#massages

Kitty provides complimentary massages to her owner’s clients as they receive eyelash services.

Pairing: Dr. Micheal "Robby" Robinavitch x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, domestic married life, physical affection (Touching, messages, cuddling), soft intimacy, Reader pampering Micheal, Micheal pampering Reader, face touching / scalp message, minor teasing, sleepy!Micheal, slightly flustered reader/Micheal, husband behavior, very soft vulnerability, nickname angel

Summary: Robby comes home exhausted, and you take care of him with a spa day. The next morning he tries his hardest to return the favor and it melts all over again.

A/n- Dividers by @ Firefly-graphics. This has both the pov of the reader, and Robby.

Wc- 3.6k

The Pitt Master List

Robby comes home with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he tries to protest. You clock the second he walks in through the apartment door and is slipping off his shoes by the front door. Dropping his stupid backpack in the dinning room chair.

"Long night?" You ask softly from your place on the couch. He doesn't answer just walks further into the apartment, slumps in front of you on cracking knees and presses his head into your lap. His breath trembles as you feel it fan over your bare legs.

You've got your answer, it was a shit day. Please just let me sit in your presence and melt into your touch. The two of you sit there for a little longer Robbys knees would normally allow him. You card your fingers through his sweat covered hair and let him hum at the sensation.

You guide him up, and pull yourself up from the couch. "Lets get you clean up yeah?" You say guiding him through the apartment and into the bathroom. Your fingers lacing together as you walk together into the bathroom.

The bathroom is covered in a dim light that is warm and soft. The smell of candle hits his nose and he's unable to look away. The bathroom smells of lavender and a blend of eucalyptus in the air. The tub is running and he can feel the heat coming off the water even from standing in the doorway.

Robby takes a moment and stares at the entire thing in front of him. It nearly breaks him, but he holds himself together as he takes a deep breath before looking over his shoulder at you. "You… did all this for me?" He questions, still not understanding how he managed to get a wife like you. "Of course Robby, I'd do anything for you."

The first time she came in, she barely filled the table.

Tense shoulders. Narrow waist. The kind of body that disappears when it exhales. I remember thinking she didn’t eat enough - not as judgment, just observation.

There was a bowl of sweets on the counter even then. There always is. Clients like it. Something comforting. Chocolate squares, wrapped caramels, the kind of things people take one of and pretend they didn’t want more.

She took two.

The second session was a week later. Same polite smile. Same clothes, technically - though the fabric behaved differently. A little more tension around the hips. Nothing dramatic. Just… more present.

“You can help yourself,” I told her, nodding at the bowl as she lingered by it.

She laughed, embarrassed. “I already did last time.”

“So?” I said. “You’re allowed to enjoy things.”

She took three that time.

By the third session, I was sure it wasn’t my imagination.

Her body had weight to it now. Not just physically - visually. When she laid down, the table answered her differently. A deeper give. A creak. My hands noticed immediately; they always do. Massage teaches you to read bodies like text. And hers had gained a few extra lines.

I didn’t pretend not to see it.

“You’ve been indulging,” I said casually, working oil into her lower back.

She froze. Just for a second.

“I—what?”

“Relax,” I added. “I mean it as a compliment. You feel… well taken care of.”

She didn’t argue. That was the interesting part. The sweets became routine after that. She stopped asking. Just took them while I prepped the room, sometimes before, sometimes after, both. Always lingering. Always a little hesitant, like she expected me to stop her.

I never did. Of course I never did.

Instead, I started commenting, got bolder.

“Your body’s changing,” I said one afternoon, my thumbs pressing into her hips. “Filling out.”

She laughed nervously. “Is that bad?”

“For massage? No. Makes my job easier.” I hedged.

The next week, she came back heavier.

Not just softer - rounder. Thighs fuller. Waist less certain. When she turned over, her stomach didn’t flatten the way it used to; it settled. I let my hands pause long enough for her to notice.

“You’ve been busy,” I said.

“With work,” she offered.

“With eating,” I corrected, calmly.

She didn’t protest. She never does. That’s what keeps her coming back.

Now, she arrives early. She eats before the session starts. She eats after. Sometimes she brings her own things, sets them beside the bowl like offerings. I don’t comment on quantities anymore - just outcomes.

*

She’s different every time - heavier, slower to move, more deliberate about how she lowers herself onto the table. She exhales like it takes effort now. I let that silence sit before I speak.

