abundantlyqueer (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} abundantlyqueer) wrote,@ 2010-07-16 15:18:00 |
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Repost: Greenstreet Hooligans fic -- Kick Off
matt/pete, nc17, 1/1
Somewhere, a million miles from where he is right now, Matt knows this is dangerous – maybe even stupidly dangerous. Don’t let them know about your old man. Matt suspects that as much as Pete’s friends hate journalists, and the sons of journalists, and no doubt the journalism-studying sons of journalists, that’s not the riskiest secret he’s keeping right now.
Matt’s secret is that he’s flying, high as a kite and hard as a rock, out of control on a potent mixture of beer and tequila and testosterone. He’s drunk enough that everything is very bright and profound and precious. He over-tilts his glass and beer runs down his chin: somehow, nothing has ever been so wet or tasted so delicately sharp or been so funny before.
His blood is buzzing under his skin, beating in his body like a roll of distant thunder. Every breath – every lungful of warm rank air he pulls in – hits him with the same gut-twisting force as the first taste of a new lover. Someone shoves against him slightly from behind, and the shift of his weight feels like star-fields exploding inside him. He bumps against Swill, and just the touch of another man’s body – bone and muscle and sharp edges – is a supernova somewhere under his ribcage and above his pelvis.
“Sorry,” Matt says, the sound swallowed up in the yelling and singing and banging beer glasses on tables.
“No worries,” Swill shouts back.
The way his mouth stretches around the syllables is fascinating. Matt can’t unstick his gaze from it; he can’t even really remember why he should.
Someone else pushes past them, and Matt bumps into Swill again and Ike bumps into Matt. They’re like the shards of color in a kaleidoscope, shaken up and turned around and falling into new patterns – every one different, every one the same, every one pleasing. And the light behind the glass is Pete.
Matt can’t look right at him, can’t meet his gaze without feeling like he’s squinting into the sun. A guy like Swill – with his hunched shoulders and pasty features – seems pretty sexy right now. A guy like Pete – and there is no other guy here remotely like him, he’s in a class of his own – a guy like Pete is almost too much ...
... too tall, too lithe, too golden from his dark blond hair to his amber eyes to his pale olive skin. He catches Matt’s eye and gives him a perfect, radiant smile. Matt feels it thud low down in his groin. And then he’s aware of another sharper, more insistent beat above his pelvis.
“I gotta take a piss,” he says out loud, knowing no one can hear him over the general din.
He shoulders his way between Swill and Ike, past Pete – his skin prickles and his stomach quivers at the mere proximity – and then through the slightly thinner crowd at the back of the bar, and into the dim dirty passageway that leads to the toilets.
The men’s room is a shock of cool and quiet and the stink of ammonia. Matt walks – floats – into one of the two cubicles. He rocks back against the door, banging it shut. The sound – wood on wood, rusty hinges – is incredibly sweet. There’s wisdom in the gray crazing of the toilet bowl, and beauty in the scrawl of black graffiti on the wall.
Matt rolls shoulder first against the door, reaching for the lock. There isn’t one, just a gouged hole in the wood where it used to be. He sighs, shoves his hips back hard enough to rattle the door against the frame – hard enough to knock sparks loose inside his groin. He wrestles two-handed with his jeans, jerking open his buttons and fumbling his cock out through the slit of his shorts.
He’s hard enough that the pressure of his hand around his shaft is a nerve-humming pleasure. He slows his breathing, stares at the wall, refuses to think about
Pete dipping his head so that he’s smiling right at Matt, not down on him.
Matt groans, the heavy fall of his urine out of his cock almost painfully satisfying. After a while the flow stutters and stops.
“Pete, Pete, Pete,” Matt breathes, just shaping the words soundlessly with his lips.
He shakes off, and the shake turns into a slight pull and squeeze.
“Pete, Pete ... ”
“Oi, ’ave you fuckin’ fallen in, then?” Pete says, shoving the cubicle door hard enough to knock Matt forwards.
“Fuck! Jesus fucking Christ!" Matt gasps, cramming his cock back into his underwear. “You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack!”
“Why? Wot’ you doin’ in here?” Pete laughs, pushing the door the rest of the way open, forcing Matt to press himself against the cubicle partition.
