#Singles Match: Mike

[imvgeswrestling]

》》》

[mariocki]

Play for Today: Buffet (BBC, 1976)

"Freddie likes squalid plays."

"I don't think I care for the theatre. If the theatre came to me, then that would be different. One has to go to it."

"I like a play to be about nice people. I like a comedy. I like to be taken out of myself. The plays Freddie likes to see are about squalid people. I like a play to reflect my own problems, I like a play to be about people like ourselves."

[ybcpatrick]

are you there god? it's me kell.......................... yeah, it's that wrestler again.

[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.

[artbiter]

wolf in sheep's clothing

art donaldson/reader nsfw summary: art falls for you first yet patrick gets the fortune of having you. what else is art supposed to do but play dirty? tags: stanford!art, stanford reader too, art is a borderline homewrecker, art donaldson is a SNAKE, patrick gets cucked right under his nose </3, oral, slight body worship, TBH idk note: hi this is my first time writing ff since .. 2021 .. and this is definitely a diff style from the ao3-approach i usually take to writing but please enjoy i really like art donaldson i really like challengers and i really like art taking what he wants (and i really like mike faist in blonde curls)

art donaldson is not a homewrecker, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't waiting for his chance with you.

he first meets you at one of his games, eyes flitting over the crowd and panting hard after a rather close singles win, before his gaze is magnetically drawn to your pretty face in the bleachers. smiling with your friends, you look so happy to just be watching this game, and when you make eye contact with art you wave excitedly like he's a celebrity, and whisper to your friends after he salutes back with a grin, trying to catch the breath your gorgeous smile has knocked out of him.

he wants to find you so bad after, and so he does. your friends are tennis groupies, hanging behind to flirt with any guy with a racket in hand, but you're just there for moral support. he chases after you just before you leave, just to say hi. an innocuous greeting and thanks for your support. and he sees how jealous your friends are that you tag along once with them and immediately get picked up by art freaking donaldson, but you seem to be oblivious, beaming at him and clasping your hands to your chest. you tell him he was great out there, that you've never "gotten" tennis but that you can feel he's a pro anyway. you part ways and he can't stop thinking about you.

when he tells patrick that he's met the prettiest girl he's ever seen at one of his matches, patrick thinks it's endearing and the epitome of dumb puppy love.

"did you even get her name? or were you just drooling over her?"

"nah, that would've been weird... right? oh shit, should i have? i was trying to be normal about it, i don't know." art beats himself up for not even picking up on your name in conversation, and resolves to seek out your identity and ask you out.

so when he finally has the fortune of seeing you again at a party, he's heartbroken when you smile and wave to patrick in tow.

"patrick!" you laugh and bound up to the pair. "didn't take you as a stanford party type of guy."

"i'm a plus one tonight. lucky i ran into you, huh?" patrick is eye-fucking you and doesn't even try to hide it, and art feels like doubling over in pure grief.

patrick notices but says nothing, only introducing you to art. "yeah, i'm here with my buddy art." he slaps art on the back lightly and art finds out that you and patrick met at another party before this. he remembers you from patrick's anecdotes over lunch, where patrick wouldn't shut up about the hottest chick he's ever seen who wouldn't go home with him, but has been texting ever since.

some other girl, presumably one of your friends, attaches herself to art's arm for the rest of the night, but he can't bring himself to notice or care when patrick kisses you and you lean into it.

patrick got to you first, and art hates himself for it. he won't admit it, but he feels the resentment festering inside of him as soon as patrick announces it's official.

the next best course of action for art is to play the best friend role, obviously. except like the unassuming snake art is, he's going to be your best friend, too.

he's your puppy, waiting on your beck and call — whatever you need, he's got it. your bio homework is impossible? sure, you can copy his. you got no sleep last night? he has your regular order from your favorite café committed to memory. patrick's being such a bad boyfriend? oh, tell him all about it.

"he's so inconsiderate," you whine, slumping over your pillow. "can you believe he forgot our six months? and when i brought it up, he didn't even say sorry. he was just, like, 'i didn't know we were still in high school.' i wanted to die, art, really."

art clicks his tongue in sympathy, criss-crossed on your dorm floor and nodding along to your laments. "no, he's definitely wrong here. i'm sorry he forgot something so important." for good measure, he adds in, "guys should be looking out for their girlfriends all the time. i'd be celebrating monthly anniversaries if i had a girl."

"ugh, right? i thought so, too." you flop back onto your bed, turning your head to gaze at art. he thinks you're so beautiful like this, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, bare faced with tears tinging your eyes. "you're a good guy. i don't know why you don't just date."

he doesn't want to date anyone if it isn't you, but he doesn't say this.

art watches you and patrick continue for another few rocky months, marked by arguments spawned from patrick's chronic nonchalance and your sensitivity to his perceived lack of care. and art gets the full report from both sides; patrick tells him all the time about how he's really trying to make you happy and support you, but he doesn't see why you value such small things. and you cry to art, sobbing that patrick never takes you out anymore if it isn't to fuck, that patrick is too friendly to other girls. art thinks to himself that patrick doesn't deserve you, but he rubs small circles on your back and reassures you that you need to do what's right for yourself.

(he's elated when you don't remove yourself from his touch.)

when you finally break it off with patrick, he hears it from his best friend first.

"dude, she dumped me." patrick's voice buzzes over the phone. "not gonna lie, i saw this one coming. but i thought i was doing good, seriously. fuck, what am i gonna do?"

"i'm sorry, man," art sympathizes before he hears a knock on his door. "yeah, it really does suck. take a breather for a few days. i'm sorry, but i really have to go right now." he peeks into the peephole and sees you standing outside. "let's talk more later?"

patrick is still rambling on the other end, but art hangs up and opens the door for you to immediately come spilling.

"art, i broke up with him. i really couldn't do it anymore." you tell art more things he already knows, like that you liked patrick a lot but you were just uncompatible in the end, and that you wished he listened. as always, art feeds into you, agreeing with your every word. something deep inside art tells him it's wrong to coax his best friend's girlfriend into breaking up with him, and that he's messed up for offering you his support when patrick technically should come first. but when you look up at art through wet eyelashes, sniffling and yearning for comfort, who is he to deny you?

art cups your face gently and presses his lips to yours. he doesn't miss how your eyes widen, but you don't jerk away. his heart pounds in his chest as he holds the small of your back with one hand while the other caresses your cheek. you smell so clean and warm, and your lips are so soft art wonders how patrick could ever give you up without a fight. it solidifies art's need for you, that if patrick won't make you happy, he will.

when you pull away from him, you're breathless, voice barely above a whisper. "art, i don't think we should—"

he can't contain himself from kissing your neck, relishing the soft, smooth expanse, inhaling your scent so deep into his lungs he finds it oxygen. "tell me you don't want this." he laps at your jaw, sucking light bruises onto the sides of your throat. "tell me you don't want me to treat you the way you should be, and i'll stop."

you moan his name involuntarily, and art takes it as the green light to carry you to his bed and kisses back up to your lips. "i'm sorry," he murmurs into your skin. "i'm sorry. i want you so bad."

"then show me," you sigh softly, hands rooting themselves into his blonde curls as his tongue probes your mouth.

like you even had to ask.

tugging down your sweatpants and feeling like coming just as the sight of your underwear, art immediately tears it off of you. he latches himself to your cunt, already weeping, and he looks up at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. "already so wet for me, baby?"

"mmf..." your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tighten their grip as you push his head forward, and he obliges.

he licks wide stripes, feeling you convulse and twitch every time his tongue comes in contact with your clit. his dick throbs in his pants just from eating you out.

