#I know I'm often sad but it's a sad world lmao | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sceletaflores · 10 days

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Being a professional masseur for players and taking care of our boy art.

Hes just so sad and so pretty that you just giving head to make him feel better 😔

Plot twist: he falls in love with you because duh? Hot+sex=you being promoted pookie, you are now the donaldsons elite employes!!!!!!

Baby, show me where it hurts...

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you never intended on becoming a "celebrity" massage therapist. you just wanted to be a massage therapist, the whole celebrity thing just sort of happened, you blame cali for that. but the novelty of your job wore off long ago, you hardly blink at the clients on your table nowadays. that is until tashi duncan calls you and absolutely fucks everything up.

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, oral (m!receiving), oral (fem!receiving), p in v, fingering (fem!receiving), angst? maybe? could this be considered angst?, slight age gap, no tashi duncan erasure because i don't stand for that, cheating but not really cause tashi knows, she always knows, she is an all seeing eye, and she kind of orchestrates it, SOOOOO much plot, like way too much i'm sorry, art being sad and tired, art also being kinda pathetic a little bit, malpractice? unprofessional massages, no use of y/n.

word count: 10k+ (someone stop me....pls still read this lmao)

authors note: this ask was blessedly placed in my inbox and it was all i’ve thought about since. this is my first big fic since my mike schmidt days so hopefully i'm not rusty! i've seen this damn cursed hell movie ten times, so hopefully i do it justice. i'm also still struggling sooo much with art and tashi as characters so please bear with me if they aren't movie accurate i'm trying my best. okay. thank you. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

You don't get starstruck often, not anymore at least. The clients that find their way onto your table are just that in your eyes, clients. You don't see them as big time "celebrities”. Just men and women who need your professional help.

That being said, you almost dropped your phone the first time the Tashi Duncan called you.

It was a normal work day for you, spent buried in paperwork and training a new secretary. You're folding the steam room towels on your lunch break when your phone rings. No caller ID, you answer it anyways.

"Hello, you've reached Lush Retreat Med Spa," you rattle off into your phone, placing it between your ear and shoulder to continue folding. "How can we help you?"

"This is Tashi Duncan calling for Art Donaldson, we've heard great things about you and were hoping to schedule an appointment."

The towel drops from your hands, your mouth falling open in shock. You reach up to tightly grip your phone, not wanting to embarrass yourself by dropping your phone with Tashi fucking Duncan on the end of the line.

Of course you know who she is, but doesn't everyone? The tennis prodigy from Stanford who was on top of the world when a tragic knee injury stole everything from her in a single second. You absolutely idolized her when you were in high school and playing tennis competitively. You watched all the recorded matches you could get your hands on, wore your DUNCANATOR shirts to practice constantly, only bought the tennis rackets she used. You had her fucking posters plastered on the walls of your old bedroom for Christ's sake.

That was until you, ironically, shattered your wrist in a car accident and had to hang up the racket and pleated skirts forever. Just like her.

Now, Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson are California royalty. An unfairly beautiful couple living what seems to be the dream. You'd never kept up much with Art's career like you did Tashi's, but you follow them both on Instagram and you see his face on billboards all over the city almost daily so you can assume it was fruitful. It may help him that he's extremely easy on the eyes, or "super fucking hot!" in your coworkers words.

"Hello?" Her voice ringing out from the tiny speaker ripped you out of your thoughts and back into reality.

"Y-yes, sorry," you cringe internally at yourself, stuttering over your words like a loser. You force yourself to sound professional when you speak again, "We'd love to help you any way we can. Do you have a certain time and date in mind already?"

"We're not home right now, we were thinking next Thursday. Around four." There's no question mark on the end of her sentence, you know that she isn't asking you, she's telling you. You don't even bother to check the schedule before you're answering.

"We will be free that day. I'll go ahead and put you in our system." you rush over to the front desk computer and open the calendar, thankfully you are actually free for Thursday. "I'm assuming you know our location?" you ask as you type in the appointment details, ignoring how your fingers shake ever so slightly as you type Tashi into the slot.

"Actually," Tashi's voice has a different tone to it when she speaks again, it’s something you can’t quite place, your fingers slow down slightly as you listen, "we wanted to make this a home visit."

You stop typing completely, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare at your computer screen. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Donaldson but we don't do at home appointments…per our policy." you reply meekly, almost surprised that you're denying her.

"Duncan, actually,” she corrects you nonchalantly, you don’t have time to unpack that before she’s speaking again. “We did read that on your website, but we'd hope you might make an exception. You wouldn't need to bring much. We have our own table." Her tone isn't harsh or impolite, just firm and certain, like she knows you'll give in to her.

You do.

"Well," you bite your lip as you wrestle internally with yourself, torn between what you want to do and what you should do. "Okay, we can do that for you."

"Great. I'll send you the address. See you then." She hangs up without saying goodbye.

You plant your phone next to you and stare at the filled out appointment slot taking up your computer screen, processing what just happened. You're going to Tashi Duncan's house. To give her hot pro-tennis player husband a massage. In their house.

"What the fuck."

SIX DAYS LATER...

The walk up to The Donaldson's huge mansion on a mountain has your stomach turning in on itself. All week you were a ball of nervous energy just floating around your office, trying to find anything to distract you from your upcoming appointment. Now that it's here, you feel you may have bitten off more than you could chew.

You hardly got any sleep last night, tossing and turning in your bed for hours before you gave up, barging into your building's gym to try and sweat your nerves out. When that didn't work you just retreated back to your apartment and got ready.

You try not to think about why it took you so long to get ready, longer than most work mornings. Taking more time in the shower, more time doing your hair, more time doing your makeup.

You even choose an outfit you'd hardly ever wear in front of regular clientele. A matching white polo set, a skirt in place of shorts. You tell yourself that you just want to look good, who wants to look like a mess in front of Tashi Duncan?

Your hands white-knuckle the steering wheel of your car on the drive over. You couldn’t even play any music, the noise in your head already too loud as it was, only cranking up the AC and silently following the crisp voice of your GPS reading off the directions Tashi sent you.

The closer you get to the door the more you want to turn and run down the insanely long driveway, get back in your car and haul ass home without ever looking back.

You don't because you're a professional, or at least that's what you keep telling yourself.

Your hand shakes as you ring their doorbell, hearing it echo back at you from the inside. You only wait a few seconds before the large door swings open and there she is.

Tashi Duncan is every bit as beautiful in person as she is splashed across the pages of magazines and blown up twenty feet on billboards. She looks so effortlessly classy in her Ralph Lauren sweater and flowy black dress pants.

Your name falls from her lips, and all the blood rushes to your ears. Her silky voice wraps around each syllable with an enticing heat that makes you weak in the knees. You feel sixteen years old all over again, standing at the woman who basically molded you into who you are today. It's a dizzying sensation, the rush of nostalgia and emotions flooding in like an avalanche. The memories you have locked away in your brain of the countless late night practices, the hundreds of hours spent on the court, the trophies and ribbons littering your moms basement collecting dust, the refusal to give up and pushing your body past its own limits because you wanted to be just like her. You wanted to be Tashi Duncan, and when you catch yourself nervously rubbing your thumb over the scar spanning your right wrist, you guess in some sick twisted way that you kind of are.

"So glad you could make it," she greets breezily, stepping to the side to let you in. “We were worried you’d get lost.”

The house is, of course, beautiful on the inside. Tall ceilings, big fireplace, a beautiful staircase leading to the second floor. There’s toys strewn messily along the living room floor, the TV mounted on the wall is paused on ESPN.

You hope you don’t look as crazy as you feel taking in the space, taking in the fact that Tashi is standing right in front of you.

“No, the directions were very helpful,” your voice only slightly wavers as you respond, you count that as a win, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Donalds–uh–Duncan.” You cringe at your fumble, but try to power through by extending Tashi your hand.

She watches you for a second, sharp eyes flicking over your body quickly like she’s inspecting you. It makes your cheeks feel warm as you struggle to not squirm underneath her gaze. Finally, she takes your hand in hers and gives it a firm shake. You ignore the way her touch makes your palm burn.

“Art should already be in the massage room, it’s in the pool house,” Tashi says, gesturing to the huge windows in the living room showing off a lavish underground pool with a smaller building situated next to it, “I have to take a phone call here in a few minutes so I trust you’ll find your way there.”

You nod slowly, adjusting the strap of your supply bag on your shoulder. Tashi doesn't even pause walking further into the house as she speaks to you, heels clicking with each step as she makes her way to the large staircase in the middle of the room. There’s still no question marks tacked on to the end of her sentences, just like over the phone.

“It’s just through that door, first room on the left. I told him to leave the door open for you.” She continues, reaching the stairs and making her way up slowly. She tosses her head over her shoulder to make eye contact with you again. “He’s been complaining about his shoulder acting up. The right one, it’s what needs the most attention. He serves with that arm, we need it at a hundred.” she fires off casually, like she’s recited this information before.

You go to speak but her phone ringing cuts you off, echoing off the house's crisp white walls. “Thank you for coming to see us, it was nice meeting you.” Tashi says politely, giving you one final once over before she’s answering her phone and disappearing up the stairs.

“It was nice meeting you too…” you trail off quietly, fully caught off guard by whatever the hell that was. Out of every single time you’d fantasized about what meeting Tashi Duncan would be like, none of them were quite like this. At least it’s over you figure, and you even managed to not make a complete fool of yourself.

You hold onto that tiny win as you walk through the living room doors and outside, making your way to the pool house like Tashi instructed. The entrance is unlocked as you step inside, thankfully you spot the cracked door a little ways in front of you.

The sound of your footsteps are loud as you make your way down the short hallway, tennis shoes making small thump sounds against the concrete floor. You pause for just a second outside the cracked door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room is empty, the only things inside are some shelves lined with various essential oils and lotions, and an expensive looking massage table in the center. You muse over the fact that their table looks a little better than the ones in your own spa, no wonder they wanted a home visit.

The room is well lit as you walk around, dim in a way that promotes relaxation. The soft, ambient lighting bathes the room in a gentle, golden glow, complemented by the flicker of aromatic candles placed strategically around the space. You wonder who lit them, Tashi? Or maybe Art? You let out a small laugh at the idea of Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson fawning over the room before you showed up, setting up candles and mood lighting to make it feel nicer, less clinical.

You’re probably just reading too much into it. You always urge clients to ask for anything that will make them feel more comfortable, apparently Art just likes eucalyptus sage candles and mood lighting. It has nothing to do with you.

Your name being said from somewhere behind you rips you out of your own mind. You whirl around, and find yourself face to face with six time Grand Slam Champion, Tashi Duncan’s super hot husband, Art Donaldson. And he’s only wearing a fucking towel.

“Hello,” he greets with a kind smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “it’s nice to finally meet you, thank you so much for taking the time to come out here.”

Art is already worlds different from Tashi, or that’s what you’re inferring after spending less than five minutes with each of them. It’s still extremely apparent, Tashi has an almost overpowering presence to her, everything about her commands respect and she knows that. She uses that to her advantage, she likes it like that.

The man standing in front of you is nothing like that. The Art Donaldson in front of you doesn’t seem like some big shot tennis player with more impressive stats than you could wrap your head around. You’ve come to know that a few pro-sports guys like to swing their dicks around, bragging about their booming careers non-stop during a session. Yet everything about Art is unassuming as he stands in the doorway like he’s trying to make himself look smaller.

“Hi, Mr. Donaldson,” you’re not sure if it's appropriate to offer a man wearing a towel dangerously low on his hips your hand, you decide against it. “It’s no trouble really, I’m happy to help.”

“Please, call me Art.” The tone of his voice makes you want to shiver, smooth and warm like honey.

You try your best not to stare, but it’s so hard to ignore the toned expanse of Art’s body when it’s right there. He’s all broad shoulders, firm pecs, sculpted legs, with a cut Adonis belt. He’s like a marble statue, made in Michelangelo's perfect image.

Your eyes trail back up his body, lingering on his chest before rising up to his face. You’re mortified to see he’s staring right back at you, effectively catching you in the act. Your cheeks burn as you tear your gaze away, looking at anything and everything other than him. In your panic, you don’t notice the way his eyes rake over you in the same way.

“Okay, Art,” you say a little breathlessly, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag. “It’s nice to meet you. Mrs. Duncan let me know about your major problem areas, I’ll be sure to focus on them.” Involuntarily bringing up Tashi has your stomach clenching up in guilt, you just got done ogling her husband's body. You hope he takes the silent cue you're giving him to get on the damn table so you can start the massage and get the hell out of here.

Art nods silently, walking over to the table and moving to lie down on his stomach. You busy yourself with prepping your oils, taking them out of your bag and setting them on a small side table next to the massage bed uncapped for easy access. You can’t help but sneak glances at the rippling muscle of Art’s back as he shifts, his skin looks soft and is littered with freckles. You don’t miss the hiss he lets out when he lays his weight on his shoulder.

You usually don’t speak much during appointments, only engaging in conversation when your client initiates it, but you feel the need to fill the silence between you and Art. The quiet atmosphere makes everything seem far too intimate, and sure on some level it always is, but this feels different.

“How’d you hurt it? Your shoulder. If you don’t mind me asking.” you ask once he’s settled, placing your fingertips to the middle of his right shoulder, feeling around for any tension. Art tenses slightly at your touch, taking a sharp breath. You guess you should have warned him, you open your mouth to apologize but he lets out a small breath and relaxes onto the table again.

Art sighs, his voice tinged with weariness. "It was, uh, during a match. I overextended trying to return a serve. Haven't been able to move it properly since."

You nod, hands starting to move in slow, deliberate circles across the muscle. “That sounds about right. Most people don’t realize how brutal tennis is to the body, injuries are common,” you pointedly try to ignore the flashbacks of your wrist failing to swing a racket properly after you healed from your accident, flashbacks of watching as the bone pierced through your skin. “Sounds like you might need to take it easy for a while.” you continue, trying to keep the conversation light.

Art chuckled, though it was devoid of real humor. "Yeah, I’ve been playing a lot lately. Guess I pushed myself too hard." He winces slightly as you work on a particularly tight knot, shoulder tensing under your hands.

You pause, your hands stilling momentarily as you catch the underlying tension in Art's voice. "The season’s almost over, maybe it's time to give yourself a break, take some time to rest and recuperate." you remark softly, your tone gentle yet concerned.

Art's gaze flickers to yours, a flicker of vulnerability shining through. "I wish I could," he admits, his voice heavy, "But it's hard to step away, especially when it feels like it's all I have that’s still keeping everything together."

Your heart clenches at the raw honesty in his words. He’s completely silent afterwards, you wonder if he’s regretting telling you something like that, like maybe it just fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. Without a word, you continue to knead away the tension in his muscles, offering a silent gesture of support.

As you continue to work, hands skillfully moving over Art’s shoulder, you can’t help but notice the weariness in Art's demeanor. His presence feels heavy, almost broken, as if the physical pain was just a small part of what he was carrying. You feel a pang of sympathy for him. You can feel the weight of struggles pressing down on him, the way his shoulders sag slightly even under your careful touch.

“I can feel the tension here," you say gently, applying a little more pressure, "Just try to relax.”

