#starred tennis ball
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Andromeda stabbed at herself again
“Why am I not dying?”
and again.
They threw the dagger across the room
“Guess I’ll just have to do it the hard way”
Xe reached into themself, trying to grab as much stardust as they could. Multiple times.
“Why can’t I just die! Why does there have to be so much of this stuff!”
She reached into herself again, not being able to stop herself from screaming in pain this time.
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Andromeda knocks on the door with a smile on her face as she awaits an answer
{Outside a relatively nice cottage are about a dozen signs leading people to the cottage, where it advertises an oracle who can see both your future and your past. Inside a tennis ball is reading a book littered with strange symbols and a sun on the cover}
——————————————
This is the Oracle tennis ball, a tennis ball that has the ability to see anyone’s complete past and future when looking into their eyes. As well as occasionally reciting random prophecy’s.
Name:Phoebe
Pronouns:She/Rey
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Forever going to believe that Siddig aged so well purely out of spite due to what they did to him in the Distant Voices episode
#my tennis balls :((#ok grandpa lets get you back to bed#ds9#deep space 9#deep space nine#star trek#star trek ds9#star trek deep space 9#star trek deep space nine#st ds9#julian bashir#julian bashir ds9#alexander siddig#siddig el fadil
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I think something interesting about the star trek world is its combination of both replicator and holodeck technology. I understand these are literal 'plot devices' to explain the availability of food, materials, and the ability to visit locations for sci-fi premises that can't be found on an alien planet. However, they are worth thinking about in terms of how they change the world.
(Let's assume 'ideal' circumstances where we have a stable renewable non-polluting source of lots and lots of energy and aren't rationing it like on Voyager or something)
Replicators can use energy and raw materials to configure items, and presumably dis-configure items. While the potential for '3D printing' basically anything so long as its materials aren't too rare is really cool, it is also a near-perfect recycling machine. Beyond making sure your replicated dishes and cups don't infinitely pile up, that's SO IMPORTANT. Not only does that mean many items are 'temporary' that otherwise would be 'forever', you can instantly refresh the wear on many items without having to replace them and generate trash.
For example, tennis balls. It's currently really hard to recycle tennis balls, and serious players wear them out extremely quickly. Every serve you make after the first will be with a slightly worn, degraded tennis ball until you replace it, which generates trash. The production facilities to make all those tennis balls have to exist, they have to be shipped, the space to store them exists, the space to store their waste exists, the waste must be transported to a tennis ball recycling facility or a landfill...
but with replicators, you could play tennis without owning/paying a club to access a single tennis ball, without wasting a tennis ball.
And then there's the possibility of holodeck sports where you don't even need to make ANY material items. You could program the tennis ball to never run out. As long as you have the power to run it, maybe the most you'd need to 'own' is a tennis outfit. I am not sure if it's consistent that holodecks can 'dress you' or if you always must bring in costumes from the outside. And the costume itself could be replicated and then recycled!
There's a vast amount of stuff that we retain as personal property that just has to do with accessing activities or amenities. It's not really property that has emotional significance to us, but we still have attachments to it as its a facilitator of our active identity. Our dishes and cookware. Sports equipment. Certain kinds of clothing items. Some types of personal care items. Non-heirloom/generic holiday decorations. Stuff that is usually sacrificed first when we become homeless, when losing access to what they enable is more devastating than the items themselves.
If we could basically conjure and dismiss these things at-will, or access them on a temporary basis for free, we wouldn't need to own them or keep them around in our homes. No supply chain would be dedicated to them. Their waste would be completely eliminated. Ideas of 'what stuff I need to have as a person, to have a dignified life' would change completely.
It wouldn't surprise me if there were people in the star trek universe running around on earth with basically nothing we consider permanent physical property. Not because they're homeless and have no place to put them, and not because they're rich and their assets are liquid-- because the only reason to 'keep' mundane items, even something as complex as a communication device or computer, might be because they are emotionally important to you. And not everybody has 'stuff' like that at every time in their lives.
