#i love this stupidly generic sports shirt

[fernandopiastri28]

little bit in love with you ~ landoscar

"Oscar is just stringing you along for his own entertainment,”Lando’s lips tighten into a straight line, the muscles in his cheeks rippling as he sucks them in to chew on the insides. “It’s not for entertainment. Oscar’s quiet, blushy and stupidly inexperienced. He-,” He wants to go on about all the distinctively ‘obvious’ signs that Oscar does genuinely like him in that way. He could go on and on about the younger boy’s huge brown eyes, the ones that show just about every bit of vulnerability possible. It’s not that Oscar doesn’t like him at all, he just didn’t seem to know how to express it.Yet, the way Max’ face twitches as he keeps going is enough to shut him up.

warnings- drinking | wc: 7,920

“You know Oscar likes Logan, right?” Max’s arm drapes across Lando’s back, his hand idly rubbing against the thin material of his sport shirt. It’s a Monday night and they both have flights to the next grand prix at around midday tomorrow. But right now, work and racing was the least of their concerns. It’s been a shit weekend for them both, which means retreating to one of their rooms, (usually Max’s since Checo usually clears out to spend time with Carola and the kids instead of at the hotel), and playing video games until their eyes burn with exhaust.

Lando does know that, the mere thought of it never fails to make his stomach twist up in discomfort, because he knows it is true, he just wishes it wasn’t. “Yeah, thanks Max,” He rolls his eyes, brushing the comment off like it doesn’t hurt him. Max’ a sensitive person, garnering a surprising talent for gauging emotions and how to be cautious to not hurt someone. Seemingly that has gone out of the window for the night.  

Max gives him a weak shrug in reply, near ignorant. “ Lando , you know why I’m telling you that,”

He does, he just doesn’t want to hear it.

“Yeah, you could be less blunt about it though,” Lando’s shameful about how sensitive and ‘babyish’ he was, it being one of the more embarrassing parts of himself. He’ll always try to put on a ‘tough’ face to the media, pretending that he’s completely unaffected by absolutely anything. Yet, he never even tried to ‘be strong’ around Max- having cried too many times to the dutch man to even attempt to.

Another shrug, even less emotion or empathy in this one. “It’ll take a miracle for you to accept that the way you feel for Oscar is unreciprocated. I’m trying to get it through your thick skull before you get any more hurt then you already are,”

Ouch. 

Usually Max is the nicer of the two, even possibly just the nicest guy in general. Get a few drops of alcohol into his system though and he’s painfully honest, mean when it comes to Lando and his infinity for his younger teammate.

The corners of Lando’s lips unstick after forming together by pressing them together so tight. “But-“

“No buts, I’m sick and tired of hearing about Oscar all the time. Oscar did this, Oscar did that , how about you think about me for once?” His eyes are beady as they bore holes into Lando’s skin, his glare searing.

“ You like Charles, I have to put up with hearing about him,” He tries to rebut it, yet the point is mute. The way Max spoke about his supposed rival was not at all comparable to how Lando speaks about his younger teammate. It’s occasional, more expressed through the way that Max seems to laugh impossibly hard around him. He has a permanent smile tattooed onto his mouth each time he hangs out with Charles. He rarely talks about it, cause he really doesn’t need to. He shows his love.

Max pulls a face at him, the arm that’s haphazardly on Lando tensing up. “That’s not a fair comparison and you know it, Norris,” Norris, not Lando. He’s upset. He’d never used Norris, even back in Lando’s initial first days in formula 1 together when they were ‘pitted against each other’ to be rivals. 

Well, Max was set up against anyone to be fair. 

Not when Drive to Survive set them up to be enemies. Not even when Max left him for ferrari. There simply never was any bad blood. “Why not?” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He doesn’t want to fight, he really can’t be bothered to do so. He’d rather just be able to lay around with his best friend, sipping at cheap beers while they bitch and moan about formula 1. 

However, Lando has found himself to be more argumentative each year he’d remained in the rotting hell-hole team community of McLaren, so Max was likely expecting this.

He runs the hand that was previously on Lando’s shoulder through his blond mess of hair, not bothering to return it back to its original spot on Lando when he’s done. “I don’t know,” He sighs around his beer bottle, the lip of the glass against his bottom one. “It just is, Lando. Because Charles and I could never be together, he loves Alex- a woman. Oscar is just stringing you along for his own entertainment,” 

Lando’s lips tighten into a straight line, the muscles in his cheeks rippling as he sucks them in to chew on the insides. “It’s not for entertainment. Oscar’s quiet, blushy and stupidly inexperienced. He-,” He wants to go on about all the distinctively ‘obvious’ signs that Oscar does genuinely like him in that way. He could go on and on about the younger boy’s huge brown eyes, the ones that show just about every bit of vulnerability possible. It’s not that Oscar doesn’t like him at all, he just didn’t seem to know how to express it.

Yet, the way Max’ face twitches as he keeps going is enough to shut him up. 

“Yeah, got it man. Your love life is a whole of a lot more successful than mine.” Seriously bitter and not trying remotely to hide it. He grits his teeth regardless, giving up on any more snarky comments for now.

Max's hand returns to Lando. This time, the tips of his fingers glided under his shirt to run along the tan skin over his back. “Not really. Charles isn’t mine, Oscar isn’t yours,” His words are thick like syrup, his Dutch accent adding a warm tinge Lando’s British one couldn’t replicate.

Lando’s cheeks turn an ugly shade of red, the one that’s usually only just visible through his visor when his face is shoved awkwardly under thick foam padding. The way his face crumples is similar to how his helmet forces the fat of his face to squish up. At least when he’s got the helmet on he looks like his grinning irritatingly wide, no matter his mood. Right now, Max can see through Lando, he sees every single thought and emotion that's passing through his mind.

“Lando,” Max’s wiry fingers snake up to the short tufts of hair that decorate the width of the back of the Brit’s neck. Lando hates how it makes him feel, as if he can almost imagine Oscar doing it. He can almost feel Oscar’s hand on him, his breath on his skin. Their knees bumping, their thighs rubbing together.

“I’m happy for Logan,” His tongue rolls over the words awkwardly. He doesn’t mean them. “Even if he’s not actually gay- must be validating for your best friend to have a crush on you,” Logan deserves the podiums in f1, the good car, the wins, the fucking respect. Lando doesn’t care for those things anymore. He just deserves a teammate who wants him back. 

Logan could take his damn seat at McLaren if it meant Oscar could finally be his. Maybe Lando could cope being seatless, maybe he could go to indycar. Oscar would be worth all of the sacrifices he would make. 

“You’re not,” He scoffs, sinking back further into the squishy cushions of the couch. Lando wants it to swallow him up whole, to not be in this situation right now. More so, he wants to bury his face into either Oscar’s chest or his lap, yet somehow the first option of being consumed by a Lando-eating couch seems more likely.

“I’m not,” There’s no point in disagreeing. They both know how he actually feels about this. “It’s not fair. It should just be easy, Oscar’s.. He’s gay, right?” The side of his forehead rubs against Max’ shoulder, finding a comfortable place to just rest the day off. “He’s gay and I’m a boy, a boy who loves him. Why can’t it just make sense? Why aren’t we just together already? It should just be easy.”

The noise Max makes is somewhat sympathetic, a mewl almost. “When has love ever been easy?” The hum of the aircon blaring in the room turns Lando’s mind fuzzy, his thoughts dissolving into mush as his eyes blankly stare at the flickering lamp bulb. 

He’d rather not think about that.

“Hey,” Lando’s elbow nudges into the soft flesh of Oscar’s stomach, his bare skin gliding against the jersey material of the Aussie’s outfit. It’s an ugly outfit, objectively. A maroon t-shirt, the same one he’d worn to that team dinner sometime at the end of the previous season, a Miami Heat red singlet on top of it. 

Pants wise, he has on a pair of beige cargo shorts, short enough to ride up on his muscular thighs. The hair on his legs is so light, practically blonde. Lando’s jealous- of the legs definition, not the hair colour. He really likes Oscar’s thick thighs, despite how almost gross it felt to admit that to himself. 

He’s perfectly fine with putting his romantic feelings towards his teammate into words, yet anything mentioning his physical and admittedly, sexual, feelings- yeah, definitely a challenge.

“Hey,” The tops of Oscar’s cheeks are dyed permanently red from the Miami heat, his hair looking lighter underneath the beaming sun. It almost looks a golden brown colour, instead of its usual mousy brown. He looks like he’s blushing, the way he did at any sight of Lando.

“Whatchu been up to these past few days?” He sounds beyond stupid saying it, whatchu. Couldn’t he have just been normal and seemed somewhat competent and stuck with What have you?. He’s so cautious about that- seeming dumb in front of Oscar. 

If he could really say what he wanted, he'd be spilling out every single way to say I love you possible, so he just grits his teeth and settles for being cringey.

If Oscar is any bit cringed out by it, he doesn’t show it. “Ehh, nothing much I guess,” His eyes flicker over to the small band aid that covered the cut on the bridge of Lando’s nose. He looks as if he’s about to make a comment on it, ask how Lando was so stupid to fuck up his face just before possibly the biggest media grand prix. Instead, his eyes turn back to the path ahead of him. “Yeah, just been hanging out with Logan a bit. Amping up the celebrations for his home grand prix,” 

Great. Fucking Logan has to be brought up.

“Oh yeah?” His faux interest sounds like a near mock. Jealousy seeps thick into his tone, hatred forging towards the American for simply existing. For simply being the one that Oscar loves. Luckily, and somehow miraculously, Oscar doesn’t pick up on the off-tone. Lando grinds his teeth, willing himself to shut up and not spew into anti Logan conversation.

“Yeah,” The younger boy smiles slightly, the wrinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” An attempted mimic of Lando’s accent, more hitting a very posh George or Lewis one instead of Lando’s bristol accent. “He.. he’s not quite himself anymore, I guess,” The back of his hand rubs against his nose, trying to force away an itch that’s formed itself over a pimple. 

He was going to make an idiotic comment directed towards Oscar about how abhorrent his attempt at an English accent was until he got all serious about Logan. Now, it seems insensitive and ignorant to not even pretend he cared about the blond man who’s taking away the love of his life without even realising.

Mustering up any bit of caring, pulling from the part of him that believes ‘ if I show I care about his best friend's misfortunes, maybe he’ll like me as he’ll see that I am so very kind and caring,’, he pitches his voice in a way that gives it some sense of interest. “Oh shit, how so?” 

Yeah. Believable enough.

Oscar cards a hand through his mess of a middle part. “He’s not the same Logan I’ve known since I was 14. He- he’s clearly affected by not being able to score points, having a shit car, the sheer amount of hate he receives online,” A weird noise comes straight up from his throat, as if he’s attempted to hack away at something. “I’m really worried about him. He doesn’t really have anyone besides me- doesn’t think anyone likes him,”

Well shit, now he does feel bad for him.

“Alex likes him,” He adds annoyingly- why he didn’t say himself is just idiotic. Yeah, it would’ve been a lie, he still really doesn’t like Logan, but pointing that out to Oscar is possibly one of his shockingly dumbest moments. 

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up a bit, his usually half lidded eyes opening up into stupidly big doe eyes. He looks really fucking cute, and Lando curses him for looking so soft when the topic of conversation is on Logan. “You know Alex better than I do,” Lando isn’t quite sure where Oscar was going with that. “Does he actually like him, or is it just as teammates?” 

Lando becomes aware that they’re awfully close to the media pen now, which means their conversation is going to be coming to a forced halt pretty much immediately. “Yeah, he actually likes him. Not just a forced proximity thing, you know?” He assures him, watching with a growing smile and sense of pride when Oscar seems to relax, the light in his eyes brightening.

“Yeah, yeah. Good,” He sighs, taking a black pen that’s shoved against him into his hand, scribbling his signature onto a teenage girl’s hat.

Lando does the same for a shirt that belongs to a boy who looks no older than nine. When he turns back to Oscar, his lips twist into a tantalising grin, “Yeah, yeah. Good,” He mocks him in return for Oscar doing so earlier.

“Awful accent Lando. You needa spend some more time with Danny Ric to work on it,” A huff paired with an eye roll. Successful, he found it funny.

“Or I could spend more time with you,” Hopeful, hopeful. Please come across well.

“You could, indeed,”

Double success.

“I fucking hate Miami,” Oscar isn’t usually so pessimistic, but after a three consecutive hardly mediocre free practices, followed by a mid-field qualifying, and only 2 points on sunday, he’s down in the dumps.

The two of them are sitting in the McLaren motorhome, Lando having just narrowly missed out on another podium in fourth. It’s another boring top three- Max, Lewis, Checo. Nothing to write home about, or even really celebrate. So they’re on the couch, Oscar’s legs kicking up onto the table and Lando’s just next to Oscar’s hips with his bent knees pointing up to the ceiling.

Both of them have their race suits dangling off their hips. The Aussie’s hair is drenched, having had a bottle of water poured over his head by Logan after he’d gotten P11. He was ecstatic, so close to points- or point, singular. He was off celebrating with his family, which Lando thought was simply idiotic. He hadn’t even scored a point, what was he celebrating for?

Lando looks up from where he was engrossed in scrolling through twitter and saving some videos he knew he’d likely find himself watching as he tried to ‘sleep’ tonight. “Yeah, same,” He purses his lips, switching his phone off and tossing it forward. He was aiming for it to land at the edge of his feet, in the space between where his toes ended and the right side of Oscar’s hip was, but his horrific aim makes an appearance as it lands right into the Aussie’s lap. 

Oscar picks the phone up gingerly, acting as if it was infected. Lando’s horrified to see that when the screen was in his view, that he actually hadn’t managed to turn it off. That damn Quad Lock case he’d taken from Oscar made it near impossible to click the off button. “Shit, fuck, stop,” Lando tries desperately to yank the phone back as Oscar straightens his arm away, looking at what Lando’s had been searching.

His expression is difficult to read at first. It seems a mix of curiosity with disgust, likely as his teammate had been openly scrolling through porn right next to him. Then, his face shifts into something cloudy and indescribable- like a switch had been flicked in his brain. He finally has something above Lando. Lando who has tantalised him over the course of the past two seasons, teasing him about his lack of a sense of humour, mocking him publicly, making him seem like some stupid.. Fucking bottom. 

“What’s this Lando?” He taunts, his free hand pushing Lando off him to give him a better, uninterrupted look at the phone. “Oh, you freak” His voice has never sounded so malicious. It’s delicious, seeing the vulnerable bits of Lando that have always been locked away.

“Fucking stop it , Oscar,” He growls, his hands clawing at the scratchy fireproof fabric stretching across his teammates back. “It’s not funny,” His face feels impossibly hot. If Oscar was to ever see what was in his search history, he’d be praying infinitely that the Lando-eating couch would actually become a real thing.,

“Oooh,” Voice colder than ice. “Teammate sex,” Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn’t real, it’s just a horrible nightmare that he would wake up from in a full body sweat. “You dirty dog,” Lando’s face crumples, he was going to cry- he was sure of that. “What kind of dubious activities do you get up to with Max? Or is it Daniel?”

Oscar’s taunts finally came to a halt when the scratches against his back stopped. The yelling stopped. Lando stopped. “Just give it back Oscar,” Lando’s voice wavers, his hand reaching out under the arm the phone was in.

He’s not laughing anymore, both of them just blankly looking at each other. Oscar’s mouth seems to take over from his mind, working on auto pilot in a sense. “Are you gay?” His teeth feel heavy, if that’s possible. The sensation could better be described as unfamiliar, like they’ve been crammed into his mouth. The question is hard to ask, and he’s not sure if it was a complete invasion of privacy for him to do so.

Lando’s fingers curl back up to make a weak fist, giving up on the attempt to snatch his phone back. “What do you think?” Harsh and jarring, an attack on Oscar’s lack of cognitive thinking skills and problem solving abilities. “You can see my search history. How to come out as gay is quite literally right under what you read out,” He can’t bring himself to repeat the phrase he’d searched up while watching water stream down Oscar’s face during Logan’s celebration. It’s shameful, and awful. 

All of this is awful. He wishes he could’ve come out to Oscar in just about any other way.

Oscar’s chest heaves with great effort, a blank flicker burning behind his brown eyes. “But like- all the girls?” He murmurs, his eyebrows pinching together as his eyes dart around rapidly, the cogs in his mind churning quickly to process the information.

Lando sits back on his heels, his eyes unable to meet Oscar’s burning gaze. He seems surprised.. unaccepting. For a guy who’s in love with another guy, he seems unable to comprehend the concept of being gay. “I like both” He picks at the flaking skin around his nails. “I guess I’m more-”

“Bisexual?”

“Yeah, that.” He swallows dryly, wishing he still had his water bottle from earlier.

“Is it Carlos?” A pair of brown eyes mapping out the incredulous expression on Lando’s face, his brain hurting with all the news he’s taking in.

“Carlos?” How the hell Oscar has come to that conclusion is beyond him. “Why the hell would it be Carlos?” His fingers wrap around one of Oscar’s wrists, the tips of his fingers only just touching. 

Oscar looks even more bewildered, a face of pure shock painting his features. He looks adorable, hazy eyes widened as far as possible, jaw slightly opened with his bunny teeth peeking into visibility. “Daniel!” He proclaims, his voice high and squeaky much like Lando’s had been in his first years in formula one. High and undeveloped from puberty. 

“No- for god sakes, not fucking Ricciardo,” His hand meets Oscar’s shoulder, shoving him playfully. It’s not until he makes that move that he realises the compromising position they’ve somehow shifted into. Oscar’s on his back, long legs spread out across the pillow cushions. Hiis core muscles are being put to work as he holds himself into sitting at about a 45 degree angle to his legs. Lando in comparison is sitting straight up, one hand on Oscar’s tensed abdomen and the other on his own thigh, his knees bracketing around Oscar’s narrow waist.

His ass is planted straight onto Oscar’s thighs, and it’s not in the circumstance he hoped it would’ve happened under.

Oscar’s eyes are looking up at where Lando is looking down at him, their height levels reversed like this. The whites under his milky brown eyes are perfectly shown, making him look like a begging puppy. He is, in a sense, so desperate to know who Lando has a crush on. For a guy who gets the title of being one of the smartest drivers on the grid- he’s fucking oblivious to something that is quite literally being shoved under his nose. 

So as confidence builds deep in Lando’s belly, the want to confess everything he’s ever felt towards his junior teammate miraculously grows further. The desire to pour out all of his love until he’s just a puddle of goop resting at Oscar’s feet, nothing without his lovesick thoughts and late night desperations. He’s putty in Oscar’s hands. 

Yet, he can’t confess anything.

It’s difficult to tell why he’s simply unable to do it. Whether it’s his mouth that won’t be pried open by anything, his voicebox’s inability to make any noise that’s more than a strangled squeak, or because his throat feels so tight that an attempt of trying to do anything besides breathing would cause him to pass out from effort. 

“Is it just a kink then?” Lando’s getting off him just as he’s finishing asking. He needs some fresh air, and some space- especially from a question like that.

“Ew, Oscar,” His nose wrinkles as his feet hit the floor, his knees locking to draw a halt to the shaking that gives caution that he may go tumbling to the floor at any moment. Just like how Oscar had been struggling so hard to process Lando coming out, Lando was struggling to believe he’d actually admitted it. “Don’t ask people that, it’s really weird,”

The Australian's lips purse, twisting around words that aren’t translating into audible sound. “Right.” He gets out finally, a huff. Not ignorant like Carlos’ or Max’s, but genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry. That was crossing a boundary,” 

Lando immediately feels bad. He feels like he’s pushed Oscar too far, been too mean today. It wasn’t just the events currently going on, but also earlier side comments to Carlos about Logan’s obnoxious celebrations over fuck all, and borderline calling Oscar’s outfit ugly during a media call after lunch time. 

He feels really, really bad now. 

The sensation of being about to throw up only intensifies as he thinks about how awful he actually is to Oscar. No wonder he likes Logan. Logan is fun and bubbly. Lando is a whiny pessimistic brat who rarely has anything positive to say about anyone. “I guess it is,” His heart rate spikes at the confession, because in what fucking universe was he telling his teammate that he got off on watching teammates have sex. 

Lord, it all seems like a very distressing fever dream.

A lock of the younger boy's chocolatey swooped hair falls over his forehead and covers one of his eyebrows. “Huh? You guess what is?” He’s also getting up off the couch at this point, tugging at the hem of his fireproof to cover the patch of skin it has rode up to show.

Lando forces his eyes away from looking.

“It’s a kink,” His cheeks are painted far rosier than he’s ever even seen Oscar’s go. “I don’t know where it came from, came up on my twitter one day and I thought it was hot,” His thumbnail slides in between his front bottom teeth, awkwardly chewing on it to avoid talking any bit more than he needs to.

“Ah,” Oscar’s amused by the answer to some extent, “Well, I guess two fit and sweaty guys fucking about does seem about as good as gay porn can get.” He shrugs it off casually. Once again, how did Lando drag them both into this conversation?

They both look at eachother with thin lips holding back howls of laughter. “You’ve certainly got it Piastri. You are quite the porn expert,” He squeezes the soft meat over Oscar’s hip, watching a clear shivered jolt hit the other boy from the tease.

And that perfect Piastri blush.

(Oscar's Pov)

“Oscar!” Pounding on his door fills the room. He has to forcefully pull himself off his couch, tightening the strings of his sweatpants waistband so they don’t slip off his hips the second he opens the door. 

His mouth is filled with the bitter post nap taste that he’s forcibly creating saliva to get rid of. He’d nearly immediately passed out on his hotel couch after he’d gotten home post the Lando-Porn-Coming out conversation. He still feels fried, even hours later. Maybe having a nap in the later afternoon was a poor decision because he now isn't going to be able to get to sleep tonight.

Sure, Lando coming out as gay wasn’t the absolute wildest thing he’d ever heard. He knew a fair few drivers on the grid were- himself included. It was more his search history, which he could’ve sworn he saw his own name in, and the whole.. Yeah, teammate kink thing.

“Hello?” His voice comes out as bleary and croaky, likely from breathing through his mouth instead of his nose. “Lando?” He has to clear his voice first, getting all the gross phlegm out. “Is there any reason you are at my door?” His hip makes contact with the doorframe as he rests against it, his eyebrows pulling together to study his teammate. 

Lando’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans and a satin navy button up, his full chest visible from how many buttons are undone. Dampened curls spilling across his forehead and a tight backwards cap smushed over them. He looks ready to hit the town for a night out, vastly different then what he’d conveyed his plans for his evening back in the motor home. As far as Oscar was concerned, Lando was going to be spending the night under the covers with his phone and hand.

“Didn’t you hear the news?” Thanks, that’s rather vague. He pushes past Oscar to let himself into the room. He seems more normal compared to how he’d left the motorhome earlier, not all... weird, like curdled milk or moulded bread. 

Oscar’s hungry, not for spoiled foods, but, yeah.

“Yeah, nah,” He shakes his head, instantaneously having Lando’s phone thrusted into his hand. He has to squint to see the glaring phone screen in comparison to the dimly lit living room. Eyes strained with effort, he skims over the article. By the end of it, he almost drops the phone.

Holy shit . ‘Due to track records…’ The article read , ‘Lewis Hamilton (2nd place), Sergio Perez (3rd place), Nico Hulkenberg (8th place), and Esteban Ocon (6th place) lap times have been deleted,' His eyes widen, a knot forming and twisting painfully in his stomach. “The new results are as follows; 1st. Max Verstappen- Red Bull (Remain), 2nd. Lando Norris- McLaren (4th originally),” Oscar looks up at his gleeful teammate who’s just secured yet another podium to his name. 

‘3rd. Charles Leclerc- Ferrari (Previously 5th), 4th. Fernando Alonso- Aston Martin (Previously 7th), 5th. Oscar Piastri- McLaren (Previously 9th),” A far more satisfactory result of 10 points over 2. ‘ 6th. Carlos Sainz- Ferrari (Previously 10th)’ He fights the urge to roll his eyes. He genuinely couldn’t even attempt to like Carlos if he tried. And then he sees it- ‘ Logan Sargeant- Williams (Previously 11th)’ 

(Lando’s Pov)

“Oh shit! Oh shit!” Oscar begins to celebrate his best friend, pride bursting out the seams. Finally, a chance for Logan to show off the talent that he hasn’t been able to flaunt yet in f1. Lando cringes out from the celebration, not because he thinks Oscar is being weird as he jumps around the place- it’s actually quite endearing. It’s more that it’s all about Logan scoring a point, not because he received another podium.

He forces a smile, taking his phone back from Oscar as the younger boy begins to calm down. “God, does Logan know?” He’s cheesing out so hard, and Lando can’t help but wish that energy and pride was directed towards himself. “Fuck, watch this race help him secure a 2025 seat- what a rush,” He sighs, his hand on his chest to slow his breathing down.

Lando’s teeth grit, it’s a bad habit of his ass of recent. Gritting his teeth helps him to not make any stupid comments to the Australian that could ruin his attempts of ‘wooing’ him. Aussie grit, hahaha, maybe their ‘ship’ name could be Mark’s nickname.

Or maybe that’s really weird and Lando should keep gritting his teeth so he doesn’t tell Oscar that he just thought that.

He cocks his head to the side, his shoulders going up to meet them in a careless shrug. “Uh, don’t know. Maybe us four could go out to celebrate tonight,” He suggests, having both of the Williams drivers in mind. That way Alex could hopefully distract Logan so Lando could genuinely just talk to Oscar for a bit. Or just separate the two newbies so Oscar didn’t have to watch Oscar practically drool over the American all night.

“The four of us?” His voice is slightly hoarse from his celebration. “What, are you gonna invite Carlos?” It’s said in a hushed tone, as if it’s a scandal for Carlos to be mentioned. It takes a few seconds for it to click why that is. 

It’s because Oscar is still convinced that Lando is in love with Carlos.

“Osc, for crying out loud. I do not have feelings for Carlos,” It gets a laugh out of Oscar, so he’s willing to put up with the CarLando allegations just to make Oscar smile.

“Good,” He grabs a jacket off the back of his couch, a McLaren one from their partnership with Reiss, and begins wriggling into it. “Cause I really dislike Carlos. He’s just.. you know how I feel about him,” A short breath passes his lips as he straightens the jacket out, before looking up at Lando expectantly. “So.. who’s the fourth person then?” 

Lando gives Oscar an up and down, silently judging his outfit of a stained white shirt, grey joggers and a puffer over the top. He’d spent far too long getting ready once he’d heard the news from Jon, and he’d just had to pray Oscar was sleeping- a safe and true bet- so he could deliver the news straight to his teammate when he heard. “Uh, Albono,” Grit your teeth Lando, don’t say anything. 

“Ah, the padel group,” Oscar cheers gleefully and shoves his hands into his pocket as a go ahead for Lando to begin walking towards the door.

“Oh Oscar,” He hums, shaking his head. “Please, let me pick out a better outfit for you,” Half expecting a reaction of partial offence, he’s surprised when Oscar’s willingly guiding him into his bedroom to where he has piles of clothes scattered across the floor.

“Sorry, please ignore the mess.” Ever so polite, yet so messy that it’s genuinely difficult to try and ignore it. He wants to make a comment of ‘ how can you live like this Piastri?’ But no, he needs to work on being nicer. Grit Lando, Grit.

“Yeah, all good,” It’s said within a drawn out sigh as he begins sifting through the few articles  of clothing that Oscar has managed to hang up. “This is nice, where'd you get it from?” He holds up a hanger that’s holding a white button up, dark blue embroidery down the sides. 

He looks over his shoulder to where Oscar is standing cross armed, his jacket long discarded and his arms looking huge with the way he’s almost flexing. “Uh, Logan gave it to me,” He murmurs, meeting Lando’s eyes with a look of acceptance to where it is. “Or.. actually, I think it was Robert,”

“Robert?”

“Shwartzman. He was my teammate at Prema,”

Ah, yes. He was often reminded of the fact that he and Oscar had such different previous few years. Oscar was in prema from 2020 until 2021, and Lando left in 2018. Oscar had all of his own F2 and F3 friends, while F1 was all Lando has known for years. “Right,” He bundles the shirt up, tossing it behind himself to where Oscar catches it and begins getting dressed right there. “Pants time,” 

“I can’t wear joggers?” 

“Of course you can’t wear joggers with a button up Osc,” In saying that, he reckons Oscar is probably the only person in the world who could actually pull that look off.

“Fine,” Lando extracts a pair of black jeans much like his own and gives them to Oscar, actually turning around to face him when he does. The shirt is definitely a good choice. Tight around Oscar’s narrow waist, big arms, and wide chest. He stares blankly at a spot on the wall as Oscar changes from his sweatpants to the jeans, struggling to pull them up at the very end. “How do I look?”

“Yeah, good, good,” There’s a definite waver in his voice, but it’s nothing compared to how fast his heart and mind are pounding at the very moment. “Really good, handsome,” He smirks, getting a violent blush out of Oscar. He looks fantastic, and Lando already knows he’s gonna have a hard time keeping his eyes off the Aussie for the night. 

Two facts dawn on Lando within the first hour at the club. Firstly, he’s never seen his teammate drunk, or even relatively intoxicated. Secondly, Oscar is extra funny when he’s drunk- which he gets rather easily. Currently, he’s sitting on the shoulders of some singer that Alex had informed Lando was called Jackson Wang. 

