Explicit, 3332 words, Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen
Max puts a hand on Daniel’s chest, fingers curving with the swell of his pec. Daniel can barely stand it. He holds his breath, waits for his body to give him away. “Are you… when are you going into heat?” Max asks. His voice almost breaks on the end of the sentence, a reminder that it hasn’t been all that long since Max has grown out of puberty.
Daniel swallows. “Maximus. Maxy Baby. Maxy Max.” He makes his voice as light as humanly possible. “Has anyone ever told you it’s not very polite to ask omegas about their cycle?”
i honestly can't defend this, but it's the first time in ages i have been able to write anything longer than a few hundred words, so i guess we move and publish breastfeeding kink. happy sunday.
fic prompt: Alex Albon having a good time! (pls, he needs it)
“You tell them to airbrush you to all hell, Georgie, or did they do that all by themselves, huh?”
George’s indignant sputter comes a bit muffled through the phone, but then he pops up on the screen again, flushed pink with mild sunburn, eyes bright.
“Jealous of my flawless looks, Albono?” he quips in his poshest voice.
Alex feels the corner of his mouth tug into a smirk. “Don’t fish for compliments. It’s beneath you,” he teases. Maybe it’s the sun slanting low through the big windows, but it looks like the flush on George’s cheeks rises a little higher.
Alex relaxes his shoulders against the soft terrycloth of his towel on the lounge chair, settles in.
rules: post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic/original/anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence
thank you for the tag @letsgoricciardo 💕 you know i love to do this kind of thing. alright so here‘s the thing though - the last sentence i wrote is for something i already published, but i‘ll share it anyways since these are the rules 😌
Sweetness bursts on his tongue.
- the poet‘s body (~3k, explicit, maxiel breast feeding kink)
tagging @koenig-armon, @monisse, @onadarklingplain, @unpublishableprivateliterature and @powerful-owl if you guys want to play :)
➕➕➕➕➕➕➕➕➕➕➕➕
as a bonus, and because i feel like i should use this game to motivate myself into keeping in the writing flow, here‘s the last sentence i wrote for my other wip (that i eventually really want to actually finish!!). it‘s been a few weeks but have:
It makes Oscar want to hit his head against the polished metal panels of the elevator walls.
(fascinatingly, this is part of a carcar omegaverse fic. ha.)
you know what - "write the fic you want to read" they say, and i actually did that quite a lot these last four years, so here comes the masterpost no one asked for :)
Marco Odermatt/Gino Caviezel:
Einen Millimeter Macht, E, 1k, German: Als er den zweiten Lauf von Gino beobachtet ist er sich sicher – heute wird ein guter Tag werden. Einer von denen, auf die er zwischen den Rennen viel zu lange wartet. Einer von denen, die ihm vor Augen führen, wie wenig Kontrolle er eigentlich hat und wie scheissegal ihm das ist.
Olympic Celebrations, E, 2k, English: Here’s the thing about Marco winning: While he’s usually the kindest, sweetest, most innocent person ever, winning makes Marco cocky. It gives him a confidence boost so strong, it reaches out straight to Gino’s libido.
You should be mine, T, 1.9k, English: „You don‘t think it‘s a bit harsh, what you‘re doing to him?“ The hand on his shoulder belongs to Justin. „I‘m not doing anything to him,“ Marco bites back stubbornly. „I‘m going to win this fucking race and then I‘m going for a drink with a pretty girl who wants to go for a drink with me. It‘s not a crime.“ Justin holds his hands up in surrender, wisely leaving the subject alone.
At Sunset, G, 1.9k, English: “Smile,” Marco commands, and Gino tries to make his face do his bidding, but doesn’t have the slightest clue if it’s working. His heart and brain are still preoccupied with the two of them sharing “intimate togetherness”. It doesn’t help that all his synapses are firing at full blast, a nervous tingle spreading anywhere he’s suddenly pressed against Marco.
and when the sun rises (i'll have forgotten), E, 1.8k, English: Gino doesn’t know where the rest of their group are, thinks maybe that’s Semyel dancing with a tiny redhead right at the edge of his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t really care. His whole focus is taken up by Marco; Marco’s fingers still wrapped around Gino’s arm, now higher up, Marco’s entire body so close to his own, brushing against him with every dance move, Marco’s infectious smile.
