request fiiiic!
Prompt from jennyagain: josh beckett/aj burnett. something riffing on power dynamics, namely alpha dog trouble: both want to take and neither wants to give.
Ha ha, oh, my literal mind.
Josh Beckett/AJ Burnett. NC-17. Thwarted by names again-- Beckett and Burnett are way too similar, and I'm pretty sure reader eyes would start sliding over the two until the fic read like some weird Beckurnett hybrid was having sex with itself. Oh well.
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.
impasse
Burnett in his apartment isn't much like Burnett on the field. Burnett on the field had seemed like a good idea, all long limbs and flyaway blonde hair. Now that he's got Burnett in his apartment, though, leaning up against his kitchen counter, beer in hand, it's not so clear. Now Josh is starting to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.
The legs that looked almost gangly on the pitcher's mound look solid and muscular in jeans, angled back to keep Burnett's ass propped up against the side of the kitchen table. The hands that had been unremarkable (like every other pitcher out there) when buried in a glove or in motion around a baseball are long-fingered and broad-palmed in repose around the beer can. Up close and slowed down, Burnett looks a whole lot less awkward and a whole lot more dangerous.
Josh likes danger. He does. Spice of life and all that. It's just that he likes to be the one making things dangerous.
Burnett puts his beer down. He walks over to Josh, gets his hands on the counter, one on each side of Josh's hips. Josh rolls his own beer can in his fingers and tilts his head back, drinking deeply. When he finishes, Burnett's still there, right up in his face, although he's pleased to see the way Burnett's eyes are dragged unwillingly down to his mouth when he licks the remaining beer from his lips.
He smirks. Which, OK, he can later admit was a mistake.
"What," Burnett says, real low, "you think you're cute or something?"
Josh lets his drawl bleed through as much as he can. "Naaah. Maybe think you're cute." Although cute isn't the word to describe Burnett. Hot, maybe, or, more importantly, willing. It's been a long time since Josh let himself do this; it's not something he can just go out and do, not with baseball being what it is, and it's not like there are tons of guys in baseball who are into this kind of thing.
"Don't really do cute," Burnett says. He cocks his head a little, eyeing Josh consideringly. "Kid."
Josh is pretty sure that Burnett doesn't have more than five years on him. Asshole. But an asshole who's willing to have sex and isn't going to go running to the media the second he's out of bed, so Josh's willing to work with him.
He reaches up, fingers still cold and damp from the can, runs his fingertips along Burnett's jaw. "Oh, I dunno, lookit you. Practically adorable." Burnett shivers a little from the coolness, stepping further into Josh's space to compensate. Josh's pressed so far into the counter that the edge is digging into the small of his back, hard. Not that he'll ever mention that to Burnett, because that would involve admitting that Burnett has him backing up. He swipes a thumb down the line of Burnett's neck, meanly rolling a drop of condensation along to make it colder when the air hits.
"Playing a dangerous game, kid." Burnett leans in further, the press of his hips against Josh and the roughness of his voice belying the inherent cheesiness of his words.
"Who's playin'?" Josh carefully pushes back, just with his hips, taking some of the pressure off his back and-- oh yeah-- bringing his thigh into contact with Burnett's dick. He shifts his leg a little, forward and back, trying to blindly feel out the size and shape through two layers of denim; hard, yeah, and not at all insignificant, but Josh's had bigger.
He has to bite down on his lip to stifle a gasp when Burnett works a leg between his own, doing the same to Josh. He idly wonders how he stacks up against the other guys Burnett has done, or even how many other guys Burnett has to compare him to. He can't imagine that Burnett is any more careless about this than he is.
Burnett shifts closer, moving his hands off the counter and grabbing Josh's wrists, not really restraining him or anything (as if he could), just holding Josh's hands there against the counter on either side of him, anchoring them both in place. Josh fists his hands, knuckles pressing into the countertop, but otherwise lets him. For the moment. He's interested to see where this goes.
He's worried, for a second, that Burnett's going to try to kiss him, because Burnett leans in towards his face. He turns his head before their lips line up, though, brings his mouth up close to Josh's left ear. He just breathes there for a minute, the faint stubble on his cheek scratching at Josh's jaw while Josh ruthlessly tamps down on himself, refuses to squirm. He's not getting turned on just because Burnett is huffing air down his face. Definitely not.
