gorgeys

[gorgeys]

ISA BRIONES Variety's Power Of Young Hollywood Party

[gorgeys]

ohhh challengers texts were like all three want tashi but tashi only wants readerrrr

OKAYYY😍

[gorgeys]

whoever left that emery walsh req in my inbox, just know that i went way overboard and now it's like 5k words and might be way different than what i originally intended...sorry not sorry

[gorgeys]

please i literally love your anora mlkheeva fic it's amazing could you make a sequel of that after the reader finished her shift and meets ani back there to finish what they started

A+ student ★ anora mikheeva x fem!reader

part 2 of teach me

word count: 1k warnings: basically SMUT - making out, grinding, clit rubbing

a/n: ok this isn't exactly like the request but it is part 2 of the ani fic a few months into the future. also i'm sorry if it's shitty but i just wanted to get this out before it got too long since the first part (as if 8 months wasn't enough...)

a few months into working at hq, you've damn near perfected your routine.  you roll your hips smoother, run your fingers down your chest slower, and smile so sweet that, from the neck up, no one would guess you're practically naked.  it works like a charm; you've been running through tens of customers a night who shove more cash in your bra than you could've ever dreamed of.

how have you pulled it off so quickly?

"well, i have the best teacher," you say with a knowing smile whenever anyone asks.

you're giving a dance to your eighth customer of the night when you make eye contact with her.  she's straddling her own customer a few stalls down, but her head is turned toward you and her lips are pressed together like she's thinking about something else entirely.  you tilt your head, grinding down a little harder into the guy's lap just to get a reaction out of her.  it's not much, but you catch her eyes flickering down then back up again.

'ten minutes' she mouths, leaning toward the customer but still a little too focused on how slow you throw your ass back.  you nod, arching your back, before you force yourself to look away and try to think about work and not how tightly she's got you wrapped around her finger.

as soon as you're both done and about fifty dollars richer, she's pushing you against the brick exterior of the building in the alleyway. while club music hangs in the cold air around you, her hands hold your shoulders tight against the wall, preventing you from squirming while her lips devour yours.  your hands hold onto her neck, manicured nails digging into her bare skin every time her tongue presses warm against yours.

"fuck, i think i taught you too good," she mumbles against your lips, taking only a second of air before attacking your lips once again.  the strangled noise you make is muffled by her mouth.  "you're distracting."

"not my fault you can't keep it in your pants," you say.  she grins at that, just as your hips lurch forward to grind against her thigh.  it's more intentional than the way you grind against handsy customers, like now you're finally chasing something for yourself.  ani, of course, can feel everything through the barely-there fabric of your panties.

"hmm, you're wet aren't you?" she asks.  her lips press against the corner of your mouth and her eyes flutter open to watch your reaction as she sneaks her hand under your skirt.  she easily cups your pussy and feels your wetness soaking through to her palm.  your body responds by arching even further into her, causing your head to fall back against the brick wall.  she smiles wide against your skin.  "wow, shocker."

one of your hands falls to the back of ani's neck, trying to pull her lips back onto yours.  you know you have limited time, and you want to make the most of it.  she lets you tug her just a little, then stops when her lips are hovering over yours.

"slutty girl.  you get this soaked for your customers?"

your eyes open, meeting her mischievous ones instantly.  you purse your lips a little and simply shake your head.

"no?  then who's got you all messy like this?"  she pouts like she doesn't already know the answer. 

"ani," you whine, eyes darting between her eyes and lips.  she smiles again, like she knows exactly how desperate you are.

"come on, baby, tell me," she says, teasing you by letting her bottom lip just graze yours.  when you try to surge forward and meet her, her hands are harsh at your shoulders, keeping you pinned against the wall.  "uh-uh, tell me," she says, dragging a finger up your neck and under your chin.

you part your lips slowly, a string of your (or maybe her) lip gloss loosely connecting them.  she can't take her eyes off it.  she tilts your head up toward hers with her acrylic nail under your chin.

"you, ani," you mumble before grabbing her by the neckline of her shimmery dress and pulling her lips fully onto yours.  she lets you this time.  instead of just a finger, her whole hand wraps around your chin, nails scratching your cheeks.

her other hand rewards you by rubbing hard circles on your clit over your soaked panties.  your hips immediately start grinding in slow circles, chasing her touch.

"feels good, ani," you moan into her mouth, letting her dominate the kiss.

"i know, baby," she coos, just before roughly biting your lip.  it snaps back in place with a quiet pop.

her fingers move to tease your entrance, still through your panties, to the point where your hips are bucking against her thigh and you're whining for her to just give you a little bit more.  but then she's pulling away from you completely.

she suddenly takes a step back and admires your form, heaving and still arched against the brick wall.  your lip gloss is almost entirely kissed off and your dress is hiked up high around your hips.  she'd love nothing more than to spend the rest of the night here with you.

"but you gotta job to do, don't ya?"

you groan out of annoyance.  she's made a habit of leaving you high and dry like this.  you can tell she enjoys seeing you so messy and miserable from the wicked curl of her lips.

"so you go make those guys feel good, then i'll make you feel good," she says, trailing a hand down your chest so it rests just between your tits.  "tonight.  my place.  okay, honey?"

you throw your head back against the wall.

"but that's in so long!" you whine like a spoiled brat.

"guess you'll just have to stay wet until then, huh?" she says.  she leaves you with a knowing smirk before heading for the side door.  "see ya inside, honey."

[gorgeys]

thinking about being cassie mckay's controversially younger girlfriend... (SMUT)

something about her and frazzled bangs has charmed me

you worked impossibly hard in med school.  cassie could tell from your first day in the pitt.  you followed her around that day like a good little intern, eagerly answering every question and scribbling every word from a doctor's mouth in your notepad. 

but she could also tell you'd burn out by the end of the year if you didn't start taking care of yourself.  she knew from experience. so against all better judgment, she decided to start doing that for you.

that's how you ended up sprawled across the couch in her apartment, getting properly eaten out for the first time.

she hated herself for it.  she gave chad so much shit for dating girls whose frontal lobes hadn't even fully developed, but here she was with a girl sixteen years younger.

in her defense, she had tried.  she tried really hard to not fall for you and your patient eyes and disarming smile.  but you made it really hard when you brought her coffee without asking, laughed at her worst jokes, and held patients' hands like you'd never let go.  her heart tripped over itself that one time she caught you rocking and humming to the newborn baby boy you'd both helped deliver.  after all, kindness was her love language and you spoke it fluently.

so here she was on her knees, teaching you how to take a break with her mouth between your legs.

her arms are looped tightly around your bare thighs, keeping them over her shoulders.  she can feel your heels digging into her back through her shirt.  one of your hands is clawing the fabric of the cushion under you, the other slides over cassie's forehead to her hairline, holding her bangs out of her eyes so she can watch you.

and god does she love watching.  every time your eyebrows knit closer together or your lips drop open in a whimper, cassie smiles into you like she's won a prize.

"you like that, huh?" she asks with that too proud grin, lips still pressed against your skin.  she only asks because she wants to hear you try to answer.

"mhmm," you hum way too high pitched, eyes screwed shut.  you're trying so hard to keep your hips pinned to the couch and not let them buck up into her face.

she chuckles lowly, eyes not leaving your face before she nuzzles even deeper and tongues at your clit like it's the only thing keeping her alive. she smiles again when your head falls further back against the armrest and a louder moan escapes your lips.

"you're so fuckin' sweet for me," she says, turning her head a little to kiss your inner thigh.

"cass," you whisper, half embarrassment half need. your head's turned to the side now, eyes still glued shut.

"hey, eyes on me," she orders.  she leaves another kiss on your thigh, further from your heat like a warning.  that makes you finally look down at her and see what a messy eater she is.

she's drenched in your slick, from the bridge of her nose down to her chin, but she's still smiling through it like the cheshire cat.

