I was hiding under your porch because I love you.

Yuletide 2018

2019-01-01T18:59:36Z

I did Yuletide for the first time in a long time this year and I had a lot of fun!

I wrote:

Memories of Unreal Things (3,134 words)
Fandom: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Rating: Mature
Relationships: William Laurence/Tenzing Tharkay
Additional Tags: Memory Loss, Magical Healing Cock
There was a room, and a pallet inside it; a small torch burned low in a socket upon the wall. A man lay upon the cot, his face bruised and battered, his hands curled against his chest bloody, and Laurence did not know him.

Or, a little part of Blood of Tyrants goes differently.

Because what is fanfic for if not to lean hard into the tropes when the author won't?

I received:

Your Fever Gives Me Shivers (2,032 words) by misura
Fandom: Almost Human
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Dorian/John Kennex
Dorian gets infected with a sex bot virus. John gets infected with feelings.

*gestures delightedly at that summary* Um, yes??? Everything you could possible want from that set-up.

And!!

standing sentinel (8,889 words) by howlingmoonrise
Fandom: Alien vs Predator (2004)
Rating: Not Rated
Relationships: Scar/Alexa Woods
Additional Tags: Alien Culture, Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Ending
He gestures towards himself, towards her. Fist against his heart, and a chirp. Partners.

I would selfishly like this to be ten times longer, but this is a great self-contained story about Lex being tough and smart and resilient, and Scar appreciating that, and Predator/yautja culture.

comments

Making DW more mobile-friendly

2018-12-28T23:25:45Z

I've been trying out the Coexistence Alpha CSS patchset by solarbird, and I am pleasantly surprised by how much better it made things look on my phone. The style I was using before looked similar to Coexistence Alpha on my laptop, but on mobile it was a mess. Coexistence Alpha is intended to get rid of horizontal scrolling (e.g., because of larger images or deep comment threads) and weird zoom issues on mobile. Compare a post on my journal with the site default skin on this dw_news post.

But 7iris, you might be saying, screw the people looking at my journal, I want to have a more mobile-friendly experience while looking at other people's journals. Or, if you're logged in, the posts you linked look exactly the same to me.

Fun fact: Logged-in users can override the style of any journal or entries they're looking at.

This means that if you apply Coexistence Alpha to your journal, DW can show you everyone's entries in that style. (And if my post and the dw_news post look the same to you, you may have already turned on the option to see everything in either your style or one of the default site styles -- try looking at those posts when you're logged out.)

If you don't like the look of Coexistence Alpha, or you don't have a DW account (or don't want to log in on mobile), you can try the "light style". If the journal owner hasn't disabled the navbar at the top of the journal there should be a link that says Reload page in style: light Click that and it will give you a stripped down, more mobile-friendly version of the page, and if you click through to any entries or comments from that page, it will keep the light styling on. If you don't see the navbar, you can also add ?style=light to any journal or entry address to get the same effect, e.g., https://7iris.dreamwidth.org/26379.html?style=light. You can also choose to have DW show you all entries in a light style if you are logged in.

Light is a decent choice for mobile, but I do like Coexistence Alpha better overall. style=light won't rescale images, so you can still get horizontal scrolling annoyances if a post has a larger image, or if it has deep comment threads. Compare:

A text-only post on my journal in Coexistence Alpha vs. ?style=light
A post on my journal with a (SFW) image in Coexistence Alpha vs. ?style=light
That dw_news post (text only but deep comment threads) in ?style=light

If you haven't been thrilled with the mobile experience on Dreamwidth, and you spend a lot of time on mobile (or want your journal to be more mobile-friendly to others), I would urge you to try Coexistence Alpha out. It's not perfect, and there are still accessibility issues that this style does not resolve, but for me, it's better than the default options DW provides. solarbird has provided very basic instructions on how to apply that style, but I'll put some more detailed instructions behind the cut, as well as a couple of notes on what you can tweak, and how to apply your preferred style (Coexistence Alpha or otherwise) to other people's journals or entries.

I'm not going to do screenshots, because mine may look totally different from yours, depending on what site skin you're using. If you're having trouble finding something, drop me a comment with what skin you're using (or what it looks like: red, purple, black, olive green, bare bones) and I'll cap it for you.

It's unclear to me whether you can apply this style while you're on a mobile device; some people in solarbird's comments have had problems and had to do it on a desktop/laptop, other people did it successfully on mobile. It will definitely be easier on a desktop/laptop, so if you can, do it that way. Otherwise, good luck, I guess?

Step 1: Make sure you're logged into dreamwidth and go to dreamwidth.org. If you've already fiddled extensively with the CSS and style settings for your journal, (1) you probably don't need these instructions and (2) you may want to copy that extra CSS into a backup document and make some notes about the settings. I don't think there's a way to revert back to your old, custom style if you try this style out and decide you don't like it -- you'll have to restyle everything from scratch.

Step 2: Go to Organize >> Select Style. In the search box, search for "Neutral Good". Click the "Apply Theme" button on the "Neutral Good by timeasmymeasure for Practicality" search result. (You don't want the version for Drifting.) If you see "Customize" instead of "Apply Theme", you already have the right style applied, so you can go on to Step 3. I've heard Coexistence Alpha will also work on Neutral Evil for Practicality, if you prefer a light-on-dark appearance, but haven't tested that myself.

Step 3: Click the "Customize" link on the "Neutral Good by timeasmymeasure for Practicality" search result. Or find it under Organize >> Customize Style. Under the "Customize Your Theme" section, click on "Custom CSS". Leave the "Use layout's stylesheet(s)" ticky box checked.

Step 4: In another tab/window, go to the Coexistence Alpha post. Decide if you want the current beta version, or the bleeding edge alpha version. I'm using the beta version (v0.842 BETA 1); beta is a tiny bit more stable/tested, so if you don't have a strong preference, go with that. Click on the link to the version you want; the links go to .txt files with the custom CSS. Copy everything (ctrl-a, ctrl-c), then go back to your "Customize Your Theme" tab/window, and paste it in the text box next to "Use embedded CSS". Leave the "Custom stylesheet URL" box blank. Click the "Save Changes" button on the bottom.

Step 5: Decide where else you want to use this style. Go to Account Settings, then click the Display tab. There are a lot of options here, but what we care about are:

Entry Page Default: Your Journal: make sure the ticky box is checked. This way you get the Coexistence Alpha style when you're looking at your own entries, and so will people who aren't logged in (or who have chosen to see entry pages in their original style).
Icons Style: same thing, but for your icons page (did you know you can see a page with all of a user's icons?)
Entry Pages: Shown to You: From the drop down menu, choose "My own style". Now when you click through to an entry page on someone else's journal (from a cut tag, from a post header, from someone else's link), you will see the entry page in your style (now more mobile-friendly), instead of in their style (which may or may not be a hot mess on mobile).
Icon Pages: Shown to You: Pick "My own style" from the drop down menu to see other people's icon pages in your style. I leave this one as "Original style", because I don't look at those pages that often and I like to let people have their artistic freedom here.
Journal Pages: Shown to You: Journal pages are what you see when you go directly to someone's journal: 7iris.dreamwidth.org (as opposed to individual entries). I leave this one as "Original style", too, just to see what a person's ~vision~ is, but you can also choose "My own style" to apply Coexistence Alpha to those pages as well.
Navigation Strip: I don't find the Navigation Strip that helpful, so I uncheck the "journals in your Circle" and "journals not in your Circle" boxes so I don't see them; I do leave it checked for "your journal (and to nonusers viewing your journal)", because it makes it easier for people on mobile to load the light version or their own style if Coexistence Alpha doesn't work for them. But this is up to you.
Comment Pages: Make sure "View comment pages in your own journal style" is checked.

After you've made your selections, click on "Save" at the bottom of the page.

That's it, you're done! Check out your new style by going to your Reading Page or your recent entries.

Step 6: Customization: However, if you want to, you can also make a few tweaks to the appearance of Coexistence Alpha, like the colors and the font. solarbird_testbed shows the current alpha version of Coexistence Alpha, and you can see it looks a little different than my version does; solarbird's main journal has significant color changes with the beta version, so you can get pretty creative if you don't like the black and white.

Colors: Go back to Organize >> Customize Style. Under the "Customize Your Theme" section, click on Colors. You can enter the hexadecimal code directly if you know it, or you can click on the color you want to change and pick a new one from the palette pop-up. For example, I made my links and my entry title color pink to match my default icon, but didn't change the text color or the background color. Click "Save Changes" on the bottom of the screen and open your Recent Entries or Reading Page to see how it looks (or reload it if it's already open).
Fonts: The default font for this style is "Trebuchet MS" (you can see that on the solarbird_testbed page if you have that font installed on your computer or mobile device; otherwise, it defaults to Arial and then your browser's generic sans-serif font, so you may not see a difference between that page and my journal). If you don't like Trebuchet MS, you can change it by clicking on Fonts (under Organize >> Customize style). You can see 'Trebuchet MS' is listed as the first font under Preferred Journal Font, followed by Arial. You can delete 'Trebuchet MS' and either just leave Arial, or replace it with your preferred font (e.g., Verdana, Tahoma, Roboto, 'Noto Sans', 'Source Sans Pro', etc). Make sure your first choice is first, second choice second, and so on. I use 'Noto Sans', but I did not embed the font, so you'll only see that font if you have it installed on your computer, otherwise you'll see whichever is first available of Roboto, Arial, or your browser's default sans-serif font. (You can embed fonts if you want; scroll down to the bottom of the Font section.) I didn't change the default font on the module headings, journal title, entry titles, or comment titles, but you could give it a try if you wanted. Click "Save Changes" on the bottom of the screen and open your Recent Entries or Reading Page to see how it looks (or reload it if it's already open).
Text: My journal says "Older Entries" and "Newer Entries" instead of "Previous 20" and "Next 20". You can change the default text for things like that by clicking on Text (under Organize >> Customize Style). The longer and more complicated you make things like that, the worse it will look on mobile, and I don't know for sure that changing things under the Entry section will be respected by Coexistence Alpha (you can try it and find out!). Click "Save Changes" on the bottom of the screen and open your Recent Entries or Reading Page to see how it looks (or reload it if it's already open).

If you like style=light better than Coexistence Alpha, but want the same effect of overriding other user's styling on journal and entry pages, you can do that. Go to Step 5 above, and follow the instructions there, but instead of selecting "My own style" or "Original style", select "Light format" from the drop down menus.

Hope this was helpful, feel free to ask questions! I know just enough CSS to get myself into trouble and I've only tested this on Windows and Android, so I'm not guaranteeing any answers, but I'll do what I can.

comments

Let's enjoy some NSFW gifs and threaded comments

2018-12-19T20:39:01Z

There are definitely things I will miss about tumblr (including the fact that it was socially acceptable to just slap some porn gifs up there without a cut, in part because you could blacklist things if you wanted). But let's focus on the good parts of DW, which include minimal content restrictions and threaded comments.

So, behind the cut, a few of my favorite porn gifs with a little commentary. Feel free to drop your own favorites and/or a fic prompt in the comments!

What I love about this one is the story I'm writing in my head here, about how this guy wants to be held down and tied up, but he thinks he shouldn't, or he doesn't know how to ask or who to ask, and this is as close as he can get by himself. (And then someone else walks in on him and helps him out, obvs.)

I love the colors -- good porn gifs almost always look better than the source material -- and again that sense of a moment in a larger story: comfortable and intimate, like this is the beginning of morning sex between two people who like each other. (Love each other? Maybe, or maybe the story hasn't gotten there yet.)

Love the lighting and the setting, and love how it conveys that sense of physically dominating someone without violence or, hrm, degradation? (Not that I'm not into that, too, if it's done right -- I mean, have you read my slave fic? -- but that's even harder to find.)

As much as I love serious/intense porn, I have a huge soft spot for ridiculous, playful moments like this. Just two bros being dudes! And smacking each other with their dicks.

Your turn! Anonymous commenting is on but screened (to make sure you're not a bot or a troll). I don't think you can embed images or create hyperlinks -- the link gets turned into plain text -- if you're commenting anonymously, but if that's what you'd prefer, go ahead.

comments

FICLET: Price/Galchenyuk, Distracting kisses

2018-12-12T02:55:17Z

Look, Alex knows it's great for the team that Carey is such an awesome goalie, that nothing gets by him even in practice. It's just -- it's been kind of a shitty season for Alex and he'd really like to get just one goal on Carey in the shootout drill.

He's tried all the usual hockey tricks. He's tried the fancy, complicated stick-handling to fake Carey out, and he's tried going in hard and fast and just shooting. But Carey's always ready to snatch the puck out of the air or kick it to the corner. When Alex's shot doesn't go wide to begin with. He's even tried chirping Carey beforehand, but that had no effect either (even though Carey rolled his eyes so hard it gave Alex a headache).

So he needs to try something new and different.

It's not technically PK's idea, but Alex is FaceTiming with him when he wonders what PK would do in this situation. It comes to him in a blinding flash, and Alex almost drops the phone.

PK did it to Patches in front of the media and everything, but Alex doesn't have to go that far.

Gally is ahead of him the next time they do the shootout drill in practice. Gally winds up for a slap shot, but his stick breaks. He stumbles, whiffing on the shot, and the puck slides to a stop well in front of Carey.

Gally throws his arms and skates back up the ice like he scored a game-winning goal anyway. Radulov grabs him as he goes by, tries to give him a facewash, and the whole thing dissolves into a slap-fight. Everyone's laughing, watching them at center ice. Even Carey's grinning, his mask pushed back as he take a drink of water.

Alex pushes away from the boards and skates over to Carey. His heart is beating a little too fast.

Carey shoots him a glance as Alex gets close, and Alex doesn't let himself hesitate. He kisses Carey's cheek, soft and lingering, the way he'd kiss a girl before working his way down the side of her neck.

Carey freezes. His skin is hot and so soft under Alex's lips. Alex can smell him, sweat and shampoo and hockey funk.

Alex pulls back. He was planning on saying something smart right about now, but his mind is completely blank. He's pretty sure he's blushing like crazy. Carey doesn't say anything either, his eyes wide and startled.

Alex pivots and heads back to center ice to take his turn. His mouth tingles, like he can still feel the softness of Carey's skin. He licks his lips and tastes salt, and maybe this wasn't the best idea after all.

Someone blows the whistle. Alex gathers up the puck and starts skating towards Carey. Carey's face is unreadable behind his mask.

Alex licks his lips again, quick and nervous, then just puts his head down and shoots.

Carey reacts a split-second too late, and the puck skips off the top of his glove and into the net.

Alex's jaw drops open. "Ha!" he yells. He skates back to the cluster of guys standing by the bench, collects a couple of fist bumps and head taps. The shootout drill winds down, but all he's aware of is an overwhelming sense of relief at getting that goal -- fucking finally.

He's still floating on that feeling when Carey corners him just outside the locker room. They've both showered and changed. Carey doesn't smell like sweat or hockey funk any more, and he's smiling, sharp and dangerous as he leans into Alex's space. Alex's stomach gives a strange little flutter.

"Did you kiss me just to throw me off my game?" Carey asks.

"Yes," Alex says, but he's looking at Carey's mouth and realizing maybe not.

Carey's smile gets wider. He reaches out and cups Alex's jaw, kisses his mouth.

Alex gasps. Carey's mouth is hot, devouring, a kiss that makes his knees go weak. He grabs Carey's shoulder, opens up to the slick press of Carey's tongue.

Carey finally pulls back. Alex blinks, dazed.

"You'll have to try harder next time," Carey says. His voice is low and smooth, but he's breathing a little fast, too.

Alex licks his lips and tastes Carey. "Okay."

comments

FICLET: Sid/Ovi, All Star Game

2018-12-12T02:06:20Z

When Sid offered to come by Alex's room so they could work on their line chemistry before the game, this is not what Alex was expecting.

"Oh, fuck," he says and his head hits the wall with a thunk.

Sid takes his mouth off of Alex's dick and raises his eyebrows. "I think that's Simmer's room next door, but if you want to get the Flyers in on this--"

"No, no," Alex says. "I'm quiet."

Sid smirks up at him, then leans back in to suck Alex's dick.

(Maybe Alex should have been expecting this. He hadn't been sure how it was going to be between them, especially without Geno, but it was so easy to talk to Sid. About hockey, and hockey gossip, and Alex's dogs. They've both grown up since they were rookies and the media was pushing their rivalry story. Alex doesn't have to make everything a joke -- because fuck their enigmatic Russian bullshit -- and Sid doesn't have to try to be the perfect Canadian hockey robot.

He just didn't realize Sid had ditched the hockey robot facade enough to get down on his knees for Alex in an fancy LA hotel room paid for by the NHL.)

Alex swallows down another moan. Sid's mouth is hot and soft and slick around him.

Sid grips the base of his dick and swallows him down until Alex's cock bumps the back of his throat. Then he pulls back to suck just the tip of Alex's dick, flicks his tongue against the slit.

There is something almost -- precise about it, like Sid is as neat and deft and skilled at this as he is on the ice. Alex wants to laugh, but he can't quite catch his breath.

Sid glances up at him and his eyes crinkle up around the edges like he wants to laugh, too. He keeps his eyes on Alex's face as he leans in, so slow, and lets Alex's cock slide down his throat.

Alex makes an embarrassing noise and his knees go weak. He puts his hand on Sid's shoulder, nudges him back, because if he doesn't this is going to over far too soon.

Sid pulls back and gives Alex a questioning look. His lips are red and plump, shiny with spit, and Alex has to drag his gaze away.

He swallows. "Bed?"

Sid considers it. "All right." He pushes to his feet in one smooth move.

They're face to face for the first time since Alex opened the door, so Alex leans in and kisses him.

He can feel Sid's hesitation, that split second of surprise, before Sid kisses him back. Sid's hands come up to grip Alex's shoulders and his mouth opens under Alex's.

Sid's grinning when Alex breaks the kiss. "Romantic," he says.

Alex rolls his eyes. His track pants are already halfway down his thighs, so he pushes them the rest of the way off. He steps around Sid and goes to the bed, pulling his t-shirt off as he goes. He flops backwards onto the bed, arms spread wide.

Sid's watching him with heat in his eyes. Alex waggles his fingers invitingly and Sid snorts, but he starts getting undressed, too. Alex props himself up on his elbows to watch.

Sid strips down unselfconsciously, all winter-pale skin and mid-season muscle. He's hard, dick bobbing as he comes over to get on the bed. The head of his cock is flushed the same deep pink as his lips. He straddles Alex's hips and looks down at him. Alex slides his hands up Sid's thighs and cups his ass.

He sighs. It is a magnificent ass. Sid grins and shimmies his hips, grinding down against Alex's dick. Before Alex can get a hand on Sid's dick and get some of his own back, Sid bends down to slide his mouth over Alex's collarbone.

It's a press of teeth and tongue, not quite a kiss. Sid works his way down Alex's chest and abs, until he's lying between Alex's thighs, Alex's cock brushing his cheek.

Sid apparently insists on finishing what he starts.

Alex's skin feels flushed all over, and his heart is beating fast. Sid gives him a smug, crooked smile, like knows exactly what seeing his mouth next to Alex's dick is doing to Alex. He licks a long, slow stripe up Alex's cock.

Alex exhales and stares up at the ceiling for a moment to get himself together. It doesn't work. Sid sucks his cock with the same precise focus as before. It makes Alex's stomach clench with a hot, restless tension, makes his breath go ragged.

Sid pulls almost all the way off of Alex's dick, and Alex groans, his hips jerking as he tries to push up into Sid's mouth. Sid leans his weight into Alex's hips and thighs, holding him down. Heat flashes through Alex and he gasps.

Sid takes pity on him and swallows him down. The lush, wet heat of his mouth and the roughness of his grip with those familiar calluses -- it's all just so much. Alex flails his hand and manages to find Sid's shoulder, warm and solid. Sid looks up at him, eyes dark, and lets Alex's dick slide deeper into his mouth.

Alex comes. It's a rush of sensation that punches the breath out of him. Sid swallows around him and Alex shudders. His whole body feels dazed, soft and dizzy with warmth.

Sid pushes up to his hands and knees. Alex manages to lift his head and catch Sid's mouth in a sloppy kiss.

Sid kisses back, fierce and hungry. Alex falls back against the pillows and Sid follows him down, the weight of his body pressing Alex into the mattress.

"What you want?" Alex says, rough, breathless against Sid's mouth.

"Fuck. I don't--" Sid rolls his hips and his hard-on drags over Alex's softening cock. Alex flinches, over-sensitive.

Sid goes still, and Alex can feel the effort in the strain in his muscles.

He tugs at Sid's hip, urging him up and forward. "Here," he says.

Sid frowns until Alex licks his lips. "Oh," he says and moves up so he can kneel over Alex's shoulders.

Sid grips the base of his cock and rubs the head of it against Alex's parted lips. Alex tips his chin up a tiny bit, opens his mouth wider. Sid slides in, his cock heavy and warm, already leaking over Alex's tongue.

Alex hollows his checks, sucking, and Sid hisses. He pushes deeper into Alex's mouth and hits the back of Alex's throat, hard enough to make Alex cough and choke.

"Shit, sorry!" Sid gasps as he pulls back.

Alex rolls his eyes and smacks Sid's bare ass, trying to convey, quit being a baby and fuck my mouth.

Sid gets the message. His eyes narrow and he pushes back in, fucking Alex's mouth with short, steady strokes. He's more careful but he doesn't stop when he nudges the back of Alex's throat again. Alex palms his ass. He can feel the clench and flex of muscle with every thrust. Sid's face and chest are flushed and he's panting. His hips stutter and he braces himself with one hand on the wall above Alex's head.

Alex's mouth feels bruised and stretched, sloppy with spit, and it's worth it to watch Sid come apart like this, to lose all that precision and technique.

Sid pulls out and gives himself a couple of fast, rough strokes, and then he's coming all over Alex's mouth and throat.

Alex makes a face, but he did come in Sid's mouth without warning him, so they're probably even.

"Fuck," Sid groans. He twists sideways and flops back down into the pillows.

Alex wipes his mouth off with a corner of the sheet and listens to Sid's harsh breathing. When it starts to even out, he holds out his fist.

Sid turns his head and eyes Alex's hand. Then he bumps his fist against Alex's, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Ninety-nine left to go, now, yes?" Alex says.

Sid lets out a startled honk of laughter. "Ninety-eight, technically."

Of course Sid corrects his math. "You fuck Jagr before me?" he says, putting his hand over his heart like he's wounded.

"Maybe I took your advice from the last time we beat you guys and fucked myself," Sid shoots back, and it's Alex's turn to laugh.

Top one hundred and they're in it. If Alex looks at Sid, he can still see that kid that was his competition for the Calder. It's easier to see it in Sid than in his own mirror.

(He wasn't expecting this, but he doesn't have to ask why Sid did it.)

Sid heaves a sigh and climbs out of bed.

"You go?" Alex asks.

"Gotta be sharp for tomorrow," Sid says, pulling on his pants.

Alex gets out of bed and helps Sid find his socks in the pile of their clothes.

"Thanks," Sid says. He takes the socks and leans up to kiss Alex, soft and easy.

"Remember, I'm passer now," Alex says, and Sid is still laughing on his way out the door.

comments

FICLET: PK/Carey, Canadian shack

2017-04-04T02:38:39Z

"So far I'm not impressed with this whole horseback riding thing," PK says. He squints through the rain at the trail in front of them, or where the trail should be -- there's a torrent of muddy water cutting across it. His horse snorts and shakes her head, and he pats her neck. "It's not your fault, sweetheart."

Carey gives him a sour look. "We can't go this way," he says, and reins his horse around, going back the way they came.

PK eyes the reins in his hands, but before he can try to copy Carey's gesture, his horse turns around on her own and follows Carey.

"Good girl," PK says.

He's giving Carey shit about the horseback riding. He's kind of liked it so far. They got up early to trailer the horses and drive up to the provincial park. They rode through pine forests so still and quiet that it made PK want to shut up, just to hear the occasional bird call and the rustle of the wind in the trees. They ended up in a meadow at the edge of a lake, with a view of snow-capped mountains rising up in the distance. Carey spread out a blanket and produced lunch from his saddle bags. It's actually been a great day, right up until the unexpected thunderstorm.

They go back up the trail for a little bit, then Carey turns left, heading deeper into the woods down a turnoff they'd passed before. The rain feels like it's coming down harder now. It's summer, but up in the mountains, it's cool when you're not in the sun, and PK's starting to shiver. His cowboy hat -- brought up from Nashville special just for the look on Carey's face -- keeps the rain out of his eyes at least.

He's not sure how long they ride, but all of the sudden, they're in a little clearing. There's a cabin, and PK feels much better about their prospects for survival. There are no lights on in the cabin, but it looks well maintained. Carey leads them right up to the front porch.

"This place belongs to a family friend," he says. "They come up here to fish. They won't mind if we stay here tonight."

"Cool," PK says. His teeth chatter only a little.

Carey gets off his horse in one smooth move. PK sighs and tries to copy him. Between the cold and the wet clothes and the general stiffness from all the riding, he is definitely not as graceful. But he doesn't fall on his ass and Carey is focused on the lockbox with the spare keys, so PK gets away with it.

PK's horse stands still through the whole process, giving him what he feels is a pretty long-suffering look. He pats her neck again. She is a good horse.

Carey comes over and takes the reins, gives PK the keys.

"I'll take care of the horses, you go on in," he says.

"Can I help?" PK asks.

"Nah, it'll be faster with just one person," Carey says.

PK's not going to argue if it gets him out of the rain faster.

Carey leads the horses off towards a lean-to around the side of the cabin and PK lets himself in.

It's basically one big room, a little kitchen area with a table and chairs, a wood burning stove, a sofa and arm chair. There's a lofted area with a bed. Everything looks old and worn but comfortable.

PK takes his boots off just inside the door, hangs his wet hat on a coat hook. He takes his jeans off, too, drapes them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, because they're starting to chafe and he doesn't want to drip on everything.

Maybe it's just being half-naked and soaking wet, but the cabin feels chilly, so he goes over to the stove to see if he can get a fire going.

The kindling has caught and the fire is starting to work on the larger pieces of wood when Carey comes in with an arm load of damp wood. He stops dead.

PK looks over at him.

Carey clears his throat. "You're worse than Gally," he says. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you take your pants off."

"I know what the people want," PK says.

Carey comes over to the stove. "You lit the fire?"

"I may not be into the whole camping thing, but it's not a romantic weekend getaway without a roaring fire," PK says. "These are important life skills."

Carey snorts and looks away. "Of course."

Carey finds them towels and blankets, and they take off all their wet clothes, hang them over chairs to dry in front of the fire. There's canned soup in the kitchen cabinet, some crackers that have a reasonable expiration date, and trail mix for dessert.

They sit on the sofa in front of the fire, wrapped in blankets, clutching mugs of soup, and PK thinks he might eventually be warm again.

"Sorry," Carey says.

PK raises his eyebrows.

"About how today turned out. It doesn't usually rain like this up here, but..."

PK bumps his shoulder against Carey's. "No, man, this was a great day. Even with getting stuck here in the rain. It's an adventure."

There's flash of lightning and a booming crack of thunder, right on top of each other, and the lights go out.

PK blinks in the sudden dark, and then starts laughing. He can't help it. "See? An adventure."

His eyes adjust to the firelight, and he sees Carey rub the back of his neck, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

PK leans into Carey's side. "Seriously -- thanks for inviting me."

"Thanks for coming," Carey says.

They watch the fire, the sound of rain filling up the silence between them.

PK's yawn takes him by surprise. He suddenly feels every mile they rode today.

Carey takes the empty mug out of PK's hand. "You can have the bed," he says. "I'll take the couch. It folds out."

PK's going to argue, but another yawn comes out instead. He wants to stay in this warm, quiet moment with Carey, but he's too tired to to fight it.

"Good night," he says.

"Night," Carey says.

PK wraps the blanket tighter around himself and makes his way up the ladder to the loft. The sheets are cool and scratchy. The sound of the rain is louder up there, but if he holds still, he's pretty sure he can hear steady sound of Carey's breathing down below.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, freezing cold. The thin cotton blanket he's got is not cutting it. There's probably other blankets in the cabin somewhere, but he knows for sure there is (1) a fire, (2) a warm bed, and (3) Carey Price downstairs, so that's where he goes.

The fire has died down to just embers, but it's still putting off heat. PK crawls under the covers on the sofa bed, and it's just as warm as he'd hoped.

"What?" Carey mumbles.

"Is this why you wanted to take the sofa?" PK asks. "Because you knew it would be warmer?"

"The couch is going to fuck up your back," Carey says. He still sounds half-asleep.

"I don't care," PK says. He wriggles closer to the warmth of Carey's body, shoves his bare feet in between Carey's ankles.

Carey makes a disgruntled noise, but he doesn't pull away. He never pulls away when PK hugs him, or throws his arm around his shoulders, or kisses the side of his head, and PK feels a weird, melancholy twist in hie heart.

He lies on his side and watches the rise and fall of Carey's chest. The rain has stopped and everything is quiet. He's warm again, but he's not ready to go back to sleep.

"Hey, Pricey," he says. "You can tell me to fuck off if it's none of my business, but -- did you play like shit on purpose to get Therrien fired?"

Carey exhales slowly. "Yeah," he says finally.

"Holy fuck," PK says, a shocked, delighted whisper.

Carey snorts, sharp and bitter. "I didn't think Bergevin would break before ownership did. I thought it would be both of them out on their asses. Too little too late, anyway. It didn't save--"

He stops, but PK can hear you in the silence.

"Badass," PK says.

Carey shakes his head. "I would have stopped if we were seriously going to drop out of the playoffs."

"No, see, that just makes it more badass. You get your team into a playoff spot, quit playing like a fucking Vezina winner, get your asshole coach fired, then just turn it back on again like it's nothing."

Carey shrugs. "Bergevin's not going to win a Cup," he says, low and flat. "Not with me, anyway."

PK laughs. "You are a petty, vindictive bastard, and I love it."

It doesn't take the sting out of the trade, but man, that's satisfying to know.

More quietly, he adds, "I meant it, y'know? I'm really glad I came. I'm glad you invited me."

They never really hung out together during the off-season before, but they never had to -- they always had the whole season together. PK can't even name the emotion he felt when Carey texted him, *Show me what you learned in nashville, cowboy. Come hang out when I'm home this summer. *

"I'm glad you came, too," Carey says, just as quiet. "I missed you this season."

Even now, when everything is quiet and still and dark, when it's just the two of them, PK has to bite back the urge to make a joke. He can tell Carey anything, everything, as long as he's laughing about it. But Carey doesn't deserve that.

So he swallows and makes his voice steady and serious when he says, "Me, too. I missed you so much. Nashville's great, but..."

He can see the hitch in the rhythm of Carey's breathing. "Webs is great, but it's not the same."

"Yeah," PK says.

Carey turns his head to look at PK. He is right there, close enough to kiss, his bare skin hot where their feet are pressed together, and oh, oh. PK thought he'd put this longing away a long time ago.

(Back when he was a rookie, when he wanted so much and knew he couldn't have it all, he made his choice, and everything turned out wrong anyway so why--)

He doesn't know which one of the moves first, but in between one heartbeat and the next, they're kissing.

Carey's mouth is hot and fierce against his. It's Carey, and it feels both deeply familiar, like coming home, and shockingly new. PK spreads his hand over the curve of Carey's ribs, feels the shudder of his breath. Carey strokes his palm down PK's back to grip the curve of PK's ass.

PK lets out a breathless, disbelieving huff of laughter -- Carey Price is grabbing his ass.

"Shut up," Carey says against his mouth, and PK can feel the curve of his smile against his own lips.

Carey pulls him closer, and PK goes, slides his leg over Carey's hip. Carey's hard, and PK's laugh turns into a gasp.

"Fuck," he breathes.

He's not cold anymore, can't remember what being cold is even like. He's burning up now, greedy for Carey's mouth, the smooth expanse of Carey's bare skin. He rolls onto his back and pulls Carey with him. Carey's body is a lean, solid weight, pressing him into the shitty mattress. He kisses like he's as hungry as PK.

Carey breaks the kiss, props himself up on his elbows to look down at PK. In the last dim light of the fire, his face is very serious, and PK knows he can't bear to hear whatever Carey is going to say. So he grips the back of Carey's neck and slides his other hand between their bodies. He tugs Carey down into a kiss while he wraps his palm around both of their dicks.

Carey moans and his hips jerk, pushing into PK's fist, his cock dragging against PK's. PK moves his hand, stroking them both, clumsy and rough. Carey turns his head away, dragging in a ragged breath. PK twists his wrist, and Carey comes, warm and slick between them.

The full weight of Carey's body sinks into him and PK rocks his hips, desperate for pressure, contact.

Carey lifts his head. He kisses the side of PK's throat, his temple, the corner of his mouth. His lips are soft and the kisses are gentle, slow. He shifts his weight off of PK's hips, enough to slide his hand between their bodies and rub his palm over the head of PK's cock.

PK shudders, his whole body strung tight. "Fuck, oh, fuck, Carey--"

"Yeah," Carey breathes and kisses his mouth.

PK comes, just like that.

Carey moves like he's going to roll off of PK, and PK grabs weakly at his shoulder. They'll have to talk about this tomorrow, when they're back in the real world, not in this tiny, dreamlike space that's only them. But until then, PK wants every part of Carey he can touch.

Carey huffs, but stays still like he always does when PK slides his arm around his shoulder and pulls him close.

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Ficlet: PK/Carey, Sentinel AU

2016-06-12T23:06:18Z

From bleep0bleep's Random Prompt Generator.

PK wakes up in the dark. His head is pounding, nausea churning in his gut, and he doesn't know where he is.

They were -- they were on a case? Tracking something. Someone. He can't quite remember.

He rolls to his hands and knees, and his stomach keeps rolling. He doesn't throw up, but it's close. The floor is cement, cool and gritty under his palms. He dials his sight up, and the room takes on a little more definition. It looks like a storage room, shelves up against the walls, indistinguishable piles in the corners, no windows, one door. It smells like plastic and mildew and cleaning supplies, but there's something nasty and unfamiliar under it all. Not one scent, but a whole mess of them, something musky and rank, something sharp like ammonia, saltwater and dirt and rotting fish.

PK tries to turn his sense of smell down, but his senses are stuck on those strange scents. He breathes in through his mouth and it's like he can taste it. He gags and the room spins around him.

Listen. Focus on another sense.

His inner monologue sounds like Carey when he's trying to ground himself. It's weirdly comforting.

He reaches out and hears clank hiss burble boiler room. He reaches farther and something screams. It echoes in his head, not human, what the fuck is that? Movement, leaves rustling, something big, not human, not a cat or dog.

There's so much he can't make sense of it. It fills his ears and nose and mouth, fills his head up with noise and chaos. He can't, he can't--

Gradually, he becomes aware of Carey talking to him. PK can't make out the words under the roar of everything else he's hearing, but he can recognize the tone and cadence. He can recognize Carey's voice anywhere.

(People meeting them for the first time still think PK is the Guide and Carey is the Sentinel, because PK is the one who is outgoing and engaging, who laughs loudly and shakes people's hands, and Carey is the one who is quiet and reserved.

PK's control is excellent. It's something he's worked hard at, because he's knows what people would say if it weren't -- some prejudices die hard. When he was first paired up with Carey, he was a expecting a Guide who'd fuss, who wouldn't entirely trust PK's skills, like his teachers at the Academy. But from the beginning, Carey was willing to trust PK's limits. He was always there to step in with a word or a touch when PK was on the verge of zoning out, to help ground PK when there was too much input to process. But he never hovered and he never babied PK. If PK wanted to shake strangers' hands, Carey wouldn't argue. )

PK concentrates on the sound of Carey's voice, lets it fill his head up, drown out all that other noise.

He comes back to himself slowly. He's still on his hands and knees. Carey's crouched down next to him, his hand on the back of PK's neck, his thumb stroking back and forth over PK's skin to the rhythm of his words. PK's breathing too fast and his heart is racing. He tries to sit back on his heels and Carey has to steady him.

"PK? You with me now?"

"Yeah," PK says, and it comes out low and hoarse.

"Good," Carey says. He keeps his arm around PK's shoulders, pulls him close. He's solid and warm, and PK's suddenly aware that he's cold. "Everything's under control. Backup is on the way--"

PK frowns. "You came without back up?"

"Oh, like you're one to talk. Besides, I can handle a crazy wanna-be Sentinel," Carey says, and PK remembers in a dizzying flash: the Guides-in-training being stalked, the one that disappeared, the text from Carey that wasn't from Carey --

"Hey, shhh, it's okay, you're okay," Carey says. "I left him with security upstairs. Everything's fine."

"You smell like you were scared," PK says. Carey smells like unscented deodorant and unscented detergent and something rich and familiar that PK would recognize anywhere, but there's a faint acrid tang of fear and adrenaline clinging to his skin.

