Imagine this: youre in college, and after all those boring classes you come to your job at the donaldsons that includes riding him in the couch for as long as your legs allow you.
Tashi just coming home to thats sight and just making herself a afternoon drink unbotherd.
Dbsnhxhsb
omg shut up???🥲
warnings; all smut not much plot, older!art, so much potential for this series aghhh
a/n; art is an ear freak i literally feel it in my balls he loves it when u suck on them ears (he did it to tashi so he likes doing it to others too <3)
the front door clicks and you wander through, in this teensy little white tennis dress that art told - no, commanded - you to wear when you came to work. the dress that shows the strain of your hard nipples through the fabric, swollen into points like diamonds, the one that slips upward and reveals the perky swells of your ass, the barely covered seam of your pussy when you trounce up to him, chirruping nonsense and smiling at him like he’s the only man in the world.
he murmurs something indiscernible - a pleased noise that reverberates at the back of his throat - and you lean over the back of the couch, sliding your manicured fingers across the expanse of his chest, chin tucked to his neck.
“hi.”
“hi, baby,” he murmurs in that low, rasping way that turns your insides molten.
fast forward no more than ten minutes, and you’re both bare, art’s thick fingers curled round your waist as he uses you as a fleshlight, lifting you up and down like a ragdoll and watching, entranced, as your cunt flares and parts for his thick cock; you sob and babble, slumped forward against his chest, nails digging into porcelain skin, teeth scraping along art’s cheekbone.
“i know, baby. i know,” he grunts, and you’ve never heard a sound like it. your cunt clenches, a soft silk wrap around his cock, and he’s turning his head to suck at the corner of your mouth, all spit and drool and tongue, so much of it that it drips from your chin, globs of it pooling between your tits.
the front door clicks and you’re both too lost in each other to care as tashi comes through the living room and enters the kitchen; art hooks one of his huge hands under the crease of your knee, lifting your leg until it’s draped over his forearm, bracing his feet against the leather of the couch as he jackrabbits up into you. you make a sound somewhere between a moan and a scream, and then tashi’s figure is crossing by you once more, drink in hand, lithe fingers nudging at your jaw to examine your expression. she bends at the waist, pinches your pert little nipple and rolls the bud between her fingertips, and smirks - fucking smirks - as your pussy clamps down on him like a vice; art lets out a stuttered breath, pulls you down onto him, and cums on the spot.
neither of you quit writhing against each other; he has at least another load in him, cock already chubbing back up encased in your spasming walls, no doubt an angry red and drooling precum. tashi settles herself on the armchair opposite you, already disinterestedly flicking through tv channels.
“want my mouth on you,” you whisper, face pressed just below his jaw, breathing hot air onto his neck.
“in a minute, baby,” he supplicates, grunting as he sheathes himself further into your tight warmth, balls heavy and swollen and slapping against your ass with every filthy rock of his hips.
tashi crosses one leg over the other, the picture of boredom, and says, “bite his ear. he loves that shit.”
you do just that, teeth rolling over his lobe as you suck the sensitive skin into your mouth.
he almost cums again, hands sliding up and over your back to still your movements so he doesn’t blow his load right there.
oh, tashi’s going to have fun with you. mould you into a perfect little toy for her husband, take some of his intense, fervent pining off of her, let you be the center of his world so she can focus on improving his game.
summary: Tashi needs some time alone with her man, which leaves you without a room for the night.
word count: 3.8k
rating: mature/explicit/18+
warnings: alcohol, fingering, dry humping, p in v sex with a condom, light praise, titty sucking, there's only one bed oh no!!
a/n: thanks for all the love on my first Challengers fic! hope you enjoy this one!
“You are so fucked,” Art says, taking another sip of his beer.
“Shut up.”
“He’s right,” Tashi agrees, sighing heavily, glancing at her cards.
You’re all sitting on the floor of your and Tashi’s dorm room, half-empty beer bottles littering the floor between you. You’d been playing poker for the past hour or so, swindling more of Patrick and Art’s money. It’d become a Friday night habit of yours, card games and beer with Patrick and Art. Patrick was always a maybe, he only came to visit his girlfriend a couple times a semester.
But you, Art, and Tashi were always a solid trio. Tashi and Art had met through tennis of course, and you had met Art through Tashi after rooming with her freshman year of college. You’d become fast friends, and roommates for the next several years. You got along with Patrick well enough, you had to once he and Tashi started dating.
You could tell that had been a sore spot for Art, at least for a while. You’d suspected he’d had a thing for Tashi, and fire and ice hadn’t been the same since. You’d once asked Tashi about it and she’d only shrugged. Even though she was with Patrick for now, you knew Tashi had only one true love.
Whatever Art felt for Tashi was easily molded into friendship, and the three of you became nearly inseparable. Which was good, even if you may or may not have developed some feelings of your own for the blond tennis player.
But your friendship was more important. Those feelings could be pushed aside.
“God damn it,” Patrick curses, “I fold.”
Tashi snickers, revealing her cards and Patrick swears once more.
“I need a smoke,” Patrick says, standing and leaning across Tashi’s bed to the open window.
“Oh no you don’t,” Tashi says, standing at lightning speed, “Outside, we are not getting in trouble for this.”
She grabs Patrick by the shirt collar, dragging him off the bed. He dramatically chokes, but lets her drag him towards the door.
“Art come on,” Patrick insists, reaching for his best friend.
“What? No, I wanna stay,” Art says, sandy hair falling in front of his eyes, “You don’t need a babysitter—”
“Yes I do,” Patrick insists, “C’mon five minutes, I swear.”
The boys tumble into the hall and you can hear their voices fading as they make their way outside. You stand from the floor, gathering up some beer bottles, and folding up the empty pizza box.
“Hey, d’you think you could sleep somewhere else tonight?” Tashi asks, brown eyes wide, “It’s Patrick’s last night, and y’know we really haven’t had any alone time.”
Your chest constricts at the thought. You totally get where she’s coming from but, it’s your room too. The thought of sleeping in the common area is less enticing.
“Or at least just for a couple of hours,” Tashi backtracks, seeing your expression, “Just so we can—”
“Yeah, Tash it’s fine,” you tell her, swallowing your annoyance. Tashi’s been nothing but thoughtful and kind as a roommate, and friend. It’s an inconvenient favor, but nothing crazy. “I’ll get out of your hair for a couple of hours.”
“You’re the best,” she says, kissing your cheek, “Seriously, I owe you one.”
“You sure do,” you tell her, “I expect full payment for this.”
“Do you mean a trip to the movies with slurpees and popcorn?” Tashi asks, raising her eyebrows.
“With extra butter,” you clarify and point at her, “You’re not cheaping out on me.”
“I’d never,” she insists, feigning seriousness before breaking into a grin.
You finish helping Tashi clean up and begin your excommunication from your room. Walking down the hallway you bump into Patrick and Art on their way back from Patrick’s smoke break.
“What’re you doing out here? You start smoking?” Art asks as Patrick keeps walking past you, picking up the pace, “Hey where…”
“Party’s over,” you tell him, as Patrick turns the corner, eager to return to Tashi now that she’s alone.
Art frowns, confused.
“But we were—”
“Art,” you cut him off and place your hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly, “Party’s over. Unless you’re eager to be a third.”
Art’s cheeks flush and he glances away, forcing out a laugh. Something tugs at your heart watching his half-smile appear.
“Uh yeah ... .no thanks,” he says and you pat his shoulders before releasing them, “Wait but where are you going to go?”
You shrug, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“You can’t just wander around campus, it’s like 2 am,” Art says, beckoning you with his hand, “Come back to my room, at least till they’re done.”
“Really?” you ask, “Cause if you’re tired I can just—”
“Don’t be silly,” Art says, poking your shoulder, “C’mon.”
Art’s room is in a separate building on campus, about a five-minute walk from you and Tashi’s building. Art is lucky enough to have a single; you’d been there a handful of times before class or practice. He keeps his room neat, aside from some clothes scattered on the floor from quick changes before practice. You smile as he hurriedly picks them up, throwing them into a hamper in his closet.
His bed is unmade, navy sheets messy as though he’d just woken up.
“Sorry bout the mess,” he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.
“I’m not judging, you’re cleaner than most guys I’ve met,” you tell him and he laughs.
Suddenly, it hits you how late it is, sleepiness hitting you like a train as you yawn. This triggers Art’s yawn and the pair of you stand awkwardly in front of each other.
“Um,” Art says suddenly, “It’s late.”
“Yeah,” you agree, stomach sinking, “I can just—”
“You should stay.”
You’re silent at that. You stare at him, as he nervously plays with the hem of his t-shirt, waiting for your reaction. You’re not sure what to say. It’s fine, right? Just a friend, helping out another friend.
A friend whom you have a big fat annoying crush on.
“I mean….it’s just late and you’re tired and who knows when they’ll be done.”
“I don’t have anything with me,” you tell him, voice sounding softer, meeker than you’d like.
“Oh, here I got you,” he says, walking to his dresser. He shuffles through the drawer a moment before revealing a shirt and clean boxers, “Just did laundry today. You can….you can change in the bathroom. I even have an extra toothbrush.”
You roll your eyes at that, taking the clothes from him.
“Okay,” you agree.
“Bathroom’s right there.”
You nod, quickly making your way across the room and into the bathroom. You close the door and quickly change, finding Art’s spare toothbrush unopened in a goodie bag from the dentist shoved into a spare drawer. You quickly wash your face, brush your teeth, and change into his clothes. The shirt is baggy, with Stanford Men’s Tennis written across the front. It smells like him, like his detergent and his cologne and you can’t help but greedily inhale.
When you exit the bathroom, Art dips in, leaving the door open as he brushes his teeth. You place your clothes in a pile on his desk, awkwardly waiting for him. When he emerges, he’s wearing only his boxers and a gray t-shirt.
“I’ll take the floor,” Art says, his face turning beet red, “You can have the bed.”
“Art no,” you insist, “It’s your room. I’ll take the floor, it’s only fair—”
“Yeah that is not happening,” he says, satisfied smirk on his face, “Tashi’d kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the floor.”
“We could…..” you wet your lips, struggling to get the words out, “We could share the bed?”
Art watches you, his eyes wide. You watch his Adam’s apple bobs as he contemplates your question. Suddenly your pulse quickens, and embarrassment floods your body, and your face flushes. You turn away from him, scooting onto the bed.
“I mean only—”
“—if you’re comfortable,” Art finishes and you shut your mouth. You both giggle at the overlapping sentences.
“Yeah, I’m comfortable, Art,” you tell him, patting the space beside you, “Come on.”
Art moves onto the bed and you push closer to the wall. He’s so close when he lies down beside you, stretching his arm above your head. You’ve grown accustomed to the moonlit room and at this distance, you can almost count each eyelash that frames his blue eyes.
“Is this okay?” he whispers, minty breath wafting over your face, making your head spin.
“Mhmm,” is all you can manage as the heat of his body warms you under the covers.
He’s silent then and you lay there for a moment, watching each other, listening to your shared breathing. Art chuckles then.
“What?”
“It’s just…” he trails off, “Nothing, it’s silly.”
“What is it?”
“You’re the first girl I’ve shared a bed with,” he admits, shyly glancing away from your gaze.
“Art Donaldson,” your tone is teasing, “I find that rather hard to believe.”
“It’s true,” he insists, brows furrowing together, “I mean….I’m not saying—wait” he wets his lips nervously, “I’m not a virgin—”
Your eyebrows raise, a smile curling at the corner of your lips. No, you did not doubt that.
“Not that anything’s wrong with that, I just—wait and not to imply—”
“Art!” you cut him off, reaching forward and pressing your fingers against his lips, “I’m kidding. Don’t freak out.”
“M’not,” he mumbles, lips moving against your fingers.
“I’m fucking with you, Donaldson,” you whisper, taking your hand back, “I know you’re a gentleman.”
“Thank Christ,” he says with an exaggerated exhale causing you to giggle once more. He watches you, a smile on his face, eyes flickering to your lips.
Your face heats up as he wets his lips. Suddenly, nervousness flutters in your belly, and your heart flutters in your chest.
“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning away from him to face the wall.
You wait for his response, hoping he’s not disappointed. Disappointed about what, you’re not sure.
“Goodnight,” he says softly and you close your eyes.
You wake up early. Birds are chirping outside the window, golden sunlight is beginning to bleed into the room, and Art’s chest is smushed firmly against your back. His arm is curled around your middle, hand splayed under your shirt and on your tummy, face buried in the crook of your neck. He’s so warm, his presence so comforting, you just want to close your eyes and melt back into him.
Art groans in his sleep, moving his hips slightly and your eyes snap open.
Oh, Art.
He’s pressed firmly against your backside, rock-hard, hips unconsciously grinding against you. Your mouth falls open slightly feeling him against you, the hard outline of his cock bullying against your ass. Art groans again, hand on your stomach pushing you closer to him.
A breathy sigh escapes you and your head falls back against him slightly.
“Art,” you breathe, answered with another groan, this one edging on a whimper. His hips gyrate, cock pressing against you with need, “Oh God…”
You swallow, breathing becoming more shallow. Your pussy clenches, and you can feel the growing wetness in the boxers Art had lent you, thighs pressing together desperate to relieve some of the pressure.
“Art wake up!”
Art wakes with a start, head pulled from your shoulder. You can’t see him, but you feel him tense, the warmth of his body ripped from yours as he lurches backward, right off the edge of the bed. He falls with a yelp, hitting the floor with a loud thud. You sit up turning toward him.
“Fuck!” he says, scrambling to sit and hide his erection, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” His face is red and he grabs a pillow, placing it over his lap, “God–fuck, I’m so sorry I was asleep—” He keeps stuttering, unable to meet your eyes.
“Art.”
“It’s just biological you know, just morning wood, I would never do anything without your explicit consent–enthusiastic consent!”
