Simple Words

Fic: The One (Chapter 4--Could It Actually Be Different This Time?)

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 03:40:08 GMT

Series Title: The One
Rating: Series - R
Characters: Marc Denis, Brent Johnson, Scott Mellanby
Author's Notes: Co-written with maniaco, who started writing this in September 2003, and then completed and co-authored by myself, in May 2008. The story is set in the 2002-2003 season, when Johnson was a St. Louis Blue, and Denis was a Columbus Blue Jacket, and if you need more information on where players were, check the hockey database rosters for that season. This fic holds residence Underneath the Stars, where all of maniaco's wonderful fic can be found.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

So the question is
One: do I really wanna trust this feeling?
Two: do I wanna let it pass me by?
Three: do you think it's only superficial?
Four: could it actually be different this time?
Someone to love me
Someone to be my everything
Maybe I've stumbled upon
Finally found somebody
That could be the one
But I promised myself
That I wouldn't give in to love
And I'm scared
And I'm nervous
Don't wanna be hurt anymore
This is bad
'Cause I know that you're the one...
Mariah Carey "The One"
used without permission

The One - Chapter 4: Could It Actually Be Different This Time?

Fic: The One (Chapter 3--Do You Think It's Only Superficial?)

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 01:24:34 GMT

Fic: The One (Chapter 2--Do I Wanna Let It Pass Me By?)

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 04:32:41 GMT

Fic: The One (Chapter 1--Do I Really Wanna Trust This Feeling?)

Wed, 21 May 2008 06:03:39 GMT

Fic: The One (Prologue)

Wed, 14 May 2008 03:06:26 GMT

Series Title: The One
Rating: Prologue - G; Series - R
Characters: Marc Denis, Brent Johnson, Scott Mellanby
Author's Notes: Co-written with maniaco, who started writing this in September 2003, and then completed and co-authored by myself, in May 2008. The story is set in the 2002-2003 season, when Johnson was a St. Louis Blue, and Denis was a Columbus Blue Jacket, and if you need more information on where players were, check the hockey database rosters for that season. This fic holds residence Underneath the Stars, where all of maniaco's wonderful fic can be found.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

The One - Prologue

Fic: Growing Up

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 06:27:25 GMT

Title: Growing Up
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Kris Beech, Andrew Ference
Author's Notes: Completed in June 2007. This was actually started in June 2006, lost amongst my personal journal, and rediscovered, where I decided it was worth posting after all, with some editing and re-wording. It is set in June 2006, right after the AHL's Hershey Bears won the Calder Cup, it starts with Kris' point of view, and then goes to Andy's.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

*** Kris ***

By the time I wake up the morning after winning the Calder Cup, it isn't morning at all. The clock reads 3:37. I haven't slept this late in years. But then, we didn't arrive back in Hershey until two in the morning, and by the time I actually got home, it was after five. So I guess it isn't too odd for me to sleep this late.

I push myself up from the bed and groan softly. Fuck, there are muscles in my body that hurt right now that I never realized even existed. Now that the adrenaline is gone, now that the anti-inflammatory meds are out of my system, now that the rush is over--now I realize just how much pain I'm in. I've got bruises all over, from blocking shots, from taking hits, from cheap shots. My back is killing me, the muscles in my legs are burning, and I have a pounding headache. Though I suspect the headache is more a result of the countless beers and the entire bottle of champagne I drank last night.

I never did shave after the game, we were too busy celebrating. So now I stagger a bit to the bathroom, my calves protesting each step, and grab my razor without looking in the mirror. When I do, I grimace. I'll be glad to get rid of this beard. I squirt some shaving cream into my hand and smooth it over my cheeks, then follow it with the blades of the razor, until every trace of hair is gone. I splash some aftershave on it and hiss at the sting, but man, it's nice to get rid of that fucking thing.

I need a shower, but I decide that coffee is far more important. In nothing more than boxers, I make my way to the kitchen of my small apartment to fill the coffee maker with water. Once it's started, I yawn and grab the paper from just outside of the door. A headline emblazoned across the front page declares our Calder Cup win, and I smile to myself. We really did it. I actually won the damn thing, finally.

I open the paper to the sports page, pictures of the celebration crowding out most of the text. One catches my eye, I'm hugging Boyd Gordon, I think, my shoulder's blocking most of his face, since the picture was taken from behind me. But that isn't what I notice the most.

I'd noticed a few hairs in the shower, more than before, but I was trying to convince myself it was my imagination. No such luck now--the picture, even in black and white, showed plain as day the bare facts. Fuck. I'm losing my hair.

I'm 25 years old. I'm not supposed to have thinning hair. I'm not supposed to hurt after a few hard games. When the hell did all of this happen? It doesn't seem like it was all that long ago when I was a prospect. I was traded for Jagr, expected to be an NHL star, I had the future on a goddamn string.

And now here I am, five years later, an AHL veteran, thrilled about a Calder Cup win, knowing my performance got me another chance--one last chance--in the NHL next season. Knowing that if I fuck it up this time, it's over. The dream of someday playing for a Stanley Cup is all but gone, I'm getting far too jaded to think that'll ever happen. I'd just settle for a steady job somewhere other than the American Hockey League at this point.

Somewhere along the line I grew up. I'm not sure when it happened. Maybe it was when Andy was traded. Or when TK left. Or when Toby signed in Edmonton. Hell, maybe it was when I got the call that I was going to Nashville. Or when I was cut from the Predators camp and was on my way to fucking Milwaukee. I don't know, I can't pinpoint it. But somewhere in the middle of all of that, I became disillusioned.

I'm 25. I'm one fuck-up away from officially becoming a career AHL player. I'm losing my fucking hair. This was not how I saw things happening on that day in 1999 when the Capitals called my name to draft me.

A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts, and I jump, grumbling at the pain that shoots up my back. "Hold on," I mutter, going to grab a pair of jeans to pull on over my boxers. Still a bit stiff, I walk back to the kitchen to answer the door, and am surprised as hell to see who's standing there.

Andy goddamn Ference. In the flesh. Well, not really, in jeans and a tight black t-shirt. But still. Damn.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, smiling despite myself. I haven't seen him in person in way too long.

He grins devilishly and looks me over, "Coming to congratulate an old friend. Though you look as if you did lots of celebrating last night. Or is Endo here sharing his weed with you and that's why your eyes are so glossed over?"

I laugh and step back to let him in, "No, that's the celebration. Remind me to never drink a bottle of champagne in one sitting again."

He snickers and rolls his eyes. "You told me that the morning after your 21st birthday."

He walks into my apartment, and I'm struck with just how powerful his presence is. He's smaller than me--the difference is even greater now than when we were a couple--but he commands attention like no one I've ever known. He's still one of the most gorgeous men in the world, he barely looks any different than he did on my 21st birthday. Only now he's far more clothed.

I try not to be disappointed about that fact.

*** Andrew ***

I can't say I expected to find him home alone today. I know Kris, and I figured he would be out with teammates. Or that he might have one here with him. Instead, he's here alone, looking like he just woke up, with the coffee he's pouring being a glaring sign that that's exactly what had happened.

I expected him to be smiling, still celebrating, probably still drunk. Instead he's looking melancholy, not at all the grinning, laughing champion in the pictures in the paper I'm looking through. Something isn't right.

He sits across from me at the table, pouring milk into his coffee and stirring it, groaning when I turn to the next page of pictures. "Don't look at those, I look like an idiot," he complains, shaking his head, grabbing for the paper. I pull it out of his reach and make a face.

"Hell no, I don't get to see these pictures otherwise, its a pain in the ass finding pictures of the AHL playoff games," I say, looking over the pictures. I have to admit, he looks better without the beard. But other than that--it's nice to see that huge grin. It's been a while since I've seen it. I'd like to see it now, but he's too busy grimacing.

"I'm not sure which part sucks worse, that they're AHL pictures, or the fact that they make it painfully obvious that I'm balding way too young," he grumbles, shaking his head.

So that's what this is all about. "Kris, this is said with respect and love--you're fucking insane."

He smirks and glares at me, flipping me off, "Hey, thanks. Great of you to stop by."

I laugh and kick him lightly under the table. "I'm just trying to make you realize how insane you sound. You are twenty-five years old. You were in the AHL because Washington realized they weren't doing shit, but if you were in Hershey, they had a damn good chance of winning it all--and they did, with a ton of help from you. And the hair loss bullshit? Christ, if you didn't shave your head, no one would notice it. It's barely noticeable now; I wouldn't have seen it if you hadn't pointed it out."

