#she was fucked up enough she didn’t need to do THAT

[theemporium]

[3.5k] after his iconic first race win in formula one, lando gets to celebrate with his three favourite people. or, the charlandax smut i accidentally promised after a lando win with a lestappen podium. (smut)

note: this is fucking filthy and i kinda feel like i need to go to a confession booth. okay bye, nobody perceive me after this. she’s also unedited so beware (I’m too lazy to reread and edit rn)

.

Lando Norris felt like he was on top of the fucking world but maybe that was just how it felt from the top step of the podium.

It hadn’t really hit him yet, despite his ears ringing from his own screams and the cheers from the crowd and the fans and his own team. It didn’t feel real until the national anthem began playing through the speakers, until he heard his team singing along, until he realised this was his reality. 

He was a Grand Prix winner. 

Finally. 

Surreal was the only word to describe how he felt. After years of second-place and third-place podium finishes, of people telling him his time would come, of having so many close calls, he did it. He fucking did it. And he didn’t just skim a win, it was fully fucking his as he soared past the chequered flag.

And for once, Lando basked in the knowledge that all eyes were on him. It didn’t give him that prickling, itching feeling under his skin. It didn’t make him want to  hunch his shoulders up to his ears. It didn’t make the little voice in the back of his head send him spiralling over every little thing he could be doing wrong. 

He had just won the Miami Grand Prix and everyone was staring at him and he fucking loved it.

But it meant more than just a win to Lando, it meant so much more than a trophy to add to his collection back home. It was about the years spent achieving this dream. It was about the effort and the support he had from the team to reach this point. It was about sharing this moment and standing on the podium with two people who meant the fucking world to him with the third watching all three of them from down below. 

It meant the fucking world to Lando. 

It was a blur of happiness and excitement and adrenaline as he stood on that top step. It felt like he was in a movie when the trophy was handed to him, the number one staring back at him like it was reminding him he had done it. It felt like a fucking dream when the champagne celebration started, his hand barely wrapped around the neck of the bottle when Charles and Max drenched and drowning him in champagne.

It was completely fucking unbelievable this was finally his reality.

Time was a blur of big smiles, loud cheers and so many people congratulating him. It was overwhelming in the best way possible, it made something in his chest burst with pride as he felt his team slap him on the back as he walked through the garage. He felt like his life was complete when you threw your arms around him, tugging him close until your bodies felt like one.

“M’so cold,” he murmured as he wound his arms around you, holding you closer as he buries his face into your neck for some privacy, despite the countless cameras pointing at him.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered back, just loud enough for him to hear because he was the only one who mattered in that moment. “This is the first of many.”

He sniffled, feeling his throat close up a bit but he just squeezed you tighter when the words didn’t come out as smoothly as he wanted. 

However, you were pulled away from him seconds later as he was directed towards the camera. With media duties and team debriefs and many more commitments, he didn’t have time to stop and celebrate with the people he wanted. He had to perform for the cameras, for the fans, for the people watching before he could. 

And honestly, he couldn't complain. There were worse problems to have.

His brain was running a million miles an hour, so many thoughts and feelings and emotions to try and comprehend that he barely noticed the other person in his driver’s room until the door shut behind him and he felt a pair of lips on his. 

“I am so proud of you, mon champion,” Charles murmured against his lips, the kiss short-lived due to the huge smile on his face. He pulled back enough to look at Lando properly, his hands holding the Brit’s face. “So, so proud of you.”

Lando felt his cheeks burn. “M’glad you and Max were up there with me,” he admitted, that funny feeling in his chest returning before he glanced around the room noticing that Charles was the only one in his driver room. “Where are the others?” Pause. “How did you even sneak in here?”

“I have my ways,” Charles answered vaguely, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And I’m here to help you hurry up. They are waiting in the car.” 

Lando snorted. “And they sent you to hurry me up?” 

“I may have come third, mon amour, but I’m still fast.” 

Despite his words, it took a few more minutes of Charles pressing kisses all over his face and mumbling a load of French that Lando didn’t understand before he was finally able to grab his belongings and make it out of the McLaren motorhome. 

His whole body was buzzing with energy, far too hyped up to even care about the way his face burned when he climbed into the backseat of Charles’ race weekend car, unable to wipe the smile off his face. 

This. 

This was what he had been waiting for. 

This moment to be with the people who loved more than his heart knew he was capable of. A moment to be with the people who believed in him no matter what, even when the rest of the world doubted him. 

And if Lando was being so completely honest, he was so lost in the buzz of his win that he didn’t think anything about your hand resting on his upper thigh. He was still lost in the race a few hours ago, still lost in the feeling of crossing the line and hearing Will’s voice over the radio confirming he secured his first Formula One Grand Prix win. 

So lost in that moment that he barely had a chance to drop his backpack on the floor of Max’s huge hotel suite before the Dutchman was reaching for him. With the privacy of the hotel room door locked from the rest of the world, Max didn’t hold back as he raked his hand through Lando’s curls. His fingers twisted in his hair, tugging sharply as his teeth nipped the Brit’s bottom lip. 

Lando couldn’t help himself when he let out a whine.

“Fuck,” Max groaned, tugging on his hair again as he watched Lando’s eyes flutter shut. “Look at our race winner, hm? So pretty, schat.”

Lando’s lips parted but words were lost on him. Instead, his eyes darted where you saddled up against Max’s side, head resting on his shoulder as you looked at Lando with a massive grin. 

“I think you broke him,” you teased, a faux pout on your lips. “Guess that throws all our plans out the window.”

Lando blinked before quickly shaking his head. “I—no, wait, what plans?”

Max grinned. “Your reward, baby. Didn’t think we were gonna celebrate your big day, huh?”

“I—” Lando paused, feeling something deep in his stomach twist in desire. “I just…I don’t know. I thought we were gonna go out…or something.”

“We could,” Charles spoke up as he slipped in behind Lando, his hands on the younger boy’s waist. “If that’s what you want. We can go out and celebrate with everyone else.”

Lando swallowed. “Or?”

“Or,” you repeated, your eyes lingering on his kiss-swollen lips. “You let us treat you like a proper race winner.”

“And what does that treatment include?” Lando asked, because that was just who he was. That little brat in him that wanted to know his options, that wanted to know exactly how he was being rewarded, who wanted to know exactly what was getting done to him. The little brat in him that was mouthy and sassy and usually got put in his place—that wanted to be put in his place.

And Max knew that. He knew that if he reached down, Lando was probably half-hard already. He knew that no matter what he said, Land would be down for it. He could see the glint in the Brit’s eyes, that realisation of what he could have without realising it. 

“Anything you want,” Max murmured, his thumb lightly tracing along Lando’s bottom lip. “You’re the winner, Lando. Our winner.”

…

Anything you want. 

That was his limit—completely fucking endless. He had all the control in the palm of his hands to do whatever he pleased, whatever he desired, whatever he fucking wanted. 

But that wasn’t what Lando wanted. He didn’t want to be in charge. He didn’t want to be the person making the calls and decisions. That wasn’t his role in the bedroom and he never really wanted to be. He liked being the one who got to lay back, the one that people tried to tame and dominate only to realise he didn’t listen as easily as people wanted. 

He liked being the one that people worked to break. 

So, that was exactly what Max gave to him and Lando only slightly regretted his decision as he slumped back against the Dutchman, grinding his ass back against the older boy’s straining cock as he threw his head back against Max’s shoulder.

“Please, please, please,” Lando whined, trying to buck his hips forwards but Max kept his body in place, just where he wanted him. “S’too much.”

“I know, schatje,” Max mused, pressing a lingering kiss at the base of his neck just to hear Lando let out a small moan at the contact. “But look how pretty they look for you, all for you. You don’t want them to stop, do you?” 

But Lando couldn’t bring himself to respond. 

“None of that,” Max muttered, squeezing Lando’s sides to get the boy to listen. “Thought my winner was gonna be good for me, huh? Look at them, Lando. Look how good they are being for you. Look at how much they are enjoying this.”

The boy only managed to let out a whimper as he fluttered his eyes open, his chin tucking into his chest as he looked down at the sight Max was demanding of him. 

And, fuck, it made his knees buckle.

The two of you were absolute fucking messes. It felt like something out of a porno, one that would have Lando panting and whining and fantasising about because never once did he think it was realistic. And yet, here you and Charles were, looking like something out of his deepest desires. 

He couldn’t focus on one of you, it would have been a crime to not stare and ogle you both. The way you both looked utterly perfect on your knees in front of him, glossy eyes and flushed cheeks and looking so fucking blissed out as you both worshipped his cock—like you were fulfilling a purpose, like this was what the two of you were made for. 

And it was messy as fuck, something that maybe would have been gross to everyone else in the world, but Lando thought it was so fucking hot. The evidence of his previous orgasms splattered across you both, covering your lips and chins and naked chests. The way your lips wrapped around the head of his cock as Charles licked down the underside of his cock until he nosed Lando's balls. The way Charles had one hand wrapped around his leaking cock, pumping and stroking himself as you squeezed and played with your tits like it would give you some relief. 

But it wasn’t about your pleasure or Charles’ or Max’s. 

It was all about Lando. 

“Such good sluts on their knees for you,” Max muttered, lips brushing against his ear as his warm breath tickled against Lando’s skin. “Usually that’s you, schat. Getting on your knees for me, doing whatever I tell you.”

“Fuck,” he let out in a breathless whimper, turning his head to try and nuzzle his face into Max’s neck. 

“Do you like this, Lando? Like seeing them be such whores for your cock? So desperate and needy?” Max continued, his hands tightening on the younger boy’s waist as he looked down at you and Charles.

You let out a whine at his words, your thighs clenched together and your eyes fluttering shut as you traced your tongue along the slit of his cock. Your moans vibrated around his cock, leaving the boy a puddle underneath your touch as Charles placed wet, open-mouthed kisses along his balls. 

“Bet they would stay there all night if you wanted them to,” Max mused as his eyes caught teary green eyes staring up at him, desperation shining in the pretty colour of them. “Bet Charles would love to take your cock down his pretty throat, he always does it so well for me. Hm, amour? Think you could take our pretty winner’s cock like a good boy?”

The sound Charles let out was pitiful and straight out of a fucking porno.

“Max,” Lando breathed out, his hands reaching back to try and grab onto the Dutchman. “Please, I-I need…”

“What do you need?” Max questioned, squeezing his sides. “Need more than their mouths, baby? Or maybe you need more than that.”

Lando felt his whole face burn as he let out a shameless moan when one of Max’s hands began wandering, when his fingers brushed along his skin before squeezing the fat of his ass. 

“The champagne wasn’t enough, hm? Maybe we need to fill you up,” Max suggested, like it was something as casual as talking about dinner options. “Bet you’d feel so nice and tight around me, baby. Maybe let Charles fill your pretty throat instead.”

“Please,” Lando whined.

“Yeah, you want that?” He could feel Max’s smile against his skin. “Let our pretty girl bounce on your cock whilst we fill you up? She would look so pretty sitting on top of you.”

Lando nodded his head vigorously, his nails slightly digging into Max’s skin. “I need it, Max, need it so bad.”

Max’s teeth scraped along the side of his neck. “Beg for it.” 

So he did. 

He begged for it until his voice was hoarse and his legs were shaking and his babbles were practically incoherent. He begged until he felt Max’s lips on his skin, joined by Charles and yours moments later as you three kissed and worshipped every inch of his body. He begged until his face was burning red, his blush spreading down his neck and chest as you praised him—your race winner—until he couldn’t take it any more.

He begged for it as you held his face, prepping kisses all over his face whilst Max worked him open. 

He begged for it as Charles marked along his neck and chest to help him relax as Max slowly slid inside him, stretching him open until he was a whimpering mess.

He begged for it as you slowly sunk down on his cock, your cunt already soaking and slick with your own arousal as he buried himself inside you. 

He begged for it until his hands were gripping Charles’ thighs, nails digging into his skin as he urged his cock further down his throat until he felt fucking full.

“Fuck, baby,” you moaned, rocking your hips back and forth as you let your hands skim along his skin. Your fingers traced along the planes of his abs, watching them softly clench under your touch before you traced along his sides. You kept your hands moving, feeling the need to touch every fucking inch of him as he preened and squirmed under your touch. “You look so perfect like this.” 

Lando let out a muffled moan around Charles’ cock.

“Letting us fill you up, make you feel so good,” you continued, the walls of your pussy clenching around him. “This is what our race winner deserves. So pretty and fast today, baby, it’s so hot.”

One of his hands let go of Charles, blindly reaching out towards you until you caught the hint to intertwine your fingers together. You raised it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss onto the back of his hand and something about the soft gesture whilst his body was being fucked into an inch of his life made the boy spiral. 

He couldn’t do anything but just take it, let the overwhelming pleasure wash over him until his whole body felt like it was on fire. His nerve endings felt like they had been turned up beyond the dial, like every touch was more thrilling than he could ever imagine. The words of praise was a muffled mess around him, three voices all mixed together as he felt hands all over his body. He felt safe, he felt full, he felt complete. 

It was a blur of too much pleasure and excitement and gratification when he finally came, white spots dotting his vision as he felt himself completely spill inside you whilst your cunt clenched around him, as Max’s cock hit the perfect spot deep inside him with every thrust. He was so lost in his own orgasm, in his own moans and whines and noises to fully realise the domino effect he started. 

To really appreciate the sight of you coming on his cock, bouncing up and down on his cock whilst your tits moved with each thrust. To really enjoy the sensation of Max coming deep inside him, squeezing him so hard that he was sure his skin would bruise the next day. To watch the way Charles stroked himself a few more times before spilling over his chest, just for you to lean down and lick up the mess until you leaned down to kiss him senseless. 

To be completely honest, he was waiting to wake up and realise this whole day was a dream. 

But he blinked. And blinked once more for good measure. And your smiling face was still there to reassure him this was real, that everything about today was real. 

“Hey,” he whispered, voice a little rough and hoarse. 

“Hey, baby,” you grinned back at him as you raised your hand to gently cup his face, your thumb wiping away a few stray tears that slipped out. “How are you feeling, Mr Race Winner?”

And despite the exhaustion settled deep in his bones, Lando beamed at you. “Feel like I’m the king of this fucking world.”

You giggled. “Then our job here is complete.” 

Lando huffed out a laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he tried to fight the urge to curl up and sleep for the next week straight. 

“Don’t tell me that’s you done for the night,” Max’s voice spoke from somewhere else in the room, somewhere away from the bed but Lando couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes just yet. “There’s a whole city wanting to celebrate with you tonight.”

“Ugh, being a race winner is so much work,” Lando whined playfully, reaching for you to pull you closer before you could pull away from him. “Let’s just stay here forever.”

“All a part of the title, mon amour,” Charles teased as he settled down beside the younger boy on the bed. He leaned in, placing a quick kiss to Lando’s forehead. “I heard the other drivers making bets on who could buy you the most shots.”

Lando let out a breath. “Fuck, they are gonna try to kill me.”

“We wouldn’t let that happen,” you assured him, but he could hear the smile in your voice. “I’m sure Max would join you.”

“Thanks, schat,” Max grumbled as he wandered back into the room, a wet washcloth in his hand. “We have a few hours before we are meant to meet everyone anyways. Have a nap, you can shower when you wake up.”

Lando blinked his eyes open, a cheeky smile on his face. “Alone?”

Max rolled his eyes. “It’s never enough for you.”

“I’m a high maintenance guy,” Lando replied. 

“We know,” you murmured with a snort, only to gasp when he pinched your side. “Hey!”

“You can’t yell at me, I’m a race winner,” he shot back at you, grinning wider when you rolled your eyes. 

“Yes, that is exactly how this works,” Charles snorted as he slumped down on the pillow beside Lando, reaching for the Brit to curl up beside him. “That and club blowjobs.”

“It was one time,” Max grumbled. “And it wasn’t even my idea!”

“I didn’t regret it for a second,” you smiled shamelessly at the Dutchman before raising your hand, trying to pull him down onto the bed with the three of you. “C’mon, we can clean up properly later. I wanna cuddle.” 

“So needy.”

“In the wise words of race winner Lando Norris, I’m a high maintenance guy.”

“Hell yeah, baby,” Lando murmured, his cheek pressed into the pillow with a sleepy smile on his face. “Someone stitch that onto a pillow.” 

“Please go to sleep before I gag you both.” 

“They would probably like that, mon amour.”

“You too, Charles.” 

“Always so bossy, Verstappen.”

.

[peachypinkygloss]

make you mine — jeon jungkook

You never suspected the evil would have taken the form of Jungkook, a hot guy from your college, but when he takes interest in you, you rapidly discover the secret he's hiding.

★ pairing: incubus!jungkook x fem!reader

★ genre: horror, smut, college au, jennifer's body au

★ word count: 5.8k

★ warnings: graphic description of gore (mention of blood & injuries), dub-con, jock!jk, implied inexperienced!reader, dom jk/sub reader, unprotected sex, praising, fingering, multiple orgasms, jk's kinda mean but hey he's evil so 🤷🏻‍♀️.

a.n.: here she is guys 🙈 it was both hard & fun to write lol but honestly the result is *chef's kiss*. read the warnings pls thank you!! im so scared of posting it 🥲

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

Jungkook thinks he never felt that much pain in his whole entire life. It’s like his soul is screaming from the inside out, as if someone stabbed him in the stomach, tearing his guts apart. 

Oh, but that’s actually what happened…

How can he still be alive? He swears he was dead seconds ago, losing liters of blood through the cut in his stomach. But he’s very much conscious right now, getting out of the woods he was brutally murdered in. Well, is it still murder if he survived? 

It doesn’t really matter anymore anyway. All he can think about at this moment is how hungry he is. He would devour anything he can eat, and god, why does the person on the other side of the pavement look so… edible? 

He feels the dried blood dripping from his mouth and his hands stained in the same red substance, holding his stomach where, surprisingly, he is no longer bleeding from.The pain is atrocious, but he needs to fucking eat, and he approaches the person faster. 

The moment they notice him, their eyes grow bigger and they let out a strident scream, but Jungkook gives them no time to leave.

He doesn’t know what in the hell possesses him to jump on that poor human, his teeth becoming sharper than they ever were, shredding their neck in pieces, their screams slowly dying down as he eats like a starved animal.

The fresh blood is coating the dried layer on his chin. He feels like an uncontrollable beast, and he’s literally acting like one right now. No one with a right mind would have ever done this… but it’s like he isn’t a human. 

He was revived from the dead, he can’t possibly be human anymore… 

He has an idea as to why this happened. 

Those girls — that girl band who he seemed so enthralled by — sacrificed him, and for what…? For fame? For money? Whatever it is, they killed the wrong person because obviously the sacrifice didn’t fucking work. 

Well, at least on Jungkook’s side. 

He doesn’t know where they went — probably out of town, living their best life as if they didn’t murder a guy for their crappy albums to get more sales. 

He’s cursed now, or whatever the hell is happening to him. 

He looks down at his victim; it’s a man. 

As he eats, he suddenly feels nauseous, vomiting what he had so far swallowed. A dark liquid comes out of his mouth, and god, it’s even more painful than the cut in his stomach. 

He feels disgusted by himself — why isn’t he full? Eating felt so good, considering how starved he was, but it’s like he ate something … expired. 

