Timing Repost!

timing repost!

Big Shoes to Fill

or, lily follows in her parents' footsteps.

an: i've only ever written small portions of stories from lily's perspective, and i think this was a fun little challenge at expanding that. i feel she needs more love. thank you @tashism for choosing this story, i hope i did you justice. extra thank yous to @newrochellechallenger2019, @artstennisracket, @ghostgirl-22, @grimsonandclover, and @diyasgarden for their willingness to help me out. it is not unappreciated.

tag list: @glassmermaids

Lily’s new shoes are pink, and the white rubber toes shine when the sun hits. She had wanted the pretty ones with the rhinestones, the ones that light up when she stomped her feet, but Mommy said no. She insisted the tennis ones were so much prettier, baby. That they were ‘professional’, the kind the big girls wear. As she looks down at them now, laces tied in a haphazard tangle by small fingers on the left, and a precise, delicate bow on the right by her mother’s hand, she thinks she should’ve fought a little harder for the light-up shoes. Her skin is tacky with sunscreen and perspiration, cheeks flushed, hands just a bit too clammy to hold the racket the way she’s meant to.

“Fix that grip, Lils!”

And then a flying yellow blur floats over the net and to her side, she stretches her little arms to reach, and hears that little tink of connection. It bounces, rolls, rolls, rolls… then stops like it’s proud of itself, right against the bottom of the net, the white line amongst the yellow fuzz beaming smug and stuffed to the brim with schadenfreude. Lily hears a sigh, the steady tap, tap, tap of a foot against the clay court, and then the half-hearted smack of hands against thighs. Mommy does this sometimes, when she’s upset at Lily. Or upset because of Lily’s playing, as Mommy insists is different. But, as far as she can tell, it’s still her fault. Mommy wouldn’t be sad if she could just figure out the tennis thing. And she just can’t. Not with all the coaching, or the miniature rackets, or the nights spent falling asleep on the couch because Mommy and Daddy are up too late watching matches to tuck her into bed.

Mommy went inside, probably for a break, maybe a little AC, maybe to stare at old photos of herself and breathe just a little bit harder. Sometimes, she swaps Lily out with Daddy. In terms of tennis, he’s rare to disappoint the way Lily was. He racked up win after win after win, smothered in trophies and sunscreen and something blue and bruised beneath his skin, and that’s what he was known for. So, he became therapeutic, in a way. A distraction, a lover, a means of vicarious victory, and the target of misplaced frustrations. Lily sits on the grass for a bit and blows some dandelion fuzz into the breeze. She thinks about what it’d be like to be a flower.

Mommy went to bed right after dinner (Mommy and Lily had a burger and fries, Daddy just ordered a salad), complaining of a headache that just wouldn’t quit. Her lips are quirked politely, something like a smile that never quite made it all the way resting on her cheeks. Lily knows that’s a fake one. She’s learned the difference. Lily knows it’s fake because her chest isn’t burning with that warm, golden feeling. Mommy really smiles when Lily makes a good serve, or when her drawings are deemed good enough to hang on the fridge with a little U.S. Open magnet. And Lily watches her face lift and her eyes crinkle and thinks, for a second, she really is as special as her parents say she is. She doesn’t feel that now. Daddy brushes Lily’s back with his fingers when he passes behind her to put the used forks in the sinks, Mommy doesn’t like the plastic ones, and she doesn’t move.

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Lilybug?”

She shrugs, huffs a little bit, doesn’t giggle when he blows a raspberry into her temple. She wants to, but she’s got to make it clear this is serious. Adults never laugh when things are important, she thinks. That’s why Daddy looks so angry during matches. He pulls back and frowns a bit, hands on his hips. She turns his way, and the visual makes her lip puff out and tremble a little. She can’t help it, really, but she just keeps upsetting people. She’s tired of making everyone so sad.

“Do you think Mommy is mad at me?”

He does something funny then, curves in by his tummy. It looks like the fallen Jenga tower from last week’s game night. Daddy always chooses Jenga, says he’s too good to beat. Lily always beats him, and it’s the only time he looks happy to lose. She thinks that’s silly. He pulls up a chair at her side, and she doesn’t like the way the metal sounds against the wood floor. It’s easier to be sad when it’s quiet.

“No, baby, ‘course not. Why’d she be mad at you?”

She shrugs, places a small chin in a smaller hand, stares at the granite countertop like it’s personally offended her. Like it’s staring back.

“‘Cause I’m supposed to be like you guys, and I’m not. It makes Mommy angry that I’m so super bad at tennis.”

He wants to smile, but he can’t, not when this little girl at his side is feeling things bigger than her body, than her vocabulary can provide her with a word for. Sweet girl, too, that she cares. That she just wants her mama to be happy, proud, something that isn’t going to wrack her with guilt for being herself. Still, he takes in that miniature pout, the one her mother so often wears in moments of her own frustration, and places his fingers in her hair, puffing up what had been pressed flat by a ponytail moments ago.

“She’s not angry. She’s just… well, it’s hard. You know what happened to Mommy. You know how bad she misses it. She just wants to see you grow so, so strong, like she was. That’s all.”

Lily nods. She knows. She knows as much as she’s been told, at least. Not with words or stories, but through little tell-tale signs. Through her mother’s insistence on long skirts, or taking extra with her lotion at the bend of her knee, right where the little white line is. She got hurt. Something band-aids and boo-boo kisses couldn’t make go away. She’ll get an ice pack for Mommy next time she sees her.

