Latest Posts by racketelio - Page 4
if you spam-like me I’m assuming you want to see me staring up at you as I mouth at your clit jsyk
radio station my nonna is listening to mentioned erectile dysfunction and my mind jumped to art donaldson hell yeah
Radical Relations by Daniel Winunwe Rivers
TOOLbelt (2022) by Martha Summers
Ain’t no way I’m seeing people forget about Peeta. “All 3 victors have a bird representing them” “all district 12 victors weren’t reaped fairly” “did you know that all 3 of the victors from 12 actually cheated in the games” “it’s so cool that all the victors are from the Seam or are Covey”. Like omg what about Peeta?!?! Mans did not almost die like 10 times just to be tossed to the side!! He won the 74th games alongside Katniss, she wasn’t the only one who won it!! Just please put some respect on his name
if i made moodboards for all the characters i make up and make pinterest boards of would the two followers i have eat that up or...
me with your posts
i always read the most diabolical shit on this app when i’ve just woken up
ballerina!tashi who is recognised as one of the best ballet dancers in all of america. she flows across the stage with such gracefulness that the audience is left bewitched by her delicate beauty. at times, she is still sharp and controlled with her body, leaving you intimidated by her movements. having so much talent only made it much more tragic when she suffered her knee injury, turning to ballet instructing after recovery. she's still known for her most successful and alluring role of odile, the black swan.
ballet dancer!art who has every dance company falling at his feet, begging for him to sign with them. his skills alone are admirable, but his looks are every casting director's wet dream, it's almost unbelievable how perfect he is for the stage. art is almost always casted as some sort of handsome prince, carrying himself with poise and elegance. he's a lean and athletic man, spent years of his life building his physique into the perfect vessel specifically for ballet.
ballet dancer!patrick who is never seen putting much work into his craft yet is one of the strongest male dancers in his company. he carries his dance partners over his head with ease and pulls off some of the highest leaps his instructors have ever seen. patrick secretly stays in the prop and costume room of the dance studio, refusing to ask for help unless one of the pretty ballerinas offers him a place to sleep for the night.
jo i love you so much for giving me exactly what i wanted here
also it's crazy the way everyone tries to act like patrick is solely a dom!top! when this is lit patrick
like yeah he's switchy but this is a brat. to me.
retweet. do i think he can dom and rail the shit out of you?? yes. is he the biggest brat to ever walk the earth?? ALSO YES
like the way he literally drags her fingers into his mouth... fuck !!!
slapping spitting choking. all of it. wants you to yank his hair and force him to make eye contact as you sink down onto him. hands obediently curled into fists by his sides bc you said he couldn't touch you until you got off first. "c'mon, harder. you're slapping like a girl. can barely even feel it" when you hit him. 'accidentally loses count' of how many just to prolong the entire thing. completely shameless about wearing the red brand on his cheek afterwards
or him acting up just to get a rise out of you. like you're in the middle of studying n just letting him toy with your fingers to shut him up for once. except he just ends up sliding them into his warm mouth, coating them in saliva and biting down on your knuckles. gives an innocent smile as he starts to pump them in and out, tongue circling keenly around your digits. he takes them all the way down to the second knuckle without so much as a gag. he's bored and just wants to get fucked!! n he knows the sight of drool spilling down his chin and your fingers curled in his mouth will get him what he wants.
definitely antagonises the shit out of you while he's getting pegged. "that all you got?" "i can feel you getting tired. y'giving up that easily?" his idea of a good time is you smothering his face in your pillows to shut him up, ass in the air and legs trembling under your spitefully rough thrusts. or the way he hooks his legs around art to pull him closer in the gif?? like ugh strong thighs urging him deeper, heels pressed into his ass to force him to bottom out. trying to sound smug but he's whining like a little bitch. he might be bottoming but he certainly doesn't act like it !!!
