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feirceangel · 2 months

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Asks are open you say? Well how about a dynamic flip? Feyd is the proud warrior but is unexpectedly bartered away in a deal his brother makes to humiliate him. Surprised and furious he fully intends to conquer his new "brides" family and kingdom only for them to recognize his strength and be met with the satisfying challenge of warrior/ farming planet.

So, I kinda went in a different direction with this, but I hope you still enjoy it, Anon!!

Imagine | A Match (Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen)

Imagine Feyd is given in marriage to a wealthy House in order to gain an alliance. His new bride is not what he expected.

Word Count: 1,737

Warnings: arranged marriage, attempted choking/stabbing, non-sexual nudity (reader), Powerful! Reader.

"What?" Feyd's voice is barely concealing his rage as he stares down his uncle and smug brother.

"It was necessary, my darling," the Baron's voice is rough, his tone placating. "We need this alliance more than you know."

Feyd finds his teeth clenching, hands forming fists at his sides. "Why not Rabban?"

"You know why," the Baron glares. "They would not accept Rabban as a suitable match. You are to go and wed their daughter. And in return they give us whatever we ask."

Feyd growls, "I outta slit your throat, uncle."

The Baron laughs, "This is for your benefit as much as it is mine, dear nephew. Now go."

Feyd storms out of the room, a hurricane of rage sweeping through the halls. He has never felt an anger this severe in quite some time. He should have known something like this would happen eventually. And, knowing his uncle, there is another scheme at play.

Always plans within plans within plans.

It's not the worst situation, he muses later when he has calmed and steadied his mind.

House Wallach would be a formidable ally, an asset that shouldn't be taken lightly. With control over three planets and being the largest horticultural power in the Landsraad, they are powerful indeed.

The leaders of House Wallach has birthed only a daughter, which leaves them without a male heir. All manner of eligible men have tried their hand at a marriage to their daughter. None has been successful.

Until now, apparently.

A feral grin spreads across Feyd's face as he thinks of the possibilities.

He will have no issue wedding the daughter and taking control of House Wallach when the time is right.

And, perhaps if he plays his cards right, take control of House Harkonnen as well.

