Closed RP Hot Singles in Your Area

[HighVoltage]

Freyja sighed as she let the bar raise slowly, letting it slip from her grasp once her arms were fully extended. Music blasted in her headphones as she stood from the bench, grabbing a cloth and spray to disinfect it and the bar before moving away. She rolled her shoulders, growling at the persistent itch between her shoulders that refused to dull.

Veljara hadn’t let her wings loose in her last excursion, despite their desire to be free. She’d thought that it would lead to a more interesting fight, but all it had led to was a draw, and almost all of the heroes had fled with their tails between their legs. She had gone back to being Freyja, for longer than she had expected this time. She needed something new, she wasn’t going to bring about the end of things by appearing in random intersections and killing civilians. She’d already tried that and it hadn’t brought the heroic conflict she’d needed.

Hells, she’d had more heroes who tried harder to stop her at that stupid concert that had started all of this. She could attempt to fight regular people, or even villains if she could get hands on one. But it wouldn't be the same. Heroes were so much better to fight, so much more eager to put her down, willing to let go of all restraint if it meant a shot at putting her down sooner. It got her blood pumping, and Freyja’s temperature was rising just thinking about it.

That was why she’d been working out more, whipping her body into the highest shape it could be in, especially her back. When Veljara finally ascended to her true form, when her wings pulled into existence, she had to be prepared to use them to their fullest extent.

But still. So much focus on preparing for Veljara’s duty had left Freyja with little time to herself. She scanned the gym as she began to make her way to the exit, eyes fixing on one particular figure. She’d seen them in here a few times before, although their presence wasn’t consistent enough to be part of a routine. It was clear from the weight they stacked onto the bar that they had quite some strength in them, and judging by the lack of oiled-up definition, it wasn’t purely vanity lifting.

That was good. Freyja preferred to keep preening show-offs out of her bed.

She changed course, moving to approach the lifter at their bench. She noted that they were somewhat attractive, albeit in a scruffy way. While Vasia had been long and lean, the body of a dancer and warrior, they were built more ruggedly, a stone outcropping whose sharp edges had been smoothed by time and weather; still dangerous, but not apparently so.

“Need a spotter?” She asked as she got within range. She noted that no one else had offered, and in fact a few of the regulars had glanced in her direction before quickly looking away. Curious. “You’ve put quite a lot of plate on that bar. I don’t doubt your strength, but still. Better safe than sorry.”

“Freyja.” She offered a hand in greeting, reaching out to clasp their forearm if they extended theirs. “And you are?”

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

Spork has trained their fellow gym-goers well. No one approaches them as they hum their way through setting up for their set, and that’s just how they like it. Sure, it took three stolen girlfriends, five broken hearts, and more chin-up contests than they cared to count, but it was worth it to not have any gym-bros dogging their heels and trying to “help” them load plates onto the bar. And they didn’t even have to break anyone’s fingers, this time! They get a little better at gaming the system every day. Soon they’ll run this gym, and it’ll be all over for these fools.

They’re just sitting down and running a final music check when they notice someone walking up to them. Whoever it is, their steps are surprisingly heavy, and they’re angling right towards them like they’re on a mission. Sigh. If this is some kind of newbie who’s about to start preaching about protein powder and hand positioning they won’t be held accountable for their actions. They’re only here because Mari’s latest project blew up and turned their apartment into the unfun kind of hotbox. They don’t need a lecture on etiquette while they’re trying to get their smoke-free gains.

Spork keeps their head down until the woman speaks up, only then breaking their pretend staring contest with their phone and tilting their chin up to approximate eye contact. Or at least attention, since the voice that greets their ears is pleasant enough they don’t immediately feel the need to scare her off. (It’s low and smooth, and laced with an unfamiliar accent that twists joined consonants into tangles. They can’t place it immediately, but wherever it’s from, she seems accustomed to stepping over the snags, refusing to let them trip her up. She gets one respect point for that, bringing her back to neutral after the one she lost for offering to help them.)

Freyja, huh? Well, they don’t get to break out their legal name that often, but something tells them she might appreciate it.