He sighs and shrugs a shoulder, "I'm 25 and I haven't played a season in the NHL since I was 21. Everyone else has given up on me, I don't know why it took me so long to figure it out."

I smile weakly and reach for his hand, "Not everyone has given up on you. If I'd given up, do you think I'd have flown my ass here from Calgary to see you? Hell no. I'd still be up there, on the phone mocking Toby because he's a dirty fucking Oiler now."

He laughs softly, almost begrudgingly, and squeezes my hand. It feels so good to touch him again. Even depressed, he's sexy as sin, moreso now than when he was younger. He's solid now, muscular in all the right places, where he was slim and small before. He's even taller, his legs are long enough that they're taking up space on my side of the table even though he's sitting opposite of me.

I didn't come here to rekindle old flames, but the sparks are still here, just itching to combust. My thumb rubs circles over the skin on the back of his hand, and soon his hitching breath is the only noise in the otherwise silent room. His eyes slowly lift to mine, darkened with lust, a hint of curiosity in their depths.

"Jesus Christ, I missed you..." I mutter quietly as I stand, walking over to kneel next to him. I slip my free hand to the back of his neck and pull him down to kiss me. His lips are soft as ever, yielding beneath mine, his tongue smooth and wet as it slides over mine. He tastes sweet and bitter, just like the coffee he was drinking a moment ago, and despite the fact that I don't like coffee, I find myself craving more of the flavor. The kiss deepens, hotter with each gasp that escapes his lips, or mine, I'm not sure which.

He stands up, and I stumble back, and then wrap my arms around his waist. His slide around my neck, and I almost laugh at the awkwardness of the difference in height, but I'm too caught up in the urgency of the embrace to be all that amused. He walks me backwards towards his bedroom, despite my taking a moment every few steps to push him against the wall and deepen the kiss even more. His hands are under my shirt in a few moments, shoving it up, dropping it on the floor before we land on his unmade bed.

His body is solid as stone beneath mine, his cock even harder against my thigh. I'd forgotten how fucking huge he is--in every way. I tug his jeans down, waiting for him to kick them away before I start unbuttoning and unzipping my own. He pushes my boxers off with them, and I make quick work of his, and before long, we're laying there, legs tangled, my dick hard against his belly, his hard against my thigh, while the kiss goes on for what feels like hours.

I hadn't realized how much I missed him.

After a few long moments of heated kissing and grinding against each other, we shift positions, him rolling me to my back, moving to lay between my legs. This isn't what I expected, he usually bottomed the other times we were together. But his cock is throbbing hard against my inner thigh, and his body is a pleasant weight on mine, and I'm not about to stop him. I just want him--need him--and I don't really care about the details.

He reaches over for a bottle of lotion--not lube, I notice, and I wonder how long it's been since he's been with anyone; he always had lube on hand when we were together--and pours some into his hand. He reaches down to stroke it over himself, and I watch, transfixed. He moves differently now, more graceful, controlled, not the jerky, frantic pace from when he was 21, in our first few times together. Grown up now, a man, he works with purpose, calculating everything. His hands slide to my hips as he presses into me, gently, slowly rocking back and forth, and he kisses me.

The kiss is soft this time, almost tender, and the result is nearly dizzying, this combination of that and the exquisite burn of his cock stretching me as he works it methodically deeper, deliberately pressing here and there, hitting all the spots that make sex so damn good. My hands clutch at his shoulders, and my legs tighten around him, my body trembles and arches up into his.

Sex was never like this with him. It was never, ever bad--but it was never this phenomenal either. The years have changed him, all for the good. His thrusts are steady now, still passionate, but not impetuous. His long fingers curl around my dick, stroking me in perfect time with the rhythm he sets inside me, his gasps low, his breath hot over my cheek. My head falls back on a moan as his cock presses against my prostate, making me clench hard around him. Now he is the one with the control, and I am the one writhing with pleasure. It doesn't take long before my hips are moving with his, my body shivering from the sensations he's setting off with each slow roll of his pelvis.

I moan his name, a soft, breathless noise, and for a moment I see him grin, before my eyes snap shut. He thrusts harder now, picking up speed, his hand tightening around me. I'm close, so fucking close that I'm seeing stars behind my eyes, and I gasp hoarsely to tell him that. His lips graze over my jaw, up to my ear, and then his hips move faster, and as my body arcs and my head falls back, he growls my name, his orgasm taking over just as I start to come.

"You know," I mumble softly a few minutes later, when our pulses slow and the explosive heat has slowed to warm tingling throughout my body, "I think I like you all grown up."

He laughs and glances at me, his eyes heavily lidded, "Why, so you can show off that you've got more hair than me now?"

I roll my eyes, rubbing my hands over his back. "Nope. When we were younger, it was different, you were a little unsure, I was always tentative with you, worried about going too far. But now--you're confident, you know where to touch, how to move, just the right ways to thrust to get and give pleasure. There's something to be said for getting a little older."

He grimaces a bit, but a soft chuckle escapes him anyway, "You always were weird."

"Nah," I say with a wink and a wiggle of my hips, eliciting a soft moan from him, "I think I'm just realizing I like my men like my wine. A little bit older--because apparently both get better with age."

Fic: Distracted

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 05:13:36 GMT

Title: Distracted
Rating: PG
Characters: Jordan Staal, Sidney Crosby
Author's Notes: Completed in July 2006. Set around the Mario Lemieux Celebrity Golf Tournament. Second person point of view, centered on Jordan.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

You've caught him staring again. A faint blush paints his cheeks pink, and his eyes suddenly drift towards the lawn below him. He's been watching you all day, since you were placed together for this stupid golf tournament.

You hate golf. It's not a sport, it's not even a viable pastime, and if not for the desire for good publicity, you might have turned down the invitation. Now, though, you're glad you came. The phenom seems a bit...distracted by you. He's missed as many putts as you have, and he's supposedly a much better golfer. Not today, though.

He's barely said a word all day, he seems nervous and fidgety, and you can't seem to figure out why. It couldn't be your presence. You're just a 17 year old draft pick, and he's the "Next One," a Calder nominee, a superstar despite his youth. But still, he seems to be preoccupied.

It might have nothing to do with you. It might be something at home, maybe a girlfriend--or boyfriend, if the rumors about him are true. He's probably thinking about something that has nothing to do with anything happening right now.

But if that's the case, why have you caught his eyes trained on you so many times today? Why have you caught his gaze traveling down your body, watching your face? Why does he seem flustered when you speak to him? Why is it that he trips over his feet whenever you stand close to him?

You take the next putt, still thinking about him, and the ball curls along the edge of the cup before dropping into the hole. You glance up to find his eyes on you again, so you grin at him, and wordlessly he returns the smile, keeping his gaze locked with your's.

He's definitely thinking about you. And whenever this damn game is over, you plan to find out what those thoughts are.

Fic: Perfect

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 05:05:31 GMT

Title: Perfect
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Nikolai Gilbert, Marc Denis, Brent Johnson, mentions of Andrew Ference, Shawn Maltby, Gilbert Brule, Rick Nash, Rostislav Klesla, Jody Shelly
Author's Notes: Completed in August 2006. Based on an online RPG game, though the fic can also stand on its own. Artistic license: assume that Marc Denis and Brent Johnson are married. This fic is set in the distant future, approximately fifty years from now, from Nikolai's point of view. Inspired by the song "The Luckiest" by Ben Folds.
WARNING: Yes, this is death!fic.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

When I came to the United States fifty-two years ago, I was a much different person than I am today. I was young, scared, alone, and didn't even speak the language, apart from a few curse words I'd heard while playing in international tournaments. I was living in an apartment by myself in Columbus, and the only person I had to turn to that spoke Russian turned out to be one of the worst people I could possibly have gotten to know.

And when I hit rock bottom, I only had one person to turn to. Marc took me in, and he and Brent made me a part of their family. I went from having no one in the city to having an entire family. Two loving parents, three little boys who I fell in love with immediately, a dog that would wake me up by licking my cheek. I had nothing, and then I was given everything I could've asked for. I never could've thought of the words--in English or in Russian--to tell Marc and Brent how much it meant to me that they let me in the way they did.

Now here I am, an old man, 71 years old, with two sons of my own, four grandchildren, and the most amazing husband I could've dreamed of. I learned what love is from them--I saw what they had, the way they looked at each other, the smiles they would share, how they treated their children, how they treated me--and I realized that all of that was possible. Perfection wasn't just something you read about in books or saw in movies. Because of them, I've become who I am today. Because of them, I have more happy memories than anyone can possibly earn.

