Competition
Category: Pink Sheep RPG
It was March, but the sun had made an unseasonable showing the past week and the first rays of dawn glittered off Kenmare Bay as Blake and Stewart raced to the end of the pier to finish their morning run.
Blake was a sprinter, and it was his habit, and indeed his career, to practice such a skill everyday, but Stewart was taller and his legs, longer.
Smirk curling Blake's lips despite the heavy breathing, he put on the burst of speed he was known for and pulled ahead of Stewart for the last hundred meters.
At the end of the pier, breathing harsh, he grinned at Stewart. "Nice try, Archie. Maybe next time."
Stewart shot him a dark look, panting from the exertion. Running against someone was miles better than solitary jogging. "Your cheating I can handle, Dunst, but not the name. Unless you want to cool off in the bay." He tilted his head at the water, reflecting the early morning sun.
"Cheating?" Blake inquired, grin curling his lips. "Just because I'm a product of the dungeons doesn't mean I'm not just better." He smirked. "Archie."
It was possible, likely even, that Stewart would make sure he took a dip in the frigid water, but it was just too easy to get him going.
"Fuck off, football boy. School ended years ago, you know." Beads of sweat stood out on Stewart's bare chest as he walked a few paces over to use a bench for some cool down stretches.
"True enough," Blake said amiably as he followed Stewart over to the bench. "And you're as easily pissed over it as you ever were," he added, smirking when Stewart glared at him. "Archie."
The flex of muscle was Blake's only sign that Stewart was about to wallop him, but before he could, Blake grinned just a bit madly and made use of the explosive speed he was known for.
He rushed Stewart and took them both over edge of the pier into the frigid water of Kenmare Bay.
Stewart broke the surface first with a splutter, shaking the water from his face and locking his arm around Blake's torso before the blond could get away from him. Stewart barely gave him time for breath before pulling him back under, laughing all the while.
A few well placed underwater punches and Blake surfaced. Shaking the excess water from his head as he tread, he grinned at Stewart.
It had always been this way between them. Blake had made a habit of running early in the mornings since he was young - first to clear his mind of everything else but the strain of his muscles and lungs, a distraction from the loss of his mother, and later the added benefit of an edge over his competitors in football.
Early on he’d run into Stewart Ackerly, only a year his junior. When they’d met, Stewart had been training even as a first year in preparation for Ravenclaw’s Quidditch tryouts.
Theirs had always been an easy friendship in the vein that boys will be boys, and competitive boys would be worse. “Surprising that no one’s taken advantage of that little chip before,” Blake mused, grinning at Stewart as he tread. “Every time someone says it, you snap, Stewie.” He started swimming backwards towards the beach. “One goal after another, and another, and another …”
Rolling his eyes, Stewart started after Blake, his superior reach helping him gain enough to grasp Blake's ankle, pulling him backwards for a bit before he took off himself, arms carving through the cold water. Blake was speedier on land, to be sure, but here Stewart's longer limbs gave him greater power to move himself through the water. His height also came in handy, as he was able to stand earlier than Blake, sloshing up on to the shore a few scant breaths ahead. He turned to his mate with a grin.
And was promptly pushed back into the water before Blake pulled himself out. When Stewart surfaced again, Blake was dripping wet, goosebumps going unnoticed as he grinned at his friend. "Nice win, though you knew it'd not end there."
"You're probably right, yeah." Stewart stood, cold drops rolling down his chest. A little shake of his head rid his hair of some excess water, droplets landing on Blake in the process. "Back to mine for breakfast and a towel?" he suggested, keenly feeling the brisk air as it hit his wet skin.
“I’ll cook,” Blake said by way of agreement before disappearing with a ‘pop’ of Apparation. He was meticulous about what he ate and prepared most all his own food. It was redundant to tell Stewart he’d be making their food, but it was part of the dance; run, try to outdo each other, and then feed themselves; maybe twice.
Reappearing in Stewart’s house, he murmured a drying spell that rid him of the excess, dripping water on his person before opening the icebox and digging out the makings for omelets. As he rummaged through the drawers, he listened for any signs of life in his friend’s place; he’d met a ‘friend’ of the fairer sex more than once.
A second 'pop' sounded as Stewart returned home, appearing in the ensuite so he could grab a towel and dry off. He knew he could have used a spell, but he rather liked the feel of the dry towel against his skin. Not that he'd ever told anyone, but one of his earlist paycheques after moving out of home had gone on exorbitantly luxuriant bath linen.
Once he was no longer wet, he summoned some jeans and padded out to join Blake, settling on a barstool as his mate pulled breakfast together. "Omlettes for two, mate. No birds around today," he stated, guessing the path of Blake's thoughts as he ran a hand through still-damp hair.
