fic and other updates
just a drive by to let you all know that i haven't cliffed myself or anything! i'm in survival mode until i leave in nine days (shit gotta pack, oops), so...see you then?
also, i have fic! written for nahco3, and yes, i will get off my ass soon and comment on shit i promise! reading period starts next week, that's what it's there for~ but anyway.
title don't tread
pairing clint dempsey/landon donovan
rating pg-13 or thereabouts
word count 1,083
summary deuce and landon don't actually like each other. but then again, they kind of do.
"Get your Tyra Banks five-head out of my room," Clint says when he opens the hotel room door and sees Landon. He steps out of the way, though, and lets Landon in.
"Shut up," Landon grumbles. He sits down on Clint's bed, the one that's already got the covers mussed because Clint can never lie still when he's trying to relax, and he looks alarmingly natural there, in Clint's space, doing nothing. "I'm tired."
"Then go to bed," Clint suggests. He closes the door and flops down on the bed himself, grabbing a pillow and the clicker. He flicks the TV on and starts to channel surf.
Landon responds by lying down on Clint's bed and kicking off his shoes. He wiggles his way entirely too close to Clint and they're not snuggling (they're grown men, Clint thinks, and besides, he doesn't even particularly like Landon. It's not snuggling if you don't actually like the person) but parts of their bodies are touching, and Clint doesn't push Landon away.
He's not entirely sure how this started.
It was a while ago, he's pretty sure. A few years, at least. If he's being completely honest, Clint tries pretty hard to keep the details hazy. He doesn't want to know how much of this he initiated, especially since he can't blame it on a bottle of Southern Comfort.
And it's become pretty regular since whatever shady beginning Clint chooses to ignore, in a hotel room that probably looked exactly like this one. They never kiss, not at the beginning- after the Top 10 Plays airs on ESPN, Landon rolls onto his stomach and shuffles closer to Clint, pulls the elastic waistband of his basketball shorts down and sucks him off. He uses a little bit too much teeth and Clint's leg cramps from the way Landon's torso is pinning it down, but Clint doesn't mind, really. (He tells himself, it's a blowjob, of course he doesn't mind.)
He jerks Landon off and when Landon finishes, Clint rolls out of bed and goes to the bathroom, cleans himself up, brushes his teeth.
Landon's already changed into a pair of Clint's practice shorts when Clint turns the bathroom light off and goes back into the room. It annoys Clint, but not enough for him to actually say anything. He gets into his side of the bed, the side nearest the bedside table so he can look at his phone while it's plugged in, and Landon turns down the covers on the other side. Clint sets an extra alarm so he can kick Landon out in the morning and get at least an hour to sprawl over the entire bed himself.
They don't touch when they sleep; they just sort of ignore each other. Clint sleeps on his stomach with his head turned away from Landon, who sleeps curled on his side. Clint only notices Landon's there because he doesn't sleep as deeply. He's a little afraid of rolling into Landon's space inadvertently. He doesn't like it.
But he doesn't kick Landon out until the extra alarm goes off at five. Clint doesn't like to think too hard about what that might mean.
Clint hates waking up, but he likes mornings. He's usually the first one at team breakfast, likes to poke at his eggs for a while before eating them.
"Why do you eat those?" Carlos asks him, reaching over Clint for a napkin.
"Eggs from a box are the best kind," Clint tells him.
Landon shows up to breakfast with most of the rest of the team, nods at Clint, and that's the only acknowledgement they give each other until practice.
It's funny, Clint thinks, because he's never been good at hiding when he doesn't like someone. It's pretty obvious that he doesn't like Landon.
But when his phone buzzes after practice and 'Five-Head' shows up on the screen, Clint replies.
ESPN likes to do features on Landon. Clint doesn't mind, not really, except for when they rerun during every commercial. He frowns through the first few times the Gold Cup promo plays, and then starts channel surfing to avoid it.
The thing is that he can't hate Landon for saying whatever shit he's saying about being a team that wants to come out and set new expectations, or whatever it is that he's actually saying. Clint hasn't paid that much attention. He can tell Landon means every word that he says. Landon's always been kind of stupidly earnest.
Back when they first started doing whatever it is that they do, Clint put his name in Landon's phone as Deuce, baby. He can tell Landon hasn't changed it because he makes a face like he's trying to frown instead of laugh whenever Clint texts him.
"You really care, don't you?" Clint asks Landon.
Landon's sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing sweats and socks and a t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. Clint wants to poke at the hole, but he's also being serious, so he doesn't.
"Yeah," Landon says without asking Clint what he's talking about. It's what Clint wanted him to do. It's also what Clint was afraid he was going to do. "Yeah, I do."
"Cool," Clint says. He's sprawled out, taking up most of the bed. He's not wearing a shirt. "Me too." He closes his eyes and they sit in silence for a while, until he feels the bed shift and Landon straddles him.
"Are we gonna-?" Landon asks, "-or should I go?"
"Nah, we can," Clint says. "Course. Or, I mean. Don't have to, either."
"Have to fuck you or have to leave?" Landon asks, and Clint snorts, taken by surprise, as always, by Landon's dry humor.
He shrugs as best he can. "Either," he says again.
There are cameras at practice more often than not, usually for Studio 90. Clint's friends with some of the crew, likes to go over and talk to them during water breaks.
He's standing with them, watching them film Landon take crossbar shots, when one of the techies calls him over.
"Sick play earlier," the guy says, and Clint grins.
"Which one?"
The guy points at the screen of the camera he's holding and Clint leans over in time to watch himself school Dolo before laying the ball off for Landon. He thinks, he might not actually like Landon all that much, but.
