#seriously someone help

[robinsegghead]

Danny's Daycare Part 2

[Master List]

The first few days that the daycare was technically ‘open’ he didn’t have a single kid. This was to be expected, Danny was an unknown for the most part, people didn’t trust him, even the people he’d met who mentioned considering it were right to be wary. But they would grow to trust him. He’d been volunteering at soup kitchens, leaving fliers in mailboxes and doorsteps, and spent a great deal of time in public spaces so that people would know who he was, and hoped Lady Gotham would maybe sway her people to trust him a bit.

            On the Thursday after opening, things changed.

            He was sat at his desk doing an ungodly amount of paperwork (being a king was not in fact, a sweet deal), when he heard the door open.

            A young Latina woman carrying a bundle in her arms walked in warily.

            “Hi.” Danny smiled brightly, reigning in his excitement so as not to scare the woman off.

            She looked around for a moment, stopping quite a ways away from his desk. “Is this the daycare?”

            He nodded. “It is. Pretty new so I don’t have any kiddos yet, but I can be patient.” He was, in fact, a liar.

            “I don’t have a lot.”

            He shook his head. “Oh, you misunderstand,” He knew nobody liked being a charity case, especially not Gothamites, so he went with the lie he and Jazz had come up with when he first started. “this daycare is sponsored by a very wealthy anonymous donor, it’s completely free.”

            She eyes him skeptically. “I wouldn’t come here if I wasn’t desperate.” Ouch. But fair. “I got called in for a shift but my husbands at work and their abuela’s out of town.” She hesitated, looking between her kid and Danny.

            “Well, that’s what I’m here for. I can show you around if you have time?” He offered, hoping his openness would comfort her. She nodded firmly and he moved towards the double doors to their right. “Okay, so this is the main room, we’ve got toys, books, and coloring materials, brand new donations.” She took it in slowly. “We’ve got bathrooms right over there, a cafeteria through those doors, and a room for naps on the other side of the entryway, I’m planning on installing a playground after the worst of winter is over, and this,” he handed her his card. “is my information. Feel free to look me up, run a background check, whatever you need to do to feel comfortable leaving your kid with me.”

            Skepticism was obvious on her face. “Why?”

            “Why what?”

            “Why do this? What do you gain?”

He shrugged. “I like to be helpful. I’m paid reasonably. It’s my job. Take your pick.”

            Another question seemed to be forming when her phone went off. “Shit.” Gently setting her child down -it looked like a boy- she checked it. “I have to go. Emilio,” She crouched in front of the boy. “Mama has to go to work, papa will be here to pick you up in a few hours, behave.”

            He gave another smile, hoping it made him look innocent and trustworthy.

            “My husband will be by to pick him up by three, Emilio is four, fully potty-trained, and likes reading. He ate an early lunch before we came here so don’t feed him.” Her tone was serious, and he nodded resolutely. “I….” She looked torn.

            Offering a gentler smile, he crouched down. “Hey Emilio, my name’s Danny, I heard you like reading?” The little boy nodded, his black curls falling in his wide eyes. “Lucky for you, I have a whole shelf of brand-new books, you wanna give them a look?” The little boys’ eyes widened, and he nodded.

            As Emilio looked over the shelves of books, Danny reassured the mother. “I’ll look after him, don’t worry, he will be safe with me.”

            That was the beginning of Danny’s Daycare. He wouldn’t pretend everything went smoothly after that. It was another two weeks before Emilio’s mother (Ana) brought him back and another week before anyone else dropped their kids off. Jazz helped him create the necessary paperwork to have filled out by parents about their kids and he was able to get important information about each of them which he promptly memorized.

            The daycare had been open for two months (to the day) and Danny had three regular kids. Emilio, who was four, loved reading, and wasn’t shy, Clara, who was a little blonde spitfire, five years old, and had claimed the trainsets as ‘hers’, and Booker, Danny had fondly nicknamed him ‘Boo’.

            Booker was two and a half, and the first of Danny’s kids who was not fully potty-trained upon meeting him. No big deal, he could change diapers, it wasn’t fun per se, but it was a part of the job he’d signed up for when he advertised his daycare being for kids six months to six years. Booker liked anything shiny, Danny had specifically bought shiny toys the night after first meeting the kid and was rewarded with oud and happy shrieks at the new toys.

            March passed in a blur.

