#it's strangely soothing as you run around in these dark ruins

[beevean]

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness

Aiolon Cave Temple

[p0ckykiss]

i dream in the rain (it's you) - jeon jungkook

summary -> if jungkook is the sun, then you are the rain. and jungkook has always loved the rain, so dearly.

warnings -> female reader x jungkook, friends to lovers, pining god, jungkook just yearns, fluff

most of his memories of you are tied to the rain, one way or another.

the earliest of it that he remembers is when you were middle schoolers, the autumn downpour ruining his friends’ soccer game and, effectively, his lunch hour too. jungkook's friends all scatter to find cover, and he does the same, ending up in a direction none of them had gone to. he ends up next to you, too shy to sit on the bench with your dripping clothes, embarrassed at the ugly squelch your muddy shoes make. he simply puts his novel down and hands you a yellow handkerchief, telling you not to catch a cold. it doesn’t do much for your soaked hair, but you return it the next day—folded neatly, smelling of fabric softener—and he gets a smile from you.

jungkook remembers that day; he’d thought you had the prettiest eyes.

it’s raining the first time he sleeps over at your house, giddy when you crush him in a hug upon arrival. he doesn’t sleep much that night, the rain outside soothing as he lies awake, hyper-aware of your soft breathing next to him (of your pretty eyes, your pretty hands, your pretty everything).

by the next morning, he knows that there are three moons in the glow-in-the-dark galaxy of your bedroom ceiling, and that you mumble in your sleep.

it’s raining when jungkook stumbles into a convenience store in tenth grade, cursing at the sky. he loiters in the aisles, not really planning on making a purchase, until he comes face to face with you near the assortment of drinks. he gets steered straight to the little table by the window, you running off with an endearing 'I will buy you something, wait!’, leaving him to watch the raindrops’ race along the glass. you bought him strawberry milk and an umbrella.

(jungkook walks you home that day as a thank you, heat coloring his face when you bump shoulders, huddled close beneath see-through plastic.)

when you leave for university, jungkook catches himself yearning for you every time the skies are a little grey. he finds his heart aches whenever he pulls out the umbrella, his shoulder strangely lonely.

and when you try to teach him piano over the break—fingers over his and your smile gentle as he plays a piece you wrote in your dorm room—spring rainfall pitter-patters against the windowsill as if singing along. jungkook doodles hearts on your notebook when you aren't looking. jungkook finds his stomach twists painfully at how your cheeks redden and how your eyes glimmer when you talk about your new roommate jake. he crosses the hearts out, and squishes your cheeks in his hands—it hides the rose flush, but the warmth of it burns against jungkook's palms, and the shrill annoyance of your yell sears readily at his heart.

it is storming terribly when you call him one night, hesitant and shaky-voiced, to break the news of a bruised heart. jungkook knows neither you nor jake are at fault—but he knows how it hurts. he wishes he could be right at your side, thumbing away your tears and kissing your head, cuddling the pain away. instead, he puts aside his assignment and video-calls you from his own dorm room, cities away. and through the pixelated display and delayed sound, he knows he’s made you laugh.

if he weren’t a mere mortal with questionable caffeine levels in his blood, he’d brave a thousand storms to hear the sound again.

there is no umbrella when jungkook finds a mirror in you, sees his heart’s affections reflected in how your eyes soften when they meet his own. the summer sky falls on you both in timid drizzles, and you stand in the open while people around you hasten to get out of the rain.

“what?”

you bite your lip, and it pinkens in a way that has jungkook's heart in knots so dangerous. your shoulders sag a bit when you repeat, unsurely, “i said, i think i love you.” you look frightened to say it, look like you wish you hadn’t. “i think i always have, maybe.”

jungkook takes your hand before you can curl in on yourself too much. he looks you in the eye when he professes, “you know i love you too, right? just as much, just as… similarly.”

he knows you know, with the way you look apologetic at that. with how your mouth purses, your frown feigning confidence, right before you ask, “did i realise too late?”

jungkook grins, tugging you close. rain droplets have caught along your eyelashes, sparkling across your gaze like the constellations on the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. jungkook brushes away the soaked strands that stick to your forehead, makes room for a spot to land a kiss against. “never too late, not with me.”

you go that specific blush pink that he’d once loathed, curling into jungkook, face against his collar, arms around his waist, grumbling something about i love you, i love you, i love you.

jungkook laughs, and you really do look like fools, drenched to the bone, embracing in the rain. “well, i’ve never stopped loving you.”

because you are the rain to his shine, and he’s always loved the rain. and despite what one may think, loving the rain isn’t so bad after all—not when it lets the sun shine through it, merging into the prettiest colors of love.

[pastryfication]

love at first crash | ollie bearman

part of the love at first . . . series

pairing: oliver bearman x reader note: idk if they trust ollie with a ferrari but just run with it.

the impact is sudden, a violent jolt that sends your car careening off course, your heart leaping into your throat as you struggle to regain control. the world spins around you, a blur of colors and sounds, until your car finally screeches to a stop, the silence that follows almost deafening.

for a moment, you just sit there, gripping the steering wheel with trembling hands, your breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. you force yourself to unbuckle the seatbelt, pushing open the door with shaky fingers, and step out onto the pavement. your legs feel weak beneath you, barely able to hold you up as you survey the damage.

your car is a mess, the front end crumpled beyond recognition, but it’s not the wreckage that sends your heart into a fresh wave of panic—it’s the sight of the other car. a sleek, red, and undoubtedly expensive ferrari. your stomach twists into knots as you realize just what you’ve done, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes trace the scratches marring the once pristine paint.

“oh no, oh no, oh no,” you mutter under your breath, your hands flying to your face as the reality of the situation sinks in. “i hit a ferrari. i actually hit a ferrari.”

before you can spiral any further, the door of the other car swings open, and out steps the driver—a young man, tall and lean, with dark, tousled hair that falls into his eyes. he quickly scans the scene, his eyes finally landing on you. for a brief moment, you’re caught in his stare, the world narrowing to just the two of you, and despite everything, you can’t help but feel a strange, magnetic pull towards him.

but then reality crashes back down, and all you can think about is the fact that you’ve just crashed into his ferrari, and your car is totaled, and there’s no way you can afford to fix this.

“are- are you okay?” he asks, his voice fighting hard to stay steady despite the obvious concern in his eyes. he moves toward you, but you’re too wrapped up in your own panic to register anything beyond the guilt gnawing at your insides.

“your car,” you stammer, your voice high and shaky as you look back at the ferrari. “i’m so, so sorry. i didn’t mean to- i don’t know how this happened. i just-”

“hey, it’s okay,” he interrupts gently, his voice already seeming to be calming down, the soft tone feeling almost reassuring as he steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “i mean, it’s just a car. i’m alright. what matters is that you’re okay. are you hurt?”

his words take a moment to sink in, but when they do, you can’t help but stare at him, utterly dumbfounded. “just a car?” you repeat, incredulous. “but it’s a ferrari! it’s not just a car- and- and my car-” you glance back at the wreckage, the panic swelling up again. “i completely smashed my car. i’m so sorry. i don’t know how i’m going to-”

“hey, breathe,” he says, and this time, he gently places a hand on your arm, the touch warm and grounding. you don’t know how he manages to stay so calm. a man around 20 driving a ferrari and being completely calm about ruining it. not something you’d ever think possible. “we’ll figure this out. cars can be fixed or replaced—and i have an insurance.”

you nod, trying to take in a deep breath like he says, but to your horror, it catches in your chest, and before you know it, tears are welling up in your eyes. it’s all too much—the crash, the shock, the overwhelming guilt of damaging something so expensive. you’re on the verge of breaking down right there on the side of the road.

“hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice soothing as he steps even closer, forcing himself to stay calm as his hand comes to still, resting gently on your arm. “you’re in shock. i think that’s normal. just- just take a deep breath.”

his presence is oddly calming, despite the slight waver in his voice, and you focus on the way he speaks, trying to match your breathing to his. after a few moments, the trembling starts to ease, and you manage to blink away the tears, finally looking up at him through blurry eyes.

“i’m so sorry,” you whisper, your voice still shaky but a little steadier now. “i can’t believe i hit your car.”

he smiles, soft and reassuring, and it’s like the weight on your chest lifts just a little. “it’s really okay,” he says, his eyes shining with kindness, understanding, and maybe even something deeper, something that makes your heart skip a beat despite the situation. “i promise, i’m not worried about the car. i’ll get it fixed. i’m just glad we’re both okay.”

you look at him, really look at him, and there’s something almost surreal about this moment—standing here, on the side of the road, next to a wrecked ferrari, being comforted by a stranger who should be furious, but isn’t. instead, there’s a connection, something electric in the air between you.

“i’m ollie,” he says, offering his name like it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if you’re not standing in the aftermath of a car crash.

you give him your name, your voice still shaky but stronger now, and he repeats it softly. “nice to meet you,” he says, and the words feel almost absurd given the circumstances, but also strangely fitting.

you exchange insurance details, though your hands are still trembling slightly as you write. the whole time, ollie stays close, his presence comforting in a way that feels almost too natural, too easy, as if you’ve known each other far longer than these few minutes. he talks to you, his voice a calming undercurrent to the chaos around you, distracting you from the panic still simmering beneath the surface.

when the tow trucks finally arrive, you both linger, neither of you in a rush to leave. there’s an unspoken connection, something that feels too important to let go of just yet. ollie seems to sense it too, hesitating before he speaks again.

“you know, we could always grab a coffee sometime,” he suggests, almost as if he’s testing the waters. “maybe talk about something other than cars?”

“i’d like that,” you say, your heart lighter now, the earlier panic fading into something else entirely.

he smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you believe in things like fate, like maybe some things are just meant to be. “great,” he says, pulling out his phone to exchange numbers. “i’ll call you.”

you nod, watching him closely as he taps away at you phone. his hair falls softly in front his eyes and a goofy grin is spread across his face.

you just crashed your cars, experiencing something possibly traumatising together, but he’s smiling goofily, and you can’t help but smile too. because who would have thought that your day would go like this?

guess you could call it love at first crash.

[bahablastplz]

All In | Chapter 7

pairing: Lee Felix x f!reader (mafia au)

summary: You didn't know what you were getting yourself into when you started dating Yang Jungwon, notorious mafia boss. Your life gets flipped upside down when you're found beaten and bloody by SKZ, the rival mafia group, and you're quickly integrated into their lives. What will happen when you try to leave your old life behind and start anew?

chapter summary: you wake up in a strange place tied to a chair. you find yourself confronting your past in the worst ways.

warnings: please see series masterlist for all warnings

series masterlist ~~ series taglist ~~ main masterlist

When you wake up, you’re tied to a chair. You scoff at the ridiculousness of it all, the cliche of getting kidnapped, waking up in an abandoned warehouse, and being tied to a chair. But of course, that’s exactly what happened. 

Your first thought is that you’re still wearing your dress, the expensive and elegant gown given to you by Jeongin. Once beautiful and appreciated, it now sits uncomfortably on your frame and scratches against your skin. It’s dirty around the edges now, slightly torn in a few places, and has blood stains on it though you’re not sure why. Your heart pangs in your chest when you think back to Jeongin who put a lot of effort into picking out your outfit and now it’s ruined. 

You take a moment to remember the events from the gala. 

Thinking about dancing with Felix makes your cheeks heat up and you shake your head, willing the thought away. Seriously, not the time. Never the time. You remember seeing Woojin, which makes your stomach twist uncomfortably… then what happened? Jungwon… Shit.

“Did you miss me?” Your head snaps up to see the man that you had hoped you would never see again sitting right in front of you.  You must not have seen him in the dark, as your eyes have really yet to adjust to the new environment but you wish you could just close your eyes and not open them again, feigning sleep. You know it wouldn’t work, so you take him in; he’s still wearing what you assume was his outfit for the gala, a black suit and tie with blazer unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. Once his words register, you scoff and look elsewhere, anywhere else but the man in front of you. 

“Go to Hell.” You try your best to spit it out but your voice betrays you, cracking on the last word and revealing your fears. Jungwon laughs. 

“Is that any way to greet your boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two weeks?” 

“EX-boyfriend,” you emphasize. “As I remember, you beat me half to death. Sorry to break it to you, but that warrants a break-up in my books.” 

The man stands up, walking over to you and lifts your head to meet his gaze. You struggle against the tight rope chafing against your wrists and Jungwon lets out a breathy laugh. 

“I don’t really think you’re in a position to be talking back to me,” he says softly while punctuating each word. When you roll your eyes at him you’re met with a hard slap to your face and your hands jerk against the rope in an attempt to cradle and soothe the spot he just hit. “Bitch,” he spits at you. 

He walks around the chair, lost in thought. “If you’re hoping that they’ll come to save you, you’re sorely mistaken,” he says. 

“You don’t know that,” you say. Your heart squeezes at his words. 

He scoffs. “Why would they come and save you? You were just a pawn. Woojin told us everything. He told us about Lee Know, the infiltration, and how you played good at being Chan’s little pet. They’re not coming back for you. For Lee Know? They probably won’t come back for him either, that would be a suicide mission,” he laughs. 

“If you’re so sure they won’t come for me, why am I tied up?” It doesn’t make sense. It really just doesn’t add up. 

“You seem to forget I’m a cautious man. I’m not stupid to think that you wouldn’t run the first chance you have… and you’re mine. If I let you go, you’d run pathetically back to SKZ to whore yourself up to them, crying about what an awful man I am as if they’re any better. I don’t like sharing. You should know that,” he says, gripping your chin suddenly and forcing eye contact. “If you’re going to die, I’m going to be the one to kill you. I’m going to take my time with you and have my fun, yeah? Sit pretty here like the useless bitch you are, I’ll be back for you.” 

And with that, he leaves. You resist the urge to vomit as he closes the door behind him, emerging you in darkness. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. Instead, you sit alone with your thoughts and try to find a slimmer of hope. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Jungwon is wrong, you decide. They will come back for you. Just because Jungwon didn’t come for you when you were in the same situation doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t. You hadn’t known SKZ for very long, but they were kind, in a weird sense. And strangely loyal in a way that Jungwon just didn’t understand. You saw it for the first time when Woojin had touched you and lied to Chan–they cared more about loyalty and honesty than anything else. Chan’s words from the beginning of the evening rang through your ears: “We won’t let anything happen to you.” They will come, they will come, they will come. You repeat it like a mantra and you find that it soothes you. Isn’t that strange? That the one thing that soothes you and gives you the most hope is the prospect of being saved by the mafia group you tried so hard to escape not that long ago?

You find yourself thinking more about your dance with Felix as well. I want you to stay happy, he had said. It makes butterflies swarm in your stomach to think about but you try to will them away. He probably didn’t mean anything by that, you decide, it was just a nice comment. 

You don’t know how much time passes before that door opens again. You find that you almost fall asleep in the darkness despite the uncomfortable position. You physically recoil when you see the person that opens the door. Woojin. 

“Hello little mouse,” he says. He gets close. Too close for comfort, but not touching. 

“Leave me alone,” you tell him. “I thought I made myself very clear that I want nothing to do with you.” 

“No need to get snippy,” he tells you, crossing his arms. “And here I was coming to keep you company!” 

“Why would you think I want that?” you remark. “You betrayed us–You betrayed Chan,” you correct. “Why?” 

Woojin laughs and reveals his hand. In the dimly lit room you can see the missing appendage, a reminder of what happened not too long ago. 

“You’ll come to find that SKZ isn’t quite what you think it is,” he says. “There is a power imbalance. It’s not fair. The people at the bottom stay on the bottom even if they deserve to be on top. Felix has been Chan’s right-hand man for years. Do you really think Chan would cut off his finger?” You think about his words but they still don’t sit right in your stomach. 

