i repeat: jacoby ellsbury in a wet shirt
Request fics are coming along nicely, but I had to get this in there first-- if you saw the Red Sox 'yay we're guaranteed a postseason berth' celebration last night, you saw Jonathan Papelbon going completely nuts in a number of ways, and you saw Jacoby Ellsbury wearing a skintight, soaking wet shirt. Holy mother of FUCK. I think Jacoby Ellsbury in a skintight, soaking wet shirt is a fine impetus for my first Jacoby porn.
Jacoby Ellsbury/Jonathan Papelbon
rated NC-17, pretty much a PWP, folks
3,262 words
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 are no connections or affiliations 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.
champagne in your eyes
This is the thing about being the closer in Boston: you win, you can do whatever the fuck you want. People will call him crazy, sure, he'd be fuckin' concerned if nobody was calling him crazy, but nobody's gonna tell him to stop, because man. Keep on pitchin', keep on winnin', and it doesn't matter one bit what you do, not in this town. It doesn't matter none.
Papelbon, he lives for these celebrations. It's not a real complicated thing: when they win a big game, he can cut loose any way he wants and nobody says shit. It's like the ultimate Get Outta Jail Free card, eternally renewable on a line of credit as good as his fastball.
And he loves this shit. He loves running out onto the field when they're playin' his music, the fans getting into the rhythm of it until the whole goddamn stadium is vibrating to his fuckin' theme song. That shit happens in movies, it doesn't happen in real life, except when you go to the postseason in Boston you may as well be in a movie. Yeah, he can dig that. Dance in your underwear like no one's watching, although the point is kinda that everyone is watching.
Win a big game and he's fucking unstoppable. Invincible. If he'd gone out and ripped the bases outta the field on any other night, he'd get shit nonstop from the field manager guys for the rest of the week at least, but tonight? Tonight he can go 'round and pry up each and every base, hand each one off to some random schmuck in the crowd, just 'cause it seems like a good idea and it hasn't been done before, and nobody's gonna touch him. Nobody.
Tonight he can light up a cigar in the clubhouse and blow a huge cloud of smoke right in that chick from NESN's face, and nobody's gonna even bat an eye. Tonight he can run across the infield and wrap his arms around himself and the whole goddamn crowd is gonna know that he's inventing a gesture to say I hug all you crazy fuckers.
That last out-- it ain't the World Series, OK, it ain't even the ALDS. But it's a promise that the season's going on into October no matter what, and hell, that's big. Fourteen teams in the league and only four are moving on. Fuckin' Pedroia has a batting average higher than that percentage. That's a promise that means something in Boston, where they still remember when that promise wasn't any kind of guarantee, even if that was before his time.
So they hang tough against a pitcher who's gonna win the Cy Young, and they scrape and pinch to drag a slender one run lead into the top of the 9th. And it's the last batter, Victor Martinez, staring out at him. All Cleveland needs is one long ball to tie it; tied, who knows what goes on to happen.
Papelbon stares in. The book on Martinez is that he likes to jump on the first pitch if it looks good. The book on Martinez is to junk him, lure him into fouling stuff off. The book on Martinez is to let him do the work, get some strikes on him before you try to challenge him.
The book on Martinez is a load of crap. Papelbon burns him almost down the exact center of the plate, a little elevated, his very favorite kind of fastball high in the 90s, every screaming spin of it the kind of challenge they say you shouldn't ever give Martinez on the first pitch. Martinez, he just lofts it to short. Papelbon follows the ball up into the night sky with his arms both raised, fingers pointed, until Cora wraps his glove around it. Then he's mobbed on the mound, the whole team racing in full-speed, everyone jumping and screaming and whaling on each other and the crowd is roaring and he's hugging guys without even knowing who's who, camera flashes are making constellations out of the stands, and like he said.
Invincible.
He's bounced down into the clubhouse with the rest of the guys, and then people are shoving champagne into his hands. He shakes the bottles and sprays them out as hard as he can. He screams at the top of his lungs. He rips off his jersey and lets everyone else's alcohol soak his undershirt, his bare arms, foam running down his face and that bright dry taste sparking in his mouth, a little bit sour on the back of his tongue but oh so sweet everywhere else.
