#rugby league shorts

[justforfun501]

Luca Moretti - Parramatta Eels

[fauna-and-floraa]

[alnilaem]

rugby player soap fucks you after a win. that’s it. extension from this post of mine

cw for dubcon smut, noncon exhibitionism, and gross johnny + simon

-

“Did ya see that, hen?”

Johnny’s words come out stifled behind his mouthguard. He smiles, and it’s bulky, a little dim-witted in how he darts his tongue out, licking up a wash of blood that sluices down his lip. His eyebrow is split and his nose is bent out of shape, his cheeks all swollen and ruddy. 

He pulls you into a crushing hug, shaking like an ebullient dog that’s unaware of how big it is. His jersey, a royal blue, turns cobalt with his sweat. It sticks to his skin and outlines his chest, peeling off of your shirt when you sheepishly pull away. 

The pitch is glutted with celebrating teammates and their loved ones, but the broadcast camera is raptly focused on you and Johnny. On the grudging hold he has on your waist and the unwieldy trophy he’s just won for his team. 

Johnny grins like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to make the camera turn away. He forestalls the protests on your tongue by sinking into you for a hard kiss, bruising, and almost brutal in its force. It’s like he hasn’t separated himself from the game yet. Like he doesn’t want to compartmentalise you from the barbarous sport he plays. 

The scruff of Johnny’s stubble tickles you as you try pushing him back, try twisting out of his hands. But his fingers, as bandaged and torn as they are, press dimples into your jawbone and keep you in place. Keeps you squirming and shameful beneath the dissonance of celebration. 

He peels away with a kitten lick, pressing a wet smooch to the corner of your mouth. He’s smiling, pulling your jeans against the bulge beneath his spandex-like shorts, chuckling.

“Scored that last try for you, hen,” he pants. Spits out his mouthguard and passes his tongue over his bloodied teeth. “Did’ja see it?”

Johnny stinks of iron musk and sweat. He hands the trophy away and uses both hands to pull you close, clemently kissing your jaw. 

“I did,” you hum. You consciously lilt your voice upwards, telling it to Johnny how he always needs to hear it. “You did so well, Johnny. So good.” 

He whimpers into your neck. Just barely gyroscopes his hips against you. 

“Did it for you,” he slurs. Johnny’s words are all soft, melting on his tongue as if he’s drunk. As if his brain is belated and stuck in the grip of your praise. “Did so good, right? A’practiced so hard.”

You take the bait that Johnny has given you, petting him, because if not, he’ll get ratty and make a scene. You pull back and cup his face, preening under the cornflower blue of his eyes and the puppy-like dip of his lips. You smile. “So good. I’m so proud of you.”

Johnny is half-lidded and dizzy, nodding to himself, swallowing your praise like an empty-headed dog. Impatience and lust are written into him—you can tell by the darkened shade of his eyes and how hard he clutches your hand. 

“Let’s go,” he says, leading you through the stadium entrance, shouldering past fans asking him for autographs and photos. “We’ve time before the team goes for dinner. Nobody’ll be in the change room.”

Your cheeks flare with the implication of Johnny’s words and how purposeful they are. Marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. 

He tugs you like a puppy pulling its owner. Excited, working against its leash, your feet struggling to catch up. Johnny pulls you into his team's changing room, slamming the door shut behind you. The sound of you getting pressed against the lockers is thin, tinny, and fleetingly impairs you. When you reorient, Johnny has his skinned knee between your legs and against your pussy. His hand palming his cock through the tight material of his rugby shorts.

“Johnny,” you pant, “what if someone comes in?”

“Let ‘em,” he huffs out a laugh. “What’re they gonna do? Ban me from the league? I just won us a trophy. ’m on top of the fuckin’ world, baby.”

Annoyance cycles in your stomach at his lack of consideration. You try wiggling out and mewling, but the thigh between your legs is an immovable object. Your clothed clit catches on his sinews at every angle, pushing a gasp out of you regardless of how you twist and turn. 

“Haud y’r wheesht,” he barks. A hint of aggression bleeds into Johnny’s words, and that makes you pliant. “We’re just celebratin’, hen, no need ta ruin my win.”

Your eyes are on the door while Johnny shucks down his shorts. It rolls down his thighs and he leaves it at his knees, too eager to toe off his cleats and pull it all the way off. He stands awkwardly now, a little stilted because he can’t stretch his legs all the way, but that doesn’t stop him from bevelling his thigh into you and flexing, grinding into you. 

Johnny peels your shirt—a replica of his jersey—off of you, and kisses you deeply. You can taste the salt and blood crusted against his lips, feel his small smile. 

Johnny spins you around and folds you over the bench. Your knees bruise against the rubber flooring and your chest flattens against the cold wood, your brain reeling in the gross implications of it, whatever Johnny and his friends get up to in this locker room. 

He rips down your jeans, almost popping the buttons off, almost burns your skin with the denim, and settles himself behind you. Johnny grabs a fistful of your ass and spreads you open, swatting your pussy with his other hand.

“Johnny…” you mewl, and he chuckles. Gives you a waggle, slipping his large hand over and thumbing your clit.

“Thought you were feart of bein’ found?” He asks, lowering to his knees and kissing your dewy folds. “Why’re y’being so loud?”

Johnny waits for a second, giving you time to think of a reply, but with the first sound to leave your mouth he’s licking a fat stripe up your pussy, collapsing your words. 

He laughs at himself and it sends vibrations up your spine. Your bones are grinding together, your nerves filaments of live wire under Johnny’s hands that dig divots into your thighs and his mouth that sucks on your clit, tonguing your sticky folds. 

He spits on your cunt, spreads the wad of saliva around with his tongue. He pulls you into his mouth and suckles, moving his wet lips against your dewy ones. 

You stretch your arm back and tug on Johnny’s fleecy mohawk, scratching your fingers against the dew-skinned, shaved parts of his head. He expels a groan against your clit and you mewl, pushing into him, wiggling so his nose buries further, his tongue plunging into you and licking a stroke up your walls. 

