#Mike is yapping

[mikes-corner]

Taking over as host now!!

My name is Micheal! or Mike! I go by they/he pronouns and am nonbinary!

I am tranharmed, the only specific one I know is transgroomed so ye! :3

I'm also a narc looking to be put in my place too!

#Mike is yapping -> misc posts

#Mike is stealing -> reblogs

#Mike is making -> art etc

#Mike is simping -> s/o etc

Stamps by @//rqstamps

[julietsbody]

KITTY KAT — art donaldson + reader : art has a tendency to show up late to your lessons. 

tags: mdni, tennis lessons, coach!art donaldson, p in v sex, fingering, art is kind of an asshole, cheating (not on reader) 

a/n: sorry to tashi… this goes out to my dear @murdrdocs

thirty minutes ago. 

art donaldson was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago, your teeth grit against each other, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete floor below you. 

art was a sweet guy, sure, but his time management was beyond infuriating. it almost made you feel like he thought himself above you, like you weren’t worth his time. 

“one to talk,” you mumble to yourself, dragging your racket on the ground, “rich from the guy who was coached by his wife.” 

ahem. 

you spin around, and of course, he’s standing right there, looking the same as he always does. his dirty blonde hair was messed up and falling over his eyebrows, blue eyes, with a mix of brown, staring directly at you with an almost amused expression. 

you blink at him, once, twice. 

a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “sorry for being late.” 

it sounds condescending, like he would never actually mean it, especially not after what he heard, it felt like a sort of karma for what you were previously saying about him. 

and he knows that, of course he does, so he masks it with a sense of sweetness, one that would typically gaslight people into thinking they’ve been forgiven, but you know better. 

you’ve been coached by art for a while now, and his little habits became far too predictable. this was odd, though, you couldn’t make out the glint in his eye, especially when you mumble a, “sorry, i didn’t mean—“  

“let’s get started, yeah?” art cuts in, bitter, yet his voice still sounded like it was dipped in honeysuckle.

he whisks right past you with that same, tugged up smirk, he reeked of rich cologne and mint. 

your lips press together and you silently, albeit ashamed, nod in agreement. 

maybe silence will earn points back from your coach. 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾

silence did not earn anything. 

art served hard, hit the ball hard, it was as if he wanted to make the ball break through your racket and hit you square in the face. he clearly took your miniscule words personally, and he was testing you, trying to break you down, to see how much you could take until your bones turned soft and you felt like giving up. 

the first time you called a pause, art smiled, “don’t tell me you’re giving up.” 

“pause,” you repeat through heaved breaths, sweat sticking to your skin underneath the relentless sun. art had that same playful look in his eyes that he always did, he knew that what he was doing was working, he knew that he was getting under your skin, and as cruel as it sounds, he really did enjoy it. 

if you ever were to ask him about it, he’d just shrug and say it’s all a part of the practice, it always happens in tennis, especially professional, he’s just preparing you. but deep down, he really just wanted to say that he was doing it for those reasons but for his own personal pleasures, karma comes in many forms, but art picks the harshest form first. 

he watches you drink water with a desperate urgency, stifling his own chuckles, “you sure you’re okay?” 

“‘m fine,” you speak after gulping down the last drop, finally satisfied, “let’s keep going.” 

art’s brows furrow ever so slightly, but as soon as you’re back to being ready, he rolls the tennis ball in his hand a little, observing it, before throwing it up in the air and sending it your way. he’s so casual with every hit, despite his grunts and the way his nose scrunches whenever ball meets racket, he makes it look like it’s nothing. 

to make it even worse, he starts trying to conversate between passes, “you know—“ smack! another grunt leaves his lips, “it’s really rude to—“ smack! “speak about people behind their—“ smack! “fuck.. backs.” 

you’re so busy trying to decipher his words you almost miss the next hit, but thankfully you snap out of the trance quick enough to hit it last minute, which he chuckles at and quickly sends it back. 

smack! “‘m sorry, art, really—“ your shoes scratch against the concrete below, smack! “i was being very—“ smack! “childish, i apologize.” 

he hums, content with your apologies, but still not outwardly saying he forgives you, instead his hits start to soften, he’s less trying to kill you with the ball and now rather trying to actually play tennis. “you’re all good—“ he confirms, smack! “just make it up to me, yeah?” 

ball meets floor, his words had completely caught you off guard, and you missed your hit on the ball he sent your way. you felt almost stupid, standing there, staring at him and trying to decipher what he meant by making it up to him. 

and of course, he didn’t elaborate, he never did, he simply just picked up another ball, smiled at you, and said, “ready?” 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾

art said he forgave you, right? 

ever since that day, he’s been acting.. off. he was more focused on your figure now, not in a crude way, but in a way where he wanted you to position yourself correctly when playing. he watches you serve the ball, then his tongue prods at the inside of his cheek and he stands, “hey, hey, wait a second— your uh… your stance is wrong.” 

