Title:
Rapture
Author:
Bernie
Pairing
Brendon Morrison / Ryan Kesler
Disclaimer:
This is fiction
Dedication:
For Em ::squish::
Thanks
Rebecca for the read through
Even
though he was actually sleeping, Brendan was instantly awake when the door
opened. Responding with; "what? Yeah I'm awake," despite no question
being asked.
Having someone in the house when he is used to being
by himself is a bit weird anyway. Especially the kid. Bren wasn't thrilled to
find him stumbling up the front steps with him, But, he wasn't sure why Ryan
came, and doesn't remember asking him. He could have, sometime between beers,
or offered to bring the kid here when it got to late to go to his billet
family.
The only noise was the whirr of the air conditioning
units and walking through the courtyard of the building is like the fifth ring
of hell. The heat shimmers over the whole city, like the sky is on fire.
Brendan feels the sweat trickle down his neck as pure alcohol.
He, Ryan, may have climbed in to the cab when he
wasn't supposed to. Nazzy barbeques tend to fall into a sultry summer haze of
drinking, and indulging and getting-to-know-you and he kinda remembers the kids
with big eyes staring at the older players. He does remember they were under
strict instructions to be hands off. But it was hard when the kids, high on the
rarified air of the NHL as much as anything they were all passing themselves
back and forth between them.
Like a candy store, or a communal joint, which was
more like what it was. And the sweet sticky scent of the weed clings to
Brendan's hands, as he wipes over his face, sick of the salty taste of sweat in
his mouth. He fumbles about trying to remember the code to get in his apartment
as Ryan slumps against the wall and stares down. His lanky frame is melted into
soft shapes from the humidity. His hair is falling forward on his temple,
greasy from the long day, dry from the chlorine of the pool.
Dan had taken one of them home, the one with the dark
eyes full of hero worship and he thinks that the others were still with Nazzy,
on the grounds that he can be gentle. He only half remembers, Todd, his big
hands smoothing the sunscreen over the other kids shoulders.
But he doesnŐt remember being given this one, he left
suddenly abruptly deciding that he had drunk far too much and that Ryan was
following him when he called the cab. Maybe no one knows he is here, maybe
Nazzy is checking the pool for bodies.
Fuck when did this kid attach himself to him, he has
no clear memory of him at all, just being introduced when he was first there
and stone cold sober.
Brendan remembers, or is pretty sure it was him;
sinking into the plastic ribbons of the deck chair in the shade, because the
metal chairs were char broiling his skin, carrying on a conversation about
hockey with, Keane, maybe it was Crow, and not realizing how drunk he was until
he tried to stand up.
The concrete had sizzled under his fingers when he had
stumbled forward, and drunk as he was he was glad no one else noticed. Or maybe
this kid had, taking the smoke from his hands and running his fingers over the
graze, smirking at Brendan's wince and blowing a cool breath across his palm.
When the fuck did that happen? Much earlier, the sun was still overhead, and it
was before they ate.
And the kid had hung around him. Brendan can remember
now, looking down at Ryan lying on the grass, talking to people who came by,
eating and drinking what he was given, and not moving to far away. He may have
made comments in that endless hockey conversation.
"What? What do you want?" Now Brendan is
sure where they are, back at his place, that he must have been asleep for only
a few minutes.
But Ryan doesn't answer, not with words anyway, just
crawls into the bed beside Brendan and immediately fastens his lips onto the
closest bit of flesh to him, sucking the skin into his burning mouth. It's the soft pulp of Brendan's wrist,
and it's cooking in the oven of Ryan's mouth. Brendan's only wearing boxers, so
it is pretty obvious when Ryan rolls against him that the kid is naked, and fucking
hot.
Bren is sure there is something he is supposed to
remember, something about their ages, and the coming season, and that fucking
uncomfortable moment when you realize that the person whose tongue was half way
down your throat, or on your cock or whatever, is in some way attached to the
person next to you doing drills.
Bren has this habit of just remembering people by one
attribute. Like, Nazzy was soft hair and a curl under his fingers, and Trev was
hard hands and long fingers.
And this kid is like heat, like a hot water bottle, or
a blanket. And in-between trying to wrap his head around that thought, hot
skin, woken up, he's fucking hard and getting harder in the kid's hand.
Bren slides one hand to the back of Ryan's hair and
pulls the kid down to kiss. He at least tastes like toothpaste, and Bren isn't
sure but he bet he tastes sour from the beers he was inhaling earlier.
And Ryan doesn't pull back, or mumble at all that it's
too rough, and he's less kissing, than fucking Bren's mouth with his scorching
tongue, so Bren feels ok with just fucking back.
But this is too fucking hot, someone plastered to his
chest, so Brendan grabs the kid and reverses their positions, kicking the sheet
off that would just end up damp and steamy from them anyway. The first touch of
night air on his back feels cooling, but that passes, and once again it's hot
out and hot inside him. Damn summer, does this season ever end?
But then though, cold? Winter? Snow? What are these
things, and how are they described or articulated when you are lying over a hot
water bottle on the bed, whose mouth is a searing brand? And Brendan's not
thinking any icy thoughts, grinding his cock into the soft part of Ryan's leg,
his thigh where there is still the hint of baby fat, or pudge or whatever, and
now his mouth is doing all the fucking, biting at the younger man's lips,
tasting copper and the sour burn behind the toothpaste. Or that is his spit in
Ryan's mouth and that is what he can taste.
And Ryan slumps back against the bed, one of his
hands, still wrapped around Bren's cock, his other hand clenched in the fabric
of Brendan's boxers, threatening the seams, but like that fucking matters. He's
quite content to be slumped here with Brendan taking the lead, responding to
the kisses, but not biting back, even as his lips swell up and threaten to
crack under teeth. He wiggles around the bed under Bren, not wanting him to get
off him, just liking the way wiggling means random bits of their flesh comes
into contact.