“Lee Know. Is he…” 

“Dead? No. Not yet. He’s not in a position unlike your own, though. He’s sustained substantial injury.” 

“You told them… About his infiltration.” You push the matter forward, trying to get as much information you can. Even though you haven’t known the man for long, his absence has affected SKZ and his loss would be… you don’t even want to think about it. 

“Yes, I told them about Lee Know. It was the only way that I could get here, in ENHA and earn their trust. I’ve decided. After what Chan did to me, I needed to find somewhere else that could ensure my safety. I want him dead, you know. This is the only way I can make sure that happens. How can I hit him where it hurts? Get to Lee Know, and get to you.”  

“Chan doesn’t care about me,” you say. “If he comes for me it’s just so he will keep his word… that I wouldn’t get hurt. He’s an honest man but he’s not stupid. And I don’t think he would just come for me, Lee Know’s here too–” 

“That’s bullshit.” Woojin swallows thickly. His finger touches your neck and trails up to your jaw, repositioning you so that you meet his gaze. “You know just as well that I do that what Chan feels for you is more than what you would feel towards a hostage.” 

Hostage. That’s what you are, what you were supposed to be. And even since you escaped, you have never felt like a hostage. What does that mean?

“Chan doesn’t like in the way that normal people like,” Woojin warns. “He gets infatuated. He becomes obsessed and controlling and people end up dead. And he loves, in a sick sense of the word. Don’t you think that’s what’s happening?” 

“You’re implying that Chan loves me?” 

“Not implying. Stating. And not that I give a shit about you enough to tell you to be careful… but let’s just say that Bang Christopher Chan is not Yang Jungwon.” He laughs dryly. “Anybody with eyes can see the way that Felix looks at you too. Jungwon is right, you really just whore yourself out to anybody that’ll give you attention.” 

Before you can help yourself, you spit in his face. Woojin gasps and looks at you, disgusted, before striking you hard across the face. The metal rings on his hands bring a sting along with it and you feel blood running down your face. 

“Good for nothing bitch,” he says. “And I was trying to help you. Warn you. Watch yourself, little mouse.” With that, he leaves, encasing you in darkness once again. 

Once he’s gone, you struggle against the rope. The rope scratches against your skin, leaving it raw and red. Fight and fight as you may, there’s no getting out of this alone. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You awake with a sharp start several hours later. Your neck has a kink in it from the way your head lolled downward while you slept. You feel something touching your hands, though, and you jolt. 

“Shhhh,” you hear. You try to whip your head around to find the source of the voice but it doesn’t work. They stay thoroughly hidden. 

“Who is it?” You whisper back. You feel something sharp touch your skin and you tense, but untense immediately as the rope drops from its spot against your wrists. The man stands up and towers in front of you now, unraveling the rope from around your frame. You look up at him and squint in the darkness. 

“It’s Seungmin,” he whispers back. You massage your tender wrists and the places the rope sat uncomfortably on your body. “I need you to stay seated and pretend to be tied up until we come  back, just in case. For now, tell me what you know.” 

“Lee Know… He’s alive, but he’s hurt. Woojin is here, somewhere, and he’s completely turned tides. He’s working with ENHA now.” 

“That’s not good…” he muses. “Lee Know. Where is he?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sorry,” you say. You freeze and let out a small noise when you hear gunshots from above. 

“I have to leave,” Seungmin says with an urgency in his tone. “You stay here until someone comes to get you. Do not leave,” he reiterates. He runs and opens the door you’ve seen Woojin and Jungwon enter in and out from, looking to the left and to the right before heading into the hall. It’s several minutes later when the door opens again, and you let out a sigh of relief. 

“I bet you’re feeling pretty smug, aren’t you?” A voice says. Before you register it, you hear the click of a gun and cold metal pressed against your head. 

“Jungwon?” 

Your breath hitches as he presses the barrel further into your skin. Tears start running down your face before you can register it. 

“Why… Why are you doing this to me?” You sputter. It seems so unreal, how long ago was it that you were dating Yang Jungwon? It feels like eternity, but in reality it was only a few weeks ago. You were madly in love with him, devoted to him, even. Things went down south suddenly and rapidly and he showed you his true nature. 

“Are you dumb? I told you, if anybody is going to kill you, it’s me.” His words are laced with venom. “I’m going to show SKZ that they can’t mess with what’s mine. I wanted to have fun picking you apart and watching you beg for your life, but this will have to do, I guess.” 

“You’re going to kill me?” Your words are soft, full of understanding. This is it. What would your life be like right now if you never dated Jungwon? Would you be at home, watching bad TV with your sister? Would you still be working 9-5 at a tiny office making just enough money to scrape by? You certainly wouldn’t be here, in an abandoned warehouse with a gun to your head, spending your final moments praying to be rescued by an opposing mafia group. 

This is it. You don’t have many regrets, you suppose. You wish that you could’ve gotten in touch with your sister one last time, and you do regret letting a man like Jungwon control you for so long. You wish you could have been stronger, that you could have shown him, ‘this is the woman I’ve become. She’s not that same woman you used to push around.” Now you’ll never have that opportunity. 

“It’s over, Y/N,” you hear. You close your eyes. 

“Yes, it is,” a voice confirms. 

You never really understood how loud a gunshot was. Of course, people talked about it and they made fun of it in the movies, but nothing could have prepared you for this moment. Your ears feel like they might be bleeding and your brain is spinning around in your head. The silence you had grown so accustomed to has been replaced with a loud ringing sound that won’t go away, not even when you press your hands up to your ears to try to cover up the sound. 

When you finally open your eyes, you realize two truths: 

You are alive. 

Yang Jungwon is positively dead. 

Looking up, you see the man standing behind the trigger is Chan. You're breathing heavily now, to the point that you're not sure that your lungs are inflating despite the fact that you’re taking deep breaths. You’re covered in something all over your body, and you know it’s blood–some of it is yours, and some of it belongs to your past lover. Slumped onto the floor and still holding his gun, you see the hole where the bullet had entered his head. This is too much, you think, and you realize that you’re hyperventilating but there’s not much you can do to stop it. You feel hands on your body and someone is close, they’re too close, and you’re crying and you feel so heavy, but–

“Y/N,” Chan says. “Look at me.” His hands are on your face, willing your eyes to focus on his own and not the body on the floor. His eyes look frantically into yours and that, focusing on his face and the details of the dirt and blood caked into the crevices of his beautiful smile not appropriate for the occasion, those thoughts are enough to snap you to the present. 

He looks you up and down, lifts your arms and puts them back down, and even turns you around briefly. He’s scanning you for any major injuries, you realize. Content with what he finds, he lets out a sigh of relief. 

“You killed him,” you tell him. You’re confirming the fact–Jungwon is really dead, and this man in front of you is the one who took the life from behind his eyes. 

“I did,” he confirms. “I did what I had to do.” 

You're pounding your fists against Chan’s chest before you really realize what you’re doing. You’re crying, angry tears hot on your skin, and Chan makes no effort to stop you. You’re not really sure what you’re so upset about at first. You’re not exactly upset that Jungwon is dead, but you’re more upset with the fact that he was killed right in front of you. That you were faced with the dead body of your ex-lover, and Chan was the one to do it. So you shout and pound against his chest until you can’t anymore. 

“I need you to listen to me,” he says finally. “You’re going to go through those two doors.” He points to a set of doors behind you, ones that you mustn't have been able to see when shrouded in darkness. “You need to go and run, as fast as you can. Someone will find you.” He wipes away a tear from your face with his blood-soaked hands, accidentally further smearing the substance on your face. 

He turns from you, returning to where the violence is happening, but not before looking over his shoulder to make sure you followed his directions. 

You listen to his words. You push open the doors and run as fast as your feet can carry you, suddenly grateful for the training that you had started with Felix. The wind is bitter cold and your dress weighs you down but you hitch it up high over your waist. Your heels are long since forgotten and your bare feet scrape against concrete. You’re breathing fast and you’re covered with blood and suddenly you’re running into a body and you’re filled with surprise, because how did you not see it? 

But you smell him before you see him, flowers and musk, jasmine and earth, and your arms wrap around him in a tight embrace. You’re crying, sobbing into his chest, wordless as he picks you up and carries you away into the night. 

Because Yang Jungwon is dead, lifeless before your very eyes, and Chan was the one to kill him, and now you’re in Felix’s arms and now you are safe.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

a/n: surpriseee! i hope nobody was expecting that. there's still so much to happen i'm excited for everyone to read <3

taglist: @shuporanporang ; @purp13st4r ; @eurydiceofterabithia ; @heartsbyandra ; @thicccurls ;

@rylea08 ; @the-sweetest-rose ; @oddracha ; @kapelover ; @goldenmellow ;

@zerefdragn33l ; @uhh-awkward-rightt ; @astudyoftimeywimeystuff ; @kaleigh-2002 ; @thatonexcgirl ;

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@melleus ; @hyun-bun ; @luminouskalopsia ; @leftovercigarettes ; @sabrina-gal-kpop

@ghostedgameplays ;

[arieswritez]

golden boy

golden boy | yandere stepbrother!mark grayson x afab!reader

cw; DARK CONTENT!!! MDNI!! pseudo-incest, panty thief!mark, roofies, victim blaming, non-con video taping, voyeurism, rape, reader's anatomy is sexualized, forced breeding, time skip (mark is an adult & nolan never killed the guardians), mark is a sicko you've been warned

about; life was easier when mark was an only child. he wishes it would've stayed that way. (1.9k words)

a/n; an anon asked about a platonic yan sibling duo so i raise you: big pervy step bro who hates your guts but also wants to rearrange them

step brother mark who's used to being the light and joy of the grayson home. as the only child, he's spoiled beyond belief. he's spunky and cute and the graysons love him to death, constantly showering him with love and adoration.

step brother mark who gets a new sibling after villains make you an orphan. nolan finds you in the ruins and it's like he's on auto-pilot: carrying you to that secret hospital and handing you off to the doctors that rush to his aid. . but not before your tiny fist closes in his suit.

as he watches you being taken away, barely alive, something inside his chest pangs.

debbie notices nolan acting strange. he's restless and he's late for dinner, more so than usual. something's very clearly wrong. and it's not like her to grow suspicious of nolan but she does.

nolan's never given her a reason to believe his head may have been turned but for some reason, she starts to believe there might be someone else.

only to find he's been visiting you at the hospital, staying at your bedside for hours on end as you recover. you're in bad shape. doctors aren't sure how you survived. . if you even will. debbie's never seen nolan so torn over a survivor before. he's seen many things: deaths, disasters, you name it. yet, you're who's causing the sleepless nights.

of course, debbie has a kind heart and, soon, it's not just nolan who's worried. the graysons keep tabs on you. and when you come to, they’re the first thing you see.

you look confused, scared, but as nolan soothes you, you offer a meek smile and nolan finds himself feeling that same giddiness he felt when he first saw a tiny mark cradled in debbie's arms.

the graysons become your legal guardians and, suddenly, mark isn't the golden boy anymore.

you take up so much of their attention. now, christmases and birthdays all revolve around you. suddenly, marks good grades and the fact he hit a home run isn't all that impressive. mark's late for his baseball practice and games more times than he can count. . yet they never miss your dance recitals.

you got an A in an absurdly easy class and that was a cause for celebration. in the meantime, mark won a spelling bee & all he got was a 'good job'.

they treat you like you're made of glass, like you'll shatter into a million tiny pieces the second someone so much as looks at you the wrong way. mark still remembers being reprimanded whenever he said the smallest things to you. he doesn't think he's ever lived down that one orphanage joke that made you bawl. god, he was just kidding. . its not his fault you're sensitive.

soon, you're calling his parents 'mom and dad'. and worse of all, they reiterate the fact that you should be calling mark your 'big brother'.

fucking fantastic.

you are everything to them while mark is pushed aside. and it only worsens the older the two of you get. mark gets his powers - there's literally nothing more impressive than that - yet he still has to do a million and one things in order to outshine you. nothing ever works. and despite the fact that mark is - quite literally - saving lives. . your stupid birthday is still more important.

you are the light of their lives and mark bitterly remembers when they used to look at him that way, too.

you are perfect in their eyes. just like he once was.

and mark wishes you would've died in that accident, just like your parent(s).

as you start to develop a sense of self, mark gets into the habit of stealing your clothes. it's the only thing you seem to care about: the way you present yourself to the world.

they're small things at first. like a single shoe when his parents had bought you new ones yet refused to get him the ones he wanted. he'll admit it, it was petty and spiteful. but you were distressed and the graysons seemed upset you'd already misplaced your brand new - expensive - shoes.

at first, he was content with telling himself that what he was doing was solely to spite you. but that was a lie. when his kleptomania made him steal one of your shirts. . it wasn't spite that made him press the material to his nose and pump his cock until he came. no, it wasn't just spite.

all your simpering and whining, following him around like some lost puppy, that one time you asked him why he hated you so much. . it made him feel more than just hate.

he didn't know what to do with you then.

so, at first, he settled with stealing your clothes.

a couple more shirts.

a pair of shorts.

knee-highs or your favorite tights.

and finally, a pair of panties.

his favorite are a lacy pair. sheer and tiny, he recalls lifting them out of your drawer with a finger. . and thinking, seriously? what're these even meant to cover?

he's extremely sure you aren't supposed to have these~

mark is content with secretly stealing your things. he doesn't get in trouble for being mean to you anymore.

you don't think he hates you.

it's a win-win situation, really.

and mark would've been happy - he would've been fine - with the little game he's been playing. soon, the two of you would part ways for college and he'd forget all about you.

he'd forget the way you'd foolishly walk to your room in only a towel when you knew the two of you were home alone.

he'd forget the way you looked when you changed out of clothing, you never truly believed in fully closing the door, did you?

he'd forget the way your moans sounded, when you touched yourself at night, thinking everyone else was asleep. he'd forget the way he'd concentrate on hearing your pretty sounds - and it's not like he'd have to try hard, another perk of having powers.

he'd forget about how he could almost envision you: humping your fingers and biting at your lip, desperately trying to get yourself off. it was like he was in the room with you. . you were so wet he could hear the wet clicks of your cunt.

he'd forget all about you.

you, you, you.

he was sure of it.

but if it's one thing about you is that you could never just let things be.

you could never just let the graysons be a normal, happy family.

and you could never just let mark forget about you.

because the first time his parents say no to you - the very first fucking time - you don't listen.

you're just not used to it.

that stupid party you weren't supposed to go to.

that stupid party mark sneaks off to, too.

and when you see him there, you're surprised.

he pretends to be, too.

because it's not fair if only one of you was forbidden to go. no, you had to fuck it up for the both of them.

it's a good thing you're so spoiled, though. and it's even better that mark eavesdropped on the conversation you had with your friend, the one in which you planned to sneak out.

you're so fucking naive. so stupid.

you think the two of you are finally getting along when he gets you a drink and whispers, don't worry, i won't tell if you don't. and you laugh and wink at him like you'll keep his secret, drinking from whatever concoction he's prepared for you.

you were too young when your parent(s) passed and the graysons never seemed to sit you down for the talk. . or maybe they did and you were just too stupid to understand why you should never accept an open drink.

it's easy to blame it on you being a lightweight. the way you sway and slur your words, the way you stumble into him, the way your body overheats.

you've had too much to drink. you're not used to it, is all. he'll take care of you, don't you worry, big brother always does.

first, he's got to lay you down, you poor thing.

he doesn't want you to hurt your pretty little head by falling!

so, he lays you down in the empty room of the house as the party continues downstairs. as you fall to the bed in a heap, you swear you can see the throbbing beat of the music, now muffled behind the closed door.

in the dark room, the moonlight leaking through the pale blue blinds look like drunken undulations, wavering like heat shimmers, yet you can't keep your eyes open long enough to ogle at them. your body doesn't feel like your own, but you're not as nervous as you should be.

mark yanks his shirt off over his head - practiced, ready - and stalks over to your semi-limp body that's nearly hanging off the bed.

it's not hard to undress you, considering you're dressed like some cheap slut. and, honestly, if it wasn't mark that night, he's sure it would've been another dude at the party. the way you're such a fucking tease, he doesn't think anyone would be able to keep their hands off of you for long.

so, really, it's only fair your older brother is the one to get his hands on the goods, first. afterall, he was there to watch them grow.

the little camcorder he took from his parents - the old silver one they used to record all their trips around the world, mark's first steps, your first birthday with them - blinks red, on and off, on and off, as he strips you. he makes sure to capture your body: your bare tits as your chest rises and falls with each panicked breath, the smooth skin of your tummy, then down, between your legs, as he records your sopping cunt taking his fingers.

you mewl and your vision's swimming. and you feel here, there, everywhere, and it's so, so confusing.

you don't know what's happening and it's distressing because you know something is.

your hands weakly try to push at the foreign body on top of you. . inside of you. . but mark is stronger than anyone will ever be and you are far too drugged to do anything about it.

they're gonna be so mad, mark thinks, as he slides into you and tries to keep the camera recording the way your cunt grips him as he feeds his cock inside of you.

they'll be so mad when they find out you've snuck out.

and maybe you'll tell them. . you think something happened. . someone did something to you. . when you try to wash his cum out of your pussy.

maybe you won't. maybe you shouldn't. they'll already be mad at you, best keep quiet about it~

but the graysons will feel even worse in the next few months. . when you start puking your guts out.

and like the perfect parents they are, they'll take you to a doctor. . only for the results to come back positive.

mark may not be a golden boy, anymore.

but in nine months, maybe you'll give him one, instead 💗

[pretzel-box]

Heeey :D requesting if you can, have fun with this ! what if Sebastian during scavenging runs into reader who bored/ nervous started to sing to try and keep calm . And it's like haunting eerie but sweet . For examples the song " ili ili tulog anay " by Jakegatemusic mostly the woman singing.

