#hitting a ball with a racket is all i know how to do

[tuesdaygray]

thinking about. the consistent thread in challengers (2024) of wanting your life to be about more than "hitting a ball with a racket."

how tashi is the first character to bring this up and whether or not she means it (she's really only planning to do a year of college) she knows inherently that being well rounded is practical. that she's not from the same place as the country club, tennis academy, daddy's money kids. this should be an unattainable dream for most, but it's hers and she has it and it's terribly ingrained into her life but "what if this doesn't work out?" and then it doesn't. she gets injured and she gets stuck in this loop of the past, in her own potential, in what could have been. when it feels like everyone is counting on you to do and succeed at one thing ("she's going to make her family millionaires"), the one thing that is the framework and catalyst for everything you know, how do you come back from that? her life could now, realistically, become about something else because she actually can't have her dream anymore, but she becomes obsessed, holding on with white knuckles and performing alterations because she can't let it go, until she admits sardonically in a mostly abandoned applebees that her life really has only been about one thing.

and patrick. who challenges tashi's original statement. who has no problem devoting his life to tennis because it's a "good way to avoid having a job." who never had any dreams beyond playing the sport he's always had a knack for, coasting by on natural talent, never having to try. realizing too late that what really made it worth it was tennis as a relationship, not the selfish ego stroke it had been when he was good enough to win tashi's number. and he's stuck in arrested development, just like her. he never grew up, he never let go of the past, of what it felt like to play doubles with his best friend, of what it felt like to watch tashi at the top of her game. but he's painfully aware. he's made his bed and he's tangled in the sheets and he loves it and he hates it and above all else, he misses the way it used to be.

then there's art. whose decision to go to stanford is never questioned because it's unspoken general knowledge that he couldn't have gone pro right away. he never expected to be this big time professional player, he was always just concerned with doing a "really good job." and because of this, art's life is the one that probably should have been about more, the foundation was laid for it. but he's stuck too, a passive actor in a life he chose and was probably never meant to have. the holder of and heir to tashi's and patrick's unrealized dreams. (was it ever his dream?) and after eight years, after attaining it and living it without a real passion for it, he's ready to give it up because, out of the three of them, he wants his life to be about more than "hitting a ball with a racket" because it's "embarrassing to be doing this shit when you're 40." but he's the one who bears the weight of success, alone at the top, where the people he loves can only dream of knocking him off. so shouldn't he be grateful for it?

[inkandapex]

tides of change

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary : Lando and Y/N’s not so situationship had become the talk of everyone around them. It was clear to everyone but the two of them that their connection was something worth fighting for. The question on everyone’s lips: When will Lando finally stop holding back and risk it all?

Words : 4.1k

Warnings : swearing, mentions of sex, poorly translated french

It was a rainy day in Monaco, the kind of weather that made everything feel a little slower. The usual buzz of the city was muffled by the constant drizzle, and the three friends—Lando, Max, and Charles—found themselves on a paddle court, looking for a way to pass the time during their break.

Sweaty and winded from their last round, the trio stood around, sipping on drinks, exchanging small talk about the upcoming season. Max, ever the competitive one, wiped his brow with a towel, giving Lando a smirk. "I think you might be getting worse, mate."

Charles finally looks up from his phone after being preoccupied for the past few minutes. "Lando, Y/N is here?"

"Yeah, she got in last morning. Why?" Lando nods, still catching his breath from the last game.

Charles grins and pockets his phone. "Alex just texted me—she just found out today. You should invite her to join us on the yacht. It's supposed to be a clear day tomorrow."

Lando raises an eyebrow. "Who else is coming?"

"Couple of other friends, Carlos and Rebecca too."

Lando smirks, glancing over at Max. "Max?"

"Nah, mate," Max chimes in, wiping his face with a towel. "Don't think being out at sea would help with Kelly's morning sickness." He laughs lightly, clearly trying to keep the mood light, but there’s a genuine care in his tone.

Lando’s grin softens, and he nods. "Fair enough. I’ll let Y/N know then."

"Speaking of which... what's ugh, going on with you two? Finally asked her out?" Max smirks, leaning back against the wall.

A small smirk crept up on Lando’s face, but he quickly took a swig from his bottle, picking up his racket as if the question never happened. "Are we playing another round or what?"

"Well, that’s a clear no," Charles laughs, crossing his arms.

Max raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. "You idiot, how long has this situationship been a thing for now? Two seasons?"

Lando freezes for a second, then points a finger at Max. "First of all, don’t ever use ‘situationship’ again. Sounds weird coming from you." He shrugs nonchalantly. "And... we’re just friends."

Charles snickers. "Friends who kiss every now and then—"

Max jumps in. "And sleep together."

Lando's eyes widen slightly. "Hey, that’s not—"

"So you haven’t?" Max presses, his grin growing.

Lando bites his lip, trying to hide the grin spreading across his face. He glances at Charles, who’s trying to suppress a laugh.

"Oh, they definitely have," Charles chimes in, his voice teasing.

Lando glares at them, but it’s no use—he can’t help the flush creeping up his neck. "Alright, alright, enough."

"I've had a couple of friends ask me about her, mate." Charles pats Lando’s shoulder before casually walking back to his side of the court. "Come on, one more before we head home."

Lando blinks. "Wha— Which friends?" His grip tightens slightly on his racket, trying to sound indifferent but failing miserably.

Charles exchanges a knowing look with Max, the kind that screams look at this idiot, so oblivious. Max just smirks.

"Doesn't matter who" Charles shrugs, stretching his arms as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell. "Just thought I’d let you know. Do with the information as you will."

Lando opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning slightly. His mind is already racing through the possibilities, but before he can press further, Max serves the ball, forcing him to refocus.

But even as they dive back into the game, the thought lingers.

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

The sound of Lando's keys hitting the table broke Y/N's gaze from the screen in front of her. She glanced over to see him standing by the door, bag still slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp from a mix of sweat and rain.

"How was paddle with Max and Charles?" she asked, shifting her focus back to the movie playing in front of her.

"Good. Max lost, of course." Lando smirked, toeing off his shoes before flopping down beside her. He hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat. "Hey, uhm— you busy tomorrow?"

"Mmm, not really. Kinda wanted to walk around and shop for a bit. Why, what's up?"

Lando ran a hand through his damp curls. "Charles is inviting us on his yacht tomorrow with Alex and a couple of their friends. Carlos and Rebecca are coming too, I heard."

Y/N hummed in thought, eyes still on the screen, but Lando barely noticed. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he forced himself to sound casual. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous—he was just inviting his best friend to hang out with their other friends. They all knew each other already.

So why did it feel like something more?

"Sure, yeah, that actually sounds fun. Haven’t seen them in a while," Y/N said, shooting Lando a soft smile.

Relieved, Lando let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He barely had time to react before Y/N’s fingers slid through his damp curls, her touch light and familiar.

"You should shower," she murmured. "You’re gonna get sick."

Lando smirked, tilting his head just enough to press a featherlight kiss to her wrist. "Join me?"

Y/N laughed, gently but firmly pushing his head away. "Dork. We both said no more, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah… I tried," he chuckled, pushing himself up from the couch. As he passed, he reached down to poke her cheek, grinning when she swatted at his hand.

It was true—what Charles and Max suspected. They’d kissed. And, yeah, they’d definitely slept together. More than once. But somewhere along the way, between shared hotel rooms, late-night confessions, and stolen moments, they both agreed that this—whatever this was—couldn’t be more. Not now. Not when Lando was constantly on the move, when their friendship was the one thing they both swore they’d never risk.

So they stayed just that—friends.

At least, that’s what they kept telling themselves.

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

"Cabrón! It's been too long! Have you grown taller?" Carlos' voice rang out, loud enough to make nearly everyone aboard the yacht turn their heads.

Lando laughed, shaking his head as he walked over. "You muppet, I saw you last week." He pulled Carlos into a quick hug before stepping back and motioning toward Y/N, who stood just behind him. "Look who I brought."

Carlos' face lit up. "Ahh… mi novia’s novia. Good to see you, Y/N." Without hesitation, he pulled her into a tight hug, rocking her slightly for dramatic effect.

Before she could fully recover, Charles appeared beside them, grinning as he leaned in to greet her with a cheek kiss. "She's also my girlfriend’s girlfriend," he added, giving Lando a teasing look.

"Y/N is the nation's girlfriend," Carlos announced, laughing as he patted her shoulder. Then, with a wicked smirk, he leaned toward Lando, lowering his voice just enough.

"Except yours."

Lando rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose, but the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him. Carlos just smirked wider.

"Too much testosterone. Where are my ladies?" Y/N teased, glancing around the deck in search of her friends.

"Oh, they're inside getting changed," Charles said, nodding toward the doors leading into the yacht.

"Perfect. I’ll see you boys later then." She gave them a small wave before heading off, disappearing through the doors with an easy grace.

Lando’s eyes lingered on her retreating figure, something he wasn’t even aware of until he heard the soft chuckles beside him. He turned to find Carlos and Charles exchanging a knowing look before shaking their heads in amusement.

"What now?" Lando sighed, already bracing himself.

"I just don’t get it," Charles said, crossing his arms. "I really don’t."

"Get what?"

Carlos exhaled dramatically, giving Lando a pointed look. "Why you like punishing yourself like this. Like a fucking sadist."

Charles nodded in agreement. "You clearly like each other."

Lando shook his head, sliding his sunglasses on as if they could shield him from the conversation. "Not that simple."

"Oh, but it is," Carlos countered, arms crossed. "It’s not like you haven’t been in a relationship before, so I know for a fact it’s not commitment issues on your end."

Charles tilted his head. "She doesn’t want to?"

"It’s not that." Lando exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It just… doesn’t work. We've tried"

Carlos narrowed his eyes. "Tried what, exactly?"

Lando hesitated, jaw tightening slightly. "Just the whole distance thing. Me being away all the time. And then there’s the hate she’s gonna get when people find out. I can’t do that to her." His voice was quieter now, but firm. "She’s already getting shit just for being friends with me."

Charles and Carlos exchanged a look, their teasing fading into something more serious. For all the jokes, they knew Lando wasn’t just making excuses. But still, Carlos shook his head with a sigh.

"You know, if you ever stop being an idiot, I think she’d be worth it."

Lando huffed a small, almost bitter laugh. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

"If not, I mean, I got friends that are interested," Charles shrugged, all casual, but the glint in his eye said otherwise.

Lando chuckled, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness in his voice. "See, you keep saying that, but I think you're just doing it to provoke me."

Charles smirked but stayed silent.

Carlos, however, turned to him with a knowing look. "Who? Luca?"

Charles' brows lifted in surprise before he gave Carlos an approving nod. "Yeah."

Lando’s expression shifted in an instant. His sunglasses did nothing to hide the way his jaw clenched. "Who the fuck is Luca?"

"Like I said… a friend," Charles smirked, enjoying this way too much.

"Don’t fuck with me right now, Leclerc." Lando’s head snapped around as he scanned the yacht, shoulders growing visibly tense. "He’s here?"

Carlos chuckled, clapping a hand on Lando’s back. "Calm down, cabrón. Y/N is available, no?"

Lando shot him a glare before rolling his eyes. "You two are dicks."

Charles and Carlos only laughed, sharing a look before Carlos added, "Just saying, if you don’t want her to be, maybe do something about it."

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

The yacht had sailed further into the open ocean, the hours melting away in a blur of sun, salt, and laughter. Everyone had split into their own little group, swimming, chatting, drinking. But as lunchtime rolled around, they all gathered around the spread of food laid out on deck.

Y/N sat at a smaller table in the corner with Rebecca and Alex, the three of them deep in conversation. Lando strolled over, wordlessly setting a small pouch in front of her along with a glass of water.

"Medicine’s in there. Take one, okay?" He gave her head a light pat before turning on his heel and walking off to grab some food for himself, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rebecca and Alex exchanged confused looks, both raising an eyebrow as they glanced between Y/N and the small pouch Lando had left behind. Neither of them knew what he meant by "medicine," and the whole exchange seemed a bit mysterious.

Y/N noticed their concerned gazes and let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She pulled out a row of antihistamine pills from the pouch, holding them up. "Sometimes shellfish makes my allergies act up. It’s really nothing too serious, but it’s better not to risk it."

Alex’s expression softened in understanding, though she still looked a little taken aback. "Ah, makes sense," she nodded, her voice light "And of course... Lando is on top of it"

Rebecca let's out a soft laugh as she shakes her head "You're just as oblivious as he is you know, it's cute and funny at the same time"

"Guys... come on. We agreed to not talk about this"

Rebecca nods and holds her hands up in surrender "Mhmm alright, we'll let you figure it out on your own"

"What are you girls gossiping about this time huh?" Carlos walks over with Lando and Charles, plates of food and drinks in hand as their took their respective seats around the table

"Nothing you boys need to worry about," Alex smiles.

"Ah, donc rien à voir avec le fait que quelqu'un nie ses vrais sentiments pour quelqu'un, hein ?" Charles tilts his head, looking over at Y/N as he takes a bite of his food (Ah, so it has nothing to do with anyone denying their true feelings for someone, huh?)

"Espèce de bâtard sournois, Alex t'en a parlé ?" Y/N’s mouth dropped open, her eyes flicking between the two of them. (You sneaky bastard, did Alex tell you?)

"Non ! Je jure que je n'ai rien dit !" Alex quickly defended herself. (No! I swear I didn't say anything!)

"S'il vous plaît, c'est tellement évident. Je pense que tout le monde peut le dire rien qu'en vous regardant tous les deux," Charles smirked, making Alex chuckle beside him as she nodded her head in agreement, while the rest of the table fell into conversations of their own. (Please, it's so obvious. I think everyone can tell just by looking at the two of you)

"Il a pété un câble quand je lui ai dit qu’un pote était intéressé par toi. Tu sais que les potes normaux réagissent pas comme ça, hein ?" Charles goes on, raising an eyebrow as he watches Y/N’s reaction. (He freaked out when I told him a friend was interested in you. You know normal friends don't react like that, right?)

Y/N simply shakes her head and continues to eat, it wasn't until Charles continues to egg on his theory

"Il ne comprend pas un mot de ce que je dis, mais regarde ça." Charles straightens up, a mischievous glint in his eyes as if preparing to prove a point. "Tout ce que j’ai à faire, c’est dire le nom de Luca, et ça attire son attention." (He doesn’t understand a word I’m saying, but look at this.) (All I have to do is say Luca's name, and it gets his attention)

Right on cue, Lando’s head whips around, his conversation forgotten as his ears latch onto the familiar name. Confusion flickers across his face, caught completely off guard by the sudden mention.

"Dickhead" Y/N mutters with a laugh, shaking her head as she stands up, plate in hand, and makes her way toward the buffet table for more food.

Lando is on his feet almost instantly, trailing after her without a second thought. Whatever she and Charles were talking about, he needs to know.

"So, he told you about Luca, huh?" Lando leans against the table, arms crossed as he watches her pick through the food. His voice is casual—too casual.

Y/N sighs, shaking her head. Charles really wasn’t exaggerating. Of course Lando took the bait. "Lan, he was just fucking with you."

His eyes narrow slightly. "So you're not at all interested in this Luca guy?"

She pauses, glancing at him with a teasing smirk. "What if I was?"

Lando blinks at her, completely dumbfounded. His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out as he tries to process what he just heard. "What do you mean?"

Y/N shrugs, casually placing a piece of food on her plate. "What if I was interested? What’s it to you?" She glances at him, eyes challenging. "Like you said, we’re just friends, remember?"

His stomach twists uncomfortably. That is what he said. But suddenly, he’s not so sure he meant it.

Y/N simply tuts, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she brushes past him. As she does, her fingers trail lightly along his arm, the touch barely there but enough to send a spark straight through him.

"Just something to think about," she murmurs before walking away, leaving Lando standing there—plate forgotten, mind racing, and heart pounding just a little too fast.

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

Lando lounged on a sunbed, sunglasses on, deep in conversation with Carlos when Rebecca’s voice cut through the chatter.

“Looking good, Y/N! That set is gorgeous on you!”

Mid-sentence, Lando sat up slightly, resting on his elbows as his gaze searched for her.

And then he saw her.

Not just in any bikini—no, a papaya one. His colour. He almost swore she wore it just for him.

Lando barely had time to recover from the way Y/N’s laugh sent a shiver down his spine before she sat beside him, all sweet smiles and knowing eyes. He saw right through her. She was playing with him, enjoying the way she had him wrapped around her finger.

And damn, was it working.

Before he could say anything, Charles strolled by, some guy trailing behind him.

“Y/N, this is my friend Luca. He’s been asking non-stop about you. Thought it was time I introduce the two of you.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, fingers twitching against the sunbed. You have got to be kidding me.

Y/N stood to greet Luca, and the guy wasted no time leaning in for a cheek kiss. Normally, Lando wouldn’t care—his friends did it all the time. But this? Some random guy he didn’t know? Absolutely not.

“Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard such great things,” Luca said with a grin. “I see you around a lot, just… not with the right team.”

Lando’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.

Y/N laughed. “Ah, yeah! I’ve seen you with Charles and Alex a few times.”

“So how long are you in Monaco this time? For good, I hope?”

“I wish. This place is amazing, but I have to go back to England next week—work calls. I’ll be back by the end of the month, though.”

Luca smiled. “Then we have some time to go out before you leave?”

Lando sat up fully, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. Was this some kind of sick joke? Asking her out���right in front of him? His blood boiled.

No. Absolutely not.

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “Actually, no, we’re busy. Got plans this week.”

Carlos, instantly catching on, barely held in his laughter—though his girlfriend didn’t bother hiding her amusement, giving him a light slap on the arm.

Y/N turned to Lando, eyebrows raised. “We do?”

“Yep,” he answered smoothly, leaning back like he hadn’t just pulled that excuse out of thin air. “Max and P are coming over to stay with us, remember? Got some activities lined up. Sorry, mate.”

The only problem? Now he actually had to find things to do and start booking these non-existent activities.

Luca frowned slightly. “Oh—well… when you come back from England, then?”

“Sounds good,” Y/N started, “I’ll ask Charles for your—”

“Naaah,” Lando cut in again, shaking his head. “Doesn’t work either, mate. We’re heading to Italy when she gets back.”

Y/N blinked. “We are?”

“Yes. Was supposed to be a surprise. Surprise!” Lando shot her a grin, ignoring the way Carlos was now openly laughing beside him.

Just off to the side, Charles leaned toward Alex, voice low. "S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi le sortir de sa misère." (Please let me put him out of his misery.)

Luca could only laugh, shaking his head as he held up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, got it, mate. All yours.”

Lando didn’t bother hiding his smirk, satisfied with the outcome.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, dragging Lando toward a quieter part of the yacht, away from prying eyes. His smug smirk only made her more irritated.

“What the fuck was that, Norris?” she snapped, arms crossed.

Lando barely flinched, still grinning. “What, you don’t wanna go to Italy? Greece more your style? Oh! How about Ibiza—”

She didn’t let him finish, landing a solid punch to his arm.

“Ow!” Lando winced, clutching his arm. “Forgot how strong you are.”

“Stop playing with me. I know there’s no Italy trip.”

“There is!”

“Bullshit.”

He exhaled, dropping the act. “Fine! I just… You can’t go out with him, Y/N.”

Her expression softened for a moment before tilting her head, arms still crossed. “And why’s that?”

Lando ran a hand through his curls, avoiding her gaze for a second before finally meeting her eyes.

“That’s so unfair, Lando, and you know it,” Y/N shot back, arms tightening over her chest. “You’ve gone out with other girls, and you didn’t hear shit from me.”

“No—that’s different,” Lando argued, shaking his head.

“Oh, it is different,” she scoffed. “Because I haven’t been sleeping around with other people since what happened between us.”

His eyes widened. “But I haven’t!”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit—do you want me to drop names?”

Lando opened his mouth, then shut it just as fast. He let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Alright, fine.”

“Doesn’t mean I have feelings for them,” he added quickly, voice softer this time.

Y/N let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Awe, how fucking romantic.”

Lando felt his stomach drop. The teasing, the back-and-forth—it all came to a screeching halt the second Y/N let her emotions slip through.

She sank onto the sofa, fingers threading through her hair, exhaling like she was tired—tired of him, tired of this.

“We can’t keep doing this, Lan,” she murmured, voice quieter now. “This whole ordeal is fucking exhausting. If you really want this, you can have me. But you can’t just want some of it. Take all of it. The good and the bad.”

She finally looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “I can’t stand having just some of you. I need all of you.”

Lando swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. Because the truth was, she already had all of him. Always had. He just needed to say it.

Lando dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands gently finding hers, squeezing them with a tenderness that spoke louder than words ever could.

“Hey… pretty girl, look at me, please?” he whispered, his voice soft but full of sincerity.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but despite herself, her gaze met his. The rawness in his eyes caught her off guard. For the first time in a long while, she saw him again—the guy she fell so deeply in love with, the man she’d been willing to risk everything for.

“You have all of me,” Lando said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This time, I promise… we’ll make it work. I’ll make this work. You deserve the world, Y/N. I’ll make it up to you... if you’d give me another chance.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but a quiet part of her still hesitated. It felt too good to be true. But his words… his honesty? It was enough to break through.

Y/N took a slow breath, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt. There was none.

Slowly, she squeezed his hands back. “You better not make me regret this, Lando.”

Lando nodded almost immediately, his eyes lighting up with a joy so pure it made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. “I promise,” he said, voice full of conviction. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll do things right this time.”

Y/N let out a soft sigh, her emotions swirling as she processed his words. After a beat, she gave him a small, hesitant nod.

Without another word, Lando pulled her into his arms, locking her in a tight embrace. The way he held her felt urgent, like he was afraid of losing her again. They clung to each other as if the world outside didn’t exist, as if nothing mattered but this moment.

“I know we said to take things slow… but I’m dying to kiss you right now,” Lando murmured against her neck, his breath warm and shaky.

The words made Y/N laugh softly, her fingers tracing the side of his jaw as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs gently grazing his skin, before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. It was slow, a kiss that held all the passion, all the longing they’d kept buried. The world outside disappeared as they lost themselves in each other, the kiss a promise of what was to come.

Lando was the first to pull away, chuckling softly as he did. “We can’t… I don’t think I can control myself if we keep going.”

Y/N felt a blush creep up her cheeks, her heart racing from the kiss. She placed one last soft kiss on his cheek before pulling him back into another hug, as if holding him was the only thing that could steady her.

"Greece sounds good..." she muttered quietly, her words almost lost in the moment.

Lando pulled away slightly, brows furrowed as he looked at her, not quite catching what she said. “What was that, baby?”

“Greece,” Y/N repeated with a smile tugging at her lips. “I said Greece sounds good.”

Lando’s face lit up with a grin, the tension in his chest easing as he nodded. “Greece it is. Anything for my girl.”

[julietsbody]

KITTY KAT — art donaldson + reader : art has a tendency to show up late to your lessons. 

tags: mdni, tennis lessons, coach!art donaldson, p in v sex, fingering, art is kind of an asshole, cheating (not on reader) 

a/n: sorry to tashi… this goes out to my dear @murdrdocs

thirty minutes ago. 

art donaldson was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago, your teeth grit against each other, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete floor below you. 

art was a sweet guy, sure, but his time management was beyond infuriating. it almost made you feel like he thought himself above you, like you weren’t worth his time. 

