’s got lily and the tabloids are always looking for a reason to follow him around— but you’re an angel and he’s been awful with saying no to the things he can’t have now that he’s retired and single.
long gone are the days of “earning” breaks from trainings and longing looks at the things not on his diet plan (no more need to sneak fries from lily’s happy meals) but what good is having the freedom to do and have what he wants when he can’t even get it up?
you’d signed up for art donaldson, not some middle-aged guy who can’t get it together and make his partner feel just as good as they do with him. what good was his body if it couldn’t perform? he couldn’t be there for patrick, couldn’t continue playing for tashi—
art stands in a huff and pulls the waistband of his briefs up over his hips before his hands rest on his hips. he starts pacing the length of the bed, but not without looking your way guiltily while you pull the bedsheets up over yourself and make his stomach plunge. damnit, donaldson.
“i-it’s not you,” he reasons, because it’s the truth, “it’s me. i can’t get out of my damn head—”
“art,” you try and cut in, but he’s not having it. not when he’s like this. “art, babe, what’s wrong—”
oh, god… here we go again. stop asking questions. “nothing, just give me a second—”
“— art, hold on—” stop prying, stop trying to find a way in—
“— this happens sometimes. i promise it’s not you—”
“art.” he barely has time to protest again when your hand clamps around his wrist, nor does he try to. your eyes have gone wide as they plead for him to make sense; to put words to thoughts and actions to those words. “… baby. talk to me.”
and he melts, broad shoulders sagging before he drops back to the mattress. it should be worrisome to see a man like him practically cave in on himself when he lays back on the mattress, but it’s the rare side of art donaldson that the media doesn’t get a glimpse of. here in this moment, he’s less of the unshakable tennis mogul the public knows him for and more of the mortal man desperate for comfort that lies beneath.
“will you… will you hold me?” art asks eventually, swallowing tightly when he looks over in your direction again. you’d think he’d asked for the impossible with the way he holds himself; hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, and blunt nails digging into the heels of his palms. “please?”
he doesn’t know how you’ll react— if you’ll laugh at such a request, scoff and look at him with disdain— but none of that comes. instead, you scoot his way and let your arms wind around him and your chin settle into the crook of his shoulder.
“i can do that,” you whisper. gentle fingers trace the skin of his side, over the dips and grooves of his ribs. “whatever you need— whatever you want.”
he swallows again, ignoring the guilt in his chest as he nods. “okay.” he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the “but” to leave you; waiting for the other shoe to fall in return for your patience… but it doesn’t. it’s not going to. maybe that’s where you fit into all of this: being the unwavering support that allows him to bend even when it goes against all expectation.
his calloused fingers curl around your own after another stroke over his torso, and slowly but surely he brings them to his lips to press a kiss over your knuckles. “i love you.”
if he can’t show it to you by following you blindly for years on end or by winning you endless slam titles to prove it, maybe the words are enough. maybe they can be enough, this time.
and maybe he can be enough too. no more tennis to eat up all his time (even if he misses it on occasion) just the things that are important and matter. lily, the foundation, you… and everything else he’ll keep himself open to.
“i love you too.” art’s sure his sigh of relief doesn’t go unnoticed by you, considering the early hour and the air of silence that accompanies it in moments like this. you shift closer and—
… oh. there we go. a snort leaves the blond as he shakes his head, glancing down briefly before he turns to you with that boyish grin of his.
prompt: stuck in a woodsy cabin, some forced proximity. patrick x ex girlfriend reader? maybe the other ppl from the trip drop out last minute so it leaves them alone
element: campfire
word count: 2.8k
notes: f!reader / sfw / thank u to my beta readers juliana + zoe you’re the best sister wives ever <333
“TASHI… i still can’t believe you and art aren’t coming. please don’t do this to me. please tell me you’re joking and that you’re both on your way.”
you know she’s not, and that this isn’t just a nightmare you’ve yet to wake up from. no amount of pinching yourself will miraculously result in you waking up in your dorm on campus; no, instead, you’re pacing in front of a cabin while on the phone with spotty cell service. was it really that hard to install a few more cell towers in the middle of nowhere, or did you need to beg your parents again to switch to a better phone network?
“babe…” tashi sighs from her end of the receiver, and you feel your stomach plummet right through the wooden floorboards beneath your boots. “look– art and i are just as thrilled as you are that we’re not coming. do you think i wanted to rent a cabin and a car that i wouldn’t be able to use?”
a scoff leaves you at that, your breath visualizing in the cool air as you shift on the porch. she has a point. maybe you are being a bit unfair about all of this, even if she and art ditched your collective plans at the last minute.
“but still…” you shake your head before unlocking the front door, stepping into the cabin and taking in your surroundings with vague interest. “you guys were supposed to be the buffer. i don’t know how we’re not going to tear each other apart within seconds of seeing each other.”
tashi laughs. “let’s be real, you mean you don’t know how you’re not going to tear patrick apart.”
“no, i mean the both of us. you make it seem like he’s not the one who starts ninety-nine percent of the arguments.”
“it’s patrick, for christ’s sake. of course he starts them— you just can’t finish them. i thought you guys had worked things out since the open.”
right, the u.s. open. the very one that left the four of you with junior doubles’ titles, one patrick zweig with your phone number, and one you feeling scorned when he never bothered to reach out afterwards.
“god, no,” you snort, “unless you call him not returning my texts since then ‘working things out’ like an adult.”
“i was just asking.” tashi sighs yet again, and you can hear her shuffling around the dorm while her hair brushes against the receiver. “i mean, he was all over you in the hotel. it’s just weird that he never followed up.”
“he never did because he’s an asshole, and now i’m going to be stuck in a cabin with him until tomorrow, tashi. all because art’s grandma misses him and you’re too obsessed with tennis to take a weekend off.”