When I got the call that Brent was sick, I was on the first plane to Chicoutimi. Brent couldn't be sick. He wasn't allowed to be. When I got there, they were at the house, on the island, and the sky was gray--in mourning, it seemed, even though I knew that was an insane notion. The whole world seemed to know that something was wrong. It was eerily silent walking into the house that day. When I was young, it was always loud there, with Thomas and Lucky tormenting each other, Mikulas playing his guitar, Doc barking at the ducks on the lawn. But this day, it was silent, until I got to Marc and Brent's bedroom.

I knew then that the love that I'd grown to model my own after was changing permanently. Brent was laying in bed, his hands frail, fingers entwined with Marc's, his eyes pained, but he still had a smile on his face. Marc had said something to make him laugh, as he always did. It was probably something sexual--even at 78 years old, Marc was still as naughty as ever, still had the wicked glint in his dark eyes. Despite the wrinkles and gray hair, they both still seemed as young as when I first met them, so long as they were together.

But that day was different. Brent's skin was pale, sallow, his cheeks hollowed. I think I knew immediately that he wasn't going to leave that bed again, despite Marc's insistence that he would be healthy again soon.

Within hours of my arrival, the house was full of people. The boys were all there, wives, husband, children in tow. Jody came, as did Andy and Shawn, Rick and Rusty. If he hadn't known already, Brent knew he was loved by many.

Two days later, the house was silent again, but for the sound of soft, soothing whispers and sniffling. My heart was shattered. The perfection I'd known for so long was broken, half of that perfect couple was gone. For a full day, we just took turns consoling each other. Sometimes Gilbert would cradle me against him, comforting me, kissing away my tears. And then I would get myself together for a while, and Lucky would come and find me, and cling to me for a long while, crying against my shoulder, not speaking, just sobbing. It went like that with each of the boys, sometimes we just sat and cried together, neither being strong for the other.

The world was the grayest it had ever been that day.

Marc was inconsolable. He spent most of that day sitting on the porch swing, staring blindly out into the rain, wearing one of Brent's sweatshirts, the blanket from their bed curled around his shoulders. Despite his shivering, he refused to go inside, refused to move. Apart from the tears streaking his cheeks and the sniffles every so often, you'd barely know he was alive. He stayed like that for a full day, until finally, the boys and I convinced him to come inside. He wouldn't sleep in their bed. He went into Lucky's old room instead, and lay there staring at the ceiling until very late at night. At three in the morning, Gilbert convinced me to leave him alone, that he would be fine, he was just grieving.

The next morning, when I went to wake him, he was gone too. And somehow, losing him seemed less sad. Because even though they were gone, though they were lost to the world, to their children, to their friends--they were together again. They always said they couldn't live without each other.

Fifty-two years ago, when I came from Russia, I knew very little about life. But now, here I stand on the porch of the Chicoutimi home, fighting back tears, giving a joint eulogy for two men who made the unattainable a reality, that made perfection a daily routine. The boys are sitting in the front row, crying, holding the hands of their significant others. When they first asked me to do this, I wanted to pass up the opportunity. Even after all these years, I'm not comfortable speaking in public, especially speaking English.

But this was my way to say goodbye. I got thoughts from the boys, from Jody, from Andy and Shawn, Gilbert, Rick and Rusty--everyone who was touched by their lives--and I related stories. Sad ones, happy ones, until we were all laughing and crying at once. It was sad, the saddest day of our lives. But somehow, it was hopeful. This wasn't the end of anything. True love like that doesn't die. It doesn't pass away, it doesn't disappear.

It lives on, somewhere. It lives on in each of us that it touches. In the devious grin that Thomas still gives, in the eyes of Mikulas that look so much like Marc's, in the way Lucky laughs. Their children pass the legacy on, their love story, an undying, unending romance.

As I finished the eulogy, I heard the first noise I'd heard on the island in a week. A pair of ducks walked across the lawn, quacking the whole way, a few chicks chasing behind. I looked at Lucky, Thomas, and Mikulas, and they smiled. I returned the grin, and stepped from the porch, Gilbert meeting me halfway, his fingers entwined with mine.

Despite the pain, despite the loss--life went on. And somewhere, I think, Marc and Brent were snuggled up together, watching it all happen, smiling.

Fic: Stand-by (part 2 of 2)

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:49:56 GMT

Title: Stand-by (Part Two)
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Jason Spezza, Antoine Vermette
Author's Notes: Completed in August 2006. Jason's point of view. The first part of this fic can be found here. Title from the Mary Wells song "Your Old Stand-by."
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

"Jason, stop, someone's going to see," Antoine protests unconvincingly a week later, walking up the steps to my place in Ottawa. We just finished a game against Boston, a 4-2 win, with both of us having scored goals; it's time to celebrate. Little does Antoine know, I've got something else in mind for tonight. If he can just up and leave after what I have planned, then we really have no future together.

I rub my hand over his back, feeling the heat of his skin even through his shirt. He's objecting, but leaning into my touch at the same time.

I've got him right where I want him.

I pull him into the foyer, pressing him gently against the door to close it. He leans in to kiss me, but I pull out of reach as I lock the door. He grumbles his displeasure and leans closer, and this time I allow his lips to brush mine, but just for a moment before I grab his wrists and pull them over his head. His eyes glitter wickedly, and he submits to the small show of dominance.

But this isn't about dominating him. This is an attempt to show Antoine what I really want from him. "Let's go lay down," I tell him, leading him back toward my room. Once inside, I push him to the bed. He lays back, his body moving gracefully, his eyes trained excitedly on me.

I lean over the bed to kiss him. He tries to pull me against him, but I grab his hands and keep the kiss quick, almost teasing. While he complains, I take the scarf--his scarf, I took it from his place last week--that I had hidden under my pillow, and I tie his hands to the headboard. It isn't tight, he can easily get free if he wants.

But I'm hoping he doesn't try to.

He looks up at the scarf and grins, "Kinky, ami..."

He's expecting this to be quick, rough, desperate, for me to strip us both naked and go straight to fucking him, so he can leave sooner.

No. Not this time. This is going to be slow, leisurely, deliberate, until I have him begging for more. I sit next to him on the bed and lean over him. I brush a hand over his cheek, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. He turns his head into my touch, so I let my finger trace his lower lip. He kisses it, nipping gently.

"Wanting a kiss, Antoine?"

He nods, and his eyes are growing darker, his pupils dilated a bit, and so I give in. I cradle my hand behind his head and dip my head down, kissing him softly, feather light at first, just barely letting our lips touch before pulling back, then doing it all over again. Then he whimpers, and I kiss him more firmly. Still closed-mouthed, I press my mouth harder to his, lips lingering now, until his teeth come up and capture one and tug it. "Encore, s'il tu plaît," he murmurs faintly, his accent thick.

He knows just how to push me, how to make me give in to him. Whispering like that in French gets to me, and he knows it. I can't stop myself, I let him have what he's asking for. I deepen the kiss quickly now, driving my tongue past his lips, rubbing it over his. He moans eagerly, arching into me, his breath quickening. He kisses back just as passionately, his tongue gliding over my lips, the edges of my teeth, my tongue. I thread my hands through his hair, not quite pulling it, but tugging it enough to belie how hard I'm holding back right now.

I let my hands roam over his body. I start unbuttoning his shirt, starting at his neck, his chest heaving as he breathes. His voice is a hoarse whisper, asking me to hurry, telling me he needs more than this, and saying a few things in French that I can't understand. I push the shirt away as much as I can, baring his chest and stomach. His abs are clenched tightly, his nipples hard, deep brown against his already dark skin. As I look him over, he whimpers again, "Please, Jason," just a single word of English.

"Soon," I promise him, glancing into his eyes. They're lit with arousal, but he's still looking at me with a bit of confusion. He has to know something's different this time. But he doesn't seem to be stopping me.

I lean down to kiss him again, briefly this time, quickly trailing my lips to his jaw, leaving feather light kisses there, down along his neck, over the pulse below his earlobe, along the ridge of his collarbone. His breathing shallows, his soft gasps the only noise, echoing loudly as fireworks off of the walls. I continue down his chest, nuzzling his sternum for a moment, then moving towards one nipple, then the other, pausing to lick, suck, nibble at each, his body writhing under the attention.

