Asheepinfrance - TALIA!

Need mike to do one of those whats in my bag videos

😭😭 literally. get him on vogue’s in the bag NOW

a revival

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before he helped her cheat) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers ♡

life is the most beautiful it's ever been

you can't look at tashi whenever the two of you are intimate; she's just too pretty (nsfw)

like right now, as she lay on her stomach, hands gripping the fat of your thighs as her mouth went to work on your eager pussy. you can feel her everywhere at once and it drives you insane. the grip she has on your thighs has you hissing in pleasurable pain every time you try to get away from the overwhelming feeling and it tightens, pulling you impossibly closer to her mouth. the feeling of her hair in your hands as you grasp onto anything to keep you tethered to solid ground, silky strands slipping through the gaps between your fingers and framing her devastatingly beautiful face. and of course the feeling of her mouth on you, tongue licking up any trace of arousal before she's gently sucking your swollen clit into her mouth.

you know, without a doubt, that she looks beautiful right now, between your thighs, as she steadily guides you to another mind-numbing orgasm. you also know she's looking at you, waiting for your eyes to meet hers so that she can finally push you over the edge you've been teetering on forever now. yet you can't do it, you can't open your eyes and look down because you know the sight alone will leave you breathless, and this'll all be over way sooner than you'd like.

you still feel her pull away from you though, hand leaving your thigh to intertwine with your free hand that had the bedsheets beneath you in a death grip. she coos at you softly, sweetly urging you to open your eyes and you can't find it in you to disobey her so you do just that, finally willing yourself to look down at the girl perched between your spread thighs.

and when your eyes meet hers, you swear you can see them light up, a small smile stretching across her glossed lips at your compliance. the sight of her alone has you clenching around nothing, the knot in your stomach pulling more and more taut as you watched the way the bottom half of her face glistened with traces of you. the way the loose tresses of hair stuck to her cheeks, baby hairs matted to her forehead from sweat and the way her dark eyes stared at you half-lidded as if the holy grail was right between your legs. "keep your eyes on me, okay?" she says, and you nod without hesitation, yet when you see her head lowering once again, you have to stop yourself from throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath you.

she's licking a slow path up the expanse of your cunt, eyes unmoving from yours and so intense it makes you shudder with a punched outmoan. when her mouth finally meets your clit once again, eyes crinkled in amusement at your blissed out face, you feel the floodgates finally burst, white spots in your vision as your hand tightens its grip on her hair, just to feel her moan against your pussy. your hips buck wildly into her face, drawing out your orgasm for as long as you can and she takes everything you give her, not stopping until she feels your grip in her hair loosen and hears the way your head finally plops down on the pillow. you're beyond fucked out, breathless and drifting on cloud nine, and don't have to look at her to know she's sporting a smug smile.

Please Help Me Feed My Children in Gaza – We Are Starving

Dear kind soul,

I never thought I would have to write a message like this. I am a father of five children, living in Gaza — and we are starving.

We have no food. No clean water. No safety. My children cry from hunger every day, and as their father, my heart breaks because I cannot feed them. I have injuries from Israeli airstrikes, and my health is getting worse, but the worst pain I feel is watching my children suffer without being able to help them.

This is not a famine. This is forced starvation. We are being deprived of food and aid. We are dying slowly, silently.

Please, I am begging you — if you can donate anything, even the smallest amount, it can mean a meal for my children. If you cannot donate, please share my plea with others. Your voice could reach someone who can help.

Your compassion can save lives. Your help could mean that tonight, my children go to bed with something in their stomachs.

Please don’t ignore this.

Please Donate now:👇

🔗 Donation Link

Please Reblog My Post :👇

📌 Post Link

please please please if you are able to, consider donating. the situation in gaza is dire, and it’s up to us to help as best we can <3

Nibbling on this comme une souris qui mange du fromage miam miam miam

tashi x reader - take me to church

disclaimer: i am not religious in any shape or form so this is just an outsider's interpretation pls don't cancel me, thanks to @artstennisracket for the idea!!!

let's please ignore that this took me over a month to write, thank you to all my beta readers, @tacobacoyeet @artstennisracket @diyasgarden @blastzachilles @cha11engers @asheepinfrance

word count: 3.2k, mentions of internalised homophobia based on religion!

the sound of feet stumbling to stand fills the hallowed halls of your church as your priest enters, making his way to the pulpit with an earned grace. your grandmother bows her head, nodding before he's even said a word, your mother is poised, eyes on the cross at all times as you're uncomfortably sandwiched between them.