            Life was good.

~~~

            It was after a long day at the beginning of April that Danny found himself walking home from work and attempting to ignore the nearby gunshots he was hearing. He wasn’t a vigilante. That wasn’t his problem. He’d come to Gotham to open a daycare, not fly around, and stop crime. This was Red Hood’s territory; he’d deal with it.

            But when the gunshots stopped Danny started to feel unsettled. After a solid minute of trying to shake the feeling that something was wrong, something he needed to fix, he gave up and moved towards where the commotion had been coming from.

            The alley was seemingly empty but as Danny peered closer (thank Ancients for his ability to see in the dark almost as well as in the light) he noticed a foot sticking out from being a dumpster. Carefully making his way towards the body, he made sure not to make a noise. He didn’t want to alert any lingering goons to his presence.

            “You’re a sneaky one, aint’chya?”

            Danny made eye contact with the man on the ground but not before noting the heavy flow of blood seeping through his shirt or the gun in the hand that wasn’t trying to keep the blood inside his body. “It comes in handy.”

            “I bet.” He grunted.

            Putting his hands up, palms out, Danny moved closer slowly. “Can I help you?”

            The man eyed him warily. “Depends.”

            “On what?”

            “Who you workin’ for?”

            Danny didn’t know what the wrong answer was, so he was just honest. “Nobody. I work for myself.”

            “Eveybody’s workin’ for someone, kid. Who ya workin’ for?”

            Okay so that didn’t work. If he pushed the idea that he worked for himself the man was more likely to think he was a spy or goon for some other mob boss. Who would be safest? Who could he say he worked for that this man might not try to shoot him?

            “Technically?” He tried to sound casual. “I work for Red Hood. But I don’t really do the whole… guns and fighting thing. I volunteer at soup kitchens and stuff.”

            With only a moment’s hesitation, the man lowered the gun and grunted. “Hood’s one a the good’uns.”

            Danny pressed forward quickly, disposing of the man’s shirt and assessing the wound. The bullet had gone straight through, and it seemed like it missed any vital organs -lucky- but he’d lost a lot of blood. “I’ve got to get you to Dr. Thompkins clinic. Let me help you up.” The man grunted as Danny pulled him to his feet and supported the entirety of his weight. “Come on.” Danny heaved, pretending the man’s weight was actually difficult for him.

            It wasn’t.

            When Danny had first arrived in Gotham he’d done as much research as he could. Some things he didn’t think were particularly important (who cares which model Brucie Wayne brought to his newest gala?) but others he found to be very valuable. Like a free clinic that didn’t send people to hospitals or call the cops, where everything was kept confidential. It sounded too good to be true, but he’d looked into it and found that Dr. Thompkins was legit as was her practice.

            (He had a sneaking suspicion she was heavily funded by Bruce Wayne)

            “Is there someone I should call to pick you up?” Danny asked, feigning a struggle with the man’s weight.

            He grunted. “I’ll make it home alright, kid.”

            Danny waited a moment before asking the question he’d been thinking since he’d first heard the gunshots. “What happened? You a goon?”

            The man continued to struggle forward. He huffed. “Yeah, kid, Imma goon. Needed money, found m’self in the middle’a somethin’ bad. This’s just a warnin’.” Danny hummed, helping the man up the stairs at the front of the clinic. “I can manage from ‘ere kid.”

            “Danny.” He offered a tight smile. “My name is Danny, I run a daycare in the Bowery. When you’re all healed up, come find me. I’d like to offer you a job that doesn’t involve guns or drugs.”

            The man looked at him incredulously before turning back to the door. “See you around, kid.”

            “See you later, sir.”

            The man barked a laugh. “Bianchi. Victor Bianchi. And yes, you will.”

~~~

            The snow had finally melted, and Danny was finally able to get the playground he wanted installed behind the daycare. He’d taken ideas from his friends on what would be the most fun and diverse. After that was taken care of he’d need to build a fence as well, but that wouldn’t take long at all. Unfortunately, with the snow gone Gotham was now rainy about eighty percent of the time. Danny hadn’t been ready for that.

            It was on such a day that Danny found himself walking home, soaked to the bone, catching his death (ha) of chill, when he met his new best friend. He’d almost made it back to the apartment (which had been under construction for the last few months, repairing each apartments living conditions) when he found a soggy carboard box housing what used to be a white cat but was now closer to brown with mud and grime.

            The cat was meowing in a pitiful way, so Danny thought maybe it was asking for help. Upon closer inspection he found three smaller cats nestled into her belly, water soaking through the box and dripping onto their tiny bodies. Without much thought, Danny scooped the box up and rushed it to his apartment. Once inside he transferred them to another box (thank Ancients he hadn’t thrown them all out after moving) with a warm blanket.