“it is?” it was the fifth time he’s corrected you, today, and it’s safe to say you were getting annoyed, he picked up on the bitterness of your tone as he approached you. 

“‘ts not my fault, kitty cat,” he shrugged simply, noticing the way your eyes narrow in frustration at his nickname, he only smiles. he leans in behind you, “may i?” his hands are ghosting over your arms from behind. 

“whatever helps,” you remark. 

“good,” it’s softly spoken at the shell of your ear, making you swallow thick, his fingers wrap around your wrist, other one holding your fingers grip on the racket’s handle. his grip is tight, yet gentle at the same time, veins flexing against his flesh with every movement as he helps you move into the right position. “just gotta.. do it like this,” he’s still whispering against your ear, nearly making your knees buckle. 

once he’s satisfied with your position, which is far too quick for your liking, he backs off and lets you serve the ball again. he smiles once he’s gotten what he’s wanted, “perfect.” 

eventually, after a while of hitting the ball, you decided to take a break. there was a silence between you and art, a tension you couldn’t place, you had nothing to blame it on, nothing to apologize for, and he constantly looked like he was trying to say something indescribable. 

“hey,” he starts, before tugging his bottom lip under his tongue for a mere second before continuing, “remember when i said you had to make it up to me?” 

you stare at him, curious, “yeah, of course.” 

“you know,” his hands smooth over each other, skin underneath his right eye twitching as his pupils dilate in thought, “i’ve been having a.. problem, lately.” 

“with tennis?” 

“nono,” he laughs nervously, moving to scratch the back of his neck, “it’s personal, y’know? well— not entirely, since ‘m telling you, but uh— actually, nevermind.” 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾

you and art hadn’t discussed much after the last meet, you found yourself standing in the court yet again, whilst he was no short of an hour late at this point. you wanted to ask him what his deal is lately, what his problem is, but he wasn’t even here to be questioned. it was almost ridiculous, like he was toying with you. 

“i like your skirt,” it comes out of nowhere, but it’s the same, smooth voice that art holds. 

yet again, you find yourself spinning around to meet him, he’s closer, now, clearly eyeing you— but that’s.. weird, is it not? he has a wife, he shouldn’t be complimenting your obviously short skirt, or eyeing you like that, or wishing to tell you things that he had apparently not told anyone else because it’s personal. but who are you to question his relationship? maybe he’s just.. being nice, really. 

“thank you,” you offer, nice, short, sweet. 

he rolls his shoulder, meeting your eyes, flickering his gaze to your lips for a mere second, then saying nothing and walking by. rich cologne and mint. that’s what wafts into your senses immediately, as if it was some sort of distraction from his odd behaviors. 

“do you always call people kitty cat?” you eventually ask him, it was something you’d been wondering, truly, especially since you’ve never been called that before. 

“to pretty girls with an attitude, yeah,” art says it so casually. 

“like your wife?” 

“like you.” 

art corrected you. 

he corrected you, and his correction didn’t annoy you like how they always did, it made your stomach churn in a way you couldn’t decipher, you couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. you liked it, maybe, but isn’t that so sickening? art seems to think no big deal of his own words, as he doesn’t even react, so you try to be nonchalant about it as well. 

the whole entire test match you play with him, he has a certain glint in his eye, his grunts are louder, his shorts look tighter, he looks like he’s having some sort of reaction to playing tennis, to playing tennis with you. your tongue runs along your lips between breaks, noticing the way his eyes linger on it, the way his pupils widen at the shine of saliva over your lips with each swipe. 

at the third break, art was convinced you were doing this on purpose. 

“why do you keep doing that?” he asks as he’s walking over to grab his water bottle, right where you’re sitting on the concrete floor. you blink up at him, watching him hover the bottle near his lips and squirt the water into his mouth. did he always look this good when sweaty? 

gosh, maybe you’re just tired, maybe your mind is just foggy. 

