#nowadays you don't find Angst like this anymore

[eleni-cherie]

this fanfic from 8-9 years ago I'm rereading is so fcking good w so many layers and plot twists goddd fanfics used to be this good back then and didn't even need smut for it.

++ what ppl consider angst nowadays doesn't come near the actual angst from back then.

+++ side-characters that were actually important for the plot and also had their own deep and plot relevant background stories and weren't just there for the sake of it?? it was a thing back then!!

[sceletaflores]

Being a professional masseur for players and taking care of our boy art.

Hes just so sad and so pretty that you just giving head to make him feel better 😔

Plot twist: he falls in love with you because duh? Hot+sex=you being promoted pookie, you are now the donaldsons elite employes!!!!!!

Baby, show me where it hurts...

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you never intended on becoming a "celebrity" massage therapist. you just wanted to be a massage therapist, the whole celebrity thing just sort of happened, you blame cali for that. but the novelty of your job wore off long ago, you hardly blink at the clients on your table nowadays. that is until tashi duncan calls you and absolutely fucks everything up

— or: art donaldson needs a massage therapist…

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, oral (m!receiving), oral (fem!receiving), p in v, fingering (fem!receiving), angst? maybe? could this be considered angst?, slight age gap, no tashi duncan erasure because i don't stand for that, cheating but not really cause tashi knows, she always knows, she is an all seeing eye, and she kind of orchestrates it, SOOOOO much plot, like way too much i'm sorry, art being sad and tired, art also being kinda pathetic a little bit, unprofessional massages, no use of y/n.

word count: 10k+ (someone stop me....pls still read this lmao)

author's note: this ask was blessedly placed in my inbox and it was all i’ve thought about since. this is my first big fic since my mike schmidt days so hopefully i'm not rusty! i've seen this damn cursed hell movie ten times, so hopefully i do it justice. i'm also still struggling sooo much with art and tashi as characters so please bear with me if they aren't movie accurate i'm trying my best. okay. thank you. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

You don't get starstruck often, not anymore at least. The clients that find their way onto your table are just that in your eyes, clients. You don't see them as big time "celebrities”. Just men and women who need your professional help.

That being said, you almost dropped your phone the first time the Tashi Duncan called you.

It was a normal work day for you, spent buried in paperwork and training a new secretary. You're folding the steam room towels on your lunch break when your phone rings. No caller ID, you answer it anyways.

"Hello, you've reached Lush Retreat Med Spa," you rattle off into your phone, placing it between your ear and shoulder to continue folding. "How can we help you?"

"This is Tashi Duncan calling for Art Donaldson, we've heard great things about you and were hoping to schedule an appointment."

The towel drops from your hands, your mouth falling open in shock. You reach up to tightly grip your phone, not wanting to embarrass yourself by dropping your phone with Tashi fucking Duncan on the end of the line.

Of course you know who she is, but doesn't everyone? The tennis prodigy from Stanford who was on top of the world when a tragic knee injury stole everything from her in a single second. You absolutely idolized her when you were in high school and playing tennis competitively. You watched all the recorded matches you could get your hands on, wore your DUNCANATOR shirts to practice constantly, only bought the tennis rackets she used. You had her fucking posters plastered on the walls of your old bedroom for Christ's sake.

That was until you, ironically, shattered your wrist in a car accident and had to hang up the racket and pleated skirts forever. Just like her.

Now, Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson are California royalty. An unfairly beautiful couple living what seems to be the dream. You'd never kept up much with Art's career like you did Tashi's, but you follow them both on Instagram and you see his face on billboards all over the city almost daily so you can assume it was fruitful. It may help him that he's extremely easy on the eyes, or "super fucking hot!" in your coworkers words.

"Hello?" Her voice ringing out from the tiny speaker ripped you out of your thoughts and back into reality.

"Y-yes, sorry," you cringe internally at yourself, stuttering over your words like a loser. You force yourself to sound professional when you speak again, "We'd love to help you any way we can. Do you have a certain time and date in mind already?"

"We're not home right now, we were thinking next Thursday. Around four." There's no question mark on the end of her sentence, you know that she isn't asking you, she's telling you. You don't even bother to check the schedule before you're answering.

"We will be free that day. I'll go ahead and put you in our system." you rush over to the front desk computer and open the calendar, thankfully you are actually free for Thursday. "I'm assuming you know our location?" you ask as you type in the appointment details, ignoring how your fingers shake ever so slightly as you type Tashi into the slot.

"Actually," Tashi's voice has a different tone to it when she speaks again, it’s something you can’t quite place, your fingers slow down slightly as you listen, "we wanted to make this a home visit."

You stop typing completely, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare at your computer screen. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Donaldson but we don't do at home appointments…per our policy." you reply meekly, almost surprised that you're denying her.

"Duncan, actually,” she corrects you nonchalantly, you don’t have time to unpack that before she’s speaking again. “We did read that on your website, but we'd hope you might make an exception. You wouldn't need to bring much. We have our own table." Her tone isn't harsh or impolite, just firm and certain, like she knows you'll give in to her.

You do.

"Well," you bite your lip as you wrestle internally with yourself, torn between what you want to do and what you should do. "Okay, we can do that for you."

"Great. I'll send you the address. See you then." She hangs up without saying goodbye.

You plant your phone next to you and stare at the filled out appointment slot taking up your computer screen, processing what just happened. You're going to Tashi Duncan's house. To give her hot pro-tennis player husband a massage. In their house.

"What the fuck."

SIX DAYS LATER...

The walk up to The Donaldson's huge mansion on a mountain has your stomach turning in on itself. All week you were a ball of nervous energy just floating around your office, trying to find anything to distract you from your upcoming appointment. Now that it's here, you feel you may have bitten off more than you could chew.

You hardly got any sleep last night, tossing and turning in your bed for hours before you gave up, barging into your building's gym to try and sweat your nerves out. When that didn't work you just retreated back to your apartment and got ready.

You try not to think about why it took you so long to get ready, longer than most work mornings. Taking more time in the shower, more time doing your hair, more time doing your makeup.

You even choose an outfit you'd hardly ever wear in front of regular clientele. A matching white polo set, a skirt in place of shorts. You tell yourself that you just want to look good, who wants to look like a mess in front of Tashi Duncan?

Your hands white-knuckle the steering wheel of your car on the drive over. You couldn’t even play any music, the noise in your head already too loud as it was, only cranking up the AC and silently following the crisp voice of your GPS reading off the directions Tashi sent you.

The closer you get to the door the more you want to turn and run down the insanely long driveway, get back in your car and haul ass home without ever looking back.

You don't because you're a professional, or at least that's what you keep telling yourself.

Your hand shakes as you ring their doorbell, hearing it echo back at you from the inside. You only wait a few seconds before the large door swings open and there she is.

Tashi Duncan is every bit as beautiful in person as she is splashed across the pages of magazines and blown up twenty feet on billboards. She looks so effortlessly classy in her Ralph Lauren sweater and flowy black dress pants.

Your name falls from her lips, and all the blood rushes to your ears. Her silky voice wraps around each syllable with an enticing heat that makes you weak in the knees. You feel sixteen years old all over again, standing at the woman who basically molded you into who you are today. It's a dizzying sensation, the rush of nostalgia and emotions flooding in like an avalanche. The memories you have locked away in your brain of the countless late night practices, the hundreds of hours spent on the court, the trophies and ribbons littering your moms basement collecting dust, the refusal to give up and pushing your body past its own limits because you wanted to be just like her. You wanted to be Tashi Duncan, and when you catch yourself nervously rubbing your thumb over the scar spanning your right wrist, you guess in some sick twisted way that you kind of are.

"So glad you could make it," she greets breezily, stepping to the side to let you in. “We were worried you’d get lost.”

The house is, of course, beautiful on the inside. Tall ceilings, big fireplace, a beautiful staircase leading to the second floor. There’s toys strewn messily along the living room floor, the TV mounted on the wall is paused on ESPN.

You hope you don’t look as crazy as you feel taking in the space, taking in the fact that Tashi is standing right in front of you. 

“No, the directions were very helpful,” your voice only slightly wavers as you respond, you count that as a win, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Donalds–uh–Duncan.” You cringe at your fumble, but try to power through by extending Tashi your hand.

She watches you for a second, sharp eyes flicking over your body quickly like she’s inspecting you. It makes your cheeks feel warm as you struggle to not squirm underneath her gaze. Finally, she takes your hand in hers and gives it a firm shake. You ignore the way her touch makes your palm burn.

“Art should already be in the massage room, it’s in the pool house,” Tashi says, gesturing to the huge windows in the living room showing off a lavish underground pool with a smaller building situated next to it, “I have to take a phone call here in a few minutes so I trust you’ll find your way there.”

You nod slowly, adjusting the strap of your supply bag on your shoulder. Tashi doesn't even pause walking further into the house as she speaks to you, heels clicking with each step as she makes her way to the large staircase in the middle of the room. There’s still no question marks tacked on to the end of her sentences, just like over the phone. 

“It’s just through that door, first room on the left. I told him to leave the door open for you.” She continues, reaching the stairs and making her way up slowly. She tosses her head over her shoulder to make eye contact with you again. “He’s been complaining about his shoulder acting up. The right one, it’s what needs the most attention. He serves with that arm, we need it at a hundred.” she fires off casually, like she’s recited this information before.

You go to speak but her phone ringing cuts you off, echoing off the house's crisp white walls. “Thank you for coming to see us, it was nice meeting you.” Tashi says politely, giving you one final once over before she’s answering her phone and disappearing up the stairs.

“It was nice meeting you too…” you trail off quietly, fully caught off guard by whatever the hell that was. Out of every single time you’d fantasized about what meeting Tashi Duncan would be like, none of them were quite like this. At least it’s over you figure, and you even managed to not make a complete fool of yourself.

You hold onto that tiny win as you walk through the living room doors and outside, making your way to the pool house like Tashi instructed. The entrance is unlocked as you step inside, thankfully you spot the cracked door a little ways in front of you. 

The sound of your footsteps are loud as you make your way down the short hallway, tennis shoes making small thump sounds against the concrete floor. You pause for just a second outside the cracked door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room is empty, the only things inside are some shelves lined with various essential oils and lotions, and an expensive looking massage table in the center. You muse over the fact that their table looks a little better than the ones in your own spa, no wonder they wanted a home visit.

The room is well lit as you walk around, dim in a way that promotes relaxation. The soft, ambient lighting bathes the room in a gentle, golden glow, complemented by the flicker of aromatic candles placed strategically around the space. You wonder who lit them, Tashi? Or maybe Art? You let out a small laugh at the idea of Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson fawning over the room before you showed up, setting up candles and mood lighting to make it feel nicer, less clinical.

You’re probably just reading too much into it. You always urge clients to ask for anything that will make them feel more comfortable, apparently Art just likes eucalyptus sage candles and mood lighting. It has nothing to do with you. 

Your name being said from somewhere behind you rips you out of your own mind. You whirl around, and find yourself face to face with six time Grand Slam Champion, Tashi Duncan’s super hot husband, Art Donaldson. And he’s only wearing a fucking towel.

“Hello,” he greets with a kind smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “it’s nice to finally meet you, thank you so much for taking the time to come out here.” 

Art is already worlds different from Tashi, or that’s what you’re inferring after spending less than five minutes with each of them. It’s still extremely apparent, Tashi has an almost overpowering presence to her, everything about her commands respect and she knows that. She uses that to her advantage, she likes it like that.

The man standing in front of you is nothing like that. The Art Donaldson in front of you doesn’t seem like some big shot tennis player with more impressive stats than you could wrap your head around. You’ve come to know that a few pro-sports guys like to swing their dicks around, bragging about their booming careers non-stop during a session. Yet everything about Art is unassuming as he stands in the doorway like he’s trying to make himself look smaller. 

“Hi, Mr. Donaldson,” you’re not sure if it's appropriate to offer a man wearing a towel dangerously low on his hips your hand, you decide against it. “It’s no trouble really, I’m happy to help.”

“Please, call me Art.” The tone of his voice makes you want to shiver, smooth and warm like honey. 

You try your best not to stare, but it’s so hard to ignore the toned expanse of Art’s body when it’s right there. He’s all broad shoulders, firm pecs, sculpted legs, with a cut Adonis belt. He’s like a marble statue, made in Michelangelo's perfect image.

Your eyes trail back up his body, lingering on his chest before rising up to his face. You’re mortified to see he’s staring right back at you, effectively catching you in the act. Your cheeks burn as you tear your gaze away, looking at anything and everything other than him. In your panic, you don’t notice the way his eyes rake over you in the same way.

“Okay, Art,” you say a little breathlessly, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag. “It’s nice to meet you. Mrs. Duncan let me know about your major problem areas, I’ll be sure to focus on them.” Involuntarily bringing up Tashi has your stomach clenching up in guilt, you just got done ogling her husband's body. You hope he takes the silent cue you're giving him to get on the damn table so you can start the massage and get the hell out of here.

Art nods silently, walking over to the table and moving to lie down on his stomach. You busy yourself with prepping your oils, taking them out of your bag and setting them on a small side table next to the massage bed uncapped for easy access. You can’t help but sneak glances at the rippling muscle of Art’s back as he shifts, his skin looks soft and is littered with freckles. You don’t miss the hiss he lets out when he lays his weight on his shoulder.

You usually don’t speak much during appointments, only engaging in conversation when your client initiates it, but you feel the need to fill the silence between you and Art. The quiet atmosphere makes everything seem far too intimate, and sure on some level it always is, but this feels different.

“How’d you hurt it? Your shoulder. If you don’t mind me asking.” you ask once he’s settled, placing your fingertips to the middle of his right shoulder, feeling around for any tension. Art tenses slightly at your touch, taking a sharp breath. You guess you should have warned him, you open your mouth to apologize but he lets out a small breath and relaxes onto the table again.

Art sighs, his voice tinged with weariness. "It was, uh, during a match. I overextended trying to return a serve. Haven't been able to move it properly since."

You nod, hands starting to move in slow, deliberate circles across the muscle. “That sounds about right. Most people don’t realize how brutal tennis is to the body, injuries are common,” you pointedly try to ignore the flashbacks of your wrist failing to swing a racket properly after you healed from your accident, flashbacks of watching as the bone pierced through your skin. “Sounds like you might need to take it easy for a while.” you continue, trying to keep the conversation light.

Art chuckled, though it was devoid of real humor. "Yeah, I’ve been playing a lot lately. Guess I pushed myself too hard." He winces slightly as you work on a particularly tight knot, shoulder tensing under your hands. 

You pause, your hands stilling momentarily as you catch the underlying tension in Art's voice. "The season’s almost over, maybe it's time to give yourself a break, take some time to rest and recuperate." you remark softly, your tone gentle yet concerned.

Art's gaze flickers to yours, a flicker of vulnerability shining through. "I wish I could," he admits, his voice heavy, "But it's hard to step away, especially when it feels like it's all I have that’s still keeping everything together."

Your heart clenches at the raw honesty in his words. He’s completely silent afterwards, you wonder if he’s regretting telling you something like that, like maybe it just fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. Without a word, you continue to knead away the tension in his muscles, offering a silent gesture of support.

As you continue to work, hands skillfully moving over Art’s shoulder, you can’t help but notice the weariness in Art's demeanor. His presence feels heavy, almost broken, as if the physical pain was just a small part of what he was carrying. You feel a pang of sympathy for him. You can feel the weight of struggles pressing down on him, the way his shoulders sag slightly even under your careful touch.

“I can feel the tension here," you say gently, applying a little more pressure,  "Just try to relax.” 

With each knead and press, you remind yourself of your role. You’re here to help him heal, and that was all that mattered. But as your hands move over his warm skin, you can’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t what you had anticipated, something that made your heart race with both excitement and anxiety. You were so worried about meeting Tashi you completely forgot about Art. It’s a different story now as your hands explore the smooth planes of his back to the steady sound of his breathing.

"You're really good at this," Art says after a while, his voice a bit lighter. 

You smile, a genuine one, the first real smile you’ve had since you got here. “Thanks. I’d hope so after all this time.”

Art lets out a small chuckle muffled by the table, it makes your stomach flutter. “How did you get into this? Massage therapy seems interesting.”

You laugh but it’s a bitter sound, moving your hands down to focus lower on Art’s shoulder. You try not to think about your tennis career, even after all this time you struggle with the memories despite all the good it brought you. “That’s a long story.” you mutter under your breath, even to your own ears you sound resentful.

“I’ve got time.” It’s a simple reply, but it’s so honest. Like Art’s genuinely interested in you, in getting to know you. It makes you feel dizzy.

“I, um,” you worry your lip between your teeth, working your hands harder over Art’s back. “I actually used to play tennis. When I was in high school.”

Art makes an interested noise, shifting under your hands as he moves his head to lay on the side of the table so he could look up at you. “No shit?” he looks more shocked than anything. 

You nod, humming in confirmation as you finally move onto his other shoulder. “Yup, I was pretty serious about it back then, until I got injured.” You don’t meet Art’s gaze, but you can see how his face falls in your peripheral vision. You kind of want to laugh at how ironic this moment is, you wonder if Art’s thinking about Tashi’s knee. You know he was at the match, you’ve seen the blurry footage of Tashi Duncan’s fall from grace, watched Art vault over the net to get to her.

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it.

“It’s okay, wasn't like it was my fault or anything,” you say, finally meeting his eyes with a rueful smile and raising your right wrist to show him your scar. “I got hit by a drunk driver coming home late from practice one night. Nasty fracture, bone went straight through.” You hope your voice is coming out as nonchalant as you’re trying to make it sound.

Art's eyes widen in disbelief as he takes in your scar, a mixture of shock and sympathy evident on his face. "Wow, that's...terrible," he murmurs, his voice tinged with compassion.

You shrug, the memories still vivid despite the passage of time. "It was tough, it was awful actually. All the physical therapy in the world couldn’t get a racket back in my hand,” you confess softly, fingers tracing the outline of the scar absentmindedly again. “But it also forced me to reevaluate things, in a way. It made me realize that life doesn't always go according to plan.” You see Tashi’s knee buckling in your mind's eye. “When I finally realized that I could take all the hate and all the anger I was feeling and channel it into something good, something like massage therapy, I never looked back."

You immediately regret over-sharing, feeling silly telling Art your sob story, but when you meet his eye again, he has an odd look on his face. His expression is soft as he looks up at you through long lashes, understanding and empathy swimming in the blue of his eyes.

"Well, silver linings, huh?" he says after a few seconds, there’s traces of a smile playing on his lips. You let out a small laugh, nodding your head slightly.

"Yeah," you agree, a small smile on your lips. "Silver linings." 

As the conversation fades into a comfortable silence, you and Art find yourselves locked in a silent exchange, your eyes meeting and holding a depth of something you can’t quite pick up on. In that moment, the world around you seems to blur, leaving only the two of you suspended in a shared moment of vulnerability. There's a subtle shift in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that has formed between you, as if you've uncovered a piece of each other.

The shrill ringing of your phone’s alarm pierces through the moment, both you and Art jump at the sudden sound. It’s like a cold bucket of water pouring over your head, washing away whatever just happened between the two of you. The session’s over, you’re done. 

“Okay,” you say a little too loudly, taking your hands off Art's back like his skin could burn you any second. “Looks like we’re all done.” You try to smile but it feels fake, forced, so you turn your back to Art and start capping your oils to shove them back in your bag.

Art’s voice breaks the silence as you pack up, sounding a little less confident than it did earlier. “Uh, my neck has been bothering me too, recently,” he says offhandedly as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. “I think I may have slept on it wrong.”

You stop what you’re doing, turning to face Art again, silently cursing him for not just letting you leave. “Do you want me to take a look before I go?” You pray he says no. You should know it won’t be that easy, not with your shit luck.

“If you don’t mind?” His tone is so hopeful and his eyes are so big that your feet are walking towards him before your mind can catch up. 

“Not at all,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. You step closer, practically between his slightly spread legs, feeling the warmth of his skin even before you touch him. Your fingers brush against his neck, and he shivers slightly, the muscles tight and knotted beneath your touch.

"Just relax," you murmur, trying to maintain any shred of professional demeanor. As you work, you can't help but notice the way his breath hitches, the tension in his body melting away under your skilled hands. The room feels smaller, the air heavier with each passing second.

He closes his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "That feels amazing," he whispers, and you swallow hard, trying to focus solely on the task at hand. As you work, the intimacy of the moment isn't lost on you, and you can't help but wonder if he feels it too.

Minutes tick by like hours as you work the tense muscle of Art’s neck. You're acutely aware of every sigh, every shift in his body, every subtle reaction to your touch. You finally pull away when you think it’s been enough time, eager to get out of this damn house before you do something you’ll regret.

You didn’t notice how close you really were to Art until you pulled back only to be met with his face mere inches away from yours. Startled by the sudden proximity, you freeze, caught off guard by the intensity of Art's gaze. His eyes, dark and searching, seem to hold a silent question, a silent invitation.

Now, Art’s body is one thing, it’s objectively perfect. He’s a professional athlete, of course it’s perfect. It has to be perfect. It’s his damn face that gets you.

He’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. He looks like he should be splayed across canvas hanging in the Louvre. The dim lighting in the room illuminates his face beautifully, his golden hair haloing around his head makes him look ethereal. Each of his features look as if they were handcrafted by a master sculptor, each contour and line a testament to perfection. His chiseled jawline speaks of strength and determination, while his lips, soft and inviting, seem to beckon you closer with every breath. His eyes are deep pools of ocean blue, though this close you can see a small splash of brown in his left eye you didn’t notice before, swirling with emotions that stir something deep within you. 

Something more shocking than Art’s beauty, is how fucking tired he looks. Lines of exhaustion are etched along his face, subtle but undeniable. The weariness in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent plea for respite from the relentless demands of tennis. And yet, even amidst the exhaustion, there's a flicker of longing. He’s staring at you like he needs you, eyes wide and yearning. His chest rising and failing a little more harshly than it did before, each exhale coming out ragged and sharp.

“Art…” you whisper, heart threatening to beat out of your chest. He’s so warm, the heat emitting off of him makes you want to lean into it. You want to crawl on top of his powerful thighs and bury your face in his chest and never leave. Your hands flex where they’re draped over Art’s neck.

It happens in slow motion, Art’s hand trails up the skin of your thigh as your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and it’s like you’ve been electrocuted. You’re rearing back with a sharp breath, dropping your hands from his neck and taking a couple steps back. 

“It was really nice to- uh to meet you, Art.” you say frantically, swinging your bag firmly over your shoulder and rushing to the door. Art’s still sitting on the table, silently watching you panic. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I hope your shoulder feels better,” is all you say before bursting out the door and speed walking out of the pool house. 

Your heart's racing as you walk through the backyard, hands shaking even through the death grip you have on the strap of your bag. What the hell was that? What the hell was that? Did Art Donaldson just make a pass at you? You must be imagining things. 

The thought rattles around in your mind, refusing to be dismissed. His words, his tone—they seemed to linger in the air, haunting you with their implications. The way he touched you, like he couldn’t help himself. But no, it couldn't be. He was married to Tashi, and besides, he was just being polite, right? You try to convince yourself of that as you make your way back to the house.

