#seersuckers of time????

[fairweathermyth]

WAXAHATCHEE "Tigers Blood" on CBS Saturday Sessions

And it fills me with dread, but I've learned to ignore the smell of dust that creeps up through the cracks in the floor

[hang-on-lil-tomato]

[warrued]

i have returned from the war...... aka nyc, london, paris, and amsterdam. XD

[vultbae]

negroni ✩

art donaldson x female reader

↳ summary: After winning against Patrick, Art takes the night off to grab a few drinks at the Ritz Carlton lobby bar. There, he meets a profound admirer. 

OR

Things go wrong with the girl who bought him a Negroni.

↳ warnings: fingering (minors dni), age gap (reader is 22), manipulation, infidelity, angst towards end.

↳ extra warnings: english is not my first language pookies + my first fic + yall I'm messyy so I added drama out of nowhere. if u read this I love u thank u for giving me a chance

word count: 4.9k

✩

"Excuse me, no smoking."

The blonde man lifts his chin to encounter a young waitress warning him about the cigarette dangling off his mouth. His middle and index fingers immediately approach the cigarette and gradually pull the filtered end from between his lips. "Sorry." Art frankly apologizes.

The waitress's purposeful avoidance of directly looking at him makes Art borderline giggle. He can't help but discreetly give her a comprehensive look; the girl is attractive, with velvety skin that impersonates caramel and peaceful facial features. He shushes all the pushy thoughts resembling the waitress to his wife staying upstairs. He is not that desperate, plus, everyone knows he is married to the Tashi Duncan.

Art audibly clears his throat and articulates before the young woman strolls away, "Can you get me a Negroni, please?" He requests, showcasing a courteous smile. The woman nods.

He didn't even realize when he positioned the cigarette between his lips. He had been anxiously waiting for an instance when he could be alone -at least since the match against Patrick. Tashi cheerfully agreed to let him descend to the lobby bar to grab a few drinks.

✩

Art had been attentively scanning his frame on the wide mirror and adjusting strands and strands of hair as he paid more attention to his hairstyle; his somber eyes descended from his impeccable hair to the unfastened buttons of his seersucker shirt, revealing a fraction of silk-like, gloomy skin from chest to lower stomach, his well-grooved muscles casting shadows under the bathroom's dim yellow lighting. 

"I'm going out!" Art shouted from the bathroom as he fastened the remaining buttons of his shirt.

From the corner of his eye, he sensed Tashi approaching the bathroom doorframe and standing by it. Art tilted his head up to encounter Tashi, his wife, silently grinning, dressed in a beautiful pearl-white silk robe, "I won't be gone for more than an hour-

"It's fine," Tashi interrupted. "I'll watch a movie with Lily. We can talk about it later."

Art nodded. His eyes stared at her with minor fascination. Tashi couldn't figure out why, but the feral spark on Art's orbs evaporated. She walked away.

Art slightly opened his mouth to say something but suddenly cut himself off, lips slamming together. He didn't say anything. He allowed the slim figure of his wife to vanish from his eyesight. He authorized himself to go out alone for the first time in years and think about his relationship with Tashi and tennis -if, at this point, they were not equal. And his relationship with Patrick, of course. 

After today, he felt things he hadn't felt in a while.

✩

An insistent tap on his shoulder provokes Art to flinch and abruptly land on earth again. 

"Excuse me, Negroni..?" Another waiter says in a quivering voice—a statement rather than a question—hardly maintaining eye contact. He is holding a tiny round silver tray with a bloody-looking Negroni sitting on it. 

Before the amateur waiter can shakily grasp the crystal glass to place it on Art's table, Art raises his arm and moves the Negroni himself. As soon as he places the glass on the marmol table's surface, his long fingers seize the thin wedge of orange embellishing the glass, bringing it to his lips and sucking on it instantly.

He doesn't realize that the one time he and the waiter are maintaining eye contact is while he sucks on a slice of orange -slowly.

"Thank you." Art says, dragging the wedge out of his mouth, detecting the scarcity of color on the waiter's facial canvas. "Why is he so pale?" Art thinks. The meddling stare from the waiter endures for maybe five seconds before Art frowns his eyebrows slightly in confusion; the poor guy nearly jogs away from Art's table.

Does he carry that much power over people? It has been long since Art calculatedly flirted with or attempted to gain someone's attention. To be accurate, since Tashi entered his life. He has officially lost the "open-to-the-public" charming spark and neglected his intrinsically flirty side. 

But today, for some reason, he feels different than usual. Not that he is trying to test it...

The Ritz lobby bar is moderately quiet. Art peeks at a few travelers relaxing with their baggage as they sip cocktails in miniature glasses and couples drinking -"probably pre-gaming before a night out," Art assumes. His gaze disembarks over two guys in their premature 20s, brunette, and blonde, chuckling and vividly chitchatting about topics he can't overhear properly. Art is hooked to the scenario in front of him as he stares enthusiastically: it bitterly reminds him of his friendship with Patrick, whom he hasn't heard of since the match. 

As he finds himself —once again— daydreaming about what once was, Art takes decent-sized sips of his Negroni, with his right hand hugging the crystal glass just right. He is sitting on one of the many hickory brown leather armchairs dispersed across the bar, manspreading as his left hand lays over his lap. 

Suddenly, a personal reflection pops into his mind like a light bulb unexpectedly turning on; what is he doing? Sitting submerged in loneliness in a 5-star hotel lobby bar will not change anything. It simply won't. He would rather go back to the suite and have some pleasing fucking sleep. He is feeling tired, and confused, and depressed, and—

Well, If anything, people who recognize him could come and disturb his night. 

Art locks eyesight with the first waiter wandering across his vision field; he pitches a writing motion with his hand and requests the bill. As the waiter walks in his direction, he chugs down the leftover sips of cocktail in the glass.

"Bill?" Another waiter wearing a burgundy uniform asks Art. The tennis player shakes his head up and down, murmuring a yes please, "Don't worry, on the house."

"I can afford it." Art stresses, with a robust sarcastic undertone tinting his voice tone while attempting to maintain the most benevolent smile on his catalog. 

The waiter chuckles in exaggerated glee. "I know, Mr. Donaldson. Your bill has been cleared by another customer," he clarifies, standing in front of Art with the straightest stance and hands intertwined in the manifestation of hospitality. The waiter clears his throat, "Actually, by the young woman over there," and discreetly points his finger at the stools by the bar gantry.

Art's gaze dashes over to a woman standing by the bar gantry. He can only see her back, not her complete complexion. Although he has internally accepted this demeanor as improper, he allows his eyes to scan over the woman's silhouette freely, lingering a little longer on her legs. In the background, he can faintly attend to the waiter talking about hotel-specific branch issues and how stays such as his and Tashi's benefit the hotel's branding -isn't this the Ritz Carlton?

"Yes, I agree." Art blurts out as soon as he realizes the waiter has concluded his monologue, his gaze glued to the enigmatic female standing five meters away from him.

"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. Have a great night." Just as Art opened his mouth to greet him in return, the waiter had already shifted on his feet to approach another table.

Art reevaluates what he is about to do. Should he greet her, thank her, or gently communicate how unmannered it can be to buy a married man a drink? 

But also, what if it's an obsessed groupie attempting to instigate drama?

It doesn't matter. Buying Art Donaldson a drink is disrespectful. Literally everyone —quite literally everyone— who knows Donaldson knows he is married to Tashi Duncan!

Come on, a woman, unattended in a bar, buying me a drink? Art thinks.Of course, she has hidden intentions, he reassures himself. Art shifts on the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees, still pondering whether he should approach her. 

Why isn't he simply disregarding this and walking away?  

He hadn't felt so much excitement about something so childish in a while. It felt like being nineteen again. After hugging Patrick today, he sensed a heartwarming relief regarding Tashi cheating on him. But, on the other hand, he's a fucking human.

Fuck it. He just wants to chat with the girl and perhaps communicate that she shouldn't do that again. Right, that's it. 

Art picks up his belongings and strides towards her.

"Hey, sorry..." Art speaks, dragging the stool beside the woman and grinning warily at her. His soothing, recognizable tone of voice instantly captures her attention.

Art expected many things, but not a drop-dead gorgeous woman. A girl. She looks...young— not underage kind of young, but unquestionably not over twenty-five. On the other hand, as a well-known tennis player, he's had plenty of exquisite-looking women begging for attention; Tashi herself is stunning. Somehow, this woman left his lungs tightening for a sizzling second, which is concerning. 

Plus, her aroma. Jesus, the scent, Art thinks. He would continuously go weak on the knees when Tashi wore that damn tangy, dark cherry fragrance she had. He immediately identified the distinct smell.

"Mr. Donaldson, oh my god..." The girl's voice pitches high, and she extends her right hand in his stomach direction as if she had been rehearsing for this moment. "I didn't believe you would accept the drink," she adds enthusiastically. 

Her voice is too harmonious for his ears. 

Art stretches his hand and shakes hers. "Well, I didn't." Art retorts, unconsciously smirking at the girl's harmless bliss, "I was pretty much obligated to accept the free Negroni."

