#fast forward like three years later and here I am

[aturinfortheworse]

I read a fair number of recipes on the ten thousand interchangeable recipe blogs that exist, and often they say something like "This recipe is a family favourite!" or "This a crowd-pleaser" etc. and I roll my eyes a little bit every time because of course they are, it goes without saying! People like food! Nearly any special-occasion home-cooked meal is going to be popular.

But there is one recipe, one cake, that has recontextualised all those comments for me and now actually I think those bloggers might be wrong about what a family favourite is. It sure as hell isn't Interchangeable Chocolate Cake No. 7.

I'm telling you this because I need you to know the seriousness of the power I am going to bestow on you. And hey, maybe your friends and family have different preferences than mine do. Maybe you need to find another recipe to fill this role. But you must know that there's a recipe out there, and not even a particularly alluring one or a particularly difficult one, which people will bring up in unrelated conversations to you four years later.

If I so much as say the word cake, my family all turn to face me like a pack of hungry wolves. Even the ones that don't like food!! Health nuts and people who simply don't enjoy eating and people with no appetite and people I have no goddamn memory of ever having cooked for, all of them come up and say to me "Hey remember that cake-" I asked my brother and his girlfriend what foods they're looking forward to, when they return home after three years in Japan, and they say "You know that cake?"

It doesn't sound particularly appetizing. I only made it the first time because it was gluten free and I had a bunch of lemons. Please don't let the name inform your opinion here. This is a fairly fast and simple cake that requires no special equipment and people will literally never stop asking you for it.

It's not even my favourite cake! I'd rather have basque burnt cheesecake, which is harder and more expensive to make and consists almost entirely of fat and sugar but still manages to be a little savoury... But people want the weird corn one.

To be fair, this is the only cake that'll make me dip my fingers into boiling sugar without regret.

[satorusugurugurl]

My Wedding Date is an Escort!

Summary: When invited to your best friend's wedding, you panic. One of the groomsmen, Toji Fushiguro, is your ex-fiancè. Not wanting to deal with probing questions and the embarrassment of being single, your friend Haibara recommends using an Escort! Taking a leap of faith, you book one my, the hottest one. Gojo Satoru is hot, sweet, and funny! The package deal! Men and Women pay thousands to go on a date with him (even more, which he doesn't do often). So when your request comes in, the desperation and pleading tone of your voice. Gojo’s heartthrobs, even more so when you tell him you don't want to have sex.

Pairing: Escort!Gojo x FAB Reader

Word Count: 2,055

Warning: Fluffy fluff! Happy endings 🥹💚

A/N: And with that, My Wedding Date is an Escort is complete! I am open to writing one shots for our fluffy couple if y’all have any requests! God this has been a journey thank you all so much for the love and support!! I hope you continue to enjoy my other series as well! 💚💚💚

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Epilogue:

Two Years Later.

Gojo stirred in bed, reaching for your side and finding it cold like every other morning. He knew where you were from the smell of cinnamon rolls baking downstairs. He fucking loved cinnamon rolls. Satoru walked out into your living room with a stretch and a yawn before strutting towards the stairs that led down to the bakery.

You stood there talking to one of your customers, handing them a bright pink box tied with a white ribbon. He stood at the top of the stairs, just watching you for the longest of times. You moved elegantly over the floor to the display case packaging and different pastries for your customers. Before heading into the back, one of your workers took over for you.

Seizing the opportunity, Satoru followed you through the metal swinging door into the back. You stood there, checking the contents inside the oven. When you had your back turned, he snuck up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. The sudden contact had you jumping at first before you turned to look over your shoulder up at him.

“Good morning,” he said in a gruff voice.

“Mornin’ Toru.” Soft lips pressed lovingly against his cheek. “I made you an omelet. It’s in the microwave.”

“Fuuuck,” he happily sighed, “I love you so damn much.”

Turning to face him, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down to your lips. “Mmm, I love you too, Toru.” Satoru kissed you back eagerly, his hands gripping your hips, pulling your flesh against him. “Ah, Toru~!” Giggles were music to his ears; he growled, wanting to do nothing more than toss your pastries to the ground and take you into the kitchen. “Satoru~ haaah,” You gasped as his lips hurriedly trailed down your neck. “We can't.”

“Yes, we can~” he growled hungrily, “come on, I'll be fast.”

For a second, Satoru could see your eyes searching for a place where you two could have a quickie. Just as you were pulling him to the very back, where the cooling racks would conceal you, the door to the front swung open, and Suguru walked in, duffle bag over his shoulder, backpack on his back. The three of you froze as Suguru glanced between you two, his face twisting into a look of disgust.

“Please tell me,” Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. “you both weren't about to fuck back here.”

“W-What! N-No!” of course, you would be the first to deny his accusation, quickly shaking your head.

Your boyfriend, on the other hand, pouted, throwing his head back in dismay. “Such a cock block Suguru!” Both of his best friends turned to stare at him. The silence was palpable until Suguru groaned, his eyes landing on you, giving you the most disappointing look he could muster.

“Really?”

“S-Suguru, I can explain.”

“I should report your ass to the health department.” He teased, striding forward and smacking Satoru upside the head. “Stop corrupting my best friend, you horny blue-eyed freak.”

Satoru gasped dramatically, placing his hand over his chest. Faux hurt, painting his face as he furrowed his brows together. A look that didn’t stop Suguru from snatching a strawberry off the counter and popping it in his mouth. Not that it phased you as you walked back to the oven, pulling out a tray.

“I thought I was your best friend?!”

“Nah, I like your girlfriend more.” Suguru tossed a strawberry at you. “Even if she's a little freak, too.”

You placed the cookie tray on the counter, tossing an oven mitt back at Suguru. “Hey, I was minding my own business! Satoru’s the one that woke up and chose to be horny.” Satoru slowly smirked, nodding his head.

“Can't help it; seeing the cute pastry chef working in my bakery just does things for me.” Both you and Suguru turned to stare at him. “Wanted to bring you back here and give you an in-depth evaluation.”

“Gross.” Suguru chucked a strawberry at Satoru’s face.

“I didn't know you were my ‘boss’ last time I checked; You lived with me.” You put both hands on your hips, smirking as Satoru blinked.

“Live with you?” Satoru gaped, eyes turning towards a smirking Suguru. “Did I, or did I not invest in her shop?”

“Technically, he did.”

Satoru strode forward, cupping your cheek. “He just wants me for my pastries.” You teased, standing on your tiptoes and kissing him.

“That and your body.” he teased, kissing you back, growling against your lips.

“Oh my god, please stop. We have a train to catch.” Suguru grumbled, rolling his eyes at the groan from his best friend.

“Suguru’s right, baby; hurry and eat.”

Satoru grabbed the omelet from the microwave, pausing to look down at you. “Say~ you busy on Saturday?”

There’s a certain sparkle in your eyes, one that has Satoru head over heels. You tilt your head to the side, glancing up at the ceiling and thinking. “Hmm, I have a wedding to go to.” Satoru’s chest swells with excitement as he eats some of his food.

“Oh really?”

“Mhmm~!”

“Need a date?”

“Oh yeah, I totally need one.”

The adoration and love in your eyes mirrored his own. “Great, sounds like we got a plan.” He lovingly kissed you on the forehead. “Three days, sweetheart! Three days!” Satoru ran up the stairs, humming happily; three days to him would feel like three decades. Saturday, needed to hurry up and get here already!

Luckily for Satoru, three days flew by. His stomach fluttered as Suguru smoothed out his suit jacket. Suguru’s eyes focused on his best friend's neck, where he could see his racing pulse.

“You remember what you told me when you got back from Kyoto two years ago?”

“Uh, thanks for telling me I was a fucking idiot?” Satoru said before taking a deep breath.

Suguru laughed, shaking his head. “You said that which you're still welcome for.” The dark-haired man straightened his back before patting his best friend on the shoulder. “You told me you found the one. Then proceeded to ask me to be a witness at your wedding.” Blue eyes followed Suguru; he looked at himself in the mirror, fixing his jacket. “I honestly thought you were out of your mind back then.” Satoru was a second away from recording back with a snarky remark. “But, I’m happy to admit I was wrong, and you were right. She is the one meant for you.” without another word, Suguru pulled his best friend into a tight embrace.

“Suguru—”

“I’m happy for both of you.” Silence spreads between the two. “But if you hurt her, I will kill you myself.”

A knock at the door sent the two men flying back from each other. “Satoru.” Your mother peeked her head inside. “It’s time.” she has tears in her eyes as Satoru takes a final deep breath.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding date to get to!”

Two years ago, he received a call from a girl desperate for a wedding date. The same girl had proceeded to steal his heart over the course of a week. In two years, the two of you had moved in together, shared meals with one another, and planned a future together. A future that had come true thus far.

You owned your bakery, and Satoru helped manage it with you, being your number one customer and investor. The two of you happily lived in the loft above the shop, furnished to make it your home. Everything you both wanted had come true. Today, you both will finalize the plans that you had made two years prior.

Satoru stood in the gardens of your family's inn, decorated with vibrant flowers. He watched as your closest friends walked down the aisle one after another in pairs, but he honestly didn't care about them. All that mattered to him was seeing you.

His wish was granted as the official told the guest in front of him to stand. His eyes met yours down the aisle, his breath catching in his throat at your breathtaking appearance. Your wedding gown was elegant and suited you perfectly. Showing off your figure, he loved it so remarkably much. Your face was visible behind the veil, and your eyes never left his as your father led you down the aisle toward him.

Satoru felt his eyes burning as tears streamed down his cheeks. How was it possible for you to look even more stunning than you already did? You are like a goddess compared to him.

Suguru gently pats his shoulder, grinning as his best friend wipes uselessly at his eyes. He finally regained some form of composure once you’re standing before him, taking his hand in your own. His heart is thundering as he pulls you in and turns to the official with the biggest smile. He had told your mother two years ago that the next wedding they hosted at the inn would be yours.

And he had been faithful to his words.

The ceremony was sweet and quick; you exchanged your vows and beamed at the official. “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride!” Satoru threw your veil back, cupped your face, and kissed you as if the word was ending.

The crowd cheered and clapped as you both held hands, running up the aisle and back into the gardens. The second you were away from peering eyes, Satoru kissed you again, and again, and again until pulling away with a happy sigh. You felt lighter than air as his cerulean eyes roamed over your face.

“I think that was the best wedding date I’ve ever been on.” You proudly announced as he intertwined your fingers.

“Is that so, Mr. Gojo?” Your husband perks up, eyes darting down at you with sparkles in them.

“Why yes, Mrs. Gojo, it was.” You giggle at the use of your new last name. “Ooh, someone likes that new name~!!”

You shake your head, grinning softly. “No, I don't like it.” For a moment, you think Satoru is about to die of shock. “I love it!”

Satoru breathed a sigh of relief before cupping your face in his hands and kissing you as passionately as he could. With wide eyes, you moan into the kiss as he pushes the toy back against the wall of the inn. One hand grabs your hip, and the other remains on your face. You melt against him as he pulls back, your hot, desperate breath mingling together before he squeezes your hip, meeting your lips again, this time with a gentler kiss.

“And I love you. I hope you got enough sleep in the last two years, because I plan on showing you how much I love you on our honeymoon.”

“Oh my god, Toru~!” A squeal of pure joy rocks through you as he lifts you up carrying you across the gardens towards the photographers.

“Hey~ save that for the honeymoon suite baby~!” Your giggled as you both took the steps towards you very long and happy marriage. A marriage that all started with a wedding date.

Tag List:

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Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Twenty minutes later, Solace hurries out of his cabin in cowboy boots.

And jeans.

Nico gapes at him.

“Go go go go go, questions later,” Will hisses, herding him behind the Apollo cabin. “We are on a time limit, we gotta —”

“You’re wearing close-toed shoes.”

“Yes, yes, sometimes I wear the clothes that I own. Wild. Let’s go.” Will tugs, uselessly, on his arm, but Nico’s half-certain his jaw has taken root in the ground, cementing him in place, because what the actual shit.

“Solace, you wore flip-flops to the snow-smothered bus stop in January. I thought you had, like, a condition!”