“Spartacus,” they say, extending their hand after a moment’s thought. Their eyebrows raise when she clasps their arm instead of their hand, rising clear above their shades before they wrangle them back down and change their look of surprise for a challenging smile. Oh, so it’s like that, is it? Alright. “I usually go by Spork, but you can call me whatever you like.”

They drop her hand (which is fire-warm in a way they’re used to associating with Sam, but that’s where the similarities end, because she seems to be about 90% muscle by volume if first impressions are anything to go by), and tuck their phone safely away in their pocket before scooting back a little on the bench. Their smile turns a shade more dangerous as they add, “If you can lift it, then sure, you can spot me. You’ll have to keep up, though. I don’t fuck with amateurs.”

They reach over and pat the bar in invitation, letting their hand linger there so they can tell if she takes them up on the challenge.

 

[HighVoltage]

Freyja let one eyebrow gracefully float upward at the name. Either Spartacus’s parents had been particularly cruel in their child’s youth, or it was a chosen name. She knew what it was like to choose a new name for yourself, a new title that would sweep in front of you and herald your arrival and intent.

The second name sent the eyebrow soaring even higher, the combination of the absurd name and the blatant flirting eliciting a small chuckle from the Nordic woman. This was familiar territory to her, a well-known dance even if the music wasn’t what she was quite used to.

“Spork.” She said, letting the name sit in her mouth and finding it not unpleasant. Sharp, and perhaps a touch sour. Intriguing. A challenge was set, and Freyja Ragnarsdóttir so rarely got the opportunity to meet one that didn’t involve flames and death. And when it came to physical challenges, well.

None had bested her yet.

Freyja smoothly stepped around Spork, one leg coming up and over the bench until she sat behind them, brushing up against them and feeling them tense up. Nervous? Or perhaps they didn’t like an unfamiliar touch. Perhaps if things continued in this way hers would no longer be considered such. Signalling for them to move with a flick of her hips, Freyja laid down on the bench, grasping the bar in both hands.

Perhaps it had been ill-advised to attempt what could very well turn into a weightlifting contest after she’d already been working her back and shoulders. Spork certainly had an impressive physique if this was their starting point. In the end she felt that three was sufficient, three smooth dips and three strong climbs, before racking the bar pulling herself upward and flashing a wolflike grin at her workout partner, a glint in her eyes and fire in her voice.

“So? Is that enough to disprove the ‘amateur’ claims? Or should I go for a full set?” A bluff, perhaps, but she doubted that Spork would call it. And if they did, well, then they were just stalling.

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

Whoa-kay, that was not the route they’d expected her to take, but Spork can work with this. They can’t stop themself from tensing up when she gets close to them - instincts are a tricky thing to kick - but they make a smooth recovery, shooting her a smile before magnanimously ceding the bench and crossing to the spotter’s spot. (Not that they’re exactly equipped to do any actual spotting, (not without touching the bar, and they don’t want to be accused of rigging the challenge), but they figure they can catch the weight before it crushes her trachea if they really need to.)

Luckily for them, it turns out that they don’t need to. They grin down at her, pleasantly surprised by both the display of fitness and the open challenge in her voice, then remember themself and lean casually against the rack as they pretend to think about it, one finger tapping against their lip. “Hmm… I guess you can stay. Consider the shrimp allegations rescinded. For now. We’ll see how you fare on leg day.”

The implicit offer escapes them before they can really think about it, but they don’t take it back. They continue not to take it back as they circle around to the side of the bench, one hand trailing along the frame like an afterthought.

“Scooch,” they say, succinct but still smiling. They wait for her to move before taking her place. (And for just a moment, as they lie down, the bench feels almost uncomfortably warm - interesting, they think, saying nothing of it as they wriggle into place under the bar.)

“Alright. I know you do, in fact, ‘lift, bro’, but I’m just gonna tell you right now you’re probably gonna get pretty bored. Fair warning,” they tell her. The warning would probably work better if they were at all apologetic, but if she was going to stick around then it was probably better for her to figure out what they were like and where she stood now rather than, say, when they inevitably broke her heart.