He curses, first in English, then in French, as I trail my tongue down over his stomach, tracing his abs. I can feel the hard heat of his cock against my shoulder as I work lower, more as he grinds up against me instinctively. I tug the button of his slacks undone, then unzip them, sliding them slowly off of his hips, down his legs, looking him over as I go. He's got a gorgeous body, smooth skin and slim definition. Utter fucking perfection.

He lies there in just a pair of snug briefs, they're dark, but they could be red, blue, black, the room's too dark to tell. It doesn't matter, his dick is straining against them, and when I rub my hand over him, I can feel the warm moisture of precum at the tip, and so I reach up to peel them away.

I curl a hand around his shaft as soon as they're on the floor, and he groans loudly, thrusting up into the touch. He's fully rigid, pulsing in my hand, and now begging for more. "Please, Jason..." he mutters, the words interspersed with gasps and curses, "Need more...want your lips on me..."

After a few moments of slow, deliberate stroking, I relent. Leaning down to blow over his skin, teasing him for another moment, I flick my tongue out. The salty-sweet taste of precum tells me just how turned on he is, as if his constant moaning wasn't enough of a sign. I lick leisurely over the head, into the slit where the precum's gathered, then down along the ridge beneath, his cock twitching in my hand. I wrap my lips around him, sucking softly at just the head to start, my tongue splaying against him, and he bucks his hips up, thrusting a bit deeper.

He's tugging at the scarf, torn between the erotic hold of the fabric around his wrists and the desire to push me lower, to make me take him deeper. I appease him, bobbing my head slowly, working lower, taking more of his cock into my mouth with each downstroke. He growls with pleasure, thrusting up gently, never hard, but still searching for more. Gradually I work down to the hilt, swallowing around him, then pulling back, sucking harder, the vein pulsing against my tongue in response.

He's throbbing hard, and I know it wouldn't take long for him to come. In only a few minutes of these same ministrations, he would be arching off the bed and moaning my name as orgasm overtakes him. But it's far too soon for that. I move back completely, licking over the head again, and he whimpers, his eyes fluttering open, "Why'd you stop?" he gasps, the muscles in his arms tight from pulling at the scarf.

I smile faintly, kissing along his hipbone, staring up at him, "Trust me, Antoine, I'll make it worth the wait." He groans faintly and lays his head back down, his whole body stiff with unrelieved tension. I push his legs up, bent at the knee, and spread them wide, grinning when he looks down at me, an eyebrow arched. Wordlessly, I rub my hands along his thighs, letting my thumbs trace along the crack of his ass.

He curses again, in French this time, and his eyes slip closed. Easing his legs open more, I lean down, blowing over the underside of his shaft, over his balls, then down along the crack, concentrating on his opening, alternating between that and rubbing my thumb in slow circles over the hole. He's gasping, his hips rolling to match the rhythm of my finger over his skin.

I lean closer, nuzzling his inner thigh, biting it gently, easing the tip of my finger slowly into him. He clenches lightly around the digit, pushing back against it as I work deeper. Wiggling it slowly, I thrust it into him, his muscles tightening around it each time I curl it just so, hitting his prostate expertly, knowing exactly where to press to make him feel even better. When I press a second finger to his opening, he moans a plea, and I don't torture him further, easing it in with the first, while licking, nipping at the skin of his thighs. I reach up for the lube on the table next to the bed, pouring it over my fingers as I work them inside him, stretching them out, curling them up, scissoring them, getting him ready for more.

Because now it's time for more. He's writhing and trembling with each touch, his skin covered in goose bumps, his breathing labored, his voice heavily accented and hoarse. I can't hold him off longer, I'll never have him more vulnerable than this. I pull my fingers from him, wordlessly tugging my shirt off, then my pants, feeling his eyes on me as I undress. "Christ, Jason, please, hurry..." he begs softly as I slip my boxers down, his voice strained with anticipation.

I crawl up between his legs, smiling when he latches them around my waist, wiggling his hips against me. His eyes are dark, glazed now, his lips parted so he can gasp for breath, his tongue darting out now and then to dampen them.

God, he's gorgeous.

I slip a hand behind his head and kiss him again, desperately this time, heated, trying to show him everything I'm feeling by the way my tongue is snaking over his, the way my teeth are pressing into the flesh of his lip, the way I moan his name. I don't know if he gets it, but he kisses back with just as much passion, grinding his cock up against my stomach, tightening his legs almost painfully around me.

"Please," he whispers hoarsely against my lips, pleading with me.

Now or never.

I look down into his eyes and still completely, and he responds with a look of dazed curiosity, his body still writhing under mine, but slower now, his gaze searching my face. When his eyes settle on mine, I cradle his cheek. "Under one condition," I whisper hesitantly, emotion making my voice tremble. One of his eyebrows raises almost imperceptibly, and he stops moving beneath me, still save for the throb of his cock against my abdomen.

"Stay with me," I say softly, the sound so quiet I'm afraid that it gets lost among the pounding of my heart, the gasping of his breath. But the silence that fills the room tells me it was definitely heard. And for the longest moment, I'm afraid he's going to protest.

He pauses and stares into my eyes, his tongue slipping out over his lower lip, and then he speaks. "I have my own condition for that." I bite the inside of my lip, and nod silently, willing to give him anything he wants, if only he won't leave as soon as he's come.

"Let my hands go so I can touch you," he says with a faint grin, nodding up at the scarf.

I reach up to loosen the knot, and he immediately pulls his hands free, flexing his wrists for a second, then looking up at me. His hands slip into my hair and he pulls me to him, kissing me deeply, desperately, catching me off guard. I squeeze my hands at his hips and nudge the head of my cock against his opening.

"Please, Jason," he begs softly, his voice low against my lips. "I need you."

And finally, all the willpower inside me is gone, because whether he stays or not, I have to be inside him, have to feel the heat of him. I grab for the lube and pour some directly over my shaft, stroking it in quickly before I start to press slowly into him. Achingly slow, I work deeper, growling against his neck as I do. His hands rub roughly over my back, his nails pressing painful little lines into my shoulders, stinging me just enough to feel good. I reach the hilt and stay there, letting him adjust, rolling my hips to give us each some relief from the nearly overwhelming pleasure of it.

Then he moans a faint curse in French and arches into me, and I know he's ready. Starting slowly, I thrust into him, tilting his hips just right, so I can press against his prostate each time I press deeper. In a few minutes, he's writhing under me, his legs tight around me, almost clenching as hard as he is around my shaft. His head is lolling around, his eyes fluttering closed with each thrust, and he's breathing is ragged, harsh. He's so close. Just a touch, and I can send him over the edge.

I curl my hand around his dick, and I set a quick, shallow rhythm inside him, the angle just right so I can grind against his prostate. He cries my name out weakly, his body stiffening beneath me, then arching up off the bed as he comes. His body trembles and quakes, his muscles clenching around me with each shot, until he's finally done, slumping back against the sheets.

I lay against him and thrust deeply again, faster, and I bury my face against his neck. His arms are tight around my shoulders, holding me against him, and I can't hold off. As I feel orgasm overtake me, I moan against his neck, gasping the words I've been dying to say for months.

"I love you."

Once I catch my breath a few minutes later, I hate myself for saying it. Antoine kisses my cheek, but clenches light, letting me know he needs me to pull out. I do so, and he slips out from under me, climbing from bed. I flop onto my back and let my eyes slip closed.

He still moved, he still left. After all that.

I throw my arm over my face and try to fight back the emotions attacking me. I shouldn't have tried that. I shouldn't have forced things like that.

I shouldn't have fucking said I love him.

I hear him moving about, but I'm too afraid to open my eyes, I don't want to watch him leaving me, for what's probably the last time. His footsteps move along the floor of my room, to the bathroom, towards the front door. But it doesn't open.

The footsteps come back. Too afraid to look, I stiffen in bed, until I feel the mattress dip from his weight.

"You left the door unlocked," he tells me, and then lies next to me, and only now do I move my arm. He smiles faintly as he cuddles up next to me, and he pulls my arm around his shoulders.

He stayed. He stayed, and he's snuggling with me. His arm is thrown around my waist, as if he has no intention of moving for a while. It actually worked.

He kisses my cheek and puts his head on my shoulder, and he yawns, then murmurs, "You know, Jase, all you had to do was tell me you wanted me to stay. I never thought you wanted that."

Before I can reply, he hugs me tighter and nuzzles my neck.

"I love you too, by the way."

