#there are just so few places in this sport

[elaci]

Art brings Patrick along to celebrate your entry winning! He also shows off your side-project of collecting intimates, Patrick wants in.

cw; threesomesss! m-recieving oral, spitroasting, consensual voyeurism, more talk of tennis and a man who is not named mary...

Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

“You aren’t even playing tennis in it.”

Patrick Zweig, who really does hate formal attire, tilts his head at the print framed in front of him. The glass of sparkling in his hand doesn’t do much to unlock his creative interpretation. To him, it’s a photo of his best friend smiling like a dork with a racket in hand.

Art jabs him in the ribs. “It’s the afterglow,” he parrots, a weird knowing smile pulling at his lips. “You’re just jealous that I won.”

Patrick snorts and leans into Art. “You didn’t. She did.”

The two of them glance around the venue, a makeshift gallery to display the submissions for the face of sport competition . People crowd the place, pointing at prints and talking between themselves about angles and lighting and composition and everything under the sun that isn’t sport. All of the pictures are the same, though: a close up of a sports player as they train. Their face sweaty and angry as they hit a ball or cross a finish line or do a fucking pirouette. 

The boys step out of the way to let an older married couple in front of them look at the winning photo. The husband looks puzzled, glancing from the first-day-of-school-esque photo of Art to a photo of a swimmer diving into the water. 

“This is the winner?” the husband asks his wife. 

The wife, who is sneaking a few pictures on her phone, laughs and says, “Jeff, honey, you just don’t understand art.”

Patrick snorts at that and looks at his Art, one he also doesn’t fully understand. Art rolls his eyes and steps away, motioning for Patrick to follow. The two fall in step with each other, voices low as they walk through the gallery. 

“So,” Patrick dips his head down a little as he speaks, a dutiful whisper. “Are you two dating or what? Have you fucked her yet?”

Art stops abruptly, his shoes squeak against the linoleum flooring, karma for wearing sneakers to an event where champagne is served and people say things like ‘what a peculiar angle’. He looks at Patrick with something in his eyes, and the brunette has to take a moment to try and decode his best friend's silent story.

“Ohh,” he grins after a moment. “She fucked you.”

Art clicks his teeth, he wants to object but he ultimately can’t. “She takes photos.”

“What?”

“Polaroids.”

“Of you fucking?”

“Yes, Patrick, not so loud.”

Patrick’s grin is glued to his face. It’s less amused and moreso smug now, maybe a little excited. There's a moment shared between the two before Patrick chimes in again, a tinge of worry lacing his tone. "And you know she's not going to send them anywhere?"

Art shakes his head. "She lets me keep them."

"Holy shit," Patrick laughs, "I have to see these."

Art scoffs and pulls Patrick along. They continue walking through the exhibition halls, occasionally stopping to look at different prints on display but quickly growing bored of the monotony of each shot. Patrick starts to realise, after the sixth shot of a tennis player hitting a ball, that you were right in catching something different. The pair turn a corner and find themselves in a secluded hall of past entries that no one cares to gawk over a second time; Patrick takes his chance and grabs Art by the arm. 

"Come on," his voice is low, and he glances through the empty hallway to make sure he hadn't missed someone standing within earshot. “Let me see.”

There’s a pause, and then Art shakes his head. “No way, my eyes only.”

Patrick grins, “what’s so bad about them? She gets you to dress up in a maid's dress and serve her on your knees?”

Patrick entertains the thought for a moment, and then sees the danger in doing so and shakes his head. “I’m joking, Art. If you don’t want me to see, don’t show me.”

Another pause, Patrick knows Art like he knows himself, even more so maybe. Art wants to share, he wants to gloat about the endeavours he’s been having behind a closed door: he's a man for attention just like Patrick is, it’s what makes them such a good team, everyone’s eyes are always on them. They hold eye contact for what feels like a moment too long, and Art finally lets his lips flip into a grin.

“And how would Tashi feel about me showing you these?”

Patrick shrugs. “You know Tashi, she’s not the jealous type,” he puts on a high pitched voice, despite Tashi having the complete opposite, and points a finger in the air to quote her. “I dont care what you do or who you fuck, Patrick, as long as you play a good fucking game of tennis afterwards.”

Monogamy, not a given in the world of competition, unsurprisingly. Art stands still, hands by his side as he squints his eyes at Patrick. He’s always been able to call bullshit on him, and Art must trust his intuition on this one because he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He pulls two polaroids out of the back slot and pockets one of them, not comfortable with sharing such an intimate photo of yourself with express permission. The other one, the one you had taken your first time together, gets slipped into Patricks awaiting palm.

And he has no telling face as he looks at it, studies it. In the photo, Art Donaldson, his best friend since twelve, is laying on his back, expression lost in a mixture of bliss and overwhelming desire. Sweat sticks to his skin, sticks his hair to his forehead. His face is blushed red and his eyes are blown wide open, pupils expanded as if he were looking at God herself; perhaps he was. His mouth is parted lightly, lips glistening with what could be spit or... and Patrick is hard.

“Introduce me,” Patrick deadpans. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. I’ll give you so much money. I’ll quit tennis.”

Art grins. “You are a fucking liar.”

“Yeah, one with taste and a semi.”

Art hits Patrick in the arm, but ultimately folds. “Fine, but only because she wants to meet you.”

“I could suck your dick right now.” Patrick takes another hit to the arm, this one harder than the last. He moves to rub the spot where pain still lingers, but stops in his movements when a thought crosses his mind. “So you’ve told her about me, huh?”

Art rolls his eyes and plucks the polaroid from Patricks hand. He looks at the picture for a moment.

“Oh he won't shut up about you," a voice sounds from behind the pair. Both boys jump at the sudden presence and spin to face you, smiling laudingly at the pair- a gold medal with a camera engraved into the front hangs from your neck. Your gaze flits between them, and Patrick is suddenly struck by all the times he’d seen you around before. Though he's not often on campus, only when his schedule opens and visits are worth making, he's turned his head as you've walked past before, he knows it.

Art clears his throat and turns to face you properly, placing the hand with the polaroid behind his back. "This is Patrick," he gestures at Patrick while maintaining eye contact with you. You nod, and then look towards the brunette. Your name falls on attentive ears, Patrick rolls it on his tongue for good measure and decides he likes the taste of it. He introduces himself in turn with an extended hand to shake and his signature smile.

"It's good to meet you," you hum as you shake his hand, though your head nods to Art's hidden hand. "I do autograph my originals, if you want."

Art's face falls slightly, caught in the act. Patrick smiles and nods, to which Art mutters an embarrassed apology. Your eyes soften, and the corners of your mouth tug upwards in response. You hold your hand out, and Art sheepishly places the polaroid in your hand. You turn the polaroid around and examine it for a few moments before plucking a permanent marker from your pocket and writing something on the back of it. You waft it through the air a few times to allow for the ink to dry, and then grin at Art as you hand the polaroid instead to Patrick.

Patrick takes it with a dumbfounded half-smile, his eyes darting from you to Art and then back to you and down to the writing you've left behind--- THE ART OF MAKING LOVE, it reads, and Patrick snorts at the pun. Your smile widens slightly.

“Very nice.” Patrick comments softly, holding the polaroid between his fingertips and glancing down to it pointedly. 

"I know," you reply simply. "Thank you for coming, by the way, both of you. I would have skipped it myself if I didn't win."

Art chuckles. "It was our pleasure, this place is nice."

You laugh in response and Patrick thinks he's heard heaven's bells. "Some lady asked if I'd read the part about the entry having to be sports-related."

Patrick pushes in before Art can speak. "Ah, don't listen to them," he takes a step forward and glances down to the polaroid still between his fingers, you don’t know if he’s talking about the photo he’s holding, or the winning entry. "I think you really captured the... afterglow." 

If Art could roll his eyes completely into the back of his head he would, he can't hold his laughter in at Patricks attempt to sound like he knows the first thing about photography, and your laughter sings out too, picking up on the parroting of your own words to Art. The sound echoes across the empty hallway, bouncing off the walls and filling the space like music.

"Patrick doesn't know what he's talking about," Art runs a hand through his own hair, eyes settling on you in a dorky grin you've grown to adore. 

"I'm better in front of the camera than behind it," Patrick offers. 

Silence meets his words as you look between the boys, committing both of their features to memory. You imagine, only for a moment, getting them both in front of your lens. The imagined sight is enough to press an offer to your lips. Patrick and Art stand in silence, staring at you as you watch them.

"I already got my medal" you toy with the award around your neck. You tilt your head to the side, "wanna get out of here?"

"Yes," said in eager unison by the best friends, fire and ice.

You smirk, turn on your heels and lead the way down the hall. Patrick and Art fall in step behind you, Patrick still holding your polaroid between his fingers-- Art plucks it from him in a quick movement and pockets it. Patrick, in childish turn, shoves Art against the corridor wall. He hits a framed photo of an elderly woman with a feeding tube in her nose, titled 'the woes of age', and it crashes to the floor with a loud clatter. The frame's glass shatters across the floor, and you whip your head around to find Patrick and Art both staring wide-eyed back at you.

"What was that?" A voice from the main gallery calls out, thudding footsteps follow.

And you stifle a laugh, looking down at the broken frame of a probably now-dead elderly woman's portrait, then up to your two accomplices. Art and Patrick look between each other, a silent agreement between them. All of a sudden, they're sprinting past you, and both grabbing a hand of yours to pull you down the corridor.

Your shrieks of laughter fill the space between you. You run faster than you've ever ran before, your heart pounding in your chest and blood rushing through your veins; it's exhilarating, it's terrifying, you're alive. 

SIX YEARS LATER

A burly old man with tattoos from head to toe stands behind the counter at MARY'S PAWN SHOP— YOUR TRADE, YOUR TREASURES. Patrick Zweig walks in with two tennis bags slumped over his shoulders, looks at the balding man with ‘leisure’ tattooed under his eye and smiles, “I’ll take it you aren’t Mary.”

"No," says the man of few words.

Patrick raises his eyebrows and exhales, his social battery already malfunctioning. He walks to the counter and sets each tennis bag down atop it with a padded thud. "There's uh, there's rackets, wristbands, a pair of shoes- I think, a few balls. All in good condition, nothing cheap, nothing dirty..."

The man nods, still silent, and begins looking through the tennis bags. He pulls a racket out to check it for wear and tear, and then another, glossing his eyes over and finding no damage. He checks the shoes for dirt and scratches, the balls for wear, and once he's happy with the quality of the first bag's contents, he moves onto the second. He unzips the side pocket with a short tug to reveal something other than tennis equipment— a polaroid.

It only takes a glance at the photo from the stocky man before he's slamming it face down on the counter. "Fucking Christ, kid. Check your shit before you pawn it off."

Patrick looks puzzled, "what?" he slides the polaroid towards himself and flips it up to look at it— his lips twitch. "Oh." 

"Yeah 'oh'," the man scoffs in reply.

Patrick stares down at a photo he hasn't seen in years, and while red tinges his face as he stands in Mary's Pawn Shop, it's nothing compared to his flushed red look of desperation in the polaroid. There he sits, with Art Donaldson sitting behind him pressing wet kisses to his neck, hands splayed over Patrick’s bare chest. His legs are spread, the photo is taken from between them— at the bottom of the frame his cock sits rock hard and at rapt attention, your manicured fingers wrapped around his length: he can even see the glisten of precum beading at his tip.

"Jesus," Patrick exhales shakily, quickly pocketing the polaroid and only barely managing eye contact with the clerk. "That's, uh..."

"I don't care," he snaps a finger to the store's entrance. "Out."

"Wait," Patrick scrambles to show him that the rest of the bag is indeed only full of tennis gear. "Seriously, please, I need the money," his tone softens, but is still pleading. "Look, I'm a tennis player, Patrick Zweig, if you plaster my name on the sale I'm sure you'll get more sales. Can you just—"

"I just got a faceful of your cock, Patrick Zweig," the old man barks. "Get the fuck out."

Patrick lets out an exasperated sigh and zips up his tennis bags, slinging one strap across his shoulder and taking the other by the handle. He turns and walks gingerly out of the store, a 'please come again soon!' sign hangs awkwardly from the door he walks through, and rattles when he slams it shut behind him.

The trek to his car is an embarrassing one, the old tattooed man's eyes still burning into him as he unlocks the trunk and throws his tennis bags in. The moment he's situated in the driver's seat, he's turning out of the street and praying silently to god that he gets hit by lightning or something to that extent. He's been doing that a lot lately. 

Once he's reached his apartment, Patrick's mind is reeling, and every thought has to do with you. He leaves his stuff behind in the car, mind too occupied to care about bringing them in. 

His front door creaks when he pushes it open and slams it shut behind him, he's walking straight to his laptop, which sits at the counter because he hasn't had the time nor funds to buy a table, and opens up the screen. Your name is tapped into the search browser in seconds, his index finger clicks the enter button and Patrick Zweig holds his breath as the search results load. There's a funny feeling in his chest, a deep sense of anticipation that makes him feel almost giddy.

The page loads a display of your photography but no display of you. Patrick scrolls further down, scanning through articles about your photographs and a few links to reviews of your work.  Nothing. His fingertips drum against the keyboard as he tries another search— your personal website. 

There you are. A photo of you behind a camera headlines the page, and below are examples of your work. They're mostly photos of people, some of them are tame and shot against the sun in fields canvased with colour, others are sultry black-and-white boudoir style photos, though each subject has the same look on their face that you've been chasing since the day he met you. Patrick takes the polaroid from his pocket and sits it against the screen, as if on display with the rest of your shots, and  he can't help but smile. It's very you.

BOOK A SHOOT! — GET IN CONTACT is written in bold towards the bottom of the page next to an email and a phone number. 

Patrick Zweig knows he isn't the best person to grace this earth. He knows he has a habit of placing himself in the arms of people that would be better off without bearing his weight. He knows his voice can be a jarring one— so he skips past your number and starts typing an email instead. Because he’s trying to be thoughtful, you can delete an email, but also because he’s a few minutes away from stroking his cock to that polaroid of yours until his wrist hurts and he’s cumming dry and you’d certainly hear the building desperation in his voice.

Your email goes in first, and then a subject line— he flips the polaroid over and smiles at the smudged writing on the back, and then gets to typing:

‘Zweig, your plus one.’

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“So what am I here?” Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette, leans back against the tree he sits under and blows his smoke into the air. “A third wheel?”

You laugh, so does Art, who is sitting across from him on the grass, beside you with an arm around your shoulder. He has a cigarette in hand that he offers you every now and then, but you’re busy feeding new instant film into your polaroid. Though your head is down as you work, you reply with a sweetness to your tone nonetheless.

“No,” you laugh. “More like a plus one.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows and looks from you to Art, something in his eyes that only his best friend could read. Art shrugs, a playful smile pulling at his lips as he mouths 'told you.' Before Patrick can ask what exactly what you mean by that, he sees you lift the polaroid in front of your face and snap a picture, the flash sending Patricks eyes wide in the otherwise dim night.  When you lower the camera from your nose he finds you grinning at him like you've just won the lottery, and he laughs low in his throat.