Masterson skates by on socked feet, skidding on the plastic sheeting covering the locker room. Ortiz roars with glee, black swimming goggles hilarious and incongruous over his eyes. Beckett talks seriously into a reporter's microphone until Lowell bangs into his side, digs a hand into Beckett's already soaked, unruly hair and messes it up even more. Lugo's walking around drinking straight from a bottle of champagne, and that is just all kinds of fine tonight.
Papelbon runs upstairs, he sprays the crowd. He runs downstairs, he sprays the team. People scatter out of his path but drift right back towards him like they can't escape his orbit. This is his element. This right here, this is where he can be himself, any way he wants, and nobody's gonna stop him. Everything's blurry through the smarting of champagne in his eyes, but it's a bright and loud kinda blurry, a painful burn at the edges of his vision that feels just about perfect.
He's upending a full can of beer over Jason Bay's quietly disbelieving head when he catches sight of Jacoby Ellsbury, moving unsteadily in his direction amid the litter of bottles and cans and soaking wet everything on the floor of the clubhouse. Ellsbury is grinning like his face is gonna crack in two, and his shirt is plastered down tight against his chest and back, dark gray shiny with wetness, that single red sleeve hugging his arm like it's painted on.
Just like that, Papelbon wants. It's not, like, a real rational process: he sees, he wants, he's not gonna be bothered to think about it, and because it's tonight, because he's unstoppable and indestructible, he's gonna get what he wants.
He Jordan-shots the empty beer into a trash can halfway across the floor (it zings in like a perfect three-pointer, that kinda night) and intercepts Ellsbury with a hand on the back of the kid's neck. Ellsbury turns his head, turns that laughing thousand-watt smile on Papelbon. He's so happy that he doesn't even notice when Papelbon steers him by his neck right into Tito's office, or maybe he's so happy that he doesn't care. Either way, Papelbon knows that Tito's gonna be doing media for at least an hour, and he ain't gonna be doing it in his office. He knows Tito's office door has a real lock on it, unlike most of the doors in the clubhouse. And he knows that even if someone busted in on him, it's him: nobody's gonna question how he celebrates.
He kicks the door closed and flicks the lock. Ellsbury finally seems to notice something's going on, because he looks up (still grinning) and says, "Hey, Pap, what--"
Papelbon grabs his face and kisses him hard. Ellsbury goes stiff with surprise, his lips falling open in a little O, more than enough for Papelbon to lick in, get acquainted with the humid roof of Ellsbury's mouth. Ellsbury tastes like a combination of beer and champagne and leftover traces of bubblegum, which should by all rights be nothing but gross, but isn't. His face is dripping wet under Papelbon's palms, his hair clumping up into little sticky spikes under Papelbon's fingertips.
When Papelbon pulls back, Ellsbury is gasping. Papelbon crowds him until he backs up into the edge of Tito's desk. It doesn't take a whole lotta nudging to get Ellsbury up and sitting on the edge, but when Papelbon puts a hand in the middle of his chest (the wet spandex of Ellsbury's shirt intoxicatingly slick-feeling where it skims his muscles), Ellsbury reaches up and grabs Papelbon's wrist.
"Wait, I. What are you. What are we doing?"
"Celebratin' a playoff spot, Ells." Papelbon closes his hand into a fist, scrunching up the front of Ellsbury's shirt. Fresh-squeezed champagne runs in rivulets down Ellsbury's exposed stomach.
Ellsbury arches up into the sensation of streaming liquid, mostly unconscious, probably, but fuck if Papelbon's gonna let an opening like that pass by. He shoves Ellsbury down so his back's flat on the desk and pushes his shirt up to his armpits, exposing Ellsbury's chest, hard and sculpted and as pale as they all get in their jersey-wearing summer days. He leans up between Ellsbury's legs, dangling over the edge of the desk, and licks a stripe up the line of Ellsbury's sternum.
"Oh." Ellsbury's voice is soft, almost wondering, and ain't that cute? Papelbon grins against his chest. "Oh," Ellsbury says again. "Yeah. Yeah. OK."
"Glad you're on board here, man," Papelbon says, straightening up and undoing Ellsbury's belt and fly. He has to fuckin' peel the pants and sliding shorts off of Ellsbury, with the wet and the stickiness, and goddamn if the little sucking sounds the fabric makes as it reluctantly separates from Ellsbury's thighs doesn't wake Papelbon's dick up so fast his head's left spinning.
