tashism

[tashism]

hi do you guys ever think about. ever uhhh think about coming back home to art after a girls’ trip… ever think about that?????

him waiting at home all miserable and nervous that someone will steal you away from him, clambering to the door the second he hears the key turning in the front door’s lock. he’s quick to grab your bags and throw them somewhere, all too eager to get his hands on you. tan lines? he wants to kiss them. boardwalk henna? he’s always wanted to see you with ‘tattoos’. all he wants is to have you to himself after being forced to practically give you away for a week.

more importantly, he needs to release all those pent up hormones — jerking off to the bikini pics you’d send did not do the trick.

you’re up on the kitchen counter before you can even take your shoes off, his eager tongue down your throat. the whining is almost annoying, but he can’t help it. you taste different, you feel warmer, more tense. is it all in his mind, or was he replaced? the thought makes him nauseous, all his weight dropping to his knees, his shaky fingers working to unbutton your shorts. “you missed me… you missed me, yeah? c’mon say it.” he whines, his big, pretty eyes boring up into yours. he doesn’t wait for an answer before his mouth is buried in your cunt, nose nudging your clit as he laps at you desperately. it’s like he’s trying to mark his territory, stake his claim as if he lost what he knows is all his.

anyways! i think he likes the feeling of not knowing if you cheated or not. #cuck

[tashism]

Here are little red cards for anyone living in the US that you can print out and keep, that list out all your rights incase you ever came in contact with an immigration agent.

30+ languages for anyone and everyone who needs it. Know your rights!

[tashism]

MY FUCKING GOD GIVE HIM TO ME NOW GIVE HIM TO ME GIVE HIM TO ME I PROMISE I’LL GIVE HIM BACK JUST GIVE ME. THREE HOURS

[tashism]

a thinker i guess

[tashism]

high risk, high reward | arthur gambler x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, not proofread

He looks like he’s already lost the whole damn night. Arthur’s entire body language tells you everything you need to know—how he’s leaning too far into the blackjack table, jacket shrugged off like it betrayed him, one elbow anchored to the felt while his other hand cradles a sweating glass of whiskey like it’s the only steady thing left in the world.

He’s been there since midnight. You’ve been posted up at that same table all night—watching him spiral. Watching him burn through chip after chip, nerves fraying with every card flipped wrong. You knew his luck ran out three hours ago. He knew it too, but he kept playing.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it... watching him lose control, unravel slowly. There’s something about Arthur in freefall that makes your thighs press together behind the table’s edge.

It’s nearly 3AM now. The floor’s gone quiet. Just a few stragglers and the mechanical sighs of slot machines keeping the lights company. You’re the last attendant left—meant to be clearing cards and locking things down, but your eyes keep drifting back to him.

“You always this nice to losers?” he mutters.

You glance up. He’s got that lopsided smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight, eyes that should be laughing but instead just look wrecked. Hollowed out from the inside.

“Only the ones who stare at me like that all night.”

His gaze sharpens. He takes another sip of his drink. Doesn’t break eye contact.

Arthur leans back in his stool, legs spread, sweat-damp curls peeking out from under his ball cap. He looks like sin—shirt clinging to him in the heat, stubble shadowing his jaw, hoodie zipped halfway down like it’s choking him.

“You closing up?” he asks.

You nod. “Was about to.”

He tilts his head. “Then why haven’t you kicked me out yet?”

You pause. “You don’t look like you wanna be alone.”

His jaw tics. He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t move to leave either.

You move first. Slow. Deliberate. Like you’re still working. But your fingers skim just a little too close to his when you reach for the tray. His breath catches. Yours does too.

“You’ve been hard all night,” you murmur, quiet enough to be a secret. “And not just from losing.”

Arthur exhales a laugh that sounds more like a growl. “You gonna do something about it?”

You don’t answer. Just lead him with a look. Past the blackjack tables, past the rows of tired machines, into the back corner where the old craps table waits. Retired for the night. Empty. Private.

He presses you up against it, breath hot against your neck, fingers already pushing under your uniform skirt. You gasp when he grips your hips and lifts you onto the felt like he’s been imagining this for as long as he's been frequenting your casino—and maybe he has.

“Been jerking off to the thought of this,” he rasps, kissing down your throat, tongue dragging slow. “Of you. Bent over this table. Crying on my fingers.”

