#we are all extremely unprofessional

[vaguely-concerned]

I've been picking mostly only the essential flirt options with lucanis in the romance so far (I've personally found the dynamic much more natural and mutual when you do that, more like forming a solid friendship slowly and inevitably becoming something else and less like you keep pushing on him and getting little back b/c he seemingly just gets overwhelmed and goes into freeze instead), and I think rye is a pretty hard person to read at the best of times even though he's been Down Real Bad from pretty early on and their chemistry as people is naturally really good. so the way the almost-kiss plays out in this playthrough feels a lot like it has the added layer of lucanis realizing that no but for sure rook is flirting and not just being kind or a good friend* it IS actually happening it's not just wishful/fearful thinking!!! and then uh. maybe going a bit too hard a bit too fast in all the excitement at that revelation haha

*in lucanis' defense he has seemingly literally never had a friend who wasn't his cousin-brother before, under those circumstances I suppose some confusion is extremely natural if not outright expected lmao

[iwantyoutodegrademeplease]

Just got out of my oral exam!!! Somehow I got away with having a completely unprofessional and jokey presentation of my written work, and still got an A hihi

I really think I deserve a reward for all my hard work, and being so funny and entertaining tbh😌

[bastard-coatedbastards]

Fuck "medically recognized" I'm recognized by a therapist who understands the sheer horrors of crapitalism and bitches with me about all the paperwork he has to do because of structural bullshit and that's more healing than just any random psych

[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.

[luveline]

heyy! ━ im not sure if you requests currently because its totally fine if you dont.

but how about hot bombshell bau!reader where she looks extra fine today [like its warm and she wears a dress] and spencer cant info dump like he usually does? ━ feel free to add anything to the story!

love your writing and page, <3

ty for requesting ♡ fem!reader

Texas gets hot. Unbearable, suffocating heat, arid air that feels as though it's baking you alive paired with the unforgiving beat of the sun on your shoulders. Sorry, Hotch, but you have to wear a dress. 

It's a little black thing with respectable sleeves and a less respectable hemline. There's no cleavage on show. Honestly, you could wear it to the courthouse if you needed to, and that's what counts. 

"Well, hi, mama," Morgan greets as you drift into the hotel lobby. 

"Unprofessional?" you ask, holding the hem in your two hands and pulling it down a touch. 

"On you? Absolutely." Morgan's wearing his usual attitude, but even he had the sense to wear a light grey shirt. "Where've you been hiding that one?" 

"I'm prepared for anything, Derek, you know that." 

Hotch raises his eyebrows when he sees you. 

"Too much?" you ask cautiously. 

"No. You look nice, Y/N. It's not you I'm thinking about." He suffers in his suit jacket, but you can't imagine he'll wear it much longer. He's a stickler for formality but he's not insane. "Speaking of, where's Reid?" 

"We're here!" JJ assures, leading the rest of your team from the breakfast hall. "We were following the air-conditioning. Hey, nice dress. I wish I packed something cooler." 

"It has to be hitting one ten," Emily whines. 

Spencer follows behind her, not quite looking at you as he begins, "It's an even one hundred farenheit today, it just feels hot because the aridity of the air is…" 

Spencer stares at you, his voice fading thin as the edge of a flower petal. He makes a very gentlemanly and extremely entertaining attempt to restrain himself, but his eyes pitch downward to your thighs, your legs as a whole, pupils dragging and catching on the slopes of them. 

His gaze shoots back to your eyes. "The air?" you ask softly. 

You can feel Hotch's disapproval in the same way you could predict today's heat. Spencer glances at him, and, because he isn't totally socially unable, he steadies himself and says, "You look nice." 

"Spencer!" you cheer, your happiness nearly smothering a mixture of sighs and laughs. "Thank you so much, that's so sweet!" You close the distance between you to clasp his arm gently. "You look nice too. I see you've foregone a sweater in the heat. Have you ever thought about wearing a v-neck shirt like Morgan does? You'd look really good, especially your arms." 

Speechless, Spencer shakes his head. You pat his shoulder as Hotch shepherd's you out of the hotel and into the sunshine, the agony of a land without air-conditioning distracting your audience. With slightly more privacy, you lean into Spencer's side. 

"I know it's not quite right to wear to work but my pencil skirts are all too tight after the last wash. Do you think it's alright?" 

A bead of sweat collects at his hairline. "I think it's fine." 

"Yeah? I just couldn't stand to be hot again like we were yesterday, even my knee caps felt sweaty. If it gets any hotter I'll have to solve the case in my underwear." 

Spencer makes a quiet, strange sound, like a pant or a gasp being choked on. You'd love to say you attribute it to the heat, but you're not that humble. 

"We'd still get the job done, wouldn't we?" you ask. 

"I don't know what to tell you," Spencer says. 

Hotch puts you and Spencer in separate SUVs.

[msschemmenti]

fun police - 3

bau x reader / eventual emily prentiss x reader

a/n: is anyone interested in reading y/n’s sessions with the other team members? or are we cool with focusing on emily?

“why are you here?” jj asked as she breezed past emily’s darkened office. she and alves had gotten an early morning break on a case they were working and were just getting back. she glanced at her wrist and caught sight of the abnormally early hour and stepped into the office curiously.

“i’m doing my homework.” emily grumbled but kept her eyes closed and her wrist angled.

“homework? what are you talking about?” jj asked as she allowed her eyes to fully take in emily’s crisscrossed legs and closed eyes.

emily’s peaked an eye open to address jj, “homework from fun police y/ln. didn’t you get homework too?”

“no? i don’t think anyone got homework. this is the first im hearing of any of that.” jj replied, fighting down a laugh as she realized what emily was actually doing. “are you meditating?”

“no one else has homework? what the hell…” emily grumbled uncrossing her legs and leaning against the couch.

“no, what did you say to y/n? we all kinda expected you to talk your way out of any additional sessions. but now i see that’s not what happened. giving you homework and a weekly meeting is kind of extreme. i mean even rossi is on bi-weekly sessions.” jj said leaning on the arm of one of the loungers.

“even rossi? he’s faaaar worse than me. i’m pretty sure he’s still seeing voit in his head.” emily grumbled causing jj to laugh. “i don’t know what it is about her. it’s like as soon as we’re alone she sucks every bit of coherence and sense out of my brain. and then i just end up looking stupid. and mentally ill.”

“yeah i’ll give you that. she has a way of pulling things out for sure. but i don’t think that’s why you seem to be having a far more difficult time articulating yourself…” jj smiled suggestively.