I smile and glance down at him, and his eyes are bright and glazed with excitement as he looks back, kissing my lips softly. And this time, the dazed look he gives me doesn't go away.

Fic: Stand-by (part 1 of 2)

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:45:37 GMT

Title: Stand-by (Part One)
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Jason Spezza, Antoine Vermette
Author's Notes: Completed in August 2006. Jason's point of view. The second part of this mini-series is here. Title from the Mary Wells song, "Your Old Stand-by."
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

I can't remember exactly when Antoine and I first slept together. It was in Binghamton, I know that much, probably after a night of drinking and Texas Hold 'Em. No matter when it started--it's been going on for a long time.

At first it just happened once in a while, whenever we could get away from teammates. Stolen moments late at night, lust enhanced by a few beers. We were careful then, making sure we were far away from anyone who could catch us. Moans were muffled, voices were hushed, both of us worried that someone would find out.

After a few months, we stopped hiding so much. Rather than the backseat of a car parked in a dark parking lot at the far edge of town, we'd meet at each other's apartments. Usually his, since Ray was often home at mine. The moans were voiced then, curses gasped audibly, in both French and English. Still, we kept things secret, we tried to hide it. It was just sex, just for fun, there was no need for anyone else to know about it, they would just jump to the wrong conclusions.

Now, years after it all began, we're far less guarded about it. We'll sneak off after practice, hiding in the trainer's room at the end of the hall, bodies pressed against the door, moans once again muffled, though now we quiet them with bites across each other's necks and shoulders. Now we release the tension with scratches over each other's skin.

That's the position we're in now, Antoine's back is against the door, his legs encircling my hips, his hands clutching my shoulders. His head is back, his eyelids closed and fluttering, lips parted just enough to draw harsh, quick breaths. After all this time, I know this routine by heart. After he's come, his body relaxes slowly. First his grip on my shoulders loosens, his nails no longer making crescent-shaped indentations in my skin. Then the muscles of his legs relax, holding just tight enough to support his weight. Then his body goes slack, slumping languidly. Then finally, ever-so-slowly the muscles inside him, gripping my shaft start to release their hold. And then as I pull out of him, with a soft, hoarse moan--sometimes mine, sometimes his--his eyes open, deep brown glazed over with pleasure.

I love these few short moments, when he's just watching me, catching his breath, his body still shivering slightly, before the shine leaves his eyes and he starts distancing himself from me. "We're going to get caught," he murmurs, like he always does after the cum dries.

He's always telling me someone will catch us, someone's going to see us, find us entangled like this, and get the wrong impression. That they'll think we're really together, a couple, not just two friends getting each other off. So as soon as his breathing returns to normal, he starts to pull away. He dresses quickly, and if we're at my place, he rushes home, despite the fact that I live alone now, and there's no one to catch us. At his place, he climbs from bed, goes to the bathroom to wash up, after a quick comment that he'll see me the next day at practice, signaling to me that it's time for me to go.

But I'm starting to resent it. I'm starting to hate that I'm only good enough for a quick fuck. That I have to go home and sleep in an empty bed. That I only see that sated, tender look in his eyes for a few fleeting seconds right after he comes. I want to sleep with those slim, strong legs tangled with mine, with his too-long hair tickling my shoulder, laced around my fingers. I want to wake up with the warm weight of his body curled against mine.

I've broken the cardinal rule of the "friends with benefits" setup, because I've fallen for him. I've started wanting more than what we have--more than he's willing to give. I see that look in his eyes, that brief shimmer of complete satisfaction, and I get my hopes up. I hope that maybe this time will be different. And I'm always disappointed. This time is no different.

The glazed look leaves his eyes, and he disentangles himself from me. My heart sinks as he grabs his clothes, not looking at me while he dresses. Dejected, I reach for my pants, then my shirt, pulling them on, trying to ignore the awkward silence that's taken over the small room.

"I will talk to you later," he says finally, glancing at me as he grabs his car keys. He steps from the room, then, leaving me with too many thoughts that I've been trying to ignore.

Fic: Trust

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:37:40 GMT

Title: Trust
Rating: G
Characters: Declan, Kyle (Kyle XY)
Author's Notes: Completed in August 2006. Based on the ABC Family series Kyle XY. Declan's point of view. Set in the episode Memory Serves.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

The adrenaline of running away was wearing off, sitting at a red light a few miles away. Kyle still wasn't talking, just staring ahead at nothing, lost in thought. I'd called his name three times, and he hadn't responded. Eventually I resorted to snapping my fingers in front of his face.

He jumped and looked at me, gaze still distant, confused. "What?"

"If you need me, I'm here," I told him, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. He leaned into the touch, almost imperceptible, but I noticed the small show of trust.

A faint smile graced his lips, "I know you are."

Fic: Lonely

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:26:39 GMT

Title: Lonely
Rating: PG
Characters: Kris Beech, Boyd Gordon
Author's Notes: Completed in April 2006, shortly after Kris was traded to Washington. Random standalone, Kris' point of view.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

I've only been here for a couple of weeks, but I'm learning a few things about Hershey.

First of all, I don't know if I will ever eat chocolate again. It was pretty cool for the first few days, but I'm just really sick of seeing chocolate everywhere.

Secondly, wow, now I realize why the Bears always hated the Penguins. I'm so fucking glad I didn't have to play on a team with Daniel Carcillo. I'd have gotten suspended for kicking the shit out of a teammate.

Thirdly...Boyd Gordon is lonely.

He hides it pretty well, he's always laughing and smiling. He goes to every single team function, he mingles with the fans, he talks to the media. He seems happy as hell to be here, ecstatic to be leading a team to the post-season. But every so often, when he thinks no one else is looking, his face falls, his eyes go sad, and the smile disappears from his lips.

At first I thought he was missing someone in particular. A girlfriend in Washingon, or back home in Canada maybe. With all my sleuthing and spying, though, I've found no evidence of such. There are no pictures laying around. He doesn't ever have whispered phone conversations. And I would know, I share a hotel room with him now, and he was nice enough to let me move in until I found a place of my own. Which leads me to believe he's just lonely, period. He doesn't want to be in the American Hockey League any more than I do. And more than anything, it seems he wishes he had someone to share all of this with. He wakes up in the middle of the night, I hear him awake and moving around, and the only time I went to see if he was okay, he was sitting on the couch, watching a sad movie, until he realized I was there, and he switched it to some infomercial. On the road, he sits up in bed after he thinks I've gone to sleep, at first I'd chalked it up to insomnia, but it was more than that. I can hear the sad sighs he thinks no one hears in those very early hours of the morning.

It plays at my emotions, I've been where he is. Alone, despite having a hundred people around you at any given time. Frustrated, because while this is professional hockey--it isn't the NHL. And the NHL is where we all really want to be, no matter what we might say. I want to remind him that he's young, he still has time for the NHL. It takes a while, he'll get there. He's only 22--a 22 year old with that much potential and as many fans as he has should never be upset or lonely.

One night, laying in my bed in the guest room, I decide to do something about it. It's going out on a limb, and I may be out of a place to stay if he takes it wrong, but I still want to try. Hopefully it doesn't blow up in my face.

I grab my cell phone and sent a text to him, despite the fact that I know he's just down the hall. There's something about not seeing the person face-to-face that bolsters one's confidence.

Being alone at night sucks, huh?

I chew my lip as I push the button to send the message. The reply is a long time coming, but it finally does.

Pretty much, yeah. Nights are the worst part.

I smile faintly. It looks like this might work, he doesn't seem freaked out. I hope.

Nothing sucks worse than going to bed alone. Except maybe waking up alone.

Again, it takes a while for him to reply. For a moment I wonder if I've gone too far, if maybe that last message came across as too suggestive, when I really didn't mean for it to be. After a long, stressful moment, my text message alert sounds.

...Being alone at anytime pretty much sucks. I guess I should be used to it by now, though. :(

...Oh hell. He used the frownie face. He seriously used the frownie face. How could I not want to help this kid out? I decide to push the envelope a little farther. It's risky...but it could work out really well. After much deliberating, I hesitantly hit send again.

Well, there are two of us in this house. Who said we have to be alone right now?

I set my phone aside and rake a hand through my hair. That might've been monumentally stupid. I don't want to try to find a new place to stay. I don't want him freaking out, and for the rest of this season being awkward as hell because of this. I just...I wanted to try to get through to him. To show him that he's not really alone. To show him that maybe we could help each other out, so we wouldn't be so lonely.