"you taste so sweet. fuck, you're delicious," he pants, making out with your pussy like it's your lips. "don't know how i survived this long without you."

you buck your hips up into his mouth, mewling and spasming as he suckles and licks at just the right places. your cunt is soaked, but neither of you can tell whether it's from your arousal or how much art is slobbering over your pussy. "right there," you squeak out, a hot wave washing over your body as you cum on art's face.

and fuck, art almosts busts on the spot with you. his mouth doesn't cease, swirling patterns all over your vulva, grazing over your clit, dipping his tongue inside of you as you lock your legs around his head desperately.

"too much, too much!" you feebly try to pull his head up from your cunt, but he's so addicted to your taste he barely notices how sensitive you are now, how your clit twitches and aches for a break.

art can only laugh softly as he pulls himself back up to you, kissing you gently as his hands roam underneath your shirt and to your bra clasp.

"mm, you're so good," you gasp into art's mouth as his kiss becomes sloppier. "so good to me, art."

"it's what you deserve," he mumbles back, unhooking your bra and clumsily pulling your shirt off so your tits spill free. and even art is admired by his own self-restraint, just staring at your perfect body on display for him. he's been dreaming of this day for months now, jerking himself off late at night to thoughts of you sucking his cock, to pictures of you smiling on his phone, to the memory of your voice the day he met you. it's so wrong of him to fuck his best friend's ex fresh after the split, but why do you feel so right beneath him? "i've been waiting for this," he whispers into your neck. "been wanting to show you how much i want you. want to make you feel good. want to treat you so much better."

"fuck me, art, please," you beg him, relenting and palming at his boxers. you're so fucking easy, letting him touch you like this and being compliant as he undresses you, kisses you all over, shrugs his boxers off as you help him position his cock right at your entrance. it's not your fault that art has been nothing but kind and gentle to you. it's not your fault that he's been flirting with you since day 1, and now all his desires have culminated into head of a lifetime. and art finally has what he wants now: you.

and even when he barely pushes the tip in, he wants to cum inside of you so badly he feels dizzy. "so fucking tight, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum right now," he gasps in your ear as he unsheathes himself, stretching your warm, tight hole. "so perfect, holy shit. fucking made for me, baby, you feel so—" he can't stop himself from rutting into you, and he just about comes undone when he hears his name tumble from your lips in pained moans. it takes all the self-control in the world for art to not pour himself into your wet heat right now.

"slow down, art, fuck, you're so big," you sob, clawing at his back. he wishes he could fuck you nice and slow, the way he always envisioned his first time with you would be. he'd fantasized about nights with you full of languid strokes, making you scream his name with calculated, intentional thrusts straight to the spongy patch buried within you. but art is just a humble man, and when your walls, silky and warm, are choking his dick, he can't resist fucking into you like a jackhammer. you cry, moaning uncontrollably as your hands clutch tightly at him, letting his cock ruin you.

art's head goes fuzzy, and all he knows now is your pussy trying to milk him dry and that he can't say anything coherent besides strings of guttural moans telling you how warm, how tight, how good you feel on his dick, how your sweet cunt was made for him, how beautiful you look and sound at his mercy, how he wants you to be his so bad and that he'll do anything for you to be his. that his only regret is not claiming you first.

you keep crooning in his ear, honeyed moans that intoxicate him dizzier and dizzier as you tell him that he can have you. with a few more stutters of his hips, and a convulsing squeeze from your walls onto his cock, his head falls into the crook of your neck as he pulls out and shoots ropes all over your stomach, right as you cry out his name uncontrllably, heaving beneath him. a low, resounding grunt rips from his throat while his seed paints your abdomen, and he feels you shiver upon the warmth touching your skin.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again like the gentleman he is. his breath still heaves at an uneven rhythm, staggering as he attempts to regain his composure, but every time his eyes fall upon you it feels like he wants to go for round 2. "i'll clean you up, pretty girl. you were so perfect." he presses his forehead to yours, sweaty and damp, and whispers, "you were made for me."

some sick sense of pride fills art from head to toe as your body trembles in an attempt to catch your breath, your hair disheveled and lips puffy, patches of skin blooming pink and red from art essentially making out with every inch of your body. and you blush when you catch him staring, covering your face and murmuring for him to come back to bed.

he did this to you. he made you such a picturesque image of ruined perfection, splayed out on his bed and stained with his cum, pleading for his embrace.

patrick would have to pry you from his cold, dead hands.

[love-byers]

max's memories v.s. el's memories

here is every memory that comes to max in 4x04 when she's being vecna'd

that's 15 different memories that come to her UNPROMPTED

here is every memory that comes to el while she's being choked by vecna, and as her boyfriend is confessing his supposed love to her

one. singular. memory. 

all of those memories with mike and she only thinks of one, and it's the one specific thing mike mentioned in his whole 2 minute long monologue

if there were no memories shown in that scene at all i would be a little more reluctant to compare these, but that fact that they show ONE confirms it for me.

because as mike is saying these things she has no memories that match what he is saying. "i love you on your good days and bad days, with your powers without your powers" nothing comes to her. because he's never acted that way to her.

i'm pretty sure that every single person finished season 4 believing that lucas and max are in love. and they never had to say it once. max didn't need lucas to go on a rant about how much he loves her even though they were distant and had issues. all he had to say was "i'm right here" and the happy memories came flooding to her.

and to make it EVEN WORSE.

not even 5 minutes after she hears mike's monologue, this happens:

here is all the memories that come to el when she saves max. and there are also multiple audio clips that play, including "Not Hopper, not Mike, you."

10 different memories.

unprompted.

milkvan is BONES.

someone made an amazing post about this based on a twitter thread i made that goes into this but WAYYYY deeper and way more organized than this, PLEASE go read it here

[sade-alicious]

jancy and byler having matching careers ends me every single time bc wdym jonathon and nancy want to be a photographer and reporter and mike and will want to be a writer and artist

[murdrdocs]

i feel like mike is ALWAYS so grumpy,

him with his obnoxious sister and girlfriend is just so canon to me sigh

oh he absolutely is (also i blacked out and wrote 600 words of pure delusion ??? im so sorry i rlly have a problem omg)

first off, sleeping sans pills is a little hard for him for the first month or so. it’s hard for him to fall asleep and stay asleep, so he spends a chunk of the night just laying and staring at the ceiling where his nebraska poster used to be, waiting for sleep to find him instead of searching for it. when he actually gets up in the morning, his body just feels like he’d gotten hit by a bus, evidence of his restless night showing up all over the place.

and abby, as kind as she is, just doesn’t know when to shut up. mikes pouring them both a bowl of cereal and abby just continues talking about any and every single thing under the sun, completely oblivious to the agony her older brother is in. mike tries to be patient, he hums between his yawns as he fills her bowl with milk, he blinks lazily at her as she keeps talking. but at a certain point enough is enough and the cereal is a little stale and mike was really looking forward to a nice bowl of cereal to give him energy for the day but everything is shit right now so he ends up politely (at least as best as he can) asking abby to stop talking.

he thinks that by the time you’re supposed to come over later in the afternoon, he’ll feel better. he doesn’t have work until a few hours after breakfast, and he uses the time to take a shitty nap on the couch. a nap that’s disrupted by the doorbell ringing entirely too loud, followed by abby’s excited screech which alerts him of your arrival. he’s happy to see you, but he’s tired as shit and now he has to go work a dead end job and he can barely manage to paint an appreciative smile on his face when you walk him to his car and promise that you and abby will have fun.

by the time he gets back after work, the sun has set and it’s a few hours past traditional dinner time. the lights in the house are still on and when he enters he hears a movie playing. he’s so tired he only wants to take a shower and sleep but he knows you’ll refuse to let him do just that until he’s eaten, which ends up with all three of you at the table, you and abby having dessert while mike slowly makes his way through dinner.

he’s nodding off the entire time, and he’s sure he would’ve knocked out face first in his slice of pizza if you and abby weren’t talking his head off. you bounce off of each other like you’re playing an exciting match of ping pong, mikes head going back and forth as he attempts to follow a conversation with no real connections.

and to make matters worse, you’re both on mikes case, too, cracking jokes and being far too concerned and it’s too much for his tired head and his grumpiness just multiplies tenfold until he takes a final bite out of his pizza and storms down the hall to take a shower.