Connection between the two? None. Apparently he was the DJ, but clearly he’s preoccupied away from the table.

“Landooooo,” Oscar calls out, one hand in Jackson’s hair while his other one is wrapped around a plastic cup of pure vodka, condensation staining into his pants. The vodka is not the cheap kind, it’s probably far out of any range of alcohol Oscar’s ever had before for a guy who grew up in Melbourne with goon bags at parties. “Hey Lans,” He grins as Lando looks up at him, his green eyes covered by a pair of purple shutter shades that had been shoved onto his face.

“Hey Osc,” He smiles, feeling far too sober right now. It’s nice though, he’s enjoying seeing Oscar so peppy and high spirited. “Whatcha got in your glass,” Ew, not whatcha again. Oscar ducks his head, mumbling something into Jackson’s ear which gets him to bend his legs enough for Oscar to get back onto the ground. A quick embrace shared between the two before Jackson gets back to work actually being a DJ.

“Vodka, the expensive type.” He whistles, guzzling the last of his glass as he steps into Lando’s space, one of his feet between the brit’s. His breath is hot, his voice thick and sickly. “I feel really good Lando,” He whispers, nuzzling his neck into the crook of his elder teammate’s neck.

And as much as he wants to enjoy and savour the moment, he’s worried. “I’m glad Osc,” He slides his arm around the younger’s waist, helping to support him as his other hand brings his scotch to his lips. He’s not sure where he acquired the drink from, especially it not being his drink of choice, but he’s not going to complain about free alcohol. “Shouldn’t you be with Logan?”

He’s leaning on Lando, flipping their height difference around to be smaller than his older teammate. Oscar’s eyes gleam in the dark lighting of the club, the sclera of his eyes more visible then any bit of his pupils. “He’s with.. some girls I think,” He scratches the long strands of his hair that he’s been allowing to grow out. “So, yeah. He doesn’t have time for me,”

Lando feels awful for him. Because not only is Oscar being forced to watch the guy he likes be surrounded and shower people that aren’t himself with attention, it’s all just girls. Logan isn’t gay, and Oscar has to have that shoved down his throat. “I’m sorry about him, Osc. You don’t deserve that.” 

Confusion spreads across his soft features, “Why?” His hands rub harshly at his eyes, pushing away his exhaustion to try and keep partying. “I’m happy for him? This is exactly what he needs- some validation that he’s wanted.” He pushes himself up to standing properly, his back hunched over due to the poor posture that he always has. “What don’t I deserve?”

Now Lando is confused. “Because you like Logan,”

“Obviously I like Logan- he’s my best mate,” Obviously, so snappy and completely unlike Oscar.

“No, you like Logan,”

Oscar’s eyes close into a squint of complete disbelief. “I what Logan?” Fucking hell, Drunk Oscar is annoying. “Who is going around telling you that?”

“Max,”

“Why on earth would Max know who I like?” His tone is harsh, the previous bubbliness he had from the alcohol wearing off to reveal a bitchy and irritated Oscar.

“Uh, Charles?” Lando’s voice on the other hand is squeaky and unsure. He does know one thing for sure, he needs another drink. And actually, he needs these shutter shades off, he’s probably pretty difficult to take seriously with glittery glasses on his face. “He- He told me because he found out that I like you,” It feels shameful to say it, like it’s a secret he promised to never repeat. 

Lando hooks a finger into the bridge of the glasses, pulling them down just enough to catch the way Oscar’s face softens, a small smile on his lips. He looks flattered, not disgusted like how Lando had almost forced himself to believe he would react. 

The moment is peaceful and perfect, until Oscar takes in the previous point about Charles being the leak, and his face twists up like he’s just eaten a lemon. “I’m gonna assume Charles heard from Carlos who ‘heard’ from Daniel, huh?” He winced, looking very displeased. Lando simply shrugged in response, not sure how he was supposed to react. “Daniel knows who I actually like and I reckon he slipped up to Carlos, who twisted it into Logan.” 

What the fuck. Oscar doesn’t actually like Logan? 

“Who is it then?” Lando’s body aches as jolts of nerves shoot up his spine. He’s asking, but he really doesn’t actually want to know the answer. He’s had to get used to the idea that it might be Logan, so despite his distaste for the American, he’s forced himself to understand that Logan and Oscar’s friendship has spanned over almost a decade, and there has been so much of the younger’s life that Logan was there for, that Lando wasn’t.

But now he’ll have to deal with Oscar liking another person who isn’t him, directly after he confessed his feelings for the Australian. Fuck his actual life, he knew it was too good to be true of a reaction.

“Lando Norris, you are very possibly the dumbest person I’ve ever met,” He sighs, pulling him over into a corner of the club. “You seriously don’t know?” He grins, his bunny teeth hooked over his bottom lip as he looks down at Lando. Lando stares blankly at where one of Oscar’s shirt buttons have come undone, unable to look him in the eye when he tells him who it is. “I thought I’d been pretty oblivious that it’s you,”

No fucking way. Fuck off Oscar, that’s not fucking funny mate. His lips are locked shut, his jaw hanging lax but his mouth sealed close. Speak Lando, say fucking anything. You’re not even intentionally holding back, your teeth aren’t touching for God's sakes! 

“No you don’t” A barking laugh emits from the Australian who shakes Lando by the shoulders. “No, no you don’t like me Oscar,” It’s a dream that’s too good to be true. In no universes does Oscar Piastri ever like Lando Norris back- and especially not this one.

“Not sure you get to make that call,”

“You don’t,”

“Ah, but I do Lan,”

“I like that,”

“Lan, Lan, Lan,” He chants, his voice echoing in Lando’s head in a dreamlike, wistful tone. “Lan, I really like you. Not Logan, not Liam, not Guanyu. I like you,” His smile is huge, almost too big to seem sincere.

It’s too good to be true.

“If this is a joke, I’d rather you just stop now. You’re painfully unfunny with this,” He pulls away, turning to where he sees George’s lanky figure pumping a fist into the air while dancing. He has a drink in his hand, one that Lando desperately needs another of so he can forget about this. 

Except, he can’t move. The sturdy grip of an arm around his waist keeps him in place, unmoving and trapped. “I’m offended you’d think I’d lie about that, Lan,” Oscar’s voice is shaking with nerves, his heart pounding against Lando’s back. “Because I really fucking like you, so stop calling me a liar.”

Looking over his shoulder, he sees all he’s ever wanted right in front of his eyes, this moment, this is better than he could predict a first win could be. He’s got it, he’s got Oscar. He just.. Fuck, he needs his mouth to work again. “I like you,”

“I’m fond of myself too, thank you Mr Norris,”

Lando fights off the intense urge to push Oscar away and roll his eyes. The moment is too good anyways, he doesn’t mind how annoying Oscar is. “Shut up and kiss me,”

It’s even better than every podium and every F2 win combined. Oscar’s mouth is warm and wet, inviting, his lips moulding against Lando’s to fit them into place. Oscar’s small hands reach up to grip onto the sweaty curls on the back of the Brit's head, forcing him closer to taste him better. Their noses nudge against each other, their tongues fighting for dominance just like on track.

“You- fuck- you’re such a good kisser,” Lando licks along Oscar’s bottom lip, panting for a break to enjoy and relish the moment. His head is spinning violently, and the kiss is to blame far more than the alcohol. “Just wanna,” He pants, grabbing Oscar’s face in between his hands and shoving his lips against the younger boy’s. 

“Fuck Lan, that hurts,” He laughs, pushing him backward into another guy’s back, his own hand on his stomach. “You’re so aggressive,” The grin he has on is contagious, and Lando knows it’s the only smile he wants to see for the rest of his life.

Oscar is the only person he ever wants to make laugh again.

Lando shrugs, attaching his mouth back onto Oscar’s sweaty neck, and fuck, it’s the best decision he’s ever made. The Australian’s neck is so thick and biteable, which is never a thought Lando has ever had about someone’s body part, but it’s all he wants to do right now- litter the pale skin with purple and red hickeys. “Yes, please, that feels so good, Lan,” His mouth moves at a million miles to spew out praises for his teammate, urging him to keep going. 

Lando doesn’t need to be encouraged, he’ll willingly do this til the end of time.

“Ha-h-hotel,” Oscar spits out, grabbing Lando’s wrist and tugging him out of the club closely after him. “Wanna- wanna kiss you without everyone around us,” On the way out, he squeezes Logan’s waist as they pass by him. The blond is dancing with his arms around Alex, surprisingly, not around any girl. And in actuality, there aren’t any girls around him. 

Oh, that’s why Oscar was so excited when Lando said that Alex likes Logan. He was also likely lying about Logan being with a bunch of girls because based on how comfortable they both look, they've been dancing together the whole night. Lando didn’t even know that it was that way for either the American or the Thai man.

He'll definitely need to talk about this with Alex.

Logan’s head whips around as he sees Lando basically attached to Oscar and his blue eyes widen, a grin of excitement on his face. “You fucking did it, Osc!” Oscar nods wildly, raising his eyebrows in congratulations to Logan in return. 

The two will likely discuss more of both of their situations at another time, but right now, Lando shamelessly wants Oscar all to himself.

Time seems to be passing by too quickly for Lando to even comprehend each moment, as before he knows it, he’s in a taxi and his mouth is back on Oscar’s neck, clearly successful in his plan to leave as many hickeys as possible.

Looks like they’re gonna hurt like hell in the morning. 

“Osc, Osc, Osc,” He pants, his teeth feeling strangely numb as they graze over the same patch of skin for what feels like the thousandth time. “Does Logan like Alex?” He’s met with the sloppy kiss of Oscar battling to get to his tongue again. 

He’ll take that as a yes.

“Uh huh. It was never Lo and I, it was me wanting you, and Lo liking Alex.” He grumbles, upset when Lando pulls away for a breather. Clearly, Oscar has a kissing stamina that Lando simply can’t keep up with. “Lannn,” He whines, his hand meeting Lando’s cheeks to direct his mouth back to his own.

“Osc, you are more of a whiny brat than Carlos,” Oscar’s smile drops and his eyebrow raises. Lando laughs harder, pecking Oscar’s lips but being met with a twist of his head away and refusal of kisses. “Don’t be like that, Piastri,” The words all slur together, so it’s probably the weakest delivery of a threat possible.

“Don’t compare me to Carlos,” He warns, his eyes squinted to make him look ‘scarier’.

With a huff, he finally caves. If he and Oscar are gonna be like this, he’s gonna have to sort out a way for his best friend and hopefully his boyfriend to get on well. “Fine. You are more of a whiny brat then I am whenever I don’t get a podium,” 

“Wow. I’ll stop complaining so much. I must be really irritating right now,”

With an eye roll, he finally gets Oscar to properly kiss him back. “I love you just a little bit, Osc,”

“Love you more, Lan,”

I'm actually so surprised I started writing this about a week ago with the intention of Lando winning the miami race in the book but then he actually won and decided i would write a separate story about that 🙃. Anyways congratulations to Lando for his first win. carlos and oscar need to stop beefing but it is a good plot point so! also, the original top 11 finishes in the book are as listed to make more sense; Max Verstappen, Lewis Hamilton, Sergio Perez, Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, Esteban Ocon, Fernando Alonso, Nico Hulkenberg, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Logan Sargeant.

[twilghtkoo]

saying “its hot in here” and then undressing in front of my bf

— part of the bf!haechan x reader tiktok series

genre. suggestive,, nothin happens LOL sorry

warnings. haechan is in love with y/n’s tits, a minor spoiler of the jjk manga if ure an anime fan TT

pairings. idol!haechan x reader (f)

click here to be added to a taglist so you’re notified when i update ₍˄. ̫.˄₎

taglist @haechanswaifu @flower-lise @neoteez01 @kimsubin05 @hiraarri @jaehyunsjasmine @lolalee24 @xuzixushi @notbeforelong

“you’re so annoying!” you groan, turning around with your arms crossed and a pout worn on your face.

before you could storm off, your boyfriend stops you by grabbing the cloth of your shirt. making you stumble on your feet from the pull.

“here, you big baby.” he says after pushing you down on his leg for you to sit, holding out a his ice cream cone. it was the last one in the dorm, you were in the bathroom when you heard a plastic unwrapping and you already knew what he was opening. you ran out the bathroom to get one bite from your very sweet, sharing, caring boyfriend. it was tough.

him being stupidly a bit stronger than you, and taller, he was almost to the waffle cone.

you instantly smile as he holds his vanilla cone in front of your lips, you bite a generous amount, moaning at the cold sweetness. you lick your lips before giving hyuck a peck on his cheek.

he warmly smiles and gently pats your waist, before you hop off and continue reading the new chapter of jujutsu kaisen off your phone, plopping yourself on the couch. and your boyfriend continues his work on his laptop.

as your reading and soaking up yuta’s panels and his beauty with the snake and fangs seal on his tongue and both sides of his mouth, you realize you’re starting to get hot. it’s still a bit cold outside despite it being spring, but you remember haechan saying taeyong is sensitive to the cold, so they have the heater on sometimes.

tossing your phone next to you, you push yourself up from your couch.

“its hot in here, bubs.” you said out loud.

“i told you the heater would be on, taeyong-hyung is fragile like a bird.” he giggles to himself at his own teasing jokes, as he swiftly turns to glance at you.

“oh.”

he does a double take and his eyes get bigger.

“oh you’re hot hot,”

he pushes his chair with his legs to stand up in front of you, “are we- are we, you know..” he stutters, staring at the heart line of your breasts, that are unfortunately hidden behind your sports bra. “you uh, you want the-the fan on?”

you giggle at how easy he gets nervous when you’re undressed, your shirt held in your hands.

he takes a step forward, his intense glare that starts with your eyes, then your lips, then your neck, and your chest. it makes you blush.

“it is getting hot in here.” he sneakily reaches to rest his hands on your hips. bringing you in closer to him.

your chests pressed together.

“you’re also hot.” he blurts out, glancing back up at your face.

your lips slowly forming a smile as you were too distracted at staring at your boyfriend’s lips. you’re guilty, they’re just so soft and just there, you cant help it. you love them.

“i am?” you bring your bottom lip between your teeth.

“yes. very. are we gonna have sex or not, im getting hard just because your tits are pressing against me.” he whines, bringing his head down to nuzzle in the crook of your neck, giving the exposed skin small kisses.

“let’s go you horn dog, my bra isn’t even off.” you tease him, dragging him to his bedroom.

“so?!”

[what-i-call-men]

Jiggle physics

Jeff Pfister x female!reader

Warnings: SMUT, dominant reader, sub Jeff, some degradation towards Jeff, a bit of voyeurism at the end (reader finds out mutt saw the whole thing)

Request: My fic thought for the night (up for grabs) but it’s Jeff pfister. Reader is a dancer/instructor and Jeff studies her for “jiggle physics”. Thought is definitely a smut

One again I am stealing a picture from @copy-of-a-cheeto because I love the icons they make. Thank you!!

Also thank you to @divineruler for proof reading

It was another day for you to begin with. You were working at a small gym in town after your other job hadn't really worked out. You were freshly graduated from college and needed somewhere to work while you looked for other opportunities, a gym was your best option. Now you weren't an avid gym person, but you did enjoy dancing so you ended up instructing a Zumba class. It was more of a hip hop class because your gym was right near a college town, and early 00s Spanish didn't reach college kids as much as hip hop and rap music.

This week you had specifically scheduled a dirty Thursday class, uncensored music and a lot of confidence boosting music. You were doing your last few songs, pushing everyone to their "sexy limits" as you put it. You had stripped off your tank top, now just in your sports bra and leggings. When you were stripping off your top, you had a few of your regulars whistle or cheer, some even joining you as they knew the choreography. You ended your last high energy song and started your cool downs, opting to leave the shirt off as you were definitely sweating right now.

The slow sounds of Just the two of Us by Grover Washington jr played through the speakers as you instructed your class to stretch out. As you faced them, you couldn't help but catch a glance of blonde hair from outside the glass doors to the room. It looked familiar but you couldn't put your finger on it as you continued your instruction. After you finished your cool down, you moved to gather your things as some of the students chatted with you. One of your best friends had walked out to run to the locker room and came back, running up to you and pinching your arm a bit. "You'll never guess who is outside looking for you." She whispered so others wouldn't hear.

Turning to her you rubbed the now pained part of your arm and raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Um I don't know, Ryan Reynolds ready to sweep me off my feet?" You asked and reached down to pick up your gym bag and tank top, choosing to toss it in the bag rather than putting it on. Your friend followed you out of the classroom with the rest of the remaining class. "No, it's fucking Jeff and Mutt from high school." She whispered and nodded to the front desk where they stood, talking to a receptionist. You looked at them for a second.

"And they have those same dumb haircuts from when they were 12." You choked back a quiet laugh as you approached the front desk. Mutt saw you first and then elbowed Jeff to look up at you. "Hey boys, long time no see." You said and walked up to the pair, holding out your membership card to the front desk people to clock you out. "What warrants such an abrupt visit from the resident horny weeb club." You said and led the boys out, your friend keeping a close distance behind the group.

"Hey y/n, can we talk to you alone? We have a job offer for you?" Mutt said and glanced at your friend. You stopped outside the gym and nodded to your friend to go to the car you shared. "What job could you two possibly have for me? Last I heard you guys were just trolling random people online and spam liking my Instagram pictures." You said and crossed your arms. You weren't really friends with the two in high school, but you did have a friendly teasing relationship with them, rather than really making fun of them like others did. You were really only nice because you never knew who'd end up going crazy, and you'd rather not be on someone's shit list.

"We recently ran into... a lot of money. And we wanted to hire you at our robotics company." Jeff said and gestured excitedly at you. He definitely was on something from the way he had a shake to his hands. "Uh... you two know I majored in archeology? I don't know the first thing past how to google." You said and looked mainly at Jeff. God if he didn't have that stupid haircut still, you'd be tempted to say he got hot. He's got a pretty good body and he looked pretty good in comparison to Mutt. It would help him a lot if he didn't still dress and look like he was 12.

"We're aware. It has nothing to do with your degree. Here, this is what you'd make if you come to work for us." Mutt grabbed a card from his pocket and a pen that hung from your bag pocket. When he handed you the paper you had to blink at the numbers for a second. "Annually?" "Weekly" Jeff corrected your question. You stared at the paper for a second. "How do I know you guys aren't just high or something? How'd you even find me?" You asked and Mutt and Jeff looked at each other before Jeff grabbed his keys from his pocket. He clicked the unlock button and a Rolls Royce beeped from where it was parked only a few spots away from where you stood. "If you're interested come pay us a visit." Mutt pointed at the business card he had handed you and the two walked to the car before you could say anything.

When you got home of course you researched the company name on the card. Kineros Robotics had made actual headlines and pictures of the men were on different sites about their sudden influx of money to their company from a generous anonymous donation. You glanced at the card and pursed your lips before pulling up Instagram, going to Jeff's page, glancing at the pictures he's posted and biting your lip. God you could really tell he was either still a virgin or very submissive in some sense. He wasn't like any of the gym bros that hit on you or messaged you. With a small surge of courage, you hit the 'message' button and typed out a quick text.

After messaging back and forth about the job opportunity for about two days, you found yourself standing outside the main entrance to the robotics lab. You walked down the hall to see glass doors and just a buzzer. You buzzed and were quickly let in. "You guys should get a receptionist or someth-" your words were cut off when you saw what was really in the room. There were humanoid robot figures and a lot of latex parts just laying around. A lot of these parts were tits or asses, all different shapes and sizes but there seemed to be something off with all of them.

"Hey I'm glad you made it. You can set yourself up in the room over there." Mutt said as he stared down at his computer. The room was all white, some windows around but pretty much all of them had shade covering them with little to no light peeking through. There was a pile of white powder sitting at each desk. Oh so they were coked out and making sex dolls. What the actual fuck did this have to do with you? "Set my stuff up...?" You asked softly and Jeff stood from his desk to lead you to the room.

"I didn't tell you what you were here for?" He asked as he opened the door to the next room. You shook your head and looked at the hardwood floor and speaker set up. "We need you to be a model. See... our last few latex prints came out... less than desirable- jiggle wise. Our math was way off and we need these to be as real as possible." Jeff said and walked to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. "I need you to put this on so we can monitor your motions to make our robots more realistic." He said and handed you what was barely any cloth. It looked like those dotted suits superheroes wore so their suits could be cgi but instead of a suit it was a bikini top and what is pretty much a skimpy pair of bottoms that were basically bathing suit bottoms with how little they covered.

"Jeff, you didn't mention this." You said and took the clothes slowly as he headed back out to the door. "Just put those on and I'll be back in a few." He said and glanced over your body again quickly before closing the door. You decided to send a quick text to your best friend- just a "here's what I'm doing in case I get murdered" text. After that you slipped the clothes on and stared at yourself in the mirror beside the little cabinet. You could tell this was a makeshift dance room. That was probably what they were looking for. Good thing jiggle physics was your thing in class.

Jeff came back a couple minutes later with a laptop in his hands. He stopped and gulped when he looked over your body in the skimpy outfit, quickly opting to sit on the ground as he monitored the points on the laptop. "Go ahead." He said and positioned the laptop on his lap, having to adjust himself a bit a couple of times. "Jeff... I need music." You said and moved to grab your phone, nodding to the speaker system, him shrugging and letting you do so. As you leaned over the speaker you glanced in the mirror beside you and he was very much staring right at your ass. God if he wasn't such a virgin you'd probably be disgusted. That was probably why they didn't know the right jiggle physics for a woman's body.

You started playing some of your best twerk music, trying to shake off how weird it was to have just Jeff staring at his computer then back to you as you danced. You tried to just close your eyes and get into the choreography as you ignored the awkwardness of Jeff obviously having a boner and you just twerking for him to collect data. You did a few hip swirls and then some quick shakes, glancing at yourself in the mirror. Honestly as you looked you didn't realize you had given Jeff a perfect look of your ass. He ran a hand through his hair as the song began to wrap up. You went to your phone to change the song and decided to strike up a small conversation.

"So… are you getting good data?" You asked and just got a simple nod from Jeff, his stupidly cute bowl cut bobbing back and forth as he nodded. "So you're making sex robots huh?" You asked as you looked through your playlist nonchalantly bending over a bit to give Jeff a good view of your chest. He once again responded with a nod as you started the next song. It was a bit more sexy than the last one. "Why don't you monitor the jiggle physics of sex then?" You asked as you lowered the volume of the song, starting your choreography, which included some moves where you're on the ground, shaking and bouncing as if you were riding someone. "I'm sure they are more accurate than me dancing." You said as you pushed yourself down to the ground chest first with your ass up and facing Jeff.

He adjusted a bit and you moved yourself a bit closer to where he was seated as he chose not to answer you. "If you want more accurate results Jeff, you need the jiggle physics of sex." You stated and gently moved the computer off his lap, placing it on the ground as you gently moved to straddle his legs. "The reason you and Mutt can't get the math right is because you need to really experience a woman's body during sex and neither of you could rope in a girl to fuck you for science. Am I right?" You asked Jeff as you leaned into him, settling yourself on his lap. His face was so red as his eyes kept flicking from your chest to your face. He just nodded silently to your question.

"Jeff, I'm gonna need you to verbally respond to me. I want to hear you say it." You said and ran your hands from his shoulders and down his chest. He took a deep shaky breath. "Fu- I need you to fuck me for science." He said softly and looked up to you as you tutted at him.

"No honey, the other thing." You said and pushed your fingers under the hem of his shirt. He gulped and took in another breath. "I can't get anyone to fuck me. Please y/n I need you." He pretty much whimpered under you as you pushed up to the balls of your feet, leaning forward and beginning to shake your ass a bit from where you sat on his lap. You rolled your hips slowly forwards and pushed your chest against his, leaning up next to his ear. "That's better." You whispered and then left a small wet kiss under his ear. Slowly working down his neck in small wet kisses and sucks.

You could feel his body tense as you reached down between you and gently palmed at him. God you could tell how hard he was without looking. You smirked a bit and continued to suck small hickies on his neck and under his ear as you quickly undid his button and fly, grabbing his dick from his boxers. Wow if you would've known he was packing you probably would've slept with him in high school, but everyone just assumed he wasn't and that was why he didn't get girls. You pumped him slowly and you could hear him let out small moans and whimpers, wanting to stay quiet on the off chance Mutt heard over the music.

As you pumped him you gently bit his earlobe to get his attention. "If you wanna get inside me baby, you gotta help me out." You said quietly and he nodded and willingly let you take his hands and place them on your ass. He gave a small gentle squeeze and you smirked as you felt him twitch in your hand. "God... fuck... holy shit..." he muttered as you rolled your hips against his thighs, wanting to at least stimulate yourself a little bit.

"You wanna make sure my monitoring is ok baby?" You whispered and he glanced over at the laptop, still reading the outfit you wore. You grabbed his cock again, now moving yourself to push your bottoms to the side. Slowly sinking down on to him, you could've sworn Jeff came right then. And he did. But that wasn't going to stop you from helping him out for the 'sake of science'. You grabbed his hands and placed them on your waist so as to not interfere with his readings. Slowly you began to bounce on him, feeling all parts of your body begin to bounce. Jeff was letting out the most sinful noises. Honestly it sounded like he only knew what moaning was from women in porn, but you didn't mind- honestly it was hot to have him be so responsive.

"Oh baby you're gonna be too loud, Mutt might interrupt us and you wouldn't want that would you? Don't want him to find you moaning like a whore for me." You said lowly as you reached up to gently squeeze his throat. He closed his mouth and nodded at you as you continued to bounce on him. God you could tell how close he was to coming again, but lord knows you weren't done with him. His moans got quieter but he still let out small whines from below you. You reached down to rub your own clit as you bounced on top of him. "Fuck baby, you wanna fuck me so bad? How about you get that data you need by pounding me from behind?" You muttered and climbed off of him.

He barely questioned you when you did so, only whining a little at the loss of contact. As you turned around and got on your knees, pushing your ass up in the air, he quickly moved to his own knees, pushing into you and beginning to thrust at a rapid pace. You could definitely tell his knowledge of sex is from video games and porn because he kinda went wild. He pounded hard and you couldn't help but moan out as he grabbed your waist with a tight grip. After he got a hang on his speed, he reached forwards and pulled you up, pushing you against the mirrored wall he had been leaning against, he paused momentarily to undo the bikini top, and as soon as it dropped to the ground he was grabbing your tits from behind.

You pushed back against him, your face now pushed against the foggy mirror as he thrusted into you hard. "Fuck.... fuck y/n." He grunted out quietly as his thrust became more sporadic and sloppy. You could tell he was gonna come again, so you reached behind your head and grabbed his hair firmly. "You're not coming again until I cum. You fucking hear me?" You groaned as he continued to thrust into you. He nodded and reached around in front of you, fumbling for your clit for a moment before you corrected his hand placement and showed him the correct movement. He rubbed quickly and in pace with his thrusts, you could tell from his look in the mirror that he was trying so hard not to cum.

As soon as you finally reached the edge, you let out a loud and pretty pornographic moan of his name mixed with some swearing and praises. "God... fuck Jeff you feel so good in me. I want you to cum baby. I want you to cum in me baby." You thrusted back on him and kept your hand firmly tugging at his hair. It was only seconds before he was coming in you, his own face twisted in pleasure as you looked at him through the mirror. He slowed to a stop and slowly removed himself from you. You only caught your breath for a couple moments before there was a knock on the door.

"Hey those were good readings, we're gonna need you here again tomorrow so we can get some other position readings." Mutt called through the door. You looked at Jeff. "Could he see the reading the whole time?" You asked Jeff quietly. He bit his lips and nodded. "I assumed you knew because you saw this room through the glass when you walked in." Jeff said and pointed to the mirror which was in fact a one way mirror you had seen walking in from the lab, which you falsely assumed was a window because of the shade. "So mutt saw the whole thing?" You asked softly, slowly piecing everything together. Jeff nodded, scared you were gonna be upset. You only shrugged and reached over to gently grab his throat again. "Guess now he knows how good of a whore you are for me then." And god if he hadn't just come, Jeff probably would've come again from that action alone. Damn you were gonna have fun working here.

[thinkingoutlouddblog]

butterfly effect: one

His mouth is slightly ajar, surely shocked to be seeing the girl of his past so far from where he had left her. I myself try to compute what I am seeing, but my brain is running so fast from the adrenaline, the gravity of what is occurring hardly registers.

It’s Harry, and he’s here and the two of you need to get out of there right now.

Word Count: 6k+

Includes: mob!h, mentions of blood, scary dudes late at night, and the set up for my favourite story I’ve ever written!

A/N: guys I am so excited about this story! I swear writing this is the only thing holding me together (so don’t let it flop lmao). It is 2AM pray for me.

My inbox is open for anyone who wants to chat about this series! I love to gab, and constructive criticism is very much appreciated. I want this to be as good as possible!!

butterfly effect masterlist // my masterlist

now

It is not until it is already too late that I realise I should have just ordered an uber.

Alex was very insistent that I order one home from my late shift at the pub. He had even offered to split the cost, knowing without needing to ask this was the cause of my hesitation. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it. Strictly speaking, I could. I was just keenly aware of the amount of material I could buy with the amount a late night uber in London would cost me. I would never take him up on his offer. He needed the money just as much as I did.