With each knead and press, you remind yourself of your role. You’re here to help him heal, and that was all that mattered. But as your hands move over his warm skin, you can’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t what you had anticipated, something that made your heart race with both excitement and anxiety. You were so worried about meeting Tashi you completely forgot about Art. It’s a different story now as your hands explore the smooth planes of his back to the steady sound of his breathing.

"You're really good at this," Art says after a while, his voice a bit lighter.

You smile, a genuine one, the first real smile you’ve had since you got here. “Thanks. I’d hope so after all this time.”

Art lets out a small chuckle muffled by the table, it makes your stomach flutter. “How did you get into this? Massage therapy seems interesting.”

You laugh but it’s a bitter sound, moving your hands down to focus lower on Art’s shoulder. You try not to think about your tennis career, even after all this time you struggle with the memories despite all the good it brought you. “That’s a long story.” you mutter under your breath, even to your own ears you sound resentful.

“I’ve got time.” It’s a simple reply, but it’s so honest. Like Art’s genuinely interested in you, in getting to know you. It makes you feel dizzy.

“I, um,” you worry your lip between your teeth, working your hands harder over Art’s back. “I actually used to play tennis. When I was in high school.”

Art makes an interested noise, shifting under your hands as he moves his head to lay on the side of the table so he could look up at you. “No shit?” he looks more shocked than anything.

You nod, humming in confirmation as you finally move onto his other shoulder. “Yup, I was pretty serious about it back then, until I got injured.” You don’t meet Art’s gaze, but you can see how his face falls in your peripheral vision. You kind of want to laugh at how ironic this moment is, you wonder if Art’s thinking about Tashi’s knee. You know he was at the match, you’ve seen the blurry footage of Tashi Duncan’s fall from grace, watched Art vault over the net to get to her.

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it.

“It’s okay, wasn't like it was my fault or anything,” you say, finally meeting his eyes with a rueful smile and raising your right wrist to show him your scar. “I got hit by a drunk driver coming home late from practice one night. Nasty fracture, bone went straight through.” You hope your voice is coming out as nonchalant as you’re trying to make it sound.

Art's eyes widen in disbelief as he takes in your scar, a mixture of shock and sympathy evident on his face. "Wow, that's...terrible," he murmurs, his voice tinged with compassion.

You shrug, the memories still vivid despite the passage of time. "It was tough, it was awful actually. All the physical therapy in the world couldn’t get a racket back in my hand,” you confess softly, fingers tracing the outline of the scar absentmindedly again. “But it also forced me to reevaluate things, in a way. It made me realize that life doesn't always go according to plan.” You see Tashi’s knee buckling in your mind's eye. “When I finally realized that I could take all the hate and all the anger I was feeling and channel it into something good, something like massage therapy, I never looked back."

You immediately regret over-sharing, feeling silly telling Art your sob story, but when you meet his eye again, he has an odd look on his face. His expression is soft as he looks up at you through long lashes, understanding and empathy swimming in the blue of his eyes.

"Well, silver linings, huh?" he says after a few seconds, there’s traces of a smile playing on his lips. You let out a small laugh, nodding your head slightly.

"Yeah," you agree, a small smile on your lips. "Silver linings."

As the conversation fades into a comfortable silence, you and Art find yourselves locked in a silent exchange, your eyes meeting and holding a depth of something you can’t quite pick up on. In that moment, the world around you seems to blur, leaving only the two of you suspended in a shared moment of vulnerability. There's a subtle shift in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that has formed between you, as if you've uncovered a piece of each other.

The shrill ringing of your phone’s alarm pierces through the moment, both you and Art jump at the sudden sound. It’s like a cold bucket of water pouring over your head, washing away whatever just happened between the two of you. The session’s over, you’re done.

“Okay,” you say a little too loudly, taking your hands off Art's back like his skin could burn you any second. “Looks like we’re all done.” You try to smile but it feels fake, forced, so you turn your back to Art and start capping your oils to shove them back in your bag.

Art’s voice breaks the silence as you pack up, sounding a little less confident than it did earlier. “Uh, my neck has been bothering me too, recently,” he says offhandedly as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. “I think I may have slept on it wrong.”

You stop what you’re doing, turning to face Art again, silently cursing him for not just letting you leave. “Do you want me to take a look before I go?” You pray he says no. You should know it won’t be that easy, not with your shit luck.

“If you don’t mind?” His tone is so hopeful and his eyes are so big that your feet are walking towards him before your mind can catch up.

“Not at all,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. You step closer, practically between his slightly spread legs, feeling the warmth of his skin even before you touch him. Your fingers brush against his neck, and he shivers slightly, the muscles tight and knotted beneath your touch.

"Just relax," you murmur, trying to maintain any shred of professional demeanor. As you work, you can't help but notice the way his breath hitches, the tension in his body melting away under your skilled hands. The room feels smaller, the air heavier with each passing second.

He closes his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "That feels amazing," he whispers, and you swallow hard, trying to focus solely on the task at hand. As you work, the intimacy of the moment isn't lost on you, and you can't help but wonder if he feels it too.

Minutes tick by like hours as you work the tense muscle of Art’s neck. You're acutely aware of every sigh, every shift in his body, every subtle reaction to your touch. You finally pull away when you think it’s been enough time, eager to get out of this damn house before you do something you’ll regret.

You didn’t notice how close you really were to Art until you pulled back only to be met with his face mere inches away from yours. Startled by the sudden proximity, you freeze, caught off guard by the intensity of Art's gaze. His eyes, dark and searching, seem to hold a silent question, a silent invitation.

Now, Art’s body is one thing, it’s objectively perfect. He’s a professional athlete, of course it’s perfect. It has to be perfect. It’s his damn face that gets you.

He’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. He looks like he should be splayed across canvas hanging in the Louvre. The dim lighting in the room illuminates his face beautifully, his golden hair haloing around his head makes him look ethereal. Each of his features look as if they were handcrafted by a master sculptor, each contour and line a testament to perfection. His chiseled jawline speaks of strength and determination, while his lips, soft and inviting, seem to beckon you closer with every breath. His eyes are deep pools of ocean blue, though this close you can see a small splash of brown in his left eye you didn’t notice before, swirling with emotions that stir something deep within you.

Something more shocking than Art’s beauty, is how fucking tired he looks. Lines of exhaustion are etched along his face, subtle but undeniable. The weariness in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent plea for respite from the relentless demands of tennis. And yet, even amidst the exhaustion, there's a flicker of longing. He’s staring at you like he needs you, eyes wide and yearning. His chest rising and failing a little more harshly than it did before, each exhale coming out ragged and sharp.

“Art…” you whisper, heart threatening to beat out of your chest. He’s so warm, the heat emitting off of him makes you want to lean into it. You want to crawl on top of his powerful thighs and bury your face in his chest and never leave. Your hands flex where they’re draped over Art’s neck.

It happens in slow motion, Art’s hand trails up the skin of your thigh as your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and it’s like you’ve been electrocuted. You’re rearing back with a sharp breath, dropping your hands from his neck and taking a couple steps back.

“It was really nice to- uh to meet you, Art.” you say frantically, swinging your bag firmly over your shoulder and rushing to the door. Art’s still sitting on the table, silently watching you panic. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I hope your shoulder feels better,” is all you say before bursting out the door and speed walking out of the pool house.

Your heart's racing as you walk through the backyard, hands shaking even through the death grip you have on the strap of your bag. What the hell was that? What the hell was that? Did Art Donaldson just make a pass at you? You must be imagining things.

The thought rattles around in your mind, refusing to be dismissed. His words, his tone—they seemed to linger in the air, haunting you with their implications. The way he touched you, like he couldn’t help himself. But no, it couldn't be. He was married to Tashi, and besides, he was just being polite, right? You try to convince yourself of that as you make your way back to the house.

As you walk inside, still slightly shaken up, Tashi’s the first thing you see. She’s sitting in the living room, laptop open on the coffee table in front of her.

“Hey,” she says, sitting up straighter on the coach, “how was it?”

You swallow, urging yourself to calm down. “It was great, he should be seeing some improvement over the next few days.”

Tashi nods her head, seemingly pleased though it doesn’t show on her face. “Could this be a weekly thing, these appointments. He could really use them.”

No question marks. Motherfucker.

You flounder, stomach dropping. “Weekly? As in every Thursday?”

Tashi’s brow raises, eyes looking over you inquisitively. “Yes, preferably all home visits.”She stands from the couch, taking a couple steps towards you. “We read on your website you take permanent clients, is that not the case anymore.”

You shake your head, eyes wide as they follow her while she walks. “N-no, Mrs. Duncan we do. We could pencil you in if you’re willing to pay monthly for the time slot. Would you like to talk to some of my other employees to work out a rotating schedule?”

Tashi stops a few feet away from you, hands in her pockets. “Actually, we were hoping you’d be the one coming down. The only one.” You blink, her words slam over you like a ton of bricks. Just you, in a room with a half-naked Art. Every single Thursday. That can’t happen, not after what just went down between the two of you.

You can practically hear the warning bells blaring in your mind, urging you to refuse, to put an end to this before it spirals out of control. Yet, there's another voice, quieter but no less insistent, whispering seductive promises of what could be if you were to stay.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you grapple with the conflicting desires warring within you. Tashi's expectant gaze weighs heavily on you, waiting for your response, and you know that whatever decision you make will irrevocably alter the course of things between you and Art. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself, the weight of your choice settling like a stone in your stomach.

"I...I'll do it," you finally say, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them. "I'll make sure to pencil you in for weekly sessions, Mrs. Duncan."

Tashi's lips curve up slightly, satisfied, but beneath the surface you can sense the tension thrumming through the air. You've made your choice, for better or for worse, and now you can only hope that it won't lead to the downfall of everything you've worked so hard to build.

“Wonderful,” she says, gesturing for you to follow her to the front door. You trail behind her like a loyal pet, silently allowing her to drag you wherever she pleases. “Thank you again for coming out, and please,” she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, turning to meet your eye, “call me Tashi.”

"Thank you, Tashi," you murmur softly, the weight of her name feeling foreign on your tongue when you’re actually saying it to her for the first time. "I'll make sure to arrange everything at the office."

Tashi's smile widens, though there's a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. "I look forward to seeing you, then," she says, her tone laced with a hint of anticipation. "And please, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to reach out."

With a final nod, Tashi opens the front door, the outside world beckoning beyond its threshold. You take a hesitant step forward, the weight of your decision pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy burden. As you step out into the cool evening air, you can't shake the feeling that you've just crossed a line from which there may be no turning back. But for now, all you can do is steel your nerves and hope that you haven't made a huge mistake.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Your sessions with Art continue on. The guilt settling deep in your stomach each time you set foot in the Donaldson/Duncan house also continues. It worsens each time the two of you are alone in that damned massage room. Technically you’ve done nothing wrong, but you know deep in the back of your mind that what you’re doing isn’t normal. Each meeting is a strange mixture of tension and familiarity. When you arrive, Tashi always greets you warmly, her trust in you unwavering. It feels like a dagger each time, twisting deeper and deeper into your conscience.

Neither of you talk about it, what happened during your session, and Art doesn’t treat you any differently. He still goes out of his way to make polite conversation, asking you about your life, about your business, he even brings up old anecdotes you told him offhandedly. He doesn’t talk about tennis, and he has to know you can keep up in conversation with it since you told him about your history with it, you just assume he doesn’t want to.

That makes sense, you always think back to the first time he met you. How he brushed off any conversation about his career, how his demeanor changed when he spoke about it. How drained he looked. There was a sadness in his eyes, a weight he carried that seemed to go beyond just a few standard aches and pains. You remember how it struck you then, and it strikes you still, each time you see him.

His shoulder is getting better, you can tell. He can lay on it, or raise it above his head, without wincing. That makes your heart swell, knowing that despite how weird and kind of fucked up everything is, he’s healing.

The familiar sound of your timer ringing pulls you out of your thoughts. You’re shocked at how fast this appointment flew by, but you could tell as soon as you walked into the massage room to find Art already sitting on the table waiting for you, that something about this session feels different. It’s silly to call it “sensing a bad vibe”, but that’s exactly what you felt entering the room's threshold.

Art didn’t speak much as you worked, just laying on the table silently after saying hello and asking you about your week. The silence is definitely odd, Art’s not a chatterbox by any means, but he usually keeps some form of conversation flowing. After a while, you start to think it might be something you did, like maybe he’s mad at you. It sounds so stupid in your head, like you’re some poor high school girl getting hung up over a fucking guy giving you the silent treatment. The only thing more stupid than that is how much it’s actually affecting you. Art has you over analyzing everything you’ve said or done over the last couple visits, you dread that maybe he just came to his senses after all this time. That he finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in and remembered he has a beautiful wife, and that he doesn’t really want some random massage therapist.

“Alright,” you say softly, stepping away from the table, “All done.” As you turn off the timer and gather your thoughts, you can't shake the feeling that something is off. You force yourself to bury it, Art doesn’t owe you an explanation, he doesn’t owe you anything. You aren’t his.

You glance over at him as he slowly sits up, his expression unreadable. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. You offer a small smile in return, trying to squash all the ugly feelings mixing in your stomach. You turn to busy yourself with packing up, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu.

Art’s voice cuts through the silence, sounding weary. “Are we still pretending it didn’t happen?”

It catches you off guard, making you drop the bottle in your hands back onto the table loudly. Your heart races as you turn back to face him, unsure of how to respond. The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, demanding a response you’re not sure you’re ready to give.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “I...I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I was hoping we could just…forget about it.”

Art’s eyes search yours, filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. “I don’t think I can,” he confesses, his voice tinged with sadness.

The same feelings from that day rush back in your mind, flooding all your senses. It's as if time folds in on itself, bringing you right back to that moment where everything changed. You feel panic clawing its way up your body, fight or flight response waging a war inside of you.

You chose flight, shoving the last bottle in your bag and making a break for the door. Ready to run just like you did back then, run and come back next week with your tail between your legs desperately trying to forget that this ever happened, again. Art’s voice stops you just as you have your hand on the doorknob.

“Please…” he whispers, he sounds so broken, so vulnerable. “Please, don’t run.”

You don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or the repressed feelings, or your shitty back bone, but whatever it is makes you pause, hand falling off the doorknob to lay limp at your side. You turn back to face him, the raw need in his eyes mirrored by your own emotions. It tugs at your heart, making it impossible to leave. You feel a surge of guilt and hesitation, but the longing in his gaze holds you captive. Slowly, you make your way towards him, taking small slow steps like you could still leave at any minute, but you know you won’t.

You walk until you’re crowding him, standing between his spread legs just like you did all those sessions ago. His eyes are wide, almost disbelieving, like he thought you’d turn around and slam the door on him instead. Which is what you should do, you should walk about that door right now and never step foot in their house again.

Art whispers your name, his voice a soft caress that sends sparks zapping down your spine. You're close enough to feel his breath fanning over your face, warm and intimate. You inhale, like you’re trying to absorb his words, his essence, his everything.

His hand takes yours, bringing it up to his chest. He presses it firmly against his pec, right on top of his heart. You can feel the rapid, uneven thumping beneath your palm. His thumb caresses your wrist gently, making goosebumps pebble over your skin.

