#there's a movie like this i think idk i never watched it

[sunsburns]

naked in manhattan

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader / implied art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you’re just hours away from a flight that will change your career forever—one that will take you to london, england, for the 2012 olympics, a milestone you never thought you’d reach. thrilled yet trembling with nerves, you find yourself at the hotel bar, celebrating alone. it does not help when you run into art donaldson and… his wife?

—or: you and tashi rekindle an old flame

word count: 6.9k

contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, semi-public sex (a gym at the middle of the night so idk if that counts), mid-challengers movie (a year after the atlanta scene with tashi and patrick), angst with no comfort, fingering, homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, no use of y/n, old situationship best described in terms of “casual” by chappell roan (iykyk), art is lowkey a shit starter

author’s note: so i finished this a while back and added it to my queue and did not realize i put it for july instead of june so LOL MY BAD. this is kinda like a prequel to “good luck, babe!” but you don't need to read that to get this. alsoooo thank you for all the love and feedback in “good luck, babe!” i’ve read every single message and tried to reply to all of them! you guys are so sweet and inspired me to write more! thank you thank you <3 i hope you enjoy this one!

Manhattan, New York City, 2012

"I hope you're planning on getting laid tonight."

Your drink is cold, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as you swirl the straw absentmindedly. The dim lighting of the hotel bar casts a warm, golden glow over everything, making the polished wood of the bar counter gleam. Around you, the murmur of conversations, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clinking of glasses create a lively yet intimate ambiance. You glance at the TV mounted in the corner, where a muted sports channel displays highlights from a basketball game.

You try not to snort into your drink at the words of Patrick Zweig on the other end of the call. You push your phone closer to your ear, unable to bite back the grin spreading across your face.

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"What?" Patrick's tone is mockingly innocent, full of playful mischief.

"I thought you called to say something a little more... I don't know, sincere? Heartwarming?"

He lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that you can practically feel through the phone. In the background, you hear the faint sounds of a city—honking cars, distant chatter, and the occasional bark of a dog. The noise fades slightly as Patrick likely moves to a quieter spot, and you can almost picture him getting in his car in some other state—you think he's in Arizona.

"The only kind of warming I wanna hear about is cockwarming," he retorts, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You make a face, "You're disgusting."

"I mean it," he insists, still laughing. "I'm actually so jealous of you right now. You qualified for the Olympics, for fuck's sake! How's your mom doing? Did she have a heart attack? Did she call you already? I hope she packed you some condoms. There's gonna be such a wide variety. Literally every country in the world."

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick."

Your mother did call, her voice crackling with emotion over the phone just before Patrick rang you. She told you how proud she is of you, how she can't wait to watch you play and tell everyone she knows that her daughter is an Olympic tennis player. A gold medalist, maybe.

Her words echo in your mind, filling you with a warmth that battles the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

You take a sip of your drink, savouring the blend of fruity and bitter flavours, a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts. You try not to spill it on your Ralph Lauren sweater, custom-made, just for the Olympics, with your name stitched on the arm.

Around you, the hotel bar is alive with the buzz of other athletes celebrating with their teams. The fellowship is appreciable as laughter and cheers fill the air. But for some single athletes, like yourself, it's a different story. You feel as if you're in high school all over again, too awkward to make friends, hoping someone braver than you will come by and say hello first.

"You better not be sitting at the bar alone, drinking that orange juice you like."

"A sangria isn't just juice, you dick," you retort, rolling your eyes.

"You're such a loser."

You do feel a little bit like a loser, sitting alone at the bar, but you know you shouldn't. You're hours away from your flight to London where you'll have the chance to play tennis in the Olympics. This is all you've ever wanted since you were a child, all you've been working for—sweat, blood, and tears. You can't even remember a time when you've dreamt of something other than this.

Tennis has always been your escape, your sanctuary. You remember those early days when you played with second-hand rackets and makeshift nets, the local court becoming your second home.

And then there was Patrick, your closest… friend(?) and fiercest rival. His encouragement, his competition, and his company kept you grounded and motivated. When the going got tough, the dream felt too distant, and all of it made you feel far too guilty as if you had stolen someone else's life, Patrick was there to reassure you that you deserved it just as much as the next. Without him, you likely would have walked away from the sport you love.

"I can't believe you made it to the Olympics before me," Patrick's voice pulls you back to the present, a mix of envy and pride lacing his words. You can almost see the playful smirk on his face, a familiar expression that often surfaced during your countless matches together.

"I wish you were here, Pat." Your voice softens, the longing evident. It was hard to track down Patrick Zweig, especially while he was constantly on the move, hopping from state to state, playing as many challengers as he could sign up for, each match a stepping stone toward his dream of winning the US Open. And you think he will. You've played against him enough times to know he's better than you at hitting a ball with a racket.

There were nights when you'd both crash in a shabby motel or back at your place after a gruelling day on the court, strategizing and critiquing each other's play styles (sometimes in more than just tennis). His tenacity was a beacon for you, pushing you to strive harder and to reach further.

His voice softens, becoming more earnest. "Yeah, me too. I'll try to get tickets for one of your games in London. If not, I'll catch up with your mom and watch it with her. Is your dad still in the picture?"

You roll your eyes, a reflex to his familiar teasing. "Oh, my god."

"I'm just asking," he chuckles. "Listen, I'm gonna let you go, 'cause I've got a date tonight. But call me when you land."

"Oh, yeah, okay." You try not to let the disappointment seep into your voice, but it's hard. It's not like you and Patrick were together, at least not publicly, at least not in the sense that you couldn't see other people. But even as you tell yourself that, a knot tightens in your chest.

It feels a bit teenageish, you think, messing around with friends and acting like it means nothing just to avoid making things awkward. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were leaving something unsaid, something unacknowledged. Patrick was one of the few people in your life who kept you on your toes and made you feel good—truly good.

Now, the idea of him with someone else, going on dates while you chase your dreams, feels like a betrayal you can't quite articulate. But what right do you have to feel that way? You never made things official, never dared to cross that line.

You never bothered to search for love outside of tennis.

"Have fun on your date," you manage to say. It comes out more brittle than you'd hoped. "Talk to you later."

"Bye!" he says, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart. His voice is light and carefree, and why wouldn't it be?

You end the call and set your phone down on the bar with a bit more force than intended, the hollow thud echoing your frustration. The bartender glances your way and you try to flash him an honest smile before ordering another drink. The TV overhead flickers, switching from basketball highlights to a recap of the latest tennis matches. You watch the screen without really seeing it.

The bar is still lively, yet you feel an overwhelming sense of solitude. You can't help but feel like you're stuck in limbo—caught between your dreams and the reality of your personal life.

You take a deep breath and a long sip of the rest of your first drink, the cool liquid doing little to ease the heat of frustration building inside you. You tell yourself you should be happy, grateful even. But right now, all you can think about is Patrick, and how much easier it would be if he were here with you.

But he's not. And maybe he never will be.

Maybe no one will.

Maybe you will die alone, your tennis racket as your only companion.

"This seat taken?" A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You turn, startled, "No-" you start, but then the blur of blonde hair comes to focus and you're stumbling over your words, "Art? What- what are you doing here?"

"Oh," he smiles, a shy faint red blush already growing on his pale skin. He sits beside you, almost hesitantly, "Just stopping by the city. I saw you and thought I'd say hi."

"Hi." You return his smile, albeit a bit warily.

It's been years since you last spoke to Art properly, though your paths have crossed a few times. You've seen him in magazines, TV, and brief passings usually at major tournaments—Wimbledon, the Australian Open, the US Open. Each time, there were shy smiles and waves from across the room, lingering eyes, and awkward conversations where mutual friends tried to reintroduce you as if you hadn't once known each other

Art looks different every time you see him. His hair, now a little shorter than you remember, still maintains that boyish shagginess. There's a darker tan on his skin, evidence of his time spent under the sun. Some days he has a brighter smile, other days, it's a smile that never reaches his eyes.