“I do have a condition. It’s called You Are Not Hurrying, Death Breath, let’s go —”

This time when he pulls, Nico stumbles after him, ducking under windowsills and inching around flower gardens. Every time someone so much as looks in their direction, Will plants both hands on his chest and shoves them into a corner somewhere, craning his neck to watch until they move on. Every time he does, another piece of Nico’s soul breaks away from his body and descends into hell. There is an actual trail of bones and tilled earth and dead grass behind him. Will doesn’t need to worry about being stealthy — the death aura of Nico’s dignity is large enough to scare off anything within a four mile radius.

“In here!”

Undeterred by the death aura, for some reason, Will seizes his bicep and shoves him in a crack between the Hypnos and Dionysus cabins. He slips in a millisecond later, crowding him against the warm bricks, forearm pressed awkwardly next to Nico’s head.

“Hnggh,” Nico gasps, mournfully wishing his last sliver of self-respect goodbye. Rest in fucking peace. “Do you have to be so — close, Will, gods —”

“Shhh!”

“If you shush me again I am going to rip your throat out —”

“Go, go, go!”

Yanked forward again, Nico doesn’t have the time to finish his threat. This time, at least, they sprint the final stretch to the shed without any more hiding and shoving.

Thank all the fucking gods. One more second of Will’s stupid torso — since fucking when does he wear polo shirts, huh, what the shit fuck is up with that — pressed against his and Nico’s bronchitis was going to come back. And this time he’s going to succumb to it.

“Okay,” Will says. He stands in front of a tarp-covered lump, gripping one side and jutting his chin out at the other. “On three, we tear this off and start pushing. We need past Thalia’s tree in under thirty seconds. Got it?”

“No,” Nico says stubbornly, “you still haven’t explained what the rush is —”

“One two three go!”

Will, unfortunately, has been tricking ADHD teenagers into doing things they don’t want to do for years, so Nico’s ripping off the tarp and shoving the chariot out of its stall faster than he can register what he’s doing. He practically sprints to keep up with Will, chariot wheels creaking happily as they rush over stones and sticks and forgotten weapons.

“We’re leaving now, Chiron! Bye!” Will hollers, moving too fast to give him a second to respond. Luckily, Chiron is similarly busy, galloping after a speeding Harley without more than a backwards wave and a sharp don’t die, please!

“That dynamite I gave Harley’ll only keep everyone distracted another thirty seconds,” Will mutters, ignoring Nico’s alarmed the fucking what you gave Harley, “so we need to move, let’s go.”

“Will — slow down a half fucking second, Christ, not everyone is seventy percent leg — we don’t even have pegasi!”

“Will you keep it down.” Will looks back and forth, eyes wide, like he’s worried someone is going to pop up with a pack of the winged animals. “Just — stop asking questions! We’re almost home free!”

“You’ve gone insane. It’s finally, actually happened, after all these years, who woulda thought, fully bonkers at age sixteen —”

“Oh, shut up.”

Muttering his complaints, Nico helps him push the infernal chariot down Half-Blood Hill. Among his grievances, he makes it abundantly clear that 1) this is stupid, 2) he did not agree to physical labour, 3) he would not have agreed to come if he had known about the physical labour, and 4) this is stupid.

“Just a few more yards, then we can —”

“Okay, no, that’s it.” Nico lets go of the chariot, letting the wheel dig into the soft ground and send the whole thing halting. He meets Will’s pout head-on; arms crossed, jaw set, foot tapping, refusing to give into those big blue eyes.

“C’mon, Neeks.” A faint explosion sounds off in the distance. Will’s eyes get more pleading, more hopeful. “We won’t have much time after the diversion wears off…”

“You have three seconds before I turn the hell around, Solace.”

“Please?”

“One.”

He pushes uselessly at the chariot. It spins a sad little circle without someone pushing the other side. “Neeks!”

“Two.”

“Alright, fine! Help me push again and I’ll explain on the way down.”

“Much easier when you just do as I say,” Nico grumbles, starting to push the stupid (horseless and therefore useless) chariot again. “Isn’t it?”

Will, predictably, rolls his eyes, although he can’t quite help the smile that pulls at his lips. Nico tells the butterflies that go buck fucking wild in his stomach to go to hell. This does nothing.

“How much do you know about the chariot?” Will asks eventually, after a couple minutes of shoving the stupid thing past a deep trench in the soil, leftover from the war. (Nico is going to set the fucking thing on fire. It’s a flying chariot — shouldn’t it be lightweight? Why is he suffering?) They’re nearly three quarters down the hill, and it takes everything Nico has not to risk it all and shadow travel the last couple dozen feet. Yeah, it might kill him, but then his problem would immediately go away. Tempting does not begin to cover it.

“Uh, big source of drama, right? Apollo and Ares worked together to seize it, argued over who got to keep it?”

He cuts a careful glance over to Will, well aware it’s a sensitive topic. He knows the question isn’t a trap — Will would never do that to him — but it’s probably best to tread lightly. As far as he’s concerned, this is a sore point that’ll take more than a couple years to heal.

Luckily, there’s no tension to Will’s face. “Mhm. I wasn’t there for much of the planning, ‘cause I was busy in the infirmary and also, like, twelve, but it took a lot of time on both sides. When Michael and everyone seized it, though, it glowed gold.”

“…Ah.”

Will snorts at his awkwardness, nudging his shoulder. “Yeah. Sure made it hard for the Ares cabin to claim, as dicey as it may be. Here, help me park it on the side of the road.”

There’s a thatch of weeds and undergrowth separating the road from the base of the hill, so dragging the chariot over is a struggle and a half. Nico can’t help but think that this task would be very easy if the chariot was harnessed to a couple pegasi and flying over the fucking thatch, as it is meant to do. When he voices this very valid thought, Will does not respond.

He does walk into a thistle, though, so Nico feels considerably better about the whole ordeal.

“The thing about the blessing —” Will grunts, yanking the chariot onto the gravel shoulder with one final tug — “is that it’s not that big of a deal. My dad blesses shit all the time. Our cabin is blessed. The infirmary is blessed. Hell, half my scalpels are blessed, and I throw those things out all the time ‘cause they’re dangerous when they get dull. Just because my dad blessed it doesn’t mean we actually have to keep it.”

“Okay…” Nico says slowly, “then why was it such a big deal?”

“The blessing on its own wasn’t.” Will’s voice gets fainter as he lowers himself onto the pavement, dragging himself under the belly of the chariot. Nico is confused for a full three seconds before a particularly rough patch of asphalt snags Will’s shirt and drags, and wow, are those jeans low rise. His throat is suddenly very dry. “Blessing a chariot on the other hand…”

Will makes a dorky little noise of success, crawling back from under the chariot. When he resurfaces, he’s grinning, carved piece of wood the same material as the chariot clenched in his hand. There’s soot smeared across his left cheek, his curls have tangled themselves into more of a mess than usual, and there are three separate scuff marks on his nice jeans.

Nico ducks his head, hiding a smile. What a dorky loser. Even dressed up as he is (boy, has Nico fallen low, if he’s calling jeans and cowboy boots dressed up), he still manages to look like…Will.

A really, really hot version of Will, but. Whatever. Details.

“The hell is that?”

“This,” Will says grandly, feeling around the wall of the chariot until he finds a specific spot, “is the reason my brother gave a fuck about a dumbass chariot.” He sticks the edge of the wooden tool in a tiny groove, wedging it open to reveal a hidden panel and a small, golden button. Nico meets Will’s grin with raised eyebrows, impressed.

“What do you know about Michael?”

“Uh, not too much.”

“You think he, in any reality, would have had that much interest in a hunk of wood?”

Nico had scarcely met him more than a couple times, but Michael Yew made an impression, that was for sure. For someone who was shorter than Nico when he was ten years old, he sure took up a lot of space. In the few times Nico remembers seeing him, he’d been concerned with his bow, his camera, or showing any given person who so much as blinked at him wrong just how quickly he could turn their ass concave. If Nico is correct, actually, the one time he and a pegasus had been in the same vicinity, they’d hissed at each other. Nico didn’t even know pegasi could hiss.

He tries to find a delicate way to say this.

“He seemed more interested in other endeavours,” he says politely.

Will laughs loudly. “He would rather shove an arrow in his eye than race a chariot!” His bright smile is impossible not to match, and Nico is relieved to find him totally comfortable, relaxed; hell, even excited. Usually, any talk of his siblings, even fond, makes him quiet. He’s glad for this change, however unusual. “Man, I loved my brother more than anything, but he was the most ornery motherfucker I’ve ever met in my life. He taught me every swear in every language by the time I was nine, just because he knew it would drive Lee batty. He didn’t care about some spoil of war.”

He smirks, wide and devilish, and Nico’s knees go weak. Dimples like that should be illegal.

“He was smart, though. And he figured, if dad’s blessing made this chariot anything like his own…”

He reaches out and presses the golden button with his thumb, letting go and standing back once he registers a faint click. After a couple seconds, the chariot begins to glow, soft at first, then brighter, then Nico has to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid the stinging burn, and then when he opens them, it —

He gapes. Will grins.

Where the chariot used to be, is now a shiny, brand-new, black and yellow motorbike, two helmets gleaming on the sparkling leather seat.

“…Then it might be a little more than some lousy chariot.”

Without waiting for Nico to pick his jaw off the floor, Will rushes forward. He tosses one of the helmets to Nico — which he barely manages to catch, still working on processing what the fuck just happened — and tucks the other under his arm. Nico happens to notice how his biceps flex with the action, and then vows to have his father bankrupt the entire polo shirt industry, because he can never be caught lacking like this by any mortal soul. It’s humiliating.

There’s a click as Will unlatches the seat, lifting it up to access the compartment under it. He pulls out a bundle mass of black fabric, and with a flick of his shoulders reveals it to be a fucking leather jacket and oh, gods, Nico takes back the polo shirt complaints, he can live with the polo shirt. This is too much. This is —

“Any time you’re done ogling at me, you can climb on,” Will calls out. He doesn’t even have the good grace to look in Nico’s direction, instead sliding on the seat facing resolutely forward, amused smirk on his face. And because he wants Nico to die, actually, he straightens his jacket, making sure it fits his shoulders right (by the gods does it ever) brushes his hair backwards (there is no genuine reason for someone’s hair to actually shine in the sunlight) and slides his helmet on. When he finally does look back in Nico’s direction, through his raised visor, the combined sight of his sparkling blue eyes and the cut of his face under the angular helmet actually gives him tachycardia.

“I hate you,” Nico croaks. “Not joking.”

Will throws his head back and laughs, baring his long, tanned throat. Nico follows the bob of his adam’s apple like Tantalus does the forbidden fruit. It’s horrible, and what’s worse is that Will is visibly preening like the fuckin’ peacock he is. Someone should remind him he’s basically a dressed up turkey. Or something. Nico’s brain is operating at twenty percent capacity, his ability to metaphor properly is a secondary concern.

“Just get over here, you goober. We’re on a time limit, remember?”

Shoving his helmet on to hide his flaming face, Nico does, sliding on with a healthy four inches of space between them.

“Mm, not gonna work, ParaNorman. This thing’s enchanted, we’ll be going well over a hundred. Hold on properly.”

Praying to seven different gods for strength, at once, Nico scooches the agonizing few inches closer.

“Hands around waist, Death Boy.”

“I’m fucking — I’m getting there, you asshole, gimme a goddamn second.”

“Do you need help?”

“I need you to shut the fuck up so I can focus.”

Maybe it’s the healer in him, or maybe there actually is a god looking out for Nico and they decide to have mercy. Maybe it’s a third option. Either way, Will reaches back and wraps his callused hands around Nico’s wrist, tugging them gently forward and resting them on the narrow curve of his hips. Nico holds them there, along with his breath, until some of the panicky tension starts to loosen in his chest, and he relaxes forward, resting his chest against Will’s back.

“There,” he says quietly, humming with approval when Nico’s arms link properly around his waist. He squeezes his clasped wrists once — a silent you good? — and waits for Nico’s minute nod, face buried in the back of Will’s neck, before starting up the engine, revving it twice before leaning forward, body flush to the bike. Nico can practically feel his grin, it’s so clear in his mind’s eye, in the delight thrumming through Will’s entire body, that he can’t help his own smile, too, can’t help but feel the thrum of the machine, the sharp smell in the air. He tightens his hold and Will lets out a loud, whooping laugh.