Pete squeezes in and bangs the door closed. It promptly bounces against the frame and ends up swinging half-ajar – with Matt and Pete both in the cubicle, there isn’t enough room for it to open all the way. Pete elbows past Matt and undoes his jeans zipper. Matt can feel the heat – already surging through every other part of his body – careen into his face. He fumbles with himself, trying desperately to pack his insistent erection into some less obtrusive arrangement.
Pete glances at Matt, glances down, and looks up at his face again.
“It’s nothin’ I ’aven’t seen before, y’know.”
Pete’s voice is low and gentle. His smile is slight and almost unsure. Matt’s fingers falter, freeze.
“You ’avin’ a good time, then?” Pete asks very softly.
For a second Matt can’t understand the question, can’t even hear it properly over the roar of his blood in his veins and the thunder of his heart in his throat.
“With the lads,” Pete says. “You ’avin’ a good time with the lads?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, and then again, more emphatically. “Yeah. It’s – it’s fun.”
Somehow the angle of Pete’s body has drifted – he’s facing Matt now, not the toilet. Matt glances down, despite a desperate effort not to; he sees that Pete’s jeans are open but his cock is still in his underwear, a thick hard bulge stretching the thin fabric taut.
Pete’s breath is surging like a revving engine. He smells of beer and cigarette smoke, a combination that always turns Matt on in a way that he suspects does no credit to his taste in men. Arousal and fear drench down through his body, sending sweet shudders along his spine and into his groin. Pete flicks the tip of his tongue over the fleshy center of his own lower lip. Matt feels something spasm way down in his groin, behind his balls.
Pete leans in, closing the already non-existent gap between them. Matt jerks his chin up, grimacing in defiance, glaring into Pete’s eyes.
When Pete’s mouth touches Matt’s, the contact is so soft, so warm, so silky sweet that Matt’s eyes slam shut, leaving him in the dark with Pete’s breath - Pete’s tongue - brushing delicately over his lips.
“Oh – fuck,” Matt says, both hands clutching at Pete’s hips, fingers scrabbling for purchase on narrow-fitting denim. “Fuck.”
“Nah mate,” Pete laughs softly against Matt’s mouth. “We can’t – we gotta be quick, right? Some people round ’ere ’ave no fuckin’ sense of humor about this stuff.”
Matt scowls and shifts restlessly, hitching himself up on the partition and letting himself drag again on Pete’s body. There’s a ringing second of contact when his open fly rubs past Matt’s open fly, and their cocks are separated by only two layers of underwear.
“Aw fuck,” Pete says with great fervor.
Matt drops his head back against the partition with a solid thump. Pete splays one hand over Matt’s crotch, his fingertips curling inside the open fly of Matt’s jeans and then snaking in through the front of his shorts.
The first touch of Pete’s fingers – hard, cool, very sure – on the shaft of his cock is enough to make Matt’s knees go weak. The surge of sensation that accompanies Pete’s fairly brutal extraction of Matt’s cock from his shorts is more than enough to make Matt moan out loud.
“Shut the fuck up, Matt,” Pete grins. “Someone’ll ’ear us.”
Matt does manage to bite down on the sound that catches in his throat as Pete twists his grip, thumb and fingers ringing around the middle of Matt’s shaft, working the skin up and down against the hard flesh. To stifle the moans crowding up from his chest, Matt hooks an arm around Pete’s neck and pulls him in, open mouth to open mouth.
Pete’s tongue is slippery-strong; it hooks into Matt’s mouth and slices across his teeth. Matt clutches one hand around the nape of Pete’s neck to hold himself up. The silk-stiff bristle of Pete’s hair makes his fingertips tingle.
Matt jerks his hips, pumping his cock into Pete’s grip. Pete is using his free hand to plunder every sensitive spot on Matt’s body through his clothes – rubbing his nipples, clawing at his ribs, squeezing his thighs.
Matt wrenches his face aside from Pete’s.
“Oh fuck, that’s – I’m gonna come.”
“No, ’ang on,” Pete scowls, his fist tightening around Matt’s cock.
The momentum of Matt’s orgasm shatters, rolls back like a wave, leaving him quivering.
“Pete, please.”
Pete pulls wads of thin rough toilet paper from the roll with his other hand.
“A’right, let’s go,” he says. “Come on, let’s go.”