“You know you’re not subtle,” I say, matter-of-fact.

She stiffens. “About…?”

“About coming back bigger every week.”

No smile. No softness in my voice. Just observation. God how do I love to tease her. I don’t stop working. My hands keep moving, steady and professional, thumbs sinking into flesh that wasn’t there when we started this routine. I don’t need to exaggerate. Her body does that for me.

“I try not to think about it,” she mutters.

“That’s obvious,” I reply. “If you thought about it, you’d stop.”

She doesn’t.

That’s the thing.

There’s always candy on the counter. And there’s always pastry on the little plate by the sink now.

One afternoon, as she reaches for the bowl again, I finally say it.

“I notice you come in fuller. You leave heavier. Next time, you bring it back with you.”

“That’s not how bodies work,” she says weakly. I merely laugh.

She eats openly now—unwrapping sweets while I wash my hands, licking sugar from her thumb without embarrassment.

I comment as I go.

“Your thighs spread more when you lie down.”

“Your waist doesn’t pull in when you inhale anymore.”

“You’re getting used to taking up space.”

Each time, she goes quieter. Heavier. Warmer.

Once, as I work over her hips, I say, “You know you could stop coming.”

She shakes her head immediately. Too fast.

“I didn’t think so,” I add. “You don’t come here to be fixed.”

She swallows. “Then why do I come?”

I press my palm flat, firm, undeniable.

“So someone will tell you the truth,” I say. “And won’t apologize for it.”

When she leaves, she always looks a little stunned. A little exposed.

*

It starts with her coming twice a week.

She doesn’t say why. She doesn’t have to. Her body says it for her the moment she steps into the room—breathing a little heavier, coat left unbuttoned longer than necessary, movements careful in a way that tells me she’s already aware of herself before I say a word.

The sweets don’t last the day anymore.

She doesn’t pace herself now. She stands by the counter and eats while we talk, eyes unfocused, like the decision was made long before she arrived. I watch her do it. Watch her throw one candy after another into her waiting mouth. Watch how she can’t help to rest her hand on her protruding belly. It looks so small sitting on the big straining ball.

“You’re not even pretending this is incidental anymore,” I say.

She exhales a laugh that doesn’t carry. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“No,” I correct, calm. “You know exactly how. You just don’t want to.”

On the table, she feels different every session. Not just heavier - less contained. Her body spreads, yields, stays where my hands put it. There’s a kind of inevitability to it now, like momentum has taken over and she’s stopped fighting the direction.

I stop softening my language entirely.

“You gained again,” I say, not as an observation but a statement of fact.

“I can tell,” she murmurs.

“Of course you can,” I reply. “You live in it.”

That’s when it starts affecting her outside this room.

She mentions clothes she no longer wears. Chairs she avoids. Mirrors she rushes past. She talks while I work, voice flat, as if listing symptoms she’s already accepted as chronic.

“I keep thinking this week will be different,” she says once.

“And is it?”

She shakes her head.

I don’t reassure her. I don’t interrupt the spiral with kindness. I give it shape.

“Then stop lying to yourself,” I say. “You’re not ‘slipping.’ You’re choosing this. Every day.”

Her breath stutters. I feel it under my hands.

“I don’t even enjoy it anymore,” she admits.

“That’s not true,” I say. “You enjoy what it does. You enjoy being seen. Measured. Commented on.”

She’s quiet after that. Too quiet.

The next time she comes in, she’s noticeably bigger. Enough that I raise an eyebrow when she steps out of her shoes.

“Well,” I say. “You’ve been busy.”

She doesn’t deflect this time. She nods.

*

She leaves for a holiday and I don’t get to see her for three weeks. The routine feels off without her. All my other clients… too bony.

The first time she steps into my office again I can’t get my eyes off her. Her shirt is fighting for its life and leggings had to supplement for pants. I can see why.

Her eyes are not on me. They are lured to the snack bow in the corner. And it’s as if she can’t - doesn’t want to - hold herself back anymore. She is upon the sweets immediately.

My hands are almost shaking when she finally waddles to the table. As she lays down all I can focus on is the dome in front of me. This heaving massive belly which cannot be ignored. And my job is to touch it. To ease its existence.

I get my hands on her. Knead the belly slowly at first. Jiggle it, feel it, pat it. I don’t think any of us is breathing.

,,This is what happens when you go on vacation now? Have you left the buffet at any point?” I can’t help the smirk which stretches across my face.