You’re quivering now, shaking against the cold bench and Johnny’s hot mouth. A knot of energy crackles in your stomach as he wraps his lips around your clit and slurps.

“Gonna come on my mouth, hen?” Johnny pants, but pulls away before you reply. Punches a whine out of you by spinning you onto your back against the bench, pulling his cock out and giving it a few tugs, his dick so hard it droops with laden weight and a slaver of precum.  

“Or would’ya rather do it on here?” He asks, stroking himself. His balls low-hanging in front of you, the fat head of his cock all ruddy and red and flaring as he pinches it. 

You stare, dull-headed, with your mouth hanging open and a hazy film behind your eyes. Johnny giggles. 

“Cannae think with this in front of ye?” He smears his cockhead on your lips. “Sweet girl. So cute.” 

Johnny winces and pulls away. He swings one leg over the bench, settling himself on top of you. His cock is a heavy mass of muscle between him. Swinging, bobbing in place. Dumb and drooling with precum that drops onto your navel. 

He slips himself between your puffy folds, panting like a dog. Equally as impatient as one, squeezing his cockhead past your first ring of muscle, writing off your small cries of pain. He thinks cupping your cheek offsets the burn—still, Johnny’s cock is so heavy and so big inside you. Spreading you open, stretching you out. Making a home inside your belly. 

You hic his name, and he shushes you with a kiss. Johnny weaves into short, quick thrusts, because pulling himself to the tip means losing most of your warmth, and he can’t have that. He settles on barely rolling his hips, focusing on burying himself deep, folding himself into a frog position if that means fucking you meaner.

“Takin’ so much cock, bonnie,” he moans into your neck. “So good. So good.” 

Johnny’s ears turn pink and his eyes turn glassy. He keeps rocking inside you, his cock filling you out so well, so full, your thighs shaking and damp with slick. He fingers your clit, and in his pace, wild and unfettered, you wrap your legs around his waist like a cobbled together leash that you use to pull him closer.

Johnny grows feral at that. He slaps his balls harder against you, biting your shoulder. Sweat and blood rolls down his cheek and onto your face, augmenting the icy gold of his first place medal. It drags along your chest with each of his thrusts, turning into a ball of liquid fire as your body saturates with sweat. Johnny leans down, his lips slick as he kisses you, the push and pull of his hips ripening into a more jagged, desperate rhythm.

“Gonna fill y’up, hen,” he pants. There’s a strong dissonance that impairs you, echoing within the locker room. Johnny’s degenerate moans and the slap of skin against skin. The pitched sound of the wind being knocked out of you, the sticky sound of your cunt getting spread open on his big cock. 

Something else poises itself on Johnny’s tongue, something impure, but it gets shaved-off as he cuts himself off with a long, flinty moan. Johnny quivers as he comes, and that pushes him deeper as he fills you with his warm ropes.

He presses down on your clit, pushing the rise of your orgasm out of you. Your spine curls off the bench, your nails digging divots into Johnny’s arms, your mouth hanging open and a rough wave of pleasure curling over you and breaking into your skin. Your orgasm is so consuming it burns, eating you whole.  

It chews you up and spits you out. You tremble around Johnny’s softening cock as he peppers kisses down your sternum, and while you reorient, you see an unearthly spot of colour in the corner of your eye. It isn’t composed of matter—it’s big and blurry and hides between two rows of lockers. 

Then, you realise the drapery England flag, the absence of a Scottish one. 

The man who stands in the corner is blonde and huge and has his fat cock out, curling his fist around it, pumping. He’s so quiet, an ambush predator as he just stands there, continuing to beat his dick even after you make eye contact with him. 

He turns to Johnny, grotesquely smiling.

Johnny returns it.

[justforfun501]

Matt Arthur - Parramatta Eels

[ceilidho]

Saw a clip of a blond rugby player man and now I’m thinking about ghost… in those ridiculous shorts.

oh yeah I'm so into a ghost/reader rugby au.....especially if it's not a professional league au....

like he just plays weekday nights at the local rec centre and in amateur matches (he's a welder during the day....sorry the metal mask calls to me). very few people come to actually watch the matches because it's just a local league, but you happen to be one of the familiar faces in the crowd because you've been having a hard time trying to make friends and you thought it'd be a nice way to get out of the house and do something new.

but Simon always remembers a face and he can't help the way his gaze keeps being drawn to the stands, where you and a couple clusters of fans are sitting and nursing tea in paper cups. he asks around at first, trying to find out if you're someone's relative or girl, but all the guys just shrug, no answers.

so he approaches you himself at the next game, leaning over the railing separating the field from the stands, covered in sweat and grass stains and bleeding from his right eyebrow, and asks you to follow him to the back for a bit. outright propositioning you because he figures you don't have a man, so there's no issue with him trying out for the part.

[s-4pphics]

first vi brainrot

… heyyyy arcaners 😋

getting back into writing after like a month LOL art by lottie-lot :3 @trackinglessons

fck you free palestine. 