As you walk inside, still slightly shaken up, Tashi’s the first thing you see. She’s sitting in the living room, laptop open on the coffee table in front of her. 

“Hey,” she says, sitting up straighter on the coach, “how was it?”

You swallow, urging yourself to calm down. “It was great, he should be seeing some improvement over the next few days.”

Tashi nods her head, seemingly pleased though it doesn’t show on her face. “Could this be a weekly thing, these appointments. He could really use them.” 

No question marks. Motherfucker.

You flounder, stomach dropping. “Weekly? As in every Thursday?”

Tashi’s brow raises, eyes looking over you inquisitively. “Yes, preferably all home visits.”She stands from the couch, taking a couple steps towards you. “We read on your website you take permanent clients, is that not the case anymore.”

You shake your head, eyes wide as they follow her while she walks. “N-no, Mrs. Duncan we do. We could pencil you in if you’re willing to pay monthly for the time slot. Would you like to talk to some of my other employees to work out a rotating schedule?”

Tashi stops a few feet away from you, hands in her pockets. “Actually, we were hoping you’d be the one coming down. The only one.” You blink, her words slam over you like a ton of bricks. Just you, in a room with a half-naked Art. Every single Thursday. That can’t happen, not after what just went down between the two of you.

You can practically hear the warning bells blaring in your mind, urging you to refuse, to put an end to this before it spirals out of control. Yet, there's another voice, quieter but no less insistent, whispering seductive promises of what could be if you were to stay.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you grapple with the conflicting desires warring within you. Tashi's expectant gaze weighs heavily on you, waiting for your response, and you know that whatever decision you make will irrevocably alter the course of things between you and Art. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself, the weight of your choice settling like a stone in your stomach.

"I...I'll do it," you finally say, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them. "I'll make sure to pencil you in for weekly sessions, Mrs. Duncan."

Tashi's lips curve up slightly, satisfied, but beneath the surface you can sense the tension thrumming through the air. You've made your choice, for better or for worse, and now you can only hope that it won't lead to the downfall of everything you've worked so hard to build.

“Wonderful,” she says, gesturing for you to follow her to the front door. You trail behind her like a loyal pet, silently allowing her to drag you wherever she pleases. “Thank you again for coming out, and please,” she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, turning to meet your eye, “call me Tashi.”

"Thank you, Tashi," you murmur softly, the weight of her name feeling foreign on your tongue when you’re actually saying it to her for the first time. "I'll make sure to arrange everything at the office."

Tashi's smile widens, though there's a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. "I look forward to seeing you, then," she says, her tone laced with a hint of anticipation. "And please, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to reach out."

With a final nod, Tashi opens the front door, the outside world beckoning beyond its threshold. You take a hesitant step forward, the weight of your decision pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy burden. As you step out into the cool evening air, you can't shake the feeling that you've just crossed a line from which there may be no turning back. But for now, all you can do is steel your nerves and hope that you haven't made a huge mistake.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Your sessions with Art continue on. The guilt settling deep in your stomach each time you set foot in the Donaldson/Duncan house also continues. It worsens each time the two of you are alone in that damned massage room. Technically you’ve done nothing wrong, but you know deep in the back of your mind that what you’re doing isn’t normal. Each meeting is a strange mixture of tension and familiarity. When you arrive, Tashi always greets you warmly, her trust in you unwavering. It feels like a dagger each time, twisting deeper and deeper into your conscience. 

Neither of you talk about it, what happened during your session, and Art doesn’t treat you any differently. He still goes out of his way to make polite conversation, asking you about your life, about your business, he even brings up old anecdotes you told him offhandedly. He doesn’t talk about tennis, and he has to know you can keep up in conversation with it since you told him about your history with it, you just assume he doesn’t want to. 

That makes sense, you always think back to the first time he met you. How he brushed off any conversation about his career, how his demeanor changed when he spoke about it. How drained he looked. There was a sadness in his eyes, a weight he carried that seemed to go beyond just a few standard aches and pains. You remember how it struck you then, and it strikes you still, each time you see him.

His shoulder is getting better, you can tell. He can lay on it, or raise it above his head, without wincing. That makes your heart swell, knowing that despite how weird and kind of fucked up everything is, he’s healing. 

The familiar sound of your timer ringing pulls you out of your thoughts. You’re shocked at how fast this appointment flew by, but you could tell as soon as you walked into the massage room to find Art already sitting on the table waiting for you, that something about this session feels different. It’s silly to call it “sensing a bad vibe”, but that’s exactly what you felt entering the room's threshold. 

Art didn’t speak much as you worked, just laying on the table silently after saying hello and asking you about your week. The silence is definitely odd, Art’s not a chatterbox by any means, but he usually keeps some form of conversation flowing. After a while, you start to think it might be something you did, like maybe he’s mad at you. It sounds so stupid in your head, like you’re some poor high school girl getting hung up over a fucking guy giving you the silent treatment.

The only thing more stupid than that is how much it’s actually affecting you. Art has you over analyzing everything you’ve said or done over the last couple visits, you dread that maybe he just came to his senses after all this time. That he finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in and remembered he has a beautiful wife, and that he doesn’t really want you.

“Alright,” you say softly, stepping away from the table, “All done.” As you turn off the timer and gather your thoughts, you can't shake the feeling that something is off. You force yourself to bury it, Art doesn’t owe you an explanation, he doesn’t owe you anything. You aren’t his.

You glance over at him as he slowly sits up, his expression unreadable. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. You offer a small smile in return, trying to squash all the ugly feelings mixing in your stomach. You turn to busy yourself with packing up, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu.

Art’s voice cuts through the silence, sounding weary. “Are we still pretending it didn’t happen?”

It catches you off guard, making you drop the bottle in your hands back onto the table loudly. Your heart races as you turn back to face him, unsure of how to respond. The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, demanding a response you’re not sure you’re ready to give.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “I...I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I was hoping we could just…forget about it.”

Art’s eyes search yours, filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. “I don’t think I can,” he confesses, his voice tinged with sadness.

The same feelings from that day rush back in your mind, flooding all your senses. It's as if time folds in on itself, bringing you right back to that moment where everything changed. You feel panic clawing its way up your body, fight or flight response waging a war inside of you.

You chose flight, shoving the last bottle in your bag and making a break for the door. Ready to run just like you did back then, run and come back next week with your tail between your legs desperately trying to forget that this ever happened, again. Art’s voice stops you just as you have your hand on the doorknob.

“Please…” he whispers, he sounds so broken, so vulnerable. “Please, don’t run.”

You don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or the repressed feelings, or your shitty back bone, but whatever it is makes you pause, hand falling off the doorknob to lay limp at your side. You turn back to face him, the raw need in his eyes mirrored by your own emotions. It tugs at your heart, making it impossible to leave. You feel a surge of guilt and hesitation, but the longing in his gaze holds you captive. Slowly, you make your way towards him, taking small slow steps like you could still leave at any minute, but you know you won’t.

You walk until you’re crowding him, standing between his spread legs just like you did all those sessions ago. His eyes are wide, almost disbelieving, like he thought you’d turn around and slam the door on him instead. Which is what you should do, you should walk out that door right now and never step foot in their house again. 

Art whispers your name, his voice a soft caress that sends sparks zapping down your spine. You're close enough to feel his breath fanning over your face, warm and intimate. You inhale, like you’re trying to absorb his words, his essence, his everything. 

His hand takes yours, bringing it up to his chest. He presses it firmly against his pec, right on top of his heart. You can feel the rapid, uneven thumping beneath your palm. His thumb caresses your wrist gently, making goosebumps pebble over your skin.

It’s easy to get lost in Art’s eyes, so you’re shocked to notice something that very quickly grabs your attention. Art’s towel is tented obscenely, hard cock straining against the thick material. You swallow roughly at the sight, feeling the need to touch, to take, to help.

Your knees hit the floor before you fully realize the entire gravity of what you’re doing. You don’t care about any of that anyway, not right now. 

Right now Art Donaldson is swiping his thumb across the scar on your wrist with his big sparkly eyes desperately looking into yours, unashamedly begging for you to touch him. 

Who are you to deny him?

Your hands find the knot of his towel and yank it roughly, ripping it off Art's hips and tossing it aside. His hard cock springs out, slapping up against his stomach enticingly. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, pleased to see he’s perfect all over. 

Art’s cock is long, and thick. He’s big, but in an exciting way, not in an intimidating way. He’s already steadily drooling pre-cum from his soft pink tip, already so hard and you haven’t even touched him yet. You reach up, tracing your finger along the length of him lightly. Art inhales, his eyes fluttering closed as you touch him for the first time. The anticipation in the room is palpable, a heady mix of desire and need that seems to swirl around you both.

You circle your hand around the base of his cock, stroking up and up until your hand bumps into the head, where you start to rub your thumb back and forth gently, spreading the wetness from his pre-cum before sliding your hand back down. Slowly, you lean in, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth, savoring the taste of him as he groans deeply, hands gripping the massage table tightly.

“Shit,” he grits out, casting his gaze to the ceiling, chest already heaving raggedly. 

You slide the warmth of your mouth down the shaft of his cock, moaning at the heady taste of him, skin soft and velvety on your tongue. 

“Fuck, your mouth…” Art whispers above you, his words trailing off into a string of breathy moans. You hum in response, working his cock faster to draw out more of those noises. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink down towards the circle of your fist still holding the base of his cock with wet, slippery slurping sounds. Art’s hand lets go of the table, coming up to cup your cheek in a move way too intimate for what the two of you are doing.

You chance a look up, and your heart skips several beats at what you see. Art’s already staring down at you, his face twisted up in pleasure. His pale cheeks are flushed, brows drawn together tightly, plush bottom lip caught between his teeth. All that is enough to make you feel ten feet tall, but that’s not what makes you pause.

It’s his eyes, the way Art’s looking at you.

The look in his eyes is…worshipful. Reverent. Like you’re a celestial being, a divine grace walking among mortals. Not some girl on her knees for a married man in his house’s private fucking massage room.

Yet the longer you hold his gaze, while still working your mouth over his hard cock, you feel something strange stirring inside you. Art’s eyes holding such a longing reverence so intense, it was starting to elevate you to a pedestal of adoration. Of devotion.

Right now Art’s like the sun, burning so brightly you feel you need to look away before he consumes you, but you don’t.

“Please,” Art begs desperately, voice so soft you barely even hear it. There’s tears welling in his eyes, his red rimmed and so so tired looking eyes. It breaks your heart, how could such a wonderful man be reduced to this?

You pull off Art’s cock, hand still pumping firmly over him. He whines at the loss of your mouth, hips bucking up to chase after the warm heat. His tip bumps over your lips as he moves, trailing a thin line of pre-cum across them.

Without breaking eye contact, you speak.

“You’re so good, Art.” 

It’s those four words whispered against the tip of Art's leaking cock that has him coming with a hitched breath and a soft cry. A few bursts of his warm come land over your parted lips before you take the head of his cock back in your mouth to greedily swallow down the rest. 

"Thank you, fuck, thank you...!" Art grates out as his body trembles above you, hand squeezing yours so hard it borders on painful. You know you’re never coming back from this, but you still  squeeze back as hard as you can all the same.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Maybe this is just your life now, fucking the husband of the woman you worshiped like a God for years on end. It’s like you can’t stop, like you’re an addict or something. No matter how disgusting and shameful you feel every time you get home from Art’s appointments, you can’t help but give into him. It’s a twisted dance, a cycle of pleasure and regret that you can’t seem to break. One look into his sad, kicked puppy eyes and you crack. You’ve convinced yourself it's just you reveling in the feeling of being truly wanted for the first time. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. It’s the way he makes you feel alive, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

Art wants you. He needs you. He’s made that more than clear every single visit since you dropped down on your knees for him. The guilt gnaws at you, a constant reminder that you can't escape. Yet, every time you see him, every time he reaches out to you with that desperate need in his eyes, you find yourself powerless to resist. 

You’ve never kissed, not on the lips. Art’s certainly tried, lips seeking yours out as your oiled up fist slips up and down his cock, as you sit on his lap and grind against him until he’s dirtying his towel. You just turn your head every time, letting him trail kisses along your jaw and neck instead somehow feels less real. Kissing Art will make it feel real, you know it will. So you don’t.

Funnily enough, you think things are going well. Maybe even as well as getting a married man off every Thursday can go. You can see a change in Art, in his behavior and the way he holds himself. He smiles more, he laughs more, it’s like he’s giving more of himself to you each time you meet with him. It’s exhilarating, the way your presence has this effect on him, almost as if you’re breathing new life into him.

Art’s newfound lightness is infectious. You find yourself looking forward to Thursdays with an anticipation that borders on impatience. The way he looks at you, the tender touches that linger just a bit longer, the conversations that flow more freely–it all feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake up from. 

You should have known it was too good to be true, that this little world you created in your head was just the calm before the storm.

Everything about this session was normal to start. It’s a little less intense since Art’s shoulder is doing better, now you have free reign over the rest of his body. Greedy hands free to glide over the planes and planes of muscle you’ve become familiar with.

As you work on his lower back, your hands moving in practiced, soothing motions, you notice a subtle rigidity in his muscles. “Everything alright?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

Art hesitates before answering. “Yeah, just…a lot on my mind.”

You frown, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Art stays quiet, still laying silently on the table face down. You stare at the back of his head, like if you stare hard enough you’ll be able to tell what he’s thinking. Taking his silence as not wanting to talk, you continue on. You don’t want to pressure him to confide with you, not when he already has a wife for that.

As your hands continue to move over Art's tense shoulders, he lets out a deep sigh, breaking the silence. "I need you,”  he whispers softly, his voice filled with an unexpected vulnerability. He shifts on the table, leaning up to look you in the eye; his own eyes are watery, lashes clumped together with unshed tears. “It's not just the massages. I need you in my life, no more of this half-assed bullshit. I need all of you.”

You feel your whole world turn upside down in a single second, the distinct feeling of your heart lurching out of your chest and your stomach dropping to your feet. It’s like the walls of the room start moving in on you, caging you in. It makes your chest feel tight, breath coming out in short jagged rasps. Panic grips you, and you violently rip your hands off Art’s body, stumbling back from the massage table.

 "I-I'm sorry, I can't," you stammer, voice choked with emotion, as you turn to flee from the room, not even bothering to grab your stuff. But before you could escape, Art was right behind you, reaching out to catch your wrist, his grip gentle yet firm. "Please don't go, please," he begs, his eyes pleading with you to stay and talk. You wrench your hand free and run out of the room. 

You think you hear Art calling out your name through all the static rushing through your ears, but you’re not sure, and you don’t look back to check. Your feet pound against the tile as you run out of the pool house feeling like you’re about to throw up, or pass out. Art’s confession is the only thing running through your mind. The only thing that’s still clear through your dizzying panic.

You finally start to breathe again when you burst into the house, leaning back against the cool glass of the door to try and relax before you start to spiral. The silence inside is almost oppressive, the only sound the rapid thudding of your heart in your ears. You close your eyes, willing yourself to calm down, to find some semblance of control.

Your name being said grabs your attention, and you open your eyes to find Tashi at the top of the stairs.

“Is everything okay? I heard the door slam.” Her expression is a mix of concern and confusion as she takes a few steps down. You push yourself off the door, you need to leave as soon as possible, before Tashi can reach you and coerce you into staying. 

“Everything's fine!” Your voice sounds shaky despite your best efforts to calm yourself, you’re basically speed walking to the door. “I just, I got a phone call, and I need to leave. Right now. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t even wait for her to reply before you’re yanking the door open and rushing outside. You hope to God that she doesn’t follow you outside. She doesn’t.

You walk, arms wrapped around yourself tightly in a feeble attempt to stop shaking. There are tears burning your eyes and making everything in front of you blurry. The wind whips your hair around your face, stinging your cheeks as you walk further away from the house.

Each step feels heavier, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to make sense of the storm inside you. The chaotic weather seems to mock your turmoil, perfectly matching the chaos you feel. You struggle to piece together what just happened, the intensity of Art’s words echoing in your mind.

“I need you.”

His voice had been so raw, so vulnerable, and it scared you. You weren’t ready for that kind of emotion, that kind of responsibility, that kind of guilt. The weight of it had sent you running, and now you’re left grappling with the aftermath.

Fuck.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX HOURS LATER…

The drive home was a blur. Rain and wind beating against the windshield nearly the whole time. You’d laugh at how ironic it was, like God’s punishing you with shitty weather, but you’re too busy fighting tears to find the humor in it. 

The dread didn’t set in until you got home, stumbling through the front door on shaky legs until you reached your kitchen where you promptly emptied everything in your stomach into your trash. After you force yourself into the shower to wash the rain, and guilt, off of your skin. You scrub yourself raw, skin pink and sensitive to the touch, like that will somehow erase all that you’ve done.

When you finally step out, the bathroom mirror is fogged, a ghostly reflection staring back at you through the mist. You avoid its gaze, wrapping yourself in a towel and padding through your room to collapse onto your bed. The silence of the house presses in on you, letting your thoughts consume you. 

Art’s words play on a loop inside your head, the look on his face burned to the forefront of your mind. The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, rocking you with its intensity. Running away had seemed like the only option at the time, a knee-jerk reaction to the overwhelming flood of emotions threatening to engulf you. 

You know you didn’t run from Art because you don’t want him, you ran because there’s nothing you want more. In the aftermath, running felt less like a choice and more like an instinctual response to the storm of emotions threatening to consume you whole since the first day you met him. Every step away from Art was a battle against the gravitational pull of your desires, a struggle against the overwhelming urge to surrender to what you both shared.

The truth is crystal clear: you didn't run from Art because you're devoid of feelings for him. You ran precisely because your heart beats in synchrony with his, because the depth of your longing for him is as boundless as the universe itself. 

Your phone pings from the dresser, you ignore it. A second later, it pings again, and again, and again. You furrow your brows, glaring at your nightstand until you reach over and pick up your phone. It’s an unknown number, but you know who it is.

UNKNOWN NUMBER I need to see you.  Please, I can send a car. It's Art. Tashi isn’t home tonight.

Maybe you’re the worst person in the world, but all the fight leaves your body the second you read Art’s texts. You need to see him as much as he needs to see you. Your fingers type out a response before you can think twice.

Art okay.

You send him your address, jumping out of bed to throw on the first things you see. A black SUV was waiting for you as soon as you got downstairs, just as promised. You climbed in after getting confirmation from the driver, and sat in the backseat quietly as you went down the familiar streets. 

As the house comes into view, you can see the front door’s light is still on, waiting for you. You barely wait for the car to stop before you’re opening the car door and stepping outside. The rain immediately drenches you, seeping through your thin sleep clothes. You take two steps before the front door swings open and Art comes rushing out into the rain. He’s only wearing sleep pants, his bare feet smack wetly on the concrete as he runs to you.

Art stops short of you, hesitating, like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. You want him to touch you so bad you’re scared it might kill you. The air between you feels charged, every drop of rain a tiny spark. Finally, Art reaches out, his hand trembling as he brushes a soaked strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you step closer, collapsing into his arms. The rain continues to fall around you, but at this moment, it’s just the two of you.

"Art," you breathe, your voice trembling. "What are we doing?"

He gazes into your eyes, the raw emotion in his expression mirroring your own. "I don't know," he admits, his hands gently sliding down to your shoulders. "But I can't let you go. Not now." His words hang between you, a fragile thread of honesty that binds you together. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity in his voice, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words sink in. The honesty in his gaze, the desperation in his touch—it all overwhelms you, leaving you breathless. The only thing you can think of, the only thing that feels right, is kissing him. So you do.

You lean closer, your heart pounding in your chest, and gently cup his face in your hands. His eyes widen for a moment, a flicker of surprise mingling with the intensity of his emotions. Then, as if drawn together by an invisible force, your lips meet his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative and sweet, a question and an answer all at once. His lips are cold and slightly trembling, matching the fluttering in your chest. You can taste the salt of your tears mingling with the sweetness of the moment. Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours. 

Gradually, the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent and fervent, a silent expression of everything words can’t convey. Art’s arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair. The heat between you intensifies, both your breath coming faster, mingling as the kiss grows hungrier.

Art’s heartbeat echoes against your chest, you can feel his grip on you getting tighter like he's scared of letting you go. Your hands slide down to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles as you press closer, your bodies molding together. His tongue flicks against your lips, seeking entrance, and you part them eagerly, welcoming him in. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of desperation and passion that makes your head spin. A soft moan escapes your lips, and he responds with a low growl, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you impossibly closer. 

“Art,” you say in between kisses, panting into his slick, open mouth. “I need you to fuck me.”

You can feel Art’s whole body shiver, groaning unabashedly into your mouth like he’s dying for it. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you to finally admit that.”

The two of you tear through the house, all tangled limbs and bumbling steps, you trail water all over the floor. Somewhere in the chaos you drop your phone and keys on the large kitchen island. Art refuses to let go of you to walk properly, blindly leading the way so he can keep kissing you breathless.

Art only stops kissing you when you finally make it to his bedroom, pulling away to wrestle the now soaked sleep pants off his legs. You follow by example and peel your shirt off, skin damp and cold but you could care less, not when Art’s pants are pooling at his ankles and he’s throwing his boxers carelessly over his shoulder.

“God,” he breathes out, shaking his head like he can’t believe you're giving him this, “You’re so beautiful.”

The raw honesty in his tone has your cheeks burning, you cast your gaze to the floor instinctually, feeling too overwhelmed by his charged gaze raking over you. You can hear his feet softly padding against the floor, making his way closer. You watch his feet come to a complete stop in front of you, he takes a hold of your chin gently forcing you to look up at him. 

His eyes, intense and unwavering, lock onto yours. “You’re fucking perfect.”

With a gentle push, Art lowers you onto the bed, his weight a comforting presence above you. He tilts your head back and kisses you breathless, one big hand sliding lower and lower on your stomach till he’s got his hand down the front of your shorts, he groans when his hand makes contact with your bare skin. You’d almost forgotten you hadn’t worn any underwear. His hand so close to your aching center has your breath hitching as you kiss, hips bucking up towards his palm.

You reach for his cock, an angry shade red and leaking steadily, but he catches your wrist before you can touch. You meet his eyes confused, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s been about me the whole time, baby. Let me fix that,” he whispers.

You nod your head wordlessly. You wouldn’t dream of denying him, not right now. He smiles, pecking your lips again before he starts to kiss his way downwards. He explores your body with his mouth with such care it has you shaking under every brush his lips. He kisses all down your jaw and neck, taking extra time on your chest to map out the skin of your breasts with his tongue. He circles your right nipple with the tip of his tongue a few times over before he takes it in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth gently. It has your back arching into his mouth, hands scrambling for a purchase on the silk sheets. One long finger slides around your entrance and dips inside, shallow, then deeper, stretching you slowly, carefully, while his other hand rubs your clit with light, gentle touches. “Is this good?” Art asks quietly, voice tinged slightly with insecurity, like you’re not completely unraveling because of him.

“God yes! Yes – fuck! – Art,” you mewl loudly, hips grinding down roughly onto his finger, desperate to take in more of him. You can feel him smile against your skin, pulling off to blow cool air over your hard nipple and repeating it all over again on your left. His finger slides through the wetness collecting in your hole, spreading it to your throbbing clit. He finally sinks a single finger into the warm, tight, heat of your cunt.

