Hoax [ari Levinson] [two]

hoax [ari levinson] [two]

hoax | trapped in an arranged marriage and unrequited love, you'd do anything to stop making ari despise you.

pairing | dark!ari x naive!sunshine!reader

warnings | p in v, lots of angst, self depreciation, pregnancy, ari is essentially an asshole, cheating, car accident, explicit smut; 18+

notes | inspired by @evansbby and her dear diary au + her feed !!! sorry for taking so long- this is about 6k right now, and there will definitely be more angst coming... hehe

buy me a kofi! drabble requests/asks! main!

CONT.

He doesn’t love you, and you know it.

You feel the resentment rolling off of him in waves whenever you walk by, cautious to not let anyone else see it. Everyone around him—his whole empire—does, though. Maybe they don’t know that he fucks you hard and fast like a feral animal, apathetic since the first night when you gave your virginity to him. 

You can still recall it, clear as day.

Maybe they don’t know that the housemaids in the house treat you like shit, cleaning Ari’s room but leaving yours in a worse state than when you exited. 

Maybe they don’t—and you hope that they never will—know that you love Ari.

He hates you. It’s simple. You’re the girl that ruined his happily ever after with the one he truly loves, the villain in the story. It makes sense that Ari didn’t want to see you at all.

But still, you want to try and make amends. Try and let him see that even though you’re married, you can be compatible. I mean, it’s not like you’ve been desperately searching on the internet possible MBTIs that he might match with, and then seeing if they work with yours.  

And it’s not like you cry every night hoping that he ends up with you, like all stories do. Too bad that you still can’t realize that you’re not the main character in the story. Sharon is, and you’re all living in her world, you being the background character so desperate to speak up. 

“So, is there some business meeting I wasn’t invited to?” You joke. “Because you seem to be missing dinner a whole lot.” 

On good days, you get a grunt in response. Other days, like today, he brushes past you. Your cheeks heat, and you sneak a glance at the employees cleaning the hallways, smirking at you and shaking their heads. 

“Okay, listen,” you say as your, well, husband, enters the room. It’s not even yours, it’s his. There are separate beds and rooms because he can’t stand being beside you, and that’s the worst blow anyone can receive. The wall itself is an insult, an obvious barrier to your relationship.

He’s only using you for sex, and you should stop expecting more. 

If kicking you out after and having you hobble down the hallway isn’t enough of an indicator, you don’t know what is. 

“Do you,” the words are hard to digest, but you say them anyways, “do you think I can have more respect in this house? I know you don’t like me, but I’m living in this house too.” You trail off, back leaning against the door like you forgot to stand up straight. 

His actions are worse than a gunshot wound. That’s the thing about Ari: he’s indifferent. Without even sparing you a glance, he pulls over a hoodie. A casual outfit. Which can only mean one thing.

He’s going to Sharon’s. Her perfume scent is already on the hoodie, like she’s worn it one too many times after sex. And the fact that he put it on when you were trying to have a serious conversation with him?

It hurt. Really hurt, like the immediate tears in your eyes kind. 

“Maybe there’s a reason why you don’t receive respect,” the man says quietly, like it’s a given fact. And every thought about setting things right crumbles. 

Right. Of course. You’re still the young girl living in a day dream, hoping for a Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet. And you thought that it’d be Ari. Ari noticing your needs and taking care of you. Ari realizing you accidentally skipped a meal writing and bringing it to you, giving you small pecks in between bites. Ari who would cuddle you, murmuring soft I love you’s before sleeping. 

But it’s not like that. It’s you asking the staff whether he ate or not, when he’ll be home. It’s you noticing that his favorite snacks are almost gone, heading to the grocery story and  making sure it’s filled the next time he heads down for a midnight meal. It’s you who drapes a blanket over him when he naps on the couch, tired from working excessive hours a day, whispering an I love you that will never get a response. 

The worst kind: unrequited love. Like your colleagues, even you don’t understand why you’re so committed to him sometimes. But the thought of being with someone other than him hurts more than dealing with this. And so you’re stuck, in an endless cycle of being his punching back. 

Of an endless, toxic cycle of trying to shape yourself like Sharon. 

You slump to the floor, hands over your face, steadying your breaths. One. Two.

You heave.

And then you release a heavy, shaking sob into the void. 

“What— you’re really going to drink that much?” Your friend’s mouth opens in shock. “You never drink that much.”

Another beer. There’s barely a burn anymore, the scalding feeling disappearing. When you don’t reply, she continues, “And if you’re going to die tonight, at least ask the bartender for a shot instead of beer. One hits you harder while the other makes you wallow in depression more.”

You snort and stare down at your wrist, tempted to place two fingers to your neck. Because for the past few hours, your body’s been drastically getting more numb, enough to make you wonder if you have a pulse or not. The dingy bar she brought you to is quiet, only a few customers in sight. Though humid and floor coated with spilled alcohol, it’s oddly less like a bar, with its chaotic fairy lights and paintings of nude women slapped on the walls. 

“Is this because Sharon was spot hanging out with your husband’s sister?”

Bingo. You visibly flinch at that. 

“You know it’s not a big deal, right? They’ve been friends since like college or something.”

Sharon Sharon Sharon Sharon. She’s all you can think about. What keeps you up at night, what haunts you during the day, and a reminder that you’re better off gone in this world. 

She’s also the reason you’ve been keeping your mouth shut when talking to Natasha—Nat. No one knows about her and Ari. No one knows that you spent his card yesterday buying things left and right—Prada bags, expensive cars, even going as far as buying a whole store out. Not only was there no comment, but the guilt like you committed a grave sin grew. 

You buried the body by donating your items to charity. At least someone will benefit from this arrangement. 

“Hey,” Nat lays a hand over your trembling one. All you want to do is sob and curl into a fetal position, but you plaster on a smile, dark eyes and all. 

Let the tabloids have a field day with this. 

You want to say that you’re reduced to nothing inside, but you still feel the knife, shoving and twisting inside of you whenever your husband makes a comment. These days, you obsessively scroll on the Internet ticking off mental disorder symptoms. Making sure that you don’t check off all the boxes, so there’s not another flaw you have to worry about. 

But that’s the thing: if you’re so far in, you’re unaware. 

“You having issues?”

“No,” you croak. Repeat it again, stronger. “No issues at all.” 

“Then why did you ask me to meet you?”

“Isn’t it enough to miss you?” Isn’t it enough to know that someone will come when I ask? 

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay.” 

Another gulp of the beer. You remember when you met Ari’s sister, how her eyes burned into you with disapproval. The passive aggressive remarks turned into full-on rude ones that Ari let happen over the dinner table. It started with your physical attributes—don’t you think you need to go on a diet?—to your carelessness—Ari’s wife should never spill anything, it’s unbecoming of you—to just… you. 

“I don’t know why Ari married you,” she told you when you came out of the bathroom, “and I don’t know what you want from him. But just know that Ari will cut you off one day if you want money. If you want a heir, I doubt he’ll support the baby and you.”

You had stared at her in shock—how can someone say something so vicious and cruel with a straight face? It had never been clearer that the two were related. 

“I’ll write you a check. 10 million. Leave anytime within the year. Let me know when you cave.”

A month ago, you might have gained the courage to spit in her face. Now, you crumble under the jabs she throws at you. 

“Do you know any jobs?” You blurt. “I need a job.” 

Her eyes widen. “You’re asking me for a job? Did you forget that I live in a crammed studio apartment with cockroaches for neighbors?” 

Well, you’d rather live with cockroaches than snakes. 

“I’ll take any job,” you murmur. “No matter how sketchy.”

“You can’t ask your brother for one?”

A shake of your head. Getting your brother involved would only make things more complicated. He might rope Ari into it, and that would make life harder. 

“Your husband? I doubt he would approve if it’s dangerous for you.”

Unable to stop it, a bitter laugh escapes you. Natasha catches on. It’s part of the reason how the two of you became such close friends. Though you’re expressive and try to be optimistic, at your lows, you shut down, not wishing to inconvenience anyone. She’s good at reading the mood, and even better at figuring out your thoughts. 

And she’s a fixer.

You need one of those in your life right now.

She rubs her lips together. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to get hurt—you can’t even fight! What are you going to do if someone decides to rob the store and you’re faced with a gun?”

Someone did almost rob you weeks ago. Not with a gun, but you can’t imagine how dying a swift death doesn’t sound appealing. 

“Alright,” she sighs. “Damn, I knew you were secretly stubborn.”

For what feels like in forever, you smile. 

Good thing you got the job, you think nearly weeks later. You thought about this happening to you sooner or later, but didn’t think it’d be this far out. 

“What are you doing in my room?” The man snaps. Ari. You straighten your spine out of fear, fingers trembling as you take a step back. The drawer is still open, the black card inside of it.

“The workers said that they accidentally put my card in your room, and that you told them to tell me to retrieve it—”

“I have better things to do than mess with a useless bitch.” 

He might as well slapped you with the way you reel back. “Excuse me?”

“What, you’re going to act like you don’t understand what I was saying now?” Under his breath, he mutters, “Sharon was right.” 

“I don’t—”

“You’re going to hoard everything now? You don’t need another card. Everything is provided for you. The workers get you groceries, and someone supplies you with clothes of your size every two weeks. They make sure that they have all the basics, from your shampoo to the eyeliner you’re always bitching about. We have a driver to drive you around, and it’s your fault if you don’t use it. And if you’re still not satisfied…” He shrugs. “You can always beg your brother. I’m sure he’s more angelic than I am.” 

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is happening. You don’t even know whether to laugh or to cry. It’s like you’re frozen in time, needing to process the words and see if this truly happened to you. You’re awful with confrontations—what should you even say? What will make him speechless? What will make him hurt as much as you do?

Every day, he tears another vein out of you. It’s like blood is constantly gushing out of your wound, and he turns a blind eye to it. 

If he knew anything, he would’ve seen that you left not to go party, but to go wash dishes and avoid jeering men wanting a feel of you. If he knew anything, he would’ve noticed you trembling when coming home, from both the cold and the fear that someone will stab you alive. That it won’t be an amateur robber approaching you next time, but someone who carries a weapon with them. If he even showed the slightest interest, he would know that you haven’t called your brother since the wedding. 

You never knew you could feel this little. That the variety in your emotions can minimize to one: heartbreak. 

Is this the way you’re going to love him? Letting him step over you? Reading about his charm and endurance on tabloids, but never be able to see it in real life? 

It’s tiring. Most of the people at work don’t know that you’re Ari’s wife. You’ve never gone out to events together, but instead of saying you’re locked in, it’s mentioned that you don’t like to go out often, that Ari likes to shield you from the world of vultures. Of prey. 

 Not like you’re already eaten alive. 

“Did you two have a lovers’ quarrel?” The photographer jokes, jutting his hip to the side. “Show me the chemistry the newspapers have been gushing about!”

If only he knew. This isn’t a simple quarrel, but a war. An endless one with no stalemate. The whole crew quiets at his words. Other than the light shining on the two of you, the rest of the large room is dark, like an endless void of negativity. Ari glares at the man who lowers his camera, inspecting the distance between the two of you. 

“Come closer,” the man demands, ignoring the stiffness in Ari’s shoulders. “There’s too much distance. Put your hands on his shoulders, and you, sir, can put your arms around her waist.”

You flush at his simple commands, eyeing your husband’s scowl. But this was to show the media that the two of you were still getting along, since they now caught onto your lack of presence. Heck, Sharon appeared in tabloids more than you did, titles of FRIENDSHIP OVER MARRIAGE? circulating. 

They were picture perfect—more so than you and Ari. With the way you two can’t even hold hands, it’s clear the you’re sleeping in different rooms. That you’re the problem, because Ari can smile for everyone but you. 

It’s like everyone is holding in their breath when you lay a hand on Ari’s pecs. Your breath hitches at the contact—the type that’s only rarely initiated when he fucks you. Leaving you a mess and having you clean up for yourself. Ari’s finger hooks a finger around the belt loop of your jeans, and either neither of you are breathing, or it’s just way too silent in here. God, your thoughts don’t make sense, either. 

Underneath the palm of your hand, you imagine that his heart beats faster at the contact. 

It doesn’t, but you’re entranced by its steady thuds, the stability and reassurance you crave right in front of you. 

This is too close, too. Closer than you’ve ever been. Close enough that you can look up and peer at his beard. Close enough that you can press your face into his chest, initiate a hug. 

Close enough that you can act like you’re a couple. 