“one to talk,” you mumble to yourself, dragging your racket on the ground, “rich from the guy who was coached by his wife.” 

ahem. 

you spin around, and of course, he’s standing right there, looking the same as he always does. his dirty blonde hair was messed up and falling over his eyebrows, blue eyes, with a mix of brown, staring directly at you with an almost amused expression. 

you blink at him, once, twice. 

a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “sorry for being late.” 

it sounds condescending, like he would never actually mean it, especially not after what he heard, it felt like a sort of karma for what you were previously saying about him. 

and he knows that, of course he does, so he masks it with a sense of sweetness, one that would typically gaslight people into thinking they’ve been forgiven, but you know better. 

you’ve been coached by art for a while now, and his little habits became far too predictable. this was odd, though, you couldn’t make out the glint in his eye, especially when you mumble a, “sorry, i didn’t mean—“  

“let’s get started, yeah?” art cuts in, bitter, yet his voice still sounded like it was dipped in honeysuckle.

he whisks right past you with that same, tugged up smirk, he reeked of rich cologne and mint. 

your lips press together and you silently, albeit ashamed, nod in agreement. 

maybe silence will earn points back from your coach. 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾

silence did not earn anything. 

art served hard, hit the ball hard, it was as if he wanted to make the ball break through your racket and hit you square in the face. he clearly took your miniscule words personally, and he was testing you, trying to break you down, to see how much you could take until your bones turned soft and you felt like giving up. 

the first time you called a pause, art smiled, “don’t tell me you’re giving up.” 

“pause,” you repeat through heaved breaths, sweat sticking to your skin underneath the relentless sun. art had that same playful look in his eyes that he always did, he knew that what he was doing was working, he knew that he was getting under your skin, and as cruel as it sounds, he really did enjoy it. 

if you ever were to ask him about it, he’d just shrug and say it’s all a part of the practice, it always happens in tennis, especially professional, he’s just preparing you. but deep down, he really just wanted to say that he was doing it for those reasons but for his own personal pleasures, karma comes in many forms, but art picks the harshest form first. 

he watches you drink water with a desperate urgency, stifling his own chuckles, “you sure you’re okay?” 

“‘m fine,” you speak after gulping down the last drop, finally satisfied, “let’s keep going.” 

art’s brows furrow ever so slightly, but as soon as you’re back to being ready, he rolls the tennis ball in his hand a little, observing it, before throwing it up in the air and sending it your way. he’s so casual with every hit, despite his grunts and the way his nose scrunches whenever ball meets racket, he makes it look like it’s nothing. 

to make it even worse, he starts trying to conversate between passes, “you know—“ smack! another grunt leaves his lips, “it’s really rude to—“ smack! “speak about people behind their—“ smack! “fuck.. backs.” 

you’re so busy trying to decipher his words you almost miss the next hit, but thankfully you snap out of the trance quick enough to hit it last minute, which he chuckles at and quickly sends it back. 

smack! “‘m sorry, art, really—“ your shoes scratch against the concrete below, smack! “i was being very—“ smack! “childish, i apologize.” 

he hums, content with your apologies, but still not outwardly saying he forgives you, instead his hits start to soften, he’s less trying to kill you with the ball and now rather trying to actually play tennis. “you’re all good—“ he confirms, smack! “just make it up to me, yeah?” 

ball meets floor, his words had completely caught you off guard, and you missed your hit on the ball he sent your way. you felt almost stupid, standing there, staring at him and trying to decipher what he meant by making it up to him. 

and of course, he didn’t elaborate, he never did, he simply just picked up another ball, smiled at you, and said, “ready?” 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾

art said he forgave you, right? 

ever since that day, he’s been acting.. off. he was more focused on your figure now, not in a crude way, but in a way where he wanted you to position yourself correctly when playing. he watches you serve the ball, then his tongue prods at the inside of his cheek and he stands, “hey, hey, wait a second— your uh… your stance is wrong.” 

“it is?” it was the fifth time he’s corrected you, today, and it’s safe to say you were getting annoyed, he picked up on the bitterness of your tone as he approached you. 

“‘ts not my fault, kitty cat,” he shrugged simply, noticing the way your eyes narrow in frustration at his nickname, he only smiles. he leans in behind you, “may i?” his hands are ghosting over your arms from behind. 

“whatever helps,” you remark. 

“good,” it’s softly spoken at the shell of your ear, making you swallow thick, his fingers wrap around your wrist, other one holding your fingers grip on the racket’s handle. his grip is tight, yet gentle at the same time, veins flexing against his flesh with every movement as he helps you move into the right position. “just gotta.. do it like this,” he’s still whispering against your ear, nearly making your knees buckle. 

once he’s satisfied with your position, which is far too quick for your liking, he backs off and lets you serve the ball again. he smiles once he’s gotten what he’s wanted, “perfect.” 

eventually, after a while of hitting the ball, you decided to take a break. there was a silence between you and art, a tension you couldn’t place, you had nothing to blame it on, nothing to apologize for, and he constantly looked like he was trying to say something indescribable. 

“hey,” he starts, before tugging his bottom lip under his tongue for a mere second before continuing, “remember when i said you had to make it up to me?” 

you stare at him, curious, “yeah, of course.” 

“you know,” his hands smooth over each other, skin underneath his right eye twitching as his pupils dilate in thought, “i’ve been having a.. problem, lately.” 

“with tennis?” 

“nono,” he laughs nervously, moving to scratch the back of his neck, “it’s personal, y’know? well— not entirely, since ‘m telling you, but uh— actually, nevermind.” 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾

you and art hadn’t discussed much after the last meet, you found yourself standing in the court yet again, whilst he was no short of an hour late at this point. you wanted to ask him what his deal is lately, what his problem is, but he wasn’t even here to be questioned. it was almost ridiculous, like he was toying with you. 

“i like your skirt,” it comes out of nowhere, but it’s the same, smooth voice that art holds. 

yet again, you find yourself spinning around to meet him, he’s closer, now, clearly eyeing you— but that’s.. weird, is it not? he has a wife, he shouldn’t be complimenting your obviously short skirt, or eyeing you like that, or wishing to tell you things that he had apparently not told anyone else because it’s personal. but who are you to question his relationship? maybe he’s just.. being nice, really. 

“thank you,” you offer, nice, short, sweet. 

he rolls his shoulder, meeting your eyes, flickering his gaze to your lips for a mere second, then saying nothing and walking by. rich cologne and mint. that’s what wafts into your senses immediately, as if it was some sort of distraction from his odd behaviors. 

“do you always call people kitty cat?” you eventually ask him, it was something you’d been wondering, truly, especially since you’ve never been called that before. 

“to pretty girls with an attitude, yeah,” art says it so casually. 

“like your wife?” 

“like you.” 

art corrected you. 

he corrected you, and his correction didn’t annoy you like how they always did, it made your stomach churn in a way you couldn’t decipher, you couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. you liked it, maybe, but isn’t that so sickening? art seems to think no big deal of his own words, as he doesn’t even react, so you try to be nonchalant about it as well. 

the whole entire test match you play with him, he has a certain glint in his eye, his grunts are louder, his shorts look tighter, he looks like he’s having some sort of reaction to playing tennis, to playing tennis with you. your tongue runs along your lips between breaks, noticing the way his eyes linger on it, the way his pupils widen at the shine of saliva over your lips with each swipe. 

at the third break, art was convinced you were doing this on purpose. 

“why do you keep doing that?” he asks as he’s walking over to grab his water bottle, right where you’re sitting on the concrete floor. you blink up at him, watching him hover the bottle near his lips and squirt the water into his mouth. did he always look this good when sweaty? 

gosh, maybe you’re just tired, maybe your mind is just foggy. 

“what?” you frown, confused. 

“licking your lips,” he speaks after swallowing the water, towering over you. his muscles were nearly bursting out of his white t-shirt with every movement, especially when he puts his water bottle down and crosses his arm, head cocking to the side. sweat causes some of his hair strands to stick to his forehead, lips puffy from how much he bites them when playing. 

“my lips are dry,” you explain, so simple. 

“yeah?” again, another smile, he had to be toying with you, “do you need some other help with that?” 

“what do you mean?” 

art hums, not explaining anything when he opens his mouth and swipes his thumb along his tongue, moving down to rub the saliva from his tongue onto your lips, memorizing the pillowy soft touch. your eyes widen, slightly, “art, this is—“ 

“not helping?” art tuts in faux disappointment, mumbling a small, ‘why don’t i..’ before he leans down further, licking his own lips and getting closer and closer until his lips are brushing against yours. 

“wrong,” you mumble out, but you sound unsure, like you don’t really believe what you just said, you don’t think this is wrong, you’ve always thought art was attractive, it was his wife that kept your crush on him at bay. you mumble against his lips, “you have a wife, art..” 

“do i?” he smirks against your lips, a near chuckle slipping out, “i must’ve forgotten.” 

“art,” it sounds like a warning, but again, you wanted nothing less than for his lips to fall against yours right now. 

“make it up to me, yeah? remember that?” his hand moves to hold your cheek, tipping your head up at him, eyes meeting yours in such close proximity, “i’ve got some marriage problems right now, so why don’t you play wife for me, hm?” 

you nod at him, ever so slightly, he clocks it immediately, and that’s his que. his eyes flutter shut, and he’s leaning in only a mere centimeter before his lips fall against yours. the kiss is soft at first, sweet, new, but then art starts taking the lead, and it quickly becomes something on the faint lines of cannibalism, he kissed you like he wanted to eat you, like he loved you. 

when he said he wanted you to play wife, he wasn’t lying. 

he pries your lips open with his own before his tongue makes it’s way inside your mouth, tasting the peppermint of your gum on your own tongue, memorizing the noisy breaths that leave your mouth and move into his. your nails are quick to run along his arms, making him pull back to speak, “hold on, kitty cat.” 

“you call your wife kitty cat?” you watch him peel off his sweaty shirt from his skin. 

he tosses the shirt to the side, exhaling a breath that showed he hated the feeling of the wet fabric on his skin, “mm, i call you kitty cat, ‘nd you’re playing my wife, so.” 

“right,” you agree, letting his cold hands brush against your skin when he takes your clothes off of you, of course looking at you for approval beforehand, which you nod to. 

“did you start wearing shorter skirts on purpose?” art questions when his fingers reach the waistband of your skirt, ever so slowly dipping underneath. 

“no, ‘course not,” you speak breathlessly, feeling his fingers move under your underwear as well until his fingertips meet your clit. you swallow thick, lashes fluttering as he starts moving his fingers in an almost cruel slowness. 

“look at me,” he whispers a simple command, free hand holding your chin and forcing you to look at him. his fingers move further down, immediately feeling how wet you are, he chuckles in surprise, “god, you’re this wet for a married man, huh?” 

“for my husband,” you mumble out, playing the part. 

“that’s right,” his middle finger circles your entrance for a second before ever so slowly dipping it inside. he watches your lips fall apart, the way your eyes get glossed over, the way your hips push up against his finger. “needy.” 

he doesn’t take long to push another finger in, letting go of your chin so he could guide your hand to his clothed cock, hard and pushing against his flimsy shorts. as soon as you start rubbing his dick through the fabric, his breath shudders slightly, as if he’s been waiting too long for like, as if he hasn’t had sexual pleasure in weeks. 

soon enough, only a mere minute or two in of foreplay, art gets antsy and he has to have his dick inside of you, he pries his fingers from your cunt and takes your skirt off next. “lay down for me, yeah?” he smiles at the fact that you do it immediately, even spreading your legs for him. 

he hisses at the feeling when his bare knees meet the concrete floor below, harsh on his skin, he tugs his shorts and boxers down ever so slightly until his cock is finally freed. you inhale sharply upon seeing it, he had a big dick. he spits in his hand, coating his dick with a grunt before he finally lines himself up with your entrance. 

“ready?” he hushes out. 

“yeah, yeah,” you’re barely able to finish the last yeah before his dick is moving into you, his nose scrunching from the tightness of your walls around him, it’s like you were purposefully squeezing his cock with an attempt to milk him dry already. 

“fuck,” he grunts out, pulling back, then moving back in, earning a pathetic moan from your lips. it sounds like music to his ears, so he keeps going, his thrusting was slow at first, gentle, kind— but just like the test matches, or the kiss, he gets hungry, and he wants more. 

his thrusts turn relentless almost immediately, maybe even like he was taking out some sorts of sexual frustrations out on your poor cunt. whimpers, whines, moans, all of those leave your lips, matching up with the grunts and the occasional whimper from his own mouth as well. 

sex was intoxicating for art, and there was something so dangerous, so forbidden about this, you weren’t really his wife, he was married to another woman, he was solely your coach. some sick part of art loves that, maybe that’s why he leans down and starts nipping at your neck, sucking at the delicate skin until maroon and blackberry starts blooming on the blank canvas. 

“art, oh my god,” you moan out, hands moving to scratch at his bare back, and maybe art should be smart enough to tell you not to leave marks, but he lets your nails dig in as his thrusts get harsher, surely drawing blood, or at least noticeable scratches. 

in fact, the feeling of you tearing into his skin only makes his orgasm come on faster, soon enough wracking his body and making his hips stutter. he keeps going though, despite the overstimulation that makes him pathetically whine softly, just until you’ve reached your own orgasm. 

he pulls out, panting, smirking down at you, “thanks, kitty cat.” 

[woso-dreamzzz]

Leaving VIII

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: You win Olympic gold

Alexia will be the first to admit that she doesn't understand tennis.

She gets it from an objective stand point like how she gets football. Two teams (two opponents) meet on the pitch (the court) and kick the ball around (hit the ball over the net) to score a goal (get a point).

The scoring for tennis confuses her as does the terminology.

She doesn't get the words they use like ace and deuce and double fault.

She kind of thinks a double fault is like a foul but she still can't understand how because you're not tackling anyone.

Either way, Alexia doesn't understand tennis but this is a final and even though she's got her own quarter final today, she's still travelled to Paris to watch you.

You're against Zheng.

She knocked out Iga but now she's against you.

You've played her once before in at the United Cup and she'd knocked you out as well.

This was revenge though.

You serve hard and fast or, at least Alexia presumes you do.

You're wearing your Barcelona cap and your gold Nike shoes and you look like an absolutely beast on the pitch (the court). You hit the ball viciously, catching Zheng off guard completely with the force of your shots.

"Has she got somewhere to be today?" Eli says, a little laugh escaping her as you breeze through the first set.

Alexia frowns. "No? I don't think so. I think her only plans are to go back to bed."

Alba laughs. "It was a joke, Ale. Mama thinks Y/n has somewhere else to be which is why she's getting through the set so fast."

"Wait, is she going too quickly?"

Alba sighs. "You've been to countless tennis matches, Alexia. How do you not understand it yet?"

"They're complicated!"

"She literally hits the ball over the net!"

You seem anxious to get the match started up again, wiping off what little sweat you've produced and drinking half of your water. You don't even reach for your energy gel or anything of the like.

You're up on the court as soon as you can be, bouncing around on your feet, kicking up some of the clay dust underfoot.

Zheng serves next but that's all she really ends up doing because, yet again, you dominate.

Alexia can feel the atmosphere swell from the audience and gets the funny feeling that she's missing something again.

Her head ping pongs around trying to keep the ball in sight.

There's an uproar in the crowd as Zheng swings.

And misses.

Alba's on her feet, fist pumped up in the air and a cry of triumph out of her mouth.

Eli's got her hands covering her mouth in shock.

Just lower down, Alexia can see your training partner and coaching team celebrating.

You're grinning. You kiss your racket before turning to face your family.

You bow, the exact same pose and the exact same way Alexia did at Camp Nou and at the Champion's League final.

You come up, grinning before bursting into tears.

You move to your coaching team first, being drawn into a hug by everyone including Iga.

"Should I start getting worried about my space as number one?" She teases but all you can do is let out a wet little laugh.

You make your way up to your family next.

Alexia gets to you first.

She may not understand tennis but she knows a winner when she sees one.

She gets to you before anyone else, tugging you into a hug.

You've always been smaller than Alexia. That was to be expected but you'd shot up around puberty, growing like a weed.

She's glad that you're still smaller than her though, still small enough the she can easily hold your face in her hands and kiss your forehead.

You smile at her, sniffling.

"I won."

"Yes."

Your smile widens. "You didn't even realise."

"What?! Yes I did!"

"Don't lie. I saw you. You thought we were meant to go for another set."

"What's a set?"

Laughter overtakes your tears, bubbling out of your throat at the clueless look on your sister's face.

"No, seriously, what's a set? Is it like the two different halves?"

"Don't worry about it, Ale."

"No, wait, I want to know! Did you already have halftime? The match went kind of quick. Surely you should have had halftime before it finished?"

You're properly laughing now and behind Alexia, you think Alba and Eli are laughing too.

"Does it really matter?" You tease," I just won Olympic gold."

"No, I guess not."

There's silence between the two of you for a moment before you shriek.

Alexia lifts you like you weigh nothing, like you're just that little kid again with a scraped knee and pigtails.

Like you're not the Olympic tennis champion.

[artstennisracket]

request: thinking really hard about coach!dilf!patrick and how he'd spank bratty!tennisplayer!reader with his racket whenever she mouths off (and then fuck her with the handle. obviously)

tennis coach!Patrick x fem!reader, part 2

cw: nsfw (18+), spanking, object insertion, d/s undertones

You’ve gone through 15 tennis coaches in the past 5 years because you were “uncoachable”. But your parents knew the real reason why, your attitude.

You would question, fight back, and argue about every single little thing anyone tried to teach you. It’s exhausting for them but also for you. You never thought any of those coaches were good enough. They were too nice or too soft or too inexperienced or just too wrong.

No one really meshed with you or your playing style. You had non negotiables. One of those things being your serve. It was unique. You would bend down at an almost uncomfortable angle, bounce the ball twice, before you shoot up tossing the ball the air and hitting it.

It was weird and you didn’t know why you did it that way but you did and it worked. But every coach you ever had wanted you to fix it. Except for Patrick.

He coached you sure but never once mentioned your serve. Maybe it’s because his serve was weird too.

Your parents were surprised you kept this coach for so long, but Patrick just treated you like a real player. The part that really surprised your parents was that you never argued with him or mouthed off.

He was also just really hot. He would come over 5 days a week to your family home, and you guys would practice at your home tennis court.

He was older than you, by almost 12 years. He started coaching you when you were 18 and now you’re 20. You tried to make your passes and did your occasional flirting. Wore extra short skirts and made sure to bend over slowly when you had to pick up a tennis ball.

You were nothing if not persistent so this practice was no different.

You pulled out all the stops. You wore a short white tennis skirt that stopped just below curve of your ass and a tight pink polo top with the top buttons unbuttoned. You didn’t wear a bra so the outside breeze made your nipples perk up under your shirt. And whether or not you were wearing panties was questionable.

Patrick never acknowledged what you were wearing. He just kept his sunglasses on and a neutral face when he said, “Ready to get to work?”

Practice went on as usual until you decided to be difficult on purpose. Patrick had you doing drills serving to hit certain cones spread out on the court. So you just kept missing on purpose.

“Are you good? Feeling okay?” He asks from where he’s stood on the other side of net.

Okay time to turn up the brattiness. You scoff putting your hand on your hip, “What? I can’t miss a couple shots?”

He raises his eyebrows clearly taken aback, “Who pissed in your cereal?”

“I just don’t understand why you keep asking me questions, you don’t get paid to question me you get paid to coach me.”

“Well I don’t like your fucking attitude right now so i’m not coaching shit.” He says dropping his racket into the bin that holds all the tennis balls. He starts to walk off the court, taking his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

Fuck. You need to get him to come back here and take out his anger on you, not cool off with a cigarette.

You yell in his direction, “Yeah? Well you’re so old you can’t even coach for shit anyway!”

He stops in his tracks. He puts his unlit cigarette back in the pack, putting the pack back in his pocket. He turns back in your direction and walks straight to you.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you into the sports shed where your family kept all their sports gear.

He stops dropping your wrist. He pushes his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head. He turns around to face you, standing so close to you, your noses are almost touching. He says just above a whisper, “You think you can fucking talk to me like that? What the fuck do you think this is?”

This is the closest, physically, you guys have ever been. So naturally, you’re a little nervous but happy that your plan is maybe working? You stutter, “I-I um I didn’t think anything.”

He does a once over, looking you up and down. Then he continues, “You think I don’t know what this is? Acting like a brat to get my attention? To get me to fuck you?”

Oh. He saw right through you and somehow that just adds to the butterflies in your stomach.

“That’s not— I never, I didn’t—“

He cuts you off, “Don’t lie to me.”

You shake your head continuing your lie, “no I never— I swear I didn’t—“

Before you can register what’s happening, he sits down in the bench and puts you over his lap. Oh.

He lifts up your skirt and curses under his breath. You weren’t wearing panties. You could feel the rush cool air against your now exposed skin. He rubs his hand over your ass for a second before he picks up a nearby racket.

“You expect me to believe you weren’t acting up to get my attention when your wearing the shortest skirt you own, no bra so everyone can see your hard nipples through your shirt, and your not even wearing panties?” He asks, slowly dragging the tennis racket over your ass.

You nod biting your lip.

Smack.

“Ah—“ You let out a half gasp half yelp when the first smack of the tennis racket lands on your ass.

“Well if you’re gonna keep behaving like a lying brat, then I’m going to have to punish you like one,” He says before landing another spank on your ass.

Smack.

You moan this time as the racket collides with your ass.

“Parading around the court like a desperate slut. surprised you didn’t just bend over for me right on the court. That’s what you really wanted right?”

Smack.

You nod your head letting out another moan.

Smack.

“I asked you a question that means your supposed to answer me.” He says sternly before raising the racket again.

Smack.

“Yes fuck, that’s what I wanted. Wanted you to fuck me on the court, please.”

You anticipate that another smack is going to land on your ass but instead you feel two fingers sliding up your folds and pressing into your entrance.

“Shit, Patrick,” You whine as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of your tight hole.

“You’re already so wet. you really are desperate for me, aren’t you? How long have you wanted me to fuck you?” He asks while he curls his fingers inside of you, pressing against the spongy area.

You groan. It feels really fucking good, it’s hard to focus, “Ah- two years, when you became my coach.”

Now Patrick groans. He adds one more finger inside you, alongside the two that were already in there. “Fuck. Dressing like a slut for two years trying to get me to fuck you. I fucking knew it. Jesus. Made me feel like such a creep watching you. Had to start wearing sunglasses to practice so you couldn’t tell I was staring at you.”

You smirk at that, you knew your plan had to have been working all these years. From your place laid across his lap, you can feel him start to grow hard.

“Well I’m still not gonna fuck you, brats don’t get rewarded.”

You whine at that, “That’s not fair you just said you wanted to fuck me so fuck me please, please just fuck me.”

He bites his lip before he gets an idea. He pulls his fingers out of your hole and you whine at the loss. He grabs the same racket from before.

