#out of everything he's being unfairly blamed for

[tonycries]

AITA For F*cking My Sugar Daddy's Son?! - G.S.

Synopsis. When your sugar daddy just isn’t paying attention to you, can you really be blamed for fúcking his son? Especially when his son is absolutely obsessed with you.

Pairing. Rich boy! Gojo Satoru x Sugar baby! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, jealous Satoru, créampie, dirty talk, manhandling, marking, Satoru’s dad is not really present, oral (female receiving), overstim, másturbation (male), thigh riding, cúmplay, Satoru is really really down bad and filthy for you, CEO’s son! Gojo,  pet names, swearing.

Word count. 8.1k

A/N. Will proofread later, lowkey scared to post this, but I just wanted it out of my mind. And in my mind, Satoru’s dad is FINE asl so-

The first time you meet Gojo Satoru is when you’re all dolled up for his father. 

Designer dress just a bit too tight, running on a few too many shots of tequila, wanting to be anywhere but at this stuffy gala. Everything was too bright - too polished.

And it really didn’t help that no matter how many scathing looks or whispers that followed you, you just had to be here - it was in your contract, after all. Because luckily for you, you just so happened to be the infamous little plaything hanging off the arm of the head of Gojo Corporations.

Well, usually. Right now your sugar daddy was too busy entertaining his business partners, leaving you off to the side, praying for something - anything - to save you from this-

“Damn if I’d come to these shitty galas a lot more often if it meant I’d get to see a beauty like you.”

You jolt out of your bored little reverie, eyes immediately snapping up to meet the tall man suddenly in front of you. When did he even get so close? 

You can’t help but drink him in from head to toe, from the overpriced, slightly-disheveled suit to the tiny dimple at the end of his mischievous grin. Strangely familiar white locks fell effortlessly to curtain his eyes. Eyes that were a startling blue - the kind of blue that had your cheeks flaring and knowing exactly who this was. 

Oh.

At your silence, he tilts his head with the air of someone that owns this entire venue and everything in it because, well, he did. Twinkling gaze searing into your skin as it roams appreciatively all over your body, plowing on, “Though, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm around these old coots.”

You sigh, pinching your nose at the curious glances around you. Not even able to find it in yourself to put on that plastic smile anymore, “Oh y’know, just soaking up my popularity with the masses after being stranded here.”

“Oh? Here with anyone?”

“Yeah.” you blurt out, “Your father.”

You watch in amusement as Satoru’s mouth falls into a delicate oh! eyes flickering over his shades between you and the handsome man on the other end of the venue, oblivious and fully enjoying himself in the company of his secretary. A bit too much without you. 

“Y’know…” he starts, shaky and sounding only half the insufferable heir he was before, “I would say that’s a hilarious version of a ‘your mom’ joke but you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. Though it would make a good punchline, huh?” You huff out a laugh at the way he was suddenly less of a smooth-talking playboy and more of a lost puppy. The gears turning in his head as he processes that oh shit you were the sweet lil’ thing his dad’s been suddenly rushing off to meet straight after work. And the reason why all those old fossils here were clutching their pearls in scandal.

He just didn’t expect you to be this…gorgeous. And for the first time in forever, he’s suddenly so intrigued.

Because ah, you should’ve known better than to think that this little hiccup would deter the infamous Gojo Satoru. No, in fact that million-dollar smirk only makes its way back onto his unfairly pretty face, like he’s about to spill the juiciest gossip of the century.  

“So you’re the latest armcandy my ol’ man has picked up, huh? I hafta say, dear old dad has good taste.” he muses, stepping in close enough that his expensive cologne makes your head spin. “Why don’t you and I ah-” You follow Satoru’s gaze to where he was staring at the way his father was now making a beeline through the crowd. Straight for the two of you. 

“Gotta run before I get my share of the company revoked.” he flashes you a quick smile, fulling intent on saving his father’s delicate ego. But not before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “But jus’ saying,” voice a pretty little purr, “I wouldn’t ever leave you standing here so alone and gorgeous, princess.”

You can only stand there, reeling from the sheer audacity as he darts into the crowd with a wink, not caring if he stepped on a few too many overpriced coattails than necessary. Wondering whether this was some bizarre dream induced by too much tequila and not enough common sense.

“Hi, sweetheart. Investors held me up, you know how it is. Having fun, huh?” A toned arm wraps around your waist as your sugar daddy finally arrives by your side. And as he went on about his latest business branch, only two thoughts ring through your mind - 1. You were seriously reconsidering this arrangement. And 2. This was going to be interesting. 

And oh was it interesting. 

Because Satoru always managed to find you, wherever you were. No matter if it was another droning function or a chance meeting at the sprawling Gojo Estate, Satoru always swooped in whenever his father was too busy for you. Which, fortunately for Satoru, happened to be a lot.  

Hell, he seemed to find you even when you least wanted him to. Like that time he had to drag you away mid-argument with a particularly rude one of his snobby aunts. That was not a fun family reunion. 

All unabashed confidence and pretty smiles where his father was cold, cold calculation. Ready with a smart mouth to bicker with you and bright eyes that seemed to linger on you a bit too long. But you didn’t mind - why would you? Because all things considered, Satoru was a very attractive man. Sure, his father was extremely handsome, too - in a clean-cut, DILF-y way, in fact. But his son was dangerously attractive.

So much so that sometimes when he swept you away from insufferable galas to talk, some strange little part of you wished it was him that you came here with instead. Just for a second. 

“So, what do you see in my father anyway? His company?” Satoru asked you one day. Draping himself over his cool office desk, so comically out of place in the stiff corporate room. Legs kicking in the air as he waits for your response.

You tear your eyes away from the way his biceps were straining so deliciously against his snug button-up to deadpan, “I mean, I am his sugar baby after all, Satoru.”

“But think about it,” he whines, batting those long lashes at you. Fully intent on driving you as dangerously close to a stroke as possible before his father finishes up an important business meeting. One that he missed - whoops. “There’s close to nothing redeemable about the man. His idea of a family bonding activity is a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings.”

“Satoru.”   

“And either way- I’m getting the company in a few years, would ya be my sugar baby then, princess?”

Ah, there it was. 

It’s been a few weeks of knowing Satoru, and those little comments still made your head spin. Second-guessing the nature of this strange little…friendship? You didn’t even know anymore. Because yeah there might’ve been a few, stupid little lingering touches - like a trace on your hips, or your hand firmly in his as he led your (temporary) escape from another lonely gala. But those meant nothing, right?

“Nah, I’d poison you and take over the company instead.”

“Hey!”

Well, whatever, he was just your sugar daddy’s son. His sharp-mouthed, dangerously handsome son that just couldn’t seem to leave you alone. Not that you were complaining, really. Your relationship with his father was not exactly exclusive - you already knew that secretary of his was a bit suspiciously close - but that’s all he’ll ever be. Right?

Or, well, that’s what you stupidly thought. 

It wasn’t until one night late in the Gojo Estate, cursing those ridiculously long hallways, that you get an inkling of exactly how wrong you were. 

“Ugh, fucking rich people.” you mutter under your breath, wandering around trying to find whether the fuck the bathroom was. Because it doesn’t matter how many companies and businesses Gojo senior ran, the man still sucked at directions. You hiss, rubbing the tiny bruise on your neck - and aftercare too, clearly, even though that was in that damn contract. Something about an urgent business call with his secretary. Ugh. 

After three wrong doors, a trip around the in-home planetarium (seriously, who even needed that?), and chugging a full water bottle from the third kitchen in exhaustion, you finally find yourself walking towards what hopefully looked like the bathroom.

Hand reaching for the doorknob to swing it open. Ah, this better be the one or so help you-

Now, Satoru thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. And you - hair mussed, and dazed, standing there in nothing but a large button-up, falling just below your panties - looked like a sinfully beautiful lil’ demon here to lure him into hell. And oh how gladly he’d go if it means he got to see this ethereal view more often. 

“Ah! Wha- Sato-” 

You don’t even know if you want to scream or not - torn between taking in the sculpted chest smushed against your face and not wanting to alert security downstairs. Reeling backward you drink in the sight before you and God how you wish you didn’t - it wasn’t too good for your heart. 

Satoru’s hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his hair like diamonds. Skin soft and damp and smelling so delicious. Bathroom light bouncing off his rippling muscles, pecs flexing, as his strong arms reach out to steady you as you reel backwards. 

Traitorously, your eyes snake across his sculpted body. Dipping below once. Twice. Cheeks flaring as a pang of disappointment hits you at the damp towel wrapped around that slutty torso. Wondering what’s underneath-

“Y’should take a picture, it lasts longer.” Satoru grins, like the shameless bastard he is. Though he wasn’t in any better state - eyes flickering between you and any sliver of exposed skin his eyes could reach. 

“I should be saying the same to you.” you mutter, caught red-handed, shuffling your feet in embarrassment. 

Satoru lets out a low chuckle as he pulls you closer minutely, presence practically enveloping you. “Oh, me?” he says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. Thumb tracing that little spot on your neck, “S’hard not to when y’look so appetizing.”

And you don’t even try to pull away because fuck this is Satoru and he looks so good - so warm under your fingertips, even when you jolt at the realization of what exactly he was talking about. Your hand coming up to cover that tiny mark left on your skin from not-too-long ago. A shameful little reminder that this was his son. 

You grapple for some - any - sense of normalcy. Warning, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Satoru.”

He leans down impossibly, quirking an eyebrow. Both amusement and something unreadable flashing across his face. “Oh, but it’s got my father somewhere?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.”

You startle, taken aback by the blunt confession. So direct and something so Satoru. The word hands in the hair’s breadth between you two now, sending your mind reeling. And you can’t help but repeat, “Jealous?”

“Fucking yes.” There it was again. 

But this time, Satoru plows on, voice barely above a whisper but ringing in the thick air. “Jealous he gets to have you all to himself but still doesn’t kiss you like you should be.”

“What do you-”

“Your lipstick.” he interrupts, swiping a thumb over your bottom lip, “Why’s it as perfect as since you came in?” And, indeed, you realize with a jolt that no you really haven’t been kissed the way you wanted - not enough to leave your make-up so sinfully ruined. 

Minty breath fanning your face so dangerously now, and you barely even realize that you’re leaning into it, “If it were up to me, princess, I’d ruin that pretty lil’ lipstick of yours every chance I got.”

A delicious little shiver runs down your spine, head spinning at Satoru and his words and Satoru- And it’s all you can do to get out a shaky, “So why don’t you?”

And then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - like neither of you had the strength nor the will to stop. 

Satoru tasted just like candy, such an intoxicating sweetness that had you gasping as his soft tongue licked at the seam of your lips. Intertwining with yours as he breathes you in desperately. So sloppy. Such a sinful little mix of saliva and teeth and pure need.

His chest is soft under your greedy hands, lips searing against yours, and you could feel his hands wandering across every inch of skin they could find. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again because fuck he knows that he might just not. 

Long fingers dance delicately underneath that shirt to feel- oh fuck, you weren’t even wearing panties. Such a pretty lil’ slut and by God was he a goner. 

Groaning into the kiss, he lets you loop your arms around his neck, hardened nipples rubbing against his abs as you tug on his damp hair. Honestly, fuck that thin shirt, Satoru thinks he might just pass out right here right now.

“S-Satoru.” you whisper against his lips, legs hiking up to grind your bare cunt against the throbbing erection straining against his towel. Already so wet from water or precum, you had absolutely no idea. You couldn’t give less of a fuck in fact, needing to see if Satoru’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him right now. Hands urgently dipping below the hem, starting to tug and-

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you find the bathroom?”

Shit. Fuck. Wonderful - perfect, in fact.

You would’ve thought Satoru burned you with how quickly you pushed him away. Cheeks burning, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Almost slipping on the tile as you try to compose yourself at a safe distance - one that wouldn’t end up with you jumping his bones again. 

But all rational thoughts of that and your sugar daddy - Satoru’s father - almost go out the window once you take in the heavenly sight before you. 

Satoru’s lips swollen, hair disheveled, towel hanging slightly too low off his hips. Giving you such a pretty peak of those tufts of snowy white hair at the bottom. 

“W-we shouldn’t…” you trail off, as the footsteps get louder and louder. Something prickly and uncomfortable pooling in your stomach with each beat. 

Luckily for you, Satoru probably catches on to how you looked like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now. Voice low and control as he agrees, “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t.” No care in the world for his steadily approaching father as he lazily adjusts his towel, a gesture so nonchalant yet distracting. 

You swallow hard as he moves to walk past you, thinking that if this just so happened to be a dream then by God was it a good one. But of course - when has Satoru ever let you have it easy?

Because he stops abruptly in his tracks, fingers only ghosting the doorknob. Immediately turning back to walk to you with two, big steps, eyes gleaming, dimple flashing. And before you even know what’s happening, his lips are on yours. Featherlight and fleeting. But so so addictive. Nipping at your bottom lip, savoring you on his tongue.

It’s over before you know it, and a pathetic little disappointed whine leaves you as he pulls away. A smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he mutters lowly into yours, “Y’look prettier like this.”

Ah, you weren’t happy to see him leave but how you loved watching him go. Bathroom light so pretty against all the dips and curves of his figure as he walked away. White hair reflecting the warm hue, muscles flexing, hips slightly swaying with such a slutty little confidence that only Satoru could have. 

As you watch him disappear around the door, you almost forget the unwelcome visitor hot on your heels any second now and - wait - what was it that he’d said? “Prettier like this”?

Turning to the mirror and- 

Oh. Shit. 

You better have brought your make-up remover.

God, Satoru’s never ran to his room as fast as this since that time he was caught using his father’s elite golf clubs to play pool with Suguru.

Because as soon as that goddamn door is shut, he’s ripping his towel off. Letting it drop to the floor in a damp pile God-knows-where as he immediately fists his swollen cock.

With a groan, he leans against the shut door.  Eyes scrunching in such sinful ecstasy as he squeezes the base, pulsing and so achingly hard for you. A warning and a reprimand. Shit, how the fuck did he get this hard just from kissing your pretty lil’ lips?

Ah, whatever, right now he doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity to think too hard about it. Smearing the precum beading at his weeping tip, wetting his palm so sloppily. 

Neat little crescents searing into his skin where you’d grabbed him before, only thing on his mind - how would you do it?

Would you ease him into it? Or would you start up a hasty, desperate little pace like he was doing right now? Shallow, quick tugs on his thick cock like you wanted to milk him deliciously. 

Satoru’s hand was cold on his angry, hot cock. And with how many times he’s slipped his into yours, he knew yours would feel better around him. Both hands wrapped around his cock but still not covering all of it. So soft and warm, your nails scraping gently across his throbbing veins. 

“Shit. Hngh-” he breathes out, voice almost-pathetic, “J-jus’ like that, princess.” 

And what would you say? Tell him to shut up and just take it? Would you whisper into his ear as you let him fuck himself into your pretty fists? “So hard n’ big all f’me?” Satoru’s knees buckle at the thought, hand speeding up. “Y’look so pretty like this, y’know.”

Slam! Palm slamming against the poor drawer beside him hard enough to make its legs tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing. 

But oh his fist doesn’t stop. No, he doubts he ever will - not that strong of a man to keep himself from getting off so filthily to the image of you standing at the doorway of the bathroom. You looked so ethereal - Satoru couldn’t help but imagine how even more sinful you’d look if he was the one done with you. Shit, you wouldn’t even be able to stand if he had his way. 

“F-fuck, princess. M’gonna ruin you, gonna fuck you till you don’t know anything but m’name.”

He grips tighter on the base, thumbing under his slit in a way he knows your devious little hands would do. Fucked-out little grunts leaving his swollen lips each time his fingers meet his flushed tip.

“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he mutters hoarsely, letting out a low, broken little call of your name. “More. Need more, princess.” He wanted you so badly that it hurt.

