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ayyy-pee · 9 months ago

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Can I request vampire Nanami surprising reader on a date but she broke up with him because she’s moving overseas to study animals

𝕃𝕆𝕍𝔼 𝔹𝕀𝕋𝔼𝕊

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Pairing: Stalker Vampire Ex-Boyfriend!Nanami Kento x Female Reader

WC: 5.8k

Summary: Did you think he would know how to find you? He's tasted your life essence, been engulfed in your delicious scent, drunk off the taste of you. You could leave if you wanted, he couldn't stop you. But he would find you, he would be watching.

Story Warning: Stalking, Jealousy, Obsession, Biting (duh), Suggestive Things I guess idk lmfao, Blood, Drinking Blood, Spit, Maybe a bit of fingering and who tf knows what else, Kissing with blood, Nanami spit lover?, Nanami Intoxicated on you and your bodily fluids, Exes to Something???, Fingering for sure actually, Kissing with Blood, Profanity bc it's ME, Nanami downbad like SO downbad for reader, he's such a little weirdo

Art by: 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝗻��𝘂ᴬᴿᵀ (@chitrartum) on X

Divider Credit: @jelliedink

A/N: FINALLLLLYYYYYY @lovebittenbyevans it's FINALLY up LOL. Listen, I know I said I would post it yesterday but if yall believed me, that's your fault! I'm a liar! Yall know! LMAO. Anyway, I hope I did this one justice. I haven't written Nanami in so damn long I found myself kinda second guessing myself a lot here, but I'm happy with the final product so I won't complain LOL. Anyway ENJOY!!!

‘There’s something familiar about this scene,’ Nanami thinks as he leans casually against the wall of whatever random building this is.

There’s something familiar about you. You, and your laugh that causes this strange tingling sensation he hasn’t felt in who knows how long. You, and the way your hand grips onto an arm when you find something particularly amusing. You, and the way you lean a little closer when you’re happy.

‘And you’re so beautiful when you’re happy like this,’ he thinks. Happy, like you clearly weren't with him.

Nanami's eyes narrow, vision honing in on you and the way you laugh and hold onto an arm and lean a little closer because you’re content and enjoying yourself. If only you were laughing with him, gripping onto him, leaning a little closer to him like you used to.

Perhaps then, he wouldn’t be standing across the street with his gaze locked onto your form while you dine out with another gentleman who most certainly isn’t Nanami Kento.

Everything feels so familiar here, like he’s lived this scene before, because he has. But foreign as well, because he’s an outsider now, no longer a part of your world. Not by his choice. Nanami would never choose to be watching the life he once had played out before him. It feels like some sort of sick joke, like he’s being mocked as he’s watching as you do all the things you used to do with him before you’d up and left one morning, knowing it’d be impossible for him to follow you for quite some time. It gave you one hell of a head start, and it took Nanami awhile to find you again.

But oh, he did find you. And here you are, sitting with another man in the very late hours of the night, at some hole in the wall food stand across the street of a busy intersection. You can’t see Nanami, not from this distance he’s put between you two. But he can absolutely see you, clear as day. Every movement you make, every twitch of muscle, he sees it.

He can hear you, too– hear your laugh, your heartbeat, your breath, the rush of your blood flowing through your veins. He hears it. Everything.

Nanami watches, his eyes hardening when the man beside you slides his plate over and you take a bite of his meal. That used to be him with you at whatever shit hole you’d chosen for your date.

Nanami had always appreciated that about you. Sure, you enjoyed the occasional fancy night out at Nanami’s insistence – getting dolled up and dining at a Michelin star restaurant. But you much preferred the lowkey vibes of grabbing a bite to eat at a smaller establishment or local street vendor. Even if you knew that wasn’t Nanami’s scene.

“It just brings less attention to you,” you’d reason.

And Nanami isn’t an idiot. He could read between the lines. What you meant was it brings less attention to the fact that he never orders anything to eat, not even a bread roll. The waitresses would give him strange looks, glancing at your table occasionally as he simply watched you consume your meal while the most he could stomach was a glass of water at best.

It really can’t be helped. Human food makes Nanami viscerally ill, after all. If anything, you may have been more concerned that Nanami was eyeing the staff like they were on the menu.

He’d be lying if he said the sight of you sharing another man didn’t upset him. Not only did you give another man the place beside you that was once his own, you’ve welcomed him into your routine. Welcomed him to the smiles that were once meant for only his eyes. Welcomed him to the laughs that Nanami can hear even above the noise of this late night traffic across the road.

Simply put, you seem to have replaced him. You’ve moved on, tossed him aside for another. And it’s more than Nanami can say for himself.

It’s been months since you ended your relationship, and he just can’t seem to let you go. He knows he should. He knows that he shouldn’t be watching you the way he does. He can’t help it. Besides, it’s not as if you know what he’s doing. He usually keeps his observing to a healthy distance, only to ensure you’ve made it home safely. That you’re tucked into your bed and definitely not out on dates with new men.

Not too far, but not too close either. It’s become a habit for him. He works from home until the late morning, then he sleeps, because what else is he to do? He wakes up once the stars are visible in the sky, then heads straight to your home. And on days he’s not able to get to you because he’s busy…having dinner (sometimes it’s for business reasons!)…he just hopes you’re doing what you usually do on a lazy night; sitting in your pajamas and curled under the soft blankets he’d purchased for you early on in your relationship.

He likes to think you’d kept something that reminded you of him. Do you think of him? Because he thinks of you. Always. If his standing here staring at the back of your head like a madman isn’t any indication. He keeps all your little trinkets, too. Anything you’d left behind, he has.

He’s lived a long life, human emotion having long been cast aside, and your presence awoke something in him. At the time, he couldn’t quite place this feeling and didn't bother digging any deeper for answers. But it’s your absence that provides the knowledge he never sought out. It reminds him that he was once human. That he was once capable of feeling more than insatiable hunger, the need to feed off another.

He’s capable of desire, of love. Nanami doesn’t think he’ll ever feel the way he does about you for anyone else.

Unfortunately for him, that doesn’t seem to be the case for you, as you appear to have finally started seeing someone new. But unfortunately, you’ve made the grave mistake of opting for what appears to be a date that falls within Nanami’s most active hours.

He’s used to the shadows, as it feels most like himself to hide under the cover of darkness. It’s how he was able to find you, able to sense that you’re even breathing and content sighs when you slept were noticeably absent when he’d found himself doing his nightly “check in” on you.

So he does what any concerned ex-boyfriend would do. He follows the sound of your heartbeat. All the way here, where you’re having far too much fun for his liking.

Brown eyes stare as you and your date finally wrap up dinner. Your date helps you from your stool, and you idly chat before he wraps you in a tight hug and Nanami feels his blood boil. Well, if he had a beating heart, he imagines his blood would be boiling.

How dare this man put his hands on you so affectionately? And how dare you receive it so happily? Did all your time together – the kisses, the moans, the love you shared – mean nothing to you?

Fuck this. He’s going over there.

But the moment your date leaves you and you turn to head the opposite direction, Nanami is torn. Should he follow you? Or should he follow your date? On the one hand, he wants to see what you’re up to, if you’re going home and if not, who and where are you going to? On the other, he’d love to sink his teeth into your date's jugular and rip his larynx out. So many tempting choices…but he opts for the former.

He’s on your tail quickly. He’s determined to speak to you, has to see you and confirm that you’re done with him for good. His body moves fast, hurrying through the crowd to try and catch up to you before you can slip through his grasp again. He won’t accept this. He’s given you ample time to come back. He won’t wait a moment longer.

When the crowd thickens in the busier part of the city, it becomes harder for Nanami to see you. The sounds of different heartbeats blend with your own and your scent becomes more difficult to track when you mix in the shitty perfumes and cheap colognes. Before long, he's lost you.

His eyes dart around, quickly and thoroughly scanning every face and body in the crowd. But none of them are you. He's certain of that. Deep breaths, Nanami takes several of them focusing on the familiar rhythmic beat of your heart. The pedestrians move around him as he stands still, eyes closed as he focuses. They mutter their curse words or pardon themselves, but he can’t be bothered to listen to anything but you.

At least a minute passes before he hears it. It's faint at first, but it's there. The light thumping of your heart. He follows it, all the way into a dark alley. And then the panic sets in.

Why would you be here of all places?

Why is your heartbeat so quiet?

Are you in trouble?

“What the hell are you doing, Kento?” Your harsh voice has Nanami spinning on his heel, the tone unfamiliar to him.

There you are, in all your glory. Beautiful as he remembers, though it’s not as if he hasn’t seen you recently. He just hasn’t seen you this close in awhile. The neon signs of the city cast a cute glow along your skin and Nanami has to resist smiling. Because you're also so very pissed, arms folded across your chest and a deep frown sitting on your lips. And yet, you still manage to mesmerize him.

“I was just out–” he begins coolly, but you cut him off.

“Out…Out what exactly?” You ask. “Out…following me?”

He should lie.

He should tell you that he would absolutely never do something as outlandish as following your scent like some cartoon hound dog floating through the air as they chase the smell of food. But that may be hard to believe seeing as that’s how you two started out in the first place – with Nanami searching for his next meal (you) and you somehow charming him into taking you out to dinner instead. What a twist.

Weeks later, he would reveal himself to you as the blood hungry creature of the night he is. And you’d accept him for exactly who he was.

And still, he should lie.

So that at least you feel a little better. Maybe you’ll think this is just some coincidence that he’s run into you in this dank alleyway in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t bother. You know him. And well, at that.

So he tells the truth. All of it.

Your laugh is dry, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose as you try to keep your composure. No one is around, save for the people passing by on the sidewalk, not sparing a single glance into the shadows where you hide with your ex-boyfriend. Still, you don’t want to draw any attention to the two of you. Less for either of your sake, and more for the poor person who deigns to interrupt.

“So you’ve been following me…”

Nanami wouldn’t exactly put it that way, but…

“Yes.”

Okay, maybe he would.

He never was one to mince words.

“How long?”

He tilts his head in question.

“How long…” you pause briefly, seemingly gathering your thoughts. “Have you been watching me? Following me? Whatever the hell it is you’re doing?”

Nanami thinks about this, though he knows the answer. It’s been exactly four months and six days, about eighteen and a half weeks, one hundred and twenty nine days total since you left and he picked up this…obsession with you. But who’s keeping track?

“Since you left,” he answers with the truth once again. Even in this darkness, he can see your eyes widen in shock. He doesn’t want to scare you. He wants you to see how much he wants you, needs you even.

“Because you left me without a single word, ___” he tries to explain. “Won’t answer my calls, won’t reply to my text messages, won’t see me –”

Nanami steps closer to you, and you step back, and it causes this strange stinging sensation in his chest that sort of…hurts? Makes him want to beg you not to move any further, because he’s not sure he can withstand it now that he’s within reach of you again.

“Well apparently, you see me all the time!” You grit out, voice rising an octave before you catch yourself.

“I’m only making sure you’re safe,” he tries to reason, but you shake your head.

“No…” You hold up a finger between you both, keeping Nanami at a distance. And that sting settles in again. “No, you’re stalking me, Kento.”

“Yes, but you’re dating. I saw you.”

“And? I’m allowed to go out with people, Kento!”

It’s been so long since Nanami has heard you say his name. And you’ve said it three times in such a short span. It’s doing something to him that he can’t quite put into words.

“And how do you know they’re a good person? How do you know they won’t hurt you? I’m simply looking out for you.”

You rub aggressively at your temples. “Kento…” you sigh. “You…are…a…fucking…vampire.”

Nanami rolls his eyes.

“And a shitty one at that. But I dated you, and I was just fine,” You’re sure to add. “For a vampire, you’re really not as stealthy as you think you are, by the way.”

You’re right. Perhaps he’s been sloppy, following you the moment nightfall comes, tracking your whereabouts. He thought you hadn’t noticed, but has he really made it so obvious?

There’s a short bout of silence between you, you glaring hard at him while he tries to think of a way to make you see reason. But you look away, just as you ask, “Are you hunting me now?”

Your sudden question surprises Nanami, his brows rising when he hears the fear seep into your quiet voice.

He steps forward again, and this time he breathes a sigh of relief when you don’t move. “No, of course not.” His hands cup your face, tilting your head upward so you can see the honesty in his eyes. You let him hold you as he speaks. “I would never hunt you…” Your eyes narrow, and Nanami quickly adds, “...again.”

He sees the way your lips purse together, like you’re trying not to find humor in that. “If anything, I was hunting your date…” he mutters, quickly tacking on “kidding,” when you narrow your eyes again.

But still, he makes a mental note to find that man later.

“The first time,” Nanami says honestly, “I hunted you with the intention to kill. Clearly, things didn’t work out that way.”

You sigh, your features softening as Nanami pours his heart out to you, the way he wishes you would’ve let him before you left. “No…they didn’t.”

He remembers the first time he’d caught your scent, so alluring and delicious, the first time he’d heard your heartbeat, and he’d let the sound lull him to sleep, the first time he’d pressed his tongue to your pulsepoint, the thrumming beneath making his nostrils flare. And then, the first time you’d let him taste your life essence…

“You changed me, ___,” he whispers. “I’m a monster, it’s true. I kill, I manipulate others to get what I want, I hurt others. But I’ve never done any of these things to you.”

Your hands find his wrists, holding tight while he finally blurts out everything he’s been keeping buried all these months.

“You leaving me…it left a hole in my life I didn’t know you filled at the time. I need you. I love you,” he says. “It’s why I watch you, why I follow you. I’m sure I sound a little insane…”

“An understatement,” you murmur. But there’s a tiny smirk playing at your lips. You’re teasing him.

“I have not felt this much emotion towards another since…” He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “I don’t even know when. But I know for certain, I feel love when I think about you. I thought you felt the same…” He breathes hard, like it was such a strenuous task to get all of that off his chest. Eyes boring into yours, he mutters quietly, rather pathetically, he thinks, “...what changed for you? Why don’t you want me anymore?”

Any other vampire would be mocking Nanami to all hell, dragging his name through the mud at how desperate he is for you, a human. He loves you. There is no doubt there. Why else would he spend any and all of his free hours thinking of you, dreaming of you, seeing you anytime he closes his eyes? You consume him, and the irony is not lost upon him.

It’s been so long since Nanami stepped outside in the daylight. So long since he’s felt the sun on his skin. But your warmth, your presence…you are his sun. He orbits around you.

It can’t be helped. He knows what he wants, knows what he’d do to have you back. He just needs to know that you want him, too.

Your soft breaths against his face has his mind reeling. Your scent is driving him crazy. He doesn’t even know when you two had gotten so close.

“It didn’t change…” You confess, and if Nanami didn’t have incredible hearing, he would have missed it. Your feelings for him haven’t changed. “I’m leaving Tokyo, Kento…”

Nanami thinks he misheard you.

“I’m sorry?”

You repeat it, a little louder this time, albeit shakily. “I’m leaving. Going abroad for school.” You smile softly, and Nanami finds his thumbs gently caressing the apples of your cheeks. “I got into a program to study wildlife and…I’m going to go.”

Now Nanami wishes he had misheard you.

“You…left me…to go and study animals?” He’s not understanding. You can’t do that here?

“No. I left because I need this change, Kento.”

“Why?” The question comes out more strained, more desperate than he intended. “Why do you need to leave me to do this? Why do you need to see other people to do this?”

You can’t look at him now, eyes downcast. “I’m still young, Ken. I have to figure out my life.”

“And you can’t do that with me?”

This is all too much. Why the hell does studying animals mean you have to leave him? That you see other people romantically? That you give yourself to another? Perhaps he should just kill you. It feels like a better solution than letting you leave him for good.

“It’s only for a few years,” you reassure him. “I just…it was easier for me to cut and run. You can’t go with me. The trip is long and…the sun…you just–”

He gets it now. A lengthy flight abroad is impossible for someone like him. Of course you’d want a real life, a mortal life without him. He would be selfish to keep you from that. And he is selfish. He wants you, deserves you. After years of living in the shadows, he wants so badly to step into the light with you.

But he knows that he can’t. He knows he can only give you what you truly deserve – freedom.

“You’ll be great,” Nanami says, trying to control the way his voice threatens to break. “And when you’re done…if you still want me, come back to me, okay?”

You nod, tears pooling at your waterline as you make your silent promise clear.

There are no more words to be said. It’s the closure he needed, though not the results he wanted. He has to let you go. It’s not fair. That’s what he wants to say. He wants to grab you and take you back to his home and keep you locked up so that you can never leave him. Maybe turn you so that you can spend an eternity together. But it’s just not fair.

He feels your hands press against his chest, trembling as you stare up at him. “One more time before I go?”

It’s an offer he can’t, and won’t refuse.

Nanami kisses you, hard and long, hungrily. He slips his tongue into the cavern of your mouth, humming when your tongue tangles with his, and he’s already losing himself in you. In your touch, the little sounds you make, your scent, your taste.

God, how he missed you. How he will keep missing you when you’re gone and even until the day you return.

Your lips slot against his, messy and demanding, hands balling his shirt in your fists as you pull him closer. You step back, dragging Nanami with you, each step moving you further and further until your back hits the wall and Nanami’s towering over you. And he’s losing himself, humming when you sigh into his mouth, hands finding your waist and squeezing out of fear you’ll vanish into thin air if he lets you go, his head tilting just slightly so that he can take up more of your space, more of your air. He’s so lost in you that he barely feels the change, hardly makes out the little yelp you let out, your hands pushing him away as you roughly break free of the kiss.

Eyes wide, your fingertips graze your bottom lip where a cut now resides, thick crimson blood dripping into your hand. “Your fangs…” you’re panting harshly. “They’re out.”

Nanami’s fingers are on his mouth, a single digit running through his lips, along his teeth where he feels the long, sharp canines fully protruding. He’s nicked you. He lost himself so much so he sliced your lip with his fang.

‘This is fucking embarrassing,’ he thinks. The urge to vanish into the shadows and forget about this encounter is strong.

This. This is the effect you have on Nanami. Any and all control he has is out the window. His fangs appearing on their own? It’s the equivalent of suddenly getting an erection while out in public. This has never happened to him before. Not with any of his past lovers. Not even when he’d first turned. And yet, you pull this reaction from him so easily.

