#eleanor x reader

[mellowwillowy]

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 x GN Reader NSFW

⤷ warnings — somnophilia, mention of blood, masterpost

—𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓 - 𝑳𝑰𝒇𝑬 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒋𝒆��𝒕 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who will eat you up/give you head even if you are asleep. He likes to edge your unconscious body so much, watching you twitch and tremble as tears start to form, stuck in your eyelashes. The feeling of you unconsciously coming inside his mouth and wetting his hand with your cum? It's amazing.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who likes to watch your post-orgasm state first before he starts to focus chasing on his pleasure.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 is a quiet man so is he going to be mute during this too? All that composure is thrown out of the window once he gets to feel you this close.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 loves feeling your body while you are asleep soundly. The feeling of his palms fondling your breasts and thighs?

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who likes to clamp his erected cock with your thighs, his hips moving in and out while his precum seeps through the fabric of your pajama.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who tries his best to withdraw his moans and elicit sexy grunts instead :) you must be having another wet dream... especially with how damp your pajama is. Silly you.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who likes to leave subtle marks over your body. Bite marks and hickeys are his to-go, earning a few slipped grunts out of you whenever he makes one. Now imagine his men getting even a glimpse of it? Of course, he's not happy with how they can even see it but at least they know how much their ringleader fancies his lover.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who secretly likes how he can sometimes taste cooper in his mouth, the blood dribbling down on your skin is practically asking to be lapped by him.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who likes to spurt his cum all over your bare stomach or face, smearing it evenly on your skin while admiring his handiwork.

"This... pretty... little... thing."

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who will start to feast on the real deal, using your and his fluid as a lube before sliding it into your hole, hissing at how warm it feels to be inside of you completely. His pace starts out slow before he starts picking up the pace.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who will kiss you sloppily as he ruts himself deep inside you, hitting the spot that earns a moan out of you.

"Yeah, you like that even when you are dead asleep hm?"

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 will not only just chase his pleasure, oh noo he will also make sure you are left satisfied, his hand giving you another layer of stimulation. He is only cumming deep inside you if you are going to cum as well.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 who takes joy and satisfaction in watching your figure tremble again, gushing out all the pleasure coiling inside your stomach.

"Good... good job dear, let it all out yeah?" Eleanor mumbles into your ear as he ejaculates inside you, body shaking as his eyes roll backward. Yet another day spent well with you, his cock earning the treat he's been yearning for. "Love you." He whispers into your ear.

Ongoing Poll

[pparacxosm]

uta hagen

(divorced!art donaldson x reader; tw divorce obviously; tw sporadic mentions of violent or otherwise shitty partners; that sounds intense but this is actually a fun time i swear; cw a little smut; as a treat; tw ironic intimacy; kaz write a normal romance where one or both people aren't hypercritical of the other challenge ((impossible)); tw group therapy; tw condensing of tashi duncan's character for narrative reasons but i hope you know me well enough by now to know where my heart lies; whoever came up with the art donaldson calvin klein campaign headcanon i owe you a kidney; tw exploiting therapeutic exercises for sexual tension lol; tw hamfisted closure; raymond carver easter egg for all who have the eyes to see)

Before anything happens, Art Donaldson is just another guy in the “Learning to Let the Ex Go” group therapy session you signed up for.

It occurs to you, pretty quickly, that Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. Dr Harper has this question he asks all the newcomers.

You’re having circle time with a bunch of adults on a Friday afternoon. So that look of longsuffering on the new guy's face isn’t particularly remarkable. You note a few furtive whispers and glances his way. But then this sad little workshop is mostly comprised of weepy middleaged women. They, too, kicked up a ruckus when that silver fox with the Harley—Rick—deigned to grace the room with his impossible biceps for a single, cigarettescented session two weeks ago.

What you’re saying is you know he’s handsome.

And, anyway, you’d never hold anything against your motley crew. Agnes invited you to her neighbourhood book club. Padma brings little clingwrapped trays of desserts every other week. These are your gal pals. Your bereaved bosom buddies. You wouldn’t begrudge them their eye candy.

Dr Harper says, “So,” and claps his hands the way he starts every session, narrowing his eyes with that scarily sentimental smile and sweeping his gaze around the circle. He makes a point to make eye contact with every single person for two whole seconds, as though he knows something you don’t. Then, “As you can see, we are not as few as we once were.”

He tends to speak in that meandering sort of way. He makes a flourishing gesture with his clipboard, as if setting a stage, and says,

“If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, and letting us know…” He pauses for effect. He tends to do that, too. “… Why can’t you let your ex go?”

You do the guy the favour of not laving him in that expectant stare people seem to love doing here. You fiddle with your fingers and listen to the uneasy knell of his sneakers against the linoleum. The stilted whine of his little plastic foldout chair. You cast him a glance as stands. He’s sort of tall, but not imposing. His fingers fidget at his sides like he’s awaiting a time bomb.

When he speaks, he looks so upset you’d think he’s getting a root canal. “Uh, hi. I’m Art, uh… just Art.”

And, at the time, you think this is kind of strange.

The next week, when Dr Harper brings a purple tennis racket with Just Art’s face on the front to get him to sign it for his daughter—which you already think is unprofessional and a bit presumptuous, considering how few people actually return for a second session, and how fascinatingly tortured he looked all throughout the first—you will think oh. And then his whole humble kicked puppy thing will feel a little annoying. But that’s besides the point.

On that first day, while he’s standing there awkwardly, and every shriek of his shoes against the ground is making him wince like he’s sporting stab wounds, and he keeps casting very conspicuous glances at the clock, Dr Harper asks why can’t you let your ex go?

And the thing about that question is it’s mostly rhetorical. Sure, it’s supposed to make you think. But the ultimate unearthing there is of the truth that there is no real reason. And such is the first step to selfactualising change and so on and so forth. You get it.

There’s a couple answers you come to expect. The notably lachrymose will get to weeping straight away. Because I’m pathetic! you remember someone wailing, which made you feel like a bit of a sadist, just sitting there and watching. You’re pretty sure you’d said a less than kind, I don’t fucking know, on your first day, but you’ve grown since then, and you appreciate Dr Harper’s abiding effusiveness despite that.

But Just Art releases a contrite sort of exhale and says, “Because I still love her.”

Which—okay—strikes you as a bit overkill.

A tissue discreetly finds his palm, but he only rumples it into a ball.

Dr Harper nods sagely, leaning back in his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“Go on,” he prompts in that gentle, needling way he does.

You don’t Google him. You don’t really need to. Dr Harper keeps intentionally-unintentionally peppering sporadic little pearls of information about him into conversation like some sort of bizarre BINGO game.

Like—for example—when he’s passing out little notepads and outlining your task of writing unflinchingly honest farewell letters to your exes, he tacks on, “—it’ll be tough, but it’s no Wimbledon, am I right, Donaldson?”

And Just Art’s ears will turn a dazzling shade of crimson.

You file these little tidings away in some less important corner of your mind, passively constructing a criminal profile.

Padma brings her son to a session, which you’re pretty sure she’s not allowed to do. Luckily, the kid doesn’t internalise any of Padma’s scathing anecdotes about his father because he’s too busy marvelling at his own freshly signed Art Donaldson racket.

There seems to be a new racket to sign every week.

You doubt people actually give this much of a shit about tennis. But—anyway—you suppose if fucking Michael Cera rocked up and joined the circle, everyone would be hauling a Superbad poster out from some dusty corner, too. Such is the nature of celebrity.

Dr Harper, for one, appreciates the effervescence. He seems to think the mere presence of a famous athlete will motivate everyone in the room to face with renewed fervour their own pathetic little romantic quagmires.

Well, it’s that, or a strange personal infatuation he houses with the guy. Probably both.

You don’t Google him. You don’t Google him, nor his conceivably equally famous exwife. You don’t need to. Dr Harper seems to think it necessary to give you all regular progress reports on that whole imbroglio.

You know there’s news—perhaps unfortunate news—by the colour of Dr Harper’s voice when he says, haltingly, “And Art… how have you been doing?”

By the severity with which Dr Harper nods as Art reads his letter. (“Tashi,” he begins, and one of those not so furtive whispers ricochets around the room, another tissue in his hand; you think it’s Agnes who’s slipping them).

By the abject enthusiasm with which Dr Harper declares what real progress Art is making. Like he’s one of those zoo animals being parallelreared with a human child, and he’s starting to glean the art of speech without being prompted.

This is all saying something, for whom you know to be an already colourful, severe, enthusiastic Dr Harper.

What you gather is a vague impression that Art’s exwife tortured him psychologically by wielding his body and tennis career as serrated edges by which to flay their marriage intricately, slowly. And then there’s something about her repeatedly sleeping with his exbestfriend? Which—big whoop. Eleanor’s boyfriend tried to kill her, which you feel is a marginally more exceptional love story.

A month in, you realise what’s really bothering you is the untruth.

Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. He still loves her. He opened with that.

He reads his letter (that reads a lot more like a draft for vow renewals) aloud to the room. Everyone looks at him with these misty eyes like he’s just chainsawed his chest open and wrested his heart from his arteries while simultaneously reciting Sappho.

Which is to say—and you’re no doctor, but—what fucking progress?

You don’t think you’re the patron saint of therapy or anything. But you’ve paid decent money to be here, and you’ve spent more afternoons than you’d stomach admitting on guided meditation. You’re doing The Work, as they say.

You get it; you do. Losing a relationship can feel like a death. Losing yours certainly felt like the Sun had imploded. But Eleanor—you’ll mention again—could be dead. Your jaded inner voice struggles to identify with this probably deplorably wealthy Adonis who can't seem to cut the racket strings.

So you think it’s a little irresponsible to glorify the abject pining of this crestfallen man. All flaxenhaired and broadshouldered like Prince Charming lamenting bedside of Sleeping Beauty.

