#these boys are so damn tragic

[serpentface]

Oh, birthing & midwiferyposting, please

Ok I will Elaborate

(Content warning because this contains discussion of infanticide)

This is speaking about midwifery and childbirth in the Imperial Wardi context (this also should not be taken as ubiquitous for every facet of the Imperial Wardi cultural sphere, but this is a broadly accurate rundown).

Infant mortality rates are high, and pregnancies and births can be very dangerous for the pregnant parent. Midwives serve a vital societal function and the best form of reproductive care available.

Midwives come in many forms. In poor families, the duties are usually performed by a family member and the skillset may be passed from parent to child. Some communities have resident midwives who perform their services for free or at low cost. Professional midwives exist for hire, and are very common in the cities. An upper echelon of midwives are a kind of physician-priestess, who will have received extensive medical training and are considered sanctified and uniquely equipped to fulfill the spiritual needs of childbirth. A few will perform services for free, but they are generally hired and their services are very expensive.

Wealthy families may have their own personal midwives, and VERY wealthy families/royalty have personal physician-priestesses.

Midwives are mostly women, though whether this is an expectation or merely an average tendency is dependent on the specific context. Cases where this is an Expectation tend to be in cultural contexts where the Gaze of a man is believed to have a sexual element that is uniquely powerful and harmful to the nude bodies of women (all Imperial Wardi cultural beliefs include a concept of the spiritually empowered Gaze and disempowered vulnerability in nudity, but exact nuances vary). Physician-priestesshood is, in theory, reserved only for people designated female, though a few throughout history have been known or suspected to be eunuchs.

Physician-Priestesses serve Anmir-Ganmache (an epithet of God as the domestic sphere, close in meaning to Ox-Face of the Hearth). This is not a priesthood specifically devoted to this face of God in the same sense that Odonii are the cult of the Lion-Face and Galenii are the cult of the Lunar-Face, they are merely seen as serving Anmir-Ganmache by performing their duties and being uniquely empowered by this Face's blessing. Most begin their training and education at puberty (though it's possible to join later in life) and are expected to serve for 25 years before retirement. Their primary function is to behave as midwives, but they receive a wide spectrum of medical training and are considered uniquely equipped to tend to the overall health of women.

A midwife is usually expected to not perform their tasks while menstruating (this may not be practical for poorer families who have to take what they can get), during which time a person is considered ritually unclean. Specially dedicated physician-priestesses are usually expected to be virgins and to remain so for the duration of their service (a method to ensure an entirely ritually pure existence). This is not expected of common midwives.

Most of any midwife’s job is typical physical assistance with the pregnancy and birthing process. Births are typically done in a sitting or squatting position, often wearing a special skirt or blanket to shield both parent and child from full view (a spiritual element to reduce unwanted metaphysical vulnerability during the birthing process). Under the best conditions, a midwife has several assistants of their own (in the case of physician priestesses, these are usually priestesses in training) who will physically support the person giving birth and attend to their needs.

The infant is shielded from direct view during its emergence, and is immediately cleaned and wrapped in cloth upon the cutting of the umbilical cord.

Part of the toolset for a physician-priestess is a pair of horns from a pregnant cow sanctified via sacrifice to Anmir-Ganmache. The cow had taken God's role in its sacrifice and its remains are holy relics, and used to put the mother and child under God's full protection. One horn will have been carved into a cup and holds a sanctified oil (usually olive), which is gently daubed over the eyes, mouth, heart, and near the genitals of the child, forming a protective barrier.

The other horn is intact (usually carved with protective imagery, notably a motif of a lioness-headed woman that has protective qualities for children, and an abstract, twisting serpent that represents and encourages the incarnation of the child's soul) and is waved over the child’s body in the form of a blessing. The same is done for the mother, with the addition of anointing the breasts to encourage healthy and clean lactation. Common midwives are unlikely to have easy access to sacred sacrificial relics, but this blessing rite is considered vital and can be accomplished (to a less ideal extent) with any cow's horns, so long as they have been properly purified.

Protecting the helpless, naked infant from the gaze and immediately exposing it to purifying agents is believed to help expel any inborn dagia or other polluting agents. This is believed to support the child's spiritual and physical health and hopes to prevent congenital or otherwise lifelong health conditions.

The midwife performs a thorough inspection of the infant, and will give a recommendation upon whether the child is healthy and fit to rear. Infants deemed at high risk of premature death may be killed, as the cost of care and emotional attachment for a child deemed unlikely to survive will often be seen as too great to warrant the risk. This act (presumably with the parent’s permission) is usually performed by the midwife themself, and is ideally accomplished with a fatal sedative dose (this death is seen as peaceful and painless, while a traumatic death would risk the infant’s soul failing to reincarnate and instead becoming a vengeful wandering ghost).

This obviously may be a difficult and traumatic choice on an emotional level, but infants are not believed to have fully incarnated souls until they begin to speak (it is believed that the soul begins to enter the body upon conception, but takes significant time to fully inhabit it), and will be reincarnated if they die before this occurs. So infanticide in this context is not usually perceived as the murder of a full person or a denial of life, as the infant’s soul will have as many other chances as it takes to become fully incarnated. (There's a variant of 'old soul' beliefs, where an especially precocious child or one that learns to speak early is believed to have had many previous reincarnations)

Intentional abortion of a fetus carries no stigma whatsoever for much the same reasons (though the MOTIVATIONS for this act on the parent’s part may carry stigma, such as to hide an illegitimate pregnancy). Natural abortifiacients are available and widely used in cases of unwanted pregnancy (though these are not by any means as safe or reliable as contemporary abortion procedures).

In all cases (whether an aborted fetus, a miscarriage, a stillbirth, infanticide, or another death before full incarnation), the infant or fetus’ remains are given the standard funeral rite of cremation to ensure their soul is freed from the body and can be properly reincarnated. Basic rites are all that is expected in this situation, but some parents will undergo extensive funerals with lavish offerings to encourage a prosperous and healthy rebirth.

There's also certain rites to encourage the same soul to return to the same parents (as it would otherwise be reincarnated into a human at random), the physical element of which is anointing the body (ideally the lips) with both parent's mingled blood before the cremation, as blood physically contains a person's spirit and the sharing of it can establish a powerful metaphysical bond. This is believed to assist in leading the child's stray soul back to the same source, and may lend a tremendous sense of comfort to parents in the face of a wanted, dead infant.

A pregnant parent who dies in childbirth is given special status and are believed to enter an esteemed afterlife (located within the Lapis Moon, a paradise where they will reside among saints and other esteemed dead). Childbirth is regarded as one of many analogues to God's self-sacrifice to bring forth creation, with the mother symbolically crossing the threshold of death and spilling her blood to bring forth life from nonexistence. To die in such a state is regarded as one of the noblest deaths typically available to women. (This sentiment is also entirely reflective of the typical place ascribed to those designated women in this society, where their chiefmost value is in bearing children). It's still (obviously) ideal for most to survive the birthing process, but this belief may contribute to some choosing to undergo an (almost always fatal) caesarean procedure in a difficult birth if the infant is assumed to be otherwise healthy.

In the case of a healthy birth in which all parties survive, the child will then be presented to its father (who in some contexts is prohibited from attending the birth), who will formally accept it as his own and bestow it with the family name (the child is not given a personal name until a month from birth, and undergoes a formalized naming ceremony at either their first birthday or when they begin to speak, tradition depending). A child born out of wedlock or to an absent father does not receive a family name, though may be formally adopted if the mother marries later on, or be given the family name of the mother's father if he chooses to accept it.

The mother should ideally undergo a full blessing to recover from the metaphysical vulnerability of the birthing state (the physician-priestess can provide this, but otherwise this is done at a temple or family/village shrine).

It's also generally expected to offer sacrifice to Anmir-Ganmache in thanks and to ensure continued protection for parent and child (the best offering is a cow, but offerings of milk or at the very least some grain is acceptable). Most who can afford a physician-priestess can also afford to offer a cow, and it's also expected that the best meat (usually the liver and flank) and the horns should be removed before the rest of the sacrifice is burnt, and gifted to the priestess as a personal thanks.