“Wait what’re you doing—“

He uses one hand to spread your folds, exposing your hole, while using the other hand to line up the handle of the racket. He starts pushing in it slowly, watching closely how your hole grips around the racket.

He groans, “Fuck baby, taking it so well.” He pumps the racket slowly, pulling it so the handle is almost all the way out before pushing it back in as deep as it can go.

You never felt this full before but every time he presses the racket in deep it feels so good. Eventually he starts pumping the racket a little faster. You start moaning uncontrollably, rocking your hips back against the racket.

“Your tight hole is so fucking greedy baby, jesus. Fucking yourself back on it like you can’t get enough.” He moves one hand to squeeze your chest, circling your nipple with his finger.

You can feel your orgasm creeping up on you. The volume of your moans increasing until you reach your release, “‘m gonna cum, oh fuck Patrick.”

He lets you ride out your orgasm before he pulls the wet racket handle out of you. It’s covered in your juices.

You think it’s all over until you hear him say, “Get on your knees.”

So you do. Still a little wobbly from laying down for so long but you get on your knees between his legs. You can see the tent in his shorts now. You’re hoping you’ll finally get to see his see his cock, feel the weight of it on your tongue. You just know it’s huge.

So you open your mouth, sticking our tongue to show that you’re ready to suck him off.

He smirks before he presses the tennis racket handle down your throat, “Good girls clean up their mess.”

You choke a little but try to relax your throat, sucking the handle to clean it off. Once he’s satisfied he pulls the racket out of your mouth, placing it beside him on the bench.

He stands up and you watch as he tucks his boner into the waistband of his shorts. He bends down to whisper into your ear, “Maybe next time if you’re a good girl for the whole week, then I’ll fuck you.”

He stands up heading to the exit the sports shed. He moves his sunglasses back down to rest on his nose bridge. Before he leaves he calls out, “See you tomorrow for 8am practice.”

[undertheorangetree]

Tantrum

Summary- Art’s girlfriend sucks at tennis. He helps her feel better.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Stanford era Art. Exhibitionism. Body worship. Cunnilingus. Wee bit of fingering. P in V sex. Riding. The fluffiest giggliest sex you've ever seen. Me not knowing a damn thing about tennis.

Author's Note- Hi idk if you noticed but i have Challengers brain rot rn specifically for Art Donaldson :// As a theatre kid I simply had no choice it was always gonna be him. Read the full fic on AO3.

When Art had looked up at her with big pleading eyes, all but begging her to allow him to teach her the basics of tennis, she was in no position to refuse. It had been sweet, how badly he wanted to share his passion with her, the kisses he had peppered across her neck and chest in order to entice her into it, and she couldn’t so much as imagine denying him. Forget the fact that she had never held a racket in her life, that her strengths had always been rooted in academia rather than athletics.  If allowing him to teach her would make him happy, she would do it.

Though not without complaint.

She lets out a frustrated grunt as the ball hits the net- again- before turning her head up to glare at Art when he barely manages to stifle his laugh. He smothers it immediately when he catches sight of her glower, hand coming up to rub at his mouth as if he can physically wipe away his smile and she feels her teeth grind together.

“You can’t laugh. You’re the one who wanted me to do this so you’re not allowed to make fun of me,” she complains, her voice half petulance half hurt and immediately his face morphs into something more apologetic.

“I’m sorry baby.” He makes his way closer but she simply rolls her eyes, turning her nose up when he reaches out to her. He takes it in stride. “I’m not laughing at you, you’re doing very well. It’s just funny to see you so frustrated.”

It’s her turn to laugh, though it is little more than a humourless bark. “I am not doing very well. I suck.”

He makes a sympathetic noise as he attempts to reach for her again. She allows it begrudgingly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as his hands close around her elbows, face dropping into her neck to press a kiss there. She thinks that he’s about to praise her further, try to coax her back into committing herself to the game, but he stays silent, continuing to lavish her with silent kisses.

She’s happy for the odd hour they decided to come here, the tennis court completely devoid of any other life. It’s a colder night than it should be for mid spring, the floodlights and moon the only two things to provide them with any light, and she’s grateful finals have chased everyone else away. She’s glad to have this time alone with him, despite her frustration. To feel like they are the only two people in the world.

“You’re just hitting the ball too hard,” he explains, face still half buried in her throat. “And you aren’t even attempting to aim. Putting everything you have behind the hit doesn’t make it a good one if you don’t know where you’re sending it. There’s more to tennis than just force, you have to be smart about it.”

She scoffs, reaching up to press her palm against his forehead and shove him away, ignoring the shit eating grin that’s made itself known on his face. “Just go over there and hit the damn ball. Before I leave you here by yourself.”

The grin doesn’t fade, his amusement more than clear, but he does as she asks, returning to his side of the court. She lets out another aggravated sigh as she returns to the position he had told her to wait in, knees bent as she waits for him to serve, realizing more and more that she prefers to watch him play tennis rather than do it with him. She finds far more joy watching him from the stands as he chases after the ball, sweat dripping from his curls and grunts echoing in her ears. Here, where she is the one chasing the ball like a damn dog and failing to send it sailing over the net when she does manage to catch it, there is no time to admire Art in his element.

She almost feels bad for her poor attitude, wishing she was less competitive so that she could simply enjoy this quality time with him, but every failure does nothing but enrage her further, sending her spiralling further into frustration.

Read the rest here :)

[starryhyuck]

pairing: challengers!johnjae x afab!reader

words: 3.5k+

summary: johnny suh and jeong jaehyun are determined to prove their worth to you in this year’s tennis competition. you all end up receiving more than you expected.

genre: smut

warnings: there is some mlm johnjae so please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with that, double penetration, cunnilingus, oral sex, handjobs, talks of creampies, three way make out

thank you for 9.5k followers!!

“Your serve is fucking insane.”

You hum noncommittally, fingers tightening around your bottle to spray more water into your mouth. You wipe the sweat from your brow as Donghyuck continues to eye you with amazement.

“You do know that ball boys don’t usually get to talk to the players, right?” You comment, a little perturbed by how easy it is for the younger man to approach you.

His eyes continue to sparkle despite your demeaning remark. Unbeknownst to you, Donghyuck signed up to become the tennis team’s lackey just to be able to see you in action.

You were the crown jewel of the university’s tennis program, having been recruited from the early stages of your high school career. Much speculation occurred at your decision to go to college first instead of turning to a professional career. You insisted to your parents that your education was still important despite your only shining skill being the ability to hit a ball with a racket. You slaved away most of your hours on this court, practicing to become the next best tennis player South Korea has ever seen.

“I’m looking forward to your match on Saturday,” Donghyuck says, eagerly handing you another tennis ball when you outstretch your palm to him.

Your eyebrow quirks up at the mention. The Korea Open kicked off this weekend and the press was convinced you would gain another title under your belt. You normally don’t enjoy goading them on, but you have a good feeling about the tournament this year.

“Scatter, pea brain,” Suyeon hisses when she approaches you two, flicking Donghyuck’s ear. The boy grumbles before returning to his place near the wall. Once he’s out of earshot, Suyeon turns her attention back to you. She’s dressed in one of her tightest skirts, indicating she has plans set in motion for tonight. “Are you ready to go yet?”

You shake your head at her inquiry. “I’m not done. Go ahead without me.”

She whines pitifully, clutching your arm tightly. “I can’t! You know I get much more attention when I walk in with you.”

You sigh. Suyeon has been chattering nonstop to you about all of the players who have flown in for the games this week. Tonight was the first party hosted by your university to welcome them, and your roommate took that as a green light to snag one of the tennis players for herself.

“I still need to practice my backhand-“

“Do you want me to get on my knees and beg? Because I’ll do it.”

To prevent Suyeon from embarrassing herself even further, you hoist her arm and tug her away. She rejoices when you zip up your racket and bid your goodbyes to the remaining staff on the court. You do your best to ignore Donghyuck’s cheerful holler after you.

When you ask Suyeon if you can simply wear your practice gear, she throws you a disgusted look and quickly tugs you back to your shared dorm to change. You allow her to play dress up as she wants, wrapping your figure into a body hugging dress from the back of your closet. As soon as she deems you decent enough for the party, she hauls you over to the university’s lounge, where tonight’s events will be taking place.

Your first thought when you enter the party is that you would much rather be on the court. Just as Suyeon predicted, every eye turns to you when you step inside.

Whispers of tennis prodigy echo around the room and you try your best not to roll your eyes. Suyeon, on the other hand, basks in your popularity and bats her eyes towards the players that begin to approach the both of you. You decide to dodge the awkward conversation, excusing yourself to grab a refreshment.

It’s in the midst of downing a lemonade when you feel a presence linger behind you.

You turn to see none other than Johnny Suh and Jeong Jaehyun, the winners of last year’s doubles title. You heard that Jaehyun had enrolled into the same university as you while Johnny opted to go professional.

Despite the distance, the two seem closer than ever. And tonight, they stare at you like you’re their last meal.

“Hi,” you greet with an eyebrow raised.

Johnny speaks first, saying your name with a devilish grin. “We were wondering if we would see you here.”

He starts to introduce himself and Jaehyun, but you hold out a hand to stop him.

“I know who you are. I watched you two crush it at last year’s match,” you say, humming while you refill your glass. Jaehyun’s eyebrow ticks up at the revelation while Johnny’s smirk widens. “I’m guessing you’re both back to defend your title?”

“That, and to prove we’re just as good in the singles,” Johnny answers. You swallow a laugh at his unwavering confidence.

“I see you practice on the court sometimes,” Jaehyun says, diverting the topic of conversation back to you. “You’re incredible — I’ve never seen a backhand like yours.”

You smile at him, thanking him for the compliment. Jaehyun was definitely the more timid one of the pair, while you could tell Johnny led most of their conversations.

You feel like you’re in the lion’s den, with Johnny ready to pounce and Jaehyun waiting for permission to do the same.

Luckily, Suyeon rushes over and becomes your unknowing savior. Her hand wraps around your upper arm and she whines pitifully in your ear.

“SOS! SOS!”

“What is it?” You ask, eyes still remaining on the two men in front of you. Johnny’s fingers are slowly tightening around his glass and you wonder if he has the strength to break it. Jaehyun holds his a little more delicately, but you can see him clenching his fist behind his back.

You imagine one of them tangling their hands through your hair while the other wraps his around your neck.

“I don’t know anything about tennis,” Suyeon sighs, bringing you out from your lewd fantasy. “Come and help me, please?”

You smile at the two players, setting your glass down on a nearby table.

“Apologies, boys. Duty calls.”

You feel the weight of their stare follow you as you walk over to help Suyeon battle tennis talk.

You ponder if they’re desperate enough to stay behind for you.

—

You receive your answer later in the night.

As soon as Suyeon is all set for a lovely evening with a pretty player named Yuju, you start to make your way to the exit. You’ve had enough social interaction for one event, but two figures lingering by the door makes you second guess that decision.

Jaehyun adjusts his posture when he catches sight of you while Johnny leans casually against the wall, trying to make it seem as if he’s not affected by your appearance.

“You’re still here,” you hum, folding your arms across your chest. Both pairs of eyes quickly dart down to the swell of your breasts before moving upwards, acting like they weren’t just checking you out.

“Party’s too fun,” Johnny bites, sarcasm flooding his tone.

“I’m sure,” you chuckle dryly.

“Is your friend all good to go?” Jaehyun asks, and you can tell from the tone of his voice that he genuinely wants to know the answer.

You smile at him. “Yes, I was able to rescue her from the awful tennis small talk.”

Johnny kicks off from his position against the wall, approaching you with determination. Jaehyun eyes him carefully, and you realize from their body language that they have done this dance before. You think about how many other girls have fallen into their open trap.

“Well, maybe tennis talk isn’t all that bad. Especially in a quieter setting.”

Johnny reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his spare key set to one of the dorms the university is housing them in. He dangles them in front of your face, and you drink in his smug expression and Jaehyun’s anxious anticipation at your answer.

You tilt your head teasingly. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

Johnny shrugs. “Nothing wrong with a few tennis players strategizing before the match, right?”

Against your better judgment, you follow the two back to their dorm. You ignore the way Johnny’s fingers brush against the back of your thigh as he walks behind you and how Jaehyun’s hand continuously knocks into yours, pinky fingers brushing by each other. They clearly have set motives for the night and you would be lying if you said your mouth isn’t foaming at the idea of taking them both at once.

Jaehyun unlocks the door for you both, and Johnny keeps a steady hand on your lower back as he guides you in. As you expected, the university set them up in a double room, with separate twin beds pressed against each wall.

Before you can comment on the size of the room, a hand snakes around your middle, pulling you against Johnny’s backside. His fingers brush your hair to the side, pressing kisses against your exposed neck. Jaehyun has fallen to his knees in front of you, pushing up the fabric of your dress so he can catch a glimpse of your panties.

You make no moves to stop either of them, hands intertwining with Johnny’s as he continues his assault on your throat. You faintly register that you’ll have to cover up his marks before your match tomorrow, but Jaehyun nipping you at your thighs brings you out of your thoughts.

“So you’ve done this before?” You confirm while Johnny’s hands harshly squeeze your hips.

“Maybe,” Johnny hums teasingly, drawing out the last syllable. “But no one as pretty as you.”

You scoff and roll your eyes at his cheesy retort. You look down to see Jaehyun staring up at you, eyes filled with unbridled lust. You stroke his cheek gently and giggle.

“Are you waiting for permission?”

Johnny chuckles from behind you. “He’s waiting for you to sit on his face, sweet girl.”

Your eyebrow quirks up in surprise. Multiple exclamation marks pop up in your head but you’re not one to hesitate if someone is willingly offering to provide you an orgasm, so you bunch up your dress to your waist and hover over Jaehyun’s mouth. Johnny helps you in the process, pulling your underwear to the side and guiding your hips until Jaehyun’s tongue brushes against your folds. You gasp at the feeling and Jaehyun wastes no time diving into you, eagerly eating your cunt like his life depends on it.

Johnny’s hands have wandered to the straps of your dress, pulling it down and fondling your breasts. His fingers roll over your nipples, hardened and peaked from the intense foreplay.

He whispers in your ear, playing the devil on your shoulder. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Jae loves it when it’s sloppy like this, loves to feel his mouth being used.” Your eyes roll to the back of your head, catching the implication in his tone that Johnny has been in your spot before. “He likes it better when you tug on his hair like this,” Johnny says as he guides your hand to Jaehyun’s head, allowing you to pull the strands. “It lets him know he’s doing a good job.”

Jaehyun’s lips swallow every drop of essence your pussy grants him. He seems to be thoroughly enjoying the experience, hands grabbing your ass and pulling you deeper onto him.

It’s not long before you’re completely riding Jaehyun’s face, desperately pushing yourself back and forth on his mouth in pursuit of your orgasm. You whimper when his tongue flicks over your clit, teasing the nub until you’re begging for him to make you cum.

“Please, please,” you whine, fingers tugging on his hair harshly. “Wanna cum, Jae, please.”

“Let the princess get what she wants,” Johnny says to Jaehyun. “Can’t have the tennis prodigy all wound up before her big match.”

Jaehyun follows Johnny’s orders, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking until your orgasm hits you. You cry and ride out your high until your thighs start shaking. Johnny’s arms hoist you up and before you know it, he’s throwing you onto one of the beds in your post-orgasm haze. You hear the clinking of belts and a hand wraps around your throat, squeezing gently.

“Sit up, pretty girl. Want to see my cock slide down your throat,” Jaehyun whispers to you. His mouth is still covered in the remnants of your orgasm, and he casually licks his lips to capture some of the taste.

Johnny slides in to your left as you sit up, feet dangling over the side of the twin bed. You pull your dress off, flinging it across the room. With Jaehyun on your right, you give him your attention first. Your hand trails down his stomach until you’re gently grasping his cock, pulling him from the confines of his briefs. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, long and pink with pre-cum gushing from the tip. You can’t believe he was this hard the entire time he ate you out.

Your head turns to Johnny, who is smirking down at you. His fingers are already wrapped around his base, pumping slowly while he watches you. He’s thicker than Jaehyun but equally as aroused. You replace his hand with yours, mimicking his previous motions.

You find a rhythm between the two, alternating between sucking one cock and stroking the other, and switching before one of them can complain about the lack of attention. Johnny’s hand possessively grips your hair while Jaehyun keeps a solid pinch at the nape of your neck, keeping you steady.

“What a nice picture this would make,” Johnny laughs sinisterly, observing as you lick him from his base to his tip. “Maybe we should commemorate this moment, Jae. They could put it up in the Hall of Fame.”

“What? Right over a plaque that says best cocksucker?” Jaehyun chuckles. “Add best pussy too while you’re at it. Never tasted a cunt so sweet.”

You ignore their degrading comments, too enraptured in taking their cocks down your throat as best as you can. Just the thought of having them both inside you is enough to make you clench your thighs, chasing friction as slick drips from your cunt.

“Hm, wonder what the little princess is thinking about,” Johnny murmurs. “Maybe what it would be like to take two cocks at once?”

You whimper around Jaehyun’s length, his tip hitting the back of your throat. Jaehyun clicks his tongue, giving two experimental thrusts that has you gagging.

“Selfish of her,” Jaehyun comments to Johnny. “Wants all the attention for herself, on and off the court.”

“Let’s not make her wait any longer then.”

You cough a little when Jaehyun pulls himself out of your mouth. Johnny tugs on your hair harshly until you’re facing him. He leans down to press his lips to yours, tongues fighting for dominance as he pushes you back down on the bed. You clutch the back of his neck, hungrily kissing him until you’re gasping for breath.

They adjust your body so Jaehyun lies underneath you, cock prodding at your waiting hole. Johnny hovers above you, spitting at your pussy and pushing two fingers into your waiting heat.

You mewl at the intrusion and Johnny grins. “Just as I predicted, Jae, still wet and ready for us.”

When he pulls his digits out, you release a croaky laugh.

“So which one of you plans on taking home the singles trophy tomorrow?”

You feel them eye each other at your question, both lining themselves up to sink into you.

“The best man will win,” Jaehyun mumbles in your ear, not sounding so confident in his answer.

You smile, sensing an open opportunity to encourage some harmless fun. You can already picture the two of them tomorrow — sweaty and desperate to prove themselves as the best. The thought of them being so competitive for the title causes more slick to gush from your pussy.

“How about this then — tonight, you both have to pull out. But tomorrow, whoever wins the title gets to cum deep inside me,” you drawl, watching as Johnny’s eyes cloud over and feeling Jaehyun’s hands tighten around your waist. “And I’ll wear your cum in my panties all day to show everyone who I belong to.”

The idea of them staking a claim on you drives them into a frenzy. You whine when they both push into your cunt, fighting for the tight space between their ridiculously large cocks. You collapse onto Jaehyun’s front, head falling against his shoulder.

“Slut,” Johnny growls at you. “That’s how it’s going to be, hm? Pretty princess wants cum dripping down her legs as she practices her backhand?”

Jaehyun groans in your ear. “Fuck, I want to see that so badly.”

Your mind is drawing a blank, heat filling your stomach as the both of them continue to press into you.

Jaehyun chuckles. “Maybe we didn’t think this through, John. Looks like her pussy can’t even fit the both of us.”

“Maybe you’re right, Jae.”

When they start to pull out, your head whips up with an unmatched fury.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“There she is,” Johnny smirks. “Princess wants us to break her pretty pussy, is that it?”

Your competitive nature flares up. “Trust me, I can take it.”

Johnny and Jaehyun exchange another round of looks and eyebrow raises. You feel utterly unprepared when Jaehyun plants his feet on the bed and Johnny situates his knees, his hands grabbing your thighs. They begin a furious pace, with Jaehyun roughly thrusting upwards and Johnny railing you until your head hits the wall.

You nearly scream, convinced that the neighboring dorms are going to file noise complaints by the end of the night.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you hiss at the feeling of two cocks driving into you.

You feel completely full as they stretch you out. Johnny’s hand comes down to your clit to try and ease some of the pain. You crumble when the pain ebbs into waves of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“There you go,” Jaehyun coos in your ear. “Just let us take care of you, baby.”

Two fingers slide into your mouth and you clutch Jaehyun’s wrist, gagging on his digits.

“Can’t wait to cum inside this tight cunt tomorrow,” Johnny grunts.

You hear Jaehyun scoff and give another harsh thrust, almost knocking you against the wall again. You blubber on his fingers but he doesn’t seem to mind the drool slipping down his wrist.

“What makes you think you’ll be the sure winner?” Jaehyun asks between throaty groans.

Johnny chuckles at the question. “Come on, Jae. You can’t be serious.”

“And if I was?”

Your orgasm hits you without warning and you cry, back arching and thighs shaking from the intense pleasure. You have to blink a few times before regaining your senses, and you’re surprised by what you find when you can finally see clearly.

Johnny’s lips are locked with Jaehyun’s, their tongues fighting for dominance in a messy kiss. They’re both still pounding into you albeit at a slower pace, suddenly enraptured by one another as Johnny’s hand moves from your clit to tangle into Jaehyun’s hair. The latter moans underneath you, removing his fingers from your mouth to lazily grab a handful of your breast as you remain sandwiched between them.

You didn’t think it was possible, but you grow more aroused at the sight. Filthy squelching sounds fill the room and your body starts to overheat from the constant stimulation.

Johnny’s eyes drift over to lock with yours, and he smirks into Jaehyun’s mouth at the sight of you. He pulls away from Jaehyun, who eagerly chases after him. Johnny cups your cheek and attaches his lips to yours, tugging Jaehyun along in the process. The three of you engage in one of the sloppiest make out sessions you’ve ever experienced, combined with a mixture of tongues and breathy gasps.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Jaehyun suddenly mumbles.

Johnny nods. “Me too. Let’s paint her body, shall we?”

You whine when they pull out of you, furiously stroking their cocks until they find release. You’re mesmerized at the sight of them climaxing, grunting harshly and coloring your stomach with ropes and ropes of their cum.

You collapse into a pile of bones and you feel them start to lick your neck, earnestly tasting the sweat dripping down from your face. You giggle at their unique form of aftercare.

“It seems like-“ you hiss when Johnny squeezes your breast again before continuing. “It seems like you two used up all of your energy. Do you think either one of you still has a chance tomorrow?”

Jaehyun laughs. “Don’t worry about us, baby.”

“Because we’re planning on cumming inside of this sweet cunt for the whole world to see, whether you like it or not,” Johnny finishes.

You swallow at their predatory gazes, shock traveling up your spine when you realize their cocks are already half-hard again.

You’re in big trouble.

