#LOLOLOL

[lydiadeetzwannabee]

° ❀⋆࿔ dandelion ࿔⋆❀ °

° ࿔⋆❀ summary: When your name comes up for the first time since college, Art gets hit with a tidal wave of nostalgia. He invited you over to a motel room to talk, but you both know that’s just an excuse.

° ࿔⋆ notes: fem!reader, sexual content, smut, angst

° ࿔⋆ w/c: 3325

° ࿔⋆ a/n: i love eternal sunshine deluxe and i had to get this out my head bc UGH i love dandelion but back to scheduled programming right after this

2010

Queens, New York

Art can hear the trombone player from down the street as he steps up the metal stairs. The keys jingle in his hand when he walks to his designated room. Opening it was disappointing, but he didn’t expect much from a thirty-dollar motel wedged in the corner of a highway-side inn.

The motel smells like stale cigarettes and old air conditioning. One of those places where the floral bedspread has long since given up, and the flickering neon sign outside the window buzzes just loud enough to drown out any of his overthinking.

The room was unnecessary; he’s already got a suite courtesy of the Open. But Art’s been trying to save his personal life to himself during his rise in the tennis world. It’s not that he wouldn’t want to be seen with you. God, he would. He’d take your hand right now and post it, headline it, put it on a damn billboard if you let him. But he knew you wouldn’t want to be being spotted with him. Especially after how long it’s taken for one of you to break the silence between you. 

Finding you again wasn’t hard. He was in New York for the US Open and grabbed drinks with some old Stanford guys last night. One of them dropped your name in passing, mentioned you lived out here now. Art had your old number dialed into his phone before he’d even left the bar.

“Someone said you’re in Queens,” he said like it was nothing. Like it didn’t shake something loose in him. “I didn’t even know. I just— God, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Now he’s here, closing the door behind him as he stares at your “Be there in ten” text sent seven minutes ago.

“Just one night,” he had said. “I just want to talk.”

Talk. Even he doesn’t believe that. Art’s not sure what to do while he waits. He probably should’ve planned this better, spoiled you a little even though you’d hate it. But all he has is a bottle of alcohol and a fresh pack of cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke anymore—his dietitian won’t allow it—but he figures you probably never kicked the habit. There are a few condoms tucked in his wallet. Not because he expects anything. Just… wishful thinking.

It’s obvious what he wants. Obvious enough to make him forget how horrible your last encounter was. But Art’s always been an optimist when it comes to you. Stupid, stubborn hope. He’s never been able to kick that habit either.

He snaps out of his head when he hears a knock at the door, suddenly tensing. Ridiculous, honestly. He used to know you so well yet now you’re practically a stranger. His breath caught in his throat when he opened the door, eyes scanning over you. Suddenly, he was twenty again, sitting next to you in a study group. Laughing under flickering library lights. Thinking he had all the time in the world.

You look the same. But you don’t. Your eyes are still beautiful yet now they’re dimmer. Your face is sharper, older, more sure of itself. You don’t even say hello before you push past him, as if you’re already sick of having to deal with him. Like this whole thing is some errand you’ve agreed to run against your better judgment. He doesn’t take it personally. Not really. That’s always been you.

You look around the room with what he assumes is disgust, your arms crossed over your chest and your expression unreadable. You don’t sit, instead you turn to face him again. Art finally shuts the door, swallowing as he takes a step towards you. He keeps his distance, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says. Now he can finally take the time to appreciate you. You look good. Better than he remembered, and he remembered too much. It makes him feel stupid, like he should’ve worn something different or fixed his hair again before you got there, but you always liked that style on him. Maybe still do.

Your brow raises at him before you glance at the sad bottle of vodka on the coffee table. “Then why’d you rent the room?”

Touché.

He took a breath, suddenly finding the carpet extremely interesting. “…guess I hoped you would,” he admits.

And you sigh. Sigh like this is taking up your patience like you’re above this whole thing. Like even considering meeting again was a mistake. “What do you want, Art?”

He wants a lot of things. He wants to apologize, to take back every bad thing he ever said or did. To apologize for everything he didn’t do. He wants to tell you how he’s sorry for not talking to you sooner, for the way things ended between you. That he should’ve fought for you harder.

But all that comes out of his mouth is “I missed you.”