"good girl," she drawls.  then she licks a long stripe through your folds and your back arches like you've never been touched before.  "just need someone to take care of you, huh?"

you can't answer before her lips are wrapping around your clit and her fingers are pushing inside you.  you moan louder than before, thighs clamping around her ears and hand tugging her bangs.

once her fingers are curling perfectly inside you, she pulls her lips back from your clit with a pop.

"tell me how that feels, baby," she says.  she watches your lashes flutter while you try so damn hard to keep your eyes open, following orders like an obedient intern.

"feels so-" she intentionally digs her fingers a little deeper just to watch you struggle.  "mmph—cass."

"oh, baby," she coos, smiling again.  she kisses your clit, and your hips jolt.  "don't worry, i got you.  just wait till you're comin' on my tongue."

[gorgeys]

The Pitt + this article from The Onion

[gorgeys]

POTENTIAL | ft. T. DUNCAN

summary You’re Tashi’s prodigy – her golden player, her project, her obsession – and every serve, bruise, and whispered command in the humid courts brings you closer to the greatness she demands and the dangerous devotion you crave.

wc 4.3k words

warnings MDNI explicit, light dom/sub, light dubcon, power imbalance (coach/student), manipulation, mild violence (grabbing, bruising), fingering (r. recieving) in shower, toxic, degradation/some praise

pairing mentor!tashi duncan x fem!reader

“You’re useless like this.”

Her words sliced through the thick, humid air of the court, sharper than any backhand you’d returned tonight. You clenched your jaw, fighting back the sting rising in your chest as you adjusted your grip, wrists trembling from fatigue. The fluorescent court lights above flickered once, buzzing low like an insect trapped against glass.

Tashi stood across from you, arms folded over her chest, racket hanging loose in one hand. Her eyes tracked your every movement with cold precision, dark irises gleaming under the harsh lights. Not a single hair had slipped from her braid. Not a single breath came ragged. She didn’t even look like she’d broken a sweat.

“You think anyone cares that you’re tired?” she asked, tilting her head. “You think your opponent’s going to let you catch your breath just because your legs ache?”

You said nothing, swallowing around the dryness in your throat. The air reeked of sweat and ozone from the storm rolling in beyond the courts.

She walked forward slowly, each step echoing on the concrete, until she stopped in front of you. Close enough to smell the faint citrus-clean scent of her perfume. Close enough for her gaze to pin you in place like an insect under glass.

“Show me your grip.”

You held out your racket obediently. She tutted under her breath and grasped your wrist, her fingers firm, nails biting just enough to make you flinch. She twisted your wrist into position, ignoring the small sound of pain that escaped your throat.

“There,” she murmured, voice low and dangerously calm. “Better. You waste so much energy flailing like a child. Be intentional.” Her thumb pressed hard against your pulse point, feeling it flutter quick beneath her touch. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the faintest smirk ghosted across her lips. “Scared?”

You tried to shake your head. You really did. But her smile widened, dark and knowing.

“Good,” she said softly, releasing you with a little shove. “You should be.”

She turned away, braid flicking against her shoulders as she reset the ball machine. The soft whir of it starting up again filled the silence between you.

“Ready position,” she called without looking back. Her voice carried over the court, even and indifferent.

You fell into position. You had no choice.

She was Tashi fucking Duncan.

You remember the first time you saw her with perfect clarity. It was just before summer, at the Women’s Doubles Championship at Stanford. You walked onto the court with your partner of barely a month, racket slung casually over your shoulder, still laughing about something inconsequential.

The stands were mostly empty, early morning sun pooling across the faded seats, but she was there.

She sat near the back, hair braided tight down her spine, skin gleaming under the harsh court lights. Beside her, some guy with dark hair talked animatedly, gesturing with annoyance, but she didn’t even turn his way. Her gaze was locked onto the players warming up across from you, then shifted – scanning you and your partner with cold precision.

For the briefest moment, her eyes met yours. Then she looked away, disinterested. Or pretending to be. Even then, you knew she was weighing you up like an opponent across the net.

You played like a monster that day.

They already called you a prodigy, but you felt it then more than ever – the smooth snap of your wrist on returns, the controlled aggression in each volley, the way you forced your opponents to the very edge before you broke them. You didn’t win by overwhelming force.

You won by erosion. You liked the slow kill. The long game. Watching your opponent realise, point by point, that they could not outlast you.

You saw her watching you as you kissed the trophy for the cameras, your partner practically hanging off your arm, beaming with triumph you felt only in your chest’s hollow ache. Her boy toy was gone by then, bored before the final set even started, but she stayed. Eyes sharp, unreadable. Calculating.

You felt exposed under her gaze, as though she already knew your weaknesses before you’d ever played against her.

After the match, she approached. No introduction. She didn’t need one. Everyone knew Tashi Duncan. Tennis prodigy. Discipline incarnate. Her presence felt like stepping onto Centre Court – blinding, suffocating, electric.

She took your phone out of your hand without asking, typing in her number. Her thumbs moved fast, deft, like she was gripping a racket rather than a piece of plastic.

“I want to teach you how to clean up your game,” she said, eyes flicking over you with faint disdain. “You waste too much energy on theatrics.”

You scoffed, defensive heat prickling your skin. “Why? You trying to retire early or something?”

She tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. A faint smile ghosted her lips. “I think you’re decent,” she said simply. “I like potential. If you don’t want my help, I’ll—”

“—No, no,” you blurted, grabbing her wrist before you could think. Her pulse was steady under your fingers, calm and unmoved. “I… I want it. I want to get better. You’re… incredible. A literal god at this. So… yeah. I’ll take it. Thank you.”

Her lips twitched into a smirk, eyes dropping to where your hand gripped her wrist like a lifeline. “You’re cute,” she said softly, pulling her arm back with clinical grace. “Don’t suck up like that again.”

You blinked, throat dry. “Okay,” you whispered.

It felt like losing a point on purpose – knowing it was part of the strategy to win the game.

You sat on the sideline, sweat drying uncomfortably against your skin as you sipped water. Your arms trembled from the last set of drills Tashi had put you through. She hadn’t spoken when she left to grab electrolytes – just gave you that look. The one that said don’t move.

Your phone buzzed against the bench. Then again. You sighed, thumb sliding across the cracked screen.

Riley K: U alive? Court 4. 10 mins.

Riley was older by a few years, once the academy’s golden child before Tashi showed up and claimed the title with ruthless ease.

Everyone knew Riley hated her for it. Everyone knew Tashi didn’t care.

You found Riley leaning against the chain-link fence by Court 4, idly bouncing a ball off their racket frame.

She always carried themselves with effortless arrogance – sun-bleached hair half-tied back, tank top gaping enough to show the sports bra beneath, tanned arms littered with old, half-faded tattoos that had scandalised the board when she won state. She never moved like an athlete. She moved like someone who already owned the court.

“Hey,” you croaked, voice scratchy from drills. You tucked stray hair back, trying to look composed. “What’s up?”

Riley didn’t bother with greetings. Her gaze dropped over your body, lingering on bruises blooming along your biceps and collarbone like dark flowers. Like proof.

“You look like shit,” She said, half-smiling. The words weren’t a joke.

“Good to see you too, Coach,” you deadpanned.

Riley pushed off the fence, stepping closer. “Been watching your sessions. She’s working you like a sled dog.”

You shrugged, shifting your weight. “It’s paying off.”

“Is it?” She cocked her head, tapping the ball against her strings with a rhythmic thunk. “I see a kid who’s gonna blow out a knee before you even sniff a Grand Slam.”

“I’m not a kid—”

“Don’t.” Riley cut you off softly, stepping in so close you could smell sweat and faint mint gum on her breath. “I know she’s good. Nobody’s saying she isn’t. But her head’s fucked. She pushes until you snap. Then she watches to see if you’ll crawl back together just to please her.”