“and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“oh i don’t know, it probably doesn’t help that she’s so attractive.” jj could see the protest on emily’s face so she continued. “i know i was a little surprised. i never really envisioned a wellness agent but it definitely wasn’t her.”

“well i won’t judge you for that.” emily mumbled, looking at her nails dismissively. “i don’t think that’s my problem though. her questions are just built to cause confusion.”

jj looked at emily skeptically, “well what did she ask you?”

“to define relaxation. what do i look like webster’s dictionary? oh and she asked me what tasks i enjoy. how unprofessional.” emily grumbled, unintentionally calling forth the very inappropriate image of y/n she’d created in her head during their first session.

“unprofessional? how was that unprofessional?”

“well what i like to do is unprofessional…” emily shrugged, and jj’s face lit up in amusement.

“emily elizabeth prentiss, did you tell our wellness agent the only thing you enjoy doing is sex? unprovoked?” jj was almost giddy.

“i wasn’t unprovoked! she’d been questioning me for the past hour— and i was just being honest. also i didn’t say out outright.”

“but you heavily alluded to it. to someone you are denying being attracted to. and what did she say?”

“i never denied anything. you’re making me sound guilty or guiltier than i should be! after that she asked how often i participate in that activity… and then i may have said something along the lines of ‘far more than she could think of’ or something like that.”

“oh my god!” jj grinned.

“no no oh my god-ing. she gave me homework after that.” emily shrugged, skipping the part where she conjured and image that had been living with her for the last week.

“uh huh sure. you can skip the part where she gave some witty remark that probably sent your brain into overdrive. it’s written on your face. and the more you deny it— the more i know.” jj shrugged. “anyways what is your homework, anyway?”

ignoring jj’s words emily shrugged, “i had to do four relaxing things that were not basic needs to survive.”

“and what have you done besides meditate?”

“i googled relaxing things to do and did the first four easiest things. light a candle,” she gestured to the candle burning on her desk. “check. drink some tea,” mug on the coffee table. “check. i took a walk from my car in the parking garage to my office. check. and finally my meditation. check.”

“right.” jj held the word with a nod. “seems you’ve got this under control. i look forward to hearing how this turns out.”

“hardy har har, of course you do.” emily huffed, pulling herself from the floor and sitting on the couch. “despite what you seem to think— im going to ace this session.”

jj chuckled and nodded, “whatever you say. regardless i’ll be waiting to hear about it tomorrow.”

-

when their session time came— emily made sure to be stretched across her couch, empty mug on display with the tes bag hanging on the side, and the candle burning some sort of vanilla lavender scent.

“wow, look at you! feeling relaxed?” y/n asked as she appeared in emily’s open doorway.

“i’m as zen as zen can be.” emily boasted with a shrug as she made an effort to lean further in the couch.

“uh huh,” y/n nodded coming in the office fully and taking the seat across from the couch. “how was that homework?”

emily preened at the opportunity to show off her ‘honest’ efforts at relaxation. “great! i meditated this morning. took a walk before work. i’ve been on tea today and i’ve even got a nice candle going. so very relaxing.”

y/n nodded along with a smile and as soon as emily finished she leaned forward on her knees, “so that sugary to-go coffee cup with your name scribbled on it in the trash can isn’t yours? and the walk you took wasn’t from the parking garage to the door, was it? surely not! and if i took at look at your candle, it wouldn’t be brand new— only lit for what an hour before i arrived? surely not! and that meditation-“

emily groaned, loudly and extended. “how the hell do you know all of that? i’m starting to think you’ve got cameras on me. full surveillance.”

y/n chuckled, “no none of that. you’re just really predictable. to me at least.”

“predictable? i’ll have you know, im very spontaneous. just a few months ago i told a gang of armed men to shoot me!” emily said indignantly.

“and that’s why we’re sitting here in the first place. if your one instance of spontaneity is telling a gang of armed men to shoot you—“

“well in the context of the situation—“ emily tried to explain but stopped at y/n’s deadpan. “oh alright, just give me another homework assignment.”

y/n shook her head, “no homework considering you don’t do it very well. i’ve got a better idea. next week we’re going on a field trip for our session. share your calendar with me and i’ll pop an official invite with details on there so everyone will know you’re out of office for an hour.”

“a field trip? i hardly see how that’ll work, im in meetings all day and my phone is always ringing off the hook. i’m a very busy woman.” emily protested.

“yeah yeah yeah, busy smisy. excuses excuses. it’s happening whether you like it or not. go ahead and blow out your candle and stop hiding your coffee. next week you’re all mine.” y/n waved dismissively before heading toward the door.

“wait that’s it? i don’t even get a chance to redeem myself today? no questions?” emily groaned.

“nope, that’s it for today. make sure you get rossi to sign your permission slip.” y/n winked over her shoulder and exited the office with a grin.

[stari-hun]

Isokania

The biggest issue between Kakania and Isolde is a lack of understanding between the two. Kakania enjoys her close bond with Isolde they consider each other the closest person to them. But they don’t have an understanding of each other. Isolde thinks Kakania is the answer to all of her problems, he golden key, and almost idolifies her at times, and Kakania sees Isolde as a good person going through constant tragedy. The two of them mutually have a false idea of who the other truly is. In 6.17 Kakania talks about Isolde’s art of channeling spirits and how she uses it to be the star of Vienna. However what Kakania doesn’t know is how Isolde doesn’t stop channeling when she’s off stage, the CGs of Book 6 even ellude to how Isolde sees ever place in public view as a stage. Kakania has never once considered that Isolde wasn’t the person she portrays herself to be, and Isolde refuses to consider that Kakania isn’t the one she’s been waiting for.

Isolde and Kakania are also extremely stubborn people. Kakania is stubborn as a job hazard of having to fight for her own credibility, and Isolde’s natural temperament is reserved stubbornness. She decides what she believes in and without consulting others or stating her stance, Isolde sticks to it resolutely. Kakania acts in accordance to what she knows and learns, she's very stubborn about her morals and values of justice. Kakania is headstrong about her way being the correct way while Isolde is the same. Isolde is a reserved person as a job hazard of being a celebrity. Not only has she actively seen what stardom can bring through Playwright, she was raised to expect and ignore it. As such, Isolde is very resolute in who she places her trust in. Once she’s decided to consciously let someone in she waits at her Door for them to come in to her inner world. The tragedy for them is that she decided to let in someone who already thought she had seen Isolde’s inner world. Isolde refuses to believe anyone could ever understand let alone heal her besides Kakania. Isolde doesn’t believe anyone can save her besides Kakania, even when Theopil predicted Isolde’s mental state would deteriorate and sought out a way to help her.

