#id use top but hes too old rip

[peachinspiration]

dunmeshi mithruncore (every day I can’t get up to make myself eat at all or get up to use the bathroom or fall asleep or actually do more to help myself unless im told to or someone physically Makes me do it or I finally manage to do so for the first time very very late in the day cuz I forced myself to out of fear)

[sceletaflores]

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

— or: art donaldson needs a massage therapist…

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, unprofessional massages, no use of y/n.

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

author's 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 you.

“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 out 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.

[anomaly-hivemind]

Horror Convention || No. 9 Gloryhole w/ Horror Characters x Fem! Reader

Kinktober Masterlist

Word Count: 1995

Warnings: gloryhole, free use, exhibition, overstimulation, large cock, vaginal sex, gangbang if you squint, vagianl fingering, mask kink, stranger sex, cosplaying oral sex, blow jobs, hand job, spit as lube, multiple orgasms,

You were going to a horror convention, it was your first one and you couldn't be more excited to go. You were wearing a slutty freddy krueger outfit excluding the knife coves because they sold out at the spirit halloween. It was too late to buy any online. You were wearing a ripped up black and red cropped top, a jean mini skirt, some stressed thigh-highs and wedges.

When you finally got inside the convention center, there were a lot of things going on with an unsettling low amount of security personnel around. It was a bit overwhelming but you were going to push through it just fine. It was full of cosplaying horror characters, new and old, popular and niche. Even horror shorts films, tv shows and games.

“Can I take a picture with you? I really like the freddy outfit,” the muffled voice of a guy said behind an old respirator.

Oh yeah sure, I like your outfit too. It's from my bloody valentine right?” you lean into the guy so he could take the photo. The guy pulls you close to him for the picture, then he turns to face you.

“Yeah I've had this for a while now.” he laughs and crosses his arm.

“Well it's super cool, practically identical to the movie.” you look him up and down, he was a carbon copy of the original.

“A bunch of my buddies and staff are hosting an event on the west wing in an hour. You should totally go. “ The Harry warden cosplayer handed a pass for the event. ‘Glory Horror’ printed on the card.

“Yeah I will be there.” you nod and take the pass. You can't believe you got an event pass for free.

=========================================================================

An hour had passed, you had bought a scream poster, a friday the 13th shirt and the regret of your shoe choices. You push past the last part and make your way to the event. It was a ways away from everything else which was a bit suspicious but not enough for you to turn around. You show the bouncer guy your pass and ID, because you guess this is an 18 plus event.

You take a seat in the front, the seats were really comfortable. The lights were dim and the walls around the panel looked sound proof. This was super fancy for a panel. It makes you wonder what's going to happen, especially with how fast the room is getting filled with horror fans such as yourself. Most of them were wearing masks from what you can see in the dark space.

A bright red stage light hits the middle of the stage. The familiar guy from earlier that gave you your pass to this event walks to the center. Two other people dragged something onto the stage behind him, also dressed up, one looked like Amanda the pig from the jigsaw moves or the dead by daylight game. The other person was dressed like the monster from Jeepers creepers. There was a large box with a set of holes of different sizes, odd but you find the tv and cameras placed inside and outside the box.

“Welcome to this year's Glory Horror event. Many of you who know about this event already know what's up, but for our virgin Marys let me explain what’s up.” Harry warden cosplayer says through the microphone, his mask muffling his words.

“We’re going to pick a lucky Slasher Slut in the audience to go into the box.” The man snickered as the crowd went wild. Harry looked into the group of seated people, presumably to find someone to put in the box.

“Anything goes when you're behind the veil.” he points to the closed door.

You look around the audience that you were in and they all seemed excited to either be picked or see who was going to end up being picked. You just stare at everyone in confusion.

“You, are you willing to take a dive into carnal pleasures and try out the box?” He points to you from the crowd, when you point to yourself he nods. You stand up, nerves run down your spine as you walk onto the stage. You were surprised with how excited every person in the audience seemed to be that you got picked.

“What am I supposed to do?” you asked while looking at the box.

“It's pretty self explanatory, but you get in the box, the cameras are already set up, we gave you a screen to see the reactions you're giving people.” You nod at him and step into the box, it was large and you could stand up right without being seen by anyone, not counting the screen that was broadcasting you to the outside.

“You can strip down any point and if you want out of the box just push the button to unlock the door.

“You want me to do what now.” you asked from behind the wall, your voice muffled mostly.

“Strip, take off those slutty clothes and either open that pretty mouth or a hole. Prepared to get stuffed in whichever you choose and you can switch at whatever time doll.

You think for a moment, you could back out right now but a part of you wanted to see what happened. With a shaky breath you take off your freddy krueger fit and finally take off your dreadful shoes. You were just in your bra and underwear, taking a seat on your knees in the middle. The bigger hole was covered with a black sheet.

A knock on one of the sides catches your attention, you turn your head and your eyes widen. A veiny cock filled the hole, making it look smaller than it was and it makes your mouth water. You looked over at your screen to see what you're working with, a guy wearing a Michael Myers mask. Your lip quivers as you wrap your fingers around his length.

His balls twitch as you tighten the grip on this stranger’s cock. You use your saliva to wet the tip of his dick. You hear the faint groan of the Myers look alike, it was hot and a turn on for sure. You take his cock deeper in your mouth, almost gagging on it, using your hand to massage his balls and or stroke the rest of his meaty meat.

Another knock from the others size makes you pull your lips off Myer’s member. Someone else had slid their dick into the other hole, the screen splits so you can see the masked figure. It was Brahms, down to the black messy hair, even matches the drapes decorating the base of this man’s uncut dick.

You take your other hand and start to rub at his cute dick. Both of your hands were being filled with their cocks. You were soaking wet from how hot this was and if your hands went filled you would be touching yourself right now. You placed licks on both the dicks one after the other. Even the thought that there were a bunch of people on the other side of this box, watching and listening or maybe even waiting to take a turn with you.

It was hot, you felt hot and you wanted more of all of it. You squeeze the guys dicks as you jerk them both off with determination. Michael myers’ dick twitching was the only short warning you get before he shoots a hot load onto your chest. Your bra ruined with cum makes you pout for a moment before you take the thing off. You put your mouth onto the remaining man and take him down your throat. Brahms cums down your esophagus, his seed tasting weirdly sweet on your tastebuds.

You lick your lips after pulling away the dicks both gone from the holes, making you sigh. You slide off your panties and just as you thought you dripped in arousal. You rub yourself and let out short moans, a guy that was looking like Jason Voorhees pushed his phat cock through the hole. It looked heavy, craving your touch. You touch yourself with one hand while sucking off this fat dick. Even if you couldn’t fit all or even most of it into your mouth you sure as hell tried. You moan against the length of this Jason.

Your fingers thrust into yourself at a similar pace as you sucked and stroked his dick. You come to a stand and turn around, your wet cunt fluttering with horniness. Lining your slit with a guy who looked like a slasher’s dick. You let out a hearty moan as this fat cock stretches you out. You could feel his dick twitch and the man moan from the intrusion. He bottoms out in you, your walls clench around him and then he starts to move slowly in and out of you. You rub your clit as your hole gets pounded into. Another dick pops into the hole in front of you and wraps your hand around it with hesitation. Peaking at the screen in the box you see that it's a guy dressed up in a ghostface outfit.

“Ohshit ohshit ohfucking hell.” you were on the verge of coming and the mix of a Jason hitting all your spots with his girth was making it harder to focus on stroking the guy in front of you.

You try your best to get the other guy to completion but your own impending orgasm was a bit of a distraction to say the least. This Jason guy’s thrust was getting relentless and it was super hot to say the least. You hold on for as long as you could but when you feel the man’s load start to pool down your leg sends you down the edge. Before you could complain about how fast the guy pulled out another guy pushed into you, somehow even thicker and longer than the Jason guy.

You squeeze the hell out of the ghostface and your thumb pushes on his slit. It makes the guy come all over you and hand it a messy gush. The new masked covered hottie was fast enough to work you past that previous orgasm but Jason had given you but now you were getting a bit overstimulated. The faint tapping of the man's pyramid helmet on the box wall makes you giggle. Yet the humor in all of this was cut short from the brutal thrust this pyramid head was giving you.

You were already about to fall into another climax, you couldn't help but scream out a moan that you're sure everyone in the panel heard. Maybe even people outside nearby could hear your whorish moans and whales. This massive curved dick was rubbing your insides just right and your lower half couldn't take much more of it, not standing up like you are right now at least. You reach another chaotic mind altering, pussy spasming, leg trembling, back arching, toe curling climax that almost gives you whiplash an.

You feel the sticky seed fill your cunt and pull out with lackluster pace, almost like he didn’t want to leave your warmth so it takes a minute or so before he actually does . When the pyramid head finally pulls out, your body drops to the stage ground with a thud. You were panting like a dog, cum was dripping out of you and sticking to your thighs. Your heart is pounding in your chest as you try to catch your breath.

“This is the best Horror con ever.” you say breathlessly, as you look at another dick slipping into one of the holes. Checking your provided inside the box you see who it is, the host of this event… it’s Harry warden.

[silverior968]

Vitakinesis: a visual guide

[Image ID: An illustrated info sheet. On the top left is a drawing of a hand with glowing purple bones, with purple light spilling from a bleeding wound. The text next to it reads "Vitakinesis manifests as glowing bones and pupils along with spilling light". At the bottom left of the page is a drawing of a young white man with long, ginger hair and freckles. He looks tired and has teal eyes, along with a bloody nose. The drawing is cut off just below the shoulder, but he's wearing a beige tunic and a white turtleneck undershirt. The text next to him reads "Vitakinetic exhaustion. A result of using too much vitakinetic energy. Manifests as sluggishness, tiredness and delirium. May result in a nosebleed. Prevents the vitakinetic from expending the energy they need to live. Usually harmless but leaves the vitakinetic vulnerable. Cuts sustained in this state will scar. This state goes away with time and rest. The center top of the sheet has a drawing of Kenspeckle Grouse, an old white man with scruffy eyebrows and moustache and slicked back hair. He has dull teal eyes and wears a white lab coat, a purple button up and a vial of seawater on his neck. He is holding the hand of someone else who has a black shirt. This drawing is also cut off below the shoulder. His bones and pupils glow green. The text next to him reads "Powers active, no visible injuries, with a patient. Using their power to heal someone else, nothing to worry about." The true center of the image has the text "Vitakinetic light varies from person to person", with a black background taht has 4 types of light drawn on it: opalescent flames, green water-like light, white sparkler-like electricity and golden light. The top right of the image has a drawing of Larrikin Fetter, a young black person with ginger and brown hair due to chimerism. They have freckles, a tooth gap, and their hair is tied in a ponytail with a yellow handkerchief. They're wearing a white medical uniform. Their bones and pupils glow opalescent, and there is a wound on their shoulder that is letting out opalescent light. They also have a bloody nose, but are smiling regardless. The text next to them reads "Powers active, alone, visibly injured. A vitakinetic self-healing an injury. They most likely have everything under control, but should seek medical attention if the state is prolonged or they run out of energy." The bottom center of the image is a drawing of Cleaver Salix, a middle-aged white person with short brown hair and green eyes, along with plague scars on their face. They are wearing a white uniform with gold details. Their bones are glowing golden. The text next to them reads "Powers active, alone, no visible injuries. Self-healing an invisible or internal ailment. Should also seek medical attention if the state drags on or if they start running out of energy." The bottom right of the sheet has a drawing of an older white man with messy, shoulder-length ginger hair with white streaks. He has several scars on his face, along with sideburns, a goatee and teal eyes with dark spots under them. He has the same uniform as Cleaver, except his is ripped with a gaping wound on the chest, showing bone. There is blood coming from his mouth and nose, and he looks resigned. The text next to him reads "Powers inactive, visibly injured. A vitakinetic who has used up all their energy. Loss of consciousness is imminent and almost any injury may prove fatal without intervention. Every vitakinetic should try their best to never experience this. / End ID]

[rugtopper]

August 1, 1984.

It was a good day. It was a scary day. It was a hope-filled day. It was a tearful day. It was was the day I ceased to be just another teenager with a mop of unruly hair to being a young man with an embarrassing secret.

I had spent most of the summer waking up every day with less hair on my crown and more hair on my pillow. This Wednesday was different. I was sitting in the barber's chair finally accepting my future. My barber had convinced me to get a slider. I was about to be fitted with a tiny hairpiece for my crown area. This might be an every-day occurrence for many older men. However, it is extremely frightening for a boy of 15. Here I was about to begin high school, yet I'm having to confront the adult nightmare of going bald.

My barber was a neighbor. He was a friend. He lived two blocks from me. I saw him often. I also knew that I was about to carry the same secret that he gladly carried. He wore a hairpiece. What's more important, he didn't care if anyone knew it. I wasn't that cavalier, yet. That would take another 20 years to achieve. I still have to get through the initiation into this unique group of men who need to cover the reality of being bald. I sat there while Jerry talked to me, instructed me, in what was about to be my fate for the rest of forever. I was scared and happy at the same time. Jerry was telling me that he was going to shave a small area in my crown area so he can attach my new hairpiece. I might have had a slight panic attack. I don't really remember. I only remember seeing the bald spot in the mirror just before Jerry attached my new hairpiece. Of course, in the ensuing 40 years, the bald spot became a bald swath!

My little hairpiece looked great! The color match was nearly perfect. The texture was also a great match. Now, that might have been completely false. I was seeing the image I wanted to project to the public every day.

School began without incident. No one said anything. I think it had more to do with the fact that no one looks at the top of someone's head. Still, I was always wary of something being said.

I even survived my driver's test and subsequent picture for my license. I still think it is funny that I have never had a driver's license where I wasn't wearing a hairpiece for the ID picture.

I managed to get through the tenth grade and part of the eleventh grade wearing a slider. However, I knew that eventually I was going to lose more hair. My barber, Jerry, convinced me to get ahead of it by getting fitted for a full toupee. That transition occurred during Spring Break in 1986.

Jerry had ordered my toupee for me during the Christmas holidays. Jerry shaved me to a Norwood 4 for my new toupee. I probably cried. I mean how many 17 year old kids do you know who are bald? Now, I didn't have any embarrassing rip-offs. That would have been almost impossible with the industrial, medical-grade glue used, which I really hated. I did, however, get tons of second glances and too many snarky comments about wearing a rug. I didn't care because it was far superior to the reality underneath!

My high school graduation was no different from any other high school graduation in America. There was formality. There were wonderfully uplifting speeches. There was great celebrating by families. Mine was unique in that there were three men in that auditorium who were wearing toupees: my barber, myself, and the father of a girl in my graduation class.

After graduation, that girl's father came up to me. He made sure that no one was around. He told me that he was proud of me. He said that my hair looked great. His toupee was very obvious. That was the first time I had ever had a conversation with another man who wore a toupee. It was an awesome encounter. I have had many of them over the past 40 years. Each has been such a joyful experience.

[sapphire-weapon]

Final thoughts on Death Island.

First, the less serious and sometimes shitpost/meme shit:

spent a not-insignificant amount of this movie distracted by Leon’s body hair, which is not a thing I ever thought I’d say, but sweet Jesus it’s about damn time

RIP Chris’s tiger shirt. that thing ripped easier than one of Hulk Hogan’s tank tops, man.

I get that she’s a BOW or whatever, but it’s never not going to blow my mind that this series gets away with its darling male protagonist (Leon) punching a woman in the face on screen

in fact, it’s kind of wild that Maria’s only purpose for being in this movie is to just hunt Leon for sport. like she’s literally ONLY there to beat his ass. what a fuckin queen.

I’m not saying that it’s canon that Leon and Jill had sex at some point, perhaps multiple times, between RE5 and Death Island. I’m just saying they were very, very chummy and hands-on with each other, and Chris was seemingly absent from Jill’s life for those six years, so.

actually, you know what. there’s a non-zero chance Leon has actually banged the entire recurring cast by this point. except maybe Rebecca. because she’s smarter than the other three.

Leon and Chris are the most married they have ever been, holy shit they are so fucking married

my reaction to Leon repeatedly saying the word “terrorist” in this movie probably should not have been “oooh say it again~” but it was because “this is no ritual. it’s terrorism” is still the single most ridiculous line that has ever come out of that man’s mouth, and I really felt the absence of it in RE4make, so I’m glad its spirit still lives on

Chris is looking old, dude. he’s beat the fuck up.

but so is Leon. when I wasn’t distracted by Leon’s body hair, I was distracted by the lines around his mouth. so, Chris has obvious wrinkles forming around his eyes, and Leon has them forming around his mouth. but the girls are all pristine. mhm.

