ao3 | writing tag - text & photo. incurable tag talker. some attempts at organization. - currently: challengers - this is a choose not to warn blog.
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absolutely HAUNTED by the knowledge that the sun did make mat's boxer briefs transparent in. That Task.
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new blog idea: i complain about the badly written top search results whenever i'm trying to discover the origin of a random phrase
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WAIT WHO WAS GOING TO TELL ME MOIRAINE AND THE AMYRLIN SEAT ARE HOT LESBIAN GIRLFRIENDS
started watching wheel of time & my eyes are WIDE OPEN about this bodyguard/aes sedai thing
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i don't even want to read fic about the pitt i want dr robby to calmly explain to me my medical test results
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ok i am halfway thru the season and everyone is so good
the pitt looks like a delight to watch but unfortunately every time a gif of one of the guys shows up on my dash i instinctively go "alex horne???"
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the pitt looks like a delight to watch but unfortunately every time a gif of one of the guys shows up on my dash i instinctively go "alex horne???"
#are there any insane psychosexual games being played on this medical show or what#blogger yells at void
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started watching wheel of time & my eyes are WIDE OPEN about this bodyguard/aes sedai thing
#gf says he and moraine have some sort of mindbond?????#he is in LOVE and i think it is so unrequited i am LOOKING#blogger yells at void
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gemma being torn away from the fire door, devon in her ear, "we have to go-- i know he's in there, we will get him out, i promise--" bundled into the car, two years of wanting and she had him, warm and smiling between her hands, but she can't go back and she can't go home, so she lets devon drive through the cold and the dark, and then there's ricken with a question and something bundled to his chest, and devon says "fuck," says "i'm so sorry," and there's something moving, pink and squashed and alive, grumbling as it comes into the light--
"gemma," devon says, soft and careful: "this is eleanor"
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sorry still thinking about this but this time it's about how fast gemma is going to say "do it" the moment she learns about reintegration
one week ago i had watched absolutely zero (0) episodes of severance & now i am a changed person & the only thought in my mind is how fucking fast mark scout said yes to experimental brain surgery the moment that was his path to gemma
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guys i am learning how to play guitar & i need a list of songs i can play ironically
so far my list is wonderwall & push
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something so striking about lumon is HOW they coerce. no one gets dragged kicking and screaming into the break room: they expect you to do it, they wait patiently at the door, and you walk in yourself. you throw yourself through the fire exit and you don't remember why, so you turn right around at the stairwell and go back into hell. you can't step out of line because then you'll never see your wife, the only person who's ever loved you. isn't it all so civilized? they don't have punishments at lumon. all they do is create the circumstances.
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one week ago i had watched absolutely zero (0) episodes of severance & now i am a changed person & the only thought in my mind is how fucking fast mark scout said yes to experimental brain surgery the moment that was his path to gemma
#i'm so distraught because there is no happy ending for him like the narrative cannot let him be the one person to bargain with death#but also: he knows. he knows there's no way to save her and he said yes anyway for the smallest chance to SEE her#what if love transcending severance can't save you but it's enough anyway#[grits teeth] i love love!!!!!!#love is in the veins
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ZENDAYA, THE ARTTASHI UNDERSTANDER YOU ARE!!!!
source
#scream???#zendaya and josh o'connor out here creating headcanons for their shared custody sub agreement#tennis threesome
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been traipsing around japan instead of writing for vacation but last night i was contemplating timeslip shenanigans
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patrick wakes up when a wet towel hits his face.
“argh,” he sputters, jerking up out of bed. the sun’s low in the sky, in his fucking eyes. someone's in the bedroom, but he can't tell who. shit. they don't like when he doesn't remember the name.
on the other hand, they usually wait until then to throw things. “hey, what the fuck.”
“wake up, asshole, it's practice time,” says a cheerful voice, and that’s—patrick knows that voice. it's fucking art’s voice.
ok, pause. regroup. patrick digs up his phone. it is seven fifteen in the fucking morning and art donaldson’s in his bedroom in—patrick squints disbelievingly—the tiniest pair of briefs known to man.
“uh,” patrick croaks, because jesus, and then: “where's tashi?”
art’s pulling a shirt on. “who?”