idk i think he just likes the game of "fighting for power." he knows it'll end w you riding him until he's begging to cum but he wouldn't be patrick if he wasn't difficult first. it's hotter to watch you get all pissed at him. put that little slut in his place
also he was Not joking ab the racket fucking thing. he'd let her do it. in fact he'd beg her to
stanford!art
who... is (kinda) new to the dating game so when he gives you attention he overwhelms you by the amount of affection that he gives you.
who... rubs his face against yours, his arm is constantly around your shoulders, his forehead pressed against the meat of your cheek despite the height difference.
who... is constantly asking for kisses or for your fingers to be in his hair. he loves the feeling of your hands in his curls, and he's definitely the type of guy to use the "baby voice" on you despite being around people.
who... waits for you to be ready before finally fucking. and when it happens its wonderful, he's slow and gentle. but also so clumsy that he ends up almost cumming on you. luckily he pulls out in time.
who... loves eating you out. loves how you get wet so easily, how his mouth and jaw get sticky and soaked with your wetness and his spit. he specially loves how your hands tug at his hair, his ego boosting up each time you moan louder and louder.
who... doesn't mind if you dont give him head, but when you do he's so vocal. constantly telling you how good your mouth feels, how perfect you are. he does sometimes pushes your head down, but that's only when he's so desperate! and when he comes, he always makes sure to ask you first. he doesn't want to dirty your face, but he also loves the way his seed looks splattered around your plump lips.
who... almost always ends up knocked out after sex. whether its only him eating you out or just you giving him head. he always finds solace in your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he's scared you run away. and you dont complain because you love the feeling of his curls tickling your cheek.
who... doesn't know how or why you got with him, and who knows there are better men out there. but he plans and is confident in keeping you in his life as long as you allow him to.
julien baker being a butch lesbian with top surgery who still uses she/her pronouns means so so so much to me
i’m trying to be more active on tumblr but everytime i open this app i have nothing to say 😭 hello guys
CW: MDNI, NSFW
Dilf Coach!Art who feels like he should know better. You’re way too young, barely out of college, way too off limits. He’s friends with your dad for crying out loud. But everytime you walk on the court in your tiny tennis skirt (he swears they get shorter every time he sees you) he starts to sweat and his palms feel itchy.
Dilf Coach!Art who’s kind of a pushover. He can’t really say no to you. He tries but you manage to walk all over him easily. Five laps around the court turns into two. Twenty push ups turn into ten. The whole time he’s getting distracted. Fixated on your tits bouncing when you jog, or the little bit of cleavage that shows and the way your skirt rides up when you’re on your hands and knees for push ups.
Dilf Coach!Art who gives in when you beg him for a ride home after practice. It’s started to rain and your parents are running late and he’s just trying to be nice. He does notice the way you squeeze your thighs together, the way your breathing picks up once the car door shuts.
Dilf Coach!Art who tells himself it’s only gonna happen one time when you guide his hand between your thighs at the red light so he can feel how wet you are for him. When you crawl onto his lap after he pulls over behind the club parking lot. When he shivers as he sinks into your tight wet cunt.
Dilf Coach!Art who loses it almost immediately when you get on top of him— you’re just too fucking pretty! He slides his hands up under your top to cup your tits as you ride him and suddenly he’s seizing up… begging and pleading with himself… “No no, please. Fuck… oh please no fuck fuck fuck…” and suddenly he’s painting inside your walls with so much cum, shame filled tears in his eyes. “Shit… shit I’m sorry.” An even more shameful whisper. “Are you on the pill?”
Dilf Coach! Art who makes it up to you by laying you out in the backseat. Fingers and mouth in your cunt, fucking you so good you end up soaking the leather of his fancy sports car. The one he bought himself after the divorce to make himself feel better. He’s gonna have to get it detailed. But at least it’s only the one time because he’s not gonna do it again. He’s really, really not. Really.