“Art…”
“And I would never want to ruin anything between us, ever–”
“Art!”
His head snaps toward you then, eyes meeting yours. His mouth hangs open, eyes watery as he looks up at you. He looks so sad, so embarrassed, and disappointed. And something else as well. Worried, perhaps.
“Get back up here,” you tell him.
Art’s mouth remains open in shock as he glances at the bed.
“Now?”
“Yes, right now.”
Art scrambles to rejoin you on the bed, lying beside you. He faces you just as he did last night, sandy hair falling across his forehead. You smile softly at his disheveled appearance and his flushed cheeks.
“I’m sorry—”
“Stop talking,” you tell him, reaching forward and brushing some hair from his face. You let your hand trail around to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair. “You have my consent.”
Art’s eyes widen, lips parting in shock.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” you tell him, pulling yourself closer. His hand drifts to your hip, anchoring himself to it. “Explicit, enthusiastic, all yours.”
The last word has barely left your lips before he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against your own. They’re warm and soft, he kisses you with innocent eagerness, the hand on your hip pulling you flush against him. You lift your leg, hitching it around his thigh, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly, earning a moan against your mouth.
“Fuck,” he moans against your lips, “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”
Something deep inside your belly warms at his admission.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” he answers, kissing you again, “Since freshman year.”
“Why didn’t you…..oh fuck..” your question trails off as Art mouths your neck, sucking and biting the tender skin.
“Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he mumbles, kissing your collarbone.
You hum at his answer, tilting your head to give him better access. His hand moves from your hip bone, up under your shirt—his shirt.
“Is this okay?” he asks, mouth returning to your lips.
“Yes,” you tell him, “Please touch me.”
You can feel his smile against your lips as he does what you ask, fingers grazing the underside of your breast. Pushing against him, his hand cups your breast, squeezing lightly. You pull away from his lips briefly, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it to the end of the bed. Art’s eyes devour you and he kisses you desperately as he continues to play with your tits.
“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck until he reaches the top of your chest.
Art’s lips move across the tops of your breasts, as though he’s struggling with choosing which one to lavish with attention. Luckily for you, he decides rather quickly and latches his mouth to your right nipple, thumb, and forefinger, tweaking the opposite. Your back arches as he gently bites down, sucking the hardened peak harshly before releasing it with a pop.
“Art.”
He simply moans, ignoring your cries as he brings his mouth to your opposite nipple, repeating his previous action. Pleasure winds a current in your lower belly, your thighs clench as he repeats his little torture, alternating back and forth between your breasts. You grab his hair, tugging him not too gently until he glances up at you, cheeks red, lips glossy and puckered.
He’s too pretty.
You pull him back to your lips, kissing him feverishly while trying to rid yourself of the clothing you have left. Art feels you squirming and assists, hands moving the boxers down your legs until you’re able to kick them off at your ankles. Your hands move to him next, eager to even the playing field.
You tear his shirt over his head revealing his toned stomach from countless hours on the court. Your mouth waters at the sight before Art is on you once more, lips capturing yours in another heated kiss. His hand returns to your hip, curling against it before he reaches further, squeezing your ass.
You smile against his mouth as he squeezes again.
“You’re just fucking perfect, aren’t you?” he murmurs, returning your smile.
His hand grazes down the back of your thigh before venturing to the front where your legs meet. Your breathing becomes more labored the closer he gets to your hot center.
“Can I?” he asks, so softly, you nearly drown out his question with your heavy breath.
“Yes,” you tell him, and that’s all he needs.
Art slides a curious finger between your wet folds, gently circling your clit. Your mouth falls open as he continues.
“You’re so wet,” he remarks, dipping his finger lower, and finding your entrance.
He lets his middle finger sink into you, met with little resistance. Your walls greedily accept him as he curls his finger upwards, beginning to pump it in and out. Stars explode behind your eyes and you moan, clutching onto his shoulder.
Art smirks, eyes aglow at the pleasured noises you emit.
“That feel good?”
“Yes—fuck,” you squeak as he presses another finger inside of you, “Oh god.”
“Yeah?”
Art crooks his fingers against your velvety walls, pressing against that special spot inside of you that has your head lolling against him, moans spilling from your lips. His thumb joins, caressing your sensitive clit in time with the strokes of his fingers.
“Feels so good,” you moan, “I’m so close.”
“Yeah? You're gonna come for me?” he asks, kissing your neck. Your fingers tangle themselves in his blonde hair, tugging harshly, your orgasm building deep in your belly, “Come on baby, come on my fingers, I wanna feel this pretty pussy come.”
His words send you over the edge and your pussy clenches around his digits as you come, thighs shaking from the intensity as warmth floods through you.
“That was so hot,” Art says, kissing you, still buried to the knuckles inside you, “You’re so hot. Let me fuck you, please.”
You hum against his lips as he carefully removes his fingers from your warmth. He pulls away, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. You watch him awestruck as he moans, eyes closing at the taste of you.
“Get inside me,” you tell him, “Right now.”
Art doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting up and pulling his boxers off as you lay on your back. Your eyes drift down his stomach to his cock. It’s pretty, just like the rest of him. Long, girthy, a neat tuft of dark sandy colored hair at the base. The tip flushed red and weeping as he strokes himself.
“Condom?” you ask, and he nods, walking to his desk and rummaging through the first drawer.
He comes up successful, ripping the wrapper with his teeth and rolling the condom on his length before crawling on top of you. You spread your legs for him as he lines himself up, rubbing the tip along your soaked slit.
“Art, please put it in,” you whine, hips lifting.
“Jesus, I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he says, shaking his head.
Your responding giggle is short-lived as he slowly sinks inside of you, filling you to the brim.
“Oh god,” you whimper, as he rests his forehead against yours.
“You okay?”
“More than okay,” you answer, cupping his cheek. He mirrors your action and you smile, a sudden burst of tenderness exploding in your chest, tears welling in your eyes.
Art rotates his hips, pulling back and sinking back into your inviting warmth.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, kissing your lips, “I’ve dreamt of this for years.”
“Me too,” you admit, wrapping your legs around his waist, “God, Art, I’ve wanted this forever.”
This spurs him on, his thrusts becoming quicker, more eager at your confession.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” you whimper as he pounds into you, “Wanted this for so long—used to talk to….to Tashi about it—”
Art moves his hand along your side, reaching your thigh and hooking your leg over his shoulder.
“What’d you tell her?”
The new angle sends him deeper, the head of his cock rubbing perfectly against that spongy section of your walls that has your mouth dropping open in pleasure.
“Wanted you,” you manage as Art holds one of your hands above your head against the pillows, “Wanted this so bad.”
“I’ll give it to you,” Art says, his breath catching, “Fuck—oh god you’re so pretty like this, fuck.”
“Art!” you cry his name as your second orgasm builds, sneaking up on you as he slows his pace, “Why’d you—”
“Wanna savor this,” he says softly, kissing the tip of your nose. His thrusts have slowed, hips moving with leisure.
The pressure in your belly continues to build as he smirks down at you. Tennis has done wonders to his stamina; he fucks you like he could keep this pace for hours, barely breaking a sweat. You whine, throwing your head back against the pillows as he kisses your neck, your hamstring burning deliciously with the stretch.
“Please come for me,” he murmurs, right next to your ear, “I’ve got to feel that sweet little pussy come around my cock, please.”
You do as you’re told, spurred on by Art whispering praises and encouragement in your ear and you fall apart, clenching around his cock and milking him for all he’s worth. You feel his hips stutter, cock twitching inside your warmth as he follows your release with his own. Art’s lips find yours then, and you can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air.
You stay like that for several minutes, his cock softening as you kiss one another, before he slowly pulls out. He takes a moment to take off the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the trash before he rejoins you in bed.
“C’mere,” he says, pulling you across his chest.
You lie with your cheek pressed against his pec, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. He strokes your arm with his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Did you mean what you said?” he asks, face buried in your hair, “About wanting me? This?”
“Mhmm,” you answer, putting all your cards on the table, “I may have harbored a small crush on you.”
Art picks up your hand measuring it against his own before lacing your fingers together.
“I wish I knew that earlier,” he admits, still holding your hand, “I’ve been in love with you for ages.”
You glance up at him between your lashes and he grins.
“It’s true,” he says with a smile.
“And here I thought Patrick was the only one who owned your heart,” you tease, causing him to playfully bite your wrist, “Hey!”
“Not the only one,” he admits, rolling you over onto your back, “I’m glad you got kicked out of your room last night.”
You lean up, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Me too.”
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summary You’re Tashi’s prodigy – her golden player, her project, her obsession – and every serve, bruise, and whispered command in the humid courts brings you closer to the greatness she demands and the dangerous devotion you crave.
Her words sliced through the thick, humid air of the court, sharper than any backhand you’d returned tonight. You clenched your jaw, fighting back the sting rising in your chest as you adjusted your grip, wrists trembling from fatigue. The fluorescent court lights above flickered once, buzzing low like an insect trapped against glass.
Tashi stood across from you, arms folded over her chest, racket hanging loose in one hand. Her eyes tracked your every movement with cold precision, dark irises gleaming under the harsh lights. Not a single hair had slipped from her braid. Not a single breath came ragged. She didn’t even look like she’d broken a sweat.
“You think anyone cares that you’re tired?” she asked, tilting her head. “You think your opponent’s going to let you catch your breath just because your legs ache?”
You said nothing, swallowing around the dryness in your throat. The air reeked of sweat and ozone from the storm rolling in beyond the courts.
She walked forward slowly, each step echoing on the concrete, until she stopped in front of you. Close enough to smell the faint citrus-clean scent of her perfume. Close enough for her gaze to pin you in place like an insect under glass.
“Show me your grip.”
You held out your racket obediently. She tutted under her breath and grasped your wrist, her fingers firm, nails biting just enough to make you flinch. She twisted your wrist into position, ignoring the small sound of pain that escaped your throat.
“There,” she murmured, voice low and dangerously calm. “Better. You waste so much energy flailing like a child. Be intentional.” Her thumb pressed hard against your pulse point, feeling it flutter quick beneath her touch. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the faintest smirk ghosted across her lips. “Scared?”
You tried to shake your head. You really did. But her smile widened, dark and knowing.
“Good,” she said softly, releasing you with a little shove. “You should be.”
She turned away, braid flicking against her shoulders as she reset the ball machine. The soft whir of it starting up again filled the silence between you.
“Ready position,” she called without looking back. Her voice carried over the court, even and indifferent.
You fell into position. You had no choice.
She was Tashi fucking Duncan.
You remember the first time you saw her with perfect clarity. It was just before summer, at the Women’s Doubles Championship at Stanford. You walked onto the court with your partner of barely a month, racket slung casually over your shoulder, still laughing about something inconsequential.
The stands were mostly empty, early morning sun pooling across the faded seats, but she was there.
She sat near the back, hair braided tight down her spine, skin gleaming under the harsh court lights. Beside her, some guy with dark hair talked animatedly, gesturing with annoyance, but she didn’t even turn his way. Her gaze was locked onto the players warming up across from you, then shifted – scanning you and your partner with cold precision.
For the briefest moment, her eyes met yours. Then she looked away, disinterested. Or pretending to be. Even then, you knew she was weighing you up like an opponent across the net.
You played like a monster that day.
They already called you a prodigy, but you felt it then more than ever – the smooth snap of your wrist on returns, the controlled aggression in each volley, the way you forced your opponents to the very edge before you broke them. You didn’t win by overwhelming force.
You won by erosion. You liked the slow kill. The long game. Watching your opponent realise, point by point, that they could not outlast you.
You saw her watching you as you kissed the trophy for the cameras, your partner practically hanging off your arm, beaming with triumph you felt only in your chest’s hollow ache. Her boy toy was gone by then, bored before the final set even started, but she stayed. Eyes sharp, unreadable. Calculating.
You felt exposed under her gaze, as though she already knew your weaknesses before you’d ever played against her.
After the match, she approached. No introduction. She didn’t need one. Everyone knew Tashi Duncan. Tennis prodigy. Discipline incarnate. Her presence felt like stepping onto Centre Court – blinding, suffocating, electric.
She took your phone out of your hand without asking, typing in her number. Her thumbs moved fast, deft, like she was gripping a racket rather than a piece of plastic.
“I want to teach you how to clean up your game,” she said, eyes flicking over you with faint disdain. “You waste too much energy on theatrics.”
You scoffed, defensive heat prickling your skin. “Why? You trying to retire early or something?”
She tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. A faint smile ghosted her lips. “I think you’re decent,” she said simply. “I like potential. If you don’t want my help, I’ll—”
“—No, no,” you blurted, grabbing her wrist before you could think. Her pulse was steady under your fingers, calm and unmoved. “I… I want it. I want to get better. You’re… incredible. A literal god at this. So… yeah. I’ll take it. Thank you.”
Her lips twitched into a smirk, eyes dropping to where your hand gripped her wrist like a lifeline. “You’re cute,” she said softly, pulling her arm back with clinical grace. “Don’t suck up like that again.”
You blinked, throat dry. “Okay,” you whispered.
It felt like losing a point on purpose – knowing it was part of the strategy to win the game.
You sat on the sideline, sweat drying uncomfortably against your skin as you sipped water. Your arms trembled from the last set of drills Tashi had put you through. She hadn’t spoken when she left to grab electrolytes – just gave you that look. The one that said don’t move.
Your phone buzzed against the bench. Then again. You sighed, thumb sliding across the cracked screen.
Riley K: U alive? Court 4. 10 mins.
Riley was older by a few years, once the academy’s golden child before Tashi showed up and claimed the title with ruthless ease.
Everyone knew Riley hated her for it. Everyone knew Tashi didn’t care.
You found Riley leaning against the chain-link fence by Court 4, idly bouncing a ball off their racket frame.