(of course, you find him when he’s slipping a shirt over his head after his shower in his room, hair dripping onto the cotton and flinging onto the carpet when he turns to look at you. he apologizes, tells you about how sleepy he’s been, and kisses you good night. but he’s still a Grumpy Guy, despite the chronic exhaustion)

[forthegothicheroine]

I've made a post about great lesser-known noirs, but it occurs to me that some of you might not be familiar with the classics, and might want to know where to start. This is a ridiculously short list- I have a million more to talk about- but here are some of the big stars of the genre.

The Maltese Falcon: Sam Spade, a clever but callous private detective, gets wrapped up in intrigue relating to an artifact that is functionally cursed. If he's an unscrupulous character, just wait until you meet everyone else. The whole damn cast is electrifying, lending charm and cruelty in equal measure.

The Big Sleep: Philip Marlowe, a kinder and more poetic detective for Humphrey Bogart to play than Spade, is called upon to deal with a wealthy, dysfunctional family, and it keeps on getting weirder from there. Is the sharp-tongued Vivian Sternwood the femme fatale she seems, or is she just another person trying to find the right thing to do in desperate circumstances? And will she and Marlowe keep their hands off each other until the plot has had its last twist?

Double Indemnity: Rich housewife Phyllis Dietrichson and sleazy insurance agent Walter Neff are, by their own admission, rotten people. It's only natural that they should plot a murder together, and that they should turn on each other the very second things go wrong. Every single domestic murder movie since 1944 has ripped this off.

Kiss Me Deadly: This is nominally an adaptation of a Mike Hammer story. Screenwriter Bezzerides hated Mike Hammer. As depicted here, he is one of the worst people in the world. Depending on the cut of the film you see, he may inadvertently cause the nuclear apocalypse. (For once, the theatrical cut is darker.)

Sweet Smell of Success: Cruel, all-powerful columnist JJ Hunsecker wants his sister's boyfriend out of the way (for reasons that are, um, ambiguous.) To accomplish this, he enlists the biggest weasel in New York, Sidney Falco, and the two completely deserve each other as they spend the rest of the movie trading elaborate insults. Popular on tumblr for its dialogue and chemistry between the leads.

Sunset Boulevard: Broke screenwriter Joe Gillis thinks he can con a has-been into hiring him as a script doctor, and that's the last free decision he ever gets to make. From then on, his life is in the hands of Norma Desmond, silent film starlet turned crazed recluse, terrifying yet intensely pitiable. This is as much gothic horror as noir.

Ace in the Hole: The story of a man trapped in a cave is turning out to be a big hit in the newspaper, and if the publicity will make a reporter's career, then what's the harm in delaying rescue just for a little while? This is as vicious as noir gets, but damn it, you've just got to see what happens next. (Watch Jacob Geller's video Fear of the Depths after this.)

Sorry Wrong Number: Of all the films on this list, this is the one that really scared me. In the days of switchboards, a rich hypocondriac woman is connected to the wrong phone line and overhears a murder being planned. It doesn't take her long to figure out she's the intended victim, and each call she makes or recieves makes the situation darker. But how can she escape her fate if she can't- or won't leave her bed?

The Asphalt Jungle: The heist movie. Maybe the only heist movie ever made. Every line is quotable. Every member of the team is an unforgettable personality. When things go wrong, they go horribly wrong. One minute you're laughing, and the next minute you think you'll never laugh again.

Gun Crazy: Laurie and Bart, two practiced sharpshooters, are perhaps the most perfect match in all of noir- and that's a bad thing. When one half of the duo gets a criminal idea in their head, the other can't say no. When the opportunity to ditch her man like a sap comes up, the femme fatale throws it away to be doomed at his side. He fell in love with her when she first aimed a gun at him. Quentin Tarantino kissed star Peggy Cummins's feet at a showing of the film, and I hope she kicked him in the head.

Laura: Everyone was in love with Laura Hunt, and somebody killed her- or did they? Did they get the right person? Is the cop on the case in love with a dead woman? Was her columnist mentor just her gay best friend, or was there something darker beneath that facade? And what would Laura think of all this? A big inspiration on Twin Peaks.

In a Lonely Place: Bogart isn't at all heroic here, as a screenwriter with a drinking habit and a violent temper. He's obviously a bad idea to date, but just how bad an idea? He's not the type of guy who'd kill a woman, is he? Bogart and Gloria Holden give perhaps their best performances here, and they'll wound your soul.

Touch of Evil: A Mexican cop (played, unfortunately, by Charlton Heston) finds out a nasty secret about the big hero cop Hank Quinlan: he's framed the culprit in most of his cases. Not because he's crooked, but because his intuition tells him they're guilty. Director Orson Welles as Quinlan is frightening, grotesque, and a little bit tragic in what some consider the last classic noir.

The Killers: The first twenty minutes or so are an adaptation of a Hemingway story, where out of town hitmen gun down a man so depressed he won't even bother to run from them. The rest of the film is an investigation into how he got that way. It had something to do with a radiant gangster's girl, and something to do with a few botched crimes. Sometimes a man can die before the bullets even touch him.

The Third Man: Everybody is lying about the whereabouts of an American expatriate named Harry when his friend comes looking. Did they do something to him? Or, more frightening still, is he the one who's been doing things to other people? Orson Welles is a more charming monster than he was in Touch of Evil; the light and shadows on his face cast him as a vampire, while his fingers sticking up through the sewer grate look like something terrifying emerging from the earth.

[immortalmrwavell]

The Perfect Takeover

(Original story posted March 11th 2022) This story has been Updated!

It’d been about three years now since Ian and Mike had bought a flat together. The two had been good friends since high school so when it came time for them to leave home they decided, why not do it together! They were both single after all so it’d be easier to have a roommate to move in with. It seemed like the perfect arrangement. Two best buds getting to have a place all to themselves. What could go wrong!?

But of course, unbeknownst to Mike, Ian had a few ulterior motives when it came to them moving in together. Ones that extended far beyond just friendship. Much like Ian’s feelings for Mike.

To put simply, Ian had a crush on his current roommate Mike for years. It began way back when they were teens and over time as they both grew and matured, that crush only became stronger. Mike of course never knew, he didn’t even know Ian was gay for that matter. He never noticed how Ian would glance at his sweating frame after a workout. How Ian would have to hide a growing boner whenever he walked around shirtless. How Ian would dig his nose into Mike’s used tank tops and jockstraps when he wasn’t around. Mike innocently thought they were just two bros. Completely oblivious.

Recently however, Ian’s feelings for Mike had developed in an odd way. As time went by, Ian slowly began resenting his friend strangely enough. Not because Mike was a bad person or anything. No, quite the opposite in fact. Ian began to resent Mike because of just how perfect he was!

Mike was an incredibly handsome dude with a body just as incredible to match. Perfectly buff and hairy in all the right places with an outstanding beard that put Ian’s patchy one to shame. He had an amazing job doing what he loved, had a super attractive girlfriend and of course everyone simply adored him due to his bubbly, extroverted personality. All that just made Mike’s life so easy and almost everyday Ian would become more and more envious as he watched it play out in front of him. And he couldn’t even be mad about it because of how kind and fucking sexy Mike was!