The marks you leave on me, G, 1.1k, English: „What. the. fuck?“ finally breaks the silence between them, Loïc‘s voice all high and squeaky, like he can‘t decide on how to react, like he‘s forcing the words out through the giggles he‘s threatening to dissolve into. „Shut up,“ Gino bites back, but it‘s more of an embarrassed mumble really, and he doesn‘t try to fight Loïc when he stops his hands on the shirt buttons, demands; „let me see again.“
Something stupid, T, 1.8k, English: When he tunes back into the conversation, there’s apparently some kind of contest going on about who’s gone through the nastiest hangover and come out on the other side bruised and battered. “Ooooh,” Semyel loudly breaks the harried silence that follows Justin’s story. He points a finger at Marco. “Remember the time I had to scrape you off the bathroom floor of your hotel room? That one seems like a valid contender!” - “Uh.” Marco’s laugh sounds flat to Gino, unusually hesitant. He can’t read the expression on his team mate’s face, in the eyes flitting to meet Gino’s, then away again. Huh.
predictions from my hopeful heart, G, 1.2k, English: “Ready?” Nods around the living room again. It’s unusually quiet for them, but everyone almost seems to hold their breath, even Semyel, who hasn’t been part of this ritual before. It’s not just me, then, Marco thinks. No, this is something they all look forward to. Something they all take very seriously - maybe the only superstition they allow themselves. Zoé opens the lid of the little box and takes out the stack of paper, then takes a breath before she turns over the first slip.
praise me in the dark, E, 1.7k, English: He wakes up from his phone’s loud vibrating and scrambles to find it, barely conscious. On the tv, Bauer sucht Frau has morphed into what seems to be a very much not PG-rated commercial for an adult website.
Lucas Pinheiro Braathen/Atle Lie McGrath:
Call me in for the night, M, 1k, English: It’s not that they have never shared a bed before. They’ve slept next to each other plenty of times - on holidays together, or when visiting each other, or crashing on a friend’s couch after a long night of partying. It’s just that lockdown and covid have made this infinitely more difficult for Atle.
the shape of us, E, 3.8k, English: They’re sharing a hotel room when it happens, which somehow only makes it crazier, even if, looking back, Lucas will also admit that it was kind of comforting, having Atle around. After the initial shock.
these purple days, G, 0.7k, English (unfinished): “So,” he starts, after he’s settled in across from Atle with a steaming mug of coffee. “Your text sounded ominous.” Atle supposes it did. He didn’t mean it to, but it’s hard for him to communicate with Lucas these days. It doesn’t feel like it used to anymore.
Marco Odermatt/Loïc Meillard:
Closer, E, 1.8k, English: “Okay, you’re not leaving this room before you tell me what the hell is up with you. You’re being weird.” Marco complains. Loïc lets his forehead drop against the door, still avoiding facing Marco.
Blind Trust, E, 1.5k, English: They’d talked about this, of course. It had been late, and they’d been sharing a room like they often do these days. It was in the early days of this thing between them, when anytime they found themselves behind closed doors, their hands immediately went wandering, their clothes flying.
Loïc Meillard/Gino Caviezel:
Strong Thighs, E, 1.3k, English: Loïc gets some ideas in his head, watching Gino race. (listen, i wanted to give you an excerpt of this too, but... *blushing* man, that must've been one horny day...)
Picture Perfect, G, 1.1k, English: It’s a Thursday, when Gino discovers that there is in fact one thing - namely, nonchalance (as to not call it lying) - Loïc isn’t good at at all. Loïc’s on his laptop when Gino enters the room they’re sharing. He looks focused, his eyebrows knit together, and doesn’t notice Gino right away.