“But, what if I can’t grow big and strong like she did? What if I can only do it the Lily way?”

He pauses his hand’s movement in her hair, breathes through his nose like the air was pressed out of him. He wants to say that Tashi could take it, that she’s an adult woman who’s worked through these things, because she’s supposed to have done so. She’s meant to be able to feel pride in other people’s successes, rather than hate that they’re doing what she can’t. But, Art knows the resentment. He feels it some days, when he loses a match she’d have one. When Anna Mueller wins. So, he smiles, presses his lips to the curve of her nose, watches it scrunch.

“Then you do the Lily thing, and we watch you shine.”

She hums when she smiles, the way Daddy does sometimes when things are only a little funny, but mostly make her feel like her head is a balloon, and it’s flying away from the rest of her body.

“But she’d like me more if I did it the Mommy way, right? If I was good at tennis?”

He squeezes her shoulder with his palm, and finds that it doesn’t fit right in the cup of it. He thinks she’s grown too fast, and yet she’s still so small. And she’s too smart to lie to. He’s too dumb to know.

“I’m not sure, Lilybug.”

The answer is yes.

A few months later, Christmas lists were being made, toy catalogues searched, circled, conspicuously left by coffee machines and Daddy’s yucky green ‘First thing in the morning’ drinks. But they don’t make her all jumpy and giggly, the way a good gift should. So, when Grandma calls, her face shaking in and out of view on the screen of Mommy’s phone, and Grandma asks ‘What does our Lilybug want for Christmas?’, she replies,

“I want more tennis lessons.”

And she watches Mommy smile like she’s never smiled before, even though she tries to bend her head down into the paperwork she’s doing at the coffee table to hide it. It’s still see-able, and Lily can feel herself fill with that gold feeling again, from her toes to the top of her head. She just wants to make Mommy smile.

She’s been staring at this assignment for hours, and for all her might, she just can’t make sense of these numbers. Stupid logarithms. Stupid math. She shuts her laptop, watches her face turn a glowing white to a healthy gold in her vanity’s mirror. She’ll do it tonight, probably. Or in the morning, before early practice. She hopes her eyes are functional enough to write real, understandable symbols at two in the morning. She hopes she gets enough sleep to even wake up in time. She knows she can help it, but she still feels her stomach sink at the sight of a big, red ‘F’ on a page. She’s glad she does well enough in tests to make up for it, or her spot on the National Honor Society would be someone else’s, and, most importantly, Mom and Dad would flip their shit.

She flips her phone over where it laid next to her laptop, the screen flashing a text from Amy.

“Sorry babe can’t do tonight i’ve got dance and sth with andrew at like 7 :((( tm tho?”

Dance. It’s always dance. She remembers watching those clips of Amy on her Instagram story like they were miniature blockbusters, watching the way the fabric of her skirt moved when she bent her leg a certain way. How her arms flowed like waves, even if they were made up of jagged bone. Fucking dance. It’s not even a real sport, and Amy breathes it more than air.

“That’s alright :)) tomorrow then”

She pushes herself out of the spinning chair, pockets her phone and snags her earbuds from off the foot of her bed. Ignores the way her knees pop a bit. She’s been sitting for a while. Besides, she could use the practice.

“Where you going, Lils?”

Her mother calls from the kitchen, not looking up from some ad mock-up. Looks like another Aston Martin thing, if she can read it properly from where she is.

“Practice.”

She calls over her shoulder, stuffing one earbud in. She sees her mother nod, hide a smile behind the palm of her hand. Rare Tashi Donaldson, nee Duncan, approval. Her shoulders roll back, and her spine straightens just a little bit before she makes it through the sliding glass door.

She came back inside at 11 pm. Four missed calls from Amy and a ‘Hey plans got canceled you still free???’ lighting up her lockscreen, blocking out the tennis ball in the photo of a little her, fairy wings, missing front teeth, and a racket half the size of her current one. Maybe she should change it to her with friends.

She walks past the empty dinner table, bowl of something still steaming and waiting for her at her usual spot in the corner, dropping with a haphazard flop onto the couch, clicking the TV on.

“So, pick me, choose me-”

“Fifteen found dead in Oakland, Cali-”

“And little Ms. Duncan, daughter of famed tennis couple Art Donaldson and the former Tashi Duncan has had a great season so far. So far, undefeated, and with just a few weeks before the Junior Opens, she really has a shot at the win. Thoughts?”

She sits up a little, watches pictures of her flash, half-way through a grunt, braid whipping behind her. There had to have been a better photo of her.

“Well, Rog, I’d just like to see a little more out of her. I mean, what with her mother being what she was, it’s just a shame to see it look so much more aver-”

The TV is off with a click. She shuts her eyes, rubs at her temples, lightly raps her knuckles against her head like it’d knock out the sound. She thinks they’re wrong. She hates that they’re right. She wishes it was more natural. Everyone knew her mother was dead in a living body till she stepped on that court, and it all clicked into raw, animalistic passion. With Lily? Procedure. She didn’t feel adrenaline, or a spark, or anything but duty. Steps. Tired. She falls asleep in the fetal position, alarm unset. She only has enough time to step out the door before early morning practice when she’s up.