Art pulls away from your chest to kiss his way down your stomach, sliding lower and lower on the huge king size mattress, he doesn’t stop the rhythm of his fingers as he peels your shorts down your legs, tossing them aside. A guttural groan leaves his lips at the sight of your slick cunt parting over his fingers, taking them so well. He pitches forward like he can’t help himself, like his lips are magnetically drawn to your cunt, and presses a small kiss to your clit. 

“Fuck!” You squeal and writhe as his finger fucks in and out of you, hands tangling in his messy hair, cheeks flushing at the sound of your leaking cunt squelching against his wrist with each thrust. Art's lips tighten over your clit, sucking for a brief second before he moves back to start laving his tongue over your cunt in careful, slightly clumsy, strokes. The sounds he's making, almost filthy slurping, accompanied by little moans now and then send small vibrations through you that shock your system, making you fist his hair even tighter. 

Art’s lewd noises fill the air, mixing with your own moans to fill the room. His eyes stay closed for the most part, fluttering open every couple seconds to watch you fall apart. Your thighs shake uncontrollably around his head when you make eye contact, threatening to clamp around his ears and keep him there.

A sob tears from your throat when he adds another finger, then he curls them inside you and pulls back and god, shit, shit, fuck, fuck me, god, Art, please fuck me.

“Fuck me Art please fuck me I need it so bad please-” you ramble nonsensically, pulling at Art’s hair desperately. You can feel the warmth starting to pool in your stomach, but you don’t want to come on his tongue, or on his fingers, you want to come with him inside you.

Art lets you drag him up, the bottom half of his face is slick and shiny, drenched in your wetness. He makes his way up your body quickly, hands gripping tightly to your hips, not hesitating to kiss you even as your juices decorate his lips. You kiss back desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue. The head of his cock bumping against your twitching, empty hole has you whining. 

“Fuck me, Art,” you breath hotly, hips canting up needily. “No condom, I’m on the pill. I want you to come inside me. Please, I need it.”

Slowly, he starts to sink in. Feeding you inch by inch torturously slow. He kisses you the whole time, greedily swallowing the moans flowing out of your mouth as he stretches your cunt on his thick cock. You grab at his shoulders like a lifeline, kissing back with everything you have.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he says through gritted teeth, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. “So fucking perfect for me, such a perfect pussy for my cock.”

“Move.” Is all you can manage to squeak out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.

Art starts to move, thrusts slow and gentle, like he’s easing you into it. You’re grateful for it, you’ve never taken anyone as big as him. Slowly, his thrusts speed up, cut hips smacking against the fat of your ass a little rougher than before. You revel in it, pushing your ass back greedily for more more more. From this angle, the thick head of his cock drags against your g-spot perfectly every time he plunges back into your dripping cunt.

“Shit! Right there, don’t stop,” you slur breathlessly, feeling the familiar warmth swirling through your stomach as he fucks you.

“I love you.” Art confesses against your lips, his breath hot and erratic. His sweaty forehead pressed to yours as he pounds in and out of you, the motion both relentless and tender. His eyes are wide open now, so blue and so big and so honest as they bore into yours so intensely it’s suffocating.

It’s soon, it’s way too soon. You’ve barely known each other for a couple months, but you can't deny the warmth spreading through your chest, mingling with the heat of the moment, making everything feel both overwhelming and perfect.

Now that you're here, with Art’s cock fitting so perfectly in the wet heat of your cunt, you can’t believe it took you this long. You love Art. You’ve been in love with Art since the first time he spoke to you. Since the first time he touched you like you were the solution to all his problems.

Art must take your stunned silence as rejection, head falling to rest on your shoulder dejectedly, but his hips don’t slow their rhythm. If anything he speeds up, hips thrusting against you desperately.

“Please, please say it back,” he begs, voice thick with emotion, “Say it back, I need to hear you say it. Please,”

You surge up, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you can, ankles locking together across his back. Art couldn’t pull out of you if he wanted to, judging from the long whine he lets out, he doesn’t mind.

“I love you, Art” You whisper back, barely audible over the lewd slap of his hips stinging your ass. Art groans so loudly you can feel it reverberating off the sensitive skin of your neck.

Hips speeding up even faster, Art turns his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss. This kiss is different than any of the other ones you’ve shared tonight, full of so much emotion and unspoken words. You swear you feel your heart grow three sizes, almost full and threatening to break out of your chest.

“I’m gonna come, fuck, I’m gonna fucking come,” he breathes between kisses. You can only moan in response, right on the brink of your own orgasm. His hips start to lose their rhythm as he chases it, fucking into you faster and harder.

Art’s cock gives a final twitch inside you before his hips are stilling and he’s coming with a broken moan, unloading everything he has into you. You’re right behind him, vision whiting out as you come, thighs shaking where they’re draped around his hips. 

Art collapses onto you, both of you breathing heavily as you come down from the high of your orgasm’s. You lay like that for a while, heaving and sweaty wrapped up in each other's arms. You feel something slot into place, something that you’ve been missing.

Art’s soft voice pierces through the afterglow, “Will you hold me?”

“Yes,” you whisper back, circling your arms around his shoulders.

…

When you wake up hours later you’re beyond thirsty, dehydrated from all the crying, and maybe from the sex. Art’s head is laying across your bare chest, tousled hair tickling your jaw and arms snug around your waist. He looks so peaceful, eyes closed with his long lashes fanning over his cheeks. The sound of his steady breathing is almost enough to lull you right back to sleep. You smile softly, running your hands through his hair slowly. Savoring how at peace he looks, so different from the battered, broken man you met.

You slip out of his arms as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake him. Rolling out of bed to search half-assedly for your clothes in the darkness. You can’t find your shirt, only your underwear and shorts. You notice a red shirt strewn over the dresser next to the bed, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the blinds. You pick it up without thinking, it's soft in your hands, the fabric thin and worn down. You toss it on before padding out of the bedroom.

You get a little lost in your thoughts as you make your way to the kitchen, Art loves you.

The thought has you biting back a giddy smile. Art loves you and you love him too. It sounds fucking crazy, but you know it’s true. Your life is so completely fucked, you don’t know if you care.

Art loves you.

Your smile doesn’t leave your lips as you turn the corner, arms wrapped around yourself tightly, the warmth of Art's affection lingering like a gentle caress.

“He smiles more.”

The soft voice ringing out from your left makes you stop in your tracks. You turn, and there in the kitchen illuminated by the soft glow of the ceiling light, like an angel, is Tashi Duncan. 

Tashi looks at you from her spot across the room with an impassive look on her face, she’s got your keys in one hand, fiddling with them boredly. When you don't reply she speaks again, "He's playing better, won the last three tournaments he was in." She says casually, setting her half full wine glass down on the island.

You don't need to ask her who "he" is.

You're silent for a few more beats as she stares at you expectantly, silently urging you to say something. You rack your brain for a response, caught like a deer in headlights under Tashi's gaze.

"What?" you softly mutter, words cutting through the air weakly.

Tashi sighs in exasperation, like you're a child who doesn't understand the simple question she's asking. She raises her wine glass back to her lips, draining the rest of it before setting it down once more and making her way over to you.

You know you should flee, make a break for the door before she reaches you. Running away from the woman whose husband you’re fucking - whose husband you just got done fucking, and who told you he loved you - while she pays you seems like the easiest thing to do in the moment, but you don't.

You find yourself glued to the spot as Tashi's commanding presence looms over you, until she's all you can see. Until her expensive smelling perfume is all you can breathe, until she's towering over you, miles of soft skin on display in a classy black nightie.

She stares down at you, her face completely unreadable. It feels like hours as her brown eyes burn into yours, your heart must be beating a thousand beats per second.

When Tashi finally moves, it’s her hand you see rising up in your peripheral vision. At first you think she's going to hit you, get you back for sleeping with her husband, for falling in love with her husband. You tense up, bracing for the slap, it would be the least of what you deserve, but it never comes.

Instead, Tashi's hand finds its way up to the side of your face, cupping your cheek gently. You can feel the chilled metal of her wedding band make contact with your warm skin.

You feel like you might pass out staring into the eyes of Tashi Duncan. Everything you ever wanted in high school flashing rapidly right before your eyes.

If Art Donaldson is the sun, Tashi is the moon. Her light draws you in and keeps you looking at her, and never wanting to look away.

Her thumb slides across your bottom lip, the same lip that’s kissed her husband. Ever so slightly, she pushes the tip of her thumb into your parted lips, far enough to touch your bottom teeth. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening in shock, your pulse is fluttering wildly. You distantly wonder if she can feel it on the inside of her wrist.

“I’m his coach, I need to be hard on him or he fails. I refuse to let him fail,” she says softly, tone casual like she’s not brushing the tip of your tongue with her fingers. “But I’m not stupid, I know what he needs. Someone sweet, someone gentle, someone who looks at him and doesn’t see tennis.”

You couldn’t answer her if you wanted to, but you wouldn’t trust yourself to speak anyway. You feel far away and floaty the longer her fingers sit in your mouth, your brain feels like molasses.

“I can’t give him what he needs. I’m not that kind of person,” Tashi says, eyes roaming your face languidly, like she’s window shopping your features. Her voice is nearly a whisper the next time she speaks, “but you are. You could be that for him.”

Your heart drops, the haze surrounding your brain rips away so violently, like someone took a leaf blower to it. Her words make everything start to fall into place, the at home visits, the “exclusive deal”, the weird ass run-ins you’ve had with her over the weeks. 

This was never about the goddamn massages.

For a few seconds you both stay like that. Standing inches away from each other in the half-lit kitchen of her and Art's house. For a second, you think you can see the tiniest smile playing on her lips before she drops her hand from you completely.

"There’s a car waiting for you outside,” she says, still close enough that you can feel her breath fan over your face, “See you next Thursday."

Tashi turns on her heels and leaves you alone, disappearing down the long hallway leading to her and Art's bedroom. You watch the whole time she goes, until she completely fades into the shadows. Your lip still tingling from her touch.

There’s only one thing on your mind as you incredulously stare down the now empty hall…

These people are so fucking weird.

[withlovemark]

to be loved - steve harrington

warning: mentions of steve's wounds, little angst! but it's a happy ending i promise

pairing: steve x reader

words: 2.3k+

summary: steve finally allows himself to believe in love again

an: i posted this a couple of days ago? and just now realized it got deleted. not really sure what happened there. anyways, found this in my drafts a week ago? (i have no concept of time). i didn't want to leave it rotting there so i wrote a quick ending and here you go. hope its okay!

-

three light taps, a knock that echoed throughout the boy’s dimly lit room, a sound enough to startle him after the events that have taken place in the past few days. not a single other person was in this house, a normality that he has accepted. steve’s parents were never around and he had no other relatives that would even care if he was still alive. his friends were a bunch of high schoolers, except for robin and…you.

he knows he’s messed it up with you. he can see it with the way you avoid his glances, the way you would choose to sit in the furthest chair away from him, the way you would get quiet when he was around and the way you stopped yourself from reaching out for him. the familiarity of your touch is no longer accessible, becoming only a memory. he can’t blame you though, your last words to him still replaying in his mind, loud and clear.

“i don't think i can do this anymore steve, i can't keep coming to your house, sleeping in your clothes, doing things that friends aren’t supposed to be doing, just for you to still be thinking about her.” 

he’s about to roll over onto his bed. to sleep the remnants of the past away. to keep ignoring everything like he always does and get ready for a new day, pretending he was healed. that he was okay. he was not. 

nowadays, it’s easier to slap a smile on his face instead of talking about his feelings. the last time he let himself truly feel something, he got his heart ripped out of his chest and trampled upon like it meant nothing, like it was a rock you could use to skip stones, one that you could let go of and not care enough whether it comes back to shore or get lost in the deepest parts of the lake. 

another knock makes its way to his ears. he thinks he’s imagining it until another one comes. grabbing the bat he hid between his nightstand, he slowly made his way to his bedroom door, feeling absolutely drained. the pain on his stomach, from the demobats that got a taste, still stinging, a pain that travels throughout his body with every miniscule movement. slowly, he carefully unlocks his door, ready to swing, until his brown eyes meet your wide, shocked ones. letting out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding, he slowly lowers his bat. 

“hi,” you whisper, “i uh, got in using the spare key,” a sheepish smile on your lips, holding up the silver key that was hidden in the dead plant placed on his front door. the key he told you about so you could sneak into his house at any given moment. the key that led to love marks all over his body, painting pink and purple constellations. the key you haven’t used since that night you decided to end whatever it was there to end. 

“you agreed to no feelings, that we would just be friends with benefits and that's it, you know that's all it could be,” steve has his face resting on his palm, his once perfectly styled hair going in different directions. like this - bare chest, lips still red from yours, neck stained beautifully by the artwork you left behind, he looked like he belonged in an art gallery. 

“i-i know, but i-i couldn’t help it…it’s just so easy to fall in love with you,” a confession that leaves the boy paralyzed, doe, teary eyes staring up at his brown ones — almost pleading.

“stop. you don’t know what you’re saying.” he’s angry. mad that those words could slip past your lips so easily. mad that even though you’re looking at him like he somehow brought the moon to you, he still can’t find it in himself to believe it. 

“steve-,” you try to reach out for his hand but he pulls away before you could even feel him. all you want is to pull him into your arms, to remind him that he is worth loving but you see the battle in his eyes, the war that’s taking place in his mind and you know he has his kingdom closed, walls up, ready to strike and defend himself at any second. there is no room for you in his castle, you see that now. 

“i-im sorry,” your voice was gentle, afraid he’ll completely lock the gate on you. the last thing you wanted was to fight, you’re defenseless when it comes to him. 

“let’s just pretend that none of this happened and we can go back to being friends, nothing changes and for the sake of us and the others, no questions asked,” his words were met with silence that cuts through like a sword against your neck. 

you felt detached from reality, feeling like you were watching this conversation happen instead of being a part of it. you had no control when you slowly got off his bed and quietly switched back into your clothes, his words transferring a sort of numbness to your whole being. 

he watched as you removed his t-shirt from your body and tossed it into his laundry bag, slipping back into your own clothes, making him think that his old t-shirt looked way better on you. yet all he did was watch. watched as you gave him one last forced smile and walked out of his room. the sound of the front door opening and closing traveling throughout the house. 

the days that followed after were stolen glances, opposite directions, uncomfortable silences, tiptoes, lingering feelings, longing stares, tension. neither one budged nor made the effort to even act like friends, going along with the others like they were fools when in reality, there can be no one more foolish than the pair. 

“hi?” he greets you just as quietly, head tilted, confused, like a puppy who was hearing a new sound for the first time. he sees you glance at his bandaged stomach, eyes traveling up to his bruised neck and notices the way you want to reach out to him but just like all the other times before, you stop yourself. 

“i-uh i brought you some food, and a first aid kit,” your voice still a mere whisper, he nods, guards down, stepping aside as you walk into the room you’ve been in countless times before. 

you placed the bag on his vanity, taking out it’s contents one by one and like before, he sat upon his bed and watched — a bowl that seemed to contain his favorite chicken noodle soup coming into view, it’s aroma hitting his nostrils, a clear tupperware filled with your famous homemade chocolate cookies, one that smells like home, the ones the kids would fight over with, resulting to an extra batch made just for him since he never won. 

he suddenly realizes how hungry he was, not really having the motivation nor the appetite to keep his stomach full. his body responds by lightly growling, a sound he hoped you didn’t hear.

“you should eat,” you break the silence, looking at him through his vanity mirror, “gonna need all your strength back to make sure you can always play hero,” you send him a small smile, he softly chuckles at your words, eyes falling to his sheets which suddenly became interesting, when was the last time he changed his sheets anyway. 

“i also brought you new bandages so you can change that every couple of hours, make sure it doesn’t get infected, with all these monsters around, that’d be the lamest way to go, y’know?,” you joked, trying to lighten the air. he stares at your back, contemplating. regardless of the fact that you were always an arm length away, he missed you.

he wants to be selfish. he wants to be taken care of, to be loved. 

and for the first time in a while, his mind is silent, focusing only on the fact that you are there.

making his way over to you, he wraps his arms around your waist, hands falling on top of each other, sitting tightly on your stomach, his head hiding on the crook of your neck, light puffs of air falling from his lips causing goosebumps to rise all over your body. he feels you stiffen, holding your breath, before relaxing back into his chest, hand gently hovering over his. you stay that way for a while, a minute or two, before you turn around, still in his embrace. slowly your hands make their way to his neck, fingers dancing lightly around his red, bright scar and ever so gently, landing around his cheek, eyes on yours, “are you okay?”

with those three words, the gates open and with it came a river of tears. he shakes his head no and this time, he lets you pull him into your arms as he found solace in your warmth, your perfume that smelled like the sweetest of flowers, making him feel like the sun was on his back as he laid his head on your chest. your fingers immediately run through his silky hair and he feels like a huge weight has just been lifted off his shoulders. 

“thank you for being here,” his voice hoarse from the quiet cries that slipped past his lips, he pulled away, admiring the way the moonlight from his window reflected itself into your eyes, brushing back the strand of hair that dangled in front of them. 

“i-i thought i was gonna lose you,” words that broke the boy’s heart. he can’t even imagine what he would have done if the roles were reversed. “i-i was so scared,” you continue, trying to hold back the tears that were begging to fall. 

“hey,” rough palms making it’s way to your cheeks, softly caressing you, golden eyes shining, “you will never lose me.”

“haven’t i already?,” you cry out. you hated the way you danced around him like he was a stranger. hated the fact that you couldn’t allow yourself to find comfort in him, afraid you would cross the line that the boy remarkably drew out and completely lose access to him. 

“no,” he lightly shakes his head, “ no….hey, look at me,” his finger under your chin, gently pleading for your eyes to find his. “i’m right here, i’m not going anywhere, i’m sorry i’ve been running, i was just…scared,” he admits. 

“scared of what?,” you urge him on, waiting for the answer to the problem you’ve been trying to solve. his hands find their way around yours as he looks down, composing his thoughts. 

“i was scared you would finally realize there will always be someone better, that you’d leave and i’d be all alone again,” he spills his truths. and you can’t fathom how blind you’ve been to not see it. the reason behind nancy appearing in his thoughts. 

“i’m not her, you know?” you say quietly. he nods, “i-i know,” he says guiltily. 

“and i don’t want better, steve…i just want you,” you confess into the night, steve feels all the air rush into his lungs, almost like he was learning how to breathe for the first time. he searches your eyes for any signs of doubt but only saw his own reflection in them. 

“do you want me?” you barely heard your own voice, afraid of the answer. he scoffs, “god, is that even a question?,” you look at him, confusion etched onto the creases of your eyebrows and steve almost wished the bats got him instead of realizing that he has left you doubting his feelings for you.

“of course i want you,” his brown eyes staring deeply into yours, “i can’t get you out of my head, all this time all i wanted was to be near you, to hold your hand, god, y/n i’m in love with you and i prayed, god i prayed to a guy i barely believed in that we would both make it out there alive because i-i can’t imagine my life without you and-,” he’s breathless, telling you everything he has wanted for weeks. word after word stumbling out of his lips as your smile grew with every syllable, until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

you pulled the boy towards you and like magnets, you connected, quickly placing your lips against his before your eyes drowned in your favorite color, the smile forming on his lips evident “i said it before but i’m in love with you too.” 

his eyes soften, finally allowing himself to believe those words, soft lips meets yours once again, battling, making up for all the lost time, hands automatically finding its way up his brown curls like they were meant to always be there, his, around your waist, pulling you as close to him as possible, fearing that if he let you go, you’ll disappear as if it was a dream.

but as you make that little sound, the one that drives him crazy, butterflies erupting in his stomach, he knows that this is better than any dream he could ever imagine. you were here with him. you were in love with him. 

your hands slowly starts making its way down to his body, but before the situation could escalate, he can’t help but break the kiss off, the pain from his wounds still evident, he lets out a sharp moan, “ow,” snapping you back to reality.

“oh my god, i'm so sorry,” you apologize, inspecting his bandages. 

“don’t be,” he reassures you, a light kiss placed upon your lips, “you’re worth it,” he teased, causing your giggles to harmonize, his forehead leaning against yours, a content sigh slipping off his lips. two eyes crinkling, sharing light smiles. 

“as much as i would love to stare into your eyes forever” you break the dream-like state, “i worked really hard on that chicken noodle soup and it would be a shame for it to go to waste,” you laugh and he holds on to the moment as long as possible. 

“now, we wouldn’t want that, plus we have forever to lovingly gaze in each other’s eyes,” he winks, sending you into a fit of laughter. he kisses you one more time before grabbing your favorite t-shirt, his t-shirt, in his drawer and handing it to you.  

an: i really don't post in this acc unless i have something to post lmao. also, currently in my bridgerton phase so don't mind the profile pic, or do mind it? feel free to let me know your favorite bridgerton :)

[manicpixiefelix]

he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) // epilogue

{ head, heart, hand. masterpost }

Summary: Oliver is haunted by what he's done to get his happy ending in Felix's arms. His guilt is only made worse when he meets the first member of your family to actually remind him of you. Unfortunately, he does not find it to get better from there.

{ context; please read he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) first }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD IN THIS ONE, but you do get to haunt the narrative. congratulations?

Warnings: discussions of death/overdose, lots of guilt, manipulative oliver, felix being upset, vaguely unhealthy oliver/felix, lotsa angst, oliver quick reckoning with the sunk-cost fallacy.

A/N: 6828 words. first, i don't usually do part 2s when i say something is a oneshot, so this is a rare occurrence. secondly im sorry this is almost 7k there's something wrong with my brain i think. thirdly bro, bro, listen to me; ANGST. HURT NO COMFORT. HURT NO COMFORT. it's soft in the middle THE SOFTNESS IS A LIE. ITS GONNA HURT ALL THE WAY DOWN (apart from nana i love her nd i hope you will too)

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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One hour and fifty three minutes.

Rounded up, because all things considered, he should round it up, that's two hours.

Two hours. Like the blink of an eye in the scope of a whole life. But a very long time when you sit and count it out.

One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand, two hundred seconds. He's always counting two hours, seeing exactly how long it feels like, how he can fill that amount of time. Seconds pass like a steady heartbeat.

He can do a lot in two hours.

Oliver tries to occupy himself nowadays more than ever, and really tries not to be alone, but it's hard. Farleigh left for Oxford. Venetia, before she decided to backpack across Europe and find herself, wouldn't let anyone touch her anymore.

Oliver doesn't like leaving Felix alone, but sometimes he has to be. You're laying cold in a family crypt somewhere next to a grandfather you never knew, and while Elspeth and Sir James don't comment on it, they both scowled when your parents sprung the announcement on everyone at the funeral.

Felix spends a lot of time alone at the edge of the maze. He's making a fairy garden where you had waited. Sometimes he'll drive into town without telling anyone, and come back with quaint, second-hand miniatures to add. It's beautiful, shining with greens and golds when the setting sun hits it just right.

So Oliver finds time to occupy himself, when he's alone and all he can think about is you sitting by the maze. You laying by the maze. You alive when he'd run from the maze. And the two hours that followed.

Sometimes he leans out of his window and shouts to the gardeners so far away they look like ants; even at this distance, his voice carries, and he sees them turn, search for him, ask if he's okay. He is, and he apologises, and he think about how far his voice carries.