What the fuck did that sleazy old man have that he didn’t? And that little bite? That would be nothing compared to what Satoru would do if he got his hands on you. Yeah, he thinks, body shuddering violently, he’d mark you up till everyone knows you’re his. Leave bites that peak out from your collar, all the way down to your pretty thighs.

“Y’belong with me pretty, could fuck you so much better.” Sweat drips from his brow, splashing onto his erratic fist. Thighs quivering, heart pounding wildly in his chest. 

Satoru would almost be embarrassed by how desperate he was acting if he was in any better state of mind. Head only filled with you, and your hand and you-

And fuck for the sake of his sanity he can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel inside your pretty lil’ cunt. All he can think of is the way you’d keen so prettily, mewling out a little, “Oh s’too big.” 

Would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you milk his cock? Or would he have to ram his dick into you, because shit as much as he loves that  bitchy mouth, it would look so much better gasping and stuttering as he fucks you dumb. 

“Oh yeah.” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Such a good lil’ slut f’me. Taking m’so well.” 

God his hand was so sloppy on his dick that he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Just wanting to fuck you and have you do this f’him. 

Ah, your plushy walls would suck him in so nicely. One hand speeds up on his cock, while the other reaches down to cradle his balls. Tugging and pulling at the same jerky rhythm they would smack your ass while he stuffs you full. 

So much better than any other sugar daddy ever could. Oh how Satoru would love to mess up your pretty pussy and your lipstick. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on if he could.

And you’d be able to do nothing but gasp and whimper into his lips, cockdrunk and dazed, “Shit shit shit- Toru m’gonna - Hah- Wanna cum. Please wan’ cum-” Oh how he’d burn down this entire fucking world to hear you call him that. 

“Fuck,” he curses, bucking into his fist, tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, princess.”

“Cum f’me, Toru. Fill me up with y’cum- wanna take all of it.”

And then he’s cumming. 

A ragged, raw moan of your name leaving his lips. Thick, hot ropes of cum that should be painting your pussy white - but, alas, he’s spilling into his fist so shamefully. And amongst the stars behind his eyes he’s sees you - you you you-

You, fucking your cunt deeper onto his cock to take every drop of his cum. You, whispering sweet little praises as his seed gushes down your thigh, telling him that oh he’s doing so well, and he’s the best boyfriend ever and you already want more-

You, at the arm of his father.

Shit, he needs to shower. Again. 

---

Ever since that little incident that night, everything changed. 

At this point, you didn’t even feel that usual little bitterness whenever your sugar daddy canceled for some urgent business. And, well, it made you blush to admit but you found yourself heading over to the Gojo Estate more and more frequently, often just to catch a glimpse of Gojo - or a quick kiss in the stuffy broom closet. Whichever left you more time to run away from looming security and his father. 

But that was exactly the problem. 

Because no matter how thick the tension lingering in the air between you two was, nothing had gone past heated kisses and touches. Either you were brought back to reality with the possibility of being arrested for indecent exposure at those galas, or someone just had to interrupt. Seriously, with how many times Satoru has had to pay off his poor personal assistant, you’ve been wondering whether he actively seeks you two out. 

And it really didn’t help that Satoru always tasted so goddamn delicious. Fingers searing on your skin, cologne heavy in the heady air, it was hard to keep your hands to yourself. 

But, hey, desperate times bring devious measures.

Which is why you were here right now - sinking into the plushiest bed at the Gojo Estate, clad in your delicate light blue lingerie. One that was custom-made in this specific shade of blue. Because while your sugar daddy preferred you in red, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind you using his credit card for other ulterior motives, right? 

You just hoped that Satoru would just so happen to get a peak when you sneak out to use the bathroom later. What would he say? Would he like it? Would his eyes roam over your body, fingers twiddling with the flimsy lace?

But more importantly - would it be enough to make him break? Even if just a little bit?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You’re startled out of your little whirlwind thoughts by knocking on the door. Steady, and matching your racing heart. Ah, Satoru’s father, you hastily get up to fix your hair.

“Yo, princess, are you naked or can I come in? Or can I come in when you’re naked?”

That wasn’t your sugar daddy. 

Not even thinking of your current outfit anymore, you rush to throw the heavy wooden doors open to see that, yes, it really was Satoru standing at the door. All bright grins and flushed cheeks as he drinks you in. Brows raising as his eyes move down from your face once. Twice. Thrice. 

Success. 

“What’re you doing here, Satoru?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. Trying to hold back the smirk threatening to curl your lips at the way he gulps.

“Uh- My father’s off to some urgent b-business.” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “Told me to tell you he’s sorry and wishes you the breas- best.”

Oh. 

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Satoru’s father has canceled on you. But it would be the first time that he’s canceled on you so conveniently enough to leave you alone with his unfairly hot son. Now, you couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste, right?

You lean slightly against the door, body ghosting Satoru’s, teasing him, “Well, when is my dear sugar daddy coming back from his business? Tell him I miss him.”

It’s a joke - and both of you probably know it. But that doesn’t stop Satoru’s brows furrowing ever-so-slightly, suddenly a different man from the flustered one he was just a few seconds ago as he mutters, “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”

“Aww, must be some important business.” 

He clenches his jaw aggressively at that, gritting out a clipped little, “You do know that ‘business’ of his is his secretary right?”

“I know. What a shame, right? Guess I’ll just have to go home n’ wait for him then?” you mockingly sigh - God, someone give you an Oscar. Moving to close the door in Satoru’s face, only to be stopped by a large hard smacking into the doorframe - as you knew it would. 

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come out looking like that and let you go home without tearing it to shreds.”

And that’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.

The door is slamming shut before you know it, and you’re shoved against it. Satoru’s lips such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit. Hands just everywhere - cradling your cheek, teasing your nipples through your bra, running down to squeeze and grope your ass. He just couldn’t get enough of you. 

Fuck twiddling with the lace, Satoru seemed well and fully intent to rip it off of you. And you’d let him. Just like he was letting you shove his overpriced button-up down his toned shoulders. Soft little rips sounding in the heady air at the urgency but neither of you could give less of a fuck. 

All you could think of is the way Satoru was so pretty and muscled. Drinking in all the dips and curves of pale skin underneath your fingertips. 

“Fuck, princess. Chose this color on purpose, huh?” his fingers dive under the hem of your bra, “Wanted to drive me crazy, mm?”

“Y-yes, Satoru.” you gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. “Wanted you to look at it. Got it custom-made all f’you.” words muffled as he sucks on your tongue. Satoru was always such a messy kisser, licking at the seam of your lips and intertwining his tongue with yours with no shame or shyness. A delicate trail of drool already starting at the corner of your mouth. 

Ah, it was too much for him. Satoru almost thinks he could cum in his pants right now at your sinful little admission. 

Which is why he pulls away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting out a broken little hum of appreciation into your skin. “Thought so.”

And then your bra’s hitting the floor, tits spilling out into the cold bedroom air. But only for a split-second because Satoru’s immediately groping each and every inch of skin he can find. 

“Look so fucking beautiful like this.” Rolling your swollen nipples between two fingers as he mutters - more to himself than you, “Was gonna let him see you in this slutty lil’ thing, too?” leaning down to tongue lazily little circles on one nipple. Words muffled as he wraps his lips so prettily around your tit - tugging, just grazing with his teeth, “Matching my eyes, huh? Fuckin’ gonna be the death of me shit-”

Satoru was insatiable. Wanting all of you all at the same time. And you follow his line of sight to see him locked on your dripping cunt - soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. Clenching around nothing as his pretty pink lips fall into a soft oh! at the sight. 

Like a madman, he immediately drops to his knees. But you don’t think he even feels the pain as he bites down on the hem of your wet panties. Looking up at you with dazed eyes - miles away. 

Breath ghosting your quivering cunt, tugging lightly with his teeth, “Next time, I’m gonna be the one buying you these.”

Then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds. Grinning so devilishly around it as he gets his first sight of your pretty pussy.  Oh you were so perfect for him. So mouthwateringly wet. 

“Shit, princess. Can’t believe you were fucking holdin’ out on me.”  he muses in wonder, eyes wide at the way your sloppy pussy was glistening in the dim lighting. 

“You were the one that-”

And usually, Satoru loves hearing you run your mouth, but this time he’s shutting you up by diving face-first into your dripping cunt. Cute little mewls leaving you as he presses so shamefully deep that his nose was against your throbbing clit, rubbing languidly as he licks a thick stripe up your swollen folds. 

And then it was like something snapped. 

Because one taste of you and Satoru’s going wild. Throwing a leg over his shoulder to lick more desperately all all over your cunt, lapping up all the juices that gush out of you. Already so addicted because shit you were so much sweeter than in his dreams. 

“Ah! Hngh- please.” you mewl, as he wraps his glossy lips around your swollen clit. All you get is a feral little grunt, his jaw parted, eyes looking like he’s on cloud nine as starts to suck harshly. Filthy little squelches filling the air as Satoru rolls his tongue across your clit. “Feels, s’good, Satoru.”

But your cute little whines turn into one of disappointment as Satoru pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Call m’Toru.” he slurs.

And he doesn’t waste any more time, tongue swishing in his mouth to spit on you once. Twice. Missing ever so slightly, and splattering on your thigh. You flinch, gasping out a breathless little, “Toru!”

“Oh shit, princess. Yeah- say m’name jus’ like that” he groans, ragged and raw. The last thing out of his mouth before he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your snug cunt. Dipping into your sloppy hole in and out in and out in and-

“He ever made you feel this good?” he moans into your cunt, the vibrations making you fuck yourself deeper into his unrelenting tongue. 

“W-what?”

“He ever made you feel this good? Cum so hard you see stars?”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “N-no. Want to- Wan’ you to make me cum, Toru. Make me cum around your tongue.”

And, well, what his girl wants - then she’s going to get. Because Satoru’s lapping at your cunt even more greedily than before. 

Stretching you out, breathing you in, looking up at your cute expression through his long lashes. Already so fucked-out for him. 

Nose rubbing purposefully in small circles on your clit. Fucking you with his tongue the way he wants to with his cock and he didn’t give a fuck if he suffocated in-between your thighs - he fucking loved it. 

“Hngh- shit shit shit yes!” your nails are digging into Satoru’s scalp at this point. The only thing steadying yourself to prevent you from collapsing onto the ground. And you really can’t help but angle his head just right so that his tongue curls against that one spot inside your plushy walls. 

Thankfully, he gets the memo. Because Satoru’s letting out a strangled little grunt at being so used by you as you drag your cunt across his pretty mouth. Body jerking into his as he hits that spot over and over-

“T-Toru- hah!” thighs quivering, Satoru’s grip bruising as he holds you up. “M’m gonna-” Your plushy walls sucking him up, thighs squeezing around his face. 

“Mhm?”

“Cum! M’gonna cum- ah- fuck fuck fuck-”

He groans huskily into your cunt. Throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to let your slick slide down his throat - greedily waiting for more that was to come. “Then show me how you cum, m’girl. Cum all over my tongue.”

And then you are - all over Satoru’s pretty face. And fuck he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier. Holding his head in place as you rock your hips into his waiting mouth, letting him drink you in so greedily. Clamping down on his tongue like you were trying to milk him. 

And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d notice the delirious little heart eyes that Satoru was giving you, your cunt firm on his face and swollen lips letting out such pretty whines of his name. Toru Toru Toru - like a prayer as you fucking use him for your high. 

Ah, he could stay like this forever, he thinks. But no, an empty house and you all wet n’ pretty for him means there’s too much more to do. 

Which is why he’s pulling away, your slick decorating his lips so prettily. Smeared across the bottom half of his face and dripping onto the hardwood floor in a maddening little drip! drip! drip! 

And Satoru knows, with the way you watch him so intensely, mouth parted, eyes glossy. Which is why he runs a thumb along his mouth, pooling your juices on his fingers and popping them into his mouth. One by one. 

Your jaw drops a little in disbelief as Satoru licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your addictive taste. Oh he was ruining you without even touching you. 

“Not enough, princess.” he chuckles. “C’mon, gimme a kiss.”

And, really, how could you ever say no to that face? Because you’re pulling him to you as soon as Satoru stands to his full height. Capturing his lips in such a sloppy, filthy kiss - forcing you to taste yourself and you half-lucidly wonder whether Satoru loved the taste almost as much as you because it was so him.

Bodies so close that your dripping cunt was seeping into his unfairly tight shirt. Forming a lewd little dark patch when Satoru lifts you effortlessly to guide you to the bed. Tongue still entwining obscenely with yours as he splays you out on the soft mattress for him. Drinking in that adorable lil’ shock on your face as you bounce on the bed, so drunk off of him that you didn’t even realize he was taking you to the bed. 

“Shit, y’look the prettiest like this, princess. S’a wonder m’not fucking passing out right now.” he hisses into your lips.

“Toru-” you whine, and shit the way his cock jumps at the mere sound of your voice makes you think that this will be a little trick you’re using more often. “Wan’ your cock s’bad. Wanna-”

You don’t even have the patience to finish the sentence before you’re fumbling with his belt. Something hefty and overpriced but you can’t possibly think about that right now because fuck you get the first sliver of milky skin. 

Satoru’s thighs were so sculpted and thick. It made your mouth absolutely water to wonder what it would feel like to ride them to insanity.

“Y’wanna ride my thighs? Fuck princess, you really are driving me crazy.” 

Shit had you said that out loud? 

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter because Satoru’s pulling his boxers down - so tight with his swollen cock, a dark patch right where his weeping head was. And you almost pout at losing the opportunity to take them off but oh how you’re distracted by the sinful sight before you. 

Satoru was massive - so long and flushed your favorite shade of pretty pink. Shit, you were going to have to get a lingerie set in this color one of these days. He was achingly hard and throbbing, springing up to smear precum all over his abs. 

And before you can even react, Satoru’s pulling you to him. Manhandling your pretty self so easily to straddle one, large thigh. 

“Oh- hngh, Toru.” you look up at him all doe-eyed and teary as he doesn’t even wait for you to register what’s all happening. Grip bruising on your hips as he rocks your hips so sluttily on his leg. “F-feels s’good. Ah-”

“Yeah? Y’like it? Like getting yourself off like a lil’ slut on my thigh?” he groans into your ear, low and husky with need. 

You nod wildly, sloppy pussy dripping all over his thigh, seeping into his skin as you grind your hips to meet his movements. “Like it s’much- ah-”

“Mhm? Better than anything he could ever do?”

“Yes yes yes, Toru-” you sob, cheeks burning as you realize that you’re humping him like a bitch in heat - but oh judging by the carnal little glint in his eyes, he liked it. Loved it, even. Because Satoru could feel the way your swollen folds spread to grind against him, clit pulsing so maddeningly against his skin. So filthy and messy as you used him to get yourself off. “S’much better- the best-”

He just didn’t expect to feel a soft hand wrapping around his cock. Eyes flying open to see you - all glassy-eyed, and fucking yourself on his thigh - wrap a hand around his cock. Starting to move in shallow, unsteady little motions up and down his throbbing cock to get him off at the same time as you.

“Wan’ you to cum, too, Toru.”

“Oh fuck.” he grunts, letting his hips fuck up into your fist in mindless little motions. “Y’don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

And with that his fingers were digging into the skin of your hips, forcing you to hold on for dear life as he drags your dripping cunt faster and faster across his thick. Movements erratic and frenzied now. 

Of course, you were not one to be out-done. 

Satoru’s precum spilling down your hand, your wrist now aching and wet, becoming so, so sloppy trying to get both yourselves off. But you still tighten your fist around his pulsing cock, desperately flying up and down his length. Pulling in quick, jerky motions to milk him for all he’s worth again and again and-

“You’re so oh- good f’me, princess.” he hums. “Your hngh- hands are so p-pretty wrapped around my cock. So perfect for me.” Bucking his hips wildly to meet your hand now, fucking your fist with no shame. Pulling you harsher on his thigh. “S’such a shame you had to hah fuck- meet my father first. I’d have been so much better.”