[heartshapedmisery]

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 | art donaldson

summary ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖ in which you and art can't seem to keep your hands to yourself after your first victorious win in weeks.

warnings ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖  MINORS DNI ! ( 18+ ) | language, graphic smut, unprotected sex (please stay safe y'all), art references to being turned on by watching reader play tennis, power dynamics?, switch!reader, switch!art, semi-public!sex, praise kink, hair pulling, oral (fem!receiving), obsessive!art (he is literally obsessed with the reader omg), p in v sex, art and reader almost get caught lmao, lmk if i missed anything!

word count ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖ 3.1k +

pairing ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖ standford!art donaldson x fem!stanford!reader

PART 2 OF LOOSEN UP!

author’s note ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖  if you haven't read part one, please do so before reading this! also i am a firm believer in art giving you aftercare after sex, no matter where it is in case you couldn't tell ;) i kinda rushed the ending sorry i just wanted to get it out in time :/ hope you enjoy!

publishing date ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖  may 17th, 2024 | © HEARTSHAPEDMISERY

A breathy groan escaped your lips as your racket smacked the tennis ball across the net, your final attempt at winning points in the match. You intensively watched your opponent—some hot-shot blonde from North Carolina—as she darted to hit the ball back to you. Your breath hitched as you saw her ankle roll from the impact, making her legs give out beneath her and ultimately miss the ball.

The air was knocked out of your lungs as the ball bounced out of the court. The game was yours.

"Game, (L/N)," the announcer sounds over the PA system, cheers erupting from the stands. Your eyes searched for Art, before seeing him standing on the sideline clapping his hands proudly with a smile.

Ever since his visit to your apartment, the two of you had been inseparable. Your preceding professional relationship had blossomed into a personal one within the blink of an eye, and your once light-hearted repartee had become rather flirty and intense.

He couldn't seem to keep his hands off of you, and you couldn't seem to ignore how much you loved it. Whether it be at his place, in the locker rooms, or even on the fucking tennis court (it was late at night and dark, and of course, art had been adamant to make sure everyone had gone home before he proposed the idea.)

You were addicted to each other. Drunk on each other's touch, and you never wanted to get sober.

"You did great out there. Congratulations," his lush voice cuts into the sporadic ringing in your ears when you finally make your way over to him, your chest still buzzing after your win as the two of you walk off the court.

Your heart was beating out of your chest, and not just because Art's hand didn't leave the small of your back until you were out of everyone's view and walked down the somewhat empty hallway of the athletic center.

"You think so?" you pondered lightly, still trying to catch your breath as you caught his eye. You recognized the look on his face; it was one you had grown to know all too well. The way his lips parted slightly, and his eyes seemed to darken as they drank in your elated state.

It was a look of lust.

"Oh, I know so," he corrected you, his voice low. His arm snaked around your waist as the two of you came to a stop outside the women's bathroom, your chest flush against his as he pulled you into him.

"I couldn't take my eyes off of you," he admitted. "The way you lose yourself when you're out on that court, it's mesmerizing."

His gaze trailed from your face to your chest to your ass, drinking in your appearance. He had always loved the skirt you had decided to wear for today's match; just a simple, white tennis skirt that seemed to be just a little bit shorter than the rest and hugged you in all the right places.

"Oh yeah?" you tested, a small smirk tugging at your lips. A giggle escaped your lips as his hand ran down your hip before settling on your ass, giving it a good squeeze as he leaned into you.

"Yeah," he whispered against your lips, before pulling you in for a hungry kiss by the back of your neck with his free hand. You let out an excited moan from the back of your throat the second you felt his tongue slip into your mouth, completely enveloping himself in you.

"Fuck, you're killing me, sweetheart," he muttered to you once he finally pulled away, grasping your arm and pulling you into the women's bathroom behind him. Thankfully, there was nobody in there, or else it would've made for a very awkward conversation.

"You wanna do this now? Here?" you ask unsteadily as the two of you stumble over to the sink, looking around at the highly impractical place he had chosen to hook up with you.

"You did so well today," he told you sweetly. "You deserve a reward, baby."

The spot between your legs dampened at his words, your thighs rubbing together as he pushed you up against the sink with his hips, searching for any sort of relief.

"Yeah?" your worries washed away. You decided to have a little fun with this.

"You wanna be my trophy, baby?" you played lightly, running your hands through his hair. A slight gasp escaped your throat as you felt his erection press against your thigh, a dazed grin on his face.

"Always," he growled in your ear, his nose nuzzling the soft skin of your neck as he left sloppy open-mouthed kisses along the side of your jaw.

Carefully, his hands ran up and under the hem of your skirt, caressing the softness of your thighs before he hooked his fingers on your panties and tugged them down in one swift movement. A smirk cracked across his face as he tucked them into the back pocket of his shorts, the pale lace hanging out messily.

A surge of excitement ran through your veins as your eyes fell on the unlocked bathroom door. Anyone could walk in on the two of you and see just how well your tennis coach really treats you.

The mere thought itself drove you wild.

Quickly, he set you up on the sink and nudged your knees apart, giving him the perfect view of your soaked core as he sunk to his knees to be level with your lower half.

His eyes poured into yours as he pulled your legs over his shoulders, grasping your thighs firmly to keep them in place. The mere sight of him before you made a shaky whimper blow past your lips, your fingers moving to brush the stray strands of hair that hung over his light eyes.

"So, so pretty," you whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as his lips met your soft skin.

He pressed wet kisses along the inside of your thighs, slowly making his way to where he wanted you most. You shuddered deeply when you felt his tongue finally lay flat against your wet core, his nose budding against your clit as he delved into you as if you were his last meal.

"Oh my g-god," you whined, digging your heel into the muscle of his back, his grip on your thigh tight enough to leave a mark. He held you in place as you squirmed around at his touch. You simply couldn't keep still as his lips sucked at your wetness, his tongue lapping at you mercilessly.

A groan reverberated in his chest when your legs tightened around his head, your ankles interlocking and pulling him closer to you.

"Please," you whimpered, the vibrations of his low moans stimulating your core. Your eyes peered down as his hand moved to the crotch of his shorts, palming the erection he had gotten from the sweet taste of you.

It no doubt sent you over the edge, a moan falling from your lips as you watched him pleasure himself. You couldn't take it anymore; you needed to feel him.

"Art," you breathed, pulling him away from your core. His head lulled back lazily, his pretty eyes meeting yours as a dazed smirk bloomed across his lips. His chin was glistening with your slick. "Please fuck me."

He didn't hesitate to stand to his feet, his lips smashing against yours exasperatingly. Despite how much he loved pleasuring you with his tongue, you didn't need to tell him twice.

You could taste yourself on his tongue as he slipped it into your mouth, moaning against your lips. His behavior was obsessive, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you as close to him as possible as his clothed hard-on rutted against your bare core.

"See you what you do to me?" he whispered to you with a sigh, bringing your hand to the front of his shorts to feel him. You couldn't help but moan, taking it upon yourself to dip your fingers into his waistband and grasping him.

"It's a good thing I know how to control myself when you're the court," he laughed lightly. "Otherwise we'd have a real problem."

You nodded as you gently pumped him, excited at the thought of Art getting a boner while he watched you play. "Yeah? Do you like watching me play, Coach?"

He groaned into your neck at the nickname as you continued to jack him off, his balls stiff and his tip reddened. You were being such a tease and he hated it.

"I like watching you win," he suddenly pulled you off the counter and spun you around, bending your body over the sink.

"And you're a winner, right baby?" lips brushed against your ear as he caged you between his body and the counter. You could feel his dick pressed against your ass, eager to feel you.

"Yes," you whined, white-knuckling the counter as you could feel him moving around behind you, running his tip along your wet slit.

"Yes, what?" he was having fun with you now.

"Yes, Coach," you groaned, meeting his gaze in the mirror. His eyes were dark, and you could've sworn you saw a mischievous smirk flash across his face before he pushed himself into you swiftly.

His hips stuttered at the sound of the moan that fell from your lips, his grip on your hips tightening mercilessly.

You whimpered pathetically as he bottomed out inside of you, his pelvis bone flushed with the round of your ass. You stretched around him sweetly, watching his face contort in the mirror with pleasure.

"God, you're so tight," he breathed out, but his tone was almost desperate. His hips slowly began to move, which you were thankful for. The sweet burn of his cock sliding in and out of you was something you had only dreamed of, especially after the night at your apartment.

His free hand moved from its spot on your hip and reached around you to squeeze your right breast, his large and veiny hand cupping it perfectly. You couldn't help but moan at the dense feeling as it heightened your pleasure, your core clenching around him subconsciously.

"Feels so good," you mumbled as his hand moved from your chest to your hair, his slender fingers combing through it before giving it a harsh tug, the force pulling your back to his chest roughly.

"That's it, baby," he groaned in your ear, not letting up on his rhythmic thrusts up into you. "You can take it."

He watched you through the mirror as your eyes rolled back, his grip on your hair still tight enough to hold you in place against his chest. He took the opportunity to attack your neck with kisses, trailing from the spot right beneath your jaw down to your exposed collarbone.

His lips sent you into a frenzy, the sensation making the familiar coil in your stomach tighten as it mixed with the pleasure between your legs. You wouldn't last much longer at this rate, and Art could feel you coming undone with each thrust.

"Gonna come for me, baby?" he cooed gently to you as he met your gaze, holding it intensely as you nodded lazily. He wasn't far off either, so he quickened his pace to bring the both of you to your climaxes.

"So good," was all you were able to say, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a chant as he panted behind you from his relentless momentum.

Before you knew it, warmth spread throughout your lower belly as he pulled your orgasm out of you with a helpless cry, your head lulling back against his chest as your muscles tensed. An unsteady groan ripped from his chest as he sighed into your hair, his eye screwing shut as his release washed over him as well.

A string of incoherent pleas fell from your mouths simultaneously, the both of you in utter awe of one another. It took a moment for both of you to come back down from your highs, speechless from what had just unexpectedly unfolded in the women's bathroom.

Art helped you look presentable again after he tucked himself away, moving the stray hairs from your face and slipping your underwear back up your smooth legs for you. You watched him with a smile, elated at the way his hands lingered on your hips as he flattened your skirt down.

"Good as new, sweetheart," he placed a kiss to your temple as the two of you moved to walk out the door until it swung open.

You were met with a disgruntled old lady as the two of you stood awkwardly in the middle of the bathroom, unsure of what to say.

Oh shit, you thought. You would guess Art was thinking the same thing based on the deer-in-headlights look that he had on his face.

"Excuse me," she brushed past the both of you with a confused look, before disappearing into one of the stalls. She wanted no business with whatever she had just walked in on.

You looked at Art, finding it hard to hold back the laugh that bubbled up from your chest.

"Let's get out of here before we traumatize more little old ladies..."

[finelinefae]

match one [tennisplayer!harry x tennisplayer!y/n]

synopsis: y/n's struggling with harry's coaching before the first tournament and harry's feelings control him more than he controls them

word count: 10.2k

contains: enemies to lovers, set at a boarding school, slow burn, angst, tennis rivals, strict parents, fluff, harry being a boy and not being able control himself around y/n

this is part 2 of the game, read part 1 here

. . .

“Again,” 

Y/N gritted her teeth and bounced the tennis ball on the ground before throwing it into the air with a straight arm and hitting it with the racket, watching as it pierced through the air to the opposite end of the court. 

She heard a sigh come from the bench on the side of the court, “Again,” 

She inhaled sharply through her nose to try and contain her temper as she repeated the same serve. 

“Again,”

Y/N spun around on the heel of her New Balance trainers, her pleated, white skort twirling as she did. She crossed her arms and glared at the boy lying on his back in his school uniform which was now crinkled and unkempt after the school day. “You’re not even watching,” She replied for the first time after having done the same serve more than ten times already. 

“I don’t need to, I know you’re not doing it correctly,” He replied, monotonously. 

She clenched her jaw, “Well as my coach, aren’t you supposed to show me how I’m meant to do it correctly?”

“I can show you but it won’t change anything,” He said. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He sighs and sits up, “You already know how to do a flat serve, I’ve seen you do it. You’re just not hitting it hard enough. I can hear it in the way the ball lands on the other end of the court.” 

“You could have just told me to hit it harder,” She retorts. 

“Am I meant to play the game for you as well?” He quips which makes her blood boil. 

This was their third training session, and Y/N had reached her limit. With her first proper tournament just three weeks away, she had hoped that seeking help from the best tennis player at Crestwood would elevate her gameplay. 

However, Y/N was getting frustrated with each session being a monotonous repetition of drills she had already learnt herself. It grated on her nerves and she felt as though she was back to square one. 

She was beginning to regret having enlisted Harry for his mentoring in the first place. Whenever they’d try to talk mutually to each other, it would just end up in an argument of some kind where they’d end up needing ten minutes to cool off.

Y/N had already qualified for the Academy Slam before she even asked Harry to coach her. There had originally been sixteen academies from the surrounding counties competing in the games and now there were only half and Y/N was one of them. She’d passed the qualifiers all by herself and maybe she could pass the games that way too.

“Again,” He said that one word Y/N was beginning to hate. 

Who knew what she was capable of if she had to hear that word one more time. 

Feeling a surge of anger, Y/N tossed the ball into the air and hit it with all the strength she could possibly summon. She watched as the ball made a fast and straight trajectory towards her target area which just so happened to be right beside Harry’s place on the bench. 

He jumped up, a look of surprise on his face. "What the fuck?" he exclaimed, eyes following the ball as it hit the fence.

Y/N's smirk wavered as he approached her, her surprise matching his when he spoke again. "Let's move on, shall we?"

By the end of the session, every inch of Y/N's body throbbed with exhaustion. She drained an entire water bottle in one go, her fitted polo shirt clinging to her damp skin. She had thought she'd engaged every muscle in her body, but the way her calves screamed at her with every step told a different story.

“Same time tomorrow?” Harry asked, standing above her and blocking the sunlight. 

“I want to start training properly,” Y/N stated.

“We are training properly,” He argued. 

“You realize you haven’t shown me a single tactic since you started coaching me right?”

“And?” 

“How am I meant to win the first tournament if all I know how to do is basic drills?” 

“Do you know how many times my coach made me practice flat serves before we could move on?” He asks but she doesn’t answer, “A month. I went home with blisters on my hands because I was doing them non-stop six hours a day.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raise, “You think tennis is just about being tactical then you’re not playing it properly. The only way you’ll ever be a good tennis player is if you master the techniques.” He explains, “I’ve seen you play Y/N. For someone who has never had professional coaching, you are one of the best players I’ve seen but you lack confidence in your technique. That flat serve you just aimed at me? One of the best flat serves I’ve seen in a while. If you can do that in every game, you’ll have no problem winning but if you want tactics? I can draw you a diagram and it’ll save two hours of my day no problem.” 

Y/N tries not to show her surprise at his words. Instead, she takes them all in, “Shouldn’t we at least be analysing my opponent?”

She was playing against Vanya Maddison in her next game. She was tall which was a major advantage in the game but her spatial awareness wasn’t exactly on par. 

“Do you know what your biggest strength is in this game?” Harry asked.

“My speed?” Y/N frowned. 

“Your anger,” He replies, “Off the court, it’s a little annoying but on the court, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Use it.” 

Y/N had no idea whether to take it as a compliment or not. She’d never heard Harry say anything good about her so was taken off guard by his words. “So are we still on for tomorrow because I have to meet Mitch in thirty minutes and if the answer is no at least I can actually plan on getting wasted tonight.” 

Y/N took a moment to think. She had never expected him to say something positive about her, especially about her anger. It was a side of herself she often struggled to control, but hearing Harry acknowledge it as a strength left her feeling conflicted.

As much as she considered training on her own which would give her some peace and quiet, she wanted to see where her training with Harry would go. If he was right, maybe she’d actually have more of a chance of winning than she did on her own. 

She stood up and put her gym bag over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow,” She walked past him, wanting to avoid the satisfied grin on his face. 

“Y/N!” Harry called, she could hear him jogging towards her before she stepped out of the courts, “I wanted to give this to you.”

He placed in her hands a cassette tape with white masking tape on it with the words ‘Y/N’s theme songs’ scribbled onto it in black ink. “What is this?” She asked, looking up at him.

“When I was in Australia, I used music to help me get in the zone before a match. My coach told me to use a cassette tape because phones were too distracting,” He explained. 

“You made this for me?” She frowned.

“What? You’ve never been given a gift before?” He chuckles. 

Y/N looks down at the plastic in her hands. It’s not that she’d never been given a gift by anyone before- she and Sarah always exchanged gifts over Christmas and for each other’s birthdays- but it was rare for her to ever receive anything from anyone else. Her parents would often give her practical things at Christmas or transfer money into her bank account on birthdays. 

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed at her lack of reply but she cleared her throat, “I don’t have a cassette player,” She said but Harry quickly removed his backpack and pulled out a walkman. 

“You can borrow mine,” He handed it over to her, “I won’t be needing it anytime soon since I’m not playing,” She noticed the downcast look in his eyes as he mentioned the fact he wasn’t currently able to play with his injury. 

“Um, t-thanks?” She said, unsure of how to respond to his sudden kindness. It felt unusual. 

“I picked a few songs that reminded me of you,” He smirks, “Don’t worry, they’re not all about a girl with an attitude problem.” With that he turned back around and walked towards the other exit to head to the car park. 

She felt ease on her chest as the usual teasing remarks returned, “Asshole,” She called out to him to which he just put his middle finger up in reply. 

. . . 

After taking a long shower in the girl’s shower rooms in her dorm block, Y/N headed back to her dorm after changing into a white shirt and sweatpants. She could feel the strain in her arms and legs as she flopped down onto her bed. 

Luckily Sarah wasn’t back from spending time with Mitch, so she took in the peace and quiet which came rare to her these days as all her mind had been on recently was the Academy Slam. 

Her mind wandered off to Harry and his words from earlier. Y/N knew she was a good tennis player but it was the first time she had heard someone else tell her that. She wasn’t expecting it, especially not from her tennis rival of the past ten years. 

Her eyes glanced at the cassette tape and the walkman she had placed on her desk before she headed off to the shower. Sitting up, she grabbed it and stared down at it for a moment before putting the cassette into the player and putting the headphones on. 

She laid back on her bed and looked up at the ceiling of her room. Her fingers hit the play button and the first song began to flood her ears. The first few beats of Nelly Furtado’s ‘Maneater’ began to play and she immediately rolled her eyes. Then afterwards, ‘Fergalicious’ by Fergie. 

She wondered how many songs Harry had managed to put on the cassette and how many were female anthems of empowerment. 

The next song seemed to catch her attention even further when Gorillaz ‘She’s my collar’ began to play. The beat now permanently injected into her bloodstream along with the rest of the album from the number of times she had listened to it. 

She wondered if Harry had known he had included a song by one of her favourite bands and whether he knew the meaning behind the song too. Maybe it had been a coincidence which was a thought Y/N had decided to settle on as she listened to the rest of the song. 

‘Nothing to be justified yet

She the first I'm running with

She the one that get my collar

She the one I'm running with (she's my collar)’

. . . 

The next day at school, Y/N sat in the library during her study period to study for her biology exam at the end of the week. Even though she was set on the scholarship, she still needed something to fall back on if she lost out in the next few games so she made sure she was still getting the best grades she could. It had also been ingrained in her to be the best in every class and she didn’t think that trait of hers would ever leave her. 

“Y/N!” Sarah called, her voice echoing within the silence of the library.

Ignoring the irritated glances she received, she paced towards Y/N and sat in the empty seat beside her. Y/N smiled at her friend’s excitement. They were foils to each other and that’s what made them get on so well. Whilst Y/N had a black cat personality, Sarah was sunshine in a person which was probably why she was so perfect for Mitch who was equally as bright. “What’s up?”

“I need to ask you something and you’re probably going to hate me but Harry’s already said yes and-”

“Sarah,” Y/N placed her hands on her shoulders, “Breathe.”

Sarah did exactly that before continuing, “Would you do a feature with Harry for the school newspaper?” 

Y/N frowned, “What?”

“The school newspaper? You know the club I’ve been part of for the past two years? They want to do a feature on your training for the sports section and I told them I would ask you.” Sarah explained. 

“Oh I don’t know about that-”

“Pleeeassseee,” Sarah gripped her arm that was resting on the desk and batted her eyelashes.

“You know I’d do anything for you Sarah but I don’t know if I have the time and my focus is on my next game,” Y/N replied. 

“Harry’s already said yes to it,” Sarah interjected.

“You asked him before me?” 

“Well actually,” Sarah hesitated, “Luke, the boy who’s writing the article, asked him this morning,”

“Why didn’t he ask me?” 

Sarah gave her a pointed look, “You’re not exactly the most approachable,” Y/N’s frown deepened at her words, “So will you do it?” 

Y/N sighed, considering it before giving Sarah an answer. The last thing she wanted was for someone to be asking unnecessary questions in time that could be used to train for the first round of the competition but Sarah was her best friend and she knew how much the school newspaper meant to her and her university applications too. 

“Alright,” She relented, “I’ll do it.”

Sarah squealed, receiving another round of vicious glares from other students in the library. Her arms wrapped around her in a tight hug, “Thank you,” She pulled away, “They’ll come by tomorrow afternoon during practice, is that okay?” Y/N nodded a response.

. . . 

It was raining outside. 

Y/N’s eyes stared out the window as she bounced a tennis ball on the hard floor of the gymnasium and wondered if the weather foreshadowed the next hour. 

“Will you sit down?” Harry muttered, “You’re giving me a headache,” 

“He’s late,” Y/N says, “We could have been practising,”

“Do you ever just do anything else?” Y/N shot him a glare at his sarcasm, “I get this is important to you but don’t you just want to, I don’t know, have fun?”

Y/N walked over to her seat right next to his and straightened herself for the interview the school newspaper had organised for them. Sarah had told both her and Harry to dress smartly for the occasion which, according to Harry meant a designer sweatshirt and trousers whilst Y/N had gone for a dress and pumps. It wasn’t overly smart for either of them but enough to make it seem like they had made an effort. 

“The fact that you’re even suggesting that tells me you have no idea how important this is to me,” Y/N responds, monotonously. 

She hears a scoff from beside her, “What?” 

He turns to face her, his face rather too close, she notices three moles on his right cheek that she hadn’t ever seen before, “I think I know better than anyone how important this is to you but I also know from experience how important being in high school is with people your own age.” She forgets sometimes that even though he was whisked away to fulfil his place in the Australian Open, that his time of being a kid was cut short, “I don’t go out of my way to coach just anybody,”

“What do you mean?” She frowns but before Harry could reply, the doors to the gym open and in scrambles a sixth year with a messenger bag and a tripod with a camera dangling from his neck. 

“It means,” he leans forward, murmuring, “if you had half the belief in yourself as I have in you then you wouldn’t need me at all.” 

“Sorry I’m late,” Luke’s voice echoes as he steps towards them and places all three legs of the tripod on the ground and scrambles to screw his camera to it. 

“What’s with the camera?” Y/N asked. 

“O-oh, we’re recording the interview so I can write everything up later and we’re going to need your pictures together afterwards,” Luke explained. 

“You want us to take a photo together?” Y/N frowned.

“Did Sarah not tell you?” Luke replied. 

“Calm down, love. It’s just a photo,” Harry murmured and she tried not to react to the nickname he had used for her. 

Once everything was set up, Luke sat across from them with his laptop on his thighs, questions already typed out, “So, you two have known each other for a while now?” Luke asked as he sat across from them. 

As Y/N was about to tell him how they didn’t exactly know each other on a personal level but knew each other through tennis, Harry spoke up, “Since we were both in third year. I was eight and Y/N was seven but we’ve been in the same class since we were infants.” 