"I want you to fuck me," Burnett says, directly in Josh's ear, each word crisp and cleanly enunciated.
God. Josh closes his eyes briefly-- Burnett can't see his eyes anyways. "What if I want you to fuck me?"
"Well. You're shit out of luck, then, aren't you?"
This is not how it was supposed to go. It's not like Josh hasn't spent any time looking at Burnett's ass; he's watched it from the dugout, pretending to be interested in his pitching, as if Burnett had anything to teach him about pitching. He's watched those baseball pants tighten over the curve of Burnett's ass as he strides into his pitching motion, the way the thin blue-jay-colored stripe down the side inscribed a C on his hip as he brought his leg up. Yeah, he's imagined that ass bent over for him, pale, lightly furred with blonde hair in his imagination, Burnett's narrow hips fitting nicely in his hands.
But if he wants to put his dick up someone's ass he can save himself the trouble and just go grab a groupie; he can do that with a chick, imagine a broader back if he has to, he can get that any old time. That's not what he wants.
There is no way to ask a groupie to fuck you with a dildo or a strap-on and not have it get around. There just isn't. He saw one of his college teammates get drummed out of the game that way, and that guy wasn't even gay or bi or anything-- just a regular old straight guy who liked stuff up his ass-- but shit gets around, and all it took was the hint of gayness, and that was it.
Maybe it would've been different if the kid was a superstar talent instead of middlingly good. Maybe it'd be different for Josh. He's not going to chance it.
So Burnett-- Burnett, who has just as much at stake as Josh does, if this ever gets out-- is supposed to be the answer. Someone to give him what he can't get anywhere else. Unfortunately, Burnett seems to have the same idea, and Burnett doesn't really seem like someone who'll jump when he tells him to.
"Don't think so," Josh says, twisting one of his hands out of Burnett's grip and bringing it around to rest along the top of his own belt buckle. It's a broad shiny buckle in the shape of the state of Texas; one of his favorites, and one he's wearing now for its brute visibility, the way it draws eyes like iron filings to a magnet. He leans back into the counter, his jeans pulling taut over his groin, letting Burnett get a serious eyeful. "I'd probably hurt you."
Burnett smirks. "Oh, please. Not that big."
"Oh yeah?" Josh nudges Burnett back a step and deftly undoes his belt buckle with just one hand, a neat trick that should have Burnett's mouth watering. He unzips his fly, pops the button at the top cleanly out. He could take his belt off, get rid of the jeans, but he looks at Burnett's face-- the red starting up on his cheeks, the unblinking focus of his eyes-- and no. No, he's leaving it all on. He lets the ends of the belt dangle on either side of his fly. He wriggles his jeans a little down his hips, lets the trail of dark hair angling down his stomach show. The bit of boxers visible through the gap in his pants doesn't hide much, but he works his dick out through the front flap anyways (not quite as suave as he'd like, but he's already hard, which makes it a little more difficult to maneuver), just to make the point.
"Not that big," Burnett repeats, although he can't seem to move his eyes away from Josh's dick, and Josh is generously willing to believe that he's a big fat liar. He shifts his weight casually, like it's accidental, and Burnett's eyes follow his dick as it bobs with the motion of his hips.
"C'mon," Josh says. Wheedles, really, just a little bit. "You sayin' I don't got a nice ass?"
Burnett drags his eyes upwards to glare. And, OK, Josh gets it. Burnett does want the same thing he does, for all the same reasons. Asking nicely isn't going to get them anywhere.
"Could hold you down," he says. Burnett blinks. "Could hold you down, sit on you." Burnett twitches, very slightly, just in his hands. Josh can feel a smirk coming on but manages, this time, to repress it. "Yeah," he says, letting his voice get a little breathy. "Yeah, fuckin' sit on it. You want me to use you like a chunka rubber? That what this's about?"