“Toru!” you squeal as one hand moves deftly from your hips to draw quick, hasty little circles on your throbbing clit. The friction from his thigh and fingers too much to handle. 

“I’d make you happier.” Your body is shaking now, hands messy and trembling around his swollen cock. “I’d make you laugh more and give you all m’time.” You can’t even look at him at this point, eyes scrunched close in ecstasy as Satoru whispers these maddening little phrases into your open mouth. 

“I’d make you cum harder.”

Oh and then you are - tears in your eyes, body convulsing into his as you cum. And of course he’s smirking smugly as he watches you ride your high out on his thigh, brows furrowed and bottom lip bitten in concentration as he holds off cumming. Not now. Not yet. 

“So, better than him or not?”

But shit was it hard. 

Especially when you raise your pretty, barely-lucid eyes to meet his, whimpering out a soft little, “I don’ know yet, Toru. Gonna hafta stuff me full of your cock if you wanna know.”

And perhaps for the first time since you walked in on him after the shower that night, the great Gojo Satoru is taken aback. Eyes widening in surprise, kiss-bitten lips falling into a soft oh! of disbelief. But not for long - never for long - because a devilish little grin breaks out across his face immediately afterwards. 

“Shit, y’really are perfect f’me, princess.”

With a low growl, Satoru is easily pulling your body - limp and boneless in his hands - to straddle his toned hips. 

You let out a yelp at the feeling of his fat tip just kissing your swollen folds, dragging teasingly along them, collecting the slick beading out of your sloppy cunt. Back and forth-

“Who’s got you feeling this way?”

“You, Toru.”

And then he’s pushing in, swollen cock bullying into your snug pussy. Thumbs drawing steady little circles on your hips - yes to reassure you but also to fight off that feral little part of himself that just wants to stuff your pretty lil’ pussy full until his heavy balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust. 

But no. No, it was so much better when you were the one desperately trying to suck up his cock. Gasping and moaning out strangled little whimpers of his name as you sink yourself down on his throbbing dick. Inch by fucking inch. 

“S’too big- Hngh! I-is it even halfway in?” you whimper out, and Satoru could almost laugh humorlessly as he tilts his head to glance downwards and shit- he was barely a quarter in. 

“No.” 

“F-fuck” cute little tears streaking down your face now, thighs trembling, “Toru, I-I don’t think I can-”

“You can. And you will.” Fucking up into you in short, rapid little jabs to squeeze himself deeper into your tight pussy. Shit, it was such a squeeze, you were milking the ever-loving soul out of him. And it only made him impossibly harder inside you, making you whine and grind down - torn between chasing the feeling of being so deliciously full and the sheer pressure. “Shit, love when your pussy’s sucking me up so good.” 

One hand is on your hip, sliding you farther and farther down his cock, the other drawing urgent, quick patterns on your clit. Not even circles anymore because shit Satoru doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity for that. Throbbing veins rubbing so sinfully against that one spot in your dripping cunt, splitting you apart to the same rhythm as the pulsing. 

And as soon as your ass meets his heavy balls - already so wet with precum and slick - Satoru doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore. Mind spinning, he doesn’t waste any time at all. 

“Fuck yes.” Satoru hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” He pulls his hips back, far enough that his angry, red tip is just kissing your sloppy entrance, surging forward, forward, forward- “Y’don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this, princess. Needed this s’bad, so so bad you don’t understand. Shit.”

And, hey, his girl deserved to be fucked dumb, right?

“Needed this ever since I saw you at that goddamn gala.” he whispers into your lips, ragged and so fucked-out. Each word punctuated by a harsh, heavy thrust. Ones that have you keening and grasping Satoru’s broad back for support. Nails raking down his shoulders as his pace gets faster. More purposeful.

And you can do nothing but take it, barely even able to form any coherent sentences. So prettily sat on Satoru’s lap as he fucks into you, babbling sweet little nonsenses made for your ears only. “Ever since I saw that murderous little glare you threw at those snobby guests.”

His balls smacking against your ass over and over. A quick, steady little tempo that you were losing your mind to. “Ever since you let me take your hand and drag you away to that secret bar to take shots instead of champagne.”

You don’t know whether you’re even crying at this point - all you know is that your cheeks are wet and your voice is broken as your let out a little, “F-fuck, Satoru- but your fa-”

“Fuck that.” he whines, and you could almost laugh at the adorable pout that makes its way onto his face. And at that you can feel him jolt so deliciously, head snapping up to meet yours. “I’m the better one.”

And as if he’s trying to prove it to your cunt, he’s drilling into you faster. Harder. Hips burning now as he fucks you like some animal. Hitting that sweet spot over and over. “I’m the one with the personality and the looks.” Long fingers almost a blur on your clit as he matches his place. Cock hot, and throbbing inside you. 

“I’m the heir, I get the company, too, if that’s what you like.” He’s bouncing you on his cock animalistically now. Hungry gaze taking in the way you’re sucking him up so well. “And I’m funnier one, I’m the one that should be by your side.”

You see stars behind your eyes at both the pleasure and sheer overstimulation as Satoru starts fucking your cunt as best he could without fucking breaking you  - but, honestly, he didn’t give a shit if you cried. He just wanted to stuff you full and have you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

“Fuck- fuck yes m’gonna cum Toru- hngh.” You pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “M-make ah! Make me cum, fill me up please, Toru.”

You feel him shudder inside you, balls squeezing so painfully. Hips sloppy and absolutely soaked with precum and slick. “Sh-shit, you’re not too good for m’heart. Ngh, f-fuck- I should be the one to make you cum. Over and over until you don’t know what it feels like to not.”

“Toru!” your eyes fly open, “Yes yes yes- it’s you. Only you-”

Oh, like something snapped then Satoru’s surging forward to bite down on the crook of your neck. Hard. You’d almost think he was out to draw blood. And then with a low groan, and one, harsh little thrust, Satoru’s cumming and cumming inside your pretty pussy. And you are too - back arching as you milk his cock through his high. 

Fingers digging into your skin as he holds your hips to his, letting your cunt be filled up so sloppily. Pumping thick, hot ropes of seed that dribbled out of you each time he pumped his hips into yours. Fucking it deeper and deeper inside you. 

And then you’re both collapsing, the exhaustion suddenly hitting the both of you as Satoru moves you both to lay on the mattress. Fuck, Satoru watches in wonder as his cum gushes out of you and forms a wet little pool on the expensive sheets as he starts to pull out. One round might just not be enough. 

Yet not yet - he can feel his eyes drooping, muscles aching as he pulls your sticky body closer to his. And Satoru knows he should get up and wipe you both down. But right now, he’s too drunk off the heat of your body and that angry little bite on your neck. Distracted by the cute lil’ expression on your face, so tired and thoroughly fucked out. Fingers playing with his hair, looking at him with an expression so fond - just like in his dreams. 

Nothing more is said. And all is quiet in your strange little heaven. 

That is, until - “So, princess. Wouldn’t ya wanna be an heiress instead of a sugar baby?”

A/N. How we feeling???

Plagiarism not authorized.

[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.

[chantillyxlacey]

i've seen a lot of takes (i am using the word 'take' absolutely neutrally here; and i'm specifying neutrality bc i have started to see that word as having inherently negative connotations in this context and i have no idea if that's just a Me Problem but i figured specificity couldn't hurt)

okay, that got away from me, let me start again

i've seen a lot of takes about The Damsel that have to do with idealization being another kind of dehumanization and how she's Like She Is because you/TLQ are projecting a fantasy onto her and sanding away any traits that don't fit into that fantasy and rendering her into little more than a vessel for your/TLQ's wish fulfillment

and i don't necessarily think that's *wrong* either-- but i think that's also not the complete picture, and that only looking that that half of the image does kind of tend to paint TLQ in an unfairly bad light

because the thing is, in The Damsel's route, TLQ is ALSO being reduced to an archetype just as much as The Damsel herself is! The Princess becomes the quintessential fairytale fair-maiden-in-distress that exists only to be rescued by a knight-in-shining-armor; and TLQ-- if you allow them to be guided entirely by The Smitten-- becomes that quintessential fairytale knight-in-shining-armor that only exists to rescue the fair-maiden-in-distress

The Damsel says over and over, explicitly, that "I just want to make you happy!" and The Smitten in this route is equally preoccupied with making HER happy-- he even says it directly if you start deconstructing her. every other part of his identity has been subsumed to revolve entirely around her just as much as the reverse is true for her.

(speaking of the Deconstructed Damsel, i've also seen Smitten's reaction to that touted as him not caring about her agency-- but again, i always read that as him being unable to see any flaws in her rather than being pleased with the idea of her being biddable, specifically. if you halt the deconstruction his reaction is "she's ALWAYS been perfect" -- he'd think that no matter what she did or said, because his identity revolves around her the exact way that hers revolves around him/TLQ)

even the actions that lead to HEA fit into this, i think-- i read that moment as less The Smitten lashing out at her because she didn't live up to his fantasy-- it still happens even after she's said "i guess we can stay, if that's what you want"-- she's giving The Smitten what he wants, but he's still distressed because SHE'S not happy

i think it's more The Smitten feeling that HE hadn't lived up to HIS half of their shared fantasy. if she's not happy with the idea of "all we need is each other" then it must be because HE failed somehow. if she needs or wants more than him, it must be because HE is not enough.

if he was just better at playing his part, if he just offered her more, if he was just clearer about his devotion--

"if we just showed her the contents of our heart, she'd be happy"

that's not to say that what The Smitten does in HEA isn't incredibly toxic for both of them-- it definitely is, and it clearly makes both the Princess and TLQ miserable. "everything she doesn't know she wants" is a bad mindset to approach a relationship with, whether that mindset is reached through controlling selfishness or a desperation to appease (and i definitely think Smitten is motivated by the latter-- it's no coincidence that we arrive at HEA through a literal and fatal act of self mutilation)

he's definitely the antagonist of HEA, in that he is what TLQ and the Princess and the player need to overcome, but he's not a VILLAIN (which i think is most clearly illustrated in the moment where the Princess admits she's unhappy, that she's never been happy here, and his reaction is to GIVE UP instead of lash out harder)

i never got the sense that The Smitten was ever putting any blame on The Damsel-- he always considered *himself* to be the problem-- he puppeteers TLQ just as much as he does the Princess, even if we can't hear him while she can, and he asks TLQ/the player through her "isn't this enough? isn't this what you wanted?"

which in and of itself is an unhealthy way to approach a relationship-- blaming oneself for every bit of conflict or lapse in synchronicity is just as harmful as laying all the blame on the other person. there IS no blame-- sometimes people disagree or have conflicting needs or desires, and that's not anybody's "fault" because that's just how people and relationships WORK.

...can you believe i wrote out all of this when my original intention was to lay out an entirely different point about a read on The Damsel/HEA routes that wasn't about relationships at all?

OKAY!

THAT GOT AWAY FROM ME LET ME START AGAIN

so i don't think that looking at The Damsel/HEA through a lens of "what does this say about relationships and expectations and respecting other people's agency" is incorrect-- clearly i have a lot of thoughts about that lens!

but i wanted to offer another one that i haven't seen yet:

The Damsel/HEA route as a commentary on what makes a satisfying narrative

if you play out The Damsel route just single-mindedly taking actions to free her-- it's kinda dull, isn't it? like-- it's not without its charms! The Smitten is silly and entertaining and the Narrator's exaggerated pettiness is very funny! but ultimately, that's about it.

potential sources of conflict are brushed aside-- if you took the blade with you, you just drop it and it gets forgotten; the Damsel's hand slips right out of the manacle with no effort or harm; when the Narrator locks the basement door, every 'choice' you make just magically unlocks it right away. and then you're outside, what you wanted to do from the start. ...so what do we do now?

nothing, actually. the chapter ends, and there is no chapter 3. the game itself continues, but that ending feels about as substantial as the Narrator's "Good Ending" where you follow his instructions without question and accomplish his goal immediately.

if you DON'T take either of the actions that lead to one of Damsel's chapter 3's, there's very little variation in The Damsel's story-- pretty much all of it comes down to slight differences in dialogue. there's no "the princess kills you" outcome. the closest thing to an alternate end to The Damsel is if you deconstruct her-- and even then, it feels like less an "alternate route" and more like-- a cheeky acknowledgement of the lack of substance, because that isn't a bug, it's a feature!

but if you introduce conflict-- either in the more direct sense by slaying The Damsel or in the more interpersonal sense by highlighting a mis-match in her and TLQ's desires-- suddenly the story opens up! there are a bunch of new possibilities and a bunch of new outcomes, and all of them are more interesting than "you achieve your goal with trivial effort, hooray!"

Even if you wind up finishing HEA on a note that is superficially very similar to the easy end of The Damsel's route-- you leave hand in hand with her, the narrator conceding defeat, and the last image of her before TSM takes her is a warm, tender smile-- it FEELS so much more like a genuine happy ending-- even though the Princess' face is still streaked and stained from her tears. BECAUSE of that.

it's one of the most heartwarming moments in the game, and one that has made me misty eyed every time i've seen it, and it's BECAUSE of the conflict you had to go through to get there.

conflict is what drives a compelling narrative, is the takeaway. it precludes PERFECT endings, perhaps, but not happy endings-- it's what makes those imperfect happy endings feel substantial and earned.

even the dinner and the board game contribute to the idea-- the description of the food is some really lovely writing, to the point where i sat through and listened to it all again even though i knew nothing really happens during it-- but *nothing really happens during it*. it doesn't move the narrative forward-- you're just as hungry as you were when you started. it just stalls the story in place, and every time you go through it again it's less satisfying until it's outright unpleasant. the description of the meal also notably gets simpler each time, and less detailed-- there's only so much that you can say about it before you run out of things to describe.

the board game is similar-- the way that it's described the first time you play even sounds like the description of an exciting story! and then the board resets, and you do it all again just the same. and so on. the game/story stops being exciting and the wins or losses stop feeling like they mean anything-- because is conflict really conflict, is a challenge really a challenge, if you're always tracing the same path, always making moves where you already know the outcome? it becomes "a slog towards the end"

and this is how i tie the idea of "what Damsel/HEA has to say about relationships" and "what Damsel/HEA has to say about narratives" together:

ultimately, the statements can be summarized the same way "whether in a narrative or a relationship, 'perfection' is unattainable, but you wouldn't actually want it anyway"

conflict, substance, variety

in a relationship there will always be differences of opinion, differing goals etc-- variety between the members of the relationship, knowing and sharing this substantial and non-superficial information about one another, navigating the resultant conflict-- that's what allows the relationship to grow and deepen, and what allows the people in it to grow as individuals as well.

in a narrative, or in Narratives, as a whole, conflict is what makes things HAPPEN, substance makes them feel like what happens MATTERS, like something is being communicated, variety means that you're learning or considering something new-- and those are what make a narrative capable of impacting a person, of changing them, of being remembered

[roanofarcc]

WING-MAN

pairing. pete martino x ghost!reader

summary. (requested) in an attempt to help pete woo alberta, you realize your feelings for him may stretch a bit beyond friendship. 

warnings. dead!reader, gender-neutral reader, slightly awkward reader, miscommunication, idiots in love.

word count. 2k || masterlist

“I think you’re overthinking this.” 

“I overthink everything!” Pete groaned, hiding his face in his hands. A part of you found his fretting endearing, showcasing how much he cared about every single detail of his plan. But the other part of you felt sourness encroach into the pit of your stomach, unfairly so. It had started happening more and more those days, a bitterness twisted uncomfortably where fondness had once sat. If you had been alive, you would have blamed it on a bad meal or a shift in the weather, but your death ruled out both of those options. The root of the issue was unknown, kind of; it was more unacknowledged by you. 

And you’d continue to ignore it because it was the right thing to do, you believed. Instead, you shifted all of your focus onto your friend and his ongoing crisis and crush on Alberta. 

“Come on, Pete,” you said softly, coaxing him out of his fit. “This’ll work. It’s a long game you’ve got to play, but if she feels the same, she’ll realize it sooner or later.” 

