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markrosewater · 2 days

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Elegance

Here’s my original article for Elegance.

This is a topic I’ve wanted to write about for a long time. Ironically, the words needed to explain the concept kept the column from being elegant. So I did what all artists do. I found a way to say a lot in a little space.

Enjoy,

Mark Rosewater

[NOTE: EACH OF THE ABOVE FIFTY WORDS IS HYPERLINKED. BELOW IS THE FIFTY HYPER LINKS. THE HEADERS SHOULDN’T BE ON THE LINKED PAGE. I’M JUST INCLUDING THEM SO YOU KNOW WHAT EACH LINK IS.]

ELEGANCE

Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary has five definitions for elegance:

• refined grace or dignified propriety

• tasteful richness of design or ornamentation

• dignified, gracefulness or restrained beauty of style

• scientific precision, neatness and simplicity

• something that is elegant

The common elements appear to be dignity, simplicity, and taste.

THIS

Elegance requires thinking, but it also requires feeling. Elegant prose is judged by how it makes the reader feel. It needs to generate a sense of calm that puts the reader at ease. Everything in your writing should feel as if it was carefully positioned to create the proper effect.

Pound for pound, the writer’s greatest writing tool is the verb. Nouns add substance and adjectives add flourish, but it’s the verb that drives the sentence. Choose a strong, descriptive verb and the sentence has flair and purpose. Choose a weak one and the sentence lacks any sense of drama.

Here’s a little game to test an elegance relevant skill (based on an old game called Inklings). Randomly choose a noun. Try to convey that noun to the other players using the least number of letters possible. You’ll be surprised how much you can communicate in just a few letters.

TOPIC

One of the greatest stumbling blocks to elegance is the inability to choose a single focus. Elegance requires simplicity. Simplicity requires a single purpose of thought. This means that elegance starts before you write a single word. A good sculptor must know his image before he picks up his chisel.

I’VE

One of the common misconceptions of elegance is that it requires a writer to be fancy. Elegance though is more about familiarity than formality. You shouldn’t be afraid of friendlier language such as slang or contractions, assuming that such language adds an element of ease rather than one of laziness.

WANTED

An important element of elegance is a sense of passion. Brevity does not mean pulling away emotionally from words, but rather the opposite. When you find yourself limited to fewer words, you must pack each individual word with extra emotional punch. You are not reducing your message, simply your messenger.

A good tool in understanding elegance is studying poetry. Poetry is the most concise of all written art forms. It strives to maximize impact while minimizing expression. Each word carries the burden of evoking some essence of the poet’s message. If it cannot carry its own weight, it is excised.

WRITE

To be an elegant writer, you have to become a student of prose. You have to study the mechanics of language to understand how it can be shaped. Once you have learned how to transfer the feeling in your head into meaningful words, you are on the path to elegance.

ABOUT

Be careful not to fall in love with ambiguity. While intoxicating in its beauty, it is the enemy of elegance. Remember, the goal is not to make the reader struggle for comprehension. Rather it is to lead them to the obvious conclusion. Elegance should be used to illuminate, not confuse.

FOR

Elegant prose requires connecting with your reader. To do this, you have to understand who that reader is. Nothing should come before this task. It needs to be done before writing can begin. I like to compare this to planning a trip. Maps are useless until you know your destination.

Another major key to elegance is the understanding of the importance of the tiniest detail. Just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a piece of prose is only as tight as its messiest detail. A good writer doesn’t stop at the nouns, verbs and adjectives.

LONG

Don’t confuse elegance with brevity. Elegant things are short not because they have to be but because the difficulty to craft an elegant piece of prose combined with the limitations of time forces writers to be brief. Elegant novels, for example, do exist, but they are few and far between.

TIME

To quote Roman orator (and letter writer) Marcus T. Cicero, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”

Simplicity takes more time not less. Anyone can get a point across with ten thousand words. But a true artist can do it in ten (or possibly fifty).

IRONICALLY

Irony is a potent tool for commentary. Its genius lies in the fact that it comments not on what is, but rather on what isn’t. Like all good humor, irony makes you laugh. But like the best type of humor, it also makes you think. It’s both funny and funny.

THE

Elegance in writing is about more than words. Equally important is how the words are woven together. Tempo, pacing, rhythm – these are the tools that set the mood for the piece. Try reading aloud your text. The natural beat of language is more suited for the ear than the eye.

WORDS

To realize the power of words, you must first understand how they work. Art is expressive; words are connotative. That is, words draw their power from their ability to extract different ideas from different people. A circle is a circle, but the concept of “scary” varies from person to person.

NEEDED

Elegance is not the result of any one attribute. It is the combination of numerous factors coming together in harmony. This is why it’s such a hard skill to master. Most people can pat their head or rub their tummy. But put them together and it’s not quite so easy.

An elegant piece of prose needs to hit the reader at a gut level. Often they won’t know exactly why they like it, but they will recognize that something about the piece moves them. There are many types of writing where subtlety is lost. Elegant writing isn’t one of them.

EXPLAIN

There are many ways for you to explain an idea. The most elegant one though is not through definition but by example. By connecting your idea to one already known by the reader, you’re leaving the work of teaching to someone in the past. Education is hard. Comparison is easy.

THE

If writing is like building a house, the structure is like the foundation. Its design will dictate how the house is built. If it’s faulty, no amount of fancy brickwork will undo the damage. So take the time to ensure your structure is building the kind of prose you want.

CONCEPT

Never underestimate the power of a concept. An important part of elegance is condensing big ideas into little words. This is far from an easy task. It often takes a genius an entire lifetime to create a truly innovative concept. So take advantage of all their hard work and inspiration.

KEPT

A common barrier to elegance is the belief that only one way will work. Often a writer is unable to abandon a beloved piece of prose even when evidence demonstrates otherwise. If something doesn’t add to the larger sense of the piece, you have to learn to let it go.

THE

Readers notice things at a minute level far beyond their mind’s ability to interpret. This means that although they may not consciously notice many of your tiny details, they will do so unconsciously. Aesthetics teach us that it’s this unconscious structure that will determine whether or not it feels “right”.

COLUMN

All communicators, whether through speaking or print, need to find a voice. A voice provides familiarity and it teaches the listener or reader how to more quickly absorb the information. Elegance is all about the conservation of ideas. Having a pre-learned voice to guide you is a very valuable tool.

FROM

I’ve spent some time talking about understanding your reader. But there is one more person who is even more important to understand – yourself. Writing is about sharing your ideas with others. If you haven’t spent the time to figure out what you think, how can you possibly communicate it?

BEING

“A picture is worth a thousand words.”

Or so the saying goes. What the cliché forgets to mention is how many words a single word is worth. For example, take the word “being”. To capture the essence of what “being” represents is tens of thousands of words if not more.

ELEGANT

What is the value of being elegant? Why should you care? Elegance adds aesthetics. It evokes poetry. It grants beauty. Elegant prose draws the reader closer because it gives them something to not just learn but to admire. Good prose stimulates the head, but elegant prose resonates in the heart.

Who, what, where, when, how - all important questions. But for a writer they pale next to why. If you don’t understand the reasoning beneath the surface, the other details are irrelevant. The act of elegance is cementing the why. It’s taking the purpose and engraining it into the piece.

Elegance is a very personal thing. If something doesn’t resonate with you, there’s no way for it to resonate with your reader. Writing is an art, not a science. There is no rulebook for how things must be done. If your instincts are telling you that something isn’t working, listen.

DID

An important tool in your toolbox is time. Elegance cannot be rushed. Mental ruts only get deeper the harder you focus on them. Make sure to work time into your schedule so you are able to walk away from your writing. An hour next week is worth a day today.

WHAT

Don’t let attention to detail pull you away from having a larger sense of what you’re writing. Take this column as an example. While I spent a lot of time fine tuning each entry I never lost sight of the effect they created when all the entries were put together.

ALL

Elegance requires taking a holistic view of writing. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph is a piece in a larger puzzle. It’s not enough to understand the impact of a single element. You must understand how any two elements interact if you want to understand the potency of your text.

ARTISTS

Elegance and art are very intertwined. Both seek to achieve a similar goal: to illuminate and inspire with a conservation of expression. If you’re trying to be elegant, I think it helps to think of yourself as an artist. The instinct for the latter mirrors the needs of the former.

An important part of any writing is understanding the feeling you’re trying to evoke. And then realizing what mechanic tools you have available to evoke that feeling. Diction, verb tense, sentence length, alliteration, word flow, phonetic juxtaposition – each of these will control the mood and tone of your piece.

A writer’s life is the ultimate fodder. Don’t be ashamed to plumb your own experiences. You understand them deeper and more personally than anyone else. No painter would refuse to use his finest paints. And, as a bonus, by using your own experiences, you will become better educated about yourself.

FOUND

Don’t forget that the act of revealing is also an act of exploration. Don’t be afraid if you learn more than the reader you’re trying to educate. Writing is not an exact science. (Or even an exact art.) Often you will find that the road to salvation has a fork.

Your future is paved with your past. If you want to learn how to grow as a writer, you need to look back at what you’ve written. With time and a detached eye, your will find your mistakes become clearer. Remember that it’s failure, not success, that bests drives education.

WAY

The problem with looking for a single solution is that you’ll never find more than one. And the first one isn’t always the best. But if you’re open to the possibility that every problem has an infinite number of answers, you’ll have the freedom of choosing the solution you want.

Sentences are filled with freeloaders. Because writers seem to love overwriting. (I include myself in this camp.) Make sure to create time for the editor side of you to prune unnecessary words. If a word can be excised without any harm to the sentence, it has no right being there.

SAY

I’m spending my time today talking about elegance in prose, but most of what I’m saying is applicable in speech. The key difference is that prose has less defining attributes like appearance or tone. The key to elegant speech is making people focus on the words rather than everything else.

It’s ironic that something designed to be so simple can be so complex. But that, my faithful readers, is the joy (and mystery) of elegance. Like an onion, elegance has numerous layers that reveal themselves as you slowly peel them away. Oh yeah, and it can sometimes make you cry.

LOT

An interesting exercise is to look at each word you’re using and think about how much content is loaded in that word. Then explore what other words exist that fulfill the same role but with added content. Once you’ve found the word you can’t best, move onto the next word.

A good way to get better at understanding elegance is to look for it in every day life. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised where and how often you find it. Study each example carefully and try to see if you can put your finger on what makes it work.

Writing is a shared endeavor. No one owns the words. If someone uses a technique that works, there’s no shame in borrowing it. Like science, writing creates technology that’s brought back to the group to spur further advancements. Elegance is hard enough to accomplish without refusing to use the toolbox.

LITTLE

How big should a piece of text be if you want it to be elegant? The answer is as big as it needs to be – and not a word more. Just think of it as playing the game Jenga. Keep pulling words out of your prose until it collapses.

SPACE

One of the most important lessons in art is learning the value of negative space, the idea that the eyes are equally drawn to what isn’t there. Prose has a very similar quality. When writing pay careful attention to what you aren’t saying. Often it will speak the loudest volume.

ENJOY

For some reason people tend to equate dignity with seriousness. And as such they come to the false conclusion that elegance has no room for humor. Ironic as humor is one of the most elegant of styles. A good joke is no longer than is necessary to do its job.

MARK

As is always true when I head off the beaten path, I am curious to hear your feedback. What did you think of this article? Was it entertaining? Was it educational? Did you actually read all fifty links? And if not, why not?

Tell me. Inquiring mind wants to know.

ROSEWATER

I couldn’t end this week’s column without my trademark closing. I mean, how inelegant would that be?

Join me next week when I go from being a letter man to a Letterman.

Until then, may you learn to appreciate now just the ��what” but the “how” and “why”.

Mark Rosewater

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mapiforpresident · 1 day

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Final req: Aitana x reader

team is celebrating the final win and either aitana or Reader gets drunk and confesses their feeling to the other?

Confessions

Aitana x reader

warnings: alcohol

~~~

You liked to party. Being surrounded by your best friends, Pina, Patri, and Cata, meant that right now you really, really liked to party. The private club where your team was celebrating had an open bar and good music, and you were taking full advantage of it.

Having scored the opening goal of the 3-0 win against Lyon, you were currently on cloud nine.

"I'm going to get another drink," you shouted to Pina, who you were currently dancing with. "You want another too?" you added.

"Sure, hurry back, these two clowns over here are getting out of hand," Pina replied as you both glanced toward Patri and Cata trying to do some sort of dance-off while both holding two beers. You were glad Alexia was in the corner with Olga ignoring the rest of you, or you were sure she would lecture the four of you, probably something related to good choices, logical thinking, and alcohol poisoning.

You stepped up to the bar and ordered. While you were waiting, you turned your head and saw Aitana walking towards you, and your breath immediately hitched in your throat. She looked absolutely stunning in her tight dress and medal gleaming around her neck in the club lights.

You had been hopelessly in love with the Ballon d'Or winner for over a year now. You had tried so many ways to get over your crush, but absolutely nothing was working. It had gotten so bad that you took private Catalan lessons just to impress her.

You knew Aitana didn't like you back because you didn't even think she liked girls. The only time she had ever mentioned a partner was a childhood boyfriend. She also didn't really interact with you unless it was in a group setting or at training. Your fellow English internationals were the only two that knew about your crush after they questioned you on why you were so adamant about learning Catalan even though you really only needed to know Spanish to get through training.

You grabbed your drinks and started to turn back towards the dance floor, trying to steady yourself both physically and mentally. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered wildly at the sight of Aitana approaching you. Just as you were about to head back to Pina, Aitana reached the bar and smiled at you, her eyes twinkling under the club lights.

"Hey," she greeted, her voice smooth and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. "Having fun tonight?"

You nodded, smiling brightly, trying to appear as calm as possible despite the rapid pounding of your heart. You really concentrated on not slurring or stuttering your words. "Yeah, it’s been amazing. It’s not every day we get to celebrate a win like this. Your goal was absolutely stunning."

Aitana’s smile widened, and she looked genuinely pleased. "Thank you. Your goal was also amazing."

Your cheeks flushed, and you could feel the heat rising. "Thanks, Tana."

She laughed softly, the sound like music to your ears.

Before you could respond, you noticed Pina waving you over from the dance floor, clearly eager for her drink. You turned back to Aitana, your mind racing for something else to say, something to keep her here a little longer.

"Hey, do you want to join us?" The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them. "We’re having a little dance-off. It’s pretty hilarious."

Aitana looked over to where your friends were laughing and dancing wildly. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then shrugged with a smile. "As much fun as that sounds, I promised Keira I would bring her a drink and start teaching her a couple of Catalan phrases."

You tried not to look too disappointed, but Aitana noticed the slight frown on your face after the words left her mouth. She didn't want to see you sad, so she turned towards the bar to order, which you took as your cue to leave. Pina saw you and reached out and grabbed her drink, taking a big gulp. "Finally! What took you so long?"

"Sorry, got caught up talking," you replied, glancing at Aitana, who was now grabbing her drinks from the bartender.

Pina raised an eyebrow at you but didn’t press further. Instead, she dragged you back onto the dance floor, and soon you were lost in the music and laughter once more.