He cares not who he has to marry, even if he'll be mad about it for awhile. After all, he can dispose of her eventually.

~~~

Feyd arrives with much fanfare, as befitting the na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

Bright sunshine surrounds those gathered to greet him, people who are swamped in bright greens, yellows, and browns. All around the envoy are orchards of all kinds of fruit trees. A vibrant sea of green.

So much more colour than Feyd is used to.

His expression remains neutral as he greats the Lord and Lady of the House. They appear cautious of him, perhaps overly so. It seems they know House Harkonnen’s reputation.

"It is an honour to be here," he says, bowing slightly. The lie slides easily off his tongue.

"We are pleased to have you in our home, na-Baron." The Lord says, returning the bow. "Our daughter is so pleased that you accepted the match."

Feyd's lips quirk up. Surely he's lying, no noble lady would hold any desire for a creature like him.

"As I said, it's an honour."

His gaze sweeps around, searching for his wife-to-be. All he finds is diplomats and soldiers.

"Where is Lady Wallach?" He asks, unimpressed at her absence.

"Forgive us, your arrival coincided with an event she could not miss," the Lord replies. "She is attending a Munus Ceremony."

This catches Feyd's attention, "A fight?"

"Yes, if you come this way, we may still witness part of it."

Feyd follows Lord Wallach, silently fuming.

His betrothed is watching other men fight to the death instead of welcoming him? His outrage is unparalleled, yet he remains collected.

They lead him up to the viewing tower of an outdoor coliseum, with vines growing on every available surface.

The viewing box is empty.

"There my lord."

Feyd's attention is brought down to a figure in the ring who brandishes a dagger with a graceful air.

"Our daughter,” Lord Wallach smiles, the action appearing forced.

He hadn't expected this.

Feyd was picturing a regal noble lady, demure and pitiful. He had not once pictured this creature before him, fluid in her movements as she battles her opponent.

She blocks attacks with ease and avoids ones that would cause serious damage all while attacking just as fiercely. Her opponent is skilled, to be sure, but is no match for the ruthlessness of her attacks.

He falls to the ground, unmoving. Feyd’s bride-to-be lifts her arms in victory, grinning as blood drips down her blade.

“We honour!” She shouts, and the crowd responds with deafening cheers.

“We know she is not exactly… How can I put it? Traditional, let’s say.” Her mother frets, “But she will be a good wife, na-Baron.”

He barely hears her, eyes transfixed on the beauty in the arena as she battles another opponent. Yes, this is an interesting turn of events indeed.

“Of course she will,” Feyd replies. “I must meet her.”

He watches as she disappears into the building, no doubt going to change and bathe after her match.

“Certainly. She’ll be out to give you a tour in no time. Meanwhile, a guard can show you to your room.”

Displeased, Feyd nods and obediently follows the man to his room. As soon as he’s alone, Feyd opens the door and stalks out with determination.

He cannot wait.

There is surprisingly little security surrounding your change room, Feyd notes as he quietly opens the door.

Your piercing gaze meets him immediately. Instead of being frightened, like he had anticipated, you smile warmly.

“Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, I was not expecting you here. I’m afraid you have caught me unprepared to greet you properly,” you say calmly as you continue to unbutton your fighting tunic.

He doesn’t know what to make of your reaction. You’re not put off by his presence at all.

“I couldn’t wait,” he replies honestly.

You hum, “Excited to see me, na-Baron?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

The sound of your laughter is unexpected, “Of course not. I doubt I was what you were anticipating.”

His gaze lingers as you remove your clothes and retrieve a washcloth and bucket.

“Don’t you have servants?” He finds himself asking, motioning to the washcloth.

“I prefer to do it myself.”

He frowns, “You don’t seem very noble.”

“I assure you, Wallach blood flows deep in my veins,” your voice has taken an edge.

It seems he’s struck a nerve.

“I meant no insult, my lady,” his grin says otherwise, his voice rough and teasing. “It just appears you have odd taste. Fighting and doing the work servants should be doing.”

You return his even gaze, “I am not some snivelling noble who cannot take care of herself. Feyd, it seems you do not remember me.”

Your last statement has him pausing.

“What did you say?”

Lathering suds onto your bloodied skin, you barely spare him a glance.

“I said you don’t remember me. We met once, you know.”

He does not remember such a thing.

“Don’t toy with me,” he snarls. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you roll your eyes. “Feydie, I can’t say I’m not hurt you don’t recall.”

Your bastardization of his name brings a memory to the front of his mind.

A young girl bearing the Wallach crest getting angry with him over something and punching him clear across the face. He naturally returned the blow and they broke out into a fight right then and there.

He’s shocked he forgot it.