The rest of the story up to you :3

Tags: GN!reader, can be interpreted as established relationship or platonic

Words: 1k

Sebastian Solace was no stranger to silence. In the depths of the facility, where the cold steel walls pressed in and the air was heavy with the stench of decay, silence was a constant companion. It followed him like a shadow as he scavenged through the ruins, searching for anything useful to bring back. Sometimes it was broken only by the faint hum of the facility’s failing lights or the distant groan of shifting metal, but more often than not, it was oppressive and thick, the kind of quiet that felt alive in its stillness.

He liked it that way. The quiet allowed him to think, to focus, to keep his mind sharp while he moved from room to room, scavenging in the darkness. Silence was familiar. Comforting.

But today, as he moved through the halls, something was different.

A sound—soft, distant, but unmistakable—reached his ears. It was barely there, almost blending with the eerie creaks of the facility, but it was different enough that it made him pause. His hand hovered near his weapon, eyes narrowing as he strained to hear it again. His senses were sharp from years of survival, trained to pick up on any anomaly in the soundscape. Yet this wasn’t the metallic clank of a faulty door or the hiss of a steam vent.

It was singing.

Haunting, delicate, and just on the edge of his hearing, the voice floated through the corridor like a ghostly angel. The sound wasn’t mournful, but it carried a sadness—an eerie sweetness that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Whoever was singing wasn’t trying to be heard. The voice wasn’t loud or confident, but soft, as if it was meant to be kept to themselves.

Sebastian’s sharp instincts told him to move forward cautiously. Singing, in a place like this, where the air was thick with danger, was practically a beacon for trouble. Whoever it was, they were either incredibly brave, incredibly foolish, or too far gone to care. And either way, he couldn’t just ignore it. Not when the sound pulled him like a magnet, filling his mind.

He moved quietly, his movements light on the steel floor, as he followed the voice down the darkened corridor. The melody twisted and turned, echoing through the halls with an eerie beauty. The words were unclear—either nonsense or a language he didn’t recognize—but the tone was clear: this was someone trying to stave off fear, trying to keep calm in the face of the unknown.

As he got closer, the voice became clearer. It was still soft, trembling slightly, as if the singer was trying to keep their nerves in check. There was a lullaby-like quality to it, a rhythm that was soothing despite the unsettling backdrop of the facility’s decay. And finally, as he turned the corner, he saw the source.

There, sitting on the floor with their back against a wall, was you.

You looked tired—worn down by the endless scavenging runs and the constant threat of danger. Your gear was slightly askew, and your hands were clenched tightly around your knees, as if holding yourself together by sheer will. But despite the exhaustion in your posture, your lips continued to move, carrying the haunting melody through the air.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, too lost in your own little world, trying to keep the fear at bay through the song. There was something strangely endearing about it—this small act of defiance in the face of everything crumbling around you. You were singing to yourself, to the darkness, to the silence that loomed just beyond the edges of your fragile calm.

For a moment, Sebastian simply watched, caught off guard by the sight. He had expected many things on this run, but not this. Not you, sitting in the dark and singing like a ghostly lullaby was the only thing keeping you grounded.

The melody swirled in the air, wrapping around him like a strange, comforting blanket. It was beautiful, in a way he hadn’t anticipated—haunting but sweet, eerie but pure. It didn’t belong in a place like this, and yet, that’s what made it so striking.

Finally, you became aware of him. Your eyes flicked up, startled, as your voice cut off mid-note. A brief look of panic crossed your face before recognition set in, and you relaxed, though only slightly.

"Sebastian…" you breathed out, the remnants of the song still lingering in the air between you.

He crossed his arms, leaning against the nearby wall, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You sing when you’re nervous?” His tone was casual, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath it, something softer than his usual gruffness.

You shrugged, your face flushing slightly in embarrassment. “I… yeah. It helps. I didn’t realize you were nearby.”

“I wasn’t far,” he admitted, his gaze still fixed on you. “But you’re lucky nothing else heard you first.”

You let out a shaky laugh, but it lacked any real amusement. “I know. It’s stupid, but… it makes the silence feel less… overwhelming.”

He nodded, not in agreement exactly, but in understanding. He knew all too well how the silence could get to you, how it could play tricks on your mind. And in a place like this, where the walls felt like they were closing in, any little act of defiance felt like a small victory.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The eerie quiet returned, but it was different now. It wasn’t as oppressive, not with the memory of your voice still echoing in his mind.

“You have a good voice,” he said after a while, almost as an afterthought. “It suits you.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the compliment. “Thanks,” you murmured, a little taken aback.

Sebastian pushed off the wall, his usual air of stoicism returning. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you start serenading the entire facility.”

Despite his words, there was no sharpness in his tone. If anything, it was lighter than usual—perhaps even a touch amused. And as you followed him out of the corridor, your steps falling in line with his, you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d actually enjoyed hearing you sing.

Even if he’d never admit it.

[talesofesther]

I guess that's love

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Summary: Wednesday sees herself stuck in the memory of one night; the night you almost died. She feels it's her fault, your blood on her hands says as much.

A/N: This is loosely based on Can't Pretend by Tom Odell and After Hours by The Weeknd which was suggested by the lovely @abelvrla. Also, I think it's valid to say that this story is mostly me having fun with some of my favorite tropes, so idk if this turned out kinda bad or similar to any of my other works; but I do hope you can enjoy it anyway. <3

Word count: 4,5k of feelings.

Masterlist

It's red. All she sees is red.

It stains the white porcelain of the sink before going down the drain.

Blood never bothered Wednesday, one could say she enjoyed the sight of it.

Now, she's almost rubbing her hands raw. It's a hurried motion, she brushes the soap over her palm with urgency, clawing at her own skin under the running water; yet it's still there.

She feels a little nauseated. Maybe it's because her breathing is all over the place. Sometimes too fast; sometimes not fast enough, clogged up in her throat.

She washes. And washes. And… keeps washing. The skin of her hands becomes reddish. The blood — your blood — eventually, finally fades.

But does it really? Wednesday feels the stain to be permanent.

Looking down at her hands — her vision a little blurry but she doesn't think about that — she catches herself shaking. Her chest is impossibly tight, it hurts to feel the beating of her own heart.

How'd you do it? How'd you get her to dread your death?

She's disoriented when she exits the bathroom, not registering immediately where she is. The white walls of the hospital hurt her eyes.

It's been such a long night.

Is it still night?

The tie around Wednesday's neck seems to be choking her. She reaches her hands up to loosen it, but the feeling doesn't go away. She discards the garment altogether.

That's when she notices the blood stains on the cuffs of her white shirt. She curses under her breath. She wants to throw up. Or change out of these ruined clothes, but it feels like a waste of time.

"…nesday? Wednesday!"

She looks up upon hearing the calls of her name, only to see Principal Weems regarding her with evident worry. She's a little paler than usual, the night definitely hasn't been kind to her either.

There are only a few doctors walking around, some of them give Wednesday a strange look as they pass her by. A pungent smell of disinfectant hangs in the air. The sky outside the window bleeds in soft shades of dark purple and orange — the sun is already rising to a new day.

"You need to get checked out too, follow me." Weems reaches out to Wednesday's shoulder, trying to guide her to an empty room.

Wednesday ignores it, shrugging off the hand on her shoulder. "Where is she?"

Weems avoids her eyes then, sighing exasperatedly because she knows arguing will lead her nowhere; "she's being treated, we'll be able to see her soon."

"I want to see her now," Wednesday states, before walking past Larissa without even knowing which door she should go to.

"She's in surgery, miss Addams," Weems insists, finality in her tone. "We'll only make things worse going there now."

It's funny, how you've always told Wednesday she should put herself out there more, not be afraid to feel or let people close. Yet now you only prove her right in her reasoning that emotions only exist to torture people. Not in a good way.

But she did it anyway, didn't she?

She allowed herself to feel things.

Wednesday is frozen to the pristine tiles, her nails almost piercing her skin as she clenches her fists.

"I'm worried too, but all we can do now is wait," Weems softens once she notices the shaking of Wednesday's body. She takes a careful step closer to the girl, "if you don't want to see a doctor come back to the school with me, take a shower, put some clean clothes on. I'll drive you back when we're allowed to see her."

—

The warm water soothed Wednesday's muscles, it washed away the dried blood from her hair and the dirt clinging to her skin. It was relieving.

She's now standing in front of the bathroom mirror and the reflection staring back at her is not one she easily recognizes. Her skin looks paler than usual — if that's even possible — there are dark circles around her eyes and even she has to admit she looks exhausted.

Wednesday reaches a hand to touch her abdomen, nimble fingers tracing the spot that should be ripped open but isn't. Not even a scar remains; no telltales that she had been stabbed just a few hours ago.

She shivers at the thought. Death's cold embrace is a little more taunting when seen up close.

For a fleeting second, Wednesday catches herself planning to go to your room — as she usually did most nights before she pushed you away. She would sit beside you on your bed, her shoulder would brush yours and she'd comment about how you could even sleep in a bed this small, yet she wouldn't pull away. She'd talk with you about how good it felt to drive a knife into the old pilgrim's heart. Maybe she'd even tell you she had been scared. Maybe you'd try to hold her hand and she'd let you, gripping you tighter than she should.

Your comfort was Wednesday's most prized secret. You were her favorite broken rule.

The salty taste of a tear on her lips brings Wednesday back to reality. The reality where she doesn't have a single scar on her body and you're in a hospital bed fighting to stay alive.

She dries her cheeks harshly, turning around to put on her sweater and dark pants.

—

It's 6 PM when Principal Weems brings her back to the hospital and Wednesday is finally allowed into your room.

There's a stillness to it that she hates. You are too still. Several tubes are attached to your body as you lay on the hospital bed, there are bandages around your torso, some of them faintly tainted red. The machine that tracks your heartbeat is beeping in a lazy rhythm.

Wednesday doesn't dare breathe as she walks closer, stopping right beside you so she can cast over each scrape on your skin.

There was too much blood loss, Weems had told her moments ago. Wednesday knew that, she was the one who kept what was left of your blood inside your body until the ridiculously slow help finally arrived.

Weems also told her the bullet was short of doing major damage, and that despite now being weak, you were lucky and should wake up within a few days.

It does absolutely nothing to set Wednesday's heart at ease.

You're too still.

She can barely see your chest moving with the soft breathing. Your features are so serene, so emotionless. She could say you're dead if she didn't know any better.

Wednesday doesn't move for several moments, it's almost as if she's afraid to. She holds herself stiff at your side, glaring at you as if you'd wake up only to hear her scolding.

She hates that this is the first time she's been this close to you, in what? Two or three weeks?

It feels unfair, unfitting. Like it's all wrong.

But she can't complain. It's her fault.

A vain attempt at keeping you safe. Maybe it only made things worse;

—

"You know, as far as dates go, this is pretty creative," you told her, dodging fallen logs and rocks as you walked amongst the woods.

Wednesday turned back to look at you with an unreadable expression, "no one said this was a date."

"What would you call it then?"

"Investigating."

You groaned, falling into step beside Wednesday. Just so you could see the heavenly way the moonlight shaped her features. There was fog in the cold air, trees nothing but dark silhouettes around you; it suited her. "You're no fun."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Wednesday felt your hand brushing hers. She hated how it made her focus waver. "Besides, you're the one who agreed to accompany me."

"Of course I did," you explained easily, "you asked me to."

Wednesday gulped, things felt more intimate than they should when the only witnesses around you are trees.

"Why was that?" You dared take hold of her hand then, your cold fingertips closing around her own. She stopped abruptly, and you observed the way her shoulders tensed. "You say you don't need anyone, yet here I am."

Wednesday's breath turned shallow, she didn't feel like looking at you. Because you were right, it was a break in her pattern; her rules.

How'd you do it? How'd you get her to break her rules?

You came to stand before her, your other hand taking hold of her free one so you could pull her closer. And she let you. Another step and any left space between you will vanish.

"Why won't you tell me?" You asked for what felt like the millionth time, but you didn't really hope for an answer.

You're familiar with her. She allows you close; you hold her hand, you touch her cheek, you braid her hair. Yet she never tells you why she allows you to do it.

Wednesday kept her eyes focused somewhere on your lips, counting the specks of color there, still as a corpse.

She saw the ghost of a smile that came to your lips before you leaned closer. And alarms were blaring inside her head, her lungs aching because of how she refused to breathe; yet she didn't move away.

You kissed her softly, gently. Your lips mapped hers in a way that felt like it always should've been.

And she melted against you, her hands clutching yous.

But as all things do, as Goody warned her time and time again; it didn't last. Shockwaves cursed through Wednesday's body and she was taken to another reality.

A reality where you were screaming her name in one second, and the next you were laying on the dirty ground, a pool of blood forming under you.

Wednesday jumped away from you the second she came back to herself, her eyes wide and breathing frantically as she strived to not pass out from what she'd just witnessed in her mind.

You were speaking, trying to reach out for her again as you asked what was wrong.

Wednesday felt her eyes sting, all she could see was your blood on her hands.

—

Her vision from that night came back in the form of nightmares for many nights after. Getting Wednesday to start dreading sleep.

She remembers warning you to never come near her again just before she sprinted away, leaving you alone in the woods with no further explanation. She avoided you, accepting the fact you might hate her, but it was okay because you'd be doing it alive.

All in vain, because her vision became a reality anyway.