He starts working Matt’s cock again with a firm grip and a sweet rhythm, little flurries of rapid pumping interspersed with slower regular jerks. The stimulation is so good, so perfect, that Matt’s orgasm flutters back to life within seconds, builds and builds without faltering and explodes into half a dozen beautifully deep, strong pulses that empty him out and abandon him trembling and almost stunned with relief.
Pete laughs softly somewhere above Matt’s head, and draws back slightly. He crumples the wad of paper in his hand, and lifts it to his face. The way his nostrils flare as he inhales makes Matt tingle all the way from the arches of his feet to the top of his scalp.
“Nice,” Pete says, his lips curling elaborately around the single word.
Matt, his heart still hammering in his chest and his breath burning in his throat, reaches out to touch Pete, to touch the hard convoluted knot of his cock inside his underwear.
“Nah ah,” Pete says, twisting his hips aside in a gesture that makes Matt’s guts pang with desire. “Not now.”
Matt pushes away from the partition, his weight tilting past the point of balance and his legs still so shaky that he more or less falls forward into Pete’s arms.
“No, no,” Matt murmurs, his hands pushing blindly at Pete’s clothes, his fingers glancing on hard and soft and solid.
“Matt, no,” Pete says, taking him by the shoulders and holding him off long enough for the drugged desire in Matt’s eyes to give way to returning sanity. “Not ’ere. We’ve been gone too long already. Later, mate. We’ll go back to mine after the match an’ you can do anythin’ you fuckin’ like to me, alright?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, his voice thin and raw. “Yeah.”
“Alright,” Pete says more softly, dipping his mouth gently against Matt’s. “Get yourself pulled together an’ come on back out to us, okay? We’ll be goin’ in a bit.”
Matt nods, letting Pete pull out of his grip. Pete twists out through the door, doing up his jeans as he goes. Matt takes his time getting himself arranged and refastened; by the time he comes out of the cubicle, Pete’s gone.
Matt crosses to the sinks, frowning a little at his reflection in the smudged mirror. He feels shakier now than he did a few minutes ago, as if the waning rush of alcohol and arousal and orgasm have left him hollowed out inside. The sound of the outer door banging open again makes him heart jump, makes him think that Pete has changed his mind, and is coming back for more. Matt turns his head, his expression wavering between a smile and an anxious frown. But it isn’t Pete, it’s Bovver, and Matt’s expression settles for a wary scowl instead.
matt/pete, nc17, 1/1
Somewhere, a million miles from where he is right now, Matt knows this is dangerous – maybe even stupidly dangerous. Don’t let them know about your old man. Matt suspects that as much as Pete’s friends hate journalists, and the sons of journalists, and no doubt the journalism-studying sons of journalists, that’s not the riskiest secret he’s keeping right now.
Matt’s secret is that he’s flying, high as a kite and hard as a rock, out of control on a potent mixture of beer and tequila and testosterone. He’s drunk enough that everything is very bright and profound and precious. He over-tilts his glass and beer runs down his chin: somehow, nothing has ever been so wet or tasted so delicately sharp or been so funny before.
His blood is buzzing under his skin, beating in his body like a roll of distant thunder. Every breath – every lungful of warm rank air he pulls in – hits him with the same gut-twisting force as the first taste of a new lover. Someone shoves against him slightly from behind, and the shift of his weight feels like star-fields exploding inside him. He bumps against Swill, and just the touch of another man’s body – bone and muscle and sharp edges – is a supernova somewhere under his ribcage and above his pelvis.
“Sorry,” Matt says, the sound swallowed up in the yelling and singing and banging beer glasses on tables.
“No worries,” Swill shouts back.
The way his mouth stretches around the syllables is fascinating. Matt can’t unstick his gaze from it; he can’t even really remember why he should.
Someone else pushes past them, and Matt bumps into Swill again and Ike bumps into Matt. They’re like the shards of color in a kaleidoscope, shaken up and turned around and falling into new patterns – every one different, every one the same, every one pleasing. And the light behind the glass is Pete.
Matt can’t look right at him, can’t meet his gaze without feeling like he’s squinting into the sun. A guy like Swill – with his hunched shoulders and pasty features – seems pretty sexy right now. A guy like Pete – and there is no other guy here remotely like him, he’s in a class of his own – a guy like Pete is almost too much ...
... too tall, too lithe, too golden from his dark blond hair to his amber eyes to his pale olive skin. He catches Matt’s eye and gives him a perfect, radiant smile. Matt feels it thud low down in his groin. And then he’s aware of another sharper, more insistent beat above his pelvis.