(Blah! Rumors of dilf coach!Art in my inbox. So here are some random head canons no one asked for to help me flesh him out. He won’t be here for a while.)
it's been a while since i've seen this picture on my tl so here, may it bless y'all's tls, too
ugh jo you're always exceeding expectations
virgin art x patrick hcs i’m begging you
i KNOW it didnt just stop after their little jerk off sesh
warnings: 18+, handjob, gay and REPRESSED
oh yeah no absolutely not.
i think as they grew up there was def a lot more. like to the point where they can't even jerk off without each other in the room because they can't finish otherwise. but both of them are very much subject to the "five feet apart cause they're not gay" rule. it doesn't count if they're in their own beds and not touching!!! totally normal
and then one of them (i'm gonna say art) sprains his good wrist. nothing long-term damage, just a few weeks without tennis. and he's sooo pent up and patrick feels kinda bad just getting off on the other side of the room while art looks so forlorn with his pyjama bottoms tenting comically. bottom lip trembling, like on the verge of tears because he just wants to touch himself soooo bad
"do you want me to—"
and the question isn't even finished before art is nodding eagerly like a bobblehead. patrick practically leaps to his bed like an olympic sprinter. then he's braced on top of art who's still nursing his sore wrist (poor baby), holding out his palm expectantly. art's confused, brows furrowed and bottom lip still jutted out.
"spit. i'm not using my own. that's weird." because jerking off your best friend totally isn't weird in the first place!!! but art obliges and spits a generous amount of saliva into patrick's outstretched palm (because he's literally been drooling watching him touch himself for the last five minutes.)
when patrick's hand slips down into his chequered pants, he almost orgasms instantly. the feeling of his rough palm and thick fingers, all slicked up with his own spit, wrapping around him... ugh. he dies on the spot. and normally they talk about the girls at the academy, whether it's just seeing some girl's tits in a sports bra after practice or whoever they've made out with that week under the bleachers.
but their room is utterly silent other than the sound of heavy breathing and the obscene sound of a wet hand pumping up and down art's cock. intense eye contact, patrick's breathing just as rough as his own. he knows if he looks at him any longer he's going to cum so he ends up shutting his eyes, head thumping back against his pillow.
his uninjured hand balls into a fist to bite down on and patrick is sorely tempted to move it away so he can actually hear him. but that'd be too much so he just settles for listening to the stifled sounds art makes. he's a lot more whiny when someone else is touching him. he also looks a lot prettier up close—brows pinched together, nose scrunched up as his teeth sink into his knuckles.
when he finally does cum, that muffled little, "oh-oh, f-fuck, patrick—" is criminally hot. he cleans art up and climbs into his own bed, ignoring the fact he's hard again after jerking himself off before art.
for the rest of art's recovery, patrick lends him a helping hand (literally). and then even AFTER that they end up jerking each other off regularly. like patrick comes back to their room after a failed hook-up, grumbling about wanting to get some so art says 'let's just jerk it out' and they end up kneeling in front of each other, hand wrapped around each other while patrick groans about her being a prude. art couldn't care less when he's being touched like this but he nods along anyways.
it gets to the point where they’re so used to hearing each other groaning that they have pavlovian reactions on the court. art’s more of a whiner so it isn’t as bad for patrick but the way he grunts is so reminiscent of the sounds he makes when he’s close, it has art adjusting his stiffy at least once per set. but it’s okay bc as soon as they’re back in their dorm patrick’s there to take care of it under the guise of “wow you must have been looking at amy’s tits bounce all practice.”
it's always just handjobs. patrick drunkenly suggests using his mouth once and art vehemently denies him bc that'd make it too real. no kissing (even if they stare at each other's mouths the entire time). they dry-hump a few times and afterwards patrick always hears art sniffling in his bed guiltily. but handjobs don't count!!!
moral of the story that's why they make awkward eye contact when tashi asks if they've ever done anything together. bc the cum rag art threw on the pillow before she came in is stained with BOTH of them.
TIMECAST - Roaring Twenties
The Pink Pony Club
pianist!art donaldson x burlesque dancer!reader
c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The music was never written down.