"Well, either way, I am honored," she says with a slight shrug and giggles, "Names Y/n; by the way, very nice to meet you, Mr. Donaldson. Big fan of yours"

"Nice to meet you too, Y/n," Art unpretentiously expresses. His facial expression goes abruptly blank as he realizes he might be snitching on himself. "Uh, Y/n, I don't wanna sound rude, but what you did... with the drink," he struggles to word it nicely, worrying about coming out as unpolite. He laboriously swallows as Y/n raises her eyebrows, expectant. "You shouldn't buy drinks to married men," he concludes.

Y/n lets out a gigantic gasp, "Oh my- this is so embarrassing," her hands fly over to her mouth, covering it in mortification, "I am so sorry, Mr. Donaldson-

"Please, call me Art," Art interrupts, a smirk rising on his face.

"Well, Art," Y/n corrects herself, now speaking with a mischievous undertone, still with an infectious grin plastered on her face. "I go to Stanford. I couldn't stop hearing about you —your skills. Well, I grew up in a household of tennis enthusiasts, and I, myself, am a tennis player. I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you've done for the tennis culture."

Art's cheeks feel hot. Heck, they are burning. 

"Oh.." he mumbles, mainly to himself out of amazement.

"I would never, don't worry, Mr. Donaldson- I mean, Art." Y/n reassures, emphasizing the never. But as she justified herself, a sad half smile crooked on her plump lips, "I mean... No one can deny you are very handsome, but I am a respectful woman-"

He unmistakably heard the last sentence but will bypass it for his mental stability. "It's fine, Y/n." Again, he runs over her words, interrupting, "I should be apologizing; I don't want to come across as an entitled asshole."

For some reason, Art can't stop feeding the conversation. You are a fucking horndog, Art internally insults himself.

"Let me buy you a drink as an apology," Art says bluntly, requesting clearance but simultaneously demanding. Y/n, on the other hand, has her eyes set on the blonde man in front of her, both gazes perforating each other. "I mean, if you are of age.."

She giggles.

"Twenty-two. Took a gap year," the girl admits, "and I wouldn't mind a Negroni," she adds, now faking a nonchalant accent.

Y/n can hardly believe the circumstances she has put herself in. She observes the man standing before her, deftly moving from how he calls the server to how he licks his lips after ordering the Negroni. He's so fucking hot, she thinks. She had only seen him through flat screens and once attended one of the numerous lectures he gave back on campus. 

But no, Y/n wasn't an obsessive stalker. Earlier that day, she had been at the New Rochelle Tennis Club with her father and the new newbie guy he was coaching —she can't even recall his name. Long story short, the guy had asked her on a date, and as a grandiose concurrency, Y/n had suggested the Ritz —they serve finger-licking cosmopolitans at their bar. It wasn't until she reached twenty minutes earlier by mistake that she contemplated bailing on her plans. Why? Because she laid eyes on the mouthwatering blonde man sitting by himself, ingesting a depressing ass-looking Negroni. 

She knew it was a hit or miss. But she would rather miss if it came to the possibility of messing around with the man of her most soaked dreams.

Y/n's nostrils pleasingly burn as she inhales a warmish, spicy fragrance emanating from Art's clothes and skin. She can't dodge the impulse to frequently peek at the opening of his shirt, revealing milky skin. Her breathing becomes erratic just by fantasizing about him without the fucking seersucker shirt. She knows he's fucking ripped.

Y/n chews on the bottom of her lip anxiously, contemplating her words. "By the way, what you did today was insane."

Art arches a brow. "You mean playing tennis?"

"That wasn't even tennis; that was an entirely different game," Y/n responds as if Art had offended her. "It felt as if the court was entirely yours," she overpraises him, feeling rewarded by the minuscule giggles escaping from Art's lips.

Art feels his heart warm up at the familiar sentence choice. "It is not a big deal, just a good tennis match," he elucidates. 

She rolls her eyes. "Sure... or maybe you are just too skilled for other players." Y/n softly laughs.

Art bits back the tiniest groan of frustration. He feels his dick hardening underneath the light-washed denim jeans he's wearing. He tries to comprehend if it is because of the sudden sensual undertone in her delicate voice, her unmistakable submissive look penetrated deep into her big eyes, or the fact that Tashi had not touched him below the hipline in months and turned him into a precocious motherfucker. Or it could be the alcohol making him horny. He hadn't noticed before how tight her clothing was —it took one swift glimpse at her body for Art to see her thighs spilling out of the hem of the strapless mini-dress. It took another one to realize she was now gently caressing his arm.

Art was convinced there was nothing left to wipe the carefully crafted agitated expression from his face. "Could be, yeah," he says, subsequently coughing to avoid strangling on his own spit. "I don't want to be seen as some kind of God."

"Well, you move like one," Y/n affirms, chuckling at her own filthy sentence, her fingers playfully stirring the brand-new Negroni sitting on the bar table with the cocktail straw. She licks her lips, "You know what I mean."

Bullshit. There is no way this girl doesn't want to fuck.

She dodges eye contact, but there is a peculiar shift in the air, and a smirk exponentially extends her lips.

"I know what you mean." Art snaps back, incapable of looking away from the cocktail straw now entrapped in between her glossy lips. 

His muscles and head feel more lightweight, but his ocean eyes remain entirely tied to her outline. 

Their bodies have shuffled negligibly closer—inappropriately closer. Art senses warmness filling his face from the subtle friction of their knees: the coarse texture of his denim and Y/n's smooth, bare skin.

From her peripheral vision, Y/n glimpses a security guard patrolling the hotel lobby. She makes eye contact with the robust man for a split second, whose facial expression reshapes in dull stunner as he peeks at who's sitting next to her. 

Y/n sets her crystal glass on the bar counter. "Thank you so much for the drink." 

"Wait. Are you leaving?" Art questions, with feigned etiquette that reeks of desperation. 

Y/n's eyes dart to the man standing near their stools. Art tracks her gaze and sighs. "You already gifted me minutes of your time and a Negroni. That's enough coming from Art Donaldson." 

Art hesitates. "They are not in my business." He practically whines, progressively revealing his despair to the young woman sitting before him.

"I still need to Uber home," Y/n excuses, pouting at her words. "A woman can't be alone that late-

"I can drive you." 

✩

The drive is around twenty-five minutes. 

Y/n quietly sits in the copilot seat of Art's Bentley Bentayga. By her left side, Art grips the steering wheel confidently, his fingers switching effortlessly over the controls as they drive through the streets of the suburban county of Westchester. She peers through the shadowy window glass on her side —there's a winter storm outside. 

"How many days are you staying in Westchester?" Y/n asks while her gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery framed by the window.

Art clicks his tongue. "Not much. Most likely leaving tomorrow morning."

"Did you do anything fun around the county?" 

"Well, a rich-people county isn't the most amusing place to visit." Art jokes, speaking with a devilish tease.

Y/n doesn't reply. Instead, her eyes quickly flicker to his silhouette under the fuzzy skyglow leaking through the car's transparencies. Art's blonde hair captures the faint illumination beautifully, each strand seeming to shimmer under the dim light. His muscles tighten at—

Red light.

When the car stops, Art twists his head to the right, his and her gazes collapsing. He runs his tongue over his upper lip before talking, "You mentioned something earlier..." he begins to say. 

In the stillness of the moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine idling.

"I mentioned many things," Y/n corrects. 

A faint crease of discomfort crosses Art's brow, and he shifts slightly on the red leather seat. Y/n examines each of his subtle hip and torso motions as he gets rid of the discomfort. Finally, again sitting still, he resumes. "Let me be specific. You mentioned I am handsome."

A sudden warmth spreads across her cheeks, an unmistakable flush of embarrassment.

"I don't think this is appropriate."

"I don't think neither of us cares about what's appropriate anymore." 

It feels as if the world has stopped for Y/n. It feels as if a spell had caught both of them, leaving them besotted, and fucking horny, and awaiting the other to give the—

Green light.

"I think there's a parking lot next to a store that shut down recently 3 minutes away."

That's all Y/n says. Art presses down the gas pedal and tightens his grip on the wheel to suppress some exotic sensations that rocket down his spine.

Raindrops splatter against the windshield and the car's roof, and the blonde guy continues to drive through a road of infinite rain-soaked side trees swaying in the wind's rhythm and closed shops. 

It takes four minutes and fifty seconds to reach a gigantic parking lot beside what once was a Dollar Tree. Although Y/n can scarcely appreciate the space due to the weather conditions and the tinted glass, she can see some faded, bright yellow parking lines now covered in dirt and droplets of rain. The place is totally empty.

Y/n's heart sprints ten times faster when the engine settles into a contented hum. Goosebumps flourish on her skin as serenity inundates the car interior—complete silence. The SUV has parked on a random corner.

And she doesn't want to look in Art's direction because she knows he's already looking.

She plays it credulously. "I think this is a great place to talk in peace," Y/n murmurs, finally turning her head towards him. 

The fleeting moment her eyes cross with his evokes a sense of vulnerability for the girl. Art's orbs shamelessly spark with a glimmer of mischief, like a predator stalking its prey. The unbridled desire is nowhere near disguised now, and Y/n knows the guy won't keep playing the innocent role anymore. Is buying him a drink disrespectful? Bullshit. But she's grateful the poor, troubled man will have some fun. She knew he'd surrender faster than expected. 