On occasion, out of the blue, he'll lift Felix up when he hugs him, able to get his feet off the ground as Felix wriggles and clutches him out of surprise. Of course Felix lifts him with ease in return, spins him around, but that's not the point. Oliver is stronger than he looks; he wonders if he could lift you, could carry you far, if he could have dragged you if it had come to it.

Some nights he wakes up in a fright, your rapid heart rate beneath his fingers and he swears he could hear you whispering for help amid your shallow breathing. Please. Pleading. Begging. You were alive when he'd left you. He presses two finger to Felix's pulse point beside him, and tries to calm his breathing, to focus on Felix's slow, steady heartbeat.

And some days he sneaks into the computer room and curses how long webpages take to load when he looks up statistics on overdoses. Symptoms. Niche forums where he can learn what it felt like from survivors. People luckier than you. Their words, their stories, the recollections of those horrifying sensations stick with him, even as he diligently erases any trace of his browsing history.

And he thinks about how fucking long two hours is.

"Nan's coming over later," Felix tells Oliver idly one Sunday afternoon, "we're having tea of you'd like to join us." They're laying out in the grass, Oliver in the grass finding shapes in the clouds, Felix on his side, chewing on the stick of a lollypop he'd finished an hour ago and gently tracing abstract patterns on Oliver's chest.

"I thought you said your granny haunted Saltburn," when Oliver looks at Felix, he still can't help the way his heartrate picks up. Felix Catton touching him in the most gentle, caring way; he'd never stop feeling lucky for getting here, and never forget what he did to earn it.

Felix's gaze moves with his fingertips, up Oliver's warm, bare chest, twisting two fingers in the delicate chain around his throat. He looks pensive; but shakes his head after a beat.

"Different nan," he says distractedly, plastic straw trapped between his teeth. He tugs the chain experimentally, like he's forgotten it's attached to Oliver at all. He's in his head again; Felix is always in his head nowadays, but there's still often echoes of who he was, echoes of what Oliver has fallen for in the first place.

And he's finding himself falling more and more for this version of Felix too. So he tell himself that it was all worth it.

"Love," all these pet names - Love, Darling, Sweetheart - because if he slips up, tries to call him Fi, Oliver knows he'll only get ice in return, "is everything okay?" Oliver carefully reaches up to cover Felix's large, warm hand by his throat with his own. Felix meets his gaze, and gives a faint smile, an attempt to reassure him when he says he's fine. It doesn't work, but Oliver lets it go, and lets Felix tug him in by his chain for a kiss.

"Tea sounds lovely," Oliver murmurs against his lips.

There's something about this visit has Felix alive and buzzing the he way he hasn't in a very long time. Still he's quiet, but his eyes are bright as he follows behind the staff members setting up tea and biscuits in the garden. He goes through all the DVDs the family has and picks out a stack he thinks would be suitable, making sure they're all perfectly stacked by the DVD player. Oliver floats along behind him, and simply allows himself to admire Felix's energy.

Still, Felix finally takes a moment to breathe right as it becomes noon, and decides to have a bath to freshen up before his guest's arrival; two hours before she'd be here, Felix reminds him.

Two hours.

Oliver feels drawn to his own room. He doesn't allow himself to be alone in Saltburn often anymore, doesn't like the thoughts that crop up when he does. Perhaps it's a kind of punishment, a painful reminder, penance for what he's done.

There's a scrap of paper that he keeps tucked in a book in his nightstand, his own handwriting stuffed amongst a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories, words he'd clung to and scribbled out the minute he'd gotten the chance so he'd never forget them exactly.

From the coroner's report, according to Duncan and Sir James. Time of Death; around 2am. Cause; narcotics overdose, and there were signs of alcohol poisoning.

On the back, he'd written '12:07'.

"Mum and dad both say it was a tragic accident," Felix's voice in the dead of night, the night they'd gotten the full report, riddled with guilt and unspilled tears, betrays his disbelief regarding the sentiment. Felix doesn't talk about how his last words to you were shouted with anger. Felix doesn't talk about how your last words to him were a desperate plea for him through tears. Felix doesn't think that it was an accident; only Oliver knows that he's almost right, just not in the way he thinks. Or dreads. But he has to bite his tongue on the truth, and let the man he loves live with this unjust guilt.

The water starts loudly draining for the tub, and Oliver isn't sure how long he's been sitting on the edge of his bed with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut, but he scrambles to stuff the page back into the book, and toss it back into it's drawer. He can smile again, and admire whatever outfit Felix chooses for the rest of the day, and pretend like he doesn't feel your rapid heartbeat or hear your shallow breathing every time he touches that paper, like he had the night he left you.

With the hour drawing ever closer to two, Felix keeps checking his watch. The minute he deems it to be time, he gives up all pretence of small talk - which had been another thing severely lacking as of late - and snatches Oliver's hand, pulling him through the house. They even outstripped Duncan and the footmen by the door when there comes a firm knock. Its the only time Oliver has ever seen any of the Cattons open the doors for themselves.

And it's not Felix's grandmother.

"Hi, nan," Felix sounds so genuinely happy as he hugs the older woman at the door with a warm smile and your eyes.

Oliver feels like he's frozen, like he's seeing a ghost. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Duncan actually standing aside, giving Felix and your grandmother a quietly fond smile.

"I swear you get taller every time I see you, oh, my lovely boy," she says with a warm laugh that sounds so damn familiar, "or maybe I've been shrinking, you get to my age and people tend to do that," and Felix laughs, actually fucking laughs. Oliver realises it's been a long time since he'd heard Felix give a proper laugh like that. As the hug ends, Felix let's her tuck her arm in his as she continues, "just you wait, one day you'll only be six-foot tall." Another laugh, and Oliver can see how genuine and broad he's smiling, how his eyes shine when their gazes meet. She's surprisingly sprightly for her age, it seems. Oliver recognises your grandmother from your funeral, but hadn't made the connection at the time, so he's surprised when Felix goes to introduce him and her eyes sparkle with recognised.

"Nan, I don't know if you've been properly introduced, but this is -"

"Your Darling, Oliver," and it's said with such warmth; her hug feels almost like home, "you strange, little thing," she laughs, "it's called a hug; are you not a hugger? I should have asked," but she doesn't apologise, nor does she let go for a few more beats. Oliver gives into this moment, closes his eyes tightly and hugs her back.

"Our Darling Oliver," Felix echoes with such admiration, and when Oliver opens his eyes, it's the first time since you'd passed where his gaze has held only the love and pride Oliver had been craving since he'd first laid eyes on him.

Once Nana - she'd insisted Oliver call her that too - lets him go, she tucks her arm in his, and is waving Felix over to her other side, briskly asking where tea was to be held. Duncan leads the way and she fawns over him too, apparently downright overflowing with love for Saltburn and everyone and everything in it. She talks more than she doesn't, but considering who Oliver is and who Felix has become, that suits them both just fine.

It's been too long since they've had tea together, she insists, and doesn't talk about why exactly that would be. She doesn't bring you up, not while you were all making your way through the house, but once she's settled outside, she takes a moment. The way she looks at Oliver in this moment makes him queasy; the smile, that look in her eyes, the way her gaze takes all of him in. A woman, whose time is so precious to her, taking her time to make him feel seen. Felix is quiet, intrigued by the exchange.

Your phantom heart beats beneath Oliver's fingertips.

"You're Y/N's grandma," Oliver says quietly, breaking the tension. Present tense still, they all play pretend. She smiles, and finally leans back. The moment is broken; Felix pours them each a cup of tea. Nana takes a jammy dodger and looks over the gardens with a smile.

"Of course, dear," she says sincerely, taking a bite of the biscuit, but being so eager to talk that she spoke through half a mouthful, "and when they were thirteen they told me I was Felix's grandmother too, because they'd overheard Felix's mum talking about how she hoped they'd get married some day." Felix snorted a laugh at that, turning pink around the ears as he prepared everyone's tea, as if on autopilot.

"Does that -" Oliver begins awkwardly, but he tries to smile, "do you think in time, they would have ask the same of you about me?"

"Considering how they spoke about you," there's a twinkle in your Nan's eyes as she turns back to him, smile knowing, "there's absolutely no doubt in my mind, my dear." All you had ever done was love him; love him and stand in the way of the love he desperately craved.

Oliver watches his tea for a long while, spinning the ornate cup on its matching saucer, while your Nana almost immediately picked hers up and took a tentative sip. Watching out of the corner of his eyes, Oliver notes the way her face goes on a journey of emotions, from pleased, to confused, to a sudden realisation as she looks to her cup.

"I should have asked you how you liked your tea," Felix realises too late, apology in his voice as Nana puts her cup down with a forlorn, yet fond look.

"No, darling, it's nice to know you know how my grandchild liked their tea," and she holds her cup delicately, looking into it's warm, brown depths, "just the same as I always made it for both of us when they were much, much younger."

"I am so sorry to ask," Oliver hears himself blurt out, unable to help himself, "but how does all this love just skip a generation?" It comes out far worse than he intends it to; he means to ask how someone so loving as you come from parents so uncaring, yet how did either of those parents turn out the way they did when the woman in front of him was clearly bursting with just as much love as you had been. Thankfully, instead of being offended, your grandmother laughs.

"My daughter is a wonderful, intelligent, compassionate, impressive woman," she begins, but sighs with unmistakable disappointment, "but my late husband was never capable of even trying to be a father over pursuing his own interests, and it's one of the few traits she actually inherited from him," she shook her head, "and she went on to fall in love with a man who loved her but suffered from that exact same defect," after a beat, she looked up with a warm, reassuring smile, "it's why I love Y/N so fiercely, and so hard," her grin turns soft and adoring, looking between the two boys before her, "the only way my daughter has ever disappointed me is as a mother, but I will never be disappointed in Y/N as my grandchild."

Oliver knows there's tears in his eyes, and Felix has ducked his head. Immediately Nan begins apologising, realising she'd set both of them off. Despite this, Oliver tries to wave her away, insisting it's fine, before he asks about her; he's heard bits and pieces he thinks, but Y/N had always been so cagey about their family. Honestly he's surprised that your grandmother knows so much about him when he feels like he's barely heard about her.

Despite turning out to be an incredibly decorated artist, with paintings selling for more than Oliver's pretty sure his own family's house is worth, your Nana is quick to downplay her own successes, simply insisting that it took decades of hard work. Again, he sees you in her eyes.

"We've got a few up around the house," Felix adds, "most of them actually from before we even met Y/N," and your Nana gives him a shove, as if flustered and embarrassed by the idea. But Felix is beaming, happy to be showing off her accomplishments, just as he always took joy in celebrating you; "there's one in your room."

"What?" Oliver asked, and your grandmother also seemed surprised, though touched by the thought.

"It used to be their room, actually, but Ollie moved in there, so Y/N was staying with me," he explains a little awkwardly, wanting to skim around as many implications as he could. Thankfully she doesn't comment. All she asks is which one. Felix and Oliver both think about the room; Felix about the few pieces of art on the walls, Oliver about your time of death in the drawer. You were alive when he left you -

"That one of the stars, and that person smoking; I think you actually gave it to them as a gift," he frowns for a beat, "for when they turned seventeen, I think?"

Oh, Oliver knows that one. It's enchanting, blues so deep, so rich it's like you could swim in them, stars that seemed to actually glow on the canvas, and the hazy, dark outline of the window in the foreground, and part of a figure against the windowsill, lit cigarette the lone spot of fire, of red or orange, that makes everything else warmer for it.

"That one really surprised me actually," Nana admits, giving Felix a shrew smile, though he only seems confused, "did they ever tell you anything about it?"

"Said you painted it for them; pretty sure I remember them crying about it," he says fondly, reminiscing, "one of the best gifts they ever got, I'm not lying, they say it every year. It's beautiful." Then, as if recalling what she'd actually said, he looks at her curiously, "surprised you?"

Her smile widened into something both knowing, and endeared.

"I asked them to send me a photo, a postcard, their very best drawing, anything, as long as it was their favourite place in the world - do you really not recognise it?" The tea and biscuits are gone by now, the tea portion of their afternoon is coming to a close. Felix shook his head, almost looking like a lost child, as if he was aware there was something he was supposed to be understanding but couldn't quite get it, "Felix, my dear boy, they sent me a photo of you; that's their dorm room window from boarding school."

Felix looks winded, and a bit like he's about to cry.

"Oh you two were impossibly sweet," she reaches over and holds his hand tightly, looking over to Oliver earnestly, "you take care of this dear boy and his heart, you hear me?"

"Yes," Oliver all but trips over his words to agree, "of course, nan." And she gives him a pleased grin.

They move indoors after this, Felix quiet but lending his arm to Nana, which she takes, while she explained that usually you and Felix would visit a few times a year when they were on break, but she thought it would be best to come to Saltburn this time, given the circumstances.

"You should come see the place when you get the chance," she insisted, patting Oliver's hand.

"It's mostly where Y/N was raised before they ended up staying at Saltburn," Felix supplied with a grin, piquing Oliver interest.

"Y/N's childhood home? Oh I have to see that," he grins, and your grandmother grins brightly for a long moment.

"I'm sure Y/N would love that, they can give you the grand tour -" but her face falters, falls, as if she'd just remembered. Sombre silence, the spell is broken. "I'd love to have you around, dear," she corrects, much softer this time.

Felix lets her pick a movie, while Oliver settles himself awkwardly on the sofa. He wants to reach out to Felix, to touch his cheek, feel his boyish smile and know that it's real. But Felix isn't really even looking at him. There's something childlike about his enthusiasm here, about how he sits on his knees on the floor, watching with rapt attention as your grandmother pores over them. He practically glows as she praises his choices. When she picks one, she hands it over and he scrambles on all fours across the short floor space to the DVD player, fumbling with the case like he can't put it in fast enough. There's a softness in your grandmother's eyes as she watches the boy who has seemingly forgotten the man he is; when she looks at Oliver, its like he sees her asking how easy is he to adore, what a beautiful young man.

"You don't mind watching a movie do you, Oliver, dear?" She asks, though it's clearly an afterthought. He's already shaking his head, assuring her it's fine. Felix is already scrambling back, remote in hand. Oliver tries to make space for him on the sofa between himself and your Nana, but he seems content to sit on the floor in front of her, leaning back against the sofa with her knees gently pressed against either of his shoulders. Handing her the remote, Felix twists to give Oliver an expectant smile.

"Come here, mate," he insists, patting his lap, his legs kicked out in front of him. At Oliver's obvious confusion, Felix blinks for a few moments. It's like he's waking from a dream. His face falls, he goes to apologise, strained smile on his face, "sorry, I know that's weird, you don't have to -"

Slowly, Oliver moves from the sofa, sitting beside Felix on the floor. Your grandmother's knee is pressed gently to his back, but he's not quite sure if he's capable of relaxing enough in this moment to mind. She's playing with Felix's hair, having already started the movie.

"This is what you and Y/N would do," Oliver said softly, and rested his head on Felix's shoulder. Felix takes his hand, and laces their fingers together.

"Do you like it when people play with your hair, Oliver?" Your grandmother asks idly.

"Um, sometimes," he answers, still feeling rather awkward. He hears her chuckle warmly.

"It's okay if you don't want me to; Felix likes it so much he lets me braid it when it's long like this."

"Oh, I know Felix loves it," Oliver hears himself agree, "if he were a cat he'd be the kind to purr any time someone scratched between his little cat ears." And while both he and your grandmother share a fond laugh, he can hear Felix's smile in his words. He gives Oliver's hand a squeeze.

"I can't even argue; I wish I could purr right now."

Oliver wants to bottle this moment forever, keep it locked tight in his chest.

But the movie is a long one. One hour and fifty six minutes. Two hours rounded up. A whole two hours. Enough time to fall asleep with his head in Felix's lap the way they both said you used to. He wakes with your heartbeat in his ears, rapid, alive, left for dead.

"You okay buddy?" Felix looks at him with genuine love and concern; it's been such a long time since he'd seen that look, even with everything that had been happening, "I'm here, you're okay," he assured. Over by the television, putting the remote back, your grandmother glances over at the interaction with a warmth that makes Oliver feel queasy in this moment.

And he'll look up from the book, from his notes from the coroner's report crammed in, obscuring the end of one story while The Tell-Tale Heart begins on the other. Felix will be getting ready for bed in the other room, but he won't sleep there. He can't sleep there. Can't sleep in that bed without you, can't move the costumes from that night that hang side by side as a reminder of the hole you'd left behind in his life. Oliver will read approximately two am in his own messy handwriting, and look at the digital clock on his bedside that had read 12:07 when he'd crashed into his room and locked the door and sunk down against it. The numbers had been shining red in the darkness. On the wall behind, that starry night sky and the hint of Felix and his cigarette; a home you'll never return to hung up in the home you'll never truly leave.

He put enough coke in that bottle to kill a fucking lion. He'd given you the bottle. He'd told you he loved you. He'd left you like that.

He knew you were dying.

He'd left you alive.

Two hours.

The book snaps shut. In the silence he thinks he hears your breathing. Please, Ollie, help. Paranoia is a cruel thing, he has to tell himself; paranoia and guilt.

"Can I ask you something?" Felix joins him just as he's putting the book back in it's drawer. Oliver, heart beat racing - never as fast as the memory of yours, oh now it's all he can think about again - nods quickly. Felix sits on the end of the bed, clearly preoccupied, fussing with the buttons of his pyjama shirt. The days are getting cooler now; Oliver misses his bare skin against his, but he still feels too precarious to make such an observation.

"It's about Y/N," Felix swallows, can't meet his eyes, "about that night." Oliver feels his mouth go dry; the worst fucking night of his life. The night he doesn't know if he'll ever figure out if he regrets all he'd done.

He nods again.

"Were you the last person they spoke to?" It's like Felix is forcing himself to not shy away from this moment, giving Oliver the attention he thinks he deserves for such an important question. Then, after swallowing hard, he can't help but drop his gaze, "why," he can barely get it out, there's already a lump in his throat, "didn't they come into the maze too?" Oliver can't even give him that.

You'd been such a mess on your way to the maze, even with Oliver supporting you. Crying, furious, apologetic; you were everything at once. Even when you couldn't bring yourself to go in, everything about you had been sliding from one emotion to the next. But then it had stopped.

"I can wait for Fi here." It's the most sure that he'd seen you all night. It's when he knew. It had to be you, even if he loved you too. He'd never forget how clear your smile was, how sincere you'd urged him into the maze to follow the tail of what he thought was right. The sight of you, waiting, obedient and loyal for your master to return; "I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

Oliver knew before he'd even entered the maze that Felix's return to you would be too late.

In the present, Felix waits too, diligent, expectant. Oliver thinks about lying. Oliver thinks about how the truth will break his heart. Oliver thinks about how close Felix will hold him in his guilt riddled grief.

"I don't think they wanted to interrupt -" Oliver tries to start, but Felix immediately swears, hangs his head.

"Can't fucking believe I did that," he spits, "I was angry, and off my fucking face, sure, but that was fucking low, even for me," he admitted, pitching himself back on the bed, whole face scrunched up with guilt, barking out an upset fuck far louder than the others, prompting to Oliver to tentatively ask what he means. Felix took a moment, as if forcing himself to calm down, before he admits, voice low like he was sharing a secret, "I never even took Eddie into the maze," he sighed. After a beat, he conceded, "no, okay I did, but we didn't do anything - we made out a bit, but -"

"You didn't fuck you ex-boyfriend in the maze," Oliver connected the dots quickly, "but you did fuck your best friend's ex-not-girlfriend who you kind of stole from them, out of spite after kicking them out of your the bed you've been sharing all Summer?"

"Fucking hell, Ollie!" Felix sounds especially wounded when he lays it all out like that.

"Sorry," immediately, Oliver apologises, knot in his stomach when he hears Felix's pained tone. He wonders if this was what it was like for you all through the night of his birthday. Fuck, he can't think about that.

"No, but you're right," Felix admits, eyes finally opening, looking all hurt and vulnerable. Oliver lays himself down next to Felix, going the other way, both of them looking up at the ceiling. Oliver's hands rest on his chest, trying again, softer this time.

"So was a special place to them?" He gets no response other than a guilty nose from Felix, "you think that's why they wanted to wait by the entrance?"

"They wanted to wait for me," Felix says weakly, clearly in his head about that night once more, "didn't want to interrupt even as I was fucking defiling our-" but he catches himself turning bitter again, mouth snapping closed, "after everything I said that night," he mumbles, "fucking hell," he chokes out. The pain in his voice is audible. This is the sweet spot, Oliver thinks.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver whispers amid Felix's faint sobs.

"What?"

"You asked me what their last words were," Oliver told him as softly as he could manage; Felix sits up, eyes wide, distraught, so full of guilt and love and - "only thing they were properly coherent about; waiting for you," Oliver props himself up, reaches out to wipe a tear from Felix's cheek.

"You're not- Ollie, please tell me you're not kidding," Felix practically begs.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver reiterates, making sure to meet Felix's gaze as he holds his face, "'s the last thing they said- they said; I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

God he can see it in Felix's eyes; it's like the man's entire world crashes down around him. But he clings just as Oliver had hoped he would. As Felix holds him tightly, Oliver can't look at the glaring, red numbers of the clock on his bedside, the constant reminder of the two hours where he could have done something. Two hours and those wouldn't have been your last words.

He looks at the painting. At the stars. At Felix and his cigarette and your idea of what home looks like. The stars look just like they did that night. Just as bright. Oliver closes his eyes. Guilt twists people into shapes they don't often recognise; Oliver just holds Felix, hopes they twist into something together.

Except Oliver's guilt isn't the kind that twists, it's the kind that bites. It's like moths, eating him from the inside out. The guilt leaves him with jagged edges and thoughts he'd rather not be having; there are shades of Felix Catton that he loves, but shame and revulsion bites just behind the guilt as the months pass and he realises more and more this is not what he wanted. This is not the Felix he wanted.

Felix is like an echo, like the sun without it's warmth; he can look just the same, smile, talk, charm just the same if it was required of him, but there was something clearly missing from every interaction. Guests to Saltburn would pull his parents aside and ask if everything was alright. He is, but he is not the same as he once was.

Every day Oliver looks in the mirror and sees something grotesque behind his eyes that no-one else seems to notice. Felix Catton was meant to be the prize, the one who tossed aside everything but the best, the one who made the world fight for his attention, and feel heartbroken when he merely looked the other way. After all this, Felix Catton was not someone Oliver expected to be bored by.

Oliver Quick had lied for, lied to, betrayed the trust of, worked to gain the trust back of, loved, made fall in love with him, and literally murdered the love of his life who he also loved and was themselves also in love with Oliver while still considering Felix the love of their life, just to get a chance to spend his life by Felix fucking Catton's side. He wasn't allowed to not want this.

Felix smiles at him, says he loves him, fucks him, but it's not the dream Oliver once had. Something is always missing. No. Oliver deliberately took that thing away. But he can never admit that, nor can he ever regret that; too far gone. Oliver doesn't want to talk about the past, Felix can't being himself to talk about the future. Trapped together in the present, living lives that no longer feel like enough. Their routine becomes suffocating. Even Venetia, the few times she's stopped back at Saltburn, can barely manage a disdainful look, as if merely inconvenienced by Oliver's presence.

