#under changeover

[artdcnaldson]

Tie Break || Art Donaldson x Reader ; Patrick Zweig x Reader

this can be read as a sequel to changeover or as a standalone :) enjoy <3

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v smut x2, f!recieving oral, handjob, creampie, cum eating), angst with a happy ending, infidelity, toxic relationships, everyone in this is kind of a horrible person, language obviously

Summary: It’s summer in Atlanta, 2011. For the second time in your life, you’re the clear second choice. When the opportunity arises, you find a temporary distraction in Art Donaldson.

A/N: FINALLY here it is! The 2011 Atlanta fic. They’re back, they’re older, they’re even more toxic. Let me know if you’re interested in a part 3!

It was hot, even though the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon. It was a cloying, oppressive heat that made the stupid, business-casual top you wore stick to your skin. 

The article you were working on was halfway written, something you could knock out in the next hour if you really tried. Your drink was watered down from the heat, weak when it hit your tongue. A frown turned your lips, but you really shouldn’t have been drinking anyway.

"Working late?”

The voice was so familiar that you could’ve recognized it anywhere, any time. Art Donaldson was one of the most recognizable men in the country, but to you, he seemed so different. The boyishness was still there, but it lay beneath a new level of confidence.

You took a sip of your drink, trying to appear nonchalant, like it hadn’t been four years since you last spoke. “I’m on deadline. I’m writing a feature on Anna Mueller heading into the US Open next month.”

Without asking, he sat down across from you at the small bistro table. He was so close you could smell the minty gum he had been chewing. It nearly made you smile. Old habits die hard.

“So you write about tennis?” He asked, meeting your gaze. 

“I write about athletes,” you corrected. “I was going to be here anyway, and since Anna is heading for a Grand Slam, I thought it would be easy enough. Grab a couple of interviews, watch a few matches.”

He nodded, leaning back in the chair, trying his best to be causal in a situation that definitely wasn’t. You sipped again at your drink, peering at him over the edge of the glass. 

“You have a match tomorrow,” you said, as though he needed reminding. “Shouldn’t you be listening to shitty pop punk to get yourself psyched right now?”

A smile spread across his lips, and he looked so much like the guy you knew from college that it made your chest tug uncomfortably. Same hair, the same smile, the same crinkle at the edges of his eyes when he was amused by something. You couldn’t help but smile along with him, like the past four years were nothing. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said with a laugh. “Do you want another drink?”

You looked down at your glass, mostly water and thin ice cubes. “Rum and coke?” You asked, giving him a tiny smile. He nodded and disappeared towards the bar.

It felt strange, sitting there in the quiet, your article the furthest thing from your mind. Four years. It felt like yesterday and an eternity ago that you’d last spoken with him. He was a familiar stranger, nearly unknowable. 

Your cursor blinked a few more times before you shut your laptop and slid it back inside your beat-up work bag. 

“Running off?” He asked, catching you in the act of packing your things. You shook your head and accepted the fresh drink with a smile. “You said you were going to be in Atlanta anyway,” he said as he sat, spreading out, making himself comfortable in the shitty bar seating. “When you were talking about writing about Anna.”

You nodded. “Mhmm, I did,” you replied, chewing the inside of your lip nervously. His gaze was intense, falling just on the other side of casual. You felt tiny under that gaze, like you were guilty of a crime you didn’t know you’d committed. 

“And you’re here for Patrick?” The words were nonchalant, but you could hear the accusation beneath them, the history of the two of them just in one sentence. It turned something in your stomach, the possessiveness in his voice. You could hear it, even four years out.

The new drink was strong, but it was the perfect way to hide the distaste in your expression. The burn of liquor into your chest grounded you back in reality instead of the easy allure of nostalgia. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I try my best to go to all of his matches.”

Art narrowed his eyes, just slightly. There was still an element of exaggerated friendliness, the casual smile on his lips, the open body language. All of it masking the lingering resentment and hurt that was buried beneath mountains of nostalgia. Deep enough that neither of you had realized it was still there until you found yourselves face to face. There was an unspoken question, one that he didn’t want to ask, one that you didn’t want to answer. 

How long?

You took another drink. 

“Where is Patrick?” He asked, glancing around like he might materialize out of thin air.

“He went out for a smoke, or to walk around and clear his head, or something,” you said with a shrug. “I’m not his keeper. Where’s Tashi?”

His jaw clenched and he looked away— a sore spot. A scab you wanted to pick at until it bled, dig your nails in. Maybe that was your eighteen-year-old self talking. 

“You never used to let her get too far away from you,” you noted, mirth dripping from each syllable. “Bet you came down here looking for her. Your leash must’ve been just a little too loose this time and she slipped it.”

You took a long drink, nails tapping against the glass as you considered your words. Tashi wasn’t the type of woman who let a man hold her back. If you were trying to be more accurate, rather than just piss him off, you might’ve fixed the analogy. Art was the sad little puppy following her around. She tied his leash to a lamp post for a fucking break.

“Do you remember the day Tashi got injured?” He asked, changing the subject suddenly. 

You blinked slowly, appraising him. But his expression gave nothing away. “I do.”

A wry smile spread across his lips, and he met your gaze with a coldness that you didn’t recognize. Mean in the way injured animals like to snap at the nearest hand. “It was Patrick in your room that night, wasn’t it?”

Your brows furrowed, face falling at his words. “What?”

He made a face, something akin to skepticism, but crueler. It made your stomach turn. 

“You were fucking someone in your room,” he said plainly. “And I’ve always had a suspicion that it was Patrick. Was it?”

That didn’t do much to clear up your confusion. “You were there?”

He laughed, mirthless, and nodded. “I was, uh, sitting by the door like an asshole. I came to apologize, to beg for you back, but instead, I spent the night listening to my girlfriend getting fucked on the other side of the door.”

Annoyance flickered in your gaze. He knew of a wound of your own, and he relished in picking at it the way you’d relished in digging your fingers into his. “I wasn’t your girlfriend, Art.”

“Right, you weren’t. But you’re Patrick’s girlfriend now, is that it?”

Heat burned in your cheeks. Your relationship with Patrick was… tempestuous to say the least. Most of the time he was your boyfriend, but others he was just a friend that you could count on for a good fuck, sometimes not even a friend. At the moment, he was the former, but that could always change.

It wasn’t easy, being with someone whose emotions ran on an equally short fuse. You’d sound too much like his parents, or he’d devalue your work, or Patrick would forget to take out the trash in your apartment and you’d snap, or you’d mispronounce a word one too many times and it would drive him crazy. Insignificant things could feel big with him, because of him. For better or worse. 

“At the moment, yes.”

“At the moment.” He echoed, laughing like he was in on some joke you were painfully unaware of.

”That’s amusing to you?” You asked, raising a brow. 

He shrugged, picking at his jeans. “Your choice of words is interesting.” He lets that hang in the air before he meets your gaze again. “Do you think Patrick would’ve even noticed you if it hadn’t been for me?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Does it matter?” You asked. “You realize that we’ve been together going on four years now, right? Broken up, dating, fucking, whatever. You realize that there may be more important things in our life than you?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think you know that whatever you have, it’s built on the fact that you were a warm body when he needed it. Just like you were for me.”

That arrogant expression, like he actually fucking knew anything about you anymore was the last straw. You stood suddenly, grabbing your bag. You weren’t Art Donaldson’s little lapdog anymore— you didn’t have to sit there and take all the shit he doled out. 

“Goodnight, Art. Thanks for the drink.”

It was funny, how your weaknesses were still so exposed. Art’s was Tashi, and it probably always would be. His desire to be seen, to impress, painted upon every lovely feature. And yours, raw and bleeding and obvious— the unbearable, visceral need to be wanted.

You made it to the elevator before you felt his presence behind you. Wordless, but so close it was suffocating. You jabbed the up button over and over in frustration, knowing it wouldn’t speed anything up. 

Art stepped into the elevator with you, so close you could feel the body heat radiating off of him. He always burned hot, like a human furnace. 

It was silent as the lift lurched upwards. You pressed against the back corner, watching the number of the floor increase one by one. 

“Patrick is with Tashi,” Art said without looking at you, just as the elevator opened on the floor of your room. You froze, swallowing hard. “I saw them in the hotel bar, then they left together. What do you think they’re doing right now?”

You shook your head dumbly, pulse thrumming in your throat. “Go fuck yourself, Art,” you said weakly, because what else was there to say? You stepped into the hallway— lit with dim yellow light so you couldn’t see where the wallpaper peeled and the carpet was stained.

“If you need somewhere to wait them out, and you will, I’m in room 13 on the seventh floor.” The elevator doors closed, and you were alone. 

The hallway was winding, and you felt a bad sort of anticipation of what you might find, like a sick feeling in your gut. You stood in front of the room, 306, and froze.

The door to your room was closed, no light shone from beneath the door, but you could hear them. Muffled, but clear enough. A pretty voice and breathy moans. Patrick’s laugh, the thud of something falling off the dresser.

Your room key was in your purse— you could’ve gotten it out and stopped it, but what good would that have done? You’d still spend the night humiliated, facing opposite walls as Patrick, lying in the same sheets he’d just fucked her in. 

You dropped the bag by the door and took a slow, shaky breath to calm yourself down. 

Tashi Duncan. She had lingered on the edges of your relationship with Patrick too. She was Patrick’s first choice, just as she’d been Art’s. You’d never blamed them for that, you knew where you stood, and you chose them anyway. 

It was easy to choose them when you thought that the threat was nonexistent— when distance made you feel safe. You could hear her and him, but it felt like mere static in your brain.

You knew how Art felt, back at Stanford. Sulking outside the door, unable and unwilling to stop what was happening on the other side. 

You were in the elevator before you realized you’d walked away. Shitty soft rock played over the speakers, and a poster on the wall advertised a continental breakfast. Your stomach turned uncomfortably. 

You knocked on the door— room thirteen, an unlucky number. Maybe it didn’t bode well. As you waited for the door to open, your nails tapped a staccato rhythm against your thigh.

Art opened the door like he’d been expecting someone else. Maybe he had half-expected you to interrupt and send Tashi back upstairs, but no. He got you standing at his door with fiery eyes and an expectant expression. 

Second choice, second choice, second choice.

Art kissed you for the first time in four years, and you let him. Not because you wanted to hurt Patrick or Tashi, but because you knew it would hurt you. His tongue pressed between the seam of your lips like he belonged there, licking into your mouth like he wanted to reclaim every part of you that Patrick had touched. You pushed him with a firm hand on his chest and he stumbled backward into the room. Despite everything, he smiled. 

His hotel room was nearly identical to yours and Patrick’s. But you didn’t have time to really take in the details when he had his tongue in your mouth, kissing you hungrily.

That afternoon, you kissed Patrick after he lost his match. You wondered if Art could still taste him on your tongue then, if he wanted to drown out the taste of him. 

It was different than you were used to. Four years with Patrick meant that you’d grown accustomed to certain ways that he did things— the intensity behind each kiss, each touch. His emotions— good, bad, in between— were never masked, never repressed. 

When Patrick kissed you, when he touched you, when he fucked you— both of you were laid completely bare. 

Art was different. When he kissed you it was through a certain level of performance, like he’d learned how from a searing romance film. In college, you’d believed that he kissed you like that because deep down, he did love you. Even at that moment, years out from your relationship with him, it muddled your brain.

Your sensible work heels had long since been kicked off by the door. Art’s fingers undid the button and zip of your jeans deftly, with a confidence that had only doubled since Freshman year. They wound up in a heap against the hotel dresser. 

In his haste to remove your (also sensible, and very business casual) button-down, he popped about half of the buttons off completely. 

“Sorry,” he said. The grin on his lips made you wonder if sorry was really how he felt. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Stop talking.” You pulled off your bra and lost it somewhere across the room in your haste. Art was pulling off his clothes— his hoodie and the shirt beneath. His jeans and shoes toed off and left to be dealt with later. 

He kissed you again, guiding you exactly where he needed. Your knees hit the back of the mattress and he eased you down without moving his lips from yours. When your head hit the sheets, you smelled perfume so sweet that it was nearly intoxicating. You turned your head, breathing deeply. Tashi. In this same bed, in this same spot. It made something stir inside you— right in your chest. A hint of wrongness, a hint of hurt. 

Art pulled back, moving his lips along your jaw, down to the junction of your throat. 

“Stop thinking,” he murmured against your skin, kissing down to your tits. “I don’t want you thinking about Patrick. Not when you’re with me.”

The words were mumbled against soft, supple skin. His eyes were intent as they looked up at you, the demand of momentary fidelity in his eyes. You wanted to slap that expression off of his face, or run your thumb along his cheek and hold his face in your hands. 

How was it fair that he asked you that when he’d lingered like a ghost on the edges of whatever it was that you and Patrick had? How was it fair for him to look at you like that?

He took a nipple into his mouth and you gasped as his teeth grazed against the sensitive skin. Soft kisses before he suckled softly. “Okay,” you gasped, lying through your teeth. “I’m only thinking of you.”

His hair was still long, kept the same way he wore it in school. Your fingers tangled in his hair like muscle memory, scratching against his scalp as he kissed along your skin with wet lips, treating your other breast with the same, hungry attention.

“Still so fucking hot,” he mumbled against your skin. “Should’ve— fuck— should’ve kept you. What do you want, huh? Tell me.”

Your mind swam with possibilities, but you didn’t even know where to begin. Your mind was stuck on his previous words. Should’ve kept you. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?  “I don’t know,” you replied, completely honest. “Whatever you want.”

He accepted that easily— it was so similar to how you’d been for him in college. You gasped as he kissed down your sternum, then your stomach. His lips found the waistband of your panties and he grinned, tugging at the lace with his teeth, letting it snap back against your hip. 

He peeled your panties down slowly, letting his hands trail down the expanse of your legs. The possessiveness of the touch sent a thrill up your spine. His lips grazed along your skin, from your ankle, up your calf, then your knee. Your legs spread instinctively, welcoming him right back where he knew he belonged. His pretty lips trailed wet kisses up your thighs, stopping just where you wanted him. 

You expected him to rush. He’d seen Patrick and Tashi leave, which meant they’d finish before you two, more likely than not. There was every reason in the world to make things quick— to fuck you and make you leave. 

Instead, he took his time with you. Soft, teasing kisses peppered on the supple skin of your thighs before he nuzzled into your cunt. The first delve of his tongue was slow and exploratory, tasting the arousal that had pooled at your core. 

”God, you still taste so fucking sweet.”

Another thing you’d nearly forgotten about Art— in all things, he was methodical.

He started with kitten licks at your clit— light brushes with his tongue that made you whimper needily for more. His tongue circled you there, and he relished in the way your fingers tugged on his hair at the sensation. 

Then he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking with more pressure until a strangled moan squeezed past your lips. Your thighs tensed on either side of his head, holding him there as he alternated between slow, soothing licks and firm suction.

It was frustrating, how wet you were. Art had brought out the worst in you, turned you into something that left you feeling genuinely embarrassed. And still, you were slick, dripping down to the sheets. A mess of arousal and Art’s spit. 

When he eased a finger into your cunt, it slid in like your body was made to fit whatever he could give you. At that point, you very well could have been. What were you, if not an object orbiting in the atmosphere of his life?

He looked up at you, seeming so fucking intent on making it feel good for you as he crooked his finger. It rubbed against the soft, spongy spot within you and you cried out, eyes rolling back. 

“That’s it, huh?” He cooed as he pressed a second finger inside of you. Your arm was slung over your face. You couldn’t let yourself keep looking at him when he was looking at you the same way he had in college. The same fucking expression that got your head all mixed up in the first place. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your clit and you whimpered. “I know it feels good, baby, just relax.”

His fingers thrust within you with a slow, deep pressure as he continued to make out with your clit. It was always so good with him— you’d nearly forgotten how easy it was for him to bring you to the edge. 

When you came, it wasn’t like what you had grown used to with Patrick— sudden and overwhelming, like it had been ripped from some secret place within you. It was intense, but slow to build, seeming to last forever as Art’s fingers and tongue worked you through it. Your breath was shaky as he pulled back, pretty mouth wet with your arousal.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked, looking up at you expectantly. 

You should’ve stopped— rationally, you knew that it was best to turn back and quit before you fucked up the situation beyond repair. 

But it was Art. He could’ve had anyone else, but he wanted you. Maybe not forever, or even longer than that night. But for then. 