You curl your fingers inward and breathe in his scent. Without even knowing, your forehead brushes his shirt, and the photographer yells with glee, “Yes! That’s it! There we go!” 

The finger around your belt loop tightens like a warning. Step back. But there are no words, no sounds except the shuttering of the camera. And with that, you gain the courage to gaze into his eyes boring into you. 

You imagine that this is a different universe: that you two are lovers, that his eyes crinkle with warmth and desperation to kiss you, that he wraps a hand around your neck and brings your mouth to his. 

It’s his pride that causes him to keep staring at you, but you don’t care what the reason is. As long as one hand is restrained from touching his beard, you’re fine. 

Your lips part—what should you say? Crack a joke? Be honest? 

All words are stuck in your throat.

The two of you remain in the same position for the rest of the photoshoot.

Just two people in the world interacting. 

Sometimes, they’re just not meant to be together. No matter how much you push and shove and hope for it to be. 

It’s embarrassing, how you let Ari do anything to you. The control he has over you is scary, too, but you let him. It’s the third time since he took you to bed, and you find yourself silently pleading with him through your eyes. 

Please love me. Please say something. Please please please please. 

The second time, he slapped a hand over your mouth and used you, grunting and groaning when he came inside you. He isn’t gentle this time, either, gagging you and fucking you like an animal. He doesn’t go slow and steady, instead fucking hard enough that the sound of your skin slapping against one another echoes through the room. You feel his thrusts inside you, see the outline of his cock protruding your stomach. 

You squirm when Ari thrusts his hips up to yours. How his dick is still hard inside of you, you can’t grasp. Instead, you’re reduced to a blabbering, silent mess when you grab the blankets. You can’t touch him. He doesn’t allow any other contact except him entering inside of you. 

His hand circles your clit, and you buck underneath him as he plays you like an instrument. It’s all a silent performance, nothing more, nothing less. 

And when you come, falling into oblivion, you only wish you had more of him. 

Liquid lurches out of you as you bend over the toilet, hand grasping the test for dear life. You’re choking and sobbing and the shaking is turning onto full of body quakes. Hot and then cold, you wipe the sweat dotting along your forehead. Your head is pounding and if you remain here for a few more minutes, you’re going to faint on the toilet ground.

Arms trembling, you lower your cheek on the cool tile, closing your eyes. 

Of course. You should’ve realized that something was wrong the moment you stepped into work tonight. Could’ve had the realization earlier if you noticed something off about throwing up in the morning. 

Dear God, you had to be the most naive person on earth. Until when are you going to keep doing this to yourself? How long do you have to suffer to even out your sins, and start living a normal life? 

I’m pregnant. The two words are incite to your mind both life and death. Hope and despair. You stare down at the test, clenching your teeth together. The first thought that comes to your mind is unbearable, and you hate that you’re thinking it: what if this baby splits you apart even further?

The next is just as sickening: should I get an abortion without telling Ari?

But then you remember how you used to work as a kindergarten teacher. See the little kids run around talk excessively, making adorable expressions. How they eyes shined bright with excitement when you told them something that you, as an adult, was used to. They thought everything was fascinating, and helped you see the world in a different light. And then you compare it with your childhood, with your deadbeat father who made you quiver in fear. How you spent every second holding your breath, checking the hallways before stepping out of your room, on constant alert that you just drained. 

If you’re going to have this baby… you want to be sure. You want them to grow up knowing that there will be no one else like them. To show them the true meaning of unconditional love—that you’d go through hell and back for them.

You place a hand on your stomach, hands trembling. Throughout your life, you’ve been told that your heart is a little too big, with endless space. A fatal flaw, in your opinion, since you end up loving what you can’t have. 

But this is yours. Part of your DNA. Someone who will have their own mind one day and someone who will love you, for a short while at least. The desperation for decent human interaction is sated by your work, the customers acting like normal human beings. Like your college friends, before you entered this snobbish world that is too political, too dehumanizing. 

It’s okay, you reassure. I can do it. I can bounce back. I can be positive.

I can do it.

“Why are you—” Ari slams the door behind you the instant you come in. When you first opened it, you saw him pacing, yanking open drawers and cabinets. “Did you take it? Where is it?” His eyes are frenzied, and he grabs at your arms. “Do you have to take everything from me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You cry. He’s the one in your room. The one who opened all your drawers without question, the one shaking you. The one in his usual outfit, about to see Sharon. Even the mattress you placed in the floor is messed up, the blankets scattered to the ground. You fight the tears building up in your eyes—do you always have to be so wrongfully accused? At the very least, you thought that the two of you entered some kind of silent truce since the photoshoot, since you both decided to avoid one another.

But then this happened. 

“Sharon’s ring. Obviously it’d be you—who else would it be?”

You swallow the scoff. It’s clear that he doesn’t care about the state of your room. At the sleepless nights. At the lack of this being a home. At the very fact that you’re so scared to settle in this place, that you can’t decorate or live the way you used to. 

At how every shred of the past you is tattered. 

“Don’t touch me!” The shout is out of shock more than anything. Immediately, you shield your body away from him and cover your stomach. It’s instinct—you don’t think, just protect. Ari notices it immediately, and his breath hitches. 

“You’re pregnant?” 

Does it even matter? Having a baby in this atmosphere? In the midst of a falling marriage? Now you wonder if that’s selfish, to have a young child suffer under this, too. Would it be discriminated like you are? 

You would die before putting them through that. And this may be out of character for you, but you would kill before allowing him or her to think that they are worthless. They can despise you as much as they want—as long as Ari loves them, as long as they are loved and respected. 

“You have an engagement ring for Sharon?” 

You don’t know if it’s the fact that you’re pregnant, but suddenly, you want more. You know that you’re selfish, asking for more from a man who will never give it to you. But since the first day, he’s been slipping through your fingers, while you’ve been giving and giving and giving. 

And now there’s a reason behind your questions, a motive for your desires: you don’t want your child to wonder where their father goes in the middle of the night. You don’t want Ari pacing the halls waiting for Sharon to call back. There will be no questions of “Where’s Dad?” before nighttime, because you’ll make sure Ari will always be available to them… even if you’re not. 

Ari blows out a breath and rubs his beard. “You weren’t my first choice for a wife—is that what you wanted to hear?” 

You’re stunned into silence, shame filling your cheeks. 

Of course. 

He was your favorite. You’d choose Ari in a heartbeat.

But no one will ever choose you.

You’ll never be anyone’s favorite. 

I don’t think I’ll make it… 

The last page of your journal is open, and you frown. Did Ari come in this room? No, you’re pretty sure he left for work a few hours ago, though you can’t be positive because you left to get some lunch with Natasha. But none of the drawers are opened, and nothing is out of place. 

You did think about writing this morning, maybe you forgot to close it? But you thought you did? Brushing your index finger against the rough paper covered with tears, you recall the thoughts that plagued you when writing this.

“I can’t let him down,” you whisper, closing your diary. Your baby will be beautiful, you know it, with how gorgeous and handsome Ari was. You can’t deny how lonely you are, though. Even when you smiled at him and tried not to be affected with the way the maids sneered at you, and the way his men glared at you, it hurt. It hurt being lonely, and it hurt more that the man who slid the ring on your finger didn’t do anything about it. 

With a sigh, you find the magazine. The two of you on the front cover, staring at one another. 

It’s so obvious that there’s no love in those eyes—Ari looks dead, even. Now, there are more rumors speculating whether him and Sharon are a thing, while the other have—no doubt Ari’s side controlling the media—continues to mention what a power couple the two of you are. 

Maybe this is a good thing, though. Maybe it’s better to stop holding onto what you never had. You trace your hair, comparing it to Sharon’s curls and sophisticated demeanor. The expensive, handcrafted dresses she wears around Ari as she links arms with him. The way the corner of his eyes crinkle when he stares down at her. At least she can love him in all the ways you couldn’t. 

Natasha asked you a couple of days if you’re going to stay married to him forever. Bold of her to assume that there’s something wrong with your relationship with him, even bolder of her to be right. Though you replied that you should, now you’re not so sure.

Divorce is always an option, she said. Why are you staying with him? What for?

For so many reasons. For him. For your child. For your brother.

What about for you? Your mind asks. Aren't you just as important?

Then, another thought: Maybe it is time to let him go. 

Ari is different. There’s this odd shift in the atmosphere: he doesn’t exactly hate you, but he doesn’t know what to do with you. Kind of trying to get rid of a body without causing it any harm. His eyes trial after you as you walk out of the kitchen, and you shoot him a tight smile. 

“When’s the last time you visited the doctor?” 

Another weird thing about that—he shot the doctor endless questions, from your eating habits, to what you can and can’t do, to how the baby will thrive. It’s a completely different direction from what you expected—and you realize he’s now tolerating you because you have a baby inside. And that he might actually be excited to have a child, and that makes you hopeful.

Since purging your violent thoughts out onto the page, you’ve managed to bounce back once again, feeling much better than the last couple of weeks. The absence of Ari, the quietness surrounding him, and you fitting back into your usual routine helps, too: work until you can’t walk anymore, head back home (halfway with Natasha, the other half alone where you fear your life), knock out, wake up in the morning and try not to throw up, cook yourself a meal that also doesn’t make you throw up, and head to work (alone). 

Anyone else might tell you it’s an awful schedule, since half the time you’re not trying to spill your breakfast out to customers. But you’re starting to like the easiness of it. All the workers there at the pub are getting used to you, too, treating you like a younger sibling, entrusting you in their circle.

For what’s supposed to be a risqué place, it’s surprisingly comfortable. Everyone’s really nice there, and you have to stop yourself from bouncing on your toes just from the good vibes Natasha gives you. And there are compliments—lots of them—sent your way, which goes to show how nice everyone else is. Super nice. There’s no other way you can describe it, other than that you love it there. 

Maybe this baby is bringing you good luck and good fortune. Maybe the baby is part of the reason why your mood is so much better lately. 

Maybe the baby is saving you. At least, you’d like to think so. 

“Since we went together? Zero?” 

“We should visit again,” he mutters, taking a sip of coffee. Now there’s always questions to his actions. Like, what does that mean? An implication that you’re not taking care of the baby well enough? 

“I take walks,” you blurt, then blush as he raises his eyebrows. It’s another thoughtless sentence, but whenever you’re around Ari, you seem to have a lot of those. 

And this is when it once again gets weird: usually he’d glance away with a glare, but this time, his eyes linger on your pink cheeks. His stare becomes more heated before he clears his throat and motions to the table for you to sit. 

You hesitate, knees locking in place. Should you run?

“Sit,” Ari mutters, followed by your name. And the throaty, commanding voice cuts off your thinking. You plop yourself on the chair that Ari’s pulled out for you, and clasped your hands over your lap, fighting the urge to bounce your knee. Eyes darting from the employees to Ari to the ground to the chandelier on the ceiling, you don’t notice Ari speaking until his finger taps the counter.

“Have you been paying attention to what I’ve been saying?” His voice is stern. Softer than the curt tone he’d often address you with.

“Uh, no,” you squeak. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t paying attention. I was…”

“Getting distracted,” he muses. He’s still staring at you, giving you the attention you’ve wanted so badly. You haven’t seen him for two to three weeks, and now he has a sudden personality change?

Did God hear your prayers? Did the universe swap the Ari you know for a caring one? 

“You’re spacing out again.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, chewing on your lower lip. “I’m listening, I promise.” 

Ari sighs. “Forget about it. Just make sure to clear your schedule next Friday for the doctor’s appointment.” 

Your eyes widen. “Are we going together?”

This time, his eyes say, What do you think? Then, he gets up, excusing himself to go to work.

He never excuses himself, just leaves. 

You watch as he buttons his cufflinks and runs a hand through his hair—simple acts that you haven’t been exposed to in your marriage. A flutter of butterflies erupt in your stomach when he dips his head in your direction, but tamp it down faster than someone stepping on their lit cigarette. 

The door clicks shut.

You sit there on the counter in wonder of what happened. 

You’re doing this thing where you reinvent yourself. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself when you take a walk downtown, breathing in the fumes that’ll most likely kill you, and letting the honks and shouts of street vendors call out to you. In reality, it's just an excuse to splurge on yourself. Though chaos is the last place you thrive in, you can’t help but love feeling disconnected here—you’re not a particular person, just another one on the street. 

That, and you’re craving some bagels. Since caffeine is not exactly the best idea when you’re pregnant—you never liked coffee anyways, but sometimes it’s a necessity while working—you’re channeling all that to the food you eat. 