That growing resentment did nothing dampen the lust he had for that man though. If anything it only made Ian desire Mike even more. His cock would always jump after catching even a whiff of Mike’s sweaty post work-out aroma. His eyes would always linger far too long on Mike’s jock butt. And most nights Ian would still find himself in bed jacking his dick furiously to the thought of his roommate! Usually while sniffing a pair of used underwear he’d stolen from the hamper of Mike’s dirty clothes.

Little did Ian know that a mysterious (and very horny) warlock had been watching over him for a short while now. Observing him while reading through his thoughts as memories…

Ian had been at work one particular day, sat at his desk typing away as usual. It’d been a very quiet day so far and it wouldn’t be long until his shift was over and he could head home. He grabbed his mug of coffee and was about to take a sip when…

“Ian West?” An unfamiliar voice spoke.

He practically jumped out of his skin, some coffee spilling on his pants at the sudden mention of his name from directly behind him. Spinning around in his chair, Ian came face to face with a handsome yet unrecognisable man. Ian had no idea how the guy had managed to sneak up on him like that. It was certainly eerie. He would’ve been more creeped out had this 40 something year old guy not had such an alluring look to him.

The man swiftly introduced himself at Mr Wavell, extending an arm out for a friendly handshake. Ian accepted Wavell’s hand, the touch of his palm feeling strangely comforting.

Wavell went on to reveal about how he knew of Ian’s situation with Mike and about his jealousy towards the man. Normally Ian would’ve been freaked out but as he gripped Wavell’s hand he couldn’t help but trust this stranger and listen to his words. Wavell then revealed that he had the perfect solution to Ian’s little jealousy crush dilemma before pulling out a small vial from inside his suit jacket. It was filled with a sparkly dark blue liquid.

“Drink this once Mike falls asleep tonight. After that don’t hesitate to straddle yourself on top of his slumbering body. If you do that then everything he is, everything you’ve longed for, will become yours.” With that Wavell hands over the strange vial to an intrigued Ian.

“Y-yes sir…” Ian responds, entranced by the man until he finally let go of the handshake. Wavell grins down at him as Ian catches his baring. The bewildered man was about to question the stranger further when suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he vanished into thin air. It was as if Wavell had been a mere figment of Ian’s imagination with the only proof he existed being the vial in Ian’s hand…

Later that evening Ian arrives home to find Mike and Ashley, his Girlfriend, sat in the living room watching some comedy tv show that Ashley loved. Ian said a quick hello to them both before heading to his room.

He sat on his bed after throwing off most of his clothes. He held the bottle tightly in hand as he thought about what that strange man had told him to do. He could have everything he longed for. Everything Mike had. It could all be his. He still wasn’t sure how exactly but he didn’t care. He wanted it. All of it,

And so he waited.

Hours passed and eventually he heard Mike leaving with Ashley to walk her home. Luckily she’d decided not to stay the night which made things a lot easier. It was only about 20 minutes or so until Mike returned and headed to his room where he presumably started getting ready for bed. Ian was patient of course. He waited a few more hours until just gone midnight before eventually sneaking out of his room and towards Mike’s.

Opening the door, Ian’s nose was greeted by the smell of men’s deodorant mixed with the subtle scent of male musk. That aroma was always quick to give him a hard-on. What really made his cock jump however was the sight before him. Mike sprawled out in bed, laying on his front in nothing but a tight pair of boxer briefs that clung to hunk’s ass. If he didn’t have any self control then he would’ve ripped open the back of those boxers and started pounding Mike’s ass right then and there.

But he needed to be smart about this. Slow and quiet was the way to go. That said nothing about what he was about to do would be considered smart by any means. Insane would be more like it. Yet he trusted the words of Mr Wavell more than anything. And so Ian crept towards the bed before gently crawling onto the mattress beside Mike.

Ian did his best not to salivate as he stared down at the delicious looking jock-butt beneath him. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out though. With a nervous yet excited pounding in his chest, he grabbed hold of the two perfectly rounded cheeks. A wet stain formed against Ian’s shorts as he began gently squishing and squeezing Mike’s ass, his eyes fixed on it the whole time. Fuck it was so damn perfect. Of course it was. It was Mike. Everything about him was always perfect.

He was snapped out of his pervy ass groping trance when the man beneath him started to groan. Ian swiftly pulled his hands away, panicked that he may have woken Mike. Thankfully the man settled once again, allowing Ian to breathe a sigh of relief. Best not to push his luck any further.

Reaching a hand into his pocket, Ian whipped out the strange bottle that Mr Wavell had given him. All he had to do was drink it and lay on top of Mike and then he’d get exactly what he desired. Whatever that meant?… but he trusted Wavell and if he said that it would work then he believed him. Ian didn’t even think to question this blind trust he’d suddenly gained for this random stranger.

Twisting off the cap, Ian then proceeded to gulp down the entire bottle of liquid. After one large swallow, the liquid was gone. Ian shivered a little as he felt the contents of the bottle gliding down his throat and into his body. For some reason he was expecting something crazy to happen but he didn’t feel all that different besides a strange buzzing that felt akin to a sugar rush.

And so he proceeded with the next step. Ian gently placed his hands on Mike’s broad back. Gently running his fingers across the muscular contours with pleasure. Though as he did, he couldn’t help feeling immensely drawn to Mike. Not in the normal way though. It was as though he was literally magnetised to the man beneath him. And it felt so good. So right.

He spread his arms out, placing them carefully on top of Mike’s. He then let out a long shaken breath before allowing his chest to fall flat across Mike’s back. A small smirk forming on his lips as the bulge in his shorts snuggled perfectly against Mike’s plump cheeks. Not being able to help humping ever so slightly. However, as Ian aligned his legs with the muscular ones beneath, his roommate began to stir…

“Huh?… the fuck is-UGH” Mike grunted as he felt Ian’s bulging crotch press itself against his ass. “What the fuck!? Ian is that you? GET THE FUCK OFF ME MAN!” Mike demanded, his voice full of anger and disgust. He wanted to jump up and throw his roommate off his back but, as he tried to move, his body felt weak and unresponsive. It was almost like sleep paralysis if the demon was a horny freak that wanted to fuck him.

Ian on the other hand seemed to be lost in some kind of euphoric pleasure. His entire body racked with ecstasy as he pressed harder against Mike. Even kissing the man’s neck a little despite his roommates protests. He was so engrossed in the sensation that he didn’t even notice his arms and hands beginning to sink inside Mike’s…

Mike’s anger very quickly turned to fear as he could both feel and see in the corner of his eye what was happening. He began shouting all kinds of obscenities mixed with pleas, all of which fell upon deaf ears. Soon enough he completely lost control of his arms once Ian’s had sunk all the way in.

Meanwhile Ian was still too busy dry humping Mike’s butt to even notice. It was only once his legs began to do the same that Ian finally snapped back to reality. He panicked a little upon noticing that all his limbs had disappeared inside his roommate's body but then as he tried to move what would’ve been his own arm, Mike’s larger one responded. It was only a twitch at first but very quickly Mike’s hands and arms began moving to Ian’s will!

Mike could only turn his head, watching and feeling in pure terror as his arms and legs betrayed him. Seeing as they obeyed Ian’s will over his own. Ian on the other hand went from being a little scared to completely ecstatic in a second once he realised what was going on. A mad grin formed across his face. So this is what Mr Wavell meant. To have everything he longed for.

With his new control, Ian used Mike’s muscular arm to reach around and press his torso further down onto Mike’s broad back below in hopes this would speed up the process. His assumption was correct as moments after he could feel his chest and stomach begin to sink down. His hips and waist followed suit not long after as he continued humping Mike’s ass. Ian’s body began to faze through the fabric of his shorts and Mike’s boxers, allowing his cock to finally slide between Mike’s ass cheeks and touch that quivering virgin hole he’d dreamt of for years.

