'oh But She's Mean And Manipulative' SHUT UP. LOOK AT HER. THAT'S MY DAUGHTER

timing repost!

Big Shoes to Fill

or, lily follows in her parents' footsteps.

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

tag list: @glassmermaids

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

“Fix that grip, Lils!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think Mommy is mad at me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not sure, Lilybug.”

The answer is yes.

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

“I want more tennis lessons.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s alright :)) tomorrow then”

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

“Where you going, Lils?”

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

“Practice.”

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

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

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

“So, pick me, choose me-”

“Fifteen found dead in Oakland, Cali-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Course, Lilybug.”

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

“How’s Mom?”

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

“Oh, Lily… how are you?”

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

“‘M fine.”

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

“Can I say something stupid?”

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

“I always wanted to dance.”

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

YUCK!

Or: Art and Tashi really should’ve thought harder about becoming friends with benefits

an: sorry the formatting is so wonky?? posting from my phone so it looks odd. anyways this is for the peoples princess @diyasgarden . My wife. Heart.

————————————————————————

To be fair, she wasn’t thinking straight, so she can’t really be held accountable. Sure, she’d always been conscious of Art’s incredibly conspicuous feelings for her, and she wasn’t stupid enough to miss the envy he had for Patrick. All over her. You can’t blame a girl for getting a little high on the power trip. So, when it happened the first time, laying in bed entirely bare besides the brace on her knee, and she rolled over to see him staring at her like that, all warm and gooey like melted chocolate, she knew she’d regret this before it even started. It was so sweet. Gross. But hey, she wasn’t thinking straight. After all, your frontal lobe isn’t fully developed until you hit 25, and she’s skating through the end of her teens.

Now, Art on the other hand, was not grieving quite as much as Tashi was. No ended relationships, at least not romantically, and certainly no career-ending, or at the very least damaging, injuries. Of course, these would only hit him in his 30s, when he’d been molded into the shape Tashi should have taken. To him, this was his shot. I mean, really, he can’t be held accountable. All’s fair in love and war and whatever he and Patrick had going on over Tashi could definitely constitute both. So, yeah, when he was walking her to her dorm from a failed attempt at a practice match, Tashi throwing in the towel early, or more accurately, her body throwing in the towel for her, and she looked up at him with those big, wet, sad brown eyes, it’s really not his fault that he kissed her. I mean, who wouldn’t?

So, it’s been a month or two. A month (or two) of Art dedicating himself to learning how Tashi ticks better than she does, like he’s trying to master a new craft. He handles her with all the delicateness of an ancient masterpiece, careful brushes of his fingers against hard lines and curved edges. He’s clearly been studying, taking mental notes on what makes her brows pinch together in that way he’s quickly come to adore, and what doesn’t. Tashi likes x, Tashi doesn’t like y. Tashi kisses softer than you’d expect her to.

She should’ve expected it, really. And yet, she was still surprised when she looked over one night, Art still gooey-eyed and kiss-swollen from an hour or so well spent, and he manages to croak out a ‘Hey Tash, what are we?’ Tash. That stupid little pet name he’d chosen. As if chopping off the last letter of her name makes her his in a way. Reassigning her from Patrick’s possession to his. It made her chest flutter. It made her stomach roil with nausea. She turns to the other side, pulling the blankets tighter around herself. She doesn’t object when he places a hand on her cotton covered hip. It’s thick enough she can’t feel anything but the weight of it.

It’s not like she didn’t like Art. She did. She wouldn’t bother with dealing with him if she didn’t. The attention was nice, of course. Feeling wanted again. Patrick stopped wanting her, or at least she tells herself so to kill the guilt, and tennis most certainly wasn’t going to accept her with open arms anymore. But Art wanted her. Hurt, healed, grieving, unstable, remarkable her. And, yeah, the sex was good. Very. But she liked him, too. Art who still played against her on the days she was convinced she could still play, and picked her up when she inevitably fell. Art who spent more meal credits on her than his own food. Art who was still waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know.”

