HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAT!
It is Cat's birthday. Or rather, it was, chronologically, yesterday. That is, Monday. But I haven't gone to sleep yet, so it still counts.
I promised Cat Bondo/Farns porn for her birthday, and so she shall have it!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Split the Difference
You spend all season with a team, think enough is enough, but after a while there’s only so much time that can be spent with the family before the need to live, to live it up like a ballplayer sets in again. Farnsworth doesn’t have the same kind of family as most of these guys, happy wife, precious children, dog. He has a big house outside of Atlanta with an irritable black and white cat and a giant shiny black truck that he cares for far more attentively than he cares for the scores of children he might have, scattered around the metro Chicago region. It’s not something he thinks about, really. No sense in wrecking his life over something as dumb as a chick who got herself knocked up, not when he’s got things going well between the basepaths.
It’s good to get back to Detroit, though, see the team he won’t be seeing much of next year. He doesn’t have a family, not like that, so it wasn’t a hard decision to make. Detroit, or Atlanta, or money and a shot at a ring. He’s a pitcher, he understands how it’s important to wear heavy metal, chains around your neck and if you’re lucky, if you’re sharp, if you’re smart, around your finger.
Dmitri’s parties are a thing he’ll miss, though. The apartment is full to brimming with loud guys he knows, for the most part, and alcohol he can buy down at the corner store in bulk, with a frosted bottle of something more expensive here and there. It reminds Farnsworth of college, really, a frat party with all your brothers, and the pretty girls were there too, dyed-blonde and willing. Tonight he’s only enjoying the view, though, appreciating the protruding chest of a specimen, speculating with Pena about how many beer cans they could pyramid up on the heaving shelf.
“You couldn’t get more than three,” Pena is saying, and Farnsworth is trying to explain how you could get 7, easy, but she’d have to tilt her head far back so it wouldn’t get in the way. He hears the door clatter open and suddenly all of his senses are on fire. Pena’s voice slows down and filters out and his vision tunnels a little around the edges and, yes. He hears the new arrival greet Dmitri like he’s standing right there.
A wink and a “later kid” to Pena is enough to disengage himself, Pena rolling his eyes and scanning the room for someone else to explain his stacking theory to, lighting on Maroth unsuccessfully trying to hide himself in the corner. Farnsworth is long gone, though, beeline to the door like a bloodhound on a scent, and he doesn’t so much shove people out of the way as they just part before him.
Around the corner and sure enough there stands Bonderman, in the midst of saying something to Dmitri and freezing, eyes going wide. Dmitri looks over his shoulder and chuckles goodnaturedly, like always, but nervous underneath that. Farnsworth has an idea what he looks like, when he gets like this. Hungry dog staring at a slab of meat, murderer staring at his next victim. He’s heard it all before, but Bonderman is shifting away from Dmitri’s friendly hug, hips first, and Farnsworth knows that he’s not scared.
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Back to July, right, quick snap of the brain is all it takes, and a hotel room in Oakland. Farnsworth has Bonderman pinned to the bed, staring at him like he’s never seen a human face before. Mind fragmented and blasted, on fire all the way from his eyebrows to his toes, worried about moving too fast or too hard and never able to go hard or fast enough. It was weird and stupid and even as he was he was thinking, “But, I don’t,” first time for a lot of things at once.
Who knew, in July, that New York was on the radar, let alone Atlanta, half a season earlier than anyone had dared to think, anyone but the guys in the front office, shirtsleeved men with slick names and slick college degrees whom Farnsworth trusts not at all, especially after the trade.
The first time it was an eternity, even when they were lying, spent, on the hotel bed, panting each other’s air, lung-warmed. Some part of Farnsworth was still flying along, up arteries and down veins, and they were gonna be able to do this, man, forever and ever.
Three days later he was a Brave.
----------------------------------------
All winter in Atlanta, Farnsworth had his guns, which made him think of Bonderman because he was a hunter too, and back before anything they’d talked about the finer points of shooting any number of times, any number of late-night flights or drives.
He had his workouts, which reminded him of the first time Bonderman saw him hit 100 in an early spring throwing session. Pudge had bet he couldn’t really hit triple digits, smug, and Farnsworth had never backed down from a bet. Pudge crouched down to catch, pounding his mitt challengingly, a reliever Farnsworth didn’t know yet giggling continuously but holding the radar gun steady (Walker, he learned later, and the giggling only got worse when you knew him).