OK SO IS INFINITE DARKNESS CANON OR NOT BECAUSE DEATH ISLAND REAFFIRMS DEGENERATION AS CANON, BUT ID AND DEGEN CAN’T EXIST IN THE SAME REALITY DON’T MAKE ME PULL OUT THE FUCKING CORKBOARD AGAIN

Now, the more serious actual commentary:

it’s a little nuts to me how I keep seeing people in fandom say that Leon has no hint of depression in this movie. when Dylan is verbally dragging them all while they’re slowly succumbing to the T-Virus, both Chris and Claire clap back with affirmations that they believe in what they’re doing and that they’re doing the right thing. Leon... doesn’t. 

like, Dylan says to him basically “you're stuck in this horrible nightmare that keeps repeating because the people that you fight for put you through it on purpose because it serves their own ends, and it’s got you burnt out, but they just keep using you.” and Leon’s response is basically “I mean, you’re not wrong, but I don't exactly have a choice, so.”

he’s still stuck and trapped and resentful of his position, and he’s reached a point now where he’s just resigned himself to his fate. there’s very much a sense of inevitability about him, which is reinforced at the end when he tells Chris that this is just going to keep happening -- fuckers like Dylan are always going to keep coming back, because they always do.

the man shouldn’t have to be outwardly despairing and visibly drunk for people to pick up on his depressive mindset, but I guess I don’t know what I expected from this fandom.

Leon’s character was actually perfect in this movie. whoever wrote him this time around Gets It. he’s written the way that I write OG Leon and have been writing him for years. his humor-as-a-coping-mechanism is there without being obnoxious (which is where Damnation fucked up), his professionalism is there without being too serious (which is where Degeneration fucked up), his depressive mindset is there without fully consuming him (which is where Vendetta fucked up), and his latent anger at the state of things and at his life in general is there without feeling like it’s dysregulated (which is where Infinite Darkness fucked up).

so, for the anon who asked me what my favorite iteration of Leon is: the answer is Death Island. he is pitch perfect in this movie. straight up.

it did really catch my attention how the movie made it a point to call attention to Leon being burnt out. there’s just something about the way it happened that makes me feel like they’re setting up for Leon’s character to get retired in RE9. I don’t know why I think that, because it makes no sense from a business standpoint for him to be the first of the five to get retired, but. I dunno, man.

the only bit of weirdness in this movie was the whole Chris and Jill thing at the beginning that I already commented on. everything else in this movie was basically perfect. this is the best version of Claire we’ve seen since Code Veronica. like, hands down. Rebecca getting giddy and geeking out over beating the big monster with science could not have been more perfect. everything about Jill was excellent.

like, I have so few things to complain about re: this movie that I’m sitting here going “you know the mocap was kind of wonky in some spots” WHICH IS THE MOST ARBITRARY, NITPICKY SHIT EVER.

but like

I’m just going to throw this out there

but Dylan was super right.

he was so correct in a way that no RE villain has ever been correct ever in the history of this series. I kind of... spent some of this movie actually rooting for him. I was ready for him to kill the crew and wouldn’t have been mad about it if he did; I was like “fuck it, he’s right.” like, I was just sitting there like DRAG LEON AND CHRIS HARDER FOR LITERALLY BEING "THE MAN" DRAG THEIR ASSES FORCE THEM TO FEEL SHAME

in a lot of cases, a story is only as good as its villain, and Dylan being so right was a big part of the reason why this movie worked so well.

Wesker could never.

[alukaforyou]

just saw ur tags abt getting back into tkrb and i just gotta ask 1) who is ur fave a) character-wise (personality) and b) aesthetics (design) and 2) have u ever drawn any of them ; w; ur art is so pretty ngl i miss it and id love to see ur tkrb art if u ever made any

oh em geee i cant pick omg i love sm of the charas 😭😭😭😭 im gonna answer 1b first, screen shots from my game:

my current fave is jikkyuu mitsutada cuz the art for him looks soooo tasty 😭 AND hes voiced by THE koyasu takehito like everyone SHUT UP DIO BRANDO / TOJI FUSHIGURO IS SPEAKING 🗣️ jk but his in game voice is so soft uwu i got him from the sea shell event, which i've never rly put in effort into before cuz its not one of my fave events BUT i grinded SO HARD to get My Boi 👍🏻

runner ups are kogi and iwachan, kogitsunemaru looks so 💯💯💯 the artstyle the outfit oof like the off shoulder kimono and the neck piece and the gloves with the fingers out 🥴🥴🥴 also the artist for his sprite is rly good at drawing everything feet?? akakskkal rly pretty looking peet & toez 💀 i nabbed him as a node drop on the regular map it took me 500+ tries, yes i counted 😭 as for iwachan his kiwame art is a Major glow up, i dont always like the kiwame sprite redesign (kogi & hotarumaru looks better reg version imo) BUT iwatooshi looks sm better 10000/10 also hes like 200cm tall 🫠 im gonna motorboat his b00bs who said that btw those 3 are also my fave bgs, i still rly like the old spring sakura bg so i use that one alll the time too 🌸

honorable mentions^ oodenta looks like. if u mashed up kenchan from bleach and madara from nardo. love the shibari bdsm top but i hate the gold stuff on his legs 😭👎🏻 kanechan is the og long black haired pretty boy, the way he talks is younger brother coded lol. fudo & akita r my fave tantous cuz they look like if me & madara had babies LMFAO shizukagata's design is so cunty 💯, hanjin is my fave pink haired boy 💖 wish he wasnt wearing camo tho 😐 and i got nukemaru & shichiseiken semi recently so they are sorta novelty faves rn xD

1a. the game is in jp and i cant read all that so idk abt their personalities much 😭 like i did google a lot of the charas dialogue lines on the wiki but ngl i forgor 💀 i just remem kogi and jikkyu being kinda flirty LOL? 👁️👄👁️ just off the top of my head, maybe fudo cuz i remem his pre kiwame self was rly sad, hes actually the first boy i sent off to kiwame :') im so here for the Character Development thats MY SON!!!! good for him :)

2. i've drawn kanechan ONCE a loooooong time agooooooo i dont draw so much lately RIP and when i do, its anime boys from Shows™ 💀

[voraciousvore]

Boarding School for Giants (1/25)

Author's Note: I decided to share one of my stories on here. Admittedly, it's not my best work, and I've improved a lot since I wrote it, but it remains one of my most popular (and is a shorter and tamer story). Hope you guys enjoy! :)

------Chapter 1------

I was angry at the world. And I had good reason to be. My dad had left a long time ago, when I was a small child—just walked out one day for cigarettes and never came back. He left behind a gaping hole in my soul that would never be filled. My mother, too, suffered from that same void: She filled it with alcohol, or at least tried to, as much as a bottomless pit can be filled. Occasionally she could pull herself together enough, for my sake, to get a low-paying job to support us and keep us fed. Inevitably, though, she would slip back into old habits, and be consumed by the bottle again. 

I was the poster child for teenage angst. I wore black nail polish and black lipstick and heavy eyeshadow with mascara. I dyed my dark hair with streaks of color and cut it in crazy, edgy styles. I had ear piercings and a nose piercing and even a badass tattoo of the grim reaper with a skull on my upper thigh that I got with a fake ID (don’t tell my mom). As for my clothing, I usually went for a goth or punk aesthetic: lacy black corsets with short skirts and tights, ripped-up skinny jeans, big black boots, messy crop tops with spaghetti straps. Anything black with buckles or spikes was my jam. I liked black because my heart was black. 

My behavior mirrored my outer appearance. I played the role of the bad kid pretty well. I always talked back to my teachers and acted up in class. I smoked weed in the girl’s bathroom during lunch and cigarettes behind the school. My grades weren’t terrible, because I wasn’t a complete moron, but I certainly didn’t try very hard. I snuck out of the house on weekends late at night to attend wild parties, although I refused to drink alcohol because I didn’t want to be like my mother. I made out with bad boys, whom I knew all too well would use me and break my heart and leave me just like my daddy did. 

The relationship I had with my mom, admittedly, wasn’t the best. She worked odd hours, so she wasn’t around much anyways. Sometimes she would bring home men that might stay for a little while, but none of them could replace my dad. She couldn’t handle my unruliness and didn’t know how to discipline me or give me boundaries. We would get into shouting matches with each other a lot, where we yelled past each other more than listening to each other. I knew all her weaknesses, and would intentionally say hurtful things to make her cry. I told her she was a terrible mother and she was the reason Dad left and nobody would ever love her again. I would regret my words later, but the rage and sadness I felt inside me was hard to control. 

Today was the day where the tension finally snapped, and everything came crashing down. I had been having an unusually crummy day, and I was in a bad mood. I flunked my chemistry test—not that I really cared, but it still made me feel stupid. The other girls in my class were teasing me and telling me I was an idiot, and I didn’t like that. I was walking through the hallway to my next class when Billy the Bully, as I called him, spotted me and zeroed in on his prey like a bloodhound. I had spurned his advances once, finding him to be a contemptible wretch, and ever since he had made it his mission to belittle and humiliate me as much as possible. Since I had rejected him, he insisted I was an ugly lesbian. I was not in the mood for his bullshit today. He pushed me hard into a locker, laughed, and strolled off. 

The coals burning inside me ignited. Billy the Bully was going down. I chased after him and punched him hard in the back of the head, knocking him to the ground, and kicked him in the ribs a couple of times for good measure. That’d teach him to mess with me. Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t noticed the principal walking down the hall, who was now gaping at me, appalled. It didn’t matter that Billy always harassed me, and that he had initiated the confrontation. The principal had only seen my violence. Despite fights breaking out all the time in the schoolyard, our school had a “zero tolerance” policy on the books for violent actions. Not to mention, I was sure they were more than happy to find an excuse to get rid of a troublesome rebel like me. I was swiftly expelled. 

Needless to say, when my mom came home from work and learned what happened from the school, she blew up at me. As usual, we yelled past each other until we were both out of breath and red in the face. I stormed out of the house and took a walk to cool down, smoking a cigarette as I went. To be honest, even though I felt justified in what I had done, I regretted putting my mom through more stress.  She was always failing me, but I figured she still loved me and cared about me. I was disappointing her with my bad behavior. I felt like such a failure. 

Reflecting on my actions didn’t change the consequences, however. I had been kicked out of school, and now we would need to transfer me to a new school. I wasn’t sure how to feel, whether I should be nervous or optimistic. Maybe I needed a fresh start. My old school sucked anyways, and was lousy with bullies and haters. I hated school. Why did I have to go in the first place? I couldn’t think of any other high schools that were close by in our area. 

When I returned home, my mom was making phone calls, trying to place me in a new school. Her eyes were red and puffy as she massaged her temple with her fingers. I tiptoed past her, slunk over to my room, and threw myself on my bed. I slapped on a pair of old headphones and blasted some death metal into my ears to drown out my thoughts. Somehow, the sound of wild demonic screaming and electric guitars always helped to calm down the boiling hatred inside me. I started to drift off to sleep. 

“EREN!” my mom screamed my name, startling me awake over the sound of my music. I took off my headphones, irritated. 

“WHAT?!” I shouted back with a disgruntled scowl. 

“Pack your things,” my mother demanded. “None of the schools nearby are willing to take you in, and I can’t deal with you anymore. You’re going to boarding school to learn some discipline.” 

“Boarding school? Are you freaking kidding me right now?” I balked. I was incredulous. Mom was trying to get rid of me. I flipped the script on her and acidly retorted, “Well, fine then! I didn’t want to be around you anymore either!” I rolled over in my bed and refused to look at her, facing the wall instead in defiance. She paused for a moment, as if wanting to say something, then sighed and exited the room, closing the door gently behind her.  

I huffed and sulked for a while. Boarding school. Unbelievable. Scoffing to myself, I began to gather up my things, tossing clothes, school supplies, and some other miscellaneous articles carelessly into my backpack and a duffel bag. I didn’t have a whole lot to bring. We were poor, so it’s not like I had a ton of luxury items in my possession to pack. I prepared for bed and flopped down on my mattress, deep in thought. I wondered what boarding school was like. Maybe it would be better to get away from it all, to be far away from everything that was tormenting me. My mom wouldn’t be around to hassle me at least. How bad could it be? 

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed and threw on some clean clothes. I hadn’t slept well, since I had been haunted by my nagging thoughts most of the night. I ate a bowl of cereal and drank some orange juice for breakfast, then decided I ought to at least make myself look nice if it was going to be my first day at a new school. I hauled myself to the bathroom and washed, did my make-up, brushed my teeth, and styled my hair with some hair gel. Much better. 

I grabbed my bags and placed them in the trunk of our beater of a car. Rather than sit in the front seat alongside my mother, I opted to sit in the back instead, sprawling my legs out along the back seat. My mom pursed her lips in disapproval but didn’t say anything. She hopped into the front seat, and after a couple of tries the starter kicked in and the old car coughed to life. The car crawled out of the driveway and stumbled off, leaving a nasty brown puff of smog in its wake. 

We drove for a while in silence. I played on my phone and occasionally looked out the window at the bland scenery passing by. We lived in a rural area, surrounded by farmland, so there wasn’t much to see other than fields of corn and wheat, grain silos and barns, and fenced-off land for cows or horses. It was a serene and pastoral paradise, but I had lived with these things my whole life so I wasn’t very impressed. The density of the buildings gradually increased as we entered more populated areas. 

After a couple of hours, I started to get restless. “Where are we going? How far away is this place?” I questioned, finally breaking the silence. 

“About that...” my mother said. She trailed off and failed to finish her sentence, as if she were afraid to tell me. 

“Well?” I asked, a note of irritation in my voice. 

She sighed. “I guess it’s better if I tell you now, so you don’t freak out when we get there. We’re almost at the drop-off point anyways.” 

“Freak out?” I was becoming increasingly baffled. “Why would I freak out? What’s going on here?” I raised my voice as I spoke. 

“This isn’t an ordinary boarding school.” She paused dramatically, letting the words sink in. “I needed to find a place we could afford, and a place that could handle your misbehaving and keep you in check. This school is planning to become an integration school, and they’re looking for students like you to join, so they offered me a substantial subsidy to sign you up.” 

“Students... like me?” I was lost. “Why would they want a troublemaker like me? What do you mean by an ‘integration school?’ What is that?” 

Before she could answer, our car was engulfed in shadow. I peered out the window and my jaw dropped to the floor. We were driving toward a massive wall, constructed of great stone bricks of an impossible size. The wall must have been hundreds of feet tall, and blocked out the sun as we approached. The surrounding buildings and trees looked like little models and toys by comparison. We pulled up to the wall and parked in a vacant lot. My mom, rather than explaining what was going on, got out of the car and removed my bags from the trunk. I stayed in my seat, refusing to budge. I was very confused, and even a little intimidated. 

My mother opened the passenger door and looked at me expectantly. “Come on. Get out.” I just stared back at her. Nothing had been explained. I didn’t want to go. I was getting an uneasy, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. 

She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. Realizing I wasn’t going to win this fight, I begrudgingly got out of the car and followed her to a normal-sized door that was embedded in the enormous wall. She opened the door and we walked into a short, gloomy passageway that tunneled through the thick wall to the other side. As we walked through the darkness, I cleared my throat and tried one last time to finesse some information out of her. 

“Mom... please. Tell me what this is,” I pleaded. I couldn’t stop my voice from cracking slightly. Genuine fear was starting to trickle into my chest. The whole situation was very strange and surreal. 

We reached the door at the end of the tunnel. Sunlight bled through the cracks around the door, framing it with bright light in the musty darkness. My mom placed her hand on the door handle and exhaled slowly. She gazed over at me sadly. Her face was pinched up, as if she were trying to hold back strong emotions. 

“On the other side of this huge wall... is the giant side of town. You’re going to a boarding school for giants.” 