Carey huffs. "I was worried about you."

PK smiles, small but real.

Carey tightens his arm around PK's shoulder. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Definitely," PK says.

"You've got everything turned down, right?"

PK takes a minute to double check, to make sure all of his senses are dull, settled at human levels. "Yeah."

"All right," Carey says. "Easy does it."

Carey pushes carefully to his feet and PK struggles up with him. He makes it to his feet, only leaning on Carey a little.

Outside the storage room is a hallway, industrial concrete and cinder block walls, flat fluorescent lighting. There's a service elevator at the end of the hall, which is good, because PK's not sure he's up for stairs.

They go out an anonymous back door and end up in a parking lot. PK blinks in the last of the afternoon sunshine. There's something vaguely familiar about the parking lot. He turns around and finds himself looking at--

“The Biodome?” he says blankly. But as he thinks about it, it makes a sick kind of sense. All those strange, unfamiliar smells and sounds would be guaranteed to overwhelm and disorient a Sentinel, especially one without their Guide.

Carey's scowling at the Biodome like it personally offends him. “We need to spend some more time here, get you more familiar with the sense-scape.”

“But not now, right?” PK says. He's trying to sound light and joking, but it just comes out tired.

Carey transfers his frown to PK. He opens his mouth, then his eyes drift over PK's shoulder and his mouth snaps shut.

PK turns around. The cavalry is here.

Montreal's senior Sentinel, Captain Chu is out in front, trailed by her Guide, Ouellette. Pacioretty is right on their heels, and the Gallys in uniform aren't far behind, along with an EMT.

Just looking at them makes PK feel exhausted all of the sudden, any last lingering adrenaline burned away.

"Can we just go home?" PK says.

"Are you sure you don't need a medic?" Carey says.

PK's shaking his head. "I'm fine, I just, I can't--"

"Okay," Carey says. He squeezes PK's shoulder for a second, then steps forward to put himself between PK and the oncoming crowd.

PK turns his hearing down so the conversation is just a muted babble, so he doesn't have to actually listen to what anyone's saying.

The one good thing about everyone thinking Sentinels are sensitive flowers is that if Carey says PK can't handle being debriefed or examined by a doctor now, then they have to let him go.

After a minute, Carey turns around and gives PK a nod.

The Gallys drive them to PK's house in a squad car, and for once, they are both completely quiet. PK almost dozes off on Carey's shoulder.

Chucky has get out to open the car door for them. PK hauls himself out of the backseat. Chucky looks like he wants to help, but he doesn't try to touch him.

"Thanks for the ride," Carey is saying behind him.

"Yeah, no problem," Gally says. "Is he..."

"He going to be fine," Carey says firmly.

PK tunes the rest of that conversation out and heads for his front door.

PK's house has been designed for Sentinels. It's got extra sound-proofing, low VOC paint, no carpets or drapes to hold dust and allergens. On the ground floor there is a mudroom with a washer-dryer and a shower. Carey has to remind him to take his shoes off outside. They strip down to bare skin just inside the door and throw their clothes in the washer. Carey starts the washing machine while PK showers.

PK scrubs himself down twice with plain, unscented soap, like hot water and soap suds will get rid of the memory of that basement room.

"Hey, are you going to sleep in here, or do you want an actual bed?" Carey says.

PK actually thinks about it for a second, before he sighs and gets out. Carey hands him a clean towel and steps into the shower himself. He takes less time than PK did, in and out by the time PK's dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist.

(PK's moving slowly, so Carey's shower isn't that fast.)

Carey grabs another towel. "You gotta eat something before you sleep," he says, a little muffled as he scrubs the towel over his wet hair.

PK makes a face. He doesn't feel like eating.

"I know," Carey says. "Too bad."

Carey wraps the towel around his waist and they go upstairs to the kitchen. Carey scrounges up a bottle of Gatorade and an energy bar for each of them.

"Just turn your senses down and suck it up," Carey says.

It's an effort, but PK dials his sense of taste and smell down to almost nothing, only a faint artificial sweetness coming through when he takes a bite of the energy bar. He tries not to focus on the feel of it in his mouth, just chews and swallows mechanically, chugs the Gatorade.

He watches a drop of water slide down Carey's throat, around the point of his collarbone, down to his bare chest, and makes himself look away, pay attention to the cool, wet plastic of the bottle in his hand.

"If your blood sugar gets too low, you're going to have a hard time controlling your senses," Carey says.

PK knows that, and he knows Carey knows that he knows. Carey's just talking so PK can hear his voice.

He feels a little better afterwards, though, that slightly distant, floaty feeling easing up.

"Okay," Carey says. "Bed."

It's one more flight of stairs up to his bedroom. PK doesn't even bother finding a pair of boxers, just drops the towel and half-falls into bed. The sheets smell like him, like the exact brand of unscented detergent it took him ten tries to find after he left the Academy. Carey switches on his white noise generator, soothing, meaningless static. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open.

Carey comes around the bed to turn the light off. Hey, you're staying, right? PK wants to ask, but he's asleep before he can find the energy to open his mouth.

In his dreams, he's back in that room again.

He's outside himself this time. He's aware of how alone and helpless he is, with his senses out of control. He can feel it creeping up on him, the overwhelming mindless chaos of too much input, but this time Carey won't come, can't come--

"Wake up," Carey snaps, and PK's eyes fly open.

He's curled on his side. Carey's kneeling by the edge of the bed, gripping PK's hand. PK's heart is pounding. He drags in a deep breath, and he can smell that room again, but that's crazy, because they washed everything, there's no way he can pick up a few molecules from two stories down--

"PK?"

"Keep talking," PK says hoarsely.

"Yeah, shit, okay, I'm here. Listen to my voice, the rest of it doesn't matter."

PK closes his eyes and lets Carey's voice wash over him. It's the usual Guide chatter about focus and control, the words aren't important. PK's heartbeat slows down and his breathing evens out. That half-remembered smell of the zoo is gone, only the familiar, comforting scents of home and Carey around him.

"You know I ran out of shit to say to you today," Carey says. "I went through every monologue they ever taught us. Twice. I've never seen you zone out that deep."

PK opens his eyes. Carey looks tired, stressed. He smells worried again.

"Sorry," PK says.

Carey gives him a half-hearted scowl. "You should be. I usually just have to say a couple of sentences and you snap right out of it. You're ruining me for other Sentinels."

"Not sorry about that," PK says.

Carey glances away for a beat and his grip on PK's hand tightens.

When he looks back, PK leans in and kisses him.

Carey sucks in a startled breath, his mouth opening under PK's. Carey's lips are so soft and his mouth is shockingly hot. PK's dizzy with the sensation of it.

"Hey," Carey says against his mouth. He pulls back. "Hey."

PK shakes his head. He rolls onto his back. He's still holding Carey's hand and he tugs Carey towards him. Carey hesitates for a second before he moves, climbing onto the bed. He lets go of PK and braces his hands on either side of PK's head, his knees on either side of PK's hips. His face is serious.

PK reaches up, grips the back of Carey's neck. Carey's skin is warm and smooth under PK's palm, his hair like silk where it curls over PK's fingers. Carey lets himself be pulled down. His scent fills PK's nose, worry fading, replaced by desire. He brushes his mouth against PK's, and PK shivers, his skin prickling into goose bumps. Carey licks into his mouth and everything disappears in the overwhelming lush, hot glide of Carey's tongue against his own, the sweet salt taste of Carey's mouth.

"PK," Carey says sharply.

It cuts through the haze of his senses and he blinks up at Carey.

Carey's not touching him anymore, but PK can feel the heat of his body against his own bare skin like a caress. He knows what Carey is worried about, but fuck, he needs this, he wants this so much.

"Just -- keep talking," he says.

Carey lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. "You drive me crazy, you know?"

PK's could argue, but Carey keeps going.

"I'm supposed to be your defense against the world," Carey says. He dips his head, lets his mouth brush against the side of PK's throat. "But you're always -- talking to people, shaking their hands, letting them hug you, even when you don't know where they've been or how much perfume they're wearing. You're always touching things, smelling things, licking things, like nothing's ever going to go wrong."

PK can feel the vibration of Carey's voice against his skin and it sends a wash of heat through him.He pulls his scattered thoughts together enough to say, "I only licked the evidence that one time."

He can feel the laugh that catches in the back of Carey's throat. Carey lifts his head. PK spreads his palm over Carey's ribs, feels the deep breath Carey takes before he shakes his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. That sharp edge to his voice disappears.

"You know what else drives me crazy?" Carey says, low and smooth, not his Guide voice. "Every time you work out without a shirt on."

"Oh," PK says breathlessly.

"Don't get me wrong, your pecs are great, your abs are great--" Carey traces the curve of PK's obliques with one fingertip, and the muscles in PK's stomach shiver and pull tight at that delicate touch. "--But it's the muscles in your back I can never stop staring at."

"Ohhhh," PK says, a long exhale.

Carey presses his mouth to the curve of PK's shoulder. "I'd catch myself watching you and have to make myself think about our newest case or my grocery list, anything else, so you couldn't smell it on me. So you couldn't tell how much I wanted to know what it would feel like to run my hands down your back."

For all his words, Carey is barely touching him. Part of him wants Carey's hands all over him, wants the weight of Carey's body pressing him into the mattress. But the tiniest points of contact they have now, Carey's mouth and fingertips, are almost overwhelming.

"I never liked any of the people you dated," Carey says.

"No!" PK says, and he manages to sound appropriately sarcastic, even if it is breathless. Carey is… not subtle.

He can feel the quick curve of Carey's smile against his skin. "I told myself it was just because you had bad taste in hook-ups, and then I told myself it was because I didn't trust any of them to handle your senses."

He lifts his head and meets PK's eyes. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes dark and intent. PK breathes in and the scent of their bodies fills his nose, lingers on the back of his tongue, warm skin and sweat and the faint, sharp scent of pre-come. He's hard, the tip of his cock wet where it brushes against his stomach. But it's distant, just another part of the heat and want that floods his veins.

"But really, I just wanted to be the one who got to see you like this."

Carey's voice sinks into him like a physical touch.

"I want to be the one that makes you feel like this. I want to be the one that gets to see you come."

Oh, PK says, or tries to, mouth opening on nothing as orgasm washes through him like a tidal wave.

For a moment, he is adrift, lost in that flood of sensation, and then Carey's voice is there to anchor him down again.

"Hey, shhh, I got you," Carey is saying. "You're okay, just breathe."

PK drags in a ragged breath and opens his eyes.

"Hey," Carey says. "You with me?"

"Yeah," PK says. He feels boneless, full of a golden, sated warmth that starts to fade as his other senses come back online. His hand is still pressed against Carey's side, and he is suddenly aware that Carey is trembling. Carey's eyes are all pupil, and his face, his chest are flushed, damp with sweat.

He's hard, his cock straining against the fabric of his borrowed boxers, a wet spot forming over the head it.

"Oh, hey," PK says. He smoothes his hand down Carey's side, Carey's skin hot under his palm, his ribs flexing with his uneven breathing. The scent of desire pours off of Carey's body, heavy and rich.

Carey shudders at the touch, drops his head forward. PK might be sensitive enough to come from the right tone of voice, but Carey needs more.

PK palms Carey's dick through his boxers and Carey gasps, grinding his hips down into the pressure.

"Yeah," PK says, "I got you."

He pushes Carey's boxers down and wraps his hand around Carey's cock.

His sense of touch spikes on the feel of it, blood-hot in his grip, the skin impossibly soft and delicate, slick at the very tip where pre-come beads up, his pulse beating hard against PK's fingers.

PK reaches hard for his control, manages to dial it down. He feels slow and clumsy.

"Little help?" he says.

Carey lets out a breathless huff of laughter and rolls his hips, fucking into PK's grip with jerky, ragged thrusts. PK watches Carey's cock slide through his fist, a hot little curl of interest in the pit of his stomach.

He looks up and meets Carey's eyes, and Carey comes all over his stomach. He can feel the exact difference in temperature between Carey's come and his own overheated skin, but he forgets about it in the sensation of Carey pressing his forehead against PK's.

After a beat, Carey flops over onto his back. PK's breathing and heartbeat even out, matching Carey's without conscious effort as they lie there.

"Shower and clean sheets in ten minutes," Carey mumbles.

"Uh huh," PK says.

At nine minutes, Carey says to the ceiling, "You know you're the only one I talk to this much."

PK turns his head to look at Carey's profile. "No one else appreciates it as much as I do."

Carey looks back at him. PK isn't joking. Carey smiles, soft and happy, before he flattens it out and sits up. "I'll wash the sheets, but you gotta make the bed."

He can frown all he wants, PK can smell the happiness on him. "Deal."

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Ficlet: Seth/Shea/Roman, a/b/o + modern royalty

2016-05-14T21:35:57Z

From bleep0bleep's Random Prompt Generator.

Prince Seth is an omega, so of course they do not assign any alphas to be his personal bodyguards.

It's the first time in Shea's career that being an omega has ever benefited him.

As far as distant heirs to the throne of North America go, Seth is pretty decent. He's smart and funny, nice to his staff, and doesn't complain about security protocols. Shea would put up with a lot to be the personal guard to a prince and heir to the Mountain Territory; guarding someone he actually likes, someone he doesn't mind spending all his time around, is an unexpected blessing.

They give Shea a beta for a partner. Shea's worked with him a few times before. Roman's a little young for it, but he's undeniably competent, and it's probably good for the prince to have someone closer to his own age to talk to. Roman appreciates the Bieber concerts more than Shea, at least.

Roman is also spectacularly attractive, to the point where the rest of the security detail jokes that they picked him because he'd look good in the background of any pictures the media took of the prince. Shea only sleeps with betas, but it doesn't matter how hot Roman is, fucking a co-worker would be a huge mistake.

(Falling in love with his prince would be an emotional disaster on such a colossal scale that it doesn't even occur to Shea to worry about it.)

The prince takes a year off before college, as is expected, to spend time learning about his father's Territory. A good three months of that is taken up by what Shea privately considers the road trip from hell.

Seth, his staff, and his security detail set out in three luxury tour buses with half a dozen fully armored SUVs and a helicopter escort to drive the full length of the Mountain Territory. Seth gets his own bus, which means he only has to share it with Shea and Roman. In the bigger cities, they stay for a few days, and they get a hotel.

Shea and Roman don't have deal with the security arrangements, there's a whole advance team for that. They just gets the details of layouts and contingency plans the day before. But it's still a bodyguard's nightmare: new places every day, none of which are designed with security in mind, new civilians who haven't been fully vetted, crowds of people who just want to get close to Seth. The palace can be stifling sometimes, but a month in, Shea can't wait to get back there.

Seth's brothers spend a week on the road with him when they open the new arena and meet with the organizers of a program that increases access to sports for underprivileged youth. There are diplomatic visits from several princes and princesses close to Seth's age -- Filip from Sweden, Philip and his sister Amanda from the Lakes Territory, Cam from the Iron Territory. (They're all alphas, and Shea wonders if there's some matchmaking going on. He keeps his speculation to himself and ignores Roman's nudges and significantly raised eyebrows.)

They stop in small towns and big cities alike. Seth tours factories and farms, dedicates a research wing of a hospital and a newly renovated elementary school, opens a new hockey/basketball arena. He meets with civic leaders to listen to their concerns and gives speeches on his father's policies. He kisses babies and meets school groups and attends black tie events. He eats in photogenic roadside diners that have all been careful secured days before.

Seth handles it all gracefully, endlessly patient with his adoring public and the interminable series of appearances and speeches he has to make.

Well. Almost endlessly patient.

"Shit, shit, shit," Roman says, staring at his phone. "Turn right."

It's one a.m. and they're tracking Seth's phone to appears to be a nightclub in downtown Denver.

Shea should have realized something like this was going to happen. It's been a long couple of months on the road. For the past week or so it's just been Seth and his staff and security. They just did appearances at two colleges, and it's all got to be reminding Seth that he's not like other kids his age, that he's never going to have a normal life. No wonder he snuck out the first chance he got.

Their security is designed to keep people out, not keep the prince in, but Shea should have been prepared. He should have seen how stressed and restless Seth was. For Seth's sake, and for the sake of his and Roman's careers.

"Here," Roman says.

Shea parks illegally in the alley, and they go in. They show their drivers licenses when the guy at the door asks for ID, not their Royal Guard badges. Shea wants to get this done as quietly as possible.

The club is a big, warehouse-like building. The dance floor is sunk down a floor from the entrance, and Shea pauses at the top of the stairs, scanning the crowd.

He finds Seth at the edge of the crowd, dancing with a woman, his head thrown back, laughing. Shea exhales, some of the anxious tension in his chest easing up. He nudges Roman and Roman nods back.

They go down the stairs, moving through the crowd. Seth sees them coming and freezes, eyes going wide. Then his shoulders slump and an expression of guilty resignation settles on his face.

Over his shoulder, Shea can see a man moving towards them, quick and purposeful. There is something his hand.

"Seth!" the man calls, and lifts his hand.

Seth starts to turn and Roman grabs Seth's arm, pulls him back around as Shea steps between Seth and the stranger.

There is a soft aerosol hiss and Shea gets a faceful of whatever the guy intended to spray Seth with. It settles on his skin, cool and faintly medicinal smelling. It's not pepper spray or mace.

Fuck. Shea would have preferred mace.

Shea breaks the man's wrist. The man -- the alpha, Shea can smell him now -- drops the canister. His muffled shriek of pain is swallowed up by the noise of the club.

For a second, Shea thinks about arresting him. But it's more important to get Seth back to the hotel safely. He turns around. Roman's already hustling Seth up the stairs. Shea wipes his face off on the sleeve of his jacket and goes after them.

Roman puts Seth in the backseat and closes the car door. Shea unlocks the trunk. There's a saline wash in the first aid kit. He rinses his face off, leaves his contaminated jacket and shirt in the trunk. It's too late to make a difference for him. He can feel the liquid heat start to unfold in the pit of his stomach. But he doesn't want the pheromones anywhere near Seth.

He slides into the front seat. Roman's put up the partition between the front and back seats. He looks at Shea. "Not pepper spray," he says.

"No," Shea says. "Heat inducer."

Roman curses under his breath and starts the car.

They have an entire floor of the hotel's parking garage secured for them. The agents on duty wave them in without a problem. When they get out of the car, Shea keeps a careful distance from Seth. Seth takes one look at his face and closes his mouth on whatever he was going to say.

Shea swipes his keycard in the elevator and punches the button for the top floor. They ride up in silence.

Shea concentrates on breathing slowly and evenly. His heart is already starting to beat a little faster, and his skin feels warm, flushed.

The doors open. Gaustad and Nystrom are on duty by the elevator. They both raise their eyebrows when they see who's inside.

They don't ask, but Seth says, "Vending machine run."

"We took the stairs down," Shea adds. No one's on duty by the stairs, because you can't get in from the stairwell. It's not much of an excuse for why the prince is coming back late at night with no one noticing he'd left. Gaustad and Nystrom look at each other, then shrug and let it go.

They head down the hall to the prince's suite. Shea stands by the door and lets Roman do a quick sweep of the rooms.

Seth waits with him.

"I'm sorry," Seth says quietly. He's standing very straight, his hands behind his back. He meets Shea's eyes. "That was dumb, and immature, and I know I put myself at risk. And I put you guys at risk. I won't do it again."

"Okay," Shea says. He wants to say more, to apologize for not noticing how much Seth needed a break, but he can't have a conversation now, can't focus on anything beyond keeping his breathing even. Seth looks disappointed with that answer, and Shea makes himself add, "We can talk about it tomorrow."

"All clear," Roman says.

Seth hesitates, then nods. "Thanks," he says, and goes to his room.

Shea and Roman are sharing the other bedroom in Seth's suite.

When the door closes behind them, Shea says, "I'm going to have to take sick leave tomorrow."

"I know," Roman says.

"Have Ellis take my shift with you."

"I will," Roman says. He gives Shea a tiny, crooked smile. "We got this, don't worry."

Shea presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. He feels like he's burning up. "I gotta take a shower."

"Okay. I'll get you one of the extra towels," Roman says.

Shea takes off his gun and badge, tucks them in a dresser drawer. He toes off one shoe, almost loses his balance trying to get the other one off.

Roman catches his elbow. Shea freezes, and Roman drops his hand.

Shea takes a step back, because the heat under his skin wants him to move forward.

"I promised, remember?" Roman says gently. "I won't fuck you if you go into heat, and I won't let an alpha fuck you."

"No matter how much I beg."

"No matter how much you beg," Roman agrees.

Shea manages a nod. He takes the towel Roman is holding out, squeezes Roman's shoulder in clumsy acknowledgment and thanks. He goes across the hall instead of using the bathroom in the suite.

He strips down and puts his clothes in one of the hotel's plastic laundry bags. He turns the water up as hot as it will go, scrubs his face and neck and chest with body wash, shampoos his hair twice. Then he just stands there under the spray for a long moment.

He's at that stage where even the water sliding down his body feels good. He's completely hard now, but he doesn't touch himself. He will eventually, he won't be able to help it, but jerking off won't break the heat any sooner.

In training, they all got sprayed with pepper spray and with inducers, so they'd know what to expect if it ever happened in the field. An induced heat won't last as long as natural one, but it will be just as intense. That aching longing coils tighter in his gut, and he wishes he'd done more than just break that asshole's wrist. Fucking fairy tales. The prince or princess heat-bonds with a commoner and everyone lives happily ever after, but it doesn't happen that way in real life.

He turns off the water and dries off. He goes back across the hall with just a towel wrapped around his waist. It's not doing much to disguise his hard-on, but at this hour, there's no one around to notice.

Roman's folded the covers back on Shea's bed and turned out most of the lights. He holds out a bottle of Gatorade without comment.

Shea takes the Gatorade. He lets the towel drop and sits down the edge of the bed. The scent of his heat rises up around him, heavy and rich. He cracks the cap on the Gatorade, takes a drink. The hotel air conditioning feels too cold on his overheated skin and the sheets feel too harsh. He wants to be home, in his own bed that smells like him, instead of this anonymous hotel room.

He puts the bottle on the nightstand and lies down on his back.

"Do you need anything?" Roman asks. He's the only thing in this room that smells familiar.

Shea grits his teeth through the wave of longing that washes over him and shakes his head. He's wet, the tip of his cock and the space between his legs slick with heat.

Roman picks up his book and his cell phone. "I'm going to sleep on the sofa," he says, tipping his head towards the outer rooms of the suite. "I'll come check on you in a couple of hours."

"You don't have to," Shea says.

Roman rolls his eyes and leaves.

Shea's alone. He tries one of the breathing exercises, in two three four ..., but he can't keep it up. He finds himself panting. The muscles in his stomach and thighs tense. His cock aches and he feels empty, open and slick and wanting. His hands clench in the sheets, until he can't not touch himself.

He hisses in a breath when he wraps a hand around his cock. It only takes a few rough strokes before he's coming all over his stomach, but it doesn't feel good. It feels hollow and disappointing, and it doesn't make that hot, relentless need go away.

Shea drags in a ragged breath. He can focus a little more at least.

There are voices outside his door.

"Is, um, is Shea all right?" Seth asks.

"He's fine, Your Highness," Roman says. It's his talking-to-the-media voice, fake calm and friendly, and they're never that formal with Seth in private.

Seth huffs. "I can smell -- I know he's not fine. Can I see him?"

Roman hesitates.

"Please," Seth says.

Shea tugs the sheet up to his waist and rolls over onto his stomach. He closes his eyes for a moment at the sudden friction and pressure against his cock, a dizzying rush.

"It's okay, Roman," he calls. His voice sounds raw and hoarse.

The door opens.

Seth comes to stand next to the bed, not quite close enough to touch. Roman trails after him, hovers anxiously near by.

Seth's mouth flattens out when he sees Shea's face, and the anger makes him look older. "The guy at the club did this," he says, not quite a question.

"Yes," Shea says. Seth's expression gets darker and Shea offers, "It's better than a bullet."

Seth flinches and shakes his head, looks away. He smells like fresh cut grass and sea water and warm skin, familiar and comforting. It doesn't hook into his heat the way an alpha's scent would, and Shea wants to press his face into the curve of Seth's throat, cover himself in that scent.

"Can I -- do you want me to help?" Seth asks.

For a second, Shea does want that, wants Seth's hands on him, wants Seth's cock in him. He shouldn't, of course, and he's mostly grateful when Roman says, flatly, "No."

"Oh -- no!" Seth says, embarrassment written large across his face. "Not like that! I mean, I would totally if you wanted, but -- um. I meant...Okay, wait, hold on."

Seth leaves the room.

Shea catches Roman's eye, and Roman gives him a baffled shrug. He wants to laugh, despite the suffocating press of his heat.

Seth comes back with one of the fat white candles from the bathroom, one hand up to shield the flame as he moves.

There's still an edge of uncertainty to his expression, but he's serious and calm when he meets Shea's eyes. "Hold out your wrist?" he says, and it's not a command.

It takes him a second to get what Seth is offering to do. Shea puts his hand out, palm up, and Seth grips it with his free hand, spills the liquid wax onto the delicate skin of Shea's inner wrist.

Pain flares up where the wax lands, and everything else in his body goes quiet. The desperate arousal, the empty longing in his gut, the fever-hot tightness of his skin, it all fades away. Shea exhales, long and slow, the tension in his muscles easing as he stops having to fight the urge to grind against the mattress.

"What happened? What did you do?" Roman asks. He sits down on the edge of the bed, hesitantly brushes Shea's hair off his forehead.

Shea drags his eyes open.

"It's like -- pain shocks your body into forgetting it's in heat," Seth says. He's watching Shea's face, still holding his hand. (Because Shea is holding on so tight.) "For a little while anyway."

"How'd you figure that out?" Shea asks. It's not something they teach omegas in sex ed, at least not in the classes he got. Shea figured it out biting down on his forearm during a bad heat.

"I, um, stubbed my toe," Seth says, ducking his head. "During my first heat."

Shea huffs out a little laugh.

"It's not that useful," Seth says. "Not if you're spending your heat by yourself. I mean, I'd never try this--" he gestures with the candle "--by myself. I'd set the sheets on fire."

Roman snorts. "Yeah, I can see that."

The sharp spike of pain has faded, and Shea can feel the heat creeping back in around the edges.

"Again?" Seth asks.

"Not yet," Shea says.

He concentrates on the feel of Seth's hand, tight around his, the feel of Roman's palm on the back of his head. His body wants touch as much as it wants sex.

Almost as much.

He's breathing too fast again. He is sinking into the heat, drowning in it. He has no idea how long it's been since Seth came in. His sense of time passing is strange and warped.

His hips stutter despite himself, rubbing against the mattress, and a tiny part of him is embarrassed, but most of him wants it too much to stop. "Now," he says, and it comes out rough and shaky. "Please."

"Shhh, okay," Seth says.

Pain flares up on his shoulder, bright and clean and focused, and he can breathe again. He feels dizzy, euphoric.

"Is it always this bad?" Roman asks. "For omegas?"

Shea looks up at Seth and Seth looks back at him.

"Yeah," Seth says, after a long moment. "If you're by yourself."

Shea squeezes his hand. Seth looks up at Roman and dredges up a smile. "But I hear giving birth is worse, so..."

Shea smiles, too, and lets his eyes close for a moment, floats on the feeling of his body quiet and still.

He can't pinpoint the moment when he goes from floating to drowning again, to saying, "Please, please, please," but Roman and Seth are there to pull him up to the surface, to push that consuming want back.

Induced heats don't break like natural ones, they fade away slowly.

Shea opens his eyes to morning sunlight and and his heat is just smoldering embers in the pit of his stomach. Roman is scrubbing the wax off his skin with a cool, wet washcloth. Seth's curled up asleep next to him.

"Hey," Roman says when Shea lifts his head. "How are you feeling?"

Shea clears his throat. "Not bad," he rasps.

He's exhausted, sticky with sweat and slick and come, his muscles shaky and sore. But the usual hollow, leaden feeling almost like loneliness that usually comes after a heat by himself is missing. He feels calm, peaceful.

Roman's alarm goes off suddenly.

Roman grimaces and Seth makes a disgruntled noise, pressing his face into Shea's shoulder.

"Get up," Roman says, throwing the washcloth at Seth's head. "You need to shower before Rinne gets here."

Seth sits up. The scent of Shea's heat is all over him. He gives Shea concerned look. "You okay?"

Shea nods. His chest is weirdly tight. It was a mistake to let himself accept that from Seth. Seth is watching him, his face solemn like he knows what Shea is thinking.

He doesn't say anything, just leans forward and kisses Shea's forehead, still serious, then gets out of bed and heads for the shower.

Roman moves to stand up, and Shea reaches out, grips his wrist. Roman settles down again, his back against the headboard. He smells like Shea, too. He'll have to shower once Seth is done, but Shea can have these five minutes.

"Thanks," he manages.

Roman runs his fingers through Shea's hair and looks down at him, his face as solemn as Seth's. "Any time."

comments

Ficlet: Lu/Lack, werewolves

2016-05-04T18:39:24Z

"Hey, Lu, they need you in exam room four," Soupy says.

Lu is in wolf-form, curled up around two sleeping pups. They were born premature, and their mother is still not strong enough to shift yet, so Lu is providing the wolf-form physical contact they need for emotional development at this stage. It's only a few hours every day, and Lu would rather not cut it short, but Brian wouldn't bother him if it weren't an emergency.

Lu gets carefully to his feet. The pups whimper, and two pediatric nurses swoop in to pick them up, murmuring reassurances. Lu waits until the room is clear before he changes, pulls on a pair of scrubs. If they really do need him, he'll have to shift again, but humans don't like it if you just walk around in a lab coat with nothing underneath.

Exam room four is an actual room, not just a curtained-off bed. The door is closed, and there's a little cluster of people standing in the hallway in front of it. He recognizes Thornton in his state trooper uniform, but he doesn't know the other guys, one in a suit, a couple in jackets with ATF and DEA across the back.

Brian's talking to the guy in the suit, and he breaks off when Lu walks up. He doesn't look happy.

"This is Dr. Luongo," Brian says. "Lu, this is Agent Donaldson."

Donaldson is human. He frowns at Lu, doesn't offer to shake hands. "You're the..."

"Physical contact surrogate," Lu says, because he only calls himself a cuddle therapist when he's joking around with friends.

Donaldson's frown gets deeper.

"Law enforcement raided an estate a few miles north of here," Shawn says. "We found a werewolf chained up on the property."

Lu sucks in a sharp breath, sick, shocked anger flaring up in his belly.

"It turned into a wolf as soon as we took the chains off," Donaldson says. "It won't let anyone near it, kept snapping and growling at the EMTs."

"They're concerned he might have gone feral," Shawn says.

Lu doesn't know what his face does at that word, but it must not be good, because Shawn puts his hands up in an easy, easy gesture and says soothingly, "That's why we brought him here to you."

Lu goes over to the exam room door and looks in through the narrow window. The wolf is huddled in the far corner, trying to make himself look small. He has tawny, desert-colored fur, matted and dull, and he looks too skinny for his size.

"Can you make it turn back?" Donaldson asks.

"Probably," Lu says. He may not have a pack, but he's still an alpha. "But I won't."

"Why not?"

Lu turns around. "If he won't shift on his own, it's because he's traumatized or he doesn't have the strength. Either way, forcing the change would be detrimental to his health."

"We need his testimony," Donaldson says.

"He was chained up in someone's back yard, I think that speaks for itself," Lu says.

"It's not illegal if he'd gone feral," Shawn says, almost gently. "He's probably got family, people looking for him. If he changed back, we could ID him--"

"I won't harm a patient to just to help your investigation," Lu says, flat and unequivocal.

Donaldson throws his hands up and turns away, pulling his cell phone out. Shawn just gives him a nod.

Lu goes into the exam room, closing the door behind him.

"Hey, buddy," he says softly. He takes his lab coat off, drapes it over the stool in the corner. He keeps talking as he takes his scrubs off. "I know you've been through a lot of shit, but you're safe now. We're going to take care of you."

The wolf lets out a tiny, uncertain noise. Lu's sense of smell isn't as good in this form, which is probably why the wolf smells familiar. It can't be...

Lu shifts. When he breathes in again, he realizes his first impression was right. The wolf smells like pain and fear, and there's no hint of the Vancouver pack-scent, but it's unmistakably Eddie.

Lu lets out a distressed whine before he can catch himself. He makes himself move slowly, carefully towards Eddie. Eddie watches him with wide eyes, then rolls over onto his back, baring his throat and belly. There are marks around his neck and around his legs, just above his paws, the fur worn away, the skin raw and blistered. There must have been silver in the chains if the wounds didn't heal when Eddie shifted. Lu swallows back the growl that starts in his chest and ducks his head to snuffle at Eddie.

Eddie licks at Lu's face, his tail thumping a few times against the exam room floor. He recognizes Lu, and some of the tightness in Lu's chest eases.

Eddie wriggles a little, and Lu puts a paw on his chest, gives him a stern look. Be good.

Eddie lies still. Lu trots over to the door and stands up on his hind legs so he can look out the window at the cluster of nurses standing outside. He jerks his head back and up, a come on gesture, then goes back to lie down next to Eddie.

After a minute, the door opens and Jagr comes in. Jags is a good choice.It'll take more than a hurt, scared wolf to freak him out.

Lu noses at Eddie's neck, licks at the scraped skin, while Jags fusses with the tray of supplies he brought and snaps on a pair of latex gloves.

"Don't lick that, you're a doctor," Jags says, kneeling down on Eddie's other side.

Lu rolls his eyes, but he rests his chin on Eddie's back and lets Jags wash the wounds with sterile saline, cover them with antibiotic ointment and gauze.

Eddie is tense, his eyes squeezed shut. A few whimpers escape him, but he doesn't struggle or growl.

"That's a good boy," Jags says absently. He runs his palms over Eddie's ribs and legs, looking for more damage, but doesn't find anything.

He sits back on his heels. Eddie shifts around to press his face against Lu's fur.

"You spending the rest of your shift here?" Jags asks.

Lu yawns and nods.

"Okay," Jags says. He tidies up the saline bottles and the bandage wrappers, peels off his gloves. He turns the lights off on his way out.

Lu turns his head and chews gently on one of Eddie's ears. Eddie sighs and relaxes. His breathing evens out, and before long, he's asleep. Lu rests his chin on Eddie's back again. He's not intending to sleep, but it's been a long, shitty day for him, too.

It's morning when Lu wakes up. Eddie's still asleep. The exam room floor is covered with a thick rubber mat instead of hard tile, for just these situations, but his joints still twinge when he stands up.

Eddie curls himself more tightly into a ball, but doesn't wake up.

Lu shifts and puts on his lab coat. He tucks his scrubs near Eddie's muzzle, so at least Eddie has his scent near by. Then he quickly and discreetly makes his way to the locker room for a shower and a new set of scrubs. If he really hustled, he could make it home and back before his shift, but it's easier not to. This way he's got time to grab coffee and a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich of slightly dubious quality from the hospital cafeteria.

And to call Henrik.

He knows it's stupid early in Vancouver, which is why Henrik sounds groggy when he answers. "Bobby?"

"How long has Eddie been missing?" Lu asks.

"What? He's not missing, he's-- Benning sent him away," Henrik says.

"Where?" It comes out hard and flat. Benning is an ass, but he isn't, he wouldn't--

"North Carolina," Henrik says. "A year after you left. He's doing his residency at Duke."

"When was the last time you talked to him?"

"Oh, I -- a month ago? I thought he was settling in better with the Raleigh pack, but..."

A month. He wants to be angry at Henrik, but it's been longer than that since Lu talked to Eddie. Which isn't surprising -- Henrik wasn't the one who left.

"Bobby, what's wrong?" Henrik says. "Did something-- Is Eddie all right?"

Lu exhales and scrubs a hand over his face. "Eddie's fine now. He's here with me in Miami." He can almost feel Henrik opening his mouth to ask more questions and cuts him off. "Listen, I gotta finish some paperwork before my shift, but I'll have Eddie call you when he's feeling up to it, okay?"

"Okay," Henrik says after a tiny hesitation. "If there's anything--"

"Yeah, I know," Lu says. "Thanks."

Lu does do some actual paperwork after that, because he still feels bad about lying to Henrik.

Then he does his rounds. The pups again, a teenager on dialysis for silver poisoning, a widow who broke her hip. ("Fell in the shower like an old fool," she says, combing her fingers through his fur. "It hurt too much to even shift.")

Shifters need physical contact. With their own pack or pride is best, but just another shifter makes them feel calmer, more secure. They heal faster with that kind of physical contact, too. Maybe it's something about the magic that makes them what they are, or maybe it's just the reduction in stress.

Whatever it is, it's a living, one that Lu likes more than he'd ever admit.

Brian catches him in the hall between patients and lets him know they moved Eddie up to a recovery room.

"How'd that go?" Lu asks.