WORD COUNT: not eem 1k just some plotting 

CONTENT: rugbyplayer!vi, femcel!oc… is she deranged or is she in love who knows fr, a lil horny, brief mentions or familial death/grief

rugbyplayer!vi who’s loved dearly. . . 

shines brighter than the sun whenever she enters the room; makes every person she comes across glow with her charisma, her laughter. she’s so polite and gracious. people can’t help but gravitate towards her radiance. 

no one would’ve ever guessed the turmoil she experienced before moving to her college town. loneliness was no longer comforting. the silence she was once eased by brought forth distress she couldn’t control. 

rugbyplayer!vi who moved through university like a ghost who never crossed over. only left noticeable tracks in the smiles she gave people before vanishing to nothingness in her room. 

rugbyplayer!vi who had no idea what rugby was. only got introduced to it at a bar where matches played on the tv screen above as she sipped her drink in silence. it seemed like watered-down football and made her nose turn up. 

who would’ve thought she’d be at her university’s rugby tryouts a few months later. one poorly made sign with every single one of her crushes in shorts and she ended up with her heels in the wet dirt, nerve wracked in front of both coaches. only then did she realize how out of shape she’s gotten. sports were her escape in high school, but the loss of her sibling destroyed her. crumbled every aspiration she ever had into dust that buried her baby sister. 

when she first got recruited, she was fearful. how would she ever be able to focus on practice when she’s surrounded by people she’s desired to emulate? they’re strong and resilient and quick; she’s leagues behind them in terms of skill and she knows it. her brain discourages her like no other. 

rugbyplayer!vi who was relentless the first few months of training. the aches in her thighs and the salt leaking from her pores and into her eyes did nothing but motivate her, distract her, drive her to do more. to reach where her peers sat comfortably at the top. she pushed so much that she called out of class multiple times; she couldn’t fucking walk. 

it took seven ruthless months to get where she wanted to be. seven months of self-doubt, of quitting and forcing herself to retry. her teammates believed in her more than she believed in herself. whenever she struggled, they were right behind her, carrying whatever weight her limbs couldn’t support. 

her teammates swiftly became her family. . . not a day goes by where she doesn’t miss her sister. 

it’s been a year since her recruitment. . . her exhaustion finally paid off in wins and meticulous tackles of her opponents. the sport aids her aggression, keeps her attention off of her damaged past for hours as she rides the high of a successor. whenever she walks onto the field she’s cocky, ego blasted to the clouds because she knows people are there for her; every time her cleats sink into the dirt, she’s home. 

it’s a rush she can’t explain. she loves this fucking game. 

. . . but you love her more. 

it’s not an obsession. you’re observant. you enjoy watching people. . . do things. you feel socialized whenever you study the joy, the grief, the yearn individuals exude through their behavior. you don't feel as lonely. almost connected to yourself through other people. 

when you first met rugbyplayer!vi, it was through a window during sophomore year. 

sat on a beanbag on the second floor of the library, completely distracted from your coursework, you gawked down as she conversed and smiled and laughed with people you didn’t know but wished to. rugbyplayer!vi captivated you like no other. education be damned. you’d drop everything for her at that moment if she asked. 

you’re not stalking her. it’s not your fault that wherever she is, you are. call it fate. you never say a word. simply stand off to the side and crave and think and fantasize. your mind is sinister. 

rugbyplayer!vi is the sun. you’re a moth, shadowing wherever light trails. 

witnessing her rugby career develop was a blessing. you’re always in the stands, hiding in plain sight from her. the muscles in her legs and arms are much larger than when she first started; they flex whenever she snags and throws the ball. pummels other women to the ground. lifts her shirt to wipe her sweat. clenches her fist when she’s angry. what you'd give to ease her tension. 

how can you not love her? everything she embodies is perfect. every cell that crafts her being is godsend. 

you crave to be in her presence. but you can’t. 

people are turned off by you. you’re not sure why, but you’re always alone, comforted by the repulsive compartments of your brain. the voice that encourages you to detach. 

so, you go where there’s no judgment. dump all your thoughts of the love of your life where no one can find you. where she can’t find you. forever undiscovered. forever anonymous. 

REDDIT.

[gabessquishytum]

Dream feeds the birds in the park near his apartment (he bought special seed, he doesn't want to hurt his bird friends); it's his quiet time, time to relax and recharge.

Well it seems like some city intermural football (or rugby) leagues have decided to use his park as their pitch. For the next few weeks, Dream's calm will be broken by kicking noises.

Dream missed the first time Hob's team played, but he's caught all rest of his games. Dream noticed Hob right away - his team's kit were really teeny white shorts (at least when wrapped around Hob's thighs).

How do you talk to a man that hot and fit, when you work inside all day and most days look consumptive.

HMNNNG loving the vibes of this. Is it mean of me to tag @arialerendeair and say the words Rugby Hob 🤭 it's an au that we both happen to be very fond of. I won't tease you all too much but I hope one day it'll make it into fic form (it currently only exists as us going feral in a discord thread).

Anyway!!! I adore the image of Dream sitting there gaping at Hob’s magnificent thighs, week after week. The birds are lowkey confused as to why they're not getting his attention (they still get nice seeds, but Dream is so distracted he sometimes puts the seeds in his own mouth instead).

Of course Hob has noticed the cute guy in black who's got those sickly victorian vibes. Hob thinks he's adorable and sometimes he's so busy looking at Dream, he ends up tripping over his own feet! He just loves thinking about how easily he could pick that cute twink up and press him against a wall... or maybe just let him get off against the meat of Hob’s thick thigh...

Hob just needs to find the courage to talk to the guy! But at the end of each game, Dream skuttles off shyly, leaving only birdseed and daydreams behind. Hob is starting to lose hope...

Until he takes a blow to the head in the middle of one of his games and comes back to consciousness with his gorgeous consumptive crush kneeling over him like beautiful, emo angel <3333 as soon as he's over the concussion, Hob is getting his man.

[hedwig123]

Ranking The Quarry Counselor Outfits By Late-August Practicality

OK, so. This has been bugging me. I blame SMG's British-ness for this, but so many of the counselors' outfits are just... ridiculous for late August.

(Apparently the weather in the area- West Kill, NY- that day was a high of 75, a low of 68, and humidity was 100 FUCKING PERCENT. So. My concerns are not unfounded.)

So now I'm going to rank all the character outfits by how likely I think it is that normal human people would put them on during the latter half of August, tyyyyyyyy

Excluding Max & Laura because the only time they got to pick their own outfits was June- which, still not great, but. I'll let it slide. Also excluding Emma's overalls, because again, she didn't pick them.