You shook your head softly. “No. Do you think we should stop?”

His fingers moved between your thighs, circling your clit. “We definitely should. You’re with Patrick.”

You sighed, eyes fluttering as he caressed you with featherlight touches. “Don’t fucking talk about him,” you said, but your words came out with no bite. How could they, when he was playing with your body like a favorite toy?

“No?” He asked. He was wearing a smug sort of expression. “You don’t want me to talk about your boyfriend, huh? Too personal?”

You moaned as he applied more pressure at the apex of your thighs, making your cunt clench and ache to be filled. 

“Does Patrick know how much you’ve missed me?” He asked. Your breath caught in your throat, and he just smiled. “I bet he does. I think he knows that if he just drops my name in a conversation, your pussy gets wet.”

You moaned softly at his words, chest heaving with soft pants. You weren’t even sure if it was true, but it felt like it could’ve been then. He leaned down, his words spoken close to your ear.

“I can go slow. Make it last for you.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, making you shiver. 

You nodded eagerly, turning your head to capture his lips with yours. The kiss was slow, like you had all the time in the world. His tongue against yours, the weight of his body on top of you, the feel of him hard, pressing against your thigh. 

He sat back to strip off his boxers, and you relished in the sight of him laid bare before you. You’d nearly forgotten how pretty he was— big and flushed nearly red with need. It made your heart hammer with nerves; your excitement and shame and need rolled into one messy, electrifying tangle. 

His hair flopped into his eyes as he held himself over you, just like you remembered. You reached up, brushing it out of his eyes with a tender hand. His lips brushed against the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse thrummed in your veins. 

“Tell me you’ve missed me.”

Heat flooded your entire body, as you repeated the words. “I missed you, Art.” You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, and guiding it towards your entrance. He moaned and bucked instinctively into your hand.

”Tell me you want me to fuck you, no one else.” You could hear the implications in his words. Tell me you want me, not Patrick. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

Art pressed himself inside of you, sinking into the welcoming warmth of your cunt. You wrapped your legs around his waist, squeezing him closer, deeper, until his balls pressed firm against you and there was nothing else to give.

He thrust shallowly, rocking against a spot deep within you, one that made your eyes flutter with each brush against it.

“You’re so tight still,” he moaned, lips moving against your throat. “Pussy’s made just for me.”

He touched you like he hadn’t forgotten how you felt or what you needed. Spoke to you like you were one of his possessions.

You lost yourself in it— the sweet, filthy words spoken against your skin, and the rhythm of his body moving against yours. His lips captured yours with a hungry insistence, like he could convey four years' worth of unspoken words with a few brushes of his tongue against yours. 

When he pulled back, lips spit slick and looking so pretty, you thought maybe there was a sort of understanding between the two of you.

His head fell back as he sped up his thrusts, chasing his release. There wasn’t time to stretch it out, to spend as much time as you could with each other’s bodies. 

“Need you to cum,” he said, sliding a hand between your thighs to rub your still-sensitive clit. Your cunt was squeezing him tight, body aching for it, for him, brought to the edge simply because he’d asked for it. “C’mon— you get so tight when you cum, need to feel it again.”

It was like your body was hardwired to give him exactly what he wanted. You came with broken moans of his name and legs squeezing him closer, deeper. Your chest heaved with shaking breaths and punched out whimpers as he kept fucking into you.

He was practically crushing you with his weight, pinning you down, groaning into the junction of your shoulder. 

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” his words vibrated against skin tacky with a thin sheen of sweat.

”Want you to.” Your arms slung around his back, holding him close to you. “I’ve got an IUD, so you can— you can cum.”

His lips met yours as he came, with a pretty moan into your open mouth and slow, messy kisses that made you want to just melt into him and stay that way forever. 

Spent, he rolled over and turned on a lamp at the bedside. The alarm clock announced the time in a dim red glow— five past one.

You lay there, damp between your thighs from the mixture of your releases, unsure of what to do. It was cold beneath the hotel AC. He was peering over at you, wearing an expression you were scared to dissect.

When his hand touched your arm, you nearly flinched. Your breath caught in your throat as he ran his thumb along your skin, so sweetly that you felt that same discomfort tug at your chest. 

“C’mere,” he said, an offer. His arm was splayed over the pillows, giving you the perfect spot to lie down and press yourself against his side. To pretend like you belonged there.

But you didn’t belong there. You belonged four floors down with Patrick. That’s where you had belonged for four years. The reality of what you’d done had set in quickly, and you knew you needed to get out of Art’s room. 

”Art,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I have to go.”

He nodded and sat up against the headboard. You watched him grab his boxers and pull them back on, a strange smile on his face. He must’ve sensed your confusion, even without you saying. 

“It’s funny how things change,” he said. “Here I am, asking you to stay for once.”

You didn’t say anything as you picked up your clothes from around the room, redressing as you recovered each piece from its hiding spot around the room. Your shirt was unsalvageable, so you grabbed Art’s. He had plenty of brand sponsors that would jump to replace it, and Patrick wouldn’t recognize it.

“I loved you, I think,” he said suddenly. “Back in college.”

You froze, arms crossed over your chest as you looked at him. “Art—“

“No, I did. I loved you, I just did it all wrong.”

“Art, just stop,” you said firmly. Embarrassment hit you all at once— the guilt of what you’d done, and the shame over who you’d done it with. Your eyes stung as you looked at him. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

His lips twitched, dipping into a frown, then back into as close to a neutral expression as he could manage. “I just thought you should know. It’s only fair.”

You laughed mirthlessly. “Fair? Jesus Christ, you really haven’t changed, Art.” 

His expression fell completely. It looked like it had back in the hotel bar— icy. “I haven’t changed? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed as you looked at him. “It means that if this were Stanford, that would’ve made me crawl right back into bed, lay by your side, and daydream about what it could mean for us. If one day I might be Mrs. Art Donaldson. It means that you say these sweet things to me every time you can feel me slipping away, but they mean absolutely nothing. We’re not nineteen anymore, Art. I’m not leaving Patrick to be your plaything again.”

His jaw tensed, and he looked down at the bed briefly while he picked at loose threads on the sheets. “You think that’s what I want?”

You frowned. “I think you want what Patrick has.”

He scoffed. “Patrick doesn’t even want what he has,” he said, relishing in the wounded look on your face. “If he did, he wouldn’t be fucking my fiancée right now.”

Fiancée. You felt stupid for not knowing it, but you swallowed down your hurt and met his gaze. “I guess we’re both going to have to be content with being the second choice.” You slipped on your shoes and went for the door. “Good luck with your match tomorrow, Art. I sincerely hope that I never have to see you again.”

The hallway felt colder when you stepped outside of the room and shut the door firmly behind you. A very big part of you wanted to go back, to knock and apologize and grovel like you might have when you were a freshman.

Maybe you hadn’t grown up that much after all. 

The elevator was playing Billy Joel. You leaned against the side of the elevator, relishing in the cold against your sticky skin. When the doors opened on your floor and you stepped out, you blinked in surprise. 

Tashi stood in front of you for the first time since college, looking just as stunning as you remembered, probably more so. Her hair was pulled up, slightly damp at the ends. Her eyes flicked down to your shirt, Art’s shirt, you swallowed as an understanding passed between the two of you— wordless, because what was there to say at that point?

”You left your laptop in the hallway,” she said, skipping formalities. “I took it inside so it wouldn’t get stolen.”

“Okay,” you said, chewing on your lip. She stood there like she expected something more. You felt her surveying you, and froze as she reached forward and rubbed at your bottom lip.

“He could’ve at least cleaned you up a bit,” she said. Her fingers delicately fixed your hair, tucking it back into place. She wiped a smudge of lipstick from the side of your mouth. Once there was nothing left to fix, she looked at you one last time and nodded. “You should be fine now.”

Before you could process that, she stepped into the elevator, and you were left alone in the hallway. When you made it to the room, the door was cracked open, so you let yourself in.

Patrick was on the balcony smoking a cigarette, a towel slung low around his waist. The bed was a fucking wreck, not that he seemed to mind. 

When the door clicked shut, he stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and joined you back in the room. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asked. His jaw tensed as he looked at you, like he was ready if you were going to start a fight.

“I just want to go to bed, Patrick,” you said, annoyed by how wobbly and pathetic you sounded. 

He stepped forward and kissed your forehead. “Okay. We’ll go to bed.”

You kicked off your clothes, but left on Art’s hoodie. Patrick didn’t ask where it came from, or what happened to what you were wearing earlier. You knew he already knew, that he could tell the moment you walked in. He dropped the towel onto a heap on the floor, climbed into the bed, and held out his arms for you.

A stronger person would’ve told him to fuck off, but you weren’t a stronger person. You nestled into his side and felt the hot sting of tears in your eyes. 

He rubbed your back soothingly and kissed your forehead. The sheets smelled like Tashi, he smelled like hotel soap, and you smelled like Art’s cologne. 

“Do you want room service in the morning?” He asked softly.

“Patrick—“

“I’m serious. We can have breakfast in bed, do some tourist-y shit, maybe we’ll go watch a couple of matches, then come back and—“

“Are we supposed to just forget what happened?” You interrupted.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” He kissed your forehead, tender, sweet. “I’ll tell you everything if that’s what you want.”

You met his gaze. “Do you… do you want to know? About Art?”

He went quiet as he played with the ends of your hair. “Did it make you feel any better?” He finally asked. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Then it didn’t.”

He kissed the crown of your head. “No?”

You shook your head, sighing softly as his kisses trailed down, over your nose, to the sides of your mouth. “No. It was a mistake.”

”Tell me about it,” he said, murmuring against your jaw. “Tell me how he touched you.”

You shivered, tilting your head to give him more access. Your nails scratched softly against his scalp as he sucked bruises onto your throat. 

“He was desperate,” you said, heart hammering as you began recounting it to Patrick— your boyfriend. There was no world in which he should’ve wanted to hear about it… and yet. He moaned against your throat, encouraging you, wanting to know more. “Kissed me like he wanted to taste you in my mouth, like he wanted to overpower you.”

Patrick moved his lips to yours, kissing you with a sloppy brush of his tongue against yours. “Like that?”

You shook your head and leaned in, deepening the kiss with slow laps of your tongue into his mouth. He moaned softly, matching your pace in a way that was rare, but made butterflies dance around in your stomach. He pulled you on top of him— hands roaming from the backs of your thighs to squeeze your ass as he deepened the kiss. It was just as slow and sweet as before, but you could sense the need and hunger behind it.

You pulled back, just enough to remove your lips from his. Both of your breaths came in needy pants. You weren’t sure why you were enjoying this, but you were, so you kept going. “He took off my clothes, and laid me down on the bed.”

Patrick moaned, chasing your lips. You sat back and just looked at him— lying there with still-damp curls, his pupils blown with lust. His cock was hard, resting against his stomach, precum beading at the tip.

You pulled off Art’s hoodie and tossed it across the room, relishing in the way Patrick’s eyes raked over every bit of exposed skin like it was the first time he’d seen it. “He ate me out, made me cum on his fingers first, then again while he was inside of me,” Patrick’s breath caught, just for a moment. Desire, or jealousy, or both flickered across his gaze. “He fucked me like he wanted me to fall in love with him again.”

Patrick’s chest was heaving as you moved a hand between your bodies, grasping his cock in your hand, stroking slowly. “Is that how you fucked Tashi? Like you wanted her to pick you instead of her fiancé?” He moaned as your thumb ran over his slit, smearing the precum that had begun to dribble out. 

“No,” He groaned. You nodded encouragingly, squeezing him tighter in your fist. “Fuck. I fucked her like I wanted her to know she made a mistake. Made her cum until she tapped out”

You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, tugging slightly. “With this pretty mouth, huh?” He nodded, wordlessly. “And with this?” You gave a slow stroke of his dick, making him buck up into your fist. Another nod. 

“Show me.”

Patrick’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Show you?”

You nodded and continued stroking him. “I told you about Art, so I want you to show me how you fucked Tashi.”

You recognized the fucking insanity of what you were asking, but you didn’t care. It was a strange form of closure— closing the circle, or whatever. 

“Fuck, okay. Lay back,” he said, patting your thigh. You slid off his lap and settled atop the sheets, watching him expectantly. 

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties, and he slid them down slowly. “Fuck.” Your cheeks flooded with heat as he held the sodden fabric up, wet and sticky with Art’s cum. He groaned and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. “That’s… god, that’s really fucking hot, baby.”

Oh. The mix of embarrassment and desire was something new— burning hot in the pit of your stomach as Patrick licked at your pussy, tasting the evidence of your arousal mingling with Art’s release. He moaned against you, holding you so tightly that his fingers dimpled your thighs. 

His tongue lapped at your entrance, pushing into your cunt as deep as he could manage, then back to licking at your clit. It was messy— a combination of spit and cum and your juices.

“Fuck!” You cried out, tugging his hair as he sealed his lips around your clit. He moaned loudly against you, encouraging you to do it again, the fucking masochist. 

He redoubled his efforts, pulling you closer, moaning against your cunt. It was like he wanted to devour you, to lick up every bit of Art that was left inside of you. You wanted him to try— you wanted him to replace every part of Art that was left in your body and soul.

“Patrick,” you gasped. He murmured an mhmm against your pussy. Eyes closed, right at home between your thighs, lost in the taste of you. “Need you inside.”

He planted one, two sloppy kisses to your clit before he pulled back, his lips shiny with your arousal. He wiped the mess away with the back of his hand, smirking down at you. “You need me, huh?”

You nodded, chest heaving with each panting breath. Patrick sat down at the headboard and patted his thigh. “Prove it.”

You sat up, crawling up the bed until you were straddling his lap. “You made her do all the work?” 

He laughed, running his hands up your thighs to squeeze your ass, tug you closer. “I didn’t make her do anything.” Patrick had a hand wrapped around his cock, and you moaned softly as he guided it between your thighs to notch at your entrance. 

You sank down slowly, forehead pressed against his as you took inch after inch. “Fuck,” you breathed. You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his as you gave a slow roll of your hips. “Fuck. You’re so deep, Pat. Feels so good.”

His head fell back against the headboard as you began to ride him in earnest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, still wearing that fucking smirk, even balls deep inside of you. “That’s it, baby, take what you need.”

And you did. The way he was looking at him was proof enough, he was eating up every fucking second of you fucking yourself on him, using him like a toy. 

Your noises were near-pornographic— Right there, fuck, you’re so big baby, so fucking deep.

The poor soul next door slammed on the wall, begging for you to just shut the fuck up. Patrick silenced you with a hungry kiss— a mess of tongues and spit. His fingers moved on your clit, pulling you towards the edge with desperate need. 

“Close,” you gasped. 

He nodded, moving his fingers faster. “I know you are. I’ve got you.” 

You collapsed on top of him as you came— hips canting weakly as he worked you through it. He thrust up into your tight walls, groaning at the feeling of your cunt spasming around his cock. 

“Fuck, you feel so perfect,” he groaned, burying his face into the junction of your throat. “Gonna cum— fuck—“

You moaned softly at the feeling of him spilling inside of you— the soft pulse of him, the warmth of his cum flooding your cunt. You stayed on his lap, kissing his freckled nose, his eyelids, his mouth. 

When you finally moved off of him, you whimpered at that loss of fullness, and of the slick mess seeping out between your thighs. If you were smart, you would’ve gone and cleaned up, but there was nothing more you wanted than to lay there in Patrick’s arms and fall asleep. 

Whatever. You’d leave housekeeping a very generous tip. He sighed contentedly as you lay there— like you were made to fit against him perfectly.  A warm hand rubbed comforting circles on your back, and you felt so at home, even in an Atlanta hotel. 

“I love you, you know that?” He asked.

You looked up and nodded. “I know. I love you too.”

You found yourself staring up over at Patrick with a stupid, persistent smile on your face. He turned to watch you watching him, wearing a matching grin on his face. It was hard to tell who started laughing first— you or Patrick. At the absurdity of it all, at yourselves. 

“God, we’re so messed up,” you said, with another laugh.

He nodded. “Really messed up, but whatever. Apparently your brain isn’t even fully developed until you’re 25.”

“Great, so we have one more year until we’re normal, rational adults.” He laughed, holding you against his chest. 

He reached over and kissed your forehead. You were so sticky and gross that you really needed a shower, but, again— it was a tomorrow problem.