Yeah. Art had lifted the white flag as soon as he reached out a hand to grasp the door handle of his sexy ass Bentayga to open it for Y/n, and his eyes had flown by instinct to the girl's ass when she was hopping on his car.

Now, he can't tear his eyes off her lips. 

"I've had a fucked up day." Art suddenly breathes out. There's a steady rise and fall of his chest, but Y/n can tell he's struggling to maintain it. His eyes ascend to lock in with hers. "I want to forget who the fuck I am."

Y/n is drowning in the noise of her own accelerated heartbeat. "I can help you." Y/n's words shoot out in submission, haltingly batting her eyelashes at him.

It's humorous mainly because she has no idea what is happening in his life. She doesn't know the mess between Tashi and Patrick; the fact that Tashi allegedly fucked Pa—well, whatever. Y/n doesn't know. She understands the man is disturbed, though, because the instant she stepped inside the luxurious lobby of the Ritz Carlton, she could tell the man had no emotion on his face. She recalled watching his matches when she was younger, and one thing about Art Donaldson was the radiant vitality his presence brought to any room he was in.

It's evident that the radiance was gone. For whatever reason.

Their bodies draw closer, the only barrier being the gear stick and seat partition between them. Y/n can feel Art's warm breath clashing against her lips, a slightly intoxicating and crisp scent of gin climbing to her nostrils. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue before grabbing Art by the collar of his shirt and pulling him into her mouth. He briefly widens his eyes but reciprocates instantly.

He is the sort of kisser who goes slowly but deepens as much as possible, inserting his tongue everywhere attainable. Y/n tastes good and, heck, excellent —sweet and spicy, as if she chewed cinnamon gum before assaulting his mouth. The flavor and the satiny texture of her lips push him to near insanity; Art pumps his tongue in and out, desperately, sweeping against hers because of the faint, delicate moans leaking from her side every time he does it —it makes him vertiginous.

It isn't until Y/n sucks on his lower lip that he splits off to breathe. "No marks." Art forewarns with his face dropped in soberness, heavily panting.

He discerns something shifting inside of him when Y/n's beautiful features soften for a beat, casting a veil of a peculiar sentiment he's too emotionally dumb to interpret —bitterness? sadness? He can't tell. The fuzzy thoughts fade when her lips attack again, parting his with ease, allowing her tongue to slip inside. "Shut up." Y/n spits lowly between kisses.

A couple of sizzling minutes of pure, obscene french kissing pass before Art realizes the pressure underneath the light-washed denim over his crotch is tormenting him. His left-hand glides over Y/n's thigh and gently squeezes, letting her know he needs to move forward. At this point, he has readjusted the position of his body over the red leather seat, facing Y/n straight; the hand resting over her thigh gradually shoves the hem of the mini-dress upwards, revealing more skin and dangerously approaching her pussy.

The tempo of Y/n's kisses becomes unsteady with the sensation of his physical touch near such an intimate area. It felt weirdly mortifying for her to be this wet this early —her pussy felt slippery and willing to take whatever Art proposed. She breaks off the kiss out of involuntary reflex, with her gaze immediately descending on Art's left hand, too big for her, and skillfully positioning the lace of the light-pink panties aside.

If Art was a magician and opening her legs was a challenging magic trick, goddamn, he'd be a good magician. Y/n had no idea how, in such an undersized space, her legs had managed to spread that wide. The specific moment when Art's middle finger comes in contact with her wetness is a blur, but the filthy, low-pitched groan that his mouth emits as the first finger rubs her pussy lips will never be forgotten. Y/n unconsciously rocks her hips in search of more friction-

"Stay still." Art demands, chest rapidly going up and down. Although he attempts to sound demanding, his voice is weak in want and ridiculously desperate. Y/n's cheeks flame up when he begins toying with her clit, rubbing slow circles, with an equally attractive and irritating cocky grin resting over his face.

But she wants that one finger to go in. Y/n sighs in eagerness, muttering a series of pleasepleasepleases.

"Art..." Y/n mutters between choked moans, bucking her hips forward into his hand. Art gazes at her, intoxicated by her facial expressions and the mild tone of her voice, delivering such nasty noises. His eyes don't leave Y/n's face as he thrusts his middle finger past her slick folds. He feels his dick twitch at her exaggerated facial response.

What was one finger quickly became two, picking up their speed and twirling inside, hitting the sweetest spot. "Not a virgin, right? " Art abruptly asks, terrified but astonished at the tightness her pussy held, clenching down on his digits and squeezing. 

"No... oh my god—" Y/n yelps, hardly managing to articulate words as his fingers keep steadily penetrating her pussy. 

Y/n tilts her head back and instantly feels a trail of sloppy, wet kisses on her jaw; Art is nearly over her body, working his way downstairs and upstairs, too. The accelerated rhythm of his fingering ceases for a hot second as his available hand reaches her chest to unashamedly pull down the neckline of Y/n's mini-dress, freeing her tits and letting them bounce out of the expensive cloth. 

As a sheer coincidence and dissolving in pleasure, Y/n's eyesight dismounts in one of the tall buildings in front of the parking lot. What she sees is practically ironic. An immense billboard with Art's face crammed inside, by his side Tashi Duncan's iconic facial features, and an oversized Aston Martin logo. "Game Changer," the thing reads. Funny, she thinks. He is a game changer, though —not sure if he is the same kind Aston Martin broadcasts. 

But seeing his face and Tashi's painfully reminds her the man is not hers. 

In fact, the man has a whole wife.

"Fuck me." Y/n requests, still a complete mess, moaning, arching her back, breathless. 

And nothing happened where she thought the fire test lay. Art obliged. In fact, he seemed enthusiastic. He wants to make her his. Y/n modestly smiled at the thought.

"Yes... fuck, yeah." With a deft hand, he reaches down and unfastens the button of his pants; he eases the zipper down, and the faint sound of it sliding makes Y/n nauseated of anticipation.

Art reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a beautiful, black leather wallet. He flips it open, his brows furrowing in concentration as he sifts through its contents. With a muttered curse under his breath, he begins to dig deeper; Y/n doesn't understand what's happening —is he searching for a condom?

After eternal seconds, the blonde guy lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head, resigned.

Y/n sits beside him awkwardly, unhurriedly pulling up the neckline of her dress, covering her now shivering body.

"...So?" she questions.

He remains silent.

"I don't have condoms." 

"I'm on the pill." Y/n offers.

The look Art shoots at Y/n isn't gracious. In fact, it triggers a big spark of frustration on his face, eyebrows knitting together in a light scowl as he looks at her incredulously.

Then it turns worse when, by mistake, his gaze falls on the same billboard Y/n had seen earlier.

"I can't. Sorry." 

Y/n slowly closes her legs and adjusts her neckline. "Why?"

Art's eyes fall to his lap. "Well, starting from the fact I have a family-

Y/n interrupts. "Well, you didn't seem to care when you offered to drive a total stranger."

It was most likely the sassiness and the blaming in her voice that unexpectedly threw him off. Really threw him off.

"That's none of your business. I just took the opportunity of a warm hole."

In one swift, rampant movement, her hand connects with his cheek with a resounding crack, the sound echoing through the air like a crash. His head jerks to the side. A slap.

She had fucking slapped him.

With a trembling breath, Y/n doesn't think twice before she pushes open with unmeasured force the door of Art's fucking ugly car —or that's how she thinks of it now. The storm still persists, rain pouring down in sheets. Tears accumulate over her eyes as she steps out into the downpour, grabbing her purse tightly.

"Hey, hold on..."

She completely ignores Art's words, which get easily lost in the roar of the rain. 

But she turns to face him one last time, sitting on the pilot seat, visibly ashamed of himself —and still with unbuttoned pants.

"Fuck you. I hope you lose every single fucking tennis match." And with a forceful push, she slams the car door shut. 

As Y/n steps away from the vehicle, leaving a splash in the puddles on the floor, she wishes the man she met two hours ago had run after her and begged forgiveness. But of course, he didn't. Instead, she watched as the vehicle got started again and drove past her, quickly rejoining the road and disappearing in the darkness. 

✩

[erwinsvow]

Okay but shy/bunny reader being used to bestfriend!Rafe ditching her because he’s with some girl, she never points it out and somehow she always lets it go because she’s just a babyy and Rafe starts realising that they don’t hang out as much😭💖

it was hard seeing rafe go—always was, and always will be.

you tried to convince yourself you were used to it now, but the familiar ache in your chest when he'd say goodbye to you, topper, and kelce and walk away hand in hand with his flavor of the week was getting worse and worse.

before you'd realized you had feelings for rafe—beyond just the affection you gave to your close friends—you hadn't cared at all. you'd even encouraged it, same way you did with top and kelce, offering advice and recommending which flowers to bring, what places to bring them.

not that rafe ever really needed your help. it seems since the day he'd become your best friend, there was a line of girls hanging behind the two of you, seemingly waiting for their turn. at night, when it felt worse—and somehow it always did feel worse in your bed alone, wondering if rafe's was empty too and knowing that it wasn't—you tried to make yourself feel better.

you're still here, and they're not—that's how you tried. it worked for a little.

the newest girl had been around for a record three weeks, so even your usual bandaid for your shattered heart wasn't helping the wound heal.

so far, he'd skipped two meals, a day at the course, and half of a boat day to spend with her instead of you. you, kelce, and top that is. you'd hoped today was going to be different, walking back to top's jeep after lunch to head to the marina.