Other players gathered around, anything interesting in a spring training practice welcome to the team. A few warmup tosses later and Farnsworth was feeling loose, tall, ready. He had burned a ball in there, knowing before it was halfway to the plate, knowing before Walker’s eyes got round and his breath whistled out, knowing before Pudge winced on impact.
His eyes had wandered up to where the knot of Tigers clustered around the gun, jostling to see the little readout on the screen, but there was one staring back at him, a big pitcher, a little dull in the face, except for his eyes, which shone like a fastball had set them on fire in its path and left them to burn.
He also had his cat, in Atlanta, a tough tuxedo cat with a mean streak the size of the Bible belt, and that made him think of Bonderman because of course Bonderman had been the one to get the damn cat in the first place. Farnsworth had meant to get one, before he was traded, and then he was traded and it was all confusion and eventually Bonderman had called and said he got a cat. Farnsworth had asked, What kind, and Bonderman had been silent on his end of the phone, which Farnsworth didn’t understand.
When Bonderman swallowed and said, constricted, into the mouthpiece, “Badass,” Farnsworth thought he did.
----------------------------------------
At the party, Bonderman steps back, and Farnsworth steps forward, gets a hand on his bicep and squeezes enough to leave bruises.
“Been a while,” he mutters, eyes not leaving Bonderman’s face, and Bonderman looks like he’s having trouble getting oxygen, which is funny, because Farnsworth is crushing his arm, not his neck.
“Yeah,” Bonderman finally gets out, short and gasping, and that’s all Farnsworth can take. That’s it, he tugs on Bonderman’s arm and gets him to stumble forward, towards the door. Out.
“Aw but he jus’ got here, man!” Dmitri protests from somewhere behind them. Farnsworth flips him an emphatic middle finger. They have Bonderman all season, in there. The party is already gone from his mind like it never existed, everything channeled down into this right here, right next to him, staggering along looking like someone had swung a fungo right across the bridge of his nose.
He recognizes Bonderman’s car and shoves him up against it, hips flush, grinding him purposefully into the car door. “You sober?” he asks, muffled against Bonderman’s neck, where he’s found a spot he hasn’t explored in a while and really, really should.
It takes a few hitched breaths for Bonderman to answer in the affirmative, and a few more before he can get his arms up to push Farnsworth carefully away, dig out his keys, reluctantly step away to the driver’s side.
“Five!” someone screams from the doorstep, and Farnsworth glances up. It’s Pena, swaying dangerously, backlit in the yellow rectangle of the door with a beer can waving triumphantly in one hand. “Five!” he yells again. “Split th’difference, we were both right! Stacked those fuckers right up!”
Farnsworth laughs, better than he’s felt all winter, and ducks into the car.
----------------------------------------
He’s sneaking his hand onto Bonderman’s thigh, leaning across until the seatbelt catches and holds him up, cutting into his chest. He’s muttering directly into Bonderman’s ear, fingers twitching cruelly.
“Gonna screw you so hard the neighbors feel well-fucked. Gonna make you scream ‘til you ain’t got no voice left. And then when you can't speak I'm gonna fuck your throat so deep you'll be tastin' me for weeks. Then we’re gonna go back to Atlanta and I’m gonna throw you up ‘gainst my truck, fuck you ‘til you fuckin’ melt into the finish.”
Bonderman swallows, hard, eyes stuck to the road with suction cups, hands tight around the wheel and his leg jumping.
----------------------------------------
They barely get in the door, which Farnsworth had expected, but he remembers too late that he knows Bonderman’s apartment not at all, a place he’d been a few times but not nearly enough to get it imprinted in his mind, not nearly enough.
It’s dark, and Farnsworth barks his shin against a chair, Bonderman falling into him and doing something interesting to his shirt that involves quite a bit of ripping. Farnsworth returns the favor, and underneath it’s warm, and soft, and hard in the right places, or the wrong ones, but he’s used to it now, got used to it long ago and it feels sometimes like it’s always been that way, he dreams about it so often.
“bed bed bed,” Bonderman is chanting, still breathless, and Farnsworth has to slow down, allow himself to be led into the bedroom, one arm wrapped around Bonderman’s waist from behind and biting at the back of his neck. Bonderman is squirming, in happiness or discomfort, and the line is so thin anyways. Farnsworth sets his teeth at the top of Bonderman’s shoulder and bites down, sucking up, marking. Making.
