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dilemmaontwolegs · 4 months ago

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Finish Line || LS2

Summary: A farewell fic to Logan because I'm a sookie and miss him already. Pairing: Logan Sargeant x fem!reader (living in America) WC: 4k

Summer Break 2021

Your mother always said, “Nothing good is easy and nothing easy is good.” To an eighteen year old fresh out of high school you thought she was referring to studying and exam results, not the more impactful experiences you would face once the red brick walls were left in the rear view mirror.

It would only take a matter of weeks to learn the real meaning.

Loving Logan wasn’t easy but it was impossible to stop the feeling of falling that came soon after meeting him. From the moment you met there was an indescribable connection but the paths of your future were heading in completely different directions and you knew at the end of summer you would say your goodbyes.

In the meantime you would enjoy what the weather had to offer and what better way to emancipate yourself from the innocence of youth and broadcast to the world that you were an adult than a girls road trip to Miami? You may not have been old enough to drink but that didn’t stop the college guys on summer vacation from keeping you and your friends well supplied.

Looking back, it only proved how young and naive you were.

“Dalt, I really shouldn’t be here,” Logan complained as a red cup was thrust into his hand. “I could get in so much trouble for this.”

“Relax, bro, you’ll be fine.” His older brother clapped him on the back happily. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The beach house was right on the waterfront and Logan stepped out onto the white sand to dip his toes in the warm water. He didn’t know who’s family the place belonged to but Dalton seemed to know everyone by name. It only made him feel even more left out and he thought maybe he should have just stayed in England for the summer break.

The house was stifling with the humid temperatures compounding to a sauna with all the bodies inside. The beer had started off cool but it had warmed in your hands and began to taste disgusting so you abandoned it into the hands of a stranger passing by who swiftly chugged it back before shouting the Greek alphabet you assumed was the name of his frat house. You had certainly bitten off more than you could chew and debated catching a Greyhound bus home where you felt safe but you wouldn’t ditch your friends who were absolutely in their element.

The beach wasn’t like any you had seen before arriving in Miami. The sand bars were tiny pockets of islands and each property seemed to be its own space divided by narrow canals that lead to dry docks for their expensive boats.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked the stranger who sat in the sand at the water's edge. It was impossible to ignore each other’s presence when the rising tide had left such little space.

“It’s a free country,” he said with a small smile, his palm quickly swiping away the picture he had drawn in the sand.

“I don’t know about that. Sometimes it feels like a prison. Sorry, that was really morbid.”

He laughed and tipped his head back to the sun that still beat down despite being late in the afternoon. “You’re not wrong though. I love coming home, but sometimes I’m glad I don’t live here anymore. I don’t know how to fit in with that,” he said looking back at drunken revelers who had stripped down to their swimwear despite having no inclination to actually enter the water.

He looked like the rest of the guys there: tanned skin over a toned body and dirty blonde hair hidden by a cap he wore backwards. The southern drawl also confirmed the fact he called this place home.

“Where do you fit in then?”

His shoulders shrugged as he picked at a desiccated chain of Neptune’s necklace that had washed up on the beach. He busied himself with plucking each individual bead off the seaweed and flicking it back to the water. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, well, what did you want to be when you were a kid?”

“A Formula One racing driver, or a fisherman.”

You buried your toes in the sand, wiggling them to dig deeper where it was cooler. “I thought the all-american dream was to be an astronaut?”

You met his blue eyes and saw the amusement that sparkled in them. “I’m afraid of heights,” he admitted with a grin before he held out his hand. “I’m Logan.”

“I think we are beyond names here, I already know your hopes and dreams,” you teased, shaking his hand.

“But I don’t know yours, yet.”

“I can give you my name, but as for hopes and dreams, I have no idea what I want to be. I’m still trying to figure that out.” You realised his hand was still in yours and gave it another small shake. “I’m Y/N.”

As the sun fell below the horizon the party grew larger and soon it spilled into the slice of paradise you had carved out with Logan. Sand was kicked up as two guys tackled each other to the ground and Logan threw a protective arm around you before they could crash into your side.

“Back it up bro,” he said as he rose to his feet and pulled you up too, tucking you in behind his back. “You could have hurt somebody.”

“Aw, Sargeant, is that your girlfriend?”

Logan ignored them and turned to check you were alright. His eyes scanned over your body and slowed on their ascent before he cleared his throat and met your eyes again. “Do you want to get out of here?”

You scanned the crowd and spotted two of your friends dancing and the other sat on some guy's lap, smiles on all their faces. You couldn’t disappear and make them worry but you didn’t want to stay as the party only grew more chaotic. “Yes, please, I’ll just tell my friends I’m leaving.”

You weren’t going to attempt to get amongst the gyrating bodies so instead headed to Dakota. The guy sitting beneath her noticed your arrival first and grinned at Logan as he stepped in beside you, his hand resting on the small of your back. “You’re leaving aren’t you? Well, you lasted longer than I thought you would.”

“You two know each other?” you asked.

“Only since birth,” Logan answered. “This is my brother, Dalton. Dalton, this is Y/N.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said before turning your attention to your friend. “I’m going to head off, Kote. Logan said he can drop me off at the apartment after dinner.”

“Are you sure? I can take you back if you want.”

You laughed and leaned into Logan, enjoying the warmth that came as his arm curled around your waist. “I’m good, someone needs to make sure those two get back.”

You both looked at the twins who had found dance partners and knew the rented 4 bedroom apartment was probably going to double in residents by morning. With a resigned sigh that she didn’t really feel as the group mother, Dakota nodded. “I’ve got them, you two have fun.”

The wink she sent you off with made your cheeks heat but you hadn’t actually planned on doing what the action implied. Of course Logan was attractive, and the thought of taking him to your bedroom was one that had you melting, but you were quite happy just enjoying his company too.

“Are you hungry? I know this great spot but it’s a bit of a drive from here.”

Out in the street where the sounds of the thumping bass couldn’t reach your stomach rumbled and you smiled sheepishly. “Just a little.”

The restaurant he knew was on Key Largo, about an hour south of where the party was in Miami Beach and you were amazed by how many bridges had been built to connect the keys. It would have felt a bit scary driving over the ocean if it wasn’t for Logan recounting stories of growing up in the state. It was a good distraction to listen to the fondness in his tone as he remembered fishing off the now-closed piers that he pointed out.

“I think this is where you fit in,” you said as he cruised along the highway in his pickup truck, the radio quietly playing an RnB station in the background. It was warm enough that the window was down and the breeze blew his hair back like a runway model.

He glanced across the car and lifted a questionable brow. “In Florida?”

“No! Behind the wheel. You look, I don’t know, comfortable? No, content, that’s the word.”

On the beach Logan had shared how he was halfway through the season of Formula 3 in Europe and had hopes to join an F1 team in the future. It was also when he mentioned returning to the country he currently lived in, four thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean. Despite only just meeting him, you felt the four week countdown arriving like a dark storm cloud.

Those four weeks flew by almost as quickly as you fell in love.

Summer Break 2024

The soy milk screeched and you winced at the sound before saving the new girl, and the coffee, from the machine. Thankfully it wasn’t scorched as the shop was already full with the busy morning foot-traffic and you wanted to keep it flowing for the customer’s sake.

“Soy latte with a shot of hazelnut?” A hand went up and you passed the takeaway cup over. “Have a nice day.”

You looked at the next order stuck to the bench and immediately searched for the customer, a smile splitting your face when you found him. “Baby, you’re home! Why didn’t you call?”

Logan ducked under the staff counter and met your embrace with strong arms that pulled you to your tiptoes. “I called, but you must have been busy here. God, it’s good to see you, sweetheart.”

You checked your phone in the pocket of your apron and saw the missed call before slipping it over your head. “Marie, can you keep an eye on everything?”

“Yeah, course, hun, take your time,” the part time barista said with a wave. “Welcome home, Logan.”

“Thank you.”

You dragged Logan eagerly through the swing door that stated ‘staff only’ and past the break room to the disused office at the back. “I’ve missed you so much,” you managed to say between the desperate kisses you shared as he kicked your door closed.

“Missed you too.”

Your hands reached beneath his shirt and he chuckled breathlessly as he caught them before they could move any further. “Tempting, sweetheart, but not here.”

You pouted as you draped your arms around his neck instead and held him tight. “I have the studio booked in 20 minutes, did you want to come?”

Logan rolled his eyes at the stupid question and didn’t bother to answer as he tucked his hands into the back of your jeans and buried his face in your hair. “You smell like blueberry muffins,” he hummed happily.

“I can steal one,” you offered but when you pulled away he quickly pulled you back with a shake of his head.

“Diet.”

You grabbed the flesh on his abdomen, feeling the hard muscle beneath. “You’re perfect, baby, one muffin isn’t going to change that - but it will make you happier. Go grab a seat in the staff room.”

You walked him back down the hall and let him settle into the couch while you grabbed a muffin from the front counter. Most of the rush had quickly cleared and with the lull in orders you made him his favourite drink.

“You spoil me, sweetheart,” he said with a gratefully smile as you placed the plate and cup on the coffee table. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.” You sank into the couch beside him and watched him pick apart the muffin, finding all the blueberries to eat first. He could feel your eyes on his hands as they fiddled with crumbs but before he worked up the courage to explain why he caught a flight two days earlier than planned. “What’s going on, baby?”

He exhaled a heavy sigh and wiped his hands clean before taking yours. “I think it’s over.”

Your heart cleaved apart and your ears started ringing as your world came crashing down. There was only one semester left in your art programme before all the plans the two of you made would come to life - plans that started with moving to England with Logan. Plans that were crumbling down.

“It’s over?” you repeated as silent tears streaked your face and your hands slipped from his.

Horror bled into Logan’s features and he snatched your hands back, placing them over his chest where his heart beat rapidly with panic. “Not us, never us,” he rushed with a harsh shake of his head. “Fuck, sweetheart, you are my everything.”

You sagged with relief as he wiped your eyes but the relief was short lived as you understood what he meant and the phantom pain in your chest returned. “Have you spoken to James?”

He nodded and leaned into your touch as your palms ran up his chest to cradle his face. “It’s not good.”

To hear the defeat in his voice was something you never wished to hear again. It was a sound that no 23 year old should make, he was too young to feel the immense pressure he was under and a weaker man would have been broken by it. But Logan was strong, mentally and physically - he would recover from this, you would make sure of it.

“Come on,” you whispered as you rose to your feet and tugged his hands.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“But you have class.”

You grabbed your handbag from your locker and tossed him the car keys. “This is more important, and I can paint anywhere.”

—

The drive to Miami took most of the day and the frown on Logan’s forehead seemed to soften as the arid air turned humid and the paddocks turned to swamp before he sped through Alligator Alley. The top 40 charts played quietly on the radio and Logan hummed along with the ones he liked while he held your hand on your thigh.

A contented sigh of relief exhaled from deep in Logan’s chest as the sunset and the city lights illuminated the horizon. Though he was tired to his bones, just the sight of his home was enough to rejuvenate him and he sat up a little straighter before taking the exit that would lead him to Fort Lauderdale.