The growing apathy of the estate and it's occupants is exhausting. The cost of this lifestyle has long since surpassed it's value. He's even bored of being haunted. Two hours feels like fucking nothing when the days drag on the way they have been. Behind his eyelids he doesn't see you begging for help, you hiss for him to run, to get out.

He should have listened.

"Ollie, can I show you something I found?" Felix sounds bright today, and though Oliver wants to roll his eyes at the idea of anything in this house being new or novel enough to show off, he smiles back instead.

"'course Felix, what is it?"

Except Felix isn't smiling at him. Felix is looking far more serious and determined, sitting on the edge of their shared bed. Oliver immediately frowns.

"Have you been hiding something from me, Ollie?" It's a trap; a forced confession. Oliver shakes his head, plays dumb. Felix takes a deep breath, the kind that shifts his whole body, his expression remaining firm, "before I show you this thing, I want you to be honest with me; you promised you wouldn't lie to me anymore, you remember?" Oliver tries to lighten the mood, leaning against the window with a warm smile.

"Of course, my lovely Felix, no more lying," he assures, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with the way Felix remains quiet.

"What's seven-past-twelve mean?" Felix is watching him closely; too closely. Scrutinising his every move. It's like Oliver's been doused in ice water, even his tongue frozen in his mouth, "and what's it got to do with what happened on the night of your birthday?"

Felix doesn't even look at the night table as he opens it; his gaze is solely on Oliver. It's clear he'd done this before, pulling out the book, flicking through it's pages, and pulling the delicate, incriminating piece of paper out from where it had been safe for so many months.

"Felix, I-"

"What does twelve-oh-seven mean?"

Oliver is the deer again, trapped in Felix's accusatory gaze. For just a moment, Felix's voice drops, pleading with him for some other explanation, that Oliver wasn't somehow caught up in what happened, more closely, more malevolently than he'd ever said -

"Tell me," there's tears in his eyes, the furious kind, the ones where he's desperate to love and hope against all odds, "Oliver," he pleads through gritted teeth, "tell me you didn't know."

"Know what?" Oliver's voice is a hoarse whisper; he knows he is caught, all he has left now is borrowed time and a desperately silver tongue he doesn't know if he can rely on anymore. But Oliver's tragically weak denial is enough for Felix to all but jump to the right conclusion.

In a rush, Felix has Oliver by the collar of his shirt, pressed to the window -

"You knew they were dying and you fucking left them there."

This is the tipping point, the end of whatever good this had been. Felix could hurt him, Felix had hurt countless people on your behalf, he'd seen it himself. But Felix had always been the bleeding heart; you were the one who had to be kept on a leash. Felix could hurt him, could probably maim him for what Oliver was about to say, but he never shared your stomach for true Machiavellianism.

"Of course I knew," Oliver managed coldly, despite Felix attempting to crush all the air from him, "the amount of coke I gave them in that champagne could have killed a rhino-" it needed to be unforgiveable, the confession, so Felix would let him leave, would never want to see him again. He hadn't expected the force of Felix's rage to have the glass behind him give out.

Oliver falls from the second story window into the hedge garden below. Felix's shouting is tearing through the whole house it seemed, making his way downstairs, while Oliver tries to regain his breath and figure out if anything's broken. He's pretty sure it's not, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt as Felix drags him by his feet from the hedges, demanding at the top of his lungs that Oliver get the fuck out of Saltburn.

Every single person who'd been in the house comes outside to view the commotion, to see Oliver struggling to his feet, to get away from Oliver. Elspeth looks helplessly between the two boys, wondering what happened -

"Tell her what you did," Felix demanded, once more getting into Oliver's space, jabbing at his chest, "tell her what the fuck you just told me -" and Oliver's strength isn't insignificant, but Felix is in a fury, flooded with rage and adrenaline, and he grabs the back of Oliver's shirt like he's scuffing a cat, shoving him towards his mother like an offering. Oliver struggles because he feels like he has to, feels wild, feels feral, but it's the most of anything he's gotten from Felix in so long. His mouth stays shut, won't give him the satisfaction of a confession.

"He killed them," Felix doesn't even let Oliver have his power play before he grows bored. He shoves Oliver just a little, grip unyielding despite Oliver's best efforts, like he means nothing to him. Elspeth and Sir James are confused, looking between them both, but Felix isn't done with stringing Oliver up for all of Saltburn to see, "Y/N; he intentionally dosed their drink and left them to die outside the maze."

The Catton parents immediately look crestfallen; it's the first time in months Oliver's felt genuine guilt again. Oliver stops fighting. Felix lets him go. Elspeth asks him if this is true; that heartbroken hope is going to make him sick.

"Just send me away already," he drops his head.

"Oliver," Elspeth's voice is firmer this time; when he looks up, she's stepping towards him, tears in her eyes despite how hard she's clearly trying to hold herself together, "is Felix telling the truth?" Is this it? Is this the final gate to his freedom from Saltburn.

"Yes."

Elspeth slaps him so hard her ring draws blood. Oliver hadn't thought that was even possible, but his head is ringing from the collision.

"Get. Out." She hisses with absolute malice as he's hunched over, clutching his face. Felix is by his mother's side in a heartbeat, arm around her, looking at Oliver with contempt. Behind them, Sir James is ordering Duncan and the other staff members to get Oliver off of the property as quickly as possible, but the look in Elspeth's eyes is burning, "this is my family, you monster."

At first, it almost feels worth it to leave Saltburn. To leave the Cattons and their bullshit and their games behind. He thinks he knows them well enough to trust that they don't want the kind of scandal a murder on their hands would be, and for the most part, he's right.

It's not the Cattons who haunt him after Saltburn, though they may be pulling the strings. It's you. It's you sitting on Felix's bed in his dorm room reading every single detail of Michael Gavey's file with threats on your tongue. It's the casual way you talked about being able to access his academic files to change his grades if he wanted. It's you, tipsy at Saltburn, admitting that you got Eddie transferred without his consent to a university on the other side of the country after he cheated on Felix with Venetia.

There's no place for Oliver to return to at Oxford... He's not entirely surprised about that, however, there's also apparently no record of him ever attending. Any calls or enquiries he makes are shut down with the kind of immediacy that seemed reserved for shows about government conspiracies. When applications open for other universities, it seems websites shut down the minute he fills out his damn name. Nowhere in the world seems willing to consider him.

Having him audited seems like overkill. When it happens the next year, despite no employer willing to even consider him for an interview, the existential dread of his situation sets in.

Felix never had the stomach to finish the job; he'd let you haunt Oliver forever.

[fatuismooches]

Hi Smooches!! I know a little while ago you said you were thinking about reader feeling ignored by Dottore and the segments, but that you probably wouldn’t write it because it would be too angsty. So please feel free to disregard this but… I’m thinking about Zandy throwing a fit on readers behalf. Like, storm into Prime’s office and stamp his little foot type of fit. And he gets upset about how he feels reader is being treated and ignored. And Prime and the other segments brush him off at first until the start making their own observations and realizing that something IS wrong with reader. Bigger angst is them being too stubborn and set in their ways to think a change needs to be made.

(x) It's funny to think out of all the mature adults you have as lovers, a child is the one who's able to understand your feelings the most. Sure, he probably can't understand everything precisely, but you're sad, and that's all that little Zandy needs to know. It's so simple for him and that's what makes it so endearing - he knows what it's like to be sad, it hurts really bad, and he knows you must be experiencing the same pain right now. The parent he loves so much! It makes his tiny chest hurt too. He can't let that be - you always comfort him and remedy the situation when he's sad, he must do the same for you! Even if that means confronting the big, bad... P-Prime, and the other segments by extension.

It's pretty hard considering they don't really want Zandy around in the first place, but for you, the boy is the most persistent child around. Initially, he just drops a few sentences about how much you miss them, and how much you talk about them (smart boy he is) to see if that'd do anything, if they'd maybe make one percent more of an effort. The child's experiment is a failure. Despite your insistence and fake smiles to leave it be, Zandy still pouts in dismay. You're the best grown-up ever, you had the kindness to give him a chance, why don't the others reciprocate that? He does try to listen to you and leave it be, but it makes the boy's poor heart ache too much to see you distracted and despondent. So in true child-like fashion, he throws a big fuss.

Admittedly, Dottore and the others are a bit surprised because Zandy isn't the sort of child to do this - when he has something to say, he usually ends up being mostly ignored, and then he just makes himself scarce. But nope, this time the boy is fully adamant about expressing his displeasure on your behalf, because you've given up apparently. Unfortunately... the brief feeling of surprise is again replaced with general apathy once again. Zandy probably cries by himself after that.

Still, eventually, they do take notice as to how their routines have slightly been changed, more like not disrupted for once - you're not popping up around them anymore, not fiddling with their items and notes, any acts of service you'd do, you barely even strike up a conversation nowadays, even when they're right there giving you medicine, you hardly even meet their gaze anymore. The more days that go by, the more the list grows. Dottore tries to ignore it, the pile of work in front of him isn't growing any smaller. He tries to justify the treatment in his mind, you've dealt with this for so long, you know his role, and you should be able to deal with it. Admittedly, he recognizes you didn't exactly sign up for this, but what can he do? He pushes your disheartened face out of his mind and believes you should find more to occupy yourself, just as he does. (Deep down somewhere, he knows he's in the wrong.)

By the time the man realizes his part in the growing problem, it may be too late.

[lightlycareless]

I keep thinking of naoya making a fool of himself around y/n and y/n just being confused (idk) like he tries to get her to like him but it doesn’t turn out well😭 , idk if that made sense sorry!!😔

Hello!!

Awww this was really sweet to think about, however I got confused in the end and made it somewhat of a happy ending lmao.

Well, I still hope you like it!! (If anyone wants angst tho, I do recommend reading my valentine's day special. But I too been wanting to write something heart clenching for a while, might get onto it....)

warnings: highschool au. naoya likes you but he doesn't know how to approach you. he is ridiculous.

Happy reading!!

A silly Naoya is more like an overconfident Naoya, the type of guy that will never stop bragging about ANYTHING just to make you look his way.

It's certainly worse when he's barely starting to acknowledge his feelings, getting to that point where he finally says "I think I like her."

To stand out and get your attention is something Naoya never thought he'd need to do, simply believing that his title as heir of the Zen'in and his outstanding achievements as sorcerer would've done the trick—but they didn't, and now, he had to put in the work.

Thus, the borderline ridiculous demonstrations of his persona, courtesy of Ranta's advice; though if it’s worth anything, this is not what he envisioned.

"Can you believe he didn't want to accept my assignment only because I didn't hand it over in a folder? That's so stupid, can't wait to get him fired as soon as I—"

"Wait, Naoya, Y/N's coming!"

"ANYWAYS I WENT TO THE MALL THE OTHER DAY TO THIS LUXURIOUS STORE AND BOUGHT JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING THERE AND STILL HAD MONEY TO SPARE, GEE WHY IS EVERYTHING SO CHEAP NOWADAYS??? AND PEOPLE STILL COMPLAIN ABOUT THE ECONOMY!! I JUST WISH I HAD SOMEONE TO SHARE ALL MY MONEY WITH—did she look??? Did she turn around to see me??"

Ranta sighs.

"No."

"Ughghhhhhhh what do I need to do to make her see me?!"

Though frustrated, he does not give up.

"—yeah, I think we're going to this super expensive resort for the weekend. I personally preferred to travel out of the country, but you know how my father is, lazy as always. If it were up to that old man we’d never leave the—and now??? Did that work?? Is she looking??"

But the results are the same.

Naoya would keep on trying, loudly proclaiming things that in his mind would eventually earn him your interest, or at least a simple glance….

Until he, eventually of course, tires himself out. Sorrowfully finding that his endeavors had been nothing but fruitless as you continue living your own life, without Naoya in your consideration.

You’re slowly becoming someone unreachable to his grasp, and while he doesn’t plan on giving up just yet, he does intend to take a break, maybe reconsider his possibilities… before coming to a conclusion where you might not be involved anymore.

And what better way to clear his mind than indulging in one of his favorite activities—secluding himself at the rooftop of the school building to read the newest release of his favorite manga.

Unaware that someone else might be there, coincidentally… the person he wished nothing more than to be with.

"What are you reading?" You'd ask upon noticing the intense stare of the young, somewhat handsome man, he’s giving his magazine.

"Do you mind? I'm bus—o-oh!" He freezes upon realizing it was the girl of his dreams talking to him, cheeks burning red as he closes the manga and looks away. “Don’t—Don't you know it's rude to sneak up on someone like that?!"

"Ah, sorry!" You chuckle, slightly embarrassed. "I didn't mean to startle you, it's just that you looked so concentrated, I couldn’t help but to be intrigued! Is your story really interesting?"

"...it is" Naoya murmurs, gaze returning to you—he almost glances away yet again at your closeness, but your beauty makes it almost impossible to do so. "It's the latest chapter, I waited a whole month to read it."

“A whole month…?” you repeat. “Wow.”

“Yeah, it was a long time—"

“Hmmm, not quite.” You teased. “I’ve waited years just to see the continuation of my favorite series! Talk about dedication.”

“Huh, well, I don’t think it’s the same—this felt worse because of how good it is.”

“Really? I don’t know, I can’t believe you—I have to see what you’re reading for that. You grin, he smirks.

“Is that so? Then don’t let me stop you from finding the truth.”

And Naoya happily obliges, both excited to share one of the things he enjoys the most with the person he adores most, as well as the fact that you’re finally setting your eyes on him! After all this time!

He considered it to be incredibly unexpected, and perhaps a bit silly how it came to be, unable to believe that it took so little to impress you.

But as soppy as it sounds, there is truth in admitting that there is no better way to get someone to like you, than by being yourself.

omg that was so fluffy agkjasjghasjkghjsa cheesy too ahahahahah damn I surprised myself for sure!!

Rest assured, you heard Naoya do all of those things and consistently thought "Is he ok? Why is he yelling?"

After the two begin to date you'll tell him how weird it was of him to do all that hahahah though... "You didn't have to do that, I already liked you." Naoya feels even sillier :^)

Anyways, I hope you liked it!! I'm sorry this didn't end up in a sad note, I read the request very quickly and ended up understanding you only wanted an interpretation of Naoya being silly—though I do want to write something sad between the two, him messing up and all that. Luckily, I have the perfect excuse for that through other asks hehehehehe

Thank you so much for sending in this ask and for your patience!! Take care, and hope to see you soon ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[zerobaselove]

where do we go now? | kim gyuvin

pairing: gyuvin x reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ending kinda

word count: 1707

warnings: swearing a little bit. lowercase intended, not proofread

notes: hiii everyone <3 little angst for yall because i've just been in that kind of mood idk. i got a request for a gyuvin hurt comfort and wrote this (only to not realize until after it was written that the request was for bff to lovers MY BAD) but its close enough idk i just got home from work and wrote this so sorry if its ROUGH

tick. tick. tick.

the faint sound of the clock hung on the wall was the only break from the silence that seems too thick to swallow as you sat on the couch, alone. it wasn't supposed to be like this. this was the third time this week that your boyfriend gyuvin had no call no showed one of your dates. 8th time this month if you wanted to get specific, and you were only a few weeks in.

you shouldn't be surprised. you thought to yourself. you could barely get a reply out of the boy nowadays, let alone seeing him face to face or hearing his voice. you were long past convincing yourself he was just busy; that idea died the third time you watched him post pictures with his friends on days where you had stayed up wondering if he was safe.

so when you heard the front door creak open, you didn't even turn around to greet him. your gaze fixed on the clock hands, anticipating the click to the next minute.

"no welcome home?" gyuvin's voice called out, his footsteps getting closer to where you sat.

"welcome home." you said monotonously, still not giving the boy any more attention than he had given you.

his body landed on the cushion beside you with a plop. his hand finding its way to your arm, lightly shaking as if to get your attention. you turned to face him, pressing your lips together, trying to muster the strength to even ask how his day went; the day that was supposed to be spent with you.

"how was your day?" you asked, trying your hardest to mask the emotion in your throat, whether it was annoyance or sadness, you didn't know.

his face lit up like a christmas tree. his smile beaming as he told you about what him and his friends did, the places they went, the food they ate. everything. everything that caused him to not even send you a hello or a good morning, not even a message that he was cancelling.

"that's nice." you said flatly after he finished his recounting of the day. he hummed in agreeance, not even noticing your shift in tone or energy anymore. "so what did you do?" he asked. he was oblivious still.

you only sighed, not even fully turning to look at him. you were sure if you looked him in the eyes right now that the tears wouldn't ever stop rolling. "nothing," you started playing with the ring on your finger, the one he had gotten you nearly a year ago now. "i got ready earlier for our date but i never heard from you, so i took a shower and i've just been here."

admitting it out loud felt pathetic. you had let this ruin your whole day yet again. you had let your emotions get the best of you again. maybe you were the problem, you thought to yourself. maybe you cared too much.

it seems the boy had begun to connect the dots as a sympathetic look crossed his face and an apology spewed out of his mouth, as if on command, just like every other time. it was always the same.

except this time you couldn't shrug it off anymore. you couldn't lie and say it was okay anymore. because it wasn't. it wasn't okay.

"i'm so sorry," he started, reaching out to grab your arm before you moved away from his touch, "it slipped my mind."

you only hummed and nodded, "things like this always seem to slip your mind when it comes to me, don't they?" your voice was laced with venom as the frustration kept building, as if the last month had all been bubbling up to this moment.

"i'm sorry, you know how important my friends are to me y/n." gyuvin immediately regretted the words that left his mouth. his jaw went slack in shock at his own words, but you had snapped back before he had the chance to back up and defend his poor choice of words.

the tears had started welling up in your eyes, your vision blurring more and more by the second. "so am i not important to you? because it sure feels that way."

"that's not what i meant y/n," gyuvin's voice had become raised, mostly against his own will.

"well what else am i supposed to think gyuvin?" the blood in your veins felt like it was bubbling, like your body was on fire and the only way to let it out was through the words you spat out without much thought. "i'm sick and fucking tired of begging for any ounce of attention from you gyuvin. i'm tired of being an afterthought to you."

you stood up from the couch, fighting the urge to storm out of your own apartment. "i deserve more than that gyuvin. i can't keep going if it's going to be like this." your heart hurt, in a mix of anger and pain your voiced raised even louder, nearly yelling at the stunned boy sat on the couch. suddenly it was quiet, there was nothing to drown out the sound of your beating heart as you tried to take a deep breath.

"i think you should leave, before i say something that'll hurt you," your voice was eerily calm, "you shouldn't have to feel like i do."

gyuvin stood up, apologizing profusely as you stood there in silence, drained and emotionless.

after a few more attempts at a reaction from you, the boy left with a slam of the front door. and there you were, alone, again.

maybe it was better that way, at least right now.

---

it had been three days since you let the anger bubble up and spill, burning through you like molten lava. you felt empty. you hadn't texted gyuvin and he hadn't messaged you either, but that wasn't exactly abnormal for him; what was strange was his radio silence online. maybe he hurt like you did.

you had found yourself pondering it all over a cup of once hot coffee, having long gone cold as you lost yourself in your thoughts, opting to merely stir the liquid around as if your answer would appear in the cup like a crystal ball. what were you supposed to do now?

a firm series of knocks on the door broke you from your thoughts. you knew that pattern; the one gyuvin always used to let you know it was him, a special rhythm that you two had settled on early in your relationship, a secret between you two.

reluctantly you dragged yourself from your seat in the kitchen towards the front door. you didn't even bother looking through the peephole before you unlocked the chain lock on your door. it was almost pathetic how happy you were deep down that he was here, choosing to ignore the way this could all go wrong.

"hi." he smiled awkwardly, holding up a bag with the logo of a local convenience store, his other hand firmly grasping a bouquet of flowers. blue hyacinths and baby's breath to be exact. "can i come in?"

you let the boy in without saying a word, simply gesturing him in as you moved out of the doorway.

he set everything on the counter alongside your cold coffee before taking in a deep breath.

"i'm sorry." he started, his voice shaking slightly, "i know i sound like a broken record saying that but i really am. i've been so in my head lately that i've forgotten what is important to me, and how lucky i've been to have you around all this time." the tears welling up in his eyes caused you to mirror the emotion on your own face.

he held up the bouquet of flowers, a small smile breaking onto his face, "mrs. lee from down the road helped me pick these out, because apparently flowers have their whole own language and i am clueless in that department, and apparently in the boyfriend department," a small chuckle left your lips at the boy you've spent all your days loving, even in the rough patches, "the blue ones are supposed to represent apologies, and the little white one's show sincerity and love, and i love you, so it felt fitting." he rambled on, slightly shaking despite the smile on his face. he handed the bouquet to you with a look of hope in his eyes, a hope that you would forgive him despite his flaws oversights.

"they're beautiful gyuvin," your voice was quiet, trying to silence the tears that threatened to spill.

he smiled as you took the flowers with a smile, "i understand if you don't forgive me, and i know i'm going to have to prove it, but i promise i'm going to work towards being better for you, because you were right the other day, you do deserve more than that, and i want to be the one to give it to you, if you'll let me."

you paused to think for a moment, despite knowing deep down you didn't need to think for even a second, you loved him more than your heart knew what to do with, and you didn't want to lose him over this.

"i would love that," you smiled, taking a step towards the boy, "thank you gyuvin."

his arms wrapped around your torso to pull you in for a hug; his grip tight on you as if you were going to float away through his fingers if he wasn't careful.

he pulled away shaking his head, "no, thank you," he exclaimed, "thank you for being so amazing, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me y/n." his voice lowered as his face got closer to yours, your foreheads nearly touching as you felt his breath on your face. "i love you."

"i love you too gyuvin, always." you leaned forward and connected your lips, letting your hands run through his hair gently as if to savor the boy that you had missed so dearly.

gyuvin pulled away, letting the two of you catch your breath as you stood in each others arms, "so how about that date?"

[aishnico]

#𝙎𝙇𝘼𝙎𝙃: 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳

» summary: you tried various ways to save your marriage. and just when you gave up, all of your world turned upside down

» word count: 2.7k

» warnings: angst, london and cash are your sons, cheating, grammar issues

late 00’s

"so, is he coming or..?"

"i don't know." you simply replied and buried your face in your palms. "he said he'll try to come but, i don't think he will."

"it's been 8 sessions. 8 weeks, that means 2 months. you two have been coming here for two months and," your therapist softly sighed, trying to find suitable words. "i believe he hasn't tried to change your shared, troublesome situation. since the beginning."

you rubbed your temples. "so you're saying that he had made up his mind a long time ago?"

"i'm afraid so." you both sat in silence.

you and your husband, saul, had problems in your marriage. and since you wanted to save it, you tried to find various ways. cooking his favorite dishes more often, helping him with the simplest and hardest things, listening very carefully about his day, job, tour, seducing him, and having sex more often...

but those acts didn't change too much. so for the final solution, you found a marriage therapist and started your sessions. as time went by, he started to not join you sometimes and you've been coming here all alone for a month now.

"i tried everything i could. i tried to show him my love for him in various ways. with more acts of service, more physical touch, more quality time, more words of affirmation... i don't know what should i do now. should i rip myself out? will this be enough for him?"