The polaroid prints from the camera, and you waft it in the air a little to let it develop before looking down at it. "You looked good," you hum, and give Patrick the opportunity to lean forward and take a look for himself. He does so immediately, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward and angles his head. He sees himself, cigarette in hand and smoke blowing softly from his lips as he sits.

He takes another toke of his cigarette and then taps it out into the ashtray beside him. He nods at you, catches your gaze, "do you play tennis?"

You laugh, a genuine laugh that rings in Patricks ears. Art laughs too, and nudges you with his arm. "She's a natural."

Patrick can tell Art is lying, because he can always tell. A grin pulls at his lips as you shake your head and cover your face with your hands for dramatic effect and dissolve into your laughter once more. Art nudges you again, and you push his arm away gently, but there's no malice in your movements, "I'm about half as useful with a racket as I would be if I was blind. I'll leave the big leagues to you two... you're playing professionally right?"

Patrick nods, and spends a fair few minutes going into depth about the world of pro tennis. You listen tentatively, nodding along to his words and asking questions when you aren't sure of something. Art chimes in too, at some point, and the conversation shifts from pro tennis to all types of stories from the boys' years of playing together.  It all feels so familiar, and yet so foreign. Patrick can't remember the last time he's talked about tennis with someone that isn't aching to get pointers from him, or lecture him on how to improve. You just listen, and you throw in your own stories of childhood sports leagues and extracurriculars here and there, and Patricks not quite sure how but by the time the conversation wraps up, the three of you are sitting an awful lot closer than you were when you'd first found the secluded spot on campus.

"How long are you visiting for?" You tilt your head as you look at Patrick- your legs are draped over Art's lap, though you have a hand on his knee.

"A few more days," Patrick nods, looking from you to Art who has a sly grin plastered on his face, "what?"

Art shrugs nonchalantly, leaning slightly forward as he rubs a hand over your legs. “Patrick is staying in my dorm,” he looks to you, something knowing in his eyes. “I forgot to tell him I wouldn’t be there tonight.”

Patrick looks between you and Art. 

“Oh but your doors locked,” you sound genuinely concerned as you turn to Patrick and ask, “do you have a spare key?”

Arts door isn’t locked— he always forgets to lock it. Even at boarding school Patrick would chide his inability to remember to lock their room up when they left, they’d always fall victim to someone coming in to steal a racket or swap out their pillows for the less comfortable ones that would circulate the dorm. 

“I don’t have a spare key,” Patrick lets your hand crawl a little further over his thigh. A glance to Art offers him an equally hungry look, a heat, a taste for more than that night in the hotel with…

Should he tell you about Tashi? He knows she’s unbothered by his endeavours as long as his performance doesn’t slip for it, but some draw a line at sharing. He looks between you and Art, takes in the burning from the both of you and almost laughs, something tells him sharing isn't off the cards for you.

“You said earlier that you’re better in front of the camera than behind it,” your voice is soft, sultry, it sends a twang of something needy through Patricks spine. “You wanna take some pictures, Zweig?” 

It’s all a rush, from his acceptance to the trip to your dorm room, a haze of hushed laughter and lingering touches he can’t tell who from. He wants to put on a face for you, woo you like he does every other girl he’s slept with. But with Art it’s easy, they're best friends… soulmates. They’ve kissed before, they've seen the most intimate parts of each other— in a way, Art's presence settles his nerves with you. 

The second your dorm room door clicks shut, Art’s lips are against Patrick's and he’s guiding him to the edge of your bed in a mess of sloppy implacable kisses, his slender hands run through Patrick's curls, tug at the base of his scalp in a newfound dominance Patrick was unsure Art had in him. This is the second time they've made out, if you don't count the time when they were thirteen and practised on each other for their first girlfriends… which neither of them will admit ever happened.

The back of Patrick's legs hit the edge of your bed and at the same time, Art's tongue slips dutifully into his mouth and slides over the expanse of his teeth. He tastes like cigarettes and chapstick, which Patrick assumes is yours because it tastes like cherries and everything else narcotic, in this sense he kisses you also. There's a heat licking at the pit of his stomach and it spreads like wildfire through his chest and down his arms. Tugging at the hem of Arts shirt, he gets his point across and is able to lift it and run his fingertips over his abdomen as Art removes it completely. Patrick follows suit shortly after, grabbing his own shirt by the collar and lifting it over his head: it's tossed to the side despite its price. His jeans soon follow.

For a moment, it's just the two of them, all clothes bar their boxers discarded to the floor and hands exploring bare skin. The warmth of Art's fingers digging into his chest, his ribs, his hips, the hard planes of his body, their bodies pressed together as if to become one. Their lips connect again, hungrily, their teeth knocking together with every brush of tongues. Patrick takes Art's lower lip between his teeth and bites hard enough to elicit a choked groan from the back of Art's throat.

They part, and are given only half a moment to mourn the loss of each other's touch before their kiss-swollen lips upturn into grins, and a gentle laughter is shared between them. Art's smile is wide, and he turns his head from Patrick to you, sitting at your desk writing on the back of the polaroid you had taken outside.

"Busy over there?" Art teases, smiling as you turn to look at them.

"Just letting you have your moment," you hum complaisantly, then lift your camera up to take a quick photo of the pair, hot and flushed and still panting slightly, "just let me know when you two feel like being productive with yourselves…"

Your tone trails off, and then you're standing quickly, grabbing your camera as you saunter over to the boys, who part from each other to glue their eyes onto you. You survey the scene, their tousled hair and matching vibrant pink cheeks. Patrick’s boxers are a light blue, Art’s are black, and you like the contrast of colour but decide they should exit the scene completely. 

You run a nail down Art’s chest, watching as his shoulders roll back as you flick over one of his nipples and continue down to the waistband of his boxers. You pull the elastic towards you, and then let it snap back against his skin. He hisses at the contact, plasters a dramatic frown across his lips as you smile in turn and nod to the bed, though not before tugging down at his boxers just enough to expose the trail of light brown hair leading to his hardened cock— a suggestion if nothing else: take them off. 

Art obliges, sparing only a glance to Patrick before tugging his boxers down and kicking them to the side. You steal a good look at his cock, licking your lips at the sight of his growing hard-on. He catches your gaze and gives you a sly smile before climbing onto your bed and sitting back. 

You’re quick to guide Patrick into position as well, taking him by the wrist and giving him a pointed look when he uses his free hand to caress the curve of your ass. He’s a lot more assertive than Art, lets his hands roam when Arts would stay clasped behind his back. You like it, you like the contrast, and you like the thought of having Art take control of his ministries for once. 

You pull Patrick to stand in front of where Art sits and then, with a cheeky lopsided smile, you push him backwards and watch as he falls to sit just in front of where Art is settled. You take a step back and watch as Art moves forward, hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and sets his gaze on you. 

“Direct away,” he rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, and the pair watch as you ready your camera. 

“You’re good like this, actually,” you hum, looking between the boys. Rather than snap a photo, though, you reach back out and lift Patrick’s chin up to offer him your gaze. Your fingers trace the expanse of his jaw, up to his cheek before returning to his cocky smile. You slip two fingers into his mouth, his lips closing around them without guidance nor hesitation. His tongue lays flat against your digits as he sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, eyes boring into yours. 

When you pull your fingers from his mouth his arrogant smile returns ten-fold. You’re pressing your lips against his in only a second, rolling your tongue into his mouth in an attempt to shut him up despite not a word falling from his lips. He brings a hand up to cup the side of your face, an attempt at dominance despite quite literally being the one stretching his back to keep his lips against yours.

His hand travels to the nape of your neck, tugging you forward until you practically fall into him, your legs giving way as you drop to your knees against the cold hardwood floors. You find purchase by splaying your fingers over his thick thighs, his lips still locked with yours in a frenzy of tongues and teeth and shared oxygen. It's an unspoken battle for the upper hand, something you never had to wager with Art, who's happy to melt under your touch until the sun rises. You take your turn by slipping one hand past the waistband of his baby blue boxers and palming his rock hard erection; a harsh intake of breath from Patrick allows you to pull your lips from his and gaze up at him with the most innocent expression you could muster.

"Can I suck your dick now or are you going to keep me waiting? I'm kinda starving."

A breathless chuckle escapes your lips as Patrick stares at you with heated eyes and opens his mouth to reply but no sound comes out. The words die on the tip of his tongue and he closes it quickly before swallowing audibly and looking between you and Art, who has pulled himself up just enough to get a look at you from over his best friends shoulder. When Patrick's eyes lock onto yours again, his grin widens even further and he leans back against Art's chest, looking down at you through lidded eyes and nodding eagerly. 

You waste no time on lingering touches and feather-light strokes. Your free hand is tugging Patrick's boxers down, with his help as he lifts his hips to allow you to do so, and with your other one you're squeezing his shaft, moving your hand up and down in deliberate strokes that send his mind into overdrive. Once he's biting his own lip, you wrap your around his glistening tip and swirl your tongue around the head of his cock before sucking him deeply into your mouth. 

A gasp from Patrick, quickly muffled by the turn of his head and Art stretching his neck to meet his best friend in a ravenous kiss. You flatten your tongue against Patrick's length, take a moment to hum contently and listen to his hitching breath at the vibrations you offer him, and then start bobbing your head rhythmically. You cup his balls with one hand, offer him gentle squeezes in tandem with the movement of your tongue, and rub grounding circles into his thigh with your other hand. Your cheeks hollowed out, you suck Patrick Zweig's pulsing cock until he deems himself desperate enough to start bucking his hips upward into your mouth. You know he'd hold your head in place and throat-fuck you until you'd lose your voice if he had you alone, but Art's doing well in distracting him with his tongue, his lips and his hands. 

It's when Patrick breaks the kiss to look down at you, eyes glossed with a yearning lust, that you know he's close. Breathing laboured, fingers digging into the edge of your mattress, hips snapping upwards for any chance at fucking deeper into your throat. His desperation only doubles when Art starts nibbling at his ear, then kissing down the stretch of his neck, hands feeling up his chest.

You know he’s close, walking on the fence of a ruined orgasm and a zenith climax that would taste better than it feels, though you place your hunger aside to do what you do best— take the shot. You pull your lips from Patrick’s cock with a pop, and replace your mouth with your right hand, wrapping your fingers around his length and stroking him just enough to keep him on that edge. 

You reach over his trembling thighs, grab your camera and line up the shot. Art’s mess of blonde hair is a contrast to Patrick’s darkened look as he works bruises into his neck, fingers splayed over his chest. Patricks face, the look of looming bliss melted over his features, and the tension in his corded muscles as he opens his mouth to beg for sweet release. You make sure his pulsing cock is in frame, too, held in reverence by your own hand. The flash momentarily brightens the room, illuminates the scene at hand but only for a second before the Polaroid prints your photo and you pluck it with the hand that had held Patrick's cock on the edge of orgasm.

He whines as you smile up at him, nearly moving to stroke himself to completion but stopping in favour of starting an argument.

"What the fuck?" He has to swallow twice to keep his drool from spilling out of his mouth. "That's unfair, fucking-"

You press a kiss to Patrick's knee and then stand, stepping back once and placing your finger against your lips in a gesture of silence.

He watches, his brows furrowed as you turn on your heel and wander back to your desk. You don't bother to look over your shoulder as you pick up a permanent marker and start writing on the back of your developing Polaroid. 

'ZWEIG, OUR PLUS O—'

A pair of arms around your torso pull you backwards, and you smudge the last few letters with your thumb as the man behind you pulls it from your grasp and smacks it face-down against your desk. You can feel his erection pressing against your clothed ass, his sweaty chest against your back and his hot breath against your ear as he speaks, low and sinful.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Patrick Zweig bites. "But I don't get off on being used like a toy. I'm not Art."

You turn your head in the direction of his voice, let his breath fan your cheek; you smell cigarettes and remnants of Art's chewing gum. "I know you're not," you coo, pressing your ass back against his painfully hard length. "Art made me cum twice before I ever got on my knees for him. You're selfish."

"Damn right I am," Patrick breathes, tightening his grip around your torso and near-dragging you back to the bed. "Always have been, too."

You're walked to the bed where Art waits, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you get manhandled into position. He'd offer you a hand, a way out, if you weren't smiling so wide, giggling beneath your breath as Patrick pushes between your shoulder blades and bends you over the edge of your own mattress. You catch yourself with your hands on Art's knees, face dangerously close to his now rock-hard cock as Patrick uses both hands to pull your bottoms and panties off in one go.  His eyes linger on your exposed cunt as he slips two fingers through your folds, grinning- "fucking soaked, huh?"

"Fuck yes," you breathe. You think he's going to stretch you out on his fingers and you're about to object, tell him you don't need it, when you hear a condom packaging rip open and the tip of his cock presses against your entrance. You can only gasp in response.

"Tell me yes, say you want it," Patrick breathes.

"Fuck me, Zweig."

You make eye contact with Art as Patrick slowly presses into you, using your own wetness as lube. Art watches you with sinful eyes, something deep inside of him like watching you fall apart under his best friend's touch, but you refuse to reduce him to a cuck. You let Art lift your chin just enough to press a tender kiss against your lips as Patrick starts to thrust into you, slowly increasing his pace as he feels you adjust more and more to his size. You love the taste of Art's kisses, the gentle way his lips take yours, but you're hungry for more of him, so you pull away and try not to focus on those sad eyes of his.

As Patrick snaps his hips into yours and bottoms out inside of you, you lean down and take Art as deep into your mouth as you can manage. As soon as Art finds your rhythm, his eyes flutter closed and a sigh leaves his lips. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, and he holds you there, rocking his hips into your mouth as Patrick tries to match his rhythm. You move in tandem with the ministrations of your boys, with each thrust of Patrick's hips, you're choking further on Art's cock. And with each snap of Art's hips, you're pushed backwards onto Patrick's length, and each time he manages to fill you just that little bit deeper. 

"That's it," Patrick's voice is breathy. "Good fucking girl, taking us so well, like you were fucking made for it, huh?"

With each movement, every moan from either boys' lips, you're pushed closer towards the edge of a new level of pleasure, and you can feel warmth beginning to gather in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers dig into the sheets, holding onto them tight and keeping you anchored as you push against Patrick's cock harder, faster... fucking yourself on him in the spirit of competition. You're full to the brim, lips wrapped around Art's cock as you work him close to the edge, eyes looking up at him through your lashes to find a face so fucking pretty you forget to even think of taking a picture. Not that you could even if you wanted to, with his cock embedded in your throat and your arms the only things keeping you up.

The pressure in your stomach, the searing stretch of Patrick's cock makes you wonder if you're a masochist at heart, because you never want that dull pain to end. His moans fall from his lips and permeate the air, a symphony of wants and needs, and you think you could get lost in it forever.

