in on it
An anon mentioned that they wanted this anon kink meme story on a non-anon journal so they could put it in their memories. I didn't realize you couldn't put anon comments in memories, because I am a genius like that. I was going to leave everything I have written/am writing in this one anon, but what the hell. Here you go.
The original prompt was Verlander's no-hitter celebratory sex anyone? Maybe phone sex with Zoom? to which the OP then added God. Thanks to Justin's post-game mention that he was going to talk to Emily, now I have I wish that he gets sucked off by Rick while he's with her on the phone, and someone else added Not to hijack your prompt, buuut can Emily be "in" on it?
There are a few small alterations that were made to this version, but it's mostly unchanged. There are things I'm not happy about, but I try to not overthink kink meme fills and I didn't want to do a real overhaul on this before posting it over here, because if I did that, who knows when it would get finished. Oh well. We can all deal.
Justin Verlander/Rick Porcello/Verlander's girlfriend Emily
NC-17
3,097 words
in on it
As soon as Avila's arms close around him on the mound, he knows who his first phone call is going to be. His friends can wait. His parents can wait. This is his second no-hitter, one of the best things he has ever done on a baseball field. He's ten miles high, hands shaking with the sudden flood of adrenaline he's mostly kept at bay all game long; he's babbling a mile a minute at his teammates, heart hammering, blood pounding in his temples. He's calling Emily.
She picks up right away. She must have been watching the game, she knows exactly what he's done. Justin rambles excitedly at her for a bit, words stumbling over each other in his mouth in their haste to get out. He giggles after every half-sentence and he's probably not making too much sense, but Emily laughs with him and stays on the line until he starts to calm down a little bit.
"How're you feeling?" she asks. The emphasis she puts on that last word goes straight to Justin's groin. Emily was at his first no-hitter. She knows how he was after the game, burning bright and hard and unable to keep his hands off of her. It's something in the excitement, the triumph, the sense that he has completely and publicly mastered an entire professional baseball team. It made him horny as hell, and he's starting to feel the effects of it this time around too.
"I feel... man." He giggles into the phone again. "Fuckin' amazing. Like last time, y'know? I wish you were here."
"Me too," Emily says, with feeling. "But since I've got you on the line..."
"Hell yeah," Justin breathes. He sits down in a folding chair-- he's in the laundry room, the only place in the clubhouse quiet enough to let him make a phone call-- and shoves a hand into his pants. His belt is already long gone, who knows where. Hopefully someone will have found it and stuffed it back into his locker.
"You showered yet?"
"Nah. I'm all wet though, Valverde got me with the cooler while I was talking to Trevor on the field, and soon's I got down the stairs the guys started sprayin' me with beer. Then I came right in to call you."
"Well, good. Damp and sticky, just how I like you." Emily is laughing. Justin closes his eyes, grins. He presses the phone to his ear and wishes it was her face. He's already mostly hard, has been ever since that last out, so worked up that even the ice water bath couldn't suppress him. His pants are cool, soaked through, and his hand feels big and warm on his dick.
"Are you touching yourself?" Emily asks. "Stroking yourself the way I would?"
Justin exhales into the phone, letting her hear it. "Yeah. I mean, yeah, I'm touching myself. Not as good as you, though. Fuck, babe, I really wish you were here."
"Me too. Mm, Justin, it was so good last time, you were so hot for me--"
"Always," Justin says, fervent and meaning it. "I'm always hot for you."
He can hear the smile in Emily's voice. "Sweet-talker. I know it. But having you no-hitter-hot, that was something else. What'll we do this time, mmm? You in the clubhouse now? Take me into the video room, do me over a table? You want me to sit on a table and wrap my legs around you, we can fuck with your strikeouts on all the TVs in the background..." She trails off, and Justin knows she must be occupied on her end. He groans, picturing it, her soft smooth thighs spread wide, busy little fingers working between her legs, or maybe just one hand, the other higher, fondling one of her breasts; they always look so big in her hands, but they're an easy palmful for Justin. His own hand speeds up in his pants, making him feel like he's about to overheat.