Nanami is overtly aware of humans and their mortality, of course. So he doesn’t particularly go out of his way to care for them. But you…he cares for you. You have him skulking around like a rat in the dark, waiting for you to look his way. You have him losing control of his fangs like he’s some goddamn adolescent vampire just from the taste of your saliva.

It’s definitely not the liquid he’d prefer, but he loves it all the same. Intoxicatingly saccharine, so sweet it almost hurts.

“I’m so sorry,” Nanami whispers, taking your hand from your lips. “I lost control.” He lifts your hand to his face, eyes boring into yours as he inhales the enticing scent of your blood. One long breath, deep, savoring the smell. “That seems to happen a lot when it comes to you.” His tongue darts out, his gaze locked on the way your breath hitches, how your heart beats loud like a drum as he slowly drags the warm and wet muscle along your skin.

‘Delicious,’ his mind sings. Nanami’s body reacts as it always does when he even catches the scent of your blood. He leans forward until he’s only an inch away before he drags his tongue along the swelling cut on your lip, humming gruffly at the taste. He’d missed you, and your blood. It’s unlike any others.

You watch him through hooded eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. The sounds of the bustling city just down this alleyway drown out as the two of you simply stare at each other, neither daring to look away. You may not be able to see as well as Nanami can in this darkness, but he sees you, and he’s sure he wears the exact same expression as well – love, desire, need. He sees the way you hold all of it in your eyes. You do care for him, you do love him the same way he loves you. You want him the way he wants you. He sees it so clearly.

He kisses your lips tenderly, careful not to hurt you again. Slow, steady, a bit more controlled than before. He’s trying to reign it in. But it’s you who deepens the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling Nanami closer as you kiss him harder. Your tongue finds its way into his mouth, and Nanami groans, the metallic blend of your blood and saliva sweet on his tongue.

“Fuck,” he breathes.He lips are on yours, rougher this time, the cut on your lip opening again and bleeding, mixing into both of your mouths. “Did you always taste this good?”

You giggle in response, a sound he missed dearly.

“I’m serious,” Nanami pants. “I feel like I can’t think straight just from kissing you.” He grinds his hips into yours, evidence of his need rubbing against your center. “Do you have any idea how badly I’ve wanted this again? How badly I’ve wanted to see you, to hold you, to touch you, to t–?”

He catches himself, not wanting to beat a dead horse.

“Taste me?” You whisper, fill in the gap, humor in your tone.

Well, it does come with the territory, he supposes.

“That, too.”

Your fingers play with the short blonde locks sitting at the nape of Nanami’s neck, staring up at him and it reminds him of the domesticity you used to have. Reminds him of those little moments in between the busyness of your lives. “I have some idea,” you sigh as Nanami dips his head down to kiss along your jawline, down your neck. “You did stalk me for months, after all.”

He hums against your skin, acknowledging the fact. His lips drag along as he finds the spot that calls to him, and when he presses a light peck to the place where he can see your pulse fluttering, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. This was always the part you sort of dreaded, he recalls. And it was also the part you both were most excited for.

“Can I?” Nanami pleads, rubbing his nose along your pulsepoint and inhaling deeply. Your scent has changed, the anticipation and little bit of fear in your blood evident to him. So he presses another kiss, sweet and soothing to your neck again in hopes to calm you. He hopes the answer is a resounding yes, that you’ll let him do this one last time before you leave him for who knows how long.

He’s certain he’ll die right in this spot if you say no.

But your hand glides along his arm, until your fingers wrap around his. You guide his hand to the waistband of your pants, his fingers just barely beneath the fabric, and Nanami groans eagerly.

“Have me,” you whisper, whimpering quietly when Nanami runs his tongue along that spot. “I want you to.”

Nanami’s nostrils flare, the rapid rhythm of your pulse pounding beneath his tongue sending him into overdrive. If he’s being honest, this is his favorite part. Perhaps he gets off on the small bit of fear you exude just before this. He can’t help it. It’s instinct for him.

His hand slips between your bodies, into your pants as you loop your both arms around his neck. The feeling of your dripping core makes his cock throb within the confine of his own pants. But he can take care of that later. Right now, he only sees (and hears, and smells) you. He inhales deeply once more, kissing along your jaw once more until he reaches your lips. His lips slot against yours, needy and hungry until he has to force himself to break away in case he loses control again. He’s back at the juncture between your neck and your shoulder, right where your pulse beats wildly beneath your skin.

“It may hurt,” he warns, but it’s only to make himself feel better, really. You’re aware of the pain, having experienced it many times before. And still, even with the bit of pleasure it gives him, Nanami feels a little guilty about it.

“It’s okay. I can take it,” you assure him softly.

Of course you can, his sweet love. You would let Nanami do this time and time again if he asked, would you? And this is what Nanami remembers. How pliant you become when he’s got you like this. So eager to give him whatever he asks for.

How will he live without you?

Nanami groans, low and rough against your neck, murmuring about how much he’ll miss you, how he loves you, how you’re so perfect for him and he’d rather die than to have another take your spot in his world. All the romantic words he��s been hoping to say fall from his lips, and he can hear from the way your heart drums against your ribcage that you’re feeling the effects of his words. He means every one of them, he hopes you know.

His lips brush against your skin, presses one last, sweet kiss to the spot, murmuring, “I love you,” while his fingers run through your slick folds. Your legs tremble as Nanami’s rough fingers rub tight and slow circles on your clit. Your hands have found his shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt as you hang on. Every curse and moan from your lips is music to Nanami’s ears, only making him harder, more desperate to hear you make more of those noises.

He keeps his ministrations going, slipping forward until he has a single finger positioned at your entrance. He pushes in gently, just barely enough to garner a reaction, but your mouth still falls open with a soft gasp.

“So tight, so sensitive still,” he speaks, muffled against your neck.

Nanami’s tongue runs along your pulse, mouth opening slightly so that his lips lift and pull back. His canines push forward from his gums, exposing the long set of sharp fangs that have been screaming to be let loose. The relief he feels at finally being able to freely expose the long canines has Nanami letting out a strangled groan, murmuring an “I love you” just one more time before he’s slowly sinking his fangs into you at the exact moment he adds a finger to your entrance, pushing in and stretching your walls. His eyes roll to the back of head immediately, the thick and warm liquid filling his mouth, and he consumes everything you’re willing to offer.

It’s no wonder Nanami felt the need to follow you from the moment you’d left him. There is something completely addicting about you, something that doesn’t simply satisfy his hunger and cravings, but so much more.

Your teeth bite down on your lip, an attempt to not scream at the sharp pain. Your hands squeeze hard, the discomfort running through your entire body. And Nanami squeezes you, too, one hand holding onto your waist for dear life, for something that will tether him to this moment here and now with you. Because he doesn’t want to lose control, doesn’t want to hurt you any more than he already is.

Your eyes are closed tight, mind reeling with the intense pain and ecstasy you’re feeling while Nanami drains you, simultaneously pumping his fingers into you, and you quickly find yourself overcome with pleasure. Your quiet gasps and moans of pain turn to quiet gasps and moans of bliss, and the iron grip you had on Nanami eases.

He drinks from you like he hasn’t fed in days, and it has your head spinning, the quick depletion of your blood making your legs shake. It doesn’t help that Nanami’s fingers are picking up speed, reaching the place that makes you whine and beg for more, the lewd sound of your wetness mixed with both your muffled moans filling the space of this disgusting alley.

You haven’t fucked anyone since you left him all those months ago, and now you’re remembering why.

There’s not much Nanami needs to do to quickly have you unraveling beneath him. Be it his mouth, his hands, his cock, he knows exactly what to do to make you come undone. You’re not shocked at all when Nanami presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing delicious circles on it, and your walls squeeze down on his thick fingers just as he bites down on your neck a little harder. Then he messily breaks his hold on you with a sharp intake of breath, standing tall and looming over your form so he can have a front row seat to your orgasm crashing over you suddenly.

Your lips fall open, a loud cry threatening to burst from your chest. But Nanami’s lips find yours, silencing you when his tongue immediately enters your mouth so that you can taste yourself on him. You moan, the taste of metallic heavy between you as you ride out your high on Nanami’s thick fingers.

You’re like this for a while, kissing lazily as Nanami pumps into you. When you’ve finally come down from your high, Nanami slips out of you easily, not wasting any time before he’s putting his fingers in his mouth and sucking them clean. You can just make out the dried blood staining around his mouth and his chin, and you wonder if you share a similar look.

It’s strange to taste your own blood, you’ve always thought so, but it’s not bad. Not when it’s Nanami you’re sharing it with. Not when it’s with someone you love.

You gaze up at the man you feel you can’t live without, but know you must in order to truly find yourself, your happiness, and your heart races. How could you have ever thought you’d be able to live a normal life after leaving him? How could you have given up this love you strongly share? Could you truly leave him here alone for the next few years?

You don’t have the answers, but you know you can’t go back on what you’ve planned for your future. You need this, and he knows it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this bit of time you have together. You were stupid to think you could cut and run. You don’t want to be away from him.

“Can we take this back to your place?” You whisper, pulling Nanami down for another kiss, softer this time, teasing almost. You press a palm to his groin where you feel his desire for you, and Nanami grunts at your touch. “I want to spend every second with you before I go.”

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frostedsugarcookiehearts · 4 months ago

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² it's a friday, (i'm in love)

୨ৎ

as chappell roan said, "your favorite artists' favorite artist"— but for you, it was more like your celebrity crushes celebrity crush!

you'd been on youtube for a long time now, flying under the radar of the algorithm for a good while. there were pluses and minuses to this arrangement, of course— you didn't live in a multi-billion-jillion dollar mansion, but also, your fanbase was small and dedicated, and you still lit up every time when you saw a fan edit or fan art.

out of sheer luck, a friend of a friend of a friend of a... well, you get the jist, but you knew ted through mutual friends. you'd met at a party once, and you geeked out upon meeting him, chatting his ear off. he had more subscribers than people you've ever met! by a million.

clearly, you had left some kind of impression on little ol' ted, because he invited you onto chuckle sandwich (rip), and right on the dot you were squished in the booth, trying to prepare for the inevitable being-squeezed-between-two-over-six-feet-men, wide eyed and a little nervous as you adjusted your hair for what felt like the hundredth time.

then you felt the booth dip beside you, and you whip your head around (then up) to see a huge brick wall of a man. "you must be schlatt! it's nice to meet you!" you chirp, offering out a hand.

maybe you weren't the best at first impressions, because schlatt took one look at you— and maybe he was feeling under the weather... or something?— he turned bright red and ran out. like, quite literally got up out of the booth, and ran, muttering about going to the bathroom.

you and ted ended up chatting politely about how you got into streaming, what your favorite thing to stream is— the kind of questions anyone who had a podcast would ask. but then you felt the familiar dip in the booth, you turned around again to face the big man again. gracious and charming, he blurted—

"so... woman. got uh," he cleared his voice. "got a boyfriend?"

it takes a second for that question to load in your brain, and then you blink. realizing you're on a podcast and not an awkward first date— (could've fooled you)— you try to come up with a charming response of, "the only man in my life is the twitch grind, schlatt," and offer him a grin.

the mic picks up the grumble under schlatt's breath; "there room for one more?"

ted snickers, but attempts to save you from an awkward situation by steering the interview back to questions they have for you. schlatt gets a little less awkward after his whole "unlimited games or unlimited bacon" spiel, but he goes right back to his antics after he leans in a little closer and chirps,

"wanna play a game that we always play with the podcast guests?"

looking around suspiciously, ted raises a brow, because there is definitely not a 'game' or whatever the hell schlatt's spouting right now. "schlatt, what the fuck are you—"

"it's, uh, you basically turn the digits of your phone number into a number and tell me how much money you'd have." schlatt stutters out, offering a dorky smile to you.

you blink. "one? i only have one phone number. i'm not richie rich like you!— i watched that one video of yours when you went to that hotel room that was so much money, it made my head spin."

"ah, that's nothin', toots. i can take ya sometime." he winks at you, and for some reason, your heart flutters. "like uh, a part two."

ted, always the instigator; "would you two sleep in the same be—"

"al—right!" schlatt claps loudly. "let's move on."

the interview ran smoothly enough, but it was nothing compared to the comments. they exploded about the chemistry between you two, the banter, and schlatt's pathetic attempt at flirting. it made all the fans go insane, it was clipped a hundred times over and posted everywhere.

and then the pièce de résistance? an offhand comment schlatt made on stream, joking that if people started donating a thousand dollars, he'd ask you out on a video game date.

boy, did the fans deliver for you two! they insisted that schlatt raid your stream, which he did, peppering comments like "what's your favorite flower" or "how are you doing today beautiful?" fans of yours even left sneaky little comments in schlatt's chat about what kind of things you liked, and a few clips of you talking about your type in men and your ideal dates were sent directly into schlatt's dms. and he watched them. analyzed them, actually. if he put this much energy into homework back in school, he'd be on track to get his masters right now!

after doing his research, he felt ready to ask.

↓

jschlatt donated $1,500!

↳ hey toots. you free @ 7pm EST?

and that sealed the deal. like clockwork, at 7pm EST, you actually got dressed up all nice, did your hair and put on a nice dress, sat down at your gaming chair and booted up discord, hovering over the call button under schlatt's tag. but he called you first, and you twirled your hair one more time before answering.

"hi," you smiled, a dumb cheshire cat grin on your face. fortunately, schlatt's was even bigger.

in the background, you made a few clicks and booted up your stream as he did his. "so where do you want to go, on our date?"

"this is a date?" you quirk a brow, smirking, and schlatt turns just as red as the first time he met you.

he stammers, "well, like, in the sense of the word, y'know. date. hangout. uh, shindig. whatever the hell you want it to be. ma'am."

schlatt turned on the facecam to show he was wearing a black turtleneck, and you turned on yours to show off your outfit. "i'm not your mom, you don't have to call me ma'am." you giggled, wiping off the bit of lipstick on the corner of your lip.

he grumbled something under his breath, his chat clearly hearing something you didn't as he comically widened his eyes, looking around the room as chat exploded.

but besides that little blip, it all went great! always the gentleman, schlatt booted up his pc to minecraft, but you shook your head and insisted on playing stardew valley instead. the two of you started on a farm together where schlatt had put your beds suspiciously close to each other and jokingly started trying to fight the townspeople— specifically sam— for 'getting all over you'. he was even about to fight robin for 'hitting on you', since he quipped, "equal rights, equal fights. and i support women liking women. but not if they're trying to steal ya from me, alright?" and promptly tried to hit her in game with an axe. lovely!

you ended up laughing so hard you felt like you had a six-pack. schlatt was genuinely a good time, and when the two of you met shane in-game, it was whirlwind. you compared him to schlatt, and he vehemently denied it. "maybe i should get married to shane," you quip, and schlatt scoffs. "what? he's like, the walmart— jojamart— version of me! you could get the real deal, right here!" he practically whined, rolling his eyes petulantly.

after hours of laughing and cracking jokes, running around pelican town and flirting, you two decided to end stream. he hummed a soft, "we should do this again sometime."

"oh, we will." you grin. "my dms are open."

he smiled, looking straight into the screen— it felt more like right into your soul, though. "good to know."

୨ৎ

dividers credit: @omi-resources

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hannahbarberra162 · 2 months ago

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Victoria Punk Breeding Farm AU (dark, Dead Dove, NON CON)- What If Kid Got Milked?

18+ MDNI | on Ao3

The other chapters

NON CON, but this time Kid's on the receiving end :) . I wasn't even working on this story right now but I got Possessed.

Huge thank you to @sordidmusings for commenting, editing, and suggesting as well as thank you to @gouraminnow for beta-ing. This post was inspired by @don-mellow's Naga Kid art on their Patreon. You can't see it without being a member but uh....it Awakened me.

You took a deep breath before you pushed open the door to subject 0162’s cell. 0162 was the largest, most aggressive, angriest, hardest bull in the facility and no one wanted to be the one to milk him. He’d injured several of the staff and even gored a prior attendant with his horns, leading to his current restrictive setup. Normally such an aggressive bull would be put down, but his semen was one of the strongest and healthiest of bulls at the facility. For that reason he was milked every three days, his come collected and used as breeding stock. He’d injured the last attendant three days prior so the position was once again open. Someone had to draw the short straw and take care of 0162, and it had come down to you.

Of course it had , you thought to yourself. All the tasks no one else would do always came your way. Either way, you were expected to get a specimen from 0162 and didn’t want to feel the consequences of another failure, so you let out your breath as you entered the cell.

You’d never actually seen 0162 before, you’d only heard stories about him from the other staff. And what they said didn’t do him justice - 0162 was the largest bull you’d ever seen, his muscles rippling with tension as he strained against the chains holding him. He was bound from head to foot - even his neck was tied tightly against the exam table with a thick leather strap. 0162 had long, pale horns, the tips of which had been sawed off after the last goring.You winced when you saw the flat ends - having a horn sawed was incredibly painful - and you knew from experience. He had a shock of bright red hair on his head that matched the pubic hair above his flaccid penis as it laid against his thigh. As soon as you entered his line of sight, his cock began twitching and growing, soon rising to lean against his muscled stomach.

Someone had already bound him to the examination table, his remaining arm chained above his head while his legs were spread wide open for your convenience. You’d heard that 0162 had lost his left arm in a territory fight against a legendary bull - the second time he’d tried to take the older bull on. Even so, his bulging muscles meant that despite losing, he was certainly no weakling himself. His facial scarring did nothing to detract from his attractiveness, you thought. If he wasn’t so aggressive and resistant to breeding you could see how he’d be a favorite among the breeding stock.

0162’s thigh was the size of your torso, you thought idly as you walked towards the exam table and took in more of his chiseled form. His cock bobbed as you got closer, almost in greeting, as you set your box of semen collection tools on the floor next to the exam table. There were no windows in this level of the facility for airflow, so you took off your lab coat to get some air on your overheated skin.

“This the new tactic? Send in some pretty little cow to get me to comply?” he sneered as he looked you up and down. His sneer dropped as he looked you in the eyes. “You touch me, I’ll make you pay when I get out.” A shiver went down your spine at his sincerity - not if he got out, when. You weren’t a fortune teller and didn’t even know your own plans for the future but in that moment you knew he was telling the truth. You bit your lip as you put your hand on his chest. He tried to rear back but his complete bondage prevented his movement.

