(HEART&MIND)

heartandmindxx @ 2009-05-19T21:43:00

2009-05-20T03:43:49Z

THE ANONYMOUS WRITING FEEDBACK MEME

heartandmindxx @ 2009-05-17T04:27:00

2009-05-17T10:34:33Z

Title: Big Brother
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Eric Staal/Jordan Staal [Carolina Hurricanes/Pittsburgh Penguins]; Mentions of Sidney Crosby and Tanya Staal.
Rating: I can NOT stress this enough, HARD R.
Summary: Big brother always knows best.
Warnings: INCEST. VIOLENCE. DEATH. MENTAL ILLNESS. All sorts of things that you MAY NOT WANT TO READ, so you are WARNED and don't complain to me.
Disclaimer: This sure as hell never happened. I don't mean defamation to the Staal clan and no harm meant to anyone. Please don't sue me for anything.

Big Brother.
3127 Words.

Jordan’s second word was his brother’s name.

‘Ric had come right after sod, and immediately before mama and papa. Eric liked to remind Jordan of that, often, and at the most inopportune moments. He’d mention it in passing in front of the girlfriends Jordan would bring over to the house, and later on, in front of teammates that Jordan had taken to, as well.

It was Eric’s way of saying Jordan knew me before he knew where he came from or maybe of enforcing that You don’t stand a chance of coming between us.

Growing up, Eric had never minded Jordan tagging along to the rink, hanging out in his room, sitting next to him at the dinner table. Eric liked to think that he taught Jordan everything he knew- Jordan didn’t like to think he was right, but did anyway.

When I grow up, I want to be just like Eric

Most, if not all of the kids on his teams growing up had these personal mottos, these sayings to live by, coined by their coaches or favourite NHL players, enforced by their parents and teachers every waking minute of their lives.

Always give it 110%.

You’ll always miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.

There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’.

Jordan’s had always differed slightly. It related to hockey, life, love, and all the rest, but it wasn’t exactly common amongst the rebellious children who wished to separate their family from their lives- Big brother knows best.

Jordan’s idol worship of Eric had probably started when he discovered that he wanted to be a forward- Marc’s advice just wouldn’t do, after that, and besides, sometimes he wasn’t sure if Marc and Jared were really his brothers- the hair and the freckles were just off. And he knew that Eric had enjoyed it- it’s always so satisfying to know that someone thinks you’re the best there is.

Eric, on the other hand, had always been extremely protective of all his brothers, but swore from day one that Jordan was his to take care of- unlike with Marc, he was old enough by the time Jordan was born to understand that this little person needed protection, and damned if he wasn’t going to be the one providing it. It was settled when Jared was born- Jared would be Marc’s, Jordan would be Eric’s. It made sense, it was the right order of things. Eric was the oldest- what he decided, went.

It was strange to think of how their relationship had developed in such an... abnormal way. Jordan had always thought Eric was the ideal human, the epitome of perfection- but couldn’t think back to the second, the day he and Eric realized such... affections for each other. Jordan had heard of the Oedipus Complex, the Electra Complex, or whatever Freud had wanted to call it- but he had no idea what to call this.

It may have started the day that Jordan had his first kiss- with a girl in his class, Sarah- and had come home to sit on Eric’s bed feeling confused and not at all excited.

”What’s wrong?” Eric had asked, “Jordy, are you okay?”

“I kissed a girl today,” Jordan confided, “I don’t know if I liked it.”

“Hm,” Eric had replied- no comfort at all to his distraught younger brother.

“What if I’m not doing it right?” Jordan had sputtered, “I don’t want to be... you know, bad at it.”

Eric had thought long and hard at this comment, before shrugging. “Well, I could show you.”

And that, it seemed, to be the moment it had changed- big brother, older, wiser, girl-savvy and showing Jordan the ropes to romance- but Jordan had found that maybe he liked to think about kissing Eric more than any girl in his class or in the movies.

Jordan would write his brother’s name in the margins of his notebooks at school, in the neatest handwriting he could muster, over and over- before scribbling it out, rendering it illegible before anyone saw. He knew that this was fundamentally and moralistically wrong, but for some reason, even knowing he was going to hell, or whatever, he didn’t care.

It was their little secret, and no one knew for years and years. Jordan- not fully grown into and adjusted to his huge, lanky body- had become a master of skipping the trick floorboards and not tripping over folds in the rug in the pitch dark on his way past Marc’s room to Eric’s, where he’d crawl into bed and often times, just sleep. He was sure that no one in the family knew- they were too good at hiding it, too careful, too cautious for there to be problems in the house.

They’d both had girlfriends, secret boyfriends, kids they’d meet in the field behind the house in the dark hours after dusk, but they always had time for each other- it was understood in towns like Thunder Bay that family came first. Everyone knew that the Staal brothers were a tight-knit group, everyone knew that Jordan and Eric loved each other above all else- they didn’t hide that, and didn’t need to.

Eric’s passion was frightening, sometimes, but Jordan thrived on it, was drawn to it like a moth to flame. Eric would do anything for him, and it was a good feeling. To know that someone always had your back.

To know that someone loved you more than anything.