“Let’s ride, baby!”

With a push off the ground and a twist of a thrusters, they’re off, leaving behind only the echo of the roaring engine and the joyful, startled sound of Nico’s shriek.

———

next

[orbitariums]

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. 

[justtwotired]

Are you flustered?

Summary: Y/n waits for Regulus to be done in the bathroom so they can hang out, though is very flustered when he comes out and he seems to enjoy it.

She/her pronounce

Friends to lovers dynamic

Warnings: No smut, but we've got the sexual tension.

House: whatever you want, it's not mentioned

Wattpad

"Hey, looks who's back again!" Y/n looked at Evan who cheered at her arrival in the Slytherin common room. "Where's Reg?" She asked. "Oh, he's still in our dorm, said he'd come later." Barty, who had his head in Evans lap, said.

Y/n nodded and smiled at the others around the fire before heading to the sixth years boy dormitory.

"Reg?" She walked into the room, but he wasn't there, she shot a glance at the bathroom door and noticed it was locked.

She didn't mind and just sat down on his bed, legs off the side as she was turned to the bathroom door.

It took a while but it eventually opened and Regulus stepped out. He was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. She turned beetroot red at his appearance.

His hair was wet and slightly dripping while a towel was loosely hanging around his waist. He was shirtless and several drops of water ran down his chest.

She hadn't been aware he was showering.

"I-I'm sorry I didn't know y-you where in the shower." She laughed nervously. She tried to avoid looking at his body and just looked at his face... his incredibly, handsome face.

He was grinning. "It's alright, darling." He said and she became even redder at the nickname. "I uh -shall I leave, I can if you want it's fine." She nervously looked around and he chuckled slightly. "No, you're fine." He told her.

"Oh al-alright." She chuckled and he walked over to her. "My, my, L/n, are you flustered?" He questioned standing in front of her. She didn't answer and just avoided eye contact.

"Hm?" He made an expecting noice and she shook her head. "I'm not flustered!" She lied and made eye contact with him.

"Sure you're not." He grinned, to her uther shock he suddenly lent forward and put his hands right next to where she sat on the bed so she sat between his arms. "Shall I give you a reason to be flustered, Y/n?" He whispered in her ear and then backed his head up a little.

Their lips where inches apart and Y/n's heart was raising so hard, she was scared it would just jump out of her chest.

"Awe, look at that, she is flustered." He grinned and she scowled, but then grinned, two could play this games. "How could I not be with such a handsome and cute guy right in front of my eyes." She said in a low voice.

He seemed taken aback, and even more when she slowly put some of his wet hair behind his ear. "Oh, your playing a dangerous game here, sweetheart." He told her and she tilted her head slightly. "Oh, am I now?" She asked.

Her eyes shot down to his lips and back to his eyes, it went so fast she didn't even know she did it. He did the same and she looked down at his lips again, this time her eyes lingered for a little longer and then slowly moved back to his eyes again.

They didn't know who moved first, but suddenly their lips where attached and Y/n moved her hand to the back of his neck to pull him in closer.

They broke apart for a second. "Three years." Regulus said and she looked up at him. "What?" She questioned. "Three years I've been waiting too do that." He said and a smile grew onto her face. "Then why don't you do it again?"

She didn't have to ask twice as he attached their lips again and she leaned back a small bit. He licked her bottom lip, asking for permission to enter and she didn't hesitate to let him.

Their tongues danced with each other as if it was meant to be. He moved his hands to her waist and she felt tingles right where his fingers touched.

He broke away from the kiss and moved to her jaw, planting soft kisses there. He slowly detached his lips from her skin and whispered in her ear.

"Be mine?" He said it more as a command then a question and she was taken aback for a moment. She had liked him for so long now, she couldn't believe this was happening.

"Please be mine.." he sounded a bit desperate now and she smiled a bit. "I'm yours." She told him and she felt him relax as he kissed her again, more deep and more passionate.

He then broke away and sucked on her neck, making her moan slightly. He chuckled a bit and moved a bit lower.

He slowly moved his hands under her shirt, ready to take it off. His eyes shot towards her asking for permission and she nodded.

"No, I want you to say it. Use your words, darling, do I have your permission?" His voice was low and deep and she felt butterflies in her stomach. "Yes, you have my permisson."

He didn't need to hear it again as he moved the shirt over her head and then attached their lips again, as he slowly moved his hands over her bare waist.

"Your so beautiful." He whispered and she blushed.

"Alright, what is taking so damn lo- oh Salazar!" Barty stood in the doorway and they looked at him with surprise. "Get. Out." Regulus hissed trough gritted teeth.

"Evan!" Barty ran away, closing the door behind him. "Evan their fucking!" They heard him from behind the door.

"Now, were where we?"

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for wanting a material thing rather than an experience for my college graduation gift, and being upset I still don't have it?

I skimmed through some other AITA posts to prepare me to write this one properly, and saw someone use the term "validation bait." I bring that up because I fear this post may read like that once all is said and done, but I genuinely am worried my perspective might be skewed. I encourage you to enter "Reddit Mode" if you decide to reply after your judgement with additional context and feel the need to be blunt.

Background context: I have an older sibling who graduated before me during the beginning of COVID. While his gift was delayed as a result, we as a family (three children one father) ended up going to Disney World, NASA, and Universal Orlando in 2021 to celebrate his accomplishment. It was a great trip, aside from the horrific humidity and the hurricane that just barely missed us. Later on, I asked my sibling if that was what he actually wanted to do, and he said our father proposed some ideas because he didn't really have any and Florida sounded like a good idea to him. My asking this will make sense later, but putting it here seems the most logical.

Additionally, it may be important to know that my father goes on a lot of trips. At least, more than anyone I've personally known. I'm not gonna try to calculate the exact number, but I will say in the span of less than a year (after the family Florida trip), he went to both Canada and Mexico for a week each, on top of additional excursions to Florida and Vegas-- almost all also including bringing his girlfriend. At the same time, he claimed assistance with college tuition was out of his budget, started having me pay rent on a part time job, and told my younger sibling fixing the AC in their car would cost too much as well. Even I know something doesn't add up here, but maybe I'm taking it too personally. End background context.

Fast forward to spring of 2023, and it's my turn to graduate college. Here's the thing: my brother was asked at least a year in advance to his graduation what he would like to do. I wasn't asked; I had to bring it up myself, and I waited until my graduation was only two months out. It was also over a phone call, because my father was out of town for at least the fifth time that year already. I dropped the hint that, for my graduation present, I would really like to get a nice gaming desktop. My father's response was, "... We'll see." Later on, he elaborated through text stating, "I took everybody to florida because i think graduations should be more about memories than what material thing you can get out of your dad."

Here's the thing: it's no secret to my dad that I'm a gamer, and I like video games. Additionally, it's no secret that a gaming desktop is something I have wanted for a decade. Even since middle school I've talked about gaming desktops and how much I wanted one. Even so, I happily played games like Saints Row III on a laptop that chugged along at 12 frames per second and took every crash in stride. I also thought that this kind of gift would be a relief to my dad, as my thought process was it would be far less expensive than taking an entire family somewhere out of the state for a week. Not only that, but there wasn't really anywhere I wanted to go. I don't have the desire to travel like he does; I don't mind taking my time off at home or locally, and relaxing with the things I have rather than spending a ton on a fancy dinner or hotel or concert.

So, naturally, I was confused, dismayed, and heartbroken. While I started crafting a text response explaining why a gaming desktop would not just be for personal use, but would also be advantageous for my career (my degree was in animation and I learned surface level coding for making video games), I also wondered why it was wrong for me to want a "material thing" even if it wasn't something necessarily "useful." Because while, yes, a gaming desktop would have the power I needed for more intensive animation projects, that wasn't really why I wanted one. But I figured explaining as such would help convince my dad why it was a good idea.

My dad ended up calling me before I could finish crafting my text, so I did my best to explain my standpoint, as well as pointing out how the specs for a gaming desktop are pretty much parallel with the specs for a desktop for things like 3D rendering and animation. He stood his ground on "making memories" as well, and also hinted that I was acting entitled for asking about my graduation present. I think I pointed out to him how he asked my older brother far in advance what he wanted for his graduation, but those details of the conversation are a little faded with time. I did end up sending my text after that phone call anyway, as I felt it better explained what I was thinking and feeling than I could say in verbal conversation (I've always gotten a little flustered talking to my dad about things I want that he doesn't approve of).

Fortunately, after reading my text, my father seemed to come around, and invited me to put together a list of parts for my computer, since I wanted to build it. I got really excited and got the help of my computer-savvy friend to put together something I thought was reasonable-- it had a really good graphics card and processor, and I made compromises on some of the other parts to lower the cost. I haven't looked at the list in a while, but the total cost-- tower, two mid-range monitors, basic keyboard and mouse-- was something like 2.5k approaching 3k. Mid range (at least, it is these days) I think, but it would be enough for the things I wanted to do.

I put the list together, and emailed it to my dad. The assumption I had, was he would purchase the parts, and then we would build it together (or I would build it alone). However, later on I went to ask him if he had gotten my email, and while he said yes, he also said, "I'm not paying for the whole thing. I can't afford it, and it's not fair to spend more on you as an individual than what I spent on your brother as an individual for the Florida trip."

I find the latter point somewhat fair considering I'm the only person who benefits from this gift, but the first point, given the background context on my father's habits, I'm not sure how much I believe. But arguing with him would have been pointless. I definitely would have liked to have had that information beforehand, but it ultimately didn't change much.

This is getting long, so I'll try to summarize the rest. This was just the first instance of my father changing the goal posts for my graduation gift. First, he tried to convince me that getting a prebuilt tower would be just as good. I did the research, and a tower with the graphics card I wanted would have cost as much as building my own tower and buying a monitor, keyboard, and mouse, and still not have been as good in other specs anyways. Then, he tried to tell me he was only going to give me $1000 towards the computer. I pointed out paying for my older sibling for the Florida trip would have cost at least $1500-- if I hadn't done the research, I wouldn't have known any better and just blindly agreed. Then, two days after my graduation, he stated that he wasn't going to give me the money for the computer until I had secured a full time job.

At that point, I just gave up, and agreed.

Fast forward to now. I'm still working the part time job, I barely make enough to put a couple dollars into savings, no one is hiring me full time, and my dad hinted that, instead of doing presents for Christmas this year, we all agree to go on vacation somewhere. Not only that, but his family in Canada just told him they're going to Mexico in November. Not only is my dad implying we should go too and I should pay a portion of my own way, I have a further feeling he may say that this will be our Christmas as well. I still don't have the computer, even though my dad has noticed how much I'm struggling.

If I had the computer, I wouldn't have minded the vacation-- but I feel like my wants and feelings have been completely pushed aside in favor of what my dad thinks is good and/or right, and the wind has been taken out of my sails regarding my graduation entirely. On the other hand, maybe he's right that I focus too much on a material thing and should redirect my attention to an experience and go somewhere to relax/get away from daily life.

Am I a materialistic asshole?

What are these acronyms?

[vyl3tpwny]

why it ourple

ok.

i'm going to tell you the story of how purple became my favourite colour. and then, where the name vylet pony came from.

———————————————————

ch.1 the mace windu incident

once upon a time. I really liked star wars. i kind of still like star wars i guess. but when i was a kid, i REALLY liked star wars.

in my room, i had a mace windu poster.

i still can't find the exact poster. it looked something like this

mace windu was my fav star wars character for an inconceivably long time. with that, i also became fascinated with his purple lightsaber. nobody else had a purple lightsaber. i loved it. staring at that poster constantly made me really like the colour purple. ever since the poster started exerting its technicolour pressures and whimsies upon me, i became fixated on the colour purple. forever.