“what?” you frown, confused. 

“licking your lips,” he speaks after swallowing the water, towering over you. his muscles were nearly bursting out of his white t-shirt with every movement, especially when he puts his water bottle down and crosses his arm, head cocking to the side. sweat causes some of his hair strands to stick to his forehead, lips puffy from how much he bites them when playing. 

“my lips are dry,” you explain, so simple. 

“yeah?” again, another smile, he had to be toying with you, “do you need some other help with that?” 

“what do you mean?” 

art hums, not explaining anything when he opens his mouth and swipes his thumb along his tongue, moving down to rub the saliva from his tongue onto your lips, memorizing the pillowy soft touch. your eyes widen, slightly, “art, this is—“ 

“not helping?” art tuts in faux disappointment, mumbling a small, ‘why don’t i..’ before he leans down further, licking his own lips and getting closer and closer until his lips are brushing against yours. 

“wrong,” you mumble out, but you sound unsure, like you don’t really believe what you just said, you don’t think this is wrong, you’ve always thought art was attractive, it was his wife that kept your crush on him at bay. you mumble against his lips, “you have a wife, art..” 

“do i?” he smirks against your lips, a near chuckle slipping out, “i must’ve forgotten.” 

“art,” it sounds like a warning, but again, you wanted nothing less than for his lips to fall against yours right now. 

“make it up to me, yeah? remember that?” his hand moves to hold your cheek, tipping your head up at him, eyes meeting yours in such close proximity, “i’ve got some marriage problems right now, so why don’t you play wife for me, hm?” 

you nod at him, ever so slightly, he clocks it immediately, and that’s his que. his eyes flutter shut, and he’s leaning in only a mere centimeter before his lips fall against yours. the kiss is soft at first, sweet, new, but then art starts taking the lead, and it quickly becomes something on the faint lines of cannibalism, he kissed you like he wanted to eat you, like he loved you. 

when he said he wanted you to play wife, he wasn’t lying. 

he pries your lips open with his own before his tongue makes it’s way inside your mouth, tasting the peppermint of your gum on your own tongue, memorizing the noisy breaths that leave your mouth and move into his. your nails are quick to run along his arms, making him pull back to speak, “hold on, kitty cat.” 

“you call your wife kitty cat?” you watch him peel off his sweaty shirt from his skin. 

he tosses the shirt to the side, exhaling a breath that showed he hated the feeling of the wet fabric on his skin, “mm, i call you kitty cat, ‘nd you’re playing my wife, so.” 

“right,” you agree, letting his cold hands brush against your skin when he takes your clothes off of you, of course looking at you for approval beforehand, which you nod to. 

“did you start wearing shorter skirts on purpose?” art questions when his fingers reach the waistband of your skirt, ever so slowly dipping underneath. 

“no, ‘course not,” you speak breathlessly, feeling his fingers move under your underwear as well until his fingertips meet your clit. you swallow thick, lashes fluttering as he starts moving his fingers in an almost cruel slowness. 

“look at me,” he whispers a simple command, free hand holding your chin and forcing you to look at him. his fingers move further down, immediately feeling how wet you are, he chuckles in surprise, “god, you’re this wet for a married man, huh?” 

“for my husband,” you mumble out, playing the part. 

“that’s right,” his middle finger circles your entrance for a second before ever so slowly dipping it inside. he watches your lips fall apart, the way your eyes get glossed over, the way your hips push up against his finger. “needy.” 

he doesn’t take long to push another finger in, letting go of your chin so he could guide your hand to his clothed cock, hard and pushing against his flimsy shorts. as soon as you start rubbing his dick through the fabric, his breath shudders slightly, as if he’s been waiting too long for like, as if he hasn’t had sexual pleasure in weeks. 

soon enough, only a mere minute or two in of foreplay, art gets antsy and he has to have his dick inside of you, he pries his fingers from your cunt and takes your skirt off next. “lay down for me, yeah?” he smiles at the fact that you do it immediately, even spreading your legs for him. 

he hisses at the feeling when his bare knees meet the concrete floor below, harsh on his skin, he tugs his shorts and boxers down ever so slightly until his cock is finally freed. you inhale sharply upon seeing it, he had a big dick. he spits in his hand, coating his dick with a grunt before he finally lines himself up with your entrance. 