#star trek#ultimate recycling as part of total resource parity?#right now we MUST conserve materials in our world its like our biggest silent non health related bugbear#and many materials are not recyclable#the star trek universe is one without single use plastics#a lot of fears people have today about losing 'their property' have to do with inability to access secondary activities#they dont have to do with actually valuing ALL those tennis balls#it is 'stability' not 'property' that is in question in our real world
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Weekly Shonen Jump 55th anniversary appendix in Weekly Shonen Jump 2023 issue #33
1968 Weekly Shonen Jump Issue #1 Otoko Ippiki Gaki-Daisho by Hiroshi Motomiya 1969 Dr. Toilet by Kazuyoshi Torii 1970 The Gutsy Frog by Yasumi Yoshizawa 1971 Tezuka Manga Award 1st Edition Samurai Giants by Ikki Kajiwara & Ko Inoue Boy of the Wilderness Isamu by Soji Yamakawa & Noboru Kawasaki 1972 Astro Kyudan by Shiro Tōzaki & Norihiro Nakajima 1973 Play Ball by Akio Chiba Hochonin Ajihei by Jiro Gyu & Jo Big 1974 Akatsuka Manga Award 1st Edition 1975 The Circuit Wolf by Satoshi Ikezawa Doberman Deka by Buronson & Shinji Hiramatsu 1976 Toudai Icchokusen by Yoshinori Kobayashi Kochikame by Osamu Akimoto 1977 Ring ni Kakero by Masami Kurumada Susume!! Pirates by Hisashi Eguchi 1978 Cobra by Buichi Terasawa 1979 Kinnikuman by Yudetamago 1980 Dr. Slump by Akira Toriyama 1981 Captain Tsubasa by Yoichi Takahashi Cat's Eye by Tsukasa Hojo Stop!! Hibari-kun! by Hisashi Eguchi 1982 High School! Kimengumi by Motoei Shinzawa 1983 Fist of the North Star by Buronson & Tetsuo Hara Ginga -Nagareboshi Gin- by Yoshihiro Takahashi 1984 DRAGON BALL by Akira Toriyama 1985 City Hunter by Tsukasa Hojo Miraculous Tonchinkan by Koichi Endo Sakigake!! Otokojuku by Akira Miyashita 1986 Saint Seiya by Masami Kurumada 1987 JoJo's Bizarre Adventure by Hirohiko Araki The Burning Wild Man by Tadashi Sato 1988 Bastard!! by Kazushi Hagiwara Jungle King Tar-chan by Masaya Tokuhiro Rokudenashi BLUES by Masanori Morita Magical Taluluto by Tatsuya Egawa 1989 Weekly Shonen Jump reaches 5.000.000 copies in circulation Dragon Quest: The Great Adventure of Dai by Riku Sanjo & Koji Inada Video Girl Ai by Masakazu Katsura 1990 SLAM DUNK by Takehiko Inoue Chinyuki by Man Gataro Yu Yu Hakusho by Yoshihiro Togashi 1992 Hareluya II Boy by Haruto Umezawa 1993 Tottemo! Luckyman by Hiroshi Gamo Hell Teacher Nube by Makura Sho & Takeshi Okano 1994 Midori no Makibao by Tsunomaru Rurouni Kenshin by Nobuhiro Watsuki 1995 Weekly Shonen Jump reaches 6.530.000 copies in circulation Sexy Commando Gaiden: Sugoi yo!! Masaru-san by Kyosuke Usuta 1996 Hoshin Engi by Ryu Fujisaki Yu-Gi-Oh! by Kazuki Takahashi Kochikame 20th Anniversary & Chapter 1000 1997 I's by Masakazu Katsura Seikimatsu Leader den Takeshi! by Mitsutoshi Shimabukuro ONE PIECE by Eiichiro Oda 