Such were the dangers of courting Spork Fuchs.

 

[HighVoltage]

During her time in the gym with Spork, Freyja learned a few interesting tidbits about them. No, they somehow weren’t part of the near-constant stream of words that fell out of their mouth. They were from observation, although the intent of said observation was less than innocent.

The first tidbit was that they were blind. Freyja noticed this early in Spork’s workout routine, as they retrieved a red and white cane from the wall once they shifted to the next area. How she had missed it before was a mystery left for another time, but she was impressed with their dexterity, the seeming lack of hindrance despite the loss of one of their senses.

The second was far more interesting: Spork had some form of augmentation. On one of the several occasions their top had rode up due to their movements, something other than smooth skin caught her eye. Something of metal, seemingly embedded in their body, over where their spine was. They offered no explanation, and thus she asked no questions.

Despite these fairly interesting revelations about her new companion, the hour or so it took Spork to complete their workout were frustrating. Primarily because they chose to continue their workout. Her intent had been made fairly obvious upon first contact, and they had made it quite clear that they were interested. And yet they took their time, ambling between the areas of the gym and flashing that curved slash of a smile as though they knew exactly what they were doing.

It was the little bits of revenge that made the time pass faster, especially when she saw the knowledge flicker across their face, that she was the reason the bar was a bit heavier, the weights a touch uneven. They never mentioned it, just pushed harder, strain tightening their muscles and sweat beading their face. It was worth the delay, to watch them struggle.

Of course Spork had to delay them further. After loudly insisting that the most important thing after a workout was “smoothie time”, they had dragged her to a nearby establishment to procure their protein-packed beverages. They had the courtesy to pay, however, a small redemption in light of how much trouble they had been thus far.

Freyja had to admit, it had never been quite this much of a process to lay someone before. Usually she simply had to introduce herself and the girl in question seemed to lose all coherent thought. Barring that, a direct statement of her intent was enough for things to progress. But Spork was different. They were conniving, leading her along a jaunt that did indeed lead where she was headed, but took the most roundabout approach.

And as much as it frustrated her, Freyja could not deny that it also excited her.

As the key turned in her apartment’s lock, a chorus of yowls greeted her from the other side of the door. Freyja had not told Spork about her cats. She’d found it hard to get a word in amongst their constant chatter. She pushed the door open a bit, kicking lightly with her feet to get the furry beasts to disperse.

“Bygul, Trjegul! Færa!” She shouted at the cats, who reluctantly shifted away from the door, if only to make way for the two to enter. She tossed her keys in the nearby bowl, bending down to scratch the two large cats. Their coats were long and fluffy, one a warm orange, the other other a deep gray. Both, however, had lamplike yellow-orange eyes that hovered on her for a moment before turning to the newcomer, watching them with an unnatural intellect.

Freyja shooed them away, rising back to her full height before shrugging off her coat and setting it on the nearby coat rack. Her apartment had been quite sparse when she moved in, and Freyja originally had not made much effort to remedy that. She had believed her work would be quick, finished and done before she had time to settle. That had been months ago, and she had since indulged somewhat in her home’s interior decor.

The entryway opened into a living room area. A soft couch with a connected ottoman sat against one wall, Bygul curled up in a sunbeam that fell across it. Tucked into another corner was perhaps the largest cat tree one could purchase. At the very least it was the largest that would still have enough clearance at the top for her pets. The sound of claws tearing into its material signalled Trjegul’s ascent, swiftly climbing to the top and perching there, surveying her domain.

The rest of the space was filled with various shelves, knicknacks, and hand-carved wooden figurines. A couple of bookshelves were full to bursting, an unorganized cluster whose organizational system presumably only the owner knew. Freyja glanced back at Spork, seeing how they’d adjust to the new space.

“I’d say to make yourself at home, but considering you insisted that I host, I’m not entirely sure I want to know what you do at yours.” She let her eyes drift over them, waiting to see what Spork’s next infuriating move would be.