Argh, what’s wrong with him… He ate someone’s guts, of course it doesn’t taste like a 5 stars meal. Then why did his instinct tell him to do that? 

That’s fucked up. 

The next few days are horrible for Jungkook. 

After that night, he doesn’t eat anything except for raw chicken and other types of meat that were just not enough to satiate him. It doesn't taste good either. 

He lays in bed most of the time, having no energy, skipping the gym and his practices, which he usually never does. He gets texts from his friends, but he doesn’t bother to check his phone. 

It’s on Sunday night that he decides to leave his bed, going to look at himself in the mirror. He has big dark circles under his eyes — not particularly flattering. He’s still very hungry, but none of the food in his fridge makes him want to eat. 

There’s one thing he’d want, though… 

It’s when he receives a text from a specific person that he knows what to do. 

iseul: hey, gguk. wanna study together for tomorrow’s exam?

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

“Hey, man,” Jungkook’s teammate, Doyun, greets him. “Heard about Hana? That’s fucked up,” he states, walking beside his friend. “And right after Iseul… My parents refuse my sister to go out alone now.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Jungkook replies, not really caring, but still listening. 

It’s not like anybody liked Hana before, he doesn’t understand why everybody suddenly cares now that she’s dead. She needed to die to finally have some importance. How sad. 

She wasn’t that good of a laid either, so really, what’s the matter? Sure, it’s tragic, but who’s going to miss her besides her family. 

“Can’t be an animal at this point,” his teammate says under his breath, “Do you wanna know what I’m thinking?”

Not really…

“What?”

“I’m thinking it’s gotta be some ‘Jack the Ripper’ kinda guy. You know those freaks who wanna be the modern this or that.”

Kind of offensive… 

Jungkook rolls his eyes without Doyun noticing, snickering at his words.

“The police’s saying it’s a bear or some shit,” Jungkook explains, reaching his class. “That’s more believable than your ‘modern Jack the Ripper’.” He mimics quotes with his fingers, stopping in front of the classroom. 

Doyun still doesn’t seem convinced, but it’s not Jungkook’s job to make him less stupid. He can believe what he wants, he’s not an investigator even though he thinks he is. 

“See you at practice, alright?”

“Yeah, later, man.”

Jungkook has never been very attentive in class. He doesn’t care about a lot of things and college is one of them. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for his parents and their high expectations of him. 

He’s looking outside the windows, noticing the grey clouds, heavy rain pouring from the sky. A flash of lighting breaks through the sky, hearing the thunder a second after. 

Nobody seems attentive either, all interested in the thunderstorm that’s starting. It might be the strongest they’ve seen in a couple of years. 

“Crap,” the teacher says as the electricity is cut off, surely because of the thunder. 

Girls are gasping, some of them whispering to each other about how creepy the situation has become while the professor waits for the power to get back on, wanting to continue teaching his class. 

Jungkook’s phone lights up as he gets a new notification. He takes a glimpse, reading the text he just received. 

doyun: practice’s canceled.. 

Great, Jungkook thinks. He really needed to get some steam off, but it won’t happen today. 

“Sir!” A girl raises her hand, catching the attention of the professor. “All classes got canceled. Can we leave? Apparently, the power isn’t coming back in a few hours.”

“Well, I won’t teach in the dark…” 

The professor seems quite disappointed, but he lets everyone go back home, seeing no point in staying if he can’t teach. 

While exiting the classroom, Jungkook gets bumped into by someone. He doesn’t move much, but the person drops their books on the floor, bending down to pick them up hurriedly. 

“Shit… Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” you apologize, standing back up when you have all of your books in your arms.

“It’s fine,” Jungkook mumbles and you give him a straight smile, still feeling apologetic. 

He recognizes you from highschool, a girl he never talked to, but who he knew the name of. Then, he watches you walking away for a short moment, eyeing your form up and down, memorizing it. 

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

You’re in the cafeteria, sitting with your friends, waiting for about a good 30 minutes now. The storm from yesterday is still ongoing, and the power is very unstable, cutting off every couple of times.

The finals are scheduled for today and the administration told the students to come regardless of the storm, thinking it would stop during the night. So you’re waiting to be sent to the gym where the exams are usually taking place, but seeing the electricity goes off and comes back every second, it isn’t the best time to start an exam. 

People are free to go, it’s college after all, but most of the students are staying in case a decision is made. You know you wouldn’t want to skip your exam, that’s why you’re staying, even though it is starting to get really long. 

No murder has happened since the beginning of the storm, confirming the police suspicions that it might be a wild animal doing this. A bear wouldn’t come out during a thunderstorm, hence why no bodies have been found or anyone going missing. 

You don’t really know what to think about the whole thing. You never really experienced anything of the sort before, only ever seen it in the news, taking place in a far away city. Now, it’s really different to see it in person, seeing people grieving, freaking out. 

You don’t understand how an animal would do such a thing, especially since they aren’t known to attack humans, or… eat them. But everybody is kind of desperate to find a culprit. 

As you’re looking through your notes, you notice that you’re missing a piece of information that you absolutely need to know for your test. You would ask your friends, but none of them are in this class with you. Plus, you forgot your book so the only solution would be to go to the library. 

The place is lit up by candles and oil lamps. The power doesn’t seem to have come back here. 

The librarian isn’t even here, so you can’t ask her for directions, which would be really useful, but you’ll do without. You go to the biology section and start searching for the book you need. It takes you some time, carefully looking through the shelves until you notice an older edition of the book. You hope what you need is in there.

You start flipping the pages to the right chapter, but you jump out of surprise and drop the book to the floor at the sound of someone else’s voice. 

“Aren’t you supposed to attend your exam?”

It’s the guy you bumped into yesterday; Jungkook. 

What’s weird is that you didn’t at all hear him, you could have swore you were alone in the library. Guess he’s a really quiet walker, hence why you didn’t even see him coming out of the classroom the day before. 

“Uh, y-yeah,” you stammer out, furrowing your brows. You bend down to pick up the book, his eyes following your movements closely. “Just had to come here for this,” you say and show the object in question in your hand. “What about you?”

He leans on the shelves beside him. 

“Didn’t feel like wasting my time back there,” he explains and you nod, not really sure what he wants exactly… It’s not like you’re friends or anything.

You can’t see much of him with the low lighting in the library, but you still catch on the way he’s looking at you intently. It makes you slightly uncomfortable, considering he’s towering over you with all his height. And Jungkook is very tall compared to you. 

“Is- Is there something else you wanted to ask me…?” You manage to let out, voice a bit shaky and uneasy. 

“Are you scared?” he asks casually.

He steps closer to you, and you don’t understand why you don’t step back. It’s like you don’t dare.

“What?”

“The storm. Pretty intense, right?”

Is he really interested to know if you’re scared of storms or is he playing with you? Why would he even play with you in the first place, that’s what you wonder. 

His behaviour really confuses you. It’s true that you don’t know him, but he isn’t the type of guy to just… creep girls out. Maybe it’s not his intention though?

“Oh, yeah… It’s- it’s nothing I've ever seen before,” you confess in a weak voice. 

“Me neither,” Jungkook replies. 

You hold the book against you tighter like it’s some sort of protection, or just as emotional support. You don’t know what’s up with him, but it has you feeling some type of way… 

You feel the knot in your stomach getting tighter as he gets even closer, trapping you between him and the bookshelves. 

Yes, you’re scared, but not of the storm… of him.

And… there’s a part of you that likes it — likes the attention he gives you, the way his dark eyes look at your body. His gaze makes you think of a carnivore, a predator. 

You’re the food he was looking for. 

“It’s really loud, isn’t it?” he observes. “I wonder… if you had to scream, would anybody hear you?”

That startles you right away. 

“Jungkook-” Saying his name seems to catch his attention, his eyes looking directly into yours. “Stop it.”

He doesn’t break eye contact, and you’re destabilized by how long he can hold your gaze, a shiver running up your spine, making the hair on your arms stand up. 

It’s only to whisper in your ear that his eyes leave yours. 

“Stop what exactly?”

His hot breath hits the side of your neck, hearing your heart pounding in your chest, the knot in your stomach becoming heavier and heavier. Your hands clasp around your book, holding onto it for dear life as you gulp down the excess of saliva in your mouth. 

You scrunch your eyes shut when you feel his hands on your hips, fingers sneaking under the hem of your top. Your core heats up, blood rushing to your cheeks… and clitoris. 

“What do you want?” You breathe out, opening your eyes when Jungkook faces you again. 

He takes the book from you, putting it back onto the shelves, not caring if it’s the wrong placement. 

“Just a little bit of fun,” he answers, “wouldn’t you like that, hm?” He slips his index finger under the band of your skirt, pulling you closer to him, his lips only centimetres away from yours. “I know girls like you are too shy to ask for it… So I’m making the first move.” 

“No, I-” You begin, but don’t have the time to finish your sentence. 

“It’s fine, I’m gonna take the lead. You don’t have to worry about anything, pretty,” he tells you, tilting his head and pressing a light kiss to your lips. Surprisingly, you reciprocate it. He pulls his hand away from your skirt, enveloping it around your throat, not putting any pressure yet. “I knew you’d be into it, you’re a little freak, aren’t you?” 

You don’t know what to answer. Is there even anything you can say back to him? What’s the point of lying when he has you trapped between his large body and the bookshelves, his tattooed fingers gripping your neck, his lips brushing over your face. 

But would that be really a lie saying he’s wrong about you? He doesn’t know you…

He kisses you again, this time sloppier, his tongue dominating yours easily. He nudges your legs open with his knee, his other hand swiftly diving under the hem of your skirt, groping your flesh in a lewd way that keeps you out of breath — apart from the fact that his tongue is currently exploring your mouth. 

He graces the bump of your pussy covered by your panties with his fingers, making your knees buckle at the unexpected contact. He rubs the pad of his middle finger over your clit, a whine escaping your throat, muffled by his mouth on yours. The moment is brief until he slips his hand into your underwear. 

You try to make him stop by grabbing his wrist, pulling away from his lips to pathetically whisper a ‘p-please’ that makes him chuckle. 

“Already begging for me, sweetheart?” He softly laughs, smirking at you. “Excited by the idea of a guy’s fingers in your little cunt instead of yours? Is that it?”

You frown because that wasn’t the reason why you begged him, but now that he said this… your thoughts are going into a completely different way. What’s wrong with you?

“Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? How it’s like to have your pussy stuffed by someone else’s fingers…” 

He’s not waiting for an answer as he starts stroking your bud of nerves in slow circular motions, applying some pressure to really make you feel it. You let out another whine, this time of pleasure. 

Jungkook then shifts down to your entrance, circling it with a lot of delicacy, but this gentleness of his doesn’t go on for long as he pushes a finger into you. You bite down on your bottom lip — the size of his fingers are in no comparison to yours. Your eyes swell up in water, little cries escaping your mouth when he adds a second digit. 

“I know, I know,” he whispers, “must be uncomfortable, hm?” You nod your head, confirming his words. “It’ll feel good soon, I promise. You’re used to the feel of your tiny fingers, it’s normal…”

When he says this, you have a hard time believing him. How could it feel good when you weren’t at all prepared for this — when it’s not what you wanted. 

He begins to move his fingers inside of you, slow and long strokes at first, circling your clit with his thumb at the same time. He curls his fingers, making a little hook, patting your sweet spot. The intrusion is uncomfortable, but it progressively gets so much more pleasurable as he thrusts into you at a regular pace. 

Tears are still falling down from your eyes, eyelashes wet and sticky, but they aren’t the result of your pain… 

“You’re pretty when you cry,” Jungkook murmurs beside your ear, butterflies in your stomach when he tells you this. 

He unwraps his hand from your throat to instead grab your thigh, placing your leg around his hip. You now feel his fingers way deeper inside of you, gently and deliciously stimulating your g-spot. You dare to look down where his left hand is operating between your thighs, sliding in until he’s knuckles deep into your pussy. This makes you breathless, head rolling back on your shoulders and hitting the shelves behind you. 

“Oh, my god-!” You exclaim when Jungkook’s ministrations bring you so close to your orgasm. Your legs are twitching, your body warning you of your approaching high.

You’d probably be more aware of his hard cock trapped in his baggy jeans, but you literally cannot focus on anything else other than Jungkook fingering you, hitting your sensitive spot each time he thrusts in. 

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages, moving faster. “You feel it? Huh?” He asks and you croak out a weak ‘yes’. “Tell me how it feels.”

You hate his questions — you hate them so much. He knows how you feel, but he wants you to say it, he wants you to say that you enjoy it, and… your body really does. 

“G-Good.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out, fucking your cunt with his fingers, enthralled by the little moans you let out.

“Yes,” you confirm, closing your eyes and nodding your head. “Fuck!” You curse out when you finally reach your high, grasping onto his forearm as you ride out your orgasm, your entire body shaking. 

Jungkook helps you by slowly rubbing your puffy clit in circles, telling you more dirty words in your ear, all said in the sweetest voice, as if what he’s doing can be described as anything sweet. 

“Good girl,” he praises, “see, I told you it’d feel great.”

He still has his head in the crook of your neck, and you frown at the feeling of sharp teeth against your skin. It’s barely there, just brushing over it, as if hesitating to act… but Jungkook retrieves back, looking into your reddened eyes. 

He could stop there, but he won’t — though he got what he wanted, he needs more… 

He pulls his hand out of your panties, fingers glistening in your arousal. “Open wide for me, baby,” he instructs. 

You glance at his hand, a little repulsed. You’ve never thought about tasting yourself and it’s surely nothing you’d have ever done… if not for Jungkook. 

You then reluctantly open your mouth and he enters his wet fingers in. 

“Suck,” he adds on, expecting you to follow his orders, and you do without a second thought. 

He stares down at you while you lick his fingers clean and he slides them a bit deeper, pushing down on your tongue. The taste of yourself isn’t what you thought it’d be… It doesn’t taste much, in fact. 

He removes his fingers from your mouth only to put them in his own after. “As sweet as you are,” he grins. “Turn around.”

You hesitate for a second, looking at him credulously, before doing what he asked you to do on trembling legs. 

“Are you…?” You say under your breath, looking over your shoulder and seeing Jungkook pulling the zipper of his pants down. 

“Going to put my cock into you?” he finishes your question for you. “Yeah, I am.”

You stop breathing at his answer, sensing his deft fingers touching your thighs and hips, going under your skirt to drag your panties down. 

He soon gets his cock out of his briefs, pumping himself a couple of times before aligning his head with your dripping wet entrance. His tattooed hand keeps your skirt crumpled up over your ass, laying the other one on your hip. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” he says softly beside your ear, “because this might sting a little bit more than two fingers.” He swipes the head of his cock through your sticky folds and all you can do is moan pathetically at the feeling, lewd, wet noises echoing in the big library. 

You can’t see his length even with the way you contort your head to look over your shoulder, but you’re still able to see his chest and hips moving as he pushes his cock into your pussy. Though you have no idea what he looks like, the painful feeling of your cunt getting stretched out to his size tells you he’s really big. 

And he was right. This hurts way more than his fingers, the two feelings are not comparable at all. 

“Jungkook-,” you cry out, holding the shelves in front of you till there’s no more blood in your knuckles. 

He hears you, loving the sounds you’re making because of him and the way you say his name with eyes full of tears. When he bottoms out inside of you, his pelvis flushed against your ass, he lets out a low grunt and throws his head back, closing his eyes to savour the pleasure entirely. 

You involuntarily clench around him, making him tighten his grip on your hip. He then starts thrusting into you, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy at a slow but harsh pace. Each time he bottoms out, Jungkook makes sure the skin of his thighs slap against your ass, the sounds almost as loud as your little moans and whimpers. 

But the storm is so intense and noisy that he’s pretty sure nobody else in the library could hear you — if there was anyone here apart from the two of you anyway. 

Your wetness allows him to fuck his cock into your pussy back and forth, welcoming him so perfectly without any restriction. It’s almost impossible for him to not hit your sweet spot, and he reaches so much deeper when he lifts up your thigh with the hand that was previously placed on your hip. 

You don’t know how long you can stay in this position, especially when Jungkook’s drilling his hard cock into you like nothing else matters. It’s like he needs it from you, and as the pleasure only builds up in you, you start thinking you need it desperately, too. 

You’re breathing heavily, and so is he, feeling his hot breath on your neck when he tilts his head down closer to yours. You can clearly hear his breathing now as well as his deep grunts that leave his mouth every time your walls close tightly around his girth, literally sucking him in. 

“Shit,” he curses out as he pushes lightly on your back, deepening the arch of it so your ass is flushed against his pelvis. “How could I have ever passed over you… You’re so- fuck,” Jungkook chokes out, not finishing his sentence, but you have a guess on what he wanted to say. 

He then kisses your neck pretty messily, but it only raises the temperature of your body, your skin boiling hot under his soft lips. He leaves a wet trail behind, going up to your ear, down to your shoulder. 

Telling him to stop isn’t even possible anymore, it wouldn’t make any sense… would be absolutely stupid when you’re so close to your second orgasm. 

As he thrusts into you, his balls smack your pussy, and the sounds are just too vulgar, but it’s honestly arousing you so much. Jungkook lets go of your thigh to take a hold of your jaw, turning it around so he can look at your face. 

Your mouth is ajar to let out big puffs of air, and it’s the same for him, his breathing being irregular and heavy. He didn’t think he would ever need something that badly, which is making you his, surprisingly enough. 

Making you his in whatever way possible; whether it’s by fucking you or eating you — or both. Jungkook doesn’t care, he just wants it. 

It doesn’t take long for your second orgasm to pass through you, arms and legs shaking as the knot at the pit of your stomach snaps. Jungkook feels it very clearly, your walls hugging his cock terribly tightly, bringing him closer to his own orgasm as well.

“Holy fuck,” he hisses, his hip thrusts accelerating, literally burying his cock in your cunt until he slips out. He rapidly strokes himself and cums on your ass, strings of white cum falling on you. “Oh, god…”

He stays in this position for a couple of seconds, catching his breath. He then slightly backs away, making sure to keep your skirt crumpled up over your butt, looking at the mess he made of you. 

Suddenly, you both catch on the voices entering the library, making you rush to dress up and clean yourselves — especially you. 

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

You’re in your bedroom, studying and writing down on your notebook while lying down on your bed. It’s relatively quiet in your house, hearing the TV downstairs playing and the ceiling fan above your head running. 

The ringtone of your cellphone breaks the silence, buzzing on top of your bedsheets. It’s a number that you don’t recognize, but the first digitals show you that it’s a number from your area. So you pick it up. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, pretty.”

“Uh, who is this?” You ask the person on the other side of the line because you have no idea who would call you like this. They must know you.

“Take a guess,” they say, and their tone is oddly a little flirty. 

You frown, starting to remember where you heard this voice for the last time… And in which situation exactly. 

“... Jungkook?” 

He laughs at that and you can imagine the cheeky smile he’s sporting right now. 

“You got it,” he replies, “see, I knew you’d remember me.” 

You immediately feel uneasy despite the fact you’re just talking through the phone, but things have happened since your encounter with Jungkook.

Things such as more dead girls, all brutally murdered by this ‘animal’. 

You suspected nothing until you noticed how tired looking Jungkook was a day or two after what happened in the library. Normally, you wouldn’t have looked at him, but you literally couldn’t get him out of your head after how intimate the both of you had been together. 