Bonderman gets him turned around and throws him onto the bed, Farnsworth falling backwards in surprise. Bonderman backs away, fast, before Farnsworth can renew his grip, skittering until he bumps into his desk and gropes for something, face hidden in the dark but pointed in Farnsworth’s direction.
There’s a click, and the desklamp pops on. Oh, Farnsworth thinks, brain disconnected, and then Bonderman is back on the bed, burying his face in Farnsworth’s chest like he’s trying to climb inside.
“Missed you,” muffled, rises from somewhere in the vicinity of his sternum. Farnsworth smiles into the dim yellow light and slides one hand down Bonderman’s bare back, under the flat Levi’s label at the back of his pants.
“Missed you more,” he says, stroking the piece of flesh he can reach with his fingers under the top of Bonderman’s jeans, a soft hollow sort of place where the small of his back just barely ends and starts to rise up again.
Bonderman shakes his head, hair scratching across the middle of Farnsworth’s chest, and mouths down to his stomach, arching Farnsworth’s hand loose of his jeans, where it slides across and around his back and shoulderblades, untethered. “Missed you way more,” he breathes, tongue reacquainting itself with the ridges of Farnsworth’s abdomen. ‘Had to sleep with a body pillow. Didn’t know what to do with my arms and legs.”
For a minute Farnsworth is confused, body pillow, what, is it a sex toy? Can he get one? Should they try it out? Is it fun? before his mind catches up to him and he snorts, laughter terminated, making his stomach jump under Bonderman’s hands.
Bonderman starts to work his jeans open, slowly, slowly, enjoying each snick of the zipper individually, his fingers brushing up against Farnsworth inevitably, and he doesn’t need any extra sensation there right now. Farnsworth snarls at him and grabs his jaw, roughly, pulling his chin up to glare at him. Bonderman is wearing an innocent face, fabricated and half-convincing.
“Suck it or roll over,” Farnsworth growls, crude, sure, but he’s never been one for subtlety, and if Bonderman didn’t like it he wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be crouching between Farnsworth’s tensed legs with a shit-eating grin spreading over his face, for all the world like the cat when Farnsworth brings home a freshly caught trout, all for her.
Humming happily now, Bonderman lowers his eyes, faux coy, and rubs his thumb firmly over the zipper of Farnsworth’s pants, already straining. “Now now, Kyle,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes down, smile struggling at the corners of his mouth. “Patience is a virtue.”
“Yeah,” Farnsworth agrees, quick aggressive movement surprising Bonderman enough that Farnsworth can surge up, slam Bonderman’s back to the bed and rip his jeans off with one hand, the other holding him down right in the middle of his chest, where he’d be pressing if Bonderman couldn’t breathe, if the breathless gasp was not just from excitement. He pulls off his own jeans and boxers, releasing Bonderman only momentarily to tear a condom from his jeans pocket, fast and careful all at once.
“Yeah,” he growls, again, sliding two fingers in and out of his mouth with a wink before leaning forward, letting Bonderman’s legs rest on his shoulders, pressing his fingers in. “Patience is a virtue. But I ain’t never been all that virtuous.”
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Bonderman never needs much work, and they’ve always fit well together, fit easily, something Farnsworth doesn’t think about, because it implies a lot of past, a lot of other men and other cocks that weren't his, a lot of before, and there’s no sense in dwelling on the past when there’s so much now, squirming and panting and pushing back into him with desperate, wanting little sounds.
He varies his pace to keep Bonderman on edge, short sharp strokes that make wet slapping noises, long slow strokes that make Bonderman’s thighs shake. He arches his back and shifts his arms to vary the angle, watching Bonderman's eyes roll back in his head when he pounds in that way, just so, biting his own lip at the sensation, like a thousand heated gloves, wet and rubber, all pulling on his cock at once.
If he slams in, really gets his balls to slap up against Bonderman, he gets a series of short low groans in response, which makes him wonder if he should try spanking Bonderman some day, that round ass a perfect invitation, it's not like he hasn't thought about it, white globes slowly reddenning under his hand. He grins, showing all his teeth, pushing in as deep as he can, and Bonderman's eyes snap closed again like he's afraid they'll fall out.
