FIC: "The Now Or Never Kind" (3/?) WIP
Title: The Now or Never Kind
Part: 3/?
Status: WIP
Author: mentalhygiene
It was strongly suggested I should post another part of this. I swear, I am working on it, but there's some other characters eating my brain right now, so it's sort of a slow going. Apologies.
Motion at the corner of his eye: Rizzo slinks around the other bed. Sits next to him, not too close, just friendly. Leans (the sweet, yeasty smell of alcohol on his breath) in to whisper--
OC moves quick and deliberate. The ritual shattered, splintered, falling (Jimmy's sharp, grunting gasp, toppling against OC), laughter spills out from both of them, shirts twisted and riding up, OC's hand between them both.
Rizzo's quiet voice: "We ain't gonna, like, trick you, yannow."
Mac looks at him. Not afraid, he swears, oh, not scared, scared is a sick abrasive feeling, scared isn't this sprawling, lazy, dominating sense that curls, flame-licked, at the edges. He doesn't know what to say. Rizzo's a lot more perceptive than maybe any of them give him credit for, and god knows, maybe that's why he's so good at keeping them from killing each other. Keeping them sane.
"Wasn't really anyone's idea, we just..."
There's a sharp yelp and a thump, someone bitten and retaliating. They're a dizzy blur of t-shirt and blue-jeans and hands tangling in cloth and hair and distraction.
"...I dunno. I guess..." Rizzo sighs. "Dunno."
Mac shakes his head, mute. The words won't even form in his head, just murky not-quite-thoughts, like want and heat and sex and do it.
"They're crazy, I know."
He nods.
Rizzo snakes a broad hand against his back. He breathes faster, finds it harder and harder to deny that maybe (just maybe) he's thought about this before, in a dreamy never-gonna-happen way. Missing girls he never had and jerking off in his own bed. "Okay with this?"
He swallows again, stickily. "They're crazy?"
Rizzo grins, wide, without that wolfishly experienced look OC has. "Oh, yeah. Fuckin' basket-cases."
"I'm okay with this." It's not really the right thing to say, or the wrong thing, and it stumbles clumsily off his tongue and he feels stupid saying it. The thoughts coalesce and grow sharp, sharper than skates across clean ice: Rizzo is the one to do this let him do it now now now. He leans forward, kisses forcefully and clumsily because Rizzo isn't a girl, and he sure as hell isn't soft, even if he smells like cheap soap and cheaper cologne and the perpetual reek of practice-sweat that clings to all of them. Real, like the game and the ice and the team, real hands moving over his body and under his shirt and rough and broad on his skin.
He falls--or Rizzo pushes--or he pulls Rizzo, down, his back on the bed and one leg dangling, Rizzo leaning over him, awkwardly balanced and most of his weight settled, throbbingly, on Mac's other leg. Scrambling and shifting, and he's still on his back but Rizzo is beside him, hand on his chest, comfortable, kissing him slow and warm. Gradually, through the maddening want stirred up by the kissing, and the hand stroking his chest and stomach through his t-shirt, he registers the lack of noise from the other bed. He pulls away to look.
Jimmy and OC watching them. Jimmy unreadable, dark brows drawn. OC sprawled and smirking. Watching. A twinge of desire twists through him, low. The static and hum of a radio struggling for a signal. Rizzo lying there next to him, pushed against him, warm. He wishes they weren't watching. But wasn't this their idea?
What was their idea?
All of them? Together? They're together on the ice and touch in brief, brutal encounters of heavily padded shoulders and chests, or end up in giddy, joyful pilings at either end of the rink celebrating by suffocating each other. Sweat and leather and the rising chlorine tang of the ice. He fought, to, with OC, during the first days. Fury exploding fireworks behind his eyes. Fuck you, let's dance.
Two monkeys trying to hump a football, Coach Brooks said.
All of them, and he tries to do the math. Six pairs of hands (not counting his own, himself), mouths, tongues, necks, muscle, bone, hair, chests, bodies. He can feel Rizzo's erection at his hip, and if Jimmy and OC aren't crazy to get off too then they're dead (but if they were dead, he thinks, they couldn't play hockey), and there's something shameful and new and strange and he's trying to imagine the tangle of it, and it reminds him of the way little kids play hockey all going for the puck at once, but they're not kids and not little, and he's afraid. He's pretty sure they're not trying to trick him into something (if Coach Brooks got an inkling of this, he'd kill them, all of them, but only after the games because he can't get four more players on that short a notice), but...
But it's vulnerable. Bellied up with not a stitch of padding to save you.
He fell, once, when he was a kid, in a game, and a skate glanced him in the back of the head. The things you know best become the most dangerous. He doesn't want to fall, now, and end up wounded for it.
But he's already tumbling away, his body shuddering up an glintingly clear image of OC's hands on him, bare and splayed out instead of fisted; of kissing Jimmy and feeling rough stubble on his face; of sweat and skin and sex.
