#black and white tennis net

[latinx-lancaster]

Landscape Outdoor Playsets in Toronto Ideas for a sizable, contemporary backyard with concrete paving and summer landscaping.

[oberynmaartell]

Modern Landscape - Landscape Design ideas for a large modern full sun backyard concrete paver landscaping in summer.

[pagesforposey]

Toronto Modern Landscape Ideas for a sizable, contemporary backyard with concrete paving and summer landscaping.

[wolverwhore]

Toronto Landscape

[shy-girl04]

[ch4mpagnedrought]

friendly game

[full series]

mdni ! art, tashi, patrick

summary: pinning two of the greatest tennis players of our future will not work with you and tashi, in fact, you’ve learnt to share your prizes.

deep breaths. you take deep breaths when taking your racket out of its bag, all five fingers wrapping around the grip tightly, that is so intensely watched by two pairs of curious eyes from above in the stands, inaudibly gawking at the way your black tennis dress, sporting a small nike logo above your left breast, flourishes from around your thighs to expose the surfaces of your skin that don’t see the sun very often.

maybe the single most important game at the 2006 US open, between two upcoming tennis prodigies that also happen to be best friends. an oxymoron on the court really, tashi’s in white, you in black, her in adidas, you in nike, her hair in a tight braid, yours slicked into a low bun. eyes are torn completely apart as the both of you travel across the court, rebutting every single one of each others moves like a choreographed dance, the jaws of your audience slacked open. everybody remains paralysed, leaving the squeaks of your shoes and the heavy grunts of your labour to echo across the stands—until hands grip onto neighbouring knees and the final shot is swung.

“yes!” you shriek, throwing your racket to the ground in ecstasy, letting it bounce back behind you and the strings to shrivel from the force. from across the court, tashi heaves with squinted eyes, watching your celebration with parted lips and stepping closer to the net where you meet her—your arms wrapping around each others glistening shoulders and chests pressing firmly against one another, “good game” she tilts her head to whisper her appraisals and you hum a sweet note, flashing her a smile while the two men blink down at you. their minds completely empty apart from a state of euphoria, seeing two of the most beautiful women they had ever laid their eyes on embrace after a game that was essentially life or death. already replaying the erotic extensions of your legs at every side step, hips swivelling and slender arms extending to shape an image from within the deepest depths of their minds.

the same way that they stood completely still and fixated onto the images of you at the celebratory party hosted for you and tashi. the blonde haired boy taking sips of his drink between all the thoughts that expel from the image of you, mid underhand serve, and run through his mind. while the other faces an image of tashi, mid overhead, and tries not to make it obvious that his gaze slips into imagining anything other than what is underneath those clothes she endorses.

even when you notice their toying eyes, approaching you sat knee-to-knee with tashi at a table having just spent the last twenty minutes dancing with one another that hadn’t gone unnoticed by them either, “art donaldson and patrick zweig, right?” their eyes are momentary frozen wide before art exhales an exasperated breath, choking up on nothing. “in the flesh” patrick mumbles, fidgeting with the rim of his coke bottle. your eyes dart from one boy to another, left to right, both of their shoulders tensing as they watch tashi’s lips uncurl from the pink straw of her orange drink, guiding the bottle towards your own lips, pressing the straw into your mouth nonchalantly to share a sip of the beverage, and the sweetness of her lip gloss.

“that, that game…it was seriously breathtaking” art chokes out to the both of you, looking down admirably at you and noticing the small freckles the sun has peppered on your nose that hadn’t been visible from the top of the stands. tashi thanks him, putting the straw back into her own mouth and projecting a mental image of you and her swapping more than saliva into patrick’s mind.

his feet shuffle on the spot, shaking away the thought, “you dealt with the loss much better than i would’ve.” lightheartedly he jokes, gesturing towards tashi and sending her a small smile, “how do you two stay friends?”

“we’ve been friends since childhood,” tashi takes a glance at you, but you’re already looking back, “there’s no bad blood, we learn from eachother.” the palm of her hand flattens on your thigh momentarily, leaning back further into the couch. patrick and art huff, elbowing one another, “just like us.”

they flatter the two of you, showering you with compliments, all while trying to make it seem as if they hadn’t been discussing what exactly they would say to you for the past couple hours, until you and tashi were standing in front of their hotel room door, silently leaning closer to hear whatever was going on inside. “they don’t have time to come here” a muffled voice speaks from behind the door, and another groans loudly.

you and tashi share a small smirk, holding back laughter when she knocks on the door to hear a sudden ruckus.

“hi” “hey” they sing simultaneously, mouths agape like two little dogs, panting at the sight of a treat, or drooling at the ring of a bell. neither you nor tashi even have the time to greet them, patrick opening the door a little wider and beckoning you inside, coming together on the floor of the questionably coloured carpet with a single can of beer in the middle.

patrick leans back onto his hands. “so, when did you two become friends?” tashi points a finger between the two, wrapping her arms around her knees and tilting her head in curiosity. “we’ve been bunkmates since we were twelve” he answers, and art glances down at his crossed legs with a nervous smile. you nod your head, whispering a small “cute” under your breath and brushing patrick’s wrist with your fingers when taking the beer he offers, making the hairs on his arms stand upright. the beer is warm and bitter, and you pass the can to tashi after leaving a wet imprint of your lips that art would try to discreetly swipe his tongue over only moments later.

“you share girls often?” you ask and patrick’s brows quirk up, corner of his mouth tilting upwards. “this is our first time.” art says, pinkish blush spreading across his nose and the apples of his cheeks that implies his mind is drifting somewhere else. “why? are we not your type?” tashi laughs, leaning over towards art and tucking her hair behind her ears, his eyes following her closely, “aren’t you two everybody’s type?”

the boys shift in their positions, patrick lifting his hips up into the air briefly to get a little more comfortable and art pressing his hands into his knees, sharing a glance between them. all of the breath you exhale meshes into a palpable energy, and your gaze switches between art and patrick in a way they’ve already grown to love, their faces twitching with an eager awkwardness, “are you each other’s type?”

art chuckles out, “no…no.” he denies with a head shake, patrick peering over his shoulder at him silently, “no, we’ve never done anything like that.”

your’s and tashi’s eyes meet briefly, lips turning up into a smile.

“well…” patrick begins and art immediately jerks his head towards him, hoping that he wasn’t about to say the one thing he didn’t want to share, “i mean…”

“patrick, no.”

“don’t be shy, you have to tell us now” you tempt, a playful glint in the glance you give art.

patrick clears his throat, “you know, i just, taught art how to jerk off” he explains casually art’s right of passage while he holds his head in shame, painting an image of him being covered in his own ejaculation, over his stomach and legs like he had just “spilled milk” all over himself.

“that was a really adorable story” tashi hums, placing a hand on your shoulder to hoist herself up from the floor, and reaching out to help you up too. two pairs of eyes follow you around intently, admiring the tips of your fingers that swipe over various objects in their hotel room and feeling a little embarrassed about how obvious it is that they cleaned it only around 10 minutes ago. random pairs of boxers making an appearance from underneath the two single beds that they had pushed together, and an alarming amount of cigarette ash on the surface of the drawers.

tashi’s hand finds your wrist and guides you onto their bed where you take a seat patiently, criss-crossed, waiting for one of the boys to catch on and join you, while they are utterly immersed in the idea that the two of you are real and really in their bed.

silently, you usher them towards you with a tilt of the head, both of them jumping to their feet, basically leaping onto the bed so all four of you make a square, knees very slightly brushing against one another. theres a silent anticipation, tension weaving around all of you and luring your bodies closer. you take a quick look at each of their faces, their dilated pupils and irregular breaths, and move your lips closer to art’s, watching him inhale deeply like he wants to take all the air from your lungs for himself. then patrick, that selfishly attempts to lean his face closer before you can pull away.

you look towards tashi, who inches her face closer to yours, lips parted slightly and meeting in the middle for a kiss. in your peripheral vision, it’s hard not the notice the way that art and patrick are restraining themselves from punching a fist into the air out of joy, loud and shallow breaths caressing your cheeks. your mouth opens wider, leaning in deeper to consume every part of tashi’s lips in a hungry craze while her hand reaches into your hair to pull you closer. the two other men that keenly wait had slipped out of mind, still staring with a captivated stillness when you pull away from one another.

all you have to do is lean back onto your hands for art to pounce onto the side of your neck that becomes exposed, while patrick leans in to plant a kiss onto tashi’s jaw. on the surface their lips travel across the curve of your necks, heads fallen back, suctioning until they can taste the flavour of your perfume that lingers on your skin, while your hands exchange messily beneath; art’s touch feathering on your arm and reaching for tashi’s shoulder, and patricks arms intertwining with art’s to extend and touch your’s and tashi’s thighs.

patrick nuzzles his lips into divot the beneath tashi’s ear, journeying across her shoulder and onto your own in one smooth line, nearly head-butting with art when he shuffles to grace tashi with the same tender attention.

your hands scrunch into patrick’s dark hair, body involuntarily aching until you draw him closer to your face by the chin to connect with his lips. he balances himself in front of you, planting his hands at your sides to allow him to move even closer to you all while tashi hums into art’s gently mingling lips.

pulling back from patrick, you move onto art’s swollen mouth that glistens with lip gloss, tasting the remnants of tashi and yourself on them. all four of your faces coming together in the middle, so close that there is a dangerous lack of oxygen.

tongues pressing flat on top of another, swiping over bottom lips to feel every ridge and an accumulation of hot air. you become lightheaded at the different hands that grope over your figure, being pulled in by the back of your neck. there’s a contrast in the way each one of them kisses; tashi’s lips are familiar and firm, patrick’s are similar in their starved manner, and art’s yearn to take every molecule you are made of and ingest it.

tashi catches on immediately to the way that your left hand squeezes hers and pulls back to leave only art and patrick breathlessly grasping onto the others torso, noses pressing against each other at every tilt of the head and tongues slipping astray. the moment is only short, you and tashi glancing at one another, unbothered at whether they have noticed that you’re gone or secretly fulfilling a guilty hankering.