Another reason they were doomed is the fact Kakania believed too much in Isolde. Kakania sincerely believed in Isolde and chose to believe that the rumors surrounding her following in Evangeline’s footsteps. To her credit, at that time the rumors weren’t true. But I feel like the issue also wrapped around to the fact Kakania was an unprofessional therapist to Isolde. @schneiderenjoyer talks about it at length in their live analysis. She underestimated the depths of Isolde’s mental instability because she didn’t think there was any larger problem than depression from the rapid deaths in her family. As a follower of Freud’s theories and an arcanist, Kakania should’ve been more aware that disrupting a person's ID and SUPEREGO could lead to consequences. She figured Isolde’s tears and initial confession about Theopil coming at her while on fire was the depths of her ID or unconscious instinct without morals. But Kakania is an arcanist, in 1914 no less, she had to face a lot of legal issues concerning people using dirty tactics either to tear her down or get their way. She believed in Isolde too much that her worst would be intrusive thoughts about harming herself due to guilt because of her proximity to Isolde. But Kakania didn’t consider her past in an environment of violence and family disposition.

Isolde also lacks proper coping mechanisms. There are quite a few arcanists with mental illnesses we see in the game however they all have some kind of coping mechanism to help self-soothe. It's not the same situation but Mesmer Jr. talks about how her anxiety is uncurable, but she has a lot of anxious tics to self soothe which we see her do in the series. Semmelweis who's similar to Isolde, with her condition growing worse with time, shows in [Echoes Into the Mountain] that she consistently reality checks her surroundings and mental state. Isolde however, doesn't have any coping mechanisms outside seeking out Kakania for her comforting presence.

It’s unclear exactly when or if she got acting lessons from Mr. Karl (if she had it be between 13-15), but Isolde uses acting as a defense mechanism. The Star of Vienna is a persona for her and something she’ll always fall back into when panicking instead of actually feeling her emotions. She'll separate herself from her urges and emotions, or tell spirits to possess her “whether willing to or not” so she can have a break. Isolde is unable to be clearly open, as shown in her character event. She acts Kakania if she noticed a door in her house, personifying herself as an unnoticeable within the Dittarsdorf house. Even after Kakania doesn’t give her the answer she wants, Isolde ignores it in a way. Stating Kakania will still be “the golden key to open her door.” Isolde was likely content to wait until Kakania finally “saw her,” or until she manipulated Kakania into being her key.

[the-architect-of-ferrari]

sigh…

ok guess I’m going to have to Verstappen post on main again, but I think there’s a bit of an issue with the discourse surrounding f1 in commentary and fan spaces that I think is leading the sport in a bad direction. This became most clear to me after the Hungary gp but it’s been present for a while now and it’s when a driver complains on the radio during a race. In this instance, I’m referring to Max this weekend, but more specifically the discussion around his behavior. Clearly he was very worked up and speaking a bit rudely on the radio, but he is not the first driver to swear or get upset during a race and he certainly won’t be the last. What bothered me the most though was sky sport’s ridiculous and continued remarks about how he stayed up late sim racing and that he’s acting “grumpy” and like someone who didn’t get enough “beauty sleep”. I found these remarks patronizing, unprofessional, and extremely biased. These comments were not made when max won in imola after staying up for an e-race and it’s clear that these races do not impact his behavior or ability in a race at all.

The larger issue is that these radio messages are being used to degrade drivers for no reason. We can talk about the driving mistakes Max made this weekend, but there is no reason to make ridiculous comments about him being a grumpy child or whatever. I’ve seen this a lot in fan spaces where certain drivers are praised for being vocal on radio as it shows a “champion’s mentality” and their passion, while others are slandered and ridiculed for saying the same things any other driver would say in their position. F1 has never been a completely pristine sport where drivers are pr-friendly 100% of the time, and it probably never will be when it is a sport that involves so much emotion, tension, and adrenaline. But there is a growing belief that it should be, that all drivers should be besties all the time no matter what, and that it’s this great betrayal or reveal of character when a driver says something on the radio. I like the content and media we get of drivers as much as anybody (my whole blog is dedicated to it after all), but these are real people with real emotions, not just the 2-dimensional fictional characters some have made up in their minds.

tldr: the continued demonization of max in the media is ridiculous, sky is ridiculous, and british bias is very real

[whomst-art-thou-whomst-whomst]

AITA: Beyond Evil Edition in Three Queries

aka, Han Juwon Experiences The Darkest Timeline of A Hallmark Channel Romantic Comedy

*wherein I asked myself where would Juwon go for help with his problems and the answer was, obviously an anonymous forum online that offers dubious advice)*

AITA for Having, Like, Standards?

I (M, 27) just moved from a large city to a small town and accepted a major downgrade in my job position for personal reasons. However, my new coworkers (M, range of ages) have made my life extremely difficult. I should clarify that I have OCD and general anxiety disorder, and I don’t feel comfortable sharing that with people, or sharing anything.

I tried to bring a positive attitude to my new life, but within the first 24 hours of my being here, I was violently dragged through reed fields, discovered the body of a total stranger, got sexually harassed by a serial killer (M, 40) from my workplace, and was made to endure a social outing with coworkers. Understandably, I acted out a little. AITA?

Update: no I will not elaborate. Just answer the question.

AITA for Creating A Toxic Work Environment Even Though There Were (Mostly) Good Intentions?

I (M, 27) recently made a series of occupational choices that seemed logical at the time but which I have since learned are not good for anyone.

Context, since you’re all so concerned about that: Essentially, I pseudo-framed a couple of people for tiny crimes with the intent of flushing out dangerous criminals (to the people who asked during my last query, I will not be sharing personal information)

In fairness, and to head off criticism from this unruly website, I should point out that one of these people recently assaulted me with dairy products. The other has been unprofessional at work, dispensing support and wisdom that borders on paternal (actual paternal, not my own—you know what, never mind) behavior. Both are very loyal to one of my coworkers (M, 40s) who I reasonably believed to be a serial killer. That belief has been derailed somewhat by the discovery that he is not, in fact, a serial killer.

This entire situation (his fault) has somehow led to an awkward series of workplace and butcher shop encounters in an insular and frankly criminal-ridden small town, as well as several HR-worthy situations that I cannot be held responsible for. Basements are essentially public spaces.