Dicing red and green pepper as he let the eggs heat slowly, Blake glanced up from his task when Stewart spoke. "Not that they ever stay around long after we've come back anyways. Though," he considered thoughtfully as he went at the onions, "there was that Victoria bird with the chanting."
They'd once come back to one of Stewart's conquests sitting cross-legged in the middle of his living room, stark naked and chanting her greetings to the day. No matter what they'd done, she'd not stopped. Blake's lips twitched as he recalled how he'd begun throwing small things at her to see if she'd stir. "I don't know where you find them, mate."
Stewart gave a half-hearted eyeroll. "They find me. I'm hardly responsible." He cracked a smile at the memory of Blake's projectiles. "And just so you know, her flexibility the night before made up for the chanting. But only just." That's the last time I bag a yoga girl without forewarning.
A wide grin stole over Blake's features. "That's a poor excuse. I'm no stranger to the types of birds that find us." Putting the finishing touches on their omelets, he raised bright blue eyes from his task to his friend. "And you, my friend, pick a crazy from the crazies."
Deftly sliding the first omelet onto a plate, he tried out his words again. "The Crazies. Has a nice ring to it. Maybe they could all get together and start a band, or something. Definitely have the drive for it." He smirked when he handed the plate over.
After a very necessary pause for some admittedly excellent omlette, Stewart replied. "Picked. Past tense. I've shagged some normal birds. And I've never had to fend off the stepmother's advances, either." It was a slightly low blow, but what were mates for?
"I could always introduce you," Blake offered as he sat down next to Stewart. "She likes them young, after all," he added with a smirking glance. His friend was nearly two years his junior.
Stewart had brought to mind the viper that was stepmother, however. Blake's own mother had died in a riding accident when he was ten. The incident had left it's mark on Blake as he'd witnessed the event and felt responsible. His father hadn't dissuaded him of the notion, blaming his son for the death of his wife though it was never overtly spoken of.
When Blake had graduated from Hogwarts and had played for Chelsea a few years, his father had remarried. Vivian Dunstan was fifteen years younger than his father and only ten years older than himself.
She'd done well for herself with a marriage to the Duke of Devonshire, but she'd never been shy about the fact that she'd not mind a taste of the son as well.
Needless to say, Blake didn't visit the estate much.
"I'd rather you didn't, thanks all the same. Not sure I ever fully recovered from Scott's mum's wandering hands," he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. "S'omlette's great," he added through a mouthful.
"It's better when you chew," Blake supplied cheekily before stuffing his own mouth full.
He ducked Stewart's half-hearted cuff, but thereafter both men went at their food in earnest. Professional athletes both, it wasn't uncommon for them to need over 3,000 calories a day. This was just a snack to tide them over, and when they had cleaned their plates, Blake took a long swig of his orange juice before sitting back on this stool in a sprawled lounge.
"You know," he pondered, picking up right where they left off. "I don't think anyone really recovers from Scott's mum." Vivian Dunstan was a viper intent on sinking her fangs into himself and a few of his friends, but Stewart's teamate Preston Scott had a mother who would likely put her son into an early grave due to embarrassment. She was a very friendly woman.
"Woman's a tour de force. She's going to get through the Quidditch ranks and start on footballers soon, mark my words." Stewart nodded sagely, contemplating further snacks. He cast a lazy eye towards the fruit bowl.
“She really is,” Blake agreed as he reached out to snatch an apple. “I’d say we’ve already her kind in our ranks, but not a single one of those women can magically pinch our bums.” He smirked as he met Stewart’s eyes. “Poor Scott.”
"Mmmmm," Stewart agreed through a mouthful of orange juice. In quick succession he grabbed two apples, one leaving his hand with marked velocity, heading straight for the tiny furrow between Blake's eyes. He sank his teeth into the crisp, white flesh of the fruit, the corners of his lips turned up into a grin as he chewed.
“Some friend you are,” Blake snorted; he’d caught the apple, but just. He was a natural athlete, but he didn’t use his hands for a living like his mate did.
The dark haired man grinned around his mouthful. "You'd be lost without me, Blakey, admit it." The remark was followed with an lazy shrug; Blake had ever been one of those friends with whom it was no effort to spend time.
“Whatever you say,” Blake said as he hopped off the barstool and ambled to where he’d dropped his tee when he’d Apparated in. Pulling the garment over his head, there was a grin on his face as his head popped through, hair slightly mussed. “Archie,” he said again, watching the frown settle on his friend’s face - at which he aimed the apple previously thrown at him.
Stewart caught it easily and Blake’s grinned widened. “See you in Kenmare on Thursday.” And with that he disappeared with a ‘pop’.
SUMMARY: Blake and Stewart go running, wrestle and throw things at each other. ie, male bonding.