[bumblingbabooshka]

Tuvok almost immediately falling for that telepathic alien beaming his wife and home into his brain despite knowing it can’t be true is iconic of him. He’s like a hundred years old and from a race of logic-only telepaths yet he goes down before Janeway, Harry Kim or Tom Paris. Tell me you’re desperately in love and horrifically lonely without telling me you’re desperately in love and horrifically lonely.

[halscafe]

The Beauty in Tragedy

I’ll be the first to admit that of all the characters in the Bastard Warrior series, Albus is the character that arguably is the most deserving of a happy ending. He’s received some of the worst cards imaginable, and therefore, should be the recipient of some light at the end of an extremely dark tunnel. But of course, he isn’t. Throughout the course of episode 12, Albus is doing everything in his power to ensure both Kerano and Faithful make it out of the temple alive and safe. As they are all leaving the temple following Joshua’s death, the supports of the temple start failing and to guarantee their safety, he puts himself in harm's way in their stead; pinning himself under the debris, eventually leading to his death. It’s a tragic end for a tragic character with an even more tragic life. However, as heart-breaking as this moment was, there is beauty to be found in the wake of this tragedy that makes both this episode, and Albus himself, something to respect and commend. 

As we go through the series, we (the audience) are provided with more insight as to the events in his life that shaped Albus into who he is today. As a child, he grew up on the streets and was set up by his mother to join the Knight Paladdin ranks so that she could join Clan York. After discovering her true intentions, he ran away from Trents to Kansas where he finished his training in another battalion. Shortly after his training, he’s drafted under false pretences to join Sub-Delta where he experienced terrible, unimaginable horrors. In a world that condemns children for the actions of their parents, Albus York receives the short end of the stick at every path he takes — all because of a mark that rests on his chest.

In episode 10 of “The Bastard Warrior,” Faithful is tasked with the responsibility of entering Albus’ mind in an attempt to wake him up after being attacked and nearly killed by heart rippers. In his mind, Faithful enters an Ideal World from Albus’ POV whereby in short, he has lived a life completely opposite as to what he has in reality. He was raised by his mother and father, and joined a platoon with his brother Devlin where he eventually gained the title of “Knight Captain Albus of Trents, 82nd battalion, Clan York” — a title he presented with pride to Faithful upon her arrival in the ideal-scape. It’s not known (at least to my knowledge) the oaths that Knight Captains must swear when gaining their new title and/or when beginning their journey of rising through the ranks. However, one can deduce that with a title as significant as this, the person receiving the title must uphold certain values such as valiancy, chivalry, heroism, etc. 

Although Albus’ life was cut short, his death wasn’t for nought. During the showdown against Joshua in episode 12, Albus goes as far as to cut out his eyes so that Joshua cannot use the mind control implanted by Sub-Delta against him; and later on, prioritizes Faithful and Keranos safety over his own so they aren’t crushed by the falling temple. Although Faithful is insistent on getting Albus out of the rubble before leaving to the ship with Kerano, he tells her what she needs to hear so that she can prioritize her safety before his own. In doing so, he not only fulfills the clauses of the contract he made with her all those months ago, but he upholds the traits that a Knight Captain would — the status he always to make of himself. In the same episode we learn that it's Albus’ dream to be a Knight Captain alongside his brother, he admits to Faithful that it’s only in this Ideal world that people want him around and hold any sort of value to him. He views this impossible in the life he currently lives in reality. However, it’s in his final moments whereby he upholds those values of chivalry and heroism and sees the effects they have on Devlin and Faithful that he realizes that that life he once viewed impossible for himself, is indeed his reality. In his final moments that occurred from a life of tragedy, Albus York is able to experience a brief moment of solace. It’s the occurrence of a great tragedy that allowed Albus to be that chivalrous, brave Knight Captain he always dreamed of becoming, and a man worthy of receiving love and wanting from both those he holds dear to him, and those that hold him dear to their hearts. 

[dragonagebrainrotblog]

oops

Don't know how this romance will end, but history tells me in tears.

[understandableparadox]

gotta long head, sorting hat put me in the daddy house

[monsterblogging]

"I know JK Rowing is a terrible person but her books are so good-"

You sure about that?

I mean, just for a start, have you taken a good look at her fantasy creatures lately? A whole bunch of them are straight-up based on malicious and dehumanizing stereotypes about actual people.

Remember the werewolves? And being a werewolf was made into a kind of metaphor for having AIDS?

And you know how AIDS was first associated with gay men? And how conservatives back in the day were claiming gay men were preying on children in order to convert them to gayness?

Remember how Fenrir Greyback preyed on children in particular? Yeah, she put that subtext in there. She was an adult in the 90's. She knew damn well what she was doing.

Remember the house elves? Remember how most of them loved to serve and needed to have a home and a master or else they just wouldn't know what to do with themselves?

Did you know that's literally what slavers in the American South said about the Black people they kept enslaved? Go look up the happy slave myth.

Do I even need to get into the goblins and the antisemitic tropes they're based on? No, folkloric goblins were not gold-hoarding bankers waiting for their chance to stab humanity in the back.

"But the characters are so good!"

Are you kidding me?

Most of her characters are pretty one-dimensional, including Harry. Her idea of making a morally complicated character is giving a tragic past to a bully. Numerous characters are little more than stereotypes. (Looking at Fleur right now.) Literally anybody, including you, can easily make dozens of characters just as good, if not better. (It doesn't exactly take a lot of character designing skill to go, "hey, actually, having a sad backstory doesn't make it okay to bully children" or "hey, maybe I should not base a character on the first stereotype that pops into my head.")

"But the rest of the worldbuilding!"

Sorry, but her worldbuilding is just as basic as her characters. Magical castles and secret passages are stock tropes. Magical people who keep their true nature secret from humanity is the premise of pretty much every White Wolf TTRPG. Most of her fantasy creatures are just common European fairy tale and folklore creatures with shitty stereotypes projected onto them.

I'm not saying "basic worldbuilding bad." I'm saying, you could do just as good, if not better, with minimal effort.

Also there's her magical bioessentialism, where only Harry's abusive blood relatives could provide him with supernatural protection from Voldemort. Rowling thus effectively declared that non-biological family isn't quite real family, and that abusive biofamily can give you some essential thing that a loving, supportive family that isn't related to you just can't.

The Hogwarts houses are one of the most insidious elements of her worldbuilding. The idea of being sorted gives you a little dopamine hit because wow now you have a li'l niche where you belong!

But the actual function of the houses and sorting system and the House Cup is teaching children to see each other as rivals, and ensure that the most toxic views of the upper class get passed on to every new batch of kids sorted into Slytherin.

Hogwarts effectively prepares children for a dystopia where magic serves to distract its citizens from how nightmarishly awful it is. Economic inequality is so bad that people like Arthur and Molly Weasley can barely afford to put their kids through school, casual sadism is just an accepted norm in everyday society, and non-humans are second class citizens. Rowling sorta acts like she thinks this is a bad thing with certain lines she gave to Dumbledore, but in the end, her special boy protagonist becomes an auror; IE, a defender of the status quo. So.

If you've never seen it, Lily Simpson's video goes into even more detail on how the worldbuilding of Harry Potter is actually incredibly fucked up, and how it betrays small-minded attitudes on Rowling's part. There's no separating the art from this artist, because Rowling's rotten values pour out of nearly every page.

Yes, there are many things in Harry Potter that evoke feelings and inspire people, but there's absolutely nothing in it that this series has a monopoly on. You can find those same experiences in much, much better media.

[asidian]

A little heartbroken by the news, not going to lie.

But I'm going to keep creating for this fandom, because the characters have made a place in my heart, and I suspect they'll stay there for a good long while. This show and the fandom have been such a joy to partake in during a really rough time in my life, and I appreciate that more than I can say. I appreciate all of you who make the fandom what it is, too.

I guess in the end, Season 2 gets to be whatever we make it. So you know what? Let's all share our Season 2s. Nobody's going to stop us or tell us we're wrong.

