August Combo Challenge
So we're at that point in the offseason when things are slowly but surely starting to pick up speed again with camps and crazy player training combos, there seems to have been a pretty substantial rise in the number of people in and around hockey rpf fandom, and it's been a minute since we've seen a friending post. Thus;
A Friending Meme & Ficlet/ ( Read more... )
A Friending Meme & Ficlet/ ( Read more... )
It’s just fucking. It’s something to do when they’re bored and lonely and nothing more. They don’t have feelings for one another. This doesn’t matter.
“Rock, paper, scissors you for clean up,” Brendan says, sprawled more across Alex than the bed. Alex would tell him to get off, or just shove him away, if he had the energy. But he’s sleepy and loose-limbed, too warm with bones that feel like they’re made of honey after spending the afternoon rolling around, fighting and fucking and biting and teasing and taunting and having and wanting and taking with Brendan laughing and smiling through every minute of it, so he can’t be bothered to move or say anything or do anything at all but lie here. And frown. And contradict everything he just thought.
“Rock, paper, scissors? Are you five years old?”
“No,” Brendan pouts, rolling over onto his hands and knees over Alex, “But somebody has to get out of bed, and I’m really invested in it not being me. Like, to the point of being competitive about it. So c’mon. On the count of three.”
It’s not cute. It’s really not. Brendan’s face is still flushed, and Alex can smell both of their sweat, and he’s not going to lick at Brendan’s armpit or the crease of his thigh, because that would be incredibly strange, and Brendan would think him weird. Worse - he might think it meant something.
Alex sighs and lifts his fist, and rolls his eyes when he loses, because Brendan probably has tactics laid out for this. He’s probably thought about it, strategized.
He grumbles as he gets to his feet, and grumbles some more when he comes back from the bathroom. He had a half-assed sponge bath in the sink when he was in there, and now he carries a washcloth back to the bed, carefully wipes Brendan down while pointedly not making eye contact with him, because he sees his smug grin in his peripheral vision the second he gets back on the bed.
It’s easy to get a little lost in it, the task of dragging the cloth over Brendan’s body; over the smooth ripples of his abs and through the mess of lube and come between his cheeks, already drying tacky across his back.
Alex doesn’t look at him when he leaves to toss the washcloth back in the sink, but when he comes back into the bedroom Brendan has moved. He’s curled up on his side underneath the covers now, and he’s watching Alex with an expression so pointedly devoid of a smile that it unnerves Alex to see his face that way. He’s always smiling. At least, he’s always smiling when Alex is around.
But Brendan isn’t smiling when he lifts the blankets for Alex to climb back in beside him, and when he scoots up behind him and presses his mouth to the back of Alex’s neck, he can feel the tight line of his mouth, the distinct and unsettling lack of curve to it.
“Nap, then shower and practice. I set the alarm,” Alex decides, and Brendan hums agreement.
Alex closes his eyes and settles back into the arm Brendan tentatively drapes around his waist, and he doesn’t think about anything else they have to do today or after.
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