#zsakuva james

[yoursinisforgiven]

NOT A LOT, JUST FOREVER ──

pairing: elias x reader (barista)

cw: afab reader (mentions of menstrual cycle), mentions of drugs, mentions of poison, mentions of blood, needles, grieving, gang violence, mentions of pregnancy, suicidal thoughts, death, references to this fic, implications of sex, ( . . . ) implies a time skip shorter than an hour!

(this fic contains very heavy topics, if you're not in the right head space to consume such content please don't!)

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

It had begun with the small things—things so insignificant they could be dismissed without a second thought, brushed aside like dust caught in the light. 

Things Elias would rationalize with careful deliberation, his mind weaving intricate justifications, searching—hoping—for an alternative truth, any truth but the one creeping beneath his skin like an unwelcome specter.

Every two and a half weeks, without fail, Lexi arrived. The Wraiths’ supply chain manager, a woman who wielded her sharp tongue as deftly as a blade, who laughed in the face of pleasantries and never shied from a biting remark. Her visits were as routine as the ticking hands of a clock, predictable in their timing, their contents, their exchange. She would drop off the necessities—neatly packed, sealed with the emblem of the Wraiths’ unrelenting efficiency.

James had made sure of it, had drummed the importance of rigor into them like a mantra. Every item, every box, every insignificant object had undergone scrutiny before it even reached Lexi’s hands. It was a system built on control, on meticulousness, on the unwavering certainty that nothing, not a single fragment, could slip through unseen.

But had they been rigorous enough?

The question lingers like an unwelcome shadow, curling at the edges of your mind as you sit atop the marble island in the kitchen. The surface is still warm beneath you, retaining the ghost of your presence, a silent testament to the moments passed. Beside you, the black box sits untouched, its presence as ordinary as it is unsettling. It had been carried in by a woman whose face was unfamiliar save for Elias’s sparse descriptions—James’s secretary, his fiancée.

A small smile tugs at your lips, the remnants of a memory still fresh in your mind. A conversation not long past, filled with laughter, a moment of lightness amidst the weight of suspicion. Elias, flushed and flustered, pink dusting his cheeks at the mention of a past crush on her. The way he had tried—half-heartedly—to deny it, only to be met with your teasing, your laughter ringing in his ears.

“What’s got you so giddy?”

His voice breaks through your reverie, warm and edged with amusement. You glance up to see him approaching, a bowl of ramen in his grasp, steam curling into the air like whispered secrets. He places it beside you with deliberate care before shifting closer, caging you within his arms. The heat of him is immediate, palpable, radiating through the thin fabric of his rolled-up sleeves. You place the warm mug of tea down, you’d had a few sips before taking note of the odd flavor as well as the quickly dissolving white powder at the bottom. You lower your gaze, drawn to the way the veins in his hands and forearms shift beneath his skin, taut and flexed against the cool marble. It sends a shiver down your spine, a flicker of something primal and intoxicating curling in your stomach.

“Nothing,” you murmur, though the slight hitch in your breath betrays you.

Elias smirks, a knowing glint in his eyes as his fingers find their way to your thigh, tracing absentminded patterns against the plush skin. A simple touch, yet it sets fire to your veins, spreading warmth like ink bleeding into paper.

You lean in, drawn by some invisible force, halting just before your lips meet his. The scent of him—rain-soaked and clean, tinged with something uniquely him—fills your senses, lulling you into a daze. The teasing ghost of his lips against yours sends a delicious shudder through you, the promise of something more lingering in the space between.

And then, just as quickly, he pulls away.

A soft whine of protest escapes you, his name falling from your lips in a breathless murmur, and it’s enough—it’s always enough—to make him cave.

His lips crash against yours, a collision of want, of raw, unfiltered need. There is nothing hesitant about the way he kisses you—no prelude, no careful buildup—just hunger, desperate and unrelenting. His lips are warm, impossibly soft against your own, yet his movements are anything but gentle. Before you can even melt into the sensation, to let it settle and consume you, his tongue drags over your lower lip, insistent, demanding, leaving no room for resistance.

You surrender, parting for him, and the moment you do, he groans—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and spills into your mouth. It’s him who loses himself first, him who drowns in the taste of you. His hands move with purpose, rough and certain, finding your waist and digging into your flesh as though anchoring himself to reality, as though he might drift away if he doesn't hold you tight enough. Then he pulls you forward, flush against him, rolling his hips into you in one slow, deliberate grind.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips before you can stop it, the sensation rippling through you like an electric current. Instinct takes over, thought slipping away like sand through your fingers as your legs coil around his waist, locking him in place. He lets out a ragged breath, his forehead pressing briefly against yours as if trying to regain some semblance of control. But there is none—only this, only him and you, an endless spiral of tension coiling tighter and tighter with every shared breath.

Without warning, he lifts you effortlessly, hauling you off the counter like you weigh nothing. The sudden movement makes you clutch at his shoulders, laughter bubbling up from your throat, light and breathless. “Where are you kidnapping me to?” you tease, voice tinged with amusement, though the heat in your veins betrays you.

His response is immediate, unfiltered. “Would you rather I fuck you on the kitchen counter?” His voice is low, edged with something wicked, something knowing.

Your breath catches, a sudden rush of heat blooming under your skin. “Elias!” you hiss, scandalized, but you don’t pull away. Because under different circumstances—under different lighting, a different moment, without the watchful gaze of those behind the cameras—you know you wouldn't mind.

He chuckles darkly, the sound rich and teasing, before his lips graze over your jaw, whispering something against your skin that is lost to the rush of movement. And then the world shifts, the kitchen fading behind you as he carries you toward the bedroom, where the walls will bear witness to what the night has yet to unfold.

The forgotten bowl of ramen sat abandoned on the marble countertop, steam curling into nothingness, its warmth fading just as quickly as restraint had in the moments before.

──

It had been three weeks since the night of urgency and heat—since the kitchen counter had been forgotten in favor of something far more primal. And now, here you were, not in the throes of passion but in a different kind of pain, a searing discomfort that had taken root deep in your core. Your body trembled, clutching at your stomach as if to hold the agony in place, to somehow will it away. But the more you tried, the more it tore at you.

The pain had come on suddenly, interrupting the peaceful nap you had managed to fall into, the world spinning as it erupted from within you. You gasped for breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thick, too suffocating.

Elias, ever alert to your every movement, was quick to notice. He’d been sitting across the room, controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen, but that didn't matter now. The moment he saw your face contort in distress, everything else disappeared. The game paused, the controller tossed aside without a second thought as he rushed to your side, his footsteps urgent, his hands desperate to find something to hold on to.

"Hey, hey, talk to me," his voice was low, tinged with worry, as he crouched beside you. His hands hovered over you for a moment, unsure, before gently resting on your shoulders, trying to ground you, to calm you. His touch was warm, reassuring, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the pain. Not yet.

You had been enduring this for nearly a week now—this unrelenting discomfort that seemed to flare up at unpredictable moments, seizing your body with such intensity that it left you breathless. You’d passed out once, a frightening episode that seemed to only heighten Elias’s concern. He hadn’t left your side since, staying close, always watching, always listening for the slightest sign of distress.

When you first told him about the pain, he had asked, almost with the hope of a desperate prayer, if it was just your period, that it would be something temporary, something familiar. But when you shook your head in response, you saw the worry creep into his eyes, the unspoken questions piling up faster than either of you could articulate.

And then, within an hour of the situation worsening, Warden had been contacted. The familiar faces of James, his fiancée, and a man dressed in white had entered the safe house, their presence heavy in the air, each person observing, assessing the situation with varying degrees of concern.

You tried to hold it together, to keep the discomfort masked, to keep the unease from showing, but you couldn’t. Not with all of their eyes on you, their weight pressing down like an unspoken demand for answers. Elias saw it, of course. His eyes were never far from you, never distracted for even a moment, and the moment he caught the flicker of pain in your expression, he knew.

“They don't want anyone in here right now.” his voice was firm, more commanding than usual. His gaze flicked to Warden first, then James, and his fiancée—each one a familiar face, each one he trusted. But there was no room for trust right now, only the urgency of protecting you, keeping you safe.

The three of them exchanged brief glances, some unspoken understanding passing between them before they nodded and quietly left the room. It was only then, when the door closed behind them, that Elias allowed himself to breathe, though the tension didn’t leave his body. He was still wound tight, still fighting to keep his emotions in check.

But the woman who had been with them—James’s fiancée—was allowed to stay. You had never fully understood why her presence felt oddly comforting, but it did. Her calm, her soft smile, the way she seemed to embody a sense of peace in the midst of chaos. She was a quiet strength, and in this moment, that was all you needed.

Her gaze met yours across the room, and she offered you a gentle nod, a reassuring smile that made the tension in your chest ease just a fraction. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to—her presence alone was enough to steady you, even if only for a moment. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a shared silence that didn’t need explanation.

Elias, however, didn’t take his eyes off you. His hand was still on your shoulder, his thumb gently brushing over your skin in a small, repetitive gesture. He was trying, in his own way, to soothe you, to offer whatever comfort he could. But you could feel the rawness of his worry, the depth of his concern as if it was bleeding through his skin, pooling around you, surrounding you with an unspoken need to fix everything that was wrong.

You wanted to reassure him, to tell him that you were okay, that it was just a temporary pain, but the truth was, you weren’t sure. You didn’t have the answers, and that terrified you as much as it terrified him.

          . . . 

The silence in the room thickened with every passing second. James’s fiancée had stepped back slightly, allowing the doctor dressed in white to take the floor. His presence, though neutral and professional, felt like a weight bearing down on your chest, each breath a labor as the air became thick with unspoken dread.

You didn’t want to look at Elias. You couldn’t. If you did, the tremor in your own hands would betray you, would give voice to the terror that clawed at your insides. You knew the fear was there—could feel it pooling like an unholy tide in the pit of your stomach. It wasn’t just the pain anymore, it wasn’t just the discomfort that had now become familiar. No. This was something else, something deeper. Something that felt like it was beyond you.

The doctor cleared his throat, his gaze flicking from Elias, to you, then to the small vial of liquid in his gloved hands, the one that had been handed to him just moments ago.

The words spilled from the doctor’s mouth, clinical and cold, like a distant, irredeemable truth. “We’ve tested the blood work,” he began, his tone unfeeling, detached, as though he were delivering mere information, not the harbinger of death. His eyes flickered briefly toward you, meeting your gaze for a fraction of a second before darting away again, as though unable—or perhaps unwilling—to confront the weight of what he had just revealed. “There are traces of Arsenic Trioxide—‘White Arsenic’—in your system.”

The words themselves were enough to bring your world to a halt. Arsenic. The name, so simple, yet so utterly suffocating. The poison, a silent killer, the kind that didn’t act with the brutal immediacy of a wound but rather crept into the body like a thief in the night, slow and insidious. It was the kind of poison that didn’t seek to tear, to break, but to drown.

White Arsenic. A name that sounded so innocent, yet it had killed kings, betrayed monarchs, and stolen lives in quiet whispers for centuries. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, each beat seeming to reverberate in your bones, your pulse thrumming in your ears. Your breath, once steady, caught in your throat, and the air around you grew impossibly thick, as though the very atmosphere had thickened, pressing in on your lungs. Your body was suffocating, and it wasn’t from the weight of your own breath—it was from the suffocating reality of what was unfolding before you.

Elias's grip on your hand tightened so suddenly that it almost hurt. His fingers, once warm, now felt like a vice, his knuckles stark white, almost translucent in the dim light. You could feel his pulse racing beneath your fingertips, erratic and out of sync with the rhythm of his usual calm. His breathing, too, had become shallow, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. You could sense his tension, his own fear woven through his touch, but you didn’t dare meet his eyes—not yet. If you did, if you looked at him, you were sure that the dam of your fragile composure would break. And in this moment, you couldn’t afford to break. Not yet.

The word Arsenic rolled through your mind again, echoing in your skull like a drumbeat, rhythmic and unforgiving. How? Why? Your mind raced, spiraling into a sea of questions, questions that could never be answered. But there was one question that loomed larger than the others, one question that gnawed at you with the persistence of hunger: How long?

How long had it been inside you? How long had this slow poison been quietly ravaging your insides, slowly eroding you from within, bit by tiny bit? You had no answers. No explanations. The very thought of it was enough to make your stomach twist in on itself, a cold knot forming in the pit of your gut.

The doctor’s voice continued, though you found it increasingly difficult to focus on his words, their meaning blurring into the chaos inside your head. “With proper care, it’s possible to treat, but... without it, the chances of survival are slim. If left untreated, the effects could become irreversible. There’s no telling how long you’ve had it in your system, but at the rate it’s progressing... It could be fatal—”

Fatal. That word, spoken so casually, hung in the air, its weight settling over you like a dark fog. Fatal. You tried to keep your focus, tried to keep your attention on the doctor’s words, but it was all so distant now. His voice, though still there, had become muffled, a hum in the background, drowned out by the pounding in your ears. Your eyes scanned the room, but the edges of your vision had begun to blur. The light around you felt harsh, unnaturally bright, and you blinked hard, trying to clear the haze that had settled over your thoughts. Was the air too cold? Was it always this cold?

Had Elias opened the window? Or had the world simply turned too sharp, too alien in the wake of this news?

Your thoughts grew more disjointed, spiraling down into places that terrified you. Is this karma? The question seemed to rise from nowhere, pulling at the very fibers of your being. Is this the price I pay for a wrong I don’t even remember committing? What had you done to deserve this? To deserve the slow, excruciating certainty that you were dying, that the life you had tried to live, the life you hadn’t even begun to truly claim for yourself, was slipping through your fingers?

Your throat constricted, tighter and tighter, as though it were closing in on itself, a vise around your very words. It was getting harder to breathe. The room, once so familiar, was now distant, like a scene from a dream you were desperately trying to escape. You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even process the terror that was bubbling inside of you, threatening to break free, threatening to destroy what little control you had left.

And then there were your parents. Your friends. Would they even know what happened to you? Would they find out that you were gone, that you were slowly fading from existence with no warning, no goodbyes, no answers? Would they even care? The thought twisted in your chest, but more than that, you wondered how they would remember you. Would they search for the truth? Or would they bury you with nothing more than a lie, a convenient, painless lie to ease their grief? The idea of them grieving you—without understanding the full truth—felt like a punch to the gut.

Would a lie be better? Something sweet, something that would leave them with no questions, no lingering doubts. Something they could hold on to, something that wouldn’t torment them with the cruelty of what you were going through now.

Your eyes blurred further, the tears clouding your vision as you blinked them away. It was all becoming too much. Too much for your fragile mind to process, too much for your broken heart to hold. And yet, the greatest pain came not from the poison coursing through your veins, but from the thought of Elias. Of the moments you had lost with him, of the life you would never have the chance to share.

His face. The way he looked at you now, his expression twisted in something you could only define as helplessness. His usual strength, his calm, controlled demeanor, now shattered and raw. You didn’t want to see it. You couldn’t bear it.

But you looked anyway.

And that was when it broke you.

Elias’s eyes—those eyes that had once burned with fire, with passion—were glazed over now, distant, lost. There was a vacantness there that terrified you, a helplessness you couldn’t bear to witness. The truth in those eyes was clear: He couldn’t save you. And in that moment, you realized something that you hadn’t wanted to admit, something that shattered the last pieces of your composure: You weren’t going to make it.

The tears you had fought to keep at bay spilled over, running down your cheeks in silent rivers of grief. The suffocating fear, the uncertainty, all of it, crashed over you in a single wave.

And Elias, your Elias, the person you had never wanted to break—he was already breaking. The weight of his gaze, the silence in the room, the feeling of your world slipping away from you, were more than you could bear.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice a raw, broken plea, a plea that tore at you with the intensity of a thousand wounds. He squeezed your hand again, his grip desperate, trembling. His eyes locked onto yours, and in that look, you saw everything. His love. His fear. His helplessness. He couldn’t bear this.

But neither could you.

And for the first time, the truth settled deep in your chest: You were dying.