"Good," Brian says. "He was clearly alert and self-aware, didn't give anyone any trouble. But Jagr did promise that you'd check on him later if he behaved himself, so.."

Lu would have anyway.

Eddie's asleep when Lu pokes his head in over lunch. He's still in wolf form.

"He hasn't changed at all?" Lu asks.

"Nope," the day nurse says. "He ate, though, so that's a good sign."

If hospital kibble doesn't make Eddie want to shift back, then Lu doesn't know what will.

Lu checks back at the end of his shift. Eddie is awake this time, and he gives Lu a hopeful wiggle when he comes in.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm gonna stay," Lu says. He takes off his scrubs and shifts, then hops up on the bed.

He nuzzles Eddie's face, breathes in his scent. The acrid tang of pain and fear has faded, and now he just smells tired, and a little bit like antibiotic ointment.

Lu settles down, pressed close to Eddie, and Eddie shoves his head under Lu's chin. A few nights away from home won't matter; it's not like there's anyone there waiting for him anyway.

Lu has to tell Shawn at some point who Eddie is. Donaldson comes back to ask more questions, but leaves in a huff, because Eddie still won't shift.

Eddie's getting better physically every day. He puts on weight, the abrasions on his neck and legs heal, he's not sleeping all the time anymore. He just won't shift.

He needs a pack. Lu's always been able to get by without one. He likes his independence, likes not being responsible for anyone except his patients. But Eddie's not him.

Lu calls Meg in the morning.

"Do you and Willie have room for another stray?" he asks.

In the background, he hears Willie yell, "Always!"

Meg ignores that. "Is this about the kid Shawn found?"

Lu doesn't ask how she knows about that. Wolves gossip. "Yeah," he says. "Physically, he's fine, he just -- he needs to be around other wolves for a while, I think."

"Bring him by," Meg says. "You're off--?"

"Monday."

"So come over Sunday when you get off work. We'll grill or something."

"Thanks, Meg."

"You're going to like Willie and Meg," Lu says. "They were part of the Vancouver pack for a while, before you got there."

Eddie gives him a sideways look, but he doesn't look completely unconvinced.

Eddie hangs back a little when Lu greets Willie and Meg, exchanging hugs and scents. Willie and Meg don't make a big deal of it. Aaron comes out a few minutes later, when they're out on the back patio.

"Oh, hey, are we hanging out like this?" he says when he sees Eddie. "Cool."

He shucks his swim trunks off and shifts, then stretches, gives Eddie a play bow. Lu thinks it's more the presence of Pinot coming over to touch noses with Eddie that makes Eddie relax enough to accept Aaron's invitation.

Lu relaxes a little too when they bound off together. Meg raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't say anything, just pours him a glass of wine.

Willie gets the grill going and Meg and Lu stretch out on a couple of lounge chairs. Eddie comes back over and hops up to drape himself over Lu's feet when Sasha shows up an hour later. Meg changes the subject to a discussion of the south Florida restaurant scene compared to Vancouver, a conversation that Eddie can contribute to with the occasional yip or head shake.

Aaron shifts back to set the table, but Sasha stays in wolf form, and Willie gives him and Eddie steaks so rare they're still bloody when they sit down to dinner.

Lu always likes hanging out with just wolves. He likes that conversation is half body language, that no one smells like perfume or cologne, that no one bats an eye at casual, affectionate physical contact.

Willie shifts after dinner and flops down on the patio where the bricks are still warm from the sunshine they absorbed during the day. Meg turns her chair around and stretches her legs out, wiggles her bare toes into Willie's fur. Aaron and Sasha clear the table, and when they come back they're followed by Vinnie in wolf-form.

Eddie's lying next to Lu's chair, leaning against his legs. He lifts his head and watches Aaron, Sasha, and Vinnie sort themselves into a pile around Willie.

Lu nudges him. "You can stay if you want."

Eddie looks up at him.

"You should," Lu says softly.

Eddie shakes his head.

"You deserve -- you need a pack," Lu says.

Eddie leans more heavily into Lu's shins.

"You need more than just me."

Eddie rolls his eyes and very deliberately puts his head back down.

Lu lets it go.

Eddie goes home with him at the end of the night.

Willie licks Eddie's face when he leaves.

"Come back any time," Meg says, and she's talking to both of them. Eddie's tail waves.

"I still think you're making a mistake," Lu says when he climbs into bed.

But it feels good when Eddie huffs and curls up with his back pressed against Lu's side.

Lu wakes up with Eddie sprawled across him, bare skin smooth and warm against his own.

Lu blinks in the early morning sunshine and clears his throat. "Hey."

Eddie lifts his head. "Hey."

"You changed," Lu says.

"I didn't think you'd want to do this if I was still in wolf shape."

"Do wh--" Lu starts, and Eddie kisses him.

Lu drags in a startled breath and Eddie's scent fills his nose, heavy with desire, mingled with Lu's own scent. Eddie rolls his hips, rubbing his cock against Lu's thigh.

Heat sparks in the pit of Lu's stomach and he shivers before he pulls his mouth away. "Eddie--"

Eddie looks down at him, eyes clear. "Please," he says, and it's calm, steady.

If Lu was going to say no to him, he should have started back in Vancouver.

"Yeah, all right," Lu says, and grips the back of Eddie's neck, pulls him down into another kiss.

Eddie kisses back enthusiastically. Lu smoothes his hands down Eddie's back and Eddie arches into it like he can't get enough of the physical contact. He's hard, leaving little slick streaks of precome against Lu's skin when he grinds against him.

Lu reaches down and wraps his hand around Eddie's cock, and Eddie gasps.

"Fuck," he says against Lu's mouth, breathless and half-laughing.

"Mmmm hmmm," Lu says back, stroking him lazily.

Eddie shudders and fucks into Lu's grip, his hands tight on Lu's shoulders. He's flushed pink all the way down to his collarbones, eyes wide and bright. His scent is so heavy Lu can taste it in the back of his mouth. Lu slides his foreskin back and brushes his thumb over the wet tip of his cock.

Eddie's hips stutter.

"C'mon," Lu says gently.

Eddie presses his forehead against Lu's and breathes something in Swedish. He comes, spilling warm and slick over Lu's hand and stomach. He kisses Lu again, messy and uncoordinated.

The heat in Lu's stomach spikes and his cock jerks, hard against his own belly. He rolls Eddie over onto his back and Eddie goes easily.

Lu looks down at him, and his chest feels tight for a moment. He can't believe he forgot what Eddie looks like after he comes, boneless and sated and smiling. Or not forgot, exactly, just let his unhappiness in Vancouver blur the details, lessen the impact of it.

Eddie reaches for Lu's cock, and Lu lets Eddie touch him, his grip loose and fumbling, until he can't stand it anymore, until he has to bat Eddie's hand away and finish himself off with long, rough strokes.

Lu takes a ragged breath and flops over onto his back next to Eddie. Eddie curls into Lu's side, nuzzles Lu's shoulder and the side of his throat.

Lu moves enough to wrap his arm around Eddie's back. He's floating on that post-orgasm glow, but there's a kind of peace and comfort in it that he hasn't felt in a while. He's had sex since he left Vancouver, obviously, it's just--

It's different when it's pack, a little voice in the back of his head says.

He pushes it away, runs his fingers through Eddie's damp curls. Eddie makes a soft, pleased sound. Lu's breathing settles down as they lie there, falling almost unconsciously into sync with Eddie.

"I don't even remember what happened," Eddie says quietly, out of nowhere. "I was running in the park in Raleigh, and then the next thing I remember is waking up in a van all tied up."

Lu rubs his jaw against Eddie's head and makes an encouraging noise.

He feels the deep breath Eddie takes. "They kept making me shift."

Lu's breath stutters on something that wants to be a growl. He swallows it back and says, just as quiet, "Yeah?"

Eddie nods against his shoulder. "Have you -- has anyone ever, to you?"

"Yeah, once," Lu says. He clears his throat. "I was younger than you, kind of a smartass -- shocking, I know -- and an alpha did it to show me who was boss."

It's something you do to pups who can't control the change, but to do it to a grown wolf--

"It sucks," Lu says.

"Yeah," Eddie says. He traces the curve of Lu's ribcage with his fingertips. "With the collar and the chains--"

"The silver stopped the change partway," Lu says, and Eddie nods.

The change comes in a wave that starts at the head and hands and feet and moves to the core of the body. It hurts if you fight it, and Lu can't imagine what it feels like to have the change blocked, incomplete.

"They wanted -- I think they want me to look like a monster," Eddie says in a small, uncertain voice. "I felt like--"

"Shhh, no, it's okay," Lu says fiercely. He tightens his arm around Eddie. "They're the assholes, there's nothing wrong with you. Shawn arrested all of them. You're safe now, everything's going to be fine."

Eddie doesn't say anything, just presses his face against Lu's skin. Lu kisses the top of his head and Eddie exhales slowly.

"Thanks," Eddie says, almost inaudible.

"Shut up, kid," Lu says, and feels the tiny curve of Eddie's smile against his skin.

Eddie falls asleep eventually, but Lu can't.

He eases out of bed, and Eddie snuffles, burrows into the sheets that smell like both of them. Lu puts on a bathrobe, grabs his phone, and heads downstairs.

He starts the coffeemaker and calls Shawn.

"That raid where you found the kid," he says when Shawn picks up. "Were any of the people you arrested shifters?"

"Shit, Lu, you know I can't talk about--"

"Eddie said they made him change. That means there had to be an alpha there. If you didn't arrest any wolves, you're missing someone."

Shawn's quiet for a moment. "Everyone we arrested was human," he says finally.

"Shit," Lu says. He's been halfway expecting this since Eddie started talking. There is a crash of breaking glass from the living room, and it isn't even a surprise.

"What was that?" Shawn asks.

"Probably the guy you're looking for," Lu says. "Send some back-up, okay?"

"Lu, wait, be ca--"

Lu hangs up and goes to see what's going on in the living room.

There's a man standing there that Lu doesn't recognize. Medium height, not skinny, with brown hair and pale grey eyes. Lu can smell the wolf on him. He's broken a pane of glass in the French doors that open onto the back yard and let himself in.

"Can I help you?" Lu says.

The shifter tilts his head to one side and studies Lu. "I thought you guys were never going to discharge him," he says. "But I was expecting you to be at work by now. Still--"

"What do you want?" Lu says flatly.

"Do you know how much certain people will pay to have a werewolf of their own. A monster on a leash to show how strong and powerful they are."

Lu's jaw clenches.

"Of course, the key is to find wolves no one will miss. A wolf without a pack scent running by himself, for example." The shifter's nostrils flare as he inhales, and smile flickers across his face. "A lonely wolf who runs off with his younger lover..."

Then he has the gall to try and force the change on Lu, in Lu's own fucking house.

Lu can feel the ghostly, grasping touch of the shifter's power tug at the core of his own magic, and he slaps it aside.

The shifter loses his smile.

Lu reaches out with his own power. He's coaxed the change for pups in the ER, but he's never forced it on another adult. But he can feel the wolf under the skin of the man in his living room, and it's easy to grab onto it and pull it to the surface.

The guy fights it, of course, but Lu is stronger.

In the end, there is a wolf lying on Lu's living room floor, panting with the pain and effort of the shift, partly tangled in the torn clothes his human form had been wearing.

Lu lets his power subside. His heart is beating fast, a combination of anger and the strange, sick feeling of forcing the change. In the distance, he can hear sirens. He takes a cautious step forward, and the wolf snarls and lunges to his feet.

A skinny, tawny wolf bounds past Lu and slams into the snarling wolf, knocking him to the floor and sinking his teeth into his throat.

"Eddie, stop!" Lu shouts.

Eddie growls deep in his throat. He doesn't let go of the other wolf, but he doesn't tear his throat out either, so Lu takes that as a win.

He says, more gently, "The cops are going to be here any minute, and you know they're going to shoot first and ask questions later if they find a dead body and you covered in blood."

He kneels down next to them. He locks eyes with the wolf Eddie has pinned. "I got him, he's not going to give us any more trouble."

He lets power bleed through into his voice, lays it like a hand on the wolf-shape in front of him. The wolf whines, but lies still.

The sirens are just down the block now.

"Go change," Lu says to Eddie. "And put some pants on."

Eddie huffs, but after a beat, he lets go and trots back upstairs.

Lu sits there in his bathrobe, power hot as silver under his skin, and waits for the cops to come tie up the last loose ends.

Three months later, they're back at Willie and Meg's place for Willie's birthday. Eddie's in human form this time, splashing around in the pool with Sasha and Vinnie, playing fetch with Pinot and Eric.

Lu is watching him lean into Aaron's shoulder while Meg shows them how to make fish tacos when Willie comes over with two beers.

Willie hands him one. "You smell like a pack now, you know?" he says.

Across the patio, Eddie looks up and catches Lu's eye, gives him a bright sunshiney smile.

Lu smiles back. "Yeah," he says. "I know."

comments

Ficlet: Sid/Geno, vampire AU

2016-02-27T23:10:15Z

(From bleep0bleep's Random Prompt Generator.)

"Why did you touch the amulet?!" Flower says. "That's the first rule of this business -- don't touch the magical object if you don't know how it works!"

"I didn't think it would work on a vampire!" Sid snaps back. "Besides, if I hadn't grabbed it, the Puppet Master would still be in that construct, or in one of our bodies, instead of back in his own body where Tanger could kill him!"

From the floor, Geno groans. Sid's heart -- well, okay, technically, Geno's heart -- speeds up. He'd forgotten how fluttery human bodies get over the least little emotion.

"Sid?" Geno says. His voice is high and tight. "Can't breathe."

"It's okay," Sid says. "You can breathe, you just don't need to."

"Not need-- I get turned?"

"Uh, not exactly," Sid says. He leans into Geno's field of vision.

"Augh!" Geno says.

"It's okay!" Sid says. "I'm in your body and you're in mine."

Geno blinks up at him. "Huh."

Flower comes over to crouch down on Geno's other side. "Geno, open your hand for me?"

Geno uncurls his clenched fist. He's still holding the crushed amulet.

Flower brushes the amulet out of Geno's palm with a pair of wooden tongs that he carries around for exactly this kind of circumstance. The pieces clink to the floor, but nothing happens.

Geno's palm has a red mark in the shape of the amulet, but the blisters and cut marks are fading already. Sid remembers the shock of pain when he'd closed his fist around the amulet, the searing release of energy when it had broken, right before he found himself in Geno's body.

Flower pokes at the amulet with the tongs, then holds his hand cupped over it, not quite touching it. His eyes unfocus for a moment.

"It still has some power in it, but it's fading," Flower says. "There's probably a piece or two of it trapped under Sid's skin, when you healed, which is why you haven't switched back."

"What happens when the power is gone?" Sid asks.

Flower waggles his hand back and forth. "Probably you change back! But, uh, maybe you're stuck like this?"

"Fuck," Sid says.

"This why you don't touch amulets, Sid," Geno says, and Flower snorts out a laugh.

Sid glares at Geno, who is giving him an angelic smirk with Sid's own mouth.

"Come on," Flower says. "We should go."

Sid thinks evil magicians should be based out of secret underground caves, or possibly expensive condos in downtown high rises, not an elegant little row house in a gentrifying neighborhood. It's not quite as elegant now, windows blown out, furniture tipped over and smashed, scorch marks from magical overload on the walls and floors. Sid wonders what the cops will make of the construct in the middle of the living room, flesh already transmuting back into clay and bone.

Flower pulls a little notice-me-not spell around them as they go out the front door. Olli's waiting in the van, a few spots down. His shoulders slump with relief when he sees them, but he double-checks their reflection in the rearview mirror before he unlocks the doors.

All of Sid's senses feel muffled, deadened. He can't smell anything other than the faint fake pine and old sock scent of the van, can't hear Olli and Flower's heartbeats. Geno's ribs and shoulders ache from the fight, and Sid isn't used to this low-level pain that doesn't go away.

"We can give it a day or two," Flower is saying as they drive. "If you don't switch back by the time the energy in the amulet is completely gone, Duper and I will start looking for a spell to switch you back."

"Okay," Sid says. It's not like he has a better plan.

They pull into the old warehouse that Flower calls their secret base. (Sid has lost that argument.)

The first floor of the warehouse looks like any other rundown warehouse waiting to be flipped in this neighborhood, empty, dusty, supporting a large population of spiders. Olli parks the van next to Flower and Geno's cars.

Geno stumbles a little getting out of the van and grips the side of the door so hard he dents it. Sid winces, but doesn't say anything.

Sid punches in the code to the little office in the near corner of the building. The only thing in the office is a flight of stairs down to the basement. There's another door at the bottom of the stairs, solid and heavy enough for a bunker, and warded for one, too. The first floor is a front, the lower level is where Sid lives and works. Sid hates the thought of turning into a pile of ash because someone didn't think before they opened a door.

The lower level has been finished and decorated like any modern home. In addition to Sid's rooms, there's a kitchen, a gym, a lounge, and a communication center (with both monitors for video surveillance and a mirror for scrying).

Duper looks up from his computer when they come in. He doesn't go into the field with them anymore, but he's too stubborn to quit all together.

"Wow," he says. "Flower said, but...your auras are really mixed up."

Sid ignores that comment. "Did Tanger check in?"

"Yeah," Duper says. "He said they got him, destroyed the body, scattered the ashes over running water. Everyone's fine, they're on their way back now."

Sid exhales, feeling that last hard knot of anxiety in his gut loosen up. He hadn't liked sending Tanger over to France with just the new guys, no matter how good Kessel and Hornqvist and Daley were, but this was their best shot at stopping the Puppet Master once and for all.

And if the worse that happened is Sid has to spend a few days remembering to not try to override Geno's autonomous nervous system, it's a small price to pay.

"Good," Sid says. "We can do the full debrief when everyone's back."

Flower, Duper, and Olli go home.

"You're staying, right?" Sid says to Geno. "No offense, but I don't think your apartment is set up for a vampire."

Geno nods. There's strange look on his face. "Sid, I'm-- I feel..."

He trails off. He sways closer to Sid and Sid can see his nostrils flare, see the tips of his fangs behind his parted lips.

"Oh!" Sid says. "You're hungry. C'mon, there's blood in the fridge."

Geno trails after Sid into the kitchen. Sid pulls a blood bag out of the fridge and hands it to Geno, then pulls a big mug out of the cabinet, a pair of scissors out of a drawer.

"It's better if it's warm," Sid says. He takes the bag back, snips off the corner, and pours the contents into the mug. He microwaves the mug for the exact amount of time he likes.

Geno gives the mug a dubious look when Sid hands it to him.

"Don't think about it too much," Sid says.

Geno snorts. He takes a careful sip, and a lot of expressions cross his face at once.

"It's better if it's--" Sid stops.

"Fresh?" Geno says. There's a hint of smile on the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," Sid says. It's better if it's live, if he's drinking from a person and not a mug. Bagged blood isn't bad, it just doesn't give him the same high as feeding off a person, and it's harder to ignore what he's actually consuming. Also, the texture gets a little off if it's not fresh.

"Hmm," Geno says. He drinks more.

Sid's stomach growls and he startles.

"You hungry, too," Geno says.

Oh, right.

There are microwave breakfast burritos in the freezer, for when the humans have a late night. Sid heats one up, pours himself some orange juice.

Microwave burritos are the bagged blood of human food, but he'd forgotten what grease and salt and cheese taste like.

Sid finishes the burrito and puts his glass in the dishwasher. Geno rinses his mug out and does the same. Sid yawns, and Geno moves his jaw like he's expecting to yawn, too, but it doesn't happen.

Sid looks at the clock. He can't feel dawn getting closer, the way he can in his own body, but he knows when sunrise is.

"You can have my room, all my clothes are there anyway. Um. Just -- remember not to go outside if you wake up before sunset."

Geno rolls his eyes. "Yes, Sid. Don't get hit by bus."

Sid huffs, but he probably deserved that.

Geno gives him a little wave and heads off down the hall towards his bedroom.

Sid looks at the clock again.

This body is tired, it's almost dawn, he should go to bed. But.

Just a few minutes won't hurt.

He takes the stairs up to the roof. When he opens the door, he flinches back instinctively. It's false dawn now, grey and hazy, but still so much brighter than he's seen in years. But Geno's body isn't bothered by it, so Sid takes a deep breath and steps out onto the roof.

He goes to the edge that overlooks the river. Off to the east, the horizon is getting brighter, soft, pale shades of pink and gold and white. The flat, smooth grey of the sky picks up a blue tint.

The sun eases up over the horizon, and Sid remembers to look away. The light makes the river shine like silver, makes the city glow like something new and perfect.

Sid can feel the sunshine on his skin now, warm and gentle. He closes his eyes and turns his face up into it, sits down hard and graceless on the roof without even meaning to.

He leans back, face tipped up to the sun, eyes still closed. Just a few more minutes.

Sid wakes up in the middle of the afternoon. There's a moment of panicky disorientation -- he's surrounded by sunshine and he doesn't know where he is - - and it makes his heartbeat jump, makes his breath come in fast, and for a second that's as disorienting as the sunshine.

Then he remembers what happened. He makes himself take a deep breath. He's stiff from having fallen asleep on the roof, the skin on his face feels hot and tight from too much sun, and he's hungry again. Thirsty, too. Human bodies are so demanding.

He goes back downstairs, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. Even though he's knows he's not in his own body, it's still a little bit of a shock to see Geno's face in the mirror when he goes to the bathroom. And, yup, he definitely got sunburned.

He showers, eats another frozen burrito, and checks his e-mail. Kris and the others made it to the airport, they're somewhere over the Atlantic now. Flower wants to know if they're still swapped. He says he's found some promising spells for switching them back, and he's pretty sure they don't even need the chicken for one of them.

Sid's checking the news and the police blotter to see if there's anything about the mess they left at Puppet Master's house when Geno comes in.

"Almost sunset," Geno says, and there's a vague, unfocused look on his face, like he's paying more attention to the feel of night coming on.

Sid checks the clock. "Yeah."

Geno looks at him, and his eyes narrow. "What did you..."

"I didn't get hit by a bus," Sid says defensively.

Geno shakes his head. He leaves the room, comes back a few minutes later with the bottle of aloe gel from the first aid kit. Flower and Duper are the ones who usually need it (witchcraft apparently involves a lot of minor burns), but it hadn't occurred to Sid to try that.

"Oh." He takes the bottle, squeezes a little onto his fingers. He he rubs it into his forehead and cheeks, and it helps. "Sorry. I just..."

"Want to see sunshine?"

He avoids Geno's eyes as he caps the bottle and puts it aside, weirdly self-conscious. He doesn't dislike being a vampire, he'd make the same choice all over again if it came down to it, but there are some things he misses. "Yeah."

Geno makes a thoughtful sound, but he doesn't say anything.

Sid looks back at the computer. Geno pulls his cellphone out, starts dialing as he wanders out of the room.

For a long moment, Sid can't concentrate on anything. He's too conscious of how quiet the room is, how loud his breathing sounds, the way he can't sense anything from Geno just a few feet away. How alive this body feels. Then a new e-mail from Flower pops up, and Sid has something else to think about for a while.

When Geno comes back, he's got a big paper bag that smells amazing even to Sid's human senses.

"Delivery," Geno says cheerfully.

"You got someone to deliver to a warehouse after dark," Sid says dubiously.

"Good place, know the owners," Geno says.

Well, Sid's always the one who says this isn't a secret base.

Sid follows Geno into the kitchen. Geno's taking containers out of the bag and setting them on the table. There are two different kinds of dumplings, cabbage rolls, dark brown bread and butter. One of the containers is different, a logo featuring the Eiffel Tower stamped on the lid.

"Creme brulee," Geno says.

"You know you can't eat any of this, right?" Sid says.

"Duh," Geno says. He shrugs, looks down and straightens one of the containers. "But I think -- you miss sunshine, maybe miss other things, too. I don't know what you like, so, here, all my favorites."

"Oh," Sid says. His face goes hot. God, he'd forgotten what blushing feels like, too. "Thanks."

He sits down and reaches for a fork. He makes an embarrassing noise on his first bite. Geno smirks, and it's so clearly Geno's expression on Sid's own face that Sid forgets to chew for a moment.

"Good?" Geno says.

Sid swallows. "Yes."

It's not the rush of pleasure that feeding is, but the taste of the food is so vivid, so different from blood, that it's its own kind of pleasure. Sid eats slowly, making every bite last. Geno doesn't say anything, just lets Sid concentrate on the food.

Sid licks the last of the creme brulee off his spoon, sweet and cool and rich, with that thread of bitterness from the burnt sugar crust. He looks at Geno, and says impulsively, "What do you want to do, or, um, try? As a vampire?"

Geno goes still for a second, his eyes snapping to Sid's face. Then he gives himself a tiny shake.

"I want jump off roof," he says.

"Ugh, really?" Sid says. "I never should have done that in front of you. Okay, fine, but only a small building."

"Are you sure?" Sid yells up from the sidewalk. "You don't have to."

Geno's standing at the edge of the warehouse roof, looking down. "Yes!" he yells back, but it's still another minute before he steps off.

Sid's heart freezes and Geno lets out a whoop as he falls. He lands with a hard slap of sound on the balls of his feet, letting his knees bend to absorb the shock. He bounces up, grinning.

Sid's heart starts beating again.

"Wow!" Geno says and laughs. He bounces on his toes, then turns and runs down the block, a blur of speed that Sid's eyes can't follow. He's back, suddenly, grinning wider. "Wow, wow. I want lift something. Car?"

"Sure," Sid says. "Maybe inside, though?"

They gather around the van.

"It's kind of awkward," Sid says. "You can't pick the whole thing up because it's not balanced right."

Geno makes a disappointed face. He still bends his knees, grips the front of the van. Sid backs up a few hasty steps.

"Also, maybe don't grab--"

The bumper comes off in Geno's hands.

"--the bumper," Sid says.

They look at the piece of metal.

"Oh, shit, Olli's going to be so pissed," Sid says, but he's grinning.

Geno sets the bumper on the ground, mouth pressed flat like he's trying not to laugh. He eyes the van again, and this time makes sure he doesn't grab anything that's going come off. Then he lifts the front of the van, all the way up over his head, the van tipping back onto its back bumper. Geno holds it there for a moment, then lowers it carefully back down again.

He flexes his hands, rolls his shoulders as he turns around to face Sid again. Sid knows the van isn't heavy enough for him to even feel it. Geno could have flipped it over completely with no more effort than knocking over a chair in his own body. Geno shakes his head, his face amazed, impressed.

Then he moves, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Sid takes a quick step back and hits the wall. Geno looks more startled than Sid, like he didn't mean to move that fast, and Sid almost laughs.

Geno inhales and his eyes drop to Sid's throat, and Sid doesn't feel like laughing anymore.

"Sid," Geno says. He meets Sid's eyes again, hesitating like he's not sure what he wants to say next. He finally settles on, "I always smell so good to you?"

Sid feels himself flush again. Geno smells human, without that prickle of magic that Flower and Duper carry, without the tang of iron of iron that Tanger and Daley have, without the musky scent of Kessel's bear form.

But it's not just that anymore, Sid thinks, it's the fact that it's Geno, familiar and sweet after all these years. He clears his throat. "Yeah."

Geno nods slowly. "Can I drink? From you?"

Sid feels a sharp little jolt of shock and want at the idea.

"I want know how it feel," Geno says, watching his face.

There isn't a good reason to say yes, and Geno would understand if he said no, if it was too personal to share. But deep down, Sid wants him to know, wants to show him this.

"Okay," Sid says.

Geno eyes go sharp and bright with anticipation.

"No biting," Sid says. Geno frowns, and Sid adds, "I don't want you to hurt, uh, yourself. This body."

Sid waits until Geno nods.

"Come on," Sid says, and leads Geno down to the infirmary.

Sid keeps it stocked for the kind of injuries they don't want to explain to an ER. He opens the supply cabinet and pulls out a sterile IV needle. He's wearing a t-shirt, so he doesn't have to roll his sleeves up. He washes his hands, scrubs the inside of his elbow with soap and water. He's amazingly conscious of the beat of his heart, just a little too fast, the quick rush of his breath, the tight coil of something that's almost excitement in the pit of his stomach. It's all such a human feeling.

Geno is standing by the door, watching his every movement, and Sid can feel his gaze like a physical touch.

Sid takes the needle packet and a packet of sterile gauze over to the exam table and hops up to sit on it. He opens and closes his fist a few times, taps the skin of his inner elbow. Geno's got good veins, at least. He rips open the wrapper of the needle, lines it up. He grits his teeth against the pinch of the needle as it goes in, then pulls it out.

A trickle of blood spills warmly down his arm. He can hear Geno's sharp inhale, but he can't smell the blood over the antiseptic smell of the room.

He looks up at Geno. "Well?"

Geno crosses the room in a heartbeat to stand in front of Sid. "You sure?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sid says.

Geno bends down and licks up the trickle of blood. Sid bites back a gasp. Geno doesn't know how to catch someone with his gaze and bring them into the feedback loop, so Sid wasn't expecting it to feel good. But the hot, velvet-wet drag of Geno's tongue on his skin sends a shiver down his spine.

Geno presses his mouth against the tiny wound on his arm, sucks at the skin, and Sid lets out a shaky breath.

Geno makes a deep, shocked noise in the back of his throat and sinks to his knees, and Sid feels a sudden irrational stab of envy over the fact that Geno is the one who gets to know what it's like to drink from this body.

Sid fed from Geno once, in an emergency, when he needed blood to heal himself. He doesn't remember it very well, just a vague impression of desperate hunger and pain, and the relief when it dulled. Geno still has the scars on his other arm, where Sid had been too careless with his bite.

(If Sid dreamed anymore, he thinks he would have nightmares about how he's pretty sure he wouldn't have stopped if Flower hadn't been there.)

Sid feels light-headed. He grips the edge of the exam table, but before he can say something, Geno lifts his head.

His mouth is smeared with blood, and his eyes are heavy, his face dazed, soft and open with the pleasure of it.

Sid feels a weird twist of embarrassment in his gut, to see his own face like that.

"That's enough," he says. He looks away, fumbles for the gauze.

Geno nods. "Wow," he says. It's slow and lazy and deeply satisfied, and it makes Sid's face go hot. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sid says, concentrating on applying pressure with the gauze. "Could you get me some orange juice? And a granola bar?"

Geno eyes him for a moment like he's not sure he believes him, but then he does as Sid asked.

When he comes back, he's cleaned the blood off his face. He gives Sid a glass of juice, and a granola bar he's already opened. Then he goes to the cabinet to find a band aid and extra gauze.

Sid's mostly stopped bleeding now, and he drinks his juice while Geno bandages him up. Geno's fingers are warm on his skin, flush with new blood.

"It always like that?" Geno asks, eyes on his hands as he works.

"Usually," Sid says. "When I'm hurt or starving, it's less, um, good. Until I get enough."

Geno makes a thoughtful noise. He looks up and meets Sid's eyes. "Thank you," he says. "For let me."

Sid nods. The envy has disappeared now. Geno deserves to know what it's like, to know what he's offering. If he ever offers. But it still makes him feel exposed, vulnerable.

"I need, this body needs to rest," Sid says. "I'm gonna--"

"Sure," Geno says. Sid slides off the table, and for a second, before Geno steps back, it's weird to loom over him.

Sid goes to lie down in one of the spare bedrooms. He wasn't lying, Geno's body is exhausted from sleeping badly, from the blood loss, from the fight last night.

He closes his eyes and remembers the feeling of Geno's mouth on his skin. If it felt like that for Geno without the feedback loop, then...

Sleep mercifully cuts that line of thought off.

Sid wakes up in his own body, in his own bed. His body is perfectly still, no pulse, no breathing, no blood rushing in his veins. No mysterious aches and pains. It's comfortable, familiar. More than comfortable -- he can still feel the hum of Geno's blood in his body.

Sid gets out of bed and heads for the kitchen. There's someone else there, he can hear their heartbeat and movements all the way down the hall.

It's Flower.

Flower eyes him over his bowl of cereal when Sid comes in. "Sid?" he says, and it's not quite a question.

"Yeah," Sid says.

"Nice," Flower says. "We don't need that chicken after all."

"Have you seen Geno?"

"No," Flower says.

"I'm just gonna check on him." If Sid's back in his own body, then Geno's got to be back in his, but Sid just needs to be sure.

Flower nods, and Sid moves on to the extra bedrooms.

One's occupied. Sid can hear a heartbeat on the other side of the door, steady and not quite slow enough for sleep. He knocks.

"Come in," Geno calls.

Sid opens the door. Geno's sitting up in bed, phone in hand. Sid feels better as soon as he sees him.

"Everything okay?" Sid asks.

Geno makes a big show of looking down his body and then back at Sid. "You not break anything, so..."

Sid rolls his eyes like he's supposed to. He hesitates in the doorway for a moment longer, then goes in, letting the door close behind him.

"It wasn't so bad, right?" he asks. "Being a vampire."

Geno frowns, serious now. "No."

Sid sits down on the edge of Geno's bed. If he were human, his heart would be beating too fast, but as it is, the tightness in his throat is only mental. "So if, if -- something happened, would you let me turn you?"

Geno goes still. "Something -- like what?"

"Like if you got hurt," Sid says. He's trying not think about Geno being the one with his stomach clawed open, with a sword through his chest. "Hurt bad. And there wasn't any other way to save you. Could I turn you into a vampire like me?"

Geno exhales and leans back against the headboard. "Wow, Sid."

Sid grimaces and looks down at his hands. "I know it's a big decision, and you don't have to say anything now, I just -- I don't want to have to decide someday whether to let you die or turn you into something you'd hate."

"I don't hate you," Geno says.

Sid nods. Geno reaches out and puts his hand on Sid's knee, squeezes gently until Sid looks up at him.

"I don't hate what you are," Geno says carefully.

"Oh," Sid says, and it's easier to believe with Geno watching him like that, so serious and intent.

Geno takes his hand back and smiles. "I like sunshine, I like food," he says, "but I like not die more."

"So you'll let me?" Sid says.

"Yes. But only for emergency."

Sid swallows back the urge to thank him. "Right."

"Always emergency with you, though," Geno says, grinning wider.

"It is not!" Sid says, and they're still bickering about it when Flower comes to tell them someone's been turning pigeons to stone in the park.

comments

FICLET: Jamie Benn/Tyler Seguin

2016-02-04T04:48:35Z

From bleep0bleep’s Random Prompt Generator.

"Once upon a time, the beautiful fairy prince Jamie--"

"Wait, what?"

"--Met the handsome fairy prince Tyler at a tournament where the most skilled knights and princes in all the land--"

"This isn't exactly how I remember it," Jamie says.

Tyler curls the baby he's holding close to his chest, covers her ear with his other hand. "Well, do you want me to tell our daughter the real story?"

Jamie winces. "Good point. Keep going."

The real story is Jamie and Tyler had a drunken hook-up at the All Star game in Ottawa. Or at least that's how it started.

They were the only two unbonded omegas at the game. Jamie still remembers how Tyler had smelled to him then, so sweet amidst the alphas and betas, who reeked of cockiness and aggression.

"You smell good," he said, slow and lazy with alcohol, ducking his head to press his face against the side of Tyler's throat. "Not like an asshole."

Tyler laughed and Jamie felt it like a touch. Tyler leaned into Jamie. "You could make me smell better," he said with a leer.

Jamie's rule had always been no hooking up with hockey players. But breathing in Tyler's scent, it was easy to tell himself it didn't count if Tyler was an omega.

And it was worth it the next day to see those alphas trip over their own skates when they caught the scent of Tyler still on Jamie's skin.

It was a fun time, the cherry on top of the All Star experience, and Jamie figured that was all it would ever be. He went back to Dallas and Tyler went back to Boston, and they'd spend the rest of their careers seeing each other twice a year on the ice, and maybe at Team Canada stuff, if they were both lucky.

Then Tyler got traded to Dallas.

Look, if you're going to have a drunken hook-up with someone you later have to work with, Jamie would 100% recommend Tyler.

When Tyler walked into the room for that first set of interviews over the summer, his face was tight and his smile was brittle, fake. He smelled like Jamie remembered, but with an acrid tang of anger under the sweetness.

Jamie's face felt scalding hot. He shook Tyler's hand and mumbled something. He hoped it was appropriate; the only thing running through his head was, oh shit I fucked a teammate.

But Tyler's expression eased and his smile became genuine. "Hi, man, good to see you again."

Lindy frowned. "You--"

"All Star Game," Tyler said easily. He squeezed Jamie's hand one last time and let go. "I'm really looking forward to playing with you."

Hockey, right. "Me, too," Jamie said, and his voice barely cracked at all.

Tyler didn't act like it never happened, he acted like it didn't matter. And he did it with such aggressive, cheerful friendliness that Jamie ended up going along with it out of self-defense.

After that last game against Anaheim, the last game of their playoffs, Tyler went home with Jamie and Jordie. Jordie got them all beers and they sat on the couch, drinking and nursing their wounds.

