#Pro Athletes In Recovery

[thru-the-looking-glass-caroline]

Hyperthyroidism & seeing my doctor yesterday

So I have hyperthyroidism which basically means my thyroid is over active. The symptoms of hyperthyroidism are manageable with medication which I am on but those symptoms for me include

Being very jittery- the need to be doing something all the time

Higher levels of anxiety

Difficulty gaining weight and if I were not on medication rapid weight loss despite my intake

I over heat easily and have a pretty low tolerance to the heat

irregular heart beat (heart murmur)

Hair loss

insomnia but feeling tired all the time

digestive issues meaning food tends to go right through me

Its not a fun time but I manage and like I said a lot of the symptoms are at least alleviated with the medication I take for it and it's a manageable condition. I also have to note that my case is a bit out of the ordinary because I don't have a high heart rate and heart palpitations that most with hyperthyroidism experience. Because of damage done to my heart from years anorexia and Orthorexia and then also heart conditions I was more than likely born with but weren't discovered until 2022 I actually have a slowed heart rate.

Yesterday I went to see my doctor (I see an endocrinologist for my hyperthyroidism) and He brought up something to me that is called radioactive iodine treatment. This treatment is used to treat some forms of thyroid cancer but also doctors call it a cure for hyperthyroidism. Here is my problem with this: radioactive iodine treatment does actually "cure" hyperthyroidism in the sense that you won't any longer have an over active thyroid but you just trade one extreme for the other- one thyroid condition for another. The treatment slows the functioning of your thyroid so much that you end up with hypothyroidism which includes its own set of symptoms like:

cold all the time

Lethargy

High cholesterol

Unexplained weight gain which in turn statistically and medically speaking those who have hypothyroidism brought on by radioactive iodine treatment eventually struggle with obesity and that brings about its own health problems

dry skin

Brittle nails

Still with the hair loss

Slow heart rate which no thanks I don't need my heart rate slowed more than it is

Constipation

Also with radioactive iodine treatment I could end up

Needing hormone replacement the rest of my life

At least partially losing my sense of taste & smell

And for at least a week after the treatment I would need to keep my self isolated from any contact with any other living being because it would expose them to radiation. Not only could coming in contact with me expose them but coming in contact with any clothes ive worn, sheets, pillows, blankets I have used, & any thing I have used to eat or drink with or out of.

I just don't see that a treatment like this that replaces one set of issues with an even longer set of issues should be called something like a cure. Not a lot of pros to doing this radioactive iodine treatment at least not in my opinion. This treatment is a hell no for me. Maybe I am being cynical and pessimistic but just looking at the list of issues I have now with hyperthyroidism as opposed to the list I'd have after the radioactive iodine treatment I am just shaking my head in disbelief and aggravation because...this is not a cure or a solution.

[helenanell]

Contempt of Court || Challengers

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Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader 

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.) 

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late. 

 (This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

 As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked. 

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers. 

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

 You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more. 

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months. 

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer. 

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you. 

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace. 

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you. 

Another thing to fail at. 

Another thing to lose. 

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition. 

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree. 

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it. 

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent. 

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it. 

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away. 

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights. 

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained. 

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly? 

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

 You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.” 

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?” 

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully. 

“Nike.” 

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you: 

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

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( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’ 

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot. 

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ” 

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack. 

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

 As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.” 

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway. 

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice. 

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened. 

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

 But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying. 

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse. 

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final. 

You would never forget his answer: 

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy.  He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable. 

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

 You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour. 

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’ 

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile. 

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer. 

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.” 

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors. 

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply. 

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation. 

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago. 

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. 

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have. 

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?” 

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum: 

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!” 

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door. 

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call. 

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.” 

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be. 

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign. 

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded. 

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well. 

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art. 

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him. 

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating. 

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court. 

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal. 

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans. 

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?” 

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours. 

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold. 

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.” 

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.” 

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

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( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile. 

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk. 

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

 You want to tear it off the wall. 

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him. 

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.” 

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation. 

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.” 

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult. 

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute. 

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?” 

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.  

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

 Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad. 

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off. 

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline. 

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating. 

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach. 

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter. 

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted. 

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit. 

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house. 

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue. 

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you. 

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes. 

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that. 

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.” 

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.” 

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.” 

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?” 

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

 But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm. 

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.” 

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you. 

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist. 

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond. 

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever. 

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

 But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious. 

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.” 

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.” 

“Get out.” 

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water. 

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself. 

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace. 

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank. 

“What are you doing?”  

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars. 

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin. 

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water. 

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt. 

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water. 

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge. 

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do. 

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.” 

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism. 

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air. 

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

 He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you. 

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own. 

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet. 

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches. 

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines. 

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear: 

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.” 

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

 His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound 

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him. 

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

 You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight. 

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight. 

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him. 

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene. 

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided. 

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap. 

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.” 

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art. 

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real. 

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes. 

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water? 

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands. 

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.” 

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.” 

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin. 

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him. 

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?” 

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten. 

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.” 

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you. 

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver. 

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his. 

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall. 

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin. 

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

 Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first. 

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up. 

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”  

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away. 

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts. 

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly. 

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?” 

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up. 

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him. 

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond. 

Not the night sky. 

Just a pond. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell. 

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete. 

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes. 

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this. 

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality. 

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good. 

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

 It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side. 

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief? 

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember. 

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond. 

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says: 

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly. 

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away. 

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.” 

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal. 

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows. 

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut. 

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone. 

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside. 

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart. 

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself. 

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement. 

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move. 

“That was the plan.” 

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?” 

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?” 

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out. 

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you. 

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board. 

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?” 

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in. 

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him. 

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest. 

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him. 

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.” 

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself. 

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum. 

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there. 

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one. 

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle. 

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh. 

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear. 

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?” 

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk. 

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet. 

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return. 

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place. 

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin. 

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs. 

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.” 

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers: 

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.” 

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.” 

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth. 

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.” 

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you. 

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further. 

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin. 

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead. 