Madelyn and Daniel were already expecting Logan and the front door opened before he could turn the engine off. It had been a while since they last had Logan home and you felt a little guilty since most of his returns to home soil were to visit you instead, but they didn’t hold it against you. Madelyn was just happy that there was someone who loved and supported Logan as much as she did.

It was immediately clear that she wasn’t aware of his current struggles as you saw him hide behind a confident smile as she asked how everything was going.

“I don’t want to disappoint them,” he admitted as he closed his bedroom door after dinner.

You placed your bag on the floor and took a seat at the headboard before patting the spot beside you. Logan flopped down on the bed and rested his head on your thighs while his long legs hung over the edge, looking up as if you had all the answers.

“You could never disappoint them, Lo, they just want you to be happy. And, you're worrying about things that haven’t even come to pass. We don’t know what the second half of the season will bring.”

“I know you are being reasonable, but I can’t help thinking this is the end. Everyone else thinks so too.”

“You mean everyone on X, formally known as twitter,” you said with a roll of your eyes that made him chuckle. “How about no social media for the whole break? Just disconnect from it all for four weeks.”

“And what happens at the end of the break?” he asked quietly, sensing deja vu from the last time he asked this three years ago. It was an eerily similar state too with his head on your legs but you were on the white sands instead of a bed. You had already fallen in love but he was due to fly back to Europe and you would be getting in the car with your friends and heading home. He had forever changed you that summer.

You combed your fingers through his hair as you relived the same memory. “We will be grateful for the time we had together.”

A smile tugged at his lips and he sat up so he could pull you onto his lap. “I’m not letting you go again.”

“I should hope not,” you stated as your knees settled either side of his thighs and you reached into his pocket to fish his phone out. “Now say goodbye to this, I am having you all to myself.”

He plucked the phone from your fingers and tossed it to the side table before putting all those glorious muscles to good use. The room spun until he caged your body beneath his and he gently kissed his way across your collarbone. “You already have me, sweetheart.”

–

A sick twisting feeling gripped your gut as you waved goodbye to Logan through misted eyes. No matter what you had said, you could feel his stress growing as the break came to an end and now he was going back alone. You wished you could go with him.

The drive back to your apartment was too quiet but you couldn’t listen to the radio because the songs he would have hummed to would only make you miss him more. It always took days, weeks even, to reacclimate yourself to the loss of his presence when he left. It never got easier but the memories made were worth it.

The days dragged by as classes began again and the repetitive routine of life was reestablished. Finally it was the weekend and you could curl up on the couch and watch Logan’s practice on F1TV while you were surrounded by paintings of him. There were two new additions that had come back from Miami, one capturing his happiness as he reeled in a bluefish and the other capturing his perfect features as he sunbathed shirtless, that one was purely indulgent.

“Oh no, Sargeant has taken a big shunt into the barriers there.”

Your feet slammed to the floor as you jumped out of your seat and stumbled closer to the tv as if you could reach through it and help, but you were helpless to watch as Logan remained in the car in the middle of the track - red flags waving.

“Come on, baby, get out of there,” you begged as you heard his radio saying he was okay, but then the back of the car ignited into flame. You were screaming for him to get out as George’s car rolled by, his hands gesturing wildly for Logan to get out too before he finally was free of the seat harness and jumping out over the halo.

You finally breathed a sigh of relief but it didn’t last as the camera cut to Logan leaning on the barriers, his head hung in defeat despite the helmet hiding his face. You knew your boyfriend better than anyone, you knew exactly what was going on inside his head and you knew you had to do something.

The credit card Logan had given you years ago had been left discarded in the back of your underwear drawer. He said it was for you to use but you had never been with him for the money and even as a broke uni student you hadn’t used it once. But this was an emergency, and if you were ever going to use it then you could be damn sure it was going to be spent on him.

One quick email was sent to your professor begging for an extension due to a family emergency before you packed a bag and booked the first flight out to Amsterdam.

With shaking hands you typed a message: I’m so glad you got out of there, baby. I’m on my way and I love you so much xxx

You knew he wouldn’t be able to reply for a little while since he would have to get back to the team garage, and there would be other responsibilities first like having a medical check and debrief, but you sent it anyway along with the flight numbers so he knew where you would be and when. It was going to be a long day with the 13 hours of flights plus the change in timezone but nothing was going to keep you from getting to Logan before the race tomorrow.

–

A stranger with a whiteboard greeted you at the airport and the exhaustion of the trip faded away when you reached the paddock with a pass in hand and stepped into the Williams garage. Bodies of mechanics moved in sync as they rushed around the car preparing it for the race that was due to start in a few short hours but it was one man that was standing among them that drew you closer.

“Lo,” you greeted softly behind him on raised tiptoes.

A wide smile split his face as he turned to embrace you, lifting your feet off the ground as he buried his face in your neck. “Hellow, sweetheart,” he breathed against your skin before inhaling the familiar scent of your perfume.

Your hands tightened on his waist as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Are you okay?”

He pulled back and his smile faltered. “I’m better now that you’re here.”

You reached up to trace the curve of his cheek where his smile had been but his team principal called his name before you could feel the shadow of his beard on your palm. “Can I borrow you for a minute?” he asked Logan before spotting you, a flicker of surprise on his face. “Hello, Y/N, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“You too, James,” you replied politely before stepping out of Logan’s arms and giving him a little nudge in the right direction. “I’ll wait over in hospitality.”

Logan spent what time he could with you, reassured by the feel of your arms wrapped around his neck and your cheek pressed to his as you sat on his lap in the single chair that furnished his driver room. The thin walls did little to dampen the noise of the motorhome and the crowd beyond but for a few minutes Logan could forget it all and the pressure that came with it - until the clock ticked away the precious minutes alone and reality returned.

“I have to score a point today,” he whispered like he was confessing a sin and he tipped his head back to stare at the roof. “No point, no seat. That's the deal.”

“Can they do that with your contract?”

“They can do whatever they want, sweetheart. I’m lucky they let me go this long without contributing.”

You cupped his face and tipped it forward so he was forced to look you in the eyes. “There are more ways to contribute to the team than just scoring points. You spend hours in the simulator every week so they can get their precious data.”

“And then I go and cost them $250k when I crash,” he laughed humorlessly and dropped his forehead to yours. “I think this is it. I’m tired and it’s so hard to enjoy it now. That’s the worst part out of all of it. I used to like my job, it was all I wanted to do.”

Your thumbs caught the tears that clung to his lower lashes. “What do you want now?”

“I honestly have no idea, I just know I want to be wherever you are.”

A knock at the door interrupted the promise you were going to make and someone in a William’s shirt said it was time to head back to the garage before ducking back out of the room.

“I love you” you whispered between the kisses you traced across the bow of his lips. “I want you to go out there today and forget James and points and all that stuff and just enjoy the race. I have watched you give everything to this team but today I want you to be selfish, okay? Enjoy it out there or it’s all for nothing, no matter the outcome. And when you get out of that car I will be waiting for you, arms wide open.”

Logan closed his eyes and exhaled a shuddering breath before he captured your lips in a passionate kiss that left you both breathless. Resolute and proud, he stood up and placed you on his feet before grabbing his cap and slapping it on his head. “I’ll see you at the finish line.”

#logan sargent x reader #Logan sargeant fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic #logan sargeant fic #f1 x reader

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nonotnolan · 1 year ago

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Stories I Love (Part 2)

Again, nothing personal with the order listed here, it's mostly chronological. Tumblr doesn't like a ton of hyperlinks, so the list is in two parts. Here's Part 1.

Though, now is a good time to point out a few major gaps in this list. One, I don't care for celebrity, sports, or sweat/fart transformations very much, so that eliminates a few prolific authors. Two, some authors have much bigger websites elsewhere, like @2xskin or @takeovertales, and I haven't been consistent about favoriting works that could be found in two places. Three, a special shoutout to @piosantaibhseil's very long body swap series which would be tricky to link otherwise.

Also, a special shoutout-- I don't think my blog would have nearly as much of a footprint without @bodyswap-possession-shapeshift's valuable reblog contributions to this community. He remains one of the fastest and most consistent about showing support to all creators on his lists, and I hope he knows how much that support has been appreciated over the years.

By @deviantknight25 : Implanted Mutual to Cover Medal and Leaf Surfeit Changes Partner in Crime

By @transformhim : Learning His Lesson Fun with the Mimic Changing Work Roles The Devil Next Door Sauna Shenanigans

By @tfmybody : The Intern A Fortunate Theft

By @tf-lover : The Homo Bomb - Lewis Ashton 12th Hour The Way You Look Tonight

By @bodyhopper-files : Just A Dream Untitled 12/26/22 How I Transformed My Dad's Life Make Me

By @0ng0ingw0rk : Morning Adjustments Paradise

By @verus-veritas : Slipping Out The Halloween Costume Love Thy Neighbor Untitled 9/24/20 Hard Work Pays Off

By @shootingstarwritings : Beach Bummin' It Back Home Couples Therapy

By @swap-and-possessions : Passed Out Suit Cleaning Buy Low, Sell High

By @kylecrusoe-captions : Untitled 4/15/23 Untitled 10/21/22 Untitled 11/24/19

By @exploratorytfs : Power Exchange Special Weekend Swap Need to Study Free Market Series: Debts, Repossession, Ladder The Swap Booth From Twink to Daddy Swap Kink Accepted On Site Family Gatherings Join Them

By @noface-phantom7 : Possession: BEyond WILLing Bodysuit: Superior Dominic Bodyswap: It Only Feels Right Bodyswap: On Second Thought Bodysuit: Skin Salesmen Demons, Suits and Faces

By @fantasyvessels Don't Waste Your Youth Or Else Project Personal Drones III

By @joshslater : Very PT The Lost Year of Gain My Bully Manhood Exchange Foreign Exchange Another Kyle Eastern Tennessee Golden Years Untitled 6/10/19 Flesh Limited Equal Exchange Partystick Urgent Message Final Answer Wanted Crossdressing

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ironheart305 · 7 months ago

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Sweating my Balls off in the sauna this morning. Fucking strong smell coming from the pits….

Brothers we have a natural smell we all recognize from being babies and youth. The smell of our fathers holding us and protecting us. There is something incredibly comforting about this smell. No need to cover it up or feel ashamed about your natural BO…. If you stink then get a damn shower and wash with soap. There is a difference between a natural smell of a Man and bacteria growing on your skin from not washing. Be proud of the Man you are and know others probably recognize that Man smell of yours and find it quite comforting.

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dollpqrts · 6 months ago

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̽ ̽ PAIRING — Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig

̽ ̽ SYNOPSIS — In the confines of the New Rochelle Country Club sauna, former best friends and tennis doubles partners find themselves inches apart for the first time in twelve years. It’s the night before they compete against each other in the final match of the Phil’s Tire Town Challenger. With unresolved tension at an all-time high, the heat of the sauna isn’t the only reason for their sweaty bodies or heaving chests. Patrick seeking some sort of reconciliation is met with a displeased Art who can’t quite place where his anger stems from. With The men attempting to hash out past wounds, the steam room is hot and charged with passion, it promises violence or something just as strenuous.