It fell quiet, and you could feel yourself slipping into comfortable drowsiness when Patrick finally spoke up. “Are we going to be okay?”

You blinked slowly. With your hand resting on his chest, you could feel his heart thudding just beneath your palm.

When you were twenty, you met Patrick’s parents. Crowded into his childhood bed with your head resting against his chest, his heart pounded as he apologized for the intense grilling you’d received that night at dinner. It was the first time you ever felt like his bravado had been shaken, like you were seeing through to the core of him. 

You always knew you would be the one to say you loved him first— it was just the way things went. “I don’t care if they like me,” you had assured him. “I love you.” His heart beat harder, faster. He didn’t say it back until two days later, when he was fucking you in that very same bed— forehead to yours, skin sticky with sweat. “I love you,” breathed into your mouth like air. 

When you were twenty-two, you moved into an apartment in Manhattan and Patrick followed like a housecat— no rent, no job, just company and a mouth to feed. The tour wasn’t going well, and you were working for a shitty, clickbait news site that hardly covered the cost of your place. 

Things were good, mostly. Comfortable, domestic. Patrick tried to be a good boyfriend, you tried to be a good girlfriend. Both of you were trying to figure out what that meant for the other as best as you could. Patrick would bring you flowers from the corner store and take you out for drinks and dancing on weekends. You’d drive out on holidays to visit his family and wind up leaving early to go back to the comforts and peace of your apartment. 

When you could, you’d follow him out to tournaments. If he won, he’d take you out with the prize money. If he lost, you’d take him back to the hotel to cheer him up.

On rough days, one of you would come home to the apartment and pick a fight over laundry, or a dish left in the sink, or even what he’d left on TV, and the other would give it back tenfold. Your neighbors would beat on their walls in annoyance as you yelled at each other, until one of you slammed a door and sulked in another room for a few hours, or you had make-up sex that gave the neighbors another reason to bang on their walls. 

The breakups were infrequent but severe. You’d kick Patrick out, he’d live out of his car, or in a motel, or fuck off to some tennis tournament that you’d previously promised to go to. One of you always broke first, returning to the other with promises of love, and to do better.

You did love each other, really. And things usually got better. It was just easy to live with your feelings dialed up to a ten where Patrick was involved: bigger good moments, worse bad ones. 

Your career had vastly improved. Patrick had moved up in the rankings, only slightly, but it was something. You could afford a bigger apartment in a nicer area, maybe get a dog. And you didn’t just want those things alone, you wanted them with him. 

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest and nodded. “We’ll be fine,” you assured. It felt like the truth.

He nodded, looking down at you. His freckles were so much more pronounced after tournament after tournament in the blazing sun. “Yeah, probably.”

The next morning, you both got the continental breakfast you’d seen in the elevator while housekeeping dealt with the aftermath of the previous night. You did tourist-y shit— went to a museum, found a nice spot for lunch.

At the end of the day, you sat in the oppressive Atlanta heat with Patrick and watched Art Donaldson win his tennis match. You and Patrick left early, fucked in the backseat of his car, and decided to head home early. 

As you started the drive back, you held his hand over the center console and listened to a shitty mix CD with songs he’d ripped off of LimeWire. You gave him shit when Kelly Clarkson followed Lil Wayne, but you both sang along to every fucking word. 

You were right. You and Patrick would probably be fine.

[lovelettersforthedamned]

The Complexities of The Past

✰ husband!art x f!reader

✰ word count: 0.8k

✰ summary: tashi still affects art, and you're the only one who can pull him out of the pit she dug him in.

✰ warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, au where tasha and art were never married, sad sad art.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main m.list ⋆ art donaldson m.list

⋆ gif by @supersoldierslover

Tensions were high as you stood with your husband, Art, in the tunnel leading to the court. You can hear the bass of the music along with the constant flow of chatter fill the stands. Looking over at Art, you can tell he’s laser focused. His past few matches weren’t the best, and there has been a lot of pressure on him with the U.S. Open coming up in a few months. 

Panning your gaze down, you can see he’s fiddling with the strap of his bag. His nerves were getting the best of him. You reach for his hand, “Hey,” his head whips towards you, “you’re going to kill it; like you always do.” 

He places his other hand over yours, keeping your calming touch with him. “I love you,” he leans down and gives you a kiss. 

A staff member approaches the two of you to let Art know that it’s time to make his entrance and all you can do is squeeze his hand and smile. “I love you too,” you touch lingering for as long as possible as he begins to walk off. 

As he begins to make his way to the court, he turns back a final time and takes another look at you. He smiles at the thought of you being at each of his matches, always giving him a kiss before he gives his all. He’s sure he wouldn’t have made it this far without you, and he thanks whoever is above for you. 

With the announcement of his name booming in the speakers, followed with the roaring cheer of the spectators, you begin to head to your seat. 

⋆⋆⋆⋆

With the last call, you immediately stand from your seat to meet with Art. He won the match, but you could tell something was plaguing his mind. He loves this sport, but today, his expression didn’t show that. His serves were aggressive, and every time he sat down during a changeover, his eyes desperately found yours. 

Checking back in with staff, you made your way back to the tunnel, anxiously awaiting your husband. You knew something was off, but you still greeted him with a big smile and a ‘congratulations’. It wasn’t until his hug gave him away. He buried his face in your neck, and held you there for a little longer than usual. With that, you take his hand and lead him to the car. Your hand never left his, even when fake smiles had to appear for fans and cameras. 

It felt like an eternity when you were on your way to the hotel. The short drive filled with a heavy silence that didn’t disappear until you were both inside your room. Art immediately dropped his bags and sat on the couch, a sigh escaping his lips as he brought a hand up to his eyes, wiping the day’s stress from them. You place your stuff down on the table before approaching him, “What happened out there, baby?”

He tilts his head back to rest on the cushion, “Tashi was there.” It was a short sentence, but the weight of it struck a chord in you. 

Tashi Duncan was always a tough subject for you. She hurt and manipulated Art in unfathomable ways, and you’ll never understand her mind. But you knew the toll she took on Art, and you’d be damned if she ever made him feel like that again. 

It hurts to see that she still affects him, “I’m sorry–.” 

“Why can’t I just forget about her? One glance at her and I’m that nineteen-year-old kid again,” his frustration is getting the best of him, his hands covering his face. 

“Honey, you cannot blame yourself,” you shift your body towards him, “what she did to you for years is an unforgettable and traumatizing experience. You were young, going through something you should’ve never encountered.” You hear him sniff under his hands, and your throat tightens. You place a hand on his thigh, “It was never your fault.”

He slowly lowers his hands, and you’re met with bloodshot eyes. Bringing your other hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes, he relishes your touch. 

“And if you need me to tell her off, I will,” you joke, pulling a breathy laugh from Art’s lips. You knew his relationship with Tashi was complicated in ways you may never understand, but being his biggest cheerleader through the good and the bad was enough for him. 

✰ author's note: art donaldson brain rot is a disease, and im sick. also i don't hate tashi. i just think she's...interesting and needs to be studied deeper. don't forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed!!! ok, byeeee.

[kroosluvr]

split set (notes under cut)

STOP DROPPIGN CRUMBS IN HER HAIR U ASSHOLE (shes used to it)

theyre mixed doubles partners! otherwise sumire partners with ann and akira with goro

everybody plays tennis in tennis au. yes even futaba.

in the back is makoto vs mitsuru! and ryuji's like "dude is she gonna be ok.... mitsuru's scary...."

they split sets so they get a 10 min changeover before the tiebreak! sumire's quickly picking apart their last set while akira takes the chance to fuel up SJKDAKAD

rio iwasaki poster in the back. she's everyones idol in this au because I SAID SO!!!!

kasumi still does rhythmic gymnastics in this au. sumire grew up with it as well but 180'd into tennis bc of self doubt and insecurities of living in kasumi's shadow so she wanted to carve out a new space for herself etc and tennis is a good fit for her

also shiho probably still also plays volleyball

i imagine each school has like a Club Team(???) so this isnt necessarily like varsity tennis or anything its not attached to the school itself if that makes sense. thats also why theres no set uniform as you can see, just a general color scheme

[lumosinlove]

@oknutzy-week-2024 !!!

On The Line

Part Three

It was uncommonly hot on the day of his and Leo’s final, just as Finn had said it would be.

But Logan was used to the heat. He was up 4-2 in the first set. They’d gotten stuck at deuce for a good five minutes during the second game and Leo had pulled the extra two points off, but Logan was going to take the set. By the time Logan did so, he had soaked through his shirt and his hair was sticking to his neck and temples. Even the audience’s applause sounded dulled by the heat. People had straw hats and fans and more than enough iced drinks and white wine to go around.

He was winning—not that such a thing couldn’t change in a snap. But it was roasting and he liked the way he was playing. He could have a moment of fun. When he got to his chair at the changeover, he glanced up at Finn. He had his arm stretched along the back of Luke’s chair, who’d stayed to watch even after being knocked out by Sebastian Montague. Logan liked seeing them getting along better. Yeah, because I won, Finn said, no matter how many times Logan insisted Luke had never seen him like that. Finn was saying something intently to him—something about Logan’s forehand if his gestures were anything to go by—when he noticed Logan looking at him. Finn tilted his head.

Logan tossed his hat on his seat before pulling his sticking white Nike t-shirt over his head. He heard Luke’s laugh before he’d even freed himself of the shirt. He kept his eyes down, and his smirk, as he used a towel to dry his torso the best he could. He fetched a new shirt from his bag, sifting carefully around his fruit and spare rackets to find it. Just before he pulled it over his head, he glanced up again. Finn had his chin in his palm, hand discreetly covering his grin. Luke thumped him on the back. Finn rolled his eyes at Logan and then pointed down at something near Logan’s chair. Logan looked, thinking he meant his hat, but instead there was a cooler there that hadn’t been before.

Finn had send down bags of ice neatly rolled up in towels that Logan could drape around his neck. Logan glanced Leo’s way to see if his team had done the same. He couldn’t tell, but what he did see was—it was something. Leo peeling the white fabric of his shirt from his long, shining torso. He used the fabric to wipe at his face and neck. He had one of those bodies that appeared more lanky until you really got a look. He was strong and defined and—

Logan looked away quickly. He looked up at Finn instead—but Finn was watching Leo. His eyes darted to Logan’s and he raised his eyebrows. Logan raised his eyebrows back. Finn grinned, fanned himself, pointed at the towels, and flashed him a thumbs up. Logan rolled his eyes and took one of the ice towels out from the cooler Finn had sent him and draped it around his neck. He glanced over at Leo again, who seemed to be intent on soaking his fresh shirt in cold water. It made it cling to the muscles of his back and chest, the white fabric going slightly see-through.

Logan took the second ice towel out and held it. Technically, they weren’t supposed to talk during change overs. But… He glanced again at Leo’s flushed cheeks, and then at the full-sun side of the court he was about to have to play on.

Logan got up and crossed in front of the Umpire’s chair and stopped only when his shadow fell over Leo, making him look up. Blue. Blue, blue eyes, as blue as the shirt he had been wearing at his and Finn’s doubles final. He was obviously confused as to why Logan was standing there, his gaze darting towards the Ump.

Wordlessly, Logan held out the towel. When Leo just stared at it, Logan cursed under his breath and leaned forward to drape it around Leo’s neck. The audience mumbled, then awed, then began to clap as Logan went back to his own chair.

He hadn’t been trying for anything to get applause about. He just knew how it felt when the heat began to creep in. Leo looked grateful for it, holding some of the coolness to his cheek.

Logan went to the base line and readied himself for Leo’s serve, backing up several steps so he would be able to return its power. Leo had a small serving routine. Nothing crazy or obnoxious. He rocked once on his feet, made sure his hair was out of his face and bounced the ball three times. His long torso stretched as he tossed the ball up.

Logan only barely had time to draw his racket back, and even when he did, his return went into the net. Logan turned away as the crowd applauded. He went back to the baseline. He blew on his sweaty palms and took his steps backwards.

Leo pushed his hair out of his face. he wore a thin bandana tied around his forehead, but his blond hair curled over the top still. It was handsome, really. Logan wouldn’t give up his baseball hat for anything, but had always liked that style on other players.

Logan managed to return this time, and they rallied. And rallied. They hit the ball back and forth, running each other around the court for long enough that the crowd was gasping with each get. Logan could pictured Finn’s face. His clenched fist pressed to his lips the way Logan had only seen when watching his own tape back. He loved when the camera cut to Finn during a replay and the commentator’s talked about him.

There’s O’Hara. He was very tense during this point. He’s very invested, obviously.

And then, when Logan won the point, they’d show a slow-motion replay of Finn leaping to his feet with a fist raised in front of him. Logan would get to watch the way Finn’s mouth formed his name when it was slowed down. Logan. Yes, Logan.

Was it bad to think about taking your boyfriend to bed during a grand slam final?

Logan leapt for Leo’s killer volley and slammed it down perfectly in the corner and the point was over. The crowd erupted and Logan could practically hear those commentators now.

Excellent tennis. Incredible, just spectacular, these two.

It went on like that. Sweat in Logan’s eyes, insane rallies that seemed to last forever. They trapped themselves at deuce over and over again, back and forth back and forth until they were bound to lock eyes before serving again. Daring each other. Sharing this together. Little silent communications that Logan could all but hear in Leo’s voice. Here we are again.

After a particularly brutal thirteen minute game filled with running, Logan shot low over the net, spinning it so it would drop short. Leo sprinted for it hard (Finn’s voice: God, he shouldn’t be able to run that fast with all that height, but look at him) but the ball bumped over the top of the net tape before dribbling over and bouncing twice. The crowed oohed and Logan held up a hand in apology as was customary. No one wanted to win points like that.

For a moment, him and Leo were face to face right at the net. Right there. Blue, blue, blue.

“Désolé,” Logan said, out of breath. The French slipped out.

“Want to go six hours again?” Leo’s smile was crooked.

Logan couldn’t help it. He laughed. They turned away together, back to the baselines. He looked up at his box. Finn tilted his head at him and Logan shrugged.

They went seven hours. Gruesome. Glorious. And when Logan hit the ball into the net on Leo’s match point, Leo fell into his back in the grass and put his hands over his face.

Logan dropped to a knee, hardly able to breathe, but he rose quickly. He didn’t like lingering after a loss. He wanted off the court. He wanted out of the sun. He wanted Finn.

But he met Leo at the net. His palm found Leo’s and, unsure what made him do it, maybe the exhaustion or all of those small glances over these hours, but he and Leo pulled each other into a brief hug. The crowd was there, their player’s boxes and teams were there, but this had been between them. This had been a rematch, a battle. And Leo had won.

“Thank you,” Leo said softly to him beneath the crowd’s roar. “That was amazing.”

Logan didn’t know what to say, but he looked up at Leo as they pulled back and did what he thought Finn might. He tapped a hand over Leo’s chest, his heart really.

“It was,” he said.

~

Finn was waiting for him in the more private hallway they’d agreed to meet in if he lost.

The words from Leo’s victory speech were ringing in Logan’s head.

I want to congratulate Logan and his team on such a fantastic tournament. Logan, Finn, everyone…I mean, there is such love and support in Logan’s camp, it’s… It’s inspiring.

Logan pushed his face into Finn’s neck.

“Good game, baby,” Finn whispered. He always touched Logan hard after a loss. Firm palms on his back that almost jostled, but they felt good. Grounding when Logan might’ve just floated away on self-doubt. “Good fucking game.”

Logan let Finn take his weight and Finn did. He tightened his arms around Finn’s waist. “We lost.”

“He’s really good,” Finn whispered when he had his lips against Logan’s cheek. “He’s really good, and you’re really good, and chance has to go one way or the other, stop beating yourself up right now.” He put his hand on the back of Logan’s neck and hit pressure points with his thumb and forefinger. “Hey, stop it.” He used his grip to ease Logan’s head back to look up at him. “Stop it.”

Logan made some sort of pathetic sound.

“Let’s go get that steak you love,” Finn said and began pressing kiss after kiss to Logan’s cheek. “Gonna buy you dinner and get you that red wine you like,” he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Then our bed’s waiting, and I love the pillow creases in your cheeks. Gonna put them there myself, how’s that sound?”

“Really good.” Logan let his eyes slip shut. “He’s really good.”

“I know.”