It was painfully obvious, to Jordan, and to everyone else, that Eric would gladly kill for him if it came down to it. In fact, it was almost like he had to convince Eric that No, she doesn’t matter and it’s not worth it when Julia Meyers from Eric’s 12th grade math class had seen them kissing behind the boarded-up 7-11 near the school. She probably didn’t get a good look and She won’t tell anyone, she likes you too much seeming like good enough reasons for Jordan, but the fire in Eric’s eyes said differently- though Jordan knew that Eric would never do anything if he didn’t say it was ok. It was funny how that went; Jordan, the younger brother, but with so much control over Eric that he knew in his head that it was impossible for no one to have caught on.

When Julia’s cat turned up dead on her front porch, she said nothing and Jordan didn’t ask questions.

By the time Jordan was drafted he’d been through two of them already and knew what to expect- but he felt his heart swell dramatically when his name was called second. Better than first.

Same as Eric.

But things had changed in the years passed- Eric had grown cold, his lust for life diminished. He’d won a Stanley Cup, the Holy Grail, the ultimate goal for the entire family, but he’d become emotionally distant. Even his relationship with Jordan was strained- he could feel that Eric’s adoration for him hadn’t dulled, but the physical distance and NHL stress was putting pressure on their situation.

Jordan made the Pittsburgh Penguins out of his first training camp- and made new friends, too. The NHL brought him new opportunities and experiences, but above all, the NHL brought him Sidney Crosby.

Sid was unlike anyone he’d ever met- he lived his life with the utmost passion for everything, led fearlessly, and was wise beyond his years- or, when he thought about it, maybe he was a lot like one person he knew, or at least thought he did.

By the end of the first round of the playoffs that year, he’d fallen hard for Sidney Crosby. And oddly enough, his first thoughts upon his realization were acceptable methods of telling the object of his affections, but instead were to wonder how in hell he was going to tell Eric.

He couldn’t think of anything. He didn’t know if there was anything he could say to Eric that would make him understand. He knew his place- he belonged to Eric. So he didn’t, he didn’t tell Eric anything. For the first time in his life, he had a secret.

That summer, Jordan saw firsthand how aloof Eric had become- his bachelor party had been full of debauchery but it was almost as if he watched Eric through a pane of glass, a screen. They were supposed to be celebrating, but Eric had seemed angry for the whole night, uncomfortable with his situation. He drank too much, was violent- Jordan was worried, to say the least. It was when Eric smashed a beer bottle against the side of the pool table to brandish against one of the guests that Jordan decided he’d seen enough.

“Let’s go upstairs, Eric.”

Eric had taken one look at him and nodded. He’d still do anything that Jordan wanted.

They’d lain together in the dark master bedroom of the condo, Jordan’s finger tracing lazy patterns into the smooth skin of Eric’s pale shoulders.

“Just like old times, eh, ‘Ric?” Jordan said quietly, the noise of the party they left behind still pulsating through the floor beneath them.

“I don’t want to marry her, Jordy,” Eric had replied, and they said nothing more until the police came.

Eric was married the next week, and Jordan stood next to him, a tight-lipped smile painted onto his face. He knew that what they had been doing for all those years had been wrong, but this just felt wrong. But, Eric had caught his eyes briefly during his vows, and the weight on his heart subsided a little bit.

Eric and Jordan met four times a season for the next two years, and each time was more rushed, more strained than the last. They’d say hello before the game, then would meet in a hotel room that night and pass out together, exhausted and sore. Someone always woke up alone, the other having snuck out early in the morning to catch a bus, a plane. They rarely spoke, but there was some comfort for Jordan knowing that Eric was next to him, like he was safe.

Years pass and Eric watches from the stands as Jordan wins the Stanley Cup- about the same age Eric was when he won it. Tanya is pregnant and Eric is a borderline alcoholic, becoming more and more dependent on the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat and coating his stomach. By this point, Jordan is not Eric’s lover, by any stretch of the imagination- but still a possession, his crown jewel, the prize of his empire. More than just a brother, but maybe, just a little less than a person.

Eric walks through the belly of Mellon Arena after the game, looking for Jordan, wanting to congratulate him in a way that a text message just isn’t able to convey. The walls shake with the reverberated noise from the celebration of the fans, and a part of him is happy. He is about to turn a corner when he comes to an abrupt stop- movement and a hushed voice, so familiar, he’d know it anywhere.

“You did it, Sid,” he hears Jordan say, overjoyed.

“Jordy, no, we did it.”

He tenses at the name, Jordy, his name for his brother, it always has been. He rounds the corner to see his brother and Sidney Crosby locked in a fiery embrace. His jaw clenches and his eyes narrow- he’s drunk off eight dollar stadium beer already, and he feels his collar burning against his shirt.

Jordan must feel him watching because his eyes shoot open and he tears away from Sid, jaw hanging open.

“Eric- I- hey,” he stutters, shaking under the scrutiny of his brother’s stare. Eric turns back the way he came and Jordan look from the empty space where his brother had just stood and back to Sid before squeezing Sid’s hand briefly. “I- I should go after him, just wait.”

