#we do a little testing in this house

[weaselfactoryex]

Getting back into the groove and trying new things

Look at this freak..

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Ngl it's weird finishing the Knuckles tv show and going to tumblr about it only for people (even who I consider bigger name fans) who also watched the entire show to claim that it "confirmed Knuckles Wachowski"

Like

I'm sorry

Did you somehow miss the part in the last episode where Knuckles had a whole montage of hanging with the Whipple family and Wade and saying "home" or something?

[stellewriites]

i’ve got a cold :((

[bruiisedfawn]

☁️

[miodiodavinci]

good news: we have water again ! ! ! a pipe had burst somewhere up the street so the city came out and fixed it today (we still need to run the tap to get rid of the air and muddy water but. it's something.)

bad news: i had to go to my partner's to do laundry and shower so i missed out on work time today (bad) (anxiety inducing) (i don't need this right now)

worst news: i have a killer headache and my throat is suspiciously stiff 👁 👁

[b-blushes]

So bonkers how my general ability to do tasks has changed since new playlist and tv show. No longer pulled into spending one million hours stuck on The Apps either, I’m doing things. The power of feeling happy and excited…….

​silly. but I’ll take it!!!!!!!!!!

[cheapcheapfaker]

heheheheh :3 (that’s his tongue out and then chewing on his hand)

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads

Saint Juniper’s Folly

YA paranormal mystery

follows a foster kid returning to the small town he grew up in, who runs from the judgemental townspeople and ends up magically trapped in a mysterious house in the woods

a boy who lives a boring life in the town until he finds him, and wants to figure out how to save him

and the young witch from the town over who’s heard the woods calling since her mother died, and wants to help

m/m, friendship & investigating a mystery

[sethdomain]

yesterday i ordered food and the one who drove it explain to me how busy the queue is, the thing is i would cancel if i can, but i cant cancel it as the order is already made in the kitchen.

I explained it to the one who is going to bring my food over n over again that i cannot cancel it bruh and he kept insinuating that i was 'selfish' when i cannot do anything, how tf am i suppose to know the queue was 'busy' and how am i supposed to cancel it when i literally cannot, i'll have to call the hotline that 90% isnt even helpful most of the time. I try to calm the driver down and shit for some reason, idfk what he's been on but brahhhh he still was pissy and shit and i dont want it to be awkward so i offered 5$(it might look low but its like the equiv of 50$ in my country) as a compesation and so he will stop his weird ass pissy episode when i've literally reasoned with him many many times, also i dont want to get my food from a pissed off driver okay? Like i do not like conflict and i do not want to have chances of making a scene with him. you know what sucks?? the wait for the queue isnt even that long it just takes 5-10 minute, literal standard time for every food order. And uhh because iam also pissed off, i might have not tipped them and broke my promise😢

[neverendingford]

.

[weaselle]

had an interaction with a cat at my mother's friend's house (we dropped by to feed her while my mom's friend was out of town) and my mother said "i was surprised how much that cat liked you, she doesn't usually let people pet her but she followed you around and let you pet her a lot"

and in explaining to her my interaction with the cat i put into words a thing i'd never put into words before, having always automatically understood what i was doing. But once i put it into words my mother said she'd never thought of that and it felt like something worth sharing here.

This cat did a typical cat thing where she sniffed my fingers i was holding out, and then acted like she wanted me to pet her, but then when i started to move to pet her, moved her head away slightly to prevent it.

I instinctively understand this interaction, and stopped trying to pet her and moved back to a neutral position and waited to see if she would re-initiate an interaction.

Because this is basically a consent test. This is how a cat can assess "how closely are you paying attention to what i'm telling you" and "how respectful of my boundaries are you".

If i am responsive to her yes/no game, moving to pet her when she indicates i can, stopping immediately when she seems to change her mind, then she knows she can trust me to understand her, and also to respect her choices. That's what i did, so then she knew she could trust me and relax around me and enjoy my company. She was actually a very friendly and social little cat, who clearly wanted to make friends with me.

But if i had insisted on trying to pet her when she seemed to change her mind instead of simply understanding that she didn't want to be pet in that moment, she would have known she couldn't trust me to understand or respect her, and she would have treated me like she has to treat 90% of the people who visit that house, evidently.

I work mostly with dogs these days, but i grew up with cats too, and am generally good with animals. Many shy animals will also do this same "sniff sniff okay touch me nope just kidding" routine, especially if they've had experiences with people that make establishing that kind of communication and trust important to them.

