Stay Tuned After the Break
Stay Tuned After the Break
James Duthie/Michael Peca. 2400 words.
Note: This is not actually porn. Maybe PG-13ish. That's maybe even worse but whatever.
Written for the 2010 hockey kink meme. Request was James Duthie/Michael Peca. Anything.
Thanks to conser for the quick beta.
At first he was like:
“We need a draw for game three,” one of the executive producers says during the morning meeting.
“It’s hockey. In May. In Canada,” James says. “What more of a draw could you possibly want?”
Another producer pipes up as though James hasn’t spoken. “We could bring back the monkey. Animals are good for ratings.”
James chokes, sending a goodish amount of coffee into his sinuses and scalding the roof of his mouth. He can’t breathe but he’s too nervous to clear his throat--if he calls attention to himself his bosses might remember the mutual enmity between him and the damn monkey and bring her back for the sheer flea-ridden comedic potential.
“You absolutely have to bring her back if you’re going to get the crucial 18-25 audience,” Bob McKenzie injects, with the all the baseless conviction he can muster. “She’s very cute.”
“And she’s retired,” the first producer replies. The animal rights groups would throw a shit fit.”
“Better them than the monkey,“ says Produce Number Two. He takes a sip of his tea, knowing he won’t be heard until McKenzie's guffaws subside. “I think Peca’s in town this week.”
“Yeah? Give him a call then. Don’t tell him he’s our second choice.”
”No, really?”
Crisis averted, simply as it started. James discreetly coughs up a lung and hopes the lack of oxygen hasn’t damaged his brain.
And then:
“James, Michael Peca. Mike, James Duthie.”
James smiles and shakes Peca’s hand then goes over to where the production crew are milling about to double check his mike is working and his set of notes matches up with the set they’ve got. Sure, Peca’s pretty nice to look at but as long as James has enough money to retire before TSN starts airing Point/Counterpoint with Sean Avery and Colton Orr he doesn’t really care which retiree shows up to offer commentary. He doesn’t think about how Peca’s hand was warm and dry or how he can feel Peca’s gaze following him around the set.
(Well, James allows himself to think about the gaze-following thing just a teeny-tiny bit. Bob McKenzie pounced on Peca like a rotund housecat on a juicy filet before James was even halfway across the room. Now McKenzie’s blustering on about something, gesticulating wildly and looking so pleased with himself that if his pants weren’t black there’d probably be a visible wet spot and Peca is trapped; the mournful little looks James catches from the corner of his eye are actually pretty funny.)
James hops on his stool five minutes before they go to air, same as always. He thumbs through his pages and mutters the lines under his breath one last time, checking that he’s mastered any tongue twisters that might crop up. Because he’s a professional. And because he’s a professional James most certainly does not glance across the room to trace the lines of Peca’s suit jacket with his eyes and he definitely doesn’t take a moment to appreciate the way that (subtly pinstriped, expertly tailored) trousers elongate Peca’s already ridiculous legs and encapsulate an ass you could bounce a quarter off.
Peca comes over a minute later and the look on his face makes James wonder if he’s been caught, if he’s going to get the snot beat out of him before they go to air, but when their gazes meet Peca just rolls his eyes and tips his head the slightest bit towards McKenzie’s end of the table. He walks right up to James and leans closer than perhaps strictly necessary to say, “You don’t mind if I sit over here, right? I mean, if McKenzie jerks it any harder his ego’s gonna chafe and I’d rather not be around that.”
He’s close enough that James catches a teasing whiff of Peca’s aftershave. He smells clean, like crisp laundry. Something James wouldn’t mind curling up in. Not that he’s thinking about it.
“Go ahead,” James says. Peca smiles and hops onto the stool beside James and twirls a little bit to get comfortable; their knees bump up against each other under the desk, making James jump in surprise.
And then:
The game starts.
The trouble begins immediately.
Not for the players, because the game’s actually decently tight, but for James.
“What’re you doing?” Peca asks.
“Taking notes on the game so I know what to say for the intro at the intermission.”
“But you’re a sportscaster.”