Mauro Caviezel/Justin Murisier:
Von Wut und Heilung (German) / Of Anger and Healing (English), T, 3.3k: “You’re such an asshole.” Justin yells, his temper finally flaring out of his control. The anger pushes him out of bed, his whole body tense as he turns in the middle of the room and stares at Mauro, challenging him. But Mauro only grins back. “Well, I’m an ass that got you out of bed. And since you’re already standing, you can also put on some clothes. You know, so we can start training.”
Where does the good go, T, 3.8k, English: He tells them not to worry that day, he was only out for a few seconds after all. “At least it didn’t happen on the slopes,” he says. “It was a long season and I haven’t had enough water today,” he says. He almost believes it, himself. Mauro holds him a little tighter that night, and Justin has a hard time falling asleep. He focuses on Mauro’s chest falling and rising under his ear, looking for steadiness, unsettled despite himself.
I'll still call to you if I lose my sight, G, 1.7k, English: Justin looks unusually uncomfortable, which Gino sympathizes with. It takes a lot of self control to keep the wince off his face at the inevitable question. „So. I hate to ask you this, but… I haven‘t heard from Mauro in a few days…?“
Various:
Wins and losses, T, 1.2k, English, Marco Odermatt/Beat Feuz: Beat crouches in front of Marco, placing his hands on the younger man’s knees and takes a single look in Marco’s eyes before squeezing his right thigh and reaching for the phone with the other hand. Marco can’t say with certainty whether the heat of threatening tears has stung his eyes before meeting Beat’s or whether it has been brought on by the kind understanding shining at him from his friend. He mumbles a half-assed goodbye into the phone before passing it to Beat.
Public Relations, G, 1.5k, English, Loïc Meillard/Zoé Chastan: At the world championships in Cortina, Loïc has some surprising news for Zoé.
Your breath in my ear, G, 1.8k, English, Loïc Meillard/Tanguy Nef: Five Times Tanguy Calls Loïc and One Time Loïc Calls Him Back
My kind of madness, T, 2.7k, English, Marco Odermatt/Aleksander Aamodt Kilde: When Aleks crosses the finish line and the light flashes green, it takes Marco a few long moments to sort out his thoughts. On the one hand, there’s not much separating this race from any other - Aleks was clearly faster than him, better than him today. He deserves this win, especially considering Marco knows he hasn’t given his best performance. On the other hand, there’s this feeling, low in his gut. Little pinpricks, barely noticeable, but entirely new. They intensify as he watches Aleks approach, as he shakes his hand, takes in the smile on his handsome face. He doesn’t know it then, but they’re the first sign of a complex, undefined feeling that will accompany him all season. Something to puzzle over, again and again, in finish areas all over the world.
Have it both ways, M, 2.1k, English, Aleksander Aamodt Kilde/Mikaela Shiffrin and Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc (F1): „So, why him?“ he picks up his train of questioning again. It‘s an innocent enough question, and yet - from the corner of his eye, he picks up on a sudden pink tinge across Mikaela‘s pretty cheekbones. „I just like him. He‘s very talented,“ she says, and it definitely sounds a little too nonchalant, almost defensive. Aleks turns to face her, abandoning the race on screen completely in favour of getting to the bottom of whatever she‘s not telling him.
Young Talents Summer Camp, G, 3.9k, English, Marco Odermatt/James Crawford: The next time Marco looks up, James is laughing at something one of his friends must have said - the sound carrying across the big dining room. Under his backwards cap, his dark hair curls over his ears. As if he feels Marco’s eyes on him, he throws a look over his shoulder, catches Marco’s eye. There’s heat rising in Marco’s cheeks, and he fights the urge to look away. This is ridiculous, he thinks.
(there's always) a next chance, G, 1.3k, English, Alexis Pinturault: The thing is, he doesn’t have a personal problem with Marco, of course. He truly doesn’t. But in this particular moment, he can’t help but feel the sting of envy, can’t help but feel something ugly rear its head inside of him.