Something twisted deep in your gut at that.

The worst part was that you couldn’t disagree.

Riley let silence stretch, heavy and humid, before leaning in. Her hand came up to brush sweat-damp hair off your forehead, their thumb lingering on your temple.

“Come train with me,” they murmured. “I know her type. I was her type once, remember?” Their voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “You don’t have to bleed yourself dry for her. I can get you where you wanna go – without all this.”

Her fingers drifted down to your sports bra strap, tugging it lightly before smoothing over a purple bruise near your ribs. You sucked in a sharp breath. Riley’s eyes flicked up, reading your reaction like they were reading the scoreboard.

“She buy you this set?” She asked, voice tinged with something unreadable.

You nodded, heat flushing your neck. “Yeah.”

“That so?” Riley’s hand grazed your hip, knuckles brushing the exposed skin above your skirt waistband. “Tashi give you a lot of things?”

You swallowed hard, throat clicking. “I… I guess.”

“She’s turning you into her project,” She whispered, leaning close enough for her lips to brush your ear. “Her little toy. You’re too good for that. You’re too good for her to use up and toss aside.”

Her words prickled something defensive and guilty inside you all at once. Before you could speak, the air shifted.

You didn’t hear her approach. You just felt it. That oppressive gravity she carried everywhere.

Riley’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, their hand dropping from your skin like they’d been burned.

“Tashi,” you breathed, turning before you could stop yourself.

She stood just inside the court gate, arms folded across her chest. Her braid was still perfectly tight, her expression carved from stone. Her eyes locked onto you first – sharp and dissecting – before sliding to Riley like they were barely worth noticing.

“Didn’t realise we were holding career counselling sessions tonight,” she drawled softly. Her lips curved, but there was no humour there. “Still trying to poach my players, Riley? Thought you’d grown out of that.”

Riley opened their mouth, but no words came. Tashi barely glanced at Riley again. Her gaze pinned you where you stood. You knew that look. You’d seen it across the net before you’d ever felt her touch – the look of a player calculating where to place the kill shot.

“You done here?” she asked, voice calm and flat, but it cracked like a serve against your chest.

You nodded before your brain even caught up. Riley let out a helpless scoff, muttering under their breath, “Puppy on a leash.”

But you didn’t turn back. You didn’t dare.

You followed Tashi off the court, your stomach coiling with something hot and shameful and thrilling all at once. The silence between you thrummed like taut strings.

“I’m sorry, Tashi, I didn’t even—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was dead quiet, dead calm. The most dangerous tone of all. “Have a shower. You smell like shit.”

You swallowed, words dying in your throat. “But, Tashi, I didn’t—”

She spun so fast you almost crashed into her chest. Her eyes burned into yours, flicking between your pupils like she was reading your thoughts, your guilt, your arousal, your fear.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence pressed down heavier than any insult.

You dropped your gaze, shame prickling your skin like sweat. “...Okay,” you whispered.

You turned away, walking toward the locker rooms on shaking legs. You felt her eyes on your back with every step – like the promise of a match point she’d already decided she would win.

You sit in the locker room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a faulty line judge’s call. Six months. Six months of drills until your lungs burned, serves until your shoulder threatened to tear, footwork until your arches felt like cracked glass. Six months of her.

Her words echo through your skull like a rally you can’t end.

“I like potential.” “You’re useless.” “Like a puppy on a leash.”

Your palms drag up and down your thighs, sweat and anxiety slicking under your touch as you try to steady your breathing.

You remind yourself: inhale on toss, exhale on contact. But there’s no racket in your hand right now, only the phantom ache of her grip around your wrist, twisting your form into perfection whether it hurt or not.

You could fire her.

You could walk away from her borderline verbal abuse, her impossible demands, her mind games that danced the thin line between flirtation and degradation. You could find another coach. One who called you “champ” or “kiddo.” One who didn’t look at you like an opponent to break down point by point.

But they wouldn’t make you great.

She made you great.

Before Tashi, you were a 70% chance. A strong player. A promising junior. Since Tashi?

You’d become a 90% guarantee. A name whispered with envy and fear across academy courts.

And when you lost – if you lost – she made sure you felt it was her loss too. Her rage simmered colder than disappointment, like a serve slicing the line with millimetre-perfect accuracy.

But God, she got off on your failures. On your ragged breathing, your trembling knees, your whispered pleas for a break that never came. Her taunts cut sharper than any forehand.

“You’re kidding, right? You’re paying me to watch you play like a fucking loser?”

“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna win? Don’t you wanna tell your parents you’re worth something for once in your life? Or is that too much for you to handle?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on your breath. Ball toss. Contact. Follow through.

You stopped going out. Friends messaged less and less until silence became your pre-match routine. You didn’t care. Tennis was all that mattered. Winning was all that mattered.

No – she was all that mattered.

Tashi dictated your entire game.

What you ate, how you slept, who you spoke to, where your eyes went in the locker room, when you were allowed to take water. Every hour spent with her off-court felt like another drill. Another conditioning set. Another test of obedience.

And God help you – you loved tennis. But you wanted to be great not just for yourself. Not just for the trophies lined up like headstones in your future.

You wanted to be great for Tashi.

Because with her, every rally was power. Every serve was submission. Every match was another chance to prove that you deserved her control.

Between winning and losing lies everything that matters.

That was the first thing she ever told you that wasn’t instruction. Not feedback. Not critique. Philosophy.

“Winning is transient,” she’d said one quiet evening after drills, both of you sitting cross-legged on the court, backs pressed to the chain-link fence as the sodium lights flickered overhead. “It’s a peak. A single breath. But potential…” She glanced at you, sweat-damp hair sticking to her temples, eyes sharp and dark and impossibly tired. “Potential is infinite.”

You frowned, chest heaving with spent adrenaline. “But isn’t potential worthless if you never cash it in?”

A ghost of a smile. “Only if you think the match ends at match point.”

You didn’t understand then. You do now.

Winning felt good. Briefly. Like coming up for air after too long underwater – sweet and burning and dizzying all at once. 

But what she gave you… what she drilled into your bones every night under buzzing court lights… was a taste of that liminal space. The place between victory and defeat. Where possibility stretched out forever, as long as you kept moving forward.

“You’re not losing because you’re tired,” she said once, voice carrying over the mechanical rhythm of balls ejecting from the machine. “You’re losing because you don’t want it enough to kill for it.”

A ball whistled past your ear, missing by millimetres. You barely reacted in time to return the next.

“Footwork!” she barked, her voice slicing through your scattered focus. “I don’t care if your lungs are on fire – move. Again!”

You panted hard, sweat dripping into your eyes, the court blurring under the glare of harsh lights.

“You think your opponent cares if you die on this court?” Her voice dropped low, almost tender, almost cruel. “Do you think the trophy will cry for you?”

Another ball slammed into the net.

“Pathetic,” she spat, racket slamming down against the ball machine shut-off. The sudden silence roared in your ears.

She strode forward, gaze pinned to yours, her sweat-slicked polo clinging to toned shoulders, chest heaving only slightly from exertion. She stopped inches from you.

“I don’t train winners,” she said quietly. “I train champions.”

Your throat clicked as you swallowed, muscles trembling so hard you could barely stand. “What’s the difference?”

Her smirk was small and cruel and unbearably beautiful. “Winners want to beat the person across the net. Champions want to beat God.”

Your knees almost gave out at that, something burning deep in your chest. Fear. Shame. Awe. Love.

She reached up, fingers tangling into your damp hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a touch too intimate to be discipline and too cold to be affection.

“You want it, don’t you?” she murmured, leaning forward so her breath ghosted across your lips. “You want to be more than good. More than great. You want to be inevitable.”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Yes, I want it. I want it so bad.”