"Does it get easier?" Jamie asked.

Tyler grimaced. "No. I don't know, maybe. It's all worth it, though, when you finally do win."

Jamie ignored the sharp twist of envy in his gut. "We'll do better next year."

"For sure," Jordie said, and Tyler tapped his bottle against Jamie's.

Jordie went to bed eventually, but Jamie knew he wasn't going to fall asleep any time soon. Tyler stayed up with him. They talked about nothing, really, what they were going to do in the off-season -- training plans, charity gigs, family vacation.

"What are you going to do for your heat?" Tyler asked.

"Uh," Jamie said. "The usual?"

"Are you going to, um, spend it with anyone?"

"Oh! No," Jamie said.

Tyler gave him a careful, sidelong glance. "Do you want to spend it with me? I usually do it with Brownie, but he's got an alpha now, so."

Jamie blinked. "Um."

"I just thought -- it's better with someone. And we already know we can hook up and not have it be a problem on the ice." Tyler looked away from Jamie, picked at the label on his bottle. "You don't have to decide right now, if you want to think about it, or. Whatever."

Jamie had always gone though his heat by himself. He didn't want to risk bonding with an alpha, and he'd always figured there wasn't much of a difference between his toys and a beta or another omega. But he's thinking about it now, watching Tyler's long fingers, breathing in his scent, and maybe he was wrong.

"Yeah," Jamie said. "I want to spend it with you."

Tyler grinned at him. "Awesome."

They picked a week that worked for both of them, and talked to the team doctors about tapering off their suppressants on the right schedule. (They did not tell the doctors why they wanted to have their heat the same week.) Tyler made sure Brownie wouldn't be at the cabin. They brought in a shit ton of food and Gatorade and sex toys, and didn't do anything except eat, sleep, and fuck for three days.

Tyler was right, it was better with someone else. Jamie's heat didn't break any faster, but it was nice not to be alone, to have someone to laugh with and cuddle with afterwards.

When it was all over with, they showered and changed the sheets and spent the rest of the afternoon just lying around in bed, checking their phones.

Tyler made a face, and Jamie bumped his foot against Tyler's. "What?"

"Nothing, mom's just less subtle about angling for grandbabies this time of year," Tyler said.

Jamie snorted. After a minute, he asked, "Do you want that? A bond, marriage, kids?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean, I don't want to get pregnant until after I retire, but I want all that." Tyler rolled his head to the side to look at Jamie. "What about you?"

"Same. Not now, but some day." Maybe it was the hormones, but Jamie ended up saying, without really meaning to, "Assuming I can find an alpha willing to marry me."

"What?" Tyler said, half-laughing. "C'mon--"

"It's hard to get married if an alpha won't stick around for a second date. And most of them don't once I tell them I don't want get pregnant for another ten or fifteen years."

"Hey," Tyler said. He rolled over onto his side and put his hand on Jamie's chest, over his heart. "You've just been dating assholes. You're gonna find someone better, someone you're meant to be with, and it will all work out fine."

Definitely hormones. Jamie took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't want to be doing the casual thing for the rest of my career."

"You won't," Tyler said.

Jamie tried not to look dubious.

"You won't," Tyler said more firmly. "Here, look, this was great, right? Sleeping together."

"Yeah--"

"So if you're still not married by the time you're thirty, we'll make it official. No more casual shit. Rings, ceremony, kids after we retire. What do you say?"

Tyler was grinning at him, bright and wide. Jamie laughed, feeling the dull ache of self-pity chased away by the ridiculousness of that plan. "Yeah, all right. It's a deal."

"Good," Tyler said, flopping over onto his back again. "That gives you six years to trade up."

It's not like Jamie forgot about the plan. He just remembered it as a joke, Tyler teasing him out of his bad mood. And if the fact that it was a joke made him a little wistful sometimes, well. Hormones. Or stress. Or the cut of Tyler's hipbones in the shower.

Jamie dated, off and on, and Tyler hooked up with a string of omegas and betas. They still spent their heats together every summer, which was something to look forward to when his love life was especially non-existent.

(And despite what Jordie said, Jamie would have broken up with Rob anyway. He just he did it before the off-season because it was more efficient than trying to make it work over the summer.)

They won the Cup when Jamie was twenty-eight, and Jamie gritted his teeth through endless media speculation about his biological clock, about whether he and Tyler would retire and have babies now that they'd finally won.

After another frustrating interview where Jamie spent the entire time talking pointedly about next season, Jamie asked, "You're not, right? Going to retire?"

Tyler grinned, all teeth. "You know what winning a Cup makes me want? Another fucking Cup."

"Yeah," Jamie said, feeling that sharp adrenaline kick of want in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah, me, too."

("Do you think we could schedule our heats around our days with the Cup?" Tyler asked.

Jamie actually thought about it for a moment. Then he pictured meeting the Keeper of the Cup reeking of heat-sex, and said, "No, just-- no.")

Jamie turned twenty-nine that summer.

They didn't repeat.

It was Anaheim again, another first round exit.

"You want to, y'know," Tyler said, waggling his eyebrows, "before or after your birthday?"

"After," Jamie said. "I need something to look forward to during family time."

He was dreading that birthday a little. Thirty didn't mean the same thing to a professional athlete that it did to his mom and his sister, who had probably bought out all the "Dirty Thirty" merchandise in the greater Victoria area already. All those jokes about getting old stung more when his hips ached in the morning, when that playoff loss was still fresh in his mind and he could feel their window closing. When he was holding his nephews.

He loved his family, but he was glad to take the excuse to get out of town for a while after that.

Jamie had his own cabin on the lake now, so they didn't have to kick Brownie out. He went up a few days early, before that restless longing started crawling under his skin.

Tyler showed up like he always did, in a burst of laughter and cursing, dropping his bags in the front hall and yelling, "Honey, I'm home!"

Something hot shivered through Jamie's stomach when he caught Tyler's scent, sweet and sharp like always, just barely threaded through with the richer scent of his heat. Jamie let Tyler pull him into a back-slapping hug, and it was an effort to let him go after a minute.

Jamie stepped back and cleared his throat. "Food? I've got the grill going on the deck."

"Sounds great," Tyler said. He was still smiling, but his eyes were darker, heavier.

It felt like Tyler's presence brought his heat on even faster. By the time they were done eating lunch, Jamie felt breathless, flushed, aching with longing. Tyler's scent filled his nose, his mouth, until he couldn't even taste his steak.

They fucked on one of the deck chairs in broad daylight, grinding up against each other, kissing messy and desperate. Orgasm was a bright flash of pleasure that just took the edge off that deep want. Tyler was gripping Jamie's shoulders hard enough to bruise, and he blinked down at Jamie, slow, dazed.

A bird shrieked in the woods, and they both jumped and laughed.

"Maybe a bed for the next round?" Tyler said.

"Yeah," Jamie said. He very carefully did not look at the lake to see if anyone was out.

Later, when they were making out in bed, Tyler said, "Hey, I got you something."

"Hmmm?" Jamie said.

Tyler wriggled out of his grip, completely naked, and went over to his bag. He came back with something wrapped in tissue paper and handed it to Jamie.

Heat twisted in the pit of Jamie's stomach when he pulled the paper apart. "Handcuffs?" he said, and his voice sounded rough even to him. They were wide bands made out of soft, deep brown leather, lined with something silky. They had plain, brushed steel buckles and a length of steel chain connected them. They smelled new, expensive.

Tyler was watching him, serious and intent. "I wanted to do something special for your birthday."

Jamie let out a soft huff of laughter.

"Next time we can flip for it, but for now...lie down on your back?"

Jamie nodded and lay back. Tyler straddled his waist. He took the cuffs back, then picked up one of Jamie's wrists. Jamie let him buckle one cuff around wrist, stretched his arms above his head so Tyler could thread the chain through the metal bars of the headboard before he fastened the second cuff on his other wrist.

Tyler's motions were confident, precise, like he'd done this before, and Jamie's heartbeat sped up.

Tyler settled all his weight on Jamie's stomach. Jamie could how wet Tyler was, hot and slick against his belly, and his dick jumped against his thigh.

Tyler ran his hands through Jamie's hair, smiling down at him. "How's that?" he asked.

Jamie pulled against the restraints, and nothing happened. "Good," he rasped.

Tyler leaned down and kissed him, first his mouth, then the corner of his jaw, the side of his throat. He nipped at the muscle of Jamie's bicep, and Jamie sucked in a sharp breath. Tyler worked him over slowly, like he wanted to taste every inch of Jamie's skin, alternating kisses and bites.

Jamie was breathing in ragged gasps by the time Tyler got to his hips. Tyler blew a raspberry against the softness of Jamie's belly and Jamie jerked against the restraints, letting out a startled yelp.

Tyler laughed.

"Oh, fuck you," Jamie panted, and Tyler kissed his belly, open-mouthed and gentle.

Jamie shivered. Tyler slid his hand down between Jamie's thighs, stroked his fingers over where Jamie was all wet and open. Tyler slid two fingers into him, easy as breathing, and Jamie clenched down around him. Tyler pulled his fingers out and pressed in again, slow, lazy strokes.

Tyler brushed his mouth over the head of Jamie's cock, and Jamie moaned at the feel of it. He rolled his hips, trying to push up towards Tyler's mouth and down onto his fingers at the same time.

The first slide of Tyler's fingers had felt so good, but now it wasn't enough. Jamie exhaled, not quite a whine.

"You need more?" Tyler asked.

"Yeah." Jamie swallowed, took a deep breath. "Yeah."

Tyler eased his fingers out and Jamie's body clutched around nothing. Then something else was pressing into him, thicker, smoother, cooler. It was one of their knotting plugs. When the full width of it slipped inside him, Jamie's vision whited out with the stretch of it, the pressure inside him.

He was panting, open-mouthed. Tyler smoothed his hands down Jamie's side in slow, soothing strokes.

"Better?" Tyler asked.

Jamie couldn't make his voice work, so he just nodded.

Tyler smiled at him, and it had a filthy edge that made Jamie's breath stutter.

Tyler moved slowly, deliberately, kneeling up and straddling Jamie's hips. He reached behind him to grip Jamie's cock, and every muscle in Jamie's body clenched tight. Tyler rubbed the head of Jamie's cock against his ass, against that slick, soft opening.

"Oh, fuck," Jamie said, barely audible.

Tyler's smirk got wider and he sank down onto Jamie's cock.

It was, it was just so much, the lush, wet heat of Tyler's body around him, the stretch of the plug inside him, the heat running like fire under his skin.

Tyler rose up and sank down again, slow at first, then faster as Jamie adjusted. Jamie tried to reach for him and felt the jolt of the restraints all the way through his shoulders.

"Shhh," Tyler said. "I got you, just relax."

He braced his hands on Jamie's chest, holding him down. Jamie met his eyes, so intense and focused, and some of that frantic need inside him eased. He slumped back, stopped trying to keep his head above water, and just let it all wash over him.

When he came, it felt like it went on forever, all that desperate tension unfolding, disappearing in a rush of sensation too intense to be good or bad.

When he could take a deep breath again, he realized Tyler had undone the cuffs. He blinked sleepily at Tyler, who smiled down at him, leaned in to brush a kiss over his mouth.

Tyler knelt up, lifting himself off Jamie's softening cock. He climbed off the bed, and after a minute, Jamie heard the sink in the bathroom come on. Jamie should have gotten up, cleaned himself up a little -- he was a mess of Tyler's come and his own slick and sweat -- but he had no energy, and it felt like all his muscles were made of jello. His heat had broken, and all he wanted to do was curl up around Tyler and sleep.

Tyler brought a wet washcloth back to bed with him. He wiped Jamie's stomach off, eased the plug out of him and wiped his thighs down.

Jamie found enough energy to reach out, curl his palm over Tyler's thigh. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need..."

Tyler laughed. "I'm good. You came so hard you broke my heat."

He tossed the washcloth onto the nightstand and settled down next to Jamie, pressing close. He picked up Jamie's hand and checked his wrist, first one, then the other.

"They're fine," Jamie said. "I'm fine."

Tyler eyed him for a moment, then twined his fingers with Jamie's and let their hands rest on Jamie's stomach. It was Jamie's left hand, and Jamie was suddenly conscious of his bare ring finger.

"Happy birthday," Tyler said.

"Thanks," Jamie said. Let it go, he said to himself, looking at their linked hands, but it came out anyway. "I guess I couldn't trade up after all."

Tyler lifted his head, frowning. "Jamie, what--"

"Sorry, I was just -- remember what we joked about? The first time we did this? About how..." Jamie's voice wavered for a second and he couldn't fake a smile and still look at Tyler. "About how you'd marry me if I was still single when I turned thirty?"

"I wasn't joking," Tyler said, and for once when Jamie looked at him, he wasn't smiling. "I mean, maybe a little? It was a crazy idea. But I'd have married you then, and I'd marry you now."

"Fuck, Tyler," Jamie said. He was still holding Tyler's hand and he squeezed it tight, rolled over onto his side to kiss Tyler. "I couldn't trade up because no one is better than you. I tried, but no one makes me happy like you."

Tyler opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"I love you," Jamie said. He'd said those words before, screamed them in Tyler's ear on the ice, in the locker room, but they've never felt as right as they do now. "Let's get married."

"Wow," Tyler said. "That's better than 'my biological clock is ticking' as far as proposals go."

Jamie rolled his eyes, and Tyler reached up, gripped the back of his neck. "I love you, too. And yes, I'll marry you."

"For his wedding present, Prince Tyler won the magnificent magic silver cup of Lord Stanley for Prince Jamie," Tyler says.

"I remember it being more of team effort," Jamie mutters.

"And they lived happily ever after," Tyler says.

And okay, yeah, that's how Jamie remembers it, too.

comments

Ficlet, Beau Bennett/Paul Martin

2016-01-25T06:46:41Z

From bleep0bleep’s Random Prompt Generator.

Beau waits in the O'Hare airport hotel room and tries not to fidget or pace. The cheap carpet can't take that much more wear.

He watched the Sharks game on TV, but that's long over. If Paulie's gonna come, he should be--

The knock on the door is quiet, but it makes him jump anyway, even though that's what he's been waiting for.

He opens the door, and Paul's there. Some of that anxious tension in the pit of his stomach eases up. Paul's in his game day suit, his hair still damp around the edges from the shower. He looks tired.

Beau swallows back his first thought, I didn't think you'd come. "Hi," he says instead, stepping aside to let Paul in.

Beau can smell him as he walks by, so much sharper and brighter and, and realer than the betas that he sees everyday.

Beau knew another omega in college, but Paul is the only alpha he's ever met.

Beau knows what the rest of the world thinks about alphas and omegas, that they're freaks, an evolutionary mistake that hasn't had the courtesy to go completely extinct yet. It's why he's never told anyone he's an omega, not even the team doctors. Why it was such a shock and a revelation to walk into the Pens locker room three years ago and catch Paul's alpha scent.

Beau hooks the do not disturb sign over the door knob and closes the door, fastens the chain.

When he turns back around, he finds Paul watching him, his face calm and unreadable as always.

"How are you doing?" Paul asks.

Beau rolls his eyes, because his shoulder's fucked, he's going to be out until at least January, and he's going into heat on top of it. How does Paul think he's doing?

"Ah," Paul says, and the corner of his mouth twitches. He studies Beau's face. "And this is -- you still want to do this?"

Maybe if Beau wasn't injured, if he could pour all this restless, empty longing under his skin into playing, or practice, or working out, like he did in college, he would say no. He wouldn't have asked (begged) Paul in the first place to meet him somewhere, anywhere, and help him through this. But he can't, he needs--

"Yes," Beau says, harder than he means to.

"Okay," Paul says, and starts undressing.

Beau takes a deep breath, and Paul's scent fills his nose, his mouth. It's always scent that's the last cue, that pushes that longing over into heat.

It feels like there's a bonfire inside him, flaring slow and bright under his skin. He's wearing a t-shirt and sweats, and it's suddenly too much clothing. Why isn't he naked?

He pulls his shirt off over his head. His shoulder throbs, but it's muted under painkillers and the heat flooding through him. He shoves his sweats down over his hips and steps out of them. The air is cool against his bare skin. He's hard already, and he can feel his body changing, opening up, can feel himself getting wet.

Paul's down to his undershirt and boxers now. He inhales sharply, and when he looks at Beau, his eyes are dark, intent in a way that makes Beau shiver.

Beau closes the distance between them, ducks his head to press his face against the side of Paul's throat and breathe in deep. He smells warmer, muskier now, like Beau's heat. Beau told himself -- told Paul, too -- that he only asked because he doesn't know any other alphas. But he could have found another one, there are services that help alphas and omegas find each other, he could ask around. He doesn't want a stranger, though. He wants this.

Paul makes a low sound in the back of his throat and his hands come up to grip Beau's waist. Beau leans into him, rolls his hips against Paul's. Paul's hard under his boxers, and the pressure of it feels amazing against Beau's cock.

He bites down on Paul's shoulder. Paul hisses in a breath. He nudges his thigh between Beau's legs to give him something to grind up. He slides his hands up Beau's back, over his shoulders, palms hot and rough on Beau's bare skin. Beau rocks against Paul's thigh as Paul pets him, long slow strokes like he's mapping out the curves of Beau's muscle and bone. Everywhere Paul touches him is on fire.

Beau is breathing raggedly against Paul's shoulder, eyes closed. He forgets how hard and fast it hits, this mindless want, how it makes everything more intense.

Paul smooths his hands over the curve of Beau's ass, and Beau's hips jerk, grinding his dick into Paul's thigh. He can feel the wetness sliding down between his legs, knows Paul has to be able to smell it on him.

Paul dips his fingers between the cheeks of Beau's ass, just brushes over where he's so wet and open.

"Fuck," Beau says, and comes, orgasm rippling through him like a lightning strike.

It eases that strung-tight desperation under his skin, but that gnawing, bone-deep want is still there.

Beau lifts his head. "C'mon," he says, and his voice already sounds rough. "I need--"

The words get stuck in his throat, but Paul knows.

"Yeah, okay," Paul says. He squeezes Beau's hip, nudges him towards the bed.

Beau's come is all over Paul's shirt and boxers, and Paul peels them off easily, unbothered.

Beau crawls onto the bed on his hands and knees. He's careful to keep most of his weight on his good arm.

"Condoms are on the nightstand," he says.

Paul comes around to pick one up. Beau lets himself watch out of the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on Paul's cock, curving up out of the thick red-blond curls between his thighs.

Paul rolls the condom down over himself. The mattress dips as he settles behind Beau.

Beau lets his head drop forward, anticipation shivering through him. Paul touches his hip gently.

"Is this okay for your shoulder?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's fine," Beau says. "Would you just--"

Paul huffs out a breath. Then the head of his cock is pressing against Beau's ass, and the rest of Beau's commentary disappears in a shuddery exhale.

Paul slides into him slowly, and it feels so good Beau can't find the breath to complain about the pace. When he's all the way inside, Paul leans down over him and presses his mouth to the back of Beau's neck.

Beau pushes back against him, needing more, and Paul starts fucking him. Still slow, but deep, his hands tight on Beau's hips.

Beau's panting now. That tension is back, pulling his muscles tight, making his heart pound. Paul's hips snap hard against his and when he braces himself, he puts too much weight on his bad arm.

He can't help the sharp, hurt noise he makes. Paul curses and stops moving.

"It's fine," Beau pants. It's fading already, swamped by the heat inside him.

"No, hang on," Paul says. He pulls out and lies down on his back next to Beau.

Beau turns his head, frowning, and Paul raises his eyebrows. He's gripping the base of his dick, holding himself up, and oh.

Beau sits up and moves to straddle Paul's hips. He sinks down on Paul's cock and his eyes fall shut, his mouth opening on a soundless moan.

They've never done it like this. He likes the way they usually do it, likes the feel of Paul draped over him, holding him down, likes that he doesn't have to worry about what's on his face.

But this is...he rolls his hips experimentally, lifts up until just the tip of Paul's cock is inside him and sinks back down. This is pretty great, too.

Paul's good at fucking, Beau is never going to deny that, but this way Beau can set the rhythm, can take what he needs instead of feeling like he's always asking for more, harder, deeper.

Paul drags in a huge breath as Beau fucks down onto him again. Beau braces his good hand on Paul's chest, and he can feel Paul's heart beating like crazy under his palm.

Paul's looking up at him, flushed all the way down to his collarbones, his mouth bitten red and wet, his eyes dark and heavy. Something twists strangely in Beau's chest. He's never wondered what Paul's face showed when they were doing this.

Paul slides his palms over Beau's thighs and abs as Beau rides him. He rubs his fingertips over Beau's nipples, pinches one, and white hot sparks dance go off behind Beau's eyelids.

He digs his fingers into Paul's shoulder, his whole body strung so tight he's shaking, and then Paul touches his cock, just rubs his thumb over the slick head of him. Everything goes white and distant when he comes and his spine curls like a bow.

The hot, shining rush of it ebbs, but Paul is still hard inside him, still stroking his cock, and before Beau can catch his breath, it pours back over him like the tide.

He slumps over Paul's chest, panting for breath. It's still not enough.

"Hey, shh, I got you," Paul says. He sits up, eases Beau over onto his side, on his good shoulder.

Paul presses up behind him, nudges Beau's thigh forward so he can slide into him.

Beau breathes in deep and closes his eyes. Paul can't fuck him as hard or as deep as he wants like this, but it's okay, every stroke feels like it's building towards something inevitable, unstoppable. Paul's hand is pressed against Beau's stomach, and Beau flattens his palm over it, laces his fingers through Paul's.

He can feel the hesitation in Paul's rhythm, then Paul starts moving again, faster, not as smooth.

Paul shudders against his back and goes rigid. He says something low and rough that might be Beau's name, and then Beau can feel him swelling inside him.

Paul's knot stretches him, fills him up, and finally, it's enough. Beau's heat breaks, like cool water spilling over him. All the raw, scalding hunger seeps away, and he's satisfied.

Nothing hurts. He feels utterly boneless. His breathing evens out, and his heartbeat steadies.

Sex with betas is a lot of fun -- you can't go wrong with orgasms -- and it's never as desperate or frantic as a heat, but there's never this deep, calm peace afterwards. He knows it's just the endorphins of the heat breaking, but he can see why it would feel amazing with someone you loved.

Paul nuzzles his shoulder, his arm tightening around Beau's waist. He smells good, familiar, and Beau makes a soft, pleased sound.

"Thanks for coming," Beau mumbles.

Paul muffles a snort against Beau's shoulder, and Beau laughs. Coming. Heh.

His laugh turns into a yawn. "But really, thanks. I wasn't sure you would."

Paul goes still. "You thought I wouldn't help you?"

"You left," Beau says. And he means a lot of things: we're not teammates anymore, I'm not your responsibility anymore, you're on the other side of the country now. But under it all, he's a little surprised to realize he really does mean, you left me.

Paul's quiet for a long moment. "I would have stayed if you'd asked."

Beau's heart squeezes in his chest. "Did Pittsburgh--"

"No," Paul says. "I would have retired."

His voice is calm, easy, like it's nothing. Beau's chest squeezes tighter. "I don't, I'm not, we're not--"

"I know," Paul says, very gently. "That's why I didn't say anything."

"But..." he says, and it trails off into nothing, because his mind is running in a thousand different directions at once.

"It's okay," Paul says. "I know I'm just convenient for you, that you don't have anyone else to trust with this."

It's not just, but Paul's still talking.

"I should've -- I went to college with an alpha, she played basketball, I think you'd like her. And Nealer is friends with a guy who's an alpha, I can get his number. You don't have to--"

"Shut up," Beau says. God, he wishes he could see Paul's face. He twists halfway around, which isn't exactly comfortable, but at least now he can meet Paul's eyes. "I don't want you to retire for me."

Paul gives him a dry look. "Well, good, because--"

"But I don't want to do this with anyone else, either." Even if they're not a stranger, even if they're nice people, or friends of friends, or whatever. The words feel true and right in his mouth, and Beau can't believe he didn't realize this before. "I only want you."

It's hard to throw Paul Martin off balance, but Beau manages it. Paul looks blankly at him, opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Beau hooks his arm around Paul's neck and pulls him down into a kiss.

Paul makes a tiny, shocked sound against his mouth. Then he's kissing back, fierce enough to make Beau's lips tingle and his toes curl.

"Ow," Beau says after a long moment. It's an uncomfortable angle and he shouldn't be doing that with his arm.

Paul huffs out a laugh and lets Beau straighten himself out, settle back against his chest.

Beau threads their fingers together again. "I know what we were doing before wasn't really dating, so...maybe we could try that?"

"Long-distance?" Paul says.

"Yeah," Beau says. Paul's got a while before he has to think about retiring again, and maybe by then Beau will be ready to ask. But in the meantime...

He can feel Paul's smile pressed against his shoulder. "Yeah, let's date."

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FICLET: Connor McDavid/Dylan Strome

2016-01-18T05:00:45Z

From bleep0bleep’s Random Prompt Generator.

The MGM Grand isn't really a palace, but it's the closest Dylan's gonna get any time soon.

He drops his bags just inside the door. "Holy shit, man."

"I know, right?" Connor says. He's grinning, so pleased with himself.

It's a penthouse suite. Dylan has teammates with smaller apartments than this. The huge windows give an amazing view out over the Strip. There's a wet bar, a dinner table that seats four, and a living room with a sofa and a big flatscreen TV. The bedroom has its own TV and a walk-in closet, more views of the Strip. The bathroom is all marble and glass, with a separate shower and a soaking tub, and--

"Is that a bidet?" Dylan asks.

"Yeah," Connor says.

"Dude," Dylan says. "Did you have to give them a kidney to get this place?"

Connor shrugs. "I can afford a couple nights. How many times do you get to be a Calder runner-up?"

Dylan makes a face at him, but lets that comment go. They haven't given out the awards yet. "King size bed, huh?" he says instead.

"Yeah, well," Connor says, going pink.

"Cool," Dylan says.

Connor has media shit all day. His parents are coming in later (Connor got them an equally nice suite on a different floor), so Dylan's got nothing to do but hit up room service and hang out by the pool. One of them, anyway.

When he starts dozing off on the lounge chair, he goes back up to their room. He showers, tries out the bidet (weird, but he could get used to it), and changes into one of the plush bathrobes before he flops down on the bed with his laptop.

He wakes up slowly with that sluggish, disoriented feeling he gets from napping in hotels, even crazy expensive ones, apparently.

The TV's on, a low murmur of noise. It takes a minute for the sounds to register.

It sounds like porn, the slap of flesh on flesh and fake moans.

He rolls over onto his back, props himself up on his elbows. It is porn, gay porn, playing on the TV across from the bed.

Connor's sitting next to him, leaning back against the headboards. He's changed out of his suit, taken a shower -- his hair is still damp, sticking up in tufts all over his head. He's wearing one of the white fluffy bathrobes, too.

"Um," Dylan says, and Connor looks over. "Did you rent gay porn?"

Connor rolls his eyes. "No. I hooked your laptop up."

"What?" Dylan says. He sits up, and oh, shit, he recognizes that now.

"You've got some new stuff," Connor says.

"Why are you going through my porn?" Dylan asks.

"Why do you think, dumbass?" Connor stretches, raising his arms above his head, and the movement makes his robe fall open.

Connor's hard.

He and Connor fool around sometimes. Just handjobs, wrestling that turns into grinding. He'd say it was just a Juniors thing, but it still happens every now and then, even now they're both in the NHL. They've jerked off together before, watching porn, but it was always straight porn.

Dylan's porn collection has expanded over the last year, but it doesn't seem to bother Connor.

Dylan's cock is quickly getting interested in the proceedings, too. Connor smirks at him and Dylan says, "Ugh, fine."

Connor fishes a little bottle out of the pocket of his robe and squirts something into his hand before he tosses it to Dylan.

Dylan's expecting it to be lotion, but it's lube, real lube.

"Fancy," Dylan says.

"I had the front desk send up their romantic getaway basket," Connor says. "There's lube, condoms, massage oil, chocolate body paint..."

Connor's touching himself as he talks, long, lazy strokes.

Dylan squeezes some out into his own hand, flips the cap shut and drops the bottle on the bed. "You got plans for this trip that I don't know about?"

Connor huffs out a laugh. "It seemed better than asking for just lube."

Dylan wraps his slick hand around his dick, gives himself a squeeze. It takes him no time at all to get completely hard. He settles back more comfortably against the headboard, spreads his thighs a little wider.

Up on the screen, Colby Keller is eating some skinny guy's ass out, and Dylan's heartbeat kicks up a notch. He can see Connor out of the corner of his eye, the easy movement of his hand on his dick, the tense and flex of his foot when he twists his palm over the head of it.

They're both quiet now, breathing faster.

Connor bumps his elbow against Dylan's. "Hey, you wanna..." He trails off and taps the back of his free hand against Dylan's thigh.

"Yeah, sure," Dylan says.

They scootch closer to each other, until their shoulders are brushing. Dylan reaches out and grips Connor's cock, and Connor puts his hand in Dylan's lap.

Connor's the wunderkid, he can use his off hand. Dylan knows he's good with both.

Connor's grip is firm, confident. It's not exactly what Dylan would do for himself, but it's still somehow better than just jerking himself off. Dylan rubs his thumb up under the head of Connor's dick, tries to find a steady rhythm.

On screen, Colby has flipped the other guy over onto his back. He's still eating him out, the other guy's legs thrown over his shoulder. Dylan's mostly watching the porn, but his attention keeps wandering to Connor's dick in his hand, the way the flushed, wet head appears and disappears in his fist as he jerks him off, the way he can feel Connor's pulse when he presses his thumb against the vein on the underside, the shiver of Connor's thigh when his wrist brushes against it.

"You ever try that?" Connor asks. There's an edge of roughness to his voice now.

Dylan blinks, startled, and looks back at the TV. Colby pushes two fingers inside the other guy, slow and smooth, all the way up to the edge of his palm. He twists his hand and the guy moans, his dick jerking against his stomach. Colby slides his fingers almost all the way out, tugs a little at the rim of the other guy's asshole.

"Yeah," Dylan says, and his voice comes out breathy and rough, too. He coughs. "I mean, you know, by myself. You?"

Connor makes a face. "Once or twice, but it felt weird. Did you like it?"

On the screen, Colby sinks both his thumbs into the other guy's ass, holds him open to lick into him. Dylan swallows, tries not to push up into Connor's fist.

"Yeah," Dylan says. "You gotta, I dunno, practice."

Connor jacks him off a few more times, slides his hand down to cup Dylan's balls, rolling them in his palm. He presses the tips of his fingers against the skin behind Dylan's balls, and Dylan can see where this is going.

Dylan lets go of Connor and wriggles a little further down onto his back, spreads his legs wide.

Connor goes still, watching him with wide, serious eyes.

Dylan nudges him with his knee. "C'mon, this is what you were angling for, right?"

Connor bites his lip.

"Lube," Dylan says.

Connor slowly picks up the bottle and squeezes some onto his fingers. He slicks it over Dylan's asshole, fingertips just brushing against his skin.

"Just one," Dylan says.

Connor nods. His eyes drop to his hand and Dylan feels him press the tip of his middle finger against his asshole, almost hesitant.

For a second, Dylan wants to clench up, squirm away, but he breathes out carefully and the moment passes. Connor's finger sinks into him.

He didn't tell Connor to go slow, but he doesn't have to, Connor doesn't rush it. Dylan hisses in a breath. He really does like the stretch of it, that feeling of invasion, penetration, but it's different when it's someone else doing it. Better? Different.

Connor hesitates with his knuckles pressed up against Dylan's ass. He's chewing on his lower lip, frowning faintly. He glances over at the TV again, like he's looking for direction on what to do next, and Dylan almost laughs. They've moved on to straight-up fucking now onscreen, which clearly isn't helpful.

"So--" Dylan starts, and Connor pulls his hand back. His finger drags over something that sends a hot shock of sensation through Dylan's balls.

Dylan gasps, grips the base of his dick so he doesn't come all over himself.

"Whoa, was that good or bad?" Connor says.

"Good," Dylan says. "Do that again."

Connor pushes back in, but he doesn't hit the right spot. It still feels good, the stretch and pressure of it. Connor's watching him, focused and sharp, eyes flicking between his hand and Dylan's face. He finds Dylan's prostate on the next stroke, and Dylan squeezes his dick, a little spurt of precome dripping on his stomach.

Connor's moving faster now, more confident. He doesn't hit the sweet spot on every stroke, just enough to keep Dylan on edge, to wind that tension at the base of his spine even tighter.

It's not enough, though.

"Give me another," Dylan pants.

Connor looks up at Dylan's face, and he doesn't argue, doesn't ask Dylan if he's sure. He pushes back in with two fingers and Dylan's mouth falls open. He digs one heel into the mattress, grinds down on Connor's fingers. His hand stutters on his dick as he loses his rhythm.

Connor grips Dylan's wrist with his other hand. "Can you come just from this?" he asks, twisting his fingers inside Dylan.

Dylan blinks, tries to form a coherent sentence. "Not if you're the one doing it, fuck."

What Connor's doing is great, it's awesome, but it's just not enough.

Connor makes a face at him, but he lets go of Dylan's wrist. Dylan let his head fall back as he starts jerking himself off again, fast and ragged. It's like running full tilt down a hill, all this energy and momentum building under his skin, and if Connor would just--

Connor does.

"Fuck," Dylan shouts. He comes, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, shooting all over his chest and stomach. He clenches down around Connor's fingers and that sends another shockwave through him, dragging out the orgasm. His heart is beating like crazy and he's panting for breath.

Connor curls his fingers inside Dylan and that doesn't feel nearly as good. Dylan shudders, kicks at Connor's knee.

"Quit that," he says, and he's a little surprised at how hoarse his voice is.

"Sorry," Connor says. He eases his fingers out, a weird tugging feeling that leaves Dylan feeling empty, exposed.

The afterglow kind of makes up for that though.

Connor rubs his thumb along the rim of Dylan's ass. He's flushed deep red, and his eyes are wide and dark when he looks up at Dylan again.

"Can I come on you?" Connor asks.

Dylan's eyebrows go up. "Kinky," he says. But hey, if it minimizes how much he has to move. "Yeah, sure."

Connor goes up to his knees, shuffling closer to Dylan.

He drops a hand to his cock, starts stroking himself. He's biting his lip, his hand moving desperately fast. He sways and Dylan reaches out, braces his hip, his palm on Connor's bare skin.

Connor's eyes snap to his, wide and startled, and he comes, warm and slick against Dylan's skin.

Connor's eyes close, and he slumps back onto his heels. He's breathing fast, smiling a little when he opens his eyes again.

Dylan smiles back. Then he grimaces at the mess on his stomach. "Get me a washcloth," he says.

Connor's always more amped up after sex anyway.

Connor heaves a huge, put-upon sigh, but he goes and gets a wet washcloth.

Dylan wipes himself off and Connor stretches out next to him, his head on the same pillow.

"Okay, maybe I do have plans for the rest of the basket now," he says.

Dylan snorts, then yawns. "We can discuss." Honestly, he's probably up for it.

Connor bumps their bare feet together. Dylan's almost asleep when he says, "Hey, we're going to do this next year, too, right?"

"Hmm?" Dylan rolls his head to the side to look at him.

Connor turns his head, too, close enough to kiss. "When it's your turn for the Calder."

That's a year away, at least, and Dylan knows better than to think there's any guarantees in this sport, but. "Yeah, for sure."

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FICLET: Jordie Benn/Jason Demers

2016-01-13T00:06:49Z

From bleep0bleep's Fic Prompt Generator.

"So your New Year's resolution is to find love, huh?" Jordie says, smirking at him over his beer bottle.

Jason makes a face at him. "It sounded better in my head." Less pathetic or something.

Jordie glances around the bar, then leans in close. "How about Mr. Right Now instead?"

Jordie's breath is hot on the side of his neck, his thigh solid against Jason's. Jason swallows and doesn't quite suppress a shiver. Good to know all that flirting since he's been here wasn't just in his head.

"Yeah, I can work with that," he says.

This may be a terrible idea in the long run, but damn it's gonna be fun in the short term.

"When I said I'd go with you to your sister's birthday party, I wasn't expecting this," Jason says, eyeing the banner that says ALL MALE NUDE REVUE!! TONIGHT ONLY!!

"Oh, really?" Jordie says.

Jenny sees them when they walk through the door and waves them over to her table. Jamie's there already, looking resigned and slightly uncomfortable. Jason's not sure if that's because of the dancers or the half dozen women at the table, all Jenny's friends.

Jenny stands up and gives Jason a hug, kisses his cheek. "Jordie had to bring moral support, huh?"

"I guess so," Jason says.

"Wuss," Jenny says.

She hugs Jordie, then nudges them into chairs. There's a pitcher of something pink on the table. Jamie's halfway through a beer, but Jason doesn't bother looking around for their waiter, just pours himself a glass of whatever it is.