──

Ethan Holloway. The name lingered in the air like a half-remembered tune, one that had a distinct, almost nostalgic cadence to it. Forty-six years old—too young to be so etched in weariness, yet too old to pretend there wasn’t a lingering heaviness in his bones. He had graduated from Loma Linda University, a fact that seemed to fit his demeanor—educated, methodical, and yet, quietly off-kilter in the way someone might carry the weight of their past decisions without much fuss. You weren’t sure if it was the gentle sway of his calm voice or the small creases at the corners of his eyes that made him seem perpetually thoughtful, as if he were always measuring something in the space between his words.

He was married at thirty, which seemed almost comically young when you thought about it now, as if the idea of committing yourself to one person for the rest of your days could ever be that simple. It wasn’t. The world has a way of confusing those things, doesn’t it? Like trying to pull light from the dark, or finding warmth in a room full of frozen air.

And yet, here he was. With four children—or was it three? The details would often slip from your grasp like water through your fingers, as if the world outside this room wasn’t quite real. It could have been three. You didn’t know if you cared enough to ask. It felt wrong somehow, a question of such mundane nature that it held no weight in a place where your own sense of time and reality was being redefined by the moment. Was it three children, or four? Either way, it didn’t matter.

He was dressed in white. The sterile, clinical whiteness that seemed to emanate from his figure in an almost ethereal way, too bright for the dimness of the room. You couldn’t help but fixate on the creases of his shirt, the way it clung to his body with such precision that it almost made you wonder whether he had designed it that way himself. The fabric seemed to snap at the air, stiff and unyielding like a uniform, marking him as something other than just another person, like a sentinel of calmness, existing only for this moment, for this particular situation.

You called out to him softly, as though testing the air between you, as though the sound of his name would tether you to something more grounded, more familiar. “Ethan?” It came out like a whisper, delicate yet purposeful. The way the syllables fell from your lips felt like the last vestige of a dream—a dream that didn’t quite belong to you anymore. His presence wasn’t jarring, not in the way others might be, but it was intrusive. His every step seemed to amplify the emptiness that surrounded you. Within the two weeks of his visits, you’d come to focus on the memory of things, or, more accurately, force yourself to remember the things that didn’t matter. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—no, it was just that the things that once held significance had been drowned in the overwhelming weight of what was.

Ethan wasn’t a therapist, not really. But he was a good listener, which meant something in moments like these. Listening. That was all anyone really wanted, wasn’t it? To be heard, to be understood without the expectation of judgment, of correction. The truth was, you didn’t need to explain yourself to him. He didn’t need to analyze your thoughts or parse through your feelings. He simply stood there, quiet, offering the comfort of presence in a world that felt increasingly foreign.

The needle he carried felt like a small, insignificant thing in the grand scheme of things, and yet the moment he approached, the air grew taut, thick with something you couldn’t quite name. You couldn’t help it, your body recoiled instinctively, a subtle flinch as your eyes followed the glint of the needle. The mere thought of it, the impending prick, the pressure—there was something so final in the way it loomed over you. The sharpness of the object felt out of place, like an unwelcome guest in the delicate quietude of the room.

You shifted, head sinking further into the pillows, an attempt to melt into the softness, to disappear into the comfort that this bed provided, to escape the harsh edge of the world. But even as you did, there was a quiet yearning, a flicker of something else you couldn't ignore. Something was missing, though you knew it all too well: Elias. His presence felt absent in this room, though you could almost feel it in the edges of your mind, the faint thrum of his existence beyond the door. If only he were here, you thought. If only he were lying next to you, skin against skin, heart to heart, intertwined in the intimacy of a shared moment, without words, without the harshness of this sterile room.

But that was not the reality.

Instead, you shut your eyes, pretending it was enough to feel the slight comfort of Elias’s presence in the distant, intangible space outside this room. At least that was what you told yourself. At least you could lie to your heart.

The sharp pain of the needle was a cruel reminder of the distance between what you wanted and what you had to settle for. The cold edge of reality settled deeper into your body as you swallowed your discomfort.

“How many children do you have again?” you mumbled, the question barely audible, as if it were a fleeting thought that had somehow materialized in the moment.

Ethan paused for a beat, his face unreadable, but you could feel the subtle weight of his response hanging in the air. “Three,” he answered simply. It was such a simple response, yet it rang with the same uncertainty that had started to settle in your own mind—like a loose thread that might unravel at any given moment. Three children. Or was it four?

But no matter how much you thought about it, no matter how much you wrestled with the fleeting details that once anchored you, you were left with the unsettling knowledge that some things simply weren’t meant to be remembered. Some things were just... forgotten.

──

The air outside was cool, a crispness that seemed to seep into your skin with every passing breeze. It was the kind of chill that crept up on you, lingering in the corners of your body until it reminded you that winter was never quite gone, even when the sun had set. The breeze would sweep through the air, soft as a whisper, grazing your face and ruffling your hair. You couldn’t help but wonder if Elias felt it too, if that same cool wind touched his skin and made him pause, even just for a moment.

In that fleeting silence, you reached out, your hand slipping out from the warmth of the blanket to rest gently on his head. The touch was instinctive, almost like you had to do it, like your body had been waiting for this small, subtle connection, the kind of connection that no words could adequately capture.

His forehead was warm against your hand, an almost overwhelming warmth that you couldn’t quite place. Was it his skin, or the heat of something deeper, something that lingered in the space between the two of you? The world outside seemed to disappear for just a moment, the cool air fading away as you focused on this singular point of contact. You didn’t move your hand, didn’t pull away. The heat radiated from him like a magnet, and you felt it draw you closer in a way that words couldn’t explain. Elias melted into the touch, his body relaxing into the warmth of your hand as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored. He found comfort in it. You could feel him steadying himself with each breath, each moment that passed. His head rested in your lap, as if trying to memorize the warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your heartbeat.

But beneath all of this, there was something else, something far more fragile. A quiet truth you both had yet to speak aloud, though it clung to every exchange, every touch, every fleeting moment.

“My dad is planning to move me to a different safe house, if it happens.”

The words hung between you two like a fog, heavy and uncertain. There was no mention of the specifics, no concrete details, just the hint of something inevitable, something that was already slipping through the cracks, whether either of you were ready for it or not. You hum in response, unsure of what to say.

Since the first day Ethan had stepped into the safe house, his words had haunted you both. The poison running through your veins. The thing that lingered, unseen, yet slowly suffocating. It wasn’t the kind of poison you could taste or feel immediately, but it was there, in the way Elias’s eyes would sometimes go distant, in the way his body moved with the reluctance of someone who was already half-gone. The day Ethan had mentioned it, it had been a statement of fact, cold and factual, something that could be checked off as though it were an item on a list. But it wasn’t. It never had been.

Ever since that day, Elias had refused to speak of death directly. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. The word dead was too final, too hard to face, and so, it remained an unspoken truth between you. Elias had been fighting something much larger than either of you, something you couldn’t run from, no matter how desperately you wished you could.

But in those moments, when his eyes would drift with the weight of an unspoken grief, you knew. The battle had already begun within him. He was already grieving something that hadn’t even passed yet—grieving the living, grieving what he couldn’t save, what he couldn’t hold onto.

You felt the heaviness of the moment pressing in around you, the way his body was soft and tense at the same time. You moved your palm to his cheek, the delicate curve of his jaw resting into your hand. Your fingers gently traced the edge of his face, his skin warm, the faintest hint of stubble beneath the smoothness of his complexion. You leaned down, your lips brushing against his skin in soft, lingering kisses, each one a prayer, each one a promise you couldn’t quite voice. The touch of your lips was an offering, a silent prayer that he would stay with you, that you could hold onto him for just a little longer.

You had found yourself seated on the steps to the small porch of the safe house, the weathered wood beneath you creaking with every shift. It was a place where time felt like it had stopped, where the world outside felt distant, separated by walls and doors that kept you in, kept you safe. But safe was an illusion, wasn’t it? Safety, in its purest form, was just another way of saying “temporary.” You felt Elias’s head nestling into your stomach, his body curling into the warmth of you, and you couldn’t help but notice the way your body responded to him—how your own skin had grown oddly sensitive, reacting to his proximity like it was the most important thing in the world.

Your fingers slid from his cheek to his hair, the onyx curls falling in soft, unruly waves beneath your touch. They were shiny under the moonlight, a deep, rich black that seemed to shimmer as if the night itself had poured into them. You couldn’t help but run your fingers through them, your nails grazing the delicate strands as he melted into the touch again, his body relaxing with each passing second. His breath came slower, more even now, like he was letting go of something, just for a while.

he spoke quietly, the words slipping from his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.

“I wish I could go with you.”

The weight of his words settled around you, hanging in the air like the thick fog that often swept through the early mornings, dense and suffocating. His voice—low, almost a murmur—carried with it a truth that neither of you were ready to face, but it was there nonetheless. You felt it before you could understand it, the way his body seemed to shrink slightly, pulling away, not physically, but in the way his essence receded into himself. You could feel it in the tension that coiled around him, in the way his breath faltered for just a moment.

It was then that you felt it—the slight tremble of his body against yours, the subtle quiver that shook through him, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable once you registered it. Elias was crying.

You hadn’t heard it, not with your ears, but you felt it. The vibrations of his grief, the quiet sobs that he had yet to give voice to, trembling through his body, shaking through your skin. You closed your eyes, and for a moment, you didn’t know where your body ended and his began.

You didn’t speak, not right away. There was nothing to say. There was only the sound of your own breath, the rhythm of his heart that had synchronized with yours in that perfect, fragile harmony. You could feel the weight of it—his pain, his helplessness, all wrapped up in the sorrow of the moment. All you could do was hold him, as best as you could, and whisper the truth that had always been there, even if it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.

And in that quiet, sacred space, where the world outside seemed suspended in time, the moonlight fell like a soft caress across both of you, drawing long, delicate shadows that danced across the ground. The silence that wrapped around you wasn’t heavy but comforting, a fragile cocoon of intimacy. Every breath you took felt eternal, every heartbeat like it was resonating with the universe itself. You could almost hear it—the delicate hum of time, stretching, elongating the seconds between you two, as though the universe had decided to slow down, to let you hold onto this moment just a little longer.

You sat there, cradling Elias’s form against you, his head nestled against your stomach, his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you. His hair, soft like spun silk, tangled between your fingers as you absentmindedly ran them through the dark strands. You felt each gentle tug as your fingers glided through his hair, and with each stroke, your heart echoed with something tender, something beyond love, something raw and unfathomably deep. You couldn’t help but notice the beauty marks scattered across his skin, the small, seemingly inconsequential details that had come to mean so much. There was one just beneath his left eye, faint, but enough to draw your gaze every time you looked at him. You couldn’t help but wonder how many times he had looked in the mirror and never thought much of it. The one on his arm, just above the elbow, like a silent mark of his history. The one on his knee, a delicate curve against the roughness of his skin, as if a small, hidden secret of his had been placed there. And then, there was the beauty mark on his nape, soft and inviting, like a whisper, an unspoken word that only you understood.

You gently traced your finger along that mark, feeling the warmth of his skin, the subtle rise and fall of his breath as he pressed closer into you, finding comfort in the space between your body and his. Each touch, each small motion, felt like a silent promise, a pledge that you would hold onto these moments as long as you could. And yet, deep down, there was that underlying truth, that this fleeting time would eventually come to an end. But for now, you held him, and he held you, and that was enough.

You could feel your thoughts begin to drift, like the wind moving through the trees, and your eyes turned skyward, following the path of the stars that stretched across the heavens. The night had been unusually clear, as if the world itself was giving you a moment of stillness, a gift of clarity. You could see the stars in their infinite expanse, tiny pinpricks of light that had lived for eons and would continue to shine long after everything here had faded into memory. You wondered about them—each star, each light. How many stories did they hold? How many secrets had they seen? How many lovers had shared the same sky, under the same moon? You looked at Elias, the soft outline of his face barely illuminated in the moonlight, and you thought about how fleeting this was, how ephemeral the world could feel, how easily time slipped through your fingers.

A small smile, soft and fleeting, pulled at the corner of your lips. A thought came to you, unbidden but somehow perfect for the moment. “Pick a star to name after me,” you whispered, almost teasing, but also carrying a weight beneath the words. You weren’t asking for something tangible, something that could be held or touched. You were asking for something deeper, a symbol, a marker in the universe that would, in its own way, immortalize the bond between you.

Without moving his face from its resting place against you, Elias’s voice was muffled, but you could hear the certainty in his words. 

“The sun.”

──

Grief was a strange and elusive thing, especially when it came for yourself. It wasn’t a force that stormed in suddenly, but more like a slow, creeping fog that swallowed the edges of your thoughts until it became impossible to distinguish what was real from what was merely a lingering shadow of what had once been. It was an odd sensation, one that felt like a heavy, suffocating presence in the chest, yet at the same time, something you learned to endure. Sometimes, you thought you were getting better, or at least, that you could convince yourself of it. But the truth was, even when the worst had passed—when the emotional pain seemed to quiet—the physical toll it had taken on your body hadn’t left. Waves of sickness would still come, crashing over you like an unpredictable tide, leaving behind waves of dizziness, nausea, and the persistent, relentless pounding headache that never quite went away. Was this just what it was now? A new kind of normal? Were you adjusting to it, or were you merely in the calm before the next storm?

It was hard to say, harder still to find the words to explain it. That’s why you didn’t tell Elias. He didn’t need to know. Not yet, not when there was still so much uncertainty, so much fear wrapped up in the unknown. You could never risk giving him false hope, not when the truth felt like a cruel thing to carry. And then there was Ethan, too. The guilt of not sharing the weight of it with him weighed heavily on your heart, but he was the kind of person who would never be able to shoulder the burden the way you could. It was better to keep it buried, at least for now, until there was a clearer path ahead.

That was why it was so easy to talk to James’s fiancée. She had become the one person you could confide in, the only one who had offered the soft assurance that she wouldn’t carry your words any further than the confines of the room you sat in. There was something so deeply comforting in that promise—a quiet assurance that you could unravel your thoughts without fear of judgment or exposure. This wasn’t the first time you had found yourself seeking her out for this kind of conversation. There had been many late-night phone calls, whispers exchanged in the dark as you spilled your truth to her, knowing she’d never share it with anyone. That was something you could trust.

Now, in the soft light of your bedroom, the air thick with unspoken words and the weight of the conversation, you sat with her once again. The silence between you felt like a fragile thing, one that you didn’t want to disturb but also didn’t want to leave unanswered. You could almost feel Elias outside the door, sensing your presence even in his absence, wanting to be close, craving the touch of your skin, even if it was just a fleeting connection. You had learned to live with that unspoken need of his—the way he would linger just outside your reach, always present, but never entirely in your grasp.

The woman across from you, her presence calm and steady, shifted slightly in her seat, as if the weight of your silence had finally gotten to her. Her voice, when it came, was soft but laced with an understanding that you had come to rely on. “Do you want to hear the truth,” she asked, her eyes meeting yours, “or do you want to be comforted?”

The question took you by surprise. It wasn’t what you had expected to hear, not from her—not after everything. But her words hung in the air, heavier than the silence, and in that moment, you realized that you had to decide. Truth, or comfort? Comfort was the easier choice, the safer one. It would have been easier to let her reassure you, to let the words fall like a balm over your wounds. But something inside you—the part of you that was still stubborn, still searching for something more—whispered that maybe, just maybe, the truth was what you needed now.

You furrowed your brow, not because you were unsure, but because you needed a moment to process what her question truly meant. The truth was harder, certainly. It was more painful, perhaps. But it also felt necessary. So, after a breath that seemed to hang in the air too long, you finally spoke.

“The truth,” you said, the words coming out quieter than you intended, almost as if you had to convince yourself. But as soon as they left your mouth, you felt a sense of resolution settle in your chest. Maybe the truth was exactly what you needed, after all.