She always carried themselves with effortless arrogance – sun-bleached hair half-tied back, tank top gaping enough to show the sports bra beneath, tanned arms littered with old, half-faded tattoos that had scandalised the board when she won state. She never moved like an athlete. She moved like someone who already owned the court.
“Hey,” you croaked, voice scratchy from drills. You tucked stray hair back, trying to look composed. “What’s up?”
Riley didn’t bother with greetings. Her gaze dropped over your body, lingering on bruises blooming along your biceps and collarbone like dark flowers. Like proof.
“You look like shit,” She said, half-smiling. The words weren’t a joke.
“Good to see you too, Coach,” you deadpanned.
Riley pushed off the fence, stepping closer. “Been watching your sessions. She’s working you like a sled dog.”
You shrugged, shifting your weight. “It’s paying off.”
“Is it?” She cocked her head, tapping the ball against her strings with a rhythmic thunk. “I see a kid who’s gonna blow out a knee before you even sniff a Grand Slam.”
“I’m not a kid—”
“Don’t.” Riley cut you off softly, stepping in so close you could smell sweat and faint mint gum on her breath. “I know she’s good. Nobody’s saying she isn’t. But her head’s fucked. She pushes until you snap. Then she watches to see if you’ll crawl back together just to please her.”
Something twisted deep in your gut at that.
The worst part was that you couldn’t disagree.
Riley let silence stretch, heavy and humid, before leaning in. Her hand came up to brush sweat-damp hair off your forehead, their thumb lingering on your temple.
“Come train with me,” they murmured. “I know her type. I was her type once, remember?” Their voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “You don’t have to bleed yourself dry for her. I can get you where you wanna go – without all this.”
Her fingers drifted down to your sports bra strap, tugging it lightly before smoothing over a purple bruise near your ribs. You sucked in a sharp breath. Riley’s eyes flicked up, reading your reaction like they were reading the scoreboard.
“She buy you this set?” She asked, voice tinged with something unreadable.
You nodded, heat flushing your neck. “Yeah.”
“That so?” Riley’s hand grazed your hip, knuckles brushing the exposed skin above your skirt waistband. “Tashi give you a lot of things?”
You swallowed hard, throat clicking. “I… I guess.”
“She’s turning you into her project,” She whispered, leaning close enough for her lips to brush your ear. “Her little toy. You’re too good for that. You’re too good for her to use up and toss aside.”
Her words prickled something defensive and guilty inside you all at once. Before you could speak, the air shifted.
You didn’t hear her approach. You just felt it. That oppressive gravity she carried everywhere.
Riley’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, their hand dropping from your skin like they’d been burned.
“Tashi,” you breathed, turning before you could stop yourself.
She stood just inside the court gate, arms folded across her chest. Her braid was still perfectly tight, her expression carved from stone. Her eyes locked onto you first – sharp and dissecting – before sliding to Riley like they were barely worth noticing.
“Didn’t realise we were holding career counselling sessions tonight,” she drawled softly. Her lips curved, but there was no humour there. “Still trying to poach my players, Riley? Thought you’d grown out of that.”
Riley opened their mouth, but no words came. Tashi barely glanced at Riley again. Her gaze pinned you where you stood. You knew that look. You’d seen it across the net before you’d ever felt her touch – the look of a player calculating where to place the kill shot.
“You done here?” she asked, voice calm and flat, but it cracked like a serve against your chest.
You nodded before your brain even caught up. Riley let out a helpless scoff, muttering under their breath, “Puppy on a leash.”
But you didn’t turn back. You didn’t dare.
You followed Tashi off the court, your stomach coiling with something hot and shameful and thrilling all at once. The silence between you thrummed like taut strings.
“I’m sorry, Tashi, I didn’t even—”
“I don’t care.” Her voice was dead quiet, dead calm. The most dangerous tone of all. “Have a shower. You smell like shit.”
You swallowed, words dying in your throat. “But, Tashi, I didn’t—”
She spun so fast you almost crashed into her chest. Her eyes burned into yours, flicking between your pupils like she was reading your thoughts, your guilt, your arousal, your fear.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence pressed down heavier than any insult.
You dropped your gaze, shame prickling your skin like sweat. “...Okay,” you whispered.
You turned away, walking toward the locker rooms on shaking legs. You felt her eyes on your back with every step – like the promise of a match point she’d already decided she would win.
You sit in the locker room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a faulty line judge’s call. Six months. Six months of drills until your lungs burned, serves until your shoulder threatened to tear, footwork until your arches felt like cracked glass. Six months of her.
Her words echo through your skull like a rally you can’t end.
“I like potential.”
“You’re useless.”
“Like a puppy on a leash.”
Your palms drag up and down your thighs, sweat and anxiety slicking under your touch as you try to steady your breathing.
You remind yourself: inhale on toss, exhale on contact. But there’s no racket in your hand right now, only the phantom ache of her grip around your wrist, twisting your form into perfection whether it hurt or not.
You could fire her.
You could walk away from her borderline verbal abuse, her impossible demands, her mind games that danced the thin line between flirtation and degradation. You could find another coach. One who called you “champ” or “kiddo.” One who didn’t look at you like an opponent to break down point by point.
But they wouldn’t make you great.
She made you great.
Before Tashi, you were a 70% chance. A strong player. A promising junior. Since Tashi?
You’d become a 90% guarantee. A name whispered with envy and fear across academy courts.
And when you lost – if you lost – she made sure you felt it was her loss too. Her rage simmered colder than disappointment, like a serve slicing the line with millimetre-perfect accuracy.
But God, she got off on your failures. On your ragged breathing, your trembling knees, your whispered pleas for a break that never came. Her taunts cut sharper than any forehand.
“You’re kidding, right? You’re paying me to watch you play like a fucking loser?”
“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna win? Don’t you wanna tell your parents you’re worth something for once in your life? Or is that too much for you to handle?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on your breath. Ball toss. Contact. Follow through.
You stopped going out. Friends messaged less and less until silence became your pre-match routine. You didn’t care. Tennis was all that mattered. Winning was all that mattered.
No – she was all that mattered.
Tashi dictated your entire game.
What you ate, how you slept, who you spoke to, where your eyes went in the locker room, when you were allowed to take water. Every hour spent with her off-court felt like another drill. Another conditioning set. Another test of obedience.
And God help you – you loved tennis. But you wanted to be great not just for yourself. Not just for the trophies lined up like headstones in your future.
You wanted to be great for Tashi.
Because with her, every rally was power. Every serve was submission. Every match was another chance to prove that you deserved her control.
Between winning and losing lies everything that matters.
That was the first thing she ever told you that wasn’t instruction. Not feedback. Not critique. Philosophy.
“Winning is transient,” she’d said one quiet evening after drills, both of you sitting cross-legged on the court, backs pressed to the chain-link fence as the sodium lights flickered overhead. “It’s a peak. A single breath. But potential…” She glanced at you, sweat-damp hair sticking to her temples, eyes sharp and dark and impossibly tired. “Potential is infinite.”
You frowned, chest heaving with spent adrenaline. “But isn’t potential worthless if you never cash it in?”
A ghost of a smile. “Only if you think the match ends at match point.”
You didn’t understand then. You do now.
Winning felt good. Briefly. Like coming up for air after too long underwater – sweet and burning and dizzying all at once.
But what she gave you… what she drilled into your bones every night under buzzing court lights… was a taste of that liminal space. The place between victory and defeat. Where possibility stretched out forever, as long as you kept moving forward.
“You’re not losing because you’re tired,” she said once, voice carrying over the mechanical rhythm of balls ejecting from the machine. “You’re losing because you don’t want it enough to kill for it.”
A ball whistled past your ear, missing by millimetres. You barely reacted in time to return the next.
“Footwork!” she barked, her voice slicing through your scattered focus. “I don’t care if your lungs are on fire – move. Again!”
You panted hard, sweat dripping into your eyes, the court blurring under the glare of harsh lights.
“You think your opponent cares if you die on this court?” Her voice dropped low, almost tender, almost cruel. “Do you think the trophy will cry for you?”
Another ball slammed into the net.
“Pathetic,” she spat, racket slamming down against the ball machine shut-off. The sudden silence roared in your ears.
She strode forward, gaze pinned to yours, her sweat-slicked polo clinging to toned shoulders, chest heaving only slightly from exertion. She stopped inches from you.
“I don’t train winners,” she said quietly. “I train champions.”
Your throat clicked as you swallowed, muscles trembling so hard you could barely stand. “What’s the difference?”
Her smirk was small and cruel and unbearably beautiful. “Winners want to beat the person across the net. Champions want to beat God.”
Your knees almost gave out at that, something burning deep in your chest. Fear. Shame. Awe. Love.
She reached up, fingers tangling into your damp hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a touch too intimate to be discipline and too cold to be affection.
“You want it, don’t you?” she murmured, leaning forward so her breath ghosted across your lips. “You want to be more than good. More than great. You want to be inevitable.”
“Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Yes, I want it. I want it so bad.”
Her lips brushed yours, almost not a kiss at all. “Then stop crying.”
She shoved you back toward the baseline, picking up her own racket with infuriating grace.
“Again,” she ordered. “Until you become what I see in you.”
You stood under the hot water, letting it scald your back as your forehead pressed against the cool tile. Heat rolled down your spine, easing the ache in your calves and arms, but it couldn’t touch the deeper ache gnawing at your chest.
All you could think about was her. Tashi. Her bruising corrections. Her gaze that pinned you to the court as easily as a racket pins a ball to its strings. Her voice, low and venomous, curling around your throat tighter than any chokehold.
You dreamt of it too often—her touch rough, her touch gentle, her hands moving over your body with the same ruthless precision she used to guide your footwork drills.
You dreamt of touching her back. Of slipping your fingers through that perfect braid, tugging just to hear her gasp. Of seeing her come undone beneath you, just once, so you could know she was human.
You swore under your breath, trying to shake it off like sweat from your brow.
The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn. You felt her before you heard her.
Tashi stepped inside, the quiet click of the lock echoing in the empty locker room like the snap of a racket string breaking mid-serve. She moved around without a word, her presence cutting through the steamy air, a force as heavy as gravity itself. Only the thin vinyl curtain separated you, and even that felt like a lie.
“Why was she touching you?” Her voice came sharp and sudden, slicing through the hush like a perfect crosscourt backhand. Dripping with disdain.
You swallowed hard, letting water run over your face to buy a moment. “What are you talking about?”
She scoffed softly. The sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Don’t play dumb. She was feeling your clothes and your arm like a fucking leech.”
You let out a shaky exhale. “Oh. Right. She… she just liked the set, that’s all. Said the colour suits me. And she was…” You clear your throat. “Curious about the bruise.”
Silence. Then the faintest nod behind the curtain.
“I told her you got it for me,” you added quickly, desperate to fill the space between you with something—anything—other than her anger.
Another beat of silence. Your stomach twisted in its emptiness.
“Look, Tashi, I swear, she just… she offered to coach me, said you were a bit intense, but I’m not even considering it. Okay? I’m not.”
Silence again. Then:
“She’s pretty,” Tashi said suddenly, voice flat and unreadable. “Do you think she’s pretty?”
Your brows knitted, confusion cutting through the heat. “Wh—I don’t… I’ve never thought about it.” You scoffed softly, nervously. “No. I don’t.”
“Well.” Her voice turned mild, almost amused. “If you’ve never thought about it, how do you know?”
“Because—Tashi, who cares?” You snapped, tired, aching, humiliated. “We were just talking. It means nothing. And even if it did—it’s not your business, is it?”
Silence. Then a quiet chuckle, dark and low. “Good girl. I didn’t know if you’d ever grow a spine.” A pause. “It’s cute.”
Cute. She always called you cute. Like a pet she was training to heel. Like a player she knew she could dominate across the net, every rally ending exactly where she intended.
“She’s got a decent backhand,” Tashi continued, her tone turning analytical, as if dissecting an opponent’s tape, “but sloppy footwork. She wouldn’t teach you anything you don’t already know. Or know better. She’ll be retired by twenty-five at this rate.”
You heard the curtain rustle. Then the sudden draft of cooler air kissed your burning skin as she pulled it back. Her body blocked the stream of water, the scent of her sweat and faint citrus perfume wrapping around you like an invisible grip.
She was still fully dressed—black leggings hugging strong thighs, academy polo tucked tight at her waist, braid perfect despite the damp heat curling in the air. She tilted her head, eyes raking down your exposed back with infuriating leisure.
You refused to turn around. Your forehead pressed hard against the tile, your arms braced on either side of the faucet. You felt small. Cornered. Vulnerable in a way that went far deeper than nudity.
“But you,” she murmured softly, so close now you felt her breath against your ear, warm and possessive, “you could last so much longer. If you keep listening. If you keep being good for me.”
She said nothing for a moment after that. Just let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, her presence folding over you like a weighted blanket you could never throw off.
“Tashi,” you whispered, her name falling from your lips like a prayer. Like a surrender. You didn’t even turn to see her.
She hummed softly in response, a low, satisfied sound that sent heat coiling down to your belly. You heard the scrape of curtain rings as she pulled it open fully, exposing you to her gaze.
Her eyes burned over every inch of your wet skin before you even opened your own.
“Turn around,” she murmured.
You obeyed.
The water beat down over your shoulders, dripping from your nipples, streaming down your stomach. Her eyes flickered over every inch of you, slow and deliberate, until you felt like your skin was set alight under her scrutiny.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” she said quietly, stepping into the narrow shower space with you. Her shoes squeaked slightly against the wet tiles. She didn’t care.
You swallowed, chest heaving under her gaze. “I’m not. I promise.”
Her fingers reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. The touch was gentle. Almost tender. But her eyes… her eyes stayed hard.
“Riley’s not worth your attention,” she continued, her thumb trailing down to your jaw, pressing just enough to tilt your head up to meet her gaze. “You know that.”