"hai!~ im mace windu and i loveee Videos!" - mace windu, star wars episode iii: revenge of the sith

———————————————————

ch. 2 the viny scratch era

fast forward like 7 years. i am in the my little pony fandom now. i am 13 years old. i really like vinyl scratch. she is pictured here:

my first online presence in the mlp community was as a vinyl scratch / dj pon3 roleplay account. for a good year, people called me vinyl and "vy".

however when it came time to start releasing music in the fandom, i couldn't go by vinyl scratch at the time. this name was already being used by the artist who currently goes by Scraton!

this is still one of my favourite songs by them:

anyway. i actually held a really insane, irrational grudge against scraton for being named "vinyl scratch" as a music artist before me. i got past that after a while, because i had to stop being 13 first. i stopped being 13 and eventually fell in love with their music and we became friends later after!

but it's 2013 and i can't be vinyl scratch anymore. people already called me "vy" because of being a vinyl scratch persona.

so.

———————————————————

ch. 3 it's vylet time-wait is that can opener? CANNI?

it started on december 28, 2012. i posted to my then-instagram account this image:

you may recognize this as my oc canni. here's their reworked look in the 2022 album (10 years later) can opener's notebook: fish whisperer (illustrated by @astroeden):

can opener's original name was "ultra vylet". their colour scheme was originally intended to be the inverse of vinyl scratch's, as a sort of strange protest to not being able to be vinyl scratch. i was like ok. well if i cant be vinyl scratch, i am going to make a character that swaps the main colours. within a few months of "ultra vylet" existing, i discarded the design in favour of a completely different one:

this would be the only time vylet consistently had purple in her design until 2018 or so.. lol.

then. on april 15, 2013, i posted this to my instagram:

i had essentially combined three things:

The fact the people called me "vy'

The fact that my favourite colour is purple (violet)

The fact that I wanted to be vinyl scratch (dj pon3) before

———————————————————

ch. 4 vylet pony ≠ vinyl scratch

that is to say, i never really put a lot of thought into "vylet pony" as a name. i just made it when i was 14 and now i am going to be 25 soon. will i keep vylet pony as a name forever? not sure. do i take great pride in its insanely snarky origin? absolutely.

after i had decided firmly on "vylet pony" as a name — after dropping the "3" from it — i made a new instagram account. the very first thing i posted to it was this:

illustrated by my friend, shade.

now that looks slightly vylet-like, design-wise, oc-wise. oh. but now she is grey and black? ok.

she stopped being purple from 2013-2018.

here is how her design progressed through the years:

the first one is by my then-partner sara. this is when vylet's cutiemark was still an upside down music note, reflected from "ultra vylet" / can opener's original design. i'll show how it became a puzzle piece next.

the second one is by shade

the third one is by chibadeer

the fourth one is by astroeden

———————————————————

ch. 5 the puzzle piece

to this day, i still cannot find the fanart in question. but over instagram, someone asked to draw fanart of my pony. in doing so, they misconstrued the shape of the upside down music note as a puzzle piece, like this:

i've been looking forever for the original fanart/fanartist that made this mistake. because ever since that art, i just stuck with it anyway. i like puzzles and puzzle games. i'm also a puzzling and enigmatic person. and the puzzle piece can go into so many different things. all sorts of problem solving is like a puzzle. music fits neatly into that category in my opinion. so because of its intrigue and ability to mean so many different things, i just went with it. i never looked back.

———————————————————

ch. 6 that is the history of the colour purple and vylet pony character design

i hope this answers the question "why it ourple"!

[gettinshiggywithit]

With that art you reblogged + your requests being open, I have to ask for some PM Boss!Chuuya. Could you write about his reaction to finding out a rival criminal organization ordered a hit on his wife? And like, him being protective of her while his men investigate the situation?

!Know your place!

Scenario:- pm boss!chuuya when his wife has been targeted.

Pairing:- pm.boss!chuuya x fem!reader

Genre:-idk what the first half would be but the last bit is fluff

Type:- oneshot

W/c:-2.25k

A/N:-HIYA ANON! OKAY ITS THREE AM AND I JUST SAW THIS JUST WHEN I WAS GOIN TO SLEEP.AND IT TICKLED MY BRAIN SOO HERE WE GOOOO

Art credits:- @taxolotl

Chuuya nakahara was a ,man of great power and status.all of which had only increased since he had ascended to the position of the head of the port mafia.The mafia in itself was an organization that commanded great fear and respect from both civilians and the government,but since his ascension to the throne,things had only gotten better.the organization ran like clockwork,not that it hadn’t before,but he seemed to bring his own  twist to things.he was also more brutal and ruthless than the previous boss.dazai osamu was a man of great intellect and he too had elevated the mafia from where I once was.but chuuya had something that dazai didn’t.he had a lover, or wife, as those who were closest to him knew.you two had tied the knot shortly before dazai’s passing and although you knew it would be risky,you were determined to make it work.in fact,In your vows,he’d promised to protect you no matter the cost.and you’d promised to love him till the end of time.

You were also a member of the mafia,having joined at the same time he did.you were one of the sheep and had defected when they betrayed him. For even then,you loved chuuya but as you grew,so did your love for the blue eyed ginger,and when you started dating,you were the happiest you’d ever been!needless to say he’d felt the same way you had for almost as long,but the fear of rejection and losing a loved one is a pesky instinct.

four years was how long you’d dated before he proposed at age 21.the ring wasn’t exactly fancy,but it was the one you’d wanted,and although you could’ve rushed the ceremony,you decided to wait.the next year flew by like a blur and soon it was your wedding day,and as you walked down the aisle,you both teared up.

Fast forward to today,he was staring at a memo from one of his subordinates,the one tasked with protecting you and keeping you safe,for while chuuya knew you could take care of yourself,he also knew that in your world, there was no such thing as being too careful.

There had been an attempt on your life. and as he read the memo chuuya felt a sudden chill run down his spine.his worst nightmare….his biggest fear had finally been realised and he hadn’t even known it had.

At first he beat himself up about it,how could he let this slip by?how did he not know???he suddenly felt a sudden wave of disgust as his mind replayed a certain phrase, “dazai wouldn’t have let this happen.” he pushed the thought away and continued to think of how to keep you safe.he’d be damned if he let his insecurities were what out you endanger!

Step 1,get you to a safe location,and while chuuya knew that being by his side would be dangerous,half of him wanted to believe that he was the safest option.but finally he went with the objective solution and sent you off to an overseas safe house,with a unit of the organisation’s best hitmen.assassins and body guards.he knew this was a tad bit extreme yet he wasn’t going to risk it! So later that day,once you were feeling a little less shook up about the attack,you grabbed your to-go bag, and took a private flight to your,hopefully safe, hideout.and even though it pained him to have you so far away.he knew it wouldn’t be for long.

Step 2,figure out who the fuck was responsible.the mafia had many resources,and being the boss allowed chuuya to take full advantage of said resources.so with almost no effort,his informant was able to find out ,who ordered the hit on you,when they did and and who had been assigned to carry out the hit.chuuya thanked the informant,took this information and left to form a plan of action.he first decided to take out the man who had been tasked with the hit.

Did chuuya know this man was probably just following orders and had no actual beef with him or the port mafia?yes.but was he gonna let this bastard get off scot free?? Not a  chance.

He paid the hitman a visit himself,knocking on the door almost harmlessly,before punching the door in when he heard someone else on the other side.

Needless to say the assassin was shook! he watched as chuuya’s subordinates stormed his apartment and had all their guns aimed straight at his head.chuuya then took a few steps forward,his expression one full of rage and hate as he wrapped his hand around he man’s throat,instantly crushing his windpipe with what looked like no effort at all.his face became stoic after that.as he silently left the scene,he stared at his hand and it shook.he hadn’t shouted or screamed like he’d planned to,and it felt,weird.nevertheless,he got into his car and was driven back to the PM HQ.

Next for the the man who had ordered the hit himself.chuuya had found out that the man ordering the hit was a leader of a rival criminal organization,one dazai had managed to eradicate,that had come back from the dead.and apparently they thought attacking the new boss’ significant other would be a good idea…foolish.

(like bro we aren’t even in this universe and even we know that that’s a big no no! tf?! Literally you deserve to get rekt!)

As chuuya read the man’s file he realized just how insignificant he was.no abilities.no special accomplishments.no worth. Nothing that could even compare to the might of the port mafia but still they had chosen a fight? Chuuya didn’t know if he should have been impressed by their ambition or annoyed with their stupidity.perhaps they thought he wouldn’t retaliate.

Well,they were dead wrong.

So the next day,chuuya did a simple thing.

He broke into the man’s home,sat on his couch and waited.once he arrived at his home only to see the literal boss of the port mafia,scarf,fedora and all.the man attempted to run out the door.

Chuuya responded to this by simply throwing his blade at him,effectively pinning him against the door.he took his time sauntering over to the pathetic whimpering excuse of a man and finally said. “so you’re the sack of shit that tried to take out my y/n?” he gave the man a once over.he had a scraggly beard,tacky jewellery and looked absolutely disgusting.it made chuuya sick to his stomach to be in the presence of such a piece of trash,but he wasn’t done yet.

“please! Im sorry! I-I made a mistake I beg of you spare me! I promise not to ever interfere with the port mafia again!!” the man was fully begging now,and honestly it was quite entertaining to see him squirm under both the influence of fear and the pain caused by the knife in his shoulder.  chuuya pretended to contemplate letting the man go before his lips curled into a devious smile. “yeah how about no?” he said before pulling the knife out of his victim’s shoulder,causing him to crumple to the ground.

Next he climbed over the man and began to beat him to a pulp.

First one punch,then another,and another.each one getting heavier and heavier as he added the weight of his ability behind them.he screamed out curses and threats between punches,even straight up insults and just yells.

 The man was dead after about the tenth punch.

well…at least that’s when chuuya realized he was dead.but then again,who wouldn’t be death with a bashed-in skull?

Chuuya then calmly got up off the floor and soon realized he was covered in blood. “crap…..now ill have to send this one back to the cleaners you piece of shit!”he muttered to the corpse as he stepped over it and exited the apartment through the door.

His car was waiting for him when he reached the street and his subordinates made sure no one saw him in his blood-stained state.

Once in the car,he sighed and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. he pulled off his bloodied gloves and threw them to the side,picking up his phone to call the leader of the unit protecting you.

“its done.bring her back in four hours”

A “yes sir” was heard on the other side of the line,before it cut off and chuuya was left listeing to the beeps that replaced the team leader’s voice. He lowered the phone and called a different number this time. This one being the mafia’s elite kill squad’s leader’s. he let the phone ring once,twice, then hung up.this was the signal to carry on with the eradication of the rival organization. It would be a massacre,but still,the other organization stood no chance. Chuuya almost felt bad for the members of that organization;for they had to pay for sins they hadn’t even commited,but he supposed simply being a follower of the man who’d wanted you killed was enough of a sin to warrant the punishment they would be dealing with now.

Chuuya got home to your shared apartment and took off his shoes at the door,he looked at the pictures of the two of you that decorated the walls,and each time he saw your radiant smile his heart skipped a beat.

He went to the bathroom and stripped down,getting into the shower to wash off all the blood. He tossed his bloodied clothes in the hamper labeled ‘work-stained’ and chuckled to himself when he saw the label you’d hand written and stuck on there.

After he was done,he got out of the shower and began to towel off his hair,as he was doing this,a little flash of light caught his eye. It was your wedding ring twinkling at him from its place on the counter. Of course he’d left it behind! He wasn’t going to stain something so sacred with the blood of a worthless cretin! No way in hell!

But now that he was all cleaned up,he slipped it back on his ring finger and smiled.once he was ready, he heard a click and knew you were home.

He stepped out of your shared bedroom wearing and oversized tee shirt and some sweatpants only to be tackled by the likes of you!

You wrapped him up in a bear hug and didn’t seem to be showing any signs of letting go.and he was perfectly okay with that. He hugged you back just as tightly from your spot on the floor,simply saying, “I missed you too princess~and im not going anywhere.” you nuzzled into his neck and he held you close. “don’t ever send me away again chuu you know I can take care of myself” you said,pulling back to look him in the eyes from your position on top of him. “I know love but,” he said as he sat up, “you know I couldn’t risk it” “yeah… yeah I know” you said, looking down at the floorboards. “but it really sucked you know?” “oh yeah…it sucked ass.were you okay?did anything happen while you were there?” he said,concern seeping into both his expression and his voice as he gave you a once over,his eyes looking for any sort of scar wound or injury.