2nd Chapter: https://www.tumblr.com/voraciousvore/731600807530823680/boarding-school-for-giants-225?source=share

Table of Contents:

Ch. 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

Writing Masterpost

[wayfayrr]

I can picture wind being a pain in the butt to the school staff while gather kids to cause chaos because of getting bored from sitting in a chair for hours listening to the teacher rant about something and him of course not liking being talked down because of his age and so when he is taken detention he gets in a fight with the teacher which he wins of course and so reader is called to deal with him. Well yeah wind gets to see reader earlier now but reader is looking at him disappointed and tired. Reader gives him a trade offer that if he does good he gets more cuddles and attention from reader everyday and so wind quiets down and behaves more better altho does sleep in some classes because he is bored and so he is dreaming of him and reader having fun in his world with his grandma and sister like a family. In parent conferences I feel like there is a mini fight over who gets to go there help wind with pranks to get wind's side. When it comes to saving money legend sews up the clothes that owns that get ripped tho says it's for saving money but it's really to get close to reader and take some clothes that reader doesn't notice gone but it gets him butting heads with sage as the chain sees his lies but the chains knows he has dirt on them and that they are close. Wars gets thirsty comments from time to time but he always says their is already someone special to him as he talks about them in his videos at times which causes his fans to get the idea he's dating and so they call them lucky but he calls himself lucky. Twilight gets some of the old people from the farmers market to like him as he seems like those good old fellas and which when they see how he has a hand around reader's waist and seem so cuddly towards reader and so they think reader is his partner and when they notice there not married because of the lack of wedding rings, they ask when wedding is coming closing reader's chance to get away altho this does happen with the other open affectionate and possessive links (I'm talking about courage) they don't get as much praise and help to get their point as across other than sky and sage altho sage gets because he is the first and sky is sky. Reader notices how a lot of her stuff that has her scent goes missing but gives the ides its just them trying to find something familiar in this new world but later on reader fully realizes that they have a bunch of yanderes in their house and they want them but maybe they don't fight back because they aren't as strong as the chain even when they don't have magic altho they do have the high ground when running since this world is still new to them but that's the thing they can run but they can't hide and especially when they realize dink is after them too as running is just going to get more people hurt and hiding won't be good for long as the chain was able to get to them from another world, how is another county going to challenge them too harder pluse things are too personal and deep between reader and the links and we aren't going to get started with fierce.

Known as 👾 anon or numberonehere2008

It's great to see you 👾!!! and now I know why you're so good at coming up with ideas, I've seen some of the other blogs you've popped up on and everything is just sooooo good!!!! also the amount of stuff in this ask that's kinda similar to stuff irl is insane

fun fact the way you've described wind going to school is almost a match with my actual younger brother 🙃 (arguably he's even worse than you've described wind) so I am very used to dealing with someone who would rather rip a door off of its hinges than go to school ANSBXKSK but I'd like to think he at least tries for reader as to not upset them or exhaust them. also just promising wind a trip to the sea if it's possible if he gets a decent grade at school you know he'd be at the top of the class in an instant. The chain would most likely all take turns with reader to go for parents evening, but there's also the chance reader simply goes alone making things much more simple.

legend would be stitching up everyone's old clothes, and possibly even taking up embroidery. I can see him getting very upset if he saw that reader already had clothes they'd stitched up themselves however, and there'd be some mixed feelings there for him. what with wanting reader to have better things for themselves and loving the chance to show them how good he is at it. And definitely not getting the chance to mess up sage's clothes. Wars if he ended up live streaming would be pressured to bring reader in front of the camera by his fans but ultimately I think he'd be too selfish to want anyone who doesn't need to see them see them; making his fans ship them even more with how much he "respects their privacy".

also bold of you to assume Sage hasn't already gotten them rings!!! if he got the chance reader wouldn't be able to walk with the amount of jewelry he gives them, and that's not the only way he'd mark his territory, but if reader hadn't gotten a ring it would be a full blown arms race for the chain to get them one. Reader would also be very reluctant to push sage away since I reckon they've already been together for about a year before the chain show up, and are in a very good relationship at that!! so it'd be more likely that the chain push themselves away before driving a wedge in-between reader and sage. If the cursed links were there they'd be the worst for this!!! and they'd be pushing readers limits real quick, not that anything reader sees as bad happens but to them it's like their worlds are ending.

AKSNDN Sky is very much one of my favourites as well, he and sage could have my whole heart within an instant if they asked 💖💖

as for going abroad? the chain could get to reader with magic. if they didn't have that it'd be a lot harder to get them, what with passports and airport security on top of border controls so unless they didn't lose all of their magic then they've got as much of a chance as anyone else. But unless the chain did something very concerning as a yandere or got caught at least I think reader could excuse it as stress or a different culture, I mean they're already writing off a lot of sage's attraction due to that. although it's not impossible for them to realise how deep it goes, it might just take a while for them to see how bad it is.

[kattythingz]

Yea, no. Just watched episode 26 and up until this episode I actually liked Winry and Edwin in fma03. Winry actually had me ripping my hair out in this episode. So, Ed uses alchemy to win a contest and earns money that she immediately claims and says its for her. Cool I guess. Then she beats the fuck out of him with a wrench, and calls him a jerk for winning with alchemy instead of losing with her automail. Friendly reminder the fight had jack shit to do with her, Ed went because the guy called him a shrimp.

THE GUY HE WAS ARM WRESTLING WITH HAD THIS HUGE ASS WEAPON AUTOMAIL, ED WAS NOT GOING TO WIN WITH HER AUTOMAIL ALONE.

And then to make matters worse, she just walks off for the entire night like the Barry situation wasn't gonna be in Ed's brain. Then she just lets Paninya steal his watch???? HIS STATE ALCHEMIST WATCH??? How is she gonna choose this random girl she just met over her best friend of like 15 years.

So after she basically acts like a terrible bitch the entire episode...she gets to break down and cry over some automail????? and Ed sits and validates her bs???? Mind you nothing even happened to his automail in this episode. And the fact that he wouldnt have won is really only because his arm was meant to act as a prosthetic, not a weapon. A regular prosthetic vs a weapon automail is not a fair fight.

Winry is just extremely extremely annoying in this episode. Hopefully she gets better as the series goes on but this episode really dissapointed me because I actually love Winry as a standalone character.

-

This one is unrelated but I kind of like that in 03 Al wasn't on board with bringing their mom back to life. In brotherhood Al was always saying "it was my decision too" but in 03 I feel like it really makes things harder on Ed because he had to keep convincing Al every step of the way that bringing their mom back was a good thing. Then after Al lost his body it truly was Ed's fault because Al didn't even want to do it in the first place. NOT HATING ON ED OF COURSE BECAUSE HE WAS LIKE 10 YEARS OLD AND DIDNT KNOW ANY BETTER, but I've always been a sucker for darker themes and Ed having to shoulder all the guilt for everything is just another way that 03 differs from brotherhood. It's subtle differences like these that make 03 great. Brotherhood was great too but 03 just has a way of tugging on the heart strings.

Oof, yeah. Winry's reactions are def over-the-top in that episode. Altho, tbh, I don't really take comedic violence in anime seriously. It's such a common trope that even if I don't personally find it funny, ik it's not meant to be serious. In the same vein, you could argue Ed hits Ling a lot too, you know? Or that he does nothing but curse at him. It's not meant to be literal, I think.

But yeah I do agree that her siding with Paninya was... weird. And like fr that was literally his state alchemist watch?? His ID??? It's kind of an overreaction to take something not personal so personally. But that's all coming from a place of being jaded to anime bs too, sigh. I do agree that edwin is better in 03 tho!!! I liked that it was more subtle, open to interpretation, if you will, so if you WANT you can still see them as platonic. I love vague relationships.

AND YEAAAH RIGHT? THE FACT THAT IT REALLY IS ED'S FAULT THIS TIME. And 03 makes the perfect changes to match the weight of that (as you'll see in future episodes). Overall it makes complete sense why Ed matures more than his fmab counterpart. It's the trauma babyyyy ✨

[enby-ralsei]

I posted 8,354 times in 2022

That's 1,784 more posts than 2021!

872 posts created (10%)

7,482 posts reblogged (90%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@colestyle

@angelstoneyaoi

@aropride

@enby-ralsei

@enderspawn

I tagged 4,068 of my posts in 2022

#no id - 656 posts

#jrwilb - 149 posts

#jrwi spoilers - 82 posts

#lotplb - 44 posts

#real - 37 posts

#yeah - 29 posts

#jrwi - 25 posts

#bitb spoilers - 22 posts

#lmao - 19 posts

#sobs - 18 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#called me out with the parent friend thing cuz literally yesterday after a formal i made sure my friends all had their coats with them lmao

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

apotheosis is really just *sex joke* *sex joke* *trauma* *sex joke* *changing fate* *sex joke* *sex joke*

200 notes - Posted May 4, 2022

#4

Kian's style is so outrageous because he doesn't want to be recognized outside of work. He wears a suit to work, a clean low ponytail, making exchanges and dealing with finances. He wears jackets with vibrant prints, and no shirt, and tight pants, and high heeled boots outside of work, going to bars, picking up gigs.

If someone recognized him at a gay bar, his career would be over. He would have to go back to being a starving artist, and creativity can't thrive if you can't eat. So he lets his hair down, teases his bangs, puts on makeup, turns himself into the man he wants to be. And at the end of the night he washes it off, combs his hair smooth, and makes sure that the evidence can't be seen the next day in the office.

In Galloway, they can't ruin his career. They can hurt him in other ways, but he still has his living. He still has money to live off of and can still pursue his dreams. And Rand and Rolan would never care about how he looks, not in any way that matters. He's a rockstar, of course he has that same ostentatious look to him that he had in high school.

248 notes - Posted November 5, 2022

#3

can someone please edit live slug reaction over bizly while rumi and peter were talking. cuz thats what he looked like the entire time

you asked the right person because I love making edits.

[ID: Grizzly and Charlie deep in conversation. The bottom right hand corner has a "live bizly reaction". Bizly is smiling and seems to be in disbelief. /End ID.]

312 notes - Posted June 9, 2022

#2

when in distress, jay tries to seek comfort. she asked chip if gillion would be alright, hoping for a yes to help her stop panicking. she lays her trust in her crew. if they let her stay after telling them she used to be a spy, then she is willing to place her trust in them.

gillion is ambivalent. he will take comfort when given, but wont search for it. he cries to the pixie and to himself. he is the hero and a hero doesnt need help, but will accept it.

chip avoids comfort. he said it himself that its all his fault. and the one at fault doesnt deserve comfort, do they. he has seen everything and did it by himself, he doesnt have a need for others (and the part of him that wants it makes him feel all the more guilty)

315 notes - Posted September 17, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

we should make our own stuff more. rips got commercialized. patches got commercialized. raw seams got commercialized. bleached garments got commercialized. those are OURS. we make them ourself!

cut up your old jeans, make patches for your comfort hoodie, make an old nightshirt with stains on it into a croptop, take that shirt thats too small but meaningful and make it into a tote bag.

take this post as a call to action if you've wanted to customize your clothes but didnt have the motivation. theres a lot of pride that resides in clothes that you've tailored to what you want them to look like.

337 notes - Posted September 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[malfaiths-blog]

HELLO HELLO THE NAME’S KAR, i’m 19 ( and never fuckin learned how to read ) and i go by any pronouns?? primarily they’re she/fae but use whatever u like as long as it’s not it/its and we’re good pals!! anyways, i’m here 2 bring u the one n only LUCIUS MALFOY w his pet peacock and two hours spent in front of the mirror styling his hair. i’m really bad at introductions but under the cut is my ( semi ) serious lucius introduction!!

( YOON JEONGHAN, DEMIBOY, HE/HIM ) — LUCIUS MALFOY ? oh, you mean the EIGHTEEN year old PUREBLOOD. they’re a SEVENTH year SLYTHERIN, aren’t they ? i’ve heard they’re really RESOURCEFUL, but i know for a fact that they can be CALLOUS at times. rumor has it that after graduation they'll SIDE WITH THE DEATH EATERS.

born to abraxas and anais malfoy, lucius grew up pampered. a prince in his own right — the prince of the house of malfoy. abraxas, while tough on him, did what he did out of love. lucius knew it too, for his father wouldn’t have given that amount of effort searching for only the best tutors and schooling him on wand works and potions from such an early age if he wasn’t doing it for love. all he wanted was the best for his heir. lucius isn’t blind; he sees it too. he sees why it’s necessary and never once has he voiced out a complaint.

yet those who work in the malfoy manor know that he grew up too fast. by the time he turned ten he could easily hold a conversation with someone four years his senior. a prodigy, the young prince is, they whisper. but at what cost?

abraxas loves him, and lucius couldn’t be any more thankful for the schooling his father put him through, but both father and son are blinded by love that they do not see what’s become of the young malfoy. he could ask for anything he wishes in this world, yet, there’s one thing that lucius abraxas malfoy never could have: a childhood.

but his mother loves him too. oh, does she love him. abraxas might be her heart, but lucius is her entire life. she dotes on him in her own quiet little way. nobody expected anais to be the mother that she is, but she is. and lucius too, loves his mother. where his father is hard on all his edges, anais is where lucius turns to when he’s in need of solace.

anyways this is long already and i’m trying to be poetic but it’s Not Working and i’ve only touched on his childhood but those are my headcanon based stuff so i figured they were necessary. tldr; lucius grew up loved. there are a lot of dysfunctional pureblood families out there, and though yes, abraxas might have “fucked up” lucius’ childhood, so to speak, family is everything to lucius and that wasn’t born out of duty or fear. it is his duty, but above all, love is what drives him. he wants to make his parents proud, and he will stand tall to see what his father and mother wished for him to accomplish.

moving on, lucius is cold yes, but he’s not an unnecessary asshole. he looks down on most of everyone and carries himself as though he is king already, but would he waste time to stop a muggleborn on his way to classes to insult them? nah. he probably wouldn’t even spare a moment to look at them. he’s very guarded too, and probably prefers the term allies over friends bc he’s a Pretentious Bitch. that aside though, he is somewhat cordial towards most purebloods in his circle, if not to be all political and shit. he’s not kind, no, but he knows when diplomacy is required of him.

yeah so anyways what i said about his hair in my opening paragraph? that’s only half a joke. he cares a lot about his appearances, and puts a lot of stock into it. he doesn’t dress to impress, but he does dress to intimidate. appearances make a bold statement, and lucius thinks any politician should know the power they have. i imagine at this age his hair isn’t particularly long yet, — probably shoulder length — but remember that in the movies when he has his long blonde hair he has it tied back with a green ribbon and well, that’s the most lucius malfoy thing i’ve ever seen.

silver snake, iron king, golden heir — you name it. he’s one hell of a pretentious bitch and if u see me referring to the elements and giving him titles like that, that’s because he sees it fit. trust me, he gives me a headache to write too with how pretentious he is but I Love Him.

his birthday is on december 22, making him a winter baby and a capricorn, which also means he just recently turned eighteen during their winter holidays.

oh, one last thing! honestly, he really doesn’t care how people see his gender and he doesn’t exactly advertise that he’s a demiboy, but he knows what he is and is confident in both his gender identity and expression. he’s not a man, and for lucius, what anyone else says doesn’t matter. also quick additional hc i have but i hc abraxas is also demifluid so transphobia is most definitely Not Something that happens in the malfoy household.

i have more useless facts and headcanons about lucius too such as his boggart, wand, etc etc but since this is already Long™, i’ll save that for later.

uhhh here is lucius’ pinterest board btw and that quote in the desc is him af too!

to finish this off, have a lucius malfoy af quote: “ do not mistake me for my mask. you see light dappling on the water and forget the deep, dark cold beneath. ”

anyways! hmu if u wanna plot with me!

[miekasa]

I’m in love with the idea of twitch streamer bf eren

OKAY ME TOO!! Easily top 3 best Eren concepts imo it’s just so good and so... him, he falls on the gamer himbo boyfriend side of the scale for sure

Let’s start with his setup: purple and/or green with a dark wood tabletop. He keeps the lights green during the day or when his computer is idle, and mixes in the purple when it’s dark out because he likes the Ambiance. 

Only one monitor and do not let him buy another one no matter how much he claims he needs it. He does not. He has a TV in his room tho, but it’s not mounted above or near his desk; it’s on the opposite wall that faces his bed. Laying down and watching Netflix takes priority.  

He’s a sucker for themed keyboards/keycaps. If he finds a set themed around his favorite show or a character he likes, he’ll buy it. No self control.

The majority of his keyboards have that super clacky almost officey sounding click to them, and he’s obsessed with it. Sometimes he fucks around on Google Docs typing nonsense just to hear the keyboard make noise.

Puts in special keycaps on the ones with your initials on whichever keyboard he’s using at the moment <3 gamer boyfriend things <33

Always swears he wants to do some kind of special event or thank you for subscriber/follower milestones, but he never catches his own milestones 😭😭 by the time he realizes he has 100k subs, he’s already on 103k or something 

Then he calls you, his friends, and his subscribers fake for not pointing it out to him like sir it’s right there on your screen please. All you had to do was LOOK

If he’s in the middle of a game and he really has a to pee, or he’s gotta go do something, he’ll yell for you, and you come in, obviously slightly worried, but then Eren is just hurriedly giving you instructions, “Here, press left or right to move, spacebar to fire, avoid these, kill those. That ugly look thing to the left is Jean, and over there is his character. You’re teammates, I’ll be right back,” before he puts his headphones on your head and runs off. Now you’re left to fend for yourself, good luck.