Art played it like a secret, fingers moving from muscle memory, heart memory. No sheet. No name. Just a tune he’d stumbled into one night after watching her dance and never managed to shake loose.
It didn’t match the other numbers. Too slow. Too sad. It had no business lingering beneath rhinestones and tassels. But it fit her. The real her. The one he only caught glimpses of between routines—when the lights dimmed and the sweat on her shoulders hadn’t yet cooled.
Carmen—though that wasn’t her name, he was sure—had a laugh like a brass bell and walked like she’d never been taught to apologize. On stage, she glowed. A constellation of sequins and hips, dazzling and deliberate. Offstage, she smoked French cigarettes and swore like a man on leave.
Art kept his eyes down when he played. Most nights.
Except for hers.
She was halfway through her number, some wild, thumping thing with feathers and a chair, when she caught him.
Not just looking. Watching.
Her mouth curved mid-spin, slow and dangerous. She pivoted, winked, and blew him a kiss so theatrical the crowd howled.
He fumbled the next chord.
The number ended. Applause. Laughter. A crash of cymbals. Carmen disappeared behind the velvet curtain, and Art was left blinking at ivory keys like they’d betrayed him.
It wasn’t until an hour later, after the last call had been whispered through shadowed booths and the club was quieter than a prayer, that she approached.
He was still at the piano. Always was. Tinkering with chords like they might one day answer a question he didn’t know how to ask.
She perched on the edge of the piano bench without asking. One long leg crossed over the other. Glitter smudged along her collarbone like stardust.
“That song,” she said. “The slow one. The one you always play when I dance. Is that for me?”
Art didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.
“I just…” He cleared his throat. “Play what fits.”
A beat of silence.
Then Carmen laughed, soft and sharp. “You’re lucky I like flattery, sweetheart.”
She slid off the bench and disappeared into the dressing room corridor, scent trailing behind her like rose perfume and danger.
Art stared at the keys a long time before touching them again.
—
The Pink Pony Club was never silent, not really.
Even after the doors locked and the girls peeled rhinestones from their skin, there was always a hum. A low, ambient hush like the place had its own pulse. The walls held secrets in their velvet folds. Lipstick prints on half-drunk glasses. Ghosts of applause in the rafters.
Carmen lit a cigarette with one hand, the other holding her silk robe shut at the chest. She was perched on the piano bench again, bare legs crossed, one heel dangling from her toe. The smoke curled around her like mood lighting.
Art played.
He didn’t ask what she wanted. He just let his fingers move—minor chords, soft harmonies, a lazy rhythm like the stretch after a long, slow kiss.
She hummed along under her breath.
“Do you ever sleep?” she asked, eyes closed.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Carmen cracked one eye open. “That a joke?”
He shrugged.
She took another drag. “You always play like you’re dreaming.”
“That’s when it sounds right.”
Silence again, except for the music.
Carmen reached into her robe pocket and pulled something folded and worn. She slid it across the top of the piano toward him. Art stopped playing.
It was a flyer. Faded. Creased from being carried too long. A girl in feathers smiled from the page, kicking her legs in silhouette. The headline read “Amateur Night—$20 Prize” in a cheap, jagged font.
“That’s me,” she said.
He looked up.
“I was seventeen,” Carmen said. “Didn’t even know how to sew a snap into a bodice yet. I borrowed shoes from a girl I met in the train station bathroom.”
Art didn’t ask how she got there. He just waited.
She tapped ash into a teacup. “I didn’t win. But Miss Kitty saw me. Told me I had legs like a chorus line and the face of a woman who’d never lose a fight.”
Art stared at her for a moment.
Then, carefully, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a thin, leather-bound book. He laid it between them. Inside, faded pencil notations danced across yellowed pages. Sheet music. Some finished. Some not.
Carmen raised a brow. “This your diary?”
He gave a small, helpless smile. “I don’t… write things down. Not really. But this is how I keep them.”
She touched the edge of a page, delicately, like it might flake apart.
“Play me one of these,” she said. “Something no one’s heard before.”
Art hesitated.
