Lacrosse (Jesse/John fic)
Title: Lacrosse
Pairing: Jesse Lacey / John Nolan
Rating: There is sex, albeit brief. R, maybe?
Summary: Jesse and John are lacrosse players on rival teams, but they're more than that off the field (I think this counts as a crack!fic, or just really, really AU)
Disclaimer: Plot's more or less mine, characters are not.
Hello Sheesha: So, I need to write some slash fanfiction. Give me an occupation, and I'll write a fic based on it.
TexasIsTheKids: Uhhh
TexasIsTheKids: Lacrosse player?
Hello Sheesha: ... I couldn't see John Nolan as a pro lacrosse player.
TexasIsTheKids: It could happen...
TexasIsTheKids: Maybe on cold nights when the moon is full
Hello Sheesha: All right. Is that a challenge?
TexasIsTheKids: Yes.
---
My body made its way over the wet grass as quickly as it could with the heavy padding hindering movement. The protection came in handy a few seconds later, when a crosse came out, hitting my lower stomache. I keeled over slightly and, in my moment of weakness, lost the ball. I let my eyes glide up to identify my attacker.
I recognised him. He'd been eyeing me since before the game, and I had expected him to do something like this. I made a quick note to get his name, before continuing the game.
We lost the game, and it was all thanks to my little fanboy, who I later found went by the name of John Nolan. He was the best lacrosse player I'd seen in years, and the only one I'd ever perceived as a threat.
He obviously didn't see me that way, judging by the way he approached me. We weren't playing each other that day, and so I suppose he felt safe.
"Oh, you're on the The Caribou, right?" I paused a moment before nodding, tempted to lie and say I was on a different team, something less pansy sounding.
"You're on The Beavers." I understand that it's a Canadian sport, but isn't that going a bit too far?
John smiled, "Yeah."
It was that very moment that my plan hit me. And, like any true genius, I wasted no time putting said plan into action.
"Good luck in the game." Then pause, for just the right effect. You can't sound too eager. "Hey, would you like to do something afterwards? We could go for a drink or something." I shrugged, letting my eyes shine with just the slightest bit of hope. This has taken me years of practice.
John raised his eyebrows, though it seemed to be in mock surprise. "You'll wait for me?" He overpronounced his words.
"I'll be watching the game anyway, so it's not much of a hassle." I replied, without even having to think. No, I hadn't planned on watching the game, but John Nolan never knew this.
I don't know why people are so much more interested in watching hockey, or football, or curling. Lacrosse is an exciting sport. It's competitive, violent, and some of the players are pretty cute.
It was a good game; nothing spectacular, but The Beavers lost. I had been secretly hoping for that, because that meant The Beavers and The Caribou would have yet another showdown.
Apparently John had a pretty good idea of what I was thinking when I asked him out, because it didn't take much to convince him drinks were cheaper at my place.
My liquor cabinet was well-stocked enough to keep both John and myself content, and I thought briefly that this probably wasn't a good idea, as we both had a game tomorrow, but I shrugged it off, and hoped John had worse hangovers, as I poured myself another glass of whiskey.
"I like you, y'know. You're not like the other players." John said, and I was surprised to note he didn't slur. The biggest giveaway as to how much he'd had to drink was his demeanor: like a small child.
"You're pretty cool, yourself." I replied, and there was the slightest trace of slur hitting my words.
This is war.
I leaned over, just slightly, letting my lips experimentally grace John's. He wasted no time in pushing back.
I am dissapointed to report that John Nolan is a better lacrosse player than a kisser, but we'll blame the liquor for that.
The evening progressed rather quickly, and I was glad that I wasn't playing women's lacrosse.
Kissing.
Kissing.
Whiskey.
Kissing.
Touching.
Touching.
Touching.
Touching.
Whiskey.
Sex.
It was hard, and fast, and pleasurable. It was deep breaths, and the almost sickening slap of skin against skin, again and again and again. The rhythm is erractic thrusts painted in watercolour on the floral canvas of my bedsheets.
I came first, but I took the time to finish John off before I pulled out, and tied up the condom, tossing it lightly into the wire wastebasket that sat on the other side of the endtable.
"Fuck." John uttered, under his breath, and I looked at him. He was so strange. He was scrawny and gangly, and thoughtful. He wasn't a lacrosse player, and yet he was. He was the one player who could really give me a run for my money.
"I should probably head home." John said, giving me a look that I presumed meant he felt bad for leaving so soon. "I have a game to prepare for."
I nodded, and smiled. I hope I looked understanding.
The next day, the Caribou schooled the Beavers. This is partly attributed to John Thomas Nolan being barely capable of movment. We can only wonder how he managed such an injury.