"you're not coming?" you call out to rafe, who was walking back in the direction of his own car. kelce and top are too far away to hear—getting into the front already. you were always stuck in the back, and you had never minded when rafe was there to keep you company.

rafe flicks his eyes over you, taking in the new dress you really shouldn't have bought just to see what kind of reaction you could get from him. your bag has your bikini in it and one of his button ups to cover you and he sees it poking out—white seersucker temporarily distracting him.

"rafe?"

"yeah. sorry, no. made plans with-"

"yeah, of course you did." you cut him off, and though even a few weeks ago you couldn't have imagined the vitriol in your voice, it comes out all too easy. "have fun."

you try to walk away but his footsteps follow—and damn his long legs, because he gets infront of you before you can escape.

"what, kid? you mad at me?"

you shouldn't say something. you shouldn't say anything.

"we're going to the boat. you said you were coming. i cut fruit for you."

"i-i'm sorry. top will eat it."

"it's not for him. that's not the point." the words teeter on the edge—wanting so badly to tell him that you miss him. that he never hangs out with you anymore, that he's choosing some girl over you and it stings worse than anything you've felt so far.

you're not sure when it started feeling so different—rafe's always done this. and standing two feet from the jeep, kelce sticking his head out the window to yell at you to get in, you realize you're going to reveal yourself if you don't shut up.

"have fun, rafe. sorry. bye."

you don't give him a chance to respond, but it doesn't take anything else for the gears to click. you're too quiet to ever admit it, too shy to say what you're really thinking, and rafe knows that—he's known it since he met you.

standing there, watching you drive away with kelce and top, he briefly wonders what the last time was he did something just with you. he can't even remember it. it all blurs together—late night runs for ice cream and breakfast while top and kelce were still passed out. the sweet way you smile at him and how your expression changes when he goes to the girl who's waiting for him. he gets in the car and can't decide which direction to turn—towards this girl or towards you.

on the boat, you kick up your feet and open your book, trying to drown out the chatter of kelce and top trying to get out of the marina and focus singularly on the romance in your hands rather than the one in your brain. you drown it out a little too much.

"that the one i got you?" rafe asks from somewhere next to you.

"god-" you exclaim, book slipping from your grip and thudding on the boat. "you scared me." catching your breath, you bend to pick up your book, but rafe beats you to it, picking it up and placing it on your lap.

"sorry."

"what happened to your plans?" rafe shrugs. you wish your heartbeat would slow down. you look down at your lap and rafe looks over you—exposed skin shiny with sunblock, a blue bikini he thinks he's never noticed before, matching nails that suit you.

"already had plans with you, remember?"

[dykesynthezoid]

Love fashion nerd Sanji. Partly bc it means he and Zoro have had a million conversations that look like this:

“Still wearing your prissy silk suit, huh? Why would you fight in something like that?”

“First of all, this is fucking cotton corduroy,” Sanji snaps, gesturing down at himself. “You think I’d willingly fight in silk? I’m not a savage. Do you know how hard that would be to clean?”

Zoro blinks dully at him. “Uh, yeah, I guess we know how much you hate getting your hands dirty,” he says after a moment, looking pointedly at Sanji’s gloves.

Oh, fuck this guy.

“They’re full-grain chrome-tanned goat leather!” Sanji says defensively, then promptly realizes he sounds insane— but there’s nothing he can really do about that right now. “I don’t know why I’m bothering discussing this with you,” he continues, shooing Zoro with his hands in the air. “You couldn’t tell the difference between a seersucker and a sharkskin.”

For the first time during this conversation, Zoro’s interest looks mildly piqued. “They make clothes out of shark skin?”

This fucking pile of moss.

“Not the kind you’re thinking,” Sanji sighs with exasperation.

[nursegracecreates]

Old Man (30) Toby HC's

For context, Toby spent three years in an asylum after he and Natalie "broke up"

She didn't kill him, not actually

But her actions made him as good as dead in the world of the proxies

Natalie actually just dumped Toby at a state-run mental institution

Where he was put on meds

Which took away Slenderman's influence

After his escape, Toby seemed much more adjusted mentally

Perhaps all that time in self reflection and therapy really did help

Except Toby couldn't imagine a life without the proxies

And the woods are his home

Despite his... Rustic living conditions

Toby dresses much more neatly at 30

The gray chino pants, green sweater vest and white dress shirt never seem to get too dirty

*Raccoon tail harvested from a freshly dead raccoon found in the woods

Toby is very careful with them and meticulous with their upkeep

Slenderman doesn't show it but he's so proud Toby has matured in the style department

He never could understand these children and their obsession with hoodies

The white shirt is seersucker, so it helps keeps Toby cool

And the sweater vest is likewise very lightweight

The Chinos are very durable and Toby has waterproofed them so watermarks don't show up

He even has a second outfit he wears in the field:

Dark blue jeans, tight black shirt, shitkicker boots, his goggles, rig to hold his hatchet and axe, and his pica mask from the hospital

In cold weather months, a black parka is thrown on

Black gloves with padding (work gloves) are a part of Toby's ensemble no matter what he's wearing

His fingers are in rough shape

Scarring from years of nervous chewing mark every fingertip, knuckle, and webbing

Not to mention the damage done by three years in a straight jacket

The nurses were supposed to let him out of it for a few minutes every hour to keep circulation right

However, Toby proved too unpredictable for that

Unsure of how to handle this problem long term,

Slenderman did the equivalent of putting socks on a baby's hands like one would to keep their child from hurting themselves

Toby puts his gloves on every morning, first thing after bathing

Now that we've got his clothing sorted out

Let's talk about Toby as a person now that he's older

He's much more jaded now

A lot of people have used and taken advantage of him

So now he's very cagey with who he gets close to

But there's definitely a confidence about Toby that there wasn't before

He carries himself taller

Even his walk seems to have purpose

Toby's personality definitely fills a room

But it's nervous and awkward energy mixed with companionable silence

Years of being a proxy and then being locked away seems to have impacted Toby's social skills to a certain degree

His jokes are dark or so off the wall that no one really understands them or laughs

Sometimes they can be quite hurtful, and Toby will be lost in contemplation about why people seem to be eternally upset with him

Likes to take the ugliest candid pictures of people and gets sad when the person demands he delete them

Seems to show more care and affection for animals

Toby will viciously kill a man, laughing and mocking his victims cries

And then usher a row of ducks across the street on the way home from it

[bighandsforabigheart]

Hello~ :3...I need hurt!Solo fic recs 🥺🥺🥺 the darker the better hehehe. Thanks~✨ and love your art!🩷🩷

Thank you!!

Took me a while to go through (reread) my bookmarks lol

Here are my faves, some are physical hurt and others emotional:

Earning Freedom by Dagger_Stiletto

The CIA takes Napoleon back, and he suffers. Oh how he suffers. If there is a chance he can escape, or at the very least clear his name, he does all he can to feed UNCLE the information he can. But on his last mission, his time might be up.

Needs Must When The Devil Drives by ZealouslyQuixotic

When it boiled down to the bare elements, Napoleon had always lacked the ability to treat serious things with the respect they deserved, and Illya was nothing if not serious. A serious person and a serious relationship right from their stumbled attempts at friendship through to the nebulous lines surrounding loyalty, lust, love. He had never known where they stood because he refused to quantify his own emotions. How could he begin to comprehend Illya’s when he was so far in denial about the sheer extent of his own? He had wasted years in that same manner; denying, joking, maintaining a front of shallow interest, of want founded solely in carnal gratification. His time had long since run out and now all he had was an undeserved sacrifice, a cracked veneer, and a paraphrased line from a 17th century poem. "Had I but world enough, and time." Damning last words of regret and forgiveness.

Provenance by cactusonastair

Napoleon Solo is in love with Illya Kuryakin. He knows it. Gaby knows it. Illya presumably does not know it, otherwise Napoleon would be dead. It's not just Illya's rejection Napoleon fears. The CIA and KGB would never brook their top agents canoodling with each other. And who the hell knows what Waverly will think. No, it's better for all concerned that he keeps his mouth firmly shut. Then a mission unexpectedly unravels, things spiral out of Napoleon's control, and all his best resolutions turn to dust.

And I Was The Boy Who Was Lucky by Chamel

Napoleon was, on the other hand, of course prepared for the weather. He’d acquired a bright new seersucker suit that he wore like he’d dressed in the quintessentially southern fabric since he was a child. The pale blue stripes brought out the blue of his eyes, even from across the covered deck. Not that Illya had told him such a thing, because, for one, he was sure Napoleon already knew and had in fact planned it that way, and for two, as much as he secretly enjoyed watching his partner preen under his praise, the last thing he needed was Napoleon getting any ideas about Illya’s feelings. Because there was nothing to get ideas about, truly.

Silver to Lead by Elri

Napoleon Solo has been cursed for a long time, but it never mattered before so why bring it up? Of course, now things aren't the same as they were before.

And if you're okay with gallya ← solo unrequited love

The Show Must Go On by Ingu

It’s not that you don’t think about dying. You know with a clear certainty that yes, it may well kill you. But the part where your mind trips over itself is in the possibility, the uncertainty behind an inevitable eventuality. Yes, it might all end terribly, just maybe not today.

