Nothing But Thieves Imagines (Mature Content)

Love-All - Part 1 - Conor

One for the "sporty Conor" fans :) enjoy, and please vote and leave me comments if you like it - feedback keeps me going!
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You arrive at the studio a little after lunch, a box of Conor's favorite ginger lemon tea in one hand, a covered kitchen tin in the other.

You knock tentatively, but the door isn't latched, so it swings open into the airy room. Long desks covered with wires and sound boards, several monitors and a disarray of keyboards. A velvet couch in the corner, three guitars splayed carelessly across it like sleeping people.

On the faded maroon Persian rug sits a bathtub-sized whiteboard, with a handwritten, slightly crooked grid covering it. You read the names of five songs along the left side, but the spaces below them are blank.

"Come on, that was on the bloody line!"

Dom's yell wafts in through the window. You smile and turn toward the sound.

The boys had spent the last few days packing everything in to their new studio, arranging everything just so. They must have needed a fresh air break.

You slip quietly out the side door and Dom comes into view, gesticulating at the sideline of the tennis court surrounded by an ivy-covered brick wall.

Conor's standing across the net, racket in hand, trying not to look smug as Phil stands stalwart at the edge of the court, arms crossed, shaking his head.

"Love, forty," Phil says with finality as Dom throws his arms in the air. "That's game point, mate."

"I'll show you a bloody 'love forty'," Dom mutters as he prepares to serve. Nobody's noticed you yet, so you lean against the doorway to watch.

Conor's in trackies and that colorblock pullover that you'd hated at first, calling him a Backstreet Boy, but over time you'd grown to love. His baseball cap sits high on his head as he leans slightly forward, knees loose, waiting for Dom's serve.

You feel a surge of affection run through you. God, he's so handsome, you think, probably for the millionth time since you'd met him. And something about watching him at sport - since he's good at practically all of them - always makes tingles zap through your body.

Dom manages pretty good speed on his serve, but Conor lobs it back easily. You're captivated by him -- the grace and skill he brings to every movement. How is his little body so strong and lithe, so magical in its movements? Your mouth becomes suddenly dry, and you swallow down a lump in your throat.

You know Conor well enough to recognize that look in his eyes, soft and doting: he's going easy on Dom. You chuckle to yourself. That little demon could crush the ball right through Dom's skull if he wanted.

Finally, after several more scurries and lobs, Dom charges the net, swinging hard in a flurry of frustrated effort. But he hits it straight into the top of the net, sending it ricocheting high into the air. 

Conor can't help a grin as he squints up at it, lowering his racket slowly behind him. The boys hoot and guffaw as Dom mutters "oh, fucking hell," right before the the sure smack of Conor's hit sends the ball like a bullet into the ground next to Dom's trainers.

Joe and Price's applause and laughter rise from their seats in the corner, and Dom shakes his head in defeat. Phil yells "Game, set, match, yet again, to the legend, Conor Mason!" as Dom grudgingly shakes Conor's hand over the net, a smile peeking through just the same.

You're grinning ear to ear, not a small amount of pride rising in you. As the boys laugh and joke, you try to slip back inside and wait for them there, not wanting to disturb their moment. But before you turn, Dom spots you.