His words hang in the air for a second, the neon sign buzz feeling ten times louder than it was.

“You missed me?” you repeat like you don’t believe it. It’s not enough. 

“You find me now and suddenly you miss me? You didn’t try to find me before, Art,” you say, your voice tinged with that same disappointment that makes his heart ache.

“You disappeared.”

He sighed, knowing there was some truth in your words. He doesn’t even know why he didn’t try earlier. Maybe it was the fear that you wouldn’t want anything to do with him. But looking back, that was stupid.

“I know,” he starts. “I know. You’re right. But I—“

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” you muttered. And if it was meant to hurt him, it did. You finally move, but it’s only to push yourself off the wall, and Art’s scared that he’s losing you again. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d grown up.”

Art’s eyes flicker up to meet yours, taking a step forward. “And?”

You scan him, his face, his posture, his hands, and he swears you’re looking right through him. Like you still know him, whether you want to or not.

“Why are we wasting time?” you say, low and dangerous.

He paused. Not because he didn’t know what you meant, but because he did.

And maybe it’s stupid. Reckless. Idiotic. Maybe it’s the worst idea either of you has had in years. Maybe ignoring your problems until they come to fruition is unwise.

But you’re here.

He’s here.

And those unspoken words between you simmer with tension, hot and heavy and aching to be touched.

He doesn’t realize how he’s stepping closer until he stops right in front of you, his chest almost brushing against yours. “We don’t have to.”

You hum, your hands moving to unbutton your coat, and he simply washes. His eyes are longing, yearning, unsure if he’s allowed to touch you. Your coat hits the floor with a soft thud, and Art swears time slows down. It’s not just the way you look, it’s the weight behind it. The tension that coils tighter in his chest with every breath. This isn’t casual. This isn’t mindless. This is everything he’s tried to suppress and forget and move on from, standing just inches in front of him, calling his bluff.

“You still do that,” you murmur.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m going to disappear.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. He never has. So instead, he kisses you.

His eyelids flutter at the familiarity, his lips carefully moving against yours, like he’s afraid that if he does a single thing you don’t like, you’ll pull away. But instead, you push harder, your tongue slipping between his lips. You kiss him like you’re angry, like you want to hurt him for what he did to you. He kisses you back with everything he can’t say, hands cupping your face, your waist, anything he can touch to prove to himself you’re real.

Your hands press against his chest, feeling him through his sweater. He moans against your mouth before you tug the hem of it. He helps you pull it off, breaking the kiss for a split second before meeting your lips again. He tries to keep kissing you when you trail down to his jaw, his head tilting to make space for you. You kiss down his neck like you remember the map of him, and maybe you do. His hands slide under your top, fingertips grazing the skin of your back, and you don’t stop him.

He gently tugs your hair to lead you back to his lips. It’s messy. Urgent. He backs you toward the bed like instinct, and your bodies move in sync the way they used to, like no time has passed at all. His body covers yours as he settles in between your legs. He leans down, placing wet kisses along your neck while his hands palm your thighs. His hips rock against you, trying to elicit those soft sounds from your lips as he rubs his clothed erection against your center.

Your eyes close at the feeling, a soft moan escaping your parted lips. Your legs wrap around his waist and it only encourages Art to move faster, press against you harder. His hands roam across your body, fingers slipping under your top to push it up just enough to reveal your bra. His eyes focus on your chest before looking back at you with dark eyes, waiting for permission.

You give him a slight nod and he doesn’t hold back. Art’s taking off your shirt and tossing it to the side before you could change your mind. His fingers deftly unclasp your garment, slowly pulling it off. He kisses the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder, his lips grazing skin like it’s sacred.

His mouth wraps around your nipple with a soft hum and it makes your breath hitch. His tongue’s circling the bud, nipping now and then to make you gasp before kissing and sucking it better. He touches you like he’s rediscovering something precious, fingers memorizing your rhythm, coaxing every sound out of you until your back arches and your hands grip his shoulders.

His lips continue their actions with your other nipple as he feels down your stomach, his hand slipping under your waistband. He groans against you when he feels your wetness soaking through your underwear. He cupped your heat, making you gasp as his middle pressed against your clothed clit, rubbing it in slow circles.