Each time he was in the same hallway as you, you’d give him a glance and nothing more as you were too shy to talk to him or even look at him for too long. 

But sometimes you dared to watch him a little longer when he didn’t know you were in the same room as him. 

And you saw the dark circles, the bad attitude he had with his friends, and the disdain look he seemed to give to everybody. You also saw him get in his car with a girl. You were jealous for a second, but you felt totally different the next day when that same girl went missing and that Jungkook seemed to be doing fine again. 

At first, it was just silly thoughts, but it was too strong of a coincidence, you couldn’t think about anything else. 

“Yeah…” You say back, shoulders tense as you sit up on your bed. “How did you get my number?” 

“Asked Doyun for it,” he simply explains. “You did a project back in highschool together. Remember?”

You do remember. You were so stressed out about it. Paired with a popular jock? You believed the teacher was against you, but it turned out that Doyun was way nicer than you thought.

“Luckily, you didn’t change numbers.”

Lucky for who?

“Right,” you huff out, looking through your window, a shiver passing through you at the thought of Jungkook hiding somewhere.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“Uhm, just studying… Why?” 

“Wanna go out with me?” Jungkook proposes after a few seconds of silence. 

You look through your window again. It’s dark outside. This would be such a bad idea… 

“It’s 9 p.m. on a Thursday night,” you begin, sounding way too bitchy for his liking, “where would we go? And why would I even go out with you…”

“The park’s always open,” he adds.

“What-”

“Relax. Nothing bad gonna happen, alright?" his voice resonates through the phone, hearing a slight laugh after. "I miss you, that's all."

You bite down on your lip, shaking your head to get all of your stupid thoughts away. As much as you hate to admit it, you love hearing that from Jungkook. That’s all you wanted him to say since he left you in the library… tell you he needs you as much as you need him. 

But this isn’t the time for that — there won’t ever be another time anyway. 

You respond nothing and so he takes it as a yes. “I’ll come pick you up in 10 minutes. Put something pretty on,” he chuckles, hanging up. 

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

The park isn’t an open space with benches and a fountain. It’s basically the woods where you go for hiking. There are paths you can follow that will all lead you to the same place at the end. 

You could have thought of something smarter, or less dangerous, but you didn’t have any time. Jungkook showed up at your entrance precisely 10 minutes after he hung up and you weren’t exactly ready to see him just yet. 

You had to get in his car anyway, the whole ride being quiet until you arrived at your destination. Your stomach churned up the moment you entered the woods, Jungkook behind you. 

Your heart is still beating super fast right now, whether it’s because you’re absolutely scared or because Jungkook is kissing you feverishly, it doesn’t matter. You can’t do this, and you don’t know how it might end for you if you let yourself be distracted by him. 

“Jungkook,” you manage to say between kisses. You push harder on his chest, making him stop from putting his tongue in your mouth. “We need to talk,” you say firmly. 

“About what?” he chuckles, diving back down to the crook of your neck where he plants wet kisses, his hand sneaking up under your dress while the other holds your hip. 

You squirm, fighting hard to not let yourself give in to his touch. 

“I saw… I saw Jia and you getting into your car the other day,” you confess and he backs away from your neck when he hears that, looking intently at your face. 

“And? You were jealous, is that it?” He questions, lifting one eyebrow. 

“No! I mean-,” you answer right after, thinking about what to say and how to say it. “She went missing the day after you saw her, and-”

Jungkook gets visibly annoyed, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth. He lets go of you, still looking at you, but not with lustful eyes anymore. 

“What? What are you trying to say, huh?” He huffs out. “That I killed her? Fucking crazy.”

You feel bad. Is he really guilty?

He has to be. You know he is. 

“Back in the library,” you begin to say, “were you… did you intend to kill me?” You eventually say it all, breath caught in your throat as you watch Jungkook registering your words. 

He sighs, “why would it matter?” You frown at that, about to respond, but he steps closer to you, trapping you between him and the tree again. “Just let me take care of you, gonna make you feel good, baby…” 

He slips his hands under your dress so rapidly that you don’t have any time to react, immediately overwhelmed by his groping and his lips all over you. 

But you get back your senses, using all your force to push him away. You succeed to have a safe distance between the two of you.

“So you’re admitting it!? You wanted to- to do the same thing to me!”

“No,” he disagrees, his voice harsh, sounding quite annoyed. “I just wanted- Fuck!” he exclaims angrily, but it’s like he doesn’t know what to say. 

“You could have everybody you wanted, Jungkook,” you state, looking him into the eyes, “why me?”

He looks back at you and you wonder how you couldn’t have seen it before… The evil. 

“Why not? You’re hot, kinda a stuck-up, but I had to try it, you know,” he chuckles. “For a nerdy girl, you sure know how to take dick.”

It angers you to a point… 

“Fuck you!”

And without thinking twice, you reach down to pick up the pocket knife you hid in your boot before. 

You open it and you rush toward Jungkook, stabbing him in his lower stomach. You retrieve the knife a bit too hastily, resulting in you dropping it and falling down on your butt to the ground. 

Jungkook also falls down, holding onto his stomach, red blood dripping out of his cut onto his hands. He yells out many curses, sucking air through his teeth to appease the pain as much as he can. 

You watch him, startled and out of breath, eventually turning around and searching for your knife. When you find it, you get back up and to Jungkook, but he isn’t there anymore.

He has completely disappeared. 

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

.

.

.

[helenanell]

Contempt of Court || Challengers

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader 

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.) 

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late. 

 (This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

 As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked. 

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers. 

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

 You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more. 

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months. 

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer. 

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you. 

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace. 

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you. 

Another thing to fail at. 

Another thing to lose. 

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition. 

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree. 

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it. 

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent. 

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it. 

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away. 

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights. 

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained. 

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly? 

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

 You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.” 

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?” 

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully. 

“Nike.” 

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you: 

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’ 

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot. 

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ” 

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack. 

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

 As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.” 

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway. 

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice. 

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened. 

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

 But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying. 

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse. 

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final. 

You would never forget his answer: 

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy.  He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable. 

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

 You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour. 

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’ 

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile. 

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer. 

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.” 

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors. 

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply. 

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation. 

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago. 

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. 

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have. 

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?” 

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum: 

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!” 

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door. 

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call. 

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.” 

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be. 

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign. 

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded. 

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well. 

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art. 

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him. 

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating. 

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court. 

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal. 

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans. 

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?” 

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours. 

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold. 

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.” 

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.” 

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile. 

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk. 

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

 You want to tear it off the wall. 

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him. 

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.” 

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation. 

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.” 

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult. 

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute. 

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?” 

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.  

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

 Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad. 

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off. 

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline. 

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating. 

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach. 

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter. 

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted. 

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit. 

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house. 

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue. 

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you. 

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes. 

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that. 

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.” 

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.” 

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.” 

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?” 

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

 But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm. 

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.” 

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you. 

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist. 

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond. 

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever. 

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

 But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious. 

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.” 

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.” 

“Get out.” 

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water. 

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself. 

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace. 

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank. 

“What are you doing?”  

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars. 

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin. 

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water. 

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt. 

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water. 

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge. 

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do. 

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.” 

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism. 

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air. 

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

 He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you. 

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own. 

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet. 

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches. 

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines. 

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear: 

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.” 

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

 His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound 

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him. 

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

 You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight. 

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight. 

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him. 

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene. 

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided. 

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap. 

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.” 

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art. 

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real. 

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes. 

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water? 

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands. 

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.” 

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.” 

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin. 

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him. 

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?” 

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten. 

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.” 

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you. 

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver. 

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his. 

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall. 

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin. 

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

 Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first. 

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up. 

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”  

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away. 

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts. 

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly. 

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?” 

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up. 

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him. 

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond. 

Not the night sky. 

Just a pond. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell. 

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete. 

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes. 

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this. 

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality. 

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good. 

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

 It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side. 

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief? 

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember. 

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond. 

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says: 

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly. 

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away. 

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.” 

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal. 

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows. 

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut. 

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone. 

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside. 

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart. 

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself. 

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement. 

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move. 

“That was the plan.” 

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?” 

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?” 

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out. 

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you. 

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board. 

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?” 

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in. 

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him. 

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest. 

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him. 

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.” 

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself. 

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum. 

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there. 

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one. 

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle. 

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh. 

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear. 

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?” 

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk. 

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet. 

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return. 

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place. 

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin. 

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs. 

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.” 

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers: 

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.” 

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.” 

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth. 

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.” 

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you. 

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further. 

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin. 

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead. 

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel. 

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you. 

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh. 

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again. 

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you. 

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied. 

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck. 

“I think I got my answer.” 

“Shut up.” 

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier,  his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.  

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions. 

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you. 

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head. 

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.” 

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.” 

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[mrsparrasblog]

You're losing me pt.1 POLY 141 x F, Reader

TW: cheating, hurt no comfort, heavy angst, dubious consent, there will be a happy end in the last part dont worry

pt.2

The most important thing about a POLY relationship was trust, and you knew you could trust them with all your heart. Kyle was so devoted to you that the mere thought of sleeping with another woman made him sick to his stomach. John was so full of loyalty towards you that he would never do anything to destroy your trust. Simon would rather kill himself than hurt you, the man who didn’t even dare to sleep with you for the first three months, afraid of hurting you should cheat on you? Never. And Johnny, oh your Johnny, was the sweetest of all of them. He took you on all these dates, introduced you to his family, and not a day went by without a compliment, nor a return from deployment without a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

So why do you still feel jealous sometimes? John reassured you over and over again that it was normal for you to feel jealous. He reassured you that nothing was happening while they were on deployment; they had each other for the fun stuff but definitely no other females; that spot was reserved for you, and only you.

Still, when you saw the new medic, you were so close to puking your guts out. She was beautiful, so stunningly beautiful and cool. A field medic is more in understanding with their branch than you with your job as a teacher. "Don’t need a medic, love," Simon reassured you once again, "we love that you're soft and not so rugged of war." Kyle immediately asked if he should stop talking with her outside of missions, and there you had your safety and reassurance.

Two months you spent without them; their last tour took a bit longer than expected. When John surprisingly texted you yesterday that they were back, you couldn’t contain your happiness. Unfortunately, you didn’t have time yesterday evening since you worked late, but you were eager to surprise them today on base, even though they thought you were only coming Wednesday. But hey, they’d be happy about the surprise. So you baked their favorite goods, put yourself in a cute outfit, and went on base.

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

Johnny woke up with the worst headache of his life. He didn’t even remember drinking that much, only a few pints. Normally, he was more resistant. He felt a warm body around him and hair all over his face. He didn’t remember bringing you home yesterday, but yesterday was very blurry for him anyway. But he couldn’t complain; he missed you so much. When he nuzzled inside your neck, he smelled a different perfume than usual. It didn’t smell that great, but that's not something he’d say to you. Maybe he’d buy you a bottle of your favorite perfume as a present. The hair felt slightly different too, and your figure, did you change really so much in two months? When he opened his eyes and saw her, he couldn’t believe this. This must have been a dream, a bad dream. He looked down and noticed her lack of clothes under the blanket. "Fuck," he cursed out as he jumped out of bed, waking up the medic.

"What’s wrong, Johnny?"

"Don’t call me that; only she and SI can."

"You didn’t complain yesterday when I moaned it," the medic said with a teasing smile, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

"Don’t tell me we…" he pleaded.

"Of course, we did, Sweetheart."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he screwed up. How could he do this? Where were the others? Why didn’t they stop him? How would they react? God, they'd kill me. No, she won’t. She will look at me with this disappointing glance.

As if the situation wasn’t worse enough, the guys walked in, looking at her standing completely naked. Kyle turned immediately around, but John looked knowing exactly like Ghost.

"You have 5 seconds to explain yourself, Soap," John grunted out, his hoarse voice sounding even deeper than usual.

"Oh, Johnny and I just had a bit of fun, Cap. Don’t worry; we can still go if you want to," she smiled brightly, her hand running over Price's clothed abs.

He pushed her away. "The only thing you're going to do is shower and leave."

She didn’t move. "It’s an order, not a suggestion, soldier," so she went to the shower, leaving the four men alone.

Kyle was on his way outside. "Where are you going, Sergeant?" Ghost asked.

"Telling my girlfriend that that bastard cheated on her. You don’t deserve her, not even a bit."

"Your girlfriend?"

"You won’t tell her a thing."

"You don’t get to decide that, Ghost," Kyle almost spat out.

"Ah, really, didn’t remember a thing."

Kyle went to him, grabbed him, and pushed him into a wall. "You fucking idiot, you ruined everything just because you couldn’t control your fucking cock."

"Stop."

"Aren’t you happy about it, Garrick? Now you have her alone like you always wanted?" Ghost asked, challenging the man who hurt his Johnny. He thought there must be a logical explanation for this; Johnny loved you; he wouldn’t do that.

"I said, fucking stop," John screamed at everyone.

You heard a lot of screams around the base. When you finally went to the room of Johnny and Kyle, you saw everyone there around, fighting. "So that’s what you do when I'm away to keep you in check," you hummed, chuckling a bit.

They looked at you in horror. Instead of the usual running towards you from Kyle, the picking you up from John, or the thousand kisses from Johnny, they just stood there in shock.

"Everything alright, boys?" you asked, letting the cupcakes rest on the table you baked for them.

"Love, look—" Kyle started but got stopped by Simon.

And from that moment, it went downhill. You noticed a flashy pink bra, definitely not your size, so far from your size that you were confused. "Whose is this?" you picked it up, and no words came out of them.

"No…" you already thought about the worst, but you wanted to give them a chance. Maybe it was a damn coincidence, Johnny's sister visiting or anything like that. The doubt went away in a second when she walked out of the bathroom, completely naked. "Oh, you're still together."

"Who of you?" you begged that they didn’t say all.

"I was. I'm so sorry," John said, his face looked apologetic, while the others looked surprised at their captain.

"It’s over," you muttered, trying not to cry to save you at least a bit of dignity. You were so stupid to trust them like that.

"Love, no, please," Kyle begged while Johnny and John were just silent.

"With all of us?" Ghost asked, wounded.

"You all knew it, and no one told me that John slept with that slag."

"EY!"

"Shut up," Ghost barked at the medic.

"I swear to you, I wanted to tell you," Kyle pleaded.

"Well, you didn’t, did you?"

"No, love, wait."

"It’s over," you asked out of the door, shutting them down from following you. "Let me the fuck alone."

"Let her go," John said to his men and they listened.

Back in the comfort of your own home, you allowed yourself to cry, holding your dog Winston till you felt in an unpeaceful slumber.

[artydonsgf]

Hi, I know Mike fiast has a dog and not sure if you only write about art or mike but can I request Mike with his dog and a story regarding y/n - any direction works

hi! i forgot to add it to my rules but i don’t really write about actors/real people, all my work is fictional characters because that’s what’s comfortable to me. that’s on me though, but i did write a meet cute with art n his dog! please enjoy<3

“Stop!” The single word is so desperate, you can’t help but look up. Right as your eyes left the book in your hand, a speeding object hits you right in the chest. Everything goes flying, your book now ruined a few feet away. Your head snaps to the ground, your vision briefly going black as a result. You’re still on the floor when the same voice keeps yelling.

“Bad boy! No!” The sound of running fills your ears. You’re hauled up until you’re sitting, making the green of the grass and the blue of the sky blend together. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to control the nausea rising in your stomach.

“Are you alright? Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” a voice frantically checks on you. The stranger places a hand on over your hair. You finally stop swaying enough to put a hand up.

“Please stop yelling,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. You swallow another wave of nausea.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry,” the voice quiets but not by much. You crack an eye open, not really sure what you’d find. Crouched in front of you is a boy your age. His blue eyes are crinkled with worry and his blonde curls stick to his forehead, slick with sweat. The rush in your head stops a fraction. The hand that isn’t on your head is wrapped around the collar of his dog, effectively calming the puppy down. “Racket is only a puppy and I’ve been trying to train him to be less-,” he starts ranting.

“Not to interrupt or judge, but you named your dog Racket?” You both interrupt and judge in the same breath. The stressed look on his face melts away, now replaced with a puzzled look.

“I’m a tennis player, it only felt right,” he explained, his hand still situated on your head. You slowly nod. The dimples on his cheeks deepen with a smile. A click sounds in your brain and you recognize the boy in front of you.

“You’re Art Donaldson!” You move too fast and speak too loud and the sharp pain in your head is a swift punishment. He grabs your shoulder to steady you before nodding. His smile somehow getting bigger.

“You recognize me?” He sounds bashful. You give him a look before throwing a glance at the poster pinned to the tree behind him. A picture of Art is plastered over it with details of his upcoming game. There’s one on every tree in the park. His cheeks turn pink. “I didn’t actually think they’d put it on every tree,” he explains. You nod, still dizzy. It’s only then he remembers that his dog knocked you over. “You need a doctor. Can I bring you to the athletic trainer?” He points to a nearby building. You nod, getting ready to gather your things. He beats you to it and soon, your bag is slung around his shoulder. Racket sniffs at your feet but with a stern warning from Art, he walks forward with no issue. When you finally arrive at the trainer, Art explains what happened and waits patiently until you’re assessed.

“You likely have a very mild concussion. Keep an eye on your symptoms and if they persist after about three days, please see your primary doctor,” The athletic trainer tells you, strapping a ice pack your head. “And if you can, stay with someone. This is just in case you end up passing out.” She pats your hand and gives you a lollipop on your way out the door.

“Thank you for bringing me,” you turn to Art with a smile. The ice pack strapped your head probably makes your face look a little wonky. “I’ll see you around.” You start to turn away but he grabs your hand.

“Wait,” he turns red upon realizing he grabbed you. “Do you have anyone to stay with?” He drops your hand and starts running his fingers through his hair. Your eyebrows shoot up, though your face looks squished.

“Yeah, my roomate is getting back from spring break in a few days, I’ll be fine,” you start to turn again but he stops you once more.

“I’m just a little worried, do you mind if I check up on you? Maybe through text?” He fishes his phone out of his pocket, dropping it in the process. Your head pounds still but butterflies start to flutter in your stomach.

“Are you asking me for my number?” Your sly look is thrown off once more by the ice pack but his face turns an even deeper shade of red anyway. He clears his throat.

“Yes, I am. I want to make sure my dog isn’t the reason a pretty girl gets irreversible brain damage,” he says with an adorably awkward laugh. You grab his phone and tap your number in, dropping an emoji with a bandage next to your name.

“We’ll work on your flirting techniques, I’ll see you around,” you wiggle your fingers before crouching down to gently rub Racket’s head. As you walk away, you decide that the concussion was worth it if it meant meeting Art Donaldson.

i know this isn’t exactly what you were looking for but i hope you enjoy anyway!! idk how concussions actually work by the way. thank you for the request n as always, feel free to request something again! mwah mwah mwah

[bingbongsupremacy]

Closure Pt. 2

Pairing: Steve Harrington x plus size!reader

Warnings: swearing, anger, idk what else

Series Summary: You never knew Steve could be so shallow. When he leaves you to date Nancy Wheeler, you're left with a pain you thought he'd never leave with you. Maybe you should've stayed friends.