“I’m sorry. I can’t - we have to do this. It’s not personal,” you said in your best approximation of a clinical tone. 0162 looked you in the eyes before snorting and averting his gaze. You bent to retrieve some of the items you’d be needing for his collection. He really did have a lovely cock, you thought longingly to yourself. It had been a long time since you’d been able to appreciate one but there was no doubt his was a blue ribbon winner. His shaft was girthy and long, ending in a mushroomed tip starting to glisten with precome. 0162’s balls were large and made you want to cradle them in your palm, maybe even lick your way up…you shook your head to bring yourself back to the task at hand.

“The fuck its not personal, you’re gonna use the machine to jerk me off into that little cup. Can’t be any more personal than that,” he grunted. You ignored him as your eyes roved over the items you’d been given. There was lube, some gloves, towels, a condom, a collection cup…but no machine. You shuffled the items in the box as Kid barked a cruel laugh.

“Looks like you’ll be getting your hands dirty, Sweetheart. Having to touch the big, bad, bull yourself,” he said, his sneer returning to his face. You tried to hide the grimace on your face - since this was clinical, it really shouldn’t matter if his sample was collected manually or machine assisted. But looking 0162 in the eyes and touching his penis directly was another matter completely. You didn’t feel like explaining yourself to 0162; you had a job to do and you weren’t going to get yourself punished for not completing it. Finding the bottle of lube, you clicked it open and drizzled some on your palm.

“Not gonna use gloves like those other fucks?” he asked, trying to adjust himself to a more comfortable position. You shrugged your reply. You could, you supposed, but if you were going to have to manually stimulate him against his will the least you could do was skin to skin. Besides, maybe using your hand would make the whole process more pleasurable and therefore go faster. You gripped the base of his shaft without warning, making him suck in a breath through his teeth. Your fingers didn’t touch as you gripped his length, his thick cock heavy in your hand as you began stroking him gently.

You moved your palm up and down his shaft, making him bow against the restraints digging at his skin. His hand was clenched into a fist and you had no doubt that if given a chance, he’d use it against you. For a moment you were scared that the chains holding him would snap but as you ran your thumb over his sensitive head, he sagged once again against his bonds. You brought your palm back down and removed it to rub your hands together, covering them both in lube.

You brought them back to his slick cock, your hands twisting upwards in a milking motion. 0162 grunted as his toes curled and thighs flexed - he was enjoying himself a little bit at least. You watched your hands run up and down his pale shaft, finding yourself lost in your own thoughts. A heavy weight settled on your chest as you watched him writhe on the cold metal exam table. Of course you felt guilty and sorry for him - you didn’t want to jerk him against his will - but it was either him or you. No one stood around feeling guilty for what they did to you so you couldn’t afford to do the same for him. Still, his cock was so gorgeous that for a moment you entertained a daydream of you riding him, your head tossed back as you took your pleasure from him, his arm around your hips, him fucking up into you with his powerful thighs…but the day dream was broken when you heard his growls.

“Fuckin’ bitch, don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he warned as one of your hands moved to hover over his balls. You kept an impassive face as you palmed his sensitive balls, the two barely fitting in your hand together. Massaging them gently in conjunction with your other hand stroking his cock had 0162 moaning and humping the air. You moved your hand on his cock faster, increasing the pace and pressure. 0162 closed his eyes and panted as his cock became impossibly harder. Taking your hand off his balls, you reached down to grab the condom from the box. Ripping open the packet with your teeth, you decided to put the condom just on the tip as you stroked him to completion. At least he’d be able to feel most of the sensations, you reasoned.

0162 was gritting his teeth against your ministrations, trying to ward off the inevitable orgasm you were working him toward. You rubbed his frenulum with the pad of your thumb and continued to stroke him quickly. 0162’s eyes snapped open to stare at you as the vein in his forehead and neck popped. You startled from his intensity and nearly let go of his cock before remembering your job. “You make me come, I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” he said with quiet rage, his eyes boring into your own. Your blood ran cold - this was different from the sneering, taunting bull of before.

It didn’t matter that you didn’t want to, that he didn’t want to - you needed him to come. “Tough shit,” you replied, matching his energy and tone in a show of false bravado. Your mouth watered and you did the only thing you could think to ensure that he came - you leaned down and licked a long stripe up his cock. 0162 struggled against his bonds, snapping his teeth at you in a mimicry of a mating bite as you moved down to lick and kiss his heavy balls, your tongue tracing up the seam.

“Fuck y-you!” 0162 yelled impotently, the metal chains holding his legs apart groaning in protest against his strength. You were worried he would break free of the chains before you could finish your task and kill you like he’d promised. So you lightly tugged one of his balls into your mouth as you applied pressure to his frenulum with your finger and continued to grip him tightly.

“C-can’t believe you’re getting off on this, you bitch,” 0162 growled at you. You weren’t surprised his nose was sensitive enough to detect your growing wetness, but it still made your face flush. You’d always been into cock worship and his was definitely praise worthy. In another universe you’d be on your knees in front of him, fueled by desire and lust, but neither of you were going to get what you wanted.

Alternating his balls and increasing your pace had 0162 bellowing so loudly it reverberated in the room. You tried to stifle it but you moaned as his balls hitched in your mouth as his cock spasmed under your touch. Suddenly every muscle in his body tightened as he came, his eyes screwed shut to ride his high. 0162 deposited an unbelievable amount into the condom, the plastic stretching to accommodate his massive load. You let go of his balls with your mouth as he came but kept pressure on his shaft until he finally relaxed as his cock began to soften. Tension left his body as he rested on the table, his head lolling to the side for a moment of rest. He panted, sweat beading on his brow as he came down from his orgasm.

You pulled the condom off and tied it, careful not to snap the sensitive head of his cock with the plastic. He didn’t speak or look to you and you supposed that was for the best. Leaning down, you grabbed the towel to clean your hands from the lube you’d put there earlier. You put the condom in the collection cup - you’d empty it later.

“The fuck is that on your back?” he asked, his broad neck now relaxed against his restraints. You snapped upwards, resisting the urge to immediately put your lab coat back on. You’d been given this assignment and sent immediately on your way otherwise you would have changed out of the semi- sheer white blouse you were wearing under your lab coat. You knew exactly what he was referring to - the ugly, disgusting brand on your left shoulder and the even uglier tattoo over the top of it.

“Nothing,” you said, pulling on your top to cover your shoulder better.

“You breeding stock?” he asked, his fingers moving within the cuff as if to touch it. You burned with shame as he had quickly figured out the meaning behind the brand.

“Not anymore,” you snapped as you wiped off his now limp cock with the towel. The old raised B brand on your shoulder had been tattooed over with a large bold X, eternally showcasing to the world your worthlessness.

“Thought they killed non-breedable cows at these dumps,” he said, his eyes roving over your body. There wasn’t much to see, you thought, but after what you’d done to him he could do what he liked.

“Guess not,” you replied with a sigh, putting everything back in the semen collection box. You were worn out too, even though you weren’t the one who’d been stimulated against your will. Putting on your lab coat, you gave 0162 a last look before you left the cell, the box now in your arms. “Sorry, I really didn’t-” you weren’t sure what to say in the face of what you’d done. “I’m sorry.” Your hand was on the handle of the cell door when Kid flashed you a cruel grin, his sharp white teeth almost winking at you under the fluorescent lights.

“Don’t worry about it, Sweetheart. I’ll be seeing you again soon. Real soon.”

Taglist: Taglist: @mfreedomstuff @fanaticsnail

#eustass x you #eustass x reader #eustass kid #dead dove fic #Victoria Punk Breeding Farm AU #AU of an AU #Having Kid writhe beneath me is a Need #not a Want #bull hybrid #hybrid au #cow hybrid #tw noncon #tw non con #x reader #vpbf

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hivemuthur · 4 months ago

Text

A Deer and a Man - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure FILTH as promised: hair undone, bras abandoned, naked ankles and no stockings, Reader is in her whore era. Jk, there is some actual filth :v some warnings that I forgot to mention before: Reader is obviously a virgin, Viktor is not, Jayce? Jaybe, Jaybe not, I was told he reads as one and honestly, I don't mind :') Other than that, this fic has an implied age gap, that will be mentioned only once, of around 8 years between Reader and Viktor. So, sorry for the inconvenience, I'm somewhat biased when it comes to this topic, and consider age gaps to be worth mentioning when they oscillate around 10+ years.

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 7,3K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family's wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author's note: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for beta reading!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You adjust the piano stool to your height and give its mouth an experimental caress. You can see your distorted reflection in the polished lid. Once its teeth are bare, you press on the A key tentatively. Then, you give the keyboard an abrupt slide with the back of your palm, fingernails clacking against each one with a dry, repetitive click. A sigh escapes you, while you contemplate what should be the first tune you play in your new home.

It did not take long for you to grasp that your honeymoon was far removed from any sweet undertones, lingering instead in the realm of the dull and tasteless. The day after the wedding, as you stepped out of the carriage that had brought you and your husband to your new household, said husband took that very opportunity to step into a completely new personality—one you had not yet met.

Almost as if the crumbs of his previous kindness had been scattered before you solely to keep you from straying from the path. And it was not that he was being cruel—no. Distant was the more fitting word. Or rather, absent.

Absent was perfect.

During your silent journey, Viktor had been wholly absorbed in a text on the voltaic pile. You watched as his lower lip disappeared between his teeth, a finger tracing the lines of letters as he re-read the most intriguing fragments. Every so often, he would sigh or let out a soft gasp, his mouth parting as if to speak, only to freeze mid-thought—perhaps deciding that the present audience would not grasp the grandiosity of the subject matter.

He looked rather pretty like this, you noted—focused and flustered over something as dry and practical as a battery. You wondered if this was what you looked like while playing the piano. Yet besides Viktor, who had only ever had the opportunity to watch your back—or so you thought—there were no witnesses to confirm your speculation.

So you sat there, watching his reflection in the carriage window as he flexed his hand, took notes, and grumbled whenever the wheels jolted over the uneven road, smudging his careful handwriting. By the time you arrived, you had memorized the pattern his hair formed on his forehead and the slight crease between his brows when he concentrated. Not that sentimentality was at play here—merely a lack of better substance to occupy your mind. Soon after departing the city, the landscape had dissolved into a monotonous stretch of rolling hills, scattered trees, and shallow ponds.

Viktor offered you a hand to step down safely and an arm to escort you into the main hall, where your new staff awaited. You were introduced to the butler, housekeeper, lady’s maid, cook, and the rest of the footmen before being led on a tour of the house. Room after room unfolded before you, each accompanied by the expectant gaze of Algernon, or rather Mr. Griffiths, the butler, as he meticulously detailed the strengths and weaknesses of each space.

He led the way through the entrance hall, his measured steps echoing against the polished floor. The space was impressive, if a touch austere, with high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and dark wood panelling that made the morning light from the tall windows seem distant rather than inviting. A large, gilt-framed mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the assembled staff and, just behind them, you and Viktor—him standing with his usual careful posture, his expression impossible to read.

The butler cleared his throat and gestured towards the double doors on the left. "The drawing room, my lady. A fine space for receiving guests."

You stepped inside, taking in the elegant furnishings—brocade-upholstered settees, a stately fireplace adorned with a marble mantel—but your gaze caught on the gleaming pianoforte tucked into one corner. A quiet, unexpected relief settled over you at the sight of it, the first familiar thing in this house that was not yet a home.

You forced a smile, turning towards the housekeeper, a severe-looking woman introduced as Mrs. Forsythe. “It is lovely,” you said warmly, though you wondered if you would ever feel at ease here.

"The adjoining parlour, should you prefer a more intimate setting," Algernon continued, leading you through a side door into a cosier space with softer furnishings, smaller windows, and a delicate tea service already arranged on a sideboard.

Next came the dining room, its vast mahogany table stretching the length of the chamber, surrounded by high-backed chairs and illuminated by a heavy crystal chandelier. The room smelled of polish and beeswax. You folded your hands in front of you, smiling at the cook, Mrs. Harrod, when she stepped forward to curtsey.

"The kitchens are below, of course," she said, eyeing you with a mixture of deference and curiosity. "We’ve a well-stocked larder, my lady, and I shall ensure your meals are to your liking."

"I'm certain everything will be wonderful, Mrs. Harrod," you assured her.

The tour continued, each room unfolding before you as Algernon detailed its use. There was the library, lined with bookshelves that stretched nearly to the ceiling, the faint scent of leather and parchment lingering in the air. Viktor’s gaze lingered here for the first time, but he said nothing. Then, the morning room, light and airy with pale floral wallpaper and comfortable chairs arranged for quiet conversation. The study, reserved for correspondence and household matters, sat adjacent, its heavy oak desk perfectly arranged.

A long hallway led to a billiards room—more for guests than yourselves, you imagined—followed by a small music room, where an older harp sat in one corner alongside another pianoforte. The footmen glanced at you, waiting for a reaction, and so you smiled again, nodding approvingly even as your jaw began to ache from the effort.

Viktor remained silent throughout, his expression unreadable. He neither reacted nor interrupted, allowing Algernon to carry on without interference. Occasionally, you felt his gaze on you, but whenever you glanced in his direction, he was already looking elsewhere.

Ascending the stairs, you kept your posture straight, mindful of the way the staff’s eyes lingered. The second floor opened into a wide corridor lined with closed doors, each leading to a chamber of its own. Algernon led you towards the first of them.

“This,” he said, opening the door with a measured hand, “is His Lordship’s bedchamber.”

The room was of generous size, its furnishings well-appointed yet distinctly reserved. The four-poster bed stood against the far wall, its dark wood frame matching the writing desk stationed beneath the window. The fireplace was already prepared, a modest armchair set beside it. Everything was in place, tidy, waiting. It did not feel like a space belonging to a man who had just taken a wife.

You stood at the threshold, taking it in. Viktor, beside you, regarded the room with unreadable eyes, his hand tightening ever so slightly around his cane.

“I believe,” he said after a moment, his voice deliberately even, “that I shall conclude the tour here.”

You turned to him, expecting an explanation. He was already shifting his weight, his movements careful, precise. With a slow breath, he lowered himself into the chair by the fire, adjusting his leg with practiced care.

“My leg is acting up,” he stated plainly, an excuse so mild it almost dared no further comment. His amber gaze flickered to yours, cool yet observant. “You may continue without me.”

Algernon hesitated only a fraction before bowing. “As you wish, my lord.” Then, with a glance towards you, he gestured toward the hallway. “Shall we proceed, my lady?”

“By all means,” you murmured, your eyes lingering on the door as it closed almost in front of your nose. And that was the last you saw of Viktor that day.

Behind those closed doors, Viktor took his first real breath. He waited for the sound of your footsteps to fade down the corridor before letting the back of his head thump against the thick wood. He sighed to himself.

“Imbecile.”

He did not know what would do more to ease his mind—sleeping or going straight to the workshop your father had arranged for him and Jayce. He did not know how much longer he could maintain this careful performance, nor how he was meant to uphold his end of the secret agreement you two had forged. But he had to regroup.

He slumped onto the bed, arms and legs spread wide, and sighed again.

“Absurd.”

Absurd was the way you licked your lips when you met in the morning to pack your belongings. Absurd was the way your hand had squeezed his when he helped you in and out of the carriage. Absurd was the way you had watched him the entire journey, barely blinking, breathing deeply—your eyes fixed on his fingers, on his hair, gaze burning right through him, making his clothes feel tight and his seat unbearable.

Absurdity. That was what he was making of it in his deranged mind, because clearly, you were just measuring up your opponent.

He loosened his cravat, then, growing impatient, pulled it from his collar entirely. He unbuttoned his shirt and pressed his hands against his chest. His heartbeat was uneven—final proof of his insanity. The heels of his palms pressed deep into his eyeballs, chest rising and falling, brace digging into the flesh of his leg uncomfortably when Viktor tried to make out anything that would make sense to him. And nothing did.

A vague, unsettled feeling took root in your chest when you finally reached your bedchamber, and Mr. Griffiths paused at the door. “Do you require anything else, my lady?”

“I think… Could I use the music room?”

“By all means, my lady. Everything in this house is yours to use as you please.”

Which is precisely how you’ve found yourself here—perched at the edge of the piano stool, subjecting the instrument to a volatile rendition of Mozart’s Fantasia in D Minor, swinging between tender, thoughtful passages and frantic, feverish key-smashing. Hunched over, eyes shut, your mouth moving as if forming words in a language only you can understand.

The sound echoes through the music room, spills into the hallway, and carries through the corridors—all the way up to Viktor’s bedchamber, where he presses his hands to his ears. His core burns, his hips rut helplessly against the mattress, and he mutters, “God, spare me,” desperate and alone.

***

Your first few weeks do not look all that different from the life you left behind. It feels as though you packed it up and brought it with you—everything except your parents, sisters, and, most painfully, Peggy. Your new lady’s maid is much younger and far more timid than she was.

Eliza knocks on your door every morning and helps you dress, just as Peggy once did, yet her reserve and cautiousness make the ritual all the more unbearable. Just to avoid giving the poor girl a heart attack, you almost instinctively continue to slip back and forth between your night and day self, growing more and more adamant by the day.

How many times have you tried to bring yourself to say a polite little no to a short stay, it is only for you to know. The only thing you have achieved so far is your bun becoming looser and looser, to the point of falling apart by the end of the day—much to Eliza’s horror over the number of pins lost somewhere around the house.

You spend your days alone, reading and playing the piano, performing for no one but yourself and your devoted staff. Viktor, meanwhile, spends all his waking hours in the lab, having effortlessly shed the composed facade he maintained upon arrival. Whenever you glimpse him—usually only for a fleeting moment as you cross paths in the dining room—his hair is mussed, his shirt collar undone by at least one button, his cravat entirely absent, and, to your utter ruin, his sleeves are often rolled up, exposing the taut skin of his forearms.

These glimpses are brief. He is always finishing his breakfast the moment you step into the dining room, wiping his glistening lips with a napkin before downing the last sip of coffee—already on his feet. You greet him with a rigid hello as you take your seat at the far end of the long table, another silent symbol of the growing distance between you. And each time, it strikes you: you do not even know if he has just woken at dawn or has yet to retire for the night.