“okay.” tashi says, slapping her palms across her legs and sending a smile at the two boys. bottom lips slicked with one another’s saliva they remain frozen, only inches apart.

“goodnight, we have an early morning tomorrow.” you buzz, patrick and art separating only to let you slide past them on the bed, tashi following close behind and you wrapping your arms around her bicep absentmindedly.

neither one of them are able to make a sound, mouthing a “goodnight” that isn’t audible, admiring the way both of your curly brown hair sways behind you, walking out in the matching shorts they wonder if you ever swap.

they look at one another, then at the imprints in the floral blanket that your bodies left, scrunches where exactly you sat that they are both ready to smush their faces into. all while you and tashi stand outside of their hotel room once again, tuning in to the muffled dialogue about art’s grandmother before scurrying down the hotel hallway—hand in hand.

[lxndonorris]

heated challenge - Carlos Alcaraz

Y/N x Carlos Alcaraz Theme: Smutish, teasing, touching you're playing against Carlos in a friendly sparring match, which get heated fast x word count: 1290+ taglist: @game-set-canet open for requests (F1, Motogp, tennis, football etc)

The sun shines brightly overhead as you and Carlos walk onto the pitch of the private sports club. The court is pristine, the lines freshly painted, and the net taut. 

You look down at yourself, feeling both excitement and a hint of anxiety. You are wearing Carlos' spare tennis gear—a white top and a pair of shorts that fit surprisingly well. It's been years since you last played, held a racket, and walked onto the pitch, and while you aren't a professional, you know you are decent. 

Still, the thought of playing against Carlos, a tennis superstar, is both thrilling and intimidating.

Carlos looks incredible in his yellow tank top and black shorts. His clothes accentuate his physique perfectly, each muscle sculpted and defined. 

You swallow hard as your eyes meet, and he gives you a reassuring smile that sends a wave of comfort through you.

"Ready?" He asks, his voice filled with warmth and encouragement.

You nod, a little anxious about embarrassing yourself, but his smile bolsters your confidence.

You take your places on the court, and it is your turn to serve.

You take a deep breath, toss the ball into the air, and strike it with your racket. Not a bad serve, you think, but Carlos manages it effortlessly.

You rally back and forth, and you can tell he is holding back, perhaps subconsciously. It is a sparring match, after all.

As you continue, you begin to get the hang of things again. Your shots become more accurate, your movements more fluid.

Carlos notices and smirks, unconsciously stroking his chest.

"You're doing good," he says before serving the ball again, this time with more power and speed, testing you. 

You manage to return it quite well, causing his smirk to widen.

Still, he wins the set.

The two of you meet at the net, both of you sweating and breathing deeply. You can't help but admire how his muscles flex with every step he takes, and you know, by his eyes roaming all over you, that he feels the same.

"You're really good," he compliments, and you blush.

"I haven't played in years," you admit, your heart racing from the exertion and his proximity.

He chuckles, clearly enjoying the moment. "It doesn't show. You're doing great."

You can tell he is excited, his eyes sparkling with a competitive fire he can't hide.

The next set is even harder.

You manage to score a few points, but Carlos' athleticism and talent are too much for you in the end. He moves with grace and power, that leaves you in awe.

Once the set is done, you walk over to the bench for a drink. Before you can take a sip, Carlos comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. His touch is comforting, and you feel a rush of warmth as his chest presses gently against your back. He hums quietly, the sound vibrating through you and giving you goosebumps.

"You did so good," he whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

You lean back into him, embracing his body against yours. His hands are firmly on your waist, holding you close—gently but possessively. Turning around to face him, your eyes meet. 

"Thank you," you say, giving the compliment back. "You were amazing out there."

Carlos smirks, his gaze roaming all over you. "It was hard to concentrate," he admits, "because you look so good."

You blush again, feeling the intensity of his eyes on you. Steadying yourself against his firm chest, you feel the heat radiating from his body and the muscles reacting underneath his shirt.

His hands tighten slightly on your waist, and you can sense the desire in his touch. When your eyes meet again, you know he is craving your touch, but you both understand it isn't the place or the time.

"What do you say? One last round?" Carlos teases, one hand on his chest, the other motioning toward the pitch. 

"Sounds good," you agree, but before you can take your place on the court, Carlos takes his shirt off, showing off his toned body.

"I just need some space." He tilts his head playfully as a knowing smile plays on his lips. 

In one swift motion, he strokes his chest and tummy before his hand gently brushes over his shorts, drawing attention to the desire and excitement building up inside him.

For a second, you're unable to take your eyes off him; the display both challenging and tantalizing.

You regain your composure and raise an eyebrow. "Suit yourself," you smirk back at him, and the two of you get back on to the court.

The next set begins with renewed intensity.

Carlos serves first, his powerful shot skimming the net and forcing you to scramble. You return it with a strong backhand, and he nods appreciatively before smashing it back to your side of the court. You lunge, barely managing to return it, and Carlos's grin widens as he volleys it again, this time out of your reach.

He wins the first points easily, but you are determined to make the match competitive. 

You serve next, aiming for the far corner of the service box. Carlos darts to intercept, but your serve catches him off guard, giving you the first point. You feel a surge of confidence as you square off again.

The rallies are longer and more intense this time. Each point is hard-fought, with neither of you willing to give an inch. Your strokes are precise, your movements agile, but Carlos's pure skill is unmatched. He leaps and lunges with a fluidity that takes your breath away, his body a perfect instrument of the sport.

As you continue, the score remains tight. You are tied, and every point feels crucial.

You manage to outmaneuver him with a series of quick volleys, earning a few points in rapid succession. He responds with powerful serves that push you to your limits. The competitive fire in his eyes spurs you on, and you find yourself playing better than ever before.

Carlos serves again, the ball blazing over the net. You return it with a swift forehand, and you rally back and forth, each shot more intense than the last.

Sweat drips down your face, and you can see the same determination in Carlos's eyes. He is pushing you to the edge, and you are rising to the challenge.

Finally, it is match point.

Carlos serves with a power and precision that leave you scrambling. You manage to return the ball, but he is ready, smashing it down the line. You dive for it, your racket connecting just enough to send it back over the net.

Carlos sprints forward, and with a final, powerful stroke, he sends the ball sailing past you.

You collapse onto the ground, trying to catch your breath. Carlos lets out a low grunt of excitement, his face lighting up with a triumphant smile.

Carlos approaches you, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. One hand slides around your waist, pulling you close, while the other holds his rackett firmly.

Without a word, he kisses you passionately, his lips demanding and full of fire. You give in to him, your arms wrapping around his neck, savoring the intensity of the moment. His passion is intoxicating, and you adore every second of it.

You break apart, both of you smiling, the connection between you stronger than ever. 

"That was amazing," you whisper, feeling breathless and exhilarated.

"It was," he agrees. His eyes lock onto yours with a mix of affection and desire. "We should do it again, soon."

You nod, leaning into him, your fingers tracing the contours of his muscles. 

"Any time," you reply softly.

[ginnysgraffiti]

i didn't see any posts about art or patrick playing so i decided to write it myself :)

(forgive me if something's wrong, i haven't played tennis for a long time.)

this is just something random i've been keeping in my drafts, but don't worry i'll write some smut about art too.

also, tysm for all your requests, i swear i'm trying to keep up :,)

coach as reader, tennis obsessed art, determined art.

ART DONALDSON x yn.

that morning you were in a white tennis skirt and polo shirt, a cream-colored cardigan on top. a pair of new socks and a brand-new blindingly white pair of tennis shoes on your feet.

art was wearing his usual white uniqlo playing t-shirt with the blue collar, matching the sweat cuffs and shorts.

"okay baby, let's go over it again. patrick is taller, stronger, broad shoulders and definitely more confident. how will this affect your calculated and sharp strategy?" you asked, making sure he had perfectly locked his eyes into yours and was listening carefully.

"if he's stronger than me, i need to get him up to the net as much as i can, use perfect angles and always land properly. and he's probably feeling pretty confident, so i need to shake him, right at the beginning. if i can get patrick zweig worrying about whether his best friend is gonna beat him, then his best friend is gonna beat him."