"How could you be so stupid?" Wednesday tells you, but only the hospital walls hear it. "Jumping in front of me like that, it was ridiculous. Don't you see it? That's why you should've stayed away."

It's useless, you won't wake up to hear her complaints.

Wednesday exhales sharply and turns away from you, "it shouldn't have happened, I tried to-" There's a lump in her throat, it tangles her words, "but you're so stubborn… If you die before me, I'll kill you, I will-"

I don't know what I'll do. Wednesday thinks to herself. She sits on the chair that's beside your bed, watching through the window as the sun hides behind Jericho's mountains.

"You're missing your stupid sunset," Wednesday finds herself whispering. A last attempt at getting you to open your eyes, because for some reason, you liked to see the ending of sunny days.

Nothing happens. You remain still. The beeping tracking your heart rate is still slow. The room remains too quiet.

Wednesday leans back on her chair, she stays motionless for several minutes; until her hand eventually finds you.

Wednesday wraps her fingers around the pulse point on your wrist, not trusting the machine to tell her you're not dead yet.

She holds tightly onto you. There's no one around to witness it.

—

You didn't wake up for four days. And every day, without failure, Wednesday came to see you. She'd sit beside your bed and wait, sometimes silent, sometimes speaking as if you'd talk back to her.

It was her own way of keeping herself calm, busy.

Though the sleepless nights were starting to take a toll on her; sour mood and thinner patience being her new normal, along with the dark circles around her eyes.

Every time she closes her eyes, she's back there — warm blood on her hands and your life slipping from her grasp — so she refuses to do it.

Enid has seen her roommate nap hunched over her desk too many times to not get worried, but with being shut out every time she asked what she could do to help, she eventually stopped.

Wednesday could hate you for messing up her life.

She doesn't.

—

The day you woke up, Wednesday was nowhere to be seen.

All of your friends came to see you, overwhelming you with love and tales about how each of them missed a part of you in their lives.

You felt sore all over, as if you'd been hit by a truck — getting shot then staying unconscious in bed for days will do that to someone, you figured.

Enid was the one who stayed to accompany you back to school when you were discharged from the hospital, along with Principal Weems, of course.

"It feels like I'm learning to walk all over again," you groaned, one hand coming up to clutch at your abdomen as you got to your feet.

"Take it slow, we've got time," Enid kindly held a hand out for you, which you promptly took.

There are a million questions swimming in your mind, losing these many days from your life feels strange. You halted but the world didn't.

You asked the one that you first thought of when you woke up; "Enid," you stop walking so you can look into her eyes, "how is Wednesday? Did she got hurt?"

A complicated array of emotions pass through Enid's features, too fast for you to put your finger on any of them. She looks at you with something akin to sympathy; "she's… fine." Enid chews on her bottom lip, pondering whether she should tell you or not. Naturally, she can't hold back, "she hasn't left your bedside once."

You must have looked rather surprised, because Enid keeps going; "it's true, there wasn't a day that she didn't come to see you."

You don't know how you should feel. You think it's unhealthy for your heart to be beating as fast as it is right now after what you've just been through, but you can't get it to slow down, not when such a bomb is dropped on you.

Almost a month ago, Wednesday told you to never come near her again. Today, Enid tells you she's been by your side this whole time.

"Why?" You ask.

Enid doesn't know the answer.

—

It feels like a fever dream. Your bullet wound, the hospital visits, the remains of the fight. Everything. It feels like it didn't happen.

Because when you got back to Nevermore, everything was back to how it was. The damage to the school was repaired, classes were steadily going back to being routine, and Wednesday hasn't looked in your mere direction once — she, being the epitome of healthy coping mechanisms and dealing with feelings, avoids you like the plague.

You asked Enid to tell Wednesday that your door was open if she ever wished to talk.

Several days have gone by already and she hasn't taken you up on your offer.

You walk out of the cafeteria with a heavy heart and twirling an apple in your hand. You miss her. You hate how your days still feel hollow without Wednesday's presence on them, it's weird because she's not the type of person who usually makes her presence known; but you miss the weight of her shoulder resting against yours, the familiar comfortable silence you'd share when only enjoying each other's existence while reading.

It's a grey day outside. You see her before you see anything else when you walk into the quad. She has her back to you, black braids haphazardly done falling over her shoulders as she sits with Enid on one of the tables.

The werewolf notices you and waves you over, an encouraging smile on her lips. You give her a look that shows your uncertainty, but she insists.

You take a deep breath and follow the stone path that leads to her table. There's a limp on your steps still, telltales of the fight; sometimes you feel the eyes of your peers lingering on you. You wonder what they're thinking about, what they see when they look at you. A brave hero or a stupid kid?

What do they see when they look at her? A lonely, unfortunate soul or the savior of the school?

You sit down beside Enid, consequently in front of Wednesday, your hands resting in your lap as your knee goes up and down anxiously.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Enid greets you happily, as if there isn't a tension thick enough to cut through in the air.

The question almost goes over your head. You're focusing on the Addams girl in front of you, on the way her knuckles suddenly go white as she grips the lunch tray like her life depends on it.

"I'm alright," you answer, eyes fixed on Wednesday — she holds you in a trance.

"I've been meaning to ask if you have the notes from our last class?" Enid continues, in a kind effort to make things less complicated.

"I uh-" you start, but cut yourself off when Wednesday hastily gets up from her seat, not sparing you a glance as she turns around and walks away.

You watch her retreating figure, the ends of her skirt bouncing with her steps. With a groan, you begrudgingly take a bite from your apple, "there's no figuring her out, I'm done," you mumble over your mouthful.

Though you're not sure if you truly mean it.

"Don't say that," Enid pouts, keeping her eyes on Wednesday until she disappears through the doors that lead inside the school.

"She made it explicitly clear she wants nothing to do with me, Enid," you shrug, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips, "I think it's my fault anyway, so… I won't bother her anymore."

Enid turns, straddling the bench she's sitting on so she can fully face you; "what do you mean?"

You breathe in deeply, feeling the familiar flutter in your stomach just thinking about it. "A few weeks before all that shit happened, we shared a- a moment."

Enid instantly smiles, her eyes twinkling with excitement, "you kissed?"

You chuckle timidly, smiling along with the memory, "yeah," but your gaze dropped to your hands right after. "I think it was a mistake."

"I doubt it," Enid tells you confidently then, as if she's in on a secret you're not.

You raise an eyebrow at her.

Enid glances between you and the door that Wednesday had disappeared into, tasting the words on her tongue before she spills them over for you. She breathes in, and relents; "after you passed out…" she gulps, dreadful memory still fresh, "right after you got shot, from the blood loss. Wednesday, she- I never saw her so desperate."

Only from the emotions swimming in Enid's eyes, you could tell she was being honest. You couldn't help the tightness in your chest upon imagining Wednesday going through that.

"It was almost as if she knew you wouldn't make it, that you wouldn't survive," Enid keeps going, "or at least that's what she believed in."

Clarity shoots through you like a bullet as your eyes widened with the words. Ironic much, but that was the feeling.

Because there was a possibility, that Wednesday saw your misfortune before it even happened. Right when you kissed her, no less.

And if that was the case, you couldn't imagine the torment she's been under ever since.

—

The night is calm, you can see clouds shaping the moon as you walk the path outside that leads to Ophelia Hall. It's a little late, just past curfew but you prefer it that way — fewer people around, the hallways will be empty.

It's a struggle for you to walk up the stairs, you have to stop once to catch your breath and allow the nagging pain that shoots up your leg to subside. Details. Tonight feels important, because you're going to see her; you'll make sure of it, even if she insists otherwise.

You stop in front of the dark wooden door. If you strain your ears, you can hear the faint noise of her typewriter. Enid isn't there, you know she's at Yoko's room tonight — her idea, not yours. Privacy is important, she told you, right after all but commanding you to do what you're doing.

With a deep breath in and feeling more nervous than you thought you would, you raise your fist, and knock.

The typing noise stops, you hear her chair scratching the floor. You couldn't breathe even if you tried.

The door pulls open and your heart melts a little at the sight; Wednesday stands in front of you with a hoodie and sweatpants on, and her hair free of braids, clearly not expecting anyone to show up at this hour.

You're snapped out of your trance when you register the door closing again. You quickly hold it open with your hand; "hear me out, please."

"No," Wednesday huffs, "I told you to stay away."

"Yeah, and not much else," you push through, squeezing your way inside her room and closing the door behind you. Wednesday takes a big step back as if you'd burn her. It hurts. "Could've given me a reason."

With a deep breath in, Wednesday sets her jaw tight, "I don't owe you anything."

You avoid her eyes then, "maybe not, but I thought we had-"

"We didn't," Wednesday tells you, the shake of her voice makes you look up, and you think you see her eyes glistening, "we don't."

You nod slowly, and despite the bleeding of your heart, you speak softly; "did you see it?" You chew on the inside of your cheek, fumbling with your hands so they don't tremble, "that night, you had a vision didn't you? About what happened to me?"

There's a sudden stillness to the room that feels awfully familiar to Wednesday. She hates the way she can't seem to control her breathing pattern, she hates that the image of you in front of her is becoming blurry.

"Is that why you've been avoiding me? Because I got hurt?"

Your words urge Wednesday's mind to travel back to that night. She closes her eyes tightly, causing a tear to roll down her cheek and part of her wants to kick you out of the room for making that happen.

"You're a liability," she tells you the first thing her mind conjures up.

You chuckle humourlessly, "ouch, considering I saved your life that's-"

"Exactly the problem." Wednesday interrupts urgently, "are you stupid? If you insist on staying close to me you'll only hurt yourself." Her voice breaks at the end of the sentence, as if it caused her physical pain to speak.

You've never heard her this vulnerable, this scared. Your heart bleeds but for a different reason; for the affection you hold for her, for not being able to protect her from what happened. You take a step further towards her and breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn't take one away from you. "And what if staying away hurts me just as much? What then?"

It's quiet. Wednesday doesn't make a single sound. All you see are her cheeks slowly being stained with tear tracks as they roll all the way down to her chin and drip to the floor, her eyebrows scrunching in hurt. But she's so quiet.

You take one more step. "Tell me why."

A beat of silence, and then; "you made me… care about you and then you go and almost die." Wednesday chokes out angrily.

You smile sadly, finally hearing the words you've been chasing; though you'd prefer them in better circumstances, "caring about people can be… scary."

You don't think she registered that you were so close. Wednesday flinches when your hand touches hers, it's a ghost of a touch, barely there, yet it feels almost like an embrace.

"But I promise you, I'm not going anywhere," you say quietly, tears pooling at the bottom lid of your eyes as you carefully hold her hand properly.

Wednesday is frozen in place, it feels like someone reached past her ribs and is squeezing the organ that pumps her blood. She hates that she must look like a mess, yet this is the first time in weeks that she feels she can actually breathe. Part of her has been stuck on that night — hands stained with your blood as the paramedics take you away from her — until now.

Her fingers tentatively close around yours, her lips part and she struggles a little to get the words out, "it's not a promise you can keep."

"I can try," you whisper. You see it clearly in her eyes; the guilt she's been carrying. "What happened that night, it wasn't your fault, you have to know that, Wednesday."

"It was because of me," she reasons just as quietly, "and almost took you from me."

Goosebumps raise on your skin at her words. Your thumb gently traces her hand. It's private, it's delicate, it's a moment that belongs to you two only. "It'll take more than a bullet for you to get rid of me," you tease with a tearful grin.

Slowly, you bring her hand up so it rests over your chest; her palm flush with your skin as your heart beats rhythmically right underneath it. "I'm right here," you breathe.

It's all it takes for her to, finally, surrender. Wednesday stumbles forward, and you're there to catch her. Her head rests on your shoulder and her hands clutch at the fabric of your shirt to the point of ripping. You encircle your own arms around her waist, pressing her tightly to you.

Wednesday is still mostly quiet, the only thing you can hear if you focus hard enough is the occasional hitch of her breath. But you feel the way her tears soak your shirt, the way her body trembles as she gives her all to contain her sobs.

"There was… so much blood," is all she tells you, words muffled against your skin.

"I know," you slide one of your hands up to her head, entangling your fingers through her hair, "I'm so sorry it had to be you." You plant several kisses on her temple and on her hair, each one is a different promise.

I'm here.

I won't leave.

My blood will never be in your hands again.

You think she understands, because you feel her own lips brushing the skin of your shoulder; cold, damp with tears. Tender.

I love you.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I'd appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

Wednesday’s taglist: @milkiane @bookfrog242 @heelaechan @imagine-reblog @sakurarukas @bluetreecloud20 @the-night-owl-blr @imlike-so-gaydude @user284747 @dreifhraniquo29 @emeraldevan @simp4nat @boobabietch @impossibleliv1031 @deadpool-in-a-snood @rainbow-love4ever @maria-403 @pompompuri @halleest @wandaromanova @marveloussimp @rainbow-hedgehog @left-and-right-up-and-down @get-the-fuck-outta-here @awolfcsworld @elduster @alexkolax @georgi-salva @imdumbhi @youralphawolf72 @reginassweetheart @justyourwritter69 @yangsroboarmm @8e-h-e8 @irish-piece-of-trash @femalehomosexual666 @wol-fica @wednesdays-woes @vorsdany

[mother2monsters]

More of the Hobi scene

for those that are interested in more...still not proofread and still trash lol...not sure how to link to the other part or how to start to post for real... i think i'm going to post on ao3/wattpad.

He slowly lowers himself to his knees to prostrate himself at her feet. Lifting her right leg to center her foot on his chest right over his heart, he states, “from the first time I saw your smile, my life was over” massaging her ankle and gently bringing her foot closer to his face reverently as if every part of her was precious to him. He softly ran his lips up the side of her foot. “And from that point on, I belonged to you” placing a kiss in the center of her foot causing her to squirm, he looked into her eyes, “I want to worship you…” licking from the bottom of her foot to the tip of her big toe, “all day, I want to exist only to pleasure you” sucking her toes into the heat of his mouth is such a strange yet erotic sensation that she closes her eyes. Growling at her, she opens her eyes as he tells her to keep her eyes on him. As he takes his tongue and filthily licks between her toes. “I will worship the ground you walk on” as his lips move towards her ankle, kissing, biting and licking his way up her leg. “You have the capacity to ruin me” as he moves on to her other foot placing her right leg over his shoulder. “You have the capacity to redeem me” as he bites her heel softly and soothes it with a kiss, “you have the capacity to break me” he whispers into the arch of her foot, “do you understand yet?” He asks as he kisses up her leg sucking marks into her chocolate skin. “I smile a lot, to hide sometimes. You saw through me” roughly pulling her to the edge of the bed, mouth hovering over her core. Groaning, “I’m a weak man when it comes to you” grazing his nose up the crease of her thigh, “I tried to do right, get a handle on this crazed feeling, this obsession, if you will” as he grips her thighs painfully as if he could control the lust through sheer physical strength. “I tried to protect you from the darkness within me” tongue  slowly collecting the wetness leaking down the inside of her thighs, “because I knew that once I allowed myself to have you, to fully have you, to suck and lick all the juices out of this beautiful beautiful pussy, to bury my cock so deep in you my cum will never come out…to own you and control you, to finally feel you, to taste you” tongue grazing the tip of her arousal soaked clit, “that I’d never be sane again.  You are mine, he growls as he attaches his mouth to her dripping cunt and she swears he must have three tongues as she trashes around, pleasure too intense for her to withstand. Tightening the grip on her thighs, he stands up where she’s powerless to get away as he fucks his tongue into her pussy repeatedly all the while groaning at how good she tastes. Back arched, arms shaking as she tries to hold herself up, she screams she’s going to come but her doesn’t stop.  Drinking her cum like a man dying of thirst, trying to suck the rest out of her body. Her arms give out as he pulls her up and wraps his arms around her back so she doesn’t fall. She’s straddling his face in mid air, grabbing his hair not sure whether to push him away or pull him closer, he softly bites her clit. “You don’t deserve to touch me right now, touch your tits. Touch my hair again I’ll suck this pussy until you pass out” he growls as tears start running down her face.  “Fuck, Hobi” she screams as she cums again , dripping down his chin and the look in his eyes he looks crazed, “Hobi….fu….ho….plea….” as he stares in her eyes while she squirts all over his face, never breaking eye contact and never letting go. “Months I’ve had to wait for this pussy. Driven mad by my need for you…I just needed a little while to get these urges under control…. But then the love of my life, my reason for breathing, for surviving the service wants to leave me, not because she doesn’t love me. But because she thinks I don’t want her. Don’t find her attractive. Don’t rub myself raw at the thought of her.” 