The only thing he can hear for a minute is the stereo echo of his and Emily's breathing, just slightly off-sync. Then there's the quiet click of the door opening.
"Um. Shit, man! Sorry!"
Justin's eyes fly open. Rick Porcello is standing there, shirtless in a loose pair of sweatpants and too-big socks, holding a pile of damp gray uniform and looking incredibly awkward.
Justin whips his hand out of his pants automatically, then narrows his eyes. What the hell does he have to feel uncomfortable about? He just threw a goddamn no-hitter and he's on the phone with his girlfriend; he's got no regrets. He slides his hand back under his waistband with as much dignity as he can muster, although he knows his face is bright red. "Jesus, Ricky, you could knock or something. Little busy here."
"Sorry," Porcello repeats. "Sorry, I'm really... um. Sorry."
"Ricky's there?" Emily asks. Justin grunts. Yes, he is. He wishes Porcello would leave, so he could get back on with things, but Porcello is still standing there in the doorway looking stunned, the clothes in his hands occasionally dripping onto the floor.
"Why don't you ask him to come on over, mmm?"
Justin blinks. "I'm sorry... what?"
"Tell him to... oh, give him the phone."
"I'm not--"
"Justin." He winces. Justin pretty much always does what that voice tells him to do; it's usually the safest route to take. He wordlessly holds out the phone.
Porcello looks at it, then back at him, then back at the phone. He hesitates, clearly lost; instead of offering any kind of explanation, Justin waggles the phone at him and shrugs. Porcello tentatively puts his pile down on top of a washing machine and steps forward. He grabs the phone and hastily steps back, looking at the floor. Justin realizes, belatedly, that he still has a hand in his pants and a very obvious hard-on, but he refuses to do anything about that. Porcello's the one who barged in on him.
He watches Porcello put the phone up to his ear, obviously nervous. He has no idea what Emily is saying, but whatever it is, it causes Porcello to blush hard. He stammers something, so quiet that Justin can't hear, then cuts himself off to listen to Emily. He listens for a long time, only occasionally making indistinct, near-whispered responses.
Justin is just starting to wonder if he's going to lose his erection sitting and waiting when Porcello finally looks back at him. There's a new, considering gaze on his face, although he still looks nervous and uncertain. He walks up to hand the phone back. Justin takes it, pointedly one-handed. He puts the phone to his own ear, noticing that Porcello isn't backing away this time: he's simply standing there in front of Justin, looking down at him with that half-wavering, half-appraising expression.
"So I talked to him," Emily says, "and Ricky's on board."
Justin doesn't look away from Porcello. "On board with what?"
Emily laughs again, light and breathless and warm in Justin's ear like he can almost feel it. "With celebrating your no-hitter, dummy."
"Em," Justin starts, but Porcello drops to his knees, right there in front of Justin, and he's startled into silence.
"I think he likes you a little bit," Emily says. "I mean, I don't blame him. After all, I know exactly where he's coming from. So I told him how we could all have some fun together, and because you threw a no-hitter, you know, he wants to do something special. Such a good little teammate, don't you think?" She stops there, as though waiting for Justin to reply, but his mouth has gone dry. He can't stop staring at Porcello, who is kneeling almost demurely, eyes averted, blushing a little but breathing calm and steady.
When it apparently becomes clear that Justin has nothing to say, Emily snickers in his ear. "Oh, baby. You still dressed? I think you should take those wet pants off. Make it easier for him, you know?"
Everything is starting to feel unreal, like he's wading through a dream. The near-perfect game, the final out, the mob on the mound, the slow burn in his belly from around the fifth inning on, leading him weirdly to this moment, in the Toronto visitors' laundry room, cellphone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he can lift his hips and ease off his beer-soaked gray uniform pants while Rick fucking Porcello, fellow starter and still just barely legal in Justin's mind-- when they first became teammates, Porcello was too young to go out with them to bars and clubs-- sits and watches. Justin hesitates over his spandex shorts, but skims them off too, then his jockstrap. His dick twitches as it's exposed to the air. He holds it lightly around the base with one hand, puts the other back to the phone, fingers numb and thick-feeling.