1998 Rookies by Masanori Morita Whistle! by Daisuke Higuchi HUNTERXHUNTER by Yoshihiro Togashi 1999 Hikaru no Go by Yumi Hotta & Takeshi Obata The Prince of Tennis by Takeshi Konomi NARUTO by Masashi Kishimoto 2000 JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Stone Ocean by Hirohiko Araki BLACK CAT by Kentaro Yabuki 2001 Bobobobo Bobobo by Yoshio Sawai BLEACH by Tite Kubo 2002 Strawberry 100% by Mizuki Kawashita Eyeshield 21 by Riichiro Inagaki & Yusuke Murata 2004 Death Note by Tsugumi Ohba & Takeshi Obata Gintama by Hideaki Sorachi Katekyo Hitman Reborn! by Akira Amano D.Gray-man by Katsura Hoshino Muhyo & Roji's Bureau of Supernatural Investigation by Yoshiyuki Nishi 2005 Neuro: Supernatural Detective by Yusei Matsui 2006 To Love Ru by Saki Hasemi & Kentaro Yabuki 2007 Sket Dance by Kenta Shinohara 2008 Nura: Rise of the Yokai Clan by Hiroshi Shiibashi Toriko by Mitsutoshi Shimabukuro Bakuman. by Tsugumi Ohba & Takeshi Obata 2009 Kuroko's Basketball by Tadatoshi Fujimaki Beelzebub by Ryuhei Tamura Medaka Box by Nisio Isin & Akira Akatsuki 2010 ONE PIECE New World Begins 2011 Nisekoi by Naoshi Komi 2012 Haikyu!! by Haruichi Furudate The Disastrous Life of Saiki K. by Shuichi Aso Assassination Classroom by Yusei Matsui Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma by Yuto Tsukuda & Shun Saeki 2013 World Trigger by Daisuke Ashihara Isobe Isobee Monogatari by Ryo Nakama 2014 Hinomaru Zumo by Kawada My Hero Academia by Kohei Horikoshi 2015 Black Clover by Yuki Tabata 2016 Yuuna and the Haunted Hot Springs by Tadahiro Miura Kimetsu no Yaiba by Koyoharu Gotouge BORUTO by Mikio Ikemoto & Ukyo Kodachi The Promised Neverland by Kaiu Shirai & Posuka Demizu Kochikame 40th Anniversary and Serialization End 2017 We Never Learn by Taishi Tsutsui Dr. STONE by Riichiro Inagaki & Boichi 2018 Jujutsu Kaisen by Akutami Gege
2019 Chainsaw Man by Tatsuki Fujimoto Mission: Yozakura Family by Hitsuji Gondaira 2020 Undead Unluck by Yoshifumi Tozuka MASHLE by Hajime Komoto Ayakashi Triangle by Kentaro Yabuki Me & Roboco by Shuhei Miyazaki BURN THE WITCH by Tite Kubo SAKAMOTO DAYS by Yuto Suzuki 2021 The Elusive Samurai by Yusei Matsui WITCH WATCH by Kenta Shinohara Blue Box by Kouji Miura 2022 Akane Banashi by Yuki Suenaga & Takamasa Moue
#Weekly Shone Jump#One Piece#Dragon Ball#Naruto#Slam Dunk#KochiKame#Demon Slayer#Bleach#JoJo's Bizarre Adventure#Fist of the North Star#My Hero Academia#Hunter x Hunter#Jujutsu Kaisen#Yu Yu Hakusho#Kinnikuman#Rurouni Kenshin#The Prince of Tennis#Rokudenashi Blues#Gintama#Haikyu!!#manga#long post#late post
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(“Well since he brought up being a tennis ball, it could be fun to mess with this a bit”)
“Bold of you to assume I am a tennis ball. And” Andromeda pauses, showing her confusion. “..Why would anyone want to be near a big house if a lot of others were living there?”