“I gotta take a piss,” he says out loud, knowing no one can hear him over the general din.
He shoulders his way between Swill and Ike, past Pete – his skin prickles and his stomach quivers at the mere proximity – and then through the slightly thinner crowd at the back of the bar, and into the dim dirty passageway that leads to the toilets.
The men’s room is a shock of cool and quiet and the stink of ammonia. Matt walks – floats – into one of the two cubicles. He rocks back against the door, banging it shut. The sound – wood on wood, rusty hinges – is incredibly sweet. There’s wisdom in the gray crazing of the toilet bowl, and beauty in the scrawl of black graffiti on the wall.
Matt rolls shoulder first against the door, reaching for the lock. There isn’t one, just a gouged hole in the wood where it used to be. He sighs, shoves his hips back hard enough to rattle the door against the frame – hard enough to knock sparks loose inside his groin. He wrestles two-handed with his jeans, jerking open his buttons and fumbling his cock out through the slit of his shorts.
He’s hard enough that the pressure of his hand around his shaft is a nerve-humming pleasure. He slows his breathing, stares at the wall, refuses to think about
Pete dipping his head so that he’s smiling right at Matt, not down on him.
Matt groans, the heavy fall of his urine out of his cock almost painfully satisfying. After a while the flow stutters and stops.
“Pete, Pete, Pete,” Matt breathes, just shaping the words soundlessly with his lips.
He shakes off, and the shake turns into a slight pull and squeeze.
“Pete, Pete ... ”
“Oi, ’ave you fuckin’ fallen in, then?” Pete says, shoving the cubicle door hard enough to knock Matt forwards.
“Fuck! Jesus fucking Christ!" Matt gasps, cramming his cock back into his underwear. “You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack!”
“Why? Wot’ you doin’ in here?” Pete laughs, pushing the door the rest of the way open, forcing Matt to press himself against the cubicle partition.
Pete squeezes in and bangs the door closed. It promptly bounces against the frame and ends up swinging half-ajar – with Matt and Pete both in the cubicle, there isn’t enough room for it to open all the way. Pete elbows past Matt and undoes his jeans zipper. Matt can feel the heat – already surging through every other part of his body – careen into his face. He fumbles with himself, trying desperately to pack his insistent erection into some less obtrusive arrangement.
Pete glances at Matt, glances down, and looks up at his face again.
“It’s nothin’ I ’aven’t seen before, y’know.”
Pete’s voice is low and gentle. His smile is slight and almost unsure. Matt’s fingers falter, freeze.
“You ’avin’ a good time, then?” Pete asks very softly.
For a second Matt can’t understand the question, can’t even hear it properly over the roar of his blood in his veins and the thunder of his heart in his throat.
“With the lads,” Pete says. “You ’avin’ a good time with the lads?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, and then again, more emphatically. “Yeah. It’s – it’s fun.”
Somehow the angle of Pete’s body has drifted – he’s facing Matt now, not the toilet. Matt glances down, despite a desperate effort not to; he sees that Pete’s jeans are open but his cock is still in his underwear, a thick hard bulge stretching the thin fabric taut.
Pete’s breath is surging like a revving engine. He smells of beer and cigarette smoke, a combination that always turns Matt on in a way that he suspects does no credit to his taste in men. Arousal and fear drench down through his body, sending sweet shudders along his spine and into his groin. Pete flicks the tip of his tongue over the fleshy center of his own lower lip. Matt feels something spasm way down in his groin, behind his balls.
Pete leans in, closing the already non-existent gap between them. Matt jerks his chin up, grimacing in defiance, glaring into Pete’s eyes.
When Pete’s mouth touches Matt’s, the contact is so soft, so warm, so silky sweet that Matt’s eyes slam shut, leaving him in the dark with Pete’s breath - Pete’s tongue - brushing delicately over his lips.
“Oh – fuck,” Matt says, both hands clutching at Pete’s hips, fingers scrabbling for purchase on narrow-fitting denim. “Fuck.”
“Nah mate,” Pete laughs softly against Matt’s mouth. “We can’t – we gotta be quick, right? Some people round ’ere ’ave no fuckin’ sense of humor about this stuff.”
