1sab4lla

[1sab4lla]

i need mike faist in a way that is so concerning to feminism

[1sab4lla]

hi diva😋 in the kindest way possible i need more of art x weird reader. im obsessed now.

maybe we can see how the two met? reader showing art some of her favourite media? i have a lot of ideas im sorry 😔

-weird girl anon 🌷

hello diva!!

weird reader is the cutest thing i've ever made. i would literally love to write more of her.

you met art on accident. which was appropriate, really. most of your favorite things happened that way.

it was the second week of freshman year at stanford, and the weather was unseasonably hot. you had wandered into the athletic building by mistake (in search of the rumored vending machine with the “fancy” sodas) and gotten very, very lost.

there were signs, but they were cryptic and aggressive in their minimalism—just arrows and abbreviations, as if everyone should already know where “CT-3” was.

and there he was.

golden, focused, and entirely in his element, art stood at the far end of the tennis court, swinging his racket like it was part of his arm. you’d never seen someone move like that—smooth, effortless, like music.

you were staring, probably too obviously, your bag sliding off your shoulder and your cardigan caught in the door hinge. when he noticed you, he didn’t wave or ask who you were or what you were doing there.

he just offered a faint, curious smile and asked, “you okay?”

“do you know where the vending machine is?” you asked, rather urgently, like your life depended on fizzy grapefruit soda.

he blinked. “uh… not really.” then he pointed toward a hallway. “but I think if you keep going that way and take a left at the pool, it’ll either be a vending machine or a janitor’s closet.”

you nodded.

"good enough."

you came back two days later. on purpose this time. with no excuse. you sat in the same place outside the court, halfway behind a trash can, pretending to sketch the light posts in your notebook (you were actually doodling bats wearing skirts). art noticed you again. this time, he walked over.

“you’re back.”

“i like watching you play,” you said, too bluntly. “it’s very kinetic.”

he stared at you for a moment. then he laughed—this surprised, huffing sound like he wasn’t used to doing it so suddenly.

“that’s… probably the best thing anyone’s ever said about my serve.”

and that was that.

you became friends slowly, naturally. you started showing up to matches, always in your slightly-wrong outfits—lace gloves in october, earmuffs in spring.

he got used to your commentary during practice, your long, rambling tangents about cinema and the architectural flaws of campus buildings.

you’d bring him snacks in odd containers—once, a bento box filled only with popcorn and candied ginger, which he ate without complaint.

you were you: all chaotic charm and half-scribbled thoughts, the kind of person who narrated their life like it was a story only they could hear.

and art, quiet and steady, just kept showing up. he remembered things. small things. your favorite pen color, the fact that you hated pulp in orange juice.

he never questioned it.

he never questioned you.

you shared playlists, and argued over movies—he liked blockbusters with clean endings, and you liked anything that ended with rain and ambiguity. you invited him to your dorm to watch The Red Balloon.

he left confused, and you called it progress.

the first time he walked you home, it was raining. you didn’t ask him to, he just saw that you’d forgotten your umbrella again (you always did), and he fell into step beside you.

you offered him your scarf, and he actually wore it, even though it smelled like old lavender and honey. he didn’t seem to mind.

you never had a big moment, until the confession. just a string of small ones that stacked, slowly and imperceptibly, like film stills.

shared fries. silent walks. long, strange conversations at two in the morning about whether ghosts could fall in love.

and before either of you really noticed, it wasn’t strange to be sitting side-by-side on his twin bed, watching a film he hadn’t seen. it wasn’t strange to fall asleep mid-sentence and wake up with your head on his shoulder.

it wasn’t strange when he started ordering extra dumplings because he knew you’d forget to eat dinner.

it wasn’t strange. it was you and art.

me after writing this.

art is SO in love. their friendship is so special to me. weird reader you'll always be famous

[1sab4lla]

you should try to go to that park more often and maybe you guys will have an interaction!

stop bc he shouldve been my bf back then #runitback

MAYBEE i will 🫦 unfortunetely even tho i just graduated hs, i STILL do not know how to drive. my parents are strict💔 but i lwk am plotting on going back

[1sab4lla]

hey i think cai deleted some of your bots or something 😭😭

STOP UR LYING

dude i put sm time and EFFORT i made new ocs and i posted silly little bots. cai GET OFF MY BACK challenge 🥀🥀🥀

i will be on that!! hopefully i can get them all back, or something💔

[1sab4lla]

guys okay this is gonna be so weird but i have no one to talk ab this to and i feel like im going insane

so earlier i went out with my mom for coffee, and there's this little park nearby in the area i live at. so we were sitting at the park, and there's a skatepark next to where the park is. so i used to like this guy / had a minor romantic interaction with him

(CALL ME CRAZY. but okay, sidetrack to EXPLAIN exact romantic interaction. so i took a guitar class in my school for like.. 2 years. anyway, he had it another period, and would go to that classroom during MY class period to practice with his band for a talent show. BAND. guys. he's like a midwest emo dude AND I SWEAR I WAS IN LOVEE. anyways but one afternoon, i was practicing, and he approached, and asked to SWITCH guitar picks with me. he said his guitar pick was 'flimsy'. so i said yeah, and we switched, and i noticed that his guitar pick was actually super tuff, and then i realized that it was a BASS pick, not a guitar pick. and i was omg. so then the next day, i caught him ALONEE and asked if he played bass and we started having a conversation, and he said yeah, and whatever. he walked me to class and stuff. so me being me, a teenage girl who eats shit like that UPP, i was like omg. and i was obsessed with him. yeah.)