You watch as recognition filters through his eyes. Smiling, you rinse the suds off your body.

“Now you remember. To be honest, I don’t know why I was so angry with you.”

“You’ve always been a fighter,” he acknowledges with an inclination of his head.

“And I knew you could not be satisfied with a weak wife.”

He’s coming to realize this match may not have been a scheme of just his uncle.

“You wanted this match,” he phrases it as a statement as if he already knows the answer.

You smirk, “Does it not please you?”

“What makes you think I would want you as a wife?” He sneers, crossing his arms.

“I know you planned on controlling me, or killing me - whichever suited your needs best. You want power, Feyd. I can give you that and so much more. Is it too much to ask for you in return?”

He cannot find words, mulling over your proposal as his eyes study your every move.

You’ve certainly grown from that little girl who could barely throw a proper punch yet had the rage to carry through a fight.

Feyd observes as you dry yourself off. He leans over before you can, and grabs your fresh shirt from the table.

“Allow me, my lady.”

Surprised, you nod and present your back to him. A foolish mistake, to turn your back on a potential threat. He contemplates disposing of you right now, but finds himself frowning at the idea.

You’re so much more interesting than he first imagined.

Despite himself, he wants to know you better, to find out when you had your first gladiatorial fight or when you realized you could be so much more than wedding fodder for your parents to make a match with.

“So many suitors have tried to win your hand,” Feyd rasps as he guides your arms through the sleeves of your shirt. “Yet you denied them all.”

“None were you, my lord.”

“Why chose me?” He leans into you, pressing his chest to your back as he slowly starts buttoning your shirt.

You lean back into him, “You are a fighter, a warrior. You can wield blades and talk politics. And I know you can treat me right.”

“Why would I treat you any different than a common whore?” He suddenly presses his arm against your throat, cutting off your oxygen.

He looks at your expression, surprised to find a wide grin. A flash of pain goes through his side. Your eyes flicker downwards and Feyd looks down to find the tip of a blade piercing his skin.

He releases his hold.

“You will treat me differently, Feyd. And do you know why?”

You turn to face him, placing your hand on his bleeding wound.

“Because I will make you.”

Feyd cannot stop the smile forming on his plush lips as you bring your hand to his cheek.

He doesn’t say anything as you continue place a kiss to his lips before shoving him away.

“We must ready ourselves for the dinner tonight, there is much to discuss about the wedding.”

“Of course, my lady.”

[Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!]

#female reader #reader insert #feyd oneshot #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd imagine #dune #dune part two #dune x reader #fanfic

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9jacompass · 2 years

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credasmigrations · 3 months

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What are the Requirements for Getting a Green Card?

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usadvlottery · 4 months

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migrationsconsultants · 2 years

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govisaeb5 · 8 months

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izelascendant · 1 day

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Sportsmanlike

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Rating | Mature Summary | Young passionate tennis players messing around with lots of plot and complexity. Pairing | f!Original Character x Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan x Patrick Zweig Word Count | 3.7K Tags | Tennis, Competition, Love Triangles (Squares?), Jealousy, Plot, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual smut, Eventual Romance, Eventual Relationships Author's note | I haven written anything in FOREVER. I'm still such a noob at tumblr and it still confuses me (I'm loyal to ao3), so I wasn't sure of what the best way to organize this was. There will be multiple chapters.

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Sportsmanlike on AO3 | Chapter 1 - US Open 2006, Chapter 2 - Finalist Fusion, ...

US Open, 2006

Her

Not everyone is eligible to play in the US Open Tennis. The event is exclusive to players who have earned a certain ranking, as well as a few slots offered by invitation. That’s how she finds herself competing after having received a 'wild card' invitation. Surrounded by a supportive network of people who believe in her skills, she’s being pushed into the prestigious fourth and final Grand Slam tournament of the year—even though she is still technically considered an 'amateur'. In fact, it feels like everyone around her believes in her abilities more than she does herself.

