#your art is ugly fix it

[allcap-nostones]

Week 1: Creative Process

Full stop, I need to do more research on this topic so my ideas here are a lot looser than my other entries

Creative Thinking

"Research suggests that creative thinking involves mental work that is different in brain activity than that used during other modes of thinking, such as logic or analysis" (Cognition and Emotions in the Creative Process)

Improvement

Who determines what art should look like?

The artist

Online Audiences

I’ve seen many TikTok artists quit creating art after being insulted and criticized by users over their current skill not being up to par or appealing to their taste. The words of others can impact a person's will to create.

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTFNNUPLt

Art Teacher

My art teacher encouraged me to quit art because I wasn’t good enough at it and she didn’t see much potential.

I plan to look more into this article, Implications of Kant’s Theories of Art for Developing Creative Identity in Students, 

Industry

Splash art often requires a certain level of polish. Those who aim to work as an artist in this part of the industry may alter their art to meet this standard. (League of Legends comes to mind)

Speed

Artist are often praised for their ability to work fast. What's the rush?

“Another evidence of his great speed is the manuscript of the six German dances...which shows through the use of every possible time-saving device and abbreviation, the haste with which it was written" (Mozart's Creative Process)

Artist are encouraged to improve their work in a short period of time. I noticed an increase in videos recommended to me on YouTube that promise I'll be able to improve in a short period of time if I watch it. The focus seems to move away from perfecting/enjoying the craft to getting good enough faster.

Burnout

Due to not improving fast enough

“i was rly into doodling and drawing random shit when i was super young, albeit not all that amazing haha. but i still loved the act of creating. once i started getting more interested in it and tried drawing from like "how to draw" books and just trying to draw from life, i got insanely discouraged by always comparing mine to the "right way."the way its "supposed" to look. i always struggled with that, and i didnt get much encouragement to continue either. so i stepped away from attempting to make art for over a decade. tho i still loved looking at art a lot and was sad i couldnt create” - celestial_rayne (Reddit)

I'm not the most proud of this round of research. Although I think the topic in interesting, I don't think the research i've done so far led me in any direction i'd be interested in exploring further. I didn't really find myself falling into any rabbit holes that peaked my interest. Also I am really tired and so this post probably isn't making any sense so I will sleep now.

[doe-prince]

Look what my partner found outside in the snow! The broken mother immediately reminded me of this drawing I made in 2022.

She's there but she isn't.

I love this sculpture! It's perfect as it is.

[tombware]

No one would tolerate comments like this if it was about a drawing instead btw. Not that they'd happen in the first place because they'd be aware of how much of an asshole they're being.

[noxchievous]

My queen

[chewwytwee]

sucking and fucking everyone else who's torrenting the non-remastered original star wars trilogy with me

[lanatusnebula]

I wanna draw backgrounds but I am too lazy and inexperienced and my patience is low.

But there seems to be a lot of trends with the backgrounds I'm looking at in detailed works that appeal to me. I don't think I would able to replicate the things others draw since it seems they're taking shortcuts (compensating for simplicity by compacting details into the pieces, using 3d models, using environment brushes like buildings, etc), ones that would end with my art looking really hilarious.

I know it's too late in my life to start thinking about job opportunities and I need to start acting now. But if i could get an art job, I think I'd feel more fulfilled. At the moment that obviously isn't an option. (15 more days I am losing my mind) I keep wanting to make a professional looking portfolio but my art simply is too much leaning towards hobbyist. :/

This looks very mediocre. I know though I could have added some trees but I still struggle with composition.

There are characters sitting on the "bench" but I didn't use a reference so it looks... hm.

This one was really fun an relaxing to do, but the mediocre aspect of it is present here as well. Obviously some shit doesn't make sense because I removed the character layer (that's why there are random shadows), but there's surely gotta be some sort of way for me to improve.

Compositions like this make me feel at peace, but the forefront character's color clashed terribly with it. I need to not be afraid to adjust things in photoshop I think?

These are the only examples I have on hand, which is also a really huge red flag; if I don't have many examples, that means I'm not practicing enough. I could do warmups to draw backgrounds quickly, but the struggle is more in composition and color theory. I don't know how to do those things, despite the large collection of resources and tutorials. It just doesn't click. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. > <;;

I will inevitably have to figure it out. I heard that drawing other peoples' images that are closer to what I want is the ticket, and if i do it enough times it'll come naturally. The process isn't too difficult to grasp but feels morally wrong to start my day like that. But I'm building up a collection of art I admire for composition (withbackgrounds) as a starting point at least.

None of it will be posted obviously but... I hope to have something to show for in a few months.

Big things comin.

[catmask]

artists in artblock keep trying new things and suck super bad at them. eventually u will get better and it helps u remain humble and develop respect for other styles/mediums lest you become a 'fixing your ugly art ❤️' youtuber

[riiwrites]

boyfriend!dazai who…

a/n : for my love @perfectlyjollyland who requested this ages ago but i didn’t see until recently because i only pay attention to my inbox! im so sorry ill be checking comments too next time, hope you’re well! <3

a/n : also i hope you’re okay with the pre-boyfriend/before boyfriend part, i just thought that’d be cute i love lovesick!dazai sooo much.. more boyfriend dazai under the cut!!

chuuyas version | atsushis version

dividers used belong to @/benkeibear

masterlist | taglist | main page

pre-boyfriend!dazai who at the start asks you for a double suicide (as per usual), but when you give him the cutest smile and giggle and say no, he knows he’s too deep in now.

pre-boyfriend!dazai who becomes head over heels when he first meets you and now has a new mission, making you reciprocate those feelings.

pre-boyfriend!dazai who loves the cliches, the random ‘anonymous’ love notes on your desk when you’re at work or the random flowers delivered to your workplace/home - he loves it all.

pre-boyfriend!dazai who respects your boundaries if you were to tell him to lay off or if he was making you uncomfortable.

pre-boyfriend!dazai who finally gives up..gives up throwing hints and just decides to take his shot.

“So..say, if a handsome stranger who’s kind of not a stranger since you know him as an acquaintance asks you out because he’s given up with all of the deadpanned hints he’s been giving you for the past few months but he’s kind of scared of being rejected..what would you say?”

You stare him with a few blinks as he looks at you with a great smile on his face, although you can see subtle drops of sweat dripping down the side of his temple.

"..Is this said handsome stranger you, perchance?”

Dazai let’s out a single laugh, placing his hands on his hips.

“Ha! How bold of you, though..I am charmed your first thought of this handsome stranger would be me, bella~” He coyly smirks, closing his eyes in what you can’t tell is either pride or suspense.

You furrow your eyebrows with a little smile, fixing up your paperwork as you place them on the desk. “No, I just figured since it was you who’s been leaving such persistent and eager notes on my desk as of late.”

You watch his expression slightly change as he lets out a cough of embarrassment, locking eyes with you now.

“Well..” He starts, then gives up halfway through.

“..Is it a yes?”

pre-boyfriend!dazai who not only is taken by surprise by your response, but his heart does a few jumps in joy as his efforts became a success, making him now your boyfriend.

boyfriend!dazai who has his hand down your back pocket whenever you two are walking together.

boyfriend!dazai who’s love language is both physical touch and acts of service, always having his hands on you in the littlest way and also providing the most he can to his s/o.

boyfriend!dazai who has the reputation of being quite the flirtatious one, gives it up to his precious s/o.

boyfriend!dazai who googles cheesy and dirty pickup lines to try and rizz you with, always ending them in a winky face.

boyfriend!dazai who sends you little messages every day now that he has your number, little words of affirmations and talks to get you ready for your days.

boyfriend!dazai who if he had a tiktok account he’d make slideshows of you two and repost videos of couples relating to you two.

boyfriend!dazai who you spend all of your holidays with, especially christmas and new years.

boyfriend!dazai who practically lives at your house now, but nobody’s complaining.

boyfriend!dazai who has a box of every little thing you’ve given him, so when he’s feeling down he can look at it and smile.

boyfriend!dazai who tries to keep you away from his past, to protect you from the ugly truth.

boyfriend!dazai who opens up about oda, not all of it but most of it since he believes oda would’ve liked you.

boyfriend!dazai who takes you to the places he has the fondest memories in. the lupin bar, the art gallery, the agency.

boyfriend!dazai who appreciates the little things, as he’s not someone who can afford much he tries to give you the best he can.

boyfriend!dazai who always argues that he loves you more trying to get the last word and when you think you have it, you hear a little mumble of “I love you more” as you walk away.

boyfriend!dazai who loves your hands, tracing the lines of your palm and fingers and creating little shapes on them makes him feel at peace.

boyfriend!dazai who can be possessive but in a good way, he has good reasons to be possessive.

boyfriend!dazai who when he sees someone give you a half lidded smirk or bedroom eyes, he gives them a deadly stare that could imprint on their skull as he wraps an arm around your waist.

boyfriend!dazai who constantly babbles on about you at work with the agency, always telling Atsushi about the cutest things that you did the night before or what you did the day before that.

“Ahh..and the way they just clench their fists at their sides when they are angry with me! Ah~ I could melt..”

“That’s..really nice, Dazai-san..”

“Oh! And the way they grab my hand so tightly when we’re in public ahhh~ I could melt!”

“D-dazai-san..-“

“Ahhh, and the way the-“

boyfriend!dazai who ends up with about 14 wounds all over his body because of kunikidas beatings..kunikida says he’s lucky it wasn’t 15.

boyfriend!dazai who you take care of at his lowest.

boyfriend!dazai who sometimes can’t understand why you put up with him, but you reassure him with words and kisses all over his face.

boyfriend!dazai who peppers your face with kisses back and gives you a small smile despite how sad he can feel.

boyfriend!dazai who watches the fireworks with you and doesn’t think of going out just as beautifully because why would he let such a precious thing slip out of his hands like that?

boyfriend!dazai who doesn’t care about himself or his mental health, but cares the most about yours.

boyfriend!dazai who once felt like he was drowning, but then found his light to the surface who has a smile of diamonds and a heart of gold.

TAGLIST : @hauntedsol @hopefulpain @forgotten-blues @ruru-kiss @texas-bitch-yee @lvstyangel @thetizzler @is-therelife-onmars @atlasnessie @101strawberries101 @reesesnieces @suzurans-world @mackereland-slug @heartsfourdazai @iratherowan @onlinewhisper14 @nomnomventi

white = unable to be tagged :(

@/riiwrites - reblogs are highly appreciated ❤︎︎

[birdiewriteslit]

omg omg i would LOVVVEEE if like [reader] and luke were dating behind percy’s back cuz of how sassy he would be n stuff but after like a date or kiss from luke the reader would gush about it to either annabeth, grover, or clarisse and one of them tells percy by accident during a convo and then percy like goes up to reader and confronts the reader about it and like scolds the reader and give them a whole lecture about how luke isn’t the right guy then luke overhears and like joins in <333

i love this idea!!

luke castellan x daughter of poseidon!reader

warnings: persassy (once again), fluff, mention of kissing, ignorance of the plot of the show for the sake of my happiness

nobody: me gaslighting myself into thinking i could fix luke:

You and your boyfriend had an agreement. Your relationship was private. It wasn’t necessarily a secret, but it was private.

This was a conclusion you came to before Percy arrived at camp, before you knew you had a brother. At first, you didn’t care much if he figured it out.

That was until you realized what a sassafras he was.

Percy was always sassing you about chores, about activities, and especially about camp boys.

You thought it was cute in the beginning, your little brother being protective over you, but then it became a real nuisance.

“Y/n, stay away from the Ares boys, I don’t like them.”

“Y/n, don’t date an Apollo guy, he’d write you some crappy poetry.”

“Y/n, for the love of gods, stay away from the Dionysus twins, I never want to have Mr. D as a relative.”

These were the types of things you would hear throughout the day as Percy got to know the other campers better.

You thought it better if you kept a low profile when you were around Luke, at least until Percy calmed down a little.

Most of the older campers knew about your relationship, but they were used to it and rarely talked about it.

“Having marriage problems?” Annabeth asked you one day during arts and crafts, where you were both about to give up on your ugly collaborative birdhouse.

“What? I’m not married,” you said, trying to fix a particularly garish looking bird.

She set her paintbrush down, officially proving she was over it. “Obviously. I mean Luke. I noticed you haven’t been around each other as much.”

You could tell she was a little worried. She wouldn’t be asking if she wasn’t. Annabeth had known you and Luke longer than any other campers, and she looked up to both of you. Plus, she always wanted to know about your experience with romance.

“It’s not what you think, Annabeth. We’re really fine,” you said. “In fact, just last night, he took me out on the dock.”

Your nightly meetups with Luke had always been a thing, but had become more frequent as of late.

“And?” Annabeth prompted.

“And, we hung out.” You were now furiously painting over the entire bird you failed to fix.

“You mean you made out,” she said, giving you a knowing look.

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t think you were interested in that part,” you said. “Now pick up that paintbrush, missy. I’m not doing this whole thing myself.”

Annabeth reluctantly dipped the brush in some blue paint, looking like she wanted more details about your date.

Private means private, you thought dismissively.

At campfire, you discovered that private didn’t mean private. You were sitting alone when Percy plopped down next to you. You frowned because you were saving that spot for Luke.

“Annabeth has just told me something very interesting,” he said, glaring at the spot where Luke stood, talking to one of his brothers.

“What would that be, Perce?” you said absentmindedly.

“Apparently Luke was macking on you last night.” He made a sound to imitate vomiting.

You grimaced. “Please never say that word again.”

“So? Is it true or not true?”

You sighed. No point in denying it now. “It’s true.”