She’d have a better answer someday. He nods, she knows so without seeing it, his breath always hitches the same way when he does. She doesn’t like the realization that as much as he might know her, she knows him back. Really knows him. He couldn’t keep a thought to himself to save his life. But the thought of doing anything beyond casual fucking and pretending their interactions mean nothing makes her nose crinkle. Nuh uh. Not right now. Maybe someday, but not right now. She’d feel too bad about it.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder where it sticks out, mumbling a goodnight before he drifts off. Her skin prickles. Her brain gets fuzzy. Yuck

Get a job. Take some writing classes.

okay, let's talk about this for a moment. a lot of my moots/oomfs have been getting a similar message in their inbox. i don't know if they're coming from the same person or not, and frankly, i don't care.

you are wasting time out of your day to leave a message that you are too cowardly to put an account behind, on a website that was created for the purpose of publicizing self-expression.

i don't care that you don't like my writing. i don't like my writing. i am upset because you are putting legitimate effort into bringing down other people who have absolutely zero impact on your day-to-day life. if anyone needs to get a job, anon, it's you.

i do not know what is possessing you to act with such cowardice, but whatever it is, i hope it gets better for you. in the mean time, stay out of the inboxes of creators who are volunteering their time and their efforts to enrich the lives of others.

i wish you good luck in the future.

i want to line them up and tuck them into bed with the blanket just below their chins all snuggly

meet… STANFORD ERA LESBIAN!ATP .ᐟ ★

a/n: hi guys the much promised part two of lesbian!atp headcanons… stanford edition! so sorry it took me three weeks to get these out i am in an insane slump right now…… i’ll be free soon (hopefully) i have so much i want to get out. and also thank you @peariote some of these are taken from conversations we have had… and thank you @diyasgarden my lovely for helping me flesh out tashi. anyway. please enjoy. smiles. 

CW: hints at nsfw

ART - VISUAL ARTS MAJOR .ᐟ

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who swears you’re her muse. Always begging you to let her use you as a model for whatever she’s working on, he’s positive her work simply turns out better when it’s of you. Nevermind the fact you’re almost always nude. 

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who is always covered in charcoal and paint, to the point he’s like a magnet. Even if she’s not doing a project with those mediums, it still finds its way onto him. Little do you know it’s because you said you loved the way she looks with it one day, and she’s never looked back.

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who loves that he has to learn photography because it means she can always capture moments of you for forever. Always has a camera on him whenever he’s with you to make sure she doesn’t miss anything. Anything from being in the shower to falling apart under her. She even teaches you photography just so you can take photos of her between your thighs or when her hands are too busy elsewhere to hold a camera.

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART whose exhibitions always feature at least one piece of you, whether it be painting, photo, or sculpture, and are always dedicated to you. Whenever he sneaks you in for ‘early access,’ he always shows you these with the biggest grin on her face. She swears one day he’s going to do an exhibition solely of you (Never including the nude pieces. Those are hers and hers only). You know she will.   

PAT - FINANCE MAJOR .ᐟ

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who went into finance for his parents, who want her to take over after graduating. He absolutely hates it, but listens and goes for the four years anyway. Their grades are average, simply because she cannot care enough to do more than scrape by. Despite the hatred, she still becomes the biggest finance bro possible. 

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who has in fact been attempted to be recruited to a frat before. Walking past a tent during rush week had them handing him a form until they opened their mouth and spoke. This is his favourite story to tell when trying to get someone into her bed (“Come on, I was basically a frat brother. I can show you a good time too.”).

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who is somehow at a new party every night. Brings a new girl home every night too, partially in thanks to the frat story above. Is known around campus for being the biggest sleazebag ever, but no one really cares if it means they get a night with her. 

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who meets you and decides maybe you can change them. A one night stand where you treat her the best he’s ever been treated absolutely changes her world, and one night turns into two, and then three, and then she decides maybe there is more to life than just sleeping around and finally locks you down for herself (but it does take time for her to get used to just the one person, and there are some flirting incidents in the beginning). 

TASHI - COGNITIVE SCIENCE MAJOR .ᐟ

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who is the most disciplined person in college. Like poster girl of discipline level discipline. She creates a schedule and actually sticks to it. As you spend more time with her, you eventually catch onto it as well, and start doing most things together.

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who is incredibly dedicated to her studies. One of the top students in her classes. She is always studying whenever she has time, but hates not being around you. Her favourite kind of date is studying with you at a library or cafe, where she doesn’t need to choose between you and her work. 

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI whose favourite courses are the natural sciences, particularly chemistry and biology. Something about learning how the body’s natural chemicals and processes draws her in, but she wants to make a difference with it, to make it mean something. So she minors in sociology alongside cog sci. 