"Fuck," Burnett mutters. He's so hard that Josh can almost see his dick in perfect outline through his jeans. It can't be comfortable, has to be right on the border of pain, if it hasn't already gone fully over. He knows he's having an effect on Burnett; he's having a heckuvan effect. But Burnett just balls his hands into fists and glares harder, the flush on his face making his eyes look bright, his hair look spun-sun blonde.
Stubborn bastard.
Josh slumps heavily against the counter, letting the corner poke into his back again. The motion bounces his dick against his abdomen, leaving a tiny wet mark on the bottom hem of his tshirt. "This is fuckin' stupid."
Burnett forces out a chuckle. "Shit. Yeah."
"Could switch off?"
"That's assuming either one of us'd have enough control to stop once we got going."
Josh smirks. "Oh, I know I'm just that good, but you could try."
"Being realistic," Burnett says, eyes still burning, thoroughly unamused. And hard. Really, really, really hard.
"Why don't you fuck me now," Josh says, aiming for 'accommodating kindly host' and not quite sure he gets there, "and I'll fuck you later."
"How about we do that the other way 'round?" Josh narrows his eyes. Burnett smiles thinly. "You know. Just in case."
Burnett settles on his heels, folding his arms across his narrow chest, and Josh can see that this is not a contest of strength or ability to cajole or sheer hotness. It's a contest of patience. Burnett is willing to be as patient as a dumb fucking rock to get what he wants, and Josh. Fuck. Is good at many things-- great at many things-- but is no fucking good at all when it comes to being patient.
He leans forward, shoots out an arm and gets a handful of Burnett's shirt. He pulls Burnett forward, swinging them both around with the momentum. Burnett's hands slam down on the counter. It's just to steady himself, it shouldn't be particularly hot, but, God, it is.
Josh undoes Burnett's fly from behind, working by touch, and gets Burnett's pants down around his knees before he lets himself rub up against Burnett's ass. He's aware that the metal teeth of his zipper are digging into Burnett's flesh, but that's not his problem.
Not quite as hairy as he'd imagined, but definitely blonde, and Burnett's hips really do fit easily in his hands, so it's not bad at all.
Josh extracts a condom from his jeans pocket. He makes certain to be noisy tearing the wrapper, and, sure enough, Burnett shivers slightly before him. He looks around for something readily at hand that they can use for lube, but Burnett bends forward, forearms resting flat along the counter, ass decidedly on display, and says, "Fuck, no, it's fine, I'm." Josh hums skeptically (please, like Burnett's had enough opportunities to get that loose) and tries him out with a finger.
With two fingers, disbelieving. Then three. The fucker had already prepared himself. No wonder he got so hard, so fast, so completely untouched: Burnett's been walking around the apartment with his ass lubed up.
"Christ, Burnett, you're really somethin' else," Josh mutters, punctuating this with a slow push into Burnett's ass. "A real piece'a work."
Burnett makes a low noise underneath him, lacking in consonants but somehow deeply smug anyways. Josh gives him a couple short jabbing thrusts, just for that. Burnett lets his head drop down between his shoulders, pushing his ass back a little. Josh squeezes his hips harder, holding him in place and hopefully bruising.
"Don't think you're gettin' outta fuckin' me later," he says. "I don't care how tired you think your old man dick'll get."
"Yeah. Fuck. OK." Burnett tenses and flexes his shoulders, then relaxes them so slowly and purposefully that Josh almost comes just from watching it.
Josh starts trying to establish some kind of rhythm, some pattern of deep smooth strokes. The place where Burnett's spine dips before swelling up into the muscle of his ass is driving Josh crazy; he keeps a hand there to remind Burnett to stay down, but he couldn't move his hand if he tried. Burnett sighs and groans and, when Josh pushes his tshirt up, the muscles in his pale, pale back shift appetizingly around and over each other.
He eventually does get a rhythm going, hard and fast, driving Burnett forward into the edge of the counter every time, palms skidding on the surface. "That what you wanted?" Josh asks, squeezing Burnett's hipbones between his fingers. "Wanted bruises in the mornin'?"
"Don't worry none," Burnett manages to grind out, teeth gritted, between thrusts. "You'll get yours."
That's as good as a promise, and Josh is going to hold him to it. He grins, widens his stance to get better leverage, and, in a fit of do-unto-others-as-you-would-have-them-do-unto-you sentimentality, thrusts harder.