Percy somehow managed to look even more disgusted. “Ew, why him?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, gee, I don’t know, maybe because I’ve known him for years, he’s kind, strong, and handsome. Wouldn’t you think that had something to do with it?”

“Oh, gods, forget I even asked,” Percy said, retching. “I just think you could do better. Look at all of these lovely candidates. Apollo guys are poets.”

“I thought that was too cringe for you.”

He ignored you and went on, “A Hephaestus guy could forge you some nice jewelry, and Athena guys are smart. You deserve a smart guy. Not Luke, no, he doesn’t have any good qualities like that.”

You noticed a figure approaching you over Percy’s shoulder, and you tried your best to hide the amused smile threatening to break across your face as Luke came to a stop behind him, waiting for the right moment to interrupt.

“All in all, Y/n, I think Luke’s a pretty bad guy for you. You should really reconsider.”

“Oh, I’m a bad guy, am I?” Luke finally spoke up, smirking as Percy slowly turned around to see him peering down at him.

“Not like a bad guy- just, you know, not right for my sister,” Percy said, his confidence leaving him.

“What makes me not right for her?” Luke asked, clearly loving the reaction he was getting.

“I- uh- you know,” Percy stammered.

“Oh, knock it off, Luke. Leave the poor kid alone,” you said, failing to hide your laughter.

“That sound is music to my ears,” Luke said seriously. Jeez, he was really laying it on thick.

Percy’s face returned to the look of disgust. “I’ll be leaving now,” he excused himself, hurrying off to where Grover and Annabeth were sitting on the other side of the fire. You could still see him glaring at Luke as he sat down next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

You leaned into him, relishing in the combined warmth of the fire and his body heat. “What do you think? Am I getting sassed out tomorrow?” Luke asked, looking down at you.

“No, he looked pretty grossed out. I’m hoping he just avoids the topic altogether,” you said, trailing your fingers over the fabric of his shirt.

“We both know that’s not going to happen,” he concluded, smiling as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

[poppy-metal]

twisting urself up in knots abt craving a rougher more frenzied touch from ur husband after the baby’s born ur body’s changed but ur libido hasnt and u dnt know how to ask for more so ur becoming more closed off meanwhile everytime yall do have sex art’s fighting demons to not stick his thumb in ur ass and plow u into the mattress

it's literally ridiculous like yall are STUPID. I feel like eventually you'd just blow the lid off during an argument YOU started because you're moody and horny and arts wearing a knit sweater and looks so fucking hot and dilfy you want to kick him. you want him to bend you over and slap your ass and beat your pussy up on his dick. and he won't!!!!! you yell at him for something stupid and simple like putting your babies toys away wrong (he wasn't) and art is so lost puppy about it all, he just wants to fix it, he hates seeing you upset. and eventually you just spit out - "you think I'm ugly!!" and burst into tears.

art almost cries himself because that statement has never been more untrue and his baby is sobbing and it's somehow all his fault and he sweeps you in his arms and kisses the top of your head so so tenderly. "baby, what's wrong? you know that's not true." when you don't answer him he pulls back, holds you at arms length. "hey. it's not true. you're fucking beautiful. like, it hurts how pretty you are."

you bottom lip wobbles. "th - then why don't you touch me anymore?" you say pitifully and art rubs his hands up and down your arms, his brows pinched in confusion.

"I do - I do touch you. am i.... is there a way I should be touching you that I'm not?"

you look away.

art implores you gently, "baby, please. talk to me."

"how you touched me when we were." you flushed. "trying for our baby. you don't touch me like that anymore, you don't- you don't fuck me like that.... anymore...."

art is quiet. his cheeks get pink. his hands squeeze your arms. he fumbles for what to say for a second and when you start to pull away he tightens his hold, almost loosens it, but then he sees the wide eyed expression you make and keeps his grip firm.

"you want me to -" he clears his throat. he's got alot of thoughts right now, "you want it like that with me? again?"

you look at him, incredulous. he seems shy about it. insecure, even.

"art that was the hottest sex of my life. I think about it when I touch myself next to you while you're asleep."

oh.

"oh."

you look at his chest, embarrassed by your outburst. you'd essentially thrown a tantrum over not getting dicked down the way you wanted to be and you felt like a brat. but he was your husband, dammit. you should be able to communicate to him. even about embarrassing things. and what was so embarrassing about wanting him, anyway? he was fucking hot.

"I miss you fucking me like - like I'm a slut." you mumbled the last part. aware your baby is just in the other room, put down for a nap. you don't want her to wake up and hear mommy and daddy talking about this stuff - even if she can't understand it. "you were so out of control back then - like you couldn't get enough of me and were just taking what was yours." you bite your lip. "I liked that."

art is so relieved. he'd been harboring guilt for the way he acted like an animal when he was trying to get you pregnant. he'd just..... he had a thread of control he was used to maintaining and it fucking snapped. he'd been working on keeping it intact ever since because that's what he thought you wanted.

"you liked it." he echoes. almost in wonder. he's looking at you like you're everything he's ever wanted given to him wrapped in a little bow. the mother of his baby. the love of his life. his wife. the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. and the girl he wanted to bend over a bed and pound into without restraint. "that's - im glad you did." his ears are burning, cherry red. he naws on his bottom lip. "I wasn't sure you wanted to be treated like that again. it was - I was -" he chuckles, a flash of dimple. "- well I wasn't exactly gentle with you."

"I know." you tell him. you sway into him, his arms go around your waist and your arms hook around his neck. your fingers finding the babyhairs curling at the base of his neck and playing with them. "you fucked the shit out me."

your vulgarity makes him laugh - makes you giggle too. he quiets and when he looks at you, your whole body shivers. his pupils are dilated. his hands venture down your body, cupping your ass in his big hands and squeezing.

"I wanna have you like that again." he tells you, honest. his voice is soft and earnest which just makes his next words all the more intense. "I want to fuck you so hard you don't ever doubt how bad I fucking want you." he grips your ass hard, makes you gasp. "need that thought out of your pretty little head as soon as possible, actually."

you're breathless. "my mom," you tell him, "we can have her babysit- a- and we can have a night just the two of us."

he licks over his teeth, already thinking of your body under his - naked and twisted in pleasure as he teases that hot little pussy.

"I'll get us a hotel." he tells you. "do all the things I've been wanting to do to you - "

you nod eagerly "yes -"

the baby starts crying. but you're not disappointed. you feel tummy flutters as art kisses your forehead, lingering for a moment - before he goes to check on your daughter. god he's so fucking hit.

you wonder how he'd feel about you calling him 'daddy' in bed.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI art has no anti-cooption immune system

TONIGHT (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

One thing Myspace had going for it: it was exuberantly ugly. The decision to let users with no design training loose on a highly customizable user-interface led to a proliferation of Myspace pages that vibrated with personality.

The ugliness of Myspace wasn't just exciting in a kind of outsider/folk-art way (though it was that). Myspace's ugliness was an anti-cooption force-field, because corporate designers and art-directors would, by and large, rather break their fingers and gouge out their eyes than produce pages that looked like that.

In this regard, Myspace was the heir to successive generations of "design democratization" that gave amateur communities, especially countercultural ones, a space to operate in where authentic community members could be easily distinguished between parasitic commercializers.

The immediate predecessors to Myspace's ugliness-as-a-feature were the web, and desktop publishing. Between the img tag, imagemaps, the blink tag, animated GIFs, and the million ways that you could weird a page with tables and padding, the early web was positively bursting with individual personality. The early web balanced in an equilibrium between the plunder-friendliness of "view source" and the topsy-turvy design imperatives of web-based layout, which confounded both print designers (no fixed fonts! RGB colorspaces! dithering!) and even multimedia designers who'd cut their teeth on Hypercard and CD ROMs (no fixed layout!).

Before the web came desktop publishing, the million tractor-feed ransom notes combining Broderbund Print Shop fonts, joystick-edited pixel-art, and a cohort of enthusiasts ranging from punk zinesters to community newsletter publishers. As this work proliferated on coffee-shop counters and telephone poles, it was visibly, obviously distinct from the work produced by "real" designers – that is, designers who'd been a) trained and b) paid by a corporation to employ that training.

All of this matters, and not just for aesthetic reasons. Communities – especially countercultural ones – are where our society's creative ferment starts. Getting your start in the trenches of the counterculture wars is no proof against being co-opted later (indeed, many of the designers who cut their teeth desktop publishing weird zines went on to pull their hair and roll their eyes at the incredible fuggliness of the web). But without that zone of noncommercial, antiestablishment, communitarian low weirdness, design and culture would stagnate.

I started thinking about this 25 years ago, the first time I met William Gibson. I'd been assigned by the Globe and Mail to interview him for the launch of All Tomorrow's Parties:

https://craphound.com/nonfic/transcript.html

One of the questions I asked was about his famous aphorism, "The street finds its own use for things." Given how quickly each post-punk tendency had been absorbed by commercial culture, couldn't we say that "Madison Avenue finds its own use for the street"? His answer started me down a quarter-century of thinking and writing about this subject:

I worry about what we'll do in the future, [about the instantaneous co-opting of pop culture]. Where is our new stuff going to come from? What we're doing pop culturally is like burning the rain forest. The biodiversity of pop culture is really, really in danger. I didn't see it coming until a few years ago, but looking back it's very apparent.

I watch a sort of primitive form of the recommodification machine around my friends and myself in sixties, and it took about two years for this clumsy mechanism to get and try to sell us The Monkees.

In 1977, it took about eight months for a slightly faster more refined mechanism to put punk in the window of Holt Renfrew. It's gotten faster ever since. The scene in Seattle that Nirvana came from: as soon as it had a label, it was on the runways of Paris.

Ugliness, transgressiveness and shock all represent an incoherent, grasping attempt to keep the world out of your demimonde – not just normies and squares, but also and especially enthusiastic marketers who want to figure out how to sell stuff to you, and use you to sell stuff to normies and squares.

I think this is what drove a lot of people to 4chan (remember, before 4chan was famous for incubating neofascism, it was the birthplace of Anonymous): its shock culture, combined with a strong cultural norm of anonymity, made for a difficult-to-digest, thoroughly spiky morsel that resisted recommodification (for a while).

All of this brings me to AI art (or AI "art"). In his essay on the "eerieness" of AI art, Henry Farrell quotes Mark Fisher's "The Weird and the Eerie":

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/large-language-models-are-uncanny

"Eeriness" here is defined as "when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there is nothing present when there should be something." AI is eerie because it produces the seeming of intent, without any intender:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

When we contemplate "authentic" countercultural work – ransom-note DTP, the weird old web, seizure-inducing Myspace GIFs – it is arresting because the personality of the human entity responsible for it shines through. We might be able to recognize where that person ganked their source-viewed HTML or pixel-optimized GIF, but we can also make inferences about the emotional meaning of those choices. To see that work is to connect to a mind. That mind might not necessarily belong to someone you want to be friends with or ever meet in person, but it is unmistakably another person, and you can't help but learn something about yourself from the way that their work makes you feel.

This is why corporate work is so often called "soulless." The point of corporate art is to dress the artificial person of the corporation in the stolen skins of the humans it uses as its substrate. Corporations are potentially immortal, artificial colony organisms. They maintain the pretense of personality, but they have no mind, only action that is the crescendo of an orchestra of improvised instruments played by hundreds or thousands of employees and a handful of executives who are often working directly against one another:

https://locusmag.com/2022/03/cory-doctorow-vertically-challenged/

The corporation is – as Charlie Stross has it – the "slow AI" that is slowly converting our planet to the long-prophesied grey goo (or, more prosaically, wildfire ashes and boiled oceans). The real thing that is signified by CEOs' professed fears of runaway AI is runaway corporations. As Ted Chiang says, the experience of being nominally in charge of a corporation that refuses to do what you tell it to is the kind of thing that will give you nightmares about autonomous AI turning on its masters:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

The job of corporate designers is to find the signifiers of authenticity and dress up the corporate entity's robotic imperatives in this stolen flesh. Everything about AI is done in service to this goal: the chatbots that replace customer service reps are meant to both perfectly mimic a real, competent corporate representative while also hewing perfectly to corporate policy, without ever betraying the real human frailties that none of us can escape.

In the same way, the shillbots that pretend to be corporate superfans online are supposed to perfectly amplify the corporate message, the slow AI's conception of its own virtues, without injecting their own off-script, potentially cringey enthusiasms.

The Hollywood writers' strike was, at root, about the studio execs' dream that they could convert the "insights" of focus groups and audience research into a perfect script, without having to go through a phalanx of lippy screenwriters who insisted on explaining why they think your idea is stupid. "Hey, nerd, make me another ET, except make the hero a dog, and set it on Mars" is exactly how you prompt an AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

Corporate design's job is to produce the seeming of intention without any intender. The "personality" we're meant to sense when we encounter corporate design isn't the designer's, nor the art director's, nor even the CEO's. The "personality" is meant to be the slow AI's, but a corporation doesn't have a personality.

In his 2018 short story "Noon in the antilibrary," Karl Schroeder describes an "antilibrary" as an endlessly deep anaerobic lagoon of generative botshit:

https://www.technologyreview.com/2018/08/18/104097/noon-in-the-antilibrary/

The antilibrary is a generative AI system that can produce entire librarys’-worth of fake books with fake authors, fake citations by other fake experts with their own fake books and biographies and fake social media accounts, on-demand and instantly. It was speculation in 2018; it’s possible now. Creating an antilibrary is just a matter of investing in a sufficient number of graphics cards and electricity.

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/after-the-internet

Reading Karl's reflections on the antilibrary crystallized something for me that I've been thinking about for a quarter-century, since I interviewed Gibson at the Penguin offices in north Toronto. It snapped something into place that I've trying to fit since encountering Henry's thoughts on the "eeriness" of AI work and the intent without an intender.