It wouldn't let me post more...idk

[tablepanic]

As weddings go it was ok. A friend of a friend in some country pile miles from anywhere. I didn't really know anyone so had latched on to a girl called Marianne who was in the same Billy no mates predicament as I. Anyway, I was pissed on good champagne, but not so far gone that I didn't spot a pass when it was made and willingly followed Marianne when she said she needed the loo. I had been trying to decode if her gentle touches on my arm and her thigh pressing against mine all evenin and now I guess I'd figure it out. I mean, what's the point of going to a wedding single if you don't at least flirt? Now I think about it, the whole wedding party. Seemed pretty frisky. Clearly there was something in the air.

Beyond the dining hall the house was dimly lit and then plain dark. We figured in our tipsy state we had taken a wrong turn. Marianne took my hand. Stumbled. Giggled. I could hear the murmur of the party, when I felt her hand on my hip, her mouth close to mine. Her breath hot. I kissed her then. Didn't even think about it. She kissed back. She tasted of champagne. It was delicious. We paused. Her breathing was more ragged. My cheeks were burning.

"come on" she said. "In here. I want to show you something I found."

I didn't want her to move, and so kissed her again, this time with more force, my tongue finding hers, my hands tugging at her dress. She pulled away. Laughed.

"fuck, you're so hot. Trust me. You are going to love this." She pulled me into the room.

I should have been repulsed. I was not. I should have run away, but I was fixed to the spot. I should have been sober in an instant, but felt lightheaded. I said something like,

"oh my god". I could feel myself panting.

From the gloom tentacles slithered forward across the hard wood floor. Marianne closed the door. I swallowed. Barely able to speak.

"I want it. I want to fuck. I want it to fuck me"

Marianne said "I know. Me too"

Tentacles wrapped around me. Warm. So warm. And wet. Oozing through my dress. Heat growing between my legs. Instinctively I knelt down. A tentacle wrapped around my throat, gently pressing. Heat flushed in my cheeks. I moaned.

Marianne pulled her dress off over her head and clumsily yanked her knickers down her legs. I stared at her strange, beautiful body as tentacles wound over her thighs, pushing between her legs. She gasped, grinding herself against the wet, slithering mass against her cunt.

Beneath my wet dress I felt tentacles slide into my knickers deliciously sucking against my cunt, before pushing into me. I gasped, grunted, and shifted my hips, so it could push deeper. I think I swore. Another tentacle bound my arms. Pressure on my throat. Sucking at my clit. Harder. Something was rubbing my arsehole. I started to cum.

Marianne guided the tentacle into herself as another slithered, squirming blindly over her breasts. She stared at me and I looked right back, rapt. Being fucked, whilst watching someone as they are being fucked is, I realised a massive turn on. She pulled the tentacle from her cunt and offers it to my lips.

My voice was thick, I didn't recognize it as my own: "yes"

I gasped, then gagged as it filled my mouth, hot ooze slithered down my chin, as it pumped into me. I could hear myself making weird guttural, animal noises, and Marianne urging me on. I wanted her to see me like this. I wanted to be ruined I front of her. There was no shame. Just joy. I felt a second tentacle squirming at my cunt, pushing into me as another opened up my arse and gently slid in. I moaned, full and oozing and shook as a came again.

Marianne was being fucked against the wall, a tentacle binding her arms as other thrust between her legs. Or were her legs tentacles? I could barely see as the mist of my own orgasm clouded my eyes one more time.

I came to in her arms. She kissed me. Gently, soothing my bruises. The softness of her against me. My hand slipped to her thigh and felt that familiar slick, warm wet. It slithered and wrapped around my wrist gently. Marianne smiled. A flicker of her tentacle tongue. And then I knew. With a joyful clarity. I was her wife. Her fuck wife forever.

[yuulina-vre]

Fear - Chapter one

Summary: Y/N lives the life she always dreamed about. a job she loves, a fiancé that does everything for her, and a house she dreamed of. There are hiccups on the way, but Y/N's still pretty satisfied with where she stands in life. Though a word can be powerful, especially if it's said to the wrong person. Y/N would never have thought that she ever gets to experience how bad it can turn out. For her and the loved ones around her.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: none, maybe some sexy time :)

Series Masterlist // Masterlist

The night is clear, no fog is hanging on the ground, and no clouds can be seen in the starry night sky. The headlights illuminate the trees and the street, creating shadows and figures that would scare you if you could look at them for a longer period. The window is rolled down slightly, letting the cool air whizz past and into the cabin of the car. It’s pleasantly cooling down the interior. The heat of the day slowly vanishes from the inside, the thickness of hot air slowly thinning with the fresh smell of dew. Though the fresh air tries to lighten up the inside, it still feels like there has never been any breathable air inside. Breathing feels still difficult as if trying to inhale while wearing a mask or being all snotty from a cold. The air smells like a strange mix of fresh dew in the forest around and dust from the dryness of the passing day. The sun had been its hottest in days, drying out fields and forests, increasing the unfortunate chance of fires. Rain hasn’t been around for a week now.

The still-warm temperature in the car is perfect to make someone a little tired and drowsy, the steady rumbling of the engine and soothing vibrations of the car rolling down the asphalted street just adding to it. The wind tousles my hair, ruining what’s left of my ponytail, but the suffocating feeling doesn’t vanish, nor does the tiredness that’s starting to get more and more pronounced. My eyes feel heavy, and even blinking doesn’t do any good anymore. Sighing deeply, my eyes catch the fuel gauge. Still half-filled, so a stop anytime soon isn’t necessary; never mind that the next gas station doesn’t come for miles anyway. But it would have given me the perfect opportunity to rest for a little while, maybe stretch my limbs and go for a short walk around the parking lot. If there even is one.

My eyes switch back to the dark road. Somewhere far in front of me, I can see two deer crossing the street, though they’re long gone when I pass the spot. Other than the two animals, there’s nothing to be seen except the stars. I have to admit that I have never been able to see them as clearly as here, somewhere in nowhere and far away from the light of the cities. They are the prettiest sight in a while. My fingers and toes itch to pull the car aside to a stop and just stare up at them for a while. Instantly my mind comes up with a picture of a smiling Bucky.No doubt he would point out any constellation he knew, telling me their stories and tales, so mesmerized by the stars that he wouldn’t notice me staring at him instead. He would have this glint in his eyes, this excitement that makes it difficult to look away. And even though I only understand half of what he talks about, I would be glued to his lips as they form the words, intrigued by him and his knowledge. I don’t know how it happened, but Bucky always manages to draw me in and make his interests interesting for me, too.

A yawn slips past my smiling lips, and I quickly cover it with a hand, making sure to rub the tears that formed from my eyes too. “I have to take a break before I crash.”

Quickly assessing the empty road, I pull away and to the side, stopping on the dirt next to the road. For a second, I close my eyes, engine still running, hands still on the steering wheel as if I was driving. I take a deep breath, feel the air fill my lungs, and leave it while exhaling. After opening my eyes again, I cast a quick look into the review mirror to throw a glance at the backseat. Billy is still asleep, and a glance to my right confirms that Tommy is asleep, too. Typical for them.

A smile slowly forms on my lips again. They had fallen asleep before we hardly even left the hotel parking lot.

A frown slips back on my face as I study Tommy’s sleeping face. They’re just here because I invited them because a certain someone couldn’t join. Or wouldn’t.

I asked them if they wanted to accompany me. Originally, I had to travel because of a client, so it was more of a work trip for me, but I wanted to hang a few days of vacation to it. Also, the hotel room was a four-person room. Somehow, my secretary had made a mistake in the booking.My guess is she either didn’t really look into it or took the first room that was offered on whatever website she booked my trip. Texting her boyfriend was probably more important around that time.

Well, the twins were hyped anyway, immediately all in, as the hotel was located by a nearby beach. It helped that the two had just graduated and wanted to take a trip to celebrate anyway. So, the trip was more like a present to them now, since they didn’t have to pay for anything. Also, someone had an eye on them and make sure they don’t get in trouble. It probably was the only reason why my best friend even allowed it in the first place.

Sadly, the days had gone by way too fast, and all fun had to end. Between my appointments and exhaustion, the boys managed to get me out of my room to actually have some sort of sightseeing and vacation. If not for them, I probably wouldn’t have seen anything despite the hotel room and my patient’s hospital room. So, maybe it wasn’t only me that had an eye on them.

With another tired sigh, I cut the engine, and I take my seat belt off to get out of the car. I wince as the light flickers on the moment I open the door. The damn beeping indicates that it’s open, so as fast as I can, I get out and close the door, still careful to be as silent as possible.God knows the boys need their sleep. With another glance at the two, I sigh, relieved to find them still fast asleep. Leaning against the driver’s side, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the stiffness of my limbs after sitting in one position for far too long.

The air really feels incredibly good outside of the car. The coolness hits my warm skin, making me shiver slightly. Another deep breath fills my nostrils with the fresh smell of dew in the morning, after a brief spring rain.

For a moment, I stay as I am, take deep breaths, and stare at the stars above. I recognize one or two constellations Bucky taught me about before, though their tales won’t come to my mind. The longer I stare into the abyss of darkness and the universe, I feel my body slowly sagging, my eyes growing heavy with tiredness that settles somewhere deep in my bones and mind.

How long have I been on my feet? Thirteen, maybe fourteen hours?

Briefly rubbing my left eye with my hand, I cast a look down at my watch. Half past twelve. It’s exactly fifteen hours. “Huh.” A small breathless laugh leaves my lips. Of course, I had just driven for 9 hours straight. Bucky would scold me if he knew. Safety was always important to him, mine even more so than his.

I sigh loudly, looking back up at the stars as my thoughts wander. Senses as sharp as ever. There’s the sound of a soft breeze rustling bushes a few feet away, some birds still chirp in the distance, and crickets perform their nightly songs to lure each other in. The smell intensifies. Dew and earth fill every pore of my being, giving me the comfort, I didn’t know I needed. A comfort I craved from someone else. Again, my thoughts stop at my fiancé. How nice it will be to finally see him again. I didn't know a week could be so beautiful, yet make you miss someone so badly. Even with the boys around, I felt a strange sense of loneliness.

Bucky was supposed to come with me. We had a long discussion before I asked the boys. At first, he agreed and was really looking forward to it. A week away from home, work, and responsibilities, but then... Then his stupid work got in the way. Again. An occurrence that happens more and more often now. But this time, I had enough.

"Doll, I'm sorry. I really wish I could go with you, but this is important. I have to do this! Can you understand that?" He looks at me, apologizing. His blue eyes swim with guilt and regret, pleading for me to understand and forgive. But I’m just stunned.

“So, your fucking job is more important to you? You were supposed to be on vacation, James. A vacation, you postpone three fucking times already! Thank you very much. I didn't know that I was just a millstone around your neck," I seethe at him, giving him a furious look. The best I could give him. In reality, I’m not even that angry. I’m disappointed, which feels way worse. Bucky flinches slightly. He’s not used to me shouting. Usually, I’m a calm presence in every fight, barely raising my voice, but today is different. Weeks of frustration break out of me, and I’m not really feeling up to holding back now. Not today. He raises his hands in surrender as I throw another article of clothing into my suitcase, not bothering to fold it nicely. "Y/N, I didn't-"

“What?” I turn around, head hot with anger and hurt. “You didn’t say that?! Yeah, well, congratulations, because you don’t have to say anything! You show it in plenty of other ways. Do you even know how many times this has happened now? And I don’t only mean postponing vacations but doing stuff together in general?” I stare at him as he furrows his brows, no doubt raking his brain for possible dates. “It sucks! I was really looking forward to it this time. I really believed you. Again! But you seem just not to care!"

"Sweetheart, I-" I don’t let him finish again. Angry, frustrated, and disappointed, I waved my hands back and forth.

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me! Don't even try to talk yourself out of it with one of your stupid excuses. If you don’t care, you could have at least tried to say no. But did you?"

Bucky sighs. "No, I didn't." He dropped his shoulders in defeat. Somehow, it hurts even more. I feel a pain in my chest that feels like someone’s stabbing me. Tears start to blur my sight, and I quickly blink them away. "Then that's settled." Annoyed, I close my suitcase and drag it out of our bedroom to the stairs and down to the living room. I leave it standing by the door and turn around again, heading back upstairs. Bucky’s still standing in our bedroom, brows furrowed with a sad look in his eyes. I’m almost tempted to comfort him, but this time, I won’t.

Instead, I walk back to our walk-in closet and pull out two outfits that I will need for my appointments, and put them in bags. Then I throw my jacket on and walk back down. I hear him follow me, and by the time I grab the handle of my suitcase, he’s standing behind me. I’ll turn around to say goodbye, but instead, I find myself startled. I don't recognize him at all. His hair is disheveled, probably from running his hand a thousand times through it, his eyes seem dull, and his complexion is haunted by something I can’t name. Instead of showing my surprise, I swallow past the lump in my throat and reach for my house and car keys. "Y/N, please, let's just...” I stop for a second, a great wave of sadness overwhelming me, so the next words that slip past my lips are silent. “You know, maybe getting married and all is a mistake.” I don’t look back at him. Instead, I open the front door and step out of the house and letting the door slam behind me. The second I sit in my car, pulling out of our driveway, I grab my phone and dial my best friend's number, Not even looking into the mirror to see if Bucky followed me as tears blur my vision.

I didn't give him a chance to explain, apologize or do anything else. I can remember the look on his face when I left the house without really looking at him. The pain was written in it, the fear. I hurt him very badly, and I feel guilty that I didn’t care at that moment. He’s the man I love, the one I want to marry. I should have cared, should have tried harder to understand him. I know his job is everything to him, though not more important to him than I am. Never. Even accusing him of that feels like betrayal now. “I should have said that. I wonder if he's pissed off,” I mutter silently into the night sky. My body feels tired with yet another sort of sadness. “Y/N? Are you alright?" A small, high-pitched scream leaves my lips, my hand shooting up to cover my beating heart. Unbeknownst to me, Tommy got out of the car and now looks at me. I haven't noticed the interior light of the car flickering on, nor the door open. How far away have I been?

“Yes, everything is fine. I just needed some fresh air," I say, wiping a few hairs from my face, which the shallow wind pulled there. “But we can continue now." I made efforts to open the driver's side door, trying to convince him with a smile. But Thomas isn’t stupid. Like a bolt of lightning, he flashes around the hood and places his hand on the door handle. Confused, I stare at him. "What are you doing?"

“You are tired… and sad." He adds the last part after a small pause, mustering me intensely. “I am not."

“Yes, you are. You're yawning for the second time. And that just after I got out of the car." And really, I catch myself yawning. Another thing I haven’t noticed. I raise my hand to cover my mouth as best as I can. Suddenly I feel something cold, and damp sliding down my cheeks. When did I start to cry?