The woman across from you nodded, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She didn’t seem surprised by your answer, not even a little. She reached into her purse, a quiet movement, the sound of the leather brushing against her fingers almost soothing in its familiarity. She rummaged for a moment, and then, as if it had been waiting there just for you, she pulled out a small, unassuming CVS bag. The plastic crinkled slightly as she handed it to you, the warmth of the bag surprising in its unexpectedness. The faint heat still clung to it, a sign that it had only just been bought, perhaps just moments before you had arrived.

You held the bag carefully, almost reverently, in your hands. There was something about it—the smallness of it, the way it was so plain and ordinary—yet, in that moment, it felt heavy, laden with meaning. You hesitated for just a second before pulling it open. Your fingers brushed against the edges of the packaging, feeling the cool plastic of the box inside. And then, when you saw it—when you recognized it for what it was—a dry chuckle slipped from your lips, unexpected and bitter, a small, sharp laugh that felt strange against the weight of your emotions.

                                        . . . 

Life and death, they dance in a delicate balance, like two sides of the same coin, never truly separate yet eternally distinct. The concept feels almost paradoxical, as though they can never exist independently, as if one must always be shadowed by the other. Life, vibrant and full of possibilities, and death, cold, final, and inevitable. The tension between the two is a space where we exist, always aware of one and inevitably drawn toward the other, but never quite able to touch the other’s hand. The truth about them is that you can never have one without the other; they exist, always, in their paradox.

The words on the screen blink back at you, each one seeming more real than the last. It’s almost clinical, the way they just are, stripping away all sense of mystery or awe, reducing what should be an emotional revelation to a stark, sterile truth. It’s a fact. An undeniable one. Your fingers twitch at the edges of the device, unsure whether to hold onto it or to throw it away. The next part—the danger of it, the risk it puts not just you but the both of you in—rushes toward you like a rising tide, but in this fleeting moment, the overwhelming weight of it is held back. You cannot think of the consequences. Not yet. Not now.

Instead, something else takes its place: a quiet fantasy, almost foolish in its simplicity, but so achingly real in this instant. Outside—the distractions, the chaos, the demands of it all—falls away. It is just you and them. And in this silence, in this moment where time slows down and the world outside becomes a distant echo, you feel as though you could hear the softest of heartbeats, the subtle movement of life growing, burgeoning in ways you can hardly begin to fathom.

For just a breath, the noise of the world outside—the distractions, the chaos, the demands of it all—falls away. It is just you and them

You take the device off the bathroom counter and fully into your hand, running a thumb over the words.

Pregnant.

──

author's note: i promise im getting to your request! this ask inspired me a lot so thank you!

ps: omg isaac's back?

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[lil-binuu]

james is such a girl dad

[zsakuva]

Can we have a little peak into James' love life? PRETTY PLEASE? :3

[soscarlett1twas]

one single thread of gold (tied me to you)

↳ The invisible strings laced into the Sakuverse. ↳ 7.2k words / also available on ao3!

Matias stared at the screen, unable to formulate his thoughts. His fingers hesitated above the keyboard, and for each word he punched out, he purged the sentence before it was even finished.

He had suffered this problem before. It was always the first words, then the rest would flow – but with a mind full of ideas and hands eager to type, it was hard to push himself when all he got was a blank screen staring back at him. 

Tension grew in his jaw as his teeth ground together. He pulled his hands back and strategically cracked each knuckle, first the distal joints, then the center, until he was left with were slightly looser hands and a still-blank screen. Each crack drifted up into the atrium's echo. 

He refocused on the document, but all he perceived was the cursor, blinking in a staccato rhythm. Matias groaned.

His hand found a pen and clicked it a few times, scanning the open pages of his notebook as a refresher. Outlined on them was a short story about a nightmare he had wanted — not so much tried — to write for ages. He had written and rewritten the “stage directions", so-to-speak, of the story many times, finally settling on this version he was quite happy about. And the imagery he painted in his own head, of the scenes of the man's nightmare, how he could link it to the broader narrative of the man's life, how it would predict his future, it made him excited. 

So he sat down to write, hands hovering over the keyboard of a school-issued laptop to start crafting what would surely be something great. 

And yet. Yet. 

A bar (the only black on his empty page) faded and reappeared again and again as Matias tried to conjure the right vocab, the right atmosphere, the right... something.

His hand moved to cover his face, fingertips pressing down his clenched eyebrows and curving down his face, until his palms holstered his jowls and his sides were warmed from the laptop-heat of his hands. His words were nothing to his imagination. 

His hands moved once again to cover his face completely.

He was nothing to his imagination. 

And he had tried, for so long, to believe that was okay. What were these stories for if not practice? Surely, once he was older, they would flow naturally. His prose would be enchanting, but not purple; his plots would be grand, but not confusing. He would look back on these old words as the small stepping stones to the majesty he would write eventually. 

But why must it be eventually? Why couldn’t it be now?

Matias, who had subconsciously slumped down so far in the chair that his back connected more with the seat than his legs, exhaled and pulled himself back up. With one more look at white screen, he opened a new tab. 

Pressing the My Drive bookmark at the top of his screen, he navigated through a swamp of miscellaneous documents, scattered thoughts spread across countless files. But what he was looking for would not be recently opened. He typed in its title in the search bar, bringing up a document untouched for months.

As with all his finished stories, this one was formatted all nicely, unlike the standard Arial he drafted in. He scrolled through it with mild attention and read a couple lines from assorted paragraphs. 

This was a tale about two people who, throughout the work, became tentative friends. They did not like each other at first, but came around through their joint love of the stars, though very different in how they viewed them – one for science, one for mythology. 

It was not fun to write. It is never fun to write, at least, in the moment. But Matias always found himself looking back on the process with more fondness than the finished product. And this was a work he was particularly fond of. (For as fond as one can be about their own work – that is to say, anything net neutral is ‘positive’, and anything less than is negative.) 

The descriptions of the sky did it for him and he yearned to be able to write it again. He wanted to describe the world and its beauty, not a man's nightmare. He wanted back that process where, even if it was difficult at the moment, he was writing. Not stuck in his mind with the imaginary dreamscape of a nightmare, his own self an unfit conduit for the ideas he wanted to share. At least with skies and stars, they were pretty just to read. They created a fantasy that, even if the reader was not imagining what Matias wrote, they were substituting it for their own memories of nightfall. 

When he exited the tab, the laptop lid closed with it. He needed to do something other than look at the screen.

Matias stood and stretched, rolling his neck and pushing in the chair to the desk. Just waiting for the right words wouldn’t work and he needed to stretch his legs a bit. Before walking away, he took one last look at his notebook, and closed it softly. Anywhere else, he would’ve had some more precaution, but it was doubtful anyone would steal his things at the library. 

So he walked away, leaving any thoughts of the story behind him. 

He had set up shop at the back of the building, so he flitted between rows and rows of bookshelves. He wove between CD’s on language learning to the record books, to the young adult and fantasy sections. Assorted mangas greeted him in the aisle he walked into. 

He scanned a couple of titles with no intentions to take them out, but he liked to window shop. He’d even pull a couple out and read their back, or, if he was feeling particularly dangerous, flip to a random page and read a couple sentences. Then he’d slip them back in and walk away. 

He threaded like this between three bookcases, reading spines which fled his mind the second he glanced away. He made one last turn, and, thoroughly unimpressed by his own attempt at clearing his thoughts, turned back the way he came. 

On the way back to his desolate writing, he walked up to a World Atlas. It was large, pages spread across its entire podium and then some, open to a random page on Denmark. Matias had little interest in the country, but he liked maps, and this one was so detailed. He approached the atlas and began to leaf through it. 

From French topography to the Indian Ocean to the specifics of Somalia’s economics, Matias skimmed through each section, finding himself smiling at it. It was dumb, he knew – but the world was so very big and so very complex, and that was where he found beauty. What a wonder to be able to see it one day. What he would give to make something like this. 

He skimmed his fingers along the thick stack of right-aligned pages, opening up to a random one. It was about Iceland. 

A map of the country was offset to the left hand corner, most of the spread being taken up by photos about the northern lights. He had heard of them of course, but he found himself in awe of the colors. Even in a stagnant image he could see them pulsing with different hues, the greens fading to blues to purples. 

Oh, the sky. What a beautiful thing it is. 

His finger traced the harsher lines of the aurora, where the lights hardened to a sheet of color. The flimsy paper beneath his fingertips folded as he shifted them upwards, but Matias quickly fixed it and kept going: Over and over, wondering it how could exist in this world. And how unfair it was that it is out of his reach. 

It would be incredible to see the aurora. It was inspiring even in photo form, and what could it be in person? What basin of inspiration could this be for him? His fingers, just tracing the photo, felt as if they had dipped into a pool of magic, drenching themself in the motivation he needed to write. 

And the nightmare came back to him, fully written around his inked skeleton, ready to be shaped.

Still staring at the basin, he –

– pulled his fingers away from the aurora clipping and flipped it, as carefully as he could, and lifted his glue stick. Purple glue coated the underside and he pressed it into the paper of his notebook, besides the Icelandic mountains and waterfalls he had cut out earlier. Once satisfied it was secure, he began to reach out for the magazine he left sprawled open, silhouettes now chopped from its pages. 

Beside it, scattered atop of the carpeted floor, were many other magazines. Some were still safe, though many more were torn through and falling apart, their confetti guts sticking to the carpet fuzz. Their own images had been sniped and pasted into the notebook, from stills of people to landscapes. 

Really, the subject didn’t matter. If Alex liked the composition, or the filter, or the lightning… well, into his notebook it went. 

He hummed as he flipped through the magazine, eyes skimming over landscapes far and wide. Nothing quite did it for him, though he did wonder if he should cut out a particularly pretty iceberg… until the church. 

Formed like a sharp bell curve, the structure rose into the clear blue sky, its golden lights projected onto the front, bleeding into each crevice of the jagged building. Three windows glowed at the top, small from the perspective, contrasting the dark, tinted part of the building. A singular rainbow window sat above the entrance door, its hood molding casting a deep purple shadow upwards. 

Alex turned to grab his scissors when he spied the building's name, unpronounceable on his English tongue: Hallgrímskirkja. He still tried and snorted when it was butchered.

He began the incision at the base, silently wondering if he should only cut out the church or keep the sky (no, he decided, he needed the sky – it established the blues to contrast the rising yellow light), and began to snip away. 

He worked cautiously, creating an arch that reached above the church and back down. Once done, he smiled and placed the scissors on the floor, pulling the clipping free from the page. He moved the magazine away and placed the photo down beside him, flipping to a new two-page spread in it. The church was too big to be added to the current page he was on. Besides, something like this deserved its own spread. 

Again, methodically, he lifted his gluestick and spread it in curved motions behind the image, and stamped it into his book, careful to center it correctly. Just to be sure, he closed the book and pressed his palms onto its cover, forcing his body weight down to really stick it in there. 

Satisfied, he opened the notebook back to Hallgrímskirkja, eyes scoring the photo and smiled.

He turned back the pages to old spreads. He just liked looking at them, to glimpse at his handiwork of images not his own. But they could be. 

Alex was giddy at the thought, to do this for a living one day. Taking photos of the world's beauty, where it was its people or landscapes, or even gold-encrusted perfume bottles. He wanted it all. 

He was about to turn back to the magazine when a knock echoed through his door. Before he could answer, his parents walked in. 

“Alex?” His father walked into the bedroom, eyes catching on the photo clippings before landing on his son. 

“Hey,” he responded, sitting up from his floor. 

His mother took a couple steps forward. “What are you doing, Alex?” 

Smiling at the chance to talk about photography, he immediately opened back up the Hallgrímskirkja page, eager to show them. He stood and held it out to her, his father coming around his mother’s shoulder to see. 

He explained he was looking through photos for inspiration, that one day, he was going to take these photos for magazines. Maybe they could take a trip to Iceland as a family! He was about to offer up the idea when his father said:

“So… you want to be a photographer?”

He nodded. 

He missed the glances his parents exchanged as he flipped to the back of the notebook, again holding the spread open for them to see. 

Plastered across these pages were Polaroids he had taken with the disposable camera they bought him for a school day-trip. They were nothing much – just some landscapes, a couple candids of his friends, but they were his photos, and he displayed them with the same honor as his inspirations. 

But this time, he did not miss the waver in his mothers eyes nor his father’s throat bobbing. 

“Oh, these are so pretty hunny… why didn’t you show us these before?”

He didn’t quite have an answer to that. He just… didn’t. Alex’s arms loosened, bringing the open book down from their sights and against his chest, where he folded it, subconsciously hugging it. 

“Photography is a great hobby, but a career?” His mother sat on his bed. 

Still, he had nothing to say, throat dry. He shrugged. How could she go from praising his work to this in the same breath?

The room fell to awkward silence as Alex refused to meet their sights, still clinging to his notebook, and his parents didn’t speak. 

“I came to ask,” his father finally began, “if you wanted to come and play with the neighbor kids. They set up a volleyball net – you like volleyball, right?”

“Yeah.” He first tried it on a beach vacation. It was a lot of fun playing with kids his age, and he liked the neighbors plenty, but he was busy. Before he could say so, though, his father clapped his back.

“Great! I’ll tell them you’ll be there soon,” and walked out of his bedroom, his mother kissed his cheek before leaving as well. 

Left alone, he let out a little sigh, and flipped the book in his hands. He looked at its cover, plain compared to its pages, made of woven cloth. He bought it ages ago with his allowance. The same allowance he had shoved in a jar, on top of his nightstand, containing a total on its top. His savings for a camera, because they refused to buy him even a disposable one unless it was on a school to-have list for field trips. 

Outside, he could just barely make out the sounds of the kids playing, calling for the first – 

– serve spiked down and, after hitting inside the lines, bounced out of bounds. Kayson whooped as his team cheered in his honor, and they all shuffled one spot to the left. 

The other team stood stagnant, as they had for the last three serves, unable to score a point and move. It wasn’t traditional volleyball: the game the class was playing was altered to give everyone a chance at each position. When your team scored a point, everyone shifted a position to the left. Kayson bounded from the server to the middle of the back row. 

And up to serve was a girl who spent the entire class glancing at the clock, anxious to get out of here. He couldn’t blame her. The teams had been randomly chosen, and she had fallen into a group of tryhards who were thriving on the competition – which is to say, Kayson got real lucky. 

She squirmed in the position, smiling only when she caught the glimpse of her friends on the other side of the net, as if to mock herself and say “We know this won’t end well, but how funny will it be when I fail?” 

The ball got tossed over the net, ending up closer to Kayson than her. He caught it and walked over, handing it over in a quick toss. 

“Alright, Mia.” Kayson crouched his knees and balled his fist, swinging it with clear direction to the hypothetical ball in his other. “Just like we talked about. Get some leverage and,” he thrust his fist up and through the ghostly volleyball, “swing up. Make sure to keep your hand balled!” He tread back to his spot, walking backwards to nod as she mirrored his actions. 

She curled her lip slightly, knees bending as her arm straightened. Kayson watched, still nodding his head as Mia took a couple practice swings. 

They barely knew each other. The only class they shared was this one, and Kayson would be hesitant to call them acquaintances, much less friends. But when Mia had messed up her first serve at the beginning of the unit, laughing at herself before anyone else got the chance to, he had called out some advice at the reserve. And that time, it made it over the net. 

He hoped his aid held true again. 

She took one last swing and thrust her arm back with more certainty, pushing it forward at just the right angle. He watched as it nearly hit the ceiling before arching back down, landing in the center of the back row. 

“Oh! Oh!” Mia’s voice grew in excitement as she realized that not only was it a decent serve, it was a good one – and Kayson shouted back a “Let’s go!” in the rising choir of middle schoolers getting into a good game. 

The two teams went back for approximately two passes before the bell rang. 

Kayson went to grab his backpack, not missing the small wave from Mia when he turned around. He returned the gesture and smiled. 

His friends caught up to him, laughing and jostling each other around as they walked out of the gym. Kayson pushed the one away, claiming his was too sweaty, and the boy retorted that Kayson was worse. Which, he was.

“Alright, I’ve got to go…” Kayson said, trailing away from his friends. His next class was halfway across the school and didn’t want to be late. They said their goodbyes and split directions.