"You just let him take care of you," Emily says; purrs, really, her voice low and pleased. "I told him what to do. You know, I give really good instructions." Justin closes his eyes briefly and shivers, squeezes the base of his dick once to calm himself down. He opens his eyes at a light pressure on his legs; Porcello has inched forward and has a hand on either one of Justin's thighs.
Justin stares. Porcello's hands are big, scaled to swallow up a baseball with ease. His fingers are broad-tipped with the nails cut blunt and short and neat; the backs of his hands are starting to darken with the sun exposure of a season spent mostly outside. They're powerful hands, pitcher's hands, with hard calluses on the inside parts, the same parts that are so delicate on Emily's fingers. And they're sitting, right now, on Justin's hairy thighs. It's kind of blowing his mind.
In fact he is so distracted by the incongruity of Porcello's hands on his legs that he's badly startled by the first tentative flick of Porcello's tongue against the head of his dick, having missed Porcello leaning in towards him. "Fuck, Rick," he stutters. Porcello doesn't lift his eyes, just tilts his head so he can nuzzle along the shaft. Justin has to try twice to draw in a good breath of air, and lets it out all staccato and shocked.
"Is he sucking you?" Emily asks. She sounds eager. A little too eager, Justin thinks, but he's having trouble thinking why he should care.
"N-no," he manages. "Not yet. He's... he's just..." He's rubbing Justin's dick on his face, is what he's doing, like he wants to feel it with his nose and cheeks and chin. Justin is spared trying to explain this, though, because soon enough Porcello opens his mouth and fits it over the tip of Justin's dick. "Oh god," Justin breathes, letting his head fall back. "Now... now he is."
Emily sighs happily. "Just like I told him. Oh, I wish I could see this, baby, I wish I was there with you guys, I'd get on my knees right next to him and we could suck your cock together-- would you like that, mmm? Maybe he kisses up one side while I lick down the other?"
"Ohgod," Justin says. "Ohgod," he adds, in a higher register, as Porcello takes more of him in, pauses, flexes his hands on Justin's legs, then starts bobbing his head. He's doing filthy things with his tongue. He scrapes Justin with his teeth every so often, like he doesn't really know how to keep them covered, which, God, he probably doesn't, maybe he's never even done this before, but Justin can't think about that too much or he's going to lose it. The inside of Porcello's mouth is so hot, and he can't understand why his balls feel so cool until he realizes that Porcello is drooling on them.
Emily is breathing hard over the phone again. It wreaks havoc on Justin's state of mind, hearing his girlfriend's sweetly distinctive breath in his ear while watching Porcello's head between his legs. His hips start to move, little twitches at first, then honest thrusts as Porcello moves with him and seems happy, or at least willing, to roll with it.
"Fuck. Fuck, yeah," Justin pants. "There y'go, like that." If he leans back in his seat a little, he can watch his dick sliding into and out of Porcello's mouth. He can see Porcello's lips, pink and shiny with spit, the way Porcello's cheeks alternately hollow and distend as he accommodates Justin. "You look like... Ricky, you fuckin' look like... fuck." He wants to be able to explain this, break it all down for Emily, but he can barely speak, and his brain is just screaming the word fuck at him over and over again.
"Touch him," Emily says. "Put your hand on his head, make him do it."
Justin shudders hard. His free hand moves to the back of Porcello's head; he can't believe he's actually doing this, but somehow Emily telling him to do it makes it all possible. Porcello makes a noise when Justin touches him, and Justin feels it in vibrations all around his dick. Fucking vibrations, in addition to the incredible heat and wetness and the tight press of Porcello's agile tongue: it's altogether more than he can possibly bear.
His fingers clench in Porcello's hair, short but thick enough on top for Justin to get a good grip. He plants his feet firmly and thrusts up, all the muscles of his lower body tightening so that he feels hard all over, so that he's shaking with it. He must be making some sort of noise, because he can just barely hear Emily's voice through the roaring in his own head; she's calling his name, gasping, egging him on with breathy sounds so enticing that it feels like there's a separate spasming orgasm between his ears, right alongside the orgasm that rips through the rest of him, pulsing frantic and messy into Porcello's mouth.