"good answer." you smirked satisfied, resting your hands on your hips. you kissed him softly and caressed his cheek as he got ready and left the locker room.

when you walked towards the stands and took your seat, patrick won the toss and elected to serve first. you could visibly notice how tense your boyfriend was, but only an experienced coach could see how tense his muscles were.

art stood at the baseline and bounced the taut strings of his racket against his palm. he held the grip and turned it over in his hand.

patrick was standing across the court, in a black impatto branded sleeveless tennis t-shirt with red decorations on the right side and some checked grey shorts. as he stood up, you could see just how broad and tall she was, his cocky smirk playing on his lips as always as he searched for you in the crowd before turning around to art.

love serving love.

patrick tossed the ball up in the air and then cut across it with his racket. as art rushed for the ball, he calculated perfectly and thought that his best bet was to take it out of the air quick as you instructed him. but as he got in position, he saw his opponent approach the net. he was assuming art didn't have the power to hit a passing shot. and so, at the last minute, he hit a deep ground- stroke. zweig had to rush his return and hit it into the net.

the first point was art's.

love serving 15.

he looked at you as he made his way back to the baseline, and you smiled proudly.

your boyfriend crouched and waited for patrick's next serve. patrick's face was tight now. no more smirks.

suddenly, the ball came across the net, fast as a whip. art couldn't return it.

15-all.

serve after serve stunned both you and art, and you found yourself torturing the fabric of your skirt intensely.

30-15.

40-15.

and just like that, patrick zweig had won the first game.

art glanced over at your seat and saw your brows furrowed. tho, you couldn't tell what he was thinking.

now it was his serve. he landed each one exactly where he wanted it to go. he was setting up his shots a few strokes ahead. he kept him running all over the court. but every time, patrick returned it. their long rallies would inevitably end in patrick's favor.

art stayed alert. he met the ball each time, but regardless of how smooth and calculated his shots were, it just didn't matter. zweig took the first set 7-5.

you could tell art was exhausted already. during the break he wiped his sweat off with a towel, not even looking at you. you breathed in deeply. your boyfriend could not lose; it was not an option.

art thought that by getting that first point off him, he would have thrown him off. but he had actually awakened his opponent. art had given him a reason to play his fucking damn best.

art started to go for aces, each and every serve. it was risky; he knew he could double-fault and you had warned him about it, but it felt like his only shot. when the first one went well he looked at you, and you nodded with a serious look.

having your permission, he did it again.

his point.

his first serve was hard and bounced high. zweig dove for it and hit it out.

30-love.

your boyfriend glanced over at you as he went to pick up the ball, and you saw a smile creep over his face.

art hit another flat serve, whizzed past patrick.

40-love.

your boyfriend had him. just by looking at him from your seat, you could feel the tingle in the top of his head and down his back. you could feel the space in between his joints, the fluidity of hid muscles. you felt a hum in your bones.

art served the ball, low and fast. he returned it with spin that art understood innately, he knew where it would go, how it would bounce. art hit it back with the full force of his shoulder. pat's return went long and art went on to win the set. the score was now good for both, and it would come down to who won the next set.

zweig's first serve on the next game had art rallying back and forth for the point but ended in patrick hitting a low groundstroke that whizzed past him. you wanted to scream as you saw the ball bounce past art's racket. but you knew a coach like you wouldn't stand for that.

patrick zweig took control of the court. he broke art's serve, and he held him own. art showed up to the ball. he ran like hell. but it wasn't enough. when pat scored the last point, art fell to his knees. he held on to the ground for a moment and closed his eyes.

you stood up and focused your gaze on art as he approached patrick to shake his hand and pose for the photographers.

(...)

you and art made your way towards the locker room. as soon as he stepped in he immediately packed up his stuff and zipped his racket in its cover.

when he collapsed on the seat, you sat in front of him and looked at him closely.

"he said i played fucking amazing. amazing! he only said that because at the end i'm the one who fucking lost..." art said, his voice catching and breaking.

you shook your head. "you're wrong."

art raised his eyes and raised one eyebrow, annoyed.

"that was not the lesson you should take from this. try again." you continued.

"i hate tennis." he said, and then kicked his racket on the floor.

"no."

"i fucking hate patrick zweig." another kick.

"no."

at your word, he looked down at his worn out shoes. he was nervously playing with his fingers, and could not look at you.

that was the moment where he would think he had finally failed you, that he had proven himself unworthy of all the faith you had in him.

"are you done? -you said as he turned to look at you- with the hysterics?"

"i've never been prouder of being your girlfriend and your coach today than i have ever been in my life." you finished.

"how is that possible?" his lazy voice cracked before he could even finish.

"i know you're upset because you lost." you said, taking his racket so he wouldn't kick it again.

"i lost. which makes me a loser."

you shook your head with a smile on your face.

"i have been so focused on teaching you how to win that i have not taught you that everybody loses matches."

"i'm supposed to be the greatest, not everybody. art donaldson, the greatest player."

you nodded. "and you will be. today you proved that. you played the best you've ever played in your life today."

he looked up at you.

"have you ever hit that many groundstrokes that bounced just in front of the baseline?" you asked.

"no."

"have you ever served three aces in a row like you did today?"

he started tapping his foot as he listened to you. "no. but...m-my first serve was great today." he said, and it sounded more of a question than a fact.

"you were on fire, baby. you ran down the ball almost every shot."

"yeah, but then i hit it into the net half the time."

"because you are not yet who you will be one day."

he started tearing a bit, his guarded heart opening ever so slightly.

"every match you play, you are one match closer to becoming the greatest tennis player the world has ever seen. you were not born that person. you were born to become that fucking legend. and that is why you must best yourself every time you get on the court. not so that you beat the other person, or patrick, or-"

"but so that i become more myself." he finished.

"so...you're not gonna stop coaching me?" he breathed in a low whisper.

"never wonder again, baby. never."

"...we'll start again with training?" he asked shyly.

"we'll start again with training."

"and i'll beat patrick's ass?"

"and you'll beat patrick's fucking ass."

"...love you baby."

"love you too art."

"can we go for churros at the bar?"

"sure we can. the heart shaped ones."

[starssaroundmyscarssblog]

𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄

pairing: 90s!liam gallagher x fem!tennis player!oc

summary: in which they probably shouldn't have ever been a thing, but liam and lottie don't really care that much

word count: 2.19k

warnings: swearing, allusions to sexual content, fade to black smut bc it makes me uncomfy sorryy ++ links to the 'fern and noel' saga

he didn't know how it ended up the way it did, but fuck was he happy about it.

when they were younger he would stand on the side of the court behind a net at the tennis centre twenty minutes away from burnage on the train for her county matches. now he sat in guest boxes and spent time not rehearsing and recording plane hopping from open to open, tournament to tournament watching the way her agile feet jumped along the clay staining the soles of her white tennis shoes red.

she acted in turn thought and for that liam was thankful. watching her launch the ball from serve to return over the net was exhausting, but he knew the training and flying to catch the occasional gig was worse and he didn't know how she did it: give a blinder of a performance at the wimbledon grand slam finals and then land in lisbon to see him perform after her hours of press campaigns.

in liam's eyes, lottie could do no wrong; she was perfect in every sense of the word back when they'd started dating in secondary school. she'd offered to help him to pass his ppe's at the pleasure of his mam, she didn't smoke or do drugs at house parties, wouldn't touch a drop of alcohol until she was of legal age and even still it was rare enough to see her do it.

training took up every week night as well as all day saturday, she worked at the bar at the boardwalk in the evening (ironically she was a dab hand at making a blinder of a cocktail) and dedicated sunday to her homework followed by perfecting her serve stance and follow through.

lottie had everything going for her, something that she made clear she wished he had too. many a time she'd be sat with liam late at night, after her shift at the boardwalk, in the middle of the grassy patch in the children's play ground. "someone'll notice you eventually, i know they will. everyone who's seen you loves you."

liam pulled a handful of grass up with his hands out of frustration, a half burnt out cigarette hung between his lips that she couldn't keep her eyes off. "dicks aren't writing about us, though. no-one south of hale or north of oldham knows who we are."

three weeks later, liam had interrupted her training session. he cut off her backhanded serve and pulled her shoulders to him to kiss her soundly as lottie's tennis instructor yelled at him to leave. liam pulled away, grinning brighter than she'd ever seen him, "we've got a record deal, lotts. creation want to work with us, they've signed us!"

a grin split her cheeks right in two. lottie flung her arms around his neck, stood right on the tips of her toes to keep a balance her instructor would have been proud of had he seen it out into action in another other given situation. he blew sharply on the brass whistle hanging on a loop around his neck, hands on his hips as he glared lottie down. she withdrew and whispered a select congratulations in his ear and pushed liam away towards the gate he'd bulldozed through, with a kiss to the pulse point on his neck

lottie was training for the french open when she was called over to the reception desk, hot and sweaty with her hair stuck to the back of her neck, to take a phone call. "hello?" she questioned down the line, rolling her ankles so she could jog back to the clay courts and hit the ground running. she nearly lost her grip on her racquet, slipping through her fingers to collide with her trainers, when liam laughed down the line. "hey lotts, you wouldn't mind paying out my bail would ya love?"

"i thought you were going to belgium," she managed to splutter out, "what did you do to get arrested on a ferry?"