"no, of course not. even though his love for you ended, it doesn't mean he wants to see you harmed."

"i... i think i know the reason. i'm just, not pretty anymore."

"nonsense. you know i only say things you need to hear, not what you want to hear. and i'm saying, you look mesmerizing by your age. it's not about look."

"then what is it?!" you raised your voice a little bit with teary eyes. suddenly your stomach started to hurt your insides. your therapist looked at you with pitiful eyes.

"i couldn't manage to get to know him enough to say this but, maybe he just doesn't want to be tied to responsibilities about his family?”

"i don't want it to end." you hopelessly mumbled and tried to calm yourself and your body down.

"[name], it doesn't matter if you want to continue or not, he already ended it a long time ago."

"we have kids. we have two sons."

"that's just improving my point."

you didn't say anything in return. you just closed your eyes and started to assimilate things you don't want to still accept. and a sudden disgusting urge was alerting you again.

you stood up and covered your mouth. "i need to go to the bathroom." then left the room in a rush.

after a couple of minutes, you returned completely unbothered.

"are you okay?" your therapist asked worriedly.

"yeah, it was just a throw-up. i'm sick these nowadays. flu, you know?"

"i don't think throwing up is a symptom of flu."

"no, trust me. my stomach is sensitive. it pains in the slightest illness. maybe that's why saul doesn't want me. i'm like an old lady now."

"[name], we talked about this by just now. and you shouldn't have come here.."

"don't worry, it's fine. i'm heading home straight."

"that's good, take care of yourself."

"thanks, you too. it was nice to talk with you these past months."

"same goes for me." you two hugged and you opened the door. and saw your youngest son, cash, laying his head on his older brother's, london's, shoulder. and london was playing with a phone. when he saw both of you, he gently pushed his brother's face away and stood up in front of you.

"thanks for the phone, ma'am." he gave the phone to your therapist. "you have cool games on there.

"wha- london! when did you- you should've asked mine instead!" you scolded him.

"it's alright."

"yeah. besides, your phone is boring, mom."

"yeah yeah, go wake your brother."

london gently shook cash's shoulder a few times. he then slowly opened his eyes. god, he was looking like an angel. both of your boys were looking like angels in front of your eyes.

"mommy, can we go now?" he asked with a sleepy voice.

"yes sweetheart, we're heading out now." you offered your hands to your sons and both of them immediately held it.

"can we go to mc donalds?" cash asked excitedly.

"we have food at home." you simply replied.

both of them snorted. "you're so boring..." he mumbled.

"uh huh," you shrugged off.

"meegan is way funnier than you," london added.

"yeah sure. wait, who's m-" your voice had cut off since you suddenly fell on your knees and the earlier urge was hitting you again with pain. and before you realize your body has become unconscious.

"mom!"

you slowly opened your eyes at a hospital. you didn't think the situation might end here. while still trying to wake up, you heard two voices of children.

"mom, you're awake!" london cheered and hugged you without harm.

"i'm so sorry mommy, we shouldn't have said them." cash jumped on your stomach and you let out a low whine.

"it's okay, we're all good." you both caressed their hair and planted a kiss on each of their head.

"all right boys," a doctor entered the room with a smile. "i think we need to talk with your mommy so..." she showed the door to them.

"nuh uh, we're not leaving mommy." london tightened his grip on you and frowned. "yeah!" cash supported him.

"boys, you know mommy's been sick a few weeks. i need to speak with the doctor to know what's wrong with me. it won't take so long, okay?"

they both sighed heavily and looked at you with big puppy brown eyes. "okay..." they both walked out of the room.

"are you feeling any pain right now?" the doctor approached you and asked. you shook off your head.

"good, what's your complaint?"

"it's just um, my stomach. i started to throw up frequently even though the food was not the problem, or my work/sleep schedule. and stomach spasms..."

"huh, i would want to say it might be flu or cold but the problem is not in your throat or nose. are you periods regularly? when was the last time you had?"

"it was like..." you stopped. "i, don't remember. maybe more than a month? but skipping a week shouldn't be a big problem."

"sure, it happens. are you active in sexual activities?"

"i used to be. like a month ag- wait, no. no, no, no, no... it can't be."

"why not?"

"i'm in my 40's. i can't bear a child. it's a low chance."

"like you said yourself. it's a chance."

you grabbed the sheets tightly and grimaced. you? pregnant? only when pigs fly from now.

"i gave birth to two children. i birthed the eldest one with my womb, but with the youngest one, i had to do cesarean. i had no choice. and since then i have had regular stomach spasms. and right now i'm going through a rough time with my husband. it's so stressful for me. can those might be the causes of my pain?"

"of course they can. but don't forget, women who had cesarean can get pregnant again and even can give birth with their wombs."

you felt cold sweats dripping down from the top of your head.

"it's okay. like you said, the causes might be personal too. rest now."

"can i talk with my sons?"

"sure." the woman replied before opening the door for them. your sons immediately returned to their first place.

"we were so worried about you, mom." london expressed with a gloomy tone. he was lying on the left side of your lap while cash was lying on the other side. he has already fallen asleep.

"i'm sorry, angel. but i'm completely fine right now, trust me."

"we even called dad."

you furrowed your eyebrows. "dad? and what did he say?"

"he said he's on the way, gonna pick all of us."

"good. maybe we can go to mc donalds."

"you said we have food at home."

"ha ha, yeah i forgot. didn't you guys say i'm boring?"

"well, not completely. we're just saying this when we don't get what we want."

"who's that meegan by the way?" you mentioned this again.

"huh, who?" it was cute how he was pretending like he didn't know.

"london..." you give him a small smile and looked directly into his eyes. he immediately turned his head away.

"i can't- ugh... i broke a promise." he pouted.

"what, promise? listen, baby. i'm going through a difficult time and i'm expecting you to help me a little bit."

"fine, one day when you weren't home, me and cash went downstairs and saw dad with a black-haired woman on the couch. her name is meegan. when we asked who she was he told us that she was an old friend of yours and dad wanted to make a surprise for you. so we promised to not tell you anything."

you were utterly in shock and too stunned to speak. saul, was using your sons, to hide his new plaything? you've never met someone named meegan, so who was she?

"mom..?"

"oh," you didn't realize you zoned out. "i'm sorry, sweetie. i was just trying to remember who was she."

"have you remembered?"

"uh, i don't think so. you know what? let's pretend that we didn't have this conversation just now. i didn't hear anything nor know anything. alright?" you winked at him.

he smiled and nodded. just in time, your husband rushed into the room with a sweaty, frightened face.

"[name]..." he walked toward you with big steps and hugged you tightly. like never wanting to let you go, or it was just your delusions.

"are you okay?" he asked worriedly and pulled himself off you. he put his calloused hands on your cheeks and gently caressed them.

"i'm completely fine. i just passed out, nothing more." you gave him a fake smile.

"i was so scared, i'm sorry." his voice was shakening.

"for what? you didn't do anything wrong. i'm fine, saul. believe me."

he sighed and looked deeply into your eyes. "if you say so," he looked at the boys who were lying on your lap. "i hope they didn't give you any trouble."

london immediately looked at you with pleading eyes. you pinched his cheek. "how could they? they're my little pumpkins." you kissed both of the tops of their heads. london giggled and cash smiled at his sleepy situation. then suddenly saul's phone rang out. he looked at the screen and put it inside his pocket.

"uh, do you need anything?" he asked.

you thought for a second then replied. "a tea would be nice."

"okay, i will get one for you." he stood up but you stopped him.

"hey saul, can you go there with boys, please?"

"sure, but why?"

"i need to do something, important."

a couple of days passed since your accident. and the atmosphere of the home was fickle. when the boys weren't at home, you wouldn't speak to saul unless it's necessary. and he wasn't minding it at all. some days he would sleep on the couch, some days you. but then you would wake up in your bedroom all alone and would see saul's uncomfortable position on the couch.

you wondered how long he could keep his secret from you. he really was thinking that you were stupid. how could he? you've been together since the middle of 90's. you spend almost 15 years with him and just because you don't look like you first met now, he threw out all of them away.

he was the cause of your body and mental pains. and he was pretending like you did all of these to yourself. days ago, you didn't want to accept that your marriage was over. but now, you're ready to sign the divorce papers.

but you need him. you need him, especially after the call you received from the hospital. that was the time to face the truth about your situation.

you got ready to head outside and saw saul and the boys sitting on the couch, watching sponge bob.

"i'm going outside!" you informed them and went to the door.

"mom, can you buy some snacks please?" cash asked excitedly.

"we'll see, be good, boys!"

"hey," you heard saul's voice from behind. "when you'll be back?"

"i don't know, maybe an hour?" you shrugged.

"good. i would like to speak with you after your arrival. would you like me to take you there?"

"i'm good, thank you."

"well, see you then. be careful."

it's been 2 hours now since you left the home. not wanting to go there at all after the truth you learned about yourself. but it was already dark and they would probably search for you if you were a little later.

you took a deep breath and slowly knocked at the door. a couple of seconds later you heard heavy steps approaching to door. saul opened the door with a sign of relief.

"have you thought about coming home?" was the first thing he asked.

you turned your head to the wall clock. it was 10 pm.

"since i'm here now, it means i did." you took the coat off you and went to your bedroom. of course, he was following you.

"are boys sleeping?" you asked. and remembered that they wanted some snacks from you.

"yeah, they waited for you all night. said that they were not going to sleep until your arrival. but eventually, they fall asleep."

you just hummed in response, not looking into his eyes. but you knew he was staring at you right now.

"can we talk now?" he asked.

"sure, i wanted to talk too."

"okay, go ahead, then."

"no, please, you go first. i'm listening."

he took a deep breath and started. "look [name], we spent almost 15 years together. and in all of these years, even though we had conflicts often, i was really happy with you. i appreciate so much how you were both in my best and worst moments. you made me the happiest man in the world by making me a dad twice." you already knew where this speech was going.

"but, i don't feel the same connection between us anymore. it's not because you've become sick since cash's birth, or not because you're unattractive. it's not even true. i just, don't feel the same anymore."

you couldn't help but laugh. "i'm sorry, but i think i know the reason behind this. i'm just a boring, dull woman, right?"

his lips were in a straight line, giving you a half-apologetic smile.

"it's okay, you're not the first one to say this. the boys told me too."

"you're a good person and a mom too."

"sure. when will you mention that meegan?"

"how do you know?" he asked shockingly.

"do you really think i'm stupid?" you joked. not wanting to give away your older son.

"you know my nature, i can't stick to something so long. believe me, i wanted to stick at our marriage and family forever. but i was just fooling myself. i'm looking for new excitements. and i found this excitement in meegan. i'm sorry."

you deeply sighed and chewed on your bottom lip. not sure what to say.

"i want a divorce." he said while giving you an already signed paper. you hesitantly took it from him and glanced at the paper.

you held your tears back. you both need to be separate but why is it hurting so damn much? he's leaving you when you need him most.

"i'm going to the bathroom." you muttered and put the paper away but he was fast enough to catch your wrist.

"please don't go. i really want to settle these all now. you said you wanted to talk too. please tell me what's on your mind."

you got hesitate to tell him or not. but there was no point in hiding it now. so you gently removed his hand from yours and got your bag. after unzipping it and grabbing a piece of paper, you passed it to him.

"i'm pregnant."

[rerefundslocals]

BIG DEAL . JJK

Summary : lately you've been feeling lack of affection from your boyfriend and you decide to let it be. until your silence catches up with you.

>>pairing : idol!jungkook x fem!reader.

>>trope : established relationship.

>>genre : angst, smut, fluff.

>>warnings/tags : softdom!jungkook, sub!reader, sad confrontations, crying, wall sex, one ass slap, unprotected sex, oral for one second (f recieving), teasing, dirty talk, cum tasting, sweet aftercare, they jus inlove.

a/n - yall juh vibe and enjoy this, I tried to write it up to par, but it was rushed and is poorly written, forgive me. No bam appearances. Maybe next time!

~★~

"It's not even that serious."

"Jungkook, it is. Stop arguing and fix it."

This is one of the most normal days in your life, non- stop bickering between you and your boyfriend, on the broken kitchen cabinet holding all the fragiles.

"Jungkook, don't go back and do karaoke, my mugs are suffering!" You exclaim, rubbing your forehead at frustration of your boyfriend walking away.

"Baby, come on. I'll do that tomorrow. I'm not even sane enough to hold a screwdriver." Of course he isn't. He just had some beer and is now singing out of his mind, and it doesn't usually annoy you, not when he's listening to you.

You sigh, your heart feeling heavy at his response and you wouldn't usually feel this way over a cabinet, but it's constant now, jungkook doesn't listen to you these days, doesn't even hug and kiss you like you'd like. Those gestures feel forced nowadays.

"Fine, Jk. Whenever you're ready." You don't miss the way Jungkook furrows his brows in confusion when you leave the room.

He wonders why 'Jk' and not 'kook', 'babe' or 'koo'.

Dropping the LG remote he walks behind you, and upon entering your shared bedroom, he finds you on the floor with your phone screen lit up in your face and it looks like to him, you're going through his and your album filled with all your pictures.

"Stop staring, Jk." He catches himself staring too long and perks up at your voice, reminding himself what he's here for.

"What's wrong, baby?" Its ridiculous isn't it? How he thinks he could waltz up in here and expect an immediate response, he should know by now or is he that insolent?

That's all that plagues in your head.

"Bab-"

"What don't you see? Hmm, Jk. You don't care anymore, never listening to me, not even paying attention to my needs anymore. But you have the audacity to ask what's wrong? I don't even want to talk anymore."

By the time you're done, your lash line is filled with tears threatening to spill and soil your cheeks. Jungkook takes note of it and gets on the floor with you, wrapping his arms around your waist to bring your face into his chest as you sob your heart out, too weak to push him away. Jungkooks tattooed hand pats your head lovingly as he whispers apologies, his own eyes burning at the tears threatening to spill.

"I-im so sorry, baby. You and I both know I'd never want to hurt you. Please forgive me. I love you so much." He doesn't expect a response immediately but he yearns it so bad. He want to hear you tell him you love him too.

Your chests are heaving against one another as you both cry your emotions out. Jungkook crying from the stress at work, the stress over you, stress from his bad habits, as he cries into your hair.

You cry on his chest, your tears making his shirt wet as you cry from frustration, crying from the touch you've yearned for weeks, crying because he loves you. He said it and it felt genuine as it swelled in your heart from weeks of not hearing it.

It's about 20 minutes later when jungkook feels your hands fisting his shirt and he knows what you mean, cause when he looks down, your wandering and red eyes are staring straight into his own red eyes and prominent bags.

You bring your hand up to his hair and you run your hand through his locks. You then force his head down to meet with your forehead.

Leaning up, your lips meet his slightly and ever so quietly you whisper to him, " Don't make me feel alone again. Listen to me sometimes and I'll listen to you. I'm here for you, Koo." And softly your lips meet his chapped ones.

Jungkook allows for you to take the lead, as you kiss him softly and ever so passionately, your hands running through his soft locks.

The kiss turns heated as you probe your tongue on jungkooks lower lip, urging him to allow your tongue and he does. His tongue meets your warm one and you swirl it around, doing it as you would a lollipop.

Your hands instinctively go lower as you pull jungkooks shirt above his head, your lips separating to allow the action. You dive back in for his lips but jungkook holds your cheeks in his hands, as his eyes roam your face underneath the bright mikrokosmas light.

"I love you,____, so much." And before you could respond with the same adoration, your being lifted up and your back meets the cold wall.

"Tell me you love me." Jungkook prodes as he removes your baby tee from the confines of your chest.

Your breathing is picking up as you're only getting wetter at the thought of being fucked against this wall, and jungkooks dominance showing out.

Jungkooks hand is toying with your tits and you throw your head back to moan, totally forgetting what jungkook had asked of you.

"Tell me or I'll stop,___."

"I do, Jungkook. I love you so much! So, Please touch me." Your hand guides his tattooed one to your clothed pussy, and jungkook complies, rubbing your clit on your spandex shorts.

"That's it, baby. That's all I wanted. Gonna fuck you now."

"Please~" you whine, feeling your high coming from just being rubbed through your shorts.

Jungkook chuckles at your desperateness, choosing to tease you even more as he peels off your shorts at a torturous speed, that is so so slow.

"Jungkook! Please!"

"Getting there, baby." And with a swift pull, both your shorts and thong are ridded off your body and you're left bare for jungkook.

Your pussy meets the cold air and a thin coat of sweat is on your collarbone and forehead from your desperation, you tell yourself to wait a little more as you watch Jungkook rids himself of his sweatpants.

But you can't. So you bring your fingers to rub your clit and the pleasure has you moaning exaggeratingly.

"Fuck! Kook!" Jungkook perks up and quickly brings his tip to your aching pussy, the hardness of his cock confining in your pussy walls.

In unison you both murmur a , "fuck!" Into the room.

As slowly as he starts, jungkook thrusts up into you as your hands come down to his hair, and your lips meet for a loving kiss as his thrusts become more sharper and faster.

"Mmh, such a tight pussy for me. And you always this wet? Tell me, baby." Jungkooks words are so dirty and urge your tummy to coil tighter as you feel your high coming.

Jungkook recieves a Moan as response and he isn't so happy, he just wants his good girl to tell him if she's so wet for him. What's so hard about that?

If only he'd know how his dick makes you lose your ability of speaking. But he doesn't when he lays a slap upon your ass, the sound filling the room along with your slickness on his cock, as it slips in and out of you with ease, the sound of Mac and cheese in the room.

"Answer me." You mutter a chant of 'fucks' as you lay your head on his sweaty shoulder, your high approaching.

"Y-yes, Koo- m' so fucking wet for you! I'm gonna cum! Sh-hit I'm gonna fucking cum." You mewl your sentence messily as a fucked out jungkook smirks at your legs going weak in his arms.

"Cum all over this cock, baby, wanna hear you cum." Jungkools gruff voice fills your ears as you bite down on his shoulder, your eyes hazy and watery at the sensation of cumming do hard.

Jungkook doesn't stop thrusting and youre moaning loudly and tiredly, awaiting jungkooks load in your pussy.

"Mmh, fuck! So fucking tight." His thrusts are sloppier and wetter, as the mix of your cum and his wet dick fill you up.

"Cum inside, kook. Fill me up." With a low groan, spurts of white fill your pussy as your feel it trailing down your thighs.

Jungkook came.

And it's so fucking thick. But with enough time to spare thinking about it. Jungkook peels your body off the wall as he brings you to the bed.

Quickly rushing to grab a wet cloth.

He comes back and places it on your swollen clit and messy pussy.

He backtracks, moving it away and taking initiative as he places his tongue on your pussy, licking up both yours and his cum off.

It catches you off guard as you let out a low moan.

Jungkook quickly finishes and he finally cleans you both up. Grabbing fresh clothes for you to sleep in.

When jungkook places you comfortably in the blankets, he turns to leave and your grabby hands pull him back.

"Koo, where you going?" Your eyes are fighting it at this point and jungkook chuckles at that, his smile genuine.

"I'm just going to switch off the TV and lights, okay? Be right back, angel."

And he's back before you know it, leaning over to switch off your side lamp.

Placing a long deep kiss on your forehead, jungkook promises to love you forever as you fall into deep slumber.

whispering the promise back into his chest, you finally allow sleep to take over you.

Do not copy my work. I'll find you.

[vinxhwrites]

note: this is the result of a crazy writing frenzy I was in last night, I went a bit feral over this idea and I don't know where this story is going. Also I spiraled after I read this. anywayyy hope you enjoy this drabble.

pairing: f!reader x price (x ghost - maybe eventually?)

summary: After going to work in the military you develop a weird relationship dynamic with your captain, and soon you find out you're not the only one.

word count: 2.7k

cw: 18+, daddy kink (!), probably inaccurate job descriptions/situations, pet names, a little bit of angst, a little bit of h/c; reader is kind of a crybaby; not proofread;

NEXT

You couldn't explain the story of how you got yourself in this situation if you tried. You were barely able to understand it yourself. Yet, here you were, sobbing in your captain's arms at his office, way past your working hours, calling him daddy and praying that he'd kiss you.

You had a hard day, as it was pretty common nowadays.

You certainly weren't fit for this work environment and you were painfully aware of it. It didn't matter how much you tried you couldn't get past this fact: you were an academic. You weren't used to the discipline, the hierarchy, and the life-engulfing aspects of the military.

When you had accepted the job 8 months prior, it really was the salary that convinced you, if you were being honest about it. You had been living on scholarships most of your adult life and it was getting kind of tiring. A part of you wanted to refuse out of a moral stance, but you didn't.

You were fresh out of a linguistics PhD program at the time, and you excelled as a student and researcher, but your skills were very specific and not that marketable. Your mom was probably right when she tried to dissuade you from dedicating your time to mostly dead and made-up languages, but you were too stubborn to listen at the time, although her greatest concerns were, as usual, well-founded. Needless to say, the opportunity came at the right time.

It seemed urgent and they tested you relentlessly. It was clear to you from the beginning that no one there was thrilled to resort to a civilian linguist. It was fun, though, and you passed the tests as if they were silly little puzzles you do to relax. And you were the only candidate to be able to decently decipher the completely made-up languages and codes that were used in the telegraphs they gave you.

They hired you on an 18-month contract for two different jobs: translating and decrypting intercepted messages for a task force, and also training their own linguists to do what you did. If you were good at it, you wouldn't be needed anymore.

The task force was nice enough, all four of them treated you well and didn't bother you much. At first, it was a bit disconcerting, but by now you've gotten used to how attractive they all were to the point where it almost didn't affect you anymore.

All of them called you birdie. You liked it, it made you feel included to have a little nickname. Soap was the one to come up with it on the second week you were working with them "Some birds know many languages." he had explained, clarifying: "Bird languages, ye know". The original explanation made you smile, but the addition made you blush "Plus, ye're cute like a little birdie"

The training part though wasn't going so well. You were almost 100% sure that all six of the students hated you. It seemed offensive to them to have to sit down and learn anything from you. In the beginning, you did your best to be pleasant, to do the best job you could, and maybe win them over. But at this point, you just wanted to be done with it and never look at any of those people ever again.

They were building a computer program to do your job apart from the classes. You felt offended at first at how they didn't even hide the fact that you would be used and then replaced by a more efficient machine, but you were now praying that they'd get it done as quickly as possible. The program was really good at pattern recognition, but it still wasn't good enough at semantics, and it lacked any nuance of interpretation.

The only thing that made you want to stay a little longer was this thing with Captain Price. It had started innocent enough, he took pity on you when he noticed you struggling with the new environment. He said some kind and assuring words here and there when he noticed how much the students tormented you, and he'd reprehend anyone who dared to disrespect you in front of him.

Eventually, Price casually invited you to work in his office if you wanted to, being away from other people seemed to ease your nerves a bit. He didn't mind, he assured you, it was nice to have some company. More than that, he genuinely found your job fascinating and always asked you to show him how you did it in his free time.

He sometimes brought you tea the afternoons you spent there, he'd accidentally brush his arm against yours, or touch your leg with his knee when you sat beside him. At first, he'd correct the movement, but it evolved to not correcting it, to then doing it intentionally.