Your hand flies to tangle in his hair, tugging at his golden locks as you begin to move against his touch. He pulls back from your breast with a pop, kissing you once again. His fingers push aside your underwear, lightly tracing your entrance while you moan against him. “You’re so wet,” he muttered, his arm moving to wrap around your shoulders to press you closer to him. 

You whine, gripping the side of his neck, and he slips his finger into your channel. Your nails dig into his skin, lips faltering against the kiss as he begins to pump his finger before adding a second. His pace slowly picks up, and your sounds only pick up volume. He pulls back enough just to admire you, the way your face is scrunched up in pleasure, the way your eyebrows knit together, your kiss-swollen lips glistening under the motel’s dim lights. You look angelic.

He can begin to feel you squeeze around his fingers, letting out a low grunt as he moves faster to bring you to your climax. Art isn’t sure how he made it so long without this, without you, but all he knows is he can’t stay away from you anymore. How can he when you’re writhing in pleasure under him like this? Your velvet walls tighten around him, begging him to make you cum. You’re almost breaking his skin from how hard you’re scratching his shoulders, desperately trying to grip onto anything when your orgasm hits you. Your hearing goes muffled, and you swear you see stars.

Art watches you in awe, his arm almost cramping, but he doesn’t stop. His need to watch you come undone overrules any other sense.

You ride out your orgasm before falling limp against the mattress as you pant. Art’s hand slows to a stop, and he slowly pulls out of your heat, eliciting a small whine from you. He sits back on his knees, slipping his fingers into his mouth to taste you. You can feel the desire begin to pool in your stomach at the sight of him moaning at your taste and licking every last drop.

You’re still recovering from your climax when your hands reach out to unbuckle his belt. He helps you, pushing away the denim before his fingers hook into your pants, pulling them down and off. He crawls over you, staring down at you.

And God, the way you look at him.

Like you hate him. Like you want him. Like you still remember what it felt like to love him.

He rests his forehead against yours for a moment, taking a second to feel you under him, to memorize your ragged breaths and body all over again.

“God,” he muttered. “I missed you…” Your hands tug at his sides, and he’s reaching for his wallet on the nightstand, pulling out the saved condom. He tears the packet open with his teeth, going to roll the latex on his cock before your hand wraps around his wrist. He stops, watching you with attentive eyes, scared he might’ve done something wrong. You shake your head.

"No," You breathed, your eyes locked with his. "I want to feel all of you. I'm on the pill. Please, just take me."

Art hesitated for a moment, the condom still in his hand. It had been so long since he'd felt a woman bare, and the thought of your tight, naked pussy wrapped around his cock was almost too much to bear. Throwing caution to the wind, he tossed the condom aside and positioned himself at your entrance, groaning at your arousal covering his tip.

"You sure about this?" he asked, his voice rough with desire. At your nod, he gripped your hips and slowly pushed forward, feeling your slick walls parting for him. He had to pause for a moment as the head of his cock popped inside you, taking a breath to stop himself from pushing in. You gasped his name—not loud, not performative, just honest. Like it slips out of you before you can stop it.

Your back arched off the bed as he stretched you open, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. "Fuck, you're so big," you gasped, your nails digging into his biceps. "Don't stop, Art."

With a grunt, Art thrust forward, burying himself in your heat in one smooth stroke. He paused, letting you adjust around his size. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him, drawing him in even deeper. He could feel every inch of you, and it took all of his willpower not to cum right then and there.

He began to move, pulling nearly all the way out before moving back in. His thrusts are slow at first like he’s savoring it, like he wants this to last forever. But you dig your nails into his shoulder, silently telling him not to hold back, and he doesn’t. He slowly begins to set a hard and fast pace. The room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your moans of pleasure.

The headboard creaks. The neon motel sign flickers outside. Somewhere on the street, the trombone is still playing. You whisper something that sounds like don’t stop. Or maybe it’s don’t leave. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask.

He just gives you everything. He can feel you start to tighten around him already, your body tensing as you climb closer to your peak. He leaned down to capture your lips in a filthy kiss, swallowing your combined moans. He moves with purpose, needing you to feel every inch of him, like he’s trying to apologize with the way his body moves against yours. One hand slides beneath the small of your back to hold you closer, deeper. All that matters is this. The heat, the sweat, the way your name leaves his lips like a confession. Like a prayer. You dig your nails into his back. He pulls away from the kiss to groan into your neck.