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

Spork probably takes a little too much enjoyment out of messing with Freyja. They really do intend to go with her, (after they’ve finished their workout), but the urge to draw things out just to see if it’ll get under her skin is too strong to completely ignore. It isn’t the tact they usually take with girls, but it’s working nonetheless and they’re too curious to leave a button un-pressed once they’ve discovered it exists.

(They’d feel a little bad about that, but damn if she doesn’t meet them halfway. She gives as good as she gets, and it’s fun, the push-and-pull, the challenge, the competitive sniping that feels more like flirting. They haven’t worked this hard for something in ages. It’s exciting, and they’re almost a little disappointed when they run out of reasons to (keep her close just to push her away, too soon, eager beaver, don’t you know you’ve gotta catch me first?) keep puttering around the gym.)

So they go for smoothies. And if they pay attention to what she likes (and sneakily goad her into telling them what she doesn’t), well, who’s really counting, anyway? This is just a one-time thing. A passing distraction; it’ll be fun for a week or so and then they’ll get tired of it. They always do.

But, at least for now, they’re interested enough to follow her to her apartment, empty smoothie cup discarded in a bin somewhere along the short walk. (They would’ve volunteered their own place, as they usually do, but, well, smoke problems. And also, they retroactively decide that the slight annoyance in Freyja’s voice when she accepts is well-worth the trouble of navigating to an unfamiliar place. Like they said, buttons.)

“You have cats?” Spork can’t keep the surprise out of their voice. They don’t know what they were expecting, upon entering her apartment, but it certainly wasn’t the brush of unfamiliar fur against their shins. “Oh, wow, what have you been feeding them? I didn’t know cats even came in that size. Or, I mean, uh, good kitty…”

They keep very still until the cat that had come to investigate them moves away, breathing a muted sigh of relief as they set their cane against the wall. It’s always a toss-up on whether animals love them or hate them, but it seems like they’ve passed muster this time.

Unlike Freyja, Spork doesn’t have a coat to shed. They hadn’t brought one to the gym; they usually just run back to their apartment, and it just doesn’t make sense to bundle up if they’re only going to be out in the cold for, like, five minutes tops.

Speaking of tops… They close the distance that had opened between them and Freyja, ignoring the rest of the apartment in favor of settling their hands at her hips, playfully toying with the hem of the tank-top she’d donned over her workout gear when they left the gym. Their smile is sharp and teasing and full of intentions, but their touch is somehow light, like a silent question disguised under their brash confidence. “Mm, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. But, hey, I’d be happy to show you.”

They know the steps to this dance, and they slip easily into the leading part, expecting her to follow (or bow out, but they don’t think they’ve managed to misread things that badly. This is what she’s wanted since she first approached them, and even if they did have fun leading her on a merry chase they never denied the destination.)

 

[HighVoltage]

To Freyja’s (admittedly mild) surprise, Spork didn’t attempt to prolong the inevitable any further. With a cheesy segue line they stepped closer, their touch a question. She could see it in the way they postured themself, leaving enough space between the two of them for either to quickly and easily pull away should the answer be ‘no’. But it was how they stepped into things, how they initiated it.

Spork thought they would be the one leading the dance.

Of course they did, how could such a brash personality believe otherwise? Now that she looked for it, Freyja could see the signs further in their body language. It was strange, seeing it from this angle. She hadn’t really been on this side of the dance before. She was typically the one doing the leading, approaching whatever woman caught her eye and leading them along. She was always the one to set the pace, to draw the lines. And her partner had always been more than happy to go with it, to let her lead.

Freyja idly wondered if it was the blindness that gave Spork the gall. She knew that she cut quite the intimidating figure, and perhaps that lack of visual intimidation gave them the false courage to think they could control her. Regardless, this was something new, something different, something she hadn’t quite experienced before.

“Hm, what a thoughtful offer.” Her hands slid to match Spork’s, an answer in kind as she pulled the two of them closer. But while Spork had asked a question, they hadn’t asked the right one. “Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be a very good host if I accepted.” Digging her fingers into their side, Freyja pulled Spork around, lifting them if she had to, before pushing them against the nearby wall. There was less than a hand’s width between them as her voice lowered.