"bit of a long story, babe, but can you pay it?"

she sighed and pinched her nose. "fine, yes. but seriously, liam, this is the last time i'm going to do it. if i find out this has anything to do with you snorting one before boarding you'll be out of my flat and onto your arse faster than you can blink."

on the other end of the line, standing against a pay-phone in a belgian police station, liam adjusted has stance against the pillar. he sat down on one of the wooden slated benches lining the concrete walls and tried to cover his crotch. he chewed his lip in thought, laughing fakely at something bonehead shouted, and his voice turned sombre. "it's not. promise. just had too much to drink an' all that, having a bit of fun before r'kid turns into commander and fuckin' chief."

he heard her heavy sigh and his heart sank. liam had no doubt in his mind that he would be out on the end of astrid's boot in a second if he didn't clean up his act. "i mean it, li. one whiff of cocaine being found in my house and the confederation won't let me compete. i'll phone alan and tell him i'm paying out your bail. you can call me when you get back." lottie hung up on him and handed the receiver back to honey, who was sat behind the desk and messing with the crucifix around her neck pretending like she hadn't overheard any of the conversation.

out on the courts and with little under two months until her first match of the french open, lottie bounced from service to base line, firing fuzzy balls back to over the net while the red clay stained the hem of her whites. she scratched her racquet more times than was necessary to lunge for the ball, while shooting up and zipping around the boxes as she worked harder against the machine.

sometimes during their rigorous training jamie, her coach of seven years, would start loud shouting conversations while lottie was working her arms and thighs. he argued it helped her maintain good breathing regulation and improved concentration, because viewers in the stands could be distracting at the best of times. "so what's new with the rock star, then?"

she grunted as she sent another ball flying over the net and into the wire fence surrounding the court, skidding on her toes in pursuit of the next only an arm's stretch away, "nothing. the twat's only gone and got himself arrested because he got pissed on an over night ferry. 'this is the last time, babe, i promise'", she mimicked in a high pitched voice, "like hell it is."

"ah." jamie ran a finger over the hair he was trying to grow out on top of his lip, "has the brother been in touch yet?" a cold wind shot through the air and he pulled up the zip of his tracksuit closer to his neck. lottie's back flared up in goosebumps but she kept moving, running around the court and rounding up the balls to pour them back into the funnel of the dispensing machine. "no, but i'm expecting a call soon. when one phones the other usually follows suit."

astrid pounded at the treadmill in the gym of her hotel in paris, five minutes away from the large clay court stadium she'd thrashed each of her opponents on. she'd played her way to the final three days and came away relatively unscathed, apart from a strain in her serving wrist that a quick round of physio patched back up. lindsay, an american who was in the running for the doubles championship, was using a bike next to her.

between the two of them they shared an earbud each, stemming from a cassette player settled on the window sill and balancing in the middle of their sponsored water bottles. all of a sudden liam's voice crackled through her ear, and lottie shook her head as she cranked up the incline under foot. lindsay looked at her out of the corner of her eye, cycling as if her life depended on it. "not a fan?" she inquired, bringing down the gears to loosen the tension burning in her calves.

"it's not that," she panted, pushing through the blister forming on her heel, "i just can't believe you are. they're bastards, all of them."

lindsay gradually brought her legs to a stop, taking a moment to bring down her breathing before swinging over the seat to stand up, "i thought you were going out with one of the brothers."

"oh, i am," the incline increased again, "but it doesn't mean i can't call them that." lottie brought the treadmill down until she was walking on a flat line, and took a large sip of water. she looked at her watch and checked the pedometer hooked over her shorts by her hip and started to gather her things. lindsay moved to grab a skipping rope and stretched out her arms behind her back.

"and speaking of whom, i'm off. they should be here by now, good luck for tomorrow if i don't see you."

"and you, lotts. i've heard martínez is training hard, she won't give you an easy run."

lottie zipped her fitted jacket halfway up and tucked her thumbs into the loops around her wrists. "i know. see you on the podium." she left the gym with the two plaits her hair had been tied in laying over her shoulders. in the lift, lottie brushed her eyebrows back into place and checked her watch again, sidestepping a confederation official on the way out into the lobby.

she rocked back and forth on her heels near enough away from the reception desk so as not to look like she was loitering, but close enough to be saved if there were any photographers crouched in a bush with a long-range lens.

as lottie was attempting to push back a cuticle on her nail, she heard liam first rather than seeing him. his loud voice disrupted the peace of the hotel, earning him a disapproving glance from the bellboys and an even dirtier look from noel who was sulking behind, face like thunder.

liam sauntered into the lobby with his sports bag slung lazily over his shoulder, and his eyes were drawn to the dip of lottie's tits first before her smile. she wrapped her arms around him and sighed heavily in content, taking his congratulations on her progress in the open to heart. then she drew away and went to hug noel, who visibly recoiled.

"what's up with you?"

"nowt." he grumbled, shuffling around with room keys.

liam scoffed. "like fuck it's nowt. you're just in a mard because fern broke up with ye'." noel looked like he was ready to hit his brother square on the nose, but was restraining greatly. lottie tried not to sound too sympathetic when she consoled him.

"look i don' want to fuckin' hear it from you either, lotts, no offence. now is there an offie 'round here, i'm dying for a cig and i haven't got nowt."

lottie furrowed her brow in thought and tried to ignore liam looking at her out of the corner of her eye as if he wanted to jump on her right there and then in the glossy lobby.

she crossed her arms under her chest to push up her tits more, just to wind him up. liam discreetly adjusted the way he was standing. "err, yeah. i think there's one just down the road."

"cheers."

noel had sped away before he could even ask someone to take his bag up to his room. liam grumbled out 'lazy cunt' as he made a show of hauling it over his other shoulder, herding lottie into the lift with a hand over her chest.

as soon as the mirrored doors slid shut and they felt movement, liam was attacking lottie with a kiss so searing she felt breathless within seconds.

"missed you so fuckin' much," he mumbled, moving to ravage her neck.

when the lift doors slid open again she dragged him back to her room with her hands on the back of his neck, pushing noel's bag off is shoulder and leaving it abandoned outside his room. liam's hands were roaming over her arse and he withdrew the room key from her back pocket, scanning it before shoving her inside.

"all that time away from you was fuckin' torture," he groaned as her nails dragged down his stomach and traced the low-hanging waistline of his jeans, "need you now, babe." he sighed against her chest as lottie slowly unbuckled his belt, his hand weakly climbing her torso to palm at her tits through her tight jacket.

lottie smirked, "if being this far away from me turns you into this much of a mess, liam," at this she walked him over to her bed to sink down between his legs, following the seam of his jeans up his thighs and to his exposed boxers, "i'm going to have to get competing more often."

🪩⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊🎤

[irisintheafterglow]

End Game #3 (volleyball captain!gojo x you)

summary: you run practice in your coach's absence and break up a fight between captains.

word count: 2.6k

cw/tags: language, jjk volleyball au, misunderstandings, mild angst but nothing too bad, arguing, reader is a little mean but they're just tired of satosugu's bullshit, satoru is too unserious he literally makes a your mom joke

note: SURPRISE this is so much longer than i anticipated it being. but anyway!!! here's the first look at the rest of the team. maybe at some point i'll post the whole roster, but hopefully some of your faves make an appearance. i'm aware that this isn't really fluffy gojo content but this drabble is intended to explain his actions later on in this little series. thank you for all your support recently!!!!!

likes/reblogs/feedback are always appreciated <3

“No way.”

“Unfortunately, yes way.” 

“I thought he was kidding.” 

“If he was kidding, I wouldn’t be wearing this.” You smile mirthlessly, gesturing to the workout clothes you donned rather than the typical school-issued uniform. Suguru shakes his head in disbelief, laughing quietly as he tosses you a deflated ball that had rolled away. You catch it with ease and add it to the pile you’ve been working on for ten minutes. From your place on the gym floor, you watched the vice-captain exasperatedly pull out his phone and dial a number. “Who are you calling?” 

His dark eyes meet yours exhaustedly, strands of black hair falling loosely from the bun that held it back from his face. “Who do you think?”

It takes a moment for the pieces to click in your head, explaining why the usual annoyance after your last class wasn’t present with chatter and a sugary apple soda. “No.”

“Yes.” He frowns at his phone, furiously tapping the call button again. No answer, you figured.   

“He’s the fucking captain!” Unaware of how long you’d had the electric air pump running, you quickly flick it off as the ball in your lap becomes concerningly large. “Tell him to get his ass over here; I wanna throw this at him.” You show him the ball the size of your head, waving it around to get him to look over at you on the floor. 

Suguru side-eyes the abnormally-sized ball in your fingers. “You’re gonna kill him.”

“That’s the point,” you reply, bending one of your legs in and stretching out the other, leaning toward the outstretched side. You reach for your tennis shoe, sighing as you take a break from inflating balls. Suguru seems to finally reach Satoru as he pulls the phone away from his ear in pain, distorted panic reaching to your side of the gym. 