Until today, when something is visibly askew, and Viktor lingers in the dining room a moment longer than usual. He sits hunched over a stack of notes when you enter, not sparing you a glance—only a quiet, hollow, Good morning.

Of all days, today, when you managed to furiously pluck the pins from your hair on the way to breakfast and shove them into a plant pot in one of the corridors, huffing at yourself in condemnation—why are you valuing your lady’s maid’s peace of mind higher than your own in the first place?

You gather your untamed hair away from your forehead, flip it over your shoulder, and sit carefully, mindful not to trap the curls beneath you. You hum and fuss over your plate, chin propped in one hand, until you finally crack the egg open with an echoing smack—and Viktor hisses, visibly annoyed.

“Is something the matter, my dear husband?” Your unamused voice carries through the room, and Viktor winces, huffing before setting the parchment down with a click of his tongue.

“I was an inch from solving a problem,” he replies with exaggerated politeness. There is more to the remark, lingering somewhere in his throat, but when he finally looks up at you, all he says is—

“Oh.”

“Oh?” you parrot.

“Forgive me, I must—” He stands almost abruptly, nearly knocking his coffee over. “I must call for Jayce. And possibly get back to this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the papers scattered on the table.

You watch him as he turns, noting the unevenness in his step—the slight wobble, the way his weight shifts too quickly onto his cane. Before he can pass, you twist in your chair, reaching out instinctively. Your fingers close around his forearm, just above where his hand grips the cane.

“Have you rested at all?”

The question lands between you like a stone dropped into still water. He freezes beneath your touch. The muscles under your hand tighten, but he does not pull away instantly. You feel the warmth of his skin, his sleeve rolled up, the faint tremor of exertion, and then—goosebumps, rising where your palm lingers.

You watch it with glazed eyes, your mouth slightly parted, and it becomes unbearably hard to stay motionless as you dangle between snapping your hand away, smoothing your palm down to his wrist to see if the tremor of your heart has a companion in his, or simply squeezing your fingers around him tighter. To keep him with you for just a little longer.

His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. Then, just as quickly as the moment came, it is gone. He retreats, wrenching his arm away as though burned. He does not dare look at his own skin—fears to check whether the imprint of your touch will be glaring at him, a brand he cannot afford to acknowledge.

“I need not your pity, my dear wife,” he says, sharper than necessary, the words laced with a venom that does not quite belong.

Your breath hitches, but the response comes swiftly, cutting through the tension like the precise stroke of a blade.

“I do not pity you. I am merely guessing that you have not retired for the night.” A pause, deliberate, pointed. Then, voice soft but unyielding: “It is only my suspicion, though, as you are a phantom that shows itself to me on rare occasions.”

Viktor blinks caught off guard by your words. His gaze sharpens, but there’s a hint of confusion in it. He turns fully, the squeak of his cane against the polished floor punctuating the moment. You take him in now, properly. The absence of his usual polish makes him appear almost boyish—no layers of coats or stiff cravats, no carefully smoothed-down hair. His shirt is loose at the waist, half-pulled from his slacks, the fabric creased with wear. It softens him, or so it should. But what follows does not suit his harmless appearance.

“I am merely taking full advantage of our agreement, as vowed.” His voice is smooth, edged with annoyance that sends a shiver through you. “Hunting my prey.”

Your breath catches, but you do not waver. His eyes drag over you, assessing, and then he gestures vaguely in your direction. “And yet, between the two of us, you afford yourself nothing more than loosened hair.” For the briefest of moments Viktor conjures the feeling of your curls beneath his fingers, a vignette of his own hand closing around the fistful of hair floods his mind’s eye, warmth waking in an unwanted place. No matter.

He steps closer, slow and calculated. “I do not see you running barefoot. I do not hear you playing the piano. I do not see you eating what you please, reading what you please. I see no effort at all to find your deer—” He leans in, voice a near whisper now. “Let alone hunt it.”

Your heart thunders, but you hold your ground. You meet his gaze, chin tilting upward in defiance. “You could have stopped at ‘I do not see you,’” you say, voice steady despite the heat curling at the back of your throat. “That would have been enough.”

Silence stretches between you, taut and unbroken. Then, Viktor exhales, and when he speaks again, your name falls from his lips softly—too softly. A warning.

You wait, but nothing follows.

At last, he straightens, stepping back just enough to sever the unbearable tension between you. “Indeed,” he murmurs, the usual tone devoid of emotion returning to his voice. “I am feeling rather tired.” A pause, measured. Then, with a glance toward the hallway, “Perhaps I should retire for a few hours before Jayce arrives.”

With that, he is gone, and you realise the spoon you’ve been holding has left a dent on the inside of your palm. A tremendous feeling surges through you—a mixture of anger and excitement. Both halves of you stir with something unspoken, as if you have been challenged, and you wonder if Viktor has the faintest idea of what he has just set into motion.

The answer to your question lingers in the corridor, where Viktor halts his wobbly trot to lean against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. The weather has grown unbearably hot these past couple of weeks, he tells himself. He will have to go completely nocturnal to survive this. It is possible—he is already halfway there. Jayce will arrive in the evening and take his mind off the intrusive thoughts. He cannot confuse the deer, not now.

The rest of the day passes in seemingly unimportant activities, though in truth, you strike another contract—one with yourself. Your day and night selves reach an accord: it is time to taste some of the alleged freedom that has been granted to you.

By the time the day dims into evening and Jayce’s carriage rumbles up the drive, you are already retired for the night, determined to wake before Eliza steps into your room, her gentle hands poised to constrict.

And so, when dawn stretches its pale fingers across the horizon, you are not in your bed.

You are already dressed—or rather, half-dressed, as far as society is concerned. No short stay, no stockings, bare feet enveloped by delicate satin slippers. The cool air kisses the skin left exposed by your loosened chemise, and for the first time in weeks, you feel unburdened.

Eliza’s head peeks through the door, her voice tight with worry. “My lady, you are up so early! Forgive me my oversight!” She steps in hastily, hands reaching as if to remedy the damage.

You only smile, brushing past her gently. “I can manage on my own.”

You are nearly at the door when a faint, barely audible squirm from Eliza makes you pause. Without turning, you add, “I can dress myself. But I wouldn’t mind some company from time to time, if you find a moment for me.” Your voice is warm, the offer genuine.

Eliza blanches, her face draining of colour. She nods—too quickly, too vigorously—and you cannot tell whether it is because she has noticed your scandalous lack of undergarments or because, somehow, you have become utterly intimidating overnight.

No matter which it is, you take your leave, stepping lightly down the grand staircase. The air is crisp with the promise of morning, your confidence unshaken—until your bravado falters slightly at the sound of voices drifting from the dining room. Viktor’s and Jayce’s.

You step forward anyway.

Their voices sharpen as you near, rising in a rapid exchange of ideas, heated but not hostile. The dining room door is ajar, and through the gap, you glimpse them—both dishevelled, shirts rumpled, hair mussed, sleeves rolled up, the remnants of a long night spent in relentless pursuit of something just within their grasp.

“I’m telling you, the reaction stabilised, but only for a moment—” Viktor gestures sharply, his cane propped against the table as he leans forward, hands braced against scattered notes.

Jayce shakes his head, pushing a plate of untouched food aside. “Then we’re missing something. Maybe—maybe the cooling process is too fast? We need to slow the transition.”

“That would—” Viktor stops mid-thought, snapping his fingers as if trying to seize the fleeting revelation. “That could work. If we control the gradient, if we—”

You step into the room.

The soft rustle of your movement isn’t enough to pull them from their world. Jayce rubs his forehead, squinting down at a set of scribbled calculations, muttering under his breath. Viktor paces—or tries to, moving in uneven strides before settling for gripping the edge of the table. Neither acknowledges your presence at first.

It’s only when you take your seat—silent, waiting—that Viktor glances up.

His entire body stills.

“Oh,” he breathes, his exhaustion-worn features shifting as his focus lands fully on you. His brow furrows slightly, as if trying to reconcile the image before him with the one his mind is struggling to catch up to. “Did we wake you?”

You shake your head lightly. “Not at all.” A pause. You glance between them, their energy still thrumming in the air like a current not yet dissipated. Amusement tugs at your lips as you add, “But I can't deny I'm feeling like I'm interrupting something.”

Jayce, who has been slower to register your presence, suddenly snaps to attention. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands abruptly, eyes widening in realisation before he bellows your name. The sound echoes across the room, bouncing off the high ceiling, and before you can react, he’s already closing the distance.

His enthusiasm outpaces his manners.

He sweeps you into a hug, broad arms folding around you in an unpractised but genuine embrace. His hands pat your back—gentle at first, then slower, as if something unexpected has dawned on him. You swear you catch the faintest sound from him, a quiet huh, before he swiftly schools his expression into a bright smile, brushing off whatever surprise had momentarily struck him.

“Why are you all the way over here?” He gestures toward the edge of the table where you had settled. “Come, sit. You must tell me how you’ve been—I was worried we’d miss each other.”

You laugh, wholeheartedly, startled by the first honest touch you’ve experienced in days. Then, you glance over at Viktor, who is still standing, braced against the edge of the table. He gives you a timid nod while closing his mouth, then sits, smoothing down his hair.

Jayce, a faint blush playing on his cheeks, guides you with a hand on your back to take a seat between him and Viktor. He fixes your chair and slumps down beside you, leaning in with a boyish curiosity, shedding the last remnants of formalities now that it’s just the three of you. There is something familiar in it, something that makes you feel less like a wife on paper and more like a natural part of this strange little household.

He leans in conspiratorially. “So, tell me everything—how much of a thorn in your side has he been?”

You consider, for a moment, telling Jayce that something must be present to be a nuisance in the first place. But something deeper, some instinct not yet fully understood, warns you against such an admission. Betraying loyalty—even in jest—would lead nowhere.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, casting a glance at Viktor before saying, with measured amusement, “I find I have little cause to complain.”

Viktor, still smoothing a hand through his hair, blinks slowly at you, eyes narrowing just a fraction before he inclines his head in the smallest of nods.

Jayce huffs. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose. “And are you not going to ask if she has been a thorn in my side?”

And Viktor would have plenty to say on the matter. Not only have you somehow managed to work around his erratic schedule, but it would seem you are well on your way to orchestrating his downfall—death by one’s own sword. The familiarity of your arrangement is creeping into spaces he does not wish it to occupy, slipping into idle moments, threading itself through his thoughts when he least expects it.

The number of times he has stopped by your door, only to hesitate at the threshold, has already reached a ridiculous count—much to his own dismay. And all of this, when the two of you barely see each other.

Jayce barks out a laugh so sudden and loud that it nearly startles you. He claps a hand against the table, shaking his head. “Right. As if there exists a soul more exasperating than you.”

Viktor only rolls his eyes, briefly contemplating calling for a hearse in advance to carry away his still-warm corpse before Jayce tears him apart in front of you.

Thankfully, the rest of breakfast passes without much torment for Viktor as Jayce and you fall into easy conversation, catching up on the time lost between visits. By the time the clock strikes nine, Jayce yawns—big and unreserved—before pushing back his chair and announcing his departure. He remarks that he has already overstayed his welcome and promises to arrive at a more humane hour next time, which, he assures, will be in four days.

Before leaving, he turns to Viktor. “I’ll get the things we need from the city before my next visit.”

With their goodbyes exchanged, Viktor leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes wearily. He sighs, then looks at you. “Are you not going to berate me into bed this time?”

You arch a brow. “Last time, it earned me some rather harsh commentary from you, so I will refrain from mothering you.”

His expression softens instantly. And suddenly, he is back—or rather, he shifts into one of the versions of himself that you have grown to like the most. Soft-spoken, his features gentle, a hand lingering on the table as though caught in indecision. He does not reach for you, and yet you feel the warmth of his skin as if he had.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I grow... irritable when I am overtired.”

“It’s quite alright. I am not easily offended.”

He hums at that and stands, bidding you farewell with a slight bow of his head. Yet somewhere between the table and the door, he hesitates, glancing back at you. His gaze flickers downward—just for a second—to your bodice, to your bare feet in their slippers.

“I see you have taken my advice,” he remarks.

You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. “Yes, I am merely testing the waters.”

A sound—so faint you barely catch it—escapes him. Something like a sigh, like the start of a whine swiftly swallowed down. “Good,” is all he says before taking his leave.

You smile to yourself, kick off your shoes, and curl up in the chair, biting into an apple without slicing or peeling it.

***

By the time of Jayce’s next visit, Viktor has managed to adjust his sleeping schedule—if only slightly—into something resembling human behaviour. He cannot deny his own excitement about the threshold they are about to cross. So much so that some of his defences have loosened almost without his noticing.

When the morning following Jayce’s first visit arrives, you take your seat all the way back by the table. Viktor notices before he even means to, and his mouth is faster to speak than his mind can stop him. “I see we are back to the original seat arrangement?”

You glance at him over your cup, the barest glint of amusement in your eyes. “Unless you don’t mind me sitting where I sat yesterday?”

Viktor nearly scowls at this game, realising too late that he is about to lose. He braces himself, carefully setting his spoon down before conjuring an answer that might put you in check. “I would not mind if that was what you desired.”

A perfect deflection—or so he believes, right up until you tilt your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. Without hesitation, you approach the seat you had claimed yesterday and sink into it with deliberate ease, smoothing your hands over the tablecloth as though you had always belonged there. “Then I suppose I shall have to keep you guessing as to what it is I desire.”

Viktor stills. His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the edge of the table, mind racing to counter, to regain footing in a match he hadn’t realised was taking place. But you have left him no opening, no move to reclaim the upper hand.

Checkmate.

The air shifts between you, tension strung so finely it might snap at the slightest pull. Viktor exhales sharply through his nose, as if attempting to dispel it, and seizes upon the first neutral topic that comes to mind.

“Did you sleep well?” His voice is steadier than he expects, though he distracts himself by reaching for the sugar dish.

“Well enough,” you reply, mirroring his movement. “Though I admit, I nearly slept through breakfast.”

Your fingers brush against his—just a whisper of contact, fleeting yet electric. Viktor’s breath catches. It is the smallest of things, entirely unremarkable, yet his reaction is anything but. Heat prickles at the back of his neck. He withdraws a fraction too quickly, fingers curling into a loose fist against the tabletop.

You seem unaware of his flustered state, but he cannot risk testing his restraint further. Pushing back from the table, he stands, offering a polite nod.

“I should return to my work,” he says, voice carefully composed. A pause. Then, softer, “I will see you at dinner.”

He does not look back as he leaves, though he feels the weight of your gaze following him all the way to the door. Leaves you with your brows scrunched, before you finally shrug and go about your day.

Another time, he allows himself an odd smile during a brief conversation with you—a small greeting when he finds you reading outside, your belly pressed against the blanket, bare feet swinging idly in the air as you kick at your own buttocks. He is the one to initiate the chatter, asking what has you so engrossed, before his mind catches up with the inevitable flustered reaction caused by the sight of your bare shin.

Viktor nods absentmindedly as you speak, his ears processing the words—something about musical composition, about Bach’s fugues—but his mind does not listen to him.

Some primal instinct takes over, overriding his better judgement, and all he can do is memorise the delicate shape of your ankle, the gentle swell of your calf. His gaze lingers, bordering on something obscene, tracing the bare stretch of your skin where it catches the dappled sunlight. The sight is almost hypnotic, and yet, in your innocence, you mistake it for unwavering focus.

“In fact,” you say, perking up, your expression bright with enthusiasm, “I believe this is something that might catch your interest.” You shift, moving aside to make space for him on the blanket, and in the process, your skirt rides up just slightly—just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your knee.

It is nearly too much.

Viktor coughs abruptly, his throat tightening as if his own body conspires against him. He tugs at his collar, attempting to create more space, but it is no use—the air has grown thick and stifling.

“I—” His voice comes out strained, so he clears his throat again and schools his expression into something neutral. “I would, but I must prepare the lab for Jayce’s arrival.”

The excuse is polite, reasonable, and entirely necessary, lest he make an utter fool of himself. Without waiting for your response, he inclines his head in farewell and turns on his heel, making a swift retreat before temptation can take root any further.

Leaves you blinking dumbfoundedly as your mouth stops speaking mid-sentence again.

Never mind that, the rest of your day is consumed with the attempt to put your freshly devoured knowledge into practice. You spend hours hunched over the piano, fingers chasing after patterns, testing the way structure gives way to emotion in each phrase. The passing of time eludes you until the golden light of the setting sun vanishes entirely, leaving only the soft glow of candle sconces to guide your way.

Footsteps in the corridor signal movement in the house, the shuffle of weary men returning from their labours. You take it as your cue to retire for the night.

Stepping into the hallway, you find yourself crossing paths with Jayce and Viktor. They are both visibly spent, their shoulders drawn with exhaustion, but there is something undeniably triumphant in their expressions. Viktor carries the scent of burnt oil and paper, while Jayce's hair is in complete disarray, as though he has run his hands through it a hundred times over.

"Any groundbreaking success?" you ask lightly, directing the question to Jayce as he stretches with a groan.

"Hopefully," he says, laughing. "We’re making progress—some of it even intentional."

You huff in amusement. "I shall look forward to hearing the grand announcement, then."

"You’ll be the first to know," Jayce assures you, then clasps Viktor’s shoulder before departing. "Goodnight, you two."

That leaves you and Viktor alone, the silence between you both weighted, not uncomfortable but not quite settled either. Without speaking, you fall into step together, instinctively adjusting your pace to match his—slower, deliberate, the quiet tap of his cane punctuating each measured stride—as you ascend the stairs in tandem.

At the landing, where your paths are meant to diverge, Viktor hesitates. Just for a breath. Just for a moment too long.

Your eyes meet.

And then, as though scalded, he steps back, inclining his head with the faintest of nods before slipping away into the dark.

With a huff of resignation, you allow Eliza to undress you and prepare you for bed. She moves deftly, fingers working through the laces of your gown, but you do not miss the way her lips press together as though suppressing a question.

You arch a brow at her in quiet encouragement, and with a shake of her head—half exasperation, half amusement—she finally relents.