A few minutes pass, and they drag on forever. Finally, finally, I hear footsteps in the hall. The door to the guest room creaks open, and Boyd, his hair stuck up all over, wearing just a pair of flannel pajama pants, steps inside. He doesn't say anything, he just closes the door behind him and walks over to the bed. I shift to one side and pull the blankets back. He smiles a bit shyly, I can just barely catch it in the dim light from the streetlight outside. He crawls onto the bed next to me and lays back rigidly.

"...Hey," I say softly, turning on my side to face him.

He turns his head to look at me, and he smiles again. "Hey, Beechie."

I'm not really sure what to say, he's still laying in bed stiffly, unsure of himself. I don't know if I should take the next step, or wait until he does. "I just figured laying here together might be better than laying in separate rooms, apart," I tell him a bit nervously, hesitantly shifting a bit closer to him.

He notices that I've moved, and it seems to relax him, because he turns towards me slightly, then more, his head now laying on the far side of my pillow. "No one else ever seemed to notice I was lonely. I didn't expect you to say anything, even if you did." I smile faintly and hesitantly slip an arm around his shoulders. After stiffening for a moment, he settles against me, laying his head on my shoulders and slipping a hand to lay on my stomach. He lets out a soft sigh, barely audible, and then mumbles very quietly. "I'm just so sick of being alone."

My heart breaks for him, for the quiet dejection in his voice, and I hug him tighter. He fits nicely there against my shoulder, his body against mine. "You aren't alone now," I say softly, and rub my hand over his back, "and I won't go anywhere if you don't want me to."

He hesitates for a moment, and then slides his arm more around my waist, snuggling against me. "I think I'd like that."

I smile and brush a light kiss over his forehead. "Get some sleep, Boyd. I'll be here when you wake up."

It only takes a few minutes for him to fall asleep, his breathing leveling off, only soft snoring noises coming from him as he lays on me. He doesn't move until morning. For the first time since I got to Hershey, Boyd sleeps straight through the night. And the night after that. It becomes a routine, only now we sleep in his bed, not the guest bed.

And now, Boyd isn't so lonely anymore.

Fic: Half-awake

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:20:29 GMT

Title: Half-awake
Rating: G
Characters: N/A
Author's Notes: Completed in September 2006. No pairing indicated, fill in the blanks as you wish.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

It's been a while since I woke up in someone's arms. So tonight, with the full moon from the window brightening my room, I'm glad to be in this semi-conscious state, to find a solid chest beneath my head, a steady heartbeat under my ear, and slim, toned arms encircling me.

Only half-awake, I smile to myself, and snuggle closer to the warmth of his body, happy to have him here. As I slowly drift back to sleep, all I can think is how perfect it feels, and I silently wish that he will still be here in the morning.

Fic: Adrenaline

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:16:44 GMT

Title: Adrenaline
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Jordan Staal, mention of Brooks Orpik
Author's Notes: Completed in September 2006. Based on the Penguins training camp exercises which included a trip to West Pointe for bootcamp, including a night-long excursion as if in battle. Artistic license is flashed some, as I don't know how boot camp goes.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

The sound of gunshot fills the air around us. Somewhere in the vicinity, Brooks is trying to be the big man, and is probably getting himself pelted with paintballs. They aren't real bullets, but they still hurt like bitches. Rather than trying to be the heroes, Jordan and I are crouching low behind the short barricade where we set up our camp. The night is cold and damp, rain just passed overhead, leaving the ground muddy and sticky.

Fuck, I officially hate bootcamp.

Jordan is kneeling next to me, in full army gear, even his face painted to match the camo. I wonder if I look as ridiculous as he does like that. This is definitely different than any other training camp I've attended, far more grueling, but it's a welcome break from the norm. It really shows which guys are in shape, and which ones have a long way to go.

I was lucky as hell to end up with Jordan and Brooks in my troop, even if Orp is an idiot who insists on trying to get himself shot.

"Shit, shit, shit. Guys, get DOWN!" Brooks shouts as he runs towards us, gunshot ringing behind him.

"Fucker, he got us discovered," Jordan mutters and grabs my arm. "Run for it, and stay low."

I follow him from the site, into a denser part of the woods. Shots are still audible, but we're moving fast enough to avoid them. It's all fake--but it's a rush nonetheless, like a large scale version of playing with GI Joes.

By the time we stop, my heart is pounding in my ears, throbbing in my chest, and I'm gasping for breath, leaning back behind a massive tree, still crouched low, Jordan standing next to me, his breath coming in similar short, deep gasps. "I think we were probably supposed to make sure Orp got out of there too," he says between breaths.

"He wasn't supposed to go running off looking for trouble without us, either," I respond, shrugging a shoulder, trying to remain quiet. The gunfire has died down, and I'm hoping we can avoid getting discovered.

We remain silent like that for a long time, just listening for any signs that someone followed us. Other than our breathing, and the sound of the drizzle that's returned, there's nothing happening around us. We're safe. Despite that, the adrenaline rush is still going, clear and strong, and I almost want to run again. To keep it going.

"Fuck, my legs are killing me from crouching down," Jordan mutters and stands up to stretch, setting his paintball gun down. He's covered in mud, down the front of his uniform, a smudge on his cheek, darker than the camoflage paint he'd been wearing.

He stretches his legs out, and I can't stop watching him, and a different kind of adrenaline starts coursing through me. He notices my stare and glances up to meet my eyes, the corner of his lips turned up in amusement. "Distracted from the mission, Crosby?"

I smirk in reply and shrug a shoulder, "Let's just say I'm definitely understanding the allure of a man in uniform."

Jordan's grin turns wicked and he stands directly in front of me. "I've got to agree," he says, voice low, deep, and steps closer, fisting his hands in the front of my shirt and shoving me back against the trunk of the tree. I start to gasp from the shock of it, but before the sound makes it past my lips, they're covered by Jordan's mouth, hot and demanding, his tongue forcing entry, not giving me a chance to protest.

Not that I would have.

The kiss is fiery, passionate, fierce with desperation, and I can't do much but grab his shoulders and hold on while he takes over. The air is cold, and I can hear rain around us, chilling the night even more, but all I feel is heat, searing and intoxicating, melting my body against his.

The rush just gets better and stronger the deeper the kiss gets, and after assaulting my mouth, Jordan pulls back enough to look at me, his eyes dark, lids heavy, breath coming in hard gasps that fog the scant distance between his lips and mine. He yanks the front of my fatigues open, my shirt, then the pants, rubbing his hands over all the skin it bares. The rain is cold on my chest, but he follows it with his fingertips, tracing my pecs, teasing at my nipples, working lower to my abdomen, fingers dipping along the lines of muscle there. He works my pants down, the air chilling my skin immediately, but another rough kiss quickly stops the sound before I can make it.

He works my boxer briefs down with one hand, while the other hand tugs at his own pants and underwear. "We've got to stay quiet," he growls against my lips as his cock comes free, fully hard, pressing against my hip. So I have to keep your mouth covered," he says, by way of explanation, before spinning me so I'm facing the tree.

"Brace your hands," he commands quietly, wrapping a free arm around my waist, the head of his cock teasing down the crack of my ass. He spits into his hand, since neither of us was carrying lube around, and then steps up behind me, biting at my neck. "This is going to hurt, I'll go slow," he says softly, his hands squeezing my hips as he gently nudges the head of his dick at my opening, wiggling slowly until the head is inside me. I moan faintly at the intrusion, painful as hell, though I know pleasure is just around the corner.

He's not exactly small, and I didn't have a ton of preparation, and as he presses deeper, the pain sharpens, twisting inside me, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against it. His arms slip around my waist, and I lean back against him for support, my hands grasping the trunk of the tree we're standing against. Finally he reaches the hilt and stills, giving me time to adjust. I moan softly as I roll my hips, trying to relax around his shaft, and when I'm ready, he pulls back a bit, pressing forward enough to hit my prostate, eliciting a faint growl from me in response.

He pushes me harder against the tree at that, and slips a hand up to my mouth, and thrusts hard back to the hilt, leaving me arching back against him and moaning against his palm. "I told you, Sidney, we have to be quiet," he whispers against my ear, holding his hand tight against my mouth. He starts to thrust then, slow and steady, his hips rocking gently back and forth, until I'm pushing back to meet him each time, trying to take him deeper, faster.