“don’t be such a baby. just grow a pair and show patrick what he’s missing.”
you open your mouth to object once more, but the sound of tires crunching outside pulls your attention away. “gotta go, tashi. you owe me,” you groan as her dry laugh echoes in your ear, and you feel your stomach drop when a knock sounds through the cabin. he’s here.
“let me know if i have to come help you hide a body.”
—
“this place has power, right?”
you’ve been biting your tongue from the moment you saw dark-brown curls and that up-to-no-good grin through the peephole. you didn’t know you could be at your wits’ end from merely looking at someone, but there’s a first time for everything, it seems.
“yes, patrick, this place has power.” you flip the light switch on and off for good measure before going back to leaning against the wall. “we aren’t camping. there’s running water too, if you turn on the faucet.”
patrick laughs, tossing his duffel onto the couch while he inspects your shared quarters for the next couple of days. for someone who was all too happy to let you, art, and tashi plan the entire trip by yourselves, he’s pretty invested in how things are now that he’s stuck with you for the next day or so.
letting out another hum, he smooths out his sweatshirt and turns your way. “it’s small,” he says, peering behind you to look at the kitchenette and the hall leading to the bedrooms. “looked bigger in the photos.”
you scoff in response. “i’m sure that could be said about a lot of things.”
“what?”
shit. you really said that out loud.
“you seemed fine with just giving us your share for the booking,” you say instead, suddenly taking interest in anywhere that isn’t patrick’s face. “sorry it’s not your family’s place in the hamptons.”
“they sold the hamptons cottage last year, actually. mom wanted a place in martha’s vineyard instead– it’s supposed to be nice this time of year.” patrick moves towards the hall, peeking into the bedrooms and bathroom with an occasional, insufferable hum here and there. “did you pick a room yet?”
you nod. “yeah, the master.”
“oh, come on–”
“look, tashi and i were meant to share it from the get-go,” you press, “besides, i was here first and i’ve already unpacked. i’m not sleeping anywhere else.”
fighting words seem to be on the tip of his tongue, but patrick doesn’t protest further other than feigning disappointment and shaking his head. “fine, whatever. you probably need all the space for your makeup and crap anyway.” he takes one more look your way, eyes lingering on you before he goes to grab his bag from the couch.
“fine!” you call after him, doing your best to ignore the part of yourself that wishes he’d continue bickering over nothing. at least that way, he’s acknowledging you rather than pretending like you two didn’t have something a few months ago.
you move for your own room and shut the door so hard that the frame rattles just like the beginnings of thunder brewing outside.
—
when you eventually emerge from the master in something clean and soft, the sounds of static echo down the hallway along with the rain falling on the roof. you don’t opt to head towards the living room just yet, but a slew of mumbled expletives draws you over anyway.
a few logs crackle in the fireplace as you pass it, but your main focus is on the boy hunched over the old tv cursing under his breath. “work, you fuckin’ piece of shit–” patrick bristles at your appearance, pausing with fiddling with the tv antenna to face you.
“oh. hey.”
“hey.” you turn up the thermostat on your way over and deposit yourself on the couch, pulling your jacket a bit tighter around yourself. “no signal?”
he shakes his head, giving the tv one last thump before he moves towards you. “i can’t get it to work at all, it won’t connect or something.”
“it’s probably because of all the trees,” you reason, watching him stop at your side before you both turn to the tv. “that, the rain, and shitty reception. i could barely hear tashi on the phone earlier, and that was before it started pouring outside.”
patrick hums in acknowledgement, glaring at the tv as if doing so will get its screen to play anything but static. at this point, even some shitty sitcom rerun would be better; at least it’d fill the awkward silence plaguing the cabin. “how is she?” he asks, tensing just a bit as a crackle of thunder sounds from outside. “haven’t talked to her since i started tour.”
how is tashi– what the fuck? you truly loved that girl, but sometimes you wish it wasn’t so easy to get lost in her shadow and presence. especially if that meant she’d been texting with patrick this entire time and hadn’t bothered to tell you.
“she’s fine,” you grit out, failing to keep the underlying sound of frustration from seeping out in your tone. if patrick notices it, he doesn’t comment on it.
“cool.” he nods to himself. “... and you?”
“what about me?”
“i’m just asking how you’re doing,” he replies. patrick does a once-over of you, brows furrowed like he still hasn’t sensed the tension between you two. “don’t bite my head off.”
that’s rich coming from him; he’s not the one who got ghosted after junior finals, or the one who’s felt stupid since then for thinking a tipsy night in a shitty hotel in flushing would lead to something more.
“wouldn’t you like to know,” you grumble back, and you pivot on your heel to head towards the kitchen. “you seemed very interested in how i’ve been judging from all the unanswered texts i’ve sent.” patrick goes to counter, only to pause mid-speech when you duck into the hall.
“what do you mean? i haven’t heard from you since the open,” he calls back, and you can hear his feet creak on the floorboards when he begins to follow you. “nothing but radio silence–”
“don’t give me that,” you retort, frowning when he rounds the corner and another round of thunder bangs from outside. you swing the pantry door open in search of something to eat, but more to avoid having to look in patrick’s direction. “if you weren’t interested, you should’ve just told me the truth.”
“what truth?”
“that you weren’t interested in the first place. would’ve saved me a lot of time and stress if you just tore off the band-aid.”
he huffs to himself, the disbelief written all over his face doing nothing but making you more upset. “okay, i really don’t know what you’re talking about. i don’t have texts from you.”
“i already feel stupid enough about all of this– no need to drag it along.”
“i don’t have texts–”
the lights flicker in turn with the next bout of thunder from outside, only to go out entirely seconds after. the tv static in the other room ceases, and you immediately feel a chill in the air as the thermostat goes out and the rain outside fills your ear.
“... and there goes the power,” patrick mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face while you both stand in the dark.