This is a class about severance.

Art Donaldson seems to weave himself inextricably around something. The love of his wife, sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s something. Something. Something very sad, sure, but not sad in the way you’re all so sad around here. A different kind of sad.

You’re trying to figure it out.

So you spend some time doing that. Trying to figure him out. You expect to start to hate him the more you stare. The more you note the weird slope of his nose, his selfdeprecating laughter.

But you don’t.

In fact, you find it delightfully, uncomfortably strange. He carries himself like an interloper to despair. Not like he thinks he’s above it necessarily—you’d thought that (reproachfully) for a while—rather like sadness is one of many things stored at the other side of the city, and he keeps missing the train.

Like these brilliant sorrowers are deigning to include him in their orbit, even though he doesn’t belong. If he remains silent, maybe they won’t notice that he’s not one of them. Better yet, conceivably, he’ll actually belong one day.

That’s what it’s like. Like he’s striving for sorrow. Like he’s working with something worse than sorrow and is saying, you know what? I’d rather take the sorrow.

In the exercise you’re doing this week, you’re supposed to personage your ex and act out your final argument. Take your scene partner’s hands and look into their eyes and everything. Dr Harper makes a big deal about how he's not trying to trigger anyone's relationship trauma, but that feels like a lie. You can’t imagine a productive reason to make a bunch of lonely, divorced adults hold hands in a cruel parody of their last brush with fleshdeep connection.

And anyway, fuck this shit.

That doesn’t mean you won’t communicate circles around it. You’re doing The Work, after all.

But fuck it hard.

His hands sort of swallow yours. They are warm and calloused and a little sweaty.

You were, at first, excited by the idea of this proximity. Excited in the way a cultural anthropologist would be, at the prospect of conducting participant research. But now you’re here. Sitting at the edges of your little plastic foldout chairs. Your knees between his. And his fingers are curled pretty firmly around yours. He looks about as comfortable as a grade schooler called to the chalkboard. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around observing him from a distance and gleaning your data and passing your judgement all this time, but it is he who makes—and holds—eyecontact.

His eyes are dusky and intent—molten navy—like he’s seeing past your skin and bone. And you are less than pleased by this subversion.

So when he shifts and his knee brushes your outer thigh, a potent shock of heat resounding through the denim, and he clears his throat and mumbles, “Sorry,” you say,

“You could back up a bit.”

His expression falters. You must admit, there is something alluring in his being disappointed by your little rejection. Anyone looking at it from the outside would find the whole thing pretty ludicrous. That you could say no, that he would even ask.

Dr Harper comes up and puts his hands atop both your heads, which feels more than a little patronising. He squats to be eye level between the two of you and whispers, “Do you know why I paired you two together?”

For a moment, you almost roll your eyes. When all is said and done, and the skull speaks and the bell tolls, your primary takeaway from your time Learning to Let the Ex Go is that Dr Harper has a spectacular penchant for assigning meaning where there is absolutely none.

If he paired you with Art based on eyelash hue, would he come up with some reason for that? Probably, you think.

But what he says next manages to throw you.

“You two…” he begins, pausing for effect. Because, of course. And Art shifts his weight uncomfortably, quite literally wincing as he accidentally bumps your knee again. He glances fleetingly in your direction, ears gone florid, but you have little time to delight in this before Dr Harper stands up straight again and delivers his verdict, “… have the same problem.”

You make a face like you have just seen a lizard eat a bird.

And fucking Art, of all people, has this look in his eyes, this look that’s almost hopeful. Like some explanation is finally to be offered for what the hell is wrong with you.

And you don’t care for that shit. At all.

You bark out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Which is, of course, when Dr Harper’s gaze sharpens like a scalpel and locks on you, like you’ve said exactly what he predicted you would say.

Which you care for even less.

He doesn’t look smug. Not exactly. He doesn’t even look vindicated. The only way to describe that look on his face is total delight. Cat with the canary in his maw.

Art seems very committed to staring at the ground, now. Trying, perhaps, to evade something of a brewing storm. You’re tempted to reach up and flick his head for his cowardice, but his hands are—very tightly, now, you’ll note—still holding yours.

“You two are both at mercy to judgement,” Dr Harper declares, and he’s still got your head in his palm like a basketball, and all that selfregulatory yoga feels fucking useless right about now.

You shift to look up at him better. “I’m not at mercy to judgement,” you inform him as calmly as you are able, and maybe you’re disproving his point in this moment by being so affected by this analysis, but you sincerely believe that you’re generally pretty hardwearing.

Dr Harper pauses for effect. “You are at mercy to your own judgement...” Another pause. And you’re about to tell him that—nice fucking try, but—you’re actually a remarkably selfassured person who rarely, if ever, gives yourself to negative selftalk. But then, “... Of others.”

And now it occurs to you that the fucking room has gone silent. And you feel like your eyes have all but crossed in simmering anger. Because—okay—everyone here is crazy, and miserable, and a little fucking pathetic, but you’ve prided yourself on being the least crazy one here.

And fuck.

Fuck if you’re not proving his point right now.

When you open your mouth to argue—because you are going to disagree, if only for the sake of disagreeing—Art Donaldson’s fingers screw up firmer around yours, like he’s some sort of sentient lie detector, and you’re about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Dr Harper isn’t done.

He turns, now, to Art.

“And you…” he says. You’re getting seasick with all the pausing. “Donaldson. You’re at mercy to others’ judgements of you, my man.”

So Art, you see out of the corner of your eye, looks like he’d rather debone himself than be sitting here.

And fine.

Okay.

Let’s all agree that that much is true. That Art Donaldson lives and dies by the judgement of others, and you live and die in the name of it. Fine.

Even so, you can’t help but think that these are directly antithetical problems to have.

And, in practice, if you’re a callous shrew, and he’s an open wound, you’ll probably kill him. Or something.

But now Dr Harper’s pushing your heads together like a ref before a rugby match. And he crouches down again. And Art’s nose brushes yours, and your lash swipes his cheek, and you can smell the coffee Dr Harper was just drinking.

And he says, “Let. First serve.”

Then he stands again and pats Art’s shoulder like they’re old friends, and gives a wink to the room at large.

He saunters away. Art looks like someone is pointing a gun to his head. But really it’s just your—heartlessly selfrighteous, apparently—forehead still against his. His skin is feverwarm.

You pull away.

Of course no one takes the exercise seriously.

In its defense, you think, there’s very little that goes down in this room that can be veritably labelled a ‘serious’ event. Most of it—the guided meditations, the writing exercises, Dr Harper’s entire vibe—feels like you happened to miss some crazy event that tore reality asunder and tipped you over into a sadistically tragicomedic alternate universe.

But if you all were to sincerely sit here, knees to knees with mourning strangers, and concretise this litany of other strangers who have wounded you all irrevocably in different ways—shit—Harper’d be sitting with a fetid heap of weeping corses.

So—well.

Eleanor’s chasing Ally around the hall with a her fingers hoisting an invisible shiv yelling, I love you, I love you, you bitch. Which is certainly one way to contend with a murderous exlover, you guess.

Padma and Colin are treating this as a gossip session. You can tell because you can hear that delighted peal of laughter she emits whenever someone interjects one of her—deeply engrossing, by the way—caustic vignettes about her exhusband with a little observational jab at the guy.

Most people are laughing. Or making fun. You catch fleeting dregs of remarkably hilarious conversation from all angles and are reminded why you keep coming back here.

The only person, however, who seems to have really taken Dr Harper’s thought experiment to the harp of his heart—much to your horror—is Art Donaldson.

He sets his elbows on his knees and leans forward. You get a waft of him. Something acerbic like citrus, and maybe pine. He blinks up at you with this almost regrettable intensity. Like he’s about to tell you that he has to pull your teeth. But he’s not thrilled about it. You’re still deciding if you’re flattered by the notion. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to glean the pattern of your sinew with his eyes alone.

“I’ll be you,” he says, his voice low and soft. And there’s a hoarse quality to it, like he’s just run up a staircase.

You’re suddenly very aware of all the noise around the two of you. The laughter, the bedlam. Something faintly percussive.

His thumbs swipe over your knuckles, which you’re hoping is an absent thing.

You blink. Your face is overcast with a less than kind, more than unimpressed glower.

“You’re serious?” you deadpan.

He looks serious as the end times. His fingers twitch around yours. You feel his knuckles like piano keys against your palm.

Dr Harper has essentially told this man that you have something he doesn’t. Something he needs. And now—with a tenacity you can only imagine churns through his bones by rote—he seems determined to find it.

He’s gripping your hands like you’re the fucking racket.

He leans down further, elbows pressing into his thighs, and his face gets alarmingly close to your fingers. A whisper of heat against your nailbeds.

When his tongue dips out to swipe the chapped coral edge of his upper lip, you nearly flinch, because you think that wet will touch you. But it doesn’t.

He peers up at you intently. You see the way his throat shifts under his wan skin as he swallows.

“I’m as serious as you want me to be,” he says. He is absurdly sincere, but also something else.

Your brows twitch, and you frown, because you are now realising that, even after several weeks of careful observation, you do not have even a remote understanding of this man to speak of. You feel like an academic whose thesis has just been rejected, and now they’re back to square one of some miserable odyssey. Moreover, this is all just unutterably ridiculous, so you sigh and roll your eyes and shift in your seat, your knee knocking against his inner thigh.

“Fine,” you say, “You be me.”

Art’s face is set in what you first think is determination, but are incredibly unnerved to discover is him getting into character. He’s trying to emulate that vaguely bitter perennial scowl of yours. He looks like a bitch—which means he’s pretty fucking dead on.

You’re almost impressed.

Of course, he still looks sad. There’s a vulnerability his mimicry cannot conceal. But you think he’s finding something cathartic in wearing the hue of your passive vitriol.

