Kink Me! #14
Kink Me! #14
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He’s so perfect Arthur kind of wants to strangle him within the first five minutes of meeting him. Gwen, on the other hand..
“I’m Gwen,” she begins. “I’m with Arthur,” she bites her lip, “or well, I drove him here because he’s moving up here. For school. Obviously. But we’re ummm, I didn’t mean with him like I’m withhim. Because I’m not with him with him.” There is a very awkward pause and she adds, “Arthur’s gay. Like, really gay.”
“Thanks, Gwen,” Arthur replies as he tosses down his bags on to the twin sized bed provided in the room. He’s never slept on something this small.
“That’s good,” his new roommate replies, “well, I mean there’s nothing wrong with it. Being gay that is. But, I mean it’s good you’re not together because I’d very much like to ask you out sometime. Um, would you like to explore some of campus with me?” She seems too stunned to reply verbally so she nods vigorously instead.
Arthur smirks a little when he starts unpacking as Gwen and Lance leave the room.
By the time he finishes unpacking, maybe an hour or two later, he flops down on the bed and stares at the boring white ceiling. Through the wall he can still hear Gwen’s familiar laughter. Maybe he’ll be seeing a lot more of her than initially predicted.
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He’s glad when he gets back to school and he’s especially glad that the soccer season is starting up. Gwen is right of course that soccer is good for him, but he doesn’t appreciate soccer only for the fast friendship if makes him with a lot of his teammates (Leon, Owain, Ewan, Galahad, Tris, Gareth, Bors…), or the meticulous shape it helps his body maintain. What Arthur loves, what he really loves, is the attention. He’s sure years from now when he hits his midlife crisis he’ll have to talk to a therapist about what drives this ambition, but right now he’s eighteen (nineteen really soon) and he doesn’t give a damn what’s emotionally healthy and not. He knows what he likes and what he doesn’t like. And what he does like is the way people walking to and from class will slow their pace and crane their necks to get a better look at them when they team is playing shirts v. skins. (Arthur is always skins, obviously.)
As the soccer season goes on and the team -which is always good- continues to be good, some people even sit on the bleachers to watch the end of their practices when they scrimmage. There is a dark haired couple- a girl and guy- who watch most of them. They’re painfully indie and have matching thick black framed glasses. The guy always has a red scarf wrapped around his neck despite the fact it’s starting to become spring. Arthur hasn’t looked too closely, but something about the girl seems familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it.
One practice, during the closing scrimmage, when Arthur delivers a fantastic corner kick toward a teammate a rival heads it at an angle that sends it flying toward the stands. The whole team turns expecting to witness the ball collide with one of the spectators’ faces, but instead they see the dark-haired hipster boy reach out nonchalantly and catch the whizzing ball inches in front of inde girl’s face.
Arthur shoulders past Leon and two other teammates so that he’s the first up the bleachers to retrieve the ball. He takes the steps two at a time, and in the afternoon sun his lightly tanned skinned shimmers with sweat.
“Nice catch,” he smirks as he reaches out to take the ball from the indie boy; their fingers brush and it sends a blush across the pale boy’s thin features. Arthur has never been this close up to the two before and it doesn’t even occur for him to look at the girl seated next to him.
“Used to play keeper,” the guy responds to Arthur. His voice seems to have some hint of an accent, but he hasn’t said enough for Arthur to be able to place it.
“The school has a club team. Pretty informal, games during the off-season. You should come. Or if you’re half as good as that catch implies maybe try out for next year. We’re losing a goalie to the real world.”
The guy grins and him and it’s brilliant and white though not as straight as Arthur’s is (though his is due to years of orthodontist work and Uther has the bill to prove it.) Regardless, it still sends a weird sensation in Arthur’s chest close to his diaphragm, that makes him feel like the wind has been knocked out of him.
During the remainder of practice, Arthur keeps glancing up at the bleachers and ends up overshooting all his kicks by at least twenty feet.
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[mod repost]
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He’s glad when he gets back to school and he’s especially glad that the soccer season is starting up. Gwen is right of course that soccer is good for him, but he doesn’t appreciate soccer only for the fast friendship if makes him with a lot of his teammates (Leon, Owain, Ewan, Galahad, Tris, Gareth, Bors…), or the meticulous shape it helps his body maintain. What Arthur loves, what he really loves, is the attention. He’s sure years from now when he hits his midlife crisis he’ll have to talk to a therapist about what drives this ambition, but right now he’s eighteen (nineteen really soon) and he doesn’t give a damn what’s emotionally healthy and not. He knows what he likes and what he doesn’t like. And what he does like is the way people walking to and from class will slow their pace and crane their necks to get a better look at them when they team is playing shirts v. skins. (Arthur is always skins, obviously.)
As the soccer season goes on and the team -which is always good- continues to be good, some people even sit on the bleachers to watch the end of their practices when they scrimmage. There is a dark haired couple- a girl and guy- who watch most of them. They’re painfully indie and have matching thick black framed glasses. The guy always has a red scarf wrapped around his neck despite the fact it’s starting to become spring. Arthur hasn’t looked too closely, but something about the girl seems familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it.