“It’s okay, I’m good for it,” I gave him a little smile. He was sitting in front of his mirror in his room, midway through getting ready for work. I had simply come to say goodbye before I left for my shift when he had grabbed me by the hand and demanded I ordered an uber home.

“Babe, you have to promise me.”

“I promise!” I stared exaggeratedly into his eyes as I spoke, emphasising my honesty.

In that moment, I made peace with the money I would be losing from my fabric budget. I calculated this budget, of course, by subtracting living expenses from my weekly income. My best friend wanted to make sure I got home safe, wanted the peace of mind while he was working that I would be fine. Who was I to say no to that?

“Make sure you text me when you get into the uber and once you make it up to the apartment.” My chest flooded with warmth at the love and care in his voice. It was moments like these I really sat back and thanked my lucky stars that Alex was in my life.

So, of course I was just going to bite the bullet and order the uber. Of course.

Except, well.

I couldn’t help but think how quickly I got from our place to work. We had picked the apartment just one short month ago, heavily considering the advantage of its walking distance to my work. The King’s Arms was just one block up and down the road. It was barely a fifteen-minute walk. Shorter than that if I took the shortcut down the alleyway back to our block, saving me from walking further down the road and looping back around. It would probably take me longer to get home via uber, once you account for the time spent waiting for it to arrive.

A ten-minute walk home wouldn’t kill me, surely.

The contemplation was pushed from my mind for the duration of my busy Saturday night shift. It was my least favourite shift of the week, as I spent each week chasing after middle aged men getting rowdy in the excitement of watching whatever sport was on TV. The King’s Arm was small, but it was a local favourite known for its homey pub meals, reasonably priced pints and good atmosphere. Much to my contempt they didn’t keep a large staff pool, preferring a smaller, well-trained, reliable bunch. Which was great in theory until it left me to run around like my hair is on fire on a night as busy as tonight.

I was capable of serving everyone well and in a timely manner, but it wasn’t exactly a stroll in the park. More like a seven-hour long sprint, with a half hour break in the middle.

As the final game for the night ended, the crowd slowly but surely thinned until just a couple of small groups remained.

“Hey y/n, are you okay to lock up by yourself if I head home in five?” my manager, Rachel asked me half an hour before close. “I have some time I need to take back,” she added in explanation.

“Of course, you go get out of here.” I knew she wasn’t lying when she said she had some time to take back, putting in all sorts of extra hours to keep the place in tip top shape. I liked Nicola, and I had certainly been working there long enough to handle a couple of customers and lock up by myself. Even if I didn’t like Rachel and thought she was slacking off, I couldn’t exactly argue. She was both my boss and the owner’s daughter, probably not far off becoming the owner herself.

“Are you sure?” She asked, eyeing the few men still seated, probably triple checking she didn’t think they were any kind of threat.

“Yes,” I laughed, “now scram, before I change my mind.”

“Alright if you insist,” she said, already making her way towards her bag.

“Ring me if you need anything! Good night!” She called over her shoulder as she exited through the kitchen door. The cook had gone home ten minutes earlier, the pub serving only drinks the hour before close at midnight.

“Night!” I called back.

I made quick work of what little cleaning there was left to do, and gently reminded the remaining patrons we closed in half an hour. To my surprise they were agreeable and friendly, one of them instantly assuring me, “Don’t worry love we’ll be out of your hair soon, won’t make you stay back late.”

Usually the kind of people that were in the pub this late had no care for closing time, believing that pertained simply to whenever they decided they wanted to leave.

True to his word, everyone was out with ten minutes to spare and I was able to clean their dishes and tables with the remaining time they had granted me. I locked the door to The King’s Arms at 12 o’clock on the dot and riding the high of such an easy close, took not a moment in deciding I was in fact going to walk home.

To Alex: Just ordered an uber!

I felt guilty lying, but I would rather lie than have Alex worrying over nothing. I would be home in a flash, keys secured firmly in between my knuckles the whole way. I felt far safer on the move than waiting out the front of work for an uber anyway.

I kept a fast pace, left only to debate whether I took my shortcut or stuck to the street. I checked over my shoulder, and seeing absolutely no one around, made a quick right turn into the alleyway between two buildings.

I grabbed my phone from my back pocket as I heard the ding of a text notification. I glance down at my screen, reading as I walk.

From Alex: Amazing! I should be home in a couple hours, text me when you get home safe. Love you x

I don’t register the hushed growling tones as I continue making my way down the alley, still looking down at my phone as I type a simple ‘love you’ in reply. It isn’t uncommon to hear the conversations of tenants on the lower levels of these apartment buildings as you walk down the street. Walls are thin and many windows generally left open. It is easy to consign this particular conversation among the other non-threatening city sounds until I eventually look back up from my phone.

I am immediately faced with a most unfavourable scene, under the single light that illuminates this alley, are the two men who I now recognise to be the source of the argument I had barely registered. The first man is tall, dressed in all black, thick muscles protruding through his t-shirt. He towered over the second man who contrasted him starkly in his bright red adidas tracksuit. The tall man’s presence would be dominating the space, even if he didn’t have his dark forearm pressed firmly against the smaller man’s throat.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, stopping myself from yelping stupidly and drawing attention to myself. They haven’t noticed my presence. A witness to whatever it was that was occurring here.

“See all I’m hearing is excuses, bruv,” the tall man’s accent is distinctly that of someone from South London. His tone is aggressive, but even. He knows he has the upper hand and it is clearly not his first rodeo threatening people. This is exactly the kind of person I could’ve avoided encountering by simply ordering an uber.

I snap out of my shocked daze and start to turn to make a swift and stealthy departure. I’m no fool. I know there is a definitive gang presence around here. I also know, if you leave them alone, they too shall (hopefully)leave you. All hopes of making such an exit are of course foiled as soon as my foot connects with an empty beer bottle on my first step.

The two men’s heads snap towards me instantly. I expect the shorter man to ask for help, to say something, but his mouth remains clamped shut. Gang business. He is in a bigger mess than someone like me can ever save him from. The taller man’s eyes narrow. After the briefest moments of standing there frozen, caught, I spin on my heel and run as fast as my feet can carry me.

I run back to the route I should have taken, cursing myself all the way for being naïve enough to believe that nothing bad could happen to me on something as simple as a walk home from work. That women who were raped, kidnapped and murdered from off the street were somehow removed from me. That was something only on the news in my world. Not something that was possibly about to occur.

My heart hammers in my chest as I make the split-second decision, I am safer running all the way home than running as far as I can from the scene of the crime. I’m going to run all the way up the stairs to my fifth-floor apartment, and I am going to lock the door behind me. I turn the corner back up to my block, not slowing down for a second.

I am so quick in fact, that as I come flying around the next corner towards my apartment, I nearly barrel straight into someone. He was clearly walking with some pace too, because he narrowly prevents us crashing into each other head on, but he is a second too slow in his reaction time because I trip straight over his feet. I hardly even see him, even as I am falling straight over him. All I see is brown hair and a dark suit before I’m staring straight at the pavement flying towards my face. I barely manage to throw my forearms out to break my fall as I hit the pavement at speed.

“Jesus,” the man mutters, but the only thing I can hear is my heavy breathing and my own blood pounding in my ears.

I’m on the ground now, I register for a second before my flight response kicks back in.

I don’t even feel the sting of the scrapes with the adrenaline coursing through me, already attempting to scramble up and get as far away as possible from this stranger. “I’m so sorry!” I manage to call as I pick myself and my keys up, gearing up to get moving once more.

“Honey?”

No. It absolutely could not possibly be. There was only one person on this planet who had ever called me by that name.

I stop dead in my tracks. That voice. It’s deeper than I remember but undoubtedly familiar. Familiar seems too simple a word. That voice had echoed around the halls of my brain for years. Even now, six years later, it was not gone but buried, waiting for a simple trigger to spark my memory and bring that beautiful sound back to the forefront my mind. Some days I swear I remembered it like I had just heard it moments ago.

Except now, I really had heard him.

Slowly, I turned to face him.

His mouth is slightly ajar, surely shocked to be seeing the girl of his past so far from where he had left her. I myself try to compute what I am seeing, but my brain is running so fast from the adrenaline, the gravity of what is occurring hardly registers.

It’s Harry, and he’s here and the two of you need to get out of there right now.

Before he can verbalise any of the questions on the tip of his tongue, I grab his hand in my own, and yank him forward as I continue running home.

Realistically, I know that we now outnumber whoever it was that may be coming after me and I know even six years since I’ve last seen him, I am always safe with Harry. He proved that in many ways, and more than once, while I knew him. I was not, however, willing to risk the tall man pulling a knife on Harry. I didn’t even want to put him in a situation where it was a battle of fists. Though I did know from experience he could more than hold his own.

“What’s going on?” he yells as we run down the street, rapidly approaching the exit of the alleyway I had fled.

I gradually reduce our pace until we are speed-walking past the alleyway. Tempted as I am to see if they are still there, I keep my eyes trained forward, praying they aren’t there watching us as we pass by.

As soon as we have cleared it, I’m straight back to my running pace, forcing Harry to accelerate speed once more.

“I’ll explain inside,” I call over my shoulder in answer to his earlier question.

Now that I felt a degree safer with Harry’s presence, I had the capacity to feel thankful I had opted for a boiler suit and converse for tonight to accommodate for the Saturday night rush. This run would have been hell if I had worn a skirt and a heeled boot instead.

“Inside where?” He’s laughing as he speaks and as the fear loosens its grip on me, the déjà vu begins to battle for dominance. That laugh had brightened my every day for long enough to leave a mark on my soul. Fleeting as it was, that single sound reignited the shine it had once left.

His question was answered when we came to a screeching halt in front of my apartment. It took me two tries to input my security code correctly, my brain and hands both moving quickly, but not quite matching up. Eventually, the door clicked, and I was able to swing it open, tugging Harry in after me.

I didn’t stop dragging him along behind me until we had taken all five flights of stairs up to my apartment two at a time.

“y/n…” he attempted to grab my attention when we first entered the building, but I was not to be deterred until we had reached the absolute safety of my apartment. I shushed him, not wanting to receive a noise complaint from my new neighbours. I supposed having such a thought was a good sign, my consciousness beginning to register it was not in any imminent danger.

I huffed and puffed as we landed at the doorstep of apartment 5B, the place I loved to call home. Harry, I noticed, was barely short of breath. He had always been a runner when we were in high school. I wondered if he kept up the habit even now.

My hands shook as I located the correct key on my chain, body still shaking from the excitement of the events of the past five minutes. I struggled to align the key with the lock with my left hand, unthinking of the fact my right was still firmly in Harry’s hold.

“Let me,” he murmured, already moving his right hand to take the key. I said nothing, simply surrendering it over to him.

His hands were steady as anything as he turned the key, granting us entrance into my home. I released a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. I finally stopped just past the door, my back to Harry as he shut it behind him. I took a few deep breaths, trying so desperately to ground myself.

Was any of this even real? The sketchy characters I could believe in a heartbeat, Harry Styles’ presence, however, was harder to grasp.

But there his hand was, in my own, even if I couldn’t see him.

Harry stood back and let me take this moment to myself, keenly aware of how much I needed it. He knew I needed to take pause and re-centre myself otherwise I would only shut down. He was also aware of my injured state though, even if I wasn’t.

“y/n, you’re bleeding.”

“Oh,” my head snapped back to look at my arm. In the rush to get home, the blood from the scrapes on my arm had run down my arm and dripped into our connected hands. I quickly released my grasp on him. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“A little bit of blood never hurt anyone,” he quickly dismissed. “Unless you’re the one that’s bleeding, in which case you better get cleaned up as soon as possible.

“Luckily you have me here to play nurse. Just lead the way to the nearest bathroom,” he gave me a little cheeky grin, clearly trying to lift your spirits. The subtle playfulness is not as natural as it once was, but it is certainly reminiscent of our old dynamic. The surrealism of this whole thing goes straight to my head, clouding my ability to form full, coherent thoughts.

Somehow, I manage to come out with, “I think you mean our only bathroom,” in response.

He grunts a laugh, but he hasn’t missed the use of the word our.

I walk like a zombie, leading him through the hallway past the living room and the kitchen to the bathroom. I hold my forearms up in an attempt to redirect the flow of the blood and prevent it from dripping from my fingertips onto the floor. As I slowly came out of survival mode, my awareness of the stinging of my forearms became increasingly prominent. I was sure my hip and knees were going to be bruised pretty badly too. I really hadn’t managed to slow down at all before all my momentum came crashing into the cement.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” He asks upon our arrival to the bathroom.

“Under the sink.”

My eyes trail over the mess Alex and I had left in our rush to get ready.

I tend to procrastinate getting ready for as long as possible, busying myself with just about anything else. Generally, it will be tidying up the mess I’ve made during the day, only for me to create a whole new one in my hurry to get ready for my shift on time. Alex on the other hand, always leaves plenty of time to perfect his look before leaving for the night. Despite having the time to do so, he never cleans as he goes. Leaving his many products and deliberated outfits spread far and wide. Luckily most of his mess was confined to his bedroom, the only trace of him in the bathroom skincare and hair products (though there wasn’t a limited amount of those, either).

“I’m sorry for the mess,” I speak quietly watching Harry get his bearings, standing helplessly as I bled, hands still raised.

“Nonsense,” he doesn’t look at me as he speaks, jumping into action.

Harry turns the faucet on in the sink before opening the cupboard door and grabbing the first aid kid out. It was actually sort of a miracle Alex and I had one. It had been on a list of “Things You Need for a New Apartment” I had googled, scared we were missing important things. At the time, I had deliberated longer than necessary over whether to get one. I couldn’t remember the last time I had required anything more than a band aid for any given ailment. The deciding factor had been the memory of Alex getting into a couple of scrapes while out over the years. It had never been anything major, the worst injury he ever sustained being a bruised jaw, but it was better to be safe than sorry, I decided.

Turns out, that decision was for the best.

He gently touches his fingertips to my right arm, which had copped the brunt of it. With the softest touch, he delicately guided my arm under the stream of water. As I stepped forward to lean over the sink and wash away the dirt of the footpath, he stepped backwards, giving me my space.

I winced at the initial contact of the water as it ran red. I risked a glance at my reflection. Sweaty brow, the light lazy work makeup I had applied half off my face. I quickly diverted my gaze back to my injured arm. This was not exactly how I pictured our reunion. I had hardly ever even pictured it, I was so sure that I would never see Harry again.

I wondered if this silence was as heavy as I thought it was. Everything about him felt so familiar, yet so different. Up until this moment it felt like being in the presence of a friend, but now I realised, he was closer to a stranger.

I knew the person he once was, a sweet but fucked up kid who had been forced to become a man too early. Someone who had his walls a mile high around almost everyone. Almost. The boy who painted his nails on lunch breaks and was friends with everyone but somehow also no one. Until he was friends with me. Then he was the boy who always sat to my left from the first bell of the school day to the last. Back then, I knew him from the inside out, just as he knew me.

He was my greatest joy of those years. Then he was my greatest heartbreak. Now, he was just some guy I used to know who I had plucked straight up off the street, looking very out of place in what was clearly a designer suit in my tiny apartment.

He looked through the first aid kit as I ensured the entirety of the scrape was rinsed. It extended most of the way from my elbow to my wrist, but more pressingly in my mind, it now stung like a bitch. Once the water rain clear as it ran off my arm, I moved onto the much smaller and shallower scrape on my left elbow, working quickly to get it clean.

Most of the bleeding had stopped, only a few spots on my right arm still dotting with blood. I leaned over the sink to prevent the water from dripping onto the floor.

I cleared my throat, nervous to break the silence.

“Can you please grab me that towel?” I nodded my head towards the black hand towel hung behind Harry.

His eyes snapped upwards from the first aid kit he had been busying himself with. I was sure he had been surveying it more thoroughly than strictly necessary, trying to detract from the awkward energy which had crept up on us. We made brief eye contact through the mirror. My breath caught in my throat. The moment was over as soon as it began as he turned wordlessly to grab the towel.

He holds it in his hand, hesitating before handing it over, “Did you want me to…?” he trails off, growing awkward in his offer. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. She barely knows you, back off, he tells himself.

“No that’s okay,” I speak gently, and he quickly passes the towel to me. I get to work patting my arms down delicately.

“Thank you though,” I add, hating the unsure look on his face. I meet his eye, giving him a smile I hope is reassuring.

“Okay, let’s get you sitting down so I can fix you up,” he returns your smile with a slight upturn of the right side of his mouth.

I relocate to the little dining table Alex and I had bought at Ikea just a week prior. Harry isn’t far behind, washing his hands before joining me to tend to my wounds. He lays out everything he is going to need from the first aid kit before holding his hand out. Like an idiot, I stare at his hand without moving for a beat too long before jerkily offering my right arm up.

He laughs silently as he turns my arm over, analysing it carefully.

“So, do you often go for runs at midnight?” He asks as he unscrews the lid on the Vaseline.

“Yeah all the time. I just don’t normally take people from the street with me.”

“Is that all I am? A person on the street?” He tries to keep his tone light, but I can tell he was hurt by my choice of words.

I expect to feel guilty, but a burst of anger I thought I had long gotten over flares in my chest. It isn’t as red hot and overwhelming as it had been years before – I’d definitely had my fair share of time to cool off – but I’m still surprised by the sting of it.

He was the one that made himself a stranger to me, and now he’s upset when I’m stating the fact that he made a reality.

Despite myself, I tried not to come across too harshly in my response. I was never one for confrontation.

“I mean, I haven’t heard from you in six years.”

He is very careful not to lift his eyes from my injuries as he carefully applies the petroleum jelly. I stare down at him, desperate to catch his eye.

There’s a pause as I wait for him to offer some kind of explanation. Some perfectly good reason why my best friend and first love left town without telling me why, or where he was going, and then never contacted me again.

When he doesn’t fill the silence, I sigh as quietly as I can manage. You don’t really know him, I remind myself. I practically kidnapped him, I can’t just go asking him to rehash history. It was so clear that he was what he had wanted me to be. History.

“I just mean, I don’t really know you anymore. I’m sorry I grabbed you like that, I just,” I hissed at the sting of his first aid, “I was walking home from work and I saw these really sketchy looking guys.”

“Sketchy looking?” He finally looked up at me, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“Well I guess they didn’t really look sketchy in their appearance particularly, it was more the fact that one of them was practically choking the other. They were arguing over something. I think it was something to do with some of the gangs around here,” I attempted a nonchalant tone, not wanting to worry him. The less phased I seemed, the better. I had caused him enough trouble. The only thing that was probably stopping him from running for the hills and never looking back (again) was guilt.

I go on to explain how I’d kicked that stupid beer bottle and taken off running, “which is when I ran into you. I’m really sorry about that, by the way. I’m so glad I didn’t take you down with me I think I would’ve died of a mix of guilt and embarrassment right then and there.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Ho-“he cut himself before his mouth could form that name he had so affectionately given you. “I’m the one who feels guilty, if not for my big, slow feet you wouldn’t have bit the dust.” I laugh at his turn of phrase.

His face suddenly grows serious. “Your head is okay, right?”

Instinctively, my left hand shoots up to the back of my head, ghosting over the slight bump hidden under my hair. The scar tissue was ever so minimally raised, only perceptible to a knowing touch. I retract my hand bashfully, slightly embarrassed by my knee jerk reaction.

“It’s fine,” I match his serious tone, before lightening it up, “as you can see, I managed to break most of my fall,” I gesture to my right arm he has paused work on.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer, discerning whether he thinks I am downplaying anything. He picks up the dressing, moving onto the next phase of his treatment plan.

“And they don’t feel broken? You can move your wrists okay without too much pain?”

My heart swells at his concern. I stamp out the small joy as soon as it flared up. It’s guilt that’s fuelling him. Nothing else.

I shake my head no. He looks up once more, having missed the gesture in his concentration. “Sorry! No. All bumps and bruises. I’m fine honestly, I probably majorly overexaggerated the whole thing and freaked out for nothing. I’m really sorry about all this, its so late at night.”

“Don’t apologise,” he says firmly. “It’s not your fault and you did exactly the right thing by making a break fo’ it. You never know what could’ve happened. Ya’ know. Out late. By yourself. In the dark.”

My face burned red with shame, but also defiance. I knew what I did was stupid and extremely risky, but I also didn’t think I needed a lecture about it in this moment. The fear still coursing through me and my scraped-up arms were surely lesson enough.

“I could say the same thing to you,” I countered.

We both knew my argument didn’t hold up very well. He was a man out alone at night. There was obviously a risk there, but it wasn’t the same.

We also both knew, I wasn’t really trying to start a debate. Just signalling to him I didn’t want to get into it and wanted to move on.

“I was walking to the tube from a mate’s place,” he explained simply, letting me off the hook.

He had begun to tape the dressing down to my skin, securing it safely. He worked expertly. Even if I didn’t already know, I would have said this was one of many times he had done some at home first aid.

“In a designer suit?” I questioned. There were two things I was asking, but also not saying. Was this the kind of ‘mate’ you wine and dine before going home with them? And what happened to that poor kid from Holmes Chapel I once knew?

“I came straight from work.”

Jesus he wasn’t giving me a lot to work with in the way of details.

“Oh,” I say lamely, not wanting to pry. As much as I could tell myself (and him) that I didn’t really know him anymore and he was basically a stranger, it still hurt to be treated like one. We used to be so open with one another. The one thing I ever kept from him was how I truly felt about him.

“I work in finance,” he offers up after a beat of silence. “It uh- I’m pretty lucky to have the job I do,” he alludes to his financial standing, obviously wanting to acknowledge the contrast comparative to how I knew him. A boy not even of eighteen, fending for himself while trying to complete his high school education.

My face practically split in two with the size of the smile on my face at his words. “I’m so happy for you, Harry,” I say, hoping he can see how genuinely I mean it.

“Thank you.”

“Are you happy, H?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Internally, I kick myself. Externally, I try to keep my face neutral, yet interested. That’s a perfectly normal question to ask. Totally.

“Um,” he switches to my left elbow, making quicker work of the smaller wound. “I think so. In my experience you never realise how happy you are until you aren’t. But still, I think I am.”

“Good,” I say firmly. “I’m glad.”

“What about you?” He turns the questioning back on you. “What’s your story?”

“Oh, you know. The sad story of the girl chasing a dream,” I nodded my head towards the sewing machine stationed at the other end of the table.

“Don’t say that!” His tone jests, but he is serious as he speaks. “I think it would be far sadder if I discovered that your talent was going to waste. I’m really glad to hear that actually,” he half says the last sentence to himself, concentrating on fixing his dressing properly on the more difficult angle of my elbow.

“There you go,” he gleams as he admires his handy work. “Good as new.”

“Thank you so much, Harry. I’m so sorry for all this-“

“Not your fault,” he quickly dismisses.

“Even so, I’m sorry for all the trouble. I’ll pay for an uber home for you or something,” I try to come up with something to offer him that can even begin to repay him for his help.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?” His brow creases in concern.

“Oh, Alex should be-“ I smack a hand over my mouth, realising I never texted him to let him know I had gotten home okay.

“Oh fuck,” I remove my hand from my mouth. I gingerly fish my phone out of my back pocket, muscles beginning to protest, the impact of that fall settling in.

Four missed calls and a flurry of text messages. My phone had automatically turned onto ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode as scheduled at 12:30. I hadn’t been notified of any of it and he had definitely assumed the worst.

“Is everything okay?”

“I forgot to text him and let him know I made it home okay,” I don’t look up as I speak, opening our text chat.

From Alex: I’m coming home

Received ten minutes ago.

“Your boyfriend?” He questioned, keeping his face impassive. That had my head shooting up.

“Uh-“ I began, but cut myself off as the unmistakeable sound of heeled feet running up the stairs to our apartment ran out loud and clear.

Shit.

Before I could even think what to say next, Alex’s key was in the lock. The door swung open, smacking the wall with the force of it.

Both Harry and Alex’s brows hit their bloody hairline I swear. Or more accurately, Lexie’s.

There my best friend and roommate stood, in full drag, light catching the sequins of the pink mini-dress I had sewn myself. If I weren’t standing there with the guiltiest expression of my life, I would be thinking about how stunning she looked.

Harry looked between the two of you, as Lexie did the same. Both trying to catch their brains up to what they were seeing. I myself was at a loss for words. I probably should have started with, “Lex, I am so sorry,” but Harry broke the silence first.

“Wow, you look amazing,” he breathed, transfixed by the look Lexie had created. Drag was an art form, and she was quite the artist. He was not the first to become enchanted upon first look, and he certainly would not be the last.

Lexie narrowed her eyes at Harry, jaw falling slightly open at the audacity of the acknowledgement in this moment. She had little patience for besotted strangers in moments like this. Her narrowed eyes moved to mine, face filling with rage.

“Lex-“ I begin, but am cut off for what seems to be the millionth time tonight with the simple raise of her hand. The close of my mouth is instant. I was not about to make this any worse.

“Bitch, if you do not have a very good explanation for this,” she breathes deeply, trying to gain her composure, “I am going to fucking kill you.”

                                   ********

As soon as he is out of your apartment and onto the street, his phone is in his hand. Fingers not able to press to type the message fast enough for his liking.

From Harry: We need to talk. I saw her.

As soon as the message was delivered, he was returning the calls he had silenced in y/n’s presence. The moment she had turned her back and left him to wash his hands, he had turned his phone to airplane mode.

“Jesus Christ bruv, I thought you were dead,” Michael joked as soon as he picked up.

The two of them had parted ways for what should’ve been five or ten minutes. Harry hadn’t seen it happen, just heard the clatter of the beer bottle as it skated along the ground and the screeching halt in the argument. He had been waiting patiently for Michael to finish working in the shadowy doorway to the side. He hadn’t seen a thing, and he was sure from his concealed position, whoever had seen Mike hadn’t seen him. So, he obligingly offered to take a walk, ensure she hadn’t gone calling the police.

He had just been bored. Ready to go home and have a drink with Michael so he could have a bitch and a moan about work. It always left him feeling better when he returned on Monday. He was killing time, that was all. He hadn’t expected to stumble over the girl who had changed everything.

Harry didn’t take time to explain his extended absence, moving straight along to what he had called for. Just like Mike, he preferred to skip the pleasantries.

“I need you to subtly divert as much traffic from this block as possible,” he didn’t ask. He never asked. It was always an instruction with him. In this business, asking nicely didn’t exactly lend itself to going far.

“What’s this about?” Harry gritted his teeth. He did not enjoy having his authority questioned. The only reason Michael would get away with it was because of their pre-existing friendship. Even then. Harry was not exactly in a forgiving mood. Made all the worse when Mike added, “This isn’t about that girl from the alley is it?”

Michael had his answer when Harry said only, “Get it done or I’ll have your fookin’ head.”

chat with me about butterfly effect!

[king-maven-calore]

prompt #25 “your hair is really soft” for marecal please 😙

I did this and "10 cal and mare please. idc who says it lol"👀 in a single drabble, I hope you guys don't mind. It's a modern AU I guess

Cal had been volunteering at the Scarlet Guard summer camp for two seasons now, this would be his third. The first time he’d been here as moral support for Ptolemus, who’d been sent here for his community service sentence. Ptolemus had signed up again for the following summers for Wren, a med student in charge of the infirmary, and Cal kept signing up because he found out he loved working with children.

He always had a great time helping the kids, training them in archery and other sports, patting their backs when they got homesick, leading them on walks through the woods belting out marching songs, sitting with them at lunch, and making good use of his excellent puns arsenal. The kids had a blast, and he did too.

In this part of the Greatwoods Region, he found paradise. His dad disapproved and Maven did not understand but was he too happy to mind.

It would have been a shame if he’d proven them right on his third year here when he almost died out of sheer stupidity. But could he be blamed? Could he be blamed when the five new counselors got down from one of the early buses and one of them looked like that?

Among the newbies, there was a petite girl with golden skin that seemed to sparkle under the early morning sun. She jumped down from the bus and a cloud of dirt exploded around her already dirty Vans, her toned legs were generously exposed under her jean shorts, and the lines of her abdomen peeking out from under the camp’s counselor reglementary red polo shirt as she stretched and arched her back to tie her dyed brown and purple hair in a bun, scowling at her surroundings with something akin to distrust. She was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in such a violent way... was it really his fault he didn’t pay attention to the lightbulbs he’d been changing at the side of the dining hall, perched atop a rickety ladder 10 feet above the ground? It wasn’t. Electricity didn’t give a shit about whose fault was it though when he blindly stuck his hand in the exposed wires next to the light socket.

A white explosion, sparkles, and a sensation of being pulled away at 1000 miles per hour.

Next thing he knew, he was on his back and there was a warm mouth against his. Warm, soft, insistent— on breathing air into him. And good god, this person smelled like heaven; jasmine and rain. Much to his dismay, the scent and the mouth left him and his chest started getting crushed in rhythmic, urgent motions.

Cal gulped air and shot upright. He was surrounded by 20 consternated young faces and one barely inches away from his face. Beautiful, wide brown eyes, thick long eyelashes that brushed against high cheekbones when the girl who’d just saved his life blinked twice.

“Dude.” Kneeling next to him, the girl with the purple hair knitted her brow. “What the fuck?”

And Cal couldn’t help but smile at her. A reflex. She was even prettier up close.

“I think we should check for brain damage,” a blond with bottle green eyes muttered.

Oh, but his brain was fine. It was his heart he should get checked, for he’d just been struck by Cupid’s arrow.