“If it is not too bold of me to ask, my lady—” she hesitates briefly before pressing on, “—it has been nearly a month now. How do you find marriage suits you?”

You let out a small breath of laughter, too tired to weigh your words with careful diplomacy. “Not too different from unwedded life, if I am to be truthful. Save for the absence of my sisters’ endless chatter.”

Eliza hums as she loosens the ties of your corset. “If I may say so, my lady, Mister Viktor strikes me as a good husband. Hardworking, thoughtful.”

You pause for half a moment before answering, smoothing your hands over your chemise. “He is a good friend, that much is certain.”

A small huff of laughter escapes her then, as though she cannot help herself. “Oh, my lady,” she says, shaking her head, “I may be young, but even my inexperienced eyes can see that you and Mister Viktor have long since passed the realm of friendship.”

You blink at her, caught off guard, and at once, she seems to realise she has overstepped. Her back straightens, her expression tightening as she rushes to amend her words. “I—I beg your pardon, I spoke out of turn, I did not mean—”

You hold up a hand, cutting off her flustered apology. “No, no, I rather liked that,” you say, surprising even yourself. A smirk tugs at your lips as you add, “Much more, in fact, than your continued attempts to sneak me a short stay each morning. I do hope we will soon be past that.”

Eliza exhales in relief, her mouth curling into a warm, genuine smile. She dips into a small curtsy. “Anything you wish, my lady.”

With that, she bids you goodnight and quietly takes her leave.

Left alone, you crawl into bed, drawing the covers up to your chin. The house is still, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hush of the wind beyond your window. But despite the quiet, despite the heavy comfort of your bedding, sleep eludes you.

Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to Viktor. To the way he had lingered by your door just moments earlier, caught in a hesitation neither of you had dared to name. To the way he had spoken to you at breakfast, as though testing boundaries he did not yet fully understand. To the fleeting brush of his hand against yours, his fingers warm, his breath catching just so—

You turn onto your side with a soft, frustrated sigh. Morning will come soon enough.

And yet, you do not think you will sleep at all. You swing your legs over the frame with an intention take a stroll to calm your mind.

Your bare feet make no sound against the polished floorboards as you slip into the corridor, the cool air brushing against your skin like a whispered warning. You tell yourself this is only a brief walk to settle your thoughts, to quiet the restlessness that refuses to let you sleep. Yet, without meaning to, your steps carry you past Viktor’s door before you can register the path you have taken.

You mean to keep walking. Truly, you do. But then—

A ghost of your name reaches your ears.

You stop short, the breath catching in your throat. Perhaps it was nothing—a trick of the night, the house shifting in its slumber. But then it comes again, unmistakable now, low and hoarse and pulled from behind that door.

Your fingers hover over the wood as if drawn by an unseen force. You glance down the corridor—empty, silent—before pressing your ear against the surface.

What you hear sends a shiver racing down your spine.

His voice is rough, uneven, his breaths laboured between the syllables of your name. Even through the barrier of the door, the strain in his tone is evident, the sound of it sinking straight to the pit of your stomach. He is panting, sighing, the rhythm of his breaths quickening into something unmistakable.

Your mind can only grasp at the edges of what is unfolding beyond that door, yet the images come unbidden.

Viktor, alone in the dark, his fingers ghosting over his parted lips as he imagines yours wrapped around him instead. His hand strokes himself with urgent, desperate movements, the need unbearable, overwhelming. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a curse. His mind is flooded with visions of you—your bare skin, your hands gripping at him, your body surrendering beneath his touch.

He pictures you riding his cock into oblivion, your hair cascading down your back, tickling his thighs as your head lulls on your shoulders in pleasure, lips moaning out his name. Your throat calling out for him, for God, as his thumb rubs you and his palm clasps around your waist. Your belly stretching over a bulge where his cock fills you up—if he were so lucky for you to lean back, propping yourself on his legs, presenting yourself to him. Your body long and arched as he runs a palm against your stomach, feeling himself hitting that spot that makes your thighs clench around the sharp angles of his hips.

Then, it’s your mouth on him again. That sweet tongue you stick out whenever you play the piano is now flicking against the bundle of nerves under his tip, teasing him. His thumb, no matter how precise, does you no justice—he is certain. His hand is a poor tribute, nowhere near good enough to mimic what your mouth would feel like, sucking on him. Were he so lucky. But clearly, he isn’t.

What he has instead is his own hand—calloused from years of tinkering and writing, ink stains embedded into his skin for eternity. His wrist aches, on the verge of pain, as he pumps himself hastily, chasing completion that wears your face. His free palm runs up and down his torso before clasping around his balls, picturing your wet cheeks pressing against them.

He writhes against the sheets, his self-restraint fraying, his control slipping with every ragged breath. He curses himself for this weakness, for this indulgence. But even as shame wars with desire, he cannot stop.

His own contract—his careful, calculated arrangement—has turned against him. He had thought it would be a shield, a safeguard. But instead, it has left him starving.

And now, the second contract—the one he has spoken aloud in front of many witnesses, the vow to worship you, body and soul—feels dangerously within reach.

His stomach contorts and curls as lust coils tighter and tighter. His skin nearly burns with the friction of his swollen cock, twitching in his own grasp, fingers curling tighter as he pretends it’s your cunt squeezing him. He pretends it’s your mouth enveloping him, your cheeks hollowed out as you hum around him.

With a wrenched-out grunt, he paints his own belly white, chanting your name to the rhythm of his stuttering hips. Drenched in sweat, he pumps his cock until the last drops of seed take their exit, leaving him spent—yet his soul still longing.

The last groan has you gasping, your body tightening and clenching around nothing—a sensation wholly unfamiliar until this moment. It is strong, undeniable, leaving you weak as you stagger back to your bedroom. You bury yourself beneath the covers, heart racing, mind muddled, lips dry. What on earth?

And Viktor groans again in his damp bed, his stomach slick with his own spent. The want for you is overwhelming, insatiable—his hand nearly not enough. How he is meant to keep his part of the deal, he does not know.

He may as well call for that hearse.

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apomaro-mellow · 2 months ago

Text

Divine and Damned 1/? Read on AO3

a/b/o; cult fic; Steve has been hiding his omega nature and living as an alpha. When his family moves to Hawkins, he catches the eye of town freak, Eddie Munson. Steve finds himself drawn to Eddie, unaware that the Munson family has plans for him…

Hawkins appeared like most other towns. Schools, neighborhoods, post office, library, the usual. The people were just as average. But among them lived a group that operated by different rules. A group that had secrets. A group that had no formal name but simply called themselves

The Family.

----------------------

Life had been pretty easy for Steve up until he underwent puberty. That was when his first heat hit and all of his problems started. His parents called it a stroke of luck that it happened during the summer. They hid him away the entire week and even after that, Steve wasn’t allowed to see anyone until the suppressants they gave him took effect.

He was the only son of Richard Harrington. He couldn’t be an omega. And Steve had done a pretty decent job of keeping up the ruse until he let someone get too close. It had been one of his house parties and someone went into his bathroom, finding the pills and scent blockers. It didn’t take long for the rumor to spread and for his reputation to be ruined.

Steve thought having the cat out of the bag would force his parents to accept it at least. But no such luck. They simply moved. Easy as that. From small town New England to small town Indiana. And so Steve began his senior year with no friends and hiding who he truly was again. With his broad shoulders, he was able to pass for an alpha. And after wowing the athletics department and joining a couple teams, he cemented his place in the hierarchy of Hawkins High School very quickly.

That was the version of Steve that Eddie first laid eyes on.

Eddie had heard that a new jock had joined the flock but it wasn’t until he happened to be by the field that he saw him. Long legs hidden under sweatpants that stretched as he ran laps around the football field. The late August heat had him wearing a crop top that stopped mid-torso. Eddie’s first thought was that perhaps Hawkins was getting the ball rolling on co-ed integration in sports. But as he continued to watch, he realized he must be mistaken. None of the other players were treating him like an omega.

In fact, despite his newness to the school’s ecosystem, others seemed to defer to him. So he must be an alpha. But Eddie found beauty in all, regardless of gender and designation. And Steve Harrington was a work of art.

He told his uncle so that very day at dinner.

“Hm, and you’re sure he’s an alpha?”, Wayne had asked.

“I didn’t get the chance to get up close and take a whiff, but he must be”, Eddie said. “That or a beta.” He swallowed. “I know I’m meant for an omega-”

“Your destiny says nothing about an omega”, Wayne said. “And even if it did, if you’re drawn to this boy, follow that feeling. Your mother was drawn to me first. But that led her to my brother. We are all guided in ways we can’t begin to comprehend.”

------------------------

And so while Steve was not an omega, Eddie watched him all the same. He hung around with Jason and the rest of the basketball team. But Eddie noted that whenever he swooped in to save a freshie or member of his club, Harrington was suspiciously absent. They didn’t share any classes together, so Eddie was only able to steal looks outside of those times. He wasn’t subtle at all as he stared at Steve in the lunch room but he didn’t care. He wanted to see what Steve would do.

What he did was ask around. Who was the guy who was always staring at him?

“Him? That’s Eddie Munson. He’s a freak”, Tommy had answered. It was definitive and didn’t leave room for much questioning. But Steve was curious.

“Why’s he a freak?”, he asked.

Jason replied this time. “Munson, his family, and some others…they’re not normal.”

“How do you mean?”, Steve urged.

Jason just shook his head. “You stay clear of him and you won’t need to find out. They should’ve been run out of town a long time ago.”

That just gave Steve more questions. He turned to look at Eddie and found that his gaze still hadn’t wavered. Even as his group of friends spoke, some even getting rowdy, Eddie’s eyes didn’t stray from him. Steve couldn’t look away either. Tommy stood and glared in Eddie’s direction.

“You got a problem, freak?!”

Eddie’s lips parted and he licked at a fang. Steve suppressed a shiver. Blockers kept his omega scent from leaking but he tried not to work it too hard by feeling arousal. He turned his back on Munson then, bringing up a game they had to change the subject. They all eagerly latched onto that.

-----------------------------

The game ended in their victory and there was going to be a party at Tommy’s to celebrate. But before that was the most daunting part of Steve’s life. The locker room. His blockers weren’t powerful enough to hide his scent if he got aroused. But regular sweat from exercise was fine. It just smelled of salty adrenaline without being infused with his natural scent. Honestly, it had been so long, Steve forgot what he really smelled like.

No, his smell wasn’t the problem when it came to this. It was being in such close quarters with his friends and having to hide a particular part of his anatomy. Steve typically got away with it by a number of strategies. Being the last one in the locker room, undressing at a snail’s pace, distracting the others with gestures and conversation.

So far, it had worked and he was able to undress and shower alone without anyone noticing anything. But tonight, Tommy was snapping at him to pick up the pace.

“There’s omegas hot and ready and heading to my place. I bet that game has ‘em soaked!”

“You know if an omega is wet before they get to you, it means they’ve been fucked already”, Andy grinned. “Nah, the drier they are, the tighter they are.”

Tommy’s nose scrunched. “Jason, you hearin’ this?”

“Only whores get wet at the slightest touch. And I don’t lay with whores”, Jason said. “The girl I marry is gonna be pure as snow because she’s saved herself just for me.”

Steve raised a brow. “You’re saving yourself for marriage?”

“Why would I save myself? It’s the wife’s duty to be pure.”

“Wish there were more dude omegas in this town”, another teammate piped up. “I heard their pussies are the wettest.”

“They’re sluttier too.”

“Steve, c’mon!”, Tommy urged.

“I’mmmm actually gonna go home and shower first”, Steve said, putting his jacket on and grabbing his bag.

“What? Dude just run in the shower and let’s go.”

Steve smirked, putting on the charm. “The hair doesn’t happen on its own. You’re not the only one who wants some pussy tonight.”

He got away with that and after showering, doing some actual primping, and taking another dose of suppressants, he went to Tommy’s. The party was already jumping and the house was filled with teens, both from Hawkins and even a few from out of town. This was Steve’s element. He loved to drink and smoke and no one suspected a thing about him. It was easy to forget who he was when he was three drinks in.

It was easy to ignore when he’d see someone like himself being crowded around and then led away to a room. Or like now, when a cheerleader was slumping across the couch and some guy picked her up and took her upstairs. It wasn’t happening to him and wouldn’t happen to him so why should he care? Why should he follow them upstairs? Why should he call out to make sure she was okay?

“Hey!”, his voice left his mouth without permission as he stood in the doorway.

“Fuck dude, get your own. Or like, close the door and wait your turn? I’m not gonna be long and she’s ready to go.”

She was almost completely passed out, as evidence of her groaning and how she was trying to turn to her side but was unsuccessful. Steve wanted no needed to say something else to save her. But what was he supposed to say? And the guy was already unbuckling his belt, Steve’s presence clearly didn’t matter. Then he smelled something burning.

“There she is.”

Eddie Munson appeared next to Steve, then shouldered his way into the bedroom. The guy paused in undoing his pants to see who else had barged in.

“Fuck off!”

Eddie wasted no time in scruffing him and pinning him to the wall. “That little bitch owes me money. So you can either give her to me, or I can beat it out of you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply as he turned and threw the girl over his shoulder and left the room. Steve’s lips are still parted and as Eddie passed he realized the burning scent was him but there was something else to it. He followed behind, unsure of where Eddie was going or what he was doing. People gave the alpha a wide berth until he found who he was looking for. Or rather, she found him.

“Simone! Oh my god!”, another cheerleader ran up to Eddie. “Let go of her, you freak!”

“Wait, no-”, Steve tried to speak up because there was clearly a misunderstanding but Eddie just grinned wide, baring his fangs.

“Keep a closer eye on your little lambs. I almost got a bite outta her.”

Why wasn’t he telling them the truth? The whole party turned to behold the spectacle and it wasn’t right. Eddie wasn’t the one they should be scorning. Eddie didn’t overstay his welcome, leaving the party before a mob could be formed to kick him out. The ordeal stayed in Steve’s head, even when the party ended and he went home.

He tossed and turned in bed, fixating on Eddie’s scent. It was something warm and familiar and yet he couldn’t place it. It was driving him mad and he tried to think of something else. But he kept coming back to that moment. That girl, completely helpless and Steve was useless.

And then there was the base fear underneath it all.

That Steve could have been her.

If he was living as the omega he was, would he be considered just as disposable as her? The way his friends talked was seared in his head. It was how everyone talked about omegas in the locker rooms and anywhere else that was split by designation and gender. Steve had known this for a long time. But when he had to face the truth of how others viewed omegas, it was like a slap each time. Even Jason, who went to church, didn’t hold them in any sort of high regard.

But Eddie… He had swooped in and saved her like it was easy. Would he have extended the same kindness if Steve was in that position? Somehow, the idea began to form and that was what finally calmed Steve enough to go to sleep.

In a world where he was openly an omega. Maybe things wouldn’t be great. The guys he called teammates and friends would leer at him. Maybe one would even get handsy. Or it could be exactly like tonight. Steve having a great time until he drinks a little too much…or maybe someone slips him something…He’s taken upstairs against his will, completely at the mercy of whoever has him. And that’s when Eddie steps in, pushing the assailant away and holding Steve close as he carries him to safety.

Steve is asleep by then and his dreams are formless but the sensations are there. Surrounded by the scent of a safe alpha. The birds were chirping in the bright early light as Steve moaned himself awake. The morning felt warm and syrupy and he couldn’t tell why until he began to wake up more.

He realized his lower half tingled and his cunt was throbbing with the aftershocks of an orgasm. He just had a wet dream. A notion that was mortifying on its own made even worse when he remembered his dream. So it was even worse than he thought.

He just had a wet dream about the town freak.

Part 2

#apo writes #stranger things #steddie #omegaverse #cult fic

112 notes · View notes

tinytennisskirt · 10 months ago

Text

Let It Linger

Summary: When post-canon divorced! Art goes back to high school for a fifteen year reunion, he’s met with strong memories of the his estranged best friend, the girl he loved those fifteen years ago. He gets caught in a rally between his past and present. A whirlwind of past yearning, casual touches, meaningful conversations and pining rushes back to him like the time never passed when he sees her again for the first time in fifteen years. Turns out not so much has changed.

Warnings: mentions of sex, alcohol, marijuana. casual touching, pining, yearning, MEGA SLOWBURN, a longer fic with time skipping between MRTA! art and POST CANON! art. AU.

Art wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He was parked outside, in some dress shirt he’d owned far too long and the black dress pants he wore for when he did pre-game press. His hands on the wheel, lips pressed into a straight line. This would be interesting, he knew it would be. He was sitting in the parking lot outside the smaller gym of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy and he could hear the music through the walls of the car and through the open gym door, he could see a purple cast of light from inside.

It had only been fifteen years. That wasn’t much time in perspective, but fifteen years felt like a lot when he remembered who he was that many years ago.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“My mouth, my mouth!” You called, opening your mouth and slowing your running to walking backward. Patrick tossed a marshmallow and you caught it in your mouth as the three of you ran down the hill, Patrick with a bag of marshmallows, you with the chocolate, and Art with the graham crackers.

Both boys cheered loudly and you jumped, triumphantly raising your hands above your head. Art nearly ran right into you with the momentum from the hill and you all ended up laughing way too hard at it, even with the marshmallow in your mouth. Art tried to catch his breath, his hand sliding over your waist as he passed you, trying not to stumble the rest of the way down the hill. Patrick just laughed. “I had no idea my aim was that good,” he said, teasing.

You swallowed the marshmallow, “You’re kidding? Your aim? That was all me.”

Art grinned, “I think it was a joined effort…” He played mediator. You hit him in the upper arm gently. “No, all you. All her, Patrick. Sorry.”

Patrick threw his arms up in forfeit. There was no winning against you. They both knew that. You giggled and shoved a marshmallow right in Patrick’s mouth before skipping down the rest of the hill, leaving both boys behind you. Art watched, a huge grin on his face. The three of you had found a great way to sneak out of your dorms at night. It was 11:42 and you were heading toward the back of the grounds with the ingredients for s’mores, a lighter, and matches for good measure. And maybe the remainder of a pack of cigarettes.