He sinks to his knees before you. No hesitation. Just hunger. Drags your panties down like they offend him. His nose brushes your inner thigh as he breathes in deep.

“Smell better than any win I’ve ever had,” he mutters.

And then his mouth is on you. Filthy. Starved. Sucking and licking like he’s his own brand of desperate. His tongue laves slow at first—broad, heavy, maddeningly patient—and then faster, like he can’t help himself. He groans when you grind against his mouth, the sound buried in your skin.

His fingers trail up the back of your thighs before sliding inside without warning—two at once, thick and deliberate. The wet sound of him working you open echoes faintly against the felt. He moans at the noise like it’s his favorite song.

“Fuck, you hear that?” he pants against your clit, lips slick, beard scratch burning sweet between your thighs. “You’re dripping. All over my fucking hand. You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You whimper. Nod. Grip the edge of the table like you’ll fly off without it. He curls his fingers inside you just right, again and again, that slow grind of his wrist building pressure until your whole body’s trembling.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes, tongue flicking fast over your clit now. “Let me feel you soak me.”

It hits fast and hard. You cry out, hips jerking up into his face—and Arthur doesn’t stop. He growls, low and deep, as your orgasm floods his mouth and hand.

“Good girl,” he breathes, dragging his mouth up your slick thigh. “Fucking ruined you.”

He stands slowly, fingers glistening, smearing your wetness across your inner thigh like a brand. Then he shoves them into his mouth, licking them clean with a feral kind of reverence.

“Still feel like a loser?” you manage to whisper.

He grins, wrecked and wild. Presses his cock, hard and straining, against your thigh like a promise.

“Not even a little.”

You glance past him. The floor is dead. No one’s coming. The cameras in this corner haven’t worked for months—you know that. Arthur doesn’t.

“Let me finish closing up,” you murmur, and Arthur groans, low and guttural, like waiting is its own kind of torture.

You make quick work of it—lock up the chip trays, turn off the dealer lights, log out of the system. Arthur doesn’t move. Just watches you from the craps table, eyes molten, fingers flexing like he’s already imagining them somewhere much deeper.

And then you’re back.

No more teasing. No more patience.

You climb back onto the table, straddle him this time, shove his hoodie off his shoulders, and pull his shirt up to taste the sweat along his collarbone. He kisses you like he’s starving again. Like the taste of you still lingers on his tongue and he wants another hit.

“You got a condom?” you whisper against his mouth.

His eyes flare. He digs into his pocket, pulls one out with a shake of his head and a dark laugh. “Always. Fucking knew you’d break first.”

You roll it on him slow—teasing, squeezing, watching his jaw clench with restraint. He’s thick, hot, twitching in your palm. When you sink down onto him, you both gasp—loud, raw, like this was inevitable.

Arthur grabs your hips, guides you, lets you set the pace for all of three seconds before he snaps up into you, hard.

“Fuck,” you breathe, head dropping to his shoulder.

He’s rough. Messy. The tension between you snapping into something dark and feral. You ride him hard, thighs trembling, hands sliding across the sweat at his collarbones.

But it’s not enough for him.

He growls low in your ear, then grabs your waist and flips you flat on the felt, dragging your hips to the edge.

And then he fucks you—deep, sharp, desperate. The thud of his hips against you fills the quiet casino, each stroke knocking the air from your lungs. You hold on tight, knees drawn up, jaw slack.

His mouth finds your neck. His voice is rough and low.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin. “Wanna feel it while I’m buried in you.”

You nod, already close, clenching around him with each brutal thrust. Your orgasm tears through you—biting your lip, breath caught, body tight—and he groans, loud and low, fucking you through it until he finally shudders and stills, coming with his mouth open against your neck.

When he stills, he doesn’t speak.

Just breathes.

The casino hums. The lights buzz. And Arthur rests his forehead against your shoulder like maybe—for once—he didn’t lose everything.

-----

tagging:@kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance

[tashism]

eva i miss your tashi thoughts 😔

HI IM SORRY I KNOW I'VE BEEN SO INACTIVE.. I PROMISE IM NOT FULLY ABANDONING THIS ACCOUNT I HAVE JUST BEEN UNMOTIVATED.. I WILL BE BACK

[tashism]

Childhood Bedrooms

this isn't great but i'm sleep. enjoy!