And electricity, of course. The smell of burnt hair, clothes, and flesh reminded him.

The result of that encounter turned out to be quite positive. Yes, he got a second-degree burn on his right hand and a dislocated shoulder from the fall but he refused to be sent home, it had been worth it to get to meet Mare Barrow.

She was 18, from Albanus, only here for the money, best friends with the blondie jokester and— as he learned after a dubiously moral social media stalking session —single and interested in men.

The only thing he regretted from that “meet cute” was that he’d been mostly unconscious (technically dead) for 99% of the time her lips were on his.

He lived for the moments they crossed paths during their daily activities around the camp. His heart grew in size about five times when she teased him and lightly punched his stomach or ruffled his hair.

Ptolemus cocked a brow but kept his mouth thankfully shut when Cal decided to start sitting on the counselor’s table during dinner instead of with the kids, as he had grown accustomed to.

It was miserable and extraordinary how he even found the way she ate her food endearing. More often than not, miserable because he couldn’t A: get her to like him, for she was too laser-focused on doing her job efficiently and getting the hell out of the camp; B: touch her as casually as she did with him because his hand was bandaged, and C: relationships between counselors were strictly forbidden.

By the time his hand was healthy enough to be of any use, three weeks had passed and he was head over heels, neck-deep (to not use other body parts for reference), stupidly in love with the sarcastic girl who had put her own breath into his lungs, challenged him every time they got the chance and looked at him like she wanted to sink her hand into his ribcage to take a bite out of his heart. Needless to say, he wanted to touch her. Badly. Ok, maybe do a bit more than 'touch', but you get the idea.

His excuse was handed on a silver platter by one of his favorite campers, Luther Carver. The kid who was usually off-standish and grim— just misunderstood, in Cal’s opinion – had signed up for the braiding lessons that Mare was unhappily in charge of.

On his way back from the lake, his crew of kids trailing behind him, he passed along the group of girls and Luther taking their lesson, sitting in a circle on the grass between the pine trees. An idyllic image of children focused on their task, and Mare’s poorly concealed discomfort as she sat on a log bench and supervised the activities, biting the inside of her cheek, elbows on her knees. It should be illegal to be that beautiful without meaning to.

“Hi, Cal!” Luther chirped as a girl behind him stared with furious determination at her handiwork. “How does my hair look?”

Cal signaled for his group to keep walking back to the camp and approached the small clearing.

“It looks amazing, buddy!” Cal gave him a thumb up. To be honest, his braid of long black hair was slightly (very) crooked to the left, and Mare noticed. She hid her laugh behind cough and a fist. “It is very original.”

Luther beamed and turned slightly to wink in his fellow camper’s direction. The girl blushed and giggled and Cal wanted nothing more than to give them a bear hug and tell them how smart and kind they were. Kids were the best thing in this world. Especially when they said things like...

“Mare’s hair is still the same,” Luther sighed wearily. “Someone should do something about it.”

All the girls hummed and nodded in agreement and Mare closed her eyes and Cal could read her thoughts as she counted to ten.

“Fine, you guys win.” Ah, so her untouched hair had been a recurring topic. “Cal can braid my hair!” she said with fake excitement that went over the kids’ heads, thankfully. “If he knows how to, that is.” Her brown eyes locked with his in camaraderie, fully expecting him to turn down the task with some excuse to appease their audience.

“Ok,” he shrugged happily as he walked over to her and her smug face dissolved into a confused frown and the kids cheered.

He made a shooing motion with his hand and she moved to sit on the grass awkwardly while he took her place on the log bench, sitting with his feet placed on either side of her body.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered through gritted teeth so only he could hear her, craning her neck up to glare at him, when he started cracking his knuckles for dramatic effect.

Were this any other context, he would savor the warmth her body radiated to the inside of his legs. Not this context. Absolutely not.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he smirked down at her. “Now stop moving and let me braid your hair.”

With one last suspicious look, she heaved a breath and stared ahead as he tugged the scrunchie off her hair and let the brown and purple waves spill down her back.

Cal had no fucking clue how to do braid but how hard could it be? It was like a knot with hair. Right? He looked at what the girls sitting on the grass were doing. Ok, that seemed doable. He combed his long fingers through Mare’s hair to loosen any knots and... Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He successfully hid a shudder while Mare uninterestedly hugged her knees to her chest.

He was choking on his own breath. Her hair was so soft and the scent of it was so amazing it pierced his fingertips, reached his bloodstream, and shot to his head. Jasmine and rain like that first day. Cal stilled for a moment and blinked forcefully to regain some semblance of rational thought.

“What is it?” Mare muttered curtly. Was it his imagination or did it sound more like a gasp than scolding?

“Nothing,” he said and started imitating the nearest girl’s technique. No point in lying, he bent down to whisper in her ear. “Your hair is really soft.” It wasn’t meant to come out so raspy and needy, and still...

Mare turned to the side and they were face to face. She seemed offended, but not really, with a confused glare darkening her burning gaze, a lovely red tint spreading all over her cheeks and neck, slightly parted plush lips.

She looked on the verge of kissing him or punching him. Cal prayed and ached it was the former because she licked her lips, leaving a glossy sheen and he wanted nothing more than to...

“OHHH Mare and Cal sitting in a tree!” A girl squealed, pointing at them from across the clearing and suddenly 10 pairs of devilish eyes were on them and chanting. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

They jumped away from each other so fast one might think they had been electrocuted again as they rushed to explain that “No, they were NOT doing anything of the sort!”

[inheritorofmemories-archive]

TOG immortals and vices

Been thinking about the way half the guards smoke like chimneys in the comics, the consumption of alcohol shown in the movie, and what bad habits they would have picked up and never let go of throughout their lives.

So here, my little headcanons about which vices each of the immortals have:

(vices used loosely, more like bad habits or things they like that they cannot help or do without)

Andy and food. And sweet stuff.

She has known hunger and plain, out of necessity, food for so long she’ll indulge gods help her she will ingest as much sugar as she can get her hands on. Absolutely demolished Yusuf’s stash of sweets when they met her. She doesn’t like cooking, or baking, because it takes too much time and investment and feeding herself was a chore for most of her life but she loves to go out to eat. She absolutely hates the snobby michelin type restaurants with no food on the plate and stupidly long name and she’ll take a good meal from the corner food truck or that family held recipe over that pretentious crap any time of the day. Can only feel alive when eating food with enough spice in it to burn off anyone’s tongue but she also likes the greasy and filling stuff that sticks to your throat for hours. Food as a bonding experience for friends and family, she believes in the power of bread, good wine, sweet dessert and a full stomach. But mostly the desert to satisfy her huge sweet tooth.

Quynh and fashion.

That woman wouldn’t be caught dead in clothes that don’t fit or look ridiculous, you and I both know that. She’s reasonable most time and keeps their money in check but more than once she gave too many coins for a dress/tunic/shirt or a fabric that caught her eyes. In general she loves to take care of appearance, clean and combed hair styled nicely, clean and good clothes, makeup and jewelry that doesn’t look too bling but bring just enough class and bring attention. She likes beautiful things in general (aka her wife Andy but also that collection of knives she has that is centuries old, there’s some Damascus steel in there Joe found for her). Was definitely the one to dress the team and the one who took to new trends the fastest, even when she had Opinions on said trends. Would also be the type that would rather be overdressed than underdressed at an event, as opposed to Andy which makes for the funniest couple ever.

Nile and physical activity (not just sport, anything physical).

I see her as the kind of person who cannot relax and needs to be doing something at all times. She’s the eldest daughter in her family and in comics canon she had like 5 jobs before going into the army, tell me this isn’t the behavior of someone who hates to be idle because it makes her feel useless. She’s working out to process her emotions in the military base, and when Andy leaves to fight in the church she’s walking in circles trying to find something to do, go help Andy or pack or anything really. She’s absolutely the type to go for a run because she has nothing else planned and it clears her head, or the one to stress bake in the middle of the night to keep her hand busy, or who would learn to knit because reading isn’t enough to keep her brain in track she has to do something concrete with her hands. People telling her to calm down, stop jerking her legs or just take a day off awake strong murder urges in her. It’s not like she can help it so let her tear this piece of paper into smaller pieces of paper because she hasn’t been on run in days and she’s going crazy with pent up energy. Patience is vertue that never bothered to visit her.

Joe and arguing.

He loves to pick arguments. He’s the cerebral guy in the team and he will get into heated debates even if it pisses off him, the other person talking, everyone else around the table and the neighbors on the other side of the room. He can’t help it, that’s just in his genes to argue and share his opinions and confront the way other people’s brain work. The best kind of arguments are about the most pointless and petty things like how to drink your coffee, the best time to nap, which citrus is the best or the correct way to store books. The haggling falls under that category too, Yusuf “son of a merchant” al-Kaysani was raised right by his baba and he knows a scam when he sees one, no he will not calm down that price is twice it’s value, you thief.

Nicky and gambling.

He just likes it. Knows he shouldn’t but he enjoys the excitation of a bet and the risk involved and the thrill of winning too much to stop. As soon as an opportunity to bet arise it’s like a switch in his brain cut off all common sense coursing through him. He can hold back if the situation is dire but with enough teasing and ribbing he will take part even into the most stupid and useless bets, yeah, 20 bucks that chicken gets to the barn before the goat does. I have to thank @polarcell for this one, wouldn’t have thought of it without her posting about it and the image of calm and collected Nicky going feral over bets and just running headfirst into them is an incredibly humanizing quality that I appreciate.

Booker and alcohol.

Goes into the unhealthy side in the movie but I truly believe he’s the kind of man who would sell his kidney to get that bottle of good liquor he’s been eyeing all week, if not dying in the process, simply because he likes the taste of this one. The kind of man to be a snobby asshole over wine and good whiskey from time to time but mostly he wants to share it with his friends (ie. the small family that gets all the best alcohol he can find to drink with them). A bit of a social drinker I think too, like Andy with food: it’s best when it’s shared.

+ Bonus:

Lykon and adrenaline.

Have you seen the way that man smiled at Andy when he was almost gutted by a spear in a fight? You can’t tell me Lykon wasn’t the og Jackass back in BCE time. He can be calm and collected but present him with the opportunity to ride a wild beast or jump off a cliff/waterfall/ravine and he will do it. A bit of a thrill-seeker, often getting himself, and then Andy and Quynh too, into trouble because he just couldn’t help it, it seemed too fun. He’s here for a good time not a long one and a long one too. If he was still alive he would 100% be the kind to discover motorcycle, promptly dies about 10 times riding it too fast, and then enroll in a circus just to jump through on fire hoops every night. He would have been so thrilled when humanity started to invent stuff to fly too, just imagine him grinning as he jumps off a plane with the first-ever parachute strapped on his back.

[runolllo-fanboygirl]

---------------------------------

I'm going to start by clarifying that these are messages I got in response to my post here /// LINK /// After this, I'm not replying to messages about this kinda thing in a long time. Talking about sexualization and such other topics is important but I'm not in a state to be made the center of it. Please, don't come to my inbox asking for discourse, go and create your own posts if you want to raise awareness or vent.

And now to answer to these new asks:

FIRST OF ALL: while I love the way Murata draws men, robotic stuff, monsters... I actually HATE the way he draws ladies! I prefer their proportions in the OPM anime and games. Murata is literally SO BAD at drawing women compared to the level of expertise he has drawing men, and it's all ‘cos he keeps drawing ladies "the h0rny way". We all know this, let's move on.

"He's drawing all the monster girls sexualized" Did the fact that Manako's genre reveal deconstructs the trope "the default is male" totally go over your head? That Psykos's reveal as a woman running the whole MA was a big deal for this same reason as well? There are a bunch of female monsters… you just assume they're all male unless you see big b00bs and then complain about that very fact. They literally made a whole point about this specifically!

"He changed Mizuki's shorts to p4nties to please fanboys" I liked the shorts better too (just because I find her whole character design a bit more balanced that way) so that change bothered me as well, but the "p4nties" are actually standard athletic wear for competition. Shorts are not. Technically, she’s drawn more accurately now.

"Sports Bras don't work that way he just wants to draw b00bs" neither do the shirts and bodysuits the guys are wearing. You can see all their muscles and manb00bs and cr0tch lines, just as much as with Fubuki and Tatsu's hero outfits and Mizuki's top.

"But when the boys are drawn that way, it's not to please the ladies, it's male power fantasy" THERE IS NO HETEROSEXUAL MALE POWER FANTASY BULLSHIT THAT CAN POSSIBLY EXPLAIN THE WAY MURATA DRAWS GAROU, FLASH, SONIC, STINGER AND SOME OF THE OTHER GUYS. The fact is that the way he draws eye candy of them appeals to other collectives other than the cis het men and he knows exactly what he's doing. Period.

"He constantly draws sexualized art of Mizuki to please the fanboys" Why exaggerate so much? This is simply not true. She's a woman in athlete wear, most of the time she's either standing up talking or fighting, no weird angles or anything. There is like 1 sexy cover of her, the back cover with all the girls in bikinis and then that infamous watermelon sequence. That's all the sexualization you are talking about.

"Mizuki only gets so much screen time because of how much p0rn of her there is" oh yeah Mizuki got a grand total of, like, *drum roll* 1 chapter and a half dedicated to her! Wow! Which is NOTHING taking into consideration how dense Garou's arc is and the fact that they will need at least 2 seasons of the anime to finish it.

But think about this: OPM desperately needed more female presence, in special with the prospect of finishing Garou's arc in the anime. Making anime is hard and COSTLY. Most of the people who is going to watch the anime haven't read the manga and they'll be like "what the heck there are no female characters in this anime for like 3 seasons?" and there is no team that's going to risk it working with such prospects. We know why.

Of all the expansion that Garou's arc got in the manga adaptation (and later in the anime), one of the most sensible and balanced decisions was to add more ladies. They put all those monster ladies for season 2, and then for season 3 we get Manako and Mizuki having some strong presence, Shadow and Kamaitachi there a bit in the back too. It benefits the pace and balance of both the manga and the future season 3 so immensely because Fubuki, Tatsumaki and Psykos take a LOOONG while to be relevant during Garou's Arc… in special with all the filler the manga put in between (but all that filler is of the S-Class boys getting development and a reality check which is kinda important too lol).

Point is: the screentime Mizuki got was VERY necessary to balance things in between of all the relentless Garou fights and the boys being boys. Sure Mizuki is beautiful and sexy and all, but really EVERYONE was waiting for a new female character that was relevant, likeable, fun… and on top of everything, it's so rare to see a strong 2m tall girl in fiction in general, not even just anime. Everyone got instantly excited about her because she's exactly what we needed AND MORE. And sure, people draw p0rn of her like they do with most other popular characters, what did you expect.

"The ladies are always more sexualized-" YES, in the OPM manga, the ladies are a little more sexualized than the men –but not by much AND not during plot stuff. By that I mean that most of the so called "sexualizing the girls" happens in the covers, back covers and promotional art very exclusively, and not during the story itself. HOWEVER, a lot of the sexy men bits do happen during the story, curiously.

 In the anime though, there is almost zero ladies fanservice (which makes sense since there is almost no female presence in the first 2 seasons anyway). Yet it's full of naked dudes, sometimes for a good reason, but mostly just so we can look at them being sexy and silly.

 I personally don't care if the man candy and ladies fanservice is not perfectly even in Murata's manga adaptation, because there is enough of both in his work, as well as other official OPM stuff like the anime and games to bring a very nice balance in the s3xy department.

 "The way the women are dressed-" Most of the background ladies are wearing skirt uniforms and shit, but all the relevant ladies primarily dress in nothing you can call "sexualized" except for maybe Tatsumaki with her strong leg game. To recall:

 Lilly wears the same as the men of the Blizzard Group; Twin Tail just dresses like a jester; Mizuki is the first to show so much skin, but she's still wearing real standard competition wear for athletes. All the other sportwomen (Hornet and Swim) and martial artists (Shadow, Suiko, Lin Lin) wear standard clothes for their respective professions too. Sure we've seen Shadow wearing some, uh, ninja bikini thing under her ACTUAL work clothes, but for actual fights she's fully dressed and surprisingly not stuffed in a tiny nylon bodysuit that rips like stocking, like all the ninja men in the series do lmao.

Fubuki and Tatsumaki are, like, the only ones wearing dresses and they can because they use psychic powers anyway. Fubuki doesn't even show ANY skin, ever! She just happens to have big b00bs! Kamaitachi is the other one wearing a "skirt" but it's similar to what Japanese martial artists would wear, too.

So, again… all this sexualization we are talking about is not even happening anywhere except in Murata's covers and some promotional art. ONE is famous for treating ladies very fairly, even if Murata tries very hard to exploit the sexy out of every single of the ladies ONE creates. All these ladies have their own agenda and personality that have nothing to do with being pretty or f*ckable. In fact, in-universe, no one ever mentions if the heroines are beautiful or sexy and no one ever talks about liking them for those reasons (except for Lilly and Erika who are gay for Fubuki and Tatsumaki respectively, amazingly enough no hetero characters mention it). I think the first time we've ever seen a relevant character talking about dating another relevant character is when Suiryu told Saitama and Suiko to date (but Suiryu is the resident h0rny fuckboy of the series, if someone was going to say something so stupid for all the wrong reasons, it was going to be him).

For being an adult series, a seinen that parodies shonen tropes and all, OPM is seriously very tame in the sexy ladies department. For this series, the sexy is just a luxurious accessory, just one more little thing. It's always pretty weird when people get so angry and disappointed about a new sexy girl cover or a couple of compromising panels, like they don't know what to expect.

 "He only draws that way to please the h0rny fanboys" Murata IS a h0rny fanboy himself and draws shit that appeals to him as much as he feels he’s allowed to insert in the series. Please remember he's the insane fanboy that reached up to ONE to beg him to continue One Punch Man and offered to make a manga adaptation to promote OPM.

From the moment Murata started drawing OPM, the tone of the manga was set and never changed: lots of blood and guts, comical and non-comical nudity, irreverence, sexy angles, Genos ripping his shirts off, ninjas in body suits that rip like they are nylons… people in shirts, tanktops and dresses so tight you can see all their muscles, boobs and even belly buttons whether they are men or women or otherwise… h0rny chapter covers, stupidly h0rny monsters…

Just reading the manga to the point where Genos and Mosquito Girl first appear, you know what you are in for with OPM. I don't know what some fans are expecting to see in OPM next, but I'm going to take a wild guess here and say: you should expect more of the same.

 At the end of the day, the manga is Murata's work with ONE, and if he likes drawing h0rny ladies more than boys, that's how things are! This is just 2 guys with their passion project. I don't expect of them the same as if there was a bigger team with a big budget behind the series, like it happens with many games and shows. In this last case, I would be a lot stricter about all this, because with more resources you're expected to do better things.

[hetacon]

Much Ado About Remus

Word Count: 1,614

Pairings: Platonic Dukexiety, Prinxiety, Creativitwins, Implied Demus

Warning: Swearing, sexual jokes, Remus-like ideas, mention of tearing one’s heart out of their chest, kissing, Roman is an oblivious dumbass, Virgil is a pining dumbass, and Remus is a dumbass dumbass who loves his dumbass brother

______________________________

Summary: Remus and Virgil may not get along but the one thing they have in common is that they love Roman. Both in different ways, mind you, and Remus tries to help Virgil deal with his own affections. It’s definitely interesting to say the least.

______________________________

Virgil sat on the back of the couch, watching movies with the rest of the sides and Thomas. Tonight had been Virgil’s pick and of course, The Nightmare Before Christmas was currently on, Sally’s Song playing. He couldn’t help it as he stared at Roman from his little pillow throne, the dork.

“Hey Virgil!” he heard whisper shouted next to his ear.

Virgil shrieked as he fell backwards, landing painfully on the ground behind the couch. He saw Remus looming over him with wide eyes and an excited smile.

“You alright kiddo?” Virgil heard Patton ask as the movie paused.

“Yeah yeah, keep watching, I’m fine!” he insisted quickly before glaring at Remus. “What the fuck do you need?”

“You want my brother to bone you?” Remus whispered excitedly, maybe a bit too much with the words he just spoke.

“What the fuck,” Virgil muttered. “What’s it to you?”

“You’re making goo-goo eyes at him, it’s disgusting. I want to help!”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “We’re not really friends you know. Why would you help me? Why would I accept it in any case?”

“Cause you have the hots for him and I can tell you’re a horny bitch about it too so why not!”

Virgil looked unamused and Remus pouted.

“He’s my brother,” Remus conceded. “Even if he’s sometimes kinda boring, I still want him to be happy and he’s a doofus who can’t see what’s two feet in front of him.”

With a sigh, Virgil looked up at him. “What would you know about romance?”

“I’ll have you know that I take two d’s every night like a good little boy!”

Virgil grimaced at that. “It’s a mystery why Deceit likes you.”

“Yes it is!”

“And again, why would I accept your help?”

“Because you maybe sorta actually still like me like the good old days?”

“No, I still despise you.”

“Eh, fair enough!”

_____

Somehow, Virgil found himself in Remus’ room, sitting on the one clutter-free part of the bed that Remus had cleared off for him. He watched as Remus sat across the room from him, smiling widely.

“Am I supposed to start? I wasn’t even going to tell him, you know,” Virgil said finally.

Remus snorted. “That’s why I’m helping! You’re just gonna fantasize about being his pretty little damsel in distress and boring romance shit like that if I don’t help. And then when I read your diary, it won’t be any fun-!”

Virgil’s head shot up. “You read my journal!?”

“So what better way to get you to stop being sappy and disgusting than by getting you laid?” Remus finished.

Virgil groaned, strongly tempted to hit his head against the wall. He managed to control himself enough to not do so, no easy feat for Remus’ room. “What do you suggest I do?”

“I was hoping you’d ask!” Remus said with a clap of his hands.

“That’s why I agreed to your help dumbass, it’s what you offered.”

“Shush, first idea! You go to his room, lie naked on his bed, and tell him to take you when he comes in!”

Virgil looked at Remus blankly.

“Scream at him to take you right where you stand!”

Still no good based on the look Virgil was sporting at it, even worse as another thought popped into his head.

“No? You could rip your heart out of your chest and give it to him as a symbol of your undying love!”

Remus only received an uncomfortable grimace. Closer but not quite.

“You’re so boring, mutilation and sex are fun!” Remus huffed out.

“I’m not tearing myself open or telling him to fuck me and you know it,” Virgil snapped. “Like, what does he like?”

“Lots of things! Adventure, saving damsels in distress from me, slaying dragon witches—that one’s my favorite, he makes it really gory—sour gummy worms, romance, swords, poetry, ceiling fans, sappy shit a lot of the time!”

“That was all just really random,” Virgil told him.

“Yep, that’s me!” Remus beamed. “But c’mon, it’s not that hard! Just tell him how horny and or sappy he makes you feel and then you can tell him to take you!”

“Alright, I’m leaving now,” Virgil said quickly, standing up.

“Suit yourself!”

“Er..” Virgil paused at the door, looking back to Remus. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Remus asked.

“Nothing, whatever.”

_____

Virgil held a piece of paper in his hand, looking at Remus with an unsure look. “Are you really sure I should do this? What if he doesn’t want to even talk to me anymore? What if he laughs at me!?” he shouted in Remus’ face, clinging to his shirt.

“If he doesn’t like you back, he’s clearly more stupid than I thought,” Remus told him.

Virgil looked at him for a second, blinking. “Wow.. That’s uh, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever-“

“Though to be fair, he’s just stupid in general so that’s not saying much!”

“You ruined it,” Virgil deadpanned, dropping him. He sighed as Remus only cackled on the floor.

“Enough enough,” Remus said, hitting Virgil’s ankle with his hand. “Go show him your disgustingly sappy poem!!”

Virgil took a deep breath and walked down the stairs to where Roman was on the couch, absentmindedly watching a Disney movie as he wrote ideas down on a notepad. Roman looked up to see Virgil holding a piece of lined paper in front of his face.

“What’s this?” Roman asked him, glancing up to see Virgil look away as he took it.

“Just read it before I pass out from embarrassment,” Virgil muttered to him.

Roman opened it up, reading it quietly to himself. He smiled. “It sounds nice, did you want my feedback on it, oh angsty one?” he asked.

Virgil never wanted to disappear more in his life and stupidly nodded, not willing to tell Roman the real reason for it. That was how he ended up sitting next to Roman on the couch, Roman telling him of things he liked about it, the meaning he gathered from it, ways to improve it should Virgil feel it needed to be.

_____

Virgil walked up the stairs in a daze and lied down on the floor in front of Remus. Remus snorted.

“I told ya, he’s dumb!” Remus sang out a little.

“I’m never going to do it, I’m never going to be able to confess to him, I’m going to be miserable for the rest of my life-“

“He’ll fuck you eventually!”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too~!”

_____

Attempt numbers 2 through 4 had failed miserably too and Virgil was close to giving up as Roman once again missed the point on attempt number 5. Heading towards his room, he grimaced to Remus again and Remus shrugged.

“He’s a dumbass you know, I didn’t think he was this stupid though! That’s usually my job if anything!”

Virgil thought about it for a moment before lighting up. “You’re right!” he shouted before hurrying to his room.

“Well geez, you didn’t have to agree with me,” Remus said but shrugged, sinking out.

_____

Virgil took a deep breath as he opened the front door, seeing Roman sitting on the porch. He held his guitar with a tense smile as Roman turned around and beamed at him.

“Hello my dark and stormy knight, how are you this fine evening?” Roman asked, stunning Virgil for a moment.

“Good, um, can I play something for you?” he asked, motioning to the acoustic guitar weakly.

Roman smiled more and scooted over on the doorstep, following Virgil’s gaze as he sat down.

Virgil gave a quick strum, tuning it a little to make sure it sounded ok. He strummed again, cursing as he dropped his pick.

He wasn’t even sure what he played as his nerves got to him. He knew he was playing, he knew he was singing, he knew that Roman was watching him.

He knew there was no turning back.

“I love you,” he heard himself say over the sound of blood rushing through his ears. It was a miracle it happened.

“Really? You mean that sincerely?” Roman asked.

Virgil only nodded before Roman was holding his chin up, asking his permission to kiss him. Virgil nodded once more and Roman’s lips were on his in seconds.

_____

“So, need another plan? I think I’ve got a good one this time!” Remus said as Virgil walked into his room.

Virgil sat on Remus’ bed, staring at the ground with probably the dumbest grin on his face. “I told him.”

“Without me? Ah, no fun!” Remus whined. “How’d you do it? Finally took my advice and ask for him to take you? Did he bang you?”

“I just- I just told him, just said I love him.”

“What? Boooooooring!”

Virgil laughed. “You said he couldn’t see what’s two feet in front of him so I just was upfront about it,” he said with a smile.

“Is it too late to go on the record and say this was a mistake? You’re sapping all over my bed!” Remus joked, only to be met with a pillow to the face as Virgil snorted.

“Shut up, God!!”

_____

“You’re welcome you know,” Remus grinned as he passed Roman in the hallway the next day.

______________________________

Taglist: @virgils-paranoia, @marshmallow-the-panda

[puckinghell]

In secret kiss with Willy?

I had this ready to go up and I figured after the stream today it must be fate. It’s so fricking long sorry I could’ve wrote a whole three part fic for this I think

–

You’d known this was going to suck, but as you watch Will’s back disappear into the crowd, you start to wondering if you should’ve just called in sick.

There’s an ugly knot in the pit of your stomach, and you don’t like it being there. After all, you and Will are not a couple.

You couldn’t be, even if you wanted to.

When you were hired as the Leafs’ photographer, it felt like the best day of your life. Who doesn’t want to do the job they love, for their favorite sports team? You were born and raised a Leafs fan and if you could’ve picked any job in the world, you would be right where you are now, taking pictures of Auston Matthews’ horrible mustache.

Didn’t mean you weren’t fricking nervous when you walked into Kyle Dubas’ office to sign your contract.

But he seemed nice enough, made pleasant small talk with you and complimented your portfolio. It wasn’t until you shook his hand, ready to leave and planning to call your dad and scream into the phone for a solid half hour, that Kyle’s face went strangely serious.

“There will be a lot of contact with the players, as you’ll be traveling with them and join them at events, but I would recommend you keep it to a strictly professional level.”

The words had thrown you and all you’d been able to say was, “Oh?”

Kyle pulled a face. “Just, our last PR person… She didn’t, and unfortunately she’s no longer with us.”

You hadn’t known it at the time but Morgan told you the story later: apparently years ago the PR girl had a thing with a player and when they broke up, they could no longer work together and one of them had to go.

And you don’t fire your 2nd line center.

But even before that story, you had seen the look in Kyle’s eyes and thought: no way.

This was your dream job, and there’s nothing, and nobody, you would risk that for.

Enter William Nylander.

You didn’t even really notice it until it was way too late, until he was pressing you into the wall in a hotel hallway, his fingers digging into your hips, leaving hot kisses all down your neck, until he muttered a quiet: “My room’s right here.”

And by then, you were too far gone.

See, at first you thought Will was just being friendly, because he’s friendly to everyone, all the time. You’ve rarely seen him in a bad mood, even when things weren’t going so well for him; he’s never rude, never stuck up, and only when things are really bad, he goes a little quiet.

But then you started noticing that he was not only being overly friendly, he was also seeking your company literally all the time, and he would touch you without reason – just his hand on your lower back or your arm as he brushed by, or a half hug after games.