"Oh Jesus Christ," Patrick groans, voice cracking as he nears climax. Art's hips start to shake, his thrust into your mouth becoming erratic and harsh and so much better than it should be when you can feel sweat dripping into your hairline, the sting of  tears forming in your eyes as Patrick pounds into you. It takes everything in you not to come undone as his hips jerk forward. It feels too good, too good to last, and you're seconds away when you feel Patrick fucking Zweig reach an arm around your waist to rub fast circles against your clit, less selfish than he proclaims to be.

The three of you cum in perfect unison, your bodies wracked with tremors of a shared climax unlike any you've had before. Patrick presses as deep into you as he can, near-kissing your cervix in instinctual desperation to fill you up despite his condom. Art shoots right into your mouth, pulling back a little so his load lands on your tongue as well, offering you a taste of his lust, one you take happily. Though you're unable to keep it all in your mouth as he pulls out and allows you space to take a breath as you come down from your high. His seed glistens on your lips as Patrick pulls out of you and lets you turn onto your back and lay on your bed, panting heavily as the haze of ecstasy starts to fade. 

Art soon joins you, laying down beside you in a dizzy haze of exertion. When you turn your head to look at him, he's already smiling at you, and reaches a hand out to swipe his thumb against your lips, gathering his own cum and pushing it back into your mouth. You bite his thumb with a playful grin and Art laughs in response, the moment between you sweet until the flash of your own instant camera dazes the both of you into silence.

You sit up on your elbows, looking towards Patrick Zweig, who stands with your camera in one hand and a freshly developed photo in the other. He flicks it a few times, unaware of how to speed up the development process, then looks at it as if he's analysing each aspect of his shot. After another beat, he turns the print around to let the both of you see, and grins proudly at his work. The photo is a sweet one, your teeth bared around Art's thumb, the calm after such a storm of pleasure.

"Turns out, I'm great at both sides of this thing," Patrick holds your camera up in show and smiles cheekily, to which you roll your eyes. Though you can't help the laughter that rumbles from your lungs when Patrick flops down onto the mattress, making both you and Art move over to make room for him. Art follows suit, laughter spilling from his throat in harmony, and it spreads quickly to Patrick.

Once the air is silent, Art turns his head to greet the both of you. With a smile, something simple falls from his lips— "dinner?"

You hum in response, nodding your head as your mouth starts to water, though Patrick clears his throat. "Yeah," he sits upright and looks between you before grabbing at one of your thighs and pulling you closer to him, his head dips to the juncture of your neck and shoulder and he speaks simply against your skin. "I'm not done with either of you yet."

taglist;

@lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lovezclub @s-u-t @sceletaflores @24kmar - cont. in comments!

[awandapologist]

Kiss It Better

warnings: mentions of a black eye, minor injuries, a tiny bit suggestive, but mainly just some fluff :)

nika x uconn!reader

You had been working on assignments all day; your fingers were cramping up from typing notes and you were exhausted. Midterms were coming up for spring semester and with it, the NCAA women's basketball tournament. But even with all the chaos on campus and in your personal life keeping you busy, your mind still wandered to a certain 5'10 brunette.

You had met Nika Mühl at a party your friend dragged you to at the end of the previous semester. You bumped into the taller girl while trying to get a drink, desperately needing something to relieve your bubbling anxiety from the social event. When her big brown eyes met yours, you swear your stomach flipped. You immediately noticed the small smile playing on her full, pink lips and had to forcefully pull your eyes away from them.

After a night of talking and getting to know Nika, you were practically smitten. The way she maintained undivided eye contact with you throughout your conversation, and how passionately she talked about her love for her sport completely charmed you. You knew she was a special person, and one you definitely wanted to see again, which is why you had to hold back a huge grin when she asked you for your phone number at the end of the night.

Since that night a few months ago, you and Nika had become close friends. Close, yes.... but not exactly in the way you wanted. Your romantic feelings for Nika had only grown with time, falling more and more for the Croatian everyday. You wondered what her lips would feel like on yours and what it would be like to hold her hand as you walked around campus. You swore that sometimes you thought she felt the same, but you were too nervous to make the first move, worried about tarnishing the friendship you shared.

Before you could torture yourself any further, a loud and very persistent knock on your door pulled you out of your stressful thoughts.

"What the hell-" you muttered. "One second!" you yelled, quickly leaving your bedroom as you wondered who could be banging on your door at this time of night. In hindsight, you should have known who it was by the insistent knocks that wouldn't let up.

As if by magic, the same girl plaguing your thoughts was standing on the other side of the door- except she was sporting a big black eye.

"Nika, what the hell??" you exclaimed, as you pulled the taller girl in by her arm. You quickly took her face in your hands, examining the injured area surrounding her eye. She looked down at her feet, avoiding your intent gaze.

"Are you okay? How did this happen?" you asked, concerned for your friend. You knew Nika was tough and could sustain a lot on the court, but this looked like it hurt. Badly.

When her eyes met yours, you saw so much emotion swimming in them.

"It was an accident at practice. Coach said I can still play in the upcoming game, but I'm just so pissed at myself for letting it happen."

Her large hands left her side to place on your waist. You tried to push down the damn immediate butterflies you felt at the simple action.

"I didn't even go to the trainer- I came straight here. I'm gonna get so much shit from coach tomorrow, but I don't care." Your breath hitched in your throat at the confession, but annoyance also rose at the girl's carelessness.

"Just wanted to see you," she said quietly, her lips forming the cutest unconscious pout.

"Nika!" you swatted her arm, immediately taking her by the hand to lead her to the bathroom. You rummaged through your medicine cabinet, immediately cleaning the wound on Nika's face before grabbing some ice.

The Croatian towered over you, wincing a little as you applied pressure on the freshly formed black and blue. "So..." you began. "Are you going to tell me more about how this actually happened?" you gently inquired.

Nika's brown eyes met yours again. "I was.... distracted, I guess. Paige ended up completely elbowing me in the face," she laughed meekly.

"Distracted? During basketball?" you asked, brow quirking up. "That doesn't sound like you at all," you said. You knew how passionate Nika got during practices- always giving her best effort no matter the time or place.

"Got a lot on my mind lately I guess" she said under her breath. Her eyes darted down to your lips discreetly and back up to your eyes.

The close proximity and the way Nika was staring you down began to make you nervous, and Nika could tell. You cleared your throat before you began speaking again,

"Oh? Like what kinda stuff?" you asked, now avoiding the other girl's line of sight. You pretended to seem disinterested and unsurprised, but Nika wasn't buying what you were selling. She knew you better than you knew yourself.

With a small smile, she removed your hand that was holding the bag of ice from her face, placing it on the bathroom counter. Her now free hand grabbed your waist, pulling you closer into her, while the other brushed a fallen piece of hair to rest behind your ear.

"Well, you see..." she started. "There's this one girl that has just not left my mind. No matter how hard I try, I just keep thinking about her." Her hand began to rub small circles on your hip, soothing both herself and you. "So much so that I got a black eye for it," she said. That same small smile you loved so much adorning her plush lips.

You felt like your heart could burst at her words and the way she was holding you. The realization that your friend felt the same was still sinking in, but Nika was done waiting.

"So... think you can kiss it better for me?" she said with a smirk, cupping your jaw before finally bringing her lips to yours.

[cumulo-stratus]

request- hanging out with your two best buds spencer and penelope and watching lady and the tramp

or could be just with spencer

i just love seeing them together and need to hang out with both of them. and i know they are both fans of Disney movies like c’mon it just makes sense

BEST BUDS [S.R]

Penelope, spencer, and you share a nice night at penelope’s watching Disney classics with spaghetti

spencer reid x gn!reader ][ fluff drabble ][ 0.6k ][ masterlist!!

a/n- MAY ILYSM FOR THIS REQUEST!! its a drabble not a full fic but oh well lol

“Spencer pass the cheese!” Penelope's many bracelets jingling on her wrist could be heard as she reached out for Spencer to hand the cheese to her. 

When Spencer placed the bag in her hand she shook it onto her bowl of spaghetti. There was now a little pile of white parmesan cheese on top of her spaghetti. 

Penelope leaned against one end of the couch wearing her Mickey headband while you and Spencer cuddled up on the other end for best buds night as Penelope so lovingly called it. The name hadn’t changed even when you and Spencer got together a few months ago.

They usually happened whenever there was the time for one, which wasn’t often. This made them special. Special meant Penelope often got very excited at the prospect of a best buds night. 

Tonight she had decided to make spaghetti to go with their viewing of The Lady And The Tramp. Ever since you had discovered Spencer's secret love of old disney movies, both you and penelope insisted on watching his old favorites.

Penelope had heard about this from Spencer when she saw him blushing at texts, and being the guy who never normally even takes a second glance at his phone unless it's work related. Of course, Penelope being the lover of matchmaking insisted on knowing what Spencer was looking at.

Said previous events led to the three being cozied up on the couch with the light of the movie illuminating Penelope's otherwise dark apartment. The old style music and animations brought back memories from Spencer's childhood. 

“You know my mom used to play this for me a lot” Spencer spoke with a fond smile, and you could almost see the memories flickering like old film behind his eyes. You smiled up at your boyfriend from his shoulder. You placed a small kiss on his growing stubble. 

ever so often, either penelope, you, or Spencer would make a comment (though most of them were spencers). Spencer usually said something about how the animation was done, or a historical inaccuracy. “You know that architecture is quite unrealistic for supposedly the early 1900s- are you guys seeing this brickwork?” he would call out, only earning a giggle from the others. 

When Penelope made a comment it was usually along the lines of “ahhhh!!! look at these two cutie pies!!” and other phrases in the same vein. Her excitement was at its peak in the classic spaghetti sharing scene. there had been lots of penelope screams/yelps of joy. 

You preferred to stay quiet, leaving a sentence hanging in the air every once in a while. But you found more pleasure in listening to your two best friends.

The more the night wore on, the more the warm bowl of spaghetti in your stomach and the soft sound of Spencer's heartbeat lulled you into a drowsy state against his chest. His warmth radiated into your soul, allowing a blanket of peace to roll over you as the movie's credits started to play. ‘’

Spencer looked down to find you asleep on his chest, and his second thought after how adorable you were- was how was he going to bring himself to wake you up and go home for the night. 

Then again, Spencer noticed someone asleep. Penelope had her head rested against the couch and an empty bowl still in her hands. She also sported a small squishmallow of a unicorn at her side. with her eyes closed you could see the eyeshadow she hadn’t had the thought to take off yet.

And as spencer looked at his two best friends, and then back to the tv with the credits still rolling, he wondered how he got so lucky.

spare a reblog?

[rafecameronssl4t]

Tell ur girl || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: Topper’s new girl being a bitch so you just have to remind her where her place is.

Warnings: swearing, drinking

word count: 431

a/n: send me requests pleaseee 🫶

MASTERLIST

divider by @yoonitos

Posted up with my dogs, Scooby Doo type shit. She grippin’ all on my balls, I gotta move type shit. Diamonds, they cover my flaws, I got that brand new type shit.

You step into the dimly lit space of the party, left hand sporting a red plastic cup, your other holding your purse as you move amidst the chaotic atmosphere. The pulsating bass of Future’s ‘Type Shit’ reverberating through the air, the scent of alcohol and sweat mingles with the thrum of excitement, creating an intoxicating ambiance that electrifies the senses.

You navigate through the crowded room, your gaze fixed on Rafe, sat on one of the couches with a few people around, his presence commanding attention wherever he goes. You catch glimpses of familiar faces—like topper and kelce—their expressions a blend of excitement and indulgence, but your focus remains on Rafe.

He hadn’t noticed you as he was talking to a guy standing behind the couch, but Topper did, and he tapped Rafe on the shoulder and cocked his head to your direction. He watches you as you come closer with that grin you knew all too well. He let his eyes wander down your figure as you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks burn up.

Without even setting down your purse or cup, you immediately leaned over to Rafe as his hand rests on your hip, your lips meeting in a kiss. All while this was happening, you could hear Topper ushering the girl beside him to move to his other side. Your eyes move to an unfamiliar girl, her blonde locks cascading around her shoulders as she’s pressed up against your boyfriend’s arm, her expression one of casual indifference.

Your eyes then flicker towards Topper’s hand resting on her thigh. So this must be Top’s new girl, Cassie I think her name was. “Yo Top, tell your girl to move over yeah?” Rafe leans back on the sofa manspreading as his eyes lock with Topper’s behind the blonde girl’s head.

You notice the subtle change of demeanour in Cassie as she looks down at her painted nails. “Babe, just move here,” Topper pats the free space on his other side as she scoffs. “Why should I? I was here first,” she scoffs, glancing at you as she dismissively tosses her hair.

Rafe watches Cassie with a measured gaze, his eyes betraying none of the amusement that flickers in their depths. “Cassie, right?” The blonde blinks up at you, “Could you just please move over? You’ll still be sitting next to Top, what’s your problem?” You assert, your tone firm but composed. Rafe’s lips quirk up in a barely contained smile.

“Nothing,” She shrugs, “I’m just not moving,” she declares defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture of defiance. In your peripheral vision, Topper closes his eyes briefly before letting out a breath, “Cassie, it’s not a big fuckin’ deal, just move and let Y/n sit there.” His tone agitated.

Your patience wears thin at her stubbornness, frustration simmering beneath the surface. With a sigh, you shoot Rafe a pleading look, silently urging him to intervene. But Rafe merely watches the exchange with a hint of amusement, his lips quirking up in a barely concealed smile.

Before you can respond, Rafe’s deep voice slices through the thick tension in the room, calm yet imbued with an unmistakable authority. His eyes lock onto yours, his expression firm but not unkind. “Come on, Cassie. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he says. His words resonate with a weight that leaves no room for argument.

“Fucking forget about it,” your voice cuts through the air as the three of them watch you set down your things on the glass table. Then, without missing a beat, you settle onto Rafe’s lap, his arms instinctively wrapping around you. Your boot-covered feet find their place on Cassie’s lap, causing her eyes to widen in shock

Topper stifles his laugh as Rafe smirks, his large hand resting on your exposed stomach. Topper’s laughs become audible, drawing a sharp glare from Cassie. “Fuck you all,” she snaps, pushing herself off the couch and shooting you a withering look before stalking off into the crowd.

“Jesus Christ, Top, where are you finding these girls? Bitch island?” You shook your head at him as he rolls his eyes, leaning back on the couch. “Fucked If I know. Maybe I should steer clear of blondes,” Topper grumbles. Rafe snorts, “That’s about the smartest think you’ve said in a long time.”