̽ ̽ WORD COUNT — ≈ 3k

̽ ̽ CONTENTS — 18+ SMUT MDNI, HEAVY angst to start, alternate ending of canon scene, vulnerable Patrick, mean asf Art, DEVASTATING argument, sexual tension, YEARNING, minor violence - nothing incredibly graphic, porn with plot and context, public ish sex, slight humiliation, praiseee, bottom ish Art, dirty talk, frot, desperation, internalized homophobia, mentions of Tashi, slight toxicity, hand jobs, blowjobs, biting, and lots of sweat <33

̽ ̽ A/N — This is just super self indulgent, Artrick angst rots my brain daily and I feel like this was the sauna scene we deserved </3 I genuinely haven’t written anything for YEARS sooo go easy on me, but YASS first piece of writing on this blog!! don’t hesitate to send in asks or message me for any tips or advice it would be so appreciated. Looking for friends and mutuals sooo, that too :)) if u enjoy reading pls lmk with a comment, or sending a message, however you��d like xoxo

"I don't matter?"

Patrick Zweig was a figure of confidence, well known to many as much too sure of himself for what he was. For what they thought he was anyway. Confrontation was a fuel to him, something Art knew all too well.

What wasn't widely known, and what slipped Art's memory, something that he used to know through and through, was that Patrick’s bold demeanor was a facade carefully cultivated to mask his doubts. Patrick's internal voice was incessant and worried. A relentless drumbeat. He held a firm grasp on his own identity and emotions, never wavering in his display of self-assurance. However, his greatest fears ruled him through the subconscious of his mind.

He was terrified that the most important people to him were unable to understand the depths of his being, that they only saw his shortcomings. He yearned for a love as profound as what he was capable of. Like a flower reaching for the sunlight, he needed someone who could nourish him completely. A full type of love that could only exist if someone could see him for who he truly was.

In a steam-filled sauna, Art Donaldson found himself seated face to face with his childhood best friend for the first time in twelve years. Since then he had degraded Patrick to just another fleeting relationship from their youth. It irked him that he couldn't simply erase that part of his past. As they sat there, their bodies naked and only their waists covered by towels, Art's gaze flickered over the other's body. Patrick, though lacking Art's discipline, was chiseled like a Greek god, which both aggravated and mesmerized Art.

Art couldn't help but think that Patrick was relishing in the discomfort, deliberately putting them in this vulnerable position. It seemed clear to Art that Patrick was fully aware of the effect he had on him. He grappled with self-disgust, frustrated by his inability to articulate himself, that he was undeniably affected by Patrick's orchestration. The opportunity to assert himself to Patrick was finally here. Yet he was struggling to find his voice.

The sight of Patrick's unclothed body in front of him only added to his agitation, taunting him with feelings he couldn't quite place - a mix of envy and something else he wasn't sure of. His lips folded into a straight line, a mannerism unconsciously borrowed from Tashi. Beads of sweat gathered at his hairline, tension that had nothing to do with the heat of the sauna.

"Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the world." Art's voice cut through the thick air, and hung between them, heavy with unspoken history.

Patrick's confident grin faltered as he came to know two things. His much-anticipated showdown with Art provided no consolation for his insecurities, and his greatest fear became reality - Art didn't care anymore, maybe he never really had.

For years, Patrick had stubbornly, willingly endured hunger and homelessness all in pursuit of proving something. That he was worthy of the adoration, the victories, the accolades, and the fame of a star tennis player, he believed he was every bit deserving as Art was of it all. The only person who could truly validate that for him was Art himself. With cruel precision, Art had shattered Patrick into a million pieces.

"We're not talking about tennis," Patrick said softly, his eyes seeking understanding.

Art wondered what Patrick could hope to gain from him. Carving out a new life with Tashi, it took time and effort to move on from his teenage years. With the help of Tashi, he had transformed himself into tennis champion Art Donaldson, the Art that Tashi loved, Tashi Duncan's devoted husband, and the father of her child. He had intentionally buried Patrick in the recesses of his mind, leaving behind the insecurities and emotional bullshit of his youth.

Art scoffed, his voice taking on an edge, "What the fuck else do I have to talk to you about?"

Their exchange became a verbal rally, each word a calculated strike. Art desperately clung to his lead, an invisible audience holding its breath. Was Tashi the unseen umpire, coaching Art like an angel perched on his shoulder? Or had he internalized her so completely that her guidance was no longer necessary to decimate his opponent?

Patrick, completely deflated, realized that the words spilling from Art's lips were not his own. They were out of place, disjointed. How could these words be a product of Art's own mind?

They had shared a world of experiences, yet Art fixated on just one - tennis. It was as though tennis had become the sole defining factor of what they were to each other. While Art and Tashi's love seemed intertwined with the sport, what Art and Patrick had run far deeper than the confines of a tennis court. It transcended tennis entirely. At least, that's how Patrick felt.

"I just wanted to come in here to wish you luck, Art."

Art's eyes narrowed, darting away from Patrick's earnest gaze. Distrust clouded his judgment, unable to fathom Patrick's sincerity. There had to be an ulterior motive. The thought stirred his mind mirroring the windstorm raging just beyond the warmth of the sauna. From Art's perspective, he possessed everything Patrick desired – a hot wife, success, and an endless stream of attention. How could Patrick genuinely wish him luck?

A stroke of luck on Art's end the following day could propel Art Donaldson into the next chapter of his illustrious tennis career and leave Patrick Zweig in the shadow of failure. Art knew that luck was the only thing that kept him ahead of Patrick before, that he'd never actually beaten him, he couldn't shake the feeling that he still needed it to stay there, that he was still depending on it.

"That makes no sense."

Patrick mustered a faint semblance of a smile, "I wanted to tell you that I’m looking forward to it. I miss playing with you."

"Yeah?" Art jumped up suddenly, his towel slipping slightly as he adjusted it and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a quick motion. He inched toward the sauna door, the wooden slats warm under his bare feet. "Well, I don't miss playing with you, man. I'm too old for it."

"Oh, get over yourself, Art," Patrick retorted, his eyes locking onto Art's in a challenging gaze.

"Get over myself? Seriously? Look at you, sauntering in here to rile me up before our match. On some sentimental bullshit. We both know every person at this bumfuck tournament thinks that you're nothing, Patrick. I've worked hard to get where I am, I deserve that win tomorrow. You? You're lazy, using cheap shit like this to get your way. Don't act like you ever gave a damn after all these years - about our relationship, or whatever it is you're trying to say."

Patrick could only shake his head in disbelief as the other man dug into him. "Can you even hear yourself anymore?" Suddenly, he sprang to his feet, grabbing his towel before it hit the floor. Art took a step back, his eyes tracing the movements of Patrick's fingers along the towel.

"Do you get off on some delusion that you're all innocent, living the dream, and that I've gotten my karma or whatever the fuck?"

Closing the gap between them, Art challenged Patrick right back,

"Tell me, how do you see it then, Patrick?"

Patrick inhaled deeply, his body coursing with anxious energy but still able to hold himself firm before the other.

"You abandoned me." he declared, voice quivering despite the intensity behind his words.

The two men stood inches apart, tension crackling between them, suffocated by each other's breath.

"What the fuck do you want me to say to that?" Art's voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

"Go to hell, Art." Patrick hissed, his hot breath caressing Art's face, spit landing on it. Art tilted his head up, meeting Patrick's blazing stare with defiance.

In a blur of motion, Art's fist flew upward. Patrick's head jerked to the right, his hand rising to cradle his jaw as if anticipating the impact. Before Art could strike again, Patrick seized his wrist and held it tightly. Art's grunt of pain morphed into an animalistic growl as he lunged forward, their bodies tangling together in a fight for control.

With raw energy, their muscles strained as they grappled with each other. Sweat-slicked skin slid against skin. Art's chest heaved against Patrick's, their hearts pounding in a frenzied rhythm. Bodies intertwined, locked in a primal dance of dominance. Nails raked across skin, leaving angry red trails that would linger for days. The air was thick, charged with the promise of violence or something equally explosive.

Art's hand found Patrick's throat, fingers pressing into the pulse point. Patrick countered swiftly, fisting a handful of Art's hair and wrenching his head back. His other hand clamped down on Art's shoulder, pinning him in place.

Their faces were less than an inch apart, breath mingling in hot, ragged pants. Patrick's eyes seared right through Art, still for a moment. In a ravenous haze, their lips crashed together. The kiss was brutal, all clashing teeth and battling tongues. Patrick bit hard down onto Art's lower lip causing him to shove Patrick away only to yank him in, entwining their bodies back together.

They devoured each other, hands roaming with desperate need. The world faded elsewhere, leaving only the intoxicating sensation of long-awaited touch, the taste of desire on their tongues. Lost in their universe of violence and passion, they clung to each other, neither willing to back down or let go. Their embrace tightened as if trying to meld into one. The heat of the sauna paled in comparison to the fire ignited between them. Years of pent-up emotion poured out in a torrent of kisses as the men groped one another, each touch electric.

Art's mind was cloudy, "Patrick," he gasped, breaking away. His eyes were wild, conflicted. "We can't—"

Patrick silenced him with another burning kiss. "Don't think," he breathed, chuckling against Art's lips. "Anything but that."

They stumbled backward, their backs hitting the rough wooden wall. Goosebumps prickled across their skin from the impact. Like an animal clawing for control, Patrick's hands were everywhere, feeling every inch of Art's body that he could and holding on tight. Art moaned and gasped under his touch as he pressed his body closer, their throbbing erections pressing together through layers of fabric.

"Yeah, that's right." Patrick whispered huskily, "Feel it, Art. Feel how much you want me." A low, guttural moan escaped Art’s lips as the dirty words caressed his ear. Fear and arousal stormed his mind. He knew that at any moment, someone might innocently walk into the steam room and discover them, but he couldn't bring himself to stop.

Art reached into the waistline of Patrick’s towel grazing delicate fingers over the warmth, groaning at the feeling of him, how big he felt. Patrick took a firm grip on Art's wrist, guiding his hand down the fold of his towel. Patrick's cock sprang free, hard and throbbing, the tip slick with pre-cum. Art swallowed nervously, his throat dry.

Their fingers intertwined tightly, Patrick guided their hands up and down his glistening length. He whispered praises in Art's ear, his other hand removing the towel that had been covering him with ease. It was as if he had been waiting for this moment for years, eagerly anticipating it with every fiber of his being.

Patrick rubbed their cocks together, his grin growing wider as the other's jaw dropped in pleasure. "Look who's all hard for me again," he teased, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. "Remember when we used to do shit like this all the time?"

Art could only weakly nod, the memory of that long-forgotten time when they were still friends, and their hands would roam freely. When they said whatever excuse they could make up just to make everything feel okay, whatever excuses could allow them to have a next time.

“I know you were really thinking about me every time we jerked off together.” Patrick teased, his tongue flicking over Art's neck.

"Stop Pat...that's not true,"

“Oh c’mon, don’t you wanna cum for me just like you used to?”

Patrick pressed on, increasing the speed and pressure of their movements, the friction sending shivers through both of their bodies. Art could barely speak.

“Yes, yes...please,” he begged for release, hardly able to form any coherent words.