He runs down the hallway, corner after corner, mind racing of how to tell Eric exactly what he’d wanted to years before. Suddenly, he’s pulled harshly into a storage room and thrown against the wall, his breath catching in his chest before Eric’s lips are covering his own possessively. His long fingers curl around Jordan’s wrists and clench, pushing hard against the bones.

“How long,” Eric growls, and Jordan can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Eric, I-”

“How. Long?” Eric says, cutting him off, his fingers tightening for emphasis. “Years?”

“Eric... yes. Years. Since my rookie season.” Jordan says quietly, Eric’s face so close to his that their noses bump when he talks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eric’s grip now rivals a vice.

Jordan bites his lip. “I didn’t know how.”

Eric obviously isn’t pleased with this answer and squeezes tighter, as tight as Jordan can possibly take before he gasps out, “Please, Eric, you’re hurting me.”

Eric’s face softens immediately, as does his grip on Jordan’s wrists as he brings each to his mouth to place a gentle kiss to the abused skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “congratulations, Jordy.”

Jordan looks into Eric’s eyes, and doesn’t see the same Eric that he’s always known. There’s no life, no joy in them, nothing that he used to see in his brother’s eyes, so similar to his own.

“I... I should get back.” Jordan says, moving towards the door. But he’s stopped when Eric’s hand catches onto his wrist again.

“Say you love me,” Eric demands in a soft voice.

“What? Eric, of course I do.” Jordan replies, turning back to face him.

“Say it,” Eric demands again, voice dropping to a hiss.

“Eric, I- I love you,” Jordan says, one hand finding its way to Eric’s hip, sliding up under the fabric of his shirt to rest on the warm skin, “I love you. Of course I do.”

“Good,” Eric says, his voice barely audible. Jordan leans forward to kiss his cheek, his lips lingering only slightly, before he turns and exits the storage room, heading back towards the cheers of the dressing room.

Jordan comes home from the ongoing celebration late that night, closing his front door clumsily as he stumbles in, drunk off champagne and glory. He turns and lets out a yelp as he comes face to face with Eric, jaw set and eyes glassy.

“Eric- hey, I wasn’t... expecting you,” Jordan says hesitantly, trying to clear his head. “Where’s Mom and Dad? And Marc, Jared... and Tanya?”

“Hotel,” Eric states, simply.

Jordan nods and shrugs, “Okay, then... I’m going to, uh, go to bed... ‘Cause, I’m tired, and...” but as he tries to move past Eric, his hand comes up to push Jordan back, sending him staggering back against his front door. From Eric’s breath he can tell that he’s not the only one who’s been drinking.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Jordan. We don’t keep things from each other,” Eric says slowly, meaningfully. “We don’t have secrets.”

“I didn’t wanna... I don’t get why you’re so mad,” Jordan says, pointing sloppily, “you got married.”

Eric slams Jordan against the door, knocking a candle holder off the side ledge to the ground. “You don’t get it, Jordy, we’re supposed to be together!”

“We can’t Eric, it’s not right!” Jordan protests, not doing much to push Eric away. “We can’t just change the rules!”

“There aren’t any fucking rules, not with us! It’s right, you know it’s right!” Eric shouts, crushing his lips against Jordan’s. “Don’t tell me it isn’t right!”

Jordan’s knees buckle, sending them both to the ground, wrapped up in each other. “Eric, we can’t. You know we can’t. You got a wife, you’re gonna be a dad, we can’t just be together, it doesn’t work like that.”

“I don’t know anything better than I know this,” Eric says, running his fingers down Jordan’s cheek. “I don’t love anything better than I love you.”

“Eric...” Jordan says weakly, his eyes falling shut. “We just can’t.”

Eric’s voice rises, “Jordy, stop saying that! We can do whatever we want. I want this.” He takes Jordan’s chin between his fingers and tilts his head up to look at him. “I’d do anything for you. I’d kill for you. I’d kill anyone to be with you forever.”

“You’re gonna have to kill the whole world, Eric,” Jordan says. “You just can’t. You’re married, you got a beautiful wife, a beautiful kid on the way... you’re gonna have a beautiful family.”

“I got a beautiful family right here,” Eric says softly, brushing away Jordan’s hair. “I’m gonna go do something.”

“Eric, what are you doing?” Jordan asks, reaching for Eric as he stands up. “Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna do something, just one thing, and then I’ll be back. Wait for me, and I’ll be back.” Eric repeats, opening the door to squish Jordan between it and the wall for a second, and then he’s gone.

And Jordan doesn’t have a chance to stop him.

Jordan watches the clock impatiently. Every second that goes by seems like an eternity, and he knows something’s wrong. He knows Eric’s lost his damn mind. He knows what Eric is capable of. He knows that there’s nothing anyone can do to stop Eric from reaching his goal, not this time.

He’s always been driven.

He loves his brother, he wants to be with him, he does- but what lengths would Eric go to? He knows the answer. He knows exactly what Eric would do.

Which is why Jordan isn’t surprised when he answers the door to Eric two hours later and there’s blood dripping from his hands and soaked into his t-shirt, dark, dark red, almost black, drying at the edges.

Eric steps into the house and clutches at Jordan's bare chest, skin on skin, red hand prints sliding over his ribs reminiscent of the days they'd play cowboys and indians in the field, before any of this mattered. Jordan holds Eric close like a child and shuts the door to the outside, sealing them into solitude, for now, just for right now.