When the team chat received Yaga’s message saying that you were going to run practice in his absence, you knew half the team would take it as a joke. You were going to take it as one, too, planning to grab a nice lunch that afternoon; however, when the office aide came into class bearing a note requesting your presence at the gym, you kissed lunch goodbye. With the free time before practice started, you successfully repaired the ripped net that had been sitting in the corner of the supply closet for months, ordered new uniforms for away games, and checked the air pressure of practice balls. A glance at the clock and Satoru’s hastily written text confirming practice told you the rest of the team would be arriving soon. 

“D’you think they’re going to listen to me, Su?” 

“Who? The team?” 

“Mhmm.” Doubt sits heavy in your mind as you finish with the air pump, rising on aching legs to return it to the supply closet. “I mean, I’m not Yaga.” 

“He would wear that, though,” Suguru smirks, nodding toward your form-hugging leggings and loose-fitting white shirt you’d dug through your bag to retrieve. 

“I’m serious–” 

“I know you are,” he states firmly, finally meeting your gaze. He looks at you for a moment, subtly narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s the team you should worry about.”

You cross your arms across your chest, tilting your head to the side skeptically. “Who should I worry about, then?” 

He opens his mouth to speak, but abruptly shuts it as three pairs of running steps approach the gym doors, a blur of white shirts and black shorts screeching to a halt in front of Suguru. He looks down at his panting juniors with amusement, taking in their flushed faces and indifferently informing them that they’re late. They huff out apologies in between heavy inhales and exhales, still trying to catch their breath. 

You can’t help but chuckle at their earnestness. “Megumi, Yuuji, Yuta.” The three boys stiffen to attention, bracing themselves for stern scolding because of their tardiness. “Relax, I’m not gonna call Yaga.” Their shoulders collectively sag in relief. “Did you see anyone else making their way over here, or rushing too fast?” The corner of your mouth lifts teasingly, and even stoic Megumi becomes slightly pink from embarrassment as they shake their heads. “Go warm up, you three. I’ll announce today’s agenda when your glorious captain arrives.” 

The rest of the team trickles in gradually, and you’re pleasantly surprised that you’ve only lost ten minutes of practice when Satoru arrives as everyone finishes stretching. He grins at you in your workout clothes, inhaling in preparation to say something stupid before Suguru cuts him off and tells him to warm up quickly. As much as Satoru was the most powerful on the team, Suguru was the real pillar of the team because he could override his captain’s antics; you silently thank the universe that you didn’t have to wrangle the boys alone. 

“Alright, group up!” Your voice cuts through the players’ conversations and they dutifully gather around you. Irritatingly, Satoru stands at your side, sticking his hands in his nonexistent pockets and looking over the team like a pompous tyrant. You peer at him from the corner of your eye, and he averts his gaze submissively, a dog who got in trouble for ripping up the couch cushions. “Please have a seat, Satoru.” Snickers ripple through the group of players at their captain so easily ordered around, and he pouts next to Suguru on the floor. 

“So your match with Kyoto is next week–” 

Yuuji’s arm sticks up before you call on him, his head falling to the side curiously. “Are we paying for their food if we lose or was that just a rumor?” 

“Nanami said that was fake, stupid. Stop asking dumb questions,” Megumi mutters as he swats down Yuuji’s hand. 

“Don’t be mean, Megumi. It’s a valid question, and the answer is–” 

“Yes!” An uproar of indignancy spreads among the players at Satoru’s satisfied completion of your sentence. “So,” he turns in his seat, sharp blue eyes silencing the protest immediately. “Don’t lose.” The boys tense at the genuine threat in his voice and you shake your head. When he took his role of captain seriously, he was admittedly good at keeping his team in line. But, his sober aura disappears as he turns back to you, holding out a hand for you to continue while you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“Okay, sorry. Guess you’re paying if you lose.” You present your palms regretfully as the team groans and Satoru continues to beam at you. What the hell was he playing at? “Anyway, your match with Kyoto is next week. We’re ranked pretty similarly regarding skill level–” 

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Nanami deadpans from the back of the group. Yu shushes him insistently and you exhale, electing to ignore his question. 

But, the fuse had already been lit. 

“I don’t think we’re that bad,” Yuta mumbles under his breath, worry spreading on his face. Yuuji nods his agreement. 

“If our captain got his shit together, I’d think we’d do better.” Megumi coughs into his sleeve, and Yuuji flinches next to him as Satoru rotates his head to stare daggers into them both. You’d seen situations exactly like this escalate, but you didn’t have Yaga’s booming voice to get them to pay attention. As long as Suguru doesn’t join, you think. Just as long as–

“As vice-captain, I have to agree,” Suguru drawls nonchalantly. Oh, no.

“Who said you were vice-captain, number two?” Satoru sneers mockingly at the boy sitting beside him, hissing out the last word like a curse. 

Suguru goes on the defensive. “Last year’s seniors, idiot. Would have been captain-captain if your incompetent ass didn’t get us both stuck on probation for a semester.” 

“Captain-captain doesn’t exist, Suguru.” He waves his hand dismissively, and you try in vain to get the conversation back on track. “Maybe there’s a reason you got on academic probation.” 

“And your attitude is the reason you get no women, Satoru.” 

“I get plenty, I’ll have you know.” 

“Really? Like who?”

“Inquire with thy mother.” A chorus of “ooh” erupts from the team. Inumaki winces like he’d been shot. 

“You pretentious asshole. You can’t even pull the person you’ve been after since–”

“Since when Suguru? Go ahead. Use your words. If you bring me down, you’re coming with me.” You stand there, gaping like the rest of the team. It was common for the two to bicker like this, but not with such spite.  

Satoru dances his shoulders from side to side tauntingly like a cobra ready to strike. He was starting to get to Suguru; you could tell by the way the vice-captain’s fists clenched and unclenched in preparation to knock out the actual captain. 

“Guys–”

“I believe we should focus on the task at hand,” offers a deep voice from the middle blocker in the center of the group. 

“Thank you, Panda. Is Inumaki still awake?”

“He is, though he might not be for longer if our superiors continue their banter.” 

Meanwhile, Suguru and Satoru whirled on each other, throwing insults back and forth until they both stood up like they were going to fight. Your patience wears thin as you witness the rest of the team space out in real time, and your body moves before you can even think. One minute, you’re standing in front of the whiteboard, facing the team. Half a minute later, your fingers grip the lobes of Suguru and Satoru’s ears as you all but hurl them out the door. 

Your voice shakes with rage, and you fight to keep it steady. “If you’re going to continue your little piss match, do it out here. And while you’re at it, go run three laps around the school.” Their faces contort in protest, and you cut them off uncaringly. “No, no arguing. Get out, I have a team to coach.” 

When the two seniors return to practice hanging their heads in shame, Nanami is helping run defense drills. “You’re evenly matched offensively,” you stated before you began. “But Kyoto has much better communication that keeps them working like a well-oiled machine. We’re more like, uh, a used car that’s been sitting on the side of the street.” The team’s faces fall, and you’re quick to reassure them. “But, that means that if you can solidify your defense, I wholeheartedly believe that your offensive attacks can overpower theirs. Do your best.”

The juniors, you noticed, took the challenge most seriously, giving their all as they practiced calling for the ball and fully jumping even if they were feints. Megumi was Satoru’s apprentice, but as a first year student, you could already tell Megumi was progressing faster than his mentor did at the same age. It made you happy that, in the same way Satoru had Suguru, Megumi had Yuuji. You only hoped that their egos wouldn’t disrupt practice so much when they were seniors. 

Nanami takes the burden of directing his captains what to do while you work with Yuta on his blocking technique. You can feel Satoru’s eyes on you and purposefully avoid them, still bothered by his earlier tantrums. 

“I’m sorry about them,” Yuta says quietly, almost too quietly to hear if you weren’t right next to him as you adjusted his arm placement. 

“Who, them?” You glance at Dumb and Dumber, still glaring at each other, and Yuta nods carefully. “Don’t be sorry. They just…need to grow up sometimes.” 

“I think one of them has a lot more to fix than the other, respectfully.” 

“Well, that’s your captain. You either love him or you hate him.” 

“And which one are you?”

“Hmm?” Your eyebrows dip in confusion, and Yuta backtracks swiftly, mumbling more apologies and “nevermind”s. You excuse yourself to check on Panda and Inumaki, pushing away the awkward feeling Yuta’s question had arisen in your gut. 

Satoru lingers after practice as you lock the gym, longer than Nanami and Suguru who helped you clean up. The sun begins its trek dipping below the horizon, and the warm glow casts a golden radiance over the school. After changing from his uniform and discreetly reconciling with Suguru, he stands against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. The sunset reflects off the white of his hair, and the light makes his blue eyes look like they’re glimmering. Despite annoying you to no end earlier in the afternoon, you couldn’t help admiring how handsome he looked. 

You couldn’t tell him that, though, and you brush past him wordlessly. He easily follows your steps, positioning himself at your side instinctually. “Can we talk?” 

“What’s there to talk about, Gojo?” 

“That. Calling me by my family name rather than my first name.” 

Your blank face becomes a scowl. It didn’t matter if he was trying to get a rise out of you. Was he fucking kidding? His jab at something so relatively mundane as his name sets you off, and your words tumble from your lips like boulders on a cliffside. “I’m furious with you, that’s why I'm calling you that. You acted like a child today. A fucking child. But moreover, you picked a fight with Suguru over something you should have laughed off. I have every right to be angry at you. Just because you’re captain, doesn’t mean you get to disrupt practice, me as coach or not.” 