Ha ha, oh, my literal mind.
Josh Beckett/AJ Burnett. NC-17. Thwarted by names again-- Beckett and Burnett are way too similar, and I'm pretty sure reader eyes would start sliding over the two until the fic read like some weird Beckurnett hybrid was having sex with itself. Oh well.
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.
impasse
Burnett in his apartment isn't much like Burnett on the field. Burnett on the field had seemed like a good idea, all long limbs and flyaway blonde hair. Now that he's got Burnett in his apartment, though, leaning up against his kitchen counter, beer in hand, it's not so clear. Now Josh is starting to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.
The legs that looked almost gangly on the pitcher's mound look solid and muscular in jeans, angled back to keep Burnett's ass propped up against the side of the kitchen table. The hands that had been unremarkable (like every other pitcher out there) when buried in a glove or in motion around a baseball are long-fingered and broad-palmed in repose around the beer can. Up close and slowed down, Burnett looks a whole lot less awkward and a whole lot more dangerous.
Josh likes danger. He does. Spice of life and all that. It's just that he likes to be the one making things dangerous.
Burnett puts his beer down. He walks over to Josh, gets his hands on the counter, one on each side of Josh's hips. Josh rolls his own beer can in his fingers and tilts his head back, drinking deeply. When he finishes, Burnett's still there, right up in his face, although he's pleased to see the way Burnett's eyes are dragged unwillingly down to his mouth when he licks the remaining beer from his lips.
He smirks. Which, OK, he can later admit was a mistake.
"What," Burnett says, real low, "you think you're cute or something?"
Josh lets his drawl bleed through as much as he can. "Naaah. Maybe think you're cute." Although cute isn't the word to describe Burnett. Hot, maybe, or, more importantly, willing. It's been a long time since Josh let himself do this; it's not something he can just go out and do, not with baseball being what it is, and it's not like there are tons of guys in baseball who are into this kind of thing.
"Don't really do cute," Burnett says. He cocks his head a little, eyeing Josh consideringly. "Kid."
Josh is pretty sure that Burnett doesn't have more than five years on him. Asshole. But an asshole who's willing to have sex and isn't going to go running to the media the second he's out of bed, so Josh's willing to work with him.
He reaches up, fingers still cold and damp from the can, runs his fingertips along Burnett's jaw. "Oh, I dunno, lookit you. Practically adorable." Burnett shivers a little from the coolness, stepping further into Josh's space to compensate. Josh's pressed so far into the counter that the edge is digging into the small of his back, hard. Not that he'll ever mention that to Burnett, because that would involve admitting that Burnett has him backing up. He swipes a thumb down the line of Burnett's neck, meanly rolling a drop of condensation along to make it colder when the air hits.
"Playing a dangerous game, kid." Burnett leans in further, the press of his hips against Josh and the roughness of his voice belying the inherent cheesiness of his words.
"Who's playin'?" Josh carefully pushes back, just with his hips, taking some of the pressure off his back and-- oh yeah-- bringing his thigh into contact with Burnett's dick. He shifts his leg a little, forward and back, trying to blindly feel out the size and shape through two layers of denim; hard, yeah, and not at all insignificant, but Josh's had bigger.
He has to bite down on his lip to stifle a gasp when Burnett works a leg between his own, doing the same to Josh. He idly wonders how he stacks up against the other guys Burnett has done, or even how many other guys Burnett has to compare him to. He can't imagine that Burnett is any more careless about this than he is.
Burnett shifts closer, moving his hands off the counter and grabbing Josh's wrists, not really restraining him or anything (as if he could), just holding Josh's hands there against the counter on either side of him, anchoring them both in place. Josh fists his hands, knuckles pressing into the countertop, but otherwise lets him. For the moment. He's interested to see where this goes.
He's worried, for a second, that Burnett's going to try to kiss him, because Burnett leans in towards his face. He turns his head before their lips line up, though, brings his mouth up close to Josh's left ear. He just breathes there for a minute, the faint stubble on his cheek scratching at Josh's jaw while Josh ruthlessly tamps down on himself, refuses to squirm. He's not getting turned on just because Burnett is huffing air down his face. Definitely not.