Her opponent’s get a birth mark on her right shoulder the shape of a ballet slipper. It’s just a little darker than the rest of her skin, only visible when she served. Her mother is sat on the stands behind this girl, hands braced on the rails like she’s ready to pull herself over and onto the warm clay ground beneath her if things go south. But, for now, the score’s even, like it has been the whole match, and that wedding ring is glinting in the light. She’s not even the court and she’s controlling it, back straight and face stony like an emperor watching two gladiators in the colosseum. She just hopes she’s not the one ending with her head detached.

She can’t see Dad, thinks he’s probably gone to get a hot dog, now that he can eat them again, or maybe he’s just too non-threatening to matter to her right now. But, vaguely, she thinks she remembers hearing a ‘That’s my girl’ in that stupid, slightly nasally voice she pretends to hate as much as she can. You’re not supposed to like your parents at her age. Her mother is staring, she can tell. Those sunglasses don’t hide a thing. She can read her mother better than that, and they both know it. She’s thinking. Something. Something sharp, biting, maybe hurtful. Maybe hurt. She doesn’t see her opponent set up to serve, she doesn’t see the birth mark slip into view, just a bright yellow blur headed her way. She lunges as best she can, practically on the tips of her toes to make it, and she hears a tink. And then a crunch.

She kisses the concrete like it grabbed her by the hair and pulled her in, and her teeth scrape her tongue and leave gapped indents there, heavy and bleeding. She doesn’t hear her mother, or the gasps of the spectators, or the medics asking the other girl to clear the ground. She can hear her own breath, her pulse, and laughter. Wild, hysterical laughter she only notices is coming from her when she looks down and sees her stomach contracting with it. And then she sees it, that abnormal, jagged looking leg of hers. Bone not made to wave. And she cries as hard as she’d laughed.

“Hey, Dad?”

It’s later than he’s normally up. Generally, he’s out at 9 p.m., still careful to be healthy where he can be. Where it’s normal.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed? You’ve got prac… what’s up, Lily?”

She bites her lip, shifts back and forth on her feet the best she can. Her right leg is just a bit more bent than the left, wrapped in soft, beige bandages. She didn’t like the brace. She doesn’t want to look at him, so she looks at the wall. There’s a photo of Mom, fist raised, mouth agape in a scream, dress white and pristine. The Junior Opens. She sniffs.

“Can I just… I don’t know. Can we pretend like I’m little again?”

He shifts, pats his lap, smiles like it’s the only thing keeping something aching and raw at bay. Something that’s needed to be touched for years.

“‘Course, Lilybug.”

And she falls into place like it hadn’t been ages. Like she’s allowed to like her Dad, head on his thigh, eyes trained on the coffee table. There’s a letter from some college there with her name on it, somewhere cold and rainy. Somewhere they could use a name to their tennis team.

“How’s Mom?”

He tilts his head to look down at her, the side of her head, the shell of her ear, the soft lashes of her eyes that are slightly damp.

“Oh, Lily… how are you?”

She swallows, places a hand on his thigh and squeezes there, not tight, but firm. Like it was a natural place to settle. Something unharmed and soft and a healthy, functional leg. Her throat tightens. The world looks blurry. She thinks the letter says Yale. The water makes it hard to tell. Her voice is just a bit too quiet when she responds.

“‘M fine.”

It’s silent for a moment, one heavy breath, then his lighter one. A volley. She rolls onto her back to look him in the eyes, and finds a spot of brown in the left one. How had she never noticed that before? It looks like the color of Mom’s eyes. Even he’s got her little territorial marks on him.

“Can I say something stupid?”

He nods, hums his affirmation, waiting like it’s all he wants to do. To look at her and wait and let it just be quiet. She appreciated the stillness. It’s easier to be sad when it’s quiet. It’s easier to love then, too, melancholic and bittersweet and sticky like saltwater taffy.

“I always wanted to dance.”

He buries her face into his stomach when her lip trembles. She wouldn’t want him to see. He doesn’t want her to see his watching teartracks. In the room over, Tashi sits with her head in her hands and her eyes downcast. She hopes Lily would consider a coaching position.

Take It Like a Champ!

or art and reader are loser virgins

an: hey look its talia trying smut out. and it even got the art donaldson seal of approval (see first photo). specialest of thanks to @artstennisracket, @cha11engers, @jordiemeow, @diyasgarden and the BIGGEST special thank you to @newrochellechallenger2019 i love you all. this was the poll thing so wooooo hope you enjoy.

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Trying to watch movies with Art is always a thing. First, he’ll take at least seven bathroom breaks. Every time. Without fail. It’s kind of impressive, but a part of you doubts that he even needs them beyond that weird calm that just comes from sitting in a cold, tiled room for a few minutes. By the time his fingertips have gone pruney from the amount of times they’ve been run under the faucet, he’s digging under his bed for snacks, looking almost canine with the way he scratches at nothing but carpet, legs sticking out behind him. You’ve brought them, too, knowing the routine, but he absolutely insists on pitching in with a three month old bag of unsalted popcorn. But hey, it’s the thought that counts. But you’re finally here, and his hyperactive body just won’t sit still. It wouldn’t bother you if he wasn’t absolutely insistent on holding you between his open legs, back to chest, chin to shoulder, and watching you watching whatever chick flick it is you’d brought (he thinks that’s Mark Ruffalo?). Unfortunately for you, he is that insistent, and so is whatever has been poking at your back for the past 34 minutes and 52 seconds, based on the time left on the movie (‘Wait, you’ve never seen 13 going on 30?).