His straight roommate howled out in pain as Ian instinctively buried his cock deep inside the bubbly hairy ass. He couldn’t stop himself rocking back and forth in an attempt to fuck Mike’s hole despite the growing attachment of their bodies. Ian didn’t get long however as soon enough his dick began fusing into the hunks body too and becoming one with his roommates much heftier dick.

Mike grumbled and pleaded through strained breaths, not being able to stop his manhood from growing harder as Ian took control of it. His possessed cock throbbed bigger and harder with Ian’s arousal pumping through it. So much so that it began to leak pre-cum into Mike’s briefs. All the while Ian’s ass and hips were being pulled down until his entire body from below the neck had been submerged.

Ian could feel every sensation racing through Mike’s larger, hairier body. The way his muscles moved. The way his body hair brushed against the mattress below. The way his asshole winced after being forcefully penetrated. He’d gained almost complete control! Now there was only one last thing to do. Mike begged and begged but there was nothing he could do to stop Ian pressing his face down into the back of his head. Mike’s terrified face went slack and his eyes rolled back as his entire body began to shake and convulse. The last of Ian’s real body fazed inside Mike, both their visions then going black.

The next thing Ian knew, he found himself waking to the unfamiliar feeling of a beard on his face as it brushed against the bed. Even more notable was his body. He felt so large and furry. So manly.

He was just about to try and sit up when his body was suddenly racked with the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt. The feeling was so powerful he could barely move. Each and every nerve in his newfound body sent continuous signals of euphoria to his brain. So much so that Ian wasn’t able to contain his animalistic instinct as he started humping the bed below like a dog in heat. Thrusting his fat bulge aggressively against the mattress. It didn’t take long for him to let out a deep roar before nutting uncontrollably, completely staining the front of the briefs he was now wearing. The orgasm was so powerful in fact that mere moments after Ian lost consciousness once more…

———

Soon enough the morning rolled around as sunlight beamed into the room. Ian’s eyes fluttered open, feeling groggy and a little drained. His mind was still fuzzy as he slowly came around. Though it didn’t take long for him to become acutely aware once again of how strange and heavy his body felt. He was confused for a moment as he looked around to see Mike’s bedroom instead of his own. It was only when one of his now larger hands reached up to touch the beard on his face that everything came flooding back. The memory was hazy but he could remember it. He sank inside Mike. He took everything!

His once groggy eyes shot open as he pushed himself upright. “Fuuuck… I-I can’t believe it!?” Ian muttered as he ran a hand across the same furry pecs he used to admire and jerk off too almost every night. He grunted at the sensitivity of his new nipples, especially the left pierced one. It was easily enough to make his new dick twitch. Mike’s juicy cock.

Looking down at the obscene bulge in his roommate's damp sticky underwear, Ian wasted absolutely no time whipping out his new cock. He was desperate to see what Mike had been packing all these years and by god was he not disappointed. Immediately he began pumping his shaft, admiring its length and girth. It was so much fatter than his old dick. Because of course it was. It was Mike’s. And as he jacked his cock, he couldn’t help rubbing his free hand across his new face, delighting in his new handsome features. Fuck he needed to see it all.

With that Ian pushed himself up and off the bed. He stumbled a little at first but quickly adjusted to his new size and weight, even getting off on it a little. He walked across the apartment and into the living room, stroking himself the whole way until he reached that full length mirror that Mike always used to check himself out after a workout.

He stood in front of the mirror, completely enchanted by his own reflection. Looking back at him was the very man he’d drooled over for years. The man he’d grown to both love and envy. The man who ended up becoming his close friend and roommate despite all that. Looking back at him was… Mike.

He groped at every bulge, ridge and sensitive spot he could find on his new self. His fatter cock bucked with excitement as he got to watch Mike’s body worship itself under his command. As he was exploring however, his hands were bound to wander to his backside eventually. What he didn’t expect however was for his new hole to be so damn sensitive!

After giving his bubbly cheeks a firm squeeze and a shake, Ian’s right index finger began to curiously probe at his new virgin hole. The moment it slid inside, an electric feeling rushed through his entire body. His old ass had never felt this incredible! Before long Ian couldn't help shoving his finger as deep as it would go causing him to moan like a bitch in heat with Mike’s deep voice. It was a bit painful sure with how inexperienced Mike’s ass was but the pleasure far overshadowed that. He just couldn’t believe a hole like this was being wasted on a straight guy!? It’s like this ass was begging for dick all its life!!

“Well I could help with that desire…” A familiar voice from across the room claimed, startling Ian into pulling his finger out with a small yelp. Sat on a chair in the corner of the room was the same man who’d given him that vial. Mr Wavell… but did he just read Ian’s thoughts? And how the hell did he even get in here? Ian could’ve sworn he was alone and yet there Wavell was with his cock out though the zipper of his khaki pants, jerking it slowly.

“Really? I gave you a potion that allowed you to possess this hunk’s body and you think I can’t do other ‘impossible’ things like simple invisibility?” Wavell replied after seemingly reading Ian’s mind once again. “Now, since I was the one that helped you obtain such an incredibly handsome body, I was hoping you might be willing to return the favour?” He glanced down at his cock with a smirk before glancing back at Ian.

Ian knew there were so many questions he should’ve been asking right about now. However, all of his prior thoughts gradually ceased the more he focused on the other man’s enormous juicy cock. It looked so damn enticing… maybe Wavell was right, he didn’t need to ask questions… he just had to thank him for giving him this body…

With that Ian marched over to where Wavell was sitting in an almost hypnotic fashion, his own cock bouncing as he did. He dropped to his knees before grabbing the thick meaty rod before him. Even Ian’s new larger hands struggled to wrap around the full girth of it. He then looked up at the man above, receiving a nod of confirmation, before wrapping his lips around the cock and sucking on it with vigour and passion.

“Fuuck boy! That’s it! Put that sexy new mouth of yours to good use…” Wavell grunted, placing a hand on top of Ian’s head and being sure to push his face right down, the beard hairs tickling against Wavell’s trimmed bush. Almost immediately Ian began to gag, his new body not conditioned for dick sucking quite like his old one. Noticing this, Wavell places a hand gently on Ian’s throat. His hand glows for a moment before letting go. “There, that should make you the perfect cock sucker.” The warlock grinned as he began to throat fuck Ian who was now taking it like a hungry cock sucking champ! Mike’s gag reflex had been almost completely wiped.

“Mmmppff! Mmhmmpf! Mmhmmmmmhppff…” Ian groaned onto the cock. The more he deepthroated Wavell’s massive shaft, the more his mind flooded with dick, dick and more dick! He loved it though as he did his absolute best to please the man who gave him this perfect body.

“Ooh yeah that’s perfect…” Wavell cooed as he rubbed Ian’s head gently. “But let’s see how well that ass of yours can do in comparison.” He pulled Ian’s mouth off his cock in one swift motion leaving it slick with saliva. He couldn’t help smirking cockily as he watched a tiny bit of precum drip down Ian’s lip. “Get over there and lay on the couch face down.” He ordered sternly.

Ian did exactly as he was told. With the taste of dick still in his mouth, he eagerly jumped onto the couch before lying down with his ass up in the air.

Wavell got up from his chair and followed behind. As soon as Ian was ready, Wavell shifted onto the couch himself, kneeling above Ian’s stolen body in all its hairy muscular glory. Then ,without a second thought, the warlock spread Ian’s furry ass cheeks before inspecting what used to be Mike’s hole. It seemed tight but at the same time so hungry and sensitive like it was begging to be used. Ian was right. A hole like this shouldn’t be wasted.