“And if she doesn’t?” he asked, a frown pulled on his lips. 

You sighed. You hated seeing him like that, down on himself. He certainly didn’t have the most confidence in himself, but you wished he had more. Pete was sweet, sickeningly so. And you knew that wasn’t exactly Alberta’s cup of tea, but people changed their minds all of the time, especially in death. Maybe all she needed was to see how much Pete cared about her, then perhaps she’d give him a real chance. 

“You’ve gotta have some faith in yourself, okay? Do you want me to talk to her first? I can butter her up and talk you up.” 

“You’d do that for me?” he asked like he didn’t know you’d do just about anything for him. 

You stood up from your seat with a soft smile as you crossed the room. “Of course, Pete,” you said before you slipped out of the room and set your sights on Alberta during her daily ‘Alexa’ time, listening to music in solitude until Sam or Jay needed to use the odd little robot for their questions or to play music that wasn’t old jazz tunes. 

“Knock knock,” you said, peeking your head into the room. Alberta turned around with furrowed brows. She didn’t look as annoyed when she realized it was you, but she still huffed and told Alexa to turn down the music. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” she said. “What do ya’ need?” 

You hesitated, unsure of how to subtly bring up Pete. Maybe the point was to stop being subtle and dancing around the idea of Alberta and Pete. Maybe they just needed to get things out in the open and it was your job to get the ball rolling, for the sake of your friends. 

“Can we talk for a minute?” you asked her, twisting your hands in front of you in a nervous habit. She looked confused but nodded anyway. “It’s about you and Pete.” 

Alberta sighed deeply and rolled her eyes out of habit. “Honey, there is no me and Pete.” 

“But there could be,” you stressed. “I know you used to date people different than him, but you won’t even give him a chance. How do you know he’s not the one for you if you won’t even hear him out?” 

Alberta studied you for a long moment, long enough to make you feel scrutinized under her gaze. Maybe you overstepped, but it was growing tiresome listening to Pete’s longing. You could only handle so much more of it. If he and Alberta just got together, then maybe the sour pit in your stomach would give up trying to poison the rest of you and you’d resort to pouring all of your feelings onto something or someone else inside the mansion. 

“Sit,” she instructed, gesturing to the couch. You obliged, taking a seat before she followed suit. “Have you ever been in love before?” 

Your eyes widened at the question, unsure of why she’d ask such a thing when you were trying to talk about her love life, not yours. “I don’t know,” you admitted. It had been a while since you were alive. The idea of love used to scare you, but you always thought you’d have some understanding of it before you died. Sure, you had crushes in your lifetime and a couple of partners but nothing that ever stuck. Love was a big word with a lot packed into it.

“Well, I have,” she said, a found but sad smile on her lips. “I like Pete. He is sweet but he’s not somethin’ I’m looking for, not when it comes to love. And you can’t force these things. Like or love, it’s not something you can talk yourself or someone into. Pete is a good guy, one of the best, but he’s not the one for me and I’m not the one for him. Sooner or later he’s gotta realize that.” 

You don’t know why you felt relieved at her words. Pete was going to be crushed. You should have been too because all you wanted was to see him happy. But instead, all you felt was a breath of fresh enter your lungs, knocking back the bitter feeling slightly. Did that make you a bad friend? 

She must’ve caught the conflicted set of emotions that shined in your eyes because she reached out, holding your hands with a gentle squeeze. “If I did like Pete, I would tell him. That’s all you can do.” 

“But you don’t,” you said, and she nodded, clarifying once more for you. 

“And you?” 

You blinked, pulling your hands away with an uncomfortable laugh. “And me what?” 

“Come on,” she groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re doing all of this for him because you’re just a good friend? I know when someone’s lovesick. And you’ve got one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen.” 

You scoffed; your gut twisted. “I-I do not!” you protested, shooting up from your seat. “I am his friend. This is what friends do-” 

“Nah-uh. Friends tell friends when they’re pursuin’ the wrong person. If you were just his friend, you would’ve told him a long time ago that I am not the person for him. But you’re so blind and sick with your feelings, that you’d do anything for him. That includes helping him try to win me over when you’re the one crushin’ on him. You’re deflecting, too scared to admit that you like him.” 

You felt exposed, open like a wound in front of Alberta. You crossed your arms over your chest, your skin hot and your stomach in knots. “I-I…” You couldn’t fight back because she looked right through you. All it took was a final, knowing gaze from her to make you crumble. You fell back onto the couch and buried your head in your hands. 

She placed a hand on your back, rubbing soft circles in an attempt to soothe you, but you weren’t sure you could be soothed. That was not supposed to happen. You were supposed to help Pete with the person he actually liked. How were you supposed to face him and tell him not only did Alberta not return his affection but instead you had a stupid, unrequited crush on him that would probably ruin your friendship? You wanted to cry. 

“Hey, look at me,” Alberta instructed and you forced yourself to peer out from behind your hands. She smiled softly at you. “No matter what, you’re going to be just fine. But speak your mind, tell him how you feel. Okay?” 

You felt like you were facing down the inevitable. One way or another, while stuck in eternity at Woodstone, you wouldn’t be able to hide your feelings forever. But you didn’t anticipate having to spill them so soon. 

Walking about the room, maybe you would have garnered enough confidence to broach the subject if you had till the following day; maybe if you had a chance to sleep on it, the idea would have become less daunting. But you didn’t make it but one step out of the room before you came face to face with Pete who was standing stuck in place right on the other side of the door. To say you were mortified was an understatement. 

Your mouth hung open as you two simply stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, you broke through your surprise at his appearance and cleared your throat. “Pete,” you breathed out. “What’re you doing?” 

He too shook himself out of his daze and flickered his eyes between the closed door and you. “You were taking a while and I just…” he trailed off. 

Your face felt hot as embarrassment crept up your spine. “How much of that did you hear?” 

He rolled his lips into his mouth, something he did right before he was going to lie, but he stopped himself and shook his head. “How much did you want me to hear?” 

“None of it.” 

“Oh, right, well…” He answered your question without actually answering it. You wanted to run away, maybe start a new ghost life with the basement ghosts to avoid a rejection you thought was coming. 

“I’m sorry!” you blurted out. “That wasn’t…you weren’t…oh boy.” 

“You like me?” Pete said after a beat, his voice soft and quiet in the middle of the hall. You were sure Alberta was listening from the other side of the room, ready to grab you if you tried to make a break for it. Your silence was his answer. “For how long?” 

Ducking your head, you blew some air from your cheeks. “A while.” Somewhere along the way, your friendship with Pete had turned into a crush that you thought you would get over. But it stayed, lingering in your mind as you tried to push it out because he so obviously liked Alberta. 

A let out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “You’re kiddin’ me?” Regret bubbled up in your stomach. Pete was a nice guy and he’d never say something to outright make you feel bad, but you still feared the worst for a moment. 

“But you like Alberta and I didn’t want-” he cut you off before you could fully explain. 

“I thought you were pushing me to talk to Alberta because you didn’t like me!” 

You sputtered for a response; your mouth failing to find the words within the swirling questions inside your head. “What?” was all you could get out. 

“If I would have known you…” Pete trailed off with a heavy sigh. 

With a shake of your head, you recalled when you found out Pete liked Alberta. You had overheard him talking to Sass about it. Since then, you thought your chance was completely gone because someone else held his affection, which was why you tried so hard to help him. You thought you’d been doing him a favor, hiding your feelings and helping him try to win over Alberta. 

“You told Sass years ago that you had feelings for someone in the house: Alberta. You told me yourself after you caught me eavesdropping.” 

Pete’s eyes widened. “I lied! I was worried you overheard me talking to Sass about my feelings for you. So I panicked and said I had been talking about Alberta.” 

“So this whole time you liked me and I liked you but we-”

“-thought the other didn’t feel the same.” he finished your thought, rounding off the sentence with a laugh full of disbelief and frustration. How did that even happen? How did two people who spent nearly every moment with each other become completely oblivious to the feelings of the other? It must have been some cruel joke the universe played on two ghosts already dealt not the best deck of cards. Or maybe and more likely, you’d both been so blinded by your want to remain friends that you completely pushed off the idea the other reciprocated feelings. 

“Oh.”

“Oh…” 

“Oh, my god.” Alberta’s voice appeared as she stuck her head through the door, peering between you and Pete with raised brows. “And now what are you two gonna do about it, huh?” 

You and Pete shared a look, both a little unsure but it was overshadowed by a creeping smile that couldn’t stay hidden. Pete cleared his throat and wiped his hands off on his shorts. “Would you want to go on a walk, maybe?” 

Your smile shined even brighter as you nodded. “I would love to.” 

[snezka-049]

Snezka and Doctor reference and lore (SCP-049) 🐰💚/💉🖤

Disclaimer: events of this story of Doctor (SCP-049) and Snezka, take place in one of the many multiverses of SCP! Lore will be supplemented. Sorry my bad English. This is my first experience.

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• Snezka. Doctor's assistant and apprentice.

Snezka's story [tw] (its me, myself, Childhood and my ideas, real events)

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From birth, Snezka had to go through traumatic, unpleasant events in the family: her father's frequent violence against her mother, their scandalous breakup, her repeated returns to him, and an identical outcome.

When Snezka was 5 years old, she and her mother moved to live with a very conservative grandmother. Domestic violence continued, in form of a cruel and despotic upbringing of Snezhka. For any childish mistakes, without explaining what she was guilty of, what she did wrong, and how it was worth doing - she was beaten, humiliated, severely punished.

When Snezka was 8 years old, her mother found a new husband, together they moved in with him, but problems got worse. Her stepfather began to drink alcohol often. In a drunken state, he became aggressive and literally tried to kill little Snezka. She had to run away from home to be safe, because her mother, although she tried to protect her, it was unsuccessful.

In future, these events affected her character, making her nervous, anxious, blaming for everything, depressed, and paranoid. This led to trouble in the future.

Problems began in her school years, it was not possible to join the team, all because Snezka's upbringing took place behind closed doors, she had no friends, for reason that she was not allowed to leave the house, she rarely went out for a walk, and then only under a control of her mother. She was not taught social adjustment and interaction, as it was not a priority for her mother herself.

Unjustified bullying and rejection of her peers led Snezka to aggression, in4 future she became detached from the general mass of people and until the very end of school, she experienced bullying.

The events that had happened had led her to Introspection. More and more often she thought about a meaning of existence, society and other philosophical reflections. Later, all of this led her to a breakdown, from which she attempted to take her own life. The attempt turned out to be non-lethal, which in the end brings more trouble and attempts to bring the matter to the end. From the age of 12 to 16, she tried to take her own life. Her family couldn't understand or help her, her problems didn't seem significant, her attitude was worse, no one tried to understand how she felt, no one tried to help or even just talk to her.

Since the time of rethinking, personality formation and age, the girl copes with problems and works on herself. In the family everything is more or less settled, communication and society appeared. In the process of the flow of all the traumas experienced, Snezka understands her mistakes and the mistakes of this world, the problems of society and the relations of people to each other.

Her raison d'être is to become one of those who will change the world for better. She dreams of working in medicine or psychology, but when she went through the psychiatric board, she was not accepted for training because she was diagnosed with schizotypal disorder. The disorder was diagnosed at the age of 15 when she was being treated in a neuropsychiatric hospital. This plunged her into further despair for several years, but eventually she came to decision to find another way to realize her destiny. More specifically, to return to what she'd been practicing before.

She had a theory that there were no bad people in the world, but wounded people who had not been healed. She believed that a person becomes wounded after being treated unfairly or cruelly by others who are similarly wounded. If a person does not work on his wound, it will not heal, because there are many wounded people in the world that will scratch this wound, making it bigger. And this pain and resentment like a virus or rot infects his soul completely, making the person the same as one who once inflicted the wound. Later on, this person carries this pain and resentment further, taking it out on others, making more infected. It is an endless cycle that cannot be eradicated completely, but can be minimized. Some can handle it, and some need help. It is necessary that a person wants help, understands the situation and tries to solve it too, because no one can help you better than you yourself, which is what Snezka had to go through.

Her first steps towards this were moral support and help to similarly lonely or abandoned people. She communicated with a lot of different people on the Internet, looking for people who needed help, as well as compensating for her lack of social life as a child. A lot of people during her communication with her, gained trust, she always said that she was ready to listen and help. People disclosed their emotional wounds to her, and Snezka could help them find a way to cure, gave advice on how to correct the problematic situation, as well as providing moral and psychological support, helping people to understand themselves.

One day everything changed in Snezka's life, a special Doctor appeared in her life....

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• SCP-049, Doctor. A humanoid creature, an anomaly, and a misunderstood genius.

The Doctor's Story (SCP-049)

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Once upon a time, he was probably an ordinary person, but after one incident and getting into "Alagadda", he became what he is to this day. It is not yet known whether it is possible to return it to its previous form, is it worth it?

Doctor believes that the world is sick with the "Pestilence" ー as he himself nicknamed this disease, its nature is not studied. His task is to rid the world of it, for what reason he took on this responsibility is not known, or maybe someone initiated him into it, once in the past (?). It has the ability to stop all biological processes in the human body with one touch, at its own will.

(The Pestilence is not a simple plague!)

Was captured by the SCP Foundation, which studies anomalies and contains them. At first, during his stay in the fund, he was closed in on himself and nurtured a plan for further actions. When he was told where he was, Doctor was very happy to be in the company of fellow researchers and scientists. He was eager to share his achievements and talk about his experience, but unfortunately he faced misunderstanding. His life's work, all his works, were criticized.

He insisted and was given a opportunity to show himself, but his experiments and operations failed, which with each such failure minimized the Foundation's handouts, and then stopped altogether. WhicWhichh extremely angered Doctor, in his opinion, the foundation staff, like many others, are incapable of looking past the minor setbacks to the salvation happening right before their eyes. He genuinely wants to help others, but unfortunately he was unable to provide the foundation with a concrete example of exactly what he is trying to save everyone from.

His long past keeps many secrets that he does not yet tell, probably does not remember everything or for some reason keeps it a secret.

One day, his life changed, he had a faithful and devoted ally who understands him and is ready for anything...

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• Beginning, escape from the foundation

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Snezka learns about the SCP Foundation from an acquaintance, and by invitation she managed to get to work there as a programmer. While working at the foundation, she learned about SCP-049 and became interested in his personality. As she learned more about him, she realized that they had a common goal in life and could help each other achieve it. She felt compassion for him and saw herself in him. She realized that this was an opportunity to change the world.

There was an accident at the Foundation, the security system was shut down, and most of the dangerous objects broke free, causing all the attention of the Foundation's guards to be focused on them. Snezka managed to get into SCP-049's holding cell, talk to him and convince him to trust her. Doctor was eager to return to freedom and continue his work after so many years. After a long time in the foundation, he had nothing to lose, the days were the same, and the possibility of escape became a very interesting proposition. Of course, he had to go through some difficulties, but the escape was successful. Doctor became one of hundreds of missing anomalies, and Snezka was added to the missing/possibly murdered staff.

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• Doctor and Snezka personalities

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Snezka

Born in the south of Russia. Speaks Russian and English, and is learning French. She looks like a fragile girl, slightly infantile, hyperactive, but when responsible moment comes, she becomes serious and collected. Extremely loyal and devoted, idealist, romantic and dreamer. Open and sociable when around Doctor. In public (without him) shy and silent. Optimist, finds bright sides in any situation, although due to frequent attempts to understand herself and digging in the past, there are prolonged depressive periods, and anxiety. (this has been eliminated with the advent of Doctor). Hypochondriac, vulnerable, can cry easily. Very empathic.

Often she feels miserably for dying sick patients, even if she tries to separate feelings from work and understands that this is all for the good. Even realizing cure is not perfect, she still fully trusts and is confident Doctor.

Attitude towards Doctor

She considers Doctor an alternative better version of herself, finds inspiration in him and sees an example to follow, dreams of being like him. Madly in love with him. He surrounds with a lot of care and tactility, shows signs of attention, may not notice how he hits hyper-protection.