You nodded, water dripping from your chin. “I know.”
Her eyes searched yours for a long moment. You weren’t sure what she was looking for, but whatever it was, she seemed to find it. Her hand slipped to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your wet hair, gripping tight enough to make you gasp softly.
“You’re mine,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You know that too.”
“Yes,” you breathed.
And then her mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t rough either.
It was deep, consuming, claiming – her lips slotting against yours perfectly as the water beat down around you. You moaned into her mouth, pressing closer, your naked body flush against her clothed form, the slick slide of your wet skin over her cotton polo making her hiss quietly against your lips.
Her tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you with slow, thorough strokes that made your knees tremble. Her free hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a rare, fleeting moment of tenderness.
When she pulled back, you chased her lips, desperate, but she held you still with her grip on your hair.
“Turn around,” she said again, this time softer. You obeyed without hesitation, heart pounding as you pressed your palms to the wall, water cascading down your chest, your thighs squeezing together with anticipation.
You felt her hand ghost over the curve of your ass, down to your inner thigh, before sliding between your legs to cup your sex. Her fingers moved with deliberate slowness, parting your folds, feeling just how ready you were for her touch.
“Always so wet for me,” she murmured, leaning forward to press her lips to the side of your neck. You shivered as her tongue flicked out, tasting the droplets clinging to your skin. “Does practice make you this wet? Or is it me?”
“It’s… it’s you,” you gasped out, barely able to breathe as her middle finger slid inside you, slow and deep. Your walls fluttered around her, drawing her in, desperate for more.
“That’s right,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just me.”
She kissed down your neck, each press of her lips sending sparks through your chest as her finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made your hips jerk back against her. Her thumb circled your clit with perfect precision, not too rough, not too teasing – just enough to keep you trembling under her.
But she didn’t rush you. She didn’t drive you towards release. Not yet.
Instead, she kept her movements slow and steady, her finger thrusting into you with devastating precision, her thumb flicking up to your clit every few strokes before dragging away again, leaving you whining with need.
“Stay still,” she murmured against your shoulder, her teeth scraping lightly at your damp skin. “Let me feel you.”
You tried. God, you tried. But your hips rolled down into her touch, your chest arching forward, forehead pressing harder into the tile as quiet moans spilled from your lips.
“Greedy,” she chastised softly, her voice dark with amusement. Her free hand came up to flatten across your stomach, holding you firmly in place as her fingers thrust deeper, slower, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that made you tremble. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”
“Tashi… please…” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
“Please what?” she asked softly, her lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your flushed skin.
“Please… I need… more… faster… please…”
She chuckled quietly at that, almost fond, before slowing her thrusts to an achingly deep, dragging pace. “Not yet.”
You sobbed softly, your legs trembling so hard you thought you might collapse. The pleasure burned bright and constant, but she kept you just shy of release – bringing you close with a swirl of her thumb before dragging it away, thrusting her fingers deeper to make you choke on a moan, only to pull back and start all over again.
“Tashi—please—” you begged, your voice breaking, tears mixing with the shower spray on your cheeks. “Please… I can’t… I can’t… it’s too much…”
“Yes you can,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. “You can take it. You’re stronger than this. Stronger than they think. Stronger than you think.”
Her words, quiet and assured, made your chest ache. You let out a choked sob, nodding desperately as her fingers quickened finally, her thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect strokes that made white flash behind your eyes.
“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice low and reverent. “Now come for me.”
Your orgasm tore through you like a breaking wave, your body clenching around her fingers so tight it almost hurt, your knees buckling as your vision blurred with heat and relief. You felt yourself sob her name, the sound breaking and echoing off the tile as her touch carried you through it, slow and grounding, until you sagged forward against the cool wall, gasping for air.
Finally, she pulled her hand away, and you heard the quiet rustle of her wiping her fingers clean on her polo. You felt empty and full all at once, the only thing keeping you upright was the press of her body against your back.
She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, almost tender. Almost loving.
“Clean up,” she whispered, her voice returning to that calm, cold edge. “Footwork drills in twenty.”
And just like that, she was gone.
You sank to your knees under the spray, chest heaving, your entire body shaking, your heart hammering with something that felt dangerously close to devotion.
In that moment – between defeat and defiance, between exhaustion and adrenaline – you understood. Winning is fleeting. Losing is fuel. But potential is everything.
It was what made her yours, in the only way she’d ever let herself be owned.
Pairing(s) : Reader x Patrick – Reader x Art – Reader x Tashi (sort of.)
CW: MDNI - 18+ : smut, rough / manhandling. Infidelity. Angst. A lot of yearning. (They all want each other, badly.) Manipulative behaviour. Minor spoilers for the film.
Notes: Female Reader (AFAB Reader) - Absolutely no use of y/n, (because I despise it, sorry)
Wordcount: 9.7K
Summary: You met Tashi in your final year of high school and were more than happy to have lost a tennis match against her. Afterwards, the two of you become inseparable and you find yourself feeling for her in a way that you don’t quite understand.And then things get even more complicated when Patrick and Art burst into your lives. As the years pass, desire, love and hatred all get tangled together...and so do the four of you.
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The idea of meeting Tashi Duncan had been much more intimidating than the actual event itself. It was an odd thing, to idolise someone who was the exact same age as you—a girl not yet out of high school and still so chronically unsure of herself and the world—but it was impossible not to.
You had watched every single match of hers that you could, staring for so long at the way she moved, that you were left with the afterimage of her burned into your eyes: She was in your thoughts constantly and always waiting behind your eyes when you closed them hoping for sleep.
You were brilliant at tennis, you knew that you were. But Tashi played like it was the only way she could take oxygen into her lungs; each serve and shot an inhalation and exhalation. You understood, because you felt something similar.
For a long time, you had been ignored or dismissed in every aspect of your life, by everyone. But then you had found tennis, and you were really fucking great at it.
Tennis saved your life by making you undeniably tangible. Your existence could not be disputed when someone had to react to your movements, to receive something you had offered.
It was no wonder then, that for as long a match lasted you were unhealthily obsessed with whoever it was that you were playing against. They made you real.
But then you played Tashi. You had lost, of course, but it had been a close match, neither of you dominating for long before the other gained the upper hand once more. The gasps from the crowd had been the swelling of some great tide, breaking against your flesh and reinvigorating you like freezing water.
Once it was over, you felt bereft of something vital. You felt as though you had slipped back into non-existence, only this time it was worse than ever, because your connection to Tashi Duncan was gone.
But your body remembered. It ached and throbbed, rebelling at all you had put it through- no. All Tashi had put it through. You were desperate to feel it again.
And your prayer was answered.
She appeared before you like an angel.
Tashi jogged over to you as you gathered your things after the match, flushed and with beads of sweat glistening on her skin like crystals. And her eyes…they had been wide and dark and enrapturing. And then she had said the words that would change the trajectory of your life:
“So, when can I play you again?”
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Ruah is the Hebrew word that means God’s spirit, but it is also breath or air and is widely understood to be God’s presence in the world.
You couldn’t remember when you had learnt the word, but you knew that in the Bible, God had created Adam by breathing life into him. Which was why, when anyone joked about Tashi Duncan being some kind of deity, you could not dispute it, because that is what she had done to you.
Tashi had breathed life into you.
Her presence in your life has allowed you to come alive even off the court: you finally felt like a real person. Thanks to her, you knew that when you put your racket down, you did not simply disappear.
Tashi saw you, on and off the court, and you loved her for it.
But, by the time you were both accepted into Stanford, over a year after you’d first met, you still wouldn’t let yourself delve into that love, and work out the ways in which you felt it. Not only because, you’d only ever been drawn to guys in any romantic or sexual way, but also because you felt undeserving of her.
How pathetic would it be for you, who crawled at your best friend’s feet, to look up and whimper out words of desire to her?
You were blessed to have her in your life, let alone to be as close with her as you were. Love was so many disparate things; you could love her as a friend, and hold that carnal aspect deep down. Just having her in your life was more than enough. She was enough.
Or so you thought.
At the party celebrating Tashi, the two of you had not yet left each other’s side. You were dancing together, close enough that you could feel the ecstasy of victory buzzing beneath her skin as she held your hands and pulled you close. Her hair was silken and flowing down her back and as you were tangled up with her, it tickled against your own exposed skin.
“They’re still staring.” You whisper into her ear, laughing as she answers by twirling you around and then pulling you back in.
You practically fall into one another, having to steady yourself by placing your hands on her hips, the beaded fabric of her dark blue dress digging into the palms of your hands.
“Good.” Tashi answers, wrapping her arms around your shoulders.
She turns you enough that with your chin resting on her shoulder, you are looking right at the two boys who had been gawking all night. One dark haired with confidence coming off him in waves, the other more reserved, a different kind of potency bubbling beneath the surface.
The blonde’s eyes meet yours and he tilts his head, offering a delicate but untethering smile.
“You’re going to have to talk to them.” You offer, still held in Tashi’s arms. “Otherwise they’re going to follow you around like lost puppies all night.”
You gasp and squirm away as your friend playfully pinches your side.
“Do you really think they’re just looking at me?” Tashi questions incredulously.
You laugh at her shock. “Of course they are.” You say, gesturing up and down her form as she continues to sway to the music.
“Oh my God!” Tashi exclaims, grabbing your hand and pulling you close again. “You’re such a fucking idiot! They’re looking at you, too!”
You roll your eyes, but can’t help feeling a little buoyed at the prospect of being desired. “Yeah, right.”
Tashi shakes her head. “It’s a good thing you’re so oblivious, I like having you all to myself!”
Heat floods every part of you, acutely aware of the sweat trickling down the back of your neck, your skin uncomfortably warm.
Only when the two of you have stopped dancing do they come over.
Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig saunter needfully into your life and had you known then all that would ensue, you still would have welcomed their approach.
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The four of you had wandered down to the beach.
Art and Patrick were sitting on deck chairs that sat side by side, their legs stretched out and their gazes lustful, both of them looking at Tashi who was perched on a rock opposite them. In that moment, the moon seemed made only for her, the silver light lining her form.
You sit on the sand near her, your legs pulled up to your chest. The waves softly hit the beach behind you, lulling you into an even more incorporeal mindset. All that exists to you, is Tashi and the two boys who so clearly want her.
Despite how desperately you want to engage in their conversation, you’re exhausted and distracted by the knowledge that your parents will already be looking for you.
You’ve rested your chin on your knees, your eyes drooping shut, when a voice calls out to you.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Art is crouching beside you, his hand on your back, his knees sinking into the sand, shifting the surface beneath you. You jolt at the contact, scrambling to your feet as Tashi chuckles.
Patrick’s gaze flits between you and Art and then over to your best friend, his cheeks dimpled with a smirk.
“I’m fine.” You reassure with a shaky smile, brushing sand off the back of your dress. “I should go though, my parents will be waiting.”
“You can’t leave!” Patrick protests playfully, placing a hand to his chest. “You’ll break my heart.”
You grin, spurred on by his own smile and shrug. “And why should I care about that?”
Patrick’s mouth drops open in feigned hurt as Art chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets and stepping away from you.
You turn to Tashi, meaning to say goodbye, but she’s already up and hugging you. She often kisses your cheek as a form of goodbye, but this time she gets so close that her lips tease the corner of your mouth as hers make contact. You are electrified by it.
You know that she isn’t doing it for you, which is confirmed when she pulls away with her eyes flitting giddily between Art and Patrick who have both gone utterly still as they watched the display.
Despite the jealous ache that blooms, you play into it, because another part of you is excited at the thought of working the two boys up. You pull Tashi back into a hug, your hands resting dangerously low on her back as you squeeze her. She giggles into your ear.
“You already have them wrapped around your little finger.” You say it quietly, but loud enough that you know the boys will hear.
Over Tashi’s shoulder, you see Patrick smirk again and Art runs his thumb over his his bottom lip with a small smile on his face.
When you do finally pull away, Tashi smacks you on the ass.
“It was great to meet to you!” Art shouts after you.
“I miss you already!” Is Patrick’s shouted offering.
You just shake your head and continue on your path away from the beach.
Unbeknownst to you, three sets of eyes follow you until you’ve disappeared from view.
When you get home, you still feel the touch of Tashi all over you. But when your hand dips under the covers, something has changed. Because when you close your eyes, it’s not just Tashi you see. Instead, multiple people are fighting for dominance in your midnight fantasy:
You see Patrick’s licentious smirk.
You see Art’s coy smile.
They’ve both invaded your mind, corrupted your thoughts that for a year had been so gloriously void of anything but Tashi.
And from that moment, you know part of you will always hate them. For so long, even knowing you can’t have her, all you’ve needed to sate yourself are thoughts of Tashi. But they’ve changed that.
You hate Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson because they’ve made you want more. You want….one of them. You don't know why and you also don’t know which one of them it is.
But what is clear to you, is that a new itch has arisen within you, and it comes with panic, because unlike with Tashi, you’re certain there’s a possibility that one of them might actually want to scratch the itch for you.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
Had he known how furious you were going to be with him when you arrived, you doubted Art would have been so eager to invite you to have lunch with him in the cafeteria.
Even when you slam your tray down and drop into the seat opposite him, he still looks happy to see you. He always did. It was infuriating.
“What are you playing at, Art?” You struggle to keep your volume down. You hadn’t wanted to yell at someone in a long time, but he had managed it.
Concern flashes in his eyes, but his lips press together in a way that tells you he knows exactly what you’re referring to. And yet he still asks:
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re fucking with Tashi’s head.”
“I would never do that.”
You scoff, stabbing the flimsy plastic fork into your salad. “Except you are, and I know that you’re doing it on purpose.”
Art pushes his own tray to the side and settles his elbow onto the table, resting his chin on his hand. “Yeah, how’d you figure?”