I'm sure I'm missing some of the darker ones (can't read them more than once) so if I come by more I'll add them

[carlos-in-glasses]

Happy Wednesday and yuletide felicitations to one and all.

Sharing a section from Where All This Love Comes From, Chapter 7: A Boy's Best Friend (posting on Sunday!)

In which teenage Carlos has been unceremoniously dragged by his parents to visit a newborn baby, and he isn't happy about it. Luckily, there's also a dog. And a boy.

He’s escaped to the kitchen, because here he can hang out with their elderly golden retriever – a glamorous white-coated lady called Zelda – and he’s massaging her head with salad tongs when he notices the time change on his digital watch. For some reason it makes him fiercely angry, and it’s the exact moment Gabriel wanders in to find him like this: Crouched on the terracotta floor tiles, looking furious, while an ancient pup appears to be in a state of total ecstasy because her ear is being rubbed by a large wooden fork.

“There you are,” Gabriel says, carrying his empty coffee mug to the sink. “Everyone was wondering where you got to. Give me that.” He scoffs and snatches the salad tongs from Carlos, dumping them in the sink with his mug.

Zelda whimpers at the loss, so Carlos strokes her snout with his thumb.

“When are we going home?” Carlos asks it like a challenge, stares at the time of his life ticking away.

12:01, his watch says.

He’s expecting his father to huff, to stretch out a pointing arm and demand he get his moody ass back into the living room and coo over the boring baby, but that doesn’t happen. When it doesn’t happen, Carlos finds the courage to glance up. Gabriel is drying his hands on a red gingham seersucker cloth, regarding him with a half-smile.

“Not really your scene, huh?” Gabriel says.

Carlos shrugs with one shoulder.

“I get it. But the girls want to stay.”

“I know.”

“How about you and me go for lunch?”

Carlos gazes at his dad distrustfully, rising to his feet. “Just us?”

“Yeah. I want to take my boy for some food.”

“I’m really, really hungry,” Carlos tells him, quiet and ashamed, like it’s a terrible secret, even though him eating everybody out of house and home is probably the most well-established fact about Carlos Reyes.

Gabriel laughs, slapping the cloth down. “I’ll take you to Mockingbird,” he says, “It’s been a long time.”

Mockingbird Diner. Sometimes, when Gabriel’s shifts had allowed it, he’d meet Carlos at the school gates and take him for a milkshake. When did that stop? It feels like forever ago, but when Carlos thinks about it, he can smell salted fries. He can feel himself holding an ice-cold glass. He’d always get vanilla. If Gabriel had a milkshake too, he’d always get chocolate.

_______________________________

It’s a hectic weekend lunchtime at Mockingbird, but a booth by the window becomes free as they enter. A friendly college-age boy buses them over. The table is still messy with evidence of its former occupants. Carlos watches with interest as half-empty lemonade glasses and plates scattered with crumbs are lifted out of sight. He likes the boy’s hands – the way they open and close and flex as he works to clean up. The way his tanned forearms, with a clear seam of defined muscle, protrude through rolled white shirt sleeves. He probably plays sport at UT. Carlos imagines him as a baseballer.

“I’ll grab you some menus, sirs,” the boy says cheerfully after spritzing and wiping down their table.

Carlos accidentally follows the boy with his eyes as he walks away. When his gaze finally travels to Gabriel – Gabriel is staring back curiously. He doesn’t know how long his dad has been observing him for.

Open tag and tags below!

Tagging: @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @heartstringsduet @paperstorm @strandnreyes @welcometololaland @lemonlyman-dotcom @rmd-writes @reyesstrand @bonheur-cafe @lightningboltreader @chaotictarlos @goodways @alrightbuckaroo @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad @eclectic-sassycoweyes @orchidscript @taralaurel @noxsoulmate @liminalmemories21 @ladytessa74 @jesuisici33 @inflarescent @thisbuildinghasfeelings @fitzherbertssmolder @whatsintheboxmh @wandering-night19 @never-blooms @theghostofashton @carlos-tk @redshirt2 @herefortarlos @louis-ii-reyes-strand @chicgeekgirl89 @three-drink-amy @mikibwrites @freneticfloetry @sugdenlovesdingle - if you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever!

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

[croquissartoriaux]

New loafers? Ah ah, no, they're a very old pair that must be 20 years old ... But the trick to keeping them looking as good as new is quite simple: all you need is enough pairs of shoes to wear each of them only 3 or 4 times a year!

#croquissartoriaux #loafers #collection #shoegazing #seersucker #paisley #friends #joke #blazer #semainepascale #mocassins #alden #johnlobb #shoes #collector #funnysketch #comic #menswear #menstyle #elegant #dapper

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

So PCE lore, my husband is graduating with his masters on Saturday, and (if you’re familiar with my lore you know this guy is Craig Tucker coded as hell) I was trying to figure out what to wear to his ceremony, upset bc nothing fits me and I can’t find this one dress right? So I go “hey do you know where my teal a-line seersucker dress with the tie back is it’s not in the office closet (for reference our home office closet is where we keep costumes and “nice” clothes) and he goes and grabs an emerald green bodycon from said closet and goes “this one?” One eye still on his gaming stream lmfao (for the record I don’t know shit abt fashion I just have art department experience for film that’s the only reason I know clothes vaguely, costuming. I dress like OJV Stan in the cargo shorts and hippie shirts) my guy c’mon we went to undergrad for art at the same time I know you know the difference between scales of green

[warrued]

y'all, if i get nothing else done today, i'll be proud of myself because I, Miss 'Three Months Ago Couldn't Get Out of Bed for More Than Ten Minutes with Passing Out' DID AN HOUR AND A HALF OF YARD WORK TODAY, AN HOUR STRAIGHT NO LESS IN THE HEAT WITHOUT FEELING LIKE I'M GOING TO PASS OUT ONCE. i knew the meds were working to the point i have a good amount of energy but it looks like my stamina is a BIT more in tact than i could've guessed!

[audiemurphy1945]

"You win." He gets up slowly and moves toward the coat rack in the corner of his office for his jacket. "I promise. I'll get a blue blazer." It will be too big -I can see it in advance- and hang over his shoulders and sag sloppily around his chest, and he will probably get his worsted blue blazer just about the time the rest of us have switched to mohair or shantung or back to madras, plaids, and seersucker. It is already too late for him, I suspect; I suspect it is no longer in his power (if it ever was in his power) to change himself to everyone's satisfaction.

- Joseph Heller, Something Happened, 1974

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 11, 13 mars 1892, Paris. Mante ornée de broderie. Robe en crépon ornée de broderie. Modèles de chez Mme Coussinet, rue Richer, 43. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Mante ornée de broderie. — Cette mante, faite en drap bleu, doublé en soie de même couleur, est ornée d'une broderie en perles noires et or. Le dos et les devants, sur lesquels on pose les manches froncées, sont froncés plusieurs fois au bord supérieur et à la taille.

Robe en crépon, ornée de broderie. — Cette robe, faite en crépon de nuance sable, est ornée d'une broderie en perles d'or, d'argent et de cuivre, et une garniture de ruban. La jupe de dessous, coupée en faille, est garnie à l'intérieur avec un volant de même faille découpée, ayant 14 centimètres de hauteur, et à l'extérieur avec trois volants en crépon froncés, ayant chacun 7 centimètres de hauteur posés l'un sur l'autre, ornés d'une étroite bordure brodée. Le bord supérieur de la jupe, froncé, est garni d'une ceinture étroite, recouverte de ruban nuance sable, ayant 6 centimètres de hauteur, disposé derrière en bouclettes courtes. Le devant du corsage, croisant en dessus, est recouvert avec du crépon plissé; les côtés et le dos sont recouverts avec de l'étoffe semblable, disposée derrière à la taille en quelques plis; la partie supérieure du corsage est couverte par une jaquette courte brodée dont le bord inférieur est garni derrière avec un nœud de ruban à longs pans. Col droit recouvert en ruban; manche bouillonnée au bord supérieur, terminée par une haute manchette en crépon brodé.

—

Mantle adorned with embroidery. — This mantle, made of blue cloth, lined with silk of the same color, is decorated with embroidery in black and gold beads. The back and front, over which the gathered sleeves are placed, are gathered several times at the upper edge and at the waist.

Crepon dress, decorated with embroidery. — This dress, made of seersucker in a sandy shade, is adorned with gold, silver and copper beadwork and ribbon trim. The underskirt, cut in faille, is trimmed on the inside with a ruffle of the same cut-out faille, 14 centimeters high, and on the outside with three gathered seersucker ruffles, each 7 centimeters high placed on the one over the other, adorned with a narrow embroidered border. The upper edge of the skirt, gathered, is trimmed with a narrow belt, covered with a sand shade ribbon, 6 centimeters high, placed behind in short loops. The front of the bodice, crossing above, is covered with pleated seersucker; the sides and the back are covered with similar material, arranged behind at the waist in a few folds; the upper part of the bodice is covered by a short embroidered jacket, the lower edge of which is trimmed behind with a ribbon bow with long tails. Ribbon-covered stand-up collar; bubbled sleeve at the upper edge, finished with a high cuff in embroidered seersucker.

