"Big fish in the tank." Your boss had warned you—his tone making it clear: squeeze whoever was waiting for you for all his cash.
You give the man a once-over and immediately understand why your boss insisted on bubblegum pink.
Tonight, your outfit is soft and silky, with an outer robe that cascades to your ankles, its edges trimmed with pricey ostrich feathers.
Your toes are painted white, and a matching eye mask with almond-shaped openings adorns your face, lending you an alluring and mysterious air while obscuring half of it to conceal your identity.
You could pass for an angel—if angels were escorts.
"Hi," you greet the blonde as you sit next to him on the bed. It's hard to believe that someone as good-looking as him would come to a brothel, even one as exclusive and upscale as the one you work for. “What should I call you?”
"Art," he responds immediately, causing you to frown in confusion.
He's clearly not experienced at this and seems uneasy, fidgety even. Usually you don’t get the newbies; your schedule is typically filled with politicians and big egos who like to tell you all about why they’re VIPs.
This leads you to suspect that Art is wealthy, very wealthy.
"Is that your real name?" You ask, playfully pouting your bottom lip. "They should have told you to use an alias."
He has the decency to look bashful, letting you know he had been told the rules, but you flash him a reassuring smile.
"It's okay," you whisper, moving closer to him. You watch his Adam's apple bob nervously in his throat. "It'll be our little secret." You lean in even closer, asking seductively, "is this your first time, Art?"
"Yes-uhm, yes," he stammers, clearly flustered by your presence, that happens to men when you’re around. His blush is cute on him.
"That’s okay. I’m not here to judge you. I started not too long ago myself." It’s a lie, but he can’t tell.
“Really?” See.
"Mhmm," you murmur, your expression softening. "Yeah, I have some school bills to pay and whatnot."
You're practically in his lap now, asking permission to touch him with your eyes. Art gives a small tilt of his head in agreement, and you brush his hair away from his forehead before leaning in to kiss him.
"What are you studying?" He asks between kisses, even as you lick into his mouth.
"Huh? oh, biology? On the premed track," you stutter. You probably should have lied, but his simple follow-up question threw you off; usually your ankles are behind your head at this point and any kind of small talk is out of the norm.
The look of unfeigned interest on Art's face surprises you, but you chase his mouth.
"Are you planning on becoming a doctor?" He seems earnest, as he pulls away from your lips again.
“Yeah,” you answer vaguely, not wanting to reveal too much, but he waits for you to continue so you give him the smallest bit more. “Of some kind, if I pass the MCAT.”
"Wow, then how did you end up working here?"
You tense up at the question. What are you supposed to say? That the work-life balance is great? The truth is, being an escort pays three times more than any other nine-to-five job would. It's a dream paycheck for a college student with lofty goals.
"How do you want it?" You try to steer the conversation back to its original purpose, letting your fingers trail down to the front tie of his robe.
He looks at you with confusion for a moment before remembering why he's here. His hand stops yours from untying the robe completely.
"Actually, can you just…hold me?" He pauses awkwardly before mumbling something about not wanting you to think he's a loser. You can’t help but suck in a breath when you realize he’s crying. "I signed my divorce papers today, our custody battle is going to be hell and it's been a rough month."
You blink and it takes a few seconds for you to compute that he's simply lonely. He genuinely cared about your responses to his questions. This man, who is probably rich and most definitely handsome, is patronizing a brothel for companionship.
It makes you want to weep for him.
"Yeah, I'll hold you, Art." You guide him onto the sheets. "Let's lay down."
When you're face to face, what strikes you most are his eyes.
They sparkle like sapphires in his head, but up close you notice a small brown spot in one of them, like a little speck of dirt. Or, maybe that one’s not a sapphire at all, it’s more like an apatite.
"Your eyes are different colors." Art blushes even more at your observation, if that's possible. "They're beautiful."
You can't tell if this is all just for the money, but you find yourself wanting to be gentle and kind to him.
Without saying anything, he snuggles closer and buries his face in your chest. His arms wrap around you tightly as if you've already made love countless times. Even though you barely know this man, he holds onto you as if he never wants to let go.
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HIIIII NORI!! idk if ur taking reqs rn but I'm so sick I can barely function!! so I was just wondering if u could write hcs of art taking care of sick!reader? :))
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hiiiii lovely! i hope by time you see this you are 100000% better.
You felt terrible with what you were sure was the flu, but Art had been on cloud nine, glowing with the joy of taking care of you all week. He insisted on nursing you back to health, shelving his own plans without hesitation, and you let him fuss over you, not just because it helped, but because you knew it calmed him as well.
The worry in his eyes when he first found you semi-conscious in the dark still lingered in your mind, and if you hadn’t let him stay practically glued to your side since then, he would have been off somewhere, gnawing his fingernails to the quick and blowing up your phone with anxious texts, desperate to be involved.
There was an almost eager, tail-wagging quality to the way he cared for you—a golden retriever’s unwavering loyalty mixed with a subtle undercurrent of control.
And naturally, he went all out.
He brought you every remedy his Midwestern grandmother swore by: raw potato slices in your socks and cabbage leaves pressed to your forehead to draw out the fever, diluted apple cider vinegar, which he practically begged you to drink despite your grimaces.
But then there was his grandmother’s “famous” chicken soup—the one thing you never protested. What had started as a joke, calling it “famous,” had over time become something meaningful, a sort of tribute to the old coot who’d long since passed.
And you let Art feed you the soup by the spoonful, each bite infused with his affection.
He convinced himself he wasn't twisted, yet he found undeniable satisfaction in your reliance and vulnerability under his care.
Between fevered dreams and clarity, you caught yourself imagining a future with him—one where he remained just as intent on making you the center of his world. Even with his manipulative streak, there was something undeniably endearing about the way he loved.