He doesn’t look angry at your tirade, but puzzled. “I’m not allowed to defend myself if they insult my aptitude as captain?” 

You sigh and think about getting a bumper sticker that says I am done with Gojo Satoru. “Perception is reality. Your idea of yourself as captain doesn’t automatically make it everyone else’s opinion of you.” He’s speechless at your side; whether that be from shock or purposeful so he can think, you’d never know. 

“I’m sorry.” He stops behind you, and you look at him over your shoulder. If you weren’t so angry, you might have felt some sympathy for the genuine remorse dragging on his face. “For fighting with Suguru, for undermining your authority, for acting like an idiot. I’m sorry.” You blink, taking a deep breath before you respond, probing into a conversation you weren’t 100% sure you were ready for. 

“Why did Suguru mention something about you liking someone for years?”

His blue eyes widen slightly like a deer in headlights. “Huh?”

“When you were arguing, he said something about not being able to pull someone. Why did the conversation suddenly turn there?” 

He avoids your expectant eyes, pursing his lips and shrugging a tall shoulder. “Don’t know. Must’ve been in just as stupid of a mindset as me.” He was lying to you, straight through his teeth, but you didn’t have the energy to decipher why. Instead, you settle for another meaningless conversation as he walks you home while he asks if he can buy you more soda to make up for his actions. 

“I don’t want sugar, Satoru. I want…” Your voice trails off while you rest your hand on the front gate to your house, looking back at the boy standing behind you. His throat bobs nervously as he swallows in anticipation of your response. He was giving you that unreadable look again. 

“What do you want?” Anything, his eyes said. I’ll give you anything. 

A beat.

“I want you to stop acting like being captain is just another position on the team. It’s not. People depend on you. They look up to you.” You laugh without humor. “But what do I know? I’m just the manager. Look, Satoru. They’re counting on you. Please try, if not for me, then for them.” 

He nods, bidding you farewell. His goodbye includes three extra words that you hadn’t heard him say before, and they’re so soft that you think you’re imagining them. 

“As you wish.”

[livingddeadgirlrl]

challengers smut cuz duhhh… who would i be if i didn’t write about it.

i didn’t rly proof read. it’s 5 am. but enjoy!!

cw: breeding, mating press, threesome, oral… yeah

wc: 1.9k LMFAOOO

lmk if u want a part 2, left it open ended :P

something about you was different. i mean, who would’ve thought that the scary lookin’ girl was an insane tennis player. sure you had a bit of a temper when it came to the court, but you played damn well. you could always spare a few profane penalty points. you were always great at intimidating your opponent. your looks alone–sleek black hair, tied into twintails. a tattoo on the back of your hand, and others scattered around your body, begging to be found. those dark eyes filled with rage and mystery. there was something different about you.

it was the last set of your match against some painfully racist white bitch from arizona state, and you were obviously in the lead. it was her serve. she swung once, hitting the ball into the net forcefully, resulting in a low chuckle from you on the opposing side of the court. you weren’t scared. she served once more, finally actually making it across the net, and hitting an underhand to try to throw you off. you smacked a backhand aggressively, slamming the ball into her service box with a loud echo. that was the end of the match. “COME ON!!! that’s too easy!!” you laughed out, almost sinisterly. everyone cheered for you. you were that mysterious player from the bay that had just entered the tournament, blowing your way up and through the ranks. all of the guys were in love with you. you were powerful on the court, and off of it. shaking your opponent's hand over the net, you congratulated her sarcastically, a scowl painted on her face. ‘what a sore loser, and a racist,’ you thought to yourself.

—

now you found yourself at the party of champions. a room filled with the male and female winners of the tournament. you stood in the corner, swirling your drink in hand, gazing into the liquid. none of the other female champions wanted to converse with you. honestly, they were intimidated. although you had just joined, your reputation preceded all of the circulating rumors. downing the rest of your drink, you straightened out your dress, a black strapless one bordered with black lace. your hair was loosely curled and draped over one side of your shoulder, revealing your delicate collarbones. you made your way to the drink table, set on pouring yourself another. if no one wanted to talk to you, at least you were getting free alcohol. your hand hesitated over which to choose, finally landing on the vodka.

“i know that hand tattoo when i see it. you’re f/n l/n, right?” a soft yet daring voice stated from behind you. finishing your pour, you turned around, faced with two of the cutest little twinks. god how you just loved men. to the right stood the one with curly brown hair, sparkling eyes, and a sharp nose. the left, a cute little blonde, blue eyes, and a defined face. they both towered over you, shockingly.

“hm.. i know you.. ‘fire and ice,’ right?”

they both let out a soft chuckle at the title. “yeah, guess that’s us. you know us?” the blonde countered.

“mhm, you guys are the successful pair, course i do. congrats on winning, patrick and art..,” you sipped your drink, leaving a soft red stain from your lips on the glass.

“hey well, you too. we just wanted to say, we love watching you play. i mean, it’s not even tennis anymore. you’re playing a whole different game out there,” the brunette joined in.

you let out a soft hum of approval. they recognized you. you looked up from your cup with a soft smirk, your gaze bouncing between the two of them. they certainly were intriguing, on and off the court. seemed a little gay, too.

—

few more drinks in your system, and you were now on the bed of their hotel room, bated breath as they sat on opposing sides of you. whatever you had gotten yourself into, you were definitely in for a time. each had a hand up your dress and on your thigh, rubbing soft circles into your hips. you turned your head to face patrick, eyes fixated on his lips as you let them hover over his own for a bit to tease him. then, you turn to face art, not kissing patrick juuust yet. you press your lips to art’s, sucking on his bottom lip softly, causing him to let out a soft whine. it was so cute. patrick’s calloused fingers trailed up your torso and to your breast, pulling down the top of your dress slowly. he immediately cupped your soft and full breasts in his hands, inching his mouth closer to the skin, his breath slightly tickling your pebbled nipple. he latched onto it with his hot mouth, swirling your sensitive bud around with his tongue in a circular motion, making you moan softly into art’s mouth. you pull away from the heated kiss, a small string of saliva stretching from your connected lips. with an already hazy expression, you look down at their laps. god, they both had big dicks, both forming a substantial tent in their boxers, decorated with damp patches of precum. art’s fingers carefully unzipped the back of your dress, helping you pull it over your head as you lifted your arms. you lean on your side into patrick’s lap, helping him shift his boxers down his waist, allowing his hardened cock to spring out and almost smack you in the mouth. as you took his length in your delicate hand, art shifted his positioning to rest on his knees at the foot of the bed. with careful fingers, he hooked them under the black lace of your panties, shifting them to the side to reveal you in all of your holiness. your sweet, pink and puffy folds, already glistening with your slick. patrick’s hands laced through your silky hair, holding it back for you as you took his fat tip into your warm mouth. he leaned backwards on the bed, propping himself up on his elbow as he watched you, and the scene unfolding before him. you swirl your tongue around the swollen head of his cock, giving a few kitten licks. after being trapped in a mesmerizing trance, art finally dove practically head first into your dripping pussy, lips latching onto your sensitive clit, making you whimper softly with patrick’s length in your mouth. art traced his index and middle finger around your slit, teasing it softly as his tongue circled your puffy clit relentlessly, making you cry out softly as you gasped for air on patrick’s dick.

“go easy, art… can’t have her finishing just yet…” he groaned out in a husky tone, pulling you up gently off of his length by your hair. art chuckled lowly, crawling back up onto the bed beside you. he laid back, his back pressed against the headboard as he pulled you by your hips to sit on top of his lap. he pumped his cock a few times, positioning it against your slit as you look down at him with a half-lidded gaze. patrick rested on his knees right behind you, grasping onto your hips and slowly pressing you down, forcing you to take in art’s cock inch by inch.. oh so slowly. he pressed hot kisses to the crook of your neck, trailing down to your shoulder as art thrusted into you, the sound of skin slapping filling the room. fuck it felt so good. patrick’s hands cupped your tits again, massaging them roughly as they bounced up and down with the force of art’s plunges into your squelching cunt.

“fuck’she’s so tight… feels so good..” art muttered out, watching patrick grope your tits with his large hands.

“think i can fuck ya better, princess..?” patrick whispers, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. you let out a soft and incoherent mumble, unable to properly speak as art’s tip threatened that spongy spot of your pussy that made your head go blank with each growing thrust. art’s eyes were glued to the two of you above him–your head thrown back into patrick’s shoulder, hair cascading down his arm as you gasped softly for air. patrick’s rough fingertips making their way down to massage your clit, adding more pressure to that growing knot in your stomach. you let out another soft whine, pressing your fingertips into art’s abdomen to try to stabilize yourself, even just for a moment. patrick’s fingers traced upward to your lower stomach, pressing the outline of art’s cock as it reached even further, causing you to writhe softly in his grip.