Patrick let out a low chuckle, pressing his lips against Art's neck as he tightened his grip over their cocks. Art's hips bucked up involuntarily, biting into Patrick's shoulder to muffle a strangled moan.

"You're the same sensitive little boy you were when we were young" Patrick taunted, twisting his fingers just right.

All Art can do is mindlessly nod his head as he desperately fucked into Patrick's hand-- his mind reeling at the embarrassing little comments Patrick’s making. The warmth of Patrick's cock against his own, the wet and slick of their pre-cum mingling together, his rough stubble pricking the sensitive skin along his neck. He was so close, so close...

“Don’t fucking stop,” His voice took on a demanding, almost threatening tone. His hips rutted up into their interlocked fists as he reached the brink of climax. His other hand dug into Patrick's back, leaving scratches in its wake as he mumbled incomprehensible pleas and praises.

Patrick coached him through it, practically growling in his ear "That's it, fuck my hand Art.”

His body trembling with climax, Art released all over their hands and stomachs, his body hot and red, his chest heaving. Patrick continued to stroke his sensitive cock through his orgasm, pushing him past his limit.

“Oh god, t-too much...” Art groaned, his body twitching with every little touch, yet still needily grinding into Patrick’s palm. He had to push Patrick off of him before he would nearly start crying from the overstimulation.

They collapsed onto the bench just by where they were standing, their bodies glistening with sweat and flushed with exertion. The scent of their arousal filled the air, enveloping them in a sweaty heat. Art's cheeks burned with embarrassment as Patrick continued to stroke his hard cock next to him.

“Why don’t you get on your knees and finish me off, hm?” he suggested with a smirk, “It’s the Least you could do after being so mean.”

Art swallowed thickly, hesitating for a moment before slowly lowering himself onto his knees. Humiliation and desire coursed through his veins. He took Patrick's stiff length in his nervous hand, his tongue darting out to lick the droplets of pre-cum that shone at the tip.

Patrick groaned, his hips jerking forward. "That's it, baby,"

The taste of Patrick's skin and pre-cum lingered on Art's lips as he took him in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the head. The saltiness of his own release was still there, all over his cock. With a trembling hand, Art gripped Patrick's thrusting hips and guided him closer to his mouth. His lips wrapped around the tip, his throat constricting as he tried to take more of him in. Patrick let out a deep groan, gripping the edges of the bench and fingers tangling in Art’s hair as he reveled in the sensation. "Fuck, Art," he panted, his eyes locked on the sight before him. "You’re so good at this."

He silently took in his praise as Patrick's thrusts grew more forceful, driving deeper into Art's mouth with each motion. Feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over him, there was nothing he wanted more than to please Patrick, to make him reach new heights of pleasure that they could only have dreamed of when they were young. He worked with both of his hands and his mouth at the same time, pumping down his length and groping his balls. The room was filled with wet sounds, with Patrick's rough grunts and moans. His throat stretched around Patrick's cock, and tears welled up in his eyes.

"God I've missed you," Patrick exclaimed between ragged breaths. "You look amazing from up here."

Patrick's thrusts became erratic and his breathing grew shallow and strained. With one final plea, he pushed Art's head down and held it there as he reached his climax.

"I'm gonna cum."

Art felt the hot spurts hit the back of his throat, and it took all he had not to gag. He swallowed subconsciously, tasting the bitterness of Patrick's release. Patrick pulled out, his hips twitching sporadically as he fought to catch his breath. With Patrick's orgasm, Art could also feel his own comedown, a shift of realization in him. He swallowed hard, his throat raw with the taste of Patrick. He could feel his tears stained on his cheeks, and he tried his best to wipe them away discreetly. He quickly wiped his mouth as he got up, avoiding eye contact with Patrick. He grabbed his towel from the floor, wrapping it around himself before he sat further down Patrick on the bench.

Patrick, panting and still coming down from his peak, barely had time to react before Art slipped away from him.

“What was that for?”

For a moment, Art didn't answer. He stayed silent, his eyes trained on the floor. “I just needed to clean up.”

“Is that all?” Patrick asked. “Or are you too ashamed to look at me?”

Art didn’t say anything.

Patrick felt the change in Art's demeanor, the shame that seemed to radiate off of him. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Trapped in awkwardness. Patrick cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the tense quietness.

"So, uh, you're letting me win tomorrow right?"

Art's forced laugh didn't reach his eyes, the weight of their earlier exchange still pressing on him.

"Oh Fuck off man…" he grumbled, burying any hint of vulnerability from before. His towel tightened in his grip, damp fabric biting into his skin as he pushed away the memory of the fleeting intimacy they had shared. The moment was gone now, and so were any traces of tenderness or closeness between them.

“I meant every word that I said.” Art’s voice trembled with conviction. Without another glance, he stormed out of the sauna, leaving Patrick naked and by himself in the leftover sex and stifling heat of the room. All Patrick could do was sit there, his fingers tapping nervously against his knees.

#₊˚ ʚ by nads ɞ #challengers 2024 #artrick rotting my brain #challengers #art x patrick #artrick #art donaldson #patrick zweig #art donaldson fanfic #patrick zweig fanfic

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flodaya · 8 months ago

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okay I have collected my thoughts and i am done screaming in dms

mild spoilers so read at your own risk

i have not read the script ever and i am so glad i didn’t because as a movie the story worked really well

it was fast paced and kept you entertained

my biggest complaint is that the timelines are a little messy and the jumps can get a little too confusing

though on the other hand i did like how they chose to parallel some scenes of their youth with the present

all of three of them are such fucked up people but..... why do i still have a huge soft spot for Patrick and Tshi, idk man, if teenage Art wasnt such a little snake i know Tashi and Patrick could have been such a cute romance

they definitely had the best chemistry too imo, that scene of college Tashi and Patrick in their room ???? SO HOT i was gagged

(sidenote: i need to get back into yoga)

Z, Mike and Josh are such talented actors and portrayed their roles so so so well

i also love how you really cant root for any of them, they are all equally fucked. up and unlikeable but i will still say Art is the biggest SNAKE because he was the whole reason the mess between the three of them even got so out of hand

the sauna scene? oh damn, the homoeroticism in this movie can not be understated

also thank you @ Luca for canon bisexual Patrick <3

i am obsessed with love triangles that are actual triangles and not just two men fighting over a woman, these three were all obsessed with each other and so attracted to each other in every sense of the word

the ending is really something, it's one of the main reasons i want to watch it again because i need to relive it to fully comprehend what happened there

WHEN PATRICK DID THE RACKET THING AT THE END I SCREAMED i knew it was going to come back

the directing and cinematography was STUNNING, i had some shots that felt strange (eg. when we were the racket or the ball?) but then you got shots as if you were watching from underneath the court which were so visually pleasing

as many have said the score is beautiful, it fits the entire vibe so well, you really get immersed in the world of this fast paced tennis competition

i'm bad at giving star ratings so i'll just say i enjoyed it a lot, it was a really fun time and i'm so happy Z's first movie in a leading role was so good (malcolm and marie did not happen)

#challengers #challengers spoilers #zendaya the movie star you are <3333

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octuscle · 11 months ago

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Ski instructor calendar

Philipp hated the mountains, Philipp hated the snow and he especially hated skiing. But after he was new to the company and his entire department flew to the Italian Alps for a weekend of skiing, he had to bite the bullet and take part in this event. As the new head of department, he had to integrate.

While the arrival on Thursday evening had been quite fun and he had made good conversation with the new employees, Friday turned out to be an absolute debacle, as expected. Philipp looked absolutely silly in his ski suit. He moved awkwardly and at walking pace across the piste. And was still on the ground more often than he skied his turns.

His ski instructor was close to despair, all the other complete beginners in the short were making rapid progress, but not Philipp. When the afternoon and the end of the first day of ski school finally arrived, Philipp breathed a sigh of relief. The moment he took off his ski boots in the ski cellar was the highlight of the day. He actually wanted to go to the sauna undisturbed for a while, as long as his colleagues were still happily racing down the slopes. But after standing naked in front of the mirror in his comfortable single room and seeing the bruises on his misshapen body, he decided against it and sat down in front of the fireplace after a shower and a coffee in the lobby.

Dinner and the digestive at the bar were pure gauntlet running for Philipp. He had made a fool of himself today. And that was the first impression he had made on many of his colleagues. His start at the new company had been a complete failure. His night was correspondingly restless.

Phil didn't care that he had to share a double room with a trainee from the accounts department. Firstly, he was glad that he was allowed to come along as a trainee at all. Secondly, he had never been on such a luxurious ski vacation in his entire life. He was more used to sweat-smelling dormitories in youth hostels. And thirdly, the trainee was damn hot. They had both slept naked, which had also been due to too much booze at the hotel bar. And when his roommate went to piss in the bathroom at dawn, he had an impressive morning wood. Phil took devoted care of the beast afterwards.

The two of them were among the first at breakfast afterwards. Phil couldn't wait to get back on his snowboard. He loved the crisp air, the snow was fantastic and with his new-found fuck buddy it was incredible fun to glide through the deep snow off-piste. It was already dusk when the two of them just managed to catch the last lift back to the hotel. The other colleagues were a little critical that Phil came to dinner unshowered and in his snowboarding clothes, but having fun on the apres-ski was more important to him than getting changed for dinner.

"Filippo" called his Mama. That didn't mean anything good. Actually, everyone just called him Pippo. It was also written on the name tag on his ski instructor's uniform. "Filippo!" The call became more piercing. Pippo ran into the kitchen, naked except for his boxer shorts. His mother held out a tray with a pot of tea. The fat guest from room 118, who had dropped out of his ski course yesterday, had asked for it. Pippo had been delighted to get rid of this completely untalented student. And now he had to play waiter at his parents' hotel before the ski school started. He quickly changed into a tracksuit, took the tray and brought it to the guest. The zipper of his jacket was wide open and showed a lot of his tattooed, well-trained chest. Philipp, as the guest was funnily enough called, stared at the youthful skin for a long time. At least there was a good tip.

At the end of the ski school, Pippo would have liked to go boarding with Phil. An excellent sportsman and a hot guy. But unfortunately the group had to leave early for the airport. And Pippo had to model for the ski instructor calendar.

Next year he was Mister March. It was his Mama's birthday that month. She would be very proud of her son.

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #inked man #race change #age reduction #ai image

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mister-eames · 6 months ago

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Borrowing the word generator fic prompt challenge from my friend @roosterbox!

Todays word: sausage

----

"Well, look who it is," is what Ariadne begins with when Eames arrives at the office that morning. She turns her head to exhale a plume of cigarette smoke downwind. "Trouble in paradise, I take it?"

Eames pauses at the door, loosely grasping the handle.

"Pardon?"

She points her thumb somewhere over her left shoulder. "You know, with the whole ---" she balls her hands into fists and mimics a series of tiny explosions, "---thing."

He casts a wary look at the door, suddenly unsure of the contents within, then back at Ariadne, perplexed.

"Maybe give him a wide berth," she suggests.

He's far too hungover for this.

"I'm... not following," he blinks. "Give who a wide berth?"