“ready?” he hushes out. 

“yeah, yeah,” you’re barely able to finish the last yeah before his dick is moving into you, his nose scrunching from the tightness of your walls around him, it’s like you were purposefully squeezing his cock with an attempt to milk him dry already. 

“fuck,” he grunts out, pulling back, then moving back in, earning a pathetic moan from your lips. it sounds like music to his ears, so he keeps going, his thrusting was slow at first, gentle, kind— but just like the test matches, or the kiss, he gets hungry, and he wants more. 

his thrusts turn relentless almost immediately, maybe even like he was taking out some sorts of sexual frustrations out on your poor cunt. whimpers, whines, moans, all of those leave your lips, matching up with the grunts and the occasional whimper from his own mouth as well. 

sex was intoxicating for art, and there was something so dangerous, so forbidden about this, you weren’t really his wife, he was married to another woman, he was solely your coach. some sick part of art loves that, maybe that’s why he leans down and starts nipping at your neck, sucking at the delicate skin until maroon and blackberry starts blooming on the blank canvas. 

“art, oh my god,” you moan out, hands moving to scratch at his bare back, and maybe art should be smart enough to tell you not to leave marks, but he lets your nails dig in as his thrusts get harsher, surely drawing blood, or at least noticeable scratches. 

in fact, the feeling of you tearing into his skin only makes his orgasm come on faster, soon enough wracking his body and making his hips stutter. he keeps going though, despite the overstimulation that makes him pathetically whine softly, just until you’ve reached your own orgasm. 

he pulls out, panting, smirking down at you, “thanks, kitty cat.” 

[tashisversion]

i miss him everyday

[willfreakbyers]

I want Finn and noah to be talking about the byler kiss while on press and saying they almost broke each other's noses brokeback mountain style

[bellamoooon]

Art loves friendship bracelets, and I mean this man is OBSESSED with them, receiving them and making them.

He first noticed a little handmade bracelet on your wrist when getting smoothies after one of his games at Stanford, him being the curious boy he is, he asked about it.

“What’s this? Did you make it?” He said softly as he gently grabbed your wrist analyzing the bracelet that had “donaldson” written with small letter beads and surrounded by a tennis ball kind of green colored beads.

“Oh yeah— I made it the other day while I was watching a movie, I wear it to all of your games now” you answer with a smile as you see him still looking at the bracelet moving the small beads around with his signature side grin.

“I can make you one if you want”

When those words reach arts hearing, he almost felt like throwing up— not like he was disgusted by the idea, the complete opposite in fact; He wanted to cry out of the mere fact that you were willing to take the time to make a bracelet for him, so of course he accepts with the widest smile you’ve ever seen on him.

Then there you are a week later, waiting for him at the courts entrance with a shy smile as you see him wave at you as he wipes the thin coat of sweat covering his forehead as he grabs his tennis bag.

“Hey, pretty.” He says with his usual smile as his kisses your cheek while the two of you walk out.

“I made you something” you speak with the excitement practically spilling out as you hand him a bracelet with some pink beads and your last name written on it just like the one you had with his last name.

He takes the bracelet spinning it in his hands as he smiles, his eyes shining with amazement at the gesture.

He slips the bracelet on his wrist as he takes your hand in his intertwining them to then leave a small kiss over your knuckles.

“I love it” he mumbles as he looks down at you wondering how the fuck he got so lucky for you to actually like an awkward guy like him.

After that, he wore it everyday even if it didn’t match with what he was wearing for the day; When Patrick visited, he made fun of him for a while saying how down bad he actually was that he was now wearing a pretty pink bracelet with your last name on it, but Art didn’t care, because Patrick’s girlfriend wasn’t making bracelets specially for him.

So friendship bracelets became your guys’ thing; Usually when you two would stay in for a date night it would be a movie— usually a cheesy romcom he insists he let you choose but is actually content with them— churros you got from the cafeteria before he got to your dorm, and making bracelets he ended keeping in a small box that had pictures of him and Patrick from MRTA, letters you wrote for him on past birthdays, letter from his nana, and other valuable little things.