He can be gone anywhere from 30 seconds to 30 minutes 😭😭 if he’s gone for a short amount of time, he comes back with just as much chaotic energy to take back his headphones and shoo you away as he did to throw it all on you pls.

Other times, he’ll go and make a whole ass meal and come back sauntering in with a half eaten grilled cheese in hand, “Oh shit are you still playing, babe—hey you’re doing really well, look at you go!”

When you’re not there, he mentions you a lot, because he’s always thinking about you no matter how small it is; even just the design of a character would prompt him to a make a comment, “I don’t think my girlfriend has ever played this, but I know she’d main this character.” 

Does he invite you to play a game he knows you’ve never played or are bad at with him on his stream, knowing full well he’s an ace at it and will crush you publicly? Absolutely. Without a doubt. 

There’s always a very shameless, not at all subtle shoutout to his Instagram in the middle of all his streams please, he’ll be playing a game and randomly it’s like, “Fire pic on Instagam by the way, go like that.” 

His comments are pretty respectful whenever you’re there or he mentions you; there’s a few cheeky randoms who like to make donations whenever you’re on the screen or say some inappropriate stuff, but Eren’s learned to just ignore it. It doesn’t make him happy, and he might tell people to chill if it’s excessive, but he won’t call out anything explicitly and make you uncomfortable while you’re there. 

Sometimes Connie will make a comment about how you’re hot, and that’s definitely something Eren will call out and bring attention to, more so to mock Connie than anything. 

At one point, his subscribers keep asking for more content with you (especially if you’re not there often/it’s been a while since people have seen a peek of you), to which Eren will pout because, “Hey, this is my Twitch-- now, look, you’ve gotten your Eren’s hot girlfriend privileges revoked for the week.”

Terrible at doing unboxing videos whenever he gets sent product because he just rips things open 😭😭 he’s too eager to do ASMR or gentle/detailed unboxing, he just wants to test out the new parts as soon as possible. 

Abuses his spinny gamer chair. Spins himself dizzy on it (yes, while he’s streaming and waiting for lobbies/things to load), spins you dizzy on it when you’re just trying to be comfy, spins the both of you dizzy when he’s trapped you on his lap. 

He’d be one of those lucky people who gets a cool single name user/ID. Like he gets just @eren or @jaeger/yeager, because his name is pretty unique, but I can totally see him going the typical fun gamer tag route. 

His content is anything from him streaming Overwatch and COD to terraforming his Animal Crossing island, he does not discriminate. One day you could get Eren calling Jean a fucking dumbass for not healing him, and the next day he’s doing his best impressions of Timmy and Tommy.

Do not put it past him to build you a whole ass PC setup if you express the slightest interest in one, even if it’s not solely for gaming/you wanna use it for work/school. He’ll do it. He’ll make his hyperfixating work for him. 

Plus then he’d get to give you one of his old keyboards and give you special keycaps with his initials and go on about how he’s officially got a gamer gf even if all you can do is press the spacebar <33 

[luvdsc]

august.

Bad habits are hard to break, and you’ve made a terrible one of loving him.

pairing :: liu yangyang x reader genre :: fluff, angst ⋮ best friend + college au word count :: 10,500 words warnings :: none. playlist :: time lapse (taeyeon) ⋆ 2 kids (taemin) ⋆ daydreams (exes) ⋆ sharing you (lany) ⋆ august (taylor swift) ⋆ too close to love (will hyde) ⋆ sad stripped (lany) ⋆ strangers (taemin) ⋆ the 1 (taylor swift) author’s note :: can you believe that i literally wrote this entire 10k fic in one day aka today ??? whew this gave me the same rush that i got when i wrote my research paper in the class it was due for the day of, printed it out during break, and handed it in at the end of class :’) ↳ part of the almost collaboration series.

Liu Yangyang is jumping fences to escape late night parties, shared laughter over childhood favorite cartoons on February mornings, midnight dancing in the refrigerator light, and November kisses stolen in between the shelves of the nearby 7-Eleven. He is obscure doodles in the margins of your physics notes, good intentions laced in December’s mistakes, strawberry lemonade and broken truths wrapped in summer bliss, and September endings with honest lies.

He is your August, he is your everything, but he isn’t yours.

AUGUST 2018.

August has barely begun to fade away.

You’re eighteen years old, and you’re drunk off of your first taste of freedom, one toe already dipping into the shiny pleasures of adulthood. Your new roommate, Karina, has excitedly told you about the famous beach night themed frat party that kick starts every school year at your university. Everybody who’s anybody would be there, and your heart already races at the thought of going to your very first college party.

“Coral or blue?” Karina holds up a solid colored neon blue bikini and a striped, bright pink one for you to choose between.

“Blue.” You nod towards the first option, and she discards the other one back into the open drawer. You pull out a marigold yellow one and a black one lined with white strings, wordlessly gesturing towards them, and she immediately points to the latter.

“That one is gonna look so cute on you. Well, both would, but I love that one.”

You grin at her, silently thanking whoever decided to pair the two of you together for the random dorming. “Perfect, thanks. Do you know any of the guys hosting the party?”

“Yeah, Dejun? He’s really sweet and a year above us. I met him in the music elective I’m taking.” She turns to take off her shirt and tosses it to the side, pulling on her bikini and wriggling into a pair of ripped jean shorts. “You?”

“Kind of? Jaemin is in my project group in Intro to Engineering. He’s rushing for that frat.” You quickly change out of your outfit and into your chosen swim top and daisy dukes. You make sure to grab a pair of black flip flops from your closet. The bundle of nerves in your stomach grows as you step out of your dorm with your new friend, a bit anxious but also excited to attend your very first party.

Thank goodness for summer weather. It’s still a nice, warm 75 degrees Fahrenheit according to your weather app when you and Karina finally make your way to the frat house. The sun barely begins to set, but the party slash dayger had started earlier and is in full swing. There’s a DJ set up out front, blasting some sort of EDM music, and the lawn is absolutely covered in foam. You see the source of it shakily set up on the roof of the patio along with a couple of boys sitting up there, Hawaiian shirts barely covering their figures. You catch the eye of Jaemin, who happily waves at you from his vantage point, and you wave back at him.

“Oh my god, I love college,” Karina says, grabbing your arm excitedly as the two of you step into the foam. You reach down to pick up some of it before flicking it towards your roommate, who squeals before scooping some up and throwing it in your direction as well.

“Ready for our first shitty college drink?” You pull her through the mass of other students and towards the horribly decorated tiki bar stationed in the corner of the patio.

“Hell yeah, let’s do it.”

The two of you stumble over, still throwing handfuls of foam at each other amidst giggles before making a full stop in front of the bar. The older boy behind the makeshift counter lazily grins at you both, a shell necklace hanging loosely around his neck, and his unbuttoned orange Hawaiian shirt gives you a nice flash of his toned abs.

“Hey, I’m Johnny. What can I get for you two?”

“Two vodka shots, please.”

“Alright, ID?”

You freeze, and Karina’s grip on your arm tightens, and then Johnny laughs, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Relax, I’m just messing with you, freshie. Two vodka shots coming right up.”

He pulls out two small plastic cups and pours out the drinks for you. “How many do you want?”

“This is good for now, thanks.” You and Karina pick up the drinks, smiling a little nervously at him. He flashes another amused smile at you. “Alright, come back anytime if you want another.”

You move away from the patio, and Karina follows close behind. The two of you throw back the drinks and dispose of the empty cups quickly. The burning sensation in your throat disappears after a few seconds, and you turn to your roommate. “Should we find our friends?”

“I think I see Dejun back there! Let’s go say hi, I can introduce you to him.” Karina drags you through the rising foam, the bubbles clinging to your skin, and when you go past the DJ stand, you feel the pounding bass reverberating in your chest harder than ever. You trek past the gate and into the backyard where the foam has risen to your waist, thanks to the enclosed fences. She taps on the shoulder of a boy with the prettiest almond eyes you have ever seen, and you shyly smile at him when he greets you.

“Hey, I’m Dejun.”

Oh my god, even his voice sounds pretty. Older college boys are definitely better and hotter than high school boys. Heck, they’re better than freshman boys. Nobody wants to date a freshman dude, not even the freshman girls.

“Hi, I’m Y/N.” You extend your hand, but then realize how stupid that must be. You hastily start to retract your hand, but he laughs and warmly grasps your hand. Smiling at you, he shakes it firmly, squeezing your hand gently before letting go.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.”

The butterflies in your stomach grow in volume as the conversation goes on, and you’re positively enamored by the end of the night. Karina had given you a look earlier before walking off with Dejun’s friend and joining the dancing crowd. With the addition of his phone number in your pocket and a promise to show you a new song he’s working on with his guitar next Friday, you’re walking on cloud nine.

“Do you want something to drink? I need a refill, and I can go grab you one,” he asks, and you’re about to offer to go with him, but then you remember the teasing upperclassman and simply agree, asking for another shot of vodka.

After he disappears, you look around, eyeing the crowd and wondering if you can spot your roommate anywhere. You bump into someone lightly and turn around to apologize. Your eyes meet a pair of curiously bright ones.

“Sorry about that, I’m looking for my roomie.”

The boy gives you a Cheshire Cat grin. He’s wearing one of those dumb Hawaiian shirts, too, and it’s unbuttoned, but he has a white T-shirt layered underneath it. “No biggie, it’s a massive party and it’s crowded. Who are you looking for?”

“Ah, I don’t know if you know her, but Karina? She went off with this dude, Kunhang, I think?”

His eyes light up at that name. “Oh, I know him! I saw him earlier by the keg stands inside. Your friend might be there, too. I can—”

“THE COPS ARE COMING!” A loud voice bellows, and you freeze up. Suddenly, the music is shut off as everyone starts running away. You start to panic, the terror rising in your chest, and the boy in front of you grabs your hand and pulls you with him. “What are you doing?! Don’t just stand there! We gotta go!”

“Wait, but Kar—” You start to object, but cut yourself off when you bump into his back as he abruptly stops. He scans the backyard, quickly assessing the situation before turning to you.

“There’s way too many people trapped in here, we’re not gonna make it to the gate. We need to climb over the fence. I’ll hoist you up, and you can help me up from there.”

“I don’t even know you,” you protest, and he throws you a look.

“Hi, I’m Yangyang, nice to meet you, I don’t want to get my ass hauled out by the police and continue the icebreakers in jail, so let’s move now. We good?”

“Yeah, okay, we’re good,” you say faintly, mind still whirling around as you try to grasp the situation. “I’m Y/N.”

“Great, now up you go.”

He immediately picks you up without any warning, and you almost fall backwards, arms flailing before you grasp the top of the fence and pull yourself up. Balancing precariously on top of it, you grab his arm, tugging him up until he’s sitting right next to you, too. The both of you swing your legs over the fence and jump down to the other side. You let out a sigh of relief, squatting down as you clutch your heart.

“Oh my god, we made it. I didn’t get arrested at my first party.”

“What an amazing accomplishment.” Yangyang brushes off the back of his shorts. “We aren’t going to jail. Freshman year is gonna be a breeze if your bar is set this low.”

“Hey!” You frown at him, standing up and crossing your arms over your chest. “How do you know I’m a freshman?”

“It’s written all over your face.” You give him a look, and he relents. “Only a freshman would be this scared of getting caught.”

“So are you an upperclassman?”

“Nah, this is my first party, too. I’m rushing for Nu Chi. Hold on, wait here.” He sneaks around the edge of the fence, peering around for a few seconds before jogging back towards you. “Okay, the police are over there. I’m gonna have to wait a while before going back in.”

“You have to go back?”

“Part of tonight’s rush process,” he sighs before turning to you. “Do you live on campus?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna walk back now,” you answer, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “It’s late, and I’m not in a partying mood anymore.”

“I can walk you back,” he offers, and you shoot him a grateful smile.

“That’d be great, thanks.”

The two of you start the trek back, an awkward lull in the conversation making itself known. You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering slightly when a soft breeze picks up. There’s a light rustling noise, and you pay no mind to it until a soft cloth is draped over your shoulders. Eyes widening, you notice the colorful, palm tree-printed button down shirt wrapped around you and the boy next to you, looking straight ahead with his hands shoved into his pockets. Smiling to yourself, you slip on the shirt, loosely buttoning the front of it.

“So, Yangyang,” you casually begin, testing his name on your tongue for the first time. You decide you like it. It’s cute. He turns to you, raising an eyebrow, and you continue, “Since our lives are no longer in jeopardy, we can continue the icebreakers, right?”

His lips curve into a smile. “Alright, shoot. What’s your first question?”

“Captain America or Iron Man?”

“Oh, Iron Man, hands down. He’s so…”

You meet him in August.

FEBRUARY 2019.

“Hey, where’s your cereal? The Reese’s one?”

February marks six months of your relationship with Dejun. It also marks six months of your friendship with Yangyang. It is time for your weekly Sunday rituals of watching old cartoons and eating breakfast, and you could’ve sworn that box was still half full last week. You rummage through the top drawer Yangyang had designated for snacks and other foods in his dorm as he takes out the milk from his mini fridge and carries it over to his desk.

“I ran out a few days ago. There’s Cinnamon Toast Crunch somewhere in there though.”

With a victorious cry, you manage to pull out the slightly crushed box of the aforementioned cereal from underneath the packages of flamin’ hot Cheetos and spicy nacho Doritos and triumphantly bring it over to your best friend. He already pulls out two bowls (which were stolen from the dining hall) and hands over the plastic spoons in his grasp (which was also taken from the dining hall).

“Thanks.” After dropping a spoon into each bowl, you shake out the sugary cereal squares before pouring the milk because you’re not an absolute heathen who puts milk in first, like Sicheng. Yangyang clambers up to his top bunk bed, and you carefully pass over the two bowls of cereal, milk sloshing precariously near the edges. You climb up afterwards, and he gives you your bowl once you settle down.

“So, Scooby Doo or Pokémon?”

“Mm, we watched Pokémon last Sunday already, so let’s do Scooby Doo this time.” He nods in agreement, pulling up the cartoon from the queue in Netflix, and the two of you lean back against the ginormous mound of pillows and stuffed animals of his that occupy nearly half of his bed.

You’re shoveling a spoonful of cereal into your mouth when he casually asks, “So how’re you and Dejun doing?”

Choking slightly, you quickly swallow. “We’re doing good. I think he booked a table at the Italian restaurant down the street for Valentine’s Day. Are you doing anything for Valentine’s?”

“I’m forcing Renjun to come watch that “‘Happy Death Day’ movie with me.” The faint sounds of the Scooby Doo theme song plays in the background as you hum in acknowledgement, mouth twisting into a mischievous smirk.

“That’s so sweet. So who confessed to who? Not gonna lie, I thought you had a crush on Hyuck, not Jun.”

“... I would shove you right now, but I just did my laundry, and rewashing my comforter is expensive and I’m out of quarters.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he rolls his eyes before lifting his bowl up to sip the best part of having Cinnamon Toast Crunch: the milk infused with all the cinnamony, sugary goodness. You let your spoon fall back into your bowl with a soft clink, a sudden worrying thought popping into your head.

“I bought him some customized guitar picks and a pretty composition book. Do you think he’ll like it?”

“That’s a pretty basic gift, isn’t it? It feels like something Kun would get him,” he teases, but his heart falls when he notices you chewing on your bottom lip, spoon held limply in your hand.

“Hey, I’m just joking, of course he would like it. He’s completely whipped. He’ll love anything from you.” Yangyang’s voice grows softer, and he fiddles with a stray thread on his comforter, avoiding eye contact with you. “I know I would.”

He looks up slightly and sees you smiling gratefully at him, eyes shining bright. He quickly ducks his head, turning away slightly to hide the hues of pink blooming on his cheeks. He feels you leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder with a quiet sigh, and his breath hitches in his throat.

“Thanks, Yang.”

Replaying the sight of your smile in his mind makes his stomach flip flop, and he resists the overwhelming urge to tell you you’re pretty, pushing it back into the farthest crevice of his mind.  Your head on his shoulder makes him feel like he’s carrying the entire world, and he doesn’t know what to do. He paints on a tight smile of his own, silently hoping you can’t hear the way his heart nearly pounds out of his chest.

Yangyang knows that having feelings for his best friend, specifically one of his good friends’ girlfriends, is something he absolutely should not be doing, but he can’t help it. His stupid heart refuses to listen to his brain. For now, all he can do is desperately hope that this dumb crush of his goes away soon because while 99% of his friends are oblivious (including you), Ten and Donghyuck are not. They’ll be able to spot his feelings from a mile away, like how Kun always knows when there’s a good sale going on at the Asian supermarket downtown (This week, it was the 50% off bean sprouts and chili paste).