“Will you tell me what’s going on? Why are you crying?" These boys really quickly recognize how you are doing. A trait that they definitely have inherited from both their parents. Though, I’m not going to drop my problems on their shoulders.

“No. I-I don't know why I'm crying. Probably the wind." I manage a small laugh, embarrassment flooding my mind.

“Okay.” He stretches the word, and I know he doesn’t believe me. Thankfully he’s smart enough to drop the topic. “Well... Anyway, please sit in the passenger seat. I'm driving."

"Hell, no! That’s out of the question!" I look at him in horror. “Your Mom is strangling me if she finds out."

“No, she doesn’t. Mom's just too careful. I'm already eighteen, and I've had my license for a year. It's going to be okay. It's only an hour or so left, right?" I had to agree with him. Wanda is a very caring person. She had had her sons at the age of nineteen and was then tragically separated from her boyfriend when the children were born. Accidents happen at all times, but him dying at the same time his children were born was just cruel. Of course, from then on, she was always cautious. Sometimes it feels like I’m a child of hers, too, even though I’m only three years younger than her.

I let out a defeated sigh, my chin sinks to my chest, and my eyes close. “Fine.” I relent, too tired to argue with his logic. I know he’s right, and if I continue driving, I’m probably crashing not even a hundred feet ahead of us. Yawning yet again, I round the hood to the passenger seat, sit down, and buckle up, before silently closing the door. The sound still ricochets through the car, startling me more than I like to admit. Meanwhile, Tommy gets into the driver's seat, starts the car, and pulls over onto the road. It probably doesn't take more than five minutes for me to fall asleep.

[witchybitchycrybaby]

You're kinda cute

Pairing: The Corinthian x reader

Summary: your nightmare becomes the one who adores you

Genre: maybe fluff

✨✨✨

You were furious.

And Corinthian loved it. He adored this raw emotion, how the mimic of your face changed with every second and how your cheeks flushed with scarlet. But there was one particular thing that never failed to catch him off guard and sent shivers down his spine: your eyes. He was always captivated by them, ever since he first looked at you all this time ago. They were bright, oh so innocent, sometimes mischievous but above all, your eyes held so much love for him, that he thought it was going to break him.

This time, however, your eyes were dark and the storm that rolled behind them sent flashes of lightning everywhere you laid your gaze.

Corinthian loved it because every time it reminded him of the night you met.

You were dreaming, of course, and in this dream you were standing in the field; there also was a city far away, barely visible on the horizon. Wildflowers grew everywhere; delicate violets and yellows danced in the wind in a jungle of green. It was a good peaceful dream, and Corinthian was just about to turn it into ruins.

As the dark clouds flooded the sky and the wind grew stronger destroying everything around you, you strangely stood still. The Nightmare thought you were going to start screaming and running away terrified, but you remained calm. When you took in the horror he made with a small smile on your lips, he decided to finally show himself to you.

He stood right before you in the eye of a hurricane. You looked him up and down and noticed the dark glasses covering his eyes, a white buttoned-up shirt, and an equally light suit. The man was taller than you and was so close you could feel delicate puffs of air when he breathed. His lips were adorned by a smug smile. There was something about him though, that made you feel safe, protected somehow.

"Shouldn't you be afraid now, little human?"

His voice was soothing, not exactly calming but you caught yourself relaxing a bit. And it fit him.

"You don't look very scary."

"Is that so?" Corinthian leaned over so that his mouth was right next to your ear. When he spoke his warm breath tickled your sensitive skin. "Then why is your heart beating so fast?"

You shivered involuntarily. God, he even smelled amazing. You knew he wasn't good and everything about him screamed that he would gladly harm you, but you just couldn't stop yourself from saying your next words.

"Because you're kinda cute."

It caught him off guard of course, but also led you both to where you were now: Corinthian sitting comfortably on the couch and you standing in his kitchen wearing one of his buttoned-up shirts. Nothing but the shirt, to be exact.

The sight of your body in his clothes always woke this primal beast inside of him that wanted you near at all times, and yelled "mine!" every time someone else approached you.

"Y/n, darling, you know it's not the end of the world and you can always make another one?" He asked amused. He tried to hide the smile that crept onto his lips but failed miserably.

"Well, here's the problem, darling, I only had this many ingredients. And patience. I've had one shot at this red velvet cake and I fucked it."

You were furious. You knew the recipe by heart and still managed to mess it up. You hated when something was not going your way. Especially when this something was meant to be a gift for a person you loved the most. And this person was sitting right next to you watching you fail.

"Come to me."

You looked up at the Corinthian, your eyes still shrouded in darkness, and saw him tapping his thighs encouragingly.

You sighted and, not even glancing at the mess of a cake, came closer to your lover. When your knees touched his, he took you gently in his arms. You sat on his lap straddling him, your arms wrapped around his neck. One of his hands was pressed against the small of your back, the second was drawing small circles on your thigh.

"I hate it," you said quietly, resting your forehead against his.

"I know" he murmured, giving you a minute to calm down. "We can remake it though, sugar."

You raised your eyebrow suspiciously. "We? You don't even know how to cook or bake in the first place."

"Then show me." He kissed the tip of your nose and you giggled. You weren't mad anymore. "And then..."

"And then what, my dear nightmare?"

"And then we'll go to our bedroom and I'll show you some different things."

"That's disgusting." Another giggle escaped your mouth, but deep down you liked this idea of his.

"Well, in that case, we will do nothing if you don't want to..."

"I never said such a thing," you said indignantly and got up from his lap. A mischievous smile bloomed on your lips as you reached for his hand. "Come now, darling, if we're going shopping, I need to change my clothes. Wanna help?"

Blood boiled in his veins; you knew the answer, why even bother asking? Corinthian without a word took your hand in his and led you to your bedroom.

The fact that you didn't do much baking that day goes without any word of comment.

[iviarellereads]

The Dragon Reborn, Chapter 22 - The Price of the Ring

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Flame icon) In which we get a scene that echoes back to another that came before.

PERSPECTIVE: Egg is only a short way from Verin's rooms when Sheriam finds her and says it's time for her Accepted test. She leads her down to the room with the three arches, and gives her the same speech she gave Nyn last book. Egg undresses to go through, and Alanna, there to represent the Green Ajah, says there's some kind of resonance or echo in the arches, she can't identify from where. Sheriam asks if it's a problem, and Alanna says no, she's just never heard of that happening before.(1)

The first time is for what was, the way will come but once. Egg raises her head to Rand talking about a peddler with strange news. She's rocking a cradle with a child... her daughter, Joiya. She asks Rand to tell his strange news, and he says the rest of the world seems to be caught up in a war with some funny folk, calling themselves the Sanchan or something. Egg almost remembers.

Rand's getting headaches, and strange things happen when he does. He has another now, but as Egg moves to soothe him, the silver arch appears. She takes a step toward it, then cries out that no, this is what she wants, why can't she have this, too? Rand gets up to ask her what she's talking about, but he falls to the ground, his headache worse than ever before.(2) It's the hardest thing Egg's ever had to do to keep walking toward the arch.

The second time is for what is. Egg is in a dusty silk dress, in the Royal Palace of Andor. The whole city of Caemlyn is in ruins. Trollocs, Darkfriends, and Myrddraal prowl, searching for "him". She runs through the rubble and finds Rand pinned by a beam. It's all he can do to hold the madness at bay, if he gives an inch it will take him over. He gestures at a dagger, and tells her to kill him. She can't! He says the Myrddraal and Dreadlords will turn him to the dark, he can't fight them if he's mad. She looks over her shoulder and sees the arch. She has to refuse him and walk toward it, though he cries out for her.

As Sheriam guides her to the next arch, Egg mentions that "he" said Myrddraal and Dreadlords could turn him to the Shadow. Sheriam almost stumbles, and says that the custom is not to speak of what happens inside the ter'angreal. Egg asks if it's true, and Sheriam says it's not a widely known fact, and she shouldn't ever have to learn it, but yes, it takes thirteen Darkfriends who can channel - the Dreadlords - and thirteen Myrddraal. But it hasn't been done since the Trolloc Wars. Egg comments that with Liandrin and the others, they make thirteen. Sheriam says she should forget that.(3)

The third time is for what will be. Egg stares into the mirror, surprised at the ageless smoothness of her face, and by the striped stole around her shoulders. She's the Amyrlin Seat here. Her Keeper, Beldeine, comes up behind her, her stole green, meaning that must be what Ajah Egg chose before the raising. The "way back will come but once" whisper gets cut off, for a new whisper: Thirteen Darkfriends.(4)

The Keeper leads Egg to a great hall, scared to her toenails. It's the Hall of the Tower, with all the Sitters, representatives of the Ajahs. Elaida is one, and calls for "him" to be brought in. Rand is in chains and Elaida calls for the pronouncement that he should be gentled, as can only happen here. Egg hesitates, and Elaida cues a coup.(5) Egg gets knocked in the head, but awakens before they cut her off from the Source. She counts thirteen Aes Sedai, and thirteen Myrddraal, and loses her shit, killing the Myrddraal and knocking out the Dreadlords.

She finds Beldeine, who says the Dreadlords stilled her, forced her to betray Egg. But what can Egg do now? She says she never held the Oath Rod,(6) and goes on a Mission(tm) to find and save Rand. As she's getting to the open Traitor's Court, planning to use balefire, whatever that is, to distract them, the "way back will come" message comes back, startling her, and she turns to see the arch, wavering in and out of reality, and she can hear the Aes Sedai on the other side fighting to keep it open. With a scream of rage that she once again can't save Rand, she throws herself at it.

Light plucked her apart fiber by fiber, sliced the fibers to hairs, split the hairs to wisps of nothing. All drifted apart on the light. Forever.(7)

=====

(1) What's different about this? Only that Egwene is carrying that little stone ring ter'angreal… but surely that shouldn't affect the arches? Then again, for all the Aes Sedai confidence in these rituals, there's obviously a lot they don't know about. They didn't know what most of the ter'angreal the Black Ajah defectors with Liandrin took could do, and if nobody's seen the stone ring in almost five hundred years, why would anyone have tested it in the room with the arches, which are only used to raise novices to Accepted? What do you think these objects could have in common? (2) Rand here, in this AU, is beginning to channel involuntarily, and his wilder sickness seems to be playing out as we saw it develop in book 1. (3) And Sheriam's right, isn't she, from her own perspective? Egg ought to keep her focus on her studies and the Tower, not on her old flame and the world at large and the defection of thirteen women who almost incriminated the Wondergirls by default. (4) Curious. Nynaeve also got some deviance in what she was led to expect. Do you think most of the arch journeys are different from what the ritual explanations provide, or are the Wondergirls just that special? (5) Do you think Elaida is Black Ajah in the waking world, too? Do you think her ambitions could lead her to participate in such a horrifying breach of protocol, if the motivation were right? Do the answers to those two questions depend on each other to be true, in your opinion? (6) Shouldn't that be impossible? How would Egg have managed it? It's funny enough that her "what is yet to come" shows her being Amyrlin, after it's been said a half dozen times that she could be someday, but this seems like a stretch, doesn't it? Even in the dream of the arches, she's not sure how she managed it. (7) I sure hope she made it or we've just wasted an awful lot of POV chapters. Well, not wasted, if she dies now we HAVE learned quite a bit through her perspective… but surely there were other ways to convey that information instead of using a character who was about to die?

[cosmictapestry]

B2 👀👀👀?

2. pegging

destroying him on purpose and for fun

prompts listed here

She's spent the evening opening him up, easing him so slowly and torturously that he can't think enough to let any worry settle in.

Lord Morpheus is on his back, his legs spread and knees up, bare below the waist. Lucienne kneels between his legs, her lips on the dribbling tip of his cock, one slick finger buried inside of him, the constant sound of his hitched breathing in her ears.

He has one arm thrown over his eyes, his head tilted back and teeth gritted, hips pressing up into her mouth and then down onto her finger. "Please," he whispers, tears streaming past his temples, red all down his neck, thighs trembling and flexing.

Lucienne shifts, feels the cock he's shaped for her press into her clit, almost thinks she can feel it when she wraps one hand around the slim length of it. The harness around her hips and thighs is butter-soft leather and she shivers with the slide of it, with the sounds he's making, with her own anticipation.

She pops her mouth off of him—he's come for her twice already, from her mouth on his bollocks, from her thumb on his hole, and those prior releases are the only thing that keeps him from coming again when she slips a second finger inside him. His mouth falls open on a desperate whine. "Lucienne."

"Almost ready, sweet thing," she murmurs, and she kisses the crease of his thigh, feels his body clenching around her fingers when she wiggles them. She squeezes her hand around her own manufactured length, feels it growing slick from her intent, with her need to be buried in him.

He told her this is something he and Lady Calliope used to do, when Lucienne first brought it up. That knowledge had absolutely delighted her, and he gamely endured her numerous questions. The most important thing: he likes it slow.

When she can stand it no longer, Lucienne draws her fingers out of him, hears him whimper at the loss. She sits up, and she scoots forward, her cock—some strange, warm, dark material—sliding up against his own, red and weeping. His chest shivers as he breathes, his thighs tremble even as he wraps them around her waist to draw her in.

"My lord," Lucienne murmurs, reaching up to draw his arm from his face, to take his hand in both her own. He stares up at her, glassy-eyed, sweat matting his hair, lips parted on little gasps. "How do you feel?"

His tongue darts to wet his lips, his brows draw together as he thinks about the question. "Good," he slurs eventually. "Better when you are—inside me." He arches his back, sliding their cocks together, his eyes fluttering. "Please."

"It's alright," Lucienne whispers, bringing his hand to her mouth to kiss his knuckles. She sets his hand back down, reaches between them to stroke her cock again, slicking it thoroughly. "I'm going to go very slowly, alright?" she says. "Tell me if it doesn't feel good."

He whines and nods his head, silently mouthing please, and Lucienne strokes his thigh to soothe him even as she draws her cock down, nudging at his bollocks, his perineum, before pressing at his relaxed, flexing hole. "Ready?"

Lord Morpheus nods, and Lucienne presses forward, the blunt head of her cock breaching him easily. His back bows, and his eyes slam shut, and he gasps, and his legs cinch around her waist as she—slowly—so slowly—inches her way forward. He huffs and he scrabbles at her arms, and he sobs, and his cock throbs with every millimeter she gains.

She isn't even all the way in when he comes. His body shudders, she thinks she can almost feel him clench around her, and he sobs and writhes and tugs her in, seats her fully while his cock kicks and spurts between them and wrecked, hoarse whimpers escape him when he can breathe again.

Lucienne thumbs through the tears on his face, murmurs to him while his body relaxes. "Gods," she whispers, and she's so wet it's running down her thighs, probably ruining the leather harness, if it wasn't made of dreamstuff. "Beautiful, lovely, gorgeous."

He makes an unintelligible sound, twitching valiantly at the praise. "Please," he whispers, and he begins to shift beneath her, fucking himself in tight little circles on her cock. "Please."

Lucienne obliges.

[helria]

Decompressed - Wilson

Word count: 1588 | Link to AO3 | Contents: Fluff | Pairing: Wilson Percival HIggsbury x Nameless Female Character (reader/oc, your choice)

Summary: Overworked, overtired, and entirely burnt out, what more could an exhausted scientist need than a warm embrace?

Excerpt: He held her waist and gave her another moment to catch her breath before looking up, offering a quiet, knowing smile as they matched each other's complexion. "How foolish we are," he breathed as he moved her hair out of her face, cupping her cheek as it warmed beneath his weary palm.