It made me realize why I dislike AI art so much, on a deep, aesthetic level. The point of an image generator is to buffer the intention of the prompter (which might be genuinely creative and bursting with personality) in layers of automated decision-making that flense the final product of any hint of the mind that caused its creation.

The most febrile, deeply weird and authentic prompts of the most excluded outsiders produce images that feel the same as the corporate AI illustrations that project the illusion of personality from the immortal, transhuman colony organism that is the limited liability corporation.

AI art is born coopted. Even the 4chan equivalent of AI – the deeply transgressive and immoral nonconsensual pornography – feels no different from the "official" AI porn churned out by "real" pornographers. "Shrimp Jesus" and other SEO-optimized Facebook slop is so uncanny because it is simultaneously "weird" ("that which does not belong") and yet it belongs in the same aesthetic bucket of the most anodyne Corporate Memphis ephemera:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corporate_Memphis

We call it "generative" but AI art can't generate the kind of turnover that aerates the aesthetic soil. An artform that can't be transgressive is sterile, stillborn, a dead end.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/20/ransom-note-force-field/#antilibraries

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

Jake (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1970s_fanzines_(21224199545).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[jeonginsleftcheek]

The sun to me

Chapter I: The Seed. Part I.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x afab!reader

word count: 1.8k

chapter summary: a glimpse into the world of hwang hyunjin, the artist and the celebrity.

warnings: swearing, smoking, drugs, one night stand, brief sex scene, hyunjin is an asshole for a few moments

~ Masterlist for the series ~ next part

Click. Click. Click.

The flash of the camera illuminates the room and the almost expressionless face, the owner of said face leaning his body towards one of the canvases hanging on the wall.

One of his many pieces that once only existed in the depths of his mind and heart, spilled onto the canvas adorned with a stylish bronze frame.

The flash once hurt his eyes, but as the time went on and the flashes got more frequent, his eyes adjusted and he became desensitized to the attention.

It was all just a familiar cycle. Sit in front of a blank canvas, prepare your paints, prepare your paintbrushes, prepare your fucking inspiration or at least find it somewhere hidden under a carpet, shoved into a metaphorical hole, sucked into the endless void.

Put it on the wall of your gallery, say some pretentious shit, strike a few poses and act like you're happy and motivated to even live.

Rinse and repeat.

As your admirers scream and throw wads of cash at your feet, be happy, you're living your dream, be happy, you got what you wanted, be happy, your life is perfect.

What was the inspiration for this piece?

Just say some poetic shit and everyone will eat it up, thinking how deep you are, admire the artist, admire the art, admire the lie.

Life is perfect.

Hyunjin looks for a moment of peace. He finds just that, one moment, as he manages to slip away to the balcony. He presses his elbows on the cold, hard stone, leans on his open palms and looks down.

The suit he's wearing makes it hard to move, his body is restricted, tied and held in place, the tie around his neck is secured tightly, almost taking his breath away and suffocating him.

He runs a hand through his styled hair, trying to take in a deep breath, his eyes are fixed on the road, everything looks so tiny from up where he's standing, so insignificant and temporary in time. All the people walking around look like ants, cars look like toys he played with when he was a child, it's a hazy cloud of everything and nothing, moving too fast to make sense of it.

Melancholy lingers in the air, together with the smell of a thunderstorm brewing in the distant dark sky, and he lifts his head up, his hand in his pocket.

Hyunjin fishes out a pack of cigarettes, a damned habit he picked up on after hanging out in many fancy clubs with many fancy people whose noses are white, whose smiles are crooked, whose eyes are dull and hearts tainted.

He curses under his breath, realizing that he had no lighter with him, after all, he didn't smoke daily, it was just a rare occurrence to blow off steam, just an excuse to disappear from the stifling crowd, the loud voices and the unnecessary questions he answered a hundred times before.

Footsteps approach him, the moment is broken and his manager appears by his side.

"Looking for this?"- Charlie reaches his zippo to Hyunjin.

"Sure."- Hyunjin's voice is almost inaudible.

"Those'll kill you, you know."- Charlie says, a sympathetic smile on his face.

Hyunjin lights up the cigarette, the quiet crackling sound loud in the space between them as he inhales, his lungs filling with the poison, and his brain filling with fake relief.

"You smoke more than me."- the smoke puffs out like a cloud as Hyunjin talks, eyeing the zippo in his hand, an airplane engraved into it.

"You look ugly when you smoke."- Charlie teases and Hyunjin lets out a chuckle as his manager takes out a cig.

He reaches his hand towards Hyunjin's and he rests the old zippo in his open palm, the thought of teasing his manager only shortly passing through his mind.

Charlie has always had an unhealthy obsession with airplanes and collecting old things, so Hyunjin knew that if he even tried to joke with the lighter, his manager would freak out.

"Why so gloomy? This is the biggest show you've ever hosted. Specifically in your own gallery."- Charlie lets the smoke fizz out as Hyunjin stares off into the distance, the quiet breeze swirling the smoke around, drawing patterns in the dark that surrounds them.

"It is, isn't it?"- Hyunjin nods, watching the ashes flicker around as he taps his cigarette, some of it ending on his perfect suit, staining the expensive material.

"Yeah, we made a lot of money. There are so many interested buyers too, so we're bound to make even more."- Charlie smirks before taking a drag.

Money. It all comes back to the stupid paper that holds more significance than anything else in this world. It's the ruler of everything and everyone, and the more you have it, the more you want.

You become insatiable, one more expensive suit, one more pair of leather shoes, a new couch because why not, a new car that's not even on the market yet because you get exclusive everything.

Complete emptiness. That's all that it is, a void that keeps growing with more stuff you get.

Nothing you buy will ever be enough to fill up the ever growing black hole, everything just gets sucked into it and you're left feeling like you have nothing at all.

That's all Charlie ever talks about, except airplaines. It's all Hyunjin has come to know.

He drowns in so many rare and expensive things, but still what he wants to grasp onto isn't tangible to him.

"Sounds perfect."- Hyunjin's voice comes out flat.

"It is perfect! So, lighten up! We made so. much. cash."- Charlie emphasizes. "We need to celebrate."- he adds, smirking as he sticks his hand into the pocket of his jacket and brings out a little baggy of white powder, waving it in front of Hyunjin's face.

"I'll pass."- he says shortly and Charlie scoffs incredulously.

"What is with the sour attitude, my friend?"- he runs his hand through his curly hair. "You're being ungrateful. There are people who have so much influence here tonight and they're gonna want to meet the star of the show, the one and only Hwang Hyunjin. So you better get your fucking shit together."- Charlie flicks his cigarette as his voice gets deeper and the look in his eyes becomes menacing, before he leaves Hyunjin standing on the balcony.

The storm moves closer, Hyunjin looks down, a flicker of something lights up deep inside him, he stares down as his heart races, he wants to scream and fly. Intrusive thoughts fill his head up and he turns on his heel abruptly, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking back into the gallery.

It's already 4 am when Hyunjin stumbles into his apartment, some nameless girl giggling behind him. She probably thinks she knows everything about Hyunjin, which academy he went to, what he loved to paint the most, what was his biggest inspiration, when he had his first show.

This was the night of her life.

To Hyunjin, she was just another instrument to play with, something to pass the time and fill the empty space of his king sized bed, at least for one night.

To feel something. He wishes he could feel something.

She will never forget this but he already forgot her name.

Another baggy is opened, white powder spread on the glass table, Hyunjin's credit card used to make four perfect little lines, two for each of them.

The girl giggles and leans over, snorting two lines in as she moans in delight, her eyes rolling back.

Hyunjin mirrors her actions, scrunching up his nose, despise written on his face at the burning feeling in his nostrils and the dull ache behind his eyes.

How did he get to this?

He doesn't care right now, thoughts erased in his high mind as the girl starts touching on him, nimble fingers coming up to untie his tie.

He doesn't resist, lets her undress him as she kisses his neck, his hands are splayed on her tiny waist, she must be a model.

She's probably beautiful but even that doesn't mean anything to Hyunjin, not when he looks at her, kisses her or lays her under him.

He doesn't see her, he looks through her, chasing his high as quickly as he can, his fingers working on her sensitive bundle of nerves just so she doesn't talk shit later that he didn't know how to please her.

With a loud moan of his name that makes his stomach recoil, she cums around him and he spills into the condom, his hand gripping at the sheet next to her head.

Here comes the worst part. She'll want to cuddle. She'll stay the night. She'll probably yell and slap him in the morning when he tells her to get lost.

He'll say something douchy like 'you should feel honored I fucked you' just to get her off his case.

And he won't feel a thing.

"What the hell do you mean, you're leaving?!"- Charlie yells desperately, as Hyunjin sits, tapping his foot against the carpeted floor of his manager's office.

Charlie stands up angrily, the leather chair he was sitting in, creaking and spinning a little.

"I'm leaving, Charlie. I need to leave. I need a break. I can't do this anymore. I don't even know who I am and why I'm doing this anymore. I don't know what to paint anymore and I don't even fucking care right now. I despise painting and art! I fucking despise all of this!"- Hyunjin's suppressed anger and despair starts bubbling up as he stands up.

"Save your sob story, Hyunjin. This isn't just about you. Other people depend on how much you sell and how much your produce. You can't just up and leave everything when you feel like it. People will-"

"I don't fucking care about people! And I'm making it about me. It's about me, for once. If you want me to be fruitful and bring you money so badly, you need to let me take a fucking break."- Hyunjin seethes.

Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose.

"How long?"

"However long I need."

"Fine. Whatever, Hyunjin. I will keep selling the pieces from the last show. They will sell out quickly, just a reminder. You'll need to do something new by then."

"Fine."

Hyunjin leaves the office, his heart beating fast inside his chest as he speeds off faster and faster, away from the gray buildings, away from the tainted hearts, away from the empty fucking void, threatening to suck in his entire existence.

Returning to his cold apartment, Hyunjin packs a suitcase, leaves a note for the cleaning lady, and throws one last look around his modern apartment, his eyes stop on the looming city skyscrapers outside.

No colors could ever illuminate the deep-seated depression of the big city.

✨Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @laylasbunbunny @porangporangmeong @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @simpforleeknaur @laughatdanger @lixies-favorite-cookie @linavc @quokkacidal @thisaintredwine @m00gyu @yaorzu-blog @skzfelixlove @tajannah-price1 @puccaaak @aft2rsexs @xxkissesforchanniexx @aprilmaejune77 @lilmeowneow @stayjinnie @astrobebba @danihwang882 @nchhuhi @1810cl

[starry-bi-sky]

more clone^2

snippet 21: Danny is Bruce Wayne's Clone and--

Star, with the rest of the A-List girls: alright ladies! it's time for our quarterly 'cutest boys' list! Now I'll get straight to the point, in our number one spot is--

All girls, in unison: Danny Fenton

Star, writing it down on a whiteboard: and for our number two spot--

---------- Snippet 22: clone meet clone

Ellie, dramatically: Danny!

Danny, equally dramatic: Ellie!

Ellie, pushing past him and looking around: where is he! i wanna see the little guy!

Damian, with a sword, brandishing it dangerously: *in arabic* don't come any closer, stay back!

Danny, wrapping an arm around Ellie's waist and pulling her back: woah, woah - he's still adjusting to everything

Danny, turning towards Damian with his google translate open: [please don't stab her. this is Ellie my clone.]

Damian, lowering his sword in disbelief: 'there's MORE of you?

-------------- Snippet 23: Ellie has the same epiphany as Danny

Ellie:...hey Danny

Danny, pouring over his arabic book: hm

Ellie: since I'm your clone, and you're a clone of Bruce Wayne, and Damian is a clone of Damian Wayne, does that technically mean I'm his mom - uh. dad-mom?

Danny:

Ellie:...its a fair question

Danny: .....*deep sigh* you're his cousin until further notice.

------------ Snippet 24: wait for me ii (hadestown, live vers.)

(i'm not sure of the context, but i've been thinking of Danny saying this to Damian during a serious moment for days. the snippet title is the song that the dialogue below is from)

Danny, fixing up Damian's wraith suit: the meanest dog you'll ever meet

Danny, zipping up damian's jacket: it ain't the hound dog in the street. he bares some teeth and tears some skin, but brother,

Danny, adjusting Damian's gloves, pausing to look him in the eye: that's the worst of him.

Danny, he holds a finger up to Damian's eyes and points it at him: the dog you really got to dread, is the one that howls inside your head

Danny, grabbing damian's mask and smoothing it over his eyes: it's him whose howling drives men mad, and a mind to its undoing

------------ Snippet 25: Danny is Bruce Wayne's clone-- (Battinson Vers*)

Ember, in the middle of a fight with Phantom + Wraith:

Ember, knocks off Phantom's mask for the first time: lets see what ugly mug you're really hiding under there, Phantom--

Phantom: *the wettest, most pathetic looking pretty boy on the planet*

Ember:

Phantom, dryly: what, did your mic die out or something? all that caterwauling finally make you lose your voice

Wraith, unsheathing his sword: *vibrating with baby brother rage bc he knows EXACTLy why Ember is silent*

----------- Snippet 26: Damian is finally starting to play nice :)

Dany: hey... guys.... whatcha doing

Damian, hanging out with Sam: Me and Manson are plotting ways to crush the Mayor's plan to cut budget funding for the city parks and cut down the native trees

Danny: oh, i see.... is this safe?

Sam: probably

Danny: hm.

------------- Snippet 27: digging up cold case

Danny: ....if Damian is out with Sam tonight with their plot against the mayor....