The hallways were packed as they were every passing period. Kayson maneuvered between people, often bumping shoulders, his smile fading to neutrality. Everyone around him looked the same, minds somewhere beyond the cramped halls.

With gym – his favorite class today – done with, Kayson adapted to the melancholy which awaited him at his next classes, feeling any leftover adrenaline bleeding out of him. The rest of the day had little interest to him.

Kayson left the main, packed hallway for the smaller math hall. People loitered outside doors, not wanting to go to their classes yet, or walked beside their friends in twos or threes. He could spy a small crowd inside the bathroom as he passed. Turning the corner, the open door of his Algebra class beckoned. 

Cool air hit his sweaty skin when Kayson walked in. His desk was close to the back of the room, a choice he made at the start of the year. His bag slinked to the floor as he dropped it and sat on the even colder chair. His legs stuck to the plastic. 

While his table was still empty, others had a filled somewhat. The teacher walked up to one and handed her a paper. She flipped it over and flashed it to her friend, with a big A written in red up top. 

And Kayson remembered the test from last class. 

The little spark still in him died at the realization, being replaced by the pooling dread of known failure. He had studied, and he had felt good while taking it, but he also knew to be realistic. And realistically, he did not know math. 

The teacher finished handing off papers to the rest of the table before making her way over to Kayson, smiling softly. 

“Good morning, Kayson.” She rifled through her papers. 

“Morning,” he muttered. 

She pulled a sheet from the middle of the stack and gave it to him, already moving to another table. He barely looked at it. All he needed was the D before flipping it back over, the pen used to mark his paper bleeding through the back. 

He groaned as he lowered his head. He was fine with his B average. Hell, he’d even scored a couple A’s in classes this year, but with the way his math grade was going… 

When the C came in last quarter on his report card, he hated showing it to his mom, hated the class, hated himself for it. He promised her with one more bad grade, he’d go to tutoring. And here was his ticket to ride. 

He rose and walked over to the teacher, skin like suction ripping from the chair. “Can I go to the bathroom?” He muttered as she turned to him. At her nod, he left, passing the TA’s desk who’d surely be his new tormentor after school.

There was still a line, made up of kids who had yet to leave for class. But when the bell rang they began to trickle out, leaving Kayson to tap his foot on the dirty floor, waiting for a stall, also not quite here to actually use the facilities. 

He took a deep breath when he finally got to sit on a non-plastic chair, in that suffocatingly cold classroom, instead relatively alone in the middle stall. He took a deep breath as he shut the door, clicking the – 

– lock into place, Luca sat, scratching at his eyes. 

His breath was already wavering, but with the final swallow of air came his break, and he folded over on the porcelain, knees pressed to soaking lashes. 

He had tried. God, Luca had tried so hard. There hadn’t even been a triggering event. But a building wave must eventually fall. 

And out it came, pouring from his eyes with the crash of croaking breaths. 

Luca’s hands clawed from cupping his mouth to running along his waterline, wiping tears before they even traced his face. Yet still more came, and for all the grief which choked him, for all the loneliness which sparked the display, his only thought was how to make it stop. 

Which made it all the worse when he couldn’t. The resounding loneliness just echoed back to him as one breath became too loud, as even in his misery Luca was still consciously fearful of others, and even more aware that there was simply no one around. 

His parents were worried, of course. When he brought home the permission slip, excitedly bobbing at the chance to go to New York City with his class, his parents sat him down to talk through it. What to expect, how to stay safe, whether or not he should go… the last point got brought up a lot. 

He insisted he’d be fine. After all, his bullies weren’t in classes who’d go on the trip. His parents asked if he’d have any friends with him instead. 

Despite him drawing a blank at the question, his parents still let him go. Oh, how he wished they didn’t anymore.

Luca pressed his palms to his eyes. 

It hadn’t even been a bully – if it were, at least somebody was thinking about him, talking to him – instead it was complete isolation. Not a single conversation with another kid for the two days they’d spent in the city. When he tried, he was met with some form of swift rejection. 

He convinced himself it was fine. He was fine, until he wasn’t, and at dinner it was all too much. He sat with the teachers, glanced over at the table he should be at, and excused himself politely. 

Only to end up in the bathroom, the only place he could let the feeling engulf him, ironically praying he was left alone in his sadness as if that wasn’t the cause of it. 

No, he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his mom. He wanted his dad. He wanted the people who loved him. But they were unreachable. 

At the thought, another wave of sadness crested over him. 

This time he let himself cry.

He did not know how much time had passed, only that he was spent when tears turned to a thin plaster on his skin. He had barely moved from his hunched position and an ache grew in the small of his back.

Luca swallowed the rising weight in his throat and sat up. His eyelashes brushed his face as he shut his eyes tightly, feeling the cool tears on both. His mind started to work again, no longer suffocated with his misery, instead slowly turning with coherent thoughts. 

But remain did the feeling of hollowness in his chest, perhaps sculpted out from his sobs ��� Luca felt it as he breathed, tasting iron on the lip he was biting, eyebrows furrowed. If anyone could see him, the uncharacteristic look of anger would shock them. Or would it? To recognize it’s unrecognizably would be to know him, to know he was not angry, to know he was simply clenching trying not to cry again. But nobody did.

Or perhaps they would be affronted by it not because he was him, but because of what he seemed to be. He was small, frail in stature and always looking if trying to hide away. He was meant to be unseen, not to be unseemly.

For what he hoped to be the final time, Luca rolled toilet paper and dabbed it to his eyes, then promptly threw it into the bowl. He watched it flush.

The door opened with a shove. Luca appreciated it’s coverage, working almost as an entrance to another room inside of a bathroom stall. Perks of crying in a nice restaurant.

He walked over to the sinks and motioned underneath the faucets with his fingertips. He just sat there, letting himself feel the water.

He dabbed it on his eyebags. Like a coal, he could feel himself cooling under the water. Luca massaged it into his skin and dipped his fingers back under for more. This was a familiar ritual to him.

He barely noticed the door opening, though the familiar voice of a teacher brought him to.

“Luca?” He startled.

Mr. Polis, a Biology teacher, stood at the door. Luca never had his class, a fact he was often grateful for – many said he was tough and an even harsher grader. Even as he looked at him, there was a certain edge to his gaze. It was laced with worry.

He made an obnoxious sniff to recall mucus and winced at how it echoed. “Hi, Mr. Polis…” Luca turned his head and walked to dry his hands, suddenly even embarrassed of his ablution.

He stayed turned to the towels as another faucet began. In the mirrors he could see the teacher washing his hands. Curiosity spiked, but he wasn’t going to ask.

“One of your classmates decided to spill their drink on me,” he said, as if reading Luca’s mind. He sighed and waved his hand under another dispenser. When it didn’t work, his exasperation grew to an annoyed hum as he began to walk towards Luca. “Excuse me.”

Luca stepped aside, away from the mirrors as the teacher got his towel. He stared at the crumpled brown paper in his hand. Luca tried to fold it another way so he could blow his nose again, but already so small, it was useless. He’d get another when Mr. Polis left.

Luca still tried to avoid his sights as he walked over to the trash, rubbing his eyes to hide better.

“Have you been enjoying the city so far?”

Luca still didn’t turn to him. “Yeah… it’s been fun.” His voice was rough.

“Good, good.”

The man came beside him and threw his own towel away.

“Would you like a hug?”

It was an awkward question, but it startled Luca enough to make him look at the man. His expression was creased in worry, but a comforting smile played on his lips as his hands opened slightly.

And just like that, he threatened to burst into tears again.

The teacher wrapped his arms around Luca, reminiscent of his father’s comfort, and held him for a short moment. This mean, harsh teacher was the only one who offered him any comfort, a member of the small few who noticed, and then cared, about his emotions.

Luca was inevitably the first to pull away, arms loosing around him at the force. He didn’t want to tear-stain the man’s shirt. It already took a blow this evening.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

Luca shook his head, another obnoxious snort echoing in the room.

“That’s alright, just… don’t hide away. The teachers are here if you need us.” The man nodded his head with a thin-lipped expression. “When you’re feeling better, feel free to join us back at the table. I know we said no dessert but… you’re sitting with us. I’ll get you a hot chocolate or something.”

Mr. Polis walked out of the bathroom, leaving Luca alone with his thoughts once more. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat and went back to the sink, dampening another paper to cleanse his eyes.

A teacher. A teacher cared for him, a boy he didn’t even teach.

Something indescribable washed over him, and Luca pulled the towel away. He folded it over, the paper rough under his touch as he pressed it, once more, to his face. He wadded it up. As he walked away, he lightly threw it into the –

– trash can. He winced as the paper slit his fingertip.

He turned his finger to see the damage, but the cut was so thin it wasn’t even visible. With his thumb, he pulled the skin taut, feeling the burn of a paper cut but still, nothing.

Andrew groaned and grabbed his pen, going back to scribbling down notes as the video he neglected to pause shifted focus to the importance of Chilean copper mines in the 1970’s and how they partly incited the American-sponsored coup d'état.

Riveting.

The video was meant to help him study. It had good coverage of American-sponsored insurrections in the Cold War era, the current topic in his history class and the basis for a presentation he was set to give Monday. But even for a man who enjoyed these things, Andrew’s mind couldn’t help but loll. Every sentence sounded muffled. Even his eyes weren’t focused on the graphics. They watched the time instead, on the far right corner of his laptop.

The numbers lay stagnant, Andrew’s mind beginning to wander back to class. Back to the boy.

He rewound the video with a tense hand.

Again he heard the explanations of Chile’s nationalization of the copper mines and jotted down a couple points he thought were important. But when he rested his hand on the notebook page, he moved his finger slightly, and with it came a burgundy smear.

Andrew recoiled, briefly forgetting the paper cut. But the thin line had started to bubble with blood, painting more than the paper red. There was a spot on his pen as well.

He groaned, slamming the space bar to pause the video before getting off his bed. Though, he was also grateful to be without reminder of class for a moment. They had band aids somewhere in the house, he knew, but specifically where was a mystery.

His feet pattered on the upstairs carpet, turning to a hollower sound as the stairwell became wood. Descending into the small foyer he opened the cabinets directly to his right. He was cautious to keep his bloody finger off the furniture. After a few moments of looking, he found no band aids.

He blinked tiredly at the spot where he thought they’d be, throwing his head back in mild exhaust, catching the gaze of the crucifix above the drawers.

Andrew stared at it for a few moments, then hurriedly left the room to continue his search.

He found more miscellaneous cabinets, but as he looked through them, he couldn’t help but feel the divine gaze on him. Somebody – God – was watching him.

He turned around, scanning the empty room as if to find a ghost with him. Nothing was there. He turned back to his search, pulling open another drawer and scanning with new vigor. Andrew wanted to be back up in his room quick.

The feeling had, admittedly, been the thing to distract him earlier. It had been following him all week, though never as strong as it was in this moment. The cross and its waxen martyr could hear the sin in his mind, he was sure of it, as it was filled with… disquieting thoughts.

Andrew tried to shake it from him – the thoughts of class, watching the teacher, eyes drifting down to the boy beside him – but it was no use. He could lie and say he didn’t purposefully look in his direction, but what use would it be when he couldn’t even convince himself?

Everything began to remind him of his failure. Even the damn copper mines.

Andrew let out a huff of bitter laughter. How...

...romantic, he finished, quieter than the minds echo, a thought inside a thought. Something welled inside him. It wasn’t romantic. Nothing about this was ‘romantic’. Romance wasn’t… it wasn’t made up of… how would a relationship like that even work?

Andrew’s mind slowly turned to more intimate ideas. He made a face as he sharply pushed them out. Though the idea that he had thought them (and did so willingly, though he wouldn’t admit it) shocked him. Scared him.

Suddenly jolted from his mind palace of worry, Andrew looked directly at a box of band aids that had been in front of him for God-knows how long.

He blinked once at it. Twice. Then he delicately pulled back the loose flap on top and got a small bandage.

He stared at it, cut long dry and crusted over with blood. It shook. The band aid was shaking.

No, he was shaking, but he wasn’t going to look at himself and admit that.

Andrew placed it back in the box and slowly shut the cabinet. He stared at the dark wood, trying to reground himself in reality.

He turned back to the stairwell. Jesus watched him climb the stairs. His gaze followed him into his room.

He wasn’t. He could be. He could even think of the word. Not because he could remember it, but to let it ring in his head, in his voice?

Andrew swallowed rising bile as he convinced himself to think it, at least. Because was it better to refuse it, or to proudly state it negatively? Was he weaker for letting the guilt (no, not guilt, because he was guilty of naught) consume him, or for thinking of these things to begin with?

He was not ‘into’ men.

He was not gay.

He was not –

– queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy. My name is the name of a town. Your name is like Latin.

Isaac skimmed over the passage. This section was a nice break from the confusing nature of Joyce’s earlier prose. He could appreciate the dedication to writing as if through a toddler’s perspective, but enjoyment was a different metric. At least these lines were brief and conversational.

Well, Isaac mused, nothing could be as dense as Ulysses, even if by the same author. And even if Isaac had never read that labyrinth of a book, he knew how torturous it was.

So he continued reading about children and their discussion of riddles, even if the one was quite poor at them.

—Can you answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the leg of a fellow’s breeches?

Stephen thought what could be the answer and then said:

—I give it up.

“I wouldn’t say it’s early, but I don’t often get a call from you at this hour.”

Isaac froze, eyes looking at the words on the page but not quite reading them. That was the voice of his grandfather.

Isaac’s brow furrowed. He straightened himself and kept on reading.

—Because there is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy is the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh. “What could be so important, Asriel?”

Isaac didn’t get the joke, yet he kept reading. The book trickled back into dense prose and it failed to capture his attention. Instead, the words of his grandfather seemed to get louder as Isaac unintentionally focused on them.

��The Skoligs? I thought only the Vex had connections to your circle.”

Isaac stared at the paper.

His father… must be a magistrate too… He thought of his own father… while his mother played… when he asked for sixpence…

He read and reread the paragraph, never quite catching what it was saying. It began to frustrate him, the lengths to which is own mind refused to ignore the man in the other room.

“Checks and balances, I understand.” His grandfather’s voice got louder as he turned into the hallway and noticed Isaac in the drawing room. Isaac’s periphery betrayed the old man’s lingering gaze before he kept walking and entered the kitchen, which was still close enough for him to hear. “You’re saying Stockton is a playground for higher forces. What stake do you have in this?”

Silence, again.

He thought of his own father, of how he sang songs while his mother played and of how he always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and he felt sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys’ fathers.

There. Isaac read the sentence and understood it. Finally. His took a moment to clear his head once more, unwittingly glancing over towards the direction of the voice.

“I didn’t take you to be the sentimental type.”

Isaac waited as the other line was deaf to him, before his sight refocused on the page. No. He didn’t care. His grandfather’s work was nothing to him.

Isaac began to read again, his mind wading through the twisted writing and trying to make sense of it. But the buzz of his grandfather’s gruff voice never failed to waft back to him.

He focused even harder on reading.

Isaac made it halfway down the page before: “Don’t make this my families business. Again.”

Isaac’s sight stopped dead.

Who did he say he was on call with? Asriel? The question betrayed his apathy. A vitriolic expression bled onto his face. Who was he to blame that on someone else? He made it his families business, whatever it was – his work was their downfall. He was their downfall. Who but he could have made it his parent’s problem? Who was Asriel?

The silence was deafening as he waited for any answer, wiggling his ears childishly as if it would help him hear a response.

“Anything involving that woman was my families business,” his grandfather barked. Even Isaac was slightly taken aback. His eyes were glued to the wall, as if to bare through them and face his grandfather entirely.

That woman… Isaac raked his brain for whoever that could be. He came up blank. There was no woman significant enough to his family, that he knew of, to solicit that reaction from his grandfather.

His grandfather rounded the corner and Isaac threw himself back in the direction of the book. He did not try to read the words, but met the paragraph he had long bore at and the shape of two words in particular. Father and mother sat inked before him. Silence enveloped a long moment.

When his grandfather began to speak, Isaac could no longer handle being even near the man.