"It's over," Eric whispers next to Jordan's earlobe, lips grazing the soft, peach-fuzzed skin. "It's all over. We'll be okay, now."

And Jordan’s scared, scared out of his fucking mind, because he knows whatever Eric’s done, they’ll find him eventually, it's going to lead straight back to them- but for now, this time is theirs. Their time to believe that everything really is going to be okay. They’ll spend these last few hours together, inside of Jordan’s house where they can believe that Eric is right, because Eric’s always been right. He believes, for now, because he knows Eric means well. He believes because Eric is his big brother.

And big brother always knows best.

---fin---

heartandmindxx @ 2009-04-27T21:44:00

2009-04-28T04:11:08Z

Title: Speechless
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Jordan Staal/Sidney Crosby [Pittsburgh Penguins]
Rating: 14A
Summary: Jordan had always had a word for everything.
Notes: nefarious1729 and I had a thing where we decided to write different stories with the same prompt and the same pairing. This is mine. Hers is here!
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Speechless.
1435 words.

"Sometimes the english language is not enough to describe the spectrum of human
emotions that others can inspire into us, but I hope we can spend the rest of our lives
trying to give words to the speechless."

Ever since he could speak, Jordan had always wanted to have a word for everything. First, the basics- his first word, for the record, was ’sod’- and moving on to “big words” like ’visceral’ and ’antithetical’ by the time he was 7. He needed a word to describe everything, be it ’cute’ and ’soft’ for their dog Candy, or, when he got a little older, ’asshats’ and ’douchebags’ for his brothers.

Up to this point, he’d thought he’d been doing pretty well for himself. Rex and Therrien had been ’overbearing’ but ’well-meaning’, Max was simply ’crazy’ and he’d learned to classify Fleur, Dany, Ty, and now Matty under the umbrella term of ’goalie’.

Doing pretty well, except for one glaring flaw; he’d been playing with Sidney Crosby for three full years now, and by this point had almost given up on ever figuring him out.

-

Jordan figured he had six default emotional settings around Sid, but they could switch between each other at any given time of any given day, so Jordan pretty much ended up being a big hot mess whenever Sid was near him. Sid was, at the end of the day, the master of Jordan’s mental domain.

The six emotions were, in reverse order of frequency:

6. Worry

Sometimes, Jordan was so afraid of Sid overworking himself that, on occasion, he’d tried to sabotage his routines. He found out quite quickly that this was a terrible, terrible idea and that getting Sid angry was not the smartest thing to do.

But he did worry, all the time. Sid loved hockey, more than anything- Jordan knew that if Sid had to pick between playing hockey and breathing, between skating and eating, he’d try to find a way to live without the essentials. Sid had never imagined a life without hockey, had never even dreamt of it. There was no Sid without hockey.

When Sid had gone down with his ankle injury the season prior, Jordan nearly had to strap him down to the bed to keep him from going to the rink. Sid had no concept of health when it stood in the way of his passion, his lifeblood, his damn destiny.

So Jordan worried that one day, Sid’s life would be the death of him.

5. Pride and 4. Envy

Jordan found himself in awe of Sidney more often than not. He’d been playing with him, been friends with him for years now, seen him in the most unflattering of positions, seen him weak and vulnerable, but somehow, he’d never fully gotten over being completely star struck around him. In the early goings he had been so jealous of Sidney’s talent and power, knowing that he’d never be seen in the same light, even in the same category as a player of Sid’s calibre. He’d always be the third line defensive centre to Sidney’s superstar captain. He was a second overall draft pick, and a Calder nominee too, but he’d be playing the cello to Sidney’s (and Geno’s) fiddle for the rest of his time with the Penguins, and he could be sure of that.

But once he began to see him as Just Sid, not Sidney Effing Crosby or Sid the Kid or The Next One, but Just Sid, he found himself flushing with pride whenever he turned on the highlights of the night, or whenever he was asked a question about him in an interview. Whenever he saw Sidney score a goal or make a beautiful pass (almost every night- hence this being the most frequent of emotions) his smile would swell so much it would threaten to bust right off of his face.

Jordan would look down the bench at least four times a period to watch Sid discreetly, knowing he wouldn’t be caught because Sid’s eyes were always focused so intensely on the play. He loved to see Sid so passionate, pleased with the knowledge that he could see him with the same look in his eyes in a different situation, as well.

3. Ecstasy

Sometime during Jordan’s rookie season, around the time he scored his first hattrick in Toronto, Sid had made some sort of decision in his head that deemed Jordan worthy of a more physical relationship. Jordan knew there was something different as soon as he saw Sid’s face as he skated towards him after the overtime winner.

Sidney had a perfect body, perfect lips, and as Jordan learned, had a perfect mind, too. Sidney was such a student of life, so curious and desperate to learn, and above all a quick learner. Ten minutes into their first encounter and Jordan was already convinced that he’d never have better sex, ever. Sidney was the perfect Captain- so willing to do anything to please a teammate.

This was Jordan’s favourite of the feelings.