So here we go. The Season 2 in my heart, in no particular order:

Desire shows up and puts Charles Rowland through the absolute wringer. He is losing his entire mind, he wants Edwin so bad. This boy has 17 different crises and finally a realization that he has been head over heels for some decades and he is just an idiot, actually

Payneland confession and a first kiss

They get Niko back from the Neitherlands. She's some flavor of undead, and she is having a grand old time, actually

Jenny sets up a butcher shop in London and goes on a date that doesn't try to kill her. With the Night Nurse

Crystal has a corruption arc with David buried in her soul-tree soil and at first they don't realize what's going on, but in the end the boys find a way to go into her heart-space and help her resolve the problem

The boys dance on-screen with some of those skeleton choreography dances

Mick mysteriously also has a shop in London. It straddles time-space and also realms. The characters are all ????? but no one ever figures out wtf is going on with that

Tragic Mick saves the day like a big damn hero with a bazooka like in the comics

The Cat King is around, generally being his trickster self, causing problems for funsies. He dies again and comes back as a fluffy white cat with glam white fur clothes

Charles gets kidnapped somewhere and Edwin has to go and save him. It's very dramatic and parallels S1 Ep7

Monty makes a showing in crow form. He has so many cute bird mannerisms. He gets fluffy in the London cold

The boys return to St. Hilarion's. They find their respective remains and come to terms with their deaths. They decide that, however tragic their deaths were, it led them to the only place they'd want to be: together

Crystal and Niko lay the boys to rest side by side, under the same headstone

[themousefromfantasyland]

My addition to Epic's Manwhore AU

Even if Odysseus fucked both Zeus and Poseidon to survive he probably wouldn't be punished by it.

First, because Amphitrite doesn't usually punish Poseidon's lovers.

And second, as far as I know, Hera never punished Zeus' male lovers.

Remember, we are in Ancient Greece, and even though same sex relationships are not as taboo as they are in Christian societies, we still are dealing with a Hetero Normative society.

For Greeks gay relationships don't count as real relationships since they can't marry and have children, and they can't ruin royal bloodlines with annoying bastards.

Odysseus isn't cheating on his wife by having sex with other men. He's just having mindless fun. It doesn't count if it's not another woman.

Hera wouldn't give a damn. Maybe she would be super annoyed by it, but not to the point as she was with Io and Semele. Remember, Zeus brought a boy toy to Olympus one time and Hera didn't do anything.

Think about all the tales of same sex relationships in Greek Mythology. They all end tragically because of other jealous male lovers, and not because the wife got upset.

So, Odysseus could bang Zeus, Poseidon and his entire crew and probably nobody would use that against him since he never cheated on Penelope with another woman.

[dreamsteddie]

Nancy knows what people think when they see her and Steve together these days. People mostly include Robin Buckley who, despite what they both say, Nancy doesn't completely believe isn't carrying some kind of torch for the man.

They aren't dating, but it's obvious to anyone who knows them that's what Nancy is angling for. She's not subtle, and she's not trying to be. Doesn't see any reason why she should be. But she knows what it looks like. Nancy Wheeler, fresh off an amicable but heartbreaking end to her relationship with Johnathan Byers has turned tail for a rebound with former boyfriend Steve Harrington. She's using him. She's leading him on. She's going to break his heart, again.

The truth is that Nancy has always liked Steve, was in love with Steve for a fleeting moment when they were both young and stupid and full of mistakes waiting to be made and in the end they had hurt each other, misunderstood each other, too many times to last through their tumultuous teenage years.

The Nancy and Steve of 1984 couldn't have loved each other right, but Nancy knows in her heart that the Nancy and Steve of 1987 could make something beautiful.

Steve is so different from who he used to be. There's a steadiness in him that he always tried to emulate but never fully embodied until the summer of 1985. He always knew how to make her laugh, how to get her to tap into that adventurous spirit within her and live life, but now he also makes her feel safe.

She wants to hold him the way he used to hold her. Wants to whisk him away to New York and build a life perfectly balanced between her ambition and his steadfastness. So she's putting everything she has into rekindling those embers that have always smoldered between them into a steady fire.

She just has to convince Robin that she's in it for the long haul this time.

------

Robin thinks that before she met Steve Harrington her life was never so much like a soap opera.

Her best friend seems to attract danger, betrayal, and romance to him like the world is full of moths and he's the only flame for miles. It would be funnier if it wasn't so god damn annoying sometimes.

Steve doesn't know it, despite how much he insists on being some kind of love expert, but he's got two very eligible bachelors vying for his hand at the moment. She's pretty sure they both see themselves as tragic heroes in this tale of romance, but from her vantage point, it's more like two ornery cats fighting for the prized spot of their owner's lap.

Nancy and Eddie have made themselves both near-permanent fixtures at the Family Video. Ostensibly, they come in because Hawkins is still in the process of rebuilding and there isn't much to do at the moment outside of wandering the woods, loitering at the convenience store, and watching movies at home. In actuality they're both trying to monopolize as much of Steve's time as possible, each trying to lock down his weekend plans before the other.

The first couple of weeks it was funny just to watch, now the only enjoyment she gets out of the whole circus is ruining their plans. She relishes the pissed-off-priss look she gets from Nancy when she asks Steve to go to the drive-in the next town over and Robin turns it into a group outing instead. It's equally funny to watch Eddie's puffed-up shoulders droop when he can't figure out a way to say no to Robin enthusiastically asking if she can join them at the trailer to smoke up on a Saturday night.

In truth, as much as she enjoys messing with them, Robin knows who she wants to win this war. She knows too much about Steve and Nancy's past and all the ways they weren't good for each other to trust her deceptively fragile best friend in Nancy's capable hands.

Eddie, on the other hand...well she's still going to make him work for it before she throws him a bone.

------

Eddie's never been one to fall in love.

He's had crushes, shared a few kisses with girls and boys alike, and lost his virginity in the same fumbling but meaningful way most teens do.

But love? He's never had that before, wasn't sure what it would even feel like.

It turns out that for Eddie, being in love feels a lot like being an overgrown house plant that's finally been moved into suitably a larger pot.

You see, Eddie knows a lot about growing up on his own. Raising himself and finding ways to survive, if not thrive, with a distinct lack of nurturing. He knows how to grow under someone, to grow under the clumsy guidance of his uncle Wayne who never intended to become a parent. And most of all he knows a hell of a lot about growing despite. Growing under the harsh boot forever trying to push him back into the hard dirt he came from.

It's something else entirely to grow with someone in the way he's been growing with Steve.

Steve who was there when he woke up, almost equally as injured as Eddie himself after a second, world saving round with Vecna. Steve who let Eddie lean on him in the difficult month of physical and emotional recovery that came next. Who helped Eddie come to terms with the new reality he was living under the way Steve wished someone had been there for him after his first encounter with the Upsidedown. Steve, who on paper should have been one of the people pushing him down, always gave Eddie the space to be himself and never tried to force either of them into a box they didn't fit.

Eddie knows he's not The Girl. He's not the one who got away, he's not the stalwart princess in one of his campaigns who saves the day herself but still gets the guy. He's not Nancy Wheeler.

But he's also not a quitter, and even if everything about the world and the narrative arc of their lives says that Steve will never end up with him, Eddie knows he would regret it for the rest of his life if he didn't put his hat in the ring for the hand of the fair Sir Steve.

------

Steve's not stupid.

He knows that there's something happening between Nancy, Eddie, and himself. Knows that if he chooses to look a little closer, to examine why exactly all his weekends are suddenly booked up and Robin has taken to stealing the Recese's Pieces off the shelf whenever either one of them comes into the store like she's settling in for a show, he would come to the conclusion that two of his best friends are essentially courting him in competition with each other.

But Steve isn't looking closer.

His mom always said that he was just like his father, too stubborn for his own good.

Robin says he's a control freak, pushing non-life-threatening problems off until he knows how to deal with them on his own terms.

The truth is Steve already knows how this will end, and he knows how this should end.

Because in the eyes of society, in the arc of the narrative, Steve and Nancy should already be making plans to move out to New York and start a life together. Steve should be looking at apartments while Nancy finalizes her class schedule. He should be looking into getting a job at his dad's New York office to support his future wife through her college education where they both know she'll breeze through her classes and move onto the world-changing career she was always meant to have, while Steve stays home with their children like a perfect little modern family.

And the thing is, if the story had gone like it was supposed to, if the world had been saved the fourth time around and Eddie Munson had died on the cold, hard ground of the Upsidown, that's probably exactly the future that would have happened and Steve would have never known to not be content with it. But Eddie did make it, and while Steve mourns the future he could have had, he knows it's not the one he's going to choose in the end.