,,I don’t know what you are talking about.” is her breathless answer. She is as affected as I am. Goosebumps all over her arms.

,,Look at all of you. How you have grown. How this obscene belly gets all the attention…” she reddens as I continue to play with her. Good thing I cleared my schedule for the rest of the day.

*

Next time I see her the changes are again noticeable. Hips wider, thighs so deliciously round and soft. Arms barely contain by her sleeves. And belly defying laws of gravity. Proudly on display, peeking from underneath the too small shirt. She looks so round.

Narmer would feel strange about it at first. He has some issues with skin to skin contact, which comes from his complex traumas from the battlefield and his childhood. He would definitely be quite tense at first. Maybe the second time too, but then he would get used to it :)

Qenna probably wouldn’t accept, unless the demon is in a good mood.

Zaia would tell you that spirits don’t have muscles. And then they would call MC a moron (affectionately).

Tabiry would jump right into it. She has sore muscles all the time and she goes to get massages quite often. One of the perks of the job :) She would love to get MC’s hands on her though. She will return the favor every time too.

“Ooh, You set my soul alight”

Summary: In Aventurine's luxurious suite, you share a sensual evening filled with massages and playful tension. As you take turns asking provocative questions, the atmosphere becomes charged with intimacy, leading to a passionate kiss that blurs the lines between relaxation and desire.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Suggestive, Romance, Intimacy, Massages, Playful Banter, Established Relationship.

Warnings: Suggestive content, mild adult themes(idk tbh-), potential for heated moments, implied intimacy.

A/N: YOUR HONOR, THOSE EYES LOOKED AT ME FIRST!

The air was thick with warmth and the soft glow of candlelight, casting flickering shadows on the plush, velvet walls of Aventurine's suite. The intoxicating scent of sandalwood filled the room, mingling with the faint aroma of essential oils, setting the mood for a night of relaxation and intimacy.

You glanced at Aventurine as he lounged on a plush chaise, his eyes sparkling with mischief, framed by the golden rims of his glasses. His sandy-blond hair fell effortlessly over his forehead, enhancing the allure of his enigmatic smile. Dressed in his dark green, gold-accented dress shirt, the spade-shaped window at his chest hinted at the tantalizing skin beneath.

"You know, love," he drawled, his voice a low, seductive purr, "I do appreciate a good wager. But I think you might have me at a disadvantage tonight."

You chuckled, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you poured fragrant oil into your palms. "Oh? And what's the wager?"

He leaned back, a mock-serious expression crossing his face. "If I allow you to give me a massage, I'll have to return the favor. But I'm not sure if I can resist... losing myself in the moment."

"Isn't that the point?" you teased, your fingers gliding over his shoulders as he shifted to sit up, exposing more of that tempting skin.

You started with gentle kneading, your fingers finding the tense muscles in his neck. He sighed, leaning into your touch, his body responding to your ministrations. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this." he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation.

"Careful," you replied, a teasing lilt in your tone, "too much praise might get you in trouble."

He chuckled softly, his laughter echoing in the cozy space. "Trouble is my middle name. Just ask anyone in the IPC." His eyes gleamed with a hint of playful challenge.

You worked your way down his back, your fingers expertly navigating the intricate pathways of his muscles. The tension began to melt away beneath your touch, but as your hands brushed against his sides, the atmosphere shifted. Aventurine's breath hitched, a flicker of desire flashing in his eyes.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "there are ways to make this a bit more... exciting."

"Oh? Do tell." you replied, your heart racing as you leaned closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

With a mischievous glint, he turned to face you fully, his fingers brushing against your arm. "What if we added a bit of risk? A game of sorts?" His gaze locked onto yours, and you could feel the tension building between you, thick as the fragrant air.

"Alright, I'm listening." you said, intrigued.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "For every knot you release, you get to ask me a question. But for every question I answer, I get to return the favor... in ways you might not expect."

You felt your pulse quicken, excitement coursing through you. "Deal."

With the agreement sealed, you continued your ministrations, each stroke more deliberate, each moment laced with promise. As you worked on the knots in his shoulders, you asked your first question, "What's the biggest risk you've ever taken?"

Aventurine smirked, his eyes sparkling with delight. "Oh, that's easy. Winning my position in the IPC by betting against my own sanity." His laughter rang out, rich and inviting, sending shivers down your spine.