“Remember, you’re in my house.” She growled, hands pressing tight against Spork’s hips, practically daring them to try to resist. Whatever distance remained between them grew smaller as Freyja leaned in close, lips close enough to brush their ear.

“Bitch.”

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

Spork is getting two very different signals, here, and it leaves them kind of at a loss for what to do. They’re just beginning to tilt their head to one side, a question translating itself from their mind to their lips, when they feel Freyja’s hands tighten around their waist. That’s all the warning they get before she spins them around, their feet losing contact with the floor for a dizzying moment before their back hits the wall. It sends a jolt of (hopefully imagined) electricity right up their spine, and it must temporarily fry whatever braincells they’ve been rubbing together for the past few hours, because they have no excuse for what they say next.

“Whooaa mama.” The terribly-accented impression escapes straight from their brain without bothering to make even a cursory stop in their (admittedly underused) verbal filter, and they immediately flush an even brighter shade of red, clamping their mouth shut before they can follow it up with a ‘mama warned me about girls like you’ reference. There’s probably no good time to be haunted by Johnny Bravo’s vengeful spirit, but they’re counting right now among one of the worst.

“Uhm.” Nope, okay, it seems like their brain is still rebooting and words remain beyond their capabilities. In their defense, this has literally never happened to them before. (Well- no, okay, yeah, it’s happened once before, (and more than a few times after that) but that was… a very special circumstance.)

And it didn’t happen quite like this, so they think they’re justified in fumbling around for a few moments, releasing their hold on Freyja’s shirt only to latch on again higher up, their hands wrapping around the straps of her tank before she can pull away. They regain enough of their wits to realize that they’re laughing - cackling, really, high and delighted - and they lean into it, lean into her, a hard edge creeping into their smile as they finally catch up.

“Bold words, coming from a shitty host. You didn’t even offer me a drink,” they laugh, and their smile screams danger in half a dozen different languages, defiance in a dozen more. They push back against her, but it isn’t to push her away - if anything, they draw her closer, yanking her down to their level and closing the gap themself until the distance between their faces can be measured in millimeters. This close, not even their sunglasses can hide the challenging glint in their eyes. “Guess you’ll have to fight me for it. Bitch.”

(And if the curse sounds more like a term of endearment, well, they know who’s counting, and they think they can take her.)

 

[HighVoltage]

If Freyja noticed Spork’s little verbal slip, she didn’t mention it. She was too caught up in the rush of them, the intoxication of someone who didn’t melt at her touch, figuratively or literally, but who actually made her work for it. They cackled like a madman, verbally spitting in her eye as their grip on her shifted. Freyja snarled as they yanked on the straps of her top, pulling her closer. She could’ve bit off their nose and they probably would have just kept cackling. Their smile was a threat, a promise, a gods-damned warning that Freyja found she wanted nothing more than to ignore, to crash through it and see what this scruffy blonde could dish out. And what they could take.

As their faces practically pressed together, her teeth remained bared, but it was a wolflike grin, enough to make any child of Loki turn tail and run. But her blind partner merely laughed in return, a fire burning in their sightless eyes hotter than any flame she or Veljara could ever hope to summon. Freyja felt something burn in her chest in return, a bubbling pit of something she couldn’t name, only aware that it existed.

Without warning one of her hands left Spork’s side and came back before slamming into their throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh as the shelves against the wall rattled slightly from the impact. Freyja let out a laugh, not quite on par with their cackle but with just enough madness in it to match her lover.

“Do your worst. I’ve never lost.”

(Later, covered in black and blue and angry streaks of red, Freyja couldn’t tell if either of them had lost, or indeed if both of them had won.)

---

Locusts. Snakes. The plague.

All were easier to eradicate than the thought of Spork. They’d been living in her head like a parasite since that one night they shared, which she refused to think about. It hadn’t shaken her, it hadn’t awakened something in her that craved the fire, craved the fight, craved the battle for dominance. Freyja certainly hadn’t found another lay the following night, desperate to prove something to herself.