As he stood, the book folded back together harshly, closing him away from the specters of a family. Isaac began to walk in the opposite direction of his grandfather, towards his room. As he turned into the hallway, the words “wraith” and “leader” hit him.

Isaac quickened his pace, one final name gracing his ear; “Terra,–“

– Warden’s voice ricocheted outside the car, his large figure shoving on a coat as he emerged out of the house. He waited for a second, listening to an inaudible response, before climbing into the drivers seat.

Elias scooted even farther down into his seat, knees propped up higher than his head as his spine curled to an uncomfortable degree. But he was too engrossed in his 3DS to notice – Elias had a Riolu to catch and a gym badge to obtain, he had no time for the meager discomfort in his neck.

Warden turned the car on and, as the engine whirred to life, glanced back at Elias and chuckled. “Enjoying the game?”

Elias barely heard him, staring daggers at the Poké Ball which shook once. Twice. Then a shadowy sprite of Riolu emerged from its wake. Elias groaned and managed to slink even farther down.

“Don’t ignore your dad, Elias.”

He looked up to see his mother’s hair swishing as she put on her seat belt, then turned to face him with furrowed eyebrows and a teasing smile at her lips.

“And sit up,” her voice gaining a sudden starkness as she took in his form.

Elias scrambled to do just that, the commanding tone of his mother’s voice, full of love yet still slightly terrifying imploring him to have perfect posture and a clicked in seat belt within moments. She nodded and turned back around.

When his dad repeated the question, Elias shifted the 3DS back into his lap. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good,” was all his father responded with. As he looked over his seat to pull out of the driveway, he smiled at Elias.

The boy waited for a bit before returning to the game. He didn’t want to risk not hearing someone again and them actually getting annoyed. But as their conversation lulled into something work related, Elias eagerly snatched the system back up and honed his attention to the screen.

And when he finally managed to catch the Pokemon, his grin stretched ear-to-ear.

He navigated to the menu, pressing save and shutting the console with a snapping sound. He often got a headache from playing video games in the car. One already was teasing at the front of his head.

Thankfully, the window glass was cold where he placed his cheek. Roaming Stockton streets passed by in a blur, concrete on concrete on concrete. Elias played a game with the metal fences: He’d find their endpoint, wait for them to pass him, then ‘jump’ to the next with his sight. It kept him entertained in the monochrome, if slightly dizzying.

There was a small park, however, on a street they passed. When his mom told stories of her youth, which was rare, the park had come up – one of her friends began a garden within it to help the community.

He glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, though mouth still moving as she explained something to his dad.

Unintentionally, Elias mimicked her movement. He reclined in the seat and rested his head somewhat lopsidedly, twiddling the game console in his hands, watching as the outside greenery quickly bled back into gray. His friends own came to mind.

Elias closed his eyes to the thought of him showing off his catch. Oh, it was going to be awesome. He couldn’t wait.

[literary-motif]

Black Death

James x Reader

Tara's death takes its tool on James.

“How come every time I see you, you’re hunched over this desk like it’s your last tether to sanity?” 

James looked up with a glare, dark circles under his eyes betraying just how tired he was. He looked fried, positively wretched. Strands of his black hair were astray as if he had run his hand through the locks repeatedly. His tie was partly undone — you wondered why he bothered to put it on in the morning in the first place — and his dress shirt crumpled in a way that made you wonder if he had left the desk at all to sleep. 

He looked like he was desperately hanging on to his last thread, seeing it slipping through his fingers with every passing moment until it would snap. And he would not recover. Perhaps, you mused, he truly did cling to the work for his sanity. 

Losing a sibling was not easy, you guessed, especially one as close to him as Tara had been. Her death was tragic, of course. It had shaken the Wraiths to their very foundations and it had been exhausting for you in turn to ensure Warden’s rocky transition as its new leader went as smoothly as the circumstances would permit. 

But this had been over half a year ago. Of course, there was no schedule for grief, and James had been unable to mourn his sister properly in the immediate aftermath of her death — too busy holding Warden and Elias together by sheer strength of will — but as the world kept turning and the Wraiths slowly seemed to adapt to their new dynamic, as Warden got more comfortable in his new role and Elias, while forever scarred, began sleeping through the nights again, James did not seem to get better, but worse. 

“How about you get back to work instead of making snide comments?” he replied drily, his voice cracking from disuse. (When did he last have a drink of water?) He cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose in contempt as he looked at you, staring at him. “What?” he hissed.

Concern and pity waged a war inside of you, but you chose to settle on gentle teasing instead. It was safer. Your relationship with James was not exactly cozy, and moving in established parameters felt easier than showing him outright exactly how worried you were for him. This had gone on for long enough. He was pushing himself to the brink, and while, perhaps, a man’s grief was none of your business, it would not do (so you told yourself) to have your hard work for the Wraiths deterred because James drowned in his own sorrows as collateral to the tragedy that had occupied you for months. 

“While I know our job is not really a nine to five,” you said, gathering a pile of askew papers that sat unorganized on the desk and arranging them in a neat stack, “I would nonetheless think that two AM is a little excessive, even for us.”

His face fell. “It’s not—” he began, averting his gaze to squint at his watch. Why he did not simply check the timestamp on the glaring monitor of his computer, you did not know. Exhaustion muddied perception, you supposed.

It was uncomfortably quiet for a moment. Then, “What are you still doing here at this hour? Go home.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting your tongue to keep from having the word filing past your lips: hypocrite. 

James must have caught onto your train of thought, or perhaps he saw it on your face. “Don’t,” he muttered softly, and you would have missed it, had it not been for the absolute dead quiet surrounding you. 

It was as if the angel of death itself had swept across the land, leaving only a hollow husk of what had once been the epicenter of life. The silence was stifling, chilling in a way only absolute abandonment could. It felt as if time had frozen over, halting in its relentless steps onwards because it, too, had realized that there was nothing to be won in ceaselessly going on. After all, what was life without reflection, if not a string of continuous moments in single file? 

And what was the present, if not borrowed time after the unthinkable? 

Something in the stillness shattered the pretense. Perhaps it was his soft voice, barely more than a whisper in a tone so devastatingly sad that it made you freeze; perhaps it was your own restless exhaustion that came to a head in the early hours of the morning. 

“Come on,” you said, carefully prying the pen from James’ fingers. “It’s late, I’ll drop you off.”

You expected resistance, of course you did. But what you got instead was such a world-weary, defeated sigh that your gaze snapped to him immediately, watching him rub his temples slowly before nodding once. 

“I can drive myself,” he said, determined. James placed his hands on the edge of the desk, pushing himself out of his chair. You had half a second to be concerned about the groan of pain slipping past his lips before he swayed where he stood. 

“What—?” you asked in alarm, gripping his biceps to steady him. You could feel him shaking faintly under your touch and wrapped an arm around his waist just to be sure he would not fold. 

“‘M fine,” he muttered, keeping his head averted. His eyes were closed, you noticed, and his brow pinched in a frown. “Can— can handle myself,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought. 

“Of course you can,” you said, not unkindly. You emitted the comment that his handling of himself certainly consisted of working himself to an early grave. The shadow of death practically clung to his desk already. “Is this exhaustion or something more? James?” He seemed entirely concentrated on not tripping as you steered him away from his desk, along the polished marble of the corridors, and towards your car. 

“Fine,” he repeated, only to hiss in pain as the automatic lights sprang to life, dousing the foyer in harsh, artificial light. 

“Migraine?”

James merely groaned, sinking into the cushions of your passenger seat with the heel of his hand pressed against his right eye, breathing shallowly. “Fine,” he muttered again. You tried to shut the door as quietly as possible. It still made him flinch. 

At least the drive to his apartment would take only a few minutes. It was not that you had visited him multiple times, but that it had become nearly a sort of ritual to take the work home on one or two days of the month — either yours or his place — and go over the details of whatever mess you were currently stuck in over dinner. That had been before Tara’s death, of course. Whatever tentative friendship you had developed with James had turned frigid again in his grief, degraded again to an acquaintance. 

It did not feel like that, however, as you supported his shaking frame up the stairs toward his apartment, as you pressed a glass of cold water and a pill for the pain into his hands. It felt infinitely more familiar as you undid his tie properly, easing him into bed; as you placed his phone on the nightstand next to him, already on your contact information in case he should need anything. It did feel like something resembling friendship as his hand blindly reached for your wrist, giving it a squeeze as he muttered a tired ‘thank you’ into the stillness of the night. 

[peppymintdreams]

What is it with everyone and wanting

James x Reader

This is just like the Yandere Isaac Virus 😭

[vionnette]

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

✦•┈๑⋅⋯INTRO⋯⋅๑┈•✦

☁︎ Hiyaa! My name is Vionnette, but you can call me Vion or Vio for short. My age will stay anonymous, and I'm bisexual. I go by they/them!! I'm also Filipino!

─────────────────── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗────────────────────

✦•┈๑⋅⋯MY LIKINGS⋯⋅๑┈•✦

☁︎ Audio VAs 𓍼 ZsakuVA, Fuyuki VA, Nora Asmr, Escaped Audios, Frantikasmr

☁︎ Roblox games(cus that's the only thing I play) 𓍼 Twenty-one, Arsenal, DTI, Pressure, Up for Debate, Royale high, Nico NB(I barely play this one)

☁︎ Shows & Books that I fw𓍼Cyberpunk Edgerunners, Heaven Official Blessing, JJK, Land of the Lustrous, Seraph of the End, Chainsaw Man, AOT, KNY, Yuri on Ice, Arcane, BSD, Game of Thrones(including the House of the Dragons), Resident Evil, Miraculous: Tales of Lady Bug and Cat Noir(hehe)

☁︎ Singers & Kpop idols/groups 𓍼 Sabrina Carpenter, The Weeknd, The Pussycat Dolls, Lady Gaga, BTS, Paramore, Ado, Deftones, Chase Atlantic, Doja Cat, Megan Thee Stallion, SZA, K/DA, Al James, Munimuni, Ariana Grande, Billie Eilish, Chappel Roan, IV of Spades, Cup of Joe, Ben&ben, Ace Banzuelo, Calein, ZILD, Aespa, BP, NewJeans, Twice, Itzy, BIBI, (G)I-DLE, IVE

─────────────────── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗────────────────────

✦•┈๑⋅⋯WHAT I POST⋯⋅๑┈•

☁︎This will mostly be focused on Zsakuva/Sakuverse. I will ramble about how I miss or love one of the characters.

☁︎I will also ramble about Zaros, Dontis, Xanthus, and Asirel, much more often since I like the four of them the most

☁︎I might create theories about the connections of the characters, especially on the Noble Trials

☁︎I might post other VAs but expect that it'll be once in a blue moon lol

─────────────────── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗────────────────────

✦•┈๑⋅⋯EXTRA NOTES⋯⋅๑┈•

☁︎English is not my first language so if there are some errors in my grammar please ignore them >.<

☁︎I'm also finding some crumpet moots here because I want someone to talk with me about King Crumpet and also the Sakuverse

☁︎I am mostly active here, X, and Discord

☁︎I'm also a new user here so I'm still trying to learn how this app works lol

☁︎Also please check Frantikasmr's YouTube account, his voice is great asf(and he's also a new VA on YouTube)

⌞This is the end of my introduction, Thank you for reading!⌝

[imaginesbymk]

MARSTON. ━︎━︎ ZSAKUVA STRICT PROFESSOR SERIES !

originally from wattpad

[ZSakuVA] ''The forbiddenness of a fruit makes even the taste of a lemon sweet.''

*ೃ༄ 18+ mature!

*ೃ༄ Professor Andrew Marston has left a lasting impact on numerous students, instilling in them a deep appreciation for literature and history. While he strives for perfection in his role as an educator, he harbors undisclosed secrets that he intends to keep hidden throughout his teaching career and life. However, when he encounters a remarkable student who stands out for their intelligence and boldness, Professor Marston finds himself challenged to break through their barriers. As they engage in a transformative journey of self-awareness and exploration, the professor may even discover valuable lessons from this student and perhaps even consider asking them out on a date.

CAST

nabiyuii's art on twitter as ANDREW MARSTON

YOURSELF as Y/N aka Darling

JACK O'CONNELL as JAMES ZYLOS

ALEXA DEMIE as BRITTANY

FIONN WHITEHEAD as COLIN JADEN "C.J"

ELEANOR MATSUURA as DEAN CLAIRE

CHAPTERS [all chapters will be posted here soon, just publishing some at a time to avoid spamming. for now, all updated chapters up until chapter thirteen is posted on wattpad - link above]

prologue.

chapter one - "four eyes."

chapter two - "chewing gum."

chapter three - "boo!"

chapter four - "with love, y/n."

chapter five - "the letters of abelard and heloise."

chapter six - "for a positive experience."

chapter seven - "the forbidden-ness of a fruit."

chapter eight - "office hours."

chapter nine - "professor green-eyed monster."

chapter ten - "new friend."

chapter eleven - "what do you really want?"

FILLER CHAPTER - "ICEBREAKERS."

chapter twelve - "the british museum."

chapter thirteen - "milk & sugar / luca."

♫ soundtrack

DISCLAIMER

'MARSTON' is a work of fiction. Fanfiction, if I may.

It has the well-known intimate Professor x Student trope, but let me clarify that it is altered differently and focuses on a much different approach of a college/university student, as well as the professor's one-dimensional point of view and how he himself has his own problems to solve other than an infatuation for a student.

Tags: swearing, implied NSFW, drinking, drugs/addiction, mental health, family estrangement + Andrew's heartbreaking and traumatizing childhood

—this story is Euphoria themed.STRICTLY 18+, so if you're a minor BYEEEEEEEEE.

PLEASE DO NOT PLAGIARIZE/REPOST OR BIND MY FIC I WILL LITERALLY RUIN YOU OK BYE <3

[yoursinisforgiven]

SECRETARY ──

pairing: james x reader (non–listener)

cw: light dark content, smut, pwp (so much plot..), impact play, gunplay(?), afab reader, a little pain play,, sex in front of another person(?) (but not really), vaginal fingering, somewhat based off this movie, established relationship, reader and james are implied to have been together since highschool, age difference relationships (reader is implied to be somewhat younger than james), violence, mentions of gangs, reader is referred to as james ‘wife’, references to this fic, writer is a liar and didnt actually re listen to any audios because she's too lazy!

you are responsible for your own media consumption, the piece of writing contains dark content; it’s not suitable or meant to be enjoyed by all readers.

Perhaps you should have settled for something else—a simpler life.

To say you hated your job was somehow both an understatement and a dramatic stretch. It wasn't hate, not exactly. It was exhaustion, it was unease, it was the weight of something you couldn’t name pressing against your chest at odd hours of the night. A heaviness that settled in the marrow of your bones and refused to be shaken. Sometimes, it felt like a knot twisted tight around your ribs, only loosening when the lights went down and the city outside faded into darkness. But that darkness never lasted long, not here.

In the rare quiet moments between phone calls and schedules, between bloodstained suits and unreadable gazes, you found yourself drifting. You thought about a different life. Somewhere quiet. Maybe Maine—a small town with large plots of land, a comfortable house with a garden that smelled like lavender and thyme in the summer, not like the sterile walls of your current life. The house you lived in now, the one that never truly felt like home.

Perhaps it was ignorant to complain about living a life of luxury, a life James and Tara—

Tara. The name comes like a sting, sharp and sudden, slicing through the fragile calm you’d tried to build. The ache was immediate, a raw burn that spread through your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs as easily as it had the day you first felt it. That gnawing hole in the pit of your stomach—a hole that had never fully healed.

She had been a part of this. A part of him. And now she was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the past. But the memory lingered, gnawing at you, always reminding you of a life that could never be.

They had worked so hard to give you this life. To give everyone they cared about this life. A life that was always far too expensive to be simple, too soaked in blood to be pure. Still, that thought nagged at you. A simpler life. A smaller house. Maybe even a small garden. Maybe in another life.