Luke nodded, “That must help a lot in your partnership,” 

Harry chuckled lowly, “Something like that,”

Luke types a few things down in his computer before turning his attention to Y/N, “Um, Y/N what made you turn to Harry for his coaching other than the fact he won the Australian Open?”

Y/N frowned, what more reason did she need to give? “Well, the fact he won is a big reason as to why I approached him,”

“But isn’t he injured?” Harry stiffened beside her. The way he asked made it sound like he was defective, unusable.

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows, “Yes but I’ve seen Harry play games with a dislocated shoulder. He’d just pop it right back in and start playing again. His current injury doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s one of the best tennis players I’ve seen at Crestwood.” Y/N ignored the looks from the two boys. She knew she’d have to compliment Harry at some point during this interview, especially if they needed to show a united front for the games.

“And do think the same about Y/N?” Luke asked Harry who now seemed irritated by him.

“I think,” Y/N was prepared for a backhanded compliment but what she got was something entirely different, “Y/N has all the potential in the world to go for what she dreams of and I hope to watch her do it all even if that means I’m watching from the sidelines.” This time it was Y/N’s turn to glance at Harry, taken aback by his words. 

Luke spoke again, “You know some people are calling you the underdog in this tournament?” Y/N froze, it was the first time she had heard of it, “all the other women competing have had professional coaching and the school invests heavily in their tennis players.”

Y/N cleared her throat, “I didn’t know that but I have every intention of proving them wrong,” Harry bumped his knee with hers but she ignored it. 

“And What do your parents think about you doing this before leaving exams?” Luke asked. 

Y/N ignored the sting she felt at the thought of telling her parents what she was doing and the looks of disappointment she envisioned, which had been gnawing at the back of her head since she qualified. She answered confidently, "They're happy for me and excited to see me in the final."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows as Luke leaned in, his expression curious. "You think you'll get to the final?"

Harry scoffed, “Are you insinuating she won’t?” 

Luke backpedalled slightly, sensing he’d struck a nerve. "I didn't mean to suggest that at all. It's just that some people doubt the capabilities of those who haven't had professional coaching."

"Hey Luke, do me a favour and invite those people to the first game in three weeks' time. Let them witness firsthand what it's like watching a player as skilled as Y/N, without any professional coaching," Harry's frustration was palpable, catching Y/N off guard with his assertiveness. Typically, she would be the first to break in such situations but it seemed Harry already had.

Luke’s face warmed as he realised he overstepped, “R-right, let’s move on.” He scanned through his list of questions to find something more light-hearted to break up the mood, whilst Y/N straightened her shoulders, thankful they’d gotten to the final round of questions. “What do you both like to do outside of training?” 

“Together?” Y/N cringed, trying to picture spending time with Harry in a normal setting. 

“Not necessarily,” Luke shrugged. 

“My best friend is dating her best friend so we’ve been spending a lot more time together recently. Normally, I play guitar or recite poetry whenever I’m not coaching Y/N to volley properly,” Y/N rolled her eyes at the lies that left his mouth.  

“I study,” Y/N stated. 

“That’s it?” Luke’s eyebrows creased.

Her cheeks turned slightly pink, “I’m top of the class in all of my classes, that doesn’t just happen without hard work.”

She could feel Harry’s eyes on her and for the first time, she turned her head to catch his eyes. She noticed the frown on his lips and something in his eye that looked a lot more like concern or sympathy than the desire to tease her about her lack of social life. 

“Well, I think that will be enough,” Luke stood up and grabbed his camera, “Do you mind if we take a few photos now?”

Y/N and Harry stood from their seats, side by side and looked into the lens of the camera. Y/N’s cheeks hurt from forcing a smile as Harry did the same, “You’re standing too close to me,” Y/N spoke through her teeth as the camera flashed.

"Look who's talking with their giant foot squashing my shoe," Harry retorts, a playful glint in his eyes. Y/N inhales sharply, her gaze dropping to her foot to see what he's referring to. But before she can react, Harry smoothly slides his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side with practised ease. Their eyes meet, and just as the camera flashes, capturing the moment, Y/N side steps out of his grip with an annoyed huff.

“Okay, that will be all,” Luke smiled. 

As Luke packed his things away, Y/N and Harry stood awkwardly side by side without saying a word. Y/N glanced out the window and saw the sky had cleared up and the sun was setting. She needed to get back to her dorm to study for her French exam tomorrow as well as binge-watch tennis matches on YouTube which she’d been doing a lot recently. 

“Did you really mean that?” Harry asked, catching her attention, “All you do is study outside of school?”

Y/N looked at him, “I hang out with Sarah some days but yeah, I mostly study. I don’t really have a lot of choice and I’m not naturally smart.” Harry’s head tilted to the side like he was secretly questioning her in his head, “What? Aren’t you meant to crack a joke about me being stupid or something?”

Harry's eyes softened, his voice gentle. "I could never think you're stupid, love," he said, the nickname slipping from his lips with a tenderness that caught Y/N off guard. She found herself speechless, unable to figure out what had gotten into him recently. 

He pulled out his car keys from his back pocket and motioned his head towards the gymnasium exit, “C’mon,” He urged, “I wanna try something out and before you ask, it’s nothing to do with tennis or studying.”

Y/N’s feet stayed glued to the ground as he walked away and expected her to follow. She furrowed her brows and crossed her arms, wanting to refuse his invitation so she could get back to her dorm. But curiosity got the better of her and she followed a few paces behind him as he led her to the empty car park. 

Harry pressed the button on the car keys and the lights flashed on a black Audi hiding in the corner, “What are we doing?” She asked. 

“Have you ever driven a car before?” He wondered, looking at her with a hint of mischief. 

“Never,” She replied and was bewildered to see him open the door to the passenger seat instead of the driver’s seat. 

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, love,” He smirked.

Y/N’s eyes widened, “N-no! Harry, I'm not driving your stupidly expensive car.”

“C’mon,” Harry chuckled, “Don’t be chicken.”

She scoffed, “I’m not being chicken, I’m being sensible. If I crash that car, I don’t even think my parents will have enough money to fix it.”

“My parent’s will,” He grinned, cockily, “Get in,” 

“No, I’m not driving that car.” She insisted. 

Five minutes later, Y/N sat in the driver’s seat of Harry’s Audi with her fingers over her eyes as he instructed her on how to start. “Are you crazy?” She whimpers as he switches the engine on. 

“Stop worrying, I’ve got my hand on the break.” She looks down to see his hand already wrapped around the hand break, “Just stay calm and do what I told you to do. Clutch down, first gear and then ease your foot gently off the clutch.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching me tennis, not driving laps around the school parking lot,” Y/N argued.

“Think of this as a team bonding exercise,” He shrugged, “Okay now foot down on the clutch,”

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” She strangled out, placing her shaky hands on the wheel.

“Relax,” Harry chuckled, “You’re being dramatic.”

“It won’t be so dramatic when we end up in a tree,” Y/N retorted as she carefully felt the pedals and pressed down slowly on the clutch. Feeling the car rise, Y/N gasped and removed her foot. 

“Calm down, it’s just because you put your foot on the clutch,” Harry was trying his best not to laugh at her, “Okay, now do it again.”

Y/N squeezed her hands on the wheel and repeated her actions, moving the gear stick “Okay, now carefully raise the clutch,” Harry instructed and as she did, he lowered the handbrake and the car slowly began to move forward. 

“Holy shit,” Y/N wailed, “We’re moving,”

This time, Harry did laugh unable to stop himself after seeing her reaction, “Make sure you turn the wheel or we really will end up in a tree,” 

Y/N did as she was told and turned the wheel slowly, “Okay, I’ll move into second,”

“Harry no!” She gasped but put the clutch down so he could move gears. 

“Atta girl,” He beamed.

Y/N’s worried expression soon turned into shock and then excitement as she moved slowly around the car park, “I’m driving Harry!” Y/N grinned and Harry swore it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

“You are,” He praised, “There’s nothing you can’t do.”

After switching between first and second gear and Y/N complaining that her feet were aching from how tense she was using the pedals, Harry offered to swap places and show her what it was really like to go out on an evening drive. 

“Harry!” Y/N choked on a laugh as he went all the way up to sixth gear down the empty streets in the middle of nowhere, “Slow down,” She squealed. 

Harry glanced at her, grinning when he saw how wide the smile was on her face. He pressed his finger on the button to wind down all the windows, “Oh shit I love this song,” He turned the volume up on the stereo as Beyonce’s ‘Love on Top’ started playing, blaring loudly through the speakers of his car. 

“Baby it’s you! You’re the one I love! You’re the one I need!” Harry screamed the lyrics of the song and Y/N’s laughter sounded through the entire car as her hair blew behind her. “Sing it, baby!” He cheered, neither of them realising what he had called her. 

“I’m not gonna sing it,” She shook her head, her eyes squeezing shut as the engine revved. 

“It’s the only way I’m gonna slow down,” He teased as the build-up to the chorus played. 

Y/N giggled as Harry began to sing solo to the chorus again, giving her a look that had her rolling her eyes before she screamed out the lyrics alongside him, “When I need you, make everything stop! Finally, you put my love on top!”

Their laughter merged together as the song played out. Harry slowed down the closer they got back to town and cast a sideways glance at Y/N who was brushing her wind-swept hair with her fingers. “You okay?” He asked, seeing the glow on her face. 

“Yeah,” She bit her lip, “I’m okay. I just don’t get to do stuff like this… ever really.”

He nodded in understanding. Harry had met Y/N’s parents a few times before. His parents were frequent visitors to their country club so he knew what they were like but he had no idea of the extent of the pressures they had put on Y/N to do well. It reminded him of his own parents and the last thing he wanted to do was allow someone to feel the same way he did whenever his parents were too hard on him. 

“Wanna pull in somewhere to get something to eat?” Harry asked. It was getting late and they both had school tomorrow but he couldn’t seem to allow himself to let her go- not when she was having so much fun. 

“Okay,” Y/N nodded. 

He pulled into a dessert shop that was still open. Y/N followed him inside and to a booth in the corner. Harry ordered both of them bowls of soft-serve ice cream and Y/N even asked if she could have a strawberry milkshake to go with it. “I shouldn’t really be eating,” She told him.

“Hmm I heard drinking strawberry milkshakes improves your footwork. They served them all the time in Australia,” Y/N shot him a look that told him she knew he was bullshitting her but it made him smile. 

“Are you nervous about the game coming up?” They’d been training non-stop every evening and Y/N was quickly improving everything she had already learnt on her own. After considering Harry’s words a few days ago, she knew Harry was right. He had been good for her technique and she felt even more sure of herself than she did at the beginning. 

“No,” She said coolly, “I don’t have time to be nervous.”

Harry scoffed, “I don’t believe that for a second.” 

The waitress came over and placed their desserts in front of them, along with a strawberry milkshake with whipped cream and a cherry on top. “Mitch says he’s going to throw a party at my place if you make it through to the semi-finals.”

“A party at your place?” Y/N quirked a brow.

Harry sighs, “He came up with the idea of throwing a party and then just kind of decided it would be at mine.” He explained. 

Y/N nodded and took a sip of her milkshake. It had been so long since she had had something so sugary and sweet. She hummed before realizing she was being watched by the boy opposite her, “Just so you know, even though you bought these desserts and taught me how to drive, doesn’t mean I like you.”

Harry laughed, his eyes crinkling and dimples carving into his cheeks. Y/N’s heart stuttered but she pushed the feeling down, “Okay, tomorrow you can go back to hating me again and we’ll pretend today didn’t happen.”

“And you can do the same,” She says. 

Harry gives her a look, his eyes flashing with something she couldn’t put a label on, “I don’t hate you Y/N.” 

She frowns, “You’ve always hated me,” 

“No,” He shook his head, “Never.”

“But you’re always making fun of me,” And she always did the same. 

“Because it’s the only way I get to speak to you.” He admits. 

Y/N’s lips parted in surprise, unable to believe what she was hearing. She had always assumed Harry had hated her since their rivalry had gone on for so long. She didn’t know what to say, confused by the sudden revelation.

“Ew,” It came out before she even had time to think, “Don’t be nice to me, it’s making me uncomfortable.” 

Harry seemed to deflate but quickly placed a smile on his face, “You make me uncomfortable and you’re singing, by the way, is awful.” 

Y/N scoffed, "At least I don't sound like a dying goat." Despite the return of their familiar banter, her heart seemed to continue to flutter under Harry's earnest gaze, stirring a mix of emotions within her that she’d never felt before. 

She didn’t know what was going on with her but the last thing she needed to think about was her emotions when her biggest goal to date was right before her. 

. . .

Three weeks had gone by far too quickly for Y/N’s liking.

“Again,” Harry drawled.

Y/N gritted her teeth and repeated the backswing technique Harry had shown her but the angle was all wrong and the ball ended up going completely off court.

“Fuck,” Y/N spat, throwing her tennis racket on the floor and squatting, balling her hands into fists on her head.

Harry sighed, walking over. “You’re nervous about tomorrow,” He stated like he didn’t need her to confirm despite the fact she had constantly told everyone she wasn’t nervous about anything. 

“I just need to win,” She mumbled.

“Get up,” Harry ordered. 

Y/N did as she was told and stood up. He grabbed the racket from the floor that she’d thrown across the court like a toddler throwing their toys out a pushchair and flipped the racket between both of his hands. He handed it back to her and grabbed his own.

“I want you to mirror my actions,” He says and stands a few steps away from her. 

He steps forward, tossing the tennis ball into the air before swinging his racket with both hands, expertly landing it in the left corner of the opposing court. Y/N tracks his every move, mimicking his actions as if she were his shadow.

Y/N’s ball lands slightly off target and Harry bites his lip to stop himself from smiling at the scowl on her face. He walks towards her and comes up behind her. Y/N’s breathing hitches when she feels his fingertips press gently on her arm. 

“You need to straighten this arm more,” He advises, his fingertips sliding down her arm and leaving a trail of goosebumps as he straightens her arm out. “Calm down,” he murmurs, his mouth near her ear, “I can feel your heart beating.”

Y/N seems to lose every ounce of oxygen when he places his hand flat against her back where he can feel her heart beating, “Breathe,” He says, “You will win tomorrow, I will make sure of it.” 

The warmth that flooded Y/N’s body quickly left as Harry took a step back, “Try it again,” He nodded towards her racket.

Y/N sighed, tensing her muscles again after Harry had practically managed to turn them into liquid. She tried to ignore the flutter in all of the pulse points in her body that were screaming to make contact with that new presence and swung her racket, landing the ball exactly where she wanted. 

“There y’ go,” He murmurs, almost as if he was saying it to himself. “I think we should call that it for today,”

“What?” Y/N frowned, “The game is tomorrow, I need to practice.”

“Y/N, we’ve been practising for half the day already. You’re going to wear yourself out if you carry on,” Harry tells her.

“Fine,” She huffed but Harry gave her a knowing look.

“Come to my place,” He offers.

“Why would I do that?” She goes to grab her sweatshirt on the bench and pulls it over her head. It was getting colder now that the sun was going down. 

“Because I know you’re just going to come back here once I leave and trust me, you don’t want to do that.” She opened her mouth to refuse but he continued, “We can watch Wimbledon on TV and order pizza.”

She wondered how he knew that Wimbledon was one of her favourite movies and pizza was her favourite food. “Is it the DVD exclusive?” Y/N asked.

Harry’s lips tilted upwards, “Of course,” Y/N nodded, following him to his car so he could drive them to his apartment. 

Y/N remembered the last time she was in Harry's car three weeks ago. It was the first time Y/N truly enjoyed being in his company and the first time she had allowed herself to have fun and relax. 

The day after,  they resumed their usual arguing as if the previous night hadn't occurred. However, Y/N found herself overwhelmed by a surge of unfamiliar emotions swirling within her.

Despite the bickering, she kept noticing things about Harry—like the way he smiled and talked. It made her feel weird like there was something more between them that she hadn't noticed before.

The air was silent between them as the radio played lowly in the background. Harry turned into a block of apartments that looked far too expensive for a student to afford all by themself. “This is where you live?” Y/N asked, her eyes widening as he pulled into a spot. 

“For now,” He says. 

Y/N trailed behind Harry as they rode the elevator to the fifth floor and made their way to his apartment. When he swung open the door, flooding the space with light, Y/N couldn't help but notice the spaciousness of the apartment, as well as its emptiness.

“I haven’t had time to unpack,” Harry said, walking to the kitchen after kicking his shoes off, “Do you want anything to drink?”

“I’ll just take a glass of water,” Y/N’s eyes darted to all of the boxes that covered the floor. 

She walked to the kitchen area and leaned against the counter, “Are those your trophies?” She asked, seeing the metal cups in an open box.

Harry smiled, “Yeah, I’ve kept all of mine even the ones that didn’t count.” 

“They all count,” Y/N grins, walking over and pulling one out, “The battle of the sexes trophy.” 

Harry smirked, walking round to stand beside her, “I still remember the look on your face when they handed me that trophy. If looks could kill, love, I don’t think I would be here.” 

“It was a big deal to me okay?” Y/N replies, “I seemed to blame you for all my losses when I was a kid.” 

Harry’s expression softens and his head turns to look at her, “Will you blame me if you don’t win tomorrow?” 

Y/N’s smile falters, “No, I’d blame myself. I think if I lost this, I don’t know who I would be anymore. Tennis is my life.”

Harry’s eyes glint underneath the soft lighting of the kitchen, “God,” He whispers, “You drive me crazy y’ know that?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Do you think you could love anything more?” He asks, ignoring her question. 

“I can’t think of anything, if I did I’d have to love it an awful lot.”

“Okay,” He nods like he’s accepting a challenge. 

Y/N narrows her eyes, “What are you thinking?” 

“Nothing,” He shrugs, “But I want you to know-”

Before Harry could finish his sentence, the door swings open and the shrill sound of his mother’s voice fills the air. Y/N stands straight and she notices Harry tense up, taking a step in front of her, he pushes her behind him.

“Harry,” His mother sighs, “How are you darling?” 

“Mum,” He replies, curtly, “What are you doing here?”

“Your father’s running late home so I thought I would come by to see how you were,” She says and then looks behind him.

Y/N doesn’t need Harry to introduce her as she steps forward and holds out a hand, “Hi Mrs Styles, it’s nice to see you again.” 

"Y/N?" Anne gasped, her eyes widening in surprise. "You've grown so much, you're beautiful." She reached out, taking both of Y/N's hands in hers and giving her an appraising look.

Y/N's cheeks flushed at the compliment. "Thank you, Mrs. Styles," she stammered, feeling a mixture of nerves and warmth.

Anne smiled warmly. "Oh, call me Anne," she insisted before turning her attention to Harry. "I didn't know you two were such good friends."

Y/N and Harry exchanged a quick glance, both unsure of how to respond.

"I'm her coach," they both blurted out simultaneously, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Anne's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What?" she exclaimed, her gaze flitting between them. "You're coaching?"

Harry nodded, his expression serious. "Yes," he confirmed quietly.

"But Harry, your injury," Anne interjected, concern evident in her voice as she glanced down at his leg. "You're not meant to be—"

"I'm fine, Mum," Harry interrupted sharply, his tone making no room for argument.

"Harry, you know you can’t be playing-"

"I said I'm fine," Harry's voice rose, his frustration evident as he cut her off, causing Y/N to jump at the sudden outburst.

Anne's concern softened into a resigned sigh, her eyes reflecting a mixture of worry and understanding. "Alright, Harry," she relented, her tone gentler now. "Just promise me you're taking care of yourself."

Harry's features softened, a hint of remorse flickering in his eyes. "I promise, Mum," he said, his voice softer now, more subdued.

Anne nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Good. That's all I ask."

As the atmosphere relaxed, Anne turned her attention back to Y/N, her smile warm and welcoming. "Well, it's lovely to see you again, Y/N," she said kindly. “Tell your parents we’ll be stopping by in the spring.”

Y/N returned the smile, her earlier nervousness dissipating in the warmth of Anne's acceptance. "It was nice to see you too, " she replied sincerely.

Harry glanced at Y/N, a softness in his gaze that made her heart skip a beat. After seeing his mother out following her very brief visit, Y/N finally mustered the courage to ask, "What was she talking about?"

Harry's expression turned grave, his features shadowed by a sense of burden. "It was nothing," he replied.

"Why can't you play?" Y/N pushed, her concern evident in her voice.

"Y/N, I'm telling you to leave it alone," Harry warned, his tone firm.

But Y/N couldn't let it go. "If it's nothing, then why can't you tell me?" she insisted, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

"Because it's none of your business, that's why," Harry snapped, his words cutting like a knife. 

"Nothing I do or say has anything to do with you, so go back to hating me because it's a hell of a lot easier than what I have to deal with."

Y/N's heart sank at his harsh words. With a deep breath, she crossed her arms, her resolve hardening. "You know, now I remember why we never got along in the first place," she retorted, her voice laced with bitterness. With a sharp turn on her heel, she made her way to the front door. "You're such an asshole, Harry."

"Y/N," Harry called out, his voice tinged with regret as she stormed out of his apartment towards the elevator. "Y/N, come on, don't be like that."

"Go suck a dick," she shot back, stepping into the elevator before Harry could stop her.

As the doors closed, Harry's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Let me drive you back, at least," he pleaded, his voice barely audible over the sound of the closing doors.

"Fine," Y/N huffed, her tone clipped with annoyance.

The car ride back to her dorm was tense and silent. When Harry pulled into the front of her dormitory, Y/N moved to open the door finding the silence far too uncomfortable. Then, out of nowhere, Harry's voice broke the silence. "I can't play tennis anymore," he confessed, his words heavy.

Y/N's heart stopped, her breath catching in her throat. "What do you mean you can't play anymore? That's ridiculous," she exclaimed, her disbelief evident in her voice.

Harry's hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles turning white. "I mean I can't ever play tennis again," he admitted, his voice cracking with emotion.

"Are you serious?" Y/N asked, her voice trembling with shock.

"I tore my ACL during practice for the French Open. I—" Harry's voice trailed off, unable to continue, “It was so bad Y/N and I was in so much fucking pain and no one would listen to me. I went through multiple surgeries and rehab but the doctors sat me down and said I couldn’t play unless I wanted to fuck up my leg for the rest of my life.” 

“Harry…” Y/N’s eyes glistened with tears. 

Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of Harry's words sank in. She glanced over at him, seeing the pain etched in his features, and felt a surge of empathy wash over her. It was a devastating blow for someone who had dedicated their life to the sport they loved.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Y/N whispered, her voice filled with genuine sadness for the boy beside her.

Harry managed a small nod, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, “That’s why I had to come back here. My father can barely look at me and my mother won’t leave me alone. At least here I can be around people my own age but when I’m at home, it’s fucking suffocating Y/N.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t imagine losing the one thing she loved above anything else in the world and have to re-construct everything she had ever known to find something else to love just as much. 

“I don’t expect you to say anything but I’d appreciate it if you showed me a little mercy,” He spoke. 

“Why would you offer to coach me then? Would that not make things worse?” She asked.

He looks at her, really looks at her, like there was something on the tip of his tongue he wanted to say but couldn’t, “I figured it would alleviate the pain.” 

“But I saw you play, I watched you and you beat me,” She exclaimed.

