(no subject)
Title: Responsibility.
Author: me, more_unknown
Pairing: Brooks Orpik/Evgeni Malkin. A festival of manliness. Brooksie's POV.
Summary: Taking place in an alternate universe that I never want to visit, where the Penguins are out of the playoff picture by the end of March and Malkin breaks his hand on Scott Hartnell's head, among other things. Brooksie has a broken orbital bone because some goon from the Kings punched him in the face. The loneliness of injury leads to god knows what.
Rating: NC-17
Chapter: 2 of 4 now
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen, but aren't they so much fun?
Dedicated to jisforjane because she is life-changing.
Chapter 1
Throwing him down on the mattress. Hard. Getting a handful of his shirt and ripping it off, sending some of the buttons flying. Holding him mercilessly at his waist as he tried to get free. Letting it all descend into hair-pulling and neck-biting as we rolled uninhibited on my bed, trying to liberate the clothes that stuck to our bodies with sweat and dirt. Finally undoing his belt buckle. Smelling the distinct scent of his cologne at the nape of his neck. Feeling him draw a little blood as he accidentally scratched my back--knowing that it was staining my favorite shirt. Managing to tear that shirt off. Kissing him hard and fast and vicious. Wanting him to beg for it.
Rolling off the bed, unexpectedly, and onto the floor. Again, hard. Feeling his weight on top of me for the first time. Watching his pants tighten at the crotch as he stared down at me, playing with any part he thought was sensitive. Trying to speak, and feeling the words catch in my throat as he went back to the biting, at the collarbone, and the hair-pulling, just behind my head. Smelling the rice I'd left cooking in the kitchen, tasting the remnants of the wine I'd swigged before he'd shown up at my door. . .
Feeling the night air come in through my open window and my own will bending as he got rid of every last shred of my clothes and stared at me there on the floor, slackjawed, as always. I could feel the rag rug that I kept at the side of the bed, its knots digging into my back as my muscles got looser, less tense. . .he'd reached down and was playing familiarly with my penis, as if we'd done this a million times before, though we hadn't, we'd only kissed the once, in my doorway, what was only two days ago.
"I was trying to figure out if I had been, uh. . . . . . . . . .dreaming it," he had said, at length, astutely reading the look I'd put on my face at the mere sight of him.
From there, all bets were off, we were shameless. I hadn't thought a single cohesive thought, I'd made no decision, I'd lost complete control of myself and tried to drag him around like a rag doll--no easy task, he is by no means small--and get him to the bedroom.
A hot silence descended over us, however, on the floor, as he played with me, as I thrust up towards him, my eyes clenched shut in pleasure, biting my lower lip, trying not to say a damn thing. The only thing I could hear was my own breathing, my own heartbeat--the only thing I could feel was a warm syrup moving throughout my every extremity, to the very ends of my nerves, and I almost screamed, I thought I was going to come. . .
No. He read that perfectly. He stopped. Keep your head up, Malkin. Don't you know what can happen when you catch a defenseman deep on the play and try to put a sick move on him, to capitalize on his mistake? He'll hit you. He won't care.
I used my superior strength to blitz him. Next thing he knew he was below me and he was a bit stunned and I had my hand in his pants and I was taking them off and he'd started protesting a little, asking questions, but I really didn't care, I was going, going, going. I'd been thinking about this for far too long. Eventually he stopped talking and a look of adoration washed over his face at my methodical movements, my scary eyes, the mess of unshaven hair on my face, his hand coming up to touch my cheek and he was mumbling something in his native language that I had neither time nor attention span to compute as I wrapped my hand behind his relatively lithe hips and asked him if he was ready.
He didn't say anything. He just clenched his eyes shut. I put my fingers in his opening and I knew he was in pain but he had asked for it and he wasn't protesting. I wondered if I was the best person in the world to do this to him. I held myself steady, prodding him with what restraint I could.
"Please, just do it," he said, finally.
I felt something in my heart. Not my cock, not my mind--not my stupid, opportunistic, loveless mind.
I pushed it out of my head and pushed myself into him. He screamed, first in pain, and later on, my name. There, on my stupid dirty floor, each of us bruising on the hardwood as we fucked without caring. When it was all over, he reached out and touched my stitches, maybe not as softly as he had that first time. Maybe it was a bit of premonition on his part, that he knew something was fractured and might never be the same again.