“Why else would you tell her that Patrick doesn’t love her?”
“Because I don’t think he does. Do you?”
You ignore his question, instead opting to pick up your apple and throw it at his head, hard. He catches it, that damnable little smile still on his face.
“For fuck sake, Art!” You erupt. “She needs to keep her head on straight. Don’t upset her just because you want her for yourself!”
He tilts his head, blue eyes sparkling as he takes a large bite out of the apple. He chews for a bit before holding it back out to you, speaking through a mouthful:
“You should have the rest of this, you haven’t been eating enough.”
“Fuck you!” You snatch it from his hand and shift in your seat, easily throwing it and landing it right in a nearby trashcan.
“Well that was a waste of perfectly good fruit.” Art licks some residue off his thumb and then leans across the table.
You fail to snatch your wrist away before he grabs it. He’s gentle but firm, and as his thumb rubs along your pulse point, you feel the residual moisture from his own mouth he’d left behind, transferring to your skin.
“You don’t have to fight this hard to protect her,” Art presses. “She’s a grown woman.”
“She’s my best friend and I don’t want you to hurt her.”
Art’s thumb stills, but he tugs your wrist a little closer. “Do you really think I could?”
You scowl, pulling free of his hold. “You know, the way you and Patrick worship her isn’t the compliment that you both seem to think it is. You’re putting her up on a pedestal, practically deifying her, but she’s not invulnerable. She feels more strongly than anyone I’ve ever known and tennis is her life. If you get in her head and fuck up her game, It will break her and then I will break your fucking hands.”
This time when he’s smiles, it’s rife with fondness for you and it makes you want to punch him for the fluttering it causes in your stomach.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He says simply.
“What?”
“Do you think Patrick loves her?” Art repeats patiently.
“Do you love her, Art?”
“Can you please just answer my question?”
“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not even sure I would know love if I saw it. All I do know, is that you both lust after her and definitely for each other too, even if you’ll never admit it. You’re all totally fucked.”
Art’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking, but instead of irritation or anger at your outburst, his gaze softens. When he speaks, it is soft and achingly tender:
“You do know love. Because you love Tashi.”
You let out an embittered laugh. “Of course I do. I tell her all the time.”
“But she doesn’t love you, not in the same way.”
You really didn’t know if he intended for that to sting, especially not with how gently he’d said it, but if he had, he’d failed. You came to accept that fact a long while ago, and while you would always want Tashi in some respect, it was not the all consuming desire it had been. The lust was gone. She was important to you. She was your best friend and you wanted to protect her.
Unfortunately, the two men you wanted to protect her from, were the ones who had usurped her as objects of desire in your mind.
“Are you trying to find yourself a catchphrase before you go pro?” You sneer at Art. “I’m not sure how great that would look on a billboard for Adidas.”
“You deserve to be loved.”
You had picked up your cup to take a drink of water, but upon hearing his words, you slam it down again and rise to your feet. He tracks your every move, as calm as ever.
“I can’t talk to you right now, Art. You’re being cruel.”
You storm away from the table, only making it a few steps before you hear the scrape of his chair against the floor as he rushes to follow you.
You’ve only just pushed open the door when he crowds up behind you.
Art’s hand lands on your back as he guides you outside, his other hand rests on your arm and even after he turns you to face him, his touch remains.
His hand is wrapped lightly around your arm, the other keeping you close- his palm pressed against your lower back. Anyone watching would think he was drawing you into an embrace. You almost shudder at the contact.
Patrick has always been handsy, touching and caressing you under the guise of teasing, but Art has always moved around you as though you’ll disintegrate at the lightest touch. The way he’d held your wrist back in the dining hall and how he cradles you now, is the most he’s ever touched you.
Your chest heaves as your flesh tingles.
Art’s head drops, his eyes on his own hand on your arm, as if he can’t understand why he’s holding you. His voice is strained:
“Patrick isn’t good for her.”
And just like that, you’re slammed mercilessly back down to earth.
Art wasn’t touching you with tenderness or affection, you were just someone he was holding in place so that you had to hear him out. So you had to hear how much he wanted Tashi.
“Oh, but I deserve to be thrown at him as a distraction so that you can have her?” You snap at him, more hurt than you’ll ever admit.
“You deserve whatever it is that you actually want.”
Art sounds frustrated now, not at you…but perhaps at what he knows you won’t say. You do want Patrick. But you also want him. You had just never considered that he knew that.
But that’s not what you say. Instead you say–
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Do you want to know why he isn’t good for her?” Art presses, entirely unaffected by your fury.
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
The hand on your back pulls you a little closer, one errant blonde curl falls down from his forehead and brushes your temple. His breath is hot against your cheek.
“Patrick’s not good for her-“ Art begins, his tone becoming embittered. “Because he wants you. He always has.”
You rip free from Art’s grip with such force that the friction of it burns, his fingerprints leaving red marks on your arm. “You are unbelievable!”
“I’m not lying. You know I wouldn’t, not to you.”
“You will say anything to have her won’t you?” You laugh nastily. “What’s the plan, Art? Do you think that I’ll try and seduce Patrick away from her now, leaving a space open for you to swoop in?”
“Ask me how I know.”
“No.” You spit back at him.
But you don’t move.
Your body waits for words that your mind doesn’t think it can handle hearing. Something feels so close to breaking and you can’t help but feel like it’s to do with whatever force binds the four of you together.
Art steps forward, closing the distance again, he raises his hands and rests them on either side of your neck, his thumbs pressing onto where your pulse is ratcheting beneath your fragile skin.
“I know he wants you, because the night after he won our match- when he won Tashi’s number- he told me that I should fuck you.”
“Art.” You warn, frustrated tears bringing horrible pressure behind your eyes.
A small group comes out of the dining hall and have to split down the middle, because neither of you move a muscle. Art’s hold tightens, like he’s trying to leave a permanent imprint behind without it hurting you.
He whispers now. “Patrick told me to fuck you. And I know him. He said that because when he couldn't have you, it excited him to think that I would. That I'd tell him about sleeping with you.”
“That was such a long time ago.” You say shakily, coming completely unmoored.
But Art won’t let it go.
“He still looks at you the same way, and that’s not fair to Tashi. You want to protect her, right? Well what will it do her when she finally notices the way her boyfriend is constantly eye-fucking her best friend?”
You hit out against his chest with a closed fist. The shock more than the force makes him stagger back.
“You are so fucked in the head! You and Patrick are both pathetic little leeches who want the same girl, but can’t cope with the way it’s made them realise that they also want each other. You know what? I actually think so much would be solved, if you and Patrick just fucked each other!”
You start to back away and Art darts forward, trying to grab you again, but you smack his hand away and turn your back.
“Leave me alone, Art! And leave me out of your shit!”
He calls out your name with ragged desperation, but he does not follow. And even though he’s truly made your skin crawl, something about that makes you even more furious.
Why won’t he follow you?
Why do you still want him to?
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You hadn’t spoken to any of them since your argument with Art.
You couldn’t cope with the realisation that if any of them ever did feel any desire for you, it was only because they saw you as some sort of vessel through which they could access parts of the person that they truly wanted.
You couldn’t even be said to exist in Tashi’s shadow anymore, you had simply been subsumed by it. Those two men, who you both despised and wanted desperately, would never see you, not really. To them, you were just part of her. But you would not let them ruin your friendship with Tashi. You just wouldn’t.
You knew when you arrived to watch her match that something wasn’t right. She was upset. You could see it in all the minutiae of her: in the way she took off her hoodie, in the way she picked up her racket. Something was really wrong.
You walk through the stands until you come across Art.
There are two free spaces to the right of him, so you sit down on the one furthest away, leaving a gap in the middle for Patrick to take up when he arrives. But then time passes and the match approaches and he still hasn’t materialised.
You feel Art staring long before he makes his move. The air shifts as he shuffles over into the seat directly beside you.
“That seat is taken.” You intone harshly. Your eyes are fixed on Tashi as she prepares.
“If it was, I wouldn’t have been able to sit in it.”
“Sorry, I should have been clearer. I don’t want you anywhere near me, so I want Patrick to sit there instead of you.”
Your name is a tentative as he speaks it. “Will you please look at me? I can’t handle you not looking at me.”
Your gaze remains set on Tashi, she looks up and finds you in the crowd. The furious divot between her brow eases for a moment before her eyes snag on the way that Art is leaning into you. She turns her back on the entire crowd, but you know the gesture is meant for you alone.
Fuck. What the hell had happened overnight? If it was Art’s meddling, you’d kill him.
“The match is about to start.” You say coldly.
Art’s hand lands on your knee, but when you flinch, he immediately pulls it away.
“I know I hurt you and I’m sorry. I- I need you to forgive me.”
You grit your teeth at his audacity. “Why do you need me to, Art?”
“Because I can’t stand the thought of you not being in my li-“
The match begins and Art never gets to finish his sentence.
In fact, you don’t speak to him properly for almost a decade after that. Because Tashi gets hurt. Her sporting career ends in the blink of an eye and takes your friendship with it.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
Both you and Art had sprinted down onto the court, your heart breaking in your chest as you fell to your knees beside your best friend, tears gathering in her eyes as she whimpered in pain.
What had hurt the most though, was the way Tashi had shoved your hand away when you had tried to comfort her.
“Don’t touch me!” She had barked on a ragged breath. “Get away from me. Get away!”
The hatred had dripped from her words and landed on you like a corrosive liquid. And as it had burned down to the bone, you had looked at Art and the apologetic agony with which he’d regarded you—even as he’d cradled Tashi’s head in his hands—told you what he’d done.
He’d not only told you about Patrick’s supposed lust for you, but he’d also told Tashi. He had told her that even after her now boyfriend had won her number, he’d apparently been thinking about fucking you. Art had also definitely shared his little insight that Patrick didn’t love her either, which you quickly worked out had contributed to his absence.
So Art got what he wanted: he finally had his hands on Tashi and he’d done it by carving you and Patrick away.
Art Donaldson was an attentive, gentle, even needy man, but you had been so stupid to think that meant he couldn’t also be calculated and cruel. Because of course he was. What else could win the heart of Tashi Duncan but brutal passion? It was part of what she loved about tennis: the unforgiving force of hits that once you met them, somehow felt like affection.
When Patrick had tracked an injured Tashi down, still waiting to be taken to hospital, he had been ordered away by both her and Art.
You knew that because he’d just told you. It was the first thing he’d said to you when you’d let him into your room fifteen minutes earlier.
Now, you were both sitting on the scratchy carpet of your dorm, passing a bottle of vodka between the two of you.
You felt bereft. Your body wracked with sympathetic pain for the grief in your mind. You’d lost Tashi today, you knew that. And the man that had caused it, was a man you’d spent years yearning for.
Art hadn’t only taken Tashi from you, but he’d violently ripped himself away too.
“Art wasn’t lying.” Patrick grumbles after taking another hearty gulp of vodka.
“Please, don’t.” You beg wearily, taking the vodka from his outstretched hand and pressing it to your lips. Not even the burn of the spirit going down your throat registers.
“I wanted- want, both of you. You and Tashi.”
He isn’t drunk, only tipsy, but he’s getting there, and his words are sluggish, laced with fury.
“Shut up, Patrick.”
You fall down onto your back, resting the vodka bottle on your stomach, holding it by the neck as you stare up at the ceiling.
Patrick has been sitting opposite you, but he moves languidly forward, crawling up over your body. He braces one knee beside your hip as the other slots between your legs.
You blink up at him as one of his hands rests beside your head and the other falls over your own where it still holds the vodka bottle. You let him take it from you, placing it beside your body before the hand then moves to rest on the other side of your head.
You’re now trapped beneath him, his lithe body hovering just above yours.
When he leans in, his alcoholic breath almost sears your skin as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“Sometimes, when we were fucking I would imagine that you were with us.” Patrick’s teeth nip at your ear. “I asked her once, you know, and she slapped me. Called me a pig. I think she was just mad because she liked having you to herself. You were such a devoted acolyte, kissing the ground she walked on—“
Fury bursts within you like a solar flare, red-hot and ruinous. He was talking about her in the past tense, as if she was dead to both of you already.
Art groans in pain when you knee him in the balls. You use the chance to shove him off you and he falls to the side, knocking the bottle of vodka over.
As you stand up, you feel the alcohol seeping into the carpet at your feet.
“You are a pig.” You hiss down at him.
It’s your room, but you find yourself storming towards the door.
You don’t get far before Patrick recovers, clambering to his feet and easily closing the distance with his long legs.
You groan in frustration as he presses you into the door, one hand above your head and the other wrapping around your torso, his fingers dangerously close to brushing your breasts over your tank top.
“If I’m a pig, why did you let me in?” He pressed his face into your neck and breathes you in.
Some of the vodka has evidently soaked into his shirt, because the scent seizes you with the same violence with which he had. It’s a secondary intoxication.
You words come out weakly, and you hate that it’s because you’re using so much energy fighting the urge to press back into him:
“I felt sorry for you.”
Patrick laughs.
The smug bastard actually laughs right into your skin, the vibrations travelling all the way down to where your body has begun to ache the most.
“Oh, sure.” He coos patronisingly. “It definitely wasn’t because you’ve wanted to fuck me for years.”
You should fight him, but you don’t want to.
You should protest when the hand that he has pressed to the door moves to pull down one of the straps of your tank top. But you simply don’t want to. You want him.
Art had been right about both of you.
No sooner has the thin strip of fabric been removed from your shoulder, than Patrick is clamping his teeth down on the exposed flesh. You yelp in surprise, the pain a burst of sordid pleasure.
Patrick laughs again, the hand he has pressed to your stomach pulling you flush against him. You can feel his need for you pressing into your backside, but in case you had somehow missed it, he bucks his hips up into you.
You gasp and he laughs again, his tongue now running over the aggravated skin where his teeth have left a dent.