You placed your hand on his his cheek and directed his attention back to your face before bringing yourself closer and gently cupping his face. “chuuya,im fine…really.you can relax…” he nodded at that and leaned into your touch. “I know but i-” “ah ah! No buts.”  You interrupted him,“im okay and that’s what matters right? So lets just relax hmm?”

He nodded once again before pulling you in for a kiss. It was soft.yet passionate.clearly making up for lost time and when you both came up for air,your foreheads leaned against eachother, he said it. “I love you y/n and I’ll do anything in my power to keep you safe.” You smiled and nodded at him. “I know chuuya….i know” you said before giving him a quick peck and hoisting yourself up off the floor.

You pulled him up along with you and the two of you made your way to the kitchen to cook up some dinner.

“oh and chuuya? I love you too”                 “I know y/n…I know” he said with a wink. you almost threw a pot at him~

I HOPE YOU LIKED IT ANON! AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO LMK WHAT YOU THOUGHT ABT IT!DID I DO YOUR IDEA JUSTICE?

All rights reserved © 2023 gettinshiggywithit . Please do not repost, modify or claim as yours.

[canonicallyobserving911]

Bathena: First argument from season 4 resurfaces in season 7

Unpopular opinion: Bathena's arc in season 7 seems to be related to their future as retirees and it's a repeat of the argument they had in season 4.

Please understand, I'm not saying they will retire at the end of season 7 but I am saying it's possible they're being setup to start thinking about it so they can prepare in advance. If they are then Bobby will have to pick someone to train to be the next captain of the 118 and Athena may have to train someone to take over the region/territory she covers as a field sergeant.

Based solely on the conversation they had with Norman and Lola during their first dinner on the ship, along with Athena's fear of being alone with Bobby because she's not sure what they'll have to discuss when there's "no chaos" (her words to Frank), it appears their first argument that began in 4x12 and carried over into 4x13 and 4x14 has resurfaced in 7x1.

In 4x12, when Bobby was hyped about finding the treasure, Athena asked him where his interest in it came from and the last answer that he gave her was "We can even decide to retire". She looked at him and replied, "Retire? I thought you loved your job." He said, "I do but jobs like ours... nobody does them forever." He was correct because their jobs as a captain and a sergeant are demanding and they won't last forever. People can age out of them and sometimes employees are forced out for ReAsOnS.

To make a long story short, she said she planned to be on those streets (being a sergeant) until they forced her off them and Bobby was taken aback by her response then replied, "Somebody almost did" and he was talking about Jeffrey. They continued to talk but Bobby learned from the things she said that she had been offered retirement after 3x17 but she turned it down. He went on to explain that he didn't know about it and well... their communications or lack thereof, continued until it turned into a huge argument in 4x13 that went into 4x14. The only thing that stopped them from continuing was Hen's call to Bobby about Eddie getting shot.

They made up in 4x14 and they didn't discuss it again.

Fast forward three years and here they are again, faced with the real possibility that the day is coming when they'll have to retire. This is NOT about ageism or anything like that but it is about them being realistic. Everyone at the 118, Maddie and Athena are all seven years older than they were back in season 1 (Eddie and Maddie didn't join the cast until a year later but they're all older than they were) and Bobby had a point when he told his wife that jobs like theirs don't go on forever. Most LAFD and LAPD civil servants have the option to retire and collect their pensions at the age of 55 so it's an option.

Athena's explanation to Frank illustrated how she's afraid of the way their communications will be after they don't have their jobs to discuss anymore and she also mentioned how she's afraid to talk to Bobby about it.

Bobby believes she's avoiding him (she was) and it affected him so much he went to an AA meeting.

IMO, Norman and Lola are on the ship too as a way to show Bobby and Athena that retirement can be a good thing but they'll have to plan for it like Norman and Lola did. Reminder, they just kept popping up everywhere they went and Athena said she didn't like them. It could be because they remind her of their future. (TM is a genius for establishing their retirement arc this way.) Norman and Lola are happy and enjoying their lives while living on a cruise ship. While Bobby and Athena don't have to do what they did, their storylines do parallel especially since Norman specifically said he was a retired dry cleaner from Encino, CA and he wasn't a rich guy who had lots of bitcoin and he doesn't have a dongle. That was a direct callback to 4x12 when Bobby wanted to find the treasure so they could setup trusts for the kids, remodel their kitchen and guess what else? Retire!

After Lola finally got Norman's attention in 2x8, they've been inseparable. Also, don't forget Lola said she spent 18 years raising their kids and then Norman stopped seeing her. He really didn't because he was just going on with life but she thought he did. She explained that he came to see her everyday while she was in jail and they've continued to communicate ever since and now they can't stay away from each other.

Bobby and Athena spent most of 7x1 not communicating but when they got into their "crime fighting mode" after assuming Norman had killed Lola, like they've done before when they were investigating the owner who burned down his restaurant in season 2 and the casino heist in season 5, they were unstoppable. He's a fire captain so he knows fires and she's a field sergeant which means she knows crime and investigations, therefore, they're an awesome duo who could combine their skillsets and build an empire. IMO, they would make an awesome private investigations team but I digress.

Reminder, they're empty nesters now and when they're not at work, they spend most of their time talking about it. All of their friends are at work too and we never see them hanging out with other couples like Norman and Lola so maybe this is a good thing. Also, if they don't plan now, what are they going to do when they actually do retire?

Only they can answer that question or they'll end up like the first couple in the episode who had the fighter jet land inside of their home, onery, frustrated and angry.

Disclaimer: facing retirement is a real fear for some people because they didn't/don't prepare or discuss what they want to do after their jobs end. Some people make their jobs their life and when it's over, they don't know what to do with themselves. That's why work/life balance is important along with setting boundaries with an employer.

There's an old saying, "I work to live, I don't live to work" and it's true.

[singsweetmelodies]

Piarles Winter Fic Exchange 2023/24 - The Final Round-Up

AO3 Collection Link

After three months of build-up and two weeks of spectacular fic reveals, the Piarles Winter Fic Exchange 2023/24 has finally drawn to its close 💙 Today, it is my honour and pleasure to share with you the results of all of our efforts: an astounding 478 616 words written over the course of twenty-eight brand-new Piarles fics. 🎉

We want to start by saying a MASSIVE thank you to all our incredible creators. You are all so wonderful and so so talented - it has been a delight and a privilege to spend the last few months with you. To laugh with you and to create with you and to share the Piarles joy with you. You are all phenomenal, and we feel so lucky that you chose to spend this time with us. ❤️

I also want to take this opportunity to say a personal thank you to my amazing mod team: @boxboxbrioche, @welightitup, @duquesademiel, @wolfiemcwolferson and @river-ocean. Moderating this exchange with you has been a slightly crazy rollercoaster ride, but I couldn't have asked for better people by my side throughout it. Thank you all, for everything!!

Below the cut we have the final round-up of all our 2023/24 Piarles Winter Fic Exchange gift fics. You are in for a real treat - enjoy!!! And don't forget to show the authors some love in the form of kudos, comments, bookmarks and tumblr reblogs 💘

Thank you all so much again.

Love and kisses,

Katie, Briony, Tia, Sol, Logan & River ❤️💙

you and me were raised in the same part of town by @wolfiemcwolferson | rated M | 11.6k words | tumblr post here

A story of two best friends told through the years in the setting of Charles' childhood treehouse.

damage, destruction by @pinkierre | rated T | 6.7k words | tumblr post here

Pierre Gasly doesn’t win the 2016 GP2 title, and thus he stays in the category for another year with Prema. He’s joined for the 2017 F2 season by his long time best friend and fresh GP3 champion Charles Leclerc. What starts as a dream come true, quickly turns into a nightmare. Fast forward 8 years later and they’re teammates again. At Ferrari F1 team. However this time, they hate each other. How will they cope?

Chasing What’s on the Other Side by @espithewarlock | rated E | 15.8k words | tumblr post here

A Mafia AU where Pierre is immediately obsessed with Charles, the newly-introduced romantic partner of his biggest rival, Carlos. He begins dangerously pursuing Charles, they fall into bed together, and his obsession only gets more real the more he learns about Charles’ history. Meanwhile, Pierre is also trying to keep his business running and figure out exactly what his rivals are plotting. There’s something simmering, and he does not like having a target on his back.

model behaviour by @your-littlesecret | rated T | 8k words

Charles isn't sure what he should be doing here - he is not proud to admit he completely zoned out as Camille was explaining - but the gorgeous guy is just standing there and Charles says fuck it and walks to him, extending a hand. "Hi" "Hello. I am Pierre." His smile is almost blinding and Charles feels like he's never seen someone as beautiful in his whole life - which is very fitting, considering he is a model.

change my mind by @chaesonghwas | rated M | 31.8k words | tumblr post here

When Lance drags him to a Drama Club meeting, Pierre doesn't expect to stay for long, but he meets Charles, brother to one of his fraternity's new pledges, and he decide to give it a chance. After all, Charles seems interested in him too - what could go wrong?

Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You by @crimsonicarus | rated T | 2k words

It was easy with Charles, talking, spending time, being silent. It felt natural, like breathing. Laughing at his awful jokes came from his mouth effortlessly, like another mother tongue.

five january seconds by @fenesacha | rated E | 8.9k words

Charles' phone is on the counter between them, and Pierre reaches out to tap the screen, waking the device up. He spares one second to look at Charles’ new background, a photo of the two of them in their Christmas jumpers, before he glances at the date. There, not changing no matter how many times he blinks: Tuesday, 2 January. What the fuck.

falling Inn love (five years later) by @gaslybottoms | rated T | 17.5k words 

“American style holiday inn,” Lando reads from the description, squinting at the small font on the screen. “Family owned and run for the last three generations, the All Pine Inn is located deep in the heart of the South Downs, with picturesque views over the rolling hills of the local area. A step back from city life, the local village is a peaceful respite away from the busy day to day. See Charles, it seems perfect." OR Charles takes a trip to the country for the Christmas holidays, and rekindles an old almost romance along the way.

All The Pebbles Along The Way by @shankyspork | rated M | 17k words

Centering around friendship and grief, this fic takes the slow road through life and its meaningful moments, hoping to bring you to the conclusion that belonging is something innate.

all I ever wanted by @golden-fairylights | Not Rated | 8.4k words

When Charles received the email that Prince Pierre would attend his vernissage, he didn't know that by the end of the night, he would have found his soulmate.

Anything you can do, I can do better by @whatdidwejustdo | rated T | 2k words

In which Pierre and Charles are insufferably competitive mechanics for rival F1 teams (Red Bull vs Ferrari) and their friends (Carlos, Alex, and Yuki) suffer. Endless snark, friendship, and references to decades of F1 lore. Or:  "Well.” Pierre’s eyes were sharp and blue. "Have you ever re-assembled Max Verstappen's car in twenty minutes when it was supposed to take forty, and watched him put together a hot lap in the dying seconds of Q2 to make it into Q3 and take pole?" 

let's be what we are by @hourcat | rated E | 46.1k words | tumblr post here

Some weekends go better than others, and the only time Charles sees his best friend is at the post-race afterparties that the bigger teams throw. They’ll clink bottles of gross tasting beer and chat with one of the other drivers relegated off to the side this season, and it feels like they’re the karting kids again. Some weekends, though, Pierre is draped along Charles’ back, all but welded together after an early spin-out ended his day, and Pierre will give him what he needs—what they need. (or: pierre, charles, and the consequences of a lifetime of touch.)

Can I just be in my head with you? by @chipsandnuggets | rated T | 7k words

"Pierrot,” he mumbles without thinking, while he separates for a moment from Pierre, but still keeps some closeness. “Can I have you? At least in my head? Can I have you like this, every time I want, in my head?”  5 times Pierre and Charles desire something plus one they finally do something about it.

Le Cheval Cabré by @moonlight0starlighte | rated G | 24.3k words

Charles, a tortured Michelin star chef, returns home for his father’s passing and discovers the family restaurant has been left to him. Though his grief feels stifling at times, Pierre, his oldest friend, is the light that guides him through it all.