'please...be seated' comes his booming voice, hands outstretched to you all as everyone sits, a hushed silence falling over the crowd as the priest straightens himself up in preparation.

as he opens his mouth to speak, there's the sound of the church doors banging against the wall as they swing open, followed by muttered 'sorry- so sorry- are we late? so sorry-'. heads turns to see who's interrupted the ceremony, your family's eyes narrowing as they take in the family of three trotting up the aisle and that's when you see her.

she’s pretty, almost too pretty, enough to make those thoughts you'd tried so hard to get rid of swirl around your head yet again. her converse are scuffing the floors as she trails behind her parents, her curly hair tied up in a bun but you could see the way she tugged at strands, letting them fall and rest against her shoulders, a silent rebellion. her mother ushers her and her father into a pew that's right behind yours and you fight the urge to flush red over something so normal.

your mother purses her lips in distaste, leaning over you to whisper to your grandmother, 'the duncans...i hear his father died and they inherited the house' and your grandmother nods knowingly, 'his wife apparently runs some sort of athleisure brand.' they both shudder in offense at the thought, 'new money' wasn't welcome here, certainly not people from the city either, you knew that much.

the priest is smiling, benevolent as always, 'thank you for joining us, the Lord can always make time for his followers.' everyone claps at his wisdom, nodding in unison and agreement, even a few murmurs of 'amen' among the small congregation. he picks up the bible and starts to flick through pages, searching for the sermon he intends to preach this sunday.

'blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven' he begins, voice echoing throughout the church. sermon on the mount, one you knew very well, with but you made sure to listen with rapt attention, your mother mouthing the words with the priest as your grandmother rests her head against her hands, eyes closed.

you're drinking in every word, letting the words seep into your veins and feel that familiar warmth wash over you from the Lord's teachings. until there's a soft rustle behind you and one of her curls brushes your neck and you stiffen, impure thoughts filling every crevice of your brain too quickly for you to hold them back, especially when her breath hits your ear as she murmurs 'sorry' as she scrapes her hair back into that bun. you're too stunned to speak, only offering a small shake of your head in response.

stuck in between your family members, there's not much you can do besides try and focus back on the sermon, on the feeling of the lord's words, not the feeling of her hands on your body. you felt acutely aware of her eyes boring into the back of your head and just as you had half a mind to turn around and tell her to quit bothering you, applause grew around you, choruses of 'amens' filling the pews. you hadn't been listening, she'd distracted you.

your grandmother ushers you to stand and the walk up to the priest begins. 'wonderful sermon as always father' says your grandmother, clasping the hand of the priest in both her own, 'that's very kind’ the priest nods politely but she can't ever take the hint, continuing, 'i damn near felt the Lord's hands on me hearing you speak-’ ‘you know, my daughter was so honoured that you’d suggested her as one of the christian camp counsellors this year.’ your mother’s hands dig into your shoulders as she nudges you forward, just when you thought you could escape your grandmother’s devout speeches, your mother always found a way to make it worse. the priest brightened at that, ‘oh really? that is wonderful news, i know there’s so many kids who look up to you.’ you manage a stiff smile at that, feeling someone’s sharp elbow hit you in the back, ‘hey princess’ she whispers and you cough, the priest’s brow furrowing, ‘yeah…i’d love to help out…’ you manage, trying to ignore her nudging from behind, ‘meet me at the lake tonight’ she murmurs, her breath tickling the the hairs on the back of your neck and you flush red. ‘thank you father.’ you say quickly, excusing yourself and marching towards the door, and yet not missing the condescending smile, wink and wave she gives you as her father introduces them all to the priest. 

the midday sun was unusually bright, enveloping the grassy verges in a warm glow and you could see flowers start to blossom on the trees as the three of you made your way across to your mother’s car, and you felt a warmth in your chest that you hadn’t felt for a long time, your eyes looking over in the direction of the lake and wondering what awaits you there, what that girl’s plan was. 