One practice, during the closing scrimmage, when Arthur delivers a fantastic corner kick toward a teammate a rival heads it at an angle that sends it flying toward the stands. The whole team turns expecting to witness the ball collide with one of the spectators’ faces, but instead they see the dark-haired hipster boy reach out nonchalantly and catch the whizzing ball inches in front of inde girl’s face.
Arthur shoulders past Leon and two other teammates so that he’s the first up the bleachers to retrieve the ball. He takes the steps two at a time, and in the afternoon sun his lightly tanned skinned shimmers with sweat.
“Nice catch,” he smirks as he reaches out to take the ball from the indie boy; their fingers brush and it sends a blush across the pale boy’s thin features. Arthur has never been this close up to the two before and it doesn’t even occur for him to look at the girl seated next to him.
“Used to play keeper,” the guy responds to Arthur. His voice seems to have some hint of an accent, but he hasn’t said enough for Arthur to be able to place it.
“The school has a club team. Pretty informal, games during the off-season. You should come. Or if you’re half as good as that catch implies maybe try out for next year. We’re losing a goalie to the real world.”
The guy grins and him and it’s brilliant and white though not as straight as Arthur’s is (though his is due to years of orthodontist work and Uther has the bill to prove it.) Regardless, it still sends a weird sensation in Arthur’s chest close to his diaphragm, that makes him feel like the wind has been knocked out of him.
During the remainder of practice, Arthur keeps glancing up at the bleachers and ends up overshooting all his kicks by at least twenty feet.
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[mod repost]
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[mod repost]
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P.s Just thought I should let you know part 3 and 4 are the same! ;)
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It isn’t until lecture is over that he glances over at him and confides, “I’m terrible at this.” It’s a total lie. Arthur scored a five on his AP US History exam. Arthur isn’t terrible at anything, except maybe trusting people and there’s no midterm for that. “I’m a business and astronomy double major. Are you any good?”
“At British History?” Arthur nods.
“Yes,” he replies in a clipped tone that sounds like he’s trying to suppress some emotion, “I would say I am fairly decent.”
“Cool. You want to study together sometime?”
Indie boy gives him a half smile and replies with a, “Sure, why not?” And Arthur scribbles down his number on a piece of paper and rips it out of his binder. Right after he hands it to him he has to stand up and bolt out of the lecture hall because he can’t stop himself from grinning like an idiot.
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He pulls up a book and tries to start on his history reading, but he starts thinking about indie boy’s skinny hips and high cheekbones. His book lays abandoned on his pillow as his right hand slides down his stomach to rest at the waistband of his jeans. He undoes the button and slides the zipper down. His hand slips under the waistband of his boxers. He suppresses a groan by biting down on his lip. He begins to move his hand imagining himself pulling off the red scarf off the neck of the dark-haired boy and exposing his white neck and collarbone. He thinks about kissing the skin, dragging his teeth along his shoulder; his hand moves quicker.
His hip buck up and his breath hitches in his throat. He thinks about kissing down his clavicle, running hands down his sides feeling his ribcage and hipbones under his fingers, thinks about ripping off those too-tight jeans and pulling down his undoubtedly ironic boxers-
He snaps back to reality when he hears giggling at the door and the lock clicking. In one sift motions he sat up, pulled the pillow and book over his crotch, and pretended to be reading. He's still unbelievably hard.
“Arthur has practice for at least another hour.” Lance’s shirt is already halfway off as he stumbles into the room.
“Hi Lance. Hi Gwen,” Arthur calls out from his bed. They both pause and look over at him. Gwen’s shirt has been unbuttoned three-quarters of the way exposing her lacy black bra. No one speaks for a good three minutes.
“…Surprise?” Gwen says weakly with a sheepish grin plastered on her face.
“Alright,” Arthur announces, “I’m going to leave the room for about two hours. I will knock when I get back and I will wait for one of you to let me in.” Arthur doesn’t wait for a response as he grabs the book out of his lap and heads out of the dorm, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
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Two songs later he feels a hand on his shoulder and he turns his head pulling down his head phones.
“What’re you listening too?” Indie boy asks with a smile.
“Um, Death Cab for Cutie. They’re kind of new...”
“Oh, I know about them I have my cassette of You can Play These Songs with Chords in my backpack.”
“Impressive,” Arthur observes.
“I take pleasure in loving obscure things. Washington indie bands are particularly obscure in England.”
Arthur feels another one of those impossible to resist smiles growing on his lips and starts laughing.
“You have ‘Something about Airplanes’, right?” indie boy continues, “What’s your favorite song?”
“I don’t know? Champagne from a Paper Cup, probably.”
“I like Fake Frowns best. So, how’re you doing?”
“Fine,” Arthur motions to the seat across from him and indie boy sits down, “just reading the textbook for our history class. Question,” he states lifting his hand.
“Answer,” indie boy repeats pointing at him as if calling on him.
“Why are the British such dicks?”
“Uh, what?” Indie boy offers a disarming smile and tilts his head.
“I mean, come on. Africa, India, and not to mention the Opium Wars in China. Also my stupid perfect British roommate is currently screwing my best friend so I’ve been sexiled to here.”
“Not all British people are dicks,” indie boy begins, “I’m British. I’m not a dick.”
“Well, that remains to be seen,” Arthur smirks at him and he likes the way indie boy blushes a little when he does, “it’s far too early to tell.”
“How about we go get something to eat and I’ll show you I’m a perfect gentleman.”
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