It’s easy to get lost in Art’s eyes, so you’re shocked to notice something that very quickly grabs your attention. Art’s towel is tented obscenely, hard cock straining against the thick material. You swallow roughly at the sight, feeling the need to touch, to take, to help.

Your knees hit the floor before you fully realize the entire gravity of what you’re doing. You don’t care about any of that anyway, not right now.

Right now Art Donaldson is swiping his thumb across the scar on your wrist with his big sparkly eyes desperately looking into yours, unashamedly begging for you to touch him.

Who are you to deny him?

Your hands find the knot of his towel and yank it roughly, ripping it off Art's hips and tossing it aside. His hard cock springs out, slapping up against his stomach enticingly. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, pleased to see he’s perfect all over.

Art’s cock is long, and thick. He’s big, but in an exciting way, not in an intimidating way. He’s already steadily drooling pre-cum from his soft pink tip, already so hard and you haven’t even touched him yet. You reach up, tracing your finger along the length of him lightly. Art inhales, his eyes fluttering closed as you touch him for the first time. The anticipation in the room is palpable, a heady mix of desire and need that seems to swirl around you both.

You circle your hand around the base of his cock, stroking up and up until your hand bumps into the head, where you start to rub your thumb back and forth gently, spreading the wetness from his pre-cum before sliding your hand back down. Slowly, you lean in, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth, savoring the taste of him as he groans deeply, hands gripping the massage table tightly.

“Shit,” he grits out, casting his gaze to the ceiling, chest already heaving raggedly.

You slide the warmth of your mouth down the shaft of his cock, moaning at the heady taste of him, skin soft and velvety on your tongue.

“Fuck, your mouth…” Art whispers above you, his words trailing off into a string of breathy moans. You hum in response, working his cock faster to draw out more of those noises. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink down towards the circle of your fist still holding the base of his cock with wet, slippery slurping sounds. Art’s hand lets go of the table, coming up to cup your cheek in a move way too intimate for what the two of you are doing.

You chance a look up, and your heart skips several beats at what you see. Art’s already staring down at you, his face twisted up in pleasure. His pale cheeks are flushed, brows drawn together tightly, plush bottom lip caught between his teeth. All that is enough to make you feel ten feet tall, but that’s not what makes you pause.

It’s his eyes, the way Art’s looking at you.

The look in his eyes is…worshipful. Reverent. Like you’re a celestial being, a divine grace walking among mortals. Not some girl on her knees for a married man in his house’s private fucking massage room.

Yet the longer you hold his gaze, while still working your mouth over his hard cock, you feel something strange stirring inside you. Art’s eyes holding such a longing reverence so intense, it was starting to elevate you to a pedestal of adoration. Of devotion.

Right now Art’s like the sun, burning so brightly you feel you need to look away before he consumes you, but you don’t.

“Please,” Art begs desperately, voice so soft you barely even hear it. There’s tears welling in his eyes, his red rimmed and so so tired looking eyes. It breaks your heart, how could such a wonderful man be reduced to this?

You pull off Art’s cock, hand still pumping firmly over him. He whines at the loss of your mouth, hips bucking up to chase after the warm heat. His tip bumps over your lips as he moves, trailing a thin line of pre-cum across them.

Without breaking eye contact, you speak.

“You’re so good, Art.”

It’s those four words whispered against the tip of Art's leaking cock that has him coming with a hitched breath and a soft cry. A few bursts of his warm come land over your parted lips before you take the head of his cock back in your mouth to greedily swallow down the rest.

"Thank you, fuck, thank you...!" Art grates out as his body trembles above you, hand squeezing yours so hard it borders on painful. You know you’re never coming back from this, but you still squeeze back as hard as you can all the same.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Maybe this is just your life now, fucking the husband of the woman you worshiped like a God for years on end. It’s like you can’t stop, like you’re an addict or something. No matter how disgusting and shameful you feel every time you get home from Art’s appointments, you can’t help but give into him. It’s a twisted dance, a cycle of pleasure and regret that you can’t seem to break. One look into his sad, kicked puppy eyes and you crack. You’ve convinced yourself it's just you reveling in the feeling of being truly wanted for the first time. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. It’s the way he makes you feel alive, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

Art wants you. He needs you. He’s made that more than clear every single visit since you dropped down on your knees for him. The guilt gnaws at you, a constant reminder that you can't escape. Yet, every time you see him, every time he reaches out to you with that desperate need in his eyes, you find yourself powerless to resist.

You’ve never kissed, not on the lips. Art’s certainly tried, lips seeking yours out as your oiled up fist slips up and down his cock, as you sit on his lap and grind against him until he’s dirtying his towel. You just turn your head every time, letting him trail kisses along your jaw and neck instead somehow feels less real. Kissing Art will make it feel real, you know it will. So you don’t.

Funnily enough, you think things are going well. Maybe even as well as getting a married man off every Thursday can go. You can see a change in Art, in his behavior and the way he holds himself. He smiles more, he laughs more, it’s like he’s giving more of himself to you each time you meet with him. It’s exhilarating, the way your presence has this effect on him, almost as if you’re breathing new life into him.

Art’s newfound lightness is infectious. You find yourself looking forward to Thursdays with an anticipation that borders on impatience. The way he looks at you, the tender touches that linger just a bit longer, the conversations that flow more freely–it all feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake up from.

You should have known it was too good to be true, that this little world you created in your head was just the calm before the storm.

Everything about this session was normal to start. It’s a little less intense since Art’s shoulder is doing better, now you have free reign over the rest of his body. Greedy hands free to glide over the planes and planes of muscle you’ve become familiar with.

As you work on his lower back, your hands moving in practiced, soothing motions, you notice a subtle rigidity in his muscles. “Everything alright?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

Art hesitates before answering. “Yeah, just…a lot on my mind.”

You frown, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Art stays quiet, still laying silently on the table face down. You stare at the back of his head, like if you stare hard enough you’ll be able to tell what he’s thinking. Taking his silence as not wanting to talk, you continue on. You don’t want to pressure him to confide with you, not when he already has a wife for that.

As your hands continue to move over Art's tense shoulders, he lets out a deep sigh, breaking the silence. "I need you,” he whispers softly, his voice filled with an unexpected vulnerability. He shifts on the table, leaning up to look you in the eye; his own eyes are watery, lashes clumped together with unshed tears. “It's not just the massages. I need you in my life, no more of this half-assed bullshit. I need all of you.”

You feel your whole world turn upside down in a single second, the distinct feeling of your heart lurching out of your chest and your stomach dropping to your feet. It’s like the walls of the room start moving in on you, caging you in. It makes your chest feel tight, breath coming out in short jagged rasps. Panic grips you, and you violently rip your hands off Art’s body, stumbling back from the massage table.

"I-I'm sorry, I can't," you stammer, voice choked with emotion, as you turn to flee from the room, not even bothering to grab your stuff. But before you could escape, Art was right behind you, reaching out to catch your wrist, his grip gentle yet firm. "Please don't go, please," he begs, his eyes pleading with you to stay and talk. You wrench your hand free and run out of the room.

You think you hear Art calling out your name through all the static rushing through your ears, but you’re not sure, and you don’t look back to check. Your feet pound against the tile as you run out of the pool house feeling like you’re about to throw up, or pass out. Art’s confession is the only thing running through your mind. The only thing that’s still clear through your dizzying panic.

You finally start to breathe again when you burst into the house, leaning back against the cool glass of the door to try and relax before you start to spiral. The silence inside is almost oppressive, the only sound the rapid thudding of your heart in your ears. You close your eyes, willing yourself to calm down, to find some semblance of control.

Your name being said grabs your attention, and you open your eyes to find Tashi at the top of the stairs.

“Is everything okay? I heard the door slam.” Her expression is a mix of concern and confusion as she takes a few steps down. You push yourself off the door, you need to leave as soon as possible, before Tashi can reach you and coerce you into staying.

“Everything's fine!” Your voice sounds shaky despite your best efforts to calm yourself, you’re basically speed walking to the door. “I just, I got a phone call, and I need to leave. Right now. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t even wait for her to reply before you’re yanking the door open and rushing outside. You hope to God that she doesn’t follow you outside. She doesn’t.

You walk, arms wrapped around yourself tightly in a feeble attempt to stop shaking. There are tears burning your eyes and making everything in front of you blurry. The wind whips your hair around your face, stinging your cheeks as you walk further away from the house.

Each step feels heavier, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to make sense of the storm inside you. The chaotic weather seems to mock your turmoil, perfectly matching the chaos you feel. You struggle to piece together what just happened, the intensity of Art’s words echoing in your mind.

“I need you.”

His voice had been so raw, so vulnerable, and it scared you. You weren’t ready for that kind of emotion, that kind of responsibility, that kind of guilt. The weight of it had sent you running, and now you’re left grappling with the aftermath.

Fuck.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX HOURS LATER…

The drive home was a blur. Rain and wind beating against the windshield nearly the whole time. You’d laugh at how ironic it was, like God’s punishing you with shitty weather, but you’re too busy fighting tears to find the humor in it.

The dread didn’t set in until you got home, stumbling through the front door on shaky legs until you reached your kitchen where you promptly emptied everything in your stomach into your trash. After you force yourself into the shower to wash the rain, and guilt, off of your skin. You scrub yourself raw, skin pink and sensitive to the touch, like that will somehow erase all that you’ve done.

When you finally step out, the bathroom mirror is fogged, a ghostly reflection staring back at you through the mist. You avoid its gaze, wrapping yourself in a towel and padding through your room to collapse onto your bed. The silence of the house presses in on you, letting your thoughts consume you.

Art’s words play on a loop inside your head, the look on his face burned to the forefront of your mind. The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, rocking you with its intensity. Running away had seemed like the only option at the time, a knee-jerk reaction to the overwhelming flood of emotions threatening to engulf you.

You know you didn’t run from Art because you don’t want him, you ran because there’s nothing you want more. In the aftermath, running felt less like a choice and more like an instinctual response to the storm of emotions threatening to consume you whole since the first day you met him. Every step away from Art was a battle against the gravitational pull of your desires, a struggle against the overwhelming urge to surrender to what you both shared.

The truth is crystal clear: you didn't run from Art because you're devoid of feelings for him. You ran precisely because your heart beats in synchrony with his, because the depth of your longing for him is as boundless as the universe itself.

Your phone pings from the dresser, you ignore it. A second later, it pings again, and again, and again. You furrow your brows, glaring at your nightstand until you reach over and pick up your phone. It’s an unknown number, but you know who it is.

UNKNOWN NUMBER I need to see you. Please, I can send a car. It's Art. Tashi isn’t home tonight.

Maybe you’re the worst person in the world, but all the fight leaves your body the second you read Art’s texts. You need to see him as much as he needs to see you. Your fingers type out a response before you can think twice.

Art okay.

You send him your address, jumping out of bed to throw on the first things you see. A black SUV was waiting for you as soon as you got downstairs, just as promised. You climbed in after getting confirmation from the driver, and sat in the backseat quietly as you went down the familiar streets.

As the house comes into view, you can see the front door’s light is still on, waiting for you. You barely wait for the car to stop before you’re opening the car door and stepping outside. The rain immediately drenches you, seeping through your thin sleep clothes. You take two steps before the front door swings open and Art comes rushing out into the rain. He’s only wearing sleep pants, his bare feet smack wetly on the concrete as he runs to you.

Art stops short of you, hesitating, like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. You want him to touch you so bad you’re scared it might kill you. The air between you feels charged, every drop of rain a tiny spark. Finally, Art reaches out, his hand trembling as he brushes a soaked strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you step closer, collapsing into his arms. The rain continues to fall around you, but at this moment, it’s just the two of you.

"Art," you breathe, your voice trembling. "What are we doing?"

He gazes into your eyes, the raw emotion in his expression mirroring your own. "I don't know," he admits, his hands gently sliding down to your shoulders. "But I can't let you go. Not now." His words hang between you, a fragile thread of honesty that binds you together. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity in his voice, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words sink in. The honesty in his gaze, the desperation in his touch—it all overwhelms you, leaving you breathless. The only thing you can think of, the only thing that feels right, is kissing him. So you do.

You lean closer, your heart pounding in your chest, and gently cup his face in your hands. His eyes widen for a moment, a flicker of surprise mingling with the intensity of his emotions. Then, as if drawn together by an invisible force, your lips meet his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative and sweet, a question and an answer all at once. His lips are cold and slightly trembling, matching the fluttering in your chest. You can taste the salt of your tears mingling with the sweetness of the moment. Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours.

Gradually, the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent and fervent, a silent expression of everything words can’t convey. Art’s arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair. The heat between you intensifies, both your breath coming faster, mingling as the kiss grows hungrier.

Art’s heartbeat echoes against your chest, you can feel his grip on you getting tighter like he's scared of letting you go. Your hands slide down to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles as you press closer, your bodies molding together. His tongue flicks against your lips, seeking entrance, and you part them eagerly, welcoming him in. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of desperation and passion that makes your head spin. A soft moan escapes your lips, and he responds with a low growl, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Art,” you say in between kisses, panting into his slick, open mouth. “I need you to fuck me.”

You can feel Art’s whole body shiver, groaning unabashedly into your mouth like he’s dying for it. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you to finally admit that.”

The two of you tear through the house, all tangled limbs and bumbling steps, you trail water all over the floor. Somewhere in the chaos you drop your phone and keys on the large kitchen island. Art refuses to let go of you to walk properly, blindly leading the way so he can keep kissing you breathless.

Art only stops kissing you when you finally make it to his bedroom, pulling away to wrestle the now soaked sleep pants off his legs. You follow by example and peel your shirt off, skin damp and cold but you could care less, not when Art’s pants are pooling at his ankles and he’s throwing his boxers carelessly over his shoulder.

“God,” he breathes out, shaking his head like he can’t believe you're giving him this, “You’re so beautiful.”

The raw honesty in his tone has your cheeks burning, you cast your gaze to the floor instinctually, feeling too overwhelmed by his charged gaze raking over you. You can hear his feet softly padding against the floor, making his way closer. You watch his feet come to a complete stop in front of you, he takes a hold of your chin gently forcing you to look up at him.

His eyes, intense and unwavering, lock onto yours. “You’re fucking perfect.”

With a gentle push, Art lowers you onto the bed, his weight a comforting presence above you. He tilts your head back and kisses you breathless, one big hand sliding lower and lower on your stomach till he’s got his hand down the front of your shorts, he groans when his hand makes contact with your bare skin. You’d almost forgotten you hadn’t worn any underwear. His hand so close to your aching center has your breath hitching as you kiss, hips bucking up towards his palm.

You reach for his cock, an angry shade red and leaking steadily, but he catches your wrist before you can touch. You meet his eyes confused, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s been about me the whole time, baby. Let me fix that,” he whispers.