They were simple touches, a little pat on your shoulder here, brushing your hair out of your face there, every single one made you shiver. One day he made a comment about how uncomfortable you looked on the chair and pulled your legs to rest on his lap while he worked. That was the first night you allowed yourself to fantasize about him to sleep.

John had a warm and comforting presence, and you were genuinely disappointed when he wasn't around, finding comfort in the fact that he gave you a copy of his office keys, so you could work there even when he wasn't present.

Ghost was there sometimes, seemingly preferring to work from Price's office as well. At first, he seemed to get disconcerted by your presence, probably a bit annoyed that he had to share the space with you, you thought.

He was never rude to you, just awfully quiet, even when it was just the two of you there. He nodded at you when you greeted him, and often sat on the big sofa on the corner or even on the floor. You offered him the desk many times, feeling a bit guilty for taking up so much space, but you noticed he only accepted when he seemed truly tired. Despite the unsettling silence, you thought he was a gentleman.

You first thought that John had somehow hypnotized you when you noticed the subtle ways in which your heart lost its pace whenever he commanded you to do something. He rarely asked without a smile, a polite inclination "dear, will you please file these reports for me?" "can you please grab me a cup of coffee?". He'd only deviate you from your tasks like this when he seemed to be in a bad mood, you noticed. It was never about anything urgent, and it was always when you were clearly already busy. In spite of it, you were never able to say no. He seemed to derive pleasure from bossing you around like that, but you knew he didn't have to remind you of the power he had over you, as it always hovered on your mind. Either way, soon enough you were painfully aware of the fact that you'd do absolutely anything he asked you to.

But you knew, for sure, that you were in trouble when you realized you got aroused anytime he'd compliment your work. Getting his praise started to be a more important goal to you than anything else. Earning a "good girl" was a rare occurrence, but it never failed to make your day.

One day he found you crying, and you couldn't quite explain what it was with words without feeling ridiculous. After what they called a "successful mission" it dawned on you that the information you were extracting out of those telegraphs really was being used to kill people. Those weren't your silly little puzzles.

"Criminals" Soap had corrected you as you tried to articulate your despair, much to your dismay. He wheezed as if your frame of thought was absolutely hilarious. "Shouldn't be here if you'll react like that, birdie" he had said and you wanted to scream.

"You'll get used to it" Gaz had assured you, sending a disapproving look towards Soap.

Later, the more you tried to express your frustration to John the more you cried, sobbing pathetically. It was the first time he hugged you, shielding you from the world around you for a minute.

"You don't understand..." you tried to explain, but you cut the sentence short at his stern look.

"I do understand," he said frowning, keeping his hand firm on your back. He took a deep breath and leaned down a bit to look you in the eyes "Listen, you do a good job, sweetie. You're doing good things, even if it doesn't feel like it sometimes" he assured you.

You nodded and tried to get the crying under control, suddenly aware that you probably looked terrible.

John cupped your face in his hands.

"Why don't you get the rest of the day off and get some rest, huh?" he suggested kindly "come to me if you need to talk."

After that, he got more and more comfortable being physically close to you. It quickly evolved, as you enjoyed being close to him a bit too much. Sometimes he'd squeeze your hand in his when you sat beside him behind his desk very casually and, sometimes, you'd rest your head on his shoulder while he worked. Saying you were in love felt like an understatement, but you'd never make it real by saying it out loud.

You once made a joke in passing about how your dad left you and your family, but he didn't laugh. He tilted his head and looked worried instead. I'm here if you want to talk he said, and it made you want to bury your head in the dirt.

Price called you many things, at first it was dear, sweetie, birdie, love, and finally, he settled with baby.

"what are you doing there, baby?" he just asked casually one day, and you almost gasped, feeling your heart attempt to leave your chest.

Although your relationship with him wasn't sexual in practice, it certainly was sexualized in essence. To you it was, at least. Oedipal if you were to be honest with yourself.

The first time he called himself your daddy it simultaneously broke and healed something in your brain. He chuckled at your reaction, how you looked at him wide-eyed and full of hope, hiding your face on his chest next.

"thank you, sir" you whispered then, pathetically.

You feared at times that your affection to him was one-sided, that he saw comforting you like this as a part of his job, a strange but effective one as well. You wondered if it made you weak, you didn't even try to be brave and deal with things alone anymore, you were aware of how childish it was to knock on his door looking for daddy's embrace at the slightest inconvenience. But you couldn't help it, it was too comforting to give up.

And that's the exact position you were in now. You had a bad day so you came running to him. He was awfully kind to you, as usual, and you prayed that it was a sign of enjoyment, that he actually liked comforting you like this.

You didn't notice when Simon came in. He froze by the door, and the captain just signaled for him to close it. John still had his arm wrapped around you, a hand stroking your hair.

"Shhh, it's ok now" he cooed at you "daddy's here."

Simon watched as you melted in his arms at the words, your breathing easing instantly. Again, you felt as if hypnotized. Your body responded to his words before your mind could catch up with them.

You wanted him even closer, you wanted to curl up on his lap, and have him rock you like a baby. Most of all, you wanted him to kiss you. You craved the touch of his lips on yours and the thought clouded your mind. Just that week you had already masturbated to the thought of him twice. Although you always reprehended yourself afterward, it didn't work to make these thoughts go away.

You rehearsed in your mind the idea of looking up and kissing him but didn't build enough courage to do it. You thought you'd die if he ever rejected you.

"That's it, you're ok," John said when he noticed the pace of your breathing ease, with his cheek pressed to the top of your head "I've got you, baby" he pressed kisses to your hairline. You sniffed, using your sleeve to clean the tears from your cheek.

"Now, be a good girl and go get some sleep," he said and you nodded against his chest, inhaling the warm smell of his shirt and suffering with the upcoming separation already "Ghost will take you to bed".

You raised your head and blinked at him, and that's when you finally noticed the tall figure close to the door, unmoved. You wiped your tears, distressed. For how long had he been there?

"Will you guide her to her room, lieutenant?" John asked him calmly, as if you didn't find yourself in the most embarrassing of situations.

"Yes, sir" Simon responded in the same tone.

The walk back to your room was painfully silent. The corridor around you was dark and empty. Your entire body was tense, and you walked fast trying to keep up with Simon's pace, hoping that he'd just say something and put you out of your angst, but he didn't.

When you finally reached your door, he opened it and waited for you to go inside.

"I'm sorry that you saw that" you blurted out, cheeks flushed pink "I-I don't know what to say. It's really not like that...-"

"It's OK" he interrupted when he noted the despair in your voice. He tilted his head a bit, evaluating your expression "I get it." there was something mischievous in his eyes, and you wondered if he was smiling at you behind the mask.

"Do you?" you asked, your voice was almost a whisper.

He nodded, and you relaxed a bit "I'm sorry you had a shitty day, birdie"

"It's okay"

"Tell me if you need anything." he said before signaling for you to enter your bedroom again, you thanked him quietly and closed the door.

Simon went back to Price's office in hurried steps, letting out a sigh when he entered. He was exhausted.

His captain was seated on the sofa, reports spread on the coffee table in front of him and a cigar put out on the ashtray beside him.

"Come here" John said, his eyes didn't move from the papers in his hands.

Simon took off his boots and mask before curling up on the sofa, resting his head on the captain's legs, and finally taking a deep breath as John started to brush his fingers through his hair.

"Don't know what to do with her" John murmured, more to himself than to start a conversation.

Simon hummed in response, his eyes felt heavy, and he could no longer keep them open.

"She's such a sensitive little thing..." John continued, seemingly lost in thought.

"She's cute" the lieutenant murmured, the drowsiness that flooded his brain making it almost impossible to form a coherent thought.

"Yeah" John chuckled lightly. "Well, don't worry about it." he assured, taking his attention back to petting Simon's hair "How are you?"

"Fine" he purred, getting comfortable on the sofa, even though it was a bit too small for him.

John hummed as he stroked Simon's cheek lightly "my pretty boy"

He watched Simon as he let his eyes rest completely and his body relax, being taken by slumber in a matter of seconds.

John continued to read reports well into the night, only waking Simon up, gently, when he finally decided to get some sleep himself. He accompanied Simon to his bedroom before moving to his own, patting him on the shoulder before sending him to bed. It was easier for Simon to fall asleep on his own then, as it usually was, after he had already been nursed to sleep beforehand.

[sayitdido]

lovesick ● txt

genre: pure angst

synopsis: ending of your relationship with txt

warnings: a curseword maybe, txt may came across really toxic but this is just fiction

yeonjun

you still wait at the restaurant he promised he would be on time to your date. why does everything have to have a flaw? everything has been going great with you and yeonjun. you are not the punctual type either but you never made him wait almost for two hours. his massages said he'll be there, just wait a bit longer for him but you start to pity yourself and feel the gaze upon you. everyone probably thinking you are pathetic. who waits for someone this long?

even though you were starving before your arrival, you completely lost your appetite. you keep ordering the damn water over and over again. you tell yourself to give these waiters huge tip after this.

when you finally see his siluet, you sigh in relief. finally, you think to yourself. he immediately starts apologizing the minute he sits down on the chair facing you. "yeonjun, i know you are busy but-" he interrupts "but what, baby? but if i loved you enough, i would make more time for you? we have been through this. i love you but there is things that i cannot control. and i am sorry" he is right. you have been through this. maybe even a millionth time. why keep bothering? the solution is right there but you both avoid to see. yet the only thing you see is that right this moment. you had it enough. you needed someone who can give you the care you give them back, not someone who is too busy for that.

without going further you say "it's over." you stand up and walk away to avoid confrontation. sweet old pangs of love waits for you, shouldn't you be on time?

soobin

you admired soobin for his ways to keep it calm. always finding ways to healthily communicate instead of starting a fight. choosing his words carefully to avoid hurting you.

but now you cannot recognize the man in front of you. the man you love, the man who is supposed to love you.

you became mute once you saw the tantrum he had just because you did a small mistake. unable to answer him or hear what he says because of the shock. he keeps screaming at you and all you can do is to take it. "you are so useless, Y/N! do you understand me, utterly useless!" how can the man you thought you knew turn into someone else just because you burnt the meal you wanted to cook for him to show him how much you care and love him.

his hurtful words cutting your heart like a knife, you can't help but start crying. "you cry now?! don't think that this will work on me. god, i had it enough! i always kept it to myself to all of those become just vain. i don't even want to see you anymore." his final words causing you to bellow, you watch him walk away. and you know it wasn't the heath of the moment, he was having this emotions for a very long time. you understand it now.

beomgyu

you and beomgyu used to plan thing to do together, always doing something more exciting each time. both of you loved it too much.

yet time has passed. first you started doing them less often, then someday completely stopped. but you loved chilling with your boyfriend. first it was also exciting since you always found a new topic or something to share keeping both of your brains stimulated.

but nowadays you two were more like an married couple minus the legal benefits of marriage and potential children but you loved it. you thought he did too. to be honest for a moment he did. at least this is what he says in the letter he wrote.

why couldn't he at least do it face to face? the letter says he is afraid to tell you something that would hurt or scar you. but doesn't the letter do the same? was he too bored of you that even the break up talk was too much for him? even though his letter is considerate, it does no good for your brain to stop repeating the sentence. "you are so boring, even for getting dumped."

taehyun

"Y/N, we need to talk." you feel your throat going sore. nothing good comes with these words. and what he says next makes your suspicions correct, taehyun is breaking up with you.

"there is no easy way to say this. but i think we outgrew each other. it is not like i hate you now but the attraction, the romance... i cannot feel those things with you anymore." the only thing you wanted was to run away after hearing those words. have you become less desirable looking? have your personality changed? what made him stop having feelings for you? you just say "why?"

"there is no 'why', Y/N. we just outgrew each other. time has passed and time changes everything. we don't need a reason to feel different." even though it all makes sense, it sounds nonsense to you. "is there anyone else you like? that's why?" you ask. "no, i promise there is no one now but that doesn't mean i like you."

you want to start a fight but his annoyingly calm attitude makes it impossible. "is there anything else?" you ask your final question. "no." he answers. and you both sit there for almost an hour before he excuses himself.

huening kai

you feel like your your boyfriend kai has been ignoring you. talking or texting you less and less day by day. yet he was always nice to you so you thought there was no problem.

at the end of the day he always says "i love you" that is all that matters. even though you crave for more, you are contented with what you have.

you cannot imagine a life without him so it is all okay that he is the way he is. you still love him.

and then today he decides to leave everything on read.

you: hi baby (seen: 07:35)

you: good morning (seen: 07:35)

you: what r your plans for today? (seen: 07:37

you: hey! how was your day? (seen: 16:42)

you: are you okay? (seen: 17:30)

you: why aren't you answering? (seen: 17:53)

you: did i do something? (seen: 17:54)

you: kai, you are making me worry. can you please talk? at least give me some dismissive answers if you don't wanna talk but don't do this to me. (seen: 17:59)

you: kai, please... (seen: 17:59)

you: please answer (seen: 18:0)

you: does this mean it is over? if it is not just text something (seen: 23:15)

you: anything (seen: 23:16)

you: like this? (seen: 23: 20)

you: you end it all like this? (seen: 23:20)

you are going to miss him. you are going to miss him so much. why did he do this?

[idyllcy]

from one admirer to another : scrambled

pairing: leon kennedy x reader || masterpost: from one admirer to another

synopsis: from one admirer to another, an online penpal service, allows for two people with common interests to write to each other without ever revealing their actual address! Luckily for both you and Leon, you get matched up! What do eggs and Christmas even have in common anyway? sure hope it's that modeling business and NOT that Ada Wong addiction.

featuring: reader as scrambled eggs // leon as christmas

Dear scrambled eggs,

Thank you for that Ada print. It's going into my shrine (you were weird first, alright? Don't go calling me weird now.) and the fact that it's signed? crying screaming throwing up. Also, how dare you call yourself her day one? I was there when she first debuted you can NOT be more day one than me (joke).

I like my eggs in the form of shakshuka. If you haven't tried it before, you really should. It's delicious. It's basically eggs in tomato-based sauce with a ton of other spices and god it's so good I could just die. My favorite season... probably Thanksgiving. I know turkey gets pretty boring at times, but the cranberry sauce that my friends make is so good it's criminal. And, yes, I am unfortunately no different from you, but that's our secret, alright? I think I do an okay job of pretending to be normal at work.

Life updates... I had a shoot with a random model two weeks ago and I'm unable to get the way their hand felt on my bicep out of my head. I felt like a teenager all over again when they did. I'm not a teen anymore, and it's been a hot minute since I have been. Is this the curse of working with attractive people as a model? It was my first time seeing them, and the director didn't even refer to them by name, so my assumption is they don't do that many shoots. Maybe I'll be lucky and never see them again? Big day for losers in love (me). I'm kidding. I'm moving too fast. This'll be over in a couple of days. It's not like they're as hot as Ada— but they're pretty damn close. Got any advice for a loser who's just fallen in love at first sight?

Other than that run-in with the model, I got a couple of days off last week which I was supposed to enjoy, only to get absolutely obliterated by okaokra's newest chapter on glhf <3. Why am I an Ada stan who likes angst. Why am I cursed to love the way okra writes? I am not immune to the Ada brainrot or whatever the youth are saying these days. Every time I think of Ada I feel a little more like those twitter artist reaction memes of them biting wood.

The good thing about being only semi-well-known in the industry though is the fact that I can still sneak around at local events as a fan. It's nice that masks are so accessible nowadays. I'll be stopping by at the Ada-themed cupsleeve event in Raccoon in a couple of days, so I'll probably mail you a little something from that. So, if my letter finds you late, my apologies.

Oh, right, since we're on that topic. Merry Christmas, and happy new year.

See you around? Christmas

The cupsleeve event is relatively easy to sneak into for Leon. He puts on old glasses from college and a jacket that makes him look a lot younger than he really is, and he orders an Ada drink, grinning at the table on the side when he spots a familiar face.

"You're an Ada fan?"

You blink up at him, visibly surprised, and he takes a step back.

"Sorry, I thought you looked familiar—"

"No! I'm the same person. Yeah, I'm a big Ada fan. I'm running the event this time, actually. I model for spare money to host events like this." You scratch your cheek. "Wanna enter the lottery?"

"And what would I get?"

"A limited edition, signed, Ada photocard."

"What is this, Kpop? ��take my ten." He hands you a bill nearly immediately, and the two girls at the table with you jump in their skin.

"Wow, you're down horrendous, huh?" You hand the ten to the girls, patting his shoulder. "How should I get the stuff to you? You have to leave a social or something."

"Mm..." He clicks in his twitter handle, and you blink slowly.

"Can I bid for it?"

"That was not the plan, but I mean—"

"You'd have to out-bid them." One of the girls get up to put their hands on your shoulders, and you scratch your cheek.

"How much did you pay for it?"

"The base price is two hundred dollars." You grin.

"Mm... and if I give you three hundred?"

"It's signed, so no."

"Shame." Leon clicks his tongue. "I would've paid good money for that photocard."

Leon turns his head at the sound of the door opening, eyes widening as Ada herself steps through the doors to her cupsleeve event. The people in the coffee shop yell as she does, too many people crowding around her to beg for a signed autograph on their cupsleeve.

"Guys, give her a little space." You call from the table.

The people ignore you, and you scoff.

"Do you need—" Leon's cut off by your actions instead.

You grab the megaphone on the table and nod at the workers, most of them covering their ears as you yell.

"CAN YOU GUYS GIVE HER SOME SPACE, PLEASE?"

The megaphone renders everyone quiet, and Ada laughs.

"I'll sign one by one at the table. Please let me sit first. I just finished a shoot." She waves thank you to everyone as she takes your seat, and you ask her if she needs anything to drink. Leon finds that it's almost as if you planned it, and as Ada meets eyes with him at the table, his heart flips.

She's literally so hot. He's going to pass out.

"Well, since you're here. Do you want a signed cupsleeve too?"

"Yes, please." Leon fumbles as he hands her his cup, looking for a pen, and Ada hums.

"It's good. I brought a sharpie."

"Can you sign my arm— wait, that would violate my contract." Leon purses his lips.

"Do you model?" She asks almost naturally, signature smooth on his plastic cup as she hands it back to him.

"I started just a little ago."

"Any major goals?"

Leon steps to the side to let the other fans get something signed. "I'd like to have a shoot with you one day."

"I look forward to seeing you at a shoot one day, then." She hums. "Who knows? Maybe we'll meet at a runway too. What's your name?"

"Leon. Leon Scott Kennedy."

Leon's heart flips into this throat, and his cheeks turn red.

God, he's going to pass out.

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[wolfish-trickster]

Unknown, Uni, Us

University AU

Choso x female!reader

2/?

Word count: 2.5K

Summary: after entering university and taking down your rose tinted glasses you saw how ugly your highschool friends' personalities really were. You even start to think you'll spend the rest of your university life all alone. Little did you know you caught the eye of a quiet goth guy with a reputation. Will your heart be ever able to trust someone, anyone, again?

Warnings: typos, angst, fluff, slowburn, slow beginings, slightly ooc

Taglist: no one

To your disapointment (and few protests) Stella pulled both you and Choso to the very back of the room where she usually sat with her new friends alomg with other slackers who didn't even bring any notebooks. And since the biochemistry teacher has his age and would most likely combust if he used any muscle of his body a little too much you couldn't hear shit. Not to mention your dear friend giggling and gossiping the entire time. Did she never learn how to whisper?

Even Choso, who you found out is quite responsible, has given up halfway through the class and whispered to you that he can't afford losing this class and went to sit closer to the front to hear better.

"Your new friend is a tad rude," Stella remarked after the class ended.

'Look who's talking,' was itching to fly out of your mouth but you kept it firmly shut. Only this year and then you can let her go. Only the freshmen year and then you can be free.

Luckily you didn't have any more classes for the day. Stella had some labs so she couldn't follow you around and test your patience even more. Or better yet pull you to join her newfound group and forcefully socialize you.

The day was just begining tho. As much as your conscience was telling you to hurry home and study, you on the other hand wanted to regain some inner peace. In other words, you didn't take the tram like usually. Instead you took a walk by the river. You've only ever seen it from the tram window, from up close it looked a little more..... polluted. So much for a romantic walk by the river.

Anyways, you still walked from the pavement down to the rocky shore. Your mind wandered to the early days, the easier days. The days when it took forever for monday to turn into friday and early bedtime was a punishment. Nowadays the weeks fly by so fast it's almost unbelievable and full eight hours of quality sleep is a rare blessing. Even studying used to be easier back then. All it took for you was to read it once or twice but now? Today even with you studying every single day, trying out milion different study methods from various sites, you still feel like you're falling behind.

Just like when you were a child you searched for the most perfect flat rock. Just like back then after finding it you almost didn't want to throw it away since it was the most perfect flat pebble in your eyes and it would be a shame. And just like in the past you made it hop on water with all your might. Nine jumps. Not bad.

Your inner child woke up a bit. The world around you didn't seem so bad anymore. So what that you still have assignments to finish and lab reports to send. This moment is only for taking a break. Breathing in the chill air. Listening to the water hitting the shore. Hearing footsteps in the background. Aproaching. Wha-?

You snapped your eyes open and quickly run behind the nearest bush. A group ran down to the shore. They were all young, boys and girls seemingly in your age, but none of their faces were familiar to you. So they weren't from your school then.

You were wrong.

One tall guy with a hood on turned his face to your hiding spot and you saw a familiar tattoed line across his nose and jet black spiky hair now tied up into two messy space buns crushed under the fabric of his hood. And, was he smiling?

Granted, you've known Choso personaly for only few hours but you don't think you've ever seen him smile at school. Or be surrounded by people. Lo and behold, now he was smiling from ear to ear, cold air painting his cheeks slightly red. With his arms around another guy's shoulders. The same guy slapping his arm away and showing him his tongue like a child. You giggled. Having friends like this. To go to the lake with you and goof of after school. You never had that. You always wanted to have that. Why was life unfair?

With your happy mood gone you were slowly leaving, if it wasn't for Choso's friend pulling down his jacket. And sweater. And pants. What in the-?

In few seconds all 3 guys of the group stripped from their winter clothing, except for their underwear thank god, and raced to the cold river waters. Choso was the slowest one, which gave you the perfect amount of time to gawk at him. Respectfully of course.

You've always known him to wear layers and layers of clothing. One would assume he would be thin as a twig if stripped. But Choso was ripped. He didn't even need to flex his muscles to show off his six pack. You were more than certain those tattoed pectorals could fit into one of your bras, you might even be jealous a little. And his arms... you only got a glimpse of his black nails and metal rings at most this morning but now? Those biceps must be as big as your face, or bigger! Or maybe it was just the optical illusion caused by another tattoo snaking its way up from his forearm along the bicep and ending somewhere on his back. How many of those does he have anyways? 'The perfect amount' your inner slut whispered and you quickly shushed her.

This was no time for thoughts like this. You barely knew the guy and he barely knew you. And don't forget about the rumor going on about him. True, when you spoke to him he seemed like decent enough guy, but no leaf moves without a wind. There has to be some truth to those rumors.

You must've spent too much time in your own head to notice real life around you, because the three girls accompanying the guys walked up to your hiding spot.

Oh crap.

"Hello little stalker," the one with the shortest hair among them greeted you.