AITA?

AITA for Choosing To Side With My Country Boy Crush Over My Mean City Dad?

I (M, 27) have been going through it. My workplace romance with the man I originally believed to be a serial killer (M, 40) is suffering ever since we learned (through legal and necessary means) that my own father is responsible for multiple crimes connected to the aforementioned paramour. I’ve been reading comments and questions from my previous queries and I promise I took them to heart, and have found opportunities to 1.) let him put me in handcuffs, 2.) invest in fashionable outerwear, 3.) try to get framed for murder in his place (not feeling appreciated for my efforts here).

However, recent events have led to some strain in the relationship. So I’ve decided to go to hell for him. To be clear, since many of you seemed concerned about my “safety” and “sanity”—this is a perfectly reasonable course of action. However, it does involve betraying a verbally abusive parent in favor of a hot guy with great hair.

AITA?

Update: My boyfriend and dad are both in prison.

[sea-lanterns]

AIRPLANE MODE

synopsis: you're the cute flight attendant they rail in the bathroom

featuring: ningguang and yelan

rating: 18+ n.sfw (men and minors dni)

warnings: sub! afab female reader, 3some, fingering, s.ex in an airplane bathroom, dirty talk, marking, double penetration...? (they finger you at the same time) s.ex in the workplace, unprofessional relationship between server and client, reader wears a skirt.

art credits: unknown (found on amino)

“This is so unhygienic…” Ningguang grumbled.

“Ironic you say that, considering you chose this place to fuck her in…” Yelan laughed.

You stifled a moan with your palm as Ningguang’s fingers slotted themselves into your cunt and separated your folds to spear them open. Yelan standing in front of you in the cramped, cramped bathroom and unbuttoning the collar of your uniform to suck dark hickies onto your neck.

The bathrooms of airplanes were never meant to be used any other way, yet in the small vicinity sandwiched between the two women, you realized that airplane bathrooms had their perks when it came to sexual affairs with passengers. As you choked on your own noises, Yelan groaned and nudged your skirt upward to gaze down at Ning toying with your clit.

“Move over. She can fit both of us.”

Reluctantly so, Ningguang made a face and pressed her fingers to the side, grazing against a spot that made you squirm, and allowing room in your pussy to fit both her and Yelan’s fingers all at once. 

“Hold on—! That’s too much…” you groaned, watching as the bluenette’s fingers caressed your twitching lips. 

“Mm, but you’re so wet already, dollface…” Yelan chuckled coyly. “Two more fingers wouldn’t hurt. Besides, Ning made sure to make room for me…”

At her taunts, Ningguang rolled her eyes and thrusted her fingers upward, a gasp eliciting from your throat as she pumped low and deep strokes. 

“Hurry up. Or I’ll make her cum myself.”

“Never struck you as the impatient type, Ning.”

Oh, just how did you get yourself in this predicament…

“…Don’t you think that flight attendant was super hot?”

“You think every woman in tights is hot.”

As the only people flying business class, you were in charge of making sure their needs were met, as the two women that were on board were very important people. Not only were they extremely attractive, but the two of them seemed to be whispering an awful lot about you every time you left after serving them.

“I bet I could snag her before you do.”

“Hm. You seem awfully confident about that…”

It didn’t help that the both of them weren’t being very subtle every time they spoke to you. It was almost as if they had to flirt with you every time you interacted, as you always left their cabin with a blush on your cheeks and a deep pit in your stomach that begged to be unraveled. Yelan —the bluenette’s name you learned— was the more flirty of the two as she always insisted on you coming back with them to their hotel. While Ningguang —the woman with the beautiful, long locks of white— often stared at you with a calm, yet analytical gaze that admired how your uniform fit snug against your body.

She’s always loved a woman in uniform.

“So, what do you say? Come back with us when we land?” Yelan grinned deviously.

“Why wait? I think the bathroom is free. Three of us could squeeze in.” Ningguang hums, the tip of her tongue swiping over her lips, as she lets her eyes wander down your neck. 

“Ah…we need to be quick then…” you mumbled weakly in response, the pit in your stomach burning hotter as you pressed your thighs together. 

“Of course.” Yelan grinned. “I can finish you faster than Ning could anyway.” 

The other woman scoffed and unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Don’t get too cocky. It’s a bet.”

Your eyes rolled back in pleasure as Yelan pressed her fingers firmly against the entrance of your cunt. Her fingers were skinny, colder than Ning’s but dawned a brilliant shade of dark azure that flicked your clit. You wondered if Ning’s nails were also painted, you didn’t get to see so yourself when she quickly plunged her fingers deep inside you.

“You look so mesmerized…” Yelan laughed airily. “Never been touched like this before?”

“Well…not by two women at the same time…” you mumbled, watching as the base of Ning’s fingers met with Yelan’s tips in an effort to tease her. “You play around too much,” Ningguang mutters. “You’ll make her hate you.”

“Awe, the doll wouldn’t hate me. After all, I fell for her first…” Yelan tilted your head up with her free hand and opened her lips. “Open wide sweetie, this one will be loud…”

You reluctantly parted your lips and Yelan immediately kissed you deeply, the sticky feel of her lipstick smearing over your own as she suddenly thrusted two of her fingers inside. Her fingers, along with Ning’s fingers, made you feel extra full as they stretched you to your limit.

“Mmph!”

“We need to be quiet…” Ningguang reminded gently, scarlet eyes trailing over to your pulled down collar. “Well, only you at least…”

And then she bit her mark on your shoulder. The other arm wrapping around your waist and keeping you firmly on her lap as she pressed you closer against her front. Possessive was she, you didn’t expect that of the woman, but it was always the more quiet ones with a darker side…

Both Yelan and Ningguang’s fingers thrusted inside you at the same time. Four fingers. You were currently taking four fingers in total from the two women, and it was making you feel so, so deliciously full. 

“God…I want to take you with us…” Yelan mumbled into your kiss, a smeared color combo of your lipsticks stuck on the corner of her lip. “You’re so sweet. What do you say about becoming one of our secretaries…?”

“I have enough of those already…” Ningguang sighs, trailing the darkening mark with her tongue. “She can just be our spoiled girl. I’m sure she’d like that…”

Oh. Yeah, you’d like that a lot. 

You groaned as your walls tightened against their fingers, gripping onto Ningguang’s thighs to stabilize yourself as you shifted your hips to meet with their thrusts. They were mesmerized. A mixture of lust —and maybe love— as they stared at you with the most undivided attention.