Job 37:6 by @mysticalbreadcollective | rated E | 8.3k words 

Maybe he can pass it off as a drunken hookup. A one-time thing. They can both forget it ever happened and move on. Pierre doesn’t need to remember Charles whining and panting beneath him. He can bury it down with the piece of his heart that Charles owns always.

take my hand (put yours over my heart) by @duquesademiel | rated T | 37.7k words | tumblr post here

Pierre Gasly has been declared Public Enemy Number One after breaking Charles’ best friend’s heart. Which, honestly, makes working in their charity work together just a little bit too awkward. A Christmas box, a lot of charity work, football matches and flower crowns might change Pierre’s status in Charles’ books - with a little dash of fake dating, of course.

hearts in the byline by @ilspredestinato | rated M | 25.6k words | tumblr post here

“You know,” Frédéric’s hands are crossed in front of him, fingertips tightening after every pause, “there is only one thing that brings stability to a Kingdom without it being a marriage.” Charles draws in a sharp breath—he knows, nodding almost imperceptibly once Frédéric falls into a hesitant silence. A courtship.

The Defenders by @justahappycloud | rated G | 30k words | tumblr post here

You showed me colours I can't see with anyone else by @radiocheck | rated E | 9.5k words | tumblr post here

Metropolis, a city for all kinds of people: good people, bad people, and people with special abilities. Pierre, alias Blue Arrow, considers himself a special person. With the ability to fly like a bird and bend the toughest of materials at his will, he has decided to use these gifts to protect the city he loves. But what happens when a new threat arises that could destroy everything he'd ever loved? To prevent this, Pierre joins a group of other three heroes and an unlikely ally so that they can maybe, hopefully, save Metropolis from the claws of this new powerful villain.

“I really thought you didn’t like me, you know,” Pierre muses. “You were always so… defensive.” Charles smiles thoughtfully. There are small dimples in his cheeks and his hair falls softly over his forehead as he glances down at the table before replying. “It was never that. I think I was afraid I would like you too much, if I let myself.” In which Pierre falls for his roommate's best friend, Lando is never where he's supposed to be, and Charles is a dream in technicolour.

show me who made you walk all the way here by @yukierres | rated M | 36.5k words | tumblr post here

Pierre is being blackmailed by a former lover into coming out, but risks losing his seat at Ferrari if he does. Charles is a prince who is forbidden from coming out until he has a long-term partner. The solution seems so obvious. Pretending shouldn't be that hard, right? Right?

still waking every morning (but it's not with you) by @river-ocean | rated T | 6.5k words

Charles loves being an actor. It’s what he has always felt was born to do. But he hates that it means that he has to spend so many days of the year away from the people he loves the most. He hates that even though he technically lives with his boyfriend, he is still in a de facto long-distance relationship most of the time.

anything, everything by @leclercenjoyer | rated E | 5.8k words | tumblr post here 

Pierre and Charles go on a ski trip together, and things don't exactly go as planned. (Or do they?)

They Will Never Know by @effervescentdragon | rated M | 35.3k words | tumblr post here

Most stories are about blood. This story is not an exception. Charles disappeared. As for Pierre, well. Pierre had a very big secret.

Point Non Plus by @boxboxbrioche | rated E | 22.7k words | tumblr post here

brought to Point Non Plus idiom, commonly used in the Regency era 1. to be brought to a situation with no other options. 2. to baffle or confuse someone to the point that they have nothing to say. or: with his reputation in ruins and his options limited, Charles receives an offer from Lord Pierre Gasly that he simply cannot refuse.

like a heart made of dynamite by @vicsy | rated E | 31k words

Maybe all these years they were coming towards each other like a car crash in slow motion. Charles just had to wait for the brakes to fail.

and i long for you to appear by @singsweetmelodies / 17.5k | rated T | tumblr post here

When now-famous actor Pierre Gasly gets himself into a bit of PR trouble, it's up to his childhood best friend to step in and save the day. Thankfully, Charles is an expert public relations manager... the only question is if he'll be able to stop his feelings getting in the way when he finally sees Pierre again after all these years.

hold me in this wild, wild world by @fenesacha & @gaslybottoms | rated T | 2k words

Cross-country skiing isn't Pierre's forte. While he managed to stay upright during their earlier outing, it's done little to shake off his aversion to the sport that Charles seems to love so much - or, rather, his aversion to winter as a whole.

[theleastprofessionalchef]

Ah jeez, I started making this post end of May and saved it as a draft so I could come back with the recipe, and fully forgot to do that for uh. Yeah. A long time. I've since made a few more batches of successful mead, and have a couple more fermenting right now! I'll reblog with pics of them later.

Well! better late than never. Leaving what I'd written initially unchanged, so-

-

Two months apart - start and end - my first successful batch of mead! I've tried a handful of times over the years, but had an unfortunate habit of doing... SOMETHING wrong each time that resulted in lightly sweetened cleaning alcohol 😅

But finally, a success! Real mead! Sweet, but not too sweet, and boozy enough without being straight up moonshine

Recipe:

Roughly three pounds of honey

3? 4? Of those little mandarin oranges, quartered

1 packet ale yeast, I used this

Various whole mulling spices, I used a stick of cinnamon and a few cloves this time, but I've also tossed in cardamom pods and anise occasionally, maybe a couple peppercorns. Go wild

So much filtered/distilled water. So much. Like two gallons?

I'll be real folks, I used a cheap shitty online guide that I don't remember the link for, that said it was a good basic way to learn how to make garbage mead and that any brewer worth their salt would cringe at. It is also coincidentally the same guide I used years ago in the aforementioned cleaning alcohol incident; I haven't changed what I used or did, so I honestly don't know why that came out bad and this good. Shrugs! Yeast can't read.

Dissolve the honey in warm/hot water. Not boiling- you don't want to kill the yeast when you add it in. Think a nice, warm shower. Stir it well, add the oranges and spices, and mix in the yeast until also dissolved.

Load it all up into a large glass container like the one pictured. I ordered a carboy online for this, which is the 'proper' thing to use, but you can honestly get away with an old milk jug you've thoroughly cleaned and sanitized, if you again, don't care about it being the highest quality. Carboys come with the fermentation/filtration Thing on it to let gases out and nothing in (the little doohicky plugged into the top of the lid) but you can also get away with stretching the mouth of a balloon over where the lid would go and poke a teensy hole in it with a needle. The goal is to let the gases that build up during fermentation escape the container, but not to let outside air in.

Fill the container the rest of the way up with water, but leave a couple inches of space on top. This thang's gonna bubble like crazy once the yeast start feeding, and you don't want it to overflow and make a mess of your cupboard.

Put it in a dark, cool space, and wait a few days!

It'll bubble a lot those first days; DON'T mess with it. Leave her be. Let her have her hot girl summer. After a few days, maybe a week, it'll calm down a bit; now you can top off the water supply.

Fast forward uhhhh two months or so, and it's done! There's a more legit way to know for sure when it's done that involves watching the tiny bubbles that form near the top as part of the fermentation process, and figuring out when they'll stop, but I'm impatient and don't know jack and am here for a good time not a long time.

Enjoy mead! And maybe do some better research than I did if you want something fancy.

OH AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT STIR IT WHEN YOU GO TO DRINK THE FINISHED STUFF

You'll want to scoop the fruits and spices off the top and then siphon it off into another container, or do what we did and simply ladle it off the top (because on a ship of 10-13 sailors, 1 1/2-2 gallons of mead won't last longer than an off day), and NOT drink the detritus off the bottom. You can kinda see it in the picture above. It is not like unfiltered apple cider. That stuff tastes gnarly.

Do not shake the mead before drinking.

[xoxomoonlightxoxo]

P&C | Ch. 1: The Night Before I Met You

➪ Playlist (Spotify) l Series Masterlist

"Mira? Miraya? Can you hear me?" my mom's soft cries call out from the phone.

"Hi mom ... m... mom it's a video call, you have to turn the camera towards you," I quickly explain, glancing at my mom's ear that stares back at me through the screen. It only takes her three tries and a hate speech against our electronic world until we are finally met face to face.

"Is it working now? Can you see me?"

I nod, giving her a reassuring smile.

"Miraya, how are you? Why don't you ever call us? I can't sleep at night thinking about how you're all alone. Your dad is getting mad at me, he thinks my worrisome would somehow bother you. Says you're too busy." her words, although sprinkled with annoyance are coated with genuine concern that fills the room.

Moving out of my parent's home is one thing, but moving to another country ... alone ... is something completely different. I used to say the world is my oyster all the time, but now that I've tasted that stupid oyster, I feel ashamed of my poor judgment. I would rather walk across a field of legos barefoot than go through another immigration process on my own.

See, a year ago, I would have only dreamed of living in Korea. Learning about the culture and exploring their diverse cuisine. It was all fun and games until hope turned into manifestation, which then transformed into a deep-rooted determination. I've spent all three years of high school, working my ass off, perfecting my GPA to appeal to the board of education. I guess it all paid off in the end, since fast forward to a year later, and I am now living in my one-room dorm at one of the most prestigious universities in Korea.

"I'm sorry Mom, I truly am. I keep meaning to, but honestly, there's just not enough time in the day." I try to convince both of us.

To be honest, it has been about 2 months since I arrived, but with each passing day, I feel more and more lost. This whole time I've been consumed with academics, relying on nothing but my humongous brain to pull through with this mission. But, now I realise that in terms of just living, functioning as one singularity in the real world, I am hopeless. An absolute noob of a human being. I've grown too comfortable living under my parent's wings. Always enclosed in a bubble of security and protection, which I'm eternally grateful for if it wasn't for the fact that I'd become a complete menace to my older self.

Nonetheless, I'm here, somehow managed to overcome the post-immigration depression, even though the state of my dorm would like to argue otherwise. This is partially why I tend not to call home as often as I wish to or should. I never want my parents to see the behind-the-scenes of my "success", they at least deserve to live in peace knowing that their daughter who is 8600 km away is managing everything just fine.

"Miraya, please honey, don't make me call you out of worry. I want us to talk daily just because. I miss you so much, it feels like half of my heart left with you." my mom's voice breaks with each word, as her eyes fill with tears. 

"Sorry Mommy, I promise I will call every day from now on. I miss you guys as well, it's insane to think that I won't be able to see you guys for Thanksgiving." I try to maintain my composure by changing the topic before nibbling on my lips to calm the nerves. 

I'm the oldest daughter out of three kids but my parents have always treated me like their little princess. This means that without fail, I have always taken that to my advantage. And, no you can't talk to customer service about your complaints regarding moi because this main character energy has been deep-rooted in me since my diaper days. So, please, respectfully, keep it to yourself.

Anywho, back to the point. Although my two brothers still live at home, my departure has left a big mark on our family dynamic. My mom has been worried sick for the past 2 months while the men of the family try to calm down her nerves. My brothers are beginning to feel a bit offended as they feel like my mom is neglecting their presence but in reality, she just isn't used to this distance, especially away from her blood. My dad is no better, he may look all tough and composed but for the first week following my departure, he cried himself to sleep while holding on to my childhood plushie.

"Okay, please keep that promise, honey. Everyone is sending you so much love, please take care of yourself. Are you ready for the first day?"

"I mean, as ready as I can get, I guess. I walked around campus today to get an idea of where everything is. The only problem is that I have about 10 minutes to get to my physics class on the other side of the main quad. But, aside from that it's manageable." I nod with reassurance, giving my mom a thumbs up. 

"You're a smart cookie, dear. Everything will be just fine. You know I pray for you every day, ask God to protect my baby."

"Thank you, Mommy, well I'm going to have to go now. The dining hall closes in an hour. There's always such a big lineup." I say, looking around for my portable charger. 

"Of course, my love. We miss you, please stay safe!" my mom waves me goodbye with a soft smile as the wrinkles around her eyes become more prominent with each call. 

And, as the sunset paints the sky in warm, beautiful tones, I quickly grab my keys, ID, and wallet before heading out the door after checking that everything has been unplugged. Speedwalking down the hall, I managed to make it into the elevator before the door closed, that is until I tripped over my flip-flops and stumbled upon something. Perhaps, a body.

I dared not to lift my head, as one hand held onto the wall while the other rested on someone's chest. I could feel my face getting redder but the longer I stayed like this the more it appeared as less of an accident.

"I'm so sorry, are you okay? I was trying to make it to the elevator but my flip-flops had other plans." I quickly say, straightening up as my hand finally detaches from them.

Locking eyes with the poor fellow I was shocked by how composed he was, letting out a slight chuckle as his gaze admired my flushed cheeks. 