“great,” you grumble, “perfect. i’m stuck here with you, with no power and heat, for who knows how long–”
“hey,” he interrupts, giving you an exasperated look that surely matches your own currently. “just… go sit in the living room by the fire. i’ll grab blankets and see if there’s a flashlight somewhere. that’s our best bet for light and staying warm right now.”
he’s probably right about that. with one more disgruntled look, you carefully head towards the fireplace while patrick heads the other way to find supplies.
—
the room is silent other than the sounds of burning logs and the weather outside, you and patrick both draped in quilts from the bedrooms and hunched around the fireplace. a small camping lantern provides meager light on the coffee table behind you two, though you’re more focused on the yellow-orange flames than the boy next to you.
patrick sifts through whatever he managed to find in the pantry that didn’t need to be cooked, the soft crinkling of chip bags and cookie packages filling the remaining silence. “i can check if there’s anything in the fridge that’s cooked,” he mumbles after setting the snacks aside, “maybe they’ve got hot dogs or something.”
you shrug in response, adjusting the quilt over your shoulders quietly. “i’m good… not that hungry, anyways.”
for what it’s worth, patrick doesn’t push further and instead tears open some of the chips. “alright.”
it goes quiet again. if things weren’t so tense between you both, maybe you’d play along and send him to find something more substantial than doritos and double stuf oreos, and maybe you’d be willing to look him properly in the eye for the first time today.
“... look,” patrick sighs, pulling his hand out of the chip bag and setting it aside. “i don’t know what i did, but i don’t think it was big enough for you to be icing me out like this. it’s a little ridiculous, is it not?”
frowning while you look up from the fire, you fight the urge to snap at him as you respond. “i already told you,” you mutter, “you’ve been ignoring me since the open. if you didn’t want what happened then to continue, you should’ve just told me. i can handle a letdown, surprisingly.”
he scoffs quietly at that, but the noise isn’t as sharp as it’d been earlier. instead, he fishes his blackberry from his pocket and holds it out to you. “i don’t have texts from you, honestly.”
the phone sits heavy in your palm as you stare at it, but another nod from patrick gives you enough courage to use the trackball and navigate towards his messaging app.
“tashi gave me her number, and i figured she’d share mine with you,” he reasons, sounding less confident than you’ve ever seen him. “if anything, i thought you were the one ignoring me.”
it’s your turn to scoff, but you don’t. his most recent contacts are art, his parents, and what looks like some of the other players on tour with him– and no one with your name and number at all.
“... huh.” you offer the phone back to him before pulling out your own, scrolling right to where your thread with patrick had ended with a less-than-savory text saying you were done wasting your time. “then who the hell have i been texting?”
patrick shrugs, taking the phone and scrolling through as well. “someone else, that’s for sure,” he laughs, clicking on the contact and looking at the information. “mine’s 332, not 322.”
your eyes go wide, shock written all over your features as you take the phone back and check your number. “you’re joking.
“wish i was, sweetheart,” he teases back, but he doesn’t go any further than that.
an embarrassed groan leaves you before you hunch over further, your face hidden in your hands while your phone tumbles to the carpet. “here i was, shit-talking and complaining about you for months– and it’s been my fault the entire time.”
“it’s okay–”
“– no, it’s not. i’ve been beating myself up over what i could’ve done wrong, and not one time did i think i put your number in wrong. i just blamed you instead.” patrick laughs, shrugging as he shifts closer to you.
“that is something i would do, unfortunately,” he says, expression somewhat sheepish, “i don’t exactly blame you for thinking i ignored you.”
carefully, his hands ease your own away from your face, and finally, you take the time to meet his gaze. he should be annoyed, honestly– livid even– but there’s no signs of that over his face. instead, the fire makes his eyes glimmer yellow and gold. with a tug to the quilt around you, patrick pulls you into his side even as you squirm against him.
“now, the least you can do is share your blanket– i’m still cold.”
“patrick, let go!”
—
“so… do i get to tell you i told you so now?”
you laugh into the receiver, shifting your phone to your other hand as patrick swats at you in the backseat. “no, you do not, tashi,” you reply as you swat right back. “if anything, all of this is your fault. how did you give me the wrong number?”
tashi lets out her own laugh from her end of the receiver, and you’re sure she’s shaking her head as she throws a tennis ball against the dorm’s ceiling. “how did you put it in wrong? are the 2 and 3 keys too close for you?”
“maybe you should’ve read out his number more clearly, i swear that you– patrick!”
said boy ignores your complaints as he brings the phone to his ear, fending off your grabbing with a calloused hand. “tash, look,” he hums while grins your way, “you’re not the one stuck in a car with her for the next three hours. please just give it up.”
“only when you get her back here in one piece. if you two go missing, i’m telling everyone it was you.”
“noted,” he sighs, and he offers the phone back to you before glancing down at his. “she’s a nightmare, you know?”
“i’m well aware,” you reply, but both of your smiles suggest otherwise. “anyways, tashi, we should be back by five. the cab’s going to drop me off before taking pat to the airport.”
“oh, so he’s pat now?”
“tashi–”
“all i’m suggesting is that he must have made it up to you, somehow. he was in the doghouse yesterday. you were ready to tear him a new one.” patrick’s hand finds your thigh by then, and your own rests atop it as your smile deepens.
“i guess you could say that he kept me warm during the power outage… you’ll hear all about it when i get back.”