When he regains an awareness of the world again-- a process that takes almost a full minute-- he realizes that Porcello is still kneeling at his feet, and he miraculously hasn't dropped his phone. Emily is panting in his ear, somehow managing to convey smug contentment without words or a visible expression. Porcello's mouth looks swollen and used, and there is a line of thick come eased over his lower lip, working its way down his chin.
Justin stares at him. He did that.
"You ok?" Emily asks.
"I... yeah," Justin says, shocked at the roughness of his own voice. "I'm good."
"Did Ricky come too?"
"Um." He realizes that he has no idea. He sits up a little straighter and tries to look at Porcello without cringing at the state of Porcello's face. It's difficult to tell with the sweatpants, but there's something down there, some as-yet unresolved lump. Or maybe it's just fabric?
"Ricky. Hey. Rick." He hesitantly reaches out and pokes Porcello with his shoe. Porcello angles his eyes up without moving his head. Justin swallows hard. "Um. Did you... d'you want to... er. What, um, what can I do to. Uh. Help?"
Porcello looks back down at the floor. "Can you just... can you just, like. Put your hand back? On my head?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but Justin hears him just fine.
"He wants me to put my hand back," he says for Emily's benefit, voice still husked and roughened. God, he hopes he wasn't screaming when he came. The laundry room probably does not have strongly soundproofed walls.
"Grab his hair," Emily says, bright and helpful. Justin almost whimpers, but manages to hold it in. His hand is shaking as he reaches out and touches Porcello's head. He just strokes it at first, running his fingers through Porcello's hair, petting him like a dog. Porcello bows his head a little, letting his neck sag. One of his hands comes off of Justin's leg and disappears into his own lap. Justin digs his fingers in, grabbing on, as per Emily's instructions. Porcello shudders and tenses, his right shoulder shaking as the movements of his arm speed up.
"Jesus," Justin rasps, staring. "Is that... that's all you need? You can get off on that?"
"Don't tease him, Justin. I mean, think about it. You just threw a no-hitter." Emily is cheerfully matter-of-fact, as though this is all incredibly obvious. "You have a pretty sexy grip, you know. You do some nice things with those hands." Justin sputters wordlessly, and Emily laughs. "Oh, don't act so surprised. I said I get exactly where he's coming from."
"Christ," Justin mutters. He tugs a little, testing his hold on Porcello's hair. Porcello gasps and bows his shoulders, almost hunching forward. His arm moves faster, then stills.
The only sounds now are Porcello's breathing, slowing down from its racing rate; Justin's breathing, shallow and startled still; and Emily's breathing, easy and normal. Justin releases his grip on Porcello's hair, pulling his hand back. His fingertips tingle, like his nerve-endings can't quite believe what they've just been party to.
"Well," Emily says. "I think that was fun. Maybe we should do it again sometime."
"Um," Justin says.
"Congrats again, baby," she says. "I'll see you when you get back. Love you!"
"Love you too," Justin replies, automatic. The line clicks dead. He sets the phone carefully down on the nearest washing machine, flexing his fingers.
"So, uh." Porcello coughs, runs a hand backwards through his own hair. Justin wonders if his scalp hurts. Or his throat. Or his knees-- Porcello is still kneeling at Justin's feet. "Your, uh, girlfriend's pretty cool."
Justin looks at Porcello. He can see the wet spot on the crotch of Porcello's pants, and the smaller wet spot on his thigh, where he must have wiped his hand. His lips still look swollen, and there is a spot of come-- Justin's come-- drying on Porcello's bare chest, where it must have dripped.
He nods. "Yeah. She's basically the best." Every single part of him-- body, heart, and soul-- is in firm agreement about that.