"No worries, are you okay? Why are we in a rush?" he asks with a boxy smile.

"Oh, no, I'm fine, just embarrassed. I was rushing to the dining hall, there's always such a big lineup." I explain, still trying to maintain minimum eye contact as the blood from my face steadily settles down.

"Aah, I see. Well, don't be embarrassed, it happens to the best of us. Anywho, this is my stop, I guess I'll see you around?" he waves me a quick goodbye before the elevator doors close.

"Yeah, b .. bye," words fumble out of my mouth before I was left reflecting on my actions surrounded by the four walls. Looking up, I was, unfortunately, able to make out the state the guy saw me in. 

Hair? Still left in two messy space buns, after I complained of it being in my face the whole time I was unpacking.

My shirt, you might ask? Well, it could only be the most humiliating piece of fabric I could find at my grown age, aka my Barbie merch. This whole time I was worried about my red face, while my shirt was covered in Raquelle printouts. Great.

--

I was right, the line at the dining hall was long, even more so than usual. But, at least, I was able to find my friend, Jiah. She was the first person I met on campus, and even though we hung out every day since my arrival, we only realized that we were neighbours about a week ago. Women in STEM, what can I say?

"Miraya!" she shouts across the hall, waving her hands as we lock eyes. I squeeze through a literal sea of hungry students and finally make it towards her.

"Jiah, you have no idea how happy I am to finally see you," I say, breathless from all that walking (it was a maximum of 10 steps).

"Finally? What do you mean finally? We saw each other in the morning," the poor girl responds with actual concern on her face. Was I giving hints of an early stage of dementia? 

"Yes, but so much has happened. First of all, look at me. I look like I just came out of hibernation." I sigh, realising she wouldn't understand my frustration as she is also repping the Barbie merch.

"What do you mean? You look cute," she reassures me with a small chuckle.

I can't help but laugh because we both look ridiculous, but it's less embarrassing when a 6-foot-blonde guy with a boxy smile isn't involved in the scenario. So, we quickly grab the food and enjoy the little debrief about our first day of classes.

"You know, I compared my schedule with my boyfriend yesterday and we only have 3 classes together." Jiah sighed, pouting her lips.

"Well, you know, 3 classes versus the rest of your life. I feel like you guys will manage just fine." I chuckle, as she smiles back at me.

"You're right, it's silly. I just miss him. He has been away this whole summer, and no one warned me about how tough long distance is."

"Where was he again?" I ask.

"Well, he first went on a grad trip with his guy friends and then back home to visit his grandparents. I just wished he was able to come back sooner. I really miss him." Jiah looks down at her plate, swirling the leftovers with her fork.

"Hey, Jiah, it's just one more night. Do you want to sleep in my dorm for today? We can have a relaxing pampering night, hm?" I say, reaching my hand toward hers as she glances back up with a smile.

--

"What do you think of this? Or is this better?" I ask, forcing Jiah to judge the fashion show I have created out of my possible outfit options for tomorrow.

"Oh, number 2. One hundred percent. Are you kidding me? You look absolutely drop-dead gorgeous in knee-high boots." she replies with a satisfied look, fully trusting her judgement.

The weather in Seoul is getting chillier so the knee-highs fit the theme, but are they not a bit too much? But also, I did not just go through all of those years to be just much. So, you best believe I will be making an appearance in those bad boys.

"You're right, okay well then I'm all ready. Just have to actually wake up on time." I say, laying on the sofa before looking at the organized row of necessities Jiah and I prepped for the following morning. The rest of the night was spent talking and making dinner before we both fell asleep to the sound of rain. 

Next

[thlayli-ra]

Punknightyre you say???? 😳 I’d love to hear more if u have any. knight does seem the type to weasel himself into someone else’s messy relationship like a moth to light

Ok kids, get out the pinboard and yarn stash! Thlayli is back on her bullship again! (That was a typo but it kinda works...)

So, first of all, Knight and Drew already have a history together. It did not end well!

(Yeesh, here I am drawing a bodice-ripper Punkintyre from scratch when these two are recreating it for real!)

Drake/Knight clearly got a bit of a taste for Scots seeing as he later feuded with Grado, Odarg the Great (don't be daft, how can they possibly be the same person?) and Joe Hendry.

Knight also has a blink and you'll miss it history with Punk as a body-guard (in the most over-acted, 'pick-me' display ever. Shaun, you are adorable, never change!)

Fast forward to the present. Punk comes back and gets THIS reaction from Knight.

(Thlayli died shortly afterwards... anyway!)

Knight comes up with the term DM Hunk. Drew graffitis this across Punk's shirt.

Punk then says a line which sounds eerily similar to this one from last year.

In Elimination Chamber, Drew chooses Knight (out of five other candidates) to set up for the GTS, Punk's finisher.

Then these two are sidling up to each other when Cody wins at Wrestlemania.

Other notable mentions - both Knight and Punk using the term 'on sight' in their promos within a week or two of each other, Punk talking about tagging with Knight in his return promo on Smackdown, Punk doing the 'YEAH' on the Wrestlemania pre-show and of course, (in my most desperate attempts to make connections yet) Knight's recent gear being the colour of Pepsi (the actual drink itself, not the branding).

In conclusion, am I clutching at straws? Yes, absolutely! Does it mean I'll stop trying to link these three in any way possible so that I can clatter their heads together like Barbie dolls making out? Nope, not a chance!

(Ok kids, you can put the conspiracy board away now. Pop it next to the Punk's Wrestlemania Suit one. Ta very much!)

[instructionsnotincluded]

True North - Sneak Peek (John "Bucky" Egan x Original Female Character)

Ok so after a handful of messages yesterday, I was feeling inspired and a little excited about the possibility of a new fandom and may have binged some of Masters of the Air late last night. I'm not quite sure where it's going to end up, but here's part of the first chapter. Testing the waters (or clouds?) to see if there's even any interest in it. OR if it's just total shit, since it's a new era I've never written for before. (If so, we can just pretend this never happened, hahaha.)

Pairing: John "Bucky" Egan x Original Female Character

Length: 1935 Words

Warnings: Language, military inaccuracies, writer flying by the seat of her pants as she tries to research more about WWII and pilots, mentally cursing herself for not paying closer attention in history class, 18+, MDNI.

“You’re flyin’ today, Frank!” 

The loud accented voice filled her ears, the brunette squinting her eyes closed tightly as she heard footsteps echoing all around the shared room, the sounds of trunks opening and closing joining in a moment later. She’d just been on the verge of a delicious dream with Gary Cooper’s character from The Westerner when Dorothy Skylar’s voice interrupted their suggestive conversation, her friend rudely butting into the fantasy.

“If you don’t get up, they’ll give your spot to the boys!”

“Ok!” Frank lifted her arm into the air, waving it around to signal she was, in fact, alive, “ok! I’m up—I’m getting up. Keep your panties on.”

“We call ‘em knickers ‘round here, love!” Dorothy’s laughter bounced along the walls, mixing in with the various posters, postcards, photos, and letters pinned above each of the beds, “if you’re going to talk about them, get it right!”

“You are all so irritating,” Frank shifted into a sitting position, the thin strap of her silk tank-top falling over her shoulder as she pressed the heel of her palm into her eye, “does no one like to sleep in anymore?”

“Haven’t had the luxury in years, darling,” Dorothy finished buckling her belt, pausing briefly in the full-length mirror as she adjusted the pins in her curls, “while you Americans have been ignoring what’s been going on across the Atlantic, we’ve been living this nightmare for years.”

“Well—at least it’s a shared one now,” Frank rested the back of her hand against her mouth as she stifled a yawn, “alright, I’m getting up. Where am I going?”

“Thorpe Abbotts,” Dorothy glanced over her shoulder to look at Frank as the shorter woman moved around her bed and over to her trunk, pushing aside piles of unfolded clothing to find her uniform, “should be a quick flight, you’ll be back before dark.”

“Maybe,” Frank disrobed and redressed once her undergarments were secured, Dorothy averting her eyes as Frank changed before messing with her hair, “we’ll see—last time I flew the airfield manager wouldn’t let me off the plane until he’d spoken to at least three men, one of whom was ranked lower than me.”

Dorothy only hummed, both women more than aware of how difficult it could sometimes be ferrying planes to and from airfields and bases, especially if the Americans were involved. It was still shocking to most men that women flew—and while the program in the US was slowly getting off the ground, the British had fully embraced female pilots, the Air Transport Auxiliary allowing women to help ferry new, repaired, and damaged aircraft between factories, plants, airfields, and squadrons. Frank had jumped at the chance to fly, to do something for the war effort that wasn’t working in a factory—she had well over four-hundred hours of flight time in the US, and while the United States Army Air Forces wasted time debating on whether or not you needed a dick to fly, she bypassed the red tape and joined the ATA shortly after Jacqueline Cochran led the first group to England. Fast forward two years later and Frank found herself an active member of the No. 6 Ferry Pool, doing whatever she could, whenever she could. 

“Are you going to see that boy of yours?” Dorothy asked, nodding towards one of the folded letters on Frank’s nightstand, the corner of it peeking out from under one of her journals.

Frank shook her head as she finished buttoning up her flight suit, the material heavy, thick, and too big for her frame before sliding on the sheepskin jacket. That was another thing about being a female pilot—there weren’t any uniforms to fit the female body, the material often baggy on her arms and legs, but tight across her hips. “He went down a few months ago over the North Sea,” Frank mentally scolded herself for not tossing the letter after she heard the news. They hadn’t been that close—a few afternoon dates when she found herself on overnight trips to London and he happened to be there, brief memories of them sneaking around hallways, bodies pressed up against walls as they sought comfort and distraction in one another. He was from Texas and smelled like home, reminding her of easier times when she was away at college, just trying to find direction in life. But like that experience, he was gone and she was left to figure out which way was North once again. 

“Frank…”

“It’s fine,” Frank reached for her bag, Dorothy pausing at the doorway, eyes cloudy with regret as she watched her friend pass her, pressing the heavy wooden door open as both women stepped out into the hallway of the dormitory the ATA housed them in, “it’s war.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t mean something…that it doesn’t hurt…”

“I thought you were British,” Frank pushed the emotion and tears away, scolding her heart for clenching as she turned to walk backwards, pressing a finger onto Dorothy’s badged chest, “aren’t you supposed to ‘stiff upper lip’ everything?”

Dorothy only rolled her eyes, the girls exiting the building a few moments later, the cloudy gray English sky greeting them as they crossed the pathway towards the waiting trucks, “have I ruined your flight time?” Dorothy asked quietly once they were in the back of the jeep, eyeing her friend as Frank leaned heavily against the side, “you’re not going to be distracted are you? You’re flying a Class 5 aircraft today—you need to be focused.”

“I’m fine,” Frank waved her off, “and even if I wasn’t, I’d be fine once I’m in the air. Trust me, that’s the only place my mind doesn’t wander.”

Dorothy didn’t appear convinced, but didn’t push the matter, the girls sitting in silence the rest of the ride to the airfield. Planes dotted the landscape, the tower looming in the background. Most of the planes would find homes on other bases or airfields, another tool for the boys to use in their battles. For a while it felt like production was stalling, they had so few to ferry around, but it seemed in the last year or so it had definitely picked up, so many different classes of aircraft ready to be delivered to the Allies. Frank hadn’t yet flown into Thorpe Abbotts, the Royal Air Force station just a handful of miles to the east of Diss, Norfolk. It was fairly new, having been built the previous year, but once the United States Army Air Forces took possession of the airfield, it seemed like activity was picking up. 

The boys at Thorpe Abbotts seemed to be going through planes like candy, and Frank was pretty sure this was their fifth ferry to the airfield in less than two weeks. Typically they flew to the smaller satellite bases once a month, maybe twice if there were mechanical issues, but five times in two weeks? Something was definitely going on in East Anglia. She’d heard low rumblings of the amount of planes that went down during their missions from the British pilots—the men criticizing the Americans for bombing during the day rather than waiting until evening. One conversation she overheard at dinner a few weeks ago seemed to be about the recently arrived 100th Bombardment Group and how they kept losing men to dumb tactical decisions. “It’s war,” one of the heavier accented men had said, slumped backwards in his chair as he rested a beer on the table, “you do what you need to survive.”