She had certainly not ended that evening frustrated and unsatisfied.

Exercise was a refuge, the gym a temple at which she could clear her head and focus only on turning her body into a weapon. If she kept an eye out for another worshipper, one with fire in their eyes and daggers in their smile, was that truly a sin? The gods seemed to think so, or perhaps Spork themself had simply moved on. They had seemed quite the wanderer in matters of lust.

Or so Freyja thought.

One morning, certain felines had decided to knock over an entire shelf that had required replacement, reinforcement, and rebuking of the offenders. Her day had been thrown into disarray, but she still changed and made her daily pilgrimage. The Norns must have had her thread in hand that day, a twist of fate for which she had long since abandoned hope. For when she entered, her eyes were inexplicably drawn towards one area of the gym floor, distinct only by its absence of general patrons milling about, save for the one.

Freyja forced her step not to quicken, wondering quite frankly why it would at all, as she moved towards Spork. She was wearing similar workout gear as to their first encounter, although not the same. That set had been…damaged. She stopped once she got within a comfortable distance, crossing the invisible boundary that no other in the gym seemed to dare to cross, save for the stupid and uninformed.

Freyja idly wondered if they would assign her to the former category, since they knew quite well she didn’t belong to the latter.

“Hey.” Freyja spoke up. “You know you have to keep a regular routine in order to make any progress. Otherwise you’re just sweating.” Her tone was one of slight admonishment, carrying a lilt at the backend that betrayed the grin on her face.

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

The electricity is back, zinging through their nerve endings and lighting fires wherever their skin touches hers, but Spork just keeps laughing, because oh, this is going to be fun. Her voice joins theirs, the pitch low enough to hit them right in the gut, and their smile is an untamed thing as they grab her wrist, viper-quick, squeezing hard enough to let her know that, if they really wanted her hands off them, they could leave far more than bruises on their way out. (Only for a moment - then their grip loosens minutely, tacit allowance without apology for the wordless reminder.)

“Neither have I!” they exclaim, more than delight showing in their bared teeth, just before they tug her down that final hair and mash their lips together with all the grace of two planets colliding.

(And it isn’t like anything they’ve done before, except in the ways that it is. They steal one of her shirts (in sweet, lukewarm revenge for ruining theirs) and sneak out in the middle of the night, (then sneak back in, (because it’s fucking freezing outside) steal her coat, and sneak back out again, doing her the courtesy of locking her door this time (they slip the key back under the door, at least, because they aren’t that mean) so that she doesn’t get burgled because of their- whatever, you get the point) and it’s almost nostalgic, letting the quiet murmur of Google Maps guide their walk back home. Mari’s already curled up in bed when they get back, (by some miracle of it being go-the-fuck-to-sleep-o’clock) and when they plop down next to her (with their hair still damp from the quickest shower known to man) they’re out like a light as soon as their head hits the pillow.

They dream in shades of heat and bubbling pitch, burning hands and rope-like braids, and wake up to questions they’re too sore to answer, for reasons they won’t name.

It was just a one-time thing. So why can’t they get her out of their head?)

---

Mari is so totally on to them. Spork can only ever give her the runaround for so long, and they can tell their daily trips to the gym are quickly exhausting whatever patience quota she has left after they brushed off her pointed inquiries about the collection of bruises they’d amassed overnight.

Ugh. It would be so much easier to find Freyja if they could call in their seeing-eye Mari. But they just know the questions would be endless. They would have subsections within subsections, numbered 1-10 and a-j, and Spork isn’t that desperate yet. (They shouldn’t be desperate at all, but the part of their brain that latches on to new and exciting things has decided this is where the dopamine is, and they can’t get it to just let it go. They don’t even have her number! Fuck’s sake.)

They’re just getting ready to head home from another pointless few hours of distracted weightlifting when they notice someone walking closer to them than anyone has dared to all day. They turn, already preemptively frowning while they gear up to deliver a scathing reprimand to whatever poor fool has decided to cross them today. They are so not in the mood-

Oh. It’s her. (They would recognize that voice anywhere, as cliche as it feels to even think.) Their face does some interesting contortions as they try to figure out what to do with it. (Some unfamiliar emotion is alternating between wrapping bands around their lungs and filling them with helium, and it’s… distracting.)