[letsgoletsgetit08]

ink ch.4

summary: Park Seonghwa has been given an ultimatum by his parents: a year to marry a woman of their choosing with the end goal of producing an heir to the family fortune since queer party boy Seonghwa can't be trusted with it. His solution? Get absolutely blasted in tattoos to scare off his possible suitors and their families. But why did his tattoo artist have to be so pretty and kind? It's enough to make him question some things. Possibly, everything.

pairing: park seonghwa x hwang hyunjin

warning: mdni, barebacking, oral sex, public sex

total word count: 30,328 | chapter word count: 5,305

ao3 link: chapter 4

IV: fuck it.

Seonghwa hated Sloane Greenburg and her family.

He wasn't even being dramatic. 

Okay, maybe he was being a little dramatic, but they were the epitome of everything he hated about people in the upper echelons of society. 

Self-involved, rude to staff, humble bragging about different charities they've donated to, pictures shown of Sloane doing “missionary work” in Guatemala (really just a poorly disguised excuse for a photo op with emaciated children), oh and she's an accomplished tennis player, too, Seonghwa, isn't that lovely?! 

It wasn't lovely, it was nauseating. 

He nursed his whiskey (“Oh my, it's a little early for something so strong, don't you think?” “No, I really don't.”) and leaned back in the overstuffed leather chair on the deck of the yacht, waiting for the perfect moment to take off his cardigan to show his tattoo, making bets with himself about who he thought would notice it first and what would be said. 

He was trying, as much as he was willing to, to not be a petulant brat about the whole situation. His parents would be angry about the tattoos, but those were permanent, whereas his attitude was something they still held the illusion of control over. 

Sloane, who was perfectly fine looking (if you were into women), slim and blonde and boring in her light blue seersucker dress and pearls, was droning on about the volunteer work she had done with her sorority chapter in undergrad, her dad interjecting every so often to elaborate on her stories (“Kappa was a life changing experience for our Sloaney!”), Seonghwa's parents were listening intently, and the sun happened to choose that moment to slip out from behind a cloud, so Seonghwa took the opportunity to finally free himself of his cardigan while everyone had their attention elsewhere. 

It all happened pretty quickly from there, though nothing was actually spoken aloud. Mrs. Park spotted it first, making meaningful eye contact with Mr. Park, who looked at Seonghwa sternly, obviously trying to telepathically communicate that he should a) put his cardigan back on and b) pray for his own sake that the tattoo was fake, an elaborate joke, and c) this isn't the last he would hear about this. Too bad for him, Seonghwa was suddenly so interested in what Sloane had to say! In fact, he really couldn't help but add to the conversation rather than meet his parents’ increasingly neurotic and harried eye contact, “I nearly rushed freshman year, but decided against it after joining Honors Society. Sometimes I regret it, but really, it was practically a fraternity in and of itself.” He took a long sip of whiskey to punctuate his remark, angling his body just so, guaranteeing eyes on his tattoo peeking out from under his short sleeve. Sure, some families might be okay with a tattoo that could be covered up easily, but not the Greenburgs. He was honestly lucky that his parents started with a family so straight-laced as this one. He knew he had succeeded just by the poorly disguised look of shock and disgust that passed over each of their faces. Before he knew it, excuses were made and the yacht was headed back to the marina. 

He was perfectly polite and charming the rest of the time, ensuring that his parents would know the other family's distaste was not from his personality. He knew that they knew anyone would put up with a bad personality for his wealth (and looks), but the tattoos were a permanent “blemish”, a “flagrant disrespect to their name”, and he was a “freak of nature”, a “deviant” for getting them. Now he was quoting his parents from their very one-sided conversation after the Greenburgs left, parting with empty promises of speaking soon, (“Perhaps a round of golf!”) the Parks very well knowing they would not be hearing from them any time soon.

Darn, can't believe those Greenburgs were so persnickety! 

Seonghwa agreed to wear something that would cover that tattoo next time. He left out the part where his next tattoo would be on his forearm and would most certainly be visible. 

Back at his penthouse, Seonghwa was two hours deep in a new Lego kit (sue him, he spent a lot of time alone and they're fun) when he got up to take a snack break and check his phone. To his surprise, there was a new DM from Hyunjin. It was a sketch of his next tattoo: the persimmon branch with the fruit would wrap around his forearm with the luna moth perched on top, wings spread wide. It was gorgeous. Naturally. His message read, “I had a cancellation for my last appointment of the day this coming Wednesday if you want to take it.” 

It was Sunday now, and his original appointment wasn't until Friday, so of course he said yes. 

He would love to tell himself it was because he was just anxious to get more tattoos faster, but really, he knew the way his pulse picked up and his heart felt like it was being squeezed by a boa constrictor, he was yearning for more time spent with Hyunjin. 

Fuck that guy for making him feel things. 

By the time Wednesday finally rolled around, Seonghwa had gotten off to different fantasies he'd made up about Hyunjin at least ten times. It was pretty pathetic. Historically, he would have hit up his normal haunts, gone home with a stranger (he never brought anyone home, didn't care for the idea that people would know where he lived), but it just hadn't appealed to him in the slightest. Instead, he had spent his time by rearranging his bedroom, cleaning out his closet, working out, watching every season of Love is Blind, and reading an entire book. He had even at one point on Tuesday, taken a career aptitude test. Despite it being advertised as free, there was an annoying $29.99 pay wall at the end of the test, which he begrudgingly paid, only to be told he was cut out to be an entrepreneur. 

Great. 

So helpful. 

It was finally Wednesday and Seonghwa got dressed in the outfit for his appointment, which he had picked and laid out for it immediately after receiving the message asking if he wanted the open slot. 

The drive over to the shop seemed to take forever, his palms were sweating and he was a little light headed as he hadn't been able to eat very much that day, which he knew would probably backfire on him, given his reaction to getting tattooed last time, but he was anxious and the food he had managed to get down had felt like wet cement. 

Nothing had changed in the tattoo shop except for one glaring difference: Hyunjin’s receptionist, Jeongin, was happily making out with Yeosang, who was perched on his lap in the office chair behind the desk. 

That was new. 

“Well, this is new!” he said as he walked in as a means to announce his presence, considering the fact that the noise of the door hadn't disturbed the pair. 

They broke apart and Yeosang buried his face in Jeongin’s neck, embarrassed. Jeongin, however, was not embarrassed in the slightest, “Oh, hey Seonghwa, thanks for introducing us, by the way!” 

Seonghwa couldn’t help but laugh, “Yeah, no problem. Glad you guys hit it off.”

Yeosang turned his head to face Seonghwa, “I guess I don’t have to tell you that I have a date to Twink Dinner now. Um, sorry.” 

Fuck. 

Seonghwa had almost forgotten about Twink Dinner. Named by their friends Wooyoung and San, the couple in question, it was a (roughly) quarterly tradition to gather as many from their friend group as they could to hit Wooyoung’s favorite club and get caught up. It wasn't a dinner at all, but the name had been coined junior year during undergrad and had stuck. Typically, since there were eight of them, Seonghwa and Yeosang had each other to pair up with since neither of them tended to have significant others. Hongjoong tended to show up with someone, as did Jongho, and Mingi and Yunho, though not together, were essentially platonic soul mates. But if Yeosang had a date, Seonghwa would be the odd man out. He wasn't mad at his friend, of course, he was truthfully happy for him, but he hated not having a default emotional support person at social gatherings. 

“No worries, Sangie, I'm just glad you're happy!” He said, smiling at his friend. 

Jeongin piped up, “You should ask Hyunjin!”

The man in question walked around the corner as if summoned, “Ask Hyunjin what?” 

Seonghwa felt his face flush red, “Oh, nothing don't worry-” 

Yeosang - sweet, oblivious Yeosang- cut him off, “Ask you if you wanted to go to Twink Dinner with Seonghwa since I'm bringing Innie!” 

Hyunjin smirked, looking at Seonghwa, “Do I want to know what Twink Dinner is?” 

Seonghwa shook his head, “It's just a quarterly check-in with our friend group. Wooyoung and San, well, mostly Wooyoung, but San can't deny his boyfriend anything, anyway, they insist on it. Usually Yeosang is my saving grace but it looks like I'll be the odd man out this time.” 

Hyunjin considered this for a second before finally saying, “Yeah okay. I'm in. Sounds fun.”

“Really?” The other three asked, to varying degrees of surprise.

“Yes, but with the caveat that Seonghwa has to volunteer at the soup kitchen with me for a day in exchange.” Hyunjin cocked his head, challenging, daring the other man to say no to the offer. 

How could he though? “Okay, fair enough. I'm in.”

Something inscrutable passed over Hyunjin’s face but then he smiled and said, “Perfect!” Before turning to Jeongin who was making pleading eyes at him, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jeongin amped up the puppy dog eyes, “I was going to take Sangie to the skate park if um… If we can leave a little early?” 

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah go ahead. This is my last appointment today anyways.”

Jeongin’s face split into a boyish smile, “Thanks, Jin!” And then he was depositing Yeosang onto his feet, pulling him out the door by his hand, only giving the other man enough time to give a sheepish wave on his way out. 

It was cute. They were cute. Seonghwa tried not to hate them for it. 

Hyunjin seemed to be following a similar train of thought as he stared after them, shaking his head, before turning to Seonghwa and asking, “Ready to get started?”