By the time he gets to Ellsbury's jockstrap he's so fuckin' hard that he's lost all patience, so he just pulls the thing down to Ellsbury's knees, clamps his hands over Ellsbury's hips and bends over again to taste the long slender dick laid out all for him, hard up against Ellsbury's stomach. The champagne soaked through every single layer the kid had on, 'cause Ellsbury's fuckin' dick is alcohol-sweet, damp before Papelbon even gets his mouth on it, but so much wetter once he does.
"God, yeah, Pap," Ellsbury moans, his head jerking to the side sharply. Droplets of champagne and beer scatter from his hair, soaking the few papers Tito has sitting around on his desk. Papelbon sucks harder, Ellsbury's dick twitching gratifyingly, Ellsbury's hands clutching spasmodically at the surface of the desk, sliding in the wetness from the two of them and their saturated clothes, crumpling still more paper and sending a few loose pens spinning to the floor.
It ain't gonna be real mysterious to Tito what happened in here. The only thing he's gonna be left wondering is who it was.
Ellsbury makes a cut-off whimpering noise, his back arching up off the desk. His shirt is still rucked up tight across the top of his chest, still with that wet red sleeve covering one arm. Papelbon grins around the dick in his mouth. He definitely can get a kick outta the idea of Tito looking at this mess and imagining any number of combinations of his own players splayed out across it.
Turns out Ellsbury can take one finger in his ass no trouble at all. There's a stretch with two, but it sure seems to be a stretch that Ellsbury wants, trembling between Papelbon's tongue curling around the head of his dick and Papelbon's fingers pressing into him, begging for more, more, more with a gasping voice that cracks and breaks when he finally gets it.
When Ellsbury starts to tremble hard under him, Papelbon reluctantly pulls his mouth off of the kid's dick and straightens up again, fingers still in Ellsbury's ass. Much as he'd probably enjoy tasting Ellsbury's come and champagne mixing together on his tongue, that ain't what he really wants, and he's not gonna hold back from what he really wants, not in the middle of a celebration. He curls his fingers up a little and Ellsbury groans, low, from somewhere deep in his chest, knees spread wide, heels knocking against the side of the desk. Yeah, he's gonna enjoy this every bit as much as Papelbon.
Papelbon doesn't exactly carry rubbers in his uniform pants and he doesn't expect Ellsbury does either, but Tito keeps a big bowl of lubricated condoms on top of the filing cabinet near the door, free for the taking after the big For Fuck's Sake Have Safe Sex You Idiots talk in Spring Training every year. It's mostly to teach the kiddies about not knockin' up groupies, the one thing that ain't an issue here.
He has to take his fingers out of Ellsbury's ass to walk across the office and grab a condom. Ellsbury's hips move like he's trying to follow Papelbon's hand, to keep him inside, and Papelbon seriously almost jumps him right there. It takes every last little bit of willpower he can summon up to make those few steps to the cabinet. Oh how he'd love to come up Ellsbury's ass, to shoot right into him and make him feel it, but that wouldn't be none too smart. They're gonna need the lube on the thing too-- champagne and spit and precome and eagerness can only go so far, 'though Ellsbury's a mess of all four by now.
He does it, though. Steps away and grabs one of the little packets with a slightly shaky hand. Ellsbury props himself up on his elbows to look at him and Papelbon nearly drops the thing, because goddamn. Ellsbury's hair is sticking up everywhere. His stomach is chiseled and heaving with Ellsbury's panting breaths, glistening with champagne, a little trail of wet black hair leading down from his navel to his dick, which is reddened and so hard it looks like it hurts, like Papelbon putting his mouth back on it would be a pure kindness. Ellsbury's mouth is open, his lips swollen and sticky.
"Take it off," Ellsbury says. Papelbon doesn't even hear him at first, he's too busy looking at that fuckin' mouth to pay attention to why it's moving. "Take it off," Ellsbury repeats, voice raspy with desire, and Papelbon realizes he means your clothes.
He keeps his eyes on Ellsbury's face as he strips off his shirt, works off his pants. The way that Ellsbury's eyes lock on his groin when he takes off his shorts is real nice, but when Ellsbury's eyes drift up to his face and catch there, when Ellsbury bites his lower lip as he realizes Papelbon's staring right back at him... that right there is even better.