ART doesn’t venture much from stanford’s campus if it’s not for tennis. yes, he’s gone on the occasional bar-crawl with his teammates after a big win, or taken a rare trip or two to the 24-hour pharmacy on a late-night run for snacks, but never really for anything like this.
a bonfire— one of his teammates had invited him and the rest of the stanford men’s tennis team to the event at the local beach, seeing as it was for his girlfriend’s sorority. art had been quick to decline initially, but the team wouldn’t let him say no.
don’t be a loser. the title would’ve hurt art a long time ago— back in his early days at mark rebellato— but now it hardly broaches the walls he’s built to surround himself. it barely leaves a dent, if that.
but god, does he wish he’d stood his ground more. standing around with sand between his toes and a lukewarm beer in his solo cup’s never looked more pathetic; he’s certain that he resembles a kicked dog more than someone who’s enjoying themself. a volleyball game had been going on behind him earlier, but now that the sun’s set everyone’s decided to sit around the fire and talk.
he’s never been a much of conversationalist, content to stand in the shadows of others. then again, it was easy to shrink himself down in the presence of patrick— let him light up the room with pearly-white teeth and levels of self-assuredness he’d kill to have. no, art was always in his head; always thinking ahead, planning for the next moment.
he’d rather just be alone. and whether that’s in the comfort of his dorm or alone on the beach, he’s not picky.
beer forgotten in the sand, art leaves his solo cup behind as his keyring spins around his finger. maybe he can slip away under the cover of darkness. no one would notice— not with the only source of light being the fire, the conversation around it and the waves crashing in the distance providing the perfect muffling for his footsteps.
it seems like he’s opted for the latter choice, finding himself straying towards the water. it’s pitch-black as he draws close, but art can catch the occasional flash of deep ultramarine under the light of the moon. it’s a shade he could get lost in time and time again— one that’s been dangerous since he’d been twelve, new to mrta, and had met the eyes of his future roommate of six years for the first time— and one that will forever hold him in its clutches for the rest of his existence. not that he’d ever admit that aloud.
it’s only when the foamy edge of the sea washes over his toes does he pick on the voice behind him.
“don’t get in the water. you’ll freeze.” broad shoulders tense at the intrusion to the waves and the soft breeze, but art turns and relaxes. it’s just you.
“you’re probably right,” he admits, voice sheepish. “my feet are already going numb.”
they’re not— he’s just barely entered the water— but that’s not important. art instead fixes his attention on your silhouette in the darkness, lit up by the bonfire behind you and the lit cigarette between your lips.
“those things kill, you know.” he hasn’t smoked since the open a few months ago. not that he smoked often, anyway, but he always was susceptible to the pleas of those with cerulean irises and calloused hands.
you smile, something that makes the edge of your lip curl upwards ever so slightly, the dimple in your left cheek making a rare appearance. he’d know; it doesn’t reveal itself unless the moment’s appropriate. he learned that last week when you’d shown up at the courts after practice, amused with his surprised reaction and subsequent stumble over his own feet.
“i know.” a pause. a quick flutter of your lashes as you inspect him. “you want one?”
no. “sure.” huh. was his stomach feeling this fluttery earlier?
the cigarette leaves your lips so you can offer it out, and art hesitates before ultimately taking it. rough fingertips brush against smooth in the exchange, and the sensation sends goosebumps up his arms. it could’ve been the wind, but he knows it’s the former. art’s certain.
after a decently-sized plume of smoke leaves his nostrils, he passes the cigarette back. he’s got practice tomorrow— the last thing he needs is to be off his game any more considering his beer from earlier’s finally working its magic. the dimple in your cheek fades.
“thanks.” he half-smiles when you just nod in return, seemingly content to stand in silence as well. you haven’t stepped away, though; art can practically feel the warmth rolling off of you considering how cold it is and how close you are. “you can go back to the group, y’know… you don’t need to keep me company.”
you shrug. “i’m not.” it’s not harsh, just honest. “i just want to be alone.”
huh. he ignores the twinge in his chest at that, even if it was just the truth and nothing personal. “me too,” he supplies eventually.
maybe he should’ve known better— should’ve left when he had his chance and gone back to campus. save himself from the slight blow to his ego and the guilt for indulging in something bad for his health regimen. cigarettes kill, you know.
“i know,” the voice in his heads supplies, an echo from a time not-so-far into the past. he can still see the towel wedged underneath the door jam and the plastic bag over the smoke detector. “what— you gonna stop me?”
ultramarine. pearly-white teeth. calloused hands just like his own.
smooth hands. a penchant for being unpredictable. dimples.
… maybe he really is a loser. he’s not sure anymore, but his chest grows heavy regardless.
“you need a ride back to the dorms?” he doesn’t know why he offers it. the last thing he wants (or, thinks he wants) is to have to sit in tense silence with someone that makes his stomach flip-flop like a certain brunet. he should be in his dorm, in bed, covers pulled high over his head as his mind races—
your left dimple resurfaces, almost like it never left. “sure.” and suddenly, he feels lighter than he’s felt all night.
“cool. c’mon.” maybe there is a reason not to wallow in those feelings, as he allows his hand to slip to the small of your back. that’s something he’d never allow himself to do with anyone else.
“but first, let’s stop by cvs on the way back— i need something more than just hot dogs and beer in my system if i don’t want to puking all morning…”
Beware the beast from Andres Peaks,
For maiden stolen and havoc wreaked.
No gift as great as the girl returned,
Then, only then, will the crown be earned.
A King's Message
Legend told of a high dragon, with scales that glimmer golden and a roar that could cull an army. Her fire burns blue, licks at the edges of everything it touches and could raze towns in seconds.
They spoke of a wingspan wide as the sky, shadowing even the largest cities. Of a whipping tail and claws sharps as diamonds.
What you knew was much, much different.
They claimed you were stolen away, clutched in those dangerous claws. Your mother cried and your father raged, knights and mercenaries dissipating throughout the lands to find you.
What they didn't know was that it wasn't vicious claws that snatched you but gentle hands that guided. That you'd stumbled, blinded by snow and freezing, into a blacksmith's and caught the dragon off-guard.
Catching a dragon off of their guard. They always did say you were remarkable. Though, in all honesty, the dragon was less shocked by your arrival—later confessing she could smell you, even through the frost—but by your half-frozen state, shivering with snow coating your every inch.