It's strong at least.

"I don't want to sound judgy, but this seems like kind of a weird family activity," he says to Jordie.

"Jenny likes to see us suffer," Jordie says.

"We, uh, may have screwed up last year's birthday and promised we'd do anything she wanted this year to make it up to her," Jamie says glumly.

And, well, Jason understands that level of sibling pettiness.

"So when you asked if I was free this week and wanted to visit you..." Jason starts. He keeps his voice low, because in theory he's visiting both of the Benns.

Jordie grins. "Jenny is right, I needed the moral support."

Jason shakes his head.

He doesn't know how he feels about that. Jordie asked him to visit over the summer, which is more than Jason was expecting. But if he just did it because he didn't want to go to this party by himself... Jason finishes the pink thing in one long gulp and pours himself another. He doesn't know how he feels about a lot of things with Jordie anymore.

No, that's not true, he knows exactly how he feels. Somewhere between the sex and the secret pre-game rituals and the Dairy Queen runs after games, Jason fell for Jordie. And Jordie still thinks this is just friends-with-benefits.

"Hey, could you pass me the cosmos?" the blonde across the table from him says, and Jason pushes those thoughts away, manages a mostly genuine smile.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he says, and slides the pitcher towards her.

He makes small talk with her and the women on either side of her. He even gets Jamie to chip in a few comments. He's conscious the whole time of Jordie sitting next to him, even Jordie doesn't touch him, doesn't so much as bump their knees together under the table. Maybe visiting was a mistake, if they're going to spend so much time pretending nothing is going on.

The lights go down suddenly, and there's an excited murmur from the crowd. A spotlight flares on stage, illuminating guy in a sharp black suit with a bright red shirt and a matching red rose in his lapel. He's got dark hair, gelled back off his face, and a pencil thin mustache.

"Ladies," he says.

Jason thinks he sounds kind of smarmy.

The MC's eyes catch on Jenny's table. "And gentlemen," he adds. "Welcome to a very special evening. We have an exceptional line-up for you tonight, and I know you won't be disappointed. For those of you who want something a little more...daring, you have the opportunity to buy a card from one of my assistants that will entitle you to be a part of the show tonight, on stage. But there's only a limited number, so act fast."

Jason sees a couple of men in booty shorts and Chippendale-style cuffs and collars moving through the crowd, holding up oversized playing cards.

Jenny stands up immediately and starts waving. One of them stops at their table.

"It's fifty dollars," the guy says. "You get to go up for a personal dance when they call your card."

"Sold," Jenny says. She pokes Jordie. "Pony up, bro."

Jordie sighs but digs out his wallet. Jenny ends up with the Queen of Diamonds.

"Let's get right to it," the MC says. "The reason you're all here tonight... Put your hands together for the men of the Starlight Review!"

"I'm Too Sexy" starts blasting through the speakers, and five guys strut out onto the stage.

They're wearing costumes. Sort of. Police officer, fireman, construction worker, cowboy, military officer.

"Is that the Sexy Halloween version of the Village People?" Jason says, under his breath.

"Nah, there wasn't a Top Gun guy in the Village People," Jordie whispers back.

The women whoop and cheer as the guys pose. Jason's seen hotter guys wearing less clothing, but maybe the women of Victoria don't have that many options.

The guys parade off, all except for the one in the police officer costume. (Jason's pretty sure real police uniforms aren't supposed to be unbuttoned to the waist, or be that tight through the ass.)

"Officer Kevin is here to demonstrate the long arm of the law," the MC says.

Jordie tries to turn a laugh into a cough. Jenny pokes him in the ribs.

Officer Kevin has a square jaw and light brown hair cropped close to his head. "Love Shot" comes on and Officer Kevin starts stripping. Dancing, whatever. He peels his gloves off slowly, tosses them out to the crowd. He slowly shrugs out of the uniform shirt, revealing a tanned, cut chest. He swings the shirt around over his head and Jason lets his attention wander.

The crowd is into it. Jamie is bright red but he's laughing at something the girl next to him is saying. Jordie and Jenny have their heads close together, chirping each other just quietly enough that Jason can't hear what they're saying, only see their body language and their smiles.

There's a ripping-Velcro sound from the stage and the crowd screams with delight. Jason looks back in time to see a pair of pants being tossed towards the back of the stage.

Officer Kevin is now wearing just combat boots and a black jockstrap. He pumps his hips a few more times, flexes to the beat, and the music gets quieter.

The MC comes back on stage to say, "I'm afraid the Queen of Hearts has been a very naughty girl. Officer Kevin is going to have to conduct a full body search on her."

There's an excited oooo from the crowd.

"If the Queen of Hearts would come up on stage..."

A woman who looks old enough to be Jason's mom is helped up onto the stage. She's blushing and giggling, patting her curls back into place.

One of the assistants puts a straight-backed chair in the middle of the stage. The MC makes a big show of kissing the woman's hand and leading her over to it.

"What's your name, my dear?" he asks.

"Laurie," she says into the mic, a little flustered, but smiling delightedly.

"And have you been a bad girl, Laurie?" the MC asks.

"Oh, I, um. No?" she says.

"I'm afraid Officer Kevin still insists on the full body search," the MC says.

He steps back and the music comes up. Officer Kevin runs through the motions of "patting her down", with a lot more ass-shaking than Jason thinks is necessary in a real body search.

Laurie is flushed pink, still giggling. She bites her lip when Officer Kevin waves his admittedly pretty nice ass in her face, and Jason's pretty sure her appreciation of the moment is not purely humorous. Or aesthetic.

She's clutching a handful of bills, and when Officer Kevin turns around again, she shoves them into his jockstrap. Officer Kevin doesn't miss a beat. A true professional.

He flashes her a dazzling smile, lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles.

The music trails off, and the MC says, "Well, Officer Kevin? Are you going to have to break out the handcuffs?"

"No, she's clean," Officer Kevin says, and Jason would swear Laurie pouts.

The assistant leads Laurie off the stage. Back at her table, her friends are laughing and asking questions. There are a few appreciative hand gestures. Laurie fans herself exaggeratedly.

The cowboy, Sam, is up next. He's got long, thick brown hair and a great smile. He isn't as ripped as Officer Kevin, but Jason thinks he's cuter. He also fills out his ass-less chaps pretty well, too.

At the end of his routine, the MC comes back on stage to say, "Sam here is looking to rope and ride a pretty little filly, the Queen of Diamonds."

Jenny cackles and picks up her card, slaps it into Jamie's hands. "You're up."

"Um. What?" Jamie says. "No--"

"That purse was vintage," Jenny says. "I'm never getting the puke out of it."

Jamie shoots the stage a terrified look. "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry, but--"

Jordie rolls his eyes and grabs the card. "I'll do it."

Jenny and Jamie both hesitate for a second, glancing at Jason like he's got anything to contribute to this conversation. He shrugs.

Jordie is already on his way to the stage.

The MC's eyebrows go up when Jordie hands him the card.

Someone in the audience yells, "Take your shirt off!" and there is a chorus of encouragement.

Jordie gives that table a little wave.

"Well, I think Sam's flexible enough to rope a stallion, too," the MC says.

Cowboy Sam has an actual lasso in his hands now. He's grinning, and Jordie grins back. Jordie sits down on the chair.

"Pony" comes on, and Jason snorts so hard he hurts something.

Sam's spinning the lasso like he actually knows what he's doing and on the beat he drops it over Jordie's head and shoulders, pulls it snug around Jordie's arms and chest.

There's a thrilled gasp from the crowd.

He lets the end of it drop and moves in to straddle Jordie's thighs. It's right up at the edge of what might be considered a lapdance, a lot of shimmying and hip thrusts, not a lot of actual contact. Jordie's not blushing or laughing. There's a little smile on his mouth, and he keeps his hands flat on his thighs.

The audience loves it. Something twists sourly in his gut, and Jason drags his eyes away from the stage, pours the last dregs of the cosmos into his glass. He feels someone watching him and looks up, meets Jenny's eyes on accident.

There's a tiny frown on her face, but it disappears immediately. "It would have been funnier if it was Jamie," she says.

Jason tries to picture it. "We're gonna need him next season. Please don't give him an aneurysm."

Jenny laughs. "No promises."

The music winds down and Jason looks back at the stage. Jordie's holding up a couple of folded bills between his index and middle fingers, so Sam can take them. Sam dips his knees and bumps his hip against Jordie's hand, and Jordie tucks the bills under the strap of his jock.

Sam's smile looks very unprofessional, Jason thinks snottily.

Sam takes the rope off of Jordie and Jordie leaves the stage. Jason grabs the pitcher.

"Next round's on me," he says, and heads for the bar.

Waiting to catch the bartender's eye, he kicks himself for that stupid, irrational burn of jealousy.

He's mostly got it under control by the time he gets back to the table, but his smile still feels a little fake when Jordie grins at him.

The rest of the show is more of the same. By that point, Jason's had enough cosmos that he can get into it, clapping and yelling with the rest of the women. Claire across the table from him catches the mirrored sunglasses one of the guys tosses into the crowd, and Jason high fives her.

Once the show's over, it turns back into everyone laughing and talking and drinking.

Jordie goes to the bar for another round and gets stopped by a bachelorette party a couple tables over on his way back. He throws his head back and laughs at whatever they say, and Jason looks away.

Jordie asks him every now and then how the New Year's resolution is going, and Jason always shrugs and says, "It's whatever. It's going."

That had been the first clue that maybe he'd gotten in over his head, when he'd rather hang out with Jordie than go on a date with someone new. He doesn't tell Jordie he's not really making an effort anymore. He doesn't ask Jordie if he's making an effort either.

"Where's my brother?" Jenny asks.

Jason jerks his chin towards where Jordie is still talking to one of the women, all smiles and eye contact, his and Jamie's beers forgotten in his hand.

Jenny scowls. "Jordie!" she yells.

Jordie looks over, and she makes an impatient come here gesture. Jordie says something to the girl, touches her elbow with his free hand, then makes his way over to their table.

Jenny smacks his arm as soon as he's within reach.

"Ow!" Jordie says. "What--"

"God, who raised you? Don't flirt with other people in front of your boyfriend!" Jenny says.

Jason freezes. The words he's not my boyfriend get stuck in his throat. Jordie's eyes snap to his face, but he doesn't say anything either. The moment stretches out and Jason can't think of a single thing to say.

"Oh, hey, is that my beer?" Jamie asks. "Thanks, dude."

That weird, heavy tension breaks, and Jason exhales. Jordie looks over at Jamie, hands him the beer.

Things wind down after that, and eventually everyone is hugging and saying goodnight.

"Come next year," Jenny says. "Way less strippers and sibling revenge."

Jason laughs. "I'll see what my schedule's like."

"Sorry for springing that on you," Jordie says when they get in his truck.

"No, you're not," Jason says.

Jordie grins, shrugs, doesn't deny it.

"You should have brought Tyler," Jason says. "He would've fit in better."

"Nah, if I'd brought Tyler, he would have gotten us all kicked out for trying to get up there on the stage and take his clothes off, too. And then I'd owe Jenny two birthdays."

"Yeah, you definitely don't have to worry about that with me. Good choice."

They come up to a red light and Jordie glances over at him. "It's not the only reason I invited you," he says. His voice is soft now, serious.

Jason's breath hitches. "No?" he says carefully.

"I wanted to spend time with you. I didn't want to go the whole summer without seeing you," Jordie says.

"Oh," Jason says. He's not sure what Jordie's trying to say. He doesn't, he wants -- "You didn't say we're not boyfriends."

"Neither did you," Jordie points out.

"No," Jason says. Jordie is watching him steadily, cautiously. Jason takes a deep breath. "I know we said at the beginning that this was going to be a casual thing, but I don't want it to be casual anymore. So, um."

Jordie leans across the front seat and kisses him, soft and deep. "Me, neither," he says.

Jason realizes he's holding his breath. "Good," he says.

Someone honks behind them. Jordie flips them off without looking, but he does sit back and start driving.

Jason's mouth tingles with the heat of the kiss and he feels light, unburdened. He laughs.

Jordie slants him a sideways glance. "So does this check off your New Year's resolution or what?"

"Maybe," Jason says. "I've got five more months to decide."

But he's pretty sure the answer is yes.

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Ficlet: Finn/Poe/Rey (Star Wars)

2016-01-06T13:12:30Z

(From bleep0bleep’s Random Prompt Generator.)

Master Luke doesn't believe apprentices should be trained in isolation.

For the first months of her training, it's just the two of them at the old Jedi temple, while she learns to shield herself from the thoughts and emotions of others, while she learns enough control not to yank a chunk of wall the size of an astromech across the practice grounds when all she wanted was the palm-sized rock on top of it.

But Master Luke encourages her to write to Finn and Chewie and BB-8 while she's there.

Finn is an enthusiastic correspondent. Rey loses count of how many holos they send back and forth. (She has them all saved, though.) They talk about their days, what they're learning, complain about their chores and their conditioning routines. Half of Finn's holos have Poe in them -- It's Rey, say hi to Rey, Poe! -- and Poe always looks tolerantly amused, smiling at the camera, Hi, Rey.

"Is he your boyfriend yet?" Rey asks, and Finn says, "No."

Why not? Rey wants to ask, but Finn looks disappointed, so she doesn't.

When Master Luke feels she has enough control to train around other people, they rejoin the Resistance.

Finn is waiting when they land. He whoops and starts running towards her as soon as the Falcon's ramp comes down. BB-8 is right behind him, beeping excitedly.

Over his shoulder, Rey can see Poe, still standing by his X-wing. He's smiling a little, but it looks sad, somehow, resigned. It's an expression she's seen many times on Jakku, on the faces of people who come to trade away some precious thing, one last link to their past, because they have no other choice. She doesn't like that expression.

Then Finn reaches her, sweeps her up in a huge hug and spins her around. She laughs and hugs him back, but a tiny corner of her mind is thinking, Well, clearly, we're going to have do something about this.

Everything Rey knows about seduction she learned from Atika Grynne, the old woman who had been the only healer in Niima Outpost.

Rey went to see her when her menses started, terrified that she'd gotten radiation sickness from a leaky power core. Atika had explained the menstrual cycle and human reproduction to her.

"Is that -- comfortable?" Rey asked.

Atika cackled. "Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, more than comfortable."

Rey frowned.

Atika studied her face. "You don't have access to the tools of seduction -- artful cosmetics, beautiful robes, fine underthings," she said. "But your youth and beauty could still take you far, with the right people."

"I don't want to go far," Rey said. "I need to stay here."

Atika made a little suit yourself gesture, and took the carefully cleaned circuit board Rey brought for payment.

Rey has access to those things now.

She tries cosmetics first. Jess's mechanic friend, Ayla, does videos on the intranet of how to apply cosmetics in the fashion of different humanoid species throughout the galaxy.

Rey watches three of them and realizes they require the same level of hand-eye coordination as rerouting a power conduit in flight. That's going to take too much time to learn.

She looks for beautiful robes next. The Resistance base is not located in a metropolitan area -- in fact, it is currently located in the middle of an ocean -- but there are electronic catalogs from stores in neighboring systems. Rey scrolls through the ones that remind her of a few people she'd seen -- women and men both -- visiting Niima Outpost with traders or smugglers, the ones who had not bargained or crewed. Image after image of women draped in rich fabrics, colors she didn't know existed.

Master Luke has given her an allowance, so she can buy things on base or at a market, but most of those robes would take everything in her tiny account. And more than that, there is so much fabric, meters and meters of it. It would take up so much space, and require so much care, and she needs to travel light. Regretfully, she closes those catalogs.

Fine underthings, though.....They are not as expensive as the robes, and they would take up so little space.

"What do you think?" she asks Finn, showing him the prettiest image, the set made of gold and silver lace and Xythian silk in the same pale pink color as the inside of the shells that wash up on the edge of the airstrip.

Finn makes a tiny, choked sound. "Oh," he manages. "Wow."

"Do you think Poe would like it?" she asks.

"I think he would have to be dead not to like it," Finn says. They watch the tiny holo primp and pose for a moment. Then Finn says, "Do you think that's something men can wear, too?"

They search the catalog.

It is.

"Ohhhh," Rey says. Her face feels hot and her stomach feels fluttery. "Wow."

They order one set in Rey's size and one set in Finn's, to be picked up the next time they make a supply run to Medevyn.

Finn is the one who says, "We should take Poe somewhere romantic."

Finn's idea of somewhere romantic is formed entirely by the holovids he's watched in the Resistance's off-duty lounge. The most popular options are:

A diplomatic ball
A private meal in a restaurant lit by candles or synthlumn lanterns
A secluded place to watch a sunset, meteor shower, or the mating flight of the bioluminescent Trellian wasps

There are no diplomatic balls in their foreseeable future, the mess hall is loud and disappointingly well-let, and the only place you can watch a sunset or meteor shower from on base is the airfield, which is neither secluded nor particularly comfortable.

Clearly, they need another option.

"Like the Millennium Falcon?" Rey asks.

"No," Finn says. "Just -- no."

He asks the other pilots and the general consensus is that the most romantic place to take your partner on base is the aquarium.

After the Resistance left the Ileenium system, they regrouped on Embu, a planet that is almost entirely ocean. The inhabitants had built great floating upside down cities, with only their airfields exposed to atmosphere, everything else beneath the surface.

Embu has been devastated by war and the loss of trade. The city they've settled in was almost empty when they arrived, stripped down to bare necessities. In peace time, the living quarters and public spaces would have windows that looked out on the ocean around them, but they've been shuttered by blast doors in case of attack.

But the aquarium is still intact.

It's not exactly an aquarium, that's just what everyone calls it. It's more of an underwater viewing platform for the ocean.

Poe agrees readily enough to come explore it with them when they're all off-duty. Finn packs a little picnic, just a blanket and lunch -- "No, ration bars are not romantic, Rey!" -- and they all troop over.

The top level has two parts. They wander through the east side first, a huge semicircular room made of perfectly clear plasteel, so you could see through the ceiling, walls, and floors. There are a few other pairs and groups of off-duty personnel, looking out the windows or lying on blankets on the floor, watching the schools of brightly colored fish and the invertebrates with the cream and pink shells that hover in the shallow water above them.

The west side is a branching series of plasteel bubbles that snake through the seaweed gardens on the edge of the city. The long strands of seaweed, deep green and bronze and maroon, drape and flow around the bubbles, making each one a cozy, private room.

Rey sits down on the padded bench that runs along the side of the bubble. The fronds of seaweed in front of her wave gently in the current, and a fat orange blob of a fish is revealed. It gives her a startled look and retreats, pulling itself along the strands of seaweed with fins in the shape of hands.

Rey laughs.

Finn has sat down close to her, but he's looking down at the clear floor beneath them.

"How far down do you think it goes?" he asks.

"A couple of clicks," Poe says. "I think there's a walkway that goes all the way."

Rey looks down. The soft blue of the ocean fades away into darkness, deep and mysterious.

"Do you want to take a look?" Poe asks.

That's not what they're here for, but...

"Yes!" Finn says.

The center of the aquarium is a long hallway that spirals down into the depths. It's lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, so you can see out. It's bright and sunny near the surface, but the light fades as they walk down.

The brightly colored fish stay near the surface. A school of silver needle-shaped things flows around them a little deeper, but they disappear suddenly into the depths. A few moments later half a dozen creatures as big as X-wings swim by, patterned in brilliant blue and green and yellow.

The air is cooler by the time the light has faded to almost nothing. Rey shivers, and Finn takes his jacket off, hands it to her without a word.

Poe is staring out the window as something that looks like a glowing curtain ripples past. He gets a weird look on his face when he turns and sees Rey, but after a second he smiles and says, "Did you see the one with the really long tail? I think she had babies with her."

"No," Rey says and goes to stand next to him, lets him point out something in the distance.

They keep going, and the light disappears completely.

The walkway has a little strip of light along the floor, leading them down.

There are other sparks of light in the dark around them.

Rey sees one the size of her head, green as honey, and stops to look. She thinks it's one of the moon jellies from further up, but then the pinprick of black at the center expands, and she realizes it's an eye.

Her breath catches, and she reaches out with the Force. She can suddenly sense another mind out there. Its presence is tinged with a kind of amused interest, distant and alien.

"Hello," Rey breathes, lifting her hand.

She gets an impression of acknowledgment back, and then the eye disappears. There is a sense of movement beyond the window, a dark bulk flowing past, so vast she can't picture the shape of it, until there is only the blackness of the ocean in front of her again.

Then Finn calls, "Rey, come here! This one looks like a tiny Hutt!"

At the bottom of the spiral is a round room, with floor-to-ceiling windows. The floor in front of the windows is padded so you can sit comfortably and look out. Unlike the last couple hundred meters, there is light down here, a soft, warm glow that filters in from outside.

The sea floor is a fantastic landscape of lacy, towering mineral deposits, slim columns and delicate arches, raw, jagged mounds. Some are topped with waving fronds. The source of the light seems to be the spheres clustered all over the deposits that glow white and gold and pink and amber. They are all different sizes, from as small as Rey's fist to as big around as BB-8.

It's warm down here -- "A hydrothermal vent," Poe explains -- and Rey takes Poe's jacket off.

She takes her shoes off as well, to step onto the padded mat in front of the windows.

There is movement out there, slow and stately. Long slim fish, liquid black and pearly white, swim between the spheres and the columns. Small creatures move along the floor, on rippling mantles or long, spindly legs. Their shells look like they are made of iron and opal, layered like flower petals.

Rey drifts along the curve of the room, staring at the landscape around them. She can hear Finn and Poe talking behind her, exclaiming over something.

She stops to watch something covered in brilliant lilac tentacles drift past the window. She reaches out as if she could touch it, but only meets the warm, smooth surface of the window.

A little black fish, maybe the length of her palm, with luminous blue stripes running down its sides darts up out of the blackness and tries to bite her finger through the glass. Its needle-like teeth gnash futilely against the window.

She can feel its tiny, furious hunger. "Shhh, there's nothing for you here," she says.

It stops like it can hear her, and swims up until it's level with her eyes. She swears it gives her a belligerent scowl before it swims off.

"I don't think it liked me," she says.

"Well, there's no accounting for taste," Poe says behind her.

She turns and smiles at him. Then she sees Finn is setting out their picnic and she is suddenly starving.

The food is what they would have eaten in the mess hall, grilled fish and that seaweed that looks like noodles, but Finn was right, it is much better than ration bars.

At the end, Finn pull out something in a blue plasfilm wrapper with writing she doesn't recognize.

He tears it open and breaks the bar inside into three pieces.

"Where did you get that?" Poe asks.

"I bought it when we were on Medevyn," Fin says.

"What is it?" Rey asks.

"Candy," Finn says with a grin.

She looks at the piece in her hand. It doesn't look anything like the honey spiders that pass as candy on Jakku. It's deep midnight blue with white flecks like stars.

She takes a cautious bite. The taste flowers on her tongue, rich and sweet with just the tiniest thread of bitterness to keep it from being too much.

"Ohhhh," she say, a long sigh.

"Right?" Poe says with a laugh.

Rey nods. She flops back and puts her head in Finn's lap, lets the rest of the candy melt in her mouth.

Finn slides his fingers over her hair and Rey sighs. She wriggles into a more comfortable position, stretches one leg out to poke Poe's thigh with her toes.

Poe snorts and glances away, but Rey is distracted by the feel of the silk sliding against her skin, under her clothes.

She's thinking about the real reason they came here today. She tips her chin back and looks at Finn.

Finn meets her eyes for a moment, then looks at Poe.

"This is romantic, right, Poe?" he asks.

Poe's eyebrows go up. "Shouldn't you be asking Rey that?"

"She thinks the Millennium Falcon is romantic," Finn says.

"Well--" Poe starts.

"Besides, I'm not trying to seduce Rey," Finn says.

Poe goes completely still. "What?"

Finn looks down at Rey again, uncertain. Rey sits up.

"Maybe we should show him what else we bought on Medevyn," she says.

Finn nods.

Rey faces Poe and pulls her tunic off in one motion.

Poe's mouth drops open and he exhales like he's been punched in the gut. Rey shivers in the cooler air, and Finn puts his hand on the small of her back, warm and rough and steadying.

Poe still hasn't said anything.

Rey pushes her leggings down off her hips, wriggles out of them, and then she's kneeling in front of Poe in just the pale pink silk of her underthings.

Poe drags his gaze back to her face, and his eyes are huge and wide and shocked. Rey swallows. There's something like awe, something like longing in his eyes, and it gives her the courage to cross the distance between them.

She steadies herself with one hand on his shoulder.

"Is this all right?" she asks.

Poe nods dumbly, and she leans in to press their mouths together.

For a second, Poe doesn't so much as breathe. Then he makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat and opens his mouth. He rests one hand on her waist, brings the other up to cup her cheek.

Finn is not the first person Rey has kissed, but he is the best person she's kissed. Poe is...Poe is a close second.

Where Finn is all joy and enthusiasm, Poe is careful, controlled tenderness. Rey digs her fingers into Poe's shoulder, pulls back with a tiny gasp. For a moment they just look at each other, both wide-eyed, breathing fast.

"Oh," Finn says. "That's, you guys..."

They turn to look at him. He's biting his lip, his own eyes wide.

Poe takes a deep breath. "So when you said 'we bought...' "

Finn breaks into a grin. "Yeah."

Finn peels off his shirt. Rey licks her lips, a little thrill of anticipation running through her. Finn takes his pants off, and then he's kneeling in front of them, in sheer silk panties, the pale shell-pink that matches her own.

"Turn around," Rey says, breathless.

Finn's smile gets wider, almost cocky, and he pivots on one knee until his back is to them. He's still grinning back over his shoulder at them. The silk stretches tight across the curve of his ass, and Rey wants to run her hands down the sleek, heavy muscles of his back, over that silk.

"Wow," Poe says faintly. He looks stunned.

"Right?" Rey says. She holds her hand out to Finn, and he turns, scrambles the last little distance between them to take her hand and kiss her, still smiling.

He pulls back, looks at Poe. His smile falters, uncertain for a heartbeat, and Poe swears under his breath, reaches up to grip the back of Finn's neck.

Poe pulls him down into a kiss. Rey has one hand on Poe's shoulder and one hand still holding Finn's, and something warm and shivery curls through her stomach.

Finn and Poe break apart and Finn laughs, soft and dazed. He leans into Rey, so much warm, bare skin against hers.

"I think you're wearing too many clothes," he says to Poe.

"Oh, am I?" Poe says.

Rey nods.

Poe shifts his weight back and stands up. He tosses his hair back, grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it up over his head. His movements are slower, more deliberate than Finn and Rey's had been, like he's showing off.

Rey's hand tightens on Finn's. Poe's body is different from Finn's, paler, leaner. She wants to trace his musculature with her fingers.

Poe unbuttons his pants, slides them down with a shimmy of his hips. His underthings are plain, solid black fabric, snug across his hips and the tops of his thighs. He kicks the fabric aside and strikes a hipshot pose.

"Better?" Poe asks.

"Turn around," Finn says.

Poe grins and turns slowly, leisurely, so they get a good look.

Finn presses his face against Rey's shoulder, and she can feel his smile, delighted and amazed.

He lifts his head, clears his throat. "Yeah, better," Finn says.

Poe turns back around and comes to kneel across from them. His face is softer, serious now.

"What do you want to do?" Poe asks.

Rey exchanges a glance with Finn. "Can we touch you?" she asks.

"Yeah, anywhere," Poe says.

Finn reaches out with both hands, cups Poe's shoulders, slides his palms down Poe's biceps. Then he leans in and kisses Poe. Poe's eyes flutter shut.

Finn lifts his head, and Rey darts in, steals a kiss while Poe's lips are still parted. He sways forward to follow her mouth when she pulls back.

Finn spreads his hands over Poe's collarbones and gives him the gentlest nudge back. Poe goes with it, lying down on his back. Finn is kneeling between his spread thighs now, and he lets his hands trail down Poe's chest and stomach.

Rey moves to Poe's side, and sinks her fingers into his hair. It's thick and soft and warm. He turns his head towards her, smiling, his eyes-heavy lidded, and she bends down to kiss him.

The angle is awkward, so she stretches out on her side next to him. He slides his arm around her back, his fingertips tracing the bumps of her spine.

She puts her hand on his chest, feels the fast, unsteady beat of his heart beneath her palm. She runs her hands over his skin, tracing the edge of his pectoral muscles, learning the texture of his skin, the crinkle of his chest hair.

His body tenses suddenly and he gasps against her mouth. When she lifts her head, she sees that Finn has his hand pressed over the bulge in Poe's briefs.

"Can I--" Finn says, and Poe groans.

"Yes," he says, "please."

Rey props herself up on her elbow to watch. Finn tugs Poe's briefs down, wraps his hand around Poe's erection. Finn strokes him carefully, almost tentatively. He is different from Finn here, too, longer and slimmer, the tip of him wet, flushed dark with blood.

Rey reaches out and slides the pad of her finger over the head of his cock, through the liquid welling up there.

Poe says something low and rough in a language she doesn't recognize. "You two will kill me," he says, closing his eyes, tipping his head back.

Finn leans down and kisses him. Poe grips the back of his neck, kisses him back for a long moment. The movement of Finn's hand slows, stops, and Poe makes an impatient noise against Finn's mouth, pushes his hips up.

Finn laughs and sits back, starts stroking him again.

Poe licks his lips, red and swollen from their mouths, and looks at Rey with dark, heavy eyes.

"Rey," he says softly. He makes a little come here gesture with his hand.

She gives him a curious look, slides closer. He runs his fingertips over the edge of the lace on her hip, dipping down to stroke over her belly.

She gasps at the feel of it. She is suddenly aware of how wet she is, an ocean of longing between her thighs, her skin flushed and sensitive to the littlest touch.

Poe is watching her face carefully, a question there. Rey nods, rocks her hips forward, spreads her legs so Poe can stroke between them.

He touches her through the silk first, delicate but not tentative, then slides his fingers beneath the fabric to brush over her slick folds. Rey takes a sharp breath, liquid heat pooling in her stomach.

Poe smiles at her. Finn twists his wrist and Poe's mouth falls open, the quick, confident rhythm of his fingers stuttering to a halt.

Rey can't help the disappointed noise she makes. She puts her hand over Poe's, grinds down against his fingers, chasing those bright, shivery sparks of sensation.

She can't look away from Poe's face, from the way it goes soft and open, completely unguarded in the wash of sensation. Poe throws his head back and moans, spilling over Finn's hand and his stomach.

Finn swears softly, and Rey rolls her hips, feels that wave inside her crest and break in a rush of pleasure.

She feels light, like she's floating, her breathing too fast.

Finn touches her shoulder, and she turns, meets his mouth in a slow, deep kiss.

"Let me return the favor," Poe says, and his voice sounds lower, more gravelly than usual.

Finn lifts his head. He meets her eyes for a heartbeat, and she nods.

Finn turns back to Poe. Rey shifts her weight, tucks herself in against Finn's side.

Poe sits up. He's still flushed, his hair sweaty and messy now. He wipes his hand over his stomach, then twists to lie down on his belly, one arm across Finn's knees.

He props his chin on his hand, looking up at Finn, a little teasing smile lingering on his mouth.

Finn makes a noise, half-pleading, half-exasperated, and Poe's smile gets bigger. He presses his face against Finn's groin, rubbing his cheek over Finn's silk-covered erection.

Finn groans and slumps against Rey.

Poe presses his mouth against the silk, wetting the fabric until it clings to the head of Finn's cock. Finn is breathing fast and unsteady, and Rey grips his hand tightly, twines their fingers together. She kisses the curve of his shoulder.

Finn's other hand flexes on his thigh like he's trying not to grab at Poe. Poe tugs the silk down, freeing Finn's cock, and then takes him into his mouth.

"Oh," Finn says, bites off curse as Poe takes him deeper.

Rey reaches out and brushes Poe's heavy curls back off his forehead. Poe tilts his head enough to meet her eyes. She lets her fingers trail down to his lips, stretched around Finn. Poe's eyes sink shut, and Finn makes a deep, ragged noise. His whole body clenches, curling over Poe, and he grips Poe's shoulder as he comes.

Rey kisses the line of his jaw and he turns his head blindly, seeking her mouth.

Then he collapses backwards with a deep groan, his hand still twined around hers.

Poe turns his attention to her. "Do you want to go again?" he asks.

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

Poe goes up on his elbows, pulls himself closer to her. He puts one hand on her hip, ducks his head to breathe hot across the juncture of her thighs. That lazy, satisfied heat in her belly sparks suddenly brighter, takes on a new edge of want.

"Oh, um..."

Poe presses his mouth against her where the silk of her panties is soaked through and she gasps, rocks up into the pressure. He pushes the fabric aside and flicks his tongue over her, into her.

She puts her hand on his head, barely stops herself from clenching her fist in his hair.

Finn presses a kiss to her hand. She looks down at him. He's watching her face. He smiles when she meets his eyes.

"So he's pretty good at that, huh?" he says.

"Yes," she gasps.

Poe makes a smug, pleased noise that she can feel, and oh, oh --

It's like her heart cracks open in her chest, warm, golden pleasure spilling through her, from her core to the tips of her fingers.

"Poe," she says, "Finn--"

Finn sits up, kisses the curve of her shoulder very gently, and Poe turns his head to kiss the inside of her thigh.

That singing tension eases, and she can take a deep breath again. Finn had the right idea. She lets herself fall back against the blanket. Finn hits the floor a beat after she does, and she cuddles into his side.

Poe is still lying between her legs. He rests his chin on his crossed arms, across the tops of her thighs, watching them both with a closed, unreadable expression.

She smiles at him, and it cracks into a yawn.

Poe snorts. He sits up, reaches for his pants.

"Are you our boyfriend now?" Rey asks.

Poe's movements falter. "No, don't worry, that's -- it doesn't mean that."

Rey feels a dull, heavy pang of sadness and frustration in her chest. "Why not? What else do we have to do?"

"I -- is that what you want?" Poe asks.

"Yes," Rey says.

"Obviously," Finn says.

Poe is quiet, and oh, of course, all of that emotion is not hers alone. Sex has made her control fuzzier, and she can sense some of Poe's mess of emotions.

She could reach out, rummage through his head and figure out what is making him sad, what's making him hesitate, but that would be an awful thing to do. She reaches for her control instead, for the breathing exercises Master Luke made her practice.

"Do you not want us?" Rey asks. But that's ridiculous, no one would not want Finn. Her voice gets smaller. "Do you not want me?"

"You barely know me," Poe says, and it's almost pleading.

"Finn loves you, and I love Finn, so I'll love you, too," she says.

Poe flinches. "I don't think that's how it works."

"Not right away!" Rey says. She feels like she's on the verge of tears. "Are you not even going to try?"

Poe opens his mouth, but Finn speaks first. "Are you afraid?" he asks.

It's not a taunt, it's soft, kind.

Poe closes his mouth. He blinks and sits up a little straighter. "Yeah, I -- I guess I am."

Rey is going to tell him to stop that right now, he is the best pilot in the Resistance and he shouldn't be afraid of something so, so amazing, but Finn squeezes her hand, and she breathes out instead.

Poe shakes his head, and maybe he doesn't need her to say that at all, maybe he's already thinking it himself.

"Fine," he says, and there's the beginning of a smile on his face. "Fine, we can try."

Rey props herself up on one elbow and holds her hand out. Poe puts his pants back down and lets her pull him down to lie between them.

comments

Ficlet: Nicky/Ovi, spy au

2016-01-02T00:38:58Z

From bleep0bleep's Fic Prompt Generator.

Nicky has a forgettable face, which is part of what makes him such a wonderful spy.

(Alex thinks Nicky's face is entirely unforgettable, but he acknowledges that the general public, with their unrefined taste, would just see a pleasant, smiling waiter or office drone, part of the background to their life.)

Alex's face is somewhat more distinctive, which is why he is usual the one whispering sweet nothings in Nicky's ear over the comms, waiting for the chance to come to Nicky's rescue, guns blazing.

(Nicky almost never needs rescuing. He is really a wonderful spy.)

But in this particular case, they need Alex's distinctive face and Nicky's fluency in Swedish.

So the Agency has them swap.

Alex studies his face in the men's room mirror. It's still his, familiar missing tooth, unfamiliar grey in his hair. He waggles his eyebrows, pulls a silly face.

"I promise, I will bring it back just the same," Nicky says.

Alex meets his eyes in the mirror, gives Nicky an exaggerated dubious expression, and Nicky rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Come on, they're ready," he says.

Alex follows him down the hallway to the lab, with it's harsh fluorescent lighting and grubby linoleum tile.

It's been a while since they've swapped, so they need to reopen the bond. Alex sits at the bare, stainless steel table across from Nicky and lets the technicians attach electrodes to his head. He ignores their fussing, keeps his eyes on Nicky's, calm and steady.

"Activating the channel in three...two...one..."