Part: 3/?
Status: WIP
Author: mentalhygiene
It was strongly suggested I should post another part of this. I swear, I am working on it, but there's some other characters eating my brain right now, so it's sort of a slow going. Apologies.
Motion at the corner of his eye: Rizzo slinks around the other bed. Sits next to him, not too close, just friendly. Leans (the sweet, yeasty smell of alcohol on his breath) in to whisper--
OC moves quick and deliberate. The ritual shattered, splintered, falling (Jimmy's sharp, grunting gasp, toppling against OC), laughter spills out from both of them, shirts twisted and riding up, OC's hand between them both.
Rizzo's quiet voice: "We ain't gonna, like, trick you, yannow."
Mac looks at him. Not afraid, he swears, oh, not scared, scared is a sick abrasive feeling, scared isn't this sprawling, lazy, dominating sense that curls, flame-licked, at the edges. He doesn't know what to say. Rizzo's a lot more perceptive than maybe any of them give him credit for, and god knows, maybe that's why he's so good at keeping them from killing each other. Keeping them sane.
"Wasn't really anyone's idea, we just..."
There's a sharp yelp and a thump, someone bitten and retaliating. They're a dizzy blur of t-shirt and blue-jeans and hands tangling in cloth and hair and distraction.
"...I dunno. I guess..." Rizzo sighs. "Dunno."
Mac shakes his head, mute. The words won't even form in his head, just murky not-quite-thoughts, like want and heat and sex and do it.
"They're crazy, I know."
He nods.
Rizzo snakes a broad hand against his back. He breathes faster, finds it harder and harder to deny that maybe (just maybe) he's thought about this before, in a dreamy never-gonna-happen way. Missing girls he never had and jerking off in his own bed. "Okay with this?"
He swallows again, stickily. "They're crazy?"
Rizzo grins, wide, without that wolfishly experienced look OC has. "Oh, yeah. Fuckin' basket-cases."
"I'm okay with this." It's not really the right thing to say, or the wrong thing, and it stumbles clumsily off his tongue and he feels stupid saying it. The thoughts coalesce and grow sharp, sharper than skates across clean ice: Rizzo is the one to do this let him do it now now now. He leans forward, kisses forcefully and clumsily because Rizzo isn't a girl, and he sure as hell isn't soft, even if he smells like cheap soap and cheaper cologne and the perpetual reek of practice-sweat that clings to all of them. Real, like the game and the ice and the team, real hands moving over his body and under his shirt and rough and broad on his skin.
He falls--or Rizzo pushes--or he pulls Rizzo, down, his back on the bed and one leg dangling, Rizzo leaning over him, awkwardly balanced and most of his weight settled, throbbingly, on Mac's other leg. Scrambling and shifting, and he's still on his back but Rizzo is beside him, hand on his chest, comfortable, kissing him slow and warm. Gradually, through the maddening want stirred up by the kissing, and the hand stroking his chest and stomach through his t-shirt, he registers the lack of noise from the other bed. He pulls away to look.
Jimmy and OC watching them. Jimmy unreadable, dark brows drawn. OC sprawled and smirking. Watching. A twinge of desire twists through him, low. The static and hum of a radio struggling for a signal. Rizzo lying there next to him, pushed against him, warm. He wishes they weren't watching. But wasn't this their idea?
What was their idea?
All of them? Together? They're together on the ice and touch in brief, brutal encounters of heavily padded shoulders and chests, or end up in giddy, joyful pilings at either end of the rink celebrating by suffocating each other. Sweat and leather and the rising chlorine tang of the ice. He fought, to, with OC, during the first days. Fury exploding fireworks behind his eyes. Fuck you, let's dance.
Two monkeys trying to hump a football, Coach Brooks said.
All of them, and he tries to do the math. Six pairs of hands (not counting his own, himself), mouths, tongues, necks, muscle, bone, hair, chests, bodies. He can feel Rizzo's erection at his hip, and if Jimmy and OC aren't crazy to get off too then they're dead (but if they were dead, he thinks, they couldn't play hockey), and there's something shameful and new and strange and he's trying to imagine the tangle of it, and it reminds him of the way little kids play hockey all going for the puck at once, but they're not kids and not little, and he's afraid. He's pretty sure they're not trying to trick him into something (if Coach Brooks got an inkling of this, he'd kill them, all of them, but only after the games because he can't get four more players on that short a notice), but...
But it's vulnerable. Bellied up with not a stitch of padding to save you.
He fell, once, when he was a kid, in a game, and a skate glanced him in the back of the head. The things you know best become the most dangerous. He doesn't want to fall, now, and end up wounded for it.
But he's already tumbling away, his body shuddering up an glintingly clear image of OC's hands on him, bare and splayed out instead of fisted; of kissing Jimmy and feeling rough stubble on his face; of sweat and skin and sex.