Her lips brushed yours, almost not a kiss at all. “Then stop crying.”

She shoved you back toward the baseline, picking up her own racket with infuriating grace.

“Again,” she ordered. “Until you become what I see in you.”

You stood under the hot water, letting it scald your back as your forehead pressed against the cool tile. Heat rolled down your spine, easing the ache in your calves and arms, but it couldn’t touch the deeper ache gnawing at your chest.

All you could think about was her. Tashi. Her bruising corrections. Her gaze that pinned you to the court as easily as a racket pins a ball to its strings. Her voice, low and venomous, curling around your throat tighter than any chokehold.

You dreamt of it too often—her touch rough, her touch gentle, her hands moving over your body with the same ruthless precision she used to guide your footwork drills.

You dreamt of touching her back. Of slipping your fingers through that perfect braid, tugging just to hear her gasp. Of seeing her come undone beneath you, just once, so you could know she was human.

You swore under your breath, trying to shake it off like sweat from your brow.

The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn. You felt her before you heard her.

Tashi stepped inside, the quiet click of the lock echoing in the empty locker room like the snap of a racket string breaking mid-serve. She moved around without a word, her presence cutting through the steamy air, a force as heavy as gravity itself. Only the thin vinyl curtain separated you, and even that felt like a lie.

“Why was she touching you?” Her voice came sharp and sudden, slicing through the hush like a perfect crosscourt backhand. Dripping with disdain.

You swallowed hard, letting water run over your face to buy a moment. “What are you talking about?”

She scoffed softly. The sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Don’t play dumb. She was feeling your clothes and your arm like a fucking leech.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “Oh. Right. She… she just liked the set, that’s all. Said the colour suits me. And she was…” You clear your throat. “Curious about the bruise.”

Silence. Then the faintest nod behind the curtain.

“I told her you got it for me,” you added quickly, desperate to fill the space between you with something—anything—other than her anger.

Another beat of silence. Your stomach twisted in its emptiness.

“Look, Tashi, I swear, she just… she offered to coach me, said you were a bit intense, but I’m not even considering it. Okay? I’m not.”

Silence again. Then:

“She’s pretty,” Tashi said suddenly, voice flat and unreadable. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Your brows knitted, confusion cutting through the heat. “Wh—I don’t… I’ve never thought about it.” You scoffed softly, nervously. “No. I don’t.”

“Well.” Her voice turned mild, almost amused. “If you’ve never thought about it, how do you know?”

“Because—Tashi, who cares?” You snapped, tired, aching, humiliated. “We were just talking. It means nothing. And even if it did—it’s not your business, is it?”

Silence. Then a quiet chuckle, dark and low. “Good girl. I didn’t know if you’d ever grow a spine.” A pause. “It’s cute.”

Cute. She always called you cute. Like a pet she was training to heel. Like a player she knew she could dominate across the net, every rally ending exactly where she intended.

“She’s got a decent backhand,” Tashi continued, her tone turning analytical, as if dissecting an opponent’s tape, “but sloppy footwork. She wouldn’t teach you anything you don’t already know. Or know better. She’ll be retired by twenty-five at this rate.”

You heard the curtain rustle. Then the sudden draft of cooler air kissed your burning skin as she pulled it back. Her body blocked the stream of water, the scent of her sweat and faint citrus perfume wrapping around you like an invisible grip.

She was still fully dressed—black leggings hugging strong thighs, academy polo tucked tight at her waist, braid perfect despite the damp heat curling in the air. She tilted her head, eyes raking down your exposed back with infuriating leisure.

You refused to turn around. Your forehead pressed hard against the tile, your arms braced on either side of the faucet. You felt small. Cornered. Vulnerable in a way that went far deeper than nudity.

“But you,” she murmured softly, so close now you felt her breath against your ear, warm and possessive, “you could last so much longer. If you keep listening. If you keep being good for me.”

She said nothing for a moment after that. Just let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, her presence folding over you like a weighted blanket you could never throw off.

“Tashi,” you whispered, her name falling from your lips like a prayer. Like a surrender. You didn’t even turn to see her.

She hummed softly in response, a low, satisfied sound that sent heat coiling down to your belly. You heard the scrape of curtain rings as she pulled it open fully, exposing you to her gaze.

Her eyes burned over every inch of your wet skin before you even opened your own.

“Turn around,” she murmured.

You obeyed.

The water beat down over your shoulders, dripping from your nipples, streaming down your stomach. Her eyes flickered over every inch of you, slow and deliberate, until you felt like your skin was set alight under her scrutiny.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she said quietly, stepping into the narrow shower space with you. Her shoes squeaked slightly against the wet tiles. She didn’t care.

You swallowed, chest heaving under her gaze. “I’m not. I promise.”

Her fingers reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. The touch was gentle. Almost tender. But her eyes… her eyes stayed hard.

“Riley’s not worth your attention,” she continued, her thumb trailing down to your jaw, pressing just enough to tilt your head up to meet her gaze. “You know that.”

You nodded, water dripping from your chin. “I know.”

Her eyes searched yours for a long moment. You weren’t sure what she was looking for, but whatever it was, she seemed to find it. Her hand slipped to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your wet hair, gripping tight enough to make you gasp softly.

“You’re mine,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You know that too.”

“Yes,” you breathed.

And then her mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t rough either.

It was deep, consuming, claiming – her lips slotting against yours perfectly as the water beat down around you. You moaned into her mouth, pressing closer, your naked body flush against her clothed form, the slick slide of your wet skin over her cotton polo making her hiss quietly against your lips.

Her tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you with slow, thorough strokes that made your knees tremble. Her free hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a rare, fleeting moment of tenderness.

When she pulled back, you chased her lips, desperate, but she held you still with her grip on your hair.

“Turn around,” she said again, this time softer. You obeyed without hesitation, heart pounding as you pressed your palms to the wall, water cascading down your chest, your thighs squeezing together with anticipation.

You felt her hand ghost over the curve of your ass, down to your inner thigh, before sliding between your legs to cup your sex. Her fingers moved with deliberate slowness, parting your folds, feeling just how ready you were for her touch.

“Always so wet for me,” she murmured, leaning forward to press her lips to the side of your neck. You shivered as her tongue flicked out, tasting the droplets clinging to your skin. “Does practice make you this wet? Or is it me?”

“It’s… it’s you,” you gasped out, barely able to breathe as her middle finger slid inside you, slow and deep. Your walls fluttered around her, drawing her in, desperate for more.

“That’s right,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just me.”

She kissed down your neck, each press of her lips sending sparks through your chest as her finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made your hips jerk back against her. Her thumb circled your clit with perfect precision, not too rough, not too teasing – just enough to keep you trembling under her.

But she didn’t rush you. She didn’t drive you towards release. Not yet.

Instead, she kept her movements slow and steady, her finger thrusting into you with devastating precision, her thumb flicking up to your clit every few strokes before dragging away again, leaving you whining with need.

“Stay still,” she murmured against your shoulder, her teeth scraping lightly at your damp skin. “Let me feel you.”

You tried. God, you tried. But your hips rolled down into her touch, your chest arching forward, forehead pressing harder into the tile as quiet moans spilled from your lips.

“Greedy,” she chastised softly, her voice dark with amusement. Her free hand came up to flatten across your stomach, holding you firmly in place as her fingers thrust deeper, slower, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that made you tremble. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

“Tashi… please…” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Please what?” she asked softly, her lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your flushed skin.

“Please… I need… more… faster… please…”

She chuckled quietly at that, almost fond, before slowing her thrusts to an achingly deep, dragging pace. “Not yet.”