"I want you to fuck me," Burnett says, directly in Josh's ear, each word crisp and cleanly enunciated.
God. Josh closes his eyes briefly-- Burnett can't see his eyes anyways. "What if I want you to fuck me?"
"Well. You're shit out of luck, then, aren't you?"
This is not how it was supposed to go. It's not like Josh hasn't spent any time looking at Burnett's ass; he's watched it from the dugout, pretending to be interested in his pitching, as if Burnett had anything to teach him about pitching. He's watched those baseball pants tighten over the curve of Burnett's ass as he strides into his pitching motion, the way the thin blue-jay-colored stripe down the side inscribed a C on his hip as he brought his leg up. Yeah, he's imagined that ass bent over for him, pale, lightly furred with blonde hair in his imagination, Burnett's narrow hips fitting nicely in his hands.
But if he wants to put his dick up someone's ass he can save himself the trouble and just go grab a groupie; he can do that with a chick, imagine a broader back if he has to, he can get that any old time. That's not what he wants.
There is no way to ask a groupie to fuck you with a dildo or a strap-on and not have it get around. There just isn't. He saw one of his college teammates get drummed out of the game that way, and that guy wasn't even gay or bi or anything-- just a regular old straight guy who liked stuff up his ass-- but shit gets around, and all it took was the hint of gayness, and that was it.
Maybe it would've been different if the kid was a superstar talent instead of middlingly good. Maybe it'd be different for Josh. He's not going to chance it.
So Burnett-- Burnett, who has just as much at stake as Josh does, if this ever gets out-- is supposed to be the answer. Someone to give him what he can't get anywhere else. Unfortunately, Burnett seems to have the same idea, and Burnett doesn't really seem like someone who'll jump when he tells him to.
"Don't think so," Josh says, twisting one of his hands out of Burnett's grip and bringing it around to rest along the top of his own belt buckle. It's a broad shiny buckle in the shape of the state of Texas; one of his favorites, and one he's wearing now for its brute visibility, the way it draws eyes like iron filings to a magnet. He leans back into the counter, his jeans pulling taut over his groin, letting Burnett get a serious eyeful. "I'd probably hurt you."
Burnett smirks. "Oh, please. Not that big."
"Oh yeah?" Josh nudges Burnett back a step and deftly undoes his belt buckle with just one hand, a neat trick that should have Burnett's mouth watering. He unzips his fly, pops the button at the top cleanly out. He could take his belt off, get rid of the jeans, but he looks at Burnett's face-- the red starting up on his cheeks, the unblinking focus of his eyes-- and no. No, he's leaving it all on. He lets the ends of the belt dangle on either side of his fly. He wriggles his jeans a little down his hips, lets the trail of dark hair angling down his stomach show. The bit of boxers visible through the gap in his pants doesn't hide much, but he works his dick out through the front flap anyways (not quite as suave as he'd like, but he's already hard, which makes it a little more difficult to maneuver), just to make the point.
"Not that big," Burnett repeats, although he can't seem to move his eyes away from Josh's dick, and Josh is generously willing to believe that he's a big fat liar. He shifts his weight casually, like it's accidental, and Burnett's eyes follow his dick as it bobs with the motion of his hips.
"C'mon," Josh says. Wheedles, really, just a little bit. "You sayin' I don't got a nice ass?"
Burnett drags his eyes upwards to glare. And, OK, Josh gets it. Burnett does want the same thing he does, for all the same reasons. Asking nicely isn't going to get them anywhere.
"Could hold you down," he says. Burnett blinks. "Could hold you down, sit on you." Burnett twitches, very slightly, just in his hands. Josh can feel a smirk coming on but manages, this time, to repress it. "Yeah," he says, letting his voice get a little breathy. "Yeah, fuckin' sit on it. You want me to use you like a chunka rubber? That what this's about?"
"Fuck," Burnett mutters. He's so hard that Josh can almost see his dick in perfect outline through his jeans. It can't be comfortable, has to be right on the border of pain, if it hasn't already gone fully over. He knows he's having an effect on Burnett; he's having a heckuvan effect. But Burnett just balls his hands into fists and glares harder, the flush on his face making his eyes look bright, his hair look spun-sun blonde.