“Art, if you keep pressing your bony fucking knees into me, we’re gonna have a problem.”

He swallows around nothing, close enough you can hear the saliva in his throat push over itself in a wave and glide down his throat. He nods, spreads his legs a bit wider allowing you more room. Huh. Must be his keys.

“Art, seriously, can you-”

And then you’re met face to face with a bright red Art with quite the obvious issue.

“Uhmm…” you both say at the same time, staring at each other, eyes wide, breathing heavy.

“Shit, sorry. I am so fucking sorry, I can’t control it-”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine! I mean, it’s like, nice? No, it’s flattering, or-”

You both stop rambling at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes and giggling like idiots. Bashful around each other for the first time in the months since you’d started seeing each other. Seeing each other? Sounds too adult. Regardless of a label on things, it’s been months of innocent kisses and this stupid movie night routine, and absolutely nothing beyond a bit of hands under shirts and slipping tongues. There was one time he caught you changing after a shower, down to just some ugly cotton panties you’d never choose to wear if you knew he’d see them and a bra, and he got so embarrassed he left the rest of the day.

“Do you… want me to do something about it?”

He looks down, and if the fact he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon is telling you anything, it’s that he wants you to.

“No, uh… ‘s fine.”

Oh.

“So… um…”, you both say simultaneously, lips pulling into Cheshire Cat grins. ‘You first!’, ‘Jinx!’ It’s cute, in a way, to be so in sync, but it’s really not getting you anywhere.

“Art… I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, but are you sure you don’t want some… assistance with that? For one, I feel like that’s gotta hurt, but also I wouldn’t offer unless I wanted to.”

He seems to go brain dead for a moment, staring at you with his jaw hanging open, and he doesn’t even notice when you place three fingers under his chin to pop it into place. You can practically see your words slowly bouncing around the inside of his skull, not unlike the DVD screensaver. All at once, he comes back to consciousness, haphazardly tugging at his shirt to pull it over his head.

“Yeah, fuck, please-”

The sudden transition from entirely reluctant to stripping like his clothes are burning off his skin is a bit jarring, but you aren’t going to even pretend to be upset about it. Especially not when he finally gets his sweats off (‘Ha… sorry, these are… strings are really tight’) along with his boxers and he’s staring at you like you’ve got the solution to all his problems in your potentially capable hands… or mouth.

He leans up on his elbows, loose and uncoordinated in his movements like a poorly handled marionette, to press a brief kiss to your lips. He settles back down, staring at himself like he’s never seen his own body before, then meets your equally shocked gaze.

“Um… good luck?”

You roll your eyes, don’t even justify the comment with a ‘thank you’, and start searching your wrist for a hair tie. That’s a thing girls mention when they talk about giving head, as you can recall from drunken conversations with your much more adventurous friends.

“Why are you scratching your wrist so hard?”

You look down. Not one in sight. Awesome.

“Shush. Just let me… do it.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but closes it soon after, shrugging briefly as he lays back. Look down, look up, his eyes are screwed shut so tight his eyelids have wrinkled.

“Why do you look so scared? I’m not gonna, like, bite it or anything. I mean, unless you want me to-”

“I do not.”

You huff, suck in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. You lean down, tentatively poking your tongue out from between your lips to take his weeping tip in. You press a light kiss to his thigh first, smooth skinned and just as red as the rest of his body from some combination of heat and anticipation.

“Eugh.”

He pops his right eye open, leaving him perpetually winking, his face running even redder. God, this man cannot hide anything he’s feeling to save his life, and especially not right now.

“Is it bad?”

“No, you just… it’s like pool water.”

“It’s like what?”

He shuts up fairly quickly when you pick up where you left off, thank god, dipping his head back. Right back to the clamped shut eyes, which hopefully isn’t an indication of anything hurting. Hopefully.

It’s an odd feeling for sure, being close enough to legitimately taste him, and he smells kinda sweaty in a way that’s somehow still appealing? You’ll never quite understand how everything he does manages to have this innate beauty to it, and that includes the gross, human being stuff, too. He’s fucking whiney, too. You’re not entirely sure that he isn’t in agony at this point, considering the way he’s writhing around. Whimpering. Pathetic. Cute. When he grabs at your hair, though, just a bit too tightly to be pleasant, you get the idea you’re doing a good job. Bonus points for removing the need to tie your hair back. You can feel your throat starting to burn a bit from the lack of oxygen, sucking in a sharp breath through your nose, though it still feels inadequate with everything else. Art couldn’t care less, that or he’s genuinely too unaware of his surroundings to notice the incredibly obvious gagging on your end, caught up in babbling up at the ceiling about how good it feels, hands covering his closed eyes.

“Wait, shit, hold on-”

You register the feeling of something hot shooting down your throat before the words, pulling yourself off of him with a wet pop and a hacking cough. You glare at him through teary eyes, obviously provoked by his carelessness, pushing air out of your lungs and into the crook of your elbow. When you look down at the skin, little flecks of white appear mixed in with your spit. Gross.

“W-hat the fuck, Art?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just thought- I don’t know, I thought you’d take it like a champ!”

This absolute moron. When you’ve caught your breath again, you crawl up the length of his body to press a kiss to his pretty, pouting lips and god please don’t let there be cum on your mouth. With the enthusiasm he returns it with, hands pressed flat on your back, softly humming from the back of his throat, you’re guessing there’s not. Or he likes that there is. Neither would shock you. You sit back on your heels, wipe your lips, they’re clean, and seem all too proud of yourself for having given what was probably just subpar head.