[eroselless]

PATO - FOUR

series masterlist | part 2 | part 3

[charles leclerc x reader, carlos sainz x reader]

warnings: pregnancy, insecurities, mentions of sex

note: part 4! We’re jumping back this time! Some more backstory is developed here. I thought I was going to be able to put in some sexy time for you guys but it kept getting longer and longer and I didn’t want it to drag on for too long. Hopefully soon though! Happy reading <3

SPAIN, MAY 2023

2nd trimester/month 7/week 24

You stare at your phone, a sour look on your face. It feels like he is doing it on purpose. Or at least, it seems like the universe has it out for you. You hold your breath as you look through the photos, gnawing at your lip as you do so. Their blissed-out faces are so obvious, creating a sinking feeling in your stomach. Charles and Alexandra are on his boat in Italy, captured by the paparazzi. In the first picture, Alexandra lies on her back, her head turned to the side, while Charles hovers over her, placing a kiss on her lips as he grips the side of her face. You see that he is wearing the shorts you gifted him for a trip you took long before everything began to fall apart. Like turning on a movie, you see the memory playing behind your closing eyelids. You trace your fingers over the bow of your lips as if to further summon the scene from the back of your mind.

You see yourself tangled in the hotel sheets one bright morning, gasping as Charles loses himself between your thighs. His striped bathing suit is in your line of view as you writhe under his touch. It's strung up just beyond the open bathroom door, still wet. You still feel the ghost of his touch embedded in your skin as if the healed marks left behind by his lips are still fresh. Purple and red, his tongue tracing over his work, soothing your aching flesh. Your eyes snap open, halting the memory from continuing.

Your eyes float back down to your screen, looking at the next picture. The next image shows Alexandra standing, lips pursed and pressed tightly against Charles, her hands gripping the robe he wears. She is clad in a sleek swimsuit that further accentuates her slim frame, dipping low in the back to reveal smooth, flawless skin, and cutting high at the hips to emphasize her long, toned legs. You turn to the mirror that stands a few feet away from your bed, your phone suddenly forgotten on the sheets.

Letting out a shaky breath, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and pull yourself to your feet. You tug lightly at the t-shirt you wear, your tummy protruding out a little more. Your hands smooth over it, caressing it tenderly. Rubbing at the fabric, another memory illuminates your mind.

“Have you seen my –” Charles freezes in his tracks as he moves into your shared kitchen, clad in only a pair of shorts. His eyes travel over your frame as you turn from your spot at the fridge, hands full of ingredients for breakfast. Your hair is tousled and pulled into a loose bun. “Your what, mon coeur?” you ask, cracking some eggs into a metal bowl.

He shakes his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Never mind,” he chuckles, circling the kitchen island that separates you to plant a heated kiss on your lips. You lean into him, pressing yourself to his chest as he pulls the air from your lungs. Hands moving over his shoulders, you fiddle with the hair at the base of his neck. Tugging teasingly at the hem of the shirt, he pulls away, a smirk still evident on his face.

“It looks better on you anyway.”

You pull it off in frustration, tossing it to the other side of the room. Leaving you standing in small shorts and a sports bra, you examine yourself in the mirror.

You had noticed the changes before, but the increasing volume of photos of Charles and the very beautiful Alexandra couldn’t help but make your skin crawl and feel uncomfortable. It was a feeling you couldn’t quite place, bubbling deep within you. Those stretch marks used to be smaller; you could fit into those jeans a week ago; why can’t I fucking tie my shoes?

The door creaks open before the tears threaten to spill over, Ines peeking in. “Mamita, pensé que todavía estabas tomando tu siesta,” she says, her expression puzzled. I thought you were still taking your nap. You shakily inhale while pulling a discarded sweater over your head.

“I just have a lot on my mind,” you reply, dismissing the worry in her voice. She wraps her arms around you, rocking slightly as she does. She pulls away, giving you a dopey smile. “Come, let's have a little bocadito before lunch," she suggests softly, not prying but offering comfort through her presence. Snack. You nod, wiping at your waterline as she guides you out of your bedroom and into the kitchen.

You settle at the table, mind trying to swat away the thoughts still buzzing in your head.

“You know, querida,” she begins, glancing over at you as she lifts mugs of coffee from the counter and brings them to the table. “You haven’t been out in a few days. Didn’t you mention running into an old friend the other day?”

You glance up, meeting her eyes, and a gentle smile plays on her lips. “Oh, you mean Carlos? Yeah, while getting your groceries.”

She nods, smile widening. “You should give him a call and see what he’s up to.” She shrugs, a glint in her eye you don’t yet recognize. “It’d be nice to catch up and have some fun while you’re at it.”

You hesitate for a moment, suddenly not sure if you should take him up on his offer and ask to see him. You chew at the side of your cheek before sighing and giving in. Nodding, you reach for your phone. “Alright, I’ll call him.”

Your finger hovers over his contact number as nerves seem to ripple through your body. When you press it, it rings a few times before he picks up, answering. His voice is gruff like he had only just woken up from a nap, just like the one you’d been trying to take. It sounds cheerful nonetheless, warm and inviting.

“Hey! How are you?” He greets. You can’t help the soft smile that blooms on your face.

“Hola, tú. Are you busy today? Maybe you could show me around? I’ve been in this town for a while, but I still don’t know much about where to go to have fun here.” You’re picking at your nails as you wait for him to speak, anticipation building in you. Hey, you.

It’s like you can hear his smile from his voice as it sounds through your phone. Carlos chuckles. “Claro que sí. How about I come to pick you up, and we can spend the afternoon together? I know just the place.” Of course.

He gives you an hour to get ready before he arrives at your aunt’s house. He comes to the door, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek and a bear hug. When you go to leave, she raises one eyebrow at you, that twinkle in her eye returning. You smile, as you close the door behind you and make your way to Carlos’s awaiting car.

He opens the door for you, waits for you to buckle in, and the two of you make your way down the road with the promise of a quick walk and a picnic.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The sun hangs lower in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the path you trudge on. You feel yourself growing warm as you walk next to Carlos.

“You said this would be an easy walk,” you tease, sweat beginning to bead on your forehead. “I think your definition of easy and mine are very different.”

He lets out a chuckle, nudging you playfully. “Ya vamos a llegar, no te preocupes.” We’re almost there, don’t worry.

You crinkle your face at him, letting out a huff, and he sticks out his tongue teasingly. He’s right though, as not fifteen steps later, he pulls off the path into a wide glade. The view is breathtaking as you wander further into the green grass. There are clusters of flowers spread out through the glade and tall trees that provide shade from the sun. “Look at this place, though. Totally worth it, right?”

Carlos throws a blanket over a spot under a tree before placing the basket on the ground. He hesitates as he goes to sit down, spotting you struggling to sit on your own.

“Espera, espera,” he says, clambering over to you. Wait, wait. He links his fingers with yours, gesturing for you to start sinking down to the ground. You do as he says and settle comfortably on your spot on the blanket. “There we go,” you mumble quietly, a little breathless.

Sitting down, Carlos begins pulling out an assortment of sandwiches, fruits, and a bottle of water. He extends his arm toward you, a sandwich sitting in his hand. You accept it with a smile, biting into it.

“So,” he begins, following your lead and taking a bite of his sandwich, “how have you been adjusting to life here?”

You take a moment to chew and swallow before replying, almost timidly. “It’s been…interesting,” you say, leaning back on your free hand. “It's so different from what I’m used to but in a good way. Sometimes I find myself missing the constant movement of Monaco, the noise, the rush. But it’s nice to hear the silence. There are things I miss more than others, some I don’t so much.”

“¿Como qué?” he asks, the question slipping out before he can really think it through. Like what? He regrets it as soon as he lets it slip from his lips as if he already knows exactly what you’re going to say. His eyes soften at you before speaking again. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. I’m just curious, that’s all."

You hesitate for a moment, your gaze shifting to the blanket beneath you. There's a sudden feeling of nervousness that settles over you. You’re unsure about opening up to Carlos. He wasn’t a stranger but he wasn’t someone you were used to confiding in regularly either. You remembered the times you’d seen him at the garage, your casual conversations, the friendly banter. He had always been kind, approachable. But this was different.

“No, it’s okay,” you reassure him. “I guess it’s a little complicated,” you say slowly. “Sure, there were many times when I was by myself, but being in Monaco felt like Charles was anchored to me, that he would eventually miss me and come home. I miss that.” You can feel a lump in your throat as you explain. “When the times were good, we could do anything and be content with simply each other’s presence. I thought we were happy.”

Carlos watches as you swallow thickly, his big brown eyes offering an understanding gaze. He’d always seen you as a strong woman, standing by Charles’s side as a pillar; someone calm and quiet. But here he could see a different side, tender and chipped, broken in some spots. He reaches for your arm, squeezing gently. “It sounds like you miss that connection then, the innocent intimacy.”

You nod, eyes glazed over slightly. “Yeah, I guess I do. It’s hard to let go of something that was such a big part of my life. Especially when I see... when I see Charles moving on so easily. It makes me question a lot of things." Your hand goes to your belly, fingers rubbing at it tenderly. There’s that feeling again, from earlier when you stood face-to-face with yourself.

Carlos’s hand still sits on your arm, his touch reassuring. “And that’s completely normal, you went through so much together. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to move on and find your own happiness.”

You bring your eyes up to his, locking with his warm brown eyes. There’s a sparkle in them that makes you feel seen and understood. Something that seemed to fade between you and Charles as you neared the end of your relationship. “Thanks, Carlito,” you say, teasing him with a nickname you’d come to hear from his father once or twice in the garage.

You smile at him, suddenly noticing how good he looks under the light of the setting sun. Just like how he's seeing a new side of you, you can see a different side to him. He looks relaxed as he sits under the tree with you. He's not as stoic as he looked all those times you saw him before every race, and his smile is more genuine than the one he uses with most of the general public. His hair is messy, falling over his forehead and curling upwards behind his ears. He’s wearing a loose white T-shirt that only pulls tight over his wide shoulders. You meet his eyes, cheeks feeling hot as he catches you shamelessly looking him over. You clear your throat, tearing your eyes away from him.

“Enough about me, what about you? Your love life is probably more interesting than mine.” Carlos shifts lightly, his tone turning contemplative. “Well, there is this one girl,” he begins. “She's great, really. Attractive, smart, we get along really well…” his voice trails off slightly. “But I don't know. It feels like there's something missing, we don't quite have that deep connection, that spark.”

You nod, understanding. “It can be hard to find that connection. Sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not.”

Carlos nods, his gaze thoughtful, and you recognize the way his eyes look forward, not looking at anything in particular, just lost. “I want something more, something real. Someone who really understands me, that I can truly connect with.”

You feel a slight flutter in your chest, a feeling you haven’t felt in a long time. You push it aside, a tingle of guilt shooting down your spine. Too complicated, too soon, you think. Instead, you find yourself absent-mindedly nodding, understanding what he means instantly. "Sometimes it just takes time to figure out if someone is right for you," you offer. "Or maybe you just haven't met the right person yet."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The hour passes quickly, with chatter and laughter being tossed between the two of you. There’s bittersweet reminiscing of old times and sharing stories of before your timelines came together in the Ferrari garage. As the hour passes, Carlos can’t help but steal glances at you, noticing how your eyes sparkle when telling different stories or how the wind pushes your scent his way whenever it dances through your hair. 

He lets himself unabashedly drink in every curve of your silhouette, every crinkle in your laughing face, and all the little gestures you make with your hands as you speak. He lets himself revel in your presence, something he couldn’t do when you were with Charles. It was a longing he had been suppressing out of respect for his teammate.

Eventually, you sigh, rubbing your lower back. "Carlos, I think I need to lie down," you say, your voice suddenly exhausted. “This little one is slowly starting to make things a little difficult.”  

Carlos nods immediately, starting to pack up your picnic. "Of course. Let’s get you home." You walk slowly to the car, the sun beginning to dip under the horizon as you climb into the passenger seat.  

The drive home is quiet, the atmosphere charged with unspoken words. The air feels heavier, the silence more meaningful. Carlos occasionally glances at you, his eyes searching for something, but the silence remains.

When you reach Ines’s house, Carlos gets out and walks over to your side. You smile sleepily as he reaches for your hand, helping you out. You ignore your quickening heartbeat as your hand links with his.

"Thanks for today, Carlos," you say softly, looking up at him.

He smiles warmly. “Anytime, I enjoyed it.”

At the front step, you hesitate, nerves suddenly overwhelming you. Carlos turns to you, the setting sun casting a warm glow over your features. He can’t help but admire how beautiful you look, your eyes reflecting a depth of emotion he hasn’t seen before.

You rise on your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, your hand resting on his bicep for support. Carlos's breath hitches at the touch of your lips, his heart pounding. As you step back, your eyes lock for a moment, saying so much yet so little. You turn and open the door, warmth escaping into the chilled night. With your hand on the doorknob, you pause and look back at him one last time. “Buenas noches, Carlos.”

“Buenas noches,” he echoes.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The days slip by seamlessly, and it seems Carlos is becoming a fixture on your doorstep. Often, he arrives with arms laden with fresh ingredients. He often loses himself in the kitchen’s warmth, occasionally offering you a spoonful of whatever he’s been cooking up, a playful dance of tastes and laughter filling the air.

One evening, as Carlos savours a spoonful of sauce, his approval spills forth. “Te quedó esta salsa bien rica,” he praises, stirring the pot with a satisfied grin. Your sauce here is very delicious.

You chuckle, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Me enseñaron bien,” you nudge him playfully, shoulders brushing. I was taught well.

In subtle ways, Carlos begins to make himself indispensable around the house. He tackles Aunt Ines’s unreachable sink leak, banishes the wobble from a chair deemed off-limits, and even lends a hand in her garden. Aunt Ines finds herself gazing at him with admiration, not just for his handy skills but also for the way he lifts you from your melancholy and paints a smile on your face.

You walk together one evening, a gentle breeze caressing your skin. Carlos swiftly sheds his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. Despite your attempts to suppress the fluttering butterflies that erupt in your tummy, your cheeks betray your feelings with a rosy hue as you look up at him.

"You didn't have to do that," you murmur, fingers fidgeting with the zipper.

"I wanted to," Carlos replies simply, his gaze lingering on yours a moment longer than necessary. Pausing in the middle of the street, you stand still, your breath catching as his fingers brush away a stray hair from the jacket's neckline. Your eyes fall away, a quiet anticipation hanging between you.

“Helado?” you exclaim, breaking the spell he has you under and dart towards an ice cream parlour nearby. "I'll have two scoops of chocolate, please," you request from the server, fingers drumming on the counter.

"Make that three," Carlos chimes in, flashing a grin at you. He pays for the ice cream and follows behind you as you gleefully find your spot at a table. 

As you lounge at the small table, you bask in the warm sun. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, like fireflies in the dimming light of dusk. Swiftly he dips his finger into the creamy confection, tracing a delicate line across the tip of your nose.

You gasp at the cold substance, a symphony of laughter escaping your lips. “Carlos!” you exclaim. He can’t help but laugh as you scramble to wipe it off, holding the napkins just out of your grasp. You narrow your eyes at him, angling your cone towards his face. Yet like the fast cars he drives, he moves, leaving a delicate smear of cream on his cheek. 