(“I would get caught so fast”) She thinks
Andromeda is on a walk in this new planet and stumbles across a small cottage about two minutes from her own, and thinking the beings here may be surprised to see her, she decides to introduce herself.
She knocks on the door
[ Cleo hears the knock and immediately panics. Who is that? No one comes to this house, what the fuck is someone doing here? Are they just lost, or do they know he's here? ]
[ He decides to peek through the window– is that a tennis ball? Genuinely, what is that? Probably just some weird tennis ball, but what the hell is a tennis ball doing out here? Should he put a sign up telling them to fuck off or some shit? ]
[ Unfortunately he'd rather not leave them out there waiting, so Cleo steels his nerves and opens the door. ]
"What."
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#homestuck#bfdi#bfb#tpot#tennis ball#bfdi tennis ball#tennis ball bfdi#karkat#karkat vantas#homestuck karkat#karkat homestuck#hs karkat#karkat hs#battle for dream island#the power of two#battle for bfdi#star arts
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i had a dream that stars were tennis balls and astronauts were the only ones who could touch them. i hope wherever laika is, this is her heaven
#smthg smthg the crime of being small#smthg smthg let death be kinder than man#i cry about laika at least once a week#rip lil space dog#i hope somewhere ur stars rlly are tennis balls
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Pickleball as training for Valere for her Moonerang skill.
*headdesk*
Why brain??
#sea of stars#worldbuilding#I mean#I could've just used tennis or racquetball#but didn't want to have to explain racquets when a wooden paddle makes more sense (tho they don't have wiffle balls...)#(I was forced to learn that game in PE and by god I'm making it a thing for the Academy now)#(Maybe the Twins loved it or made the game up and Moraine never got rid of the equipment)#(And now it's a thing for Valere and Zale)
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Was not planning to post these this early but in.. "celebration" of the new JSR x Roller Champions Announcement. Crossover game adventures sketch compilation
Bonus:
#jsr#jet set radio#jsr beat#jsrf beat#jsr gum#sonic and sega all stars racing#sega superstars tennis#super monkey ball: banana mania#sega hard girls#sega heroes#roller champions#doodles#2023#Two of those Gums are probably some of the most haunted expressions ive ever drawn.#Anyway theres already so much going on in this post so ill keep these tags brief.#Btw my opinion on the roller champion thing: Its hilarious. i do not want a new jsr game
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guys I need to stop crying over Laika.
She was a sacrificial lamb for us to one day travel to space. I have sobbed over her about five times today. but I'm so normal
#laika#goofy time#laika the space dog#sobbing#gooz autism moment#she was a sacrificial lamb#did she know?#church grim of space#Earth is her tennis ball#and her kibble is made of stars
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While Andromeda is unpacking, there's a sudden knock on her door. Agnus is at the door, waiting to "welcome" the newcomer.
- @ball-ghost-tennis
Andromeda hears the knock and quickly runs to open the door
“Well hello there!” She says happily
and then rather awkwardly “So.. who do you happen to be?”
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Not counting sanitized children localizations like Yu-Gi-Oh and pokemon, Lupin the Third on tunami in the early 2000s sporadically as well as everything else that was on like Zatch Bell and Dragon Ball Z and Prince of Tennis. Special shout out to Full Metal Alchemist (2003, get off my lawn Brotherhood stans at least I've watched both) for being the first one I watched in order but didn't finish cause I didn't have the other discs and to This Ugly Yet Beautiful World and Lucky Star for being the anime I first watched begining to end. I count them both cause I finished them both at like 4am and I don't remember which I finished first.
That post about death note being "everyone's first anime" (untrue statement) made me curious and now I want to gather data for science
Can you reblog this and tell me where are you from and what was your starter anime?
#lupin the third#pokemon#yugioh#tunami#zatch bell#dragon ball z#prince of tennis#full metal alchemist#lucky star#this ugly yet beautiful world#anime#first anime#i should watch more anime#forgot to mention im from Minnesota
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Suppose we throw a tennis ball with a certain amount of effort, then (to the best of our judgement) use just the same effort to throw, in succession, a baseball, a softball, and a shot (one of those metal spheres that shot-putters love to heave).