            He didn’t bother changing his clothes as he was about to go out once again- he knew there was an emergency vet open until eleven on weeknights just a few blocks away so he had plenty of time, but he had no idea how long the cats had been sitting in a puddle and couldn’t wait. Swiping an umbrella (when had he gotten an umbrella?) he rushed back out making sure to keep the box dry the entire way.

            He paid very little attention to his surroundings on the way, someone could easily be following him or trying to get his attention and he wouldn’t know it. He had been accused of having tunnel vision in the past. He wasn’t sure why. Pushing through the doors he hastened to the front counter.

            “Hi, how can we help you?” The vet tech asked politely, still typing on her computer, not bothering to look up at Danny.

            Danny evened his breathing (why was it so fast? He didn’t need to breath what the fu-) “I found this cat and her kittens in a wet box and wanted to make sure they were okay. They were really cold and shivering when I found them so I switched them to a dry box with a blanket and brought them as quickly as I could.”

            She nodded. “Okay, we should be able to take a look while you fill out this paperwork if that’s okay?” He nodded, handing the box to another tech who quickly took them to a different room. “We’ll just need some information from you, I’m sure you don’t know a lot about the cats since you just found them. Are you planning on keeping them or do we need to find a shelter to take them?”

            As a kid Danny had always wanted a pet. Of course, he’d wanted a dog and his parents Maddie and Jack had said no because a dog would disrupt their workspace, but he’d been willing to settle for a cat if it meant he could have a companion. He’d done all of the research required on owning a dog. He’d been shot down. So he did the research for cats and been told no once again. He’d done the research for rabbits and ferrets and snakes and lizards and fish but every time- ‘no Danny, we don’t need a pet’.

Eventually he’d gotten Cujo who was close to what he’d always wanted. He was a little busy for a normal pet at that point so he’d kind of Given up on it. He’d never considered getting a pet once he’d moved out on his own- he’d lived in the Infinite Realms, and he had Cujo there so it hadn’t occurred to him.

            He didn’t have time for cats! He was already busy with the daycare every weekday and visiting the realms on Saturdays and seeing Jazz on Sunday mornings and doing a group call on Sunday evenings- “Yes. I’ll keep them.”

            Well. Okay then.

            Someone needed to teach him to shut up.

            She nodded again, typing some things before printing the paperwork. “Okay, I’ll need your name and some contact information. You can go into that room and fill it out while the vet looks them over.” She nodded towards the room he’d seen the cats taken into.

            Throwing a ‘thank you’ over his shoulder, he pushed his way into the exam room. The mama cat and her kittens were laying on the blanket Danny had brought on the exam table. Mama was licking her kittens clean while the vet tech typed some information on the computer.

            “Ah, hello. I’m Margot.”

            “Danny.”

            She smiled, glancing at the screen before turning back. “Okay so mama is in good health and two of the kittens are as well. The orange one seems to be sick, I’m thinking pneumonia, but we won’t know without further tests. It’s treatable and I’m not too worried, he seems strong otherwise. I’d guess they’re three, maybe four weeks old. The orange one is a boy, the calico is a girl, and the white one is also a girl. Any questions?”

            “Uh… do you need to keep them over night, or can we get these tests done in the next couple of hours?”

            “It won’t take that long, maybe an hour or so to get the tests done and send you on your way. I heard you found them; do you have the things necessary to take care of cats?” He shook his head. “Hm, that’s fine, we have a volunteer here who will help you get everything you need from the in-building store while we finish the tests, I’ll go get him.” She opened the door and disappeared.

            Danny let mama cat sniff his hand. Once he’d met her approval, he gently touched each kittens’ heads, offering little scratches of comfort before offering mama the same treatment. “You guys are gonna come live with me, okay?” He let Mama go back to cleaning her babies while he filled out the paperwork- phone number, home address, name, etc.

            “Tyler informed me you are ill-prepared for the responsibility of owning cats.”

            Danny jumped, unsure how this kid had managed to sneak up on him. He was Danny’s height, with black hair, dark skin, green eyes, and a serious look on his face. Dumbstruck (because seriously how did a teenager sneak up on the king of the infinite realms?), Danny nodded.

            “Who’s Tyler?” Danny asked, dumbly.

            Raising an eyebrow, the boy huffed. “The tech you just spoke with. Margot Tyler?”

            “You call her by her last name?”

            “I call everyone by their last name.” He rolled his eyes. The boy glanced at the cats and softened marginally. “My name is Damian; I’ll help you find everything you will need while Dr. Kelly runs some tests. Follow me.”

            Being given no choice but to follow, Danny allowed the serious boy to lead him past the check-in desk and towards what appeared to be a store. “All of the items here are provided by… a donor. They are free to those who need them. You will need a litter box, litter, a scoop, food and water bowls, food, a brush, a scratching post, and toys. You will also be provided the necessary tools to take care of the sick kitten.”