Safe to say, he doesn’t really love the bracelets themselves, he loved the fact that you made them for him and with him <33

[qolazz]

Ok I made the anti bychance comic 😔 here 😄

I kinda like the sketch more but who cares I worked too hard on this

(Dude I was about to post this without wills mole and mikes freckles😭 I’m so ashamed 😔😞)

Now if I get any notification saying that “bychance should be endgame” or some shit I’m gonna kms ☺️

BYLER ENDGAME!!!!!😝😝

Ola out✌️😘

[paladinsbrainrot]

my favourite stranger things duo 💜 (they have interacted Once)

+ close ups !!

[newrochellechallenger2019]

category is: characters who haunt the narrative and are in love with their male best friend!

[pugh-bug]

me watching the challengers fandom move on quick

this is dune and saltburn all over again

[jordiemeow]

[mikes-corner]

realizing I'm not the cool famous streamer guy but a little guy... >:[

[julietsbody]

cw: improper use of tennis racket, fucked by a tennis racket, dirty disgusting stuff, smut, mdni 

art donaldson knew it was gross, it was dirty and disgusting and something about that made him want to do it more. you mean it as a joke when you suggest it for the first time, but art’s chuckle falls short, and there’s a look in his eyes that says he’s considering it. 

now he had the end of his racket’s handle running up and down your cunt, even when he’s holding it the opposite way, there’s a certain skill to the way he wields it, a confidence he always has when playing now being displayed onto your cunt. he licks his lips, watching your wetness collect at the end of his racket. 

“so wet,” he thinks aloud, “just for my racket, hm?” 

“yeah, yeah,” you speak, breathless, there was something so erotic about him using something he had played a sport with many times, now circling your entrance with it before glancing at your eyes and ever so slowly pushing it in. you gasp, the stretch is unusual, the feeling of the racket entirely new. 

“thaaaat’s it,” he’s holding back every urge to palm himself through his thin fabriced shorts. “takin’ it so well.” 

he’s moving it into you ever so slowly, stretching your velvet walls. he memorizes how whenever he shifts it to the left, you moan louder, and when he shifts it to the right, you start whimpering. his tongue prods the inside of his cheek when he pulls it back, then thrusts it back into you, pistoning you with the handle of his racket until you’re coating it with your own orgasm. 

a smirk curves his lips, “it’ll my lucky charm.” 

so, so disgusting, but it’s not the last time you let him fuck you with the handle of his racket. 

[roryheartz]

whenever i miss mike faist i feel like a wife clutching her shawl standing in the fields staring at the horizon with the wind blowing her hair wondering when her husband will return from war

[queeleronwheels]

I saw a post talking about how Mike's love at first sight confession was bogus because the only reason Mike grew close to El in the first place was to use her as a tool to find Will.

While I 100% agree that Mike did not, as he claimed, love El since the moment he saw her, I think the beginning of their relationship is more complex than that, and I think acknowledging this lends more credibility to the idea that Mike doesn't, and never did, love El romantically. Hear me out:

Mike loves to be needed. It is the very essence of his character, and moves beyond just subtext in S4 when he says to Will in the van, "What if after all this is over, she doesn't need me anymore?"

El was all alone and on the run when she was first found by the Party. She needed to be hidden, to be protected, and Mike latched on to the role of protector immediately. He especially liked being her guide through an unfamiliar world, and in doing that, they did grow close, and they did grow to care for each other, outside of anything to do with Will.

That alone didn't push Mike to turn their relationship into something romantic (because yes, it was Mike's decision; El was very vulnerable, unfamiliar with how the world worked, and looked up to Mike to show her the way. Not a great foundation for a romantic relationship, and all the more reason El should end up single and on a journey of self-discovery and independence in S5). The beginning of their romance was a result of Mike's need to be needed in combination with him being a young boy in a heteronormative society that thought “oh, and she’s a girl too, so I guess I’m her boyfriend."

For Mike, kissing El was taking advantage of the fact that there was a girl in his house and she relied on him and according to Ted Wheeler and the rest of the tiny suburban bubble he lives in, that's the stuff of picket-fence romances right there! Off to the Snow Ball they go!

In S3, as he grows more in tune to his feelings and less naive about how romantic relationships actually work, his relationship with El becomes about waiting. He is waiting to finally feel about her how he "should", especially as they become more hands-on and El begins to expect boyfriend-y things of him. He even tries it on for size with his whole "I love her and I can't lose her again" blunder, because no doubt he does love her, but it isn't the way he wants to for the sake of conformity. Maybe if he professes it out loud for the whole world to hear, it'll hit different (it doesn't—it's portrayed comedically, with no swelling music or relieved laughter or running into El's arms. In fact, go watch it again—the music literally dies once he says it).