“I’m a part of the crew, just like everyone else,” James says absently. “And I’m a journalist.”
“Who hosts sports analysis segments. Pretty sure that’s a sportscaster.” Peca gives him a slow smile, broad and just sleazy enough that it’s clear Peca thinks James is joking and he’s joking right back.
James isn’t, but he’s also not going to start shit with a guest commentator (an admittedly pretty one) so James just sighs and straightens the papers on his desk and proceeds to politely ignore Peca for the rest of the period.
Net result: misery.
Thirty-three seconds into the first intermission segment he feels something brush tentatively against his leg . He jumps but keeps his focus and a second later it’s back, bolder, tracing the line of his calf from knee to ankle. He realizes it’s a foot--Peca’s foot--right about the time it loops around his ankle bone and deftly manoeuvres James’ trouser leg up and nudges his sock down and out of the way.
His toes are bare, James realizes through a fog of hysteria. Michael Peca is engaging in sockless footsie on national television. The fucker’s been spending too much time with the sartorially-minded Europeans if he’s mastered the art of sockless loafers with suits. James is surprised he’s not wearing an ascot.
Peca continues to discreetly fondle James’ leg all through the intermission. It’s bewildering, maddening and completely fucking distracting; James would rather gnaw off his own foot than admit to the sparks of interest the teasing touches are inciting, but there it is, goosebumps and a certain stirring of interest in his trousers.
Just ignore it, he tells himself. Hockey players are like children, he’ll stop if you don’t react.
And then:
James is disgusted. His attempts to ignore Peca are failing miserably. He hasn’t missed a prompt and he’s not hard, thank fuck, but he can feel a furious blush under his makeup. In addition to some wonderfully skilled toes Michael Peca has an easy, slow smile that does funny things to James’ insides. He mumbles nervously all through his analysis, like his jaw’s wired shut and he’s trying to talk around too many teeth and it should be stupid but instead it’s fucking endearing. At one point he confuses “humiliation” with “humility” but he doesn’t look embarrassed afterwards and so he manages to suck all the mirth out of the room. Instead of looking stupid it ends up being a little bit cute. But stupid, James tells himself. Very stupid.
Fuck.
He sends a Twitter message to Darren Millard during a commercial break in the second period (while the makeup artist’s busy fawning over Peca’s stupid smile, thereby distracting Peca from reading over James’ shoulder the way he had during every other commercial break.) Millard works for Rogers Sportsnet and is technically the enemy but he’s also one of the only sane people in town. They’ve bonded over their woes as pawns of corporate media goons.
d @darenmillard Michael Peca groped me on-air. He’s not wearing socks. McKenzie butchered “superfluous” three times.
d @TSNJamesDuthie I have here the world’s smallest, saddest fiddle, Darren replies 45 seconds later, and it’s shaped like Doug MacLean.
And then:
“Your legs are soft,” Peca murmurs at the start of the third period. They (being James and the rest of the crew) are back to taking notes. Peca’s dutifully following the play on multiple camera feeds but a quick glance tells James that Peca’s paper is covered with wavy lines of nothing scribbled in a fit of boredom. “I mean, obviously you’ve got some cute peach fuzz going there but, you know, soft. Do you exfoliate?”
“Of course not." And then, because James' mouth and brain are clearly at war: "Do you?”
“You’ll have to find out.”
James gives Peca a confused, pinched sort of look like what is this I don’t even because that’s really all the reaction he can coherently form without drawing attention to his predicament.
A panicked glance shows that everyone else is too busy watching Nabokov watch Byfuglien’s ass to bother eavesdropping on Peca’s pleasantries. There’s a lot of hearing loss in their group, resulting from years of exposure to loud goal horns and louder barns, and for once James is happy for it.
Peca drops his pen right in the middle of a goal celebration (“Oh, shit, sorry,”) and manages places his hand on James’ thigh for balance as he leans over to retrieve it. There’s a definite squeeze or two on the way back up. James glares at him and shifts irritably, and nearly topples off his stool as a result.