            Damian was very informative, and Danny couldn’t help the small smile. “Okay, sounds good. I walked here though, should I get everything now and run it home before coming back for the cats, or take the cats home and leave them while I come back for the supplies?”

            He thought for a moment before deciding. “I would take it all home now so that the space is ready for the cats once you bring them home.” Damian began handing Danny everything he’d need. Most of it fit into the litter box and he didn’t think it would be much of a problem to carry it all home until Danny pulled the container of litter and bag of cat food down.

            “Might take me a couple of trips.” Danny muttered to himself, calculating exactly how difficult it would be to carry some of this with the cats but ultimately deciding against it. He could do it if he weren’t worried about looking slightly suspicious. But nobody would be able to carry all of this without struggling- not without powers.

            Damian looked between Danny and the supplies before sighing. “If you require assistance I suppose I could carry the food and litter.” Shaking his head, Danny made to argue, but Damian had other ideas. The boy hoisted the bags over his shoulder without much effort and raised an eyebrow. “Lead the way.”

            That was how Danny found himself letting a teenager into his apartment  and showing him the best ways to set everything up. “Cats prefer their water to be separate from their food. I grabbed a fountain for you because they also prefer the water to be moving. You can use a regular bowl until the kittens are grown up. They also prefer if their litterbox is in an area with low foot traffic.”

            Listening to Damian talk about the cats was quite informative and he could feel the kid relaxing as Danny did what he suggested every step of the way without question. Once the apartment was set up they began their short trek back to the clinic.

            “I really appreciate all of your help, Damian.” Danny started. “I’ve never had a pet before, but I’ll do lots of research about everything you suggested.” He didn’t know how he’d find the time, but he meant every word.

            The boy gave a firm nod. “Research is important. The vet will tell you what you need to know, and there are plenty of resources at the clinic.” He paused. “I suppose, if you have any questions and cannot get to the clinic… you may call me.” He held his hand out expectantly; Danny scrambled to pass his phone to the kid feeling like this opportunity would be taken away just as quickly if he hesitated.

            A moment later he was waiting for the vet in the exam room with Damian’s number in his phone and a lot of information in his head. He could do this. He’d taken care of Cujo, right? It would be fine!

            (He ignored the nagging reminder that Cujo was already dead so there wasn’t much Danny could do to mess it up).

~~~

            “Heya kid.” A familiar voice rose from the doorway.

            Looking up from his work, Danny found the familiar figure of one Victor Bianchi looming in his doorway with a friendly grin on his face and a friendly kid on his hip. “Mr. Bianchi, you should be resting.” He gave a pointed look.

            The man waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve been restin’ for days! Had to get outta the house. The wife’s fussin’ too much.” He shifted the little girl in his arms. “This ‘ere’s Allegra.”

            Danny moved away from his desk and towards the little girl. “Hello there Allegra, my name’s Danny. How are you doing today?”

            She stared at his outstretched hand, headed tilted to the side contemplatively. “You have an owie.” She pointed at the scarring on his hand curiously. Mr. Bianchi pulled her hand away and gave him an apologetic look.

            “She’s real curious.”

            He’d been fully prepared for people to point out his scars for the rest of his life, a kid’s genuine curiosity wasn’t going to upset him. “No worries Mr. Bianchi. They’re old owies, Allegra, they don’t hurt anymore.” Except when he remembers the feeling of his fingers being severed from his body, forced to grow back until they’d do it again and he could still remember the pain “What can I do for both of you today?”

            “Trains!” Allegra shouted, wiggling out of her father’s grip and rushing into the playroom which was still vacant for the time being.

            “Well I guess that settles it. The wife’s worried I won’t recover as quickly if I gotta look after ‘er all day so… I guess I’d like to drop her off?” He sounded like he wasn’t sure how any of it worked.

            With a small smile, Danny gestured to his desk. “I’ve got a bit of paperwork for you to fill out and then we’ll be set.” Rifling through the mountains of paper on one of his many desks (seriously why did he have so many? He had one in the Infinite Realms, one at the front of the daycare, one in a private office at the daycare, and one in his apartment- who needed that many desks? Kings, apparently) “Have you given any more thought to what I suggested?”

            Mr. Bianchi shifted his weight a couple of times. “I, uh- yeah, I don’t know what kinda work you’d need a guy like me for though?”

            “Have you ever built a fence, Mr. Bianchi?”

            Mr. Bianchi had in fact, built a fence before. He’d mentioned something about creepy ass neighbors with cameras pointed into his yard before telling Danny to show him where he wanted the fence. Ember watched Allegra while the two went to the back and figured out what would work.

            “Is my daddy gonna work for you now, mister?” Allegra asked as he settled down beside her to play with the trains together.

            He thought for a minute before nodding. “Yes, I think so. I’d like him too. He seems like a good worker.”

            She nodded vigorously. “He is! He’s the goodest worker! He doesn’t complain or nothing’! Even when he’s hurt he don’t say nothing bad about his boss!”

            Danny figured, when you have to work any job you can get to support your family, you probably learn to ignore your complaints and just… push through it. Aside from the Red Hood, it didn’t seem any of the other crime lords took care of their people- another reason to thank the vigilante. True, Danny wasn’t a real Gothamite, but every day he felt a deeper connection to the city and her people. He’d become protective of them, especially those in the Bowery and Crime Alley.

            He’d protect them all, in any way he could.

            “You want the red train or the blue train?”