Even though Steve knows exactly what will happen when he allows himself to face the ever-mounting tension between the three of them, it's scary to take that plunge.

Everything about Steve's world up until Robin has told him that what he's going to choose will damn him forever, and even if he's never put much stock into God and the church, he knows that the future in front of them will never be easy. There's a part of him that wants to take the easy way out. He's never been attracted to a man before Eddie, never had to imagine himself loving someone discreetly, and the thought of it makes his heart hurt prematurely. It would be simpler, he knows, to choose the path most taken.

But Steve has always thought more with his heart than his brain, and he knows that after everything they've been through, after all the time they've spent healing together and growing as one that he could never choose anyone but Eddie.

The time is coming for him to make his final decision, he can feel it, but for now he'll let them sit in this liminal space a little longer.

[pinkkittysaw]

have not been heavily involved in ffxv in such a long but reading fics for noctis always makes me fucking CRY

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: What's Your Future Spouse's Best Personality Trait? ✮⋆˙

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How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you—go ahead and read both!

If you enjoyed this reading, get your own personalized paid reading here!😊🦋

My KO-FI link: HERE 🫶🏻

MY MASTERLIST🫶🏻

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⊹₊⟡ Pile I

Resilient & Emotional

Romantic & Deeply Intuitive

4 of Cups + 9 of Wands + 8 of Cups?! Babes, your future spouse has been through the wringer. they are a tough cookie. This is the kind of person who’s faced rejection, disappointments, and emotional letdowns that could make even a main character in a tragic romance novel say, "Damn, you good?" 😭 But instead of being bitter, they’ve built a fortress of emotional resilience around themselves. The 9 of Wands is telling me this person has been knocked down 100 times but got up 101—they don’t give up on life or love, even if they’ve been burned before. The 8 of Cups confirms that they’ve walked away from things that no longer serve them (toxic exes, dead-end jobs, situationships that made no sense—all of it). They’re not the type to dwell on "what could’ve been." Instead, they cut their losses and move forward.

This is someone you can depend on. When life gets tough, they’re not crumbling into a puddle of existential dread—they’re standing tall, supporting both of you. They know how to handle loss, hardship, and setbacks without bringing negativity into the relationship. Instead of complaining, they’ll problem-solve and protect your peace.

Okay, now let’s talk about the Knight of Cups—aka, the walking romance novel protagonist. This person is charm on legs, but in a deep, thoughtful way. They’re not love-bombing for funsies—they actually feel things intensely and express love with heartfelt actions and words. while they are romantic, they also have a depth that makes them super self-aware. They know real love isn’t about grand gestures alone—it’s about emotional connection. So while they might not be showering you with gifts every five seconds, best believe they’ll know exactly when you’re feeling off and how to comfort you without even being asked.

They’ll write you long-ass texts about how much they love and appreciate you🥺. They’re the type to listen to your late-night yapping and actually remember what you said. They have a poetic way of expressing love, even if they don’t try to be poetic, they just naturally speak in soft boy/girl energy. MY TYPE MY TYPE MY TYPE😭

This person doesn’t do "surface-level love." They love in a way that FEELS SAFE—like you can fully be yourself without judgment. No breadcrumbs, no mixed signals—just pure, heart-centered love. Your future spouse is giving "strong but soft" energy. They’re emotionally intelligent, resilient, and romantic, and they don’t play about their love life. They will love you deeply, protect your peace, and keep the romance alive—all while being a grounded, stable, and emotionally evolved partner. ✨ You won’t have to second-guess this connection. They’re mature, romantic, and strong-willed—a whole package deal. 🥹

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⊹₊⟡ Pile II

The "Master Strategist With 3000 IQ" Energy

The "Zen AF, But Knows When to Strike" Energy

Okay, listen—this person does NOT make impulsive decisions. The 2 of Wands + The Hanged Man combo? This is the chess master of life. They calculate everything, they analyze their next steps like they’re planning world domination, and they don’t move unless they’re absolutely 100% sure it’s the right decision.

They’re not the type to rush into things—whether it’s a relationship, a career move, or even a casual Friday night out ("What’s the vibe? Who all is gonna be there?"—yeah, they need to know first 💀). The Hanged Man energy tells me that they take their sweet time weighing all the options, and the 2 of Wands? That just screams "I’ve got a vision, and I’m making it happen."

They strategize, they plan, and when they commit, they COMMIT. They won’t be the type to rush into things, but the second they decide, "Yeah, this is my person," it’s game over for everyone else.

What this means for you? No confusion, no mixed signals – You will always know where you stand. They will plan your future together – And I mean, really plan it. This is the person who will randomly say, "Hey, do you want to move to Paris in five years? I’ve already looked into real estate options. They don’t do dumb drama – If problems come up, they handle them maturely and efficiently (and probably before you even notice). They are your safe place – Because their whole aura just screams "I got this, don’t worry."

This person is unbothered and calm 95% of the time. They have this aura of serenity and wisdom that makes you feel so at peace when you’re around them. But that 5%? That’s when they see someone messing with you, and suddenly, you realize... oh, they could actually destroy a person if they wanted to. 👀

You will feel SAFE and protected at all times – They’re not aggressive, but they are calculating AF. Anyone who disrespects you? They’re already mentally plotting the most strategic way to make that person regret their existence. You get the best of both worlds – A partner who is peaceful and chill, but also deadly if necessary. It’s like dating a hot mastermind who meditates but could also lead an army.

They will never embarrass you with childish fights – They know how to shut down drama with just one sentence ("That’s an interesting perspective. Too bad it’s wrong.") and keep it moving.

WHEW the most FICTIONAL PARTNER EVERRR. This is the type of love that makes people jealous because it’s just so stable, deep, and fulfilling. This person is smart, protective, emotionally intelligent, and devoted—honestly, what more could you ask for? 😭They are the calm before AND after the storm, the architect of your dream life, and the silent but deadly protector who will love you with the power of a thousand well-thought-out strategies. And let’s be real… dating them is basically winning at life.

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⊹₊⟡ Pile III

Hardworking & Devoted

Fearless in love

This pile is the MOST romantic of all three.

Ohhhh, you are about to marry someone who does NOT play when it comes to their goals.This is giving "I put in the time, I put in the effort, and I get RESULTS." Since they’re naturally hardworking and disciplined, they approach relationships with the same level of commitment and strategy they bring to their personal goals.

They’re not the kind of person who gets discouraged easily. If something takes time, they understand that’s just part of the process. They trust the grind, and they know that as long as they keep working, keep improving, and stay consistent, they will get to where they want to be. (The type to be in the gym every day, rain or shine, because discipline > motivation💀.) They’re insanely reliable—if they say they’ll do something, THEY WILL. They probably have a strong work ethic—career-driven, passionate, maybe even a little obsessed with self-improvement.You will never have to second-guess if they’re serious about you, because once they decide to invest in something (or someone 👀), they are in it for the long haul. This is the type of partner who builds an empire with you. This person has BIG main character energy—they embrace life with open arms and are always down for an adventure. They don’t get stuck in endless “what-ifs.” Instead, they’re like "Screw it, let’s do it."

Okay, so here’s the fun part—this person? Totally the type to act all logical and practical, but deep down? THEY ARE A SOFTIE. 😭

Hey do romantic things without realizing it – You’ll casually mention something you like once, and BOOM, two weeks later, they surprise you with it (and play it off like it’s no big deal). Sir/Ma’am, just admit you’re obsessed already.🤓 Their love language is thoughtful actions – Expect things like fixing something before you even ask, getting your coffee just the way you like it, or remembering the exact way you like your blanket tucked in at night. It’s the small details for them.

They have that “quiet but deep” love – They’re not the type to scream “I love you” in public, but the way they look at you, protect you, and always think of you first? UGH. Heart-melting levels of devotion. They are soft for YOU and YOU ONLY – The world sees them as chill, independent, and maybe even a little reserved… but the moment they’re with you? They turn into human teddy bear.

They’d never admit it, but you are their weakness, and honestly, That’s HOT.