Previously, Snezka did not have such love and romantic feelings for anyone, for a long time she believed that she did not need it, her priority was her life goal and work.

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Doctor (SCP-049)

He is able to speak different languages, although he prefers English or French. He is extremely well-mannered, intelligent, well-read and intelligent, a master of his profession, has outstanding knowledge and skills in the field of medicine. Uses complex phrases, metaphors and terms in speech. Very rarely show emotions, but is able to show them.

In general, peaceful, it is difficult to get him out of temper, however, if it comes to work or there is a person with pestilence next to him, he becomes aggressive and seeks to "cure" the patient.

Reacts negatively to criticism, is an idealist and a perfectionist. A little pessimistic, but confident in himself and his abilities (or wants to think so).

Attitude towards Snezka

Doctor sees in Snezka a hope, she motivates and invigorates him. With the appearance of this girl, his existence has brightened. She makes him feel truly needed in the world, which inspires and energizes him to work, he feels supported, cared for and understood. For a long time, Doctor has been alone and self-reliant. He has never experienced romantic feelings in his entire existence, which makes him temporarily unaware of his relationship with Snezka, but he knows that these feelings are positive. Deep down, Doctor is afraid of losing her, so he pays attention to all her complaints about her well-being.

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• Time after the escape

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Doctor began to live with Snezka, he understood that he would be safe with her, he did not want to be lonely again, he became attached to her. He was temporarily deprived of the opportunity to practice treating the pestilence. Doctor is a master of his profession, but because of the peculiarity of his essence, he cannot officially work as a doctor.

(and also does not have a license)

Snezka understood his longing for work, and also wanted to participate in it, she was very sorry for the fate of the Doctor and she was ready to help him with everything.

Sharing her story, Doctor realized that it makes sense for them to be together, and he takes her as a apprentice. The teaching took place theoretically, from his notes and personal narratives, but theory alone is not enough.

After a while, they became underground doctors, setting up their clinic at Snezka's home. Funds for it were spent from Snezka's budget, she earned money on tailoring clothes to order and drawing. This was enough to cover the costs of their accommodation.

For the clinic, Snezka found potential clients ー people in need of medical care. For their work, Doctor and Snezka took a symbolic payment, affordable to patients.

Those who did not have pestilence were cure with standard methods and procedures, whereas cure a patient with pestilence most often resulted in death.

Of course, the cure needs to be improved, but together they will find the best medicine.

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• Development of romantic relationships

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Their relationship was friendly. The initiative to get closer and move to romance began to show Snezka. Doctor noticed the change in her behavior immediately, but he was in no hurry to draw conclusions .

After a while, he began to feel that he too wanted to pay attention to Snezka and try to start a serious relationship, but only after he had achieved his goal of cure the world from the pestilence. But after a few years, he decided that their relationship wouldn't interfere with work, and made the first move, saying: "I've never felt this way before, but I think I love you."

After discovering that their thoughts and feelings were mutual, the couple began to pay even more attention to each other and express their love directly.

Because of Snezka, Doctor found inspiration and motivation to work, became less withdrawn and not shy to show feelings and emotions. And because of Doctor, Snezka was able to cope with her anxiety, become self-confident and let go of her past.

They complement each other, and together they can work on themselves and their common cause, they were able to realize each other's goals and desires.

They are cure for each other.

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• How they spend time together

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Most of their time, they are engaged in Snowball's work, treatment, and training.

In their free time, Snezka and Doctor like to philosophize about life over a cup of tea, walk in nature away from people, both have a weakness for lavender.

Often Snezka tries to introduce Doctor to modern culture, sometimes you need to take a break from work. She introduced him to many films, TV series, cartoons and video games.

Separately, they are withdrawn and deeply immersed in their thoughts, but when together, they become different. Sometimes Snezka becomes a psychologist for Doctor, because he still has mental wounds that he has never told anyone about, and she helps to heal them. They are confident in each other.

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• Situations from their lives

Why not, ahah. Section will be supplemented.

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Snezka often gives Doctor gifts, once the Doctor decided to give her his first gift, it was an embalmed heart in a jar. Snezka still doesn't know who owned the heart.

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One day Snezka decided to introduce Doctor to her family. She asked him not to talk about pestilence and not to cure anyone in her family if someone was sick with the fever, at least on the day of the first meeting, at least not in front of everyone. He promised that everything would go well.

At the family meeting, it was tense at first, Snezka's family was embarrassed by her lover's appearance. But after chatting for a few hours, they realized that he might be creepy on the outside, but he was a smart, well-mannered man.

When Snezka and the Doctor arrived home, Doctor sighed heavily and said that he was holding on and keeping his head down, but there were two people at the table with them who were sick with pestilence . They never traveled together to Snowball's family again.

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That's all for now, it will be updated from time to time. In the meantime, you can ask questions, thank you :3

[sashisuse]

hm… thinking about childhood best friend!suguru…

you saw him for the first time when you moved away from the city after the unfortunate passing of your parents. your grandmother stuffed you into her car and drove off, taking you to a little town where doves were stuffed into cages so that they may never spread their wings. you are sad and lonely on the day you move in, and right away, you spot a gloomy looking boy your age watching you from the window of your neighbor’s house. despite everything, you smiled and waved at the boy next door. he seemed surprised at first, but he smiled and waved back.

(you don't think you would ever regret smiling at him, no matter where you would wind up twenty years from then.)

you properly meet him only a few days later, when you are looking for a quiet place to sit outside of the house. he is there, too, and you approach him with the same smile you offered him days prior. you introduce yourself to him and ask him for his name.

“geto suguru,” he told you. suguru stared at you for a moment after that, observing you silently. you would come to learn he often did that. “would you like some tea?”

(you don’t think you’ll ever regret accepting his invitation, either.)

in that miserable town filled with miserable people, you and suguru just clicked and stuck together. you two were practically conjoined at the hip, despite the fact that suguru had a reputation for being so strange. you never minded or understood where that came from. you heard from your grandmother, who spoke with suguru’s mother from time to time, that he was just a strange boy. that he made stories up and blamed things on ghosts. that he was unfairly gloomy and difficult to raise. you never understood why people were so mean to him. he was quiet and polite, the best friend you had ever had. you followed him everywhere, and that made you a bit strange, too. but there wasn't a single thing anyone in the world could say that would make you not want to follow suguru around. you would follow him to the end’s of the earth if he asked. he was your best friend, after all, and you were his.

you both could talk for hours and hours about anything and everything. books, movies, tv shows, games, school... you laughed together and played together and that was the way it was. the way it was always supposed to be. you and suguru. suguru and you.

you remember the day everything changed oh, so clearly. the cold weather nipped at your nose while the air felt dry and cold in your lungs. you were trailing a bit behind suguru as you both ventured home from school. he was looking off at something in the forest but quickly diverted his attention away. the action did not go unnoticed and your eyes moved to the forest as well, trying to see what suddenly made his expression sour.

your feet stopped moving the second your eyes laid upon the thing in the woods. it stood out amongst the gray and brown of the cold trees — that strange, ugly beast. it twisted and curved in what should have been an impossible way with seven eyes, each of them oozing some green liquid.

"suguru?"

your fearful cry of his name caught him off guard as you reached forward, grabbing at the sleeve of his sweater. he looked at you in concern. you looked like you want to cry and he hated it. he hated that you looked so fearful, that you sounded so fearful. he wanted nothing more than to make it better, than to fix the problem that he wasn’t even aware of yet.

"what is that thing?" you asked with a quiet whimper.

suguru almost didn’t believe it at first. up until that very moment, he had lived his life hearing that something was wrong with him. something was wrong with him, because he saw things no one else could see. monsters, ghosts, creatures — whatever word you wanted to use. he saw them. his parents never understood. they seemed more disturbed by the fact that suguru never grew out of it, rather than the words he was saying. instead he kept it to himself. he learned to lie about it, so his parents stopped looking at him with such disdain. and at some point, maybe he began to lie to himself. maybe he began to believe that he was driving himself crazy. that he really was just seeing things.

but in that moment? in that moment, when you, his best friend, the one person in the world who had never once looked at him like he was strange or treated him as such, were seeing it, too?

you saw it. you saw it, too. you saw the monster. he’s not crazy.

he was not a liar.

and then, none of it really mattered. not when he snapped back to reality and realized just how scared you were. he couldn’t have that. he couldn’t let that happen. what kind of best friend would he be if he let you hurt like this? you saw them, too, which meant they wouldn't leave you alone like they did most people. they never left suguru alone once they realized he was watching them. so, he decided. he decided that from then on out, suguru would be your protector. because he may be young and he may not fully understand the concept of love, but suguru geto understands that he loves you. he loves you so much that he cannot bear to see you hurting. he loves you enough to decide he will bear it for you, and if he cannot take it all away from you, then he will still be right by your side to bear as much as you will let him.

by the time you are both teenagers, you have both become acutely aware of the things you could each do. magic or perhaps superpowers. you both had your theories, but you couldn’t think of any superhero that had to eat monsters and get sick from the taste of it. you would hold suguru’s hair back as the contents of his last meal threatened to come back up after he had to eat one of those things. suguru would hold you up as your vision blurred and darkened, as your body grew tired from the strange abilities you had. but you did these things to protect one another.

to take care of one another.

[fellthemarvelous]

Invisible scars

(TW: religious trauma)

Looking at me, you wouldn't know that I've survived religious trauma. The marks of religious trauma are seldom visible. In fact, I had no idea for the longest time that I had religious trauma (I thought it was a thing that happened to other people). I simply spent decades questioning the reasons I felt like I was so broken on in the inside. I kept trying to figure out what I was doing wrong and why I never felt happy or like I was never able to connect to anyone. I had no idea that my experience with the church as a small child is what shaped me into the anxiety-ridden, majorly depressed disaster creature I am today.

I spent 12 years learning inside of Catholic schools. It has taken me more than 20 years to process and deconstruct, and I am always going to be a work in progress. I was brainwashed into believing the very worst about myself, and I was always just beyond saving because I had the misfortune of being a woman in a church that taught us that women experience pain during childbirth as a natural consequence of Eve eating the apple, which is why they enjoy making us suffer in the first place. They taught us that Adam ate the apple because Eve seduced him, so even though Adam also ate the apple, his sin still wasn't as bad as Eve's because she did it first and used sex to get him to do the same. They placed the blame for Original Sin squarely on Eve and thus onto every single girl who entered the church. If a boy did something to me that I didn't like, it's probably because I did something to provoke him first.

Do you know what I learned to do at a very young age just to be able to cope with that?

I learned to use humor to deflect when I was struggling. I smile when I don't want people to know I'm sad. I laugh at inappropriate times, especially when I'm uncomfortable. I learned to bottle up all of my emotions because expressing anything other than happiness is bad. I learned to compartmentalize. I taught myself how to pull out the right emotion for the right occasion because I was always striving to be who I thought everyone else wanted me to be. It was exhausting.

In the midst of all of this, I'm trying to figure out which parts of me are really me and which parts of me are things that were put into my head. If you've experienced indoctrination, you know what I'm talking about. They pulled us apart as small children and placed us in specific boxes and told us that deviating from the norm was bad.

Crowley is a fallen angel. His change from angel to demon is drastic on the outside.

You know he fell and that his wings turned black and he ended up in a pool of boiling sulfur. It's the reason Crowley is so easy to sympathize with. He suffered unfairly because of arbitrary rules that deemed him unforgivable. He's accepted that part of himself. He's clever and creative and it has helped him find ways to get out of doing his job for centuries. Hell doesn't care how jobs get done just as long as someone does them, and at this point humanity is doing more to damn themselves than the demons are able to keep up with. They're tired and overworked. Hell is overpopulated even though it should be infinite in size. Crowley wants no part of that system because he sees it for what it is, just as he sees Heaven for what it is. He has the marks to prove that he is one of the damned, but that has given him all the perspective he needs to see that both sides are fucked up and toxic and "irredeemable" (just like him). He has yet to fully let go of the hold Heaven has over him because of how badly he got hurt.

Aziraphale is still an angel.

He never fell, and he doesn't know why. He has lied to God. He has lied to Gabriel repeatedly. He lies to protect Crowley. He lies to protect humanity.

Remember, Crowley and Aziraphale started off in the same place.

They both started off as angels who were created to do God's bidding. Aziraphale is the one who told Crowley what he'd heard about everything shutting down in 6,000 years. He was simply trying to make conversation. He didn't think it was something Crowley would object to. Angels were just supposed to go along with God's plans, but Crowley had a different opinion and was vocal about it. Where did Aziraphale get his information in the first place? Why does nobody ever ask this question?

Aziraphale knows Heaven is toxic. He's not blind. We need to move past this idea that because he still has love for God that he doesn't know Heaven is fucked up. He never fell, and it's something he still fears because who the hell doesn't fear the thought of eternal torment, especially if you know it's real? God has never cast him out of Heaven though and he doesn't know why. It's probably something that hangs over his head like the Sword of Damocles.

Letting go is not an easy task. Aziraphale has always been an angel. He didn't have his identity ripped from him the same way that Crowley did. Crowley had to adapt to a brand new way of existing because he was cast out of Heaven.

Crowley's trauma is evident on the outside. Aziraphale's trauma is hidden on the inside. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there.

Crowley was an angel and then he was a demon, but he doesn't want to be labeled as either.

Aziraphale has only ever known how to be an angel. He's only ever known the ways of Heaven.

I'm only in my early 40s. It has taken me 20+ years to undo 12 years of religious abuse. Aziraphale is immortal. He and Crowley have abandoned their jobs, but four years in the space of millions isn't a lot. No one overcomes indoctrination in four years. Especially when you had millions of years of blind obedience indoctrinated into you. It simply does not work that way no matter how much you want to believe it can.

It has taken me more than two decades to learn how to stop hating myself. I still have no idea how to love myself, but it's something I'm trying to learn.

My entire identity was wrapped up in what the church told me it would be. Once I fully denounced it and all organized religion, I found out I had no idea who I was. No one had prepared me for a life outside of this one very specific identity and role that I was expected to fill based on a very specific box I was placed into.

I still struggle with black and white concepts. It's hard to unlearn when you have no other basis for comparison, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. It means that these changes do not and will not ever happen overnight.

The fall didn't just affect the demons though. It affected the angels as well. Look at how tightly wound the angels are. They're always trying to do the good thing, but they have no idea what that actually means, and you realize this when Uriel asks The Metatron if they had done something wrong. They are scared of making mistakes, but none of them know what they are supposed to be doing since Gabriel disrupted the status quo. You can see they are unsure of themselves and of each other. The concept of free will is so foreign to them, but Aziraphale showed all of them that it was in their grasp when he allowed Gabriel and Beelzebub to decide where to go so they could be together.

It takes a lot of audacity (and sheer ignorance) to dismiss Aziraphale as power-hungry and abusive.

Aziraphale did nothing to punish Gabriel and Beelzebub. He allowed them to leave because they were in love with each other, and he knows what that feels like. He thought he was about to get the same fate with Crowley until The Metatron showed up and refused to take no for an answer.

He doesn't want to fix Heaven because he thinks it's perfect. If he thought it was perfect he wouldn't want to fix it.

Aziraphale is going back into the Lion's Den. He knows what he's going up against. He's been humiliated and belittled and abused by Heaven for thousands of years.

His scars are there even though you can't see them, and he hides his pain with humor and silliness.

When I see people advocating for Aziraphale to suffer even more because they don't think he has suffered enough, I find myself sitting back in one of those classrooms in Catholic school being told that I deserve the bad things that happen to me because I somehow failed to measure up to some impossible metric. The cruelty of that mindset aimed at Aziraphale is kinda the reason Crowley hates Heaven in the first place because he's been there too.

And as someone who is processing religious trauma, it's disheartening to see people say that because Aziraphale has yet to fully let go of Heaven that he deserves harsher treatment. Crowley would definitely not agree with that sentiment.