Farnsworth can feel his orgasm from far off, pressing low in his pelvis, but he wants that eternity, that forever feeling, so he slows slows slows until he’s resting, buried inside Bonderman, idly stroking his stomach while Bonderman thrashes and begs Farnsworth to not make him beg and sobs and finally screams, “Fuck, fuck, please, god, please, just, fuck, Kyle, Kyle, Kyle,” and there’s no way to resist that, his own name screamed with such sweetly desperate entreaty.
Farnsworth leans down between Bonderman’s legs, easing back up to speed with the businesslike air of a very sweaty car piston, watching Bonderman’s face turn every shade of red, his eyes screwed shut and his mouth hung open, and it’s just like fucking a girl, except in every way that it isn’t.
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The next morning Dmitri calls Farnsworth on his cell phone to yell at him for dragging Bonderman out of the party before he even got in, before he even had a drink, man, that ain’t no fun, jeez. Farnsworth would be annoyed, generally, but if he sits on the edge of Bonderman’s bed and leans to the right just so, he can see right into the bathroom, where the door is open, and right into the shower, where the glass door leaves just enough to the imagination.
Feeling lecherous and pleased, Farnsworth lets Dmitri talk himself out. “Stole our fuckin’ pitcher, man!” Dmitri grumbles, amusement poorly disguised.
“You’ll get him back,” Farnsworth answers, attention switching entirely away from the phone and into the bathroom, where the shower has turned off and a good amount of wet pitcher is making itself visible.
“In one piece!” Dmitri yells, something in Farnsworth’s voice tipping him off, and Farnsworth laughs, easy.
“In one piece,” he agrees, amiable. “And if I break him, I’ll provide my own glue.”
A disgusted groan from Dmitri is all he hears as he turns off the phone and throws it onto the bed. He charges into the bathroom, ambushing Bonderman in the midst of brushing his teeth, kissing him violently and getting toothpaste all over, minty and sharp on both their tongues, toiletries knocked from the sinktop with tiny clinking sounds.
There’s hardly any time at all left in the offseason, but it’s better than three days, it’s now, right here, and it’ll do.
Cat, you'll notice that in some ways it tallies exactly with fake!world, and in some ways it deviates. I just went with how the story wanted to go. Hope you enjoy! Porn for all! Happy birthday!
(also I wrote this in one night so if there are errors of tense and things, yeah, me go crazy later it gets)
I promised Cat Bondo/Farns porn for her birthday, and so she shall have it!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Split the Difference
You spend all season with a team, think enough is enough, but after a while there’s only so much time that can be spent with the family before the need to live, to live it up like a ballplayer sets in again. Farnsworth doesn’t have the same kind of family as most of these guys, happy wife, precious children, dog. He has a big house outside of Atlanta with an irritable black and white cat and a giant shiny black truck that he cares for far more attentively than he cares for the scores of children he might have, scattered around the metro Chicago region. It’s not something he thinks about, really. No sense in wrecking his life over something as dumb as a chick who got herself knocked up, not when he’s got things going well between the basepaths.
It’s good to get back to Detroit, though, see the team he won’t be seeing much of next year. He doesn’t have a family, not like that, so it wasn’t a hard decision to make. Detroit, or Atlanta, or money and a shot at a ring. He’s a pitcher, he understands how it’s important to wear heavy metal, chains around your neck and if you’re lucky, if you’re sharp, if you’re smart, around your finger.
Dmitri’s parties are a thing he’ll miss, though. The apartment is full to brimming with loud guys he knows, for the most part, and alcohol he can buy down at the corner store in bulk, with a frosted bottle of something more expensive here and there. It reminds Farnsworth of college, really, a frat party with all your brothers, and the pretty girls were there too, dyed-blonde and willing. Tonight he’s only enjoying the view, though, appreciating the protruding chest of a specimen, speculating with Pena about how many beer cans they could pyramid up on the heaving shelf.
“You couldn’t get more than three,” Pena is saying, and Farnsworth is trying to explain how you could get 7, easy, but she’d have to tilt her head far back so it wouldn’t get in the way. He hears the door clatter open and suddenly all of his senses are on fire. Pena’s voice slows down and filters out and his vision tunnels a little around the edges and, yes. He hears the new arrival greet Dmitri like he’s standing right there.
A wink and a “later kid” to Pena is enough to disengage himself, Pena rolling his eyes and scanning the room for someone else to explain his stacking theory to, lighting on Maroth unsuccessfully trying to hide himself in the corner. Farnsworth is long gone, though, beeline to the door like a bloodhound on a scent, and he doesn’t so much shove people out of the way as they just part before him.