You tell him to express a perfectly reasonable grievance to you—and you yourself are now rolling your shoulders and slinking into the ethos of a gaslighting asshole—like how you never wash the dishes. Like, ever.

He clears his throat.

“You never do the dishes.”

You swallow.

“Right…” you murmur.

You’re still a little facetious about this whole thing, but there is that intensity in his gaze that wrests you into the moment like a fervid point of gravity.

“Well, now I—as my ex—would probably tell you—” You roll your eyes again, but now it is at the memory you’re unsheathing. “—oh, you’re being dramatic. I was just about to do them. Why are you always on my ass?”

And Art’s nose wrinkles, like the memory is offensive to him, too.

He looks you over like a sawbones trying to determine a patient’s symptoms. Mapping out the incision.

“Then I—you—would say…” He’s speaking really slowly, too. Like he’s giving you the chance to object where you see fit, on grounds of mischaracterisation. “I would say that you always say you’re going to do all kinds of things. But you never actually do them.”

“Exactly!” you blurt, kneejerk. But then you catch yourself. Flex your fingers a bit in his. Clear your throat and put on your best impression of a total dolt again. “Okay—oh, maybe you’re too busy focusing on the little stuff I don’t do to recognise the large sacrifices I make for our relationship.”

He scoffs.

It’s your scoff. A facsimile of that incredulous ire you seem to always be evincing. It’s deeply disturbing.

“What sacrifices?” You can’t tell who’s asking.

“W—” You falter. Swallow. It takes you a moment—like you’re emerging from deep water—to answer, as your ex, “Well, I moved here, didn’t I? Packed up all my shit and left my friends, my family, fucking everything. To be with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to move.”

“You didn’t,” you confirm quickly. And you can’t tell who’s saying that, either. But you put on the voice again, and say, “You didn’t. But I still did it for you. And I don’t think you’ve ever said thank you. Or sorry.”

A beat.

Your hands go slack in his. You sigh. “You never say sorry.”

Art’s eyes search you like a probe.

Your shoulders are stonerigid and the blood is rushing like torrent through your ears because—somehow—this feels uncomfortably like a fight. Like that fight. And your body seems keen on adjusting the scoreboard accordingly.

His thumbs rub your knuckles again, in a way that feels a lot less idle this time.

“I’m still not going to say sorry,” he guesses with a marginal tentativeness, but a general certainty in his assessment.

You swallow again. “Yeah,” you rasp, “You’re not.”

It occurs to you that this exercise is a little like immolation.

He’s supposed to be acting like you. But he’s acting like you at your worst, and doing so—to his credit—a little more accurately than you’d like to admit.

It strikes you as unfair. And excoriating. And you picture yourself tackling Dr Harper to the ground and choking him out.

And then Art says, “We’ve been having this fight for…?”

“Two months,” you mumble. You’re not even doing the voice anymore.

Art clicks his teeth, a sentimental crease at the corner of his eye. “I think we should break up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

“It’ll be really hard for me.”

A guess again, but then you’re here. Doing The Work. Holding hands and roleplaying. It’s not inconceivable that you didn’t take the breakup exceptionally.

Your lip twitches. “You’ll survive.”

He pushes off his elbows and sits up straight, his knees sidling fully around your thighs, now unashamed. He gives you a look. A different one. His mouth purses to the side in some alloy of pensive amusement, a dimple delved into his cheek. His gaze coruscates with a deep cornflower intrigue.

“I think I will, actually,” he says finally.

And he has the nerve to smile. Revoltingly soft and sympathetic.

He gives your hands a parting squeeze before dropping them in your lap, his chair scraping loud the linoleum as he backs off.

You call your ex that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

Dr Harper’s probably somewhere creaming his pants so fervently as to have rendered himself numb in a state of gleeful stupor.

“Hey,” husks your ex—who, for his flaws, has always been more magnanimous than you—before chuckling, “No worries.” You can hear that easy smile of a life unburdened by you in his voice.

Which is fine.

“How are you?” he asks then, “You good? You surviving?”

You smile wryly. You feel like you’ve been flogged by four consecutive eighteenwheelers. “I think I will, actually.”

You Google Art Donaldson.

You’re having a drink with Eleanor and Ally and Colin and a few others from the group, and you’re basically shitting all over the whole programme in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an Opportunity For Growth this has been, when Art walks into the bar and spots your table and nods at the whole gang. The mood quickly shifts. Excitement, sure, but a collective wordless agreement that the lighthearted gossip between real friends ends here. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.

Art slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Colin, who’s looking at him with a senex’s disdain because he was just telling you all how he’s thinking of getting hair plugs. Again, not Art’s fault.

Art’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and T-shirt, which you think is unnecessary because—again—you’re still quite certain no one gives enough of a shit about tennis as to recognise him in a bar.

When he slides into the booth—into the space between you and Colin—he’s careful to leave a distance between the two of you. Which you only really notice at all because you’re acutely aware of exactly how much space occupies the expanse between the two of you at any given instance.

A bunch of people at the table are already looking at him like he’s some sort of foreign dignitary.

You don’t think athletes are necessarily charming by nature, and you refuse to give Art Donaldson that kind of credit, but he doesn’t have to try very hard to make himself agreeable to everyone.

He buys a round for the whole group. He asks after jobs, and the state of marriage, and family, and life. He seems sincere enough.

You all start chatting about the various horrific relationships that lead you here, as though they were all particularly uninteresting ham and cheese sandwiches. Colin’s exfiancée diagnosed with early onset dementia. Ally’s exgirlfriend developing a heroin habit. You’ve all jabbed and scrutinised these woes to deflated nothingness, by now. None of it hurts anymore. Is that the whole point? You still don’t know.

No one knows by what fancy Dr Harper pushes you all about in his great cosmic dance of personal selfimprovement.

You do know that Art remains quiet. Generally inconspicuous, but then you’re you, so you’re paying attention. And you don’t think he should get to sit there like an archaeologist recording the fossils of your collective melancholy, as though his own warm and living bones are out of the question.

Maybe you all can pull up the People.com article, A Comprehensive Timeline of Art and Tashi Donaldson’s Perfect Relationship and Messy Divorce, and have it contribute to the conversation.

Eleanor’s telling a story about the time her ex wrested her from bed and lobbed her out of the house at 2 AM in midwinter.

“And we lived in Duluth,” Eleanor’s saying, and she’s laughing in that disconcertingly manic way she does when she shares these things. “And I sleep halfnaked, so I’m fighting frostbite, and I’m just totally mortified that one of my neighbours will see me.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being halfnaked,” Ally shrugs.

And then you say, “Ha, yeah, I mean Art would know.”

Art—who, until now, looked like he was studiously contemplating the meniscus of his beer, or the grain of the table—flicks his gaze up to you.

You snort. “What, I’m supposed to act like everyone here hasn’t seen you oiled up and smouldering to the camera for Calvin Klein?”

A brief hush descends upon the table like a falling guillotine.

Then, laughter.

Eleanor snorts her gin and soda with such force that she coughs for a solid minute afterwards. There’s tears in her eyes and Colin is laughing at her and Ally is laughing at them both. And Art looks as embarrassed as a woman strewn porchside in her panties in midwinter in Duluth.

And—okay.

You were trying to be tongueincheek about it. But his discomfort levels are seemingly off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, ten and something years of public scrutiny—and, in your defense, actually doing that photoshoot—have not prepared him for this moment.

You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours. “Hey, I’m kidding.”

But you’re not, because it was technically true.

“I thought it was artistic,” says Ally.

Eleanor, still crying laughing, “What, the fullpage spread of him fully waxed and laid out on a clay court surrounded by Great Danes?”

“Someone paid attention,” Colin chuckles, and Eleanor erupts into vibrant giggles again. Colin gives Art a courtesy clap on the shoulder before saying to Ally, “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but a Billboard of a guy wearing whities so tightie you can see his dickprint isn’t exactly Starry Night. But maybe I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about that. The art has to get you,” Ally says, pointing at him with a fry. Ally studied theatre. “I mean, we are the most complicated machinery in our lives. You have to take yourself seriously to do something like that.”

Everyone’s looking at Art like he’s some kind of colourful textbook.

It’s not often people sit beside a guy of whom they can confidently guess the naked physique.

And maybe you’re thinking that, too; you brought it up, after all. His arms look strong in his T-shirt sleeves. Not, like, bodybuilder strong. But lean and cut. And there’s a sort of animal grace to his movements. Like a fox, or something. Even as his ears burn a practically neon shade of carmine in the dim lighting.

He clears his throat. “I doubt anyone took that seriously,” he says dryly, the corner of his mouth ruefully, if hardly, upturned.

Eleanor shoves Ally playfully, swiping her tears away in a blissful mascara smear. “My God Al, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”

The conversation meanders to other topics. Fringe stuff, briefly, like the societal implications of male sexuality and modern advertising. But then things branch off entirely—The Fast and the Furious franchise, artificial intelligence, Colin’s stepson’s career aspirations of becoming a TikTok street interviewer. Et cetera.

You hope Art isn’t looking at you when you chance a glance his way, but when have you ever been so lucky?

So he’s looking at you. He looks at you like he’s taking inventory of you at your expense. He gives a slow blink, an almost imperceptible smile, then he lifts his beer towards you and takes a swig.

At the end of the night, he asks for your number, which feels like a boot to the loins. Not because it’s profoundly unbelievable. Maybe a little surprising, but, if anything, it’s the conclusion you’ve halfanticipated all night. That’s the way he’s been looking at you, at least. It’s just the finality of it all.

But what are you gonna say? No?

You call him that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

God, what have they done to you?

Art, on the other end of the line, presumably lounging in his stately mansion, remains cautiously silent. You sigh like you’re losing something here.

“I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, but realise your tone is too grudging, so you adjust, “I got awkward, I was trying to be funny. Which we both know by now that I’m not. I’m just a bitch. So, I just wanted to say… you obviously look fucking amazing. And your shoot was great. Everyone can see that.” 