‘what a rude girl’ muttered your grandmother as she got in the passenger seat, leaving you in the back yet again. ‘who?’ you say as casually as you can muster, thoughts of her still swirling in your head. ‘that duncan girl, she was so fidgety, clearly uninterested in the Lord’s teachings’ huffs your grandmother, as if someone’s disinterest in church was of personal offense to her. ‘i thought she seemed nice’ you shrug, wrong move, two heads whip around to stare at you in the backseat like you’ve just dropped a bomb. nice?!’ your mother repeated incredulously, ‘she couldn’t even be bothered to put on her sunday best! i’m sure her parents can afford something other than that raggedy hoodie of hers.’ your mother gripped the steering wheel tightly as she starts to drive home, shaking her head. ‘...right’ you say quietly, not wanting to argue about this any further, looking down at your hands that fiddle with the hem of your white dress, the one your grandmother spends all of Saturday meticulously ironing and steaming so it’s perfect for church. 

as the grey sedan pulled into the driveway, you got out and meekly followed your family into your modest home. the conversation between them had moved on, complaining about some meal served by your neighbours last sunday. however, within seconds of the key turning in the lock, you’re taking the creaky, wooden steps two at a time to your bedroom, barely hearing your mother’s cries of, ‘i left the camp flyers on your desk! it’s important!’. 

opening your wardrobe, purity stares back at you, long skirts and white garments and for the first time in your life, you feel oddly disgusted by it all. reaching for the shortest skirt and tightest top you own, forcing all thoughts of sin out of your head. you liked this outfit, you repeated like a mantra, you weren’t doing this for her, so she’d think you were cool or something, you liked this outfit. it was only when you were looking at yourself in the mirror that you noticed it. you’d been wearing the silver band so long it almost felt like a second skin, a permanent reminder of your beliefs. clouded by thoughts of her, you’re tugging the purity ring off your finger and tossing onto your crisp sheets, wincing as you notice the red mark left behind, a physical representation of your blasphemy. you took a deep breath as you cracked your window frame open, trying to ignore the cross hung on your bedroom wall, muttering ‘our heavenly father…’ under your breath as you hit the grassy ground. 

dusting yourself off, sun still blazing, you start to trek over to the lake, traipsing through the undergrowth to avoid being spotted. you can’t bear to be the next topic of gossip at church, the disapproving looks and clucks of dismissal, the shame of it all would be too much to bear. eventually, the trees part and the lake comes into view, twinkling in the sunlight. you look around, trying and failing to spot her nonchalantly, your gaze turning desperate. the sound of water hitting the grassy bank draws your attention to the lake, and that’s when you finally spot her, a mix of relief and dread sending a shiver up your spine. 

her curls are dripping with water, oversized band t shirt clinging to her body in a way that makes your greeting get stuck in your throat. ‘you actually showed’ she said with a grin, breathless from her swimming. ‘you’re crazy’ is all you can manage, ‘that lake is…’ you wrinkle your nose. ‘gross? disgusting? infected’ she supplies playfully, shaking herself off like a dog and you squeak, jumping back in fear, ‘god you really are a princess’ she laughs. you frown, ‘i am not! and you shouldn’t use the lord’s name in vain-’. her laugh only grows at your comment, ‘oh my- you’re serious?’. ‘stop it’ you frown further, stood like a pouting child. she catches sight of your expression and steels herself, ‘okay’ she holds up her hands in defense, ‘i’m sorry- i’ll stop’. 

she pulls her tshirt off and tosses it to the ground, only left in a bra and shorts and you mutter prayers for repentance under your breath as you fight not to stare at her chest. she flops down onto the grassy bank, her hand coming up to shield her eyes from the sun, ‘are you too much of a princess to sit down too?’ she challenges. you shoot her a look before flopping down beside her, watching the clouds pass across the bright blue sky. ‘i’m tashi by the way, and i am sorry for teasing you’ she says, looking over at you with earnest brown eyes. ‘tashi’ you repeat softly, letting her name roll off your tongue, it felt nice to say. you introduce yourself and she smiles, a toothy grin that catches you off guard at how real it is, how real she is. 