There is a sensation almost like falling, and the world reverses itself. Alex is sitting across from his own body now. He flexes Nicky's hands, rolls his shoulders, trying to get comfortable in this new body.

"Backstrom, say something in Swedish," one of the techs says.

Nicky says something. From his very dry tone and the couple of words he does recognize, Alex guesses it's something obscene.

"Well, really, there's no need for that," the tech says.

Nicky smiles at Alex. It's his own face, but it's not quite his smile. Alex never knows how that works.

Nicky takes Alex's body to the first meeting at the coffee shop.

Alex is in the office building across the street, listening in with the directional mic. Laich has discreetly hacked into the coffee shops security camera so they can watch, too.

Nicky orders an espresso in a ("Terrible, Nicky, terrible") imitation of Alex's Russian accent, and sits down at a table in the back, his back to the wall.

They are waiting for members of a Swedish right-wing nationalist group who want to buy guns from one of Alex's old identities, a small time weapons dealer.

It's a simple mission: find out the details of their planned attack, draw out the leaders of the group, arrest everyone before any innocent civilians are hurt.

Alex watches two men with shaved heads and leather jackets come up and sit down in front of Nicky. They use his old identity's name, and Nicky nods his head.

Alex doesn't understand the rest of the conversation. It's in Swedish. Johansson is listening intently, scribbling notes, and Alex has to restrain himself from poking him and ask what's going on.

By the end of the conversation, everyone is smiling, including Johansson.

The two men leave, and Nicky starts gathering his things.

"Good?" Alex asks Johansson.

Johansson nods, opens his mouth to say something, and someone in the coffee shop says, "Sasha?"

Alex's eyes snap to the monitors. He can't see who spoke, but the voice sounds familiar.

"Alex?" Nicky says, under his breath.

"Switch," Alex says, even though Nicky isn't wearing an earpiece, can't hear him.

But he pushes, and Nicky pulls, and the world shivers around him.

Alex blinks at the exposed brick wall of the coffee shop interior, shifts his jaw back and forth to pop his ears.

"Sasha!"

Alex turns around. "Dima!" he says, and he doesn't have to pretend to be surprised.

Dmitri Sukhotin smiles at him, but it doesn't reach his hard grey eyes. Then again, his smiles never did.

"What are you doing here?" Sukhotin asks.

"Working," Alex says.

"I thought you quit the business," Sukhotin says.

"I needed a break," Alex says.

Sukhotin's smile fades. He reaches out, squeezes Alex's shoulder. "I heard about Masha. I'm sorry."

Alex looks down, nods.

"Good to see you back, then," Sukhotin says.

"But what are you doing here?" Alex asks.

"Oh," Sukhotin says vaguely, "a vacation. More pleasant weather, you know?"

"Ah, yes," Alex says. "Well, I have to..."

He waves a hand towards the door.

"Of course, of course," Sukhotin says. He smiles and nods, they shake hands and exchange back slaps.

Alex picks up the jacket Nicky was wearing and walks out. His back itches, and he doesn't go to the office building where the other agents are. He gets on the bus instead, heading back towards this identity's apartment.

He feels the push of Nicky in his head and reaches back, lets their minds slide past each other again again.

Laich and Johansson are packing up the equipment with practiced efficiency. Alex rubs Nicky's temple. Switching this much is giving him a headache.

"He knew you?" Johansson asks.

Alex half-shakes his head. "He knew that identity, Alexander Pavlovich."

"Do you think it's a coincidence?" Laich asks, picking up their bag of gear.

Alex hesitates. "I don't know."

It's probably not good either way.

As far as Alex knows, Maria is alive and well, somewhere in deep cover in Siberia.

(He knows the Agency wouldn't tell him if she weren't, but he thinks he'd hear it from office gossip.)

Maria had been his backup when he had been Alexander Pavlovich, undercover as his fiancee. Then the Agency's priorities had shifted, and she had been reassigned. They'd killed her cover identity in a staged car crash, and it had been an excuse for Alex to disappear for a while without burning that identity.

She had been a wonderful agent to be fake-engaged to, and Alex still misses her sense of humor and her ability to drink petty criminals under the table.

Nicky had told him from the start not to get attached to another agent, not to believe in their cover story too deeply, but it had been too late.

Of course, Maria wasn't the one Alex fell in love with.

He knows Nicky's apartment like he knows his own, where the tea and sugar are, which drawer sticks if you don't pull it out just right. He keeps waiting for Nicky to show up, though.

In Nicky's bathroom, Alex stares at Nicky's face in the mirror. He waggles his eyebrows up and down, scrunches Nicky's nose up.

It's weird, as always. He sighs and looks away from the mirror while he brushes Nicky's teeth.

He takes a discreet survey of Nicky's body before he goes to bed. No new bruises or scars, and Nicky's hip feels good, no pain or stiffness. Which is what Nicky's been saying for months, but he can't always trust Nicky to tell the truth about that.

Nicky's sheets are clean, because Nicky is the kind of person who would change them before he swaps with someone. Alex lies on his back and breathes slow and steady, listens to the sound of Nicky's heartbeat.

The thing no one tells you about swapping is the dreamsharing. Or maybe no one else experiences it.

Alex is in a coffee shop. It looks like the one they were in today, but his mother's tea set is on the table and the view out the front window is of deep forest. Nicky sits down across from him. He looks like himself.

"Yours or mine?" Nicky asks.

"Little of both, I think," Alex says. "Everything okay? My body not give you problem?"

"Well, you're not as young as you used to be, but..." NIcky says.

Alex gives him a wounded look.

"Everything is fine," Nicky says.

Alex feels that itch between his shoulder blades again, that uneasiness of seeing Sukhotin again, here of all places. "Maybe this is bad idea."

"The mission?" Nicky asks.

"I think we miss something," Alex says.

"We are always missing something," Nicky says, his face serious now. "But we have a job to do."

It's true, of course. There's always a job to do, and it's always dangerous.

"Be careful," Alex says.

"I will," Nicky says. "I promise."

Alex can feel the dream start to waver around them, and he shakes off his anxiety, reaches for a joke.

"Show my body a good time," he says, and before the dream ends, he is delighted to see Nicky blush bright red.

Burakovsky, Wilson, and Latta have the day shift. Alex is assigned to track down Sukhotin, see if he can figure out what he's doing in Malmo.

He comes up dry.

None of Alex's sources in the Russian expat community have heard anything, and neither have any of their Swedish sources. If Sukhotin is still in Malmo, he's not doing business. Or he's working with people the Agency doesn't know about, which is not a comfortable thought.

Alex stops by the equipment room after his latest debrief. The Brookses have their heads bent together over a field laptop, and they look up in unison when Alex opens the door.

"Nicky's fine," Laich says.

Alex puts his hands up. "Maybe I want ask about mission," he says.

"The mission's fine," Orpik says.

Laich takes pity on him. "They wanted to see some merchandise samples, and Nicky turned into an invitation to meet someone higher up the food chain. We're ahead of schedule."

"Good," Alex says. "Good."

The sooner this is over, the better.

It's mid-morning by the time Alex gets back to Nicky's apartment, another night lost to listening for gossip in disreputable bars. None of it was relevant to Sukhotin or Nicky's mission, but there were still some interesting things to pass on that the Agency want to hear about in tedious detail.

Alex turns the shower on as hot as it will go, and has to bite back a groan at the feeling of the hot water beating down on his shoulders.

He regrets that joke about Nicky showing his body a good time now, because he can't stop thinking about Nicky actually doing it. There's a curl of heat low in the pit of his stomach, a tug of longing, and he turns the tap over to cold.

He wants to show Nicky's body a good time, but only if Nicky is there, too.

The dream feels wrong. Blurry, somehow, disorienting. Alex turns to look for Nicky and everything spins.

Nicky is sitting down on something dark and indistinct, his head in his hands.

"Nicky?" Alex says.

Nicky lifts his head. "Alex," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "Something is wrong. I fucked up."

"Shit, Nicky--" Alex takes a step forward, but the dream is already dissolving around him.

Alex wakes up with a gasp. He doesn't recognize Nicky's apartment for a second, his heart beating too fast.

He scrambles out of bed, digs his cell phone out of his jeans. It's barely noon.

The day shift is young, but they're not dumb enough to leave their cell phones on while they're working. He calls Orpik.

"The mission is fine, Ovi," Orpik says when he answers.

"Really?" Alex says.

He doesn't know what his voice sounds like, but Orpik hesitates. "Yeah. Last check-in was an hour ago and nothing was reported."

"With Nicky or with day shift?" Alex asks. He puts the phone on speaker and starts pulling on his clothes, shoves his feet into his shoes.

"With the day shift," Orpik says. "Why? What's--"

"Where?"

"At the Pavlovich apartment," Orpik says.

"Okay, thanks," Alex says.

"Alex! God da--"

Alex hangs up.

He takes Nicky's car keys, hanging neatly next to the door, drives his tiny car over to the apartment they're using for this identity. He parks behind the building across the street. There's a little old lady coming out the back door with her wheeled grocery cart, and Alex bounds up to hold the door for her.

She gives him a suspicious look, and he gives her Nicky's best angelic smile.

Then he slips inside and runs for the stairs.

He pounds on the door of the apartment they're using for surveillance. Latta opens it, and Alex pushes his way inside.

"What--"

"Something's wrong," Alex says.

Burakovsky and Wilson are getting to their feet, startled and confused.

"Everything's--" Latta starts.

"Where's Nicky?"

"He, um, he went out for coffee at eight, came back at eight thirty, and hasn't left the apartment since," Wilson says.

"We haven't heard or seen anything," Latta says.

Alex grabs the binoculars out of Burakovsky's hand, studies the window of the apartment across the street. The blinds are half-down, but they can see the whole living room.

Almost the whole living room. They can't see the front door, though, or the door to the bedroom.

There's a low, steady stream of Swedish coming from the mic. "What's that?" Alex asks.

"Radio," Burakovsky says.

"It's been on all morning," Latta says.

"You hear anything else? Toilet, phone, Nicky tell you to fuck off?" Alex asks.

They look at each other for a moment. "No," Latta says.

Alex swears in Russian. "Stay here," he says to Burakovsky. "You, you, come with me."

Latta and Wilson are tense now, silent. Alex takes the stairs down two at a time. Wilson has the key to Nicky's building, and he lets them in.

The front door to the apartment is unlocked, not completely closed.

Alex draws his sidearm.

"Nicky?" he calls. There's no response, only the cheerful babble of the radio.

The living room and the kitchenette are empty. So is Nicky's bedroom. The sheets are rumpled, covers half on the floor, but there's no sign of a struggle.

"Oh, shit," Wilson says. "We didn't hear--"

"Drugs," Alex says. It would explain the feel of the dream, if they drugged his coffee and then carried him out when it kicked in.

"Are you saying someone took him?" Latta asks.

Alex ignores him.

"Where?" Wilson asks.

That's the question, isn't it? He can see Nicky's burner phone on the nightstand next to the bed, so they can't use that to track him.

Alex takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He pushes, but there's no answering pull down the channel between them. Alex throws his mind open wide, reaches hard for the feel of his own body. It's there, faint and distant, but not directly in front of him. He pivots on his heel, slowly, until the channel feels straight and clear, slightly stronger, then opens his eyes.

He doesn't know exactly where Nicky is, but he knows which way he's facing.

"The docks," he says. "Come on."

Burakovsky calls it in.

Chimera, Niskanen, and Holtby are already in position by the time Alex gets to the dock, Latta and Wilson trailing behind him.

"Easy guess," Chimera says. "The warehouse that is not actually busy in the middle of the day."

The windows are papered over, but they've secured the rooftop next to it, and Alex can see down through the skylights.

They've got Nicky tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Sukhotin is standing in front of him.

Laich hands over the earpiece for the directional mic, and Alex can hear what he's saying.

"--and everyone knows you're corrupt to the core, Sasha. I can't let you walk away from this now. But it will be much more painless for you if you answer my questions. Who told you I would be here?"

Nicky lifts his head. He's grinning like the situation is hilarious. "I can't understand what you're saying," he says.

It's one of the few sentences Alex knows in Swedish.

Sukhotin snarls and backhands him across the face. Alex winces. There goes his nose again. Chimera touches his shoulder, and Alex realizes he's clenched his hands into fists.

Sukhotin turns away. He says something in Swedish to the skinheads that Nicky had been dealing with. They say something back, sharp, angry.

Alex gives the mic back to someone who can understand what's happening.

Sukhotin holds out his hand, and one of the Swedes gives him a knife.

Everything in Alex's head goes cold and quiet and still, and then a lot of things happen at once.

Holtby fires a smoke grenade through the skylight. Sukhotin whips back around, lunges for Nicky, and Nicky pushes himself backwards in the chair.

Alex lifts his jacket up in front of his face and throws himself through the broken pane of the skylight, landing on the catwalk beneath. He stays low, running towards the stairs down. Chimera and Niskanen are behind him.

The warehouse fills up with smoke and yelling and gunfire.

All Alex cares about is getting to Nicky. He stumbles over Sukhotin's body, ends up on his knees next to Nicky.

He can see the handle of the knife sticking up under Nicky's ribs.

"Fuck," he says. He yanks off his jacket and tosses it aside, pulls off his t-shirt.

"Don't touch it," Nicky says.

"I know that," Alex snaps. He leaves the knife alone, presses the t-shirt around it and holds it in place.

Nicky's eyes are closed and Alex thinks his skin looks way too pale.

If Alex's body dies with Nicky in it, then Alex will be stuck in Nicky's body. But worse, Nicky will die, too.

"Switch, Nicky," he says. He pushes down the channel again, but Nicky pushes back, refusing the transfer.

"You stubborn motherfucker--"

"It's my fault," Nicky says. His voice is getting softer, weaker. "I can't let you..."

Alex's chest feels like it's being crushed. There are tears on his face and it's only partly because of the smoke.

"Nicky, don't you fucking--"

"Sorry," Nicky breathes.

A paramedic shoves Alex aside. There's a frenzy of activity of around Nicky, throughout the warehouse behind him, people shouting in Swedish and English and possibly French.

Alex barely hears any of it. He watches them take Nicky away, and wonders if he will even feel it if his body dies without him.

He pushes to his feet, stumbles after the paramedics.

He gets to the ambulance, catches the door before it closes.

One of the paramedics gives him a baffled, angry look, but hauls him inside.

The ambulance pulls out in a squeal of tires and sirens.

"We--" Alex says, and has to stop to cough violently. "We are swapped."

The paramedic's eyes widen. He exchanges a flurry of rapid fire Swedish with the woman hooking up Nicky's IV.

Alex slumps back against the side of the ambulance, and the first paramedic hands him an oxygen mask. He says something that Alex doesn't understand, and Alex shrugs.

There is a team waiting at the hospital to take Nicky. Another doctor grabs Alex's elbow.

"You can switch before or after surgery," he says. "Not during, do you understand?"

"Before," Alex says.

"He isn't stable, there is the risk--"

"Before," Alex says, unhesitating.

There is a tech already pulling the electrodes out. Alex sits there and watches them take Nicky away. Another tech is trotting alongside, putting the electrodes on Nicky's temples.

They stop just before the doors to the surgery.

"Now," someone says, and the world shifts around him, and goes black.

When he wakes up, his body is full of that warm, dull, floaty feeling that means he will be in a lot of pain later. At least his beeps sound good.

Someone is holding his hand. Well, not exactly, more like someone's hand is resting very gently against the side of his, the one that has the IV in it.

He turns his head and sees Nicky asleep in the chair next to his bed.

"Hey," Alex says, or tries to. It comes out as just a rasp of air.

Nicky startles awake anyway.

His face is soft and unguarded with sleep, and the warm squeeze of Alex's heart has nothing to do with drugs or injuries.

"You son of a bitch," Nicky says, but he sounds more tired than angry.

Alex smiles at him. "You always say, don't get attached."

Nicky's mouth twists. "Yes, fine, I am a hypocrite."

"Good," Alex says. His eyes are drifting shut despite himself. He manages to hook his little finger over Nicky's. "I don't listen to you either."

He hears the soft huff of Nicky's laugh, feels the softest, lightest press of Nicky's mouth against the back of his wrist.

He wants to feel Nicky's mouth everywhere on him, but that can wait. They have time.

comments

Ficlet: Carts/Richie, Sentinel AU

2015-12-27T21:44:35Z

From bleep0bleep's Random Prompt Generator

Jeff's not a great Guide. He's got the aptitude, but not the training, because he always wanted hockey more.

It's okay, Mike's not a great Sentinel.

"Shut up," Jeff says. He's gripping Mike's knee, heavy enough that Mike can feel it through his gear. Jeff rubs his thumb in slow arcs against the side of Mike's knee, not back and forth, just one direction. "Turn it down, you know how to do it, turn it down."

Mike focuses on the pressure of Jeff's hand, imagines pulling his senses back in with every sweep of his thumb. The roar of the crowd fades, becomes background noise, the glare from the ice dims and becomes bearable.

Sharpy's giving them the side-eye, but it doesn't matter, it worked. Coach slaps his shoulder and Mike goes over the boards for his next shift like nothing happened.

The hotels the AHL stays in are a step above a roadside motel, but it's not a big step.

The carpet feels scratchy under Mike's feet and the chemical reek of laundry detergent and cleaning solution makes his nose and the back of his throat burn. He tries to turn his senses down, but he can't focus enough.

The months in LA before Jeff got traded sucked. They still weren't as bad as getting sent down to Manch.

It's not so bad at first. The anger helps him focus, keeps him sharp. But he can't stay angry forever.

Now he feels like he's always a step behind on the ice, the noise and the glare making his head ring, slowing him down. Nothing tastes right or smells right. He hasn't zoned out yet, but it's probably just a matter of time. It's been going on for a while now, since last season really, his control of senses slipping. He doesn't know if it's the chronic pain or the concussions, but it's worse without Jeff there.

He'd never admit it, but he has the Kings schedule bookmarked, so he always knows how far away Jeff is. So he can know how long it would take Jeff to get to him if he ever called.

The knock on the door sounds too loud, and he flinches.

He takes a deep breath through his mouth, and opens the door.

It's Jeff, and he sags a little with relief. Turns out, his guess on timing was spot on.

Jeff eyes him for a long moment, then pushes past him without saying anything. He looks around the room, frowning.

"Thanks for coming," Mike says. He pulled rank, kicking his roommate out for the night, so it's just them.

Jeff transfers that frown to him, shakes his head. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," Mike says.

He means for it to be a joke, but it's a little too close to the truth.

Jeff drops the duffle bag he's carrying at the foot of the bed. He eyes the bed for a moment, lip curled, and then pulls the covers off, tossing them over the chair by the window.

He looks at Mike. "Did you bring your sheets and your pillow?"

Mike is already the bigshot whose career is flaming out. He's not going to be the prissy bigshot who's too good for AHL hotel sheets, too. "No."

"How about your speakers?"

Mike shakes his head.

"Goddamnit, Richie," Jeff says. He opens up his bag and pulls out a bundle of cloth, tosses it to Mike. "Lie down on the bed."

Mike shakes the cloth out. It's a tube of silk, the size and shape of a sleeping bag, and it smells like home, like the unscented detergent Jeff always buys. Mike spreads it out on the bed.

Jeff's pulled his portable bluetooth speakers out of the bag, too, and is fiddling with his phone. The speakers hiss to life with the sound of Mike's usual white noise generator app.

It blurs away the sound of the TV in the rooms on either side of him, the rattle of the ice machine at the end of the hall, the dull roar of the interstate just past the hotel parking lot. Mike feels some of the tension in his shoulders loosen as he lets the white noise fill his head up. It gives his senses something soothing and meaningless to focus on, instead of trying to track the endless noise of the hotel.

Jeff steps closer to Mike, sniffs at his shoulder. "What detergent are you using?"

"I don't know, Tide something," Mike says.

Jeff's frown gets deeper.

"I couldn't remember the name of the stuff you usually buy," Mike admits. "It's not a big deal."

Jeff shakes his head, but all he says is, "Take your t-shirt off and lie down."

Mike does. The fabric of the sleep sack Jeff brought feels amazing against his skin, cool and smooth and soft, so much better than the t-shirt he was wearing. He sighs and rubs his cheek against it.

"How's your back?" Jeff asks.

"Hurts," Mike says.

It's the worst thing about the senses, how he can't turn down the pain in his own body. Oxy's the only thing he's found that makes the pain go a away for a while. That, and Jeff's hands.

Jeff puts his hands on Mike's back, warm and broad. He digs his thumbs into the pressure points on either side Mike's spine, and the hot, dull pain that's knotted Mike's back up all day starts to fade.

Mike groans.

Jeff clicks his tongue and moves his fingers to the base of Mike's skull. Mike hadn't even noticed the headache until it disappears. He feels limp and boneless, that relentless grind of pain subsiding into something manageable, ignorable.

"So what did you tell Sutter?" Mike asks, voice low and slurred.

"That I needed to come see you," Jeff says.

Mike snorts. "What did he think about that?"

Jeff makes a sharp little noise that's almost a laugh. "Probably what everybody's been thinking for years, that we're fucking."

Mike's breath stutters. He'd always wondered what the rest of the guys thought about their weird co-dependency, but he's never asked.

Jeff gets up and gets a bottle of water out his bag. This isn't the kind of place that has a minibar.

Mike rolls over onto his back, and looks at Jeff. Jeff looks tired, his anger gone, or maybe just worn down into something dull and pointless.

He understands why everyone thinks they're fucking. The things Jeff does for him don't make any sense if they're not. Sometimes, even knowing the truth, Mike doesn't understand why Jeff does all of it.

Jeff takes a sip of water and Mike watches the flex of his throat as he swallows, the wet, pink shine of his mouth as he takes the bottle away.

Mike hasn't hooked up with anyone since he started losing control of his senses again. He's afraid the senses will spike or he'll zone out in front of a stranger. Now, watching Jeff's lips curl around the mouth of the water bottle, the shape of his words, he's remembering how Jeff and him used to pick up girls together when they were rookies, before his control got better. The memory sends a shiver of heat through his gut.

"Hey," Jeff says. "Come back."

Mike blinks. He hasn't zoned out, but it's close, that rapt feeling.

On impulse, Mike leans up and brushes his mouth over Jeff's. It's the lightest of touches, but it's a tidal wave of sensation. Jeff's lips are chapped from the cold air of the rink, and the dryness catches at his own. The prickle of Jeff's stubble makes the skin around his mouth tingle.

Jeff's breath catches as Mike pulls back. His eyes are open, wide and uncertain.

"Richie--" he breathes.

"Shhh," Mike says. "Please, I need--"

He doesn't know what he needs. He wants to feel Jeff's lips again, wants to taste Jeff's mouth. It makes the pain subside, makes the raw noise of the senses fade, to focus on this one thing. Mike does it again, and it's the same rush of sensation, but he can catalog the tiniest differences in the angle, the shiver of Jeff's breath.

Mike flicks his tongue over Jeff's lower lip, and the contrast between his chapped lip and the soft, slick skin just inside it takes up his whole attention.

"Richie, what are you doing?"

"C'mon, you're not so off your game that you don't remember what making out is?" Mike says. He brushes their mouths together again, to feel that slide of skin on delicate skin. God, he'd forgotten how sensitive lips are.

"Fine," Jeff says. "Why are you doing it?"

"Because it feels good." Mike doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to have this conversation. He traces the seam of Jeff's lips with his tongue. "Doesn't it feel good?"

Jeff opens his mouth, maybe to answer, and Mike licks into his mouth. It's almost overwhelming, the hot, slick feel of Jeff's mouth, the taste of him, familiar somehow, almost like his scent.

"Please," he says against Jeff's mouth. "Nothing feels good anymore."

"Goddamnit, Richie," Jeff says, soft, but he doesn't argue anymore.

Mike sinks into it, into the feeling of Jeff's lips and stubble. Jeff doesn't push him, doesn't try to control the kiss. He lets his tongue slide against Mike's and Mike shudders all over at the sensation. Mike bites Jeff's lower lip, just to feel the give of it between his teeth, another kind of sensation. He sinks his teeth in too hard, and Jeff's blood wells up between them, hot and salty and metallic.

Jeff makes a tiny noise, and Mike eases up immediately. He licks over the bite, the taste of the blood and the feel of Jeff's lips mingling together.

Mike grips Jeff's t-shirt and pulls, and Jeff follows him down, until Mike is lying on his back and Jeff is curled over him. Jeff braces his hand next to Mike's head, holds his weight off of him, so only their mouths are touching. There's a sharp twist in his chest, anger and gratitude both, that Jeff knows without asking the press of his body against Mike's would be too much.

His fingers dig into Jeff's shoulder, and Jeff lifts his head. His eyes are dark and dazed, his lips shiny and soft and red, and Mike's anger dissolves.

Mike tugs on Jeff's shoulder and Jeff slides their mouths together again, gentle, gentle. Mike sighs. Everything, all the pain, all the frustration, is dissolving into the feel of Jeff's lips, his scent, his taste.

Mike closes his eyes, and the world becomes nothing but their kiss.

It's an hour or so before Mike has to get up, when he opens his eyes again. Mike hasn't sleep that well in months, and his senses are calm. The speakers are still there, white noise filling the room, but it's Mike's phone connected now, not Jeff's.

Jeff is gone.

It's what Mike was expecting. Jeff's got a game tomorrow and there's only so much slack Sutter will cut him. Mike's still disappointed.

But there's a text from Jeff waiting when he picks up his phone. i'll mail you the fuckin detergent

Mike smiles and closes his eyes again.

comments

Ficlet: Ekblad/Mitchells

2015-12-17T05:24:00Z

From bleep0bleep's Random Prompt Generator.

Willie laughs about it sometimes, how much things have changed. How an omega like him went 199th overall in the draft, and twenty years later, an omega like Aaron goes number one.

Things are different now from Willie was coming up, better. Anyone who says different doesn't know what they're talking about.

Willie schedules his mid-season heat for the All Star weekend break, when Aaron will be in Columbus.

"It's hard on the body," Willie says with a laugh. "Especially once you get as old and banged up as I am. You wanna make sure you've got time to recover."

They've aired the house out by the time he gets back from Columbus, of course, but Aaron likes to think he can still pick up the last lingering traces of their heat-scent, rich and warm, when he walks past their bedroom. Willie is more loose and mellow than Aaron has seen him since the start of the season, and Meg looks deeply calm and centered and just a tiny bit smug.

When Willie hugs him hello, Meg's scent is stronger on his skin, and the scent of their bond is brighter, fresher.

Aaron tries not to let those mingled scents play a role in his jerk-off fantasies, but he can't help it.

The trainers are right, he should schedule a heat, get all of this out of his system.

There's no reason for it, nothing about the game or the players or the phase of the moon that should trigger it. Just too many hormones and too much time since his last heat.

He doesn't even realize it at first. He feels like he does at the end of any good game, hot, sweaty, amped up. Even that curl of arousal in the pit of his stomach is familiar, like he's ready to fuck or dance or just drink.

But it doesn't go away and he doesn't cool down like usual. He gets distracted by the feel of the hot water sliding down his skin in the shower, and it takes Nick chirping him to get him to snap out of it, turn the water off. Jagr and Lu both look up, frowning, when he walks back into the dressing room, towel around his waist.

Aaron pulls a pair of boxers on. The room is full of chatter and it just washes over him, meaningless noise. His skin feels tight and hot.

"Hey, kid, are you all right?" Willie asks.

Aaron blinks. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there with his socks in his hand, but the room is a lot quieter. He takes a deep breath and Willie's scent fills his nose, heavy and familiar. He smells like home, like pack, like he always does, but this time it makes that heat under his skin flare bright and vivid, makes his dick jump.

Oh. "No," Aaron says. "I don't think so?"

Willie leans in like he's trying to catch Aaron's scent, and his eyebrows go up. "Okay, hang on."

Willie clears the room out discreetly. He says something to Lu before Lu goes, and Lu glances at Aaron and nods.

Aaron stays sitting down, his hands clasped and pressed between his knees, so he doesn't try to rub that heat off his skin. He's all the way hard now, and he can feel himself getting wet, too, that empty longing hollowing him out.

Willie sits down next to him. He puts his hand against Aaron's forehead for a moment, like he's checking Aaron's temperature. "This is unexpected, huh?"

Aaron nods. Willie's hand felt so good against his skin. Aaron lets himself lean into Willie's side, and feels a little steadier.

One of the team doctors comes in. "Hi, Aaron," she says. "Roberto said you weren't feeling good. Is it okay if I check you out?"

"Yeah," Aaron says.

Willie stands up, and Aaron's thoughts scatter, that steadiness disappearing into aimless heat. He doesn't like it. "No, wait."

Willie hesitates, then sits back down next to him. Aaron shifts a tiny bit, so their hips and thighs are pressed together, and he feels grounded again. The heat still burns under his skin, but he doesn't feel like he's drowning in it.

Dr. Ortiz doesn't say anything about Willie staying, just checks Aaron's temperature and pupils and asks him some questions from what sounds like the concussion protocol.

"Hmmm," she says. She peels open one of the disposable pHeromone(TM) strips and tucks it under Aaron's tongue for a minute.

The indicator square has turned bright pink when she pulls it out. "Well," she says. "He's definitely in heat."

"But he's still on suppressants," Willie says. He's frowning. His hand is on Aaron's back now, his thumb rubbing soothing arcs over Aaron's burning skin.

"I know," Dr. Ortiz says. "It's probably going to be a little more intense than usual if the suppressants failed, but this does happen. Do you have someone you want us to call, Aaron?"

"No," Aaron says.

"Well, you can stay overnight here, we have an emergency heat kit, or Baptist Health has rooms for unscheduled heats, we can see if one is available. Or--"

"I just want to go home," Aaron says.

"Are you sure?" Willie asks.

He is.

He doesn't remember the ride home. Pants were too much of an effort, but Willie at least got him to put on a hoodie, so he's not completely naked when he gets into the house.

"Oh, honey," Meg says. She's sitting at the kitchen island and she hops up as soon as they come in from the garage. She takes a step towards him, and then stops.

Aaron feels a pang of disappointment. Her scent is clean and sharp, cutting through the heat haze, and he wants her to touch him, wants her to rub that scent all over him.

Willie nudges him in the small of the back, and Aaron starts walking again, up to his room.

"Did you order anything from that site I showed you?" Willie asks.

"Yeah," Aaron says. "Um. In the closet."

Willie goes to the closet while Aaron struggles to get the hoodie off. He's clumsy and uncoordinated, his skin too sensitive.

Willie puts the box with the toys on the bed, and then helps Aaron get the sweatshirt the rest of the way off.

"There," he says. "Do you need anything else?"

Meg's knot, Aaron wants to say. Your hands. But he swallows that back and shakes his head.

Willie scrubs a hand through Aaron's hair. "It's going to be okay. It sucks, but it's going to be okay. Yell if you need us."

Aaron nods.

Then Willie is gone and it's just Aaron and the toys.

He's so hard it hurts, so wet and open he's making a mess of the sheets, but the suppressants must still be doing something, because he can't come.

He gets close, so close it's unbearable, his whole body strung tight and shaking, but then the tension eases and he drops back into that aching, unsatisfied longing.

His last heat, over the summer, he jerked off for what felt like twenty-four hours straight, and came so many times he was practically dehydrated by the end. It wasn't like this.

The next wave ebbs, and no matter how hard he strokes himself, how he twist the plug inside him, he can't get back to the edge, can't go over.

He groans. He pulls the plug out and throws it at the wall.

There's a tap on the door. "Can I come in, kid?" Willie asks.

Aaron takes a deep breath. He has to clear his throat before he can say, "Yeah."

Willie comes in with a bottle of Gatorade.

It doesn't do anything for the heat, but it makes his mouth and throat less dry.

"Thanks," Aaron says. He lies back down after he finishes the bottle.

"How you doing?"

Aaron shakes his head. Tears of frustration prickle against his eyelids and he turns his head away so Willie can't see.

Willie sighs. "Biology sucks, huh?"

Aaron nods. Willie combs Aaron's sweaty hair back off his forehead. Aaron's breath catches in his throat, and he turns into the touch, rolls over onto his side to face Willie. Willie takes his hand back, and Aaron whimpers in the back of his throat.

"No, please, could you--" He cuts himself off. The heat doesn't leave a lot of room for shame or embarrassment, but this is his captain.

But Willie doesn't go. He reaches out, slides his finger through Aaron's hair again. "This?" Willie says.

Aaron nods, his eyes falling shut. It feels so good, Willie's touch, his scent. Aaron rolls onto his stomach, grinds his hips against the mattress, and this time, oh, this time it's enough. He comes, his body clenching down around nothing.

It doesn't feel good, exactly, and the heat doesn't break, but it eases, and Aaron can float on those endorphins for a little while.

"He's having a miserable time of it, isn't he?" Meg says quietly. She sounds worried, unhappy, and Aaron doesn't want that.

The heat twists inside him, rising again as he slowly wakes up.

"Yeah," Willie says. Willie's still touching him, his hand just resting on Aaron's shoulder.

The back of Meg's hand touches his forehead for a moment and Aaron sighs. It feels like too much work to open his eyes.

"You know I'd be okay with it if you wanted to help him break his heat," Willie says.

Aaron's heart stutters.

Meg doesn't say anything for a long moment. "If I knotted him, we would bond," she says finally. "I can't do casual with him. We can't. If it weren't for your suppressants, he would have triggered your heat by now."

"Would that be so bad?" Willie says.

"It is if he doesn't have a choice," Meg says tartly.

Aaron clears his throat. "I'm okay with it," he says.

They look at him.

"You'd be okay with Jagr bonding you at this point," Meg says. "Your judgment is suspect."

"No, I wouldn't," Aaron says, but even as the words are leaving his mouth his body has a very positive reaction to the idea of Jagr knotting him.

Meg gives him a pointed look.

Aaron grins sheepishly. His eyes fall shut as the next wave of heat and want rolls over him. It doesn't have the frantic, out-of-control edge that it did when he was alone.

The mattress dips as Meg sits down. She runs her hand down his back. "Maybe the scent of an alpha would help. I can stay, if you want."

"Please, it's better when you're here." He makes himself open his eyes, look at Willie, too. "Both of you."

Meg rubs the base of his spine and he arches his back with a gasp, suddenly aware of how slick and open he still is.

"Which do you want?" Willie says.

Aaron shakes his head. "Anything."

"Okay," Meg says. "I'll pick."

She rummages through the box and lifts out a knotting dildo, not the biggest one, but longer and thicker than the plug. Aaron's whole body shivers in anticipation.

"Roll over on your back," Meg says, and Aaron struggles to obey.

He ends up with his shoulder pressed against Willie's hip, his thighs spread wide, heels drawn up. His cock arches back against his belly, flushed dark, leaving smears of precome on his abs.

Meg kneels between his legs and looks down at him. Her eyes are very dark, and her scent is stronger, sharper than before. Aaron drags in a shaky breath and it's like he can taste them both, the air is so heavy with their scents.

Meg slides the dildo inside him with one long, smooth stroke. Aaron moans, his hips pushing up off the bed. Meg fucks him once, twice, and then he's coming all over his stomach.

He's still hard, though, and that hot, shuddering tension only pulls tighter.

Willie swipes his hand through Aaron's come and wraps his slick palm around Aaron's cock.

Meg sinks the dildo into him again and leaves it there, the knot just pushing at the rim of his hole. She rubs Aaron's come into his skin. It's an alpha's possessive gesture, even if it's his come, not hers, and some ancient part of Aaron's brain recognizes it, shudders and offers his throat up.

Meg pushes the knot into him.

Aaron drags in a huge breath. The room is full of the scent of all three of them now, mixed together. He's all over their hands, and they're all over him. It's like everything just slots into place, he feels grounded, held steady under them, and he can feel the heat break even before he comes.

Everything goes white. It feels endless, a long, slow crashing wave that washes that desperation and burning out of his system, leaving cool peace in its wake. He breathes through it, harsh panting finally slowing down, evening out. He feels completely boneless, exhausted, calm in a satisfied, floaty way.

Willie gets up and Aaron makes a tiny, protesting noise.

"Shhh," Meg says, petting his thigh. "He'll be right back."

Willie comes back with a warm washcloth and starts wiping down Aaron's abs and cock, gentle and careful. He hands it to Meg, and she eases the dildo out of him, then wipes his thighs and ass down.

She gives the washcloth back to Willie, and he leaves again.

She strokes his hair. "Do you want to stay with us, or be by yourself?" she asks.

"With you," Aaron says, barely above a whisper.

"Okay," she says.

Willie comes back with another bottle of Gatorade. Aaron drinks half of it, and Meg and Willie split the rest.

"Come on," Meg says, getting up. "Our sheet are cleaner."

He leans on Willie the rest of the way to their bedroom. Their sheets smell like them, and he sighs, breathing deep.

They take turns getting ready for bed, and they're both naked when they slide into bed with him, one on either side.