Dancing out of my skin, T, 1.4k, English, Lucas Pinheiro Braathen/Max Verstappen (F1), Lucas Pinheiro Braathen/Atle Lie Mc Grath (implied): Lucas has done his research before today, of course, but as much as he hasn’t been following F1, he’s heard of Max Verstappen, of course, even without it. He’s a bit star struck, for a moment, standing in front of this incredibly regular looking guy, barely older than him, who’s been named a generational talent. Who has a world championship under his belt. They shake hands and Max’ eyes go small and squinty when he grins at Lucas and maybe Lucas is extra talkative, extra touchy, lets his laugh stretch extra wide.
six hours, four hundred miles and you, T, 2k, English, AJ Ginnis/River Radamus (unfinished): Every single person on campus knows AJ fucking Ginnis. AJ fucking Ginnis, who’s never looked at River twice before today and is now in his DMs. Writing in proper sentences, too. Anyone would be a little weirded out.
The Londoner, M, 1.3k, English, Marco Kohler/Franjo von Allmen: Maybe it‘s the heat inside the pub, maybe it‘s the glow of a fairly newly-minted world cup winner on Franjo. Maybe it‘s the fact that he‘s survived both the Lauberhorn and the Streif this year without so much as a bruise (well, he might have to revisit that thought tomorrow morning). Maybe it‘s the frankly indecent amount of alcohol coursing through Marco‘s blood. And yeah, it‘s probably that. Or, to be fair, a combination of it all.
D(r)abbling in Alpine Skiing, 19k: Collection of short drabbles (mostly from tumblr prompts) I've written.
In light of yesterday's game, I need someone (anyone) to dry Nino's tears after the medal ceremony, please 🥺
They want him to talk to the media, of course. It‘s the fact that this is his fifth time, probably. Or maybe the fact that it might have been his last chance, or one of his last ones, anyways. Either way, it‘s hard to speak through the lump in his throat. It feels like they shoved the damn silver medal straight down there, lodged it in sideways in a way that makes it impossible to swallow, to breathe freely.
When he makes it to the locker room, finally, most of the team seems to have already left for the conference room they‘re using as a makeshift basecamp.
Roman walks in right behind him, still fully suited up. Nino doesn‘t look at him, chooses to sit and unlace his skates instead. His eyes are itchy, hot, where he has them trained on the locker room floor and he has to clear his throat against the tightness in his chest.
Roman sighs, slides onto the bench beside him, even though it‘s not his stall.
„Please don‘t say it.“ It comes out quieter than he meant it to, but quick enough for Roman not to have started on the captain‘s speech just yet.
„Please don‘t say what, Nino?“ It‘s. Flat, is what it is. If not for the slight crack in his voice, it could have almost been mistaken for emotionless.
When Nino finally looks up, he sees a mirror image in Roman‘s face; everything he‘s feeling reflected brightly, almost too stark to face head-on. He swipes angrily at his own face, at the tears already springing free again, tries for a few more seconds to rein in the emotion.
„I just. I didn‘t think we‘d lose again.“ He has to force the words out. „I didn‘t think it would hurt like this.“
Roman winces, bites the corner of his bottom lip hard. „I know,“ he says, sounding just as raw as Nino. „I know.“ He reels him in by the shoulder, then, and Nino allows himself a few moments of feeble comfort - hides his face in Roman‘s padded shoulder and breathes in the familiar smell of hockey.
„I really wanted it, too,“ Roman mumbles into Nino‘s hair, hand fisted tightly into the back of his jersey and Nino aches with it, all of it, in its complicated human enormity.
„I know,“ he echoes and turns his face a little more into Roman‘s neck, just for a second or two.