You sobbed softly, your legs trembling so hard you thought you might collapse. The pleasure burned bright and constant, but she kept you just shy of release – bringing you close with a swirl of her thumb before dragging it away, thrusting her fingers deeper to make you choke on a moan, only to pull back and start all over again.

“Tashi—please—” you begged, your voice breaking, tears mixing with the shower spray on your cheeks. “Please… I can’t… I can’t… it’s too much…”

“Yes you can,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. “You can take it. You’re stronger than this. Stronger than they think. Stronger than you think.”

Her words, quiet and assured, made your chest ache. You let out a choked sob, nodding desperately as her fingers quickened finally, her thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect strokes that made white flash behind your eyes.

“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice low and reverent. “Now come for me.”

Your orgasm tore through you like a breaking wave, your body clenching around her fingers so tight it almost hurt, your knees buckling as your vision blurred with heat and relief. You felt yourself sob her name, the sound breaking and echoing off the tile as her touch carried you through it, slow and grounding, until you sagged forward against the cool wall, gasping for air.

Finally, she pulled her hand away, and you heard the quiet rustle of her wiping her fingers clean on her polo. You felt empty and full all at once, the only thing keeping you upright was the press of her body against your back.

She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, almost tender. Almost loving.

“Clean up,” she whispered, her voice returning to that calm, cold edge. “Footwork drills in twenty.”

And just like that, she was gone.

You sank to your knees under the spray, chest heaving, your entire body shaking, your heart hammering with something that felt dangerously close to devotion.

In that moment – between defeat and defiance, between exhaustion and adrenaline – you understood. Winning is fleeting. Losing is fuel. But potential is everything. 

It was what made her yours, in the only way she’d ever let herself be owned.

And that was worth every loss.

note: i love wuhluhwuh!!!!

[gorgeys]

hey, sorry to bother but any chance we’re getting a part 2 of “ex-mas”? i’m genuinely starved and dehydrated for more santana content. she’s living rent-free in my head and it’s getting concerning. pls feed the people 🙏

THIS IS AN UPDATE FOR ANYONE WHO FOLLOWS ME OR LEFT AN ASK IN MY INBOX!!

i’m gonna answer this ask because i have a lot like these in my inbox rn.

first of all i’m so glad so many people are enjoying my writing! it makes a girl feels special 🥹

the reason i’ve been sorta m.i.a is because i’ve had a lot of stuff going in in my life and not a lot of time to write. the only reason i uploaded that recent trinity santos fic is because i just finished the pitt (so good!!) and had a random episode of motivation to write.

honestly, i’m probably not gonna be back full time like i was before because my life is about to get even crazier, so you’ll mostly see me reposting things or writing the occasional fic.

as for the santana merry ex-mas fic specifically, i wasn’t exactly sure how to continue it…maybe pt 2 at a christmas party?? idk. it may or may not be coming out depending on my time and motivation.

also i have a lot of asks about pt 2 for the anora teach me fic. i have started writing it but i haven’t really found the motivation to finish it (sorry) but i am gonna try my best to get it out even if it’s a little shitty.

i also have a bunch of jackie asks. honestly, those probably won’t be done for a while because yj annoyed me so bad with season 3 it’s hard for me to get back to that headspace 😭😭

i recently watched scandal, the hunting wives, and the pitt so if anything were to come out soon, it would likely be for one of those, assuming i have another random spurt of motivation. i highly highly recommend all three of those shows! they’re all very different but very good lmao

lastly i just wanna say i’m sorry for being so absent! in a perfect world i’d love to update this blog more consistently, but realistically it’s just not gonna happen.

but if you do just wanna leave thoughts in my inbox, i’m totally open to that! i might respond with a short blurb or something, but i’d love to hear anyones cute (or smutty) thoughts about characters in any of my fandoms!

also one more thing. if you’re a fic writer or even if you’ve never written anything before: please write!! nothing gives me more motivation to write than reading other fics! the more the merrier! share your wonderful ideas with the rest of us!

ok thanks for listening to my podcast, hopefully i’ll be publishing some more stuff soon!

[gorgeys]

Please note I threw my head back and laughed at this one.

[gorgeys]

i care a lot ★ trinity santos x fem!reader

it only took getting assaulted for you to find out trinity's love language is violent acts of service

word count: 1800 warnings: physical assault, a little blood, trinity going from badass to loser in minutes

a/n: here i am again....writing fics about mean loser lesbians....and ignoring all the asks in my inbox...who's surprised???

it was nothing out of the ordinary at first, just another angry patient.  this time a drunk guy who for some reason thought he could diagnosis himself better than you could, as if your hospital badge didn't read 'doctor' in bold letters.  but instead of saying something snarky like that, you took a deep breath and stepped forward.

"sir, i'm still waiting on some test results," you said as kindly as possible, clutching your clipboard to your chest. "until then we've given you some morphine for the pain.  i promise i'll come find you as soon as i hear something new."

you gave him a tight, painful smile, expecting that to be the end of it, but clearly he still had some aggression from the bar fight.  you flinched when he began protesting and yelling in your face, spit flying every which way.  you turned your head away from him and made eye contact with dana.  she gave you a warning glance, one that said i'm gonna step in now, but you quickly waved her off.  it didn't matter if you were just an intern, you were determined to handle anything and everything.  you wanted to show everyone you could hold your own.

"sir, please calm down.  i assure you i'm doing everything i can," you said, taking a tentative step back.

"everything i can?  everything my ass!" he shouted. he came even closer, towering over you and continuing to drunkenly yell and insult you.  you only sighed, beginning to turn away.

that was when you felt a big hand on the side of your neck.  you had no time to react before he was pushing you toward the nurses' station counter, where your temple made hard contact with the corner.  you felt a burning pain as the corner dragged from your temple to your forehead.  your clipboard hit the floor with a loud clack and you slumped to your knees beside it.

you heard a storm of yelling around you, then the heavy footsteps of nurses and doctors coming to your aid.

"hey! hey!" you heard dana's voice ring out above all of them.  "back the hell off!"

you could only assume the man was still charging as you blinked rapidly and clutched onto the edge of the counter for dear life, trying to regain your bearings.

you turned your head to see him still standing over you like he wasn't finished.  but then, seemingly out of nowhere, trinity barreled in and slammed him into the wall.  she held him there, arms wrapped tight around his abdomen.  and though the world was still spinning, even you could see her jaw locked and her eyebrows knitted in an anger you hadn't seen before.

"don't fucking touch her," she mumbled, voice rough and too quiet for anyone but the man to hear.

you felt dana's hand on your shoulder and mckay's rubbing your side, allowing your body to relax just a little. security finally came bolting in, joining trinity in securing the patient.  but trinity wouldn't let go.

"santos," dana said, trying to pull trinity out of her head.  still nothing.  "santos!"

trinity finally huffed, then let go of the man and stepped back.  two security guards quickly tugged him away.

then she looked over her shoulder and finally saw you, still on the ground with blood dripping from the long gash across your forehead.

"shit, shit," she said, hurrying toward you and crouching in front of you.  she instinctively reached out and brushed a few strands of your hair away from the bloodied cut.  "you okay?"

you knew first hand that trinity has some difficulty comforting patients. but in that moment, with her round eyes soft, concerned, and looking at you like she cared way more than she ever let on, it was more than enough.

"yeah, i'm alright," you mumbled, the other two helping you up to your feet.  "you should see the other guy though," you joked, lips tugging upward in a weak, lopsided smile.

soft laughter echoed around you from the doctors and nursed that had gathered.  you only looked at trinity who smiled like she was trying not to, but couldn't help herself.  a small breathy laugh escaped her lips and it was more charming that you'd care to admit.

"you're tough, kid," dana smiled, rubbing your shoulder in silent praise.  "but looks like you're gonna need some stitches."

dana and cassie guided you to a newly empty room.  trinity followed awkwardly, hands in her pockets like she didn't know what to do with them.  they seated you on the edge of the table just as robby poked his head in.