You don’t remember that first night, not much anyways. She says it was nothing remarkable, but you’ve learned she has a penchant for understating, at least by your standards. All you can piece together is the frantic press of warm skin and the summer-sunbeam feeling of dragon’s fire. It’s a fond memory, one you keep recreating with her.
You awoke that next morning, disoriented—brain still stuck in the oppressive snow, despite your toasty state. Out the window shows a blanket of undisturbed white, coating every tree and covering the ground for as far as you can see. You realize, with a jolt, that you have no clue where you are. Going to sit up is unsuccessful, though, the failing maneuver drawing your eyes down to whatever’s restricting your movement.
A thin arm drapes over your waist, unexpectedly heavy and warm like molten metal, joined in its restraining of you by a thick, scaled tail around one leg. There’s a fireplace across from you, crackling happily despite the early hour. With the way the woman curled around you sleeps, you doubt she was getting up to stoke it—but still, it burned through the night. The sheets over you are thick and full, a large animal skin completing the pile. Even back in your father’s castle, which was constantly maintained and heated by an army of servants, doesn’t compare to the toasty, simple, wood-and-stone cabin you currently reside in.
You settle back, resigned to your fate—trapped on the soft mattress until your companion wakes. Turning on your side, you’re granted a better view of her. Her face is half-pressed into a pillow, but soft, tawny skin framed by long, loose curls are still visible. Perhaps the sleep-haze is compelling you, but you don’t hesitate to reach forward and brush a curl from the bridge of her nose, threading it back behind her ear.
She puffs a breath, and for a moment you freeze. Then, she nuzzles back into her pillow—eyebrows furrowed endearingly at your disruption. A touch of disappointment settles in your gut, unexpectedly so. One would think you’d already be easing her off, somehow, changing—or perhaps not, considering the tatters your dress was reduced to—and leaving.
Your own thoughts halt you, once again. With the woman’s deep slumber, you have time to think. You’re unable to wiggle out, or even sit up. There’s no indication you’d have proper cover for the frigid temperatures, even with the weak sun. And lastly… where would you go?
Fleeing from your home was problematic enough, but to do it as a princess? It’s unwise to even stay in the same kingdom, much less fleeing to the port town you believe is nearby—information travels, fast as the ships do. Knights would be on you in minutes, if not seconds.
So you stay. You stare at the woman, and she sleeps.
And sleeps.
And sleeps.
Goodness. You’ll never get out from under her if she doesn’t wake, so you reach over and shake her shoulder. She huffs again, and her grip tightens on you, but she slowly starts to stir. Her eyelashes flutter first, followed soon after by a gentle smacking of her lips. Finally her eyes open, and she squints at you groggily. At the raise of your eyebrow she pulls back, too drowsy to be startled as she rubs at her eyes.
“...sorry.” Unexpectedly, her voice is gruff, rough with sleep and low with exhaustion. She blinks at you, as if you are not some unnamed woman lying comfortably in her bed. Your lips purse. Would it be rude to interrogate her so early?
You do it regardless.
“How did I get here? I was in the woods last I remember… then warmth. And now I’m here.” You murmur, suddenly feeling apprehensive under her intense, lethargic gaze. If you look close enough, and her eyes catch in the light, you can glimpse her dark irises flashing amber and the thin, dilated line of her pupils. You blink subtly, hiding confusion. Perhaps she’s not human. They’re rare where you grew up, but it’s not as if you’re unaware. Meetings brought merpeople to the docks, their colorful scales gleaming in the bright sun; thin, willowy elves that towered over everyone, even the tallest knights, graced your expansive dining hall; and all other manner of nonhumans, sharp teeth and bark-like skin and unfamiliar features you glimpsed from your childish hiding spots in the years before you were permitted to joined them. But you’d never seen eyes quite like those.
You’re so engrossed in your own deliberations you almost miss her answer. Despite how you’ve sunk into thought, her voice cuts through the stream of consciousness to caress your ears—less raspy, now that she’s awoken a bit more. You find yourself mourning the loss.
“You stumbled in half-frozen and soaked late last night. Almost gave me a heart attack—you were ashen.” Ashen. So you were dying. It was foolish, really, to leave during the wintertime, but you’d thought there would be a few more weeks of mild chill before the truly heavy snow started. It seems you were wrong. “The warmth was probably what I did. It was standard. Change of clothes, fire, body heat.”
“You do this a lot?”
“No.”
You both go silent. She stares at you, as if expecting a response to her abrupt answer. She’s clinical with her speech—nothing flowery like yours, or what you’ve been pushed to learn. There’s been no training that prepares you for such frankness, so you stare down at the bedsheets and idly pet one thick fur.
“...do you know how far you are from the capital?” Do you know how far I am from… home?
“About two days by foot, I believe. But that’s on the roads; any other way and it could take longer.”
At that something relaxes. Your chest isn’t quite as tight, knowing the distance is more than just a few meager hours. Every day away greatly increased the area they had to search, for they did not know the direction you chose to go.
“Are you going to make me leave?”
“Well, why would I do that?”
So you fall into winter with your new companion. Natasha, but she implores you to call her Tashi. She doesn’t say much to you, preferring to slink away to her workshop and forge orders placed during fall’s milder months. But still, every night, she curls around you and glares past your shoulder, her narrowed gaze directed at the frosted-over window as if someone might sneak through and pry you from her hold.
One night you’d asked her why she did such a thing, curiosity stifled too long. I mean, she hardly spent time with you. There was no indication she desired your company… but still, here she is, cradling you to her chest and into the warm hollow that’s formed.
She gave no response. Only the flushing of her ears.
The changing seasons were swifter than you expected. All you noticed was the frequent snow petering off, the frigid air slowly heightening to just chilly, and by then it was too late. You saw the first dandelion when you ventured out one morning, wrapped in a fur and holding a steaming mug. It had pushed through one of the piles of heavy snow, curling, weak and pale-yellow, towards the sun. But still, it grew. Soon it was joined by more, the weakening snow allowing for more to break through, and your world was alight with green again, the nearby fields flush with wildflowers. It had been so long.