"approximately once a week" she said, then proceeded to not write for like four weeks, what else is new. anways, here's finally part two of my wsss 2025 choose-your-own-adventure fic for @ankrine. sorry for the wait 😅
General Audiences (rating to be adjusted), 681 words, Atle Lie McGrath/Lucas Pinheiro Braathen
part I 💜 part II
Lucas has a girlfriend. She’s Brazilian and she’s an actress and she’s gorgeous and she’s Lucas’ girlfriend. They’re 24 years old and Atle can’t remember how old they were the last time Lucas had a girlfriend. It must’ve been almost ten years since.
He goes through the motions, he says all the right things. He asks for details and he’s nice about it all. Admittedly, his voice sounds weird to him, but he doesn’t think Lucas notices, not from the way he keeps talking about her, happily, animatedly. The waitress shoots Atle a look when she comes to clear their table, wipe away the coffee stain. Atle can’t really look at it head-on, it feels too much like pity.
It’s her look he keeps flashing back to even after there’s days and thousands of miles between the shittiness of that moment and him. He’s lying sideways on his hotel bed, feet dangling off the side and head bent at an awkward angle, phone pressed to his ear.
“He has a girlfriend??” Leo sounds completely incredulous.
Atle sighs. “Yep.”
“Well, did you tell him…”
Atle cuts him off mid-sentence. “Of course I fucking didn’t, what do you think??”
It’s Leo’s turn to sigh. “But…” he starts, then stops again. Seems to reconsider. “Well, shit. That sucks.” he finally admits.
Atle lets his head slip off the scrunched up pillow, lets it tip back off the mattress. There’s a small water stain on the ceiling. “Yeah,” he answers. Chews on his bottom lip. “Sucks.”
The door opens, and Atle makes a sad half-attempt at lifting his head enough to nod at Timon.
“Liv?” Timon smiles, gesturing to the phone.
Atle makes a face. It’s probably time he tells the team about the breakup at least. “Leo,” he corrects.
Leo’s immediately yelling into his ear: “Is that Timon, my man? Tell him I said hi!”
“He says hi,” Atle deadpans and Timon smiles again, volleys it back. Atle’s head feels hot and he struggles upright, leans against his headboard and absently watches Timon rifle through his suitcase for a fresh shirt.
“You should tell him,” Leo says in Atle’s ear and Atle frowns.
“Leo. I thought we’ve established that I can’t tell him! Not… not now.”
Leo makes a sound, something akin to a scoff. “Man, not Lucas! I meant Timon. Tell him! You need someone there who knows, bro.”
Atle sighs. “I’ll think about it,” he promises. “Listen… I have to go. We’re going to dinner soon,” he adds. And: “Thank you.”
Leo’s fond chuckle sounds like home. “Sure,” he says. “Anytime.”
They say their goodbyes and by the time Atle hangs up the phone, Timon is sitting at the edge of his own bed, facing Atle. He’s wearing a linen shirt, half undone at the neck and somehow already looks tan. A little sunburnt, maybe, across the bridge of his nose.
“You good?” he asks, yet another smile on his face.
He’s been sitting up for a few minutes now, but somehow Atle still feels like his face is bright red, cheeks hot with it.
“I’m… uh. Not great,” he admits. His fingers are tapping out a nervous rhythm against his phonecase.
Timon nods, wrinkles his nose. “You wanna talk about it?”
“It’s uhm… I broke up with Liv.” Atle glances up to see Timon’s expression twinge in sympathy. He hurriedly goes on before Timon can say anything. “There’s uh… more. I mean. There’s a reason and that parts not great either, but… I need some time. I’ll tell you eventually.”
Timon leans across the gap between their beds, hand landing on Atle’s ankle, squeezing. “You don’t have to tell me at all, if you don’t want to. But I’m here.”
The lump in Atle’s stomach twists uncomfortably, caught between a surge of affection for the people in his life, for Timon, and a bone-deep weariness. If only something could be easy for once, if he could just be someone’s shoulder to lean on instead of the one who’s leaning.
“I know.” He makes sure to smile at Timon, genuine. “Thank you.”
what should happen next?