So of the other 21 AUGUST outfits:

21. Nick's 80s Outfit

Dead fucking last is the letterman jacket. Aesthetically it looks cool, and I want to give it bonus points for being a Matt Taylor reference, but I can't. That's a coat. A coat, SMG.

20. Jacob's Modern Outfit

First can I just say how weird it is that Jacob doesn't have a single 360 look uploaded? In ANY of his outfits???

Anyway. This was going to be a little higher because I thought he was wearing a sweatshirt, but looking at it in the close-up that is a fucking sweater. NO!!!!!

19. Nick's 50s Outfit

That is just a full-on nearly-cable-knit sweater. The only reason it ranks above Jacob is that it's at least not visibly layered. But still.

18. Abi's 50s Outfit

Listen, I love that they made Blygbank into Velma & Daphne as much as the next person, but Abi's still wearing a turtleneck in August. They couldn't at least shorten the sleeves? Or pair it with shorts?

17. Emma's Modern Outfit

OK, so I love this outfit out of context. But. Even as a crop-top. It is a turtleneck sweater. With jeans, no less! Jeans, no less!

16. Kaitlyn's Modern Outfit

Why the layers. Why. It's cute, sure, but August.

15. Dylan's 80s Outfit

I'm told this is a rugby shirt, which people do play some sports in. So it's almost passable. But the slacks... the sleeves... the shoes...

14. Ryan's Modern Outfit

Again, almost passable. The shirts look thin, even if there's two of them. But the two shirts combined with the skinny jeans & shoes would just... suffocate him :(

13. Abi's 80s Outfit

This outfit is awesome, but not pictured here are the COMBAT BOOTS SHE'S WEARING ON HER FEET.

No.

12. Dylan's 50s Outfit

OK, listen.

Listen.

I love this outfit. You love this outfit. That shirt was made for him.

But the pants!!!

11. Jacob's 50s Outfit

T-shirt good. Pants BAD.

10. Ryan's 50s Outfit

Same as Jacob's 50s outfit, the shirt is fine. The WOOL PANTS are a no.

9. Ryan's 80s Outfit

This one is almost acceptable. Despite the dark colors, the material looks light. The shoes are OK (not great, but OK). The t-shirt is perfect!

But the vest. The vest. Does he look good in it? Of course. But NOBODY ADDS LAYERS IN AUGUST!

8. Emma's 80s Outfit

We have reached the Acceptable Eight.

I love this outfit. Really the only things putting it at the bottom of the top 8 are the lipstick and the socks, which like... who cares? But these things have to be considered for the ranking.

7. Nick's Modern Outfit

There's nothing wrong with this outfit. The only thing putting it at 7 is the sleeve length, but. It's fine. It's acceptable.

Leagues better than his other 2 outfits.

6. Emma's 50s Outfit

This outfit is great. The shoes are light. The pants are open on the side. The shirt is cropped and tied off!

Only thing edging it out of the Top 5 is the scarf. It's cute, I love Daphne!Emma with my whole heart, but it would get hot.

5. Kaitlyn's 80s Outfit

5th through 2nd place was a toss-up. They're all perfectly appropriate August attire.

This one's great. The jeans are light wash and ripped at the knees. The polo is perfect. The only thing that might give me pause are the converse but honestly??? They're fine too.

4. Abi's Modern Outfit

This outfit's great too! The only counselor outfit with shorts besides #1. The tights don't bother me, they look very light and breathable. 10/10 good job modern Abi!!! (Give 50s Abi some tips she's gonna die of heatstroke)

3. Dylan's Modern Outfit

Another great choice. Light t-shirt, skinny jeans that aren't too tight, and vans. ✨10/10 great job Dylan✨

2. Kaitlyn's 50s Outfit

THOSE ARE OPEN-TOE SHOES I REPEAT THEY ARE OPEN-TOE SHOES THIS IS NOT A DRILL

ONE FUCKING CHARACTER GOT SHOES THAT OPEN AT THE DAMN TOES

I don't even care that it's just a peep toe, I'm fucking counting it

Jacob's 80s Outfit

Was there ever any doubt?

Honorable mention goes to:

Nakey Jakey. Honorable mention only because he didn't reeeeeeally pick it as an OUTFIT outfit.

But still.

[justforfun501]

🔥🔥🔥😜

Double Exposure

[eastwindmlk]

For May' @jilychallenge I started two plunnies. One was Dillweed in a Fancy Metal Can and the other is this.

Partner: @charmsandtealeaves

Prompt: University Football/rugby/field hockey training is open to the public, on a very hot day star player A takes a shower from a water hose and B walks against a lamppost bc B might have been staring

Either read on AO3 or under the cut!

It was Wednesday evening in The Leaky Cauldron, which meant the lads had gathered in the back of the dingy establishment for their weekly team gathering. Well, James liked to call it their team gathering, it was mostly an excuse to grab a pint in the middle of the week for most of them. 

In front of them, on the large oval table in the back, they assumed was supposed to be their ‘event space’ that none of them could imagine would actually be used by anyone but them. After all, they’d celebrated most of their big moments around this table ever since uni. Lay the newest redition of their pub league bracket.

“I am sure we can manage,” Sirius commented, his finger gliding down the print-out with their pub league charter. Smirking as he tapped, their first match. “The Hog’s Head team always sucks. I’m pretty sure good ol’ Mundungus still pretends to be their striker.” 

Both the men rolled their eyes and a snicker went through the collection of young men gathered. Glasses clinked together. “Wait, Mundungus is their striker? The one that sells pot? Owns the pawnshop?” Frank asked curiously, squinting at the paper. 

“It almost feels bad to be playing against them. At least we don’t need to run too fast then,” Peter grinned, downing half of his pint in celebration. 

While James would not celebrate an easy win as readily as his friend, he could not help but feel a little bad for the middle-aged blokes having their first game against them. But he supposed that is why they had a point system instead of a knock-out. 