By S4, he knows it's not going to happen, the feelings aren't going to come—he very visibly realized this when El kissed him and told him she loved him at the end of S3—but he's motivated to keep up the act because in his mind 1) he can't be gay if he's with a girl and 2) he really does still want to be needed by her. That part wasn't a lie, as we know from him saying it to Will in the van. If she still needs him, maybe this could still work even if he doesn't love her romantically. Without that need, he has nothing to offer.

The real substance of Mike and El's relationship is platonic, sibling-like love (they established this the second before they got together in S1 with the "Will you be like my brother?" line, which is a hell of a weird springboard for a first kiss between your central couple, even if it's a chaste one between kids).

It was never love at first sight—it was forced heteroromance at first convenience.

Mike's relationship with El suffers in S3 and S4 because El begins to want more from him romantically, and Mike is not romantically attracted to her. His S5 arc is going to at the very least be about him accepting that for what it is and why (🏳️‍🌈). Personally I think when he learns that Will has feelings for him, it will make the idea of him having feelings for Will potentially less scary in his mind, and that's what will hurtle him toward the end of that arc. That's my hope, anyway!

[tangerwoll]

kraft hockeyville | 09.29.24

[bellamoooon]

Shitty draft <333

I love my queen tashi but I need her to be a villain for this teehee

Arts grandma loved his long blonde curls, and would point it out every time they talked.

“Have you cut your hair short Artie? You know how much I love those curls of yours”

And if he was completely honest, he actually didn’t hate his long hair, in fact, most girls he would talk to would always say how much they loved his hair.

Especially you, he loved that you adored his hair; how you’d runs your fingers through his thick blonde curls or how occasionally you would braid some strands when cuddling and talking.

But that all took a turn, when he got with Tashi —who by the way did not like his long hair— he immediately chopped it down to a short length but not too short.

She always said his hair would get sweaty, making it annoying during matches, plus she said he look like a little kid with his curls, leading to the decision.

So now in the present, Art and Tashi were in the middle of a divorce, but he still had to attend the foundation’s events, so imagine his surprise as he sat next to you uncomfortably in silence.

”you cut your hair….” Was the first thing that came out of your mouth as you recognized him then going silent.

“Yeah— it was annoying to wash after the matches so…” he spoke with a bit of hesitation as the question popped into his head, what did you think about it? He couldn’t quite read your expression.

“It’s— it looks…nice” you say looking down at your hands, swallowing thickly not really knowing what else to say, not that you didn’t like it, but, he looked so different— sure it had been a good ten years since you last saw him, and you could see him age slightly but his face didn’t change.

He was the same Art, your Art.

“Tashi made me cut it” he blurted out after a couple of minutes of awkward silence, “she said it made me look like a kid” he had no idea why he was telling all that, it’s not like she cared anymore, or did she?

You let out a laugh, a hand covering your mouth as you tried to muffle the noise, Art furrowed his brows as he turned to look at you. “I’m sorry— it’s just that I couldn’t have imagined a single person who hated your long hair” you spoke almost unable to believe that Tashi did not like his curls.

“Yeah well— I kinda regret cutting it, I think I’ll let it grow back, y’know retirement and…the divorce” he slowed his pace as he mentioned the divorce, it really sucked to be him right now, he thought.

“That’s good, you always did look better with your long hair, I didn’t want to be a bitch in case it was your choice” you said as you pointed at his hair with a playful grin.

Right there. There it was.

Art wanted to die on the spot, how the hell did he manage to ever get with you, AND leave you for his teenage fantasy with Tashi.

Deep down he knew things between the two of you would never be like it was before, but a small part of him wanted to convince himself just for the night, that maybe, just maybe, the two of you could actually start over.

“Art, they need you for pictures” Tashi’s voice brought him back, he nodded softly muttering “be right there” as she turned away not even caring, you looked at Tashi walking away to then turn to Art, who had the expression of a kicked puppy with his tail between its legs.

“I’d hate to be you” you joked with a hint of tenderness you always carried when talking to him, “I’ll see you…around, hopefully.”

His heart dropped at the words, you had a longing look as you waved goodbye while walking away, he definitely hated being him right now.

I kinda hate this 😩💀