[ijustliketoreadstuff]

Zoe learned to overcome her fears of rejection.

It is no surprise that Zoe has lived one chaotic life, living practically every day in New York pretending to be someone she was not to obtain the approval of those around her. Zoe was good at acting, even considering a career as a professional actress, but what she hated was living out every day of her actual life playing a part she did not want, just so she could please all the wrong people. No matter how much she wanted, Zoe could not escape this way of life so easily, not even after she moved to Paris, as her fears of being rejected by her family wound up pulling her right back into the life she was so desperate to leave behind in New York.

Back in "Sole crusher", Andre told Zoe that if she ever truly wanted to be accepted into the Bourgeois family, then she too would need to give up her dreams, along with everything else in her life that made her who she was, and leave it all in that little cellar on the roof where no one could find it, just as he had done with his own life many years ago.

By placing her shoes into the little cellar and putting on the diamond heels Chloe loaned her, Zoe really was ready to abandon who she was and accept that she would always be fated to live a lonely life hidden behind the persona her family approved of. Back then, Zoe had hoped that moving to Paris would give her the opportunity to finally be free to be herself, but who she was was someone her own family did not want around, and if the real her wasn’t good enough for her family, then how could she be sure she was good enough for anyone else, much less Marinette and the friends she spoke of at Anarka's boat.

The idea of learning to just be herself and speak her mind to others is easy enough to consider, but it was the fear of being rejected by others that was far more terrifying to think about whenever Zoe did face someone. When Zoe went to Anarka's boat to introduce her true self, not the cruel girl she pretended to be on her first day at school when she attempted to please Chloe, we see her frowning face before finally deciding to walk to the boat and meet everyone, she was nervous, and for good reason.

Showing her true self to others was not only difficult, it was a moment of extreme vulnerability. We are used to seeing the other characters be themselves around the people that love and support them, because we know they will and have been accepted by the others, but for someone outside of that social circle, like Zoe, the struggle to be herself around unfamiliar people is a risk, she didn't know how they would react to meeting the real her, and considering she wound up being relentlessly bullied by the people she once considered her friends the last time she decided to show that sense of vulnerability in New York, it was only natural she feared the worst at Anarka's boat. If things didn't work out at Anarka's boat, Zoe would have no one to blame but herself for being incapable of knowing how to avoid such rejection all over again, and for a moment, that really was all she expected as she told everyone she would not blame them for not wanting to befriend her even after hearing her clear up any misunderstandings over her previous actions. The one person that ultimately did push her to go through with meeting everyone, was Marinette.

(Moments like in "Sole Crusher" and "Queen Banana", Marinette has always done her best to reach out to Zoe and help her when she was being treated unfairly.)

With Marinette's help, Zoe found a group of friends that loved and accepted her for who she is, but in order to keep that part of her life, she still had to do whatever she could to avoid trouble within her family now that she proved to Chloe she could not earn her place with them, after choosing to befriend Marinette. Andre came up with excuses to buy Zoe more time in Paris, but even then, Chloe was quick to threaten to turn to Audrey to send Zoe back to New York, if Zoe did not abide by her demands.

(To stay in Paris, Zoe was willing to comply by Chloe's demands, no matter how unfair they were, be it cleaning every one of Chloe's shoes or remaining confined to certain parts of the hotel. )

However, such threats to send her back to New York was all Chloe had to ensure Zoe did not step out of the line she set for her, but after finding the courage to stand up to Chloe in "Deflagration", to stop her from mistreating Marinette, Zoe did eventually come to understand that her family only had as much power over her as she was willing to permit them, and this she alone had the capability to revoke at any moment, it all depended on whether or not she was willing to find the strength to stand up and do something, rather than remain in fear and do nothing, something Marinette learned for herself back in "Origins" when she finally took a chance to stand up for herself to stop Chloe from continuing to torment her.

(In "Deflagration", Zoe finds the strength to stand up to Chloe so she could help Marinette, realizing that she too had the courage to stand up for herself and stand up for others in the same way Marinette did for her time and time again.)

Marinette and Plagg were right, regardless of who her family was and what their views were of her, she did not deserve to be mistreated by them. While Chloe and Audrey had a great sense of pride earning and upholding their names as a Bourgeois, Zoe could not care any less the more she understood her own self worth was not dependent on fulfilling her family’s expectations, their approval did not define her. So, rather than continue to withstand her family's insults and do everything she could to please them so they would refrain from sending her back to New York, Zoe did exactly what Plagg said she should do, and what Marinette showed her she could do for herself, to call the shots and not let others step all over her, and over time, that's exactly what she did.

In "Adoration" we see that Zoe never forgot that moment in Deflagration when she cast aside her fears of displeasing Chloe to stand up to her. Rather than use what she knew about her family to please them, she used what she knew to make their threats empty and useless.

Chloe always felt she was entitled to command everyone in her fathers hotel, including Andre himself, but Zoe removed that sense of control by befriending and connecting with the hotel staff as well as Andre, who were all soon quick to do whatever they could to help Zoe if and when Chloe lost her temper, allowing Zoe to use Chloe's temper against her to make matters more annoying for their mother. Audrey in particular favored Chloe and saw no wrong in Chloe tormenting Zoe, so of course Audrey sided with Chloe over the matters of sending Zoe back to New York.

To stop Audrey from ever carrying out Chloe's threats, Zoe had Chloe complain to their mother over every little thing, such as ownership of the hotel stairs, annoying their mother enough to force her to find solace away from them and ignore their constant bickering, even considering sending Chloe to New York along with Zoe if they didn't stop. 

Zoe didn’t just change things, she took back the power her family had over her, and the one thing that helped her accomplish this, was learning to change her entire perspective about herself.

Zoe learned to love herself the more she acknowledged her own accomplishments and capabilities, oftentimes through helping other people. And the love she had for those who were willing to love and accept her for who she is, especially Marinette(more here), helped her take a chance to put her foot down and build enough confidence to learn it was ok to say no to things, any rejection that came with it was just something she learned to accept came normally in life and was better to learn from it to better her own life, rather than fear it forever

At the start of "Adoration", Zoe was honest when she said it was thanks to Marinette that she was able to accomplish so much for herself. To have someone who was willing to reach out to her and show her a little love and compassion in her times of need, was more than enough to help her gradually seek out and build other supportive relationships that made her feel reassured it was ok to be herself. Zoe might not have had the loving and accepting life with her family that she'd hoped, but with every little change she made, she learned to overcome her fears of rejection and found a new family for herself in the friends who appreciated having the real her in their lives.

[isabelawritesthings]

Bi-Han and Sareena: An analysis and their future

I'm not good at analyzing characters or stories, but I didn't like what Netherealm did with these two over the years, so I decided to explore their relationship. Keep in mind that everything I'll say here is just my opinion, I ask that you respect my point of view.

PART ONE: THE DEMON AND HER "MESSIAH"

The first time we see Bi-Han and Sareena together is in Mortal Kombat Mythologies: Sub-Zero, also being the first Mortal Kombat game we saw Sareena. She is introduced as one of Quan Chi's demonic servants alongside Kia and Jataaka (in other words, they are slaves, but apparently, only Sareena wants to be free from Quan Chi's tyranny) while Bi-Han is on his journey to find Shinnok's amulet, the first interaction between them happens after Sareena and her sisters fight Bi-Han and lose. Bi-Han for some reason spares Sareena, I see this as an "act of pity", but calm down, I will explain starting with the story of Bi-Han.

Bi-Han has been seen as a villain for years thanks to his actions as Noob Saibot and the fact that he is a Lin Kuei, which was a clan of assassins and mercenaries, his current incarnation as a villain in Mortal Kombat 1 also doesn't help break this stereotype. But analyzing his character, he's not that bad. In the first timeline, he is the son of a Chinese man and an American woman, having a younger brother and a younger sister, being taken alongside his brother, Kuai Liang (or kidnapped alongside his brother, interpret it as you wish) by his father to China to serve in the Lin Kuei clan, abandoning the boys' mother and sister in America, So to begin with, he is not serving this mercenary clan because he wants to, but only because he has no choice, the Lin Kuei are also assassins, so for the safety of the clan, I imagine that anyone who tries to leave the clan ends up executed (I mean, If you watched Mortal Kombat: Legends, you know what happened to Kuai Liang and Smoke when they both tried to escape the cyber initiation, Kuai Liang escaped but Smoke was trapped and turned into a robot).

We also cannot forget that he was unfairly blamed for the Shirai Ryu massacre, even though he explained several times to Scorpion that it was Quan Chi, not him, who killed Hanzo's family, and what does he get in exchange for having only his word as proof of his innocence? Being killed by Scorpion and turned into a slave to Quan Chi, just as Sareena once was. Compared to real villains like Shao Kahn and Shang Tsung, Bi-Han doesn't seem to be as evil as the fandom thinks, he felt sorry for Sareena like any other human being with feelings would feel for an enslaved person (believe me, slavery happened here in my country in the past and to this day it is a sensitive subject even for non-black people) but getting back to the subject, Sareena doesn't want that life anymore and asks Bi-Han to take her to Earthrealm when he goes there, she doesn't even ask to live with him, just to help her get out of that literally hellish place, a bird wanting to be free from the cage.

This is the same arc as Ashrah in Mortal Kombat 1, a demon who has grown tired of the Netherealm and now wants a purpose in life, but before Bi-Han can say "yes" or "no", Shinnok attacks her and she falls into Bi-Han's arms, making us believe that she died (although it is later revealed that she survived, only losing her human form and being banished to the fifth plane of the Netherealm). A connection was created here, between a person and her "savior", she was defeated by that human, however, instead of running away to avoid being murdered, she simply asked him to help her get out of that place. After Sareena was trapped in the fifth plane for years, there was nothing Bi-Han could do for her, soon after he went to the tournament and everything we know happened.

PART TWO: DIFFERENT FATES

Sareena was trapped in the fifth plane for years, until she escaped through a portal created by Quan Chi and Scorpion, recovering her human form thanks to the energy generated by being in another realm. She meets Kuai Liang, who at this point is the new Sub-Zero and the new grandmaster of the Lin Kuei, who as a way of thanking her for the help that Sareena gave to Bi-Han in Mortal Kombat: Mythologies, grants her a place in the Lin Kuei, just as Ashrah went to the Wu Shi Academy in Mortal Kombat 1, the Lin Kuei became Sareena's new home.

In Armageddon, Kuai Liang wants to restore Noob Saibot and Smoke, who are fused, imagine that Sareena's wish is also to restore the one who helped her one day, Sareena helped Kuai Liang defend himself from Noob Saibot's attacks, ending up awakening her original demonic form. Kuai Liang does not recognize her and attacks her, abandoning her in the Netherealm, being found by Quan Chi later and manipulated into being his slave again, returning to the place she wanted so much to escape.

She was eventually freed from the spell that was mentally binding her by Taven, but like the rest of the characters, she was killed in the final fight at the pyramid. Her ending in Armageddon is "cute" to me, she ends up becoming a cryomancer, the connection she had with Bi-Han and Kuai Liang was so strong that it made her have the same superhuman abilities as them, a form of the gratitude she had for them.

Now speaking of Bi-Han, well, I imagine you already know what happened: He was transformed into a sort of ghost of darkness, having his mind manipulated by Quan Chi to become one of his evil agents. As mentioned, he somehow merges with Smoke while Kuai Liang tries to restore him. He also ends up dying in the pyramid by the way. And this is how their story ends :(

PART THREE: THEIR CURRENT SITUATION AND THEIR FUTURE

Sareena returns in Mortal Kombat X to help the Special Forces. In a fight against Kitana, things get interesting... Sareena claims that Bi-Han helped her, and she can do the same for Kitana. Kitana says that she got very close to Bi-Han (you can interpret this as Sareena becoming more human thanks to Bi-Han or Sareena actually fell in love with Bi-Han). In Mortal Kombat 11, at the end of Kabal, Sareena marries him and has two boys with him (don't ask, even I was confused). In a taunt round with Skarlet, Noob Saibot says that she reminds him of Sareena, showing that even after twenty-four years, he hasn't forgotten about her.

For me, it was always an implied romance, hidden feelings, I had hopes for the two of them when it was announced that Bi-Han and Sareena would be in Mortal Kombat 1 and would appear in the story mode, but Khaos Reigns destroyed everything! Bi-Han is transformed into Noob Saibot by Titan Havik, and sadly, him and Sektor (who is now a woman) are now a couple, probably since their teenage years, while Sareena is just a jobber in the story mode, but is later freed by Ashrah in her ending.

I believe there will be a Mortal Kombat 12 (after all, I've already lost hope for an Injustice 3, and we know which game makes more money between the two for Netherealm Studios) and while I and half the fandom agree that Mortal Kombat NEEDS a writers room, I still have hope for these two. Bi-Han apparently wants to continue as Noob Saibot, there's nothing stopping Quan Chi for having ambitions for him, and since Sareena is an enemy of her former master, they might meet again.

I like to imagine that Sareena would make him be "good", making him realize that he can be much more than the grandmaster of the Lin Kuei with fascist ideas, it doesn't even need to be a romance, just a friendship! But unfortunately Netherealm Studios doesn't listen to the fans (apart from the insufferable Mileena fanboys in MK11) so any chance they have of getting to know each other is minimal, even if they are as enemies since Sareena wants to train with the Shirai Ryu.

[ilikekidsshows]

I find it off-putting that people blame Kagami for not stopping Marinette from lying to Adrien. First of all, I thought being 14 excuses everything, or does that only apply to Marinette whenever she needs a free pass?

And second of all, Kagami in the scene where Marinette lies to Adrien in the white chamber, then does draw a line eventually at Marinette not stopping to beg for Adrien's sympathy and validation, even when he was already crying on Kagami's shoulder because his world fell apart.

I do not in any way blame Kagami for cutting Marinette off and sending her out. Cause at that point she just continued twisting the knives further and further because SHE wanted to be understood, instead of looking at her freshly orphaned boyfriend and stop talking already when he clearly couldn't deal with her need for sympathy and validation too.

Kagami was perfectly in the right to send Bug Noire out. Marinette crossed such an ugly line after already having lied so much more than Kagami could have possibly known she would do. How it is Kagami's fault that Maribug dished out 200 more lies per detail than necessary? How could Kagami have known that Marinette would go on to tell Adrien that he was an ungrateful and awful son for ever having thought his abuse to be BAD because Marinette claims is what the most heroic attempt at protecting Adrien Gabriel could have done and Adrien merely unfairly judged his heroic saint of a father?

How are Marinette's excessive amounts of harmful lies Kagami's fault? Kagami didn't tell Marinette to do all this. She just agreed to go with Marinette's decision to keep Adrien in the dark about his father having been Monarch, even when she didn't really agree with it because she thought Marinette would do whats best for Adrien. Doesn't this just mean that Kagami expected BETTER of Marinette than all these unnecessary cruel and victim blaming lies?

Cause Kagami does eventually stop Marinette, sends her away, and does her entire job of actually being there for Adrien in that moment. Kagami is being blamed by Marinette stans for not having stopped Marinette from lying, meaning they are saying Kagami has to take all accountability for Marinette's actions (nothing new), but they completely ignore that Kagami does intervene to prevent Marinette from making it even worse.

Instead they portray Kagami having done that as her being insensitive and cruel to Marinette. Cause, I guess, Kagami focusing on the actual victim and protecting him from Marinette continuing to twist the knive for self-validation that Kagami didn't even expect Marinette to twist as she did is Kagami being a bad person and friend. Sure. The Marinette centric propaganda in the fandom is fucking insane.

Same as this completely incorrect mindset of Marinette not having been able to be there for Adrien more as Bug Noire because "Ladybug isn't allowed to do that to keep him and her identity save". I mean, what kind of nonsense is that?

Since when is a hero not allowed to genuinely hug, comfort, and bond with a victim on a deeper level? Superheros constantly do that. It's a normal part of a hero's job.