Patrick’s tie is the same shade of green as your dress and it’s truly the only sign that you’re meant to be here. The fabric doesn’t settle the way the other women’s does, trailing over each dip and curve like a steadily streaming raindrop, taking a pause at the peaks before falling all over again. Patrick had said to dress ‘nice’, how descriptive, and you had. You’d dressed you nice, a little unit from some department store that the average suburban woman would give a nod of approval. You’d forgotten to take into account, however, that he meant Zweig nice. Billion dollar company, old, fancy German name Zweig nice. And now, here you are, looking like a toddler dressed in her mother’s most formal wear in a ballroom of socialites, veneers peeking through red lips, smiling. Rearing for a false compliment. Who the fuck has a ballroom in their house? The Zweigs do. The Zweigs have most things.

It got overwhelming quickly, the way most social gatherings do, when all the voices turn into one loud, uncoordinated piece of music, no discernible pattern in sight. The only constant is the occasional murmur of your name, a reference to ‘that girl’, an eye with pinpoint pupils and no kindness behind the flecks of grey-blue-green that make them up. Some of them feel unnervingly familiar, but you suppose they are Patrick’s relatives. He wasn’t created in a vacuum. Patrick is holding a golden-brown wooden chair above his head, grinning up at the boy perched atop it, a king of the highest order, overseeing the passing servers and wine-drunk men spitting into one another’s faces as they laugh a bit too loud to be polite. A woman hands you her champagne glass and a crumpled ten dollars. There could not be a worse time for so much stimuli. 

The hallway is cold with the lack of bodies all pressed up against one another, sweating into the fabric of another person’s clothing. It’s all marble and deep, dark wood. Old money that groans beneath your feet like it hurts to be stepped on by someone beneath its pay grade. You sigh to open air, and something returns it, slipping next to you like it was natural. You don’t know when he’d noticed your absence, what excuse he’d told. Perhaps everyone was talking badly about you both more openly now. Not much would change. You huff a laugh, tilting your forehead into the crook of an aching shoulder, overused with the need to be a part of some familial tradition. 

“I think your aunt thought I was a waitress.”

You slip the cash into his pocket, pat it lightly. The extra air puffs out from the opening at the top. He groans louder than the ground beneath your feet.

“Yeah, they’re… like that.”

He speaks into the crown of your head, each whispered syllable tangling into every strand of hair. It’s as much of an apology as he can give. After all, he likes them about as much as you do. That is to say, not at all. It doesn’t show, though, not with each should pat and forced smile. He has one exception: Michael, bar mitzvah main event. It’s hard to blame him, all mild manners and flashing smiles. You see a little piece of Patrick in the way his lips curve, the way his chin drops to his chest when he laughs.

“You wanna get out of here?”

Yes.

“Nah. Cake.”

He stifles a grin through his teeth, which press into the shell of your ear just enough to leave small, indented lines. There’s a quick second where you feel that dry-skinned tingle down your wrist, two fingers tracing the aqua of your veins, pressing down where your pulse thrums, where life is flowing with you and you beat with its essence, before slipping between yours.

“Follow me.”

The walk is leisurely, silent, down turns and corners lined with ornate, golden picture frames and oil paintings of times gone by. People who you’ll never meet. You can’t help but to be a little grateful for that fact. A door is pushed open, and it cries out like a child disturbed in the night, awoken from a sleep as light and airy as the breeze. The walls were white once, you think, having yellowed like old parchment or teeth under the press of too much coffee. The bed is made, the floor is clear, and on a desk, on the furthest end of the room, is a small, graying photograph of a small brunette and a slightly smaller blond, cheek to cheek and smiling like the sun shined from within their chests.

The air moves like it’s sighing, stretching, bones cracking after having gone unmoving for so long. It’d almost be unnerving if it weren’t for the echo of laughter from the opposite end of the house and the shuffling of Patrick’s leather-covered feet by the door. 

“Who’s that? In the picture, I mean.”

His eyes move like they’re being pulled against his will, two puppets pulled by string to rest upon an image of a time inevitably happier than this one. Kids are more resilient than adults in that way. The horrible can be good when you’ve not learned that sometimes happy endings don’t occur if you wish upon a star. 

“Old friend. No one I really remember.”

When you move to sit on the bed it squeaks a little bit, bounces in place. The blanket is thick, itchy, multi-colored and slightly frayed around the edges. It couldn’t have been pleasant to sleep under, unrelenting against fragile skin. You pass it between your fingers, hear how it grumbles under its breath. It’s home-made, a small ‘For our little Patrick’ etched into the bottom in loops and waves. 