As he sits there, you can't help but think of how golden his hair used to look whenever he wore his old Stanford hat, the one he used to pull low over his eyes during your college days. The memory makes you aware that you're staring, maybe a little too long. But he's looking at you too, his blue eyes trailing from one end of your face to the other, as if trying to memorize it all, capturing a photograph of who you are now.

A warmth spreads through you under his gaze, and when he finally looks away, you turn too, tapping at your empty glass, pretending to seem interested in the way the ice has started to melt.

But your eyes betray you, slowly trailing back to him. You watch the way he sits, the way he calls over the bartender and orders himself a glass of water. You try not to notice the deep timbre his voice has gained over the years, and how it resonates in the noisy bar. He looks at you, then the empty seat on your other side, and finally scans the room anxiously, as if he's searching for someone or something.

"He's not here," you finally say, breaking the silence that has grown too heavy. "If that's what you're wondering."

He nods, trying to act nonchalant but failing miserably. "What city is he in now?"

"Vegas, I think."

He makes a face and rests his chin on his hand. "There's no challengers in Vegas this month."

"Then he's just visiting. I don't know." The truth is, you don't want to talk about Patrick right now. Especially not with Art. Not after the way they ended things. You watch Art shrug, and the bartender sets your drink in front of you. You take a grateful sip, savouring the blend of flavours. Art holds his glass carefully, and the two of you sit in strained silence for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into the background.

You can't help but ask, "What are you doing here? In Manhattan?"

"I have an interview tomorrow. For the New York Times," Art says, leaning back slightly. He seems a little surprised as if he expected you to sit there without acknowledging him for the whole night. It makes you wonder what he thinks of you. "They're doing a piece on my career, the highs, the lows... the beginning and stuff."

You study his face, trying to gauge his emotions. You know what it's like to be interviewed, to have a team of people making you look your best for photos and another team crafting answers to help you maintain your reputation. It’s exhausting and thrilling all at once. "Congrats, I'm happy for you."

"Thank you. If anything, I should be congratulating you. Olympics? That's huge..." He continues talking, his lips moving, but you’re barely registering the words. For the first time that night, he seems genuinely enthusiastic, a faint spark in his eyes as he talks about you, about London, gesturing with his hand in excitement.

That's when you notice it. The gold around his finger. It glimmers under the warm lights of the bar, catching your eye like a beacon. You can't stop staring at it even after he's done talking.

"Oh, yeah. It's great." The words feel hollow as they leave your mouth. You struggle to find the right response, not wanting to be rude. "You're married?"

His face falls, and he looks down at his hand resting on his lap. "Oh, yeah, yeah. We, uh..." He scratches the back of his head, his eyes darting up to meet yours briefly before looking away. He seems nervous, like he's bracing for your reaction, worried to tell you, as if you weren’t supposed to know at all. "We got married last year. We kept pushing the date for a while because we were... we were busy... and stuff just kept getting in the way."

"We...?"

"Tashi."

"Tashi," you echo, the name tasting foreign and bitter on your tongue. "You're married? You married each other?"

He nods, "Yeah, we've been engaged for a few years now. You haven't heard?"

You feel a lump form in your throat. "No, uh. My coach tries to keep me away from certain news... my mom suggested it. So I don't get uh, distracted."

This is exactly the kind of situation your team has been trying to avoid.

The reality of his words sinks in, and you feel a sharp pang of something—loss, regret, maybe even jealousy. The air around you feels thicker and harder to breathe. Each word he says feels like another brick being laid on your chest, pressing down, making it harder to stay composed.

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense."

You force a smile, but it's a fragile thing, threatening to shatter at any moment. "That's... that's great, Art. I'm happy for you. Really. How was... how was the wedding?" Your mind races with thoughts of broken promises and missed opportunities. You imagine Tashi in her wedding dress; you know she looked beautiful. The image stabs at you, and you wince.

"It was beautiful. Both our families came in, and we kept it traditional, in a church. It was..." He pauses, watching you before adding, "It was a small ceremony. Private. Just family."

His words twist the knife deeper. Tashi's family used to see you as such. "No, yeah, I get it. Wouldn't want any trouble at the wedding. I'm happy for you. I'm happy for the both of you." You turn to the bartender, desperate to keep your voice steady. "Hey, can I get another drink? Something stronger?"

Patrick was right; your stupid orange juice won't get you through the night.

Art watches you with concern, his brow furrowing. "How many of those have you had?"

You laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. "Not enough."

"Does your coach know you're drinking?"

"Does yours know you're talking to me?"

Art leans back, his posture stiffening. He turns to his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he takes another sip. The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. You watch as he processes your words, his expression shifting from defensiveness to something more pained. You instantly feel a pang of guilt, realizing you've struck a nerve.

You've heard all about Tashi's coaching with Art. Whispers in the locker rooms during tournaments, hushed conversations about how she's pushing him until he cracks. You never wanted to believe it, never wanted to think that Tashi, of all people, would be the one to break him down.

"She calls you Ace, you know."

You make a face at the name. A journalist had written an article about you a few years ago when you won your first US Open, nicknaming you Ace since your serves were almost impossible to hit. The nickname stuck, plastered across headlines, magazine covers, and merchandise. People even bet on you becoming the youngest tennis player with the most aces in history before the season ended. You were only off by a dozen.

"Does she?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, unaffected.

"You do have a killer serve."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Killer." The word feels bitter on your tongue. "Tashi used to hit those back at me like it was nothing."

Art nods, taking another sip of his drink before pausing to look at you. "Only 'cause she knows you."

"Knew," you correct him.

The silence stretches again, heavier this time. You're about to say something, anything to break it, when Art speaks again, his voice softer, more earnest.

"I miss you."

What. The. Fuck.

"I do," he insists, leaning forward, his eyes searching yours. "I miss hanging out with you. I miss playing with you. Watching your games live and not recorded on my TV."

"Art, c'mon." You feel the dread crawling up your throat, wishing you had left the bar sooner. Every word he says seems to pull you deeper into a past you've been trying to escape. Art has done nothing but throw you off your game all night.

"I miss you outside of tennis, too," he continues, his voice tinged with regret. "I miss our late-night walks, studying in the library. You remember those?"

"Of course I do."

"Tashi misses you, too," he says, and you can tell he's crossing a line, testing your patience. You can feel the corner of your mouth twitch, your eyes unable to meet his. "She tells me every night. She's always keeping up with your stats, watching all of your games, rewatching your old ones. She makes notes for you, how you could improve. She wants to coach you."

"Art, stop it," you finally snap, turning to face him. The night feels ruined, any semblance of peace shattered. Was this all some elaborate scheme against you? After all these years, is this how they repay you? Out of spite? Is that what it is, a way to get back at you because you somehow got it all, and Tashi's taking whatever she can scrape off from Art?

"I don't want her to coach me. And I highly doubt she wants to coach me either."

"I booked the hotel," he says suddenly, his voice softer, more sincere. "She doesn't know you're here. And I really think it will be good for you two to talk." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, placing it carefully on the bar in front of you. "Here's our room number. I'll be out tonight with some friends, so the room is yours till late. Just, don't kill each other or break anything if you fight."

"I'm not going—"

"She really does miss you," he interrupts, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you might understand, might relent.

You stare at the piece of paper, feeling its presence like a burning brand. Art stands up, hesitating for a moment as if he wants to say more but thinks better of it. "I mean it. Think about it," he murmurs before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space of your mind.

You watch him go, each step he takes pulling at the threads of your carefully constructed facade. As he nears the entrance, your eyes follow him instinctively, and that's when you see her. Tashi. She's standing there, with her bags looking around with a familiar intensity, her eyes scanning the room until they lock onto yours.

You feel sick.

Meeting Art was a pleasant surprise; he makes your heart race and your cheeks burn. But Tashi makes your heart stop and your brain shut off.