He should probably do something extra nice for Emily when the team gets back to Detroit; she definitely deserves it. He runs his eyes over Porcello again, more thoughtfully this time. He's got a few ideas, now, about what he might be able to do to let her know just how appreciative he is of her, and of everything that she does for him.
The original prompt was Verlander's no-hitter celebratory sex anyone? Maybe phone sex with Zoom? to which the OP then added God. Thanks to Justin's post-game mention that he was going to talk to Emily, now I have I wish that he gets sucked off by Rick while he's with her on the phone, and someone else added Not to hijack your prompt, buuut can Emily be "in" on it?
There are a few small alterations that were made to this version, but it's mostly unchanged. There are things I'm not happy about, but I try to not overthink kink meme fills and I didn't want to do a real overhaul on this before posting it over here, because if I did that, who knows when it would get finished. Oh well. We can all deal.
Justin Verlander/Rick Porcello/Verlander's girlfriend Emily
NC-17
3,097 words
in on it
As soon as Avila's arms close around him on the mound, he knows who his first phone call is going to be. His friends can wait. His parents can wait. This is his second no-hitter, one of the best things he has ever done on a baseball field. He's ten miles high, hands shaking with the sudden flood of adrenaline he's mostly kept at bay all game long; he's babbling a mile a minute at his teammates, heart hammering, blood pounding in his temples. He's calling Emily.
She picks up right away. She must have been watching the game, she knows exactly what he's done. Justin rambles excitedly at her for a bit, words stumbling over each other in his mouth in their haste to get out. He giggles after every half-sentence and he's probably not making too much sense, but Emily laughs with him and stays on the line until he starts to calm down a little bit.
"How're you feeling?" she asks. The emphasis she puts on that last word goes straight to Justin's groin. Emily was at his first no-hitter. She knows how he was after the game, burning bright and hard and unable to keep his hands off of her. It's something in the excitement, the triumph, the sense that he has completely and publicly mastered an entire professional baseball team. It made him horny as hell, and he's starting to feel the effects of it this time around too.
"I feel... man." He giggles into the phone again. "Fuckin' amazing. Like last time, y'know? I wish you were here."
"Me too," Emily says, with feeling. "But since I've got you on the line..."
"Hell yeah," Justin breathes. He sits down in a folding chair-- he's in the laundry room, the only place in the clubhouse quiet enough to let him make a phone call-- and shoves a hand into his pants. His belt is already long gone, who knows where. Hopefully someone will have found it and stuffed it back into his locker.
"You showered yet?"
"Nah. I'm all wet though, Valverde got me with the cooler while I was talking to Trevor on the field, and soon's I got down the stairs the guys started sprayin' me with beer. Then I came right in to call you."
"Well, good. Damp and sticky, just how I like you." Emily is laughing. Justin closes his eyes, grins. He presses the phone to his ear and wishes it was her face. He's already mostly hard, has been ever since that last out, so worked up that even the ice water bath couldn't suppress him. His pants are cool, soaked through, and his hand feels big and warm on his dick.
"Are you touching yourself?" Emily asks. "Stroking yourself the way I would?"
Justin exhales into the phone, letting her hear it. "Yeah. I mean, yeah, I'm touching myself. Not as good as you, though. Fuck, babe, I really wish you were here."
"Me too. Mm, Justin, it was so good last time, you were so hot for me--"
"Always," Justin says, fervent and meaning it. "I'm always hot for you."
He can hear the smile in Emily's voice. "Sweet-talker. I know it. But having you no-hitter-hot, that was something else. What'll we do this time, mmm? You in the clubhouse now? Take me into the video room, do me over a table? You want me to sit on a table and wrap my legs around you, we can fuck with your strikeouts on all the TVs in the background..." She trails off, and Justin knows she must be occupied on her end. He groans, picturing it, her soft smooth thighs spread wide, busy little fingers working between her legs, or maybe just one hand, the other higher, fondling one of her breasts; they always look so big in her hands, but they're an easy palmful for Justin. His own hand speeds up in his pants, making him feel like he's about to overheat.
The only thing he can hear for a minute is the stereo echo of his and Emily's breathing, just slightly off-sync. Then there's the quiet click of the door opening.