"The Stars in their Courses" - Isaac Asimov
#book quote#the stars in their courses#isaac asimov#nonfiction#essay#on throwing a ball#force#effort#hypothetical#tennis ball#judgement#succession#baseball#softball#shot#shotput#heaving
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Highlights l Day l THE PLAYERS l 2024
Check out the best shots from Day 1 of THE PLAYERS Championship 2024 featuring Rory McIlroy, Xander Schauffele Wyndham Clark, and Ryan Fox among others.
Full video
#easter#ryan gosling#michael cera#yellowjackets#star wars#artists on tumblr#donald trump#rwby#wally darling#welcome home#volleyball#tennis ball#football#sports
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the pro
part ii: what we're willing to accept
Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.
Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.
Length: 4.8K
Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex
Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.
He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.
That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.
It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby.
You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—
I don’t want you to get bored.
It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days.
Art Donaldson.
You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage.
“You ever played tennis before?” He asks.
You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine.
“We’ll start with the basics.”
--
Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go.
Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.”
On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him.
You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you.
But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace.
--
“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.”
Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days.
“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches.
“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?”
He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something.
“What do you wanna know?”
“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?”
He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit.
“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.”
“Lily?”
A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.”
“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.
“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.”
“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?”
“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?”
“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.”
“...He seems to be pretty busy.”
“He is.”
“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?”
“Play tennis.”
He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound.
“It shows, you know,” He says.
“What do you mean?”
“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.”
You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.
“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm.
“Just good?” He plies.
“The best. A real pro.”
His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little.
The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat.
“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?”
“She’s killing it.”
You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it.
“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes.
“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.”
“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds.
“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—
“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.”
“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.”
You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.
“Maybe.”
--
You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him.
His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw.
When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap.
--
Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.
Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies.
He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud.
It spurs you to lunge a little too far.
The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side.
“What hurts?”
“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left.
“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.”
For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle.
When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand.
You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?”
“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort.
“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”
“I'm still going, don't worry about that."
“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns.
“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.”
Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips.
“Of course.”
--
“How’s the ankle?”
It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again.
You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks.
“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.”
“Good enough to walk on?”
Hardly.
“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.
“I have,” You insist, “All day.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes.”
“You can tell him no, you know.”
Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again?
You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up.
--
I invited Art.
It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all.
Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days.
It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely.
You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room.
“Almost ready in here?” He asks.
“All set!”
--
He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile.
You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.
The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds.
You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—
Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests.
You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself.
“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves.
“Wanted to come say hi.”
“Well. Hi.”
You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet.
“Thanks for the invite.”
“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you.
“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it.
“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours.
“He isn’t taking care of you.”
“My ankle is fine.”
“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down.
Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.
“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—”
He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh.
You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip.
“Condom?” He asks.
“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.
“Art.”
“Sssh.”
“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip.
“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—”
“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.”
“Art—”
“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?”
“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm.
“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”
Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties.
“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room.
--
“Can I see you?”
It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.
“You just saw me,” You remind him.
“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies.
“Where?”
“I’ll send an address.”
You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk.
“...You regret it?” He asks.
“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.
“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do.
--
You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck.
“Is this Lily?” You ask.
“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.”
“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.”
Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.
“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully.
“Art?”
“Yeah?”
“Why am I here?”
He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer.
“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.”
Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”
“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.”
--
When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up.
And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.
--
"What time is he home tonight?"
You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.
But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.
"I don't know," You admit. "Late."
"...Could stay."
"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."
Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.
"This isn't going to be easy, is it."
"What?"
"Letting you go every day."
"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."
He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"
You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.
"Not when I want it, too."
part ii: what we're willing to accept
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