They eventually settle on vague offense, because that seems to be the safest bet for making it through this conversation without doing something horrendously stupid. “Uh, duh. Why else do you think I’d be here every day?” Fuck, no, they do not want her to answer that. Initiate evasive maneuvers. “You’re the one who’s been dropping the ball here, not me. I’d keep an eye on that glass house if I were you.”

Nailed it.

 

[HighVoltage]

The thing in her chest bubbled, passing from a simmer to a boil as they spoke. Freyja had expected Spork to remember her, at least in passing. The marks they’d left on each other, at least physically, weren’t ones to fade so quickly. The deeper ones, however, she hadn’t been sure. They’d been left in her, claw marks raked against something deep within her that refused to heal, pulsing angrily whenever Spork had crossed their mind.

If their momentary lapse of facial control was anything to go off of, it seemed that Freyja’s claws had similarly sunk into Spork, and she would be damned if she let go.

“Me? Dropping the ball?” Mock indignation filled Freyja’s voice as she took one step, the another. Not closing the distance between them, not yet. Freyja wasn’t sure if the bubbling pitch in her chest would boil over or not if she got too close. For now she kept the distance between them just a little too far, moving around them. Her steps were slow and fluid, a predator circling her prey.

“I’ve also been here every day. Unlike you, I usually come in the mornings. You know, when normal people wake up.” She didn’t verbally echo their unspoken sentiment, that the only reason she’d been here so consistently was on the off chance that she would run into them, that this would end up being more than a one-time fling.

"Then again 'normal' is probably the last descriptor that comes to mind for you."

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

Their feigned offense shades slightly closer to the real thing when she starts circling them like a shark. She’s talking just slowly enough that they keep having to turn to adjust to her new position every few seconds, and eventually they just give up, planting their feet with a roll of their eyes (and a slight smile, because really, she’s being fucking blatant about it now.)

“Why thanks, I do try,” they snark back. (If she thinks they named themself ‘Spork’ out of a desire to be normal, she’s barking up the wrong tree. It’s an attempt, though, so they can meet her halfway. Just this once.) They wait until she’s in front of them, then swing their cane out to stop her before she can complete another circuit, the tap against her midsection almost gentle by their standards. “Only nerds wake up in the AM’s. All the real boss bitches know that you gotta hit the gym in the afternoon, when the stuffy businessmen are busy with their nine to fives.”

(There’s an apology somewhere in their smile, if you squint, because damn, they really should’ve thought of that. They forget, sometimes, that most people do, in fact, possess the ability to wake up before noon.)

“But hey, here you are, so I guess there are always exceptions.” They’re close enough now to smirk up at her, simpering and sly behind their shades and the thin veneer of public pretenses. Their cane is still held between them like a bar, and they make no move to remove it even as they tilt their head slightly and ask, half-expectant and half-questioning, “You need a spotter?”

 

[HighVoltage]

Freyja bared her teeth at Spork in a sharp grin as they hit her, the smack of hardened plastic against skin and tensed muscle practically echoing through the gym. She shot a quick, slightly murderous glance in the general vicinity of the other patrons. Fortunately, it seemed as though the regulars had learned from the previous encounter not to step between them if things got…intense. Any newcomers were swiftly cowed by her fiery gaze.

The impact would definitely leave a bruise, although hopefully not the only one she'd be sporting. Freyja was intimately familiar with Spork’s strength, and knew they could’ve hit much harder if they wanted to, and they had. She leaned forward a touch, not enough to push past their cane, but just enough to imply that she easily could if she wanted. A challenge, however minor. This was familiar, this was comfortable, the push and pull that she’d missed so dearly, even if she wouldn’t admit it to their face.

“At least you finally admit that I’m the boss.” She purred, eyes wandering along Spork’s form. She had seen everything they’d had to offer, but there was something to be said for admiring them whilst clothed. Like an elegantly wrapped present whose contents you already knew, but still took time to admire the exterior before ripping the paper off.