It's Batman at his fucking BEST, for crying out loud! This rather feels like a wave of excuses for why Marinette never working on opening up to people and be approachable as Ladybug for more than 2 seconds is not only okay, but also "the one and only way a hero should ever go about this" because of that god awful season 4. Even when heros in media very clearly don't do this.

Man, Marinette stans talk so much fucking nonsense, how is that even possible?

Marinette didnt do some grand heroic sacrifice by keeping Adrien at arms length in that scene. She just can't fucking talk with people anymore if it isn't for her own sake as she clearly struggled with in that scene. She wanted Adrien to comfort HER because thats all she knows in their (or any) dynamic, but at least knew to hold back. That's why she struggled, as she clearly begs more and more for sympathy for herself instead of being there for her boyfriend/ the victim. She doesn't know how to fucking DO that cause she only knows how to get it for herself (see all of Ladynoir to prove my point). That's not heroically keeping a professional distance, her being THIS incapable of comforting a victim rather puts on full display how unprofessional Marinette was all this time by always shielding herself from accountability by hiding behind the "professional leader" excuse.

Thank fucking God that Kagami intervened, send her away, and took care of Adrien. Cause Marinette clearly wasn't gonna support Adrien, she would have continued begging for sympathy for her own sake.

So in what reality can Kagami being given shit for anything here? It not her fault that she expected better of Marinette than handling it in the worst way possible.

---

Marinette stans will claim Marinette is the victim in every single situation ever. I’m just waiting for when these excuse-churning twerps just go: “Adrien caused Marinette to lie to him by being so sad and mad at his father. It’s Adrien’s fault for having emotions!” Of course the stans are pointing fingers at Kagami; she was in the room when Marinette was upsette and wasn’t solely focused on protecting her! Clearly she is an awful friend!

If Marinette needs to be babysat by Kagami, maybe she should hand the Guardian status and Ladybug Miraculous to Kagami too. If Kagami is the one in charge of Marinette’s decisions regardless, maybe she should be making all the decisions to begin with, you know? Also, once again, if Marinette is this incompetent that she needs anybody in her vicinity to take responsibility for her and her decisions, why is she in an important leadership and hero position and taking further responsibility over Adrien’s entire life and wellbeing. She should be getting treatment for her mountains of emotional and mental issues that cause her to be this incapable of doing the things she’s trying to do. Sounds like reckless endangerment to me!

Also, "superheroes can't comfort civilians" is actual bullcrap. One of the most iconic Superman comic moments is when he once swept in to comfort and hug a suicidal girl. One of the most iconic Batman moments of the DCAU is him holding a dying girl's hand so that she isn't alone when she dies, and that isn't even the only time Batman comforts someone in the DCAU. Hell, he even comforted some of his villains through a mental breakdown. If Marinette can't comfort Adrien because it would risk her secret identity, that just says that Marinette would only comfort him as her boyfriend and not a victim in need of support. Except, like, even as civilians, Marinette just takes comfort from Adrien and never gives it, so even that is complete bullcrap.

The reality of the matter is that Marinette couldn't be bothered to even attempt to comfort Adrien, because it made her uncomfortable. She was too upsette to focus on anything other than herself, as usual. The Marinette we've been left with is just selfish and unheroic.

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

Pretty As A Picture - Chapter 5

Marvel

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Theme: Soulmates - Feeling the connection as soon as you see each other.

Summary: When Bucky fell from the train, their soulmate was told he was gone. When Steve Rogers disappeared into the ice, their soulmate was again told one of her soulmates were gone. But she didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. Committed to a mental health institute, she dies of a broken heart. That's at least what the hidden S.H.I.E.LD files say, but if that's the case than why is there a photo of her. A photo that shows her side by side two redhaired Avengers.

Warnings will be per chapter.

For this fic reader will be British, but let your imagination replace if needed.

Chapter Summary: Where are you? What does anyone know? And is Nat unfairly getting the blame?

Chapter Warning: Mentions of mental health, death, loss, electric shock therapy.

Wanda’s eyes went wide and she snapped to look at Nat.

“Have you seen this? Have you seen this before?”

Natasha shook her head.

“You never showed me this Steve. Why wouldn’t you show this to me? To any of us?”

Steve sighed.

“Honestly, it hurt too much. Every time I look at it, every time I look at her, see her face. It feels like my heart is being crushed. To everyone else it’s seventy years, for me, well, it’s not. I look at it and I can smell her perfume, hear her voice, feel her. The chances of her still being here were small. When I was first given a stack of files from Fury, some of you were in them, so were Howard and Peggy, but she wasn’t. When I asked Fury, he didn’t know who I was even talking about, and if anyone could find anything it was you or one of you. This is all I have of her and I couldn’t risk losing that.”

“But you realise that this would have helped us look right? Sure there’s nothing from then but if you’d have shown Nat this, or Clint? It would have been ‘oh hey, I know her’ but instead you’re giving Nat shit. That’s not cool Cap.” Sam replied.

“This is all we have. The evidence shows she’s dead.”

“That’s her Steve.”

“I know Buck, look, I looked for her myself once I’d got a hand on the technology. There was nothing until that file and I gave you all a very clear description and…”

“Now hang on” interrupted Clint “you think hair and eye colour are a good description. Rogers there’s billions of people in the world, and you’re questioning us?”

Steve remained stoic. Bucky however, couldn’t seem to get a reign on his emotions. This was a chance of him getting his girl back, he wasn’t about to hide things.

“He was scared.”

“Buck!”

“Tony’s right. After everything that’s happened, everyone, including you and me, promised no more secrets, no more lies. You were scared Steve, hell, I’m scared too. What if she doesn’t want me after all these years, after all I’ve done.”

“Bucky”

“No Steve, I know you. If you’d have given Nat, Tony, any of them that picture, it would have been ran through every single database in the damn world and I’m pretty sure Friday or Tony could have aged her, taken into account any changes to her appearance, part of you was scared. Scared that if she was around, if she’d survived from back then, that she’d be old, wouldn’t remember you like Peg or that we’d have put her in danger again.”

“Aliens came out the sky Buck.”

“Exactly!”

“I had no reason to not believe Peggy.”

Seeing the conversation becoming heated, Tony decided at this point to step in.

“I’d like to add something if I may. Peggy Carter was my godmother and I knew her as well as you can when someone is your parent’s friend. I never heard them speak about your soulmate or any other female agents, map girls, just each other, you two, Phillips and the Howling Commandos. So all of this, deleting her, behaving like she didn’t exist was to keep her safe. If their truth was to out when Peggy died then it would be neatly put together just like this. If there was anything else, it would be in her file, if there was a clue to anything else it would be here in Peggy’s handwriting. I want to help you Capsicle, and you” nodding at Bucky, “but I need everything and I need Friday to scan that photo, you don’t need to move it, none of us need to touch it but we need it.”

Steve nodded and Bucky uttered a quiet ‘please’.

“You all saw that right, he nodded. I’m taking that as consent. F.R.I.D.A.Y get to work, scan the photos on the table and capture all the info in this file. Romanoff, gonna need her info.” Tony stood as projections came up over the coffee table that sat between the sofas they were all sat on.

“Freelance British Agent 21. Code name White Knight.” Said Nat.

“Why is it locked?”

“You have to high level clearance according to the screen.”  Vision pointed out.

Tony gasped in mock horror.

“Well most of us are still on the naughty list. Friday scan Rhodey for access.”

“Access denied Boss.”

“Access denied. What? I’m on the good list!”

“Boss none of you will get access.”

“Unless” Romanoff started “you have an access login given to you by the agent herself.” Nat typed in her phone and projected the result to go against the others.

“Just to loop back around, earlier the contact you were talking about, it’s her?” Asked Tony.

“Yes. Does that matter?” Natasha asked.

“No, but unless you haven’t noticed I’m incredibly nosy.”

Clint snorted with laughed. “Oh you and Y/N are going to get on like a house on fire.”

“Nat don’t let the two of them spend too much time together.” Laura added.

“Why not?” Steve and Pepper replied at the same time.

“World domination springs to mind.” Clint muttered.

“Oh I definitely like her already. Ok, Friday, what do we have?”

“The results are inconclusive boss.”

“What? What does that mean?” Asked Bucky.

“Break it down F.R.I.D.A.Y.” Tony replied.

A fresh batch of projections displayed.

“Examining the facial features, matching the structure and identifying marks, is a 100% match but her DNA and genetics test show she’s not of the age of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes soulmate would be.”

There was sighs around the room. Vision spoke first.

“It’s unlikely that the testing could have been tampered with due to the secure way it’s taken.” Vision pointed out. “Although her last testing is past the usual repeat time.”

“How is she still working if she’s missed testing? It’s a requirement for the health check.” Rhodey added.

“Must of been busy.” Clint said, trying to brush past the comment.

Bucky watched as Nat seemed to find an interesting spot on the meeting room carpet that she couldn’t take her eyes off, Bruce rubbing circles on her knee. Clint was now looking off screen, Laura had disappeared.

“OK, what is it you’re not saying?” He asked.

“Who you talking to Buck?”

“These four. Bruce, Nat, Laura and Clint, you’re not lying but there’s something you aren’t saying.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y interrupted.

“Boss, we’ve got a visitor.”

“Well, don’t let them in.” Tony instructed.

“Sorry boss but it’s Deputy Director Hill and she’s used her pass.”

“Wilson, your booty calls here.”

Sam shook his head.

“Actually Boss, she’s here to see Agents Romanoff and Barton.”

Before anyone had time to comment further, Maria entered the room. Tony acted quickly, minimising the screens that displayed their soulmate, wanting to respect Steve and Bucky’s privacy.

“And what brings you here Hill? That isn’t Sam’s sparkling personality?” Tony asked getting him a swat from Pepper.

The team shook their heads at Tony’s poor joke. Maria didn’t even flinch or react. Her lack of reaction causing everyone to turn to look at her fully.

Her eyes were blood shot, face damp from tears and she looked liked she hadn’t slept in a week. The enhanced in the room could smell the coffee she’d clearly been living off, along with a faint hint of scotch. Steve would guess one glass, thirty minutes ago.

Pepper stood first, nearest placed to Hill. Sam also stood to go towards her.

“Maria what is it? What’s wrong?” Asked Pepper. She held her hand up to stop them going further.

“I’m here in my role as Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton as….” She paused and swallowed hard.

“This isn’t a mission is it?” Sam asked.

Maria lowered her head and took a breath, when she looked up, she locked eyes with Nat, who was now also standing.

“Shall we do this here or in private?”

Nat had a horrible feeling. A feeling deep down in her stomach that this was the worst kind of news. She had seen Maria in this state twice. Once when Coulson died (or so they thought) and the same when Fury had (or so they thought - again). Clint spoke before Nat had chance to reply.

“Just spit it out Hill, so I know if I need to get on the jet or not.”

Maria glanced at Nat who nodded.

“According to our records and that of MI5 and MI6, you are registered as next of kin and the emergency contacts of Freelance British Agent 21, code name White Knight. As my role of Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D I’m here to inform you that 50 hours ago, during a covert mission for our agency, Agent 21 missed her checkpoint. Due to the evidence found two hours ago, she is now declared as missing in action, presumed dead."

Enjoy this fic? Fancy a cuppa? My Ko-Fi.

[ssruis]

Using saki for tsukasa angst is so lame in that I think overly focusing on him in middle school & giving zero thought to how saki must have felt is loser behavior. Sorry. But saki blames herself (unfairly) for so much I knowwww she absolutely blames herself for the tenma parents neglecting tsukasa as a kid (they did their best but. Yknow) and him being alone so often as he grew up. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say she even blames herself for worrying him/him being upset that she’s hurting. Even now when he skips practice to take care of her when she’s sick, she views it as her inconveniencing him.

Tsukasa doesn’t dwell on his past, because saki is healthier now and she gets to live her life - and he would go through things 100x worse just for her to be happy. He would never dream of blaming her. He’s more than happy to take care of her, it’s how he shows love. It’s not something that needs to be repaid, and even if it was she repays it just by being his sister.

And saki knows this. She knows he loves her and doesn’t blame her. but I feel like a part of her thinks she deserves for him to blame her and feel inconvenienced. Because to her it’s something she can never reciprocate. Tsukasa has always gone out of his way to hide when he’s genuinely upset/struggling from her and is so averse to being seen as anything but an unshakable source of support. So how can she be sure that he’s not more affected by being alone? How can she be sure it wasn’t worse for him than he lets on? She can tell when somethings wrong with him but he won’t tell her even if she asks. He does everything to avoid worrying her but she’s going to worry anyways because she loves him as much as he loves her.

& she can never ask him because obviously he would deny it, & she can’t apologize (she doesn’t need to but that’s not something she can accept) because he doesn’t think she needs to and it would just concern/worry him that she felt that way. Saki going “You’ve done so much for me please let me be a source of support for you” vs tsukasa going “I would rather run directly into traffic than be something for you to worry about.” His unconditional unselfish love being a source of guilt for her (as much as she both appreciates it and wants to return it) on top of her already existing guilt complex. Smiles.

[jewish-vents]

I'm tired of being the kind Jew

While we are caring for everyone who cares for us?

I always remember the Marlon Brando story: everyone praises him for his activism but in 1995 he said that we control Hollywood and are at fault for all the racism and bigotry present in the industry while protecting ourselves from antisemitism.

Why do we have all this burden and responsbility on our shoulders? Yeah we can do better but how is everything bad in the world our fucking fault?!

Why can't people criticize us without immediately generalizing us and hating us? See: antizionism (anti zionism could be an interesting concept but it's just antisemitism. Historically it always has been but whatever lmao)

We get unfairly criticized more than everyone else. It makes me so angry.

Marlon Brando a white man had the audacity. Blaming us. I'm sick.

We protect ourselves because we're all we have. We work hard to support other groups and it is obvious in our history of being on the frontlines of most if not ALL fucking causes. DID YOU KNOW A JEWISH WOMAN DIRECTED PARIS IS BURNING????? We are present everywhere bitch! We're invisible to gentiles but we are always there. And somehow it's never enough. Somehow we're the evil masterminds that support racism?

We get shit done. The last people in the world being called selfish should be us.

Some Jewish men are evil and powerful: we get severely generalized for it.

When that dan schneider documentary came out and was trending I had to block and hide from all the "he's a jew 👀" tiktoks and tweets that were everywhere.

I just want us to be able to exist. We get punished for everything. Blamed for everything.

.

[dontexpectmuch]

anything with jude x really sensitive reader I BEG OF YOU (maybe he gives her a silent treatment and she starts crying because of it) it's okay if you don't want to do it, dw <3

jude was aware that it wasn’t your fault, he knew that he was treating you unfairly, but he just couldn’t help it. losing the first game of the season really took a toll on him, crushing his hopes of having a completely clean sheet.

the worst thing, though, was seeing you standing there, with an apologetic smile facing him as you waited for him after the game to drive back to his place. he knew that you only meant well, that you just wanted to show him that you understand him, but at that moment he just felt really mad, at the result, his teammates, himself, just everything, sadly you being also included in the reasons for his anger.

so, jude did what he always does when things don’t go the way he wanted to, he simply shut off. meaning, completely ignoring you and his mother, the both of you helplessly trying to cheer him up as best you could. now, with the two of you in his room, you sitting on his couch and him silently laying on his bed as the scrolled through the content that was displayed on his phone, you nervously thought about ways to talk to your boyfriend.

but, whenever you tried to speak up, a lump would form in your throat, scared of the nthed rejection of the day. you told jude multiple times before that you really did not like it to receive the silent treatment, as it was something your parents would and sometimes still do to you, to punish you whenever something wasn’t going their way. it made you feel small, unworthy of being noticed and triggered this huge amount of sadness and insecurity inside of you. just sitting in complete silence with jude was awful, especially if you wanted to hug him and tell him that he tried his very best, that he was your player of the match and what not.