He gets the hint and the rhythm shifts, more urgent, less gentle, and his free hand slides down to curl tight around my cock. He thrusts faster now, leaning me forward just enough that each time he slides into me, he grinds against me just so, right over my prostate, making me moan even louder against his hand. He knows what he's doing, and he's not shy about telling me how it feels.

Low growls, full of dirty talk and wicked curses of how damn hot it is, how fucking tight I am, are moaned against my ear, between moments of his teeth sinking into the lobe, into the curve of my neck, and I'm sure he's broken skin a few times, but it only serves to fuel the fire, speed the flow of adrenaline through my veins.

He's thrusting fast now, just barely controlled, and his hand around my cock is moving in time with that rhythm. His thumb works circles along the top of my dick, sliding up to the head, smearing precum along the shaft, and his breathing is hard and ragged, and I know he's getting closer with each thrust. He growls loudly as he comes, his teeth sinking into the skin of my shoulder, his fingers tightening almost painfully around me, squeezing the head of my cock enough to push me over the edge as well, and I cry out against his hand as orgasm takes over and I clench around his shaft, head thrown back, body arcing forward.

Once the trembling stops and his grip around me loosens, I start to breathe again, harsh, short gasps, and his breathing is the same as he slumps against me. His body is shaking, his arms both latched tight around my waist now, and I lean back so we stand our ground.

"Fuck," he moans softly against my ear, "that was fucking good."

I nod in agreement and wiggle back against him, inner muscles still clenched tight around his cock, and I grin wickedly. "Really fucking good," I add, rubbing my hands over his arms.

I've changed my mind on hating boot camp.

I think this is the best training camp exercise ever.

Fic: Hello

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:10:29 GMT

Title: Hello
Rating: G
Characters: Gilbert Brule, Nikolai Zherdev
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal LJ. Set at the beginning of the 2006-2007 season, where Zherdev started the season late due to contract disputes.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

There was no warning, apart from a knock on the door at midnight, when he showed up.

He had a dress shirt on, deep blue, rumpled from the long flight, and his hair, as always, was a mess. But he was here, finally. Nearly as soon as I opened the door, he was inside, pressing me against the archway leading from the foyer to the den, his body solid, his skin chilled from the air outside.

His lips, though, were hot, scaldingly so, and tasted of the vodka he always drank when we flew anywhere, and the orange tic tac he'd just eaten. His tongue slid into my mouth, touching and teasing and twining with my own. His hands slid to my hips, holding me tight between him and the arch behind me.

When the kiss slowed, my mind cleared, and I settled for resting my forehead on his, his breath coming in warm gasps that brushed over my skin. "Privyet,* Gilbert," he whispered.

"Welcome home, Nikky."

*Translation: Privyet = Hello in Russian

Fic: Solitaire

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 04:00:34 GMT

Title: Solitaire
Rating: G
Characters: N/A
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal journal. No player name is mentioned, though I had Sidney Crosby in mind while writing it.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

The ice beneath your skates is still wet, it's too early in the fall for solid ice to form. Slim blades of sharpened silver cut through it easily, slashing the otherwise shiny, slick surface. Your breath comes in quick gasps of white steam, barely visible in the mostly dark, otherwise empty arena.

It should be lonely, this old, empty venue, full of history and good times long past. But instead, the frigid air is filled with anticipation, excitement, and hope. Its times like these, surrounded by the noise of skates gliding, heart pounding, that make hockey life's most alluring mistress.

Fic: Red Light

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:56:37 GMT

Title: Red Light
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Rick DiPietro
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal journal. Sidney's point of view.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

"Fuck, Sidney," Rick gasps, slowing as he reaches the intersection. It's late at night, and I don't think he'd have stopped for the red light if it weren't for my head in his lap.

His hands are fisted in my hair, guiding me to move faster, his moans telling me to suck harder. He's so lost in this, his cock is throbbing; I can feel his pulse racing against my tongue. He thrusts his hips up to meet my mouth, forcefully pushing me lower, faster as he nears orgasm. He comes with a low, throaty growl, and I swallow eagerly, my eyelids fluttering as I pull up.

I grin wickedly when I see the look of ecstacy on his face, the devilish glint in his eyes that promises more of the same.

I fucking love playing the Islanders.

Fic: Tie

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:38:04 GMT

Title: Tie
Rating: G
Characters: Nikolai Zherdev, Marc Denis
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal journal. From Nikolai's point of view, based on this goal from the 2005-2006 season.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Thirty seconds left. Down by one.

I round our net, wind whipping past my ears. As I cross our blue line, I see the opening and make a break for it. First to my right, then my left, around one Hawk, then another, and and a quick dance to the right to slip past a third.

I shoot.

Stopped.

I trip over Khabibulin, never taking my eyes from the puck. It's right there.

Flying through the air, weightless, I try again.

Goal.

I skate back to the bench, happy, excited, exultant, high-fiving my teammates in celebration, and finally reach the end of the line, where Marc stands, his eyes bright and proud, and he hugs an arm around me. I've tied the game--I've helped him this time.

He got us this far, and now its our turn to win it for him.

Fic: Raiding

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:32:04 GMT

Title: Raiding
Rating: G
Characters: Andrew Ference, Krista Ference, mentions of Kris Beech
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal journal. Based on the video here, where Andrew is wearing a mock turtleneck sweater thing, which is odd for him, as he usually wears t-shirts and things of that nature. Andy's point of view. Ava is Krista and Andrew's daughter.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Krista sat in the living room with Ava, at exactly 8 o'clock, like she does every week for Flames TV. Ava bounced excitedly in her lap, giggling when she saw my face on the screen.

After the segment about Jarome, Chuck and me, Krista turned around to look at me, a teasing grin on her lips. "What exactly were you wearing?"

I groaned and turned back to the dinner I was cooking, and she laughed again, coming into the kitchen with me. "No more raiding Kris' closet, okay?" She winked and added teasingly, "Otherwise, I'll have to cut you two off from each other."

Fic: Burning

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:24:55 GMT

Title: Burning
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Kris Beech, Andrew Ference
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal journal. Kris' point of view.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Andy has never been typical, never normal. He has his quirks. He's methodical when he cooks, everything has to be just so. He does all of the preparation first--cuts the vegetables, sets out the seasonings, gets all the utensils he'll need. Then he'll start a meal, as if working from an invisible cookbook, he goes through it step-by-step. It's never rushed or chaotic, he knows exactly what needs to be where at what time.

And when making a meal like tonight's, lemon-pepper salmon, baked since the Calgary autumn weather is too cold to make grilling possible, he takes that time to clean up the dishes. He stands at the sink, wet halfway up his arms, lathering up the cutting boards and measuring cups he used, rinsing them and setting them in the drainer.

He looks so domesticated, and yet, wearing a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, it seems completely out of place for him to be so at home in the kitchen. I step up behind him at the sink and slip my arms around his waist. At five inches shorter than me, I have to lean down to kiss his shoulder, the curve of his neck, up along his ear.

"Distracting me," he murmurs, pausing with a spatula in midair, halfway to the drainer, dripping water along the edge of the sink.

I grin against his skin and nod, my tongue darting out to trace along his earlobe. "I know," I tell him, my fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Evil, Kristopher," he says with a soft gasp as my teeth sink gently into the flesh of his neck, to the sensitive spot just above his pulse. I roll my hips slowly against him, and he responds in kind, grinding back against me, eliciting a growl and a harder bite at the curve of his neck.

He lays his head back against my shoulder, and I hug my arms tighter around him, his body flush against mine, and we keep this slow, seductive rhythm going, punctuated by faint moans, quiet growls, heavy breaths, for quite some time.

Gone is the methodical, precise cook Andy, now it's the passionate, sensual Andy. He gets lost in the moment, and neither of us stop until the smoke detector blares, jolting us quickly from hazy lust to the acrid smell of burning seafood.

Fic: Wonder

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:15:48 GMT

Title: Wonder
Rating: G
Characters: Marc Denis, Nikolai Zherdev
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal journal. Marc's point of view, the child in question is Olivier Denis, Marc's second child. Set in early 2004, shortly after Olivier was born, and shortly after Zherdev came over to the US from Russia.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Nikolai is mesmerized by Olivier, so small and fragile. In these moments the language barrier is non-existent; Nikolai can't speak much English--but the baby in his arms can't do anything but whimper and murmur, so it doesn't matter.

Nik strokes his fingertip over my son's soft skin, and Olivier smiles in his sleep, turning into the touch. In turn, Nikolai's lips curl up in a faint grin, his features etched with wonderment.