She looks different—older, more mature, hair straight and cut to a mid-length but also a lighter colour—but still heartbreakingly familiar. Her eyes widen slightly as she recognizes you.

She opens her mouth as if to say something when Art stands next to her, pressing a kiss to her temple, but no words come out.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

The weight of her gaze is too much. You're the first to look away. You stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. "Excuse me," you mutter to the bartender, slapping a couple of bucks on the counter. Your voice feels distant, and detached, as if it belongs to someone else.

You push through the crowd, your mind a chaotic whirl of emotions. You need air. You need space.

As you reach the elevator, you can feel Tashi's eyes still on you. But you keep moving, your footsteps quickening with each step. You need to focus on tennis. That's the only thing that's never let you down.

Tashi had once picked tennis over you, and now it was your turn to do the same.

You reach your room and close the door behind you, leaning against it as you finally let out the breath you've been holding. The walls seem to close in on you, and you slide down to the floor.

You need to remember why you're here. For the game. For the dream. And that has to be enough.

Only one problem.

You can't sleep.

Hours later, you find yourself in the hotel gym, the quiet hum of the machines the only sound in the stillness of the night. Your mind is racing, a chaotic swirl of thoughts and emotions you can't control. Desperate for an outlet, you hop on a treadmill and start running, hoping to exhaust yourself into some semblance of peace.

Anything is better than sitting in the hotel lobby, scouring the internet on the public computer for any proof of Art and Tashi's marriage while drinking wine straight from the bottle.

Art was right, it was a small wedding. There were almost no photos of it caught by the paparazzi, only articles upon articles talking about it, magazine covers and everything. God, how could you have missed this? How out of the loop were you?

There was only one photo posted, and it was from Tashi's Facebook and Instagram from less than a year ago; a picture of just her hand holding onto Art's, where you can see her wedding ring. There was no caption. But the photo had millions of likes.

You wonder if Patrick knew. He probably did. He stalks her account religiously and only recently started to tone it down. And then there's you, who had her blocked on everything since your last argument.

The music playing in your ears drowns out the world around you, a heavy beat pulsing as you hum along. Your eyes fixate on the rising numbers on the treadmill screen, sometimes glancing out the window at the city skyline, other times catching your silhouette in the glass reflection.

Sweat makes your clothes cling to you like a second skin, rolling down your spine in rivulets. You're still a little tipsy from your drinks, the taste lingering in your cheeks, but you think you're sober enough that a few more miles will drain it all out.

Art's words are burned into your mind. The wedding you were never invited to, how he suddenly wants to be friends again. You can see where he's coming from; tennis is lonely. You're lonely. You press the button to go faster, your legs burning as you push yourself harder, trying to escape the thoughts that chase you.

You don't hear the door click open, and it takes a few seconds for you to spot the reflection of someone walking behind you in the window's reflection, rolling out a pink yoga mat. But they don't step onto it, they don't move, and even worse, you catch their eye in the reflection.

Fuck.

It's Tashi Duncan.

Your heart lurches in your chest. You quickly look away, panic setting in. You turn your music up higher and make the treadmill run faster, the machine whirring louder in response. Your pulse races, not just from the exertion, but from the presence of the one person you can't bear to face right now.

In the corner of your eye, you see her approach you. When you hear her call out your name between songs, you pretend you can't hear her. You pretend to be captivated by the sight of the city at night, pretend that you're lost in the music as P!nk's voice blares into your ears, cursing out one of her old lovers.

You wonder how long you can keep the act up.

Tashi moves with a determination that you've always admired and feared. She walks around your treadmill, eyes locked onto you with a fierce intensity. Without hesitation, she reaches down and unplugs the machine from the wall, forcing it to power down abruptly.

Not long enough.

"What the fuck?" You huff, yanking out your earbuds. "What's your fucking problem?"

"You're my problem," she says, her voice steady, unyielding as she rolls her eyes.

"I haven't said a word to you."

"And that's my problem. I'm talking to you," Her gaze bores into yours, refusing to be ignored. You can see the resolve in her eyes, the same decisiveness that made her a force to be reckoned with on the court.

"I'm busy," you snap, and your breath comes in ragged gasps, both from the exertion and the emotional storm raging inside you. You feel trapped, cornered by the very person you’ve been trying to avoid.

You bite your tongue, stepping off the treadmill and walking around her when she steps in front of you. You make a straight line for your bag, watching her from the mirrors as she follows you closely.

"Can you listen?" It's more of a demand than an ask, "I just... Art told me what he did. He's a little shit, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. You have other shit to worry about."

You're taking long chugs from your water, staring at her without saying a word. Part of it is because you have nothing to say to her, and another is because you're afraid that if you speak, she'll see through you.

Tashi's eyes roam over you, lingering on your shorts and the way the wires from your earbuds snake from your iPod, under your tank, and peek out from under your sports bra. Her gaze is both appraising and filled with something unresolved between you. When you don't respond, she sighs. "You look great, by the way. On the court. You've changed your approach. You're vicious."

The compliment stings more than it soothes. You still don't say anything, letting the silence stretch between you like a chasm.

"...Or maybe you've always been. I haven't seen you in a long time. So a lot could've changed, I don't know."

You lower your bottle, swallowing the water. It feels cold as it runs down your throat, a stark contrast to the heat of your rising anger. You can't help the way your eyes drop to her hand when you pull your hair down from its ponytail. The sight of the ring on her finger feels like a punch to the gut.

She notices.

"We didn't want you to find out this way."

Your eyes snap up to hers. "And how was I supposed to find out?"

Tashi looks taken aback for a moment, her confident façade faltering. She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I don't know. Maybe we should've told you. Should've invited you. But I thought... I thought it would be easier for you if you didn't know. I didn't want to hurt you more than I already had."

Your laugh is bitter, devoid of any real amusement. "Easier?

"Look," Tashi begins, her voice tinged with a hint of impatience, "I'm not a fan of the way I ended things. But I think that keeping a grudge for this long is embarrassing. We were teenagers."

"You're right," you concede with a bitter chuckle, "it is embarrassing. But you know what's even more embarrassing?" Your voice rises, fueled by a mixture of frustration and hurt. "Having your husband come to me and tell me how much he misses me. And how you miss me. But you don't have the guts to tell me that yourself, do you? Do you miss me, Tashi?"

"Of course I miss you," she scoffs, her tone defensive. "You were my best friend. My serving partner. We played and won doubles together."

"Is that all I was to you?"

"Was there supposed to be anything more?"

There it is, the moment you've been dreading, the confrontation you've been avoiding. You can feel the familiar ache in your chest, "You know I fucking loved you, Tashi," you admit. "And yeah, whatever, everyone loved you. No one could get enough of Tashi Duncan. But you know damn well I loved you for more than just that."

"Loved?" She steps closer, her eyes searching yours. "You don't love me anymore?"

"No," you tell her. "I don't. I dropped out of your groupie a while ago."

"What do you love, then?" Her voice is almost a whisper, the distance between you closing.

"I love tennis," you confess, your gaze never leaving hers. "I love winning. Turns out I'm great at both. And I love that too. And people love me. That's more than you could ever give me. Or Art."

"Even Patrick?" The mention of his name is a sharp jab; she's trying to get under your skin.

"I don't know, you tell me." You're taunting her. And you love the way she falters for a split second. "You saw him at the Open last year, didn't you?"

The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you. "Listen," she says, her voice dropping lower, "I just came here to tie some loose ends. For Art's sake. He says It'll be good for me."

"Okay," you reply, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation in your favour. Hook, line and sinker. "Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Hook.

Tashi's eyes narrow slightly, but she takes the bait, her expression shifting to one of determination. "You raise your arm too high when you serve. You're gonna dislocate your shoulder one day."

"I bet you're waiting for the day I do."

"I can make you the best."

"Am I not already?"

Line.

"You're one of the best at most. But not the best. I'd be surprised if you bring back bronze. You're too short-tempered for silver. Let me coach you. I'll make sure you bring back gold."