“So… come here often?”

He frowns, looking genuinely concerned for far longer than was comfortable.

“Babe, that was the first time we’ve ever-”

“Jesus Christ, let’s just go to bed.”

247 notes View Post

asheepinfrance

1 month ago

It viscerally pains me whenever someone says Tashi pushes Art to do tennis. Pushes him to perform on that level specifically because she wasn't able to. Not only is just a bad take on the characters, depriving Art of autonomy and Tashi of nuance, but also...do people not realize how painful it would be for her to see that? to be close to every achievement she knew she would have reached in half of the time, and knowing she can't even claim it for her own? It's masochistic just to read, and Tashi is many things (strong and ambitious, to name a few) but never masochistic. She starts to coach Art because he asks for it, she continues because he wants it. It is a mutual choice, one that ends up hurting both of them in their own way, but still a mutual decision.

Whatever pleasure some people like to make it seem like she'd gain from pushing Art to his brink is truly nonexistent.

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asheepinfrance

2 weeks ago

PUT ME IN COACH

GIMME

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asheepinfrance

1 month ago

if you haven't gotten sick of seeing me on your timeline, i'm not doing it right. i'm like a challengers fan fiction cold sore! i'm not sure if i like this, but then again, i say this about everything i've ever posted and still make it publically available. i hope it's cute and just yearny (??) enough because what is a challengers fan if not a yearner? i will probably post something again in the next 24 hours maybe less so.. who's ready for a patrick fic? patfic. woah... hope you enjoy and feel free to leave tips and critiques as per usual<3

Societal conventions of platonic relationships are boring, and that’s why you all rejected them. I mean, sure, every time you said that you weren’t dating one of them the response was always “You know you can tell me anything, right?” but seriously! You’re all just very good friends. Best friends, more accurately. So, yes, you helped each other out. That’s what friends are for. Patrick needs a fake girlfriend for one of his parents’ parties? You and Tashi are on it. Art wants a date to some tennis gala? You’re all jumping at the chance. It’s not like it’s hard to fake something like that, because you’re all close already. A kiss on the cheek and a hand on the waist are essentially nothing. You wouldn’t bat an eye if it happened outside of one of those contexts, either. So it’s fine when it does, and it doesn’t make your heart race.

It also never bothered you to admit that they were incredibly beautiful people, because that’s just a conclusion that you can draw by having eyes. Even without your little set up, you’d certainly feel that way. So Tashi’s birthday party, which she’d dragged you all to some club you can’t legally be in for, was fine. It was fine that Tashi was dancing with her arms outstretched above her head like a prayer, slightly offbeat to the timing of the song, and yet still so in place. She’s dancing like she forgot there’s always eyes admiring her, skirt swaying around her long legs, eyes closed like she’d absorb the moment if she concentrated enough. And she looked gorgeous, the way she always did. Which you’re allowed to say, because best friends always support their best friends. And sure, when she opens her eyes and waves at you from her spot on the floor you start giggling despite having had nothing to drink, but it’s because you’re happy for her. It’s extra fine that Patrick soon comes up to join her, large hands to sharp hip bones, and they start swaying like one unit, and they both look lost in one another until suddenly they’re lost in you. You don’t bristle when Art leans into your side and mumbles that someone ‘looks really good, huh?’ and you don’t quite make out if the sentence started with ‘he’ or ‘she’.

It’s fine when Tashi pulls you up to some makeshift platform of a stage for karaoke, screaming the lyrics just a bit too loudly into the microphone, and clinging onto you for dear life. There’s a second mic hanging limply to your right, but it’s been deemed unnecessary because she’d insisted on pulling you close and sharing the one in her hand. From this close, you can smell the perfume she’d chosen for the night, which you note isn’t her signature, and the faint coconut of her shampoo. You can make out two sets of smiling eyes from the same shitty table you’d claimed, nursing drinks in calloused hands that still manage soft touches.

It’s fine when you get a little solo and you manage to squeak out a few notes, voice thick with nerves and lack of proper use, and feel the way that three people’s worlds have stopped to take in each sound before they pass. They’re committing you singing to memory, and you’re not sure what’s telling you as much, but you know it’s true. It’s fine when the song’s over and Tashi leads you back to the table with a hand on your lower back, and her fingers are so long that your mind drifts without your permission, and your steps become a bit more rigid than they’d usually be.

It’s fine when you’re pressed between Patrick and Art in the rented limo Patrick had arranged using his parents’ money, and two different hands meet your thigh, and you can just barely feel Patrick’s pinky grazing the hem of your skirt. It’s fine when Art begins feeding you praise like it’s his life’s goal to make you drown in it, because the compliments sound sweeter in his voice, so you can take that sickening butterfly flutter in your ribcage and crush it under the stiletto point of your heel.

It’s fine when you’re all laying on dew-dampened grass somewhere near Patrick’s apartment, staring up at the sky, and the crowns of your head are all touching, because there’s a need to not acknowledge the obvious, and a deeper need to indulge in it. There’s a voice in the wind that’s rustling Tashi’s hair and creasing Art’s shirt that’s telling you to just give in to yourself. You wonder if it’s only talking to you. It’s fine when you turn to look at Patrick to find he’s already looking at you, and he’s got the wonder in his eyes you see on people gazing into a Van Gogh. He’d take staring at you over any painting in a heartbeat, he’d tell you if you asked.

