playboy shit - mcyt/dsmp

today, in the room lr-304

tw/cw: yelling, swearing

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By Association: Dream's POV

The locker room. It's a love-hate relationship.

On one hand, it was the easiest place to fulfill my unfiltered desires and requests; say and do things that I would never think to in any other establishment. You'd think that by now, being in college, we'd collectively have a little bit more sense than we did when we were fifteen-year-old horny boys. But we were just horny boys in their early adulthood. To this, I approach the latter: it can so quickly get out of hand in here. The metal lockers were always clanging with a body against them, a few shouts here and there (whether they were positive or negative), and a shitload of testosterone radiating between us as D2 athletes.

It's kind of a lot.

But today, the vibes are immaculate, and I never truly mean that unironically. I'm standing at my locker, changing without too many eyes on my backside and no hands are slapping my ass unwarranted. Sapnap has a conversation going with the top forward on the team, a blond who went by the name of Punz. He was a simple guy, I suppose, I didn't know him well enough personally, anything other than his stats. Minding my own business isn't my strong suit, so I listen in on the mini bits of the conversation.

"You can't get caught with that, you know?"

"Well duh. And you're one to talk."

"That was one time."

"And luckily for you, your privilege got you out of it."
I bite the inside of my cheek, holding back a laugh in agreement.

"It's a miracle you don't find yourself shitfaced during practice."

"What? Like passing out?" Punz gives a hum in response, "I'm just built different, I guess."

"We know."

I place my helmet on its designated hook before closing my locker altogether. My initial task was to make a stop in the bathroom to check myself out before I departed.

However, a defeated sigh interrupted my autonomy. "Wes?" The boy sat on the ground, hugging his knees against his chest, releasing them slowly as I approached.

Wesley Boone, another one of our beloved forwards with nimble feet that performed tap-dancing routines on the turf against the defense. He was smaller than most of us in frame but gifted with the agility that none of us had the honor of possessing. The urge to ruffle his brown curls stung as it was our team's little token of appreciation for him, specifically; but even behind his quirky tortoiseshell glasses, I noticed his caramel eyes clearly conveyed some sort of annoyance, "You okay, bud?"

"Yeah," He breathed out, "I think so."

"You don't sound certain."

"I'm not." He squirms against the lockers, avoiding my eyes. My lips twist nervously, feeling his anxiety radiate off of his olive-toned skin. It makes me itch and I know I don't need this sort of energy before my first class of the day.

But I bring myself to stay for whatever reason, "What's up?"

"You know, it's not even that big of a deal, it's just..." He squints before he sends me a concerned gaze, "Fucking Val has been acting so weird lately."

Valentino Rivera, the center midfielder that played between Sap and I. God, the guy hadn't shown up to practice today, and he missed a few other sessions beforehand as well. That was both a blessing and a curse. The coaches claimed he was learning fast, their current MVP as he adapted to the formations well. Therefore, it only made sense for them to be torn up when he skipped. When he got the ball, he sprinted as if there weren't any opposing forces on the field, and suddenly everyone is playing defense in order to help the man score. And yeah, he was really fucking good at scoring but nobody likes a player that runs solo whilst playing a team sport.

Or at least, I don't. Fucking ball hogger.

"He got good and now he feels like he doesn't have to show up to workouts anymore." I laugh, hiding the hint of vexation behind my thoughts.

"Well, that's one thing. But he's gone ghost with other things too." Wes fiddles with his phone, "He's taking that ridiculously hard calculus class, the one with your friend."

I feel my jaw clench ever so slightly, "My friend?"

"George."

"Oh." I manage. "That sucks." Actually, that really sucks.

The probability of George associating himself with a guy like that was slim. Although, the more advanced the class, the smaller. Fuck. There were so many extraneous variables. I'm not a math major but according to my calculations in that moment...my stomach churned, the butterflies that were usually there, morphing into angry wasps.

I don't like this.

"I told him not to do it but he's a fucking idiot." Yeah, he is. "Whenever I do actually hear from him, it's always about that."

"If it's that bad, why won't he just drop it?"

"I don't know," He shrugs, "His ego, maybe."

"You sound uncertain again."

"Just don't wanna make him sound like the bad guy here if there's really something going on." He lets himself frown. You see, now I feel kinda bad. I'd die to have someone worry about me the way Wes worried about Val. Except, in order for that to be, I'd have to be sort of an asshole.

I think Val is an asshole. There couldn't be a valid reason for him to leave a friend in the open like that. This wasn't lacrosse after all.

"Dream!" It's Sapnap's voice echoing through the place, "Come on, we have places to be!"

"Tell me if he gets back to you." I extend my arm and our sweaty palms meet with a clap, our fingers curling.

"Yeah, okay." He smiled. "Um, thanks for listening."

"Anytime."

"CLAY!" Sapnap calls out for me again, "I'm gonna fucking leave you."

Oh my literal god, this annoying ass— "For fucks sake, I'm coming!" I turn back to him sympathetically, "Sorry."

"It's okay, you better go." He lets go of my hand, and mine doesn't hesitate to find its way to his hair, giving him a swift farewell ruffle.

"See ya, Wesley."

-
1036 words

do y'all know much I love this man Wesley? do you? that's my baby for real...such a sweetie but y'all will see.

you already know we are about to get into some dnf + extras yup! the clay block is in his cold stone lover arc and they aren't even dating...trifling bruh