"I don't need you," you say, the words catching in your throat.

"We both know you do," she whispers, her breath warm against your lips.

And sinker.

In that moment, everything else fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in time. The words hang in the air, a silent challenge. You can feel the heat radiating from her, the closeness almost unbearable.

Without another thought, your lips crash together in a desperate kiss, a release of all the pent-up tension and longing that has simmered between you for far too long.

It's a whirlwind of heat and passion, each touch igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume everything in its path. Her hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your body pressed against hers with a fierce urgency.

The kiss deepens a symphony of desire and desperation, all the words you couldn't say pouring into it with a fervour that borders on reckless abandon. You can feel yourself start to become absorbed into the bubble that is Tashi Duncan, it sucks you in, and it scares you, makes you feel as if you're sinking into the bottom of the ocean.

She grips the back of your neck, hard enough that her nails dig into the skin. Tashi waits for your gasp, and when you do, she pushes her tongue into your mouth, past your teeth until it collides with your own.

You're moaning, groaning into her mouth with the way she shoves you until your back hits the mirror behind you. You're arching into her at the way she fucking smiles against your lips at your reaction.

It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Almost in the same way Art is. You know it. She knows it. But in your defence, it's been a while since you've been kissed, it's been a while since someone's touched you this way, with heat and flavour. You're a little dizzy from it, cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

Tashi sucks your tongue into her mouth and you buck your hips against the thigh she's pressed between your legs.

There's a sweetness that lingers when she bites your lip, you wonder if she's wearing lipgloss, maybe chapstick. You hope she can't tell you've been drinking, that talking to Art made you spiral, that you've been bluffing since the moment she walked into the gym. Since the night she packed her things and told you she was leaving Stanford, her scholarship has no use since she can't play anymore.

When her hands run down your neck to your waist, gliding over the sweat on your skin, you can feel the cold touch of her wedding ring. It's frigid, making you shiver when Tashi starts to lick up the column of your throat. You almost feel bad about how wet you've become.

"Tashi..." you huff, her hands found their way to the base of your ass, guiding you to rock faster against her, only making you whine. Her grasp is tight, wanting. She pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your crotch closer to hers and then pushing you back down on her leg. She repeats the motion a few times, rolling her own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto her.

Tashi rewards you with a quiet moan—oh, you want her to do that again, you're going to make her do that again, louder and louder—and then, with a touch so light you could cry, she traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

You can feel your stomach nearly drop, "You're married, Tashi."

She pulls away just to laugh at you. One finger traces your slit through your shorts, and you hear yourself moan. She raises her brows, a challenging look in her eyes, "Are you jealous?"

You try to scoff, but the cold glass of the mirror behind you squeaks when you shift. Even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once.

"What would Art say?" You try to say, your hair falling over your face as you try to collect some kind of morality. If you were caught, you can already imagine the headlines and the stories people would write about you. "What would he do if he found us right now?"

"I don't know," Tashi hums, leaning closer. She pretends to think as if the answer isn't obvious, teasing you a little when she gets close enough to kiss you but doesn't. "He'd probably ask to join."

You can't stop the way that thought alone makes you melt. You remember the jokes Patrick used to make back when you were in college, of you and Tashi being his wet dreams. You can almost imagine, how he would moan at everything, want everything, his whiney moans too similar to the ones he makes when he's on the court.

Tashi rubs gently at your pussy a few more times like she's exploring you, and then suddenly she taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and she sighs against your mouth. "You're so wet. You like it when I touch you?"

"Yeah, please... touch me." You nod. And in your head, you're telling yourself you only like it because you haven't been with anyone since Patrick left for his tour.

Tashi kisses you again, and it's a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath her shirt she starts to fumble with your waistband, and you're both angry and resentful and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet.

Her fingers are clumsily slipping into your underwear and then she's there, her fingers are brushing right against your clit—you're so wet that her fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time she reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Tashi leaves you gasping and she teases you for it. "So sensitive," she taunts against your lips, pressing her thumb against your clit so she can see you squirm, pumping her fingers at an urgent pace to hear you moan. "So needy."

With each movement, she scissors her fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and she starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? I am, aren't I? I'm exactly what you need. C'mon say you want me. Tell me you need me, Ace."

"Maybe—" You're breathless, and the nickname has you tugging at her hair again, "Shit, I saw the way you made Art. He... oh god... he wouldn't be half the athlete without you. I also... I also wouldn't want to ruin my shoulder... while—while serving."

"I'm not talking about tennis."

For a moment, you worry that you've fallen for a trap, that you've said too much. You're vulnerable, a little drunk on lust and wine, and Tashi isn't stupid to not catch your sapphic crush on her since the two of you became friends, an old high school love that's never really disappeared, from slumber party kisses and how you've gawked at her, at her husband and even her ex-boyfriend.

"C'mon, Tash, you're always talking about tennis."

"Not this time."

You barely catch onto what she says. Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that she's given up on pumping her fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach—"I think I'm close... oh, I don't—fuck—keep touching me like that."

She bites your neck until you say her name. You pull her hair until she moans. Her touch is blistering against your skin. She says your name in a breathy drawl like she's pleading with you, humouring you, wanting to take everything from you.

"Keep going, please, please don't stop," you all but shout, and Tashi continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of her hand means the heel of her palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into her hand—you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you.

Every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Tashi whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming—

Distantly, you can feel her fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting—and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto her lap—but other than that, all you know is the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once. A hot sting against your skin that reminds you of the sun whenever you're on the tennis court, deep into the game you've turned into the love of your life.

It can't have possibly been this long since the last time you've gotten laid, right?

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Tashi is heaving for breath against your shoulder and her fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. "You're so pretty, you know that? No tennis talk."

You lean your head back against the mirror, a slow grin forming on your lips, "You don't think I'm pretty when I play."

"I think you're hot when you play."

You peek a glance at Tashi, meeting her eyes as she watches you, watching the way you catch your breath, skin shining against the fluorescent lights of the gym, similar to how you shine on the court. Yeah, you're a sight for sore fucking eyes.

Tashi takes slow, taunting steps back and away from you, and then she brings her fingers to her mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes, you can see the most fucked-out look on her face just at the taste of your cum.

She licks her fingers clean—you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight—before opening her eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "I'll be in my room," she rolls up her pink mat (which she never used) and picks up her bag, "I'm sure you know the number. I'm hoping you can return the favour and touch me or something. You know, before you leave in the morning."

tags 🏷️: @begoniaespresso / @sceletaflores / @too-deviant / @wolflover384 / @sevikasblackgf / @supercutszns / @diorrfairy / @24kmar / @apolloscastellan

reblog to support your writers!

© sunsburns.tumblr 2024. all rights reserved. unauthorized copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or any works as your own is strictly prohibited.

[subtlelovers]

Choso Kamo headcanons

Creator: Yall reblogs, likes, comments and suggestions are GREATLY appreciated!!!! I never knoow who to write these about so I just chose Geto, the nsfw is marked in red mdni

He loves to be babied, considering he always puts up the tough big brother act it's nice to be the one taken care of too.

He will carry your bags for you.

Loves hugging you against his chest, or him hugging your chest.

When going to bed he will practically want to be almost inside of you while cuddling. (not literally though)

With the one above mentioned I totally think his love language is physical touch.

He loves when you two have taken a shower or bath together and afterwards you blow dry his hair while fixing it for him or just in general if you brush his hair after a shower chefs kiss

He loves giving you forehead kisses. Or just kisses in general anywhere on your face, nose, chin, cheeks, lips, jawline so on.

If he sees you talking to someone else that is flirting with you and just obviously wants you, he will shoot them a deadly glare but afterwards he will pout and whine about it like he didn't just scare the person off.

HE LETS YOU DO MAKEUP ON HIM 🙏

It doesen't stop just there, nono. He also lets you paint his nails and do skincare too, because of the babied thing as well as he just enjoys spending that time with you.