Ellsbury doesn't look away when Papelbon comes back to the desk. He looks down to roll on the condom, and when he looks up again, Ellsbury is still staring at him, eyes huge and dark, looking lust-drunk and a little bit regular-drunk. It's a real fuckin' good look on him. Papelbon shoves two fingers back up his ass and surges forward at the same time to capture Ellsbury's grunt in his own mouth.
"What d'you want, Ells?" he asks, mouth scant centimeters over Ellsbury's lips which, god, still taste like champagne.
Ellsbury slides a hand up the back of Papelbon's head, into his hair. Kid's gettin' with the program now, catching up. "You just wanna hear me say it."
Papelbon pulls back a little further to glare at him, but Ellsbury doesn't take his hand out of Papelbon's hair, and the grin on his face is more teasing than recalcitrant. Fine. Takes two players to make a game, and Papelbon can play as well's he can.
He drops his head. Licks down the length of Ellsbury's cheekbone and feels Ellsbury's entire body shudder under his. "Yeah," he breathes, letting his lips brush the shell of Ellsbury's ear. He twists the fingers inside Ellsbury, scissors them open deliberately slow. "Yeah, I wanna hear you fuckin' say it. I wanna hear you say exactly what you want me to do to you, I wanna hear it in your voice, I wanna hear you tell me how bad you want it, and you do, huh, you want it bad, what d'you wanna feel, you want my dick up your ass, you want me to fuck you through this fuckin' desk, you wanna get off on my fingers, you wanna suck my dick, you want me to do you on your face or your back or--"
"Christ, Pap," Ellsbury grits out, fingers tightening convulsively. "Fuck, yes, fuck me, OK, that. That's what I want, just fuckin' do it--"
"Yeah, s'what I thought," and how convenient that it tallies so fuckin' perfect with what he wants to do, ain't it. "You want, like this, or."
"Yeah, yeah, like this, just, God, c'mon--"
He kisses Ellsbury again, because if the kid keeps on talking he's gonna hafta make do with Papelbon's fingers, if he keeps talking like that Papelbon's gonna come without having been touched once. He makes sure to bite Ellsbury's lower lip when he backs off, but instead of glaring at him Ellsbury just moans again, the little fucker.
Tugging Ellsbury so his hips are at the edge of the desk knocks a few more (now soggy) papers to the floor. Papelbon snickers, inappropriately, 'cause at the same time he's pulling his fingers out of Ellsbury and Ellsbury is wrapping his legs around Papelbon's waist and he's shoving his dick into the kid's ass, and Ellsbury is swearing so loud he'd worry about people hearing if he didn't know it's loud enough in the clubhouse to drown out someone being murdered, let alone fucked.
Ellsbury reaches back over his own head to grab the edge of the desk, giving himself a little leverage. His head's tilted back, chin up, and there's a drop of something winding its way down the line of his throat, but whether it's sweat or champagne Papelbon couldn't say.
He's so fuckin' keyed up, the whole game and celebration in front of this, the way even just blowing Ellsbury nearly drove him out of damn mind with the hotness of the kid's responses, he ain't lastin' too long here, but it doesn't matter. Already Ellsbury is starting to tremble again, to lose his already-babbling words in a steady stream of desperate, inarticulate noises.
He speeds up, increasing the strength of his grip on Ellsbury's hips, grunting each time he bottoms out, tight against Ellsbury's body. Ellsbury's arms strain as he shoves himself back, his back flexing into a taut arch as he gasps out one last, "Jon," surprising the hell outta Papelbon at the same time that Ellsbury's dick twitches and shoots a thin spash of come onto his own stomach.
Wasn't even touching his dick, goddamn, and the kid's ass is contracting rhythmically around his dick. It's all Papelbon can do to bow over Ellsbury's body and ride out his own mind-bendingly hard orgasm, making tiny helpless jabbing thrusts into his ass over and over again.
Eventually his body unclenches enough for him to breathe again. He looks down at Ellsbury, who has an expression on his face like he just saw the sun explode right in front of his eyes. Papelbon bursts out laughing. Totally inappropriate, but he can't help it. His dick's still buried up Ellsbury's ass, the both of them on top of their manager's desk, there's the good kind of burn in his arm and the taste of Ellsbury in his mouth and the sting of champagne in his eyes, and no matter what happens in October, no matter who beats them or who they beat, there's no one who's gonna be more invincible than he is right now.