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

Art makes his own pained noise across the receiver. “Everyone?” he groans, and you cannot tell if you’re imagining the fleeting hue of amusement you discern there. “Please no.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“You called me,” he scoffs. It’s a good scoff, if such a thing can be said. But he still sounds pretty incredulous with you, and not in a way that says he thinks you a moral paragon. You think he thinks you’re a bit of a monster. Which doesn’t offend you, actually. “To apologise.”

“And I did!”

“Okay?”

A silence befalls you like a yawning maw, stretching out. He could hang up on you. He doesn’t.

“Look, you can internalise the things I say at your own risk,” you say.

“You’re telling me.”

“But it was a nice photoshoot. And, you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”

You feel like a corpse whose arteries are being drained of blood and filled with embalming fluid.

“Pretty hot and stuff?” he echoes. You roll your eyes.

If you’re lucky, he’s tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. So, maybe—by God’s impossible mercy—he’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.

“I—” you hesitate, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing. “I—honestly—I can’t stop watching it.”

It’s not a joke, you both realise.

His voice drops an octave. “Really?”

And—fuck. Fuck, right? But you’ve made it this far.

“Really.”

You feel his eyes on you, not Tashi. Harper has you all thronged around a burn barrel in the community centre parking lot at 8 PM on a Wednesday. Scintillating honeygold flames lick at the night and shadow his face at pretty angles. And he’s reading his letter—that letter—and looking at you.

That’s bad.

This is supposed to be a cathartic and utterly sexless exercise in closure.

But you feel like a filthy fraud.

You’re crossing your arms, and blinking off the flameheat, and pretending not to stare at the scarp of his Adam’s apple and his tendons working beneath the skin of his hands.

He clears his throat, and his lips are moving like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Tashi,” he starts.

Her name, when he says it, still sounds like a tender orison. But last time he’d been reciting this thing, his eyes had been all flushed, raw, and misty, his voice abraded at its edges. Now—well—Agnes hasn’t slipped him a tissue in weeks.

“I still love— do we have to do this again? Can’t I just throw it in?”

The group sputters into giggles. You don’t know who brought the sweet Moscato.

Dr Harper pinches his nosebridge like an enervated preschool teacher. You think he, of all people, ought to be pleased—and you suspect he furtively is, but doesn’t want to discourage your good spirits with his approval—because, as much as you’re loathed to acknowledge it, all his forcible, unwelcome attempts at conjuring vulnerability amongst the lot of you have actually kind of worked.

The fire warms your brows to dampness, the saccharine acidity of the spirit seeping through your flesh and sweltering the rest of you. You should’ve worn a thinner sweater.

“Art,” says Dr Harper, “Your feelings are valid. Even—” The group interjects with a smattering of jeers, a slurred, densetongued amalgam of fuck you! and get a life, Harper! and other stuff to that effect. “—even your reluctance.”

The flames thrash deep indigo and copper. No one can quit laughing.

Dr Harper continues, “But the whole point of the exercise is—”

“Come on, Doc, we’re still pretending these exercises have points?” someone heckles.

“We’re still calling these exercises?” says someone else.

“Hurry up and cry already, Donaldson, I got work tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright,” Art raises a hand and everyone wanes to a simmer of firewarm drunken murmurs as though he’s some sort of Biblical king.

You roll your eyes, but you keep thinking of Great Danes on tennis courts and tightiewhities.

Everyone cheers like this is fucking Madison Square Garden when Art holds his hand out for the bottle, teeth scintillating in the pyreglow with a wry slanting smile.

He takes a long, healthy swig. You think you hear someone whistle. His lips gleam with moisture when they pop off the glass bottlemouth.

“You wanna see me cry?” he grins, eminently rueful and amused and resigned, all at once.

And everyone hurrahs and hollers and maybe some people even bark. He’s being pushed around affectionately from all angles. His gaze is sharp and garlanded by flames and trained on you. You raise your brows at him wryly, perhaps a little dubious, before lifting your hands and joining in the applause.

He clears his throat and sweeps his tongue over his upper lip and flicks the paper out like a Shakespearean scroll.

“Tashi,” he starts again.

You watch the fire lave and singe and swallow all your bitter, pathetic epistles.

Tashi.

I still love you. I’m still sorry. For something, or everything. For anything, really. It’s mostly okay, but it’s worse at night. And on weekends, and with Lily, and when the microwave starts making that shitty sound that you hated.

I miss you deep in my bones. I—

The flames scorch his words to flickering cinders.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and his bottom lashes glisten with tears. But he’s grinning widely. He’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot. Padma sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’, for some reason.

The goodbyes are a little maudlin, but sincere.

It’s time for you to all go home and actually get over your exes, which feels a bit jilting.

Art walks you to your car, and you let him, and you even let him get in your car, which is probably not a good idea. But it’s the end of the stupid workshop and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.

You even say it out loud.

“I’m gonna miss this corny bullshit.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.

When the middle backseat belt buckle is digging sharply into your hip, and he’s got you pinned beneath him, and his hands are everywhere—seriously, it seems he was just waiting for your permission, because he’s squeezing all the flesh he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy—you think to yourself, this motherfucker.

A spherule of spearmint gum slips from his mouth and into yours.

You’d thought, too, that he’d be more deft with this. And he is, but he’s also very clunky. Maybe because your car’s quite small. He’s not huge, but he is still fairly tall and broad and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body in this small space, so it’s a bit chaotic. You don’t really mind.

And—yes—you have thought about it.

There’s a shot of him, in the Calvin Klein campaign, sprawled across the court in greyscale, his hand resting on his middle, his other arm above his head.

You know they edit those photos. That there’s some kid, fresh out of graphic design school, rubbing one out while airbrushing these halfnaked men to oblivion. But you now see—feel, more than see, really; there’s a streetlight nearby, but it’s blown, so you’re all touch—that such satin cannot be contrived. He really is that smooth. There’s not a bit of fat on him, but he’s oddly liquidfeeling, skin sloughing off like cream.

He’s always looked almost uncomfortably boyish to you. But you’re realising now that there’s an abrasiveness to his haggard breathing, and that potent, vaguely olid, mannish fume to his skin.

It's really doing it for you.

In that shot, he was lying right beside the polyethylene net and the sun was beaming down, searing alabaster, through the lattice, at an angle that splayed shadows all across him. The lines warping over the slopes of his body.

You feel the phantom crisscross of those shadows between your thighs now.

His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since he saw you giving him the jettatura while he was signing that racket for Harper's daughter. He also tells you he bets you’ve wanted to do this since you saw him in tightiewhities lying under a tennis net.

Can he be your tennis net?

You don’t even know what that means.

You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse, and it is hot as magma, and you forget all about Great Danes and apologies and fires.

You would think they do some computer magic to make the cocks look bigger in those things, too.

They don’t.

To be fair, he doesn’t have some kind of doubletake worthy, John Holmes ordeal or anything, in the pictures. But the slope beneath the cotton, the bend of his hips like the handle of a water pitcher, all that pearlescent skin—so what if your saliva gathered on your tongue as you leaned in (way too closely) toward your laptop screen?

You feel especially shameless now as he slides into you.

Sure, the buckle is a bitch and the seatleather’s sort of chafing your ass and your elbow’s in a cup holder. But you take furtive pleasure in thinking that some people’s fantasies about him probably go like this.

The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his dick is pumping erratically in and out of you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance.

You keep your eyes open to watch the way his body moves. Fuck it, you wanna see what all the fuss is about.

The talented Mr Ripley whose volleys (and probably orgasms) are intensive, frenetic affairs of selfpersuasion. Unless, of course, he’s fucking the random, judgy woman he met in a group therapy session. In this particular case—though laboured all the same—he comes harder and slower and you hear his panting groans in your ear as you shudder through your own pleasure.

He pulls your hips closer and empties himself in you and you rub yourself against him and you try to keep your eyes open, but, ultimately, you concede that you can only experience this pleasure in the dark.

You keep feeling his muscles work beneath your hands, though.

Dr Harper strongly recommends that you two not start seeing each other. He does just about everything but get on his knees and beg. And even that he nearly does. He reminds you that, on your Vision Tree, you mapped yourself single for at least the next two years.

But Art says he’s had enough of other people saying what’s good for him.

And your Vision Tree also forecasted you taking up jogging, which—come on.

[amymbona]

What if Dilf!Art was put into the ballet instructor au?? Like After the tennis match that Art and Patrick had, that hugged confirmed a friendship again. Of course Art and Patrick retired, tired of the pressure tennis put on them, the pressure of being with Tashi. So Art and Patrick remained close friends, living close to each other, having their daughters be friends. When Patrick put Eleanor into ballet classes Art thought it would be good for Lily to something different than her dad and mom did. So both of the girls had ballet classes, being in the class, being taught by the same lovely ballet teacher. Now Patrick was the one who absolutely fell in love with her first, if we’re doing timelines. He talked about her to Art, and he really didn’t think anything of it, because he didn’t pay much attention, not when he would go picking up his happy daughter with her arms interlocked with Eleanor’s as they skipped towards him and Patrick. But when the ballet teacher spoke softly to Art about Lily’s improvements in ballet he immediately understood Patrick’s obsession. She was so soft and caring, so youthful, it was something Art definitely needed throughout his life. Art thought the same things Patrick did, that she was the one who could probably take away all of his problems, all of those days he’d eat such bland food for his tennis diet, pushing himself so he could make Tashi proud, doing anything for Tashi but nothing was ever enough, she wanted good tennis and he wanted love. (IM SORRY, I WANT BOTH MEN)

Okay so this is actually fucking insane 😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁

You don't even notice their growing affection towards you, especially Art's. You've known Patrick for quite a while and so you're used to him being, how to say it... friendly. Really fucking friendly. Subtly touching you, complimenting the way you treat his darling daughter and make sure she gets to develop her talent.