The tiny woman makes a circle out of her pointer finger and thumb and winks exaggeratedly at him. "O-kay. That's how we're playing it then."

Righteo.

With a yank to the metal door Eames enters, shaking off the weird interaction, leaving Ariadne outside in the fierce, chilly Berlin winds. The youth these days, honestly.

"Hallo," Eames loudly greets his colleagues, unwinding his scarf from his neck as the sauna-level heating immediately hits him. "Guten morgen!"

"Eames! Hello," their chemist greets, appearing out of nowhere.

Sandeep is nervous young man on the best of days, looking particularly rattled on this perfectly ordinary one. He wrings his hands together as Eames makes a beeline for his desk, eyes darting about.

"Sandeep," he nods, then again, over to the desk furthest from the entrance. "Arthur."

"Yes, hello," Sandeep says again, trading increasingly worried looks between Eames and Arthur. There is sweat on his upper lip.

It sure is hot in here. Eames removes his coat too, hanging it on the back of his chair.

It takes several minutes for Eames to extract all of the field data he'd managed to retrieve the day prior from his bag. Receipts, pin locations, recorded messages, even discarded newspapers; all minutiae, and all utterly vital in composing the pigment that paints the broad strokes in forgery, as it were. He's shadowed the marks twin for all of five hours and knows his lunch order, his favourite cafe, political leanings, preferred brand of cigarettes, and the exact, saliva-soaked, smacking noise he makes when he chews his peppermint gum, open-mouthed, which he did all damn day.

A quirk Eames is going to have to momentarily adopt. Ugh.

Nothing to be done for it, he supposes, even if he is already cringing so hard he's developed a minor tic. He slides his glasses on and starts to make sense of his notes.

It takes him a solid hour to realise Arthur hasn't acknowledged him. Not even once.

---

Ariadne keeps shooting him worried glances. Sandeep has dropped three beakers and left the office an hour ago after a... verbal incident... and hasn't yet come back.

And Arthur -- well.

He seems very, very preoccupied in sharpening the same three 2B pencils, is the thing. Not that Eames is one to judge. Especially not after the time he saw Arthur utilise a sharp pencil as a weapon in a dream one time. Very resourceful, that man. Utilitarian.

Lovely.

Arthur slaps down one of his newly sharpened pencils on his desk with a frightening amount of force and an equally frightening grimace on his face.

Ariadne looks at Eames again. Perhaps because Arthur does not seem to be doing any actual work.

Well, Eames can help him with that. Collecting his notes, Eames rises and ambles over to Arthur's desk, stopping short as he takes in the peculiar state of it. Paperclips, bent out of shape to the point of irrevocable deformity, litter the surface, alongside several scrunched up balls of paper.

The aforementioned pencils sit primly in the centre amidst the chaos.

"Can I help you?" Arthur demands, wielding one.

"Notes," Eames tentatively holds his folder out, somewhat taken aback by his tone and the force in which Arthur snatches it from his hands. "On the forge."

Eames catches Ariadnes eye, finally. She mimics another explosion.

"Err...alright, Arthur?"

With a wave of his free hand, Arthur dismisses Eames in lieu of an actual response, flicking through Eames' paperwork with jerky, agitated motions.

"Right," he says, Arthur's silence becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "...Good. Is there anything else you --"

The pencil in Arthur's grip snaps clean in half.

"Never mind," Eames, alarmed, gestures to his desk, inching away. "I've got to...."

He retreats.

---

Arthur, exuding a downright hostile, malefic aura, ignores both Eames and Ariadne for the most part; except to snap at them like an agitated crocodile whenever one ventures too close to his desk or 'talks too loud' or 'breathes like a congested bovine', which is a shame, because the kitchenette is right behind Arthur's set up and Eames loves a good tea-break chat.

Speaking of. Eames isn't sure what crawled up Arthur's rectum and perished, but it is now mid-morning and Tetley's waits for no man.

"Can I get you a cuppa?" Eames offers, magnanimously.

Directing a glare at Eames that could wither a sequoia, Arthur slides on a pair of midnight black headphones.

"Err..."

It's as clear a statement as any. The death metal he plays is so loud that Eames can hear it through the headphones and over the screech of the boiling kettle.

"I'll have a coffee," Ariadne yells to be heard over the din. "White, two sugars, please!"

---

After some internal deliberation, something clearly seems to be the matter.

---

Once, in their early days of working together, back when Eames was young and impulsive and quick to take things to heart, Arthur's professional ire rubbed him the wrong way at the wrong time. Took his poor mood personally. A blow to his ego.

So, Eames did whatever any young lad who had never held a real job would do - he nicked a tampon out of their extractors bag and presented it to Arthur. Eames had told him, "here, you're clearly on the rag," thinking himself so damn clever, puffed up with his own satisfaction and the sound of his team-mates laughter.

Sure, it led to a barny of almighty proportions that led to Arthur freezing him out for a year, but they were young and dumb then.

Eames would like to think they've grown since.

With that in mind, after an entire morning of weathering Arthur's potent animosity, Eames thinks he's finally narrowed down the problem.

The audible stomach gurgling is what tips him off.

Perhaps Ariadnes' never seen this side of Arthur before, but Eames has, enough to put two and two together. The snark, the twitchiness, the bitchiness; this is Arthur at hangriest. A situation easily remedied.

Ariadne would know, if she knew Arthur like Eames did. Perhaps placated him with a danish or a bagel. A succulent hot chocolate, maybe, like that one time, in Ohio, where Arthur got whipped cream on the corner of his lips, licking them over and over, his countenance softening in a haze of glucose and a chocolate-y scent had permeated the office. He'd smiled at Eames, then. There had been dimples.

"I'm getting lunch," Eames announces suddenly, standing.

He knows just the place.

---

The only thing that fills the office now upon Eames' return is the sound of Arthur's plastic knife scraping against the polystyrene tray as he cuts, no, hacks into the potatoes and variety of wurst that Eames brought back for him.

It's worse than the pencil-sharpening.

Even Ariadne winces as Arthur forcefully stabs a sawed-off portion of sausage and eats it.

Eames watches, transfixed, mouth dry, as Arthur seems to take great satisfaction in mutilating the food in a manner that can only be described as savage.

"Alright, Arthur?" he dares to ask again.

Instead of answering, Arthur locks eyes with him and, very slowly, chews a chunk of wurst.

---

At four-o'clock on-the-dot Ariadne packs up her bag and departs without so much as a goodbye, discomfort writ visibly all over her face.

Eames can commiserate. He too has seen the shredded remains of Arthur's lunch in the kitchenette bin.

"Penis jokes," Arthur says as soon as Ariadne's out, voice as hard as his steel-eyed glare. "Nice one, Eames. How old are you?"

Eames pauses.

"What?" he asks dumbly.

"The lunch," Arthur gestures. "Really? I thought we'd moved past that."

"I'm not... following."

"The sausage."

"The wurst?"

"The sausage. You really are an asshole."

"Because of... lunch...?"

Arthur tuts darkly, standing too, placing his laptop and papers into his messenger bag with gentleness despite the rigid line of his spine and shoulders.

"Because I'm sick and tired of your stupid jokes, alright?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The--the lunch," Arthur repeats, voice rising with fervour as he secures his bag across his torso, "the text last night!"

"Are you fucking on something?"

"Are you? You sent me a photo of your dick!"

Affronted, Eames says, "I did not."

"You did so." Arthur affects a poor imitation of his accent, "Come over, Arthur. I need your help, if you catch my drift. Wink-ey face." Arthur shakes his head. "Fucking worst pick-up line ever."

"I swear to you, I didn't send you a --" he fishes his phone out of his pocket, thumbing through his recent texts for evidence, opening up his log with Arthur, "-- look, hang on a tick..." where is the damn---

---oh.

There it is. Erect and proud like a flag pole.

Hazy memories of getting drunk in his hotel room come swimming back to the fore. He'd gotten back to his hotel room tired, cranky, aching to loosen up. So he took a shot of vodka every time he remembered the sound of his marks disgusting chewing. At some point he blacked out, but he does recall thinking it was a good idea to send something flirty and subtle to Arthur. But he always thinks that.

Although, to be fair, he did think it was rather odd that he woke up in the bathtub with his pants around his ankles this morning.

"Looks like I did."

Arthur huffs. "That's what I just said..."

Eames stops listening as a rare feeling of shame washes over him. His stomach turns. Jesus Christ, good one Eames, now you've gone and done it. Of course Arthur would be livid over such a thing. Eames can hardly blame him.

Of course Arthur would raise hell at the very thought of such a lewd come-on, especially from Eames of all people. Of course he'd be repulsed; it's Eames after all and Arthur has never seen him that way. Arthur has never -- Arthur would never want that with --

"...and then I went to your hotel room and you didn't even answer the door! What the fuck, Eames?"

Eames stills.

"Back up. You did what?"

Drumming his fingers on the bag-strap, Arthur averts his eyes somewhere just past Eames, mouth twisting to the side. The stern lines of Arthur's body sag with heaviness.

"Just another joke at my expense, right?"

Eames feet are set on a path towards Arthur before he can command them otherwise. "It wasn't a joke. I must have fallen asleep."

"Great," Arthur rolls his eyes, still refusing to meet Eames eyes. "Passing out before the punchline. Excellent."

"So...you came to the hotel room?"

"Yes."

He steps closer again, ducking his head to catch Arthur's gaze. "You wanted to... 'help' me."

"And now I want to shoot you."

"Arthur, I've been trying to be very subtle," Eames says softly, trying to not get his hopes up, feeling as if his heart, beating with the bass of a djembe, is teetering on a tightrope, on the verge of flight or failure. "About my feelings."

Arthur's mouth twists even more, pursing unpleasantly. "Yeah. I got the message loud and clear."

"I'm not sure you do." Tentatively, Eames places his hand on Arthurs upper arms, grateful when Arthur doesn't immediately punch him in the face. "I bought you lunch because you were hungry."

"And?"

"And I took a job in Germany in the middle of winter."

"You wanted a job."

"Yes; with you."

"...Oh."

"Yeah."

"You..."

"I don't need the money. And let's face it; this is the worst job. Possibly ever."

"You do hate the winter," Arthur says, voice small.

Eames nods. "And Germany."

"That's why it's so hot in here," Arthur says, gesturing to the wider office. "The heater. I know you hate the cold."

Eames has been sweating in here for two weeks.

But there isn't anywhere else I'd rather be.

He admits, helpless, "I would never leave you locked out on purpose. I've wished to woo you properly."

"Oh," Arthur blinks, a sudden smile unwinding his lips. He steps forward and looks Eames right in the eye with none of the flint from before, but all of the fire. "I mean, I appreciate it, but..."

Arthur forcefully tugs him in and kisses him.

#yep that really was the first word that popped up in the random word generator #it was fate #here take my mostly un-edited offerings #you do not want to know what was going through my head as I wrote this #i don't even know what this is #inception #arthur x eames

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on-a-lucky-tide · 1 year ago

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Price visits Sweatbox in Soho and sees a Ghost.