Ari never gave you his card back, and you haven’t talked about it, either. So you’re just using your hard earnings to stock up on carbs, or to eat outside the restaurant and watch the New Yorkers.

You love how each of them have a charisma that you’ll never have. How they have the ability to walk down the street without the fear that someone is judging them. With that, it’s so obvious that you’re not cut out for this future, CEO wife duties. Before this… it’s awkward imagining a before. But you’d walk down this street rushing to class, to your masters in literature that your brother funded. 

Gatsby. Frankenstein. Rochester. All these imaginary characters, leading to dreams of being published one day, dreams that your brother kindled before Ari crushed it. No—dreams that your brother only supported so he can exploit you one day. You never got the support you wanted, the words of affirmation you craved. Even now, you’re drowning, something stuck in your lungs that prevent you from breathing. 

But back then. Back then you’d walk by and see Ari’s face on a billboard while waiting for the light to turn green, and feel your heart crashing against your chest like waves, wondering if this is unrequited love. 

How wrong you were then. Because this moment, having everything but nothing at all, is unrequited love. 

You see the same building now produce a picture of you and Ari, captioned, POWER COUPLE? Thank God majority of New York doesn’t care, but you lower your head anyways in case someone might recognize you. You slump and chew your bagel, letting the breeze lift strands of your hair, letting nosey puppies bump their nose on your ankle and walk past you, back to their owner. 

It’s then you see it: that dark blonde strand in curls, the heels, the blazer that if you always wore, looked like a young child wearing her mother’s clothes. The straight spine as she carries herself like she knows how to wrap the world around her finger—she probably does.

Sharon. 

And you know who’ll trail behind. She’s already beaming back at him, hands swinging to point a finger and laugh. If Ari didn’t wear his wedding band, if you didn’t chain him down, you know he’d grab that hand, just like you know you need to leave, just like you know that this bagel suddenly tastes stale and bitter. The expression that he gives her is soft like usual, but something feels… off? Maybe it’s the knit in his eyebrows? The hands in his pockets, like he’s restraining himself more than usual? The way his eyes swing around, to see if anyone is eavesdropping them? 

Though you’re most likely hallucinating.

You get up, eyes glued to the concrete smashed with cream cheese and bagel crumbs and other liquids that you don’t exactly want to stare at for long. From the corner of your eye, you see Sharon run to the street, calling after your husband. 

It all happened so quickly. In the blind of an eye, yet not at the same time.

You see the car coming and closer to Sharon, you move before Ari does. It’s almost funny, how when in danger, most people think of themselves, clearing out without a word, not even warning the girl you’re supposed to hate. And by the time Ari realizes—by the time he starts shouting—he is unable to reach her, and she is standing there, frozen. 

Adrenaline kicks in. You run, sprint, anything. Just a desperation of please please I didn’t mean it I don’t want her dead please I can’t Ari will hate me more Ari doesn’t deserve this I already ruined his life—so how can I let it be ruined even further with this?

You reach her. Tires are screeching. The car is coming to a stop—desperately. Now people are screaming. 

Your hands reach out to shove her, to save her. She tumbles to the ground, out of the vehicle’s reach.

How ironic you don’t think of yourself. 

The last face you see is Ari’s, panicked, arms outstretched, voice incoherent, reaching for you.

Or maybe you’re hallucinating that, too. 

The world turns black. 

HUHUHU PART THREE WHEN T________T

CURRENTLY IN THE WORKS I PROMISE

i probably shouldn't have left part 2 at a cliffhanger but I PROMISE IT'LL GET BETTER <333

hoax [ari levinson] [two]

hoax | trapped in an arranged marriage and unrequited love, you'd do anything to stop making ari despise you.

pairing | dark!ari x naive!sunshine!reader

warnings | p in v, lots of angst, self depreciation, pregnancy, ari is essentially an asshole, cheating, car accident, explicit smut; 18+

notes | inspired by @evansbby and her dear diary au + her feed !!! sorry for taking so long- this is about 6k right now, and there will definitely be more angst coming... hehe

buy me a kofi! drabble requests/asks! main!

CONT.

He doesn’t love you, and you know it.

You feel the resentment rolling off of him in waves whenever you walk by, cautious to not let anyone else see it. Everyone around him—his whole empire—does, though. Maybe they don’t know that he fucks you hard and fast like a feral animal, apathetic since the first night when you gave your virginity to him. 

You can still recall it, clear as day.

Maybe they don’t know that the housemaids in the house treat you like shit, cleaning Ari’s room but leaving yours in a worse state than when you exited. 

Maybe they don’t—and you hope that they never will—know that you love Ari.

He hates you. It’s simple. You’re the girl that ruined his happily ever after with the one he truly loves, the villain in the story. It makes sense that Ari didn’t want to see you at all.

But still, you want to try and make amends. Try and let him see that even though you’re married, you can be compatible. I mean, it’s not like you’ve been desperately searching on the internet possible MBTIs that he might match with, and then seeing if they work with yours.  

And it’s not like you cry every night hoping that he ends up with you, like all stories do. Too bad that you still can’t realize that you’re not the main character in the story. Sharon is, and you’re all living in her world, you being the background character so desperate to speak up. 

“So, is there some business meeting I wasn’t invited to?” You joke. “Because you seem to be missing dinner a whole lot.” 

On good days, you get a grunt in response. Other days, like today, he brushes past you. Your cheeks heat, and you sneak a glance at the employees cleaning the hallways, smirking at you and shaking their heads. 

“Okay, listen,” you say as your, well, husband, enters the room. It’s not even yours, it’s his. There are separate beds and rooms because he can’t stand being beside you, and that’s the worst blow anyone can receive. The wall itself is an insult, an obvious barrier to your relationship.

He’s only using you for sex, and you should stop expecting more. 

If kicking you out after and having you hobble down the hallway isn’t enough of an indicator, you don’t know what is. 

“Do you,” the words are hard to digest, but you say them anyways, “do you think I can have more respect in this house? I know you don’t like me, but I’m living in this house too.” You trail off, back leaning against the door like you forgot to stand up straight. 

His actions are worse than a gunshot wound. That’s the thing about Ari: he’s indifferent. Without even sparing you a glance, he pulls over a hoodie. A casual outfit. Which can only mean one thing.

He’s going to Sharon’s. Her perfume scent is already on the hoodie, like she’s worn it one too many times after sex. And the fact that he put it on when you were trying to have a serious conversation with him?

It hurt. Really hurt, like the immediate tears in your eyes kind. 

“Maybe there’s a reason why you don’t receive respect,” the man says quietly, like it’s a given fact. And every thought about setting things right crumbles. 

Right. Of course. You’re still the young girl living in a day dream, hoping for a Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet. And you thought that it’d be Ari. Ari noticing your needs and taking care of you. Ari realizing you accidentally skipped a meal writing and bringing it to you, giving you small pecks in between bites. Ari who would cuddle you, murmuring soft I love you’s before sleeping. 

But it’s not like that. It’s you asking the staff whether he ate or not, when he’ll be home. It’s you noticing that his favorite snacks are almost gone, heading to the grocery story and  making sure it’s filled the next time he heads down for a midnight meal. It’s you who drapes a blanket over him when he naps on the couch, tired from working excessive hours a day, whispering an I love you that will never get a response. 

The worst kind: unrequited love. Like your colleagues, even you don’t understand why you’re so committed to him sometimes. But the thought of being with someone other than him hurts more than dealing with this. And so you’re stuck, in an endless cycle of being his punching back. 

Of an endless, toxic cycle of trying to shape yourself like Sharon. 

You slump to the floor, hands over your face, steadying your breaths. One. Two.

You heave.

And then you release a heavy, shaking sob into the void. 

“What— you’re really going to drink that much?” Your friend’s mouth opens in shock. “You never drink that much.”

Another beer. There’s barely a burn anymore, the scalding feeling disappearing. When you don’t reply, she continues, “And if you’re going to die tonight, at least ask the bartender for a shot instead of beer. One hits you harder while the other makes you wallow in depression more.”

You snort and stare down at your wrist, tempted to place two fingers to your neck. Because for the past few hours, your body’s been drastically getting more numb, enough to make you wonder if you have a pulse or not. The dingy bar she brought you to is quiet, only a few customers in sight. Though humid and floor coated with spilled alcohol, it’s oddly less like a bar, with its chaotic fairy lights and paintings of nude women slapped on the walls. 

“Is this because Sharon was spot hanging out with your husband’s sister?”

Bingo. You visibly flinch at that. 

“You know it’s not a big deal, right? They’ve been friends since like college or something.”

Sharon Sharon Sharon Sharon. She’s all you can think about. What keeps you up at night, what haunts you during the day, and a reminder that you’re better off gone in this world. 

She’s also the reason you’ve been keeping your mouth shut when talking to Natasha—Nat. No one knows about her and Ari. No one knows that you spent his card yesterday buying things left and right—Prada bags, expensive cars, even going as far as buying a whole store out. Not only was there no comment, but the guilt like you committed a grave sin grew. 

You buried the body by donating your items to charity. At least someone will benefit from this arrangement. 

“Hey,” Nat lays a hand over your trembling one. All you want to do is sob and curl into a fetal position, but you plaster on a smile, dark eyes and all. 

Let the tabloids have a field day with this. 

You want to say that you’re reduced to nothing inside, but you still feel the knife, shoving and twisting inside of you whenever your husband makes a comment. These days, you obsessively scroll on the Internet ticking off mental disorder symptoms. Making sure that you don’t check off all the boxes, so there’s not another flaw you have to worry about. 

But that’s the thing: if you’re so far in, you’re unaware. 

“You having issues?”

“No,” you croak. Repeat it again, stronger. “No issues at all.” 

“Then why did you ask me to meet you?”

“Isn’t it enough to miss you?” Isn’t it enough to know that someone will come when I ask? 

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay.” 

Another gulp of the beer. You remember when you met Ari’s sister, how her eyes burned into you with disapproval. The passive aggressive remarks turned into full-on rude ones that Ari let happen over the dinner table. It started with your physical attributes—don’t you think you need to go on a diet?—to your carelessness—Ari’s wife should never spill anything, it’s unbecoming of you—to just… you. 

“I don’t know why Ari married you,” she told you when you came out of the bathroom, “and I don’t know what you want from him. But just know that Ari will cut you off one day if you want money. If you want a heir, I doubt he’ll support the baby and you.”

You had stared at her in shock—how can someone say something so vicious and cruel with a straight face? It had never been clearer that the two were related. 

“I’ll write you a check. 10 million. Leave anytime within the year. Let me know when you cave.”

A month ago, you might have gained the courage to spit in her face. Now, you crumble under the jabs she throws at you. 

“Do you know any jobs?” You blurt. “I need a job.” 

Her eyes widen. “You’re asking me for a job? Did you forget that I live in a crammed studio apartment with cockroaches for neighbors?” 

Well, you’d rather live with cockroaches than snakes. 

“I’ll take any job,” you murmur. “No matter how sketchy.”

“You can’t ask your brother for one?”

A shake of your head. Getting your brother involved would only make things more complicated. He might rope Ari into it, and that would make life harder. 

“Your husband? I doubt he would approve if it’s dangerous for you.”

Unable to stop it, a bitter laugh escapes you. Natasha catches on. It’s part of the reason how the two of you became such close friends. Though you’re expressive and try to be optimistic, at your lows, you shut down, not wishing to inconvenience anyone. She’s good at reading the mood, and even better at figuring out your thoughts. 

And she’s a fixer.

You need one of those in your life right now.

She rubs her lips together. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to get hurt—you can’t even fight! What are you going to do if someone decides to rob the store and you’re faced with a gun?”

Someone did almost rob you weeks ago. Not with a gun, but you can’t imagine how dying a swift death doesn’t sound appealing. 

“Alright,” she sighs. “Damn, I knew you were secretly stubborn.”

For what feels like in forever, you smile. 

Good thing you got the job, you think nearly weeks later. You thought about this happening to you sooner or later, but didn’t think it’d be this far out. 

“What are you doing in my room?” The man snaps. Ari. You straighten your spine out of fear, fingers trembling as you take a step back. The drawer is still open, the black card inside of it.

“The workers said that they accidentally put my card in your room, and that you told them to tell me to retrieve it—”

“I have better things to do than mess with a useless bitch.” 

He might as well slapped you with the way you reel back. “Excuse me?”

“What, you’re going to act like you don’t understand what I was saying now?” Under his breath, he mutters, “Sharon was right.” 