You nod your head wordlessly. You wouldn’t dream of denying him, not right now. He smiles, pecking your lips again before he starts to kiss his way downwards. He explores your body with his mouth with such care it has you shaking under every brush his lips. He kisses all down your jaw and neck, taking extra time on your chest to map out the skin of your breasts with his tongue. He circles your right nipple with the tip of his tongue a few times over before he takes it in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth gently. It has your back arching into his mouth, hands scrambling for a purchase on the silk sheets. One long finger slides around your entrance and dips inside, shallow, then deeper, stretching you slowly, carefully, while his other hand rubs your clit with light, gentle touches. “Is this good?” Art asks quietly, voice tinged slightly with insecurity, like you’re not completely unraveling because of him.

“God yes! Yes – fuck! – Art,” you mewl loudly, hips grinding down roughly onto his finger, desperate to take in more of him. You can feel him smile against your skin, pulling off to blow cool air over your hard nipple and repeating it all over again on your left. His finger slides through the wetness collecting in your hole, spreading it to your throbbing clit. He finally sinks a single finger into the warm, tight, heat of your cunt.

Art pulls away from your chest to kiss his way down your stomach, sliding lower and lower on the huge king size mattress, he doesn’t stop the rhythm of his fingers as he peels your shorts down your legs, tossing them aside. A guttural groan leaves his lips at the sight of your slick cunt parting over his fingers, taking them so well. He pitches forward like he can’t help himself, like his lips are magnetically drawn to your cunt, and presses a small kiss to your clit.

“Fuck!” You squeal and writhe as his finger fucks in and out of you, hands tangling in his messy hair, cheeks flushing at the sound of your leaking cunt squelching against his wrist with each thrust. Art's lips tighten over your clit, sucking for a brief second before he moves back to start laving his tongue over your cunt in careful, slightly clumsy, strokes. The sounds he's making, almost filthy slurping, accompanied by little moans now and then send small vibrations through you that shock your system, making you fist his hair even tighter.

Art’s lewd noises fill the air, mixing with your own moans to fill the room. His eyes stay closed for the most part, fluttering open every couple seconds to watch you fall apart. Your thighs shake uncontrollably around his head when you make eye contact, threatening to clamp around his ears and keep him there.

A sob tears from your throat when he adds another finger, then he curls them inside you and pulls back and god, shit, shit, fuck, fuck me, god, Art, please fuck me.

“Fuck me Art please fuck me I need it so bad please-” you ramble nonsensically, pulling at Art’s hair desperately. You can feel the warmth starting to pool in your stomach, but you don’t want to come on his tongue, or on his fingers, you want to come with him inside you.

Art lets you drag him up, the bottom half of his face is slick and shiny, drenched in your wetness. He makes his way up your body quickly, hands gripping tightly to your hips, not hesitating to kiss you even as your juices decorate his lips. You kiss back desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue. The head of his cock bumping against your twitching, empty hole has you whining.

“Fuck me, Art,” you breath hotly, hips canting up needily. “No condom, I’m on the pill. I want you to come inside me. Please, I need it.”

Slowly, he starts to sink in. Feeding you inch by inch torturously slow. He kisses you the whole time, greedily swallowing the moans flowing out of your mouth as he stretches your cunt on his thick cock. You grab at his shoulders like a lifeline, kissing back with everything you have.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he says through gritted teeth, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. “So fucking perfect for me, such a perfect pussy for my cock.”

“Move.” Is all you can manage to squeak out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.

Art starts to move, thrusts slow and gentle, like he’s easing you into it. You’re grateful for it, you’ve never taken anyone as big as him. Slowly, his thrusts speed up, cut hips smacking against the fat of your ass a little rougher than before. You revel in it, pushing your ass back greedily for more more more. From this angle, the thick head of his cock drags against your g-spot perfectly every time he plunges back into your dripping cunt.

“Shit! Right there, don’t stop,” you slur breathlessly, feeling the familiar warmth swirling through your stomach as he fucks you.

“I love you.” Art confesses against your lips, his breath hot and erratic. His sweaty forehead pressed to yours as he pounds in and out of you, the motion both relentless and tender. His eyes are wide open now, so blue and so big and so honest as they bore into yours so intensely it’s suffocating.

It’s soon, it’s way too soon. You’ve barely known each other for a couple months, but you can't deny the warmth spreading through your chest, mingling with the heat of the moment, making everything feel both overwhelming and perfect.

Now that you're here, with Art’s cock fitting so perfectly in the wet heat of your cunt, you can’t believe it took you this long. You love Art. You’ve been in love with Art since the first time he spoke to you. Since the first time he touched you like you were the solution to all his problems.

Art must take your stunned silence as rejection, head falling to rest on your shoulder dejectedly, but his hips don’t slow their rhythm. If anything he speeds up, hips thrusting against you desperately.

“Please, please say it back,” he begs, voice thick with emotion, “Say it back, I need to hear you say it. Please,”

You surge up, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you can, ankles locking together across his back. Art couldn’t pull out of you if he wanted to, judging from the long whine he lets out, he doesn’t mind.

“I love you, Art” you whisper back, barely audible over the lewd slap of his hips stinging your ass. Art groans so loudly you can feel it reverberating off the sensitive skin of your neck.

Hips speeding up even faster, Art turns his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss. This kiss is different than any of the other ones you’ve shared tonight, full of so much emotion and unspoken words. You swear you feel your heart grow three sizes, almost full and threatening to break out of your chest.

“I’m gonna come, fuck, I’m gonna fucking come,” he breathes between kisses. You can only moan in response, right on the brink of your own orgasm. His hips start to lose their rhythm as he chases it, fucking into you faster and harder.

Art’s cock gives a final twitch inside you before his hips are stilling and he’s coming with a broken moan, unloading everything he has into you. You’re right behind him, vision whiting out as you come, thighs shaking where they’re draped around his hips.

Art collapses onto you, both of you breathing heavily as you come down from the high of your orgasm’s. You lay like that for a while, heaving and sweaty wrapped up in each other's arms. You feel something slot into place, something that you’ve been missing.

Art’s soft voice pierces through the afterglow, “Will you hold me?”

“Yes,” you whisper back, circling your arms around his shoulders.

…

When you wake up hours later you’re beyond thirsty, dehydrated from all the crying, and maybe from the sex. Art’s head is laying across your bare chest, tousled hair tickling your jaw and arms snug around your waist. He looks so peaceful, eyes closed with his long lashes fanning over his cheeks. The sound of his steady breathing is almost enough to lull you right back to sleep. You smile softly, running your hands through his hair slowly. Savoring how at peace he looks, so different from the battered, broken man you met.

You slip out of his arms as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake him. Rolling out of bed to search half-assedly for your clothes in the darkness. You can’t find your shirt, only your underwear and shorts. You notice a red shirt strewn over the dresser next to the bed, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the blinds. You pick it up without thinking, it's soft in your hands, the fabric thin and worn down. You toss it on before padding out of the bedroom.

You get a little lost in your thoughts as you make your way to the kitchen, Art loves you.

The thought has you biting back a giddy smile. Art loves you and you love him too. It sounds fucking crazy, but you know it’s true. Your life is so completely fucked, you don’t know if you care.

Art loves you.

Your smile doesn’t leave your lips as you turn the corner, arms wrapped around yourself tightly, the warmth of Art's affection lingering like a gentle caress.

“He smiles more.”

The soft voice ringing out from your left makes you stop in your tracks. You turn, and there in the kitchen illuminated by the soft glow of the ceiling light, like an angel, is Tashi Duncan.

Tashi looks at you from her spot across the room with an impassive look on her face, she’s got your keys in one hand, fiddling with them boredly. When you don't reply she speaks again, "He's playing better, won the last three tournaments he was in." She says casually, setting her half full wine glass down on the island.

You don't need to ask her who "he" is.

You're silent for a few more beats as she stares at you expectantly, silently urging you to say something. You rack your brain for a response, caught like a deer in headlights under Tashi's gaze.

"What?" you softly mutter, words cutting through the air weakly.

Tashi sighs in exasperation, like you're a child who doesn't understand the simple question she's asking. She raises her wine glass back to her lips, draining the rest of it before setting it down once more and making her way over to you.

You know you should flee, make a break for the door before she reaches you. Running away from the woman whose husband you’re fucking - whose husband you just got done fucking, and who told you he loved you - while she pays you seems like the easiest thing to do in the moment, but you don't.

You find yourself glued to the spot as Tashi's commanding presence looms over you, until she's all you can see. Until her expensive smelling perfume is all you can breathe, until she's towering over you, miles of soft skin on display in a classy black nightie.

She stares down at you, her face completely unreadable. It feels like hours as her brown eyes burn into yours, your heart must be beating a thousand beats per second.

When Tashi finally moves, it’s her hand you see rising up in your peripheral vision. At first you think she's going to hit you, get you back for sleeping with her husband, for falling in love with her husband. You tense up, bracing for the slap, it would be the least of what you deserve, but it never comes.

Instead, Tashi's hand finds its way up to the side of your face, cupping your cheek gently. You can feel the chilled metal of her wedding band make contact with your warm skin.

You feel like you might pass out staring into the eyes of Tashi Duncan. Everything you ever wanted in high school flashing rapidly right before your eyes.

If Art Donaldson is the sun, Tashi is the moon. Her light draws you in and keeps you looking at her, and never wanting to look away.

Her thumb slides across your bottom lip, the same lip that’s kissed her husband. Ever so slightly, she pushes the tip of her thumb into your parted lips, far enough to touch your bottom teeth. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening in shock, your pulse is fluttering wildly. You distantly wonder if she can feel it on the inside of her wrist.

“I’m his coach, I need to be hard on him or he fails. I refuse to let him fail,” she says softly, tone casual like she’s not brushing the tip of your tongue with her fingers. “But I’m not stupid, I know what he needs. Someone sweet, someone gentle, someone who looks at him and doesn’t see tennis.”

You couldn’t answer her if you wanted to, but you wouldn’t trust yourself to speak anyway. You feel far away and floaty the longer her fingers sit in your mouth, your brain feels like molasses.

“I can’t give him what he needs. I’m not that kind of person,” Tashi says, eyes roaming your face languidly, like she’s window shopping your features. Her voice is nearly a whisper the next time she speaks, “but you are. You could be that for him.”

Your heart drops, the haze surrounding your brain rips away so violently, like someone took a leaf blower to it. Her words make everything start to fall into place, the at home visits, the “exclusive deal”, the weird ass run-ins you’ve had with her over the weeks.

This was never about the goddamn massages.

For a few seconds you both stay like that. Standing inches away from each other in the half-lit kitchen of her and Art's house. For a second, you think you can see the tiniest smile playing on her lips before she drops her hand from you completely.

"There’s a car waiting for you outside,” she says, still close enough that you can feel her breath fan over your face, “See you next Thursday."

Tashi turns on her heels and leaves you alone, disappearing down the long hallway leading to her and Art's bedroom. You watch the whole time she goes, until she completely fades into the shadows. Your lip still tingling from her touch.

There’s only one thing on your mind as you incredulously stare down the now empty hall…

These people are so fucking weird.

taglist!

@ebodebo @yuenity @artemis-b-writes

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ayyy-pee · 8 months

Text

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Kofi

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Female Reader

Summary: Following his mothers passing, Nanami inherits his family's rundown bakery. With the bakery on its last leg, Nanami reluctantly takes on the task of trying to save what his family has worked to keep for decades, but he can't do it alone.

Genre: Bakery/Coffee Shop AU

Warnings: Workaholic meanie Nanami, employee x boss relationship, but also enemies to lovers, death, grief/mourning, profanity, jealousy, fluff, angst, Nanami owns a bakery, parental loss, Nanami is bad at feelings, I don’t know if I’ll do smut for this one but sexual tension, mutual pining, Nanami is sort of an asshole here

Art by: Ilameys + (Unknown artist (right pic). I'd love to credit the artist so if you know who it is, please let me know!)

Chapter 1 - Inheritance

A/N: There's some Danish in fic that I hope I'm using correctly! (If not let me know) Nanami calls his mother "Mor" in this fic, which is Danish for Mom (according to Google lmao)

“Are you okay with this arrangement?” a stocky, bald man ahead asks. In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office, the beads of sweat forming on his head are apparent. He reaches up and swipes his hand across where his hairline probably resided at some point in time, but is now long gone. He clears his throat, repeating the question.

“Um-” he glances around at the other men at the table, dressed in bland, ugly suits. A bunch of blank faces that’ll be forgotten once this is over. The man behind taps his shoulder.

“Mr. Nanami?” He speaks.

Nanami’s brows raise as he’s brought back to the present and he looks around to find the men surrounding the table staring at him. He looks back to the bald man next to him. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

The bald man wipes his forehead again and Nanami hopes whatever paperwork and pen he is about to offer him is passed with his other hand. He resists shuddering in disgust.

“I was saying your mother has left her bakery to you in her will and testament with the wish that you continue to keep it open.”

Right. Nanami remembers now. His mother is dead - the only family he can remember having now leaving him alone in this world. He figured this would happen eventually. She was elderly and in declining health. He was truly surprised she lived as long as she did. To top it off, she wants him to keep the piece of shit bakery that’s been passed down generations in business.

Nanami didn’t get to see his mother often. He worked as a corporate executive so he didn’t have much time to allocate to visiting her and being forced into the kitchen with her. Instead, he opted to call her often and visited when he had the time.

The sensation of his bottom lip trembling pulls Nanami from his thoughts.

“I don’t want it.” He confirms, voice as even as he can manage.

The bald man glances around nervously before looking back at Nanami. “Mr. Nanami, I understand this must be a lot to take in and quite difficult for you. However, this bakery has been in your family for generations. Your grandfather left it to your mother when he passed and now your mother to you. Are you sure you don’t want to–”

“It’s a sinking ship”, Nanami cuts him off. “I’ve seen the books a few times. I know it’s bleeding money and has been for some time. What do you suppose I do with that?”

The man shrugs, not that Nanami truly expected him to have an answer. Nanami pinches the bring of his nose, his brows stitching together in irritation. He really doesn’t want to deal with this. It’s annoying and an inconvenience. He wants to coast by in his cushy corporate executive job until retirement, making loads of money and not worrying about the crippling debt brought on by selling baked dough in some sad, rundown family owned establishment.

His mind drifts back to the very last time he was at the bakery, remembering his mother kneading the dough between her shaky, liver spotted fingers. When the aches became too much for her, she asked Nanami to give her a hand. He always complied if only to keep himself busy for the moment.

“When will you settle down? Work won’t be there forever”, she would ask as she took a seat on her stool next to the confectionery ovens. The massive machines loomed over her thin frame and Nanami wondered how she did this everyday. He wished she would close up shop and live the rest of her days resting. He had offered many times to support her, each time being met with a hard “no”.

“I don’t have time to date anyone. Besides, they’d just end up leaving me anyway. I’m too busy to make time for anyone else.”

His mother hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes, but you have to make time for them, Kento. A relationship is about compromise after all.”

“I don’t want to have to compromise. That’s the point of me not dating anyone right now”. His mother was always pushing for him to find someone. Asking for him to bring someone home to meet her before she met her demise - her words. She was always so dramatic, often prompting Nanami to roll his eyes in amusement.