2. Joy

Jordan wasn’t talking about your run-of-the-mill, everyday happiness, here. This was unmitigated, unbridled, pure joy.

The same kind of joy that came when he scored a game-winning goal, or when they won a round in the playoffs. The kind of joy that came from monumental events, and could never come from just being around a person, from seeing them smile.

Or at least, Jordan thought that until he met Sid.

1. ?

This is where Jordan ran into a problem.

It was something that Jordan felt, beyond a glimmer of a doubt, every second of every day. And that wasn’t a problem, not really, the thing was he had no fucking clue what it was. It felt sort of like, a mix of everything else, but all at once, and all the damn time.

He’d always had a word to describe everything. But now there was this.

-

One thing Jordan knew, from their years of playing together, was that while sometimes he wasn’t the most talkative, and that sometimes he didn’t have a clue what you were saying, Evgeni Malkin was a great listener.

Because sometimes you just need someone to smile and nod at what you’re saying.

Jordan sat down next to Evgeni one day after practice and told him everything. Evgeni did exactly what he’d expected, smiled that grin and nodded in a way that made Jordan a little worried that he wasn’t following at all, but Jordan soldiered on. Everyone knew that Geno’s English had improved tenfold, but there was always that chance that he was faking it- something that had also improved drastically.

Having given up on the English language at this point, Jordan finished his long, drawn-out rant, and sighed heavily.

“Do you have a word for that in Russian?”

“Yuh,” Evgeni replied simply, “Любовь.”

“Loo-boff?” Jordan repeated, botching the word, “What the hell does that mean?”

Evgeni just smiled with that same old dumbshit goofy grin of his, and walked away to talk to Sarge.

-

Jordan doesn’t quite get what Evgeni’s told him until he’s fooling around with Sid a few days later. He doesn’t remember how it started, and it doesn’t matter- they do this all the time and it always starts in a similar way. An insult thrown one way, a ’Your mom’ joke back, and sooner or later they’re wrestling on the floor and pulling hair.

Later, when they’re spent and panting in a heap on top of each other, Jordan sighs and giggles happily. He can feel Sid’s heart racing next to his own and it’s probably symbolic of something but Jordan doesn’t give a damn either way.

“You’re retarded,” Jordan says between breaths, “I...”

He trails off as he realizes which word is on the tip of his tongue.

And then, he gets it.

-

A few games down the road, the game goes to a shootout, and Jordan watches Sid from the bench as the Igloo erupts into a mad frenzy. He can’t think of a word for Sid, not now, not ever, but as he looks around he knows he’s probably not the only one. And that maybe, between himself and the 17 000 strong behind him, they’ll be able to think of something.

The team spills over the bench to congratulate their captain on his winner. The building feels like it’s on top of them, buzzing with the electricity of the overjoyed fans, and Jordan wants to do this for the rest of his life. And as he looks over to see Sid’s smiling face beaming at him through the crowd of teammates, he realizes that he never wants to do it without Sid by his side.

Together, for the rest of his life.

And maybe he’ll find some more words to think about.

---
Drop a line. xo

heartandmindxx @ 2009-01-19T03:48:00

2009-01-19T10:54:57Z

Title: On the Decline
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Sam Gagner/Robert Nilsson [Edmonton Oilers]
Rating: PG
Summary: Robert had never expected it to last. Hell, he’d never expected it to be anything.
Notes: This is based off a small ficlet I wrote in this series, 10 Short Stories Inspired By Songs. It's the first one, based off of Now It's Done by Straylight Run.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. It's fiction. Made up. Not real.

On the Decline.
1325 words.

Robert sat out on the curb in front of the Gagner-Gilbert-Cogliano household, a cigarette burning between the fingers of one hand and a beer clasped in the other. The noises of the party behind him echoed in the empty cul-de-sac, his ears ringing from the pounding bass line of the song that had been playing before he’d unceremoniously excused himself. He took a drag, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, vaguely wondering exactly what his father might do to him if he ever found out that he smoked, and contemplating whether it might feel better than whatever was going on his head, his heart.

He tilted his head back and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into the brisk night air, watching as the tendrils twisted aimlessly, the light grey a sharp contrast to the dark sky. Truth be told, his father was the least of his concerns at the moment, and was far from boarding his train of thought- wasn’t even on the platform.

Instead, there was the face of a 19-year-old driving that train straight off a damn bridge. A 19-year-old kid who’d somehow managed to infiltrate his life and single-handedly ruin it.

Robert had never expected it to last. Hell, he’d never expected it to be anything. From the start, it had been nothing but fucking, just sex, and it was never supposed to be anything else. And Robert knew, for Sam, it wasn’t. There were others- for Robert, too- but not with the nearly the same frequency as they saved for each other. It had just worked, for both of them, and clearly Sam liked it enough to keep coming back.

Robert couldn’t pinpoint the moment, or even the day the change happened. He’d only realized it after a while, that the way he looked at Sam was more than just lust, more than just desire. His desire for Sam physically changed into desire for something... different.

He shook his head and took a drink from his bottle, pouring the bitter liquid down his throat. It had been just a few words that fell from Robert’s mouth, but they’d held the weight of his heart and soul, of everything he’d ever wanted.