‘so, how long have you been a churchgoer?’ the question is serious but there’s a playful glint in her eye. ‘all my life’ you answer honestly, ‘i was christened…i did sunday school…i’ve done it all’. tashi stares at you, eyes narrowed as if you’re a code she’s trying to crack, ‘wow’ is all she replies with. ‘wow?!’ you say incredulously, surprised at her lack of teasing, ‘what do you want me to say?’ she retorts, ‘i don’t know! i thought you’d poke fun or something’ ‘do you want me to?’ tashi’s smirk grows on her face again, ‘no’ you sigh and her smirk only grows further, ‘thought so. look, i think it’s a load of bullshit-’ you let out an indignant squeak at the swear word and her brown eyes twinkle with mirth at your reaction, ‘but my mother thinks we should do it so we look good or whatever’ her forehead crinkles in disagreement. ‘look good?’ you pry, perplexed. ‘you know…new to town, fit in with the community, act all pious’. ‘oh…so you’re not? at all?’ you murmur astonished, you were used to the kids your age rebelling against their parents and turning on religion, but to show up to church with no belief at all was strange. tashi scoffs, ‘no- no way, my grandfather was but he never made my dad go with him so it never got passed onto me.’ you nod along, musing on the idea for a minute or so. tashi shuffles closer to you, her side pressing into your own and making your skin tingle at the contact. 

‘penny for your thoughts?’ she nudges her shoulder against yours, expression playful. ‘nothing.’ you shrug, not willing to share how your thoughts had turned from worship to worshipping her in the bedroom, ‘what’s the big secret, huh?’ tashi teases, but there’s a new flirtatious edge to it and still no response from you. you blink and she’s on top of you, damp curls hanging down and dripping onto you. ‘tashi- stop!’ you gasp in surprise and she’s grinning again, ‘c’mon…answer the question’ and before you can speak, she’s leaning in close, her plump lips nearly brushing yours. 

‘tashi! i’m not-!’ you shriek rapidly in panic and her eyes widen, pulling back and getting off you immediately. she doesn’t say anything for a while before, ‘you’re not?’. her voice is quiet, near timid, so different to the cocky girl you’d seen. ‘no! i’m not- i- it’s a sin!’ you splutter in protest, trying to convince yourself more than her as you sit up, grass tickling your legs. ‘a sin…right’ her hollow laugh makes your heart ache, she won’t even look at you. you stand up, stomach churning, ‘i should go- this was a mistake- i shouldn’t have come-’ but she stands too, her damp brown eyes boring into yours, searching for an answer, ‘why did you come?’. the words hang in the air, both of you locked in eye contact as your mind scrambles for an excuse, coming up with nothing. 

you step towards her, ‘tashi…’ you say quietly but she’s stoic, unmoving. ‘answer the question.’ she repeats but there’s no playfulness this time, just bluntness. ‘it’s not that simple…’ you plead, stepping closer again, she’s not stepping back which you take as a positive. ‘it is, i see the way you look at me.’ tashi grits out, ‘are you gay?’. her words hit you like a punch in the throat, all the air sucked out of your lungs and suddenly you’re back in your bedroom, praying over and over again and losing sleep because a new youth pastor came and gave you a talk on peer pressure but all you could focus on was how pretty she was, how kissable her lips were. 

now it was tashi who had taken a step closer, ‘are you?’ she repeated but her voice was more gentle now, more coaxing. ‘i-’, you start but her fingers brush your chin, tilting it towards her, ‘can i?’ tashi says with an unusual amount of delicateness and you find yourself nodding. the moment her lips meet yours, the world around you falls away and all you can focus on is her, your hand moving to cup her cheek as the kiss deepens. her tongue starts to prod at your bottom lip, asking for entrance and reality comes crashing back down into view. you break the kiss, choking back tears, shaking your head. tashi’s brow furrows, ‘hey…’, she says softly, ‘i’m sick!’ you yell, ‘this is wrong- it’s- i was born sick- i shouldn’t want this- i shouldn’t want…you.’ you pant, staring at her with tears rolling down your cheeks. stunned, tashi slowly wipes your eyes, ‘listen to me’ she whispers, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek and the fight drains out of you, unable to push her away. ‘there’s nothing wrong with us’ she murmurs, kissing across your face till she reaches your lips again and this time, you fall into the feeling. 

your hands tangle in tashi’s tousled curls, her tongue colliding with your own as the kiss grows feverish. it’s broken by her kissing across your face, down towards your neck, ‘not there’ you breathe, there can be no evidence of this. tashi makes a face of reluctance at you but agrees, her hands sliding down your hips as she sinks to her knees before you, and you flush at how reverential it feels. ‘how about here?’ she purrs, her hands pushing up your skirt as her face slips between your legs, licking a long stripe along your underwear and you gasp, ‘tashi-’. her face peeks out from your thighs, ‘relax…nobody comes out here anyway’ she murmurs, before mouthing at your clothed pussy again. 