Nanami molded the dough into an oval shape, grabbing the bread lame from the side of the table and quickly slicing leaf cut patterns into the dough - both his and his mother’s favorite. Carefully, he placed the dough onto a baking pan before gently shooing away his mother from her stool to slide the pan into the oven and turn it on.

“Kento, money comes and goes. You won’t have forever to live your life the way you see fit. And I want to see you get married before I’m dead and gone!” His mother sighed dramatically as she took Nanami’s large hard in both her smaller ones. “In all seriousness, sweet boy. I want to see you happy, living your life to the fullest.”

Nanami smiled softly down at his mother. He gently folded her up in an embrace. “My life is full as long as you’re here, Mor .”

His mother smacked him playfully in the chest. “Don’t try to butter me up with speaking Danish”, she scolded, though her voice held no anger. “Kento, take a break. Life will pass you by before you know it and you don’t want to look back at your life to realize you wasted it sitting in an office rotting under those awful lights.” She squinted her eyes to drive her point home. Nanami rolled his eyes playfully, looking down at his watch.

“I have to go back to work. I’ll call you later this week.” He bent low to place a kiss to his mother’s cheek before heading out through the front of the store.

The quiver in his lip returned and he let out a shaky breath to steady himself as the bald, sweaty man next to him slid over what looked to be a contract.

“If you’re sure, Mr. Nanami, we will have the bank take possession of the property. I’ll just need your signature here.” He extended his hand to give Nanami a pen and he fought the curl of disgust threatening to form on his lip when he noticed he held it with the same sweat-slathered hand he’d been using to wipe his head this entire meeting.

Nanami’s eyes roamed across the room. The faces of men he’d likely never see again surrounded him, just like every other day in this godforsaken boardroom. All dressed in some variation of the same ordinary suit and tie, talking amongst themselves about who knows what. And the lights, the fucking fluorescent lights threatening to trigger the same migraine Nanami found himself having everyday.

Life will pass you by before you know it and you don’t want to look back at your life to realize you wasted it sitting in an office rotting under those awful lights.

Nanami squinted just as his mother did that day, a wry chuckle escaping him. Fuck it. What did he have to lose?

“Actually–” he begins.

- - - - - - - -

Nanami is standing in the front of the bakery he now owns. It’s been about two weeks since he inherited this gaping wound bleeding out money every second it’s standing. He’s quit his corporate job, his peers whispering that his loss must have triggered a mental breakdown. They were almost right. The moment he signed the legal documents to take over the bakery, he felt free - as though the weight of the corporate world had been lifted from his shoulders. Now, as he entered the bakery and flipped on the lights, watching as a piece of ceiling tile tumbled to the lobby floor he felt his impending breakdown sneaking closer.

This place was a mess. He couldn’t blame his mother. She wasn’t able to handle the upkeep on her own and honestly, Nanami should have come around more to help out. Now, he was literally paying the price. It was no wonder the place was struggling when it was open. The furniture was worn, the decor was outdated and not in a trendy way. He understood wanting to keep the family memory alive, but the bakery was feeling more like a moldy old hole in the wall and not as welcoming as his mother believed it to be.

Repairs would be needed as soon as possible if he wanted to have a reopening for this place next month. He also needed to renovate the space and hire a baker who knew how the hell to run this place because he had no intention of doing it himself. No way. He fully intended on staffing this place up and collecting money from behind the scenes - the perfect retirement plan.

Nanami spent the day scheduling repairmen and interviews for the Head Baker position all within the next week. If he could find someone knowledgeable and adept, he could breathe easy knowing he would never have to be here unless absolutely necessary.

After scheduling the last interview, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. This sucked. He was putting in way too much effort already and it did not seem worth it. Only time would tell.

- - - - - - - -

The first interview was easy enough. A young girl who seemed exhausted but eager. She had prior bakery experience, but the way the bags hung under her eyes made Nanami uncomfortable. It was as though she had something clinging to her and if he were totally honest, it gave him the creeps. At the end of the interview, he wished her well, advised her to try to get some rest and maybe see a medium about whatever strange aura was following her.

The second interview was an odd man with tattoos all over his body that looked something akin to stitches. He was young and lively, but it was apparent the moment he entered the bakery that he lacked basic hygiene skills. His long, gray (how old was this kid?) hair hung messily around his shoulders and the stench…Nanami could not describe the stench. If he absolutely had to describe it - like gun to the head, forced to recall the smell - he'd compare it to something along the lines of a sewer rat dipped in rotten eggs and left in the sun to bake. There was also the awful vibe Nanami got from him. He had a feeling if he hired this guy, Nanami would come in one day to find the entire bakery empty, the only thing left behind being hand soap since this man definitely didn’t wash his hands after using the bathroom, or shower, or brush his teeth or–

The third interview was annoying, but by far the best. Nanami sat at a table in the lobby as his eyes skimmed over the resume in his hands. A previous position as a Head Baker already, excellent. This resume even included custom recipes and pictures of their creations which he could not deny looked delicious. Nanami had to admit he was already impressed.

The door to the bakery opened and Nanami stood. Your eyes roamed around the lobby until you spotted him. You offered him a wide, friendly smile, holding your hand out to him as you approached. He asked your name, to which you confirmed and he shook your hand. Professional already. He liked it.

You both took a seat across from each other as Nanami went over the interview questions he had prepared. The usual - tell me about yourself? Tell me a time when…How would you handle…

Your answers were professional with enough of your personality shining through to let Nanami know you were a likable enough person. Nanami especially enjoyed the way your eyes lit up when you went over how you came to write your recipes. Clearly you were passionate about baking, something his mother would have appreciated. As you explained to him how you once created a cake made of broccoli for a child’s birthday party that had not a single crumb left by the end of the night, Nanami couldn’t help but think how much his mother really would have liked you. He shook the thought away as he watched you take in the bakery again. He suddenly felt ashamed of its condition.

“I apologize. This place is an absolute dump, but I’ll be renovating soon enough and will be sure you have top of the line equipment should you get the position.” He muttered, rubbing his temple to ease the migraine that had been slowly creeping up on him since his last interview.

You shot him a look of confusion, tilting your head to the side. “What do you mean a dump? This place is gorgeous !” You beamed. “I mean, look around. There’s so much character in this building. You can tell whoever ran the place loved it. It looks like it really met its purpose.” You ran your hand across the worn wood of the table and sighed wistfully.

Nanami scoffed. “It appears outside of baking, you have questionable taste.”

“How can you look at this place and see a dump?” You questioned, genuinely curious.

“Because I grew up in this bakery and it didn’t used to be a dump and now it very obviously is.” Nanami said easily.

Your grin faded into a scowl. “Mr. Nanami, with all due respect, you seem to be looking only for flaws here.”

You stood from the table and pointed behind the front counter to the kitchen in the back. “Do you mind?” Nanami shook his head, sighing as he stood with you and followed you to the back.

Your head whipped around as you entered the kitchen, taking in the worn down appliances, pans, tools and other materials. You didn’t touch anything, only a small smile gracing your features as you observed everything.

“I love bakeries like this personally. I love to be in a space that feels like lots of love and care was put into the end product. Anyone can throw flour into a pot with some eggs and sugar, but what makes one bakery different or better than the next?”

You watched Nanami intensely, not speaking. Oh. Was he the one being interviewed now?

“How much money they make.” He answered confidently. You snorted.

“Loud and wrong”, you stated. “It’s love , Mr. Nanami.”

He rolled his eyes and you burst into laughter. Nanami was now slowly becoming convinced you were a crazy person.

“I’m joking…to an extent. But if you put in the time, the effort and the care into your baking you’ll gain so much more than you ever thought possible. The fancy furniture and stupid bright lights won’t make a difference if you just slap whatever dry, shitty bread onto a plate and sell it.”

Nanami stared blankly.

“What’s your favorite memory here, Mr. Nanami?” you asked suddenly.

“Irrelevant to this interview”, he replied instead. You scowled.

“Come onnnnn, indulge me”, you pleaded.

“No.”

You folded your arms across your chest stubbornly. “Will you always be this difficult if we work together?”

Nanami’s brows shot up in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Will you always be this difficult if we work together?” You repeat, a little more slowly this time.

“I am not difficult”, he lied. He knew he was being difficult at this moment, probably sounding like a child arguing back. He could have just answered your damn prying questions but…he didn’t want to. Okay, yes he was being childish. Regardless, he continued.

“Why should I give you this job?”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on it absentmindedly while you thought about your answer. “Because I love baking. I love baking more than I love breathing and I could work a boring office job like anyone else, but I know I’d hate myself for it. This place needs a little help and I want to be here to make it into whatever you need it to be.”

Hating yourself for working an office job, huh? Nanami could relate. He was in this position mere weeks ago. You were sort of annoying always trying to see the bright side - rainbows and butterflies and shit - but maybe he could look past that. He did need a baker after all and his only other interviews were not exactly what he was looking for. But, he needed to establish some ground rules first.

“If you accept this position, I will be your boss and you will respect me. Please don’t misinterpret this relationship. I am not interested in establishing a friendship. I simply need you to run this kitchen and make sure your desserts are up to par.”

You stood up straight, your demeanor shifting to strictly business. “Noted.”

Nanami sighed, feeling relieved that he was able to establish who the boss was around here before things got out of control. He squared his shoulders, looking at you from across the kitchen.

“Now, I am formally offering you the position of Head Baker. Do you accept it?”

“Absolutely”, you said with no hesitation before continuing. “But if you’re standing in my kitchen, I demand respect too”, you spoke up. “My desserts will never not be up to par, Mr. Nanami but please don’t misinterpret this relationship either. When you step into my kitchen, I am in charge here.”

You moved across the kitchen and held your hand out to Nanami, who shook it quietly as he assessed you. You were passionate, spoke your mind, demanded respect but you were also annoyingly way too positive. It would be an adjustment for Nanami to work with someone like you. He was used to the drab routine of office work and the bland personalities that came along with it. This entire process was going to be an adjustment for him.

Nanami walked you out of the bakery, giving you a start date of next Monday to go over recipes for a soft reopening. He watched you go, a small skip in your step and for the first time since losing his mother, his lips curled up into a tiny smile.

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skyeslittlecorner · 3 months

Note

As someone who's craving whb contents, i love ur scenarios so muchhhhhhh

I've seen the smol kings and it was so cute :33

Can i request the kings with smol mc, but maybe slight angsty because Mc lost their parents when they're young and stuff...

I'm so happy you find this entertaining, because I'm not going to stop lmao You're stuck with me. Poor things. Love you too

We've already had kings with a little shy MC, now it's time to see how they deal with a sad or crying one

We may say it's a little continuation of this request

Satan will let you cry if you want. Expressing emotions is healthy. He told himself that you can do whatever you want, even if it means yelling and snotting on his shirt. That doesn't mean he'll leave you alone; he'll hug you, and you can bury your face in his shoulder, covered with soft hair that smells like sunny cat fur. Safe and hidden from the whole world. If you're frustrated and want to beat him with your little fists, he's there for you, too. He understands your pain, as he also lost loved ones. Loses people every day in the war... he knows what it's like when your emotions control you more than you control them. Although you express it in a much less destructive way than he does. Maybe deep down, he envies you for being able to afford something like that.

Mammon will be very concerned. His little master is unhappy? Why, can he do something about it? Cuddled against a large chest and tucked into huge arms, you feel safe. But... unfortunately your pain doesn't come from outside, where Mammon can protect you, but from inside. He will rock you and try to gently distract you. He knows you very well. Whether it's a design show or just a playground, Mammon knows what you like and will take you there to cheer you up. And all his nobles will join him. You can count on hugs from Eligos and be carried in Valefor's arms, even Bimet will let you play and fly on his skulls.

Beelzebub, like Mammon, will try to comfort you, but in a less gentle way. Are you crying? These are definitely bad memories. He is also often tormented, and he has a way to deal with it. Break them down like soreness. You won't even have time to cry properly. Cuddled in his arms, you suddenly feel the strong smells of spices. Is this an Indian bazaar? Beel will grab vada pav for you and for himself, and while eating street food, you will watch how other snacks are prepared. A few moments later, you will find yourself in front of the coliseum, where you will watch an artist painting landscapes with sprays. (By the way, Italy, mafia, Beel feels at home here, don't let him into the fireworks stands.) Snowy Carpathians, mustangs on the prairies, atolls of coral reefs, when such a colorful kaleidoscope flashes before your eyes, you won't have time to cry. Beel will only breathe when you fall asleep in his arms. Even though he was entertaining and laughing with you the whole time, there was a boulder in his chest. Only passing tourists who see a handsome man with a child in his arms, sitting by the fireplace and staring into the flames, will be able to see that he is hunched over with worry.

Leviathan isn't the happiest when you're crying on his shoulder. You will see this, and you will want to run away from him, but he will grab you in his arms before you can. Who let you? It's better that no one sees you like this. Come. You will stay with him. He will wipe your tears with a tissue and tell you to blow your nose. Even if you are scared, over time, when you sit with him, you will realize that there is nothing to be afraid of. It's quiet and safe around. You won't even be warned for disturbing him at work. He will spend as much time with you as you need. But what will shock you the most... is his voice. He will walk with you in his arms and start humming softly. A voice more beautiful than an angel's, you will listen like a charm, although it is a purr quieter than a whisper. He simply did what he would like to receive if he were a crying child.

#whb #what in hell is bad #whb satan #whb beelzebub #whb leviathan #whb mammon #skye's little talk

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bizarrelittlemew · 9 months

Text

the saddest line in the trailer

at first I was too distracted by Stede's plunging neckline and gold earring to fully realize why this kept nagging at me but:

"I've been a failure my whole life."

and the way he says it:

as a matter of fact, because he fully believes it – it's an integrated part of his self-image

to comfort someone else (presumably), meaning that even though it is sort of similar to Ed's "I'm not a good person" from s1e6, this scene doesn't seem to be about Stede getting comforted – he is just throwing that line in there

with the follow-up line of "It's not so bad once you get used to it," because he is used to being called a failure by everyone around him, even when he was a kid, so much that he doesn't question it

and yeah, Stede fucks up a lot and can be a bit air-headed/naive and overestimates his abilities (Stede's super high confidence vs. shit self-esteem is a central part of his character), often to the detriment of himself and everyone around him, but his biggest "crime" growing up was simply that he was different and didn't live up to the norms of masculinity. and this is what caused him to be made to feel like a failure by the world around him.

(putting the rest under the cut because I have a lot to say apparently lmao ⬇️)

idk it is just so sad that after everything that happened at the end of season 1, he still echoes his father's and the Badmintons' words when talking about himself (and his own "I'm not a pirate, I'm an idiot" from s1e1). he still has a lot of growth to do.

and while it's good that he embraces his own shortcomings (and I hope he stays a loser in many ways <3) and the show reinforces that you don't have to be perfect to be worthy of love/that you are worthy of love just as you are, it is just. idk SO SAD to hear him say that about himself so earnestly

but do you know who doesn't let Stede self-deprecate?

