#know that

I know I’m supposed to be resting my brain, but writing this kind of content is genuinely so very natural to me. It hardly takes any effort anymore.

I am a very ridiculous little girl.

"You ever seen a boy in heat?" Luigi mumbles, his cheeks tinted with a fever-bright oxblood that blooms like crushed roses beneath his skin, his chest still heaving from trying to keep pace with Hasan and the rest of the team thundering ahead, his body barely recovered from this weekend's ruthless bender — it's his senior year, after all, and he's sworn not to let a single wild moment slip away.

While Hasan yapped at a computer on a livestream, Luigi blew his phone up with texts whilst he was in the bar bathroom.

Wyd?

Hellooooo

He exited his messages app, hopped onto Twitch to find Hasan deep in a rant on stream.

Sexytwerker69: Is that my shirt???

Sexytwerker69: U r so lucky ur hot

"Dunno," Hasan says, peeling his sweat-dampened kit over his head and stuffing it into the locker with casual indifference — Monday night soccer league had been his brainchild, and Luigi had tagged along, claiming he needed the exercise. "Is this an example?"

He pivots to face Luigi, who's already yanked his own jersey off, the fabric bunched strategically across his lap like a shield. Luigi's spine presses hard against the cold metal lockers, silently willing the chill to seep through his skin and calm the heat coursing through his veins.

Glassy eyed and luminous, his honey-gold skin gleams beneath the fluorescent lights, a constellation of freckles dancing across the bridge of his nose and scattered like stardust over his fever-flushed cheekbones — his chest still rises and falls with desperate intensity, droplets of sweat blazing molten trails from the dark curls clinging to the nape of his neck down over the rolling terrain of muscles that ripple and contract beneath the plane of his stomach.

He looked thoroughly wrecked, though cruelly untouched, his body screaming with the kind of desperate yearning that comes from a wanting without relief, every nerve ending raw and electric with need.

And yes, it was entirely by design.

This isn't the first time Hasan's mere existence has left Luigi burning alive from the inside out, nor will it be the last time his casual magnetism reduces Luigi to this raw, wanting creature.

The pattern is as familiar as it is maddening.

"Does it look like one?" Luigi huffs, dropping his chin but keeping his gaze locked on Hasan through a curtain of midnight lashes, the gesture both challenge and surrender — a practiced dance of submission that reveals more than it conceals.

Hasan remains rooted where he stands, though every muscle in his body screams to close the distance, to taste the salt on Luigi's skin, to drink him in like summer rain. "You been all bent out of shape lately," he murmurs, watching as his words send visible shivers down Luigi's spine, each observation landing like a physical touch. "At nothing."

Luigi's brows knit together in mock indignation, but the flush creeping down his neck betrays how much he craves this — the sweet sting of being seen, being called out. "Nothing would be an opinion," he fires back, each word sharp and precise, teeth flashing like pearls. "M'a growing boy."

Hasan steps forward finally, showing no hesitation when he cradles Luigi’s jaw in his hands to tilt his head upward, “I’m afraid you won’t be growing much more than this.” He smirks, but Luigi is already lost to his touch, body heat turning into static electricity.

The height difference had always been a point of playful contention between them — three inches if you asked Luigi, who'd stand a little taller at the mere mention; four if you asked Hasan, who'd emphasize it by resting his chin atop Luigi's head just to hear him curse; and five inches according to their last physical exams, a medical fact that Luigi refused to acknowledge even under oath.

"Can't be doing this to me here," Hasan growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that makes Luigi's stomach flip, as he sinks to his knees before him. Luigi reaches out with trembling fingers, caught between raw need and the ghost of past consequences, his touch both greedy and hesitant. "You want to get us banned from another rec team because you can't seem to keep yourself in check?"

The surfing incident still haunts them both — Luigi trapped in that skin-tight wetsuit, his desire painfully obvious against the dark neoprene, with nowhere to hide from curious eyes and knowing smirks.

That day had ended with a strongly worded email from the beach club's management and Luigi's face burning brighter than the setting sun.

"It could be our thing.” Luigi grins, all false innocence wrapped in wicked intent, knowing full well that Hasan's resolve crumbles like wet sand when faced with that particular smile.

Hasan can't deny him — has never been able to deny him.

At least not for long.

Hasan's teeth graze the curve of the bicep curled around his neck, his fingers digging crescents into Luigi's hips as he leans in to paint kisses across the salt-slick canvas of his collarbone. "Won't be long before one of these fuckers gets on reddit and exposes me for my perverted friend," he mutters against heated skin, feeling the way Luigi practically purrs at the words, the vibration of that satisfied hum resonating through both their bodies like a struck chord. “Hasanabi one of two players banned from local rec soccer team for locker room violation.”

"Friend," Luigi echoes with a predatory purr, nuzzling against Hasan's temple like a great cat marking its territory, the line between hunter and hunted blurring with each shared breath.

The word drips with irony, with promise, with years of carefully constructed plausible deniability.

Hasan responds by forcing Luigi's head back with his own, His mouth blazing a trail of scorching kisses down the column of Luigi's throat, across his chest, tongue flattening against the firm swell of his pectorals — muscles that have transformed since junior year, despite his determined campaign to drink his way through senior semester.

The physical metamorphosis is Hasan's handiwork, really.

Countless hours of perfectly crafted workout plans, protein shake recipes, and personal training sessions that often ended exactly like this.

Though Luigi never quite manages a thank you.

His gratitude tends to manifest in other ways.

Hasan's mouth works in a devastating rhythm—licking, sucking, licking again — until Luigi is reduced to ragged breaths and desperate whimpers, his fingers tangled in Hasan's dark hair, pulling with just enough force to blur the line between pleasure and pain. His knees clamp against Hasan's ribs like a vice, as if afraid he might try to escape, might leave Luigi burning alive here on this locker room bench. "You think we look like more than friends to most?"

Hasan has a point — though Luigi's lovesick gazing is barely contained by designer sunglasses, and his tendency to orbit Hasan like a desperate satellite is obvious to anyone with functioning eyes.

To their social circle, they're just two activists who bonded at a rally, sharing megaphones and righteous anger. Not a soul would guess that these same voices now whisper tender confessions in pre-dawn hours, when Luigi lies spent and satisfied beside Hasan, accepting sips of water from that battle-scarred hydroflask — the one covered in faded protest stickers and climate action badges.

No one knows how Hasan's voice softens when it's just the two of them, how his fingers trace constellations on Luigi's skin.

That’s my good boy. That’s it, baby.

AH WHATEVER IM STOPPING HERE

IT PAINS ME EACH DAY OUR LASAN ARMY IS SO SMALL, YET WE ARE MIGHTY.

Btw I do know a more biblically accurate version would be them on a basketball team but Lu gives more of a soccer baby boy vibe than a hoops guy and Hasan can def kick some balls around so I went with soccer