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog—it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! If my reading resonated you, you may consider buying my paid reading as it would really help me out financially♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[hoshifighting]

𖧷 crybaby

— synopsis: seungcheol can’t help but be a crybaby every time you break his heart, yet he always comes running back to you, desperate for your attention. even when you leave him cold for days or push him away, he can’t seem to stay away. his friends and family don’t get it—they hate how you treat him.

— WC: 4.6k — WARNINGS: agnst, smut, emotionallly detached!reader, emotionally attached!seungcheol, crying, he kind of pisses his friends and family out because of his whiny ass, explicit language, blowjob, cock riding, clit stimulation, face slapping, choking. — inspired by: cry baby by megan thee stallion — ''his friends and his dad hate me, I broke his lil' heart, he's a crybaby"

seungcheol was such a fucking crybaby. like, how does a man that big, that beefy, built like he could crush a watermelon between his thighs, have the emotional resilience of a damp tissue? 5′10 of pure gym dedication and somehow, here he was, sulking like a kicked puppy in the corner of his own damn birthday party. honestly, you broke his heart so many times you’d lost count, but the man was like a boomerang—always came back. didn’t matter how hard you threw him.

his friends absolutely hated you. well, maybe hate was strong—more like they hated how he acted because of you. jeonghan said you lived rent-free in his head, which you knew was true. but the real kicker was his family. they couldn’t stand hearing your name. apparently, he cried into his whiskey glass over you at his last family dinner. like, straight-up sniffles and shaky voice in front of his dad. the boys’ nights weren’t any better; they’d barely crack open a soju bottle before seungcheol was teary-eyed, rambling about you like you were the love of his life and not the emotional hurricane you were.

but that’s the thing, though. seungcheol was built for family. the whole package—white picket fence, Sunday brunches, PTA meetings. meanwhile, you were emotionally unavailable as fuck. couldn’t even commit to a favorite boba flavor, let alone a relationship. and now, you’d ghosted him for a week. a whole-ass week. no texts, no calls, not even the stupid memes you usually sent him at 3 a.m.

today was his birthday. his fucking birthday.

the party at his place was in full swing—laughter, good food, good drinks, jeonghan and mingyu lowkey roasting him about his “girlfriend” (air quotes and all). his parents were there too, of course. his brother had even flown in. but cheol barely moved from the couch all night. just sat there, one arm slung over the backrest, looking at his phone like a guy waiting for a miracle.

because in his head, if you were his girlfriend—like, properly his—you’d be here. with him. celebrating, holding his hand, maybe sitting in his lap. but instead, he got radio silence.

“bro, seriously, what the fuck is your problem?” jeonghan hissed, leaning over the couch to snatch the beer from cheol’s hand. “your mom’s asking why you look like you’re about to cry into the birthday cake.”

“i’m fine,” cheol muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“no, you’re not. you’ve checked your phone like a hundred times, and it’s giving ‘sad loser.’ cut it out before mingyu makes a meme out of you.”

but cheol didn’t cut it out. he just stared at the screen, lips pulled into a pout so tragic it could’ve been a fucking Greek play. the hours dragged. one by one, people started leaving, and eventually, it wasn’t even his birthday anymore.

august 9th. 9:54 p.m.

cheol sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking like he was about to combust.

and then, his phone buzzed.

one message.

from: future girlfriend ❤️ - “come over.”

that’s it. two words, no explanation. cheol shot up from the couch so fast he nearly knocked over the coffee table.

jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “where the hell are you going?”

cheol didn’t answer. he was already grabbing his keys, muttering something about how he’d “she texted me.”

he hard his friend groan out in defeat, disappointment, some even surprised that seungcheol would leave his own party like that.

while you were still just chilling at your place, sitting there like nothing had happened, waiting to see if this man who you’d left on read for a week would actually show up.

spoiler alert—he would.

the door wasn’t even locked—like you’d left it wide open for him, knowing he’d come running the second you told him to. seungcheol stepped inside your apartment, and it was so you in a way that made his chest tighten. that familiar scent? god, it was everywhere. in the air, clinging to the couch, the walls, probably gonna soak into his clothes and stay there for days, torturing him. like you’d marked your territory without even trying.

he moved on autopilot, his feet carrying him down the hallway to your bedroom like he didn’t even need directions. the door was cracked open, and he froze for a second when he saw you.

you were standing there, slipping a sheer robe over your shoulders—transparent. and it wasn’t doing a damn thing to hide you. the way the fabric barely skimmed over your hips, nipples peeking through, leading his eyes all the way down to the hem that just teased your thighs… it was insane.

you turned your head slightly, catching him in the doorway like some kind of lost puppy. your expression was unreadable, but he looked at you like you were magic or something—eyes wide, lips slightly parted. pathetic.

you stepped toward him, and before he could even process it, his hands moved to your waist like they belonged there. your arms looped lazily around his neck, and the warmth of your skin had his breath hitching. you glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall—10:01 p.m.—then met his gaze, your lips curling.

“happy birthday… birthday boy,” you said, your voice smooth as velvet.

he exhaled shakily, his eyes fluttering shut like the sound of your voice was too much. his brows knit together in that pitiful little frown you’d missed more than you cared to admit.

“why’d you leave me like that?” he muttered, voice cracking slightly. “did… did i do something? i’m sorry, i—”

you didn’t answer, didn’t even flinch, because honestly? you didn’t have a reason. there was no deep, dark explanation, no hidden agenda. you just did.

instead, you pushed him backward toward the bed, your hands firm on his chest. he stumbled slightly but kept talking, his voice climbing higher in pitch.

“please, just—just tell me. what did i do? i can fix it, i swear, just—”

you pushed him harder this time, and he landed on the bed with a bounce. he stared up at you, eyes glassy, lips trembling. “answer me,” he whined, his voice soft and desperate.

“shhh,” you hushed, pressing a finger to his lips.

he whimpered at the touch, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “why—why won’t you just—”

your hand came down on his cheek in a sharp slap. not too hard, but enough to make him moan, his mouth falling open in a perfect little “o.”

“quiet,” you said firmly, watching as his expression shifted. the sting seemed to zap the fight out of him, his mouth closing into a pout as his tears spilled over.

“aww,” you cooed, leaning down to brush your thumb under his eye. “don’t cry, birthday boy. let me give you a gift.”

his gaze flickered immesiately. a gift? he nodded eagerly.

“you gonna be good for me?” you asked, tilting your head.

“y-yeah,” he stammered, his voice so small it made you smile.

your hands moving to his belt. the way he watched you, like you were about to destroy his dignity, was almost comical.

you tugged his pants and underwear down in with a graceful sweep, leaving him bare and exposed. his cock was already rock hard, flushed red and leaking precum that smeared against his stomach.

“look at you,” you teased, wrapping a hand around the base. his breath hitched at the contact, his hips jerking slightly. “crying all over yourself, huh?”

he let out a choked whimper, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. “i—i can’t help it,” he whispered.

“poor baby,” you mocked, your thumb swiping over the tip to collect the sticky wetness. his whole body twitched at the motion, his eyes squeezing shut as more tears slipped down his cheeks.

you leaned down, letting your lips hover just above him. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? never let you have it before, but tonight… you’re special.”

he nodded frantically, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. “please,” he begged, his voice breaking.

you smiled, finally taking him into your mouth. the heat and wetness made him sob outright, his hands flying to your hair but stopping short—like he was scared to touch you without permission.

“oh—fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbled, his thighs trembling as you worked him over. your tongue dragged along the veins as your hand played with his balls, and he keened, his head falling back against the pillows.

“so good,” he choked out, tears streaming down his face. “m-missed you.”

you hummed around him, and the vibrations nearly sent him over the edge. his whole body tensed, his hips bucking slightly as he moaned your name.

“gonna be good for me?” you asked, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.

“y-yes,” he stammered, his eyes glassy and desperate. “so good, i’ll be so good, please—”

“then take it,” you said, and he did.

your tongue swirled around the swollen tip of his cock, drawing a shuddering breath out of him that turned into a whimper when you pulled back slightly, letting a string of spit connect your lips to his flushed skin. his chest heaved, his abs clenching under the weight of your stare.

you fold your tongue up and slid along the underside of his length, like you had all the time in the world. his thighs trembled as you worked your way down, your nails scratching lightly along the sides of his hips, keeping him still. by the time you reached his base, his whole body was taut, his hands fisted so tightly into the sheets you thought he might rip them.