Seonghwa was glad that whatever tension had been between them after their kiss a few nights ago seemed to have dissipated.

He ignored the pang of guilt in his stomach at the discomfort he had caused. He also ignored the ghost of desire he felt towards the artist. 

He begrudgingly noted that he was having a harder time boxing away his feelings like he used to be able to do easily. 

In fact, the last time he had felt anything close to this way for someone was in the summer before eighth grade when his dad had hired a high school boy to clean their pool. They had spent the entire summer sneaking around together before getting caught making out in the pool house by Mr. Park himself. Seonghwa was sure his parents knew he was queer, they had just been willfully ignoring it, hoping it would go away or that Seonghwa would pick up on the social cues and simply intuit that it was an unspoken rule that he should Not Be That Way and would act accordingly. But when Mr. Park caught them in the pool house, and promptly fired Seonghwa's first love interest, followed it up by paying off the kid's family, ensuring the two boys could never have contact again, Seonghwa decided he would make his sexuality as big of a problem for his dad as he could get away with. 

He liked to think he's done a good job of upholding that promise. 

But back then, he had had to all but pretend like that summer hadn't happened, only letting the bare minimum emotions be let out of their boxes to fuel his hatred for his dad and keep everything else neatly packaged away. 

Back then, he didn't have any emotional attachment to the pool boy. Not really. 

Back then he was acting only out of physical attraction. 

Being attracted to someone for their personality was new territory. And try as he might, all of Hyunjin’s little idiosyncrasies and charms were peeling back the packaging tape from the insides of the boxes in which Seonghwa had been trying to store them in his mind. 

Or, maybe, Seonghwa forgot the tape in the first place. Maybe he was hoping they could make an easy escape, clutter up his mind. Take up so much room that he had to address his feelings head on. Move them out of the attic of his mind and make space for them in the house that was his life. 

Who knows. 

All Seonghwa knew right now was that Hyunjin smelled like cinnamon, cedar, ink, and rainwater, and he wanted to bury his nose in his neck and take him in fully, but instead, he sat stock still as the man prepped his forearm for his next tattoo, watched as the veins in his hands became prominent from use. Tried not to drool. 

“So, how often do you volunteer at the soup kitchen?” Seonghwa asked as Hyunjin was peeling off the transfer paper on his forearm. 

“I try to go once a week, actually. When is Twink Dinner?” the artist asked, gesturing for Seonghwa to take a look at the placement of the transfer ink again before he began tattooing. 

“It’s this Saturday. And really, you don't have to go if you don't want to-” 

Hyunjin chuckled, amused, “Hwa, at some point you'll learn that I don't just volunteer for things I don't want to do. I would have said no. I was going to ask you to volunteer with me regardless. I just thought it would be funny to ask for a trade. Can you go with me on Friday?” 

Seonghwa breathed a sigh of relief, “Oh. Okay. Well thank you. I really will feel better not um,” he counted in his head as he took a seat again, “11th wheeling. And yes, just let me know what time on Friday.”

To his surprise, Hyunjin handed him his phone, “Here, unless you want to continue only communicating on Instagram.”

Seonghwa smiled as he took the phone, entering his number, “I actually prefer Morse code but I'll make an exception. Only because I doubt you have a powerful enough flashlight to be visible from my place.”

Hyunjin laughed, “I know it's not accurate but I hope you know I do picture Wayne Manor when I think about where you live.” 

“How often are you thinking about where I live, Jin?” Seonghwa chided him, delighting in the blush on the other's face from this remark. 

“Shut up. I'm going to stab you with a needle now.” Hyunjin tilted his head down to look at the work laid out in front of him. 

Seonghwa pretty immediately regretted not having been able to get any food down all day. His ears started ringing and he could feel himself blacking out before he could even warn Hyunjin. 

Luckily for him, Hyunjin noticed immediately. 

“Ah, there he is.” He dabbed Seonghwa's forehead with a paper towel as he came to. 

Seonghwa's tongue felt thick and his mouth was sticky, his voice croaked, “I was too nervous to eat today, I'm sorry.” 

Hyunjin sighed, looking apologetic, “No, Seonghwa, I'm sorry that you felt nervous. We didn’t exactly leave things great the other night and that's my fault. I walked off while you were talking.” 

Seonghwa felt his eyebrows knit together, “No, really, it's my fault, if anything.” 

Hyunjin studied him for a second before finally saying, “Look, you need to eat something if you want this tattoo today. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I have a little set-up in my apartment. Let me cook you something and we can finish this,” he gestured to his forearm, “on my couch afterwards. It's way comfier anyway.” 

Seonghwa wanted that very badly and he was too weak currently to think straight, “Are you sure, I-” 

Hyunjin was already cleaning his station, “What did I just say about me not doing things I don't want to do?”

Seonghwa gave a shaky laugh, “Okay then, sure. Honestly I'm too woozy to push back anymore right now.” 

Hyunjin’s apartment was even more carefully curated and decorated than his tattoo shop. It felt so homey, cozy, warm, and inviting, and so very Hyunjin. Bordering on maximalist but neat and organized, lots of vintage and antique pieces, but it was cohesive and didn't look dated. And he had so many lush, green plants, which got plenty of light from the large window at the front of the building. His bookshelf was overflowing with books and his record collection was just as impressive. He was very adverse to overhead lighting and had lots of interesting lamps and lighting fixtures around, which he turned on as he gave Seonghwa a tour. 

It was small but Seonghwa immediately thought it might be his favorite place he'd ever set foot in. 

He perched on a barstool on the other side of the kitchen counter, nursing a Yoohoo (“I love these things, I don't care what anyone says” Hyunjin had defended himself in having his fridge stocked with them. Seonghwa loved them too) as he watched Hyunjin cook, after being scolded for offering to help. 

Hyunjin was just as careful and meticulous of a cook as he was a tattoo artist, but Seonghwa noticed he tended to get ahead of himself a lot, and ended up standing in the middle of the kitchen, brain buffering as he worked out what steps needed to go next. It was so endearing it made Seonghwa's heart hurt. 

It was very possible he was in trouble. 

He liked him. 

The chicken noodle soup was delicious, even better with the fresh bread Hyunjin had picked up from the farmer's market that morning. Because of course Hyunjin was a farmer's market guy. And of course he was an excellent cook. 

“Hyunjin,” Seonghwa said around a mouthful of bread, “this is delicious, thank you.”

“It's no trouble, really, it's very simple.” Hyunjin waved him off. 

“I never believed people when they said homemade food was better but I think they might be right.” 

Hyunjin’s face read as pitying, “You haven't had home cooked food?” 

Seonghwa laughed wryly, “Are you joking? Our kitchen growing up was purely decorative. We had people who cooked for us, of course. But it was always weird, overly healthy rich people food I guess.”

Hyunjin looked like he wanted to reach over from his barstool and comfort him, but thought better of it, “I can’t imagine. I feel very fortunate that my parents taught me how to cook growing up.”

Seonghwa hummed his agreement, mouth full of soup once more, “Mmh,” he swallowed, “yeah, it’s a great skill to have. Very impressive.” He dared to glance at Hyunjin out of the corner of his eye. Caught him smiling, proud of himself.

“Park Seonghwa thinks I’m impressive? Weeeellll I’m putting that on a sign and hanging it in our front window!”

Seonghwa played along, “‘Impressive. Four and a half stars. - Park Seonghwa.’ It will look great underneath your neon sign.”

Hyunjin gasped, “Only four and a half?!”

“Yeah, the artist is a little handsy.” He smirked. Couldn’t help himself. 

“HEY!” He shot his eyes sideways and shoved Seonghwa’s arm, “YOU kissed ME!”

“Yes, well, the people reading your reviews don’t know that, do they?”

Hyunjin scoffed, affronted, “I feed you and this is how you treat me? You’re lucky I take too much pride in my work or I’d give you shitty tattoos as punishment.”

“Oh, yeah, by the way, I want my next one to be Danny Devito on my ass cheek, you can do that, can’t you?”

A chunk of bread hit Seonghwa in the face as a reply, the two of them needing several minutes to recover from their laughter, before finishing their soup, not wanting it to go cold. 

Hyunjin’s couch was indeed much more comfortable than his tattoo chair downstairs, he had to admit. Between plenty of breaks, easy conversation, and Howl’s Moving Castle playing in the background, (and another Yoohoo), his second tattoo was going much smoother than it had started off. Seonghwa was almost getting lulled to sleep by the vibration of the needle and the warm blanket Hyunjin had provided. He found himself watching the artist intently yet again, trying to memorize every single microexpression on the man’s carefully carved face. 

When Hyunjin finally looked up, finished, he seemed surprised, “Were you watching me?”

Seonghwa blushed, “Oh um maybe. Sorry. I really like watching people work. I could seriously watch you do this for hours. I mean, I guess, I have been. But it’s completely enthralling to me. I’ll dial it back next time if it bothers you.”

Hyunjin smiled, and Seonghwa could have sworn he could see stars in his eyes, but they weren’t even outside, “No, no. It’s okay. I don’t mind. Just surprised it held your attention for so long.” 

Seonghwa shrugged, “Yeah, well, I’ve seen Howl’s plenty of times, but this,” he gestured at Hyunjin, tattoo gun still in hand, “This is all new to me.” He glanced down at his forearm, “And goddamn, Hyunjin. This is so beautiful! Thank you so much. Seriously.”