“We play Babberton Arms the week after, they’re usually decent, same goes for The White Wyvern.” It was then that a name caught his eye, there was a pub in the league that he wasn’t familiar with. They were new on the sheet, and what was more surprising was that their listed captain was one ‘Lily Evans’, a woman. 

Sirius noticed his hesitation, throwing his arm over his shoulder as he leaned in to look as well. “Anyone know The Three Broomsticks?” he asked, the team falling silent for a moment before Kingsley supplied:

“It’s a small gastropub down in the village. Nice place, little highbrow, though.” This caused a couple of people to pull out their phones to look it up. 

“They have a good menu.” 

“The lady who runs it is a total MILF.”

“I think I had a date there once. Nice place.” 

So far, it sounded pretty good. James reckoned he would probably recruit Sirius to go on a recon mission soon. Spend an evening there to scope out the competition. It would be fun. While he would never admit it aloud, he was not opposed to something a little finer than this. 

Peter, who started laughing, holding out his phone for everyone to get a glimpse of what was on the screen drew everyone’s attention. As far as James could tell, it was a team picture. All the players were posing in front of the metal goal that was part of their local park. 

He was not entirely sure what was too funny about it, but several people were chuckling and scoffing when the phone passed to them. “They’re all females?” Someone asked, clicking their tongue and earning a round of laughter. 

“We’ll be fine; I am sure a bunch of girls are not going to take our cup,” Remus commented, squeezing James’s shoulder. 

Sirius was quiet until someone made a remark about how they would at least have a good time looking at them run, pretending to jiggle a pair of tits, making the rest of the table burst into hysterics.

Easily and masterfully redirecting the jokes in an effort to cut short this sort of talk. By joking. “All I know is that we might want to put Pete in goal because he has never scored with a girl once in his life.” 

There was a short bout of silence around the table before the first person broke, Benjy snorting loudly and slapping Peter, who was not looking as amused as the others, on the back hard enough to hear it connect. 

“I just think we shouldn’t be too quick to judge them, it looks like they actually train,” James deducted, having found the profile himself and scrolling through the public posts. Finding out some interesting things about this other captain. 

Lily Evans and he had a few mutual friends, mostly people from the pub league and a bloke that went to the same gym as he did. 

They liked similar bands, she attended a Lord of the Rings marathon he’d been unable to get tickets to. 

By the looks of it, she and her friends dressed up. 

She volunteers for or supports multiple charities. Her work involves a white coat, which intrigued him.

Her red hair was natural, and her green eyes were breathtaking. 

He also found a post about wanting to start this women-only footy team. With dates and times when they were supposed to meet up.

James leaned in a little too close, to squint in the background of one of her throwback pictures where he could swear he knew the grease ball she was toting along when his finger slipped and he accidentally liked a picture of her on holiday. 

“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck no,” he muttered to himself and frantically tapped the little thumbs up, only to be offered more options. By the time that he finally figured out how to unlike it, he’d left a heart, angry and laughing reaction, and there was no way in hell she did not know he was stalking her Facebook. 

Turns out, he did not need to be physically talking to someone to put his foot in his mouth. His ineptitude with the dinosaur that was Facebook did just fine at making him look like a right idiot. Though it must be some record, taking less than ten seconds.  

What made it worse was that, not a minute later, there was a buzz, the light on his phone blinking blue. A Facebook notification. Worse, a friend request from one Lily Evans.

After having ignored the notification for several hours James found himself staring at it, bending over his container of Szechuan noodles. Staring long and hard enough for Sirius to elbow him in the side. 

“If some spicy text got you this wrapped up, I need to see it,” he chuckled, trying to lean over to see what James was staring at. Not shrinking away from the glare he received, much to James’s disappointment, he was reminded that his best friend was not intimidated by him in the slightest. 

Turning the screen to show off the notification bar, rolling his eyes at Sirius snorted. “Isn’t that the captain from the Broomsticks team? What does she want from you?” 

“Maybe she wants to plead for mercy?” he suggested with a smirk, his thumb hovering over the decline button. Why would he accept it? It wasn’t like he knew her. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth for a moment before selecting ‘accept’. 

He might not know her personally, but he was not going to turn down the possibility of spying on their new rivals. As team captain, it was his responsibility to be prepared for anything. This certainly had nothing to do with the bikini picture he spotted earlier. 

---

By the time that his phone buzzed the following Saturday, while he was stretching before their first game, he had completely forgotten about this happening.

‘Good luck today! {insert football emoji and a smiley]

Squinting against the glare of the rising sun behind him, he could almost make out the picture of the redhead rival captain. There was a nervous roll of his stomach, eyes darting around the field. Wondering if maybe she was here to spy on them. But most of the crowd was distinctly more follically challenged and would not look nearly as good in a black one-piece as he had learned Lily did. 

He reacted to the message with his usual lion emoji before tossing the phone into his bag. Not wanting to get too distracted.

What did not help was checking it again at half-time, only to find a new message. 

‘You should pay more attention to that centre back.’ 

Making his eyes roam the stands in search of a hint of the spy, but if she was there, she was hiding in the crowd. 

‘We’ll be fine! He’s no Matt Clarke.’ 

The message was sent before he realized it, a reference to his favourite team that his friends would likely get. But would she? He supposed she could always google him if she wanted to know, he supposed. The ref blew his whistle and just before he tossed the phone back in the bag he saw the notification pop up. 

‘Think you’re good enough to go up against the Bald Eagle?’ 

She knew. And he considered that maybe he was already in love with this stranger. 

---

Just like that, his recognizance mission was compromised. Or rather, forgotten about. Until Peter asked casually while beating him mercilessly at a game of FIFA. “Did you hear the chick team won their first game seven nil? Maybe we should try and catch one of their trainings. See if this was just a stroke of luck.” 

He did not even have the decency to look at the screen when he tipped in another goal against him. 

James considered accusing him of cheating, but what was the point? The last time he did that, they were in college, and it had been embarrassing enough to still make him cringe today. “I did see a post about it on Lil’s timeline. I think they meet every Thursday.” 