“tashi. tashi duncan? your—” wife, but that word’s got teeth, sticks in patrick's throat.
art turns. “oh jeez, it's been a while since i heard that name.” his mouth gets soft, wistful. “i mean, the wimbledon thing was what, ten years ago?”
is this dying? is that what's happening? patrick’s heart’s racing at a hundred miles per hour. “what wimbledon thing.”
“meniscus tear, right? c’mon, man, we were there.”
the first month after the pepperdine match patrick crashed out of two challengers and no-showed a third, and still the thing that kept him up at night had been, what if i’d been there? a live electric wire. he’d thought he’d buried it.
art’s smiling, faintly puzzled, like he hasn't just detonated a bomb in patrick’s chest. “put some pants on, at least,” he says. “karl’s gonna be here in ten minutes. no omelet for you if you're late.”
art leaves. silence. what the fuck is going on. patrick puts his head between his knees, tries to think.
then he notices the ring.
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New ask game:
Reblog if you want your followers to tell you what your trademark ™️ is. Like, what’s that thing that really identifies you.
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can’t get over your beautiful controlled writing style. is availability for sex and mind games the only calling card Patrick has left with Art and Tashi now he’s squandered his natural talent for tennis? bar an 11th hour comeback of course. interested to know if your wip is entirely cruel towards the characters - specifically Patrick - or allows for some tenderness and care to creep in? even if only between the lines.
anon thank you for this very sweet message & sorry this is so stupidly late!!!!! i have been dealing with a crisis at work
on tenderness: i am a huge romantic at heart!!! i'm interested in a/t/p because here are these three people, pinned to this moment of trauma. and they come together & fall apart so many times, but still here is one more try at communication, the fully bared heart—and the absolute triumph that follows. so i fully believe they can make it work, big complicated love two decades in the making, it is just very messy first
WHICH IS TO SAY, i did think this scene was going to be more soft than it ended up being:
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Art’s a masochist or something, because he's doing laps in the pool at 6am. So’s Patrick, though. It's his rest day and here he is, struck still in the middle of the kitchenette, watching Art slice through the water.
The heat hasn't settled upon them yet. Patrick walks out of the pool house barefoot and flops by the side of the pool, dips his feet in. The water’s freezing. Art doesn't notice until he turns, an abortive stroke. His head comes up, slicked wet, looking at Patrick. Breath.
Art ducks back under and finishes the lap. Another one. The sky’s turning pinker, lighter. There's the curve of Art’s shoulder; his back, twisting beneath the ripples. Patrick thinks maybe his ankles are going numb.
It's a long while before Art comes up to the side of the pool. He hauls himself up and out, hands braced on the concrete, and the water sluices down his shoulders in a cool chlorinated spray. Patrick feels the dampness trickling through the hair on his arms, seeping into the fabric of his shorts. Next to him Art’s breaths come fast and loud: in, out.
“What do you want,” Art finally says. There's a drop of water sliding down his jaw. Patrick follows it, along the side of Art’s neck, catching on the collarbone. Lower, that whole bared expanse of skin. His swim briefs are plain black, logo printed over one hip. He looks like a fucking wet dream.
Patrick wants to smoke, badly; he wants a win, the high of slamming a match point down the line. He wants to press his fingers to the knob of Art’s knee, feel the warmth in his palm.
“When you and Tashi,” Patrick says instead. “You know. Does she let you hit it bare?”
Pause. Art turns. “What?”
“When you fuck.” One word at a time. The crispness of the k. “Does she let you—”
“We,” Art says, “are fucking married.”
Patrick gives Art his best grin. “Yeah, and? I don't judge.”
For a moment Patrick thinks Art might hit him—but no, that's Tashi. Art goes cold, not hot. The flare of his nostrils; mouth thinned into a line. “I’m going to leave now,” he says, getting to his feet. “Bye, Patrick.”
Art stalks back to the house. Patrick flops back on the concrete and stares up at the sky. What do you want, Art had said, clipped, like he was braced for a trick. Like it never occurred to him that it could just be him.
#i keep threatening to completely rewrite this wip but i CANNOT figure out where it's going wrong#truly all i wanted was barebacking#some kind of human interaction#tennis threesome#some wip nonsense
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