~~~

As the night went on, the drinks continued to flow, and you found yourself getting increasingly tipsy. You tried to focus on having fun with your friends, but every time you looked at Aitana, your heart skipped a beat, and your thoughts became a jumbled mess.

Eventually, you found yourself sitting on a couch, feeling the effects of the alcohol more intensely. Aitana somehow ended up beside you, laughing at something Ingrid had said, and you couldn’t help but stare at her, the words you had been holding back for so long threatening to spill out.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned closer to Aitana, your voice barely above a whisper. "Aitana, I need to tell you something."

She turned to you, her expression curious and slightly concerned. "What is it?"

Before you could say anything else, the trophy entered the room and the music was turned down so a couple people could make a speech.

"Group picture everyone, vamos vamos," you heard Alexia shout so all your teammates could hear her.

"What were you gonna say?" Aitana asked as she turned to you.

"It's nothing important, i'll tell you later."

~~~

It was a while later before people started heading back to the hotel to get a small amount of sleep. Luckily, it was literally across the street.

"Hey, y/n," Keira said, slightly stumbling towards you, gripping onto Laura's arm. "I made some room changes. Laura is going to spend the night with me in our room, so you are going to share with Aitana. I just talked to her and she said that it’s fine and that you can walk back together."

"What about Ona?" you replied, trying to think of an excuse. You were freaking out; you couldn't spend the night in the same room as Aitana. Your heart would beat out of your chest.

"Ona is definitely going back to Lucy's room by the looks of it," Keira replied as you caught sight of Lucy pinning Ona against the wall and making out with her neck in a dark corner.

"I'm trying to help you out here. She definitely likes you back."

"Shh, someone will hear you, and she does not like me back."

Keira just gave you a sly wink and nudged Laura, who gave you a thumbs-up before they both staggered off, leaving you standing there, heart racing, and stomach in knots. You looked over at Aitana, who was chatting with a few of your teammates near the door. She caught your eye and smiled, motioning for you to join them.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over, trying to calm your nerves. You could feel the alcohol buzzing through your veins, making you slightly unsteady. When you reached them, Aitana turned her attention fully to you.

"Ready to head back?" she asked, her voice soft and inviting.

You nodded, trying to keep your cool. "Yeah, let's go."

The walk across the street to the hotel was short, but it felt like an eternity. Your mind was racing with all the things you wanted to say but knew you shouldn't. Aitana walked beside you, her presence both comforting and overwhelming.

Once inside the hotel, you took the elevator up to the floor the team was staying on. When the doors opened, you stepped out and followed Aitana to her room. She unlocked the door and held it open for you.

"Make yourself at home. I have been sleeping on the bed by the bathroom, but we can switch if you would like," she said with a smile as you walked in.

"No, no, I'll take the bed by the window. I like that one better anyway."

You glanced around the room, trying to distract yourself from the fact that you were alone with Aitana. The room was cozy, with two beds neatly made and a small sitting area by the window. You sat down on Ona's bed, trying to steady your breathing.

Aitana disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, giving you a chance to collect yourself. When she returned, she had changed into more comfortable clothes – a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt – and she looked even more beautiful than before. You felt your heart skip a beat. You don't think you had ever felt like this about someone in your life. Even when you were dating your ex, Georgia Stanway, you loved her, but never felt this strongly.

"So, what were you going to tell me earlier?" she asked, sitting down on the bed across from you.

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. The alcohol had given you the courage to start this conversation, but now that you were here, you felt vulnerable and exposed. You took a deep breath, deciding that it was now or never.

"Aitana," you began, your voice shaky. "I've been wanting to tell you something for a while now. And maybe it's the alcohol talking, but I can't keep it to myself any longer."

She looked at you with concern and curiosity, urging you to continue.

"I have feelings for you," you blurted out, feeling your cheeks heat up. "I've had a crush on you for over a year, and I've tried so hard to get over it, but I can't. You're always on my mind, and I just... I needed you to know."

There was a long silence, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. Aitana's expression was unreadable, and you started to panic, thinking you had made a huge mistake.

But then she reached out and took your hand, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "I had no idea," she said softly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

You shrugged, feeling a lump in your throat. "I was scared. I didn't want to ruin our friendship or make things awkward. And I didn't think you liked girls, so I thought it was hopeless."

Aitana's eyes softened, and she gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "You're right, I haven't been very open about my personal life. But the truth is, I do like girls. And I've liked you for a while too. I just didn't know how to tell you."

Your eyes widened in surprise and relief. "Really?"

She nodded, a shy smile playing on her lips. "Really. I guess we both were too scared to say anything."

You let out a laugh, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. "I can't believe it. This feels like a dream."

Aitana's smile grew, and she leaned in closer, her face inches from yours. "Well, it's not a dream. It's real."

Before you could say anything else, she closed the distance between you, pressing her lips to yours in a gentle, tentative kiss. The world seemed to melt away as you kissed her back, all the fear and uncertainty dissolving into a feeling of pure happiness.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, and Aitana's eyes were shining with emotion. "I'm glad you told me," she whispered. "I've been waiting for this moment for a long time."

"Me too."

That night, as you fell asleep with Aitana's smaller frame wrapped in your arms and her head on your chest, you had never felt more at peace. You drifted off to sleep, planning on taking her on a magical first date after the international break.

#woso #woso x reader #fcb femení #fcb femení x reader #fc barcelona femeni #aitana bonmati #aitana bonmati x reader #aitana bonmati imagine #barca femeni x reader

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beebee18 · 2 days

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We were?

Mingyu x Reader

Characters; Y/n, Mingyu, Seungkwan, Seokmin and Vernon. Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Minghao, Dino, Hoshi. (brief)

Genre; Fluff (slight confusion)

Warnings; None. (possibly, Mingyu's arms)

Summary; Seungkwan asking you if you've been to 1st base with Mingyu makes you question his behaviour over the past few weeks, while trying to keep your own feelings at bay.

"Have you guys kissed yet?" Seungkwan asks from beside you as soon as Mingyu leaves for the restroom.

"What... " You ask, slightly wide eyed, thinking the giggly man in front of you is joking.

"He means... you guys have been on like 3 dates, tell us the deets!" Pipes an excited Seokmin from behind you, leaning on the backrest of the sofa.

"Excuse me, what?" Your tone alerts the two boys pestering you, along with Vernon who was perched on a beanbag unbothered until now.

"Didn't Mingyu ask you out?" Vernon questions trying to recall a memory from the past few weeks.

"Wait, dates??" You ask quite confused but also a tiny bit hopeful.

The guys immediately recoil, did they say too much? Was what they heard from their hyungs wrong? Did they ruin Mingyu's chance?

"Forget we said anything." Seungkwan says hastily, the others agreeing, going back to their places.

"No-come back here! Seungkwan!" You hiss, completely dazed and now sort of irritated the guys would drop something like this on you and not even explain.

"Seokmin.." Deep breath in "...if you value your life, you will speak, right at this moment." You glare at the man, speaking in a low tone refraining from raising your voice.

"He hasn't told us anything but we did hear Coups hyung and Mingyu talking about 'a date with y/n' from when Seungkwan was eavesdroppi-"

"I WAS NOT DOING THAT" Seungkwan scoffs, Seokmin immediately disagreeing, completely forgetting that they dumped life altering information.

"Not what? Knowing you, you probably were." Mingyu snickers walking in, sitting down beside you throwing a trophy smile your way before getting comfortable, his arm draped on the sofa behind you.

The atmosphere now rather awkward with Seungkwan glancing at you from time to time, Seokmin being nervous, Vernon was... the same and you sit there trying to recall these dates.

Have you guys really been put on a date??

When did he ask you out??

He's never said the word date in however long you can recall.

• When you and Mingyu went out shopping to spice up your living room and he took you out to lunch after.

• When you went to watch that football match and it was just the two of you, buying both of you ice cream as he walked you home.

• When the other day he suggested dinner at a new restaurant that opened down the street, after which a long drive followed.

In conclusion you'd been dumb and oblivious. Also considering the fact that you never let yourself think about him like that, you tried to be a good friend who does not catch feelings, which always felt fvcking impossible.

However he never held your hand, no hugs. Why didn't he initiate the kissing?

Soon Seungkwan being unable take it anymore and announces he's gonna leave due to early morning practice, coercing Vernon and Seokmin to leave with him. They follow tentatively, saying they're goodbyes and Seokmin mouthing a 'sorry' at you.

You and Mingyu settle back on the sofa, he laughs at the movie playing in front of him, you're too in your head to notice but he sees you thinking.

"Y/n, what do you wanna have for-"

"Are we dating?" You cut him off, he's taken aback, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Yes...?" He asks a bit scared.

"When did you ask me out?"

"When we went furniture shopping and I asked you if would consider having lunch with me?" All his answers sound like questions, your face scrunched in confusion.

"Did you not know we were?" He asks sceptical, you shake your head lightly, looking at him with a frown.

"Why don't you hold my hand then? You never hug me, and see!" You point to him, still frowning. "You sit so far away!" Your frustation takes over as you look up into his eyes.

Mingyu's concern dissipating a little as he registers your words.

"I didn't wanna be really touchy and make you uncomfortable. I know you don't love skinship and you know how I am, what if I scared you away?" He says smiling at you softly, placing his hand on top of yours perched on the sofa between the two of you.

"You never kissed me..." You mutter lowly, doubt clear in your voice.

"Oh baby," Whispers out Mingyu, moving closer to you, one hand placed between the back of the sofa and and your thigh, other gently coming up to caress your jaw.

"Would you like that?" He quips, gazing into your eyes, movie completely forgotten, only serving as background noise now.

A shallow breath releases from you before you speak out a definite 'yes' leaning in a little closer.

His free hand moves to your nape pulling you in gently, one of your hands instinctively sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulder, the other holding his bicep to ground yourself.

His lips meet yours, eager but gentle, hesitantly moving, encasing your lower lip. Confidence growing within his chest as he hears a small sigh leave you, your own doubt clearing and being replaced with pure bliss.

His hand from your nape moves back to cup your jaw softly, pulling away leisurely, eyes closed, exhaling a heavy breath, your chest equally heavy, grip loosening off his shoulder and bicep.

"So?" Mingyu almost seeks out an answer, something, hopefully positive as you come to your senses opening your eyes and gazing into his dreamy ones. A small smile growing on your face causing him to exhale heavily in relief, a grin cascading over his golden boyish features.

A little giggle leaving your lips before engulfing him a hug "I've utterly enjoyed every single date we've been on. Sorry for being stupid." You say, face buried in his neck.

His own chest rumbles with a light laugh, "It's okay, at least we got over that misunderstanding." He says stroking your back in a soothing manner.

"Should we turn this movie night into a date?"

"Yes please, I'm gonna grab blankets so we can cuddle." You say disappearing into your room with a wide grin, leaving behind an ecstatic and content Mingyu.

He may or may not have punched the air in victory, shhh!

///

Texting- (gc... y/n, dk, hoshi, vernon, kwan)

Y/n: Thanks for spilling the beans Seokminnie~

Seokmin: Oh! That was my plan all along!!

Hoshi: About fvcking time-

Vernon: Have fun ;)

Seungkwan: AND GIVE US THE DEETS LATER!!

///

Texting- (gc... gyu, scoups, wonwoo, the8, dino)

Mingyu: Y/n just realized we've been dating??!!

Seungcheol: I told you to properly ask her out!!

Wonwoo: Damn.

Minghao: Use protection

Chan: Have fun hyung ;)

Mingyu: Oh fvck off!

Chan: What did I do-

#seventeen #seventeen x reader #kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x y/n #mingyu x you #mingyu fluff #svt #svt x reader #svt x y/n #mingyu fanfic #seventeen fluff #svt fluff

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cadavercowboy · 3 days

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Hot Rod

Anonymous said: i need a eddie munson fic where reader is pretty bold. I had a dream where i texted him "i wanna blow you" and he just responded "hot." i need this so bad 😭 Hmmm. *cracks knuckles* Alright, allow me to extrapolate a bit here... Idk why Eddie is a mechanic, it just felt right. I believe he would find this ridiculously hot and would lose his silly little mind if his girl got all confident and cocky about giving him the schlurpy durp.

Pairing: Mechanic!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You send Eddie some dirty texts and he takes full advantage of the opportunity afforded to him.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Warnings: Explicit content (18+ only). Sexting. Oral sex (it's sloppy toppy, guys!). Slight degradation. Face-fucking. Cum swallowing.

A/N: Reposting this because I privated the original and tumblr decided to fucking eat it. :-)

He heard the ping of his phone between the high-pitched whirs of Wayne’s pneumatic drill, though he’d ignored it on account of the grimy layer of black grease coating his fingers. Another ping and then a third let him know who it was texting him. A sudden sense of urgency had him ducking out from under the hood of the latest vintage car his uncle had him helping to rebuild so he could reach for the red rag on the workbench to clean his hands just enough to check his messages. The sight of your nickname splashed across the screen had prompted a small smile, but the content of your messages had his jaw falling slack.

“Eddieee…”

“I wanna blow you.”

Short. Sweet. Straight to the point. Eddie had licked his lips, fighting back a groan as he re-read the texts.

“Miss the way you feel in my mouth…wish I could taste you right now.”

The bold statement had caught Eddie off guard. While you’re far from a prude, it wasn’t usual for you to so blatantly express your desires. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but he knew a simple text wouldn’t suffice; he needs to give you precisely what you’ve asked for. Still, he couldn’t leave you hanging so he tapped out a lackluster response, knowing he’d make up for it shortly.

“Hot.”

Eddie had stopped giving a shit about his greasy fingers as he dragged a hand through his hair and tried to come up with an excuse to give Wayne so he could get home to you. Sure, he felt a little guilty about flaking on his uncle, but the constriction in his pants won out over the one which tightened his chest.

“Hey, Wayne?” Eddie called hesitantly.

His uncle popped up from his stooped position near the rear wheel of the cherry red Coupe, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“I’m pretty beat,” Eddie lied easily. “Think I’m gonna call it a day, man.”

Wayne nodded as he stood, tossing a rusted bolt into a coffee can already half-full of discarded hardware. He wiped his hands on the stained material of his navy jumpsuit, wondering why his nephew had suddenly decided to pack it up for the night as he checked the dirty face of his watch.

“Alright, kid. I’ll probably be outta here pretty soon, too.”

Relieved that Wayne hadn’t questioned him, Eddie returned his tools to the rack and cleaned up his workspace so as to avoid any reprimanding from his uncle. His phone chirped again and he snuck a quick peek as inconspicuously as possible. He wished he hadn’t.