Matt scowls and shifts restlessly, hitching himself up on the partition and letting himself drag again on Pete’s body. There’s a ringing second of contact when his open fly rubs past Matt’s open fly, and their cocks are separated by only two layers of underwear.
“Aw fuck,” Pete says with great fervor.
Matt drops his head back against the partition with a solid thump. Pete splays one hand over Matt’s crotch, his fingertips curling inside the open fly of Matt’s jeans and then snaking in through the front of his shorts.
The first touch of Pete’s fingers – hard, cool, very sure – on the shaft of his cock is enough to make Matt’s knees go weak. The surge of sensation that accompanies Pete’s fairly brutal extraction of Matt’s cock from his shorts is more than enough to make Matt moan out loud.
“Shut the fuck up, Matt,” Pete grins. “Someone’ll ’ear us.”
Matt does manage to bite down on the sound that catches in his throat as Pete twists his grip, thumb and fingers ringing around the middle of Matt’s shaft, working the skin up and down against the hard flesh. To stifle the moans crowding up from his chest, Matt hooks an arm around Pete’s neck and pulls him in, open mouth to open mouth.
Pete’s tongue is slippery-strong; it hooks into Matt’s mouth and slices across his teeth. Matt clutches one hand around the nape of Pete’s neck to hold himself up. The silk-stiff bristle of Pete’s hair makes his fingertips tingle.
Matt jerks his hips, pumping his cock into Pete’s grip. Pete is using his free hand to plunder every sensitive spot on Matt’s body through his clothes – rubbing his nipples, clawing at his ribs, squeezing his thighs.
Matt wrenches his face aside from Pete’s.
“Oh fuck, that’s – I’m gonna come.”
“No, ’ang on,” Pete scowls, his fist tightening around Matt’s cock.
The momentum of Matt’s orgasm shatters, rolls back like a wave, leaving him quivering.
“Pete, please.”
Pete pulls wads of thin rough toilet paper from the roll with his other hand.
“A’right, let’s go,” he says. “Come on, let’s go.”
He starts working Matt’s cock again with a firm grip and a sweet rhythm, little flurries of rapid pumping interspersed with slower regular jerks. The stimulation is so good, so perfect, that Matt’s orgasm flutters back to life within seconds, builds and builds without faltering and explodes into half a dozen beautifully deep, strong pulses that empty him out and abandon him trembling and almost stunned with relief.
Pete laughs softly somewhere above Matt’s head, and draws back slightly. He crumples the wad of paper in his hand, and lifts it to his face. The way his nostrils flare as he inhales makes Matt tingle all the way from the arches of his feet to the top of his scalp.
“Nice,” Pete says, his lips curling elaborately around the single word.
Matt, his heart still hammering in his chest and his breath burning in his throat, reaches out to touch Pete, to touch the hard convoluted knot of his cock inside his underwear.
“Nah ah,” Pete says, twisting his hips aside in a gesture that makes Matt’s guts pang with desire. “Not now.”
Matt pushes away from the partition, his weight tilting past the point of balance and his legs still so shaky that he more or less falls forward into Pete’s arms.
“No, no,” Matt murmurs, his hands pushing blindly at Pete’s clothes, his fingers glancing on hard and soft and solid.
“Matt, no,” Pete says, taking him by the shoulders and holding him off long enough for the drugged desire in Matt’s eyes to give way to returning sanity. “Not ’ere. We’ve been gone too long already. Later, mate. We’ll go back to mine after the match an’ you can do anythin’ you fuckin’ like to me, alright?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, his voice thin and raw. “Yeah.”
“Alright,” Pete says more softly, dipping his mouth gently against Matt’s. “Get yourself pulled together an’ come on back out to us, okay? We’ll be goin’ in a bit.”
Matt nods, letting Pete pull out of his grip. Pete twists out through the door, doing up his jeans as he goes. Matt takes his time getting himself arranged and refastened; by the time he comes out of the cubicle, Pete’s gone.
Matt crosses to the sinks, frowning a little at his reflection in the smudged mirror. He feels shakier now than he did a few minutes ago, as if the waning rush of alcohol and arousal and orgasm have left him hollowed out inside. The sound of the outer door banging open again makes him heart jump, makes him think that Pete has changed his mind, and is coming back for more. Matt turns his head, his expression wavering between a smile and an anxious frown. But it isn’t Pete, it’s Bovver, and Matt’s expression settles for a wary scowl instead.