after that, he would STARE. but he never approached. after a while, i found his ig, and followed him, and he followed back like.. within five minutes. but he's never liked my story EVER. he's liked a couple of my notes, but they were just like references to something in class whenever he'd be there.

anyways so after that, i MOVED SCHOOLS. i know. tragic. but i still follow him on ig, and he still follows me. so timeskip to the park, i was with my mom, and i looked over, and he was SKATING and i was like FUCKK R U SERIOUS. and i kid you not, i had a dream ab him two nights ago. so i was like.. freaking out. and i know that he saw me, because he was like HARDCORE staring in our general direction. even as i was getting into my car to leave, i could see him looking (i made my mom drive away FAST.)

so, i had posted myself a few hours prior on ig, and he was maybe the fifth viewer? something like that. and after that, i saw that his acc popped up to be one of the more recent viewers (with insta having that update that shows you who rewatches your story after, ykyk). so i was like. dude

anyways, moral of the story, am i insane, does he still want me, he NEVER wanted me, or its definitely fizzled and i need to get a j*b??/.? my friend says im delusional and ik i definitely SOUND it, but like bro. THE DREAM TOO i feel like this isnt a coincidence.

[1sab4lla]

loved 'weird' so much🫶 it's like you know me personally. idk how to feel about that. thank you for your service in the weird girl community

me reading this

i LOVE the weird girls, as a weird girl. we are so loved, and we WILL find someone that loves us like art 👌👌 i love you, stop, that's literally the kindest thing

i know everyone. everyone is me🫦

whoever wrote that, i love you 4 EVER. will cherish you

[1sab4lla]

INTRODUCING… OZZY ANDREW .ᐟ

DAWSON “OZZY” ANDREW:

indie | semi-selective | oc from the outer banks universe. moodboard ✹ carrd ✹ playlist

❝ you don’t have to fix everything. but if it’s broken, i’m not walking away. ❞ — ozzy

NAME: Dawson “Ozzy” Andrew. AGE: 21. PRONOUNS: he/him. D.O.B: October 5th (Libra). ORIGIN: The Cut, Outer Banks. OCCUPATION: boat mechanic | salvage diver | treasure hunter. SPEAKS: English + fluent Spanish. STATUS: single, pansexual (men leaning).

ABOUT: Ozzy Andrew grew up on salt water and second chances. Son of a dead mechanic, named Wade Andrew and an overdose ghost mother, Elise Pierce, he’s been surviving on instinct since he was thirteen. Ambidextrous, emotionally constipated, and more loyal than smart — he’s a quiet, knife-carrying Pogue with scars on his hands and too many secrets behind his eyes.

He lives in a half-collapsed shack near the marsh and works under-the-table jobs fixing engines, salvaging junk, and occasionally helping the Pogues not get arrested. He plays the harmonica when he thinks no one’s listening, collects broken compasses, and still wears his mother’s ring around his neck.

He’s closest to JJ Maybank (childhood best friend, disaster soulmate), tolerates John B and Pope, has a complicated rivalry with Kiara, and a long-standing, unsaid something enemy vibes with Sarah — but with them, he feels like family.

Everyone call him Ozzy (earned from "Osiris," an inside joke about his resurrection-level luck).

VIBES: ☼ wet hair and bruised knuckles ☼ cassette tapes and thunder in the distance ☼ hammock sleepovers and unspoken feelings ☼ gold coins, ghost maps, and pirate stories ☼ “i’d kill for you” energy but mumbled under his breath

WANTED CONNECTIONS: ✹ pogues who trust him / used to not trust him (jj / pope) ✹ someone who finds his dad’s old map and lies about it (sarah) ✹ a kook he shouldn’t be kissing (topper) ✹ someone who sees through the whole tough act (kiara) ✹ partners in petty crime (jj) ✹ soft late-night fluff, shared blankets, emotional tension (sarah) ✹ someone he’d tell what happened the night wade left (john b)

BOTS:

🥥 ozzy andrew the shack sleepover

🐚 ozzy andrew stranded on the sandbar

🦈 ozzy andrew surfboard repair

TAGLIST:

@blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @museboos, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

[1sab4lla]

weird ; art donaldson

you and art had fallen into a rhythm—uncomplicated, familiar, and maybe just a little sacred. he'd play his tennis matches, inevitably win, then he'd pick you up from your trademarked spot on the bleachers.

and without fail, you’d be perched in your usual spot, second row from the back on the left side of the bleachers—the one with the creaky board and the view slightly obscured by a light post.

you said it gave you “visual drama.” he didn’t question it.

after came the ritual debrief, always over food. takeout, obviously—tonight was thai, your pick. from there, the two of you would retreat to his dorm, settle onto his laughably narrow twin bed, and you’d put on a film you were sure he hadn't seen. today was no different.

the screen flickered blue and gold in the dim room, casting odd shadows on the popcorn ceiling. you were cross-legged, still in your moth-bitten cardigan that smelled faintly of lavender, scooping pad see ew into your mouth.

art, meanwhile, had only half-heartedly eaten a few dumplings, eyes darting to you more than the screen. you were locked on the screen. he was locked on you.

he stared at you for a moment, still half-reclined, leaning against the wall. a few minutes pass in relative silence, the only sound coming from the tv (or his obnoxious chewing).

a few quiet minutes passed—the only sounds the tv's muted dialogue and his obnoxiously loud chewing. then he shifted, turning toward you fully, tucking his legs beneath him.