Ian yelped as he felt Wavell’s own bearded face dive between his cheeks, his tongue attacking the sensitive soon to be entrance. It was certainly one of the tastiest holes he’d had in awhile. That and hearing Ian’s satisfied murmurs got his cock more and more riled up. So much so that before long he was practically tongue fucking the young hunk as he writhed on the couch.

Once he was satisfied, Wavell gave that delicious ass one final lick from taint to hole before sitting up again and giving his wet cock a few hearty strokes. “You want my cock inside you Mike?” Wavell teased, using Mike’s name rather than Ian’s to rile up the man below him even further. “You want me to fill you up to the brim?”

“Oh fuck yes! Please! Fuuuuck my ass needs cock so badly” Ian pleaded as he arched his back some more, pushing his ass closer to Wavell’s crotch. “Please breed my straight hole sir…” He muttered.

“Well… since you’ve been such a good boy…” Wavell whispered as he aligned his cock with Ian’s hole. “I’ll breed you nice and deep.” He finished before gently pushing the tip of his cock inside.

Ian whimpered and groaned in an intense mix of pain and pleasure as his new sensitive hole was slowly stretched beyond anything it’d ever felt before. The groans only got deeper and louder and Wavell slowly but surely pressed more and more of himself inside. Despite the underlying pain, Ian was loving every second! It just felt so right for his hole to stretch and welcome a fat cock like Wavell’s. Ian yelped out again in surprise however as Wavell got impatient, suddenly thrusting the last couple inches inside as his balls slapped Ian’s ass.

From there Ian’s entrance had already begun to adjust. As Wavell slowly started to pump in and out of that delicious hole, it became less and less painful. His fast adjustment was partly due to Mike’s body being naturally inclined to taking dick while also receiving a helping hand from Wavell’s magic. Before long Ian was moaning out like a big hairy muscle slut as all that was left was the pure pleasure of being filled completely by a thick rod. This was what Mike’s ass had been made for. Cock. It was like this body had just been waiting to get taken over by someone who’d use it for its real purpose.

The two continued to fuck for a good hour or more. Flipping back and forth into all sorts of different sex positions. Making sure Wavell’s cock was able to hit each and every last sweet spot inside Ian’s new ass. Eventually they ended right back in the same position they started in with Ian laid face down and Wavell lying on top. Only now it wasn’t gentle. Now Wavell was jackhammering furiously into the hole beneath him while planting kisses along Ian’s back. And after all that, Wavell’s huge balls were finally ready to spill.

“Come on boy. Tell me you want my load inside you. Tell me you crave it.” Wavell purred lustfully.

“Fuuuuuck please give me your load! My fat hairy ass needs it! Please!” Ian begged, earning a large grin from the powerful warlock mounting him.

Wavell continued thrusting deep, making sure his balls smacked every time as that familiar tension in his groin grew. Then, with one last thrust and a loud triumphant groan, Wavell busted a massive load completely flooded Ian’s insides. The load was so big in fact that within seconds the cum had already begun to leak out of Ian’s hole around Wavell’s cock. Ian felt absolutely full to the brim, stuffed full of thick seed and he adored the feeling. So much so that his own dick had begun spurting hands free mere moments after being bred.

The pair simply laid there for a moment, basking in the sweaty smell of man sex. After soaking up the afterglow, Wavell finally pushed himself up. He dislodged his cum soaked cock from the leaking hole with an amused grin, watching as more cum drooled out when he did. He stared down at the panting hunk beneath him. Then without saying anything he walked around and put his dick in front of Ian’s face again. Ian already knew what he had to do. He wrapped his lips around the beautiful cock once more in order to lick it clean of all the delicious cum left on it.

“I knew I was right to choose you.” Wavell began as Ian finished cleaning his cock. “It’s not every day I get a good fuck out of my experiments you know. That said, I'm certain you’ll be even more perfect than the original Mike was.” He claimed as he stroked a gentle hand through Ian’s thick new beard.

With that he pushed his manhood back into his trousers before turning to the mirror. He hadn’t taken his clothes off for the entire time the two had fucked. He enjoyed keeping them on sometimes but now they were a complete mess and covered in sweat. That wouldn’t do at all. As much as he loved a little sweat, he always preferred to look and smell presentable. And so, with a mere flick of his wrist, Wavell’s clothes fixed themselves in a flash. Any and all sweat stains vanished in the process as even his dishevelled hair restyled itself perfectly. Ian could only watch wonder from the couch, his ass too destroyed to even move at the moment.

“Well I think it’s about time I bid you adieu Ian.” Wavell stated as he swiveled around in front of the mirror, checking himself out from every angle to make sure his little spell had fixed everything. “But I’ll be back to check up on you at some point. Just to make sure you’re getting in alright with Mike’s life and body. And who knows, maybe we’ll have some more fun.” He winked, waltzing back over and giving Ian’s ass a slap.

Ian was lost for words. He could only stare up at this mysterious man. He had the power to turn dreams into reality as though it were easy. A mere snap of his fingers was enough to make anything possible! And that very same man just gave him the railing of a lifetime. Before he could even think of anything to say in response, Wavell vanished before his eyes. One second he was there, the next he wasn’t. It was as simple as that.

It took awhile after that for Ian to catch his bearing and regain his strength. After a good 20 minutes or so, he finally pushed himself up off the couch and slowly made his way towards the bathroom. Hobbling his way down the corridor and up the stairs while holding his sore backside.

Once there he flicked on the shower and watched as hot water came gushing out, already beginning to steam up the room. Just before he stepped under however, he turned and took one more look at himself in the bathroom mirror. He still couldn’t believe it. He really was Mike. All the buff, hairy muscle he’d envied for these years. The gorgeous bearded face. Even the sick tattoos. It all belonged to him. And there was nothing in the world he could’ve wanted more.

Flashing himself a cheeky grin in the mirror, Ian finally hopped into the shower and began planning out how exactly he was gonna live his new life. He couldn’t wait to get into the gym and start working out like Mike did. Something about being in this body just made him wanna pump iron and watch sports like the original Mike did.

That said, one thing that definitely had to change was Mike’s girlfriend. She was a nice girl so Ian was gonna try and let her down easy the next chance he got. After that he could come out as gay to everyone! And once that was out in the open, with good looks like these, it shouldn’t be hard to find another hot dude who wants to fuck this juicy bubble butt of his everyday. Although, after having Wavell’s mature cock inside him, he was sorta craving having another older guy just like him.

Regardless he had plenty of time to figure things out. A whole lifetime in fact. A perfect lifetime.

[space-invading-pigeon]

Everyone jokes about Steve being the babysitter or the mom friend, but no one actually appreciates everything he does until he gets sick. Steve is the epitome of a doting parent; sure, he's only twenty and the seven kids he's adopted aren't actually his in any legal way, but those kids are his pride and fucking joy. Anyone who sees Steve with those kids can tell that he loves them deeply, which is why Steve is the only person in the Party that can convince their parents to allow anything- their parents KNOW that their kids will not only be well looked after, but they'll be genuinely enjoying themselves too.

Because he's a single mom except he's actually just barely out of his teenage years with no kids, he gets a lot of shit from everyone about it; he's known almost exclusively to the Party as Mama Steve (when he isn't in earshot of course). That's all fine by Steve, he always wanted a big family and now he has it. The problems start to appear when the Party realizes that Steve Harrington flat out ignores his own needs until they're so pressing that he's physically unable to do anything.

It all starts when Robin is told by Keith, of all people, that Steve has called in sick. Robin, of course, panics and calls him, and when he doesn't answer she calls Eddie to check on him. He and Steve had gotten closer since spring break, so it wasn't unusual for a member of the party to call either Eddie or Steve to check in on the other.