“I don’t—”

“You’re going to hoard everything now? You don’t need another card. Everything is provided for you. The workers get you groceries, and someone supplies you with clothes of your size every two weeks. They make sure that they have all the basics, from your shampoo to the eyeliner you’re always bitching about. We have a driver to drive you around, and it’s your fault if you don’t use it. And if you’re still not satisfied…” He shrugs. “You can always beg your brother. I’m sure he’s more angelic than I am.” 

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is happening. You don’t even know whether to laugh or to cry. It’s like you’re frozen in time, needing to process the words and see if this truly happened to you. You’re awful with confrontations—what should you even say? What will make him speechless? What will make him hurt as much as you do?

Every day, he tears another vein out of you. It’s like blood is constantly gushing out of your wound, and he turns a blind eye to it. 

If he knew anything, he would’ve seen that you left not to go party, but to go wash dishes and avoid jeering men wanting a feel of you. If he knew anything, he would’ve noticed you trembling when coming home, from both the cold and the fear that someone will stab you alive. That it won’t be an amateur robber approaching you next time, but someone who carries a weapon with them. If he even showed the slightest interest, he would know that you haven’t called your brother since the wedding. 

You never knew you could feel this little. That the variety in your emotions can minimize to one: heartbreak. 

Is this the way you’re going to love him? Letting him step over you? Reading about his charm and endurance on tabloids, but never be able to see it in real life? 

It’s tiring. Most of the people at work don’t know that you’re Ari’s wife. You’ve never gone out to events together, but instead of saying you’re locked in, it’s mentioned that you don’t like to go out often, that Ari likes to shield you from the world of vultures. Of prey. 

 Not like you’re already eaten alive. 

“Did you two have a lovers’ quarrel?” The photographer jokes, jutting his hip to the side. “Show me the chemistry the newspapers have been gushing about!”

If only he knew. This isn’t a simple quarrel, but a war. An endless one with no stalemate. The whole crew quiets at his words. Other than the light shining on the two of you, the rest of the large room is dark, like an endless void of negativity. Ari glares at the man who lowers his camera, inspecting the distance between the two of you. 

“Come closer,” the man demands, ignoring the stiffness in Ari’s shoulders. “There’s too much distance. Put your hands on his shoulders, and you, sir, can put your arms around her waist.”

You flush at his simple commands, eyeing your husband’s scowl. But this was to show the media that the two of you were still getting along, since they now caught onto your lack of presence. Heck, Sharon appeared in tabloids more than you did, titles of FRIENDSHIP OVER MARRIAGE? circulating. 

They were picture perfect—more so than you and Ari. With the way you two can’t even hold hands, it’s clear the you’re sleeping in different rooms. That you’re the problem, because Ari can smile for everyone but you. 

It’s like everyone is holding in their breath when you lay a hand on Ari’s pecs. Your breath hitches at the contact—the type that’s only rarely initiated when he fucks you. Leaving you a mess and having you clean up for yourself. Ari’s finger hooks a finger around the belt loop of your jeans, and either neither of you are breathing, or it’s just way too silent in here. God, your thoughts don’t make sense, either. 

Underneath the palm of your hand, you imagine that his heart beats faster at the contact. 

It doesn’t, but you’re entranced by its steady thuds, the stability and reassurance you crave right in front of you. 

This is too close, too. Closer than you’ve ever been. Close enough that you can look up and peer at his beard. Close enough that you can press your face into his chest, initiate a hug. 

Close enough that you can act like you’re a couple. 

You curl your fingers inward and breathe in his scent. Without even knowing, your forehead brushes his shirt, and the photographer yells with glee, “Yes! That’s it! There we go!” 

The finger around your belt loop tightens like a warning. Step back. But there are no words, no sounds except the shuttering of the camera. And with that, you gain the courage to gaze into his eyes boring into you. 

You imagine that this is a different universe: that you two are lovers, that his eyes crinkle with warmth and desperation to kiss you, that he wraps a hand around your neck and brings your mouth to his. 

It’s his pride that causes him to keep staring at you, but you don’t care what the reason is. As long as one hand is restrained from touching his beard, you’re fine. 

Your lips part—what should you say? Crack a joke? Be honest? 

All words are stuck in your throat.

The two of you remain in the same position for the rest of the photoshoot.

Just two people in the world interacting. 

Sometimes, they’re just not meant to be together. No matter how much you push and shove and hope for it to be. 

It’s embarrassing, how you let Ari do anything to you. The control he has over you is scary, too, but you let him. It’s the third time since he took you to bed, and you find yourself silently pleading with him through your eyes. 

Please love me. Please say something. Please please please please. 

The second time, he slapped a hand over your mouth and used you, grunting and groaning when he came inside you. He isn’t gentle this time, either, gagging you and fucking you like an animal. He doesn’t go slow and steady, instead fucking hard enough that the sound of your skin slapping against one another echoes through the room. You feel his thrusts inside you, see the outline of his cock protruding your stomach. 

You squirm when Ari thrusts his hips up to yours. How his dick is still hard inside of you, you can’t grasp. Instead, you’re reduced to a blabbering, silent mess when you grab the blankets. You can’t touch him. He doesn’t allow any other contact except him entering inside of you. 

His hand circles your clit, and you buck underneath him as he plays you like an instrument. It’s all a silent performance, nothing more, nothing less. 

And when you come, falling into oblivion, you only wish you had more of him. 

Liquid lurches out of you as you bend over the toilet, hand grasping the test for dear life. You’re choking and sobbing and the shaking is turning onto full of body quakes. Hot and then cold, you wipe the sweat dotting along your forehead. Your head is pounding and if you remain here for a few more minutes, you’re going to faint on the toilet ground.

Arms trembling, you lower your cheek on the cool tile, closing your eyes. 

Of course. You should’ve realized that something was wrong the moment you stepped into work tonight. Could’ve had the realization earlier if you noticed something off about throwing up in the morning. 

Dear God, you had to be the most naive person on earth. Until when are you going to keep doing this to yourself? How long do you have to suffer to even out your sins, and start living a normal life? 

I’m pregnant. The two words are incite to your mind both life and death. Hope and despair. You stare down at the test, clenching your teeth together. The first thought that comes to your mind is unbearable, and you hate that you’re thinking it: what if this baby splits you apart even further?

The next is just as sickening: should I get an abortion without telling Ari?

But then you remember how you used to work as a kindergarten teacher. See the little kids run around talk excessively, making adorable expressions. How they eyes shined bright with excitement when you told them something that you, as an adult, was used to. They thought everything was fascinating, and helped you see the world in a different light. And then you compare it with your childhood, with your deadbeat father who made you quiver in fear. How you spent every second holding your breath, checking the hallways before stepping out of your room, on constant alert that you just drained. 

If you’re going to have this baby… you want to be sure. You want them to grow up knowing that there will be no one else like them. To show them the true meaning of unconditional love—that you’d go through hell and back for them.

You place a hand on your stomach, hands trembling. Throughout your life, you’ve been told that your heart is a little too big, with endless space. A fatal flaw, in your opinion, since you end up loving what you can’t have. 

But this is yours. Part of your DNA. Someone who will have their own mind one day and someone who will love you, for a short while at least. The desperation for decent human interaction is sated by your work, the customers acting like normal human beings. Like your college friends, before you entered this snobbish world that is too political, too dehumanizing. 

It’s okay, you reassure. I can do it. I can bounce back. I can be positive.

I can do it.

“Why are you—” Ari slams the door behind you the instant you come in. When you first opened it, you saw him pacing, yanking open drawers and cabinets. “Did you take it? Where is it?” His eyes are frenzied, and he grabs at your arms. “Do you have to take everything from me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You cry. He’s the one in your room. The one who opened all your drawers without question, the one shaking you. The one in his usual outfit, about to see Sharon. Even the mattress you placed in the floor is messed up, the blankets scattered to the ground. You fight the tears building up in your eyes—do you always have to be so wrongfully accused? At the very least, you thought that the two of you entered some kind of silent truce since the photoshoot, since you both decided to avoid one another.

But then this happened. 

“Sharon’s ring. Obviously it’d be you—who else would it be?”

You swallow the scoff. It’s clear that he doesn’t care about the state of your room. At the sleepless nights. At the lack of this being a home. At the very fact that you’re so scared to settle in this place, that you can’t decorate or live the way you used to. 

At how every shred of the past you is tattered. 

“Don’t touch me!” The shout is out of shock more than anything. Immediately, you shield your body away from him and cover your stomach. It’s instinct—you don’t think, just protect. Ari notices it immediately, and his breath hitches. 

“You’re pregnant?” 

Does it even matter? Having a baby in this atmosphere? In the midst of a falling marriage? Now you wonder if that’s selfish, to have a young child suffer under this, too. Would it be discriminated like you are? 

You would die before putting them through that. And this may be out of character for you, but you would kill before allowing him or her to think that they are worthless. They can despise you as much as they want—as long as Ari loves them, as long as they are loved and respected. 

“You have an engagement ring for Sharon?” 

You don’t know if it’s the fact that you’re pregnant, but suddenly, you want more. You know that you’re selfish, asking for more from a man who will never give it to you. But since the first day, he’s been slipping through your fingers, while you’ve been giving and giving and giving. 

And now there’s a reason behind your questions, a motive for your desires: you don’t want your child to wonder where their father goes in the middle of the night. You don’t want Ari pacing the halls waiting for Sharon to call back. There will be no questions of “Where’s Dad?” before nighttime, because you’ll make sure Ari will always be available to them… even if you’re not. 

Ari blows out a breath and rubs his beard. “You weren’t my first choice for a wife—is that what you wanted to hear?” 

You’re stunned into silence, shame filling your cheeks. 

Of course. 

He was your favorite. You’d choose Ari in a heartbeat.

But no one will ever choose you.

You’ll never be anyone’s favorite. 

I don’t think I’ll make it… 

The last page of your journal is open, and you frown. Did Ari come in this room? No, you’re pretty sure he left for work a few hours ago, though you can’t be positive because you left to get some lunch with Natasha. But none of the drawers are opened, and nothing is out of place. 

You did think about writing this morning, maybe you forgot to close it? But you thought you did? Brushing your index finger against the rough paper covered with tears, you recall the thoughts that plagued you when writing this.

“I can’t let him down,” you whisper, closing your diary. Your baby will be beautiful, you know it, with how gorgeous and handsome Ari was. You can’t deny how lonely you are, though. Even when you smiled at him and tried not to be affected with the way the maids sneered at you, and the way his men glared at you, it hurt. It hurt being lonely, and it hurt more that the man who slid the ring on your finger didn’t do anything about it. 

With a sigh, you find the magazine. The two of you on the front cover, staring at one another. 

It’s so obvious that there’s no love in those eyes—Ari looks dead, even. Now, there are more rumors speculating whether him and Sharon are a thing, while the other have—no doubt Ari’s side controlling the media—continues to mention what a power couple the two of you are. 

Maybe this is a good thing, though. Maybe it’s better to stop holding onto what you never had. You trace your hair, comparing it to Sharon’s curls and sophisticated demeanor. The expensive, handcrafted dresses she wears around Ari as she links arms with him. The way the corner of his eyes crinkle when he stares down at her. At least she can love him in all the ways you couldn’t. 

Natasha asked you a couple of days if you’re going to stay married to him forever. Bold of her to assume that there’s something wrong with your relationship with him, even bolder of her to be right. Though you replied that you should, now you’re not so sure.

Divorce is always an option, she said. Why are you staying with him? What for?

For so many reasons. For him. For your child. For your brother.

What about for you? Your mind asks. Aren't you just as important?

Then, another thought: Maybe it is time to let him go. 

Ari is different. There’s this odd shift in the atmosphere: he doesn’t exactly hate you, but he doesn’t know what to do with you. Kind of trying to get rid of a body without causing it any harm. His eyes trial after you as you walk out of the kitchen, and you shoot him a tight smile. 

“When’s the last time you visited the doctor?” 

Another weird thing about that—he shot the doctor endless questions, from your eating habits, to what you can and can’t do, to how the baby will thrive. It’s a completely different direction from what you expected—and you realize he’s now tolerating you because you have a baby inside. And that he might actually be excited to have a child, and that makes you hopeful.

Since purging your violent thoughts out onto the page, you’ve managed to bounce back once again, feeling much better than the last couple of weeks. The absence of Ari, the quietness surrounding him, and you fitting back into your usual routine helps, too: work until you can’t walk anymore, head back home (halfway with Natasha, the other half alone where you fear your life), knock out, wake up in the morning and try not to throw up, cook yourself a meal that also doesn’t make you throw up, and head to work (alone). 