“hey,” he said softly.

you didn’t look away from the screen. you made a soft sound—half hum, half sigh—that could have meant yes, not now, or i'm busy. but that was just how you were. always a little impossible to read, like one of your films, or the strange poetry you left folded in your coat pockets.

he looks at you once more, eyes flickering as he searches for something in your face. then he takes another deep breath, and the next thing he says comes out all in a rush — like he's afraid he might change his mind if he doesn't spit it out fast.

"i need to tell you something. something i've been hiding for awhile now, and i've been trying to keep it down, but—"

now that catches your attention. your gaze meets his, and he quiets down, jaw tight. he looks away from you, one hand running through his hair.

when he looked back at you, his eyes were different. there was something raw in them—something uncertain and painfully open.

“okay,” he said, almost hoarse. “okay, i’m just gonna say it. i don’t want to waste any more time.”

another breath. a longer silence.

for a moment, the only sound is the low beat of the movie and the faint crackle of his lamp. then art takes another deep breath. "i'm in love with you," he breathes, the words so soft you almost don't hear them at first.

you blinked. for a second, you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. but he didn’t look away. didn’t laugh. he just stared at you, his eyes wide and unblinking, waiting for something—confirmation, rejection, anything.

“i—what?” you said. “me?”

it had to be a joke. some weird, surreal prank. because you were you, and he was art. he was golden, effortless. you were the opposite of effortless.

a flash of something sad passed across his face—he recognized that look in your eyes. he’d seen it before, the disbelief, the deep-rooted doubt.

“yeah,” he said, voice gentler now. “you.”

you shook your head a little. “why? i’m too weird.”

his features softened, and something in him seemed to settle. he knew where this was going. he’d been watching that seed of insecurity grow in you. he could name every reason you were about to list—too awkward, too different, too much. you’d given them all to him before, like a warning label.

he sat up straighter, shifting on the mattress so that his knee bumped gently against yours.

“too weird?” he echoed. “says who?”

you hesitated.

“everyone.”

a beat. he looked at you, really looked at you—at the way your fingers had started to pick at your chipped yellow nail polish, at the way you always folded in on yourself when you were unsure.

“not me,” he said finally. “not once.”

you didn’t say anything. but you knew, deep down. this was art. the boy you'd liked since he gifted you a pack of colored pens because he knew you liked that specific brand. who walked you home regardless of the weather because he wanted you to be safe. who didn’t mind your mindless rambles, or spouts of information only you would have.

he continued, quiet and careful, as if he was trying not to spook you.

“you think being different makes you unlovable. but it’s the opposite. you see the world sideways, and you make me see it that way, too. you’re weird, yeah. but it’s the best kind. the kind that makes everything a little more interesting. the kind i’ve been drawn to since the day i met you.”

you stared down at your lap, teeth worrying your bottom lip.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “i just… i needed you to know. even if it ruins everything.”

another silence. longer this time. then you looked up.

"i don’t think it ruins anything,” you said quietly.

he looks you in your eyes, his gaze flickering just slightly as something flickers through his expression. affection, affection, affection. for you. for you, and all of your little flaws that you hate so much.

the silence between you wasn’t heavy now. it was warm, full. you could feel it buzzing just under your skin, a soft kind of tension that didn’t need to be named.

he reached for your hand, tentative at first. but when you didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, his fingers laced gently through yours. his touch was steady, grounding. like something long overdue.

you met his eyes again, and for the first time, you let yourself really look—at the boy who knew your favorite films and never laughed at your poetry, who kept showing up, game after game, smile after smile. at the boy who saw you, truly.

“i think,” you said slowly, “some part of me’s been waiting to hear you say that.”

his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “then i'm sorry it took me so long.”

you shook your head, a soft laugh slipping out. “it didn’t. i think it came exactly when it was supposed to.”

he leaned in, the space between you folding in on itself. his forehead rested gently against yours, and you closed your eyes. for a moment, there was nothing else—no tv, no flickering lights, no creaky bleacher seats. just the quiet breath between you and the feeling of being chosen.

and then, slowly, like a thought turning into a feeling, he kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed, or cinematic, like the black-and-white kisses you loved so much in your old french films. it was softer than that. quieter. his lips met yours like he’d been thinking about this for a long time—like the motion was already memorized.

you kissed him back without hesitation, something small and certain sparking in your chest. the kind of spark that felt like it had been smoldering there for years, just waiting for the right match.

when he pulled away, barely an inch, he didn’t move far. he stayed close, eyes still shut like he was trying to hold onto the moment. “that okay?” he murmured, voice low.

you nodded, your nose brushing his. “yeah,” you whispered. “that was… really okay.”

a smile broke across his face then—small, crooked, almost sheepish. he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “good. because i’ve wanted to do that since you made me sit through Wings of Desire without subtitles.”

you laughed, eyes bright. “i told you it was better that way.”

“you’re still wrong about that,” he said, grinning. “but i’d sit through it a hundred more times if it meant getting to be here with you.”

you rolled your eyes, but your fingers squeezed his. “you’re sappy.”

“i’m yours,” he said, and he meant it.