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel. 

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you. 

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh. 

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again. 

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you. 

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied. 

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck. 

“I think I got my answer.” 

“Shut up.” 

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier,  his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.  

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions. 

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you. 

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head. 

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.” 

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.” 

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[foxufortunes]

Thinking about how Tetsuji designed the Raven('s careers) to burn bright and die young. Like Tetsuji is a smart man (probably) who's studies sports science and has been coaching and involved in sports for a long while. There's no way he doesn't know that the Ravens' brutal training regiment, practicing more hours than a lot of fully grown pro athletes and without rest or recovery days (not even going into the actual abuse and their mental situations), will leave them with long term injuries and chronic pain that will likely see most of them crash out of any professional career by the time they're thirty at best. Sorry Kevin and Jean and Riko (if you'd lived) you're not actually destined for long and glorious careers, you're destined for aching joints, lots of surgery, and ominously telling people you can feel the storm coming in your bones (which honestly feels like Jean would enjoy but that's not the point). Thea's career has almost certainly already peaked and now it's just a slow downhill as Tetsuji's training slowly makes it more and more painful to keep playing.

[flyingwargle]

july fanfic recommendations!

i read an obscene amount of fanfic last month with some that i must share with others, hence this post. i still over >100 fics to read so maybe this will be a monthly series? we'll see.

some fics are rated e!

sakuatsu

rotten work & other things worth doing t. 3k. atsumu and sakusa clean atsumu's bathroom together. that's it, that's the fic. lots of hurt/comfort and love and affection <3

The Sakusa Complaint Jar t. 3.6k. hilarious take on the swear jar, especially as atsumu learns he's more down bad for sakusa than he thought.

Appease and Assuage t. 5.1k. sakusa has a bad day and atsumu is there for him. very soft and raw with sakusa feeling off-kilter, and atsumu knows exactly how to help him.

come, morning light g. 5.2k. sakusa gets sick and tries to push atsumu away but eventually lets him in. very soft and domestic.

Here Is Your Verse m. 15.52. 2/2. atsumu ends his fwb relationship with sakusa because he caught feelings. they end up reconciling in the end.

when you hear hoofbeats t. 42.4k. 14/14. university au slowburn where sakusa has eds and he gets into a relationship with atsumu. be aware of the chapter warnings because it gets heavy but has a happy ending!

Stockholm Syndrome Isn't Real e. 50.2k 8/8. side sunaosa(komo). au where atsumu is a pro athlete but osamu is secretly a hacker and atsumu is kidnapped in his place. love the action, tension, and everything about this.

sunaosa

slip of the pen t. 6k. suna channels all his pining into award-winning books and osamu has never read any of them. the pining is top-tier in this.

moonsick m. 7.8k. fwb to lovers in suna's pov. is it really a sunaosa fic without one of them being emotionally constipated?

in the mood for love m. 8.3k. friends to exes to friends to lovers pipeline. i love the prose and osamu's thoughtful narration.

Litany in Which Certain Words Are Said t. 10.9k. 5 times osamu says "i love you" and 1 time suna says it back. oohh the yearning in this is top-tier!

a type of hunger m. 9.1k. i love the exploration of suna's hunger in this as an athlete and feeling like he's falling behind. good thing osamu is there for him <3

An Inconvenient Espionage e. 26.6k. 5/5. side sakuatsu. spy au, assholes to lovers. good action, good spy work, good tension 👀

somewhere to lay the flowers t. 25.6k. i've read a healthy amount of bastigod's works and trans suna has me in a chokehold. i also love magical realism and the mythology in this was woven wonderfully. suna's daughter is also a delight!

iwaoi

stumble into the sun e. 3.6k words of iwaizumi discovering that oikawa has a praise kink. it's also very soft and lovely.

Press '1' to Get a Call From Your Drunk Best Friend t. 5.4k. a drunk iwaizumi spills about his love and appreciation for oikawa. it's hilarious and fluffy and one of my favorites <3

HIPS DON'T LIE e. 8.1k. iwaizumi overhears girls talk about how good oikawa is in bed and is given a live demonstration from the man, himself.

i wanna ruin our friendship t. 18/18. oikawa comes to terms that he's in love with his best friend. features heavy themes, read the chapter warnings before proceeding. there's a happy ending!

bokuaka

Tell Me, Eurydice (How Could I Not?) t. 6.3k. lovely prose from akaashi's perspective about bokuto becoming captain and the idea of akaashi being his vice captain.

hoot if you've heard this one before t. 5.2k. bokuto and akaashi lose contact and find each other in university at a cafe that akaashi owns. lovely reconciliation fic and relationship recovery.

papers (the special, laminated ones) t. 5.3k. bokuto's parents have a tradition of laminating all his special papers and he isn't allowed to get them until "he's ready." i loved how sweet and fluffy this was, especially with his relationship with akaashi <3

Spaces aren’t Voids 7.2k. bokuto had every intention to propose until he lost the ring. a very fun and fluffy fic of a marriage proposal that doesn't quite go through but things go well in the end.

To Have and to Rail e. 12.4k. this is more humor than smut about akaashi's scientific exploration to match bokuto's stamina in bed. it doesn't go as well as he hopes (of course. good luck, akaashi)

onigiri miya: brand ambassadors (applications closed) g. 4k. bokuto is kinda slightly jealous of how close akaashi is to osamu because he's obsessed with onigiri miya. hinata feels the same way with kageyama. so what do they do? become brand ambassadors for osamu. absolutely hilarious and fluffy!

Kiss Me (Like You Wanna Be Loved) e. 56.6k. 27/27. oh the pipeline of strangers to roommates to fwb to lovers, i love it so. equal parts hurt/comfort, fluff, with the perfect amount of nsfw.

kagehina

soft serve t. 9.6k. hinata and kageyama drive an ice cream truck to fundraise money for karasuno's volleyball club. that's it, that's the fic.