Danny, turning towards his desk: then that means I can work some more on Mrs. Witherbury's murder case that she asked me to solve without Dames guilt-tripping me into bed :)

Danny, settling down at his desk with a thermos full of coffee: i'm glad sam and damian are finally getting along

--------- Snippet 28: sparring

Damian, frowning: your reflexes are incredible but your combat is downright awful, brother. it's truly a miracle i didn't skewer you upon our first meeting

Danny, got his ass kicked by his 7yo brother: *groaning in pain* not everyone has super secret assassin training, Damian. And I don't really have time to actually practice anything.

Damian: Mrs. Fenton knows martial arts and her form is proficient enough, I'm sure she would be delighted to teach you if you asked. I will join since I need to keep my skills sharp and my training was unfinished when I arrived here.

-------- Snippet 29: daytime surprise

Phantom, fighting Skulker in broad daylight: *under his breath* at least Lancer's english test will get canceled for this...

Phantom, dodging a blast from Skulker: *in ASL, furious* don't you have anything better to do, you fuck!?

Skulker: foolish ghost child, speak! I know you're capable of it - speak before you lose the ability to

Phantom: *flips him off instead*

Wraith, sending back a ecto-blast with his sword: please pay attention, phantom

Phantom, doubletaking: *in a hissed whisper* what are you doing here!? it's a school day, you should be at school!

Wraith: Tt. If the boot fits.

------------ Snippet 30: guilt

Danny with his head on his desk, his elbows propped up as he massages his hands: hn

Damian, lurking to the side with a guilty look on his face:

Damian: can i....

Danny, silently holding his hand out to Damian: hrm

Damian, immediately taking it and doing the massages + finger exercises: ...im sorry

Danny: hm... I forgive you

[mvshortcut]

Put That Guy in a SituationTM Ask Game/Prompt!

For when you want to put your favorite little guy (gender neutral) in a fanfic-type Situation. Send in a fandom, character(s), and/or relationship/ship as well as a number (or a few!) Feel free to use for fanfic, art, or whatever you choose!

Touch starved/cuddle curse

Time loop

Misunderstandings

Mind meld/telepathy/mind reading

Amnesia

Reverse amnesia (everyone else has no memory/recognition of your character)

Trapped in a room/closet/elevator

“Who did this to you?”

Sleep deprivation

Framed for a crime they didn’t commit

Hiding from pursuers

Turned invisible

Drunken/drugged/sleepy confessions

Role swap

Soulmates

Meeting past/future self

Tending to an injury/wound/illness

Possession/Mind control 

De-aged

Personality swap

Fear poison/gas

Truth or dare/party games

Loss of powers/abilities/skills

Showing up injured at their friend/mentor’s house

Showing up injured at their enemy’s house

Group project/team effort

Demon summoning

Curse of obedience/can’t disobey a direct order (the “Ella Enchanted”)

Time jumping/time travel/fix-it

Only one bed

Cursed/turned into an animal

Body swap

Reincarnation 

Love spell/curse/potion

Hatred spell/curse/potion

Avalanche/huddle for warmth

Secret relationship

Multiverse/meeting alternate version of self

Avoiding a conversation

Identity reveal/major secret revealed

Panic attacks

True love’s kiss/breaking a curse

Fake dating 

Arranged marriage

Realization of feelings at the Worst Possible Moment

Confessions during an argument

Sickfic/caretaking

Enemy caretaker

Self-sacrificial

Meet cute

Meet ugly/awkward first meetings

Fake death/presumed dead

Wings/supernatural body features

Kidnapping

Mutual Pining (+ Oblivious)

Mutual platonic/familial yearning

Accidental hand-holding

Crying

Lying curse/forced to lie about something

Truth Serum/spell

[awkward-walking-potato]

X-Men masterlist

Link to my marvel one - here

My requests are open!

Wolverine Masterlist

Deadpool Masterlist

Remy Lebeau

In sickness and in health - Request for Remy with his lady being sick?

Steady as a card in the wind - Gambit with a partner with anxiety

Jealous Remy - A guy starts flirting with reader at the bar and how he reacts

Clubbing with Gambit

Guess - Gambit returns to the woman he hurt, admitting his fear of commitment and asking for a chance to prove his love. Despite her lingering pain, she decides to give him one last chance, hopeful that this time might be different.

Under the Crescent Moon - Remy takes you to a drive in movie to see his favourite movie, Princess and the frog.

Trick or Treat - “I couldn’t find a costume, so I just decided to go as your [partner/bf/gf].”

Playful Bites - gender neutral reader who likes to affectionately bite him

Remy comforting the reader after a nightmare

Prom Night pressure - Planning prom gets too much and causes you to overwork yourself

Hank Mccoy

Reassurance - reader has a panic attack and Hank comforts them

Quiet Moments in the Lab - reader who gets overwhelmed cause she has a similar mutation to Charles, and finds comfort in the quiet of the lab

Kurt Wagner

The midnight Visitor - It is just Kurt being the biggest kitty cat

Tangled hearts,Torn leather - Kurt with a Punk reader and they are very much sunshine and grumpy trope

In the blink of a heart - What Kurt would think about his shy gender neutral crush giving him a love letter before leaving quickly

Saved by Nightcrawler - Kurt saves your life on a mission so you save his

Pouting and fluff - Kurt comes in soaking wet and you have to dry him off

Swashbuckling - What happens when you watch pirates of the Caribbean with Kurt.

Shades of Us - Kurt with reader who has a physical mutation like himself

Kurt surprising his gender-neutral s/o by wrapping his tail around their waist in private

Kurt reacting to his gender neutral crush telling him that they admire how kind he is despite how much he had suffered in the past

Fuzzy Comforts - reader comes home drunk and immediately latches onto nightcrawler and starts calling him a teddy because of the fur

Shadows of devotion - Kurt x goth Mutant reader (whose power is smoke like turning herself into smoke or smoke like Illusions)

Drawn to you - Kurt ends up seeing the art that the reader makes

Whispers of Moonlight - Kurt makes friends with death

Discovering You Were in an Illegal Mutant Cage Fighting Ring

Reflections - the reader feels ugly and has been treated unkindly because of it and kurt helps them out

Charles Xavier

A gentle touch - Charles looks after a sick reader

Are you still busy? - reader who just keeps bothering him while he is working cause they want his attention and every one else is busy

Erik Lehnsherr

Beautiful Darkness - The reader has always felt like an outcast even with the other mutants till she meets Erik

Moonlit reflections - “I spent so long in the darkness I’d almost forgotten how beautiful the moonlight is.” Erik helps out a reader with a werewolf mutation

Comfort in the Darkness - Erik helps with reader see how beautiful her powers are

Scott Summers

headcanons for how Scott would support an S/O struggling with depression and mental health

An Easy Fix - When your car breaks down near the mansion Scott is there to help

Headcanons

Logan and Wade on Receiving a Love Letter from Their Shy, Gender-Neutral Crush

Gambit's on Receiving a Love Letter from His Shy, Gender-Neutral Crush

Remy, Logan, and Wade would think about his female s/o walking in on him

Remy, wade, and logan reacting to their s/o wearing lip plumping lip gloss

Remy, Logan, and Wade would think walking in on his female s/o

Remy, Logan, Wade, and Kurt on their Gender-Neutral S/O Asking to Hold Their Hand/Arm Before a Scary Halloween Movie

Headcanons: Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler) & Remy LeBeau (Gambit) with Siren!Reader

headcanons for how Storm, Magneto, and Nightcrawler would react to an S/O whose mutation isn’t combat-oriented and who feels insecure or weak compared to the others

headcanons for how Kurt and Scott would react to having an S/O with a "sunshine aura":

Scott Summers (Cyclops), Charles Xavier (Professor X), and Magneto might react to a reader with a powerful and versatile mutation who feels undercoordinated

Scott (Cyclops), Remy (Gambit), and Logan (Wolverine) would react to rescuing a reader who had been trapped in an illegal mutant fighting ring

Remy (Gambit), Wade (Deadpool), and Logan (Wolverine) would react to their shy, gender-neutral crush whispering a confession in their ear

Remy, Wade, and Logan might react and feel about a gender-neutral S/O who always makes sure to tell them "I love you" whenever possible

headcanons for a polyamorous relationship between Wade Wilson (Deadpool), Logan (Wolverine), and their gender-neutral s/o who acts as a mediator and the voice of reason

Kurt, Emma, and Scott with a reader that’s a little off-putting? They’re mostly harmless but them not making a sound still gives people a start.

Remy, poly Wade, and Logan would think about his shy gender neutral s/o asking him to kiss his forehead in hopes that he would feel loved

Remy, poly Wade, and Logan would think about his gender neutral s/o telling him that they haven't calmed down from the disagreement/arguement so they want to sleep separately

Remy (Gambit), Logan (Wolverine), and Kurt (Nightcrawler) might react to an S/O who often depreciates themselves

[tinytennisskirt]

Small Victories

Summary: based on a request, Stanford tennis player! reader and Art strike up a new friendship as they're both pretty lonely at Stanford. It's platonic and fun, but reader is taken out of the tennis season after a serious injury ruins her leg. Recovery is hard, but Art is there the entire way insisting you get back to tennis- and as you slowly heal, he slowly falls harder and harder. It becomes undeniable that you two belong together when you finally get back on the court and win your first game post-injury... when things left unsaid can't stay unsaid.

Warning: mentions of broken bones and blood. Mention of sex. Kissing. A little angst, and a tiny bit of miscommunication if you squint. Slowburn friends to lovers. A good amount of fluff and fun. 13k words- brace yourselves.

It was your first day at Stanford after spending your first night in your dorm room. You had some free time so you’d been spending it unboxing and putting away more of your clothes and things. You covered the ugly boring walls with simple patchwork tapestry, and carefully hung your star-shaped string lights. You set up your computer at the provided desk, moving it to the corner where it was level with the table you’d set up your microwave and kettle on. You made the bed, organized your rackets, and you would have never been this clean if you were at home, but you were a little too bored and you were racking up the nerve to go and speak to people. Meeting new people. 

It’s not like you were socially inept at all, but the anticipation was killer. Being so far away from everyone you knew, having this pressure to make friends here or being around wouldn’t be all that worthwhile. Yes, you loved tennis. Yes, you were so glad to be at Stanford. But could you enjoy it without any friends? No. When you decided your room was done, you logged onto your computer to look over the campus website to see if maybe there were any events tonight. 

You found a few as you scrolled. They had a painting class led by an instructor, not your thing. They had an acapella group info night, which could be fun, but you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. You scrolled down to the sports section. Football team info night, lacrosse recruitment, and you saw it, perfectly dated for today at eight, a tennis mixer for all tennis students in the far corner garden on campus, just a ten-minute walk. You shut your computer off and immediately started going through your clothes.

You ended up in your favourite jeans and a light purple tank top, pairing it with some casual Converse you’d had for two years, a nice belt, some pretty earrings, and the most dainty necklace you had. You did your makeup in the mirror, getting your eyeliner right in one try which was an absolute wonder, and finished everything off with a pairing of blotted lipstick and lip balm. You looked over everything in the mirror, fixing the curl of your hair just a bit before you packed the simple things into a small bag and headed out the door. 

The garden was cute, it was a little corner boxed in with hedges, full of picnic tables and lawn chairs. You looked up and down the edges lined with pretty pink, orange, yellow, and purple flowers. The 90s music from a radio in the corner was fairly loud, but more dull than the conversation between who you assumed were your peers. A wave of excitement hit as you looked up and around these people, not exactly watching as you stepped backward, foot hitting the side of someone else’s and tripping just slightly in the same direction. Thank god you caught your balance, because without it you might have ended up on the person behind you’s lap. 

“You okay?” He asked, hands up, ready to catch if he needed. You turned, fixing yourself, trying to hide your embarrassment. This was an amazing start, you thought to yourself, chuckling nervously. His eyes were soft and genuine, and he was asking. 

“Oh, yeah, just not looking where I was walking,” You smiled. “I’m so sorry.” 

He smiled back, “No, you’re good, don’t worry about it. I sit with my feet too far out anyway.” He said, getting up out of the chair he was sitting in with his drink. You noted just how nice his voice sounded, you’d never heard anyone with his tone. “My name is Art… Donaldson.” He extended his free hand to you and you were a little surprised but glad. 

“Y/N,” You answered, unable to control the grin that came from meeting someone already, even if you nearly tripped into him. You eyed him up and down a moment. He was taller than you, thin, with blonde curls and a big smile. Bigger than one you would have gotten from anyone else you spoke to if you had ended up speaking to anyone else that night. “You’re in the tennis program?” You asked. 

“Yeah,” He grinned. “And you too, I assume.” 

“Mhm,” You nodded back. “First year. Nervous.” You admit, feeling like maybe he’d get it. And he did, no doubt. 

Art ruffled his hair, “Oh yeah. I’m on residency, so it’s not much different from my previous school, but I don’t know anyone, so it’s a little weird. I had to check the campus website for anything to do to get out and meet people.” He spoke a lot with his hands, you noted along with the fact you had done the exact same thing. He was also just speaking to speak, you noticed as you nodded along, smiling. He was nervous too. “Are you on residency?” He asked, ending his little spiel. You’d let him talk just to hear him talk, finding his voice unique and a little bit pretty. And he was nice. 

“I am, I spent the whole day organizing and decorating my room,” You chuckled, stepping aside to grab yourself a can of iced tea, and cracking it open. Art watched as you did, studying the dainty rings on your fingers, the way the one strand of hair fell in your face when you tripped and you hadn’t yet thought to move it. “Things are a lot harder to do without a staple gun.” You told him.