Logan felt so tired suddenly that he nearly spoke in French. “Nous—We have to go to the party, we have to show up there. Because of our doubles.”

Finn removed Logan’s hat and stroked gentle fingers through his sweaty hair. “Yeah. Just twenty minutes, then we’ll leave.”

“Non. Non, we stay, it’s our victory.” Logan reached up to put a palm on Finn’s cheek. “We won. Love you.”

“I love you, too. Hey, c’mere.” His brown eyes were firm. “It was a great fucking match. Okay? Like, Jesus. It was a great match. It was hard and it was fucking unbelievable. Those rallies, and that tie break—fuck, Lo. It’s like…”

“It’s like we were born to play each other. I know.”

People said that about rivals sometimes. Like they existed to be playing at the same time. Logan believed that right now, he really did. He existed to face Leo Knut. He existed to be held like this by Finn O’Hara. He existed to face Leo Knut.

Finn kissed him gently and Logan floated away on an entirely different feeling. He wasn’t sure he could name it.

“Go get on the bike,” Finn whispered into Logan’s mouth, and Logan smiled.

~

He didn’t care so much about his suit this time around. Him and Finn wore simple black and Finn clicked Logan’s watch into place. Logan smiled at the thought of how his sponsors could make him wear this thing whenever and wherever, but they’d never see how reverently Finn put it on him, or the way he kissed his wrist after he was finished.

The ballroom of the Wimbledon clubhouse was already full and swinging by the time they’d arrived.

Logan leaned into Finn. “I thought it started at—”

“So, we’re a little late,” Finn said quietly in Logan’s ear. “You’re welcome.”

Logan laughed. “Oh. You’re…”

“You can tell me what I am later,” Finn whispered. “Incoming.”

Before the flock of admirers reached them, Finn had grabbed both of Logan’s hands and pulled him right onto the dance floor.

“Agh, Finn—I’m not good.” Logan laughed when he promptly stepped on Finn’s foot. “Finn—”

“Shh,” Finn murmured to him, ducking to press their cheeks together. “I’m celebrating my victory.”

The song was lively, but Finn kept them quiet and drawn together. He did spin Logan out a few times before drawing him back to his chest with a kiss.

“Why are you good at everything?” Logan said. He’d switched to locking his hands around the back of Finn’s neck to keep him close. He was light-headed by how Finn looked in this light. He could barely feel today’s loss, which maybe wasn’t exactly a good thing, but he didn’t care.

“I’m not,” Finn said. “I just make sure I’m good enough for you.”

Logan clicked his tongue, realizing too late that he had sounded exactly like his mother did when playfully scolding her children. He stepped on Finn’s foot on purpose this time, light on his toe.

“Always,” Logan said. “You are, always.”

Logan didn’t know any of the names that spoke to him. He smiled. He shook hands. He kept one hand firmly in Finn’s. He redirected any praise for their doubles victory onto Finn and accepted praise for the lost match against Leo. He took sips of Finn’s whiskey until Finn put the glass down and told whoever the hell they were talking to that they had somewhere to be.

“Ready?” Finn asked. His hand, slipping back into Logan’s, was cold from the glass.

“Ouais. So ready, champ.” So many men had called Finn that. Hey, champ, good game, champ, champ champ champ.

Finn laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Come on.”

Just as they turned towards the doors, a voice spoke from behind them.

“I hoped you would be here.”

Logan watched Finn turn first before he did. His face…lit up at the sight of Leo. A bit. Logan had to turn to see.

Leo smiled. He wore a soft, dove gray suit. His tie was gone, though, his collar open at his neck. Logan could see a fine golden chain there, dipping and shining against his collarbones. Logan stepped closer to Finn and curled his free hand around Finn’s wrist, just above where his other was clasped. He wasn’t sure what he meant by it, but Finn squeezed his hand like he understood.

Leo took slow steps towards them and set his drink down on the way. “I hoped you both would be here.”

“Who passes up clubhouse parties?” Finn said. “Especially ones for a well-deserved winner.” Finn didn’t let go of Logan’s hand, but held out his free one to Leo. “Fantastic match.”

Leo’s eyes flickered to Logan as he took Finn’s hand. Logan’s eyes went from their hands to his and Finn’s, almost in one line.

“Thank you,” Leo said. Again, he looked at Logan. “It really is a privileged to play you. Thank you for the towel.”

Logan bit the inside of his cheek. He felt Finn squeeze his hand.

Nice. He was a nice person, so why did everything get stuck somewhere between his chest and throat when Leo Knut looked at him?

“You looked like you needed it,” Logan said. Finn squeezed his hand harder. “I mean—I mean it was hot.”

Thankfully, Leo laughed. Finn kind of did, too and Logan squeezed back.

“It was.” Leo’s eyes dipped down Logan’s form. “It was…” Leo glanced behind him. “Were you about to leave?”

“We were,” Finn said. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving your own party so soon.”

“No, no.” Leo paused, considering them. “But…It’s tradition for the champions to dance together.”

The men’s and women’s champions, yes. That was true. Logan looked to where Lily Evans, clad in a silky dark green dress, was laughing at something Natalie Darcy was saying and pouring them both some more champagne. “You already danced with Evans.”

“What about the other champions, don’t they count?” Leo asked. “Doubles…for instance.”

That hung in the air. Logan could tell Finn was as speechless as he was just by the way his shoulder briefly stopped moving against Logan’s. Leo stood there looking down at them with his hands in his pockets and his chain glinting at his throat and his soft smile. Without the bandana he tied around his gold hair while he played, Logan could see the slightly longer length. He’d pushed it back from his face in gentle curls.

Logan had held this look that Leo was giving him before. Not in a ballroom but in a hallway, and not with Finn holding his hand but with Finn’s kiss, one of Finn’s first kisses, on his mouth.

“What,” Leo asked with a tilt to his head that was almost teasing. He remembered, too. “You don’t count?”

“Who…” Finn began to say, but had to break to clear his throat. “Who exactly are you asking?”

“Either one of you. Or whoever wants to go first.”

Logan’s heart started to pound. He could feel it against Finn’s palm, too. His suit felt too hot.

“I know you’re together,” Leo said at their hesitation.

“I believe you were the first to know,” Finn said. Leo’s eyes widened and Finn smiled—that cocky smile. The one he gave Logan in bed sometimes. Logan startled a little, seeing it out in the open like that. Something like pride spread warm through his fingertips. “If memory serves.”

“I…” Leo swallowed. “I just meant you don’t have to worry about…”

He didn’t finish, but Logan wasn’t worried. He was Finn’s. Logan looked up at Finn just as Finn looked back at him. Those brown eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure what Finn was thinking.

“Go,” Finn said softly. He smiled at Leo a little and put a hand low on Logan’s back. His finger tapped Logan’s spine. Bum-bum-ba-bum. Logan sent him another unsure look. “Don’t you think people want to see their rivals dancing?”

Leo just smiled, looking pleased, and turned halfway back towards the dance floor.

“Take me to dinner after,” Logan whispered to Finn, and tilted his face up.

Finn touched the underside of Logan’s chin with soft, curled knuckles, keeping him there, and kissed him.

Logan let his hand slip out of Finn’s and followed Leo. The song was slow but upbeat. There were other couples dancing, but none like them. It didn’t bother Logan anymore. He’d had one year of Finn pulling him out of his shell and into the closest Logan had ever felt to being himself. Finn did it with kisses all day, with jokes that made Logan laugh in crowded restaurants. He did it in museums where Logan looked his face more than the art. He did it in bed, sinking deep to Logan’s core, Logan’s back resting against his chest, Finn’s teeth on his neck. He did it on dance floors. Finn knew how to make an elegant fool of himself, and Logan was learning to enjoy things rather than just be good at them.

Leo’s hand settled on his lower back, the other gentle in his own, and Logan was right there on the dance floor, pulse flying. He looked back at Finn. He was leaning against the bar, watching with dark, soft eyes.

“We’re not really rivals, are we?”

Logan was drawn back to Leo. He had to look up farther than he did with Finn, especially when standing this close. They turned in time, giving Logan flashes of the people around the room. Everyone was looking. Smiling. Staring. Gaping. At least no one was snapping photos. That he could see.

“In their eyes we are,” Logan said of the room.

Leo glanced around, too. Logan was eye-to-eye with that gold chain. It dripped down between his collarbones like a little trail of honey. Logan licked his lips then realized what he was doing.

“You’re going to have to tell me what you’re thinking,” Leo said.

Logan huffed out a laugh. “I’m not good at that.”

“Finn always knows what you’re thinking,” Leo said.

“Ouais,” Logan said. “Because he’s Finn.”

Leo smiled and applied a bit of pressure to Logan’s hand. “You keep trying to lead.”

“So do you.”

“I thought I was, since I asked you.”

“Oh,” Logan said. “Ouais, you can.”

A few seconds of silence went by, and Leo laughed.

“Sorry,” Logan said, unable to help a smile of his own. “I’m trying not to.”

“It’s all right,” Leo replied. “It’s…It’s like you’re still trying to beat me.” He ducked his head down a little. “We’re just dancing, Logan.”

Logan tried his best to relax. The eyes around them were moving on. At least, some of them were. As the room spun slowly around them, Finn came back into view. He had a funny expression on his face. They moved on too quickly for Logan to decipher it.

“Thanks for agreeing,” Leo said. “It’s nice to dance with another boy. For me.”

Logan nodded. He was staring at the gold chain again. It was next to a dark freckle. And come to think of it, Leo’s hair had streaks of gray in the front most strands. Not an age thing. A bad hit to the head? And had he known Leo Knut liked men? Somehow, he thought he had though he didn’t remember learning that.

A flash of that look Leo had given him, that night in the dark, velvet hallway. Finn’s mouth on his neck, Leo’s eyes locked to his. That smile. That sort of not-smile. Logan knew that smile. He’d felt that smile on his own face, when he had only wanted Finn without having him.

“You don’t have anyone?” Logan asked. “You seem like you would.”

Leo’s hand tightened around his as he led them into another elegant turn. Logan hadn’t stepped on his foot once, he realized.

“No,” Leo said. “Not yet.”

Leo had said that confidently. No regret, just waiting and hoping. He tried to put that tone to the boy he’d first met, dumping a waffle on his plate.

“You seem different,” Logan said carefully.

“How?”

“Less…” Logan wasn’t sure how to put it.

“Scared of you.”

Logan scoffed. “Là, mais…”

“Je ne suis pas.”

French. Something in Logan relaxed as it always did.

“I wasn’t going to say scared,” Logan said, relieved to be speaking his own language.

“Good,” Leo replied in the same way. “Because I’m not. I never was.”

“What were you then? And don’t say, like, in awe or something.”

Their song was beginning to end, Logan could tell as the slides of violin and cello got longer. At the languid tempo, he became aware that his heart had calmed. He still hadn’t stepped on Leo’s foot.

“I used to have your poster on my wall,” Leo said. “Finn’s, too. When I was at home, it was in my bedroom, when I went to tennis camp it was in my cabin.”

Without thinking—maybe because he was so used to doing it with Finn and when else was he this close to someone who wasn’t Finn—Logan laughed, grimaced, and let his forehead fall against Leo’s shoulder. Just as quickly, he straightened, flushing, but Leo looked pleased.

“I was in awe,” Leo said before Logan could apologize. The last note of the song played and Leo slowed them. They’d ended up near the center of the room and Logan felt a little—numb. Tingly. Light-headed. “Because you’re just as handsome in real life.”

Leo’s eyes went somewhere behind Logan—to Finn? Was Finn watching them? “Both of you.”

Logan stepped on Leo’s foot and fumbled out an apology. Leo just smiled as they stilled together. Around them, people began clapping for the musicians. Slowly, Leo released Logan’s waist. Had his hand been under Logan’s jacket the entire time? Logan realized that his was closer to the side of Leo’s neck than his shoulder. If he raised his thumb, he could have brushed skin. It was how he danced with Finn. 

Leo covered Logan’s knuckles with his other palm before letting their hands drop. “Let me know if you ever want to dance again.”

[octuscle]

You’re so good at transforming others so I was wondering if I could thank you by transforming you. Who do you want to become? 😊💪

I am almost 27 years old. I graduated from university almost two years ago. Since then, I have been working for an auditing company, auditing the risk management systems of banks. Not a particularly erotic job. But well paid. I travel a lot and my working hours are also less from 09:00 to 17:00. Not good conditions for getting back into shape. I used to be a competitive athlete. Open-water swimming. My shoulders and back are still quite broad… But the waist is no longer as narrow as it was in my best days. Well… The course of life, I would say…

Sunday morning. Normally I would sleep in, go somewhere for breakfast, then maybe do a bit of work. But today I feel like going for a run. At 06:00 in the morning. In the drizzle. I'm really crazy! But running clears my head. After just under an hour, I pass an outdoor gym in the city park. Yawning empty in this weather, of course. I really enjoy it! It's almost 10:00 when I get back home. Now for a hot shower. Uh, no. A cold shower! Hardens off. And then breakfast. Low-fat quark, protein powder, bananas, some fruit. Doesn't taste particularly good. But gives me the energy I need. A bit of Resident Evil 3 to relax. And around 3 p.m. I have to make my way to the stadium. Kick-off is at 5:30 p.m., and I'd like to be in my regular place in the south curve at 4 p.m. Getting in the mood with the boys. Highlight of the week!

Hehehe, that was a good brawl with the opponent's fans last night. That's a good black eye… And my lip is still a bit swollen too. Looks a bit dangerous. Despite the crisp white shirt, navy blue suit and polished black Oxfords. Even after a year on the job, I still haven't got used to getting up early on Mondays. Mondays are usually at 03:30. An hour of push-ups and a bit of weights training, as best I can at home. And then get ready, go to the airport and usually the plane takes off at 07:00 or so. And then I'm back to being the good auditor candidate. It's not as if the job isn't fun. But especially after the weekends, which are packed with hard training and fun with the lads in and around the stadium, the changeover is tough. I can only hope that none of my customers or colleagues ask me who beat me up like that at the weekend. I can't say that I'm one of the militant Ultra fans… Well, if anyone asks, I'll say that it happened during boxing training. They'll take my word for it. At the latest when I take off my jacket and people see my shirt, which looks like it's been painted onto my skin, nobody questions the boxer in me anymore.

05:30 on a Tuesday morning. An hour's run, then an hour's workout in the hotel gym, breakfast, 09:00 at the client's desk. A routine that I would never have expected a few weeks ago when I was doing my Master's degree. With your criminal record, the blatant undercut, the tattoos on your neck and the back of your hands, you'll never get a serious job, my parents complained. But damn it, I'm clever, I'm disciplined and I'm hungry for success. In the cage at MMA, in the fan curve at the stadium, at university and now at work. And fuck, when I show up at a customer's in a suit that perfectly accentuates my athletic figure, I'm surrounded by an aura of respect. Even if I'm the rookie in the project. For the first few days, my colleagues tried to persuade me to go out for dinner or a drink with them in the evening. Not in the mood! I found a club near the hotel where I can train properly in the evenings. Not the kind of wimpy workout I get at the hotel.

I'm so fed up with this fucking Master's thesis. Pumping, eating, fighting… This is what I live for! I've been working at the martial arts school since I got my bachelor's degree. On the one hand in accounting. And also as a trainer. Shit, why do I even want anything else? Would I like it better if I became an desk jockey in some office? I suspect not.

I love the moment when I open my gym in the morning. The sweat from last night is still in the air. Whoever had the last shift yesterday didn't leave anything tidy. I do my rounds and stuff forgotten socks, jockstraps and water bottles into the lost-and-found box. Okay, I wank on it again first. There's nothing like the smell of a used jockstrap that's still a little damp. I don't officially open for another hour, so I have that long to get my body ready for the day with the weights and sandbag. Let's see how full it gets. The place isn't yet self-sustaining. But with my jobs as a bouncer and my OF account, I'm more than able to keep my head above water. At least my tattoo artist doesn't have to worry about me not paying my bills. It's better that way. After all, it's his job to make sure I'm scary!

[iwritesickfic]

So this past week I've had an ear infection combined with a sore throat and a fever. It's probably been over a decade since my last ear infection but they come with some serious wump potential. This made me think of Theo having to perform with a sore ear and any other list of symptoms you'd like.

hey there! thanks for the prompt ❤️ hope you enjoy!! :)

“You don’t have to do this,” Seamus says for what feels like the thousandth time. Theo sighs, slumping deeper into his chair.