So we crawled back to the bed, me leading him up, as he still looked a little lost. When you're done having sex, there's always that moment when your body temperature finally gets back to normal and all the little atmospheric imperfections--the drafts of your house, the clamminess of your own skin--drive you back into the comfort of fabric. And both parties always retreat at the same time; it's an instinctive postcoital moment, that desire to nestle, to be safe, to hide your naked self from all the shit you've just done. We got under the covers.
We felt no need to hold each other, just to look up at the ceiling and try to come up with words to share with one another. They came more easily as time went on, though I could not tell you for the life of me what we talked about. Everything was glowing softly, I remember that correctly. The eggshell white walls of my bedroom made yellow by the lamp on my dresser. The pinkness of his skin. The curls of his hair contrasting the blue pillowcases. My own hands next to me on the bed, looking worn out and reddened for all the work they'd been up to. I remember laughing with him, for probably ten straight minutes, at nothing in particular, looking at him over the contours of the pillows and quilts, having both a desire to touch him and a desire to wait for him to touch me. We kissed once more. There was not a trace of discomfort keeping us from each other, and I couldn't help but enjoy it.
Without either of us speaking on the subject, he stayed for dinner, sneaking up behind me as I plated the rice to bite me on the earlobe, and he ate everything I'd made, had some wine, and we savored the moment together for its lack of awkwardness, for it's lack of tension. I knew this just couldn't happen more than once--I could feel the circumstances changing before our eyes. It was one of those terrible, perfect moments that happen a handful of times in your life, the ones you can enjoy as they are happening but can just as easily feel them slipping away, succumbing like the weaker species in the evolutionary chain to the responsibilities of life and the pressures of reality. This was something that could happen exactly as it happened, in the twilight of its own era, but only once. It grew more apparent to me the closer he came to leaving, the closer he came to taking his feelings out of my apartment and into his life. Those feelings couldn't leave, wouldn't leave intact. Someone would have to check something at the door, and if it wasn't him it would have to be me.
When he was about to go home, I showed him the door like a perfect gentleman. Do you give a goodnight kiss when there might never be another one? I pondered it for whole seconds before he made the decision for me, and it was unequivocally the softest, sweetest kiss of my life. I could hardly bear the taste of it. I wondered if he'd understood what had transpired--I wondered if, in the height of his ecstasy, he thought we were in love. But summer was still right around the corner and even if we were in love, I knew he'd pick Russia over Brooks Orpik. Or at least that's what I had to hope.
Author: me, more_unknown
Pairing: Brooks Orpik/Evgeni Malkin. A festival of manliness. Brooksie's POV.
Summary: Taking place in an alternate universe that I never want to visit, where the Penguins are out of the playoff picture by the end of March and Malkin breaks his hand on Scott Hartnell's head, among other things. Brooksie has a broken orbital bone because some goon from the Kings punched him in the face. The loneliness of injury leads to god knows what.
Rating: NC-17
Chapter: 2 of 4 now
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen, but aren't they so much fun?
Dedicated to jisforjane because she is life-changing.
Chapter 1
Throwing him down on the mattress. Hard. Getting a handful of his shirt and ripping it off, sending some of the buttons flying. Holding him mercilessly at his waist as he tried to get free. Letting it all descend into hair-pulling and neck-biting as we rolled uninhibited on my bed, trying to liberate the clothes that stuck to our bodies with sweat and dirt. Finally undoing his belt buckle. Smelling the distinct scent of his cologne at the nape of his neck. Feeling him draw a little blood as he accidentally scratched my back--knowing that it was staining my favorite shirt. Managing to tear that shirt off. Kissing him hard and fast and vicious. Wanting him to beg for it.
Rolling off the bed, unexpectedly, and onto the floor. Again, hard. Feeling his weight on top of me for the first time. Watching his pants tighten at the crotch as he stared down at me, playing with any part he thought was sensitive. Trying to speak, and feeling the words catch in my throat as he went back to the biting, at the collarbone, and the hair-pulling, just behind my head. Smelling the rice I'd left cooking in the kitchen, tasting the remnants of the wine I'd swigged before he'd shown up at my door. . .
Feeling the night air come in through my open window and my own will bending as he got rid of every last shred of my clothes and stared at me there on the floor, slackjawed, as always. I could feel the rag rug that I kept at the side of the bed, its knots digging into my back as my muscles got looser, less tense. . .he'd reached down and was playing familiarly with my penis, as if we'd done this a million times before, though we hadn't, we'd only kissed the once, in my doorway, what was only two days ago.
"I was trying to figure out if I had been, uh. . . . . . . . . .dreaming it," he had said, at length, astutely reading the look I'd put on my face at the mere sight of him.