While physical touch is his love language I think he definetely is a sucker for quality time. Watching movies, picnic dates, making food together, anything he can do with you that brings a smile to your faces.

It's no suprise he loves his brothers, he always hangs out with them. At least often and if he likes you, which he does. He brings you along.

Whenever you two watch movies he will guess the plot and when you get mad at him for ruining the movie he will hug you and say sorry over and over again untill you forgive him, mostly sarcastically.

He comes off a bit guard dog-ish with the way he hovers over you. When you're in public you bet he has a hand on your lower back kind of steering you as you both walk, in a loving non controlling way

I am sorry but he is the type of guy to pull a push door, vise versa.

He gets annoyed at other people very easily but with you it's like he is immune.

NSFW MDNI

I think fanon Choso is wrong, I fully belive he is top. Maybe he isn't super dominant but I can't imagine him being submissive.

This guy is LOUD in bed, he's not proud of it and I assure you he tries to supress it but can't.

Always talks sweet to you, reassures you and also asks things like "This 0kay?" "You comfortable?"

This guy I feel like really enjoys handjobs idk why but he especially likes taking your hand in his and guiding you to it but eventually he lets go and lets you finish the job iykyk

He always need validation after. "Was it good?"

He is definetely not into the whole "master" or "daddy" thing i think but I feel like he enjoys more subtle or even wholesome names like "Darling" or "Love"

I feel like he would kind of soothe himself in you gently and then get rougher as time went on.

I don't think he manhandles you a lot but it definetely happens every now and then, somehow he would still make it loving and gentle if that's possible.

Again like most jjk men in my opinion he is an eater.

who do I do next? Make sure you check out my Gojo and Geto ones too on my profile!

[lxvebun]

kiss it better!

synopsis: you know better than to try and hide your wounds from them, however small it may be know that they are more than ready to take care of you. Aka jjk boys caring for your injuries

buns notes: I had a part for Gojo and Nanami as well but found myself getting stuck on it. Perhaps they'll come later but for now enjoy Geto and Sukuna♡.

content:Geto/Sukuna x gender neutral reader. fluff/hurt comfort. Soft Defect/cultish!geto (idk what to call it jejjd just canon suguru) canon violence. Blood. Lovesick/soft ish sukuna as always🤭. Not entirely proofread I am sleepy. Eng is not my first language so i'm sorry for any mistakes!!

Suguru

"Did you really think you could hide that from me, my darling?" Suguru coos. His voice deep and honeyed, overly thick and sweet as he tries to swallow down the urge to demand, to interrogate the cause of the gash on the side of your forehead.

It would do you no good to see that side of him, especially in this state you're in. Trying to hide the tiny rivers of blood trickling down your face, droplets sinking into the wooden floors beneath your feet. He doesn't want you to feel a sliver of fear anywhere near him.

And he's good usually at maintaining his composure. Even if his mind is already twisting into something darker and cruel. but God, the thought of someone, whether Human, Sorcerer, or curse hurting you makes him physically sick. The blood pooling in his mouth from biting his tongue does not help either.

"I'm okay, Suguru." you breathe out, a little labored, not necessarily from the dull ache on the side of your head.

You're not afraid of him, could never be, he's good to you and you see how hard he tries. Fragments of a younger, more carefree suguru slipping through at times. But something twists in your gut as the sparkle fades from his eyes and his gaze zeroes in on your injury. You know what goes on in his head. Thoughts as black and dark as spilled ink swallowing up all the light that left unless he pulls back quick enough. It's a venomous spiderweb that's hard to get out of

Fortunately, he does. Your voice luring him back almost like a Siren's whisper, from what's going on inside his head.

It takes him a few seconds to orientate himself. A few deep breaths and fluttering of eyelashes before he can tear his gaze away from the cut and look into your eyes.

Gentle and careful hands slide under your jaw. His tumb wiping away some of the blood. Rough hands still feeling light and safe. As if he were cradling a bird with a broken wing in his hands. 

(it makes you melt a little more into him.)

It's not a deep cut, not deep enough for stitches at least. It may leave a light scar unless he gets someone to heal it for you. Then again, you have refused that option in the past, trying to maintain somewhat of normality in your life

He can't blame you for that, but he's also not sure what to do..

"Tell me what you need, my darling." It comes out a little desperate

(As if he might succumb if you don't tell him what you desire right now)

"Help me clean up," you begin, knowing he wants to be with it every step of the way. To nurse you back to health "and then you can kiss it better for me while we watch some movies, hmm? :)"

He closes his eyes for a second, your head still cradled in his hands, his touch a bit more relaxed, a little less delicate but still comforting. And then he opens them again, a gentle smile playing on his lips, and the sparkle in his eyes reignited.

He's back

(If he notices the way your shoulders relax, he doesn't comment on it.)

"Of course, my love"

Sukuna

You know better than to hide your injuries from him. It would be foolish of you to even attempt to deceive him. You're part of him now, intertwined into his soul. He's mapped out every little detail of you. He picks up on the slightest shifts in your mood and tone. Hears the hitch in your breath if something surprises you, knows exactly how you achieved the seemingly random bruises on your legs and has memorized the healthy beating pattern of your heart. So even before you pushed open the heavy wooden doors to his chambers, he could hear your labored breathing and smell the blood staining your skin..

His voice booms around the chamber, as you finally open the door. It's loud and aggrivated. Shaking the walls. Dripping in venom and laced in a desperation only you'd be able to pick up on as he calls out Uraume's name. The sight of you bloodied and teary eyed is almost enough to make him fall to his knees. You don't know that his hart has molded into the shape of a chapel dedicated to you. Filled with every little detail of you. brimming with gold and laced with utter adoration and devotion. He'll kneel until his spine breaks and his knees crack against the floor below him if you'd just tell him who could possibly dare to do this to you

He lifts you up and carries you to his bed before his knees give out under him. His grip a little too tight, a little too bruising even for those few seconds. Afraid you'd slip right out of his arms if he doesn't hold you close enough. You can basically feel the blood boiling in his veins, turning into rivers of lava under his skin.

He doesn't make eye contact as he gently lays you down on the bed.

(Perhaps because you've always been good at reading him, perhaps because he'll fear what he'll do if he catches sight of anymore blood)

.....

The gash on your side is healing nicely, thank Uraume for their steady hands. Sukuna would have done it, but all his eyes would have focused on would be the blood staining your robes, trickling out of the wound in steady flows and your teary eyes. He wouldn't have been able to keep his touch delicate enough to heal you properly. To engrossed in the thoughts of punishment and cruelty to keep the violence from bleeding into his touch. He's never forgive himself if he'd hurt you. Even accidentally.

(He lost control once in the heat of passion. Kissed you a bit to roughly with sharpened teeth. It's nothing compared to what he can do. He is the king of curses after all. God to some, an abomination of nature to most. Still, He filed them down ever since.)

He made sure to stay and watch before he goes out and track down the filth that did this. He trusts Uraume, undoubtely so, but he wants to see Your wounds disappear and the blood wash off of your skin with his own eyes

Healing someone with a curse technique feels similar to getting stitches as the skin gets closed back together. He knows it's normal but Hells, every flinch, every little twitch you make as the skin heals make his hands itch to dig into the chest of whoever did this to you, ears already ringing at the begs and pleas for mercy and he personally deals with the parasite that dared to put their hands on someone even the king of curses himself bows down to.

How incredibly foolish of them.

"Well, that should be it" Uraume's voice snaps him out of his trance. He watches as they bow down to you, even after many many times of you telling them they don't have to and turn to him. "I'll go get some clean robes" bowing down once more, and leave the chambers.

The room falls silent again. He's becoming a little restless. Eyes trailing over your form before glancing at the door, going back and forth between you. Trying to decide what his next move should be

"Stay, please". You whisper. The adrenaline gone from your body

You make up his mind for him.