"jesus, that's gnarly, doctor" robby said, staring at the wound before dana pressed gauze over it.  "you want me to stitch you up?"

he stepped into the room like it wasn't a question.  but trinity finally spoke up from where she had been hovering in the corner.

"i can do it," she said, hands still twitching in her pockets.  all heads turned toward her.  "i mean," she started, stepping toward you.  "i want to do it."

you felt robby's eyes shift from trinity to you.  you gave him a reassuring look and nodded your head before glancing back at trinity.

"okay," you said, voice so gentle trinity's heart throbbed in her chest.  she exhaled, almost like she was relieved.

"okay," she repeated quietly before jumping into action and grabbing every tool she needed.

the others, old enough to sense the charged energy between you and trinity, saw themselves out, but not without a few knowing glances.

before you knew it, trinity was standing over you with a driver in one hand, and forceps in the other.  you winced as the thread pierced your skin, but it didn't phase trinity.  she remained silently focused, hands steady and eyes trained on your forehead.  you chewed on your bottom lip, trying to stay as still as possible, but the thoughts swarming your head only seemed to grow louder now that trinity was in such close proximity.

"i saw you tackle that guy," you said, so faint you barely heard yourself.  you looked up, eyes finally finding her face.  she didn't look away from your cut.

"yeah," she said breathlessly.

"you didn't have to do that," you said, a little louder.

she scoffed at that while pulling the thread through your skin.

"yes, i did," she said, like it was obvious.  "he hurt you."

it was unusual how serious she sounded.  it had been teasing jabs and laughs between the two of you since the first day, when she called you "princess" and you shot back with "butter fingers" after her slip with garcia.  at the time, she pretended to be annoyed, but she secretly liked having someone who would challenge her instead of whining like the others.  especially when that someone was as cute as you.

you had been a dynamic duo ever since, even if trinity refused to admit how much she really liked you.  it only took you getting assaulted for you to find out her love language was violent acts of service.

you hummed, like you had just learned something you would hold against her.

"so you do care," you said, smile itching at your lips.

finally, trinity's eyes flickered down to yours.  her eyebrows knit together at the satisfaction on your face.

"shut up," she mumbled.  her knuckles brushed under your chin, tilting your head up to the perfect angle before she continued.

"it's okay if you do.  i won't tell anyone," you said, staring up at her.

she could feel your eyes.  she could feel them searching her face and it took every ounce of her strength to stay focused on your sutures.  it was quiet for a moment before she sighed

"i was scared, that's all," she admitted.  she brushed your hair back again with the swipe of the back of hand.  "don't do that again.  don't deal with guys like that without backup."

you looked down, smile spreading across your lips.  you knew that was her twisted way of saying yes, i do care.

"no promises," you said.  "besides, you tackling that guy?  kinda hot..."

"oh my god, shut up," she scolded you, but couldn't keep her lips from curling upward. "you're lucky i'm done, otherwise i'd mess these up on purpose."

you laughed, looking up at her through fluttering lashes, which did nothing but make her cheeks feel even hotter.  she let herself just look at you for just a second, your legs softly swinging and hands clasped in your lap.  she could see the creases around your eyes and your smile brighter than the blinding fluorescent lights overhead.  it made trinity's brain short circuit.

without thinking, she instinctively went to shove her hands in her pockets, eyes still on you. then she realized at the last second she was still holding the driver and forceps.

"shit, shit," she cursed, trying not to cut herself.  she quickly spun away from you and loudly dropped the tools onto the table.  she could hear you snickering behind her, the sound barely louder than the thumping of her own heart.

she glanced over her shoulder at you, like it was your fault she'd forgotten every standard medical procedure (it was).  but then you surprised her by hooking the heel of your foot around her calf and pulling her in between your legs.

"oh, um-"

she was silenced quick when your hand moved to softly rest on her waist.  her lips were still parted, but no noise came out.  you smiled up at her like you were in on a joke she wasn't while her skin burned under your hand.

"thank you, trin," you said, eyes never straying from hers.

trin.  you'd never called her that before.  but she liked how naturally it rolled off your tongue.

you pulled yourself up and stood in front of her on shaky legs.  before you could think about how bad of an idea it was, you impulsively leaned forward and pecked trinity's cheek in the gentlest kiss she'd ever received.  trinity went completely still, so much so that she swore her heart stopped.

when you pulled away, you glanced toward her, finding her eyebrows raised and her eyes a little wider than usual.  she just prayed you didn't see how red her ears were growing.

"uh, yeah. of course," she said, a little dazed.

she didn't need to look, she could feel you smile before you headed for the door.

"i'll see you out there," you said before disappearing, like it was any other day.

but it was, in fact, not any other day.  trinity was still stuck in place like she was paralyzed, hands stuffed in her pockets, mind replaying exactly what had happened.

you had kissed her.  actually, unprofessionally, softly kissed her.  and she liked it way more than she wanted to admit. and maybe, just maybe, she wanted you to do it again.

[gorgeys]

Margo & Sophie The Hunting Wives s01e04

[gorgeys]

the hunting wives fundamentally changed me in the best way possible

netflix really said for YOU dyke

[gorgeys]

the blonde ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ quinn fabray

“and anyone who’s ever had a heart, or sang a lonesome song, would sell their little souls. just to make it with the blonde.” ⋆˚࿔

warnings : pining

pairing : quinn fabray x female reader

word count : 0.5k

summary : quinn and reader being very much in love but even deeper in denial

authors note : i hope this fandom is still alive and if not this is my desperate attempt at reviving it xx

the fan was doing absolutely nothing.

it clicked and creaked from the ceiling above, pretending to cool the room while the thick july air clung to your skin like a second layer. outside, cicadas buzzed in waves. inside, the only sound was the hum of the old box tv and the occasional shift of limbs on your twin bed.

quinn was lying beside you, one bare leg tossed lazily over yours, her arm folded under her head, blonde hair fanned out on your pillow like something from a commercial. she smelled like sunscreen and cherry chapstick, and you hated how much you noticed.

"this movie is so dumb," she mumbled, chewing on a red twizzler as some shirtless boy on screen declared his love dramatically in the rain.

you smiled. “you say that every time. and every time you’re crying by the end.”

she nudged you with her foot. “am not.”

“are too,” you said, rolling onto your side to look at her.

she turned too, lazily, and for a second your faces were inches apart. close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes. close enough that your breath caught, because you were afraid—no, certain—that if you looked any longer, she’d see it. everything.

quinn blinked first, looking back at the screen. “it’s just hot,” she muttered. “makes my eyes water.”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. instead, you pressed your face into your pillow, trying to will your heartbeat into silence.

you’d known her since before you could spell your own name. she’d had pigtails and scraped knees and the biggest, bossiest voice in the playground. and even back then, you’d followed her around like a shadow, thrilled any time she chose you, claimed you, let you into her golden orbit.

but things were different now.

you were sixteen. she was seventeen. and it wasn’t just pigtails and scraped knees anymore.

“remember when we said we’d marry each other if we were still single at thirty?” you asked, voice muffled against the cotton.

quinn laughed. “god. yeah. we were six.”

you turned back onto your back. “still a solid plan.”

she was quiet for a moment. “you’d really want to marry me?”

you swallowed. you could hear the change in her tone—something careful, like walking a tightrope in the dark.

you shrugged. “why not? you’d boss me around. i’d pretend to mind. we'd adopt a dog. you’d name her something dramatic like ophelia.”

she rolled onto her stomach, propped her chin in her hands. “what if i said yes?”

you looked at her.

really looked.

her cheeks were flushed from the heat. her lips were sticky-red from the candy. and her eyes—those traitorous eyes—looked a little too serious for the joke you were pretending to tell.