He freezes, jaw hanging open. You go to smear more over his other cheek as he pushes the ice cream away, shaking his head in playful amusement. You relent, letting out a chuckle as you plop back into your seat. 

"Nice try," he quips, his voice a soft melody in the evening air, as he reaches for a napkin to wipe away the cream.

The moment seems to slow, the world around you seemingly holding its breath as Carlos’s eyes flicker up to meet yours. With a gentle movement, he reaches out towards you, thumb tracing a soft arc over the tip of your nose. With a tender reverence, he brings his finger to his lips, tongue poking out and dragging over the pad of his digit, eyes never leaving yours. It sends a rush down your body, igniting something in your gut that is almost unrecognizable. 

You get pulled from your stupor as laughter rings through your ears. Your eyes land on a group of women, arms linked as they approach you. One of them speaks up as they pass by. "You two make such a lovely couple," she says, her voice soft but full of warmth.

You feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment, feeling like a deer in the headlights being caught doing something she shouldn’t be. Carlos grins at the woman, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Thank you," he replies graciously, arms swinging over to rest on the back of your chair. His gaze lingers on your warm cheeks before winking at the woman, sending her away with his signature smile.

a/n: Thank you to everyone for tuning in, any feedback, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated, I love seeing your reactions and notes! Love you guys lots!

tags: @kravitzwhore @janeh22 @apollosfavkiddo @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp @tremendousstarlighttragedy @sltwins @bwormie @marshmummy@honethatty12 @staplerrrr @smithieandy @loloekie @musicheaux @jeondeluxe111 @dessxoxsworld @xoscar03 @emryb @yl90

[paradiseprincesss]

please we need more Jim the delinquent season!!! please I beg idc if it's smut or fluff or both... Lol btw I am invested in your fics... Wait ngl smut sounds lovely...

perfect for you - jim (the delinquent season) x reader

masterlist

notes: hello lovely anon, i can definitely do that for you! fluffy and smutty jim content is a need. ugh, what i would do to call him mine.

summary: you've always found your best friends dad attractive. unbeknownst to you, the feeling was mutual on his end, especially after his divorce. one night, your best friend goes somewhere, leaving you and her dad alone together.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, kissing, age gap (everyone is legal), reader is implied to be around 20 and jim is in his 40's, bestfriends dad! trope, p in v, aftercare <3

cassie had been your best friend for as long as you could remember. the two of you had met in elementary school, and your friendship lasted a lifetime. now, both you and her were attending college together; all grown up. purposefully, the two of you aimed to get into the same college as neither of you wanted to spend time apart from each other, even when it came to school.

you'd known her for ages, and you were super close with her family. likewise, she was close with yours, as you'd basically grown up together. however, cassie's parents divorced just over a year ago, so much to your dismay, you didn't get to see her mom as frequently anymore. she'd moved out even before her divorce was finalized, and you'd only see her occasionally now.

cassie decided to live her with her dad, jim, as he owned a lovely house quite close to campus, and you also lived just down the road. it was convenient for the both of you. jim was never very talkative, definitely more reserved than his ex-wife ever was, and you'd only really gotten to know him more after the divorce.

even though you'd known him for a majority of your life, you clicked with cassie's mom much more - isn't that how it always is, though? regardless, you would still come over frequently to cassie's place, as the two of you always worked on assignments together. even though she majored in something completely different than you, that didn't stop either of you from bonding over the college experience together.

for the first couple months after the divorce, jim was quiet. he would make small talk with the two of you, maybe ask how your lectures went but otherwise he would keep to himself.

during one particularly hot summer day, jim was having a few of his friends over to watch some sort of sports game, while you and cassie were upstairs working on homework. that same night, cassie got a text from a guy she was interested in from her class who'd asked her out, and you encouraged her to go out with him.

jim and you had talked a bit more frequently at this point in time, since he was finally coming out of his shell more. you didn't blame him after the whole thing with his marriage ending and all. that being said, you felt comfortable just chilling at her place as you'd most likely end up going home pretty soon after she'd left anyway.

plus, this wasn't out of the ordinary for you nor her. she'd often stay at your place for a few days at a time sometimes; the two of you were close like that. you'd do the same, staying over at hers for a few days as well, neither of your parents minded. it had always been this way, even when the two of you were growing up.

"are you sure? i can always tell him i'm busy." she asked you, touching up her makeup.

"oh my god, cass. just go, you've liked this guy for so long!" you insisted, giggling.

"yeah, i know," she laughed, "my dad has his buddies over to watch the stupid game, though. you can go home if you want, but if you get tired feel free to crash at mine tonight."

"i live down the road, but i will definitely keep that in mind." you say with a laugh, shaking your head.

"yeah but your basically my sister, so i don't care if you sleep here or whatever." she says, applying some lipgloss as she fixed her hair.

"go have fun tonight," you say to her, "and text me all the details."

"obviously," she says, turning to face you, "do i look good?"

"duh, like always." you say, glancing at her but returning to your notes as you scribble more stuff down from your textbook.

"if all goes well...i'll text you in the morning." she laughs, and you shake your head laughing along with your best friend.

that night, cassie did in fact have a great night - so great, in fact, that she ended up staying over at that guys house. however, she wasn't the only one who ended up sleeping in someone else's bed that night.

one thing led to another while cassie was gone for the night, and somehow you ended up in jims bed, tangled in the sheets and wrapped up in his arms. sleeping with your best friends dad was not something you planned on doing, but it sort of just...happened.

his buddies has gone home for the night, and you wandered downstairs so that you could quietly leave and return back to your house; but you noticed everyone had left already.

"you didn't go out with cassie?" jim's voice called out from behind you, and you turned around to see him leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

"no," you shake your head, "i have a final next week, i needed to study for it."

"ah, smart girl." he said softly in that accent that made your knees weak. for a moment, he was quiet. just staring at you while you stared back, unsure of what else to say.

"do you need help cleaning up?" you ask politely, since it wasn't too late. it was only quarter past eight, and he looked a little tired.

"don't worry about it." he smiled, and you shook your head.

"least i could do, i'm always over here anyways." you insisted, making your way to the kitchen.

there were only a few dishes scattered around, along with some empty beer cans and a few cups. you helped him put the food on the counter away and cleaned some of the dishes. after the two of you were done, he looked at you with a soft smile.

"you've always been so helpful," he smiled, "i appreciate it."

"it's no problem." you say back, watching him lean against the counter.

he doesn't respond, but instead just looks at you under the dim kitchen lighting, and his baby blue eyes pierce right through you.

"do you have a boyfriend? remind me, i forgot." he asked suddenly, and you felt your cheeks heating up at his rather...innocent question.

"n-no, i don't." you say with a nervous laugh.

"c'mere." he said and for a second, you thought you'd misheard him.

"what?" you asked quietly.

"come here." he repeated.

hesitantly, you make your way closer to him and look up at his blue eyes. he glances down at you, still leaning against the counter with his hands gripping the edge.

okay - if you were being totally honest right now, you had always found your best friends dad to be really attractive. but he was married for the longest time and he was also the father of your lifelong best friend! it was wrong on so many levels, but it appeared that neither of you seemed to cared.

suddenly, his hand was making it's way onto your waist, and you almost felt the need to pinch yourself in case this was all just a very vivid dream you were having.

"the walls are thin, you know," he said softly, rubbing circles into your waist with his thumb, "i heard you last week, on the phone to your friend or whoever while cassie was picking milo up from the vet."

your heart dropped. last week, cassie had to pick her dog up from the vet, and you were home alone with jim for around half an hour. within that half hour, another friend of yours called and somehow, the topic landed on jim. well, more like you'd told your friend you were staying at cassie's for the evening, which led to the friend asking about her parents divorce, which then led you to say some interesting things about jim.

"if he wasn't cassie's dad, i'd be all over that." you said to your friend as the both of you giggled over the phone.

"yeah, i've seen him. like, damn." your friend said, making you laugh once more.

"you have no idea what it's like when i come over, i literally have to force myself to focus on something - anything else." you tell her, but then you heard the front door open. "mhm, yeah. okay, i gotta go. bye."

with that, you ended your phone call - not realizing jim had been grabbing the laundry from the washer out in the hall. he heard everything, and he couldn't lie; it really turned him on. he always knew it was wrong, but he was definitely attracted to you. it started out innocent, like for example, it started when you had turned nineteen. he would think you looked really pretty when you wore a certain outfit, or when you did your hair a certain way.

then, as the next year or two went by, he found himself noticing other things about you. like how perky your tits looked in a certain shirt, or how badly he wanted to see you bend over when you wore a specific skirt. he tried to shake the thoughts of out his head - but it was no use.

"i-i didn't-" you stammered.

"shh," he assured you, "it's nothing to be embarrassed about. honestly, i wish you'd said something sooner."

"...you do?" you asked, a little taken aback by his words.

"i do," he said softly, "so why don't we both stop pretending like this isn't bound to happen."

his hands trailed along your waist and your hips, before his grip on them became tighter. pulling you close, he brushed a strand of your hair out of your face. the both of you leaned in - but you placed your hands on his chest, stopping him.

"jim, wait," you say, looking up at the older man in front of you, "i-i can't- i don't do casual hookups. their just not-"

"your thing, i know. i wasn't trying to imply that this was just going to be that," he assures you once more, "i want you in more than just that way."

"o-okay," you almost whisper, "me too."

he doesn't offer a verbal response, but rather gives your ass a tight squeeze whilst his lips came crashing down on yours. instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck as he backs you up into the kitchen counter. recklessly, his lips still locked with yours, he hoisted you up onto the kitchen island. for a moment, both of you break away from the kiss with pink-tinted cheeks.

the thrill of kissing a man so much older than you (who also happened to be your best friends dad) was getting you worked up, and judging by the tent in his pants; it was getting him worked up, too. gently, he helped you out of your hoodie and sweats. you felt a shiver go up your spine as your ass rested on the cold granite of the counter, and he bit down on his lip at sight. with all your clothes discarded, you sat pretty for his taking on the counter with your pink, lacy bra and matching pink thong.

"look at you," he groaned, "so pretty, princess."

clearly, neither of you could even wait to take it to the bedroom. so, with adrenaline running through your veins, you help him out of his sweater and he reaches for his belt buckle. he pulls you into another heated kiss, this time one of his hands coming up to your throat to give it a soft squeeze. as he choked you gently, you moaned into his mouth, the action driving him insane.

he pulled away from the kiss and you felt his tip poke at your folds. you look down for a moment, and you could see him stroking himself with one hand as he lined his cock up with your entrance while the other hand rested gently around your throat.

before he put it in, he looked at you to make sure that this was okay, though he didn't say a word. you gave him a small, affirming nod and he rubbed the head of his cock against your wetness before plunging his cock in, taking you on the kitchen counter.

you let out a gasp as his veiny cock filled you, and he groaned at the feeling of your warm walls sucking him in. his hand quickly came off of your neck and down to your waist, his other hand doing the same. as his hands found purchase on your waist, he started to move in and out slowly, letting you adjust.

"j-jim," you moaned, throwing your head back, "ugh, feels so good."

"yeah?" he groaned, thrusting in and out much faster now, "d'you hear how wet you are, princess?"

when he mentioned it, your cheeks burned as your eyes rolled to the back of your head from his cock pounding your cunt. you could hear it - your pussy was dripping, and it was evident by the squelching sounds in the quiet kitchen.

"s-so wet, just for you- fuuuuck-" you whimper as his cock hit all the right spots inside of you.

one of jim's hands snaked up to your breasts, roughly kneading it and making you moan. you drooling hole started to squeeze down onto his fat cock, making him lose his breath. the both of you were chasing your highs and getting closer by the second.

"f-fuck, you're so tight, m'gonna fill this tight little pussy up." he decided, fucking into you deeply as he took you on his kitchen countertop.

"so close, jim, s-so mmph, close!" you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut as the pleasure consumed you and the coil inside of your stomach snapped.

"thaaaats it," he praised, "keep squeezing me like that, princess."

you bit your lip and moaned at the way he was talking, and he felt himself tip over the edge as he spilled into you with a groan. his hips continued to buck into you for a few more moments, fucking his cum deeper and deeper into your aching cunt.

after you both came down from your highs, he pulled his softening cock out of you. he watched with a sigh at the sight your pretty pussy which was now dripping with his cum. swiftly, he got a towel and started to wipe it up for you. he was taking his time and making sure you were taken care of afterwards, of course.

"how are you feeling?" he asked softly, wiping his seed that was dripping out from your cunt.

"a little sleepy," you admitted with a half-lidded smile, "and a little hungry."

"how about i run you a bath?" he suggested, laughing softly, "and then i'll order us some takeout from that italian place you like down on 47th and main."

"you know my favourite takeout place?" you giggle.

"obviously i do," he admits with a chuckle, "you told me a few months ago, remember?"

"well, yeah. i just didn't expect you to actually remember." you say with a sigh, and he pulls you into a chaste kiss.

"of course i remember, how could i forget?" he smiles after giving you a small peck, "so, does that sound good? a bath and your favourite takeout? then you can sleep in my bed tonight with me."

"first of all, that sounds wonderful, baby," you say, casually throwing the pet name in, "and secondly, can you join me in the bath, pretty please?"

he smiled as you called him baby, "i can't say no to that, princess."

"good." you say, beaming up at him.

true to his word, he did run you two a hot bath which you both enjoyed. after your steamy bath, he ordered your favourite food and the two of you laughed and cuddled on the couch whilst sharing a bottle of your favourite wine. after the two of you finished, you were both sleepy. as you and jim slipped into bed, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, giving you a kiss on the head before you both fell asleep.

the next morning, the two of you were still tangled in the sheets together, cuddled up in the blankets all cozy. cassie had returned sometime in the early hours just before sunrise, and as she made her way up the stairs, she noticed her dads bedroom door was cracked open slightly. she paid no mind to it - until she caught a glimpse of you in his bed with him.

doing a double take, she poked her head into his bedroom to find the both of you peacefully asleep. your head was resting on his chest as his arms were draped over you, the both of you looking so content.

cassie smiled and shook her head, laughing quietly to herself as she made her way back to her own room. contrary to what most peoples reactions would be; she wasn't mad. in fact, she kind of saw it coming in hindsight and hey, if you made him happy and he was good to you, then so be it.

though the both of you seemed oblivious to it, everyone else could see that you were perfect for him, and he was perfect for you.

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[izelascendant]

Sportsmanlike

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Rating | Mature Summary | Young passionate tennis players messing around with lots of plot and complexity. Pairing | f!Original Character x Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan x Patrick Zweig Word Count | 3.7K Tags | Tennis, Competition, Love Triangles (Squares?), Jealousy, Plot, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual smut, Eventual Romance, Eventual Relationships Author's note | I haven written anything in FOREVER. I'm still such a noob at tumblr and it still confuses me (I'm loyal to ao3), so I wasn't sure of what the best way to organize this was. There will be multiple chapters.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Sportsmanlike on AO3 | Chapter 1 - US Open 2006, Chapter 2 - Finalist Fusion, ...