“Getting closer, dollface?” Yelan chuckles, starting to speed up and leaving Ningguang in the dust. “It’s okay. I can make you cum now…”

Ningguang did not like that.

“I’m sure she thinks otherwise…” she mumbled, soon speeding up her own thrusts as well.

Their rhythms were so, so out of sync. Yet it felt so good as their brutal, uneven rhythms moved quicker inside you in an attempt to outdo the other. So competitive, so brutal, yet you seemed to enjoy it as both women laid their claim on you with a searing kiss. Yelan’s on your lips, and Ningguang’s on the back of your neck.

“Gosh…you t-two…” you moaned against Yelan’s kiss and felt the heat building up more and more, their palms hitting your cunt with each repetitive swing that built a bruising force. “If you keep going like that…”

Like a wind up, it finally unraveled. Twisting and moving as you shuddered and came all over the fingers of those two women. Their pace unrelenting as they continued pumping quick yet deep strokes into your hole.

“She’s so pretty…” Yelan mutters, moving up to move a stray hair away and kiss your forehead. “A true doll…”

“You feel so nice, darling,” Ningguang adds on, kissing the lower half of your jaw, “Did so well too…”

You panted under their touch and slowly caught your breath as they pressed light kisses over any exposed skin they could find. It was…strangely comforting that despite how rough they could be, they were still so soft to you. Almost acting like actual girlfriends as they made sure you were okay.

“Here, you’re a little sweaty…” Yelan chuckles, wetting some toilet paper and gently wiping the sweat off your face. Was this aftercare? You didn’t think sex with strangers would involve aftercare…

“Hand me one. My marks are bruising…” Ningguang later asks, wiping down your neck with the towelette and kissing your skin gently. The two women doting on you and making sure you weren’t in any pain after their session.

…Who knew they would be so sweet?

“Attention all passengers. The plane will begin its descent in about twenty minutes. Please return to your seats and buckle your seatbelts.”

The sudden interruption of the pilot’s announcement grounded you back to reality. The lustful haze leaving your face, as a blush slowly returned to your cheeks. Ah…you just had sex with two of your passengers… Sex with passengers while on the job…!

Yelan and Ning however, don’t seem too phased by the announcement as they look back down at you with a smile.

“Well, what do you say, dollface?” Yelan chuckles.

“Come back to the hotel with us?”

[runningfrom2am]

Okay! Ik ur not talking request rn but I’ve had this thought for a lil bit but rafe w hs Teacher!reader, who he likes to visit during her lunch time aka study hall time, and the students adore him and like since it’s hs the girls like find his so attractive( bc mf is) 🤭

okay this request is SO self-indulgent for me bc i'm like a year out from becoming a hs teacher myself like AH that's the dream so i love you so so much for this whoever you are i could give you the biggest hug rn thank you so so much for this idea!!

study hall - r.c.

pairing: husband!rafe x teacher!reader

wc: 1.6k

tags/warnings: fluff and almost nothing else. rafe is a perfect boyfriend bc,, duh? also not very canon of him honestly.

requests currently closed but feel free to send stuff in! it just might take me a while to get around to it :)

nav/masterlists

"Okay that's the lecture, we've got about a minute before the bell here... does anyone have any questions?" You finish up your slides, checking the time briefly as you close up the powerpoint from your laptop and turn off the projector.

A couple of hands shoot up and you gaze over the class waiting briefly for anymore. "Okay, we'll do Max, and then Lacy. Fire off." You point to the two of them in order.

"Can we get an extension on the essay?" Max asks quickly and you laugh. "It's not due for another week! How can you be behind already?" Judging by the reaction of the rest of the class chattering off their agreement, you nod. "Okay, okay. Fine. Yes, you can hand it in on the Monday instead of Friday, but that is giving you two extra days so I won't be giving any more extensions. Got it?"

Collectively the class sighs in relief, a chorus of thank you's and chatter following. "Okay, Lacy, you had a question?" You interrupt everyone to ask, thinking maybe someone else might have the same question and want to hear the answer.

"Is Mr. Cameron coming to study hall today?" She asks, round cheeks flushed as the other girls in the class whip their heads towards you to listen.

"Okay." You laugh, sitting down in your chair content that you won't need to pull up any slides to revisit anything. "Thank you for reminding me, I do have study hall today so if anybody does have any serious questions about the lecture or the essay please hang around after the bell." You say, avoiding most of the question.

You hear the voice of almost every girl in the class speak up at once, all resulting in more or less the same question about whether or not your boyfriend would be coming again to eat with you like he usually does on Fridays.

He was very popular among the girls you taught, which doesn't surprise you. You'd be lying if you said your boyfriend wasn't ridiculously handsome, but it was sometimes a point of contention with the other faculty you worked with. They thought it was extremely unprofessional that he would come in just for the girls to ogle at- but strangely it wasn't a problem when they had their partners come in for lunch at the same time. You knew it wasn't your fault and you weren't doing anything wrong, but just a result of upset from them designating study hall for students and many girls would spend time in your class instead during the lunch hour.

Just then the bell rang, and many students began packing up to leave either to go to other classes for study or to the cafeteria to grab something to eat.

"Alright! Don't forget the readings for next class, please, I may or may not be quizzing you on it just to make sure! Have a good day everyone!" You call out over the loud sounds of students filling the halls and talking.

You sigh with a smile and grab your water bottle, taking a sip to ease your dry throat after an hour of non-stop talking. You look up, humming in acknowledgement at the three girls leaning over your desk. "Question?" You ask, already knowing what they're after.

"Is Mr. Cameron coming?" Lacy's friend, Chloe asks and you smile, shrugging.

"Maybe, you'll have to stay for my study hall to find out."

"Come on just tell us!" Lacy groans, but before you can respond you're interrupted by a knock on your door frame.

"Ms. Y/L/N, I brought your lunch." You smile at your boyfriend standing at the door, lunch bag and coffee in hand.

"Hi." You chuckle, looking at the girls knowingly who already look like they're melting. You get up and greet him at the door, grabbing another chair to pull over to your desk for him to join you.

“Hi Mr. Cameron.” Lacy smiles, sitting down in the desk closest to yours and batting her lashes at him.

“Hi there.” Rafe says politely with an awkward smile, digging through the lunch bag he brought for you and handing you snacks out of it.

“Girls, go get your lunches, please.” You tell them, and they all somehow simultaneously roll their eyes.