The sound of the heavy-duty metal door—the one you'd insisted on having reinforced to be bullet- and explosion-resistant—creaks open, its metal scraping against the frame with a high-pitched screech. The kind of sound that makes your teeth ache, a sharp, abrasive noise that feels almost intrusive in the stillness of the room. The door slams shut with a force that rattles the thick windows, sending a tremor through the polished floors.

You flinch. Once, twice. Your grip tightens around the clipboard in your hands, the cool plastic pressing into your fingers as if the act of holding it might ground you. The pen’s smooth surface does little to help. It’s just an object, a small thing, useless in the grand scheme of things.

Then, James enters.

His jacket, once immaculate, is now in his hand, dangling like a discarded thing. Streaks of blood stain the fabric in long, uneven lines, a violent contrast against the dark fabric. The blood, a deep crimson, has already begun to dry, turning the material into something almost stiff—crusted like an old wound that refuses to heal. The sight of it twists something deep in your stomach, the sharp reminder that no matter how much you pretend, the blood of his work is never truly washed away.

His hands, always so steady, are now visibly trembling. Only slightly, imperceptible to anyone else, but you see it. It’s there, in the way he grips the jacket like a lifeline, his fingers white at the knuckles.

You can’t remember a time when the weight of him didn’t settle into the air around you. Heavy, suffocating. And yet, it was always this quiet pressure, never the explosion you might expect from someone so… well, like him.

He doesn’t say anything.

He never does when he’s in this state. No need. You know better than anyone that silence is a language all its own when it comes to James.

The anger isn’t like the rage you’ve seen in others. It doesn’t explode outward, tearing through the world with a destructive force. No, his is a different kind of fury—a quiet, restrained anger that lingers, always contained, simmering beneath the surface. You can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the subtle twitch of his left hand, the way his eyes dart to the floor for a fraction of a second, as if to gather himself before facing whatever he’s about to say.

But it’s there, and you can read it, the way you’ve always been able to.

The thick, cold air of the basement wraps itself around you as you step into the hall behind him. The Quetza’s—a stupid name, you'd complained to Warren once. Too hard to spell, too hard to remember for customers. Not that it mattered. The hotel was never meant to be memorable. It was meant to be a front— hallways always feel like a maze—narrow, dimly lit by harsh fluorescent lights that cast long shadows on the walls, the sort that never seem to leave, even when the lights are off. The walls are thick, reinforced with concrete, designed to keep whatever happens inside contained.

It’s a far cry from the house you’d imagined. A simple house with soft lighting and warm wood floors. But you knew, even as the thought crossed your mind, that this life was never meant for you. Not really. You’d always been a bystander, a reluctant participant in something much darker than you could’ve ever imagined.

James walks ahead, his bloodied jacket swaying slightly with each step, the dark fabric almost blending into the shadows around him. His shoes click against the polished floors in a rhythmic pattern that, if you listened long enough, could almost lull you into a trance.

You follow him out of the basement, the echoes of your footsteps bouncing off the walls, a reminder of just how far away you were from any notion of peace.

Maybe in another life, another world, you could’ve had that simple house. That small garden. Maybe James wouldn’t have blood on his hands every night. Maybe you wouldn’t know the exact shade of red fresh blood dried into. Maybe you wouldn’t have to stomach the weight of it all.

But then again, maybe you would.

──

The car door opens with a soft groan of metal, a sound that feels almost sentient, like the vehicle itself is weary of its purpose. The air outside is cool against your skin, though it doesn’t feel like it should be—more a gentle reminder that no matter how much you try, you’ll never escape the chill of this life. It lingers, seeps into the bones, makes a home in the spaces between each inhale and exhale.

The Bentley’s interior greets you with a familiar, almost suffocating warmth. The cream leather of the seat molds against you like an old friend, but the seat feels a bit too empty tonight. A void where something should be—what, you’re not sure. Something intangible, something just beyond reach.

You slide in beside James, the motion smooth, practiced. You’ve done this a thousand times, but tonight, the air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken. The scent of leather surrounds you, mingling with the faint remnants of his cologne. It’s still there, but it feels distant, as if the man beside you isn’t the same one whose scent clung to your sheets, your clothes, the air around you. As if this is only a fragment of him, a ghost of a man wearing his skin.

The leather beneath your fingers is cool, but it always is—never too warm, never too cold. The car’s interior smells faintly of coffee, the dark roast still clinging to the upholstery as though it, too, could never be truly washed away. A detail so small, so seemingly unnecessary, but it sticks with you, lingers in the air like a ghost that refuses to leave.

James grips the steering wheel, his hands trembling just slightly. Not enough for the untrained eye to notice, but you do. His forearms are exposed, the crisp white of his dress shirt bunched up just below the elbows, revealing the taut muscles of his biceps. The veins stand out, dark against his skin, pulsing with the same tension that fills the car.

Had you not felt his anger hanging thick in the air, this moment could’ve gone a very different way—one that didn’t involve questions or bloodstained suits but instead ended in a tangled mess of limbs in the backseat.

But you feel it. And so does he.

The silence between you both is thick, suffocating. It stretches, expands, curls around the edges of the conversation that hasn’t even begun yet.

Finally, you speak.

“Did you kill him?”

The question is simple, direct, but it feels too heavy for the air between you. Words can be heavier than actions, sometimes. They can weigh down a moment, making it unbearable.

James doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers tighten around the wheel until his knuckles turn white, the soft leather creaking under the pressure. His jaw flexes, just slightly, a muscle ticking beneath the skin.

For a moment, the world outside the car window seems distant, distant enough to feel like you’re not really here. Not really alive. Just a shadow passing through a fog.

“What?” James asks, his voice low and even, but the tension is unmistakable.

The car is still not moving. The engine hums faintly, like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

You meet his gaze, steady and unwavering, despite the gnawing feeling in your gut, the unease creeping up your spine.

“I said, did you kill him?”

Your words hang in the air between you, a quiet challenge, a flicker of something dangerous.

“Why are you worried about the life of another man, a traitor nonetheless.” He spits, a tone full of envy and jealousy, sharp enough to cut through the silence.

At this, you scoff at his childishness, adjusting in the seat slightly. The car had now felt entirely too hot, suffocating in a way it hadn’t before. You move the notes and clipboard in your lap to the floor, the action slow, deliberate, a momentary distraction. As you do this, you speak, voice measured. “Because it’s important to get information out of these people, especially with everything going on with the Ve—”

“He tried to kill my nephew.”

James hadn’t yelled. No, he hadn’t. But he raised his voice, and the weight of it sent a surge through you. A ripple of something primal, something sharp.

But you aren’t one to act on anger, not immediately. You take a breath, let the moment settle. Then, you give him one last look—one of indifference, of quiet understanding wrapped in apathy—before turning to face the window as he begins to drive.

The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow, the rain beginning to tap against the windshield in uneven rhythms.

“Then I suppose he deserved it,” you murmur, not looking at him. But the words sink, settle between you both like stones dropped into deep water.

James says nothing. He just drives, and the road stretches endlessly ahead.

──

Three days.

For three days, not a word had been exchanged between you and James—not directly, at least. Pride and stubbornness never made the greatest duo, did they? A war of silence waged between you, neither side willing to surrender first. Three days of touchless moments, of quiet, stifled spaces where once there had been presence.

Not a word—at least, not directly. The necessities of work had forced the occasional exchange, brief and clipped, but there was nothing of substance. No offhanded comments, no stolen glances, no presence.

Three days of avoiding each other’s eyes in the morning, pretending not to exist in the same space. Three nights of lying in the same bed but never facing each other, your backs nearly touching yet never quite meeting. James had nightmares about Tara—ones he’d never mention. Never acknowledged the way his body would tense in the dead of night, the way his fingers sometimes twitched, as if grasping for something—or someone—no longer there. But you knew.

You knew that, when his eyes shut, Tara’s ghost was waiting for him on the other side.

You’d grown restless, waking at odd hours, staring at the ceiling until dawn painted the room in pale, gray light. The exhaustion carved into your skin, dark circles settling beneath your eyes like the ghosts of sleepless nights.

The days felt longer this way.

The car rides to the base were the worst. Silence stretched between you like an iron chain, unyielding and suffocating. No stolen glances, no shared words. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of James’s fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel. He hadn’t stopped by your office either.

Instead, he’d been spending his time with Warden.

James never needed to tell you how he felt about the man; you knew. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t respect. It was something different, something purely transactional. If Tara hadn’t tied the two together, you had no doubt James would’ve put a bullet in him by now.

And with James’s absence came an odd sort of imbalance. Your office felt too empty. It was harder to focus. Emails seemed to multiply overnight, contacts needing approval, weapons shipments requiring clearance. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable—you had been handling these things long before James had made it a habit to visit you during his breaks—but the quiet gnawed at you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Then—

Knock.

Just once.

You didn’t need to hear the voice behind the door to know who it was. Lexi.

The woman had a peculiar way about her—never knocking more than once, never announcing herself unnecessarily. Her presence was felt before it was seen, a force in the room even when she was silent.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing Lexi’s sharp silhouette against the dimly lit hallway. She stepped inside with her usual ease, her gaze sweeping over you like she was reading every emotion you weren’t saying out loud.

She was dressed like she always was—practical, dark clothing, not quite tactical but enough to blend in. Her boots barely made a sound against the hardwood floor, but you knew better than to mistake her quiet nature for gentleness. Lexi was one of the Wraiths’ more efficient executives, someone who could kill as easily as she could converse, someone whose loyalty was neither blind nor hesitant.

She stopped in front of your desk, tilting her head slightly. “You look like shit.”

You exhaled through your nose, rubbing at the bridge of it. “Thanks, Lexi. You always know how to make someone feel better.”

She smirked, but there was something knowing in her gaze. Something that said, I know exactly why you look like this.

Still, she didn’t push—not yet. Instead, she leaned against the chair across from you, arms crossed over her chest. “You’ve been working too much,” she observed, her tone annoyingly neutral.

You gave a humorless chuckle. “Someone has to.”

“James would’ve been handling half of this.”

The name sat between you like a loaded gun.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you picked up a pen, twirling it between your fingers, letting the silence settle.

“He’s been with Warden,” you finally said, not bothering to mask the exhaustion in your voice. “And I doubt he’ll be stopping by anytime soon.”

Lexi raised an eyebrow, but if she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “So that’s what this is about.”

“This isn’t about anything.”

“Three days,” she reminded you. “Three days of not speaking to each other.”

You rolled your eyes. “And?”

Lexi sighed, shifting her weight. “And I think you both need to stop being so damn stubborn.”

There it was—the directness you expected from her.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. “James will talk when he’s ready.”

“Will he?” she asked, her gaze sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.”

That made you pause.

James—the same man who commanded an entire syndicate, who made decisions with brutal efficiency, who never hesitated—waiting for you? It was absurd. But the moment Lexi said it, something in you twisted uncomfortably.

The silence in the room stretched.

Lexi sighed again, pushing herself off the chair. “Think about it,” she said, already turning toward the door.

She stopped.

Turned back.

That smirk grew just slightly, something sly sparking in her gaze.

“Oh, and I need you to visit the lovebirds at the house,” she said casually, like it was just another task. “You know, the two-week reload?”

You blinked. “Lovebirds?”

Muttering the word under your breath, you tried to place the reference—until it clicked.

A small chuckle slipped past your lips. Elias and the Brewhouse survivor.

You remembered James mentioning it once, his voice laced with something dangerously close to amusement as he recounted the story of teasing his nephew.

Elias.

James had always spoken about him with a sort of exasperated fondness, though he’d never outright say it. It was in the way his lips twitched whenever Elias had done something particularly reckless, the way his gaze softened—barely—when he thought no one was looking.

Still, James had always been strict with him, always watching with that quiet, assessing stare of his. The way a wolf might watch a younger one in the pack, making sure he didn’t stray too far, but giving him just enough space to learn.

And now, Elias had his own person.

You glanced back at Lexi, raising an eyebrow. “Why me?”

She shrugged. “Because James isn’t going to do it, and I don’t feel like babysitting.” She shot you a look. “Besides, you could use the break.”

A break. Right.

You weren’t sure what was less appealing—the idea of stepping away from your never-ending inbox or the possibility of running into James before you left.

But still…

Elias.

It had been too long since you’d last seen him, long enough for the absence to settle uncomfortably in your chest. You hated the feeling—this quiet, nagging guilt, this weight that pressed against your ribs whenever you realized how much distance had grown between you.

Because there had been a time when he had been yours in a way. Not by blood, not by duty, but something else—something quiet and unspoken, something built in the space left behind by Tara’s absence.

You could still remember the way he used to cling to your side as a child, always looking to you first, always trusting you without question. How many times had you picked him up from school early, your voice light and teasing as you made up some excuse, as if it were just a whim? Just because. Just because there might have been someone waiting outside who shouldn’t have been. Just because James had sent you. Just because the world you all lived in was one where safety was never guaranteed.

Even after Tara died, you had cared for him as your own. Tended to his wounds when he got into fights, cooked him meals when James was too busy with work, sat with him in silence when the weight of everything was too much.

Somewhere along the way, though, things had shifted. Elias had grown older, more independent, more reckless. The closeness you once shared had become something less defined, stretched thin by time and circumstance.

And now, here you were—hesitating.

You sighed, rolling your shoulders back. “Fine.”

Lexi’s smirk widened, and she gave you a mock salute before slipping out the door.

──

The drive to the safe house felt like it could stretch into infinity, the thick silence between you and the car's interior heavy and suffocating. You had tried, for the first few minutes, to drown out the noise in your mind, but it kept circling back, like a vulture waiting to feast.

The last three days replayed in your head, over and over, each moment a jagged, painful reminder of how things had shifted. Your gaze kept slipping back to the memory of James walking past you, not even sparing you a glance, like you weren’t there.

You could tell yourself it hadn’t hurt. You could tell yourself that it wasn’t real pain, that the ache wasn’t something you could touch or see, not like a bruise or scar. But the sting was there, nestled deep in your chest, curling its fingers around your ribs. The kind of pain that doesn’t have a visible wound. And that made it all the more insidious.

But what was the point of dwelling on something that couldn’t be fixed? Wasn’t it pointless to think about something that wasn’t tangible? You should focus, focus on the mission, your mind told you, yet the silence felt like it carried the weight of an elephant.

By the time you arrived at the house, the sky had already dimmed, the sun dipping low into the horizon and casting long, golden streaks across the pavement. The world seemed to pause for a moment, held in the soft glow of the fading day. The house stood before you, inconspicuous—small, nondescript, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world, encased in layers of security that made it more of a fortress than a home.

Yet even as you stepped from the car, there was a tightness in your chest. It wasn’t fear, but something else. Something that gnawed at you, deep down. A sharp pang of something that was far too difficult to name. Remorse.

The notion of the safe house, the very place where everything was supposed to be safe, should have been a relief. You should have felt comforted by the idea of them here, tucked away, protected. But instead, that odd sense of bitterness settled in the pit of your stomach like a bad taste.

You knocked once—Lexi’s bad habit was rubbing off on you—, then instantly cursed under your breath. The gesture felt pointless. Foolish. The locks on the door were designed to be more than a barrier—they were a deterrent, and your knock could never override that. You didn't need to announce your presence. So, with practiced ease, you let your hand hover over the keypad, your fingers punching in the security code. A soft click sounded, and you stepped into the house.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the air shifted. The scent hit you immediately—the scent of spicy noodles, rich and inviting, tangled with something faintly herbal. It was warm, comforting in its own way, reminding you of something you couldn't quite place. The house was dimly lit, the kind of soft lighting that made it feel like a home, lived in but not untidy. On the coffee table, a half-empty mug sat, steam still curling lazily from the surface. Beside it was a well-worn book, its spine cracked and pages slightly dog-eared, evidence of frequent use. A jacket was slung carelessly over the back of the couch, sleeves uneven as though someone had discarded it in a hurry, a small but significant detail in the otherwise neat surroundings.

And then you heard it—the sound of laughter. Low, familiar, almost musical. It came from the direction of the kitchen, and for a moment, you froze, your heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t the kind of sound you’d expected to hear here, not in this house, not in this moment.