“Yeah and it hurt like a bitch afterwards,” He shook his head.

Y/N couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She wondered why Harry had been unwilling to play against her during the training sessions and now she knew why. She felt awful, her heart was hurting for him. 

“I don’t want you to feel pity for me and I don’t want this to change anything between us. I’m tired of being treated like a broken toy and I think it would kill me inside if you looked at me differently.” 

Y/N stayed quiet, facing forward and collecting her thoughts before saying, “Thank you for telling me,” She murmured, “And it doesn’t change anything. You’re still an asshole,”

Harry laughed and then his pinky brushed the side of her hand, “You will be everything tomorrow.” He whispered.

Y/N’s heart fluttered at the soft edge of his words, “You think so?”

His eyes softened, “I believe in you, more than anyone in the entire world.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath and looking out the window. The tension had settled and now a newfound respect lingered between them. 

She would win tomorrow, for herself and for him. 

. . . 

It had been a while since Harry had been to a tennis tournament. The last time he was on a court for an official match was well over six months ago, it was a challenger match he participated in during his training for the French Open before his life took a vast turn. 

He sat in the stands with everyone else from Crestwood who had come to watch the first game. Although Crestwood Academy invested more in the football team than any other sport, the turnout had been pretty good and nearly every seat was occupied by a student or teacher. 

On the opposite side was Eaststone Academy who seemed to have invested heavily in their merchandise for Y/N’s opponent. Everyone was either wearing a t-shirt with Vanya’s name on it or carrying a sign with supportive catchphrases written in bold marker. 

Harry craned his neck in hopes of seeing Y/N preparing herself somewhere outside of the court but couldn’t find her anywhere. He’d sent her a quick message this morning and asked her if she needed anything but she insisted she wanted to be alone. 

“Fuck, it’s good we got in the queue early,” Mitch came by with an anxious Sarah, holding two cokes in his hand. They were both wearing navy shirts and sweatbands around their heads, Sarah was holding a sign that had Y/N’s name on it. 

“She’s gonna hate you for that,” Harry tried not to smile.

“Oh I already know,” Sarah said, “She watched me make it last night and then almost ripped in half when I asked her if I should bedazzle it.”

Harry’s expression changed into one of concern, “How was she?”

“She’s nervous but she insisted she was okay,” Sarah rolled her eyes, “You know how she is.”

He did, which was why he was willing to accept the fact she wanted to be by herself even though he was desperate to drive over there with strawberry milkshakes just so he could see that smile he had been dreaming about for the past three weeks. 

Suddenly, Eaststone Academy stood from their seats and cheered as Vanya Maddison came onto the court. “I’ve never seen such long legs,” Sarah gasped, saying what both Harry and Mitch were thinking. 

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as the people around him stood on their feet. He glanced down to the court and his eyes fell on Y/N as she walked onto the court with a dip between her brows and her tennis bag over her shoulder. 

She was wearing a white, pleated skort and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Her hair was slicked back as tightly as possible into a braid and her white runners were tied up on her feet. He noticed she was wearing earbuds in her ears and then found the walkman he had given her clipped to her skort. He smiled at that, wondering which of the many songs he had put together she was listening to. 

“There she is,” Sarah pointed and then waved to get her attention. 

Y/N held a hand over her face to block the sun and looked up at the crowd. When she caught sight of Sarah, she offered a friendly wave before her eyes landed on Harry. She gave him a nod of acknowledgement and then walked to her seat on the other side of the umpire. 

“C’mon,” Harry murmured, feeling his palms sweating at the sight of her. 

“She’s got this in the bag, H.” Mitch puts a hand on his shoulder. 

Through the speakers, the umpire calls out the start of the match and everyone falls silent as both players walk to opposing sides of the court. Y/N bounces on her feet and swings her racket backwards and forwards as though warming herself up before the match starts.

When the first serve came, Y/N's reflexes kicked in. She returned the ball swiftly, keeping the rally going with her quick movements, remembering what Harry had taught her. Each exchange became more intense, but Y/N stayed determined, chasing down every ball.

When Vanya hit the ball for the other corner, Y/N ran towards it and returned the ball swiftly, earning the first point with a well-placed shot. The crowd erupted into cheers as Y/N gained an early lead.

“That’s my girl!” Harry clapped his heart in his throat. 

But Vanya wasn't about to let up. With determination in her eyes, she fought back, winning the next two points with powerful serves and precise shots. The score was now in Vanya's favor, and the pressure was on for Y/N.

“Fuck!” Y/N released a growl and hit her racket against the floor before storming off to her seat. Harry was tempted to walk down and help her but he needed to let her see what she was capable of on her own. 

Her anger was radiating from her, “I’d hate to get on her bad side,” Mitch said. 

Harry couldn’t seem to reply as he leant forward with both his elbows on his knees. “C’mon, c’mon, you can do it.” He mutters, thinking of the first bit of advice he had given her. 

“Do you know what your biggest strength is in this game?” Harry asked.

“My speed?” Y/N frowned. 

“Your anger,” He replies, “Off the court, it’s a little annoying but on the court, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Use it.” 

Y/N rolled her shoulders back and stood on her feet. She walked back to her line on the court and bounced the ball up and down on the ground before throwing it up in the air and hitting it with a flat serve, exactly the way Harry had taught her. Her anger radiated from her as she slammed the ball with her racket and hit it with such force it went flying to the other end of the court but not before bouncing inside the square right by Vanya’s foot. 

Harry stood to his feet and pumped his fist into the air, “Holy shit!” Mitch exclaimed as Sarah cheered beside him. 

They were now at match point and Y/N had to win this next round if she wanted to win the entire game.

The tension thickened in the air as people sat on the edge of their seats to see who would come out on top. This time, it was Vanya’s turn to serve as she launched the ball into the air and hit it with her racket to Y/N’s side of the court.

As Y/N unleashed powerful serves and precise shots, Harry found himself captivated by her every move. With each grunt of exertion, each flex of her muscles, he couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Despite the shifting heads of the spectators around him as they followed the ball back and forth, his gaze remained fixed solely on her.

Every aspect of Y/N's play had him in a trance—the way her muscles rippled as she sprinted across the court, the intensity in her expression as she anticipated Vanya’s next move, the graceful sway of her hair with each swing of her racket.

But as Harry watched, something stirred within him. A warmth spread through his veins, igniting a fire deep within him. Suddenly, he felt a tightness in his shorts, a physical reaction to the raw power and determination radiating from Y/N on the court.

"Oh, fuck," Harry muttered under his breath, his heart racing as he glanced down and saw the undeniable bulge in his shorts. Panic surged through him, his mind reeling with embarrassment.

"What's wrong?" Mitch's voice cut through his thoughts, and Harry quickly lowered his drink to conceal his arousal.

“N-Nothing,” Harry forces a smile, “I need to use the bathroom.” He doesn’t wait for Mitch to respond as she pushes past everyone to get away from the crowd.

He walks quickly over to his car and jumps into the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He didn’t know what to do. He felt like he was thirteen years old after experiencing girls for the first time again. Was it wrong to rub himself off in the middle of a tennis match when all he was looking at was the girl who played his favourite sport better than anyone he had ever seen, dominating the game with her anger and intensity like she was a complete animal?

He couldn’t shake the image of her from his mind and his cock seemed to ache the more he thought about how beautiful she was on the court, completely in her element, anger and passion emitting from her. Every grunt and groan she made as she hit the ball with so much fervor had his head spiralling. 

He looked down and tried to will it away, he needed to get back out there to see her win the game. He thought of every disturbing thing he could possibly think of and even took out his phone to google the quickest way to get rid of an erection.

The excited yells of the crowd told him someone had won and he prayed he would return and see Y/N with the medal around her neck. 

After about ten minutes of taking deep breaths, he finally felt composed enough to leave his car. With a flustered face, he made his way back toward the court, silently praying for some kind of cosmic intervention to erase the embarrassing moment from his memory.

As he turned the corner, he spotted Mitch and Sarah engaged in conversation with Y/N, who was proudly wearing the gold medal around her neck. She had won - he knew she would. 

Y/N's eyes lit up as she noticed him, a wide smile spreading across her face as she proudly displayed her medal. Unable to resist, he grinned back in response.

Sweat glistened on her skin, her cheeks flushed with exertion, and delicate strands of hair framed her face. At that moment, she radiated beauty, and he couldn't deny the sudden surge of emotions that had slowly been weaving themselves into the fabric of his feelings ever since he had returned to Crestwood. 

If the past fifteen minutes were anything to go by, Harry knew this was more than just a game of tennis. 

He was in trouble.

. . .

People cheered as Y/N entered Harry’s apartment with Sarah at her side, holding beer cans in the air and patting her on the shoulder as she sifted through the crowds of people. S&M by Rhianna played over the speakers as the apartment that was previously empty was now filled up with student’s from Crestwood. 

“There she is,” Mitch’s voice yelled over the music, “Crestwood’s very own Serena Williams,”

“I wouldn’t go that far Mitch,” She chuckled, unable to stop herself from smiling so hard after the excitement of her first win. 

Y/N’s eyes scanned the room as she went in search of the one person she wanted to see whilst everyone fell into conversation around her. 

That’s when she saw him, leaning against the wall with a red solo cup in his hand. His hair was a tangled mess, and his body was adorned in a loose, white shirt, its u-neck revealing the inked pair of swallows beneath his collarbones and gold chain around his neck. On his legs, he wore a loose pair of black trousers.

Y/N held back a smile as she made her way over to him until she realised who he was talking to. 

Her face fell as she saw the angelic blonde, tanned and glowing like she’d just come back from a holiday somewhere south of the equator. 

Harry’s face lit up as Y/N approached until he realised what was going on.

“Hey,” He smiled, trying to distract her. 

“Where were you?” Y/N snapped her gaze towards him. 

“What do y’ mean? M right here,” He spoke, “You were incredible out there.”

“Who’s this?” Y/N ignored him, folding her arms and looking at the girl he was speaking to. Y/N knew exactly who she was but felt the need to act as though she had never seen her before. 

Harry hesitated for a moment before introducing her. “Y/N, this is Astrid.”

Astrid flashed a dazzling smile at Y/N, her demeanour friendly yet confident. “Congratulations on the win today, Y/N. I’m looking forward to our match in the semifinals.”

Harry's reaction was immediate. “What?” he stammered, clearly taken aback.

“You didn’t know?” Astrid asked, surprised. “Y/N and I will be facing off in the semifinals.”

Y/N grit her teeth and forced a smile, the two girls eyeing each other up and down as Harry’s eyes darted anxiously between them.

Now that Y/N was into the semi-finals her next opponent was Astrid Anderson, one of the best junior, female tennis players in the county. 

Who just so happened to be Harry’s ex-girlfriend.

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - part xi

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons and/or events

series: part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | ...

bonus: one, two, three

June 2-3, 2025

[Excerpt: True or False with Babolat Ambassador Y/N L/N] True or False – you’ve never won Wimbledon or the US Open

True, for now! Trying to change it this year. I did get to the final of Wimbledon two years ago, so hoping I can at least get there again.

True or False – Your favourite tv series is Abbott Elementary

Oooh, favourite tv series ever? I don’t know about that, that’s really difficult. But I do love it as one of my favourite tv series that’s currently on tv for sure. Especially because it's funny and low-stakes, but also still very real and touching.

True or False – Every tennis player also is an avid watcher of tennis

Definitely false. There’s a pretty clear divide between those of us who watch tennis for entertainment, and those of us who cannot stand it – because you can’t escape your need to analyse every single millisecond of a match. I’ll leave it up to you to guess which category I belong to.

True or False – you had a small background part in the movie Challengers

Ha, I wish!

True or False – Using the right, fresh balls makes all the difference in a championship match.

That’s actually true. The more you’ve used them and hit them over the course of a match, even in as much as 20 minutes the balls degrade. And so does the quality. It means you have to adjust your hitting style constantly, and that takes a lot of effort. It also depends on the surface a bit. Clay is a lot more physical than hard court, for example.

True or False – If you hadn’t become a tennis player, you would have wanted to be a location scout for movies.

How do you guys know that? Yeah, I just think it’d be such a cool and creative job. You’d get to travel a lot, which I get to do now as well – but you’d actually get to spend time exploring the place with a purpose in mind. I don’t know, I think capturing what the world looks like is so beautiful. Sometimes we forget just how beautiful it is, and just how precious our environment is.

True or False – your celebrity crush is Sebastian Stan

True. Has been since I first watched him in Once Upon A Time.

True or False – Your favourite racket is a Babolat Aero.

Hmmm trick question! I actually have my own modified version as of this year. It’s now available for people to pre-order – the Babolat Aero Pro L/N. I’m so excited to bring the racket that I’m using this tour to stores. It’s been a very rigorous process of designing and developing this racket to suit me the best, and give me the most feel and spin control as possible.

True or False – Your dream holiday destination is Japan.

True again. This year I actually got to spend my birthday there. It was absolutely wonderful, and also a complete surprise that my best friend had organised for me. I don't think anyone's ever given me such a thoughtful gift. I thought I was being dropped off at the airport, and instead we drove straight to Niigata for Sakura. I'm pretty sure I'll never forget just how breathtaking it was to be surrounded by so much beauty, and to share that with such special people who mean the world to me.

June 4-5, 2025

[Excerpt Max Fewtrell Twitch Stream, June 5th, 2025]

"Yeah, he is in Paris right now. What a life he leads, huh? Terrible. No, as much as I loved the Australian Open - I won't be going to the tennis this time. I'll be back to support Lando during his next race though. We do have our own lives, I know it might not look like it, but we do."

“Am I following the tournament? Yes I am, though I must say the atmosphere in a stadium is hard to replicate through a screen. It's such an intense sport. Really rooting for Y/N L/N of course.”

“If I have a favourite for the men? Ohh I can't really say. Let's first see who gets into the final, because it does take a while with tennis.”

“What else is coming from Quadrant? Quite a lot actually. It’s been very exciting, we’ve been working hard behind the scenes for a while. So just have to be patient for a little while longer chat, but I promise you it’ll be well worth the wait.”

June 6-8, 2025

A/N: omg so much has happened irl between previous chapter and this one, podium wins, the MET, there's a new pope, and i now have a new laptop woohoo. Next up in WSIIL: get in, we're going shopping with an increasingly unraveling y/n and loverboy lando :) :)

next part available now here

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

taglist (open): @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne @glow-ish @batsratswrites @blushmimi @colmathgames2 @esw1012 @sadiemack9

[daydreamgoddess14]

Sweat

Declan O'Hara x f!reader

(little mention of Tag x Rupert)

~1k words, no real warnings - the 'c' word is used once.

While I wait for my man Jack Lowden to return from war (filming season 6 of Slow Horses), I thought I'd dip my little toe into a very short Declan O'Hara one-shot 😬

If you're reading The Escape Artist, fear not, the final TWO chapters are coming this week! Yes, of course I do have other prompts to get on with, but I was in spin class last night, and every time my instructor shouted, "Ride, ride, ride" all I saw was Declan 😅 The moustache would make a wonderful handle as well 🤭

Another bead of sweat drips from your forehead onto the towel.

“Ride, ride, ride, ride, don't stop ladies,” the instructor, an Adonis of a man, coaches you through the pumping music. Next to you, Taggie blows a stray curl out of her face.

“This is torture,” she hisses through gritted teeth.

She isn't wrong.

The newly installed ‘Bicycle Hub’ has raised eyebrows at the local leisure centre, with few expected to actually attend.

The Hub overlooks the squash courts, not that you'd know.

They were so filled with cigarette smoke you could hardly see a thing at all.

From the front row of bikes, you had a prime view looking down.

Usually older gentlemen with portly stomachs and red wine noses who were one play away from a heart attack.

“Oh look, it's daddy.” Taggie peers down. “And Rupert.”

Even through the glowing pink caused by the exercise class you can see her blush.

The two men look up and catch you watching them.

A real shame you couldn't lip read.

Not that they'd be saying anything about Tag, Rupert wouldn't dare in front of Declan.

You were fair game though.

Taggie waves but you don't dare break your rhythm on the bike for fear you'd fall right off.

“Concentrate, ladies,” Adonis warns. “Left, right, left, left, right, right. Stay with the beat, ride, ride, ride.”

You tear your eyes away from the squash court and look back at your bike, regretting it instantly.

“My legs are killing me,” you mutter, feeling your thighs burn.

You go back to looking at the squash game Declan and Rupert are playing, it looks more like they're trying to hit each other with the ball rather than play to the rules.

Each of them roaring with laughter whenever they make contact.

“I'm sure that's not how you're supposed to play,” Taggie grumbles.

“Could be worse, they could be just hitting each other with the racket,” you suggest.

Your breath comes in short gasps now, your stamina rapidly declining.

The rhythmic sounds of the squash ball combine with the squeak of running shoes, the beat of the music, and the hum of the fixed wheels of the bike.

A cacophony of sounds.

You find yourself watching their game more intently, it powers you through the changes in resistance on the bike.

You tilt your head to brush your earlobe against your shoulder and catch another drip of sweat.

As you do so, another works its way down the side of your neck and down into your cleavage.

“And down, catch your breath. Next, we're going to run,” Adonis tells the class.

You let your legs slow down a little and take the opportunity to run the towel over your face and take a long drink of water.

Your chest heaves.

As you put your water bottle back on the machine, you automatically look again at the squash court, this time catching Declan watching you.

You notice the quick lift of his eyebrow as he stares.

He licks his lips slowly, deliberately, and then smiles.

“OK ladies, stand up -”

“On the bike?”

“Yes, madame, it's time to run.”

“I don't understand, I'll fall off!” You think it's Valerie Jones who's protesting, but you've yet to look away from Declan.

Holding his gaze, you do as Adonis asks and you stand up, straightening your legs on the pedals.

Even from this distance you can tell where he's looking.

Your tight lycra crop top pulls your breasts together and his eyes are drawn like a magnet.

When you lean forward on the bike, he wipes his hand over his mouth.

The next track starts building in momentum and so do you, each rotation of the wheels making you bounce a little more vigorously.

Neither of you has looked away yet, goodness knows where Rupert has gone.

Taggie is mercifully distracted, a tight frown of concentration on her face.

There's a wicked glint in Declan's eye and you tilt your head to the side, a silent question.

Whatever he's about to do in response, he doesn't.

Rupert is back, distracting him, talking to him.

He looks away at last, but you can tell it's under duress.

“Thank you ladies, great class for today!” Adonis is off the bike and leading his own round of applause.

You roll your eyes at Taggie and grimace.

“He's single! So I've heard,” she tells you with a giggle.

“No thanks, his biceps are huge! He'd suffocate me!”

You leave the class very much in need of a shower and as you make your way down to the changing rooms, you pass the squash courts.

Taggie's looking out for Rupert, you can tell.

Desperate for a moment alone with him.

You spot him first, by the water fountain, and nudge her in his direction.

His face lights up at the sight of her.

"Looks like you ladies have been getting all hot and sweaty,” he grins slyly.

You leave them to talk, and open the glass door to the court.

Taggie and Rupert are in full view of most of the leisure centre so he only has his words to charm with.

Inside the court, Declan has been watching you through the glass.

“Water?” You offer, holding out your bottle.

“Prefer whiskey,” he grins.

“So do I.”

“I'd also prefer an exercise that'll leave us both breathless," he says quietly.

There's a line you're about to cross but neither of you seems to care.

“So do I.” You repeat equally quietly.

“Sure I can find a much more comfortable seat for you as well.”

The lilt of his accent runs over your body.

He looks through the door but Taggie and Rupert are out of sight, for once, he doesn't seem to care.

He takes a step towards you, as if he's about to whisper in your ear.

Instead, he drags his tongue from your throat to your earlobe.

“You taste delicious.”

Your power of speech is non-existent.

Your hands shake as the adrenaline from the class and from his proximity mingle together.

He kisses your temple, your hairline damp with sweat.

“I think it's time to put a stop to this little game, don't you?” he murmurs.

You can only nod as your body trembles and your cunt clenches.

And then you hear Rupert in the atrium outside.

Declan takes a measured step away from you as Taggie arrives, though neither of you can stop staring.

“Ugh, let's go, I feel disgusting,” she pulls a face. Rupert clearly thinks quite the opposite.

“Yes, let's. Enjoy your game, gentlemen.” You smile brightly.

“I certainly am,” Declan responds, the low rumble of his laughter following you from the court.

You can still feel the heat of his stare as you pile into the car to leave.

You can still feel the weight of his body on yours as you climb into bed that night.

[lexiputellas]

The Silent Play - Chapter One

Baseline

Tennis.

Your whole life revolves around a fucking tiny little ball that has to hit the racket and make a point.

While people were making friends, dating, and building connections—you were playing.

You played every second of every day.

Vacations? No, sorry, you have to train.

Going out? No, sorry, you have a game.

That’s how your relationships became cold, short-lived, and usually lasting about as long as a rally.

And now, Wimbledon. Bloody fucking Wimbledon.

Except you’re not playing. A minor injury forced you out, so instead of being on the court where you belong, you’re here, sitting in the royal box like a spectator. Fantastic. Amazing. So fun.

This is your personal version of hell.

You slouch in your seat, arms crossed, already dreading the next few hours. Summer, your sister and manager, sits next to you, scrolling through her phone like she hasn’t just dragged you into this. Her name might be Summer, but she’s all winter—cold, sharp, and terrifying when necessary.

People start arriving late, and you sigh. Don’t people know basic manners?

You glance over, ready to judge, but then—

You see her.

A blonde. In a fucking suit.

She moves through the crowd like she’s completely unaware of the attention she’s drawing—or maybe she just doesn’t care. There’s a sharpness in the way she carries herself, in the way her gaze flicks over the crowd, seeing everything, revealing nothing.

You nudge Summer. "Who is that?"

She barely looks up. "Who?"

"The blonde."

"There are two blondes."

You exhale. "The one in a suit."

Summer finally looks, unimpressed. "Leah Williamson. She plays for Arsenal."

You glance back at Leah, then at Summer. "Since when do you know footballers?"

She shrugs. "Since I started dating one." Then, she narrows her eyes at you. "Why? Are you interested?"

You scoff, shoving her lightly. "Just curious."

She hums, unconvinced, while you casually pull out your phone and type Leah Williamson into Instagram.

Look at that. She follows you.

England captain. Euros winner. Footballer. You scroll, taking in the pictures—on the pitch, in training, with her team. Then you find a photo of her in another suit.

Sharp lines. Crisp tailoring. Effortless.

You scroll, maybe for too long, and when you glance up

Green eyes. Focused. Watching you.

And then—she smirks.

Not wide, not obvious—just the ghost of something at the corner of her lips, a flicker of amusement like she knows something you don’t.

Shit.

You turn back to your phone immediately, like that’s going to erase what just happened.

Summer lets out a quiet, evil laugh. "That was embarrassing for you."

"Shut up."

The match plays on, but your focus is shot. Every now and then, you sneak a glance, only to find Leah still perfectly at ease, like she’s in on a joke you haven’t figured out yet.

Leah Williamson.

You exhale, glancing at your phone, hovering your thumb over the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then—fuck it.

You follow her back.