“You just want us to leave so you can be alone with your boyfriend.” Chloe teases you and you laugh, shaking your head.

“No, I want you to go get your lunches so you can give your bodies the nutrients they need to learn. I’m not going to be held responsible for you girls missing meals.” You reply sincerely before taking a sip of your coffee. “And I promise, Mr. Cameron will still be here when you get back. Now, go.”

You gesture to the door and the girls sigh, getting up and filing out the door.

“You’re the only reason I ever have anyone in my study hall.” You giggle quietly once they’re gone. “There are no girls in study hall on Monday or Wednesday.”

“No way, Ms. Y/L/N is their favourite teacher, obviously.”

“Or my class is the hardest and my very hot boyfriend comes to eat with me during Friday study hall.”

“Your class is easy!” Rafe laughs, reaching up to brush away some hair that stuck to your cheek as you’re eating.

“You’ve never taken it, how would you know?”

“Well, if you were my teacher when I was in school… I’d be in here every day. “The boys don’t come on Fridays because they’re jealous of me…” He says smugly, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

You blush as you playfully push him away, glancing towards the open door to make sure no students saw. “Yeah, you’d be in here because you’d need help with Shakespeare, and they do too.”

Rafe gasped in mock offense, then shakes his head. “That’s messed up. I’m offended.”

You shrug. “It’s tough stuff if you’ve never read it before.”

“We’re back!” You both look up at the door as Lacy and her friends make their way back in, lunches in hand this time. “Did you miss us?”

“Welcome back, ladies. Did you bring some homework with you?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at them.

“Duh, Ms. Y/L/N. Who do you think we are?”

“I just wanted to make sure. Study hall is for studying, not chatting.”

They all get comfy in their seats around the desk across from yours, phones immediately out with no work to be seen.

“Hey, Mr. Cameron?” Chloe asks, leaning on her upturned palm as she grabs his attention and he hums in acknowledgement. “What’s your first name?”

“Rafe.” He answers, not thinking for a second that maybe it’s not allowed.

“That’s a great name. Like, really cool.” Lacy sighs, smiling at him.

“Why, thank you.” Rafe grins, nudging your shoulder. He eats this attention up every time, and it’s fun to joke about when you’re at home- but sometimes you think it’s bad for his ego.

“Can we call you Rafe?”

“If you want.” He shrugs.

“No, nope. He’s Mr. Cameron to you, sorry to disappoint.” You chuckle.

“But he said we can call him that!” Chloe whines, looking at you pleadingly.

“Sure, but the school board says otherwise. As long as we’re on school grounds you don’t even know his name, got it?”

“Yes ma’am.” They agree, giggling to themselves. “It’ll be our secret. Scouts honour.”

“None of you are scouts!” You laugh.

The girls just look at each other and shrug.

By now other students have filtered in, and luckily with tests coming up in all your blocks, a lot of studying is actually happening and less harassing of your boyfriend.

“Hey,” Rafe whispers, leaning closer to you which draws the attention of the girls in the front row who are straining to listen. “Can we take the yacht out this weekend? Maybe go for dinner or something on the mainland?” He whispers, smiling at you hopefully.

“Yeah, that would be nice. We could make a weekend out of it, I don’t have much grading to do.” You agree quietly and he seems excited, smiling and patting your leg before returning to his book that he had just picked up off your desk to skim through while you ate.

Come Monday morning, you’re getting ready for the bell to ring to signal the start of the first block. Once your whiteboard is ready with the notes for the day, you smile to yourself in anticipation as you sip your coffee. The bell rings, and students are quick to make their way in and to their desks.

“Oh. My. God.” Lacy stops in her tracks at the door, holding her arms out in front of her friends on either side of her as she stares at the whiteboard, and then looks over to you. “You’re joking!” She almost screams, clapping excitedly and running up to your desk to examine your hand while all the other students look up to the board in confusion, hoping for some answers as to what Lacy and Chloe are squealing about.

On your board, you had changed your name in the corner to a short statement:

‘You can call me Mrs. Cameron’

taglist: @rafeoccasionally , @bookishbabyyy , @madelynie , @whore-4-drewstarkey , @slut4drudy , @winterrrnight , @totalswag , @sadfury , @fullfledgedemo , @rafemotherfuckingcameron , @urfaveluvr , @chenslucy , @hxnnah-397, @s-we-e-t-t-ea , @tahliac11 , @saccharinesammie , @ietss , @maybankslover , @redhead1180 , @suzyheartsrafe , @wpdailyminimeta , @aegons-bitch, @rafegirly , @lovelyxtommy, @thelomlisrafecameron , @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles , @flonkertn , @whtvrrafe

[northgazaupdates]

Journalist Hossam Shabat responds to a problematic article about journalists in the west being unable to reach Gaza. Hossam writes,

The biggest problem is not Western journalists being unable to enter, but the fact that Western media doesn't respect and value Palestinian journalists. My colleagues and I risk our lives every day to report on this genocide. No one knows Gaza like we do, and no one understands the complexity of the situation like we do. If you care about what's happening in Gaza, you should amplify Palestinian voices. We don't need Western journalists to tell our stories; we are capable of telling and reporting on our own stories.

Context under the cut:

From the very beginning, Western journalists have neglected the people of Gaza. They focused on how resistance actions have impacted settlers, and mentioned Gaza in only the most reductive of terms. But now, as the scale of atrocities by the IOF finally becomes too great for them to ignore, these same journalists are crafting a new narrative: ‘We didn’t ignore Gaza because we don’t care, or because it was politically convenient to do so. We just couldn’t get there to report on it.’

This is a lie concocted under the weight of ever-fickle Western guilt. They deflect their accountability for creating IOF propaganda by claiming they were kept from reaching the area. However, even more than a lie, it is an insult to Gazan journalists—those still living and those murdered by the occupation.

Gazan journalists often have contacts outside of Gaza who could help them evacuate, but they chose to stay. They chose to stay and document the genocide against their people, and did so at immense personal cost. Montaser Al-Sawaf was injured and lost 50+ family members in a bombing attack, before he was bombed again by the occupation and left to slowly die in the street. Mahmoud Ziad Aliwa and Mohammed Saber Arab are still missing after being kidnapped by the IOF while reporting from Al-Shifa Hospital during the latest siege. Eshak Daour lost his brother just a few days ago.