“would you like some tea, maybe?” you asked him, voice gentle and cautious while your eyes mustered his figure, hoping to see changes in his mood. instead, you were once again left in complete silence.

sighing, you get up and leave his room, closing the door behind you as you go downstairs to spend time with his mother. “no changes?” she asks when you sit down on in the living room, shaking your head silently.

“i,” you began, shakiness vivid in your voice, “i told him many times that i don’t like the silent treatment, that he should rater talk to me or someone instead of doing this, like, it just makes me feel so,” you stopped without finishing your sentence, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

“oh my baby.” his mum sits closer to you, rubbing your back, trying to comfort you as much as she could, “jude seems to be mature for his age, but he still is a teenager. he will bet mad at unnecessary stuff and behave like a child.” she states, pulling your head in to rest at her upper body as her hand rested in top of your head.

“i really try to understand him, denise, but, he knows, you know? he knows that i am sensitive to that and he, i don’t want to blame him, i understand him so well, just, i don’t even know.” you try to explain your point, slowly calming down and pulling back as you look at her nodding.

“give him some time, okay? he’ll get his act together after living out his dramatics after a bit.” hearing her say that made you laugh a bit, knowing that jude really was a drama queen.

you stayed with his mother downstairs, helping her prepare dinner and just talking about random topics. after an hour or two passed you heard jude entering the kitchen, guilt written all over his face. as if he telepathically communicated with his mum, asking her to leave the two of you alone for a bit, she excused herself, saying something about calling her husband.

“love.” jude starts, pulling you in his arms and resting his head on yours, “‘m really sorry, just was mad at everything and took it out on you.” he apologized, softly swinging your bodies from side to side.

“i told you before that i don’t like the silent treatment, jude.” you tell him, pulling out of his arms and crossing your arms infront of you. the hurt in your voice made judes heart ache, he knew that you were quite sensitive about it, yet he let his anger take control and hurt you in the process.

as he opened his mouth, wanting to apologize again, your voice came out first, “but, i understand you, i really do and i’m not mad at you or anything. i’d just like it if we could talk next time? or, i don’t know, do something, i don’t want you to be sad.”

immediately agreeing with your point jude shakes his head, “of course, i know that it was unfair of me taking it out of you, babe, i’ll talk next time or something.”

“thank you, love.” now smiling at your boyfriend, you step back into his arms, head resting on his chest, “but you’re still a teenager, being mad at something is normal, please don’t think that you don’t have the right to express your emotions.”

“i won’t.” jude whispers back, savoring the feeling of you inside his arms.

having you try to understand him the best you could and being there for him when he needed you the most was probably one of the biggest blessings in his life, he wouldn’t let it go to waste that easily.

——————————

purrrr

[sstardustt3]

Star yaps abt what would i do from falsettos

(copy and pasted from her school paper…)

Over the course of the year I’ve had many obsessions (ranging through days to months) and my current one being from June, Falsettos by William Finn and by extension entire Marvin trilogy. If I could explain why I love this musical and all my thoughts on it I would but today I would like to focus on one in particular “what would I do?” The final of the song (or second depending on if you count Falsettoland reprise as a song).

The song begins after Jason’s bar mitzah; where whizzer after thanking Jason turns away and goes limp. From there he is carried off and the hospital room is stripped away and it is just Marvin alone standing in the same position to reflect.

Now this shot alone says so much. The set of falsettos is made mostly out of grey foam blocks that are made to represent Marvin’s mind state and I think by having everything stripped away shows how Marvin is mentally. He’s alone, he hasn’t moved on from where he was when whizzer died, he can’t. And for the audience it helps set in stone the reality of the situation and it stings.

In the religion of Judaism (which I’m not Jewish but the characters are so I think it’s important to mention but again I may be wrong ) it says that everyone, both good and bad gets what they deserve in the end. Even with that ideology he still feels robbed, and that whizzer died young and unfairly.

According to the World national heath organization people would die only weeks or months from their diagnosis. Assuming that whizzer died closer to the weeks mark it would’ve made less time to really grasp the situation even more so that AIDS wasn’t something with a lot of information. There was no real explanation to the violent death that killed his lover.

A very important fact is that whizzer is Marvin’s first real love. Marvin’s main issue and arch in the trilogy is that he can’t figure out love properly. He tries to love his sweetheart, but only ends up putting her on a pedestal and neglecting her. He thinks he loves ms. Goldberg but only an idealized version of her. He tries to learn to love Trina romantically but can’t bring himself to and ends up neglecting her. Whizzer is the first person he truly loves.

So he wonders to himself if he was never in his life, what would happen? Who would he blame everything that happened on? Whizzer states that he ruined the life Marvin had. Which is technically true.

If Marvin had never met whizzer he wouldn’t have cheated and he wouldn’t have gotten a divorce. If he never got a divorce Trina wouldn’t have went to Mendel (Marvin’s therapist) and they wouldn’t have gotten engaged. If Trina and Mendel never got engaged then Marvin wouldn’t have hit Trina in a fit of rage and hit her in front of Jason and he wouldn’t have seen how wrong he has been and how much he is hurting everyone around him especially Jason who he cares most about and been pushed to change.

Whizzer, who comes out later in this song about halfway through as what I believe to be a further representation of Marvin’s mental state; asks if Marvin regrets the time he spent with him and all he went through to hold him and Marvin says if he could he’d do it again. Which is in reference to a song earlier “love is blind” where at the end Marvin speaks on his of love. That it being messy and dysfunctional and something to never even consider doing over again and it shows how much Marvin has really grown and learned that love doesn’t have to be toxic and painful.

Another thing to be noted is that whizzer comes out in a white button up and brown pants like he had on at the start of act 1 except the shirt is white and not green. What I think this is meant to show is that Marvin is slowly forgetting details about whizzer which supports the idea that most people agree on that Marvin also has aids and dies soon after the ending since memory loss is a symptom of dementia which sometimes a result of aids.

Going back to an earlier point of Marvin and his grief he asks himself how could he move on? How could he face the future without him? Especially knowing that he’d most likely die the same way whizzer did. He wishes whizzer was there with him which is why whizzer shows up halfway through. He wishes whizzer was there with him to live a much longer life and talk to him. Whizzer died young and unfairly and so will he and they’ll never have the chance to better themselves.

The song closes with Marvin recognizing that there are no definitive answers and all he can do is wonder what could have been.

[reapersmarch]

bodybag this wasn't supposed to be a multi-parter. fml.

This is stupid.

It’s really, really stupid, and you don’t even know what right you have to be mad about it, but you are, and it’s dumb, and you know it’s dumb. That’s what makes it worse. Actually—what makes this worse is that you know you’re to blame here.

You are unfairly assuming that this is in direct retaliation for that stunt you pulled a week ago, and you want to be mad at him, but you know you can’t be because you caused this entire mess to begin with. You don’t even think Bel did this vindictively, he was just likely doing exactly what you told him you were—moving on. You’re just upset because he’s spending time with someone else and doesn’t want to spend time with you anymore. Because of what you did. In case you’ve forgotten.

So, when you see it—a dark, angry purple blotch against pale skin, peeking out from the neck of his suit—you can’t really hide the stormy expression that crosses your face.

Stop that.

It’s unprofessional. It looks bad. You’re the Marshal. You have a girlfriend. Relax.

It’s not that deep.

Except it is—because you can hear him, protesting in embarrassment, and being teased by Anathema. You can see him draw his hood up and put his forehead against the table to try and hide the beet red flush of his face. You catch the good-natured laughter and ribbing and curious questions about his busy, exciting weekend, and—worst of all—you can hear him say in a small, sheepish voice that he had a good time.

Without you.

And you hate thinking of him being in bed with someone else, and you hate thinking that you drove him away because you’re a fucking imbecile, but you did and you are, and there’s nothing you can do about that now.

Impressively, somehow, you manage to make this all about you. Again.

He let you have it, and he was right: you are a fucking dick.

After your split (‘split’. You can’t break up with someone you were allegedly never dating to begin with), you rushed out and fell back into old habits—picking girls up at bars, putting notches in your belt, going on dates. They didn’t mean anything. Then you found someone you sort of clicked with, because she reminded you of him, so you kept going back. You like her well enough. You’re not really crazy about her or anything, but she’s fine. You’ve been going out for about a month.

You neglected to say anything because you knew it made you look like the World’s Biggest Asshole. Ricardo Ortega: does not do serious, would never do serious, not interested in doing serious—with a man. Even though that man had you wrapped around his little finger for almost a year. Even though you would’ve given him everything he wanted and more if he asked—and then he did ask. And you froze.

And then, you turn around and pick up a girlfriend, and you can’t keep your big mouth shut. You told everyone, because you knew it would eventually get back to him, and you wanted him to chase you.

How old are you, seventeen?

Where, exactly, resides the logic in that? How did you not foresee this being the exact outcome? You have the nerve to yank him around like a dog on a chain, then the balls to be upset when he doesn’t want to talk to you again? Because you, what, wanted him to chase you?

He was already fucking yours! You had him, and you let him slip right through your hands, and now look. You chased him right off a cliff, and you get to watch as your friends gather around him to find out who he’s spending time with now since it’s not you anymore, while you bitterly stare at the ice sloshing around in your glass.

Good going.

Couldn’t figure out how to be honest with yourself, so you make a mess of things. Couldn’t just admit that you were falling for him, so you hurt him. He didn’t deserve that, and you don’t deserve him, so this is what you get for being a coward.

You watch him disentangle himself from the gathering crowd, and slip out the side door into the alleyway. Probably for a smoke. Crowds always made him uncomfortable after awhile, and you know he usually needed to get away to clear his head. Habitually, you stand, then hesitate. It’s routine for you to follow and check on him, under normal circumstances. There’s nothing in the book about if circumstances are questionable.

Still, you do want to make sure he’s okay.

This is a bad idea, and you know it.

It’s the alcohol talking.

He doesn’t want to talk to you. You’re going to shove your foot in your mouth and make this worse, and you know that, but the alcohol has lowered your inhibition a little and is filling you with a kind of liquid confidence that would rival sober you’s ego. So you follow.

You find him outside next to the fire escape, resting his hip against the wall and playing on his phone, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He does a double take when the door opens, then freezes when he spots you. His expression pinches. He turns the other way, mirroring his original pose but facing away from you.

You’re just concerned for him and you’re checking on his well being as someone who cares about him. So obviously, you say:

“So, did you have a good weekend?”

Like the thoughtful, caring friend you are.

You can practically feel the heavy eye roll, even with his back to you.

“Yup,” he responds tersely.

This is clearly a very delicate situation to navigate, so you follow up with:

“Got a new boytoy, then?”

Your foot and your mouth are getting well acquainted with one another.

He gives a disbelieving shake of his head and a sardonic scoff of a laugh, because you sound so bitter and you’re doing a terrible job of hiding it. He doesn’t need to be able to read your mind to know that. He doesn’t even need to look at you to know you’re being bizarrely covetous in the licking of your wounds, and are actively ruining whatever remained of your already damaged relationship. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette.

“Yup.”

“Is he—”

“Fuck off, Ortega.”

Okay. You deserved that.

He never calls you by your first name anymore. It’s just ‘Ortega’ or ‘Marshal’ or ‘Charge’. He hates when you call him anything at all, but Niall feels wrong in your mouth, and he’ll never stop being Bel to you.

“Bel—”

“Fuck off. Ortega.”

In case it wasn’t clear the first time.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, because you are. You are the sorriest bastard in all of Los Diablos, and you’re kind of drunk, and you miss him and you think you might love him and you fucked up so, so bad and all you want is your friend back. If nothing else, you’ll take that, but you are still making a mess of this. Do you want to keep him or are you trying to push him away? Figure it out. Quickly.

He turns around to stare at you, and you feel like you’re ninety-three million miles away.

“You’re sorry?” he repeats, and you stand there looking like the royal court jester because you don’t really know what to say, but you are. You’re really fucking sorry and you would take it all back if you could. “You weren’t sorry a week ago, when you were perfectly content to lie to my face and only vomited up some half-assed excuse because I called you on it.”

“I didn’t—”

“A lie by omission is still a lie, Ortega.”

“I was going to tell you,” you reiterate, because you were. Eventually. When you worked up the nerve to do it. Or you would’ve after it all went sideways and you broke up with her. “Were you going to tell me?”

His eyes narrow. “Tell you what?”

You point at the mirroring spot on your own neck and he barks out a laugh. It stings a little, you can’t lie.

“No!” he continues laughing incredulously. “Of course I was never going to tell you, are you daft? You’re not entitled to every little bit of my life—you’re not entitled to anything about anybody’s life, but you think you are. You are so arrogant, Ricardo, and you can’t even see it. But—okay, fine. Fine! You want the sordid details?” You watch him put his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. “I fucked another guy this weekend.” He flings his arms out to the side. “There, are you happy? I went out to a bar and hooked up with a guy in a bathroom, then let him take me home and fuck me there, too. Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to hear that he was better than you? That he—”

You don’t let him finish the thought. You’re drunk and upset and think you love him and are about to lose him, so you are going to do something very, very stupid:

You kiss him.

You couldn’t take it anymore, so you grab hold of his face, and you kiss him—hard enough to bruise; enough to rip the air right from his lungs and replace all the anger with shock. Shock that you’re kissing him, shock that he’s kissing you back. He lets you back him right up against the wall, press your body in tight against his, and kiss him and kiss him like you used to. He lets you press your face to the hollow of his throat and kiss there, too, and show him just how much you want him and miss him and think about him and crave him, until he regains his senses and pushes you back.

You’re a terrible, wretched, jealous thing and you want more and more and he won’t give you anything other than this.

“You’re an asshole, Ricardo,” he says breathlessly, but his eyes are focused on your mouth. “The biggest fucking prick I’ve ever met in my life.”

“I know,” you state, because you do. You’re aware. You kiss him again anyway, hungrier this time, because it’s the last thing you’ll get before he hates you for the rest of your life, and you wonder how far he’ll let you take this. How much can you push your luck? You test the limits of his boundaries again and again, and you know you’re pushing it when your hands find the small of his back. You know it’s dangerous when his fingers thread themselves in your hair and you feel kind of smug, and you feel like a dick, because you still know exactly how to press his buttons.

You attack his neck again—the other side, where he isn’t marked—and he isn’t sure whether to pull your head back or hold it in place. Could go either way and you probably wouldn’t complain, Especially not when—

“Ric… hold on…”

Not when he sounds like that.

“Fuck, Ricardo, stop… stop! Stop.” He gives your back a couple of light slaps in rapid succession and you wince, withdrawing reluctantly. He’s got his eyes cast skyward, grimacing in what you can only call shame. “You… fuck.”

Yeah. Sounds about right.

“I can’t believe I… fuck!” Bel presses a hand over his eyes and grunts in frustration. He pushes past you, pacing and dragging a hand down his mouth. “Ricardo. You can’t fucking do this. We can’t do this! You can’t keep—” he tosses his hands in the air in mounting frustration, each sentence tripping over the other to be heard first. “I didn’t want to be made a fucking scandal, Ric! You have a fucking—Christ! You are such a— I am so goddamn— Why do I let you do this? What is wrong with me? No, fuck that—what is wrong with you?”

A lot of things, probably.

“Bel—”

He punches you.

Gets you right in the nose.

Is it—?

No. He held back a little. It’s just bleeding. Gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning, though. You definitely deserved that one.

You watch him shake out his hand while he looks the iciest you’ve ever seen him, and you don’t know if that’s wholly directed at you. Talk about a mood killer.

Kind of hot though.

So not the time.

He doesn’t even say anything further, but you can feel the anger rolling off of him in waves. He stalks towards the mouth of the alley and disappears around the corner, and you have no idea what you thought you were doing, but you did it. Whatever it was, you did it, and in doing so, you successfully burned that bridge.

Actually, you blew it up in a most spectacular fashion, lit the place up like the Fourth of July. 

You kind of want to jump off a building before the guilt sets in, but you can’t because you’re the Marshal and your interpersonal relationships can’t supercede your duties. Even though they’ve been doing that the entire time.

So you fucked it worse. Now what?