Anyone else might tell you it’s an awful schedule, since half the time you’re not trying to spill your breakfast out to customers. But you’re starting to like the easiness of it. All the workers there at the pub are getting used to you, too, treating you like a younger sibling, entrusting you in their circle.

For what’s supposed to be a risqué place, it’s surprisingly comfortable. Everyone’s really nice there, and you have to stop yourself from bouncing on your toes just from the good vibes Natasha gives you. And there are compliments—lots of them—sent your way, which goes to show how nice everyone else is. Super nice. There’s no other way you can describe it, other than that you love it there. 

Maybe this baby is bringing you good luck and good fortune. Maybe the baby is part of the reason why your mood is so much better lately. 

Maybe the baby is saving you. At least, you’d like to think so. 

“Since we went together? Zero?” 

“We should visit again,” he mutters, taking a sip of coffee. Now there’s always questions to his actions. Like, what does that mean? An implication that you’re not taking care of the baby well enough? 

“I take walks,” you blurt, then blush as he raises his eyebrows. It’s another thoughtless sentence, but whenever you’re around Ari, you seem to have a lot of those. 

And this is when it once again gets weird: usually he’d glance away with a glare, but this time, his eyes linger on your pink cheeks. His stare becomes more heated before he clears his throat and motions to the table for you to sit. 

You hesitate, knees locking in place. Should you run?

“Sit,” Ari mutters, followed by your name. And the throaty, commanding voice cuts off your thinking. You plop yourself on the chair that Ari’s pulled out for you, and clasped your hands over your lap, fighting the urge to bounce your knee. Eyes darting from the employees to Ari to the ground to the chandelier on the ceiling, you don’t notice Ari speaking until his finger taps the counter.

“Have you been paying attention to what I’ve been saying?” His voice is stern. Softer than the curt tone he’d often address you with.

“Uh, no,” you squeak. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t paying attention. I was…”

“Getting distracted,” he muses. He’s still staring at you, giving you the attention you’ve wanted so badly. You haven’t seen him for two to three weeks, and now he has a sudden personality change?

Did God hear your prayers? Did the universe swap the Ari you know for a caring one? 

“You’re spacing out again.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, chewing on your lower lip. “I’m listening, I promise.” 

Ari sighs. “Forget about it. Just make sure to clear your schedule next Friday for the doctor’s appointment.” 

Your eyes widen. “Are we going together?”

This time, his eyes say, What do you think? Then, he gets up, excusing himself to go to work.

He never excuses himself, just leaves. 

You watch as he buttons his cufflinks and runs a hand through his hair—simple acts that you haven’t been exposed to in your marriage. A flutter of butterflies erupt in your stomach when he dips his head in your direction, but tamp it down faster than someone stepping on their lit cigarette. 

The door clicks shut.

You sit there on the counter in wonder of what happened. 

You’re doing this thing where you reinvent yourself. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself when you take a walk downtown, breathing in the fumes that’ll most likely kill you, and letting the honks and shouts of street vendors call out to you. In reality, it's just an excuse to splurge on yourself. Though chaos is the last place you thrive in, you can’t help but love feeling disconnected here—you’re not a particular person, just another one on the street. 

That, and you’re craving some bagels. Since caffeine is not exactly the best idea when you’re pregnant—you never liked coffee anyways, but sometimes it’s a necessity while working—you’re channeling all that to the food you eat. 

Ari never gave you his card back, and you haven’t talked about it, either. So you’re just using your hard earnings to stock up on carbs, or to eat outside the restaurant and watch the New Yorkers.

You love how each of them have a charisma that you’ll never have. How they have the ability to walk down the street without the fear that someone is judging them. With that, it’s so obvious that you’re not cut out for this future, CEO wife duties. Before this… it’s awkward imagining a before. But you’d walk down this street rushing to class, to your masters in literature that your brother funded. 

Gatsby. Frankenstein. Rochester. All these imaginary characters, leading to dreams of being published one day, dreams that your brother kindled before Ari crushed it. No—dreams that your brother only supported so he can exploit you one day. You never got the support you wanted, the words of affirmation you craved. Even now, you’re drowning, something stuck in your lungs that prevent you from breathing. 

But back then. Back then you’d walk by and see Ari’s face on a billboard while waiting for the light to turn green, and feel your heart crashing against your chest like waves, wondering if this is unrequited love. 

How wrong you were then. Because this moment, having everything but nothing at all, is unrequited love. 

You see the same building now produce a picture of you and Ari, captioned, POWER COUPLE? Thank God majority of New York doesn’t care, but you lower your head anyways in case someone might recognize you. You slump and chew your bagel, letting the breeze lift strands of your hair, letting nosey puppies bump their nose on your ankle and walk past you, back to their owner. 

It’s then you see it: that dark blonde strand in curls, the heels, the blazer that if you always wore, looked like a young child wearing her mother’s clothes. The straight spine as she carries herself like she knows how to wrap the world around her finger—she probably does.

Sharon. 

And you know who’ll trail behind. She’s already beaming back at him, hands swinging to point a finger and laugh. If Ari didn’t wear his wedding band, if you didn’t chain him down, you know he’d grab that hand, just like you know you need to leave, just like you know that this bagel suddenly tastes stale and bitter. The expression that he gives her is soft like usual, but something feels… off? Maybe it’s the knit in his eyebrows? The hands in his pockets, like he’s restraining himself more than usual? The way his eyes swing around, to see if anyone is eavesdropping them? 

Though you’re most likely hallucinating.

You get up, eyes glued to the concrete smashed with cream cheese and bagel crumbs and other liquids that you don’t exactly want to stare at for long. From the corner of your eye, you see Sharon run to the street, calling after your husband. 

It all happened so quickly. In the blind of an eye, yet not at the same time.

You see the car coming and closer to Sharon, you move before Ari does. It’s almost funny, how when in danger, most people think of themselves, clearing out without a word, not even warning the girl you’re supposed to hate. And by the time Ari realizes—by the time he starts shouting—he is unable to reach her, and she is standing there, frozen. 

Adrenaline kicks in. You run, sprint, anything. Just a desperation of please please I didn’t mean it I don’t want her dead please I can’t Ari will hate me more Ari doesn’t deserve this I already ruined his life—so how can I let it be ruined even further with this?

You reach her. Tires are screeching. The car is coming to a stop—desperately. Now people are screaming. 

Your hands reach out to shove her, to save her. She tumbles to the ground, out of the vehicle’s reach.

How ironic you don’t think of yourself. 

The last face you see is Ari’s, panicked, arms outstretched, voice incoherent, reaching for you.

Or maybe you’re hallucinating that, too. 

The world turns black. 

hoax [ari levinson] [two]

hoax | trapped in an arranged marriage and unrequited love, you'd do anything to stop making ari despise you.

pairing | dark!ari x naive!sunshine!reader

warnings | p in v, lots of angst, self depreciation, pregnancy, ari is essentially an asshole, cheating, car accident, explicit smut; 18+

notes | inspired by @evansbby and her dear diary au + her feed !!! sorry for taking so long- this is about 6k right now, and there will definitely be more angst coming... hehe

buy me a kofi! drabble requests/asks! main!

CONT.

He doesn’t love you, and you know it.

You feel the resentment rolling off of him in waves whenever you walk by, cautious to not let anyone else see it. Everyone around him—his whole empire—does, though. Maybe they don’t know that he fucks you hard and fast like a feral animal, apathetic since the first night when you gave your virginity to him. 

You can still recall it, clear as day.

Maybe they don’t know that the housemaids in the house treat you like shit, cleaning Ari’s room but leaving yours in a worse state than when you exited. 

Maybe they don’t—and you hope that they never will—know that you love Ari.

He hates you. It’s simple. You’re the girl that ruined his happily ever after with the one he truly loves, the villain in the story. It makes sense that Ari didn’t want to see you at all.

But still, you want to try and make amends. Try and let him see that even though you’re married, you can be compatible. I mean, it’s not like you’ve been desperately searching on the internet possible MBTIs that he might match with, and then seeing if they work with yours.  

And it’s not like you cry every night hoping that he ends up with you, like all stories do. Too bad that you still can’t realize that you’re not the main character in the story. Sharon is, and you’re all living in her world, you being the background character so desperate to speak up. 

“So, is there some business meeting I wasn’t invited to?” You joke. “Because you seem to be missing dinner a whole lot.” 

On good days, you get a grunt in response. Other days, like today, he brushes past you. Your cheeks heat, and you sneak a glance at the employees cleaning the hallways, smirking at you and shaking their heads. 

“Okay, listen,” you say as your, well, husband, enters the room. It’s not even yours, it’s his. There are separate beds and rooms because he can’t stand being beside you, and that’s the worst blow anyone can receive. The wall itself is an insult, an obvious barrier to your relationship.

He’s only using you for sex, and you should stop expecting more. 

If kicking you out after and having you hobble down the hallway isn’t enough of an indicator, you don’t know what is. 

“Do you,” the words are hard to digest, but you say them anyways, “do you think I can have more respect in this house? I know you don’t like me, but I’m living in this house too.” You trail off, back leaning against the door like you forgot to stand up straight. 

His actions are worse than a gunshot wound. That’s the thing about Ari: he’s indifferent. Without even sparing you a glance, he pulls over a hoodie. A casual outfit. Which can only mean one thing.

He’s going to Sharon’s. Her perfume scent is already on the hoodie, like she’s worn it one too many times after sex. And the fact that he put it on when you were trying to have a serious conversation with him?

It hurt. Really hurt, like the immediate tears in your eyes kind. 

“Maybe there’s a reason why you don’t receive respect,” the man says quietly, like it’s a given fact. And every thought about setting things right crumbles. 

Right. Of course. You’re still the young girl living in a day dream, hoping for a Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet. And you thought that it’d be Ari. Ari noticing your needs and taking care of you. Ari realizing you accidentally skipped a meal writing and bringing it to you, giving you small pecks in between bites. Ari who would cuddle you, murmuring soft I love you’s before sleeping. 

But it’s not like that. It’s you asking the staff whether he ate or not, when he’ll be home. It’s you noticing that his favorite snacks are almost gone, heading to the grocery story and  making sure it’s filled the next time he heads down for a midnight meal. It’s you who drapes a blanket over him when he naps on the couch, tired from working excessive hours a day, whispering an I love you that will never get a response. 

The worst kind: unrequited love. Like your colleagues, even you don’t understand why you’re so committed to him sometimes. But the thought of being with someone other than him hurts more than dealing with this. And so you’re stuck, in an endless cycle of being his punching back. 

Of an endless, toxic cycle of trying to shape yourself like Sharon. 

You slump to the floor, hands over your face, steadying your breaths. One. Two.

You heave.

And then you release a heavy, shaking sob into the void. 

“What— you’re really going to drink that much?” Your friend’s mouth opens in shock. “You never drink that much.”

Another beer. There’s barely a burn anymore, the scalding feeling disappearing. When you don’t reply, she continues, “And if you’re going to die tonight, at least ask the bartender for a shot instead of beer. One hits you harder while the other makes you wallow in depression more.”

You snort and stare down at your wrist, tempted to place two fingers to your neck. Because for the past few hours, your body’s been drastically getting more numb, enough to make you wonder if you have a pulse or not. The dingy bar she brought you to is quiet, only a few customers in sight. Though humid and floor coated with spilled alcohol, it’s oddly less like a bar, with its chaotic fairy lights and paintings of nude women slapped on the walls. 

“Is this because Sharon was spot hanging out with your husband’s sister?”

Bingo. You visibly flinch at that. 

“You know it’s not a big deal, right? They’ve been friends since like college or something.”

Sharon Sharon Sharon Sharon. She’s all you can think about. What keeps you up at night, what haunts you during the day, and a reminder that you’re better off gone in this world. 

She’s also the reason you’ve been keeping your mouth shut when talking to Natasha—Nat. No one knows about her and Ari. No one knows that you spent his card yesterday buying things left and right—Prada bags, expensive cars, even going as far as buying a whole store out. Not only was there no comment, but the guilt like you committed a grave sin grew. 

You buried the body by donating your items to charity. At least someone will benefit from this arrangement. 

“Hey,” Nat lays a hand over your trembling one. All you want to do is sob and curl into a fetal position, but you plaster on a smile, dark eyes and all. 

Let the tabloids have a field day with this. 