~~~

            Four nights later Danny got a call that reminded him- he couldn’t even protect himself, how was he supposed to protect everyone else?

Prev. Next

[justmwahstruly]

i seem to have a problem. hm.

@thatthirstyweirdo IM SORRY—

[theoneandonlythorn]

Someone please help me.

I'm new to Tumblr and have no idea how to add a pfp--

Send help, please.

[emotionallyenigmaticresident]

Fucked up on heart surgery, any way i can salvage it rather than using up the spare?

[kizzer55555]

DP x DC: The Most Dangerous Card Game

Ok so Danny has essentially claimed earth as his. And he is fully aware that there are constant threats to the planet. Now he can’t stop a threat that originates on earth (that’s something he’ll leave to the Justice league) but he can do something about outside threats. Doing some research on ancient spells, rituals, and artifacts, he cast a world wide barrier on the planet to protect it from hostile threats so they cannot enter. This will prevent another Pariah Dark incident. However, barriers like this come at a price. You see, there are two ways to make a barrier. Either make one powered up by your own energy and power (which would be constantly draining) or set up a barrier with rules. The way magic works is that nothing can be absolutely indestructible. It must have a weakness. The most powerful barriers weren’t the ones reinforced with layer after layer of protective charms and buffed up with power. Those could eventually be destroyed either by being overpowered, wearing them down, or by cutting off the original power source. No, the most powerful barriers were the ones with a deliberate weakness. A barrier indestructible except for one spot. A cage that can only be opened from the outside. Or that can only be passed with a key or by solving a riddle. So Danny chooses this type of barrier and does the necessary ritual and pours in enough power to make it. And he adds his condition for anyone to enter. 

Now the Justice league? Find out about the barrier when Trigon attempts to attack, they were preparing after he threatened what he would do once he got to earth. How he would destroy them. The Justice league tried to take the fight to him first but were utterly destroyed, so they retreated home to tend to their injuries, and fortify earth for one. Last. Stand. Only when Trigon makes his big entrance…he’s stopped.

The Justice league watch in awe as this thin see-through barrier with beautiful green swirls and speckled white lights like stars apears blocking Trigon and his army’s advance. The barrier looks so thin and fragile yet no matter how hard the warlord hits, none of his attacks can get through and neither can he damage said barrier. That’s when Constantine and Zatanna recognizes what this barrier is. Something only a powerful entity could create. For a moment, the league is filled with hope that Trigon can’t get through yet Constantine also explains that it’s not impenetrable. And clearly Trigon knows this too for he calls out a challenge. 

And that’s when, in a flash of light, a tiny glowing teenager appears. He looked absolutly minuscule compared to Trigon and yet practically glowed with power (this isn’t a King Danny AU though).

And that is when the conditions for passing the barrier are revealed. And the Justice realize that the only thing stopping Trigon and his army from decimating earth. The only way he can get through….is by beating this glowing teenager in a card game. 

Not just any card game though. The most convoluted game Sam, Danny, and Tucker invented themselves. It’s like the infinite realms version of magic the gathering, combined with Pokémon, and chess. And Danny is the master. So sit down Trigon and let’s play.

(The most intense card game of the Justice league’s life).

After Danny wins, this happens a few more times with outer word beings and possibly even demons attempting to invade earth, yet none have been able to beat the mysterious teenager in a card game. Constantine might even take a crack at it and try to figure out how to play. He’s really bad though. Every time this happens, the Justice league worry that this might be the time the teenager looses. Yet every time, he wins (even if only barely). 

Meanwhile, Danny, Sam, and Tucker have gotten addicted to the game and play it almost daily. Some teachers might seem them playing the game are are like ‘awww how cute’ not realizing this game is literally saving the world. Jazz is just happy they aren’t spending as much time on their screens playing Doomed.