THIS GUY, FROM THEIR VERY FIRST DAY TOGETHER

from telling Stede he isn't such a terrible pirate (at least he's alive), to not letting Stede call his own ideas stupid, Ed likes Stede for who he is WHILE not letting him talk bad about himself like that.

now we can't know who Stede is talking to in the scene in the trailer, just that it is someone with long dark hair:

and it could be someone else (to me it doesn't look quite like Ed's hair, but the quality/lighting makes it difficult to tell), but if it IS Ed, it has the potential for him to (once again) go against Stede's negative self-talk 😌

I am so interested to see how this scene plays out and I REALLY hope we get a scene mirroring the bathtub scene (even if it's not this one) but with the roles switched ✌️

#ofmd #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd s2 trailer #our flag means death #ofmd gifs #ida.stuff #ofmd meta #i guess?#hurt myself with this post i love him so much ok #i am the first in line to call him a pathetic loser failboy but like. with all the love in my heart. endearingly. not like this #his “whole life” stede you weren't a failure for being a boy who liked to pick flowers!!#i hope this makes sense it came to me right before i went to bed last night and has been rotating in my head all day asdfgh #anyway listening to Such a Loser by Garfunkel and Oates on repeat for the rest of the night

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creampuffqueen · 11 days

Note

I wanna hear more avatar headcanons! From the novels or just the avatars themselves! I loved reading your kavik and yangchen hcs 🥹🫶🏻

ahhh thank you!! i'm glad you like my random thoughts lol 🫶

here are a few more random thoughts i've been having that i just haven't quite made into posts yet (mostly yangvik because i love them but some other avatars as well):

yangchen is actually a terrible cook �� she's basically always had people taking care of her so she never really needed to learn! she can make a good cup of tea and that's about it. she regularly burns rice. she's also just generally bad at remembering to feed herself. kavik, who is a decent cook, is largely the only reason she remembers to eat

as for the other known avatars: kyoshi is by FAR the best cook. she's genuinely good at it. aang is a very close second. roku, kuruk, and wan are all average at it. korra has been banned from every kitchen in republic city

yangchen and kavik both strike me as people who really enjoy physical touch. they both really enjoy cuddling with each other, even before their relationship turns more romantic. acts of service is also a major love language for them

i also feel very strongly that they never used typical labels for their relationship. they usually referred to each other as their 'partner', occasionally 'lover', but most often just continued to use 'companion'. these vague labels frustrate scholars to no end, and today in the atla universe nobody can agree on the nature of their relationship. which is exactly how they wanted it lol, they were extremely private about their relationship

yangchen does have the iconic crooked smile that all the avatars share, but it only comes out when she's well and truly happy about something

her laugh is the same way. she has a very convincing fake laugh, as her real laugh is kind of 'ugly'. it's some kind of snorting, wheezing sound that kind of sounds like she's dying but is also absolutely adorable. yangchen hates it. kavik adores it, and will make an absolute fool of himself trying to hear it

yangchen is a massive, merciless flirt and takes great pleasure in seeing just how red she can make kavik's face turn. but on the rare occasion kavik gets enough confidence to flirt back, she turns into a total mess

pik and pak's favorite place to sleep is right on top of kavik's face

because of how hard she works herself, yangchen often falls asleep in the strangest places. if she's actually tired, she can fall asleep literally anywhere. it's simultaneously a superpower and a massive annoyance

a somewhat sad/bittersweet headcanon i have is that yangchen dies first. i've seen a lot of people saying that she lives to 150 but i can't find a source for that anywhere so i'm choosing to ignore it. yangchen has already watched too many loved ones die, she doesn't need to see kavik die before her as well. they both live very long lives, but kavik outlives her by a few years. after yangchen's death, he returns home to the northern water tribe

at one point, only a few months before his death, he is out for a walk when a little toddler wanders up to him all alone. he chats with him for a few minutes until the boy's parents find them and thank him for watching over their son. 'kuruk, what have we told you about wandering off like that?' the mother asks. the toddler waves goodbye, and kavik walks home feeling oddly contented. he never meets the boy again, and he dies well before kuruk is revealed as the avatar, but he feels a sense of peace from the interaction, knowing deep down that yangchen has made it safely back into the material world

when kavik dies, he wills his bone necklace to kuruk's family. they don't understand why until kuruk's sixteenth birthday. (SERIOUSLY THEIR NECKLACES LOOK ALMOST IDENTICAL ITS WILD)

that's all the thoughts i can scrape up off the top of my head, but i'm just generally thinking about avatar characters All The Time lmao. thank you for asking!!!

#notsosecrettunnel #atla #tlok #chronicles of the avatar #yangvik #yangchen x kavik #avatar yangchen #kavik #yangchen novels #avatar kuruk #atla headcanons

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eyenaku · 6 months

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*sliiiiiides in* good evening

ooooo you wanna ramble about your pantomime au so bad ooo

I DO I DO I REALLY DO- here's a Very Long Ramble!!

let us meet our cast:

columbine (or columbina, as they're referred to in plays and promotional material)

harlequin (harlequin sun) and pierrot (pierrot moon)

Now these bad boys are the star actors (?) puppets! in a world renowned theatre specializing in Harlequinades, Melodramas, and other Pantomime-character-centric theatre.

(More accurately they're Commedia'dell arte characters, but people only know what pantomime is so. I'm calling it pantomime AU I guess LMAO)

The parent company (not quite a troupe due to their nature) also puts on other plays in other locations (with different characters and "tropes"/genres- like ballets, operas, etc. perhaps diff. fnaf characters in all of these).

The theatre is built like an opera house. The music is played by mechanical instruments- mainly a massive orchestrion housed in the back of the stage.

Now these puppets are entirely not sentient, manned by strings and puppeteered by a very advanced mechanical system of rails and the like in the ceilings (think similar to Moon's line thing in security breach- they move freely about a space, just with more lines to control each limb like a typical marionette). They're tall! Taller than the average human, Columbine included- they are very much life sized.

The characters are utilized much like human actors. They're used for meet and greets! They sign autographs! They gain fanbases and followings!

Columbine is marketed as Columbina the stock character. Female, with heavy make-up and vaguely promiscuous. Columbina is the target of affections. How attractive is she, in the eyes of the audience. How seductive. A soubrette- coy and cocky and conceited and saucy and a great deal of other descriptions.

However, just as the stock character was often the only Functionally Intellectual character in these plays despite all the not very demure connotations, Columbine, too, is multifaceted. Or perhaps single faceted, yet presented in a way that clouds the audience's perspective. Columbine is a puppet. Columbine is not female. People treat them as though they're female. People do not treat them well, especially in contrast to the followings of Harlequin and Pierrot

Columbine is pissed off.

Feeling a very strong emotion for the first time grants these puppets sentience. Why you may ask? Does it really matter? Its fiction.

Columbine's trigger so to speak was the issue of being perceived as female (and being treated in gross ways, thanks to the nature of theatre) when that isn't you. You are a puppet. Why is this happening? It's not so much being pissed off as being unbelievably frustrated. Columbine is frustrated!

So, in a huff, they carefully remove all their strings and just. Leave. Leave the theatre behind.

On the way to the exit they have to pass through a hallway with massive posters of the three of them illuminated. They see themself there and grimace.

So Columbine is gone now. And the theatre's management is sort of freaking out, after all this is one of the main three characters- arguably *The* main character. But they just try to cover it up, albeit poorly. Columbina is just under maintenance! Do not worry, audience! Harlequin Sun and Pierrot Moon are still here! Plays are still ongoing! They substitute in very basic clearly thrown together quickly "Columbine" stand ins for plays that are just. kinda sad. Blank dummies in an almost mockery of their costuming.

Speaking of sad, something is brewing within Pierrot Moon! Columbine leaving is kind of destroying him. He's sad, like really sad. Like... depressed. This is so strong that Pierrot, you guessed it, becomes sentient. Columbine being replaced is the final straw.

Moon becomes the kind of sad that drains everyone around him. He is not the only one suffering. It's not an uncontrollable thing either, he's just decided to not even attempt to manage his emotions, and everyone else has to deal with it. Anyone who is kind to him suffers for it. Moon's behaviour is not just disturbing to everyone, but is actively ruining plays.

Guess who this pisses off? Guess who else is sentient now? Harlequin Sun! He loves the theatre- a stickler for the rules and so very passionate about his plays. About his skills as an actor. Sun is incredibly unbelievably pissed off- Columbine is gone and Moon isn't doing anything right, and this stand-in dummy is godawful, and everything Was perfect, and now it isn't. and how incompetent! And so on and so forth. Sun is unabashedly pissed off. He is violent. When a play ends, he just about dismantles the stand-in dummies (more like rips them apart with his bare hands). A pile of "corpses" builds up, Everything is awful.

Moon decides it's all too much. He's going to leave. Maybe he'll find Columbine. He's desperate. He makes it to the exit hall, rips off his strings roughly with no care, and then!

Sees the same poster of Columbina from before.

Moon is just. stuck there looking up at it. Transfixed, he falls to the floor sobbing. He can't move. Sun finds him and *physically drags him* back. Hooray more violence 👍🏼

More plays, more Sun scrapping dummies, rinse and repeat. It just. Sucks. Human staff are quitting, it's too much for them. Dealing with either of them is just so horrible. Stage hands come and go and come and go and never stay.

Sun gets a turn to have a breakdown at the poster too!

He's not happy about everything sucking. Obviously he's not the issue, he loves the theatre, it's the other two. Why did you have to leave? It's not just anger but grief- he really truly misses Columbine, though he shows much differently than Moon. It's all too much.

(re)enter the new stage hand: totally not Columbine

ahaha what a nice welcome back! Columbine came back because they missed the two only to come back to. whatever tf this is that's going on. Violence from Sun, Moon's whole deal, The matter of the poster and littered approximations of their past self mangled about the backstage area. Yk how it is

Now at this point both Columbine and Moon don't have their strings (though Moon has stray bits still half tied to him). But Sun? Sun has his. They're Extremely Frayed though. His aggressive tendencies serve to have him work against the strings, even though he doesn't want to intentionally. Perhaps a lash at Moon mid-play, or pantomimed motions played out too rough. He's a touch too aggressive to be any kind of restrained. They're very close to just snapping- quite a feat considering they were made to support giant marionettes!

Anyhow, Columbine is back! They expect any sort of welcome but.. neither Harlequin nor Pierrot recognize them (and their dumbass didn't fkn think to... y'know... tell them? oh hey it's me?). They sorta assumed the two would recognize their face, or perhaps their oddly tall stature, or the remaining recognizable details (face paint, hairstyle (even with hoodie) eyelashes, etc) but nope! They're both blinded by their own selfish bitterness and can't see Columbine literally in front of them.

So the two are horrible to them, of course, since. Y'know! New stagehand! Ripe for Sun to be so passive aggressive to that it might as well just be aggressive to, and for Moon to be difficult and taxing towards.

Columbine is abhorred by this since, y'know. They missed them. And they take this as a sort of more messed up version of the silent treatment- surely they know it's them and are just acting like this out of spite! Fine, two can play at that game. Columbine can pretend they're strangers too.

They pretend they don't think Sun demolishing the faux-columbinas isn't a direct threat towards them. They pretend it doesn't affect them. They pretend Moon acting horrid and a type of sad so selfish it makes them want to leave all over again doesn't hurt. They, again, think Moon sobbing over heartbreak and abandonment is him rubbing their actions in their face. That him comparing them bitterly to themself is the same thing. They just do their job backstage. The two directly antagonizing them all of the time is hardly tolerable, but tolerable nonetheless since they do still care!

So it's horrible. At least it can't get any worse- WRONG! It can!

Sun went through too many stand-ins. The theatre can't just...get more. These are carved. They may have been simpler, and worse that Columbine, but they're still massive. You can't just get more like that. Management is freaking out- the public is getting even more upset. Where is Columbina? They need Columbina! A play is about to be put on, and the crowd is chanting for her. They're getting upset. They're demanding. But what can they do? There's nobody to put in the role- no human tall enough, no mannequins unscathed.

And then Management notices something- or someone. Columbine. Columbine is weirdly tall. Columbine would fit in the costume.

Before they know it, they're back on stage- stringless. In the same costume, the very thing they tried to escape.

The crowd goes absolutely wild- there she is! There's Columbina! The *real* Columbina! Columbine is distraught, they look around the stage for any semblance of help- Sun and Moon may be mad at them but they trust them! They know them!

And they make eye-contact with Sun. He's absolutely seething. He looks ready to rip them limb from limb. Does he recognize them? Nope! But this Stranger, this impostor is taking their place. A simple stagehand is taking Columbine's role, their spotlight, their fame, their cheering, their fans- He looks at them, who are identical in all but expression, and can't see Columbine. He's completely blind in his rage.

The bells begin to toll. The music starts to play. A final dance.

Columbine is passed between the two- spun in dizzying circles by Pierrot before being seized in Harlequin's crushing grip, and so on, and so on, and so on, again and again and again.

But then they see something change in Moon's eyes- recognition. It's actually them. He has no time to celebrate, to talk, to convey the overwhelming feelings bubbling in his chest. The dance becomes more fervor-ed- a true battle between Harlequin and Pierrot, one for Columbine's literal hand, for their safety.

The audience is oblivious to the ramifications, to the plight. They're mesmerized by the passion, the emotions so thick they can be felt in the air. There's tension, there's drama- it's a masterpiece of story and vehemence spinning and pushing and pulling and twirling about the stage.

Columbine can't tell if the snapping noises are from Sun's strings or from where his hands grip them in a stranglehold and splinter their limbs.

It's a struggle as entrancing as it is violent. The audience watches with bated breath- what will happen next? The three weave and lunge and with each forceful effort, Sun's strings making awful creaking snaps. The very system he's so desperate to maintain is working to subdue him, the two have a chance!

But just as Columbine manages to weasel their way out of his grasp-

SNAP

Nobody can do anything but watch in horror as Sun's strings feather limply at his sides, frayed like a violin bow gone sour. There's nothing stopping him now.

He's deaf to Columbine's pleas, to Moon's, to anything but the pure rage rolling through him. He lunges towards Columbine in a frenzied attack- a sickening crack ringing through the opera house.

And the audience erupts in applause as he realizes what he's done.

#pantomime au #ask #pantomime y/n #harlequin sun #pierrot moon #pantomime sun and moon #HI HELLO SO SORRY I TOOK SO LONG ON THIS </3 #this au is rotting my brain tbh. been looping danse macabre #i wanna make an animatic to it #but idk how to make animatics #eyenaku #proudnaku #fnaf sun and moon #fnaf daycare attendant

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miss-daisy04 · 2 months

Text

are you afraid of the dark? - hyunjin

lowkey sad, idk depends on how you look at it. request is also from 🥥 anon!! (sorry, 🥥 anon was from so long ago, which is why i'm trying to get through all my requests). also literally when i saw the "are you afraid of the dark?" request i LITERALLY had the photo saved beforehand which is so ironic to me.

warnings: none.

wordcount: 0.7k (very short)

Where the streets were lined with towering oak trees and the air carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers is where a young man named Hyunjin lived. He strived for the peacefulness of the surrounding nature. Hyunjin was sixteen, with tousled brownish-black hair and eyes that held a spark of curiosity. But more than anything, Hyunjin was captivated by one person: Y/n.