He sipped his own drink, “Mmm, right? Took me seven attempts to hang up my poster today with that stupid blue clay stuff.” 

“Oh, that stuff is nasty.” He liked how you crinkled your nose. “I bought this glue-brand double-sided tape. It’s a game-changer, but so sticky.” And the embarrassment from nearly tripping eased away as the conversation enhanced itself. He was sweet and funny and kind and truly seemed like he was hearing what you said. Art was truthfully just glad he found anyone to talk to after Patrick left last night and as the conversation moved over the regular small talk, he found he didn’t really want to talk to anyone else. 

The night went on and people were leaving now and then, but you and Art sat on the bench in the very corner of the corner garden unphased, just talking about your histories with tennis. Soon you knew all of his best victories and he knew yours and he also knew you liked music more than most things, tennis included, him making mental note of what songs to listen to when he went back to his dorm room. He felt a lot less alone in Patrick’s absence than he’d expected and you were so interesting. He also knew you were a big fan of iced coffee, had a lucky tennis racket, and had a love for star-shaped things. Just as you knew his best game was his doubles at the Junior US Open with his best friend who you’d heard a lot about now, just as you heard about his past at Mark Rebatello’s Tennis Academy, how his favourite thing to do in tennis is serve, and his favourite post-game meal is chicken wings. Your conversation naturally covered all the simple things and when the night truly had to come to an end, he gladly walked you back to your dorm. 

“It’s been really nice meeting you,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as you approached your door. Part of him knew he could probably tell you everything and anything about himself and you’d listen and that’s what he liked about you. “Glad someone spoke to me.” 

“Well, I tripped, so we’re just lucky, I suppose.”

He twisted his mouth to the side, “I guess so, but who’s to say I didn’t do it on purpose?” He questioned with a teasing smile. 

You laughed quietly, “It’s been nice meeting you too. I’ll see you around the court?” 

“Probably,” He replied, shoving his hands into his pockets as you leaned against the door. “I look forward to it.” A grin slowly crept up his face, unable to hide itself. He was not in a particular lack, but gaining you was something he wouldn’t regret and he knew it. “I’ll see you around.” 

You couldn’t help but grin right back- his smile was so wide it was hard to ignore. “Goodnight, Art.” 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” 

You saw him again the next day, more than enthused to see a familiar face around. You had your hair up in a ponytail, sporting a white skort and black tank top and he was in blue gym shorts and a sports t-shirt that was just a tad lighter than his shorts. 

“Hey you,” You smiled as you approached. He turned, more than happy to see you as well. 

“Hey,” he replied, setting his things down on the nearest bench. You beamed, doing the same. “How are you?” 

“I’m good, how are you?” You asked, hopping up and starting to stretch. He had his hands shoved in his pockets. “Co-op doubles today, you want to be my partner?” He asked. You were nodding yes before he even finished the sentence. 

It was that day that Art realized just how good you were at tennis and how distracting it was playing doubles when all he wanted to do was watch you play. It was almost hypnotizing to see you do your thing and he was honestly a little proud he’d made your acquaintance before you demolished the other team so he wouldn’t have had to look like a suck up approaching you afterward. 

You jumped and high fived him when you two won the scrimmage and Art knew he picked the perfect tennis partner for sure. As for you, he impressed you vastly past your expectations. He was amazing at serving so no wonder it was his favourite. 

“That was crazy,” Art huffed, breathing out. “That was amazing.” 

“Your serves are crazy,” you gushed, turning to him. “You’re amazing, that was amazing that serve at the end completely threw them.” 

Art shook his head, “As if you didn’t completely end the game with that last swing, that was incredible.” He gestured openly, then let his arms fall to his sides. “You want to go again?” 

Technically you were supposed to switch partners, but Art just didn’t want to take that chance. He had you as a partner and he would have to swap it out? No thanks. 

Your smile turned itself into a smirk, you had other thoughts. “Maybe after.” You said and jogged over to the boy you’d just gone up against and asked him to play with you and Art knew what you were doing. You wanted to play against him. 

It turned out to be a problem because now Art had a full view of how you played and it really was hypnotic. You obviously had a well-learned method for every swing and situation and you knew exactly what was in your section and what was in your partner’s. Art was grinning, watching you play and honestly hardly paying much attention to the fact that he himself was in the game. He missed a few balls just because he was watching your swing. You were good, you were really good, and that fact being distracting was not very useful to a scrimmage. 

When the game ended and you had a bit of a water break, you jogged over, “What was that?” You laughed. 

Art shrugged, chuckling. “You’re really good.” He took a long drink from his water bottle, knowing the reason he gave you wasn’t very detailed but it was honest. 

You and Art were partners for most co-op doubles that week, hanging out almost every day after or before. You two were fast friends- him enjoying how passionate you were when you talked and shared the things you liked and the way you went about tennis, you enjoying having a great partner for scrimmages and the things he talked about. Having a familiar face around all the time was the ease you needed to fully get yourself situated at Stanford. It was fun to have someone that you wanted to see every day who happened to want to see you just the same. You two were friends quicker than anyone you’d ever known, like something just clicked and fit into place- he was fun and a little bit wild when he wasn’t shy, and he loved music just as much as you did, it turned out, which was surprising. 

You’d sit in his car for hours just talking with music in the background. “Okay, so McDonalds fries versus Arby’s.” You said, picking through the McDonald’s fries you two bought on the way back to campus. Art put the car in park and you were leaned against the car door, sitting facing him. “Don’t say Arby’s, I’m begging you.” 

He smiled and shrugged a little sheepishly, “They’re thicker.” He reasoned. 

“Uh-huh, I see how it is,” you said, rolling your eyes at him. He hid his face in his hands. “McDonald's are so classic.” 

He raised his head, “True-“ he spoke with too many in his mouth and you smiled. “- But Arby’s are curly. Which means more.” 

“Okay so you’re settled on the fact that it’s more food,” you laughed, popping a small one in your mouth. “Here I was going off of taste.” 

“You can’t go off taste alone because quality is so important,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “McDonalds fries are good but the quality is shit.” 

“You’re right but you can ignore that-“ 

“I have to ignore that while you ignore thicket and curlier?” He laughed. “No-“ he couldn’t get through his words laughing, “We are done here.” 

“What-“ you laughed. “No, come on.” 

He gestured wide, hand on your upper arm, sliding down to rest on your forearm, “You’ve just proven you can’t debate, it’s pointless-“ he couldn’t stop laughing, and from that point on neither could you. It was contagious and spread throughout the car like the air conditioning that circulated. It was good laughter, sweet, and unending because whenever one of you tried to stop, even looking at the other would cause you both to burst out laughing again. It was a cycle that made your ribs ache, your heart beat harder in your chest and your breath impossible to catch. The laughter only ended when you were both in too much pain to continue. 

Art rubbed his eyes, leaning against the car's center console, catching his breath. He missed Patrick but not so much when you were around. He was glad he had you and that was one of the only thoughts in his head as he looked at you, catching your breath as well. Your smile was gorgeous was the afterthought but there was no afterthought to that thought itself, just that you were and it was. You moved your hair from your face and he thought again about the fry conversation and he nearly laughed again, but he tried hard not to.

The truth was Art did have thoughts like that often. You saw him every day, you were funny and talented, and Art loved how much you cared about everyone around you. How could he not, even for a moment, think more of you than what you two were? But he didn’t notice how often he had those thoughts because they were forgotten so easily, buried under something subconsciously. 

You looked back at him, the atmosphere shifting once again. Art watched you glance at the time, “I have to get to bed, I’m so sorry,” He loved how you apologized for nothing. He’d tried to correct it at first but it was just something you couldn’t help. “I have that game tomorrow, the one I’ve been talking about, are you coming?” 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it,” he grinned, pulling the car back into drive to bring you closer to your residency building so you wouldn’t have to walk. “Starts at ten?” 

“I have to be there at ten, game at eleven.” You nodded. 

“Sounds good,” He nodded back, a slight smile pulling at his lip. “I’ll see you there.”

“I guess you will. Or might. I need you there in case I need to make a run for it, I’m terrified to play that Roxy girl, she’s supposed to be so hardcore.” You pressed your hands to your face. “Thank you for hanging out, for a moment I forgot just how scared I am of tomorrow.” Your smile turned to a grin and Art’s followed. He was unable to control his smile around you. 

He shook his head, “You’ll be great. You’ll kick her ass.” 

“She’s Russian,” you replied. “She’s going to do more than kick mine.” 

Art shook his head again, “No. Can’t think that way or else she will for sure. You kick hers, no other way.”

You took a deep breath, grin dulling back to a simple smile. “Thank you. I’ll need all the luck I can get though,” You opened his car door to get out. 

“Okay, well, good luck if I don’t see you before the game, leprechauns, four-leaf clovers, break a leg, etcetera.” 

You laughed and after saying goodnight, your laugh still echoed around his head. It did so until he went to sleep that night. But he didn’t think anything of it, there was no reason to. 

The game the next day really did terrify you. This girl you were up against was hardcore, you spent the morning watching her games trying to figure her out but all you got was that she stepped twice before swinging left, no matter what as well as she was an amazing player. She had long sleek blonde hair that she tied up in a braided ponytail and icy eyes that seemed to stare into your soul when you saw her tennis poster. You wondered if her eyes followed you around as you got dressed into your pink skort and lilac purple tank top combo. Looking nice on the court helped a lot with your confidence.

You tied your hair up in two French braids to keep it away from your face and tried to take deep breaths as you grabbed your things and headed over to the Stanford court. It was a busy day, apparently, as a small crowd of people were waiting to get into the benches and you walked by them and into the building where you met your coach. 

“You ready?” She asked and you really wanted to say no, the nerves getting to your stomach. The first big game of the season meant something. This is the beginning of what you were working for. Part of you was so ready for this all to begin, other casual games with small audiences were easy, but there was a Russian girl out there ready to demolish you. You took another deep breath. 

“Yeah.” And you took your things to the court and unzipped your bag that you’d packed in a haste this morning out of pure nerves and no real rush to see that somehow, in some extreme mishap, that your lucky racket wasn’t there. You turned to your coach, who knew that when you laid all your rackets out on the sidelines that you were missing the lucky one. 

And Art in the stands looked over, knowing the exact same thing. He turned to Patrick, who was visiting as of this morning, “She doesn’t have her purple racket.” He said as if Patrick knew what that meant. Art had spent the morning filling Patrick in on who you were and Patrick listened with a knowing smirk, but didn’t say anything about what he truly thought. “Patrick, she can’t play this without her lucky racket.” He urged as if it made a difference. The game was set to start in five minutes. 

“Lucky racket?” Patrick understood. When he was younger he himself had the same thing, he knew the sentiment and the effect it could have on a game. That’s why Art, knowing Patrick, knew you were the same way.

“Fuck,” Art said, looking around to see if there was a clear path out of the bleachers, but there wasn’t. He looked back at you, talking to your coach with your hand over your mouth. He got up and stepped over a few people but was stopped by an usher. 

“Game is starting in five-“ the burly man said. 

“I know, I need to get out,” he urged. 

“Sit. Down. Please.” The usher replied. 

Art shook his head, “No, you don’t understand, this is vital to the game about to be played, that’s my friend out there-“ 

“Sir, if you leave before the first half, you won’t be getting back in.” He said. And that was that. Art couldn’t even make a run for it because this usher would make sure he couldn’t get the racket back to you. 

“Fuck,” Art muttered, having to sit back next to Patrick knowing this wouldn’t be good. It put him on edge from the stands he couldn’t imagine the anxiety you were feeling if it was already bad and you didn’t have your racket. He rubbed his face, looking at Patrick, who knew exactly what you were feeling even not knowing you yet. “This is bad.” 

You had to use your practice racket. Which was fine if you were anyone else, it worked just the same, but the feeling of confidence was hard to attain. You hit the court as the announcer called out you were to serve. You took what felt like the deepest breath, filling your lungs as you faced your blindingly blonde opponent. You let the breath go slowly, trying to convince yourself that this was fine. And you served. 

The rally was good, you both had each other moving, but she was up in points within the first ten minutes. You weren’t doing badly, you were just behind. Art and Patrick were watching from the stands at how intense things were, Art worried the entire time. 

You caught up and surpassed her points around the middle, but soon enough she bounced right back surpassing you again. You were getting increasingly more scared that this was exactly what you expected from a game without the purple racket. You took a deep breath and hit the ball as hard as you could upon serve, it going awkwardly sideways and immediately out. You tried not to swear too loudly. Art and Patrick did it for you in unison, Patrick was just as invested as Art. 

When they called the halfway point, you were below her points-wise. Art couldn’t pay less attention to the way you walked off the court with your hand to your head because he was running, or trying to, through the sea of people who were going for washroom breaks and getting food from the stands outside. He tried to push through but more people kept coming and the stress of it alone had his heart beating. That was nothing on the beat of his heart as he finally pushed through and he started sprinting across the campus grounds trying to get to your residency as fast as he could. 

He didn’t think he’d ever run so fast in his life but this was the only way he knew how to help. This was how you would save your game. He ran through the residency doors and up the stairs to the second floor and grabbed your key from behind the fire alarm trigger, unlocking your door. He knew you wouldn’t mind after this- he looked around seeing the racket leaning in the corner and he grabbed it, locking your door again and jumping the stairs, sprinting back. 

It took a lot longer than he thought. He tried a shortcut that was stupidly a dead end and he checked his watch before launching back into his sprint and he had two minutes before you were back on. He was so fucked. This time he just about shoved people as he returned to the crowd. 