And, well, yadayada, from one thing came the next, and now you think you’re kinda dating except you’re not, because you can’t and will not lose this job, but you’re definitely sleeping together, which is probably also against Kyle’s rules, but you haven’t checked.

It’s working decently well for you; Will is an affectionate enough guy that his teammates don’t bat an eyelash when he half drapes himself over you and he’s spontaneous enough that they don’t even look up when he leaves halfway through dinner.

You’re enjoying yourself.

But.

These team galas are always fun because you get to go around and take pictures of the boys having a good time, and they’ll pull you in and rope you into any conversation, so you end up just chatting with them and taking sips of their champagne.

But the last time you did one of these, you weren’t sleeping with Will yet, so you didn’t care about the fact that there’s always different girls around whose main objective, you think, is to see how many times they can bat their eyelashes at a Leafs player.

Normally, you wouldn’t mind – you do you, girl, get it – except now…

Except now you’re gritting your teeth and staring at a beautiful girl hanging off Will’s arm, and you think if you squeeze your camera any harder the lens is gonna crack.

But you can’t very well do anything about it.

“You okay there?”  Of course it’s Zach Hyman, an amused and all-too-knowing smile on his face as he approaches you.

If you would’ve put money on the first person to figure out what’s happening, it would’ve been Morgan or maybe Muzz, but it certainly wouldn’t have been Zach. Except it should’ve been, because Zach and Will seem to have this telepathic connection that means any time Will looks in your direction a bit too long, Zach seems to catch it.

He hasn’t said anything. So far.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Don’t you have some sponsor to talk to?”

Zach only laughs, ignores your question. “That girl he’s talking to hooked up with Kappy last year and he knows it. He’s not interesting. But he can’t just ignore her with all the sponsors watching, that’d be rude.”

You absolutely do not appreciate the way your stomach lurches, at that information.

“You should go over there,” Zach continues. “He’s looking for someone to rescue him.”

You did notice Will look around in somewhat desperate fashion, but there’s not really a lot you can do about it.

Especially since you just saw Kyle somewhere in that general direction.

“I can’t,” you manage to bring out, and you have no idea what Zach knows but his face softens.

“How about,” he hums, taking your arm as he starts to guide you in Will’s direction, “you go take a picture of me and Will? Our suits match.”

Their suits are both some shade of grey, but that’s as close as they get; however you take Zach’s excuse for what it is and follow him towards Will.

When Will catches your eyes, his face lights up.

“Y/N!” he exclaims, cutting the girl off in the middle of a sentence. “Zachy! How nice to see you.”

“We did say we need a picture together.” Zach motions to you. “Found her.”

“Huh?” Will looks confused as he clearly tries to rack his brain for when that conversation happened and comes up with nothing, but then it seems to click. “Oh, I did say that, huh? Let’s do it. Sorry, Melanie, give me a minute.”

Zach puts his arm around Will’s shoulders and they pose. You take the picture and notice, to your annoyance, that the girl – Melanie – is still standing there, clearly waiting for Will to be done.

You desperately wish Kappy would appear; he’s always flirting with random blonde girls but when you need him to, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Let me see it,” Will demands, hand grasping your elbow and tugging you closer to him. It’s a weird request, because for as much people seem to think Will is vain, he is one of the only ones that never requests to proof his photos.

Maybe he knows he always looks stupidly good.

You let yourself be tugged against him anyway, because, well, obviously, and try to still your shaking hands when he hooks his chin over your shoulder to look at the screen of the camera.

What you don’t expect is for him to put his lips near your ear and mumble: “Back door, 2 minutes.”

Before you can ask him what the hell he’s talking about he grins and exclaims loudly: “That’s a good picture! I actually wanted one with Kap, too, I’m gonna go find him.” And disappears into the crowd.

Zach sends you a knowing grin, then turns to Melanie.

“So, how’s your evening been?”

Although Melanie seems a bit downed by the ring on Zach’s finger, she still goes straight into the small talk and you manage to slip away, making a mental note to thank Zach later.

And buy him the best Christmas present ever this year.

You find the back door and slip out; it leads to an alley that’s both dark and empty, except for the blonde guy in a suit, leaning against the wall.

“Mitchy told me about this,” he grins. “Said him and Steph snuck off last year and nobody found them for hours until someone came out for a smoke.”

You don’t even manage to answer him before his hands find your hips and yank, having you stumble straight into his body, falling against his chest. His face is close enough that you can see the darkness in his eyes, and the tilt of his lips.

“Kyle doesn’t smoke,” Will whispers against your lips, and then he kisses you.

Despite being in a literal alley trying to sneak away from your employer, making out secretly beside a dumpster, Will kisses you slow and deep, until your toes are curling in your way too uncomfortable heels.

Your hands make their way to his waist and you feel the hard panes of his abs under his shirt, and then he shifts his thigh between yours and you feel something else hard, as well.

Finally he breaks the kiss. You feel a bit dazed as he goes to nip on the skin below your ear, voice low as he mumbles: “Not that I’m happy about this being a secret, but this sneaking off stuff is kinda hot, right?”

And you’re probably gonna need two bottles of wine and a four hour talk with your best friend to dissect what that means, that he’s not happy with this ‘being a secret’, but right now you kinda just want him to keep kissing you, so you decide to ignore what has the potential to be the root of a lot of pain and heartbreak along the line and instead press up on your toes so his lips slide to your shoulder.

“Impatient,” Will mumbles gruffly.

“Don’t like seeing you with other girls,” you admit. The words, although soft, sound loud in the empty alley and you wonder if they’re too much, too soon.

But Will simply breaks away and takes your chin between his fingers, forces them to look at you.

“I know,” he says, as if it means nothing at all. “But I need you to remember that even if I have to spend all night listening to them, I’m only going home with you.”

And you think as long as that is the case you can force yourself to get through this night.

As soon as you’re done with kissing Will.

(Which is not soon at all)

---

No more requests please! These will be tagged ‘blurb’ if you want to blacklist

[coldflame96]

Girl look at that body (I work out)

Prompt: During her time in high school, Pearl got majorly into sports and exercise in general, discovering that she was incredibly good at it. Even her spiritual training started to take a backseat to working out and playing sports to the point that by the time of her graduation, she was a powerhouse of muscle stronger than anyone else in her school.

Of course, in her downtime, she still often hangs around at the Wright Anything Agency. One day, she learns that Athena plans to go out to her favourite gym right after work, and so Pearl goes along with her. At the gym, Athena is shocked beyond words to discover the incredible physique that her quiet medium friend's channeling robes have been concealing.

Workout junkie that Athena is, she's also highly embarrassed to realize that she finds it incredibly attractive.

Rated: G

Can also be read on AO3

Athena was 14 when she discovered that working out was a very effective way of curbing her anxiety and stress. It had been 5 am and she'd woken up from a particularly crappy nightmare and she was buzzing with energy. So she strapped on her sneakers and went for a jog around the block, feeling surprisingly better afterwards and even managing to fall back asleep. So she started doing it more. After rough days at school, she would take a run, feeling significantly more relaxed by the time she got home to her empty apartment. When she was 16, she applied for a gym membership and had been a loyal member ever since, going atleast once, sometimes twice a week, to let off steam. It was only after she started working under Mr. Wright that she found herself going to the gym almost every day. She loved her job, she did, but man were some of the people she had to deal with a handful. Boss and Apollo never seemed to question where she went until a case that Apollo took the lead on that she swore caused them both to age atleast 10 years. "Well, that was fun!" she exclaimed cheerily after it was all over, "See you tomorrow, Apollo." Apollo gave her a funny look and she frowned. "What?”

"How the hell are you always so cheery?" he accused. "I feel like I'm one step closer to having a heart attack the longer I do this." She shrugged. "Maybe you need a different stress management." "Well what do you do?" She gave him a steady look. "I work out." He gave her a skeptical look. "Wouldn't that just stress you out more?" "Nah, I've been doing it for years and it's worked out pretty well." He seemed to ponder on that for a minute, his thinking face fully on. "Is that where you go every day?" She grinned. "Yep! You're more than welcome to come, if you want." She saw him wrinkle his nose at the prospect and suppressed a giggle. Her coworker was definitely that kid in school who had his nose in books constantly and got winded over running laps in gym class. But she couldn't help but be a little excited at his sudden interest. Maybe she would have a gym buddy. Those hopes were very short lived as by the end of her usual session, Apollo swore up and down he was never doing this again unless he wanted to keel over by 25. Drama queen. So she accepted that she was the only one who liked this sort of thing. She offered for Boss to join her once and he just grimaced and made up a lie about dinner with the Chief Prosecutor or whatever, so she just kept going on as normal. Atleast until that day... Pearly was visiting again, likely due to loneliness from not having Ms. Fey around, atleast according to her expert ears when she asked about it. She felt bad for her friend. It must be excruciating being alone on a mountain for most of your life. The spirit medium was just sitting on the couch with a cup of tea when Athena poked her head into her boss's part of the office. "I'm heading out for the day, Boss," she informed, "See ya tomorrow." "Got it," he waved lazily. "Have fun at the gym." In her peripheral vision, she saw Pearly straighten up on the couch. "You're going to the gym?" the girl asked her in interest. "Yeah, it's on the way to my place." She raised an eyebrow. "Why?" Pearly's eyes practically sparkled with determination as the girl flew off the couch. "Can I come with you?" And then she tacked on, "Please?" She blinked in shock. Pearly was so small and polite, soft-spoken even. She wondered if the other girl knew what she was getting into, or if she just wanted an excuse to hang out with someone her own age. Either way was fine with her. So she nodded. Whatever Athena had been expecting from her medium friend as a gym buddy got completely shattered into pieces almost as soon as they came out of the locker room. Objectively, she knew Pearly was tougher than she looked. But she wasn't prepared for the tiny girl to have abs. And well-defined ones. And not just abs, either. Also some back muscles that flexed under her tight tank top and arms that were hard with what was no doubt years of care. This wasn't the body of a girl only going to a gym to hang out with a friend. She was a pro! And she could probably kick Athena's ass and the knowledge of this made her fall just a tiny bit in love. "Athena?" The other girl asked. "Are you alright? Your face is really red." Athena felt a palm on her forehead. "You're not ill, are you?" "Please marry me," she blurted out stupidly. Pearly froze, face turning beat red. "What?" she squeaked. Good going, Athena, you gay disaster. "Nothing!" she tried to correct. "I'm fine. Let's just go stretch." Pearly put her thumb to her lip, biting her nail nervously. "If you're sure..."

Athena had never been less sure of anything in her life. She thought Pearly hiding that physique in the first place was bad enough, but actually seeing it in action was a new brand of torture. Between the way her shirt rode up to tease the abs Athena had seen earlier in the locker room and the way her shoulders and biceps bulged with every movement, it was looking less and less likely she would survive this session. Death by hot girl. A fitting but tragic end. Pearly was a foot shorter. She was tiny! And she could probably lift Athena with ease and pin her to a wall. That would be nice.. It was only when she was suitably distracted by her own pace (faster than usual because she refused to let Pearly beat her) that she was able to muster the braincells to ask, "Do they have a gym in Kurain?" She heard a steady breathing and then a "No, not yet. I was gonna ask Mystic Maya about it when she came back from her training." "So, then," she started, trying not to let on how she was checking her out, "How have you been keeping in shape?" Pearly, none the wiser at Athena's plight, smiled, quickening the pace again (Athena was really starting to feel it), and said, "I joined the sports club at school. Mystic Maya thought it would be a good way for me to make friends. I ended up having a lot of fun." She wanted to ask about it more, but her breaths were becoming more ragged, so she allowed a comfortable silence to fall, the only sounds being the whirring of the machines and their even breathing.

By the end of the hour, Athena felt more exhausted and sore than she had ever remembered being. "That was fun!" Pearly said, back in those deceptive robes that Athena couldn't help but resent a little now, "We should do that again sometime!" "Haha," she chuckled nervously, every step she took towards her car stiff with overuse, "Maybe." It was only when she saw the girl flounce out of her car into Boss's apartment, the insane workout they both got clearly not affecting her at all (was she even human?), that Athena allowed herself to rest her head on the steering wheel. She could not take Pearly to the gym with her again. Not if she wanted to live.

[sctisfctions]

( emeraude toubia, 28, cis female, she/her ) Have you seen CARINA TORRERO around ? I hear they’re an ESCORT who can sometimes be GREEDY & IMPULSIVE. But I also heard they can be DETERMINED & ADAPTIVE if you catch them on a good day. They’re usually hanging around LA CASA DI MATEO in their spare time. I sure hope they’re alright ! ( mandy )

Hello all! I’m Mandy and this is my child, Carina Torrero She’s… a lot, so bless your soul for finding your way to this intro.

Full name: Carina Cecilia Torrero Nickname: Care, Cari, C.C. Age: 28 Nationality: Mexican and Lebanese  Religion: N/A City of birth: Laredo, Texas The current place for living: Chicago, IL Job title: Eden Escort Married? No Spoken Languages: Spanish, English Birthday: October 30th Does she own a home? Yes

B A C K G R O U N D : ( updated Feb. 25th, 2021 )

Carina is the baby of her family and has always was spoiled as such; showered in gifts. In the small town of Laredo, Texas, the Torrero family was known as the richest family in town. While it was rumored that there were some underground dealings going on in the family business, none of those were true. In fact, The Torreros prided themselves on being the purest and most righteous family in the region. Rev. Torrero owned and pastored a Mega Church that made millions of dollars every week, on top of people throwing money at her parents for their “good work”. But it meant nothing to Carina because she always felt like the church always came before her. Every time they were absent from her biggest life events, a gift was sent to make up for it. 

When Carina went to Drexel University to get her degree in fashion design and marketing, she planned on spending the first year goofing off and exploring what the world has to offer her. In a city like Philadelphia, it was easy to get lost in the hype of pre-game drinking sessions and post-game parties, getting sucked into hook-up culture and living as thought she’d never have a chance to touch this many people all at once. 

Getting out of college and moving back in with her family in Laredo was odd, at first, leaving the sweet life of sin behind and pretending to be the angel the town was so used to. Kidding, of course, she couldn’t leave it behind. She started doing modeling on the side and ended up getting commissioned for a huge gig with a very risqué magazine. Before the photoshoot even happened, word reached her parents church and the rumors spread like wildfire across the town. Her parents looked down on her with shame and disgrace. 

It felt all so overwhelming until she realized it’s all just Texas life. Outside of their region, no one even knows who her family is. She knew the only thing to do was to pack up her things, steal a couple million dollars from her parents ( which was barely a dent for them ), and move to Chicago where she could carry on a life of her own. Within a month of moving, she made friends with some people who worked at a club called Eden. They got her a job as an escort and, to this day, she’s been operating as a freelance designer by day and an escort by night. 

Family:

Sisters or brothers: One older brother and sister Wife or husband: N/A. Children: None. Other important persons: Roommate(s)

Physical Characteristics:

Addictions: control, power Bad Habits: acting only for the good of herself Color of Eyes: brown The color of Hair: black The color of Skin: tan Dialect: american accent Does the character drink regularly? always Does the character have any disabilities? no Does the character prefer any proverbs? “the most important thing is to enjoy your life and be happy” - audrey hepburn Does the character smoke? sometimes Good Habits: open-minded, forward thinking, tidy. Height: 5′3″ Hobbies: reading, working out, instagram, binge watching, skin care routines, healthy eating Is she wearing Glasses? no Is the character healthy or does he have any diseases? she’s healthy What’s the style of the character? (modern, outmoded): sporty and sexy. is almost always wearing a sports bra, leggings, and sneakers.

Mental Characteristics

Education: Bachelor’s Degree in Fashion Design and Marketing Intelligent or not? smart enough. she picks things up quickly. Fears: being misunderstood, spiders Life Goals (next 5 years): get a mansion Life Goals (next 25 years): own a fashion empire Self-perception: idk she’s just trying to keep it all together Assumed external perception: she thinks people think she’s either great or a bitch, there is no in between. Self-Confidence: extremely confident Rational Or Emotional: rational How could you upset this character? compare her to her family

Wanted Connections ( all based on crazy ex-girlfriend/galavant songs )

any of these could be filled with gang affiliates of any kind !! It’d be fun to see how a gang affiliate would spice up these connections !! 

PLATONIC

FRIENDTOPIA: Carina loves very few people on Earth. They’re the Joey/Chandler/Monica/Phoebe to her Rachel. They do practically everything together, as they spend pretty much every waking second together. They’re her roommates (they can work at Eden with her, but it’s not required). 

LET’S GENERALIZE ABOUT MEN: a bitch-type group of friends that get together, sometimes drink, sometimes shop, or sometimes just share gossip and personal thoughts about what the hell is going on around them.

SECRET MISSION: They say the enemy of my enemy is my friend. These people mutually hate someone and often come up with different ways in which they can make this person suffer. But it’s all just in good fun…… or is it?

OFF WITH HIS SHIRT: Any of the men she’s been with exclusively through Eden. Her “regulars” or “visitors”, if you will. She gets paid quite heavily whether she offers sex or just her general company.

MAYBE YOU WON’T DIE ALONE: Carina is the self-proclaimed Hook Up Guru of Chicago, so she’ll definitely attempt to hook you up with that person you’ve had your eye on and it sometimes isn’t subtle. But sex makes her happy, so helping her friends get laid makes her happy too. 

AFTER EVERYTHING I’VE DONE FOR YOU: This person has gone to hell and back for Carina, yet she shows little to no gratitude towards them. It’s only a matter of time before their lid pops right off. 

FACE YOUR FEARS: These are her older friends who help her figure out her shit and she ACTUALLY listens to them because she just trusts them more than anyone else. 

GREG’S DRINKING SONG: Drinking buddies!! A lot of the instances Greg mentions in the song can basically just be different scenarios they’ve gotten themselves in.

ROMANTIC/SEXUAL:

IT WAS A SHIT SHOW: A bittersweet ex-boyfriend. They really didn’t have any choice but to end things. He has some things going on in his life, Carina wasn’t anywhere near ready for a monogamous relationship. They both agree… it was a DISASTER.

SETTLE FOR ME: Someone who, stupidly, has a crush on Carina and he literally doesn’t have a single chance in hell. I just think this kind of energy would be hella hilarious.

STRIP AWAY MY CONSCIENCE: One of the guys that she regularly hooks up/hooked up with. Maybe even dated, but it wasn’t anything more than sex, really. They’re still friends to this day. 

SEX WITH A STRANGER: This is pretty straight forward. All of her hookups. I’m just gonna list them here for data purposes. They coulda been friends before or barely know each other. Honestly, if she avoided everyone she’s ever had sex with, she’d never leave her house. 

ENEMIES:

MAYBE YOU’RE NOT THE WORST THING EVER: Bitter, toxic exes. This was one of her first real and intense relationships that happened in a time when she was the most vulnerable and unprepared. It ended HORRIBLY when they lashed out at each other and it’s hard to let those feelings go. If they can get over their own pettiness, they can at least hope to be frenemies.

JACKASS IN A CAN: People who really just DON’T think she’s all that. They thinks he’s very stuck up and don’t fall for her charming, blunt persona in the slightest. I’d just love someone to call her out on her bullshit.

I DON’T LIKE YOU: General dislike and sworn mortal enemies kind of situation. We can talk over what happened between them, but honestly, it wouldn’t be that hard to find something that she did… or someone. 

WHEW this was long, but go ahead and press some buttons if you like and wanna plot with her!! 

[stahlop]

New Year’s Eve (1/1)

Here is my piece for the Captain Swan Concert Series! This is inspired from the song New Year's Eve by Nina Gordon. From summer 2000-2001 I did a theatre internship in Rhode Island and it was my first time away from home and I knew within two weeks that, while I loved theatre, I didn't want to do it for a living. This album got me through the internship. I listened to it non-stop for most of the year. I had wanted to write this as a New Year's Eve story, but between Secret Santa and January Joy I didn't have time. So, I was really happy when the concert series was announced.

Thank you @profdanglaisstuff for being my beta! Without you my stories would not be what they are.

Summary: Normally, Emma Swan would have her long, blonde hair curled or put up in some elaborate braid. She’d be dressed to the nines and practically taking over as the host of the party. She hadn’t always been like that. She used to be the biggest wallflower. Sitting alone in a corner and waiting for the countdown at midnight so she could wish everyone a Happy New Year and then leave to go to the comfort of her own apartment and bed. But then she met Killian Jones.

Rated: G

Ao3

Normally, Emma Swan would have her long, blonde hair curled or put up in some elaborate braid. She’d be dressed to the nines and practically taking over as the host of the party. She hadn’t always been like that. She used to be the biggest wallflower. Sitting alone in a corner and waiting for the countdown at midnight so she could wish everyone a Happy New Year and then leave to go to the comfort of her own apartment and bed. But then she met Killian Jones.

It had been at another New Year’s Eve party. A new co-worker of David’s wife, Mary Margaret. They both taught in the history department at the local university. It may have been a general ‘you’re new in town so come to this party and meet people’ or it could have been a set up. Either way, Killian had been smitten with Emma at first sight. And even after he’d given a few smug one-liners and she’d thrown his drink on him (she wasn’t going to waste her own drink), they’d somehow ended up talking until midnight where they both apologized for their behavior and Killian made the resolution to ask Emma out on a date.

At first she thought it was weird that the man she’d thrown a drink on was now asking her out. But he was damn sexy, what with those ocean blue eyes, dark chocolate brown hair, and scruff on his face. She was already having daydreams about how that scruff would feel against her cheek and... other places.

And then, despite all her issues about being abandoned at birth, all her fears from growing up in the foster system and not experiencing love, all her reservations that she didn’t deserve someone like Killian, especially after her first love ruined her for future relationships, he broke through her walls and she loved him. She should have known it wouldn’t last.

Oh, Killian had his issues too. Mother dying young, father abandoning him and his brother, said brother dying when Killian was only 18, then his first love also dying from a rare heart condition. But he was still open to love. Had experienced it, even if it didn’t last. And Emma knew he loved her too. Knew it from the way he kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough of her taste. From the way he always got her a hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon after she ordered it on their first date for dessert. Knew it from the way his fingers made her body sing when they were in bed together. How he wouldn’t fall until she did when they made love. And from the way he whispered it into her hair after said lovemaking.

And for the last two years they’d been blissfully happy. She’d helped host parties with Mary Margaret. Hosted parties with Killian at their own apartment (and partied so loud the neighbors called the police; too bad Emma was the police). Emma had forgotten to be on edge waiting for the other shoe to drop, to ruin the happiness she’d finally found. She’d even imagined a proposal on the horizon, especially when he asked her to a fancy restaurant for a fancy dinner.

Except it wasn’t a proposal. At least, not the kind Emma was expecting. It was the grant proposal Killian had put in that would have him working in England for the next year at the British Museum. And Emma, in her infinite wisdom of bad relationships, broke up with him. Told him she didn’t do long distance and she wouldn’t guarantee she’d still be single when he came back.

Thinking back on it now, with all her friends laughing and screaming and having a raucous good time at Mary Margaret and David’s New Year’s Eve Party, she realizes what a fool she’s been. It has been three months since that night. 

Three months since she moved all her stuff out of their apartment, like a coward, while he was at work. 

Three months since she took over Mary Margaret and David’s spare room. 

Three months of not answering his calls or texts. 

Three months of being in total agony of not speaking to the one person she loved the most. 

Three months of imagining him with someone other than her.

So here she is, staring out the window watching the snow fall while wearing lame black leggings that say ‘Happy New Year!’ on them in gold glitter and an oversized black sweater, when she had specifically bought a tight, form fitting red dress last summer to make Killian’s eyes pop out of his head when he saw her in it, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, and counting down the minutes until the new year so she can say her goodbyes and go wallow in her room.

“Such a shame to hide such perfect breasts in a sweater like that, love.” A British accented voice says from behind her. Emma’s back goes rigid, her ears perk up, and her eyes fill with tears.

“Killian?” she says in a small voice. It’s hard to speak, she’s afraid her voice will crack, that he will see… 

What the hell is she so afraid of letting him see? That she missed him? That she was wrong? That she should have tried to make it work?

“Yes, love, it’s me,” he replies softly. Emma stands up and turns around to see Killian standing there behind her. He looks just as amazing as ever in his black jeans, white button down shirt and his cozy, professor sweater (the one she always teased makes him look like an old man, but that she stole and cuddled into whenever she missed him). His hair has gotten longer, curling up behind his ears, and his scruff is now a fully grown beard. She also notices the dark purple circles under his eyes that probably match the ones she’s been sporting lately.

“You’re here,” she says almost in disbelief. She can’t stop staring at him, she’s almost afraid that if she takes her eyes off him he’ll disappear and this will just be a hallucination brought on by too much alcohol.

“I am,” he says. Emma can tell he’s treading lightly. With the exception of his opening line, he doesn’t want to spook her (but he can modify anything from The Princess Bride and get away with it).

“I’m sorry,” Emma says immediately, looking directly into his beautiful blue eyes, the ones she’s missed seeing every morning and every night, looking at her as if she were a goddess on Earth. How could she have ever doubted him? The tears are falling freely now. “I’m so sorry, Killian. I got scared that you were leaving, and you know I have abandonment issues. I stupidly thought if I left first then leaving would be on my terms and it wouldn’t hurt as badly.” She takes a deep breath as she sees tears streaming from his eyes as well. “I was wrong. I was so wrong. Can you ever forgive me?” 

Emma is sure she looks a mess, what with the tear streaked and, no doubt, red blotchy face she must be sporting. But looking at Killian, she can tell that’s not what he sees. He reaches out a hand to cup her chin, and she leans into it, just like she used to. Killian takes that opportunity to surge toward her.

His lips are on hers before she can even blink. She throws her arms around his neck as he moves his to around her waist. Emma is trying to pour every ounce of love, every lonely night she’s spent, every bit of herself into the kiss, hoping Killian understands.

Emma doesn’t know how long they kiss; hours, minutes, seconds. She just knows that when they’re done, foreheads touching, she looks into Killian’s deep blue eyes and hears him say, “You infuriating woman.”

Emma’s heart clenches immediately, thinking this is all some elaborate ruse, some way to get her back for what she’s put him through these past few months, until he continues with, “I was going to propose that night. I had the ring in my coat pocket, and I was going to propose and ask you to come with me to London, but you wouldn’t give me the chance to speak. And then you just stopped speaking to me and I didn’t know how to get through to you. Everyone kept telling me that you needed to work through it, but you didn’t have all the facts. You thought I was going to leave you and I never had any intention of doing that.” He closes his eyes, tears clinging to his lashes. “I love you, Emma Swan, and I will always love you, and I will never leave you, no matter what.” He kisses her again, soft and sweet, not as full of need as the last kiss, but still full of love all the same.

“I’m an idiot,” Emma says smiling, “a big, scared idiot with relationship issues. But I promise that if you take me back that I won’t be anymore.” She exhales a shuddering breath and then asks the question she knows needs to be asked. “That is, if you still want me after everything I’ve put you through?”

“Don’t you know, Emma? It’s you. It’s always been you.” 

They kiss again. And they continue kissing through the countdown, and the screams of Happy New Year, and the singing of Auld Lang Syne. And eventually the others see that Killian is not only back in the States but at the party, and he and Emma are kissing and have obviously made up.

And on the following New Year’s Eve, Emma’s hair is done up in an intricate braid, she is dressed in a stunning white dress while Killian is wearing a tuxedo and watching his almost wife walk down the aisle toward him with all their friends in attendance.

[mariechambers]

Up the Stakes

Pairing: ten x rose Rating: T Warning: n/a Summary: “It’s customary isn’t it, for the female to, erm, set the pace on Earth. Like, like I kissed you to show you I was interested and then you, when you’re ready, you...up the stakes?” 

Rose scrunches her brows together. “Where did you get that idea from?”

Notes: listen I don’t know who I think I am going missing fo years at a time and the randomly deciding to write for this fandom again, but here we are. To be clear, I don’t know if this is just a one off or if I will have time to write again anytime soon but I hope someone enjoys this at least?

The first time he kisses her is nothing short of heavenly. For some reason, whenever she’d imagined it, she’d pictured them right after a life-threatening adventure, both of them out of breath and bent over laughing together until it had suddenly gone deathly quiet as their eyes connected. They would scoot closer to each other until not an inch of them wasn’t touching as the tension grew. He’d move one hand into her hair and the other would wrap tightly at her waist and both her arms would be wound around his neck and they would snog the very air out of each other. Maybe he’d even sneak a hand underneath her shirt, touching hot skin as their tongues slid together and-

Well. The point was she’d always imagined passion and lust, all the pent up tension coming to a head.

What she hadn’t imagined was this tender touch against her cheek. His thumb stroking over skin as he gently tilted her head towards his. What she hadn’t imagined was the feather light pressure of his lips, timid and chaste on hers. What she hadn’t imagined was that it would be on a perfectly safe planet while they bathed in the bright purple sun overhead and lounged on the soft, blue grass below. What she hadn’t imagined was that the only point of contact between their bodies would be their lips and his gentle fingers holding her face steady. And what she definitely hadn’t imagined was that this tender and achingly sweet taste of his lips would leave her more turned on then any other time in her life.