“We both know what this is.” He goads.
“And what is it?” You ask teasingly, your head now thrown back and resting against his chest. He groans into your neck as you grind yourself back onto him.
“Inevitable.”
“Are you just doing this to get back at them?” You ask, not daring to speak their names.
An angry grumble you can’t quite make sense of tears out of Patrick’s throat just before he is forcefully spinning you around.
You get barely a glimpse of his feral smirk before he is easily picking you up again and throwing you over his shoulder. The slap he delivers to your ass is punishing and stings furiously as he practically throws you down onto the carpet.
The bed is right next to you, but the asshole apparently wants you on the scratchy carpet and with a wet patch where the vodka has soaked in.
“I’m doing this, because I have wanted to fuck you, from the moment I saw you dancing at that party.”
You’ve barely got your breath back after being thrown about, when he is grabbing your calf and yanking you down so that you’re laying completely flat beneath him.
“But you only ever pursued Tash-“
He cuts you off from saying her name by leaning down and pressing his mouth to your still clothed breast. His tongue swirls over the fabric, your nipple growing pert.
When his knee presses up between your legs, parting them forcefully, your head falls back, strands of your hair wetted by the spilt alcohol.
When Patrick bites down on your chest far too hard, your hand instinctively comes up to slap the side of his head.
You’re so shocked by your own burst of violence that you go still at exactly the same time as Patrick, both of you breathing furiously. When he does peer up at you, his dark curls slick against his increasingly sweaty forehead, menace dances in his eyes.
“Do that again.”
You wish you could have feigned confusion or indignation for even a moment, but your blood is pumping to all the right places to urge you to make terrible, delightful decisions.
Your second slap connects cleanly with his cheek, your palm tingling with the force as his head spins to the side.
Your handprint is already a pink mark on his skin when he wraps his arms around your torso, lifting you up just enough so that he can pull your tank top off and throw it to the side. Your chest is left bare to him and he wastes no time before peppering kisses to your sternum, to your breasts and your neck, his arms still wrapped around you, his nails digging into your back.
The throbbing ache between your legs becomes far too much to bear, so you curl your fingers into his hair and forcefully tug him away from your chest- a bead of saliva stretching between your flushed skin to his swollen lips.
You lean your head forward, taking his bottom lip between your teeth and biting, pulling at it until he groans pathetically. You let him go, beyond pleased when you don’t have to tell him what you want next.
You don’t want to wait any longer. You haven’t slept with anyone since you met him and Art.
Art.
Is it wrong that as Patrick pushes your back into the carpet and pulls down your sweatpants and underwear in one clean tug, that you close your eyes and briefly imagine that it’s Art instead?
You might have found an answer if you had more time, but when you open your eyes, Patrick is over you, his shorts and boxers already discarded alongside your clothes. His shirt is still on, but neither of you have the patience for the second or so it would take to get it off him.
Patrick smirks down at you before pressing two of his fingers into your mouth, you open gladly, your eyes locked onto each other as he swirls them around. When he’s satisfied, he pulls his fingers out, and then licks his own hand, mixing himself with you.
He swipes his wet hand over your already slick core a few times before he’s pressing himself inside of you. Your arms curl around his neck as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck.” He groans, his tongue licking up the side of your neck as his hips begin to move.
“Patrick.” You plead, your fingers digging into the nape of his neck.
He knows what you want, nipping at your neck before he is driving into you with bruising force.
In that moment, as you’re joined in the way you’ve wanted since the moment you’ve set eyes on him, you realise thar Tashi isn’t the only person that can make you feel real.
As Patrick drives into you–his lips and teeth leaving marks on your flesh that will be wine-dark by morning, and the horrible fabric beneath you leaving carpet burn on your back– you finally know more than tennis can make you feel alive.
The sex is forceful and punishing, but fuelled by a genuine passion. Nothing but your intermingled breaths and the sound of your joined bodies fills the room.
If the two of you hadn’t been so lost to your pleasure, you might have heard Art knocking on your door. But you didn’t.
He did however hear the two of you, so he walked away.
You wouldn’t speak to him or Tashi again for over ten years.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You weren’t in New Rochelle to compete. You didn’t need to. You were on the top of your game, ranked the third best female player in the world.
No, you were in New York because despite your better judgement-- and the many years that had passed since you’d last seen him--when Patrick Zweig had called you, you’d answered.
You hadn’t heard his voice since you had told him that for your own sanity, you couldn’t see him anymore.
For the two years you had been together after Tashi had banished you both from her life, you had let Patrick consume you. And you had never played tennis so poorly in your life.
You hated what that said about you, that you had willingly discarded someone you had genuinely cared for to improve your ability to hit a ball. But hitting that ball was what kept you alive, not him.
Not only that, it hadn’t taken you long to realise that you didn’t love Patrick enough to let him affect your career.
And yet when he had called, you’d answered. And when he’d told you that Art Donaldson had entered the Challenger as a wildcard, you both knew that you would come.
From the moment you had booked the flight, to the first step you’d taken into the hotel, you had lied to yourself that you were only coming for the closure that you hadn’t received as a twenty year old.
But when you stepped into the hotel lobby and saw Tashi disappearing into the nearby elevator, your self-deception shattered.
You were here because still, after all the time that had passed, you ached for the way that you had felt when she had been in your life. You missed her. And you had missed Art.
It was a sickening truth of your life, that while no one had fucked with your head or upset you as much as Art had ended up doing, no one else had ever been so attentive to you either.
Art had watched you—watched out for you—even when you weren’t playing tennis. In fact, in moments of utter stillness, when you had been doing nothing even remotely remarkable, was when you had always caught him staring. He never shied away, or broke his gaze when he was caught, he’d just smiled as if he wanted you to know he would never feel shame for being found looking at you.
And that had not changed.
You have been sitting at the hotel bar for ten minutes, feeling sorry for yourself and nursing the same glass of gin and tonic, when you feel someone looking at you.
You turn your head cautiously, your shoulders sagging as your eyes meet Art’s. He’s sitting on one of the small leather couches tucked into the far corner of the darkened room.
It had been an inevitability, but things would have been so much easier if you never came across him.
You know you shouldn’t move- part of you had come for closure and you could get that just by watching him compete tomorrow, so you don’t need to talk to him.
But then Art tilts his head and smiles at you like no time has passed and pats his hand on the unoccupied space beside him on the couch.
You get down off the barstool.
As you approach, he watches unflinchingly.
The last time you had heard Art’s voice, was when Tashi had suffered her injury and he’d been permitted to stay by her side when she had ordered you away.
And yet even after so much time, when he greets you with a quiet ‘hello’, the pathetic girl who had pined after him returns.
You don’t respond as you come to a stop right in front of him, the tips of your heels right against the toes of his shoes, but you make no move to sit down.
It’s of course not the first time you’ve seen him since college, or been at the same event, or even in the same room- you’re both highly successful tennis players, you couldn’t help but overlap sometimes. But neither of you have ever allowed yourselves to get close, or to even speak.
It has been over ten years of your eyes connecting through crowds and across rooms that felt much larger than they were, simply because there was distance between the two of you within them.
Art sits forward, his forearms resting on his knees. He’s fiddling with his wedding ring and you can’t bear to look at the familiar way his fingers carry out the gesture.
When he looks up at you, it's so open and wanting that you almost turn right back around. But then you hear his voice again.
“Can I ask you to sit with me?”
“I don’t know Art, can you?”
He smiles, sighing softly as he runs his hand through his hair. It’s short- much shorter than the curls he’d had at college. You like it. It suits him.
You shift on your feet, crossing your arms across your chest to cover up your nerves. Perhaps you can protect yourself if you look like you’re closed off from him and from…whatever this interaction is about to be.
Art doesn’t say anything else, but he surprises you by rising to his feet. You stagger back, but his hand reaches out and lands on your side to steady.
His touch lingers for a moment too long, but he does eventually pull it away.
But he’s still close, too close.
Your hands have fallen to your sides, so it is too easy for Art to reach out and brush his fingers against yours. He doesn’t intertwine them, but he’s doing enough to let you know that it’s what he wants to do.
He whispers your name. “Will you please sit with me?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Art.”
“When have you ever known me to have one of those?”
You smile ruefully, but take a step back. His hand chases you, his fingers brushing against yours again as he tries to take your hand.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve known anything about you.” You say, hating how sad it sounds.
You should be angry at least. His meddling and his desire for Tashi is what ripped you all apart. And he has her now. They have a daughter together.
He doesn't get to ask you for anything, not even if it’s just to sit with him.
You can’t trust yourself to sit next to him.
“You do know me. Time can’t change that.” He insists, quietly but firmly.
You scoff nastily. “I knew Art Donaldson when he was in college. The world famous tennis player who does AD campaigns for sports cars with his wife, is a stranger to me.”
“Yeah.” Art laughs darkly. “He’s a stranger to me too.”
You frown at him, growing angry. He seems exhausted and down-trodden. He’s clearly hurting and you hate that you know that—you hate that you‘d been able to tell that even from across the bar—because it means that he’s right: you do still know him.
“It’s late, Art. You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
You turn away from him and while he doesn’t reach for you this time, he does call out. You keep you back to him as he asks his question.
“Who do you want to win, me or Patrick?”
“Tennis can’t decide a victor between the two of you, Art. It’s never been able to.”
When you walk to the elevator, you feel a physical strain as you stop yourself from looking back at him.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You were right, tennis couldn’t decide on a winner: it was as fickle and incomprehensible as the human heart. Which was fitting, seeing as Tashi had always described tennis as a relationship.
You had sat only two places away from her during Patrick and Art’s match, and you know she had seen you. But there had been no reaction, her face had been impassive and set on the court, her eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses.
Now, the match was long over and a result had been given. And yet there hadn’t been a victory for anyone. Just like you knew there wouldn’t be.
Something had happened on that court between the two men, some silent, inexplicable exchange that had altered the very fabric of them.
This time, when Art knocks on your door, not only do you hear it, but you answer.
You feel almost shocked when you pull open the door to reveal him, dressed in a grey t-shirt and flannel pyjama trousers. You’re surprised at the sight as if you hadn’t known he was coming- as if you hadn’t readily offered up your room number when he had messaged and asked for it.
You’re also somehow certain that Patrick had given him your number, but you didn’t want to dwell on what sort of exchange had led to him handing it over.
Without a word, you step away from the door, self-consciously tightening the cord that holds the silk robe around your body. You stop and face the windows.
The curtains are drawn, by you stare forward as though the whole skyline is on display to you.
The door to your room clicks shut.
You hear Art take off his shoes before his feet are padding towards you.
When his arms wrap around your waist, you close your eyes and savour the sensation. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, so you lift a hand and rest it on the side of his head.
“I want to retire at the end of this year.” He says and you can feel his exhaustion in the slow breaths that coast over your neck.
“So retire.” You answer softly, your eyes still on the curtains. “You’re tired.”
You know you don’t need to clarify. Thanks to the grateful press of his lips against your neck, you know he understands what you mean.
Art is weary of all that he has to be when he’s playing tennis; he’s tired of the effort it takes to play the sport for not just him, but for Tashi too. His wife has been living vicariously through him. He’s been living for two people, taking the strain of two professional athletes combined.
You know there had never been any point in competing with Art or Patrick, because Tashi would always love tennis the most.
A shiver wracks your body as Art’s hand reaches for the bow that’s keeping your otherwise bare body concealed from him.
“Can I?” His request is whined into your hair as he presses his face into the back of your head.
Instead of answering verbally, you nudge his hand away and untie the robe yourself. Then, you take hold of both of his wrists and guide his hands onto your skin. You let out a sigh of relief when Art finally touches you the way you want him to.
Your hands are still on him as his fingers move to cup your breasts, but he is the one guiding his movements now. He squeezes, his thumbs brushing over your nipples.
“Art.” You rasp, pressing back into him wantonly.
“Can I have you?” He asks, pressing open mouthed, hot kisses to your neck as he palms your breasts. “Please, let me have you.”
“Stop fucking asking me and just do it.”
You feel him grin against your neck just before he backs away, pulling back your robe and tugging it from your body.
The fabric has barely had time to pool at your feet when he’s grabbing you by the hips, his fingers digging in as he turns you.
When Art’s lips finally claim yours, you moan unashamedly. His kiss is gentle but assured, you struggle for breath as he refuses to release you. Then, his hands are cupping your ass and he’s lifting you up.
With his lips still moving hungrily against yours, Art settles you onto the edge of the bed. When he draws back, your lips chase after him and he smiles, grasping your face in his hands and giving you one more brief but searing kiss before he’s dropping to the ground.
His hands press into your knees, forcing them apart as he begins to kiss and lick up your inner thighs.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching where his mouth ravenously meets your flesh, tracing his path as he works his way closer to where you want him most.
When he reaches the top of your thigh, Art peers up at you through his long eyelashes, already looking drunk on you as he presses another kiss to your burning skin.
“Lay back.” He instructs gently.
But you’re too transfixed to listen- too desperate to see the moment his lips land on your core to look away.
He smiles at the realisation, delighting in your shudder as his tongue darts out and licks a line up your centre.
“Oh my- fuck!” Your head falls back, already lost in the feeling of his mouth's devoted ministrations.
As Art pleasures you, one of his hands skates up your stomach and gently presses down, asking rather than forcing you to lay back. This time you oblige, your eyes closed as your hands fist in the sheets.
“You deserve so much more than I can give you.”
You smile to yourself. Only Art could grovel as he gives so much pleasure.
Tightness begins to coil in your lower belly, but the moment he adds a teasing finger to his tongue’s movements, you realise you can’t wait.
“Art- stop.” You gasp out, sitting up and resting your hands on his head.
He halts immediately but doesn’t remove himself from between your legs.