You followed the sound, your feet moving almost without thought, each step bringing you closer to the source. The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of overhead lights, and there, in the middle of it, was Elias. His sleeves were rolled up, hands still damp from whatever he'd been doing, a dish towel slung casually over his shoulder. His dark hair was slightly damp as if he'd just rinsed off, and droplets of water clung to his wrists, catching the light in small bursts of brightness.

Across from him, perched on the kitchen island, was the brewhouse survivor— legs swinging idly as they watched Elias with an amused smile.

Neither of them noticed you at first. They were too wrapped up in their own quiet conversation, too comfortable in their own little bubble. For a moment, you just stood there, watching them both, and it felt like something unfamiliar stirred deep inside you.

Because this... this felt like something you had once dreamed of, something you had wanted—a life of simplicity, of warmth, of normality. It felt like something you could have had.

Then Elias’s gaze flicked up, and just like that, the moment shattered.

“You’re early,” he remarked casually, his voice low but not unwelcoming.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “And you’re… domestic,” you said, the words escaping before you could stop them.

His lips quirked. “Don’t let James hear you say that.”

Beside him, the survivor smirked. “No, please, tell James,” they quipped, their voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “I’d love to see how that conversation goes.”

Elias shot them a look, one that was more bemused than irritated. There was something easy in the exchange, something so effortless that it almost made your chest ache.

You studied the two of them for a long beat, then spoke, your tone matter-of-fact. “You’re due for a reload.”

Elias exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, figured,” he said, a touch of resignation in his voice. His gaze flicked toward the survivor, a softer look passing between them, something unreadable. “Mind giving us a minute?”

The survivor hesitated, looking between the two of you for a moment before hopping off the counter, landing lightly on the floor.

As they passed, their hand brushed Elias’s—just barely, just enough to make you notice.

It was small. Inconsequential, really.

But to you, it was everything.

Once the survivor had disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with Elias, silence filled the space between you. The kind of silence that was too thick to ignore, the kind that made the walls seem to close in.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe a little more, your gaze sharp. “You’re getting attached.”

Elias didn’t even flinch, his expression cool and unfazed. “And?”

“And that’s not always a good thing,” you replied, your voice barely more than a murmur.

He huffed out a soft laugh, almost like he didn’t care. “Right. Because nothing good ever comes from caring.” The words were flippant, but there was an edge to them, a bite that made your chest tighten.

You didn’t answer. Because deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. Deep down, you weren’t sure he was wrong.

Elias studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes heavy with something unspoken. “James sent you, didn’t he?”

For a brief second, you hesitated, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them. “No.”

Elias raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear.

You exhaled, more to yourself than anyone else. “Lexi did.”

Elias smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Figures.”

A long stretch of silence followed, the air between you taut with unspoken tension. Then, just as casually as if he were discussing the weather, Elias leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “So... how’s Uncle James?”

Your gaze faltered, your eyes briefly drifting away. “He’s fine.”

Elias's voice softened, though it carried the same skepticism as before. “Right. And you?”

You hesitated for just a moment before replying, your voice tight, “I’m fine.”

Elias chuckled, low and almost amused. “You used to be a better liar.”

The words, soft as they were, landed with surprising weight. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t even particularly harsh. But they hit somewhere inside you, in a place that you hadn’t realized was still raw.

You opened your mouth to respond, to say anything, but—

A voice called out from down the hallway.

“Did you tell them yet?”

The survivor.

Elias groaned, tilting his head back in frustration. “No, because I knew you’d want to be here for it.”

Your eyes narrowed, your curiosity piqued. “Tell me what?”

The survivor appeared in the doorway once more, arms crossed and a gleam of amusement in their eyes. “Oh, just something funny we were talking about earlier,” they said, their grin widening. “You know—how Elias used to have a crush on you.”

The room seemed to fall into complete silence.

Elias’s entire body tensed, his posture stiffening, his shoulders rigid with barely contained annoyance. “I swear to God—”

The survivor’s grin only widened, practically oozing mischief. “What? It’s not like it was a secret.”

You could feel your own brows lifting, amusement flickering across your face.

Elias shot you a look—the kind that could only be described as a desperate drop-this-now type of look.

But it was too late.

A slow smirk tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. “Oh?”

Elias groaned, dragging a hand down his face in defeat. “You love making my life difficult, don’t you?”

The survivor simply shrugged, their grin unrepentant. “It’s a hobby.”

You leaned against the doorframe, your arms still crossed as you eyed Elias. “You had a crush on me?”

Elias muttered something under his breath, a low, irritated sound that made you grin all the more. He exhaled sharply, his eyes meeting yours with a look that was unreadable, distant. “It was a long time ago.”

You hummed thoughtfully, pretending to mull it over. “How long?”

Elias’s scowl deepened, and he finally snapped, “Does it matter?”

The survivor, clearly enjoying every moment of this, snorted. “I’d say... middle school? Maybe early high school? That’s what he told me at least.”

Elias shot them a venomous glare. “You weren’t supposed to—”

They raised their hands in mock surrender. “Hey, it’s not my fault you used to get all weird whenever they were mentioned.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Weird how?”

Elias groaned again, rubbing his temples in exasperation. “I hate both of you.”

The survivor merely grinned, clearly unbothered.

You couldn't fight the sharp tug at your lips, a mixture between the two’s laughter and bickering in the air and for the first time in three days, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

 ──

Knock!

The sound barely registered at first. It was quiet but firm, measured in a way that wasn’t intrusive but also wasn’t asking for permission.

Still, it brought the faintest pull of a smile to your lips.

You shook your head, already knowing who it was.

“Come in,” you called out, voice gentle, expectant.

You didn’t turn around completely. Lexi never took it to heart—at least, you didn’t think so. She had always been understanding of your divided attention, the way work swallowed you whole, the way your focus always seemed to linger somewhere just beyond the present moment.

Your gaze remained fixed on the screen in front of you, fingers hovering above the keyboard, the glow of the monitor casting faint shadows across your hands. It wasn’t the body of the email that held your attention—it was the name of the sender.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as you read it again.

The unfamiliarity of it made something in your chest tighten.

A gut feeling.

A whisper of unease that slithered down your spine, settling at the base of your neck.

Still, you pushed past it.

“Hey, Lex, do we know an Asr—”

The sentence never fully left your lips.

Because when you turned, it wasn’t Lexi standing in the doorway.

It was a gun.

Close—too close.

Your breath hitched in your throat, every muscle in your body stiffening before your mind could fully process what was happening.

Recognition struck you in an instant. Not just the weapon, but this one in particular.

The double-barrel design was unmistakable.

An old-school relic, the kind rarely used in modern action—too impractical, too slow. It was a collector’s piece, meant to sit behind glass, admired but never wielded.

But this one had been wielded.

The craftsmanship was still immaculate, the metal polished to a high shine. But the wood handle—deep, aged mahogany—bore subtle signs of wear, the kind that came from use rather than time.

And there, delicately etched in gold, were two sets of initials.

Yours and his.

The realization coiled in your gut like a vice.

You had bought this gun for James on your anniversary.

Now, it was pressed against your temple.

The cool metal sent a shiver down your spine, its biting chill cutting through the heat of tension that had been festering beneath your skin for days. It was grounding, in a way. An undeniable, inescapable truth—one that existed outside of speculation, emotion, or doubt.

“James.”

His name left your lips in a slow exhale, more acknowledgment than question.

The weight of it settled between you, thick, unmoving.

Your eyes lifted, trailing up the length of his arm, past the unwavering grip of his fingers around the handle, until they met his gaze.

James stood before you, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

But his eyes—

There was something in them.

Something deep and simmering, a storm barely restrained.

You had seen James angry before. You had seen him ruthless, had watched him drenched in blood that wasn’t his own, had witnessed the quiet, deliberate way he handled betrayal, vengeance, violence.

But this—this was different.

There was no unrestrained fury spilling from him. No eruption of rage. No cold, clinical detachment.

This was something worse.

This was James at his most dangerous.

Quiet. Controlled. Unknowable.

The gun didn’t waver.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, but your voice remained steady.

“That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation,” you murmured, tilting your head ever so slightly, enough to feel the barrel shift against your skin. “I assume you have a point to make?”

James didn’t blink.

“You tell me.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came after a decision had already been made, when there was nothing left to debate.

A pause.

A slow inhale.

Your fingers curled against the edge of your desk—not in fear, but in frustration.

This was a game.

And James never played unless he had already won.

Unfortunate for him, you were a sore loser.

Your hand moved swiftly, reaching for the desk drawer.

A fraction of a second.

The whisper of wood sliding against metal.

And then—

The weight of a Wraith-issued pistol in your grip.

The weapon felt unfamiliar, heavy in a way that wasn’t just physical. A weight not of metal, but of something deeper—history, expectation, consequence.

You rose to your feet, the barrel of your gun snapping upward in response.

For the first time, James moved.

One step forward.

You stepped back.

Another.

You mirrored him again, your body tense, heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

And then—

A miscalculation.

Your back met the desk.

You flinched, just slightly, but it was enough.

James took another step forward, closing the space between you in an instant.

The air between you thickened, electric, charged with something that was neither fear nor anger, but something far more dangerous.

Your fingers tightened around the pistol, but James—James simply stared.

Not at the gun. Not at your stance.

At you.

Like he was seeing something beyond flesh, beyond the moment, beyond the choices that had led you both here.

Like he was searching for something.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure if he had found it.

You swallowed, your breath shallow, uneven.

“I suppose this is the part where we decide who pulls the trigger first,” you murmured.

In truth, you hated the feeling of the pistol in your hand. No, more than that—you hated the idea of it being pointed at James, at the man who, despite everything, was still your husband. It felt unnatural, wrong in a way that clawed at your insides, turning your stomach with something heavier than guilt.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly lowered the weapon, placing it down on a pile of untouched documents littering your desk. The paper crinkled beneath the weight, the stark contrast of cold steel against soft parchment feeling like a metaphor too on the nose to ignore. A quiet surrender. One you weren’t sure if James would accept. One you weren’t sure you even wanted him to.

Something unspooled inside you at the action, some tightly wound tension unraveling at the edges, leaving nothing but raw vulnerability in its wake. You tried to speak, to bridge the impossible distance between you, but the words snagged in your throat. Your voice came out broken, fractured around the edges of something unspoken.

“I—I’m sorr—”

Before the sentence could fully leave your lips, James moved.

Faster than thought, faster than hesitation, faster than you could ever hope to react. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing whatever apology had been lingering there, whatever trembling confession you had been on the verge of making. The force of it pushed you backward, your body yielding instinctively as you found yourself sitting atop the desk, papers scattering beneath you.

The sound of his gun hitting the floor barely registered.

What did register—what consumed you entirely—was the way his hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with a desperation that felt almost bruising. Like he was trying to ground himself in you, like he needed you as much as he needed air, as much as he needed control. And for once, James wasn’t in control.

There was nothing careful about the way he kissed you. Nothing measured, nothing restrained. This wasn’t the cold calculation of a man who always thought three steps ahead. This was reckless. This was need, raw and unfiltered, bleeding through the cracks of whatever dam had finally broken inside him.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself in the sheer intensity of his presence. He responded in kind, his hands sliding up your waist, pressing against your ribs, dragging you against him until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the lingering taste of everything that had been left unsaid.

For all the years you had spent beside James, watching him, learning him, understanding him in ways no one else ever could, there had always been a distance. A line he never let himself cross, a carefulness to the way he touched you, spoke to you, held you. A constant battle between what he wanted and what he was willing to take.

That line was gone now.

His grip on you tightened as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, trailing lower, the rough scratch of his stubble sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled against your skin, hot and unsteady, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. It was the first sign—maybe the only sign—that this wasn’t just hunger.

It was fear.

Not fear of you. Not fear of the gun that had been pointed at him only moments ago.

Fear of loss.

Fear of what had nearly happened.

Fear that for the first time, he had looked at you and seen a stranger holding a weapon, rather than his wife.

You felt it too. The weight of it. The lingering ghost of that moment still hung between you, a silent specter whispering of everything that had been fractured.

Your fingers found his face, cupping it between your palms, forcing him to meet your gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark and stormy, like a sea caught in the eye of a hurricane. He looked at you the way a drowning man looks at the surface of the water—like salvation, like the only thing keeping him from slipping under.

You swallowed hard, the emotion thick in your throat, the remnants of a sob still threatening to break free.

“I never wanted—” Your voice wavered, cracking under the weight of what you wanted to say, what you couldn’t. “James, I—”

James’ lips pressed against yours again, but this time, it wasn’t the frantic desperation of before. It wasn’t wild or reckless.

It was slow. Deep. Unyielding.

It was a claim.

A reminder of exactly who he was. Exactly who you were to him.

Your breath stuttered, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as if holding onto him might keep you grounded, might keep you from slipping under the weight of what was happening. But there was no grounding yourself when it came to James. He was gravity and chaos all at once, pulling you into his orbit with a force you could never resist, no matter how much you tried.

And you weren’t sure you even wanted to.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips the moment his hands found your waistband, fingers deft and practiced as they worked the button free, then the zipper, peeling away the fabric with an ease that left you dizzy. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just the rough, insistent press of his palms against your hips, pushing your pants down, dragging them lower, lower, until they pooled at your ankles before being carelessly discarded to the floor.

The rush of air against your exposed skin sent a shiver racing through you, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off of him, to the way his touch lingered, possessive and intent.

"James—" Your voice broke on his name, a mixture of warning and something else entirely—something breathless, something unsure, something dangerously close to surrender.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him—disheveled, breathing heavy, eyes dark and unreadable—sent another thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins. He reached for his belt, the soft, deliberate sound of metal sliding against leather filling the charged space between you.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, hoarse, barely more than a rasp, like he had already decided what was going to happen but was still giving you the chance to stop him.

You swallowed hard, hands bracing against the desk beneath you, trying to find some semblance of control, some way to slow the dizzying pace of whatever this was.

"Here?" The question barely made it past your lips, almost swallowed by the pounding of your own heart. "Really?"

For a moment, James didn’t answer. He just stood there, belt now undone, the fabric of his shirt slightly rumpled from your grip, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable. And then, slowly, his hands found your thighs again, his touch steady, almost too gentle given the tension that crackled in the air between you.

"You think the place matters?" His voice was quiet, but there was something lethal beneath it, something simmering just beneath the surface. "After what just happened? After I had to look at you and see a weapon pointed at me instead of my wife?"

A sharp, visceral ache twisted in your chest at his words.

Because it was true.

For a fraction of a second, you hadn’t been his. You had been someone else entirely.

And James—James wasn’t the kind of man to let something like that go.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to make you gasp, to remind you of exactly who was in control, exactly who had always been in control.

"Tell me," he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "Do you feel like stopping?"

Your breath hitched.

Because he already knew the answer.

And before you could even part your lips, before you could even beg for his touch—

The phone rang.

The sharp, intrusive sound sliced through the thick, heated air between you, shattering the moment, tearing you both from the precipice of something inevitable. The weight of it still lingered, heavy, suffocating, clinging to your skin like the heat of a dying flame.

For a split second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

The only sound was that damn ringing, sharp and insistent, like a sneering reminder of the outside world—a world that had no place here, not in this charged space, not in this fragile, dangerous moment where time had threatened to stop altogether.

James tensed first. You felt it in the way his hands stiffened against your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to make you shiver. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his lips pressed into a thin, tight line, his eyes flickering—just once—to the phone.

And then, under his breath, barely above a whisper—

“Fuck.”

A single, venomous syllable that mirrored the exact thought already running through your own mind.

Your stomach twisted in frustration, the fire still burning low in your veins, aching, demanding, unfulfilled. Slowly, reluctantly, your gaze flickered to the phone, its screen glowing mockingly atop the pile of scattered documents on your desk. No name—just a string of unfamiliar numbers, impersonal and meaningless, yet somehow powerful enough to sever whatever fragile tether had held you and James suspended in this moment.