The characters on screen celebrated the end of the game, and he immediately flicked to the main screen, not particularly feeling like seeing his pathetic stats.  

Peter grumbled something about the stats being there for the both of them before falling silent. Giving James a confused look. “Lil? You two are that friendly already?” 

He pulled up his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. “I’d like to think so.” 

“Are you two secretly chatting or have you just become intimately familiar with her beach holiday pics?” Peter was still laughing between the coughs when his elbow landed in his stomach, throwing his hands up in defence. “Right, right! Got it! It’s both.” 

James shot him a playful glare and pulled up his shoulder, eyes returning to the screen to select another formation for his team. Certain he could out-strategize his friend’s undeniably superior skill. 

“I’ll go check them out this week.” 

---

The sun was starting to set when James and Sirius slunk into the park, rugged up in oversized cardigans they borrowed from Remus and stylish baseball caps that were generously donated by Kingsley. Who did insist they were not to adjust or bend them, as they were, collector's items. Or rather, they would be one day, and he was not going to risk it. Which did lead to a rather loose fit on Sirius and a promise of a very bad hair day for James. 

The pair of them carried a picnic blanket and book to look less suspicious. If they pretended to hold a book club. The biggest risk they ran was to look like nerds. 

Which they were. Not that James or Sirius would openly admit to this to anyone but each other. They are rather skilled at hiding their general nerdiness under a layer of muscle and smooth talking. Even if the smooth-talking occasionally included references to their nerd media of choice. 

James had overthought the time they should be arriving. Not too early, or they would notice something was off. Not too late, because then they would not get enough time to observe. After a lot of mulling over, James decided that twenty minutes after practice started should be perfect. 

He knew that their team took, at least, ten to fifteen minutes to waffle and joke around, and ten minutes was a quick warm-up. Which meant that they would probably wander in just as they started playing. 

Once he spotted the group of women, or rather, a collection of bouncing ponytails, James learned he was wrong, and he could not be happier about it. They were still warming up. Better yet, they were stretching and it was utterly enchanting. 

No matter how hard he tried, which was not very hard, he could not take his eyes off their captain. The feisty redhead he’d been texting off and on since Saturday wore a bright smile and a pair of criminally tight bike shorts as she dropped into a low lunge. 

A sight that he was clearly not prepared for. If it had not been for Sirius grabbing his arm, he might have walked straight into a rubbing bin. Frankly, he’d have deserved it for shamelessly staring. But what was a mortal man like him going to do? Avert his eyes when given the chance to glimpse at a goddess?

But as Sirius spread the blanket on the field across from the training, where he could resume his research in peace. The book he was pretending to read was open in his lap, his phone in his hand. He could not help himself. 

‘Good luck! [insert football and lady running emoji]’ 

Only after hitting sent, James realized that he might have just blown their cover. If Lily had done the same thing he had done when he got her message, it would not take a genius to figure out who they were. If there was something he’d learned about her over the past week or two was that she was, in fact, an actual genius. 

If the gods were merciful, she would see the humour in this. She’d not said anything about his little bikini picture snafu, which was arguably a lot creepier, and he had profusely apologized for it after a few pints to settle the nerves. 

That had been what had really set off their chatting. Messaging back and forth to the point that he had his eyes glued to his screen even while watching footy.  Remus had made remarks about it, which meant it had to be painfully obvious. 

Not that the screen was any sort of distraction now, for obvious reasons. However, there was also a less obvious and far more concerning reason for his mobile to lie discarded on the blanket. 

They're good. 

No, that was an understatement. They were terrifyingly competent. It was intimidating and did things to him, he would rather not admit to. 

“Prongs, I think we’re fucked,” commented Sirius after they watched a tall blonde flip throw the ball with such ease their jaws were on the floor. 

James swallowed, nodding slowly at his friend’s assessment. “So fucked.” A firm shove jolted him out of his trance to notice that, across the field, several of their rivals had turned to look at them. Most of them took this moment to catch their breaths, hands set into their sides. James could see their breaths form little clouds in the cooling evening air. 

He reeled in his jaw and raised a hand in an awkward greeting. As if he was not already done for, Lily raised her hand in what he thought would be an awkward wave back. Only for her to flip him off before winking and returning to her practice. Her jumper had ridden up and exposed a swath of tattooed skin on her side. 

Hand to his chest, James fell back into Sirius’s lap as if shot. Maybe he had been, because he was unwell. They’d never even spoken face-to-face, and he’d already decided on a May wedding at the Riverside, four kids and a Newfoundlander named Elvendork. 

Sirius peered at him with, what seemed like, genuine concern as James raked his hands over his face. “You right, mate?” he asked, the cap sliding forward as he tipped his head down to look at James. 

“Yeah. Yes. Though I could do with the incessant urge to make a fool of myself for her,” he groaned, an offended tsking rushing past his teeth when his friend pushed the cap down over his eyes. “Oi! Can you blame me? Just look at her!” 

Sirius looked up while he wrangled the cap back into place, taking a long moment and then some before sighing in defeat. “I vote Irish wolfhound and late spring. I look good in lavender.” 

“I was thinking Newfoundland,” he answered, a smirk playing around his lips.

“Only if I can be the godfather,” Sirius bargained, the raise of his eyebrows caused the cap to slide forward once more making James snicker. He let himself be pushed up and to his feet. “Go talk to her! Don’t do anything stupid,” his friend encouraged. 

James shot him a playful glare, tossing his own cap towards him and fixing his hair. Well, as much as it could be fixed. His feet already carrying him down the slight slope to the field. “It’s not like I am going to run into a lamp post,” he joked, tossing a grin over his shoulder seconds before connecting with just that. 

In his defence, the ladies were having a water break and Lily had taken off her jumper, standing there in just her sports bra, sweat glistening in the setting sun. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity and surrounded her like a halo. 