Y/n was a year older than Hyunjin, a free spirit with a smile that could light up even the darkest of nights. She was the kind of girl who danced in the rain and believed in magic. To Hyunjin, she was nothing short of enchanting.

Hyunjin's days revolved around Y/n. Watching her from afar, stealing glances during class, and secretly doodling her name in the margins of his notebooks. He longed to tell her how he felt, but fear held him back like a heavy anchor.

One evening, while the sun was casting long shadows across the park where Y/n often sat sketching, Hyunjin found himself summoned by courage—or perhaps a sheer desperation to break free from the chains of unspoken words.

Heart pounding, Hyunjin approached Y/n, who looked up with a curious smile. "Hey, Hyunjin. What's up?"

Hyunjin took a deep breath, his palms sweating. "Um, Y/n, I... I wanted to tell you something."

Y/n cocked her head, her eyes alight with curiosity. "Sure, what is it?"

Hyunjin's heart felt like a drum in his chest. "I... I really like you, Y/n. Like, a lot. You're amazing, and... I just had to tell you."

For a moment, there was silence. A heavy, expectant pause that stretched between them like a taut string. Then, Y/n's eyes softened, and she grinned.

"Hyunjin, I like you too," she said, her voice as gentle as a breeze. "You're sweet."

Relief washed over Hyunjin like a warm wave. They spent the evening talking, sharing dreams and fears under the blanket of stars that emerged overhead.

Hyunjin and Y/n grew closer, their bond deepening with each passing moment. They explored hidden trails in the woods, discovered forgotten treasures in old bookshops, and watched sunsets that painted the sky in hues of gold and rose.

But beneath the surface of Hyunjin's newfound happiness lingered a shadow—the fear of losing Y/n, of the fragile beauty of their relationship slipping away like sand through his fingers.

One crisp autumn evening, as they walked hand in hand through the dimly lit streets, Y/n glanced up at the star-strewn sky.

"Are you afraid of the dark, Hyunjin?" she asked, her voice soft.

Hyunjin paused, taken aback by the unexpected question. "Um, sometimes," he admitted, his heart skipping a beat.

Y/n smiled knowingly. "Me too. But you know what? The darkness is just another canvas waiting to be painted with light." (tbh the pun is that he paints/draws lmao i suck at writing)

But life has a way of testing the courage of even the bravest hearts.

One specific evening, Y/n shared news that shattered Hyunjin's world, her family would be moving to a distant city come spring. The revelation hung heavy between them, a looming specter threatening to snuff out the fragile flame of their love.

In the weeks that followed, Hyunjin grappled with a tumult of emotions—fear, sadness, and a profound sense of helplessness. He cherished every moment with Y/n, clinging to their shared memories like treasures in a fading dream.

On their final night together, beneath a sky painted with stars, Hyunjin held Y/n close. Tears glistened in his eyes as he whispered the words he had longed to say.

"I love you, Y/n," he said, his voice breaking with raw emotion.

Y/n's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her voice a soft melody in the night. "I love you too, Hyunjin."

They stood together, two souls intertwined in a universe that seemed determined to tear them apart. And as the clock struck midnight, Hyunjin held onto Y/n, etching her presence into the depths of his heart.

Years had already passed, Hyunjin was out of high school. Yet, the memory of Y/n lingered. He often wondered if she ever thought of him; if she remembered the boy who dared to love her against all odds.

In quiet moments, when the world was still, Hyunjin would close his eyes and hear Y/n's voice echoing in the depths of his soul.

"Are you afraid of the dark?"

"No," Hyunjin would whisper into the silence, his heart filled with bittersweet nostalgia. "Not anymore."

i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, please show admiration of my work by liking/reblogging/sharing/commenting! it really shows me how i am doing as a writer ♡

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aryxchse · 2 months

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okay but this has consuming my mind lately… Percy Jackson x daughter of Persephone?

red rose is for i love you! / percy jackson x daughter of persephone! reader.

a / n : my lovely daughters of persephone, rise up!!

warnings : cursing duh

- it all started with a dare

- and percy jackson is a dare king okay

- leo, who got his ass kicked by you, told that if percy would pick up a rose for him on the secret garden in the forest, he would do anything percy asked

- and percy, who loves challenges, said yes

- it's like beauty and best lmao

- so when he entered your garden to pick up your most precious, pretty, perfect rose, he got smacked by a vine

- "what do you think you're doing?" you asked, on top of some oak tree, making a flower crown for yourself

- percy froozed

- "i uh, i was picking up a rose?"

- yeah, way to save yourself boy, good job

- you effortlessly get down from the oak tree, giving percy death stare

- "move along before i hurt you, jackson."

- "yes ma'am."

- yeah he literally said that

- and left the rose

- this was the first time percy jackson backed down from a dare

- but he didn't backed down from you

- he had a new target now

- the pretties flower in the garden

- you

- okay that was cheesy wtf moving on

- next day, he had a clipboard

- "jackson."

- "hello pretty girl on top of the tree."

- you suspiciously got down again

- "why are you here?"

- "first of all, ouch. second of all, i'm here for good reasons!"

- he told you that he had to write essay about flowers and their meanings for his homework

- good lie buddy

- so you shrugged and helped him, having a chance to yap about your flowers

- and he visited you like this for a month

- "how long is this essay, really?"

- "good work comes with great hardworking.. skills.."

- "what are you even saying-"

- you tried to pay no mind, but you both were getting closer each day

- his evil plan working perfectly

- kidding he isnt evil hes just in love

- and he learned the flower meanings just for you

- he got the chance to learn your favorite flower too

- he hated winter

- because you went underworld to visit your mother

- my boy legit thought getting himself killed by a monster to enter underworld

- but the little reasonable side of him stopped

- because you would be sad then

- and he had school anyways, so he was going to see you on summers anyway

- hes just sad that his date plan got cancelled

- moving on

- it was the last day for his fake essay to finish, and you were kinda sad

- because percy was a fun guy, even though nico was a huge hater

- "percy? really?"

- "boy shut up at least i have a chance with him"

- ouch okay

- "okay so, did we really leave magnolia to last? wow what a shame of us, okay so the magnolia means-"

- "i love you"

- "no that's not-"

- "im talking about you. i love you"

- okay this was a bit sudden

- not saying he wasnt late already but

- like this was sudden

- moving on to you both dating

- your favorite flowers on your door in each special occasion

- but it's usually comes with the roots, with the help of demeter kids

- because he knows how much you hate when someone picks up flowers and just kills them

- you took him to the underworld

- no one was happy tbh but you were so no one didn't said anything

- the garden dates happens often because you usually need help

- and hes your wonderful slave boyfriend so

- kidding (no im not)

- long story short, you guys are the cutest okay??? the best couple fr fr

- and he definetly dreams about opening you your own garden in the mortal world once you both get old

- like you know, selling flowers with their meanings and stuff

- the dangerous flower girl with her slave fr

#this sucks but persephone does not!#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the heroes of olympus #percy jackson series #pjo hoo toa #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson headcanon #pjo show #perseus jackson x you #percy x you

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nuikasa · 1 month

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I WOULD BE VERY INTRESTED IN YOUR LILY RUIKASA AU!!!

I'm sorry for the delay but this is going to be so long that I wanted to have a proper time to answer properly and perhaps, expand it more than I originally intended!

Tsukasa is a prince in this story and he is forced to marry someone from the next kingdom to get a peaceful truce and end war between them. Of course, he doesn't want to get married with someone he doesn't love but he doesn't have another choice but to give in, for the sake of his family and his beloved kingdom. He has never been in love before and has never for any meaningful relationships besides his childhood friends from the same royalty, often mistook his parent's praises as a form of love when he was only being prepared for when he will finally take the king title.

His perspective about the world changes after he meets Rui by chance, he takes the courage to leave his well builded perfect life and live his own life and no someone's crafted for him to live on.

Rui in the other hand is a wanderer musician that has lived his life the way he always wanted; he has always considered himself a free bird that flew away where the flow leads him to. He lost his parents when he was a teenager and now, and even so, seeing through the worst, he has become in a very gentle soul with time.

his only dream is to be able to performe in front of everyone around the world and bring endless smiles with his music, ceasing the pain and sadness some might feel, the same way he felt when he lost what he considered most precious to him. When he met Tsukasa he felt he needed that too, someone who would be willing to tell him the true about how to live his own life and not feel pity for him about it.

They immediately connect, as if they were meant to be. I think I got a bit overboard with this but I'll leave a small introduction of the au because I'm really so obsessed with them lmao.

The story happens in the medieval era, most likely it revolves around a war between two kingdoms, Shirogane and Kurogane kingdoms respectively. They have been in a very heated dispute over the resources of their lands and military territory; these aren't the only kingdoms to exist but I'll expand on that in another post.

After numerous tries of reaching to a solution for their political issues, they decideed to sign a peace truce between kingdoms by celebrating a marriage between their royalty families to put an end to this endless discourse between them, of course this isn't going to be easy and in the end it won't end up well at all but that isn't the issue at hand for now.

Tsukasa is presented in the story to be the eldest son of the Shirogane kingdom's royalty and the next to become the next king on their land. Of course, the blonde, as much as he loves his family and his kingdom, deep inside he doesn't want to become in the next king and wishes to have a normal life but he has lived all his life to be the perfect son and perfect older brother. He spent his all life fulfilling his parents wishing and taking care of his younger ill sister that he loved very much.

As he grown into a fine young man, he kept filling up that perfect role of the elder son and the day where his fate will be tied to that empty perfect life has arrived, he is asked to assist to a royal ball to meet his future wife that was carefully selected to be his companion for the rest of his life. Tsukasa doesn't like the idea to meet someone he doesn't even know at all and marry them out of love, he always dreamed to find the right person he will fall in love and share their live together; this wasn't nothing he dreamed of and the slight idea made him feel sick but he kept playing his role only to fulfill his parents wishes because he always put others first before his own needs, it's what he was taught to do his whole life.

His father mentioned that they picked someone very uncommon but far talented for the ball to perfomance a violin solo for their entretainment. The only thing Tsukasa was told about this person was that he was a wanderer musician that traveled around the world to performance solo shows with his music and he was very good at it; making his own reputation reach the Shirogane Kingdom for them to pick interest on his perfomance.

Curious, Tsukasa waited for the night to come and to finally see with his own eyes, what this wanderer musician was capable of doing. And it happened right in front of his eyes, while he was sitting next to his father at the throne room; the young man dressed in black with a very peculiar hat with black lilies, presented himself in front of the king by the name of Kamishiro Rui, Tsukasa silently watched him adressing himself in front of the crowd and, once he was sure everyone was attentively watching him, he started to play one of his favorite songs.

Everyone was in awe with the musician, the melody was so beautiful that everyone stopped doing what they were doing just to listen to him. The prince was amazed by the music but not only that, he was also amazed by the way how he moved around as he played that melody, his eyes focused on his dear instrument; as if he wasn't really present there. Once the perfomance ended, everyone clapped loudly, cheered for the marvelous show the young musician pull off and Rui could only make a gesture, bowing his head in front of the king who was very pleased.

Tsukasa was speechless and after everything went back to normal, he wanted to have a chat with the newcommer musician but his father didn't let him, making him meet with who he was going to marry in the following weeks at most. The ball ended after that, Tsukasa felt sad that he didn't have the opportunity to even approach the musician to talk about his show and maybe know more about him; the only thing he knew about him was that he was going to stand a few days and then leave to the next town. The young prince had the bad habit to stay up till very late because he sometimes liked to stare at the stars from his balcony and make a wish, wishes that he knew that wouldn't make true if he didn't do anything about it, but still, he wanted to dream about going outside and find something for himself.

When he suddenly heard a distant melody, a melody he heard before. Curiosity took the best of him and he decided to sneak outside the palace towards where the source of the sound came from. He followed the melody til the huge royal garden that wasn't too far away from where his room was, which was casually at the back of the palace.

That's when he found Rui playing the violin alone in the middle of the night and that's when their story truly begins.

#kamiinagi #Ruikasa #Lily Ruikasa #i nearly DIED writing this down but it was fun #i suppose this count as a semi fanfic content haha #well i do hope you like it tho #i dont have anything drawn besides what i shown before and two pages about their conversation but i had to cut it there because its too muc

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mostly-tame · 5 days

Text

A year ago I flew into Michigan to get *my* dog. As soon as I got in the car we clicked. I was prepared to earn his love and trust, but right away we loved each other. Since then our bond has only deepened and strengthened. My love and adoration and admiration for him has only grown.

We've both come a long ways since we met; and I'm incredibly proud of both of us for what we've accomplished. He's my first dog of my own and I couldn't have picked a better first dog for me. He's precisely who and what I needed, and I honestly find him to be a rather easy dog. I greatly enjoy working with him, he's incredibly smart and eager, and once he knows what I want from him he takes only a few repetitions to get it down. I want to try Rally and Agility with him, and we've already begun some parkour type training. We of course hike and walk often, and have done a bit of canicross, and I want to do so much more of that, as well as weight pull, bikejor, and some more packing (I still have his pack, just haven't used it much lately).

Of course I also still greatly want to hunt with him. He's shown great interest in squirrel, raccoon, and rabbit, as well as skunk and opossums lmao, and I greatly regret that the last hunting season was spent slowly escaping a toxic relationship and not hunting with him. I'd like to try him on bear as well, he certainly finds larger game incredibly enticing, but that probably won't happen this season.

It's somewhat strange now, all of my coworkers and friends know me for constantly talking about and showing them photos of Torch, and not Kit. I never really expected to out live her by long, and I wouldn't have if I hadn't gotten Torch when I did. Any other dog, from any other litter, pairing, breeder, I would have backed out of before I got them when I lost Kit. But I love his parents dearly, and his breeder is truly one of my best friends, and i could already feel that he was right for me; so the photos I'd seen of him and videos and photos I got of him before I flew to him kept me afloat while I got through the most lonely few months of my life.

Every day I'm grateful to call him mine, to curl up with him at the end of the day, to walk him, to train with him, to hike with him, to play with him, to bury my face in his thick ruff. He's my sunshine dog, through and through. He makes me smile even when I'm the saddest and relax even when I'm the most stressed. There's no better way to soften my sadness than to curl up with him, softly wagging his tail at first as I pet him, until he tries to entice me into play. There's no better way to work through the things that stress and overwhelm me than to walk, run, or hike with him, working out the excess energy, grounding myself in the world and my being, and thinking things through. I am the happiest when I'm doing things with him.

I was prepared for a dog who would make me earn his love, trust, and respect, a dog who would be a bit of a challenge to train, a dog who wouldn't be very cuddly or affectionate, a dog who would push me more. Overall a dog who would make me work for and earn things more. Getting a teenage laika didn't sound like my brightest idea on paper. But I was ready and eager for the experience and work. But honestly? We fell into place incredibly easily and work amazingly together. He's bizarrely cuddly and clingy and while I don't need my future laiki to be as sticky as him, I love him dearly for it. He's precisely what I needed.

While I'm not generally spiritual nor do I generally put much stock in the idea of fate and destiny; I have no other way to describe how it feels to have him. Who he is and his timing are too perfect. He came to me precisely when I needed him the most. He keeps the shadows at bay. He's the light at the end of a long tunnel for me.