[1sab4lla]

Josh O'Connor when the role doesn't include kissing men

[1sab4lla]

little bat ; art donaldson

art’s role in town had never been a mystery. being a donaldson came with expectations—the kind etched into stone long before he was born. from the moment he could string a sentence together, he knew his future was tied to the family’s work. their “business,” as they liked to call it, wasn’t something you advertised in the town square. the donaldsons were protectors—an old family, quiet and enduring, bound to the village by duty and blood. they didn’t run shops or farms. they hunted what most people tried to pretend didn’t exist.

monsters. spirits. the things that slipped through the cracks.

they didn’t brag about it. they just kept the town safe. and art—well, he was expected to do the same.

he preferred to work alone. nights when the moon hung low and full, when the crisp autumn air cut through the trees like it had teeth—those were his favorites. that’s when the swamp came alive. curso swamp didn’t pretend to be tame. it breathed and moved like a living thing, all wet shadows and whispering reeds. he knew it well. out there, away from the polished legacy and family name, he could move in silence. unburdened. focused.

hunting in curso was like slipping into a second skin.

now, he hadn’t expected company. especially not yours.

you didn’t mean to be curious about him—but you were. a vampire taking an interest in a hunter was stupid, really. he could kill you in an instant. you’d been watching him for weeks now, maybe months, though he hadn’t noticed at first. or maybe he had, and ignored it. either way, your curiosity had gotten the better of you.

a vampire taking an interest in a hunter was asking for trouble. the kind that got you staked, decapitated, or worse. and yet, you couldn’t help yourself. he was different from the others—clever with alchemy, deadly with a blade, quiet in that intriguing, dangerous way.

“i can hear you, bat,” he said flatly, not even bothering to turn. his voice carried easily through the stillness—dry, unimpressed, like this had become a routine.

it sort of had.

he glanced up finally, catching sight of you dangling upside down from a crooked branch, your smile bright in the moonlight. “hello, hunter!” you chirped, giving him a wave. he rolled his eyes, the faintest tug of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “you again.”

“i live here,” you said, letting your hair sway in the breeze. “you’re the one trespassing.” he leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, then sighed. loudly. the kind of sigh someone gives when they’re pretending they’re annoyed but secretly don’t mind all that much.

you hung there, upside down and utterly at ease. perks of being undead—no blood rushing to your head. no dizziness. no awkward leg cramping. you could stay like that all night, watching him.

humans were so fragile.

“what are you doing here?” he asked, voice clipped.

“just checking in,” you said casually. “making sure you hadn’t been eaten by a bog hag or, i don’t know, tripped and fallen on your own sword.”

he scoffed. “touching. you really care.”

you grinned wider. “maybe i do.” he gave you a long look, eyes narrowing just slightly. you weren’t sure if he was suspicious, amused, or just trying to figure you out again. probably all three.

you wiggled your fingers cheerfully. “mortals fascinate me. you simply must tell me stories.”

he blinked. “stories?”

“yes! of your life. your village. your weapons. do you really keep your silver dust in that little pouch on your belt?” you pointed, then gasped. “oh, can i touch your sword?”

“no,” he said immediately. “absolutely not.”

“but i’m very gentle,” you offered, landing gracefully on your feet. “and curious.”

“too curious,” he muttered, glancing warily at you as you stepped closer.

“i’ve never really met a human before,” you confessed, circling him slowly like you were inspecting a very delicate piece of artwork. “well—met, sure. but not… like this. talking. not screaming. that’s new.”

art tilted his head. “why me, then?”

you paused, blinking at him. “you’re interesting. you don’t scream. or run. or smell like fear.” you sniffed dramatically. “just steel and moss. oh, and a little salt.”

“you’re not helping your case.”

you smiled. “wasn’t trying to.”

he stared at you, long and hard. “you’re not going to leave, are you?”

“of course not. you’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in decades.” you beamed. “i want to know everything. like, do all hunters carry salt in their boots? or is that just you?”

art pinched the bridge of his nose. “yes. fine. ask your questions. but walk with me.”

“oh?” you perked up, trailing behind him as he turned and began heading deeper into the woods. “where are we going? is this where you store the holy water? are you going to show me your secret stash of cursed daggers? wait—do you have a cursed dagger?”

“stop talking,” he muttered.

“not likely!”

he sighed again, but there was no real weight behind it. and as the trees closed in and the swamp whispered low around you, your steps fell into rhythm beside his. you smiled to yourself. humans were fascinating. and this one—this grumpy, brooding, utterly confusing one—might just be your favorite.

the two of you walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the distant rustle of reeds and the soft squelch of mud beneath art’s boots. your feet didn’t make a sound, of course. you floated more than walked, which he hated—though you liked to think it secretly impressed him.

he kicked a pebble as you walked, letting it skitter ahead. “so—do all hunters learn alchemy, or is that just a weird donaldson family thing?” you piped up once more.

he didn’t look at you, but his brow twitched. “it’s not weird. it’s useful.”

“useful and weird,” you corrected. “what’s the strangest thing you’ve ever bottled? essence of fear? ghost spit? oh—was it that time you exploded a toad with that powder stuff?”

“that toad was already dead.”

“was it?”

he finally glanced over, exasperated. “yes.”

you hummed, unconvinced. “you’re very mysterious, you know. you act like you hate questions, but you answer. it’s very suspicious. are you trying to lure me into a trap?”

“i don’t need to lure you,” he said dryly. “you just show up on your own.”

“fair point.”

the conversation faded into the rustle of wind through trees and the soft, rhythmic sound of his boots in the damp earth. “why do you always come out here alone?” you asked eventually. “you have a whole family of hunters, don’t you?”