“Stop saying that,” he mumbles. It’s not that Seamus is wrong - it’s the opposite. And the more he says it the more Theo wants to agree with him. This is the perfect storm for him to call off a performance. He has a double ear infection. His head is killing him. He’s at a festival in the middle of the desert and he’s running a 101 fever.

Still, people are going to be so fucking mad at him if he bails. This is his first performance in over a year, and he knows that people bought tickets and flew out here just to see him. The festival would be livid, even though there’s a clause in the contract exactly for this situation.

“You want some ice?” Seamus asks, and Theo nods, even though it hurts. Seamus is back in only a few moments with a bag of ice wrapped in a damp towel, and Theo gasps as he presses it to the tender, throbbing space behind his jaw. “Too much?”

Theo shakes his head and takes the ice, holding it under his ear with his trembling hand. He feels like he can hardly breathe.

Seamus’s fingers begin to work through his damp hair, gathering it into a small bun. He’s especially careful around Theo’s ears, his hands moving slowly and deliberately. He ties the bun loosely, then kisses the nape of his neck.

“God, I wanna fucking die,” Theo mumbles, and Seamus slides a water bottle into his hands. He doesn't need to be told, just starts taking small sips. The heat is making him nauseous and each mouthful feels heavy in his stomach.

“It'll be ok,” Seamus says softly. He kisses him again, this time on his temple, and even though it sends a shock of pain through his pounding head he doesn't mind. If there weren’t so many people watching and if it wasn’t so hot, he might have pulled him closer and buried his face in Seamus’s throat and let himself cry. But there are, and it is, so he lets Seamus walk away.

His set starts in only 45 minutes. They're already doing the changeover, stage hands hurrying back and forth with cables and guitars and mics. He can hear the crowd that's gathered. He's a headliner, he can't back out. He just can't.

Seamus comes back with some food, which Theo doesn't eat. He chokes down some ibuprofen and drinks some electrolyte thing Seamus managed to find, but he doesn't feel any better. The fact he's shivering now doesn't bode well, his body cloaked in a cold sweat. His hair is wet, and his tank top is clinging to his chest. And though they haven't spoken a word to him, someone dressed suspiciously like a medic is loitering around at a middle distance.

At least Seamus has stopped telling him he doesn't have to do it.

It's only a few minutes before the set is supposed to start when he decides he'd better finally put in his in-ears. He's standing in the walkway between the makeshift green room and stage side, staring at the two small devices in his palm. He feels weak standing up - dizzy and disoriented. He's trying to work up the courage to actually put the monitors in when Seamus comes up beside him.

He rests his hand lightly on Theo's upper back, and he doesn't need to say anything for Theo to know what he's asking.

“I'll be fine,” he mumbles, even though he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and the throbbing is enough to make his knees weak. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and it's making him slur his words. His ears are ringing.

“I know you will,” Seamus whispers back, and Theo chokes out a laugh.

“I'm not…I'm not fine right now. But I'll be fine.” He's staring at the in-ears. Seamus follows his gaze.

“Do you want-”

“No, no, I…” Theo trails off, quickly bringing one up to his right ear. He hesitates a moment before starting to put it in. Immediately, there's a burst of white hot pain that lances down his neck and all the way through his head. He presses past it, but it only gets worse. He makes a sound between a gasp and a cry, and the next thing he registers is Seamus’s voice.

“Shh, shh, you're alright,” Seamus whispers. “Here, baby, sit down.”

He's shaking all over, and it feels like there's a knife through his eardrum. His breath is short, and he's fighting to keep from actually whimpering.

He feels himself being lowered into a chair, and he can't tell whether it's tears on his cheeks or sweat. The pain is enough to send his stomach into his throat, and he can't get enough air to make it go away. He hopes no one heard Seamus call him baby. He only calls him that when he’s too sick to think straight. Theo doesn't even like being kissed in public, so the intimacy of Seamus calling him “baby” is something he doesn't want anyone bearing witness too.

His fingers are shaking so hard he can barely take the small earpiece out, and though it sends another jolt of pain through his head, he feels immediate relief when it's out. The world is spinning violently though, and he can barely keep his eyes open.

“We need a monitor. On stage monitor,” he hears Seamus say, and then there's a mess of people talking.

Then he feels hands on his knees, and he opens his eyes to see Seamus crouched in front of him, looking how he always looks when Theo’s like this. Worried, worry poorly hidden by a small smile. Seeing his face tears a sob from Theo’s throat, and he's almost immediately wracked with them, chest shuddering and heaving.

Seamus immediately pulls him into his arms, his chest so solid and steady compared to Theo’s tense, trembling body.

“Oh, baby…” Seamus says, and Theo presses himself fully into Seamus's arms. “You're gonna be alright.”

Theo can barely get words out between sobs. Seamus's hand is on the back of Theo’s head, holding him against his neck.

“I can't, I can't do this,” he chokes, and he feels Seamus sigh.

“You don't have to.”

“No, I-” he's gasping for breath between sobs. “I-”

“Breathe. Just breathe.”

He tries, but he feels like he can't force his lungs to draw in anything more than a gasp at a time. His head hurts so badly he's sure he's about to pass out. He's about to vomit.

He feels someone touch his back, grabbing his shoulder to pull him away.

“Get the fuck off me,” he chokes out.

“Hey, hey. It's alright,” Seamus whispers, but Theo would rather die than have the entire crew see him like this. “I'm sorry, I…can we just have some privacy, please?” Seamus asks, and there's more muffled talking. “I'm so sorry. He’s…I know.” The talking seems to fade, and Seamus rubs his back. “You're ok. Just relax.”

He sits there for what feels like a long time, trying to catch his breath. The pain in his head doesn't get any better, but he's at least able to calm himself down enough to not feel like he's about to pass out.

Eventually, Seamus gets him back up into the chair and slowly, the crew begins to appear again, though they're pointedly trying not to look directly at him.

The medic that he'd suspected was for him walks over with her duffel bag and smiles at him as she starts to unpack her things.

“Do you mind?” she asks, stopping short with her gloved hand hovering over his arm, and he feels a wave of shame.

“No, go ahead. I'm sorry, if I…I promise I'm not, like, an asshole celebrity or something,” he says, and she laughs. Her whole demeanor seems to lighten as wipes the back of his hand with an alcohol pad.

“No worries at all. I know you're probably in a lot of pain.”

“No, I…I'm sorry,” he says again, and winces as a needle enters the back of his hand. He turns his head so he doesn't have to see, and his gaze lands on Seamus, who's talking with Zeke and a few people dressed in black and wearing headsets and holding clipboards. Stage managers, producers, festival staff… He wonders idly if Seamus is negotiating a cancellation.

Part of him would be pissed - it should be his own choice if he performs or not - but another, much larger part would be immensely grateful. He shudders as he feels the cold liquid of the IV snaking up his arm.

“What's in that?” He asks.

“Just saline. You're pretty dehydrated.”

Seamus starts to walk over and Theo feels another wave of nausea crash over him.

“What's going on?” he asks, and Seamus fiddles with the laminated pass around his neck.

“So they agreed it's within contract if you need to back out, but if you…” Seamus adjusts the sunglasses pushed up in his hair and sighs, “If you really want to, what we can do is basically get you an on stage monitor so you don't have to wear the in-ears. And they can get you a stool so you don't have to stand the whole time.”

Theo nods before remembering that moving his head even a tiny bit makes the pain in his ears worsen.

“I...um…” He mumbles. The throbbing in his ears is almost unbearable. Even as the medic runs a thermometer over his forehead he feels the pain worsen. He's so exhausted, he's so sick. “I can't,” he finally says and Seamus nods, expression not changing at all. The backs of his fingertips brush Theo's temple.

“Sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” Theo says, voice soft. He feels a dizzying mix of relief, guilt, and anxiety pressing on his chest as soon as he says it. Even so, he knows he can't. If he tries to go out there…

Seamus sighs and squeezes his shoulder.

“Ok.”

[tinietaehyun]

Forsaken [III]

[Sorcerer!Taehyun x Royal!Reader] [Series] [Chapter Three]

Pairing: Sorcerer!Taehyun x Royal!Reader [Ft. Yeonjun]

Genres: Royalty!AU, romance, enemies to lovers, fantasy, supernatural, fluff, angst, action.

Contains: Profanity, mentions of injury, blood, bickering, manhandling, rough behaviour, dialogue-heavy.

Links: Forsaken Masterlist || Masterlist

Summary: With the palace beginning to prepare for a coronation, the news of your escape troubles Sehun deep within; thankfully he has his most trusted confidant, right?

Unaware of the scheming, you try your best to get along with your new sorcerer companion. It couldn’t be too hard right? Wrong. He was an utter nuisance, witty and unfortunately his pretty face had you spluttering speechless. Damn you, you sly sorcerer!

Not that it mattered, all he had to do was get you to Luna. Simple!

Blood drips to the floor from Huening Kai’s cheek from his freshly received wound as he kneels in front of the tyrant prince: Sehun. A sharp slice cuts across Kai’s right upper cheek along the cheekbone. He knew it would scar. Sehun’s blade edge is coated with Kai’s blood as he tosses it aside murmuring, “Hm, to think y/n escaped under your supervision, under your soldiers, Commander.”

Kai hisses as his cut stings and oozes out cayenne red blood - his punishment for his incompetence in the eyes of the crown prince. Kai peers down solemnly, “I seek forgiveness, your highness. Indeed I was careless. I should have checked all my guard’s stations and supervised the changeover of guards.” Sehun scoffs, “To think you are the son of one of the finest warriors of the kingdom, how pitiful.”

Kai murmurs, “If I may, your highness. Princess y/n, is not a fool. She is well aware of the gap between the changeover and was perhaps awaiting the moment - seeing as in particular I was not there. She took the opportunity to escape.” This, of course, was a lie. Sehun would have him executed if he found out the truth.

Kai reminisces about that night; he remembers how he swiftly knocked out the dungeon warden from behind (to avoid his identity being spotted) taking his keys to give to you in order to escape. He remembers how shattered your expression was; how much hatred you held in your eyes - how much pain. He was sorry - the least he could do was not let you suffer here. Perhaps, you could run away, start afresh elsewhere; leave behind all your worries. He didn’t want to see you die at the hands of Sehun.

It is still surprising for his soldiers and the prince, that you were apparently capable of such an escape feat. No one knew that you had used the tunnels (thanks to Kai latching the door back up as though it had never been opened!) All Kai could hope for was that you were safe, far away from here, that you had found help, wherever you were.

Oh, how he’d miss your precious face, bright smile and glimmering eyes. The way your eyes sparkled as you spoke to him; how you got flustered when he intentionally leaned close to you or flirtatiously complimented you. What a tragic end to his growing feelings.

“I shall overlook your incompetence, just this once. I expect no more foolishness from you, Commander. You are a fine soldier with an excellent bloodline, I expect utmost loyalty and efficiency, understand?” Sehun sighs aggravated as he seats himself back on the throne crossing one leg atop the other arrogantly. Kai’s eyes narrow and he hesitates.

Sehun’s lips form a cruel smile, “After all, I hope you haven’t forgotten, your family relies solely on the magnanimous pension from the royal family. Furthermore, it would be a shame for your lovely father, mother and sisters to be put into a dire situation, no?” Kai grits his teeth in front of the prince’s threat. He couldn’t lose his loved ones. Sehun had kept them in the palm of his hand for awhile now, to ensure that Kai wouldn’t support you in any manner.

A true sense of vulnerability and helplessness fills Kai now. Dread fills his soul as he peers down, “I understand, your highness. I swear utmost loyalty and will try beyond all limits to fulfill your commands.” He clenches his jaw alongside his fists on the floor. He was at a loss, he couldn’t help you anymore - he couldn’t inquire where you were. He just had to leave you be. You were important, incredibly so, but his family came first. He croakily murmurs to himself, “I’m sorry, y/n…”

The clack of footsteps interrupts his pitiful thoughts as he peers up seeing a familiar figure. Kai’s eyes darken as a grimace coats his features. The Royal Sorcerer of Fortuna bows extravagantly to Sehun. Choi Yeonjun.

A truly alluring figure indeed. Well admired by the various apprentices, fawned on by the maids of the palace for his features and undoubtedly loyal to the crown; or in this case, Sehun. An elusive man with much charisma.

Sehun beans at Yeonjun and waves Kai off dismissively, “Off with you, get back to continuing with the search party. Heed my warning and stay on task.” Kai nods, clutching his burning cheek before walking off in search of the Palace Healers. Yeonjun’s amused gaze follows the young knight; a lopsided smile on his face.

Yeonjun adorns a sleek, black velvet cloak contrasting his blonde hair and honey-skin. Sehun gleams, “My friend, how are your mother and father faring? How was your visit?”

Yeonjun hums contently, “Wonderful, he’s even more overjoyed hearing that I have earned the position of your Personal Advisor, alongside Royal Sorcerer. It is a great honour.” The young sorcerer had taken over his retired father’s position over two and a half years ago.

Yeonjun was a powerful sorcerer; handling magic with ease alongside being a sight for sore eyes. He’d grown to be quite cherished by the workers of the palace but remained distant from other nobles aside from his close friend: Sehun. After all, they had been childhood friends. He was the only one, Sehun could confidently confide in.

Sehun praises him, “But of course, you are my closest friend, my ally and an incredible sorcerer. Perhaps even the most powerful in the land. What more could I ask for?” Yeonjun lowers his head modestly, “You flatter me, your highness- or should I say, ‘your majesty’ soon?” Sehun’s expression becomes rather pleased.

He hums happily, “The preparations for the coronation have started. It should be grand,” he fawns over himself, “I can hear it already, the joyous cheers and screams of my name, the people peering up at me, in adoration of their new fresh-faced ruler.” Yeonjun muses, “Indeed, as you say, your highness. King Sehun, does have quite the nice ring to it.” Sehun chuckles, “I am glad you think so, my friend.”

Yeonjun’s eyes gaze at the prince with mixed glimmer as he suggests, “All you need is to take care of your sister and bring her back.” Sehun seethes, “Sister? She is nothing but a pest. A filthy rat that’s snuck her way into the palace walls.” Yeonjun hums, “But, some mercy is needed; she has lived with you for a long time, no? Perhaps negotiate with her?”

Sehun scoffs bitterly, “Unfortunately. I shall contemplate it, if she is caught. If not, she would have perished whenever she had escaped off too. Good riddance.” An expression of hesitation crosses Sehun’s visage. Yeonjun smiles; his eyes glimmering as he hums, “Surely, you aren’t anxious, your highness?” Sehun snaps his head to meet Yeonjun’s gaze, “Preposterous!”

Yeonjun’s expression feigns curiosity, “I merely thought you were worried if she would somehow find a way to succeed to the throne and come back? Attempt to overthrow you?” Yeonjun bows with a smile, “Though, don’t mind my ramblings your highness, I’m sure everything will go smoothly, your highness. After all, you are this kingdom’s one, true ruler. I place my full faith into you, my friend. She has but little chance.” Sehun’s jaw clenches and his fingers grip the armrests of the throne.

Yeonjun’s eyes glimmer, “I have not offended you, have I, your highness?”

Sehun brushes it off, “Of course not, you can speak freely with me. You are right, even if she does, her efforts will be futile.” Sehun’s eyes flicker back and forth in deep thought as he mutters to himself, “…got to hunt her down. Kill her.” An idea pops into his head. Sehun reassures himself as Yeonjun peers on with his usual serene smile.

After all, a seed of doubt can often sprout into the most wonderous tree of fear with fruits of anxiety and paranoia.

“Your highness?” Yeonjun questions bright-eyed. Sehun shakes his head repainting a pleasant expression on his face; a sheer contrast to his paranoia from before, “You will be well rewarded for your loyalty and friendship all these years, Yeonjun. All riches and power at your disposal, under my hand.” Yeonjun bows, “It is but my pleasure to serve you, your highness.”

Sehun praises, “If it weren’t for your guidance to take action now, I wouldn’t be sitting on this throne now. Slow poison; genius to not draw suspicion!” Yeonjun curtly hums, “Something I learnt from my father. I merely concocted it, you were the first to suggest it.” “You’re far too humble, my friend,” Sehun laughs.