And in fact, a lot of animals will do some version of this kind of consent test in a whole variety of situations. When well socialized dogs do that thing where they are rough housing and then they both stop suddenly for a moment until one of them play bows or makes a little pouncing motion and then they fly back into rough housing mode, that's what they are doing, they are doing a consent check-in, like "whoah this is getting wild, are you still in? are we still playing, is this still a good time for you?"

anyway, that's why this lovely little cat followed me around asking me to pet her the whole time we were visiting that house, because i showed her that i understood her signals and respected her boundaries, which is something i see a lot of both men and women not doing when interacting with cats and dogs.

[secretidentie]

Tim for literally no reason: Hey Jason do yk where I can get some cocaine

Jason: Why tf do you need cocaine

Tim: I'm a teenage CEO why tf do you think I need cocaine

Jason: Fair enough. But I'm still not selling you cocaine

Tim: Why not? I just want to hang out with the other young finance bros

Jason: Hey dick head, tell your brother I'm not giving him cocaine

Dick: Tim are you okay? do you want to talk about this??

Tim: Uhg I'm fine. You're the one ones who said I should stop drinking coffee

Jason: and you thought this was a good alternative???

Tim: Come on I'll only do a little

Dick: Is this coz we spoiled the ending of wolf of Wallstreet

Tim: Why can't I just have some? You do!

Jason: No I don't

Tim: You're a crime lord

Dick: Yeah isn't it like part of the job

Jason: WHAT NO Stereotype much. I've never even seen cocaine up close

Tim: YOU'RE A CRIME LORD

Jason: Yeah not a drug dealer THERE'S A DIFFERENCE

Tim: I should have known your not cool enough to have drug dealer connections

Jason: OKAY YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GONNA BUY A FUCK TON OF COCAINE AND DO IT RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU JUST TO RUB IT IN

Dick: Woah woah that's enough both of you. No one in this house is doing drugs. If anyone talks about cocaine again I'll tell Bruce you said you want to start a new crack epidemic. He'll make you sit in at strangers AA meetings and read through old case files of ex dealers and their autopsies. Don't. TEST. me.

Tim: ............

Jason: ............

Tim: Can you sell me meth?

[esleep]

i actually do kinda like delivering groceries on the side because it gives me such a unique cross-section of the community. i never know whose groceries im shopping for until i finish the delivery and see them/their home and it's like it adds more detail to the picture of who they are. the baby supplies going to the apartment that i know for a fact is one bedroom (they'll be moving soon - i bet they're apartment hunting, i hope they find a place). the new cat litter box, bowl, and kitten food going to the house covered in "i <3 my dog" paraphernalia (a kitten definitely showed up on the porch recently and made itself at home). the fairly healthy boring grocery order that includes an incongruous tub of candy-filled ice cream going to the home of an elderly woman with toddler toys in the yard (it's clearly for her grandkids, whom she sees often).

shopping for someone else's groceries is a fairly intimate thing. i've bought condoms and pregnancy tests, allergy medicine and nyquil, baby benadryl and teething gel, a huge pile of veggies paired with an equally huge pile of junk food, tampons and shampoo and closet organizers and ant traps and deodorizing shoe inserts and a million other little things that tell a million different stories in their endless combinations. one time someone had me buy one single green bean. i messaged them to confirm that's actually what they wanted, and they said yes - neither of them liked green beans very much, but they had a baby they were introducing to solid foods, and they wanted to let him try one to see if he liked them. another time i had someone request 50 fresh roma tomatoes - not for a restaurant, but for a person in an apartment. the kitchen behind them smelled like basil and garlic when they opened the door. another time i brought groceries to three elderly blind women who share a house. that was one of the few times i have ever broken my rule and gone inside a place i've delivered to, because they asked if i could place the grocery bags in a specific location in the kitchen for them to work on unloading and there was no way i was going to refuse helping.

i gripe about the poor tippers, but people can also be incredibly kind. one time i took shelter from a sudden vicious hailstorm inside an older lady's home in a trailer park, while i was in the middle of delivering her groceries. we both huddled just inside the door, watching in shock as golf-ball-sized hail swept through for about five minutes and then disappeared. she handed me an extra $10 bill on my way out the door.

when covid was at its deadliest, people would leave extra (often lysol-scented) cash tips and thank-you notes for me taped to the door or partially under the mat. i especially loved the clearly kid-drawn thank you notes with marker renderings of blobby people in masks, or trees, or rainbows. in summer of 2020 i delivered to a nice older couple who lived outside of town in the hills, and they insisted i take a huge double handful of extra disposable gloves and masks to wear while shopping - those were hard to find in stores at the time, but they wanted me to have some of their supply and wouldn't take no for an answer.

anyway. all this to say people are mostly good, or at least trying to be, despite my complaints.