Meme of the Day g. 4k. kageyama accidentally turns hinata into a meme. very fluffy and cute!

miscellaneous

yachi hitoka stop being so relatable challenge t. 4.1k. i loved this exploration of yachi being known and getting closer with the karasuno boys. she's such a precious cinnamon roll <3

north is everywhere. t. 12.1k. an exploration of kiyoko's development through high school, from being a manager out of obligation to continuing out of choice. also ace rep!

summer rolling down a cheek gen. 13.2k. a beautiful character study of kenma after the spring tournament as he thinks about the future and what comes next. beautiful prose and introspection.

[azzifudd]

was able to get through the paywall!☺️

WEST SPRINGFIELD — When UConn women’s basketball player Azzi Fudd first tore her right anterior cruciate ligament in the summer of 2019, she struggled through the physical and mental toll she faced during her recovery.

Despite the pain she endured to get back onto the court - or maybe because of that experience - Fudd remembers barely being fazed when she tore her right ACL for a second time.

“My reaction shocked me,” Fudd said on Saturday at Hooplandia. “I thought for sure I would just cry. The first time I was a mess, I cried, I was so sad. (But) when it happened this time, I felt like I kind of knew.

“I’ve been working the last few years on the mental side of the game, working on my mindset, my confidence, my self-talk... so I was like ‘Ok, I’ve been through this before, I know how big the mental aspect is - what am I going to do to help myself get through it this time and handle it a lot better than I did in high school’ because I didn’t handle it well. So when it happened (again), I was really upset, but I didn’t let myself go down that rabbit hole of what could’ve been if I was healthy.”

But even her stronger mental approach could not lessen the most difficult factor of recovery: the wait.

“Surgery was fine, all that was fine. It’s harder halfway through the season when I’ve been sitting through games, I’ve been cheering, I’ve been positive,” Fudd said. “And then it hits you, like, 10 games of just sitting on the bench cheering (and realizing) ‘I still have so many more games to sit here and cheer and still not play/’

“It’s definitely really tough, (the wait is) one of the harder things that people don’t talk about.”

Fudd stressed how important her physical rehabilitation process was in helping her regain trust in her body.

“Do your rehab, it’s so important,” Fudd said.

“I lived, ate, breathed my rehab and when it was time to come back, everyone was like, ‘Did you have doubts, did you think you were going to tear it again’, I didn’t have any doubts... because I knew all the hard work that I put in (during) my rehab process so I knew how strong my leg was, I knew what I was capable of doing because I did so much to prepare myself.”

Basketball was the driving force behind Fudd’s determination during this process and finding that reason can make all the difference.

“At the end of the day, I love basketball and that’s what I wanted to keep doing, that was my purpose behind my rehab,” Fudd said. “Some people, they might be done playing basketball, but they still want to rehab, whether it’s to play a different sport, to be a singer, to be a dancer - you’re still rehabbing for a reason. Remember what that reason is, it doesn’t have to be basketball anymore, it can be something else, but just find that reason and keep going.”

Thank you!!

Aww Azzi, it sucks obviously that she had to go through it again, but it seems like she knew her mentality had to be and was going to be different this time around. She let herself be upset, but not to the point where she spiraled about 'what could've been.' Which is what she said at that summit a few months ago too. 100% makes sense that just sitting and waiting to play again was one of the hardest parts, Paige struggled with that too. Even when you're trying to be positive and cheer for your teammates. I hope she's really able to come back confident in her body. You really gotta be a different breed mentally to be a pro athlete and not just wanna quit lol

[athletearrhythmia]

So I got to do something I've always wanted to...

I finally got to get a vo2max test. Properly, in lab, mask and everything. No more estimating. And it turns out my vo2max is...

... still undetermined. I went for so long they had to stop the test because they didn't have a protocol for "finishing" their program haha. I'll admit I'm annoyed. I had just hit my anaerobic threshold when they stopped me at 25 minutes. At that point my vo2 hit 60 - which is already a standard deviation over average for most pro athletes. Extrapolating from various data points that puts the real number likely 75-80, but I kinda knew that and really wanted the lab established real thing.

The experience was pretty awesome though. Three people watched me take the test. The tech (exercise specialist) kept asking if I had symptoms and whispered to the nurse asking if I have a cardiac history, I realized after it was because my numbers were rising so slowly they thought maybe something was wrong. Turns out almost no one makes it to 15 minutes and no one in the room had ever seen someone finish. They did have someone get to 62 but he didn't finish the test, so a fun new weird bragging right is apparently my body is so efficient I don't just take in massive oxygen, I also use it better.

They brought in a fourth guy, another exercise specialist, to check the machine and they all spent the recovery asking questions about my athletic background and training protocol. They were all floored haha. I might be annoyed I didn't get the data I wanted but having a room of cardiac and fitness specialists grilling me cause my cardio blew their minds is pretty incredible, I'll take it.

Couldn't get pics during or with the ekg on but when they took it off my dumb ass said there wasn't any glue from the stickers. Woke up covered in rings and it took me like half an hour to scrub them off haha. I don't think they're very visible in the pic but I'm an attention whore so I'm obviously going to post pics of myself in my underwear after bragging about my heart.

[911-on-abc]

I am tired of SEAL!Buck AUs. Where are my superstar football player!Buck fics?

Where are my fics where Buck gets drafted into the NFL instead of flunking out of college? Where are my fics where Buck could pull any girl he wanted, but feels emptier and emptier after each hookup? Where are my fics that have Buck at the top of the world, but no one ever told him it would be this lonely?

Where are my fics where Eddie pulls overtime by being the on call EMT for Buck's home team games? Where are my fics where Eddie doesn't know shit about the NFL (baseball is more his speed), so when a guy offers to give him a ride home after his truck breaks down in the arena employee parking lot, he doesn't recognize who he is?

Where are my fics where Eddie has Buck swing by Pepa's house and Christopher comes running out, smiling into his fathers arms, and Buck wants, wants, wants. Where are my fics where Eddie finds out who Buck is and doesn't care? Where Buck can't remember the last time he was at his penthouse, because when he's not on the road, he's at Eddie's, sleeping on his too small couch (and he knows it's not good for his back – he's a pro-athlete – but he's never played better since he met the Diazs) and making them waffles in the morning?