Stubborn bastard.
Josh slumps heavily against the counter, letting the corner poke into his back again. The motion bounces his dick against his abdomen, leaving a tiny wet mark on the bottom hem of his tshirt. "This is fuckin' stupid."
Burnett forces out a chuckle. "Shit. Yeah."
"Could switch off?"
"That's assuming either one of us'd have enough control to stop once we got going."
Josh smirks. "Oh, I know I'm just that good, but you could try."
"Being realistic," Burnett says, eyes still burning, thoroughly unamused. And hard. Really, really, really hard.
"Why don't you fuck me now," Josh says, aiming for 'accommodating kindly host' and not quite sure he gets there, "and I'll fuck you later."
"How about we do that the other way 'round?" Josh narrows his eyes. Burnett smiles thinly. "You know. Just in case."
Burnett settles on his heels, folding his arms across his narrow chest, and Josh can see that this is not a contest of strength or ability to cajole or sheer hotness. It's a contest of patience. Burnett is willing to be as patient as a dumb fucking rock to get what he wants, and Josh. Fuck. Is good at many things-- great at many things-- but is no fucking good at all when it comes to being patient.
He leans forward, shoots out an arm and gets a handful of Burnett's shirt. He pulls Burnett forward, swinging them both around with the momentum. Burnett's hands slam down on the counter. It's just to steady himself, it shouldn't be particularly hot, but, God, it is.
Josh undoes Burnett's fly from behind, working by touch, and gets Burnett's pants down around his knees before he lets himself rub up against Burnett's ass. He's aware that the metal teeth of his zipper are digging into Burnett's flesh, but that's not his problem.
Not quite as hairy as he'd imagined, but definitely blonde, and Burnett's hips really do fit easily in his hands, so it's not bad at all.
Josh extracts a condom from his jeans pocket. He makes certain to be noisy tearing the wrapper, and, sure enough, Burnett shivers slightly before him. He looks around for something readily at hand that they can use for lube, but Burnett bends forward, forearms resting flat along the counter, ass decidedly on display, and says, "Fuck, no, it's fine, I'm." Josh hums skeptically (please, like Burnett's had enough opportunities to get that loose) and tries him out with a finger.
With two fingers, disbelieving. Then three. The fucker had already prepared himself. No wonder he got so hard, so fast, so completely untouched: Burnett's been walking around the apartment with his ass lubed up.
"Christ, Burnett, you're really somethin' else," Josh mutters, punctuating this with a slow push into Burnett's ass. "A real piece'a work."
Burnett makes a low noise underneath him, lacking in consonants but somehow deeply smug anyways. Josh gives him a couple short jabbing thrusts, just for that. Burnett lets his head drop down between his shoulders, pushing his ass back a little. Josh squeezes his hips harder, holding him in place and hopefully bruising.
"Don't think you're gettin' outta fuckin' me later," he says. "I don't care how tired you think your old man dick'll get."
"Yeah. Fuck. OK." Burnett tenses and flexes his shoulders, then relaxes them so slowly and purposefully that Josh almost comes just from watching it.
Josh starts trying to establish some kind of rhythm, some pattern of deep smooth strokes. The place where Burnett's spine dips before swelling up into the muscle of his ass is driving Josh crazy; he keeps a hand there to remind Burnett to stay down, but he couldn't move his hand if he tried. Burnett sighs and groans and, when Josh pushes his tshirt up, the muscles in his pale, pale back shift appetizingly around and over each other.
He eventually does get a rhythm going, hard and fast, driving Burnett forward into the edge of the counter every time, palms skidding on the surface. "That what you wanted?" Josh asks, squeezing Burnett's hipbones between his fingers. "Wanted bruises in the mornin'?"
"Don't worry none," Burnett manages to grind out, teeth gritted, between thrusts. "You'll get yours."
That's as good as a promise, and Josh is going to hold him to it. He grins, widens his stance to get better leverage, and, in a fit of do-unto-others-as-you-would-have-them-do-unto-you sentimentality, thrusts harder.