But as they tried to share their footage and words with the world, they were ignored, in north Gaza especially. The world had no interest in the words of Gazans, but especially if they were Arabic-speaking. Rather than undertake the relatively simple task of finding a translation for Gazan sources, or contacting Gazan journalists directly in English (of which many of them speak at least a little), they were flat-out ignored. Only English-speaking journalists with massive social media followings received any acknowledgment, and even then it was extremely minimal.

The journalists of Gaza have always been there, they have always been speaking out and asking others to simply share their words. The implication that only western journalism counts as “real” journalism is insulting, degrading, imperialistic, unprofessional, dishonest, and cruel.

This blog was created due to uplift the words of north Gazans, which were not and often still are not reaching the rest of the world. We will continue sharing from people in north Gaza, but we ask that you, reader, do so as well. Do what western journalists have refused, and uplift the voices of people fighting for their survival in all of the Gaza Strip.

Many journalists post partly in English, but for those that don’t, Arabic speakers will often leave English translations in comment sections. You can also ask for someone to do a translation in the comment section, and often someone will reply. If they don’t, you can copy and paste Arabic text, or take screenshots and upload them into Google Translate. These are not perfect tools, but they give you some idea of what is being said. It’s better than simply not listening.

[do-you-ship-this-comic-ship]

propaganda:

They. Just... THEY! It's a funny ship, but is also one that actually helps to explain Alfred's whole THING a great deal better than if they weren't in a relationship together! Alfred may have gone to butler school but it's not really what he ended up doing in life, nor something that he really wanted to do with his life. Alfred actually does a number of things that would be considered EXTREMELY unprofessional for him to do as a butler. But as Thomas and Martha's bestie/lover who also knows a great deal about cooking and cleaning because he went to butler school once...? Why, they wouldn't keep him around if it wasn't for his sarcasm and unprofessional behavior! Plus the whole butler act comes with getting to dress Alfred up in a bunch of cute, handsome, and VERY flattering outfits! (After Bruce was born, they decided to retire the maid's outfit... Temporarialy... They thought it might be a but much to introduce little Bruce to.) And Bruce and the Wayne family fortune going to Alfred, /the butler/, in the event of their deaths!??? CLEARLY Alfred had to have been more to them than JUST their manservant when there were plenty of other candidates for Bruce to have gone to after their deaths! This ship is just taking that to its logical endpoint. More than a servant... Their closest confidant and friend... Who lived in their house with them... And knew their every secret and trusted them to him in confidence... A butler so beloved that they gave all of their wealth and son to him in their wills... Well... Something is going on here, and it sure as hell doesn't smell monogamous! But gotta say, LOVE that for Alfred! Alfred is the BEST! Period. And he deserves the best! And being the lover to Thomas and Martha? Can't get much better than that! You know... other than the tragic murder... But it also just adds another layer of tragedy onto the pile! That was Alfred's husband and wife right there! He saw them only a moment before... The man and woman he thought that he'd be spending the rest of his life with... Gone in an instant. Leaving their traumatized son behind... We all know that Alfred is more than just a butler to Bruce. Alfred is in every way Bruce's father. Bruce could never fire him, even if Alfred is unprofessional and uncouth at his 'job.' And clearly Bruce is more to Alfred than just someone he works for. Bruce is his son. So why not make Bruce his son in more ways than one? Alfred loves the Waynes in all of the ways! He's the glue that keeps them together and sane! And that can include Thomas and Martha! If DC weren't cowards, they would make it canon! Alfred can be bi and poly. As a treat!

[mmso-notlikethat]

Seeing people saying that tommy being weirded out/grossed out is something he shouldn't do just because he has "medical" training is extremely funny to me

See, I am a medical professional with experience in the ER, and on the field, and also worked in several inpatient wards (in regard to the topic here, i worked icu, burn unit, observation bay...etc)..

and i can NEVER handle seeing/working with boils and skin conditions in general, while i have absolutely no problem working with severe *graphic* accidents.. meaning i dont mind seeing blood, cuts, and bones

Call me unprofessional or wtv, but I'm not a dermatologist for a reason, a pretty much very common reason with health care professionals actually lmao

And tommy isn't even in the health care line. He is a first responder (shocking. In the first responders show? Uff) . That, children, is a completely different scope actually (again shocking) 🤯.

Now if we are watching grey's anatomy or the good doctor, and one of the characters was grossed out AND refused to treat a patient (notice how i said 1) they refused to treat them, cuz being grossed is normal even with doctors/nurses, we are humans you all tend to forget that lol, 2) i said patient, not a family/friend even in these shows lol), then sure thats weird ig

But lets say now that Tommy encountered something like what's happening to buck in a call. Should he control himself and handle the situation perfectly? Sure ig, theoretically (i still stand with the fact that he isn't a medic and he isn't required to handle that, as long as its not life/death situation it is not his responsibility 🤷🏻‍♀️), but thankfully he isn't on a call/working while he is with Buck. He is not a professional at the moment. He is the boyfriend (family) of the patient, and he is actually not required to be professional at all 💀

[makeucrawl]

Easterman roughly fucking Clyde while making him write a report and mocking him for making mistakes~

Easterman: My my, is that a spelling error there Clyde? I wouldn't expect them from you... somebody is a hypocrite, aren't they?~

Clyde: trying not to die on the spot from shame and his ass getting pounded to oblivion

૮˶• ﻌ •˶ა Love you pookie~

./づ💌 ૮ \

“Unprofessional”

Clyde/Easterman

!!!WARNING!!!NSFW!!!

Sweat dripped down onto the paper that Clyde was doing his damndest to work on, but it was impossible with Dr.Easterman up his ass.

Quite literally.

The doctor had him bent over a desk and was fucking him rather hard, making the desk rattle under them. He couldn't remember how things had turned out this way. There was a vague memory of Easterman saying something about Perry's inability to work under pressure, and he wanted to prove the doctor wrong.

But how did they end up like this?!

Clyde couldn't think anymore. Again he tries to concentrate on writing, but he feels his most sensitive, deepest spot being targeted, and he lets out a highly unprofessional sound. Perry slaps his hand over his mouth, wishing he could take back the absolutely humiliating noise.

Easterman's abruptly grabs the paper from him, and he tries to reclaim it, but another hard strike to his prostate has him folding up on the desk's top.

"My my, is this a spelling error, Clyde? Hmm…Your writing is also extremely disorganized. Very unprofessional work."

The doctor tuts while still thrusting fiercely into the man beneath him. The pace was too rough. Too brutal. Clyde wasn’t sure he could take much more.