Letting out an inaudible sigh, Yangyang carefully rests his head on top of yours. Clutching the empty bowl with one hand, he shoves his other one under his thigh to stop himself from reaching over and tangling his fingers with yours. He stares at the screen, watching until the bright colors blur together.

“Anytime.”

He likes you in February.

AUGUST 2019.

The earth spins around the sun for another time, and August makes its presence known once again. It’s Thursday night, and you’re sitting on the countertop in Nu Chi Theta’s kitchen, swinging your legs back and forth as Yangyang struggles to make some scrambled eggs because the half filled carton of eggs the two of you managed to find is the only thing that isn’t expired (besides Jeno’s protein shakes, but neither of you are gonna touch that cardboard tasting monstrosity).

“Maybe I should make it.” You peer over at the frying pan, wincing when you see the full damage of your future meal. “Did you use oil?”

“Of course I did!” he exclaims indignantly before pitifully pushing around the nearly charred mess of yolk and whites around with his spatula. “I’m not Mark.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter, waving your hand around to dissipate the acrid burning smell, and Yangyang throws you a dirty look. He grabs a fork and stabs a small chunk of the eggs. Picking it up, he brings it closer to his mouth before hesitating. His eyes dart to you, and you raise your eyebrows at him, a silent challenge in your gaze. The sad piece of egg hovers in the air for a few more seconds before he defeatedly drops it back into the pan.

“Okay, what if we just Uber Eats some McDonald’s?” Turning off the stove, he then tosses the remnants of his cooking into the trash and drops the pan into the sink.

“Stellar plan. Best idea you’ve had all night.” You hop off the counter to stand next to him, propping your chin on his shoulder to see him pull up the app. He immediately puts in your usual order along with his before holding it up for you to see it better.

“Looks good?”

“Looks perfect.”

He clicks the confirmation button, and the delivery is set to come in 30 minutes. You’re suddenly hyper aware of how close you are with your chest pressed against his back and hastily move away, warmth spreading across your cheeks.

Glancing over at your best friend, you don't miss the way Yangyang smiles down at something on his phone before his fingers fly across the screen. When he looks up, you immediately turn away, focusing your eyes on anything but him.

“Hey, you’re going to the Alpha Sig formal, right?” Yangyang calls out, and you throw on a teasing grin.

“You mean Alpha Sigma Psi, also known as the sorority I’m in?”

“Ah, right, yeah.” He flushes, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “But you’re going, right?”

You nod, the sudden realization creeping up on you. “Oh yeah, I am, thanks for reminding me. I completely forgot to ask, but do you want t—”

“Ningning just asked me to go with her,” Yangyang blurts out, and you freeze, failing to hide your shock for a split second before you regain your composure.

“Oh wow, that’s great, Yang! I’ll see you there then.” You try to give him a convincing smile. He wrings his hands, biting his bottom lip. Something is on his mind. You can tell. He’s not someone to hold back with his words, but this time, he is.

“I… I don’t know if I’m gonna go,” he says at last. Your heart picks up a little at that. Does that mean he doesn’t want to go to the dance at all? Or does he not want to go with Ningning? If you asked him now, would it make a difference?

“I’ve never slow danced,” he confesses, leaning against the opposite counter, and your heart drops. So that was it. Of course, he wouldn’t reject Ningning. She’s an absolute goddess, heck, you wouldn’t say no if she asked you either. You stamp out that last flicker of hope.

“What if I suck at it?” he continues, absentmindedly carding his fingers through his hair. “Oh god, I bet Yukhei and Kunhang are never gonna let me live it down. I can do choreographed dances, but I’m gonna mess up over a stupid slow dance. But where am I supposed to put my hands?! Like on her shoulders? Her waist? Do I hold her hand?”

Your eyes follow the way his hair ruffles slightly, and you wonder if it’s as soft as it looks. You swallow hard before saying quietly, “I can teach you?”

His hand pauses mid-movement, and your eyes fly down to meet his. His eyes widen, and he contemplates your offer for a split second before nodding excitedly. “Yeah, that’d be great! Can you teach me right now? While we wait for our food to come!”

“S-sure,” you stammer, flustered at the sudden acceptance and his eagerness. “Um, here? In the kitchen?”

“Yeah, why not?” He shrugs before straightening up. “The lights should be dimmed, right? We can kind of mimic that here to set the mood or whatever.”

He goes over and fiddles with the light switch, flicking it on and off, and you laugh, walking over and placing your hand over his. “What are you doing? Some kind of Kevin Nguyen mating call to look for a rave bae?”

“First off, I’m offended that you think I’d be one of them,” Yangyang narrows his eyes at you. “Secondly, I’m trying to make this feel more formal dance-y. Oh, wait!”

He turns off the lights for the last time and reaches over to pull open the refrigerator doors, the artificial fluorescent light pouring out and mixing with the faint beams coming in through the window from the street lamps outside. He grins at you, satisfied. “Romantic, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the amused smile on your face gives away your true feelings. “Wow, Romeo, you swept me off my feet. The food is gonna go bad, and Kun is gonna kill you for the high electricity bill.”

“What food? Jeno’s protein shakes probably never expire.” He snorts before standing closer to you, his hands resting on either side of you on the counter. You can see the pretty gold flecks in his irises, and your breath gets caught in your throat. “And I guess this means you gotta teach me fast before we waste more electricity, right?”

You place your hands on his chest and lightly push him away, and he laughs, stepping back. You let out a shaky breath, remembering that your lungs need oxygen in order to, you know, continue living.

“Okay,” you clear your throat before pulling out your phone and putting on a slow song. “Ready?”

“You chose Ed Sheeran? Thinking Out Loud? Really?”

You raise your hands up defensively. “Hey, he’s the king of sappy slow songs that all girls want to be played at their weddings for their first dance.”

When your legs don't work like they used to before,

And I can't sweep you off of your feet,

Will your mouth still remember the taste of my love?

Will your eyes still smile from your cheeks?

“Is this the song you want played at your wedding?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and your face grows warm. You ignore the question, and this time, you’re the one taking a bold step forward, a few centimeters now separating you and your best friend. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps lightly before meeting your eyes.

And darling, I will be loving you 'til we're seventy,

And baby, my heart could still fall as hard at twenty-three,

And I'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways.

“So, your hands go here.” You take his hands and place them on either side of your waist. His arms freeze up. “Relax, Yang. Precious cargo here.”

He lets out a chuckle, loosening his grip as he starts to relax. You reach up and slide your arms around his neck, interlocking your fingers. You gaze back at him, saying softly, “Now pull me closer.”

He does so.

Maybe just the touch of a hand,

Oh me I fall in love with you every single day,

And I just wanna tell you I am.

“And now follow my lead. We’re going to take one step. And then another. We’re just slowly turning in a circle.”

After a few spins and steps, you stop leading and let yourself be led. Yangyang continues to hold onto you carefully, and you can hear him muttering a 1, 2, 3, 4 count under his breath until he finally gets the hang of it. He grows a little braver, pulling you even closer.

So honey now,

Take me into your loving arms,

Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars.

“Are you going with Dejun?” he asks quietly, and you stiffen at the mention at him before shaking your head.

“No, we broke up in July.”

Yangyang falters in his step before recovering. “Oh. You never told me.”

“Yeah.” You struggle to keep your voice level. “I just… he’s your friend, and I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“You’re my best friend though,” he says firmly, looking you directly in the eyes. His grip on your waist tightens. “It’s his loss. That dumbass just lost the best person who’ll ever come into his life.”

You give him a tired half smile, one that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. He hugs you closer to him, wrapping his arms around your waist and securing you against his chest. You rest your head in the crook of his neck and hope that he doesn’t feel how quickly your heart beats in your chest.

Place your head on my beating heart,

I'm thinking out loud,

Maybe we found love right where we are.

“Thanks, Yang,” you whisper, your breath tickling his skin. He envelops you tightly, and the two of you continue to spin in slow circles, quietly dancing in the refrigerator light as the remaining verses of the song warble in the background.

You think you finally understand what Dejun meant when he said he’s breaking up with you because your heart was already occupied by someone else.

You fall in love with him in August.

NOVEMBER 2019.

[ 12:54 a.m. ] yang 🐏🤪: hey you up?

[ 12:54 a.m. ] yang 🐏🤪: 7/11 in ten mins?

Tiredly rubbing your eyes, you stumble out of your dorm building, one of Jeno’s sweaters draped over your figure. November nights are cold, but this one seems chillier than usual. Yangyang stands near the front steps, and he stiffens up when he notices whose hoodie you’re wearing. He makes no mention of it though when you join him.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” He glances over to you as the two of you walk side by side to the small convenience store just on the edge of campus. You shake your head, shoving your hands into the front pocket of your sweater.

“I was up cramming for midterms. I could use a break anyway,” you shrug. A wisp of your hair falls in your face, and Yangyang starts to reach out to fix it, but forces himself to keep his hand by his side. You reach out to carelessly brush it away, tucking it behind your ear.

“What about you?” You look over at him, noting the bags under his eyes. “Rough night?”

He smiles tiredly at you, shoving his hands into his pockets as he kicks a stray pebble along the sidewalk. “More like rough week. Two more midterms left, and they’re for electromagnetic theory and linear systems.”

“Oh god, good luck. I took linear systems today, and it was absolutely brutal.” You wince, brightening up when you see the familiar neon orange, red, and green lights up ahead.

“Maybe I should just withdraw and take it again next quarter,” your best friend grumbles, kicking the stone as far as he possibly can.

“You really want another quarter with Hwang?”

“You’re right,” he sighs, “I just need to get a C+ to maintain my GPA. C if I’m pushing it.”

The two of you hurry over to the 7-Eleven, quickening your pace, until you reach the store doors, and you pull them open. Entering quickly, you push the door open slightly wider, and Yangyang slips in behind you. The cashier doesn’t even look up, texting away on his phone. You make a beeline towards the chips aisle, grabbing a bag of flamin’ hot Cheetos and a pack of sour gummy worms.

“What are you getting, Yang?” You call out over your shoulder, eyes zeroing in on the Red Bull stand at the end of the aisle. When you hear no response, you halt in your steps, turning around. Yangyang stands in the middle of the aisle, looking dazed under the fluorescent lights.

Putting your items back on the shelf, you approach him, reaching out and touching his arm gently. “Yangyang, what’s wrong?”

He jerks back before silently holding up his phone for you to see. There’s a slew of text messages from Ningning a few hours ago, and a quick scan tells you all you need to know. Your heart weighs heavily in your chest when you look back at him, a forlorn expression on his face.

“She dumped me,” he says quietly, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “She said our relationship was like a friendship. She didn’t feel anything. She said we could still be friends if I wanted to be though.”

He jabs a large bag of Lays potato chips angrily as his voice raises slightly higher. “But I don’t get it. Do friends take each other on dates? Do friends spend the night? Do friends hug each other and hold hands walking to class? Do friends spend three hundred dollars to do a surprise weekend trip for their birthday?”

He whirls around to face you, and he’s so close that you can see those pretty golden sparkles in his eyes again. Suddenly, his hands are cupping your face, and the next thing you know, he’s kissing you. Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second before they flutter shut, and you press your lips against his. The 90s pop station music playing overhead seems to fade away, and all you can focus on is that your best friend tastes like spearmint gum and grape soju. He pulls away abruptly, the realization of what he’s done finally hitting him as his chest heaves up and down.

“Do friends kiss like this?”

His voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through the silence. You feel like you’re spinning out of control, a split second from careening and crashing.

“No, we—they don’t,” you mumble, and Yangyang sees the starstruck look in your eyes, and he wants to apologize: to say sorry for kissing you. But he doesn’t. Because for some reason, he doesn’t feel sorry. He closes his eyes, curling his hands into fists before exhaling slowly. He sees you looking back at him this time, and he wonders if you feel as equally lost as he does.

Because you’re right. Friends don’t kiss each other like that. Friends don’t feel like this about each other.

He kisses you in November.

AUGUST 2020.

The sun still shines bright late into the day, and August greets you like an old friend. You’re absentmindedly doodling in the margins of your notebook designated for Quantum Mechanics. Yangyang sits next to you in the lecture hall, making a bunch of origami cranes before tossing them at Renjun’s head right in front of him. When the bird reaches its target for the sixth time in a row, the annoyed boy whirls around in his seat, glaring at your best friend.

“Stop that,” he hisses, and Yangyang innocently raises his hands in the air. Renjun angrily frowns at him before turning back around in his seat. After a few minutes, Yangyang flicks another crane towards his friend. If this was a cartoon, you would see steam blowing out of your friend’s ears. You silently watch as he wordlessly picks up his phone, seething as he presses on a particular number.

Suddenly, Travis Scott’s SICKO MODE starts blasting, amplified by the large auditorium-like room. The professor goes silent, and everyone turns to see Yangyang scrambling to pick up his phone. He fumbles around for a few seconds with it before finally shutting it off and putting it on vibrate mode. Cheeks burning red, he meekly puts his phone back in his bag and squeaks out a “sorry” before sinking down in his chair (You can see the culprit grinning like the cat ate the canary right in front of him. Karma’s a bitch who also goes by the name of Renjun).

You pat his arm consolingly as he sulks next to you for a few minutes, mouth jutting out into a pout. You decide to take pity on him and lean closer to him, whispering quietly, “Would it make you feel better if I bought you boba after class?”

Immediately, he brightens up. “One oolong milk tea, half sugar with white pearls and coconut jelly?”

“Yes, I’ll pay for your overpriced drink,” you huff, thinking about how his one seven dollar drink could buy you a whole rotisserie chicken that’ll last you a week. At least the fluffy dog at Cloudy with a Chance of Boba is cute and fun to play with. “I’ll even get the honey waffle fries.”

“Heck yeah!” he whisper-yells, fist pumping quietly before he suddenly deflates. “Wait, I can’t. I promised Lia I’d get lunch with her.”

Ah, right, there’s Lia now. Yangyang’s new girlfriend: the only other student who went to Düsseldorf, Germany to study abroad over the summer, and inevitably, the two of them became close. All you really know about her is that she’s pretty, she’s in Iota Theta Zeta, and she followed you on Instagram a few weeks ago (of course, you followed her back because of the unspoken best friend and girlfriend policy).

Her page looks carefully curated, and there’s a common pink tinted theme going on throughout her feed. She has over a thousand followers, and it seems like Yangyang fits perfectly in her magazine curated life, judging by how he occupies nearly every picture taken in the summer with her or how he’s tagged as the photographer. You can’t deny that they look good together, pointedly shoving the green eyed monster back under the bed.

You take a peek at your messy Instagram page where you only post pictures when you’re half drunk, so there���s no semblance of uniformity anywhere. You shrug at him, pocketing your phone.

“No biggie. I’ll see if Karina is up for some boba. She’s been holed up in the dance studio already, and it’s only week two of classes, can you believe it?”

“I remember Ten was the same way,” Yangyang hums, eyes fixated on his phone and fingers tapping away. He laughs quietly, lips curling into a pretty smile, and you glance over curiously.

“What’s so funny?”

“Hmm?” Yangyang finally tears his eyes away from his screen for a split second to look at you before another buzz takes his attention away. He’s distracted, lovestruck, and you wistfully smile before turning back to your notes.

“Sorry, what’d you say earlier?” he loudly whispers a few minutes later, and you barely glance up from the large bulbasaur doodle you’re in the progress of completing right next to the chart marking the wave functions for a bouncing ball that you had copied down from the blackboard.

“Oh, I just asked what was so funny,” you murmur, coloring in the flowers you drew around the Pokémon with your blue ballpoint pen.

He looks confused for a moment before lighting up. “Oh! It was just a German joke. It’s not really funny if I translate it though.”

“Got it, no worries.” You notice the professor starting a new example problem, and you abandon your drawing, focusing on the formulas rapidly filling up the chalkboards in front of you. A quiet chuckle echoes in your ears, and you pause in your note taking to look over and see your best friend still typing on his phone. You make a mental reminder to create a copy of your notes for him later on when you pass the library on the way to the dining hall.

“Hey, Y/N.” Yangyang nudges you gently. “Rain check on the boba?”

You offer him a soft smile. “Of course. Anytime.”

He gives you a quick grin in return before his attention returns to the device in his hand—or rather, the pretty girl behind those texts. Your best friend is sitting right next to you, but you’ve never felt so far away. You know distance makes the heart grow fonder, but you don’t think it’s possible to be even fonder of him than you are now. Bad habits are hard to break, and you’ve made a terrible one of loving him. No wonder it’s beginning to hurt so much.

You lose him in August.

DECEMBER 2020.