“guess pretty boy got a pretty big dick, huh…” patrick teases softly, resulting in a breathless scoff from art.

art had heard enough of patrick’s remarks. he stopped his thrusts, picked you up from under your ass, and pressed you into the sheets. he was now looming over you, and folding your legs above your head. it’s a good thing you were flexible.. patrick moved to sit just above your head by the headboard, holding your legs firmly in position by your knees with the back of your head rested on his lap. oh god you were in for it now. art pressed a soft kiss to your lips before tapping his leaking cock in between your soaked folds again, sinking into you with deep pressure and determination. he had to make sure he bottomed out.

“m’fuck….!!” you mustered out in a shaky voice, your body twitching once again.

art immediately picked up the pace, pulling his cock out almost all the way and plunging back into you, causing an awfully lewd squelching sound to emit from your dripping cunt. you let out another soft cry, your head and eyes rolling back in patrick’s lap. patrick gently caressed the skin of your legs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as you looked up at him with fucked out eyes. art was letting out a soft mixture of moans and whines now, pounding into you at a brutal pace with extreme fervor. he couldn’t pick a place to look at. your bouncing tits that matched his pace, patrick’s seductive expression as he watched his dick disappear in your pussy, or your desperate face– tears threatening to spill out of the corners of your eyes, your mouth hanging open, back arched as soft cries escaped. it was all so much. he felt it now. he pumped into you at an insane pace, his hips stuttering as he shot hot and thick ropes of cum into you, reaching so deep. he slowed his pace, giving a few more languid thrusts as he slowly pulled out, watching his cum explicitly drip out of your sore pussy.. boy was it a sight! patrick let go of your legs slowly, putting them back down on the bed in their normal position as he caressed your jaw softly, letting you catch your breath for a moment.

“my turn~” he crooned softly into the shell of your ear, his smirk hitting your soft skin, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

[rizzstappen]

College Au, I agree that you def should write it 👀👀

Ahh okay I’ve been tinkering with this for a bit! Thank you for this ask Danni!!

This is my first time writing for Maxiel and first time writing rpf in years so please be easy on me 😭 but of course feedback and any questions are welcome!! Inspired by this picture and the tags!!

Sorry for any mistakes! But I don’t think I can look or edit this anymore without going insane 🤪 enjoy!!!

Maxiel College AU where it’s a special day during junior year!

—

“C’mon one more DR!” Blake shouted from across the tennis court. The Austin sun beating down on them making the already humid day feel worse than it actually was.

“Yeah, nah mate,” Daniel called back as the three men walked toward the net where they had set their backpacks down to get in a quick tennis match. “Max is waiting for me. I promised I’d be back on time. He says it’s a special day.”

Daniel had been thinking all day about it.

Before leaving for class Max had whispered to Daniel something about a special day. In his sleepy haze all the Aussie could do was hum and try to pull his boyfriend back into the warm duvet covers away from the busy campus outside their window.

Every morning was a routine once the semester began. Max woke at 7 am for his 8 am lecture. Showered. Got dressed. Kissed Daniel before he headed out the door. Daniel, of course, didn’t have class until 1:30. He liked sleeping in and staying up late. Plus he worked at the local bar which meant late night shifts. Max didn’t mind it. They always made sure to leave the afternoons free around dinner time so they could catch up on the day before Max went to play FIFA or do homework and Daniel went to work.

“He said that? You don’t know what the special day is?” Scotty asked with a slight scoff knowing if he forgot a date Chloe would have his head.

Daniel rolled his eyes sliding his backpack onto his shoulders and hiding his sweaty curls under a black and green hat “no he didn’t say what it was. If I ask he might kill me so I’m off to get some flowers on my way home” he nodded hopping the day would reveal itself when he walked in the door.

After saying bye to Blake and Scotty, Daniel headed out to the local flower shop. It was small with a French exchange student behind the counter who flirted way too much with Max in his opinion. The green eyed student recommended a bouquet of roses. Cliche.

Instead Daniel opted for an assortment of red, yellow and white tulips. Like the ones Max spoke about from his home country. Daniel liked to get flowers often wanting to give Max a little piece of home since he couldn’t travel back to Holland often.

The jingle of his key alerted the cats of Daniel’s return to the small apartment. Once inside the cats curled around his ankles and purred against his leg welcoming him back. Daniel leaned down scratching both Jimmy and Sassy behind their ears with whispered ‘hey guys, where’s dad?’ He toed off his shoes by the door before walking towards the living room. Max wasn’t in his usual spot on the worn leather couch Daniel had practically begged Max to bring back after they found it on the side of the road last year.

“Hello?” He called out the crinkle of the cellophane echoing around the tulips in Daniel’s hand.

“Shit” Max’s quiet voice echoed coming from the kitchen. Daniel made his way over seeing Max fussing over…something? His broad shoulders hunched down pulling at the fabric of his black polo that were tucked into his jeans being held up by a black belt.

Max turned holding a tray in his hands with what should’ve been a cake. The white frosting and vanilla bread had clearly turned into a crumbly mess.

“It’s supposed to be a cake, of course, but I think I took the bread out too soon and it was too hot. Of course I just wanted it to be decorated before you got back-“ Max rambled. A grin spread on Daniels lips “a cake for this special day?” He asked trying to real more information out of his boyfriend about this mystery day.

Max raised an eyebrow and nodded “of course why wouldn’t there be a cake?” He says.

Cake. Birthday? No. Anniversary? No. Daniel still couldn’t wrack his brain about what this special day might be.

Max smirked at his boyfriend as he sets the tray down on the linoleum lined kitchen counter “you have no idea what today is huh?”

Shit. He was caught. Max could read him like a book but Daniel wouldn’t admit it of course. “What?! Of course I know what today is. I got you flowers. Tulips” he grinned handing over the bouquet.

Max inspects the flowers. Not as good as the ones from his hometown but he knew it was the thought that counted. Max looked his boyfriend in the eyes a grin on his lips as he speaks “then what is today?”

Daniel looks back for a moment. What other possible date would be important enough for a cake?

A laugh bubbles up from Max “you don’t even know!” he smirked happily moving to get a vase filled with water for his flowers. “Daniel it’s the day we met in class” he spoke over the water running into the green vase “three years ago, of course” he nodded shutting the water off and sliding the flowers into the water before setting them down “it’s called a meet cute. I think” he said before he gestured to the cake sat on the counter “that’s what Victoria called it. She said it would be cute to celebrate it.”

The words ‘happy 3 year meet cute’ scrawled out in red icing against the white frosting in Max’s handwriting

Daniel was stunned.

3 years. He couldn’t believe 3 years had flown by. He remembered walking into his Horticulture 120 lecture and the only spot left was next to Max at the front row. He was sure he’d drop the class. It was an elective after all. But then he turned and saw Max’s eyes. Blue. Like the Maldives. In that moment Daniel knew he had to stay. So he did and clumsily introduced himself. His braces giving him a slight lisp. But it was the best thing he had done. Now he had an apartment and two cats with that same boy. And they were celebrating meeting 3 year later.

Daniel gives his boyfriend a soft look before his own laughter filled the space between them “oh Maxy” he said “that’s adorable really. Thank you” he says admiring the icing work he had attempted winning his finger into the white frosting and licking it off his finger.

“Happy three year meet cute anniversary” he said leaning in kissing Max’s blushing cheeks.

Max smiled turning to look at his boyfriend “happy three year meet cute anniversary” he whispered before planting a kiss on Daniel lips.

[destinyc1020]

I was telling other fans that Dune was going to have the highly creative fashion and Challengers was going to be a lot more traditional. We have to remember that tennis is and has been a sport for white rich people. This is a sport that has historically discriminated against black people and has such a snooty vibe that Wimbledon still requires white uniforms and Serena was sanctioned by the French Open for wearing a long pant outfit. Let's also remember how both Z and Law were considered too ghetto for the big fashion houses and they didn't want to dress her. With Challengers fashion, they are showing that they can wear the most traditional WASPY outfits that would belong to a country club and wear them better than any white rich girl. And they are paying homage to pioneers in the world of tennis like Althea Gibson. Still, they have included some whimsy like the custom Jonathan Anderson dress she wore for the Australian premiere, the Lola Bunny callback or the little of the Thom Browne gown with netting in the pleating that evokes the nets of racquets. The Rome neon green outfit was also fun, recalling a neon green bag with all its little straps

We have to remember that tennis is and has been a sport for white rich people. This is a sport that has historically discriminated against black people and has such a snooty vibe that Wimbledon still requires white uniforms and Serena was sanctioned by the French Open for wearing a long pant outfit.

True.....Yea, you might be right Anon, they might intentionally be going very traditional for this press tour on purpose.

Let's also remember how both Z and Law were considered too ghetto for the big fashion houses and they didn't want to dress her.

That still burns me up to this day. 😤😡😡 Zendaya and Law are so far from "Ghetto" it's not even funny. But, because they're BLACK, "Black" automatically becomes synonymous with "ghetto" in some people's eyes. 😒🙄 Give me a freakin' break.

Anyway, you're right Anon, it might be a conscious choice/decision. I saw how they treated THEE GOAT Serena Williams. 😒 Z has had some great looks on this press tour, so I'm not complaining, I just wish racist society would afford her more flexibility to be different on this press tour, that's all.