“i’d say you’re delirious from heatstroke,” you replied, lightly.

quinn reached out, plucked a stray eyelash from your cheek. “make a wish.”

so you closed your eyes.

and you made a wish.

[gorgeys]

sitting outside the convenience store on main, the one with the busted neon “open” sign that blinked like it was too tired to commit. the concrete steps were still warm from the day’s sun, and mari sat beside you, holding a cold bottle of beer to the puffy skin under her right eye.

“she couldn’t throw a punch for shit,” mari muttered, pouting like a kicked puppy.

you tried not to smile, but it tugged at your lips anyway. this was your girlfriend. your mari. the same girl who danced in the shower to right said fred with the door cracked open, belting “i’m too sexy” like it was a war cry. the same girl who always had some smartass remark locked and loaded, who could tear someone down with a single look but would give you the last bite of her snickers bar without blinking. the same mari who, every time she scored during a soccer game, would scan the bleachers until her eyes landed on you, pretending it didn’t matter while trying not to grin like a fool.

but tonight, she’d gotten into a fight. over you.

you’d barely had time to blink before it happened some girl at the party talking shit, getting a little too loud, saying something ugly about you, and mari, protective and half-drunk on cheap wine coolers, had swung. no real form or grace, just a sudden explosion of fists and curses and shocked gasps. it ended with her eye swelling and the other girl complaining about broken acrylics.

you were still a little stunned it had even happened at all.

“you threw the first punch,” you murmured, cracking your own beer open. the glass was slick with condensation, cold against your palm.

mari snorted. “yeah, well. someone had to defend your honor. like a knight. a very sexy, slightly buzzed knight.”

you laughed loud, unfiltered. “you’re such an idiot.”

she turned toward you, her bruised eye already blooming purple and red like some kind of twisted flower. “but i’m your idiot.”

you looked at her then, really looked at her. her hair still smelled like herbal essences from the shower she’d rushed through after the fight. she was wearing that oversized green tee she always stole from her dad, the one that said “grunge is not dead” in cracking white letters. there was a small scratch near her collarbone, barely visible, and her knuckles were pink and swollen, like they’d never done anything violent before tonight.

“you’re lucky she didn’t kill you,” you muttered, reaching up to brush a piece of lint from her cheek.

“i’m fast,” she said. “also, i ducked. once.”

you raised a brow. “mmhm. and then got clocked.”

mari sighed dramatically and leaned her head against your shoulder. “god, you’re so mean when you’re right.”

you rested your cheek against the top of her head, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the night air cut grass, cheap asphalt, and summer heat. for a moment, neither of you said anything. the town moved around you lazily: a couple of bikes in the distance, someone’s dog barking from a backyard two streets over, the low hum of a streetlamp trying to stay awake.

“don’t ever get into a fight like that again,” you said quietly. not a scold, more like a plea.

mari didn’t answer right away. she tilted the beer bottle slightly, watching the way the golden liquid caught the light.

“only if no one ever messes with you again,” she said.

“that was corny.” was your only reply, but you smiled anyways.

[gorgeys]

love quinn x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fingering, exhibitionism (almost), infidelity (against joe :P) a/n: idc if this gets like two notes it's my blog and i wanna write about my wife ✊😔

her fingers smell like cherries as they slide over your lips to muffle the sounds begging to spill over. you can feel her breath hot on your neck, coming out in puffs. her body presses against your back. it keeps you pinned against the countertop.

your hand still fruitlessly attempts the task before you. despite your shaky grip, you try your best to whisk the batter like she’d shown you over the course of the last few weeks.

“that’s it. just like that. good girl,” she coos.

you buck back against her and squeeze your eyes shut. it takes everything you have to stay somewhat composed. but you have to. joe is only a few yards away.

he comes into view as your eyes reopen. over in the living room, he sits on the couch reading a book, oblivious as ever. all he would have to do is turn his head. just one glance forty five degrees to the left, and you’d be truly fucked.

but he doesn’t. his eyes stay locked on the page before him while his wife pumps her fingers in and out of you.

“you’re doing so well. you might just be made for this,” she praises, kissing the tender skin just below your ear.

your knees practically buckle. you let go of the whisk in favor of just gripping the edge of the counter. your breaths are starting to get deeper just as everything begins to feel more intense.

you know she can feel it too. she can tell you’re right there. she always can.

she works her fingers harder, snakes her other arm around you a little tighter. her tongue slips out to trace a little swirl onto your neck.

“come on, baby. cum for me. i’ve got you,” she whispers, quiet enough that it’s just for the two of you.

and of course you obey. it’s not like you could ever deny love. you release with a shuddery breath and bone shattering hold on the marble in front of you. over the course of these little escapades, you’d learned to hit the high without a sound.

she works you through it like always, thrusting her fingers to a steady rhythm until she knows your ready to go without again. only then does she ease them out of you and pull them out from under from the skirt you have on.

you catch your breath while weakly returning to rotating the whisk in the bowl, only hoping the blissed out state of your mind doesn’t show on your face.

she pops her fingers in her mouths and sucks them clean just as joe rises to his feet in the other room. you hear his footsteps approaching. as he enters the kitchen, the sound is just loud enough to compete with your thundering pulse.

he gives you a cordial wave like always, and you return it with the same level of friendliness.

“i’m gonna head out for a bit, got a call that they need me over at the library for an hour or so,” he says to love.

she looks up at him with the affection of a faithful wife. “alright, see you when you get home,” she says.

“you two have fun,” he says, a little louder to let you know he’s speaking to the both of you.

before either of you have the chance to respond, he ducks in for a kiss. his lips press against hers, the ones that had just suckled your arousal off her digits. he hums into the exchange, and a small part of you wonders if he can sense the difference, if he can register your essence on her.

but if he does, he doesn’t say anything. he gives her one last smile before leaving. you feel the tension melt out of your shoulders now that he’s really gone.

she walks over to you and gives you a tight hug from behind. her fingers dig into your waist as her lips coast over your neck again. her eyes bounce from the bowl of cake batter to your face.

“let’s get that in the oven, and then i’ll give you another reward for following directions so well,” she says softly. “i wanna hear alllll those pretty noises you tried so hard to hide.”

[gorgeys]