December is the coldest month of the year, yet it is also simultaneously the warmest with all the holiday festivities it brings. If Yangyang were to choose a month to describe you, it’d be this one. You are a walking paradox, a conundrum he might never solve, an oxymoron come to life. He doesn’t understand how you can be his best friend, yet feel like a stranger; a friend who he wants as a lover; someone who has created such an impact in his life, but disappears seamlessly here and there.

He wonders when you’ve gotten so distant. He wonders why he never noticed the way you seemed to slip away through the cracks until it’s now nearing the end of the year, and the last time he’s seen you in person was before the November autumn break.

But you’re here.

You’re standing right next to the punch bowl filled with spiked eggnog, wearing a garish knitted button down jumper with brightly colored Christmas lights decorating it. It’s perfectly in theme with the Ugly Christmas Sweater party Nu Chi is holding, and Yangyang is beyond ecstatic to know that you’re attending. He had texted you an invite two weeks ago, and you merely reacted with a thumbs up.

Yangyang swears he was going to follow up with you on that, but he got so caught up with midterms, then meeting Lia’s family for Thanksgiving, then studying for finals, and then finally, preparing for this party. Buying enough beer for twenty-three keg stands is a lot more difficult than it seems (Donghyuck’s car broke down halfway during one trip, and they all had to carry back the packs of beers to the house in 40 degree weather in their Sperry boat shoes and Patagonia long sleeves that definitely weren’t cut out for this kind of weather).

His girlfriend is somewhere in the room, wearing the other half of the reindeer sweater she forced him to put on, but all he can focus on is you. He hurriedly makes his way over, skidding to a stop in front of you, and you’re startled before a smile spreads across your face.

“Hey, you, I haven’t seen you in a while.” You grin at him, reaching out to poke the reindeer tail sticking out from the front of his itchy sweater (Lia got to wear the head half of the reindeer, while he was stuck with the behind).

“Yeah, how have you been?” He reaches around you to pick up a cup and pour himself some eggnog. He offers you one, but you decline with a small shake of your head.

“I’ve been doing good, a bit tired with finals coming up, but what’s new?” You joke, grabbing one of the sugar cookies from the table. You’re secretly surprised that they actually have real food (No, Hyuck, Jell-O shots do not count as real food). You suspect Jaemin has something to do with it. He always contributes to the annual Greek row bake sale.

“Are you here with someone? Did Karina come?” he asks, curiosity coating every word. He looks around for your roommate, but she’s nowhere to be found.

You shake your head. “No, I actually came with—”

“Me!”

Yukhei bounds over, slipping an arm over your shoulder. He hands you a new cup of apple cider, which you accept gratefully. He grins happily at Yangyang, who freezes up at the sight of his tall friend. “I asked her to be my date for the party, and she agreed. She also made our sweaters! Aren’t they so cool? There’s even lights that spell my name and play Christmas songs. She did a bunch of cool programming tricks to make them work.”

Yangyang realizes with a start that the two of you are indeed wearing matching sweaters, and that leaves a rather sour taste in his mouth (and it definitely wasn’t because of expired eggnog). The corners of his lips tilt downward as he presses his lips together tightly.

“So… you two are together?” He gestures between you and Yukhei with a forced laugh. Jealousy never did look good on anybody, and unfortunately, he’s not an exception.

“We’re just seeing each other and seeing how it goes for now,” you answer quietly, noting the way your best friend reacts. You have always been good at reading him, and you tread carefully now, not wanting to make a scene. Drunk Yangyang never holds anything back, and he’s had quite a few pre-game shots already (It definitely doesn’t help that he’s a lightweight, too).

“I see. How did you guys meet? Or I guess, start talking?” He attempts to look intimidating, staring down at Yukhei, but it’s a difficult feat to accomplish, especially when he’s trying to stare down a six foot guy who’s more like an overgrown puppy and his friend.

“Oh, she came by for one of your boba runs, but you were still out with Lia. So I asked if I could go with her.” Yukhei flashes his pearly whites at you, and you chuckle, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“I said yes, and we hit it off, I guess.”

“You guess? And you took him on our boba runs?”

“You were out with Lia,” you say defensively, and he blanches when he hears his girlfriend’s name come out of your mouth.

“You could’ve waited,” he mutters, but you still hear it, and you give him a scathing look, finally too tired of this push and pull game that’s been going on behind the scenes for nearly three years now.

“I did. I waited over an hour here for you, but you didn’t show up or even text me that you were gonna be late. Yukhei was nice enough to offer to go with me.”

He stays silent, and you gnaw on your bottom lip, unsure of what to say next. Yukhei looks at you in concern, but you reach up and squeeze his hand reassuringly, which your best friend doesn’t fail to notice, his lips pressing into an even thinner line.

“I don’t understand what the deal is,” you finally burst out, startling both boys. “What’s the big deal about me and Yukhei going out?”

Something inside of him finally snaps. “The big deal is that you’re basically sleeping through my list of friends and then breaking up with them! First Dejun, then Jeno, now Yukhei? Who’s next? Should I give Renjun a heads up? Pencil you into his planner? Or Sicheng?  Sungchan? You have a class with him, so you’re bound to flirt with him, too, right? When are you gonna stop fucking around with my frien—”

He gasps, stopping mid-outburst as he stares at you in disbelief. Apple cider slides down from his hair, dripping onto his face and soaking into his sweater, the sticky juice clinging to his skin uncomfortably. You’re absolutely seething, the empty cup crackling in your clenched fist. Shocked, Yukhei carefully tugs the plastic away from you and places it on the table before replacing it with his own hand, his thumb caressing circles on the back of your hand soothingly. Yangyang doesn’t dare to meet his furious gaze, lifting his chin to look at you instead. The entire room has hushed down by now, all eyes staring directly at the three of you in a mixture of surprise and slight terror.

“Screw you, Yangyang,” you say lowly, voice shaking with anger. Tears form on the edge of your waterline, but you blink them away before hastily brushing a stray droplet from your cheek. “They asked me out. I said yes. We went out. It didn’t work out. We move on. Just like how you’ve gone out with my  friends. And they didn’t work out, so you moved on. So what’s so wrong about that? What’s so wrong about trying again to find love?”

He can’t answer you, curling his hands into fists until his fingernails indent miniature crescents in his palms—until the pain overtakes the feelings that are threatening to spill from his heart. Yangyang may not be yours, but he doesn’t like the fact that he can’t call you his either.

Love. That’s what you want, that’s what you crave, but not if it’s from him. So what is he supposed to do with love that’s unwanted? It’s bursting at the seams, and he has nowhere to hide it anymore.

He loves you in December.

AUGUST 2021.

August sneaks up on you this time around, and you find yourself in Kunhang’s apartment. All of your close friends are here, starting the last year of youth with one final first day party. You think back to that day three years ago: when your eyes met a pair of equally bright ones for the first time.

Curled up next to Yukhei on the couch, you look across the room and meet those very same eyes, although they seem hazier this time around. Lia is wrapped around his arm, and you think it’s quite ironic how both your and his relationships remain the same after all this time. Perhaps you both were bad luck for each other, leading to the other’s demise with short lived relationships. He looks away from you.

The rules of truth or dare are simple. You cannot ask the same person again until three other people have been asked first, and no one can be asked more than three times in each round. And, for reasons you can’t understand, everyone seems to take the code of truth seriously.

“I’ll start,” Kunhang announces, leaning back in one of the several beanbags he has in his place. “Goeun, truth or dare?”

Goeun sighs, leaning back on the palms of her hands. “Dare.”

“You and Mark, seven minutes in heaven.” Hendery points towards the coat closet, and the immediate reaction of hoots and wolf whistles has the girl rolling her eyes. With an exasperated huff, she stands up and pulls a red faced Mark along with her.

“Wait, you gotta pick the next person!” Donghyuck calls out, and she stops in her tracks, throwing open the closet door and shrugging. “You can choose for me.”

With that, she and Mark disappear behind the door, and Donghyuck turns toward the rest of the group, eyes glimmering mischievously. You pay no attention to him, absentmindedly playing with Yukhei’s fingers. You tug one of his rings off his finger, and he smiles, plucking it from your grasp carefully before holding your hand. He carefully slides it onto your right ring finger, but it falls off. Grinning, he pretends to try it on every single one of your fingers until finally settling on your thumb. The ring fits snugly there, and you admire it, wriggling your thumb around.

“Well, look at that. It fits you. I think that means we’re meant to be,” Yukhei says, smiling broadly, and you laugh, interlocking your fingers with his again before glancing down at the silver engraved band resting on your finger. The weight of the metal feels heavy resting against your knuckle.

“Yangyang, truth or dare.”

Donghyuck’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you instinctively perk up in your seat at the sound of his name before freezing up in your spot. Yukhei squeezes your hand softly, and you tighten your grip around his fingers.

“Truth.”

“You’re no fun,” Donghyuck sighs, slouching back against the armrest. Yukhei leans over and whispers something in his ear before settling back next to you, shifting slightly to wrap his arm around you. Donghyuck lifts an eyebrow at your boyfriend before shrugging. “Okay, here’s an easy one. Are you in love…”

“Yes.”  is his immediate response, and you notice how Lia absolutely preens next to him.

“… with Y/N?”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you immediately turn your head to look at Yukhei, your eyes growing wide in horror. He looks apologetic, shoulders drooping. “I’m sorry, but just the way he looks at you, it’s so obvious, and I had to know.”

You whip around to face the boy in question. With bated breath, you look at him, but Yangyang stares at the center of the floor, struggling internally. Everyone is quiet, and it reminds you of the calm before a storm. At last, he looks up, gazing right at you, and you can almost swear that you see those pretty little gold flecks in his irises from here.

“Yes,” Yangyang confesses quietly.

There’s almost a collective gasp rippling through the room, and Yukhei lets out an inaudible swear under his breath. Your grip on his hand grows slack as you fumble to get a grasp on the entire situation.

He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.

The words echo in your mind like a mantra until it grows so loud that you can’t hear any of your own thoughts anymore. Lia is in absolute hysterics, demanding an explanation from him, but he merely shrugs her off. Standing up, he quickly moves to leave the room, glancing at you one more time before disappearing out the front door.

It’s like your body is on auto-pilot after this. You drop Yukhei’s hand, immediately standing up and rushing after your best friend, paying no mind to the hushed whispers that only seem to increase in volume once you leave. You step out onto the porch, and there he is, sitting on the steps.

You quietly stand behind him, contemplating what to say and carefully choosing your next words. But there’s only one question on your mind.

“Why did you say that?”

He stays silent for a moment, staring out at the moon shining brightly ahead. “Because I meant it.”

Your heart wrenches in your chest. “You shouldn’t.”

He finally turns to look at you, an indescribable look in his eyes. It reminds you of heartbreak. “But I do. And I tried not to for the past three fucking years, but I can’t anymore.”

“Since freshman year?” You feel the tears well up in your eyes, and this time, you let them go. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Yangyang grips onto the edge of the stairs tightly, frustration ringing with every word that falls from his mouth. “Because I was scared. And I thought you never felt the same way. You’re my best friend, and I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Yang…” You whisper, hand reaching out as you let it hover over his shoulder for a few seconds. Then, you pull back, curling your fingers into fists, pressing crescent indentations into the palms of your hands.

He stands up, whirling around to look at you, desperate. “Tell me I’m not too late. Please, Y/N.”

Something inside of you breaks. You open your mouth and start to say something when the door opens behind you. Turning around, you see Yukhei. His eyes widen when he sees the two of you standing there.

You know this is it. This is the moment. This is where you have to decide.

“I, I was just looking for you. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Yukhei awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, taking a step back. “I’m sorry, I’m gonna go back in and—”

“No, wait, it’s okay,” you gently interrupt him. You reach out and slip your hand into his, and he relaxes, giving you a relieved smile. You smile softly back at your boyfriend before turning to face him, eyes apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Yangyang.”

He and you are asymptotes: two lines curving towards each other, but never touching; two hands reaching towards each other, but never interlocking; two people tangling their red strings of fate, but never tying.

You give him one last glance before going back inside with Yukhei.

You break his heart in August.

SEPTEMBER 2021.

September is supposed to be a new beginning: the transition from summer to autumn. Yangyang doesn’t think he can let go of you as easily as the trees shed their green for gold and red. Wherever he goes, wherever he looks, little reminders of you bloom in every crevice. You’re absolutely everywhere and nowhere, and it drives him crazy.

He thinks he’s gone completely insane when he hears your laugh while he’s walking to the laundromat one day. He shoves his airpods in and continues on his way until he sees you. Walking across the street, there you are. You’re on the phone with someone, and he contemplates going over to say hello. But suddenly, you’re hanging up the phone and waving eagerly at someone. When he turns his head to look, his heart drops and gets buried six feet under. He hurriedly ducks into a nearby bookstore and watches as you run up to Yukhei, slipping your hand into his like it’s second nature to you now. The two of you walk off together, and Yangyang is left standing at the window of the store until the shop owner politely asks if there’s anything he needs.

He doubts a time machine is something they have in stock, so he silently shakes his head and steps out onto the street once again. It is now silent and empty.

He loses you in September.

AUGUST 2022.

A lot can change in eleven months.

You’re twenty two years old, but you feel like you’re eighteen again. You know you’re going to see him for the first time since September at Kun’s housewarming. You had repeatedly assured Yukhei that you’d be fine. After all, life goes on; the world doesn’t stop just because you had a falling out with your best friend, even if it may have been a little more than that. Nevertheless, a year has nearly passed. Time is known to be the best healer, and perhaps your heart has shed its old skin and habits.

Your hand is safely enveloped in Yukhei’s, and the two of you walk towards your older friend’s new apartment. He playfully swings your interlocked hands back and forth, and you giggle, tightening your grip around his fingers. You stop in front of the door, the muffled sounds of a party slipping through the cracks. You suck in a breath, shoulders tensed. He’s in there.

“Are you okay?”

Yukhei squeezes your hand gently, voice laced with concern. You remember to breathe, exhaling slowly and relaxing before nodding. You smile up at him. “I’m okay.”

“If you want, we can go back home now, have another NCIS marathon, and drink this by ourselves.” Yukhei waves around the nice bottle of wine the two of you had brought for Kun. “We can even stop by the convenience store and get some ramen.”

You laugh quietly, the corners of your lips upturning with mirth. “It’s okay, I’m fine, Yukhei, I promise. Plus, I have you, right?”

He brightens up at that, practically beaming at you, and your heart skips a beat. “Right!”

You reach out and knock on the door. Kun greets the two of you, and you enter his apartment. Yukhei still doesn’t let go of your hand, and you follow behind him as you weave your way through the living room, greeting some of your friends. You hear Kunhang calling out to your boyfriend from the kitchen and feel him hesitate next to you. You squeeze his hand gently before letting go and nudging him in the direction of his friend. Yukhei gives you one last look, but you wave him off, smiling goodnaturedly and silently assuring that you’re okay. He swoops down and leaves behind a soft kiss for you before going.

You walk over to the alcohol table, pouring yourself something to drink. Leaning against the wall, you take a sip of your drink, your eyes flitting over the rim of your cup and slowly scanning the room. It feels like forever, like everything is moving in slow motion, like the world is submerged underwater, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

You find him easily. After all, it’s hard to forget someone whose features you’ve memorized over the past four years. Your eyes map the delicate outline of his face once more, and for a moment, you wonder if red is still his favorite color, or who he shares a carton of Ben and Jerry’s with nowadays. You wonder if he thinks of you sometimes, too.

But then, you wonder where Yukhei is. You search around until you see your boyfriend still standing in the kitchen, laughing at something your mutual friend said. Your eyes soften when you see him grab your favorite snack. You turn back around, your heart swelling in your chest tenfold, and your lips curl upwards, an endeared expression on your face.

That’s when you notice that he’s looking at you.

You brace yourself, waiting for the tidal wave of emotions to wash over you and the quickening of your heart rate to greet you like an old friend. Because that’s what always happens when you’re around him. After all, he is the biggest what-if in your life. He is someone you almost loved forever, someone you almost stayed for.

And yet, nothing happens. You wait a little longer. The world still goes round, and you’re still breathing. There’s no shortness of breath, no erratic heart palpitations, no sweaty palms, absolutely nothing. Liu Yangyang is a stranger in a familiar body, and your heart remains still.

You give Yangyang a faint smile, nodding towards him, and it feels like a sudden jolt in his heart. Time stops, and all he can see is you. You look beautiful. You have always been beautiful. This is his chance. Whatever higher entity out there has taken pity on him and given him a second try to make it right. He finally takes a step towards you, and the tender, encouraging expression in your eyes gives him the strength to take another one. After all, the eyes are the windows to the soul. Clutching his drink in hand, he pushes his way through the crowd. He’s only eight, seven, six, five steps away from you now. A smile grows on his face as relief curls around his heart like a bandage. You’re standing there, waiting for him, smiling at him.

