Fic: The Ideology of Absence (Mighty Ducks, Fulton/Portman, NC17)
So the fic binge continues (no better way to avoid reality, after all) with a long-neglected movieslash piece that I was going to blow off until I reread the four paragraphs I'd written and decided that I actually liked it. That's right, I finished that Mighty Ducks fic. I'm not sure if this was what anybody was looking for, but this is what you're getting.
The prequel to this is sort of melancholy and sweet and introspective. This is...not. Fulton/Portman. NC17. It may be a Disney film, but they're the ones that wrote the striptease.
Fulton's heart stops when Portman walks into the locker room. At first he thinks maybe he's taken one too many blows to the head, but then he hears that voice and he knows it's real. He also knows Bombay had something to do with the eleventh hour reunion of the Bash Brothers, and he doesn't know whether to be grateful or terrified. Both feelings give way to relief when Portman pulls him close and hugs him, and Fulton barely notices the rest of the team pressing around them because Portman hasn't let go of his hand.
He doesn't think anybody notices; everybody's hyped up over the game and Portman's big entrance, so he lets himself hold on for as long as he can. When they do let go it's time to head back to the ice, but Fulton knows his mind won't be on the rest of the game. Portman makes sure of that when he gets himself thrown in the penalty box just a few minutes after he hits the ice and starts taking his clothes off.
He tells himself Portman isn't doing it for his benefit. Portman's just hyped up about the game, he's used to being the center of attention and he's just making sure all eyes are on him. The fact that one pair of those eyes belong to Fulton doesn't have anything to do with it.
Besides, it doesn't matter what Portman's doing, because there's still a game to play and they're back down to one Bash Brother again, which means the pressure's on Fulton to perform. He hears Portman calling his name but ignores it, keeping his attention on the game and the varsity players who are gunning even harder for him now that he's back on the ice without his other half. But even he can't avoid the penalty box forever, and when he skates by he can't help stealing just a quick glance at Portman.
It's not his fault. Anybody would have looked; the guy's practically got his own gravitational pull. Only when Fulton does look he finds Portman looking right back at him - right into him and Fulton knows this whole show's just for him. As soon as their eyes lock he remembers every second of what that still bare chest felt like pressed against him, and now he's hard and left to fend off the entire varsity line-up by himself, and all he can do is pray that he makes it through the rest of the game without humiliating himself.
Later he won't be able to say how he managed it. Not even when they're alone, back in his room after the rest of the Ducks have gone to bed, he won't be able to recall the last few minutes of the game. All he remembers with any clarity at all is Portman looking back at him across the ice, smirk firmly in place and mouth open, chanting Fulton's name like even now, in front of hundreds of people he doesn't know, he can't contain how much he missed this.
Or maybe he just doesn't care who knows - a distinct possibility, Fulton decides, especially when Portman drags him out of the post-game celebration in the locker room and pushes him down the hall, not even sure of the direction other than 'away'. Fulton takes charge long enough to lead Portman to his room, pushes the door open and thank God he tormented his roommate into begging to be moved to another dorm. Because he liked having the room to himself, but he's going to like sharing with Portman even more.
He's positive of that when he finds himself flat on his back with a lapful of hockey player and cold hands pressed against his skin. "Your hands are freezing."
"So warm them up," Portman says, grinning against Fulton's mouth and God, he missed this. He barely had it for a day and still he missed it more than he ever thought he could miss anything, but he's never met anybody like Portman before and he's pretty sure he never will.
He reaches between them, tugging Portman's hands away from his skin and curving them to fit his own. And technically they're holding hands, but he tells himself it's practical. He's just trying to warm them up, after all, because they really are cold and he likes Portman, but he'd rather he didn't feel like a block of ice when he touches Fulton. When he touches his dick, and a shudder rolls through him at the thought of Portman's hands…there.
It won't be the first time, but it's been long enough to make Fulton nervous and he wonders suddenly if he remembers how to do this. The first time was unexpected - rushed and unreal and he felt lightheaded the whole time because he couldn't believe Portman wanted him. He still can't believe it, but here they are again like no time's passed at all.