The scientist groaned as his weight sank into the couch, head in his hands and massaging his strained temples while his brain fried itself to a crisp. His eyes squeezed shut in a useless attempt to not let them dry. The one seated on the other cushion curiously looked up from her page, moving the novel aside to better see her spouse. "Wilson?" She asked simply enough, all too used to seeing him at his worst. His bloodshot eyes could barely glance at her from behind the web of his hand. "Is everything alright?"

He was struck with the urge to laugh, one that only came out as a pitiful wheeze. "Nothing you need to worry about," he dismissed without any effort to seem truthful. "It's the same old song and dance. Don't let this weary scientist ruin your day."

"You say that as if I haven't fallen in love with that very man. Come here." She lowered her knees and opened her arms, laughing slightly at the tempted glances he gave her before giving in. He laid himself across the couch and against her chest, his wiry frame sat between her legs as his face found its way to her abdomen. She breathed a sigh of relief once they had settled in. "Now," she spoke with a smile, fingertips brushing to the back of his neck as she combed through his raven-black hair. Saying nothing of the strands of grey that began to show. "Isn't this much more comfortable?"

"Dangerously so," he muttered with a rapidly fading alertness. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as his arms wrapped around her waist, face burying against her clothes and embracing her calming scent as if it he'd been kept from her for years. "As nice as this is, my love, I've still heaps of work to do..."

"And can you tell me in confidence that you'd truly get any of it done?" He couldn't say a single word and she only sighed as she stroked his hair. "I'd like to say I know you well," she mused while gazing at her ring, "and for as brilliant as you are, you've never been a good liar. You flinch and stumble at every push." He could feel his ears turn red as he went to prove both her points, lowering his head while she chuckled at his weak stutter. "It's alright to stay," she soothed through an amused smile. "Who am I to deny my husband his pillow?"

She continued to gently massage his scalp and pet down his unruly hair as he began to run out of steam. "I suppose... that it wouldn't hurt to rest my eyes."

"Not at all," she hummed while feeling his weight sink further into her. He mumbled another excuse that she couldn't catch before he drifted off. It drew another quiet laugh from between her lips as she lowered her head, pressing a kiss to the faint wrinkles of his brow. "Sweet dreams," she whispered as she held him in her arms, spending another moment smitten by her love before returning to her book.

Her fingers absentmindedly traced along his back, playing with his hair and occasionally flipping his white collar. She didn't mind the quiet snores. The awkward shifts of his posture, arms still attempting to hold on to the one he loved. She found it cute, if anything. Akin to a loyally trained pet. His warmth and weight were far more comforting than she expected when they sat down, treating him like a strangely shaped blanket and having to flip through her novel with just one hand.

The seconds and minutes ticked away until nearly two hours had passed. He blinked unevenly as he processed why he was partially in the dark. Her perfume still flooded his nose to the point he nearly fell asleep again. "Darling...?" He mumbled as he gradually regained his bearings, making her tilt her head and place a card in her book before setting it down.

"Finally awake, are you? How was your rest?"

"A bit too pleasant, I'm afraid..." He tried to stretch his arms beneath her as he looked up, feeling inexplicably flattered to see her smiling down at him. Her palm still held the back of his neck to keep him warm. "What time is it now?"

"Hm, about time for dinner. I should get started on that." She sighed as she let go of him, trying to do something about the stiffness forming in her legs. "Would you be a dear and get up first? I'm afraid my legs are still taking a nap."

"Ah... Just a moment." He sat up on his knees before reaching for one of her legs, sinking his thumbs into her calf and watching the way she tried not to wince. "It won't hurt for much longer, I promise."

She had to laugh at his concern, however endearing it was. "After the lives we've lived, do I really need soothing for a cramp?"

"I believe that you're still human like the rest of us. Subtle pains are painful nonetheless." He continued to massage her legs while she watched him with such affection, feeling for the thousandth time just how grateful she was to have married that man. He was completely oblivious to her honeyed gaze. "How are they now?" He asked with a proud little smile

She responded by moving her legs around his back, watching him grunt in surprise as he was brought back against her chest. His arms just barely kept him from lying on her. She only laughed at his caution as her arms looped around his neck. "Perfectly awake, my love. Thank you."

His expression soured with a habitually sheepish frown, one she found adorable in spite of those that saw the opposite. "I'm only doing as a husband should," he attempted to discredit.

"And I, a loyally devoted wife. Don't tell me I can't embrace my own beloved."

"I've told you nothing of the sort. I'm still a man after all, aren't I?" In spite of his embarrassment, he had grown to treasure their marriage as the best thing he had ever done. "I only ask that you give me a bit of grace, as things like this... They have the tendency to shake me, even after this much time."

"Percival..." She closed her eyes and brushed her lips to his forehead, bringing him further into her arms as he gratefully took the space to hide. "I know that well," she assured softly, "and I will give you all the time you could possibly need. It's enough for me that you accept my affections, however excessive they are."

"Excessive, perhaps, but perfect and precious all the same. What kind of person would I be if I rejected something so kind?"

"A man with boundaries, is all. It's perfectly alright to ask me to stop." He opened his mouth to refute her, only to shut it quite firmly as he realized how it would sound. She tilted her head in his silence, feeling his features press more closely to her neck. "...Wilson?" She prompted quietly.

"...Darling," he responded after a pause, a fluster creeping up his neck. "As pathetic of a man this may make me sound... Truly, anything you give me, I will be endlessly grateful for. I hope you don't believe I've been enduring when I've been treasuring each day spent by your side."

"Oh, I only meant..."

"I'm well aware, my love, I am." He had to take another moment, blushing quite deeply where he thought she couldn't see. "I'm only hoping that you know just how smitten I am with you."

And it was her turn to blush red, a vibrant, breathtaking sort of shade as her teeth sank into her lip. She looked away and at the floor as her heart rapidly gathered speed. "I'm aware as well," she reassured as smoothly as she could, "and I promise that I feel the same. The very same."

"Then I'm relieved." He held her waist and gave her another moment to catch her breath before looking up, offering a quiet, knowing smile as they matched each other's complexion. "How foolish we are," he breathed as he moved her hair out of her face, cupping her cheek as it warmed beneath his weary palm. "How foolish we must look while flustering at our own spouse, and yet..." He leaned closer until his forehead touched to hers, meeting her gaze for confirmation before letting his drift shut. Their lips were soft, slow, purposeful to the point the feeling lingered as they pulled away. "...that foolishness," he continued while his lips brushed hers, "is what has brought me so much joy."

"I would much rather be a fool than not be yours." She kissed him again, carefully caressing his face before gently breaking away. "But I really must get started on dinner."

It took a moment for him to realize she was being literal before feeling his eyes go wide. "Yes, quite." He scrambled to get off of her and smooth out his clothes, a belated embarrassment flooding his mind as she laughed softly from behind him. "Forgive me for getting carried away..."

"Why should I?" She asked as her arms looped around his waist, face by his ear as he instinctively held her hands. "There's no need," she reminded with a quiet hum. "Even these sides of you have my heart."

"Ah... As do yours, my dear. I love you all the same."

[sea-side-scribbles]

Fanfiction: You Always Meet Twice

link to ao3

Chapter 44

Morrie felt empty inside when he leaned the wooden stick back against the wall. Angry too, but most of all empty. Facing the two mattresses on the floor, he only snatched the pocket watch and fled upstairs into his bedroom. It was the only place he never invaded. The only place that was still his own.

There, Morrie sat in his armchair and fumbled with the watch for another while until he realized he had no idea what he was doing and he couldn't focus on it anyway. Frustrated, he slapped it onto his bed stand and grabbed the book instead. He needed something to distract him from this horrible moment. A different world to explore, just to let this day end and have a fresh, new start.

But he flipped through the pages like a robot. He had to read them multiple times because he didn't pay attention to what was happening. He didn't notice if the story was a light hearted adventure or a romance or even a scientific research. What he noticed instead was the sound of rain that began to patter against his windows. When he turned his head, he found the sky darkened by thick clouds and it poured down as if the Garden meant to make up for all the sunshine in the past days.

Immediately, Morrie thought that everyone outside must get soaking wet within seconds.

He stared at the window for a long time before he attended to the book again. Luckily, the Garden was full of ruins, he thought. Enough places to hide. And there was the town of course. For someone who knew his way around, it wasn't a problem.

Knowing this soothed him. Nick knew everything he needed to know. All he had to do was to repeat what he learned. He had water, he had food, he knew enough potential places to sleep and there were campfires on the roads in town....The Garden was his home now, he was fine.

Morrie breathed in and out, calming himself down. The sound of rain was even comforting. He listened to it with closed eyes. The Garden held still now. Wastrels hid in their homes, even Headboys crawled back into their cellars. Despite being soaked, walking in the rain was actually safe. It was unlikely anyone cared unless someone was looking for trouble themselves. Everyone calmed down, focused on the most important things and waited.

Also Morrie was calm, pretended to be. It was a strange situation because he knew he was hurt but the pain didn't come through yet. So he forced himself to read more and after a while, he finally managed to focus on the story. He read a chapter, dove into that other world, dealt with problems he didn't have to take seriously and comforted himself like that. When the chapter was done, he decided to leave the rest for later since he wouldn't run into another book so soon. Outside, it was still raining and it was quite dark, simply because of the cloudy sky.

Then Morrie's gaze fell on his empty bed and he made a decision. He put the book on the night stand and left the bedroom. While he carried his mattress back upstairs, he felt as if something wanted to break out of his stomach. Something big and winding. He pushed it down as good as he could. When he was done, the bed looked the same again. Nothing changed, nothing destroyed.

He carried the other one up as well. Now, this bed was ready for unexpected guests again. Perhaps some who deserved it. The thought provoked another attempted outbreak that he had to fight down.

When he picked up the curtain from the floor, he was numb. He wondered what to do with it and couldn't make a choice. Did it matter? Well, it was precious material, he had to treat it as that, so he folded it and brought it into his bedroom as well. And then he felt lost. Why wasn't it night yet?, he wondered. Gosh, he had forgotten how long the days were when there was nothing to do! What did he actually do in these situations?

Morrie listened to his body, but all he could come up with were the cans in the dresser on the 3rd floor. Dinner then, he decided. He'd just sleep early. End this day. A warm meal would help.

Opening the drawer, he noticed how many cans he had used up in the past days and his anger came back. It was a faint feeling in his numbed guts but enough to stir him. Wasted, he thought. For him. Everything always for him. What a nice traitor he was. The notion made him smile, but bitterly. He blinked, fighting another breakdown. It was over, no damage done, he told himself. You helped him to survive and all was fine.

Morrie picked a can and made himself dinner, just like the old days. He also began to feel a little more like then. Future tasks began to occupy his mind. He needed more logs, more material. Idling around was over. This had taken too long, he needed to go back to work. He ate without really tasting the food. He sensed the temperature and that was all he could deal with. The turmoil inside him dominated his stomach and he was glad that it didn't make him choke.

When he was done, he attempted to relish the warm fire for another while, but he became impatient. Normally, he would enjoy this calm moment, let his mind wander. But it was spinning enough and he just wanted it to end. For a second he considered bringing his mattress back downstairs, but he didn't like what it implied, so he put the fire out and went to bed. It didn't take long until he pulled the curtain over his head. He felt a little better then. Eventually, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, the sun greeted him again, blazing through the windows. Still, he felt just as numb as he had the day before. He only sensed the urge to move on with the day. He began his morning walk just as always, noticing how long the way felt when nobody distracted him. And how quiet. The Garden had turned back into it's meditative state. Morrie heard his own footsteps scrunch on the pebbles. The wind rustled. A few birds chirped here and there. That was it.

On the hill, he couldn't help looking out for him. Considering this was the only water source he knew, he'd show up here probably. Unless he found that one in the village. Yeah, that was also possible.

When Morrie didn't find who he was afraid to see, he turned away again. He was alone at the pump, filling all of his empty canteens. He remembered that he wouldn't have to do this every morning anymore. He had only wanted to teach Nick to care for himself. As if Nick ever cared for anyone else in the first place.

Morrie then idled around, scanning the landscape, wondering why he didn't show up. Why he didn't use what he already knew. Because he was here, Morrie assumed. Not fond of a meeting, understandably. Still very impractical.

Well, Nick wasn't an early bird, Morrie mused then. Perhaps he was still asleep. Snoring the hell out of his neighbours in the village. Morrie flashed a smile at the thought. He couldn't help keeping an eye on his surroundings while he walked home.

Then something occurred to him and his already fragile state faltered for a second. He stared at the canteens in his hands. Nick had left with none, hadn't he? There had been no time to get one. Well, he'd find others in the village, Morrie assured himself. They weren't exactly rare, he had just meant for Nick to get his own things. It didn't have to happen like this, he couldn't help thinking. If Nick had been honest, more careful- or maybe if he hadn't been honest at all... No! No!

Now Morrie felt sick, thinking about what would've happened if Nick never told him... Living another lie, with only Nick knowing everything, keeping control of the situation, as always. Believing that Morrie had something to atone for. After all he did for him. But now he had left all his belongings here and Morrie wished he could drop them at his feet.

He ate berries without paying attention. He just scanned the area, glad that nobody came along. His mind was still going through all the options Nick had in the Garden. He really didn't need to come here, he told himself. It meant nothing. Also, Nick wouldn't wake up so early, as he already found out. All was well.

When Morrie was sated, he hurried home and there he remembered more of the things that Nick had left. The damn chest under the bed! It wasn't that Nick could've carried this on his own anyway. Why did he give him this?, Morrie asked himself. Damn, he really planned keeping him forever, didn't he? What a fool he was! And now what?

He could ignore it. He could get rid of it, throw it's contents away. But it felt wrong, even though other Wastrels wouldn't mind finding them.

Morrie stood in front of said bed, unable to go anywhere else. He just stared, wondering if he could ignore the chest under it. He didn't see it from here, he could try to forget that it existed. As if he'd ever forget that. Defeated, he knelt down and reached out. He carefully ran his hands over the wooden lid, pondering. He couldn't get himself to open it. Only a sudden flash of courage helped him out.

Above all things, there was the Nonsuch blossom, glowing faintly as the dim light poured into the chest. Morrie picked it up, thinking that it would wither anyway, so he could remove it. Also, it was kitschy and stupid. But then he couldn't do it. It was Nick's still, just like the rest.

Then he saw the pencil Nick had been so excited about and he felt another pang in his chest. It was a real shame. This didn't have to stay here. What would Morrie do with it anyway? Compose? He turned the pencil in his hand, thinking of his good old days as a musician. Who would listen to his songs now? And how would he play them here? He still had melodies in his head, but...the most recent had aged very poorly. Also, it would feel wrong to use the pencil. It was Nick's. For fuck's sake!

He put it back and looked at the rest. The usual cloth straps and bobby pins from the cellar...and the little figure of a dog. It looked at Morrie and he was sure that it's look was disapproving. He pulled it out of the rubble and examined it. It was so silly, but...Nick had clung to this during his breakdown. How precious was it for him? Did he miss it now? Regret that he left it here? He wouldn't come back to ask...

Morrie huffed at that. No, Nick would rather visit Foggy Jack than him again. The former star wasn't stupid, he knew when he fucked up. Apparently, because he didn't come back.

Morrie noticed that his cheeks became wet and he had to gasp. He curled into a ball right where he was and cried until his head pounded and his eyes burned. The same old questions span in his head. Why did Nick have to be like this? Why was he cursed to see Nick again and why was he still so stupid?

Morrie didn't find an answer to any of his questions. When he was out of tears and shaking, at least the pressure was gone that had tortured him since the day before. He felt the need to give the past phase of his life a proper goodbye. He wanted to be fair. A look out of the window assured him that he had enough time, so he gathered the Nick's belongings and went outside.