“My Bubbe made that, like, way back. It’s the ugliest fucking thin you’ve ever seen.”

“Your Bubbe needs to use some softer yarn next time.”

He kicks off his loafers, watches them skid across the plush carpet and against the opposite wall, one landing beneath his dresser to feverishly dig out at a later hour, making his way towards you with a shrug.

“Meh. ‘S part of the grandma charm.”

He flops down beside you like it’s second nature, even if you know he rarely stops by anymore. Something about it being a reminder of things he’d rather forget. You don’t pry. You never do. The movement lifts the little Star of David chain from beneath the collar of his shirt, the one he can never quite bring himself to take off, even though it’s a bit small for a man of his stature. It’s a family heirloom, he’d once explained, something given to him by one of the few blood relations he can stand. Or could, anyway. You don’t know why he keeps it on, not really. He’d stopped having faith like that years ago, long before you’d ever met him. Sitting on his bed, though, with a thick, green photo album labelled ‘Patrick’s Bar Mitzvah, 2001’ in Sharpie gone gray, and Bubbe’s blanket beneath your palms, you think you get it. That’s more real than any higher power might be. 

His breathing is slower, sinking stomach, rising chest, watching your back curl. His hand fiddles with that thin, shitty zipper at the back of your dress, not moving, but there. 

“You know you look gorgeous, right? Even if this isn’t… I don’t know, Coach, or whatever.”

“Doesn’t Coach only make bags?”

He wouldn’t know. He certainly doesn’t care. And with the feeling of the skin of your back slowly exposing itself to the air, dotting itself with goosebumps in a room much colder than you’d have thought it to be, you don’t either.

[tashism]

Big Shoes to Fill

or, lily follows in her parents' footsteps.

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

tag list: @glassmermaids

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

“Fix that grip, Lils!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think Mommy is mad at me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not sure, Lilybug.”

The answer is yes.

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

“I want more tennis lessons.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s alright :)) tomorrow then”

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

“Where you going, Lils?”

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

“Practice.”

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

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

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

“So, pick me, choose me-”

“Fifteen found dead in Oakland, Cali-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Course, Lilybug.”

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

“How’s Mom?”

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

“Oh, Lily… how are you?”

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

“‘M fine.”

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

“Can I say something stupid?”

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

“I always wanted to dance.”

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

[tashism]

art who has the most sensitive ears ever.

art who has to swallow down embarrassing mewls when you start to kiss from his neck to his earlobe. his hands moving to grab your body, fingers curling to keep you close and wordlessly express how good you’re making him feel. when your tongue drags over the shell of his ear, over the flushed curve of soft cartilage, he can’t help but buck his hips up and seek friction out against the inside of his already-sticky boxer briefs. his eyes roll back; his cock throbs with need.

“right there,” he whimpers, voice coming out choked and strained with arousal, “right th-there, baby—feels so good.. i wanna touch myself.. can i touch?”

he feels you drag your teeth against his skin before you suckle at his lobe for just a moment, teasing him and letting your saliva cling lewdly when you pull back. a glistening string connecting from your bottom lip to his flesh. his entire world suddenly is crumbling beneath his feet as his climax washes over him like a dumped bucket of hot water.

pulsing, kicking, trembling, paralyzing.

“fuck!” he wails, gripping the sides of your torso tight, his entire body tensing and then snapping with harsh jolts from his chest to his lower thighs, “oh god, oh god, ohh.. i’m sorry..”

he moans and throws his head back like he’s being torn apart, like the orgasm is something otherworldly.

as the last few waves flood in and out, art shivers harder when you mouth at his ear for the last time, whispering filthy words and causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. he nearly sobs. he probably would, if he could feel anything other than pure pleasure—festering and fizzling out in his veins.

he didn’t even get the chance to take off his underwear.

[tashism]

SMALL TOWN PASTOR! ART WHO…

pastor art! x single mom! reader.

WHO… obviously grew up sheltered by religion. he was basically raised in a pew and he’s pretty sure his fingers have molded to fit the shape of his bibles spine.

WHO… everyone comes to with their problems. not only because he’s the preacher of the only church in town, but, also because he’s such a warm and inviting soul.