"Where were you?" Fulton asks suddenly, mouth wet and swollen from the force of Portman's kisses as he pushes his hands through dark hair, angling Portman's head so they're face to face.
"Chicago, stupid."
"No, I mean…" But Portman knows what he means - it flashes in his eyes the second Fulton says it, and he wants to back down. Wants to take it back, because demanding answers has never really been his style and he doesn't want to do anything to scare Portman off. "Forget it."
But it's too late for that, because Portman's looking at him now - really looking - and any second now he's going to get up and leave, go find some other room to stay in where his roommate won't start making stupid demands the second they're alone. When he shifts Fulton tenses, bracing himself for the moment Portman slides off him and stands up. He knows he'll feel cold, knows he'll miss that weight pressing him into the mattress, and he's ready for it. Only it never comes, and then Portman's grinning and tugging his hand out of Fulton's to push a few strands of long hair out of his face.
"The truth?"
Fulton's expression must answer the question before he finds the words, because Portman nods and shifts against him again and…God, he's going to come before they get to the good part.
"Once I got back to Chicago it didn't feel so much like my team anymore. We were all pumped up at the end of the Goodwill Games and everything, but then I got home and all my friends were there and…it just didn't seem like that big a deal. I figured maybe you guys wouldn't want me around."
"I wanted you around." And could he sound like more of a girl? Even Connie wouldn't say something that lame, and definitely not to Portman.
If Portman thinks it's lame he doesn't let on, though. Instead he laughs again, low and just a little dangerous, and Fulton had no idea he could miss a sound that much. "You could have told me that before, you know."
"When? While you were telling me you were bailing just because Bombay did?"
Portman rolls his eyes and Fulton wants to be mad, wants to shove him off and get up so at least he's standing while they…do whatever it is they're doing. He's pretty sure it can't count as breaking up considering they only spent one night together before Portman disappeared from his life, but it feels like it all the same.
"I don't know, man. Then, after…whenever. Why do you think I called you to tell you I wasn't coming in the first place?"
"What, you wanted me to beg?"
"Now that's something I wouldn't mind seeing."
"Forget it," Fulton says, flattening his hands against Portman's chest, but even with all his strength behind him he can't do much against the solid muscle pinning him to the bed. And he'd be worried if he really wanted to get away from Portman, but mostly he just wants to stop talking. "God, you weigh a ton. Get off me."
"You can take it," Portman says, and he speaks from experience so Fulton can't even argue with him. He opens his mouth to argue anyway, but before he gets the words out Portman's kissing him again, tongue pushing past his teeth and hands - warmer now, at least - sliding under his shirt again.
Fulton groans against his mouth, the sound muffled by the kiss as he slides his arms around Portman, shifting them until they're lined up just so and…yeah, just like that. They're both still wearing all their clothes, but he's been thinking about this way too long to care. He's starting to get the impression that Portman's been thinking about it too - the idea that he wanted Fulton to ask him to come back to Minnesota takes Fulton by surprise, and he doesn't want to think about how long they could have been doing this. Doesn't want to regret anything, not when Portman's kissing him like he needs Fulton to breathe.
And he's not sure when Portman became a mind-reader, but suddenly he's scrambling off Fulton, pulling away and tugging at his clothes until his shirt's gone and it's the hockey game all over again. Only there's no one else here to look at Portman now, no cat calls or girls swooning over him. This show's all for Fulton, and he runs a possessive hand up the center of Portman's chest, pale fingers against golden skin.
The moment's over before he's ready, and Portman's moving again, pushing at Fulton's jersey until he gives in and shifts up far enough to take it off. A shiver rolls through him, cold and heat coming together as Portman slides a hand between them, tugging at Fulton's zipper until it's open far enough for him to push a hand inside. He can't hold back a gasp at the first brush of fingers against him, already so hard it's painful, and he knows he's going to come as soon as Portman touches him.