She feels strangely out of place among the other players, all fully devoted worshipers of the sport. Her entourage is composed of tennis fanatics—who live and breathe the sport—while she feels disconnected from it all. Her skills are sure to be praised, but deep down, she still feels like she doesn't belong. Unlike them, tennis isn't the center of her life. She doesn't rely on tennis for survival—in fact, she wouldn't mind if it vanished, which sets her apart from the fiercely competitive and confrontational athletes.

Nonetheless, she plays well. Perhaps too well for someone who doesn’t take it as seriously as her opponents. It seems almost unfair how easily she gets through each round.

Her heart races as she wins match after match. The contrast between her polite, gracious demeanor and the fiery, hot-tempered reactions of her competitors is stark. Some throw fits of rage and tantrums. She can't help but offer sincere apologies and genuine praise to everyone she encounters, even in the most intense moments of the game. As the sweat drips down her forehead, she smiles coyly and humbly accepts the accolades, feeling a mix of exhilaration and sheepishness.

Art and Patrick

The umpire's voice echoes through the stadium, making the final announcements to the crowd as the eager spectators find their seats. Patrick adjusts his position beside Art, spreading his legs casually. Art, meanwhile, plays with the tag displayed around his neck, his eyes darting around the sea of merchandise that carries the "US Open 2006" logo. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation and excitement.

“D’you know about her opponent?” Patrick asks after letting out a small burp, gesturing towards Anna Mueler as she emerges onto the court, her entrance acknowledged by the applause and cheers of the crowd, and with her waving back in response.

“What about her?” Art replies indifferently.

“She’s a wild card; they brought her out, and nobody really knows who she is, but she’s been killing it. I’m just eager to see what she’s all about.”

“Huh.” Art remarks, narrowing his eyes a little.

They both shift their focus back to the court as the umpire announces her presence. Unlike Mueler, her entrance is reserved and humble, merely offering a modest wave to her coach as she acknowledges the applause. While her demeanor may be understated, there’s a sense of graciousness.

She strides onto her side of the court, grabbing her racket. Her copper hair is messily pinned into a casual ponytail, with a smattering of freckles dusting her shoulders, revealing her toned physique. Her simple dark green outfit clings to the contours of her figure—though her appearance is less formal compared to other female players, there’s an undeniable charm to her aloof demeanor, drawing them in.

Patrick leans in, studying her intently upon her settling into position. Art does the same by resting his elbows on his knees.

“She’s a pretty thing, too.” Patrick turns his head over at Art with a smug grin.

Art doesn’t reply but he sure can’t disagree.

“Ready? Play.”

The game starts as Anna Mueler serves, with virtually no dramatic build-up—Art and Patrick's eyes dart incessantly between the two. The atmosphere is almost eerily silent, save for the sounds of racket impacts and grunts of exertion from the competitors. They observe with bated breath, captivated by the swift movement of her legs as she dances across the court, her fiery locks swishing back and forth in sync with her brief skirt fluttering about, revealing the shorts hidden underneath.

She scores her third point, marking a victorious blow against Mueler with a powerful one-handed backhand. Her movements are noticeably disorganized and bordering on sloppy, and yet, to her advantage, it seems to be playing off brilliantly .

“Holy shit.” Art mutters, undeniably taken aback.

Patrick smugly looks toward Art, wearing a "told you so" expression on his face. As they lean in to get a closer look, their mouths hang slightly open, both fixated on the ongoing match. The intensity of her actions is so captivating that it borders on pathetic as they watch, their eyes glued to her every move. With each passing minute, their gazes follow the way her rosy cheeks redden and her breaths grow increasingly labored.

Surprisingly, she doesn't appear to be nearly as exhausted as Mueler, even despite her unstructured, chaotic playing style. She graciously acknowledges each point won by her opponent, a polite nod or smile as Mueler gains momentum. Her attitude leaves Patrick utterly amazed—given his past moments of unsportsmanlike behavior.

“How the fuck is she so unbothered?” Patrick ogles at her, his head unintentionally tipping to the side as he takes in her every move.

Unsurprisingly, he receives no reply from Art, as his awestruck state turns him speechless.

Mueler, her opponent, lashes out in absolute disbelief after the final point is scored, impulsively smashing her racket against the court floor in a fit of frustration.

She flashes a smug, coy smile as she glances at her coach, as though downplaying her victory like a stroke of pure luck. She ambles towards the net, extending her hand towards her defeated opponent, only to have it rebuffed with a heated outburst in a foreign language as Mueler storms away in a huff. She’s quickly interrupted as her friends, family, and well-wishers swarm around to celebrate her win.

As Art exhales deeply, Patrick locks eyes with him, his grin crooked but full of enthusiasm. “We’ve gotta talk to her.”