"Um. Shit, man! Sorry!"
Justin's eyes fly open. Rick Porcello is standing there, shirtless in a loose pair of sweatpants and too-big socks, holding a pile of damp gray uniform and looking incredibly awkward.
Justin whips his hand out of his pants automatically, then narrows his eyes. What the hell does he have to feel uncomfortable about? He just threw a goddamn no-hitter and he's on the phone with his girlfriend; he's got no regrets. He slides his hand back under his waistband with as much dignity as he can muster, although he knows his face is bright red. "Jesus, Ricky, you could knock or something. Little busy here."
"Sorry," Porcello repeats. "Sorry, I'm really... um. Sorry."
"Ricky's there?" Emily asks. Justin grunts. Yes, he is. He wishes Porcello would leave, so he could get back on with things, but Porcello is still standing there in the doorway looking stunned, the clothes in his hands occasionally dripping onto the floor.
"Why don't you ask him to come on over, mmm?"
Justin blinks. "I'm sorry... what?"
"Tell him to... oh, give him the phone."
"I'm not--"
"Justin." He winces. Justin pretty much always does what that voice tells him to do; it's usually the safest route to take. He wordlessly holds out the phone.
Porcello looks at it, then back at him, then back at the phone. He hesitates, clearly lost; instead of offering any kind of explanation, Justin waggles the phone at him and shrugs. Porcello tentatively puts his pile down on top of a washing machine and steps forward. He grabs the phone and hastily steps back, looking at the floor. Justin realizes, belatedly, that he still has a hand in his pants and a very obvious hard-on, but he refuses to do anything about that. Porcello's the one who barged in on him.
He watches Porcello put the phone up to his ear, obviously nervous. He has no idea what Emily is saying, but whatever it is, it causes Porcello to blush hard. He stammers something, so quiet that Justin can't hear, then cuts himself off to listen to Emily. He listens for a long time, only occasionally making indistinct, near-whispered responses.
Justin is just starting to wonder if he's going to lose his erection sitting and waiting when Porcello finally looks back at him. There's a new, considering gaze on his face, although he still looks nervous and uncertain. He walks up to hand the phone back. Justin takes it, pointedly one-handed. He puts the phone to his own ear, noticing that Porcello isn't backing away this time: he's simply standing there in front of Justin, looking down at him with that half-wavering, half-appraising expression.
"So I talked to him," Emily says, "and Ricky's on board."
Justin doesn't look away from Porcello. "On board with what?"
Emily laughs again, light and breathless and warm in Justin's ear like he can almost feel it. "With celebrating your no-hitter, dummy."
"Em," Justin starts, but Porcello drops to his knees, right there in front of Justin, and he's startled into silence.
"I think he likes you a little bit," Emily says. "I mean, I don't blame him. After all, I know exactly where he's coming from. So I told him how we could all have some fun together, and because you threw a no-hitter, you know, he wants to do something special. Such a good little teammate, don't you think?" She stops there, as though waiting for Justin to reply, but his mouth has gone dry. He can't stop staring at Porcello, who is kneeling almost demurely, eyes averted, blushing a little but breathing calm and steady.
When it apparently becomes clear that Justin has nothing to say, Emily snickers in his ear. "Oh, baby. You still dressed? I think you should take those wet pants off. Make it easier for him, you know?"
Everything is starting to feel unreal, like he's wading through a dream. The near-perfect game, the final out, the mob on the mound, the slow burn in his belly from around the fifth inning on, leading him weirdly to this moment, in the Toronto visitors' laundry room, cellphone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he can lift his hips and ease off his beer-soaked gray uniform pants while Rick fucking Porcello, fellow starter and still just barely legal in Justin's mind-- when they first became teammates, Porcello was too young to go out with them to bars and clubs-- sits and watches. Justin hesitates over his spandex shorts, but skims them off too, then his jockstrap. His dick twitches as it's exposed to the air. He holds it lightly around the base with one hand, puts the other back to the phone, fingers numb and thick-feeling.