“Come home and fuck my throat.”

“Jesus goddamn Christ,” Eddie muttered, nearly dropping the device.

Wayne eyed him wordlessly, studying his shaggy-haired nephew as he fumbled with his cellphone and shoved it in his pocket for the second time in the last few minutes. He suspected the jingling electronic had something to do with Eddie’s sudden desire to leave, though he said nothing.

“See you tomorrow, Ed,” Wayne grumbled. “Tell your girl I said hello.”

Eddie’s steps faltered, unsure if his uncle’s words were intentional or if he’s just paranoid. Wayne noticed the hesitation but pretended he didn’t, instead burying his head in the engine of his car to hide his sly smirk.

And that’s how Eddie ended up racing home to you and making it there in record time.

Though he knew you’d kill him for it, he texted you on the drive; punching the keys haphazardly — volleying his eyes between the road and the screen — to let you know he was on his way. He had every intention of testing to see whether you have the balls to back up what you’ve said and he knows you know that even without him saying so. Still, you pretended not to see his text. You feign ignorance as his booted feet come clamoring through the door.

“Baby?” Eddie calls, his voice nearly as tight as his pants had been the entire ride here.

He rounds the corner and spots you. You’re lounging on the sofa and watching something mindless on the television. You look so pretty dressed in nothing but a tattered Tom Petty tee, your bare legs stretched out and your ankles propped up on the arm of the couch. He’d love to bound across the room and ravish you right there on the worn green cushions, but he’d much rather have you make good on the earlier declarations you had made so confidently.

“Oh, you’re home,” you note with a smile, though your expression immediately darkens as you swing your body off the couch and begin to advance on him. “Finally.”

Eddie doesn’t even have a chance to say hello before you’re falling to your knees in front of him. His mouth drops open in disbelief and his arms raise at his sides; he’s not quite sure what else to do with them as your fingers deftly undo his belt and wrench his zipper down. You shove impatiently at his grease and oil-stained pants, shifting them just enough to get to what you want. There’s something so hot about the fact that you seem unphased that Eddie has come straight from work and hasn’t had a shower yet; his dick stiffens in agreement.

The warmth of your hand surrounds his half-hard erection as you reach under the waistband of his underwear and Eddie groans in bliss. Your texts already have him so torqued up, he fears he won’t last very long. If the jolts of electricity shooting through his body at the mere caress of your fingers are anything to go by, he’ll be lucky if his dick even makes it to your mouth.

“Been wanting this all day,” you purr as your fist pumps Eddie’s length, coaxing him to harden further.

His legs waver when he sees how hungrily you stare at his dick, your desperation written all over your face. Your wide, wet eyes peering up at him makes his cock throb in your hand and you lick your lips. He barely hears what you say when you mutter something about needing to taste him because your comment is lost among the sound of his broken moan as your lips surround his sensitive tip.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie whispers, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “That’s so…s’good.”

You suckle his swollen head, intermittently flicking your tongue across the weeping slit until Eddie’s knees nearly buckle. When you lean in to drag your soft lips further down his length, Eddie comes dangerously close to exploding. A muffled moan escapes you as you taste the heady flavor of Eddie’s skin mingling with his sweat. He sucks in air between his teeth, finally looking down at you again and delving his hands into your hair to guide your movements.

As much as you love when he takes control, you want to make Eddie feel good; specifically, you want him to relax and let you take care of him. Rather than heeding the pressure of his hands, you plunge your head forward and swallow as much of his cock as you comfortably can.

Your throat constricts and your eyes begin to prickle with tears. The metal teeth of Eddie’s zipper drag along your chin when you widen your jaw to accommodate the size of him. Gently rocking your head side to side, you manage the last inch before Eddie is pulling away from you. He stops when your mouth is midway down his shaft, taking in the sight of your mouth stuffed full of him as his girth stretches your lips wide.

With your best puppy dog eyes and a dissatisfied whine, you silently plead with Eddie to allow you to proceed. You need to feel the weight of his cock on your tongue, need to bury your nose in the thatch of curls at his base until you’re gagging around him. You want it so badly.

Eddie shudders when you swirl your tongue against the thick vein that runs along the underside of his cock. Saliva gathers in the corners of your mouth as Eddie sits hot and hard between your parted lips, the slickness beginning to trickle down your chin. Something in Eddie’s gaze shifts in a way that both frightens and thrills you.

“You really want my cock that bad, huh?” he taunts, a hand circling under your jaw to force you to meet his eyes.

You nod your head carefully, your lips sliding against his turgid flesh with the movement. Eddie grunts in response as his thumb brushes along the corner of your mouth to gather some of the spit that leaks out.

“Why don’t you let me fuck your pretty little mouth then?” he adds. “Just like you said earlier. Bet you didn’t think I’d follow through.”

Eddie’s words are stern but teasing, challenging you to prove that you aren’t all talk. He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead shoves his pants and underwear lower, baring his cock and balls and the length of his pale thighs to you. He shifts his feet and brings his other hand to your face, each of his thumbs hooking in either side of your mouth as he pulls out.

“Look at me,” he commands, waiting until you obey before he continues. “Stick your tongue out.”

The wet flesh brushes against Eddie’s cock when you do, the heaviness of the appendage making your thighs clench. Eddie shoves his digits further into your mouth, tucking them between your teeth so you couldn’t close your mouth even if you wanted to. Saliva dribbles from your gaping mouth and he pushes the solid head of his cock through the moisture before shoving the stiff member back between your lips.

“You look like such a pretty little slut. Keep your eyes on me and breathe through your nose,” is all the warning Eddie growls before he thrusts his hips forward.

The first press of his hard cockhead against the back of your throat is alarming and you flinch and cough, but Eddie doesn’t relent. He thrusts with steady and smooth strokes, his hefty cock dragging over your tongue and bumping the sensitive spot that makes you gag until tears spill from your eyes. You gag and splutter and each noise only spurs him on, the pathetic sounds earning a grunt of pleasure with each slip and slide of Eddie’s slick cock.

“Stay just like that,” he snarls behind gritted teeth, making the demand as if you have any choice but to remain in his steadfast hold as he fucks your throat. “Be a good girl and let me use you.”

Just as expected, Eddie can feel his balls tightening with his impending orgasm. Adjusting your position, you brace yourself against Eddie’s forceful thrusts; cupping your hands around the backs of his bare thighs and hugging your body close to his so he can continue to fuck your face with ease.

You’re a mess of tears and drool and damn if he doesn’t wish he could stay here forever. Spit falls in steady globs on your chest, soaking your shirt. The wet sound of his cock sliding through the abundant moisture is going to be ingrained in Eddie’s head for a long, long time. Not to mention the way you whimper as you struggle to take him.

A buzzing in his ears signals the nearness of his release and Eddie holds his breath as he buries every inch of his pulsing cock in your mouth. The swollen head slips just past the tightness of your esophagus and when the muscles squeeze him, Eddie loses it.

He begrudgingly pulls back, only for the satisfaction of coating your tongue with the creamy spurts. You sniffle and whine when the warm drops hit your taste buds and fill your mouth. Though you do your best to keep it all contained, Eddie just keeps cumming and the abundant seed overflows and begins to ooze over your lower lip and down your chin.

“Fuck,” Eddie sighs, fisting his cock and giving it a final shake to dispel the few drops that still seep from the tip.

Not bothering to fix his disheveled clothes, Eddie crouches in front of you. He studies your soaked face and your full mouth, his cock twitching appreciatively at the debauched sight you make.

“Show me,” he whispers hotly.

You widen your jaw and stick your tongue out, careful not to let a single drop of Eddie’s cum escape. He inhales deeply, satisfied with your obedience and directs you to swallow it all. A shiver courses through you at the heated tone of Eddie’s voice, but you do as he asks. Your tongue peeks out to sweep any remaining spend from your lips, though Eddie beats you to it.

His large hand cups the back of your head, pulling you in so he can capture your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. The sweet taste of you mingles with his own saltiness and Eddie moans into the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours until you’re breathless.

“What the hell got into you?” Eddie pants with amusement as he observes you with adoration and surprise.

Joseph Quinn Masterlist ✦ Writing Masterpost

#this repost is a consequence of me getting the ick & also being insecure about my own writing lol #now i have to shine a literal spotlight on my transgression by making a whole new post #anyway #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x reader fanfiction #eddie munson x reader fanfic #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joseph quinn smut #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things smut

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yuri-is-online · 3 days

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Criminally Smooth (Floyd Leech x Yuu)

Floyd might have a concussion, but that doesn't mean he can't recognize true love when he sees it, and that halo the bisexual lighting of this cop car is giving you makes him think he might have a chance.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, based off a meme I saw and the song Bonnie and Clyde by Dutch Melrose. Vaguely modern au, hints of a mafia au? Yuu and Floyd are implied to be adults and full of bad decisions. More fic can be found on my masterlist.

“Hey baby, what's your name?” Floyd's teeth are sharp and his smile is weirdly wide, like he's trying to display his mouth for you. “You come here often? I swear I've seen ya somewhere before…” You take a deep breath trying to ground yourself, the metal of the handcuffs should be painful enough to do the trick but the ridiculousness of Floyd asking that question when you're both going to jail is overriding the discomfort.

“We've met before, yeah.” You grumble trying to shift to get a bit more comfortable as Floyd's eyes get wide as saucers in a way that would be cute if that meeting hadn't been him shaking you down for “interfering” with Azul’s business model.

“Really?” He sounds so happy, and tries to move his hands to do who knows what but gets stopped by the cuffs, which wipes away the facade of kindness as he glares down at them. “Well I must have introduced myself-”

“You did yeah.” You try to cut off whatever it is he has to say and try not to die of embarrassment when it doesn't stop him from babbling.

“I've got your number then right?” Floyd begins wiggling to reach for his back pocket and glares when Officer Clover tells him to knock it off. “You're just so fucking pretty please tell me that wasn't just a dream and I got your number.” Are you even talking to the same person?

“I don't think so?” He whines, whines! When you say that and looks up at you like a kicked puppy. “We uh. We weren't. Didn't get much of a chance to talk.” You shouldn't be flustered by this. Shouldn't be thinking that it's sort of cute how he presses up against the bars separating you in the back of the cruiser to try and get as close to you as possible.

“Aww well let me do it again please?” You nod and try not to fluster when he brings back the dreamy smile places his cuffed hands against the bars. “I'm Floyd, sorry I totaled your car, baby.” It wasn't your car but you know better to say that in something rigged for audio. “You free this Saturday? I wanna make it up to you and I know a real great place-”

“I don't think either of you are going to be free this weekend,” Officer Clover isn't even hiding how much he's enjoying this you really wish you could get away with punching him “sorry Floyd.”

“Ignore Sea Turtle, oh hey I don't know your name do I?” Surprisingly Floyd isn't annoyed at all, he's still keeping his mouth wide and gets even more excited when you begin to subconsciously mimic him. “C'mon what's your name pretty?”

“It's Yuu but you kept calling me-”

“LITTLE SHRIMPY!!!” He shouts so loud Officer Clover slams on the brakes out of shock, Floyd laughs as he tumbles around and you try to brace against the wall. “Dawww ya should have just led with that baby, I wouldn't have rammed ya. Not with a car anyway.” The police cruiser lurches again as you feel the tires hit something, slamming Floyd against the door and tumbling you towards the floor. He bites down on the metal of his cuffs making sure to keep eye contact with you as he chews through the metal, winking like he's putting on some sort of show and not at all surprised or afraid that your ride is spiraling out of control. “Remember, Saturday ok? And don't worry about dressing nice I'll take care of it ♡” His door flies open as Officer Clover scrambles for his radio and Floyd jumps out of the tank into an awaiting vehicle laughing the entire time, yelling a few choice expletives at the police commissioner as he goes. You curl yourself into a tiny ball and chew on the inside of your cheek as you try to process what just happened over the angry squaking you hear on the radio.

There's no way a judge is letting you make bail after this.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech x yuu #i wrote this fast idk #mafia au #i have ideas

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hqbaby · 16 hours

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twelve — i think you do

mess it up — gojo x reader & sukuna x reader

⁀➴ when i told you i’m fine, you were lied to. when the love of your life falls for someone else, you decide to move on—by pretending to date your best friend, the campus fuckboy.

previous — masterlist — next

word count. 2k content. profanity, naoya’s annoying, reader and sukuna suck at feelings

You probably should’ve known the way this day was going to unfold with how it started. How did it start, you ask? Oh, with the most appropriate of things: A broken elevator.

It didn’t help that you also had absolutely no time for this shit. You had woken up late after spending most of the night tossing and turning and thinking, against your will, about the kiss you shared with your best friend just yesterday. The stupid kiss that came out of nowhere, the one you did not expect at all, the one you… actually liked.

But never mind that. You can think about that later. All you know is that the shitty domino effect of events has led you here, running into your class’ lecture hall—the class that you’re not quite sure you’re going to pass—only to sit at the very back, where there’s absolutely no way you’re not going to doze off.

“Oh, look at the odds.”

You turn to look at the guy sitting to your right. Fucking Naoya.

He’s looking at you with a wide smirk on his face and it’s taking everything in you to not just punch it off.

You’ve always hated the guy. Ever since you and Satoru started dating and he introduced you to his housemates. You liked the other boys. Suguru, Yuji, and Yuta. They were all sweet and they were all kind to you, the initially nervous girlfriend, so much so that you all ended up becoming friends. You liked Satoru’s housemates. All of them except Naoya.

You don’t know what it is about him that you hate so much. Is it the snarky remarks? Is it the annoying way he keeps showing up in your classes? Is it the fact that he always had something to say about you and Satoru’s relationship? Is it the—

“I heard about you and Sukuna.”

You glare at him. Fuck Naoya.

“Unlike you, I’m actually here to learn,” you tell him quietly, unlike him and his disregard for the people around you. “So if you would just shut up, that would be great.”

You’re able to catch a few of the professor's words, quickly jotting them down on your tablet, before Naoya is leaning over onto your desk and reaching for a strand of your hair. You grab his hand before he touches it.

He just grins at you, all smug and absolutely shitty. “You’d be prettier if you smiled.”

“I will break your wrist.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

You throw his hand away and shove him off of your desk. “Leave me alone, asshole.”