“you’re so sensitive,” you murmured, letting your breath ghost over his skin.

“i can’t—” he choked, cutting himself off with a high-pitched moan when your tongue flicked over the soft skin of his balls.

you smiled against him, pressing a kiss to one of the heavy globes before taking it into your mouth, sucking gently. his hips jerked off the bed, but your hand pressed firmly against his stomach, pinning him down.

“stay still,” you ordered.

“i’m trying—fuck, i’m trying,” he babbled, his voice cracking. his head lolled to the side, his lips parted in a silent cry as you continued to suck and lick at him, your tongue tracing slow, wet circles.

your free hand moved back to his cock, wrapping around the shaft and stroking it slowly, your thumb smearing the precum that was steadily leaking from the tip.

“look at me,” you said, your voice softer this time.

his eyes fluttered open, glassy and red-rimmed, his gaze locking onto yours. the sight of you, lips wrapped around him, your hand working him in tandem, had him letting out a desperate, broken sound that went straight to your core.

“you like this?” you asked, pulling back slightly, your hand still stroking him as you kissed along his inner thigh.

“yes,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “fuck, yes. feels so good.”

“yeah?” you teased, your lips quirking into a smirk as you nipped at his skin. “you’ve been waiting for this? waiting for me to touch you like this?”

he nodded frantically, “always,” he admitted. “always wanted you like this. please don’t stop.”

you purred, letting your tongue glide back up to his base before taking him into your mouth again, this time deeper, letting him feel the heat of your throat. “fuck—oh my god,” he sobbed, his hands twitching at his sides, like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare.

“go on,” you encouraged, pulling off just enough to speak. “touch me. you’re being good, aren’t you?”

his hands immediately flew to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he let out another choked moan. “yes,” he breathed, “yes, so good, i’ll be so good for you.”

you hollowed your cheeks, bobbing your head slowly, your hand working in time with your movements. his thighs shook beneath you, his breath hitching every time your tongue pressed against the sensitive vein running along the underside of his cock.

“you’re so fucking pretty like this,” you said, pulling back just enough to let your spit-coated hand continue stroking him. “all flushed and crying for me. does it feel that good?”

“so good!” he gasped, tears spilling over again as he bucked his hips involuntarily.

you hummed in approval, your tongue flicking over the tip before dipping lower again, taking one of his balls into your mouth once more. the way his entire body shook beneath you, his voice breaking into desperate little cries—it was everything.

“you’re mine,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his skin. “aren’t you?”

“yours!” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “all yours...”

you pulled back, your lips slick with spit and precum, watching as seungcheol’s chest heaved like he’d just run a marathon. his head was tilted back against the pillows, mouth slightly open, a trail of drool glistening at the corner of his lips. his cock twitched in your hand, still throbbing and leaking like it couldn’t survive a second without you.

“cheol,” you said, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze.

he didn’t answer. his eyes were half-lidded, rolling back as another pathetic whimper slipped past his lips.

“yah,” you hissed, your free hand moving down to cup his balls, squeezing them just enough to snap him out of it.

he jerked, his hips twitching as a choked cry tore from his throat. his wide, glassy eyes met yours, full of confusion, like he wasn’t sure whether to apologize or beg for more.

“you listening now?” you asked, your tone playful but firm.

“y-yeah,” he stammered.

you smirked, leaning forward just enough to let your breath fan over his cock. “good. now, tell me—do you want me to make you cum like this?” your hand gave his length a slow, deliberate stroke, watching as his eyes fluttered shut again. “or do you want me to ride you?”

his eyes snapped open at the second option, but he still didn’t answer. his mouth opened and closed like he was trying to speak but couldn’t get the words out, and you swore he looked like a little kid trying to pick between candy flavors.

“cheol,” you said again, your grip on his balls tightening just enough to make him yelp. “i’m not giving you both, so choose. now.”

he whimpered, his lower lip trembling as he looked at you like you were some kind of goddess and he didn’t want to disappoint.

“i—i want…” he trailed off, his voice cracking as his cock twitched in your hand again.

“come on,” you urged. “use your words, birthday boy.”

his cheeks flushed deeper, and he swallowed hard before finally stammering out, “i want you to ride me.”

“do you?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as your hand gave him one last teasing stroke.

“mhmm,” he breathed, his voice shaky but certain. “please. want to feel you. need to—need to be close to you.”

you smiled, your chest swelling. “good boy,” you murmured, releasing him completely and watching as he whimpered at the cut-off.

you climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips as his hands immediately flew to your thighs, gripping them like he was scared you’d disappear—again. the way his eyes roamed over your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin through the transparency of the robe, and the big slit that have been created as the robe opened up, made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

you reached between your legs, guiding his cock to your entrance, letting the tip tease your folds just enough to have him squirming beneath you.

“mm..fuck” he groaned, his head falling back against the pillows. “you’re so wet. is that—fuck, is that for me?”

“all for you,” you lied, he knew you were mocking him as you slowly sank down onto him.

the stretch was so good, never fails to make you arch your back, his cock filled you so perfectly had your breath hitching. but the sound he made was way down pathetic. it was half moan, half sob, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“oh my god,” he choked, his hands flying to your waist as his hips jerked involuntarily. “you’re so—so tight. best birthday gift ever.”

you rolled your hips slowly, letting him feel every inch of your gummy walls, and his grip tightened, you can feel his strong fingers marking your meat.

“you like being used like this?”

“yes!” he gasped, his voice high and broken. “love it. love you.”

you froze for half a second, the words catching you off guard, but you quickly recovered, your lips curling into a smirk. “that so?”

“yeah,” he breathed, his eyes squeezing shut as you started to move again. “fuck, i love you. love everything about you.”

every roll of your hips, pulled more sounds from him than you thought possible—moans, gasps, sobs, all spilling from his lips like a declaration.

your hips moved in a steady rhythm, dragging his cock in and out of you in a way that made your thighs burn, but the way seungcheol looked at you—like you were the fucking universe—made it impossible to stop. you clenched around him, squeezing tightly, and his mouth fell open, a strained whimper spilling out as his fingers dug into your hips as you rocked your pussy back and forth.

you pushed his shirt up higher, your eyes falling on his chest, where his nipples were flushed a deep red against his tan skin. his brows furrowed in confusion when he noticed your gaze.

“what?” he asked, his voice hoarse and breathless.

“you don’t even know, do you?” you teased, your nails trailing up his chest. “how red they get when you’re about to cum?”

“what?” he repeated, his tone higher this time, all embarassed.

“oh, baby,” you cooed, leaning down to brush your lips against his. “you’re so fucking cute.”

his face flushed even deeper, and you felt his cock twitch inside you as your hands wrapped around his neck. his eyes widened immediately, his breath hitching as he stared up at you, his lips parted in surprise.

“you like this?” you asked, your grip tightening just enough to make his pulse race beneath your fingers.

he let out a strangled moan, his hands flying up to your thighs like he didn’t know whether to stop you or hold on tighter. “y-yeah,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “fuck, yeah.”

“then be good for me, cum for me, cheol. now.”

his entire body tensed, his hips jerking up. you clenched around him again, your grip on his neck firm as you ground down harder as the first waves of your orgasm hit you.

you raised your hips just in time, letting his cock slip out of you as he spilled all over his stomach, ropes of cum painting his skin. his head fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving as he let out a broken sob, his hands trembling against your thighs.

you collapsed onto his chest, your hand moving between your legs to circle your clit frantically, your moans muffled against his ear as you chased the last remnants of your own orgasm.