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who eventually takes the MD and PhD route, so she can do research and help in a medical setting. She spends her time in class one day, volunteering at a hospital and shadowing a doctor the next, and uses what she learns to do exactly what she wanted to. To do something bigger than herself.

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @jordiemeow @cha11engers @kaalxpsia @apatheticrater @tacobacoyeet @tigerlilywl @newrochellechallenger2019 @compress1repress @artspats

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doc.... is she gonna make it

prolly not

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

im going to kiss you on your incredible, beautiful brain

Good Luck

This is basically the beginning of The Atlantic City Story verbatum, with you as Jane, and some differences + personal touches. Because of this, you don't need to have seen ACS to understand what's going on (in my opinion). Just a little thing I wanted to write to warm up my ACS writing muscle since I plan to write for Arthur more in the future.

SFW

2.3k words

If you haven't seen it, Arthur has a gambling addiction, and you participate in gambling at a casino. Reader (Jane) grows up with an implied neglectful and sometimes abusive mother, and there are flashbacks to this childhood. Reader is in a strained marriage. I picture you being around Arthur's age and married young instead of Jane's age in the movie.

It felt like you’d caught him; finding him out there, sitting in the quiet rain on a lone bench, the streets abnormally still for the city. Maybe it was like tunnel vision, all that you could hear or see was him, whoever he was.

The rain made dashes in the air like stitches, straight diagonal lines cutting through to the asphalt, illuminated by the single streetlight by the fence. The grass behind it looked like it went on forever, like an ocean you could swim through if you wanted. You’d never seen the sky so pitch black, the light pollution of the city sucking the light from the stars like parasites. The streetlight was the only star in the sky, strong and bright and sturdy. There under the starlight, just a little to its left, was the one bench. One star, one bench. It was curious. Even more so that on that one bench was him, that man from the roulette table. Him alone, under the star and under the rain, staring off into the ocean and lightless night.

It was a rash decision, one you couldn’t help but make. There was always something wrong with you and you’re well aware of that– self awareness must count for something– but knowing that you have a tendency to fuck things up didn’t stop you from fucking things up again.

When you were a kid you’d run away regularly, packing your little school bag with the things your small mind deemed the most important (a change of clothes, a juice box, your favorite toy, some sidewalk chalk) and sneaking out the back door of your childhood home. It was easy when all you had to do was wait for your mother to drink her favorite juice and fall asleep by the TV, oblivious to the program and to your footsteps creaking the floorboards. When the screen door was shut and it was just you and the cicadas, your little feet ran, carried you as far as they could take you.

Down the block and through the grass, running and running until your legs gave out. Then you’d choose a tree to sit under, catching your breath under the summer sun and pull out the juice box you’d packed. Drinking it slow, letting it sit on your tongue cause you knew that you wouldn’t be able to get another one out here on your own. In the meantime, you’d watch ants crawl beneath blades of grass, earthworms crawl around the gargantuan stones in their paths, birds land on the branches above you. You could hear those cicadas sing and the birds caw and the worms slither in the dirt, and all you could think of is “I wonder if she’s noticed yet.”

Now you were running from your home. Not the one with the box TV and the drunken mother on the floral sofa, where your presence and lack-thereof were felt the same, but the one you’d grown to call yours. It was modest and it was owned, and it was all thanks to your husband Michael. You’d never be able to afford it without him.

When he’d be gone, for work or for play, you found yourself revisiting those times under the trees. Wondering how long you’d really be there until a neighbor found you or a patrolling cop who thought it strange to see you there, alone. Had it been minutes? Hours? Surely not days, never a full one. You were never that lucky. Even now. The day would end and you’d look up from your thoughts and find Michael home, and eventually he’d end up on the couch asleep, the TV flashing frames on the wall.

You don’t really enjoy gambling, if you’re being honest, so you’re not quite sure what led you to Atlantic City. Maybe it was the lights, maybe it was because it was so far away from that couch, The hotel bed was admittedly nicer than your own. The bathroom was also nicer, much larger than the one back home, the mirror spanning wide across the wall above the double sink. Drying your hair from the rain, you mind stayed on the man on the bench. How his eyes weren’t quite at the roulette table, how his hands fidgeted with the chips. They were strong, his hands, the skin smooth and uncalloused or scarred. His fingers long and nervous, always moving against something or each other. You’d watched his hands almost the whole time you were there. You kept picturing those hands as you got ready for bed. How they worried, how they gave up when he didn’t win and left for the rain.