He could hear the game resume and people did hurry to get back to their seats which helped a little- Art was still pushing to make it back to you, to get the racket to you before the second half truly started. He knew if he just got it out there onto the court you could switch it out between serves and that would be good enough and he was nearly through the crowd, cheers in his ears, people whooping and yelling, getting into the game and all of a sudden it was a simultaneous gasp. Art was confused for about a split second before he heard the scream in the silence of a crowd that held their breath. 

Art pushed through the crowd and the sight he saw when he laid eyes on you on the ground was something reminiscent of some horror movie. The detail was too much but visible to him, from far away, was bone. And you were screaming, it was you. 

He bolted over but not before the others did, surrounding you immediately locking him out and he looked over as your tennis partner ran to the edge of the court to vomit. The crowd was mumbling but other than that it was silence versus screams and cries and it was you. Art hated that it was you. 

He couldn’t do anything, he wasn’t any help, 911 was already called and you were crying and screaming, and thank god the huddle shielded the crowd from the blood that pooled on the court. 

Art did the only thing he knew to do and that was collect your things. It didn’t matter what it looked like he was doing, he packed up your rackets and your water bottle, numbing himself to the situation so he could at least do this for you as your screams rang out in the crowd of people still seeming to hold their breaths. He couldn’t get to you if he tried. Sirens in the distance meant it was time to get the fuck out of the way and he moved over as the paramedics worked quickly to tend to you to get you on the ambulance, doing what they could to stop the bleeding. 

Art ran faster than he did to get your racket, even with your rackets on him. It was a good thing Patrick had gotten himself out of the crowd, meeting Art at the fence doors to get him to his car. He’d only known you a month or two, but you were still a person he cared a lot about and he knew your entire family was miles and miles away. You’d be alone in this and knowing you, and talking to you every day, he knew you were afraid of doctors and hated hospitals more than anything. He couldn’t let it be something you had to brave alone.  He threw your rackets in the trunk as Patrick got into the passenger seat and Art tossed him the keys to start the car before he got into the driver's seat. 

“Fuck, this is so bad,” Art said, pulling away a little faster than he should have. “This is so bad.” 

He ended up waiting ten hours at the hospital. You needed surgery to fix your leg and nobody in your family could make it over in ten hours. It would take a flight to get to you. Patrick stayed about four hours with Art, trying to keep him occupied so he didn’t lose his mind in the waiting room, but Art wasn’t very talkative, just worried. You had easily become one of his best friends. 

He ate hospital food and he slept in his chair against the wall. The nurses knew he was there for you and came to update him until one of the nurses told him to come back the next morning because by then you’d probably be stable and awake properly without the pain meds keeping you asleep. He hated that, he slept in his car.

Patrick came back the next morning, tapping on Art’s window at close to 11:30 in the morning. Art woke with a bit of a start, his hair messed up, his clothes from the days before still on. Patrick held up a bag from Art’s dorm room where he’d stay. You wouldn’t think Patrick to think of something like it, but he brought Art a change of clothes which he took gratefully and changed into in the hospital bathroom before going back up to see you. 

Patrick gladly waited in the hallway when he went in. You were awake but you were staring blankly at a wall- it didn’t seem like you even realized he had entered. You’d gotten used to not minding the nurses and doctors that came in and out. Art approached slowly out of understanding and observed how hard you crying so silently. He thought he saw a tear but as he observed, it was a steady stream.

“Hey…” he said quietly. 

You turned your head at the sound of his voice and Art swore when you met his eyes he had never seen eyes sadder than yours. It shook him a little to see pain so obvious in someone’s eyes. “Art-“ you sobbed, putting your head in your hands, unable to say anything else. He rushed forward, dropping his backpack at your bedside to give some sense of comfort. He didn’t know what to do, so he crouched next to you and his hands rested on your forearm, careful not to touch the bruising no doubt from the fall. He didn’t say anything else for a long while and neither did you, you just cried as Art crouched next to you, his hands gently grazing over your skin where they could. Soft, back and forth, just delicately. 

It was the first act anyone had ever taken to make you feel okay, truly okay. You’d been intimidated and overwhelmed by the hospital lights, the sterile metals, and sounds and processes. 

It was also the first true act of many that was something closer than what it should have been for you and Art. It was just you and him in that hospital room, empty aside from the machines, drips, a bed, and chairs, but the silence was so full that it occupied every corner that wasn’t already taken. 

You did eventually speak, but that silence was so needed. It was a conversation about what had happened and you explained it all and how it felt, but Art informed you that you were ahead of her in points before it happened. He didn’t tell you he didn’t see it happen- he didn’t tell you anything about where he’d gone at the halfway point of the game. 

Art slept in the corner chair later that night when you slept. Patrick eventually left after waiting for so long. When you needed your privacy Art got his meals from downstairs, heading back to the dorm and coming back the next morning every day for two weeks. He came by whenever he could to see you, the conversation was good and kept you distracted. You talked about everything and nothing just to pass the time in your lonely, empty room. Art brought you your iPod and a few other things from your dorm to keep you occupied when he wasn’t there.

Art was the greatest comfort until your parents finally got on a plane and flew out to see you, urging to somehow get you home but you didn’t want to go. You couldn’t anyway, and you were so glad. Your mom was surprised by the flowers you’d received from the Russian girl from the big game, who did come to visit you and was surprisingly very sweet, unlike her teeth-bared photo from her Facebook. But other than that, Art visited almost every day right after your parents did. They stayed at a nearby hotel as you were in the hospital recovering. 

Patrick stayed nearby for Art who was fine, other than a little busy most days when he went to visit. Today Patrick came in with Art. 

“Hey,” you grinned, sitting up just a bit when the two boys came in with McDonald’s. “Oh my god, you didn’t.” 

“But we did,” Art said, kicking your tray over to your bed and putting the food down on it. “Patrick’s idea actually, which I hate- but he wanted to get Arby’s and I told him no.” 

You smiled at him slyly, knowingly, but your attention turned to Patrick. “Hey! I’ve heard so much about you, this is crazy. I heard you were at the game.”

He grinned and you noted the dimple he had when he smiled. It was nice. “Yeah. Aside from the whole bone-out-the-leg thing, you were pretty good. I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

“Well, yeah,” you nodded, gesturing to your leg. You were fun, Patrick knew Art liked you but it was finally coming to be something clear in his mind as to why. You had high spirits. But both boys had no idea how hard you sobbed the moment they left. “Thank you for bringing me food, hospital soup and chicken are somehow both dry.” You said, opening the bag. 

Art looked at Patrick for some sort of approval which he got with a look Patrick exchanged. “You’re welcome,” Art spun on his heel. He looked at the way your hair fell over your face as you peeked in, how pretty it looked the way it curved inward to frame your face. The hospital had hindered your will to do your makeup but you still somehow looked just as gorgeous, if not more. His fleeting thought lingered this time as he gathered the right words to say. “So how is your leg feeling today?” 

“Fucked,” you replied, handing the boys their fries and burgers. “Hurts like hell and I’m still on the super strong stuff.” 

“Well you couldn’t tell,” Patrick said, pulling up a chair. 

“I think if I asked, they’d give me the good stuff.” You nodded. “But it makes me so tired, it’s awful.” You bit into your burger. 

Art pulled a chair closer to you and sat in it, “So all this was just for some drugs, hm?” He teased. “And attention.” 

“Oh yeah,” You agreed with a laugh between bites. Patrick chuckled and Art grinned, “All I had to do was fuck up my knee, have a surgery and a half, and ruin my tennis career.” Both boy’s smiles fell almost immediately, watching your tongue press to your cheek. The silence was loud, but you just continued eating. Art opened his mouth to speak but nothing came to mind. It could be true, you could very well never play tennis again, or with proper rehabilitation, you could be back to playing eventually. He didn’t know, he didn’t know what to say. You sighed, your voice monotone, “It’s fine. Most people who can’t play anymore start coaching. I just have to get better at teaching it.” 

“No, you can’t just say you’re going to coach, you still have so much work to do. You could get back into it when you get better,” Art said, hating how willing you were to succumb to just… teaching. “You’re only starting.” 

“True,” Patrick said, agreeing. “Would be badass if you got back on the court.” 

You twisted your mouth to the side, not finding it very easy to even speak on the topic, even if you brought it up yourself. You didn’t want to cry, not right now, you usually waited until you knew Art was down the hall so you had a minute to cry before the nurses came to check on you. “I don’t know…” 

Art looked at you with an expression that bordered on unkind- not toward you, but toward what you were saying. He’d played tennis with you- you were amazing and to not even believe that it could even get better was almost disgusting to him. You had so much potential, so much talent, “You do know.” He insisted. “There’s no way you want this to be career-ending, so don’t let it.”  

Patrick, despite the seriousness of the situation, smiled watching Art all passionate about something. It had been a while since he’d seen Art so riled up about something even if it didn’t affect him directly. Patrick smiled because he was seeing something he knew Art himself didn’t see. He leaned against his hand propped up by the arm of the chair. And you knew Art was right, but not enough to see past the cast on your leg, not enough to see past the months of rehab, not enough to see the court again. As much as you wanted it, it wasn’t in the foreseeable future, so you let it feel impossible. 

Your parents went back home a month or so in with the promise of returning, but it was getting expensive to stay, so they’d go return to their jobs. It was back to being Art and now recently, Patrick, whom you’d grown to be quite fond of. He brought out a side to Art that was not funnier, per se, but broadened his means to be. Patrick sometimes came to see you when Art had class so he wasn’t just sitting around Art’s dorm. Art would swing by after to join the card games and be told to be quiet by the nurses. It always ended up with you laughing so hard your ribs hurt more than your knee, even for a second. It was the only pain that was welcome in the hospital room. 

It was evening and you were sitting on your hospital bed, just thinking over everything. It wasn’t rare for you to cry at random periods throughout the day, it was a little too normal, if you were honest. All of this was so hard- continuing school from a hospital room because of all the risks was awful. But tomorrow you’d be seeing a physical therapist and that would decide if you were ready for rehabilitation. You wiped your eyes from the tears that fell just thinking about whether or not you’d be fit to walk on your leg again, which would determine if you could run if you could play. 

That’s when Art knocked on the door. He poked his head, looking around, but ultimately looking at you. You had the lamps that your parents had purchased for the room to be less overwhelmingly white in the top right and bottom left corners of the room, making for dim, comfortable lighting. Art swore he forgot how to greet you when his eyes met your tear-filled ones. The way your eyelashes looked when wet was almost hypnotizing, something that wiped all of the words from his vocabulary and out of sight almost completely. “Um-” He cleared his throat, “Hi,” He started, a weird pit in his throat. “You okay?” 

“Not sure,” You confessed, wiping your tears off your cheeks. He had seen you cry too many times now, it was getting a little embarrassing. “How are you?” Art smiled just a little at the fact you asked while crying. He hated to answer that question when you were upset. 

He pulled up his regular chair, but oddly it didn’t feel close enough. The feeling of it had been creeping up with every one of his visits, every time you were alone. But it got pushed aside. “I’m fine. Class was boring and tennis sucks without you, as usual.” He said, taking a seat. “The girl I’m paired with keeps hitting on me between rounds.” 

You wiped more tears away, smiling just a little though your stomach felt just a little odd at the mention, “Really?” 

“It’s bad.” He laughed, “She twirls her hair and everything.” 

“And that didn’t immediately work on you?” You fake-gasped. Art was just glad you were smiling. “You didn’t get married on the spot?” 

He chuckled, looking at his hands, “I don’t think it’s so easy. I don’t think I even know her name.” 

“You don’t know Melanie?” 

“Is that her name?” 

“No idea,” You laughed, really laughed, and it was a gorgeous sound. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m mostly bedridden and confined to this room.” 

He covered his face, rubbing his eyes, “That’s enough.” He groaned through a laugh, leaning against his hand, just looking at you. 

“I say it’s hardly anything, imagine how fun I could be if I wasn’t broken,” You huffed. “But Melanie, whatever her name is, she’s like… she’s really pretty.” You noted. ‘Melanie’ had all your opposite features, it should be noted. She was pretty just the same, but she was your opposite. 

“Mmm, not my type,” Art replied, scooting his chair just a little closer to the edge of your bed. 

“So you have a type? What, Kat Zimmerman-like?” 

Art groaned again, “I can’t believe Patrick told you that, that’s insane that you’d bring that up right now, I hate that.” He stressed the important syllables and covered his face again. You giggled, unable to keep it in. “No, not Kat Zimmerman, jesus christ.” 

“So then what’s your type?” You asked, just curious. You weren’t sure what drove you to curiosity but you didn’t question it. 

He shook his head, “I don’t think I have one. I know who I’m not into though and she’s exactly that.” Art said. Once again, to be noticed, the opposite of you was not his type. “She’s nice but we don’t talk much aside from when she compliments my playing and my hair and my arms and… all that.” 

You felt a little twinge. It was so awful to be on the inside while life went on outside, you thought to yourself. That was only half the twinge and the only half of the twinge you could understand. The other half was something close to jealousy that went completely unnoticed, but not unfelt. “She does that?” You struggled to sound genuine and that was the only thing you questioned about any of it. 

“Yeah, I hate it. What about you? You have a type?” 

You thought for a second, “I’m the same, I think. I know sports guys… jocks- are not it.” And Art nodded. Something about it felt weird to hear. He qualified as a sports guy, right? He tried to shrug it off, but he internalized it.

The night went on and you talked about things you hadn’t before and it was all romantic context. Past relationships, elementary school crushes. It was something that was needed out in the open and it made for an occupying conversation though it was a little hard to get through when there were constant little fleeting thoughts in Art’s mind that were thoughts about how jealous he was of these boys who had gotten to kiss you, touch you, and have your romantic attention. However, the thoughts were so fleeting they flew by without being read or registered, but they were there even unnoticed. You were his best friend and nothing more and that was that. 