From there, all bets were off, we were shameless. I hadn't thought a single cohesive thought, I'd made no decision, I'd lost complete control of myself and tried to drag him around like a rag doll--no easy task, he is by no means small--and get him to the bedroom.
A hot silence descended over us, however, on the floor, as he played with me, as I thrust up towards him, my eyes clenched shut in pleasure, biting my lower lip, trying not to say a damn thing. The only thing I could hear was my own breathing, my own heartbeat--the only thing I could feel was a warm syrup moving throughout my every extremity, to the very ends of my nerves, and I almost screamed, I thought I was going to come. . .
No. He read that perfectly. He stopped. Keep your head up, Malkin. Don't you know what can happen when you catch a defenseman deep on the play and try to put a sick move on him, to capitalize on his mistake? He'll hit you. He won't care.
I used my superior strength to blitz him. Next thing he knew he was below me and he was a bit stunned and I had my hand in his pants and I was taking them off and he'd started protesting a little, asking questions, but I really didn't care, I was going, going, going. I'd been thinking about this for far too long. Eventually he stopped talking and a look of adoration washed over his face at my methodical movements, my scary eyes, the mess of unshaven hair on my face, his hand coming up to touch my cheek and he was mumbling something in his native language that I had neither time nor attention span to compute as I wrapped my hand behind his relatively lithe hips and asked him if he was ready.
He didn't say anything. He just clenched his eyes shut. I put my fingers in his opening and I knew he was in pain but he had asked for it and he wasn't protesting. I wondered if I was the best person in the world to do this to him. I held myself steady, prodding him with what restraint I could.
"Please, just do it," he said, finally.
I felt something in my heart. Not my cock, not my mind--not my stupid, opportunistic, loveless mind.
I pushed it out of my head and pushed myself into him. He screamed, first in pain, and later on, my name. There, on my stupid dirty floor, each of us bruising on the hardwood as we fucked without caring. When it was all over, he reached out and touched my stitches, maybe not as softly as he had that first time. Maybe it was a bit of premonition on his part, that he knew something was fractured and might never be the same again.
So we crawled back to the bed, me leading him up, as he still looked a little lost. When you're done having sex, there's always that moment when your body temperature finally gets back to normal and all the little atmospheric imperfections--the drafts of your house, the clamminess of your own skin--drive you back into the comfort of fabric. And both parties always retreat at the same time; it's an instinctive postcoital moment, that desire to nestle, to be safe, to hide your naked self from all the shit you've just done. We got under the covers.
We felt no need to hold each other, just to look up at the ceiling and try to come up with words to share with one another. They came more easily as time went on, though I could not tell you for the life of me what we talked about. Everything was glowing softly, I remember that correctly. The eggshell white walls of my bedroom made yellow by the lamp on my dresser. The pinkness of his skin. The curls of his hair contrasting the blue pillowcases. My own hands next to me on the bed, looking worn out and reddened for all the work they'd been up to. I remember laughing with him, for probably ten straight minutes, at nothing in particular, looking at him over the contours of the pillows and quilts, having both a desire to touch him and a desire to wait for him to touch me. We kissed once more. There was not a trace of discomfort keeping us from each other, and I couldn't help but enjoy it.
Without either of us speaking on the subject, he stayed for dinner, sneaking up behind me as I plated the rice to bite me on the earlobe, and he ate everything I'd made, had some wine, and we savored the moment together for its lack of awkwardness, for it's lack of tension. I knew this just couldn't happen more than once--I could feel the circumstances changing before our eyes. It was one of those terrible, perfect moments that happen a handful of times in your life, the ones you can enjoy as they are happening but can just as easily feel them slipping away, succumbing like the weaker species in the evolutionary chain to the responsibilities of life and the pressures of reality. This was something that could happen exactly as it happened, in the twilight of its own era, but only once. It grew more apparent to me the closer he came to leaving, the closer he came to taking his feelings out of my apartment and into his life. Those feelings couldn't leave, wouldn't leave intact. Someone would have to check something at the door, and if it wasn't him it would have to be me.
When he was about to go home, I showed him the door like a perfect gentleman. Do you give a goodnight kiss when there might never be another one? I pondered it for whole seconds before he made the decision for me, and it was unequivocally the softest, sweetest kiss of my life. I could hardly bear the taste of it. I wondered if he'd understood what had transpired--I wondered if, in the height of his ecstasy, he thought we were in love. But summer was still right around the corner and even if we were in love, I knew he'd pick Russia over Brooks Orpik. Or at least that's what I had to hope.