The bed’s so much emptier without someone on the other side. Michael, is he asleep on the couch again? Has he noticed? The tears fell freely, there was no one there to hide them from tonight. In the quiet, the never ending quiet, you almost missed the sound of his breathing behind you. Almost. You noticed he wasn’t there, you always did.

It’s hard to sleep with a mind like yours, but you managed.

There’s a nice view from your window, a perfect one of both the sea and the pier. Just to the corner peaked the ferris wheel, big and silent and unmoving. You’d smoke on the balcony if you had a pack with you. There at your bedside your phone finally buzzed, and from here you could see the contact name pop up. Maybe you should check if they sell any at the gas station a block down.

They do.

It’s quickly stuffed into your coat pocket, leaving straight from the gas station to the casino, your phone still back in your room. There’s something appealing to you in that loud, depressing trap. The ringing machines, the clicking sounds of chips on tables and balls spinning to determine someone's fate, the shuffling of cards and nervous laughter of the patrons. This could be their shot, the temporarily embarrassed millionaires. One more time, pull the level one more time. Play the cards one more time. Toss the ball one more time.

What really led you there was him, the man with the hands and no name. Something told you that he would be there again today.

He is. You spot him at the same roulette table, in the same hat and shirt but dry now. The jacket he wore last night is gone, though. Last night you watched, so today you decided to play. Observing silently at the table was weird, anyway, so you set down two twenties. Surely losing that won’t hurt as bad. Pink chips totaling forty dollars slide to your end, the head of the table, and you find your own fingers flipping them with worry. So is he. He’s watching the wheel with this almost acceptance that he won’t win, yet he’s clearly still here, still trying. How long as he been there? He puts down his number, then the other participants, and you just choose a random one. You’ve never done this before, having no clue if this is a game of chance or skill but you can only assume the former. You bet 44. He bet 24.

The wheels spins and the ball is tossed. Round and round and round forever. The casino feels so loud, it’s like you can hear every anxious prayer to whatever higher being will have mercy on them today. There’s a machine a ways away that rings loud, someone shouts at another one about it being rigged. The dealer is reminding people no more bets, not until it lands. He takes a breath, hitched and ready to release when it’s allowed, but he doesn’t. He holds it, never taking his eyes off the ball. You never take your eyes off him.

“Six. Black and even.”

It takes him a moment to let it go. Someone else won, another woman at the table, and the dealer hands her the chips. You do it all again, and when you place your bet on twenty-six, he does too.

The ring of the ball falling into place sounds like a dim bell. Everything else goes quiet when you hear it, and this time you let your eyes hopefully fall to where it spins and stops.

“Twenty-six. Black and even.”

Someone at the table stands and leaves and you find a smile growing on your lips. How unexpected. You were ready to lose again, you were alright with it. It felt good. He finally looks away from the table, letting another breath go. Looking up, catching your eye and dropping it, you see the hint of a smile on his. When he speaks you’re surprised.

“Thank you.”

You’ve moved to stand next to him, next to the wheel, as the dealer hands you your chips. “Me?”

“Yeah, you had the twenty-six.”

You don’t really think about it when you move to the newly empty seat next to him, removing your coat and hanging it on the back of it. “I guess I’m lucky.”

Again. This time, several numbers: Thirty-six, three, twenty-nine, eleven. He places them on the same spots you do, like you’re his good luck. The bets are set, the wheel spins again, and your eyes fall back to his hands. They’re closer now, and maybe you’re confident enough to think they worry a little less as they still on the table.

He properly looks at you when it lands, the corner of his mouth pulling up. His hands grip the edge of the table slightly before letting go, tapping the green fabric on it proudly. He’s got a pretty smile when he lets it. Maybe you are lucky.

“Thirty-six. Red and even.”

When you’d come home it was always a mess. Whether it was a neighbor or a cop, your mother would open the front door with her unbrushed hair and bitten lips and stained nightgown and scold you right there in front of them. “Fuck, kid. How many times I gotta tell you to stop running off? I can’t sleep five minutes without you trying to kill yourself and worrying the neighbors. I got work, you know.”