Tashi

Tashi Duncan seemed to have beat them to it.

“Hey,” She says as she approaches her after the crowd of family and friends has dissipated from her entourage. “Great game. You absolutely killed Anna.”

She meets Tashi’s eye with a warm, contagious beam, her cheeks flushed with a mix of lingering exertion from the match and genuine happiness at the interaction. She giggles softly, letting her bag fall gently to the ground as she tentatively steps forward, wholly captivated by their interaction. "I feel bad," she admits with a sheepish half-smile, her laughter bubbling up as she feels Tashi's gaze linger on her.

“Don’t.” Tashi replies, unfazed. “She’s a sore loser and a racist bitch, anyway.”

Her laughter continues to fill the air, even as a hint of tension underlies Tashi’s words. Sensing the need to maintain composure, she tries to keep her nerves in check, reminding herself that they're only facing each other in the finals—easy-peasy.

“I’ve, uh—been watching your games, too.” She breaks the slightly uneasy silence with sincere appreciation, her smile slightly crooked as she tries to hide any hint of infatuation. "You’re incredible," she says admiringly, looking up at Tashi and attempting to mask any potential starstruckness in her eyes.

Tashi's gaze remains unwavering for a moment before she softly breaks into a gentle smile.

“I’m kind of on the fence about playing against you.” She instinctively reaches up to scratch the back of her neck in a self-conscious manner, and a soft chuckle escapes her lips.

Despite the growing sense of ease, a hint of insecurity still lingers, as if she's silently questioning if she's made a good impression thus far. It’s Tashi Duncan, after all.

“Why? Scared I’m gonna wipe you out?” There's a hint of challenge in Tashi's voice as she responds.

To her surprise, her opponent's response is one of continuous admiration—it's rare to see such genuine enthusiasm, and it's almost contagious in its sweetness.

“I’d actually prefer that.” She continues to look at her with a sort of fascination. “It probably means more to you than it does to me, and—” she hesitates for a second, “I wanna stay on good terms with you.” She can feel herself blush a little. “—Hopefully.”

Their whole interaction is refreshing to Tashi.

“Oh, so you’re thinking of going easy on me?”

“I don’t think I’ll need to.”

A silent understanding seems to form between them, a bond taking shape through the few words they've shared. The smiles they exchange are genuine, laced with a subtle sense of kinship. Perhaps it's the shared adrenaline of the game, or maybe it's the knowledge that they'll soon be competing against each other in the finals—whatever the reason, there's an undeniable connection forming.

“You coming to the party on Long Island? Adidas sponsorship.” Tashi asks, breaking the silence once again.

A flicker of excitement dances in her eyes as she hears the question. "Oh, I doubt I was invited—Or maybe my coach just forgot to mention it.” She lets out a nervous chuckle.

“Fuck your coach.” Tashi shrugs nonchalantly, her hands disappearing into her pockets. “I'm the one inviting you.”

She smiles and nods in return. “Then I’ll be there. For sure, yeah.”

Tashi, amused by her opponent's excitement, can't help but wear a smirk on her face.

Fire and Ice

Donaldson & Zweig vs. Shaffer & Buchanan.

This match determines whether Art and Patrick make it to the finals, a pivotal moment in their journey and a do-or-die scenario that determines their fate. The two of them are fully focused on the game; their expressions are a mixture of determination and playfulness. Art's golden hair is tucked away behind the white cap he wears backwards, while Patrick's dark curls bounce around as he moves, his features framed by the shadows cast by the bright lights of the court. They exchange smug grins and nudge each other occasionally, a bond of support and friendship that makes their journey through the tournament all the more enjoyable.

From their vantage points in the crowd, she and Tashi watch intently, their eyes fixed on the match unfolding before them. You would expect a fierce rivalry between two opponents in such high-pressure situations.

Yet, there they are, sitting side by side, their gazes glued to the court.

Sure, they had only met yesterday, and their situation had already become somewhat volatile due to public opinion, but she had no intentions of outshining Tashi—leaving a lasting impression on Tashi—a sense of mutual respect and admiration cancelling out any potential rivalry.

As she reaches for her cup, she feels the unexpected touch of Tashi's hand on her knee—a small gesture that sends a rush of warmth through her body. Who knew such a simple gesture of physical touch from Tashi Duncan could be so exhilarating.

Tashi leans into her, pointing down at the court in full focus mode. “The blonde one; look at how receptive he is.”

She can’t help but smile a little at her level of focus. She also can’t deny how beautiful she looks when she’s like this. Leaning in in return, she tilts her head slightly and nods towards where Tashi is pointing.