WHO… wouldn’t think twice before spending his last five dollars on someone who needed it, no matter how big or small the reason. money doesn’t matter to the lord, why should it matter to him?

WHO… caught wind of the new family in town and, as the town preacher it was his job to make himself a familiar figure to his neighbors.

WHO… first introduced himself to you at your doorstep, a batch of warm cookies in hand and an even warmer smile on his face.

WHO… invited you to church on sunday, made a promise that everyone was friendly and would accept you and your son with open arms.

WHO… gets to know you a little better after service when the two of you are cleaning up the potluck. he learns everything from what you do for work, where you’re originally from, to your son’s father being a deadbeat.

WHO… looks for you during sunday service among the pews. every time he spots you, glowing from the sunlight, your son sitting well behaved on your lap. it’s almost like that first breath he took after his baptism all over again.

WHO… finds himself spending more time with you away from church. he’ll come to your house to help fix an appliance, or maybe just to hang out.

WHO… definitely catches feelings, you’re just so sweet and, arts been alone for a long time. he’s always so focused on spreading the good word that he never thinks about what he wants.

WHO… comes to the conclusion that what he wants is you. he couldn’t care less that you have a son out of wedlock, or that you aren’t as religious as him or others in town.

WHO… asks you on a date after service, and is only about two seconds away from yelling out a hallelujah and jumping for joy when you inevitably say yes.

[tashism]

AHHHH eva your theme is GORGGGG… so so pretty i am i love (with it and you!!)

THANK YOU MY PERFECT WIFE.... can i please have old navy disney collection...

[tashism]

your new theme is so cute evaaa!

EEK THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!

[tashism]

im late but NEW THEME ALERT !!! NEW THEME ALERT !!! :O so cute aughh

THANK YOU MY ANGEL BABY WIFE PRINCESS

us rn........

[tashism]

CW: MDNI, NSFW

Dilf Coach!Art who feels like he should know better. You’re way too young, barely out of college, way too off limits. He’s friends with your dad for crying out loud.  But everytime you walk on the court in your tiny tennis skirt (he swears they get shorter every time he sees you) he starts to sweat and his palms feel itchy. 

Dilf Coach!Art who’s kind of a pushover. He can’t really say no to you. He tries but you manage to walk all over him easily. Five laps around the court turns into two. Twenty push ups turn into ten. The whole time he’s getting distracted. Fixated on your tits bouncing when you jog, or the little bit of cleavage that shows and the way your skirt rides up when you’re on your hands and knees for push ups.     

Dilf Coach!Art who gives in when you beg him for a ride home after practice. It’s started to rain and your parents are running late and he’s just trying to be nice. He does notice the way you squeeze your thighs together, the way your breathing picks up once the car door shuts.  

Dilf Coach!Art who tells himself it’s only gonna happen one time when you guide his hand between your thighs at the red light so he can feel how wet you are for him. When you crawl onto his lap after he pulls over behind the club parking lot. When he shivers as he sinks into your tight wet cunt. 

Dilf Coach!Art who loses it almost immediately when you get on top of him— you’re just too fucking pretty! He slides his hands up under your top to cup your tits as you ride him and suddenly he’s seizing up… begging and pleading with himself… “No no, please. Fuck… oh please no fuck fuck fuck…” and suddenly he’s painting inside your walls with so much cum, shame filled tears in his eyes. “Shit… shit I’m sorry.” An even more shameful whisper. “Are you on the pill?”

Dilf Coach! Art who makes it up to you by laying you out in the backseat. Fingers and mouth in your cunt, fucking you so good you end up soaking the leather of his fancy sports car. The one he bought after the divorce to make himself feel better. He’s gonna have to get it detailed. But at least it’s only the one time because he’s not gonna do it again. He’s really, really not. Really.

(Blah! Rumors of dilf coach!Art in my inbox. So here are some random head canons no one asked for to help me flesh him out. He won’t be here for a while.)

[tashism]

love love love love loveeee the color scheme of this theme omg <3

what if we kissed?😇 what then?😇 thank YEW!!

[tashism]

beautiful wife has new beautiful theme... now we will make beautiful babies...

let us rejoice in making beautiful love… mmggg mfddd nggghhh uhh uhh uhhhjjjj

[tashism]

aahhhh i'm in love with your new theme!! baby z and moomin, when two worlds collide 🥹💗

eeekkk thank you!!!