She worked long shifts at the bank and then the diner, trying to make enough for the two of you. She was always tired by the time she got home. You always had to walk to and from school, pack your own lunches, learn how to do the laundry yourself. She always said she just needed a minute to relax, give mommy a minute to relax and she’ll be right there, but that minute would stretch until she had to get ready for her shift the next morning.

“My feet and back are damn tired and I don’t have time to follow you around this house, watching if you’re gonna go off and get hit by a car. I hope you have a kid like yourself one day, you’ll finally understand how hard I’ve got it. Get to your room.”

You’d lie on your belly on the floor, tracing patterns into the old carpet of your bedroom. There wasn’t much to do. Toys were expensive. You had a few, sure, but not the ones in the commercials that would play. Hot Wheels with customizable racetracks and big Barbie Dream Houses and shiny little action figures with movable arms and legs. You had Legos that the kid next door stopped playing with, and a hand stitched doll your mother made, your teddy bear from infancy, and a bike that’s had a flat tire since last spring.

There was a small bookshelf by the door with books you either finished reading or didn’t care for, some stolen from your mother’s room that confused you and spoke about things you’ve never heard of. Behind the dresser that you’d move, there were crayon drawings on the yellowed walls you’d sometimes add to before moving the dresser back. When you didn’t want to do that, it was back to lying on your stomach and tracing on the carpet.

Sometimes you’d hear kids next door playing, yelling at the other to pass the ball or to watch their cool trick. You’d look out your window but they’d always be just out of view. It was like a radio show with no dial to switch stations. Then you’d smell the cooking coming from downstairs and hear the knock at your bedroom door, and your mother would pass you your plate. She’d sit there on the floor in front of the bedroom door with hers, and there you’d eat in silence.

The next day, your mother would have forgotten about it, and you’d already start wondering about how far you could get next time.

He doesn’t play Poker, says there’ll always be someone there smarter than him. “I’m not smart but I’m smart enough to know I’m not gonna be the smartest.”

Hearing that, put that way, makes you laugh. You guess he has a point. It’s not about skill. You don’t need skill to have luck, you suppose. You either have luck or you don’t, and you’ve thought until now that you’ve had none. You like how he puts it: “With roulette it’s all chance. It’s just you and the universe.”

The chips are turned to cash at the counter. $900 for him, $950 for you. Considering your starting bet was forty, you feel pretty good. Good enough to stop. He chooses to stop today, too. It’s like he walks lighter down the hall with the cash in his pocket. He offers to take you to a cheap diner he knows, like a celebration of your win. Taking his good luck out to dinner, and he doesn’t even know your name.

He almost floats across the floor. You think about him just the other night, under the rain, under the single stranded star. He’s a different man with money in his pocket, that much you can tell of the stranger. Your phone is still on the nightstand back in your room, but you know by now that Michael’s stopped calling. Stopped trying. You wonder when he noticed.

He tells you his name is Arthur.

Hi jo sorry if this isn’t what you normally write and you can ignore it if you want. I would just love a sort of comfort fic of reader losing their virginity to art but she’s uncomfortable and wants to stop and he’s sweet about it

No pressure I love everything you put out ♡

don't apologise pookie this is sweet :) <3

warnings: 18+ sex (p in v), insecure/uncomfortable reader, loss of virginity, very quickly (+ poorly) written apologies x

This is decidedly not how you expected losing your virginity to go.

Art was a gentleman. Waiting patiently for months, never pressuring you into anything despite the fact he'd spent countless nights leaving your dorm blue-balled and in dire need of a cold shower. Even when you suggested taking that next step, he made you insist several times that it was really what you wanted.

No, he wasn't the problem.

It took fifteen minutes with his head between your thighs for you to cum. That part was great. It was what came next that made things awkward: Art perched above you, one hand entwined with our own while the other guided him into you. The stretch was overwhelming, enough to render you breathless for the next few seconds as he eased in slowly. Each thick, solid inch has your toes curling and your lungs desperately gathering air.

An affirmative nod of your head to confirm that you were okay (you weren't) and he was rocking into you, groaning about how tight and good you felt. Everyone always said it gets better. But it's been two minutes of him thrusting into you, jaw slack with pleasure and eyes screwed shut while he babbles praises senselessly about how well you're taking it, and things are decidedly not better.

You can't take it anymore. The discomfort of having another person so deep inside you, the stretch, the burning pain...