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey author,

Loved your work! I have a request for a Max Verstappen fiction. Here's the idea:

Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

The Reader is a badass, known for her fiery press conferences and domination on the court, much like how Max is in racing. Despite being a power couple in front of the world, they are very vulnerable and weak for each other. They know the struggles both have been through—she understands the impact Max's childhood and his father, Jos, have had on him, and he knows the challenges she faces, including attacks and pressures from the media.

They are incredibly supportive of each other. Max attends all her Grand Slam matches, and she visits his races. They are deeply in love and very open with each other, understanding each other's feelings and experiences.

That's the type of story I have in mind. I hope you like it!

Best regards,

Anon.

Power Couple

Summary: Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

Song: Slow Down · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: I hardly had any ideas for this one but I tried my best! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

It's messy, chaotic, and punctuated by the sharp thwack of a tennis ball and the roar of a finely tuned engine. It’s the story of you and Max, a whirlwind that started when you were both just fifteen, a story that’s still unfolding in the dazzling glare of the spotlight.

You were fifteen and a force of nature on the tennis court, even back then. Your name was already whispered with respect in junior circuits. You carried a racquet like an extension of your arm, and your focus was so intense it was almost palpable.

That summer, your training brought you to a small, dusty tennis club nestled in the Dutch countryside, a far cry from the manicured lawns of Wimbledon, but the perfect place to hone your craft.

He was there too. Not on the court, but lurking near the chain-link fence, a lanky boy with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a mop of unruly brown hair perpetually falling into his face. You'd noticed him, of course.

How could you not? He was the only teenager there whose attention wasn't glued to the endless practice sessions. Instead, he seemed more interested in the growl of the beat-up scooter he’d arrived on.

One day, during a water break, you were staring down at the worn-out grip on your Wilson when he spoke.

"That's a good shot," he said, his voice still cracking with that awkward teen timbre.

You looked up, surprised, and saw him leaning against the fence, an almost shy smile playing on his lips. "You mean the forehand?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you hadn't quite shaken off.

He shrugged, his eyes dancing with something you couldn't quite place. "I don't know. All of them, I guess? You look like you're trying to kill the ball."

A chuckle escaped you. "It's called intensity."

"Yeah, well, I like it." He pushed off the fence and walked a little closer. "I'm Max."

"You know, I've noticed," you teased, a smirk spreading across your face. "Always lurking by the gate."

His grin widened, making him look younger and somehow much more approachable. "Lurking? I prefer… observing." He paused, then gestured towards your racket. “Do you think you could teach me to hit like that?”

And just like that, a friendship was born, as naturally as the changing of seasons. You didn't actually teach him to play tennis, you decided, though, that he was far more enthralled with the intricate mechanics of his racing kart, and you found yourself drawn to the way his eyes lit up whenever he spoke about the feeling of speed and control.

You spent the rest of your summer evenings not on the court, but tinkering with his kart in his garage, or racing against each other on the empty country roads, the roar of engines a stark contrast to the quiet thud of tennis balls you were used to.

You taught him a little about the precision and discipline you carried from your sport while he showed you how to embrace a more reckless, unbridled kind of passion.

As the weeks passed, those shared moments morphed into something deeper. One warm evening, after a long day at the track, you found yourselves lying on the grass, looking up at the stars.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and charged, until he turned his head, and his hand brushed against yours.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "I can't imagine not having you here. You're… unlike anyone I've ever met."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You had thought the same thing, again and again. "You're kinda different yourself, Verstappen," you whispered, your gaze fixed on his face.

He picked up your hand, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked, his stormy blue eyes searching yours.

You didn’t hesitate. You tilted your head slightly, and that soft, hesitant kiss was the start of something bigger than either of you could have imagined.

The next few years were a blur of teenage milestones, shared victories, and the quiet comfort of understanding each other. You traveled the world, following your dreams. You were winning Grand Slams.

You mastered the art of the backhand and the perfect serve, while he climbed the ranks in the world of Formula 1, learning the intricacies of high-speed racing and the relentless demands of the professional circuit.

You learned to navigate the complexities of a long-distance relationship, the bittersweet ache of goodbyes followed by the heady joy of reunions.

You’d meet in far-flung corners of the world, a stolen weekend in Monaco, a quick coffee in London, sharing late-night calls across different time zones, finding solace in each other’s voices.

You learned to listen, not just with your ears, but with your heart, understanding the unspoken language of ambition and dedication, of relentless pursuit, from someone who truly understood what was involved.

He was there in the stands when you clinched your first Wimbledon title, his applause echoing louder than the roar of the crowd, his pride radiating across the stadium.

You, in turn, were glued to the screen, every race day a nail-biting affair as you chanted his name like a magic spell. You celebrated his wins with unabashed joy, commiserated over his losses with a fierce loyalty that only a childhood best friend, a lover, could offer.

Your life now is a whirlwind of press conferences, sponsor obligations, and the unwavering pressure to stay at the top.

You glide across the court, a graceful yet powerful force, your focus sharp and unflinching, yet when you catch a glimpse of Max in the crowd, you allow yourself a secret smile, a silent reminder of your shared history, of the kid he was all those years ago. He is a reminder of that simpler time.

There are moments, like now, after another grueling day on the court, when you close your eyes and let the roar of the crowd fade away, replaced by the rumble of his scooter and the memory of his first shy smile.

You might be number one in the world of tennis, a name whispered in awe, but you know, the best title you've ever earned is his girlfriend. And that, you think, is the greatest prize of all.

And, as you’re getting ready for the next press conference, you're thinking of the next time you see him. The thought has you smiling again. . . .

The roar of the crowd is a familiar symphony, a constant hum beneath your focused breath. You adjust the headband, the familiar terry cloth a comfort against the glare of the stadium lights. Wimbledon’s Centre Court is your kingdom, the lush green grass your canvas.

You’re leading 5-3 in the third set against Elena Rybakina, a formidable opponent, your every move calculated, precise. A serve, a blur of motion – ace. The roar erupts, a wave of sound that threatens to lift you off your feet.

You know you've got this, the title within your grasp. You’ve worked for this, bled for this, every single grueling practice session, every sacrifice, all culminate in this moment.

You win the game, the match, and the crowd goes wild. The air crackles with energy, the taste of victory sweet on your tongue. You shake hands with Rybakina, a brief, respectful acknowledgment of the battle fought, then raise your arms in a triumphant arc.

Another Wimbledon title under your belt. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the familiar mix of elation and exhaustion. It’s a high like no other, but underneath that surge of victory there's another feeling, a quiet hum of anticipation.

You know who’s waiting for you.

The post-match media scrum is a blur - flashes, questions, microphone in your face. You handle it all with your usual icy grace, your well-honed responses a shield against the endless prodding.

You’re used to it; it comes with the territory of being the best. But you’re itching to escape its glare. You see your agent, Sarah, giving you a quick nod, and you know it's your cue. A few more polite words, another practiced smile, and then you're slipping away, finally free of the spotlight.

You find him in the players' lounge, perched on a sofa, his eyes tracking yours as you walk in. Max. He stands as you approach, a smile playing on his lips that makes your heart do that familiar little flip.

The harsh lines that often harden his face are softened when he looks at you. He gathers you into his arms, his embrace both fierce and gentle.

"You were incredible," he whispers against your hair, his voice roughened with emotion. "An absolute beast out there."

"Thanks, you," you murmur, breathing in his scent, the familiar comfort of it grounding you after the storm of the match. You pull back slightly, your gaze catching his. “Did you watch the whole thing? Even with your schedule?”

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. You were destroying her. Honestly, you're the most dangerous person I know." You laugh at that, a genuine laugh that’s rare these days, a laugh that only he can draw out of you.

Later, back at the house in Monaco, you sit side-by-side on the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea shimmering under the moonlight. He holds your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your knuckles.

In this serene space, the world outside fades away. The tension that always seems to cling to you both loosens, the relentless pressure of your careers receding into the background.

"You know," Max begins, his voice quiet, "sometimes I still can't believe it. You, the best there is. Not just in the world, but the best there could ever be.”

You turn to him, your eyes searching his. "And you?" you ask him, “World Champion twice? Sometimes I can't believe you’re not some superhuman entity.”

He squeezes your hand, his gaze unwavering. "We both push ourselves to the edge, and beyond," he says. "It's what makes us who we are, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," you agree, leaning your head against his shoulder. "But it's also why we need each other." The silence that follows is comfortable, a space filled with shared understanding, a knowing that transcends words.

The days that follow are a brief reprieve, stolen moments away from the relentless cycle of competition. You spend them walking along the coast, laughing, rediscovering the simplicity of just being together.

But the respite is always fleeting, the demands of your respective careers always looming on the horizon. You’re due to fly out for a tournament in Washington D.C. in a week, and Max is scheduled for a race in Hungary two weeks after that.

The night before you leave, the atmosphere is thick with a quiet anticipation. You’re curled up on the sofa, your favourite movie playing softly on the TV, but neither of you is paying much attention.

Max pulls you closer, his hand slipping beneath your t-shirt, tracing the curve of your back. His skin is always warm against yours, a familiar comfort.

"I wish you didn't have to go," he murmurs, his voice husky. "I hate being away from you."

You turn to face him, your fingers cupping his cheek. "I wish I didn't either, but we know how this goes. We’re just two very busy, very overachieving maniacs.”

He smiles, a flash of his boyish charm. "Yeah, but that's why I love you. You’re as insane as I am." He leans in, his lips finding yours, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist.

The morning you leave, the goodbyes are short, a quick kiss on the lips and a promise to call every day. You watch his car disappear down the driveway, a small ache settling in your chest.

It's the same ache you feel every time you part ways, a reminder of your connection, a reminder of what you have to come back to.

The tournament in D.C. is a brutal battle. You're seeded first, as always, and the pressure is immense. You win the first few rounds with your usual dominance, but then come up against a rising star, a young American player who pushes you to your absolute limit.

The match goes to five sets, each point a war of attrition. You’re exhausted by the end, but you win, the taste of victory bittersweet.

That night, you’re in the hotel room, the city lights twinkling outside your window. You’re on a call with Max, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

He’s telling you about his practice sessions, the improvements he’s made to his car, and you’re listening intently, your mind drifting away from the exhaustion and the pressure.

“You were so close out there,” he says suddenly, “your match was insane, I was so nervous.”

“You always are,” you giggle, picturing his intense face watching your match on the TV. “Just like how I feel every race you’re in.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, the hum of the call a gentle lull. “I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice soft, “you always make me so proud.”

“And I you,” you murmur, a lump forming in your throat.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you feel like you're home again, all the way across the world.

“Love you too, always.”

You fall asleep with his voice still ringing in your ears. The next morning, you wake up to a phone call you weren't expecting. It’s Sarah, your agent, and her voice is strained.

"There's been an accident," she says, her voice barely a whisper, "Max... he was in a crash during practice."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. The room spins, the world blurring at the edges. Your breath catches in your chest, a cold dread gripping your heart.

"How bad?" you manage to ask, your voice shaking.

"We don't know yet," she says, the uncertainty in her voice doing little to assuage the terror that’s now flooding you. "You need to come home, now."

The next few hours are a chaotic blur. You’re on autopilot, racing through airports and boarding planes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You barely register the faces around you, the sounds of the world muted, as if you're underwater.

All you can think of is Max, his face, his smile, his voice. The thought of losing him is unbearable.

You arrive in Monaco in the dead of night. The house feels cold and empty, the silence deafening. You make your way to the hospital, your every step heavy, the weight of your fear pressing down on you.

You find him in a small, sterile room, his body connected to monitors. He’s pale and still, his face almost hidden by the shadows. You feel like you’ve been ripped open, the pain so sharp it steals your breath.

You rush to his side, your fingers reaching for his hand. His skin is cold, but his grip tightens around yours, a small, reassuring squeeze.

His eyes flutter open, and he looks at you, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. "You’re here," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Max,” you breathe, a sob catching in your throat. Tears are streaming down your face as you gently cup his face. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He smiles weakly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “I knew you would be,” he murmurs, his eyes closing again, “always, even when I’m an idiot driving a race car.”

You don’t say anything, you just sit beside him, holding his hand, and watching him breathe, a silent promise passing between you, a bond forged in childhood, strengthened by shared triumphs and endured through deep pain - a love that would always, always persevere. . . .

The scent of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel clings to him even before the door shuts. You hear the familiar click of the lock, and then the heavier thud of his boots hitting the tiles of the hallway.

You’re sprawled on the couch, a worn-out copy of “Open” by Andre Agassi resting on your chest. Jimmy, the ginger behemoth, is purring like a motorboat on your left thigh, while Sassy, the sleek black panther, is curled into a perfect ebony question mark at your feet.

They’ve been your constant companions during the lull before your next tournament.

“Hey,” Max’s voice is low, tired, but a ripple of warmth underlies it. You open your eyes, the intense afternoon sun filtering in through the tall living room windows making the world outside a blur of gold and green.

You push Agassi off your chest, feeling the book’s weight leave a slight indent.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, the Red Bull logo on his polo a vibrant dash of color against the muted tones of the room.

He looks drained, the lines around his eyes slightly more pronounced than you remember from the last time he was home. You know those lines; they’re etched by the relentless pressure of Formula 1, the constant travel, the unending pursuit of milliseconds.

He kneels beside the couch, reaching out a hand to scratch behind Jimmy's ears. The cat pushes his head into Max’s palm, a rumbling purr vibrating through his frame.

“They’ve missed you,” you murmur, running a hand down Sassy’s velvety back.

Max glances up at you, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused, are a little softer now, a touch vulnerable and definitely possessive. “Not as much as I missed you,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on your face.

You feel the familiar warmth spread through your chest. It's crazy how after all these years, the simple act of him looking at you like that can still make your heart do somersaults.

He settles onto the couch, his long legs stretching out and nearly touching your feet. He pulls you into his side, and you nestle in, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting lullaby.

The tension in his body is palpable. “Bad race?” you ask softly, tracing small circles on his arm with your fingertip.

He sighs, a gust of air escaping his lips. “Third,” he replies, the single word carrying a weight that you understand completely. “Just… not good enough, you know?”

You nod, because you do know. You've had your share of crushing defeats, the sting of a missed shot, the frustration of an opponent playing out of their skin. You’ve both built entire empires on a foundation of ambition, a constant striving for perfection, despite the inherent impossibility of it.

You know how those ‘not good enough’ days can feel.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” you say, your head resting against his shoulder. There’s no need for platitudes or empty reassurances. He knows that you know.

A wry smile touches his lips. “Easy for you to say. You’re basically untouchable on the court right now.”

You chuckle, a low, confident sound that ripples through his frame. “Untouchable? Please. I just know how to make my opponents sweat a little.”

You raise your eyebrows, a mischievous glint in your eyes. He is so well aware of the press conferences where you don't mince your words.

He lets out a genuine laugh then, the sound is music to your ears. It’s raw and real. “That's the understatement of the century,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The way you went off on that reporter after your French Open semi-final was legendary."

You roll your eyes dramatically, though you can't suppress the grin that spreads across your face. “He asked if I was scared of my opponent. Scared. As if. I’d rather face a thousand of those volleys than go through another interview like that.”

He pulls you closer, his arm tightening around you. "You're fierce," he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. "On and off the court. It's... it's one of the things I love about you.”

“And you’re terrifying behind the wheel,” you tease, knowing that a lot of his race opponents are afraid of him on the track.

He chuckles again, a low rumble against your ear. “And you love that too,” he says, the teasing note in his voice back.

You don’t bother denying it. He knows you too well. You know him too well. You’ve built something that is so incredibly strong because it was always built together. You’ve seen each other through the highs and lows, the wins and losses, the triumphs and the heartbreaks.

You’ve navigated the pressures of fame, the relentless scrutiny, the isolating nature of being at the top – together. You were just kids when it started, two teenagers with big dreams and even bigger personalities.

You fell in love navigating the ups and downs of life, and you grew up together, which made things that much stronger.

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the unspoken language that only two people who have known each other for so long can share. You can feel the tension slowly leaving him, as if your presence is a balm to his weary soul.

“Tournament soon?” he asks, his voice muffled against your hair.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Dubai. In a week.” You know the time change between Dubai and Europe will be brutal, but you’ve become accustomed to that aspect of your career.

He lifts his head and looks at you, his gaze intense. “You’ll crush them,” he says with absolute certainty.

You smile, the confidence in his voice a tangible thing. “Just like you’re going to leave them all in the dust next race, huh?”

He grins, that familiar flash of competitive fire returning to his eyes. “You know it.”

You trace the line of his jaw, your fingers lingering on the slight stubble. You could spend hours like this, just the two of you, wrapped up in each other’s presence, the noise of the world fading away.

There’s a vulnerability in him that only you get to see, a softness that he hides from the cameras, the reporters, the rivals. And in return, he gets to see a side of you that very few have been privy to, the quiet tenderness that lies beneath the fiery exterior.

“Want to order some takeaway?” you ask, the thought of cooking suddenly feeling like a monumental task.

“Pizza?” he suggests, his eyes already sparkling with the thought.

“Only if it has pineapple,” you tease, knowing that it is the most controversial thing you could possibly say.

Max groans, throwing his head back against the couch. “You are absolutely going to be the death of me,” he says, but the smile on his face belies his words.

You laugh, the sound light and free. You lean in, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s the taste of home, a place where you are both just Max and you, where the pressures of the world are just whispers in the distance.

You know that outside this space, you are both world-class athletes with unwavering determination, but in each other’s arms, you are just two people who grew up together. Who fell in love.

Who, despite the relentless demands of your careers, will always find their way back to each other. You are, after all, each other’s constant. You are, and will always be, each other’s home.

The roar of the engine was a familiar lullaby, a sound that had been a constant soundtrack to your life since you were kids, perched on the sidelines of karting tracks, watching Max whiz by in a blur of red and orange.

Now, instead of a flimsy kart, you were strapped into a beast of a car, the smell of hot rubber and high-octane fuel filling your nostrils. You glanced at the familiar, focused profile of Max beside you, the set of his jaw a testament to his concentration.

This was supposed to be a fun exercise, a publicity stunt dreamed up by Red Bull’s marketing department – the world’s number one tennis player, and the reigning Formula One Champion, taking a joyride. Except, this wasn’t a joyride.

This was a terror ride, and you were pretty sure your heart was currently trying to stage a coup and escape from your chest.

“Max,” you started, your voice a little too high pitched, a far cry from the confident, booming voice that usually echoed through stadium press boxes. “You know I’m used to your speed, right? On the track, where it's meant to be, not on some random circuit at 300 km/h.”

He didn’t answer, just a subtle twitch of his lips hinting at a suppressed grin. You gripped the grab handle on your side of the car so hard your knuckles turned white.

It was no secret that Max, much like you on the tennis court, thrived on pushing boundaries. He was a master of controlled chaos on the track, and right now, you weren’t so sure about the "controlled" part.

The car accelerated, forcing you back into your seat. You let out a yell, a mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through you.

You were used to controlling your own trajectory, predicting your opponent’s next move, the satisfying thump of a perfectly placed serve. This, this was utterly out of your hands, at the mercy of Max’s foot on the accelerator pedal.

“Max! Verdomme! Slow down!” You bellowed, resorting to Dutch as your carefully constructed composure shattered into a million pieces. You could feel the g-force pressing against you, throwing your head against the headrest as he took a corner at an impossible speed.

You braced yourself, bracing your hands against the dashboard, trying to find something solid to cling to.

You could hear him chuckling, the sound muffled but distinct. You could practically see the mischievous glint in his eyes, even though you were looking straight at the dashboard.

“What, is the little tennis star scared?” He teased, his voice laced with amusement.

He downshifted, the revs of the engine screaming higher, and you swore you felt your stomach try to migrate up into your throat.

“Scared?! I’m not scared!” You shouted back, partially for his benefit, mostly for yours. “I’m just… concerned about the structural integrity of this car. And my very delicate internal organs!” You knew you sounded pathetic, not the self-assured athlete the world knew and feared, but you couldn’t help it.

This was Max Verstappen, after all. He had a unique way of bringing out your most ridiculous, human side.

He laughed again, a full, genuine laugh this time, the kind that made your heart flutter even while your stomach was performing gymnastics.

He glanced over at you, a grin playing on his face. “Relax, schatje. I have it under control.”

And maybe, just maybe, you did believe him, for a split second anyway. Then he slammed on the gas and you screamed again, a string of Dutch curses pouring out of your lips as you gripped the headrest with an iron fist.

Each turn was a rollercoaster, each acceleration a punch to your gut. You found yourself cursing in Dutch, English, and even a little bit of French, a linguistic mashup fuelled by sheer terror.

You caught glimpses of the blur outside, the landscape a streaks of green and brown. You tried to focus on breathing, trying to regain a semblance of control over your runaway emotions, but every time he hit the accelerator, you lost it again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, or perhaps just a few minutes of extreme adrenaline, the car slowed, and pulled into a stop. You were slumped back in your seat, a sweaty, disheveled mess.

“That was… an experience,” you managed, your voice still a bit shaky.

He turned to you, his eyes sparkling as he gave you a wide, triumphant grin. “Fun, right?”

You almost laughed, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “Fun? Max, I think I aged at least five years in that car.” You reached up and felt your pulse, which was still trying to break free.

He tilted his head, the playful gleam still dancing in his eyes. “But you said you're used to my speed."

You threw your hands up. “Yes, but I didn’t know you’d be trying to scare me, you… absolute menace.”

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in your chest, and then reached over and undid your seatbelt. As he did, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Maybe just a little.”

You felt yourself blush, despite the fact that you were also on the verge of throttling him. As he stepped out of the car, you took a moment to collect yourself, smoothing your clothes and trying to appear somewhat pulled together.

As you reached up, your fingers brushed something small and hard attached to the car’s dashboard. It was a camera, aimed directly at you.

Your eyes widened, and then everything clicked into place. The teasing laughter, the exaggerated acceleration, the playful comments – it had all been an elaborate, incredibly mischievous ploy.

You burst out laughing, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that echoed around the open space. You couldn't help it. It was absurd, ridiculous, and completely, utterly Max.

You covered your face with your hands, still laughing. He watched you, his eyes sparkling, a smile playing on his lips.

“Did you get all of that?” you exclaimed, still chuckling. “The screaming in multiple languages? The death grips on the dashboard?"

He shrugged, pretending to look innocent, but the smirk on his face told another story. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, your voice laced with amusement rather than anger.

“Only for you,” he replied, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

You lowered your hands, a smile now playing on your lips. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? That you would never just do a normal lap with me.”

He took a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “Where’s the fun in normal, liefje?”

You knew he was right. Normal was boring. And as much as the terror of the hot lap had made you want to wring his neck, you also wouldn't trade it for anything.

It was another reminder of the chaotic dance you and Max had always been in, a dance of adrenaline, teasing, and a love that ran as deep as the engine roar that had been the background to your lives.

This was your Max, and despite your near-death experience, you wouldn't have him any other way. You stepped out of the car, ready to face the world, and whatever else he decided to throw your way. The camera might have captured your terrified screams, but it had missed the grin that was now plastered across your face.

You were ready for your next match but you were also ready for whatever chaos Max decided to unleash next.

Life with him was never boring, and you wouldn't have it any other way. . . .