She takes a moment to admire Tashi's intense concentration, her smile growing wider as she admires how beautiful she looks when she’s focused. She leans in closer, her head tilting slightly as she follows Tashi's gaze. A slight nod of her own acknowledges Tashi's observations, a mutual understanding as their minds sync in the moment, focused on the same objective.

“Your bet is on those two?”

“Hm,” Tashi leans back a little, a thoughtful expression on her face. “The other one’s nailing those dropshots.”

She follows Tashi's gaze intently, her own eyes flickering from left to right as she takes in every move on the court.

“They’re good.” She watches the dynamic between the duo below with a hint of surprise, her eyes widening at their unexpected coordination. She turns her head towards Tashi, unable to resist the sly smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Never as good as you, though.”

Tashi eyes her suspiciously, her gaze narrowing as she attempts to decipher the real motive behind her compliment. "Are you trying to butter me up for some kind of weird strategy reason?" she asks, her tone a mix of seriousness and playfulness.

There's a trace of amusement in her eyes as she waits for a response, clearly enjoying the banter and the lightheartedness of their interaction.

She chuckles through her nose, shaking her head slowly before she responds genuinely, “You know you’re going to win tomorrow. I have no ulterior motives.”

Tashi leans in closer, her hand brushing a little higher on her opponent's leg, a hint of challenge in her voice as she teases her. "Playing little miss humble, are we?" The touch is subtle yet deliberate, and her words carry a hint of competitiveness.

She laughs softly in return, her cheeks flushing slightly at the unexpected touch from Tashi. She takes a breath, her voice filled with determination. "I'm serious," she reiterates, her eyes locked on Tashi's. "Even if I feel like I am going to win, I’ll hold back."

Tashi pauses for a moment, a slight furrow in her brow, a hint of surprise tinged with doubt as she looks at her counterpart.

“I don’t want you to let me win. I want to win.”

“And you will.” She responds without missing a beat, her gaze locking with Tashi's in a way that speaks volumes—as if she had forever been loyal to her.

The bleachers erupt in applause as Patrick scores the final point, the sound drowning out the intense moment between the two girls. The blond boy sprints towards his partner, the duo celebrating and laughing uncontrollably, their joy infectious in the moment.

The sight brings a smile to both girls' faces.

“Well, we’ve got our finalists.” She raises an eyebrow at Tashi, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Fire and Ice," she muses, a sly grin spreading across her face. "I've always preferred the heat." She leans back slightly, her braid cascading over her shoulder.

“And I’ve always preferred the cold.” She replies, her voice filled with teasing enthusiasm.

Long Island, pre-finals party

Tashi and her girl

She stands amidst the gathering of tennis enthusiasts, friends, and family, her heart pounding with both excitement and anticipation. The prospect of mingling with the elite in the tennis world is both intimidating and thrilling. The combination of nerves and anticipation dances in her chest, fueling her determination to make the most of the night.

Tashi's heels click against the pavement as she approaches, a seductive whistle escaping her lips as her eyes rake over her opponent's figure. A confident smirk plays at her lips as she takes in the sight of her, her approach oozing with charm and assertiveness.

Her voice drops to a low, playful tone, a mixture of charm and shyness lacing her words as she responds with a simple "Hi."

Tashi looks stunning in the strapless royal blue dress, her hair down and loose curls cascading around her face while the redhead in front of her wears an equally beautiful gown, her hair pinned up with a couple of strands falling loosely by the sides of her face.

She's taken aback for a moment as Tashi steps closer, her heart skipping a beat as she finds herself enveloped in a tight embrace. The unexpected hug leaves her slightly flustered, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly.

“Glad you could make it.” Tashi's breath is warm against her ear, the smirk on Tashi's face only intensifying.

“You look fucking amazing.” She chuckles nervously, her attempt to hide her infatuation with Tashi failing miserably.

Hand in hand, they navigate their way towards the dance floor, their fingers intertwined as they make a brief stop at the nearest drink stand. With a playful glance, they mix a dash of liquor into their soft drinks in hopes of not being caught. As they weave through the crowd, Tashi regales her with juicy secrets and gossip about the event sponsors and attendees, their conversation flowing effortlessly, and—once again, paradoxically—it feels like there’s no sense of rivalry between them whatsoever.

Patrick and Art

The two boys stand a couple feet away from the main crowd, their gazes pathetically locked on the two girls dancing together on the makeshift dance floor. Patrick holds the bottle of his Coca-Cola up to his mouth, a tiny sigh escaping his lips as he watches them from afar. Art, meanwhile, has one hand casually shoved in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding his drink.