You want to say that you’re reduced to nothing inside, but you still feel the knife, shoving and twisting inside of you whenever your husband makes a comment. These days, you obsessively scroll on the Internet ticking off mental disorder symptoms. Making sure that you don’t check off all the boxes, so there’s not another flaw you have to worry about. 

But that’s the thing: if you’re so far in, you’re unaware. 

“You having issues?”

“No,” you croak. Repeat it again, stronger. “No issues at all.” 

“Then why did you ask me to meet you?”

“Isn’t it enough to miss you?” Isn’t it enough to know that someone will come when I ask? 

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay.” 

Another gulp of the beer. You remember when you met Ari’s sister, how her eyes burned into you with disapproval. The passive aggressive remarks turned into full-on rude ones that Ari let happen over the dinner table. It started with your physical attributes—don’t you think you need to go on a diet?—to your carelessness—Ari’s wife should never spill anything, it’s unbecoming of you—to just… you. 

“I don’t know why Ari married you,” she told you when you came out of the bathroom, “and I don’t know what you want from him. But just know that Ari will cut you off one day if you want money. If you want a heir, I doubt he’ll support the baby and you.”

You had stared at her in shock—how can someone say something so vicious and cruel with a straight face? It had never been clearer that the two were related. 

“I’ll write you a check. 10 million. Leave anytime within the year. Let me know when you cave.”

A month ago, you might have gained the courage to spit in her face. Now, you crumble under the jabs she throws at you. 

“Do you know any jobs?” You blurt. “I need a job.” 

Her eyes widen. “You’re asking me for a job? Did you forget that I live in a crammed studio apartment with cockroaches for neighbors?” 

Well, you’d rather live with cockroaches than snakes. 

“I’ll take any job,” you murmur. “No matter how sketchy.”

“You can’t ask your brother for one?”

A shake of your head. Getting your brother involved would only make things more complicated. He might rope Ari into it, and that would make life harder. 

“Your husband? I doubt he would approve if it’s dangerous for you.”

Unable to stop it, a bitter laugh escapes you. Natasha catches on. It’s part of the reason how the two of you became such close friends. Though you’re expressive and try to be optimistic, at your lows, you shut down, not wishing to inconvenience anyone. She’s good at reading the mood, and even better at figuring out your thoughts. 

And she’s a fixer.

You need one of those in your life right now.

She rubs her lips together. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to get hurt—you can’t even fight! What are you going to do if someone decides to rob the store and you’re faced with a gun?”

Someone did almost rob you weeks ago. Not with a gun, but you can’t imagine how dying a swift death doesn’t sound appealing. 

“Alright,” she sighs. “Damn, I knew you were secretly stubborn.”

For what feels like in forever, you smile. 

Good thing you got the job, you think nearly weeks later. You thought about this happening to you sooner or later, but didn’t think it’d be this far out. 

“What are you doing in my room?” The man snaps. Ari. You straighten your spine out of fear, fingers trembling as you take a step back. The drawer is still open, the black card inside of it.

“The workers said that they accidentally put my card in your room, and that you told them to tell me to retrieve it—”

“I have better things to do than mess with a useless bitch.” 

He might as well slapped you with the way you reel back. “Excuse me?”

“What, you’re going to act like you don’t understand what I was saying now?” Under his breath, he mutters, “Sharon was right.” 

“I don’t—”

“You’re going to hoard everything now? You don’t need another card. Everything is provided for you. The workers get you groceries, and someone supplies you with clothes of your size every two weeks. They make sure that they have all the basics, from your shampoo to the eyeliner you’re always bitching about. We have a driver to drive you around, and it’s your fault if you don’t use it. And if you’re still not satisfied…” He shrugs. “You can always beg your brother. I’m sure he’s more angelic than I am.” 

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is happening. You don’t even know whether to laugh or to cry. It’s like you’re frozen in time, needing to process the words and see if this truly happened to you. You’re awful with confrontations—what should you even say? What will make him speechless? What will make him hurt as much as you do?

Every day, he tears another vein out of you. It’s like blood is constantly gushing out of your wound, and he turns a blind eye to it. 

If he knew anything, he would’ve seen that you left not to go party, but to go wash dishes and avoid jeering men wanting a feel of you. If he knew anything, he would’ve noticed you trembling when coming home, from both the cold and the fear that someone will stab you alive. That it won’t be an amateur robber approaching you next time, but someone who carries a weapon with them. If he even showed the slightest interest, he would know that you haven’t called your brother since the wedding. 

You never knew you could feel this little. That the variety in your emotions can minimize to one: heartbreak. 

Is this the way you’re going to love him? Letting him step over you? Reading about his charm and endurance on tabloids, but never be able to see it in real life? 

It’s tiring. Most of the people at work don’t know that you’re Ari’s wife. You’ve never gone out to events together, but instead of saying you’re locked in, it’s mentioned that you don’t like to go out often, that Ari likes to shield you from the world of vultures. Of prey. 

 Not like you’re already eaten alive. 

“Did you two have a lovers’ quarrel?” The photographer jokes, jutting his hip to the side. “Show me the chemistry the newspapers have been gushing about!”

If only he knew. This isn’t a simple quarrel, but a war. An endless one with no stalemate. The whole crew quiets at his words. Other than the light shining on the two of you, the rest of the large room is dark, like an endless void of negativity. Ari glares at the man who lowers his camera, inspecting the distance between the two of you. 

“Come closer,” the man demands, ignoring the stiffness in Ari’s shoulders. “There’s too much distance. Put your hands on his shoulders, and you, sir, can put your arms around her waist.”

You flush at his simple commands, eyeing your husband’s scowl. But this was to show the media that the two of you were still getting along, since they now caught onto your lack of presence. Heck, Sharon appeared in tabloids more than you did, titles of FRIENDSHIP OVER MARRIAGE? circulating. 

They were picture perfect—more so than you and Ari. With the way you two can’t even hold hands, it’s clear the you’re sleeping in different rooms. That you’re the problem, because Ari can smile for everyone but you. 

It’s like everyone is holding in their breath when you lay a hand on Ari’s pecs. Your breath hitches at the contact—the type that’s only rarely initiated when he fucks you. Leaving you a mess and having you clean up for yourself. Ari’s finger hooks a finger around the belt loop of your jeans, and either neither of you are breathing, or it’s just way too silent in here. God, your thoughts don’t make sense, either. 

Underneath the palm of your hand, you imagine that his heart beats faster at the contact. 

It doesn’t, but you’re entranced by its steady thuds, the stability and reassurance you crave right in front of you. 

This is too close, too. Closer than you’ve ever been. Close enough that you can look up and peer at his beard. Close enough that you can press your face into his chest, initiate a hug. 

Close enough that you can act like you’re a couple. 

You curl your fingers inward and breathe in his scent. Without even knowing, your forehead brushes his shirt, and the photographer yells with glee, “Yes! That’s it! There we go!” 

The finger around your belt loop tightens like a warning. Step back. But there are no words, no sounds except the shuttering of the camera. And with that, you gain the courage to gaze into his eyes boring into you. 

You imagine that this is a different universe: that you two are lovers, that his eyes crinkle with warmth and desperation to kiss you, that he wraps a hand around your neck and brings your mouth to his. 

It’s his pride that causes him to keep staring at you, but you don’t care what the reason is. As long as one hand is restrained from touching his beard, you’re fine. 

Your lips part—what should you say? Crack a joke? Be honest? 

All words are stuck in your throat.

The two of you remain in the same position for the rest of the photoshoot.

Just two people in the world interacting. 

Sometimes, they’re just not meant to be together. No matter how much you push and shove and hope for it to be. 

It’s embarrassing, how you let Ari do anything to you. The control he has over you is scary, too, but you let him. It’s the third time since he took you to bed, and you find yourself silently pleading with him through your eyes. 

Please love me. Please say something. Please please please please. 

The second time, he slapped a hand over your mouth and used you, grunting and groaning when he came inside you. He isn’t gentle this time, either, gagging you and fucking you like an animal. He doesn’t go slow and steady, instead fucking hard enough that the sound of your skin slapping against one another echoes through the room. You feel his thrusts inside you, see the outline of his cock protruding your stomach. 

You squirm when Ari thrusts his hips up to yours. How his dick is still hard inside of you, you can’t grasp. Instead, you’re reduced to a blabbering, silent mess when you grab the blankets. You can’t touch him. He doesn’t allow any other contact except him entering inside of you. 

His hand circles your clit, and you buck underneath him as he plays you like an instrument. It’s all a silent performance, nothing more, nothing less. 

And when you come, falling into oblivion, you only wish you had more of him. 

Liquid lurches out of you as you bend over the toilet, hand grasping the test for dear life. You’re choking and sobbing and the shaking is turning onto full of body quakes. Hot and then cold, you wipe the sweat dotting along your forehead. Your head is pounding and if you remain here for a few more minutes, you’re going to faint on the toilet ground.

Arms trembling, you lower your cheek on the cool tile, closing your eyes. 

Of course. You should’ve realized that something was wrong the moment you stepped into work tonight. Could’ve had the realization earlier if you noticed something off about throwing up in the morning. 

Dear God, you had to be the most naive person on earth. Until when are you going to keep doing this to yourself? How long do you have to suffer to even out your sins, and start living a normal life? 

I’m pregnant. The two words are incite to your mind both life and death. Hope and despair. You stare down at the test, clenching your teeth together. The first thought that comes to your mind is unbearable, and you hate that you’re thinking it: what if this baby splits you apart even further?

The next is just as sickening: should I get an abortion without telling Ari?

But then you remember how you used to work as a kindergarten teacher. See the little kids run around talk excessively, making adorable expressions. How they eyes shined bright with excitement when you told them something that you, as an adult, was used to. They thought everything was fascinating, and helped you see the world in a different light. And then you compare it with your childhood, with your deadbeat father who made you quiver in fear. How you spent every second holding your breath, checking the hallways before stepping out of your room, on constant alert that you just drained. 

If you’re going to have this baby… you want to be sure. You want them to grow up knowing that there will be no one else like them. To show them the true meaning of unconditional love—that you’d go through hell and back for them.

You place a hand on your stomach, hands trembling. Throughout your life, you’ve been told that your heart is a little too big, with endless space. A fatal flaw, in your opinion, since you end up loving what you can’t have. 

But this is yours. Part of your DNA. Someone who will have their own mind one day and someone who will love you, for a short while at least. The desperation for decent human interaction is sated by your work, the customers acting like normal human beings. Like your college friends, before you entered this snobbish world that is too political, too dehumanizing. 

It’s okay, you reassure. I can do it. I can bounce back. I can be positive.

I can do it.

“Why are you—” Ari slams the door behind you the instant you come in. When you first opened it, you saw him pacing, yanking open drawers and cabinets. “Did you take it? Where is it?” His eyes are frenzied, and he grabs at your arms. “Do you have to take everything from me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You cry. He’s the one in your room. The one who opened all your drawers without question, the one shaking you. The one in his usual outfit, about to see Sharon. Even the mattress you placed in the floor is messed up, the blankets scattered to the ground. You fight the tears building up in your eyes—do you always have to be so wrongfully accused? At the very least, you thought that the two of you entered some kind of silent truce since the photoshoot, since you both decided to avoid one another.

But then this happened. 

“Sharon’s ring. Obviously it’d be you—who else would it be?”

You swallow the scoff. It’s clear that he doesn’t care about the state of your room. At the sleepless nights. At the lack of this being a home. At the very fact that you’re so scared to settle in this place, that you can’t decorate or live the way you used to. 

At how every shred of the past you is tattered. 

“Don’t touch me!” The shout is out of shock more than anything. Immediately, you shield your body away from him and cover your stomach. It’s instinct—you don’t think, just protect. Ari notices it immediately, and his breath hitches. 

“You’re pregnant?” 

Does it even matter? Having a baby in this atmosphere? In the midst of a falling marriage? Now you wonder if that’s selfish, to have a young child suffer under this, too. Would it be discriminated like you are? 

You would die before putting them through that. And this may be out of character for you, but you would kill before allowing him or her to think that they are worthless. They can despise you as much as they want—as long as Ari loves them, as long as they are loved and respected. 

“You have an engagement ring for Sharon?” 

You don’t know if it’s the fact that you’re pregnant, but suddenly, you want more. You know that you’re selfish, asking for more from a man who will never give it to you. But since the first day, he’s been slipping through your fingers, while you’ve been giving and giving and giving. 