She wants to deepen the kiss, throw a leg over his lap until she feels him hard underneath her. She wants to rake her hands in his hair and make him gasp and moan until neither of them can take it anymore and she finally sinks down on him. Taking him so deep. Her legs clench together at the thought and she lets out a sigh against his lips.

The Doctor pulls back, just a little, just enough so she can see the pleased and happy look on his face and just like that her arousal is pushed to the side for a feelings even more important and all-encompassing. It grows in her sternum, radiating out into every fiber of her being until she’s smiling just as stupidly as he is. Because god does she love this man.

His hand still resting on her cheek, moves to push a piece of wispy blonde hair back behind her ear. “How was that then?” he says softly, his voice getting carried away by the light breeze.

“Perfect,” she whispers, cuddling closer to him, resting her head over his two beating hearts. The Doctor wraps an arm around her shoulder.

Nothing more needs to be said.

______________________________________________________________________

If Rose had been shocked that the Doctor had kissed her during one of the most mundane, non-life threatening moments of their normally crazy lives, well it’s nothing like the shock that comes when his kisses continue to only come when everything is calm. And if still that hadn’t been shocking enough, they continue to be incredibly chaste, gentle, and gentlemanly, almost like a bloke kissing her after the first date. A bit nervous, a bit hesitant, and always only a handful of moments.

If Rose is honest with herself, she’s ready to grab him by the collar of his pinstriped suit, throw him up against the nearest vertical surface she can find, and snog the living daylights out of him. Honestly, if she doesn’t get his tongue in her mouth soon, she simply won’t be responsible for her actions.

It’s really not so surprising that she snaps. They’ve just gotten back to the TARDIS, both of them terribly out of breath from running for their lives and the Doctor sporting a black eye from where one of the natives had punched him straight in the face when he’d mentioned being good at fishing. Apparently, fishing meant something very different to the natives than it did to them.

They’d had to haul themselves back to the TARDIS with hordes of angry half-buffalo looking creatures stomping after them.

When Rose finally catches her breath, she sidles up close to him and gently traces the bruised, swelling skin. “My poor Doctor,” she coos at him.

“Ah this,” he blusters back, peering at her from his good eye. “Be healed up in a jiffy. Though, he did have quite a right hook on him. Blimey, usually don’t bruise so easily, me.”

Rose smiles at how endearing he is. Stepping up on her tiptoes, she places a feather light touch of her lips to the bruise. “There,” she says triumphantly. Then because she simply can’t help herself, she trails her lips over his skin, seeking out his lips as her hands work their way to the back of his neck.

She feels the fear from just moment’s ago, the adrenaline slowly fading from her bloodstream and her heart pumping for a completely different reason now. She goes slowly at first, as gentle as he usually is with her, but the longer their lips are pressed together the more hungry she becomes and her mouth opens over his, swiping her tongue across his bottom lips as she instinctively shift her hips against his and digs her hands into his hair, waiting for him to open his mouth.

The Doctor’s reaction is unexpected. He shies away from her, blush rising up on his face. “Ah,” he says, flailing his arms a bit and stumbling backwards hastily. “I...I should, umm, the dermal regenerator.” His voice squeaks up at the end and then he bolts from the console room.

Rose furrows her eyebrows, completely perplexed, and then follows after him.

When she makes it to the medbay, he’s already finished healing his eyes, the skin faintly pink where moments ago it had been black and blue.

“Doctor?” she says, and he jumps and spins around.

“You kissed me!” he says accusatorially. Rose blinks, not having expected the outburst.

“I did, yeah,” she says calmly. “Well, tried to at least.”

“Yes, you-you-” seemingly at a lack for words, he flails his arms at her. She has never once in her life seen the Doctor speechless.

“What’s wrong with you? Do I have to remind you that you give me kisses all the time now.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “So, you did it first.”

The Doctor shifts in his trainers. “Exactly. I kiss you. And-and, you’ve never kissed me before. And it was-was-” His ears go pink.

Rose tries to follow the Doctor’s thought pattern, but can’t quite figure out what’s going on in that big alien brain of his. “I really don’t understand.”

The Doctor mumbles something.

“What was that now?”

“You should kiss me more,” he blurts out, finally.

Rose laughs a little, still confused. But delightfully confused now. “What?”

“You should kiss me more,” the Doctor stresses. “As in you,” he points at her, “kissing me,” he points at himself. “You initiating the kiss,” he continues. “You taking your lips and-”

“I get it Doctor,” Rose says, still giggling. She takes a step closer to him and he gulps, eyes focused on her every move. Loosely, she wraps her hands around his neck and presses her lips to his. Gentle, so gentle, the kind of kiss he would give to her. When their lips separate with a soft plop the Doctor groans and Rose jerks back a little in surprise. He’s never made a noise like that, kissing her before

He looks a bit sheepish, but keeps her close, his hands resting firmly on her waist.

“Are you going to explain to me what all this is about then?”

The Doctor tilts his head back and touches the top of his tongue to his teeth. “I was getting worried,” he finally admits, a slight look of vulnerability in his eyes. “That you perhaps didn’t want me kissing you.”

“Why in the world would you think that?”

He shrugs, looking away. “It’s customary isn’t it, for the female to, erm, set the pace on Earth. Like, like I kissed you to show you I was interested and then you, when you’re ready, you...up the stakes?”

Rose scrunches her brows together. “Where did you get that idea from?”

He shrugs, kicking at the ground. “Something you said once, about that bloke, Jimmy, who-who pressured you. I didn’t want you to think I was-”

“Oh Doctor,” Rose says, cupping his cheek tenderly and smiling when he leans into the touch. “You don’t have to worry about that. I can assure you that this is nothing like when I was dating Jimmy Stone.”

“Yeah?” the Doctor says, perking up. “So-so, I can-” he waves his hand all around in her general direction and Rose giggles.

“Yeah,” she says. “You can do all of that as much as you want,” she says, mirroring his gestures.

He wastes no time in crowding her up against the wall of the medbay, his lips pulled up into a smirk and his eyebrows raised. Rose’s heart rate spikes at the sudden unexpected move. All her thoughts scatter until only one word is left in her head. Finally.

When he kisses her, it’s nothing like when a bloke drops her off after the first date. In fact, she finds the things he can do with his tongue are downright obscene.

[bubmyg]

game, set, love - jhs

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre/warnings: tennis!au, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst (w a hopeful ending), some humor because seokjin is in it, grumpy tennis instructor namjoon is here too, mentions of injuries, lots of tennis terminology (sorry)

word count: 13,466

summary: you like to be on the opposing side of the net from jung hoseok so when you drill a forehand volley through his teeth it can be considered kind of an accident or where seokjin just had to go and tear his ACL.

There’s a specific sound associated with that of a good, great, volley, the satisfying thwack of the thin fibers of the ball smacking against the spaces in your strings, rebounding off the surface and ricocheting into the thin space of the alley. It’s easy to imagine catching the angle instead, aiming the ball for the box just on the other side of the net, nearly impossible for the opponent to sprint to even if they catch the way your body angles. 

It’s a more complex shot anyway, the angle and trajectory and the pronation of your wrist just right so the ball doesn’t catch on the frame of your racket and sail out. Cross court is the safer shot. It’s not even cross court, not really, not in the same way a forehand is from your partner. The safe shot is to aim at the other net player, their feet to be exact. 

But Namjoon wouldn’t ever tell you to aim at another player and he definitely wouldn’t encourage your favorite net strategy. 

Imagine every hanging ball at the net is Jung Hoseok’s face. 

“Again,” There was a mechanical whir and the ball machine at the baseline rumbled to life at the hands of Namjoon. He’d emptied another basket of balls into the top, shifting them around with the head of his racket as he waited for the first one to spit back out. “Hit your target areas or I’ll put you on court five and make you do it throughout Seokjin’s session.”

You leaned into a backhand volley, making it spin when it landed. “Noted.”

Another basket of balls and Namjoon was satisfied enough to let you switch sides, nearly tripping into the ball machine cord as he rolled it aside. Your arm had just begun to ache on your third basket, neon yellow littered in a sea around your trainer’s feet, when the door to the courts of the complex slammed shut. 

You were distracted by the wave of Namjoon’s arm as he began to nudge through balls toward your side of the net and the incoming ball caught on the neck of your racket, dribbling sadly down your side of the net. You hit the next one properly for the sake of Namjoon’s knowing glance at you, a single cocked eyebrow letting you know he was still watching even if he’d nearly rolled his ankle on your most recently hit ball. There was a flash of yellow in your peripheral, not a stray ball from one of the courts over the mesh nets that separated them, and you gaped as you lost your stance.

Hoseok was looking directly at you as he shrugged himself out of the massive bag perched over his shoulders, dropping it rather unceremoniously to the bench between courts. He was every shade of yellow, sweatbands, slick t-shirt, the stripe down the sides of his shorts, the laces on his white shoes, the headband peeling back faded blonde hair, like he’d just stepped out of an athletic magazine for pretentious assholes who thought the sport was all about the matching clothes. A smirk twitched at his lips as the clinking of rackets in his bag sent your water jug toppling to the ground. 

Your racket clutched at your torso was the only thing keeping the next ball that fired out from smacking into your chest and you huffed, halfheartedly swinging to catch the next ball on your strings instead of on the handle. 

“If you’re done, go turn it off and start picking up.”

You glared at Namjoon because why the fuck is Hoseok here? but that question didn’t come out, instead a sickly sweet, “Am I done?” as you jerked your racket to hit another sloppy but angry ball onto the other side of the net. 

“You’re done. Pick up.”

You snatched an empty hopper en route to dodge another shot that barreled from the machine without someone on the other side of the net to intercept it. You only managed to collect three balls before you made it to the small black box, flicking it off and silencing the courts into the chatter of the two individuals on your court. A dent was barely made in the sea of balls surrounding the opposite end of the court but you only wanted enough out of the way to make a path for Namjoon and Hoseok, approaching with the half full hopper bouncing against your thigh and your racket tucked underneath your arm. 

“What’s next, coach?” You pointedly dropped the hopper, crouching to snatch up your water jug from where it’d tumbled just in front of Hoseok’s shoe. He nudged it toward you and you resisted the urge to pop the lid and let ice water spill through into his socks. 

“I’m going to have Hoseok take some serves for a little while…”

He had two crooked fingers in parted bangs, brushing them aside the elastic of his headband and he smirked when you quipped, “I meant for me seeing as this is my training session…”

“Relax,” Namjoon glanced between the two of you, “You’ve got twenty minutes to deal with being in the same general proximity. I think you can handle it.”

“Twenty minutes?” One of Hoseok’s dark eyebrows nudged underneath the seam of neon green on his forehead, “Tapping out early? I get it, conditioning has never been your forte—”

“Seokjin’s coming in,” You gritted, “Then we have a joint practice.”

“Ah,” He flicked the hair he’d just fixed, dropping his racket from his chest to properly grip in his hand, “Your better half.”

“Could kick your ass.”

“I don’t accept challenges from doubles players, sorry.”

“Enough.” Namjoon’s fingers brushed yours aside, taking the hopper from you to turn it in nimble fingers, effectively spilling all the balls you’d worked to pick up. When the bouncing had subsided for the most part, he stretched the wire basket back toward you. “I thought I told you to pick up. All balls. Every one you miss is a lap for Seokjin.”

“...as for you—” 

Albeit satisfying, forcing the image of Hoseok to conjure on the surface of the ball hurtling at you over and over and over becomes not only frustrating, but mentally taxing with the bubble of discontent that burst in the pit of your stomach with even the ghosted hint of his stupidly swollen cheeks above tiny little dimples indented into his smirking lips. The real pleasure came when it was the real thing standing on the opposite end of you, way out of range from where your shots were meant to be landing but there, tangible and an easy target if you wanted to face the wrath of Namjoon after welting a bruise on the face of the tennis club’s star singles player. 

Hoseok paused in between serves, as if expecting you to do the very thing your mind craved, shuffling on his feet as the ball bounced from the flick of his wrist to the surface of the court. Namjoon stood opposite of him, serve in his own hand with the stipulation that you had to get it back cross court regardless of it was out or not. No matter how out it was. You’d barely taken three off a low, slicing bounce on the corner of the box when Namjoon was holding up a single finger in your direction, crossing the center line to nudge a hand under Hoseok’s elbow when he raised his arm to serve. 

There was a certain aura about Hoseok that made your blood boil, from the content nod he passed Namjoon, stepping out of his grasp and disrupting his serve routine but making it easily with barely applying the correction. It’d always been that way, skills coming easily to Hoseok that you’d kill or pay or both to acquire in a years time. He’d won a game before you on your first day of tennis camp, a tiny elementary student with the ball perfectly balanced on the end of his racket as he terrorized everyone near him with screams and flailing hands that made others go scrambling after their balls. He’d learned to slice before you, a tiny middle schooler with clunky running shoes on and a sleeve stretched over his elbow that he’d seen his basketball player friends wear, doing the shot to you two seconds later in a practice match that had you stumbling head first into the net in front of thirty thirteen year olds. He’d made the varsity team before you, taking the last unofficial but official spot because he beat you in a third set tiebreaker when you were still adjusting to ankle braces the trainer said you needed to wear and there was never time the rest of the season to challenge him again. 

You’d joined the tennis club first, however, a youth instructor during college until Namjoon had found you taking serves after a group lesson and coaxed you into a pickup match and eventually to try out for the competitive team. As a manager of the club by the time Hoseok’s application came across your desk, you had half the mind to shred it, but your degree and your job position knew better. Hoseok was Namjoon’s friend. Park Jimin had just left a singles spot open on the competitive team.

You decided you could put up with him. If he stayed out of your way. He had since graduation.

But of course he couldn’t. Switching trainers to be with Namjoon. Taking the open locker next to yours when there were, at minimum, seventeen free ones. Wooing your middle school group lessons to the point where they asked for him to teach. 

Standing in on your training sessions just weeks before the first of regional qualifier matches. 

“Are you awake?” Your cheeks burned at Namjoon’s call and you glared at Hoseok just because you knew he’d be laughing. He was. 

“What are you doing?” He continued to scold and you continued to flame, “Back up. And step toward the middle. You aren’t a twelve year old trying to protect your backhand anymore.”

You didn’t move, setting up to take the next serve directly down the line, a fiery ball that bounced lowly just in on the baseline before smacking Hoseok hard on the knee. You twirled your racket as you stood, eyes on your watch and Namjoon’s tight sigh helped with your curt exit. 

“Go. Send Seokjin in.”

“Who let Hoseok spit in your lunch?”

You glared at your doubles partner and he giggled, leaning against the locker next to yours as you began to yank clothes out of it, sweatpants and a hoodie and the dangling fabric of your lanyard with your car and house keys attached. 

“You joke—” You slammed the metal so hard you hoped it reverberated through the walls to the courts, “—but he’s out there. He was out there during half my training. He’ll probably still be out there for yours and for when I get back. Who knew going undefeated two seasons in a row earned ass kissing from your trainer.”

Seokjin quirked an eyebrow as you struggled with a leg of your sweatpants, cupping a gentle hand on your elbow. “Yeah. Who would have ever guessed. We should try it.”

“We’re regional runner up.”

“Runner up…”

“Look, fuck—” 

“I’m aware you hate everyone today, don’t remind me of those who beat us last year,” He held onto your arm until you cinched the drawstrings around your waist, “...look I’m not trying to be an asshole. But when you go home, can you do something for me?”

You glared with the hoodie curled in your fists until Seokjin continued, deadpan, “Crawl into your bed. I know it’s not made because you had an early lesson this morning. Shut your eyes. Then roll over and get up on the other side. Then come back for our joint training.”

If you wouldn’t have got caught in the head of your hoodie, your fuck off would have been entirely more effective. 

Seokjin held up two hands in solace anyway, his bag hiking higher on broad shoulders. “Just saying. I don’t need drilled in the back of the head with your serve. Again.” 

“That’s only happened twice.”

“Four times,” He wiggled four fingers in front of your nose, “All Hoseok induced. It’s the I can’t stand Hoseok serve. Otherwise known as us losing a point immediately.”

“Whatever,” You stretched your lanyard around your neck, smacking his hand that continued to wave in front of your eyes in order to step around him, “I’ll be back.”

“Bring me an iced coffee from McDonald’s?”

“...you don’t want an apple or something?”

“Yeah, apple slices from a happy meal would be amazing—” 

Fresh from your apartment, ankle braces shed in favor of your knee brace, and a happy meal with an iced coffee in hand, you shouldered your way back into the complex. It was silent in the middle of the afternoon, no one aside from the staff, competitive teams, and adult patrons milling around until the children showed up for their evening lessons. 

Rather, it was normally silent. And the lobby area followed the same routine when you settled the brown paper bag onto the front desk, no one at the tiny row of bleachers set in front of the window for viewing, no clinging lockers or running shower heads in the locker room. Instead, through the window, figures rushed by. Back and forth. Up and down. A squinted glance and you registered the neon yellow blur to be Hoseok. Then Namjoon. Then one of the other tennis pros who had been on the far side of the complex. Namjoon again. 

Namjoon catching your attention by means of wide eyes and frantic hands. 

“What?” You didn’t know what you were running for but your slide on sandals weren’t a tripping hazard as you dashed after Namjoon, “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t turn over his shoulder but it was easy to make out his loud it’s Jin when you saw the crumpled heap of your doubles partner, shoulders slumped against the glass viewing window with his knee curled upward to his chest. 

“What? What—” You ran out of your sandals, socked feet sliding into a crouched position, “—what happened?”

Seokjin’s ears were painted in red, not the same color as when members of an opposing team complimented the width of his shoulders on a changeover, but one that traveled upward from the pained purse of his lips, curling around the lids of shut eyes. A soft groan let some tension from his shoulders and he tried to roll them out when his eyes curled open to look at you. 

“Took a fall,” He tried to smile more so for your benefit, “Thought I could get to a corner backhand. Didn’t have you at the net to cover me.”

“What hurts?”

Seokjin blinked, “Darling, it’s my knee.”

Namjoon was back, dangling fabric bandage in hand but Seokjin batted it away immediately. The trainer agreed with the sentiment, arm around Seokjin’s ribs as he fumbled to a crouched position, tugging. “Come on, let’s get you to the hospital.”

There was a muted shock that numbed at your stature as you watched your normally bright and bubbly double partner limb feebly at the grace of Namjoon off the court, racket forgotten at the far corner of the court, water bottle and bag untouched and forgotten. Three steps after them to the door and you remembered there was another individual who’d witnessed the incident, too. 

“I’m coming with you.” 

You glared at Hoseok, clammy hand slick on the screen door. “You’re not.”

“I wasn’t asking,” You bristled at his hand coming in contact with the small of your back, coaxing you through the door, “I’m driving. Also not up for debate.”

You didn’t have much energy to be disgruntled, ducking into his sports car without the top on and your first thought was that it’d probably rain because why wouldn’t it. It was a second before he jammed the keys into the ignition, a roar of an engine where you gladly wouldn’t be able to speak to him any longer. 

“Is it bad?”

Hoseok squinted, not bothering to yank expensive sunglasses from the cupholder. Instead of verbally answering, he nodded. 

The next question, quipped, “Did you do it?”

He sighed, wrist limp on the top of the steering wheel and his breath visibly stuttered in his chest. 

“I can’t believe we’ve got to a point where think you need to ask me that.”

“So it’s torn?”

“Absolutely ripped to shreds.”

“And there’s no miracle of science that can heal you in a month?”

“The only miracle that powerful is—”

“Your face, yes, I’m aware,” You touched the back of Seokjin’s hand, IV’s covered in thick plastic bandages, “You couldn’t have just like, fractured it, huh?”

“That’s now how it works and—” He winked, “—I don’t do anything half-assed.”

Your fingers curled a bit tighter between the spaces in his own, letting your smile fall with your chin to your chest and a miniscule shake of your head. Seokjin watched you, steady gaze without falter when you looked at him again, tight lipped and with a shrug. 

“Guess we won’t even have the chance at runner-up this year.”

He shrugged, equally as carefree laced in disappointment as you. There was barely a hesitation from that movement to the part of his lips. 

Seokjin corrected, “I won’t have a chance, no. But you can still play.”

You scoffed, drawing your hand into your lap to pick at a stray piece of skin still clinging to your cuticle. “What, in a singles spot? Not a chance.”

“Surely you can find someone else to play with,” Seokjin’s eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, “What are some options—”

“You got hurt less than six hours ago and you expect me to have thought about a new partner already?” You glared at him at his smile grew into the dimples in his cheeks, “Well I haven’t, Jin.”

“I would have. I want—”

You held a hand up, the other coming to scrunch your closed eyelids between the stretch of your fingers. “I don’t want to hear about your fantasy doubles partner.”

“Not even if it’s Venus Williams?”

“Fuck, is she an option? I would have traded you out yesterday.”

Seokjin beamed, “Seriously, darling. Ask Namjoon to find you a new partner, if he can. I’ll be the one at the finals waving two crutches around.”

“Can we attach streamers to them?”

“Obviously…”

“Sit.”

Your iced coffee sat first, cubes clicking dully against plastic, a ring of condensation immediately soaking into the chipped round table engulfing the majority of the conference room. The metal folding chair bumped against the wall with the proximity but you managed to squeeze onto the ripped upholstery, fingers trailing upward on the cup to twirl at the straw. 

Namjoon, meanwhile, continued to shuffle stacks of paperwork from within an unbuckled orange binder, registration fees and scribbled rosters and a calendar with a poetic picture of a live tennis ball smacking into an ambiguous line, in no matter the circumstance. A neat pile turned messy when he shuffled the papers again, and finally he settled with three stacks, ends overlapping visibly so you could count the number in each pile. 

“We have two options,” He fingered at the end of a piece of paper that hung over the edge of the table, effectively creasing the dull yellow sheet. 

The ring of condensation expanded into more of a cylinder when you dragged the cup closer, noisely slurping from the straw as Namjoon sighed. “Mhmm?”

“We add an extra singles spot to the roster,” He fished out the piece of paper, pointing to the empty cell at the end of a complicated spreadsheet. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble. You’d just have to place in at least two of the four remaining qualifiers to make it to the regional. I haven’t researched the competition much but that wouldn’t be too much of a far fetched feat. Trying doesn’t hurt either, seeing as the club is currently paying for a spot that’s not being used anyway.”

You pretended to consider it for a moment and even if you wouldn’t admit it, tiniest part of your conscious seriously considered it. Instead, you nodded, straw still balanced in the center of your bottom lip as you hummed for him to continue. 

“The other option is we find you a new partner,” Namjoon’s expression grew considerably greyer, reaching for a different stack of papers this time. His shoulders sagged as he shucked aside the top piece face down, “and of everyone in the club, only three players are currently eligible to take on such a role.”

“And of those three players…”

“One is Park Jimin who I, evidently, have yet to throw paperwork out for. I tried to call him, regardless, and his loyalties lie with his new club. Not that I blame him…”

“The next is Jeon Jeongguk,” Namjoon eyed you through annoyed eyelashes, another paper slapped onto the wobbly table, “...who has preexisting eSports obligations during two of the qualifying matches.”

“Which leaves us with one option—” He peeled the sheet away, nudging it toward you. It messily fluttered but you managed to drag it closer by only wetting the corner with the excess from your cup. A stat sheet with an invoice for lessons scrawled across the bottom, two things among other numbers you passed through in a rush to try to find the name but Namjoon spoke right as your eyes scanned the block printed characters. 

“—Jung Hoseok.”

You slapped the paper down into the puddle created by your drink, drowning his name much to Namjoon’s audible dismay. “That’s fine. It was a good season while it lasted but I think I’ll just wait for Jin and the next circuit to begin. You can turn my Friday lessons back over to me early, if you like, since we won’t need to train any longer—”

Namjoon murmured your name, gentle like the way he pried Hoseok’s stat sheet out of your clutches in order not to tear it in the way the delicate width of it was soaked through with caramel water. 

“You did used to play together, you know. Well, might I add.”

Hoseok was your first true doubles partner, put together by a student coach on your university’s club team who had no idea of your ever growing distaste for the loud, and then, brown headed man, seeing as Hoseok never left your side during practices, was seen walking you home, among a few things. You were good together, good enough to beat surrounding universities, at the very least. Good enough to stay out of each other’s way, lack the communication of normal doubles teams for the most part, win in silence and easy, truly a silent but deadly duo. 

He was never openly cocky, never a keyword as his extreme humbleness seemed to further your not-so-maxed distaste for the man who’d now messily bleached his hair where bits of brown continued to poke out in reverse highlights. At least, not until you ran up against some sizable competition in the finals of the university club tennis championships, his first instinct to insert his vast knowledge in skill in place of your lack of communication while you responded with the same resistance that you always did, except now with a hint of I knew it. 

You lost and Hoseok took his slip up as a confirmation of your horrible impression you not-so-subtly had of him. You took it as a confirmation of what you’d thought all along. 

“There’s a reason we stopped.”

“A good one?”

You fumed, the water beneath your palm evaporating into steam that, quite literally, could be billowing from your ears if your cheeks heated anymore. You tried to stand, push the chair back, but it lodged against the wall and you stumbled on the leg. 

“Good enough for me.”

Namjoon muttered your name again, once soft and again an octave firmer, waiting until you stopped flailing between the rungs of metal to order again, “Sit down.”

“Your already have your answer—”

“Sit down,” He seemed disinterested as he began to carelessly shove papers back into the open flap of the folder but you knew better as he added a quieter but insistent, “Please.”

The back of your knees knocked into the metal ring around the seat of the chair and you sighed upon impact. 

“Can you do one thing for me?”

You blinked and your fingers were back to fiddling with the straw. “Depends.”

“Try,” Namjoon closed the folder once everything was tucked semi safely inside, letting his fingers fold into a neat fist on top, “Just try it. We’ll double training sessions so that you’re ready to play in that exhibition match next weekend. If it’s a disaster, I’ll pull your team. It won’t affect you next season and it won’t affect Hoseok’s singles bracket.”

“What do I get in return?”

“My undying appreciation,” Namjoon took your lack of immediate no as you folding, rising to his feet with the folder tucked to his chest, “and maybe I’ll buy you muffins for your morning sessions.”

“I have another question.”

“No, you can’t use Hoseok as a human volley target just because he’s your new partner—”

“First of all, I haven’t said yes yet—” You leaned back in your chair, water dribbling onto the front of your shirt as you brought the straw to poke between your two front teeth, “—secondly…”

“...have you asked Hoseok?”

“Absolutely not,” Hoseok’s watch clinked against the table when he placed both palms flat, shoulders tensing pre-stand, “Anything else?”

Namjoon was a bit firmer with Hoseok than he had been with you, pinning him to the spot with a glare and even you shivered when he hissed, “Sit down, Hoseok.”

The man in question let the tension sink from his shoulders all the way into his wrists, settling his cheek into one palm instead, ringed hand attached to his watched wrist pattering an off beat tune into the wood. After a second of Namjoon staring at him with a single raised eyebrow, he folded his fingers again, the sound of his jewelry rebounding off the wood making your eyes roll back in your head.

“Let me put it a little clearer—” He glanced at you, serious albeit the comical raise of both eyebrows, “—and I’m not in any way trying to hurt your feelings, but I don’t play doubles. I have the singles championship to worry about.”

“Who said you were going to win that,” You grumbled into the knuckles curled over your mouth.

Hoseok’s lips parted, hand flattening in your direction, “I never said I was going to win—” 

“Listen to me,” Namjoon exchanged a pained glance between the two of you and you could see his hair greying at the roots. 

He turned to you first, “I already know how you feel. I don’t need your input at the moment, not yet.”

Your face heated but you slumped in your chair nonetheless, trying to ignore Hoseok’s stare at the side of your face no matter the expression he had. Especially if that expression was one of sorrow or apology. 

“As for you,” The shrug of Namjoon’s shoulders into his hands he began using to help him speak was exasperated, “I’m not trying to take anything away from your training for the singles championship. If anything, this will help. The extra training sessions. The ability to play high level doubles. Everyone should have to play at this level of doubles at least once, if you ask me.” 

He jerked a thumb in your direction, “Season’s over if you choose not to play. Which is fine. I just think it’d be a waste of that position. A waste of potential grants for the facility. You know, we could use new quick start nets for the kids but—”

Hoseok groaned but there was a hint of laughter to his tone, “Oh, you’re going to guilt me with the children then, huh, Joon?”

“—but, most of all, it’d be a waste of potential,” Namjoon’s admission silenced even the annoyance brewing in the pit of your stomach, “There’s too much potential here to let an entire season’s worth of work go to waste just because of a little bad luck and two stubborn adults.”

There was an uncomfortable shifting between the two of your chairs and Namjoon took that shade of silence to continue, “Today is Saturday. You train every day twice a day with me until next Friday. We go down the street to the exhibition match. You—” Namjoon pointed the end of his pen in Hoseok’s direction, “—kick Park Jimin’s ass in the morning. Then the two of you kick whoever’s ass in the afternoon.”

“If you don’t do well, which I doubt, then we’ll call the whole thing off. Hobi can continue on to be king of the tri-state area in singles tennis and you can have your six to eight year olds back on Friday evenings,” He finished with a sigh, like he’d just rang seven consecutive laps around the perimeter of the complex, “Yes?”

There was a hesitation and it wasn’t a yes but a sure that grumbled past your lips, one that was mirrored by Hoseok when his chin met his shoulder and he spoke to the tattered shag carpet below. 