Jacoby Ellsbury/Jonathan Papelbon
rated NC-17, pretty much a PWP, folks
3,262 words
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 are no connections or affiliations 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.
champagne in your eyes
This is the thing about being the closer in Boston: you win, you can do whatever the fuck you want. People will call him crazy, sure, he'd be fuckin' concerned if nobody was calling him crazy, but nobody's gonna tell him to stop, because man. Keep on pitchin', keep on winnin', and it doesn't matter one bit what you do, not in this town. It doesn't matter none.
Papelbon, he lives for these celebrations. It's not a real complicated thing: when they win a big game, he can cut loose any way he wants and nobody says shit. It's like the ultimate Get Outta Jail Free card, eternally renewable on a line of credit as good as his fastball.
And he loves this shit. He loves running out onto the field when they're playin' his music, the fans getting into the rhythm of it until the whole goddamn stadium is vibrating to his fuckin' theme song. That shit happens in movies, it doesn't happen in real life, except when you go to the postseason in Boston you may as well be in a movie. Yeah, he can dig that. Dance in your underwear like no one's watching, although the point is kinda that everyone is watching.
Win a big game and he's fucking unstoppable. Invincible. If he'd gone out and ripped the bases outta the field on any other night, he'd get shit nonstop from the field manager guys for the rest of the week at least, but tonight? Tonight he can go 'round and pry up each and every base, hand each one off to some random schmuck in the crowd, just 'cause it seems like a good idea and it hasn't been done before, and nobody's gonna touch him. Nobody.
Tonight he can light up a cigar in the clubhouse and blow a huge cloud of smoke right in that chick from NESN's face, and nobody's gonna even bat an eye. Tonight he can run across the infield and wrap his arms around himself and the whole goddamn crowd is gonna know that he's inventing a gesture to say I hug all you crazy fuckers.
That last out-- it ain't the World Series, OK, it ain't even the ALDS. But it's a promise that the season's going on into October no matter what, and hell, that's big. Fourteen teams in the league and only four are moving on. Fuckin' Pedroia has a batting average higher than that percentage. That's a promise that means something in Boston, where they still remember when that promise wasn't any kind of guarantee, even if that was before his time.
So they hang tough against a pitcher who's gonna win the Cy Young, and they scrape and pinch to drag a slender one run lead into the top of the 9th. And it's the last batter, Victor Martinez, staring out at him. All Cleveland needs is one long ball to tie it; tied, who knows what goes on to happen.
Papelbon stares in. The book on Martinez is that he likes to jump on the first pitch if it looks good. The book on Martinez is to junk him, lure him into fouling stuff off. The book on Martinez is to let him do the work, get some strikes on him before you try to challenge him.
The book on Martinez is a load of crap. Papelbon burns him almost down the exact center of the plate, a little elevated, his very favorite kind of fastball high in the 90s, every screaming spin of it the kind of challenge they say you shouldn't ever give Martinez on the first pitch. Martinez, he just lofts it to short. Papelbon follows the ball up into the night sky with his arms both raised, fingers pointed, until Cora wraps his glove around it. Then he's mobbed on the mound, the whole team racing in full-speed, everyone jumping and screaming and whaling on each other and the crowd is roaring and he's hugging guys without even knowing who's who, camera flashes are making constellations out of the stands, and like he said.
Invincible.
He's bounced down into the clubhouse with the rest of the guys, and then people are shoving champagne into his hands. He shakes the bottles and sprays them out as hard as he can. He screams at the top of his lungs. He rips off his jersey and lets everyone else's alcohol soak his undershirt, his bare arms, foam running down his face and that bright dry taste sparking in his mouth, a little bit sour on the back of his tongue but oh so sweet everywhere else.
Masterson skates by on socked feet, skidding on the plastic sheeting covering the locker room. Ortiz roars with glee, black swimming goggles hilarious and incongruous over his eyes. Beckett talks seriously into a reporter's microphone until Lowell bangs into his side, digs a hand into Beckett's already soaked, unruly hair and messes it up even more. Lugo's walking around drinking straight from a bottle of champagne, and that is just all kinds of fine tonight.