The crisp December air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, the familiar rumble of Max's engine fading behind you. You pull your coat tighter, adjusting your beanie, a small smile playing on your lips.

The holidays. A welcome respite from the relentless pressure of the tennis circuit. A chance to breathe, to ground yourself before the Australian Open looms. And, most importantly, time with Max.

He's already by the padel court, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he bounces a ball. Lando and Charles are there too, bickering about something trivial, their usual competitive energy already buzzing.

“Took you long enough, slowpoke,” Max teases, tossing the ball to you.

“Traffic,” you retort, catching it easily. “Besides, someone had to pack the snacks, didn’t they?”

Lando groans dramatically. “Snacks? You brought snacks? This is serious competition, woman!”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of your on-court persona flickering through. “Oh, I thought this was just a friendly get-together. Unless you’re scared, Lando?”

He splutters, Charles chuckling beside him. “Scared? Of you? Please. Just wait until I unleash my padel prowess.”

Max wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Don’t listen to him, liefje. We’ll crush them.”

That Dutch endearment always makes you melt, and a genuine smile spreads across your face. He knows exactly how to disarm you.

The game starts, and the air is filled with the thwack of the ball, playful taunts, and the occasional groan of exertion. You and Max move with a practiced synchronicity, years of playing (and bickering) together evident in your easy communication.

Max is surprisingly good at padel, his reflexes honed by years of racing, and you find yourself relying on his power, setting him up for winning shots.

“That’s cheating! You have your wife on your team,” Lando grumbles, wiping sweat from his brow after another point you and Max win.

“Jealous, are we?” you retort, grinning. “Maybe you should find yourself a tennis champion girlfriend.”

Charles snorts. “Good luck with that. Finding someone who can keep up with you is a challenge.”

You playfully shove Charles’ shoulder. “I’m not that intimidating.”

Max squeezes your hand. “Oh, you are. Especially when you give those death stares on court.”

He's right, of course. You can be ruthless. You have to be. The pressure to stay on top is immense, the media constantly scrutinizing every move, every word. The expectation is suffocating sometimes.

Later, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the court, you’re sitting on the bench, catching your breath.

The score is ridiculously lopsided in yours and Max’s favor. Lando and Charles have conceded defeat, blaming everything from the altitude to the snack selection.

Max sits beside you, his arm draped around your shoulders. “You were amazing out there,” he says, his voice soft. “Like always.”

“So were you,” you reply, leaning into him. “You know, for a race car driver.”

He laughs, a warm, comforting sound. “It's all about reflexes, liefje. And a killer instinct.”

He understands that killer instinct in you, the drive to win, the unwavering focus. He sees it because he possesses it too.

It binds you together, this shared understanding of the relentless pursuit of excellence, the sacrifices required, the price you both pay.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes searching yours. “With everything… the media, the pressure. Are you okay?”

It's a question he asks often, a constant check-in, a reminder that he’s there, always. It's a tenderness he rarely shows the world, a vulnerability reserved only for you.

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s tough. The whispers, the judgment… sometimes it feels like I'm living under a microscope.”

“I know,” he says, his voice laced with empathy. “They’re brutal. They try to tear you down because they’re jealous of what you’ve achieved.”

He knows what it’s like to be under that kind of scrutiny, to have every mistake magnified, every victory questioned. He lived it his entire life, his father's relentless expectations and the constant pressure to perform.

You trace a pattern on his jeans with your finger. “It’s different for you, though. You have the car, the team… you’re surrounded by people who support you, who believe in you.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm. “And you don’t?”

You look up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Of course, I do. But it’s… lonely at the top. Everyone wants something from you. It’s hard to know who to trust.”

He understands that too. The isolation that comes with success, the constant questioning of motives.

“You have me,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You always have me. And I know it’s not the same, but Lando and Charles… they care about you too. We all see how hard you work, how much you dedicate yourself to your sport.”

He pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you. “Don’t let them break you, liefje. You’re stronger than they think. Stronger than you even give yourself credit for.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, a reminder of your strength, your resilience. He sees you, truly sees you, the fierce competitor and the vulnerable woman beneath.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s just… sometimes it gets overwhelming.”

He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Then let me carry some of the weight. That’s what I’m here for.”

The sun has almost completely disappeared, and the air is getting colder. Lando and Charles are packing up their things, their boisterous energy subdued.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Lando calls out. “We’re heading back. You coming?”

You look at Max, a silent question in your eyes.

He squeezes your hand again. “Go. I’ll stay a little longer. I want to watch the stars.”

You nod, knowing he needs the quiet, the solitude. He finds peace in the vastness of the night sky, a reminder that his problems, his pressures, are small in the grand scheme of things.

You stand up, giving Max one last kiss. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

As you walk away, you glance back at him. He’s sitting on the bench, his head tilted back, gazing at the stars. In that moment, he looks so young, so vulnerable.

The weight of the world, the expectations of millions, seem to melt away, leaving only a man searching for solace in the vastness of the universe.

You know you would do anything for him, fight anyone who dared to hurt him. You are his anchor, just as he is yours.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, still staring at the stars. You join him, slipping under the blanket, pressing close to his side.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your voice soft.

He lets out a long sigh. “Just… everything. The season, the pressure, the expectations.”

You reach out and take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “You’re going to be okay, Max. You’re the best. You always have been.”

He turns to you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and tenderness. “And you? Are you going to be okay?”

You smile, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “With you by my side? Always.”

You lean in and kiss him, a long, slow kiss that speaks of years of shared history, of unspoken understanding, of unwavering love.

In that moment, under the vast expanse of the starry sky, you are just two people, connected by a bond that transcends the pressures of fame and the demands of the world.

You are simply Max and you, a team, a partnership, a love that has endured the test of time and the scrutiny of the world. And that, you realize, is all that truly matters. . .

[kashverse]

𝓗ow the 呪術廻戦 men play tennis

⪩⪨ ✶ no reader gender specified as these are character headcanons. featuring ♡ modern au! jjk boys (gojo, nanami, toji, geto, sukuna, choso)  ✿ ⪩⪨ good morning to all the tennis players….the rest of you all, good morning i guess

amongst the many hobbies of your beautiful stay-at-home husband, one of them was, surprisingly, tennis. nanami carries himself with such grace, he probably would have received 16 missed calls from zendaya asking him to be part of the next challengers movie. banana bread by night, tennis by day… what a man! the type to make you fresh orange juice with pulp in the morning and then go outside to serve aces so effortlessly, it makes professional players question their entire careers. he doesn't even need a coach—he learns purely through vibes and sheer elegance. he steps onto the court, does a couple of stretches, and suddenly it's like watching poetry in motion. you don’t know how he does it, but you're not about to question a man who balances a perfect backhand with making you the softest, fluffiest pancakes in the morning.

toji, on the other hand, has the raw power for tennis but none of the coordination. his idea of a "soft" rally is launching the ball into orbit, and if you ask him to do a drop shot, he’ll drop the entire racket instead. but he gets the hang of it eventually—almost a full year later, when everyone else has already moved on to their next hobby. now he’s just waiting for wimbledon season to roll around so he can finally convince everyone to play with him again. poor thing. you can find him standing outside the court with his racket, looking like a stray dog waiting to be let inside.

choso, meanwhile, is a badminton boy through and through, so tennis was an uphill battle for him, but he coped. kinda. his muscle memory betrays him every time, so he ends up flicking his wrist too hard or just standing in place, wondering why the ball isn’t as light as a shuttlecock. he also keeps accidentally playing doubles rules in singles matches and gets fouled for stepping inside the court mid-serve. but he tries his best, and that's what counts. bless his heart.

sukuna is… passionate. let's just leave it at that. he swings the racket like he's trying to destroy all his opps along with it, and any unfortunate soul who dares to play against him ends up fearing for their life. every ball he hits sounds like gunfire, and the courts have a dedicated "sukuna damage fund" because he’s broken so many rackets, fences, and possibly the willpower of a few umpires. people gift him new rackets on special occasions, not because they care about his game but because it’s a public safety issue at this point.

there’s also gojo. the man who buys everything you need for the aesthetic—matching outfits, the latest high-end racket, sweatbands in colors that complement his eyes—and then plays exactly one round before heading home to make a five-second reel with some awful text like, “pov: you're a tennis typa guy 🎾.” if you're lucky, he might stick around to take photos of the rest of you suffering in the heat, but that's about it. his true talent lies in making sure he looks good enough to make people think he plays, even though he barely does.

and finally, there's geto, the only one who can match up to nanami. you've heard of a work husband, but now get ready for a tennis court husband. that’s exactly what they are. they're not just playing tennis—they're engaging in a gentleman’s duel of skill, patience, and sheer endurance. their matches go on for hours, both of them moving with such perfect form it feels like watching a live-action sports anime. they don’t even trash-talk, they just exchange knowing looks that somehow carry entire paragraphs of meaning. everyone else just sits on the sidelines, drinking water and waiting for them to finally finish. at some point, someone suggests making popcorn, because at this rate, they’re going to be here all day. honestly, they probably deserve their own rivals to lovers arc, but no one wants to say it out loud.

[cowboyschumi]

MUSE

Summary: Oscar is known for being bad at padel, which is why he tries other hobbies, like photography. Now, he clearly needs something to take photos of.

Author's note: Oscar trying to play paddel 🤏

I'm a huge fan of taking inspiration from songs, so you can listen to this. Don't forget to enjoy the reading and show some love. <3

Warnings: None ig.

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COWBOYSCHUMI | 2025 All rights reserved. Do not copy, translate, or upload on other platforms.

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Oscar had to be grateful for being that good of a driver. Man, he was really bad at other sports. Everyone pointed it out and made fun of him, some people even pitied him or found it cute. He even tried golfing, but that racket was his last straw. He was a bit frustrated, but Oscar wasn’t the type to get frustrated and give up. He just accepted the fact that he wasn’t gifted enough.

His Instagram was— for his luck because he wasn't a media guy— managed by a social media professional, who made him posts and even took charge of taking pictures. Yes, none of his dumps, captions, or stories were posted by his own hands, which was crazy. He wanted some sort of control over that, after all, he had a voice and a platform. Not taking advantage of that would be a shame, besides there was no fun and genuine part if he wasn't the one behind his Instagram. So he decided to take it more seriously, it made his brain hurt in the most untolerable ways but he started to post more, engage with his fans.

Instagram dumps are such a religious thing for some people, he wasn't in that group until now. Having a picture perfect Instagram would let people have more connection with the places, his interests— perceive him differently and not some boring and flat boy with not much to say.

Like any driver, he had a stylist, a PR team, and other fancy stuff—which he didn’t like much because the main focus was on him, physically. His content was different now; it was full of sunsets, yachts, cars, and food pictures. He had to thank his team for lending him a professional camera—it made the quality ten times better.

"It's a lost cause." Oscar spoke as he carelessly dried his hair with a towel.

You vividly remember the first time he stepped into one of your classes—the typical shy kid who barely spoke. Other drivers came along with him, doing most of the talking, but they weren’t consistent in attending. For them, padel was just a way to kill time. Oscar, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about it—from the size of the court to executing the perfect shot with his racket. A few weeks after his first class, he started booking lessons on his own, demanding more focus and dedication.

He came around twice a week, and seeing him so often, you quickly grew close. So it wasn’t surprising to find him frequently emerging from the showers at the padel club. You had even learned to tolerate his wannabe tennis grunts when he hit the ball. At this point, you had already seen the worst of him.

"You’re just being hard on yourself. Not everything has to be perfect."

Like in any common locker room, there was a bench where people placed their clothes after showering. You sat there as you two talked.

No matter how comfortable you were around Oscar, you respected him, so you made a point of not looking at his shirtless torso.

"Don't give me a pity speech. I’ve heard enough of that." He really did sound tired of hearing it. But it was true—no one should be too hard on themselves for not meeting their highest expectations. Striving for perfection in everything wasn’t normal. Oscar’s mindset was too rigid, and being optimistic felt like an impossible task for him.

"Webber told me you started… photography? He even sounded worried about what you might do with that." Chuckles and laughter echoed through the warm changing room.

"Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty great. Still got a lot to work on," he admitted sincerely, making that classic uncertain face he always did when he wasn’t sure about something. His facial expressions were always amusing. "I got bored of photographing the plants on my balcony at home. Took some photos of Lando, and Hattie doesn’t even want the lens near her."

Laughter filled the room again—it felt like a comedy show at this point. But when it faded, you exchanged a tense glance, as if communicating telepathically. A mischievous smirk lit up his face.

"No." Your answer was immediate and firm, anticipating what was coming.

"I haven’t even said anything!" He raised his hands in mock innocence, his guilty smile still in place. Oh, you knew him too well.

"I won’t. I’m not photogenic."

"Please, just one time."

Oscar always swore on one-time things. But when something felt good, you tended to repeat it. He knew exactly how to take advantage of your kindness, always asking for harmless favors—because, in the end, you never said no to him.

————————————————————————

And there you were, in his Monaco apartment, on a morning when rain was pouring outside. Oscar always pointed out the differences between his current lifestyle and the one he had in Australia, the daily longing for home. That small place in Europe had its charm, and he wouldn’t complain, but he missed the wide-open spaces, the warmer weather, and even his mom’s cooking. Now he lived on the highest floor of the busiest avenue, in a cramped apartment so small that he barely had space to walk around.

"I brought donuts and coffee," You announced while cleaning your boots on the entrance mat.

"Cool, thank you. Would you mind sitting by the window? The light is majestic." His attention was focused on his camera, probably adjusting some tricky settings.

"Already bossing around?" Unbelievable. The kid already thought he was a professional photographer, giving orders and having the worst attitude.

You had a big trench coat on, surprisingly still soaked after the unstoppable rain. And it kept coming—people still struggling with their umbrellas, cars almost floating down the street. That’s what you could see from how high his apartment was.

The brown-eyed boy placed his face behind his huge, intimidating camera, yet somehow, you didn’t feel intimidated by it—after all, he was the one taking the photos. But then, an unexpected expression of discontent crossed his face, confusing you. Your brows furrowed instantly, maybe you weren’t pretty enough to be photographed. You relaxed your body, stopped posing—that was it. At least you tried.

"Take it off." Oscar’s index finger pointed at my jacket, his face continued hidden behind the camera. The view was limited, but his expression remained unreadable—no emotion, all seriousness. Clueless.

"It's freezing cold outside, you're insane." Despite your protest, you did as he told you—just like always, hating yourself for it. Your body leaned against the nearly immense open window, the breeze sneaked through with ease, making your skin shiver. Your face card wasn’t your main attribute, maybe your toned padel body was. Still, you couldn’t quite grasp why he chose you, considering all the contacts and friends he had. Favors were an unbreakable thing between you two, but, of course, you never owed him a thing.

A few more adjustments, and his camera was down again, poker face still tattooed all over him. With slow, measured steps, he walked closer until he stood right in front of you. His mannerisms were always soft and gentle, like he had been written by a woman. Not exactly naive, but delicate enough to make you feel safe and comfortable in his presence.

Oscar set your coat aside, draping it over his vintage couch. His whole place had that aesthetic. You especially loved the Abu Dhabi carpet that stretched across the floor, its deep reddish tones were delightful. His eyes couldn’t help but dart down your slim silhouette. Your white sleeveless shirt, drenched from the rain, clung to your curves, turning entirely translucent against your skin.

Finally, your eyes connected, and you desperately searched for answers, whether in his gaze or through words. The driver was entirely focused on his task, calculating angles, observing the natural lighting, and analyzing your body. Over-analyzing your body.

You knew that look—the one men gave when they stared too long, leaving a disgusting feeling. But Oscar wasn’t like that. Yes, he was staring, but with such admiration and adoration that, for once, you didn’t mind. For the first time in a long time, you felt pretty. Feminine. Reaching that level of femininity wasn’t easy. Padel and sports had always shaped your image, conditioning you to appear tough, stereotypically masculine. But under his gaze, all of that melted away.

You broke eye contact as the staring became too overwhelming for your liking, exceeding your daily dose of attention. You couldn’t just escape him because he was there, and you were working, or something like that. Your breathing hitched, and you involuntarily let out a low gasp at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your skin. His touch was cold, just like your body. The only warmth came from the fire igniting in your cheeks. His fingers hooked around one of your white straps, which had fallen out of place.

God, you wished you could say a word, anything, but you were petrified.

“You look gorgeous.”

“You just say that hoping I’d say yes to another photoshoot. Your guinea pig.” The back-and-forth banter and sarcastic flirting didn’t end, but now you were playing silly enough to avoid any heartfelt compliment. You didn’t like those types of things because you never knew how to react, especially when they came from him. His contagious laughter filled the room and your world turned upside down.

Something always lingered between you two, and it was the expectedly obvious, taking into account the amount of time you spent together—padel mornings or sometimes afternoons, dinner nights if class ended late, and when he actually managed to wake up to his multiple alarms, cycling together. But it was casual because you never knew what could cross a man's mind; spending a whole day together could mean nothing to them, maybe he even saw you in a sisterly way. So you tried to chill, not giving it much importance—because, again, a compliment could mean nothing.

His free hand found its way to your nape, resting his palm there, barely cradling it. You had no choice but to regain eye contact; he had you cornered with his gaze—physically, too. Any cold once brought by the winter weather had vanished. Your skin was hot, almost burning. Oscar's gaze didn’t reflect frenzy or desire; he looked lost, even stunned.

“Let me kiss you, please.” He murmured hopelessly, his words caressing and sweetening your ears in the most shivering way.

“Oscar, professionally is not the best to-” It was just a matter of seconds before he silenced you in the most cliché way possible. His kisses mirrored his personality—timid and shy, as if he were afraid to go too far. Yet, at the same time, they were sweet and innocent, like a first kiss, completely inexperienced.

Something that you clearly weren't used to.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him even more close, letting each other feel how you teetered, how you edged by just a kiss. Your consent gave him more confidence, turning the encounter into something deeper, sloppier. His lips parted against yours with more urgency, the hesitation melting away as the two of you let each other get lost in the moment. His breath was uneven, intoxicatingly mixing with yours. The kiss grew needier, desperate, and hungry. The sound of your teeth crashing messily together was secondary as his tongue brushed against your lips, savoring, tasting, before he dared to explore further. The slick warmth, the breathy sounds between kisses, the way his body pressed against yours—it was thrilling in the best way.

“I never really liked padel that much, nor was I good at it. There was no chance of improving. But you know why I kept coming back.” Oscar's smile emerged in the middle of the kiss, his tone playful, hinting that he knew he’d been doing something wrong just for the fun of it. Paying for extra classes just to see your face more than once a week? Genius move.

“Oh, I'm so gonna kill you.” You warned him, still in disbelief, that he’d been such a fool, especially since you would’ve said yes to any date prior if he’d only had the courage. There was no need for this extreme and unnecessary padel. But, still, seeing him struggle was part of your routine—and you enjoyed it. Not wanting to hear any lame excuses, you pulled him in, deciding to stay glued to his lips for a very long time

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Cheater (Art Donaldson/Patrick Zweig)

Description: Patrick cheats on Y/N and Tashi cheats on Art.

Warning: Cheating, Implied Smut

Word Count:908

“She’s into Art, and I’m into you. You have nothing to worry about.” 10 years ago, Patrick said those words to Y/N and she believed them. She believed them so much, she let him put a ring on her finger and marry her. That was a big mistake, a mistake that would cost her the next 10 years. She loved Patrick, oh how she loved him. But from the beginning there was something off. She couldn’t tell what it was but once she saw Tashi Duncan it all hit her. Patrick would tell her that he wasn’t into her and that Art was. Art was head over heels for Tashi but that didn’t mean that Patrick wasn’t. Patrick was a player, a womanizer that got away with a lot. He was good looking and he knew that so he used it to his advantage.

Him and Tashi had something that wasn’t love but truth be told Tashi didn’t love anyone. She loved Tennis. So when Patrick was playing in a challengers and saw that Art was there ,he knew Tashi was too. Art saw Y/N with Patrick and couldn’t believe that they were still together. Y/N was a smart woman, what the fuck was she doing with him? Tashi wanted no needed Art to win so she was going to do what she had to do to make it work. Y/N had this sick feeling in her stomach when she saw Tashi and Art. It had been so many years but yet it felt like it was just yesterday. In the steam room Patrick revealed to Art the one thing that he could use against him. Him fucking Tashi while being married to Y/N.

Art wanted to punch him and scream at him. “Yeah when we were teenagers, sure. Or Atlanta.” Art remembers that day that he saw Patrick and Tashi talking. He felt uneasy about it but Tashi told him that they just talked. Patrick just revealed that they fucked. “Y/N, You would do that to her?” Art asked him. “I didn’t want to. It was a mistake. I love Y/N.” Lies, he did want to. “Y/N doesn’t know, does she? Patrick shook his head. “I told myself I would never tell her. I can’t lose her man. I didn’t even expect to tell you but it just came out.” Art was mad, his wife fucked his ex best friend. Who wouldn’t be? He had to find Y/N and tell her. Get her away from Patrick just for a second. Y/N was always with Patrick and the one time she wasn’t he fucked Tashi. Art wasn’t aware of it and nor was Y/N. That was until he came home smelling like another woman.

She put two and two together and pretended to still be asleep. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes but she couldn’t. One day before the final Art had gotten Y/N alone. “I know Art. I know about him cheating with Tashi.” “You know about Atlanta?” Confusion took over her face. “What?” She whispered. “Atlanta, that's when he cheated on you.” She shook her head, “Art.” “What were you talking about?” He asked her. “Last night.” He thought back to when Tashi wasn’t there and he slept with their daughter. “How do you know this?” “He came home smelling like another woman and I've always speculated that he was into her and she’s here so…” He looked at the ground for a solid minute. Neither of them said anything. Atlanta and last night. Patrick cheated on her twice. Tashi cheated on him twice. She looked at Art. “I think we’ve both been played.” She said, he nodded and looked up at her. “For the past 12 years.” Y/N didn’t know how it started but when it ended she felt relief.

She stared up at Art as he stopped thrusting. Both of them breathing heavy and looked fucked out. She had never viewed Art like that until now. “Should we tell them?” Oh he did and only Patrick would get it. It was Patrick’s turn to serve and he kept taking too long. But with the 3 bounces of the tennis ball and him putting the ball up to the center of the racket, Art knew what he was talking about. Art faked being shocked and upset at that. The crowd was confused as was Tashi and Y/N. Patrick got a point and when it was Art’s turn to serve, he did the same thing.

Patrick’s face dropped when he realized that Art meant he slept with Y/N and not Tashi. Patrick looked over at Y/N who looked at him. He looked back at Art and Art hit the ball, in shock Patrick didn’t hit the ball back. The crowd went wild as Art Donaldson won the match. Tashi was so happy but Art didn’t care. He stared at Patrick as Patrick froze. Y/N left the court without looking at Patrick, leaving him there. She got back to the hotel in time to gather her stuff to leave. She placed her wedding ring on the table next to the bed. No note or anything. It appears that whatever the signal was from the racket and ball they did gave away what happened. As she was leaving the hotel room she saw Art. She smiled at him and he smiled at her. Maybe this would bring them closer, maybe they were meant to be all along.