(cw: oral sex, rimming, anal sex, gay sauna etiquette, sweaty gay men, repressed/closeted Price, bottom Ghost)

Price shut the locker with a relieved sigh and jumbled the numbers of the lock. He hadn't been to the Sweatbox in years but after that last spate of missions he was in desperate need of release. It had hit him at roughly 2100 that evening, a deep, keen ache in his gut and an itch beneath his skin.

He had shoved his feet into his boots and his desires had carried him to Soho. The bars were overflowing, the music loud and thumping. He paused outside the Duke of Wellington and hesitated in the doorway of the Admiral Duncan long enough to be jostled by two drunk boys stumbling into the night, but neither of the bars offered what he was immediately after. He would have to go through the song of dance of social interaction; buy drinks, dance, flirt. Price just didn't have it in him. Not anymore.

So he had trudged on; right down Wardour Street, his hands deep in his pockets; left down Great Marlborough Street, thinking perhaps if he could walk it off or thrash it out in the gym, then the ache would go away. It had been the emergence of a thickly muscled cub from Ramillies Street that had twigged the memory.

A sauna in Ramilies House and it was open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. It was tucked away behind Oxford Street, and he remembered that, in his youth, he had been excited by the idea of the average member of the public browsing the rails and shelves while thickly muscled men fucked each other raw barely two hundred yards away.

But now, he just needed to feel.

Price left the locker room and headed into the maze. It connected a number of saunas and it was in one of these that Price found his first liaison; a slim blond with a bright smile and a pretty little cock that fit perfectly in Price's mouth. Not quite enough, there was something missing, and Price nudged him away when a hand reached to squeeze his prick through his towel.

For half an hour Price sat in the heat and the steam, watching others arrive, connect, fuck and depart.

Connect.

That's what was missing. He wasn't looking for some whirlwind romance in a bloody sauna, but Price had always needed some form of deeper connection and understanding in sex. His first love had been a fellow rookie at the Royal Military Academy; it had been hot, heavy and swift, the connection built around raw desperation, exhaustion and a dogged will to succeed.

It had petered out the moment Price had graduated, the youngest officer to ever do so, and then been badged by the SAS. Since then, Price had tried to stick with like-minded men, men that understood him and the life. It was a fine line. A dangerous line. Especially before 2000 when being outed would have cost him a dishonourable discharge. Even now, the scars of those years, of Section 28, they stopped him from ever taking that step out of the shadows...

Fuck.

Price rubbed his hands over his face and left the sauna, resolving to grab a beer and then pick up the first pretty face who showed interest. He had a few hours to scratch this itch and make himself presentable for an online meeting. Better get to it.

The cafe was quiet; it was Sunday evening and most of the fun had happened the night before. There were only a scattered few men lounging on the sofas, chatting idly between bouts of touching and kissing, while porn played on the expensive-looking flat screens around the edge of the room. It was as Price marked the bar that he identified a sight that rooted his feet to the floor.

A broad, muscular back, an arm covered in skulls and miscellaneous battlefield imagery that was as familiar to him as the sight of his own damn beard in the mirror, and a balaclava'd head with a bit of fuzzy blonde showing at the scruff of the neck.

Price pressed his fingers into his eyes, pinched his nose, and then looked back to check Ghost wasn't a figment of dehydration or heatstroke from the bloody sauna. He wasn't. There he sat, calmly drinking a beer and watching a vintage porno on a nearby screen. His muscles were larger than even Ghost's standards, pumped from time in the gym, no doubt, and Price's prick gave an unhelpful twitch beneath his towel. At least some things remained constant.

There were two choices: Price could turn and walk away, which given the fragility of their situation here would have been the wiser option, or he could listen to the jittery excitement in the pit of his stomach and follow it to the bar.

His official report would have you believe Bravo Six to be truly peerless in issues of leadership, tracking and unconventional warfare, and then, in the small print, it would acknowledge his more than occasional frustration with rules and procedures. Tonight, he decided the small print would be well justified.

He slid into the bar stool at Ghost's side and folded his arms. There was a stillness to Ghost's posture now, replacing the relaxed fluidity of before. Price knew Ghost was regarding him, but in what way he couldn't be sure. Ghost, apparently reaching a conclusion, lifted his beer from the bar for another sip and Price watched his mouth more intently than he ever had before; lips gnarled by a deep, broad scar that bisected into a second on his jaw and neck.

"Sir," Ghost acknowledged, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

Heat balled in Price's belly. "Drop the 'sir', Lieuten--Simon. It means something else here."

"I'm aware."

Price nearly choked on his own spit. To cover the cough, he gestured at the semi-naked waiter and ordered himself a fifth of whiskey, and tightened his hand around it to keep it occupied.

"How long have you--?"

"Three hours."

Price squinted, and then realised Ghost was talking about his session in the sauna. "No, you muppet, how long have you been--?"

Even after all these years, sitting in a fucking sauna, Price couldn't say it.

Ghost had no such hang up. "Gay? Since I figured out what my dick was for." Notably, Ghost didn't return the question, which suggested he either wasn't entirely interested in the answer or felt like Price had overstepped.

Price stared at the whiskey in his hand, intimately aware of how hard he was getting under his towel, because his mind--so very fucking creative in the field--was now speed running all the ways he wanted to have Ghost, indulging in all those times he had pushed the fantasies down because leching after your straight junior officers was a one way ticket to personal hell. He wasn't entirely sure whether fucking your gay junior officer was any less self destructive.

"I've got a proposal," Ghost said, pushing his now empty bottle away. "I'm down to fuck, got one of the private cabins. It stays in here. Never leaves. We both get what we want."

There were so many layers to what Ghost was offering that it took Price a moment to parse them. The offer was clear as day, and Price knew he could trust Ghost's discretion; no one could keep a secret quite like Lieutenant Simon Riley. It was the, 'we both get what we want' part that left Price reeling.

Ghost reached over Price's lap and squeezed the length of his cock through his towel. Etiquette was clear in the saunas and Ghost's proposition couldn't have been more so. "First door on the right. Don't leave me waiting, sir."

Ghost slid from his stool, the towel sitting perfectly on the round curves of his arse, and disappeared into the maze. Price stared at the tumbler of whiskey in his hand and tried to reason himself out of making this mistake. It was no good; he was thinking with a different head that was desperate to feel Ghost's hand on it again.

Price knocked back his drink in two wincing gulps and grabbed a condom from the bowl on the bar. The maze was as calm as the cafe, but Price didn't pause to take in the ambience. If Ghost was following usual etiquette, his door would be open and there was a possibility that someone else would accept the invitation and Ghost would take the offer.

The door was indeed open, but the room was quiet but for the muffled sound of music. The sight that greeted Price as he stepped inside was something straight out of his wet dreams.

Ghost waited on his front, propped up on his elbows with his legs spread. The towel was gone and Price could see the elastic of a jock strap framing the two perfect curves of his arse. Between those thick thighs, Price could see the full swell of Ghost's sac, straining at soft cotton. Price knew Ghost was a work of art; he had admired his powerful body for years, watching it work in the gym and the field, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Ghost like this. Spread and compliant, his body begging in the way he tilted his hips to expose his hole, muscular back shifting subtly.

"Like what you see, sir?" asked that low growl, and Price swallowed hard.

"Always have, Simon." The setting felt too intimate for call signs and honorifics. Price closed the door, declining any interruptions from others, and left his towel by it. The confession had just slipped out, but how could he not confess? He was about to worship at a truly special altar.

Ghost watched Price as far as he could without twisting, those long lashes low, until Price knelt on the foot of the bed. He was so hard, so fucking wet too, leaking like a virgin rookie panting in his bunk. Simon smelled of clean sweat from the gym and the shower he'd taken before, and Price crawled over his body to press his nose into those soft tufts of hair escaping the bottom of Ghost's mask; the line where Simon started.

His cock settled into the cleft of Simon's arse, and he didn't miss the way Simon spread his legs a little further and rocked up into the pressure of it. Fuck. Simon wanted it, wanted his hole filled, and it was Price's prick he was demanding.

Price left the condom on the bed as he worked his way down Simon's back, nipping, licking and kissing every peak and valley in its muscular topography. He was rewarded with a soft, panted groan when he reached the swell of Simon's arse and ended his journey with a gentle nip. "Spread 'em," Price demanded, finding his voice behind the knot in his throat.

Simon did so obediently, shifting to press the inside of his knees into the mattress, his body arching deliciously in a single, athletic curve that defied any doubt that a man of his size could be flexible. Price ran his nose over the soft skin, kissing a patch of freckles, before he pressed his thumbs into each cheek and spread Simon open. The first lap of his tongue made Simon choke on a gasp, and Price savoured that small victory; he was taking some control back.

Simon had been so calm at the bar, so completely unbothered, and Price had choked and stumbled like a boy. Now, with his tongue laving broad circles around Simon's rim, he knew he had gained ground back. Tactical warfare. The bristles of his moustache must have felt good, because Simon pushed back a little, betraying a budding neediness.

Price licked deeper, curling and writhing his tongue until Simon's pants were ragged, his hips bucking and jittering in an effort to stay still. Price took his time teasing Simon open, savouring each new twitch and noise he coaxed from the formidable body beneath him. When Price pushed his tongue deep, Simon finally relented. "Sir, John... Please."

That single word straining out in Simon's low, gravelly timber made Price's dick throb and he knew he'd done teasing. He lifted back to his knees and snatched the condom up just as Simon reached for a small tube of poppers tucked beneath the pillow. "I'll be gentle, Simon," Price said, tossing the foil aside as he wrapped up.

"No," Simon replied. "I want it hard, deep. Proper." Simon chucked a bottle of lube down the bed.

"Oh, fuck," Price breathed, gnawing on his lower lip. It took all his willpower to keep his hands steady as he poured some slick over his cock, and then warmed some on his fingers to tease around Simon's hole. He let Simon take a few breaths of his aid, watched those impressive muscles bunch and relax, before he slipped a finger in to the last knuckle. Simon's body opened so easily, almost sucked him in, and Price groaned low in his chest. "Fuckin' hell, Simon. You're made for this."

Simon grunted, rolling his hips back, his forehead dropping, and Price drew back to replace his hand with the tip of his prick. He was enjoying Simon's neediness, the way his skin shivered and his body opened itself so desperately, so he took his time thrusting in. With small, slow movements, Price enjoyed each successive inch he worked into slick, welcoming heat. He let the flare of his crown pop and catch on Simon's rim, enjoying the way Simon's body spread open around it.

It was better than he'd ever imagined, watching the sweat bead on Simon's back, feeling his body clench, listening to pants become low, tight moans of pleasure as Price finally worked in to the hilt.

"Ung, fuck," Simon huffed, fists clenching as he took another breath of relaxant. Price felt a swell of smug pride at the idea he was bigger than Simon's average and remembered what he'd been asked for. Hard, deep. Price slipped his hands beneath Simon's thighs to tilt his hips a little more, and set about finding a rhythm that would make Simon lose whatever self control he had left.

Price let his head fall back as he fucked into Simon with deep, hard thrusts. He found the right angle quickly enough, shifting a hand to press a palm to the small of Simon's back to keep him angled just right, and it was then that Simon found his voice. Each deep pound pushed a whimper or cuss from him, his head low between his shoulders as he clenched with each wet slap of Price's hips. Price found himself remembering those glorious tits of Simon's, always disguised by his tactical vest in the field, but perfectly framed in cotton during mess and down time.