What good was your last year at the academy if not the one you rebel just a tiny bit? You were down the hill humming Groove Is In The Heart by Deee-Lite in your big Mark Rebellato sweater and yoga pants just happy to be out at night. You were fun, carefree, and bright, even in the dark of the edge of the property, away from all the fuss of the school. “You’re so slow!” You called out to them. Both Art and Patrick jogged to catch up to you, finding your regular spot between a few trees.

You sat on your regular log and pulled the blanket from your bag before getting up to drape it over. Patrick got to collecting the twigs from the stash and put them in the hole you three dug the first time you snuck out. Art took the seat next to you on the log, “Crazy, you have like seven tennis balls in here.” He laughed. You shook your head, nudging him just a little while he grabbed the three marshmallow skewers from your bag. He grabbed one of the balls out and threw it at Patrick.

“Can take the girl out of Mark Rebellato but can’t take the Mark Rebellato out of the girl,” Patrick said, catching the ball and throwing it back at Art. He got the fire started and lit one of the remaining cigarettes off of the growing flame. “You guys ready for that test on Monday?”

“Since when are you an academic?” You chuckled, putting a marshmallow on the end of Art’s stick.

“Since he found out Lydia Jennings is into smart guys,” Art said. You chuckled, biting your lip just gently. Art noticed.

Patrick blew smoke out the side of his mouth, “No- okay, she said she liked smart guys we all know there’s no way in hell I’m becoming a straight-A student like this one over here,” he gestured with the cigarette between his fingers to you. “She’s hot, she’s not drop-everything-and-study hot. I’m talking about the test on Monday because I know that with you two and Stanford, you’re obsessed with your grades… I am… not ready.”

You shook your head, looking up at him, “She is so drop-everything-and-study hot, you’re just picky. And I’ll lend you my notes tomorrow if you want- Art and I worked on them together, they’re pretty extensive.”

“They are good.” Art nodded, dangling his marshmallow over the embers. “You’re actually worried about it? I mean, the year is almost half-done, you’ve got time.”

He nodded, “I know, but I have to graduate to be free of this place for good. No way I’m doing that GED thing.”

“My mom did the GED thing.” You said. “She’s doing just fine. It was only a setback. Plus, if you plan on truly going pro, it won’t be a big thing. Just player trivia.” Art laughed at that, pulling his stick back to pull the marshmallow off. You had already prepped his graham cracker and chocolate and pulled the marshmallow off between them for him. Patrick watched how you two worked so wordlessly- wasn’t his focus. “I will lend you all of my notes tomorrow, it’s just a matter of reading them a few times a day and you’re set.”

Patrick shrugged, grabbing himself the things he needed for a s’more. “Thanks.”

Art nodded, “You’re lucky you’re good with a racket.”

“Rude!” You said, shoving him backward off the log. He landed on his back in the leaves and it was all-around laughter again. The dynamic was this. Shoving, pushing, insults in good fun, but caring all too much. Art knew there was nobody in the world who cared more about anything than you did. He was, as your friend, able to enjoy just how passionate you were about the things and people you liked. He pulled himself back onto the log, shaking his head at you as you dusted him off and removed the leaves from his hair. You smelled good, like fall, vanilla, and chai, almost, but with a sweetness that reminded Art of the caramel apples from the fair. He shut his eyes as your hands picked the last little bits from his hair. You pat his cheek when it was done and the conversation moved onto the new tennis coach’s really bad toupée.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art got out of his car, shut the door, and locked it, car keys sliding into his pocket. He stared out over the grounds, past the outdoor tennis courts, and to the point in the field where it dipped down into the big hill. He wondered if they’d ever found your makeshift fire pit, filling it with dirt, moving the logs… He glanced at himself in the side mirror of the car, remembering when his hair was longer, more golden. Part of him wondered if he would even see you tonight. Maybe he’d see Patrick, which was a more likely occurrence, Patrick wouldn’t miss something like this.

If only they made it less of a surprise who you’d run into at one of these. He guessed it would be his class, a few extras, people who had settled down bringing their fiancees, partners, husbands, and wives. He wondered if he was too dressed up? Dressed down? And he was nervous, for some reason, when he shouldn’t have been.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“I know I shouldn’t be deciding on a dress this late but I can’t tell if this dress is too much?” You said from inside your dorm room. “I’m afraid Mark Rebellato himself will come to smite me for how much boob this dress shows off.” You spoke through the door.

Art and Patrick grinned at each other. “I’m sure it’s fine!” Art called back. Both boys had spent about twenty minutes tops getting ready for the mid-term formal. One of many formals the school so unfortunately had. “Can we see?”

“It’s not the right dress!”

“How would we know?”

The door to your room unlocked and you opened it, standing looking very unimpressed in a gorgeous purple dress. Both boys stood, a little dumbfounded for a second. “Too much?”

“No.” Both boys said in unison, gazing at you, your hair perfect, your makeup perfect.

Art blinked hard to snap himself back to reality, “You look… beautiful.” His eyes lingered a little too long on the slight shimmer to your eyelids and the gloss on your lips. Your eyes softened and you looked down at yourself again.

Patrick agreed. “Damn.” Both boys had themselves forgetting you were the same girl they called their friend on a day-to-day basis. “Mark Rebellato is rolling in his grave.”

“Is he dead?” You asked, laughing. Art didn’t find anything funny when you were standing there looking like that. He thought you were gorgeous, he could say that as your friend of a good few years, but this was breathtaking. You were.

The dance was more fun than both Art and Patrick anticipated, but you made anything fun. Patrick nudged Art’s arm as they stood off to the side with cups of punch. “She’s different this year.” He said. Both boys were watching you dance with one of your girlfriends. You were so free and you were once again the brightest thing in the whole room, purple and pink light cascading over your face and you were laughing.

Art hardly heard him. “Hm?” His eyes didn’t leave you.

“Exactly.”

Art nudged him back, seeing what Patrick was getting at. “Fuck off.” He grinned. “She’s just pretty. She’s always been pretty.”

Patrick nodded, sipping his punch, watching your dress swish around you as your friend spins you. “Too pretty.”

“Mhm,” Art sighs. The way he watches you is different from Patrick's. There’s something buried in what he feels, but he’s never acknowledged it much. Aside from when you met at twelve in a co-op game and you made fun of his ears. It honestly hurt his little feelings but Patrick found it absolutely hilarious that someone so funny-looking could say something so mean to someone else. Art laughed when Patrick defended him. But you, always so smart, nodded. And you smiled, which both boys didn’t expect. Then you apologized to Art and introduced yourself like nothing even happened. Art forgave you. There was something about you that both he and Patrick knew would make a good addition to the duo they’d formed over the first week. And it had been that way ever since. Didn’t make it easier when you stopped looking so funny and disproportionate when you turned fourteen but, being friends, it was ignorable. For the most part. They were only boys.

When presented with a slow dance, you excused yourself from the floor and came to stand with the boys, taking Patrick’s cup of punch right out of his hands and downing it. Patrick went to grab it but it was too late. You pulled a face, “Seriously?” You scrunched up your nose and Art laughed as he pieced it together.

“Didn’t give me a chance to warn you,” he chuckled. You felt the warmth spread down your throat- he’d spiked his own punch. Of course. Art, mouth agape, placed a hand on the small of your back without thinking. You just giggled and shook your head at him. Patrick took his cup back from you, sipping the very last drops. The couples and wannabes behind you continued to dance closely. “Awful, right?”

“So bad,” you giggled. Art twisted his mouth to the side, trying not to laugh too much. Your hand closed around Art’s wrist and pulled it up over your opposite shoulder and you kept talking about how gross it tasted, making fun of Patrick for spiking it so badly. If anyone sniffed it, they would have immediately known it was mostly alcohol. Art’s arm stayed around you, the perfect place for it, so it made sense to step a little closer. It’s only worth noting as something that happened because Patrick, who was used to your casual displays of closeness like this one- saw the angle Art kept his hand at so that his hand wouldn’t rest too close to your boobs. He laughed just a bit. Art just shook his head at Patrick and flipped him off with that very hand.

By the near-end of the night, you’re danced out and you asked the boys to come back with you, but Patrick had taken to chatting up Lydia Jennings, of course, so Art obliges. Patrick didn’t need a wingman, he would do fine on his own. Art holds the door for you as you leave and you’re immediately laughing as you cross the parking lot. “Fucking insane,” Art laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I always forget it’s not a school dance until Patrick sneaks in two shooters.”

“I had at least one whole shooter in that punch,” you said, knocking against him as you walked. The cool autumn air hit your bare skin and it was harsh. “It was disgusting.” Art felt you shiver just a bit beside him and he was already taking off his jacket to give to you. “He could have gone with vodka or something, spiced rum, and fruit punch is one of the worst things I think I’ve ever tasted- thank you.” You said, taking his jacket with a smile and pulling it over your shoulders.

“It was spiced rum?!”

“Yeah!” You laughed with him, still leaning against him as the two of you walked. “He ends up with Lydia Jennings she’s going to hate, hate, hate his breath. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom,” you said, pulling a pink toothbrush out of your bag. Art couldn’t help but laugh at the thing.

“Smart,” he grinned wider as you showed him the travel-sized tube of toothpaste that went with it. Art just flashed you his pack of mint gum in return and you narrowed your eyes at him. Art shoved it back in his pocket along with both of his hands. “So… you had fun tonight?” He followed up.

You smiled at him with those perfectly glossed lips parting to show teeth. “I did. However-

“There’s a however?”

“However…” You grinned, taking his hand and walking backward. You lowered your voice, pretending to be extra serious. “You need to dance more so you can dance with me.”

“You didn’t like the nodding I did? I feel like that was a lot, too much, even.” He held the door open to the other building and you mouthed another thank you as you passed him again. ”How much more do I need to do to dance with you?”

“You can always dance with me. I promise it’s a lot more fun when you’re not feeling centered out.” You told him, heading up the stairwell. It’s still early in the night so the girl’s dorms were mostly empty. “I knowww, I know how you get with it, but-”

“I’d dance with you.” He nodded, but squeezed your upper arm, “You didn’t ask me. I would have.”

“Okay then. Swear on your life right now that if I asked you, you’d say yes.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting that neverending grin that lived on his face when you were around. “For what?”

“All future purposes.” You replied, stopping outside your room and leaning against the wooden door. “Where dancing is involved.” You held out your pinkie finger and Art took it before he got to question any more. You grinned and jumped a few times. “You just made the craziest promise, I’m going to make you hate me with that one.” Art just grinned.

You talked a bit more just at the door until both you and Art were wary about someone seeing him on the girl’s side of the dorms. You opened the door to your room and stepped just inside, about to say goodbye, but just one more thing before he left, you asked. For him to help you unzip your dress. Art should not have felt the way he did when you handed him back his jacket and turned around while lifting your hair. Your bunkmate had zipped it up before you had left and you had no idea when she’d be back, you explained.

Art wouldn’t say no to you. Who could? He stepped closer, met with the closer, stronger scent of your perfume and you still smelled sweet. You always smelled sweet. With gentle fingers, he took the small zipper and slowly unzipped the back of your dress. The sound of the zipper being the only thing in the empty of your room and he wouldn’t forget how when the zipper hit the bottom of its track, his finger grazed the bare skin of your back. Soft, softer than he could have even imagined. And you turned so that he wouldn’t be faced with the bare of it all, braless underneath, he could tell, and you thanked him for the night, for his jacket, for his help. Said you’d see him tomorrow. Usually, you’d hug him goodnight, but with your dress about to slip off you just smiled, making fun of the promise he’d made to you just thirty minutes ago before a real goodnight.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art looked over at the dorm building across the lot, looking at the exact path between cars you and him would have walked that night. His hands shoved themselves into his pockets, habit. He decided not to stand out in the parking lot anymore, swallowing hard as he allowed himself through the door and into the smaller gym, which was decorated just like the regular school dances. There were streamers and early 2000s radio hits and so many people.

It was almost immediately people recognized Art. He was possibly the most successful of the graduating class, though he hated to think it. He wouldn’t put himself above anyone. He was already getting pats on the back and he started in some small conversations but he was a little distracted.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“They have parties at Stanford?” You said, looking at some Stanford webpage on Art’s mom’s computer. “Frats, too. Insane. Hey Art, you should join the frat.” You chuckled. Art and Patrick were playing Jenga at the coffee table, two or three of the blocks wet from falling into the eggnog.

Patrick ruffled Art’s hair, “Frat boy Art Donaldson?”

You spun in the chair, “I could join a sorority, they have those too.”

Art grinned, “Yeah? You think they’d take Patrick?”

Patrick pushed Art into the couch and the Jenga tower toppled over once again. You laughed, watching him shake his head and reach for his eggnog, once again pulling a Jenga block out of it. You came and sat next to Art on the couch, sitting on the arm. His hand mindlessly wrapping itself around your ankle as your foot rested on his thigh. Gentle, like letting you know that he’s there despite the readily available knowledge that was your being. Something sweet. Patrick took a seat on the floor in front of you both. “I think they’d take me, but you have to be a Stanford student, so you know, it’s too bad.”

“Their loss,” You smiled. “Do you think I’m pretty enough to rush a sorority when we get to Stanford?” You asked. Both boys looked at each other.

“...Yeah,” Patrick said, nodding just a little. You narrowed your eyes.

“Yes.” Art said firmly. He squeezed your ankle just a little. You smiled at that. Art’s mom called you to dinner, christmas dinner, and in seconds both boys were bolting to the dining room. You exchanged a look with Art’s mom when you got there. She was lovely and she was letting both you and Patrick stay for the holidays. Her food was amazing and the conversation was Stanford, mostly, and your tennis plans for after graduation. The application process, the fuss of getting a dorm room there, and how excited she was for you and Art to be going to the same place. She loved you, his mom. She called you her daughter when the mailman came around during the holiday season and to whoever asked. She’d been in a household of boys for far too long.

The post-dinner conversation laying on your back on Art’s bed next to him while Patrick was laid at the foot of the bed was on exactly that. “Art, I think your mom likes Y/N more than you.”

“I know,” Art replied, hands folded on his chest. He turned his head to look at you, giggling.

“I can’t help it,” you replied through your laughter. “Everyone loves me, it’s not my fault.” Nothing about that statement was false- everyone did love you. And who wouldn’t? You were kind and sweet and loving and so warm to everyone you met so of course they all loved you. There was nobody like you so everyone who crossed paths with you would never be able to forget you. Art’s smile fell, looking at your freshly glossed lips and that unforgettably beautiful smile. He’d zoned out so when you rolled onto your side, nearly onto him, his eyes widened just a bit.

“You’re jealous?” You beamed.

“Not even,” Art scrunched his nose, using a gentle hand to push you away but you returned, giggling. “She’d go insane having a real excuse to go to sales at the mall.”

“Sugar mommy,” Patrick remarked. He had way too much pie, he was half-asleep. Art just kicked him with the foot that rested closest to his chest, eliciting an ‘oof’ noise from Patrick that you giggled at.

“You’re so jealous your mom likes me more, it’s crazy, it’s crazy,” You giggled, grabbing his upper arm. Art twisted his mouth to the side, eyes flickering from the gloss on your lips, to your eyes. “Don’t worry, when she comes to visit me at Stanford, she’ll probably have enough time to see you as well. I’ll make sure of it.” You teased.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Art said, pushing you back again and you just laughed madly, a laugh that was so room-filling and contagious and completely perfect. Art turned his head to look at you. You were more than sorority pretty. Who wouldn’t think so when you laughed like that?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art found that Lydia Jennings had three kids now. Three in fifteen years, which was a little crazy. She, of course, had pictures with her. Spitting images of her bright blonde, big-mouthed self and Art pretended to care, more than he cared to admit. There was no sign of Patrick. Lydia Jennings asked Art about his divorce, asking about his own daughter, but he had to real interest in talking about that sort of thing. Not with her. He excused himself, raising his head above the crowd to scan for anyone else he knew.

He ended up talking to an old friend who was already balding with his pregnant wife at his side. It was good to see just how well people were doing. Settling down, having quit tennis or only pursuing it on the weekends, some of them with kids in tennis classes already. Art was continuing to be congratulated on his career by even the partners of these past classmates.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You were dancing to some Tal Bachman song and Art was internalizing every lyric. “What song is this again?” He asked, leaning back against the tree. The light from the fire was flickering around your face that was nearly hidden by the winter jacket you had on.

“She’s So High,” you replied, spinning in circles. Patrick locked eyes with Art from across the fire, giving a knowing smile. One, because you were high, so was he, so was Art- Two, because Art was completely zoned in on you, the way you moved, the way you looked. And he couldn’t help it, you were the most fascinating thing around and he’d smoked quite a bit. It was like the song was written for you, he thought, out of his mind and red-eyed. You were dancing alone, like you hadn’t even though twice, the music coming from your little portable music player thing. Art met Patrick’s eyes and Patrick raised his eyebrows, nodding at you. Art shook his head, but Patrick jumped over the fire to sit next to him anyway.

“So are you telling her or am I?” He teased, ruffling Art’s hair and Art bat him away, huge grin on his face. “So when’s the wedding?”

“Shut the fuck up, she’ll hear you,” Art chuckled, shoving Patrick over just a bit. Patrick came back laughing. “It’s not like that.”

“You really think I’m fucking stupid, huh?” Patrick chuckled, pulling Art into a bit of a headlock in return. “I’ve known you both how long?”

“Too long,” Art laughed, trying to wriggle out of Patrick’s grasp, finally escaping just to shove Patrick all the way over. He was glad you were minding your business, occupied with the song. “It’s not like that.” He repeated, still keeping his voice low.

Patrick pulled himself back up, “Tell that to your dick,” he said, taking a shot at Art’s groin that he gladly blocked just to sock Patrick in his. Patrick doubled over just for a second and Art laughed a bit too hard, the fry of the weed that burned his throat making him cough. Patrick couldn’t stop laughing at the coughing and being high, everything was a lot funnier. It took a minute for them to stop laughing over the stupidity. Patrick sighed heavily, looking over at you still dancing mindlessly to a song by Avril Lavigne, then back at Art, who was trying to regulate his breathing, also staring at you again. “Maybe not always your dick but definitely your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone with bigger heart-eyes, it’s sickening.” He said.

Art looked at Patrick and twisted his mouth to the side. “I don’t think so. She’s just…pretty.” His eyes gazing back to you, spinning in your fluffy winter coat, swaying, firelight flickering over your face, defining your features in shadow.