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze swept the dark path ahead, sharp and practiced. “i work better on my own.”

“that’s not really an answer,” you said. “is it because you don’t like people? or because you don’t trust them?”

he glanced at you sidelong, brow furrowed. “why do you ask so many questions?”

you grinned. “because i’ve never gotten to know a human before. you’re all so… temporary. and dramatic. it’s delightful.”

he gave a quiet snort. “most people would say the same about your kind.”

“i know,” you replied, almost proudly. “but most people also throw garlic at me before i get to introduce myself.”

that earned a flicker of something in his expression. not quite a smile, but close.

you tilted your head, floating backward now so you could face him fully. “have you always wanted to be a hunter?”

“no,” he said simply.

you blinked. that was unexpected. “really? but your family—”

“doesn’t mean i wanted it,” he said, gaze dropping to the mossy trail beneath his boots. “it was just… expected.”

the quiet stretched between you for a moment, broken only by the soft rustle of wind through the trees. “i wanted to play tennis,” he said suddenly, so quietly you almost missed it.

your eyes widened. “tennis? truly?”

he gave a small nod, barely a tilt of his head. “when i was younger. i used to sneak off to the courts outside the village. play until my hands were blistered. i liked the rhythm of it. the focus. it made sense.”

you smiled, touched. “that’s beautiful.”

“it’s stupid,” he muttered.

you floated a little closer, intrigued. “that’s not stupid at all.”

he let out a dry laugh. “try telling that to my father. said it was a waste of strength and time. that i was soft.”

your expression softened. “wanting something for yourself doesn’t make you weak.”

he looked at you, jaw tense, eyes shadowed. “doesn’t matter now.”

“it does,” you said quietly, sincerely. “even if it’s just to me.”

art looked at you, really looked, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. you weren’t sure if he was annoyed, uncertain, or just tired of pretending not to enjoy your company.

“you ask too many questions,” he said again, but softer this time.

you grinned. “and you never answer enough.”

he shook his head, but didn’t push you away when you finally landed on the ground, falling into step beside him. you could feel the chill in the air start to sink in, curling around the trees, fog beginning to rise through the swamp floor like ghosts.

but still, the space between you felt a little warmer.

“do you still play?” you asked quietly.

“no.”

“why not?”

he didn’t answer.

so you let the question hang in the air, unsaid but not forgotten. and instead of pressing, you just walked beside him, hands clasped behind your back, gaze lifted to the moonlight threading through the trees.

eventually, without looking at you, he asked, “do you miss it? being human?”

you blinked. then blinked again. it was the first time he’d asked you anything.

“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “i don’t remember much of my human life.”

he looked at you. you didn’t smile this time. you just let him see you. he nodded once, and said nothing more. but his steps slowed, just a little, to match yours perfectly. and that—quiet, simple, unspoken—was enough.

[1sab4lla]

party 4 u ; tashi duncan

tashi duncan was your best friend, from the moment you stepped into that noisy elementary school classroom, she greeted you with a bright, fearless grin—and really, who were you to turn down the company of a future tennis prodigy? after an enthusiastic conversation about ladybugs, the two of you became inseparable.

but high school changed things, naturally. tashi had pulled off the most infuriating glow-up imaginable. practically overnight, she was apart of the popular kid group because of tennis. she traded glasses for contact lenses, and radiated effortless confidence from all her wins. naturally, she found new friends—effortlessly, unapologetically—and you were left behind, swallowed up by the chaos of freshman year. you told yourself you weren’t bitter.

okay, maybe you were. a little.

still, there you were, showing up to her adidas-sponsored party—because apparently, she still sends out invitations by mail like it’s 2005 (it was 2006. you were still bitter). you’d opened the invitation, bewildered. you hadn’t talked in years. why was she inviting you now? so, naturally, you went for your own curiosity.

you hadn't even crossed the room before she spotted you. “oh, hey, i didn’t think you’d come,” she said casually, as if she’d talked to you yesterday. avoiding her at her own party was never going to work. “enjoying the party? i just thought I’d check in,” she added, her chestnut eyes scanning your face. was she sizing you up? maybe. you wouldn’t put it past her. you forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “yeah. it’s... nice,” you said, immediately regretting how weak that sounded. but how else were you supposed to respond?

she nodded, arms crossed loosely, her blue dress snug. blue was definitely her color, you noted despite everything. “you look good,” she said, and maybe she meant it. or maybe it was just something people say when they don’t know what else to offer. because what was there to say, really? that you missed her? that watching her slip away had felt like losing a limb and being expected to just keep walking like nothing happened?

instead, you gave her a quiet “thanks,” and looked away. she nodded, taking another sip of the drink. silence settled over the pair for a moment, and she studied your face. she cleared her throat softly, looking back at her friends for a moment. “you look good.” you offered, trying to be civil, your fingers tapping against your cup awkwardly. god, you could only hope it didn’t sound like you was hitting on her. maybe you were. her hand momentarily stilled at your comment, glancing down at her outfit and then back again with a look of vague surprise plastered across her face. as if she wasn’t the star of the party, god. she was infuriatingly modest, still, after all this time.