"Art, stop."

He doesn't hear you at first. You're quiet, drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and his ragged sounds of pleasure.

"Art." Your free hand finds his shoulder. Fingers curling into the sweat-slick skin, face strained in displeasure. "Stop, please."

Now you've got his attention. His eyes snap onto yours again, hips slowing to a halt. "What?" He blinks lamely. Despite his initial obliviousness, at least he's stopped moving.

"I just... I can't," you explain weakly, choking on a hitched breath.

It's not the most eloquent reply ever, but what are you supposed to say? This is awful. It's nothing like I expected. I'm having a terrible time. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, it's—

You could say all of that, actually. You just don't want to hurt his feelings.

"Okay," he says, brows furrowing. "Are you, um... are you okay? I'm sorry, was I going too fast?"

His hand moves to push your hair gently out of your face. Sweet boy. You can't find it in yourself to be upset.

"No, you're fine," you reply, trying for a smile. It falls terribly flat.

"Are you—" A pause, hand squeezing yours as he braces himself up on his other one. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you reply, embarrassed by the way his eyes are searching your face with such genuine concern. You wish you could just melt into the mattress and pretend this never happened. "Can you just... can you get off, please?"

"Oh!" He blinks, glancing down. "Right. Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry."

The process of him pulling out is far less agonising, and you breathe a sigh of relief, body relaxing beneath him. He's still watching you with that same worried look as he lays down next to you, fingers twitching by his sides uncertainly.

"Too much?" He asks tentatively. You nod sheepishly, eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't—did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

It feels like the hundredth time he's posed the question, but he's panicking inwardly about your apparent state of discomfort as you shift restlessly, eyes fixated on some point over his shoulder. You feel embarrassed. Guilty. Like a failure.

What's the point in him dating you if you can't even handle sex?

You don't voice any of that out loud, but he can see it in your eyes; the way your bottom lip quivers slightly as the all of the emotions cross plainly across your face. Or how your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice cracking.

"No, no, no. Why are you apologising?" He replies instantly. He lifts a hand, pausing before he makes contact. "Is this okay?" When you nod your head, his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. It's okay."

Your head shakes insistently. "No, I should be able to do it. I mean, what's the point if I can't?"

His knuckles linger against your cheek, and then he laughs. Just a soft huff of amusement, but enough to have you knitting your brows at him.

"What's the point?" He repeats softly, eyes crinkling down at you. "It's just sex, babe."

"Sex is a very integral part of a relationship!" You argue, wiping feebly at your eyes.

"Maybe," Art says, shrugging noncommittally as he watches your aborted attempt sympathetically. "Doesn't mean we have to have sex right now. There's always room to try again in the future, right?"

You hate that he makes sense. It's hard to wallow in your own self-pity when he's looking at you so tenderly, still caressing your cheek. "Right," you mumble reluctantly. "And if the future is never?"

"We'll tackle that hurdle when we get there," he says, dipping his head to kiss the tip of your nose. "Stop stressing. Let's just put a movie on and relax, 'kay?"

You pout at him for a second longer before relenting. Your head falls back into the pillow with a sigh as he settles back beside you, an arm draped across your middle to reach for the remote. A few more sniffles can be heard as you settle down.

"Thank you."

It's quiet, but he hears it. He sends you a soft smile. "You don't need to thank me."

"Well, I am," you reply, shifting to rest your head against his shoulder. All you get in reply is a light chuckle.

A few moments pass as he flicks through the channels before you speak up again. "Can you maybe put your boxers back on? I don't want to see your dick."

He snorts, tilting his head to press a kiss into the top of your hair. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

a revival

Take It Like a Champ!

or art and reader are loser virgins

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

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

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

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

“Art, seriously, can you-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, uh… ‘s fine.”

Oh.

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

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

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

“Yeah, fuck, please-”

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

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

“Um… good luck?”

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

“Why are you scratching your wrist so hard?”

You look down. Not one in sight. Awesome.

“Shush. Just let me… do it.”

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

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

“I do not.”

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

“Eugh.”

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

“Is it bad?”

“No, you just… it’s like pool water.”

“It’s like what?”

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

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

“Wait, shit, hold on-”

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

“W-hat the fuck, Art?”

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

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

“So… come here often?”

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

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

“Jesus Christ, let’s just go to bed.”