“Sam,” Robert said, his voice cutting through the silence of Sam’s dark bedroom, “this can’t happen anymore.”

“What?” Sam replied, propping himself up on his arm, “What are you talking about?”

“What I mean is... we can’t do this anymore, not like this,” Robert sighed. “I just can’t do it.”

“I don’t get it, Bobby,” Sam said, his hand trailing down the smooth skin of Robert’s shoulder, “I thought we had a pretty good thing going on here...” he trailed off, gently placing his lips on Robert’s skin.

“I just... I want...” Robert whispered as he sat up, “I need something more.”

The thing was, he hadn’t really lost anything. For all he knew, Sam would come back to him anyway, and nothing would change. But somehow... he’d never lost so much.

He hadn’t, he supposed, come out and said outright that he was in love with Sam, which he undoubtedly was, but he knew that Sam was probably smart enough to understand what he was implying. There was always the chance that Sam would take his “I need something more” as “I need something different”, and Robert wasn’t sure at this point which one he preferred.

Sam was 19, still a teenager, a baby by their peers’ standards. Robert by no means expected him to want to settle down at this point, because what had he been doing at 19? Fucking half the Swedish population in the public washrooms at Stureplan, that’s what. He hadn’t been ready for love, ready for commitment, ready for anything but meaningless sex and partying, hidden from his father’s watchful eye.

Robert laughed to himself, flicking his cigarette butt into the sewer grate next to him. He’d become needy in his old age, on the decline at age 24.

The weather had been uncharacteristically warm for January in Edmonton, and he was lucky for that, but the concrete was still frozen under his ass. He sighed, shifting slightly, and pulled his pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lighting up another. Chain smoking was never his thing, but he needed an excuse for staying out so long.

Maybe he’d just go home, forget about the whole thing. He’d sleep in his own bed, for once. He exhaled a deep breath of smoke, eyes trained on the ground. He knew it would seem like a good idea until he fell asleep, but there was no running from his dreams.

His thoughts were interrupted as a body came to sit down on the ground next to him, startling him enough to drop his cigarette. He lifted his head to come face to face with a serious-looking Sam Gagner.

Sam’s face softened, “I was trying to debate how long I should wait before following you.”

Robert sighed and stamped out his still-burning cigarette with the heel of his shoe. “I was just leaving,” he said, moving to stand up.

Sam reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back down before he had a chance to fully stand up. “Hey, wait. Can we talk?”

Robert sat back down, refusing to look at Sam. “I guess so, if you’ve got something to say.”

Sam took a deep breath. “What you said, earlier, in my room, about... wanting something more...”

Robert nodded his head subtly, remembering the conversation once more.

“What’d you... mean? By that.”

Robert sighed, his eyes still focused on the asphalt in front of them.

“You see guys like Kyle, and his wife...” he paused, thinking over his next words, “and you see guys like Stevie and Ethan and how... committed they are, to each other, and I just...” he trailed off, biting down on his bottom lip.

“You want that,” Sam finished.

Robert could feel Sam’s eyes on him, studying the side of his head. He nodded slowly.

“With me?” Sam asked. Robert’s breathing hitched slightly, teeth clenching before he nodded once again.

They sat in silence for what seemed to Robert like an eternity, before he’d had too much and stood to walk to his car. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, ready to drive away, get away from all of this. But as he pulled the door handle, a hand reached out to push the door closed again.

He turned around to see Sam’s grey eyes looking into his own, as if they were searching for answers hidden in Robert’s icy blues.

Sam took his time in placing one hand on one of Robert’s pronounced hip bones, planning every move, and another found its way to Robert’s chest, sliding up to his neck. He prepared himself for what he knew was coming as Sam leaned in.

Robert closed his eyes as Sam’s lips met his for a slow, gentle kiss. He reached out to pull the familiar body closer to his, leaning back against his car, so used to the feeling that he relaxed almost immediately, nearly forgetting the previous conversation. The passion quickly grew as Robert’s hands fisted in Sam’s shirt, their tongues coming out to sweep away everything they hadn’t said. One of Sam’s hands pressed against the window of Robert’s car for balance, the other coming up to tangle in Robert’s hair.

After an elongated moment of bliss, Robert felt Sam pull away, keeping his eyes closed as Sam rested his forehead against his own.

“Robert,” Sam whispered, his breath ghosting over Robert’s lips, “I think I want something more, too.”

Robert opened his eyes to see Sam’s smiling face and couldn’t help but to smile himself. He pulled Sam back in for another long kiss.

“Come on,” Sam said as he broke away again, taking Robert’s hand and starting to pull him back up the driveway. “It’s cold out here.”

---
Drop a line. Thanks for reading.
XO

heartandmindxx @ 2009-01-06T01:08:00

2009-01-06T08:15:27Z

Title: One For Luck
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: John Tavares/Stefan Della Rovere [Team Canada, Oshawa Generals/Barrie Colts]
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: Everyone will always remember Ottawa for what they did on the ice. They'll remember it for a different reason.
Disclaimer: Completely fabricated.

One For Luck.
2879 words.

Stefan’s kind of a loose cannon.