[officialspec]

so we just moved, and the house we moved into has been abandoned for a few years so weve discovered some fun little secrets scattered around as we explored. for example, theres a little room downstairs with graffiti on the door dubbing it 'the dog box'

of course we were intrigued. aside from some storage and a place to put a washing machine, the dog box seems to exclusively contain this old ass piano, with a little window to see into it from outside

also pictured sitting on the piano is a little novelty dagger we found in the grass outside. its all very funny and novel, right? we thought so

that was when we found The Stain

of course, we immediately jumped to some conclusions. the knife outside, the abandoned house, 'do not enter' written on the door. whatever it was, it had dripped through the floorboards from upstairs, from approximately just outside the bathroom. we decided to wait until we finished moving and then grab some peroxide to test it just in case

still, the dog box bloodstain remained a hot topic, and the curiosity was killing me. after figuring out where upstairs the stain wouldve dripped down from, we noticed it had also seeped up through the newly installed flooring, and i decided i couldnt wait to investigate

looking around the dog box, i noticed that there was a section of the ceiling/underfloor that was noticeably newer than the rest of it, meaning the place the stain had leaked through had been pulled out and replaced just before we moved in. suspicious

im using my phone torch to look around in the dark, and when i shine it on the bloodstain it lights up in a distinctly.... glossy way. when i get closer i can see its not matte, but sticky. so i decide to touch it, and immediately im hit with a STRONG smell of something deeply familiar. all the pieces fall together at once, and using my superior investigative prowess i have deduced the culprit

it was bees. there was a fuckoff massive beehive in the floor that got taken out before we moved in and it leaked honey up through the floorboards and onto the floor of the dog box and the landlord didnt feel like cleaning it up. mystery solved

[falesten-iw]

Survival in Gaza is a fight for everyone and everything, not just humans. Every living thing is caught up in this nightmare, from the smallest creatures to the strongest among us. Take this little cat, for instance. She’s from Jabalia refugee camp, Al-Tarens neighborhood, house number 96, sixth street. Yeah, I know her address. She’s one of us, a Palestinian too, sitting alone in the rubble, her fur matted and dusty, with a raw, swollen eye that speaks of all she’s been through. She’s lost her hearing; explosions shake her tiny frame, but she doesn’t even react anymore. And yet, her will to survive? Unbroken.

In so many ways, she’s Gaza in a nutshell. Life here is a brutal, endless test of endurance. The genocide, the bitter cold, the soaring prices that turn basic needs like food, shelter, medicine into unattainable luxuries. These are things my family and countless others can only dream of.

For families in Gaza, survival itself has become a privilege. Nonprofits that once helped have pulled out, forced away by the very forces that keep us oppressed. And the few who stayed? Acting as middlemen, diverting the aid that’s supposed to be for us. Some prioritize their own networks in distributing aid; others resell what little is sent. Some even claim that half of donations get eaten up by "logistics costs." And then there’s aid that supposedly just "never arrives." So, families like mine are left to fend for ourselves, stripped of even the basic dignity that comes with having our needs met.

I look at this little cat, and I’m struck by the fragility of life here. My family’s hanging by a thread, surviving day to day in a world that seems indifferent to everything we’re going through. And yet, like her, we just keep going. Not because we’re strong or resilient, but because, honestly, what other choice do we have?

If this hits home for you, if this little cat’s fight feels like something you understand, please consider helping. Every donation, no matter the amount, goes directly to where it’s needed most. It can mean a bit of warmth, a moment of safety, maybe even a sliver of hope in these times that feel darker than anything.

From a heart that’s been broken too many times, thank you for standing with us.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead.

Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 250 SEK is equivalent to 25 dollars, and 506 SEK equals 50 dollars and so on.

Note: There’s even a raffle for a handmade Palestinian thob if you want to participate : Link

@thewrldlooksred @destinidestati @navysealt4t @staygoldpbj @hexishare

@infinite-ducks @bafflegab-z @axeylotl @dandydogboy @unprojection

@evengirlierballs @phoenixfire925 @frauggiethecreature @alkalineleak

@t4tpolypd @illululusion @fckingchile @gasgiant2 @not-enough-homestuck-upinthis

@mothcelestial @vidrissaponem @nyanperessofmankind @elizaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @cr4bl0use

@megalofasz @joltstorm @void-echoing @ruffles05 @dynamicwinter-blog

[heavenbarnes]

I wanna make it (so badly)

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with she/her pronouns, swearing, inappropriate employer/employee relationship, dry-humping, a lot of heavy petting, implied age gap, effective-infidelity (reader tested, tashi approved), oral sex (f!receiving), art is a bit of a pervert and mega-pathetic (endearing), references to religion (worship).