Yeonjun smiles, “Modesty is a noble pursuit, your highness.” Sehun hums, “Indeed, but it doesn’t suit someone of your high caliber.” Yeonjun smirks pleased, “Thank you, your highness. Ah, I believe it is best I return to the Sorcerer’s Tower to resume my duties. I merely wished to greet you after returning from visiting my parents.” Sehun nods as Yeonjun bows, excusing himself.

The clatter of Yeonjun’s sleek boots resounds down the hallway as his cloak flows behind him majestically, as he strides with arrogance and a sly smile.

Hook, line and sinker.

————•••————

The last two days have been quite chaotic. Taehyun and you seem to bicker every few minutes over the most minuscule matters; though it does seem to humour the both of you (not that either of you would admit that, of course!)

You had complained about the numerous chores he had piled upon you claiming that you ‘needed to be humbled.’ - in what world? His audacity! When you complained and whined enough, he would join you, much to your satisfaction. You had figured he was at least a tiny bit of a considerate person deep inside.

Huffing, you ask, “Are you done?” Taehyun scoffs, “Give me time, I need to make sure we have what we need. I don’t want you sobbing because you can’t handle a little scrape here and there.” You glare as he continues, “Anyway, make sure all the windows are shut.”

Reluctantly, you obey and begin shutting all the windows of his home. You spot the last window in his alchemy corner and walk over carefully to go shut it. Your eyes catch a glimpse of a small uncoloured photo pinned to the wall showcasing parents and a small boy - from his features, you ascertained it was Taehyun.

“Hey! What have I told you? No snooping in the corner!” He calls out frustrated. You grin, “This is you right? How adorable you are! You have such bright, big eyes!” A small hue of pink blossoms on the sorcerer’s cheeks and he clears his throat flustered, “Whatever. Just put it back. It’s the only picture I have.”

You put it back and smirk, “Oh, how joyous you looked, so full of life. Not a grumpy sorcerer like you are now.” He deadpans, “Oh boo hoo, princess.” You bite your lip in thought; his eyes meet yours and you mumble, “Are your parents no longer…?” Taehyun laughs bitterly as he finishes packing the satchel of necessities, “That’s rather obvious. Of course they’re dead.”

You flinch frowning, “I-“ He hums nonchalantly, “No need to tread on eggshells, I’ve gotten over it. My mother died when I was young; due to an incurable illness. My father died peacefully here, of old age, after exile.” You frown; how lonely he must have been…

He sourly muses, “Imagine burying your own father, how pitiful.” Your eyes widen as you murmur, “I-I’m sorry…” His father didn’t even get a dignified burial; how horrid. You really wonder what had happened?

“Your sorry won’t fix things princess. It won’t make me feel any better,” he hums. You flinch at his tone and he scoffs, “But…thanks.” You ponder whether your mother was still alive. How pitifully your father must be watching these events unfold from the heavens above. Your heart aches terribly. He had faced loss like you; not only that but suffered years of isolation.

You peer back at his solemn expression as he closes up the satchel. Damn it, why did you have to be nosy? You shouldn’t have poked your nose in his affairs. Who was he to you, anyway?

Soon, you both leave Taehyun’s cottage and begin your journey towards the border of Luna. It would be a relatively short journey; around four and a half hours of solid walking. You yawn whining, “It’s far too early.” Taehyun rolls his eyes, “You’ve said this for the last two days doing chores. Tough luck, unless you wish to go at night when the bloodmoths-“ You snap, “I get it!” A chuckle escapes him.

You peer down at your outfit and grimace, “This outfit you summoned is far too dull for me. I look just as boring as you.” Taehyun glares over his shoulder, “I don’t think sticking out is good for you, secondly, I’m sorry my magical prowess in creating clothes from thin air isn’t enough for you. It’s almost as if I don’t create clothes that are fancy or fit royal trends?”You mutter as you traverse over the foliage, “So called sorcerer.” He rolls his eyes at your remark.

Your attire consisted of a brown skirt, white undershirt with puffy sleeves and brown laced up bodice - something a commoner would wear. Taehyun snickers, “Perhaps, dressing like an ordinary person will lower your ego and humble you.” You scoff, “Says the person with enough arrogance to sink a ship.” He muses, “Only a ship? You sorely underestimate my arrogance.” You scoff.

Both of you continue in your back and forth as you trek onwards through the shrubbery, vines and foliage of the woods. Your complaints of tiredness and his walking speed fall on deaf ears making you feel irate. Self-centered piece of-

No, no, compose yourself, y/n. Behave. Don’t punch his pretty face, even though you want to.

You stop at regular intervals to eat and drink with whatever is in his (ugly) satchel before walking ahead. Oddly, your bickering soon ceases into a comfortable silence as you walk beside each other. You peer at his height and side profile; if you were not aware, he would have looked as ethereal as the Fae described in the countless romance books you've read. It was unfair how handsome he looked! If only he didn’t have such a sour personality.

Suddenly, you yelp feeling your foot hook onto something and you begin toppling forward clumsily with a shriek. Taehyun’s eyes widen as he bolts forward grasping you within his arms. You grip onto his biceps as he steadies you. Heavens, his arms were firm. Wait- stop!

“What the fuck?” He snaps and you can’t help but breathlessly laugh at the faint concern in his eyes. You peer behind you seeing a tree root; you’d gotten distracted. Damn him.

“It’s your fault,” you hum. Taehyun scoffs, “How idiotic? Do you have no sense of self-awareness?” He straightens up and peers at your close proximity before giving you a gentle shove. “Hey-!” You call out, following after him. Your heart races as you snicker, “Worried about me?” He glares, “Of course not, in fact it was a mistake to catch you. Here I thought I shouldn’t let your pretty face get all scratched up.”

You flush at his words, “Pretty?” He deadpans, “Of course you focus on that, and you call me, vain?” You smile mischievously, “So you admit-“

“Nothing,” he cuts you off unamused, “Now shut it and don’t make me regret helping you.” A pout graces your lips. Why did you find him so amusing to poke fun at? Perhaps it was his nonchalance or ability to bounce back to your remarks?

You frown suddenly flooded with memories of Kai. You partook in banter with him as well. You wonder how he was doing? Despite his betrayal, it was him who allowed you to escape. Maybe, he had a reason? You shake your head; now is not the time to get caught up in the past. Focus, y/n.

“Thank fuck, I’m with you, otherwise you’d have died in two seconds out here,” he mutters. You sigh, there it is. “Focus on where you’re walking, sweetheart. If you get hurt, I’m going to have to bear the responsibility for it and that’s just a pain.” Scoffing, you respond, “How touching.” A smirk appears, “What? It’s true. You’re a burden.” You glare, “And you’re a nuisance, yet here we are.” He snorts.

More time passes and you make great progress despite you both arguing and bickering. Despite his attitude, you were grateful for him helping you. Noon passes and the intense sun clears up revealing the bright blue sky as the forest canopy begins to open up.

“We’re reaching the outskirts of the forest. Roughly two hours left, we’re almost there.” He utters tiredly. You groan, “Finally.”

You murmur, “How do you know this route? Have you been to Luna?” Taehyun hums, “Indeed I have, not deep inside the capitol, but on the outskirts to browse the markets. The last time I went, however, was two years ago.” You ask, “Will you leave me at the outskirts?”

Taehyun hums, “I’ll leave you by the city gates. From there you’re on your own.” A pang hits your heart. All alone? He notices your silence, “Hm? Why? Are you nervous? Just flaunt a bit of your jewels around and you’ll get help. They’ll recognise you in no time.”

Frowning, you murmur, “Right. Of course.” You felt a sense of ease with Taehyun beside you; but soon that was going to be gone. Why did it make you anxious? Who was he anyway? In fact, good riddance.

The dreaded moment of separation looms over you as you both spot the kingdom of Luna from afar. Taehyun hums, “Damn, there it is, you’ll be glad to not put up with me for much longer and I can soon be left contently in peace once more.” Your heart stings, and you release a wavering scoff, “Yes…indeed. The moment I’ve been awaiting.” He chuckles. You both march onwards despite your discontent.

Finally, the towering walls of Luna grow close and you both stop a few meters away from the city gates in which two knights stand guard. A sense of unease fills you; this is where you’d depart. Taehyun peers at you curiously, “Hm, this is the most silence I’ve heard from you since we’ve met.” You titter nervously.

In all honesty, you were scared. Despite how much he irritated you, he was at least some sort of support. Now, you’d have to go alone in a foreign nation. You’d already pestered him enough, he probably had enough of your obnoxious attitude. Yes, this was for the best. You’d no longer be a burden to him.

“Well, this is where we part,” he murmurs. You nod, “Of course. And…thank you, Taehyun. For putting up with me. For guiding me here.” Your heart twinges and you spot his cool expression flicker for a moment and he replies, “It’s nothing. I was rather bored anyway. Just…get going. You have a kingdom to save after all.” Couldn’t you ask him to join you? Why were you so pathetic?

You peer down at your hand, before sliding off one of your rings, “Here.” Taehyun’s eyes widen, “What? I told you-“ You hum amused, “I know, money means little to you, but you never know when you may need it. Doing your chores isn’t enough. So take it. For me.” He peers at the golden ring with a white opal inset with a mixed expression. You turn around with a sigh, “Who knows, maybe it’ll join your other little trinkets.” He remains quiet accepting it, “Thanks.”

With a deep inhale, you begin walking forward, “I’ll be going.” Taehyun’s eyes watch your retreating figure and he hesitantly murmurs, “Yes…goodbye, princess.” You peer over your shoulder with a snarky smile, “Goodbye, sorcerer.” Taehyun shakes his head with his signature smirk, “Don’t die out there.” Rolling your eyes, you wave him off dismissively.

Peering deeply at the ring in his hand, he begins to walk away - a sense of unease and dread pulsates within him. Were you going to be alright by yourself? Was he selfish for leaving you behind?

He didn’t care what you did. It wasn’t his problem - in fact he didn’t want anything to do with the royal family. He merely helped you out of pity. Right? ‘Yeah, that’s all’, he thinks.

As you approach the guards by the gates, their hostile eyes scan you. Politely, you murmur, “I wish to enter Luna; I seek an appointment with-“

“You look familiar? The crest on your necklace, madame.” The guard points and your eyes widen, “Ah, my family crest.” The guards look at each other with wide eyes. You murmur, “As I was saying, I wish to seek an appointment with the Prince-“

One of the guards grins, “Oh? Is that so? You wouldn’t happen to be the crown princess of Fortuna, would you?” You stiffen; his tone wasn’t very welcoming.

“Why do you ask?” You snark. The other knight grins, “This was too easy. You look far too regal, even in such peasant attire. Your manner of speech gives it away.” You glare, “So? If you know, I wish to meet your ruler. There is instability in my nation right now.”

“The runaway royal? Your nation?” They both cackle infuriating you.

Suddenly, one of the knights grasps your arm whispering into your ear with slimy grin, “You don’t know about the bounty do you?” You snarl, “Release me at once!”

The other knight grasps your flailing body, “Come now princess, relax. We’re taking you to the Prince as promised.” A bounty? The knights begin dragging you as you fight back, guffawing. “That bounty is ours! We’ll be rich!”

A scream rips out of your throat; you were safe nowhere. Your insufferably sadistic brother would never leave you be! He wanted you back and you knew why.

To execute you. You were a threat to the throne anywhere you’d be.

“Fuck- might need to knock her out, not like we need her conscious. Just alive.” the other knight barks. You scream again. Oh, how you wished you didn’t leave Taehyun! How you wished you put your pride aside and begged him to come with you!

Taehyun walks slowly along the path; he feels odd. Perhaps he had gotten tired of his loneliness. “She’ll be fine-“ He hears a loud scream pierce the air. What was that? Taehyun stops for a moment and as clear as day, he hears:

“Taehyun! Taehyun!” You bellow aimlessly. His heart drops and he contemplates. Why did he care? His job was done. He had walked quite far anyway, just continue walking.

“Taehyun! Please-!” His breath halts. Not even five damn minutes have passed, and you’re in trouble again. Oh, what to do with you.

Taehyun turns; his heart racing, “Fuck it,” and sprints with all his might back down the path; his slender fingers summoning his wand with ease.

Too bad the sorcerer was never very good at turning away people. He always seemed to invite trouble wherever he went due to his secretly soft heart.

He’d save you this last time. Just for his conscience’s sake. Plus, no one can sleep with a guilty conscience; and he liked his sleep.

That’s all.

Right?

Taglist: [open]

@royallyjjk @wolfytae-exe @rencarnationofangel @sirenla @matcha-binz @beomies-world @michinri @parkweylyn @wikireads @hanniehaeeeeeee1004 @elara828 @wonioml @onima-chan @moonekth @glossykai

[imkazz]

Rent?! No one ever talks about rent. Tell me rent things.

AUGHHHH RENT!!!!

i went to watch it at the stratford festival like three days ago!!!

(press for better quality)

I LOVE RENT! FROM SO MANY PERSPECTIVES! IT TALKS ABOUT THE AIDS CRISIS AND TRANS PEOPLE AND GAY PEOPLE AND DEATH AND GRIEF AND HOMELESSNESS AND SO MANY IMPORTANT TOPICS IN JUST ONE MUSICAL

keep reading if you want to see my theatre nerd side, i basically swoon over set design, backstage, lights, model choices, etc.

AS SOMEONE WHO LOVES THEATRE PRODUCTION A LOT MORE THAN ACTING, THE STAGE THEY USED TO CONVEY THIS MUSICAL HAS SO MUCH AS WELL!

LIGHTS, SOUND, PROPS AND MANAGEMENT OF SPACE WENT SO WELL AT THE FESTIVAL THEATRE!

its something called a thrust stage at the festival theatre, which is different than your usual type of stage, aka the proscenium stage. the thrust stage thrusts to the centre of the room, making it so that you can watch the play from all angles, and not specifically need to get centre, front row seats. you can see with the second photo below that even the people at the edge get an interesting perspective.

the actors and designers also have a fun time with thrust stages! you have to act with your entire body, as all pov seats can watch you, and designers have to be careful about props and use space wisely, especially since its a much smaller space than your usual, and theres no curtains meaning that scene changes have to be imaginative as well.

as you can see with the photo i took, i did in fact get centre front seats, only because a huge tour group backed out last seconds and my mom was able to snag the tickets.