Eddie checks in to find Steve Harrington, badass warrior prince incarnate, sobbing from a blanket mountain on the couch in his living room. No one has ever actually seen Steve cry before, so Eddie freaks out, but it's just the result of a high fever and watching Old Yeller by himself. After calming the sick man, Eddie managed to coax some medicine into him and call Family Video to let Robin know that, yes, Steve is alive and no, he wasn't going to die of fever, but he only manages to get Steve to sleep by reading to him (Eddie finds it disgustingly adorable, even more so later when Nancy mentions that Steve loves stories but struggles with what he calls "moving letters"). And for the next two weeks, Steve is down for the count. Joyce and Claudia Henderson take turns making sure Steve is alright (Joyce because Steve is one of Her Kids, and Claudia because Steve is the Older Son she never had) while Eddie, Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin all try to take his place.

By the end of the first day, Nancy calls it quits: Mike is a bullheaded terror who only ever seems to like Will, El, or Eddie, and even then he doesn't always listen to them, so the Wheeler siblings fight even more ferociously than usual. She can't get El or Erica to listen, either; Erica is a force to be reckoned with, and El will only nod passively before doing what she wants anyway. By the end of day three, Jonathan is out. He won't say what happened, but he told Max to be nicer to the Party one time and, ten minutes later, he was tearfully saying that the kids were little monsters.

Robin lasts longer, almost an entire week, by chattering at the kids until they give up and listen to her. She meets her match when Dustin and Erica try to commandeer the Family Video computer again: Dusting sneaks past and almost breaks the computer just trying to get to it while Erica does Erica and argues until Robin the Rambler runs out of words. The morning of day seven is very dark for her.

Eddie, through what he believes to be the universe's acknowledgement of the depth of his affection for Steve and also sheer force of will, lasts the whole two weeks, but just barely. Mike argues over everything, no matter what; Will is skittish at the best of times and disappears constantly (thankfully, not like his Upside Down episodes - the boy just can't stop getting distracted and wandering away from the group), only to reappear directly behind Eddie and scaring him into an early grave; Lucas gets frustrated easily and can never seem to find the right words to communicate his thoughts and feelings, so he snarks and lashes out before awkwardly trying to mend the situation; Erica is so completely herself that it can be dizzying when the full force of that hurricane is directed towards Eddie; Dustin practically follows Eddie around like a little duckling, demanding updates on Steve or ranting about one of his many interests; El spends most of her time with the Party learning about how girls her age act through Max or practicing her braiding on Eddie. The worst of them all, though, is Max. Despite having healed up, she's still in physical therapy to rebuild her muscle strength and dexterity, and her eyesight is bad enough now that there's talk of her getting a service animal. It isn't that she needs a little extra attention that makes her the worst, though: it's that somehow, she still chases the most mischief. Eddie has only narrowly managed to keep her from assaulting no less that nine people in the two weeks that Steve is sick, and he knows she's definitely tried to commit arson at least twice that often.

Finally, after two weeks, Steve feels better enough to return to his usual activity, and Eddie begs him to never get sick again.

[imvgeswrestling]

》》》

[luvzshy]

billie x reader halloween fic with their baby girl! maybe reader and billie go in mike wazowski/ sully onesies and their baby going as boo🥹

Monstrous Love

Summary: Billie, the reader, and their daughter Lily, dressed as Mike, Sully, and Boo, go trick-or-treating on Halloween night. Lily charms everyone with her costume, and Billie and the reader cherish the sweet moments together as a family.

Warnings: None, just pure fluff!

Word Count: ~500 words

Halloween night had arrived, and the living room was filled with excited giggles as you slipped into your big, plush Sully onesie. The material was soft and cozy, and as you pulled the hood over your head, you could see Billie fumbling with her own costume in the mirror across the room. She wore a bright green Mike Wazowski onesie, complete with a giant single eye on the hood and tiny horns at the top. It suited her in the most hilariously adorable way, and you couldn’t help but laugh as she struggled to get the eye to sit just right.

“Stop laughing, you blue furball,” Billie muttered, sticking her tongue out playfully. She turned to you with a mock glare but couldn’t keep a straight face. You pulled her into a hug, and she leaned into you with a contented sigh, her arms wrapping around your waist.

“Alright, where’s our Boo?” you whispered, glancing around the room.

At that moment, Lily toddled in, clutching her favorite stuffed animal. Dressed in a little pink T-shirt and purple leggings, with her hair tied in two tiny pigtails with matching pink bows, she was the spitting image of Boo. Her chubby cheeks were rosy with excitement, and her big eyes lit up as she saw the two of you in your costumes.

“Baba! Mama!” she squealed, clapping her hands. She toddled over as fast as her little legs could carry her, reaching up for Billie, who instantly scooped her up.

“Are you ready to go trick-or-treating, Boo?” Billie cooed, kissing her forehead. Lily nodded enthusiastically, patting Billie’s face as if to make sure her mama was real.

You chuckled, reaching out to gently tug on one of Lily’s pigtails. “Come on, monster fam. Let’s go show the world the cutest Boo there ever was.”

Walking through the neighborhood was like stepping into a storybook. Pumpkins glowed on every porch, skeletons hung from trees, and children in costumes of all kinds dashed from house to house. You held Billie’s hand tightly, while Billie cradled Lily against her hip, the three of you drawing attention wherever you went.

Each time you approached a door, Billie would make a goofy monster face at Lily, who would squeal and bury her face in her mama’s shoulder, only to peek out with a giggle as soon as someone opened the door. The neighbors cooed over Lily, offering her tiny candies that she clutched with all her might, her little fingers sticky as she tried to hold them all.

“Mommy! Mommy!” she babbled, her eyes wide with wonder as a group of kids in spooky costumes ran by. She pointed excitedly, her gaze shifting between you and Billie as if to share every little thing she saw.

Halfway down the block, Billie gave you a playful nudge. “Can you believe how obsessed everyone is with her?” she whispered, grinning. “I mean, I knew she was cute, but…”

You laughed, squeezing her hand. “She takes after you,” you teased, making Billie roll her eyes.

By the time you finished making rounds, Lily was starting to nod off, her little head resting on Billie’s shoulder. She clutched a lollipop in one sticky hand, refusing to let it go even as her eyes began to droop. You reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face, your heart swelling at the sight.

When you finally arrived back home, Billie carefully laid Lily down on the couch, covering her with a soft blanket. She gazed at your sleeping daughter with a soft smile, brushing a hand over her tiny fingers.

“She was perfect tonight,” Billie whispered, looking up at you with a mixture of exhaustion and pure joy.

You nodded, wrapping an arm around Billie’s shoulders and pulling her close. “Couldn’t have asked for a better Halloween,” you murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Our little Boo stole the show.”

With one last glance at your sleeping Lily, you and Billie snuggled up on the couch together, still dressed in your onesies, hearts full and grateful for the perfectly imperfect family you’d built.

[fake-daily-watcher-tweets]

okay.. so if you were the tall bearded man who looked suspiciously like Neil Gaiman in downtown soho/London and heard me aggressively talking about Mike Faist bc he’s on the West End and also turned around and laughed when I loudly stated ‘YO THAT DUDE LOOKS LIKE NEIL”… I’m so sorry…😭💀

[Picture this]

Me and a friend walking, talking, maybe inebriated 👀🤏🧐

Me: “Its a little offensive that I’m not married to him. I’m single, he’s beautiful and talented, I don’t get it”

Friend: “Perfect Match😅👀”

Me: [Almost trips]

Me:

Me: [See’s a man with a beard and the aura of audacity - just enough to write soul crushing stories about demons and gods and scary roads]

Me: “YO THAT MAN LOOKS LIKE NEIL”

Friend:

Friend: “..who”

Me:

Friend: “OH”

Both: [look back to see the man laugh]

[headkiss]

hi!! I have an Eddie request!😊 basically something where the new girl (super shy and nervous cause AH I love it😂) at Hawkins is trying to find a seat at lunch, and decides to go up to Eddie at his table, and he treats her like a literal princess cause no girl has ever willingly wanted to sit with Hellfire

hi ty for the request!!! i hope u like it!!! | 0.6k fluff and shy!reader

Switching schools is scary. Especially during your senior year.