And poor Art is feeling completely distressed, as if he wasn't capable of even half of whatever Patrick can do. He tries to joke with you and you respond equally as softly, even giggling at some of his silly jokes. He thinks you're an angel, but he's also afraid you like Patrick more. At least you don't make any decisions considering the kids, because you've been treating his Lily as if she was here since the beginning.

Art brings the topic of you once, when the boys are alone, which is the first time that it happens (as Patrick was usually the one to rant about you).

"She's really pretty."

"Who?" Patrick asks without looking up from his phone, probably thinking he's talking about some random celebrity.

"Lily and El's ballet teacher," Art mumbles.

Patrick teases the living hell out of Art that evening. And he makes sure to pay attention to his blonde friend's behaviour the next time they go to pick their girls up from practice. A pleasant discovery is made when Art stutters as he attempts to respond to something your say and his cheeks heat up like two full strawberries. Yeah, he makes fun of it.

But it also gets poor Patrick worried, considering everything that has happened over the last fifteen years... When Art got chosen by Tashi and favored by the whole tennis industry. The cutest one of the two. And considering your own softness and the ethereal aura of your being, he's thinking you might choose Art over him.

Without knowing or ever discussing it, the two friends become jealous of once another, or rather afraid, both of them finding themselves so deeply attached to you. Two confident men who used to be so smug and full of themselves are reduced to worried babies that can't help but feel neglected.

Luckily, their smart girls pick up on their dads' distress. Unaware of the reason, they play detectives and they dump their suspicionw on you. When you're talking with Art and Patrick the next time while the girls are changing in the locker rooms, you bring that topic up.

"The girls told me that you two have been having some issues. They said that you look worried. Is something going on?"

You speak to them like you're an angel sent from the heavens above, they really both want to drop to their knees and cry until you decide to be merciful enough and take them into your arms. The little frown of worry on your face and the crease between your brows are enough to send both of their hearts beating faster.

"Worried?" Patrick asks with a casual chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Do we look worried Art?"

You asshole, Art thinks, shooting his friend a glance. "I- I don't think so. Perhaps we're just getting older. A mid-life crisis, you know."

A giggle from your mouth gets them both to tremble on their feet.

"Okay, okay, I won't pry," you assure them with a nod and that beautiful smile of yours, "But if you feel like talking to someone, don't be afraid to reach out."

You pat both of their shoulders delicately, Art just ends up glancing at you with an open mouth as you move while Patrick has to physically prevent himself from grabbing you and stopping you from walking away.

Later in the evening, when their girls are asleep, they discuss your existence over the phone. Luckily, still on the best friend wavelength, they both come up with the same ideas. Somehow getting you close to them, closer than a normal ballet teacher should be to her students' parents, especially a father. Especially two fathers.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Request: How about some jealousy headcannons for Velvet , Eleanor, and Magilou?

(Tales of Berseria) Velvet, Eleanor, Magilou Jealousy HC's

Honestly, I was waiting until I had access to the skit sprites, and now that I have, it's time to UNLEASH the Berseria asks that's been laying dormant for nearly a year.

Velvet's jealousy is quiet, and very terrifying.

Thinking about it logically, she really shouldn't be that angry about S/O simply talking to other people than her.

She was a Daemon after all. And yet, S/O chose to stay with her despite that.

And right now, they were doing anything but that.

It takes a long while for the jealousy to build up, but it's nearly ready to blow up.

S/O notices her glaring at them, and the person they're talking to.

After a few moments, Velvet realizes she's staring and quickly looks away, acting like nothing is happening.

S/O walks after her, with Velvet continuing to walk despite her name being called.

(S/O) "Velvet?"

(Velvet) "What?"

(S/O) "Are you alright?"

She stops walking and glares at them again.

(Velvet) "Fine. Why?"

(S/O) "You...just looked a little angry is all-"

Her eyes narrow as her fists clench.

(Velvet) "A little?"

(S/O) "O-Okay, really angry! I'm sorry I haven't had much time for you lately, I've just been trying to get supplies and-"

(Velvet) "I said it's fine. Better for us to be stocked up anyway than wasting time."

She tries to play it off, but S/O knows her better than anyone at this point.

(S/O) "Well, I could use your help carrying some of it back to our rooms. And...I'd like to have some time alone with you, actually. There's this pretty spot near the inn we can sit down at!"

Velvet simply sighs and her shoulders relax a little.

Choosing to not mention the blush on her cheeks, S/O gently grabs her hand and squeezes it for reassurance.

Velvet says nothing else and lets them hold it for a few more seconds before slowly letting go.

(Velvet) "Come on, show me where we're putting the supplies."

Eleanor feels guilty for even thinking about being jealous.

The two of them were busy, especially on a journey like this, romance was almost impossible. She knew this, and yet...

Eleanor pouts when she sees S/O speaking to the other members of the group and goes off to be alone for a moment.

Maybe some fresh air would clear her head.

The sun was about to set, watching it glisten along the coastline they were on.

(Eleanor) "Maybe during the voyage, we could...-"

(S/O) "Eleanor?"

Eleanor nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears S/O voice come from behind.

(S/O) "Are you okay? You look upset."

(Eleanor) "A-Ah...Don't worry I-..."

Eleanor thought S/O was too busy to notice her lately, yet the fact they noticed her leaving in a crowded inn made her guilt grow.

She cuts herself off before simply sighing and clearing her throat.

(Eleanor) "I'd like to get dinner with you, if you don't mind."

(S/O) "Oh, sure. I can grab the others and-"

S/O immediately noticed Eleanor's body posture change, both her hands going behind her back.

S/O gently smiles at her before nodding.

(S/O) "There's nothing wrong with being a little selfish. Where do you want to go? My treat, tonight."

Eleanor smiled back and nodded.

(Eleanor) "I recall seeing an interesting food stand in town. Perhaps they're still open?"

Magilou doesn't really get that jealous.

She knows when people are lying or being serious.

She also is very much aware of herself, and how she truly feels.

Not to mention the incredible circumstances she and S/O found themselves in, going to assassinate a world leader.

With that being said, it would be remiss of her to not embarrass her S/O at every opportunity.

That was a sign of true love!

S/O is simply talking to Eizen regarding the Van Eltia.

And that was the time to strike.

(Magilou) "S/OOOOOOOOOOO!"

Magilou called out for S/O's name as she extended her hands and nearly tackling them to the floor.

Barely fending Magilou off of them, S/O stared at Magilou who began flailing at them.

Eizen gives Magilou an extremely unamused look while S/O tries to shut her up, with everyone looking at their direction.

The crew, port workers, the rest of the group, everyone's attention was on them.

(S/O) "W-What are you doing, Magilou?!"

(Magilou) "You barely spend time with me at all lately! As your beloved, I demand that you give me attention too!"

(S/O) "We were literally just talking ten minutes ago!"

(Magilou) "It's not enough!"

(Eizen) "Are you done? S/O has to get the supplies on the ship before sunset."

(Magilou) "This is a matter of the heart, Eizen! You wouldn't understand, for you do not possess a maiden of your own!"

(S/O) "I'll talk with you once I'm done, Magi! Just give me a few-"

(Magilou) "UGH! You wound me, S/O!"

(Velvet) "I'm about to give you a wound if you keep this noise up."

(Magilou) "Believe me, you'll understand my feelings once you have someone to call your own!"

[mellowwillowy]

"I'm tired of everything. I feel like evaporating."

Yan! Lawyer Husband will immediately drop down on anything he's working on, no matter how important or emergency it is. Better be safe than sorry, what if you do something silly? He'll bawl out blood for neglecting you again over these measly works.

"Let's drift ourself off into the dreamscape okay dear? Just rest and you'll feel better soon."

Yan! Boyfriend will scoop you up into his arm and coo at you. Will give you lots of refreshments as he cuddles with you as he wipes your tears and snot. (Doesn't sound romantic but it's R e a l i t y)

"Ssshhh, it'll be alright soon. I'll make sure of it."

Yan! Mafia Ringleader will try his best to not interrogate you and instead, pulling you into a hug. Will reassure you repeatedly until you are tired from crying and fall asleep on him.

"Don't worry, the problem has been dealt with."

Yan! Hacker will try his best to comfort you. He's trying his best so don't judge him okay? A nudge here and there while occasionally stroking your hair, easing you down with a pat on your back.

"There there, I'll find a way out."

Ongoing poll

[romanoffshouse]

Scarlett Johansson directing 'Eleanor Invisible'

[dawnwriterimagines]

hold me close, don't let me go...

Summary: Nell has a sleep-paralysis episode, thankfully, you notice quickly and wait it out with her.

---

"Nellie?" came the hushed whisper of her wife.

Nell's wide, panicked eyes flickering your way as the mattress dips beside her and shifts as you begin to prop yourself up to face her. "Hey, baby, hey," you lull her to focus on you. "Breathe for me, alright."

She sniffles, unmoving, bottom lip quivering and frustrated tears blooming along her eyelids, the first tear finally fell as you both made eye contact. How burdensome she felt when you found her this way...

"You're alright," your voice was hoarse, sleep-ridden, honestly if she weren't so caught up in the terrifying moment, she'd call it hot. But, she tried to focus on the way your arm snakes around her shoulder and you shift over to pull her into you.

Nell releases a short sob that's muffled through her lips that still wouldn't unclamp, having been shut tight since had awoken paralyzed. She's thankful as her eyes are averted from the open bedroom doorway, the darkness casting a shadow that seemed to similar to a person standing there...waiting...

She was much too sure that it wasn't the bent-neck lady, the woman that had haunted her all her life. Which made seeing the person in the doorway even worse. Something else to be terrified of...