Where are my fics where Buck's leg gets broken during a game and Eddie's there holding his hand as he sobs in the ambulance? Where Eddie helps Buck through the recovery process, and stays by his side even when Buck curses, and cries, and doesn't know who is without the sport that got him away from his parents, out of his hometown, and all the way to Eddie?

Where are my fics where Buck is on top of the world, but when the stands are empty, and the locker room clears out, Eddie is waiting for him, leaning next to the passenger side door of his jeep? Where Eddie hands Buck the keys, and Buck gives Eddie a kiss, and they hold hands as they drive home together and Buck doesn't feel alone anymore

[growingstories]

The soccer star

Jaimy, a born and raised working-class boy from the countryside in England, grew up with dreams of becoming a professional soccer player. His talent was noticed by the local scouts, and by the time he was 14, he was on the Chelsea youth program. His family was extremely proud, and he became a star in his village. At the age of 18, he turned pro and started playing for Chelsea.

Jaimy had always been a fan of cars, especially sports cars, and he dreamed of one day owning a Ferrari. When he was promoted at the age of 19 and signed an amazing sponsor deal, he was sold to Liverpool. He moved into a villa in a suburb with local rich people, fulfilling his dreams of living a lavish lifestyle. He also found a girlfriend, Jules, who turned out to be a golddigger who enjoyed hanging out with other footballers' wives and living the high life.

At 20 years old, Jaimy's big dream came true when he was on the reserve bench for England. He finally had the means to his buy first Ferrari, and all his friends were happy for him. He drove the car with pride and even got invited to Italy to visit the Ferrari factory. Jaimy's love for cars grew, and he ended up buying a big barn with land to create his own car collection. He invested in an old-timer Porsche and was filled with immense pride.

However, at the age of 21, disaster struck. Jaimy suffered a severe injury on the field, with ruptured knees and a broken ankle, causing him to miss the entire season. During his recovery, Jaimy decided to study mechanics and cars to keep his mind off the disappointment.

When he finally returned, his position had been given away to another player. Jaimy trained harder than ever, but another jealous player intentionally injured him again, breaking his other ankle. The doctor advised him to stop playing, as he would be prone to constant injuries if he continued.

With his dreams of becoming a professional soccer player shattered, Jaimy had to find a new path. He sold his old-timer and used the money to buy two other vintage cars to fix up and sell again. He decided to study mechanics and open his own car workshop in the barn he owned. Jules broke up with him and immediately found another soccer player to fund her lifestyle. Jaimy's old mates from his soccer days were proud of his achievements and started bringing their expensive cars to him for modifications and enhancements. They would take him out for dinner and parties like in the old days. The football wives, feeling sorry for him after his breakup with Jules, started taking care of him, bringing him breakfast, pastries, sweets, lunches, and snacks. Jaimy's athletic body slowly started to change, and he had to wear bigger overalls as he gained weight.

One day, Liam, the handsome 25-year-old son of a local factory owner, walked into Jaimy's workshop with his Porsche in need of repair. Jaimy couldn't help but be nervous around Liam, as he unexpectedly found himself attracted to him. Liam, who had heard stories from his girlfriends about Jaimy's appeal, found him cute and decided to ask him out. Jaimy was overwhelmed by his feelings and wondered if he might be gay.

When Liam came to pick up his car, Jaimy mustered up the courage to admit his feelings. To his surprise, Liam also had feelings for him and agreed to go out with him. Jaimy panicked, as all his normal clothes no longer fit due to his weight gain. He quickly bought new clothes in a larger size, worried about what Liam would think.

On their first dinner date, Jaimy and Liam kissed and instantly fell in love. The next day, they went out again and felt incredibly comfortable with each other. As they started undressing, Jaimy voiced his concerns about his weight and asked if Liam was okay with him being a bit chubby, promising to lose the weight later. Liam reassured him, explaining that he loved his men big and didn't want Jaimy to lose weight.

Jaimy had never felt more desired and loved, and their physical relationship became incredibly satisfying. They spent almost every night together, with Liam taking care of Jaimy's food and bringing him lunch during the day. Jaimy's female visitors continued to bring him snacks and food, eager to hear the latest gossip. With the combination of regular hearty meals and less time for the gym, Jaimy continued to gain weight, and his body transformed.

One evening, during dinner with his old teammates, they mentioned Jaimy's weight and asked if he was in a relationship. He proudly announced that he was with Liam, surprising everyone. They were happy for him and supported his newfound happiness. They even invited Liam to dinners and parties, embracing him into their group.

Jaimy's car shop flourished, and more and more people sought his services. However, Liam's jealousy grew as he witnessed the attention Jaimy received from others. To subdue his jealousy, Liam started bringing more food then the football wives to Jaimy, who happily devoured it.

The workshop was an amazing succes and Jaimy had to hire another car mechanic. Dozen boys lined up but Jaimy picked Rody, Rody was handsome but not interested in soccer so he wasn’t just a fan of Jaimy. Rody was a succes, and instead of coming just for Jaimy, the ladies visited the workshop to catch a glimpse of handsome shirtless Rody. Realizing that Rody was the new star of the company with his impressive six-pack, Liam's jealousy escalated. He decided to not only feed Jaimy but also Rody. Rody had to lose his sixpack too. However, Rody declined to indulge in excessive eating, focusing on his work and fitness routine.

In an attempt to monetize the visits to the car shop, Liam proposed opening a lunchroom in the showroom. The plan was to attract more customers by showcasing Jaimy and his cars while their vehicles were being fixed. The renovation was completed three months later, and the new car shop with the lunchroom was a bigger success than expected. Instead of bringing food, the ladies now hung around in the showroom, attracting even more customers. Jaimy acted as a host in the showroom, constantly indulging in Liam's pastries.

Jaimy and Liam's relationship continued to thrive, with the bigger Jaimy got, the better their sex life became. But what will happen to Rody? Can he keep up with the constant flow of pastries?

[commanderthalys]

OC SMASH OR PASS TAG GAME!!

Tagged by @the-desert-beast ! (I was tagged on my main but I figured I'd do a gw2 version hehe)

Rules: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

We're doing Thalys because of course we are

PROPAGANDA;

NAME; Thalyssera/Thalys

AGE; 14 in sylvari years, human equivalent would be mid thirties

GENDER; nonbinary, she tends to just go with whatever most people percieve her to be because she doesn't care

PRONOUNS; she/her and he/him

ORIENTATION; bisexual and polyamorous!