"You just let him take care of you," Emily says; purrs, really, her voice low and pleased. "I told him what to do. You know, I give really good instructions." Justin closes his eyes briefly and shivers, squeezes the base of his dick once to calm himself down. He opens his eyes at a light pressure on his legs; Porcello has inched forward and has a hand on either one of Justin's thighs.
Justin stares. Porcello's hands are big, scaled to swallow up a baseball with ease. His fingers are broad-tipped with the nails cut blunt and short and neat; the backs of his hands are starting to darken with the sun exposure of a season spent mostly outside. They're powerful hands, pitcher's hands, with hard calluses on the inside parts, the same parts that are so delicate on Emily's fingers. And they're sitting, right now, on Justin's hairy thighs. It's kind of blowing his mind.
In fact he is so distracted by the incongruity of Porcello's hands on his legs that he's badly startled by the first tentative flick of Porcello's tongue against the head of his dick, having missed Porcello leaning in towards him. "Fuck, Rick," he stutters. Porcello doesn't lift his eyes, just tilts his head so he can nuzzle along the shaft. Justin has to try twice to draw in a good breath of air, and lets it out all staccato and shocked.
"Is he sucking you?" Emily asks. She sounds eager. A little too eager, Justin thinks, but he's having trouble thinking why he should care.
"N-no," he manages. "Not yet. He's... he's just..." He's rubbing Justin's dick on his face, is what he's doing, like he wants to feel it with his nose and cheeks and chin. Justin is spared trying to explain this, though, because soon enough Porcello opens his mouth and fits it over the tip of Justin's dick. "Oh god," Justin breathes, letting his head fall back. "Now... now he is."
Emily sighs happily. "Just like I told him. Oh, I wish I could see this, baby, I wish I was there with you guys, I'd get on my knees right next to him and we could suck your cock together-- would you like that, mmm? Maybe he kisses up one side while I lick down the other?"
"Ohgod," Justin says. "Ohgod," he adds, in a higher register, as Porcello takes more of him in, pauses, flexes his hands on Justin's legs, then starts bobbing his head. He's doing filthy things with his tongue. He scrapes Justin with his teeth every so often, like he doesn't really know how to keep them covered, which, God, he probably doesn't, maybe he's never even done this before, but Justin can't think about that too much or he's going to lose it. The inside of Porcello's mouth is so hot, and he can't understand why his balls feel so cool until he realizes that Porcello is drooling on them.
Emily is breathing hard over the phone again. It wreaks havoc on Justin's state of mind, hearing his girlfriend's sweetly distinctive breath in his ear while watching Porcello's head between his legs. His hips start to move, little twitches at first, then honest thrusts as Porcello moves with him and seems happy, or at least willing, to roll with it.
"Fuck. Fuck, yeah," Justin pants. "There y'go, like that." If he leans back in his seat a little, he can watch his dick sliding into and out of Porcello's mouth. He can see Porcello's lips, pink and shiny with spit, the way Porcello's cheeks alternately hollow and distend as he accommodates Justin. "You look like... Ricky, you fuckin' look like... fuck." He wants to be able to explain this, break it all down for Emily, but he can barely speak, and his brain is just screaming the word fuck at him over and over again.
"Touch him," Emily says. "Put your hand on his head, make him do it."
Justin shudders hard. His free hand moves to the back of Porcello's head; he can't believe he's actually doing this, but somehow Emily telling him to do it makes it all possible. Porcello makes a noise when Justin touches him, and Justin feels it in vibrations all around his dick. Fucking vibrations, in addition to the incredible heat and wetness and the tight press of Porcello's agile tongue: it's altogether more than he can possibly bear.
His fingers clench in Porcello's hair, short but thick enough on top for Justin to get a good grip. He plants his feet firmly and thrusts up, all the muscles of his lower body tightening so that he feels hard all over, so that he's shaking with it. He must be making some sort of noise, because he can just barely hear Emily's voice through the roaring in his own head; she's calling his name, gasping, egging him on with breathy sounds so enticing that it feels like there's a separate spasming orgasm between his ears, right alongside the orgasm that rips through the rest of him, pulsing frantic and messy into Porcello's mouth.