He's on you the second those words left your lips. His anger leaving him...for now. He keeps it at the back of his mind. Your wishes are more important than seeking revenge. Revenge can wait. You don't have to

He asks you how you're feeling as he wraps his arms around you, cradling your head to his chest as he lays down on the bed next to you. You make the mistake of being truthful

"Its a little sore-"

he's up again before you can even finish your sentence, ignoring the whine falling from your lips as he removes his arms from around you

"There should be some freshly gathered herbs in the kitchen today" he begins as lines it to the door

"Sukuna-"

"I can concoct something that should dull the soreness in a heartbeat-" his hand already on the door handle

"Ryomen."

He stops abruptly. Turning to look at you over his shoulder. Keeping his hand against the door. Waiting for you to finish your sentence

"I don't want a herbal concotion"

His brows furrow together, surprisingly cute for a being like him. He turns to you fully, slowly pacing back to the bed

"What is it that you desire then, my love?"

He almost sounds nervous, eyes wide and eager to hear of your demands so he can fullfill them. "Is there another potion you'd like, do you-" he begins to ramble again. You cut him off

"I think a kiss would be sufficient enough actually, my lord~♡"

His words die in his throat. Worry melting into a more stoic expression as he looks at you with what you can only describe as 'are you serious' Your laugh at the shift in his expression, gods that beautiful angelic sound, quickly breaks his into a gentle smile. Heart calming down.

"If thats what you need who am I to refuse?"

You look more than content, a state he wants to keep you in forever, as he leans over you on the bed. Matress bending under his weight as he places one hand next to your head, the other slowly cuping your face as he dips down to lock your lips with his

(He could kiss you forever, if you'd let him)

"Better?"

He doesn't bother to pull away, instead choosing to speak against your lips. Eyes soft and breath hot against you.

"I think I need a higher dosage actually~♡"

RAAAA thank you for reading angels!!♡

[fandomzwriterk]

Hey, hello! Can I ask a question about mk? How do the characters treat an extremely lazy reader? Like, extremely lazy, and indifferent to everything in the world?

From the characters, can I have Bi Han, Smoke, and Raiden?

A/n: ohhhh I’m glad you asked

Bi-Han

-> might be the worst out of the three of them

-> actively tries to get you up every day and not (according to him) “sit on your ass everyday while everyone else works hard”

-> might actually try and set up “traps” around base so you’re always on your toes

-> will forcefully pull you out of bed and throw you outside, even if you’re half dressed

-> according to him, every person needs to be ready for an “attack”

-> in this case, you were definitely not ready

-> Will absolutely NOT join you in any “activities” that would be within the realm of “lazy” like laying in bed all day, sharing snacks, or just staying inside all day

-> will get SUPER mad if anyone but him manages to get you outside for the day

-> has beat the shit out of Kuai for it too

-> he secretly would join you any day you decided to not go out, but pressure of being Grandmaster keeps him from doing so

-> will eventually ask you why you don’t want to join him in the Lin Kuei

-> eventually understands it not up to him, but he wants you to be safe

-> as a “joke” he sends initiates to “attack” you to mess with you

-> yes, he’s always watching but never lets himself meddle in whatever you decide to do

-> yes, he will also use you as a “punching bag” even though he swears to “go easy”

-> after he betrays his brothers, he forcefully takes you with him

-> practically keeps you hostage at that point but you don’t mind, it’s not like you’re in the mood to leave him anyways

Smoke

-> very understanding of it and your choices

-> will join you every once in awhile to do whatever you want

-> he never says anything to hurt your feelings even though he thinks you should join him on training

-> often sends Kuai or Harumi to check on you when he’s away

-> low-key wants to teach you his tricks anyways, mostly how to disappear and reappear

-> likes cuddling on a couch or bed or hell anywhere comfortable as long as it’s with you

-> sometimes you two watch a show or movie together

-> he will fall asleep on you or vice versa

-> either way, he doesn’t mind

-> literally sleeps like a cat when he’s around you and when he’s comfortable

-> in many cases, he falls asleep within five feet of you, even when you get up and walk around

-> will not hesitate to beat anyone who’s mean to you though

-> supportive through anything

-> often says “fuck it” to things to spend time with you

-> yes, he even says assassins need breaks

-> when you wake up, he’s definitely passed out with you in his arms much like a cat sleeps on your chest

-> idk why im comparing him to a cat but this is literally a perfect description of how my bf is

Raiden

-> is the one pulling you around with him everywhere you go even if you don’t want to

-> even though you might be lazy, he practices extra hard just to flex to the other men when you’re around

-> like Tomas, he indulges in whatever guilty pleasures you might have

-> much like Bi-Han though, he often pulls “pranks” on you with Kung Lao

-> secretly steals some of your things like snacks when you’re not looking, just because he is too proud to cave into eating them when you’re around

-> much like Tomas, he sends Kung Lao or Liu Kang to check on you when he’s fighting in tournaments

-> knows you won’t come to a lot of them so he often snags anything you have (ex a brooch/medallion/ring) to have it on him when he fights

-> whenever Kung Lao runs his mouth about you, he won’t hesitate to put him in his place

-> very peaceful and loves seeing you fall asleep anywhere so he can place his coat or top on you like a blanket

-> even if you’re not there, he thinks of you and wants to win even more when he does

-> HAS beat the shit outta Johnny for saying you’re lazy and boring

-> his guilty pleasure? Skipping “class” to join you on whatever you want to do

-> has been caught once or twice

A/N: I hope this was good I just went with what seemed in character for each guy… or maybe I’m just super impartial to Smoke cause he’s my fave and he acts so much like my bf (my bf is the oldest of 6)🤣🤣🤣

[mattypattypinky]

are requests for inside out 2 only for anxiety? If so, could a request anxiety x reader/emotion who spends most of their time reading in HQ and is anxiety's secret admirer and sends her letters?

Hi! yes uhhh I dunno, I'm making writing for the characters I personally have a crush on because I can focus on them easier and how their manners are

I would be more than willing to write for Joy or Anxiety bc I have a crush on them both and pay attention to them

- but, idk abt the others, I'd be open to it but I would have to rewatch the films and focus on their behaviorisms before doing so, so it would take a long time to actually respond to the requests. Because when I watch movies or play games I often hyper focus on ONE character and everything they do and forget to pay attention to the rest.

TLDR. MAYBE but I'd have to rewatch the movies to get to know the other emotions more

That being said

Anxiety (Inside Out 2) x secret admirer reader

First of all, wow, secret admirer. She'd be extremely flattered, and might be a little overwhelmed by this. She's never had a secret admirer before! She doesn't know what to do...

I feel like she would come to the theory its you rather fast. Of course, I don't think she'd point fingers until she absolutely knows, or until you come out and tell her, out of respect for your privacy, but...

She watches people. It's just something she does. And she knows their behaviors. She would know you read a lot. And because of this, she might come to a conclusion that you may also be a decent writer. Long readers usually enjoy writing as well! Not always, but sometimes.

I feel like she'd sit and overthink the possibilities of who it could be, and at the end of the day, she'd have like... A tie between you and sadness. But, she would be confused as to why in the world Sadness would be sending such sweet, positive love letters.

I feel like she'd find a sweet place to put all your letters... She would organize them, from the dates they arrived.

She may also have a separate spot she puts the one she particularly likes to read when she's having trouble sleeping, or needs something to calm her down or make her happy in a moment of irrational stress.

She would respect your privacy, and not share the letter with anyone, even if Envy wanted to read it. She doesn't know if you want random emotions reading your heart filled messages to her, so she refuses to let any other eyes meet the words on the pages.

...

I do think that she would get a little technical with it, though. She really likes paying attention to the smallest of details on people. She might even know how everyone in HQ's handwriting looks like at some point, especially after being there for a while. She might figure out it's you just by handwriting alone...

Or the wording you write it in, or the way the letter was sent... I feel like she's sit there, over analyzing every little detail of the letters she received before going to bed. The crinkle of the paper, if you used a pencil or pen. How you addressed her...