It’s fine when you find yourself in Patrick’s bed, goosebumps littered across cold-air-kissed skin, with your back to Tashi’s chest, and she’s cradling your head like it’ll fall off if she doesn’t hold it up herself. You find yourself liking the feeling of Art’s lips scattering feather-light kisses across the inside of your thighs. You lean further back against Tashi when she starts cooing some kind of praise you’re too hazy-minded to make out, but it sounds nice with the inflections of her voice, demanding but soft. You don’t mind watching Patrick’s lips connect with Tashi’s, then with Art’s, because you can focus in on how their bodies melt and their fingers bend. You can pick up on each little click of a broken kiss, and each sigh of a newly formed one. The night’s some kind of haze of warm hands, adoring eyes, and wandering lips with glints of white teeth that you can’t quite put in place. What you can definitively say is that it felt like coming home. It felt like sleeping in your bed for the first time since you’ve been away, and it molds around your shape like you hoped it would. It feels like falling asleep with Tashi’s hair in your face and a pool of Patrick’s drool building atop your stomach and not caring. It feels like getting a kiss goodnight from Art because he’s just as naked and giddy as you are.

It’s fine to admit to yourself that you’re in love when you don’t want to be. Love apparently didn’t care that you wanted a step-by-step plan, a playbook, a set of rules to follow. Love didn’t care that you’d been planning on keeping things simple, because lack of acknowledgement means lack of potential rejection. Love didn’t care because love is like a mother, it knows what’s best for you, even if it’s less than pleasant to sit with. But love was deeply breathing against your neck and snoring a little too loudly. Love was going to wake you up at sunrise to make them all hangover cures, should they need them. Love was going to let you fall asleep and dream about it, just to wake up and realize it’s still there.

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asheepinfrance

2 weeks ago

makka pakka akka wakka mikka makka moo or something

I envy that igglepiggle, man. I want a Tiny Boat to be rocked to sleep on under the stars with the sounds of the gentle lapping waves to lull me to sleep. Instead all I've got is Rock Hard Pillow and Bad Mattress and three different people in the same room snoring.

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asheepinfrance

1 month ago

talia liked this

lollipop | tashi duncan x patrick zweig x art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, porn with very minimal plot

The bass is sticky-sweet and sinful, the kind that slides down your spine and coils low in your stomach. Lights strobe like they’re trying to catch secrets midair, but none of them land on you—yet.

You’re leaning against the bar, mouth wrapped around a cherry lollipop and eyes scanning the crowd like you’re on the hunt. But you already know exactly who you’re waiting for.

You haven’t seen them in months. Not since New Rochelle. Not since you told them to lose your number, and Patrick laughed like it was a challenge. Since Art told you, with terrifying calm, that you’d come crawling back. Since Tashi just kissed your jaw, eyes unreadable, and walked away.

You hadn’t planned on seeing them tonight. You’d heard they were in town for the tournament, sure, but you weren’t stalking their schedules anymore. You’d come out with friends. You’d worn this dress for yourself. The lollipop had been a joke. A dare. Something stupid.

Except it wasn’t a joke. Not really. Everyone who knew you knew the lollipop meant something.

You used to walk onto the court with one in your mouth. Superstition, maybe. Distraction tactic. Or maybe it was just habit—your particular brand of psychological warfare. Patrick used to call it bait. Tashi called it smart. Art never called it anything. He just stared.

And now they’re all here.

Art sees you first.

He stops walking mid-stride, mid-laugh. His mouth still shaped around something clever, but no sound comes out. Tashi clocks the shift instantly, turning her head and following his gaze. Her eyes narrow.

Patrick, as always, takes the longest. But when he sees you, his mouth splits into a grin that’s all teeth and no kindness.

You raise the lollipop to your lips and bite down hard enough to crack it.

They cross the club like gravity. The crowd parts. You should leave. You don’t.

“You’re really here,” Patrick says, breath warm near your temple. “Cute dress.”

You twirl the lollipop between your fingers, not looking at him. “I wore it for someone better.”

“Yeah?” Tashi’s voice is close, cool, a whisper by your ear. “How’s that working out for you?”

You turn, smile too-sweet. “Pretty well, actually. Until now.”

Art doesn't speak. He just watches you like he’s memorizing something he plans to wreck.

Patrick leans against the bar beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “Still sucking on candy like a baby?”

You roll the stick over your tongue, slow and deliberate. “You're just mad I'm not sucking your dick anymore.”

“Not mad,” he murmurs. “Only a matter of time.”

Tashi’s hand slides to your hip. Her grip is possessive. Familiar. “We should talk,” she says, but she’s already pulling you toward the VIP section, not waiting for permission.

Art finally speaks. “She doesn’t want to talk.”

Patrick snorts. “Not with words, anyway.”

You go because it’s easier than fighting. Because you want to. Because you’ve already lost.

The VIP room is low-lit and velvet-lined. Music muffled. Private.

You’re barely inside before Patrick sits, spreading his legs like he’s home. Art leans against the wall, arms folded, gaze locked on you. Tashi pulls you to the center of the room and turns you to face them.

“On your knees,” she says softly, like it’s a suggestion. Like you won’t do it unless she asks nice.