Around the corner and sure enough there stands Bonderman, in the midst of saying something to Dmitri and freezing, eyes going wide. Dmitri looks over his shoulder and chuckles goodnaturedly, like always, but nervous underneath that. Farnsworth has an idea what he looks like, when he gets like this. Hungry dog staring at a slab of meat, murderer staring at his next victim. He’s heard it all before, but Bonderman is shifting away from Dmitri’s friendly hug, hips first, and Farnsworth knows that he’s not scared.
----------------------------------------
Back to July, right, quick snap of the brain is all it takes, and a hotel room in Oakland. Farnsworth has Bonderman pinned to the bed, staring at him like he’s never seen a human face before. Mind fragmented and blasted, on fire all the way from his eyebrows to his toes, worried about moving too fast or too hard and never able to go hard or fast enough. It was weird and stupid and even as he was he was thinking, “But, I don’t,” first time for a lot of things at once.
Who knew, in July, that New York was on the radar, let alone Atlanta, half a season earlier than anyone had dared to think, anyone but the guys in the front office, shirtsleeved men with slick names and slick college degrees whom Farnsworth trusts not at all, especially after the trade.
The first time it was an eternity, even when they were lying, spent, on the hotel bed, panting each other’s air, lung-warmed. Some part of Farnsworth was still flying along, up arteries and down veins, and they were gonna be able to do this, man, forever and ever.
Three days later he was a Brave.
----------------------------------------
All winter in Atlanta, Farnsworth had his guns, which made him think of Bonderman because he was a hunter too, and back before anything they’d talked about the finer points of shooting any number of times, any number of late-night flights or drives.
He had his workouts, which reminded him of the first time Bonderman saw him hit 100 in an early spring throwing session. Pudge had bet he couldn’t really hit triple digits, smug, and Farnsworth had never backed down from a bet. Pudge crouched down to catch, pounding his mitt challengingly, a reliever Farnsworth didn’t know yet giggling continuously but holding the radar gun steady (Walker, he learned later, and the giggling only got worse when you knew him).
Other players gathered around, anything interesting in a spring training practice welcome to the team. A few warmup tosses later and Farnsworth was feeling loose, tall, ready. He had burned a ball in there, knowing before it was halfway to the plate, knowing before Walker’s eyes got round and his breath whistled out, knowing before Pudge winced on impact.
His eyes had wandered up to where the knot of Tigers clustered around the gun, jostling to see the little readout on the screen, but there was one staring back at him, a big pitcher, a little dull in the face, except for his eyes, which shone like a fastball had set them on fire in its path and left them to burn.
He also had his cat, in Atlanta, a tough tuxedo cat with a mean streak the size of the Bible belt, and that made him think of Bonderman because of course Bonderman had been the one to get the damn cat in the first place. Farnsworth had meant to get one, before he was traded, and then he was traded and it was all confusion and eventually Bonderman had called and said he got a cat. Farnsworth had asked, What kind, and Bonderman had been silent on his end of the phone, which Farnsworth didn’t understand.
When Bonderman swallowed and said, constricted, into the mouthpiece, “Badass,” Farnsworth thought he did.
----------------------------------------
At the party, Bonderman steps back, and Farnsworth steps forward, gets a hand on his bicep and squeezes enough to leave bruises.
“Been a while,” he mutters, eyes not leaving Bonderman’s face, and Bonderman looks like he’s having trouble getting oxygen, which is funny, because Farnsworth is crushing his arm, not his neck.
“Yeah,” Bonderman finally gets out, short and gasping, and that’s all Farnsworth can take. That’s it, he tugs on Bonderman’s arm and gets him to stumble forward, towards the door. Out.
“Aw but he jus’ got here, man!” Dmitri protests from somewhere behind them. Farnsworth flips him an emphatic middle finger. They have Bonderman all season, in there. The party is already gone from his mind like it never existed, everything channeled down into this right here, right next to him, staggering along looking like someone had swung a fungo right across the bridge of his nose.
He recognizes Bonderman’s car and shoves him up against it, hips flush, grinding him purposefully into the car door. “You sober?” he asks, muffled against Bonderman’s neck, where he’s found a spot he hasn’t explored in a while and really, really should.