Part Summary: He wrote a letter. You don't need him. Right?

*Not Proof Read* Stranger Things Masterlist

Based off of Taylor Swift Song Closure. This was a request. I tried to make everything as general as possible. Pls let me know if missed something ty.

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3

*****

No one was supposed to know we were dating. Steve said he didn’t want his teammates to bug me. He didn’t want people to overreact when they found out about us and say mean shit. At the time, I agreed. I mean, Steve’s the king of Hawkins high. I wouldn’t be the first girl he’s dated who’s had rumors spread about them. 

Hiding us was harder than we thought. A month or so after we got together Tommy found out and told the whole team. Gradually the whole school found out. Gossip spreads like wildfire, especially in a town like Hawkins. 

During the weeks after we broke up, I started to think about our secret relationship.

He wasn’t trying to protect me. He was trying to protect his reputation. Steve might not show it but deep down he’s just like everyone else. He’s got insecurities too. He obsesses over anything negative that’s said about him, analyzing everything that others think is imperfect about him until he finds a way to change it.

That’s something I noticed sophomore year when we started to get a little closer.

He was kind to me, but he wasn’t perfect. I don’t know for sure but I think he still messed with underclassmen, bullying them for praise from Tommy and Carol. He wanted to be liked by everyone, especially those two assholes.

He was always going to pick them over me. 

“ Honey, this came in for you today. “ My mom breaks me out of my thoughts. 

I look up from my stack of paperwork. “ What? From who? “ My brows furrow in confusion. Who would send mail to my parents’ house? I haven’t lived here in years. 

“ It’s from Steve. “ My moms eyes scan over the stark white envelope. 

My heart sinks. 

What the fuck does he want? 

I haven’t seen or talked to him since graduation 7 years ago. What could he want with me? Last I heard he got a job at Family Video and Nancy broke up with him. 

He knows I’m here. He has to. Fucking Hawkins. When one person knows everyone knows. Mrs. Henderson must’ve told someone when I ran into her at the gas station. 

“ What ever happened to you and Steve? Do you both still talk? “ My mom asks curiously while handing over my mail. 

Oh right. I never told her. 

“ We fell out of touch. You know, life. " I shrug, hoping that's enough for her.

" Oh, that's so sad sweetie. I'm sorry. " She sends me a small sympathetic smile. " That's always hard when you lose touch with someone you love. " She gently pats my shoulder.

Love.

Steve didn't love me.

I send her a small smile, hoping to drop the topic. " It happens, ma. "

" Well, I'll you get to it. " She dismisses herself, leaving me to the letter in my hands.

I trace the sharp corners of the envelope. Should I open it? Do I want to?

I wonder what it says.

What could he have to say to me after all of these years? It couldn't be something worth my time. Not after the shit that happened in high school. Right?

But what if it is?

Fuck it. I'm curious.

I pull open the envelope and let the torn paper fall into my lap. A neatly folded letter greens me, the bright white stationary paper matching the envelope.

This is it. Here we go.

I pull open the letter. Dark blue pen lines starkly contrast the white paper. Steve's familiar handwriting fills a good portion of the page. At the bottom his squiggly signature lies, bold and exactly the same as I remember.

Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you. I heard you're back in town. I've been meaning to do this for a long time. I've debated writing to you for years. I didn't know if I had anything good enough to send to you.

I was an asshole to you. You didn't deserve how I broke up with you. I feel horrible about how I treated you. About how I let other people change my opinion and control my actions. I should've stood stronger with what I thought.

That's something I always loved about you. You didn't let other people sway your opinions. I'm sure you still don't. You thought for yourself.

You are so much braver than I am. You didn't compromise yourself for others.

I've thought about what happened for years. About how you must have felt.

I hope you're well. I hope you've been able to move on and you've continued to be yourself. I know I don't deserve to say that, I just wish you the best.

I wanted to explain to you why I did what I did. I owe it to you. I was selfish. I got caught up in the high school popularity shit. I know it's stupid. I wanted to be Hawkins High's main guy. I wanted the Prom King title. I wanted the attention.

I really did like you. You made me feel safe and understood. You were always patient and kind. You urged me to be me, even when I felt like caving under pressure. You liked me for me, not for who I was trying to be. You deserved better than me.

People started to talk. You know. You heard the rumors.

At first, I thought I could handle it. I thought it wouldn't bug me. I thought I could push past it all. I cracked. Tommy and Carol jumped on the wagon and it pushed me over the edge. I couldn't bare the thought of losing the respect I'd worked so hard to get. I couldn't handle the teasing I'd get from the guys after games or the looks Tommy'd send my way when he saw us together.

It was wrong. I didn't think about you. About how you must've felt and how you were handling everything that was going on. It was Senior Year. I should've held on. We would've been out of this shit hole in a few months anyway, I don't know why I didn't just ignore it all. That's one of my biggest regrets.

I've been in therapy for a few years now. I've worked past all that surface-level shallow shit. I really see just how much I hurt you, and for that I'm so sorry.

I don't expect you to forgive me. I just wanted you to know that you're the first girl I ever loved and I am so grateful for you. Our relationship sent me on a path to help myself, and for that I will always love you.

Thank you.

-Steve Harrington

P.S. The week before we broke up I was going to give this to you. I never did.

I glance down at the envelope in my lap and open it. At the bottom lays a shiny silver necklace. A small gem, my birthstone, lays in the center. It glimmers in the light. It's beautiful.

I turn the gem over and spot a small engraving on the back.

SH +Y/N

For a moment I'm torn.

Should I write him back? Should we talk?

Part of me does miss him. I miss his laugh. His playful teasing. The way he looked at me.

No.

He hurt me. A lot.

He can't just send a letter and make it better. Why didn't he talk to me in person if this really weighed on him as much as he says it did? Why didn't he call me?

I don't need him. I'm fine. I've been fine without him for years. I'm not going to let him back into my life because he feels bad about his actions and insecurities.

I left Hawkins for a reason. I needed to get away from Steve. I needed him out of my life.

I'm not going to let him back in for his sake.

I don't need him.

I stand up, taking the papers and necklace in my hand. I walk over to the trashcan near my dresser. Without a second thought, I drop everything into the can.

The necklace makes a small clunking sound as it hits the bottom of my empty can.

The rustling of papers quiets and so does my pounding heart.

I'm fine on my own.

(Do we like this ending? Or should I try to make another part? )

Taglist: @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @queen-apple24

[logansargeantsbabymom]

Show Me

Lewis Hamilton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, Smut, Cockwarming, Overstimulation, Oral, Throat Fucking, Handcuffs

The music in the club is blaring so loud you can’t hear your own thoughts. My hips swayed to the music as I felt an arm snake around my waist. Turning around I see the man that I’ve been entertaining the whole night, Lewis.

“Finally, I was starting to think you bailed on me” I chuckled as I gratefully took the alcoholic beverage he brought me “Thank you Lewis” I smile as I take a sip of the drink

“And leave you here alone with these pervs?” Lewis chuckled before placing his once preoccupied hand on my hips “You wouldn’t catch me dead leaving you here alone” the one free hand I had reaching up to snake around his neck, pulling him closer to me.

The eye contact we held said all the other needed to know “I can see it in your eyes, you want a good time” Lewis said just loud enough above the music for me to hear but not anyone else, leaning closer to me, his lips almost touching mine “You wanna put your body on mine. Alright but don't change your mind, don’t you change it”

The gap between us is so dangerously small that I can smell the alcohol on his breath and it’s intoxicating me in the best way possible. I can see Lewis’ gaze flicker between my eyes and my lips “Your eyes saying please me but your lips care to ask”

I want to kiss him so bad. I don’t know if it’s the look in his eyes, the words coming out of his mouth, how plump his lips look or the alcohol in my system.

“No need to fight it when you know it feels right. You say you're a woman who knows what she likes” The hand he had resting on my hip moved up to the back of my neck pulling me closer to him but only to kiss the corner of my mouth. He then starts to leave some kisses on my jaw before whispering in my ear “Then show me”

———————————————————————

“C’mon baby, I know you can take it. Don’t give up on me just yet,” I couldn’t think, Lewis had just pulled my second orgasm out of me tonight and my thighs haven’t stopped shaking since the first one. “my baby, I haven’t even tasted you yet, I’ve just made you cum twice with my fingers.”

I didn’t think it was possible to shake this much from only having two orgasms from someone’s hands alone but Lewis always made it a mission to prove me wrong.

“You look so pretty right now, look s’good for me just sprawled out. I need a taste” a mixture of incoherent words and moans spills from my lips as I know that Lewis isn’t gonna stop until he pulls at least two more orgasms from me with just his tongue alone.

The way Lewis trails kisses down my neck to my core was heavenly, I didn’t have time to prepare myself as I watched him lower himself between my legs before I felt his mouth attack my clit. A gasp escapes my lips as jolt forward and my thighs instinctively close around his head.

Instead of prying my legs open, Lewis used both his arms and wrapped them around my legs that we’re currently trapping him to ensure he couldn’t stop, not that he wanted to, before absolutely going to town eating me out.

He drew long strides of his tongue all the way up and down my slit before sucking on my clit, I’m pretty sure a few times I felt his tongue enter me which caused my hands to find their place in his hair, pushing him further down causing him to let out a deep groan, which was all it took before my thighs that were already trapping him to squeeze as my third orgasm overtook my body.

Lewis lapped my juices before he loosens his grip on my legs, looking up at me with dark, lust filled eyes and a glistening chin as he crawled his way up to me placing a chaste kiss to my lips allowing me to taste myself on him. Without breaking the kiss, Lewis starts to take off his sweatpants and boxers.

"Lew, please I can't do no more right now" I mumble, breaking the kiss.

"Shh, its okay. I'll take care of you, j's need you to sit on my cock okay? Can you do that for me or do you really want to stop?" just when I thought I couldn't fall more in love with Lewis, he pulls this card.

I press my lips to his in a kiss of pure adoration “Mmhmm, I need your cock Lew, please”

“that’s my good girl, c’mere” his calloused hands finding their place on my hips as he pulls me onto his lap, giving his cock a few strokes before lining himself up with my entrance allowing me to sink down on him.

Lewis is fairly big so he’s patient with me as I take him inch by inch until he’s fully bottomed out and allowing me to adjust to his size. Right when I was comfortable enough to start bouncing and I lifted my hips one of Lewis’ hands that were still resting on my hips tightened and pulled me right back down

“Nuh uh baby, you’re just gonna sit here and we’re gonna talk” his hands now drawing imaginary circles on my hips “how’s your day been pretty?” a small smirk appears on his face. Bastard, he knew what he was doing and he was enjoying it.

A whimper escaped my lips as my core ached for friction. In a pathetic attempt of getting lewis to break and fuck me, I clenched down on his cock and I smile to myself as I hear a low guttural moan from him

“Please Lew, I need to move. I need to feel you moving inside me, I need th-this. please please” I’ve never begged for anything in my life the way I’m begging for Lewis to move his cock in me. Who could blame me? I can feel every ridge and vein of his cock, I started squeezing around him so hard that I swear I felt the blood continue flowing through his veins when I stopped clenching. I was so caught up in relishing the feeling of his cock buried deep inside me that I didn’t even notice Lewis was talking to me, not at least until I felt a firm hand on my jaw and another gently slap my cheek a few times.

“Oh has my baby gone dumb on me? I’m asking you a question but I bet all you’re thinking about is how my cock is buried so deep inside you that if I came right now, I’d guarantee putting a baby in you.” I couldn’t take it anymore, against my better judgment I started rocking my hips. Something about the way Lewis was talking to me like I’d had no brain cells did something to me and I was determined to get not only him to cum but me to come again for the fourth time tonight.

Lewis’ head fell back in pure bliss as the hands that were planted on my hips started helping me move, it didn’t last long as Lewis came back to his senses quickly halting my movements. “Now, I didn’t tell you that you could move did I?” Silence. “I asked you a question darling. Answer me or I cut this night short.” the words escaped my mouth, I wanted to respond. I really did, but I couldn’t form words and that upset Lewis.

“Oh well, I had a fun night planned for us but since you can’t follow simple instructions,” Lewis lifted me off his hips, letting out a small hiss at the sudden loss of contact “I guess my plans with you have gone to waste” all the words that escaped me a second ago now flooding back to me.

“No, please Lew. I’m sorry, I’ll be good. I’ll obey you, I really need your cock, I need you to make me cum again.” I could tell that my words were getting to him but not quite enough for him to forgive me.

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve given you many chances now I think it’s just appropriate to make you watch as I pleasure myself and leave you high and dry” my thighs clench at the thought of Lewis making me watch as he touches himself and that did not go unnoticed by him “Oh but you’d like that would you? I wouldn’t have taken you as a dirty slut but I’m not complaining”

The threat of touching himself as I watched unable to do anything was no longer a threat as I watched Lewis get off his bed and walk over to the bedside table pulling out two pairs of black fluffy handcuffs making his way over to me as he opens the cuffs.

“sit up against the headboard.” he ordered, sending a gush of wetness between my thighs. I comply knowing I shouldn’t push his buttons more unless I want this night to really end.

As I say against the headboard I watch Lewis intensely as he grabs my one wrist and cuffs it to the bed before climbing on the bed and almost straddling me as he cuffs my other hand to the bed. His cock was just dangling in front of my face so also against my better judgement I give it a kitten lick before placing a kiss on it. Once the cuffs clicked Lewis grabbed my face

“Disobeying me as I’m punishing you? You really don’t want me to take care of you tonight. No no, I think you want me to punish you all night into the morning.” his voice low and seductive

I tug my wrist against the headboard trying to grab his face and pull him in for a kiss but to no avail. I watch as Lewis sits opposite of me as he starts stroking his cock smearing the precum from his head using it as lube. He sets a slow pace as he moves his wrists, he’s not touching himself for pleasure right now. No, he’s touching himself because he knows I want to but can’t because of this punishment.

I bit my lower lip as I watched Lewis’ excruciatingly slow pace, I don’t know why it’s bothering me seeing as it’s not me he’s pleasuring. But that might just be it, he’s so perfect that he shouldn’t have to be pleasured at such a slow pace, he deserves to be worshipped, to have someone that he can use whenever he wants.

Lewis seemed to have taken notice of my thoughts “It’s getting to you right? Watching me touch myself so slow, knowing you would do the opposite?” a nod was all I could do “I need your words if you want your punishment to end soon.”

“Yes, yes it’s killing me Lew. I want to touch you, suck you, I want your cum, I want it all. I want everything you’re willing to give me.” it’s pathetic really, why is he the only man to have this effect on me? I’m a woman for crying out loud, I should be independent and not wasting my time on a man but something about Lewis made me throw all sense of womanhood away.

If this man told me to quit my job and be a stay at home wife like how it was in the 1950s, I would gladly quit my job right now.

“That’s my good dirty girl” as Lewis praised me for using my words, he sped up his strokes. I could tell by the way his face contorted that he was close. “Baby, I’m gonna cum. Where do you want it?” the pace of his strokes told me he wouldn’t last long.

“in my mouth, I need to taste you”

That was all it took before lewis got on his knees and shoved his cock down my throat moving his cock in and out of my throat. As Lewis kept fucking my throat, he was close enough that I could barely touch him but I did anyway. His hips stuttered and with one final thrust he was shoving his cock so far down my throat as he came that my head was sliding to the side of the headboard but it have me better clearance to grip his hips pulling him deeper inside of my throat.

With shaky thighs Lewis pulled back and sat on my thighs as he watched me as I swallowed all of his cum like I said I would. The second Lewis sat down his semi limp cock gently grazed my clit a wave of euphoria came over me and I came. This time was different though, I squirted for like, the first time ever and it was all over Lewis.

“Oh baby, you’re in for a long night” Lewis said while he lapped up whatever he could from both of our stomachs before taking the handcuffs off “be prepared to not talk for a while”

—————

I REALLY WANNA CONTINUE BUT YA GIRL HAS A JOB AND I HAVE TO GET DRESSED AND LEAVE . LMK IF I SHOULD CONTINUE OR IF I SHOULD JS LEAVE IT.

taglist

@luckyladycreator2 @itsmiamalfoy @jeffs77 @ilivbullyingjeongin @forevercaffeinated-lee @daemyratwst @gulphulp @callsignwidow @f1wintermoon13 @teenwolf01 @victoriassecret101 @hiireadstuff @formulaal

[lovesickonmybed]

do u think that bully!abby would tuck the hem of readers skirt into the waistband without reader noticing so that they’re all exposed and their panties are out for everyone to see ;( i rlly need her to embarrass me ugh #lesbianyearninnggggggg fr

Godddd I was gonna go to bed but how can I not write at least something when you gave me the hottest prompt like ever????? Bully!Abby is so mean and I need her.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, public humiliation, degradation, dub-con, bullying, the panties in this may or may not be the exact ones I’m wearing rn but y’all will never know

NSFW under the cut you know the drill babes.

Today had been eerily quiet, Abby hadn’t messed with you once and it was already 2pm. You knew something was up, if she was sick she would’ve texted you and made you humiliate yourself over facetime, you hadn’t gotten a single call or text from her, and that was enough for you to know something was up. 

You were walking around campus, heading to a nearby cafe to get lunch when you spotted her. She was walking towards you, completely alone with her backpack hanging off of her shoulder. She smirks when she sees you, you hate how smug she gets around you. 

“Hey loser, haven’t seen you today. I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” she says as she begins to walk next to you, inching closer and closer with each step. 

“Maybe I was. Maybe I didn’t feel like getting another wedgie or swirly or-”

Abby cuts you off as she chuckles, “It’s cute watching you get your panties in a twist like that.”

You roll your eyes and groan, picking up your pace to try and get away from her, but she catches up to you with ease.

“Oh come on, nerd, that was funny. You love having me around anyway, your days would be so boring without me,” she says smugly, her hand disappearing behind you. You don’t notice her finger wrapping around the hem of your black mini skirt. You continue walking, praying that you make it to the cafe without an atomic wedgie. 

Abby bites her lip to hold back her laugh as she easily lifts your skirt, revealing your care bear printed panties, the leg holes are adorned with light pink lace that Abby desperately wants to rip. You hadn’t felt like doing laundry lately and were very close to being on your last pair, you foolishly thought these would be better than the neon green seamless pair you had originally considered wearing. Abby is careful as she tucks the hem of your skirt into the waistband of your embarrassing panties. She looks back and notices the people walking behind the two of you are starting to giggle. She’s done her job for the day. 

“I’ll see you later loser, don’t have too much fun without me,” Abby says, waving goodbye and walking off towards her next lecture.

As you continue on your walk you get the odd feeling that people are looking at you, you’re extremely confused, there’s no way Abby did anything…right? You reach back to make sure she didn’t stick another sign on your back and you sigh in relief when you feel nothing. You continue walking with your panties on display and multiple people stop and take pictures or videos, completely unbeknownst to you. You’re completely unaware until a nice girl finally comes up to you and tells you. “Just so you know, your skirt is tucked into your underwear…” the girl says.

You feel your face heat up with embarrassment as you pull your skirt out of your waistband. You have no idea how long it’s been like that but you want to crawl into a hole and never come out again. You make a beeline for your dorm, completely abandoning your lunch plans and once you get back in your room you see you have a new text from Abby.