“Uh-huh… You really think I don’t know?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Art replied, pulling his eyes off of you again.

Patrick shook his head, adding more to the fire, hand still over his groin as the pain continued to die down. He kept his voice low, “Fuck off with that. It’s bullshit. I know it, you know it. You spend more time with her than me, she’s your partner for every co-op game, your mom loves her, you look at her like I’ve never seen you look at anyone.” He chuckled, “And you so want to fuck her.”

“Not as much as I want you to fuck off,” Art chuckled. “Okay, well, I mean- I might. She’s gorgeous, yeah, but I don’t think I could ever tell her anything. She’s perfect, too perfect and we’re friends. We’re her best friends, it would fuck everything up.”

“So you don’t even try? I’ve seen you ask for girl’s numbers within forty minutes of knowing them, it’s unlike you to not even try.”

“She’s different,” Art replied, looking down at his hands. “I couldn’t. I make a move and she doesn’t want it, we’re fucked forever.”

“And you don’t make a move and you’ll never know,” Patrick replied. The weed made him oddly thoughtful. “I’ve seen you two with my own eyes there’s something there, I swear to god there is. You can’t just let things play out, you’re going to miss your chance. Think about Stanford next year, all the college guys hitting on her and you know they will, she’s Y/N… Fifteen years down the road she’s married to some frat guy she met at a rager and you’ll be wishing you told her while you could.”

The silence between them was filled by your music and humming. Art looked at you, eyes closed, lips glossy, boots in the dirt. And for the first time he let himself think that he could never want anyone more than he wanted you. He would never see past you, he wouldn’t ever feel this way about anyone else and in the moment, through the weed, it felt real. You, perfect, gorgeous, here.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art glanced around the room, feeling some familiar fire burning in the pit of his stomach. It felt oddly highschool, it felt oddly familiar. He wondered if you had kept up with tennis, he wondered if you had a husband and kids, he wondered if you’d gained weight, lost weight, changed your hair, were going just a little grey, even. He was nervous- that’s what he was and he could place that. It was then that he saw Patrick, coming in through the door across the room.

Art, over Tashi, had put her in the past, including what Patrick had done. Him and Patrick didn’t keep up much other than a few texts and meeting at the bar a few times, but the hard feelings were pretty much gone. Art started making his way over to his old friend just to be grabbed by another ex-classmate who wanted to catch up. He was faced with more pictures of kids and meeting someone’s wife and Art wasn’t so bothered to talk about his own daughter, he’d always take that opportunity. She was the best thing he currently had.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You and Art sat on the bleachers in the gym, just having finished a co-op game, having won, of course. You both showered and got dressed again and met back up. The air was warming up, mid-spring and Art had still not told you yet. He decided he would at the end of the year and see if you’d make the first move, just to be safe. It didn’t weigh on him- he’d been friends with you for ages, liked you for ages, so it was a secondary thing.

“Hoping my tennis career is enough to buy an old victorian home,” You said, packing your things into your gym bag.

“I remember you saying that,” Art said, hauling your bag onto his shoulder along with his own. It wasn’t abnormal to have him carry your bag. It was sweet. “You want a blue one. Well, blue-grey.” He said. You looked at him, a little surprised he remembered the blue-grey thing. “With the white trim. I remember things.”

You nudged him just a little bit as you passed him. “I’m surprised, after so many tennis balls have hit you in the head.”

“And whose bad aim is at fault?” He teased back. You held the door for him and went out into the early afternoon sun.

You rolled your eyes at him with that gorgeous smile. “Bad aim, uh huh. Who’s to say it’s not on purpose?”

“Y/N!” Your girl friend called, bounding over. “My hair tie broke and I can’t go all the way back to the dorms in time for scrimmage, do you have an extra?” Art watched your full attention go to this girl, linking hands with her and everything. He watched you take the hair tie off of your wrist, the purple glittery one that you swore was your favourite. “Hi, Art.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, noticing him standing there. Art just raised his hand in a subtle wave.

“Of course,” you said, pulling the purple sparkly hair tie off and giving it to her, no questions asked. “Do you need anything else? I have a redbull in my bag if you wanted that before your scrimmage?”

“Really?” She asked. Art lowered your bag for you and you unzipped it, pulling the redbull out and handing it to her as she finished tying her hair up. All Art could wonder was how could anyone not love you when this was who you were? Art knew that purple hair tie was your favourite and you gave it up, just like that, and didn’t even ask for it back later. And your redbull that Art watched you go through your coins for six miinutes counting literal dimes and pennies to get it from the vending machine was in this girl’s hand just because you thought to offer it. You were kind and beautiful and Art moved the date up a little in his head- the date that he’d tell you how he felt. For now, he dug his free hand into his pocket and pretended like you weren’t absolutely perfect.

Saying goodbye to the girl, you and Art resumed your walk back to the main building. “You know Abbey, right?”

“Her?”

“Yes, her,” you giggled. “Don’t tell her I told you this, but she keeps asking me about you. Your favourite colour, song, movie, all of it.” You explained, gesturing with your hands and leaning against him as you two walked. “She likes you.”

Art was only half-surprised. But was more surprised at you bringing it up. “Likes me how?”

“Exactly in the way you think,” you replied. “I’m always down to play wingwoman, but I did tell her all the wrong information.” Your smile turned into a bit of a cringe. Art liked that even in your full care and support, you were just a little evil. Plus, what harm was it really? Art was only seeing you. He couldn’t spend a second on anyone else. Seemed impossible. “She thinks you’re a huge fan of Green Day.” Art couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah?” Art set down your things at a table in the cafeteria and the two of you got in line for food. “Playing interference?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, bowing so your head nudged his arm. The smile that pulled at your lips was one you appeared to want to suppress. A strand of your hair, wet, fell in your face and Art wasted no time moving it behind your ear. Your eyes met his as your smile broke into full action and your eyes fell back to the ground. Sometimes… just sometimes, he felt maybe you were worth ruining the friendship.

Your lower lip between your teeth, you grabbed a tray for him before you grabbed your own.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art finally made it over to Patrick, who looked decent. He shaved a bit, cleaned up just enough. Art thought about how strange it was to be back here with him after all this time. It almost felt right, was just missing you. “Hey, man.” Patrick said, reaching forward and locking hands with Art in a quick greeting.

“Hey,” Art replied. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Patrick replied. “See anyone worth talking to?”

“Not really. Lydia Jennings has three kids now, in case you were looking forward to that,” he chuckled. “She doesn’t look bad though. I didn’t check for a ring either, so.”

Patrick chuckled, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, wearing virtually what was the grey version of Art’s outfit. “Not for me.” He said. “I actually- I ran into Y/N in the parking lot. I thought maybe you’d be looking for her tonight.” Patrick added. Art hated the way his stomach did a little flip as if he wasn’t a full-grown man with a failed marriage and a daughter.

“She came?”

“Yeah, she headed in here before me. She’s good, she hasn’t aged much, it’s weird. You know what they say about the way good people age…” He added. “She’s in purple, said we’d talk more later but she was excited to be here.”

Art swallowed hard, “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, man.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

When Patrick left early to hang out with Lydia Jennings, swearing he was going to ‘get some’, it left you and Art in the boy’s room. How they’d been bunkmates for six years running you had no idea, having been room with at least four different girls. Their room was decorated with sports posters, tennis awards and medals, and Star Wars memorabilia. You weren’t supposed to be there, but oh well. “You think purple is my colour?” You asked Art, going through the nail polish you had in your bag, buried under the bag of cheetos you brought over.

“Hm?” Art slid off his bed and onto the floor where you sat, your back to the edge of his mattress. “Yeah. The medium one, though. Not the dark one.” He said, pointing to the bottle he liked better. You shot a small smile his way before grabbing that one.

“I haven’t painted them in ages,” you said, doing a bit of a jazz hand really close to his face and then pressing your hand to his cheek. Annoying, or trying to be, but casual. Art scrunched his nose and batted your hand away, though he really didn’t want to. “So about Abbey.”

“Your friend?” Art adjusted the way he sat. His knee overlapped yours.

“Mhm,” you replied,beginning to paint your nails. “Did she end up talking to you after class yesterday?”

Art thought back to after class when he was on his way to his next class to meet up with you and Patrick. She had come up to him, but he almost immediately shut her down. “Was she supposed to?”

You smiled, “Yes. I told her to ask you about your favourite Star Trek episode.”

Art grinned, you were still playing interference. He wondered why. “I brushed her off… I didn’t think anything of it I was on my way out.” He grimaced a little and you looked up from your nails, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think I was too rude…”

“Where were you off to in such a hurry?”

“You- And Patrick.” He saved himself. “I had someplace to be! Plus, she’s not really my type.”

“And what is that type? Girls with purple fingernails, maybe?” You laughed- Art wondered what you meant by that because at this very moment there was nothing you said that had ever been more true. “Your future girlfriend is going to hate me.” You followed up. Art’s heart sunk just a little at that. You then mumbled something under your breath that Art didn’t catch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art caught up a bit with Patrick, who was interested to hear that his daughter was just getting into tennis, but really liked ballet. Patrick himself had still not settled down, but he’d landed a good job adn was now making decent money, enough to find himself a good apartment. He talked about this girl he’d met at the mechanic and Art didn’t mind the tale of it all, but he did glance around every few minutes to see if maybe you’d be nearby or even come to speak to them. They way you’d left things he wondered if you’d say anything to him at all.

It’s not like you left things horribly… But he knew the way things went just weren’t ideal and that was the problem. It was the lack of grace in the process of losing touch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“Patrick held both envelopes up. “Saw these on the mail piles, grabbed them before mail day.” He said. You, who had been mindlessly playing with Art’s curls on the couch in the corner of the library, and Art, who was pink from just how intimate the feeling had been, both perked up. Patrick shot a look additional to the excited expression he wore and Art just flipped him off. “They’re yours.”

You and Art looked at each other, Art tilting his head back to do so. Both of you scrambled from where you sat to grab the envelopes Patrick held, huge grin on his face. “Stanford Tennis,” you breathed. Art pressed his lips together. “Acceptance letter?” You questioned. Patrick shrugged, but continued to grin.

Art shook his head, “Should we open them? I mean- same time? Or?”

“I feel sick,” you said, words overlapping his. “Oh my god.” You pressed your hand to your stomach. “I knew they’d be here soon but this is so… late. I was getting scared I wouldn’t get anything, we got something… We got something.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, big crooked grin on his face. “Together?”

You swallowed, sitting back down, then standing right back up again. “No, you first.”

Patrick sat on the couch, ready to watch both of his friends excitement, arm up on the arm of the couch. “Hurry up!” He kicked Art in the back of the knee and Art didn’t even feel it, opening the big envelope. He narrowly avoided a paper cut. You paced a short distance, back and forth, back and forth anxiously. He unwrapped the papers, eyes scanning over the letter.

“Fuck yeah!” He exclaimed, all too loud for the library. He didn’t care though. “I’m in!”

You gasped and your grin was the first thing Art looked for. Your arms up and around his neck, so excited for him. “That’s amazing, I’m so so proud of you!” You exclaimed, also so loud. Art’s arms around your waist, squeezing you tight as you kissed his cheek enthusiastically. Patrick was there to clap him on the back, hugging Art when you let go. Art was glad for it- it helped hide how pink he went from just the kiss on the cheek. You were jumping up and down and you were beautiful and you were happy. It would be one of the last times Art saw you so happy.

“What about you?” He gestured to your envelope and you looked down at it like you’d forgotten you were holding it.

“I- I can’t, one of you has to do it,” you said. It was for sure. You’d met with the faculty there, the coaches, you were scouted two years ago when you weren’t even old enough to apply and the second you knew you loved tennis you knew Stanford was the best place for you. Patrick took your envelope for you, opening it as you nervously bit your lip, swaying into Art, letting your fingers intertwine with his just to have something to brace yourself. He squeezed your hand, smiling at his own acceptance, knowing that if anyone had it in the bag was you. But Patrick read it over and there wasn’t a grin- in fact the smile he did have fell just in the slightest. Art felt your hand squeeze his harder.

“What is it?” You asked. Art looked at Patrick, who then looked up at you with sorry eyes. “Patrick?”

“You’re- um-” he paused another moment and handed you the papers. “Waitlisted. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Art watched your colour drain. The obvious bright light you brought by just entering a room dimmed as you read it yourself. Art could feel the slight tremor in your fingers, so he squeezed your hand as hard as he could, just so in the new wave of overwhelming sadness, you’d know he was still there. He felt guilty for celebrating so soon.

“I’m waitlisted.” You repeated, monotone. “And not even until next semester. Next year. And even then there’s no guarantee.”

Art didn’t wait another second, he used the hand he held to pull you in. You didn’t resist, you couldn’t, you felt limp as Art wrapped his arms around you. Patrick’s hand on your back for just a moment, but Art’s hand on the back of your head and the other running up and down your back. His crush on you was unaffected by this hug because he knew that you needed it more than anything. You were the one with the plans, you were the one who knew exactly how things would play out and Stanford was the first step on every path you’d imagined. Knowing you so long, both boys knew you were right to cry.

Art held you, standing, for as long as you needed- his arms around you stayed tight and didn’t waiver once in the thirty minutes you stayed there. He was quiet, Patrick was just cursing Stanford for being fucking stupid and though Art agreed with him on that, because who in their right minds would look at your grades and your tennis stats and say they didn’t want you? Who wouldn’t want you?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

When Art saw you from across the room it felt like he was eighteen again. He’d anticipated feeling nostalgic for a time, but you were there and you were in purple, like Patrick said and he knew it was you from the smile you wore, reuniting with what looked to be a very-pregnant Abbey Campbell. Good for her, Art though, seeing past the bump and looking at you. Patrick was right- you’d aged like fine wine or whatever that saying was, but you were still youthful and you were still… bright.

“You should talk to her,” Patrick said, noticing where Art’s eyes had landed. As if he hadn’t been watching Art scan every five minutes during their conversation. “You haven’t seen her since…”

“September 2006,” Art replied, looking at Patrick.

“Have you kept in touch at all, or?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well fuck.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, eyes not leaving you. You were different, older, for sure but not in ways noticeable. Many of the men in the room had grown into bigger bodies and were either unfortunately balding or had already gone bald for some. Mid-thirties you wouldn’t think it, but it was there. And you were there, looking youthful and bright and you were still one of the prettiest girls in the room. Women… in the room. He gestured to you, eyes not leaving you, scared to lose track of where you were. “I’m going to-”

“Good luck.” Patrick pat Art on the back to send him off and Art, drink in hand from his stop by the food table, walked over to you, ignoring everyone who wanted his attention this time.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“You’re not telling her at graduation? You’re fucking joking.” Patrick said, shoving Art back onto his bed as the boys got dressed for one of their last classes at MRTA. “How fucking stupid are you, you can’t just not tell her.”

“I tell her and I ruin our friendship while I get to go to Stanford in the fall. I can’t do that to her.”

“You sound like a fucking idiot,” Patrick said.

“Okay, yeah, maybe, but even if I tell her and it goes well, we would only have the summer before I move all the way to fucking California. You’ll be on tour and this whole… thing would just be broken. And fucked up. I don’t want her for a summer, Patrick. I want her all the time, every day, like it was supposed to fucking be. I don’t want her for just a summer.” Art huffed, looking at his hands. The whole waitlisting bullshit threw a wrench in everything. Everything.

“You’d rather not have her at all?”

“I-” he flailed his hands around, “I don’t know! I don’t know how to tell her something like that and then move away.”

Patrick shrugged, “Could just kiss her.”

Art opened his mouth to speak and a knock on the door cut him off. Art pulled his shirt over his head as Patrick lunged to open it. It was you. Who else?

“You guys want to cut class?” You asked, arms folded over your chest, mouth pulled a little to the side, standing in your shorts and tank top, not dressed for class at all. Your hair was behind your ears, your lips just slightly glossy and you had that slight sparkle to your eyelids, but it was never too much. He would never get over just how beautiful you were, never ever. “I don’t feel like going today and I just want to do something fun or maybe even nothing?”

“That sounds great, but I actually was looking forward to doubles today…” Patrick groaned, putting a hand aside his head. Art knew him well enough to know Patrick was not looking forward to doubles. “But Art already has all his credits, I think he can stay. I’ll come back before dinner though?”

You nodded slightly and looked to Art, who still had his mouth a little open at the sudden position he was in. “Would you? I really don’t feel like going but I can just skip and meet you guys for dinner?”

Art nodded back at you, slowly. Patrick was playing wingman with expectations this time. ‘Could just kiss her,’ echoed around his head. He made eye contact with Patrick who, out of your line of sight, shot Art a telling look. He was giving Art a window. But skipping with you, being alone with you wouldn’t change the fact that when September came you’d be states away, alone, probably. The long distance would be hard and he knew he could maintain the friendship, but if he confessed and it went well, the long distance of a new relationship would probably kill him. And you. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” Art said.

When Patrick left for class, you came into their room and sat down on Art’s bed, next to him. You weren’t exactly yourself, the way you sat with your arms crossed and lacked that gorgeous smile Art looked forward to every day. You sat so close he could smell the sweetness of your perfume. “You okay?” he asked, looking at you with his head a little tilted, smiling gently.

“I can’t get the Stanford thing out of my head,” You admit. Art nodded. You’d been good about it. It upset you, he knew that it absolutely killed you, but you didn’t talk about it much- for Art’s sake, not wanting to depress him and Patrick with your delayed dream. “I know it’s stupid, I’m only waitlisted a year, but it was supposed to be different. They said I was a shoo-in, how could they say that and not mean it?” You vented. Art heard every word.

“They’re missing out for sure.” He said, hand sliding over your knee to rest just above it. “And Patrick is right- they’re fucked in the head and you deserved that place in the program more than anyone else.”

“Even if I deserved it, even if they’re fucked in the head, I’m still not going and that’s whats killing me.” You said, looking at him with sad eyes. He missed when they were full of light and happiness. “You know, it was supposed to be us. And now it’s not and I don’t know what I’m going to do without you- And Patrick.” Was Art mishearing or was there a pause? And us? Us. “I just feel so stupid and I’m suddenly so lost? I knew exactly what was coming and then it just stopped coming. And I’m terrified that I’m going to lose you both when we all go separate ways.”