You smile, sickly sweet. “I don’t take orders.”

Art pushes off the wall. “Sure you do. Just not in public.”

You sink. Slowly. Lollipop still between your fingers, now sticky with sweat and anticipation.

Patrick unzips with a lazy smirk. “Show us what that smart mouth is really good for.”

You glance up through your lashes, tongue dragging along your lower lip as you stroke him once, slow and warm, before you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock.

The lollipop clatters to the floor.

Patrick groans. “Fuck, I forgot how good you are at this.”

You hum around him, smug, spit already slipping down your chin. He grabs your hair, not hard yet, just enough to let you know who’s in control.

Tashi kneels beside you, mouth at your ear. “No teeth. No attitude. Be useful.”

You glance at her, eyes glassy, and she kisses your cheek like she means it.

Art unbuckles his belt with one hand. The sound is enough to make you clench around nothing.

“You’ll take all of us,” he says. “You love your lollipops, don't you, baby? We’ll see how sweet it tastes with three different flavors in your throat.”

And then there’s no more pretending.

Patrick thrusts shallow and slow, easing his cock past your lips, but it doesn’t stay gentle for long. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your head, dragging moans out of his throat with every wet, messy stroke.

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “You wanted attention? Fucking take it.”

Tashi’s nails dig into your scalp as she holds you still. Her other hand slips down, trailing under your jaw. “Messy little thing,” she murmurs. “You look better like this.”

You choke when Patrick pushes deeper. Your eyes water. Spit drips down your chin, onto your chest, and you don’t care.

Art is behind you now. You hadn’t even noticed him move. His hand slides down the back of your neck, soothing for a second—before he pushes your head farther down Patrick’s length.

“She can take it,” he mutters. “She’s done worse with less incentive.”

Patrick grunts. “Fuck, I’m close.”

Tashi pulls you off his cock with a pop just before he comes. You gasp for air, blinking through tears.

“Not yet,” she tells him, then turns to you. “Open.”

She climbs onto the couch beside Patrick and leans back, spreading her thighs. Her underwear is already discarded. You don’t remember when she slipped them off.

She smells like heat and sweat and control. You lower your mouth between her legs, tongue dragging through her slick folds, and she sighs like she’s been waiting for this since the moment she saw you tonight.

You lap at her slowly at first, just the tip of your tongue, teasing over her clit until she grabs the back of your head and rolls her hips into your face with zero patience.

Her moans are sharp and indulgent. One hand in your hair, the other pinching her nipple beneath the fabric of her shirt. She rides your tongue, thighs clamped around your ears, telling you exactly how she wants it.

"Faster. Right there. Don’t you fucking stop."

Your tongue aches. Your jaw burns. You flick and circle and suck until she gasps, trembling, thighs shaking as she clamps down, grinding into your mouth with a low, shuddering whine.

She comes like it hurts, like she’s been holding it in for far too long. And she keeps you buried between her legs until the aftershocks fade.

When she finally lets you go, you’re breathless, chin glistening, and Patrick is already grabbing you by the jaw.

“You ready now?” he rasps.

You nod, lips red and swollen.

He fucks your mouth without mercy this time, fast and brutal, his cock slamming against the back of your throat as he growls, “Don’t waste a drop.”

You swallow every bit of it.

Art is the last.

He pulls you into his lap on the floor, tilting your head up. His hand strokes your cheek—almost gentle.

“You think you’re still in charge?” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face like he doesn’t want to see a single thing in the way.

You nod, breath catching. Barely.

He smiles. “Then prove it. Make me come without using your hands.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. Just waits, watching.

You sink onto him slowly, tasting salt and heat, letting your lips wrap around the flushed head of his cock. He exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

You go slow. Excruciatingly slow. Hollow your cheeks. Twist your tongue on the upstroke. Let him feel every second of your mouth, every flutter of your throat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. His head tilts back, hips twitching upward as you swallow him halfway, then deeper.

You look up at him as he starts to lose control—his mouth parted, chest rising fast, hands gripping your hips like he’s fighting the urge to fuck up into your throat.

“Keep going,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Don’t fucking stop.”

You don’t. You push until your nose brushes the soft skin at the base of him, until his breath catches in his throat and he chokes out your name.

He comes with a groan, hand tight in your hair, cock twitching as you milk every drop from him. You swallow because you want to. Because he told you not to use your hands, and you want him to know you listened.

When he finally lets go, you slump against his thigh, dazed, used, lips slick and trembling.

Tashi crouches down and lifts your chin. “That’s better,” she says, like it’s a reward.

Patrick chuckles. “Told you it was only a matter of time.”

You close your eyes.

Sticky. Breathless. Satisfied.

And craving another taste.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

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asheepinfrance

1 month ago

i hope your dream turtles treat you so so well annie this is so cute

annie mon amour!!!! handing over creative liberty to you for a blurb with patrick and the line “Did you know you talk in your sleep?” (because i do in-fact talk in my sleep)

In The Middle Of The Night

Patrick Zweig x Reader

In the middle of the night, Patrick can sometimes hear you talk in your sleep.

Accompanies a Bot Drop -> here!

SFW

1,263 words

Domestic Patrick

Patrick has had years to grow acustomed to uncomfortable sleep enviroments. An air matress of the floor of Art's old dorm while his friend stayed up studying for classes he couldn't focus on during the day; the back of his car among everything he owns under streetlights and the fear that this was the night someone would break in; cheap motel beds that wouldn't pass a blacklight test with a couple the room over either fighting or fucking against the wall. As he likes to put it, he's made his bed and now he will lie in it. It was all for tennis.