Word Count: 5.8k

i white knuckled the steering wheel on the way home from this film thinking about art donaldson- this is, essentially, an ode to that

Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details

Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.

Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.

Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.

You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.

You were above average with a good arm and better patience.

Another odd job to add to your growing list.

You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.

Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.

The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.

You always did very well.

So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.

Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.

But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.

Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?

He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.

As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.

The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.

Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.

Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.

If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.

The woman that once held the world by the balls.

She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.

The Donaldson's.

Ah fuck.

Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.

"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"

You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.

There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.

You were no exception to the rule.

"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."

How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.

A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.

The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.

"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."

"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."

Oh, okay then.

You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.

Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.

Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.

You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.

You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.

As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.

"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."

She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.

You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.

Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.

As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.

And you knew he was watching you.

-

The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.

A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.

"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"

You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.

Felt good to be the winner.

Even just once.

In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."

You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.

It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.

It was even easier to believe she was just that good.

As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.

Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?

Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.

Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.

Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

-

The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.

Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.

You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.

Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.

"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."

Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-

The kid's running you ragged.

Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.

But you're sure there are eyes on your back.

Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).

Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.

You know you're about to earn your keep.

By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.

Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.

Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.

That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.

You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.

The Original Sin.

Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."

He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.

It should've felt condescending. It didn't.

"How did she go out there?"

"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."

He laughed.

Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.

Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"

You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.

"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"

Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.

He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.

"Must've been distracted."

Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.

"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."

And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.

-

And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?

An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.

An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.

A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.

At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.

That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.

"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."

You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.

Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.

"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."

"Your elbow is too low."

It was a miracle you didn't scream.

Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.

Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.

"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"

"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"

"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."

Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.

Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.

It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.

It wasn't.

"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."

If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.

As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.

And Lily upon her trusty steed.

The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.

"Lily, go find grandma."

Then it really was just you two.

Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.

"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."

He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.

With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.

Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.

As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?

"Good girl."

There it was.

Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.

So, you should've moved.

Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.

You should've moved.

But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.

Obedient thing you seem to be.

"Show me that again?"

So,

You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.

Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.

A simple transactional arrangement.

Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.

Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.

A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.

You figure Art will take what he can get.

And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.

It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.

The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.

Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.

So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.

You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.

-

Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?

Chasing Lily around a court.

Adhering to Tashi's every request.

Being Art's fantasy.

Being Art's.

Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.

Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-

Winning?

He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.

Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.

Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.

Until, well- until they weren't.

"Would you like a coffee?"

Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.

He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.

Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.

"Yes please."

Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.

You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.

Had he always looked this captivating?

He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.

It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.

This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.

Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.

"Mr. Donaldson-"

"Art."

"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."

He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."

Naturally.

That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.

Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.

Maybe it was fate.

All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.

Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,

Yet.

One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.

It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.

A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.

"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"

"Actually, it's still Duncan."

You screamed.

Right in his face.

Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.

However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.

Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.

What a fucking sight.

Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.

You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.

It took all your strength to find your words.

"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”

“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”

There's the Tashi you were expecting.

Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.

Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.

Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.

"Why am I here?"

She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.

"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."

-

And he had, just like she'd said.

Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.

And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.

You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.

Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.

You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.

But the showerhead knew all about them.

Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.

How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.

And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.

Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?

That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.

You loved it.

When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.

Tashi's car was gone.

"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."

At least you didn't scream this time.

You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.

"Oh, ok."

"I'll see you on the court."

Oh, ok.

Lest he see the disappointment that took over.

Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.

Tennis was fun too, you guess.

Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.

You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.

It never came.

Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.

The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.

This was going to hurt.

From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.

Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.

You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.

He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-

Like he was enjoying himself.

For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.

For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.

Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.

You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.

No hurry, but impending.

Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.

Now this was God's favourite.

"You can't be giving up this easily?"

Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"

Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.

Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.

This was more your speed.

The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.

Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.

Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.

"I didn't give up."

He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.

"Mmm, you didn't."

The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.

"Where's my prize?"

There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.

But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.

You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.

Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.

Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.

Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.

You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.

His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.

With everything he had.

Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.

Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.

You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.

Utterly devotional.

The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.

His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.

Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.

The style was calculated.

Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.

Playing a game.

Art struggled to do anything but win.

"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."

"Art."

Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.

You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.

It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.

You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.

"Tell me this feels good, please."

Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?

You might black out.

"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."

He whined.

A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.

Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.

The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.

He was going for gold.

A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.

You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.

Oh, ok.

Art Donaldson knew what he liked.

You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.

Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).

Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.

A deuce.

His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.

"Uh- I already have."

Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.

Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.

Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.

All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.

He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.

Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.

"I can't lose- you."