Maybe Portman knows too, because his hand disappears again almost immediately, tugging at Fulton's jeans until they're bunched around his thighs. For a second he just kneels on the mattress between Fulton's legs and looks, his gaze hot on Fulton's skin and he feels the blush start to creep up his neck. His whole body's flushed by the time Portman moves again, one hand around the base of Fulton's cock and leaning forward to close his lips around the head.
Fulton bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, fighting back a shout that would let everybody on their floor know exactly what they're doing. Everybody in the dorm, probably, because Portman's mouth feels even better than Fulton remembered. He shoves a fist in his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles to stifle another cry when he comes, and by the time Portman finally pulls off he's fighting back a sob.
He doesn't know if it's relief or some other embarrassing emotion, but he pushes it down and surges up, catching Portman's mouth against his own and chasing his own bitter flavor with his tongue. Portman's rocking against him, moaning against his mouth and Fulton can feel how close he is, so he reaches between them and manages to get Portman's jeans open. He slides a hand past worn denim, a mirror image of what Portman did barely any time ago, closing his hand around the other boy's cock.
The weight's familiar in his hand, but still new enough to make his stomach flutter as he strokes, quick and sure as Portman thrusts into his grip. He's panting against Fulton's mouth, sharing air more than kissing, and Fulton loves being the one that can make Portman lose control like this. He loves that he can let himself lose control with Portman, that it's safe to let go when they're alone like this. And it's only happened twice so far, but Portman's here now and if Fulton has anything to say about it there will be a lot more nights like this one.
A few strokes later Portman tenses and comes, murmuring something against Fulton's mouth and even that turns Fulton on. He thinks about pulling his hand up to his mouth to taste the other boy - wonders briefly if that makes him a slut, then Portman presses his mouth to Fulton's neck and he decides it doesn't matter. Nothing matters - not school or the months they were apart or God, even the team, not now that they're back together. Because they're still the Bash Brothers, still an unstoppable force, but they're more than that and he'd give up hockey before he gave up this.
Portman really is heavy, though, and after a few minutes of hot breath warming his neck Fulton's starting to get a little too warm. "Hey, Portman. Hey. Dean?"
There's an incoherent murmur against his neck, and Fulton grins in spite of himself and runs the hand that's not sticky through Portman's hair. "Dude, I can't breathe. Seriously, get off."
More murmuring, this time punctuated by a breathy laugh, and the sound goes straight to Fulton's cock. But Portman rolls off him, and Fulton takes the opportunity to kick his jeans off the rest of the way before he pushes himself up on one elbow to look at the other boy.
Portman's grinning up at him, golden skin tinged with pink and Fulton decides it looks good on him. He wants to kiss Portman again, wants to touch him or…anything, but he's not sure what he's allowed to do. He's not sure if this is the part where they get up and wash off, then sleep in separate beds, or lie tangled together and wake up sweaty the way they did that first night.
"If I'd known you were such a romantic I'd have brought flowers or something."
And now Portman's making fun of him, but it tells Fulton everything he needs to know. His heart skips a beat and he leans forward to fit their mouths together so Portman won't see how relieved he is. He spent months telling himself Portman just changed his mind, that he didn't show up at Eden Hall because he didn't want Fulton to get the wrong idea, and even now it's hard for Fulton to believe he's really here. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming, and he runs his hand over Portman's skin just to make sure he's not imagining things.
He wants to ask Portman to pinch him, laughs at the thought and pulls away to find Portman watching him curiously. "What?"
"Nothing," Fulton answers, hand still moving restlessly on Portman's skin. "You're staying, right?"
"Yeah," Portman answers, grinning at the question as though the answer should have been obvious. "That okay with you?"
It's way more than okay - there's not a word strong enough for how much Fulton wants him to stay, right here in this bed, if possible. But he can't say any of that, so instead he just nods and lets Portman pull him close again. "Yeah," he answers, breathing the words against Portman's mouth, "it's okay with me."
~
There. Now I feel slightly less guilty about the eight billion projects I have started and abandoned in the past year.