Atle posts hand-holding pics with Timon & Lucas sees them (guys, it's canon)
Liv and Lucas chance-meeting and awkward convo
Lucas clocks that something's still up and tries to find out at a party
Yes you're taking prompts! 🤩🤩🤩 This is the highlight of my Sunday.
Could I prompt something, ANYTHING, about Odi and Franjo at the ZFF? Can be shippy or non-shippy.
Hope your spa is going great. ♥️
❤️❤️❤️ hi, i love you! (also sorry, this is not technically at the ZFF 😅)
day 2
Franjo is already on his phone when Marco wakes up. He‘s half propped up against the headboard and looks entirely too awake and fresh for a day like today.
„How?“ he croaks, turns onto his stomach and half hides his face in a pillow. The morning sun streaming into the room through a gap between the curtains makes it near impossible to blink up at Franjo, even just with one eye.
„How what?“ There‘s a faint grin tugging at the corner of Franjo‘s mouth and he reaches out a hand, warm weight landing on Marco‘s shoulder blade.
„How do you do it?“ Marco complains, but wiggles closer. „I‘m getting so old.“
„Ugh, not you too.“
When he lifts his head a little, presses his nose into the side of Franjo‘s pec for a better vantage point, the furrow of Franjo‘s brow becomes obvious.
„Huh?“ Marco asks. It‘s too early, and his brain‘s still swimming in one too many beers for full sentences.
Franjo vaguely gestures at his phone, doesn‘t look like he‘ll elaborate, so Marco opens his mouth and bites - just a little, right next to Franjo‘s dark nipple, where the skin is smooth and invitingly warm.
„Hey!“ Franjo actually laughs, this time, and swats at him. He raises an eyebrow.
It comes out in a burst. „I looked like a baby!“ Franjo complains, thrusts his phone into Marco‘s face, too close to actually make out anything. „I look like a confirmand in his first suit! And why didn‘t you tell me my hair looked like that.“
Marco sits up, too, groaning a little when his stiff joints protest and the faint throbbing in his right temple flares up for a second. He plucks the phone from Franjo‘s hands, tries to blink the remnants of sleep out of his eyes. The picture‘s from the green carpet, and Franjo‘s smile is almost as wide as his face.
„Babe,“ Marco starts. They‘ve switched positions, almost, mirror image of a moment ago with Franjo hiding his face in Marco‘s shoulder, trying and failing to stop frowning at the phone. „I don‘t know what to tell you, but I don‘t agree.“
Franjo just reaches out and swipes to the next picture over. Marco‘s faced with himself now, the bright blue of his suit, his not-quite-so-artfully tousled hair. Before he can say something, Franjo swipes back. Then forth again.
„Be fucking for real,“ he mutters. „I mean look at you. You looked…“ he trails off there, swallows.
Marco grins, tips Franjo‘s chin up to glance a perfunctory kiss over his lips, a promise for later, when his mouth doesn‘t feel like the Kalahari desert anymore. „Oh, I know you liked how I looked.“ Franjo swats at him again.
„You‘re so full of yourself,“ he pouts, but his tone is light enough.
„For good reason. As evidenced by last night,“ Marco argues, still grinning, his thumb tracing feather light concentric circles on Franjo‘s chest. He waves the phone back into Franjo‘s line of sight. „Which should also be enough evidence to you that I decidedly did not think you looked like a confirmand.“
Franjo almost gives him a full grin back, then.
„Also,“ Marco adds. „You are young. And it would be very unfair if you found your perfect formal outfit within the first few years of your pro career. We all have to go through a bit of an awkward phase.“
„Go brush your teeth.“ Franjo snatches his phone back. „Then I‘ll show you my akward phase.“
Marco laughs, already halfway off the bed. Then he stops again, suddenly suspicious. „Wait. What are you googling right now?“
*arrives ten hours late with coop pronto gas station coffee* (i wish i had a starbucks on my way to work...) You're taking prompts again? 🤩
In that case, could I have a number 7 with our pairing du jour Frodi?