“oh my fucking god...” you panted, your fingers working faster as your hips ground against his thigh.

he turned his head slightly, his eyes hazy as he watched you, his lips parted in awe. “you’re…so beautiful...”

you moaned loudly as your orgasm hit you, your body shaking against his as you buried your face in his neck, your hand slowing to a stop.

as the high ebbed away, your body melted into his, your limbs heavy and your breath evening out. you let your full weight settle on him, and he groaned softly, the sound less of discomfort and more of deep, satisfied contentment. his arms came around you instinctively, holding you close, his hands splayed wide against your back like he never wanted to let go.

you lay there, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. you tried to ignore how your own heart raced, guilt creeping in as you replayed the last week in your head.

sometimes, you really felt like shit about the way you treated him. seungcheol was too good for you, with that big heart of his—always giving, always forgiving. the problem wasn’t him. it was you.

you hoped he couldn’t feel the way your heart thudded against his chest, the weight of your remorse making it beat faster.

you lifted your head slightly, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, your fingers tangling in his hair as you gently scratched at his scalp. he sighed, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“cheol,” you murmured, your voice softer than you planned. “can i give you one more gift tonight?”

he didn’t answer right away. his eyes drifted to the ceiling, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“only one?” he asked after a moment.

you hummed, matching his teasing tone. “yeah. just one. better make it count, birthday boy.”

he chuckled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. instead, his gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your back.

“i don’t think you can give me what i really want...” he said finally.

you tilted your head, your brows furrowing. “what do you mean?”

he hesitated before he turned his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“i want to be here with you... but knowing that you… that you actually like me back.”

he held your gaze, his eyes raw and vulnerable, waiting for a response that you didn’t know how to give.

“cheol, you know that right now i—” you started, your voice cracking.

but he shook his head, his lips curving into a small, sad smile. “it’s okay,” he said quickly, though the way his arms tightened around you betrayed his words. “i didn’t mean to ruin the moment. i just… i had to say it.”

you didn’t know what to say. guilt churned in your stomach, your heart pounding against his chest as his words echoed in your head.

he deserved so much more than you could give, and yet here he was, holding you like you were his whole world.

seungcheol let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against the curve of your spine. “but since that won’t happen…” he trailed off, his voice wistful.

your chest tightened, the words striking a nerve you weren’t ready to deal with. you stayed silent, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, hoping he couldn’t see the way your brows knitted together.

“can you…” he hesitated, his fingers twitching against your skin. “can you come to my birthday party tonight? i know it’s late, but it’s probably still going. i’d love to see you there.”

you froze. you knew what he was asking—he wanted you to show up for him, to step into his world, even if it made you uncomfortable.

“cheol,” you said slowly, lifting your head to look at him. his expression was expectant.

“please,” he added, whispering in an almost pityful way. “just for a little while. it’s my birthday.”

you bit your lip, glancing away. the idea of walking into a room full of people who probably hated you wasn’t exactly appealing, but the way he looked at you, made it hard to say no.

“fine,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

“really?” he asked, his face lighting up instantly.

“yeah, really,” you said, rolling your eyes.

he sat up, pulling you with him.

you groaned, pushing against his chest. “ugh, fine. let me get ready, then.”

he followed you into the bathroom like a puppy, leaning against the doorway as you washed your face and fixed your hair. his gaze was soft, trailing over you like he was memorizing every detail.

“stop staring,” you said, your tone sharp but lacking any real bite.

“can’t help it,” he replied, his voice warm. “you’re gorgeous.”

you rolled your eyes again, but your cheeks flushed anyway, and you hated how easily he got to you.

“you should get ready too,” you said, pointing at him with a toothbrush in hand.

“i’m fine like this,” he said with a shrug, gesturing to his wrinkled shirt and jeans.

“you’re not showing up to your own party looking like you just got laid,” you shot back, smirking when his ears turned red.

“fine,” he grumbled, shuffling off.

by the time you were both dressed and ready, the nerves in your stomach were in full swing. seungcheol, however, looked ridiculously pleased with himself, his hand finding yours as he led you toward the door.

seungcheol practically vibrated with happiness as he led you up to the front door of his house. he tried so damn hard to play it cool, to keep his steps measured and his grin from stretching too wide. but his chest felt like it might burst at any moment, the thought of walking in with you by his side enough to make him wanna jump like some kind of elf in a fairytale.

this was it. you were here. about to meet his family, his friends. his whole world.

he took a deep breath and opened the door, immediately met with a chorus of voices.

“finally!” jeonghan shouted, throwing his arms up like he’d been waiting for years.

“where the hell have you been?” his brother added exasperatedly.

seungcheol pressed his lips together, holding back a smile as he glanced over his shoulder at you. “i, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down for a second before looking back up, his voice soft but proud. “i needed to bring someone special before the ‘happy birthday.’”

the room fell silent as you stepped out from behind him, your hands clutching the straps of your bag like a lifeline. your small, tentative smile was enough to stop everyone in their tracks.

you shifted awkwardly under the weight of their stares, the sound of the music thumping softly in the background the only thing filling the silence.

and that’s when it hit them.

oh.

this was the reason seungcheol had been acting so out of character, the reason he’d been spiraling for months. you weren’t just some girl he was into. no, you were a fucking vision. gorgeous in a way that made the room seem brighter. mesmerizing without even trying.

now they understood. now it all made sense.

of course he was crazy over you. of course he’d been spiraling. who wouldn’t be?

but the realization also came with a quieter, more awkward truth: this was the girl they’d all cursed out in private. the girl they’d ranted about after every drunken night where seungcheol had cried into his beer or disappeared to avoid them.

they exchanged quick glances. yeah, they got it now, but it didn’t erase the fact that they’d judged you before even meeting you.

a nagging question none of them dared to voice but couldn’t shake.

were you really worth it?

jeonghan, the one who never held his tongue, raised a brow and smirked. “well, shit. now i get it.”

seungcheol’s face flushed a deep red, his hand instinctively finding the small of your back as if to shield you from the inevitable onslaught of teasing.

but instead of cracking a joke, jeonghan just smiled and nodded, his eyes softening. “welcome,” he said, his voice genuine.

the others slowly followed suit, their smiles tentative but warm as they tried to mask their lingering curiosity.

and as seungcheol led you further into the house, his hand never leaving your back, he felt like he’d just won the lottery. because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t walking into this house feeling defeated or embarrassed.

this time, he was walking in with you.

© 2024 Hoshi Fighting | All Rights Reserved

[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.

[bisamwilson]

“This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, forever:

The first dawn of light in your universe brings pain.

The light burns you. It will always burn you. Part of you will always lie upon black glass sand beside a lake of fire while flames chew upon your flesh.

You can hear yourself breathing. It comes hard, and harsh, and it scrapes nerves already raw, but you cannot stop it. You can never stop it. You cannot even slow it down.

You don’t even have lungs anymore. Mechanisms hardwired into your chest breathe for you. They will pump oxygen into your bloodstream forever.

Lord Vader? Lord Vader, can you hear me?”

And you can’t, not in the way you once did. Sensors in the shell that prisons your head trickle meaning directly into your brain.

You open your scorched-pale eyes; optical sensors integrate light and shadow into a hideous simulacrum of the world around you.

Or perhaps the simulacrum is perfect, and it is the world that is hideous.

Padmé? Are you here? Are you all right?

You try to say, but another voice speaks for you, out from the vocabulator that serves you for burned-away lips and tongue and throat.

Padmé? Are you here? Are you all right?

I’m very sorry, Lord Vader. I’m afraid she died. It seems in your anger, you killed her.

This burns hotter than the lava had.

No…no, it is not possible!

You love her. You have always loved her. You could never will her death.

Never.

But you remember…

You remember all of it.

You remember The Dragon that you brought Vader forth from your heart to slay. You remember the cold venom in Vader’s blood. You remember the furnace of Vader’s fury, and the black hatred of seizing her throat to silence her lying mouth…

And there is one blazing moment in which you finally understand that there was no Dragon. That there was no Vader. That there was only you. Only Anakin Skywalker.

That it was all you. Is you.

Only you.

You did it.

You killed her.

You killed her because, finally, when you could have saved her, when you could have gone away with her, when you could have been thinking about her, you were thinking about yourself…

It is in this blazing moment that you finally understand the trap of The Dark Side, the final cruelty of The Sith —

Because now yourself is all you will ever have.

And you rage and scream and reach through The Force to crush The Shadow who has destroyed you, but you are so far less now than what you were. You are more than half machine, you are like a painter gone blind, a composer gone deaf, you can remember where the power was but the power you can touch is only a memory, and so with all your world-destroying fury it is only droids around you that implode, and equipment, and the table on which you were strapped shatters, and in the end, you cannot touch The Shadow.

