Art and Tashi are greedy, and they know it. How else had their marriage come about, after all? If not greed, for one another—for different parts, different pieces, different people. And then, you had came along.

You'd practically dropped into their laps. Since Art had retired, Tashi had been itching for someone to sink her claws in, to sharpen raw talent into excellence. You—a pretty young thing, short-skirted and starry-eyed as you wielded your racket like a weapon in the Juniors Australian Open, to France to Wimbledon and all the way to a Grand Slam.

Tashi wanted you. Had to have you—and what Tashi wanted, Art wanted.

You melted like putty in their hands. Art's Career Grand slam was still fresh, and even if it weren't—you've known their names for as long as you've been able to hit a ball with a racket.

Its been a year since then, and under their tutelage; the world has become your oyster—the tennis world, anyways (which is the only world that matters). It's why, currently, you're sandwiched in-between Art and Tashi on the couch of a five-star hotel; TV replaying your game footage as Tashi gives commentary—harsh, but in-fucking-valuable.

Tashi's midway through an extensive analysis of your backhand, when her leg shifts and you're suddenly hyper-aware of the way her thigh presses into yours. Her words bleed away in the rush of warmth to your cheeks.

Art also seems more pre-occupied with kneading his hand in slow, tender circles down your back. It feels nice. Familiar. It doesn't help the way your thoughts are drifting, as if the two people crammed beside you are not literally married, and why would it matter that they're still leaning into your sides even though there's so much space on either side of the couch—

"Hey." Tashi's hand squeezes your knee, nails digging into your skin. "You want to be good or not?" She's sharp, scalding—but a smirk plays at her lips. Your cheeks burn. Art exhales, a low, breathy chuckle. Wife, husband and protégé.

(They're so, so greedy).