It’s even scarier when you have a hard time talking to new people in the first place. It makes friends hard to find, the adjustment lonely and nerve-wracking.

Lunch is by far the worst part. Every single friendship and clique in one room. Each table is dedicated to a group. Jocks, cheerleaders, or simply friends that so clearly belong together. There’s not one empty table for you to escape to.

You scan the room slowly, standing awkwardly with your tray in hand.

Already, your heart beats faster, your palms clammy. You glance around and the first empty seat you find is at a table with a group of boys in matching shirts. You shake your head and walk over, telling yourself over and over that it’ll be fine.

The closer you get, the less the noise of the room is one big mess. You can make out the voices coming from the table, the laughter.

You wind up standing a bit behind the head of the table, a head of black curls occupying the seat. You clear your throat to try and get his attention, but you aren’t loud enough over the rest of the room. You take a deep breath and shuffle over until you’re next to the chair.

Silence falls over the group, every pair of eyes lands on you. Shit.

Eddie’s stunned when he sees you standing next to his seat, shuffling on your feet, a nervous look on the prettiest face he’s ever seen. You’re new. He knows that because there’s absolutely no way he wouldn’t have noticed you before if you weren’t.

“Can we help you?” Mike says.

“Sorry, um, I was just wondering if I could sit here?” You fiddle with the fork sitting on your tray. “The other tables seem pretty full.”

“Uh-” Mike starts to reply but Eddie kicks him under the table.

“‘Course you can,” he says. He directs his attention to Mike and Dustin, “move down.”

“What?”

“Move down.”

They do, sending Eddie two annoyed looks as they do.

“There you go,” Eddie gestures for you to sit at the corner next to him.

“Thank you so much. You won’t even know I’m here, promise.”

Eddie finds that hard to believe. He’s known you for about a minute and already he can’t stop looking at you. Nobody ever comes near the Hellfire table, and here you are, all sweet and shy and something out of a dream.

“None of that. What’s your name?” He asks.

You tell him, and he repeats it, testing it out.

“That’s pretty. I’m Eddie, nice to meet you.”

Eddie.

Eddie’s a pretty boy. Like really, really pretty. From the curls framing his face and dangling over his forehead, to the softest brown eyes, to the rings adorning his fingers. As if you weren’t nervous enough already.

The rest of the table is caught up in a new conversation, but Eddie can’t bring himself to care. He’s sure you’re more interesting anyway.

“How you liking Hawkins?” He asks.

“Um, it’s okay.”

“It’s shit, you don’t have to lie.”

“No! It’s just, everyone seems to know each other already, you know?”

“Don’t worry about that. Most of ‘em suck anyway. Besides, you know me now, so that’s something.”

He doesn’t tell you that it’s actually cause for the entire school to tease him about finally having a girl pay attention to him or some shit. Like he said, they suck. You don’t.

“I guess that’s true.”

When lunch comes to a close and you start packing up, Eddie stops you before you get up with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“You can come sit here again tomorrow, if you want to.”

“Thank you, Eddie.”

After meeting him, you think maybe a new school won’t be so bad.

[sceletaflores]

hey🥰can u plz plz plz do the nsfw alphabet with michael!!🤭🤭🤭

omg this was so fun thanks baby girl. everyone go follow rylea <333 this isn’t proofread so let me know if i messed up lol

..••°°°°••.°°••.••°°.••°°°°••.°°••.••°°.••°°°

|| Mike Schmidt NSFW Alphabet ||

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

mike didn't know much about aftercare before he met you, but he's gotten a lot better about it now. he always has a warm washcloth to clean you up after, and throws a fresh blanket over the two of you so you can cuddle.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

mike's in love with your hips. he always makes sure to touch them no matter where you are. curled up on the couch? he'll be rubbing circles over them with his thumb. out shopping? one hand in his jean pocket one hand on your hip as you walk. and you've definitely had hand shaped bruises on your hips from when he's gotten a bit too rough fucking you into the mattress.

his favorite body part of his is definitely his hands, mostly because you love them so much.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

when the two of you finish fucking, he'll always push his come back into your pussy when it leaks out, giving you another orgasm as he does.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

more than once he's swiped a pair of your panties and slipped them in his jean pocket before a shift at freddy's.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he wasn't a virgin when the two of you met, but he was less experienced. he never had the time to mess around. he was a very eager learner though.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

definitely missionary. his biggest turn on is making you feel good, and watching your face twist in pleasure always gets him going more than anything. plus it’s easier to kiss you!

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

in the beginning he was goofy on accident, now that you've been together for a while he's more serious. not afraid to laugh during sex though.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

100% has a dark brown happy trail. he's not extremely messy, but he never goes bare. now that he’s with you he’ll regularly trim his body hair so it's neater.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he's the sweetest partner ever. constantly checking to make sure you're okay even. just sooo caring and loving.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

mike used to jerk off pretty regularly but now that you’re more than happy to help, he does it less.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

big praise kink!!! he also loves when you pull his hair. this man is a sub through and through.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

this man spends all his time at two (2) places, home and freddy’s. so you two mostly do it in bed or the shower, but on the rare days that abby isn’t home other rooms of the house are put to use.

you’ve only fucked at freddy’s once, mike’s too scared to get caught by vanessa.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

literally you and everything that you do. every single aspect of you gets this man going like no other.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

he would never hit you, he’s only comfortable with light spanking. no degrading or bodily fluids (except spit).

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

his preference is giving. he loves eating you out, and has come untouched multiple times doing so.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

it depends. most times he’s slow and gentle. he prefers when you’re the rougher one, not vice versa, but once in a blue moon he can get a little rough with you if that’s what you want.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

quickies in the morning in bed or in the shower is all you guys have time for most days, so you partake in them pretty often.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

there was a lot of risk taking and experimentation in the beginning of your relationship. now you both know what each other like so there’s less, but he’s down to try new things here and there.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

mike has a solid two or three rounds in him before he taps out. however, when the focus is solely on you he can take the time to give you orgasm after orgasm after orgasm.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he didn't own any toys before meeting you, now there's a small collection you’ve both amassed and use stuffed in a cardboard box sitting on the highest shelf in his closet. he’ll use them on himself from time to time but he prefers using vibrators on you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

mike doesn’t tease simply because he doesn’t have the patience or ability to hold back from diving into your pussy. he loves to be teased by you though.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

mike is so loud. he just can't hold in his whiny whimpers and breathy moans. yes this man whimpers no one is surprised.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

mike comes a shocking amount. like this man comes buckets. the first time you blew him he was so caught up in pleasure that he forgot to warn you before it was too late. he absolutely flooded your mouth and drenched your face in come. he was mortified and apologized profusely until you got over the shock enough to show him how much you liked it by riding him so hard you both almost passed out.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

a respectable six inches, and girthy. shaft is creamy beige. tip is EC9EC0 pink. gains two inches when hard and curves up towards his stomach.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

mike says he doesn’t have a high sex drive but this man pounces on you any chance he can get. he comes up behind you when you’re making food and feels you up. he jumps into the shower with you to “save water”. he grinds his morning wood against your ass when you first wake up. this man is insatiable.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

mike is usually bone tired after but he always stays up to make sure you’re taken care of. when you’re both tucked in he can fall asleep in like fifteen minutes.

..••°°°°••.°°••.••°°.••°°°°••.°°••.••°°.••°°°

taglist!

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