(love youu ♥️)
The way it all happened is honestly so stupid, he feels terrible about it. He thinks he‘d feel terrible about it, even if things were different. He feels terrible even though it‘s not really his fault and there‘s nothing he can really do about it.
This is how it went down: They‘d had what Marco would have described as a completely normal training camp day. Sure, upon reflection, after what happened - Franjo had let him take first go several times. He‘d volunteered for kitchen duty after he knew Marco was gonna cook. He‘d spent half an hour helping Marco look for the gloves he‘d set down somewhere, immediately forgetting about them again. Sure, Arnaud had seemed irritated and in a fairly bad mood all day, god knows why. Still, none of that could have prepared Marco for it.
They‘d finished dinner and played a round of Brändi Dog. Marco and Justin had won, thanks to a miscommunication between Franjo and Arnaud and Justin was still celebrating. Franjo stood, and Odi looked up at him, grinning. „Will you bring me another beer if you‘re going to the kitchen?“ Harmless. Franjo had nodded easily, no big deal.
Not Arnaud, though. He‘d gone red-faced, all huffy, and started packing up the game.
„You don‘t wanna play another round?“ Marco had asked, surprised, at the same time as Arnaud had snapped at him: „I can‘t believe you‘re making him get your beers now.“
„What?“ he‘d said, half because it took his brain a few beats to process what Arnaud had said and half because the hostile tone honestly took him by surprise. Even Justin had shut up, then, and for a moment the only sound was the plink plink plink of the game marbles knocking together in their little sachet.
„Don‘t play dumb,“ Arnaud had hissed. „You‘re taking advantage of him.“
It was so heinous that it shocked a laugh out of Marco. „What??“ was the only thing he could think to say, again.
Arnaud had closed the game box and stood, hands braced on the table top. Expression tight with atypical aggression, he‘d stared at Marco for a beat. „He‘s in love with you, you idiot. You have to have noticed he‘s in love with you!“
He hadn‘t noticed. Clearly. It must‘ve been so obvious on his face, that some of the tension immediately bled out of Arnaud, replaced with a kind of disappointed frown that somehow hit even harder.
„You‘re joking.“ Justin seemed just as taken aback as Marco felt.
Just then, Franjo walked in again. His face was unreadable, the few seconds Marco managed to look at him at least. He set down one of the beer bottles he was carrying. It wobbled slightly before settling, teetering on the edge of tipping over for a moment. It felt like a metaphor.
„He‘s not joking.“ Quietly, flat. Marco noticed he was clenching his hands into fists, then, and he forced himself to look up, unsure what his face was doing. He caught only the tail end of a fleeting look Franjo had thrown his way but even that felt so heartbreakingly vulnerable that Marco could barely stand it.
„Anyway. I‘m going to bed,“ Franjo mumbled. He was still clutching the second bottle tightly, eyeing it for a moment, confused. Then he thrust it towards Arnaud, who looked shell-shocked.
„Franjo…“ Arnaud started, but Franjo had already turned around and left the room.
„Shit.“ Marco was unclear on who had said it. It might have been him. Arnaud set the second bottle down and went after Franjo without another word.
Marco buried his face in his hands and sighed. The sofa shifted underneath him, then he felt Justin‘s hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, tightly.
„Damn,“ Justin chuckled. „What is it about you?“
Marco just groaned. „Oh, shut up.“ He peeked at Justin between his fingers. „Did you know?! You could‘ve told me!“
„No! I guess I‘m just too used to people fawning over you by now,“ Justin mused, eyes twinkling. He laughed when Marco threw a pillow at him.
„You‘re finding this way too funny,“ he complained and Justin reached out to pat his head.
„Poor baby,“ he grinned. Marco shot him a weak grin back and stood, stretching.
„I think I‘ll to call Gino,“ he said, staring out the window into the dark.
Justin yelped a laugh. „Yeah, go do that. Can‘t wait to hear what he says about this.“