Abby (Asshole): I think everyone on campus enjoyed the show, you’re all over the campus Snapchat, nerd

Reader: Fuck you

You turn off your phone and start to plot your revenge against Abby.

[urfavlarry]

This isn’t a request but like I had a thought and just wanted to share it because yes- imagine being like Tyler’s s/o and going over to his house. He thinks you’re here to spend time with him but nope, you’re here for Taylor and proceed to spend time with her. And like him unintentionally getting jealous of his sister because he wants attention (and hugs but he won’t admit that) but is being ignored for his twin sister- like he’s happy you get along so well but he wants attention! He exists you know! And like you and Taylor can clearly see he’s jealous but do nothing just to mess with him. Which makes him all salty and have a grumpy look on his face. And when you finally do give him attention, he may “unintentionally” be hugging you tight enough you can’t move away when Taylor asks if you want to do smt with her. Idk was just a thought I randomly had lmao-

Replaced!?

Tyler Hernández x gn!reader

warnings: swearing

A/N: I know this wasn’t a request, but I loved the idea so I just HAD to write it!

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It’s been 3 fucking hours. 3 HOURS!!!! Tyler was laying on his bed in his room, looking at the wall, bored out of his mind. He thought after seeing your beautiful smile when he opened the front door that he would spend the day with you, cuddling or just doing ANYTHING! But instead you went to do fun activities with his twin in stead. He glared through the gap between his door, watching you and Taylor laugh at something Taylor said. He was fuming. He was the one that should be making you laugh. He should be the one that you should be spending time with. He loved you and his sister, but he just couldn’t help the jealousy that was slowly kicking in. He was happy to see you both having a good time, but 3 hours without giving your boyfriend attention is too long! He wanted your hugs, your gentle kisses. Anything to hear your sweet voice, your laughter. He couldn’t help the thought of just bursting into his sister’s room and carrying you away from her and caging you in his arms.

Meanwhile you and Taylor, unbeknownst to Tyler, you were laughing at him. Of course you noticed his cold stare, who wouldn’t have since his narrowed eyes were practically burning holes into your back. He looked like an angry kid who wanted to play with his friend at the playground but his mother didn’t let him so he was forced to just watch. You felt bad, but messing with him once in a while couldn’t hurt, so you decided to ignore his killer stare. If looks could kill, you and Taylor would be currently getting buried 6 feet under the ground.

Taylor decided to go get you both some more snacks, asking if you wanted to come with to the convenience store just at the end of the neighbourhood, but you decided to stay. You laid there in her bed, checking your phone when you suddenly feel a weight on your chest. You knew it was Tyler, who else would it be. Dark brown curls tickled your neck as he buried his face into your chest, mumbling incoherent things, probably complaining about the lack of attention he got the whole day. You decide to give in and give him some attention, making the boy smile against your neck, which didn’t go unnoticed by you. He slid his arms under you so he was basically clinging to you, whining for more. You wouldn’t catch him dead whining if anyone was in the room other than you, making you giggle at the thought of him being all embarrassed if Taylor just randomly showed up right now. You rub his back, his whole body relaxing and his arms visibly getting goosebumps from just your touch.

As if on cue, Taylor shows up and stops dead in her tracks after seeing the scene in front of her. She stifles a laugh and walks over to her bed, sitting down next to you. She giggles, watching the scene unfold. “So now that I’m here, could we do that thing I showed you earlier? I bought the things needed for it!” She asks and you smile, running your hand through Tylers hair. “Ty, can you let go now? Me and Taylor are still hanging out you know?” You say and he stands up, but just before you could even properly sit up, he lifts you up and carries you to his room. You glare at him, kicking your feet; “Hey!? What was that for?” You say and he lays you down on his bed, shutting his door and locks it behind him as Taylor tried to get in to help you out of this situation. He walks to his bed and lays down on top of you again, nuzzling into your neck. You go to complain but shut your mouth when he looks at you with hooded eyes, eyebrows furrowed, a face that made your knees go weak in just a second.

“She had you all day, it’s my turn to have some quality time with MY s/o!” He says and kisses your whole face then down your neck, making you squeal. “Okay, okay.. Fine.” You say with a smile and cup his cheek, kissing his soft lips. “Being replaced by my own twin is NOT fun.” He says and you giggle, accepting you’re probably spending the night to make up for the little mischief you caused.

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[blessedwithabadomen]

in love with the mess - day fourteen

summary : Aubrey is going on tour and, for once, she's decided to focus on having as much fun as possible. Oli can be a little shit but he does nothing short of adore Audrey and... well, maybe Noah a little, too. Noah likes the flirting, as long as no one gets too close, emotionally. But what will happen when the three of them take it too far?

content : angst, fluff, overthinking, mentions of drinking, mentions of throwing up

length : 6k

tags (let me know if you want to be tagged!) : @veronicaphoenix @cookiesupplier @lma1986 @jilliemiw86 @bngurngheart @lacktoesandtoddlerants @narcissisticbehavior81 @flowery-mess @shilohrosechicken @justeli6 @starvingarsyn @floatinglikeaswan @blacksoul-27 @somebodyels3 @kageyasma @spikeisdaddy @broken0mens @sunsshinesunny

a/n : sorry about the delay!!! I'm going on holiday and it was all very stressful and hectic and then we had to figure out how to get to the airport tomorrow morning because the trains are suddenly not running lmao but here it is!!!

•••

day fourteen

“You… you told-”

Noah didn’t even manage to say it out loud. He didn’t need to. Oli and I were just as aware of the fucking blunder we’d just made. The one that might change everything now.

We should have told him earlier. We should have told him, period. Not risked letting him find out. We’d truly fucked up. Too wrapped up in our own happiness and love to really grasp the consequences. How ridiculously selfish of us.

The room had fallen awkwardly silent, or maybe the ringing in my ears was simply tuning out everything else. Either way, there were still people around us, people who had no business listening in to this, people who didn’t need to know anything about our situation. I wasn’t actually sure if anyone even cared - but all the people running around us were distracting at best. Oli seemed to think the same.

“My dressing room, now,” he simply said, no harshness in his order, yet none of us would have dared to decline.

No more words were exchanged as we made our way through the labyrinthine hallways of the arena. We didn’t touch each other, suddenly hyperaware of every single one of our movements, as if they would be watched and analysed and scrutinised. All of us kept our heads down as we passed by a multitude of people and the general vibe we were giving off seemed to do enough to keep everyone else away. We weren’t in the mood for small talk. Or any talk at all that didn’t include just the three of us.

Oli held the door open for us as we passed him, then shut it after he had entered himself. I’d never felt this out of place in my life. The chaotic, stuffed dressing room that had started to feel close to a second home, even if the actual location kept changing, now did nothing but suffocate me. All of us lingered in the middle of it. No one sat down. As if comfort wasn’t allowed.

“How long?” Noah’s voice seemed painfully loud in the quiet dressing room. The door shut out the noise from outside remarkably well.

“Two days ago,” Oli answered, as if it was no bother at all, as if this wasn’t potentially the most crucial conversation the three of us had ever had, but I could see it in his eyes, in the way he tried to hide his hands fumbling with nothing in particular. “I didn’t mean to say it, then. I mean, I love her, but it just tumbled out of my mouth, really.”

“We didn’t mean to keep it a secret from you,” I added. My whole body ached to reach out to Noah, but the fear of how badly the rejection would sting kept me frozen in place. “We meant to talk to you, there just… We didn’t know how or when. I know that’s the shittiest excuse ever. We should have made the right moment to tell you.”

“So what does that mean now,” Noah all but interrupted. His eyes were flicking back and forth between Oli and me, restless and nervous. He didn’t even seem to process any of the information we’d just told him, even if his brain was probably going a hundred miles an hour. “You two are… a thing. And you still fucked me this morning. Why?”

It was my turn to be stunned. Did he really not know? Was he so completely unaware? Or was he simply trying to shield himself, ignore everything that had happened between the three of us in the past two weeks? Because in my mind, there was no way he didn’t know that this was more than just the three of us fucking around. Or me and Oli getting together. In all the ways that we had complicated and confused this whole thing, it had always been about the three of us. Surely.

“Because we love you, you fucking idiot!”

The outburst pierced the silence painfully but it wasn’t until Noah and Oli both stared at me in shock that the realisation dawned that it had been my outburst. I was the one shouting these words. But as soon as it sunk in, I knew I wasn’t done. Some invisible dam had burst - I was going to speak my mind and I was going to speak it now. No more holding back for the sake of others or blindly agreeing for fear of rejection or letting anyone else take the lead.

“This wasn’t just some weird ploy to get Oli and me together and you get stranded on the sidelines. This has been about the three of us from the start and you know it. So what if Oli and I got there first. I’ve been ready to shout about my feelings for you from the rooftops for days now, Noah. But I didn’t. Because I knew it would scare you away. And I was desperate, Noah, desperate for that not to happen.”

I took a breath, trying to keep a hold of myself, trying not to unravel. I willed the tears in my eyes to disappear but all that happened was that one escaped me and dramatically slid down my face. Noah, somehow, was the first one to react, wiping it away so softly that another immediately followed.

“Every time Oli and I are alone, it feels like a part of us is missing. Like the bed is too big, even when it really isn’t. Or there’s a remark hanging in the room that you would make but you’re not there to say it. I don’t want to do this without you. I want you. I don’t know how this is going to work and I don’t really care because I know we’ll figure it out. I’m in love with you, Noah.”

I couldn’t deal with the way he was looking at me. Especially because I, for once, felt so completely, wholly unable to analyse it at all. Was it pity? Oncoming rejection? Insecurity? Love? I could only hope for the latter, but my emotions were running amok in my body and there was no certainty in anything anymore. In anything but the fact that I was so in love.

Noah was still standing in front of me, but his hand wasn’t on my face anymore and I missed it dearly. All I wanted was to throw myself into his arms and beg him to give the three of us a chance. But this was on him, and him alone.

“She’s right, you know?” Oli piped up next to me. He was much braver than me, pulling Noah close, putting his hand to the other man’s neck and letting their foreheads rest against each other. “We’re not complete without you. I… Noah, I’m in love with you. And, fuck, I never thought I’d say that to a man, but here we are.”

He kissed Noah then, deeply and passionately. It was all he could do. I only hoped it would be enough.

“We don’t want to rush you, Noah. But that’s where we’re at and I… I would hate for this tour to be over with unspoken things lingering between us. So, I don’t know, take some time, talk to us or don’t if you need to be by yourself, whatever you need. But, please, think about it. About us. It’s the only thing I’m asking you for.”

Noah nodded, keeping his head hanging low and staring at the ground now that Oli wasn’t holding him up anymore. I let my hand drift to his jaw, making him look at me. I simply needed to press a kiss to his mouth. The chances that I might not get to do it again were too high.

He felt sweet against me, reciprocating the kiss with a familiarity I had grown so accustomed to. But he didn’t initiate anything else. I let go of him and stepped back.

“I’ll give you an answer. Tonight. I promise.”

Believing in him was all Oli and I could do.

•••

It felt wrong to sleep alone. If I’d already been lamenting the fact that Noah was missing when it was just Oli and me, I’d completely forgotten just how awful it would feel to have neither of them next to me in bed. The cold was seeping into my bones, one that couldn’t be fixed with any number of blankets or heating in the room. I missed feeling their bodies around me, feeling the mattress move every time they shuffled. Missed their hands on me, their chests pressed against my own and my back. Their slowing breathing filling the room with the slightest noises that had me drifting off to sleep so easily. Now I was too cold and the room was too quiet and my brain was too loud.

We had tried to be reasonable about it, really. We’d gotten a ride back to the hotel together and while I tried to savour every moment with them, it had been the most awkward situation we’d managed to find ourselves in just yet. When we had lingered in the hotel hallway, unsure of how to proceed from here, Noah had said that he needed some time to think, alone, and that it would probably be for the best if he just went back to his room with Jolly. We’d bid him goodnight, not attempting to kiss or hug him or initiate any other physical contact, and he’d ended up waving before walking down the corridor. Like a stranger.

Then it had just been Oli and me, again. I’d made him hold me, for a while, needing the closeness and the reassurance that we could somehow be fine whatever happened now, but we didn’t talk. Only to agree that we should sleep separately for once. It simply felt… wrong to allow ourselves to spend the night in an attempt at what would hopefully become a steady relationship when Noah was still struggling and confused and neither part of it nor outside of it. Plus, I knew fully well that we would end up talking the whole night, not getting a wink of sleep and instead stressing ourselves out even further.

Not that I was getting much rest on my own now.

Picking up my phone, I once again, for what felt like the seventieth time that night, opened our group chat. There wasn’t very much in there to be honest. Most of the time, it was easy enough to locate each other in the venues or their rooms. And if I was looking for someone specific, I usually ended up texting just that person. The other one was probably with one of us already anyway.

Still.

My fingers hovered over the screen. And then they typed, before I could stop them. I clicked the sent button as soon as the last letter had appeared. Just to make sure I wouldn’t back out again. Then I chucked the phone as far away from me as I could while still being able to hear my alarm in a few hours and turned around, hoping for sleep to come, hoping for my brain to give me some peace for at least a while. Hoping those two men would feel the same way I did when they read my message.

I miss you already.

•••

I ended up running late which was something that rarely happened and tended to be in my top ten most stressful situations in life. I had been so preoccupied with leaving on time or at least not too late to make my flight to Dublin that I didn’t even remember to check my messages until I was in the car to the airport.

Noah Can we talk tonight? The guys want to go out but maybe after?

There was about an hour of nothing in the chat, I presumed Oli was asleep or simply not checking his phone at that time, before another message from him came through.

Noah I miss you too Both

Then silence, again, for a few hours. Oli had apparently gotten up earlier than I had and, somehow, had been more organised. Or at least enough to text.

Oli Think everyone’s keen on going out tonight We can meet up at the hotel afterward? My room? Please don’t make me stay on my own again, I couldn’t even get any rest without you (Aubrey) clinging to my shirt until it almost choked me and you (Noah) terrifying me with your sleep talking in the middle of the night

I wasn’t going to cry in the cab. Even if I did end up clutching the phone to my heart as if it physically held the people I loved and not just the messages they had left. Maybe it was going to be alright after all. Maybe we could make this work. Maybe, even tonight already, we would be right where we were supposed to be - next to each other.

I didn’t get a chance to reply as the driver pulled up to the airport. But I would get to talk to them later tonight, at the very latest. And that made my heart that little bit lighter.

•••

“I’ll let you know that I was only slightly panicked about you missing the flight,” Becky said as I reached my gates, mere moments before boarding was about to start. I huffed at her, pretending it was because I was shocked at how little faith she had in me, not because I was legitimately out of breath.

“Which would have been annoying but not the end of the world, pretty sure there's more fights from here to Dublin than just this one today.”

“Not if they all get cancelled because of the storm.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Storm?”

“Yeah, it's pretty windy already so it's not clear whether later flights will go ahead. Wait, you don't look too well - are you- are you afraid of flying?”

“I'm afraid of turbulences,” I admitted.

“Well, then,” Becky said, reaching into her bag as she ushered me towards the counter where they'd just started boarding. “Here's to hoping your surprises will keep you occupied!”

“Wait- plural?”

She didn’t feel the need to answer me as she instead pushed me forward to get my ticket checked and then ushered down the way toward the plane. I was already on the aircraft when she caught up with me, briefly waiting as I took my assigned seat in the middle, which was only bearable because the window seat was taken by Noah. He sent me a tired smile, making me wonder how much rest he’d gotten during the night, as I slid into the row.

“Have fun!” Becky squealed, putting a folder in my hands and vanishing down the aisle of the plan before I could stop her. I briefly looked from the now vacant spot to the folder to Noah, who had a small but knowing smile on his face.

I quickly stored my luggage and got comfortable - as comfortable as possible on a flight - and only got briefly interrupted when Oli walked down the aisle next to me, throwing a kiss in my direction the way he had done the night before, then throwing another to Noah, who accepted it with the blush I had grown to love so much on his cheeks.

“Do you know what this is about?” I asked as more and more people filled up the plane, boarding finally finishing and the crew getting ready for takeoff.

“Maybe,” he chuckled, giving me one more look that I couldn’t quite get a grasp on, then busying himself in the comic in his hands, one I recognised he’d bought on our trip to Forbidden Planet a while ago.

Realising I wasn’t going to get any more information out of him, I decided I might as well try to preoccupy myself with figuring out what exactly Becky had given me during take off. It was the worst part of the flight anyway. Well, minus the landing. And any turbulences.

However, there simply had to be one more interruption.

“Is this seat taken?”

Confused, I looked up from the folder, already questioning what sense that question could possibly make on a fight with assigned seating, when my eyes spotted-

“Lia!”

I tried to jump up but the seatbelt I'd already buckled painfully pulled me back. Noah quickly reached over to undo it as I stood up, folder almost crashing to the floor, my arms wrapping around my best friend as if I hadn't seen her for years. It felt like it.

A stern look from one of the flight attendants had us sit down immediately, getting settled and ready for take off.

“What are you doing here? I don't understand!”

“Did you know Becky is super nice and also definitely able to bully people into giving her my number and telling me to get my ass here?”

“Wait, so-”

“Well, apparently Oli requested my presence too,” she continued, completely unfazed by my questions, “and we both know he's asking for you and not because he loves me so much. Also the hotel had a free room for the next two nights, how handy, right? So here I am, taking you out drinking tonight and trying to punch some sense into all of you guys. Hi, Noah!”

Noah waved awkwardly and then handed me back the folder I had almost forgotten about. He just have caught up when I'd almost dropped it.

“Have you read it yet?” Lia asked, almost jumping in her seat. I shook my head and then buried it in the papers in front of me.

Nothing made sense.

I skimmed through the pages, then back to the first one, as if it might just have been my English skills inexplicably leaving me, but no. I was seeing - and reading - correctly. With a frown so tight it almost hurt the skin on my forehead, I read through the contents, properly now, absorbing every word.

I wasn’t sure how long I took, flipping through the pages, back and forth, just to make sure I was reading correctly, that I wasn’t hallucinating these words, that this was for real.

“This- I mean… I-”

“You're getting an apprenticeship, Aubrey!” Lia shouted so loudly that someone from the row in front of us turned around with a frown. “Becky asked the company she works for and they're offering it to you. Said that the past two days were basically your try-outs. You're gonna be a sound technician! Well, if you accept, of course.”

“Oh my god,” I mumbled, flipping through the pages again, and again. This whole thing felt like a fever dream I was not ready to wake up from. “And in a few days I would-”

“Come on tour with us and shadow Becky,” Noah completed my sentence. “Not the most conventional way to start learning the basics, but when have any of us ever been. Conventional, that is.”

I didn't have time to think about the implications of his words or how they could translate to a completely different issue too. All I could do was put a hand over my mouth in shock and cease to fight against the tears that were starting to spill down my cheeks in abundance. Both Noah and Becky hugged me as much as they possibly could with all of us stuck in our seats. Even the turbulence couldn't faze me anymore.

Life might actually be looking up.