Price drew out and hooked Simon's hip, flipping him onto his back. He didn't leave Simon empty for long, gathering muscular legs to his shoulders as he notched his prick against Simon's loose, greedy hole. Simon left one hand above his head, and circled his prick with the other, stripping it fast and hard with the same pace as Price's hips. Price spread his knees for purchase, chasing the building heat in his gut, coiling at the base of his spine, as he watched Simon's broad chest bounce, nipples pebbled, begging to sucked. "Fuck, Simon. Never thought I'd enjoy... your hole as much as this."

Simon didn't reply. He was too lost in the glorious burn of being fucked well. As he chased his peak, Price could hear him growl "yeah, yeah" under his breath, his free hand knotting in the sheets until his impressive cock finished in a hot load over his fist. His entire body tightened up, and Price fucked him through it, those pants turning into choked moans. Watching Simon unravel was enough for Price to find the edge, and he chased it to his own end, finishing deep in Simon and wishing the condom wasn't there. What he'd give to watch his claim leak out of Simon in the aftermath.

Price fell forward onto an elbow, his heart hammering in his chest. He had enough sense about him to draw out his softening cock, but not enough to prepare himself for the ragged lips that sealed over his and the eager tongue that swept into his mouth. Simon kissed like he fought; fierce, ruthless, single-minded, and Price moaned into it, before rolling off onto his back.

A few minutes of breathless silence passed, and then Simon grunted. "Only one?"

Price huffed an incredulous laugh. "Shit, Simon, let a man regroup."

Simon hummed and stretched with all the languid pleasure of a large cat sunning itself. "You've got a few more rounds in you yet, sir."

Turned out Price had quite a few more rounds in him. Half an hour later, Simon rode him, his head thrown back as powerful thighs fucked him down onto Price's prick, his hands behind his neck as Price squeezed his chest and teased his cock. Price took him again in one of the saunas, their skin slick with sweat, sensitive with heat. Price licked the drips from Simon's spine, grinding deep, barely withdrawing as Simon gripped the bench; Price made Simon shout his name that time. In between, Price gave Simon a massage and played with his hole, his balls, murmuring admiration and praise for the godly physique beneath his hands. They finished in the jacuzzi, Simon's mouth working down Price's cock as Price fingered him in slow, lazy thrusts.

They left the bathhouse in the early hours of the morning, and Price had begun the process of filing the whole experience into 'once in a lifetime' when Simon paused at the cusp of Oxford Street and glanced over his shoulder. "I'll be back next week." He pulled his mask down over his chin and disappeared into the pale early morning.

Price was already rearranging his plans for next Sunday.

#cod #call of duty #captain price #simon ghost riley #john price #priceghost #ghostprice #cod:mw

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eatmangoesnekkid · 1 year ago

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You must water yourself and feed the tissues in your body with the light from your thoughts, perceptions, nutrition, to the things you watch, listen to, and read. This doesn't mean that you try to escape the tragedies of the external world. It does mean that you understand that your body responds to your own love and care more than anything else. Daily care and aftercare are essential during times of war and peace. As we sit with the paradox and nuance of being human and our predatory animal nature to take, pillage, and harm, we must show up for it all, including caring for our bodies. Your body responds to your daydreams, thoughts, and touch. When you touch your body, let your heart be as light as a feather...as much as possible. The light in your hands sculpt, shape, and heal your body. I told my friend the other day that my breasts sit up the way that they at 47 years old because of how much love I have given them over the last 15 years, how much I take time and care with my body, how often I lay back and just listen. So many of us with breasts carry burdens in our bodies year after year. God needs us to transmute all the shame, tension, anger, repression, embarrassment, and fear so that we can access more of our divine nature to help evolve this world by channeling raw and uncommon solutions.

Because if the voting and marching were working, we would be not be where we are in the world today. I still bow to my sisters and brothers who are on the front lines. But what I also know to be true is that we must take time to detox in order to recalibrate the hate, repression, shame, and war living in our epigenetic line that continue to create war in our bodies--the diabetes, cancer, chronic jealousy, womb aches, breasts ache, lack of sensation, and lack of full-body orgasms, and also the molestation and scarcity in the family line. These entities. We can't continue to "take in" and not let out.

Bringing More Love to Your body Changes the World Around You and Opens Up More Pathways to Love and Loving

When you live "spirituality" as a lifestyle, more of your DNA unlocks open. When there is high emotion in the collective, I transfer that energy into self-care--bathing, skin care, making good food, listening to good music, resting and caring for who and what is around me. I made a bone broth chicken soup and brought some to my massage therapist. I know what's happening in the world but I'm not constantly attuned to it in the 3D, meme after meme, news story after news story. I'm living life that around me and praying for those who are fighting for their actual lives. I do not take for granted what it means to have more freedom.

Shifting my focus in various ways over the years has kept my body more nourished and youthful than what it would have been otherwise. I priortise sweating often, lik in a dry Finnish sauna, wet sauna, or sweating while working out in high intensity classes. I have no goal to stay younger-looking. I love being grown AF. It is merely what naturally happens when we take care ourselves (our cells) and release, release, release. When we release, our tissues let go and bodies respond favorably. Our care creates the conditions that allow our bodies to flourish in ways in which we beautifully and radiantly age, but we don't age as quickly. -India Ame'ye, Author

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useless-catalanfacts · 1 year ago

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Barça fans, do you recognise this place?

This is a photo of what la Masia (Barça's youth academy) looked like in 1925. (Photo colorized by Catalunya Color).

Back then, it was literally just a masia. "La masia" simply means "the farmhouse" in Catalan. This particular masia is called Masia de Can Planes. It dates back to, at least, the year 1515, where a written document talks about the farm and its surrounding fields belonging to a man called Jaume Planes. It was owned by his descendants, who rebuilt and adapted parts of the building in different time periods, until the year 1950.

In 1950, Barça bought it from the last heir, Francesc Planes i Buera. They built Camp Nou (Barça's stadium) in the fields owned by this farm.

When Camp Nou was being built, the farmhouse was used as the meeting place for architects and where they made and kept the stadium's plans and models. After the stadium was inaugurated, the farmhouse became Barça's office building.

La Masia de Can Planes nowadays, with Camp Nou stadium behind it.

In 1978, the club decided to turn the farmhouse into the residence for Barça's youth academy, which became one of the most successful football youth academies in the world. It's renowned for its respect for students and their academic focus as well as the sports side of it. That's when Barça's youth academy became known as La Masia.

Many of La Masia's students have gone on to brilliant football careers, including Pep Guardiola, Leo Messi, Xavi Hernández, Andrés Iniesta, Carles Puyol, Carles Busquets, Cesc Fàbregas, and Gerard Piqué, among others.

In 2011, Barça decided to upgrade their youth academy to be able to have more students. They built a new building as their residence in Sant Joan Despí (a city right next to Barcelona), in the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper (Joan Gamper sports complex). This new building has the capacity to be home for 85 sportspeople, compared to the 60 that could be housed before (12 in the farmhouse and 48 in the equipped spaces in the North Goal of the Camp Nou).

It's next to the rest of sports facilities in the Joan Gamper sports complex, which includes 5 natural grass football pitches; 4 fieldturf pitches; 3 sports pavilions for basketball, handball and futsal, training areas for goalkeepers and specific techniques, gymnasiums, first aid areas, press conference rooms, service buildings, a pool, and saunas used for recuperating from injuries.

The modern "La Masia" building in Sant Joan Despí.

Even though they moved to a new building that isn't a masia (farmhouse) anymore, everyone has always called Barça's youth academy "La Masia", so they still call it that.

#barça #futbol #esports #barcelona #sant joan despí #catalunya #football #soccer #fc barcelona #la masia #xavi hernandez #leo messi #pep guardiola #sports #fc barca #barca #la liga #training

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yourtypicalfangirl23 · 4 months ago

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Youth.

and watching the three of them felt like, the cheap, corner-store shop picture frames expanded into real life. From the stale walls of his bedroom to the reds and oranges of an early autumn sunset where the screams of cicadas echoed through the gold-painted, tar highways. It was desolate, the countryside was dying, and no one except their shadows and them were present.

In his eyes.

Two boys, one girl. Three of them. The end of summer, he recalled, always brought upon a gut-wrenching dread.

It was always two boys, one girl. Three of them. end of summer.

Always the three of them, when they were too young to be heroes, still ridding the innocence of their adolescence, learning life, finding themselves. Tugging at their uniforms, one button always abandoned, shirt untucked in some parts. Far more comfortable in band shirts and ripped jeans, a zip-up hoodie always unzipped, sweats, always the sweats. Instead of the tightly fitted armor of jujitsu high, too young to be in soldiers' uniforms.

Uncleaned chalkboards, wooden floors, and large paneled windows where the curtain slowly drifted with the summer winds. Three chairs, three desks, and space. Barracks disguised as classrooms. It was always, almost normal. Always, almost kids in high school- until they see the phantom red on their hands, on each other. Until they're afraid of death, until they question if their friends will come back.

High school kids shouldn't worry about carrying their friends' corpses back, shouldn't be worrying about the infinite space that will be left from a desk taken away, two would be an awful number.

Sometimes though, when the skies were especially clear, the sun blinding enough that the classrooms felt like saunas and they had no choice but to take their lessons outside, it truly did feel like high school. On the grass, below a mighty tree, ancient with thick roots, winding with mossy branches, and rings of bark carrying the passage of time, they would laugh, too warm to sit still, too warm to listen.

The tree still stands there, to this day, though mightier in size. It holds now, his dearest memories and a neverending ache, as his eyes linger on the the three of them.

“Your eyes remind me of the sky,” he said.

Flat on his back, his head to the side, his eyes showed galaxies as they bore through his own. Two hands behind his head, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he had forgotten the blood that was smeared on his hands just yesterday.

“They aren’t though, Suguru” he had said back.

Suguru. Suguru was the boy who had constellations in the creases of his irises, eyelashes saturated with stars, and long, long hair, silky strands that looked like ink from the poems in kanji, he had read as a child.

Suguru looked back at him. He was beautiful, so very beautiful. Suguru had called his eyes the heavens, the seven seas, the world, and at some point his home.

His eyes were a source of power and hierarchy. His eyes brought fear, he had been born with these eyes as a man, never a boy, never a child. A soldier through-and-through, a born weapon for jujitsu society, the name of the Gojo clan. His eyes were for humanity, as a hero, as a savior, and as a god. His eyes brought him a military routine, always a house, never a home. He had no parents, he belonged to no one but humanity and jujitsu society. His eyes were treacherous storms and lashes of waves, raging tsunamis.

But this boy with the soft voice and planetary systems as eyes had called him his. With Suguru, he would be Satarou, a boy in high school, with eyes that looked like a clear summer’s sky. They would be Suguru and Satarou doing whatever high schoolers would do.

A scoff from Satarous’ side broke the trance and Suguru looked back.