It takes a few hitched breaths for Bonderman to answer in the affirmative, and a few more before he can get his arms up to push Farnsworth carefully away, dig out his keys, reluctantly step away to the driver’s side.
“Five!” someone screams from the doorstep, and Farnsworth glances up. It’s Pena, swaying dangerously, backlit in the yellow rectangle of the door with a beer can waving triumphantly in one hand. “Five!” he yells again. “Split th’difference, we were both right! Stacked those fuckers right up!”
Farnsworth laughs, better than he’s felt all winter, and ducks into the car.
----------------------------------------
He’s sneaking his hand onto Bonderman’s thigh, leaning across until the seatbelt catches and holds him up, cutting into his chest. He’s muttering directly into Bonderman’s ear, fingers twitching cruelly.
“Gonna screw you so hard the neighbors feel well-fucked. Gonna make you scream ‘til you ain’t got no voice left. And then when you can't speak I'm gonna fuck your throat so deep you'll be tastin' me for weeks. Then we’re gonna go back to Atlanta and I’m gonna throw you up ‘gainst my truck, fuck you ‘til you fuckin’ melt into the finish.”
Bonderman swallows, hard, eyes stuck to the road with suction cups, hands tight around the wheel and his leg jumping.
----------------------------------------
They barely get in the door, which Farnsworth had expected, but he remembers too late that he knows Bonderman’s apartment not at all, a place he’d been a few times but not nearly enough to get it imprinted in his mind, not nearly enough.
It’s dark, and Farnsworth barks his shin against a chair, Bonderman falling into him and doing something interesting to his shirt that involves quite a bit of ripping. Farnsworth returns the favor, and underneath it’s warm, and soft, and hard in the right places, or the wrong ones, but he’s used to it now, got used to it long ago and it feels sometimes like it’s always been that way, he dreams about it so often.
“bed bed bed,” Bonderman is chanting, still breathless, and Farnsworth has to slow down, allow himself to be led into the bedroom, one arm wrapped around Bonderman’s waist from behind and biting at the back of his neck. Bonderman is squirming, in happiness or discomfort, and the line is so thin anyways. Farnsworth sets his teeth at the top of Bonderman’s shoulder and bites down, sucking up, marking. Making.
Bonderman gets him turned around and throws him onto the bed, Farnsworth falling backwards in surprise. Bonderman backs away, fast, before Farnsworth can renew his grip, skittering until he bumps into his desk and gropes for something, face hidden in the dark but pointed in Farnsworth’s direction.
There’s a click, and the desklamp pops on. Oh, Farnsworth thinks, brain disconnected, and then Bonderman is back on the bed, burying his face in Farnsworth’s chest like he’s trying to climb inside.
“Missed you,” muffled, rises from somewhere in the vicinity of his sternum. Farnsworth smiles into the dim yellow light and slides one hand down Bonderman’s bare back, under the flat Levi’s label at the back of his pants.
“Missed you more,” he says, stroking the piece of flesh he can reach with his fingers under the top of Bonderman’s jeans, a soft hollow sort of place where the small of his back just barely ends and starts to rise up again.
Bonderman shakes his head, hair scratching across the middle of Farnsworth’s chest, and mouths down to his stomach, arching Farnsworth’s hand loose of his jeans, where it slides across and around his back and shoulderblades, untethered. “Missed you way more,” he breathes, tongue reacquainting itself with the ridges of Farnsworth’s abdomen. ‘Had to sleep with a body pillow. Didn’t know what to do with my arms and legs.”
For a minute Farnsworth is confused, body pillow, what, is it a sex toy? Can he get one? Should they try it out? Is it fun? before his mind catches up to him and he snorts, laughter terminated, making his stomach jump under Bonderman’s hands.
Bonderman starts to work his jeans open, slowly, slowly, enjoying each snick of the zipper individually, his fingers brushing up against Farnsworth inevitably, and he doesn’t need any extra sensation there right now. Farnsworth snarls at him and grabs his jaw, roughly, pulling his chin up to glare at him. Bonderman is wearing an innocent face, fabricated and half-convincing.
“Suck it or roll over,” Farnsworth growls, crude, sure, but he’s never been one for subtlety, and if Bonderman didn’t like it he wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be crouching between Farnsworth’s tensed legs with a shit-eating grin spreading over his face, for all the world like the cat when Farnsworth brings home a freshly caught trout, all for her.