“Are you alright?” He asks, his hands rubbing soothingly along your thighs.
“It’s not enough.” You say, tugging on his hair, trying to get him to come to you. “I need you.”
Art doesn’t have to be asked twice, but he also doesn’t rush. He presses one last kiss to your now very sensitive folds before he’s climbing over you.
You shuffle back, settling yourself onto the middle of the bed and even as Art takes off his clothes, he watches you. It’s as if he’s afraid that you’ll disappear if he so much as blinks.
Now completely naked, he lays himself over you, his arms braced beside your head. He positions himself so carefully thar it’s almost as though he’s trying to fit himself to the shape of you- every divot and curve perfectly aligned sp that you’ll be fused together forever.
As Art sweeps hair out from your face, his blue eyes bore down into you with an adoring intensity.
You smile up at him and he rewards you by cradling your face in his hands, he lowers his head, his nose brushing yours as he gently takes your lower lip between his teeth.
Only when you understand what he wants and you open your mouth, does he kiss you again, his tongue delving in deeply.
As he seeks to consume you, your hands run down his back, squeezing his sides with your thighs.
Art’s still kissing you as one of your hands reaches the curve of his arse, you dig your nails in and he jolts, his mouth moving away from yours and travelling down your neck.
Tentatively, you move one hand around and down between his legs and when your hand wraps around him, he falters, his kisses stopping.
“Is this alright?”
Art moves again, licking the sweat slick expanse of skin between your breasts.
“Anything you do will be alright.” He assures, his lips brushing a nipple and making your back arch.
“Do you want to have sex, Art?” You ask, barely restraining yourself.
His breaths are hot against your sensitive breasts when he answers. “Please.”
It is a joint effort as he slides inside of you. You gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he presses kisses into yours.
Art groans as he begins to move achingly slowly, his hips rolling over yours with precision.
You're happy like that for a few minutes, both of you revelling in your closeness after years subjected to absent desire for one another. But eventually, you want more.
You yearn for more force and luckily as you buck up into him, Art gets the message.
As one of his hands moves behind your head, cradling it so that he can keep kissing you, the other wraps around your thigh, and pulls your leg higher over his hip, allowing himself to get even deeper.
“You’re so beautiful.” He says in-between sloppy kisses, moving rapidly as you moan and whine. “You’ve always been so beautiful.”
Even with him inside you, making you feel more desired than anyone ever has, your mind drifts to that first night you had met him. The first night you had met Patrick.
“You stared at Tashi.” You say.
You aren’t accusatory or upset, if anything the acknowledgement if it turns you on more. All four of you have always had a desire for the other, and it feels powerful to finally acknowledge it.
“-That night on the beach, you couldn't take your eyes off her. Neither of you could.”
“I wanted you.” Art asserts with a particularly powerful thrust. “I- I wanted you so badly, but you went home.”
You nod, pulling him in for another kiss as you meet his thrusts.
You understand his thinking. You’d often wondered how things might have changed had you not gone home early that night. If you’d stayed on the beach and then gone to their hotel room along with Tashi.
Entirely content with just moving as one, you both fall silent and somehow Art curls over you even more tightly, like he wants his whole body to hide yours from the world.
After you’ve both found your release he takes you into the shower and cleans himself off of your sensitive skin, each swipe of the washcloth accompanied by a kiss.
It ends up being time wasted though, because when you return to the bed, he takes you twice more.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You wake up with Art’s head resting on your bare chest. He’s laying on his side, one arm stretched out on the pillow above your head and his other hand resting on your hip.
You’re sore in the most pleasant of ways as you sit up. You try to move slowly but Art stirs anyway, his head turning to press open mouthed kisses to your sternum.
You rest your hand on his cheek, meaning to guide him away, but he moves so that he can kiss the palm of your hand instead.
It’s only when you sigh into his touch, his eyes still closed as his other hand delves between your legs, that you realise why you had woken up int he first place.
Someone was knocking on your door.
And then you hear her voice.
Tashi is calling out your name, sounding almost panicked.
“Please, open the door, I know you’re in there.”
This time when you push Patrick away, he obliges, but far less quickly than you would have liked.
In the time it takes for you to throw on your silk robe and gather up all of his clothes from the floor, he has barely got himself to stand up. He’s naked and blinking sleepily at you.
When you shove the bundle of his clothes into his arms, he rushes to press a passionate kiss to your lips, holding the back of your head with his free hand.
You aren’t sure you want to know whether he’s truly still half asleep and genuinely hasn’t realised what is happening, or if he just doesn’t care that his wife is outside the door.
Flushed but furious at his casual demeanour, you push Art into the bathroom and close the door, just as Tashi knocks again.
The repeated request for you to come to the door tumbles from her lips like a prayer.
You brace your hand against the door as you draw in a fortifying breath and smooth out your hair. You swear you can feel her through the door.
The moment you open the door, Tashi is bursting in and closing it behind her. You step back, waiting for her to make the first move, for her to shout of attack or go charging into the bathroom. But she does none of those things.
Instead, Tashi pulls you into a crushing hug. You go still, shocked but healed by it at the same time.
She pulls back, taking your face in her hands.
“You’re a phenomenal tennis player.” Tashi says it rapturously.
If you weren’t burning up at the feel of her hands on you, you might have laughed at how ridiculously perfect it was that those were her first words to you after over a decade.
Tashi communicated and connected through tennis. She loved through tennis.
All you can muster is a very sincere: “Thank you.”
Tashi brushes your hair out of your face, tucking a stray piece behind your ear. You find your hands lifting, resting atop hers where they hold your cheeks.
“You need to let me coach you.” Tashi demands almost possessively.
“I have a coach.”
“They’re not me.”
“No, they’re not.”
And just like that, you were snared again.
You had gone years without any of them, and with one word, you had allowed all three of them back into your life.
Only this time, you know it might actually kill you if any of them leave. And perhaps it would kill them too.
pairing: tashi x cheerleader!reader
summary: tashi isn't used to people not pleading for her attention. similarly, you're not used to the girl you're into giving you limited focus. unfortunately, neither of you wants to admit how smitten they are for the other, until a single text message changes everything.
wc: 2k+
cw: possessive jealous tashi YAY, very suggestive/discussions of sex but no direct smut.
You up? Gosh, Tashi hates those kinds of messages, she thinks as she reads the short line of text, until she catches the name of the person who sends it. Usually, Tashi’s hookups are left as a bundle of numbers together when they text her, because she hasn’t saved them in their phone and because they were never important enough for their names to be remembered. But you’re different.
Tashi pauses her show, taking a long sip of icy water as she unlocks her phone, shifting comfortably underneath her blankets. Always up for you, she types in response, smirking to herself as she tries picturing your face morphing shyly, the way it most definitely is only a few doors down the hallway as you lay in bed. A bubble pops up next to your profile picture as you type a response, then disappears as you delete it, biting your lip as you try thinking of an equally flirtatious response, because Tashi’s different to the others. She doesn’t really fall for your cheerleader charm, instead firing back with her own methods of attracting fans. It’s a little conflicting when you’re so used to people falling at your feet, and even though you have Tashi wrapped around your finger, she’s still a little scary. Clearly, she’s so used to people hitting on her that your confident demeanour didn’t deter her when you first met. You have to remind yourself that all athletes are players, both on and off the court.
Finally, you decide to reply in the same manner that has gotten you in her bed countless times — pretending you aren’t fazed by her. Can’t get myself off. Tashi laughs loudly in the emptiness of her dorm, finding herself already kicking her blankets off and plugging her laptop into a charging cable before slipping out of her dorm.
When you don’t get a response from her, you chew nervously on your bottom lip, concluding that you’ve finally annoyed her like your past situationships so often got on your nerves. You jump slightly when your doorknob rattles, followed by a familiar voice calling out “Let me in.”
You grin widely at Tashi’s voice, carefully wiping it off your face before opening the door to welcome her into your room. She scans the room as you lock the door behind her, and she stops by your desk chair to run a hand over your newly dried cheer uniform. When she turns around, she finds you back on your mattress, laying back against your pillows, and Tashi lets out an amused scoff as she climbs onto your bed. She settles herself on her knees between your spread legs, a glint in her eyes as she catches a glimpse of the wetness shining across your inner thighs, proof of your attempts at pleasure.
Tashi reaches for the end of her hoodie, quickly pulling it over her head and tossing it on your floor to join the pair of shorts you threw off long ago, leaving her in a tight sports bra you doubt can be comfortable for a late night lounging session. “None of your little fans want to complete this task for you?” Tashi asks a little too solemnly to be joking as she leans down, securing one arm around your thigh, the other one drawing ticklish shapes on the exposed skin just above your underwear.
“All of my little fans are blocked.” You mumble, and Tashi’s eyebrows lift up in surprise, demanding “Let me see.” You swallow thickly at her question, straightening up a little. You can’t tell if she’s being serious or not, but she watches you intently, so you pat the mattress beside you until one of your hands grazes your phone. You unlock it with almost shaky hands, and Tashi smiles smugly, leaning down to press a single kiss to your thigh, causing your breath to hitch slightly in your chest.
She reaches out to take your phone from you when you turn it towards her, and she opens each individual contact, thoroughly scanning the list of messages you’ve received that have been left unanswered. “These people aren’t blocked, they’re just restricted.” Tashi comments, feeling you sink further into your mattress as you shrug, telling her “Same thing.”
Tashi glances up at you with an amused expression. “You just can’t resist the attention. You love the validation you get from these people - who’s Jenny and why does she ‘miss you so much baby, please answer my calls’.” You lick your lips, blinking quickly as you easily identify jealousy on Tashi’s face. “Is the attention you get from me not enough?” She asks, trying to tease you, though her tone of voice quavers slightly to expose insecurity.
“You don’t give me any attention.” You argue, reaching up to play with your hair. Tashi straightens up from between your legs, a hand coming up to pull the strap of your tank top away from your skin, letting it fall down your shoulder. “Yeah, what do you call this, then?” She asks, pointedly glimpsing down to where she’s kneeling between your legs. You shrug in a brat-like manner, excitement coiling in your stomach at the prospect of Tashi becoming desperate for your attention. “I mean all you do is make me cum, but then you never speak to me in the daytime. You should all the girls who are practically begging for my attention - it’s constant.” You groan in mock annoyance, hoping Tashi falls for the bait.
“I speak to you in the daytime.” Tashi says, furrowing her eyebrows. “Yeah, only when you want to make out in the locker room.”
“What so these other girls all think you’re just up for grabs?” Tashi scoffs, observing you closely. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go — everyone was supposed to think you were Tashi’s, and she’s be the nonchalant uncommitted one. Or are you just playing a game with her? Tashi frowns deeply when you shrug your shoulders lightly, staring at all the posters on your wall, and she grabs your face, turning it sharply to make you look at her. “Answer my question.”
You lick your lips, shifting slightly beneath her as a sharp throb hits you between your legs. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, someone asked me out this morning after practice, so I guess so.” Tashi scans your body language, pressing both her hands into the dip of your waist and dragging them down your body until she can hook her fingers into the band of your panties. “And what did you say?” She questions as she pulls your underwear down, eyes lighting up when the fabric sticks to your centre for a moment before tearing away from you, a wet patch standing out in them. “I said I’m in a complicated situation right now.”
Tashi breathes out a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “Am I not?” You ask, voice suddenly quiet. When Tashi doesn’t answer, you huff, adding “Well, she gave me her instagram and told me to text her if it gets too complicated for me, so-”
“She did what? And you took it!?” You inhale deeply, nodding your head. Tashi holds her hand out for you to give her your phone, and you hesitant to hand it over to her. Suddenly, what seemed to be a fun little conversation seems a lot scarier. “What’s her name?” Tashi demands, and your mind goes blank as you stammer “I… I don’t know.”
The girl looming over you throws a leg over each side of you so she can straddle your waist, letting her entire weight sit on you. She investigates for a moment, and all you can do is stare at her as she sorts your instagram following to most recent, pressing on the profile that followed you most recently. She can already see that you haven’t followed her back, but it’s enough that the girl’s entire posts are of her in her track and field uniform at countless events and photoshoots, and that there’s a rainbow in her bio.
“You’d let her fuck you?” Tashi asks, clicking on the most recent photo of her and turning the phone towards you. You freeze. “Every girl who does track is a slut, you’d really get with her?” You shake your head helplessly, muttering “I didn’t follow her back, Tashi.”
Tashi immediately softens at your word, even if it’s against her own will. She brings a hand to your face, cupping your jaw, and leans down to press a slow kiss to your lips. The quiet whine you let out is music to Tashi’s ears and she tries not to smile into the kiss when you hook a hand around the nap of her neck, keeping her there against you. “I’m gonna show you who you belong to,” Tashi starts with a low voice, and you instantly bring your thighs together to squeeze them harshly, trying to bring yourself any ounce of friction. “and tomorrow, if anyone asks you out, you won’t tell them you’re in a ‘complicated situation’, you’ll tell them you have a girlfriend. You got it?”
You nod eagerly, eyes wide, and Tashi mumbles “You know better than not giving me a verbal response.”
“I got it.” Tashi hums approvingly, reconnecting her lips to yours as she begins working on finally getting you that orgasm you’ve been fighting so hard for.
And the next morning when you’re in the middle of practice, you can’t help but smile knowingly as Tashi walks across the gymnasium to meet you as your team breaks for water, holding your water bottle in hand. You hadn’t seen her take it from your room last night, but the second you see her with it, it makes complete sense to you that she was the reason you couldn’t find it this morning. “Hey baby,” she greets loudly enough to attract a few pairs of eyes. “I accidentally took your bottle on the way out of your room this morning. Filled it up for you though.”