“Couldn’t lose me.” Art said, eyes locked on yours. “I might be in California, but I have a phone. And it has a ringer and we have email and facebook and I don’t think I’d even know how to go a day without talking to you, so you know if you didn’t call, I would.” He said, admitting a little too much. “Patrick too, I bet.”

“I love that,” you smiled just a bit. “I just… I was so ready for things to change, but now I’m not. Even if I call you a hundred times in a day, would it feel the same?”

Art looked at the hand he had on your leg, at his thumb as it moved back and forth over your skin. “Probably not… But it would be the best thing until you come and visit. Or when I come home on holiday. It would just be to fill the spaces between, you know that the distance would mean nothing once we’re all together again.”

You looked down. “I know. I just don’t want it.” You sighed, leaning your head against Art’s shoulder. Art could smell your shampoo, it was soft and just as sweet as your perfume. “I’d just... I hate the idea of having to miss you. Distance fucking sucks.” You added. He agreed. Distance would suck. But right now you were here, next to him. He wouldn’t kiss you, he knew that. Not now.

But he turned his body just slightly and wrapped his arms around you, your head moving to just under his chin, resting against his chest. And he held you tight, he always would. And he didn’t resist his other urge, slowly tilting himself back so that he was laying down. You didn’t protest, you just held onto him tighter, laying next to him. Like most things between you two, they went unspoken. You in his arms, in his bed, god it was so telling but you didn’t say a thing. And neither did Art, aside from, “I don’t want it either.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

You didn’t seem to notice when he approached. You were heavily invested in your conversation with your friend, laughing and gesturing and you were even more beautiful up close. He could admit it to himself, he was amazed by how well-preserved you’d been. He maybe was expecting a bit of a grey streak, he remembered your mom being fully grey when you were only a teenager, but your hair was perfect. He was just a little bit to the side, in Abbey’s line of sight and she saw Art first, she looked happy to see him, he noted. Too happy for someone with a baby on the way. She put her hands up in the air like she meant anything to him and you looked over at him, seeing what Abbey was so delighted to see and for the first time in fifteen years, you locked eyes with Art.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- interlude

Art remembered the last time you looked at him. Confused eyes, sad ones, the ones he hated seeing, the ones he knew he caused. It wasn’t supposed to be the way it was. Your best friend felt like he just… wasn’t that anymore. Missed texts to missed calls after promises of hundreds in a day felt like lack of care. And it wasn’t on your end. When Art missed your calls, you stopped looking at your phone so much and you missed his. You visited him twice at Stanford, within the first few months and it was the same but he was so busy. So distracted, it seemed. You met Patrick’s girlfriend, Tashi Duncan and the only thought in your mind was that she looked at Art strangely. So when things unravelled, you asked him things and he answered honestly, leaving out the part that he knew went against his character. He was looking at you, thinking about how he should have kissed you at the airport before going to California but he was looking at a girl who wouldn’t kiss him. Not anymore.

And he missed you like he missed no one- when you stopped responding to his emails and Facebook posts. Your last post was October 4th, 2006, and it was a picture of you at a coffee shop you were beautiful, but Art was so lost on the guy next to you. He should have kissed you at that airport but he was tangled in this mess of Tashi who he had admittedly used to try and not miss you so much when you posted with one of your new guy friends, who you did not like romantically. But Art didn’t know that. He didn’t know how badly it hurt when you traveled to California to find him completely happy and distracted in a new life with new friends and forget that you were coming to visit. That hurt. He should have kissed you at the airport when he could before all of these things crashed and collided and brought you down. He was at fault, but you forgave him, you just didn’t speak again.

Patrick said it was fine, you’d come around. Art’s mom told him that you called to check in on her, but that growing apart does happen. He would ask himself how in the world did he end up growing apart from you. You of all people, but admittedly it was his own fault. These things just happen, distance ruins things.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

But there wasn’t much distance now. You were standing in front of him. Your expression didn’t change- it was a gentle smile upon laying eyes on him. Abbey asked him how he was and just like years ago, he brushed her off with a ‘would you excuse me?’ and passed her, sheepishly walking over to you.

“Hi, Art,” you said, head slightly tilted, lips pulled into that smile he hadn’t seen in years. Art felt shy around it, he hated that, but he was happy to see it. And you.

“Hi,” he replied.

You gestured to Abbey, “Reminds me of something.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied with a small chuckle. “I-um… How are you?”

“I’m doing okay,” you nodded. Art found himself glancing for a ring on your finger or maybe a baby bump he missed, but nothing. You were doing okay. “Oh, no ring.” You said, holding up your hand. “Wasn’t so lucky. How are you?”

He shook his head, still a little dazed that you were here in front of him, talking to him like you hadn’t gone fifteen years without doing so. “Not so bad.”

“That implies that there’s some bad,” you nodded, leaning against the wall. Your dress reminded him of another you’d worn. “Not so bad?”

“I’m okay…” He said. “Just… I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” As if he hadn’t spent every moment since RSVP-ing thinking about seeing you again. Finally seeing you again.

“Oh,” you nodded, understanding. “No, I get that. I didn’t think you’d come. Thought maybe you were busy winning some grand slam, too far ahead than the rest of us. It was a good win, your last big game in Chicago.”

“You kept up,”

“I couldn’t not. I’m not me if not nosey and that aside, your name all over everything tennis-related- billboards, even. You and Tashi.”

“You must have heard about the separation, then?”

“On the tennis new channel, surprisingly. Fuck them for making that public, and I am sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He replied, eyes not leaving yours. “It just wasn’t working out. She cheated.” He admitted, which he hated. Something about your eyes was a well-working trap for him to fall back into the exact boy he used to be in your presence. He wanted to tell you everything, he forgot what it felt like to be around you. But you weren’t different at all. You were still that same warm, caring girl you used to be.

“Art, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. Nobody deserves that.” You said, eyes soft. Beautiful.

“It’s in the past.” He nodded again, looking at the ground. They hadn’t changed the gym floors since you’d left, he noted. They were the same. “Thank you, though. I actually, um, I have a daughter, though.”

“Lily,” you smiled. “I’m nosey, I told you. Is she much like you?”

“I think so.” He smiled back. You knew his daughter’s name and you knew about the divorce yet he had no idea what you’d been up to. “So, are you… working, are you…”

“I am.” You nodded. “I teach children with special needs how to play tennis, it’s a great job. Lots of fundraisers and events. It’s really lovely.” Art remembered when you were younger. You’d mentioned something of the sort- doing that. He couldn’t help but wonder if you had joined a company or made one. But he wouldn’t ask, the small talk was already killing him. “About your daughter though, I’d love to know more.”

He wanted to know more about you but he liked to talk about Lily and her hobbies and habits. It felt good to talk to you again as you engaged with him as if fifteen years was three months. It was strange, but the feeling of being around you and your light again, it was easy to brush it all off. Like he was eighteen and you were an addictive happiness. You were smiling as he spoke about his daughter. You were smiling so much that he had to stop at one point, unable to hide his own smile. “What?”

Your eyes went a little wide, but you kept smiling, shaking your head. “Oh, nothing. I just… I always knew you’d be a girl dad. And you seem like a good one.”

“Always knew?”

“Oh yeah, I think I first thought about it in grade ten… A girl knows these things.” You said. Your body language changed slightly, you tilted your head to the door. “Hm- Do you still smoke?”

“Do you?”

“When I need to.” You said. “It’s not a habit, it’s an occasional thing. Come with me?”

Art was surprised by the offer. But how could anyone say no to you? He nodded and followed you out. You stopped outside your car, a decent distance away from the building and hopped on the trunk, sitting like you would so many years ago. Your car was nice, so you must make good money, he noted.

“How are you really?” You asked Art, eyes genuine as you lit the cigarette. Art, focused on you, didn’t know how to answer that. He was wondering how you weren’t someone’s wife or mother because even after all these years, he couldn’t find flaw in you. Not one. You were still sweet and kind and lovely and you looked amazing, so how did nobody find you and keep you? You asked him how he really was as if you still saw through him. “You’re really doing okay?”

Art took the cigarette as you passed it to him. “I’m okay. It wasn’t easy- any of it, but it happened and it’s in the past.”

“That’s good.” You said, watching him take a drag. The soft wind blew your hair around your face. “I am sorry about what happened, it sounds awful. I had to check in, really check in. But that aside, you’ve really made a name for yourself out there. Big games, high stakes and a good reputation.”

Art nodded, eyes on the ground as he inhaled again and passed the cigarette back. Something about being here with you was surreal. You’d kept up and he had no way to do the same. “Thank you. I planned on retiring three years ago, but second wind came around. I plan on retiring next year, thinking about starting to coach.”

“You’d be a good coach,” you nodded, smoke blowing out from between your perfect lips.

“Maybe…” He started. Silence.

You nodded, “You’re thinking about the elephant in the… parking lot.” You said, looking around.

“I might be,” he replied, straightening himself out. “It’s been fifteen years and you’ve not said a word to me since… And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. I’ve had a lot of time to.” Art rolled up his sleeves. You watched. “Fifteen years.”

“I know,” you replied, quiet. “But you have had an amazing career and you married the girl I was so worried about, had a daughter. Your life has been exactly what you wanted, that’s amazing. Could it have been the same with me in it?” Art wished it was you in it. “So I let time be time and do it’s thing, I know it’s been fifteen years.”

Art shook his head, “It couldn’t have been a space thing. Maybe I needed the space, but it was bound to exist anyway. We were best friends, you, me, Patrick- and Stanford changed things but you didn’t have to walk away. My life has been my life but it’s not that way because you walked away.”

You chuckled, “I know that. And I am beyond proud of you either way, but me, eighteen years old and in love with you? Showing up after a month of planning and you forgot I was even coming? Just about broke me. And of course, there was Tashi and-” You had more to say but Art felt all of his thoughts come to a halt. His fingers felt cold. He interrupted you-

“In love with me? You were in love with me?”

You laughed, so genuine, the sound was something he had missed sorely. “That’s even a question? Oh, I was so young, but I was very much in love with you. Patrick would never let me forget it. I had such a crush on you. You… you didn’t know?” You covered your mouth as you laughed, but Art felt a little bit frozen, but it was easy to laugh with you.

“I didn’t know, no.”

“So the fifteen years is because after you broke my little eighteen-year-old heart, I took the time to recover and I just… never did.” You admit, handing him back the cigarette, which he took without looking at. He was only seeing you. Part of him was kicking himself hard, angry that he hadn’t confessed when he had planned, knowing now, so many fucking years later than if he had said what he wanted to, he might have had you. There were the complications, but if he had you, there wouldn’t have been a Tashi situation. And in his mind he watched the possibilities unravel his life as he knew it- knowing that it could have been you. It could have been you. “As sorry as I am about it, I don’t regret it. You have an amazing-sounding daughter and the life that you and I used to talk about, going pro… And I have a job that I only got through staying on this side of things. If I was in California, I wouldn’t have met the sweet lady who started the company I own now.”

He hated that you were right. But he hated it more that he could have had everything he really wanted- the things you and him talked about- and it could have been with you. A house, a marriage, a child? The things he really wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret, but it was something close to the feeling. “I understand. I just- you liked me? Patrick knew?” His whole adult demeanour was destroyed by your youthful smile.

“He would play wingman,” you said. “It was awful, but it was still fun. And I think I should tell you, though it feels wrong, that I missed you. And I am sorry I didn’t reach out. It was too much.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he nodded back. “I missed you too. A lot. It took a while to get over what happened, but it’s been good…”

“I’m glad,” you replied. The cigarette was almost at it’s end. And for a while you just stared at each other. The words unsaid filled the air until it was almost suffocating. He could have had you. If he had said something. If he’d kissed you at the airport. Tashi might have been Patrick’s. Art hated to think about a world without his daughter but it was you. It was always going to be you no matter how many years passed. “I hate to ask this for the sake of my phrasing, but… no hard feelings?”

Art smiled down at his feet, hands back in his pockets, “No, no hard feelings.” He replied. “And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you too.”

You smiled that beautiful smile, the wind blowing your hair a little more. There was something so painting-like about this moment. It could be frozen in time, he wished it could be, and he made a mental note to engrave this image of you in his mind. You were just as gorgeous as the day you left and sure, it hurt to think about a little bit, especially all of the ‘what if’s, but you were here now. And there were no hard feelings. How could he ever have any toward you? It was you.

“You want to head back in?” You asked, digging a foldable toothbrush out of your purse along with a tiny tube of toothpaste.You truly not changed much in your ways. Art wondered if you remembered the last time you’d brought a little toothbrush and toothpaste out. He dug in his own pocket and pulled out his pack of mint gum. He noticed the way your eyes widened at the parallel. But then you just grinned, starting to laugh as you half-brushed your teeth, half giggled. Art chuckled too, popping a piece in his mouth. And the laughter lasted a while. It was like you were the same giddy teenagers who wouldn’t tell each other their biggest secret. But eventually it died down and you headed back inside.

The moment you were inside, he noticed the song playing. So did you. You stood there for a moment, not looking at anyone but him. The Cranberries playing loud over dusty speakers. The only Cranberries song you ever liked, Art remembered. You couldn’t stand the voice cracks in the one about zombies… He was a little confused when you held your hand out, but when you smiled, he remembered. In the spirit of parallels, you were asking him to dance. He remembered the promise he made you, he wouldn’t forget it. He had pinkie promised and you swore to make him regret it, but he never got the chance to. You never gave him a real reason to.

“You pinkie promised.” You said, tilting your head just in the slightest. “You swore.” You said it a little sing song. Fifteen years forgotten- they didn’t exist. You were here and you were asking him to dance with you.

“I did,” he said, smiling, hands still in his pockets. And he did take your hand and with a youthful giggle, you pulled him to the dance floor. It was one of those songs where you could scream the lyrics, you could spin and you could maybe even jump, but you just stayed close. Art wasn’t sure what exactly to do, but it was okay. You led at first, swaying just a little to get him into it. He grinned, unable to stop it. Fifteen years felt like seconds, like you never even left. Like you were those same young best friends dancing around your feelings, your truth. And you were so beautiful, spinning and swaying and your dress following you as you did. You laughed and it was melodious, you were so unaware of the eyes on you, of Patrick’s eyes. They met Art’s from across the room and a knowing smile spread up his old friend’s face. He raised his drink in their direction and Art nodded back.

Time might have made Art a little bit harder, colder, but you made him right back into who he used to be before life existed. Your light was brighter than the strobes spinning the walls of the room. You got him into it with a nearly-sixteen-year-old promise. The music loud, but just dull enough to hear you. Art was drawn back into you like you were a magnet. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have you. That he didn’t get that life with you. But you were here and you were still so perfect.

The dancing had somehow melted itself into something slower, though the pace of the song didn’t change. It was almost a hug, the way his hand slipped around your waist. It felt familiar and you… smelled the same way you used to. So sweet. Your arms around his neck, close to him. It wasn’t even a thought in either one of your brains that you ended up this way, but it felt right and you just did it, so that’s how you were. Swaying, like a slow dance, and the end of the song rolled around, the music dulling to only an instrumental.

You pulled away just a little, your faces just a little bit close. “I think it’s best we went our separate ways. It would have killed to me to stay your friend and watch you and Tashi’s life in person rather than in pictures.” You said quietly. “And if I’m honest I think I might still be a little bit in love with you.”

Art met your eyes at your confession. You looked like you regret what you said, but the concern in your eyes changed, eased. You could still read his expression. “I did love you too, you know.”

“I know.” You smiled. He grinned a little sheepishly, his grin still the same. His eyes were soft and he looked at you like he always did. Such a familiar gaze. “And I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“For still feeling the way I do. After what I did.”

“You’re not alone in it.” He admit with a small chuckle. And you giggled. And it felt like nothing else existed in the entire universe. Just you. Just him. He wasn’t blunt, but it was definitely still said. It really could ever only be you, no matter what. Even with Tashi, it was always you. A first love that could never truly be erased, despite the countless mistakes and sins of youth. It hadn’t worked, but looking at you now, he had that hope again. That it might.

You just continued to sway to the music. The promise to dance whenever you asked fulfilled. There was peace in saying what was left unsaid for so many years. There was peace in feeling it still. Feeling how he did about you was the most consistent thing in his entire life. He wasn’t who he had to be with Tashi, he was who he truly was with you. His big career in hindsight, his past with Tashi, his life that didn’t include you was behind him.

Patrick did wander over when the song ended. He came and stood beside you both, the lip of his bottle resting against his mouth. You and Art shared a look before you left the position you were in, hands slipping back to your sides. He was grinning a sly grin. A familiar one from back in the day. Knowing.

You just tsked, “You need to shave.” You said. Patrick just grinned, laughed.

“You too.”

“Really?” You laughed. “Okay, I see how it is.”

Art chuckled. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. As much as he wanted just you and him, the three of you together were something entirely different. Who wouldn’t miss the better days? The three of you got a little more caught up, Patrick was free to reveal his position as a double agent in your teenaged slowburn that never really fizzled out… You and Art didn’t mention anything said during that dance, but he knew without being told. Everyone who knew you both knew that you belonged together. The night was still young, but Patrick lowered his voice. “I have an ounce in the car.” He said, shrugging. The three of you shared a look and in minutes the three of you were hiking across the schoolyard. Adults. Stupid adults with stupid nostalgia, laughter echoing across the empty courts as you all walked down the hill.

Art moved the dead leaves and under it was still that circle of rocks. The dirt had somewhat filled it, but it was still a bit of a divot. And the logs had thinned out but they were still there. You sat next to Art like you always would. You turned your body to face him and you just looked at him, studying the way his face had changed, his hair… but it was still very much so the boy you’d loved years ago. He looked over at you and he smiled and it was a reflection of so many years ago. The exact same spots, the exact same people, the same reason to sneak away.

You had hoped you hadn’t overstepped. You didn’t come to the reunion to say what you said, but it was right. And you knew Art felt the same. He said so. The three of you stayed and talked for hours like nothing ever changed. Time could never truly change the three of you. No matter who fucked who, who married who, who went where, who did what. It was always you. It would always be you. And that aside- you and Artwould figure that out- it would always be the three of you. Proven by your very own lives.

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