Other projects currently in the works: the next part of the evil cliffhanger-y Speed/Tyler fic, a possible continuation of the WAT cabinfic, and that Miami sort-of-only-not-really-curtainfic I was talking about. I've written one sentence of that one so far. It has a name, though, so that's something.
The prequel to this is sort of melancholy and sweet and introspective. This is...not. Fulton/Portman. NC17. It may be a Disney film, but they're the ones that wrote the striptease.
Fulton's heart stops when Portman walks into the locker room. At first he thinks maybe he's taken one too many blows to the head, but then he hears that voice and he knows it's real. He also knows Bombay had something to do with the eleventh hour reunion of the Bash Brothers, and he doesn't know whether to be grateful or terrified. Both feelings give way to relief when Portman pulls him close and hugs him, and Fulton barely notices the rest of the team pressing around them because Portman hasn't let go of his hand.
He doesn't think anybody notices; everybody's hyped up over the game and Portman's big entrance, so he lets himself hold on for as long as he can. When they do let go it's time to head back to the ice, but Fulton knows his mind won't be on the rest of the game. Portman makes sure of that when he gets himself thrown in the penalty box just a few minutes after he hits the ice and starts taking his clothes off.
He tells himself Portman isn't doing it for his benefit. Portman's just hyped up about the game, he's used to being the center of attention and he's just making sure all eyes are on him. The fact that one pair of those eyes belong to Fulton doesn't have anything to do with it.
Besides, it doesn't matter what Portman's doing, because there's still a game to play and they're back down to one Bash Brother again, which means the pressure's on Fulton to perform. He hears Portman calling his name but ignores it, keeping his attention on the game and the varsity players who are gunning even harder for him now that he's back on the ice without his other half. But even he can't avoid the penalty box forever, and when he skates by he can't help stealing just a quick glance at Portman.
It's not his fault. Anybody would have looked; the guy's practically got his own gravitational pull. Only when Fulton does look he finds Portman looking right back at him - right into him and Fulton knows this whole show's just for him. As soon as their eyes lock he remembers every second of what that still bare chest felt like pressed against him, and now he's hard and left to fend off the entire varsity line-up by himself, and all he can do is pray that he makes it through the rest of the game without humiliating himself.
Later he won't be able to say how he managed it. Not even when they're alone, back in his room after the rest of the Ducks have gone to bed, he won't be able to recall the last few minutes of the game. All he remembers with any clarity at all is Portman looking back at him across the ice, smirk firmly in place and mouth open, chanting Fulton's name like even now, in front of hundreds of people he doesn't know, he can't contain how much he missed this.
Or maybe he just doesn't care who knows - a distinct possibility, Fulton decides, especially when Portman drags him out of the post-game celebration in the locker room and pushes him down the hall, not even sure of the direction other than 'away'. Fulton takes charge long enough to lead Portman to his room, pushes the door open and thank God he tormented his roommate into begging to be moved to another dorm. Because he liked having the room to himself, but he's going to like sharing with Portman even more.
He's positive of that when he finds himself flat on his back with a lapful of hockey player and cold hands pressed against his skin. "Your hands are freezing."
"So warm them up," Portman says, grinning against Fulton's mouth and God, he missed this. He barely had it for a day and still he missed it more than he ever thought he could miss anything, but he's never met anybody like Portman before and he's pretty sure he never will.
He reaches between them, tugging Portman's hands away from his skin and curving them to fit his own. And technically they're holding hands, but he tells himself it's practical. He's just trying to warm them up, after all, because they really are cold and he likes Portman, but he'd rather he didn't feel like a block of ice when he touches Fulton. When he touches his dick, and a shudder rolls through him at the thought of Portman's hands…there.
It won't be the first time, but it's been long enough to make Fulton nervous and he wonders suddenly if he remembers how to do this. The first time was unexpected - rushed and unreal and he felt lightheaded the whole time because he couldn't believe Portman wanted him. He still can't believe it, but here they are again like no time's passed at all.
"Where were you?" Fulton asks suddenly, mouth wet and swollen from the force of Portman's kisses as he pushes his hands through dark hair, angling Portman's head so they're face to face.