“P-please…please s-ssslow down..!!”

Another pathetic moan burst out when Hendrick rolled his hips, rubbing his cock all over Clyde’s insides as if trying to claim every inch. Even worse, he couldn't stop embarrassed tears from stinging his eyes, tracing trails down his cheeks, and his heaving breaths were starting to sound dangerously close to sobs. Now that he didn’t have to keep writing he covers his mouth with both of his sweating hands.

Easterman yanked him back, pressing his balls flush into Clyde's ass. From this posture, his cock pressed hard and insistently into the man's sweet spot. Perry whined and whimpered into his hands, but it only seemed to muffle the disgraceful sounds.

"How are you feeling, Clyde?" Easterman leaned over him again, his breath brushing Perry’s ear. His cock slid away from the other man’s sweet spot, causing Clyde to squirm harder in an attempt to pull it deeper in.

"How are you feeling?" Hendrick said again, firmer. "Tell me."

"I - I - I hate you, you b-bastard, making me talk about something so humiliating as if-…I…I f-feel, I feel so fucking good...."

As if to reward him, the doctor’s weight eased off his back, and his cock pushed in deeper. As it spread him wide open, Clyde writhed helplessly.

"I thought you wanted to be thorough with your work…Tell me what feels good.”

"Nh - " The smaller man babbled, barely able to think through the pleasure drowning his entire body. "Your.. cock...feels good...."

"And where does it feel good?"

His next thrust came harder and faster, barely letting Clyde gather enough breath to scream, let alone answer. Even so, he had to.

"In - in - in my ass," he sobbed, shuddering all over. But even while caught in the throes of his shame, his body never stopped moving, hips swinging madly and insides clenching and unclenching around the doctor’s lengthy cock.

"There we go, Mr.Perry. That wasn't so hard, was it? So tell me again. How do you feel?"

“Ah, I - Your cock...feels so good...inside my ass!" he gasped and panted between thrusts.

Just as he said it, the pressure grinding into his sweet spot eased up. Clyde glanced back, only for all the breath to flee his lungs when Easterman slammed back inside. This time he felt the doctor’s cock swell, pushing his insides so wide they ached, and alarm seared down his spine.

"W-wait, Hendrick- "

“Good boy, Clyde," Easterman murmured, his hands sliding down from Clyde’s hips to close around his waist. This position forced him to raise his ass higher, changing the angle so Hendrick’s cock pressed all the more insistently against his prostate.

His spine snapped taut, and for the first time Clyde became aware of his cock bouncing between his legs, so hard it almost hurt. With each thrust, the tip bumped against the desk, smearing precum onto the underside.

The doctor's thrusts suddenly became sloppy, and Perry knew what was about to happen. "D-Don't you dare! Pull out! Don’t y-you do it, you sonofabi-“ He felt a strong electric jolt run up his spine as felt waves of hot cum flooding his insides.

Thanks to Easterman’s unrelenting grip, he stood no chance of escaping. All he could do was cling to the desk for dear life as Hendrick emptied himself inside. The heat, the fullness, in his stomach was unbearable; he felt only seconds away from exploding.

It did not help when Easterman started thrusting his soft cock to ride out his orgasm, splashing through his own cum. Each movement made Clyde’s cock twitch and jump, and he could feel his muscles tightening, his insides spasming, as his entire body hurtled toward the inevitable.

Then he felt Easterman's long fingers envelop his cock and began to stroke him very gently in compared to his previous movements. Clyde hung his head, ashamed, as he felt himself twitching in the warm cage of the other man's palm, cumming all over the papers on the desk.

Easterman’s cock slid out of his hole with a soft squelching sound. Some cum spilled out as well, making Clyde’s face burn from shame. But that also sent a dizzying wave of relief rushing through him. Weak-kneed, he sagged against the desk.

Perry shivers and turns his face away as Easterman leans down and whispers into his ear, "I don't think we need to have any more discussions about who is unprofessional."

Feeling humiliated and a little defeated, Clyde could only nod his head slightly, his jaw clenched as he felt the doctor’s cum sliding down his thigh.

[obsessedwithlute]

THE (SEMI)-OFFICIAL RULES OF I.M.P

Blitz, Moxxie, Millie, Loona

Moxxie and Millie are only allowed to be disgustingly gross and shove their bullshit monogamy in everyone else’s face when Blitz is NOT AROUND.

If Loona’s having a… bad day… it’s better for everyone to just leave her alone.

Asmodeous and Fizzarolli- you are allowed to visit with 24-hour prior warning. If you really must bring sex toys with you, the maximum is 3. Any more go in the trash. I do not care that you are literally the sin of lust, it gives our clients ideas.

When Blitz hits the ‘deranged client’ or ‘horny client’ emergency buttons, BACKUP BETTER BE IN THERE WITHIN 15 SECONDS.

When Blitz hits the ‘Stolas’ emergency backup, no backup is required immediately but either alcohol or extremely strong coffee must be provided ASAP.

Blitz, no laughing at the homeless before 9am. (I’M YOUR BOSS MOXXIE YOU DON’T MAKE THE RULES).

BLITZ, NO LAUGHING AT THE HOMELESS BEFORE 9AM. (......okay, Millie).

No fucking in the closet. (Unless it’s between the three of us, M&M… )(This is rather… unprofessional, sir).

NO LETTING VIA STEAL THE GRIMOIRE JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE HAVING TEEN MELODRAMA. (Dad, I am literally not a teenager anymore).

LOONY NO PARTIES WITH TEX (OR ANY OTHER HOT PEOPLE) PAST MIDNIGHT. (Again, I’m an adult now, and there is nothing between Tex and I, and why the fuck are you putting this in the company rules??)

No drinking Blitz’s coffee.

If Blitz says a sentence with no innuendos, euphemisms or swears, that means it’s serious.

Respect Moxxie’s… Virgo-esque tendencies. We can’t all wear our sun signs as wonderfully as me. (SIR, WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK???)

Don’t piss off Millie. She has an ax.

No STALKING your EMPLOYEES on their WEDDING ANNIVERSARY.

No BREAKING INTO PEOPLE’S FRIDGES.

No BOOTY CALLS during COMPANY MEETINGS.

“CONVERSATIONS” LEADS TO HIV. (DAD!!!)

Blitz is not a day hooker.

Fizzarolli, you cannot burn up all your cease and desist orders in our grill. (The grill is for IMP’s cease and desist orders only).

NO BRINGING UP STOLAS.