If that had not been enough, Lily had laughed, her head tilted back in delight and James was pretty sure he would move heaven and earth to be the one to make her laugh like that. Which was the thought that spun dizzily through his mind while he reeled from the impact. 

James staggered back a few steps, rubbing the side of his face that had made the actual impact. His glasses askew while he sat back down on the grass, blinking the spots from his vision. 

When his eyes focussed again, Lily was right there, her forehead creased with concern. Before he could think about it, his mouth moved. “Marry me?” Which was probably the first time that James Potter ever was truly mortified by something he had said. Mouth opening, this time intentionally, to apologize. 

But before he could, she laughed, and the sound was pure and surprisingly not like she wanted to run away. “How about you take me for a drink first?” 

The vigorous shake of his head made him reel all over again, but James didn’t care. ”It’s a date.” 

(A little reference vid, because I can.)

[justforfun501]

Jack Hughes - Leigh Leopards

[laegolas]

Being an AFL fan on the internet is wild.

It’s the most supported sports league in my country. A third of the country is apathetic if not outright hostile towards it. Its governing body is an evil tax-free corporation that has more power over state governments than our actual federal government does. It’s the second toughest sport to master, second only to water polo. There are 50 players listed per club and 18 per team on the ground during a match at all times. They’re all celebrities but only in one specific city. There are 6 umpires on the ground at all times which is entirely necessary. There’s a public holiday for the grand final in one of our states. The women’s league winning prize pays the same rates as the men’s. Players run 8 miles of distance average per match. Most of the people reading this probably assume I’m talking about Rugby. They all wear tiny tiny shorts in the middle of winter. It’s one of the oldest codified sports in the world.

And literally no one talks about it on the internet outside of the dedicated subreddit and the meta family hellscape platforms. It’s just. So bizarre.

[octuscle]

Soccer, Football and Rugby

Foreign languages are not easy to learn. And sometimes there really are stumbling blocks. Pierre and Jules had come to Leeds as exchange students. Both were big soccer fans and looked forward to visits to the Leeds United stadium on the one hand. And on the other hand, they were looking forward to soccer training at their school. Right on the first day of school, they signed up for the team. Both were well trained and ticked off "advanced skills" and "very trained".

" Guys, you look good," their host mother said, snapping a photo as the two headed off to their first practice. She drove them to the sports field indicated for the workout, wished them both a good time, and headed out to do some shopping. Pierre and Jules walked toward the building they thought was the team cabins. And then they both realized they had something mixed up. This wasn't soccer practice. This was rugby. And this wasn't high school students training out, either. This was amateurs training out on their way to the professional leagues.

The coach was a tree of a man. He grinned when he saw the two of them. "Julian and Peter?" the coach asked. Both nodded a little intimidated. "Well, you don't exactly look like very advanced trained… But we'll get that. Go get changed, you'll find something to wear in the cabin." Julian and Peter took their breath away when they entered the cabin. First, because the air was cutting. It reeked of sweat and masculinity. But also because there seemed to be only demigods standing around them. Each at least 1.90 meters tall, muscular. And although one or the other had his nose broken several times, they all looked like models. One of the fellas grinned at the two and pointed to a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. There they should pull out something to wear. Some of it shouldn't be so filthy. The fellas laughed, Julian and Peter rummaged through the laundry with their heads turned up red. The stench of sweat was breathtaking. And they both got hard.

After a few minutes, all the crew members were standing at attention in line. Whereby Julian and Peter stood at attention the least. Their shorts and shirts, still damp from other guys' sweat, were clearly too big for both of them. But they hadn't found anything smaller. At least socks and shoes fit to some extent. During the warm-up training, it started to rain. That didn't matter to the coach, who got soaking wet himself. The team members completed a half-hour boot camp. After five minutes, Julian and Peter were both convinced they wouldn't survive the training. After 20 minutes, the shorts weren't much of a stretch at all. And after the warm-up training ended, the two did chest bumps with their pals and realized they weren't that much smaller anymore.

During technique training, the two rookies also turned out to be amazingly capable of learning. Both were fast, both had a lot of strength in their arms and upper bodies. And neither was afraid of physical contact. Although Jools has traditionally been used more as a fullback and Pete as a scrum-half, today the two were used as flankers. Both benefited from their running strength. Earlier, when they had played soccer, both had to run a lot on the field, after all.

When training was over, both were sweaty and muddy. Some clown had given them XL jerseys, which of course had been much too tight for them. After the final whistle, they both tore off their jerseys. Finally some air to breathe again! At the sight of Pete's naked torso, Jools grabbed his pants. "Damn you, you pig," Pete laughed. "Can't you wait until we're in the shower to jerk off like everyone else?"

@alphahard-on and @maennersneakersockenfuesseskins, thank you for the inspiration.

@axeegliter and @zzzinternetperson, I hope you like the result of your challenge. Even though I may not have quite hit your fantasies.

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

It happens while he’s having a long-overdue visit with Ginny. After a night of good food and alcohol and catching up, she digs her fingers right into the bruise that is his loneliness.

“So, seeing anyone?”

The short answer is no. The long answer is, frankly, depressing. 

It’s a no, but not for lack of recent effort. He retired from professional football nearly five years ago, and he hasn’t had any luck finding a partner despite going on several dates. He’s tried to meet people; his friends keep subtly (and then not-at-all subtly) pushing him in the direction of single acquaintances or friends-of-friends, but he’s been out of the game long enough that it all feels foreign to him. He hasn’t felt a spark or connection with anyone. And if one more person mentions Tinder or Grindr to him, he might stuff his phone down their throat.

Hell, his last real relationship was… Ginny. Christ, that was almost twenty years ago. No wonder his friends think he needs to be set up. But after he and Gin broke up, he was so focused on playing better, keeping his team in the Premier League, or playing in Euro Cups or World Cups. The long hours spent training and playing and travelling didn’t exactly allow for much time to meet people or date, and a lot of the people he’d meet through club events or at the bars and parties his teammates frequented weren’t exactly looking for a committed relationship. From a couple disastrous attempts, he's well aware he doesn’t do well with one-night stands.