"Fuck, I'm close," he panted against your mouth. "I want to feel you cum on my cock. Let go for me, baby. I got you."

His words push you over the edge. Your head fell back, your climax hitting you in waves—slow at first, then all at once. He follows soon after, burying his face into your shoulder, muttering a choked “fuck” that sounds too raw to be casual. You could feel him painting your pussy white as he filled you with spurt after spurt of his cum.

It felt like forever before your climax passed and you both relaxed. Your eyes close at his weight on top of you, your arms wrapping around him.

You don’t speak for a long time. The room is hot now, heavier with silence than it was before. The sweat on your skin cools under the hum of the air conditioner, and Art’s hand rests against your hip like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he moves. The silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s... thick. Like something is sitting between you—years, mistakes, words unsaid—and now it’s all right there, hanging in the air.

He moves first, rolling onto his back before pulling you against his side. You don’t protest, your head nuzzles into his shoulder. 

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, quieter than before.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But then your eyes flick away. And that’s all it takes for him to know you’re not. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you again,” he says. “…I should’ve tried harder, baby. Said more. Did more.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t say anything. That’s what hurt the most.”

He flinches. “I know.”

Your fingers toy with the edge of the sheet, suddenly nervous. Like everything that just happened could fall apart if either of you breathed too loudly.

“I thought maybe,” you say slowly, “after Stanford... I dunno. I thought we were doing more than just having fun.”

“We weren’t just having fun,” he says immediately, his hand idly squeezing out the knots on your shoulders. “You were the only thing that felt real.”

You meet his eyes again. There’s something broken in them. Something *yours.*

“Then why’d you have to end it like that?”

He hesitates, averting your eyes to watch his hand knead your skin. “Because I was scared. And stupid. And…” He sighed, meeting your eyes again. “I thought I might’ve ruined it if I had you for too long.”

You’re quiet.

After a beat, “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to disappear then show up years later like this and pretend it didn’t matter.

“I’m not pretending,” he says. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

That lands hard. You feel it in your chest, in the pit of your stomach.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds. “I know I don’t deserve to. I just... I wanted you to know. I never forgot you. And if this— if tonight was just one night, then... thank you. For giving me that.”

You stare at him. And you hate how much he still means to you. You reach over, fingers brushing his hand. He laces his with yours without hesitation. You rest your head against his chest. He doesn’t know if you’ll stay. He doesn’t ask.

For now, you’re here.

And that’s more than he deserves.

[happyheidi]

𝗑

[chlyroplast]

not to be dramatic or anything but i’d die for punk babe 🤍

sorry for the lack of posts everytime i open ibis paint suddenly my finger feels heavier than my dog and the bags underneath my eyes have their own bags☺️

[otomiyaa]

[el-66]

Hello

[dummymango]

Good boy, Bad boy, what's it gonna be? the one that's right for you might not be the one for me

OG

[infamous-if]

I know you're not active but I hope you see this anyway :3

I keep scrolling and seeing Birds of a Feather edits of famous best friends during interviews and appearances and TT I keep thinking of fans editing clips of Seven and MC together with that song and my heart hurts 😭

Ah, what could’ve been…

[aurorasgate]

caleb goes off to college & you start sleeping in his room just because you miss him so much. he’ll never know anyway, you wash the sheets of your scent when you know he’s coming home to visit. that is until you’re eating dinner with him & gran n she casually asks if you guys are switching rooms since you’ve been sleeping in calebs room every night

[nessa007]

[cordiallyfuturedwight]

low quality gifs of a high quality man (cr. 0613data)

[lilbeanz]

Something my phone does when I'm writing on it is autocorrect *him* to *Jim*

And I -

It makes me laugh every time istg💀

[tunapesto]

she fear on my hunger til I termina

[monstersholygrail]

Today is a very exciting day my darlings because I’m GRADUATING COLLEGE TODAYYYY 🥳🥳🥳

Super exciting and hectic week, but I’ll be back to posting more for you all soon <333

[yazzydream]

What the heck is this

[infamous-if]

Maybe Sebastian was one of the friends we made along the way

who the hell is sebastian /j

[home-bythesea]

fem natsutsumu