"Chicago, stupid."
"No, I mean…" But Portman knows what he means - it flashes in his eyes the second Fulton says it, and he wants to back down. Wants to take it back, because demanding answers has never really been his style and he doesn't want to do anything to scare Portman off. "Forget it."
But it's too late for that, because Portman's looking at him now - really looking - and any second now he's going to get up and leave, go find some other room to stay in where his roommate won't start making stupid demands the second they're alone. When he shifts Fulton tenses, bracing himself for the moment Portman slides off him and stands up. He knows he'll feel cold, knows he'll miss that weight pressing him into the mattress, and he's ready for it. Only it never comes, and then Portman's grinning and tugging his hand out of Fulton's to push a few strands of long hair out of his face.
"The truth?"
Fulton's expression must answer the question before he finds the words, because Portman nods and shifts against him again and…God, he's going to come before they get to the good part.
"Once I got back to Chicago it didn't feel so much like my team anymore. We were all pumped up at the end of the Goodwill Games and everything, but then I got home and all my friends were there and…it just didn't seem like that big a deal. I figured maybe you guys wouldn't want me around."
"I wanted you around." And could he sound like more of a girl? Even Connie wouldn't say something that lame, and definitely not to Portman.
If Portman thinks it's lame he doesn't let on, though. Instead he laughs again, low and just a little dangerous, and Fulton had no idea he could miss a sound that much. "You could have told me that before, you know."
"When? While you were telling me you were bailing just because Bombay did?"
Portman rolls his eyes and Fulton wants to be mad, wants to shove him off and get up so at least he's standing while they…do whatever it is they're doing. He's pretty sure it can't count as breaking up considering they only spent one night together before Portman disappeared from his life, but it feels like it all the same.
"I don't know, man. Then, after…whenever. Why do you think I called you to tell you I wasn't coming in the first place?"
"What, you wanted me to beg?"
"Now that's something I wouldn't mind seeing."
"Forget it," Fulton says, flattening his hands against Portman's chest, but even with all his strength behind him he can't do much against the solid muscle pinning him to the bed. And he'd be worried if he really wanted to get away from Portman, but mostly he just wants to stop talking. "God, you weigh a ton. Get off me."
"You can take it," Portman says, and he speaks from experience so Fulton can't even argue with him. He opens his mouth to argue anyway, but before he gets the words out Portman's kissing him again, tongue pushing past his teeth and hands - warmer now, at least - sliding under his shirt again.
Fulton groans against his mouth, the sound muffled by the kiss as he slides his arms around Portman, shifting them until they're lined up just so and…yeah, just like that. They're both still wearing all their clothes, but he's been thinking about this way too long to care. He's starting to get the impression that Portman's been thinking about it too - the idea that he wanted Fulton to ask him to come back to Minnesota takes Fulton by surprise, and he doesn't want to think about how long they could have been doing this. Doesn't want to regret anything, not when Portman's kissing him like he needs Fulton to breathe.
And he's not sure when Portman became a mind-reader, but suddenly he's scrambling off Fulton, pulling away and tugging at his clothes until his shirt's gone and it's the hockey game all over again. Only there's no one else here to look at Portman now, no cat calls or girls swooning over him. This show's all for Fulton, and he runs a possessive hand up the center of Portman's chest, pale fingers against golden skin.
The moment's over before he's ready, and Portman's moving again, pushing at Fulton's jersey until he gives in and shifts up far enough to take it off. A shiver rolls through him, cold and heat coming together as Portman slides a hand between them, tugging at Fulton's zipper until it's open far enough for him to push a hand inside. He can't hold back a gasp at the first brush of fingers against him, already so hard it's painful, and he knows he's going to come as soon as Portman touches him.
Maybe Portman knows too, because his hand disappears again almost immediately, tugging at Fulton's jeans until they're bunched around his thighs. For a second he just kneels on the mattress between Fulton's legs and looks, his gaze hot on Fulton's skin and he feels the blush start to creep up his neck. His whole body's flushed by the time Portman moves again, one hand around the base of Fulton's cock and leaning forward to close his lips around the head.