"thank you." she replied, adverting her gaze. she didn’t say anything else, not right away. just stood there, eyes flickering toward you and then away again, like maybe she was trying to see through all the years that had stacked between you. you could’ve, should’ve left it there—should’ve walked away, melted into the crowd, let her return to her perfect circle of friends and free drinks. but you didn’t.

because part of you still lived in the past, curled up beside her on sleepover nights, whispering secrets in the dark. and part of you, the worst part, was still waiting for her to say your name the way she used to—soft, like a secret she didn’t want to share with anyone else.“i never stopped thinking about you,” she said then, voice low, a confession barely audible over the pulse of bass-heavy pop.

her words caught you off guard. you blinked, the room tilting ever so slightly. “after middle school—i meant to reach out. but everything got so loud. tennis. interviews. people telling me who i was supposed to be.” you searched her expression, unsure what to believe. but her eyes—they were earnest. open. vulnerable in a way they hadn’t been since seventh grade, when she cried to you about losing a match she was supposed to win.

“i thought you forgot about me,” you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended. it came out like a bruise. her face crumpled just slightly, a flicker of guilt, and then she stepped forward—not enough to close the gap, but enough for her perfume to cloud around you, all clean sweat and citrus and something nostalgic. “i didn’t,” she said. “i couldn’t.”

your heart knocked against your ribs. it was stupid—so stupid—to still feel this way. but there it was, that familiar ache, lodged right where it always had been, somewhere between your ribs and reason. you looked at her, really looked at her, and saw traces of the girl you used to know, layered beneath all the new polish. and maybe she saw something in you too, something she’d forgotten how to miss.

tashi smiled faintly, and when she tilted her head and offered a tentative, “wanna go walk along the beach? just us?” and you nodded. you walked side by side without speaking, her shoulder brushing yours occasionally like an accident she never apologized for. the string lights glowed gold and soft against the water, casting ripples of light across her skin. she stood there, arms folded, the chill finally catching up with her as she glanced sideways at you.

“i used to wonder if you hated me,” she said softly. you blinked. “what?” she hesitated, biting her lip softly, before letting it go. “after everything. after i just… left. you stopped talking to me, and i figured i deserved it. but it still sucked.” your throat felt tight. “you didn’t leave,” you said, though you both knew it wasn’t true. “you drifted.” she laughed once, dry and quiet. “that’s worse.” you didn’t respond. because you had hated her, a little. and missed her more than that. and loved her—whatever that had meant back then, in the safety of childhood, in the quiet of sleepovers and whispered confessions about boys neither of you actually liked.

but you liked her. maybe you always had.

she was looking at you again, that same open, earnest look. “i didn’t invite you out of pity,” she said suddenly, firmly. “i didn’t even think you’d come, honestly. but when i was putting together the list… i don’t know. you were the first name i wrote down.” the world tilted again, subtle and slow. you studied her, this impossibly grown version of the girl who used to doodle hearts on your notebooks and steal your chips at lunch.

she still had that nervous tick of playing with her fingers, though—still twisted her bracelets around her wrist when she was unsure. “i thought i was the only one who remembered,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. she looked at you then, fully. steady. her eyes held something that made your breath catch—remorse, maybe. but something else too. a yearning that mirrored your own.

“i remember everything,” she said. and god, wasn’t that worse? because now you were both standing here, a breath apart, years too late and somehow still stuck in the gravity of each other. the kind of closeness that clings, that hums in the spaces between conversation, in the way her pinky almost touched yours but didn’t. she didn’t move closer. she didn’t kiss you. and you didn’t ask her to.

instead, the silence stretched like a held note, thick with all the things neither of you had the courage to say. “i should probably get back,” she murmured. and you nodded. but neither of you moved. you stayed there, under the soft halo of light, two girls still orbiting the memory of something that almost was. you watched her profile in the light—the slope of her nose, the way the breeze caught strands of her dark hair, lifting them softly against her cheek. you remembered brushing that same hair out of her face once, a lifetime ago, after she fell asleep beside you during a summer movie marathon. she always hated having her face covered. she used to mumble in her sleep, too. you used to listen for it.

now you listened for her breath. shallow, steady. like she was trying to calm herself. “tashi,” you said before you could stop yourself. she turned. “i missed you.” it hung there between you, suspended and fragile. you didn’t say it to make her feel bad. you just needed her to know. something in her eyes flickered. she stepped toward you—just one careful, quiet step—and when she spoke, her voice sounded like the version of herself you remembered best. small. honest. “i missed you too,” she whispered. “so much it made me feel stupid.”

you could have laughed at that. but you didn’t. you just looked at her, every part of you suddenly raw and alive. “then why didn’t you—?”

“because i was scared,” she cut in. “because you were the only person who ever really saw me, and i didn’t know how to keep that without ruining it.” your heart cracked open. you didn’t know what to say to that. you’d spent so long convincing yourself you’d been forgotten, that she’d outgrown you, left you behind. and here she was, admitting that losing you had scared her too.

you took a shaky breath. “you were everything to me. and then suddenly… you weren’t mine anymore.” she flinched—visibly. but didn’t look away. “i was never not yours,” she said, and her voice trembled like the truth hurt to say aloud. “i was just stupid. and scared. and trying to be everything everyone wanted from me, except—”

“except what i wanted,” you finished for her. she nodded.

it wasn’t a movie moment. she didn’t lean in. no swell of music, no kiss under fairy lights. just the two of you, staring at each other like maybe time would stop if you held eye contact long enough. and maybe that was more intimate. because the air was thick with everything unsaid—the touches that didn’t happen, the almosts that never bloomed into anything more. “i think about you when i win,” she said suddenly. “when the crowd’s loud and i’m smiling for cameras. i always wonder if you’re watching. if you’re still out there.”