you squeak in surprise, trying to stifle how good that little stimulation feels after years of abstinence. her laugh vibrates against you and only doubles the feeling, her finger hooking into your panties and pulling them aside, her face pressed against your bare cunt and you whine. with tashi’s nose rubbing your clit, she starts to lick at your folds and you whimper, ‘wow- oh-’. tashi grows bolder, tip of her tongue penetrating you and you screech, nearly toppling over in pleasure, hands gripping her shoulders. she pushes your legs apart a little further so she can nestle between your thighs properly as she’s on her knees, her tongue pushing deeper into your hole and causing you to pant, ‘tashi- ngh-’. slowly, her tongue starts to thrust in and out of you and your moans grow louder, nails digging into her shoulders so hard you fear you’ll leave marks. 

tashi’s nose brushes your clit again as her eating grows more furious and you’re shocked by the obscene noises your soaked pussy is making, ‘tashi- you are- you are temptation incarnate’ you manage breathlessly and her tongue hits your g spot, ‘but don’t stop- ah-’. she pulls away just to grin up at you teasingly, her chin soaked with your juices before diving back into you.

your legs start to shake as she moves to suck on your sensitive bud, ‘tashi- wait- i feel-’ but she doesn’t let up, slurping on your cunt like it’s her last meal, ‘please- something- ngh- feels weird-’, you whimper, legs shaking violently, head thrown back in lust. suddenly, it was like a dam burst and you’re gasping for air as you’re lost in the throes of pleasure, ‘holy shit- tashi-’ you moan throatily, blinking rapidly as you try to come back to the world of the living. tashi’s lapping it up, still sucking on your oversensitive pussy, making sure to drain every last drop from you, before she’s unhooking your panties, letting the fabric cling to your soaked cunt.

she looks up at you with a devilish smirk on her face, ‘did you just swear? and use the lord’s name in vain?’ she laughs and you pout, ‘shut up!’ you push her shoulder and she falls down onto the grass dramatically, but not before pulling you down on top of her, ‘i don’t know what that was…it was like i lost my mind for a second…’ you murmur, reliving the moment of bliss in your mind over and over. ‘you had an orgasm baby’ tashi says bluntly, finding your reaction amusing, ‘i did?! woah’ comes your shocked reply, ‘i know, i’m just that good’ she smirks, and you can taste yourself when she presses her lips to yours for a hungry kiss. ‘thank you’ you murmur against her lips and she offers you a smug smile, though secretly flattered, ‘you’re welcome, you know where to find me’ she purrs. you rise to stand, leaving temptation behind as you make the trek back home, legs still shaking, prayers and apologies already on your lips. 

tags: @pittsick @femme-lusts @glennussy @stanart4clearskin

:( i love him im gonna crumple him up

bodyguard | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, this is a blurb

It almost ends in silence.

That kind of silence that isn’t soft or thoughtful or pregnant with meaning—it’s thick, charged, bitter. The kind that fills a car when one person wants to speak and the other refuses to be heard.

Patrick’s hands are clenched on the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Jaw tighter than it needs to be. You’re staring out the window, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. Not crying. Not yet.

The fight—if you can call it that—wasn’t loud. It never is with him. Just a deflection here, a shrug there. You asked a simple question. Something like "How are you, really?" Something like "Let me in."

And he did what he always does. Shut the door.

You almost got out when he pulled into your building’s lot. Almost left him there, sitting in the blue wash of streetlights with his hands still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

But something in you stayed.

Because even in the worst of it—even when he’s all teeth and armor—you can see the boy behind the racket. The one who’s tired of being hard all the time.

So you twist in your seat.

He’s still facing forward, and you can see it—the crack in his armor. The set of his shoulders isn’t quite as stubborn. His grip on the wheel is no longer furious, just tight. Like he’s not sure if he should let go.

And you know this version of him.

You’ve seen him at ten—spinning, sharp-tongued, manic with energy he doesn't know where to put. You’ve seen him on the court, teeth bared, eyes wild. You’ve seen him explode and implode all in the same hour.