At the other end of the table, Bob McKenzie chuckles to himself and finishes his seventh page of notes with a flourish.
And then:
Game over. Chicago wins, and more importantly so does James because, fumbled lines? None. Inappropriate erection? Quelled. Because James Duthie is a professional. He’s 44 years old, has a degree in journalism and is far too mature for his professional mettle to be tested by a mere game of footsie. If a retired hockey player thinks he can throw James Duthie off his game with a little teasing on-air badtouch, James thinks, smirking to himself as he gathers his papers and thanks the staff, well, he can just bring it on.
Peca sidles up to him like he can hear James’ thoughts. “You know, I’ve decided I like it when you blush,” he says. “Your lips do this little quirk thing like you want to make a noise but you’re trying not to.”
“Um.”
“But I bet I could make you,” he intones. “Bet I could make you go hoarse in a half hour.”
“Um.”
Peca reaches out and trails his fingertips ever so lightly down James’ arm, dips in to tease the inside of his wrist trace the lines of James’ palm. “Bet I could spread you open and bend you over this desk right here and you wouldn’t care how many janitors could hear you. You’d spend every game next season hard as a rock, feeling me inside you while you sat. Right. Here.”
James thinks he’s maybe choked on his tongue. “Here?” he squeaks, looking around. He can picture it: in shadow, with all but one bank of lights turned off; bent, spread, out of breath with his trousers bunched around his thighs; Peca’s fingers in James’ mouth to muffle his groans; holding their breath if they heard footsteps in the hall but unable to stop moving, touching, even if the sounds of their skin gave them away.
“Here?” Peca repeats, chuckling a little bit, dark and sweet with all sorts of unspeakable promises. “Well, if you want to hang around in that suit until everyone else gets out of here that suits me just fine. But if you’d rather,” he pulls a set of car keys out of his pocket, “I’ve got a room at the Hazelton.” He jangles the keys a little, grin widening when James follows them with his eyes and unconsciously draws his bottom lip between his teeth. “So,” he says, all sly confidence because he clearly already knows the answer, “you wanna?”
James wets his lips and pretends to think about it for a minute. “How far is it to your car?”
“It’s just out back,” Peca replies. He curls his hand slightly around James’ elbow and James feels his stomach flip and his lips curl in a stupid hormonal grin because god-fucking-damn, Peca looks really, really good when he smiles like that.
And then (he came):
James Duthie is 44 years old, has a degree in journalism and (ordinarily) far too much common sense, dignity, et cetera to ever trek a Walk Of Shame through the front lobby of 9 Channel Court with a hint of stubble and the same suit as the day before, much less while wearing someone else’s underwear and a lingering cloud of their cologne.
He cuts across the lawn and sneaks in through the loading bay. If anyone asks why he’s late he’ll say he’s looking for Sportsnet spycams or Lloyd Robertson’s batcave or whatever because he’s pleasantly fucked and doesn’t give a shit.
It’s almost like being back in first year. Well, no, that’s a blatant lie because he didn’t go to Western and thus has enough memories of first year to support the assumption that no undergraduate could know things like, like those things. He’s covered in handprints and hickeys and sore in places he’d be fired for mentioning on camera. It’s pretty fucking awesome.
He’s not even the last one into the meeting. Three of eight executive producers are still missing and McKenzie’s late too--James heard him yelling at some poor intern over the state of his latte on the way in--but James is conscious of just how well-fucked he must look and the fact that regardless of what his coworkers are doing he’s still late so he drops into his seat and avoids drawing more attention to himself.
It works. Executive Producer Number One just gives him a sort of cursory once-over before he kicks the meeting off: “We need a draw for game four.”
There’s a plate of muffins in the center of the table. James grabs one and takes a huge bite. His jaw twinges like it might be out of joint--his pelvis, too, he thinks, shifting his weight in his chair--and makes a note to call his chiropractor as soon as the meeting lets out. Then he might take a nap in his office.
“We could ask Peca to come in again,” says Executive Producer Number Two. “He looked great on camera.”
Producer One turns. “Well? What do you think, James?”
James smiles around a bite of his muffin. “Sure, give him a call.”