Humming happily now, Bonderman lowers his eyes, faux coy, and rubs his thumb firmly over the zipper of Farnsworth’s pants, already straining. “Now now, Kyle,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes down, smile struggling at the corners of his mouth. “Patience is a virtue.”
“Yeah,” Farnsworth agrees, quick aggressive movement surprising Bonderman enough that Farnsworth can surge up, slam Bonderman’s back to the bed and rip his jeans off with one hand, the other holding him down right in the middle of his chest, where he’d be pressing if Bonderman couldn’t breathe, if the breathless gasp was not just from excitement. He pulls off his own jeans and boxers, releasing Bonderman only momentarily to tear a condom from his jeans pocket, fast and careful all at once.
“Yeah,” he growls, again, sliding two fingers in and out of his mouth with a wink before leaning forward, letting Bonderman’s legs rest on his shoulders, pressing his fingers in. “Patience is a virtue. But I ain’t never been all that virtuous.”
----------------------------------------
Bonderman never needs much work, and they’ve always fit well together, fit easily, something Farnsworth doesn’t think about, because it implies a lot of past, a lot of other men and other cocks that weren't his, a lot of before, and there’s no sense in dwelling on the past when there’s so much now, squirming and panting and pushing back into him with desperate, wanting little sounds.
He varies his pace to keep Bonderman on edge, short sharp strokes that make wet slapping noises, long slow strokes that make Bonderman’s thighs shake. He arches his back and shifts his arms to vary the angle, watching Bonderman's eyes roll back in his head when he pounds in that way, just so, biting his own lip at the sensation, like a thousand heated gloves, wet and rubber, all pulling on his cock at once.
If he slams in, really gets his balls to slap up against Bonderman, he gets a series of short low groans in response, which makes him wonder if he should try spanking Bonderman some day, that round ass a perfect invitation, it's not like he hasn't thought about it, white globes slowly reddenning under his hand. He grins, showing all his teeth, pushing in as deep as he can, and Bonderman's eyes snap closed again like he's afraid they'll fall out.
Farnsworth can feel his orgasm from far off, pressing low in his pelvis, but he wants that eternity, that forever feeling, so he slows slows slows until he’s resting, buried inside Bonderman, idly stroking his stomach while Bonderman thrashes and begs Farnsworth to not make him beg and sobs and finally screams, “Fuck, fuck, please, god, please, just, fuck, Kyle, Kyle, Kyle,” and there’s no way to resist that, his own name screamed with such sweetly desperate entreaty.
Farnsworth leans down between Bonderman’s legs, easing back up to speed with the businesslike air of a very sweaty car piston, watching Bonderman’s face turn every shade of red, his eyes screwed shut and his mouth hung open, and it’s just like fucking a girl, except in every way that it isn’t.
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The next morning Dmitri calls Farnsworth on his cell phone to yell at him for dragging Bonderman out of the party before he even got in, before he even had a drink, man, that ain’t no fun, jeez. Farnsworth would be annoyed, generally, but if he sits on the edge of Bonderman’s bed and leans to the right just so, he can see right into the bathroom, where the door is open, and right into the shower, where the glass door leaves just enough to the imagination.
Feeling lecherous and pleased, Farnsworth lets Dmitri talk himself out. “Stole our fuckin’ pitcher, man!” Dmitri grumbles, amusement poorly disguised.
“You’ll get him back,” Farnsworth answers, attention switching entirely away from the phone and into the bathroom, where the shower has turned off and a good amount of wet pitcher is making itself visible.
“In one piece!” Dmitri yells, something in Farnsworth’s voice tipping him off, and Farnsworth laughs, easy.
“In one piece,” he agrees, amiable. “And if I break him, I’ll provide my own glue.”
A disgusted groan from Dmitri is all he hears as he turns off the phone and throws it onto the bed. He charges into the bathroom, ambushing Bonderman in the midst of brushing his teeth, kissing him violently and getting toothpaste all over, minty and sharp on both their tongues, toiletries knocked from the sinktop with tiny clinking sounds.
There’s hardly any time at all left in the offseason, but it’s better than three days, it’s now, right here, and it’ll do.
Cat, you'll notice that in some ways it tallies exactly with fake!world, and in some ways it deviates. I just went with how the story wanted to go. Hope you enjoy! Porn for all! Happy birthday!
(also I wrote this in one night so if there are errors of tense and things, yeah, me go crazy later it gets)