Art leans in, a hint of surprise in his voice, "I didn't know she was friends with Tashi Duncan."

“Girls are like that; they act nice to each other all the time. They probably hate each other.” Patrick chimes in, sharing his theory about the girls' behavior.

“No way, man.” Art shakes his head. “Look at them; they look like—like they’ve known each other forever.”

Patrick playfully nudges his friend's arm, his smirk widening as he suggests, “Like us?” He looks back in their direction. “You almost can’t tell they’re competing against each other in the finals.”

"Yeah, just like us," Art replies with a chuckle, his expression tinged with a hint of self-deprecation. "I'm still sharing a hotel room with the guy who's set to beat me in the finals."

Patrick gives Art a firm pat on the shoulder, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "I've already told you I'll let you win," he says, his voice filled with playful determination.

Their attention drifts back to the dance floor, their gazes drawn to the spectacle before them. The music pumps through the air, the beat energizing the dancers as they move in sync with the rhythm. Both Art and Patrick find themselves captivated by the sight of the girls dancing, their eyes lingering on them longer than they realize.

“Fuck,” Patrick's voice cuts through the air, his reaction betraying his inability to tear his gaze away from the girls.

Art gives his friend a firm nudge, a silent urging for him to keep his focus and behave, all while being just as mesmerized himself, his focus never faltering.

"Hey, I mean, Tashi Duncan's a pillar of the community." Patrick attempts to redeem himself; however, the moment of sincerity is quickly undercut by his next statement, which is delivered with a big, smug grin on his face. "I'd let her fuck me with a racket."

Of course, it's nothing Art hasn't heard before—prompting him to chuckle in response, his eyes rolling in a playful gesture. "C'mon, Patrick," he replies, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Patrick continues to act smug, his playful demeanor on full display as he swats Art's arm with his hand in a teasing gesture. "Eh, don't pretend like you haven't been drooling over her friend," he remarks, a knowing look in his eyes. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone as he adds, "You never told me you have a thing for redheads."

A bashful smile forms on Art’s face. "Shut up," he replies, his voice tinged with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

"I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m happy with either one of them," Patrick continues with a mischievous grin, his playful nature infectious.

They shift their focus back to the girls, their attention drawn like magnets.

“So, which one d’you think is gonna win the finals?” Art asks, his head tilting slightly as he asks the question.

Patrick chimes in, his words undecided. "I think she has good chances against Tashi," he explains. "Her scoring against Mueler was fucking crazy."

“Damn straight.” Art responds with a small huff. “But it’s Tashi Duncan,” he adds after a brief pause.

Patrick lets out a sigh, his eyes fixated on the dance floor. "I guess we’ll just have to wait and see," he replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Dancing girls

♬ Its gettin hot in here (so hot)

So take off all your clothes

I am gettin’ so hot, I wanna take my clothes off … ♬

Hair swaying to the beat, Tashi moves in sync behind her, their bodies flowing together effortlessly. As she leans into Tashi, their hips move in harmony, a choreography seemingly perfected in a matter of seconds. There's an obvious chemistry between them—-they both know what they’re doing—and they’re doing it well .

“How long d’you reckon they’re gonna stand there for?” She whispers to Tashi, her voice laced with amusement as she discreetly glances towards the boys who have been ogling at them.

Tashi giggles mockingly, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief as she speaks. "What a bunch of pussies."

She laughs in response to Tashi's remark, finding her bold demeanor both amusing and refreshing. Tashi grabs her by the hand, her grip firm yet gentle, as she leads her away from the dance floor.

"C'mon," she urges, her voice filled with a sense of excitement.

She follows Tashi, curiosity getting the better of her as she tucks a loose curl behind her ear. "Where are we going?" she asks, her voice tinged with a mixture of wonder and anticipation.

Desperate boys

As the girls leave the dance floor, Patrick gives Art a nudge, bringing him back to the present moment.

“Where are they going?” Art asks, his curiosity piqued.

Patrick responds with a sarcastic remark, his eyes never leaving the girls. "How would I know, dumbass?"

Art scoffs in frustration, his thoughts racing as he tries to reason with his friend. "Well, we’re not gonna follow them around and seem desperate—”

"Yes, we are," Patrick asserts, his determination unshakable.

Art protests, voicing his hesitation about approaching them. "And say what?" he exclaims.

Yet, despite his reservations, he finds himself following behind Patrick. Together, they make their way towards the girls, their footsteps filled with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

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