(i actually watched it twice! first time at the festival was with the theatre group where i was looking at all the lights and cues and analyzing shit, but second time was bc my siblings wanted to watch it live and i could sit back and enjoy the show, looking at some things i wanted to rewatch that other campers had talked about that i missed (the first photo i took of the stage is from camp, on the balcony, while the second is the most recent and from in front of the stage))

from theatre camp, i also got the absolute privlage to get a tour of the festival theatre, and watch a changeover. since the festival theatre goes through multiple plays a day (richard III for a matinee, rent as a night show just as an example) they change the entire set.

i dont care about shakespeare, so were here to talk about the changeover to rent. they expanded the stage and made it much denser material, since people will be dancing on it, and changed the sudden drop to stairs, so the actors wouldnt trip on stage or while dancing. they also added that small platform to the centre of the stage, and did so much with it!

at first, that small platform was used as mark and rogers apartment, and there were metaphorical walls that everyone could see. even though collins was standing RIGHT NEXT TO THEM, he wasnt on the platform and was looking upwards, while mark was looking downwards, signalling they were on different floors.

for the 'la vie boheme' dance scene, they used it as a huge table to seat all the people around it, on the ground. they simly laid a cloth on the edges to make it a table, and the audience could take it as a table.

there was also a trapdoor in the centre of that thing, so for one musical number involving rogers and mimi, they were brought up, being the centre of attention while everyone else danced around them. it also became a small table for one scene.

the next thing the trapdoor did. it went down under the stage, where angel would climb onto it, and 'today 4 u' song, she rose out onto the stage in a puff of smoke and a badass christmas fit!!! so cool!

trapdoor was then used as a makeshift bed for angel, where collins helped her lie as she died of aids. they covered her with a huge cloth, which each of the group threw in and yelled 'im done!' and walked away, leaving collins still clutching it with angel underneath, the trapdoor going inwards as her grave.

let me tell you. they transitioned so well. the trapdoor went back into the trap room, where collins would also let go of the cloth and got it to sink into the hole. id assume the actor got out, the people down there would take the cloth, and while everyone on stage was doing the funeral scene, the people down there would put angels bucket with a bouquet inside and place it on the trapdoor.

theyd then let the trap back up onto stage, replacing the cloth and angel with her bucket and a bouquet in it. that made me sob the first time i saw it. holy shit.

now, away from the sad stuff and back to set design.

if you look at the photo, you can see windows in the backgrounds. they look like normal windows, until you look closer to see silhouettes in them. men and woman.

those were used A LOT to convey the scene. i cant remember the orders, but the main examples that stuck out to me:

for the 'tango maureen', the windows lit up red and you could see the people a lot better, which implies all the people shes slept with/cheated with

when they got together for the aids meeting, the windows lit up in rainbow colours to signify all the people who suffer to aids and the general lgbtq colours

when they were talking about homeless people with benny, the lights shone in different cold hues, showing all the people in tent city and how they must be freezing in the winter

'rent' the song, the windows were flashing with the song, and when the power got cut, all the lights went out except a faint blue from the lights above so the audience could still somewhat see what was happening

sound. all the cast used mics, id guess that the chorus would trade mics based on who had huge lines. before it started, you could hear general city sounds, cars, beeping, general business that you would get from new york that i found a bit cool. i think you can tell im not that passionate about sound.

alright, what else? costumes. costumes, costumes. I LOVED ANGELS FITS. HOLY FUCK, HER NEW YEARS EVE DRESS WAS SORTA TRANSPARENT BUT HAD A RAINBOW SHIMMER TO IT?! I LOVED IT SO MUCHHHHH AAAAAAAAA other than that i have little to no things about costumes... they were all wearing basic fits that were usual for the 80's, all sorts of hip-hop, t-shirts, jeans, your usual.

found some from the web! first photo is that outfit i scream about up there, and the second is her coming out of the trapdoor for 'today 4 u'!!!

okok now actors... I MET THE GUY WHO PLAYED COLLINS FOR THIS SEASON AT THE FESTIVAL!!! or, me and my entire theatre production camp did. we all got autographs, and got to speak to him bc we waited for everyone else to leave the theatre before we could go as a group, so all the actors had the time to change out of things and stuff. it turns out that someone he knew died of aids not too long ago, so his reaction to angel's death is pretty spot-on. he was so cool! the name's Lee Siegel if you wanted to look more into that.

last thing (i think). at the end, after an amazing scene where the cloth used on angel to lower her down the trapdoor was used to present all the little clips mark got over the year they all had together, angel came out of the centre door draped in this blanket, which all the cast would lay onto the stage.

and everything would go to applause.

in all, rent is amazing! <3 especially after watching tick tick boom!

(sorry for ranting i love theatre (realised i should probably save this to talk about in drama class when school starts...))

[copperbadge]

[ID: Five images; top left, a large blue canvas storage bin sits on my bed ready to be unpacked, while top right I show off all the elderly wire clothes hangers I'm disposing of. Center, a large lantern-like light fixture features an electric bulb, on top of which is a chunk of wax melting in a tray. Bottom left, my new surge protector with electric plugs and USB cords plugged in; bottom right, a very old power strip has been unplugged and is covered in dust and cat hair.]

Welcome to NaClYoHo Day 3, where we find out that Past Sam was an exceptionally thoughtful dude, while listening to How Did This Get Made's live "New York Ninja" episode that just aired.

I was dreading today's task, which was to do the summer-to-winter clothing changeover; when the weather turns cold in climates with actual seasonal change you pack away your lightweight clothes and get out the sweaters and such. But it turns out last year I was a fucking genius and not only did I pack all the winter clothes into one box so I don't even have to pull out the under-bed storage anymore, I even made a note in my running cleaning list to remind myself of the fact when it came time to do the changeover.

So all I had to do was pull the blue canvas bin out of the closet, unload it, and load in all the summer clothes. I didn't know if I'd have time to do anything else but it took like, 20 minutes, and that includes trying on all the clothes to make sure they fit. (I've dropped a few pounds since last winter.) So I also went through my closet, pulled out every shirt that either didn't fit or I don't like wearing, and purged a bunch of coat hangers. I'm trying to change over completely from wire hangers to plastic, the kind with the notches that you can hook things onto, although I'm thwarted at the moment by the fact that it's remarkably difficult to find them for sale.

What I DID get at Target is a snappy new "lantern" wax warmer, which is currently melting some scented wax in the hopes it will make my home smell nice. I also picked up a new surge protector that plugs in at the outlet, so now my heated pad and the extension cord for the movie projector are tidier, plus the charging cords for the bedside table are no longer plugged into a USB hub that itself is plugged into an ancient power strip that I've had since grad school. Farewell, gross firetrap!

I didn't get about 80% of what I went to Target for (they didn't have coat hangers, nishiki rice, or bread flour, and I forgot to look for snacky foods) but I got the things I really needed and I'm counting it as a "hardware store" trip on account of it. I didn't time the trip, but the non-shopping portion of the day's work took about an hour of a 90 minute podcast.

Disposable gloves used: Still only 1!

Trips to the hardware store: 2.

[gendercrystal]

PhDay 15: a day in the life of an experimental physicist on beamtime

Our goal is to have some high pressure-high temperature data on our 3 samples by the end of our 3 days here. It's a huge, busy facility and our allotted time is limited so we work round the clock.

08:00am breakfast in hostel shared kitchen 09:00 meet the other 4 and walk to lab, prep sample in the pressure cell that we will heat and shoot with x-rays (the beam) 11:00 demo of setting up vacuum chamber that holds the cell by a beamline scientist as we haven't used this equipment before 12:30 lunch at a cafe a short walk away

14:00 technical difficulties on the beam, we do other work in the control room while the beamline scientists fix it for us 16:15 beam switch on, start a test run and get used to the controls 19:00 walk to restaurant for dinner and decide on a plan of action

21:00 back at the beam, we split up: some of us stay and start collecting data, the others go to bed and will swap with us later *ungodly hours of the night* sit in a room clicking buttons and watching monitors; eat snacks; music (under pressure, hot to go) 03:30am shift changeover 03:50am go back to hostel for sleep

[artdcnaldson]

Longing for more Art angst in the changeover AU like in Valentine’s Day. Could you possibly do a follow up? Or maybe another angsty, sad, want to rip my hair out and sob, standford!Art x reader?

Rating: T

Word Count: 910

Warnings: Angst, Language, situationship being a situationship

Summary: The week of formal, Art finally lets you know that he’s not going to make it.

A/N: I jumped to write this so fast. Nothing makes me happier than Art and angst in the same sentence :) hope u enjoy this! Set the week of Part 1 of Changeover :)

Art was noticeably quiet as you modeled your formal dress for him. There was something to his expression that made you nervous— his smile seemed a little too sweet, his eyes a little too cold.

It had taken weeks for you to find one you’d liked, but you’d fallen in love at first sight with the one you were wearing. A pretty, Stanford red, just like he liked.

Well, maybe it wasn’t so much that you liked it than you knew he’d like it. And it just made it even more noticeable that he was being quiet.

“What?” You asked softly, brows furrowed.

“Nothing,” he said with a half-smile. He reached a hand out to grab yours and tugged you closer so you were slotted between his thighs. “You look really, really beautiful. You know that?”

His hand was warm on your lower back, which was exposed due to the revealing cut of the dress. His thumb rubbed soothing circles there.

It felt like there was another shoe, just out of sight, waiting to drop. Your pulse fluttered with anxiety as you looked at him.

“So you like it?” You asked, toying with the fabric. “I found a matching tie for you— it’s in my closet.”

There it was again. The flicker of guilt, or shame, or something. You pulled away. “Just unzip me.”

He sighed, but did as you said. The second the zipper was down, you walked away, putting as much space between the two of you as the small dorm could allow.

You pulled the dress down and tossed it over the chair of your desk. Kicked off your heels a little too aggressively. They slid beneath the risers of your bed. Didn’t matter, you wouldn’t need them.

“Baby—“

“Don’t.” You said firmly, jaw set with frustration. “When were you going to tell me?”

He didn’t respond. You pulled a tee shirt over your head and crossed your arms. He looked small sitting there, like a bug pinned under a magnifying glass.

“Art. When were you going to tell me that you weren’t going to fucking come? It’s five days until formal. Were you planning on letting me show up alone and look like a total idiot?”

He sighed, standing and crossing the room so he could wrap you in his arms. You stiffened, hoping he would let you go, but he wouldn’t.

“I was going to tell you today,” he said softly. “I swear, but then you brought out the dress, and you looked so excited that I just—“

Hurt squeezed your chest, making it feel hard to breathe or think.

“Patrick’s coming in, and Tashi thought the three of us should go to dinner. After the Pepperdine match, there are going to be team parties, so the only time that works for us would be Saturday night.”

You pulled back, a frown tugging at your lips. “So it’s about Tashi?”

He swallowed, annoyance visible on his features. “It’s not about Tashi.”

You scoffed and shoved him away. You didn’t want to be touching him, or near him, or even close enough to hear him breathing. You were torn between laughing and crying and biting his head off.

“Do you realize just how much you’ve wasted my time?” You asked finally, staring at the blank white board above your roommates bed. You could see Art’s reflection, the way his arms crossed and his brows furrowed. It made you even angrier.

“Genuinely, Art,” you snapped, turning to face him. “You’ve spent this entire fucking semester goading me with the idea that you might grow up and stop pining after your friend’s girlfriend. It’s been a waste of my fucking time.”

Art rolled his eyes. “You’re always making this about Tashi.”

“That’s because for you everything is about Tashi,” you yelled. “You want to be her boyfriend, you want to be the one she talks to about her day, you want everything I’ve given you, but from her. But she doesn’t want you, Art. She wants Patrick, and she’s always going to want Patrick.”

He rolled his eyes, jaw set tight. When he looked at you again, his expression was icy. You felt like you understood the nickname, finally. “You might feel better blaming me for all of the time you think you’ve wasted, but you knew I never wanted a girlfriend. You knew exactly what you were to me.”

“Right.” You laughed, despite everything, despite the pain in your chest, the pit in your stomach. It was all so fucking ridiculous. “I may be an idiot, Art, but at least I’m not fucking cruel.”

Art slammed the door on his way out, making the frames on the wall rattle. Your dress was red like fresh blood, a blight on your vision. You shoved it into your closet, crumpled and messy. It was a good thing you’d left the tags on.

There was a tiny part of you that thought Art might crawl back. A part of you that wanted to laugh in his face if he did, and a part of you that would accept his affection eagerly, desperately.

On Friday, Tashi fell on the court. Art was there then, and at the hospital. That night you fuck his best friend, or ex-best friend, or Tashi’s ex-boyfriend. All of the above.

On Saturday, you take your dress back to the mall for a full-refund. Patrick splits a Mrs. Fields cookie with you. It almost makes you feel better.

Two angst fics in a row? More likely than you think! Pls keep sending more changeover AU thoughts or prompts or questions! i love it :)🩵

[dduane]

Some changes coming at Ebooks Direct

And good ones, I think.

The Shopify platform on which our ebook store runs has undergone some changes in the last few years (generally for the better), and it's time we installed some new under-the-hood apps and software to take advantage of the improvements.

This isn't the kind of process that happens all at once, but there are some aspects of it that can be implemented fairly quickly. So over the coming weekend (or maybe a little sooner) we'll be installing a new theme called Koparion* that will make some changes to Ebooks.Direct's look and feel.

Not huge ones, though. For the time being I want to keep the alterations small and simple while I get a better sense of what else the theme can do to make shopping more straightforward and enjoyable for our customers. But once we make the changeover, the store should generally load faster and run more smoothly for users. After bringing the new theme online, mostly the work ahead will involve reorganizing collections and adding tagging so that books are easier to find, tweaking and updating old page layouts, replacing and resizing graphics, and testing various new features I'm interested in adding.

There should be no reason to take the store offline at any point, though, so people's shopping won't be interfered with. That'd be the last thing I'd want to do. :)

Meanwhile, thanks for your patience while we get to grips with this process.

*This is nothing to do with Koparion douglassi, by the way. Just as well: there are enough saurians running loose around the joint as it is... :)

[wr0ngwarp]

some refs for my jet set radio explorers of death joke au (that sure is a sentence) because i wanted to put them on art fight (..mostly for warehouse leapusverse lore reasons)

beat and yoyo seemed like they needed refs most urgently cuz beat has a bunch of designs on account of being squirtle and yoyo's design was just hard to parse in the pics he appeared in. yeagh

art fight bio under the cut for ppl who don't have an art fight account

based on PMD: Explorers of Death by sparklingdemon, HIGHLY recommended reading to get a grasp on what in the goddamn is going on here oh this is incredibly silly. so basically a while ago there was an in-joke about jsr and eod in a pokepasta discord i'm in, and i have a bad habit of taking jokes too far. so, of course, i took the joke WAY WAY WAY too far! the entire joke is the idea that Corn in Future retconned og JSR Beat as leader/founder of the GGs, so Corn and Beat are the Myras. no it’s not a joke funny enough to justify how many hours i sunk into drawing these. no attempt was made to change the setting, assign most of the other cast, or otherwise make this au hold up to ANY amount of scrutiny.

---- the base concept (aka reskinned eod plot) is that the og JSR timeline was getting, like, temporally retconned into the Future timeline, but Beat (in the role of Squirtle) refused to accept the changeover so he tried to hold onto his own fading timeline, trapping it (and himself) in a state of perpetual decay until he can take back the timeline. basically everybodys a grayscale rotting zombie it's miserable. also if you think "hey, isn't EOD!Beat less justified than Squirtle because the situation WASN'T life or death until he MADE IT that way" you would be right lmao JSRF Corn (as Myra), being the leader of the GGs in Future, shows up (overwriting the preexisting version of Tab ig) to try to put the dying timeline out of its misery so it can actually be reborn into the Future timeline. for some reason his spraypaint can make the zombies pass on. don't question it. he and Beat are kind of trying to take each other down so one timeline can take precedent here. Gum (as Shadow) is kind of torn between the two of them, with two overlapping contradicting sets of memories and also the most disastrous way to possibly combine her JSR and JSRF designs LMAO. her loyalties are kind of torn as a result and also she understandably isnt a big fan of all the murder going on here ... ...also, because this is a joke au that i did not bother to try to make sense, they're in the goddamn Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers for no real reason. i also tend to call Beat and Corn "Meat and Mourn" though i dont have a nickname for Gum :(. and they have some level of meta awareness that they're in a poorly crafted joke AU based on an existing creepypasta, and yet this knowledge of how inane it all is doesn't stop them from riding it out to its horrific conclusion. ...ha ha? also Yoyo is Bidoof he's just here to be the first to die dont worry about him

---- also because there's something profoundly wrong with me i have the main trio + Yoyo in me and my sibling's joke multi-crossover RP. Corn is MIA right now, Gum is in the Garage with the setting's regular version of the GGs (they are confused and concerned. esp normal!Gum)... ...and, uh... Beat and Yoyo are in the Warehouse. (Pauein 9696 is just kind of there too.) they're... friends? i think......???? they are trapped in there and dont know Warehouse Yoyo is actually the goddamn building theyre trapped in

in the warehouse, eod!yoyo is kind of... barely coherent, only aware a fraction of the time, and not really able to do a whole lot since he's in such bad condition. he's just kind of taking anything as it happens at this point bc he can't do anything about it, but internally he's very pessimistic both about the idea that Beat can fix anything OR that there's any chance they'll escape the warehouse. eod!beat is... sort of kind of friends with the Warehouse but it's a very fragile friendship prone to arguments since he is trying VERY hard to leave (esp cuz he has UNFINISHED BUSINESS with killing corn and MAKING THINGS RIGHT) but Warehouse Yoyo is manipulatively trying to keep him without letting on that's what he's doing. both of these guys are fucked in the head tbh. at least nobody's judging each other for being walking corpses with weird metafiction elements.

[valtionrautatiet-official]

I've been meaning to ask, all of VR's locomotives seem to be named SrXX, SvXX, DrXX, ...

What does the prefix (Sr, Sv, Dr, ...) mean? Presumably its something along the lines of "Diesel Locomotive" in Finnish or something, but I'd love to know!

You got it very close! I was going to make a detailed entry about the different systems that have been in use (as there have been three different ones for locomotives over the years, plus a separate one for multiple units), but entirely forgot. So I'll just do it here.