[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.

[cassandracain52]

Reverse trope

where instead of the Bats forgetting that they’re adopted (something actual adoptees do on occasion and is hilarious) they forget that some of them *cough Damian cough* aren’t

_______

Jason in the heat of a probably ridiculous argument: Yeah well YOU’RE adopted!

Tim just as invested in said argument: So are YOU! We all are!

Damian who had previously been quietly watching this unfold while he drank his tea: Actually I’m not

Tim and Jason who didn’t realize he was there but are already DoneTM: …… Damian continuing to sip his tea entirely unbothered: :)

Damian: Because I’m not an orphan-

Jason: ok, yoU KNOW WHAT-

____

or like in their group texts (that we know they have thanks to Nightwing (2016) #79)

*Steph changed the group chat name to “Bruce Wayne’s Personal Orpanage”*

Jason: Really?

Steph: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Steph: It’s the truth Damian: Both my parents are very much alive

Steph: Shhh you don’t count

Cass: Mine too Duke: Technically so are mine

Barbara: I still have a dad so there’s that

Steph: YOU GUYS ARE RUINING THE JOKE

Tim: Stephanie aren’t BOTH of your parents alive???

Steph: KNOW WHAT? FINE

*Steph changed the group chat name to “The Technicality Police”*

Tim: well that’s more accurate at least

Steph: :)

_____

Damian in his 10th argument with Tim of the day: That’s- this is-

Tim in full Antagonizing Big Brother mode: I’m listening

Damian -a Gen Z and best friend to Jon Kent- extremely frustrated: This is such Motherless behavior!

Tim taken aback: [voice cracking] W-what-?

Damian who didn’t mean to say that but doubling down anyway because his bloodline doesn’t believe in admitting mistakes: THIS! This is such Motherless behavior!

The rest of the family who is also motherless: :O

Cass whose been spending way too much time with Meme Queen Stephanie Brown and not involved in the argument but finding it entertaining regardless: [nodding along seriously] Facts

Tim: [visibly betrayed] CASS WHAT-

A video copy of the interaction gets sent out anonymously to the entire family. Barbara is the prime suspect but there is no proof as of yet (and they will never find any)

Steph, Cass, and Duke continue to respond “Motherless behavior” everytime one of the bats does something they deem questionable/insane. It is said often

It only stops when one night in the middle of patrol. Batman is in full Dark Knight mode (possibly in the middle of threatening someone) and descends from the ceiling into the middle of a warehouse drug deal, dark cape billowing out behind him-

and Steph just automatically whispers “Motherless behavior” forgetting her com was still very much on

She immediately realizes what she said and frantically apologizes but it’s too late.

Bruce just- Blue Screens. Completely stunned into silence

Dick -who was unfortunate enough to be the one teamed up with Batman tonight- is fighting for his life to choke back his laughter

Jason doesn’t even try to stop his and has collapsed to his knees from lack of air from how hard he’s laughing. Cass try’s half heartedly patting his back to help to no avail

The criminals are terrified into surrender from The Red Hood just laughing hysterically at seemingly nothing while Batman just Stands There

Damian ends up being the only one still functioning enough to continue arresting everyone, though he is privately amused and strangely proud

Tim and Barbara have saved both the com recordings and cowl footage to at least three different servers and sent it to absolutely everyone before Batman even recovers

Duke finds out second hand the next morning and is furious he missed the chance to see it in person. He declares he is moving to the nightshift so it doesn’t happen again. (He is all talk and goes to bed by 9 pm)

Bruce bans the phrase for life and promises swift and server punishment to anyone who dares to use it again

[nevermeyers]

I find it very realistic that Megumi wants to try to live for someone else again instead of for himself directly. I mean it. It will take him a long time to recover from what he has suffered, which was too much for a child (because he is still a child!!). At first I thought Megumi was going to pick himself up, but looking at it from another perspective and analyzing my own experience with mental health: it makes sense. Megumi needs help. And he will get it. Yuuji and his friends will teach him to live for himself. The ending of Megumi's character is a new beginning, unlike the others.

Btw, did y'all notice his scars are Sukuna's? The way i'd kms on the spot, poor boy :( he's going to live with the curse of remembering every time he looks on the mirror

[molzysketch]

when the bounty is only 5 million woolong

[meifaism]

I've surprsingly recovered from the miami gp landoscar doodles is back rushed ver.