You forgot how to speak. How in the world are you ever going to explain this to them? 'Sorry for checking out and thirsting after your most likely boyfriends, especially the extremely hot goth one who I accidentally befriended this morning and have felt his gentle touch on my back ever since the start of a biochemistry class.' Yeah right.

"I wasn't stalking, I was just-" yup, nothing reasonable coming to mind. "I was just leaving, sorry," you said as you straightened up from behind the bush and turned to leave.

The girls muttered behind you 'huh, what a weird girl' and other stuff you've already heard plenty of times.

"Hey, Y/N?" you heard behind your back. It was Choso yelling out to you from the freezing water.

You turned around and got a closer look at him. His hair was now wet and slicked back. "So it is you. What are you doing here?"

Everyone from the group looked between you and him with surprise and confusion all over their faces. None of them apparently expected Choso to know the river stalker, as they most likely call you now in their heads.

"I was just taking a walk after school," you yelled back, "and you?" escaped your mouth before you could stop and you immediately cringed. How many times did you say 'thanks you too' in restaurants when they told you bon apetit and yet you still didn't learn from that.

"We are knitting a sweater!" yelled out an excited guy with pink hair and an undercut. The same guy Choso hugged earlier.

"Yeah, real fashionable," one of the girls rolled her eyes.

"You know eachother?" asked another girl, the one that greeted you earlier.

You nodded. In the background Choso climbed out of the river and you got another glimpse of him in just his underwear. Heat rushed into your face and you quickly looked away.

"Yeah," he said as he walked closer with a towel over his shoulders, "we just met this morning."

You nodded again and kept avoiding his gaze.

"Aaaaw, that's so sweet Choco. I told you you'll find a friend! Basically at the end of the semester but still! Better late than never!" one of the girls cooed.

"Nobara please stop calling me that," Choso rolled his eyes.

Nobara shook her head. "Nuh uh."

Choso sighed. "By the way, did you manage to take any notes during that class? You could've stood up and sit closer to the front with me, you know."

Your heart sped up. Why tho? He only asked if you heard enough to make notes. It's not like he asked you to go sit somewhere private with him. Stop thinking everything's about you!

You gulped down all the self hating thoughts. "Yeah, i shushed Stella sometimes when the professor talked about something i never heard of but otherwise i didn't need to write down anything."

"You mean you remember everything the old guy was saying?"

"Not quite. I already studied this subject in highschool so very few things were new to me. Probably the reason why Stella wasn't paying attention either. We went to the same highschool," you explained.

"That must've been some pretty fancy highschool you went to," another girl praised, "I took a look at Choso's biochemistry notes and even I had trouble understanding."

Meanwhile the rest of the guys went out the river and were warming up on the shore.

"Kinda sad for a medical sophomore," a white haired guy commented.

"Didn't she get in by cheating?" asked the pink haired guy? "Geto said he never saw her study for the entrance exams."

"Hearsay," the medical sophomore said and fished out a cigarette from her pocket.

You observed their group a little more closely this time. Three guys if you don't count Choso. And three girls. You already got the name Nobara. The rest is a mystery.

"It's not that difficult, just memorizing mostly," you tried to downplay the medical girl's praise.

Choso groaned. "Well that's just perfect. I'll never pass it," he crossed his arms.

A white haired guy who already got dressed and, for some reason, put on extremely dark sunglasses smirked. He walked up to you. "Hey sweetie, Y/N right? Can I humbly ask for tutoring our dear Choso over here? Look at him," he poked his dark eyebags ro which Chosos tried to slap his hand away with annoyance, "one more sleepless night of studying and the poor guy will combust!"

Another guy with longer black hair in half up bun joined in. "That's true. Who will then take care of poor Yuji and Sukuna?"

"Fuck that bastard," white haired guy deadpaned.

"G-gojo," the pink haired gasped.

"Not you, not you!" The white haired panicked. "I meant your dear twin! You're a pure angel!"

"*cough* lies *cough*," Nobara said with a fake cough.

You chuckled at shenanigans unfolding infront of you. They must be a pretty closed knit group to tease eachother like this.

"So what do you say? Help our buddy out?" Asked the one apparently named Gojo and made a pretty poor attempt at puppy eyes behind his shades.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," said Choso as you were about to give your answer.

You wanted to say yes. Studying in groups have helped you a lot in the past, even though only one person was ever kind enough to study with you. That excitement that was bubbling inside of you after Gojo mentioned studying with Choso was quickly dying down because of Choso's comment. Why would he say that? You thought you got along well, even more he was desperate to pass. And coming from the medical girl he didn't have any friends in university other than you to help him. The fact that he was saying 'you don't have to' was basically him gently telling you he doesn't want to study with you. That he'd rather fail than spend more time with you. Where did you go wrong again? You thought it was starting out well, wasn't it?

After few seconds of more overthinking you politely smiled. "I'll have to think about it. Besides biochemistry we have lots of other classes I'll need to study for. I'm sorry."

"I can help you with those," Choso said and confused you even more.

Didn't he just basically softly reject you few seconds ago? And now he's basically suggesting you two to study anyways? Helping eachother out? Together? Huh?

"Oh, well, uhm," you stuttered and half up bun guy leaned in to whisper into Choso's ear. "I think you broke the poor girl."

"No," you defended yourself and hoped they wouldn't notice your burning face. "Just caught me off guard. No one has ever suggested helping me study before. It was always me doing the helping...." you looked away sadly and tried real hard not to let some deeply hidden memories floating to the surface.

Medical girl finished smoking her cigarette. "It's settled then. You can study at my appartment when both of you got time, since it's closer to your school. I'll stay at Torahime's over the next week anyways. At least someone will take care of my plants."

"That won't be-"

"But!" Medical girl interrupted Choso's complaint. "Wrap it Cho. I don't want to study embryology in 3D," she winked at him.

Choso's whole face turned pink. "Nothing like that will happen!" He defended himself pretty agressively. More than you expected to be honest.

"Yeah. What he said!" You defended your honor just like he did, poorly but still.

Only then did Choso start shivering. He was the last one with just a towel on. "I guess i better go dress."

"Yeah, i should go too. I still need to write some lab reports," you chuckled as you felt all your responsibilities start crushing your shoulders again.

"Alright. Good luck with that. See you tomorrow!" He waved his goodbye just like the rest of his group.

As you were waiting for your tram your mind kept repeating all the events from today. A cute goth guy with tons of mystery befriending you. Sitting next to you in class. Seeing him without his clothes. Meeting his (most likely) only friends. Him maybe wanting to study with you, even though your overthinking sometimes suggests otherwise. Possibly gaining a new friend.

And who could've ever though that all this could come from just one missed email?

[sjywrites]

༊*·˚ Happy Last Year

𝓜ale!𝓨uor 𝓕av! x 𝓕em!reader. 𝓖enre pure angst. 𝓢ypnosis it's new years eve, he should be celebrating with you, but you're not there. 𝓦𝓒 524. 𝓒𝓦 major character death, mentions of suicide.

𝓝ote uhm, I don't like reading angst but apparently I like writing it? I don't know how that works but anyways I had this idea and this is what came out of it!

This is purely fiction!

,, not proofread + english is not my first language ! ೃ⁀➷

Her pillow still smelled like her perfume, her facewash and the lavender shampoo she always used was still placed on the counter in the bathroom. The pictures still hung on the walls, which somehow looked grayer nowadays. The blankets were still placed where she had last left them. So much of her was still here, but ultimately, so little. The house is quieter than it used to be, it’s colder too. It’s weird sitting by the empty dinner table, without hearing her talk about her day or hearing her sweet laugh. It’s weird going to bed these days, a cold, empty spot beside him, where you used to lie. Always cuddled up by his side, afraid of what would happen if you let go.

Most days he wakes up from the same recurring nightmares he experiences, looking for you, but you’re not there anymore. You’re gone, and you’ll always be gone. And to tell you the truth, you’re the reason he has those nightmares, you’re the reason his coworkers are worried about him. And you were the reason he was alive. You had saved him when he was at his lowest, and now, when you were at your lowest, he couldn't save you.

His biggest regret in life was not loving you enough, not cherishing those sweet moments enough. Every day that passed since you left, left a new crack in his heart. He wished he felt all those feelings instead of you, he wished he was the one who cried himself to sleep every night instead of you, he wished he could take your place so you could live your best life, do the things you enjoyed. But sadly that’s not the case, and he could do nothing about it. You were the one that had to go through all that, you were the one who got so drained of your life that you felt there was no reason left for you to stay alive. Every day he feels mad that this life could do you so dirty, and so, so mad at the people in your life who acted like they did.

And part of him feels selfish for what he's about to do, how he’s going to leave everything behind just to be with you, but in his mind that’s the only option. How can he live without you? You were the light of his life, and with that light gone. He feels no purpose anymore. So that’s why he’s writing those letters, that’s why he called his mom earlier to tell her he loves her, and that's why he told his best friend all those sweet words they deserved to hear, because some people deserve to live. Just like you did.

The world got darker when you left, now he's stepping up on that chair, heart cold and empty. He's shaking slightly when he’s grabbing the rope. The sound of fireworks sounds loudly in the background, even so, it all feels so quiet, so empty. His last thought is of you, and has always been of you. That's why he's doing this. To find his light again. To find you.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A/N uhm so I did that lmk if you like it or if I should stop writing angst lol. Also likes and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

[sockslikeautumn]

Julian Peyton

Yandere golden boy beginning

Male original character x gender-neutral reader

SFW, 2.0k+ words, angst, addiction, trauma, reader, and OC are 18+!

Summary: Did you not wish for his suicide to happen due to wanting to offer proper help or because you didn't want to die selfishly?

Trigger warnings: Dead dove, do not eat for all warnings!

Suicide, suicidal thoughts, mentions of self-harm, depression, mentions of bullying, loneliness, academic pressure, guilt, implied addiction, implied turning yandere/obsessed, manipulation, victim blaming, trauma, abuse, implied childhood abuse, childhood trauma, child abandonment, child negligence, drug addiction, drug dealing, alcohol addiction, cigarettes addiction.

The reader has suicidal thoughts and trauma regarding some of these tags. If any of them trigger you, don't read!

As much as it seems, this isn't a self insert from me, Y/N is their own original character.

For any confusion, this is before he went yandere, became a golden boy, and why.

You are entirely responsible for what you consume.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

If you're conscious enough to live, at least at some point in your life you have thought of how quick and easy it would be to bring about your demise.

Grab a knife, cut the neck in half, or take a step off at the edge of a building. Simple and efficient. It's not as painless as some would wish, but it's the most reliable for someone in dire need.

When you have problems you aren't aware of how to solve, suicide just seems like the solution at the moment. Why keep going through the pain when you can just make everything stop and end in black there?

Julian was never one to think of committing suicide. It had crossed his mind before whenever hearing about a self-death headline but never to be the one at the edge of death.

His life was a simple chess game with the Devil to put it generously. He couldn't remember the names of his birth parents, only of the new son they had, he couldn't remember the last time his grandad taught him something but could decipher what drug he was using by the way he acted. It was never too obscure behavior and just made his grandad, Mason, spill honest secrets and opinions. Regardless, it hurt his heart to hear what a failure he was to him.

There never was a time of growing up to him. He was born, abandoned, and then perfected to act depressed for the rest of his life as it should be.

To cope with the loneliness, Julian found comfort in cigarettes. The smell of nicotine brought him back to a time when his grandad was still functioning and meaning someone to him. Someone special, someone valuable, and someone irreplaceable. Despite that, he should've learned from his mistakes that once you aren't meaningful to someone anymore, you become dispensable.

At the age of twelve, he couldn't remember what grades he had in school but could instead remember the various names of alcohol brands his granddad had. They were stored on the top shelf of the pantry and some were in the fridge, all decorated in rainbow colors. Back then, they looked magnificent since Mason always forbade him from touching them. Nowadays they stay piled on the floor of his grandad's bedroom, some empty and some bottles broken never to be cleaned.

Drugs were never an unfamiliar aspect of his life. The minute his grandad was gone, off to drink at a bar, he'd sneak into the basement where they were and gather whatever he could to sell. Julian never found out how his grandad had those, just that they appeared on Monday and were all used by Thursday. Mason was reckless if what he was doing was illegal, as long as the cops or Julian didn't rat him out, he'd be content letting his mind dwell on drugs.

It was no wonder why someone like Julian, who was socially awkward and unpleasant to look at, was bullied all his life in school. People either forgot he existed or made sure Julian knew others would forget if he stopped existing. Any time he made an effort to find new friends, they'd look at him in disgust upon smelling his dark cigarette clothes. There was no direct proof but everyone knew of Julian's addiction to cigars and that he probably used drugs on himself too. His blonde hair was always greasy paired with nerdy glasses that only highlighted his purple eye bags to others. Everyone knew he was a failure and that his life would end in failure no matter what.

You saw yourself as no different than Julian. He was a classmate of yours in school, sharing only a couple of classes. You never spoke with each other and never looked at one another. You doubted he cared anything about you but oddly enough... you seemed to care about him. There was just something pulling you to him, some undeniable force that made you feel emotionally connected to him. Maybe it was the pity, the empathy you felt for him, or... the way you thought he was similar to you.

You were someone who grew up in a rather loving family, unlike Julian. You had three young caring step-sisters, a father you never met, and a mother and stepfather. Although your parents' love was sometimes not present, your childhood wasn't the worst or the best. Your earliest memory was when your first adoring sister was born, when you had to take care of her and the same goes for the rest.

Your parents never were really involved in your life. They had to work plenty of hours to take care of your family tree and you had to take care of your sisters in exchange, watch them evolve, and be their guiding light. You never felt like an older sister, more like a parent who guarded them 24/7.

To make your parents notice you for once, your academics stood second in your biggest priorities. Night and day, day and night spent at your desk, unexpectedly was your friend group of friends small and so was your social life. Painful eye bags staining your face and skin pale as a zombie, people worried if you were dead or alive. The only reassurance you had for continuing was a promise for a better present time than your past in a completely new setting.

Despite always teaching your younger siblings to never bottle their emotions, it was only advice you hoped you could follow yourself. They were too young to understand your problems, the pressure, the loneliness, everything. Your parents weren't the ones you could freely open up to without feeling like a burden to their already busy lives. Your couple of friends looked up to you for advice and without anyone to usher you, who was there to tell you suicide wasn't the choice?

You never earlier put your head on suicide and always reassured your peers never to do it. It wasn't the right decision, there were plenty of other ways to go about it, you'd always say. But with always being the one to comfort, to collect their tears that soon poured into yours, you never thought you needed to feel comforted.

Many indifferent moons passed by your window at your desk, contemplating and crying in fear of losing your place in academics. Once you mustered up the courage to find the time and speak to your parents about your fate, they barely took a glance at your words. You put your heart into explaining what you wanted for your future, why you fought so hard, and that you wanted to make this family proud. Nor did they consider it, your mother took her time to carefully choose where to stab you next, calling you an ungrateful brat for not even thinking about your younger sisters.

That night, the cap broke off the bottle and your tears stained your face for hours. Their words clouded you, their words were becoming a reality to you. It felt childish to cry over nothing, it was childish no matter how you put it. How dare you even cry after acting so selfishly?

When the sun came, it settled in you how much you wanted to break your own rules and punish yourself. If you weren't to have a good destiny, what difference would ending it now have? All you've ever wanted was to be certain you'd have brightness along your path of life, to not end up marrying off to a rich man like your mother had to. All you've ever wanted was gratitude for your achievements from people who should've been giving it to you for free.

Those thoughts stayed long in your mind and long enough to realize how your mother was right. How selfish would you be to dedicate yourself to ending it now of all times? Who would take care of your family? Who else would provide for your own blood?

You were no one to decide on what and when your death would be. To be one would mean your soul would succumb to sinfulness and stay like that by all who knew of your existence.

Being a mother figure all of your life, you immediately knew what was happening with Julian. Over the years, he grew pathetic in trying to go against his bullies' self-harming suggestions. There were no tears smudging his dorky glasses anymore, no guilt on his face, anger, he just looked emotionless and numb. He, to put it simply, took the pain and walked away without trying to heal.

The day you finally decided to befriend him, the day his tormentors came to convince him, was the same day he wanted to make ends meet.

During lunch, you searched for him at his usual spot in school, on the rooftop. The whisper-like wind hugged your body carefully and to no avail, he wasn't staring at absolutely nothing on the bench, his bench you came to view it as. So many times he was caught bawling there he practically claimed it as his own.

Upon spotting his thin form at the edge of the rooftop in front of the railing, looking down at the ground and contemplating his life's choices, your heart felt devastated. To anyone it would be obvious what was going to happen, to you, it was clear who had to prevent it.

You couldn't let this happen to him, he never deserved anything in his life and if there was no one else to help him, it would be you. Either you put an end to his problems or put an end to the selfish life you wouldn't live for too long after.

His name echoed in his ears when you yelled out to him, was it his imagination? He turned his body around, his watery eyes landing on your blurry figure, and for the first time, he felt something other than nothing in his life.

“Listen, I've come here to help you, okay?” Your voice was soft as sunlight behind stormy clouds. Nevertheless, even with the reassurance, looking over your nervous body, he still felt out of place. Like an animal caged behind a railing as you cautiously stepped near him.

It took you slow breaths to at last muster up your words. “I know life may seem tough for you now but..” There was a smile on your face, it was forced and comforting at the same time. “We can both get through this, alright? We can both help one another in passing through this pain.” You were closer to him now, he could tell by seeing the sun reflect your skin golden. You were glowing and through his tears, he couldn't tell if you were an angel or not. “But I can't help you if you end it all now, I can't help you if you can't help yourself in what you truly want.” Julian eyed the ground under him again, a teardrop falling from his eye and landing beneath him.

It took several moments for his quiet sobs and sniffling to be heard by you. “W-why are you doing this?” Scratchy as it was, it felt good to finally hear his voice.

“Because I know what you're going through, I know how hard life has been for you and I want to make it better for you.” Julian's brown eyes couldn't help but wonder where you were standing, your delicate hand put out for him to grab. He felt every worry in his life disappear and could only focus on nothing but you. “Please, Julian, let me help you.”

Medusa's beauty referred to snakes acting as something they were not, would her touch also feel like scales belonging to filthy deceivers? Your hand looked preciously dainty and skinned with thin glass, a couple of visible cuts on the wrists. Your eyes captivated him, desperation or precise manipulation in them. Your aura, your soul, your everything had him infatuated in a matter of seconds.

As much of an alluring snake you seemed, he's learned his way around them and he was going to make sure you would be the last he's ever met. It would be the last time he'd ever wailed for someone and missed them to death.

Julian would certify he has collected every last remaining lie in your shedding skin, morphing it into whatever he wanted to believe, before ensuring you never leave him. Never leave, never abandon, never disappear from his life, and never not be fully dependent on anything except him.

Masterlist for Julian

For any confusion, this is before he went yandere, became a golden boy, and why.

I'm open to all constructive criticism, not bullying!

[yanderes-galore]

We need a Sans from Dusttale yandere alphabet, please!

Sure! Here's more angst content, lol :) This was written on PC, I am sorry for any formatting errors. Due to plot, character, and how Alphabets work... I suggest reading the concept I did for him for a more in depth idea, lol (Sorry, Alphabets are getting repetitive to me so I'm just trying to get some old ones done.)

Original Concept Here

Yandere Alphabet - Murder Sans

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Delusional behavior, Forced affection, Stalking, Manipulation, Murder/Mercy killing, Death cycle, Angst, Mind break (Sans), Kidnapping mentioned, Trauma, Dark themes, Dubious/Forced companionship/relationship.

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Compared to usual Sans, this Sans grows to be more twisted with affection. For this Alphabet I'll do my favorite way to write Murder! Sans. He used to be just as affectionate as regular Sans, but due to the new Genocide loop... his affection is more deranged. He comes off more forceful and delusional with you in this AU. As a result, he's more intense. He hunts you down like a wild animal, treating you like you're his close buddy/lover... Only to kill you, apologizing for the action and promising he'll make things all better in the end.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Messy. This is a Genocide timeline, after all. Sans has learned to adapt and is often volatile. This includes when he's around his obsession.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Unfortunately, kidnapping doesn't come across Sans' mind in this AU. He's so focused on gaining levels and is so tormented at seeing his obsession die to The Human that he'd end up killing them instead. He's tried kidnapping in at least one timeline, though. He's tried to protect you, even if you hated him, but it always ends the same.

He wouldn't mock you, in fact when he thought the idea could work he wanted to protect and care for you... but now it just seems like a pointless idea.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

At first he doesn't want to, but eventually he learns he may have to if he wants his happy ending with you and those he loves.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Sans used to express his love for you openly, he used to be very loving like Classic Sans. However, when he was forced to watch you suffer... he couldn't bring himself to be so open and happy with you anymore. Nowadays he comes off as cold and crazy.

Always chasing an ending he may never reach.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

He expects it, part of him feels upset... part of him feels joy... but in the end he wants things over with quickly.

He promises he'll make your death quick, he'll do this as many times as he needs to, he'll get you both a happy ending eventually.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

No and he hates it... but he can't blame you.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

You never remember it, but it's no doubt the betrayal of Sans killing you... perhaps it's a blessing that you don't remember it... but it's a curse to Sans...

He's the one who has to kill you over and over and remember it, every RESET.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Eventually he wants to have a happy ending in a "Pacifist-like" timeline. He wants to spend that timeline with you... no longer dealing with the human... just you and him once again.

He hopes you'll forgive him for his sins... it hurts him to think of your countless deaths.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

This issue with this Sans is he doesn't have time to feel jealous. Perhaps at one point he'd playfully get jealous with you, seeming moody but eventually making up. Now? If he ever got jealous he could probably just kill them anyways.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Obsessive, Observing, Sadistic, Delusional, Manipulative, Volatile, and a little Caring... but such a trait has changed throughout the routes.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Originally, Sans would've probably had a healthy relationship with you in the past. Be that as friends in some routes, or lovers in others, you two originally got along fine.

However, when the Genocide Routes started, he kept getting worse. These routes sparked paranoia, delusion, and an overwhelming need to protect you. However, such feelings only got worse throughout the routes.

His obsession hits its peak when he realizes the only way to save his obsession is to kill them to be strong enough to defeat the human.

But... who knows if he'll even be successful in that?

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Eventually, no.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Originally he stuck with isolation, restraints, caging you in bones... but soon punishment is the least of his worries.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Originally, none. But now you could argue that he'd take nearly all.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

I'd say he is patient to an extent. He originally was very understanding and patient... yet now he's a much different monster than he was before.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

He's seen it hundreds of times at this point, at some point he feels a bit numb... but deep down it still hurts and he wants to move on so bad.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

When he still attempted it, yes, he felt guilty but knew he couldn't let you go.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

The trauma of the Genocide Loop.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Part of him still feels horrible about it, but he tells himself it's "just one more time" and continues his actions. He loves you... but it must be done.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

SKIPPED

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Unless you also want to attempt a Genocide Route or kill The Human... there isn't one I can think of.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Unfortunately, yes. Even if he hates it.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Not a worship yandere. But... he clearly really wants to give you both a happy ending, even at the cost of your own demise.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

He doesn't really pine.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

Honestly, he's more broken than you but he'd break his darling in both ways.