“That has to be a yes,” Namjoon pointedly glared at you, “From both of you.”

“Sure,” Hoseok waved a dismissive hand under the watchful glower of his longtime friend, “Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”

You saved the theatrics for glaring at your expression in your mirror. It’d be soft and unsure, just like the murmur that you spoke directly to Namjoon’s awaiting features. 

“Yes. Let’s do it.”

“Again.”

You hadn’t sweat this much since it was a fall temperature, almost winter with the whip of the wind, in an early morning clinic in high school only to be summer, extremely so, by hour two and you hadn’t brought anything else to change into and had to suffer with bulky fabric curled around the entirety of your upper half. 

You grunted into the forehand, force so much your body tumbled forward a full pace to where you’d been before. The ball sailed past Hoseok at the net, landing at a sharp angle where Namjoon sat in wait. 

“Not deep enough,” Another ball was fished from his pocket, prepared to feed to you again, “Again.”

You hadn’t been this sore since you’d forgotten your proper shoes at your apartment and hadn’t had time to go back, taking a hundred serves in low top, completely flat converse that rubbed raw blisters into each pinky toe and made your knees hate you more than ever. 

Your ball landed past the service line this time, past where Namjoon stood next to a full basket of balls. He considered it until it thumped against the back wall, rolling sadly to a stop upon impact. 

Another ball snagged in the nylon of his shorts. 

“Again.”

It was unintentional, a footwork error, the force in which you leaned into the swing of your racket just late enough to have the ball misshit, bad. If there hadn’t been a person in the way, it would have caught in the center of the net, collecting with a few others that had unfortunately met the same fate. But there was a human there, barely crouched like he should be, head hanging low with his racket poised up at his face. 

The ball smacked into Hoseok’s waist, the sound audible and the force of the ball so great it shot off in the opposite trajectory as before. 

Namjoon had barely turned to dig for more balls to fill his pockets, another again lingering on the tip of his tongue when Hoseok straightened. 

“You did that on purpose.”

He was equally covered in sweat, dirty blonde sticking in uneven pleats down the side of his headband and you’d never seen his cheeks so pale and sunken in. His tank top was pasted to the defined planes of his torso, splotches coating his back similarly and it even shone down into the rivets of his bulging calves. 

For once, “I didn’t.” Your racket drooped lazily to your side and you heaved in some much needed air, “I swear I didn’t.”

“See, I know you’re lying,” He dabbed the soaked sweatband on his wrist into his bangs, “That doesn’t just happen. Not to you.”

“But it did. It was an accident,” Your grip tightened on the sweat stained handle of your racket, “You’d know if it was on purpose.”

“Okay,” Hoseok kicked a ball, one of the ones displaced by a former shot of yours that had hit the net, “Do it correctly, then. Get it deep in that corner—”

“I know where it needs to go.”

“Then why haven’t you hit it one time yet? Forget your horrid topspin technique…”

“Who’s the coach here, Hoseok?”

There was a distinct sound of spilling tennis balls, ones from the cart Namjoon had carefully dumped over until each and every one of the hundreds of balls littered around his feet. He spoke coldly, knuckles anemic where he gripped his racket two his chest in two hands, “Don’t look at me. I’m done.”

Hoseok watched after Namjoon while you continued to stare at a droplet of sweat contouring the slope of Hoseok’s nose, your attention only diverting when your trainer paused in the doorway. 

“Come tomorrow with a better attitude or don’t come at all.”

“And pick all of that up before you leave.”

“Are you ready?”

You glanced at your bare feet shoved in some slides, loose sweatpants rolled twice at the hip and stained university hoodie where it draped over your torso underneath your key lanyard. The next glare was directed at Seokjin, propped half on the row of lockers, half on one of his crutches. 

“...to play?” 

Seokjin rolled his eyes, “No. To go watch Hoseok—”

“Why are you in here, by the way?—”

Heart shaped lips bloomed into a drooping tulip, shuffling on one crutch. “Just because you replaced me doesn’t mean I’m not still part of the team.”

“I didn’t willingly replace you—”

“Are you coming or not?”

You resisted the urge to throw your keys directly at the tiny hole in the brace supporting his knee. “Coming where—” 

Seokjin cocked an eyebrow and you smacked him with the wallet part hanging off your keys, letting him work his way through the weased laughter of amusement at himself before he finally shrugged. 

“Don’t know I guess, darling. I’m going to watch Hoseok though, so if you’d like to sit here for another five hours, then be my guest.”

You paused as Seokjin shuffled, retrieving his other crutch and settling it underneath his arm. He was one swing toward the door when you sighed, “Is he playing Jimin?”

“Yes.”

“What color hair does Jimin have?”

“Does it really matter? He has those tight shorts on—”

“Oh fuck off. I’m coming, I’m coming, slow down, you’re faster on those things then with two good knees—”

You navigated into the fairly crowded set of bleachers outside the first court of the outdoor complex, taking a seat on the first row while Seokjin tried to balance his crutches against the fence with muted squeaks of protest. He finally went for flat on the ground by the time the players on the court were nearly halfway through the match with Hoseok in a comfortable lead.

But he didn’t show it, sweat pouring out from underneath the dark blue headband that contained the flattened part of his hair, white sweatbands pressed against his face between each point, groans of effort emitting off the surface of the court every time he had to strain for a corner shot from Jimin. 

He made eye contact with you when he jogged to the fence to retrieve a loose ball, a serve way out by Jimin, tucking it into his pocket with blind eyes as he instead stared you down with parted lips. He nodded, barely, the smallest acknowledgement that shook the sweat stained ends of blonde hair, splattering more to the dark blue patches that made his shirt stick to his torso. 

Seokjin nudged you, “His hair is pink right now, I guess.”

You tried to pretend you weren’t eyeing the peak of Hoseok’s thighs where his shorts rode up on his sticky skin, spluttering, “You think that’s pink?”

“Well it’s not blue.” 

You managed to avert your gaze enough to notice that Seokjin wasn’t lying to get a rile out of you, it was pink, cotton candy in variety and fluffed in waves even if he seemed to be sweating as much if not worse than Hoseok. It was your mouth that betrayed you in the end, ranting, “Blue? Why would it be blue? Blue sucks really. Who would dye their hair blue—”

Seokjin watched the side of your face with a smirk pressed into his dimples and knuckles curled across his lips, “Maybe I should have warned you about Hoseok instead of Jimin—”

“Hey, will it hurt if I punch your scar right now?”

“Probably, why?”

“Good, turn toward me a little bit—”

You grew comfortable in your absent stare at the loop of Hoseok’s shoelaces, one through a whole tightened, repeat. They were a different pair than he’d worn in the morning, white now, with what appeared to be a strip of pastel purple shoved into a sleeve on the side of each shoe. The laces were similar, a soft hue that looked delicate in Hoseok’s nimble fingers, a woven melody that seemed to overlap Namjoon’s droning words in the back of your conscious. 

“Are either of you listening to me?”

Your grip tightened on the straps of your bag as your gaze jerked away from comfort and it was the startled part of your mouth that gave you away before you could even try to lie. 

Namjoon’s palms hit the bench he’d been perched on with renewed fervor, shaking his head as he stalked for the doorway. “I don’t even know why I try. All I ask is that you don’t kill each other out there. Otherwise, I’ll see you afterwards.”

Hoseok grunted as he straightened, joints cracking as he deliberately twisted his spine in time with hiking his foot up higher than necessary to push it off the elevation he’d been tying his shoe. 

“Don’t need him anyway, right?” He teased. 

“Since when do you not have to listen to your coaches?”

The sunshine curved upward into the apples of his cheeks immediately flattened, turning downward even as his chin curtly cocked. 

“I didn’t see you listening to him either, princess,” Hoseok heaved his bag onto his shoulders, smile returned but anything less than inviting as it had been before. 

Your features burned, “That’s not—”

“Whatever.”

You made every excuse possible to debunk that the expression on his face was not one of genuine pain. 

You didn’t stop from the firm shake of hands with each member of the opposing team to the gravel around the trunk of your car where you, rather unceremoniously, dropped your bag from your shoulders to dig around for you keys. You’d just snagged the end of them, buried underneath a couple stray balls and a shock absorber shaped like a broken heart emoji, when scuffing feet passed by you.

You wished you hadn’t look up.

“Don’t look at me,” Namjoon ordered, hands up, palms wide on either side of his shoulders. He paused next to his own car, three down from your own but he didn’t climb inside, fishing out a binder as he took off back the way he came, “Figure it out on your own.”

“In fact, there’s two of you,” Namjoon tripped when he tried to walk backward and talk to you, clutching the binder to his chest as he faltered, “Figure it out with him.” 

But you weren’t in the mood, not after the walking purple highlighter had spent the entire match scolding your technique under his breath and not bothering to communicate strategy with you once, not even when you won the first game on your serve and had them down forty love in the second game. 

It’d gone south from there. Two-six, zero-six. Not in your favor. 

You didn’t stop from the jam of your keys into the ignition, nearly reversing into a truck that was pulling out at the same time, until you navigated into a kind-of-but-not-really parking spot just on the edge of striped lines in the garage beside your building. 

You’d figured it out on your side, not needing to consult Hoseok’s opinion because you’d already come to terms with your season ending while trying to convince Seokjin you couldn’t sneak him out to the nearest Chili’s (it’ll take thirty minutes, no one will even notice I’m gone). You dumped your tennis bag and keys in the foyer, tripping over them with your phone pressed to your nose as you spit out the nasty text message to the bleeding highlighter himself. 

I think you know what I’m going to say. Best of luck for the remainder of the season. 

You left your phone face up on the counter while you disappeared into face melting steam only the rest of the hot water in your building could produce. 

A stress ordered pizza and half the pieces later, you passed by your phone with still dripping hair, droplets smearing onto the screen when you leaned over the device as it lit with a notification.  A top notification of five. Three emails, one from Namjoon and business related which meant he wasn’t going to fire you from your manager position. 

Two texts from Hoseok. 

Thank you. 

Dinner at my place tomorrow? 

Your burp tasted of pepperoni as you clutched the phone to your chest, bouncing onto your couch with a dramatic hop. One leg propped up on the coffee table. A pillow tucked underneath your elbow. 

Disinterested in the recording of a Wednesday night reality show, you tapped with one thumb busy. 

Three bubbles appeared almost immediately and you almost puked in the rush to exit out of the application because, no, you hadn’t turned on read receipts just to send him a text. 

Busy with what? 

You gasped but he couldn’t hear you. Angrily now, with two thumbs I have work at the complex to finish. 

An eye roll emoji in response. Followed by a smiling one but not the one with rosy cheeks. The one that looks slightly uncomfortable but also all-knowing. 

We’re closed on Sundays. 

I do comanage. I have keys. 

...so you’ll be over at five? 

You glared at your phone and, unfortunately, you could picture he triumphant smile filling up the entirety of your screen. The smallest part of your seasoned conscious said there he goes, cocky again. Your fingers worked before that thought fully traveled to the angel on your left shoulder, the devil on your right controlling your joints as you tapped on your phone. 

What’s your address? 

You tossed your phone aside as the next message lit up your phone immediately. The address. You acknowledged the text so you wouldn’t have to get the second notification, pulling your knees to your chest instead. 

There was a second text because of course there was. A heart emoticon, this time with the blushing cheeks. And three tiny hearts. You sighed and you didn’t know why your singular heart fluttered a bit against your ribs. 

Your knuckles had barely tapped against the door for a third time when Hoseok’s sharp voice flit through the sizable gap underneath the door, spilling light into the dim hallway. Shadows danced by the white, small, rounded at the end with little points. 

The points explained the sound of scuffling from within, Hoseok’s cooing explained when the door was pulled open from the inside to him crouched on the floor, palm curved around the breast of a brown and white shitzhu. The dog didn’t bark, but it was clear he wanted to get to you, feet absently swimming underneath him as Hoseok rose with him in toe, eyeing the tongue that curled out of the puppy’s mouth with a tender fondness you’d never seen before. 

“Hi,” Hoseok bounced the dog once in his arms. “Mickey was excited for you to get here.”

Frozen steps brought you through the threshold, fingers reaching gently for the dog. He seemed to melt under your touch, letting you rub behind and up and down his ears. It was unintentional the way you glanced up at Hoseok, through your eyelashes and with a smile tucked into your cheeks. 

You weren’t surprised to see that his wardrobe wasn’t any less when outside of the confining lines of the tennis court. A baggy button up tucked into the waist of tight black jeans, sleeves hanging past his elbows and decked in brightly colored shapes pasted above and below vertical black lines stretched the length of the top. A bright gold watch strapped to his dainty wrist. What appeared to be clip-on matching earrings suffocating his lobes. A thin chain dipping below the first two buttons that were undone. His blonde hair was fluffier when not carefully parted with a sweatband, swept in a flattering bowl across his forehead, more of the brown roots tucked behind his ears. 

Even his smile was different, crawling upward in pretty pink lips the longer you failed to break eye contact with him at the close proximity. 

You broke the trance by speaking way too loud for the door still being open and for that part of your conscious seeming to forget that this man was your mortal enemy. 

“Mickey, huh?”

Hoseok hummed in acknowledgement, wordlessly passing the dog to your arms as he reached around you to tug the door shut. You awed at the tiny creature as he tongued at the apex of your elbow, gently and almost methodical in nature before beaded brown eyes peered up at you. 

“He keeps me company.”

You’d been too busy prodding at the dog’s nose to laugh when his tongue darted out to try to chase your affections to notice that Hoseok had already disappeared into the depths of the apartment. You exchanged a glance with the puppy, bundling him tighter to your chest as you trekked down the hall. 

Hallway was a relative term, just a few feet of walls on either side before the room opened up into a kitchen, living room combination. Something played on the television, muted, but a program you didn’t recognize nonetheless, curved in by a thick black throw rug and a tattered, red leather couch. Dark grey walls paired with a monochromatic interior theme didn’t match the ratty white linoleum peeking out from corners of various colored rugs. 

You were entranced in the most mundane aspects of the apartment, focused on a worn edge of matte black countertop when Hoseok’s gentle voice chided at you. 

“You can put him down, you know.”

The dog hadn’t so much as made a noise in your aimless wandering and when you glanced down, you found his muzzle resting on your forearm, eyes fluttering with soft sighs. You cooed, gently rocking him as though he were a child. “But he’s napping.”

Plates knocked together as Hoseok spread them two across the bar, diligent in his work with cocked eyebrows and the beginnings of a smile. “He’s always napping,” He dove for the pots on the stove, a pronged utensil dipping into the depths before drawing out a stringy clump of pasta. The meal was deposited onto the first plate and he murmured, “Better not bring you around too much, he won’t want to walk anywhere.”

You relented when Mickey woke with a soft yawn, jostled by your conversation and the continued sound of dishes. He skidded across the floor with the softest delighted yip!, disappearing around the corner and you could tell by the way Hoseok chirped and glanced down that he was pestering his owner for attention now instead. 

“I didn’t even ask,” Hoseok continued to plate the dishes, now spreading a sweet smelling sauce to the top, “Is spaghetti alright with you?”

You hummed, elbows knocking into the edge of the counter to peer at his creation. You lessened the severity of your tone in hopes that he would recognize you were kidding, “A gourmet meal…”

“Hey—” The glint in the wrinkles around his eyes let you know he too was kidding and the tension in your shoulders relaxed, “—it’s all I had here on such short notice.”

“You asked me to come. In fact, you didn’t give me much of a chance to say no…”

“I wanted you to be here,” His final dollop of sauce ended up half on the plate, half splattered on the counter, and he slid the clean plate across to you before ducking for a napkin. The mess was cleaned with scrunched features, a sigh falling from parted lips when he balled the paper and missed the trash bin on the very edge. 

You watched Hoseok quietly from your perched position on one of two barstools as he collected his own plate, silverware in hand as he rounded the bar to you. “I think we have some things to talk through—” He tugged the empty chair back with the round of his foot, depositing the cutlery to the surface of the counter as he went, “—don’t you?”

“Without Namjoon?”

He shot you a pointed look, stabbing the end of his fork into the center of his pasta spiral, “Definitely without Namjoon.”

You quietly cut into the ends of the noodles, scooping up a sizeable bite, “Yesterday was clearly a disaster.”

“It wasn’t that bad. The score doesn’t always tell the whole story,” There was a fleck of garlic stuck to the corner of pouted lips when he glanced at you, “A little more practice can fix our chemistry issues.”

“Can it though?” You dumped the pieces of pasta you’d cut back to the plate, gently setting your fork down, “I don’t know that any amount of practice can make us like each other. Or even pretend—”

“Do you dislike me?”

“No,” You answered quickly and earnestly because you didn’t. For the most part. Not really. “I mean...no. No, I don’t.”

Hoseok nodded, quickly at first and then slower, more to himself as he began to stab around the pasta some more. Moving it back and forth, coating the clean parts of the plate in sticky red sauce and then finally he mumbled, “Good...that’s—that’s good to know.”

 “Truthfully, I don’t know why it ever got to this point. Where we can’t even collaborate for a few days on the thing we both love.”

More pointed clicking of metal against glass. A noisy slurp of water from a plastic cup. More scooting and then, “Why can’t we though?”

“You saw how yesterday went. How all our training sessions have gone—”

“Forget about those,” He dropped his fork now too, rotating until his knees almost knocked into yours, “Seriously, forget about them.”

Hoseok inhaled, a deep sigh that had his gaze trailing over your head, “...look, I don’t know what you think about me. I try not to care. But let’s just...for the sake of right now, start over?”

A mental slideshow passed by in front of your eyes as you stared at the genuine plea pasted over Hoseok’s heart shaped features, all the moments your stomach had stirred with a fire and your tongue had lashed out those internal hardships but you suddenly couldn’t find the ignition, the accelerant that made the flames engulf your nerve endings to the very tips of your fingers non existent, smoking like doused with water (or store bought, jar made spaghetti sauce). A mirage, maybe, just like the limp noodle lodged between one of your back molars.

You extended your hand toward the figure across from you. 

“Yeah, let’s start over—” You sucked in a sharp breath, setting your shoulders and the smile that spread to your lips was supposed to be faux but turned out light hearted anyway. You cheered your name, tilting your head toward your wiggling fingers, “—it’s a pleasure to be your doubles partner for an eighth of the season, sir.”

He touched your hand, loose in sliding his fingers across your palm to squeeze, not shake. His voice feathered out of twitching lips just like the stumble of your heart, wholy unsure but willing to try. 

“Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

“No Namjoon?”

Seokjin was off his crutches now but still sporting what appeared to be the world’s largest brace, coated in metal gears that made you joke if he was starting his transition to immortality. He met you in the doorway of the locker room, holding a hand out for your water jug. You handed it over, expecting him to carry it for you as you brushed past but he flicked the lid and took the longest gulp, mashing a piece of ice between his teeth as he handed it back. 

“No,” You popped the lid closed, smacking his bicep with the knowledge he couldn’t catch up to you if you took off running, “No, no Namjoon today. He’s here but not...here. Not trying to coach us yet.”

“Not after what happened last time,” Hoseok was fiddling with the velcro strap of a visor as he exited the opposite door. He sported the same light purple color scheme, something about reversing the bad luck of the exhibition match. 

You’d changed up your outfit, just in case omens were real and the tennis gods hated red. Yellow was your color choice. You weren’t brave enough to match him yet, either. 

He looked up when he secured it, jamming the hat down over his hair, eliminating the signature part that marked his quick dashes across the court. The bright smile stayed as he flanked your small posse, nudging you with the arm covered in two sweatbands and a skin colored arm sleeve. 

“Are you two...like friends now?”

Seokjin’s loud inquiry heated your cheeks but Hoseok just shrugged, still looking at where his elbow had touched your stomach. “Partners, at the very least,” Hoseok provided, “Doubles partners. Ones who work together and don’t try to concuss each other with serves.”

Your mouth parted to deny that I’ve never done that but Seokin quipped, “Oh, she’s tried to do that to you for ages. It was one of her training strategies with me—”

“Where’s your off switch, Mr. Robot.”

“Don’t have one. Anyway, best of luck!”

When there was a sailing lob over Hoseok’s head, you were eager to call out to switch!, worn traction on the soles of your shoes allowing you to slide to catch the shot, lobbing it back cross court while Hoseok lay in wait at the net, seeking out the easy put away shot at the net that would eventually and did eventually come. 

When there was an opportunity to play strategy on his serve, you did, each starting on the left side the second point into the game, allowing Hoseok to serve a hard, down the line ball to the opponent's backhand which, in turn, set you up for a sneaky and easy floater that you crammed in the center of the two players. 

When there was a changeover in the first set, five games to love in your favor, your hand was there for Hoseok’s to smack, a high five he taunted a little bit above your head while you tried to balance your water bottle in one palm and seek out his hand in the other. It earned a smile when you spilled ice water down the front of your top and he had to hand you a hand towel from his bag while the opposing team watched impatiently from their positions.

When there was an opportunity in the second set for the opposing team to get a breakpoint, make it three to four rather than five to two, Namjoon called you over to the fence with only a sliver of the feeling of dread lingering in his posture. He eyed the pair of you as you approached, Hoseok shoved lightly on your arm as you went to plant but instead of an outraged screech from you, it just earned another push and a fit of mingling giggles, ones Namjoon nearly went into cardiac arrest over and he never thought he’d have to tell you and Jung Hoseok to stop laughing at each other so that he could speak. 

There were still moments of tension, moments that made you inhale and dig your fingernails into the grip of your racket but instead of muttering obscenities under your breath and using his head as target practice for your spin serve, you smiled, real and genuine, and you leaned closer to his fiery explanations spoken as a similarly smiley octave, “What was it you wanted me to do?”

They were easy to navigate in the first round of the tournament, take you through the lunch of cold cut sandwiches Seokjin had laid out on a picnic table for you, the second round that drew a little bit closer in score but was still a win (both statistically and morally, especially when Namjoon walked you out to the court with instruction rather than hid in the safety of his car until it seemed like you wouldn’t try to slash Hosoek’s achilles with the frame of your racket). The third round brought more of the past to rear its ugly head, a dark storm cloud that reminded you in rain and miscommunication at the net that you were a human, not a miracle worker. 

But you won, barely, in a tiebreaker that nearly killed your stamina for the championship but the taste to win was so fresh on the roof of your mouth, you grit your teeth to grind it up and swallow it. Second best wasn’t good enough, even if it would qualify you for the regional champions, if you were already qualified. 

But you lost and you had to accept the bitter regurgitation of the victory you could taste, washing it away with your lukewarm water that had melted all the ice cubes onto your tongue throughout your fourth and final match of the day. Except it was just that, a learning experience, bitter but available to all the critiques Namjoon chattered in your ears as you trekked into the parking lot. You didn’t speed away, nearly destroy your ignition with your keys this time, instead leaned against your driver side door while Hoseok coaxed your bag from your shoulders and stuffed it into your trunk with your keys in his hand. 

Namjoon’s fleeting expression at the action was the same when you entered the complex for a training session not nearly a week later, both from Hoseok’s car, your bag slung over one of his shoulders while you held up what appeared to be a strawberry smoothie for him to sip out of. The startled trainer explained the wrong drill four times and resorted to letting you do the wrong thing on the fifth try as he went about collecting barely there balls in a hopper while muttering to himself. 

Thus is why you didn’t think the hotel conseguir was kidding when she handed you two keycards while asking, “Are you checking in for Jung Hoseok as well?”

“Oh, no. Why would I—”

“You’re each listed under this room,” Her grip tightened on the plastic cards when you pinched them, trying to pull them back, “Is that incorrect?”

Someone in the growing line behind you coughed and the quick glance behind you noted that his t-shirt advertised some sort of local tennis tournament. Similarly to the person approaching the desk in the opposite line from you with a spare racket tucked under their arm, one that must have spilled from the half open bag slopped at their ankles. 

“I...no, that’s—”

“That’s how it was booked,” She continued to tug on the cards, freeing them from your grasp to flatten them on the desk in front of you as she began to click around on the monitor, “...and it appears we have no other rooms for the weekend, so—”

“Yes, I’m checking in for Jung Hoseok as well. He’s with me—” She glanced up at you through a stray hair that had escaped from behind her ear and you panicked, “—I didn’t know he booked it under his...other name.”

“Right…” A receipt printed with various pieces of information, one of which blurred the majority of the tennis club’s credit card number, a card held in Namjoon’s name. “Third floor, room forty. Enjoy your stay.”

You called Namjoon in the elevator, ranting at him before the dead spot could end as you stepped off on the third floor. 

“Why’d you book us the same room?”

He yawned into the receiver and you briefly felt bad for waking him from his pre-connecting-flight-nap. Briefly. “Me and you?”

“No dumba—” You stopped yourself to fumble and jam one of the keycards into the slot of room forty, waiting until it clicked over. “—no, Namjoon. Hoseok and I.”

The edge of one of your rackets misplaced inside your bag, catching on the doorframe as you stumbled inside to find the worst part of the singular room. The singular bed.

“You couldn’t even book a room with two full beds?”

“I booked two rooms with one queen bed each.”

“No, you booked one room with a king bed—” You dropped the handle of your suitcase to swat at the towel folded like a swan at the edge of the bed. 

“Well at least it’s a king.”

“Namjoon.” 

“Did you just...ask for another room?”

“They’re booked for the weekend. Kind of a large tennis tournament going on at the attached event center. And some cooking ware convention, but I didn’t take the guy’s brochure…”

“...speaking of which, are you sure you booked yourself a room? Or did you just book the entire club one singular room—” You swatted the swan again to take a seat on the corner, “—because if so, we’re about to get real comfy for the weekend.”

“I’ll call here in a second but if they only mentioned you and Hoseok’s names in the room...then I think it’s just the two of you, love.”

You groaned to which Namjoon sighed, “Just try for me, okay?”

“I just tried to be his doubles partner, not—”

“And look where that got you,” You paused because Namjoon was right. You were a better team than either of you cared to admit. Than you cared to admit to yourself. And all it took was trying, sincerely, applying your passion for the game to the partnership with someone you would no longer regard as you mortal enemy. 

Just your roommate for two days, apparently. 

“...anyway, I need you to call Hoseok and explain what’s going on. That’s a phone call I don’t have time to make.”

“Namjoon—”

“Have a good night!”

You glared at your thumb for it’s seasoned ability to move to Hoseok’s contact but especially the ability to hit call and place it on speaker. 

“Was just about to text you,” He sounded far away, out of breath, and faintly you heard the call of a boarding flight. “Just landed. Meeting my driver to the hotel now.”

“Room three-forty.”

“Do you want me to make a pit stop at a grocery store or something? Get some fruit and waters—wait what?” 

“Room three-forty,” You repeated, glaring at the opposite wall to prevent yourself from calling Hoseok a dumbass out loud until you noticed in your reflection of the flat screen television that you still had your backpack on, “That’s where you’re staying.”

“...okay,” You heard him utter a thank you and then a door shut, “Are we neighbors or something?”

“Mhm, I suppose you could call it that.”

More silence. More muffled directions, and then he sighed, “Did Namjoon book us the same room?”

“Were you in on it?”

“So that’s a yes but, w-what? No, I—” Hoseok laughed and under normal circumstances you’d fume, “—sweetheart, he joked about it in practice like twenty times. He probably joked about it so many times that he did it without thinking.”

You paused and one of the twenty instances flooded back, when Namjoon had entered the complex to you leaned back in your desk chair while Hoseok wrapped new purple grip onto the handle of your racket. 

“Maybe I should just book you the same room for the championships,” His voice had faded as he ducked into his own office, “Wouldn’t that be a treat!”

You’d snatched your racket back from Hoseok not without jamming the end into his stomach playfully. “Maybe you should not do that!”

“Oh,” You switched the phone between your palms as you finally shrugged out of your backpack, letting it sag limply against the neatly stacked pillows, “Oh yeah.”

“So do you want those snacks?”

“If you get something other than fruit.”

“Noted, you want junk food,” You could hear the smile in his voice, “Any other requests?”

You flopped backward onto the mattress, forearm over your eyes and you sighed into the immediate heat that spread across your skin. 

“Yeah, hurry up. I’m lonely.”

“Just one bed too, huh?”

Hoseok rubbed at his eyes, skin coated in a thin sheen underneath the lowlights of the room where he’d just lathered two layers of a fresh smelling skin cream. A loose pajama shirt hung cockeyed over his torso and he fiddled with the top button, not done up in the same way the two below it weren’t either, knee bending to sink into the spot on the mattress across from you. 

“Yeah,” You rolled where you’d already cocooned yourself in the duvet. You pitched your voice to match Namjoon’s, exaggerated and drawn out, “but at least it’s a king.” 

He hesitated in peeling back the sheets, waiting until you glanced curiously at him to soften, “Is this...okay?”

“What?”

“I can sleep on the floor,” The bracelets still attached to his wrist tinkled together as he gestured to the lumps on lumps of white sprawled across the massive bed, “I think there’s enough here to make some decent padding—”

“And give you stiff joints before the first two rounds tomorrow?” You rolled your eyes, patting the space next to you, “Get in here. Namjoon was partially right. This is a massive king bed.”

Hoseok was hesitant in the entrance albeit confident in the way he sprawled, nearly intruding on what you’d deemed “your side” with a vertical pillow that prevented you from seeing his face when he finally settled his cheek to his hand. But you could tell he was facing you from the slide of his foot underneath the sheets and you held your breath that it wouldn’t brush the bend of your knees until something else drew your attention, a hand slapping over the pillow in the middle and gently pushing it down until you could see shower fresh blonde hair and crinkled brown irises. 