Might do a lando ver if I dont get an idea of what to draw soon 😔

[mspaintshurifin]

Day 222

and the universe said I love you

and the universe said you have played the game well

and the universe said everything you need is within you

and the universe said you are stronger than you know

and the universe said you are the daylight

and the universe said you are the night

and the universe said the darkness you fight is within you

and the universe said the light you seek is within you

and the universe said you are not alone

and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing

and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code

and the universe said I love you because you are love.

[decarbry]

wow our teachers sure are spending a lot of time together lately

[mellowthorn]

burrich

[natalievoncatte]

Kara knew something was wrong from Lena’s heartbeat. That alone, the barely detectable change in rhythm and tempo, was enough, but her breathing was erratic and as Kara drew nearer, drifting through the afternoon air, she could hear the soft sobs.

A bad feeling had come over Kara. Things had been quiet between the two of them ever since the wedding; there had been a strange tension between them on that happy day and Kara couldn’t say why

(she knew what she wanted it to be but didn’t dare hope)

and with Alex and Kelly away on their honeymoon, Kara had mostly been on her own. Nia was spending most of her free time with Brainy and Kara sensed a proposal coming, and she was busy preparing for her public interview with Cat Grant. She was going to rip the bandages off and reveal her identity. There was a great deal of work involved, and Kara had spent a lot of time fretting over the details, and in the back of her head she was worried about the ramifications of years spent reporting on Supergirl and using “her” as a source. It was a massive ethical dilemma, and thought it always made sense at the time…

Right now all that mattered was the heartbeat. Kara had been giving Lena the space she sensed she needed, but Jess had called Kara from the Foundation and told her that Lena hadn’t come to work in three days, and no one had heard from her. It was uncharacteristic of someone who ran her life with almost military precision. Kara had even asked Alex to text Lena, but they’d gotten the same single word replies.

Kara pulled in a big breath, feeling her stomach churn as she lighted on the balcony and slid open the door, knowing it would be unlocked. She wished Lena would stop doing that, but also felt a little tilt in her chest from knowing Lena hadn’t locked her out.

She was on the sofa, curled up on her side and asleep. She’d probably had the same pajamas on for two days and there were empty bottles of wine in a neat row on the table in front of her. Her eyes were puffy from crying and her cheeks a little raw. Kara felt an instant pang and reached for her, before stopping to deactivate her suit.

Kneeling next to the sofa, Kara touched her fingers to Lena’s shoulders. Lena woke instantly with a start, head jolting up as she sucked in a reedy breath and her heart raced explosively, sending a shock of terror up Kara’s spine.

“Oh fuck,” Lena blurted, kicking out her legs as she bolted upright. “Oh God, Kara what…”

“Hey,” Kara said softly. “I was… I’m sorry. Are you okay? I came in through the balcony. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Lena’s chest heaved as she gasped for breath, staring at Kara with watery eyes. “Are you real?”

“What? Yes, of course I’m real.”

“I must have been dreaming. It was a dream. Just a dream. I was dreaming,” Lena muttered.

Kara rose from her knees and sat down on the couch.

“Come here.”

Lena almost crashed into her, wrapping her arms tightly around Kara and squeezing hard. She smoothed her fingers over the soft dark waves of Lena’s hair and pulled her in as she began to sob into Kara’s shoulder.

“I dreamed he killed you,” Lena choked out. “He came back again and he killed you and I couldn’t stop it. It felt so real.”

“I’m fine. I’m right here.”

Lena continued to sob, her entire body shaking with the force of it. Kara wrapped her in a fierce hug, trembling as she did.

“Every time I close my eyes he’s there, and when I’m awake all I can think about is that I killed my brother.”

“That didn’t happen in this timeline.”

Lena choked out an angry, frustrated sob. “It happened for me. I aimed a gun at my own brother’s chest and I pulled the trigger. And he came back! He came back and he almost killed you two or three fucking times, I can’t count.”

“He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”

“You can’t just say that!” Lena screamed into Kara’s throat.

Stunned, Kara softened her grip on Lena, only for Lena to pull her in harder, like she was trying to climb inside her.

“Why can’t I stop mourning him? He ruined my life. He was the person I trusted most and he turned out to be a monster. He used me my whole life and my emotions were just a game to him. He tried to to kill the woman I… tortured you, took you away for months and I thought I’d never see you again. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was and how much…”

Lena cut herself off with a sob.

“I know it’s not the same,” Kara murmured, “but when I was a little girl I worshipped my father. I wanted to grow up like him and do what he did. I was going to be a scientist too.”

“You’d have been a good one.”

Kara shook her head. “My father was responsible for the Medusa virus. A bioweapon designed to eradicate non-Kryptonian life. A weapon of genocide.”

Lena shuddered.