US Open, 2006

Her

Not everyone is eligible to play in the US Open Tennis. The event is exclusive to players who have earned a certain ranking, as well as a few slots offered by invitation. That’s how she finds herself competing after having received a 'wild card' invitation. Surrounded by a supportive network of people who believe in her skills, she’s being pushed into the prestigious fourth and final Grand Slam tournament of the year—even though she is still technically considered an 'amateur'. In fact, it feels like everyone around her believes in her abilities more than she does herself.

She feels strangely out of place among the other players, all fully devoted worshipers of the sport. Her entourage is composed of tennis fanatics—who live and breathe the sport—while she feels disconnected from it all. Her skills are sure to be praised, but deep down, she still feels like she doesn't belong. Unlike them, tennis isn't the center of her life. She doesn't rely on tennis for survival—in fact, she wouldn't mind if it vanished, which sets her apart from the fiercely competitive and confrontational athletes.

Nonetheless, she plays well. Perhaps too well for someone who doesn’t take it as seriously as her opponents. It seems almost unfair how easily she gets through each round.

Her heart races as she wins match after match. The contrast between her polite, gracious demeanor and the fiery, hot-tempered reactions of her competitors is stark. Some throw fits of rage and tantrums. She can't help but offer sincere apologies and genuine praise to everyone she encounters, even in the most intense moments of the game. As the sweat drips down her forehead, she smiles coyly and humbly accepts the accolades, feeling a mix of exhilaration and sheepishness.

Art and Patrick

The umpire's voice echoes through the stadium, making the final announcements to the crowd as the eager spectators find their seats. Patrick adjusts his position beside Art, spreading his legs casually. Art, meanwhile, plays with the tag displayed around his neck, his eyes darting around the sea of merchandise that carries the "US Open 2006" logo. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation and excitement.

“D’you know about her opponent?” Patrick asks after letting out a small burp, gesturing towards Anna Mueler as she emerges onto the court, her entrance acknowledged by the applause and cheers of the crowd, and with her waving back in response.

“What about her?” Art replies indifferently.

“She’s a wild card; they brought her out, and nobody really knows who she is, but she’s been killing it. I’m just eager to see what she’s all about.”

“Huh.” Art remarks, narrowing his eyes a little.

They both shift their focus back to the court as the umpire announces her presence. Unlike Mueler, her entrance is reserved and humble, merely offering a modest wave to her coach as she acknowledges the applause. While her demeanor may be understated, there’s a sense of graciousness.

She strides onto her side of the court, grabbing her racket. Her copper hair is messily pinned into a casual ponytail, with a smattering of freckles dusting her shoulders, revealing her toned physique. Her simple dark green outfit clings to the contours of her figure—though her appearance is less formal compared to other female players, there’s an undeniable charm to her aloof demeanor, drawing them in.

Patrick leans in, studying her intently upon her settling into position. Art does the same by resting his elbows on his knees.

“She’s a pretty thing, too.” Patrick turns his head over at Art with a smug grin.

Art doesn’t reply but he sure can’t disagree.

“Ready? Play.”

The game starts as Anna Mueler serves, with virtually no dramatic build-up—Art and Patrick's eyes dart incessantly between the two. The atmosphere is almost eerily silent, save for the sounds of racket impacts and grunts of exertion from the competitors. They observe with bated breath, captivated by the swift movement of her legs as she dances across the court, her fiery locks swishing back and forth in sync with her brief skirt fluttering about, revealing the shorts hidden underneath.

She scores her third point, marking a victorious blow against Mueler with a powerful one-handed backhand. Her movements are noticeably disorganized and bordering on sloppy, and yet, to her advantage, it seems to be playing off brilliantly .

“Holy shit.” Art mutters, undeniably taken aback.

Patrick smugly looks toward Art, wearing a "told you so" expression on his face. As they lean in to get a closer look, their mouths hang slightly open, both fixated on the ongoing match. The intensity of her actions is so captivating that it borders on pathetic as they watch, their eyes glued to her every move. With each passing minute, their gazes follow the way her rosy cheeks redden and her breaths grow increasingly labored.

Surprisingly, she doesn't appear to be nearly as exhausted as Mueler, even despite her unstructured, chaotic playing style. She graciously acknowledges each point won by her opponent, a polite nod or smile as Mueler gains momentum. Her attitude leaves Patrick utterly amazed—given his past moments of unsportsmanlike behavior.

“How the fuck is she so unbothered?” Patrick ogles at her, his head unintentionally tipping to the side as he takes in her every move.

Unsurprisingly, he receives no reply from Art, as his awestruck state turns him speechless.

Mueler, her opponent, lashes out in absolute disbelief after the final point is scored, impulsively smashing her racket against the court floor in a fit of frustration.

She flashes a smug, coy smile as she glances at her coach, as though downplaying her victory like a stroke of pure luck. She ambles towards the net, extending her hand towards her defeated opponent, only to have it rebuffed with a heated outburst in a foreign language as Mueler storms away in a huff. She’s quickly interrupted as her friends, family, and well-wishers swarm around to celebrate her win.

As Art exhales deeply, Patrick locks eyes with him, his grin crooked but full of enthusiasm. “We’ve gotta talk to her.”

Tashi

Tashi Duncan seemed to have beat them to it. 

“Hey,” She says as she approaches her after the crowd of family and friends has dissipated from her entourage. “Great game. You absolutely killed Anna.”

She meets Tashi’s eye with a warm, contagious beam, her cheeks flushed with a mix of lingering exertion from the match and genuine happiness at the interaction. She giggles softly, letting her bag fall gently to the ground as she tentatively steps forward, wholly captivated by their interaction. "I feel bad," she admits with a sheepish half-smile, her laughter bubbling up as she feels Tashi's gaze linger on her.

“Don’t.” Tashi replies, unfazed. “She’s a sore loser and a racist bitch, anyway.”

Her laughter continues to fill the air, even as a hint of tension underlies Tashi’s words. Sensing the need to maintain composure, she tries to keep her nerves in check, reminding herself that they're only facing each other in the finals—easy-peasy.

“I’ve, uh—been watching your games, too.” She breaks the slightly uneasy silence with sincere appreciation, her smile slightly crooked as she tries to hide any hint of infatuation. "You’re incredible," she says admiringly, looking up at Tashi and attempting to mask any potential starstruckness in her eyes.

Tashi's gaze remains unwavering for a moment before she softly breaks into a gentle smile.

“I’m kind of on the fence about playing against you.” She instinctively reaches up to scratch the back of her neck in a self-conscious manner, and a soft chuckle escapes her lips. 

Despite the growing sense of ease, a hint of insecurity still lingers, as if she's silently questioning if she's made a good impression thus far. It’s Tashi Duncan, after all.

“Why? Scared I’m gonna wipe you out?” There's a hint of challenge in Tashi's voice as she responds.

To her surprise, her opponent's response is one of continuous admiration—it's rare to see such genuine enthusiasm, and it's almost contagious in its sweetness.

“I’d actually prefer that.” She continues to look at her with a sort of fascination. “It probably means more to you than it does to me, and—” she hesitates for a second, “I wanna stay on good terms with you.” She can feel herself blush a little. “—Hopefully.”

Their whole interaction is refreshing to Tashi. 

“Oh, so you’re thinking of going easy on me?”

“I don’t think I’ll need to.”

A silent understanding seems to form between them, a bond taking shape through the few words they've shared. The smiles they exchange are genuine, laced with a subtle sense of kinship. Perhaps it's the shared adrenaline of the game, or maybe it's the knowledge that they'll soon be competing against each other in the finals—whatever the reason, there's an undeniable connection forming.

“You coming to the party on Long Island? Adidas sponsorship.” Tashi asks, breaking the silence once again.

A flicker of excitement dances in her eyes as she hears the question. "Oh, I doubt I was invited—Or maybe my coach just forgot to mention it.” She lets out a nervous chuckle.

“Fuck your coach.” Tashi shrugs nonchalantly, her hands disappearing into her pockets. “I'm the one inviting you.”

She smiles and nods in return. “Then I’ll be there. For sure, yeah.”

Tashi, amused by her opponent's excitement, can't help but wear a smirk on her face.

-

Fire and Ice

Donaldson & Zweig vs. Shaffer & Buchanan. 

This match determines whether Art and Patrick make it to the finals, a pivotal moment in their journey and a do-or-die scenario that determines their fate. The two of them are fully focused on the game; their expressions are a mixture of determination and playfulness. Art's golden hair is tucked away behind the white cap he wears backwards, while Patrick's dark curls bounce around as he moves, his features framed by the shadows cast by the bright lights of the court. They exchange smug grins and nudge each other occasionally, a bond of support and friendship that makes their journey through the tournament all the more enjoyable.

From their vantage points in the crowd, she and Tashi watch intently, their eyes fixed on the match unfolding before them. You would expect a fierce rivalry between two opponents in such high-pressure situations. 

Yet, there they are, sitting side by side, their gazes glued to the court.

Sure, they had only met yesterday, and their situation had already become somewhat volatile due to public opinion, but she had no intentions of outshining Tashi—leaving a lasting impression on Tashi—a sense of mutual respect and admiration cancelling out any potential rivalry.

As she reaches for her cup, she feels the unexpected touch of Tashi's hand on her knee—a small gesture that sends a rush of warmth through her body. Who knew such a simple gesture of physical touch from Tashi Duncan could be so exhilarating.

Tashi leans into her, pointing down at the court in full focus mode. “The blonde one; look at how receptive he is.”

She can’t help but smile a little at her level of focus. She also can’t deny how beautiful she looks when she’s like this. Leaning in in return, she tilts her head slightly and nods towards where Tashi is pointing.

She takes a moment to admire Tashi's intense concentration, her smile growing wider as she admires how beautiful she looks when she’s focused. She leans in closer, her head tilting slightly as she follows Tashi's gaze. A slight nod of her own acknowledges Tashi's observations, a mutual understanding as their minds sync in the moment, focused on the same objective.

“Your bet is on those two?”

“Hm,” Tashi leans back a little, a thoughtful expression on her face. “The other one’s nailing those dropshots.”

She follows Tashi's gaze intently, her own eyes flickering from left to right as she takes in every move on the court.

“They’re good.” She watches the dynamic between the duo below with a hint of surprise, her eyes widening at their unexpected coordination. She turns her head towards Tashi, unable to resist the sly smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Never as good as you, though.”

Tashi eyes her suspiciously, her gaze narrowing as she attempts to decipher the real motive behind her compliment. "Are you trying to butter me up for some kind of weird strategy reason?" she asks, her tone a mix of seriousness and playfulness. 

There's a trace of amusement in her eyes as she waits for a response, clearly enjoying the banter and the lightheartedness of their interaction.

She chuckles through her nose, shaking her head slowly before she responds genuinely, “You know you’re going to win tomorrow. I have no ulterior motives.” 

Tashi leans in closer, her hand brushing a little higher on her opponent's leg, a hint of challenge in her voice as she teases her. "Playing little miss humble, are we?" The touch is subtle yet deliberate, and her words carry a hint of competitiveness. 

She laughs softly in return, her cheeks flushing slightly at the unexpected touch from Tashi. She takes a breath, her voice filled with determination. "I'm serious," she reiterates, her eyes locked on Tashi's. "Even if I feel like I am going to win, I’ll hold back."

Tashi pauses for a moment, a slight furrow in her brow, a hint of surprise tinged with doubt as she looks at her counterpart.

“I don’t want you to let me win. I want to win.”

“And you will.” She responds without missing a beat, her gaze locking with Tashi's in a way that speaks volumes—as if she had forever been loyal to her.

The bleachers erupt in applause as Patrick scores the final point, the sound drowning out the intense moment between the two girls. The blond boy sprints towards his partner, the duo celebrating and laughing uncontrollably, their joy infectious in the moment. 

The sight brings a smile to both girls' faces.

“Well, we’ve got our finalists.” She raises an eyebrow at Tashi, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Fire and Ice," she muses, a sly grin spreading across her face. "I've always preferred the heat." She leans back slightly, her braid cascading over her shoulder.

“And I’ve always preferred the cold.” She replies, her voice filled with teasing enthusiasm.

Long  Island, pre-finals party

Tashi and her girl

She stands amidst the gathering of tennis enthusiasts, friends, and family, her heart pounding with both excitement and anticipation. The prospect of mingling with the elite in the tennis world is both intimidating and thrilling. The combination of nerves and anticipation dances in her chest, fueling her determination to make the most of the night.

Tashi's heels click against the pavement as she approaches, a seductive whistle escaping her lips as her eyes rake over her opponent's figure. A confident smirk plays at her lips as she takes in the sight of her, her approach oozing with charm and assertiveness.

Her voice drops to a low, playful tone, a mixture of charm and shyness lacing her words as she responds with a simple "Hi."

Tashi looks stunning in the strapless royal blue dress, her hair down and loose curls cascading around her face while the redhead in front of her wears an equally beautiful gown, her hair pinned up with a couple of strands falling loosely by the sides of her face.

She's taken aback for a moment as Tashi steps closer, her heart skipping a beat as she finds herself enveloped in a tight embrace. The unexpected hug leaves her slightly flustered, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly.

“Glad you could make it.” Tashi's breath is warm against her ear, the smirk on Tashi's face only intensifying.

“You look fucking amazing.” She chuckles nervously, her attempt to hide her infatuation with Tashi failing miserably.

Hand in hand, they navigate their way towards the dance floor, their fingers intertwined as they make a brief stop at the nearest drink stand. With a playful glance, they mix a dash of liquor into their soft drinks in hopes of not being caught. As they weave through the crowd, Tashi regales her with juicy secrets and gossip about the event sponsors and attendees, their conversation flowing effortlessly, and—once again, paradoxically—it feels like there’s no sense of rivalry between them whatsoever.

Patrick and Art

The two boys stand a couple feet away from the main crowd, their gazes pathetically locked on the two girls dancing together on the makeshift dance floor. Patrick holds the bottle of his Coca-Cola up to his mouth, a tiny sigh escaping his lips as he watches them from afar. Art, meanwhile, has one hand casually shoved in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding his drink.

Art leans in, a hint of surprise in his voice, "I didn't know she was friends with Tashi Duncan."

“Girls are like that; they act nice to each other all the time. They probably hate each other.” Patrick chimes in, sharing his theory about the girls' behavior.

“No way, man.” Art shakes his head. “Look at them; they look like—like they’ve known each other forever.”

Patrick playfully nudges his friend's arm, his smirk widening as he suggests, “Like us?” He looks back in their direction. “You almost can’t tell they’re competing against each other in the finals.”