And now there’s a reason behind your questions, a motive for your desires: you don’t want your child to wonder where their father goes in the middle of the night. You don’t want Ari pacing the halls waiting for Sharon to call back. There will be no questions of “Where’s Dad?” before nighttime, because you’ll make sure Ari will always be available to them… even if you’re not. 

Ari blows out a breath and rubs his beard. “You weren’t my first choice for a wife—is that what you wanted to hear?” 

You’re stunned into silence, shame filling your cheeks. 

Of course. 

He was your favorite. You’d choose Ari in a heartbeat.

But no one will ever choose you.

You’ll never be anyone’s favorite. 

I don’t think I’ll make it… 

The last page of your journal is open, and you frown. Did Ari come in this room? No, you’re pretty sure he left for work a few hours ago, though you can’t be positive because you left to get some lunch with Natasha. But none of the drawers are opened, and nothing is out of place. 

You did think about writing this morning, maybe you forgot to close it? But you thought you did? Brushing your index finger against the rough paper covered with tears, you recall the thoughts that plagued you when writing this.

“I can’t let him down,” you whisper, closing your diary. Your baby will be beautiful, you know it, with how gorgeous and handsome Ari was. You can’t deny how lonely you are, though. Even when you smiled at him and tried not to be affected with the way the maids sneered at you, and the way his men glared at you, it hurt. It hurt being lonely, and it hurt more that the man who slid the ring on your finger didn’t do anything about it. 

With a sigh, you find the magazine. The two of you on the front cover, staring at one another. 

It’s so obvious that there’s no love in those eyes—Ari looks dead, even. Now, there are more rumors speculating whether him and Sharon are a thing, while the other have—no doubt Ari’s side controlling the media—continues to mention what a power couple the two of you are. 

Maybe this is a good thing, though. Maybe it’s better to stop holding onto what you never had. You trace your hair, comparing it to Sharon’s curls and sophisticated demeanor. The expensive, handcrafted dresses she wears around Ari as she links arms with him. The way the corner of his eyes crinkle when he stares down at her. At least she can love him in all the ways you couldn’t. 

Natasha asked you a couple of days if you’re going to stay married to him forever. Bold of her to assume that there’s something wrong with your relationship with him, even bolder of her to be right. Though you replied that you should, now you’re not so sure.

Divorce is always an option, she said. Why are you staying with him? What for?

For so many reasons. For him. For your child. For your brother.

What about for you? Your mind asks. Aren't you just as important?

Then, another thought: Maybe it is time to let him go. 

Ari is different. There’s this odd shift in the atmosphere: he doesn’t exactly hate you, but he doesn’t know what to do with you. Kind of trying to get rid of a body without causing it any harm. His eyes trial after you as you walk out of the kitchen, and you shoot him a tight smile. 

“When’s the last time you visited the doctor?” 

Another weird thing about that—he shot the doctor endless questions, from your eating habits, to what you can and can’t do, to how the baby will thrive. It’s a completely different direction from what you expected—and you realize he’s now tolerating you because you have a baby inside. And that he might actually be excited to have a child, and that makes you hopeful.

Since purging your violent thoughts out onto the page, you’ve managed to bounce back once again, feeling much better than the last couple of weeks. The absence of Ari, the quietness surrounding him, and you fitting back into your usual routine helps, too: work until you can’t walk anymore, head back home (halfway with Natasha, the other half alone where you fear your life), knock out, wake up in the morning and try not to throw up, cook yourself a meal that also doesn’t make you throw up, and head to work (alone). 

Anyone else might tell you it’s an awful schedule, since half the time you’re not trying to spill your breakfast out to customers. But you’re starting to like the easiness of it. All the workers there at the pub are getting used to you, too, treating you like a younger sibling, entrusting you in their circle.

For what’s supposed to be a risqué place, it’s surprisingly comfortable. Everyone’s really nice there, and you have to stop yourself from bouncing on your toes just from the good vibes Natasha gives you. And there are compliments—lots of them—sent your way, which goes to show how nice everyone else is. Super nice. There’s no other way you can describe it, other than that you love it there. 

Maybe this baby is bringing you good luck and good fortune. Maybe the baby is part of the reason why your mood is so much better lately. 

Maybe the baby is saving you. At least, you’d like to think so. 

“Since we went together? Zero?” 

“We should visit again,” he mutters, taking a sip of coffee. Now there’s always questions to his actions. Like, what does that mean? An implication that you’re not taking care of the baby well enough? 

“I take walks,” you blurt, then blush as he raises his eyebrows. It’s another thoughtless sentence, but whenever you’re around Ari, you seem to have a lot of those. 

And this is when it once again gets weird: usually he’d glance away with a glare, but this time, his eyes linger on your pink cheeks. His stare becomes more heated before he clears his throat and motions to the table for you to sit. 

You hesitate, knees locking in place. Should you run?

“Sit,” Ari mutters, followed by your name. And the throaty, commanding voice cuts off your thinking. You plop yourself on the chair that Ari’s pulled out for you, and clasped your hands over your lap, fighting the urge to bounce your knee. Eyes darting from the employees to Ari to the ground to the chandelier on the ceiling, you don’t notice Ari speaking until his finger taps the counter.

“Have you been paying attention to what I’ve been saying?” His voice is stern. Softer than the curt tone he’d often address you with.

“Uh, no,” you squeak. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t paying attention. I was…”

“Getting distracted,” he muses. He’s still staring at you, giving you the attention you’ve wanted so badly. You haven’t seen him for two to three weeks, and now he has a sudden personality change?

Did God hear your prayers? Did the universe swap the Ari you know for a caring one? 

“You’re spacing out again.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, chewing on your lower lip. “I’m listening, I promise.” 

Ari sighs. “Forget about it. Just make sure to clear your schedule next Friday for the doctor’s appointment.” 

Your eyes widen. “Are we going together?”

This time, his eyes say, What do you think? Then, he gets up, excusing himself to go to work.

He never excuses himself, just leaves. 

You watch as he buttons his cufflinks and runs a hand through his hair—simple acts that you haven’t been exposed to in your marriage. A flutter of butterflies erupt in your stomach when he dips his head in your direction, but tamp it down faster than someone stepping on their lit cigarette. 

The door clicks shut.

You sit there on the counter in wonder of what happened. 

You’re doing this thing where you reinvent yourself. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself when you take a walk downtown, breathing in the fumes that’ll most likely kill you, and letting the honks and shouts of street vendors call out to you. In reality, it's just an excuse to splurge on yourself. Though chaos is the last place you thrive in, you can’t help but love feeling disconnected here—you’re not a particular person, just another one on the street. 

That, and you’re craving some bagels. Since caffeine is not exactly the best idea when you’re pregnant—you never liked coffee anyways, but sometimes it’s a necessity while working—you’re channeling all that to the food you eat. 

Ari never gave you his card back, and you haven’t talked about it, either. So you’re just using your hard earnings to stock up on carbs, or to eat outside the restaurant and watch the New Yorkers.

You love how each of them have a charisma that you’ll never have. How they have the ability to walk down the street without the fear that someone is judging them. With that, it’s so obvious that you’re not cut out for this future, CEO wife duties. Before this… it’s awkward imagining a before. But you’d walk down this street rushing to class, to your masters in literature that your brother funded. 

Gatsby. Frankenstein. Rochester. All these imaginary characters, leading to dreams of being published one day, dreams that your brother kindled before Ari crushed it. No—dreams that your brother only supported so he can exploit you one day. You never got the support you wanted, the words of affirmation you craved. Even now, you’re drowning, something stuck in your lungs that prevent you from breathing. 

But back then. Back then you’d walk by and see Ari’s face on a billboard while waiting for the light to turn green, and feel your heart crashing against your chest like waves, wondering if this is unrequited love. 

How wrong you were then. Because this moment, having everything but nothing at all, is unrequited love. 

You see the same building now produce a picture of you and Ari, captioned, POWER COUPLE? Thank God majority of New York doesn’t care, but you lower your head anyways in case someone might recognize you. You slump and chew your bagel, letting the breeze lift strands of your hair, letting nosey puppies bump their nose on your ankle and walk past you, back to their owner. 

It’s then you see it: that dark blonde strand in curls, the heels, the blazer that if you always wore, looked like a young child wearing her mother’s clothes. The straight spine as she carries herself like she knows how to wrap the world around her finger—she probably does.

Sharon. 

And you know who’ll trail behind. She’s already beaming back at him, hands swinging to point a finger and laugh. If Ari didn’t wear his wedding band, if you didn’t chain him down, you know he’d grab that hand, just like you know you need to leave, just like you know that this bagel suddenly tastes stale and bitter. The expression that he gives her is soft like usual, but something feels… off? Maybe it’s the knit in his eyebrows? The hands in his pockets, like he’s restraining himself more than usual? The way his eyes swing around, to see if anyone is eavesdropping them? 

Though you’re most likely hallucinating.

You get up, eyes glued to the concrete smashed with cream cheese and bagel crumbs and other liquids that you don’t exactly want to stare at for long. From the corner of your eye, you see Sharon run to the street, calling after your husband. 

It all happened so quickly. In the blind of an eye, yet not at the same time.

You see the car coming and closer to Sharon, you move before Ari does. It’s almost funny, how when in danger, most people think of themselves, clearing out without a word, not even warning the girl you’re supposed to hate. And by the time Ari realizes—by the time he starts shouting—he is unable to reach her, and she is standing there, frozen. 

Adrenaline kicks in. You run, sprint, anything. Just a desperation of please please I didn’t mean it I don’t want her dead please I can’t Ari will hate me more Ari doesn’t deserve this I already ruined his life—so how can I let it be ruined even further with this?

You reach her. Tires are screeching. The car is coming to a stop—desperately. Now people are screaming. 

Your hands reach out to shove her, to save her. She tumbles to the ground, out of the vehicle’s reach.

How ironic you don’t think of yourself. 

The last face you see is Ari’s, panicked, arms outstretched, voice incoherent, reaching for you.

Or maybe you’re hallucinating that, too. 

The world turns black. 

part two is up whoooo

hoax [ari levinson] [one]

hoax | trapped in an arranged marriage and unrequited love, you'd do anything to stop making ari despise you.

pairing | dark!ari x naive!sunshine!reader

warnings | p in v, lots of angst, self depreciation, reader is a virgin, ari is essentially an asshole, cheating, explicit smut; 18+

notes | inspired by @evansbby and her dear diary au + her feed !!! she's literally the sweetest and a master at writing <333 super super nervous for this first place but hopefully you enjoy. thanks for reading anyways!

buy me a kofi! drabble requests/asks! main!

CONT. TWO.

“This is my husband?” Your mouth runs dry at the picture your brother gave you. “But why so suddenly?”

The man in front of you shrugs. “Do you have to be so skeptical about it? It’s probably a love match.”

Though his glass walls show the view of the city, it still manages to feel like the walls are closing in on you. A sense of dread churns your stomach, not one of excitement. Because you’ve seen that mischievous glance, the expression one where he’s satisfied after he ruined someone’s life.

This time, that someone might be you. 

Since Ari and your brother have been acquaintances—and even that term is used loosely, as they only see one another during public events—you gained an interest in the billionaire. The rivalry between them. He shows up on countless tabloids, all debating whether he found his true love or not. 

And then there were the Playboy magazines that you stashed under your bed. Even now, your cheeks flush at the lack of clothing Ari is wearing on the front cover.

No wonder women throw themselves at him. You couldn’t blame them. 

“What did you do?” You whisper. “Don’t tell me you meddled in his life.”

“I didn’t,” he cuts you a sharp glance. “Don’t overthink it. I promise he’s the best husband you’ll find.”

With that, he waves you off. Dismissed.

You should be hurt that he can exploit you so easily, especially when you’re blood related. It’s not tough skin that causes you to walk out the door with the slight dignity you have left, most shattered to remains. It’s the knowledge that you’re numb to the fact that no one will stand up for you.

Not even yourself.

You stare down at the invitation that your brother created, one for personal associates. You’ve heard so much about Ari. How gentle he is when taking you out on a bed, how he loves lavishing his girlfriends with gifts and doesn’t mind PDA, loves it in fact. You can imagine he’d be constantly touchy—he would need you by his side so that he can wrap an arm around your waist. And you’d let him. 

The contrast between his soft, yet firm personality when doing press releases or taking someone out to dinner and when he dominates the bedroom doesn’t go unnoticed, either. You can’t imagine how someone thriving as much as he is wants to settle down. 