Then he turned the book, laid it flat, and began to play.
The song was slow. Not sad, but wistful—like a window left open on purpose. A melody that didn’t ask anything of you, just stayed awhile and listened.
When it ended, Carmen blinked and cleared her throat like she hadn’t meant to.
“You got a name for that one?”
He shook his head.
She leaned back. “Call it Glitter.”
Art looked at her.
She smiled, a real one this time. Smaller. Softer. “That’s what it sounded like. Glitter in a drain.”
—
They called her Sugar Lace.
She arrived on a Tuesday with a battered suitcase and a voice that tried too hard to purr. Said she came from St. Louis, used to work the Rivoli, knew how to handle men and high kicks in equal measure.
Her curls were firetruck red. Her heels were too tall for the way she walked. Her perfume came in waves, like someone had spilled it on her train ticket.
Carmen clocked her before she even finished her introduction.
Too gay. Too eager. Too much brass, not enough brass band.
But Miss Kitty took her in anyway. Because Kitty always did.
Kitty didn’t turn girls away. She took the raw ones, the bent ones, the ones with lipstick too dark and shoes too big. She’d press a compact into their hands, teach them how to glide instead of walk, and make them family before anyone else could ruin them first.
“You don’t have to be the best,” Kitty said once, holding a girl while she cried in a beaded bra. “You just have to be yours. Everything else is rehearsal.”
Still, Carmen had earned the late night slot with blood, bruises, and boa fluff. So when Sugar Lace strutted onstage in Carmen’s eleven o’clock spot four days later, something behind her ribs twisted sharp.
From his bench, Art noticed too.
He always did.
⸻
Carmen was in the wings, arms crossed, one brow arched like a challenge. Her corset still clung to her ribs from the earlier number. She hadn’t even taken her lashes off yet. That’s how fast the schedule had flipped.
Miss Kitty stood behind her, cigarette smoke curling around her like a halo. “She’s a novelty act. Just passing through. Don’t bristle.”
“She’s flailing.”
“She’s trying.”
“She stole my slot.”
Kitty smirked. “No one steals from you, baby. Not without consequences.”
Carmen’s eyes flicked to the stage.
Sugar Lace was mid-routine, something involving a velvet swing and a poorly timed glove toss. The crowd liked it well enough—men laughed too loud and slapped tables—but there was no rhythm. No tease. Just noise and skin.
And the piano?
It didn’t sing.
Carmen’s head snapped toward the bench.
Art’s fingers were still moving, but the tempo was wrong. The chords a little off. The cue for the bridge came too early, then too late. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.
Sugar tripped her exit spin, laughed like it was part of the act, and jogged backstage to scattered applause.
Kitty didn’t say a word.
Carmen did.
She waited until the next act had started—one of the twins with champagne bottles and a comedy bit—then found Art exactly where he always was after a misstep: by the side piano, fussing with a page of fake sheet music like it might confess for him.
“You messed up,” she said, arms folded across her chest.
He didn’t look at her. “Sorry.”
“You don’t mess up.”
“I just wasn’t… focused.”
“Try again.”
Art glanced up, eyes meeting hers, cheeks already flushing.
“She took your number,” he said softly. “I didn’t like it.” He shrugged.
Silence.
Then she leaned down, placed a hand on the bench beside his, and kissed his cheek. A quiet press of mouth to skin. Nothing flashy. Just real.
“Don’t go starting a fire on my account, piano man,” she whispered. “Unless you want me to dance in the flames.”
⸻
Later that night, the girls were curled up in the dressing room like cats after a long hunt. Robes slipped from shoulders. Stockings dangled from the edge of the vanity. Glitter stuck to everything—skin, mirrors, even the doorknob.
Goldie passed around a tin of balm for bruised feet. Jo flipped through a gossip rag, reading the horoscopes out loud in her fake radio voice.
Lorna was painting her nails with bootleg polish, one leg kicked up on the makeup table. “Carmen, you hear your replacement?”