Brendan is glad the sweat is making their bodies slick
enough to slide up and down and not to be grating up against each other in the
muggy room. He slithers down enough to nip at the heated skin of the kid's
neck, to bite the hot collarbone, to tease his tongue on the soft fuzzy hair on
Ryan's chest, to find his nipples, hotter and smoother than the rest of the
skin.
Like pink and erect are words he should be thinking,
making them red and bruised under his mouth and tongue. And Ryan is still
squirming under him, trying to offer other parts of his flesh up for similar
treatment.
Brendan bites at the skin he comes into contact with,
not caring, not sure he would even sober. That this kid, who is no fucking way
kid, in anything but name; Jesus Christ, high on three or four things, this kid
is anything but fragile. He's strong enough, that the hand still clutching in
and at Bren's boxers are fucking going to cut off circulation or something.
"Are we gonna fuck?" Ryan asks quietly When
Brendan kisses him again, when they are looking in each others eyes, both
unable to see anything but a reflection gleam since it is dark.
"Yeah." Brendan rolls off enough to feel the
sweat hit the air, feel his body shake with a chill before the hot night
catches up with him. It's probably why he shuddering, that or desire, or guilt.
He grabs some lotion off the bed side table, not
checking just what it is, reasoning that a surprise is as good as a holiday,
Squeezed onto the palm of his hand the room smells for a second like vanilla
instead of sweat and beer.
"Roll over." Ryan groans and flops on his
stomach on the bed. For a moment, when the beer slightly retreats Brendan
pauses, but not for long enough to stop
He pushes the younger mans legs apart and kneels
between them.
He slides one finger in meeting very little
resistance, Ryan is relaxed on the bed, and although it feels close, "what
else did they give you?" Bren asks laughing.
"'ve don't know." Ryan mumbles.
"Nothing hurts It's ok."
"K." Brendan slicks enough lube over his
cock so it feels slippery and leans over Ryan.
"Up." He says simply. "Hands and
knees." If it were a different time, or if Ryan would ask for it, Brendan
would be quite capable of something tender, but the kid doesn't seem to want
that, and right now, he is wet with sweat and his skin is hot enough that
blisters are probably forming where Bren's hands are on his hips.
Pushing Ryan's legs apart a bit further with his knees
Brendan pushes himself into Ryan, remembering at the last minute to go a little
bit slow, once he is already half way in. Being inside him is even hotter, and
it is a airless closed heat squeezing down on him.
"Fuck." But it doesn't seem to be a hurt
'fuck', and Ryan pushes back. "God. Yes." And the last word is hissed
out. But the angle feels wrong so Brendan pulls out quickly. "You, hold
onto the headboard."
"K." Ryan scrambles up and further back on
the bed quickly getting into position. This time Brendan doesn't try to go slow
sliding quickly into the younger man.
"Damn." Ryan shoves back into Brendan.
"Make it hurt. Please."
'No.' Brendan thinks to himself, but it is more like
'no don't care, he's a grown-up' than 'no I won't be a party to this.' Brendan
holds Ryan's hips harder, the illusion of puppy fat from before disappearing as
his hands squeeze down on the slim hips, his nails digging into the burning
skin, trying to keep the slick flesh in place.
'No, really only care about going hard.' Brendan
thinks, 'only care about how fast I can go, not about Ryan, if it hurts, or
feels good or whatever blend of that he wants. Fuck it.' Brendan blows out the
breath he has been holding, as there is no point in holding back.
He fastens his teeth at the base of Ryan's neck, right
where it can only be caused by someone else, by one thing, that will bruise up
and throb for days every time Ryan tilts his head back to have a drink, right
where the collars and tags will scratch it and remind him, if how sore he is
going to be from tonight doesn't remind him
anyway.
"Get yourself off." Brendan grits out between
his teeth, He shoves back into Ryan with selfish urgency, like the kids
pleasure is really his responsibility. He grabs at Ryan's shoulders so he can
get my emphasis behind his actions, behind his thrusts. Ryan babbles something
out but Brendan isn't paying attention, he just notices when Ryan is clinging
to the headboard to not collapse and he shoves into him a final time and comes
in another held breath.
"Fucking mess." Brendan says tiredly and
pulls out.
"Don't move." He orders and stumbles to the
bathroom. There is only so much time you can stall, taking a leak, splashing
water on his face, scrubbing at the lube under his fingernails.
Ryan has stretched out, and is lying on the bed, but
other than that his position hasn't changed much.
'Fuck.' Brendan thinks, but chooses not to examine his
own thoughts to decide if it is 'fuck that didn't go well', or 'fuck more', or
just fuck that was outstanding
"Over." He shoves at the kid so there is
room on the bed, the sheets under his belly feeling clammy and warm.
"You ok?" He asks tiredly. He knows that the
kid isn't, he did wash blood off his dick, and fuck but he is going to feel
those fingernail indentions, when the sweat hits them tomorrow.
"Yeah." Ryan shifts over enough that Brendan
can steal his pillow back and prop the other one, cool and dry for now, under
his cheek. The heated night air is pulling all the moisture out of him into the
room. The window is open. How loud where they, Ryan doesn't care, Brendan is
the one who has to live amongst these people.
Brendan swings his leg over Ryan's thighs, his arm
over his back. His breath across Ryan's shoulder cools him down, and then heats
him up. That he would want to cuddle or something surprise Ryan, but he's ready
to sleep now, the beer and sun and the fading endorphins, none of these things
give him any reason to stay awake.
"We have to get up soon enough to get breakfast.
Night Rye."
And there is something about that nickname,
rye-whiskey searing in cuts that makes them both shiver before they go to
sleep.
End