::
James Duthie/Michael Peca. 2400 words.
Note: This is not actually porn. Maybe PG-13ish. That's maybe even worse but whatever.
Written for the 2010 hockey kink meme. Request was James Duthie/Michael Peca. Anything.
Thanks to conser for the quick beta.
At first he was like:
“We need a draw for game three,” one of the executive producers says during the morning meeting.
“It’s hockey. In May. In Canada,” James says. “What more of a draw could you possibly want?”
Another producer pipes up as though James hasn’t spoken. “We could bring back the monkey. Animals are good for ratings.”
James chokes, sending a goodish amount of coffee into his sinuses and scalding the roof of his mouth. He can’t breathe but he’s too nervous to clear his throat--if he calls attention to himself his bosses might remember the mutual enmity between him and the damn monkey and bring her back for the sheer flea-ridden comedic potential.
“You absolutely have to bring her back if you’re going to get the crucial 18-25 audience,” Bob McKenzie injects, with the all the baseless conviction he can muster. “She’s very cute.”
“And she’s retired,” the first producer replies. The animal rights groups would throw a shit fit.”
“Better them than the monkey,“ says Produce Number Two. He takes a sip of his tea, knowing he won’t be heard until McKenzie's guffaws subside. “I think Peca’s in town this week.”
“Yeah? Give him a call then. Don’t tell him he’s our second choice.”
”No, really?”
Crisis averted, simply as it started. James discreetly coughs up a lung and hopes the lack of oxygen hasn’t damaged his brain.
And then:
“James, Michael Peca. Mike, James Duthie.”
James smiles and shakes Peca’s hand then goes over to where the production crew are milling about to double check his mike is working and his set of notes matches up with the set they’ve got. Sure, Peca’s pretty nice to look at but as long as James has enough money to retire before TSN starts airing Point/Counterpoint with Sean Avery and Colton Orr he doesn’t really care which retiree shows up to offer commentary. He doesn’t think about how Peca’s hand was warm and dry or how he can feel Peca’s gaze following him around the set.
(Well, James allows himself to think about the gaze-following thing just a teeny-tiny bit. Bob McKenzie pounced on Peca like a rotund housecat on a juicy filet before James was even halfway across the room. Now McKenzie’s blustering on about something, gesticulating wildly and looking so pleased with himself that if his pants weren’t black there’d probably be a visible wet spot and Peca is trapped; the mournful little looks James catches from the corner of his eye are actually pretty funny.)
James hops on his stool five minutes before they go to air, same as always. He thumbs through his pages and mutters the lines under his breath one last time, checking that he’s mastered any tongue twisters that might crop up. Because he’s a professional. And because he’s a professional James most certainly does not glance across the room to trace the lines of Peca’s suit jacket with his eyes and he definitely doesn’t take a moment to appreciate the way that (subtly pinstriped, expertly tailored) trousers elongate Peca’s already ridiculous legs and encapsulate an ass you could bounce a quarter off.
Peca comes over a minute later and the look on his face makes James wonder if he’s been caught, if he’s going to get the snot beat out of him before they go to air, but when their gazes meet Peca just rolls his eyes and tips his head the slightest bit towards McKenzie’s end of the table. He walks right up to James and leans closer than perhaps strictly necessary to say, “You don’t mind if I sit over here, right? I mean, if McKenzie jerks it any harder his ego’s gonna chafe and I’d rather not be around that.”
He’s close enough that James catches a teasing whiff of Peca’s aftershave. He smells clean, like crisp laundry. Something James wouldn’t mind curling up in. Not that he’s thinking about it.
“Go ahead,” James says. Peca smiles and hops onto the stool beside James and twirls a little bit to get comfortable; their knees bump up against each other under the desk, making James jump in surprise.
And then:
The game starts.
The trouble begins immediately.
Not for the players, because the game’s actually decently tight, but for James.
“What’re you doing?” Peca asks.
“Taking notes on the game so I know what to say for the intro at the intermission.”
“But you’re a sportscaster.”