As the days warm, and the nights follow suit, Tashi starts to withdraw. Every time you pack your cross-body, one you’d made from the scraps she’d brought, spare from the makings of the hilts, she’d stiffen and her eyes would tighten. She seemed to linger near the door until you came back, and only worked on days that you stayed inside. You chided her—you knew, at this point, the wealth of orders she acquires from all corners of the continent. She needed to work, to create the weapons and tools necessary for continued society. The look in her eyes was still stubborn. Despite her dedication, she seemed ready to take her hammer to the brick forge if it meant you stayed in the house.
“Tashi! I’m not leaving. I’m going out to the wood’s edge. Just please, do your work.” You huff, packing for your short walk despite her hovering. Now, she leans herself against the doorframe, watching as you press thickly-crusted bread and a small glass container of jam into the wide basket. You shouldn’t be gone long, but still she coils in the corner, looking quite displeased. A sigh escapes you.
“...just come with, you stubborn thing.”
So, you find yourself with a rather disgruntled Tashi, curled and gleaming in the spring sun, her tawny, tanned skin honeyed from its rays and dewy as the grass around you. The view reminds you, suddenly, of the cat you left, content and full-cheeked in your window’s adjoining seat—though you would never tell her that thought.
When she catches you staring—because oddly, she always does—you redirect back towards the blackberry bush you’re currently ransacking. At least, that’s what she called it. But you’re leaving two berries for every one you take, and the interior of the bush is full of ripe ones you’re too lazy to reach for, so she’s full of shit.
For every two you put in your basket, you plop one on your tongue. Teeth don’t come into play this time; no, the berries are soft enough to crush. So you slowly pressure the berry between the roof of your mouth and your tongue, the thin flesh yielding enough to let the thick juice spill. It settles, tart-sweet, coating your palate.
“What are you doing?” Tashi implores, elbow supporting her weight as she props it under herself. After minutes of watching you poach berries and your odd jaw movements, her eyes have narrowed. It’s a way that used to unnerve you, but the effect is ruined by your memories and the way her irises gleam golden.
“Eating the berries.” As if it was obvious. Her glare thickens, knowing your generalizing is a tease. She can already see the twitch of your lips. Liar.
“You’re weird, you know that?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
She opens her mouth, and then closes it with a click. Irritated, she purses her lips, and finds she has nothing else to say. You’re terrible, she thinks, and then echos it aloud. You just laugh and press a berry past her lips. Sputtering, she resists, but later you find her jaw working in the same way yours did. Your chest warms, until you notice she’s putting a sizable chunk in your first basket.
“Hey! Stay away from those, you thief!”
Customers start coming for their weapons and tools by early autumn. You hid from those familiar to you but flourished around the people you hadn’t met. Dwarves come to pick up pickaxes that stayed to chat about techniques (though, you’re curious why they bought from her; their tools are the best you’ve ever heard of). Centaurs wait outside for their new arrow tips, bending their head so you can ask them questions. Knights from other kingdoms come, ones you’d never met, eager to share their culture in exchange for a meal.
Really, you should’ve expected the knights to be the ones to create an issue. The dwarves and the centaurs were old enough to remember manners, but the new year brought new youngsters into the service, confident and overzealous and much too eager to show off.
“Hello, hello, Natash—” the tall, dark-haired boy strolls into your house (when did it become your house?), face open with a smile and a pretty blond shadowing him. He pauses when he sees you, smile going crooked with a practiced charm. “Well. He-llo pretty lady.”
“Step off, Pat.” Like an angel, or something just as beautiful, Tashi comes from the storeroom nestled alongside your kitchen. She’s wiping her hands on her apron, eyes averted absentmindedly towards the fabric, but there’s an intensity burning there you’re not sure you want to see today.
“Tashi.” Your voice is rife with subtle warning. Patrick’s eyebrows raise, genuine shock shooting over his features. Distractingly, though, Tashi curls around your back; she presses her forever-warm self to your back and eases her chin against your nape. You can feel her breath puff over the apple of your cheek.
“She lets you call her… Tashi?” The blonde chimes, his confidence more mellow than the brunet. He’s not dressed in the gleaming armor Patrick is, but the smooth leather of squire’s robes.
“I’m not allowed to call her anything else.”
They’ve locked you, now, in a three-way stare. When one glances away the other will occupy your gaze, keeping your eyes flickering back and forth—attempting to decode their pointed looks.
“Okay, just tell me what the fuck this is about.” You sigh, already tired of their antics.
“Don’t you dare.” Tashi bites against your neck, glaring at the two boys. They suddenly look very small, like mice, under her intensity.
In sync, they both raise their hands in surrender. It’d be charming or thought-provoking otherwise—you don’t see many knights that close to their squires, in both attitude and age—but you’re distracted. It feels like Tashi’s withholding information, and these two boys are too scared of the blacksmith to even say anything.
“We’re talking about this later.” You warn, turning your own glare to the woman wrapped around you. The boys tense, and then relax as Tashi eases off of you. She grumbles, but moves to grab their new swords from the storeroom.
(If you weren’t so annoyed, maybe you could admit that her double-wielding the swords with a sort of casual ease leaves you tense in the shoulders and with a lip that’s almost bitten through.)
Later comes, as it always does. Tashi is self-aware enough to realize that there’s no stopping this conversation, as much as she tries to ignore it. She sits herself on the edge of your bed, bare and damp, and flinches when your fingers drag down the sparse red scales on her spine. Her tail, usually kept tucked away, whips, heavy and leathery, against the soft sheets—yet never hits you.
“Want to tell me what that was about?” Your voice curls against her shoulder, the breathy drowsiness cooling her flushed skin. She shivers, her shoulders flexing. Warm touch trails up, and you press into one long, gnarled scar, mirrored perfectly on the other side.