Shoko huffs out a soft chuckle, an unsmoked cigarette hanging from her smirking lips. Her eyes had deep bags under them but they still managed to sparkle as she rolled her eyes at them. One hand under her splayed brown hair, the other fiddling in her pockets certainly reaching for a lighter. After a few moments of rustling and-

“Honestly it's sexist, we can’t wear normal fucking pants with normal fucking pockets, fucking skirts”

She lit her cigarette with one hand, her other, now removed from under her head had reached out to Suguru to offer him one, and as always he would hesitate, and then after a second, the roll would easily slip away from her slim fingers to his. Shoko had tried with Satarou but he was never as easy as Suguru, he could still remember the days when Suguru would snatch the roll away from her lips and offer her a strawberry Chup Chups instead. She had scowled at him but never complained. When days were easy, no caskets and no disappearing friends. Before, their eyes looked darker, before the eyebags, before. Before he took cigarettes so easily.

It would be the three of them then, on the ground, splayed out on the grass until the sky turned golden, the occasional breeze, drifting leaves down on them, the smell of tobacco thick in the air, and laughter. Fits of laughter, uncontrollable and untameable, wheezing and breathless. Until all three of them would be coughing, Shoko clutching her stomach and Suguru on his side, laughter echoing through the desolate land that was Jujitsu high, and Satarou in the middle, smiling the biggest he’s ever smiled. Brimming happiness at a place that was so riddled with blood and tragedy.

They would be messy and noisy as teenagers would be, tangled up together, talking shit about teachers, cursing and complaining. Talking about unresolved crushes as their cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush, kicking their feet and twirling their hair or whatever people in love do. Gossiping about the parties they have and haven't been to, talking about that new cafe that opened downtown or that new clothing shop, the one that's biased about their sizes, they don’t even sell the right color nail polish, black, because they had a personal style under these uniforms they were trapped in.

When they had nothing else to talk about (finally) and the laughter had died down to comforting silences and content sighs with heads on shoulders, fingers intertwined, legs overlapping each others’, eyes slowly beginning to close after a lazy summer's day.

“Up, you dickheads”

Shoko would drag them up, a lazy smile on her face and two outstretched hands, the sky had passed its golden hour and a light purple welcomed dusk. Their cigarettes were finished now, on the grass, giving out the last of its smoke, the lights from the windows were just starting to flicker on, and the three of them would escape, leaving the formidable fortresses of jujitsu high. Leaving the echoes of bloodshed and death into a normal life, just for a second, where they would pretend to have calculus and The Great Gatsby as the biggest worries in life.

The street lamps lit the sidewalk, a few moths dancing along its light, where one lamp, as they proceeded along the path, would never function, it never had. An occasional rumble from an old car or a noisy neighborhood kid with a bicycle would break the silence. Shoko and Satarou would skip, hands held together like preschoolers while Suguru trudged along them, complaining with a smile on his lips. They would take the first right and walk by the few abandoned appliance stores, local grocery stores, and the house with the odd chimney and even weirder garden gnomes. They would pass by the small store that rented all sorts of manga, which would be surely closed by now but still had a myriad of fairy lights at the entrance that looked quite like fireflies this late and into a nook, the only store open this late, at the outskirts of Tokyo, up on the mountains, a lone corner store which sold everything from cigarettes to the most outrageous sodas. Where an old man, as fragile as china, looking as if he would crumble at a mere touch sat on a dainty, rickety, wooden chair. Every single time. He would smile expectedly, never speaking a word, as Shoko brought the cheapest cans of beer to the counter and would wave goodbye every time they left, without fail.

Who knew that such an old face could muster up that bright of a smile?

The three of them would locate the too-small bench at the back of the store, where there would be a mess of weeds and moss, an unkept backyard. They would manage to squeeze together, Shoko in the middle, and put their feet on the circular, metallic, rather rusty, rather large table in front of them. It was too warm for that but they didn’t care as they passed along the cans of beer, awfully bitter and terrible to the taste but good enough for their high school taste buds, until they were all completed and only the metallic cans were left rustling on the ground.

If they were drunk enough Shoko would slowly take off her hair clips and toss them on the metallic table which would land with a loud clang, normally waking Satarou from his drunken daze. Then she would lay her head on either of their shoulders and for a good old while, the three of them would lie there until Suguru would slowly coax the both of them from their slumber into the long way back.

And the times when even alcohol couldn’t lay their minds to rest, squeezed upon the bench, Suguru would bring out his collection of nail polish or Shoko would pull out a small speaker. They would paint their nails and listen to whatever indie music Shoko was into and they would stall because they were still too sober, even after the ten or so cans of beer passed along them.

Either way, they would always end up in Satarou’s room, on his bed, or on the floor, all three of them close together, sticky with sweat and alcohol, still in their uniforms, now horribly disheveled, hair sticking out from all places, soft limbs, looking like a bunch of troubled teenagers, like they should have been.

That would be their summer, their youth.

At present, the area around them has grown quite a lot, changed just like they had. More appliance stores, more grocery stores, though the house had gone now, replaced with a small cozy apartment building, the lamps all functioned, no manga store, that too had been replaced with a modern tourist office. The one thing that did remain though was that lone corner shop, the old man he heard, had died a few years back.

But the store remained where it stood, nothing had changed about it.

Youth, he recalled .

Youth.

#satosugu #gojo satoru #shoko ieiri #geto suguru #fanfiction #jjk fanfic #words #jujitsu kaisen #ao3 #I wrote this at like 1am and finished it at like 5 am #literature

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lovenliterature · 1 month ago

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Sometimes the great loves of your life can only be captured in fleeting, insignificant moments

A litany of swear words as he trips over a guy rope and almost takes you with him, laughing all the way down to the muddy ground

Flashes of being bathed and dressed like a child in a drunken haze, then being tucked into bed, your glasses gently removed and placed next to a bottle of water on your bedside table, a kiss to your forehead before he heads to his own bed

A single line of a song being belted out by two twenty somethings as you keep an eye out for turnings on a long country road

A memory of his hands on your hips, hot like a brand, of dances in black tie and kisses in nightclubs

Of being taken around a city in an icy winter, tears freezing on your cheeks from heartbreak, his eyes crinkling in laughter and sympathy when you inevitably fall on your arse

A night of rewinding the same bit of a song you dedicated a night to finding when you were twelve, the alcohol and experience the only things dividing you from your youthful, curious selves

A long walk in a pissing downpour, taking just another turn to be able to keep talking, the blood in your veins hot from alcohol and grief, your cheeks stained with tears of laughter and heartbreak

Him learning scant words of your mother tongue so you feel less alone in your recovery and helping you learn how your new chest feels

Moments of stress and bravery in a pool, a sauna, on a sofa reading, in a movie theatre, creating a little community in each other

Coming round and clearing up your apartment in ruthless efficiency because you couldn’t drag yourself out of bed to do anything today

A phone call to talk about old love and heartbreak and how to survive both without alcohol and other, more dangerous crutches

Memories of you bandaging her thighs, bloodied and dripping, wounds shown only to you in school toilets, the hiss of pain as you clean it all away

Of her wrapping you in her frail arms, her thin frame providing you what little protection she can offer

Late nights in tapas bars and on air beds, talking about boys you once loved and those you have yet to love, about surviving in this world without feeling alone

An exchange of hand painted cards that neither of you knew the other was giving, a teammate in the long days of work

Moments, here and then gone, seared into your memory and heart

#my writing #poetry #personal #creative writing #love #my poetry #writing #personal writing #heartbreak #spilled writing #spilled poetry #spilled words #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #spilled feelings #spilled emotions

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mercury-in-pisces · 4 months ago

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i might say something stupid | challengers (2024)

wrote a little song fic from one of my asks and it has not been proofread or anything so my apologies if it is awful but a win is a win because i finally actually wrote something. it’s inspired by charli xcx’s song, ‘i might say something stupid’ ^_^ okay enjoy!!!!

fic below the cut !!

January, 2007

Art Donaldson stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He pulls at the collar of his salmon-coloured shirt. Nothing feels right. He’s meant to be at a party, celebrating the latest win of his best friend’s girlfriend. Tashi typically isn’t one for parties, but with Patrick in town, she was somehow convinced. Art felt the bitter taste of jealousy on his tongue as he swallowed back any disdain. It should be him. He should be the one parading Tashi around, admiring her every move without having to be subtle. He wants to be happy for his friend, but he can’t help his heart from sinking every time he sees the two sharing a moment, one he will never be a part of. All he wants is Tashi, all to himself. At least that’s what he has convinced himself.

Art can tell that a line has began to form outside the bathroom, so he splashes some cold water onto his face, unlocks the door, and slips back out into the crowded room, the smell of smoke and sweet perfume dancing in the air. He grabs a drink, in the hopes that it’ll help him loosen up a bit, and leans back against a wall as his eyes begin scanning the crowd. He spots Tashi, as beautiful as ever, dancing among the bodies, her long brown hair gracefully flicking from side to side. Then, his attention is drawn to Patrick. His large, firm hands gripped Tashi by her waist, as he gently sways along beside her. Art bites his tongue so hard he swears he can taste blood. He’s happy for his friends, he truly is, but no amount of cheap wine could drown out the jealousy he feels.

His eyes trace invisible etchings in the air as his gaze firmly follows his best friend’s hands. He thinks of how often he used to feel them, grabbing and playfully punching at him. His mind is lead to the time he once felt them on his face, so tender and gentle, much like the lips that accompanied them. He shakes his head forcefully, as if to almost shake the thought away. He only thought about that because that was when they first met Tashi. He didn’t want Patrick like that. He couldn’t. His best friend who meant the world to him, even if he did want anything more, he couldn’t risk ruining a friendship like that. He feels a shiver run down his spine as he watches the two share a passionate kiss. He doesn’t know what to do, or why he was even invited to the party in the first place. No matter what, or who, he wants, he can’t have it.

August, 2019

“What were you for?”. The same four words repeatedly circle Patrick Zweig’s mind. He sits in the back of his Honda CRV, a location so fitting for the pathetic mess of a man he has become, trying to make some sense of what Art was saying to him. The man he once knew so well, whom he shared his youth with. The man who reached the top and seemed to have it all.

Patrick had gotten used to the life he made for himself. He knew who he was, and he was glad he didn’t have anyone to hold him back from that, but a part of him wishes things were different. He wishes he could worship someone like that. He wishes he knew what he was for. Long gone were the days he felt happy, before he faded into the background of others’ lives. He tells himself that it’s tennis he’s talking about. Like how tennis was what he spoke to Art about in the sauna. He often found it hard to distinguish between tennis and life, so he allowed them to obscure one another. That way, he could always just assume it was tennis.

Patrick felt a chill run through his body. He blamed it on the weather. He found his mind clouded with ‘what ifs’. What if he never invited Tashi to their hotel room that night. What if he never felt his lips interlock with those of his best friend. Maybe then he could have told him the truth. How he liked boys. With nothing to make it weird. What if he told him anyways, despite it all, and it was weird, but okay. What if he didn’t stay silent in the sauna earlier that day. What if he told the truth. How he knew exactly what he was for. Who he was for. Maybe if he spoke to Tashi. Maybe she would laugh in his face and tell him to get lost. Or maybe she would understand.

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