“i was,” you said. “i am.” she reached for your hand then. not to hold it—just to touch. just enough for her fingertips to brush yours, and god, it made your whole chest ache. “i don’t know what this is,” she said. “i don’t even know if i deserve to still have you.” you swallowed hard, barely managing a whisper, “you do.” and maybe that was the most honest thing you’d said all night.

tashi’s hand lingered over yours, the contact feather-light but deliberate. you didn’t pull away. couldn’t. every nerve in your body had gone electric, alive with the sensation of being seen again—really, fully seen—for the first time in years. she stared at your joined hands like she couldn’t quite believe they were real. you didn’t realize how close she’d gotten until you could feel her breath on your cheek, soft and unsteady. her eyes flicked to your lips for a second too long, then back to your gaze—questioning, asking without words.

you should have hesitated. should have been cautious. but love didn’t live in logic—it lived in moments like this. quiet, charged, full of all the things you hadn’t said for years. so you kissed her. it wasn’t perfect. your teeth bumped. one of you gasped. but god, it fit. like something that had been waiting, quietly, to fall back into place. she kissed you like she’d missed you in every timeline. like she was apologizing with her mouth and promising something better with every shaky exhale.

her hands found your waist. yours cradled her jaw. she pulled back for a second, just long enough to rest her forehead against yours. “i’m sorry,” she whispered. “i only threw this stupid party hoping you’d come.”

“i know,” you breathed.

she let out a shaky breath and kissed you again—softer this time, slower. like you had all the time in the world now. and maybe you did, in the hush of string lights and old wounds and old love reawakened, it was just the two of you.

[1sab4lla]

Challengers will forever be one of the sexiest movies I’ve ever watched. Everything about it is sexy. The friendships. The backstabbing. The drama. The way-too-close-for-comfort fights. The yearning. The longing. The fantasizing. The wanting. The tasting. The way Zendaya looked in that blue dress. The boys getting bricked up together watching Tashi play. The fact that Tashi knows they want her and the only thing they want more than her might be each other. The fact that the boys really just missed playing together all along. The way the boys always seem to cling to one another or have hands on each other. The way the boys ate churros. The way Patrick slapped Art’s boner away playfully. The way Tashi used Art to get Patrick worked up for sex. The progression of the scene where Tashi and Patrick reunite in Atlanta. The way Tashi gets hot for the competition. The bitchy way that Tashi cuts down both male leads with only a few words. The way Art looked up at her with his bottom tooted up in the air on the bed like a soft little puppy. The locker room scene of Patrick surrounded by naked tennis players having their breakdowns over the game or taunting their opponents for beating them while Patrick swiped right on guys on tinder. The longing glances and body language between the boys in the steamy sauna. And oh by the way, that righteous score provided by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. That movie had no sex scene and was somehow sexier and more erotic than the sexiest erotic thrillers you can think of. I would like to see it again but I may need a cigarette afterward.

[1sab4lla]

REQUESTED BOT RELEASE .ᐟ

★ AARON HOTCHNER. ( almost, always ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ ALICE CULLEN. ( new moon, new blood ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ BILLY LOOMIS. ( climbing through windows ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ BJÖRN IRONSIDE. ( twin rivalry ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ EDDIE MUNSON. ( tattoo artist ) au ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ EMERY WALSH. ( the cut that counts ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ FIONA GALLAGHER. ( manic episode ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ HANNIBAL LECTER. ( a taste of devotion ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ JACK ABBOT. ( the favor ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ JACK ABBOT. ( bleeding edge ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ JENNIFER JAREAU. ( good luck, babe! ) ⚢ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ JOE GOLDBERG. ( bad kiss ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ JOHN SHEN. ( his favorite student ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ JORDAN LI. ( suspicious hero ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ MICHAEL BERZATTO. ( playful wrestling ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ REMMICK. ( what i took ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ REMMICK. ( in his shadow ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ TRINITY SANTOS. ( morning confusion ) ⚢ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ TRINITY SANTOS. ( the one who sees me ) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

★ VICTORIA NEUMAN. ( caught between lies ) ⚢ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @ryvkkr, @soulxinxthexsky, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @yardofbrunettes

[1sab4lla]

