happy now?
thekatcameback won't stop bugging me. Ho.
So, this is crazed. Her prompt was "Jeff talks dirty to Brian," and because I have a sick mind, voila.
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.
usurped
"Who's the star player?" More pressure applied with each word, something a little desperate lurking at the back of Jeff's voice.
Brian pushes his head off the bed far enough to grind out, "You... are..." before Jeff forces his face back down into the pillow, one hand snarled in his hair, practiced fingers pulling, as if the guys don't give him enough shit for having thin hair to begin with, if a chunk gets pulled out he'll never hear the end of it, only rookie in the league going bald.
"Fuckin' right," Jeff growls. His hand disappears from the back of Brian's skull and Brian turns his face to the side, gasping in breaths until he earns a "Stay still, motherfucker," from Jeff. Brian turns his face back into the pillow nervously. Racking his mind, trying to think, what did I, did I say? did I do, something, what? but he can't even get very far because the hand is back, shoving at the base of his neck.
Jeff clambers on top of him, straddling the small of his back, the whole of Brian's back goosebumping up at the feel of Jeff's legs at his sides, bare skin on bare skin. Jeff slaps him lightly on a shoulderblade and Brian jumps at the thwack, surprise of it more than any pain.
"Stupid to even try. You shouldn'ta thought you ever could, never, you little," another slap, "fat," and another, "boring," each one stinging more than the last, "catcher," the last slap landing lower than the others, Jeff's hand hitting square across his ass. Brian is grateful for the pillow in his face for the first time that night, muffling his inadvertent groan, hiding his redhot cheeks.
"Thought you could. Be more popular. Than me." Jeff's doing things, both hands now, working away between Brian's legs, Brian is consumed by shame and confusion and no desire to stop it, no, keep on, more of that, harder, yes, right there. Jeff takes his hands away and spits and Brian is shaking. Shaking, he knows what's coming, knows nothing is going to be easy, not like this.
He's prepared, he is, mind and body, but still it takes his breath away and dots his vision with black, the pain of it. Through the haze lying over his mind he can hear Jeff, distorted as though by a distance of hundreds of miles, "Never gonna be better'n me. Never gonna be on top'a me. Never."
Brian lets out a dry sob, too much sensation and not enough of it good. "Like that, huh?" Jeff sneers, and for a second Brian wants to laugh, could he get any more cliché? So typical, so Jeff. Then Jeff thrusts forward and Brian doesn't want to laugh anymore, wants to scream, wants to beg, but he doesn't know what he's begging for, more or less or something in between.
"Yeah," Jeff grunts. "Yeah, you and your stupid fuckin' catcher's ass, you can take this, you can take alla this, you little fuckin' slut. You'd bend over for anyone, help the team, yeah. Yeah, Smoltz'd come up and ask and you'd be suckin' his dick before he even got the words out, and people think you're hot shit, but I know you, know you better'n anyone and I know what a little fuckin' slut you'd be, if you got halfa chance."
"Yeah," Brian breathes into the pillow. Yeah. That's just it, that's what he needs, Jeff behind him and Smoltz in the front and he can get the picture of it in his mind, both at once, so real he feels it in his bones, and that's... that's it...
"Too fuckin' easy," Jeff laughs, speeding up, dry smacking sounds and his hands on Brian's hips, hard enough to bruise where his fingertips press in. Brian tilts his face up off the pillow, craning his neck, blissful smile all agreement, and waits to get shoved back down.
Also, this icon is like 5 times funnier in this context.
So, this is crazed. Her prompt was "Jeff talks dirty to Brian," and because I have a sick mind, voila.
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.
usurped
"Who's the star player?" More pressure applied with each word, something a little desperate lurking at the back of Jeff's voice.
Brian pushes his head off the bed far enough to grind out, "You... are..." before Jeff forces his face back down into the pillow, one hand snarled in his hair, practiced fingers pulling, as if the guys don't give him enough shit for having thin hair to begin with, if a chunk gets pulled out he'll never hear the end of it, only rookie in the league going bald.
"Fuckin' right," Jeff growls. His hand disappears from the back of Brian's skull and Brian turns his face to the side, gasping in breaths until he earns a "Stay still, motherfucker," from Jeff. Brian turns his face back into the pillow nervously. Racking his mind, trying to think, what did I, did I say? did I do, something, what? but he can't even get very far because the hand is back, shoving at the base of his neck.
Jeff clambers on top of him, straddling the small of his back, the whole of Brian's back goosebumping up at the feel of Jeff's legs at his sides, bare skin on bare skin. Jeff slaps him lightly on a shoulderblade and Brian jumps at the thwack, surprise of it more than any pain.
"Stupid to even try. You shouldn'ta thought you ever could, never, you little," another slap, "fat," and another, "boring," each one stinging more than the last, "catcher," the last slap landing lower than the others, Jeff's hand hitting square across his ass. Brian is grateful for the pillow in his face for the first time that night, muffling his inadvertent groan, hiding his redhot cheeks.
"Thought you could. Be more popular. Than me." Jeff's doing things, both hands now, working away between Brian's legs, Brian is consumed by shame and confusion and no desire to stop it, no, keep on, more of that, harder, yes, right there. Jeff takes his hands away and spits and Brian is shaking. Shaking, he knows what's coming, knows nothing is going to be easy, not like this.
He's prepared, he is, mind and body, but still it takes his breath away and dots his vision with black, the pain of it. Through the haze lying over his mind he can hear Jeff, distorted as though by a distance of hundreds of miles, "Never gonna be better'n me. Never gonna be on top'a me. Never."
Brian lets out a dry sob, too much sensation and not enough of it good. "Like that, huh?" Jeff sneers, and for a second Brian wants to laugh, could he get any more cliché? So typical, so Jeff. Then Jeff thrusts forward and Brian doesn't want to laugh anymore, wants to scream, wants to beg, but he doesn't know what he's begging for, more or less or something in between.
"Yeah," Jeff grunts. "Yeah, you and your stupid fuckin' catcher's ass, you can take this, you can take alla this, you little fuckin' slut. You'd bend over for anyone, help the team, yeah. Yeah, Smoltz'd come up and ask and you'd be suckin' his dick before he even got the words out, and people think you're hot shit, but I know you, know you better'n anyone and I know what a little fuckin' slut you'd be, if you got halfa chance."
"Yeah," Brian breathes into the pillow. Yeah. That's just it, that's what he needs, Jeff behind him and Smoltz in the front and he can get the picture of it in his mind, both at once, so real he feels it in his bones, and that's... that's it...
"Too fuckin' easy," Jeff laughs, speeding up, dry smacking sounds and his hands on Brian's hips, hard enough to bruise where his fingertips press in. Brian tilts his face up off the pillow, craning his neck, blissful smile all agreement, and waits to get shoved back down.
Also, this icon is like 5 times funnier in this context.