In the current system (taken into use in 1976):

The first (capitalised) letter is the (primary) power source D for diesel S for sähkö (electric)

The second (lowercase) letter signifies axle weight: k (kevyt) light loco of less than 11 metric tons per axle (there are currently no k locos) v (väliraskas) midweight loco of 11-16 metric tons r (raskas) is heavy locomotive of more than 16 metric tons

Multiple units follow a similar system, except the lowercase letter is always m for moottorivaunu, motorized carriage.

The numbers should theoretically just be a running numbering, but this only holds true for electric locos. The diesel numbering is a mess with gaps and numbers not being in consecutive order (the numbering started with Dr12, there never was a Dr17, and Dr20, Dr21 and Dr35 all predate Dr19).

Then to make things more complex, in 1942-75 a different system was in use where the first letter signified what types of trains the locomotive was primarily designed to haul.

H for henkilöjuna (passenger train) T for tavarajuna (freight train) S for sekajuna (mixed train, though this came to mean mixed use towards the end) P for paikallisjuna (local/commuter train) V for vaihtoveturi (shunter)

In practice pretty much all locos except for the V's were mixed use ones already during the steam era: for example the Pr2 local traffic locos were mostly used to haul long-distance express trains and occasionally did freight trains too. For diesels, the flagship locos were classed as Hr's (even when they could not be used to haul passenger trains, as was initially the case with the Hr13), but apart from shunters all other locos were simply classified as S's. It's also maybe amusing that the first electric locos were delivered under the old system as Sr1 (mixed-use heavy loco 1), and kept the same designation under the new system, thanks to Finnish having an invented word for electricity that also begins with an S.

At the same time with the changeover to the current system they also changed the breakpoint between v and r, resulting in Sr12 (mixed use heavy loco) becoming Dv12 (diesel midweight loco). I sometimes wonder if there will be another overhaul once the last Dv12 is retired, as apart from those locos all in-use Finnish locos are in the r weight. Should we change the "borders" between the different weights again, or maybe just change the small letter to v for veturi (locomotive) to differentiate from the m for multiple units?

Finally, up to 1942 loco classes were given a single capital letter and a running number based on the wheelbase (which I think is/was the system also used in Sweden). And for whatever reason letters A through F were recycled for new wheelbases at different times, but we never went through the full alphabet; R was the last letter to be taken to use.

[asirensrage]

Mise en Place - A "choose your own adventure" style fic - Part 1

Fandom: Punisher AU Rating: Likely Explicit. Pairing: Billy Russo x OC Warnings: Dark!Fic, threats, murder, obsession, swearing, and likely more to be added... Summary: Nadine thought her biggest problem was helping to keep the restaurant she worked at afloat as the neighbourhood starts being bought out from under them. A chance meeting in an elevator with an old fling proves differently…

Notes: And so, we begin! Heed the warnings! This chapter is not rated explicit but others will be.

If there was one word to describe herself lately, Nadine would say it’s exhausted. 

Her day had been filled with deliveries that were improperly made, a sous chef quitting without notice, and at least one customer who wanted to argue with her over their order. Honestly, she just wants to go home, open a bottle of wine and then crawl into bed. 

She presses the button to call the elevator, glancing at another sign informing the occupants that there will be another change made to the building. Since the ownership changeover, they’ve been making multiple improvements. Luckily none of it seemed to involve raising the rent. Yet. 

The doors open and she slips in. There’s someone already there, coming up from the parking lot. Of course, it’s her luck that when she’s covered in grease, food splatters and sweat, rocking second day hair that she runs into him again. 

Billy is standing there, in a well-pressed suit and smelling better than any man has a right to. It’s been enough of a day that she doesn’t even bother looking at him. They hooked up a few times, back when things weren’t so hectic. It was fantastic but both of them had their lives and she had no intention to tie herself down. Not when she’s trying to keep this restaurant alive when everything else around them keeps failing and being bought out. 

He doesn’t greet her, too busy texting. It’s not a surprise. His work always had his attention first. It’s part of why they fit so well together. The button for their floor is already pressed so she leans against the wall and waits. Her eyes close and she tries to hold back a yawn. She can practically feel the comfort of her bed waiting for her. She just has to get to it. 

She peeks out at the man in the elevator with her. It really was unfair that he looks as good as does. Him and his perfect suits, bright ties and… She pauses. Her eyes narrow as she realizes what she’s seeing. There is blood on his clothes. She glances up and sees more blood splattered against his hands. She looks at his face…and finds him staring back at her. 

mise en place tag: @muchadoaboutcj billy russo tag: @wheresthesunshinesblog  

general tag: @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @veetlegeuse @chickensarentcheap @residentdormouse @endless-oc-creations  @stanshollaand @wordspin-shares @chrissymunson

[cevans-is-classic]

18+ only! Sexual content, blood, death, questionable morals when Max is involved. Did I mention blood?

My masterlist

Pedro Pascal

Two years, six days and 8 hours ago, you walked into your boss’s office expecting to be fired. It’d only been a few months since you started, but the changeover was hectic, and standards of working slipped through the cracks. 

The fact this was your first corporate job didn’t help. They had hired you under the referral of your old roommate. The idea was a long shot, but you got the job. The hours were long, and the pay was shit, but you didn’t have to sweat your ass off or wear a name tag. 

Overall, being employed at Acla’s Pharmaceuticals wasn’t bad. 

Didn’t mean you wouldn’t get fired for forgetting a coma in paperwork, though. 

Which led to you being called to Max Phillips’ office. Your flats were rubbing against your heel as you walked. The smell of desperation and stale coffee clogged your nose, and, for the life of you, finding his office was impossible. 

The mental math of your budget and bills ran through your head at top speeds. Thoughts of ramen packets and macaroni and cheese blended with your cat’s brand of food. You could afford to feed yourself or your cat for the next three months and, let’s be real, your cat wins. 

Knocking on the door felt wrong. It echoed. 

Your stomach twisted when Mr. Phillips shouted for you to come in. 

It twisted again when you saw blood all over his desk, covering his tie and dripping from the pen in his hand. You wouldn’t say it looked like a massacre. That’d be extreme, but a solid murder was possible. 

Was the blood his? 

Did he mean to call janitorial and got you instead? 

Was that possible? You were in claims which, yes, sucked, but wasn’t near the cleaning crew was it? 

(Not that anything’s wrong with the cleaning crew. You simply hated vacuuming and there seems to be carpet in a lot of places here.) 

Max smiled when he noticed you. 

“Ah, there you are.” The blood dripped off the pen, splattering over paperwork. 

“Um, you needed me Mr. Phillips?”

His smile tilted as he shook his head. “Please, call me Max.” 

“Sorry Mr-.” You paused, “Uh, Max.” 

He rose to his feet, the tie swinging across his white shirt. When you glanced down at it, he followed your gaze and huffed out a laugh. 

“Yes,” He dabbed the tie with his fingers, “You must be wondering why I asked for you.” 

That’s an understatement. 

Did he need an alibi? 

Could you be an alibi? How long were you at work? 

“I was talking to Janet, your office manager. She says quite a few things about you.” His smile widened. “All good things, of course. One thing she mentioned really stuck out. You were a medic, right?” 

You’re not sure if a medic could handle this. How many bandaids did he need?

“Uh,” You tried to look away from the bloody handprint he left when he stepped around the desk, “Not really. I trained in phlebotomy, but had to quit when my sister got sick.” 

Another smile, all teeth, “You worked with blood though, right?” 

“That’s the whole point of phlebotomy.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them. 

Max’s smile faded, dripping with blood. He rounded the desk to lean against it, his arms crossed, the red under his fingernails left marks on his suit. 

You were getting fired and, possibly, blamed for murdering someone. 

When Max burst into laughter, it startled you. “Ah, excellent, a sense of humor. That’s what we like around here, Sugar. People who can dish out as good as they get. Did you know Patrick Chambers in HR once did a standup routine for the Christmas party? Guy has the laughs.” 

“I bet.” Jesus, shut up. 

Max clapped his hands together. “Anyway, I was hoping you’d help me with something.” 

When he pushed away from the desk, his foot kicked out, dragging your gaze down and- “That’s a head.” 

“Yes, it is, and you, Sugar, are going to help me keep that from happening.” Once more he smiled, canines extended.

“I’m not being fired?” 

Max winked. “Promoted more like it.” 

Two years, 6 days and 9 hours ago they handed you an NDA with a contract to help Max attain blood donations without killing (sometimes) people. 

(He still killed people, you learned, but only when they didn’t meet their quarterly goals) 

Since that day, you’ve spent hours on end in the man’s office with bags of blood being loaded into a built in cooler. Max wanted to throw them in all at once, but the blood was fragile. You had to make sure they stayed hanging and didn’t congeal before you could store them. Max had a penchant for B+ which meant you had to organize the other types as backups. 

Now and then you got stuck sitting in the office's corner as he held a stranger against the desk and bit down. 

“Nothing beats the fresh stuff, Sugar.” He’d aim a finger gun at you.

“You’re going to run out of suits if you keep it up on the clock.” You’d slip his dry cleaning receipt towards him. 

He’d given you three days off a week. Those three days you lived by a schedule of importance. 

Grocery shopping (vegetarian meals don’t last long) 

Bills (Max pays you a pretty penny) 

Therapy

Therapy is important. 

You’d been worried about the mental trauma you experienced every day working for Max. What gets brought up the most is your inability to form proper boundaries. 

“Your boss expects a lot of you.” Kathryn hums, her eyes focused on yours. 

“The vacation days are wonderful.” They really are. You could take your sister and three friends to San Diego last year for a week and afford to splurge your heart’s content. 

Sometimes, when you’re sitting across from your therapist you think about walking into Max’s office and finding another dead body. You think about the blood covering his suit, coating his hair, the way the air had a copper taste to it. It’d cross your mind faster than a hamster wheel and you always had the same reaction.

Indifference. 

Which, honestly, isn’t a surprise to you. 

You say it’s amazing compartmentalization skills. Kathryn says it’s deeply rooted repression. 

Tomato, tomahto. 

All that being said, nothing would have prepared you to walk into Max’s office on this day. Your bag is heavy over your shoulder with newly bagged blood. The door opened with a squeak, reminding you to ask Hamish for some WD-40. Looking up at the hinges distracts you from the noise. 

The squelch behind your head sounding like Max draining his last baggie. 

Your mind focused intently on what needed to be refilled that it took a solid thirty seconds for you to realize what was happening. 

The flex of Max’s ass, the sharp smack of hips against hips and the muffled moans of the woman he had bent over the desk. The same tie he’d wore the day you thought he’d fire you shoved into her mouth. 

Max had his hand circling her wrist, his other hand pinning her down. 

It wasn’t the blatant and unprofessional display of sex that had your mind reeling. 

It was how good Max looked, his mouth covered in blood, trails of it following the line of his chest. He tossed his jacket and left his shirt open. His slacks pooled around his ankles and you could see the tense hold of his thighs. 

There was blood running from the woman’s neck, her chest, her legs. Max had it on his fingers, caked beneath his nails. 

The first thought that bubbled to the surface and made its way out of your mouth stunned you. “Did you finish the Carpelix file first? 

You rarely remembered the name of the new blood pressure drug. 

Unless it involved your boss’s ass, you guess. 

The woman turned her head before Max did. Her eyes half lidded, spit drowning the tie. She had a pale hue to her skin, the pallor striking next to the dark wooden desk. 

She muffled something around the tie which had Max looking over his shoulder at you. 

“You’re back early.” He fucked into her, hard, jarring the desk that held them up. 

“Traffic was light.” With that, you walked towards the cooler. 

There was only one baggie left like you expected. An O negative, his least favorite. You tried not to stock up too much on O blood types. Sometimes you didn’t get lucky enough to wrangle A or B types and Max could suck it up. Literally. 

“Did you stop for bagels?” He sounded closer. You glanced back and shook your head as he buttoned up his pants. 

The woman was squirming, her hands slipping in the blood as she lifted herself up. You raised a brow at Max who looked down at the woman and frowned. 

“Regina,” He pulled her up, “You’ve met before, right?” He waved a hand towards you, the other circling her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder. 

The woman, Regina, squinted at you. “I don’t know.” 

You squinted yourself, looking closer as Max slid his hand up her side. He cupped her breast his thumb brushing her nipple, and she shivered.

Max tilted her chin to the side, aiming her full gaze at you. 

“Regina Mallord.” You rolled your eyes. “She rear-ended my car a few months ago.” 

He smiled, “Did she?” 

Regina was whining as Max played with her, his fingers moving across her chest, over her nipples and back. She squirmed in his hold as blood dripped down her neck. Some of it dried around her collar bone, fingerprints marking through the path. 

“If I remember correctly,” Max murmured, “Your car was in the shop for a week, right? If I also remember, you had to Uber to work.”

You rolled your eyes again, “Yes, Max. You complained about me being late for a week straight — I wasn’t late. You’re just impatient in the mornings.” 

He nips at Regina’s ear. “I really am.” There’s a moment, a single moment, where your eyes meet. 

Max winks again, slowly, his mouth stretching as his face contorts, brow scrunching. The veins along his temples darkened before he opens his mouth wide and rips Regina’s throat out. 

Both of you watch her body hit the floor with a wet crash. 

You sigh, “What was the point of that?”

Max nudges her arm with his foot, stepping over her to move closer to you. “She was in the break room when I went to clean my cup.” 

“So, you decided to fuck her then kill her?” 

He reached out, his finger tracing the line of your jaw, “I planned on only killing her, but I got a bit rowdy.” 

You swiped his hand away. “A bit?” 

Max stepped closer, leaning against the cooler, his hand coming back up to touch your necklace. “I saw her car yesterday. I recognized it from you showing me the cameras. You had to pay almost 3000 to get your car fixed.” 

“Yeah,” You didn’t swipe him away this time, let him drag a path from your neck to your jaw, “That’s what I get for forgetting to re-up my insurance.” 

Max quirked a brow. “You’re a treasure, Sugar.” 

“You say that because I don’t question,” You directed your gaze at Regina’s body, “that.” 

“Hmm, yeah.” He leaned closer, “but also because you make my day a little better.”

A spike of pleasure shot down your spine, heat curling in your belly. Max’s eyes were deep pools that crinkled when he smiled. There was an innocence to them, a puppy dog look that made it hard to tell him no. 

It’s worse when he tilts his lips into a smile and aims his attention at you. 

You’d blame it on his hypnosis abilities, but you knew the truth — Max Phillips is a gorgeous son of a bitch. People rotate between wanting to stake him in the heart or suck his dick. 

Right now, you want to do both. 

Mostly the dick part. 

The other would spill more blood and Jeffery will have a hell of a time as is. 

“Sugar,” He drew your attention back to him, “How about I take you for dinner tonight?” 

You sigh, “Max,” His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up, “It’s Tuesday.”

“Yeah?” Another look at your lips. His tongue darts out to lick away the blood at the corner of his mouth. 

“Tomorrow is the corporate meeting.” Max frowns. 

“That’s not until July.” 

“Max,” His mouth flattens, “It is July.” 

The kiss was tangy, his lips sliding along yours. His tongue taste of blood, coffee, and something else. Something deeper. It tastes of Max. 

“Sugar,” He whispers when he pulls back, “Let me take you to dinner. It’s the least I could do for all that you do.” 

“Max.” 

“I love hearing you say my name.” He kissed you again. This kiss was deeper, harder his arm circling your waist to press you to his chest. 

What does it say about you that this was the best kiss you’ve ever had? Having Max Phillips groaning into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hip. You can feel the shift of his legs as he turned you around to press against the wall. 

The way his body fits against yours makes your knees weak. 

Your mind reeled, making you dizzy headed as he nipped at your jaw, down your neck. It was heady, heavy, the air thick around you. 

Your eyes fell on Regina’s dead body, and the kissing stopped. 

“Max.” He buries his face in your neck, “Max.” You push at his shoulder. 

He sighs, “Yes?” 

You aim your gaze at the corpse. “She’s staining the carpet.” 

Max barks out a laugh loud enough that it startles you. 

“We’ll finish this tonight, yeah? For now, you mind calling the cleaning staff and make sure Jeffery brings more than one bag.” 

Two years, 6 days and 10 hours since you thought you were going to be fired, and you had a date with your boss and call for a body clean up. 

Yay.

I have a whole thing with Max killing people for reader 🤨