"Yeah, just like us," Art replies with a chuckle, his expression tinged with a hint of self-deprecation. "I'm still sharing a hotel room with the guy who's set to beat me in the finals."

Patrick gives Art a firm pat on the shoulder, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "I've already told you I'll let you win," he says, his voice filled with playful determination.

Their attention drifts back to the dance floor, their gazes drawn to the spectacle before them. The music pumps through the air, the beat energizing the dancers as they move in sync with the rhythm. Both Art and Patrick find themselves captivated by the sight of the girls dancing, their eyes lingering on them longer than they realize.

“Fuck,” Patrick's voice cuts through the air, his reaction betraying his inability to tear his gaze away from the girls.

Art gives his friend a firm nudge, a silent urging for him to keep his focus and behave, all while being just as mesmerized himself, his focus never faltering.

"Hey, I mean, Tashi Duncan's a pillar of the community." Patrick attempts to redeem himself; however, the moment of sincerity is quickly undercut by his next statement, which is delivered with a big, smug grin on his face. "I'd let her fuck me with a racket."

Of course, it's nothing Art hasn't heard before—prompting him to chuckle in response, his eyes rolling in a playful gesture. "C'mon, Patrick," he replies, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Patrick continues to act smug, his playful demeanor on full display as he swats Art's arm with his hand in a teasing gesture. "Eh, don't pretend like you haven't been drooling over her friend," he remarks, a knowing look in his eyes. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone as he adds, "You never told me you have a thing for redheads."

A bashful smile forms on Art’s face. "Shut up," he replies, his voice tinged with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

"I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m happy with either one of them," Patrick continues with a mischievous grin, his playful nature infectious.

They shift their focus back to the girls, their attention drawn like magnets. 

“So, which one d’you think is gonna win the finals?” Art asks, his head tilting slightly as he asks the question.

Patrick chimes in, his words undecided. "I think she has good chances against Tashi," he explains. "Her scoring against Mueler was fucking crazy."

“Damn straight.” Art responds with a small huff. “But it’s Tashi Duncan,” he adds after a brief pause.

Patrick lets out a sigh, his eyes fixated on the dance floor. "I guess we’ll just have to wait and see," he replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Dancing girls

♬ Its gettin hot in here (so hot)

So take off all your clothes

I am gettin’ so hot, I wanna take my clothes off … ♬

Hair swaying to the beat, Tashi moves in sync behind her, their bodies flowing together effortlessly. As she leans into Tashi, their hips move in harmony, a choreography seemingly perfected in a matter of seconds. There's an obvious chemistry between them—-they both know what they’re doing—and they’re doing it well .

“How long d’you reckon they’re gonna stand there for?” She whispers to Tashi, her voice laced with amusement as she discreetly glances towards the boys who have been ogling at them.

Tashi giggles mockingly, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief as she speaks. "What a bunch of pussies."

She laughs in response to Tashi's remark, finding her bold demeanor both amusing and refreshing. Tashi grabs her by the hand, her grip firm yet gentle, as she leads her away from the dance floor.

 "C'mon," she urges, her voice filled with a sense of excitement.

She follows Tashi, curiosity getting the better of her as she tucks a loose curl behind her ear. "Where are we going?" she asks, her voice tinged with a mixture of wonder and anticipation.

Desperate boys

As the girls leave the dance floor, Patrick gives Art a nudge, bringing him back to the present moment.

“Where are they going?” Art asks, his curiosity piqued.

Patrick responds with a sarcastic remark, his eyes never leaving the girls. "How would I know, dumbass?"

Art scoffs in frustration, his thoughts racing as he tries to reason with his friend. "Well, we’re not gonna follow them around and seem desperate—”

"Yes, we are," Patrick asserts, his determination unshakable.

Art protests, voicing his hesitation about approaching them. "And say what?" he exclaims. 

Yet, despite his reservations, he finds himself following behind Patrick. Together, they make their way towards the girls, their footsteps filled with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

[takes1]

Some fluff w Koushi maybe?🫶

koushi realizing barista!reader is pretty cute

thanks for the request! this was a cute and refreshing prompt for me <3 much love!!

warnings. none info. sfw / fluff / college!au / coffeeshop!au / simple but cute / suga wears cardigans / timeskip!suga / like imagine english teacher suga pulling a stretchy cardigan over himself ugh so cute / 630 words links. haikyuu collection. masterlist. requests open. my ao3

"Good morning!" A gentle voice blessed your ears.

You smiled without looking up from the register.

Mr. Cardigan's ritual began. Glance over the menu, top-right to the espresso drinks, consider getting a decaf-- of course he won't go with the decaf, it was 7:40 and he was already tapping his foot to get to his 8 a.m class. Then he would decide on his tried and true as if it were a brand new idea:

"Double espresso, steamed milk, sweetened with honey."

He was wearing a face of mild shock, a touch of embarrassment, when you looked up from the order you already input.

"Oh, shit--," You laughed, warm at your slip-up, "I'm so sorry."

"Nono, it's- it's fine," He sported a similar color.

After a moment's hesitation, he chuckled and gave you his card.

Your Monday, Wednesday, Friday shift lined up with everyone who had a MWF 8 a.m (+9, 9:30, 10:00, and 10:30, regrettably). He was one of the few you cared to remember since he was such a cutie and he usually tipped you well.

"It's been a long morning, I get it," He graced you with a smooth forgiveness.

You sighed, relieved, and agreed wholeheartedly.

Spring semester was right at the close. Most were coming in to the Business building's little ground-level cafe early or late to cram for finals. He stayed consistent throughout the past few months, though, with his 7:40 sharp arrival.

7:44 if there was a line, but that was Mondays. Fridays weren't as busy because so many people skipped. But reliable Mr. Cardigan never missed a class.

"Almost done, though," You handed him his card back and spun the tip screen around for him, expecting nothing this time.

"Thank god," He tapped for No Receipt and closed his wallet.

He stood at the counter with his hands crossed in front of him to wait for his drink.

He never noticed how pretty your hands were before today. He looked down at his own kinda stumpy fingers. Then he watched -careful not to come across as creepy- at how gingerly you held the mug to the steam wand while screwing the filter in place.

The urge to talk to you nudged at the back of his throat, but he fell silent when you flipped the switch on.

The espresso machine was always a little too loud to talk over.

It was a graceful background noise to those who studied in this lobby, and a good backdrop to stay quiet to.

This time, he didn't feel as though your usual exchange was natural anymore. He wanted to talk, but didn't know quite how. The usual 4-minute wait felt like ages, but today he wasn't keen on leaving until he spoke to you again.

Your eyes flitted over his when you turned towards the lobby side for the honey.

His broad shoulders tensed and he turned his head to take false interest in some of the artwork on the walls. He didn't realize he was staring so hard.

He wondered how long you had been paying attention to him. If was just habit, or maybe a fondness had been growing and he was always too tired to notice anything other than how well you made his drink.

Now it was impossible not to overthink your friendly customer-service smile, or the smiley face you always put on the side of his cup.

Say something!

He repeated it so many times that his mind had been made unintentionally blank when you held the cup up for him to take over the counter.

"Good luck with finals," You said softly.

When he reached for his latte, your fingertips brushed for the tiniest moment. An intense heat crept up the back of his neck.

A shaky, "You, too," was all he could manage.

masterlist.

requests open.

[yoshi17here]

⋆.˚✮ ୨where does Enha like to kiss you more ৎ ✮˚.⋆

Note: hey guys I'm back with another enha reaction hope you enjoy it it took me a few days because we've been testing but I have more projects for summer.

Warnings: fluf a bit of suggestive mostly on Heseung's. Idk if there is more let me know if you find any.

Words: 525

btw thanks @xoaless4evaa for counting the word and yes she counted each word. Plus she fixed my grammar cuz ion I'm bad.

⋆˚࿔ Heseung𝜗𝜚˚⋆

・honestly he just loves to kiss you anywhere. But if he had to choose, I feel

・he would love to give you sweet, passionate, and slow kisses on your pretty neck.

Placing hickeys on your neck, showing you off, and marking you his Makes him Weak on the knees. 

Another of his favorite sports to kiss you Is probably your lips. 

He would always say that your lips are meant for his.

˖⁺‧₊˚ Jay˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

One of Jay‘s favorite spots to kiss you would be your hand. 

Just like a prince would kiss a princess. 

Another of his favorite spots to kiss you is at the top of your head. 

 Jay loves to kiss the top of your head mostly while you sleep because he thinks you look so cute. 

When you ask him why he loves to kiss your hand he would say “Because you're a princess, you're my princess”. 

˚｡⋆୨ ʚJakeɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Jake loves cheek kisses whether he kisses you or you kiss him. 

Jake is such a sweet puppy; all he wants from you is your love and affection. 

I know many people say he’s a frat boy, but I think he’s such a cutie. 

I feel like Jake may turn out a little shy at the beginning of the relationship. 

So, when you ask him why he likes to kiss you so much he would say “Because that’s how I show my love".

⋆⭒˚.⋆°•.Sunghoon.•°⋆⭒˚.⋆

Sunghoon is definitely a forehead kisser.

he's always kinda quiet, so he enjoys relaxed moments like sleeping.

he would always admire you while you sleep.

and he got the idea of kissing your forehead while you sleep.

turns out you weren't fully asleep, so you smile open your eyes, and say" I love you" " I love you too baby".

‎‧₊˚✧Sunoo✧˚₊‧

Sunoo loves kissing the tip of your nose.

he just finds it so cute seeing your reaction.

every time he kisses your nose is the same as when he first kissed you.

giggles at you blushing every time he kisses you.

every time after he kisses you he makes sure tell you how much he loves you.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓Jungwon🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Jungwon is a sucker for "top-of-the-head kisses".

it all started when you two were walking down the stairs for 'hot dog is a sandwich", and after a while, he admits you were right, so you turn around and tell him on the star lower than him "Now you own me a kiss" so he kisses you on the top of your head.

you immediately start getting red and he chuckles at your reaction.

after that he always kisses you on the top of your head.

♡ ‧₊˚ Ni-ki ⋅ ☆

At the beginning of the relationship, Niki was shy 

 but after your first kiss, he became addicted to your lips.

Niki loves your lips so much he would prefer eating cold strawberries the not kissing your lips.

Niki would describe your lips as perfect "but nothing is perfect" Well, that doesn't apply to your lips.

every time you go out and you're gonna put on lipstick/lipgloss he stops you and begs you to let him apply it on your lips.

every time he sees your lips dry he would give you a kiss and then say "Your lips were dry".

note: all of these pictures are not mine.

[blubushie]

biggest pet peeve in sniper art?

Oh boy. A few of these actually. (I'm assuming you mean Sniper TF2 and not general snipers in art...)

Under the cut cuz it's long.

His rifle drawn improperly. The anatomy is very simple and if necessarily, just reference instead of butchering it—even if you're doing realistic art, he uses a Remington 700, and there's more than enough reference photos online for the most popular sporting rifle ever sold. I've seen people draw it like a handgun. On a similar note–

Him shouldering his rifle incorrectly. Or just handling it incorrectly in general. Rifle slots in just above the armpit—when your stretch your dominant arm forward while leaning in and bracing your muscles, it forms a pocket at the shoulder just above your armpit between the head of your humerus and your pectoral muscle. This creates a firm pocket that the butt of a rifle will slot into. If it's not in this pocket, you're gonna have a bad time.

Using the wrong arm to support the rifle vs handle the trigger. I've seen horrors. While Sniper is implied to be ambidextrous, he shoots right-handed. This means the rifle slots on his RIGHT shoulder, and his RIGHT trigger finger is on the trigger. His LEFT HAND is used to support the weight of the rifle at the forestock. On a similar note–

Ambidextrous Sniper is cool and I love seeing left-handed Sniper when it's done properly. Downside—his right eye is his dominant eye, so unless his right hand is injured in a way that he can't pull a trigger with that hand, he would not be shooting left-handed.

Speaking of dominant eyes—you look down the scope with your dominant eye. The eye NOT looking down the scope is called your off-eye. YOU DO NOT CLOSE YOUR OFF-EYE WHEN SHOOTING. OFF-EYE STAYS OPEN. Firstly it's for safety, because if your off-eye is closed you can't see what's happening in your immediate vicinity. Two, it's for performance. You can't change targets as easily with your off-eye closed. Any sniper worth his salt, especially a professional, is keeping his off-eye open. This is hunting 101 and something Sniper, former outback hunter of dangerous game, would know and practise religiously.

Speaking of scopes—eye relief. You do not put your face right up to the scope. There should be 10cm or about 4 inches between your face and the scope. Otherwise when you fire you're going to get a black eye when the recoil makes the scope hit you in the face. You'll take your eye out, kid.

People who draw him with his comics hair and call that a mullet. Almost none of you know what a mullet it. A little tuft of hair at the nape of the neck isn't a mullet! Those who give him an actual mullet when you say that shit, I love you

People who draw his scars incorrectly. They make them look fresh—with the sutures still present. Sutures aren't permanent and are removed after a week to a few weeks, depending on healing and how deep the wound is. Once SCARRED he wouldn't have horizontal lines through the scars. He'd just have long scars and dotted scars alongside where the sutures used to be. And looking at my own scars, in most places you can't see the dotting from the sutures since the holes heal easy and don't often scar.

Skinny twiggy Sniper that looks like he's about to drop dead of malnutrition. Have you not read the comics? Do you not know what lean, functional muscle looks like? Fuck's sake.

Ok reckon that's all of them for now.

[mopopshop]

On and Off the Court

based on this request <-

words: 3.7k

summary: You've just been accepted for a sports medicine internship at the University of Connecticut, joining your best friend Sue Bird. As you meet Diana, you're quickly warned about her romantic habits. Will this warning be enough to keep you away?

made an OC for this one, hope you guys enjoy and lmk how we’re feeling about the DT stuff and if I should keep making it 🙏🏾

as always my requests are open so send me anything you guys want to see, please enjoy!!💕

UConn Campus: 2002

Securing the internship at UConn had been a long shot, but you had never been one to back down from a challenge. The application process had been rigorous—endless forms, letters of recommendation, and a nerve-wracking interview. But when the call came through, informing you that you’d been selected as an athletic trainer intern for one of the most prestigious women’s basketball programs in the country, you knew it was all worth it. 

Sue was right there with you too, she’d already been attending UConn two years prior to your application but she was the one who encouraged you apply in the first place. She knew your love for sports medicine and what’s greater than having your best friend study that at your school? 

You first met Sue Bird during a summer basketball camp, you’d dabbled in the physical sport before deciding on sports med. She was the cooler older girl who’d taken you under her wing and from then on you were inseparable and the rest is history.  

Sue had been the one to drive you on campus for your first day, she helped you move into your dorm and now she was showing you around the UConn practice facility. 

As you walk beside her, she points out players, giving you a quick rundown of who’s who. And then she mentions, almost casually, "And that’s Diana. Lemme introduce you real quick."