I feel like she'd take the saying secret admirer way too serious. It's a secret, so none of the other emotions can know she has one. For your sake, and hers, she keeps the secret letters a secret. She refuses to let anyone read them, even if they beg or pry - And she keeps her collection in a safe place where Envy can't reach, and no one can snoop.

I feel like, if she had a suspicion it was you, I think she would reach out to you. Not to accuse you of writing the letters, but to talk to you. She'd sit with you, and ask you some simple questions, like what type of books you like to read, if you had any favorite books or authors.

If you did, she would put a pin in it in her head... And later that night, she'd spend 90% of the night rummaging the books of HQ, and reading each of the books you mentioned.

Cracking energy drinks open and drinking multiple at a time while she tries to read and analyse each book or authors writing you mentioned, so that she can determine if you get any inspiration from the way that you write from them. If you made any references to the books in your letters...

She would treat it like a essay assignment that needs citing. She'd sit awake until 5 in the morning, comparing and contrasting each book or author you'd mentioned to her to your writing to see if you had any similarities.

If you did, it would further staple that you were the one who wrote those letters.

I feel like she might want to try to write a secret admirer letter to you too, but it never gets out of drafting. Each time she tries to write a reciprocating love letter...

Her hand shakes too much and she messes something up when writing back, or the ink of the pen runs out from her using it too much, or she somehow accidentally tears the paper from how furiously she's writing.

She'd crumble the paper up under any mistake, it has to be perfect, PERFECT for you! She can't hand you trash! Then you won't like her anymore!

By the end of the night, the trashcan would be over-piling with crumbled up papers, and she'd be exhausted, but she'd take out the trash to get rid of the evidence that she did any of it.

... If she ever did eventually finish a letter properly, she'd put it in a cute, clean little envelope. Actually, she might mess up packaging it in the envelope and go through like three before she gets it properly packaged, and she might put the letter down next to the books you read all day, be it a pile or the shelves, she'd find a simple, see able place to place the envelope, and then she'd RUN away from the scene, hoping you didn't see her, even though she definitely did make the letter very clear who it was unintentionally.

You two would be pen-pals, probably. I feel like she'd enjoy writing letters back to you, and having a cute back and forth thing, since she's far tok nervous to take the first step.

[packsvlog]

may i have a matchmake perhaps :3

so i’m 5’2 not that that’s important but i think it’s silly. i’m pretty high energy and get excited pretty easily. i love love love naps, like im taking at LEAST one a day. i make jewelry and draw in my free time, kinda hard headed icl, but i try to see ppls povs no matter the situation. ummm i went to cosmetology school for hair :3 IDK WHAT ELSE TO SAY HSSHFKGLP

hi, angel! you seem adorable, i hope you like this, but if there is anything (even the pair) you want to change, please send an ask again, I won’t mind!

✶ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yuuji and geto.

ps: this are different relationships, not a throuple.

For starters, Itadori Yuuji would be a good match to your whole self, I fully believe (let’s discard his taste for tall women, tho.) he would be mesmerized and able to match your freak energy spikes.

Like let’s say you decide to wake up at three am to bake some pancakes, wether your know or not how to, you feel the strong need and capability to do so. Yuuji wakes up the moment he feel your warm missing from the bed, he groggily goes behind, not noticing the scent of cinnamon and fried or burned pancakes, and he just sits down on the dining table and keeps you company with random talk, slowly his sleep goes away and he follows your lead — you soon learn he can be a terrible baker. But, oh well, now you have dozens of pancakes and a huge hungry boyfriend to help eating them, burned or not.

You love your naps, Yuuji loves movies. Any other person would be annoyed that you use every spare moment to sleep, but the boy loves that he can see anything with his little angel company using him as a pillow — is his badge of honor. In daily situations, any spare moment you have you go to sleep, even if Yuuji is over, your boyfriend keeps doing his own things, at first…Because, once, he admired how cute and comfortable you were sleeping with dozens of pillows and a fluffy blanket, the sky was pouring and suddenly, Yuuji yawned. He scooped you over in his arms and started to cuddle you only to fall asleep later. So now, if he feels like it or he catches you drooling during a movie, chances are he is going to rest his head on yours and sleep as well.

Itadori would never impose his hobbies and mannerisms on you, but he is a chameleon boyfriend, your hobbies are also his hobbies. So when he noticed your very unique jewelry, and you mentioning that you are the one that does them, he was wonderstruck by your talent and begged for you to make him some or teach him! Whatever you gift for Itadori, which consists mostly of bracelets and a special necklace, he wears happily. Waving them in front of anyone, just for them to ask about it and he proudly says his partner made.

Some date nights consist of you two just hanging out in your bedroom, making matching jewelry.

When you first told Yuuji that you went to cosmetology school, his first reaction was to say “That’s awesome! Like Frenchie, from Grease, right?”, his second reaction was to ask to become your lab rat. This man trusts you with anything, that’s a fact, and it does not hurt him that his partner can take care of him so well.

So yeah, I’m sorry sweetie, but this boy is begging for skin care treatment every saturday, colorful masks on your faces while you both watch movies and sip beverages from cute straws with matching pajamas.

Although, I think his favorite thing is the hair care part — Yuuji is very know for his pink hair, you love it lots and lots, and so does he, but my god isn’t change the most amazing thing ever? At first, you refused to do anything to his hair, until he begged you for a buzz cut and weeks later to dye the black parts pink and more two weeks, draw some strawberries on the top. Since then, sometimes, when you two are bored and his hair has been growing for some time, Yuuji and you come up with a new art for him, always at the palete of pink — but Yuuji secretly hopes one day you’ll let him dye it white or blue.

In summary, your relationship can be categorized as: your loving boyfriend who adorably thinks you are the most talented person in this world. For Yuuji, there is no one like you, and he is tremendously proud to call you his.

────〃✿ FUN FACTS.

◛ ₊· Sukuna is not mentioned because Yuuji does not let him come out when you are near, he gets more willpower if you are in proximity, but if he has to swallow any finger, he does not do with you on the school grounds.

◛ ₊· When Yuuji first met you, he revalued his whole tall girl taste, is not that he started to like short people, he just liked you.

◛ ₊· Yuuji is a nickname person, yours are princess/prince, angel and when he wants to do his hair, frenchie. But he doesn’t mind any nickname for him, call him baby or Yuujiiii, he melts right away.

◛ ₊· Yuuji special necklace made by you is a locket that contains a photo of the two of you on your first date as an official couple. He plans on showing and giving to your kids one day.

──── ✿ ──── ✿ ──── ✿ ────

Your second match is Geto Suguru, also know as energetic people trainer — you and Gojo his most prominent works.

With you, though, he obviously has a soft spot. Basically, is a little secret of his, but if Geto gets a chance to make you become bouncy and happy and talk his ear off about anything, he will do. Suguru wants to be your go to person to be yourself with those spikes of energy, cute right?

So let’s say you have been into a new book, you’re only reading the first one of the incomplete series and you are hooked already. Every chance you have, there you are, talking about it with Geto even if he has no idea what’s going on, he listens because it’s you — Suguru loves your voice. You explain the plot and the theories you have read on tumblr, you even give him spoilers (he doesn’t mind).

“So,” Geto asks when you stop rambling. “when are you reading the next one?”

You answer right away that the second book is taking a long time to be released, you reached the author via email at two in the morning once, asking about it, and he was rude.

Your boyfriend did not liked that, so he did his boyfriends duties — a week later, the trembling author appears on their social media giving the date of the book release, but you don’t have to worry about that, your boyfriend already got you one, with a beautiful designed cover for you and his dedication of love on the first page.

As a way to forever thank him, you spoil your boyfriend with a large amount of earrings and one ring. If Geto could, he would wear all of them at once but since he has only two piercings, he asks you to pierce some more. Whenever he has his hair up, his ears are shinning with intricate jewelry. In his hand, though, is the most detailed ring matching one of your own. He loves it, is a secret plan he has with himself to one day change it for a engagement one, but he would still wear this made by you everyday.