“I’m a part of the crew, just like everyone else,” James says absently. “And I’m a journalist.”
“Who hosts sports analysis segments. Pretty sure that’s a sportscaster.” Peca gives him a slow smile, broad and just sleazy enough that it’s clear Peca thinks James is joking and he’s joking right back.
James isn’t, but he’s also not going to start shit with a guest commentator (an admittedly pretty one) so James just sighs and straightens the papers on his desk and proceeds to politely ignore Peca for the rest of the period.
Net result: misery.
Thirty-three seconds into the first intermission segment he feels something brush tentatively against his leg . He jumps but keeps his focus and a second later it’s back, bolder, tracing the line of his calf from knee to ankle. He realizes it’s a foot--Peca’s foot--right about the time it loops around his ankle bone and deftly manoeuvres James’ trouser leg up and nudges his sock down and out of the way.
His toes are bare, James realizes through a fog of hysteria. Michael Peca is engaging in sockless footsie on national television. The fucker’s been spending too much time with the sartorially-minded Europeans if he’s mastered the art of sockless loafers with suits. James is surprised he’s not wearing an ascot.
Peca continues to discreetly fondle James’ leg all through the intermission. It’s bewildering, maddening and completely fucking distracting; James would rather gnaw off his own foot than admit to the sparks of interest the teasing touches are inciting, but there it is, goosebumps and a certain stirring of interest in his trousers.
Just ignore it, he tells himself. Hockey players are like children, he’ll stop if you don’t react.
And then:
James is disgusted. His attempts to ignore Peca are failing miserably. He hasn’t missed a prompt and he’s not hard, thank fuck, but he can feel a furious blush under his makeup. In addition to some wonderfully skilled toes Michael Peca has an easy, slow smile that does funny things to James’ insides. He mumbles nervously all through his analysis, like his jaw’s wired shut and he’s trying to talk around too many teeth and it should be stupid but instead it’s fucking endearing. At one point he confuses “humiliation” with “humility” but he doesn’t look embarrassed afterwards and so he manages to suck all the mirth out of the room. Instead of looking stupid it ends up being a little bit cute. But stupid, James tells himself. Very stupid.
Fuck.
He sends a Twitter message to Darren Millard during a commercial break in the second period (while the makeup artist’s busy fawning over Peca’s stupid smile, thereby distracting Peca from reading over James’ shoulder the way he had during every other commercial break.) Millard works for Rogers Sportsnet and is technically the enemy but he’s also one of the only sane people in town. They’ve bonded over their woes as pawns of corporate media goons.
d @darenmillard Michael Peca groped me on-air. He’s not wearing socks. McKenzie butchered “superfluous” three times.
d @TSNJamesDuthie I have here the world’s smallest, saddest fiddle, Darren replies 45 seconds later, and it’s shaped like Doug MacLean.
And then:
“Your legs are soft,” Peca murmurs at the start of the third period. They (being James and the rest of the crew) are back to taking notes. Peca’s dutifully following the play on multiple camera feeds but a quick glance tells James that Peca’s paper is covered with wavy lines of nothing scribbled in a fit of boredom. “I mean, obviously you’ve got some cute peach fuzz going there but, you know, soft. Do you exfoliate?”
“Of course not." And then, because James' mouth and brain are clearly at war: "Do you?”
“You’ll have to find out.”
James gives Peca a confused, pinched sort of look like what is this I don’t even because that’s really all the reaction he can coherently form without drawing attention to his predicament.
A panicked glance shows that everyone else is too busy watching Nabokov watch Byfuglien’s ass to bother eavesdropping on Peca’s pleasantries. There’s a lot of hearing loss in their group, resulting from years of exposure to loud goal horns and louder barns, and for once James is happy for it.
Peca drops his pen right in the middle of a goal celebration (“Oh, shit, sorry,”) and manages places his hand on James’ thigh for balance as he leans over to retrieve it. There’s a definite squeeze or two on the way back up. James glares at him and shifts irritably, and nearly topples off his stool as a result.
At the other end of the table, Bob McKenzie chuckles to himself and finishes his seventh page of notes with a flourish.