She looks gorgeous either way though. The blonde hair really suits her imo. 🥰

[27-royal-teas]

play like a ‘big shot talent’ for the wip asks if you haven’t answered it already!

ok so this was kind of the first iteration of the tennis fic. because alright context i work teaching kids tennis lessons in the spring, summer, and fall, and basically i know a lot about tennis despite having no real interest or passion for it, so i was like ‘since pete plays tennis i should make him play the us open. lol’. so in the fic i stuck a bunch of people from bandom in the US open and pete’s on the older side of the players but he’s still pretty godly and patrick’s, like, the next john mcenroe (that is to say, he definitely plays Very Angrily but also Very Well). anyway pete and patrick become friends and andy is petes trainer and joe is patrick’s trainer and it’s kind of lame honestly but it was sort of a way for me to cope with the fact that the rest of my summers throughout my teenage career will be spent teaching children how to hit a ball around. anyway!! here is an excerpt:

****

Pete’s opponent was tall-- well, taller than Pete, but that wasn’t anything unusual, because practically everyone was taller than Pete. He had black hair and brown eyes and he was pale-skinned and probably too rich to have earned his way into playing the US Open, and Pete was going to utterly eviscerate him. Politely, of course. Tennis was, of course, the gentleman’s sport. 

“Brendon Urie,” Andy had said to him last night, when Pete was preparing for the match. “Nineteen years old. He’s pretty light, has a good body awareness, but his main strength is his serve. He’s got a killer serve, which is the main thing you’re going to have to look out for. He hits a sharp serve to your backhand corner, which is bad, because your backhand kind of sucks. Also, he’s younger and hotter than you, so he’s got a better chance of getting sponsorship deals. You gotta up your game, man.” 

“Rude,” Pete had said from where he was eating an apple on the couch. Andy fast-forwarded Brendon’s video fifteen seconds ahead, and the two of them watched as mini-Brendon hit a lob clean down the line. “Look, Andy, it’s the early rounds, I probably don’t have to stress too much.” 

“Say that to the pilot on the flight home,” Andy griped, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure she’d love to hear it.” 

Look, Brendon might be a good player, but then again, so was Pete. He wasn’t playing at the US Open for nothing. He had earned his place, and he was here to win. Normally he wouldn’t be as confident as he was now, but Pete had long ago learned that dwelling on the stress often got a guy nowhere. 

And it was good, because Brendon and Pete were at a 5-5 tie, 45 all-- match point. For that matter, game point. In the present, Pete narrowed his eyes. If Brendon got this point, Pete wouldn’t be moving up at all. He’d be gone in the first four rounds of the Open. Embarrassing. He wasn’t going to let himself get beat by some nineteen year old with a god complex. From the other side of the net, Brendon grinned at him, showing pearly white dental work. He looked like a wolf. 

“Your serve, Urie,” Pete called over, because it was, and Brendon seemingly grinned wider. He was full of too much confidence, but Pete could see even from afar that his forehead was beaded with sweat. Tennis was as much a mental game as a physical one, and the ongoing tie didn’t make Pete feel too great, either. 

“Forty-five all,” Brendon called out for the chair umpire’s benefit, and prepped his full serve, bending low to scoop the ball up and hit it with full force into Pete’s return box. 

Brendon’s serves were the most formidable thing, but after that, he was relatively tame. Pete returned the ball forcefully cross-court, but it wasn’t far enough back, so Brendon was able to return it with no huge issue. Dammit. Pete had been hoping that would take him out for good, but clearly not, because Brendon just turned his face into a grimace of concentration and hit it back to Pete’s court with enough force to cause permanent damage to Pete’s facial structure. Pete blocked it, feeling the vibrations from his racket run down his wrist, and the ball bounced short-court. 

They continued on like that for what felt like forever, lobbying the ball back and forth. It was clear Brendon was getting tired. Pete hoped to tire him out for good. Maybe…

The ball came back to him. Pete hit it as hard as he could, nearly spinning with the force of his follow through, and the ball touched the left doubles line, just out of Brendon’s reach. 

“And that’s the set,” the chair umpire called to them. 

And that was the game. Pete let his racket fall to his side, breathing a sigh of relief-- he wouldn’t have to go home just yet. Andy would be thrilled. He trudged to the net, feeling an inhuman sense of exhaustion. Brendon was already waiting for him there, hand outstretched. He looked disappointed. Pete shook his hand. It was sweaty. Brendon said, “Great playing, man. You’re a really good player.” He still looked disappointed, which was understandable, but not too visibly upset about his loss, which Pete respected. 

“Thanks,” he said, and smiled, and Brendon smiled back with a grin that didn’t quite match his eyes and let go of his hand. But hey, he hadn’t thrown his racket at Pete or anything, so Pete counted it a win. 

“Brendon’s a good player,” Pete told the interviewer when she came up to talk to him a moment later. “He’s fun to play against, and his serve is insane. But I am also a good player.” 

“Thoughts on the other players you’re up against?” The interviewer asked. 

Pete shrugged. “I’ll beat them. Or, I’ll try. Like I said. They’re good, but so am I. I know I’ve got the determination to.” 

“You’re not worried, or anything?”

Pete looked at her blankly. “Should I be?” 

The interviewer considered. “There’s some very formidable competition on the roster, is all. Rafael Nadal. Novak Djokovic. Daniil Medvedev. Among others. You’re on the older side of our players.” 

“I’m excited to play them,” Pete told her. “It’ll be a great challenge.” 

She looked at him, either impressed or surprised by his audacity, and then said, “Pete Wentz, everyone,” and then he was off air. 

“Nice job,” Andy said when Pete got into the locker room to change. “I’m surprised.”

Pete scowled at him. “Seriously? I’m a good player. Why are you surprised when I win?” 

“Because not only are you a good player, you’re also a cocky little shit,” Andy said, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. He was right, but it still stung. 

“Hey,” Pete said, weakly, because he WAS a cocky little shit and didn’t really have a defense against that. “I still won, didn’t I?” 

“We’ll see who you’re up against tomorrow,” Andy sniffed, and then said, “Also, Wentz-- put on some deodorant. You smell like hell.” 

“That was a fucking breeze, Andy,” Pete told him, pulling on a clean shirt. “A fucking breeze. I obliterated Urie, and I’ll cut down the others, too. Don’t worry. I got this.” 

“I am so glad you have confidence in yourself, because sometimes I don’t,” Andy muttered. 

“Good talk, Andy, I’ll see you in the car,” Pete said, and left the locker room. 

[chronic-ghost]

LAST LINE TAG GAME

RULES: Create a new post and share the last line you wrote for your WIP and then tag as many people as there are words you want!

Ahh, thank you so much @trulybetty for the tag!

I've got the Max Phillips brain rot real bad rn - entirely @ravensmadreads 's fault

x. (untitled, but Max develops a life-ruining crush on his best friend . . . the second someone else asks her out)

Max huffs, with his mouth open, shock evident on his face. “Okay, so what’s your plan, princess? You’re just going waltz into Ted’s office tomorrow and tell him his entire strategy sucks?” 

You close the laptop and ease it onto your coffee table. Sighing, you lean back with his arm around your shoulders, until you’re both upright against the back of the couch. You grin up at him with a smile he instantly recognizes as trouble. 

“Of course not, Mr. Senior Manager. I’ve got to welcome the new hires and lead them through orientation.” You dip just the tops of your fingers underneath the waistband of his silk pajamas and lean into his ear, reveling in the way his stomach tenses beneath your touch. “You’re going to do it.” You bite down on his earlobe.

x. (untitled, but Max and Reader are antagonistic co-workers who are forced to spend a Saturday in the office together to finish a project.)

He glances down from his position against the doorframe of his office, white mug that says, Careful I’m a Biter, held up near his lips – and appears rather shocked. As if his black net shorts, a red Boston Red Socks shirt, and Adidas tennis shoes are anything out of the ordinary. 

“What? I don’t wear suits all the time. You don’t see me making a fuss about your . . . and I’m using this term lightly, sweat pants.” 

Max Phillips is not capable of making you blush.

Feel free to ask about any of them!

no pressure tags: @dilf-din @northernbluess @foibles-fables and anyone else who wants to join!

[blackfilmshowdown]

New Film Submissions

The Cookout (2004) dir. Lance Rivera College basketball player Todd Anderson (Storm P) signs a $30 million deal with the New Jersey Nets and promptly moves to a wealthy suburb. His mother (Jenifer Lewis), however, insists that Todd remain connected to his humbler roots. So Todd decides to hold a good old-fashioned cookout at his new mansion. But this turns out to be more difficult than he expected, and his old friends and relatives clash with the sophisticated characters that have recently come into his life. Black Dynamite (2009) dir. Scott Sanders After "The Man" kills his brother and poisons the neighborhood with tainted liquor, a kung fu fighter (Michael Jai White) wages a war that takes him all the way to Nixon's White House. Undercover Brother (2002) dir. Malcolm D. Lee Blasted from the past and ready to take care of business, "Undercover Brother" is recruited to infiltrate a sinister underground movement headed by The Man. Partnered with the sassy, stunning Sistah Girl (Aunjanue Ellis), our hero must first undergo the ultimate attitude adjustment and trade in his 'fro and platforms for tennis sweaters and penny loafers. Once the transformation is complete, he's ready to take on the evil perpetrators of Operation Whitewash