“There you are,” His voice trilled at the end of the last syllable and you tucked the blankets tighter to you as if they would shield the sound of your heart in your ears. 

Lamely, muffled by the blankets you nodded, “I’m here!”

His smile shifted to where his fingers drummed against the pillow still placed between you. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, first round shouldn’t be too difficult but either opponent we’d face in the second round will be the real challenge. They’re both from different complexes in the north that are known for being pretty competitive so...I heard Namjoon say you got one of the best draws in your singles bracket though so that’s—”

“Yeah,” Hoseok’s fingers stopped their movements on the pillow, “I mean, like are you...are you actually, you know, ready?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugged, still avoiding your gaze and his fingernails went to picking at loose fibers in the pillowcase, “I know you wanted to get back to this spot with Seokjin. And instead it’s with me, so I can understand why you wouldn’t…”

“Where is all this coming from?”

“You know I never…” Hoseok’s wandering eyes stared directly at you now, dark and dilated and shining with the city lights that sheared through the curtains, “I’ve never hated you. I want you to know that.”

“...and I never wanted you to hate me. I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not but I will apologize for whatever I’ve done to give you this horrible impression of me.”

You burned with a sickening realization that only grew worse the longer he talked to the sheets. 

“You intrigued me, so I thought, you know, you were an obstacle to conquer, especially when it seemed like you vehemently hated me. And then I realized you did actually not like me, and I wasn’t really sure what to do.”

“Remember the day Seokjin got hurt?”

You didn’t trust your numb chords to vocalize so you swallowed and nodded.

“You asked me if I’d done it. If I’d sabotaged you for virtually no reason,” He blinked, eyes closed for a little longer than necessary and your breath felt heavy in your lungs, “I could live with you thinking I’m a little cocky because sometimes, I am. I’m confident in my abilities and I won’t apologize for that.”

“But for you to think I’d purposely injure your doubles partner, injure someone else so you...what? Couldn’t share the notoriety of winning a championship like I had? I began to, you know, question it.”

“And I thought it was all in my head, that maybe it was just a fit of passion that made you ask me that, and everything would continue per normal. Less than friendly insults. You using the image of my face as serve target practice.” 

“After that first exhibition match is when I kind of knew that it wasn’t in my head, you know,” Hoseok shrugged, sadly again and the last bit of your heart crumbled, “I wanted to fix it. Because I never wanted you to hate me. I’ve always admired you too much for that.”

You shed the pillow barrier to scoot closer, rushing, “I was jealous of you, you know that? I always have been. It’s ridiculous. Sorry doesn’t cut it, but I am. So sorry.”

He laughed and you touched his face to lessen it, scooting another space closer. “I know you were. It’s okay.”

“It’s not though, I shouldn’t have been. I had no reason to be other than my stupid petty personal vendettas,” Your palm fully cupped his cheek, thumbing at the passion induced liquid that had leaked underneath that set of eyelashes, “I’ve been an asshole to you.”

“I’m not exactly innocent.”

“No, but I’m not going to play a game of who's the bigger asshole,” You didn’t startle when he touched your hand, holding onto the cling of his gaze, “I’m sorry for this giant misunderstand. I am.”

“A years upon years long misunderstanding.”

You laughed, soft and dry on a tiny cough that racked through your body. “Yeah...that.”

“I’m sorry. Too,” Hoseok’s hand threaded underneath your own, holding up a hopeful pinky and the remaining tears glittered at his irises, “Truce?”

You linked your pinkies, letting him tug you close enough to ghost his lips to your forehead. 

“Truce.”

You woke with his limbs tangled around your torso, lips in your hair telling you to stay asleep as he sleepily shuffled for his suitcase still laying limply at the edge of the bed. But you didn’t listen, you alarm going off after he’d disappeared into the shower with his uniform in hand, bright yellow this time and matching of yours with the team name scrawled across the front. You were happy it said Game, Set, Match Tennis HQ instead of Namjoon’s proposed Namjoon’s Ball Kids. 

(“We’re the same age.” “You’re still my kid.” “No.”) 

“Did I wake you?” He hushed into the room as if you weren’t half dressed with the room light on. 

“I’m coming with you?”

“Why? Our call time for warm up isn’t until at least after one o’clock and—”

“I’m coming to watch you—” You paused with an arm half in a sweatshirt and you pumped it cheesily, “—you know. Cheer you on.”

“Ah,” He fluffed deft fingers into partially damp hair, sweatband twirled around his arm, “My good luck charm?”

You were enough luck for him to finish in plenty of time for you to get a nap in before your first round draw. Enough luck for you to catch dinner with an arriving Seokjin just before your second round match. Enough luck for you to go two and O on the day while Hoseok belted four wins between his two positions. 

Not enough luck for the matching trophy to the one cased in glass at the complex, instead earning Hoseok a third place plaque on the second day that he displayed in the center of your hotel room bed. 

“Would rather win with you, anyway,” He muttered into your ear before the championship, popping out one of your earbuds mid calf stretch. You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way his lips brushed down your neck as he pulled away into his own stretch, shrugging bulky headphones back across his head. 

Frustration pricked early at your conscious, Hoseok’s quip not under his breath but directly to your face while you sucked down water on a changeover, informing you to fix your grip on the backhands and seal the line on the deuce side of the net. It was the flex of his palm toward the fire in your eyes that quieted you though, the silent assurance that he was just trying to help and he didn’t so much as flinch when you pointed out the forehand player on the opposing team was eating him alive at the net. He just shrugged, holding his racket up for you to click together and agreed. 

“You’re right. I’ll play double back for a game.”

He played double back while you switched to a flat shot on your backhand and you won the game, tying the first set at three-three until you won on your serve from a similar strategy of capitalizing on Hoseok’s quickness at the baseline, giving you the opportunity to charge for putaways. 

It was a communicated strategy that you tweaked between games but otherwise allowed you to sail through the first set with only one more dropped game, six-four, and two games into the second set until your grip started to drift again, sending three backhands in a row sailing out of bounds. 

“C’mon now,” A simple enough encouragement, spoken at a slightly irritated tone that forced Hoseok’s next shot to sail into the center of the net. 

You cut in front of him on the third shot of the next game, ball meeting a similar feat where the net and the ground met and Hoseok threw up his hands in frustration. Namjoon spoke freely now, a single yell from the side that said settle down and although it was meant for both of you, you took it personally and fumbled through two double faults on your next serve opportunity, putting you down two-three. 

“I don’t care if you win or lose, frankly,” Namjoon said when you met him at the fence, “but we will not play a third set.”

Hoseok didn’t wait until Namjoon shuffled away to his spot on the bleachers to chide, “Let me get the next few shots. Stop trying to cheat at the net.”

...which led you to cheat at the net four more times, only two of which were successful. Five-three, Hoseok’s serve, his reluctance of fine, go for it when you’d gone up four-three and a simple nod when you’d tossed him the extra balls for the beginning of his serve for, potentially, the entire match. 

You let him get the fifteen point, then the thirty point. They fumbled his serve on the forty point. 

It was an all or nothing shot up the line, fired at an angle and you knew it was coming from the way your opponent set up with open feet, an audible grunt ringing down the other courts as the ball raced off the strings. It was down the line, a beautiful shot in any other circumstance, and your reflexes forgot your years of training, footwork, drills. 

Instead, you stood up and stuck your racket out. 

The ball caught the corner of your frame, barely brushing the worn and tattered black edges, applying just enough spin to fall in over the net, dying upon impact and winning. 

Six-four, six-three, championship. 

You turned, dropping your racket as you spread your arms and through a loud, unabashed laugh did you call, “I thought you told me to stop going for them?”

A steady pair of arms engulfed your waist, lifting your feet from the ground and you lost count of how many circles you’d actually spun but you tallied at least seven when your heels were planted back to the court and a warm pair of lips pressed between the seam of your own. 

“We won!” You cheered into Hoseok’s face and he just blinked happily, smile permanent, each of you shocked to the previous kiss but not to the next when you threaded tight fingers into the sweat stained blonde, effectively knocking his headband off to where it bounced between the connection of your mouths. 

“Told you I would rather win with you.”

You hummed, kissing his chin, “Saving it for me?”

You shivered with the way he nosed down your cheek, “Always, sweetheart.”

There was an audible pout in Seokjin’s voice even when you weren’t looking at him. 

“What about me?” 

Hoseok chuckled from where he was craned behind you to inspect the trophy, palm rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back. “Don’t worry, buddy. I prefer singles, anyway.”

“...but not when our doubles champion here is single, yeah?” You finally glanced up at Seokjin as he traded a curled fist between you and Hoseok’s stomach. “Yeah? Yeah!?”

“Oh come on. You don’t think the entire audience didn’t see that kiss?”

“Get out of here, Jin.”

“Pinky promise not to ditch me next season.”

“I pinky promise.”

“You have to do the thing.”

You held up a limp pinky just to sate him but he clucked his tongue. “No. The thing.” 

Hoseok’s hand stiffened on your spine as he watched you wet your smallest finger, lathing your tongue over it for good measure before sticking it out for Seokjin. The older man popped his from his cheek, twisting your fingers together before scampering off. Or at least, you thought. 

“Does anyone want to go drinking tonight? My treat!”

“For the record, he’s right,” Hoseok brushed hair off your neck to press soft lips there, “I’d prefer you not be single.”

“Oh, yeah?” You hugged the trophy to your chest to turn to him, “And what would you prefer I be?”

“Mine.”

Your lips rounded into a perfect circle, one droning syllable leaving as you reached up to pat his cheek, “See, that kind of cocky is attractive.”

“M’not cocky,” There was a pout to Hoseok’s heart shaped mouth but a seriousness behind his statement that made you heat with more than sunburn. 

“You’re not at all,” You turned in the slot of his arm, stretching to peck his jaw. “I would prefer to be yours, too. If it’s any consolation.”

He pretended to think, shadows falling over one side of his face as the sun began to set and reflect off the gold plated award clutched in your arms. 

“Want to try it?” Hoseok grinned finally, dropping his chin to look at you, “Just see how it goes?”

You placed the trophy aside, down on the bottom row of bleacher closest to you to wrap both arms around his neck. “Yeah, let’s try it.”

[tibbythetiger]

Bad Directions and Important Questions

Harley was pretty sure he was doing enough spontaneous things in this past month then he ever had in the past eighteen years. He looked up at the dark dorm building in front of him, as Peter came bounding the walk way. He looked even more adorable in the moonlight, then again, to Harley, Peter just always looked good. He grinned when he saw Harley’s car, sliding into the passenger seat grinning at him.

“So I was thinking that we could go Salem,” Peter says as he grins over at Harley, he raises an eyebrow at the boy beside him. 

“Salem, we should just drive to Salem in the middle of a Wednesday night?” Harley asks, Peter nods, and there’s small drops of water that fall from his head, it’s not raining, thankfully, but Peter must have just showered. He smells fresh, and looks clean and baby faced, his hair curled and dripping a little. Harley wants to grab him and wrap him in a blanket, but Peter the little shit he is, is pulling up directions on his phone.

“Ned and I have been talking about going, but he’s going with Betty, that’s his girlfriend, and their parents. So I thought we could go,”

“But Peter, there’s not going to be anything open right now. It’s already 11:30,” Harley tries to reason, Peter merely shrugs.

“C’mon late night road trips are the best,” Harley shakes his head, but he’s smiling. How can he not? He can’t help himself around Peter, most of the time he doesn’t want to. Peter is like a breath of fresh air in the depressing monotony of Harley’s life, the new limited edition flavor that Harley is going to binge until he hates it, and desperately wishes for it come back when it leaves. Besides, he won’t admit it aloud, because it’s too soon to say, but Harley’s already desperately in love with Peter. 

“Okay, okay. Fine, we’re going to Salem, we’re going to be possessed by old with spirits, and they’re going to make a horror movie about us.” Peter laughs, his button nose scrunching up. 

“You’re the best Princess,” Peter says as he places a feather light kiss on Harley’s cheek bone as he starts the car back up. Peter’s back on his phone when Harley dares to glance back over at him, 

“You’re going to get cold,” Harley says, as he looks at Peter in his thin t-shirt and sweatpants, Peter looked down at himself.

“Hm, you’ll have to give me your sweater.” he said, a cocky little smile crossing his normally angelic features. Harley rolled his eyes, and leaned to grab something from the backseat.

“Is this a letterman’s jacket? Princess did you used to play football?”

“Baseball actually, and yes it was my letterman’s jacket.” Harley can feel Peter’s eyes on him, and he knows he’s grinning.

“Damn baby, that’s hot.” Harley coughs, and glances over to see Peter slipping on the jacket. It’s too big on him, they’re probably a size or two apart, and Harley’s arms are far longer than Peters. Harley almost wants to cry looking at Peter, burgundy and black colors of his school contrast so nicely with Peter’s pale skin. Harley’s not much of an artist, but he’s pretty sure if he painted a picture of Peter right now, his damp hair and bunched sleeves, he’d win an award. People won awards for their paintings right? 

“I don’t think it’s impressive as playing football,”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m horrible at sports.” Harley grins

“That I can believe,” he sighs as he pulls out of the parking lot, 

“How long did you play?”

“Since middle school, to my senior year.”

“Dedicated, I like that in a guy.” Peter says, and Harley can feel himself flush. They hadn’t really said what they were doing, this thing, this energy was between them. Harley knew that Peter had felt it just as he had the night they had officially met. The night of the party, they hadn’t really kissed since then. They’d hung out plenty, constantly meeting up to studying and go grocery shopping together. Some nights they’d get together and watch movies together and Peter would fall asleep on his shoulder, and when they movie was over he’d wake up and Harley would go back to his dorm. 

Harley was lost, and far too awkward to say anything, but even then he wasn’t sure what to say when Peter called him baby and princess. Or when he flirted with him in general.

“It was just something to do, there’s not a lot in Rose Hill.”

“I think I would love to live in a small town,” Harley laughed as he glanced over at Peter, who was already looking at him. Harley flushed,

“I’m pretty sure you’d hate it, you’re a city boy through and through darlin’.” he looked away quickly, he hadn’t meant for the nickname to slip out of his mouth, he looks over, pretending to be checking the street for traffic so he can glance at Peter. He’s looking down at his phone, smiling to himself, the tips of his ears bright pink.

“I could totally live in a small town,”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself, doll. No where the hell am I going?” he asks, he’s pretty sure Peter is rubbing  off on him, since he’s not usually one for nicknames, and definitely not one to be so blunt, or forward. Whatever, he’s not usually like this; then again he’s also not usually the type to kiss pretty boys in makeup at parties either and if he hadn’t done that he wouldn’t even be talking to Peter in his car in the middle of the night right now. 

“Oh uh right, left, you’re taking a left here.” Harley follows his directions letting them fall into a slightly awkward silence. 

“So what’s on the agenda tonight then?” Harley asks, he raises an eyebrow though he keeps his eyes on the road. It’s mostly empty, it is a Wednesday night so he’s not too surprised; still Harley’s a careful driver and he’s sure it’s going to rain any second. There’s rumbles from the dark sky above them and the moonlight that was casting pretty shadows on Peter’s face is slowly getting hidden by the clouds.

“I honestly don’t know, I just wanted out of my dorm room.”

“We could have went to my room, or to a diner or something.” Peter shrugs, Harley catches it as he makes a turn, 

“I thought we could use a change of pace, try something different.” Peter merely says, 

“And that, sweetheart is why you could never live in a small town. You’d get too bored,”

“Well if you were in the small town I’d never get bored,”

“You expect me to constantly entertain you?” Harley asks, he’s mostly teasing.

“I didn’t mean that,”

“I wasn’t-”

“I like your company,” Peter says Harley takes a second to glance over at him, Peter’s facing away from him, looking out the window, their eyes meet briefly in his reflection cast from the street lights. Harley looks away,

“I like your company too,” Harley says, as he looks back at the road, Peter doesn’t say anything but Harley can tell he’s satisfied with his response. They ride in silence, with Peter only giving directions when his phone prompts him too, or Harley asks. It’s not too bad, they operate well in silence for the most part, they do it when they’re studying, or okay honestly they’re almost never quiet. Harley’s pretty sure “quiet” isn’t even in Peter’s vocabulary, he’s always making some sound, some movement, something to fill space around him. 

Harley starts to freak out then, he knows it’s dumb, because they’re not actually dating so it’s not like Peter can break up with him. If he didn’t want to hang out anymore, he’d just say that right? He’s being dumb, Peter literally just said he liked his company, 

“You missed the turn,” Peter speaks up beside him, Harley looks up from the road, glancing at Peter and then the signs along the road.

“Shit, you’re right. I’ll just turn around at the next exit.” Peter didn’t say anything, and they fall into another bout of silence.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were lost, because Harley had been so stupidly stuck in his head and had missed his turn. 

“Any idea on how to get there?”

“My phone is honestly just about dead,” Peter says as he looks up at Harley, they’re parked in a gas station parking lot, huddled together to conserve some of their heat. It’s not like Harley doesn’t have gas in his car, but he doesn’t have a lot of cash on him, he hadn’t been expecting a trip when he had picked Peter up so he’d only brought a twenty and he desperately needed coffee. Harley digs his out of his pocket, turning on the screen, it flickers off right away.

“You really need a new phone Princess,”

“I need money to get a new phone,” Harley says, and Peter sighs.

“Well we could get a map in the gas station,” Peter offers

“It looks like we’re not going to have much other choice,” Harley says running his hands through his hair, Peter puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry I dragged us out here tonight, I’m sure you’ve got class in the morning.”

“Dude I’m the idiot that missed the turn, it’s my fault we’re lost.” Peter looks like he wants to argue but Harley’s already continuing. “Are you cold? I can turn the car on if you want?” he’s reaching for the keys when Peter grabs his hand.

“We can just go home if you want, we don’t have to go to Salem. I was being dumb, and impuslive.”

‘Peter-” Harley has to admit he’s avoided saying his name out loud, he’s definitely said it out loud, to his roommate, to himself late at night, more times then he’d like to admit. He knows if he says Peter’s name out loud, to Peter, he’ll be able to tell how far gone he is. How much he wants this, whatever the hell all of these hang outs and awkward pauses and long glances are. How much he wants Peter, he’s right of course because Peter looks up at him, his pretty brown eyes wide. His pink lips parted just barely, there’s a sound that comes from the back of Peter’s throat, a whine almost. Harley isn’t even sure what he was planning on saying, now that Peter’s attention is so fixated on him. He opens his mouth and closes it again, looking forward as the streams of rain that are now pouring down on his car get louder. He grabs the steering wheel tightly, he’s sure his knuckles are white if he were to glance down at them.

“Harley,” Peter says, it’s not a question, more of a breath; a hope, a whisper. It’s all the encouragement that Harley didn’t realize that he needed. He turns to Peter, operating on instinct, on something else, that’s telling him to just kiss the damn beautiful boy who is sitting there, right beside him.

He does, and Peter pulls him closer and runs his hands through his curls; they only pull away because they can’t breathe and because Peter is giggling into his hands like a little kid.

“What’s so funny?” Harley isn’t mad, he’s leaning his head against his window, the glass cool under his skin. It feels nice, he’s sure his whole face is red; if Peter’s own face is anything to go off of.

“I dragged you an hour away from school to get up the courage to ask you to be my boyfriend and then you kiss me in your car while it’s raining.” he leans forward, brushing his nose against Harley’s.

“How are you so fucking perfect?” Harley’s brain is short circuiting to come up with an actual response, he swallows and sort of bobs his head, bumping his nose into Peter’s, their lips brush against each other’s. 

“Why’d you drag me out in the middle of the night?” Harley asks, his lips are a feather’s breath away from Peter’s. Peter leans forward kissing the tip of his nose before pulling away, settling in his seat. 

“I wanted to do something cute, not all of us can be as smooth as you Princess,” Harley rolls his eyes

“If I was smooth, I would have asked you out for real already.” he says, as he runs his hand through his hair. Peter rolls his eyes,

“So you’re not even smooth on purpose,”

“I don’t know how you ever got the idea of me being smooth,”

“Maybe not smooth, but you did make out with me at a party. Then stayed the night in the same bed as me at my dorm room, all while saying that was a date.”

“I, I was kinda drunk.” Peter shakes his head

“You weren’t, I was,” he pauses his face flushing “I was watching you at the party. I know you had like two drinks, and if you were a baseball player in a small Tennessee town; you’ve gone to better parties then one thrown by rich hipster kids.” 

“Aren’t you a rich hipster?” Harley asks, deflecting the question of his sobriety, Peter scoffs

“I’m not a rich hipster, I’m a rich nerd, there’s a difference between the two” it’s Harley’s turn to roll his eyes then. 

“Okay sweetheart,” 

“You’re a smooth gentleman,” Peter says his fingers knotting themselves together, Harley reaches over and touches his knuckles lightly.

“I’m not a gentleman,” he argues, but it’s light “I’m just dumb, and didn’t think you wanted me to kiss you again.” Peter rolls his eyes.

“All I wanted was for you to kiss me again, why do you think I was always texting you? Asking you over? All the times I pretended to fall asleep during our movie nights?”

“You pretended to fall asleep during our movie nights?” Peter flushes

“I-uh, no.” he turns to face the window.

“You didn’t have to drag me out to the middle of nowhere to ask me out you know,”

“Well that’s good to know. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I want to ask you something.” 

“But you haven’t asked me anything.” Peter whines then

“I thought me saying it was enough,”

“But you didn’t ask,” Harley counters, he’s not sure what’s gotten into him. He’s never like this, he hasn’t been like this with anyone before. This free, this open, this loud and teasing, fuck he hasn’t been this comfortable around another person since Abby. The thought of her name makes his heart twist in his chest, but then there’s Peter, Peter who is leaning over to be closer to him again, his pink lips pouting.

“Harley Francis Keener, would you please do me the honor of asking me to be your boyfriend?” Peter asks, Harley laughs leaning forward to kiss Peter. It feels warm in the car, despite the chilled windows and the rain pounding down around them. 

“Peter, sweetheart, doll, darlin’ please be my boyfriend,” Peter grinds against his mouth, his eyes falling closed as he connects their lips.

“About fucking time, jessus.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They don’t get home until sometime after three , it had taken them a good forty-five minutes to finally leave the gas station, too busy giggling and smiling and well, kissing to want to leave. They did have class in the morning though so they did eventually buy a map and Peter horribly navigated them back. (Next time, Harley decides after Peter tells him to take the third wrong turn in a row, he’s going to make Peter drive and he’s going to navigate. Or he’ll navigate and drive.) They do finally make it though, and as Harley pulls up to his dorm building he’s exhausted and but he knows he’s not going to be able to sleep when he gets back to his dorm. Peter looks over at him, grinning;

“Do you want to come up?”

“Isn’t Ned home? Plus it’s late, I don’t want to stick around to watch a movie just to drive back to my dorm later.” Harley feels bad for admitting it, but it’s true. Peter frowns

“Is your roommate home?”

“Tyler? No, he’s dog sitting for one of the upperclassmen in his study group. He’s gone all week,”

“I could grab my stuff and we could go back to your dorm?” Harley feels his stomach knot slightly,  Harley’s dorm isn’t as nice as Peter’s. In fact there’s nothing that Harley has that is as nice as Peter’s, besides Peter himself, but Harley isn’t sure if that counts. Peter’s looking at him hopefully, his brown eyes reminiscent of a puppy. Harley leans over the middle console to kiss him, already knowing he would say yes.

“Yeah, yeah you can come home with me.” 

“Jeez, moving a little fast there Keener?” Harley rolls his eyes

“Go get your stuff sweetheart,” Peter presses a wet kiss on his cheek, and dashes out of the car. Harley sighes, fighting the smile that spreads across his face.

How the fuck did he get a guy like Peter to be his boyfriend? It’s an amazing feat, if he had more friends, or any friends in general, he’d call them up and brag. He doesn’t though, the only person he wants to tell is Abby, and she’s not here. He shoves the thought away, he’s allowed to be happy right now, he can bask in this feeling, the feeling of Peter and all the light he brings without having to feel sad or guilty. 

God, he really did get lucky with Peter, not just lucky, blessed, honest to god blessed. He grins when Peter comes bounding back towards him, still in his sweatpants and Harley’s too big letterman’s jacket, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s breathing a little heavily, Harley figures he must have run up and down the stairs. He probably woke up poor Ned, but then Peter leans in to kiss him and he can’t spare Peter’s roommate another thought.

Because, god Peter is like the sun and the moon and everything beautiful all rolled up into one and he’s so lost, so in love with this piece of art of a boy. Harley kisses the tip of his button nose,

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispers, he’s close enough to Peter that he can feel him flush, but he doesn’t argue.

“Smooth Princess, smooth.” 

This is again based off the prompt from @parknerprompts This weeks was road trips/ driving. This one was one that was a little harder to put together, I actually wrote it halfway and decided I hated what I started writing and wrote this instead! More information on the boys, as I do mention Harley's sister a few times! I have an actual idea of the AU this is set in now, but it will be revealed in the later weeks! 

AO3 link : https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207944/chapters/47885401  

[oh-phineas]

👫 corn phlakes, aquariel, vidia/aquata, ashle/phineas

Corn Phlakes

1. Sometimes they are super focused and get a lot of work done, and Phineas resists the urge to talk all the time while Cornelius quietly does his work, but once in a while they will go off on a tangent about some nerdy thing and then realize they wasted a ton of time. Like debating back and forth what the best Star Trek generation was or whether The Martian was an accurate representation of life on Mars etc. Just geeks being geeks.

2. Phineas makes mistakes in the lab sometimes and he has a bad habit of trying to cover them up, because he has this fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude that works in life, but doesn’t necessarily work in science. This is the main point of contention in the lab.

3. If they see each other in public, which is pretty rare, it’s like a weird “I saw my teacher at the grocery store” dynamic. Like at Wicked-- Phineas is always forgetting that Cornelius is Wilbur’s dad so seeing him in a different context is a super weird cognitive dissonance.

4. Phineas brings his robot in one day (which is basically just a little walking remote-controlled box and not nearly as advanced as any of Cornelius’s) and it bumps into the other robots and all of Cornelius’s robots are like wtf is this

Aquariel

1. They have a pretty big age difference so they were never really close as kids, but Aquata did get stuck with babysitting duty occasionally and she would literally let Ariel do whatever she wanted as long as she was quiet by 11 PM so Aquata could go to sleep early enough for her early-morning practices. She would let Ariel play games on her phone and watch whatever she wanted on TV, anything to keep her occupied.

2. Aquata always thought it was unfair that Ariel got her own room, but now that Aquata basically has her own room, she hates it, so she’ll show up in Ariel’s room sometimes and just hang out. Even if Ariel’s doing homework or something like that, Aquata doesn’t even need to talk, she just likes having someone else in the room, so she’ll put in her headphones and watch a show on her laptop or do stuff for work.

3. Aquata thought Ariel cutting her hair was a very cool move and she kind of wished she had thought of that because it would be easier for sports, but Aquata was always known for a super-high ponytail and she couldn’t change her brand now. Also, copying her little sister? So lame. But Aquata was fully Team Chop.

4. They actually kind of like the same music because a lot of 80s dad rock is good workout music and that is the only context Aquata enjoys it in but she still sometimes will trade recommendations with Ariel.

Vidia/Aquata

1. Ok I definitely love the idea of them going on more runs together because both of them are actually way faster in other contexts (flying, swimming) so it’s like their middle ground. And just being stupidly competitive about it, trying to throw each other off, etc. lol and Aquata actually showing Vidia some good lesser-known trails in the area

2. They can go back and forth all day making snide comments at each other but I could totally see one of them (probably Aquata tbh) taking it way too far and kind of hitting a nerve and then it’s like wait whoops no I don’t actually hate u!! Except Aquata is an asshole so she will not want to apologize

3. They run into each other everywhere. In the hallways of Castle Suites when Aquata’s going over to Alana’s, on the street, by the lake, etc. and they make jokes about it. Really, Swynlake is just a very small town but it’s an excuse to tease each other

4. Aquata goes to Pixies with other people and often volunteers to get the drinks so that she can run into Vidia and try and negotiate the price down. They go through the same brand of flirty banter every time and Aquata doesn’t get her discount but she does get attention which is what she craves

Ashlé/Phineas

1. All of the Ashleys scare Phineas in their own ways. With Ashlé, it’s kind of this uneasy almost-trust where he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop because she actually... is friendly to him, almost? And she gets in his head and confirms his insecurities but it’s in this seemingly well-meaning way. 

2. Phineas has definitely complimented Ashlé’s outfits before and meant it wholeheartedly. He appreciates fashion when he sees it! Ashlé has never complimented Phineas’s outfits though because he only wears ratty T-shirts. Sorry Phineas.

3. At some party, Phineas, Kyle, and Bobby actually have a great conversation which at first is like, okay, fine, but after five minutes, Ashlé needs them to wrap it up so she can go talk to some other people. Phineas doesn’t even realize Ashlé is annoyed and thinks the conversation went super well. 

4. Phineas runs into Ashlé at a party in uni and acts like they are totally friends, assuming secondary school hierarchy is ancient history. This isn’t exactly true, but they do end up kind of reminiscing.