Dear God. You slap your hands over your cheeks. The schoolgirl crush on him has to go, but here you are. Unconsciously, your finger is tracing the last name, too. Levinson, the name you’ll adopt. 

Instantly, your mind is taken up by thoughts about him. The soft smile he’d reserve only for you. The way you’d have full access to run your hands through his hair. The way the two of you will glance at one another, and know what each other is thinking.

The full on romance movie, what you’ve stayed up nights dreaming about. Soulmates are real, and if by some way the two of you are linked together now, it must be fate. 

Your lips quirk up in a smile, and your heart flutters. Maybe if you try hard enough, he’ll begin to love you. 

Maybe, just maybe, this can work. 

Think optimistically. And whatever you do, don’t cry.

You write the mantra down in your journal, your vision growing hazy due to your emotions. But you have to get these past few months out of your system, or these memories will drive you to the brink of insanity. 

You have to forget to swallow his contempt once again. Forget before being reaffirmed his hatred for you. 

Once the news was out, the magazines declared it a love match. You convinced yourself that it is—until you saw the glare he gave you, the grunts he responded with, the way he despised every little action you did. You were the enemy, no better than your brother. 

Like you haven’t been exploited enough, he had to throw you into this, too. And he refused to even acknowledge you. The fact that he went with you for wedding planning was so that you wouldn’t choose anything excessive. Short and private is what he wanted—most likely to save himself from further humiliation. 

How does this wedding dress look? 

You had to get the most expensive one? He snorted. You’re just like your brother. Gold diggers, both of you.

You remained silent that drive home, fighting the tears in your eyes, lower lip trembling and nails biting into your thighs. Better for him, since he didn’t want to talk to you in the first place.

What kind of ring should we get? You remembered asking, staring up hopefully at him. If there are workers around, maybe he’ll play the part. 

Fucking choose one instead of prancing around, he snapped. Your persistence never failed in the moment, pointing at each one and wondering what he thought about it. Halfway through, he got a phone call and removed himself, forcing you to wait with the employees, who refused to do anything without Ari’s permission. So you fiddled with your phone, glanced at your dress, and went out searching for him. 

In one of the dim-lit hallways, he paced.

I’m not marrying the bitch because I want to, Sharon. No, love. No—don’t hang up on me. Fuck. I’m coming over tonight, okay? Just hang on.

The desperation lingers in his voice as he runs a hand through his hair. Devastated, that was the expression written all over his face as he clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. Leaned against the wall, murmuring, fuck. Each word a dagger to your chest, you stumbled back at the impact. Because of course. Of course someone as good-looking as Ari would have someone that he loves. Of course he wouldn’t love you, not only because you were related to your brother, who ruined his life, but because there’s nothing about you that’s redeemable. 

There’s a reason why your parents abandoned you when you were younger. You couldn’t be what they wanted you to be: dominant, smart, a leader. No, as a follower through and through, they left the moment they could. A car accident, with all their inheritance given to your brother. 

It’s like someone is ripping your heart out, and you suck in a wheezing breath. Stare down at your ringless hand. Not that the ring will make a difference: it will only symbolize how you’ve ruined what he had with someone. Something good, judging by the way he looked so heartbroken. 

Your nose began to sting, and you stared at the ceiling so that tears wouldn’t ruin your makeup. Get it together.

Except, you’ve taken all the steps that you could in this relationship, this arrangement, whatever it was. Any further and you’d fall of the cliff, destroying it completely.  

By the time you get to the wedding, how disgusted he looked after kissing you, you felt like hurling yourself. Still do. The pen quivers in your hand, and you place it on the desk. It’s the darkness that hits you. The truth.

You are not enough. 

Yes, he was your first kiss. Yes, you were inexperienced. Yes, you loved him, even then. Even when there was nothing to love. Even when people close to you questioned your relationship, you defended him. Because every time you saw him, your heart hurt so much you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe because of the way he treated you, like he was a perpetrator dunking your head underwater and leaving you there to die or survive. 

You saw how he’d sneak around and go to Sharon’s every night. When you moved in in the beginning, you sat in the hallways because your room was uncomfortable. A ghost room—one made to live and die in—not settle. 

And against the wall, you’d hear his gentle words. You imagined the I love you’s were directed to you. That he would stare down at you and say him, thumb caressing your cheek. 

You stopped heading out into the hallway in the middle of the night. The mattress topper is relocated next to your bed, on the floor, and that’s where you sleep. 

Not that it matters, since the maids never come by and clean your place. At least cleaning takes your mind off of things. 

Cooking, too. Sometimes the workers forget, but that’s okay. You have to learn how to cook sooner or later, you know? Though it’d be nice if there’s someone who helps clean up your knife cuts. Or worries about the blood gushing out of your index finger. Asks about your scars. 

Or when you come back late at night, it’d be nice if someone greeted you. Yells at you in concern where you’ve been. Asked if everyone was nice and polite towards you, if there were any odd guys lingering around. If you’ve nearly been robbed.

You really wish someone had asked that the time you almost did, knocked against a brick wall and coming back in bruises with a slight limp.

No one batted an eye.

In fact, they probably think you cheated on Ari, because their treatment towards you become worse.

What you wanted most, though, is someone to ask you if you’re okay. That, when they see your puffy eyes and flushed face, they’d at least act like they care. 

You’re lonely. So, so lonely. It’s the worst feeling: like you’re the only person left in the world when really, you’re surrounding by people. 

It’d be nice if someone appreciated you like you appreciate them. Even getting a hello on the street is hard nowadays, and those who approach you are just vicious people wanting an insight on what it’s like married to Ari Levinson. 

At least you didn’t have sex with Ari yet. You’re pretty sure that’ll only make you fall into him deeper. Ignite a feeling where you don’t want to be just surface level with him, but bone-deep. Enough so that it’ll be impossible to separate the two of you, one always attached to another. 

But you’ve always been told that you daydream a little too much. That you never choose to live in reality. 

Well, you know now how dangerous it can be. 

“Ari,” you whisper, dead into the night as he pulls you into his bedroom. “What are you doing?”

There’s a candle in his room—no doubt gifted from Sharon. Your heart flutters at the sight of his disheveled hair, the way he hunches and leans over to take you in. He’s big. And tall, towering over you. There’s still a sense of security that you get around him. 

At the very least, you know he won’t let you die. 

He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. “Fuck.”

“What’s the matter?” You say. It’s the first time you’ve spoken in weeks since the wedding. “If you need anything—”

“I need you to shut the fuck up.”

“Ari—”

He steers you to the bed, and you fall back against the plush sheets, leaning on your elbows, disoriented. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Can you let me consummate our marriage without making me want to throw up?”

“But why so suddenly—”

“Because I need a heir, okay? Because your brother’s—no, your—fucking blackmail is still lingering, alright? Isn’t this what you wanted? To make me treat you like a whore?” 

Now it’s your turn to become quiet. Tears gather behind your eyes, and you stare down at the bed. At the warmth of his blankets, with the knowledge that this is Sharon’s territory. She probably slept here one too many times, way before you did.

You didn’t belong here, but you let him do what he needed. For some odd reason, you still trust him, like the naive person you are. Here you are, still clinging onto the shred of hope—no less than the edge of a paper—that he’ll change his mind and choose you. 

There are no kisses. Ari kissing you means that it’s over with Sharon. Kisses mean something, you realize.

The act of undressing yourself is hasty. You’re brimming with nervousness, and confused. Self-conscious, but too scared to cover yourself up. You don’t know what the consequences are if you do. Why are you naked, but he’s fully clothed? Is this normal? You doubt it, but you can’t say anything because you’re not the expert. Peering up at him beneath your eyelashes, you watch as he rubs his thumb against your clit and pushes his middle finger inside of you.

Oh God. You release a gasp at the stretch. At the slight burn. At your arms and thighs quaking as warmth gathers near the bottom of your stomach. Ari’s eyes are dark, hooded. He looks feral, like a wolf about to devour his prey.

“Poor baby,” he mocks. “How are you supposed to take me if I can’t even fit my finger in? Want me to shove you in half, is that it?”

You can’t even answer, reduced to a puddled mess. Writhing on the bed, you latch onto his arm, head thrashing back and forth as he continues his steady rhythm. Small gasps and whimpers leave you. 

“Ari!” You cry when he pinches your clit.

“What? I thought you wanted me to touch it. It’s been neglected, hasn’t it?” His thrusts become harder, deeper, and your body sings in response to the music that he plays. Your head becomes dizzy, and you moan, eyes falling shut. 

“Don’t be lazy—look at me.” Another finger plunges inside of you, and you buck your hips, a cry leaving you. Too focused on him, you don’t hear him unzip his pants and take his cock out until he aligns it against your pussy. 

And dear God, it’s huge. Veiny. You stare at it in wonder—how will it even fit? He fists his cock and slaps your ass. “Lay back down.” 

It won’t fit. It can’t. A sense of panic flows through you when he pushes the tip in. The moan you release is nearly unconscious, nails digging into the bedsheets. 

“You can’t even take it, huh? I’m not even halfway in—what a disappointment.”

No, don’t want to disappoint Ari. “I can take it,” you murmur, determination settling in. “I can.”

Truth is, you can’t. He’s thick. Overwhelming. Even with a few inches in, you feel the burn due to the stretch. 

“You’re tight,” he mutters. “Take in a deep breath, okay?”

Is he… caring? You do as you’re told, sucking in a lungful of air, just in time as he thrusts all the way in. 

“Ah!” Instantly, the pain encapsulates you, like someone ripped you apart. Blindly, you clutch at his biceps, oblivious to Ari’s harsh breathing as he attempts to restrain himself from pounding into you. Fuck—he didn’t think it’d feel this good, but you’re milking him and clenching his dick without even knowing. And you’re tight, so tight.

Tight that he can’t control himself anymore. His mouth latches onto your skin—your neck, where he leaves a hickey, down to your nipples, where he swirls it with his tongue and sucks. Desperate to meet him, you buck against him, sliding him in deeper. 

The groan you both release is simultaneous. 

You’re both lost in your own haze: you trying to adjust to his thickness, him trying to get you to relax. In a few minutes, he has you under his spell once again, and you start grinding against him. Ari’s hand grips your hips, and he thrusts in harsher this time, pain mixing with pleasure. 

“Fuck.” His fingers trace your stomach where the outline of his cock is, like he’s entranced. And that’s when he goes feral, pounding into you so hard that you both hear the sound of skin slapping against skin. You blindly reach for him, for something to latch onto, and he pins your arms above your head, panting. 

You can feel your climax: the moment your gut clenches, the moment where the euphoric feeling rushes through you, the moment you feel lightheaded. 

“Ari!” You cry as you cum, clenching around him. 

Saying his name was a mistake. 

In a moment, he rips himself off of you, the gentle man you thought you saw gone. You must’ve been hallucinating, but the evidence is all there: the blood on his cock, the heavy panting, and the regret lingering in his eyes. The two of you stare at one another in silence as his gaze hardens at the evidence leaving you. 

He wants to kill you, you can see it. You immediately throw the blankets over you, attempting to cover yourself. For some reason, the magical moment gone, shame spreads throughout your veins. Shame. Hurt. Guilt. 

You just made Ari cheat on his girlfriend. His lover. He didn’t come—maybe that’s the one thing making him feel less guilty. And you.

“I’m so sorry,” your voice trembles, and you reach out towards him. The murderous expression intensifies, and you stop. 

The door slams in his wake, leaving you as the villain.

Days later, the bed is replaced.

this may just be me - but i realize how important support and validation is in writing. and now the affirmations where people read your work and say it's amazing.

that's great too, but i mean the direct support of your family and writer friends telling you that you can do it when you believe you can't. when you're about to slip into that space of insecurity, wondering, should i really do this? your family members tell you, yes, i told you that you shouldn't have done it, that you would regret it.

support is so, so important. and it shouldn't be half-assed, because our insecurity can latch onto that, too. and this isn't just for people who want to be full-time writers, but all writers, because anyone who writes is a writer.

but it hurts when the people closest to you don't understand how you feel. don't understand the frustration that sometimes comes with having writers' block, the joy of finding a character's origins, their turning point, their growth.

i still get messages from my loved ones: are you still doing this? is this the route you want to go? and it hurts, because i feel like they don't have faith in me, like they're watching a car go at 120 mph or something and waiting for it to create an accident.

but i can't let go of this. i crave writing, i think about it even when i can't write, and i miss the nostalgia of getting words on the page.

so don't give up. you can do it, you can be it. i believe in you, genuinely.