“She’s not my replacement,” Carmen said, biting into an apple like it had personally offended her.
“She cracked her knuckle on the swing,” Jo offered. “Heard it from Theo.”
“She’s got nerves,” Kitty said, appearing from the hall with a fresh martini in hand. “She’ll learn.”
“She doesn’t listen,” Carmen muttered.
“She’s scared,” Kitty replied. “You remember what that felt like?”
Carmen didn’t answer. Only clicked her tongue in annoyance.
Goldie grinned. “Art sure listened.”
Jo whooped. “You see that chord sabotage?”
Lorna raised her glass. “To shy boys with good ears.”
They clinked imaginary glasses and howled with laughter. Carmen rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.
Across the room, tucked half out of view, Art sat alone with a paper napkin full of notes, scrawled staves, and tiny sketches of stars in the margins.
He wasn’t laughing. But he looked like he wanted to.
And Carmen? She looked at him and felt it.
The spark.
—
It started with a kiss behind the prop curtain.
It was after a long set. Carmen still glittered at the collarbones, sweat like pearls at her hairline, her robe clutched loosely over her costume. Art had just finished packing up the second piano—his fingers still tingling from playing her exit number like it was a love letter he wasn’t allowed to send.
She passed him in the hallway, didn’t even pause, just grabbed his tie and pulled him into the dark behind the curtain.
The kiss was fast. Heat and lipstick. A bite on the bottom lip.
She didn’t say anything after. Just slipped away like nothing had happened.
But it did.
God, it did.
⸻
The next time was in the back storage closet between sets. She cornered him while he was reaching for a fresh music stand. Kissed him again—slower this time, mouths fitting like they’d rehearsed it. Her thigh pressed between his. His hands, awkward and reverent, found her waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold her even now.
She broke the kiss and whispered, “This doesn’t have to mean anything.”
He nodded.
It already meant everything.
⸻
It kept happening.
A dressing room when no one was looking. An empty stairwell at midnight. Once, breathless, against the hallway wall while the show thundered through the floorboards above them.
She touched him like she needed something from him—release, relief, quiet. He let her take it. Gave himself up in pieces.
But he never touched her like that.
He touched her like a hymn.
⸻
Art didn’t know how to be casual.
He tried. He told himself he could. But every time Carmen kissed him, he melted into it like sugar in heat. Every sigh was a song he wanted to write. Every time she undid her robe for him, he wanted to kneel.
She’d press him against the cool tile of the back room, kiss his throat, pull open his shirt with impatient hands. He’d slide his palms up her thighs, feel silk and strength and softness. He’d breathe her in like she was the only real thing in the city.
She’d laugh—low, wicked—and tell him not to get sentimental.
And he never said it out loud, but—
Too late.
⸻
One night, after, they lay tangled in the dressing room chaise, her head on his chest, their clothes half-askew.
He traced the edge of her arm with two fingers. Light, like a breeze. Her skin raised under it.
“You always touch me like I’m breakable,” she murmured.
“You’re not,” he whispered back.
“But you think I am.”
He didn’t answer. Just kissed the back of her hand.
It wasn’t love. Not exactly.
But it was something blooming wild and impossible in the dark—like orchids in a whiskey glass.
—
“Okay,” Jo said, leaning across the vanity with a cherry popsicle between her teeth, “so when are you gonna admit you’re absolutely, catastrophically, full-body stupid over the piano man?”
Carmen blinked. “Jesus, can I breathe?”
“Nope,” said Goldie, kicking her heels up on the chaise. “You’ve been walking around with that just-fucked shimmer for weeks.”
“You’re glowing like a cabaret Virgin Mary,” Lorna added, rifling through someone else’s lipstick bag. “Spill it.”
Carmen didn’t mean to.
But it was late, and her robe was falling off one shoulder, and she still smelled like his cologne from when he pulled her into the stairwell between sets. And her thighs? Still trembling a little.
So she smirked, twisted open her perfume bottle, and said, “Fine.”