By the time his retirement loomed, he was more excited to spend time with his friends and family – to watch his honorary nieces and nephews grow up. He’d done his best to maintain those relationships when he could, and now he’s going to enjoy the results of that effort. 

But he’s always wanted a partner – a love like he’d heard his parents had. He’s sure there’s someone out there for him; he just wishes they’d stop hiding.

“I’m going to take that as a no,” Ginny says after an embarrassingly long pause. “Oh no, don’t get all mopey on me–”

“I’m not mopey,” Harry grumbles into his beer. Ginny gives him a look. “I’m not! I just. Maybe I’m a bit frustrated. Trying to find someone is exhausting. And demoralising.”

“If you can’t find someone, what chance do mere mortals have?” she teases.

“Oh, ha ha,” he snarks. “I know you’re taking the piss, but… I think that might actually be part of the problem? Most of them want Harry Potter, but I’m just Harry. Once you take away the sports stuff, I’m really quite boring.”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“You are not, and could never be, boring. You, my friend, are a chaos magnet. Even now that you’re not one of the highest paid football players, or on the cover of Sports Illustrated, or modelling underwear, or whatever ridiculous thing, you are plenty interesting on your own.”

“Gin,” he says, feeling a bit choked up.

“There, there.” She pats his hand before leaning back in her chair, lost in thought. “So, dating isn’t working…”

“To put it lightly.”

Ginny gives him a considering look. “Have you ever thought of finding a sugar baby?”

“A wh–” He chokes on his spit and coughs. “Sugar baby?! I’m not some creepy old letch, Gin!”

She waves off his pearl-clutching. “No, but you are rich and desperate.”

“Oi!”

“Oh, hush. Why not give it a shot? One of my rugby mates used this matchmaking service and had great luck.”

“I’m not paying someone to have sex with me,” he says flatly.

“Then don’t. Pay someone to keep your lonely arse company.”

He sighs, running a hand through his unruly hair and wincing when it snags on a knot. “That just seems so pathetic…”

“Harry,” Ginny says, looking him in the eye. “You have money you don’t need, and want someone to care about. There are many people out there who would love to have that money and someone to care about them.”

And that’s a little more enticing.

“But, since I know you, I will add: Do not try to be a hero. It should be mutually beneficial,” she stresses sternly.

“You say that like I’m going to do this, but I haven’t agreed–”

“We’re going to create a profile right now.”

“Ginnyyyyyyy,” he groans. “Noooooo–”

“None of that,” she says, grabbing his laptop. “You need to build up some relationship confidence, and since the old-fashioned way isn’t working, you’re going to give this a shot.”

He finishes his drink and goes to flop on the sofa in protest.

After a fair bit of typing, Ginny calls from across the room, “Ay, Harry – birds or blokes?”

He lifts his face from where it’s wedged into a pillow enough to shout back a bleary “Both!”

Foggy memories flicker in and out of them shouting questions and answers back and forth, with Ginny eventually migrating to the sofa and asking him to look at photos.

The next morning, Harry wakes up with a nasty hangover and a message on the sugar baby matchmaking app saying he has a date that weekend.

What.

(wake-up call)

[28dayslater]

i have two quastions for you, pick and choose which one you want to answer depending on how much time you wish to spend indulging my whims

1. what footy teams do the various terror & erebus blokes support

or, if you want to cut to the chase

2. most likely coys on those ships

Knew exactly what this was going to be without opening the ask and spent the entire time washing my hair pondering it

I absolutely cannot pin down Jopson to a team, his vibe just does not match any, but he does have that hidden blokeiness about him so I can't say it wouldn't be his thing... need support on this one.

Blanky: as discussed he would support some nothing non league team no one's heard of with every fibre of his being. Hurling his wooden leg in the air when they score a consolation goal in a 6-1 hammering by Stoke

Crozier: this is the epitome of a 2020s man utd fan. Got into them decades ago when they were dominating and is now crushingly miserable every week. Life's good until it ain't

Tozer: I really really hate to say it but he's clearly YNWA. Will talk no more about this.

Fitzjames: city and he started supporting post-takeover and feels constant shame about it. "My dad supported them!" No, he didn't, and it would be less cringe for all involved if you admitted that

Little: just look at this miserable cunt. He's coys to his core and if he had a second team it would be fucking Everton. The type of spurs fan to respond to a derby loss by saying we never had any hope bc they were always better than us in every way

Hodgson: FULHAM

Hickey: whichever team is currently winning

Goodsir: neutral, stats guy, I must conclude his favourite team is Brighton which is probably why he got homophobic abuse

Sophia: Arsenal women 😒

Irving: tried to watch on tv once and got flustered by the shorts, has not attempted since

Tartnell: for secret reasons I must say gooner

Gibson: forgot he was here. Wolverhampton Wanderers and he calls them by the full name every time

Bridgens: Middlesbrough or something

Dundy: Drinking eight Madris at Dulwich hamlet and being sick on the kitman

Macdonald: SPL team that isn't Celtic or Rangers, can't elaborate further as I can't tell any of them apart

Des Voeux: England travelling fan, doesn't watch club football

Diggle: footyscran admin

Stanley: whole thing is beneath him

Collins: rugby

Sir John: Chelsea and Rangers

[dateinthelife]

29 December 1961

John Lennon valiantly avoids picking a fight with some jazz bros who are on the bill with them at the Cavern Club.

They weren’t playing our type of music and we weren’t playing theirs. I know John Lennon later said that jazz was shit, but he wouldn’t have dared say it to our faces. I’m an ex-Commando, Bob [Frettlohr] is ex-para and Martin Boland is an ex-rugby league professional with a very short fuse.

John Cook, trumpeter, Yorkshire Jazz Band (The Cavern, Spencer Leigh)