He feels my gaze on him, and he looks up at me, his eyes bright, pleased.

In that moment, I fall even more in love with him.

Fic: Fire and Ice

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:10:58 GMT

Title: Fire and Ice
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Nikolai Zherdev, Gilbert Brule
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a response to a fic meme in my personal journal. Sidney's point of view.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

I can see nothing but black. A blindfold covers my eyes, a piece of smooth fabric holds my hands over my head. My fingers are nearly numb. Not that I'd feel them anyways, not with the assault of the senses brought on by Gilbert and Nikolai.

There's always been a bit of rivalry between Gilbert and I. I knew that eventually he would act on it. I just never knew it would turn out like this.

I'm not sure who is who, but I can feel ice being trailed over my chest. The cube is frigid, making me shiver, my skin tensing into goose bumps, my nipples hardening, partially from the chill, partially from the pleasure of it. Then a mouth closes over one nub, still cold...he must have been sucking on that ice cube. The ice trails lower, down my stomach, around my navel, along my hips. I'm writhing, I can't help it. He's freezing and burning me all at once, and it's almost too much to take.

And then it is too much, as suddenly another mouth, this time hot, wraps around my cock. Teeth graze and a warm, soft tongue works all along the shaft, pressing and flicking and splaying in all the right places. Expertly, he--Nikolai, Gilbert, I can't be sure which--works at my dick, sucking harder, down to the hilt, then back to the head, over and over again. The heat is a stark contrast to the ice cube that's sitting on my stomach, shifting with each deep breath, streams of ice cold water dripping down my sides.

I hear a soft laugh, an almost evil chuckle, as the mouth works lower, lower, enveloping my entire cock, sucking, licking, moaning. My legs are eased apart, and I don't even bother to fight it, too lost in the sensations. Suddenly, contrasting the heat around my dick, the other set of lips, ice-cold, start working over my balls. His tongue is freezing as it licks over the skin, making it impossible to remain still.

I alternate between thrusting up into the scalding heat, and wiggling back against the frigid cold, the contradicting sensations too much to take. I moan loudly as I come, my body arcing up off the bed, the ice cube on my stomach sliding off to the side, my head thrown back in ecstacy.

The mouths that were on me a moment before are suddenly gone, and I want to look around, I want to see them. I want to find out who was doing what. I want to do it all again.

Then the cold mouth kisses me, rough, deep, fast. Followed immediately by the heat, slow, seductive, teasing. After a few moments, the slim strip of fabric covering my eyes is loosened, slipping away from my face, and I look up at Nikolai, holding a popsicle, Gilbert with a lit candle, holding it so the wax is teetering dangerously close to the edge, close to dripping.

Right on my bare thigh.

"Ready for more?" Gilbert asks.

Fic: Club

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:07:19 GMT

Title: Club
Rating: PG-13
Characters: N/A
Author's Notes: Completed in October 2006, as a reply to a fic meme in my personal journal. No names are mentioned, therefore you can insert the pairing of your choice.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

This club that he loves so much annoys the hell out of me. Loud music and bright strobe lights, a cacophony of bass and scratched records coming from the speakers, acting as the soundtrack to a couple hundred people writhing all over each other. But he loves it, and so we come.

He's wearing jeans, dark blue, a tear in the right thigh--he bought them that way--and they're snug as hell; you can damn near make out the crack of his ass and the length of his cock through them. Sparkles glint from the moving lights around us, his bare chest shimmering from the combination of glitter and sweat.

He knows what this does to me. Knows that it forces me to haul his body against mine, possessively showing off that he is mine, that he is going home with me, that all of these other assholes can back off because he's already taken. He just giggles and keeps dancing, swaying his hips so that his ass rubs against my crotch with each movement. He knows it drives me insane, and he loves the power he has over me. He loves knowing that when we leave here I'll get my revenge: rough, passionate sex, heated, desperate kisses, teeth and nails digging into sweat-slick skin.

The afterward is what keeps us coming back to this club all the damn time.

Fic: New Place

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 03:02:06 GMT

Title: New Place
Rating: G
Characters: Jordan Staal, Sidney Crosby
Author's Notes: Completed in November 2006, shortly after the Penguins decided to keep Jordan Staal in Pittsburgh, rather than send him back to his junior team. Jordan's point of view.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

I'm going to need to get a new place.

Hell, I'm going to need a place, period, this hotel room doesn't really count, despite the fact that I've lived in it for the last month and a half. Now that I know I'm staying here, at least for the foreseeable future, at least I can go apartment searching without worrying that it'll be a wasted expense.

But for tonight, this works. A fairly lavish room in downtown Pittsburgh, fresh sheets every day, and, currently, on a halfway comfortable couch, with Canada's favorite wunderkind laying against me, his head rested on my chest.

Yeah. This definitely works.

He'd been laying like this for the better part of an hour, a shift in position from sitting with his head in my lap before that. He'd kill me if I ever told anyone, but he's incredibly fond of snuggling. Since that night in late September, after the game we played in Halifax, where he escaped the media by hiding in my room, which led to him showing up at my room the following week in Pittsburgh. Which led to quite a bit of sexual tension before I finally decided to just kiss him already.

From there, it became a string of nights spent sneaking into and out of each other's hotel rooms, hiding from Mario when I visited him, knowing he'd be none too happy about the relationship we were carrying on while his kids were doing homework upstairs. So it just became easier for him to come here.

He yawns and stretches out against me, shifting around a bit, grumbling. "This couch sucks."

I laugh and kiss his forehead, brushing a hand through his too-long hair. "You're the one who insists on cuddling on it all the time."

"We can't watch TV from the bed," he protests, looking up at me without moving his head.

I pat his back and sit up a little, "Okay, whiney, let's go lay down in bed, it'll be more comfortable."

He nods in agreement and stands up, his clothes rumpled from laying there so long. He walks towards the bedroom and I follow close behind, amused. It's already late for him, after midnight, and you can tell from his general crankiness that he knows it and is tired. "For the record," he states as he pulls his shirt off, then his pants, climbing into bed in just his boxers, "when you get a place, you need a better couch. Or a TV within viewing distance of the bed."

I grin and crawl under the sheets with him, wearing just pajama pants, moving so he can snuggle against my side. "I'll make sure to do that," I promise him. "Maybe I'll even get both."

He smiles and kisses me loudly, his eyes a bit glazed from being so tired, and he lays his head on my chest again. "Good boy," he says, and yawns again. He's silent for a few moments, and I think he's already falling asleep, until he speaks up. "You know, you don't really have to get a place all by yourself."

I arch an eyebrow at this, and glance down at him. He refuses to look up, but I can see a hint of pink tinging his cheeks, and I can practically see his shy smile in his voice when he continues, "I can't live with Mario forever. I need a new place too."

I hug him tighter against me and nod, not really fighting the grin on my lips. He wants to move in with me. This is just too awesome. "I think that would be a really good idea, then you could help me decide on a couch that doesn't suck, and a TV for the bedroom."

He nods and laughs softly, his voice softer as he starts to doze off, "Of course, that's all I'd be there for. I'm just looking out for you here, Jordan."

I pull the blankets up around us and brush my fingers and just before he drifts to sleep, I whisper in his ear, "What would I ever do without you?"

Fic: Lick

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 07:18:09 GMT

Title: Lick
Rating: PG
Characters: Eric Staal, mentions of Jordan Staal, Jonathan Toews
Author's Notes: Completed in May 2007, set after Team Canada won Gold at the IIHF World Championships. The narrator could be any Team Canada player, though I had Rick Nash in mind at the time.
Disclaimer:Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Warning: This fic makes implications of a more than brotherly relationship between two siblings, i.e. 'cest. If this bothers you, please move on.

Drink.
Lick.

I'm pretty sure Eric knows what he's doing right now. He's holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, sitting in his stall wearing nothing but a beer-damp pair of black boxer briefs and his jock.

He's got the attention of at least half of the room.

Drink.
Lick.

I'm still trying to figure out who this show is for. Did something happen here in Moscow that I didn't realize? I don't know how I could've missed it, I consider myself a pretty perceptive guy. But I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary. He's spent most of his free time hanging out with Jordan.

Drink.
Lick.

I glance at Jordan, sitting along the adjacent wall, talking to Jonathan Toews, albeit distractedly. His eyes are glued elsewhere. Locked on a pair of pink lips wrapped around the green tinted glass of a champagne bottle.

Drink.
Lick.

I was right. Eric knows exactly what he's doing.