Jo straightened.
“I’m fucking him,” Carmen said.
Screaming. Absolute chaos.
Goldie fell off the couch.
Lorna choked on her gum.
Jo slapped the mirror. “Oh my god. You’re fucking Art?”
Carmen lounged. “I’ve fucked him in the linen closet. Twice in the prop cage. Almost on the piano bench, but he got shy.”
“You corrupted a musician,” Goldie gasped from the floor.
“He said ‘oh fuck’ like it was a prayer,” Carmen said, grinning. “He says my name like it’s gonna kill him.”
Jo threw her popsicle. “You bitch.”
“He holds me like I’m gonna break,” Carmen continued, dreamy now, voice going all warm. “But he eats me out like he’s trying to ruin my afterlife.”
Lorna screamed. “I need him to teach a masterclass.”
“I’m gonna die right here,” Jo said, wheezing. “Art ‘I-blush-when-you-say-bra’ Donaldson? With the tongue of God?”
“And the hands,” Carmen added, dazed.
Goldie climbed back onto the couch like a ghost. “Tell me he calls you ‘ma’am.’ Tell me he whimpers.”
“Oh, he whimpers. He asks. He begs.”
The room exploded.
Jo was crying. Lorna rolled off the table. Goldie was chanting, “I knew it, I fucking knew it,” like a victory song.
Carmen tucked her chin into her palm, smug and soft at once. “And now,” she added, “he looks at me like he’s halfway in love and doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”
Silence.
Then a long, collective awwwwwwfuckkkk.
Jo wiped her face. “I’m gonna be sick. That’s adorable.”
“He’s gonna write you a fucking symphony,” Lorna said, starry-eyed.
“He did,” Carmen admitted, quiet now. “He played it for me after I let him take my stockings off with his teeth.”
Even Kitty—passing by the door—stuck her head in, arched a brow, and said, “Just make sure you’re not leaving a mess on the floorboards.”
Carmen winked. “No promises.”
—
It was half past three and the club was asleep.
The glitter had settled. The air was thick with old perfume and spilled gin. Somewhere, the record player was warbling a tune no one had flipped in hours.
Theo was behind the bar, wiping glasses and humming to himself, when Art slid onto the stool in front of him—shirt rumpled, tie loose, face a little too flushed for someone who definitely hadn’t been drinking.
Theo looked up. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”
Art stared straight ahead. “I think I’m in love with Carmen.”
Theo blinked. “…Okay?”
Art buried his face in his hands. “She climbed on top of me and told me not to come unless she said so and then kissed my neck and I think I blacked out for ten minutes and also she stole my glasses after.”
Theo set the glass down carefully.
Art kept going. “She bit me. Like actually bit me. And I liked it. Like, a lot. And then she made this sound—like a gasp but also a laugh—and I swear to God my soul left my body.”
“Okay.” Theo leaned on the bar. “What exactly do you need from me here?”
Art looked up, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. Advice? Perspective? A cigarette? A shovel to dig my grave?”
Theo sighed. “I pour drinks for a living. I once got broken up with because I didn’t know what ‘astrological incompatibility’ meant.”
“I’m so fucked,” Art said, voice rising. “She’s cool. She’s hot and charming and terrifying. She could eat me alive and I’d thank her. She laughs when I beg. And then she cuddles me like I’m breakable.”
“Sounds like you’re having a great time,” Theo said dryly.
Art slammed his head onto the bar. “She calls me baby. Like she means it. Like I’m hers.”
Theo slid a whiskey across to him. “Here. On the house. For your suffering.”
Art didn’t drink it. Just stared at it like it might hold answers.
Theo, against his better judgment, softened. “Look, man. She keeps coming back to you, right?”
Art nodded miserably.
“She kisses you after? Not just the… you know. Stuff?”
Art blushed. “Yeah.”
Theo shrugged. “Then maybe stop spiraling and let it be good. Not everything has to make sense. Especially not in this dump.”
Art looked up slowly. “She moaned my name.”