But you’ve also seen him at zero. At nothing. The mornings he can’t get out of bed. The press days he skips and blames on jet lag when really, it’s the weight in his chest.

You know how to read his silences. The kinds that ask you to stay even when he won’t say it out loud.

You’ve never wanted to fix him. You’ve just wanted to be there. Wanted to be the one thing in his world that didn’t want anything from him.

You speak softly, like you’re talking to a wounded thing. “Patrick, I’m not trying to fix anything.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“I just wanna know what’s going on in there,” you add, tapping lightly on the side of your head. “You don’t have to make it nice. You don’t even have to make it make sense. I just… want to know you’re here.”

Another pause. This one stretches.

He finally exhales through his nose. Barely audible.

“I don’t talk about shit like that,” he mutters. “Never have.”

You nod. “Yeah. I figured.” You shift, turning to face him fully. “But you let me be here. Every time. So either you want something real, or you don’t. And if you do... I need you to stop pretending you're alone.”

That lands. You see it in the way his fingers loosen on the steering wheel.

And then he finally looks at you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

You blink. “What, talk?”

He almost laughs, but it dies in his throat. “Yeah. That. All of it.”

“Then don’t talk,” you say. “Just let me in.”

And that’s when you move.

You lean in slowly. Not to comfort. To reach. You press your mouth to his—soft, sure, no hesitation. He responds like it hurts. Like it heals. Like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart.

Your hand slips into his hair. His jaw slackens. The car windows fog.

It’s not a rush. Not at first.

But soon you’re climbing into his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, the console digging into your thigh and neither of you caring. His hands settle on your waist, unsure.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper against his jaw. “Just let me be here.”

And when you grind down, he gasps like he’s breaking.

You kiss him again. Deeper. Messier. Like a promise made with tongue and teeth and breath.

You press your forehead to his and say, “Let me take care of you.”

And when you rock your hips again, when his hands grip you like you’re the only real thing he’s ever held, he lets you.

For once—he lets you.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are heavy, lips parted, chest heaving. You guide him gently, tugging down the waistband of his sweats, freeing him fully. He’s already slick in your hand, the head flushed, and his breath stutters as you shift your hips.

“Can I?” you murmur.

He nods—almost frantic—and you line yourself up with shaking fingers.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow and devastating. Your breath catches at the stretch, the fullness, the feeling of him beneath you, inside you, finally here. His hands clutch at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The car is too small for this, too cramped, but it doesn’t matter. Your bodies find rhythm anyway. A language made of friction and breath and everything you’ve never needed words for.

The smell of his cologne has long faded under the weight of everything else—sweat, sex, and the faintest trace of smoke from the ashtray by the gearshift. There’s a lipstick-stamped cigarette butt half-buried beneath a crumpled parking receipt. He hasn’t cleaned this car in months. It smells like late-night drives, like sweatshirts in the backseat, like every fight you’ve almost had and every kiss you didn’t mean to give.

The cracked vinyl seat beneath your knees sticks to your skin. Somewhere in the background, the faint click of the hazard light ticks like a metronome. The windows fog faster than you can clear them. The Honda rocks with every roll of your hips.

The ceiling liner droops slightly overhead. The rearview mirror is useless now, fogged over and tilted sideways from where his elbow knocked it loose.

None of it matters.

You’re the only thing that matters.

He curses when your hand returns to where your bodies meet, when your fingers circle just right. You smile, not teasing, just full of something fierce and warm and steady.

“Let me take it,” you whisper. “All of it. Just for tonight.”

His head falls back. His mouth falls open.

You keep going until he’s shaking. Until he’s saying your name like it’s the only thing left that’s his.

When he comes, you hold him there. Through it. Around it. Until he’s panting against your neck, hands still gripping your hips like they’re his last prayer.

You follow a heartbeat later. The kind of release that steals your breath, curls your toes, and makes your chest ache.

And after—you don’t move.

You just breathe. Let the sweat cool. Let the quiet settle.

You press your palm flat against his chest and feel it thudding wildly beneath your skin.

You don’t ask him to say anything. You don’t need him to explain.

You hold him the way he’s never let anyone hold him—without expectation, without question.

Like softness is a shield.

Like love can be a place to rest.

-----

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

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.

we finally got full josh espresso cover happy mothers day ig

happy birthday jaw chokeonher!

love this goober that i do not know