“...they could tell I’m in love with you.” There’s something in her voice that tells you she doesn’t like that very much.
“I could tell you’re in love with me. But I’m in love with you, too, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Your pillowy lips press to her scar, and like compelled she shivers again. The drag of your tongue, subtle and hot, makes her moan in the back of her throat.
“...I should’ve guessed that.”
“You should’ve.”
Silence comes, settles over the room. She lets you wrap around her, enjoys your ivy-strong cling and smiles when you plant your mouth to her neck. Still, there’s a charge of another truth just waiting to spark.
“...are you going to tell me what you are? Because I’ve got no idea.” You admit. The truth wouldn’t truly affect anything. Love is there, no matter what she is—because whatever her species, you know she’s your Tashi. Hardworking, quiet, loving. All wrapped up in almost six feet of warm skin. There’s not more to want. She gives you the safety and the quiet you desired when you left. You’d found so much more than your dreams held, even if you landed in one place and never left.
She takes a breath. It swells against your chest, her spine curving.
“I’m a dragon.”
“Oh.” And because really, you should’ve guessed this sooner, you’re less than phased and instead pushed to humor. “Where’s your hoard? I haven’t seen your pool of gold yet.”
She squints and scrunches her face, and then rubs away the tension. The tips of her ears go hot with embarrassment, her only tell. You have the desire to mouth at them. Perhaps you shouldn’t. It is important that she can speak.
“...you are. That’s why Patrick was teasing me. He’s terrible.”
She groans as she feels your smile spread over her back. When you tug her closer and your teasing smile is revealed, she only glares. While her spine may melt into your chest, and her curls mold under your caress, her eyes remain tight.
“Really?”
“Don’t tease. It’s rude.”
You follow her instructions, just this once. Mouth dropping, you suck at the tip of her ear like you’d so desired to. It makes her gasp, and you move to swallow the sound. You’d heard tales of a dragon’s thundering roar, but their moans are much prettier.
robinhood!tashi x sheriff'sdaughter!reader,, the tashi brainworm is crazy and consuming me day by day. i love her. young!tashi, awkward and isolated despite her determination and cunning. don't quite like the ending but whatEVER. i love describing shit!! if you couldn't already tell. 1k words.
Wanted posters were smattered across the town—that was nothing new. Petty criminals and mercenaries were always getting cycled through the jail and the gallows. With your father, the sheriff's, seemingly-unlimited supply of young, skilled boys who groveled for a chance to join his cadre, most posters were in the fire in just a week or two.
This woman, however, was a long-standing frustration for your father. Most would only catch a whip of a curling ponytail or a flash of tawny skin, their fascination with the mysterious girl overshadowed when they realized their drawers were haphazardly emptied and their jewelry boxes raided.
It drew more importance because it was the people that lined your father's pockets—weeping wealthy ladies and their indignant husbands; portly merchants passing through finding a raided tent when they returned, fine fabric jaggedly cut by a hunting knife and their wares pilfered; reports poured in from the town's upper echelon, demanding that the sheriff do something about this rampaging thief.
The worst part about it? She was getting better. There was more time between heists, sure, but she'd be more knowledgeable with the extended planning period. They'd barely catch any glimpse of her anymore. Drawers that were once thrown open were strategically chosen and emptied gracefully. Eventually, it started to look like no one had been there at all—only the disruption in the dust a clue. By the time they noticed, she was long gone.
Your father rejoiced for a period of time. A full moon cycle had gone without her striking.
Maybe she stole enough, was spread, gossip about the woman rampant like wildfire in the markets and homes. Maybe she's content with what she has.
Instead, in the deep darkness of the inner woods, she's planning to steal the village's finest jewel.
You.
The sheriff's daughter was sought after. A powerful father and a beautiful face made for suitors lining down the streets. Being accosted by marriage proposals was not pleasant, especially when they interrupted daily goings-on. You couldn't even go to the market without being halted by a passing merchant or a noble son, looking to cull your favor—and, therefore, your father's.
You take to the backroads after that. They wind through the light woods, where the grass is untouched and springy. You've started carving a small path for yourself, the leather of your boots slowly wearing down the earth to mark your trail.
You didn't know it intersected with a special someone's hunting grounds.
It's a normal Saturday when your paths cross. You're headed to the weekend market, shall around your shoulders and fine dress skimming your ankles. The fabric almost catches under your feet when you stumble back—interrupted by an arrow shooting across the path, a few feet in front of you, to pierce a grazing buck.
It's a masterful shot. You suspect it's one of your father's men hunting for their families. You're proven wrong when delicate footfalls sound—much too light to be any hunter you know.
"Hello?" Rings your uncertain voice. The footfalls pause, before a face peeks out from behind a tree. Familiar tawny skin and loose curls enters your view, thin eyes widened with curiosity.
She looks much more innocent than she does in her wanted posters. Younger, too—she doesn't look any older than you do. If you thought hard enough, you could remember a spring market with that exact face passing by, ten years younger and thin with hunger. It stuck with you, that face. You never did find out what happened to her.
Seems she's doing well for herself. Her face has a healthy flush, her cheeks fuller than you remember. She shot up like a weed, the form once curled building-side long and lithe. Her thin fingers rest on a slim birch, her eyes darting between you and her kill—the buck limp and still in the underbrush, it's velvety horns awkwardly angled and caught in a vine.
"...hello." She sounds wary. It's an appropriate response, considering who you're related to. Any other would expect you to turn tail and bolt, skirt billowing and voice high with a plead for help, like the perfect damsel.
Your eyes fall to the deer. She'd hit it right in the shoulder, the sharp arrowhead piercing through flesh to strike the heart. A perfect shot, one done from behind the animal while it skittishly fled.
"...do you need any help carrying it?" Your murmur is soft, your words unexpected. It's not yet summer, the buck not fully grown yet. It wouldn't be pleasant for her to lug back to where ever she'd made camp, but she'd surely be able to on her own.