This journey was more dire, too. Also, Morrie wasn't in an ideal mood to walk this way again, but he couldn't imagine a more comfy place to hide. It would also protect him from the rain. Morrie prepared himself for even meeting Nick there. Again, not ideal, but he had a good reason to go there. He wasn't crawling back. He'd make sure to get that point across. But he couldn't keep Nick's belongings just because he didn't want to meet him again.

The house appeared on the horizon and still looked the same, of course. Even if it seemed to be more cold. Morrie was sure that the ivy's green had been more lush before and the flowers in the front garden had been brighter. Just an illusion, he thought. Just like Nick himself.

At this point, Morrie would've accepted it if he dreamed all this. If his mind had played a cruel game with him, bringing back the man he wanted to love but never got the chance. But if this was an illusion, it would still go on, right? Why would he wake up?

These thoughts distracted him from the familiar building when he climbed over the wall and sneaked up the stairs. All was quiet. Well, Nick wouldn't stay here all day and make a ruckus, right?

Eyeing the second floor above him, Morrie noticed something else. Did Nick manage to climb up here yet? There wasn't a rope or anything attached to the planks that showed that he found a solution. But it actually wasn't too much of a problem... Morrie searched downstairs for more stones and put them on top of the stairs. Now it was easier to reach the plank from there. It should work and give him a sign.

Seeing the bed again made his stomach turn. He approached it slowly, as if Nick could suddenly materialize on it. When he stood close to the bed and it was still empty, he began to dump the insides of his purse onto it. Then he took some time arranging the things as if he was setting a dinner table for a party. In the end, he used the cloth straps to wrap the belongings into them. He let them stick out just enough to hint at what was inside while protecting them, so Nick wouldn't take them for a pile of rubbish.

Then his gaze fell on the view that had been so beautiful a day ago. He considered to stay, to just conveniently happen to be here... But a second later, he found that this was stupid. There was no way to explain it. He didn't mean to meet him in person. He just wanted to set things right. So he...he would just leave...?

He noticed that he was sitting on the bed, making himself comfortable, so he quickly shot up. Glancing back at the little package, he realized that he felt more like saying goodbye now than when he had chased Nick out. After leaving his belongings here, there would be no more signs of him at home. But it was the better choice, he told himself. Nick would find them. He knew this place. And if he showed up at his house, he could tell him where his stuff was and he didn't have to let him inside.

“Goodbye, Nick”, he whispered to the bed. “Stick to what I told you. Stay safe. That's all I wanted.” Leaving the room felt like leaving Nick behind. Morrie stopped to look back, but the room was still empty. The planks creaked in the wind and the ivy rustled.

Morrie forced himself to climb down and when he had brought enough distance between him and the house, it became easier to move on. The numbness came back. The pressure too, but only faintly. He went home in a fast pace and didn't look back again.

[aleburton]

Alex carefully gathered numerous silver beads scattered across the bathroom floor, cradling them in the palm of her hand. Balanced on her knees, she moved with a sense of urgency, her eyes filled with tears. Slate streams of mascara traced down her cheeks, chin, and neck as she worked tirelessly to dispose of the evidence in the nearby trashcan. Exhaustion clung to her, yet a sense of determination drove her to clean up before Andrew’s return. The night had taken a dark turn, leaving her grappling with the aftermath. Strangely, she chose to conceal the true reason behind her seemingly unnatural behavior from him. Despite his unwavering support and love, an upspoken fear lingered. He had never shown a hint of judgment; instead, he had been a pillar of strength through all of the vulnerabilities she had shared with him. However, it wasn’t as straightforward as confessing to anxiety attack. She anticipated a barrage of questions that would inevitably follow, probing into the root cause of the emotional upheaval. Hesitant to resort to dishonesty, she worried that if he pressed hard enough, she might be compelled to reveal the truth about Zach. Adding to her apprehension, she foresaw the possibility of him questioning why she hadn’t confided in him earlier, or if there were any other omissions or half-truths that she told. She felt her only option was to remain silent.

Rising from the ground, Alex wiped away her tears with the tips of her fingers. The haunting image of the disappointment in Andrew’s eyes remained in her mind. The simple of act of showing up for one of the most significant events of his life, wearing a stunning smile, and posing for the camera seemed insurmountable for her in that moment. Instead of offering a sincere apology and quietly retreating, she had chosen to escalate the situation by calling off their engagement. It felt like a page torn from her story with Zach. The memories flooded in – times when she had threatened to end things, push him away, and let him grapple with the aftermath of her emotional explosions. She had worked so hard not to be that person anymore, but his reaction stung. The unexpected chastisement, his words cutting like a sharp rebuke, left her feeling exposed and humiliated. The physical act of being dragged out by the arm, reminiscent of a child deserving of a scolding in front of everyone, shattered her expectations of him. Alex gathered her dark brown curls into a loose bun atop her head. She began rinsing away the remnants of her already ruined makeup in preparation for bed. Though she had a strong urge to book the first flight back to Los Angeles, she resisted the familiar urge to escape from confrontation. Adept at arguing and very skilled in avoiding a resolution by running away, she understood that she needed to prove her growth.

Alex recognized that true maturity lay in facing difficult conversations head-on and as such, made a conscious decision to stay and talk through things with him, no matter how challenging the dialogue or whether it would lead to them parting ways. She then tucked herself into their bed and fell asleep. Hours later, Andrew returned home, his fingers working to loosen the silk, silver fabric of his tie from around his neck. Entering the bedroom with a quiet tread, he was taken aback to find her peacefully asleep. Given the intensity of their earlier disagreement, he half-expected her to purposefully retreat to the guestroom, a silent assertion of her discontent with him. Approaching her side of the bed, he reached into his pocket, retrieving her engagement ring. With utmost gentleness, her returned it to its rightful place on her finger. “I love you,” he whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head. After preparing for bed, he joined Alex beneath the plush duvet, slipping into the comforting cocoon of shared warmth. His muscular arms encircled her waist, prompting a gentle stir from her. Andrew found himself unsuccessful in his attempt to soothe her back to sleep as she turned carefully to face him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, tears welling in her eyes. In response, he smiled, his hand delicately brushing a loose tendril from her face to behind her ear. “Me too.”

Alex’s brows knitted together with the soft expression of confusion. “You don’t have to be,” she insisted, her remorse evident. “I ruined you night. I feel horrible.” Swallowing, Andrew reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, gently kissing each of her knuckles. “You didn’t ruin my night. I shouldn’t have confronted you like that,” he admitted. Regret lingered in his sigh. “I knew something was wrong when I left earlier. I wish I would have just asked you. What happened, baby?” he inquired, his concern now evident. God, she didn’t deserve him. As tears rolled down the side of her nose, sinking into the sheets, Alex bravely attempted to explain. She opened up about the panic attack, describing how she had torn her dress to near shreds in a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming sense of impending doom. She shared the details of taking medication, hoping to muster the strength to show up for him that night, only for it have adverse effects. Andrew refrained from asking about a trigger. Instead, he made the compassionate implication that perhaps the stress he had unintentionally placed on her had taken a toll. “Is it the wedding planning? I know my mother has been a little excited about it lately, but there’s no rush. We can take all the time that we need,” he offered, seeking to understand without pressing for specifics.

She neither confirmed nor denied whether the wedding plans were the root cause of her spiral. Instead, she responded with a kiss, grateful for the understanding and the opportunity for an emotional reprieve that she hadn’t realized she needed. “But I can still go shopping for a dress,” Alex remarked, sniffling away her tears. Andrew laughed, pressing a tender kiss to the bridge of her nose and nodding, “Yes, you can. Why don’t you fly Eden and Naomi in this weekend? You can make it a big ordeal. It’ll be fun.”Shortly thereafter, they shared a moment of intimacy. As they made love, the connection between them felt reaffirmed, and Alex, once again, fell back to sleep with a newfound confidence in their relationship. Over the course of the next few months, Alex embarked on a journey of taking small but meaningful steps to plan their day. Set for a cool day in October, just past five o’clock in the evening, the chosen venue held special significance – the very place where they first met. In the culmination of their love story, Alex was poised to become Mrs. Andrew J. Dupree.

--

Drew awoke that morning with an unusual burst of energy. Pacing around the kitchen, black coffee in one hand and phone in the other, he searched for an important document. Meanwhile, Alex, sipping on her matcha latte, casually lifted the sought-after paper into the air, playfully waving it back and forth. “Looking for this?” He smirked, narrowing his eyes as he plucked the document from her fingers. “What’s with you this morning? Have a hot date or something?” He teased. Quick to reply, Drew explained, “Actually, yes. Kylie French at 1:00 PM. The Ritz-Carlton. We’re making moves on this new album.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, what?” she questioned. Walking over to the sink, Drew emptied his coffee cup and answered, “I told you the other day, didn’t I?” Alex shook her head, leaning away from him as he leaned in for a kiss. “No, I don’t think you did. I’m sure I would remember. We’re supposed to meet at 2:30 PM with the wedding planner,” she reminded him. “I wouldn’t miss it, Ale. But, I gotta go or I’m gonna be late.” Instead of asking for a wish of good luck, Drew, exuding confidence, pressed a quick kiss to her lips and made his way out. As he showed himself out, Alex’s nerves showed themselves in. A shiver ran down her spine, a reminder that Zach was now several degrees closer.

“Aunt Kylie,” Warren pointed at the TV, laughing. “Aunt Kylie on the TV.” Zach smiled down at him, stretched out on the sofa, nursing a non-alcoholic beer he hated drinking. “Sure is, man,” he tipped the bottle in one hand and caught the softball flying at his head in the other. He tossed it back to his brother. “You miss her?” Zach asked. Warren laughed, waddling after the ball, shaking his head. “No, Aunt Kylie is here, on TV. You talk to her now. I miss Lucky. Lucky isn’t here OR on TV.” Zach laughed; Lucky was Paula’s new Golden Retriever puppy. The ball came sailing back to him and he caught it again, to Warren’s loud delight. “Lucky misses you too. He just called me a second ago and told me.” Warren, now attempting to climb up onto the sofa, laughed hysterically. “No he didn’t. He’s a dog. Dog's don't have phones.” Zach was half-present, watching Ky’s eyes like sapphires glinting on the screen, tumbles of gold assembled into a braided half-updo. “He did. He also said you stink,” he playfully pushed a clambering, almost-two-year-old body from him, sending his little limbs falling back into the cushions. Warren shrieked. “He didn’t! Only grown up have phones.”

“Did so. He said your farts stink bad.” Kylie was strapped up in a white, doll-like dress, the skirt puffing out around her like a pastry; her legs careened down into matching platform heels, which she kicked around when the host mentioned Zach’s name. A photo of the two of them locked in a kiss at a recent music award ceremony flashed up on the huge screens behind them, one Zach had actually never seen before, and Kylie seemed to shy away into her hands. Zach rolled his eyes, smirking, and pushed Warren back again as he attempted to climb his big brother like a ladder. Playing with Warren had become like second nature; he barely registered continuing to do so as he fixated on his girlfriend. Kylie, unaware of the domesticity back home, talked in her animated, quippy way about Zach as she was asked how they met. “But he didn’t call me back for months - no, it’s true!” she argued with the protesting crowd. “He would only text every now and then, I had to really bug him to get the attention I wanted. It was like I was having a flirtation with a very successful Zach Winthrop catfish.” The host admonished her, waving his hand dramatically. "Not giving YOU attention? Don't be ridiculous!" Kylie grinned like she had a delicious secret. "Don't worry about me. Now I get all the attention from him I need."

She knew how to work a crowd; certainly better at it than he ever was, or could ever hope to be. Zach was, ultimately, an artist. His talent was the catalyst in which he was thrust into the world, not the cherry on top of an already loveable persona. In fact, the thing he’d had to work hardest at over the years was ensuring his true self was dutifully contained in order to gain and stay in the public's favor. However, in the last few, he had fallen out and back into that very favor multiple times; always in cataclysmic manners. His relationship with Kylie had helped repair public opinion of him, as had his brother, who he now scooped into his lap and let play with his empty bottle. But, mostly, with his rehab stint being widely accepted as his first step to taking accountability for his poor behavior over the years, what the world had really needed to heal their relationship to him had been distance. Each time he was photographed now, whether it be through a long lens he hadn’t noticed while out on a walk with Warren, or at an event attended only to be on Kylie's arm for, an outcry followed in which hundreds of thousands requested he come back to his life in the limelight. It might only be wound closures to a gaping hole, but it helped to see the demand. It made him less anxious surrounding his potential return to his career, to try all over again, attempt to do success the right way. It had been a little over two years since the end of his tour, the one he never stayed sober long enough to take overseas, and he had a backlog of a hundred or more songs he’d created in his time off ready and waiting to be made into an album. Amanda was finally on his back about it, too. She’d given him the time he needed, and now she thought he might just be being lazy. 

And maybe he was. Maybe he liked the slow version of his life. Maybe he was finally coming to know what peace felt like, and was scared to rock the boat should it flop overboard and into the ocean. He didn’t know his reasons, and wouldn’t find out; he’d stopped going to therapy. With the merger more than underway, Kylie and Andrew Dupree were in frequent discussion both over the phone and, when they could, in person, regarding her second album. She and Zach had since discussed the possibility of Zach eventually working with Andrew, who had made it very clear he hadn’t forgotten about him, and she was at peace with it. “It wasn’t ever about sharing a CEO, Zach,” she’d explained. “I was just touchy because it felt like… you know, the meeting that was supposed to be about me was suddenly all about you. I just felt small. But I don’t anymore. You took care of that.” And Zach had teased her. “Labelmates, huh? Finally making it to second base.” Now, after Kylie’s interview and performance was over and Warren had fallen asleep on his chest, he carried him up to bed and went into his rarely-used study. Absently, pushing another non-alcoholic beer around on naked mahogany, he googled Andrew Dupree on his computer. He wasn’t sure to what end; what insight did googling a person ever offer? Surface understandings, mangled half-truths, professional pictures under studio lighting. Nothing of substance. However, he found an article in which Andrew was mentioned among a handful of other entertainment aficionados. It looked like Time magazine had honored him with an award celebrating his efforts with The Label, having taken the company above and beyond even his father’s original vision. A photograph of him commemorated the event, onstage mid-speech, holding his award out proudly. 

Zach leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him, and texted Kylie: U did incredible babe. Seeing her live in a chasm of his former glory had, for a time, been gratifying; he’d liked being in the buzz without being at the pinnacle of it, liked that she’d leaned on him when it got too hard, knowing he was the only one who would understand, liked the time off while still enjoying all the perks. But lately, he had to admit to himself, he was getting antsy. A signifier was his sad indulgence in his non-alcohol; a placebo to pacify his burgeoning boredom. He was craving something for himself, beyond supporting Kylie and helping to raise his brother. Was he selfish for that? Oddly, he felt he had nowhere to turn with this emotional stranding. He felt like an island; water-locked, isolated. He scratched his neck, swiveling around in the office chair to gaze out at the winking California sky, deep blue and bruising with weariness, her stars dimming. He thought again of Alex, an involuntary response he experienced less and less nowadays, but still too often considering it had now been almost two years since they had gone their separate ways. It was only that he knew she would know what to say; she'd reach her fingers effortlessly into his chest and bring forth his truth in her clenched fist, give him an answer he didn’t know he had. He spun again and again, letting himself get dizzy, like maybe the alcohol was real and going to his head. “Fuck it,” he mumbled finally, stopping dead with his hands hard on the desk. He emailed the Time magazine article to Amanda with no body text, only the subject line: ? :).