John knows this, even just from playing against him in the O. He’s seen him get caught up in the heat of the moment and take an undisciplined penalty in the final minutes of a big game, and seen him talk shit better than just about anyone in the league.

John is all about control. Every move, every word, every goal is mapped out in his head before it’s put to action. He’s learned to deal with the pressure, learned how to act calm and collect himself before speaking to anyone, learned to never let his anger or fear get the best of him.

He figures it’s why he’s been tops in goals and Stefan’s been the far and away leader in penalty minutes.

But as he’s gotten to know him, started to pay a little more attention to him, John’s noticed that every time Stefan takes a penalty, even though he’ll argue the call, the minute he sits down in the box he looks so damn remorseful, so sad, that it almost breaks John’s heart a little bit. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, he can see Stefan look up at the clock every few seconds, as if he’s counting down the time ‘til he’s benched next, counting down the time ‘til there’s not another second chance waiting for him at the next line change.

John’s seen Stefan regret something he’s done immediately after he’s done it. When he’s wrong, he’s wrong, and he knows it. You can see it in his eyes, his face, and the way his shoulders slump.

But when Stefan pulls back from that first kiss before the Czech game, teeth nipping lightly at John’s lower lip, hand fisted tight in the front of his jersey, there’s not a fuckin’ thing John can see that looks anything like regret.

“For luck,” Stefan says, licking his lips.

John carefully plans his words.

“...uhhh...”

“I hear you guys did something like this last year,” Stefan says with a wink as he turns down the wall.

“Uh- well- it wasn’t exactly-” but his words are lost; Stefan is already on the ice.

The roar of the crowd shakes the building- John blames it for his knees, too.

---

John hasn’t felt like this in, well, ever.

He feels like a 10-year-old girl, blushing every time her old brother’s best friend looks at her. Something she wants, but could never have.

Stefan’s just, you know, dreamy.

Or. Uh.

Everything about John’s life has been planned out and controlled. Never once in his life has the word dreamy come up. He’s kissed guys, dated guys, and on one occasion, fucked a guy, and not even once did he consider any of them anything even close to dreamy.

Stefan is different, though. John’s life doesn’t have time for boys, anymore. Or girls, for that matter.

But, Stefan isn’t really just a boy. He’s a teammate. Hell, John might as well’ve sworn an oath to always be there to serve a teammate. You gotta have time for your teammates.

Stefan walks by him in the hotel lobby and winks at him, smirking slyly. He purses his lips in John’s direction, an air-kiss, so quickly that John knows he’s the only one who’s seen it.

John doesn’t know what swooning looks like, really, but he hopes to whatever God there is that it isn’t what he just did.

He watches Stefan as he talks to Patrice, laughing about something John can’t hear but also might not care about. It’s worth it just to see Stefan’s throat as he tilts his head back in laughter, an ear-to-ear smile on his face.

John knows he’s been staring when Stefan catches his eye from the other side of the room, that same smirk appearing on his face. He excuses himself from the conversation, patting Patrice on the shoulder as he walks away. John doesn’t stop staring, following Stefan’s form as he goes to exit the room. Right before he gets to the elevator doors, Stefan glances at him again, cocking his head back- a universal sign for follow me.

John’s eyes widen as he looks around the room, making sure no one’s gonna mind if he leaves. He gets up off the chair he’s been sitting in and makes a bee-line for the elevator.

When he gets there, the door’s closed, and Stefan’s gone. He calmly presses the ‘up’ button, stepping back a little to wait.

Much to his surprise, the door opens immediately and he’s dragged in by the front of his polo as the door starts closing again. He’s thrown off-balance into the mirrored wall of the elevator, and there’s Stefan, with that full-on smirk dancing across his face.

“See somethin’ you like?” Stefan says before moving in and launching his attack on John’s body, neck, everywhere

This is by far the easiest crush John’s ever had.

John’s head knocks back against the wall as Stefan’s skilled mouth works over his neck, sucking and biting and licking and there’s so much for John to feel that he thinks he might pass out.

“Looks like I made you pretty lucky,” Stefan purrs, moving up to kiss John’s lips for the first time.

“Ye-yea,” John chokes out, leaning forward to catch Stefan in another long kiss, pulling him in as close as he can, trying for as much contact as physically possible.

Stefan grinds his hips into John’s crotch and John lets out a surprised gasp against his mouth, his hands sliding down over Stefan’s ass. He turns the tables on Stefan using his extra strength and pushes Stefan hard into the opposite wall, forcing him into a bruising kiss. He catches sight of their reflection out of the corner of his eye and fuck, that’s hot.

Suddenly, the elevator dings loudly and the door opens, startling them both. They jump away from each other, expecting to be caught- but there’s no one on the other side. They’ve just reached their floor.

They look at each other, John wide-eyed and heart racing. Stefan laughs and drags him by the hand to his room.

---

Before the game against the Kazakhs, Stefan once again waits for everyone to exit the dressing room before cornering John against his stall.

Stefan puts his hands on either side of John’s body, pressed flat against the wall. “For luck?” he asks in a low voice that makes John’s stomach twist in knots.

John just grins back at him, leaning back against the wall, and grabs the sides of Stefan’s jersey, pulling him in.