•••

If there was one thing Lia knew how to do, it was how to keep me occupied and distracted. We spent most of the day chatting, which included a lot of me rambling about my chaotic love life - I only cried once - and her fawning over her wife and how she needed a change of occupation too. On top of that, we decided to have lunch at the hotel restaurant, where we promptly bumped into Becky, who allowed me to ask all the questions about the internship offered and then almost bowled me over in my chair when I asked the waiter for a pen to sign the contract straight away.

Since all of us had the night off, we ended up agreeing over several different group chats to go out big style - crew, Bad Omens, Bring Me The Horizon, well, and Lia. Even though she had a room of her own, she’d practically gathered half her suitcase and made a home in mine as we got ready together.

Yet, all she seemed to do was veto every outfit I showed her until we finally landed on an oversized pullover I used as a dress (just about sexy enough for her, comfortable enough for me, who wasn’t actually looking to attract anyone new that evening) and a pair of fishnet tights that would do nothing at all to protect me from the January cold but would hopefully look less out of place once we were inside again.

“So, what’s the plan with Noah, then?” Lia asked as she dropped down on my bed, spilling some of the setting powder in her hand and then trying to rub it into the duvet as if I hadn’t seen. “Because all I see right now is you and Oli sitting around waiting.”

“What else is there to do?” I sighed. I genuinely felt at a loss. We’d put the ball in his court. We’d told him how we felt. We left the decision up to him. But would all of that be enough?

“What’s the biggest issue right now? Like, what’s his fears?”

“Probably that Oli and I have a stronger connection with each other than either of us has with him. That we already know each other so well that he’ll be the one left out.”

“Sounds like you guys need more time together. The three of you. Completely ignoring what you and Oli might know about each other from before and just focus on finding yourselves in this relationship now.”

The silence lingered for a moment as both of us got lost in our thoughts, the mascara I was in the middle of applying now forgotten in my hand. I stared at myself in the mirror, made up and dressed up, and wondered who I was. Someone in love. Someone who was willing to fight for it. I was so over being passive.

“What can I do?”

“Well, first of all, put mascara on the other eye too because you look very asymmetrical.”

I rolled my eyes but did as she said, knowing that if I got too carried away, I’d completely forget about the rest of my makeup anyway.

“Give yourselves more time?” Lia offered.

“Tour ends tomorrow,” I thought out loud. “The Bad Omens tour isn’t until the 27th and the flight to Berlin is on the 26th. Now, I know Oli is completely free the next few days and I can ask around again but I’m pretty sure Noah has a break until then as well.”

Lia simply let out a hum in the background of my monologue, just to let me know she was still listening as I started scrolling through my phone, typing and searching.

“Fuck it,” I decided. “I’m booking us a family room for the next few days after tour. Nice hotel, just outside of Dublin. No distractions, no one else we know around us, no shows, no appointments, nothing. Just the three of us. There. Booked. Do you think the hotel can print something for me?”

Lia looked at me like a proud parent which was unnerving at best but I ignored it.

“I’m sure Oli would love to go and ask with you,” she grinned as I pulled on my shoes and was already halfway out the door, jacket and bag at the ready.

“Meet you downstairs in a few?”

“Will do! Don’t get distracted by Oli’s dick!”

•••

“What if he doesn’t even notice?”

“Of course he’ll fucking notice.”

“You don’t know that! He might not look this way and then just stumble over it!”

“What if we knock?”

“But we’re supposed to drop it off without him seeing!”

“Fine. I’ll knock and we’ll run and hide around the corner.”

“What are we, five?”

“Yes. I’m knocking now.”

I quickly dropped the printed paper along with the post-it stuck on top to the floor as Oli all but pounded on Noah’s hotel room door before bolting down the hallway with me and stopping just around the corner, pulling each other to safety and then peeking around just as we saw him step out, confused. We stayed hidden until we heard the door fall back into its lock and then spared another glance to make sure he had picked up our notes.

“You think he’s going to do it? Come with us for another few days?”

“Well, a luxurious hotel and both of us, he’d be stupid to refuse,” Oli chuckled, but I could tell the anxiety weighed on him just as heavily. There wasn’t much more to do, really. We’d told him about our feelings. We wanted to spend the small break that all of us had together, no distractions, just getting to know each other better and figuring out how this could work. It was truly his turn now.

“Come on, stop worrying that pretty head of yours so much,” Oli said, pressing a kiss to it. “Let’s get Lia and see what Dublin has to offer, yeah?”

I simply let myself fall into his arms a little as he led us toward the lifts, ready to forget about the ache in my heart just for a while.

•••

The night ended up not being all that wild, after all. Everyone was feeling the exhaustion from the past two weeks on tour. It didn’t mean that the pub we had all gathered it wasn’t in danger of running out of spirits, though. The mood was high and the volume in the room seemed to be getting louder by the minute. I’d already saved various people from Lia various times because if someone didn’t know how to shut her mouth when intoxicated, it was her. I’d currently lost track of her once again which was slightly worrying, but the more drinks Becky was providing me with, the less I cared. Her husband wasn’t back company either, although he seemed ever so slightly overwhelmed with the rowdy crowd around us.

“Are you excited to go on the Bad Omens tour then?” He asked, an arm around Becky, who was currently distracted by someone else who was telling her about some sound system or other, and I only briefly let myself fall into the yearning of having that kind of stable relationship, the kind of love that people would see from miles away without any of us doing anything, the kind of connection that shone through even when we weren’t talking.

“Did everyone but me know about this?”

“Well, yes,” he laughed. “As far as I know it was a joint venture, Becky, Lia, Oli and Noah all huddled together to make this happen. I guess you’re very loved.”

“God, don’t make me sappy now,” I chuckled but it was nothing but an attempt to keep the tears at bay. I’d been crying entirely too much lately, for a number of reasons, and I was getting a little tired of it.

I excused myself momentarily, citing a bathroom break, but found myself standing outside the pub instead. The cold air sent shivers up and down my body, but I didn’t mind all that much. It was a nice reminder that I wasn’t only in my head. That I was here right now. I flinched when a hand landed on my waist, a gesture so strangely intimate I knew it to be Noah before I registered anything else.

“So you two really want to spend more time with me alone after this tour?” he asked, jokingly, but he couldn’t fool me. I could see the insecurity in his eyes, in the way he stood, in the way his hand lingered on my body without quite grabbing it.

“Noah, love, I’ll always want to spend more time with you.” My hand was on his chest now, hard and lean under my fingertips, and it took all the strength I possessed not to pull him in and kiss him stupid. “If your tour wasn’t coming up so soon after, I’d probably have booked us in for a month.”

His fingers ildly played with the fabric of my makeshift dress. “Maybe-”

The door from the pub banged open with more force than it should have been able to. A rather tipsy Lia stumbled out, obnoxiously pointing at Noah as she came over.

“You! Folio threw up on the bar and they’re kicking him out and I’ve been told you’re the one to bother. He needs to get back to the hotel and you guys are sharing right? Come on. I’ll help.”

Noah sighed, deeply, but looked at me once more before turning away. “Can we talk later? The three of us? Not in my room though, for obvious reasons.”

“Sure,” I chuckled. “Oli’s room later? We can shoot you a text.”

“Perfect,” he said and then he bent down and pressed a soft kiss to my lips and I could really believe this was going to work out.

•••

The night was dying down earlier than I would have expected, but both Oli and Mat kept loudly complaining that they were not 25 anymore after all. I bit back a comment about how that luckily hadn’t impacted Oli’s performance in bed. As more and more people started leaving, Oli clung to me, leaning his body on me with much more force than necessary, then giggling at the way I almost buckled under his weight. He was a little tipsy, just on the verge of it, and it made him all kinds of needy and whiny. Although I wasn’t quite sure if that was actually down to the alcohol or if he was simply in a mood.

“I want Noah,” he mumbled into my ear as he rested his head on my shoulder. It seemed horribly uncomfortable with the height difference, but I patted his hair in what I hoped would be a calming and reassuring gesture anyway. “I miss Noah.”

“I know, baby,” I cooed. “Do you want to go back to the hotel? I can shoot him a text.”

“Please.”

The cold outside seemed to wake and sober him up considerably as we got into a cab to get back to the hotel. He immediately pulled me into the middle seat, claiming the distance was simply unacceptable.

“Thank you for helping with the job situation, by the way,” I whispered, as if it was a secret, just for the two of us. “The job, offering me a place to stay, getting me on this tour in the first place… I really don’t know how to ever thank you for everything you do for me, Oli.”

He grabbed my face then, gently, so I would look at him. Then he kissed me so deeply that I was getting lightheaded, all sensations swimming through my brain in one big mush as I allowed myself to drown in them, knowing he was holding me and keeping me safe.

“You could keep on loving me, that’s all I’ll ever ask for.”

“Well, that’s going to be very easy,” I giggled, pressing a kiss to his nose right as the driver announced our arrival.

The hotel was quiet as soon as we left the reception area. I wondered if Noah was still busy taking care of Folio. If I should text him immediately and ask him to come over. If he wanted to talk to us yet. My train of thought was interrupted when we arrived on our floor and none other than Lia left Noah and Folio’s room, quickly running over to us as I shushed her for being too loud in her heels.

“He’s finally stopped puking,” she gleefully announced. “I’m off to bed now. Noah… Well, get to your room. He’ll get in touch?”

“He’ll- what?” I asked, but Lia was already bouncing down the hallway again, refusing to stop for clarification. Oli simply shrugged his shoulders as he unlocked the door and held it open for me.

It only took a few moments.

The knock wasn’t as much as a surprise, considering we were basically waiting for Noah, but the fact that no one was there when we opened it felt a bit comical. Especially when we realised a folded up piece of paper was on the floor in front of us.

“This feels like payback,” Oli laughed breathlessly, quite obviously just as nervous about this as I was. I refused to let the overthinking get the better of me though as I bent down to pick it up and unfolded it while Oli closed the door again. When I saw the amount of text, I ushered him in the direction of the bed so we could sit on the edge and read it together. He had to help hold onto it so we could still be make out the words amid my shaking.

Aubrey, Oli, my loves.

I’ve spent the last day doing very little else but think about everything. I’ve been trying to find a winner in the war that kept waging in my head but it seemed impossible.

Well, Lia didn’t allow that. She’s quite a force, isn’t she? As soon as Folio was in bed, she basically held me at gunpoint (figuratively) while she told me what she thought about the situation and how much of a “fucking useless idiot” I was being. Then she made me write a pro and contra list on the back of this page because apparently that’s what she does when she can’t make a decision. I’m not sure if buying a new phone quite compares to this, but I humoured her. And I think it helped. Just don’t tell her that.

Noah

There was a slightly messed up heart drawn next to it. The hope was rising up in my throat like bile, threatening to make me throw up just from the sheer terror and excitement about what was happening. We were so close to an answer. This was the moment.

Oli nodded at me to turn the paper over as soon as he was also done reading. He looked white as a sheet and I was sure my own face mirrored it. My shaky fingers only got worse when I flipped the page over.

There was indeed a list in front of us. Lots of entries on the “pro” side. Ranging from “They make me laugh” to “I feel safe with them” and “They know I’m scared and they don’t mind”. The contra side was shorter, but still held a few bulletpoints. “The distance”, “Third wheel” and “How to make this work??” were scribbled there.

But none of that was the important part.

The important part was that the list had been crossed out, liberally, with a massive “x” over the whole page, making it a little harder to read some of the points. And in the middle of it, almost from one corner to the other, covering even more words, he had written one single sentence. One sentence that seemed to count more than all the others. That made everything else not matter. That made clear that he had come to a decision.

I AM IN LOVE WITH THEM.

[journalofimprobablethings]

following the echo down

Jon looks up at Tim, whose eyes are fixed on the road, two fingers tapping out a rapid tattoo on the steering wheel. Who, Jon realizes, hasn’t actually looked at him once this whole time.

“This is real,” Jon says. His voice is hoarse with disuse.

Tim’s fingers go still on the wheel. He finally looks over at Jon—just a quick glance, before he returns his gaze to the road.

“Yeah, Jon,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “This is real. Put your seatbelt on.”

--

Anyone in need of some Circus-related JonTim angst?

Tim rescues Jon from the Circus in this one, and Jon isn't quite sure why. They both get a hug. It doesn't really fix things.

Full fic is below the cut, or you can read it on ao3 here.

-- It takes until Tim dumps him unceremoniously in the passenger seat of a battered Mini parked outside the wax museum for Jon to realize that this might actually be happening.

When Tim first appeared, kneeling in front of his chair to undo the ropes on his ankles while hissing at him to wake the fuck up, Jon, he was certain he was hallucinating. 

He’d long given up on the idea that anyone was coming for him. Georgie at least might have wondered where he went, but since he’d told her he was moving out, he wasn’t sure even she would notice anything amiss. And the others…well. He supposed they were probably grateful he was making himself scarce.

And even if one of them had thought to wonder, and cared enough to look—it wouldn’t have been Tim. Not now. Not after everything that had broken down between them.

 So he simply watched with a detached kind of interest as Tim picked at the knots at his ankles, then his wrists. He panted with relief when Tim pulled the gag from his mouth, but still made no effort to move on his own–if this was a hallucination, or a dream, he was afraid any movement he made would disrupt it, and he would be back where he’d been for weeks: shivering against the cold metal chair, trying to ignore the ache in his shoulders or the prickle of rope on his wrists.

He didn’t respond when Tim asked if he could walk, and he didn’t resist when Tim huffed in frustration and lifted him out of the chair, hefted him against his chest, and started for the door. 

When the mannequins finally appeared at the other end of the room to give chase, Jon closed his eyes, hoping he could somehow keep this from becoming a nightmare by sheer force of will. Even in a dream, he didn’t want to see Tim get torn apart. 

And so he didn’t see how close their pursuers might have gotten, or how Tim got them out of the museum. He only knew that suddenly, he felt the cool air of an early summer evening against his skin, and heard the sound of a car door opening, and now—

And now he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Tim’s car, with a soft, slightly pilled blanket on his lap, and Tim is slamming the driver’s side door and growling at him,

“Put your seatbelt on. I don’t need you flying through the windscreen.”

 He doesn’t wait for Jon to do so before he slams the car into gear and screeches away from the museum.

The details of it all are too real and specific and irritating for his mind to have conjured. There are crumbs on the seat under him, pricking at his thighs. The car smells of stale coffee and damp, like maybe someone left a wet umbrella in the footwell too long, and the water seeped into the carpeting. Jon looks at the blanket in his lap and  realizes that he recognizes it—Tim made it years ago, when they were in Research and he tried out crocheting to see if a handicraft would help soak up some of his endless, restless energy. It was the only thing he’d actually finished.

Jon looks up at Tim, whose eyes are fixed on the road, two fingers tapping out a rapid tattoo on the steering wheel. Who, Jon realizes, hasn’t actually looked at him once this whole time.

“This is real,” Jon says. His voice is hoarse with disuse.

Tim’s fingers go still on the wheel. He finally looks over at Jon—just a quick glance, before he returns his gaze to the road.

“Yeah, Jon,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “This is real. Put your seatbelt on.”

Jon does what he’s told. His hands are shaking so much it takes a couple tries, and by the time he succeeds, they’re on the motorway, the museum long gone in the distance behind them.

–

They don’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

At first Jon steals glances at Tim every few minutes, waiting for—he’s not sure. An explosion, maybe. A torrent of blame for forcing Tim to risk himself to rescue Jon’s useless, scrawny ass. In another life, he might have hoped for—even expected—some concern. Soft questions about how he’s feeling; whether he wants to talk about what happened (he doesn’t). Assurances that he’s safe. 

He knows better than to expect or hope for something like that now.

Jon pulls the blanket up over his shoulders and tucks his knees up against his chest, grateful for the novel sensation of being completely covered and warm. When it’s clear that Tim has no intention of talking, he leans his head back against the headrest and stares out the window, watching the headlights and night-time shadows streak past.

It’s hard to believe there’s a whole world out there, a world that kept on going the whole time he was trapped with Nikola. Kept right on going, perfectly fine, without him.

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, and closes his eyes.

–

It’s not a surprise when Tim pulls up to the Institute. Jon doesn’t have a flat anymore, after all, and Tim doesn’t know Georgie’s address. And there was never a question, really, whether Tim would want Jon to stay with him.

Getting out of the car is an awkward shuffle, as Jon first tries to pull himself out under his own steam, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around himself, but quickly discovers that his legs can’t hold him up just yet. Before he can say anything—an apology? a request for help? He’s not sure which—Tim is there, scooping him up just like he did at the museum.

Luckily, it’s late enough that there’s no one there to see.

When they make it down to the Archives, Tim deposits him on the break room sofa and disappears before Jon can find any words to thank him.

He supposes it doesn’t matter so much, in the end. Tim rescued him, brought him somewhere safe. It would be too much, surely, to ask him to stay.

At some point he’ll have to get up, find something to put on. For the moment, though, he can’t bring himself to move.

Jon pulls the blanket closer and looks around. The break room looks the same as it always has: the battered table with a wad of paper underneath one leg to keep it level, the mismatched chairs, the pile of old crossword-puzzle books that Jon is pretty sure were here when they all arrived. The corkboard by the door is covered in curling notices of workers’ rights and old post-it doodles. They’ve been there so long that Jon doesn’t remember who drew them. He wonders if any of them are Sasha’s.

It’s all so mundane, and familiar, and Jon doesn’t entirely know how to process it.

He knows this is real. It is.

But he doesn’t know how to reconcile a month of ropes and invasive plastic hands and constant, low-grade terror with the brightly-colored mugs sitting in the dish rack by the sink.

After everything that’s happened, you’d think he’d be better at this—handling the cognitive dissonance of eldritch horrors existing alongside the mundane details of daily life. But somehow it still surprises him.

His thoughts are interrupted by the break room door opening–it’s not loud or violent, but nevertheless Jon startles so hard he almost falls off the sofa. He clutches the blanket and breathes deeply, trying to calm his rabbiting heart.

“Sorry,” Tim says, though he sounds like he doesn’t know if it’s true.

“I-it’s all right,” Jon says. “I—” he takes another breath. “I thought you’d gone.”

Something undefinable flits across Tim’s face.

“Just went to grab your clothes. Here.”

Tim holds out a neatly folded stack that Jon recognizes. He’d taken to stashing a spare outfit in his desk, for the days that he stayed at work too late to catch the Tube home. 

He hadn’t realized Tim knew about it.

“I—thank you.”

He takes the clothes, expecting Tim to leave again immediately—but instead Tim just turns his back and studies the old doodles on the corkboard, clearly giving Jon space to get dressed.

It should make him feel embarrassed or awkward, but instead he finds that he’s oddly grateful not to be left alone.

Slowly, Jon begins the painstaking process of putting on clothes for the first time in a month. His joints are stiff and his fingers clumsy, and it takes about three times as long as it normally would. But still, he manages, and the relief at finally being clothed loosens just a little bit of the tension in his shoulders.

He takes the blanket from where he’d laid it on the couch and begins to fold it.

“All–er—-all done,” he says.

Tim doesn’t turn around straight away. Instead, he puts his hands in his pockets and studies his shoes.  “I need to tell you something. Before—before we talk more. And I think—” he hesitates. It’s the first time in months that Jon has heard him sound so uncertain. “I think I need to make it a statement.”

Jon blinks in surprise.