Papelbon runs upstairs, he sprays the crowd. He runs downstairs, he sprays the team. People scatter out of his path but drift right back towards him like they can't escape his orbit. This is his element. This right here, this is where he can be himself, any way he wants, and nobody's gonna stop him. Everything's blurry through the smarting of champagne in his eyes, but it's a bright and loud kinda blurry, a painful burn at the edges of his vision that feels just about perfect.
He's upending a full can of beer over Jason Bay's quietly disbelieving head when he catches sight of Jacoby Ellsbury, moving unsteadily in his direction amid the litter of bottles and cans and soaking wet everything on the floor of the clubhouse. Ellsbury is grinning like his face is gonna crack in two, and his shirt is plastered down tight against his chest and back, dark gray shiny with wetness, that single red sleeve hugging his arm like it's painted on.
Just like that, Papelbon wants. It's not, like, a real rational process: he sees, he wants, he's not gonna be bothered to think about it, and because it's tonight, because he's unstoppable and indestructible, he's gonna get what he wants.
He Jordan-shots the empty beer into a trash can halfway across the floor (it zings in like a perfect three-pointer, that kinda night) and intercepts Ellsbury with a hand on the back of the kid's neck. Ellsbury turns his head, turns that laughing thousand-watt smile on Papelbon. He's so happy that he doesn't even notice when Papelbon steers him by his neck right into Tito's office, or maybe he's so happy that he doesn't care. Either way, Papelbon knows that Tito's gonna be doing media for at least an hour, and he ain't gonna be doing it in his office. He knows Tito's office door has a real lock on it, unlike most of the doors in the clubhouse. And he knows that even if someone busted in on him, it's him: nobody's gonna question how he celebrates.
He kicks the door closed and flicks the lock. Ellsbury finally seems to notice something's going on, because he looks up (still grinning) and says, "Hey, Pap, what--"
Papelbon grabs his face and kisses him hard. Ellsbury goes stiff with surprise, his lips falling open in a little O, more than enough for Papelbon to lick in, get acquainted with the humid roof of Ellsbury's mouth. Ellsbury tastes like a combination of beer and champagne and leftover traces of bubblegum, which should by all rights be nothing but gross, but isn't. His face is dripping wet under Papelbon's palms, his hair clumping up into little sticky spikes under Papelbon's fingertips.
When Papelbon pulls back, Ellsbury is gasping. Papelbon crowds him until he backs up into the edge of Tito's desk. It doesn't take a whole lotta nudging to get Ellsbury up and sitting on the edge, but when Papelbon puts a hand in the middle of his chest (the wet spandex of Ellsbury's shirt intoxicatingly slick-feeling where it skims his muscles), Ellsbury reaches up and grabs Papelbon's wrist.
"Wait, I. What are you. What are we doing?"
"Celebratin' a playoff spot, Ells." Papelbon closes his hand into a fist, scrunching up the front of Ellsbury's shirt. Fresh-squeezed champagne runs in rivulets down Ellsbury's exposed stomach.
Ellsbury arches up into the sensation of streaming liquid, mostly unconscious, probably, but fuck if Papelbon's gonna let an opening like that pass by. He shoves Ellsbury down so his back's flat on the desk and pushes his shirt up to his armpits, exposing Ellsbury's chest, hard and sculpted and as pale as they all get in their jersey-wearing summer days. He leans up between Ellsbury's legs, dangling over the edge of the desk, and licks a stripe up the line of Ellsbury's sternum.
"Oh." Ellsbury's voice is soft, almost wondering, and ain't that cute? Papelbon grins against his chest. "Oh," Ellsbury says again. "Yeah. Yeah. OK."
"Glad you're on board here, man," Papelbon says, straightening up and undoing Ellsbury's belt and fly. He has to fuckin' peel the pants and sliding shorts off of Ellsbury, with the wet and the stickiness, and goddamn if the little sucking sounds the fabric makes as it reluctantly separates from Ellsbury's thighs doesn't wake Papelbon's dick up so fast his head's left spinning.