Your eyes follow her gesture to see Diana, tan freckled skin and a slick back curled bun, who's shooting three-pointers with an ease that defies logic. There's an intensity to her that draws you in immediately.

"Aye, D! Meet the new intern," Sue calls out. Diana pauses, her gaze shifting towards you. She walks over, her confidence apparent in every step.

"Hey, I’m Diana," she says, extending her hand. You shake it, feeling a jolt of something you can't quite identify.

"Yeah! I’ve heard a lot about you, I’m Nora" you manage to say, your voice steady despite your racing heart.

She gives you a once over, nodding and biting her lip lightly “Nora, that’s a pretty name”

You flush and go to respond but Sue quickly cuts you off, clearing her throat.

“Alright! Um we’re gonna… I’m gonna show her around the rest of the place.” she makes an awkward thumb gesture, pointing down a hallway and quickly ushers you away, not even giving Diana a chance to respond. 

“Do you think D’s hot?” She blurts out once you get to one of the med rooms.

“Huh?!”

She groans, rubbing a hand over her face “ D’s… she’s like- well she’s..”

“Spit it out Sue” you shove her lightly 

“She like-  she sleeps around! I don’t know, I just got vibes that she thinks you’re cute and as your self appointed big sister and very best friend I don’t need her breaking your heart”

“You got all that from a three-second conversation??”

“Well no- but also yes, look.. all I’m saying is I know my teammates and I absolutely know you, as much as I love D don’t fall for her lesbian flirty tactic thingys”

“Lesbian.. flirty… tactic… thingys…”

“Yes!”

“Sue you sound crazy but sure”

—————————

Your next few weeks at UConn are chill as you settle into your role, finding a rhythm in the fast-paced environment. You spend your days taping ankles, stretching out sore muscles, and learning from your mentors.

Even after what Sue said about Diana you can’t help but be attracted to her and honestly you feel that Diana reciprocates your feelings. These past few weeks you and Diana have only gotten closer, first it started with talking during practice, then getting food together after practice, and eventually hanging out at each other’s dorms.

One evening, Sue invites you to your first college party, eager to show you the social side of university life. You’re excited but also nervous, partly because you don’t know what to expect and partly because you can’t stop thinking about Diana. Despite Sue’s warnings, you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something real between you and Diana, something more than just casual flirting.

The party is at a popular off-campus house, and as soon as you walk in, you’re hit by the loud music and the sight of students milling about, drinks in hand. Sue is quickly pulled into a conversation with some friends, leaving you to navigate the crowded room on your own.

You grab a drink and wander around, trying to blend in and relax. Just when you’re starting to enjoy yourself, you spot Diana across the room. Your heart skips a beat as you watch her laughing and talking animatedly with another girl, her arm casually draped over the girl’s shoulders.

You tell yourself not to overreact. After all, it’s a party, and Diana is allowed to talk to whoever she wants. You start heading in her direction, hoping to get her attention but as you walk, Diana leans in and kisses the girl, a deep, lingering kiss that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

Your stomach drops, and you feel a cold wave of disappointment wash over you. Sue’s words echo in your mind, reminding you of Diana’s reputation. You turn away, trying to focus on anything but the scene unfolding before you, but it’s no use. The image is burned into your mind.

Feeling a mix of hurt and foolishness, you decide to leave. You make your way to the door, hoping to escape unnoticed. Just as you step outside into the cool night air, you hear Sue calling your name.

“Nora! Hey, what’s wrong?” She asks, her voice laces with concern.

“Nothing, nothing! Um.. just feeling kinda nauseous, I’m gonna head back but you have fun ‘mkay?” you reach up, giving her a hug “Thanks for bringing me, I’ll see you at the gym tomorrow” you spit out before rushing to your car.

—————————

After the party, you do everything in your power to avoid Diana, shrugging away from her flirtatious touches, opting to eat lunch with Sue instead, and finding any excuse to keep her from coming back to your dorm. 

One night after practice, you find yourself in the training room alone, organizing supplies. The door swings open, Diana walks in, and your heart sinks, you still have feelings for her despite everything and being alone with her doesn’t make you feel any better. 

“ ‘Sup, Nora,” she greets, her voice dripping with playful charm as if she’s completely oblivious to the change in your dynamic over the past few days. 

You force a smile, trying to keep up appearances despite the turmoil inside. "Hey, D"

She saunters over, her movements fluid and confident. "Just thought I'd swing by and see how you're doing. You've been kind of distant lately."

You swallow hard, struggling to find the right words. "Yeah, just busy with work and stuff."

Diana raises an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. "Is that all it is? Because it feels like there's something else going on."

You avert your gaze, unable to meet her eyes. "I'm fine, Diana. Really."

But she doesn't seem convinced, and you can feel her studying you intently. "Nora, whatever it is, you can talk to me. I'm here for you."

Her words stir something inside you, a flicker of longing mixed with frustration. How can she act so caring and yet be the cause of so much pain?

"I don't think that's such a good idea," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Diana takes a step closer, her presence overwhelming. "Why not?"

You finally look up, and your breath catches at the intensity in her eyes. She’s so close now, you can see every detail of her face, every freckle, and the way her lips curl into a slight, confident smile. The air between you is charged with tension, and you can’t help but feel drawn to her.

“I…”

You’re standing so close now, mere centimeters apart. You can feel her breath on your skin, and it’s intoxicating. Your body leans in almost of its own accord, the pull towards her undeniable. You can see the same desire reflected in her eyes, and for a moment, you think you might actually kiss her.

But then images of Diana and that girl at the party flicker into your mind. You take a shaky step back, breaking the magnetic pull between you. “I.. I don’t know, I’ve gotta get back” you laugh awkwardly, trying to play it off and rush towards the door “Um I’ll catch you at practice tomorrow!” and with that you go, leaving Diana standing in the training room alone and  confused. 

—————————

The next day at practice, the atmosphere between you and Diana is noticeably tense. You arrive early, as usual, to help set up and assist with stretches. You’ve managed to avoid telling Sue about this whole Diana debacle, trying to keep from her lectures.

As the team files in, you focus intently on your tasks, hoping to avoid any awkward interactions. But it’s impossible to ignore the magnetic presence of Diana as she walks into the gym, her eyes immediately seeking you out.

You try to act natural, going through your routine with the players. When it’s Diana’s turn, you lead her to the training room as she takes her place on the mat, and you approach with professional detachment, though your heart is pounding.

“Morning,” she says, her tone casual but her eyes betraying a hint of something more.

“Morning,” you reply, keeping your focus on the task at hand. “Let’s get started.”

As you begin to help her stretch, the proximity brings back the memory of the previous evening. Your hands brush against her skin, sending electric sparks up your arms. Diana doesn’t make it easy, her body language and occasional lingering looks making it clear she hasn’t forgotten either.

“You know,” she says quietly, “I’ve been thinking about last night.”

You swallow hard, trying to maintain your composure. “ D, we shouldn’t talk about this here”

She chuckles softly, a sound that makes your stomach flutter. “Maybe not. But we can’t ignore it forever.”

You don’t respond, focusing instead on finishing the stretch. But when you look up, her face is inches from yours, her eyes dark with intent.

“Nora,” she murmurs, her voice low and intimate. “I don’t know what’s going on between us, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, her proximity overwhelming. “Diana, we can’t—”

But before you can finish, she leans in, her lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. It’s like a spark igniting, setting your senses on fire. For a moment, you forget everything—the warnings, the doubts, the pain. There’s only Diana, and the undeniable pull between you.

But just as quickly as it began, the moment is shattered as coach’s voice booms across the gym, down the hall, and into the training room, breaking the spell.

“Alright, everyone, get your asses up let’s get started!”

Diana pulls away, her expression unreadable. You’re left standing there as she runs back to the main practice area, heart racing, trying to make sense of what just happened. 

As practice continues, you struggle to focus, the memory of Diana’s lips on yours distracting you at every turn. It’s like a whirlwind of emotions, pulling you in all directions at once.

After practice, you find yourself alone in the training room once again, sorting through equipment as you try to process everything that’s happened. You’re still reeling from the kiss, unsure of what it means or where things will go from here.

Just then, the door swings open, and Diana walks in, her expression determined.

“Nora,” she says, her voice soft but resolute. “We need to talk.”

You suck in a sharp breath “D I have to go I’m-“

“No, Nora you keep running and we need to talk”

“Diana…”

“Just five minutes, please” 

Diana's voice is pleading, and you can see the sincerity in her eyes. Despite your reluctance, you can't deny her request. You nod silently, gesturing for her to take a seat as you settle into a chair opposite her.

For a moment, there's silence between you, the tension palpable in the air. Diana fidgets with her hands, her gaze fixed on the floor as if searching for the right words.

Finally, she looks up, meeting your eyes with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. 

“I’m just confused about what’s going on between us? I mean, your first few weeks here we were inseparable and then you do a 180° on me and pretend like I don’t exist? And then- then we almost kiss and then we do kiss I’m just.. I’m confused on who you feel here.” 

“You’re confused? Imagine how I fucking feel D, you flirt with me and call me pretty and take me out to eat and sleepover at my dorm and—all this other shit but turn around and kiss another girl? And on top of that you tell me you can’t stop thinking about me, It’s frustrating like just be honest” you rant, letting all your feelings from the past few months voice themselves.

Diana sits there sort of silent and you continue “Even fucking Sue warned me that’d this what happen! And I didn’t listen when I know I should’ve, it would’ve saved me all this confusion” you huff.

“Nora I…” 

Diana's voice trails off, and she runs a hand through her hair, clearly struggling to find the right words. She takes a deep breath and starts again, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

“Nora, I didn’t realize how much I was messing with your head. I’ve never felt like this before, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I was scared,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Scared of what?” you ask, your tone softer now but still edged with frustration.

“Of this,” Diana gestures between the two of you, “Of us, of how strong my feelings are for you. It’s easier to flirt and mess around than to face how real this is. That kiss at the party… it was a mistake. I was trying to convince myself that what we have wasn’t real, that it was all just in my head. But I can’t keep lying to myself, and I can’t keep hurting you.”

Her confession leaves you speechless for a moment, the sincerity in her words cutting through the fog of your emotions. You take a deep breath, trying to process everything she’s said.

Diana reaches out, taking your hand in hers. Her touch is gentle, but there's a desperate urgency in her grip. "Nora, I'm so so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if I have to just please forgive me” 

You take a deep breath, glancing down at your intertwined fingers and feeling the weight of her words. Part of you wants to hold onto the hurt, to protect yourself from getting hurt again. But another part of you recognizes the sincerity in her eyes, the genuine remorse in her voice.

"D," you start, your voice trembling slightly, "I need to know that you won't hurt me like this again. If we're going to move forward, I need to trust you."

She nods fervently, her eyes shining with determination. "I promise, I swear on fucking everything, I promise."

A small smile tugs at your lips, the vulnerability in her words melting some of the walls you've built up. "Okay, but this has to be different. No more games, no more mixed signals. I need you to be honest with me."

"I will," she promises, her voice steady. "I want to make this work, Nora. Let me start with asking you on a proper date m. No more hiding, no more confusion. Just you and me."

You feel a flicker of hope in your chest, a warmth spreading through you at her words. "A proper date, huh?"

Diana grins, her usual confident demeanor peeking through. "Yeah, a proper date.“

You stand there silently, watching her sweat a little at your lack of response.

“So? You gonna ask me?”

“Wha- I thought I just did?” genuine confusion paints her face.

 “I’m waiting…..” you sing song, smiling

She rolls her eyes at your sarcasm, scoffing then takes both of your hands in hers “Nora Evans, will you please do me the honor of sharing a meal with me, outside of the facility, in a romantic setting, preferably under $40”

You chuckle nodding before glancing down at her lips. She leans in, her eyes sparkling with relief and excitement, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. When she pulls back, you can see the sincerity in her gaze, the promise of something real and honest.

—————————

Over the next few days, you and Diana take the first steps into your new relationship. It's a gradual process, filled with small, meaningful gestures—a shared laugh, a lingering touch, a whispered promise. The awkward tension that once filled the training room is replaced by a quiet, mutual understanding.

One afternoon, you both decide it's time to tell Sue. You've been dreading this moment, knowing how protective Sue can be. But it feels right, and you want your best friend to be a part of this.

You catch Sue in the dining hall, finishing up a study session. She looks up as you and Diana approach, a curious smile on her face.

"Hey, you two," she greets, her eyes flicking between you with an all-too-knowing look. "What's up?"

You glance at Diana, who nods encouragingly. Taking a deep breath, you start, "Sue, there's something we need to tell you."

Sue raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Oh? This sounds serious."

You exchange a nervous look with Diana, then take a step forward. "Well, Diana and I... we're kind of seeing each other now."

For a moment, Sue just blinks at you, her expression unreadable before she groans, smacking her hand on the table “Dammit, I owe Tamika $20 bucks”

You and Diana burst into laughter “What? You were betting on us?”

“She knew the second I told you not to date DT you were gonna do it anyways, shit” she sighs “I guess I’m happy for you though” she says jokingly.

“Oh whatever, Sue” you laugh

She looks up at Diana “If you hurt my best friend, just know I’ve got something in store for your ass”

Diana raises her hands in mock surrender, a playful glint in her eyes. "Got it, Bird. No need to send out a hit squad."

Sue narrows her eyes, leaning in for dramatic effect. "I'm serious. I've got connections."

You can't help but burst into more laughter at the exaggerated threat. Sue joins in, pulling both you and Diana into a tight, affectionate hug.

"Honestly, I'm happy for you guys," Sue says sincerely, giving you a squeeze. "Just be good to each other, alright?"

You nod, feeling a warmth spread through you. "We will, Sue. Promise."

———

lmk how you feel about this everyone! i kinda struggled writing it but in the end i like how it turned out

[sportsallover]

I just read this chilling account of the realities of the Challenger and Futures tours by L’Équipe, and I’m just speechless. From the non-existent prize money combined with the crazy costs, to the horror story-worthy depiction of the conditions in the tournaments and the hotels, it’s really a wonder we even get a top 100 at the end. The guys below that are just barely scrapping by.

To top it off, it ends on the high number of cheated matches and like… how can you blame a player for accepting to deliberately lose a match for 5k when he’ll only make 300 if he wins? That’s just nonsense. How are they supposed to survive? How are they supposed to keep playing at the tournaments if they end up losing money every week?

[danthropologie]

my theory that checo is gonna retire at the end of the year is looking less and less far fetched...

[hawkeyedflame]

.

[has-chip-beaten-the-allegaytions]

2/11/24! latest riptide episode: 115

no, but HAPPY SUPERBOWL SUNDAYYY 🗣🗣🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🇺🇲🇺🇲🇺🇲🇺🇲🇺🇲🇺🇲🇺🇲🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

[adore-gregor]

How being sick messes with your mental health is sometimes worse than the illness itself honestly 😕