It's like the touch of their bare skin was all he was waiting for, and he falls asleep like his brain flipped a switch.

When he wakes up in the morning, the sheets smell like him, too.

comments

Ficlet: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid

2015-12-15T05:15:01Z

(From bleep0bleep's Fic Prompt Generator.)

Connor fucking McDavid is waiting in his room when Jack stumbles back to the dorm at three in the morning.

He stops, the door slamming behind him. Connor's just sitting on his bed in the dark, barely enough light coming in through the window for Jack to see him. Jack turns the lights on, and Connor blinks at him in the bright florescent glare.

"Don't you need an invitation to be in here?" Jack asks.

"Your roommate let me in," Connor says.

Fucking Johnny.

"He says to tell you he's going to stay over at Rachel's place," Connor adds.

Jack snorts. "So what do you want?"

Connor licks his lips. "My hand's still fucked up."

"Yeah, I heard. That's why you leave the punching to other people, smart guy."

"It's been a month. They said six weeks at the beginning, but now they're saying even longer. I can't -- I need to play."

Maybe it's just the lighting, but Connor does look bad, his skin washed out, his eyes bruised and dark.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Jack asks.

"If I could feed on someone, I'd heal right away."

Jack's stomach swoops and his heart jumps, a shiver of fear and something like fascination under his skin. "Why don't you ask your buddy Stromer to do it?"

"I can't, I've already taken too much from him this season. And you're the only other person who's not my family who knows."

World Juniors was a fucked up experience all around, is all Jack will say about that.

"Uh-huh. How is this my problem? Why would I ever let you feed on me?"

Connor glances away for a second, and when he looks back that aw-shucks, good Canadian boy vibe is gone, and there's something sharp and cocky in his eyes.

"Because if you go first, you'll always wonder if it was just because I was out for two whole months."

It's anger, not fear, this time that jolts through Jack's stomach. He smiles and it's all teeth. "I'd still go first."

"But you'd always wonder. The media would always wonder. There'd always be a little asterisk next to your name: probably should have gone second."

Jack stares at him for a long moment. Connor stares back, a tiny smirk on his mouth like he knows exactly what Jack's thinking. He can probably smell it on him.

Connor shrugs, elaborately casual. "But if you need that edge...."

"Fine," Jack snarls. He takes his coat off with sharp, jerky movements, throws it on Johhny's bed. He's wearing a sweatshirt under it and he pulls that off over his head with one movement.

Connor sucks in a sharp breath. "What are you wearing?"

Jack freezes. He had honestly, right until that moment, forgotten what he was wearing under his jeans.

Look, college is weird, okay? There's a shit ton of hazing when you're a freshman and an athlete, and the thong is the least of it. But it's not something he wants to explain to Connor McDavid.

"Nothing," he snaps. He yanks his t-shirt back down, covering up that sliver of skin where the panties have ridden up over the waistband of his jeans, black lace and hot pink satin. He can feel himself turning red.

Connor's staring at Jack's stomach. The smirk's gone now, and his eyes seem wider and darker when he looks up at Jack.

He stands up, and Jack takes a step back despite himself. Connor closes the distance between them in a rush, faster than Jack can follow, then Connor's hand is on his chest and his back is slamming into the wall.

Jack grunts, and his heartbeat jumps.

"It doesn't look like nothing," Connor says, suddenly way too close. He's a couple inches shorter than Jack, but the weight of his hand on Jack's chest feels immovable.

Connor slides two fingers of his other hand, his bad hand, under the edge of the panties, tugging them further up Jack's hip to get a better look. It drags the fabric against Jack's dick, pulls the thong tighter between his ass cheeks, and Jack tries not to squirm.

Connor rubs his thumb over the lace, then over Jack's skin. His fingers are cool but they leave a trail of heat in their wake.

"It's just a joke," Jack says, and his voice comes out rough around the edges.

Connor pops the button on Jack's fly open, and Jack stops breathing. He should stop this. He's pretty sure Connor would back off if Jack told him, too. But he can't quite bring himself to move.

Connor tugs his zipper down, peeling his jeans open, until the panties are completely visible, stretched over Jack's soft dick.

Connor drags his eyes back up to meet Jack's. "It doesn't look like a joke," he says, very low.

Jack shivers all over and remembers to breathe. Connor ducks his head and presses his face against Jack's throat, inhales deeply.

Jack's toes curl at the feel of Connor's lips brushing against his skin. Connor's still holding him in place. His fingers trace over the edge of the panties, where they cut across Jack's stomach, just above his dick.

Jack is hyper-conscious of that delicate touch, of the feeling of the satin and lace against his cock and balls. He can feel himself start to get hard, a tread of heat coiling through his belly.

"Have you ever hooked up with a vampire before?" Connor asks.

"No," Jack says. "But this isn't--you're just going to bite me."

"I mean, yeah, but biting is..." Connor trails off.

"Is what?" Jack says.

Connor focuses on him again, grins suddenly. "It's fucking awesome. And if you're thinking about sex, it feels like sex."

"And, what, you're thinking about sex right now?" Jack says. He means for it to come out snarky, but his voice isn't quite steady enough for that.

Connor looks down again. He lets his hand dip lower, slides the back of his knuckles over the front of the panties, over Jack's cock. Jack's hips jerk, and he bites down on a gasp.

"Oh, yeah," Connor says. "You still up for it?"

Connor gets that teasing, needling tone exactly right.

"Just do it," Jack snaps.

Connor flashes him another grin. He takes his hand off Jack's chest, moves it to the back of Jack's thigh. Jack has a moment where he has no idea what Connor's trying to do, and then Connor lifts him, sliding him up the wall.

Fuck, Connor's strong. Jack brings his knees up without really thinking about it, grips Connor's hips with his thighs to steady himself. His throat is level with Connor's mouth now.

Connor bites him. It hurts, for one shocking heartbeat, and then the pain just slides over into heat, into a wave of shuddering pleasure. Jack's head falls back and he groans. It feels like Connor's power is stroking him from the inside, somehow, lush, velvety heat rubbing against his skin. He's all the way hard now. His dick strains against the satin and lace of the panties, and Jack thinks vaguely about reaching down and adjusting himself, but the idea skitters away under the hot, wet suction of Connor's mouth.

He's breathing harsh and fast, one hand clutching the back of Connor's head. Connor's rocking his hips into Jack where they're pressed together. He's hard, too.

Connor shudders and goes rigid. He drags his mouth away from the bite, and Jack makes a furious, desperate noise. He's so close.

Connor hums, licks at the slowing trickle of blood on Jack's neck, and that sends another wash of heat through him. Then Connor's hand slides between them. He rubs his fingertips over the head of Jack's cock where it pokes up above the lace of the panties. Jack hisses in a sharp breath, tries to flex his hips up into that touch.

Connor is playing with the fabric of the panties, rubbing it against Jack's dick. It's agony.

"Fucking just--" Jack snarls, and Connor raises his eyebrows.

He looks smug and self-satisfied, and Jack's blood is all over his mouth and chin.

Jack slaps his hand over Connor's and presses Connor's palm against his aching cock. His mouth falls open at how good the pressure feels. He grinds against Connor's hand. Connor lets him, slides his mouth over the bite on his throat again, almost a kiss, and Jack comes in a stomach-clenching rush.

Jack blinks the grey fuzzy stars away from his eyes. Connor's still holding him up against the wall, which good, because Jack feels like all his muscles have been transformed into jello.

Connor's smiling, but orgasm has mellowed Jack, because he doesn't think it looks that smug.

"Awesome, right?" Connor says.

"Eh," Jack says. It was pretty awesome.

His legs have somehow gotten themselves wrapped completely around Connor's waist, and he unfolds them, gets his feet under him again.

His come is all over Connor's hand, and Connor wipes it off on Jack's shirt.

Jack makes a half-hearted noise of protest, but really, it can't make him any messier. He tugs at the ruined panties and hopes no one's expecting to get these back.

Connor still has his hand on Jack's hip, and Jack doesn't really understand why until he tries to take a step towards the bed, and suddenly feels woozy.

Connor braces him, half-carries him to the bed. "How much did you take?" Jack asks, flopping onto his back.

Connor pulls Jack's shoes off. "Not that much. You'll be fine in the morning. Just remember to hydrate."

Jack yawns. "Did it work?"

Connor makes a fist, then spreads his fingers wide. "Oh, yeah."

He looks down at Jack. He slides one finger under the elastic of the thong and lets it snap back against Jack's skin.

"Ow," Jack says.

"You should take those off before it dries on you."

Jack makes a face and starts trying to wiggle out of his jeans. Connor snorts and yanks his jeans and the panties off in one movement.

Jack blinks, startled.

Connor drops his jeans on the floor, gives Jack that smirk again. "See you at the Draft. Thanks for the top up."

Jack swallows back the anytime that rises to the tip of his tongue for no good reason. He flips Connor off instead.

The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is Connor laughing on his way out the door.

comments

Ficlet, Habs, Carey/AGally

2015-11-25T19:55:12Z

anonymous asked:

Have you seen the Galchenyuk&Price logo-drawing Duel? I loved what you wrote about them, if you ever feel inspired to write more about that pairing that would be fantastic :)

I just watched it! Obvs, nothing tops “You gotta fucking *squeak squeak*”, but it was pretty adorable. Mostly because of how much softer and shyer Alex seemed in it. He's so aggressively competitive in that Flags one with Prust, or the pumpkin carving one with BGally, chirping them, arguing about the rules, accusing them of cheating when things don't go his way, but it's completely toned down with Carey. There's little flashes of it -- saying Carey must have cheated on the Blue Jackets one to get that score, "is this what you did for your high school projects or something?" -- but he's not nearly as cocky/confident with Carey. And Carey has this easy-going, amused fondness towards Alex (although I'm sure if he hadn't been winning, he would not have been nearly as cheerful). Also, I don't know if it's the camera angle or Alex's body language, but Carey seems so much bigger than Alex in this.

I've been thinking about the follow-up to this Carey/Alex/Prusty ficlet, because now that Brandon had been traded, Alex doesn't know where he stands with Carey, if Carey would want to do anything with him if Brandon wasn't there.

That's what Carey assumes is going through Alex's head, anyway.

Alex still looks at him like that sometimes, shy and almost awed, still does dumb stuff to get Carey's attention. Carey flirts back the same way, physical contact and chirping, but he doesn't push it. He wants to see if Alex will ask for what he wants.

And lately it seems like Alex does want to say something, but Carey can see him lose his nerve at the last minute.

Finally, Carey drags him into an empty office after practice, locks the door, and says, "Okay, ask me."

Carey makes sure to stand just a little too close. Alex bites his lip, cheeks going pink, and for a second, Carey thinks he's going to brush it off. Then Alex straightens his shoulders and says, "Am I being a good center this year?"

Carey blinks. Well, shit. It takes him a beat to get out of the yes blowjobs now mindset he went in with.

"Yeah, Chucky, you're doing good," he says, and he means it.

"My point production--"

"Being a center is about more than points, you're doing a lot to help the team win, the kind of stuff that doesn't translate into points. The points'll come."

Alex nods, like he's heard it all before. "Last spring, Bergevin said maybe I'm not good enough to be a center. I want to do better, but what if they don't give me a chance?"

"Bergevin's an asshole," Carey says, the same thing he texted Alex when Bergevin first said that. "And he's an idiot. He thinks Therrien's a great coach, and Therrien wants PK to pass the puck out of the zone instead of carrying it out. PK."

Alex looks dubious, but that gets a little flicker of a smile.

"They're not terrible, but they want to make the talent fit their system, instead of changing their system to fit the talent they have." Carey reaches out and grips Alex's shoulder, gives him an affectionate little shake. "You just have to keep doing what you're doing-- work hard, listen to your coaches, don't over-think it. If they switch you back to wing it's because they're too impatient and short-sighted, it's not you. Okay?"

Alex ducks his head, but that anxious, jittery tension has gone out of him. Carey shifts his grip on Alex's shoulder so his thumb can brush against his throat.

"I'm a little disappointed, though," Carey says.

Alex's eyes jump to Carey's face, and Carey gives him a slow, dirty grin.

"I thought you wanted to ask if we could still fuck without Prusty."

Carey watches with delight as Alex's whole face goes brick red. He strokes his thumb over sudden jump in Alex's pulse and he can feel him swallow.

"Oh," Alex says. Then he takes a deep breath and meets Carey's eyes. "Yeah, that, too."

"So ask," Carey says.

Alex kisses him, eager and hot and a little clumsy. Carey laughs in the back of his throat and kisses back.

"I want--" Alex says, low and breathless, "I want, can I suck you off?"

"Yeah," Carey groans.

He takes a few steps back to lean against the edge of the desk. He shoves his track pants down around his thighs. Alex drops to his knees in front of him. He wraps his hand around Carey's dick and looks up at Carey, serious and focused, for a moment before he ducks his head and takes him into his mouth.

Carey sucks in a sharp breath. "God, yeah, just like that, Chucky."

He can feel Alex shiver at the praise, see his eyes dip shut. He strokes his palm over Alex's head and keeps talking. "Your mouth feels amazing, you're getting so good at this."

Alex makes a noise around Carey's dick, almost a moan, and sucks harder.

Carey rocks forward into Alex's mouth, just tiny little strokes, something hot and breathless building in the pit of his stomach.

He touches Alex's jaw. "Hey," he says, and his voice is rough and gravelly. "Hey, I'm gonna--"

Alex hums in acknowledgment and his hand tightens on Carey's hip. He doesn't pull away. Carey lets himself come down Alex's throat.

Alex swallows. When he pulls back, his mouth is red, shiny with spit and come, and his cheeks are flushed. Carey's heart is hammering in his chest and his knees are still weak, but he pulls Alex to his feet and kisses him.

"Fuck, Alex, that was so good, you did such a good job," he says.

Alex moans and rolls his hips against Carey, and Carey can feel how hard he is.

"Shhh," Carey says. He tugs Alex around so he can lean against the desk and Carey can go to his knees.

Alex's hands clench on the edge of the desk when Carey pulls his sweats down. His dick springs free, heavy and flushed, already wet at the tip.

Carey smooths his foreskin back with one hand, rubs the head of Alex's cock against his lips. Alex whines and Carey slides his cock into his mouth.

Alex says Carey's name, and then something harsh and ragged in Russian. Carey can feel his thighs and abs shaking. He slides his other hand around Alex's back, lets his fingers dip into the crease of Alex's ass. Alex jerks, stands up straighter, and Carey presses a fingertip against Alex's asshole.

Alex gasps and grabs Carey's shoulder, but he pushes back into the dry press of Carey's fingers, a fresh spurt of precome spilling across Carey's tongue.

"Carey," he says, his voice thin and shaky.

Carey pushes to his feet and kisses him. Alex makes a grateful noise against Carey's mouth. Carey strokes him a few more times and Alex comes all over his hand.

Alex slumps against Carey, breathing in ragged gasps, and presses his forehead against Carey's shoulder. Carey runs his clean hand in slow, soothing arcs over Alex's back.

Alex mumbles something.

"What?" Carey says.

Alex lifts his head and meets Carey's eyes. "You can ask, too. If you want-- something. Anything."

Carey studies his face for a moment. "Okay. I will," he says, and Alex grins, bright and shy and happy.

comments

Ficlet: Penguins, Flower/Sid, Flower/Lovejoy

2015-11-16T01:25:41Z

aggressivelybicaptainamerica asked for Flower/anyone/(everyone), and coincidentally, my first thought after that whole Flower-getting-high-sticked thing was "I hope Sid had Lovejoy make it up to Flower."

Rebloggable version

The fear is worse than the pain, in that first split second when it happens. Flower drops forward, his head on his blocker hand. Pain flares hot and sharp across his cheekbone, his eye socket, and he's bleeding, he can feel it. All that's going through his mind is, Fuck, please, not the eye.

Distantly, he can hear the roar of the crowd, the shouting of his teammates and the Habs in front of the goal, the refs trying to break things up. He can't make himself open his eyes, afraid of what he'll see -- or won't see.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit, Flower, I'm sorry--" Lovejoy is saying.

Suck it up, Flower thinks viciously to himself, and opens his eyes. He can see just fine, and relief makes him dizzy for a second.

"Are you--" Lovejoy says, and Flower pushes to his feet, waves him off sharply, mostly pissed at Lovejoy for scaring him like that.

The anger is gone by the time he gets back on the ice. He gets his stitches, and he gets the shootout win, and by the time everything is done, he can laugh about it. High-sticked by his own d-man, on par for the season for them so far.

Once he's out of his equipment, the trainers take him aside to clean up the bleeding and reseal the cut, give him an ice pack for the swelling.

Sid comes into the exam room as Mike is leaving. He's sweaty and rumpled and has his displeased captain face on, eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed flat and unhappy.

"Can I see?" Sid asks.

Flower lowers the ice pack. Sid comes to stand between his knees where he's sitting on the exam table. He touches Flower's chin, tilts his head to see the cut better. His fingers are warm and rough on Flower's skin.

"It's nothing," Flower says. "Just a few stitches like a dumb forward."

Sid's frown gets deeper.

"Are you going to kiss it better?" Flower asks, when Sid doesn't let go of his chin.

Sid huffs out a breath and his expression softens. He leans in and presses the lightest of kisses to Flower's cheekbone, next to the stitches.

For a second, the dull throb of pain in his face actually subsides. Flower doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until Sid pulls back.

"Wait here," Sid says firmly, and walks out.

Flower blinks. "Okay, sure!" he yells after him.

He gives Sid a minute or two, but honestly, he'd just like to get this whole night over with. He slides off the exam table, but before he can even put his flip-flops back on, the door opens.

It's Lovejoy, with Sid behind him.

Ben looks absolutely stricken. Sid gives him a firm nudge into the room and shuts the door behind them.

Flower raises his eyebrows at both of them.

"Shit, I'm so sorry, Flower," Ben says in a rush. "It was an accident, I should have been more careful. Are you okay?"

He looks so unhappy that Flower can't even be mad. "I'm fine, it's all right. These things happen, eh?"

Sid has crossed the room to hop up on the exam table behind Flower. He tugs on the back of Flower's t-shirt, pulling him back a step so Flower is standing between his spread thighs. Flower shoots him a dubious look over his shoulder, but he lets Sid man-handle him.

"Ben wants to make it up to you," Sid says. He rests his hands on Flower's hips. "Right, Ben?"

Ben licks his lips, nods quickly. Flower's on the verge of rolling his eyes when Ben drops to his knees in front of him. Flower takes a sharp breath, and a sudden rush of heat spills through his gut.

"Sid," Flower says.

"Let him," Sid says in his ear, in his terribly accented French. "He'll feel bad if you say no."

Flower snorts, but he looks down at Ben's earnest face and-- Well, if it's to make his teammate feel better.

He runs his hand through Ben's hair and says, "All right."

Ben smiles up at him. He pulls Flower's Under Armour down, easing it over Flower's cock. Flower's half-hard already -- it was a win, after all.

Ben grips his cock, gives him a few light, easy strokes before he leans in and rubs the head of Flower's cock against his lips. Flower shivers, makes an encouraging noise, and Sid hums in his ear.

Sid has his chin hooked over Flower's shoulder, watching Ben's face. Ben's careful, gentle, his mouth all soft, wet, heat around Flower's cock. He takes Flower deeper into his mouth until his lips press against the edge of his fist, wrapped around the base of Flower's cock. It's not quite enough, but Flower doesn't let himself squirm.

Ben makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, and then he sucks. Flower gasps. His hips jerk, but Sid's grip holds him still, stops him from shoving deeper into Ben's throat.

There's nothing tentative about Ben's mouth anymore. Flower digs his fingers into Sid's thigh instead of grabbing Ben's hair.

"Ben's going to show more stick-awareness around the net from now on," Sid says solemnly.

Flower lets out a breathless laugh. Ben glances up at his face, his eyes crinkling up like he's grinning around Flower's dick. Then he lets go of Flower's cock and swallows him all the way down.

Flower swears viciously in French. Sid squeezes his hips, presses a kiss to the side of his throat. Flower's thighs are shaking, the muscles of his stomach clenched tight, as heat coils up his spine.

Ben pulls back and Flower whines at the loss of his mouth. "Sid," he says, voice hoarse. "I can, you can let him--"

"You sure?" Sid asks.

Ben nods.

"Okay," Sid says, and his grip on Flower's hips loosens.

It takes Flower a second to get it. But Sid doesn't hold him back when he rocks his hips forward this time, lets him fuck into Ben's mouth. It only takes a couple thrusts before he's coming, that sudden dazzling snap of tension catching him by surprise. He barely manages to pull back enough not to choke Ben, coming all over his open mouth and flushed cheeks.

The buzzing rush of orgasm makes his knees weak and he slumps back against Sid's solid bulk. Sid wraps his arms loosely around Flower's waist.

"Sid," Ben says shakily. "Can I--"

"Hmmm," Sid says, dragging it out.

In French, Flower says, "He apologized well enough."

"All right," Sid says. "Go ahead."

With a relieved exhale, Ben drops his head forward to rest against Flower's thigh and slides his hand into his sweats. He jerks himself off fast and rough, coming with a muffled curse.

Ben takes a few more shuddery breaths, then sits back on his heels. He wipes his hand on his sweats, then pulls the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe Flower's come off his face. He looks up at them both.

"I really am sorry," he says.

"I know," Flower says. "It's okay."

Ben climbs a little stiffly to his feet, gives them a shy smile, and slips out of the room.

Flower leans his head back against Sid's shoulder. "Thanks for the goal," he says.

Sid turns his head and kisses Flower's cheek, incredibly gentle. "Thanks for the saves," he says.

Just like always.

comments

Ficlet: Preds D/s

2015-11-13T02:37:02Z

fuhrmana asked:

Can you tell me more about Dom Seth Jones and his two subs? Like, just anything.

Things rapidly (well, actually, really slowly) got out of hand, but it's still not coherent enough to be a real story, so it seems like a good excuse to try that whole cross-posting to DW thing.

Rebloggable version.

What kills me about that picture is how Roman is smiling up at Seth, so open and happy, but Shea is more reserved, his head bent, his smile soft and small.

Which makes me think that Seth and Roman were together first and they invited Shea in later.

Seth develops the biggest crush on Shea when he stays with him that first summer. Shea is a great hockey player, and he's hot, and he gives off this vibe that he doesn't need a dom, that if he kneels for someone it's because he wants to, and Seth is so into that.

(Seth's heard the gossip about Shea, the way the media likes to speculate about what it means that Shea hasn't settled down with a nice dom yet, that he hasn't even -- as far as the media knows -- had a long-term relationship with a dom since he joined the league. Seth's even heard the fan theories that Shea and Suter had a secret relationship and that's why Shea never dated anyone publicly. It's all bullshit as far as Seth is concerned.)

Whatever, it's just a crush, lots of doms fantasize about older subs, Seth's not going to do anything about it. Shea is his captain and has been nothing but kind and friendly and completely appropriate.

Unlike Roman, who flirts outrageously with him.

Roman does it because right from the start, Seth treated him like a veteran, not a sub. Because he likes the way Seth gets blush-y and tongue-tied at first, likes the way Seth teases him back as the season goes on and Seth gets more comfortable with the team. It's just joking around.

At first, anyway.

Roman thinks of Seth as a rookie at the beginning, not a potential dom. He is a rookie, hesitant, eager to please -- wanting to make a good impression on the veterans and the coaching staff. Roman can tell that the pressure and attention and responsibility of the NHL, both on and off the ice, has him off-balance and struggling to adapt.

And then Roman comes back from the Olympics and sees him flirting for real with a sub in a bar.

She's tiny, delicate, with dark skin and candy-pink hair. She looks like she's a couple years older than Seth, old enough to not need a fake ID to get served at least. She's giving him a skeptical but not unfriendly look.

Seth is standing in a way that shows off his height without crowding her or making her feel intimidated. He smiles, a deep flash of dimples, and says something that makes her laugh. Everything about his body language is easy, confident, dominant without being a pushy asshole about it.

Roman's never seen Seth like this before, and suddenly, he's the one who's off-balance.

Fisher elbows him, and Roman jumps, takes the pitcher Fisher's holding out and follows him back to their booth. He can't help glancing back at Seth and his tiny sub, though. It needles at him, and he doesn't know why, until he sees Seth lean in, duck his head down to hear her better, and he realizes that he wants to be the focus of all of Seth's attention like that.

He yanks his gaze away and finds Shea watching. Shea's eyebrows go up, and Roman feels like Shea knows exactly what he's thinking. It makes his whole face go hot.

Seth leaves with her, his hand wrapped around her wrist. He doesn't so much as glance at their table on the way out the door.

The next time Roman flirts with Seth, it doesn't feel like a joke.

Shea helped Roman so much when he first got called up, in his first full season. He was the one Roman talked to about being an out sub in the NHL. Shea gave him advice on how to deal with doms on the ice, both the assholes on other teams and his own over-protective teammates, about dating and how courtship and hook-up culture was different in North America. He made Roman believe that there wasn't anything wrong with him for wanting to play hockey and he shouldn't settle for a shitty dom that told him otherwise.

(Roman's heard all the gossip about Shea, and he thinks it's bullshit, too.)

Shea's the kind of sub Roman's grandmother would call difficult. He hooks up with doms, but he doesn't date anyone -- it's not worth the stress and misery when it doesn't work out, when he can't give them what they're expecting.

Roman likes casual sex just fine, but he doesn't understand how Shea can trust a stranger enough to truly go under for them. He tries to ask Shea about it once, and Shea grimaces, looks away.

"It's not--" he says, and stops. "I don't need it to be like that."

Roman doesn't get that, but he lets it go.

The first time Roman and Seth hook up is after a road game, a win that snaps a four game losing streak and makes the whole team giddy. Seth gets the game-winning goal in overtime, and to Roman, it seems reasonable, necessary to go to his knees for Seth afterwards.

Seth looks shocked, almost awed when Roman kneels for him, but he takes what Roman offers with a kind of fierce attention that leaves Roman breathless.

Maybe if Roman had thought about it, he would have guessed that someone who made the NHL as a defenseman in his first year would bring that same confidence and maturity and focus into the bedroom, too. But he's got to admit, he's not expecting it. It's not like Seth is some experienced and skilled dom, of course -- his ropework is objectively terrible and that's the most advanced thing they've done so far -- but he's a fast learner. Roman likes teaching him. He likes that Seth doesn't act like he knows everything, that he asks what Roman wants instead of trying to bluster his way through with cockiness and aggression.

It's fun, casual. They hook up after good games on the road, or on off-days or after practice at home. Seth will nap with him, but he doesn't stay the night. Roman gets off on it, but he doesn't really go under for Seth.

Not until they're officially out of the playoff race.

They lose to Dallas in the shootout at the beginning of April, and that's it, they're done.

It's not like they were that close, Roman knows that, but as long as it was still mathematically possible, it was something to fight for. The whole locker room is subdued afterwards. There's something cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach, but he feels strangely light, like he's going to blow away in a stiff breeze. He goes through the motions of showering and changing. He thinks he talks to the media, but he doesn't remember what he says.

Seth looks as gut-punched as Roman feels, but when he sees Roman's face, his shoulders straighten and his expression sharpens.

He catches Roman on the way to the bus. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Roman smiles mechanically. "Yeah. Just sucks, you know?"

"Yeah," Seth says. He reaches out and grips the back of Roman's neck, just a brief squeeze, then his hand drops away.

Roman misses it immediately.

Seth stops at Roman's room when they get back to the hotel, hovers in the doorway. "Roman," he says softly. "What do you need?"

For just a second, Roman wants a dom who knows what he needs, who won't make Roman ask for it. He makes himself exhale slowly. "Could you -- just, hold me down?"

"Yes," Seth says immediately, steadily.

Roman takes a couple of steps back so Seth can come in.

"Take off your clothes," Seth says."You can leave your boxers on."

It's a relief to get out of the suit. He doesn't mind them normally, but it feels smothering tonight.

"Lie down on the bed, on your stomach," Seth says.

Roman obeys. He can hear the rustle of Seth taking his own suit off, then the mattress dips and Seth straddles Roman's waist. He settles all his weight on Roman's lower back, his thighs pressed against Roman's sides. He runs his hand over Roman's shoulder, down his arm.

"Your shoulder isn't bothering you anymore, right?" Seth asks.

Roman shakes his head against the pillow.

Seth wraps his hand around Roman's wrist and twists Roman's arm up behind his back.

Roman sucks in a sharp breath. It's just the right side of painful. He is suddenly, intensely present in his own body, and that floaty, ungrounded sensation disappears. Seth puts his other hand on Roman's shoulder, leans his weight into the hold. His thumb strokes back and forth over Roman's skin in a slow, steady rhythm. Roman's breathing evens out to match it without conscious thought. He trusts Seth. It's easy to stop thinking, stop worrying, and just sink into that feeling of being pinned down, held steady.

Seth lets go of his wrist eventually, carefully unfolds his twisted arm. Roman makes a small noise of protest; he can take more, longer--

"Shhh," Seth says. He stretches out on top of Roman and hooks his chin over Roman's shoulder, his whole body a comforting press of weight and heat. "We still need your arm. We're going to finish strong this season. We'll be in the hunt next season."

He sounds so sure about it. Roman sighs and closes his eyes.

When Roman wakes up, Seth is sprawled out on his back next to him, snoring unevenly, his ankle hooked over Roman's.

He's starving. Seth doesn't wake up when Roman gets out of bed and gets dressed. The only other Pred at the breakfast buffet is Shea.

Shea studies his face when he sits down with his plate of eggs and potatoes. "How are you doing?" Shea asks.

Roman thinks about it. "Good," he says. The loss still stings, but he feels lighter, settled in his skin in a way that he hasn't in a while. "Seth took care of me."

"Good," Shea says.

He looks tired, and Roman wonders who's taking care of him.

They're still together when the new season starts.

Shea gives him that considering look again. Roman's a little surprised, too. None of his other attempts at dating lasted through a summer or his return to Nashville. But he likes being with Seth.

Seth understands what it's like to be a professional hockey player. Roman never feels like he's disappointed Seth when he can't kneel too long without stiffening up. He never has to argue about what they can and can't do before practice or after a game. Both of them need too many calories to dick around with hand-feeding on a regular basis. (But Seth will feed him popcorn when they're just hanging out, watching movies, Roman's head in Seth's lap.) Seth doesn't care about the hockey bruises that Roman picks up as the season goes on, doesn't care about Roman going out of town on a regular basis or not being available for dinner dates because of night games. Roman's weird schedule is the same as Seth's.

It's not just that, obviously. Roman likes Seth, likes spending time with him. They go to baseball games and Taylor Swift concerts, hang out together and play video games and watch movies. They have a lot of really good sex, the kind that leaves Roman feeling boneless and content and centered.

Roman's playing great hockey, too. He and Shea are finally clicking as partners on the ice.

("Because you stopped trying to treat me like your dom," Shea says, very dry, and Roman makes a face at him, but can't argue.)

Roman catches Shea watching them every now and then, face unreadable.

"What?" Roman says finally.

Shea shakes his head. "Nothing, just -- you look happy."

It's a question, and Shea's body language makes it clear he's asking a sub, a friend, not as Roman's captain.

"Yes," Roman says. "He's a good dom for me. He's--"

He stops, trying to put it into words. Roman's grandmother would maybe call him difficult, too. He's met a lot of doms, especially other hockey players, who are aggressive, pushy, wanting space and attention and submission even when they're not flirting. He knows that a lot of subs like that, but it makes his knees lock and his spine straighten, makes him want to push back and refuse to submit. But Seth is...

"--calm," he says at last. "He makes it easy to kneel, makes me feel calm and steady, too. You know?"

"Yeah," Shea says, almost reluctantly. "I know."

Roman's attention catches on Shea's tone of voice. Oh, he thinks, and Shea looks away.

Maybe it's just because Roman is getting what he needs this season, but he worries about Shea. He thinks Shea is going out more on road trips, letting himself get picked up by doms more often, but it's definitely not something he's going to ask Shea about.

He asks Seth if he thinks Shea is hooking up more, and Seth hesitates long enough that Roman lifts his head off Seth's shoulder to see his face.

"Maybe," Seth says. "I don't -- I try not to pay too much attention to who Shea's kneeling for."

Shea gets hurt in the second game of the playoffs, gets off the ice without putting any weight on his leg and doesn't come back for the rest of the period.

When they go back to the dressing room, the trainers and the team doctor pull Roman aside.

"Does Weber have a dom?" Barrett asks.

Roman's stomach clenches.

Barrett shakes his head at the look on Roman's face. "He'll be all right, but we need to give him something stronger for the pain, and combined with the stress of the injury, it can cause sub drop. Even if we could get someone on the phone to talk to him..."

"No, no one," Roman says.

"A teammate, then?"

Roman doesn't even think about it. "Seth."

Seth's not really paying attention when they pull Roman aside. He's thinking about the game and what they're going to do if Shea can't play the rest of it, but then they're waving him over, too.

They're talking about how Shea needs a dom to keep him grounded, about how Roman suggested him -- what? -- and one of the trainers is saying something to Laviolette. Laviolette signs off on it apparently, because one of the trainers takes him to an exam room.

Shea's laying on his back on one of the tables. They've taken most of his gear off, and his legs are bare. His right knee is swollen, and his whole body is tense with pain. Seth feels a surge of protective rage, wants to go out there and slam each and every one of the Hawks into the boards.

Maybe he makes a tiny noise, because Shea opens his eyes and looks over at Seth. Seth takes a deep, slow breath and reaches for calmness, tries to let go of that anger.

"Hey, Webs," he says, coming over to the exam table. "They said you might want someone to keep you grounded."

"So they sent you?"

Seth puts a hand over his heart. "I'm a responsible and trustworthy young dom, who is very mature for his age."

"Who says that? Roman?"

"No, my mom," Seth says, and the corner of Shea's mouth curves into a ghost of a smile.

Seth reaches out and strokes Shea's hair back from his forehead, lets his hand rest against the crown of Shea's head. Shea's eyes dip shut.

"Is this okay?" Seth asks, low and quiet now.

"Yeah," Shea says.

The trainers give Shea a shot of something. Seth ignores what they're doing, focuses on Shea instead. He rubs tiny circles against Shea's scalp with his fingertips and tells him about the game, what he missed.

The tight lines of pain on Shea's face ease and his breathing gets deeper and steadier. Seth keeps an eye on the clock.

Finally he has to say, "I gotta go soon."

Shea blinks his eyes open slowly. His face is soft and unguarded, and it takes him a moment to focus on Seth.

Seth swallows hard. It's not real -- it's just the drugs and the pain that are making Shea react like this, but it still tugs hard at something in Seth's gut.

"Just relax, okay?" he says. "Let them take care of you. We got this."

Seth stays until Shea is focused and alert again, and then he has to hustle to get ready for the second period.

They get the win, and it's almost enough to make Seth forget that this whole thing was Roman's idea.

Almost.

"We need to talk," he says, under the chaos of the locker room.

"Okay," Roman says, with a confused look, like he doesn't understand what's bother Seth.

Maybe he doesn't, maybe Seth is just overreacting.

They don't get a chance to talk privately until they get to Chicago the next day. By that time they already know Shea isn't coming with them.

Seth knocks on Roman's door, halfway convinced he should just let it go, but when Roman smiles at him, he can't help blurting out, "I don't want to share you with another dom." Roman blinks at him, and Seth feels his face heat, but he keeps going. "I thought -- I thought you felt the same way."

Roman frowns. "I do. I don't want another dom."

"But you were fine with sharing me with another sub, with me acting like Shea's dom." Seth's face is burning up now, and he feels young and dumb and inexperienced. "It's fine if--"

Roman swears under his breath in German. "No, wait, it's not." He reaches out to touch Seth's hand. His eyes are on Seth's face, and Seth lets Roman tug him over to sit on the edge of his bed.

Roman goes to his knees in front of Seth. He's gorgeous when he moves like that, when he looks up at Seth like that. Seth knows himself, knows he still has a crush on Shea, warm and secret in the depths of his heart. But Roman is his, and next to that, a crush is nothing.

Roman's still watching his face. "I wouldn't share you with any other sub. But it's Shea. Shea needs a dom to take care of him."

Seth shakes his head, and Roman makes a face.

"Okay, he doesn't need a dom, but -- he deserves someone to take care of him."

"And you don't care if it's me?"

"I do care. I want it to be you." Roman frowns again, thinking it through. "I want it to be us."

And now that he's letting himself think about it, Seth wants it to be them, too. But--

"He doesn't, he wouldn't want--"

"He would," Roman says. "Ask him."

"You ask him," Seth mutters.

"Okay," Roman says with a grin.

Seth's heart stutters a little in his chest, and he doesn't tell him no.

They don't ask until after the Preds are eliminated from the playoffs.

It sucks, to work that hard and not be good enough. And Seth can't help feeling they let Shea down in some way.

Seth finds Roman on the plane, sits down next to him. He wraps his hand around Roman's wrist and squeezes, then slides his palm down to tangle their fingers together.