Even if the paper in this case happened to be an incredibly familiar shirt. Maybe even more so.

“Hm, perhaps.” Freyja mused, tapping one foot thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll do. You’ll have to keep up though,” She wrapped her fingers tight around Spork’s cane, jerking it back as hard as she could. As expected, their stubborn refusal to let anything slip from their grasp, least of all their cane, dragged them towards her, devouring the distance in mere moments as Freyja growled at them.

“I don’t fuck with amateurs.”

Code by Reyn

 

[Katpride]

Spotting, as it turns out, is super boring. If Spork were to make a list of all their favorite activities, they would not rank it among the top ten, twenty, or even one hundred. They still give it the good old college try, of course, but (much like with actual college) after fifteen minutes they’re bored enough to put their energy towards needling Freyja into a pushup contest rather than rearranging the pins on her machines or pushing down on the weights she’s lifting.

They end up losing the contest, but only because they just finished a workout. They totally would’ve won if they’d been on equal footing. Also, they’re not convinced that she didn’t somehow bribe the so-called impartial bystander they’d called in to play judge.

Still, they can be a gracious loser. When they want to be. They let her do her workout for another ten minutes like the blessed saint of patience they are, (taking the opportunity to sneakily text Mari and let her know that they’ll be bringing a girl over later), and then challenge her to a rematch on their chosen territory - the chin up bars. There’s no way they can lose at this one!

They lose again, and even though it’s only by two, they have no choice but to lay down on the floor in shame. Their reputation may never recover. Freyja is going to win the top dog spot in the gym, and all their hard work will have been for nothing.

They can’t afford to find a new gym. They’ve only just curated this one to suit their preferences. And it would be as good as admitting defeat, which they will never, not in a million years, do. Not to Freyja.

The floor is nice and cold at least. It’s also probably incredibly filthy, but Spork can’t say it’s the worst floor they’ve introduced their face to. At least there isn’t any blood on it.

 

[HighVoltage]

Freyja couldn’t pretend that she understood Spork. They’d only known each other for a night, really, and yet somehow she should have known they wouldn’t do things the normal way. In her mind there had been a sort of turnabout, a reversal of the initial situation they’d found themselves in. Hells, she’d tried to spur it on herself, wielding the same wolfish grin and open-faced challenge that had kicked this whole thing off.

But naturally, Spork didn’t want to follow the script. Sure they’d played along at first, messing with her weights and making things more difficult for her. But after ten minutes or so, barely enough time for her to finish her third set, they were practically begging her to beat them in a pushup contest. Under most circumstances she would have declined, preferring to continue with her workout routine. But this was Spork, and any chance to show them up and fan the flames could not be passed up. So she indulged them.

One handy victory later and she’d managed to drag them over to a different machine so she could at least salvage some of this workout. Not even two sets later and they were demanding a rematch, insisting on another upper body-focused challenge. She’d seen that familiar fire in their eyes, and managed to just push a little further than them. Freyja knew the humiliation of losing two contests that they initiated would drive Spork to do everything in their power not to lose a third.

That was the one that truly mattered.

Unfortunately they had taken the second defeat rather harshly, lamenting their loss with a loud cry before collapsing prone onto the floor. She towered over them, a towel around her neck as a barrier between it and the sweat-soaked ends of her hair. Were they crying? No, it seemed they were just muttering to themselves. Freyja couldn’t quite make out the words, but she nudged Spork with a toe.

“Spork, come on. The floor’s filthy.” She said, taking a swig of water. “Just because I beat you at your own game doesn’t mean you have to be a sore loser.” The smirk on her face carried through to her words as she let them fester for a moment more before tilting her water bottle down and squeezing, a stream of ice-cold water spraying out and splashing against their splayed-out mullet.

“Get up, múkkur. I still have half a water bottle left and the fill station is right over there.” She highly doubted Spork knew Icelandic, but the needling tone was more than enough to convey the meaning.

Code by Reyn