“Are you sure?” Jon asks. “I just—you—”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t have to tell me.” Tim huffs an angry sigh. “I don’t want to—to offer up this story to some spooky eldritch power. But I—you need to hear it. And I think—I might not be able to tell it any other way.”

Jon hesitates.

“Okay.”

Then Tim turns and holds out, of all things, a tape recorder.

For a second Jon just stares at it. It makes him think of that first time, back at the beginning, when Tim unearthed an old recorder at his request. When none of them knew what it meant, or what was coming.

It’s ironic, he thinks, that Tim was the one to bring the first recorder into the Archives, when now out of all of them, he’s the one that hates them the most.

“Tim, are you—”

“Don’t ask me again.” He shakes the recorder at Jon. "Let’s just do this.”

“All right.” Jon takes the recorder, goes through the motions of checking the tape inside by rote. He’s not looking at Tim when he starts the recording, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Tim stiffen at the click and hiss as the tape starts up.

“Statement of Timothy Stoker,” Jon says, “regarding…” He looks at Tim, questioning.

Tim takes a shaky breath. “The disappearance of… of my brother, Danny, four years ago.”

Right. God. Okay.

Jon looks once more at Tim, searching his face for…what? Hesitation? Fear? Tim catches him staring and glares back.

“Get on with it, then,” he says sharply.

Jon looks quickly back down at the tape recorder in his hands.

“Right. Um. S-Statement begins.”

–

They stand in what feels like an infinite stretch of silence once Tim finishes. 

Jon had offered none of his usual follow-up remarks, simply waiting to make sure Tim was done before saying quietly, “Statement ends,” and clicking the recorder off.

The ticking of the break room clock seems suddenly loud and insistent in the silence left behind.

Jon remembers when Tim first arrived in Research, the intensity with which he pursued sources about Robert Smirke and his architecture. He’d wondered, at the time, if Tim had had an experience like his own, a reason he’d come to the Institute beyond curiosity about the paranormal. But it wasn’t something that you could bring up in casual conversation, was it? And so he’d never asked.

He wonders if anything would have been different, if he had.

They’re still standing awkwardly in the middle of the break room, Jon clutching the recorder in both hands. He finally moves to set it down on the table, and it’s like a spell breaks over them—Tim takes a ragged breath and turns his face away, scrubbing angrily at his cheeks with the heel of his hand. Without the recorder to hold, Jon twists his fingers together into anxious knots. Even before all this, he was never much good at giving comfort. 

“I’m so sorry, Tim,” he says.

Tim lets out a short bark of bitter laughter. “Yeah. Well.”

“Is that why…?” Jon lets himself trail off. He realizes he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

The question seems to hit Tim anyway. He tenses, his arms crossed, his hands clenched tight on his upper arms like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I couldn’t—I wasn’t about to let them take someone else I—” 

He stops himself, and Jon can’t help looking up at Tim’s face, meeting his eyes for just a flash before Tim looks away.

“Someone else,” he finishes. “Not if I could help it.”

Jon nods. It helps, in an odd way, to know that there was a reason Tim came. To know that Tim still thinks of him as enough of a person to be worthy of being saved, the way he couldn’t save Danny. 

“I’m sorry I’m not him,” Jon says. “I’m sorry you couldn’t—”

“Don’t,” Tim says. “Just don’t.”

Even from several feet away, Jon can see the tension in Tim’s jaw, the taut bunch of his shoulders. Every instinct he’s developed over the past few months tells him he should stop talking—but he needs to say this. If he doesn’t say it now, he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance.

“I know it can’t fix—I know it’s not—” He stops, trying to find a way to phrase what he wants to say without hurting Tim more than he already has.

“You saved me,” he says finally. “I didn’t think anyone would—” 

Tim flinches, and Jon stops again.

Oh. He hadn’t thought that would—

Hm.

Another try.

“I-I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you hadn’t come. You saved me, Tim.”

Tim says nothing. He doesn’t move, still turned partly away, carefully not looking at Jon the same way he’s been not looking at him all evening.

Conversation over, then, Jon thinks. He’s said his piece, and Tim heard it. That’s all he can do. And he’s tired; his legs are starting to tremble with the strain of standing. 

Jon starts to turn to go, to retreat to Document Storage and his sad little cot.

Then Tim moves towards him so fast that Jon flinches back on instinct. But instead of the expected blow, Tim pulls him into a fierce hug, so tight that it momentarily leaves Jon breathless.

It’s a strange hug. There’s no tenderness in it; Jon gets the sense that it’s not a hug for him at all, not really. It’s Tim’s way of assuring himself that Jon is here and real, that he succeeded, that at least in this one small battle against the Circus, he won.

Jon falls into it anyway. He lets himself bury his face in Tim’s shoulder, wrapping his arms up around Tim’s middle as tightly as he can manage, as if to say I’m here. Tim shudders, but he doesn’t let go.

“I’m still so angry with you,” he says into Jon’s hair. “I don’t know if I ever won’t be.” He takes a breath. "But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Jon can’t find any words to reply. He just tightens grip a little in what he hopes is a clear enough expression of acknowledgement, and thanks.

They stay like that for a moment, holding each other fiercely, a warm, steady anchoring in this strange moment.

Finally Tim’s grip loosens and he pulls away. Jon lets him go.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I am sorry. For everything.”

Tim’s lips twitch in a tiny, bitter smile. “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

After that, it doesn’t seem like there’s much more to say. They stand again awkwardly for a moment, not looking at each other, before Tim finally clears his throat and hooks his thumb towards the door behind him.

“I’m gonna–”

“Oh, yes,” Jon says. “Here, don’t forget your—” he grabs the blanket from where he’d left it neatly folded on the sofa, and holds it out to Tim.

Tim looks at it for a long moment, then glances up at Jon.

“You hang onto it,” he says. “It gets cold down here.”

Jon hesitates, then lowers the blanket.

“Right. I—thank you. For—” There are so many ways to end that sentence, but Jon finds that he’s run out of words. “Well. Thank you.”

Tim nods, and for once, Jon feels that they have actually understood each other.

And then Tim’s gone, the door hissing gently closed on its hydraulic hinges behind him. Jon stands for a moment, holding the blanket close to his chest.

Tim’s right. It is cold down here.

Jon makes his way on autopilot back to Document Storage. He doesn’t bother taking off any of his clothes, even his shoes. He spent too long with nothing to wear, and the idea of undressing—

Not tonight.

He curls up, fully clothed, on the creaky old cot. With Tim’s blanket wrapped around him, he actually manages to be warm.

Within minutes, he’s asleep, and for once, he doesn’t dream.

[sssammich]

wip wednesday on a thursday

@foibles-fables tagged me for this so here i am lol

i recognize it's not wednesday anymore but it's not my fault the days keep coming and they don't stop coming

ANYWAY

i will give you 3 because i am working on a bunch of wips at the same time (i held back because i have like 3 more i'm actively jumping back and forth into in addition to these but this has gone long enough)

may-hem rojarias:

“So tell me now.” “What?” “About her. Tell me about Ruby.” Sam furrows her brows. “Seriously?” She sighs and rubs a spot on her temple. “You’ll find I’m the farthest thing from motherly, but she’s clearly an important part of your life. And I want to keep having our consensual sex with no strings. So if this is something to adjust to just so I can keep what I want, then so be it.” Sam laughs then, her head tipped back even as she shakes her head. “First of all, you sound like a robot. This isn’t a business deal, Andy. I’m literally your fuck buddy. Second of all, you do realize that this is technically a string. It’s literally a string now.” Andrea throws Sam a pointed look. “It doesn’t have to be. Me asking about your daughter doesn’t have to mean anything more than just making small talk, Sam. It’s like when I tell you how much I abhor your choice of drinks.” “It’s not even remotely the sa—” “Sam,” she interrupts, leans forward. “I know she exists, fine. That cat’s out of the bag. The question is, are you going to stop coming over when I text?” “No.” “Then that settles that.”

supercorp, unidentified chapter of collateral:

“Kara, can you do me a favor?”  “Sure. What’s up?”  “I—L-Corp is gonna host a gala, and I was hoping you could be my plus one.”  She turned. “Isn’t that what husbands are for?” she asked, injecting enough humor in her voice.  Lena sighed. “He has an investors meeting with this group overseas that needs attending to. It’s the only window they have with them, so he’s leaving tonight and won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”  She had the choice to say no, had the choice to protect her heart. Yet when Lena stared at her with her bottom lip tucked under her teeth, Kara knew she would buckle. She didn’t want Lena to be alone knowing that despite the expert ease in which she maneuvered through these events and parties, she never particularly enjoyed them. Kara didn’t think too hard about how closely those words signaled her own actions.  Her face softened and offered her best friend her best smile. “Of course, I’ll go with you.”  They closed this favor request with a hug, one that Kara couldn’t help sinking into, arms wrapped around Lena’s form.  She was a sucker and she knew it.

swanqueen, unpublished 2-shot:

She scoffs, her rage bubbling up and out; she’s barely succeeding in keeping herself in check knowing her son and her parents are watching. Even now, she’s restraining herself for the good of others even if all she wants to do is punch Regina, punch Robin and her parents and maybe just punch herself for good measure for being an absolute fucking fool.  “You’re having a picnic with Robin and his wife who, by the way, happens to be the reason you’ve iced me out for three months, Regina. You—you’re having a goddamn picnic with my parents and their golden child. I guess you just needed me to chauffer Henry here to complete your happy fucking family, huh?”  She wipes at her face just as Regina’s features harden. Emma doesn’t care, though, because fuck her, fuck all of them. Regina has the audacity to step forward, but Emma glares at her and that stops the steps forward. “Miss Swan—”  “God! I’m not even Emma to you. Just Miss Swan, like I’m some fucking stranger. I don’t even get the courtesy of being on a first name basis with you, but you’re kissing a dude you’ve known for a few months and having goddamn family picnics,” she mutters, uncaring if Regina hears her or not.  She shakes her head, fed up with this bullshit. She wipes  her tears as the truth sinks in her bones. The reality that she can want and she can wish, but she will never amount to anything that anybody would ever want, least of all to the woman in front of her.  "No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, whatever friendship I thought we’d been working towards just isn't ever gonna be enough. Message received loud and clear, Regina." She doesn’t wait for whatever haughty, scathing reply might come out of Regina’s mouth. She gets in the car and stomps down on the gas, uncaring about her tires squealing as she peels away from the curb, speeding as far away as possible from her biggest heartbreak yet.

OKAY UH let me tag some folks: @sideguitars @eqt-95 @crime-wives @luthordamnvers @fazedlight and if anybody else feels inclined to participate. i recognize it's getting farther and farther from a wednesday so feel free to wait until next wednesday LMAO

[hazbinfallinginaspiral]

ello! i have a promt idea for doll reader? wat happen's if she become's way to obessed with vox as well as when he's away sense i kinda think that doll reader would gain seprepration anxieity?

Good point! I like the way you think

Gone (Doll!reader x Vox)

CW: I went a bit overboard. Uh. Separation anxiety sort of turned into a depressive episode/spiral in this case. Sorry. AU typical events.

“I’ve got a fuckload of shit to deal with,” Vox muttered to his assistant, preparing to leave. He paused, then turned back to me. I’d been trailing behind him like a lost puppy. “Hey doll, be good for me while I’m gone, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, with a small smile. “When will you-”

“Great! I’ll be off now,” Vox said, cutting me off. He grinned, then zapped himself away.

“But…” I stood there for a moment, a pang of hurt hitting me hard. I pushed it aside and left his assistant to do his work, heading back to my own room.

I wandered aimlessly through the empty halls, my steps faltering as I struggled to shake off the sense of emptiness that seemed to cling to me like a second skin. Everywhere I looked, I saw reminders of him, small traces of his presence that served only to intensify the ache in my heart.

I gently closed and locked the door behind me, a sense of emptiness filling me up. How long would he be gone for?

Alone in the silence that followed, I felt the weight of his absence settle over me like a heavy shroud. The familiar hum of activity that filled the room seemed to fade into the background, replaced by a deafening silence that echoed with the echoes of his voice.

At night, as I lay alone in the darkness, the loneliness seemed to suffocate me, the silence oppressive and stifling. I longed for the warmth of his embrace, the sound of his voice, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against mine. But he was gone, and I was left to face the empty expanse of the night alone.

I hated this feeling. I hated how fucking familiar it was, how I always fell right back into the same old habits.

Hours stretched into days, and still, Vox remained absent, his absence a gaping hole in my chest that seemed to grow larger with each passing moment. I tried to distract myself with work, throwing myself into my duties with a fervor that bordered on desperation, but nothing could fill the void that his absence had left behind.

I stopped eating, not even caring to take care of myself. I needed something, anything to distract me from this feeling. It grew with every day he was away in his business trip. I couldn’t- I couldn’t do this.

One night, I collapsed in our room, not even making it to the bed. I’d worked myself ragged, and I was burnt out and tired- and so, so hungry. I just wished Vox was here, I wished he could tell me what to do, I wished I could hear the hum of his TV head or even just see those wonderful black and red spirals in his left eye.

I shook my head and wiped away my tears as I sat up. I’d been crying? Didn’t matter. I dragged myself to the shower, where I ended up just sitting on the tiled floor. I let the hot water burn my skin. It was a miracle I’d even let myself take a shower.

Hours later, I called Vox’s assistants saying that I wouldn’t be there to help out for a while. He didn’t ask any questions. I wandered aimlessly around the room, barely touching anything, still not eating. This continued until my legs gave out, and I fell to the floor. I didn’t bother getting up this time. This gnawing loneliness without Vox… I didn’t care enough to continue doing anything. Anywhere I went, there’d only be more reminders of him.

I lay on the floor, half propped up against the bed, my eyes glazed over in thought.

Days continued to pass, and still, Vox remained absent, his absence a constant ache that lingered in the depths of my soul. And though I knew that he would return, that his absence was only temporary, the emptiness that he left behind seemed to stretch on for eternity, a gaping void that threatened to swallow me whole.

If anyone were to come in and see me, they might think me dead. Or a very impressive statue. I hadn’t moved from my spot on the floor. I didn’t know if I’d even gotten some sleep. I just knew I hadn’t moved, and I’d been laying there limp, staring at the same spot for days, unable to think of anything but Vox. I needed him. Without him, I was just some useless doll. Without him, I was nothing.

[volklana]

I Could Drown Myself In Someone Like You

Part Three

Part I // Part II

You can find my other Biker!Bucky fic here:

Title Comes from this Song:

Request: Hey girl I literally just found your blog and when I tell you I BINGED your Ride series. Please I beg could we have some more Biker Bucky? Maybe barmaid reader? I really don't mind as long as we get some BikerBuck!

Warnings: This chapter references domestic abuse, and a paragraph of torture/violence towards Bucky. If that isn't for you, please don't read, protect your peace and you can catch me next time xx

Introduction of the Asshole Ex : Zemo

You sat outside in your truck, drumming your fingers on the dash to a song playing on the radio.

This had become your little routine the last few weeks, sitting outside in your truck while Bucky had his therapy session with Dr. Raynor. She was a therapist who specialised in veterans and military trauma that you had found online, and you couldn’t believe when Bucky had agreed to go.

He had shuffled awkwardly into your cottage the morning of his first session, cheeks slightly tinged pink when he’d asked if you would bring him to his first session and that was how it started and now you were sitting outside what was his sixth or seventh session.

After every session you would take the long way home through the winding Californian Redwoods, with the windows down and music playing. Bucky said it helped to ground him after every session and sometimes you would stop at a little food truck at the beginning of a hiking trail and treat him to a coffee.

Bucky was always quiet on the journey home and you never pushed him to talk until he was ready to, but you were beginning to see the change completely in his demeanour, he was calmer, softer and a lot more aware of his actions. He had taken Sam out for lunch after his third or fourth session and apologised profusely to him and it warmed your heart to watch their relationship blossoming again. You were even surprised when he opened up about what had happened to him in the Middle East, how he had nearly lost his arm through chemical experimentation and torture and how he really believed he was going to die in that bunker until Steve’s squad successfully tracked him down and rescued him. 

You too were having a lot of honest conversations, opening up to Bucky about the full extent of the abuse you had suffered at the hands of your ex boyfriend. You too had thought you were going to die at the hands of that man and Bucky had pulled you to him in a bone crushing hug.

Because the thought of anyone ever hurting you like that was enough to send him over the edge.

So you were taking your relationship slow, really getting to know each other and helping each other through the healing, you both clearly needed to do.

The first time Bucky told you he loved you caught you so off guard. He had begrudgingly  agreed to go on a hike with you, claiming it was very much not his style, but to his utter surprise he ended up enjoying it more than expected.

You talked him through identifying certain trees by their leaves, you picked wildflowers and insisted he smell every one and you took a million pictures of him because you thought he looked cute and fuck if you didn’t make his heart flutter in his chest. 

“It’s right up here,” you pulled him from his thoughts, grabbing his hand and pulling him behind you. Finally gasping when you came to the viewing point at the top of the mountain, pulling Bucky closer to the ledge and releasing his hand to spin in the morning sun, arms outstretched and eyes closed as you spun.

When your eyes finally landed on Bucky, his face was the most serene thing you had ever seen, the sun hitting his eyes making them almost glow.

“What?” you grinned at the way he was looking at you.

“I’m so in love with you,” he mused and you leapt forward to capture his lips with yours, so happy you felt like you could burst.

“I love you too,” you told him honestly and he scooped you up spinning you around as he kissed you with all he had in him

________________________________________________________

Steve was serving drinks but attempting to keep an eye on the table who had wandered in and seated themselves about an hour ago. Two muscles he could tell were armed and the other man, clearly their boss, sat back, slicked haired and well groomed. Zemo, your ex. He looked too well put together to be hanging around with these two goons and something did not sit right with Steve and from the side glances Sam was throwing his way, he didn’t feel right about it either. 

“Can I get you fellas another drink?” he asked and he hated the way the sophisticated one feigned passiveness “Yes please, I will take another espresso, thank you.” 

If Steve hadn’t been trained to read people he could have easily fallen for the harmless act, but he was under no illusion, this man was a shark in human clothing.

When Steve returned with his espresso, he stopped him, “Say you wouldn’t happen to know if my friend has stopped by this town, I’m trying to track her down,” he smiled innocently before turning his phone around to show Steve a picture.

Steve tried to control his breathing as your eyes looked right back at him through the screen, he used all his military training to keep his expression lighthearted and neutral “No, can’t say that I have ever seen her,” he shrugged.

“It’s such a small town, she would have been hard to miss,” the stranger cocked his eyebrow at Steve.

“Absolutely,” Steve agreed “Perhaps you will have more luck in the next town over.”

“Perhaps,” he smiled and Steve smiled back before turning on his heel back to the bar.

Steve must have sent Bucky damn near twenty messages and called him just as much but his phone was out of range. In a last ditch attempt he tried calling you, but had the same effect.

Finally, the trio left the bar, fixing Steve up and leaving a hefty tip that he was tempted to throw in the bin.

After what seemed like hours Bucky finally called him back, “Is everything okay?” he panicked and Steve shook his head “Not really, no. Where is y/n?”

“I just dropped her home. Steve what is it you’re freaking me out.”

“Just get here quickly,” Steve ordered before he instructed Sam to close the bar.