PROFESSION; Soulbeast Ranger, she permanently has iboga features and abilities due to a mixup in the domain of the lost. She doesn't have any ranger pets and tends to fight up close and personal with daggers

BUILD; Thalys is on the shorter side at 5'3, she has an athletic muscular build with thick legs and strong arms. Her overall body shape isn't very curvy. Her right leg under the knee was severely injured and has regrown poorly, leaving that area hollow and with open holes (similar to a strangler fig tree). She has several tattoos on her body as well.

OCCUPATION; Pact Commander and former member of Dragon's Watch, now semi retired. Still works with the pact and aids areas that were affected by the various elder dragons, and occasionally participates in priory artifact recovery missions.

PROS;

Very physically affectionate, she especially loves hand holding (her way of saying she loves you). Will always be down to cuddle and loves both holding her partner and being held. Becomes incredibly flustered when the physical affection is turned back on her >:3

if you like a lot of quality time then Thalys is a great choice! She always wants to go and do things, especially physical activities like sports and hiking, but at the end of the day what matters is that she gets to just be with you. She likes to find out what activities her partners enjoy and then try to do them together!

She's very optimistic and encouraging (and loud), she's your number one fan and even though she's not great with words she's always rooting for her partners to succeed!

CONS;

She tends to avoid any conversations about her own struggles and it can be hard to get her to really open up about things that bother her (not little things, more serious issues). She doesn't want to be a burden to her partners and tends to pt herself in a heroic martyr mindset about it and sometimes needs a good talking to.

Stubborness is Thalys's greatest gift and curse, if she really digs her heels in the ground about something it's incredibly difficult to change her mind. She tends to be that way from good intentions, but what she thinks is best for you might not always be the best.

and tagging but no pressure @manasurge @beanswithbones @i-mybrunettelady @mystery-salad @sunsrefuge @gristlegrinder @planeswalksgw2blarg @vampiricsheep and anyone who sees this and wants to hop on ^^

[30499285929210111102939193]

Gabriel/Samael. Male. 29. Radqueer. ✝️. Ex incel & in recovery from anorexia nervosa.

Anti-contact leaning: Complex-contact. My foid girlfriend @enlight-end ❤️🐇

Pro-paraphilia. Pro-conabuse. Pro-kink. Pro-ship.

CisIDs: Autistic, Hypersexual, BPD, Bodybuilder, Athlete, Body dysmorphic, Suicidal, Aspiring mogger.

TransIDs: Trans-harmful, Trans-abuser, Trans-stalker, Trans-anorexia, Trans-shapeshifter, Trans-cannibal.

DNI: Antis and sub5 males.

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

WORM OC WORM OC WORM OC

his civilian identity is Wyatt Burns!!! he was an accomplished cruiserweight pro boxer with a promising career. after six years of gaining notoriety, he was finally invited to an IBF titlefight, and went out drinking to celebrate - only for an intense brawl to break out between two men playing pool, which quickly spiraled out to include the whole bar. he held his own for a short while but eventually received severe injuries, including several bone fractures.

he was given a two-month recovery time, long enough to lose his shot at the IBF title. worse, even after the bones had healed, the aching, burning, and soreness that had accompanied the fractures did not, and he was diagnosed with chronic pain syndrome with no apparent cause. the physical pain only compounded his worries - the shame of having been so badly overpowered by untrained strangers, the hopelessness following losing his career as a pro boxer, the aimlessness he had felt during those two months of recovery, the financial stress of suddenly becoming physically disabled and no longer having a job or any transferable skills, and the frustration that what had brought him so low was something as simple as pain which he thought he should be able to push past. the desperation brought him deep enough to cause him to trigger.

he is a breaker 4 (brute 3, mover 2, thinker 2.) his breaker state is not directly controlled by him; it begins as soon as he lands a close-quarters hit on someone else, or is hit BY somebody else in close range. it ends as soon as his mind or body no longer consider him to be "in a fight." while in his breaker state, he has enhanced strength, slightly enhanced speed and reflexes, and an innate understanding of the parts of human physiology that are involved in a fight, as well as the forces fundamental to fighting. this understanding allows him to land punches in a way that causes minimal injury to him and maximum injury to his opponent. finally, while in his breaker state, he has no pain response whatsoever (though he can still receive injuries and may change his fighting style to accommodate,) as well as having no emotional reactions. the downside is that when his breaker state ends, he experiences all of the pain and emotion at once, frequently bringing him to scream, fall down, drop to his knee, etc. following a fight.

his powers did not actually solve his problems. the pro boxing leagues refused to take him back as he would pose an unfair advantage. he took on the cape name Olympic and tried to make some headway in the parahuman prizefighting rings, but found them lacking both the reputation and money he was looking for - so he turned to mercenary work instead. he is... still relatively unsuccessful, but he's trying, okay

civilian appearance: mixed mediterranean-american, tan olive skintone, dark brown hair kept short, dark brown eyes. cheerful features. athletic build, fairly well-rounded with slightly above average emphasis put on shoulders, back, arms, and abs. civilian clothes are simple and he does not put much thought into it, though much of his wardrobe shows off his muscles.

costume: crimson exomis, low-cut to reveal much of his musculature. fastened at waist with brown leather zoster studded with bronze medals rather than with cloth belt. boots are a dark reddish-brown cross of the calceus and caligae, closed-toe and leather, fully covering foot like calceus, but with the caligae's hobnailing, and leather bands and laces that go further up the leg, to about a foot below the knee. reddish brown caestus worn on each hand/arm; thickest leather is from wrist to below knuckle, with cloth on inside as padding and bronze studs set into this region to increase damage done with hits. leather braces extend from caestus, criscrossing/wrapping around his arms all the way to the elbow. dark brown leather tainia just above browline keeps his hair in place and helps prevent sweat from obstructing his vision. no mask and does not make secret of his civilian identity.

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

Third year UA student Tenko “Tomura” Shimura as perceived by the younger UA students:

Looks terrifying, no one goes near.