“You sure do have a thing for bad ideas,” he muses aloud, a few of the people in front of him glancing backwards because he is just talking so loud. “You’d think after Satoru, you’d learn your lesson. Guess athletes really aren’t that smart.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. You know he’s just being himself, his obnoxious, mean self, but some part of you can’t help but believe his words. They’re stupid, you know that, but they manage to get to you.

They always do.

You look at him and purse your lips. “I just wanna get through this class,” you say. “I’ll listen to your bullshit after. Just let me actually pay attention so I don’t flunk out of here.”

His grin grows wider. “Okay,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “Who am I to stand in the way of your education?”

The lecture doesn’t last long enough. You usually find these classes to be too much, too tedious, too endless. But today it ends fast and it ends soon. You’ve barely just started to scribble down as much as you can before the professor ends the class, leaving you to pack your things as quickly as possible before Naoya can hold you to your promises.

You��re too slow and his arm wraps around your shoulder as he leads you out of the classroom, like the two of you are just old friends having an absolute blast.

“I have another class to get to,” you tell him, trying to shove his arm off of you. Much to your dismay, Naoya’s stronger than you are, and once he has his grip on you, he has no intentions of letting go.

“I’ll walk you to class,” he chirps. “I wanna hear more about your life. Mai mentioned you were injured at your last game.”

You sigh. There’s no way you can shake him off now. “A sprain,” you tell him. “I’m heading back to training tomorrow, so it’s all good now.”

“A sprain,” he muses before turning to look at you, all giddy and terrible. “You know, that’s how I found out about Sukuna. Mai mentioned that he was there when you went down, had a staredown with Satoru and all.”

“I bet you tormented that information out of her.”

“What does it matter?” Naoya hums. “Sukuna though. Interesting choice.”

You turn the corner and make a beeline for your classroom, forcing Naoya to drag himself along with you as he laughs.

“If I were your boyfriend, I’d be really offended by the fact that you don’t want to talk about me.”

You scoff, finally freeing yourself from his grasp as you lean on the door to your classroom. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not my boyfriend then.”

Your (fake) boyfriend in question is sitting in a classroom on the other side of campus. Contrary to popular belief, Sukuna isn’t all always out and about, drinking and fucking random girls. For a good chunk of his life, he actually finds it in himself to go to class and not totally suck at them.

Back in high school, he didn’t care so much about doing well in life. He was perfectly fine just coasting by. He’d wonder why that all stopped—replaced by an overwhelming urge to do something with himself, actually be a useful member of society—but he already knows. Somewhere between that one afternoon when he went up to the rooftop of his high school building and now, he’d found his life intrinsically intertwined with yours.

And he hasn’t found a way out since.

“Where are we studying?” he asks Choso, getting up as the professor bids farewell to the class and reminds them of the paper they have to turn in before finals.

The other boy shrugs. “We can go to Mahito’s.”

“That place is gross.” Sukuna wrinkles his nose. “You wanna check out the library? We can just do it there.”

Choso slings his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, sure.”

They make their way out of the classroom and into the frenzied hall. Around them, students run over to classes, cry to their friends over a low grade, ask each other where they’re going out to drink later that night. It’s a familiar chaos, this chaos. One that Sukuna didn’t think he’d ever come to terms with before.

“I wanna go home,” he grumbled as you dragged him through the quad.

It was the first week of classes and Sukuna really did want to go home. His packed schedule and unlucky pick of horrifying professors was getting to him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he decided to call it quits.

He’d tried college. Maybe it just wasn’t for him.

But you just tutted and pulled him along. “I have something to show you.”

Sukuna frowned. “I’ve seen everything there is to see. What is—”

“Look!”

The two of you stopped in front of the pond behind the science building. There was a crowd gathered around the water and, in the darkness of the growing night around you, a steady stream of lanterns began to float onto the surface of the pond.

In a matter of seconds, the whole thing was alight with lanterns.

You grabbed his hand and grinned at him. “Magical, right?”

He found himself staring at you as you happily pointed out a few lanterns shaped like lotuses. You were like a kid discovering life for the first time.

He realized he wouldn’t get sick of the sight any time soon.

“Yeah. Pretty fucking magical.”

“You’re quiet.”

Sukuna snaps out of his daze. “What?”

He doesn’t know how, but he and Choso have already found their way to the library. They’re sitting at a table near that one fan that always conks out. There’s a couple basically making out on the table beside them, a boy with his head face down on the one in front, an empty spot behind them.

Choso furrows his brows. “You good, man?”

I don’t know. Am I?

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sukuna says. He flips through the textbook in front of him and finds that he has no idea what he was supposed to be reading in the first place. “Actually, I think I’m pretty fucked.”

Choso looks at him now with amusement. It isn’t every day that he gets to watch Sukuna be more than a little out of it. Who is he to turn down a free show?

“What’s up?” he asks. “You jerk off a little too much?”

Sukuna scowls. “Fuck you. I’m studying without you.”

Choso laughs, prodding at the guy from across the table. “I’m just kidding,” he says. “What’s the matter though?”

Now, Sukuna’s been trying very hard to not think about your kiss. At first, he managed to brush it off as a little mishap. Maybe something you’ll both awkwardly address the next time you meet before things go back to normal. It’s not something he has to worry himself about.

But here he is.

Worrying.

“You promise not to tell anyone?” he says, and he immediately feels stupid. What is he? A middle schooler with a crush? As if.

But Choso indulges him anyway. “‘Course,” he says. He’s used to people coming up to him with stupid ideas. Granted, “people” usually just means his younger brother who has a buttload of stupid ideas, but he’s gotten pretty good at keeping them to himself. “So, what is it?”

“It’s a girl.”

“It always is.”

Sukuna groans. Why is this so fucking hard?

“I dunno. I just—I kinda kissed her.”

At that, Choso can’t help but snort. He can’t help it. He’s heard all about Sukuna’s conquests, he knows more than he wants to know about the nasty details of these encounters. So it tickles him pink to hear Sukuna worrying about a kiss.

“What’s so funny?” Sukuna demands. He shakes his head and looks away, all flustered and embarrassed. “Y’know what? Never mind. Let’s just study graphs or whatever.”

“It’s not funny,” Choso says, laughing, “it’s just I never expected you to be all worked up because of a kiss. That’s all.”

Your best friend sighs. “It wasn’t just a kiss,” he says. “It was who the kiss was with. We just… have a lot of history.”

“Ah, so it was a kiss with feelings. Now I get it.”

“It wasn’t feelings.” Sukuna makes a face, but he soon reverts back to his uncertainty. “Was it?”

Choso shrugs. “Well, I don’t know the girl and I don’t know your history,” he says simply. “But chances are, the reason why you feel so weird about it is because there are some feelings involved.”

Sukuna leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. He considers the thought for a moment. He considers why he did it in the first place. He considers the way you looked, all confused in front of him. He considers the urge, the pull he felt that just dragged him forward. He considers how he kissed you, and considers how you kissed back.

He considers how soft your lips felt against his. He considers how you touched his shoulders, gripping onto him in that scared and nervous way of yours. He considers how he held you. He considers how sweet you tasted, your lip gloss sticking to his lips even after he pulled away.

“You think I have feelings?”

“Yeah,” Choso says, chuckling as he turns back to his book. “I think you do.”

notes. this chap is pretty tame, just a lil look into the aftermath of the kiss 😌 i think this is gonna be chillest chap for a while though 🫣 there are also a few hints of what’s to come if you squint real hard

#hqbaby.miu #hqbaby #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo #gojo x reader #sukuna #sukuna x reader

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infimace-blog · 8 hours

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Thinking about rap as a technical artform and rap as a cultural artform, with respect to Tumblr's incompetence at dealing with either. Tumblr can just barely grasp the former because, like all forms of Black music, it's been repackaged in various ways that are more palatable to to white audiences. I talked last month about how what Tumblr was calling rap while trying to defend its taste in music is more akin to filk songs, but I should admit, sometimes Tumblr cites people who actually rap. It doesn't fix the problem or absolve them of their bullshit, but it is true.

The failure then becomes an inability to recognize or care about how rap functions culturally.

People on Tumblr will take Dungeon Meshi and intricately pick apart how a single chapter connects back to real-world neurodivergence issues and the cultural differences between the West and the East when it comes to handling them, and then look at any given rap song and assume it's skin-deep. Unless it's Hamilton back in the late 2010s, before we all decided it was cringe, in which case they'll gladly dig into the history of the early USA and, like the play itself, sidestep the racism whenever possible.

Take Weird Al, one of the many names that's been thrown around in Kendrick and Drake's wake. Weird Al is technically a rapper. He has done rap. We cannot ignore that as a factual statement. He's not even that bad as a rapper. But he has no engagement with rap as a cultural object; he engages with the artform as a parodist. "Amish Paradise", probably Weird Al's most popular rap parody, doesn't say anything; it's here to riff on a religious minority. But you dig into it just a little and you can see the kind of complexity that Tumblr usually loves to talk about. The song is, after all, a parody of Coolio's Grammy-winning "Gangster's Paradise", which is literally about being a black man in an environment dominated by organized crime and fearing the constant threat of death in that life, but was also created specifically for the movie Dangerous Minds, a middling white savior movie about Michelle Pfeiffer teaching a bunch of bad stereotypes of what people think inner city non-white students are. A movie that was, in turn, based on a white woman's memoirs about teaching in a bad school near San Francisco. You've got this interplay between a white woman's real-life efforts to teach her black and Latino students (I can't speak to how effective she was, mind you), a fictionalized version of that same woman being shown as the sole guiding light for her underdeveloped gangbanging students - and a white actress's crappy Kipling-ass 5/10 film getting Coolio his Grammy. It was tailor-made to be Coolio's big hit with white audiences, getting the push of Michelle Pfeiffer, having slow and deliberate rapping, and lacking the swearing in most of Coolio's oeuvre (Stevie Wonder mandated no swearing in return for letting Coolio sample his music). And, though I suspect this was unintentional, the song plays into the same narrative that the movie does, how this rapper is doomed to his life because "nobody's there to teach [him]", with dramatic choir and strings underscoring the dire fate that awaits this rapper if some charitable white person doesn't help him - the same dramatic choir and strings that Weird Al uses for comedic effect by comparing it to Amish farmwork.

I put that last paragraph together with two or three hours of Wikipedia, and you can do the same kind of analysis with a lot of hit rap songs (and Genius is right there if you need a helping hand - I wouldn't have understood much of Kendrick's Euphoria without it), and I think this drives a lot of my frustration? Tumblr loves to see something cool and then take a few days to write an in-depth post about how cool it is under the surface. So the lack of this when it comes to rap does show a deep disinterest in thinking about it when it isn't fun. And there's so much cool shit to learn about rap. Did you know that Baby Got Back was inspired by the anti-black fatphobia Sir Mixalot's model girlfriend was dealing with in her industry, and was pushing back against the media's general preference for skinny white women? Did you know that there's a Turkish hip-hop scene specifically in Germany because, as a minority that was brought to the country for cheap labor and then forced to exist as second-class citizens, they ended up relating a lot to the music? Just. Dig a bit. There's so much.

#rap #hip-hop #machine thoughts.txt

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perfectlyoongi · 2 days

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WALTZ OF POSSIBILITY

‧₊˚ ┊synopsis ... getting ready for your best friend's wedding brought up a possibility that could last an eternal life.

‧₊˚ ┊fandom ... bts. ㅤㅤ‧₊˚ ft. ... yoongi x gn!reader. ‧₊˚ ┊genre ... one-shot. ㅤㅤ‧₊˚ content ... fluff, established relationship. ㅤㅤ‧₊˚ word count ... 1k. ‧₊˚ ┊cole's note ... my 1st kpop work in years lol starting new & trying to get out of this writing slump !! i hope u like it ♡ eng is not my 1st language xx

In the comfort of your room, music played gently.

The sun shone brightly, warming the room through the window, painting the walls a hopeful gold. Between the rhythmic ballads on the record player and the chirping of birds that beat against your window, your room was enveloped in a cloud of soft comfort, which left you calm, which left you relaxed.

You and Yoongi were sitting on the bed back to back. Your hands were fixing your blue shirt, while you heard your boyfriend struggling with a simple tie knot. There was silence between you, but there was no embarrassment at all, for in the stillness of your relationship, you found each other.

“Do you know the groom?”

Yoongi finally stood up, walking to the mirror and focusing his attention on the blue fabric around his neck.

“I’ve only been with him once,” you sighed and pressed another button on your shirt before placing yourself next to Yoongi. “But from what she told me, he’s romantic.”

“Hm.”

Yoongi knew perfectly well what you were doing. Due to his distraction, your boyfriend had forgotten about your last date and he swore, when he arrived home with a bunch of wild flowers and regret in his eyes, he swore he would make it up to you. The most romantic date we've ever had, Yoongi said between kisses when you accepted his apology. But the date was yet to happen and, knowing your boyfriend, you always thought it was funny to tease Yoongi. And he let you tease him, because, quite simply, Yoongi loved you.

“The proposal was beautiful,” you smiled in the mirror when you noticed Yoongi's eyes darting towards your figure and, with a hand on his shoulder, you turned your boyfriend towards you and you held the tie that was driving Yoongi crazy.

“How was it?” Yoongi stretched his neck to give you more freedom of movement and, staring at the white ceiling of your room, he waited for your sweet words to gently cradle his heart.

“They went to the beach. Where they met, you know? It was sunrise, her favorite time of the day. They had just walked all night and just wanted to sit down. But while she sat, he knelt.”

You spoke with pride in your voice – finally, someone who took good care of your best friend.

Yoongi listened to you with passion in his ears – he swore he could listen to you talk for hours.

“Is that what you think is beautiful?”

Yoongi smiled when you finished tying his tie and walked back to the bed, looking at the two coats that were displayed there, trying to figure out which one was best to wear on that occasion.

“Are you going to tell me it’s not beautiful?”

“I think you would think it was cute for someone to propose next to a trash can.”

“If it’s something important to one of them…”

Yoongi laughed and you smiled. Yoongi's laughter continued throughout the room, grabbing the soft music and dancing with it among the sun's rays. You loved that sound.

“So anything is beautiful?”

“Yeah, basically.”

You spoke between small laughs, totally mesmerized by the wide smile that Yoongi wore so perfectly.

“So if I knelt down, here and now…” Yoongi turned his body towards you, starting to lower himself guided by his own words, resting one knee on the floor and looking at you. Bright eyes full of passion, wide smile covered in devotion. “And if I…”

“Yoongi, no!” You laughed in the guise of a scream, running towards Yoongi, holding his hands and looking at him with amusement. “Don’t you dare!”

“I just wanted to prove my point.”