“...are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

Frank’s eyes snapped back to those of Commander Dorothy Skylar’s, the three gold stripes she wore on the shoulder strap of her jacket seeming to catch in what little sunlight they had today, making Frank’s two stripes seem even less important than they already felt. “Yes, sorry,” Frank shook her head and the memories away, forcing herself back into the present, “I was just thinking about Thorpe Abbotts and some of the conversations that I’ve heard in passing about it.”

“They’re losing men and planes at a rapid rate of speed,” Dorothy nodded, glancing down at the folder of papers Frank just realized the woman was carrying, “I don’t think this will be your last ferry there.”

“No,” Frank turned her head as she watched the massive Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress come into view, eyes slowly taking in the matte green of the plane, white lettering and stars decorating the wings and body, “no, I don’t think it will be either.”

The girls scrambled out of the jeep when it came to a stop, their male driver neither acknowledging nor checking with them before he sped off, Dorothy just barely clearing the rear left bumper as he turned. “Fucker,” Dorothy whispered under her breath as they crossed the tarmac, “we fly planes and he drives a jeep—yet we’re still the gum under his shoe.”

“Men are babies,” Frank said as she approached the plane, left arm extending to slide across the edge of the wing, “they move from one tit to another, starting with their mother’s, until they die.”

Dorothy laughed, shaking her head as she watched Frank move through the checklist she had memorized by now, a few of the engineers hovering nearby if needed. A younger woman, who appeared to be just barely over eighteen approached quickly a handful of minutes later, clipboard pressed tightly to her chest, “Stella Frank?”

“Captain,” Frank corrected her, the girl almost shrinking back in on herself as she looked over at Dorothy for approval, but the higher ranked commander only stared back blankly, “it’s Captain Frank.”

“Yes—yes, Captain Frank,” the woman shuffled a few papers around as Frank came to stand beside Dorothy, both women waiting as she handed over a thin packet of instructions, hand shaking as she did, “here are your pilot notes, I’m so sorry they weren’t delivered sooner.”

“Thank you…” Frank waited expectantly but the girl didn’t appear to catch on that Frank was waiting for her name, and instead smiled politely at both women before scurrying off. 

“Must you be so brash all the time?” Dorothy asked once the girl was out of ear shot, “I think today’s her first day.”

“Then she’s lucky she stumbled across me,” Frank flipped open the folder, eyeing the notes that gave her heading and speed instructions, as well as landing information, “if it’d been Ryan or Phillips she’d be on a plane back to the states right about now with wet knickers.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dorothy squinted up towards the sky, “you better get on with it—you’re due at Thorpe Abbotts in a few hours. You might get held up for a bit after you land, I think you’re ferrying back one of the planes that took heavier fire, so be safe.” Frank saluted her commander and Dorothy only rolled her eyes, “and watch for the fog, alright? I don’t know if Carol put it in the notes, but the fog around the airfield is sometimes incredibly thick. The boys may not see you until you’re landing.”

“And they have seen a woman before, right?” Frank lifted her eyebrows and Dorothy only shrugged playfully, “this isn’t one of the groups where there’s hardly any women on base and I’ll feel like a monkey at the zoo, right?” Dorothy took a few steps back in the direction of one of the metal buildings along the tarmac, a wide smile across her face. Frank only raised her voice to be heard, “right?”

“Don’t fall in love, Captain!” Dorothy called back, “we’ll see you back later tonight.”

[sundasystems]

2. The Footprint of a Giant

I've said before that Sunda Systems was a global company, but I don't think even I understood the scale of the investigation I was undertaking. The first thing I needed to do was get a sense of the scope. To do that I needed to understand the corporate layout.

To start, Sunda is an umbrella company that has quietly (and not so quietly) purchased a lot of technological companies.

Sunda Systems had complete ownership or majority stake in things I'd never imagined.

Some things I would have anticipated. For example, in 2021, they purchased the internet radio company Re:Mx and they had controlling interest in a broadcasting technologies company called Ressepont. For a corporation focused on wireless connectivity, these things made sense to me.

Engineering and satellite companies? Sure. Even the three laser research companies kind of made sense. I could talk myself into the idea of using lasers for fiber optics.

But then there was the medical research. They outright owned Brainwire, a tech start up that wanted to create a human-computer interface. They also owned Lotus Clinical Research and it's subsidiaries.

What on Earth would that have been for? A sideways purchase in the name of portfolio diversification?

It got stranger when I found court documents of Lotus trying to fend off a hostile takeover. Brainwire seems to have gone smoothly. If you started tiny company in your back shed and a giant like Sunda approached you with a truck of money, you're not going to turn it down. But Lotus appeared to be functioning well on its own and the CEO, James Pepper, did not want to sell.

Until he suddenly did.

Hundreds of documents and depositions were attached as exhibits to this Order.

When Mr. Pepper first files his injunction to stop Sunda from buying Lotus, it was because the swing vote on the board, John Delphine, began behaving strangely. Here is testimony from his initial October 1, 2008 filing:

It appears that John has lost his mind. Years we spent building this company from the ground up. We wrote protocols together late into the nights. We found medical equipment anywhere we could. We found doctors willing to work with a couple of scrappy upstarts. And god damnit we did it. We made this company profitable. And now? Sunda Systems waves a couple dollars at him and he's ready to sign the company over? No. No chance in hell. No amount of money is worth the work we put in here, and he knows it. I don't believe he's in his right mind, and I would like him assessed by a professional. It had to be some kind of nervous break or an addiction or something! There is no other reason he would come into my office in the state he was in. Talking so fast about the wonderful multinational conglomerate that wants to buy us out. I was only catching every three words. He was maddened! That wasn't the John I knew.

Mr. Pepper fought tooth and nail against the sale of his company by his partner. The suit lasted three months. Mr. Delphine never got his psychological evaluation. Instead, Mr. Pepper simply gave up the fight. This is a retraction that Mr. Pepper gave on December 21, 2008, leading to the closing of the case:

I now see what John saw back in October, and I apologize for thinking what I thought about him. I'm still worried about the zeal with which he approached me, but the points he made were valid ones. Ego kept me from seeing the truth. It is my wish to retract my claim of mental incapacity and move forward with the sale to Sunda Systems and I am very excited to work with them in a subordinate position so that I can continue to shepherd out company to greatness.

The recorder who took Mr. Pepper's retraction noted in the filing that the man appeared tired and defeated with red eyes.

Mr. Pepper and Mr. Delphine are now high ranking executives in Sunda's Clinical Research Division, and both have offices in the Eden Springs Campus.

I reached out to them, posing as a reporter following up on the sale years later. I asked if they'd had any regrets selling Lotus to Sunda. Oddly, they both answered the exact same way, verbatim:

"It is a wonderful opportunity to work for such a forward thinking company. I wouldn't leave it for anything."

It sounded obviously rehearsed; even more so after I heard it the second time.

During my call with the men, the webcam light on my laptop came on again, only turning back off after I had hung up. That seemed far too much of a coincidence. I don't want to believe that someone in the company is keeping tabs on me, but a company dedicated to the internet has to have someone who can hack a webcam.

I'm proceeding with the assumption that I'm being monitored. I wondered if I should try to get a new router, but every time I think about it, it seems so overwhelming. My provider uses Sunda equipment exclusively so I'd have to find a new provider and cancel my service and it just all seems too much. I'll just keep it. What harm could it really be doing?

The last piece of information I found today was an old classified add for the home of the Delphine family. They listed their Eden Springs home in early 2009 and it sold for $349,000. Quite the windfall for that era of history.

Out of curiosity, I looked up John Delphine in the Avery County Tax Assessment records and found he and his wife's new address.

They live on-site at the Eden Springs Campus in an apparent outbuilding on the same property as the offices.

Perhaps it's time for a visit to North Carolina so I can get a real look at Maple Hall.

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Beast Wars - Second Chances - Page 1

Originally posted on February 2nd, 2011

Story - Shaun Flaherty Art - Cory Holmes Colours - Roy Stiffey Letters - HdE

deviantART

wada sez: Like many Mosaic strips, and official tie-in media from 3H Productions, Beast Wars - Second Chances aims to show the fates of various characters who were left on Earth at the end of the cartoon. Tarantulas was presumed destroyed in the episode “Other Victories”, but clearly some vestige of him remains! “Operation: Ninth Eye” was reportedly an idea of Mike Priest’s, a reference to Tarantulas oddly having nine eyes instead of eight in beast mode. See below for Shaun Flaherty’s original script, which was dated to April 21st, 2009. In addition, each of the writers on Beast Wars: Second Chances contributed a personal bio explaining their history with the franchise; you can find Shaun’s “Writer Spotlight” below as well.

PAGE ONE (six panels)

Panel 1.  Prehistoric Earth, as seen from space.

CAP: Earth.

Panel 2.  Outside a cave.  It is surrounded by quiet, desert terrain.

CAP: Four million years ago…

CAP/COMPUTER VOICE: “…Three --

CAP/COMPUTER VOICE: “-- Two --

CAP/COMPUTER VOICE: “-- One --”

Panel 3.  Inside the cave.  It is one of Tarantulas’s abandoned laboratories/lairs.  It is dark, but just enough sunlight spills in from outside to see that it is filled with deactivated equipment.  A monitor glows green, but what is on its screen is not visible.

Reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cssWMayeniQ (1:29) wada sez: dead link Tarantulas’ lair

COMPUTER VOICE (OP): -- Zero.

COMPUTER VOICE (OP): Countdown sequence complete.

COMPUTER VOICE (OP): Initiate Operation: Ninth Eye.

Panel 4.  Equipment comes to life.  Lights come on.  An arachnoid skitters.  On a monitor is a body of text; it reads as follows in Cybertronix (Predacon characters):

OPERATION: NINTH EYE

FRAG IT. TORCH THE SLAG OUT OF EVERYTHING.

Reference: Arachnoid Cybertronix

COMPUTER VOICE (OP): Initiating.

TARANTULAS (OP): Hm-me-he-hee…

Panel 5.  More equipment comes to life.  More lights come on.  More arachnoids skitter.  On a monitor is a wire-frame schematic of Arachnid (beast mode).  On another monitor is a wire-frame schematic of Transmetal Tarantulas (robot mode).

Reference: Arachnid Tarantulas

TARANTULAS (OP): M-ma-ha-ha-ha!

Panel 6.  An extreme close-up of the monitor from Panel 3.  On its screen is an extreme close-up of a green, digital representation of Tarantulas’s (robot mode) face; he laughs maniacally.

Reference: Tarantulas (Seibertron) Tarantulas (TFWiki)

TARANTULAS: Mah-he-hee-ha-ha-ha!!!

Believe it or not, the project that became BEAST WARS: Second Chances began over a year ago. In September 2008, Josh van Reyk, one of the creative minds behind Transformers: Mosaic, pitched the idea of a Beast Wars one-shot to a handful of us writers and we ran with the idea!  Hundreds of email messages ensued as we hammered out the story.  A lot of great stuff ended up on the "cutting room floor" as we tried to cram as much Beast Wars awesomeness into 22 short pages as possible. So, that's the beginning of how this baby came together, but what about me?  What's my story?  In case you're wondering, here's a taste: My name is Shaun Flaherty.  I am 30 years old and newly married.  I went to school for acting and currently manage a health club. But before all that, there were Transformers. Being born at the very end of the Seventies, I was a Star Wars kid, but soon after the Jedi returned, I discovered something else.  On my first day of kindergarten in 1984, my father presented me with Optimus Prime and 25 years later I still love robots in disguise. Fast-forward a decade or so, past weekday afternoons and a Movie, past reruns and Generation 2.  I discovered Beast Wars late one Saturday morning on a crappy little TV with terrible reception and it was love at first sight. Five delightful seasons (including Beast Machines) and then it was gone. DreamWave promised more, but delivered only one short story.  IDW promised more, but delivered something that wasn't quite the Beast Wars that I had in mind. Our goal with BEAST WARS: Second Chances is to recapture magic, even if only for a moment.  Our goal is for Second Chances to feel like Beast Wars to you. Although the finished product is still a way's away, we hope you'll like what you'll see. -- Shaun Flaherty