"Y'all work well together," the guy says before he wanders off.
"Yeah," Clint says to himself. "Yeah we do."
also, i have fic! written for nahco3, and yes, i will get off my ass soon and comment on shit i promise! reading period starts next week, that's what it's there for~ but anyway.
title don't tread
pairing clint dempsey/landon donovan
rating pg-13 or thereabouts
word count 1,083
summary deuce and landon don't actually like each other. but then again, they kind of do.
"Get your Tyra Banks five-head out of my room," Clint says when he opens the hotel room door and sees Landon. He steps out of the way, though, and lets Landon in.
"Shut up," Landon grumbles. He sits down on Clint's bed, the one that's already got the covers mussed because Clint can never lie still when he's trying to relax, and he looks alarmingly natural there, in Clint's space, doing nothing. "I'm tired."
"Then go to bed," Clint suggests. He closes the door and flops down on the bed himself, grabbing a pillow and the clicker. He flicks the TV on and starts to channel surf.
Landon responds by lying down on Clint's bed and kicking off his shoes. He wiggles his way entirely too close to Clint and they're not snuggling (they're grown men, Clint thinks, and besides, he doesn't even particularly like Landon. It's not snuggling if you don't actually like the person) but parts of their bodies are touching, and Clint doesn't push Landon away.
He's not entirely sure how this started.
It was a while ago, he's pretty sure. A few years, at least. If he's being completely honest, Clint tries pretty hard to keep the details hazy. He doesn't want to know how much of this he initiated, especially since he can't blame it on a bottle of Southern Comfort.
And it's become pretty regular since whatever shady beginning Clint chooses to ignore, in a hotel room that probably looked exactly like this one. They never kiss, not at the beginning- after the Top 10 Plays airs on ESPN, Landon rolls onto his stomach and shuffles closer to Clint, pulls the elastic waistband of his basketball shorts down and sucks him off. He uses a little bit too much teeth and Clint's leg cramps from the way Landon's torso is pinning it down, but Clint doesn't mind, really. (He tells himself, it's a blowjob, of course he doesn't mind.)
He jerks Landon off and when Landon finishes, Clint rolls out of bed and goes to the bathroom, cleans himself up, brushes his teeth.
Landon's already changed into a pair of Clint's practice shorts when Clint turns the bathroom light off and goes back into the room. It annoys Clint, but not enough for him to actually say anything. He gets into his side of the bed, the side nearest the bedside table so he can look at his phone while it's plugged in, and Landon turns down the covers on the other side. Clint sets an extra alarm so he can kick Landon out in the morning and get at least an hour to sprawl over the entire bed himself.
They don't touch when they sleep; they just sort of ignore each other. Clint sleeps on his stomach with his head turned away from Landon, who sleeps curled on his side. Clint only notices Landon's there because he doesn't sleep as deeply. He's a little afraid of rolling into Landon's space inadvertently. He doesn't like it.
But he doesn't kick Landon out until the extra alarm goes off at five. Clint doesn't like to think too hard about what that might mean.
Clint hates waking up, but he likes mornings. He's usually the first one at team breakfast, likes to poke at his eggs for a while before eating them.
"Why do you eat those?" Carlos asks him, reaching over Clint for a napkin.
"Eggs from a box are the best kind," Clint tells him.
Landon shows up to breakfast with most of the rest of the team, nods at Clint, and that's the only acknowledgement they give each other until practice.
It's funny, Clint thinks, because he's never been good at hiding when he doesn't like someone. It's pretty obvious that he doesn't like Landon.
But when his phone buzzes after practice and 'Five-Head' shows up on the screen, Clint replies.
ESPN likes to do features on Landon. Clint doesn't mind, not really, except for when they rerun during every commercial. He frowns through the first few times the Gold Cup promo plays, and then starts channel surfing to avoid it.
The thing is that he can't hate Landon for saying whatever shit he's saying about being a team that wants to come out and set new expectations, or whatever it is that he's actually saying. Clint hasn't paid that much attention. He can tell Landon means every word that he says. Landon's always been kind of stupidly earnest.
Back when they first started doing whatever it is that they do, Clint put his name in Landon's phone as Deuce, baby. He can tell Landon hasn't changed it because he makes a face like he's trying to frown instead of laugh whenever Clint texts him.
"You really care, don't you?" Clint asks Landon.
Landon's sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing sweats and socks and a t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. Clint wants to poke at the hole, but he's also being serious, so he doesn't.
"Yeah," Landon says without asking Clint what he's talking about. It's what Clint wanted him to do. It's also what Clint was afraid he was going to do. "Yeah, I do."
"Cool," Clint says. He's sprawled out, taking up most of the bed. He's not wearing a shirt. "Me too." He closes his eyes and they sit in silence for a while, until he feels the bed shift and Landon straddles him.
"Are we gonna-?" Landon asks, "-or should I go?"
"Nah, we can," Clint says. "Course. Or, I mean. Don't have to, either."
"Have to fuck you or have to leave?" Landon asks, and Clint snorts, taken by surprise, as always, by Landon's dry humor.
He shrugs as best he can. "Either," he says again.
There are cameras at practice more often than not, usually for Studio 90. Clint's friends with some of the crew, likes to go over and talk to them during water breaks.
He's standing with them, watching them film Landon take crossbar shots, when one of the techies calls him over.
"Sick play earlier," the guy says, and Clint grins.
"Which one?"
The guy points at the screen of the camera he's holding and Clint leans over in time to watch himself school Dolo before laying the ball off for Landon. He thinks, he might not actually like Landon all that much, but.
"Y'all work well together," the guy says before he wanders off.
"Yeah," Clint says to himself. "Yeah we do."