And suddenly, you’re no longer looking at him.

You stopped looking at him.

Yukhei makes his presence known next to you, excitedly chattering about something and gesturing towards the kitchen as he hands you something to eat. It’s a snickerdoodle cookie. Your favorite. Your eyes are fixated on the tall boy, positively sparkling as you beam at him.

Yangyang feels like he can’t breathe. The bandage is ripped off, and all he can feel is excruciating pain like a thousand pinpricks into his heart before the numbness hits. He freezes, rooting himself in that spot on the scratched hardwood floor as his colleagues and friends continue to jostle around him. As his world crumbles around him, he can’t tear his eyes away from you. They stay on you, the barest traces of nostalgia lingering in the dimmed golden flecks of his irises that you had still admired all those months ago. It’s like he’s trapped in a silent film, stuck in a fish bowl and swimming in circles, and he watches in horror as you outstretch your hand and intertwine your fingers around Yukhei’s, leaning up to press your lips against his tenderly. Your boyfriend looks at you like you hung the stars in the night sky yourself (He would believe it if you said you did).

You don’t look at him like that anymore.

Yangyang remembers when you used to. When you used to love him. When you were almost his. He feels something inside of him break for a second time.

The world continues to spin, and yet, he’s still not moving. He’s stuck in quicksand, sinking deeper and deeper as everyone around him moves on—as you move on. He desperately tries to keep you in his view, and his feet finally pick up as he lurches forward. He’s not fast enough. You’re slipping away, walking away from him, hand in hand with Yukhei, disappearing around the corner of the hallway, and he can’t do anything about it. It’s too late. He’s too late. The sticky remnants of cheap beer run down his wrist, and it finally registers in his mind that he had crushed the flimsy plastic cup in his hand sometime in between now and then. In a crowded room full of people, he’s left standing there, alone and lonely.

Almost is the worst way to love someone, Yangyang bitterly realizes. It hurts to lose someone you almost love. No, it was never an ‘almost’. He most certainly loved—loves—you. And it should be impossible to lose someone who was never his to begin with, yet he has. All this time, he thought he had you, but it had always been the other way around.

He was your August, he was your everything, and he is yours.

But you will never be his.

You let go of him in August.

[lastchildofkrypton]

The Colors of Paradise

(AKA the Spitfire Grill bechloe AU that no one asked for)

I’m posting this to see if it’s worth continuing... let me know, I guess.

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Chapter One: Ring Around the Moon (approx. 2,290 words)

Beca stares out the small window on the wall beside her bed. It’s the same thing she’s done all day, every day, and most nights, for the last five years. It’s pretty much all there has been to do. Well, that and scratch down the little poems her mind creates while she stares at the bare trees.

She’s always wondered how they’re still standing. There hasn’t been a single leaf on any of the branches in the past five years. Still, the strongest winds haven’t managed to blow them down. She knows there aren’t real seasons in Georgia, not like the ones she always wanted.

The page from the magazine that she ripped out, and stuck to the cement wall, catches her attention. There’s more colors in the trees there than she’s ever seen in her whole life. She found the photo in a travel magazine in the library, almost four and a half years ago. Since then she’s had her mind made up. As soon as she’s able, she’s going there, she’s going to be among the trees, she’s going to breathe fresh air and walk in the mud. She’s going to be happy.

“Mitchell.” A gruff voice, comes from behind her.

She jumps and turns. A large guard is standing on the other side of the iron bars. She stands, on wobbly knees, as if this wasn’t what she’s been waiting for; as if the last five years haven’t been leading up to this moment.

“It’s time. Move it.”

She watches while his keys fight against the rusted lock. She takes a few steps before she goes back to rip the tattered paper off of the wall. She folds it, gently, she isn’t sure it can handle much more before it falls apart completely.

-----

When she takes her first few steps outside of the prison gates, she feels like a baby, walking for the very first time. She’s alone, something she wanted for so long but now that she has it, she isn’t sure what to do with it. She looks up at the moon. It’s the first time she’s seen it, unobscured by bars, in half of a decade and it takes her breath away.

The night is humid, dewy, and it settles against her bare arms and legs. She was given back the same clothes she was wearing that night; the night everything changed. They’re covered in mud, tattered and a little looser than they used to be. She grips the paper bag that was given to her in her clenched fist. It holds the only worldly possessions she has left; a few dollars, a pack of cigarettes that weren’t even hers in the first place, the photo from the magazine, and the few poems she managed to jot down on scrap paper. She doesn’t even have an ID. She has no place to sleep tonight. So she walks.

Her old boots give her blisters but she can’t stop. She just takes step, after step, after step, until she makes it to one of the few places in this janky town that never closes; the convenience store.

The bell rings on top of the door and she was hoping that they still hadn’t gotten it fixed. She walks down the first aisle, filled with canned soups and instant noodles.

Too bulky.

She keeps walking, until she finds the beef jerky. She slips a pack of it into her bag and a small pack of nuts into the top of her boot. She notices a few other people mulling around, and the shelves aren’t high enough to block her. She figures it will have to do.

She walks up to the counter and gives the guy a half smile. He eyes her suspiciously. She doesn’t blame him.

Probably thinks I’m homeless. Shit, I guess he’d be right.

“Yeah?” He asks, when she goes too long without saying anything.

“Uh, right, let me get two number 5’s.”

He lifts an eyebrows but grabs two scratch-off tickets. They’re the dollar ones, the cheapest thing in the store. She digs through the paper bag and pulls out two bills.

“Feeling lucky tonight?”

She shrugs, “Guess you could say that.”

She pulls the tickets out of his fingers when he holds on just a little too tight.

“Have a good night.” He says, now with a cocky smirk.

“Yeah, alright.”

Once she’s out of the store she sits on the curb. She can’t count how many nights she spent in this very spot as a teenager; hiding from her parents, hoping that someone would leave their car alone long enough for her to jump inside and peel off. She pulls the bag of peanuts out of her boot and opens them.

She tosses a few in her mouth before she stands back up. She’s worried if she sits too long, she’ll get stuck; the way she always did. This time things are different, this time she knows exactly where she’s going.

Shit. Which way is it?

The bus station is at the end of a long dirt road. This time of year, it’s mostly mud. She slips a few times but manages to get inside without completely falling on her ass. The kid working the counter looks about twelve years old and she knows this is going to be easier than she thought.

“Can I help you?” He asks, his head down, stuck into a comic book.

She clears her throat, which makes him look up. When he does, his mouth falls open, just slightly and his eyes widen.

“Hey there sugar,” She says, pouring on the southern belle accent.

She learned, at a very young age, that it works wonders.

“I’m hoping that you can help me out.”

“Um,” He clears his throat, “with what exactly?”

“See, I really need a bus ticket out of here, but,” She giggles and pushes her hair behind her ear, “this is real embarrassing, but I lost my wallet.”

“Oh, I can’t…”

He shifts in his seat and she allows her smile to grow. She knows he’s probably used to this. She leans forward, allowing the rips in her shirt to reveal more than she had hoped she would need to. His eyes move down and he swallows; so thick she can hear it over the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights.

“I know you probably get people asking you for favors all the time. But you would be my hero. See, I really need to get out of town. But as soon as I get back I would owe you,” She bites at her bottom lip before she says, “big time.”

His eyes flicker around the terminal, but every time they come back to her. Her eyes and then her chest, then to her lips. He does it several times before leaning closer. She has to fight every instinct to back away.

“Okay, but don’t tell anyone, I’m doing this.”

She smiles and nods.

“Our little secret.”

“Where are you headed?”

This time she’s the one to look around the room, before she says, in an almost whisper,

“Barden, Maine.”

----------

“Rebeca Mitchell?”

“Beca will do.” She says.

She’s just stepped off the bus. She’s startled to hear her name, immediately, through the early morning darkness. The sun is on the cusp of rising but it still feels like the middle of the night. She looks up at the moon, still lingering in the hazy blue light. She takes a deep breath and looks back at the man.

“I’m Sheriff Applebaum.”

“Sheriff.” She says, with a nod.

He reaches out a hand and takes her paper bag. She’s reluctant at first but she falls into step with him. She looks around and realizes that the picture, the one thing she had been holding onto for years, is nothing like what she’s met with.

The bus station is right in the center of town and all around there is nothing but boarded up windows and a single flickering street light.

“I take it the Warden called you?”

She had to give them a destination before she left the prison. They wouldn’t release her without an assigned parole officer. It seems Benjamin Applebaum is the unlucky son-of-a-bitch that’s been stuck with her. And even more unluckily for her, he also happens to be the sheriff.

“He did. I guess I just don’t understand what the hell you’re doing here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Barden isn’t a place worth coming to. It isn’t a place to start a life.”

Beca shakes her head.

“Quite the welcome wagon. You’re the sheriff. Aren’t you supposed to love it here?”

“My job is to protect it, not love it.” He scoffs, “Believe me, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a single person that’s grown up here that loves it; which, like I said, is pretty much everyone here.”

Beca shrugs, she wraps her arms around herself and speaks, a little quieter this time,

“Still gotta be better than where I come from.”

“Georgia, right?”

“Yes sir.”

He turns his head and looks at her. He has a nice smile. That’s not something she’s seen from a man in uniform, or any man, in a long, long time. She actually feels her lips turn up into a smile of her own.

“Sir, was my father. Sheriff will do.”

She laughs, despite everything in her body telling her she shouldn’t get comfortable. She’s held strong walls up around herself for so long, she isn’t sure it’s worth it.

“That was terrible.”

He shrugs, “Barden isn’t necessarily known for it’s hospitality. So I guess, I just don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with you.”

He stops walking. She hadn’t realized it but they’re standing in the middle of the street. She moves her unlaced boot over the crackled, yellow paint. She looks back up at him and he points, with one limp arm.

“There’s a light on over at the diner.”

Beca raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anymore.

A little early for breakfast.

She keeps a few steps behind him now. The morning is moving in now, first light is quickly approaching and she feels a tightness in her chest. She does her best to take a deep breath but she feels like she’s back behind those bars.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four-

“Frankie,” Sheriff Applebaum calls out, “I saw the light on. You up, yet?”

“Nope.” A husky, female, voice calls back.

The Sheriff chuckles before he pushes the door open.

“Didn’t think so, you got a minute to talk anyway?”

“Anything for little Benji Applebaum.”

He closes his eyes and sighs. He doesn’t step through the door all the way. Beca keeps her spot on the porch, just outside, staring up at the moon.

Four one-thousand, five one-thousand, six-

“Beca Mitchell. She needs a little of our help.”

“I don’t know how that’s my problem.’

“Frank,” He says, his tone changing to a pleading one, “come on. We both know you could use a little help around here.”

“Fine.” The woman says. “On a trial basis. But if I don’t like her, she’s gone.”

Beca wonders if the woman knows she’s there.

“Perfect.”

The sheriff steps aside and allows Beca inside the diner.

“Beca, this is Frankie, she runs this place.”

None of the lights are on, except one dim one above the counter. It’s small, but well kept. The smell of coffee wafts through the air and Beca is finally able to pull in a deep breath. She keeps it in her chest, unsure if she’ll be able to get another one.

“Well, come on then, I don’t have all day.”

Beca’s eyes fall on the woman’s face. It’s older than she thought it would be. There are cracks around her lips, but no laugh lines, there’s no wrinkles around her eyes, Beca wonders if she’s ever smiled a day in her life.

She follows her down the hall, that comes just off of the back of the dining area. It’s much dingier than the restaurant; painted a pale pink. At the end of the hall there’s a white door. Frankie pushes it open to reveal a tiny room.

“Breakfast will be at five-thirty. Work starts at six sharp. Gives you about twenty minutes to get ready.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She closes the door behind her when she leaves and Beca feels like she’s right back in Georgia, right back in that prison. She finally lets the rest of the breath leave her body and she grips at the paper bag that the sheriff handed back to her at some point.

Six one-thousand, seven one-thousand, eight-

She looks around the room; at the dresser she has no clothes to put inside. At the bookshelf that she has no books to fill it with. But, in the corner, there’s a rickety old writing table. She pulls her poems from the paper bag, and places them on top. When she turns, her heart jumps. There’s a small window on the far wall.

She steps forward and stares out of it. She doesn’t look away from it. She moves her hand around inside the paper bag to find what she’s searching for. The old magazine page. She unfolds it, and only looks away from the window long enough to remind herself of the image; as if it isn’t burned into her brain. It’s what she pictures, every night, when she closes her eyes.

When she looks out the window again, the trees are there, just like in the picture, just outside the window. Her window. It takes her, only a moment, to realize that this window has something incredibly special about it:

There’s no bars.

[legends-live-in-memories]

Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century

AYO! Day 2 of MGI Trope Tussle! Team Enemies-to-Lovers for the win. I bring you another oneshot. but this time i used 3 prompts like a dumbass.

Fics Masterlist

Daminette Oneshot 4.3K words (no warnings except slight cursing)

Summary:

“Marinette is invited to the Super-Rockin' Wedding of the Century and she needs a date. Alya is both her best and worst wingman.”

Day 2 of MGI Trope Tussle, I used 3 prompts to make this thing: 1. "You don't have to like me, you just need to pretend you do." 2. "I like your costume. You look very cute." "Are you making fun of me?" 3. 'Write about a very unusual wedding proposal.' this is the culmination of all my efforts.

without further ado:

It was the biggest news on the internet. Global sensation, international rockstar, Jagged Stone, was officially engaged to childhood friend turned manager, Penny Rolling. Memes and fan theories stormed every corner of the web. Trending topics including #rockstar_wedding and #RollingStone permeated every social media platform. Guest lists were speculated, dress designers were tagged in every post that even mentioned the words ‘wedding’ or ‘bride’. It was total mayhem but none felt it worse than up-and-coming Parisian designer, M. D. Cheng, privately known as Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

The young adult was up to her neck in design templates, and was drowning in half-baked ideas and sketches. While the internet has only heard about the proposal for a solid two weeks at this point, Marinette was in the know for six months. Jagged Stone had contacted her in advance because he needed her help with the proposal itself.

And what a proposal it was.  

Jagged had outlined his idea in simple terms but it was still so mind-boggling that Marinette needed him to draw some visual aids to completely convey his idea. Initially it sounded simple enough but the more the man spoke, the more Marinette felt her brain fry at the mental picture. It first involved recreating a scene from Penny’s favourite movie. Which sounded rather romantic, if you ignored the fact that her favourite movie was Bride of Chucky. Then it involved Jagged dressed as the Tinman from Wizard of Oz. Oh, and the proposal had to happen on Halloween because that was the anniversary of their first date apparently, and based on everything else this plan entailed it might as well have been. Marinette’s role in all of this was to simply re-make the white wedding dress Chucky’s bride, Tiffany, wore because Penny already had the leather jacket to match. Of course she did. She didn’t even want to know how Jagged acquired the Tinman suit. Not her barrel of monkeys.

While many thought Jagged was the eccentric one of the pair, due to his loud personality and being an actual rockstar, the more Marinette worked for the two of them over the years, the more she learned how absolutely wrong they all were. It turned out it was Penny’s idea for Jagged to dye his hair purple, and she was the one to ask him out on Halloween all those faithful years ago. Her calm and collected demeanor was an impressive cover for the absolute weirdo she actually was. And Jagged had planned a proposal that was undoubtedly perfect for her. Regardless of how abso-fucking-lutely bizarre it was.

To each their own and let’s move on.

The set-up for the proposal started with Jagged, dressed as the Tinman, playing the part of Chucky, who begins the body-switching chant from the movie. Everything from that point on was resting on Penny’s love for the movie. Without hesitating, Penny, dressed as Tiffany, and playing her part, knew the lines by heart and immediately began reenacting the scene with Jagged. Her lines involved telling ‘Chucky’ to kiss her while she reaches for a knife that’s supposed to be in his pocket. Instead, as Jagged was still dressed as the Tinman, Penny pulled out a slip of paper. On said paper, the words ‘All the Tinman wanted was a heart’ were written in Jagged’s almost illegible chicken scratch. When Penny was distracted with the piece of paper, Jagged had gotten down on one knee and pulled out the engagement ring. The actual words of his proposal were never actually said because, upon seeing the ring, Penny flung herself into the man, clipping her chin into his metal-plated shoulder, but she wasn’t complaining.  

So that was how the proposal went.