Fulton bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, fighting back a shout that would let everybody on their floor know exactly what they're doing. Everybody in the dorm, probably, because Portman's mouth feels even better than Fulton remembered. He shoves a fist in his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles to stifle another cry when he comes, and by the time Portman finally pulls off he's fighting back a sob.
He doesn't know if it's relief or some other embarrassing emotion, but he pushes it down and surges up, catching Portman's mouth against his own and chasing his own bitter flavor with his tongue. Portman's rocking against him, moaning against his mouth and Fulton can feel how close he is, so he reaches between them and manages to get Portman's jeans open. He slides a hand past worn denim, a mirror image of what Portman did barely any time ago, closing his hand around the other boy's cock.
The weight's familiar in his hand, but still new enough to make his stomach flutter as he strokes, quick and sure as Portman thrusts into his grip. He's panting against Fulton's mouth, sharing air more than kissing, and Fulton loves being the one that can make Portman lose control like this. He loves that he can let himself lose control with Portman, that it's safe to let go when they're alone like this. And it's only happened twice so far, but Portman's here now and if Fulton has anything to say about it there will be a lot more nights like this one.
A few strokes later Portman tenses and comes, murmuring something against Fulton's mouth and even that turns Fulton on. He thinks about pulling his hand up to his mouth to taste the other boy - wonders briefly if that makes him a slut, then Portman presses his mouth to Fulton's neck and he decides it doesn't matter. Nothing matters - not school or the months they were apart or God, even the team, not now that they're back together. Because they're still the Bash Brothers, still an unstoppable force, but they're more than that and he'd give up hockey before he gave up this.
Portman really is heavy, though, and after a few minutes of hot breath warming his neck Fulton's starting to get a little too warm. "Hey, Portman. Hey. Dean?"
There's an incoherent murmur against his neck, and Fulton grins in spite of himself and runs the hand that's not sticky through Portman's hair. "Dude, I can't breathe. Seriously, get off."
More murmuring, this time punctuated by a breathy laugh, and the sound goes straight to Fulton's cock. But Portman rolls off him, and Fulton takes the opportunity to kick his jeans off the rest of the way before he pushes himself up on one elbow to look at the other boy.
Portman's grinning up at him, golden skin tinged with pink and Fulton decides it looks good on him. He wants to kiss Portman again, wants to touch him or…anything, but he's not sure what he's allowed to do. He's not sure if this is the part where they get up and wash off, then sleep in separate beds, or lie tangled together and wake up sweaty the way they did that first night.
"If I'd known you were such a romantic I'd have brought flowers or something."
And now Portman's making fun of him, but it tells Fulton everything he needs to know. His heart skips a beat and he leans forward to fit their mouths together so Portman won't see how relieved he is. He spent months telling himself Portman just changed his mind, that he didn't show up at Eden Hall because he didn't want Fulton to get the wrong idea, and even now it's hard for Fulton to believe he's really here. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming, and he runs his hand over Portman's skin just to make sure he's not imagining things.
He wants to ask Portman to pinch him, laughs at the thought and pulls away to find Portman watching him curiously. "What?"
"Nothing," Fulton answers, hand still moving restlessly on Portman's skin. "You're staying, right?"
"Yeah," Portman answers, grinning at the question as though the answer should have been obvious. "That okay with you?"
It's way more than okay - there's not a word strong enough for how much Fulton wants him to stay, right here in this bed, if possible. But he can't say any of that, so instead he just nods and lets Portman pull him close again. "Yeah," he answers, breathing the words against Portman's mouth, "it's okay with me."
~
There. Now I feel slightly less guilty about the eight billion projects I have started and abandoned in the past year.
Other projects currently in the works: the next part of the evil cliffhanger-y Speed/Tyler fic, a possible continuation of the WAT cabinfic, and that Miami sort-of-only-not-really-curtainfic I was talking about. I've written one sentence of that one so far. It has a name, though, so that's something.