Pairing: Jesse Lacey / John Nolan
Rating: There is sex, albeit brief. R, maybe?
Summary: Jesse and John are lacrosse players on rival teams, but they're more than that off the field (I think this counts as a crack!fic, or just really, really AU)
Disclaimer: Plot's more or less mine, characters are not.
Hello Sheesha: So, I need to write some slash fanfiction. Give me an occupation, and I'll write a fic based on it.
TexasIsTheKids: Uhhh
TexasIsTheKids: Lacrosse player?
Hello Sheesha: ... I couldn't see John Nolan as a pro lacrosse player.
TexasIsTheKids: It could happen...
TexasIsTheKids: Maybe on cold nights when the moon is full
Hello Sheesha: All right. Is that a challenge?
TexasIsTheKids: Yes.
---
My body made its way over the wet grass as quickly as it could with the heavy padding hindering movement. The protection came in handy a few seconds later, when a crosse came out, hitting my lower stomache. I keeled over slightly and, in my moment of weakness, lost the ball. I let my eyes glide up to identify my attacker.
I recognised him. He'd been eyeing me since before the game, and I had expected him to do something like this. I made a quick note to get his name, before continuing the game.
We lost the game, and it was all thanks to my little fanboy, who I later found went by the name of John Nolan. He was the best lacrosse player I'd seen in years, and the only one I'd ever perceived as a threat.
He obviously didn't see me that way, judging by the way he approached me. We weren't playing each other that day, and so I suppose he felt safe.
"Oh, you're on the The Caribou, right?" I paused a moment before nodding, tempted to lie and say I was on a different team, something less pansy sounding.
"You're on The Beavers." I understand that it's a Canadian sport, but isn't that going a bit too far?
John smiled, "Yeah."
It was that very moment that my plan hit me. And, like any true genius, I wasted no time putting said plan into action.
"Good luck in the game." Then pause, for just the right effect. You can't sound too eager. "Hey, would you like to do something afterwards? We could go for a drink or something." I shrugged, letting my eyes shine with just the slightest bit of hope. This has taken me years of practice.
John raised his eyebrows, though it seemed to be in mock surprise. "You'll wait for me?" He overpronounced his words.
"I'll be watching the game anyway, so it's not much of a hassle." I replied, without even having to think. No, I hadn't planned on watching the game, but John Nolan never knew this.
I don't know why people are so much more interested in watching hockey, or football, or curling. Lacrosse is an exciting sport. It's competitive, violent, and some of the players are pretty cute.
It was a good game; nothing spectacular, but The Beavers lost. I had been secretly hoping for that, because that meant The Beavers and The Caribou would have yet another showdown.
Apparently John had a pretty good idea of what I was thinking when I asked him out, because it didn't take much to convince him drinks were cheaper at my place.
My liquor cabinet was well-stocked enough to keep both John and myself content, and I thought briefly that this probably wasn't a good idea, as we both had a game tomorrow, but I shrugged it off, and hoped John had worse hangovers, as I poured myself another glass of whiskey.
"I like you, y'know. You're not like the other players." John said, and I was surprised to note he didn't slur. The biggest giveaway as to how much he'd had to drink was his demeanor: like a small child.
"You're pretty cool, yourself." I replied, and there was the slightest trace of slur hitting my words.
This is war.
I leaned over, just slightly, letting my lips experimentally grace John's. He wasted no time in pushing back.
I am dissapointed to report that John Nolan is a better lacrosse player than a kisser, but we'll blame the liquor for that.
The evening progressed rather quickly, and I was glad that I wasn't playing women's lacrosse.
Kissing.
Kissing.
Whiskey.
Kissing.
Touching.
Touching.
Touching.
Touching.
Whiskey.
Sex.
It was hard, and fast, and pleasurable. It was deep breaths, and the almost sickening slap of skin against skin, again and again and again. The rhythm is erractic thrusts painted in watercolour on the floral canvas of my bedsheets.
I came first, but I took the time to finish John off before I pulled out, and tied up the condom, tossing it lightly into the wire wastebasket that sat on the other side of the endtable.
"Fuck." John uttered, under his breath, and I looked at him. He was so strange. He was scrawny and gangly, and thoughtful. He wasn't a lacrosse player, and yet he was. He was the one player who could really give me a run for my money.
"I should probably head home." John said, giving me a look that I presumed meant he felt bad for leaving so soon. "I have a game to prepare for."
I nodded, and smiled. I hope I looked understanding.
The next day, the Caribou schooled the Beavers. This is partly attributed to John Thomas Nolan being barely capable of movment. We can only wonder how he managed such an injury.