camp counselor! tashi duncan hcs

WHO જ⁀➴ .. reluctantly agreed to sign up for a summer camp as camp counselors together, as a getaway (technically, it was, anyway) before she went off to stanford, and you to princeton.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. hated it the second you stepped foot on outside in the heat. she hated dealing with bugs, dirt, and uncomfortable weather. she doesn’t like the uneasiness hanging in the air—she’d heard offhand comments from locals about the camp, rumors about strange happenings in the woods.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. thought the other counselors were annoying. the feeling only grew when at the first night, while telling campfire stories, a counselor told a story about an old camp legend—something about a counselor who went mad and committed a massacre. she bit down her annoyance, her grip on your thigh tightening every time he spoke.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. tries to ignore the others, and bonds with the kids quickly. she thinks they’re adorable (although she’d never admit it. kids still bother her.. a lot). she helps them with setting up tents, and occasionally will play a campfire game with them to shut them up.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. liked to sneak out with you into the woods at night, and make out. you know a good spot with soft bushes. she’d never admit it, but sometimes the peacefulness of the woods would get to her, especially when the two of you were alone. she felt safer when it was just the two of you, away from the tension of the camp and the rumors swirling around. the quiet of the night, the rustling of leaves—she’d let herself relax for a few moments, even if it was only when she was with you.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. despite all the discomfort, liked the experience—being away from the world. she’d cling to you openly when the creepy stories got too much. it wasn’t just the physical moments in the woods that made it special—it was the sense of solidarity, the unspoken understanding that you two were in this together, whether it was dealing with the weirdness of camp or the impending separation after the summer.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. notices first. at first, it was easy to dismiss—just small, almost forgettable inconveniences. a piece of equipment would go missing, supplies would be misplaced, flashlights would flicker unexpectedly, and it was always just enough to feel like coincidence. but things escalated. campers began whispering about seeing someone standing just beyond the tree line at night. some of them insisted they heard voices after lights-out: strange, fragmented whispers that drifted through the dark. voices that didn’t sound like anyone at camp. she didn’t laugh it off like the others, she believed them. from that night on, she kept a flashlight tucked beneath her pillow—just in case.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. notices immediately when a counselor didn’t come back to their cabin. the director wrote it off as them quitting and sneaking out—but her bunk was still made, her stuff untouched. that’s when she stopped pretending everything was all stupid fun. that night, she clung tighter than usual when you snuck out to the bushes, her kisses frantic, as if she was afraid it’d be the last time.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. used to love the rain. that night, the rain fell in heavy sheets, relentless and loud, drowning out the usual chorus of insects and leaves. then came the scream. sharp, piercing, and far too close. she took off running, the mud clung to her shoes as she scurried through the downpour. she burst into your cabin, soaked and panicked, barely able to get the words out. she didn’t want to go back to the fire circle, her instincts screamed at her not to. but you two went. the scene that waited for you there still haunts her. benches knocked over like someone had fled in a hurry. scattered debris. drops of blood gleaming on the wet stone. and the axe—the one from the equipment shed—was gone. after that, the rain never felt the same again.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. quickly locked the campers in the mess hall. the power went out. and the remaining counselors—those who were alive—huddled together with flashlights. she didn’t speak much, except to grip your hand. her grip would get tighter every time you heard another scream, and the thump of a body. you two scurried off when the masked figure tore their axe through the door, ending up barricaded yourselves in the arts & crafts cabin. she had a pair of scissors gripped in her fist, and you had color pencils (sharpened, obviously. there weren't much weapons, unfortunately).

WHO જ⁀➴ .. barely had time to register the flicker of movement behind you. the figure emerged from the dark as if waiting for this moment. you shoved her behind you instinctively, yelling for her to run. the attack happened fast.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. didn’t run, not at first. she screamed, charging at the figure with her scissors. you were already on the ground, blood in your mouth, telling her to go. she didn’t want to leave you, didn’t want to believe it was happening. eventually, she did—barefoot, bloody, and grieving—until she burst into the main lodge and collapsed.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. regained consciousness with a paramedic shaking her. her vision swam as she blinked against the harsh light, her mind slow to catch up—but the first thing she did was search for you. her eyes darted frantically across the bloodied campsite, heart pounding, until the empty space where you should’ve been made her stomach drop. even as they tried to lift her onto the stretcher, she fought to stay. she insisted you were coming—that maybe you were hurt, sure, but not gone. you’d walk out of the trees any second now, bruised but grinning, like you always did.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. broke down when she learned the final death toll. fourteen lives lost, including yours. once she got home, she shut herself away in her room, swallowed by grief and shock, unable to face the world outside her door. for days, she didn’t eat, didn’t speak. just mourned. at one point, she nearly turned down her stanford scholarship, convinced she couldn’t move forward. but her parents gently pushed her to go, reminding her of everything she’d worked for. and maybe, deep down, she knew that leaving wouldn’t mean forgetting.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. carried your memory like a wound—something that never quite scabbed over. she’d stare out dorm windows at night, wondering what would’ve happened if she’d made you run with her. wondering if you’d still be alive if she’d said the camp was a stupid idea.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. shut down patrick and art immediately, still in the grieving process. she couldn’t even think about dating, when she’d lost you.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. gave up on tennis for a bit, but pushed herself to go back (after all, her scholarship was for tennis). grief clung to her like a second skin, heavy and unrelenting, but she tried to outrun it, tried to drown it out in the rhythm of serves and volleys. every morning, before the sun had fully risen, she was on the courts. and at night, long after the world had gone quiet, she was still there, chasing something she couldn’t quite name.

WHO જ⁀➴ .. let training became her ritual, her escape. with every swing of the racket, she fought to keep her sorrow at bay. when the knee injury came—sharp, sudden, and cruel—she barely flinched. the pain wasn’t as bad as the pain of losing you, in her head.

[1sab4lla]

hii! i love your blog smmmm!!💕💕🥰🥰

aww hi!! thank you sm🥹🥹 i love yours too, i love elvira 😆

[1sab4lla]

unpure ; art donaldson

the moment you entered the chapel, art donaldson—perfect, revered, untouchable—momentarily unraveled. known as the pastor’s son and golden boy of a devout small town, he was adored, idolized, and expected to be without flaw. but you weren’t there for god, salvation, or belief. you were there for him. and there was something intoxicating about tempting someone so carefully constructed to be pure—something deliberate in your movements, in the way your skirt rode up, in the way you sat just within his line of sight. you knew he was watching, just as you knew he shouldn’t. yet the tension—the push and pull of guilt and desire—felt electric, and impossibly easy. maybe it was wrong, but it never felt like it. not with the way you looked at him.

[1sab4lla]

thank uou for showing me your little white boy i do not like him can you put him away please