By the time he gets to Ellsbury's jockstrap he's so fuckin' hard that he's lost all patience, so he just pulls the thing down to Ellsbury's knees, clamps his hands over Ellsbury's hips and bends over again to taste the long slender dick laid out all for him, hard up against Ellsbury's stomach. The champagne soaked through every single layer the kid had on, 'cause Ellsbury's fuckin' dick is alcohol-sweet, damp before Papelbon even gets his mouth on it, but so much wetter once he does.
"God, yeah, Pap," Ellsbury moans, his head jerking to the side sharply. Droplets of champagne and beer scatter from his hair, soaking the few papers Tito has sitting around on his desk. Papelbon sucks harder, Ellsbury's dick twitching gratifyingly, Ellsbury's hands clutching spasmodically at the surface of the desk, sliding in the wetness from the two of them and their saturated clothes, crumpling still more paper and sending a few loose pens spinning to the floor.
It ain't gonna be real mysterious to Tito what happened in here. The only thing he's gonna be left wondering is who it was.
Ellsbury makes a cut-off whimpering noise, his back arching up off the desk. His shirt is still rucked up tight across the top of his chest, still with that wet red sleeve covering one arm. Papelbon grins around the dick in his mouth. He definitely can get a kick outta the idea of Tito looking at this mess and imagining any number of combinations of his own players splayed out across it.
Turns out Ellsbury can take one finger in his ass no trouble at all. There's a stretch with two, but it sure seems to be a stretch that Ellsbury wants, trembling between Papelbon's tongue curling around the head of his dick and Papelbon's fingers pressing into him, begging for more, more, more with a gasping voice that cracks and breaks when he finally gets it.
When Ellsbury starts to tremble hard under him, Papelbon reluctantly pulls his mouth off of the kid's dick and straightens up again, fingers still in Ellsbury's ass. Much as he'd probably enjoy tasting Ellsbury's come and champagne mixing together on his tongue, that ain't what he really wants, and he's not gonna hold back from what he really wants, not in the middle of a celebration. He curls his fingers up a little and Ellsbury groans, low, from somewhere deep in his chest, knees spread wide, heels knocking against the side of the desk. Yeah, he's gonna enjoy this every bit as much as Papelbon.
Papelbon doesn't exactly carry rubbers in his uniform pants and he doesn't expect Ellsbury does either, but Tito keeps a big bowl of lubricated condoms on top of the filing cabinet near the door, free for the taking after the big For Fuck's Sake Have Safe Sex You Idiots talk in Spring Training every year. It's mostly to teach the kiddies about not knockin' up groupies, the one thing that ain't an issue here.
He has to take his fingers out of Ellsbury's ass to walk across the office and grab a condom. Ellsbury's hips move like he's trying to follow Papelbon's hand, to keep him inside, and Papelbon seriously almost jumps him right there. It takes every last little bit of willpower he can summon up to make those few steps to the cabinet. Oh how he'd love to come up Ellsbury's ass, to shoot right into him and make him feel it, but that wouldn't be none too smart. They're gonna need the lube on the thing too-- champagne and spit and precome and eagerness can only go so far, 'though Ellsbury's a mess of all four by now.
He does it, though. Steps away and grabs one of the little packets with a slightly shaky hand. Ellsbury props himself up on his elbows to look at him and Papelbon nearly drops the thing, because goddamn. Ellsbury's hair is sticking up everywhere. His stomach is chiseled and heaving with Ellsbury's panting breaths, glistening with champagne, a little trail of wet black hair leading down from his navel to his dick, which is reddened and so hard it looks like it hurts, like Papelbon putting his mouth back on it would be a pure kindness. Ellsbury's mouth is open, his lips swollen and sticky.
"Take it off," Ellsbury says. Papelbon doesn't even hear him at first, he's too busy looking at that fuckin' mouth to pay attention to why it's moving. "Take it off," Ellsbury repeats, voice raspy with desire, and Papelbon realizes he means your clothes.
He keeps his eyes on Ellsbury's face as he strips off his shirt, works off his pants. The way that Ellsbury's eyes lock on his groin when he takes off his shorts is real nice, but when Ellsbury's eyes drift up to his face and catch there, when Ellsbury bites his lower lip as he realizes Papelbon's staring right back at him... that right there is even better.