When he regains an awareness of the world again-- a process that takes almost a full minute-- he realizes that Porcello is still kneeling at his feet, and he miraculously hasn't dropped his phone. Emily is panting in his ear, somehow managing to convey smug contentment without words or a visible expression. Porcello's mouth looks swollen and used, and there is a line of thick come eased over his lower lip, working its way down his chin.
Justin stares at him. He did that.
"You ok?" Emily asks.
"I... yeah," Justin says, shocked at the roughness of his own voice. "I'm good."
"Did Ricky come too?"
"Um." He realizes that he has no idea. He sits up a little straighter and tries to look at Porcello without cringing at the state of Porcello's face. It's difficult to tell with the sweatpants, but there's something down there, some as-yet unresolved lump. Or maybe it's just fabric?
"Ricky. Hey. Rick." He hesitantly reaches out and pokes Porcello with his shoe. Porcello angles his eyes up without moving his head. Justin swallows hard. "Um. Did you... d'you want to... er. What, um, what can I do to. Uh. Help?"
Porcello looks back down at the floor. "Can you just... can you just, like. Put your hand back? On my head?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but Justin hears him just fine.
"He wants me to put my hand back," he says for Emily's benefit, voice still husked and roughened. God, he hopes he wasn't screaming when he came. The laundry room probably does not have strongly soundproofed walls.
"Grab his hair," Emily says, bright and helpful. Justin almost whimpers, but manages to hold it in. His hand is shaking as he reaches out and touches Porcello's head. He just strokes it at first, running his fingers through Porcello's hair, petting him like a dog. Porcello bows his head a little, letting his neck sag. One of his hands comes off of Justin's leg and disappears into his own lap. Justin digs his fingers in, grabbing on, as per Emily's instructions. Porcello shudders and tenses, his right shoulder shaking as the movements of his arm speed up.
"Jesus," Justin rasps, staring. "Is that... that's all you need? You can get off on that?"
"Don't tease him, Justin. I mean, think about it. You just threw a no-hitter." Emily is cheerfully matter-of-fact, as though this is all incredibly obvious. "You have a pretty sexy grip, you know. You do some nice things with those hands." Justin sputters wordlessly, and Emily laughs. "Oh, don't act so surprised. I said I get exactly where he's coming from."
"Christ," Justin mutters. He tugs a little, testing his hold on Porcello's hair. Porcello gasps and bows his shoulders, almost hunching forward. His arm moves faster, then stills.
The only sounds now are Porcello's breathing, slowing down from its racing rate; Justin's breathing, shallow and startled still; and Emily's breathing, easy and normal. Justin releases his grip on Porcello's hair, pulling his hand back. His fingertips tingle, like his nerve-endings can't quite believe what they've just been party to.
"Well," Emily says. "I think that was fun. Maybe we should do it again sometime."
"Um," Justin says.
"Congrats again, baby," she says. "I'll see you when you get back. Love you!"
"Love you too," Justin replies, automatic. The line clicks dead. He sets the phone carefully down on the nearest washing machine, flexing his fingers.
"So, uh." Porcello coughs, runs a hand backwards through his own hair. Justin wonders if his scalp hurts. Or his throat. Or his knees-- Porcello is still kneeling at Justin's feet. "Your, uh, girlfriend's pretty cool."
Justin looks at Porcello. He can see the wet spot on the crotch of Porcello's pants, and the smaller wet spot on his thigh, where he must have wiped his hand. His lips still look swollen, and there is a spot of come-- Justin's come-- drying on Porcello's bare chest, where it must have dripped.
He nods. "Yeah. She's basically the best." Every single part of him-- body, heart, and soul-- is in firm agreement about that.
He should probably do something extra nice for Emily when the team gets back to Detroit; she definitely deserves it. He runs his eyes over Porcello again, more thoughtfully this time. He's got a few ideas, now, about what he might be able to do to let her know just how appreciative he is of her, and of everything that she does for him.