It was March, but the sun had made an unseasonable showing the past week and the first rays of dawn glittered off Kenmare Bay as Blake and Stewart raced to the end of the pier to finish their morning run.
Blake was a sprinter, and it was his habit, and indeed his career, to practice such a skill everyday, but Stewart was taller and his legs, longer.
Smirk curling Blake's lips despite the heavy breathing, he put on the burst of speed he was known for and pulled ahead of Stewart for the last hundred meters.
At the end of the pier, breathing harsh, he grinned at Stewart. "Nice try, Archie. Maybe next time."
Stewart shot him a dark look, panting from the exertion. Running against someone was miles better than solitary jogging. "Your cheating I can handle, Dunst, but not the name. Unless you want to cool off in the bay." He tilted his head at the water, reflecting the early morning sun.
"Cheating?" Blake inquired, grin curling his lips. "Just because I'm a product of the dungeons doesn't mean I'm not just better." He smirked. "Archie."
It was possible, likely even, that Stewart would make sure he took a dip in the frigid water, but it was just too easy to get him going.
"Fuck off, football boy. School ended years ago, you know." Beads of sweat stood out on Stewart's bare chest as he walked a few paces over to use a bench for some cool down stretches.
"True enough," Blake said amiably as he followed Stewart over to the bench. "And you're as easily pissed over it as you ever were," he added, smirking when Stewart glared at him. "Archie."
The flex of muscle was Blake's only sign that Stewart was about to wallop him, but before he could, Blake grinned just a bit madly and made use of the explosive speed he was known for.
He rushed Stewart and took them both over edge of the pier into the frigid water of Kenmare Bay.
Stewart broke the surface first with a splutter, shaking the water from his face and locking his arm around Blake's torso before the blond could get away from him. Stewart barely gave him time for breath before pulling him back under, laughing all the while.
A few well placed underwater punches and Blake surfaced. Shaking the excess water from his head as he tread, he grinned at Stewart.
It had always been this way between them. Blake had made a habit of running early in the mornings since he was young - first to clear his mind of everything else but the strain of his muscles and lungs, a distraction from the loss of his mother, and later the added benefit of an edge over his competitors in football.
Early on he’d run into Stewart Ackerly, only a year his junior. When they’d met, Stewart had been training even as a first year in preparation for Ravenclaw’s Quidditch tryouts.
Theirs had always been an easy friendship in the vein that boys will be boys, and competitive boys would be worse. “Surprising that no one’s taken advantage of that little chip before,” Blake mused, grinning at Stewart as he tread. “Every time someone says it, you snap, Stewie.” He started swimming backwards towards the beach. “One goal after another, and another, and another …”
Rolling his eyes, Stewart started after Blake, his superior reach helping him gain enough to grasp Blake's ankle, pulling him backwards for a bit before he took off himself, arms carving through the cold water. Blake was speedier on land, to be sure, but here Stewart's longer limbs gave him greater power to move himself through the water. His height also came in handy, as he was able to stand earlier than Blake, sloshing up on to the shore a few scant breaths ahead. He turned to his mate with a grin.
And was promptly pushed back into the water before Blake pulled himself out. When Stewart surfaced again, Blake was dripping wet, goosebumps going unnoticed as he grinned at his friend. "Nice win, though you knew it'd not end there."
"You're probably right, yeah." Stewart stood, cold drops rolling down his chest. A little shake of his head rid his hair of some excess water, droplets landing on Blake in the process. "Back to mine for breakfast and a towel?" he suggested, keenly feeling the brisk air as it hit his wet skin.
“I’ll cook,” Blake said by way of agreement before disappearing with a ‘pop’ of Apparation. He was meticulous about what he ate and prepared most all his own food. It was redundant to tell Stewart he’d be making their food, but it was part of the dance; run, try to outdo each other, and then feed themselves; maybe twice.
Reappearing in Stewart’s house, he murmured a drying spell that rid him of the excess, dripping water on his person before opening the icebox and digging out the makings for omelets. As he rummaged through the drawers, he listened for any signs of life in his friend’s place; he’d met a ‘friend’ of the fairer sex more than once.
A second 'pop' sounded as Stewart returned home, appearing in the ensuite so he could grab a towel and dry off. He knew he could have used a spell, but he rather liked the feel of the dry towel against his skin. Not that he'd ever told anyone, but one of his earlist paycheques after moving out of home had gone on exorbitantly luxuriant bath linen.
Once he was no longer wet, he summoned some jeans and padded out to join Blake, settling on a barstool as his mate pulled breakfast together. "Omlettes for two, mate. No birds around today," he stated, guessing the path of Blake's thoughts as he ran a hand through still-damp hair.