When the doctors okayed you for rehabilitation you were so overjoyed you cried again. It was okay this time, it felt good to cry. All of these months in pain could be undone if you could just get into this and succeed. There was no guarantee it would work, there wouldn’t be at any point a guarantee and you knew that it would be a long, frustrating process, but it felt like it would be worth it. You remembered what Art told you about not wanting that career path to end and not letting this be the end of anything. This injury, in the long run, would not be able to take you from what you loved. Ever. Because you wouldn’t let it. You called to tell Art and you could hear Patrick whoop and cheer in the background. And you had your first session in your hospital room later that week and the now-wilting flowers Art and Patrick had brought you was amazing for motivation. 

Your healing journey was up and down as expected but no matter if you could finish your session or not, Art came by to tell you how great you were doing and Patrick to reassure you that you were a badass. You even let them stay for a session and the physiotherapist told them to ‘shut up’ because they were cheering for you the second you started. You just laughed. 

Patrick, for amusement, liked to sit back when you and Art were talking. He was no master, he was not a very scientific guy but your body language when engaging with each other was crazy obvious. You’d always sit super close no matter what, you leaned toward each other when you laughed, your eye contact was completely loaded with unsaid words and when you spoke it was 89% flirting. Patrick understood Art- you were gorgeous and you were strong and that itself was hot. You were funny and took jabs but you were honestly one of the most caring people Patrick had ever met. So yeah, he understood why Art liked you so much. 

You got better every day, easing onto your crutches at this point, able to somewhat move on your own. Patrick visited that day and he had his intentions. “You heard about that girl who won’t stop hitting on Art between games?” He chuckled, dealing the cards for crazy eights. He watched for your reaction. 

You pressed your tongue to your cheek, “Mmm, he mentioned.” You said, picking up your cards. “She’s still at it?” 

“Worse,” Patrick said. “Asked him out yesterday.” 

You looked up at Patrick with telling eyes and Patrick could have gone off of that alone, but he didn’t yet. He noticed your hands bending the edge of a card as you thought it over. The idea of him and that girl was something you could easily envision. He’d been her partner for over a year now and he had to know her name, they had to have been talking for her to just ask him out. Your jealousy was a fleeting thought that did burn close to the surface. “What did he say?” 

“He said he’d think about it,” Patrick said, eyeing your response to that one. It wasn’t true, Art had turned her down at least twice now. The girl was pretty, but oddly persistent.

“Hm,” You nodded, putting down three cards right off the bat. “He said she wasn’t his type.” 

Patrick shrugged, playing his card, “He’s pretty diverse I think. Me personally-” He placed a hand on his chest, “- Dark hair, dark eyes. I’m not limiting myself to it, but I think I have a type.” 

“That’s very you, I feel,” You said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Are you an ass guy too?” 

“Oh yeah,” He grinned a wide grin. You just smiled and shook your head at him. “What about you? You have a type?” He asked, trying not to make it obvious he was playing wingman here. 

You picked up a card, “I don’t think so. Maybe tall, not too much muscle but not like bone-breaking thin.” You said. “And a good amount of hair. I can’t imagine being with someone with a buzzcut. I don’t know, I don’t think much about who I could want, more of what I don’t want.” 

Patrick pretended like that body criteria wasn’t exactly Art. He smiled just a little, “And what’s that?” 

“Okay, easy. No mommy issues,” You put down another card, “No weird patchy facial hair, nobody who doesn’t know the difference between too, two, and to, and no guys in sports.” 

Patrick leaned in just a bit. “No guys in sports? You don’t date guys who play sports?” He clarified, a little bit of hope slipping out the window for his wingman act. All of everything could be wrong, could be pointless. 

You shook your head, “I say that but I mean football, mostly. Jocks. I had a bad experience with two different football players. Broke my little heart,” You chuckled. “I’ve ruled out jocks.” 

“But you’d date a guy in t-” he almost said tennis. He wouldn’t have been a good wingman to give away something like that. “You’d date a guy who plays something else?” 

“If he’s normal about it,” You nodded. “I can’t be outloved by a sport. My ex, I swear he’d fuck a football if it had a hole.” You placed down two more cards, “Last card.” 

The game finished with your win and Patrick was fairly satisfied with his work, though he intended to ask you a few more things and was cut short from his recon when Art swung in the room with a can of iced tea for you and Coca-Cola for him and Patrick. “How are you?” You asked him, taking the iced tea gratefully. 

“I’m good, you?” Art sat at the end of your bed by your feet, putting a hand on your shin (on your good leg) just casually. Patrick noticed it, but it didn’t seem to phase you. He’d seen it the other day when you rested your head on Art’s shoulder, he’d seen it when Art moved your hair over your ear as you were reading a magazine they’d brought. It was painful how obvious this was- he didn’t have to ask anything else. He almost laughed out loud as he thought about it. He made a mental note to talk to Art about it. 

He went back to the dorm early that day, leaving just you and Art. “Hm,” You hummed, pulling your hair to one side. Art snapped out of the trance he was in, hoping you hadn’t noticed that he was staring. It was something about the way you looked in purple, it was like it made your skin glow. That and your eyelashes as they fluttered when you looked around the room, that and the way your lower lip rested between your teeth as you checked over your textbook quickly making sure you were done with your schoolwork for the day. Art blinked all the thoughts away, but they clung on to your square-necklined purple t-shirt. Something about the way you looked in purple. 

Art rubbed the back of his neck, taking his eyes off of you, but looking back a moment later. Your lip between your teeth had his full attention, his own lips parting just a little at the sight. And then there was your hair draping over your face now and Art wanted so badly to move it like he had before. At this thought, as it crossed his mind it stopped dead centre in his brain. Like a shift, but a shift from his own burying and blatant ignorance of any feelings to being completely in the know. You were here, and you were perfect and you weren’t even doing anything, and Art knew he liked you as more than a friend at that very moment. 

But that was the issue. He was supposed to be your friend. 

And that troubled him the next week or so. He was fine seeing you, being one of your close friends wasn’t an act, it was true to him with the addition that maybe he liked you but he always told himself ‘just a little bit’, he liked you a little. If it was full blown then it would be a crisis and the truth was that it was absolutely and completely full blown and there was nothing he could say to himself that would change that. He thought about you when he wasn’t with you, when he woke up, and when he went to bed. He thought about you when he saw something you liked, he thought about you in every spare moment he could get. It was so bad he couldn’t even tell Patrick- as if Patrick didn’t know and constantly teased him about it. 

You were getting better and better and it was a surprising recovery, doctors said. Your mobility was far ahead of schedule and set to stay that way. Any setbacks from this point would be minor and you were making progress almost miraculously. And you were so glad to hear it every time they’d say it. Your parents came back around the day you took a real step alone and you wouldn’t forget your mom’s shriek of complete happiness. Your knee would work again. 

Just Art brought you flowers that day, not him and Patrick. 

But things stayed the same. You could leave and come back in for therapy and you were more than glad to be out of the hospital, though you’d gotten a bit used to it. Everything was falling into place, Art was there pretty much every step -literal and physical- of the way. He was amazing support and made things feel so much easier. When Patrick came around it was fun to have two people who’d add into the motivation. You got better and better and soon enough you swore you could walk just fine aside from your slight limp. That day you walked across the room when Art turned his back, he was surprised, to say the least.

When you could go out with a wheelchair and crutch the boys took you to the court. It was your first time on it since the incident. Your eyes fell on the spot where it happened. Patrick followed your eyes, grimacing just a bit. You’d forgotten Art didn’t see it- you still had no idea where he’d gone at the halfway point of the game. “I can almost feel it,” You said, a look of disgust on your face. “I think the gasp from the crowd was the worst part.” 

“It was loud,” Patrick said.

Art looked at where they were looking. “But you almost have full use of your knee again. Who knows, you could be back out here in a few months.” He shrugged. You turned on your crutch, away from the spot, and looked at Art. “Okay, don’t give me that look, you know you just need to try.” 

“I know,” You nodded slowly. “I just don’t know to what extent. I don’t think I could follow through with Stanford.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s so top-notch,” You answered. Patrick kicked around on the court, grabbing one of Art’s balls and rackets and dribbling it around. “The people here are here for a reason and it’s to go pro.” 

Art stepped closer to you, “But you don’t think that’s you?” 

“Not anymore,” You replied, meeting his eyes. “Recovery is amazing but the risk is so high… I’m not even sure I can run yet, let alone sprint and lean side to side on this leg. I want to, I wanted to, but going pro after something like this just doesn’t happen. If I can play again at all, it won’t be good.” You explained. Art nodded through, listening with eyes that held sympathy and a little speck of sadness. “It’s okay, I just… It’s going to take me forever to get over it.” 

He shook his head, “You still don’t need to get over it yet. There’s still so much t-”

“I know. I just can’t see it ever happening.” You said. Art pressed his lips into a straight line and he spun on his heel. Comfort wasn’t what you needed- it was a racket. Art lunged and snatched up the one Patrick was toying with and handed it to you. “What?” 

Patrick caught on quickly. “Hit the ball.” Art said. “In any form.” 

“Art…” You shook your head. 

Patrick threw it anyway and even with the crutch, you instinctively stuck out your racket the way you knew how and hit the ball back to him, your aim still on point. “That was good! What the fuck,” Patrick chuckled. Even he couldn’t hit the ball with that much precision. Art laughed, clapping once- and you had your mouth a little open at the tennis reflexes that hadn’t gone anywhere after all this time. You looked at both of them in minor shock and awe and Art just smiled. He wouldn’t let you give up. He couldn’t. You spent the rest of the evening hitting balls where you stood, feeling a lot better about things. 

Recovery continued, but so did tennis. In your spare time you were on the court, practicing your serves, hitting the ball, everything to do with arms and eventually when the therapist had you on the treadmill walking, jogging, he cleared you to do it with supervision. That was one of the biggest things you’d heard in a while. Art was out in the hall when you’d heard it and you left the doctor mid-sentence just to go tell him, Art surprised at the speed which you approached him at, being used to you only ever walking. “I can jog!” You said, enthusiasm and passion in your eyes and the familiar fire he knew from when you would play tennis with him. 

Your soft hands grabbed his forearms in excitement and Art was a little bit more than aware of it, but the news was amazing. “That’s amazing, that’s crazy, you can jog?” 

“I can jog!” You squealed a little as your mom who was in the room with you swung her head into the hallway. 

“When he said could he didn’t mean away from him, Y/N, get back in here please!” She called, but she wasn’t pulling the full mom card, she was smiling ear to ear just as you were. “And hi Art.” She said, waving to him. Being your main visitors meant they were acquainted. Art went to coffee with your parents while you were in therapy the week prior, he wondered if they had mentioned it. He hadn’t. Art just waved back. 

Soon it was you, Patrick, and Art on the court and your crutches were propped against the bench. You were still a little slow but you’d gotten good at playing where you stood, relying on reach alone and it was quite impressive. You worked on side-stepping instead of lunging and leaning and it helped a lot with having to move around when you needed. It was a lot of laughter but also took a lot of practice and focus to get right. Sometimes you could go for a while, other times not so long, but the rehab had done wonders. This time when you said you were done, Art served the ball and you did lunge for it- both boys afraid, cringing as they watched you rush and lean forward in what seemed like slow motion. But you hit the ball and it flew right at Patrick’s chest and came back into standing position like it was nothing. 

“Oh my god,” You gasped. “I’m so sorry.” Patrick put a hand to his chest but both boys looked at you in wonderment, eyes wide, mouths a little open. To tell the truth they both thought you were done for again as you lunged but you were fine, no complaints, no second thoughts- but a second gasp. You realized the move you’d pulled and the second you realized, both boys started blurting out praise and pride and disbelief and you joined in on it. That was tennis. You’d done everything a tennis player needed to do and it was completed with the simplest lunge. Small victories every day. 

Art was more than proud. Seeing you back on the court was amazing. He’d take you there alone most days when Patrick didn’t feel like it. This particular day you were both a bit disracted, but the reason why was something you both couldn’t place. Art gave up before you today and you both stood by the edge of the bleachers against the metal bar.

You took a sip of your water, “Are we going back out or are we done?” You asked. Art set down his bottle just past you, reaching around. He looked at you and for the moment he had nothing else in his mind but you. Not tennis, not anything, you. 

“You’re incredible, you know that?” He said. You smiled immediately, leaning more against the bar next to you. But it just so happened to be closer to him. And you didn’t mind it, it wasn’t anything new but it was definitely close. Very close. You were close and you were smiling at what he said. He blinked a few times, observing your eyelashes, “Your recovery… I mean. It’s a miracle you’re back here.”

You nodded, that perfect smile on your face. You knew how close you were to him, but you didn’t think much of it. You were more focused on his words. Art was always sweet, you enjoyed that about him. “I’d probably be sitting somewhere with a book on how to coach tennis if you didn’t push me this far. You, you are incredible. I am just grateful.” 

He laughed, “Me? I might have pushed but you snapped the bone in your leg but you’re out here on the court again because you’ve been at it everyday.” He said, sincerity coating every one of his words. “It’s all you.” 

“It’s not all me-”

“With help and support, yes. But if you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be. You want this, getting here to this point was all you.” He swayed just a little closer, not even on his own account just because being close felt right. He wanted you to feel that it was the truth. You looked up at him and he could see his words meant something as your eyes reflected him in the golden light of the early evening. He’d never seen just how gorgeous your eyes are in this light… And you were thinking the very same thing as your lower lip found itself between your teeth.