Actually thinks everyone will be scared of his face so he hides behind his hair and doesn't make eye contact.

Gives a sermon in purely gamer speech and just the chosen ones can understand.

Adopted by sensei Shirakumo? Investigate.

It's a big fan of Aizawa sensei. It's shameless about all the merch he owns.

Apparently wants to surpass All Might?

Holy shit All Might treats him like a son, what is this. How are they related.

He's older sister is the pro-hero Hana “Levity” Shimura. So cool!

He's actually very kind. Invites students over to play videogames with him and teaches those who doesn't know how to play.

Constantly decaying doorknobs and pencils and whatever it's in his reach when he takes his gloves off.

He's broke.

Really broke.

According to his previous fights in the UA sport festival, he's not only a pretty good strategist but also he's really fast, athletic and strong. He can barely rely on his quirk so he does most of what he needs with his body.

Throughly an Eraserhead fan.

His neck itches when he's nervous.

He doesn't like violence.

HE HAS A DOG. Someone said he took it secretly to school and keeps him on his room, because it helps him relax.

Future rescue and recovery specialist.

His status regarding Touya “Dabi” Todoroki and Keigo “Hawks” Takami is confusing. There's an on going bet about if their merely friends, someone is dating someone or they all hate each other.

Rumors say he has challenged even powerful pro-heroes before in order to defend his fellow classmates and the younger students.

Worst jokes. Ever.

A loser.

[cellysbookshelf]

A03 | @knightsofsliverandgoldstory | @the-slapshot-series

Knights of Silver and Gold Marc-Andre Fleury x OC

A story where a world famous goaltender with a heart and soul of gold becomes a knight in shining silver for a female hockey player in the NHL who is trying to balance being a single mother and athlete after just being traded to the Vegas Golden Knights.

Can Marc-André Fleury show Barlow Kane he can be the father her daughter never had, help her make a home and a life in Nevada and be the love of her life she never thought she would find?

Archive of Our Own Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Somebody's Today Mordan Reilly x F!Reader Summer Fic Exchange

Y/N and Morgan had grown up next door neighbors from the time they were babies. Best of friends until they both went off as teenagers to find their path, swearing they would find each other again someday as adults. Y/N's path lead her to to America, to study art and photography. Morgan's took him to Toronto to play NHL Hockey. But one day in Toronto they run into each other after years of not seeing each other, and soon see just how much they missed one another.... Someday just became today.

Archive of Our Own Tumblr

Impact Mitch Marner x OC

Kodiak "Kody" Andersen is the younger half sister to Freddie Andersen of the Toronto Maple Leafs Hockey Team. She is a pro snowboarder for Canada and has been to the Olympics twice for her country. Her older brother basically raised her since she was 13 and she is forever greatful for the things he has done to let her life the life of her dreams. One night she is at the rink practicing some Hockey stuff with Freddie to make him happy when she takes a shot for the goal... and ends up hitting none other the Mitch Marner with her puck.

Mitch as no idea what kind of impact he is going to have on Kody's life, and Kody has no idea how she will impact his. Two kids, trying to prove they deserve to be where they are, trying to make a team and country proud, will impact each other in ways they never dreamed possible.

Archive of Our Own Tumblr Chapters: 1

Garding her Heart Jake Gardiner x OC

Bailey Slavin had it all, an All Star Softball Pro career with the USSSA Pride, a wonderful family to support her, a college degree, 3 world series titles, 3 college titles, she felt like nothing could stop her.... Till it did. A freak accident durning a softball game put Bailey in the hospital and out of the 2020 World Championships. To help her recovery along she goes to spend time with her brother Jaccob Slavin in North Carolina and get her mind off the tragedy. With the possibility of never playing again, Bailey is left cold and bitter. But when she meets Jake Gardiner, one of her brothers teammates, he helps her slowly tear down her walls and find joy in her life again. Jake and Bailey soon find themselves falling in love, but Bailey will soon have to decide on if she stays in North Carolina with Jake and the chance to start a new life, or move back to Florida to remain in the Softball world. Only time will tell how long this defenseman can guard this broken softball players heart.

Archive of Our Own Tumblr Chapter: 1

What We Had TJ Oshie x OC Winter Fic Exchange

Emerson or Emmy as she went by, never expected to be a single mother living on her own in Nova Scotia working as a social media detector. But for the last 6 years that's what she did, raising her daughter Ivory on her own. But when her dad tells her that his best friend who works for the Washington Capitals is in need of an assistant manager of Social Media and Networking for the team, it gives her a chance to move back home and work in a bigger and more exciting Field and to work around the sport she always loved.

The catch?

Her ex boyfriend and the father of her daughter is one of their star players: TJ Oshie. Is Emmy ready to face the past and tell TJ about their daughter? Will TJ be about to handle the truth, knowing he missed out on 6 years of his daughters life or will the past and the truth be the things that keep them from being a family once more?

Archive of Our Own Tumblr

A Wish Upon Confetti Stars Erik Jonson x OC

"In the 2011 Entry Draft, the Los Angeles King are proud to select with our 3rd round pick, from the Seattle Thunderbirds, goaltender Avalon Redmoon."

She had it all, Two Stanley Cups, a Conn Smythe Trophy, a team that supported her as only the 2nd female goalie in NHL history. Everything was perfect.... Until it wasn't. The summer of 2020 Avalon got the news that she had been traded in a bombshell deal between LA and Colorado. Now she is moving back to her hometown, and has to face the fact that not even a superstar goalie is safe from a trade. Filled with anger and hurt that her old team would just pass her aside for the next hotshot to hit the ice, Avalon isn't quick to make new friends on her new team. That is till Erik Johnson or EJ as he goes by, decides to take the new star goalie under his wing, and show her how life can be just as good in Colorado as it was in LA. Avalon and EJ never planned on anything more then friendship over the next few years, but when the thoughts of retirement cross minds, risky plays put players on the line and the Stanley cup right within their reach, they need to hold on to each other more then ever to make it to the end goal.

"Sometimes the best wishes come from nothing more A Wish Upon Confetti Stars."