Dicing red and green pepper as he let the eggs heat slowly, Blake glanced up from his task when Stewart spoke. "Not that they ever stay around long after we've come back anyways. Though," he considered thoughtfully as he went at the onions, "there was that Victoria bird with the chanting."
They'd once come back to one of Stewart's conquests sitting cross-legged in the middle of his living room, stark naked and chanting her greetings to the day. No matter what they'd done, she'd not stopped. Blake's lips twitched as he recalled how he'd begun throwing small things at her to see if she'd stir. "I don't know where you find them, mate."
Stewart gave a half-hearted eyeroll. "They find me. I'm hardly responsible." He cracked a smile at the memory of Blake's projectiles. "And just so you know, her flexibility the night before made up for the chanting. But only just." That's the last time I bag a yoga girl without forewarning.
A wide grin stole over Blake's features. "That's a poor excuse. I'm no stranger to the types of birds that find us." Putting the finishing touches on their omelets, he raised bright blue eyes from his task to his friend. "And you, my friend, pick a crazy from the crazies."
Deftly sliding the first omelet onto a plate, he tried out his words again. "The Crazies. Has a nice ring to it. Maybe they could all get together and start a band, or something. Definitely have the drive for it." He smirked when he handed the plate over.
After a very necessary pause for some admittedly excellent omlette, Stewart replied. "Picked. Past tense. I've shagged some normal birds. And I've never had to fend off the stepmother's advances, either." It was a slightly low blow, but what were mates for?
"I could always introduce you," Blake offered as he sat down next to Stewart. "She likes them young, after all," he added with a smirking glance. His friend was nearly two years his junior.
Stewart had brought to mind the viper that was stepmother, however. Blake's own mother had died in a riding accident when he was ten. The incident had left it's mark on Blake as he'd witnessed the event and felt responsible. His father hadn't dissuaded him of the notion, blaming his son for the death of his wife though it was never overtly spoken of.
When Blake had graduated from Hogwarts and had played for Chelsea a few years, his father had remarried. Vivian Dunstan was fifteen years younger than his father and only ten years older than himself.
She'd done well for herself with a marriage to the Duke of Devonshire, but she'd never been shy about the fact that she'd not mind a taste of the son as well.
Needless to say, Blake didn't visit the estate much.
"I'd rather you didn't, thanks all the same. Not sure I ever fully recovered from Scott's mum's wandering hands," he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. "S'omlette's great," he added through a mouthful.
"It's better when you chew," Blake supplied cheekily before stuffing his own mouth full.
He ducked Stewart's half-hearted cuff, but thereafter both men went at their food in earnest. Professional athletes both, it wasn't uncommon for them to need over 3,000 calories a day. This was just a snack to tide them over, and when they had cleaned their plates, Blake took a long swig of his orange juice before sitting back on this stool in a sprawled lounge.
"You know," he pondered, picking up right where they left off. "I don't think anyone really recovers from Scott's mum." Vivian Dunstan was a viper intent on sinking her fangs into himself and a few of his friends, but Stewart's teamate Preston Scott had a mother who would likely put her son into an early grave due to embarrassment. She was a very friendly woman.
"Woman's a tour de force. She's going to get through the Quidditch ranks and start on footballers soon, mark my words." Stewart nodded sagely, contemplating further snacks. He cast a lazy eye towards the fruit bowl.
“She really is,” Blake agreed as he reached out to snatch an apple. “I’d say we’ve already her kind in our ranks, but not a single one of those women can magically pinch our bums.” He smirked as he met Stewart’s eyes. “Poor Scott.”
"Mmmmm," Stewart agreed through a mouthful of orange juice. In quick succession he grabbed two apples, one leaving his hand with marked velocity, heading straight for the tiny furrow between Blake's eyes. He sank his teeth into the crisp, white flesh of the fruit, the corners of his lips turned up into a grin as he chewed.
“Some friend you are,” Blake snorted; he’d caught the apple, but just. He was a natural athlete, but he didn’t use his hands for a living like his mate did.
The dark haired man grinned around his mouthful. "You'd be lost without me, Blakey, admit it." The remark was followed with an lazy shrug; Blake had ever been one of those friends with whom it was no effort to spend time.
“Whatever you say,” Blake said as he hopped off the barstool and ambled to where he’d dropped his tee when he’d Apparated in. Pulling the garment over his head, there was a grin on his face as his head popped through, hair slightly mussed. “Archie,” he said again, watching the frown settle on his friend’s face - at which he aimed the apple previously thrown at him.
Stewart caught it easily and Blake’s grinned widened. “See you in Kenmare on Thursday.” And with that he disappeared with a ‘pop’.
SUMMARY: Blake and Stewart go running, wrestle and throw things at each other. ie, male bonding.