sorority girl!tashi x shy!fem!reader headcanons

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who rules ΔΦΩ (Delta Phi Omega) like a crown-dripping viper in designer heels, didn’t expect you to show up in thrifted sneakers and a hoodie that said “Camp Mathlete”—but she locked onto you from across the mixer like a tiger scenting prey. she didn’t laugh. didn’t sneer. she just licked the rim of her plastic martini glass and said to her VP, “i want that one.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who plays tennis for Stanford like she’s swinging at the patriarchy itself, all whip-fast legs and snatched ponytails and diamond-studded sunglasses, gets mobbed by frat boys and photographers alike. but when one of them puts a hand on your ass at a tailgate, she wraps her lacquered nails around his wrist and whispers in his ear, “i know people in housing. want to see what off-campus feels like?” he pisses off in seconds. you’re shaking. she kisses your cheek. “you’re safe, baby.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who calls you “bunny,” “doll,” and sometimes—when she’s drunk off pink cosmos and clinging to your hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered—just “mine.” no one else gets pet names. no one else gets her voice going soft and syrupy like that. no one else gets her climbing into their twin bed at 2AM, crying because someone said her serve looked weak and she hates crying but she does it anyway. for you.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who drapes herself across your dorm bed like a cat in heat, leaving behind vanilla sugar perfume and tiny scrawled notes like “wear pink tomorrow, bunny. for me? ♡” and “skip econ. movie night. you owe me cuddles.” she pretends she’s joking. she’s not.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who calls it a “glow-up intervention” but doesn’t change your soul. just tames the frizz a little. gets you lip gloss that tastes like strawberry cream. lets you keep your chunky rings and your vintage band tees—just pairs them with fitted skirts and thigh-high socks. “you’re gonna break hearts,” she says, tracing your lip with her thumb. “but mine’s off-limits. got it?”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who kisses like sin and spins gold out of it—slow, plush, always starting with your lower lip and ending with your thighs shaking. she moans into it, sometimes. whimpers, even. like she’s starving. like she’s wanted you since that first night you asked what ΔΦΩ stood for. “it stands for don’t fuck with us,” she’d said. now it stands for “devour, fuck, own,” at least when it comes to you.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who leaves lip gloss kisses on your thigh after going down on you like it’s a sport. no teasing. no warm-up. just a glittering-eyed grin before she drags you to the edge of the bed and buries her face between your legs like you’re the only god she worships. she holds your hips down with both hands and sucks until your moans turn to sobs. “such a good girl,” she croons. “awh… my bunny’s such a mess for me.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who handles your academics like your personal admin. color-coded planner. group chat alerts. sends you passive-aggressive reminders: “have you eaten today?” and “if you fail psych, i’m cutting your orgasms off.” she does your flashcards wearing only her pink velour hoodie and matching thongs. you never retain shit. and she doesn’t care. “as long as you stay mine, you’re passing.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who throws herself across your lap with tear-streaked cheeks after losing a match and says, “tell me you still like me.” she’s terrifying to everyone else. but with you, she curls in like a child. you kiss her temple and she falls asleep murmuring “love you more than tennis.” and she means it.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who keeps a Hello Kitty flip phone with bedazzled rhinestones and an ever-changing lockscreen—sometimes it’s her trophy wall. sometimes it’s a blurry photo of you eating curly fries. “i like my things pretty,” she says, snapping a pic of you in her bed, wearing her ΔΦΩ hoodie and nothing else. she sets it as your contact photo.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who has the power to get anyone blackballed from greek life with a single call. she once ruined a frat formal over a tweet that called lesbians “fake for clout.” now there’s an anti-discrimination policy with her name on it. she doesn’t say “i’m proud.” she says, “you’re lucky i’m here.” then she kisses your neck and pulls you into her lap.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who gets sloppy-drunk at alumni mixers and climbs on your lap, crying because “you never look at me first” and “why do you always act like i’m not the best thing that’s ever happened to you?” you wipe her tears. she kisses you so hard it hurts. the next morning she texts: “delete my voicemail if it’s psycho. also bring me iced coffee. xoxo”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who walks into a party like it’s a red carpet. vintage Dior, strappy stilettos, lip liner darker than her bite. she holds your hand like a leash. eyes anyone who stares too long. calls you “my girl” so loud it echoes over the music. she doesn’t just show you off. she claims you.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who smells like champagne, strawberries, tennis sweat, and expensive sunscreen. who chews cinnamon gum. who always has a pack of bubblegum lip gloss and a tampon in her tiny handbag—for you, not herself. she’s always prepared. always in control. unless you kiss her throat. then she goes boneless.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who is an amazing fucking kisser—hand on your neck, nose bumping yours, tongue sliding in like a whispered dare. she nibbles your bottom lip. she hums when she’s pleased. sometimes she breaks away just to stare at you and whisper, “god, i love ruining you.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who drags you into her twin XL after a late-night mixer, murmurs, “wear this for me,” and hands you one of her tiny pink tanks. she spends twenty minutes taking your hoodie off. not because you’re resisting. because she wants to savor it. like a ritual. like worship.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who knows the names of every exec in the IFC, every professor worth sucking up to, and every grad student who owes her favors. she could get you into law school with a wink. she could ruin a TA’s semester with a post-it. she doesn’t tell you this to brag. she just wants you to know you’re protected.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who whispers your name like a prayer when she’s on top of you. who holds your hand during sex. who sucks on your fingers when you’re about to come. who says, “look at me, bunny. i wanna watch you fall apart for me.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who stands on your side when you get into drama with another sister. who says, “she’s replaceable. you’re not.” who teaches you which mixers are worth attending, which are beneath you, and who to flirt with to get free drinks (but never touch). she polishes you. preens you. never lets you feel like an outsider.

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who sometimes forgets to take care of herself. who stays up helping you outline your poli-sci paper and forgets to eat dinner. who only drinks water if you hand it to her. who keeps aspirin in her bag because your cramps are worse than hers. she doesn’t say “i love you.” she says, “you matter more.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who gives you her bed on bad nights. who gives you her body on desperate ones. who gives you her loyalty, fierce and glittering and unshakable. who tells the world you’re hers long before she ever says the word “girlfriend.”

❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who doesn’t want anyone else. never did. not since the night you showed up in that hoodie, eyes wide and lips soft. not since you rolled them at her and she laughed, sharp and delighted, like someone discovering a secret. you’re not like the others. and she’s obsessed with you for it.

[gorgeys]

how about mari trying to flirt by teaching you how to surf? like I can imagine her laughing and teasing everytime you fall 😭😭

- 🦢

─ MARI IBARRA teaching you how to surf 🏄‍♀️

warning: fluff fluff fluff. nothing but fluff. + an extremely inaccurate take on surfing.

by the time you’ve finally managed to balance on the board without tipping over, you are absolutely drenched.

you’re not even standing yet, just kneeling as mari instructed, palms pressed down for stability, the foam deck wobbling under you.

your girlfriend is thigh deep in the water, watching you struggle with an amused expression. “okay,” she calls out, shielding her eyes from the sun. “not awful. i’ll give you that.”

“you’re such a jerk.” you groan, instantly losing your balance again.

“a supportive jerk,” mari grins, wading out further. “you begged me to teach you, remember?”

you had, mostly because you’d never surfed before, and she had, always bragging about her skill at every chance she got. to be fair, it was hard not to brag when you looked as good as mari did surfing, with her tan lines and hair soaked in saltwater.

“now get on your feet.” mari snaps you out of your thoughts, stopping near the side of your board. “pop up quick, it’s easy!”

“easy for you to say,” you mutter, trying to brace yourself. “you’re not the one about to get bodied by a wave.”

“baby, the wave is, like, two feet tall at best!” mari laughs.

the board wobbles as the next swell rolls through, nose tipping with the motion. mari reaches out, steadying it, her palm pressing into your thigh.

“okay,” she says. “just try it, i got you.”

so you plant your palms wide, gripping the waxed surface, and push yourself up (not quite graceful, definitely not as smooth as you want it to be). your back foot finds the tail of the board, but your front foot misses its mark entirely.

just like that, the balance is gone and you’re slipping as the board shoots out from under you.

yelping, water crashes over your back and fills your nose until you sputter up through the foam. when you break the surface, mari is bent over in the water, howling with laughter. her hair is dripping down into her face as she tries (failing miserably) to hold it together.

you glare and spit out a mouthful of salt water.

“oh my god,” mari wheezes. “your face, babe! your face!“

“you’re the worst,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your dripping face as you try to sweep hair out of your eyes.

she snorts, then swims toward you, giggling until her arms loop around your waist and her legs hook behind yours in the water.

mari clings on, koala-style, head dropping to your shoulder as she laughs into your neck. “i’m the best,” she corrects between chuckles. “promise i’ll kiss you better once you stop trying to drown.”

“you’re not helping.”

“hey, surfing is all about getting knocked down. i’m just…y’know, building your resilience.”

“you’re enjoying this way too much.”

she leans in and kisses your nose, then your cheek, then your mouth, all wet & salty. “maybe,” mari murmurs. “but you look real hot doing it.”

you go warm all over, your skin prickling despite the cold water. the next wave rolls under you both and you let yourself float with it, mari’s fingers tracing over your back.

“wanna try again?” she asks. “or do you need me to, i don’t know, hold you upright this time?”