"Hey," Seth says quietly. "Can I come over tonight?"

Roman nods and leans into Seth's shoulder.

Seth texts his mom before they take off. im staying with Roman tonight He can't quite bring himself to ask permission, but he can't leave it as a statement. if that's ok

Of course, honey, his mom says. Bring him over for brunch tomorrow.

Seth makes an embarrassed face at his phone, but says, k

He can feel Roman smiling against his shoulder.

Roman drives. It takes Seth a while to realize they're not going to Roman's place, but he doesn't say anything. Roman pulls up in front of Shea's house and looks at Seth, his expression cautious and hopeful.

Seth sighs. "Okay, but you're still asking."

Shea opens the door eventually. Roman's on the doorstep, but Seth hangs back a few feet.

Shea looks exhausted and in pain. Before he can tell them to fuck off, Roman hugs him. Shea's arm comes up around Roman's back automatically, his hand tightening in the fabric of Roman's jacket. After a long moment, Roman leans back. Their heads are still ducked close together. Seth can tell Roman's saying something to Shea, but he can't make it out.

Shea's mouth twists and he looks over Roman's shoulder to meet Seth's eyes. "I'm not going to be kneeling for anyone any time soon," he says, loud enough for Seth to hear.

Roman huffs out a breath. "You don't have to be on your knees to kneel."

Seth takes a few steps forward, stops just close enough to touch. "I'm sorry we couldn't win that series for you," he says.

Shea makes a small hurt noise. Seth grips his shoulder, right where it meets his neck, his thumb brushing against Shea's throat. Shea's muscles are tight under his hand, and Seth can feel his pulse jump against the pad of his thumb.

"We'll go if you want, but please, let us do this for you." Seth tries to sound calm and certain, like he knows what he's doing, tries to put all of their conviction into his voice.

Shea closes his eyes. He nods abruptly, and steps back from the door to let them in.

Shea looks at Seth, and Seth says, "Living room."

Shea sits down on the sofa, and stretches his bad leg out in front of him on the ottoman. There's a couple of ice packs on the coffee table, and Roman puts them back on Shea's knee, leans over Shea to adjust the pillows behind his back.

Shea grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down into a kiss.

Seth stops breathing. Heat shivers through him as he watches Shea kiss Roman. When Shea pulls back, they both look at him. Roman's eyes are wide and startled, but there's something almost challenging in Shea's.

Seth would swear they didn't come here for sex, but now it's all he can think about. He steps up to the sofa. Roman is frozen in place, his hand braced on Shea's shoulder, one knee on the sofa next to Shea's thigh.

Seth kisses Roman, soft and careful, and feels him sigh into it. Roman's eyes are closed when Seth breaks the kiss.

"You've been watching the games, right?" Seth asks Shea.

Shea nods, looking off-balance.

"So you saw how good Roman did for us."

Shea nods again, understanding sliding across his face. "Yeah."

"He should get a reward, right?" Seth says. His stomach flutters but he doesn't let himself hesitate. "Can he fuck your mouth?"

"Yeah," Shea says, and this time his voice is low and rough.

Roman shivers. Seth slides a hand down Roman's back. "Clothes," he says.

Shea lets go of Roman's shirt, and Roman steps back. He strips with smooth, easy motions. Seth watches. It's weirdly comforting, the familiarity of it.

Roman's half-hard when he slides his boxers off. He studies Shea for a second, then climbs back on the couch. He settles a knee on either side of of Shea's hip, so Shea has to tilt his head back to look up at him.

Roman looks at Seth, for approval or permission.

"Webs, you good?" Seth asks.

Shea nods, his hands coming up to rest on Roman's waist. Roman rolls his hips forward, and Shea opens his mouth, lets Roman's cock slide over his lips.

"Go ahead, Roman," Seth says.

Roman guides his cock into Shea's open mouth, slow and easy, just the head. Shea watches his face. Roman's flushed pink already, and he lets out a shaky breath, almost a laugh.

"Fuck," he says.

Seth's thoughts exactly. He stands next to Roman, rests his hand in the small of Roman's back.

"He can take more," Seth says. "Right, Webs?"

Shea makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, and Roman's hips stutter, pushing in deeper.

"You played so good for us this series, you deserve this," Seth says. He ducks his head to kiss the curve of Roman's shoulder, but he keeps his eyes on Shea's face. "You left everything on the ice, the whole team did, and that's what matters. It just wasn't our year."

Shea pulls Roman in deeper, and Roman gasps, braces his hands on Shea's shoulders.

"You did so good this season, babe, I'm so proud of you," Seth says.

Roman turns his head and Seth leans in to kiss him. Roman kisses back fiercely, until Shea does something that makes him moan.

Seth pulls back. He taps Shea's wrists. "Hands behind your back," he says.

Shea lets go of Roman's hips and does as Seth says. Roman's holding him down, fucking into his mouth, and it's the hottest thing Seth has seen basically ever.

"Fuck, you guys," Seth says. He runs the pad of his thumb over Shea's mouth where it's stretched around Roman's cock. "You look so hot, you have no idea."

Roman makes a thin, needy sound. "Seth, please, can I--"

Seth kisses his shoulder again. "Anything you want."

Roman shudders all over and comes in Shea's mouth. Shea chokes, trying to swallow. Roman sways like his knees aren't going to hold him, and Seth slides an arm around his waist, steadying him.

He eases Roman down onto the sofa to sit next to Shea. Roman moves like all his muscles have turned liquid. He looks wrecked. Seth smooths his sweaty hair back and kisses his forehead, that warm, possessive, protective instinct filling him up.

Roman sighs and turns his head, presses his face into Shea's shoulder.

Shea's mouth is red, wet with spit and come. Seth can't help himself. He braces one knee on the couch and leans down to kiss him, to lick the taste of Roman out of his mouth. Shea makes a noise in the back of his throat, almost a moan.

His eyes are heavy when Seth pulls back. Seth can see the hard line of his cock, obvious under his worn grey sweats. That sharp-edged wariness has faded, but it's not true submission. Seth doesn't really care about that, he just wants to make Shea feel good, make him feel like Roman does when Seth gets it right, protected, cared for.

He palms Shea's cock through his sweats. Shea shifts up into the pressure. Seth puts his free hand on Shea's shoulder and leans into it. "Don't move around, you're gonna hurt your knee."

Shea stops moving. Seth's thumb rests in the hollow of his throat, and just for a heartbeat, Seth thinks about shifting his grip, about what Shea's throat would feel like under his palm. Instead he traces the outline of Shea's cock through his sweats, rubbing the fabric against the head of it until a wet spot appears, until Shea's abs are tense and he's breathing fast and uneven.

He tugs the waistband of Shea's sweats down, eases his cock out. He's cut, his cock heavy and hot in Seth's hand.

"Let me," Roman says. Seth holds out his hand and Roman takes it, licks his palm, his eyes on Seth's. It's a little showy, over the top, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in a smile, but he does a careful, thorough job.

Seth wraps his wet palm around Shea's cock, and Shea drags in a ragged breath.

"Hey, you know 'm not going to do anything you don't want, right?" Seth says.

Shea meets his eyes, and after a second, he nods.

"Is this okay?" Seth asks.

Shea nods.

Seth strokes him slow and consideringly, watching Shea's reaction. All of his attention narrows down to trying to figure out what Shea likes, what gets the best response, until he's almost shaking with it, mouth open and panting. His hands are still behind his back, and Seth can see the flex of his biceps as he holds himself still. Seth eases up, just barely touching him, until Shea isn't right on the edge.

Then Seth does it all again. Roman pinches Shea's nipple through his t-shirt, and Shea's whole body jerks. Roman likes that reaction enough that he pushes Shea's t-shirt up and gets his mouth on Shea's nipple.

Shea moans, his cock jerking in Seth's hand. Seth loosens his grip, and Shea makes a tiny noise of protest.

Seth can feel his heart beating like crazy in his chest as he stares down at Shea. "Ask," he says, low and steady.

"Please," Shea says.

It makes something twist in Seth's chest, fierce and hot. "Anything you want," he says.

He slides his hand down Shea's cock, his grip tight and not quite slick enough, and Shea comes all over his exposed stomach.

"Fuck, Shea," Seth says, and kisses his open mouth.

Shea kisses back, deep and slow. All the tension gone from his muscles, his eyes heavy and soft when Seth lifts his head.

Seth is so hard it hurts. He fumbles to unzip the fly of his pants.

Roman wiggles down on the sofa, so he can slide Seth's cock into his mouth, his cheek pressed against Shea's stomach. Seth comes like it's his first time, hard enough to make his abs curl and his vision white out. He's gripping Shea's shoulder so hard he'll probably leave bruises. Roman smirks at him, and Seth doesn't even care.

Seth wedges himself between Roman and Shea. He wants to be touching both of them. He makes Shea unfold his arms, roll the stiffness out of his shoulders. Shea's still in that deep, quiet space in his own head. Seth grips the back of his neck, lets him slump down and tuck his face against Seth's throat.

Roman's already pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa, curled up on his side with his head in Seth's lap. He tucks Seth's other arm around him and threads their fingers together.

In the morning, Seth brings both of them to brunch.

(It takes Shea a while to believe that Seth and Roman really want him to be part of their relationship, that it's not just a pity-fuck or a casual sex thing, and when that picture was taken, Shea's still not completely there. But Seth and Roman are willing to wait.)

comments

FIC: Hockey Reverse Big Bang

2014-04-02T01:23:35Z

Art Prompt Title: #10 - a/b/o heat-on-a-plane + consequences
Art link: Podfic Masterpost (or click through the fic link to read a transcript)
Artist: helenorvana

Fic Title: I'll keep a bonfire for you
Author: 7iris
Characters/Pairings: Beau Bennett/Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~12,000
Warnings: Dubious consent of the sex-pollen/in-heat variety.

Summary: Beau has a good feeling about this season.

comments

FIC: Hockey RPF, Justified

2014-01-18T02:45:59Z

Things I've written for holiday exchanges.

For the holly_poly exchange:

A Little Sincerity (7379 words)
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Abby Sharp/Patrick Sharp
Additional Tags: Chicago Blackhawks, Threesome - F/M/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship

"Look, I'm not saying this has been my finest moment," Sharpy says. "But Bur asked if we were seeing anyone, and I didn't want him to think we were still hung up on him, so I said Kaner."

"Oh, honey," Abby says.

and

My Mourning Into Dancing (2534 words)
Fandom: Justified
Rating: Explicit
Relationships: Rachel Brooks/Raylan Givens/Tim Gutterson
Summary: Rachel and Tim take care of Raylan after his father dies.

For the Hockey RPF Holiday Exchange:

Two-Man Advantage (1885 words)
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Relationships: Alex Galchenyuk/Brandon Prust/P.K. Subban

PK sticks to his story. Brandon jumped him and he wasn't prepared, that's why Brandon took him down. But that doesn't mean he's going to let it go.

Clearly my oeuvre has not changed since my bandom days; it remains porn and domestic threesomes.

In return, katarin wrote me the far superior PK Subban/Carey Price fake dating fic, make you a believer, and james wrote me the sweet little Leverage story, The ASPCA Job

comments

Three Ships 2012

2013-01-13T23:37:24Z

Title: The Quality of Mercy (AO3)
Fandom: Haven
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Pairing: Duke Crocker/Audrey Parker/Nathan Wuornos
Summary: Haven was the kind of place where, if one of your waitresses missed her shift twice and wasn't answering her cell phone, you called the cops. Or in Duke's case, you called your friend on the police force and asked if she's heard anything.

Written for zvi in the I Saw Three Ships Exchange, for the prompt Reconciliation.

Haven was the kind of place where, if one of your waitresses missed her shift twice and wasn't answering her cell phone, you called the cops. Or in Duke's case, you called your friend on the police force and asked if she's heard anything.

"No," Audrey said. "But I'll ask around. What's her name?"

"Molly Wrightwood," Duke said.

"Is she Troubled?"

"I don't know. It hasn't exactly come up in conversation."

"Well, I'll run her name through the system, see if anything comes up. If that doesn't pan out, I'll do a drive-by of her house. But she's an adult, I can't officially do anything until she's been missing longer."

"Thanks, Audrey," Duke said, and then grabbed an apron and an order pad to go deal with the lunch rush.

Audrey called back sooner than he was expecting.

"This can't be good," he said.

"It's not great," Audrey said. "Molly collapsed in front of Joe's yesterday morning. The EMTs took her to the hospital and she's still there for observation."

"Is she okay?"

"Physically, they can't find anything wrong with her, but she's having...memory issues."

"Amnesia?"

"Not exactly. She's insisting that her name is Karen Church, not Molly Wrightwood."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Maybe it's just because of the bump on the head, but I want to check it out. Could you meet me there? It might help to have someone there that she knows."

Duke looked out at his full restaurant and didn't hesitate. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

***

"No Nathan?" Duke asked as they walked down the gleaming, sterile hallway of the hospital.

"This isn't really an official visit," Audrey said.

"Uh huh. This is her room."

Audrey knocked on the open door, and said gently, "Molly? I'm Audrey Parker, Haven PD."

"I'm not Molly," Molly said, and it sounded tired and automatic, like she'd been saying it over and over again.

It definitely looked like Molly sitting there in the hospital bed. Long, straight hair dyed black, an inch of blonde roots growing out, blue eyes. She looked younger without make-up.

"Look who I brought," Audrey said. "Do you remember Duke?"

Molly looked at him blankly. "No."

"He owns the Grey Gull -- do you know where that is?"

Molly's face brightened a little. "Yes, my husband took me there for our anniversary last year. It was lovely. But I don't remember meeting the owner."

Audrey hesitated and glanced at Duke. Duke made an I-have-no-idea-what-to-do face back at her.

"Can I ask you about what happened yesterday?"

"I don't really know." Her hands twisted in the blanket across her lap as she spoke. "I was coming out of Joe's and I bumped into a woman, and then I got all dizzy and everything went black. When I woke up, people were saying my name was Molly, but it's not. They showed me her ID, but that's not me."

"Maybe you had a fake ID for some reason," Audrey said. "Maybe you've just been using the name Molly Wrightwood."

"No," Molly said, tears welling up in her eyes. "It's not me. The picture in the ID. But everybody is acting like it is. There's no mirror in the bathroom, but my hair shouldn't be this long and I haven't been this thin since I was twenty-five and oh, God, I'm crazy, aren't I? This sounds so crazy."

"Shhhh, no, it's all right," Audrey said. She gave Molly a kleneex. "Have you heard of the Troubles?"

Molly wiped her eyes. "No."

"Has anything like this happened to anyone in your family?"

"You mean like, has anyone gone crazy?"

"Or had amnesia or any kind of memory problems?"

Molly frowned. "My grandma had Alzheimer's. But that's it."

"Thank you very much," Audrey said. "I'm sure this is just a symptom of the concussion, and the doctors will get you back in shape in no time."

Molly nodded and attempted a watery smile, but she looked about as confident as Duke felt.

***

They got coffee in the hospital cafeteria, scorched and old.

"Does Molly have any family in Haven?" Audrey asked.

"I don't think so. She put her landlady down as her emergency contact." He tried to remember what else she'd told him. "She said once that her grandfather used to live in Haven, but they moved to Portland a long time ago. She came up about six months ago to check it out."

Audrey's phone rang. "Parker," she said. "Hi, Nathan, what's up?"

Duke made a face at her and she flapped a hand at him.

"No, that's fine, I can meet you there. What's the name?" Audrey's face froze. "On second thought, maybe you should meet us at Joe's."

"What?" Duke said when she'd hung up.

"Nathan just got a call from a guy who says his wife went out for groceries yesterday morning and never came back."

"What's her name?" Duke asked, not really sure he wanted to know.

"Karen Church."

***

Nathan gave Duke the stink-eye when he showed up at Joe's and Duke gave him his smarmiest grin in return. But Nathan just handed Audrey a couple of print outs. "I got pictures of Molly and Karen from the BMV. They both have Maine driver's licenses."

Karen Church was a cheerful looking woman in her forties with chin-length dark hair. The barista recognized her immediately. "Oh, yeah, Karen," he said. "Triple shot soy latte. She comes in here before she goes grocery shopping most weeks."

"Was she here yesterday?" Nathan asked.

"Yeah."

"Did she seem okay? Did anything unusual happen?" Audrey asked.

"No, it was -- everything was fine, normal. Is something wrong?" His eyes widened. "Did something happen to Karen?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Audrey said. She held out the picture of Molly. "What about this woman?"

"Maybe? She's not a regular or anything."

"Do you have a security camera?" Nathan asked.

"Oh, you'd have to ask Joe," the barista said.

Nathan glanced at Audrey. "I'll work on that -- "

"And I'll ask around at the grocery store," Audrey said, and they split up like some well-oiled detective-ing machine.

Duke trailed after Audrey, feeling like a spare cog.

***

"The cashiers at Luciano's Fine Foods don't remember seeing Karen yesterday," Audrey reported when they got back to the police station. "I asked for the security tapes, just to be sure."

"We've got some footage from Joe's," Nathan said. "A couple of stores got together and put up a camera outside after that wave of vandalism last summer."

He hit play and fast-forwarded through morning rush until Karen went in. A couple more people came and went, and then Molly walked into the frame. She passed the door of the bakery and then stopped short. Her whole body stiffened and she whipped around just as Karen came out, coffee in hand.

The two women collided. Karen steadied Molly with her free hand. Their eyes locked for split second, then Molly staggered back. Karen dropped her coffee and took off running, away from whatever Molly had seen, and Molly collapsed to the ground.

People rushed to Molly's side, and Nathan fast-forwarded through the paramedics arriving and helping her into an ambulance.

"That's is," he said. "Molly clearly saw someone that scared her."

"Duke, was Molly in some kind of trouble?" Audrey asked.

Duke shrugged. "She seemed like someone who was trying to get away from her past, trying to start new, y'know? So I didn't push."

"But if Molly saw someone she didn't want to see, why did Karen run?" Nathan asked. "Is there a connection between them? Did Karen recognize that person, too?"

"I think the bigger question is why does Molly think she's Karen?" Audrey said.

"If Molly thinks she's Karen," Duke said slowly, "does that mean Karen thinks she's Molly?"

They thought about that for a moment.

"Let's go back to the hospital and see if Molly knows Karen," Audrey said. "Or if Karen knows Molly."

***

Audrey handed Molly-slash-Karen the picture of Molly. "Do you know this woman?"

Molly-slash-Karen frowned. "No. I mean, I think that's the woman who ran into me at Joe's. But I don't know her. That's -- that's who everyone thinks I am, right?"

Nathan smiled at her. "I just wanted to ask you a couple of quick questions. Easy questions, I promise. What's your birthday?"

She bit her lip. "August ninth, nineteen sixty-eight."

"And your address?"

"Thirty-five north Pine Street."

Nathan looked at the print-out in his hand. Duke leaned over his shoulder to see. Her answers matched Karen's driver's license.

"Do you recognize this woman?" he asked and held out Karen's picture.

Molly-slash-Karen gasped. "That's me!" she said, and caught Nathan's hand, dragging the photo closer.

Nathan overbalanced and Duke grabbed his shoulder. Molly-slash-Karen looked up and met Nathan's eyes, and Audrey grabbed her wrist.

And then--

And then Duke was suddenly dizzy and the room seemed to spin around him. He blinked. He was standing closer to bed and Nathan wasn't in front of him anymore.

"Ack!" someone said behind him, followed by a couple of steps and a thump.

"Duke!" Audrey said, but she wasn't looking at him.

Duke turned around and saw his body sprawled on the floor, looking up at him with an appalled expression.

"Nathan?" Duke asked cautiously.

"Oh hell no," his body said, Nathan said, and really, that about summed it up.

***

Duke poked his hand with a fork. Okay, technically, it was Nathan's hand, but Duke was wearing it right now, so it counted as his. The tines of the fork left little red dots but he didn't feel anything. "That is so...weird."

"Stop that," Nathan hissed, and smacked the hand holding the fork. Duke didn't feel that either. Nathan surreptitiously shook his hand out, though.

Audrey rolled her eyes and poured them all another round.

They were sitting around an empty table at the Gull, after hours. Duke had made Nathan call in sick, because there was no way Nathan could fake Duke's charming presence at his own restaurant and no amount of hand-holding with Molly-slash-Karen had gotten them back into the right bodies.

"Molly has to be the Troubled one," Audrey said. "She probably can't swap with anyone else now that she's in Karen's body, but we have to track her down. Nathan's got a BOLO out for her and there's a cruiser staking out her apartment. Her only real connection to Haven is her grandfather, and you know what that means."

"We have to talk to Dave and Vince," Nathan said, and he sounded resigned.

He pulled out his cell phone and Duke said, "You can't call them now, it's way past their bedtime."

Nathan's bitchface looked pretty great on Duke, if he did say so himself. "Well, they can just suck it up and deal with it."

"Duke's right, let them sleep. We're going to want their full cooperation on this, and that's hard enough to get on a good day. We'll go over first thing in the morning." Audrey cleared her throat. "Speaking of sleep, Nathan you should probably stay with Duke tonight."

"Um--" Duke said.

"What?" Nathan said.

"Duke, you're not used to...living with Nathan's Trouble. You could hurt yourself and not even realize it. You need someone to keep an eye on you."

"I won't--"

"That's not--"

"Good, I'm glad we got that settled," Audrey said. She threw back the last of her whiskey and stood up. "Good night!"

Duke and Nathan stared at each other for a minute after she left. "I don't know what she's worried about. It's not like I'm going to roll over on a knife in the middle of the night and sever my femoral artery," Duke said.

Nathan grinned like that was a hilarious image.

Duke sighed. "You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the couch."

Nathan raised his eyebrows.

"Hey, I don't want a crick in my neck from the couch when I get my body back," Duke said.

***

"Sheets are pretty clean, here's a towel, feel free to take a shower," Duke said. "And hey, feel free to jerk off in the shower, while you're at it."

Nathan made a strangled noise.

"It's not like you don't know what that body likes," Duke said, and watched his face turn an alarming shade of red. For a second, he thought Nathan would punch him. He didn't know why he wanted to jerk Nathan's chain like that, but he couldn't help himself.

Nathan just turned without a word and walked into the bedroom.

Duke lay on the couch, which didn't feel any different from sitting at the bar, or standing on the deck. He felt like he was insulated from the world with miles and miles foam. He wondered if this was how Nathan felt all the time, if he ever got used to it.

If he was going to jerk off in Duke's shower.

If Duke could have maybe, at some point when they were teenagers, not fucked everything up.

***

They got to the Herald office when Dave and Vince were unlocking the door.

"We need some information on a family that lived here about two generations ago," Audrey said. "The Wrightwoods?"

"What happened?" Dave asked.

"Molly Wrightwood ran into a woman at Joe's yesterday and, ah, switched bodies with her."

"Whoa. Is that what happened to those two?" Dave asked, pointing at Duke and Nathan.

"How did you--" Duke started and Audrey jumped in.

"Not exactly. I grabbed Molly's wrist when she touched Nathan and they switched and she didn't."

"I appreciate that you acknowledge that this is all your fault," Duke said.

"Shut up, Duke," Nathan said.

"Amazing," Dave said.

"The Wrightwoods?" Audrey prompted.

"Sounds familiar," Vince said. He and Dave had a brief conversation with their eyebrows and meaningful looks.

"I think we've got some files on them," Dave said. "Hang on."

They came back with a small pile of yellowing newspaper and old photos.

"The oldest boy died in the war," Dave said, and gave Audrey a clipping of his obituary. "The middle son moved away after the Troubles--"

"After Sarah...left," Vince said.

"But the ones you're interested in are probably the youngest two, Bill and Edith." Dave handed over another photo. Two blonde teenagers smiled at the camera in front of a bandstand. "That's them before the Troubles, and this is them a few years after."

Neither of them were smiling in the second photo. The girl was wearing pants and a man's dress shirt and vest. Her brother sat next to her, spine perfectly straight, hands folded in his lap, knees together, ankles crossed.

"Everyone said they were different after the Troubles, but then, a lot of people were," Vince said.

"You think Bill and Edith switched bodies and then got stuck," Audrey said.

"It's possible," Dave said.

"Wait, we could get stuck like this?" Duke said. "If the people who's Trouble this was couldn't switch back--"

"It'll be fine," Audrey said firmly. "We'll fix this."

"They moved up to a little hunting cabin on some lake about fifty miles west of here," Dave said. "For all I know, they're still up there."

"Maybe Molly would go up there if she was running from something," Nathan said.

"There's no other family connections in Haven?" Audrey asked. "What about her mother's family?"

"Tom, the middle son, wasn't married when he left Haven," Vince said.

"All right," Audrey said. "I'll check out the motels and some of the vacant buildings around Haven, you two check out the cabin."

Duke looked over at Nathan who was looking back with an equally unexcited expression.

Audrey sighed. "We have to split up. I just figured you guys wouldn't want to leave your bodies alone with each other."

***

"I'm driving," Duke said.

Nathan frowned. "I don't think you want to do that."

"It's fine," Duke said.

He felt clumsy and awkward opening the door and getting the key in the ignition. It was like trying to handle tools in the middle of winter, with numb hands in heavy gloves. But the real problem was he couldn't tell how hard he was hitting the gas.

The truck roared forward. Duke cursed and stomped on the brakes, and they slammed to a halt.

"Okay, you can drive," Duke said.

Nathan smirked but didn't say anything.

Fifty miles west of Haven meant nearly three hours on back roads. After half an hour of watching Nathan drive, Duke asked, almost unwillingly, "How do you do it?"

Nathan gave him a sharp look, like he thought Duke was making fun of him. But then he said, not sarcastically, "Practice."

They didn't talk for the rest of the drive.

***

There was an old, battered pick-up truck parked outside of the cabin and a thin trickle of smoke rose from the chimney.

As Nathan pulled up and cut the engine, a man stepped out onto the porch.

"I guess you won't be sneaking around the back after all," Duke said. They got out.

"Bill Wrightwood?" Nathan called.

The man raised a hand in acknowledgement as they walked up.

"Or is it Edith?" Duke asked, as gently as he could.

Edith sucked in a shocked breath. "I -- yes," she said. "You better come in."

***

"Molly's not here," she said, when they were all settled around the kitchen table. "I haven't seen anyone other than you in weeks."

"Where's Bill?" Nathan asked.

Edith looked down at her cup of tea. "He's out back," she said. "He died five years ago. Pneumonia."

"I'm sorry," Nathan said.

"Thank you," she said politely. "We made as a good a life as we could out here, and I think he was happy, all things considered. I think he forgave me, at the end, for causing all this."

"What happened?" Duke asked.

"Oh, well. I guess it was more than fifty years ago now. I don't really know. I had a terrible fight with my parents. They didn't want me to go to college, and I desperately did. I used my own money to pay the application fees, and then I found out that they had burned the letters I got back from the University of Maine. I was furious and heartbroken and I wished that I was their son instead of their daughter. I stormed out of the house in a rage and went to Bill, and when he took my hand, we, we switched. I was him and he was me."

"And you never switched back?" Nathan asked.

She shook her head. "We didn't know what had happened or how to fix it. I always felt like it was my fault, because I was the one who had wished for it. And I guess now it will never be put right."

***

"Well, that was a depressing waste of time," Duke said when they were back in the truck.

Nathan grunted.

Duke stared out the window, watching the trees roll by. They passed a one-pump gas station and a diner advertizing PIE in neon letters.

"Hey, didn't we come up this way on a Cub Scout trip?"

Nathan let out a startled bark of laughter. "Yeah, I think we did."

"That trip was a disaster," Duke said. "Your dad tipped his canoe over--"

"After he yelled at all of us to stop fooling around."

"And he had all the food, so we had marshmallows and hot dog buns for dinner, because those were the only things that floated."

"And Mikey Ardmore's dad told us ghost stories, so everyone had nightmares." Nathan was grinning and shaking his head. "Shoot, I'd forgotten you were on that trip."

"That was the first and last Cub Scout trip that I did."

"Me, too," Nathan said, and his grin was fading.

"I thought your dad was totally into that stuff."

Nathan shrugged, trying and failing to act casual. "That was the summer before the Troubles came that first time."

"Oh," Duke said.

"Still," Nathan said. "It was a good trip."

Nathan's phone rang. Duke poked Nathan until he put it on speaker.

"We got a hit on one of Karen Church's credit cards," Audrey said. "Someone used it at the Sleep Tite Motel. I'm texting you the address now. Meet me there."

***

They pulled into the parking lot of the Sleep Tite Motel a little after five.

Audrey was sitting in her car with another woman. They both got out when Nathan parked.

"I didn't find Molly when I was canvassing the motels, but I found her sister," Audrey said. "This is Amy Wrightwood. She's looking for Molly, too."

The other woman gave them a little wave.

"If seeing Amy is what triggered Molly's Trouble, then maybe she can help us reverse it. That's Karen's minivan, so Molly is probably still here. She's in room 214, which should be..." Audrey consulted a piece of paper. "That one."

"Duke, stay with her car in case she tries to make a break for it. We'll go up and talk to her," Nathan said.

"Oh, of course, I get the job where I have to sit around at night in an empty parking lot," Duke said.

"On the bright side, you won't feel the cold," Nathan said.

He hopped up on the hood of Nathan's car and watched room 214. Nothing happened for a few minutes, then the sliding door to the balcony opened and someone came out.

"Um," Duke said.

Molly climbed over the balcony railing.

"Guys, she's making a break for it!" Duke shouted.

Molly turned around, clutching the railing, and carefully crouched down to grab the bottom edge of the balcony.

"Oh, shit," Duke muttered and started running towards the motel.

Molly let herself dangle from the bottom of the balcony and then dropped, straight down onto Duke.

Duke ended up on his back on the asphalt, hanging on to Molly. She struggled, but Karen's body wasn't quite up to wriggling free, especially not after the balcony stunt.

Nathan and Audrey came running out of the motel, trailed by Amy.

They stopped short when they saw him, and Nathan burst out laughing.

"Shut up and cuff this woman," Duke growled.

Nathan helped Molly up. He didn't cuff her, but he didn't let go of her either.

"Molly?" Amy said uncertainly.

Molly saw her sister and stopped struggling.

"Amy?"

"Molly, Molly, Molly!" Amy said, and launched herself at her sister, wrapping her in a bear hug.

"Good job," Audrey said to Duke and held out her hand.

Duke took it, and suddenly he could feel everything: the asphalt under his other hand, the bruises on his ribs and back, the cold air against his face, Audrey's skin--

She frowned at him and he realized he was just sitting there gaping at her. Something almost like jealousy flashed over Nathan's face, and then Nathan looked away.

Duke forced himself to smile and say, "Jeez, Audrey, put your back into it."

Audrey made an outraged noise, and when she pulled, Duke pushed himself to his feet. Audrey let go of his hand and the dead numbness covered him again.

***

"I got myself into a bad place when I was a teenager," Molly said. She and Amy sat on one bed, holding hands. Nathan and Audrey sat across from them on the other bed.

Duke sat in chair by the door.

"I started using heroin, and eventually I ran away from home. I hit rock bottom, living on the street, and...and I got help. I cleaned up, but I couldn't go back home. I couldn't face them. The things that I did when I was using. I remembered how Grandpa Tom used to talk about Haven and I thought, that's what I need, a haven. So I came here."

"Oh, Molly," Amy said. "You can always come home, always."

Molly shook her head.

"How did you--" Audrey made a gesture that was apparently supposed to mean "switch bodies with Karen."

"It wasn't on purpose," Molly said. "I saw Amy on the street and I just panicked, I didn't want her to see me."

"You wanted to be someone else," Nathan said softly.

"Yeah. And then I ran into this woman and, all of the sudden, I was. I freaked out, I didn't know what was going on. I had this woman's keys and her wallet and I had no idea what to do. I guess I was hoping it would fix itself."

"It won't," Nathan said. "But we can help."

***

Duke got to flash Nathan's badge to get them into the hospital after visiting hours.

Karen sat straight up in her bed when they came in, eyes wide.

"So how is this going to happen?" Duke asked.

"Try what you did before," Audrey suggested. "Touch each other and make eye contact."

Molly went to the bed and took Karen's hands. They looked at each other for a long moment, but then Molly shook her head. "It's not working."

Duke leaned over and whispered to Nathan, "Should we mention that Bill and Edith never switched back?"

"No," Nathan said firmly. "Edith never forgave herself for what happened to them."

"You think switching back needs a different emotional trigger?" Audrey said.

"I think...Molly needs to let go of what made her switch in the first place and what's holding her there," Nathan said.

"I don't know how to do that," Molly said. "I didn't mean to do this in the first place."

"I forgive you," Amy said suddenly. "We all forgave you a long time ago, Molly. That's why I've been looking for you, because we love you and we miss you and we're worried about you. We want you to come home."

Molly was crying. She looked back at Karen and then they both inhaled sharply.

Karen let go of Molly's hands and stepped back unsteadily.

Nathan caught her elbow. "Easy now."

"I'm okay," she said. She looking wonderingly at her own hands and arms. "I'm fine."

"Molly?" Audrey said.

"I'm good, too," Molly said from the bed.

"I can't help but notice that Nathan and I are still in the wrong bodies," Duke pointed out.

"But I think I can fix that," Molly said. "It's like a logic puzzle."

"Are you sure?" Audrey asked. "We can come back tomorrow, if you're too tired."

"No, I want to do this," Molly said, and held out her hand.

"Nathan first," Duke said.

Nathan took a deep breath and clasped her hand. After a couple of heartbeats, Molly grinned with Duke's mouth and said, "See, I told you this would work."

"Okay, this is weird," Nathan said.

Duke held out his hand. Nathan smoothed his hands over the rough hospital blanket, almost wistfully, then looked at Duke and said, "I forgive you for the tacks."

Duke took his hand and leaned in to whisper, "I forgive you for being the one Audrey loves."

"Wait, what?" Nathan said.

When their eyes met, everything seemed to snap into place. One second he was standing next to the bed and the next he was in the bed. And he had breasts.

"Nathan's right, this is weird," Duke said. "Could we--"

Molly held out her hand, Duke's hand, and when he took it, everything was back to the way it should be.

***

When they got back to the Gull, Audrey headed for the stairs to her apartment, saying, "Sorry, guys, I'm exhausted. I'll have to take a rain check on that drink."

Duke made an exasperated noise.

"That's fine with me," Nathan said, and reached for the door of his truck.

"No," Duke said. "Just, wait a minute, okay? Please."

Nathan tipped his head to the side and looked at him for a long moment. "Okay," he said finally, and leaned back against the truck.

Duke went up the stairs after Audrey, and caught her just as she was closing the door.

"Look, are we going to talk about this?" he asked.

"About what? Your exciting bodyswap experience?"

"For starters, how about why you seem to want me and Nathan to spend more time together?"

Audrey pressed her lips together, and glanced away. "I want to make sure you guys...are there for each other when I go away."

"Jesus, Audrey."

"I've got to start planning for the worst case scenario--"

"No," Duke said. "No, you've got to be here with us, you gotta fight this with us. If we lose, fine, but let's go down fighting."

"Duke--"

"Or, hey, let's talk about how you love Nathan and Nathan loves you, and you're just making everyone miserable by pretending that's not true."

"That's not--"

"You can't deny what you said, what you felt when you thought he was dead."

"I would have said the same thing to you if you'd been the one lying there!" Audrey shouted.

It felt like a sucker punch.

"You think we're miserable now?" she said. "It can get so much worse, and then I'll be gone, and you won't even have each other. So, just -- let this go, Duke."

"Why does it have to get worse?" Nathan asked.

Duke whirled around.

"Sorry, I got tired of waiting for you to fall on your sword for this relationship," Nathan said, and smiled. "Forgiveness doesn't mean the mistakes of the past are undone or forgotten. It just means you can move forward."

"What?" Duke said, and Nathan kissed him.

Nathan kissed him like they were teenagers again, hard and desperate and consuming. Duke made a shocked noise in the back of his throat and grabbed Nathan's hips pulling him closer.

Audrey was suddenly pressed up against his back and she reached out to touch Nathan's hand against Duke's cheek. Nathan broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, and Duke grinned and took the lead, but carefully, slowly, and Nathan made a noise like he was coming undone.

Duke eased back. Nathan's eyes were closed and he was breathing fast. After a moment, he opened his eyes and smiled at Audrey. "See? It doesn't have to be worse."

Audrey grinned and shook her head, and Duke ducked in to kiss her before she could argue them out of it. It was nothing at all like the kiss in the hotel room. It felt sweet and easy and right; it felt like a beginning.

When he lifted his head, Audrey had her eyes open. They regarded each other for a moment, and then turned in unison to look at Nathan. Nathan slid an arm around Duke's waist and leaned in to kiss Audrey.

They stood like that, in a tangle of limbs, until Audrey said, "Fine, fine, come in, out of the cold."

And they went.

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