(a doomasta/responsiblyfreaky oneshot fic made out of boredom)
tags: - dancing rasta/dooma - mutual feelings, but not dating - subtle, maybe not so subtle, Angst - dooma is yearning - Rasta is also yearning - but he can't imagine himself being with Dooma - goes entirely against my own hcs but it's ok we balling - I spat on the knife before stabbing you with it and twisting it btw
fic under the cut . . .
All Dooma could remember was the way Rasta's lips were against his, the heat of the man's body against his own and the way Rasta looked at him with regret and confusion when they pulled away before he left Dooma all alone, new and unfamiliar feelings still swirling in his chest.
It was a week after it happened. The night when the two had the time all to themselves. Tensions rose, peaked, then toppled.
The man hadn't responded to any of his messages, all spanning from last week to just this moment. All with emotions starting from confusion and then, now, anger and irritation.
He growled, placed his phone down on the bench and put his head in his hands, his fingers clawing at his blonde hair in a futile attempt to calm the rage boiling in his heart. He didn't understand. Had he done something wrong? Surely, that night was meant to happen. If it wasn't, then why did it happen?
He could feel the stares of his teammates. Curious, concerned and worried. He wanted to snap, to bark, to bite at them, to get them to stop looking at him, but the effects of his medication grew strong to overwhelm and numb his irritation for now.
He scratched at his scalp in another attempt to quell his anger and worries. He had a game to focus on.. A game against the Strikas.
When the time came, he got himself together, together enough to function. He needed this. He *needed* to win.
---
Lucky for them, they had won. It was painful, a type of pain that Dooma despised. His heart clenched with confusion and anger each time he saw that man. The way Rasta's eyes widened just slightly and the way his brows frowned with a sort of remorse and regret felt like needles were being punctured through his heart. Dooma couldn't focus at all during that match, no matter how hard he tried.
But he knew the only reason they won was because of Rasta's own carelessness. He knew Rasta's eyes were constantly locked on him and no one else. Not the others, not his own teammates and especially not the ball. Rasta was just as careless as Dooma was and both of them knew why.
Dooma couldn't stay for another second, not even one to spare for celebrating the win with his team. Not even one to spare for looking back when his ears caught onto Rasta's voice, calling out his name amongst the cheers of the fans.
---
He slumped onto the bench, his head returning to his hands as he slouched over. He couldn't think clearly. His thoughts were everything and nothing at the same time. He should be happy with how things went, happy that Rasta was so blinded by the sight of him and the events before to have been so careless. But what was there to be happy about when the person he showed a semblance of vulnerability to was acting like this?
Dooma growled, the effects of the medicine wearing off. He scratched at his scalp again, tugging at his short locks. He wanted to slap himself, slap himself back to reality, to convince himself this was all some sick dream he was in. But no, the feeling of dread, anger, confusion and worry lingered.
His eyes slowly opened when he caught onto the subtle squeal of the doors to the locker room opening, then very, very quiet footsteps. There were only 2 people in the team who bothered to be that careful.
“Skarra,” he murmured, his voice sounding uncharacteristically tight. Dooma didn't bother to take his head out of his hands as he knew it was the younger player, since the footsteps stopped. His throat suddenly closed up, feeling suffocating but he managed to push his voice out, “Get out.”
The room was silent for what felt like an eternity, Dooma's ears starting to ring when Skarra's voice, quiet but firm, came. “.. There's going to be an after-game celebration party later tonight.”
“.. So?”
“You want to come or not? There'll be a rage room. For you.”
“.. Who's hosting?”
“Dingaan.”
Skarra's body felt unusually tense. Seeing the captain so irritated wasn't new, but stressed? That's a little worrying. Skarra picked at his skin nervously, watching as Dooma's back shakily rose and fell according to the man's uneven breaths before he heard a subtle response from him, “Yeah.”
“Okay,” Skarra hummed, looking around awkwardly before his gaze fell back on Dooma, “Um. You did great, I guess.”
...
When the player heard no response, he just sighed before quietly turning around and leaving, shutting the door quietly behind him in the process. He didn't know what was happening with him or between the captain of the Supa Strikas, but he assumed it was something bad. He didn't want to pry, as he also didn't want to risk getting his hand bitten off.
...
“I'll show you great, you ungrateful brat.”
...
(end)
oh my god my writing sucks so much dookie ASS. I need to write more often honestly....please don't hate me if they're suuuuper out of character I'm running on like. 5 hrs of sleep as I was writing this
(btw!! Dooma's little quip at the end isn't targeted towards Skarra, it's towards Rasta, ok thanks)