Yoongi smiled when you helped him get up, giving you a small kiss on the cheek and sitting at the foot of the bed. With his hand still locked in yours, he gently pulled you towards him, making you sit on his lap.

You looked at Yoongi, smile on your lips. Your right hand caressed the silky strands of Yoongi's hair, lingering on his face, admiring his natural beauty. And Yoongi looked at you, bright eyes and indestructible smile. His hand held your waist carefully, the other resting on your leg as he made small caresses on it with his slender fingers.

The music continued to play, the sun continued to shine, but at that moment it seemed as if all time had stopped. In your boyfriend's lap, the world ceased to exist.

Being with Yoongi was comforting, something you needed even before you knew it. Yoongi's touch soothed your soul, cleansed your heart of any doubt or fear. Yoongi's look made you feel loved, made your simple existence something important to be celebrated. And Yoongi's words... Yoongi's words took you to the beginning of time, remembering a love so pure, so true, that it was repeated throughout history.

“We have to hurry,” Yoongi spoke gently, the words escaping what his heart really wanted to say. Let's stay here. Let's forget about the wedding. Let's love each other in the comfort of our home. Please! “We will be late.”

“Mhm,” you smiled fondly, your lips drawing a soft curve on your face. You stroked Yoongi's hair, moving the bangs away from his eyes, and gave him a small kiss on the forehead.

But none of you moved.

Still listening to the music that insisted on relaxing your room, you and Yoongi stared at each other, letting the strong emotions that vibrated within your hearts extend to your bright eyes and passionate smiles.

None of you wanted to move.

But it was your best friend's wedding, the day you would see her most beautiful and happy. You couldn't miss it, not that day.

“Just so you know,” you gently placed your hand on Yoongi’s face and brought your foreheads together as you allowed your smile to expand. “If you had asked, I would have said yes.”

You gave Yoongi a small kiss on the lips and got up to finish getting ready.

And Yoongi remained on the bed looking at you, completely mesmerized by your words, deluded by the possibility that could happen. And Yoongi stood there, smiling as he watched you get ready, keeping secret all the jewelry stores he had contacted looking for the perfect ring for you.

ㅤㅤ‧₊˚ feedback is appreciated ♡

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thewertsearch · 2 days

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CG: I NEED YOU TO COME THROUGH FOR ME, BECAUSE WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF MANPOWER HERE. CT: D --> We are CG: YES DIDN'T I MENTION? FEFERI, KANAYA AND TAVROS ARE DEAD, SOLLUX IS UNCONSCIOUS, AND TEREZI IS MISSING.

It all fell apart so fast, didn't it?

One minute, he was sitting in the Veil’s rec room, bickering with Jade. The next, everything was blood and honking.

What the fuck happened to Kanaya.

You foolishly misplaced your glasses during your heroic revival attempt, leaving you with no way of communicating with the others to warn them.

Phew. You got me, Hussie.

But there is no one in here. Just someone taking a nap on the horn pile over there. And a big puddle of something next to the transportalizer.

We turned our back on Kanaya's body, and now it’s on the move.

Who’s the culprit, though? The only troll unstable enough to do this is probably Gamzee...

Are those.... fang marks?

KANAYA!!!

She's back!!

I mean, she's apparently a fucking vampire, but who gives a shit? We're back in business, baby!

Man, this is fucking random, isn't it? From where I'm sitting, it's come completely out of the blue. If it gets my girl back in the game, I'll take it, but how the hell does this even work?

I know Kanaya used to dream of being a vampire rainbow drinker, but dreams don't usually come true this easily. Alternia does have undead, so it's possible she was bitten before she Entered, but I would have expected her vampirism to have manifested much earlier in the session. She has always had pointed teeth, but I assumed it was just a natural trait in trolls.

Is it a Sylph thing, perhaps? The class is apparently 'more magical' than a Witch, so maybe Kanaya's latent magical abilities were triggered in death, restoring her to... undeath?

If that's true, though, then why a vampire? They don't have anything to do with Space, unless you count the fact that they're nocturnal, and thus active when the night sky is visible. I doubt that's even true for rainbow drinkers, who are probably diurnal.

Kanaya's thirst for fuchsia blood would suggest that her instincts have taken over for the time being. We won't really know how much self-control she has until she's face-to-face with a living troll, but I'm confident in her willpower.

That said... I'd absolutely love a villainous Kanaya. If she fully gave into her thirst, she'd be a bigger threat than all these idiots combined - especially if she has access to the traditional array of vampire powers.

Anyway, please excuse me as I pop the biggest bottles of champagne. Kanaya's back, baby!

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 5.2 #s124 #3431 #VINDICATION

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vinelark · 2 days

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🕷️ Recommend something of the asker's choice -- favorite identity shenanigans fic(s)?

i really was going to just recommend one, but i got...a bit carried away. here are two timkons, two superbats, some general batfams, and one absolute wildcard with svsss to cover every possible vibe here.

been a number and a name by @wynterstars, a timkon 90s period piece chock full of identity shenanigans and kon angst and platform boots; i adore the first two installments and am eagerly subscribed to the ongoing third installment.

call me cute and feed me sugar by @suzukiblu, a timkon wip in which tim, upon finding out kon is still relying on cadmus for room & board, accidentally-on-purpose becomes a 15 y/o sugar daddy. notably, kon does not know this rich tim drake kid is also robin.

the long hangover by @coffiocake, in which superbat somehow end up dating in all permutations before the full realizations hit; an excellent identity shenanigans longfic to settle in with for a night or two.

How to Date the Batman by @solomonara (+ the whole series), a superbat fic where most of the identity shenanigans are about them dating while other people don't know their secret identities; place of honor on this list for the chapter 3 jason & clark scene especially.

Say Uncle by @megaerakles, a batfam fic in which tim's harebrained fake uncle scheme gets even more harebrained when he hires jason todd to be his fake uncle; the multiple layers of identity shenanigans from tim pretending not to know who jason is + both of them pretending not to know tim is robin + tim actually not knowing jason is red hood yet are endlessly entertaining.

Top 10 Secret Identity Fails by @havendance, in which helena bertinelli is tim drake's new english teacher. cue a delightful fic of tim panicking for 2.5k words while helena is just trying to do her job (and worry a bit about robin).

love and bruises by @transdickiebird & @homobiwan, a laugh-out-loud and also genuinely sweet fic in which recently adopted jason todd thinks bruce and batman are two different people who happen to be dating each other, and jason is not thrilled about it.

wild card: The Best Luo Binghe by Neery, a svsss au in which pidw!luo binghe gets transported to a strange fertility celebration (fan convention), which is tbh a typical side quest for luo binghe until he meets a guy cosplaying as shen qingqiu, who has no clue he's talking to the real luo binghe. i think about this one every so often because 1) it's great and 2) it fully leans into the absolute bonkers metahumor potential of its source material. (which also means it will probably be incomprehensible if you're not familiar with svsss, but in that case just trust me that it's fun.)

[fic rec ask game]

#this is after i cut the list down. there were more #guys i love identity shenangians can you tell #thanks for asking for them 🫡#timkon #superbat #batfam #fic rec #ask meme

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theaceace · 3 days

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I know that canonically (show-wise, at least) St Hilarion's worked to cover up Charles' death, and nothing was ever really done about the disappearance of Edwin and the other boys, but even so, do you think the school has a reputation for being haunted??

I'm imagining Niko following various ghost-hunter groups online, especially when the agency doesn't have many cases going on, and occasionally the boys will mirror hop over to an interesting-sounding location, and they'll even get a real case as a result

So when she tells them that one of the teams is planning to investigate St Hilarion's (either it's been closed for a while or they have special permission to go during the summer holidays), Edwin and Charles steel themselves and decide to go, in case there are other ghosts there that need help ('can't imagine a worse place to be trapped for the rest of my afterlife' says Charles, who has been to literal hell. Edwin, who spent 70 years in literal hell, agrees)

So they go, with Niko and Crystal as moral/emotional support, except when they get there they realise they've fucked up and are there on the same day/night as the ghost hunters. They could come back some other time, but what if there really are ghosts here that are suffering? No one wants to take that chance, so Crystal uses her powers to convince them that she and Niko are there for work experience, or are friends of a friend, or are here to replace one of the tech guys who called in sick

Both Charles and Edwin are tense and uncomfortable returning to the place they died - Edwin had gone there after he escaped Hell because he didn't know where else to go, but they've built themselves a home now with the agency. This isn't like before, when it was the closest place to familiar he could find. Charles, meanwhile, feels colder and colder the longer they're there - his hair is wet, there are bruises flaring and spreading, and a faint rattle in his chest that would have become pneumonia if he'd lived long enough

But they need to be sure there aren't any other lost ghosts stuck here that need their help crossing over, so they keep going

(maybe, as a consequence of a door to hell being opened in the school, there are unusual happenings, maybe there's still a place where the line between earth and hell is very thin, maybe there's some fragment of a demon left behind, and they can do something about it)

Anyway, the most important thing is that Charles, either accidentally or in a fit of pique at the whole situation, knocks something over just as one of the paranormal investigators is asking for spirits to make their presence known. In fact, this happens repeatedly - the boys move things, change things around, their presence is detected somehow with the equipment. Crystal and Niko are doing their best to distract the team and ruin as much of the footage as possible, and at least once the boys do something on purpose, maybe because someone is being a creep to the girls (and yes, they both know that Crystal and Niko are more than capable of taking care of themselves, but this way scares the asshole more and is also funnier), and then also to fuck with their readings

Anyway, it's coming to the end of the night, the problem has been identified, and whaddaya knows, of course it's in the attic where they both died. This is fine, why wouldn't it be fine. They get started, draw some (invisible, ghostly) runes and start working their magic when, of course, the paranormal investigators turn up, because this is thought to be the most 'active' area of the school, and the body of a schoolboy was found here in the 80s

Yeah, they try to contact 'any of the boys who disappeared in 1916' and Charles. It would be fine if they weren't so irritatingly loud, Edwin's trying to concentrate, and Charles is now shivering and dripping wet, but they managed to ignore the team right up until they start speculating that Charles was killed by one of the angry spirits from 1916

At which point, Charles - half visible, clearly enraged, looking very much like the half-drowned and frozen kid he was, like a proper ghost - tells them to fuck off already before they get hurt, they don't understand anything, and how dare they give a shit now when it's too late

Which is, of course, the exact moment Edwin finishes the spell, and causes some sort of a magical rebound that fritzes the cameras for a second, throws furniture around, and knocks them all flying. When the cameras start up again, they catch Edwin kneeling by Charles, holding his hand, and softly telling him that it's ok, it's over, they can go now. Charles sniffs and smiles and knocks their foreheads together and says yeah, let's get out of here, and together they fade from view

The investigators think this means gay love can pierce the veil of death and save the day that now that the truth of their story is known the ghosts have moved on, and it's all thanks to them! How beautiful, how wonderful, how affirming! Perhaps one of the boys from 1916 tried to help Charles, and when that didn't work, they both stayed to try and protect other people from these violent spirits, and now their unfinished business is finished! It's so tragic and touching story

Charles and Edwin, who are putting their tools back in the backpack, roll their eyes and smile at each other

On the way out, Charles swipes the memory cards from the cameras, Edwin inscribes a couple of sneaky runes on various pieces of equipment to fuck with it, and Crystal uses her powers to make sure they all remember a couple of details differently, so later they won't be able to agree on a bunch of stuff

The episode they were trying to make can't be released, their social media posts about the experience are full of details that don't match up, and fans are bitterly disappointed

Crystal and Niko watch the footage Charles stole with Jenny and the Night Nurse back at the agency. Jenny turns it into a drinking game. Charles does a dramatic reading of the posts with added commentary while Edwin pretends he's not laughing. They buy t-shirts of the paranormal investigators and wear them ironically. They leave anonymous comments

Just. The dead boy detectives having to work around ghost hunters, in a world where ghosts definitely, tangibly exist

#dead boy detectives #charles rowland #edwin payne #crystal palace #niko sasaki #Not exactly a writing tag

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adatheexplorer · 2 days

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ᰋ ׅ࣪ ꒰ pac detailed reading ♡︎ how do they describe you to their friends? ꒱

01. 02. 03.

the person you were asking is probably someone whom you had a connection before or might be in the near future but right now, there's no communication happening here again. this person describe how you glow-up in your own for the years that had past. they also des describe how happy you are with your own company - having fun and happy single. even though they not yet sure what's the future of this connection, they can't help but to think of you often. they do still care but they kinda not showy about it, they don't want to ruin your own peace that you created for yourself. they overthinking a lot when they talks about you to their friends some may say ‘‘take a chance/risk’’ and the rest might not agree at all, so that's why they're confused. this person enjoy stalking you whether it's physically or online. even though they want to let you know about this they feel afraid to get rejected. they also describe you to their friends that you are someone probably had many options when it comes choosing a lover.

you don't have extra messages.

they describe you as an intimidating and wise person. they also introduce them as someone who may like living from another country or someone who may want to live overseas. you may be someone who is older than them or simply someone who acts more mature than them. perhaps, the little amount of negative impressions there's still a positive outcome of the best impression of them to you, they describe you as lucky and you probably met this person when you travel, they probably live somewhere far away from you. they also see that you are introverted, self-assured and prefer to stay at home. they describe you to their friends as someone who may be from a family who have a lot of money; rich in general. besides all of that, they talk to their friends as very manly or tomboyish. after all, it's hard for them to admit they are kind of attracted or not to you.

extra messages: you meet them when you loss someone or something, a possible soulmate, darker hair color, traveling to meet one and another, a blessing in disguise, a man who has a younger soul, coffin, fire and earth signs.

this person describes you to their friends as someone who hides many talents aside from being artistic alone. they also added that you probably come from a stable family, someone who is a little bit spoiled. they also think that you are someone well-known in your community or with the other people whom you communicate in your daily life. somehow, they view you as clumsy about doing something and careless about what to say to other people. they probably have been watching your social media or in person when you were not looking about it. you might meet this person in any mode of transportation or if not, probably in school. the attraction feels the same but may find it hard on how to take an action about it.