For now, she was grateful you had thought to pull her close, the connection of your warm skin against her cheek, Nell's tears smeared against your collarbone. The tight embrace and stroke of her hair, the hushed reminder, "you're ok, just breathe, alright? I've gotchu," locking your leg to hers. "I gotchu, honey."

Nell closed her eyes against you, her breathing evening out as you kiss the top of her head, tenderly.

It was another minute of this before she could move her fingers, another before her toes and then finally, the hushed. "I'm sorry..." that came from her lips.

"Never be," you reply, stroking her cheek as your wife sucks in a breath, swallowing the salt of her tears. "Never ever be sorry for this."

Nell's eyes find their way up to you, her body moving freely, finally. Her arms squeezing back, wrapped tight around your waist, fingers digging into your skin, desperate for the sensation of her own muscles stretching and flexing to feel you, to hold you.

"Hear me?" you cradle the side of Nell's face.

Nell nods, silently, leaning close to feel you breathe against her. She lays her head on your shoulder, burying herself in the crook of your neck.

Usually, after an episode, they'd get out of bed, turn on the lights, brew some tea, wait till sunrise. But, this time, she needed to just breathe, and feel.

"I love you..."

"I love you."

You kiss your wife on her forehead first, then her eyelids as they close to feel her, then her cheek, to her lips. "I love you..." you repeat. "I won't let anything happen to you, ok?"

And Nell knew that was a promise as she found it easier to relax for the night with you holding her so close.

[vigsilantes]

[On a mission, Adrian and Y/N are trying to find a way out of a building]

Adrian, messing with a locked door: Babe, help me with this door!

Y/N: They said everything’s locked, it’s not gonna open…

[Adrian grabs a lamp and throws it at the door, trying but failing to break the window]

Y/N, whispering: VIG?!?!!

Adrian: What? You know this is how I always get out of escape rooms! If you break enough stuff, they open the door and kick you out!

Y/N, sighing then chuckling: Yeah, yeah you’re right.

[sexymilfwitch]

Today was a Fairytale

Parings: Princess!Kate Bishop x Fem!Reader 

Summary: Kate choses she wants to marry y/n after silently admiring her from her castle’s bedroom window

Words: 2197

Note: The title is after a taylor swift song, this is my second fic and idk how i feel about it but i hope everyone who sees it enjoys it!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 “Excuse me? Y/N?” I hear in a somewhat quiet voice

I turn around to come face to face with the princess, immediately I go to bow but she stops me once she realizes what I’m doing. 

“No no, please there's no need for that!” Princess Kathrine says as she giggles a little

“Forgive me for my reaction your highness, it's not everyday you run into the prettiest woman in all the lands.” I state as the princess’ cheeks turn a light shade of pink “To what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure of talking to you Princess Kathrine?”

“Please, call me Kate” she insists “I am here because as everyone knows i am to be betrothed soon” a twinge of pink hits her cheeks as she begins speaking again “And as you probably have heard in whispers around the kingdom, i've turned down every suitor who has come to court me.”

“Yes I have heard about you declining them all, but there was talk that you and Princess Maximoff were getting along well” the second i said that her eyes widened as she playfully shook her head

“Wanda? Oh no she's one of my best friends, nothing more.” 

“Princess Kath-” she put a finger up to my mouth to shush me as i went to speak

Removing her finger from me I was met with “Kate, I told you to call me Kate silly.” 

“My apologies Kate but as I was trying to ask, what brings you here?” I questioned “Don't get me wrong, I adore your company and presence. It's just that my bakery is far from the castle and it seems you’re not accompanied by any guards.” Kate blushed and started to smile 

“Did you know that my bedroom window looks perfectly at your bakery?” 

“No your highness, I didn't.”

“Well it does, and I've been watching you from afar for a while. Your breathtaking smile and energetic personality, I realized once my mother started inviting royalty from other kingdoms to court me that none of them would ever be you!” I was a bit taken aback by this information but kept listening to the princess “I know this all sounds a little crazy but I am in love with you!” 

My breath hitched as the princess hid her face in her hands. “What i'm trying to say is that i want to wed you y/n, i want you to come to the castle and court me.” she stated as i stayed silent 

With wide eyes and shaky hands I grabbed one of her hands in mine. “Princess, you don't know who I am, how could you be so sure that you want to be wed to me?” i looked into her eyes “i am only a baker your highness, I feel honored but surely one of your royal suitors would be a far better match for you.” I whispered as i looked away from her

“I know what I want, I am not some child anymore.” she stated “you being a baker and trying to look out for me is even more endearing y/n, i get that this is an outlandish thing to spring onto you and i'm truly sorry, but if you just come to the palace and let me show you who i am i promise you won't regret it.” 

As I looked back towards her she sent me a small smile “I will come to the castle” her smile grew a little “but I will not wed you right away.” as her smile started to fade i began to talk again “i want to know you, learn who you are. I'm not the type to jump into marriage, your highness. I would like for you to know who I am and for me to know you before we wed.” that gorgeous smile made its way back onto her face.

“Oh lovely! You will not regret this y/n!” she looked so happy as i smiled and hoped i wouldn't regret this. 

It had been a month since our first meeting. I was brought to the castle the next morning, Kate had accompanied the driver saying how she didnt want me to ride alone. The past weeks have been hectic, lots of people taking my measurements and teaching me what fork was for what dish. Why were there so many utensils on a table? Honestly it seemed absurd. I had barely gotten to spend time with Kate to learn about her although I had started to warm up to her, what little time i did get with her was mostly her asking me about myself.  

I was broken from my thoughts as Kate walked in and grabbed my hand as she wordlessly pulled me along with her “Kate? Where are you taking me?” 

She turned her head to the side a little to look and smirk at me “I’m taking you out, you've been cooped up in this castle too long!” 

I smiled and giggled out “Kate, I have to go to a fitting soon!”

“Too bad! I'm taking you to meet our head guard, he's also my best friend but he won't admit to us being friends, so don't listen to anything he says." I laughed at that last part and she smiled as she started walking next to me holding my hand as we got outside.

As we reached a training round with targets in a line far away, a man with ashy blonde hair and a bow in his hand came into view.

“Y/N this is my best friend, Clint Barton!” she exclaimed as he grumbled something about only being her teacher with a smile on his face.

He put down the bow as he walked up and hugged Kate “Technically im her archery teacher, but she's a little delusional so i just let her say im her best friend.” she hit his arm as she turned to me 

“I told you he'd deny it.” she whispered as i giggled 

Clint looked at us and smiled “Look this is cute and all, but Katie has some practice to do.” 

Kate walked towards her bow and ushered me over “actually Clint y/n here is going to be shooting, And I was hoping I'd get to teach her alone.” 

The blonde man simply smiled, raised his hands in the air and walked away.

“Katie? That's a cute little nickname” she blushed “also, i’m not actually shooting this thing am i?”

She raised the bow up “this thing is my bow and yes, i know you really only know random things about me like what my favorite book genre is or my favorite color. I want to share this with you, archery is something I love dearly. Just like how I love you, and I want to introduce my one love to my other love!” 

Even though I do know she loves mystery novels and her favorite color was purple, I was happy to learn about her interests. I frowned a little as she said she loved me, i haven't been able to say it back and i want to i'm just not ready yet. She's constantly assuring me it's okay and that my emotions move at their own pace especially since it's only been a month which i appreciated. 

I smiled and looked up at her “Well what are you waiting for bishop? Introduce me.” 

Her face lit up as she placed the bow in my left hand and got behind me as she fixed my stance. Once the arrow was set on the string for me she placed her hands on my hips and moved her head to my right shoulder.

“Okay now draw the bow and look at your target.” her breath on my neck made my ears turn a shade of red “Good girl, now release.” my heart sped up and I let go of the bow string.

The arrow struck the target right in the middle. I didn't notice seeing as I had already turned to look at Kate. she didn't notice either because she was already looking at me, my breath hitched once i realized we were face to face. Our mouths were inches away, Kate lifted her hand to hold my cheek as we leaned towards each other. 

Right as our lips were about to connect Clint came back “Katie! You both should be heading back in soon it's going to rain!” our heads turned towards him so fast im surprised we didn't get whiplash

Once he left we turned back to each other and laughed as Kate rested her forehead on my shoulder. 

She lifted her head and laughed out “Some best friend he is!” 

“It's okay Kate, we don't have to rush anything, you will have plenty of other opportunities to kiss me.” I kissed her cheek and walked away to head inside “You coming? It's going to rain.” 

“Yeah you head in, I'll meet you inside!” Kate said with pink cheeks as she headed towards the target y/n had shot minutes prior to drag it inside so she could keep it safe.

The past week with Kate was heavenly. I had learned so much about her and all of her interests, she told me about everything and anything. I realized I was ready to tell her I loved her and was ready to marry her, but I had never found the right time. She was taking me out today to a ‘very special place’ so hopefully I would be able to tell her then. 

She had made me put on a blindfold the second we got into the car claiming it was a secret, she had chosen to drive her own car which i loved since her purple Firebird was awesome. Once the car started to slow down I realized we were there.

As I was unbuckling my seatbelt I heard Kate get out of the car and run around to my side of the car.

She opened my door and grabbed my hand and stood behind me as she took off my blindfold.   “Y/N i'm trusting you with this place because i love you and i want you to know all of me, this waterfall is my favorite thing in the whole kingdom, second to you of course.” 

 I looked around, and took in the gorgeous colors, it truly looked like a place you'd see on a greeting card. 

“Y/N, Look at this!” Kate shouted from the top of the waterfall how she got there so fast and how i didnt notice is beyond me.

“Kate, get down from there you're gonna get hurt!”

As soon as I said that she jumped off into the water below, after waiting a few seconds for her to come to the surface, she didn't pop back up.

“Kate stop it, you're scaring me Kathrine!” no response “god damnit bishop” i said as i ran and jumped into the water.