He's been mine for a whole year, and I wouldn't change him or trade him for the world. He's my pride and joy, and I look forward to many more years spent with him. @losech I know you know how much I love him, how much I needed him. I still have to say it again and again and again. I can never thank you enough for trusting me with him.

This art was done by one of my friends several months ago and still makes me tear up to even think about. You can find my friend at fairywren.art on insta!

#west siberian laika #torch #torch art #west siberian laika art #art #laika art #i wont apologize for how long this is bc its still missing 7 photos and some photo captions that are on fb

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azures-bazar · 1 year

Text

Accommodating

Re-uploading this one shot because I wanted to add some changes. I'm experiencing a massive writers block tho, my inspiration is gone (my new job is taking most of my mental energy away but I love it lmao)

Here is some SOFT!Arthur one-shot, again, because boy oh boy it makes me want to write a full story about him going through our current era lol

Don't mind his absolute child-like fascination for modernity, I mean... it's cool to see our tough cowboy happy, isn't it ?

Arthur Morgan x GenderNeutralReader

Word count : 2.9k

Short summary : You make Arthur try some new technologies, and it’s quite funny to watch his large blue eyes gaze at them !

A/Note : I bought myself a galaxy projector not so long ago and wondered how Arthur would react lol. Don’t mind it !

Tags : cute, Arthur discovers modern things, mentions of Avatar, movie-watching, snacks, cute nicknames, cuddles, soft boah is in the modern world, men can also cry

A cowboy in the modern world… what a weird story to tell ! Arthur had been in your life for a few months already, slowly accommodating to your era. Sometimes, it was fun, sometimes it was almost scary, and, occasionally, it could be sad. You knew Arthur was an outlaw, a thirty-six, probably thirty-seven year-old man who had been abandoned on the top of a mountain, but he never really brought the subject to the table. In fact, on a few occasions, he would mourn the rest of his gang, he would mourn his friends he would never see again. You had done your best to cheer him up during his rather sad moments, but nothing could really fill that void.

Arthur missed these folks, a few names were frequently mentioned : Hosea, John, Tilly, Charles, Sean and Lenny. Six people he would describe at times, probably the six people he missed the most from his former life. A father-figure, his siblings, his closest friends… he often wondered what happened to them, to these people becoming distant memories he could only mourn. As of 2023, even little Jack was gone. You wished you could do something, probably beg for Francis Sinclair to come back and drag all these people he mentioned to your time… but Francis was long gone, not even bothering about stepping by your place anymore.

You knew Arthur loved drawing stuff, so you bought him a set of sketchbooks for him to practice. He would hole himself in your now-shared room, sitting on the edge of your window or on your bed, spending about one or two hours sketching figures, animals or even sceneries which appeared to be from a very distant era, mixed with modern buildings and figures he came across while wandering in the streets with you. You often left him alone for him to enjoy his solitude, listening to some blues while sketching his discoveries before he would head to you and proudly show you some of his works. One of your walls had a full set of Arthur’s drawings framed and displayed to the eyes of any guest coming in. After all… it was art ! And nothing could make Arthur more happy than receiving compliments about his sketches he often disliked.

Arthur still had some hard time getting used to a smartphone you had bought him as you thought it would be a good thing to keep in touch whenever you would be away from him. He nearly broke his phone’s screen twice, unable to understand why it would not switch on, struggling to send you correctly written texts. His large fingers did not help much, he would get easily frustrated by not selecting the right letter for his text. You absolutely adored each one of them, finding them incredibly cute by knowing how much Arthur wanted to do things like you. Sending a text usually took you a few seconds, whereas Arthur would roughly spend one minute writing a five-word sentence filled with typing mistakes, some of them being due to his autocorrector.

"Im misqing yoi, Y/N !" was an almost daily message he would send you

At some point, you saw an add of a galaxy projector while scrolling on some social media, right after telling Arthur he would probably get a lot of followers if he decided, by miracle, probably, to create an account for himself. He was handsome, had some sweet-looking traits and could easily model for some alternative brands. He often said he would never do such thing, finding his face too ugly to be shown to anyone. How wrong he was, he was probably the most gorgeous-looking man you had ever met ! But, somehow, you did not want to encourage him to post pictures of himself. Social medias were a rather dangerous place for healing minds, and Arthur still needed time. Besides, he would probably not even be able to post anything due to his lack of ease using his digital keyboard !

You bought that lamp later that night, it got delivered quite fast. You carefully unpacked your new tool and quickly headed to your bedroom, followed by Arthur who had stopped reading a book about extinct species as he saw you wander around your place with this curious thing you held. You calmly placed the lamp on your bed, reading the instruction manual while Arthur touched it several times, not understand what the hell this little thing was and what was its purpose.

"What’s that ?" Arthur asked

"It’s a galaxy projector." you answered.

"Why d’you need that ? Can’t you just look at ‘em stars from your window ?"

"Light pollution prevents it. These are often used to create a cute ambiance at home or to distract kids. Wanna give it a try ?"

"Sure."

Arthur sat on the bed as you switched all lights off, plugging your galaxy projector on, making a large blue and purple light come out of it, filled with laser dots representing stars. The background was moving a little, creating a wave effect which froze Arthur on place. He kept his head up, looking at your now star-covered ceiling. His surprised and mesmerised face was absolutely priceless ! His eyes were shining, his mouth remained half-open as he could not help but stare at these fake stars covering your ceiling. All his troubles were forgotten, making him return to a child-like state. It was such a beautiful thing to see !

"And it can also distract grown-ups." you smiled

Your cowboy-roommate did not even react. His attention was completely focused on the ocean of fake stars he had above his head ! Of course, Arthur knew what a projector was. It would have been awesome to see his reaction if he had never seen such thing before, he would probably have been trying to catch these laser stars like a cat and look confused. But, at the moment, his reaction was pretty cute.

You left Arthur alone in the room to buy a ready-made lunch at the local market. He had a phone and would call you whenever he would need your help, if he would get lucky enough to make his fingers touch the right icon on his screen. It only took you a few minutes to buy some finger food for the two of you to eat while watching a movie, you came back to find Arthur exactly where you had left him thirty minutes earlier, in the same position, with this same amazed facial expression blooming on his face. He was hypnotised by these lights enough to feel suddenly so lost as you opened the curtains of your bedroom.

"Wh… what’s going on ?" he said, placing his large hand over his eyes. "Damn sunlight…"

"I brought us some food. You wanna watch a movie ?"

"Yeah, why not ! Just… just let have my eyes back first, hun."

Arthur rubbed his eyes and shook his head while you smiled. You absolutely loved listening to him giving you cute nicknames, such as hun, sweetheart, lovebug… even calling you boo, sometimes, after he heard about that nickname while watching TV. It took him a few more seconds to leave your bedroom, keeping his eyes partly closed until reaching your living room, helping you placing all the food on the table, still looking surprised you did not have any forks or knives to eat these carrots, chips, mozzarella sticks and cucumbers. He glanced at the chips and took one between his fingers. Since his arrival in your era, he had never seen or had the opportunity to taste chips !

"What’s that thing ?" he asked. "Is that really food ?"

"Oh, that’s a potato chip."

"Really ? Just like fried potatoes ?"

"Yeah, just like fried potatoes, but smaller and thinner. We can eat them for snacks or very random occasions. Try it !"

Arthur nodded, taking a bite of the chip before smiling and taking more of them into his large hand. You could not help but chuckle at his sudden addiction to salty treats, wiping away a few crumbs stuck in his three-day beard with the tip of your fingers. He turned shades darker and smiled, gently taking your hand and rubbing it with his thumb as you launched the movie. Avatar, by James Cameron. Back in a day, that movie had been vastly acclaimed for its large technological progress, and was still pleasant to be watched to this day. You would take Arthur to watch the second Avatar movie someday soon in case he liked the first one.

"Are ‘em blue folks real ?" Arthur asked while pointing a Na’vi on screen

"No, they’re modelled with computers." you smiled, trying to explain Arthur about motion capture in the most easiest way. "Our technologies allow us to record actors and then modify their bodies thanks to computers to morph them into these blue folks, like you call them."

"Is there a planet called Pandora too ?"

"I don’t know. Probably ? The universe in infinite, and we didn’t explore much yet."

The gaze Arthur gave you was adorable. You could see his eyes shine with admiration, it was such a privilege to be able to witness an era which was more than one hundred years ahead of his time, despite its good and bad moments. You had tried your best to keep Arthur away from newspapers in order to help him remain in his rather innocent state of discovery, knowing that a simple glance at the news on TV would probably make him terribly sad and somewhat nostalgic of his own time.

It was quite unexpected, but Arthur cried during the movie. He cried because of its overall beauty, the story appeared amazing to his eyes, the soft melodies and choirs chanting in background soundtracks moved him a lot. He loved the bioluminescent effect of some scenes, the overall atmosphere of the movie, not taking his eyes away from your TV while wrapping his arm around your shoulders, gently kissing your temple at times. He adored that, he adored this moment. Having you close to him while being fully taken into this movie made him forget about all his past troubles.

"D’you also have ‘em guns ?" he softly asked

"Maybe… why ? You want one in case you’d come across blue people ?"

"Mmmm… yeah. Jus’ in case. I miss my good ol' revolver, sometimes."

You rested your head on his shoulder, somewhat amused by his sweet attitude. You would listen to his gasps, his soft squeals, his almost inaudible wows… you could not deny how adorable Arthur was. You could even hear him sniff, his chest trembling a little whenever a scene would be emotional enough to bring him to tears. Who would have thought Arthur could be so sensitive ? Those who knew him much more than you did. Hosea and Charles, for instance, and most probably John at some point, even Dutch. Just by looking at his drawings, you could have guessed he had a soft heart and high intelligence hidden underneath his rather menacing appearance.

The movie lasted for so long… you had time to check your phone about a dozen times while resting against Arthur whose eyes were glued to the screen. You did not even want to bother him, he was absolutely hypnotised by the movie and did not want to be bothered. You smiled at him as the credits rolled, noticing tears streaming on his cheeks as you teasingly poked them.

"Getting a little sensitive, huh ?" you smiled

"That was a beautiful show !" Arthur answered. "I loved every second of it ! Can we watch it again ?"

"Someday, we will. But... let's just take a break, okay ?"

Night came pretty fast, Arthur made you a lavender infusion, you found enough energy to work a little while Arthur sat on the couch and started sketching. Very random figures, some fantasy-like sceneries… and you. You could easily tell he was drawing you by looking towards your direction a few times, then proceeding to sketch something, and looking back again. Another artwork to frame, that was for sure !

"What are you drawing, cowboy ?" you smiled

"Well… I’m trying to sketch you, but I can’t get it right… you’re too gorgeous and my hand shakes too much."

"That’s… that’s really sweet !"

"I mean it."

What Arthur told you made your heart stop beating, you turned shades darker and hid your face behind your hands. Your smile widened enough to cause your roommate to move closer to you, carefully closing your laptop with a large smirk blooming on his face. He made you stand up, slowly uncovering your beautiful face before dropping a sweet kiss on your forehead.

"You’re making me melt, you know that ?" you smiled

"Let’s get you to bed so you’ll stop workin’ on your… weird machine here."

"It’s a computer, Arthur."

"Well, computer or not, you’re going to bed with me ‘cause it’s kinda late."

You shrugged, you didn’t notice how fast time had passed since you decided to get back to work ! Remote-working had its ups and downs, and Arthur had complained a few times about you staying up too late instead of going to bed and hide into his embrace. He could hardly sleep without having you next to him, and there were no ways to escape him that night. How could you resist these puppy eyes and insisting behaviour ? Your arms spread wide for him to lift you up while you dragged your legs around his hips. Arthur loved carrying you around your place, he could easily remain in shape by doing this almost on a daily basis ! You did not mind it. In fact, you loved having him carry you from a room to another. Bridal and koala style, as you called it, were your favourite.

Arthur calmly put you on the bed and proceeded switching all lights off while you changed into some more comfortable wear, slipping under your blanket as Arthur moved next to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. He took advantage of you turning yourself towards him to passionately kiss you before making you rest your head on his shoulder. You remained like this for a few seconds, in your pitch-black bedroom, up until Arthur cleared his throat.

"Erm… Y/N ?" he sheepishly asked

"Yeah ? What’s wrong ?"

"Would you mind… switching the galaxy lamp on for a bit ? I… I liked it and…-"

"Sure, sweetheart."

You gasped at your own sudden reaction. "Sweetheart ? Really ?" you scolded yourself, covering your forehead with your palm. You never dared giving Arthur nicknames, not finding anyone of them suitable enough for your time-traveling cowboy, his sole name sounded just fine, you would sometimes call him by his surname. Sweetheart came out of nowhere, and was well deserved !

"S-sorry." you stuttered

"Nah, it’s fine." Morgan responded. "I like ‘em sweet nicknames. "

Arthur smiled, deeply flattered by the nickname you just gave him. His heart pounded faster than expected as you calmly reached out to get the lamp and switched it on. A beautiful fake galaxy suddenly covered your ceiling, filled with laser stars which slowly moved along with the rest of the digital ocean of blue and purple clouds behind them. You analysed Arthur’s reaction and smiled at his sight.

"Why do you like this lamp so much ?" you smiled

"Oh… it just reminds of home." Arthur answered as he moved closer to you, allowing you to place your head back on his chest

"You never slept with a roof over your head before you came here ?"

"I did, at some point… but I got used to fall asleep while gazing at the stars from a corner of my tent, or sometimes from my bedroll when I was away. Gazing at ‘em moving above me was always calming."

"If you want, we could go camping this summer. Would you like that ?"

You heard Arthur moan a little, feeling his heart pound faster. Your head rose a little, allowing you to get a better view of Arthur’s beautiful face. Your hand caressed his chest, drawing circles on them while you kept gazing at him. His eyes kept staring at the ceiling until he felt your gaze, slowly turning his head to you.

"That’d be awesome." he smiled

There were many things left to discover, many things you wanted to show Arthur. The world was full of treasures, modern or ancient, cultures you wanted him to get familiar with, places to visit… Arthur’s health was back to normal, you could now guide him through your own era without bothering about any health issues he would encounter. Indeed, that man was not twenty anymore, but you were ready to do so much for him ! You were ready to guide him, to be with him. Beyond what Francis had first asked you. Your help turned into a beautiful blossoming relationship filled with embraces, kisses and… very noisy nights.

Switching this galaxy lamp became some sort of ritual every single night. Along with waking up to Arthur’s face and his hugs after you would come back from work, your daily embrace in bed facing a fake galaxy was your most favourite part of the day. At times, you would run your fingers into Arthur’s dirty-blonde locks, massaging his scalp with singing some song. Sometimes, he would do the same with you. You adored it, you adored him. No, you loved him… and did not have the courage to tell him just yet, but you knew this day would come soon enough. The world was filled with treasures, mysteries and beauty.

And Arthur was going to find out about them.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #gender neutral reader #modern arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #modern cowboy #soft arthur is the best #azurestales #cute #fluff #rdr2 au #sweet arthur morgan makes my heart melt idk why #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction

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