Instead—
"Yeah. Yeah. I'd like the help."
You helped her carry the beast, strung up on a long stick, deeper and deeper into the darkening woods. The leaves crunched under your leather boots, and the plentiful chirps of birds lowered the further you travelled.
Her camp isn't sparce. There's a firepit set up, rocks surrounding the still shouldering kindling. She has a tent set up, quilted together from scraps of green—some fine squares of fabric, cut from the merchants' tents. Other pieces are tweedy and threadbare, some with buttons and others with rough seams.
Despite it, the camp has a charm to it. Her personal items (stolen possessions) are placed around the small clearing.
There's a knife at the makeshift butcher's table with a jewel in its silver hilt, sitting next to the old, yet well-sharpened butcher knife with a recently oiled wooden handle.
Through the peek in the tent, a pile of all assortment of blankets lays over her bedroll. Some are animal hide, others finely spun wool that look suspiciously like the ones traded by Mr. Abraham. He wouldn't miss the money, surely—he could fill a silo with gold and still have a fortune for his children.
Your observation is cut short, however, when she directs you towards the "butcher's table"—really a thick piece of wood balanced on two adjacent stumps. Her breath rushes out of her when the buck is finally placed on the block, back curving with relief. The motion makes a few loose curls brush her exertion-flushed cheeks.
"Where were you headed?" Her murmur is low, her voice soft and smooth. A dark gaze flickers to yours—deep, like the ash that pools from your father's cigars, but warmer, like the umber stain that dyes your carved bedframe.
"To the market. We're out of tea." It sounds so domestic, the "we" you hum. Like a companion, you hover over her shoulder, peering curiously at the buck laid over the table.
"...you should get back to that." She's awkward, not cold, her bottom lip slipping under her front teeth. Her expression is all fluttering lashes and consuming eyes, devouring you before flitting away. Her fingers tap against the wooden slab. "Unless you want to stay."
You ended up bundled around her now-roaring fire, meat and a few vegetables she found (stole) roasting on the iron grill above it. A goblet sat in your hand, half-full of some of the best wine you'd ever had—surpassing even the foreign bottle your father brought from a distant lord. It was snappy and fruity, sliding easily down your tongue and staining your lips a fine maroon.
It was strong, too, making you both laugh at the slightest thing, swapping stories back-and-forth like you were best friends at a sleepover.
"So—" she exhales a breathless giggle, laughing before she can even tell the story— "there's this knight and his squire that keep following me around whenever they can. The knight wants to join my "merry band of thieves," or whatever he called it."
That comment sparks a high laugh from both of you, echoing over the crackle of the fire. It's easy, talking to her. With the alcohol flowing through your veins and relaxing your muscles, it's easy to forget that you're meant to be mortal enemies.
Maybe if she wasn't so damn pretty.
You're sat close to her, a foot or two apart on the wide, thick log. A moment of silence fills the night air, her breath exhaling audibly.
"...I'd thought about taking their offer, no matter how unsubtle they were.
I mean... I'm by myself. Could be good to get some more hands on deck."
Even through the alcohol meddling with your brain and coaxing it into mush, you can hear the somber note to her words. She's lonely, you realize. She must be. She's on the run, isolated in the woods, with seemingly no family. A hush falls over her small camp, only broken by your words.
"Maybe I could help you with that." Your hand falls to cover hers, fingertips gliding over the warm, tawny skin before settling and curling under her palm. The wine made you bold, itching to touch and comfort the unfolding mystery before you. When your gaze flickers to hers, her eyes are pleasantly glazed with surprise.
"You'd..." Her apprehension is obvious, and warranted—you're the sheriff's daughter, the jewel of the town, the perfect wife-to-be. Most wouldn't think you'd do anything that'd dirty your frock, much less your hands and your gleaming record of virtue. Stealing? With her? It seems implausible. Yet, you remain earnest, causing her lips to tick up into a gentle smile.
"I'd like that. If you'd stay with me."
The fire slowly burns down, the near-silence comforting and only broken by small, nostalgic anecdotes. With the warmth slowly seeping from the air, the distance between your forms closes gradually until you're past even shoulder-to-shoulder. Your sides mold together, the soft wool of her tunic folding under the press of your body.
With drooping, wine-drowsy eyes, you rest your head on her shoulder. You're pressed so tightly, your brow slots against her nape. Her neck is soft. The skin smells clean and, faintly, of pine. Her chin drops to your crown, nose lazily nuzzling at the strands of your hair.
"We should rest." Her low murmur is fairly quiet, but with the silence of the woods it curls around your ears easily. Her hands are strong and calloused from her bow as she helps you from the log. Yet, they're infinitely gentle as they support your back, helping you into her tent.
She guides you down onto the mass of fabrics. You're first cradled by soft sheepskin, and then fine satin. The last dredges of daylight allow her to help you with your dress. Her fingers work the ties more efficiently than yours ever would, especially under the influence of such potent drink. They ease the fabric from your shoulders, adding it to the nest of cloths. Her tunic followed soon after.
She lies back on the bedroll with a exhale of breath, gently guiding you down next to her. Her lithe arms curl around your form, snaking robustly. The warm press of her bare skin against yours is more intoxicating than the wine. Her chin retakes its space on the crown of your head.
"Sleep." Is the last thing you hear. Her calloused hands knead and caress the bared flesh of your back, soothing the soft skin. Your joined body heat is trapped under layers of blankets, keeping the environment under the pile toasty and warm. As the weak rays of the dusk putter out, swallowed by the dark trees, your eyes fall shut as well.
Her lips press to your forehead. The leisurely, gentle drag of her lips is a promise for the morning. Her heartbeat slows to a crawl beneath your ear, the rises and falls of her chest deepening. She dozes off after you, lips pressed to your hairline and arms snug around your form.