Archive of Our Own Tumblr

Triple Axel Celly Sidney Crosby x OC Summer Fic Exchange

Sidney is tried of loosing year after year. After watching his close friend Nate lift the cup a year before and then missing the playoffs all together this season, he goes to Nate asking him to give him the name of his skating coach to try and help him oit next playoffs. Only Nate didn't tell him that Hunter Queen wasn't a Mr. Hunter and Sid bash heads like to bulls for weeks before they finally Nate finally tells Sid to make things right. So Sid goes to Hunter in hopes to finally make peace, but instead they end up in his bed for a wild night.

Archive of Our Own Tumblr

Slapshot Series

That's Why God Made Airplanes Tyler Seguin x OC

Tyler Seguin thought he found the woman of his dreams. A perfect girl, a perfect engagement and the soon to be perfect wedding, he had everything down to a T.

Or so he thought.

Just a few short weeks before what was supposed to be the most perfect day of his life, turned into him booking a one way flight to Pittsburgh to spend the summer with his Best Friend and forget about his cheating ex fiancee. Wanting to shut out the world, his parents and most of his friends for the time being, Tyler find refuge with the only person who really seems to know the real him, Arabella Kerfoot, who plays for the Pittsburgh Penguins. While spending his summer hiding away, his best friend not so sneakily plays match maker with her childhood best friend, Quinn Canton.

Sparks soon begin to fly, and a whirlwind summer romance takes hold of these two burnt out hearts. But when hockey starts back up, and old partners come back to burn them to ashes, can they withstand the distance between them, or will it be to much for them to handle?

*** Loosely based around the song "God Made Airplanes" by Jason Aldean ***

Archive of Our Own Tumblr: 1

Hockey-Ella Morgan Rielly x OC

Arabella Kerfoot is the younger sister of Alex Kerfoot and she one of the only female hockey player in the league. Ella as she likes to go by is the wild child of the family and also of the Pittsburgh Penguins. With a reputation of the "Wild Cinderella" Ella is the media's #1 target. Her best friend is Tyler Seguin, who had a bad reputation in Boston before going to Texas, so he understands her better then her own family and is trying to help work through her rebellious reputation. After a wild and not so pretty night out on the town Ella is quickly not the favorite anymore in Pitt and is soon traded to Toronto who is looking for a power forward with the speed and risky skill set she brings to the table. The catch: they need to fix her tarnished reputation before the Toronto media tears her apart. The solution: have her fake a relationship with Morgan Rielly to show she is determined to settle down and leave her wild Cinderella life behind, and make a fairytale lifestyle in Toronto instead. Only Ella wasn't planning on falling for the red haired man who offered the solution to her problems. With the media and her brother breathing down her neck to fix her past, her best friend telling her that a fake relationship will only hurt her and the man she never new she needed in front of her, she is about to ether live out a Hockey-Ella fairytale or an ultimate disaster.

Coming Soon.

Coming Soon

These Roots Lead Home - Mitch Marner x OC

The Goaltenders Ice Dance - Freddie Andersen x OC

Ruin Me Right - Martin Necas x OC

Sparks Fly - Marc- Andre Fleury x OC

Eye of the Storm - Teuvo Teräväinen x OC

From Oceans and Mountain and Anywhere Inbetween - Ross Colton x OC ** This masterlist was created for the lovely @callsign-denmark who is having some trouble with creating links from her blog.

[capcavan]

do you have any allison hcs? with ref to your recent allison posts, id love to know your thoughts!

I don't go deep into any other character than Riko but I love idea of Mtf Allison. Exy is co ed sport and considering her background she would have the resources for transition as well as the big deal of family drama that would go with this. I'm very attached to the idea of Allison leaving her family and choosing to play exy as a woman especially since testosterone is seen as extra benefit for most sports. I have some headcannons I suppose but nobody going to like them as they mostly connect to hear eating disorders - she has some fake teeth as she did loose few due to purging - she has stretch marks possibly got them lasered - she does exercise purgers still when foxes indulge into too much alcohol or fun food. - her weight fluctuates - personally I think she enjoys wearing sport clothes and layering to hide her body a bit, its a bit of a struggle for her, on some days she needs to be covered to feel comfortable but on others her gender dysphoria wins and she feels the need to indulge in hyper feminine fashion to feel more passing It would mean for me personally a lot if if ideas as such were read as they are intended - me trying to normalize the less glamorous parts of ed/recovery on top of the dysphoria train its hard for her to balance trying to look feminine and playing sports- testosterone or estrogen she still gains bit of muscle mass playing exy and i can see this being another part of her struggles with body image so far not good considering everything i write just runs around her looks and her body image but it's angle i don't see presented too often at leats not form those specific angles. if we go with the idea of allison being non white then 100% she would have the most fancy blonde wig money can buy I used to be very displeased with the idea of allison not ending as pro exy athlete but in the end she is not neil just because the book is about sport does not mean this is how all characters gotta end up, sports carry a lot of strain on body and mind i can see exy causing as much damage to ones health as football does. I like the idea of her and renee experimenting together a lot but not ending in established relationship for renee is exploration of sexuality outside of male attraction only and for allison its a tiny bit of gender envy about renee's body, she wouldn't want to grow resentful of a friend form the time and so they decide to cut it short but yeah I'm not interested in character work that is just "she is pretty and rich"

[amarawash]

[ cis woman. she/her ] Welcome to Aurora Bay, AMARA WASHINGTON ! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like JASMIN SAVOY BROWN . You must be the TWENTY-EIGHT year old HIGH SCHOOL SOCCER COACH . Word is you’re ASTUTE but can also be a bit TACTLESS and your favorite song is WILDFLOWER BY BILLIE EILLISH . I also heard you’ll be staying in CRYSTAL COVE . I’m sure you’ll love it!

pinterest. - navigation.

THE BASICS.

NAME : amara garnette washington. AGE : twenty-eight. BIRTHDAY : may 30th. HOMETOWN : aurora bay, ca. CURRENT RESIDENCE : fisher cove. SEXUALITY : homoromantic. FAMILY : unnamed mother & father.

PERSONALITY.