And then:
Game over. Chicago wins, and more importantly so does James because, fumbled lines? None. Inappropriate erection? Quelled. Because James Duthie is a professional. He’s 44 years old, has a degree in journalism and is far too mature for his professional mettle to be tested by a mere game of footsie. If a retired hockey player thinks he can throw James Duthie off his game with a little teasing on-air badtouch, James thinks, smirking to himself as he gathers his papers and thanks the staff, well, he can just bring it on.
Peca sidles up to him like he can hear James’ thoughts. “You know, I’ve decided I like it when you blush,” he says. “Your lips do this little quirk thing like you want to make a noise but you’re trying not to.”
“Um.”
“But I bet I could make you,” he intones. “Bet I could make you go hoarse in a half hour.”
“Um.”
Peca reaches out and trails his fingertips ever so lightly down James’ arm, dips in to tease the inside of his wrist trace the lines of James’ palm. “Bet I could spread you open and bend you over this desk right here and you wouldn’t care how many janitors could hear you. You’d spend every game next season hard as a rock, feeling me inside you while you sat. Right. Here.”
James thinks he’s maybe choked on his tongue. “Here?” he squeaks, looking around. He can picture it: in shadow, with all but one bank of lights turned off; bent, spread, out of breath with his trousers bunched around his thighs; Peca’s fingers in James’ mouth to muffle his groans; holding their breath if they heard footsteps in the hall but unable to stop moving, touching, even if the sounds of their skin gave them away.
“Here?” Peca repeats, chuckling a little bit, dark and sweet with all sorts of unspeakable promises. “Well, if you want to hang around in that suit until everyone else gets out of here that suits me just fine. But if you’d rather,” he pulls a set of car keys out of his pocket, “I’ve got a room at the Hazelton.” He jangles the keys a little, grin widening when James follows them with his eyes and unconsciously draws his bottom lip between his teeth. “So,” he says, all sly confidence because he clearly already knows the answer, “you wanna?”
James wets his lips and pretends to think about it for a minute. “How far is it to your car?”
“It’s just out back,” Peca replies. He curls his hand slightly around James’ elbow and James feels his stomach flip and his lips curl in a stupid hormonal grin because god-fucking-damn, Peca looks really, really good when he smiles like that.
And then (he came):
James Duthie is 44 years old, has a degree in journalism and (ordinarily) far too much common sense, dignity, et cetera to ever trek a Walk Of Shame through the front lobby of 9 Channel Court with a hint of stubble and the same suit as the day before, much less while wearing someone else’s underwear and a lingering cloud of their cologne.
He cuts across the lawn and sneaks in through the loading bay. If anyone asks why he’s late he’ll say he’s looking for Sportsnet spycams or Lloyd Robertson’s batcave or whatever because he’s pleasantly fucked and doesn’t give a shit.
It’s almost like being back in first year. Well, no, that’s a blatant lie because he didn’t go to Western and thus has enough memories of first year to support the assumption that no undergraduate could know things like, like those things. He’s covered in handprints and hickeys and sore in places he’d be fired for mentioning on camera. It’s pretty fucking awesome.
He’s not even the last one into the meeting. Three of eight executive producers are still missing and McKenzie’s late too--James heard him yelling at some poor intern over the state of his latte on the way in--but James is conscious of just how well-fucked he must look and the fact that regardless of what his coworkers are doing he’s still late so he drops into his seat and avoids drawing more attention to himself.
It works. Executive Producer Number One just gives him a sort of cursory once-over before he kicks the meeting off: “We need a draw for game four.”
There’s a plate of muffins in the center of the table. James grabs one and takes a huge bite. His jaw twinges like it might be out of joint--his pelvis, too, he thinks, shifting his weight in his chair--and makes a note to call his chiropractor as soon as the meeting lets out. Then he might take a nap in his office.
“We could ask Peca to come in again,” says Executive Producer Number Two. “He looked great on camera.”
Producer One turns. “Well? What do you think, James?”
James smiles around a bite of his muffin. “Sure, give him a call.”
::