The second I jumped in and my body hit the freezing water, there she was popping her head back up. 

I swam over to her laughing form and hit her shoulder “you scared me, don't ever do that again! I thought I lost you before I had the chance to tell you I love you, you idiot.” 

Her eyes widened and she smiled “you love me?” 

“Of course I love you Kate, I have for a while now. Since the day we almost kissed at the archery range. I've had feelings for you since you walked into my bakery and asked me to wed you” i smiled at her lovingly 

I wrapped my arms around her neck as her hands came down to rest on my waist. “Kate, can I kiss you?” 

“Yes y/n please kiss me.” kate begged 

The second she said yes our lips were crashing against one another. My fingers ran through her hair and her grip on my waist tightened, we parted smiling and slightly out of breath as our foreheads rested against one another.

“I love you Kate.” i finally whispered 

Kate smiled “You don't understand how badly I've wanted to hear you say that. Y/N i truly deeply love you.” 

Our lips found eachother once again, but this time it wasnt messy or rough it was just passionate. As her grip on my waist tightened again I pulled her even closer to me, we were soaking wet kissing under a waterfall, it was like one of those cheesy scenes in a rom-com.

As we broke away again I smiled at her “Did you just quote Padme from Attack of the Clones to tell me you love me?” 

The raven haired woman smirked “Maybe I did, maybe I didn't.” 

“Marry me Kate.” her eyes widened and smile deepened. “I'm ready to marry you.

Two weeks later we were married. The wedding was a lovely lilac and white theme with plenty of people in attendance. The honeymoon was even better if you catch my drift. When we got back home Kate had gifted me with the target I had shot all those weeks ago, the arrow still embedded in the bullseye.

[inthehoneymoonwithconnorrk800]

washing machine heart

Tw: mentions of domestic abuse, bad use of english.

You blinked when you saw another message from Devi. You smiled and didn't hesitate to answer her, she replied instantly and you continued with the topic of this year's goals because Devi didn't want to say a word, the most you managed to get was that it's a surprise. You mumbled defeated and looked at your beloved pet who returned your discouragement. "I'm coming, Dido." You sneaked up and walked over to your turtle's little makeshift pond. You'd had her since you were nine years old when you and your younger sisters asked for a puppy, but after your father's scream, the most you could get was Dido. You adored Dido and you were sure she adored you. Or at least she had to because you was the only one who cared for her. "Good morning, sweetheart."

You almost jumped with surprise when you heard your father. It was very rare to saw him in the early morning, you usually only met him for about five minutes at breakfast before you left for school. "Good morning, dad. " You headed to the small yard where you threw the garbage. Your father smiled at you like he did when he wasn't angry and went to the refrigerator, he was wearing sweatpants and his classic white bividi. "Would you like a salad?" he pointed to the apples they had gotten from a contest at the grocery market. "Sure, let me get dressed." Apparently you wouldn't eat at school today. Much better, breakfast food wasn't very delicious and ended up leaving you hungrier. You pulled out your backpack and put away your cell phone. For a moment, you thought about Ben. Your nemesis. You'd see him in most of the classes today, but that's the good thing, they would be exciting classes, and besides, you'd prepared in advance for the courses. "So early? "your father asked with a distracted air, as if you didn't usually leave at this hour. You were about to answer, but your sister Liana appeared, a curious thing because she was the sleepiest. "Will you two please stop making noise?" she growled. "You won't let me sleep."

"Okay, my life." She left just as she came. Your progenitor passed the plate and silverware, apparently, he had taken the matter of keeping quiet lightly. "How's school going?" "Pretty good, although today is the first day. " You pinned your gaze on his hair, he was balding and gray hair was starting to appear. You moved your legs anxiously, he'll soon be too old…. You shook your head at your dark thoughts. "Much better, let's not lose focus on the studio." You agreed. "Do you know what we're going to have for dinner?" "No idea, that's your mother's business." You mentally cursed, they were still fighting. "Well, whatever," you said hurriedly, "I'll be leaving in a few minutes. "Don't you want me to come with you?" "Uh…, no, thanks. I'm a big girl now." "It's dangerous to go out at this hour, we don't live in the safest place in the world…" "I wouldn't worry about that "you insisted. "I've been out several times and, besides, I know self-defense." You walke quickly to the door, preventing from saying anything else to antagonize you. "Goodbye!"

You were thankful it was still dawn and jogged out of the building. You could hear barking from the street and some sounds of cars, the usual. You relaxed for a moment. You hated being late, the thought alone made you nauseous. Often as a child you would start crying when you were late somewhere and your face would turn so red they would call you tomato. You raised your arm towards a bus and decided to distract yourself for a moment by the window, you didn't want to invade your first morning with unpleasant memories. The sky was blue when you ran into Eleanor. "Hi!" you kissed her cheek. You expected some new theatrical greeting and so it was because she brought her hand up to her chest. "How's that?" "It's hello! in Malaysia, I'm practicing for a role at the club." "You don't even need to practice, you're the president." "Aww, stop it." "It's just the truth, you're the best. What's with the earring?" "You like it? I picked it out at a Cherokee store." "In a Cherokee store? "you asked with interest. You were of native Latino ancestry and were glad to know that you always hear from other Native Americans. "Yes it is! It's near my house, if you come by on Friday I can show it to you. I brought you some sweet min paos, my stepmother loved how you complimented her baked goods." "She's an excellent cook…and wow, thank you" happily, you stowed the small cardboard container in your backpack. "Wait a minute, isn't that Fabiola?" "Let's both say hello to her at the same time! " Both of you headed for the entrance to the technology room. However, you collided with the undesirable. "What's with that zombie face, (Y/n)?" he smirked presumptuously, he was right, you rarely slept well." Nervous because you'll come in second place?" "Oh, please "you teased. "I could take you down single-handedly." "Oh, really? Just like I did with you in Karate class?"

"Just so you know, I got brown belt. I'm going to take your place this year." "Yeah, right," he replied as if what you said was a silly joke. "Remember I beat you by two extracurriculars." "Don't claim victory! " you exclaimed. "I negotiated with Devi and now I'll be in the same number of classes as you. Who knows, maybe I'll overshadow you in some. "You wouldn't dare!" he looked at you with indignation. "Well yes I do" you pointed at his chest. "(Y/N)" Eleanor called out to you. "This isn't over!" "No doubt about it! " you gave him a mean look and went to Eleanor. You ran to catch up with Fabiola, who was unusually distracted, her afro hair was quite shiny, apparently she had slathered on some lotion. Dramatically, Eleanor put her hand to her chest and you mimicked her, though not with as much expression. "Did I miss something?" "It's a greeting in Malaysia "you casually commented. "I greet them too " she imitated you. "Have you seen Devi?" "Not a sign of her." For some reason, you had a feeling she would sweep them off their feet to some madness. That was what you liked about her, she could do things you wouldn't dare me to do. "Girls!"you heard Devi's excited voice. "Devi!" "Everything okay?" you raised an eyebrow. In the distance, you could see the silhouette of annoying Ben. "Yes! I have a plan that will change our lives." Her bright gaze told you that you would unite in madness, as you were used to since elementary school.

@leossmoonn

@babyxbunnyx

@benpaxfab

@photoboothphotos

@aaml2704

@neverhaveievergiffed

@bengrossart-blog

@bengrossart-blog

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Request: Velvet, Eleanor, and Magilou with a shy S/O who is trying to hide the hickeys their girl friend gave them.

(Tales of Berseria) Velvet, Eleanor, and Magilou's S/O trying to hide their hickeys

Gotta say for all three of them, ow.

Velvet's S/O struggles to look at her directly, one hand gently rubbing their neck.

Velvet has a smug grin as she crosses her arms.

(Velvet) "I think that looks good on you, personally."

(S/O) "I-It's really obvious where they are!"

(Velvet) "I'm pretty sure that's the whole point of a hickey. Besides showing you're mine anyway-"

Honestly, she doesn't really care what anyone thought about the marks. And seeing S/O get this flustered over them was pretty amusing.

But there was one problem with her carefree attitude about it.

(Laphicet) "S/O? What happened to your neck?"

(S/O) "O-Oh! Well, t-that's!-"

(Eizen) "Why are you that flustered about-...Oh."

Eizen sighs, making Eleanor walk over to the group and realize what happened.

(Eleanor) "Oh my-VELVET!"

She gives Eleanor a glance, raising an eyebrow.

(Velvet) "What?"

(Eleanor) "It's...just so indecent! Why did you-"

(Laphicet) "Did Velvet do something to S/O?"

(Eizen) "No boy, don't ask questions about it. You'll learn when you're older."

(Laphicet) "...Huh?"

S/O had their face buried in their hands, making Laphicet even more confused.

Eleanor crossed her arms and looked extremely disgusted.

(Eleanor) "I cannot believe you two would-"

(Velvet) "S/O, go wash those marks off your neck. And Laphicet, it was from bug bites."

(Laphicet) "What kind of bug would...?-"

(Eizen) "One you shouldn't ask about. Here, let's ask Rokurou about it, and leave the ladies at...this."

Eizen quickly rushed away Laphicet from S/O, Velvet, and Eleanor.

(S/O) "I want to die..."

(Eleanor) "Well...at least wear a scarf!"

(Velvet) sigh "Pride still intact, S/O?"

(S/O) "No..."

Eleanor may have...gotten carried away in the moment.

Truthfully, if she had hickeys on herself, she would absolutely panic.

So to see that she had caused very noticeable ones on S/O's neck and shoulders.

(Eleanor) "...Oh my-..."

Eleanor and S/O struggle to look each other in the eye, both blushing a scarlet red.

(Eleanor) "I am so sorry...L-Let me find you something to cover it up! Or at least some makeup!"

Despite her best efforts, it is extremely noticeable.

(Rokurou) "Hey, S/O? Think ya got something on your neck."