Hyunjin beamed at him, “I’m glad you like it!” He started cleaning up, then asked over his shoulder, “Um, do you smoke?”

“Definitely. Not like. Religiously. But yes.” Seonghwa thought he knew where this was going. 

Hyunjin was rustling around in an old jewelry box on top of one of his bookshelves, “I’ll smoke you out. If you want. If you have to be somewhere, that’s totally fine too. Just thought I’d offer, since you’re here.”

“I hardly, if ever, have anywhere to be.”

Hyunjin sat down beside him and placed the necessary supplies down on the table, “Sweet. You mind if I roll?”

“Please. I’m terrible at it.”

He watched Hyunjin’s nimble fingers roll the joint for them to share, willing himself not to picture those long beautiful fingers around his cock. In his mouth. Fuck. 

Hyunjin held the joint up and Seonghwa pinched it between his fingers, wrapping his lips around it, trying to keep his mind out of the gutter. The flash of the lighter somewhat snapped him out of it. He inhaled, letting the familiar feeling of the smoke curling around his lungs and smoothing out his brain relax him. Hyunjin followed suit, Seonghwa marveling at how plush and soft his lips looked. 

The high had hit them both and they were sunk back into the couch, Seonghwa painfully aware of how their thighs were pressed together, wanting nothing more than to touch the man beside him. He resisted as long as he could, but their conversation about the existence of aliens and ghosts was so good, and he was so, so high right now. Fuck it. 

He tested the waters, let his head fall onto Hyunjin’s shoulder. Hyunjin froze for a half second, then Seonghwa felt his arm reach around, landing on his waist, pulling him in closer, tracing lazy circles with his fingers, sending shivers of pleasure up Seonghwa’s spine. 

“Hwa?” Hyunjin asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hmm?”

“I know you’ve probably been told this like. Every day of your adult life. But you’re really pretty. I keep thinking about it. I’m really high. And all I can think about is how pretty you are.”

Seonghwa sat up to look at him better, “Hyunjin… Surprisingly, no one really tells me I’m pretty. Hot, sexy, sure. So thank you. You’re so pretty, too. So, so pretty. I was so surprised when I met you.”

“Well. You’re welcome. It deserves to be said.” He quirked an eyebrow at Seonghwa, “Why were you surprised though?”

Seonghwa felt his laughter bubble up from his stomach all the way up and out of his mouth. He was very high, “I found your Instagram and,” he paused to laugh some more, “I thought you would be some fuck ass hipster straight out of a Portlandian's wet dream with the, the mustache,” he giggled, tracing Hyunjin’s upper lip to demonstrate, “and the stupid hair and beard. But instead you're. Well. This. So fucking stunning. It's really not fair.” 

Hyunjin stared at him, eyes hungry, “Hwa,” he whispered, “I really want to kiss you right now.” His hand came up to demonstrate his yearning, tracing his thumb over Seonghwa's bottom lip, fingers skimming his jaw line before carding softly through his hair. Seonghwa lit up at the touch, feeling like every atom in his body was in desperate need to collide themselves with Hyunjin’s. 

Fuck it. 

“Fuck it,” Seonghwa said, voice hoarse with desire, “Kiss me, Hyunjin.”

It was slower than last time. Hyunjin’s lips barely touching his own, taunting, teasing. Seonghwa felt himself start to get hard already at the sensation, he leaned in, hand tracing down Hyunjin’s neck before the other man finally started to kiss him for real. He felt Hyunjin’s hand take hold in his hair, using the leverage to guide his head to the side as he ran his tongue across the seam of his mouth, tasting, then finally probing inside. He moved his own hand down to Hyunjin’s waist pulling him in closer, desperate to touch, tongues mapping out the inside of each other's mouths. Hyunjin bit and tugged at Seonghwa's bottom lip, pulling a moan out of his throat, which seemed to turn him on even more because before he knew it, Hyunjin was straddling his lap. He reached under the man's shirt, needing to feel his skin. Hyunjin drew a tantalizing circle with his hips, their already hard dicks rubbing together through the fabric of their pants. Seonghwa gripped his hips, holding him closer as his hips bucked again. Jesus Christ. He hadn't been so turned on in forever.

He broke their kiss to whisper, “Take what you need from me, Jin, I've got you.”

Hyunjin rocked forward a bit and Seonghwa took the opportunity to attach his lips to the exposed pulse point right behind his ear, sucking experimentally, only to be encouraged by the delicious whine it brought out of the other. 

They readjusted so Hyunjin was just straddling one of his thighs and Seonghwa helped guide his hips, flexing his thigh to provide better traction.

Their kisses turned sloppy, desperate, as Hyunjin rode his thigh, his pace quickening as he got closer to the edge. 

“Fuck, Hwa-” Hyunjin moaned. 

“That's right baby,” he whispered as he trailed kisses down Hyunjin’s neck, feeling him shiver at the pet name, “come on, you can let go for me.” He nipped at the junction of his neck and shoulder, soothed it with his lips and tongue. 

Hyunjin’s hips stuttered, his movements became jerky and uncoordinated, and then Seonghwa could feel a wet heat on his thigh, “Oh, there we go, good boy.” He pulled him into his chest, running his hands through the artist's hair, “You were so good for me, honey.” 

All Hyunjin could say in reply was, “Mmh, thank you.” 

They sat like that for a minute as they gained composure, and Seonghwa tried to will his erection to go down but with Hyunjin still on top of him like that, it wasn't happening, and when the other moved slightly, his hips gave an involuntary jerk. Hyunjin didn't miss it and began laying kisses up his neck, whispering, “Let me help you, too.” 

“Oh, you don't have to, really.” Seonghwa stuttered, obviously lying, given away by how his body was reacting. 

Hyunjin laughed, lips skimming his jawline, “Seonghwa, we've been over this. Let me blow you. Please. I want to.” 

Seonghwa felt the heat coil in his stomach, “Okay, yeah.”

Hyunjin dismounted his thigh, leaning over to kiss him again. It was messy, filthy, mostly tongue and god was it working for Seonghwa. 

Hyunjin made quick work of his pants, pulling them down just enough to access his now leaking cock. Seonghwa couldn’t believe he was about to have such pretty lips wrapped around him. 

He was big. Men typically had a hard time going down on him, most gave up pretty easily. 

Hyunjin’s eyes widened at his size as it was revealed, “Fucking hell. Look at you.” He licked his lips as he grabbed him by the base, leaning forward and licking the precum that had already leaked out. Seonghwa whined at the sensation, head tipping back to rest on the back of the couch, hand reaching for Hyunjin’s head, finding purchase in his hair. 

“You can pull it,” Hyunjin said, sliding his tongue up the underside of Seonghwa's length, “I like it.” 

And then he took him into his mouth. Seonghwa just about blacked out from the sensation. Hyunjin looked up at him through thick eyelashes, eyes starting to water as his throat was occupied. He gagged and Seonghwa ran his fingers through his hair, “Don't hurt yourself, baby.” Hyunjin hummed at the pet name, taking him deeper, spit leaking out the sides of his mouth. It was so hot. “Look at you, taking me so well.” Seonghwa gave an experimental tug on Hyunjin’s hair and got a desperate moan in response that just about sent him over the edge, “I'm gonna cum if you keep up like that, sweetheart.” 

Hyunjin gave an affirmative sound, lingering for a little longer, and Seonghwa had to restrict the motion of his hips, wanting so badly to fuck his face, but not wanting to hurt him. Then Hyunjin was pulling back and started working him with his hand, the head of his dick resting on his tongue. “Oh, fuck,” Seonghwa came like that, practically just from the sight of him. Hyunjin swallowed what landed in his mouth, licking his lips afterwards, head falling to Seonghwa's thigh to rest after the exertion. 

Seonghwa refastened his pants and gathered Hunjin up onto his lap, pulled him in for another kiss, “Thank you, Jinnie. You were perfect.”

Hyunjin smiled, tucked himself into Seonghwa's chest, “Thank you.” He gave a small laugh, “I'm a little embarrassed.” 

Seonghwa's heart ached, “No, please don’t be. It was hot.” A kiss to the top of his head, “So hot. You're so. Fucking. Hot.” He punctuated his words with kisses.

Hyunjin giggled, “Stop it.”

Seonghwa pulled him in tighter, “No way! I'm serious.” 

Seonghwa didn't know where this soft side of him was coming from. He was still high, yes, but there was also something about Hyunjin that just made him melt. He had the urge to take care of him, coddle him. 

If you would have told him last week that he could feel this way about someone, he would have been disgusted at the thought of it. Instead, sitting here with this gorgeous man cuddling up in his lap, he felt surprisingly content. 

Hyunjin had made their parting about as painless and un-awkward as possible, sending him off by making him promise he would text him when he got home safely, but that was the only thing he made him promise, all of which Seonghwa was grateful for. And he had followed through on it, which seemed to please the artist. Seonghwa went to sleep that night, alone in his bed, conflicted, but unable to ignore the overwhelming feeling of wishing he had Hyunjin curled up beside him.

[mrpseanmorgan]

What I wore today Monday November 27, 2023 please remember we are coming into summer down under, so it is definitely seersucker time