You and Art shared a thought before stepping back and it was the reminder that you were best friends. Just friends. Good friends. And nothing more. It was the first time it had crossed your mind, but the hundredth time on Art’s. Neither of you would risk it. 

The practice continued carefully. You had rest days. You’d been lunging on both legs at this point and your game was coming back around. You were off at a meeting with the Stanford tennis coach about returning properly in the fall, having the meeting so that you could make some exceptions. Art and Patrick sat in his dorm room, Art upside down on his bed, feet up on the wall, and Patrick in Art’s computer chair, spinning. The conversation had been about what to have for lunch when Patrick sparked something else up. “Are we meeting Y/N after her meeting?” He asked. 

Art tilted his head back, “Not sure. I could call her when it’s over if you want. Why?” 

“What do you mean why?” Patrick said, throwing the hacky sack he was fiddling with at Art’s head, hitting him in the face and chuckling. Art sat up, whipping the bean bag right back at him. “Oh come on-” He groaned. “I know you want to see her.” 

“I saw her earlier,” Art deflected, recognizing Patrick’s tone. 

“Yeah and?” 

“So you want to see her?” 

“Sure.” Patrick shrugged. Art shrugged back, pulling on a sweater, whenever Patrick was over, he turned the AC in the room way up. Wasn’t relevant, but the silence while Art was putting on his sweater was near unbearable. Art had the sweater half over his head when Patrick stuck his leg out and kicked him over. “I know you like her!” 

“Huh?” Art said, sitting up and fixing the sweater. Patrick pushed him right back over. 

“You like her! Y/N!” He said. He couldn’t take it anymore, the obviousness, how clear it was that you two liked each other. It was getting to be sickening. “I know you, I know you like her and you can’t tell me you don’t because I’ve waited this long for you to-” he shoved Art over again when Art came back up laughing- Patrick couldn’t help but laugh too, “-tell me!” 

There was no purpose in a lie. “Yeah, I guess so,” Art admit, bracing himself to be shoved again and instead, punching Patrick right in the stomach as revenge. Patrick sat back in his chair in pain. “But Patrick, she’s my best friend. And your friend. It’s tricky.” 

“I don’t think it’s that tricky, I mean, she likes you too and it’s obvious,” Patrick said through his stomach pain. 

Art laughed again, “She does not. I’m not her type. We’re just friends.” 

“You are entirely her type, her criteria is tall and normal build and that’s exactly you!” He gestured widely to Art. 

“She did not say that to me when I asked. She told me she doesn’t date guys in sports.” 

“She has two football exes, of course she doesn’t date jocks.” 

“She said sports.” 

“She meant jocks.” Patrick straightened out. “She likes you, Art. She pretty much admit it to me, you can’t tell me otherwise.” 

Art just blinked. Patrick wasn’t right- there was no way. He’d had it in his head that he wasn’t even thought of when it came to anything like that with you. But Patrick was usually right, no matter how much Art hated it. “No, she’s-” he groaned, putting his head in his hands and bending to put his head between his knees. “She’s one of my best friends this would fuck everything up.” 

Patrick shook his head, “It would be fine, you-”

Art groaned again, “And I tell her I like her and then what?” He brought his head up again. “She thinks I’ve just been here to fuck her? To get on her good side, to be with her through this just to get to her? I only started liking her, really liking her after the incident but I have no way to prove that! What would she think if all of a sudden I tell her and she actually doesn’t feel the way I do? This is so bad, Patrick.” 

Patrick just laughed at him, but Art was now able to think about these things aloud. So he was loud. “I promise you she likes you. She’s flirting with you all the time, she’s touchy, she cares a lot about you- more than me, I can attest. She wants you. And as for the injury part- Art, it’s been over a fucking year. She’s not going to think you’re playing the long game.” Art just sighed, but Patrick shoved him over again. “Don’t be a pussy!” 

“I’m not a-” he rolled his eyes and shoved Patrick right back, “-pussy. I just- she’s gorgeous and she’s friendly and she’s kind and caring and amazing and I don’t want to risk losing that just because I have some fucking ninth grade crush on her, you know?” 

He nodded back, “But it’s not. I’ve seen you with your ninth grade crush and you were a lot more horny about it. You like her. She likes you. I don’t care if you tell her now, but I don’t want you thinking she doesn’t want you too. She does, it’s painfully obvious. And I’ll admit she’s hot as fuck, so I’d hate to see you miss the opportunity!” Patrick explained, hands wildly gesturing. “Plus the tension is fucking awful to be around, I don’t know how you do it.” 

Neither did he. With it out in the air Art might have gushed a bit about you. Patrick had never seen him this way- he had so much to say about you and he ended up not calling you, just talking about you for what felt like forever to Patrick. But he didn’t mind. 

You continued to get better and better and it was amazing. You felt amazing about your progress. You got up in the morning and your knee only hurt if you hit it off something. And that was normal for most people, so you took pride in it. You hurried over to Art’s dorm in a tank top and shorts, your hair in two braids. It was early morning, you knew that, but you knocked on the door anyway. Art, woken, opened the door and squinted in the light from the hall. He was gorgeous, you thought. His hair wild and messy from bed and his shirt hiked up a little too high from sleep, leaving his waist and mid-line exposed. “Hey.” He said, opening the door for you to come in, fixing his shirt. 

“Hi,” you said, trying not to grin too wide. You couldn’t wait, you couldn’t. “I got cleared for a real game!” You squealed and you covered your mouth. You’d only found out late last night so you decided to wait until morning, but it really couldn’t wait. Art took a deep breath in but before he could say anything you were talking again. “It’s a small game. It’s local, it’s a tiny game but it’s a real one and it’s singles. I thought you’d want to know!”

“I- I do want to know, that’s amazing, oh my god!” He was almost as excited as you without the squealing and bouncing around. You were cute when you were excited. “A game is a game, it’s incredible, it’s- you- I-” He stopped himself. The excitement nearly got the best of him. But you were grinning ear to ear over tennis and that was all he cared about. “When is the game?” 

“It’s next Sunday,” You giggled. “You’ll come?” 

“Is that a question?” 

“Well, yeah,” You said, your hands on his forearms like they usually were when you were passionate. Almost like you were scared the passion would sweep you away if you didn’t hold onto something. He loved it. 

“No, I’ll be there. And on the sidelines if you let me.” 

“You’re absolutely not sitting in the stands again.” You said, chuckling. He grinned. 

And when the day of the game rolled around, your mother braided your hair in two french braids for you. She had ironed your entire outfit, even your socks. It was her nerves. But the most nervous one in the room at all times was you. You couldn’t eat, you had a hard time falling asleep, but you got up in the morning refreshed and heart pounding at the impending game. It meant a lot of action but you’d worked for this. It was a small local game at a local court with a few bleachers. It was hardly anything, you reminded yourself. This was your second chance just beginning. You slipped on your dark purple skort and your purple tank top and you made sure you had your lucky racket this time. 

Your mom drove you to the court much earlier than needed because you were so on edge and you sat in the hall between changerooms under the bleachers, just doing your breathing to maintain yourself. You were more than glad when Patrick and Art showed up. They didn’t ask if you were ready, they knew it. They just asked where you wanted to go for lunch after the game and debated over if a hot dog counted as a sandwich until your Stanford coach walked in. 

“You’re ready?” She asked, grin on her face. You blinked. 

“What are you…” This was a local game, not Stanford. You looked at Art and Patrick who were bad at hiding their smiles. 

Your coach nodded, “You’ve got this one.” She said. “Now hop to it, they’re waiting.” You looked back at Art and Patrick and they ushered you toward the door. It sounded a bit like a badly-engineered fan at first, going down the hall. Your stomach was already in knots. 

They came completely undone as your coach opened the door and the roar of the crowd was near-deafening. You blinked in the daylight, half-shocked by how loud it was before you realized that it was the sound of people. And as your eyes adjusted, you realized that the tennis court bleachers were absolutely packed full of people and they were loud, cheering. It was a local game, you expected families of the players but no, there must have been hundreds of people in the stands. On the side with no stands there were people lining the fences and you could see people beyond people. You turned, taking it all in as they were calling your name, calling your praise. You covered your mouth seeing your peers from Stanford in the front row, including the girl who had been hitting on Art. You recognized all of them and more. 

You looked at Art and Patrick who were behind you, unable to control their grins at this point and elbowing each other just a bit. Art was only looking at you. You felt so overwhelmed with gratitude, it rose in your stomach like the drop of a rollercoaster. “How did this- How- there’s so many,” You managed to say. 

Patrick beamed, dimples on display, “They’re here for you, if you couldn’t tell.” 

Art tugged one of your braids. “Patrick and I might have… posted about it on facebook. But it wasn’t an invite, just the general information of what had happened and that this was your first real game, so technically it was all you.” He smirked, but it couldn’t stay a smirk, just a really big smile. It matched yours. 

“It was not me,” You sighed exasperated, but more than happy. Scared. But happy. 

“If you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be,” He repeated to you. His thumb grazed your cheek when he let go of your braid. You wanted to hug him, you wanted to jump for joy and scream your head off at how amazing this all was. But you got called to serve. 

The screams didn’t die down for any part of the game. You served and the game began and the girl across from you did not feel bad for you and that was clear. She was harsh and hardcore and violent with her swings but you hit almost all of them right back at her at a force and accuracy she couldn’t handle. Art and Patrick on the sidelines were into the game, cheering, calling out remarks on your moves. The moves they’d helped you get back. You were more than grateful with every point you scored. The crowd cheered for both you and your opponent but it was your name you heard screamed out in the crowd. 

It got a bit intense at times, you fell behind for a while but came back, then went back down again, then came back up. The halfway point you spent thanking your best friends profusely while they urged you to rest and have water. You got back on the court after that, swinging, hitting, forehand, backhand, pulling a few moves that required the use of the leg you’d broken and though the crowd held their breath, they were more than impressed. Patrick watched Art stop cheering and clapping for a second, noting the way he was so honed in on you, Patrick was sure a bomb could go off behind Art and he wouldn’t notice. Art was proud, that was what he felt. Proud to know you, proud to be your friend, proud to feel the way he did about you because he knew that you were amazing and resilient and so fucking strong. He had never met anyone like you. 

You locked eyes with him before your opponent served and he swore he felt something shift, really shift. When this game ended he had to tell you how he felt. He couldn’t go without it, he had to tell you. 

The last quarter got increasingly more intense. You fell once at a move that required the leg you’d broken. The crowd gasped and Art lunged to help you up but you did it yourself. And you got right back up. The fall hurt, but no more than it would have a regular person. That was something that drove your confidence way up. You couldn’t even hear the score anymore. You just knew that you were there and you were playing and you couldn’t have been happier, even if you lost. But the buzzer went off and the game was done and it was almost like you went deaf. The cheers stopped, though they really didn’t, in fact they roared louder than ever before and the crowd launched itself into standing, their hands over their heads, mouths open wide absolutely wild. 

You knew you’d won. But it wasn’t that important. You had one thought- find Art. 

And he wasn’t hard to find. He was there on the sidelines or rather one of the many people who surrounded you when you won. Your other friends, your parents, your coach, Patrick, the staff of the game, and apparently a few nurses who came to see their patient play. But it was Art you reached for. You grabbed his forearms, bracing yourself, your eyebrows furrowing, “I won?” You questioned over the noise, over the hands that congratulated you. 

 Art, biggest grin on his face, “You won.” He answered. And he didn’t have a second to himself before you reached up, cupping his face and kissing him hard. There was nothing else to do in the presence of the win but kiss him. And he kissed you back just as hard. It felt like all the noise and all of the world was sucked away for a moment when his hands fell on your waist, pulling you closer. 

It was a small game with big victories. 

The kiss only lasted a few seconds but it was strong, and the feeling of him lingered on your lips when you parted. Nobody was surprised that you kissed. Not your mom, not the nurses, they’d known. You looked at Art and tried not to smile but it was over the second he grinned. You couldn’t help but grin right back as Patrick came in for a crushing hug. 

“That was fucking incredible!” He told you. Your cheeks began to hurt from smiling as you hugged everyone over your win. Thing eventually died down after a while, people happily funnelling out, congratulating you. But at the end of things it was just you and Art. Patrick had headed out to bring the car around. 

You twisted your mouth to the side, “I can’t believe how many people turned up.” You sighed, content. 

“You have that pull.” Art shrugged. “You are probably my biggest tennis inspiration now.”

“Mhm? You want to be me when you grow up?” You teased, stepping closer. Art smirked, but once again he couldn’t maintain it, he just smiled down at you. “I’m your biggest inspiration…”

He wasn’t afraid to put his arms around your waist. “Maybe, maybe not. But you are amazing. And so fucking good at tennis, I’m scared for your real comeback.” He said. You laughed and it was gorgeous. The front part of your braid fell out and around your face. “You’re going to kick my ass.” 

Your smile was brighter than the mid-day sun. “You bet.” 

Your heart fluttered when he tucked your hair behind your ear again. You both heard the car horn as Patrick beeped from outside the court. “Can I kiss you?” Art asked, pushing your hair behind your ear. You nodded. And this time it was his hand on your jaw, his lips pressing against yours with all of his feeling. It was a kiss untouched by the rush of adrenaline and it was sweet. And it was slow. His lips grazing over yours between kisses, his breath minty from the gum he had just spit out two minutes ago. He held you close and the kiss was full of words yet to be said. You both couldn’t ignore anything anymore. It had been a long time coming. Patrick honked again, but it took you another second before you both pulled away with small smiles. Your hands gently holding his forearms, bracing yourself.