Your fingers twitched against the polished wood beneath you, torn between answering and letting it ring, between responsibility and the undeniable pull of the man still standing between your legs, still caging you in with the heat of his presence, still looking at you like he hadn’t quite decided whether to let this interruption slide or take matters into his own hands.

The phone rang again.

You swallowed hard, exhaling sharply through your nose before forcing yourself to move.

Reaching over, you grabbed the receiver, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than it should have, like lifting it was some kind of defeat. You brought it to your ear, inhaling deeply, forcing down the heat still simmering beneath your skin, forcing your voice into something neutral, something professional, something entirely detached from the way James was still standing too close, still watching you with that dark, unreadable gaze.

"Good afternoon." The words slipped from your mouth, smooth, practiced—effortless. The same professional cadence you had used countless times, honed over years of training, of suppressing every raw, unfiltered emotion that threatened to spill over in the heat of the moment. "Speaking."

But there was a tremor in your chest, something that had no place in your voice. You weren’t sure what had caused it—You tried to stifle it, tried to disguise it with a cough, but the damage was already done—the sound escaping in a way that felt almost damning. And you weren’t sure which was more responsible for it: the name that came through the receiver, clear and unfamiliar yet laced with something that sent a whisper of unease crawling down your spine… or James.

James, who had moved the second your attention was divided.

James, who had pulled you down from the desk with ease, his strength effortless, practiced, the shift so sudden and fluid that you barely had time to process it before you found yourself turned—flipped—your palms catching against the wood as your chest pressed to the cool surface, your lower half snug against him.

James, who now stood behind you, solid and unmoving, his presence burning through the thin layer of your remaining clothing, his grip firm where his fingers splayed against your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You were trying to focus. Trying to concentrate on the call, to maintain the control you had so carefully built over the years. But the longer you stood there, the harder it became.

And then there was the name that had just been introduced to you, the name that had you instantly questioning everything.

The email. The sender. The message.

Your stomach twisted, and you could feel the weight of it, the gravity of the situation, pulling you down, suffocating you with a thousand unsaid words. The name had triggered something in you—something darker, something buried. Your fingers tightened around the receiver, almost too tight, as you fought to regain some semblance of composure.

But you couldn’t. Not when James’ lips brushed against your ear, a soft, barely audible breath against your skin, the proximity of his body making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.

The name. The email. It all felt like a distant noise—so far removed from the chaos James was stirring in you.

With a shaky breath, you forced yourself to speak again, but the words stumbled over your tongue, each one more difficult than the last.

"Y—yes! I had received it," you managed, voice catching in your throat. The stutter was involuntary, a reflex in the wake of the pressure building inside you, the whirlwind of emotions, the way James was consuming every inch of you, both physically and mentally. "I—I apologize, I didn’t get the chance to read it—"

Your words faltered, and it wasn’t because of the call itself. It was because James had shifted again, his grip tightening, pulling you further into him, the subtle movement of his hips against yours sending a ripple of heat through you that made it even harder to concentrate. You could feel him, the heat of his body seeping into yours, and your mind was hazy, your thoughts tangled in knots.

The name, the email, all of it was fading into the background as the tension between you and James tightened further, like a noose, squeezing the air from your lungs and making it nearly impossible to think straight.

Then, a name you recognized.

Vic.

It snapped you back for a moment. You nodded instinctively, as if the man on the other side of the phone could somehow see you. It was a strange, disorienting reflex, a last-ditch attempt to retain some semblance of professionalism, some thread of the woman you had been moments ago.

“Yes, I’m quite familiar,” you said, voice still trembling, betraying you in ways you couldn’t stop. “Will he be scheduling a meeting as we—”

Before you could finish, before the sentence could even hang in the air, James moved.

The last piece of clothing that had separated you from him—the fabric that had barely shielded you from the storm you knew was coming—was torn away with a swift, practiced motion. A soft, lingering sensation connected you to the discarded fabric as it fluttered to the floor, the connection leaving you exposed, raw.

You couldn’t help but gasp, the sharpness of the air hitting the wet skin making the moment feel infinitely more intimate, infinitely more exposed than you had ever intended.

And then, the sound of James’ low chuckle—low and almost mocking—whispered across the back of your neck.

"You don't even need any prep, do you?" His voice was quiet, the words slipping out with that same predatory calm that always made your pulse race, always made your heart skip in a way that felt both thrilling and dangerous.

Before you could even register the full impact of his words, the sharp sting of his hand landing against your mound cut through the haze of your thoughts, and you couldn’t contain the gasp that followed. It was a reaction, involuntary, the shock of it jolting through you, making your entire body stiffen.

It wasn’t just the physical sting.

It was the way he had pushed you to this point, the way he was controlling the pace, the rhythm, even of your breath. It was the absolute knowing in his touch, the calculated way he seemed to anticipate each and every response you would give before it even left your body.

And then, as if to add insult to injury, the man on the other end of the phone chuckled.

It was a low sound, thick and full, like something dark and ugly. A sound that, for a brief moment, made your stomach twist in humiliation.

Had he known? Had he heard?

The thought, the possibility of it, made you falter. It made your heart skip in a way that wasn’t just nervous—it was something worse. Something deeper. The question lingered, pulling at you like a thread unraveling a tapestry, revealing more than you wanted to see, more than you could process.

But James? He never wavered. Never once broke the rhythm. His focus remained on you—on making sure you were both lost in this moment, trapped in it, unable to look away.

Without missing a beat, James moved. The shift was so sudden, so precise, that it stole your breath in an instant. The warmth of his hand was already there, and before you could even process what was happening, he was deeper—his fingers pressing inside of you, stretching you, claiming you with a force that sent a shock through your entire body.

You gasped, your chest tightening, your pulse hammering in your ears. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, the feeling of him—of being claimed—almost unbearable in its intensity.

“Look how needy you are.” James’ voice was low, thick with something darker, something that made your stomach tighten in a strange mix of exhilaration and dread. The words weren’t a question; they were a fact. He spoke to them with the kind of certainty that only he could wield, his hand holding you firm, his every touch deliberate. “You love this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Not right away. The words were lost, caught somewhere in the heat, in the shock of the moment. Every inch of your body felt exposed, raw, as if James had already stripped you bare in ways that went beyond the physical. It wasn’t just your clothes that were gone—it was everything.

Then, just as the wave of sensations started to overwhelm you, a voice broke through.

“Is this a—bad time?”

It was a question, but it wasn’t a question. The tone was light, mocking even, as if the man on the other end of the line could sense the disruption, the tension hanging in the air. He didn’t sound concerned. He didn’t sound apologetic.

It was almost as if he was amused.

Your throat tightened, and for a brief moment, you wondered if he knew. If he really knew what was happening. You couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, the voice on the other end wasn’t just a casual interruption. No, it was almost as if it was feeding into the chaos, like it was part of the game being played, unaware—or perhaps completely aware—of the fire it had just thrown gasoline on.

James’ grip on you tightened, his eyes burning with that same unrelenting intensity, a glimmer of something almost amused in the way his gaze flickered to yours. You could hear his breathing deepen, feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his movements grew more deliberate, more controlled.

He didn’t say a word.

But the way he pressed against you, the way his fingers curled, the way his gaze never left you—it was a silent statement, a clear declaration that there was nothing, not even the intrusion of a phone call, that would pull him from this moment.

As the voice on the phone continued to linger, the mockery in his tone impossible to ignore, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all crashing down on you. The walls were closing in. The tension was building to a breaking point. It was a game now, and you were trapped in it—no way to escape, no way to retreat.

James's fingers pumped relentlessly into your sopping wet cunt, plunging in and out, stirring up your juices until they dripped down onto the desk beneath you. The obscene squelching and schlicking sounds filled the office, punctuated by James's harsh pants and your own breathy moans.

He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that spongy spot on your front wall that made your toes curl and your back arch. James rubbed and massaged your G-spot with ruthless precision, determined to make you fall apart on his invading digits.

"You’re taking it so well," James taunted, his voice dripping with lust and amusement. "I bet you wish it was my cock stuffing this greedy hole instead of my fingers, don't you?"

His thumb flicked and rubbed your clit with brutal efficiency, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. James could feel your velvety walls clenching and fluttering around his pumping fingers, trying to suck him in deeper.

Slick juices coated his hand, dripping down to pool on the floor below as he fingered you with wild abandon. James's other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he fucked his fingers into your needy cunt with punishing force.

His other hand gripped your ass, squeezing the taut globe roughly as he fingered you. The sound of your arousal filled the office, the obscene squelching and schlicking of your juices coating his pistoning fingers a lewd symphony.

The voice on the other end of the line cut through the haze of your thoughts with unnerving precision. It was almost as if he were savoring the moment, the weight of his words landing in the stillness of the room like a stone dropped in water, sending ripples of discomfort through your already overloaded senses.

“I’ll call back later,” he said smoothly, as if everything were normal. As if your world hadn’t just been twisted, as if James’ relentless pace hadn’t already stripped away any semblance of control. "Save the number."

The words hung in the air between you like a threat, or perhaps a promise, you couldn’t quite decide. There was no urgency in his voice, no rush. Just that same mocking, detached amusement that made the situation feel even more surreal. He knew. He knew what was happening. He could hear it in your breath, in the tension in your voice, in the silence that followed his request.

You swallowed hard, trying to regain some composure, but it was impossible. The connection was cut before you could say anything more, but his final words echoed in your mind, reverberating through your thoughts long after the line went dead.

Your hands moved instinctively, reaching down, desperate to grasp his wrist, to hold onto something solid. But it was futile. His pace, his rhythm—too fast, too relentless—left you barely able to focus on anything other than the overwhelming sensations flooding your body. It was as if his movements were designed to blur everything else, to leave you without any clear thoughts, only fragmented sensations.

Your fingers barely grazed his wrist before your hand fell back uselessly, and for a moment, you were nothing but lost in the haze, tangled in the chaos he had woven around you.

James abruptly pulled his soaked fingers from your dripping cunt, leaving you feeling empty and aching for more. You heard the obscene slurping sounds as he sucked your juices from his digits, cleaning them with lewd relish. The sound of his belt buckle jingling—His belt was already undone, the leather strap dangling loose–and his zipper lowering filled the air, followed by the unmistakable rustle of fabric. Then, with a low groan, James freed his thick, hard cock from the confines of his slacks.

You felt the scorching heat of it before you saw it, the swollen head brushing against your ass, smearing your dripping arousal onto your skin. James's cock was thick and long, the veins along his shaft pulsing with need.

"Look at what you do to me," James muttered, gripping his length and slapping it against your ass cheeks. He rubbed the leaking tip through your soaked folds, coating himself in your slick juices. James's breathing grew heavier, harsher, as he notched the head of his cock against your entrance.

James gripped your hips bruisingly, fingers digging into the flesh as he lined himself up. With one brutal thrust, he slammed forward, burying his thick cock balls-deep into your fluttering heat. A guttural groan tore from his throat at the exquisite sensation of your silken walls gripping him like a vice.

James's hips pistoned wildly, slamming into your ass with brutal force as he fucked you over the desk. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mingling with your wanton moans and James's guttural grunts. Sweat dripped down his chest, splattering onto your back as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

"I fucking love you," James panted harshly, his voice rough with lust and emotion. "Goddamn, I love you so much." He punctuated his declaration with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass.

Suddenly, James leaned down, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers cascading down your spine.

"I love you," James murmured softly, his voice low and filled with tender affection. "I love you so fucking much."

He placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, a stark contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. The tender gesture made your heart swell, even as your body was wracked with pleasure. James's love, even in the heat of the moment, was a balm to your soul. “James–” You croak out, words caught in your throat at a partially brutal thrust, “---I love you too” 

"I'm going to fill this pussy up," James promised darkly, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside your fluttering walls. "Pump you so full of my cum, everyone will know you belong to me."

ames's words, dripping with love and dark promise, sent a thrill of ecstasy shooting through you. He could feel your velvet walls starting to quiver and clench around his pistoning cock, your orgasm approaching rapidly.

"That's it, baby," James encouraged, his voice a low, seductive rumble in your ear. "Come for me."

His hand snaked around to your front, finding your aching clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles, his calloused fingers providing the perfect friction. At the same time, James slammed his cock into you with renewed vigor, the head ramming against your cervix with every thrust.

The dual stimulation proved too much, and with a sharp cry of James's name, your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clamped down around James's shaft, gripping him like a silken vise as you came undone.

He thrust into you one, two, three more times before burying himself to the hilt. With a guttural groan, James began to unload, his cock pulsing and jerking as it unleashed a torrent of hot, thick cum deep inside you.

Wave after wave of James's essence flooded your spasming channel, your womb quickly filling with his potent release. You could feel the warm, sticky fluid sloshing inside you as James emptied his balls, marking you, claiming you from the inside out.

You lingered there together, your bodies entwined, hearts still racing. The office was a chaotic mess, papers scattered across the floor, furniture out of place, the remnants of everything that had just transpired. But in that moment, the world outside faded away. All that mattered was the connection between the two of you, raw and intimate, grounded in the silence that followed.

Still breathless, James muttered under his breath, his voice low and casual, as if it were just another question in the midst of everything that had already unfolded. “Hey… who was that?”

It took a full thirty seconds for the fog in your mind to clear, for the reality of his question to cut through the haze of your body still humming with pleasure. Then, it hit you—the phone call. The voice on the other end. The name.

“Someone named Asriel?” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying it out loud would somehow change everything.

James’ expression shifted just slightly, his gaze darkening for a fraction of a second. The air between you both grew thick with something unspoken, a tension that seemed to stretch and pull in every direction.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang, thick and suffocating, as if weighing the consequences of what you’d just said.

His fingers, which had been lightly tracing your skin, stilled, and you could feel the change in his demeanor, like the calm before a storm.

──

author's note: no clue how this got so long omg.

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[lil-binuu]

i hc that James has like 5 dogs and 2 cats.

He definitely would have dobermans or german shepards (or both) as trained guard dogs but he would love them like children. He could just be doing anything but there will be 2 big dogs by his feet, 2 by the door and one practically in his arms or on his lap.

And of course he would have a cat to curl around his neck like a scarf while the other just hisses at anything and anyone and stares at him from a distance. The dogs would all sleep in one big pile with the cats squeezed right between them.

(one of the dogs is called Tallula and one of the cats is called Tara 💔)

[lil-binuu]

this is probably weird…but can we pls get a james x reader?? ofc not barista.

YES YES YES i was thinkin about this!!! it’ll have to wait tho, i’ve got a long line of things to write and i’m thinking about taking a hiatus or something :((

[zsakuva]

What do you imagine James to look like?

I've always had this picture as a reference for James.

[zsakuva]

hiiii hope you are well

i was wondering about warden, tara, james, isaac, asirel and vic’s morality (ik is a lot of people yiu don’t have to answer all of them 😭)

this is based on this chart i saw

cos we all know these people do a little crime ykwim

so while some of them may do some immoral things i don’t think they’re loose on their morality right?

i’d be interested to know what you think xx

thank u smmm

This is how I view them from left to right.

Grey = Vic

Green = Asirel

Blue = Isaac

Purple = James

Gold = Tara

Red = Warden

These aren't set in stone, and characters do change.

[zsakuva]

are warden and james also bikers? (or are they too old and fragile HAHHA)

They might be older but both men are quite fit and agile. They make sure to train, but Elias is the only one with a motorbike.

[zsakuva]

hiii ik ik i ask so many questions about elias’ series 😔

but i was wondering what james and warden’s relationship is like? would james kill warden if he wasn’t warden of the wraiths or his sister’s husband or something? or do they have a more civil and friendly relationship (since they are technically family in law) like idk drinking together or some gangster things

asking bcs i read yoursinisforgiven’s fic: https://www.tumblr.com/yoursinisforgiven/777710933924626432/secretary-pairing-james-x-reader

where it briefly stated that james would kill warden if he could so that got my noggin whirring 👍

As it's still an ongoing series, I can't say.

[zsakuva]

1) Would Elias listen to death metal or rock?

2) Are James and Warden friends? I know they're brothers In-law, but do they genuinely like each other and get along

Yes.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