Kara swallowed, hard.

“My world wasn’t a paradise. It felt that way because it was simple for me. There wasn’t all the pain of learning alien ways and an alien language and controlling superpowers and everything else. My father taught and protected me and my mom maintained order. But it was wasn’t a paradise. My people were… Krypton was… I think in a lot of worlds out there, we were the bad guys. Okay, the Daxamites were slavers, but on Krypton people were born into the labor guild and did menial jobs their whole lives, while people like me were born into privilege. Is that much better?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t judge you for mourning Lex, Lena. He was your protector and your friend, and it was real to you. If there’s anything I hate him for, it’s hurting you.” Kara swallowed. “The one thing I can’t abide is anyone hurting you. I’ll break all my rules to keep you safe.”

Lena’s breathing eased and Kara could feel her relax.

“I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I figured you needed space. I wasn’t sure why but I trusted you to tell me if you need to.”

There was a long, heavy pause, and then Lena said.

“Kara, I can’t do this. I can’t share you.”

“Share me?”

“When you reveal your identity,” Lena pulled back, “you’re going to be the most famous person in the word. Everyone is going to be all over you. The press, politicians, everybody, and everyone who has a grudge against you or your cousin is going to know exactly where to find you, all the time.”

“I’ll keep you safe, no one will…”

“I didn’t say anything about me. You, Kara. What about you?”

“I’m Supergirl. I’ll be fine.”

“And what about me?” said Lena.

“I told you…”

“No. What about me when I have to watch you getting beaten to a pulp by another alien? What about me when you’re in a coma on the sun bed? What about me when I see on the news that a bomb went off in your apartment and I have to wonder if it was laced with Kryptonite shrapnel? I’m not worried about people coming after me. I’m a billionaire with magic powers. I could put on a goofy costume and join the club if I wanted. I’ve already lost you so many times and I can’t do it again.”

Stunned, Kara sat with her eyes wide, not sure when exactly she’d lifted Lena into her lap.

“It’s so selfish of me,” Lena went on. “You don’t belong to me. I don’t get to make demands of you. But don’t want you to out yourself. I don’t want to lose you again. As soon as you do this you’re going to be hounded by the whole world and they’ll claw you away from me again.”

Kara’s own heart raced now, hammering in her chest. Lena sounded so desperate and so sure, clinging to a Kara like she might disappear.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s your choice and I have to respect it. It’s okay,” she was clearly telling herself.

“No,” Kara choked out, “no it’s not. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.”

“Kara,” said Lena.

“No. I have been. I can’t believe I said what I said to you at the wedding, about not being my authentic self. To you, of all people.”

Lena swallowed hard. Kara drew back and looked at her, really looked at her, drinking in the soft beauty of her eyes as she swept back a tear with a brush of her thumb. Lena’s eyes were huge, her lips trembling, and Kara felt an almost painful pang of sorrow and regret and a powerful stirring, long thrust down and buried and now clawing its way forth as Lena stared back, the deep sadness and loss in her own eyes tinged by a hint of forlorn hope.

“I can’t believe that I can see through walls and I’m so blind.”

“Kara?” Lena whispered.

“I’m calling it off. I’ll keep my secret.”

“You don’t have to do that just to please me.”

“I don’t need them. I need you. I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

Lena’s heart raced so fast that Kara briefly thought she might have to fly her to the hospital. Instinctively, she slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders and stood, lifting Lena as if she weighed nothing.

Eyes wide, Lena bit her lip.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean when you say you’re mine? I need you to say it, Kara. I was too scared at the wedding. I can’t do this. I need you to.”

Oh.

Kara shifted her Lena’s weight in her arms, bring them closer together. She’d danced this dance before; she thought of the day she came back from the Phantom Zone, when she held Lena in her arms and felt the sun again and she almost did it, she almost just fucking did it…

And she did it.

She kissed Lena, already ready to sputter an apology and find a way out of this, but her words were lost when Lena’s soft lips met hers and Lena was ready to devour her, happily rocketing past chaste first kiss as she grabbed Kara with both hands and pulled her in.

Kara’s stomach flipped. She didn’t know what to do. She’d been kissed, she thought she’d been intimate, but she could see now that those things had been mere stimulation and nothing more. Something soared inside her as she had soared in the sky the very first time she flew. Joy unbridled swelled in her chest and she could feel Lena laughing exultantly into her mouth and even as tears mingled on her cheeks.

She wanted this. She wanted this. It was right here all along.

“Kara,” Lena whispered. “I…”

“Should I put you down?”

“On the bed.”

[ryllen]

[prince-ically]

He looks like a soft breeze could send him flying