(S/O) "D-D-Do I?!"

(Rokurou) "Yeah, looks like bite ma-...Oh."

Velvet turns around to both Eleanor and S/O, noticing both their expressions.

(Velvet) "Should've just let that lie, Rokurou."

(Rokurou) "Yeeaaaah, didn't realize till it was too late. But hey, didn't think you had it in ya, Eleanor!"

Eleanor facepalmed and swore under her breath, making S/O stare at the ground even harder.

(Velvet) "It's becoming our business when we can hear you two clear as day."

(S/O & Eleanor) "WHAT?!"

(Rokurou) "They're already dead, Velvet. No need to drive the dagger further."

Magilou did that shit on purpose.

Sure, there were other ways of saying that S/O and Magilou were a couple.

But those ways are a lot less interesting and hot.

And Magilou bit hard.

(S/O) "M-Magilou, I'm covered in bites!"

(Magilou) "That you are. And?"

(S/O) "AND?! I CAN'T GO OUT LIKE THIS!"

(Magilou) "Sure ya can! Here, let's go show the others right now!"

(S/O) "N-NO NO NO! WAIT-"

Magilou does not help with S/O's flustered reactions at all, in fact she made it worse.

The first people to see them was Velvet and Eleanor.

(Eleanor) "Good morn-..."

Eleanor's voice was caught in her throat as her eyes widened, looking at S/O's neck.

(Velvet) "...I'm even more glad I had my room far away from you two."

(Magilou) "Come now, you should be rejoicing at the healthy love blossoming between your two companions!"

Both Eleanor and Velvet's glance turned to S/O, who was on the floor, arms in their knees, and face in hands.

Accompanied by a noise that either sounded like a whine of agony, muffled screaming, or a mixture of both.

Then, the two looked back to Magilou.

(Eleanor) "Ugh, too much information."

(Velvet) "Doubt she really cares about that."

(Magilou) "I don't!~"

[mellowwillowy]

𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬

Your lover is forced to work far away from you and they are just not having it! They should be breathing the same air as you and not be put far away! Alas, they don't have a choice but to finish this errand quick.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 is not having it. Being away from you for a long time for this silly field trip wannabe? Why must his loyal, mafia ass-shit client get himself into another trouble that requires him to work on-site, away from the house, away from you?

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 will actually make a manual on handling every possibility that he could think of happening to you and hand it to his men and the maids working. What to do if Spouse doesn't want to eat? What to do if Spouse is suddenly sick? What to do if Spouse is throwing tantrum-

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 bets that anyone who upset Spouse while he was away will have their fingers removed, the number of fingers removed depends on how fatal their mistake was although he was positive that his and this annoying Mafia Ringleader's men are trained enough to prevent that from happening.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 will get you some gifts, lots of gifts. Really, he's a simple man. Oh and if by chance you two manage to have children, they only get 1/10 what he gets for you. Cry about it, brats.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 will turn all explosive toward anyone who slows down his work, your average angry demanding boss except that he doesn't explode with illogical bullshits. Might accidentally smack Kaspar (the client) once right in his face out of fuming anger.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 who will be all clingy (rare, very rare) once he gets home because dude. He was away for some time, looking at all these mf faces that were not even you. Give him lots of cuddles, and kisses and just treat him like a puppy for today because he will return to normal again the next day, IT'S YOUR ONLY CHANCE.

"Woah, you get a lot for me, dear. How about I share some with the kids?" (If you have it) "Sure, but I doubt they can use any of it." Yulian replies nonchalantly as he watches you unwrap everything. He is a menace for purposely picking up stuff the kids won't be able to use (haha!).

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 gets all grumpy for it! Do they think it's fun having to trick you into allowing him to go on this shitty field trip? Ohhh come on now, you know he works as some sort of programmer or hacker, one that definitely doesn't need him to work ON SITE!!

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 will have to force both of your friends (and his) to take care of you. As much as you all are close to each other, he is not a fan of letting them watch you in his stead. Sure, this close friend of yours is used to taking care of you, you once lived with him after all.

But the jealousy factor of not being able to manage everything is still there! And his childhood friend, she might have a bad influence on you for the month he is away! Sure, your friend will not allow that but he's just skeptical of everyone! He doesn't trust anyone but him holding the leash to your coll- ekhem, watching you.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 will get all explosive, irrationally too. Not only toward people who slow his work down but to all his men. Trust me, it was hell for everyone. One wrong word and a punch will meet their face~

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 will actually spare some time to get gifts for you and the others, of course, they only get a portion of what he gets for you. Will smile for once after a while at the thought of you unwrapping the presents eagerly and scare his men for a moment (Is boss finally losing it?)

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 will try his best to come home unscratched. Work is tough, yes but seeing you chiding him in worry is tougher! The more bruised up he is, the harder it'll be for him to slip out like an eel next time!

"Are you seriously only giving us these after all the troubles we have, taking care of your little friend?!" "God, look at what he got for you, let's swap." "Nuh-uh, get lost, Lemon." Blue cackles at the sight of you beaming from the gifts he hand-picked for you. Ah right, the gifts for the others are picked by his men since he can't be bothered about it.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐇𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 is not a shady asshole like 𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 so no field trip.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 is rather indifferent about this. What can he do about this? Pass it and have people shoot him daggers from every angle for being irrational? Oh lol no, mon chèri. He values his life as much as he values yours.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 will station all his men to keep you safe and give everyone notice of 'whoever fucks up will have their head hung'. Effective enough to ensure the maids from doing anything dumb to you.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 is not as wary as Yulian but he is also not a lenient one as well. You get what the others get. Fuck around while he's away and find out what he has in store for you. Definitely not a pleasant one.

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 will surprisingly get something for you though just one. Quality over quantity, he'll quote. He was just too busy and unbothered to get something for you out of no occasion going on. Besides, he could just get you some when he is more relaxed and not so on guard like this. Wouldn't want to get all bruised up or even dead just because he is in a hunt for presents!

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 is as normal as usual. No explosive behavior, this is his 'daily' work. He's used to being away from you and he is used to being absent from your presence. (Bro literally wait for you to awaken from your coma).

𝐘𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 will smile at the sight of you unwrapping the said gift. He is content enough to see you awake and reacting to his gift, either with a scowl or a smile, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you are awake to see what he has bought for you.

"You know, I've always wished you could at least wake up and see the mountain of gifts I had prepared for you. But then I realized, no mountain of surprises would ever wake you up so I dusted it all down as a log of firewood." "You are just making up that story so that I will feel romantic about being given just a TRINKET?" 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫 looks away from you comically while you shake him hard. That said, he means every word of it. (Angst baby)

Note: I am rolling, why is everyone here so petty? Yulian to his (if he has) kids, Blue to Lemon and Grape while Eleanor just 👨🏻‍🦯

[r2in2p]

- MAIN BOTLIST -

✮⋆˙ - MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE

✮⋆˙ - MEAN GIRLS (2024)

✮⋆˙ - COMMUNITY

✮⋆˙ - BROOKLYN NINE-NINE

✮⋆˙ - THE GOOD PLACE

✮⋆˙ - CELEBRITIES

REQUESTING RULES

[domxmarvel]

Never have I ever-Masterlist

💙=Male 💖=Female 💛=Neutral 🌈=Fluff 💦=Smut 💀=Angst 💜=Mtf 🖤=Ftm

Devi Vishwakumar

Sparks 💖🌈

Aneesa Qureshi 

Kamala Nandiwadal 

Me? 💖🌈

Benjamin "Ben" Gross

Better 💖🌈

Make it worth it 💖💦

Nalini Vishwakumar 

Fabiola Torres

Eleanor Wong

Trent Harrison

Ethan Morales

Delicious 💖💦

[adiraargent]

could you write something about Eleanor Levetan? Anything would be fine, I just want someone to write something about it.

summary: you find out Eleanor never actually liked you, she just used you to get revenge on Drea warnings: none, angst, betrayal

The rain poured outside, its relentless drumming against the windowpanes echoing the turmoil in your heart as you stood in front of your girlfriend. Her piercing gaze bore into yours, a silent challenge hanging in the air between you.

"They warned me about you, I should have listened," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. She watched as your bottom lip trembled, your eyes glassing over as you stared at her.

Eleanor's expression remained impassive, her eyes betraying none of the emotions swirling beneath the surface. "And yet here you are," she replied, her voice as cold as the rain outside. "But it's too late now."

You swallowed hard, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. You had ignored the warnings, disregarded the cautionary tales whispered in hushed tones by those who knew the truth about Eleanor Levetan. And now, as you faced her in the dimly lit room, you realised the extent of your mistake.

The truth was, you had been drawn to Eleanor like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the allure of her cool personality, the way she dressed... her pretty eyes, the way her lip twitched at the corners before she'd smile. But now, as you stood before her, you couldn't help but feel a sense of regret creeping in, a gnawing uncertainty about the path you had chosen.

"I never meant for things to turn out this way," you admitted, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. "I thought I could handle whatever you threw at me, but I was wrong."

Eleanor's expression softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something akin to sympathy crossing her features. "You should have known better," she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of regret. "But I suppose it's too late for regrets now."

As the rain continued to fall outside, you felt a sense of despair wash over you, the weight of your choices pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy burden. You had walked willingly into Eleanor's world, blinded by the promise of love and security, only to find yourself ensnared in a web of lies and deceit from which there seemed to be no escape.

And as you stood there, facing Eleanor in the midst of the storm, you couldn't help but wonder if you would ever find a way to break free from the chains that bound you, or if you would remain trapped in her grasp forever, a casualty of your own misguided ambition. "I love you Ellie," you choked out

"I only used you to get close to Drea."

But for now, all you could do was weather the storm, hoping against hope that someday, somehow, you would find a way to reclaim the life you had lost and the person you used to be before Eleanor Levetan came into your life.