+TRAITS : astute, dauntless, & maverick. -TRAITS : frivolous, perverse, & tactless . LIKES : soccer, traveling, working out, trader joes, 80's nostalgia, sports in general, mocktails . DISLIKES : ab high soccer team (yawn), wasted potential, old trophies, more tba (like i know there's way more but i can't think rn) .

APPERANCE.

Hair : brown & shoulder length. Eye : brown. Body Build : athletic. Height : 5' 7''. Scar/Markings : scar on right knee from surgery. Piercing : n/a. (gonna get some tho.) Tattoos : n/a.

BIO.

( tw. injury & mention of drug abuse.)

At the age of five, with cleats strapped onto her feet, she stepped onto the soccer field for the first time. Chasing after the ball surrounded by a horde of children her age, all of them driven by the same goal. Her first attempt at scoring resulted in the ball landing in her own goal, but the cheers that erupted from the bleachers and the field awakened something within her. Her passion for the sport began shortly after that incident. By the age of ten, her parents had enrolled her not only in a community league but also in a private travel league. She spent countless hours and days on turfed fields, practicing with that little black and white ball that had become the center of her life. As she entered high school, the question gradually shifted from whether the girl had the potential to go pro to when she would go pro. She became a breath of fresh air for recruiters and the youngest member on the Aurora Bay's varsity soccer team. Eventually even taking the title as captain her junior year. With excellent grades and exceptional technique, Amara found herself in Florida after graduating. Her plan was to stay there for the next four years and earn a degree in sports and fitness. However, by the time her junior year came around, she had already been scouted. At the young age of twenty-one, she signed a six-year contract worth $1 million with The Kansas City Currents. With her exceptional skills, she had hopes of extending the contract after winning numerous awards, such as Rookie of the Year and MVP. However, in her sixth year, everything changed when she suffered a life-altering injury on the field - a torn ACL. She recalls the day vividly, looking up at the screen and seeing herself lying on the ground, tears in her eyes while clutching her right leg. She remembers her teammates surrounding her and a stretcher being brought onto the field to take her away. The end of her career seemed to flash before her eyes. She attempted to expedite her recovery, but pushing herself beyond the advised limits ended up causing more harm than good. When she realized she was relying on medication more than necessary, she understood that she needed assistance. She returned home to Aurora Bay, CA a year later, with only half of the money she had originally signed for. Her parents welcomed her back with open arms, but the long-term effects of losing the one thing she had ever loved had lasting damage. Amara has been in town now a little over a year and currently resides in Crystal Cove Condominiums. She's currently the soccer coach for Aurora Bay High School.

HEADCANNONS.

- was def homeschooled up until high school . - was in a out of state rehab prior to coming back to AB. - HATES the fact that she was determined unfit to return to the league and finish her contract. - runs the high school soccer team as if it's the military. -more tba.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

old teammates / coworkers / friends / exes / hook-ups / gym rat buddies / confidents / neighbors / i'm open to everything and anything, and always down to plot out future plots.

TAKEN CONNECTIONS.

tba.

[nourishandthrive]

Staying Motivated: Fitness Tips from the Pros

Staying motivated on your fitness journey can be challenging, but with insights from professional athletes and trainers, you can find inspiration and practical strategies to keep moving forward. Here are some top fitness tips from the pros to help you stay on track and achieve your goals.

Set Realistic Goals

"Break your ultimate goal into smaller, achievable milestones. Celebrate each small victory along the way." – Jillian Michaels, Fitness Trainer

Implementation: Set short-term goals like weekly workout targets or monthly fitness improvements.

Create a Routine

"Consistency is key. Schedule your workouts like you would any important appointment." – Kayla Itsines, Fitness Trainer

Implementation: Establish a regular workout schedule that fits into your daily life and stick to it.

Mix Up Your Workouts

"Variety prevents boredom and keeps your body guessing." – Gunnar Peterson, Celebrity Trainer

Implementation: Incorporate different types of exercises such as strength training, cardio, yoga, and HIIT into your routine.

Find a Workout Buddy

"Exercising with a friend can boost your motivation and accountability." – Jeanette Jenkins, Celebrity Trainer

Implementation: Partner up with a friend or join a fitness class to stay motivated and make workouts more enjoyable.

Track Your Progress

"Keep a fitness journal to log your workouts, nutrition, and how you feel." – Chris Powell, Fitness Trainer

Implementation: Use a notebook or fitness app to track your progress, set goals, and reflect on your journey.

Stay Positive

"Focus on what you can do, not what you can't. Celebrate your strengths and improvements." – Autumn Calabrese, Fitness Trainer

Implementation: Maintain a positive mindset and acknowledge your achievements, no matter how small.

Fuel Your Body Right

"Nutrition is just as important as exercise. Eat a balanced diet to support your fitness goals." – Tom Brady, Professional Athlete

Implementation: Focus on a diet rich in whole foods, including lean proteins, complex carbohydrates, healthy fats, and plenty of fruits and vegetables.

Listen to Your Body

"Rest and recovery are essential for progress. Don’t ignore signs of fatigue or injury." – Misty Copeland, Ballet Dancer

Implementation: Incorporate rest days into your routine and pay attention to your body’s signals to avoid overtraining and injuries.

Stay Hydrated

"Proper hydration is crucial for peak performance and recovery." – Serena Williams, Professional Tennis Player

Implementation: Drink water throughout the day, especially before, during, and after workouts.

Make It Fun

"Find activities you love and make fitness fun. If you enjoy it, you’ll stick with it." – Shaun T, Fitness Trainer

Implementation: Try different activities until you find something you enjoy, whether it’s dancing, hiking, or team sports.

Key Takeaways

Consistency: Establish a routine and stick to it.

Variety: Keep workouts interesting by mixing things up.

Support: Find a workout buddy or join a fitness community.

Mindset: Stay positive and celebrate your progress.

Self-Care: Listen to your body and prioritize rest and nutrition.

Final Thoughts

Staying motivated on your fitness journey requires a combination of discipline, variety, and support. By incorporating these tips from fitness pros into your routine, you can maintain your motivation and achieve your fitness goals.

Share your own fitness tips and experiences in the comments below! Let’s inspire and motivate each other to stay active and healthy.