When Bucky arrived to the bar closed he was in a panic, which only intensified when Steve relayed what had happened.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky spat “He’s found her,” he was panicking, all his worst fears were coming true.

“We have to get to her, warn her, keep her safe,” Bucky was spiralling but now was not the time to fail you.

The bell over the door rattled and Steve said “Sorry the bar is closed,”

“Not to us it isn’t,” the shark in human clothing spat and Bucky bristled, but he continued “The whole bar is surrounded so let’s not try anything stupid here.” 

Within seconds the bar was infiltrated and Sam and Steve were manhandled, bloodied and beaten to the floor, Bucky fought off as many as possible but there was simply too many and eventually he was wrestled down to the ground, pulled out into the middle floor and forced to his knees with a gun to his head. 

“My patience is growing thin so I will ask once. Where is she?” 

“Fuck you,” Bucky spat and was rewarded with a pistol whip to the face. 

Zemo grasped a handful of Bucky’s hair forcing him to look up into his menacing brown eyes, Bucky remembered how you had shivered when describing him “You don’t understand Buck, he’s secret service trained in his home country. He’s done unspeakable things and he doesn’t care who he kills to get what he wants.”

Looking up into those eyes he could understand why you were so afraid of this man, he was controlled and cunning, the worst kind of bully.

“Maybe we should call her,” Zemo smiled sweetly while one of his heavies wrestled Bucky’s phone from his back pocket. 

“No,” Bucky struggled as Zemo put the phone to his face watching in horror as the phone unlocked, his screensaver a picture of you two on one of your first proper dates, your face one of pure joy as he kissed your cheek. 

“Bingo,” Zemo sighed and rummaged through his contacts until he found you, the unmistakable sound of the video call tone that used to make Bucky’s heart flutter with excitement now it was dread, begging the gods that you wouldn’t answer. 

“Bucky, you couldn’t be missing me already,” your voice came through like a song and then your face fell at Bucky’s bloodied face, “What happened?” you shrieked and then the camera was turned around to a face that haunted your nightmares for months.

You wanted to cry, you wanted to beg him to tell you how he found you but all that left your lips was a plea “Please. Please don’t hurt him.” 

“I won’t. If you are here in the next half hour I won’t hurt your little boyfriend, but-”

“-Don’t come here y/n,” Bucky shouted over Zemo “Run, run far away. Don’t look back.” Bucky would rather have been killed than see you back in that hell.

“Shut the fuck up,” one of Zemo’s heavies shouted and punched Bucky full force into the side of his head and kicking him a few times in the ribs when he slumped forward.

“Stop,” you pleaded “I will be there.”

The drive back to the bar was a haze of tears and panic, and you were fairly sure you broke every speed zone on the route but it didn’t matter you had to get to Bucky.

As you finally clambered through the door to the bar, you wanted to be sick when you saw the state of Bucky’s face, bloodied and swollen, cloth shoved in his mouth to keep him quiet, and Steve and Sam were tied to a radiator, at the end of the bar.

“Let him go,” you pleaded, taking shaky steps towards Zemo, “Please he has done nothing wrong.”

“Look boys, the little rat has scurried out of its hiding place,” he mocked and Bucky struggled against the arms holding him tight, “As she always does.” 

“Let him go,” you repeated, voice shaky, your legs threatening to give way. 

“But he has been a bad boy,” Zemo tutted “He took something that belonged to me, when he really shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t belong to you!” you quipped which earned you a harsh slap across the face and Bucky screamed into his gag. Your hands flying up instinctively in surrender. 

Zemo pulled out his knife and your eyes widened in fear, trying to place yourself between him and Bucky, “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him,” you cried and Zemo smirked “Hurt, yes but I never said he wouldn’t be punished for being such a bad boy.” 

You cried in shock when you were pushed into the arms of one of Zemo’s men and to your horror Zemo began hacking off pieces of Bucky’s long hair with the blade and you cried out in horror as soft locks began to litter the floor. Those locks that you would lovingly run your fingers through, that you would grasp onto when you made love, and that Bucky would absentmindedly let you braid or play with when you were anxious, lay in uneven chunks on the ground and this was precisely when your legs gave way.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” you were crying and Bucky’s huge blue eyes were on yours as Zemo laughed at the scene, examining his handy work. Buck’s hair was a mess of uneven chunks and blood where the knife had nicked him and this image would be burned into your brain for the rest of your life.

It was like a bomb had exploded beside you, you could hear nothing but the thumping of your own heart, as figures ran around before your eyes, Zemo was talking but you couldn't make out what he was saying. Bucky was pushed down to the floor and someone grasped you, hauling you up from the floor and you were bundled into the back of a car before you could even process what was happening. Bile rising in your throat until you wound the window down and puked out the side of the moving car.

What had you done? How had you allowed yourself to become so complacent? How had you ever allowed yourself to think you could have found happiness with Bucky. You had destroyed his life and for what, because you had fallen in love with him? You were undeserving of his love from day one and you should have left him in peace. Instead you had left him in pieces and you would never have the opportunity to make it up to him. Or tell you just how much he had meant to you. The only man you had ever truly loved, lay broken on the floor among the chunks of hair that you had loved so much.

And you were trapped with the man who had destroyed your life time and time again. 

Tagging:

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[writing-rat]

Professionalism At it's Finest

Pairing: Joey x Reader, minor Sammy x Reader but not established

Content: 18+ Content, Thigh riding, masturbation, Sammy watching

Summary: Joey needs you to be professional after she caught you masturbating. She knows what she needs to do now.

WC: 720

Joey was a professional. Or she was meant to be? That was when she caught you in the bathroom. “Jesus, fuck. Sorry,” she apologised immediately before she went to leave. That was when she saw what you were doing though. You were masturvsting. “Aren’t you meant to be checking all the windows in case they missed one?” Joey asked with a raised eyebrow. You, blushing madly, nodded. 

“Yes ma’am, sorry ma’am,” you immediately responded, embarrassed about being caught fingers deep in yourself. Joey raised an eyebrow as she glanced behind them, checking no one seemed to be about before she kicked the door closed. 

“If you really need pleasure I can help. I don’t expect to see any more fingerings,” Joey grunted, pinning you against the wall as you nodded. You had just pulled your fingers out too as you were both flustered and embarrassed. Joey smirked. “Words baby girl,” she teased. 

“Please mommy,” you begged, feeling your need rise. She nodded and smirked at how you were acting around her. “God, you are a slut, huh?” she teased. “Lambert said no grab-ass but here you are, wanting me,” she added.

“Aren’t you meant to be a professional?” you bit back. 

“You play dangerous games don’t you Star?” she teased. She was ready to fuck you. “I can be professional. This is so you stay professional,” she finished. You nodded before she suddenly grabbed you by the neck. “I found a bedroom, we can use that,” she explained. You were nodding. 

“Yes ma’am,” you responded, barely able to breathe as she was choking you but it turned you on more.

Soon enough you were in the bedroom and she pushed you against the bed, kissing you deeply. What you both weren’t aware of was Sammy in the corner, looking out the window. She was about to say hi but you already were kissing. Joey kept holding you, having you pinned down as she was groping at your chest and your hips. “God, you have to be one of the hottest people on the team,” she commented. “Those tight jeans look good against your ass too,” she stated. 

“They really do,” Sammy finally chimed in, having that little smile that she did when Joey said she came from money. You looked up in shock as Joey smirked. “You want her to watch?” Joey asked, her eyes dilated. You blushed, nodding.

Sammy was excited as she sat down on the bed, Joey sitting up as she was against the headboard of the bed, setting you on her thigh. “Grind,” she commanded. Doing as told you started to ride her thigh, moaning while doing so. “I caught Star here masturbating. Thought she would need this to be more professional,” Joey stated with a smirk. Sammy nodded as she kept watching, Joey soon pulling her shirt up. She still didn’t feel comfortable revealing her arms to anyone just yet. “Suck,” she demanded. You nodded, then sucked as you wanted to be good for Joey. You knew she could be a good punisher if you needed to be punished and you didn’t want that. Sammy meanwhile watched. 

“She seems to be doing good at least,” she stated, hearing how Joey was practically moaning. Joey nodded.

“She is talented with her mouth,” she commented as she was holding you, glancing down as you were leaving wetness on her jeans. It was getting more and more visible. Sammy couldn’t help but get excited over it too. 

“After this job, is it ok if we fuck together?” Sammy asked. Joey nodded, watching as she saw how you were soon stuttering your hips. 

“You close baby girl?” she teased. You nodded, moaning.

“Come for me,” she spoke. Under her command, you came instantly. Joey smirked as she was panting, you still sucking on her nipple. She admittedly came just from that as Sammy was excited. Safe to say, you knew you would get more after the job if you were professional. It was proven soon after. “If both of you are professional during this mission then yes, we may fuck after this. But be professional,” she spoke, slowly getting you off as she got herself ready, her jeans were still wet but she didn’t care. You nodded and glanced at Sammy, more excited. You would be good for Joey.

[scoops-aboy86]

Not Dating, part 3

part 1, part 2 - also on ao3

Eddie needs better self esteem. In the meantime, he's wallowing and indulging in that Triple Decker Eggo Extravaganza that El told him about. (The great thing is, it's only 8000 calories.)

The first thing Eddie does upon getting home is slam the door of the brand new double-wide that still doesn’t feel quite like home. New walls and new furniture and Wayne had to start a whole new mug and hat collection, which sucks because most of it had been from his long haul trucker days and everything had had a story behind it. Now the stories are mostly, ‘look what I found in a bin at the thrift shop.’

His uncle looks up from the newspaper he’s reading in his (new, not quite broken in yet) recliner and mildly raises an eyebrow. 

The second thing Eddie does is stomp over to the phone and grab the jack that connects it to the wall. “We don’t need this for a few days, right?” he snarls, keeping his voice and expression hard because as soon as he lets up on that facade, the second it cracks, he’s going to fall apart. He hadn’t realized how much Steve had been holding him together lately, but now that’s been yanked out by the roots and he feels dangerously unstable. 

Wayne considers for a moment, then shrugs. “Nah, guess not.”

“Good.” Eddie yanks it and continues to his room without another glance. He slams that door behind him too, digs through the detritus on top of his (new) desk to find the radio Dustin had given him, and turns the knob to off with a vicious twist. 

Then he burrows into his (new) bed and screams into his (new) pillow and wishes that none of it had never happened, that he was still in their old place in its old spot where everything was familiar and he didn’t have scars and he’d never spoken more than a few words to Steve fucking Harrington in his entire, goddamn, shitty little life. 

Over the next few days, Eddie chain smokes through both his cigarettes and his pot stash. Maybe he’ll still leave town, but once the initial angry energy drained away he hasn’t felt like doing anything, so it can wait. The only times he crawls out of bed to use the bathroom or get something to eat. And eat. And eat. 

Yes he’s aware that he’s self-soothing with food, and no he doesn’t give a flying fuck. It feels like a black hole has opened up inside him and what it’s demanding is Eggo waffles with every single little square full up with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and M&Ms. (Eleven had mentioned it in an offhand comment once as her go-to Bad Mood Food, and by god that girl is onto something; it’s bready, creamy, and crunchy combined in every bite.)

But it’s not booze, so Wayne hasn’t commented on these additions to the grocery list. And thank fucking god for that because Eddie doesn’t think he’d be able to talk about much of anything without suffering a complete breakdown—just getting out of bed is hard enough. 

The phone stays unplugged, so if anyone (if Steve) tries to call, Eddie remains blissfully unaware. Max broke in on day two to check for proof of life, turned the radio back on and changed it to an obscure channel, and warned him that if he turned it off again she and the rest of the Party would not be held responsible for Dustin’s actions. So, fine, when Dustin radios to check in Eddie responds, but it’s all brief and monosyllabic, literally just a proof you’re not dead’ call. 

And Eddie is left alone. It’s the way he wants it. 

It’s agony. 

After four days of wallowing in exactly what he deserves for falling for a straight boy, Eddie rolls sluggishly over in bed towards the tap of thrown pebbles on his window. He glares at the offending thing, which he can’t even see through the thick blackout curtain. 

“Fuck off,” he yells, and his voice is hoarse but carries well enough. He slumps back down and starts to pull the blanket back over his head, when the tapping comes again. “What about fuck off did you not—”

“It’s Steve.”

Eddie freezes, then shudders and turns to whine into his pillow, the only word going through his mind a frantic litany of no no no NO. He can’t let Steve see him like this, can’t let the object of his hopeless affection know how much this is hurting him for fear that Steve might try to be nice about it, and that would just blur the lines even more and make things worse. And Eddie hasn’t showered, combed his hair, or brushed his teeth in days, there’s probably chocolate on his face, and the way he can’t even pull his shirt down over his belly is just—no. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he snarls.

“Eds, please, I made a mistake. I fucked up, I know that, but please let me at least try to fix this.”

And oh, Eddie already knows what mistake Steve made. It’s one thing to be friends with the local gay metalhead and social pariah, but to fuck him? Can’t have that, no fucking sir. 

Instead of answering, he buries himself in his blankets and under his pillow and goes back to wallowing in high gear because it’s all he’s good for right now. A few more days in this cocoon and he’ll come out harder, steeled against Steve’s sweet, prettyboy charms that he must not even realize how thick he lays on all the time, and everything will be fine. Just… just a few more days to forget how cared for Steve had sometimes managed to make him feel while fucking him. 

But he’s forgotten that Steve knows where the spare key is—not that the lock on a trailer door is all that robust, but Wayne has insisted lately after the whole ‘hunt the freak’ debacle, and that’s fair enough. 

“Eddie.” Spoken in a shaky but determined voice right outside his bedroom door. “You don’t have to let me in, just… Hear me out, okay?”

Oh, now you want to talk, Eddie grumbles internally. But not out loud, oh no; his plan is to ignore Steve until he goes away. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything. 

It sounds like Steve is sitting down out there, thumping against the door or maybe one of the walls and sliding all the way down. Four days apart and part of Eddie still aches to see him, pictures against his will how Steve might look right now. His imagination wants to paint shadows underneath Steve’s eyes, wants to think that he’s at least lost some sleep over this even if it’s a long shot, lips bitten red and begging for a kiss, their first—

Eddie loathes himself. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your question,” Steve is saying, and he does sound tired, at least. That’s something. “It’s not that I didn’t want to, I just had… too many thoughts, it was like a traffic jam in my head. But I don’t want you to think I don’t want this, you. Because I like you, Eddie.” 

I like you.

Like you.

Because I like you, Eddie. 

Eddie has gone so still that he’s not even breathing, and Steve keeps talking. 

“I really do. As more than just a friend, okay? So I don’t… Don’t not come to movie nights, please. If it’s the kids too or just us, I don’t care; I want you to be there. I always want you to be there.”

His first instinct is to be angry. If that’s how Steve really feels, why had he let Eddie leave? Had he even tried to call? Why did it take days for him to show up? 

Then Eddie thinks, Well why wouldn’t it take the better part of a week to come to terms with liking someone like me, and the anger sputters out. 

Because it’s not like he’s a catch or anything. A three-time senior who never managed to graduate (never mind that he’d gotten his GED with flying colors on the first try), known around town for selling drugs and being briefly arrested for triple homicide… Son of a criminal and a drug addict. Raised in a trailer park, a far cry from the big houses in Loch Nora, unless his dad dragged him out that way to case the neighborhood or something. 

And even before the scars, he’d never really thought of himself as attractive. Okay at best. He’s proud of his long hair and his tats—or he had been, before patches of them had gone the same way as one of his fucking nipples. Besides all that, there’s…

Deep in his burrow of blankets, Eddie feels along the lower curve of his belly and wonders if Steve would’ve turned up on day two or three instead of four if he hadn’t gained so much weight lately. Despite how all this had started. Despite the belly rubs and how those kind touches had become something heated, almost reverent. Despite how Steve had always brought him more to eat and drink, sometimes before Eddie even had to ask, like he just knew—  

“... Eddie? Are you still in there, man?”

He can’t contain his loud, scoffing snort, because there are only two ways out of his room and it’s not like he can just shimmy out a window these days. Which hasn’t been a problem until now, when the man of his dreams is blocking the door to offer… what, some sort of pity relationship? For Eddie to be his gay experiment? To be called man during emotional moments like they’re bros or something?

“Okay,” Steve sighs, and Eddie would bet real money that he was running a hand through his hair as he said it. “Guess I deserved that. Sorry.”

And he really does sound sorry, but honestly? That’s not the only thing that has Eddie crawling desperately out of bed. It’s that he needs to see Steve’s face when he sees what Eddie has devolved into over the past few days. Greasy, unwashed, heavier, with traces of his go-to depression meal around his mouth, wearing only an ill-fitting shirt and ratty boxers. Because that’s when he’ll know, right? However Steve reacts when he opens that door, that’s how Eddie will know. 

So he gets up, itching from new stretch marks and stumbling a little with the long put-off need to stretch his legs. Shuffles over and grabs the doorknob so tight his knuckles go an even paler shade than the rest of him, and jerks it open. 

Too quick for Steve to react. And he had been sitting dejectedly against the door, because when it opens in and he ends up flat on his back with his head on Eddie’s one-socked-one-not feet. Staring up at the underside of Eddie’s gut, which, goddammit, means Eddie can’t see his face. 

“Shit,” Steve breathes. And then he’s scrambling up to where Eddie can see he’s flushed all the way down to his chest, courtesy of a butter-yellow Henley open at the collar by a few buttons. 

That’s when Eddie notices the bouquet of flowers clutched in Steve’s hand, maybe a little worse for wear from falling but the bottoms of the stems wrapped carefully in wet paper towel, plastic sandwich bag, and a rubber band. It’s a home job, not from some shop. They’re wildflowers. 

“What,” Eddie croaks. His voice gives out on the rest, which should have been, the hell do you want, Harrington? But Steve… Steve brought him fucking flowers that he’d bothered to pick himself. 

Steve isn’t wrinkling his nose in disgust at Eddie’s unkempt appearance, and he’s not looking away. Instead, he wets his lips nervously and can’t seem to look anywhere else. “Eds, I…” He runs his free hand through his hair, then shakes his head. “Damn, I had it all worked out with Robin and now I can’t remember any of it.”

“You told Robin,” Eddie says slowly. Not even a question, because it makes perfect sense that Steve would tell his best friend everything—and yet it doesn’t, because straight boys never tell anyone. Straight boys usually threaten him with violence to keep him from telling anyone. “About… us.”

“Yeah,” Steve admits. “I needed a sounding board… Sorry, if that’s, uh. If you didn’t want me too. She won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

And why does it sound like Steve is the one reassuring him about that? Steve is a catch. Steve is handsome, could probably have any girl in town if he really put the effort in. Eddie would shout from the rooftops that he bagged Steve Harrington if it wouldn’t probably get him killed—again.  

When Eddie doesn’t respond, just stares at him blankly, Steve thrusts out the bouquet. “Anyway. These are for you. Peace offering? I just want to talk.”

Eddie is so confused. He feels grimy and gross and slow, and he doesn’t know if he still wants to be angry or if there’s still some other feeling buried under the rubble of his composure. So he blinks, opens his mouth, blinks again, says, “Can you put them in a mug or something? I need to take a shower first.”

He doesn’t know how to feel right now, so buying himself some time will have to do.

Permanent tag list: @hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @tangerinesteve

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