Theo put a hand up. “Nope. And we’re done here.”
Art smiled.
It was soft. Nervous. Stupidly, blissfully content.
“Thanks, Theo.”
“I did nothing.”
“You were here.”
“Tragically,” Theo muttered, walking away. “Fucking musicians.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
She didn’t knock.
She never did. She just slipped in past the curtain like a secret, still in her robe, cheeks pink from the dressing room heat. Her heels were off. She walked barefoot across the sticky floor like she owned it.
Art was alone onstage, the club empty now except for the two of them. The lights were half-down, just enough for shadows to lean into everything. He was playing something soft. Something new.
She didn’t speak. Just slid onto the piano bench beside him like gravity had dragged her there.
He didn’t stop playing.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. Pressed her lips to his neck. Light. Thoughtless. Familiar.
He breathed out hard.
“You left a button undone,” she murmured. “I thought you were trying to kill me.”
“I didn’t—”
She unbuttoned the next one. Slow.
“You’ve got the softest fucking skin,” she said, and he swore his soul left his body.
“I, uh—”
She kissed his throat. Lower. Dragged her nails lightly down the back of his hand where it rested on the keys.
“I came here to say thank you,” she said, voice like warm smoke. “For letting me be a greedy, filthy, terrifying thing around you.”
He swallowed. “You’re not—”
She looked up at him. “I am. And you like it.”
He did.
He liked it more than he’d ever liked anything in his life.
“I can’t breathe when you look at me,” he admitted.
She straddled his lap.
“Good,” she said.
He kissed her like he was scared of being good at it. She bit his lip until he stopped being scared.
⸻
They didn’t have sex on the piano bench.
They almost did.
But then Carmen looked at him, fingers curled in his curls, and saw something tender in his eyes—something not just hard or needy, but open.
So she leaned in close, cheek pressed to his, and whispered:
“I want to hear the song you wrote me. The one you don’t want me to know about yet.”
Art froze.
Then—without a word—he adjusted the bench, flexed his fingers, and began to play.
Carmen sat in his lap, wrapped in robe and affection, listening to her heart get played in harmony.
The melody was all her edges.
And all his softness.
new lurking blog turned posting blog i can't wait until i get mutuals again
racketelio's intro post
help me to get out...
eighteen - leo - aspiring musician - art lover - masc lesbian - she/he
hello and welcome to cassiopeia's blog, you can call me cass. i'm an eighteen-year-old butch from outback qld, australia, and i'm mostly here to fuel my hyperfixations and talk to cool people.
(and also maybe thirst post, so minors dni for those - you're not banned from my whole blog, since i'm barely an adult myself, but protect yourself, for your sake).
INFO
cowboy, loverboygirl, butch, extrovert, guitarist, piano player, songwriter, student, eldest child, emotional wreck, lesbian.
MUSIC
julien baker, julien baker & torres, role model, boygenius, muna, dominic fike, royel otis, gigi perez, spacey jane, etc.
MOVIES
he died with a felafel in his hand, fantastic mr fox, dead poets society, challengers, the holdovers, call me by your name, bones and all, little women, empire records, stick it, my own private idaho, brokeback mountain, etc.
TV SHOWS
yellowjackets, outer banks, stranger things, it's always sunny in philadelphia, community, that 70s show, etc.
BOOKS
the outsiders, little women, 1984, the book thief, the alchemist, the raven cycle series, most jane austen novels, etc.
CHARACTERS
travis martinez, nat scatorccio, art donaldson, jo march, laurie laurence, elio perlman, lee bones and all, darry curtis, adam parrish, neil perry, angus tully, mike waters, robin buckley, jj maybank, charlie kelly, troy barnes, jack twist, etc.
MISC
cowboys, queer lovers, sunrises, the outback, social justice, folk music, midwestern emo, acoustic guitar, lesbians, painting, etc.
(feel free to ask about more or my preferences and feel more than free to interact however you please - i only bite when you want me to!!)
...so i can crawl back to it