extra messages : person wearing glasses, 09, running, strong wind, wishes coming true, famous, lazy, loved family member, a distance.

#pick a card #divination #tarot #tarotcommunity #tarotblr #pick a pile #tarot pac #pick a picture #spirituality #spiritual #witch #pac

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dreamauri · 15 hours

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♪ — 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗥𝗢𝗖𝗞 - part seven max verstappen x fem! driver! reader (fluff) “. . . this is what they call: puppy love.”

( fic master list | general master list ) ( tag list ) ( previous | next )

2024 Australian Grand Prix -> Thursday: press conference

"Yeah?" Max whispered, leaning down when you waved him closer so you could whisper in his ear. You cupped his ear so the audience of reporters on the other side of the conference room couldn't lip read.

"Can you get me a Red Bull, please?" Maybe Max is the one who needed to lip read because he is sure what he heard was not correct since there's no way you just asked for a Red Bull.

He gave you a confused look, before leaning down again. The other drivers talking on the microphone must have made him mishear. "I don't like coffee and we're out of tea. Can you get me a Red Bull? Please?" Max pulled away looking at you even more confused and lost. You stuck your bottom lip out in plead. Max pretended to think for a second, scratching his neck and raising his eyebrow in question and thought.

"What flavour?" He asked quietly.

"Blueberry." You whispered back, a smile lighting up your face. Max felt himself smile upon seeing your smile, going back to looking at the reporters with a proud smile despite them not knowing what he was proud about.

Logan Sergeant who was sitting on your other side noticed. "Blueberries?" he asked, confused from the missing context. You nodded, leaning closer so you could whisper in his ear. From across the couch, Charles felt jealous at the sight of Logan blushing and smiling shyly at the touch of your hand cupping his ear.

"Do you want one too?" you asked before pulling away. The blond tried to suppress his smile, thinking for a moment before shrugging and nodding, not seeing any harm. "Which flavour?"

"Blueberry." he nodded and you nodded back before turning back to Max who automatically leaned down for you to whisper.

Charles huffed lightly at the sight of you and the dutch laughing between yourselves. The Monegasque was clearly displeased that he was left out. He'd arrived at the conference room two seconds late, losing the only other vacant seat beside you to the American blondie and his Dutch Childhood Rival.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"At the beginning of last year, you guys posted 'my first day' photos. Do you think anything from your list has changed since last year?"

You found yourself blinking confused, bringing your mic to your mouth, but no words leaving from utter confusion.

"She wasn't here last year." Max chuckled, pointing his thumb to the girl sitting beside him.

You chuckled shyly, "I don't think my brain is here with us today, I'm sorry. I understood nothing."

The conductor of the conference didn't hesitate to start explaining and describing the photos the drivers posted. Max on the other hand wiped out his phone and showed you. "Ohhh, yeah that makes sense now." you chuckled, gently taking Max's phone to see. "He's lying though. Max is lying. He does have a hype song." you pointed to the blond cheekily.

Max gave you an unimpressed look, and you shrugged in innocence as the other drivers started commenting on their changes. "What about you Yn? What do you think you would've written?"

You pursed your lips for a second, racking through your brain for possible answers. Max had unlocked his phone again for you to see what the questions were. "Well, it's obviously my first year in F1, if it counts as a year per se? I'm still from Spain. My favourite food . . . well I'd say burgers. I love burgers. Especially if the patty has cheese- is like cheese stuffed." you shrugged making the American smile and chuckle as he looked at you. "I just don't like the bread."

"As for my hype song I'll go with . . . I have no idea." You laughed sheepishly.

"See!" Max protested loudly, nudging you playfully. "Then you get angry at me for not picking something." The blond couldn't hold his smile as you pushed him back and he did again.

"Fein by Travis Scott." You stuck your tongue out at him.

"Thank you, drivers."

"Wait, she's missing one-" Max cut off, holding his finger up in wait. "Yn, what are you going to do this year?" Max asked with a smile, holding up his mic for you. You smile at him glancing at the sea of reporters,

"Maybe steal a win?" You joke making a few people around the room laugh. "I know that would be very difficult, but I'd like to at least share another podium with Max and Charles, Lando and Nando too." You laughed lightly. "I've also made new friends who I know I'd enjoy a podium with."

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

2024 Australian Grand Prix -> Friday

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Standing around the media pen after a long driving session wasn't one of your favourite things. Your body was tired and so were you, feeling like you could nod off and get away with sleeping if the press officer wasn't talking your ear out about what to say about the incident in FP2.

"Señor y salvador." [lord and saviour] You mumbled as the dutch driver approached you with his bottle you could only hope was filled with his endless Red Bull supply. "Bendiga tu alma." [bless your soul] You praise him as you take (more like steal) his bottle for a long sip. Max finds himself chuckling, feeling a small blush creep on cheeks with how comfortable you were drinking from his bottle. He gently placed his hand on the small of your back to guide you out of the way of the preparing reporters.

"I saw what happened in FP2, you're not hurt or anything right?" Max asked, not surprised when Lando inserted himself in the conversation.

"Yn? Hurt? More like she's the one doing the damage" You glance between the two as you continue to drink from the hollow straw, taking big gulps.

"What is that? Vodka?" Lando scrunched his eyes at the bottle you were hungrily swallowing from. "Gimme that" He reached to take a sip but you pulled away. A few of the other drivers watched as you tried to escape Lando. He did eventually steal the bottle. You watched with a pout as Lando wiped the straw with his sleeve and took a sip.

"That's just Red Bull." Lando stated, disappointed.

"Yeah, we'll it's her Red Bull now." Max chuckled, taking the bottle back from Lando and handing it to you. Your face lightened up as you continued to drink happily from the straw.

Max tried to hold in a smile, acting normal when Carlos joined the group. "I thought you were going to stay in the garage." You tell him, nudging his abdomen making the Spaniard double over.

"I'll get you back for that." He huffed, nudging your hip back. "This is not yours. Stop stealing people's stuff." Carlos continued to scold, pulling the Red Bull branded bottle from your hands.

"It's fine, she can keep it." Max tried to defend you but was given a 'no' signal by Lando.

You sighed as Max took back the bottle, taking a sip. You did try to take a sip from Lando's orange one but you were cut short by your press officer. The three men watched as you were the first to enter the pen for an interview. "I saw Leviana." Carlos whispered to his former teammate once you were out of earshot.

"Leviana- what? What's she doing here?" Lando scrunched his face in confusion.

"Who's-?" Max wanted to ask but found himself left out of the conversation. Max could tell though that whoever that woman was, clearly left a bad taste on the two driver's tongues. It also made him realise how little he knows about you.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Max pursed his lips as he scrolled through the results page on google, reluctantly pressing on the Wikipedia link. He pursed his lips as he looked at the pronunciation guide. “I mean, I know how to pronounce her name.” He mumbled to himself, trying to ignore the fact that her name is probably pronounced differently in Berber (a branch of Afro-asiatic languages spoken by berber communities who are indigenous to north Africa. If I made a mistake please correct me).

Scrolling down, Max couldn’t help but take a glance at your racing record. He’s seen you around FiA prize giving galas but never really concentrated on the events to know what any of the attendees were awarded with. Now seeing the WEC table littered with golden boxes labelled [1]s was not a surprise to him. You were a three time world champion too, in the same years as him as well.

Max wonders in how many more ways you two are similar. Having fathers who raced in Formula One and took care of their karting career. Scrolling up, Max sunk back into his bed, reading the article uneasily. Like the nerd he is, Max knew wikipedia was not a reliable source so he did the next thing he could think of: opening twitter.

twitter

direct messages: MAX + YN

proofread by the best best ever @classiclitfreak , the one and only <3

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orbitariums · 2 days

Text

warmth | patrick zweig, art donaldson + black fem reader (pt. 1)

you guys really liked the snippet i posted so it's finally here! this will probably have a second part <3 (let me know if you'd like to be tagged for that!)

content: smut (oral f. receiving, fingering, handjob), childhood best friends trope, patrick and art are acting like high schoolers again, reader is rich bougie conniving hippie writer hybrid ...

reader, patrick and art are childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite.

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more.

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end.

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him,

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat.

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered, already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking over at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers.

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast.

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway.

The both of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies.

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end.

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead, you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half of that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were practically draped in that baby blue silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school, now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twentysomething industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here.

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly sucked you in.

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently.

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that clung to his jaw, and the detergent still fresh on his clothes.

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing.

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected.

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh.

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom, and they fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs inching further and further up, their lips ghosting against your soft skin, had them panting like puppy dogs, only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.”

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. It was just the process of growing up. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from reintegrating into your life. Your childhood best friends.

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore.

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed.

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.”

Clink clink clink.

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options.

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it.

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that.

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year, more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in the midst of their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag.

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table.

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly.

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied.

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee.

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt.

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips.

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm)— before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly.

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal.

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

��You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider.

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease.

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken.

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place.

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you.

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes.

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last,

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?”

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five-bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly.

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time.

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental. Still, the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath.

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — they were just two pubescent boys all over again.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“I think we should just go for it.”

Patrick lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling with his hand on his stomach, speaking aloud as if into the clouds. Art, who had been gazing into the distance, sitting up against the wall on his side of the room, shook his head at Patrick’s words.

“What are you talking about Patrick?”

The two of them sat in the room that you had put together. They had showered and dressed in the pajamas that were waiting for them, just as you said they would be. The house was practically silent, it was the dead of night. Though you’d left hours ago, that same heaviness in the air seemed to remain in their chests.

“You know… I mean, she invited us here for a reason, don’t you think?”

Art glared over at Patrick, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted in a frown,

“Don’t be a creep. We’re her friends.”

“Who want to fuck her, and she knows it. Pretty sure she wants to, too.”

“That was high school, Pat. Get over yourself.”

“Like you weren’t getting your dick wet just from looking at her. C’mon.”

Art throws a pillow at Patrick. It lands square at his feet.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m just saying, she’s not innocent. She knows what she’s doing. She’s just as perverted as the both of us.”

“Yeah? So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Fucking — I don’t know, something. We should just both go over there and knock on her door.”

Art couldn’t help but sigh heavily — Patrick was always creating some elaborate plot or scheme, but rarely did he ever actually go through with something unless Art was onboard.

“Patrick, she’s not trying to have a threesome with us. I’m not interested in your porn addict fantasies. Plus it’s the middle of the night, she’s probably asleep. Think she’s gonna wanna sleep with two idiots who fucked up her nighttime routine?”

“So then why are you still here?” Patrick retorted.

“What? What do you mean?” Art tried to sound normal, but his defenses were up, and they both knew exactly why.

Patrick turned so he was on his side, facing Art, making sure his words hit just right.

“You know what I mean. You could’ve just gone home. Could’ve told her that we’ll catch her some other time. But look at you, sitting here, feigning innocence. She’ll think we’re cowards, you know. Seven years later and we still can’t come out and say what is that we want.”

Art swallowed, staring blankly into the distance like Patrick’s words didn’t sting his side. He was right. He almost always was, even if his wording wasn’t the most politically correct or precise. It was just how they were — one too careful, the other one so not. Most of the time, they came together to balance each other out: like fire and ice. But sometimes, like this time, they just threw each other out of whack – an oil spill in a pristine lake.

“I want a friendship. If you want a fuck, go and tell her that. Goodnight, Patrick,” Art spat, rolling onto his side and turning his light off.

Patrick sighed heavily like a petulant little boy who’d just been denied a cookie. Maybe in college or high school, Art would have been all ears, and they would have risen from their beds like triumphant kings, and gone on the hunt for their king. But maybe he was right — that was high school. They were too old now, and it was embarrassing. At least if Art had agreed, even if he didn’t fully believe in Patrick, they would’ve gone in together. And so, swallowing his disappointment, Patrick stared up at the ceiling, ruminated for just a bit, and then turned off his light, forcing his eyes shut so he’d fall asleep faster.