With each question and answer, the boundary between relaxation and desire blurred further. He responded with stories of close calls and narrow escapes, his charm intoxicating as you leaned in closer, your fingers trailing down his spine.

In turn, he began to explore your body, his touch becoming more daring, his fingers sliding over your arms and shoulders with a teasing caress. "Your turn," he prompted, a devilish smile gracing his lips. "What's your greatest fantasy?"

You felt your cheeks flush, heat radiating through your body. "Well, I've always imagined a night like this," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, "with you."

"Is that so?" he asked, leaning closer, his lips brushing against your ear, igniting a spark of electricity that coursed through you. "Then let's make that fantasy a reality."

With newfound determination, you moved to straddle his lap, your fingers tangling in his hair as you leaned in to capture his lips with yours. The kiss was electrifying, a fusion of heat and hunger as he responded with fervor, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer as if he could never get enough.

You broke the kiss, breathless, and looked into his eyes, which sparkled with mischief and desire. "I think we've reached a new level of intimacy."

"Indeed," he replied, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "And I'm all in for whatever happens next."

As the candles flickered and the night deepened, you both surrendered to the intoxicating thrill of risk, knowing that this evening would forever change the stakes of your hearts.

TRYING NOT TO SCREAM SO I DON'T WAKE MY PARENTS UP BUT HOLY SHIT!! 🤭 I'M KINDA-

10. Have you ever had a professional massage and what parts tickled?

I’ve had quite a few massages! I love them and usually they’re not bad but whenever they touch the back of my knees I have to fight the urge to not kick 😭

23. What is your most ticklish spot?

Word count: 509

Tags: Sam x reader, fluff, domestic fluff, massages

Summary: A broken fence leads to slight chaos and Sam has to help you. You're tired after the end of it and Sam helps you relax.

Warnings: Nudity? Reader takes off their top in front of Sam, but they are lying on their stomach and it's not in a sexual context. The reader's boobs, pecs, or abs are not mentioned.

Masterlist Ao3 Requests

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After watering most of your crops, you walked over to your beets. They were fully mature and ready to harvest. You yanked one out of the ground, the beet’s vivid color staining your hands a reddish violet. You pulled out another one, then another one, then another one, until you had at least seventy-five of them. 

     You stepped over to your mill, taking off your backpack and dumping all the beets into the mill. You let out a sigh as you felt like several tons was taken off your back, before skipping over to your coop, softly humming.  

     You unlocked the gate, and then entered the coop. Inside, you reached your hand into the Auto-Grabber, grabbing duck eggs, chicken eggs, and precious void eggs. Upon leaving, you noticed a broken fence and a missing rabbit. This rarely happened because you had hardwood fences.  

     “Sam, can you come help me outside? A rabbit escaped and the fence is broke. I think I have some spare hardwood laying around somewhere.” You texted your husband. 

     Soon enough, Sam came outside with the materials to build a fence. “Over there, right?” He pointed at the broken fence. 

     “Yeah, can you fix it for me while I look for the bunny? I’m sorry for making you do this. I’m tired from milling beets.” You scanned your eyes through the grass until you saw a white tail, and once you did, you crouched down to be on the rabbit’s level. You petted her and tried to pick her up, but to no avail. 

     The rabbit ran off a little farther. You crouched slowly, but not in a way that made it look like you were stalking it. You stroked her nose and put her in your arms. 

     “Finally!” You smiled, carrying her back to the coop. Sam already fixed the fence. 

     “Thanks, Sam,” you said. 

     “You’re welcome, baby.” Sam smiled. “You look really tired. Want a massage to relax?” 

     “Yes, please.” You held his hand walked back to the farmhouse. 

     Once you got into the farmhouse, Sam went to the kitchen to wash his hands while you headed to you and Sam’s room. 

     You tossed any garments covering your upper body over your head and lied on your stomach on the bed, sighing. Sam shortly entered the room and placed his warm hands on your back. His touch was gentle and firm at the same time, even though his fingers had rough skin. You let out a little grunt as his hands rubbed circles around your shoulders. His thumbs went down to the middle of your back around your spine, delicately kneading. 

     “Thanks, Sam,” you murmured. 

     “No problem. You looked exhausted” Sam continued to rub your back and your waist for a little while. “Alright, I’m going to stop now.” He lied down on the bed with you. You put your shirt back on and snuggled up next to him, caressing his cheek before laying your head on his chest. 

     “I love you.” You smiled, running a hand through his pale hair.