Ellsbury doesn't look away when Papelbon comes back to the desk. He looks down to roll on the condom, and when he looks up again, Ellsbury is still staring at him, eyes huge and dark, looking lust-drunk and a little bit regular-drunk. It's a real fuckin' good look on him. Papelbon shoves two fingers back up his ass and surges forward at the same time to capture Ellsbury's grunt in his own mouth.
"What d'you want, Ells?" he asks, mouth scant centimeters over Ellsbury's lips which, god, still taste like champagne.
Ellsbury slides a hand up the back of Papelbon's head, into his hair. Kid's gettin' with the program now, catching up. "You just wanna hear me say it."
Papelbon pulls back a little further to glare at him, but Ellsbury doesn't take his hand out of Papelbon's hair, and the grin on his face is more teasing than recalcitrant. Fine. Takes two players to make a game, and Papelbon can play as well's he can.
He drops his head. Licks down the length of Ellsbury's cheekbone and feels Ellsbury's entire body shudder under his. "Yeah," he breathes, letting his lips brush the shell of Ellsbury's ear. He twists the fingers inside Ellsbury, scissors them open deliberately slow. "Yeah, I wanna hear you fuckin' say it. I wanna hear you say exactly what you want me to do to you, I wanna hear it in your voice, I wanna hear you tell me how bad you want it, and you do, huh, you want it bad, what d'you wanna feel, you want my dick up your ass, you want me to fuck you through this fuckin' desk, you wanna get off on my fingers, you wanna suck my dick, you want me to do you on your face or your back or--"
"Christ, Pap," Ellsbury grits out, fingers tightening convulsively. "Fuck, yes, fuck me, OK, that. That's what I want, just fuckin' do it--"
"Yeah, s'what I thought," and how convenient that it tallies so fuckin' perfect with what he wants to do, ain't it. "You want, like this, or."
"Yeah, yeah, like this, just, God, c'mon--"
He kisses Ellsbury again, because if the kid keeps on talking he's gonna hafta make do with Papelbon's fingers, if he keeps talking like that Papelbon's gonna come without having been touched once. He makes sure to bite Ellsbury's lower lip when he backs off, but instead of glaring at him Ellsbury just moans again, the little fucker.
Tugging Ellsbury so his hips are at the edge of the desk knocks a few more (now soggy) papers to the floor. Papelbon snickers, inappropriately, 'cause at the same time he's pulling his fingers out of Ellsbury and Ellsbury is wrapping his legs around Papelbon's waist and he's shoving his dick into the kid's ass, and Ellsbury is swearing so loud he'd worry about people hearing if he didn't know it's loud enough in the clubhouse to drown out someone being murdered, let alone fucked.
Ellsbury reaches back over his own head to grab the edge of the desk, giving himself a little leverage. His head's tilted back, chin up, and there's a drop of something winding its way down the line of his throat, but whether it's sweat or champagne Papelbon couldn't say.
He's so fuckin' keyed up, the whole game and celebration in front of this, the way even just blowing Ellsbury nearly drove him out of damn mind with the hotness of the kid's responses, he ain't lastin' too long here, but it doesn't matter. Already Ellsbury is starting to tremble again, to lose his already-babbling words in a steady stream of desperate, inarticulate noises.
He speeds up, increasing the strength of his grip on Ellsbury's hips, grunting each time he bottoms out, tight against Ellsbury's body. Ellsbury's arms strain as he shoves himself back, his back flexing into a taut arch as he gasps out one last, "Jon," surprising the hell outta Papelbon at the same time that Ellsbury's dick twitches and shoots a thin spash of come onto his own stomach.
Wasn't even touching his dick, goddamn, and the kid's ass is contracting rhythmically around his dick. It's all Papelbon can do to bow over Ellsbury's body and ride out his own mind-bendingly hard orgasm, making tiny helpless jabbing thrusts into his ass over and over again.
Eventually his body unclenches enough for him to breathe again. He looks down at Ellsbury, who has an expression on his face like he just saw the sun explode right in front of his eyes. Papelbon bursts out laughing. Totally inappropriate, but he can't help it. His dick's still buried up Ellsbury's ass, the both of them on top of their manager's desk, there's the good kind of burn in his arm and the taste of Ellsbury in his mouth and the sting of champagne in his eyes, and no matter what happens in October, no matter who beats them or who they beat, there's no one who's gonna be more invincible than he is right now.