Wedding planning started almost immediately since the newly engaged had already picked a theme. And this is where Marinette began to regret every life choice she has made since she was thirteen; starting with opening the mysterious box she found on her desk and ending with agreeing to being the main designer for the Rockin’ Wedding of the Century. One thing that wasn’t well-known but not a secret about Jagged was that he was a superhero fan. He grew up enjoying the fictional ones in his childhood comic books and he adored the real ones he witnessed in his adult life. His song that he dedicated to the teenage Ladybug was only one part of his… appreciation. His hero-worship went so far as to beieve that a hero-themed wedding was appropriate. Or he didn’t, but also didn’t care about adhering to societal propriety and went with that theme anyways. So the Rockin’ Wedding of the Century was now the Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century. And twenty-three year old Marinette was incharge of the entire wedding party’s outfits.

Perfect.

As a small mercy from some god, both the bride and groom to-be had a rather short list of people in their parties. Marinette was also able to design appropriate hero-themed outfits for all of them and scheduled them for fittings in the coming weeks. That, surprisingly, was the easy part as there were plenty of heroes to draw inspiration from. However, that wasn’t the cause of her current crisis right now.

No. Marinette was up to her neck in unnecessary designs and ideas because she’s been avoiding one particular contingency in her acceptance of the wedding invitation.

She needed a date.

She needed a date because she had promised Penny that she wasn’t overworking herself and to prove it, she would bring a date to the wedding. Rather than call any of the people who expressed interest in her at some point in time, she designated herself to wallow in her situation and distract herself with designs. In the midst of her one person pity party, her phone rang under the sea of ripped out pages. She scoured for the device and hastily answered before she could accidently send the caller to voicemail.

“Hello?” She didn’t check the caller ID and was delighted at the sound of her best friend answering her.

“Marinette! How’s it going over there?” Alya’s voice was mixed in with the busy street life of Metropolis. She had moved there immediately after high school, snatching an internship with the Daily Planet and attending the local community college. She and Marinette don’t call often due to time differences, but when they do it’s like they’ve never parted. She always looked forward to her calls.

“It’s going great, Als,” if she ignored her current dilemma, then yeah, everything was perfect. “But you wouldn’t happen to have an available bachelor willing to be my date to the ‘Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century’ in your back pocket, would you?”  

Alya’s answering laugh was both comforting and teasing and Marinette felt herself missing her even more. What she said next, however, took Marinette by surprise.

“Actually I do.”

“Pardon?”

“Well,” she took a pause to build suspense. “I know a guy who knows a guy. But it’s nothing shady, I swear.”

“That’s not comforting.” Oh god. What has she unintentionally signed herself up for?

“You know my coworker, Jon? The guy who does the photography for all my field work?” Alya had met Jon as soon as she had started her internship. Both of his parents were top journalists at the Daily Planet so he volunteered to act as tour guide for all the new interns. He and Alya, from the exasperated stories Marinette has heard from Nino, got along like a house on fire. If he was involved, Marinette was starting to doubt even further that this was going to end well for her.

“Yes, I know Jon. How is he by the way?”

“He’s fine, but I remember him telling me how he tried to set up his best friend on several dates over the years and how they all ended poorly. He’s as approachable as a brick wall; not just a prick but the whole damn cactus. Or so Jon says.” How does that sound like someone Marinette wanted to bring along with her to the wedding? “But he’s totally your type so I could ask Jon to wrap him up in bubblewrap and send him your way whenever you want.”

“How,” and Marinette said this with a lot of feeling, “is he my type exactly?”

“Green eyes with daddy issues.”

“ALYA!” Marinette was absolutely floored at her bluntness. She wasn’t even sorry about shouting into the receiver.

“Am I wrong? You have a type and he fits that type. Jon mentioned how this guy and his dad hit several roadblocks when they first met. And I’ve seen pictures of him so ‘green eyes’ checks too.”

“That is not my type of guy.” She can’t believe this was how this conversation was going.

“Adrien.”

“I didn’t even know who his father was at the time, Alya.”

“Felix.”

“His dad is dead! That doesn’t count as ‘daddy issues.’” She can feel her cheeks flaming as the call went on. Any hotter and she was going to set her sketchbooks on fire. “Besides, I dated Luka so he doesn’t fit the criteria.”

“He’s an outlier and that’s only because his eyes are blue.” Okay, fine she had a type. “And besides, you don’t even have to date the guy. You only need him to accompany you to the wedding and you both go your separate ways after. No harm, no foul.”

Right. That was true. No strings attached. She could do that.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but,” she held her breath and let it out loudly, ignoring Alya’s chuckle at her dramatics.” Give Jon my number to give this guy. And send his number to me.”

“Wahoo! Look at you, girl,” Alya was hooting and hollering over the speaker and Marinette found herself going along with the theatrics. “Okay, I will. But I gotta go, my cab is here. Bye!”

“Bye! Stay safe. Oh before you go, what’s Jon’s friend’s name anyways?”

“Uh, Damian, I think.” The call ended before Marinette could respond, but it was okay she mused. Tossing her phone onto her couch, she flopped down onto her floor and stared at her ceiling contemplatively.

What could go wrong?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Alya had described this Damian guy as ‘not just a prick but the whole damn cactus,’ she was right. Marinette had been texting back and forth with Damian for a month, and the guy was making this idea seem less and less worth it by the day. Whenever Marinette tried to learn more about the guy, he would ghost her for days on end before replying with a half-assed response at best. She knew nothing about him other than that his first name was Damian and that he was from Gotham. She had no idea how the ball of life that was Jon was even friends with someone like Damian. She asked as much to Alya in their most recent call.

“How did they even meet?” She was pacing the floor plan of her apartment, ready to tear her hair out. “Did Damian bully him in school or something?”

“Apparently their dads knew each other and introduced them,” Alya sounded half awake, stifling a yawn; probably because Marinette had called her at 1 am, Metropolis’s time. “Their brothers being friends also forced them to get along.”

“And that’s another thing!” Marinette had paused in her pacing and was now staring intently at a potted plant in the corner of her living room. Any more rage in her glare and the plant would have wilted and died. “He doesn’t tell me anything about him. I don’t need to know all his personal information, but if he’s going to be flying out to Paris on my behalf, I think I at least deserve to know his last name.”

“Hey, M,” another yawn echoed through the speaker, “I love you, truly, but maybe this could wait for holier day time hours?”

“I guess,” a vindictive part of Marinette felt like this was payback for all those inopportune calls when Marinette was busy with clients. “Sorry for interrupting your sleep.”

“It’s no big deal. But have you tried talking to him about it? If he’s ghosting your texts, try calling him. If he ignores you then too then maybe you should try finding another person to be your plus one.”

“The wedding is in two weeks, Alya!” Marinette partially regrets waiting so long to vent her frustration about the situation but she had tried to tough it out. “I would have much preferred if you were my plus one. You sure there’s no way to convince your parents to skip out on the family trip?”

“Sorry, M. Once the news about the proposal hit the internet, I tried everything. I even tried to use work, saying that I could cover the ceremony for the newspaper. My folks won’t budge though. My dad’s aunt is important to him and he wants us all at the funeral.”

“Right, right, I forgot about that.” Now she felt like an ass. “Send you dad my condolences when you see him again.”

“Will do. Good morning, Marinette. And don’t worry too much about the guy. Everything will turn up great. I can feel it.”

“Thanks, Alya. Good night, get some sleep.”

The line went dead and Marinette let out a rather weary exhale. She had no idea how this was going to work. She pulled up her contacts and searched for what she had Damian saved as.

‘Douche’ flashed on her screen and she hit the call button without remorse. She didn’t care that it was also currently 1 am in Gotham. He didn’t deserve that much consideration from her.

“What?” His voice was gravely and deep. And also really pissed if his clipped tone was anything to go by.

“Damian? Hi, this is Marinette, the girl you’re accompanying to the wedding in two weeks?” Her voice was pitched as if she was dealing with an irritating customer. Fake and polite.

“I know who you are. Why are you calling me at this unreasonable hour?” Fair, but Marinette was still aggravated at him so she wouldn’t concede.

“I’m calling because we need to talk.” She heard him scoff over the line and she felt her blood boil even hotter. She took several calming breaths to reign her temper in. “Don’t hang up.”

“Look,” She didn’t give him a chance to refuse and kept talking, getting everything off her chest. “This wedding is important to me and I promised the bride I would bring a date. After that you can delete my number and we never have to speak to each other ever. You don’t have to like me, you just need to pretend you do.”

“Whatever,” he sounded less annoyed from when he first answered the phone. “I will act as cordial as the situation requires, and nothing more. I also have my attire secured for the wedding and accommodations in Paris already prepared. I will see you at the wedding.”

“Than—” The sound of the call ending interrupted her and her frustration was back tenfold. With a cry in anguish she flung her phone onto her couch and stomped into her kitchen to channel her rage into baking.

Three loaves of bread and a dozen eclairs later, Marinette felt calm enough to finish the final touches on her outfit for the wedding.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the day of the Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century. The Rolling-Stone’s, as they were asking to be called, had kept the ceremony small. Relatively. Only two hundred invited guests, few of which were asked to bring a plus one. Marinette was over the moon at the array of outfits people were sporting. Some chose full-on cosplay while others, like herself, went for more subtle nods to the heroes. In honour of a previous Ladybug, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, Marinette based her outfit off of Wonder Woman’s uniform, Hippolyta’s daughter. A navy blue sequined halter top bodice that flows into a blood red A-line skirt. She paired it with a thick silver belt, silver gladiator heels rather than boots and broad silver arm cuffs. It was simple but effective. Besides, all attention should be on the bride and groom today.

A tap on her shoulder caught her attention and she turned only to come face first with red with black spots. Ladybug. Someone chose her as inspiration. How flattering. Looking up to see who was wearing the Ladybug-themed suit jacket, she stared at a pair of deep forest green eyes and a sneer to ruin that ridiculously handsome face. She recognized him from the photo Alya had sent some time ago. Damian.

“Hi, Damian,” at least one of them had to be civil and Marinette knew it was going to be her. But the idea that of all the heroes for him to choose from he chose her sent her into poorly stifled fits of giggling. Images of him going ‘Lucky Charm’ and ‘Miraculous Ladybug’ were almost too much to bear.

“I don’t know what’s so amusing about my choice of attire,” his face was starting to flush in similar shades to his jacket and that made Marinette laugh harder. “Ladybug is a well respected heroine and I thought it appropriate to pay homage while in her home city.”

“No. No no. There is nothing wrong with it. I like your costume, you look very cute.”

“Are you making fun of me?” His irritation was rather cathartic for the still giggling woman.

“No, I just didn’t think you would have put that much thought into your outfit for today. You always gave me the impression that you were ready to back out at any time.”

“I made a commitment and I had all intentions to see it through the end.”

“Could have fooled me.” And her snark was back. Now was not the time to pick a fight with the guy, he did fly all the way to Paris on her behalf after all.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” and Marinette wanted to know how he managed to sound so condescending with that statement. “How did you even get an invitation to this wedding anyways? You’re not a celebrity and you don’t look like family either.”

“Actually,” she said it with more force than what was probably necessary but his slightly accusatory tone was just so irritating. “I am the lead designer for the wedding party,” her chest was swimming with confidence at the chance to talk about her job. “I’ve worked with the bride and groom for years; M. D. Cheng, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette will deny to her grave the rush of satisfaction at the absolute gobsmacked look on Damian’s face. A real fish out of water. Mouth open wide ready to catch flies. She wished she could capture this moment forever.

The moment was over too soon because Damian was regaining his composure and slipping into his default stoic expression. He cleared his throat and fixed a look at Marinette. It was rather intense.

“I believe I owe you an apology then.” He looked put-out at admitting something so menial. “I believed you were nothing more than a socialite chain climber.”

“A what?”

“When Jon reached out to me saying that a friend of one of his coworkers needed a date for an event, and when that event turned out to be the wedding of someone of such popularity, I figured you were only trying to increase your own social status by showing up with me on your arm.”

“And you said ‘yes’ anyways?” Marinette was confused but pieces of the mystery that is Damian were starting to fit in place. But something else stuck out as odd to her. “Also, how would you being my date increase my social status anyhow?”

He scoffs before answering. Bitch.

“What? It wouldn’t be the first time one of Jon’s set-ups ended that way. Besides, we’ve had an agreement that I can’t turn down an offer until meeting the person face to face.” Weird deal but some friendships are just like, Marinette supposes. “And being seen with me is enough to make anyone more popular.”

“...And you are?”

“Damian… Wayne…” He spoke as if he was talking to a small child. As if it should be obvious who he was like he was some celeb— Oh shit.

A name had flashed into her mind. On the finalised guest list, Marinette had only seen it once in passing, there was a name that belonged to someone Jagged was rather excited to see. He said the friend was an old college buddy. She remembered that much. She had completely forgotten that ‘a billionaire playboy’ was also attached to the name. Damian was the son of Bruce Wayne. Suddenly everything in the past few months made perfect sense. The cold shoulder, the ghosting, and his prickly disposition. He was overly guarded because he had justified reasons to be. Now she felt like an ass.

“Oh.” Real intelligent, Marinette.

“Oh? What, you didn’t know?” He sounded incredulous at the notion and he had every right to be. Marinette could only shake her head. Words were failing her now, her brain trying to rewrite the memories of every interaction the two ever had.

She was saved from further mortification by a call for everyone to find their seats. The wedding was about to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ceremony was beautiful. Penny’s dress was a silver grey, tied back with a golden belt. Instead of a long train, Marinette had attached a black cape that shimmered in the right lighting. Penny wore a tiara with two peaks to imitate the ‘bat-ears.’ A Batman-themed wedding dress was not something she ever saw herself making, but she was proud at how beautiful and confident Penny looked in it. Jagged was adorn in a royal blue suit with bold red lapels. He also had a matching red cape. His hair was styled in the familiar sleek way Superman wears it. The two made quite the pair.  

The reception was a lively affair. Jagged had dedicated several songs to his new wife and they dazzled the crowd on the dance floor. Marinette didn’t pay much attention to the speeches beyond a quick glance at Damian when his own father stepped up to the podium. He had buried his head in his hands, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. A courtesy pat on the back was all Marinette gave to him.

The two hadn’t really spoken much since the revelation that they had completely misjudged each other. The awkward tension was almost palpable. As Marinette was gathering the courage to speak to him, to try and officially clear the air, she was being dragged by one of the bridesmaids onto the dancefloor. It was time for the bride to throw the bouquet. All the unmarried women were being corralled into a tight cluster and Marinette got swept up in the tide.

Marinette wasn’t focusing on the actual game, trying her hardest not to get trampled, when she saw something move in her periphery. Years of being Ladybug had left her with finely honed instincts so she could not be blamed when she immediately jumped and caught the incoming object. The bouquet. She had caught the bouquet. Oh that was just her luck. Deafening squeals of delight brought her out of her own head and she was suddenly being embraced in Penny’s arms. She returned the hug, sharing in her delight, before breaking away to sit down.

“Nice catch.” His voice had surprised her, she hadn’t expected him to speak to her for the rest of the night.

“Uh, thank you. Just lucky, I guess.” Damian didn’t get the chance to respond because he was being dragged by his own father to join all the bachelors in catching the garter. Marinette was equally uninterested in this spectacle and had let her mind wander to other things.

A loud uproar caught her attention again and her eyes zeroed in on Damian holding the tossed garter. He made his way back over to her, dropping himself into his seat gracelessly. The two sat in silence, contemplating the implications of them both catching the garter and bouquet. The games were done purely for tradition’s sake, with total disregard of what it was supposed to symbolise. Still. One’s mind couldn’t help but wander. Minutes ticked passed and Marinette was beginning to wonder if someone was going to talk about the elephant in the room.

“So,” Damian’s voice was slightly strained, like he wasn’t used to being this flustered. It was kind of endearing. Wait what?

“So.”

“While marriage seems far out of reach for right now,” Oh god. He was going to talk about it. “How does dinner sound, next Friday?”

“Wait,” he wanted to spend more time with her? After their disastrous first impressions? “Really?”

“Really. I believe we started off on the wrong foot,” he let out a soft chuckle, almost self-deprecating. “Which isn’t really new for me, but it’s not everyday I meet someone who doesn’t recognise me at first glance. I think you’re someone who I would like to get to know better. If that is something you are also interested in.”

“Yeah,” Marinette knows all about wanting to get acquainted with someone who she’s had a bad first impression of. Just look at her past relationships. Wow, she really does have a type. Damning thoughts for later. “Friday works for me. Seven pm?”

“Perfect. I’ll text you the details then.”

“Wonderful, I can’t wait.”

The rest of the evening was spent in companionable silence with small bouts of conversation in between. They shared a couple dances on the floor and parted ways at the end of the night with budding anticipation for Friday.

As Marinette was preparing for bed that night in the comfort of her apartment, she sent a text to Alya that her friend would see later in the day.

You were right, I do have a type :(