She meets your eyes with an evil glint in hers as she passes you the bottle, her arms wrapping around your waist and pressing into your back as you take a greedy sip of water. She tells you to slow down so you don’t feel sick during the rest of your practice, and you hum as you finally recognise that she’s in her tennis clothes. “Did you already train?” You ask, but Tashi shakes her head. It makes you smile in amazement as you piece together that she’s come here in her sports clothes so the other student athletes recognise her better. She wants them to know exactly who she is and exactly what she’s doing with her.
“I have practice in an hour.” She says, and you laugh breathily, shaking your head. One of her hands slide to your waist so she can squeeze it teasingly, and she nods her head over to where the rest of your teammates have gathered to resume practice. “Come watch?” She asks, settling down into a chair. You nod as you walk way, and Tashi crosses on leg over the other, looking over to the side and frowning when she sees that some students have gathered to watch the cheer practice after finishing their own sports. One of them catches her eye and leans forward in their chair, calling out loudly “It’s nice to finally meet the girlfriend, you know? Every time someone has tried asking her out for the past two months, she’s said she has a girlfriend. Almost didn’t believe it, but to think Tashi Duncan was the girlfriend all along? Crazy.”
Tashi chuckles at the revelation, glancing at you for a short moment as you rehearse the choreography before she says “We were keeping things a little private. You know how bad the relationship drama is between sports groups.”
The student leans back, nodding to himself. “Yeah, I mean especially when you’re so involved. I mean, I practically get all my sports gossip from her, so I can imagine why you guys would want to avoid it.” Tashi wipes a hand across her face as she nods, turning to settle her gaze on you. All it took was two lines worth of conversation with someone and she already has a dozen questions to ask you.
warnings: nsfw(18+), fingering, squirting, praise, dom!tashi, inspo from the below p-link
p-link!: here
notes: this takes place in the daddy's home universe :) so reader ends up being Tashi's girlfriend in the future
Kinktober Masterlist!
You have been Lily’s gymnastics instructor for almost 3 years now. She was so talented and such an amazing kid. Very well-mannered and always putting everyone first. She was so cute the way she’d always help her friends who needed extra help learning a new skill.
Every competition, she crushed it. Always placing first or second in most categories, but especially floor because that was her favorite. Both of her parents being athletes definitely helped, but you only really saw Art. Art was always there, dropping her off and picking her up from practice. Most times, he’d even stay to watch practice through the glass window panes to really see just how talented his daughter is (but also to keep a watchful eye because he can’t deny the way his heart dropped when Lily first said she wanted to start gymnastics).
Tashi was very…aloof? The few times you saw her it was always at a competition. She’d sit next to Art very stoically. Her face unchanging until after Lily completed a flawless routine, only then she let a small smile show.
There were also a few times more recently when another man would join them in watching Lily compete. He was a little taller than Art with dark curly hair. He often had a baby with him. Lily had told you his name was Patrick, but you weren’t quite sure who Patrick was to her. At first, you assumed he was her uncle but you didn’t actually know.
Of course they’d always shower Lily in praises and a bouquet of flowers after every competition, that was when you got a glimpse of Tashi’s soft side. Foolishly, you wish you could see her more. She was so put together. Her hair reached just past her shoulders, it was blonde and fluffy and it looks so soft you just wanted to run your fingers through it. Her bone structure was lethal, it made you wonder why she never went into modeling. With a face like that and a body like that? She could walk any runway she wanted. Her legs felt like they went on for days, you wish you could kiss your way all the way up to the warmth between her thighs and—
She’s married. She’s very much married, happily so, you can imagine with a husband like Art. So you push all your thoughts down and ignore the way your stomach turns anytime you see her. Should be easy enough since you don’t see her often, right?
Wrong.
Art had asked you if it’d be possible to do private lessons at their in-home gym because Lily really can’t get enough of gymnastics but I don’t want her doing stuff at home without the right supervision. So you agree. It’s more money in your pocket and you’ll get to spend more time with your favorite student.
Their home gymnasium was insane. It was wide open space for what felt like at least a quarter mile. Padded mats and a foam pit, not too far off from the actual gym you teach at.
Private practice would take place on the weekends since regular practice was during the weekdays. You’d teach her new skills and go over her routines for any upcoming tournaments. Tashi would stop by sometimes to see how Lily’s doing, but there were times when you swore there were lingering gazes on you. Catching her eyes drifting from Lily to you, but she was never shy when she got caught. Holding your eye contact for a beat before refocusing on Lily.
One day after a private practice, Art thanked you and paid you as always. He had to end the practice a little earlier because Lily had a birthday party to go to.
As you’re packing up, Tashi walks by to ask if you’d like to stay for lunch. Which, obviously, you say yes.
You spend that time chatting and getting to know her. At first, you’re a little intimidated because her beauty is overwhelming. She’s wearing a white tennis dress, very fitting, in more ways than one. The athletic material fitting like a second layer of skin on her body before it flares just a little bit by the top of her thighs.
When she turns towards the fridge, the bottom of her dress flows up a little, showing you just a sliver of her black lace panties that stretch perfectly over her ass. She turns back to you with a glass of water she got from the fridge, her nipples bubbling under the fabric of her dress, presumably from the chillyness of the fridge. Needless to say, it’s really hard to concentrate on the conversation.
“You good?”
Her question pulls you out of your thoughts, “Yeah course. Thank you for lunch, that was really good.”
She smiles, taking a sip of her water before continuing the conversation. Not mentioning to you how she caught you staring.
“How long have you been teaching gymnastics? Lily says you’re her favorite gymnastics teacher she’s had.” She makes her way over to the living room to sit in one of the armchairs.
You follow her, situating yourself on the couch. “Only for about 4 years, and Lily’s been with me for three, so.”
“And how’d you get into it?” She leans back in the chair, her eyes never leaving you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think there was some tension here.
“I’ve been doing gymnastics forever. I used to compete when I was younger. But after a while, I realized my passion was teaching and here we are.” You’ve unconsciously shifted your body towards her, but you tell yourself it’s just because you want her to know that you’re paying attention to the conversation. Right.
“Would you say you’re still pretty flexible?” She questions like she’s genuinely curious, but there’s a hint of something behind her tone.
You clear your throat when the first thing that pops into your mind is I can show you just how flexible I am. “Yeah, I—I’d say so.”
Her legs spread ever so slightly so you can catch a glimpse of the black lace again. “You know I feel like, and please feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, I feel like you’re always staring at me.” She tilts her head to the side, keeping her eyes on you to see how you’d react.
“I—no I. I mean. I say this with no disrespect to Art, I just—“
“I’m not with Art.” She places her glass of water on the coffee table.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I just thought that—“
“We’ve been separated for a while now and he just remarried, so don’t worry about him. I want you to answer my question,” She continued, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Her eye contact made you feel immovable. Like you were stuck where you were seated. It was so heavy and calculated, like she was the predator and you were her unsuspecting prey.
“Yeah I…I do. Sometimes. But you’re so beautiful it’s kind of hard not to.” And you’re not sure why you left it all out there but there was something about the way she was looking at you that made you want to give the whole truth.
She smiles again leaning back in her chair again, “C’mere.” She motions towards herself, then pats her lap softly. Your heart rate is picking up more than before as you approach her. A part of you feels like this isn’t real, like it’s some sort of fever dream.
Right when you’re standing in front of her, about to sit on her lap, she stops you.
“You might be more comfortable without…” She gestured towards your leggings. Okay, so this is going the way you thought it was going. Pulling down your leggings without hesitation before perching yourself on her lap.
Her hands settle on your hips, rubbing soothing circles while brushing over the waistband of your panties. Your eyes are glued to where her hands have settled on you. Her fingers are so soft and tender, and her touches are so light, like she’s treading lightly, or so you thought.
“You’re beautiful too you know. It’s very…distracting,” She chooses her words carefully. Your line of vision refocusing on her lips because you can’t believe the most beautiful woman on earth just said she thinks you're beautiful and distracting.
She bites her lip briefly before pulling you into a kiss. It’s slow. Like she’s trying to discover you from the inside out. While simultaneously taking over all your senses. Only being able to focus on the way her tongue tangles with your own. Lips slotting together like they were meant to be.
The kiss almost distracts you from the way her fingers slide down to feel your clothed hole and the wet spot that is getting wetter by the second. She swipes over your clothed swollen bud a few times pulling multiple whimpers from you and causing you to grind down against her. She pulls away from the kiss momentarily to say, “So eager.” Bringing her free hand to caress your cheek when she asks, “How long have you wanted this?”
Your brain is scrambling to find a coherent answer but the most embarrassing thing falls out, “Since I first saw you.”
She lets out a small laugh at that before she takes her bottom lip between her teeth. Her other hand hasn’t let up against your clit, but now she’s sliding your panties to the side so she can slip a finger into your wet heat. Wet is an understatement, “Fuck I can tell.” She smirks, referring to just how wet you are.
She’s about to add another finger when a thought comes to her head. Leaning in to whisper in your ear, “Do you wanna try something? Wanna see how flexible you are.”
You nod dumbly as you continue grinding on her finger with your arms looped around your neck.
When she explains it to you, a blush floods your cheeks, but you’re certain you can do it. Pulling your panties off to make it easier. She helps you position yourself in a side split position with your legs resting on the arms of her chair. Now you are completely spread out for her, with your hands resting on the back of the chair for balance.
Over the years of dating people who knew you were a gymnast, you’ve been asked to try some crazy things but nothing like this. You felt so exposed, but turned on at the same time. Her gaze on your lower half held something resembling hunger, like she was going to devour you.
Her fingers get back to work. Two fingers pumping in and out of you. It’s slow at first, but she quickly picks up the pace, curling her fingers inside of you. It’s hard to hold back with noises because everything feels so amazing.
“Fuck Tashi I—fuck fuck. Don’t wanna mess up your chair and I—I can’t I fuck—“
“It’s okay pretty, let go for me. Wanna feel you finish on my fingers. Can you do that for me?”
Her palm rubbing against your clit with the perfect amount of friction and you don’t need to be told twice. The chair was comically larger than the average armchair but it was a light fabric material that you didn’t want to mess up. But with Tashi’s instruction, you let go, the pristine form of your split slipping as you squirt all over her fingers. She pulls her fingers out to swipe her hand over your clit a few times as you finish, “There we go.”
She’s smiling again as she pulls you in for a kiss. She slaps your wet hole lightly a few times before dipping her fingers back in. “Think you can give me one more?” She whispered against your lips as she broke the kiss.
You nod again without hesitation. You would give her the whole world if she asked so what’s one more orgasm. This time she kisses you through it. Her tongue rolling against yours while you roll your hips down on her fingers.
She pulls away just barely, so now you’re panting in her face while your foreheads are pressed together.
“That’s it, you’re doing so well for me sweet girl. You gonna cum for me?” She whispers as she presses the heel of her hand against your clit to give you more friction.
You lean all the way forward to rest your top half against the chair as your inner thighs start to burn from holding this position.
“Yeah yeah yeah fuck yeah I’m gonna—please Tashi I need fuck.”
She doesn’t stop, she keeps going as you finish once again. You slowly start to bring your legs together to get out of the split position. That’s when you see just how much of a mess you made, it’s all over the bottom of Tashi’s tennis dress, the chair, the floor, everywhere.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s all cleanable I promise.” She places one last peck on your lips as you start to stand up. Excusing yourself to the bathroom so you can clean up and get dressed.
When you return back to the living room, it looks like Tashi had cleaned up your mess and changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants. Inviting you to lounge on the (unsoiled) couch with her. You both spend that time talking more about anything and everything, and she even offers you some glasses of wine. You learn a lot more about her, she opens up to you, so you see a completely different side of her. It’s such a juxtaposition from the neutral stoic form she usually takes on when you see her at Lily’s competitions. She’s soft and warm and funny.
Before you know it, it’s almost 6pm, which means it’s been 7 hours since you got here and 5 hours since you said bye to Lily.
You want to ask more about her relationship status without seeming too desperate. So you try to sneak it in as best you can, “So you said Art remarried?”
She nods, taking another sip of her wine, “Yeah, he um, he married his best friend. It was sweet.”
“Can I ask what happened? Obviously you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” You don’t want to seem nosy, but you are genuinely curious. She reassured you that it was fine. It was nice meeting someone who didn’t know everything about her, considering you didn’t keep up much with tennis.
“We were never fully compatible,” She shrugs, placing her glass down on the coffee table. “Neither of our hearts were fully in it, not for the right reasons anyway. And I think he’s been in love with Patrick for a long time, he just never realized.”
Oh Patrick. That makes sense now why Lily doesn’t call him her uncle, since technically he’s her stepdad. “Yeah, that makes sense. So the baby is…?” You spoke from where your head was resting on her shoulder.
“Levi,” She smiled to herself at the thought of him. “He’s their son so Lily’s half-brother. That actually reminds me that they should be dropping off Lily and Levi soon, since I have them for the rest of the weekend.”
You could tell it was your time to go anyway. You helped her put the glasses in the sink before getting ready to depart. Overthinking everything in your head because you want this to happen again, but you don’t want to seem too desperate. Standing by the front door with your hand on the doorknob. You can feel her gaze on you, so you quickly look back at her to say, “Did you want to do this again? It’s okay if you don’t. I get it, and I know I’m Lily’s teacher, and you probably don’t want anything serious because you just got a divorce, and I’m saying a lot right now please stop me.”
She laughs from where she’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, “I’ll see you next Saturday. Art will have Lily after practice, so we’ll have an empty house.”
Leaving you with a peck on the lips and a mind full of inappropriate thoughts.
art donaldson
stanford era art in his dorm
stanford era art training your throat
art training you while talking to patrick on the phone
patrick zweig
stepbrother!patrick
car rides with patrick
patrick finishing in your ass
patrick punishing you
tashi duncan
eating tashi out in the dorms
tashi warming you up before you take her strap
tashi decompressing again
interchangeable
just the tip
tashi helping you out with patrick/art