In the end, you do not even want to.

In the end, The Shadow is all you have left.

Because The Shadow understands you, the shadow forgives you, The Shadow gathers you unto itself-

And within your furnace heart, you burn in your own flame.

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker.

Forever…

-Matthew Woodring Stover, Revenge of the Sith

Vote for whoever you think is the most tragic! The top two most voted characters will win spots in the bracket for the full competition!

[midnite-c6]

i have so many different au ideas with namgyu and thanos

imagine frontman!namgyu and thanos (imagine there can be two) and timid!reader (who won a game before but wanted to stop it like Gi-hun)

frontman!namgyu and thanos who joins the game again to see their timid!reader, seeing how you’re just as shy as you were when you first played.

frontman!namgyu and thanos know you can protect yourself but they can’t help but be protective especially after seeing how shy you still are

ong the manipulation AND the mocking. foaming at the mouth, drooling. offtopic: 001 was hot asf, but this aint abt him.

frontman!thanos & nam-gyu x timid!reader imagine!! warnings: 18+, DARK content, noncon, sa, manipulation (please read at ur own risk guys D: !!!!)

god they were definitely laughing to themselves to see you try again in stopping their games, i mean, who tf r u anyway, but damn were you so cute for trying. like.. watching you last time, neither of them expected you to win, but theyre def pleased you did! and now that you joined again.. they decided to play with you and your feelings! omg you'll be saying your masterplan and they'd nod so sweetly like they trust you with all their heart :< & when you tell them to vote X, they vote X! you just can't help but be grateful since the two "sweetest" boys who seem pretty strong are on your team, (they're not, but they're definitely tag-teaming you)

ohhh you're so glad that there were truly good people in the world, or you were just too naive..and dumb.. so dumb for trusting them, trusting them SO much to let them give you one last sweet goodbye before fighting the guards during lights out..

nam-gyu wraps his arms around your waist securely, nuzzling against the crook of your neck, your back tightly pressed against his chest. thanos is on watch duty since you suggested that one person should always stay awake during lights out, they cleverly figured that one of them should keep you eeeeextra safe, and who are you to really decline the offer?

nsfw below!!-> (⁠っ⁠˘⁠з⁠(⁠˘⁠⌣⁠˘⁠ ⁠).

his warm breath tickles the exposed skin of your neck. he had always been the more 'physical' one from the two, he loves to just touch you everywhere, and you let him, i mean he's just so caring, and his past is so tragic you can't help but feel bad :<. his hand moves from your waist to your stomach, before going higher to lightly graze your chest. you squirm underneath his touch, lightly moving his hand, thinking it wasn't intentional. a few minutes later,, he'd move his hand again, this time underneath your shirt, lightly squeezing your chest, making you go wide awake! "nam-gyu.." "yeah?.." he whispers sleepily, "..i can't sleep, miss." he'd continue to tease your nipples, making them harden by his rough fingers :< "w..why are you touching me there?" you whispered so purely, you're gonna be the death of him, he hums, "why..? do you want me to touch you somewhere else?" you couldn't help but whine from the painful feeling, "n-nam-gyu.." he shushes you, "it's okay.. i'm gonna miss you. once we defeat whoever's behind these games, we might not see eachother again.." his hand quickly moved underneath your pants, slipping easily past the waistband of your panties, "but.. w.. we'll definitely see eachother again.." he groans "do you not want this?" "u-uhm.." you can't reply, distracted by his pointer finger hastily tickling your sensitive bud or how your skin feels warmer and warmer by his hot breath touching your skin everytime he exhales. "i just want to thank you, for guiding us, keeping everyone alive y'know?" you still couldn't reply. "its like..." his lips brush your skin, "..you are an angel sent from above." how could you decline??

"time's up bro- oh, shit, you actually did it." thanos looked in awe, but he'd quickly pull at player 124's jacket and take him away off of you, "fuck you." nam-gyu only replied as thanos takes his spot. he'd make you face him, seeing a "betrayed" look on your face. "oh what's wrong, baby..?" he pouted, a hand gently cupping your face. you'd stare right into his blue eyes. "don't.. don't worry, we're just both scared, like you.." you furrow your brows, what does he mean?? "i mean.. there's a chance we die tomorrow.. baby, i'll forever forget not getting a taste of you, you understand, right?" you nodded, only because you were being nice, not because you understood. he smiled.

"this'll be fast, angel." you were such an angel. really.

sorry i love nam-gyu somuch guys sorrh GETTING THRU MY DRAFTS ONE BY ONE!! WOOO!! thanos x namgyusgf!reader next!! :^

[dio-niisio]

(English is not my first language, so please ignore any mistakes! :-))

Ok I've been imagining a scenario that for some reason Martha and Thomas Wayne are brought back from the dead...

One day they are dead and the other they are starting at their graves, reading their names and being very confused.

Alfred probably finds them first, he looks out the window and sees two people standing in the family cemetery, Wayne Manor had problems in the past with grave robbers, and he would be damned if he let that happen with their grave. So poor Alfred runs, grabbing some old shovel on the way (just to scare, not to harm!), ready to give an ear full on these people. That's when he sees. His friends.

He's surprised to say the least. They don't look young, the years they were gone caught up to them. Thomas has mostly grey hair and Martha had a white strip of hair right in the top of her head...

Alfred doesn't know what to do, so he brings them inside. And starts to prepare some tea while he tries to explain the past 30 something years.

The next person who sees them is Dick, he smelled the tea and was going to get a cup, then he saw the people in the painting on the top of the stairs. And he panicked. Cuz he knows what that implies, and he is worried for his dad.

He introduces himself as 'Bruce's son' which gets them to be a very happy set of grandparents, he tells them the story of when Bruce adopted him (cuz grandpa wanted to meet his mom, in the end he got a nice and tragic story of the flying Grayson's)! And how he always wanted to meet them! He also text Jason, telling him to get his ass downstairs and talk to his family.

Jason almost had a heart attack, he thought that Dick wanted him to talk to Bruce not grandpa and grandma, he's very happy of course, but he's worried for them, resurrection isn't something nice, but they assure him they are as good as they could be. And it is his turn to explain that he's also adopted (they laughed at the tire story, he told them it was one of Bruce's "fancy cars"). He comments that he and Martha have matching hair (both with a white stripe right in the middle).

Tim comes home around noon, he's been spending time with some school friends, and when he hears some commotion in the kitchen he goes to investigate, that's when he sees them and thinks he's hallucinating (again), but he's reassured by a very happy grandma. He tells them he's 'Tim Drake-Wayne', and is his time to explain that no Bruce didn't marry a Drake, he is his legal guardian (aka Dad) cuz when his parents died on a archaeological excavation his uncle was not fit to be his guardian so Bruce stepped up.

Thomas and Martha are so happy in a couple of hours they went from being dead to having 3 beautiful grandchildren! They are very proud of Bruce for making a difference in these boys lives!

That's when Damian walks in the kitchen he just wanted Alfred's help with something, he looks just like Bruce when he was that age (or what they think Bruce would look like), he doesn't look surprised or excited, he just says that he's Bruce's 'biological son', which gets one of his ears pinched by Dick with a very stern 'be nice'. Before they can ask anything they're being hugged by Damian who says that it is nice to have them in here.

When Bruce comes home he's very tired™, he had a day full of meetings on Wayne enterprises and he still gotta do Batman stuff. He passed through the kitchen and saw that his kids had guests over. He doesn't think much of it until he gives a good look at them.

"Mama? Papa?"

And the world stopped spinning. That's them! All he wanted to see since he was an 8 year old little boy. He just doesn't believe it.

He looks just like his dad. Probably a bit shorter (and not rocking the mustache), but he has his mama's eyes. And her smile. He missed her smile so much! He missed his papa's hugs, he missed the lullabies his mama used to sing, he missed playing pretend with his papa, he missed them.

And he can't say a word. He just cries. He hugs them and he cries. His mama and papa are really back! They are back home!

And now it's his turn to catch up! And boy he's got a lot to say!

As they move to the living room Thomas gives this look to Alfred, smiles and says "Thank you for caring for our little boy, old friend!"

"Little boy? I'm sorry Mister Wayne, but that's an understatement. He's almost taller than the cabinets!"