When you first met Geto, his hair was down and dried, like he washed it with dish soap. When the two of you started going out, not yet a couple, you grabbed his hand and brought him to your bathroom, using your expensive’s hair care product, bringing shine and silk texture to his long locks.

It was a pretty good looking mistake, honey. The man learned that day how much he loves his hair, and since he is not bothered enough to go buy his own shampoo and conditioner, yours is going to end a lot quicker. You get upset, and mad, and he laughs sweetly before presenting you with a large basket with many other products, some even better than the ones you have.

It’s not for only you, unfortunately, Geto loves the feeling of your hands on his scalp.

Geto also loves your hands on his when you randomly get energy to paint his nails. You don’t notice how automatic it is for you to caress his knuckles and hold him so dearly, it makes him feel so loved, this little care you have for him. He is adamant that his nails is always black, but if you pout long enough, and it’s the weekend, you can choose any color you want. By sunday he will be removing and asking for his black back.

Suguru and yours relationship is the one where he does anything for you, he enable your tastes, folds backwards if you ask. This man has no one else he loves more dearly. Sure, he can be a lot from time to time, but you wouldn’t have any other way, and neither does he.

────〃✿ FUN FACTS.

◛ ₊· When Geto asked you out, you told him you thought he was already in a relationship. He assumed you meant with Shoko, and while he was explaining it to you, you told him you thought it was with Gojo — he was disgusted.

◛ ₊· Gojo and you are good friends, he also shares your energetic nature, and that’s a nightmare for your boyfriend. He can handle you, he loves you! But Gojo and you together deciding to do a run for every store in tokyo to shopping from 8am till 8pm? Nah, he can’t handle it.

◛ ₊· It is a pretty common sight to have Geto grabbing your jacket or shirt to move you away from Gojo when it becomes too much.

◛ ₊· Once, he forgot to remove his pink nail polish with intricate girly drawings you made — principal Yaga was the one to notice.

◛ ₊· You are the only person allowed to touch his hair. Once you were obsessed with Hunger Games, and both of you watched all the movies with matching braids.

◛ ₊· As any other guy that loves to annoy their partners, Suguru uses your head as an arm rest, he loves it. If Gojo does the same, he beats his friend.

[mystarsohee]

Hi! What are your thoughts on XDH as caregivers?

-🧶

xdiz as caregivers !

genre: fluff

!!! non sexual agere, no cg names used

cg!xdinary, gn!reader

goo gunil 🐹

hes doing his best ok!!

very cautious and careful with you,

because the last thing he wants is for you to get hurt!!!

when you do get hurt, he feels like the worst person alive

immediately panics, and rushes to help you ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡

hes the sweetest though,

it takes him a bit to figure out the caregiver thing but he'll get there

he'll do literally anything if its for you

after you sleep he watches videos on things like how to braid hair, how to make cookies, etc

he literally goes down rabbit holes for you

you love it so much so the lack of sleep is worth it for him

kim jungsu 🐱

you think hes the coolest person in the world

only because he can play the piano

whenever he finds out you have a new favorite song, his mission is to learn it on the piano

will definitely give you personal concerts

WITH choreo too ♪( ´θ｀)

you'll play along too, trying to get him to complete your hand heart, making signs, etc

and your plushies will also join the fun!!

tried to teach you piano but you just like pressing whatever keys you want

loves holding your hand

loves it even more when you swing your arms back and forth while holding hands

kwak jiseok 🐥

the SILLIEST EVER.

i see him more like an older brother rather than a parental figure (idk how to word this pls understand)

like he'd get so competitive playing video games with you but he'll let you win anyways

he also gets super excited when you open a new toy he forgets its yours LMAO

but yeah he gives total older brother, like hes just playful all the time

(lovingly) teases you (^o^)

sometimes he goes too far by accident but he'll make it up to you with some ice cream and cuddles

he definitely loves to play pretend with you

again hes just super silly, and loves it when you follow along and be silly with him

your ipad is filled to the brim with selfies of the both of you making funny faces

kim seungmin 🦊

idk how you did it but he is absolutely whipped for you

has cuteness aggression because of you

like its bad

he just wants to cuddle you all the time

hugs hugs hugs

he just loves you so bad

you'll catch him staring at you and you just look at him like (-.-) wut

whenever the members are hanging out with you guys,

he gets all serious and makes sure they behave!!

he doesn't want them to be too loud or anything around you thats why

you could get him to buy whatever toy you want

only if you give him plenty of hugs of course

doesn't like letting you do anything for yourself

in a good way, you're just a little baby anyways

han hyeongjun 🐰

he loves to color with you

one time you got sad because his coloring was very neat, unlike yours

after that he made sure to never color inside the lines again

loves to read you bedtime stories

sometimes he'll make up stories too,

he'll get too invested and won't realize that you're asleep already

so patient with you

if you can't decide what you want to eat

he'll stay in the kitchen with you going through the fridge and pantry and coming up with ideas for you to choose from

paints your nails!!! (i wrote abt this btw hehe)

you two try to have movie nights, but your attention span isnt very high..

just ends up with you falling asleep tbh

its okay he'll carry you to your room of course （＾ν＾ )

lee jooyeon 🐺

takes playing pretend SO seriously

like the both of you will have foam swords in your hands,

and you guys are crawling around the house together so you don't get caught by the broccoli monster (≧∀≦)

you love it tho

he LOVES making you laugh

like he'll do whatever it takes

silly dances, dressing up in a funny outfit

accidentally turned you into a mega prankster

when he pranks his own members, you're usually around so you take from him

obviously since you learned from him he knows its coming

but he will 'fall for it' just for you

the two of you will team up against his members you will die of laughter everytime

he would definitely sing you to sleep

you end up not being able to sleep without him singing,

so he'll record a bunch of lullabies for you, even making songs for you whenever hes away!

authors note: HI ANON!! thank you for sending this in, i lowkey rushed it :< this is my first time doing bulletpoints or anything thats not a full fic so im kind of nervous!! pls send feedback!! i have another request waiting.. i feel bad because it was sent in a few days ago :(( but its also xdiz related so i guess this helped brainstorm!

[andorerso]

single dad Cassian but he's raising Kerri's kid after she passed away

or alternatively, Jyn was the godmother because she was Kerri's friend but she never really got along with Cassian and now they kinda have this kid to take care of

[heartorbit]

the star you've longed for

[chemicalarospec]

one thing I've noticed so far about Merlin is that everyone in this show is attracted to each other?? Epic bisexual polycule potential.

[gayymomgod]

could you even become half of what she was

[dailykugisaki]

Day 127 | id in alt

They hangin out on a building fr.

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[hauntingblue]

making a collection

making another collection with a threatening aura

[stcecelia]

mocumentary-style sitcom about an LDS institute class / student ward about all the shenanigans the YSAs get into. featured arcs include general conference viewing party, attending trek with the stake youth, returned missionaries adjusting to being off the mission, road trips to church historical sites, The Wedding Episode, someone invited their non-member roommate and the talks are kind of weird/its Fast Sunday, Baptism Episode, etc. would ideally include lots of references to LDS cult classics such as The Best Two Years, the singles ward, and such. also one character would have a Tumblrstake / Queerstake blog

working title is just "The Student Ward" but im open to suggestions lol

EDIT: IM SO SORRY I DIDNT MEAN TO TAG THIS AS LDSHADOWLADY I THOUGHT I DELETED THAT ACCIDENTAL AUTO-TAG LMAO THATS MY BAD

fun fact I used to watch Lizzie all the time as a kid (still occasionally do) and I used to think she was Mormon because... LDS hadowLady lol

[elarakive]

seeing kaito kid vs hattori heiji fanart on twt is making me scream im gonna

PLEEEK IM OBSESSED WITH THEM BOTH