1:10 AM.

That was the time on the clock when Art opened his eyes next. He woke with a start, like there was something he was meaning to do. Then immediately, he was a bit disoriented. This room was far too big. It wasn’t his. He remembered where he was, and just what he had to do. He rose like an automaton and found his feet swinging to the floor. He threw on the Calvin Klein shorts and shirt your assistant had given him (his pair was white, Patrick’s was black), and slid easily into his slippers.

Only once he stood did he really catch his breath, and seemingly also his determination. It was like he knew what he was doing, and he was completely okay with it. He even peered over just slightly, to see if Patrick was still asleep. And by the slow rise and fall of his body on his side, he could tell that he was. He was stuck in this dream state between idiocy and confidence, making for mindless determination as he sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He had intent, his head was screwed on straight. He knew where your room was, and he practically marched down the end of the hall.

As soon as he reached your door, he realized what he was doing, truly realized. He stood there stock still, like a rabbit that had just gotten caught eating a carrot from someone’s garden. He was suddenly confronted by the fact that he was completely alone; your room was at the very end of the hall and completely cut off from the other rooms. Now the heartbeat in his chest was loud and clear, and the slight shifting sound of the fabric of his shorts rubbing against his inner thigh sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Nervous tics settled in, and he felt a rattle go down his spine at the recognition of what he was doing— the sheer arrogance, the assumption he was making. He thought of Patrick, and the betrayal this would be, considering he had just shut him down so profusely earlier. He thought of the fact that it was so easy for him to be so double-sided, to just get up and attempt it on his own, even making sure that Patrick couldn’t possibly be involved. How easy it was for him to be so unfair. He thought of himself, standing there with suddenly sweaty palms and a dry throat. Like a high school boy with blue balls.

What are you doing?

He thought to himself. He almost turned around, but he heard humming from the other side of the door. No doubt your voice, and no doubt you were very much awake. He could hear music, albeit muffled. He swallowed, closing his eyes like he was bracing for impact, and sighed. If he could remember the words to recite Hail Mary, he would have. Eyes still closed, he knocked. He heard the slight pause on the other side and imagined you perking up slightly and looking around the room to make sure you weren’t just hearing things. Despite his embarrassment, the knock was firm. It was clear it was someone else on the other side of the door. And so, a few seconds later, you swung the door open.

“Art,” you said, a hint of both surprise and relief in your voice.

“YN,” he replied, saying your name like it was a period to a sentence.

You were clad in a cream-colored silk slip with a lace trim. A dainty gold necklace adorned your neck, flush against your collarbone. You’d changed again since the last time he saw you, and this outfit did not make it any easier for him to tear his eyes off of you, starting from the necklace, to your breasts, to your legs. The slip was short and nearly see through, revealing your thighs which looked so soft and plush. The pucker of your nipples sheened underneath the thin fabric. The way it clung to your body was almost maddening. You looked fresh as a daisy — like you’d spent hours in the bath, rubbing countless creams and gels against your skin. Art felt suddenly embarrassed like he had interrupted your girl time with his boyish, base desires. You pulled him out of it though, with a slight smile and kind eyes looking up at him.

“You doing okay?” you asked almost playfully, still grinning slightly.

“Yeah, I just uh… wanted to… talk to you,” Art said, not even making eye contact with you and instead very obviously peering inside of your room. You looked over your shoulder like you were trying to see what Art was looking at, then looked back at him. Finally, he was making eye contact with you. He felt like you were scrutinizing him, searching for something to validate this interaction, to validate him. Your warm smile didn’t look all that different from a smirk anymore.

“Well. I am the host. Who’d I be if I didn’t indulge a late night chat?”

You stepped aside, pushing the door wide open with your back. You nodded at him like a coach, beckoning him,

“Come in.”

And so he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind you. Your room was how he’d expected it to be — reflective of your personality as long as he’d known you, but a hint more sophisticated. Everything rested on a plush chenille carpet. Your mattress, adorned with plush, deep red and green linens, sat on a large wooden bedframe, above which posters of your favorite bands and writers hung — Audre Lorde, Led Zeppelin, James Baldwin, Khruangbin. Across from your bed, there was an almost bulky yet fitting antique dresser. On top of it sat a 1935 Remington typewriter. In the corner, a leather armchair sitting beneath a scallop shade floor lamp, accented by a magnificent bookshelf behind it that was positively full. A desk, scattered with papers and pens and a pair of glasses, yet still tidy. And a vanity, where Art imagined you’d been just a moment before he came in. And dim, yet comforting lighting.

“Wow,” Art couldn’t help himself — he truly was an admirer of the details, the little things. And clearly, so were you. It had gotten you this far. He sauntered over to the typewriter on your desk, fiddling with the keys just a bit and tapping the top. You giggled at his nerdy lopsided smile. “This is sick.”

You smiled, placing two hands on your hips, beaming like a proud parent,

“She doesn’t work, but she’s beautiful. That’s honestly my most prized possession.”

Art grinned, truly touched. He turned to face you straight on, feet away from where you stood at the bed.

“I’m so proud of you, you know.”

The veritas in his voice rendered you bashful for just a moment, looking down and huffing an almost dismissive laugh,

“C’mon, Art, don’t go all soft on me now.”

Art rose to his own defense,

“I’m serious, YN! Look what you’ve done for yourself… I mean, I couldn’t expect any less, though.”

You waved your hand with a cheeky eye roll, and he started walking towards you, his footsteps causing the floor beneath to creak slightly. It was almost suspenseful, but you weren’t intimidated or in danger, just deeply intrigued and honestly, excited. You watched him, positively ensnared, as he closed the distance between the two of you.

He took two of your hands in his own like he was putting his life into your hands. That charming smile of his reared its head, accompanied by his blue-brown eyes, sparkling and wet and smiling too,

“We both are, you know. Proud of you.”

You smiled, genuinely at first. Then, it flickered. By the way he faltered momentarily, losing grip of the power trip that he dove into headfirst, you could tell he noticed. Your genuine smile turned slightly smug.

“Both of you? Why is Patrick not here, then, telling me how proud he is?”

Art did his best to keep smiling smoothly, cocking his head to the side slightly as if to say what can you do?

“He’s asleep.”

“Right… it is like, one AM. I’m surprised you’re even up, or that you assumed I would be," you kept on prodding.

“Hmm,” he smirked. He shrugged all too casually, so much so that it was cocky. “Guess I’m not that tired.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding sympathetically.

The both of you relished in this little game you were playing, a game of so few words but oh so much meaning. You held his gaze for just a moment longer, watching as his flickered from your eyes to your lips and back up. Then you sat down wordlessly onto your bed, never tearing your eyes away from his. You patted the spot next to you, and he followed, taking a deep breath that never seemed to exhale. You were sealing his fate in this one moment.

“I spend a lot of my time holed up in here. That’s why I make it as peaceful as I possibly can. Beautiful too, but not too beautiful. Otherwise, I’d just be distracted and a bit disgusted,” you chuckled at the end.

“Beautiful. Right,” Art replied, his gaze burning a hole into you.

A beat.

“So what’d you wanna talk about, Art?”

He knew he couldn’t be imagining the dulcet innocence in your voice that suggested anything but innocence all the same, nor the flicker of desire in your inquiring, wide eyes. All of it, combined with the slight pout on your lips, seemed to come together to create a face that was almost begging. His entire body softened. His eyes went heavy with the confession that was his utter, depraved need to have you. He slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue and blinked slowly, seemingly unaware of the fact that he was leaning in more and more with every passing millisecond. You stayed put where you were, wanting him to chase you through and through. You kept that poker face, like you didn’t feel your heart racing too. As his face inched closer to yours, his hands started to roam as well, and you stifled a whimpery breath at the touch of those hands against your bare skin. For some reason, you’d always thought he’d have such baby-soft hands, but they were rough and calloused from the weight of the tennis racket that was forever stationed between them. It only made the touch that much better, made you realize how long you’d been waiting for this, his rough hands seeping into your skin like a scar of age.

“I don’t wanna talk,” he finally said, his voice lilted with need, and his lips nearly flush against yours.

Finally, he closed the gap between your lips. The kiss was slow and languid, but not for lack of passion. Years of distance would do that, would amplify the mutual pining. You thought, in this interaction that you knew would happen with one or the two of them, that you might be more calm and collected, still wearing that disguise of cool nonchalance, but you were on fire. Your hands were quick to wander as well, up to his face, gripping his jaw, one traveling up to his hair and finding itself tucked beneath the tufts of slight curls. And then his hands were traveling up from your knees to your thighs, to your waist, practically glued to the expensive fabric. The room was silent bar for the sound of the two of you panting like crazed virgins, and the wet sounds of your kissing.

You needed to gain control back, and quickly. So you pulled away, putting on your best smirk. Deep down, you felt like Art knew it was an act, like he was looking right through you. But at the same time, you knew he was far too ecstatic and anticipatory to call it out or really even notice it in full. And besides, you didn’t care. It was you who held all the glory, both back then and especially now.

“You two place a bet or something? That was quick.”

Art was still breathing heavily, gazing at you like you were the solution to all his problems. His hands were still roaming widely, like your body was an expanse of wild land, his hands gripping your shoulders and caressing your arms up and down. The confidence boost in him was visible and almost amusing.

“No bets… but Patrick was saying…”

“What was he saying, hmm?” you placed a hand on his chest and caressed the warmth there. “Why’d you come here, Art? Thought you should close the gap, huh? Answer the age-old question? Wanting to prove yourself?”

You slipped your hand between his legs, grasping the meat of his inner thigh and glaring into his eyes. You felt how he stilled, how his confidence stuttered. Both because he’d been called out, and because if he wasn’t hard before, he was raging now.

“No…” you squeezed his thigh, your hand ghosting over the erection that sat directly above it, forcing the truth out of him with your touch. He shuddered. “Maybe. Yeah, fuck. Yes. I-I wanted to prove myself.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, slinking towards him like a black cat. You placed one leg over his lap, straddling him. Positioning yourself so your clothed cunt was directly over his erection, which dared to rip through both his boxers and his shorts. You rolled your hips over his cock gently, just once. “This helping you prove yourself?”

You pushed him back, back, back, until his head rested firm on the pillow and you were directly above him, the shape of your entire body clear to him as you straddled him on your bed. He couldn’t speak, only stare up at you in awe, his heavy breaths loud and desperate. You only stayed like this on top of him for a minute before you shimmied down until you were at face level with his crotch. You let your hands explore the expanse of his chest and stomach over his white t-shirt, and then took the bottom of it in your mouth, pulling it up with your teeth in a motion so effortless and tigress-like that Art nearly came on the spot.

“Hmm?” you probed him to answer the question with a demanding hum, the soft fabric of his t-shirt still in between your teeth, gazing up at him from beneath wispy lashes. You let go once he was decently exposed, his tight stomach rising and falling frantically.

“Fuck, yes,” he rattled, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

You pushed his hips back down immediately and like a reflex, he started to apologize,

“Sorry, I’m sorry.”

You ignored him and instead, you practically ripped the shorts off of him and started to palm him through his boxers, admiring the way his cock twitched and jumped beneath the small of your hand. You were attentive, watching as precum started to leak from his tip onto his boxers. You tsked.

“We’ll have to get someone to wash those.”

He squirmed and swallowed a wild grunt in his throat. His head was fully thrown back like he was in the most immense pleasure of his life, and you hadn’t even really started yet. You ground the part of your hand just above your wrist over his erection before peeling his boxers off. You watched as his cock sprung up in the air, thick and red and leaking. A tuft of strawberry blonde hair sat at his mound, but he was still put together. You sat up just a bit so you could place your hand on his cheek lovingly.

“Look at me, Artie.”

Your voice was so enchanting and soft that he almost forgot you were fucking his entire mind up, and he opened his eyes and looked down at you with the shaft of his cock enclosed in your hand.

“Fuck,” he huffed, resisting the urge to throw his head back again.

You maintained eye contact with him as you circled your finger over his wet, pleading tip, spreading the leaking precum around the head of his dick. He glanced away from you and looked at what you were doing, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. It was taking everything in him not to give in completely, and not to cum.

“No- no - I… I wanna make you feel good first. Please.”

Something in Art’s voice nearly made your heart drop — the wholehearted desperation and earnestness in it. It also made your pussy throb around nothing. The whole night Patrick and Art had been desperate, but now it was like you were finally seeing the extent of it. It was somehow endearing, a reminder of the love between all three of you. Art had always been a giver, and he sought out praise any place he could get it. It came as no surprise to you that he was the same now, but still, it made you indescribably horny.

You hardly realized you hadn’t responded. That wasn’t supposed to be part of your act, but Art was still pleading all the same,

“Can I? Can I just… taste you or — f-feel you, I-”

You kept your wrist moving in slow and controlled motions up and down his shaft, studying his face as you did: the way his eyes fluttered open and closed with a pleasured squeeze, his mouth perpetually open in gratification.

“It’s so fun watching you fall apart, though,” you replied, but you found yourself working your way up anyway, sneaking your legs up his body like a snake, one on either side of him.

He grasped onto your hips immediately, groaning at just the sight of you. The moonlight shone through the windows and brightened up the darkness of your room, illuminating your features and painting you under something like a spotlight.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking at you with hooded eyes. You steadied yourself, your hand reaching out to grab the bedframe and one of his hands gripped the fleshy underside of your thigh to help you. The more you inched up, the more he could see up the slip, catching a glimpse of your cotton panties, cream-colored with a tiny black bow in the middle. The print of your cunt through them was like an outline, a map to promised land. He sucked in a breath, almost like he was in pain. Your necklace dangled just inches away from your neck, like it was teasing him too.

“Wanna taste me?” you asked teasingly, lifting your hips above his face and hovering there, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up directly at your cunt, still hidden beneath your panties. You rolled your hips, letting your clit brush against the tip of his nose. He was enamored by the scent, had to physically stop himself from taking a deep sniff. “Hmm?”