Then you came along and turn it all on its head, like you found him in his made bed and decided to take it upon yourself to tuck him in and give him a kiss on the forehead. Meeting you meant finally having a good place to rest.

He was surprised by the simple impact that having you in his life had on his tennis. Who knew a few weeks of proper sleep, actual meals, and a heart to hold on to actually made you a functioning person. Those deep circles you met alongside him initially now faded to a soft, almost impercievable hue dusting below Patrick's eyes. That stubborn ache in his knees, back, and wrist that never quite seemed to go away until your hands and your whispers and time off all together finally gave him some reprieve from the pain. Patrick has never been against settling down and being an honest man, he's been close before, but he's never found someone who seemed to want to do it with him. Then, you grabbed his hand under the stars of an Olive Garden parking lot after taking a peak at his backseat-living arrangement and now he's finally found that someone.

You never expected this for yourself, either. You've been known to be caring, to help whoever would accept your help, but life had a habit of getting in the way of the truly good things in life for you. Keeping a job was never easy for some reason no matter how hard you tried, there always seemed to be someone better waiting for you to slip up. Family called and called but never quite listened, friends drifted off into their careers and travels. It all went too fast for you. The only time you felt like the universe was finally in its place was when you were in your bedroom.

It was a bit of pain to build up, a labor of love. Not that you actually built it, you were only a renter of course, but just getting it to where it needed to be. Renter friendly wallpaper bought on months when work was good, cheap DIY projects when it wasn't and you needed something else to focus on. One time you managed to convince a coworker to help you after work set up a canopy above your bed with an old quilt your grandmother had, and it was one of your favorite additions. It felt safe, like the embrace of your grandmother, and seeing it every night gave you a sense of comfort you didn't have before. Your second favorite addition was the star projector.

You had saved up for that one, and it came after Patrick did into your life. It wasn't one of those cheap ones, it was a nice one, with a bunch of settings and scenes and colors, even functioning as a noise machine. The soft changing colors dancing on your ceiling and canopy made it easier for you anxious or stressed mind to drift off, focused instead on the moving stars and galaxies.

You had so many pillows, all with different covers because matching wasn't something you were interested in. A weighted duvet, soft duvet cover, and an extra, thinner blanket underneath it all juuuust in case you wanted something more to snuggle under.

It seemed like so much when Patrick first laid eyes on it all, your room a true reflection of you; Its warmth, its color, its comfort. Then, the first night he stayed over, he understood the madness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so deeply.

The star projector illuminated your sleeping face brilliantly with sleepy blues and warm greens, like you were something in a dream come true. Patrick's eyes traced over every features, humming to himself in the quiet. It was usually quite easy for him to fall asleep, but some nights like this there's a quiet feeling in the back of his mind that keeps him awake. When he was a kid, his solution was to creep down stairs and hide in the endless garden of his home, watching the fountains and listening to the water and night sounds until sleep finally crept up on him. Here, your soft snores and little mumblings in your slumber were his lullaby.

When he moves a strand of hair from your face, you don't budge, so deep in the sleep you deserve. Patrick even giggles when he notices a small trail of drool on the corner of your mouth, wiping it with his sleeve. You're so... Patrick can't even think of the word. Something about you is just so right, so everything when you're asleep. You're peaceful. You're a picture of tranquility. The wrongs of the world don't bother you. It gives him a sense of relief, like it's the one right thing in this world. Everything feels like it's gone to shit around you, but still you find your peace in the end.

He likes to wonder what you're dreaming about. Sometimes Patrick will turn to lie on his back, staring up at the canopy of your bed and let his eyes follow the swirling trail of stars and light. He used to think the light would bother him, but it's quite the opposite. And as he watches, his mind will drift to everything and anything about you. Call him a fanboy, it's probably a fitting title.

Sometimes you answer his curiosity. It's his favorite when you do.

Sometimes, when he's particularly awake and comfortable and lost in his daydreams, Patrick will hear a small murmer from his side, and then he'll turn and find you talking in your sleep. Often it's too broken up to understand or follow, or just complete nonsense, but he still enjoys listening and trying to come up with what you're dreaming.

"Put the... put it in there. No, I don't want to give it."

"I've got a lot of... mh, she'll understand. Tell mom what it... mh,"

If he's feeling extra curious, a small smile pulled to the corner of his mouth as he returns to lying on his side and watching you, Patrick will ask you things.

"Too much, too much. I can't carry all of that..."

"What can't you carry?"

"Shoe boxes everywhere... that turtle needs to stop."

"Is the," Patrick starts laughing mid-sentence, "Is the turtle giving you too many shoe boxes?"

"Mh, too much."

When you wake in the morning, dream forgotten the moment your eyes flutter open and your arms stretch out, Patrick curls into your side with a long sigh as another smile creeps on his lips. "G'morning. How'd the turtles treat you?"

You give him a confused look, stopping in the middle of your stretch to look down at his covered face and ask him what he means. He does this sometimes, asking you things you don't quite understand when you wake up.

"Nothing." Patrick chuckles, pulling you back down for an extra five minutes of sleep before another day of work. "Just a dream I had."

71 notes View Post

asheepinfrance

2 weeks ago