“Yes, please, fuck,” he groaned, slightly arching his back up off the mattress just to get closer to you. “Please.”

He pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your clothed cunt, his eyes closed. It was such a gentle, delicate touch that you almost wouldn’t have believed how desperate he was if it weren’t for the longwinded moan that involuntarily escaped his lips when he made contact with your core. You bit down on your lip, breathing out from your nose, and started to grind your hips against his face. He kept kissing at your cunt over and over until it was almost indiscernible what was fabric and what was flesh— your panties had gotten so wet from his mouth and your slick. The wet trace made the friction unbearable, and your pussy throbbed through the fabric onto his face.

Through a mouthful, Art mewled,

“You taste so good. Please let me eat this pussy.”

This time, his lips peppered kisses around your inner thighs, soft but quick touches, taking in your musk. You decided to stop torturing him, that enough was enough. You lifted yourself up just a bit, and pushed up your slip. You were about to reach your hand down when you stopped and cocked your head with a smirk.

“Go on, then,” you said. Softly, like it was a suggestion more than it was a command. And Art took it in perfect stride.

He practically ripped your underwear off, pushing them to the side with a brute swipe of his hand that contrasted wildly with the gentle kisses he had given you before. Literally pushing your panties to the side. He looked for a second, eyes glazed over at the sight in front of him, taking in the sight of your dripping pussy. It looked so warm and wet and inviting, if he weren’t a better man he would’ve had to force himself not to bury his dick inside of you. When he felt he’d gotten a good look of it, savored the moment just enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist, smashing your cunt against his face. His mouth connected with your folds and you felt him sucking vehemently, before slipping his tongue in between your slit, pressing the tip of it against you. You cried out as he collected all the slick from your weeping center, keeping a hand on your stomach to stabilize himself, the other against your asscheek, squeezing every now and then.

“Oh,” you moaned, immediately starting to grind your pussy against his tongue, your clit once again nudging his nose each time you moved up. Art kept up, positioning the tip of his tongue just right so you rode it each time you wound up, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Yes, Art, just like that.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, the vibrations causing you to clench over his face and around the tip of his tongue. Then he flattened his tongue so he could capture the entire surface of your cunt. This time the grip on your ass grew stronger, and soon enough both his hands were squeezing your ass, supplementing your movements. You kept the time you wanted, Art just assisted you in rolling up. You honestly needed it, the way your thighs were starting to shake.

Art hummed satisfactorily again, enclosing his lips around your clit and suctioning, keeping his tongue out just enough so you could feel both sensations. You nearly squealed, your hand flinging down to push your panties out the way even more. Your back arched in pleasure, creating a whole new angle for Art to lick at and please. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your ass, like he was leaving some imprint. Now it was you writhing and moaning, but Art never forgot who was in control. That is, until he took firm grasp of your hips and used that to flip you over so that you were on your back. It was like he never lost contact with your pussy, diving right back down before you could even register what had happened. He yanked your panties all the way down and threw them over his shoulder.

“Take your shirt off, baby,” you panted.

He obliged, throwing his shirt off too, and then leaning back in so he could get to work. His arms wrapped around the inside part of your thighs, spreading you apart for him. Before you even felt his mouth, you moaned at the sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he worked. He placed sloppy kisses against your inner thighs and kissed closer and closer to your mound until finally, he was wrapping his lips around your clit once again, using what he could of his tongue to lap up your juices at the same time. You were nearly trembling in pleasure, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him secure where he belonged. He moaned in response, and you squeezed tufts of his strawberry-blond hair.

“That’s it, I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me,” he murmured, his nose buried in your cunt, eyes closed in satisfaction and concentration. You glanced down to see that he was grinding his hips ever so subtly into the bed — getting off by getting you off, and you threw your head back.

“Mhmm. So good, Art, you’re so good.”

This seemed to set him off into a frenzy as he placed open-mouth kisses against your pussy, kissing it like it was a mouth. His tongue lapped you up and sucked you in, making precise, timed movements with the close of his lips around your clitoris. He used his hands to gently push your legs back so they were angled slightly in the air, the new angle causing you to whine. He angled his neck ever so slightly so he was licking the lips, a slender finger prodding at your wet, tight entrance.

“This okay?” he asked, just dipping the pad of his finger in and opening his eyes to look up at you, as if you weren’t lost in your own world of pleasure, eyes shut tight. You opened them momentarily, looking down at what he was doing, the sight of his face engulfed in your pussy and his finger slipping up and down your slit now. You could only manage a moan along with a strangled nod, and he obliged, sliding a slender finger inside of you. Your pussy stretched and then collapsed around his finger, suctioning in like a glove, and now he used his tongue and lips to go from your lips to your clit, all spit and drool and your arousal as he worked his finger inside of you.

“Fuck,” a strangled grunt left your throat, your pussy tightening around his finger, which made him moan in response. “Art, fuck. I’m getting close.”

“Yeah?” he replied, muffled as it was. He slipped another finger inside of you with ease, wishing he could watch as he felt your pussy sucking him in greedily. Now the slow thrusts of his fingers became more forceful, pushing deep inside of your walls. You nearly screamed at the addition of his finger and the way he curled them inside each time they came to a stop inside of you.

“Y-yes, fuck, just like that, Art, don’t stop.”

He moaned something incomprehensible, or maybe it was a groan mixed with a sigh, as he continued the expert deft movement of his fingers inside of you and mouth against you, bringing you to rock your hips against his face. You were muttering to yourself now: “so close”, “gonna come” until his fingers finally hit that sacred spot, his lips closed just right around your clit, spit drooling from his mouth, and you fell apart. That devastating feeling peaked in your stomach as Art brought you to your high and you gushed around his fingers and into his mouth. Your moans were girlish and deliciously sweet, momentarily wiping away that facade you’d been playing so good at all night.

“Fuck, I’m coming!” it was like you were announcing it to yourself, squeezing your legs around his head and practically clamping down on his hair with your hand as you released. He helped you ride out that high, not stopping, but slowing his fingers and easing his lips against your pussy to keep you grounded.

When you’d finally caught your breath, Art pulled back, his chin and cheeks absolutely soaked.

“You taste so fucking good, YN,” he said it like it was a fact of life, as simple as “the sky is blue,” trying to ignore the fact that his load was prone to explode any second now.

“C’mere, I wanna taste,” you implored. Shakily, he pulled himself up and above you, letting you cradle him in your arms, one around his back and the other cupping the nape of his neck, as you captured him in an open-mouthed, sloppy, slow kiss. You could feel his cock sticking out of his boxers and poking your leg and in one swift movement you slipped your hand between the two of you and pulled him out, your hand wrapping around him. He couldn’t help but take notice of how your hand fit him perfectly, like a glove.

His hips started to stutter, quite literally, he nearly fell on top of you, gasping desperately.

“Fuck,” he drawled slowly, lips still brushed against yours, pinching his eyes closed. “T-this is s-so—”

He spoke between full-body twitches and spasms of his cock. You pouted slightly, running your fingers through his hair,

“Use your words, Artie. Whatsa matter?”

He chuckled, hanging his head low and shaking it slowly,

“It’s just I’m so — fuck,” his words morphed into a whine when you used your finger to circle around his tip, which was positively leaking with precum. “I… I’m so sensitive right now. I’ve been trying not to come for like thirty minutes.”

You both laughed, genuinely amused.

“You wanna come?” you entreated, gazing at him with a look that almost resembled concern.

His smile dropped as his face morphed into that of desperation, that of need, and he nodded earnestly,

“Yes, please. Please make me come, YN. Make me come h-however you want me to.”

“Yeah?” you implored, the palm of your hand closing over his tip to gather slick and then spreading it all down his shaft. “Want you to look at me while you come. Can you do that for me?”

Art felt pressure building in his chest as his breaths grew more and more erratic and he forced himself to look you in the eyes, responding with an affirmative albeit strangled whimper that was supposed to resemble the word “yes.” You rewarded him by stroking him faster now, your hand a tight grip around his shaft, the sound of his wet skin and your open hand slapping against his balls overwhelmingly lewd. His eyes fluttered closed for just a minute, and his head cocked to the right, his mouth opening while no sound came out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his hips started to buck up into your hand, supplementing your strokes.

“F-fuck, YN, that’s– fucking incredible, Jesus Christ. Please, I’m gonna–” he stammered, looking up at you like he was pleading with you. You simply returned his gaze and smiled, that warm, all-knowing smile of yours, and he fell apart. His entire body, hot to the touch, seemed to shake uncontrollably as he burst, thick ropes of cum spilling out of him and splashing onto your hands and your thighs.

“Fuck!” he whined almost pathetically, his hips faltering to an unsteady stop as he released.

You kept your hand there, slowing to languid, gentle strokes as he rode out his high until you were sure he’d emptied the last of his cum in the crease between your thigh and hip. He tried his best not to collapse on top of you, but you knew he was weak.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, and he fell on top of you with a limp thud, groaning as he buried his face in your chest.

The two of you lay there catching your breaths, sweaty and hot to the touch. When Art finally got up, he laid next to you on his side. His face was red, and not just because of the exertion.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, probably crushed you,” he laughed apologetically.

You replied by using two fingers to gather what you could of his cum, smiling writhely as you licked them clean. He watched intently, absolutely enraptured. You did it again, reaching down to your thigh and gathering up his cum. This time, your fingers prodded at his lips. He nearly rattled with arousal. Easily, he obliged, opening ever so slightly, and wrapping his lips around your fingers, sucking the taste of himself clean off. You smiled at him admiringly. He couldn't help but laugh around your fingers,

"Fuck, that's so hot. I'm so sorry."

“Don’t apologize. You did so well.”

Suddenly, Art sat up.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You giggled, your eyes twinkling as you looked up at him, amused by this sudden display of responsibility.

“Do I seem that fragile?” you teased.

“Oh, on the contrary. I just, I don’t know. Aftercare is important.”

So you spend the next half hour being doted on by Art as he soaped down your body in the tub. It’s the most intimate you had been the entire night, and he realized now that this was the most detailed he’d seen your body. He wanted you like this forever, being carefully pampered under his adoration, gazed upon by his eyes only. For a moment, you worried that this was somehow crossing a line, but you swallowed those thoughts just as quickly as they surfaced. The line had already been crossed when you reached out to them. Sure, you wanted to see how your two favorite white boys were doing, and you were excited to rekindle the friendship that had molded your life for so long.

But like Art walking to your door, you knew what it was that you wanted, and you knew that you were opening up a can of worms. Besides, you really did love Art, and you loved Patrick too. It was the sort of platonic love that could only be understood by people who had been friends as long as the three of you had. The kind of love that was still there for the taking years later. It didn’t need constant stoking to keep the flame. So, neither of you made this routine— this gentle touch in the water, loofah running across your back and Art’s fingers digging into your shoulders to loosen you up — a big deal.

By the time the water drained, you were absolutely zonked. You didn’t realize how late it was and just how much energy the whole ordeal had taken out of you. Your orgasm was so strong you were surpised you didn’t fall asleep then and there. Art used a towel to dry you off and had to practically carry you to your bed. He was lucky you didn’t see the shit eating, self-satisfied grin on his face — he liked being a caregiver, and throughout all the years that you had been friends, it was rare that you ever let him take care of you like this.

You threw the sheets over yourself, lashes batting as you looked over at Art, who was kneeling on the floor next to you, at face level with you. He was smiling so wholesomely that you couldn’t help but reach your hand out and stroke his face, your thumb resting on his sharp jaw.

“You’re good to me, Art. You both are. I really did miss you two. I keep saying it but I want you to know it’s true. Didn’t just invite you guys here to live out some old fantasy.”

“I missed you so much,” Art could melt from the touch of your hand on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly to kiss your fingers gently, cupping your hand over his. “I know you, YN. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

You yawned,

“I’ve been a rotten friend, though. Don’t know what took me so long to invite you guys to one of these. I thought about it every year, but decided against it every ime.”

Art waved his hand, shaking his head in dismissal of your comments,

“You’re a perfect friend. We’re the rotten ones.”

“See? You’re just the sweetest,” you grinned, your eyes sparkling. “I’d let you sleep with me, but—”

“Patrick,” he concluded.

“Don’t want him to be mad you didn’t tuck him in,” you giggled.

In the back of Art’s mind, he wondered if it would’ve gone the same way if Patrick had been the one to knock on your door. He knew it would, but it was nice to pretend that it was something he had to think about. He wondered what you would’ve done if they’d both shown up. Almost laughed to himself at how little self-control he had, while you were like a rock.

“He’s asleep anyway, but I should be there in the morning so things aren’t weird… things won’t be weird, will they?”

You shook your head, though some part of you knew that Patrick would even out the scorecard soon enough. He always did, competitor that he was. He was so hard to resist, and it’s not like you were resisting him very much in the first place — you’d invited the both of them, it was just a quirk that Art had been the one to do it first. You’d half expected Patrick to show up by himself, if it wasn’t the two of them. But one thing about Art was that he wasn’t some stick in the mud — he could be a wild card, and if he was anything like that ball of energy he was back in high school, you knew he could get shit done.

“It could never be weird. It’s us,” you replied with certainty.

Art leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss.

“Go back to bed, Artie. I’ll see you at breakfast,” you grinned.

“Goodnight,” he crooned.

“Goodnight,” you replied.

He stood up and walked out the room, though part of him was longing to stay there for just a bit longer, if not the whole night. But he knew this was just a one-time thing, just a way to let out that pent-up tension. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already thinking about showing up to your door tonight, and the next night, spending each warm summer night here buried inside of you, pulling his name from your mouth in pleasured sobs, making you come undone with his fingers once again. But, dutiful as he was, he walked back to their room, careful not to make a sound as he pulled off his shirt and stepped back into bed— staring up at the ceiling while he replayed moments over again in his mind. Like high school all over again.

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