John gets four points in the blowout, cementing his status as boy wonder even further and bringing him a little bit closer to Canadian legend, but that’s not what he cares about, not today, not right now.

Stefan scores that game and is elated- John doesn’t know if he’s ever seen someone so happy about scoring, especially the 14th goal of a fifteen-to-nothing game, but it hits him pretty hard that Stefan isn’t taking any of this for granted. He can’t show it on the ice, out of courtesy, out of dignity, but John can see it in his eyes, on the bench, after the game, on the bus- this is everything to him.

As a 7th round draft pick, John knows Stefan is a long-shot to make the NHL. But you gotta give the kid points for passion.

John might have the glory and the ‘A’, but Stefan’s a leader in his own right, Captain of his own team, and John can tell by his voice that night in John’s room while PK is at dinner.

“My first World Juniors goal,” Stefan says softly as he nips at John’s ear, “take off your shirt.”

There’s something about the Captain Voice, and John can’t say no.

---

By the time the Americans come along, the pre-game ritual escalates from simple kiss to fast and furious, rushed and rough, touching and tongues in an equipment room at Scotia Bank Place, Stefan’s hands doing everything they can to get under John’s jersey, his pads, everywhere, anywhere he can touch John’s skin.

“We better have damn good luck today,” John mumbles against Stefan’s lips, and they both laugh.

They come out flushed and swollen-lipped, giggling and stumbling around hurriedly trying to put on their skates before Coach Quinn comes in to yell at them.

Luck is on John’s side that game, and he gets the hattrick- but Stefan’s leash simultaneously winds down to nothing and he’s benched for the second half of the game. John looks to the box as he serves his misconduct and sees the look on Stefan’s face- no longer cocky and reckless, instead, despondent; regretful.

That night, while the boys are in lobby celebrating the win and the New Year, John finds himself in a place he never thought he’d be- not at the beginning of the tournament, not even earlier that day. Tangled legs and bed sheets in Stefan’s room, Stefan silent and motionless against his chest. He’s crushed. John doesn’t want to check if he’s crying- he just holds him a little closer, kissing the mess of sandy brown hair on top of Stefan’s head.

He can hear the countdown from outside. He bends down to kiss Stefan gently as the clock strikes midnight.

This is one of those times when Stefan is a teammate, first.

---

They spend the next couple of days at each other’s side, through practice, at dinner, on the bus. PK makes a joke about spending less time with his boyfriend, and John just laughs.

The Russia game comes up faster than anyone expected, and before they know it they’re stepping onto the ice to face the big red machine. Their kiss is short and sweet- even if they wouldn’t show it, they’re both too nervous to do anything else.

John wishes maybe they did something else, but tries not to be superstitious as he finds his luck running out. He can’t score a goal, the powerplay isn’t working, and suddenly there’s 10 seconds left and he’s preparing himself for a bronze medal.

Ten.

He jumps on the puck, seeing it roll off a Russian stick.

Nine.

Eight.

He throws it blindly to the net.

Seven.

It’s blocked, the Russian covers it.

Six.

He sees Jordan come out with the puck, and-

Five point Four.

Holy shit.

John’s blacked out for the next twenty minutes. He knows there’s a shootout. He scores, but he can’t think. He can’t think of anything, until he’s skating back to the bench and there’s Stefan, cheering, screaming, laughing, and it’s all for him.

“You been kissin’ Eberle?” John jokes as he unbuttons Stefan’s shirt that night, both of them still high off the win.

“Someone must be,” Stefan laughs as he finds John’s lips.

---

Stefan is uncharacteristically silent on Monday. The team gets together and watches Russia win the Bronze, every mind in the room thinking it could have been us. John holds Stefan’s hand at the back of the room, hidden from their teammates.

John doesn’t know if he’s heard Stefan say a word all day, and he gets it. He’s nervous too. Even though he’s done it before, he can’t help but feel the weight of the nation riding on the team’s shoulders. Stefan is jittery- John squeezes his hand. He knows that it’s spread amongst 22 guys and they’re fully capable of lifting it.

Before the game, the roar of the crowd is so loud that John can’t hear himself think. Stefan comes up to him and rests one hand on his hip and the other on his neck, pulling him in for a kiss fused with all the passion of a country desperate for gold.

Stefan rests his head on John’s forehead, breathing shakily.

“Tell me what gold feels like,” he whispers.

John brushes their lips together softly, “You’ll find out.”

Three periods, five goals, two points for John and two penalties for Stefan later, they find out together.

In the madness, somewhere in the dogpile on top of Dustin, John finds Stefan and grabs his face.

“What does it feel like!” he yells, his voice nearly drowned out by the fans and the cheering and the screaming of 22 teenage boys.

Stefan uses the other boys as a shield and kisses John hard, pulling away laughing, completely overjoyed.

---

They’re not old enough in this province to really party, but it doesn’t matter in the least, not tonight. There are pies to the face and cold water dumps and general mayhem and they’re on top of the world.

John meets Stefan’s eyes from across the chaos of the room and smiles widely. The smirk that previously seemed to adorn Stefan’s face permanently was gone without a trace, replaced by a shit-eating grin ever since the final buzzer of the game of his life.

John sees something in Stefan’s eyes that he’s never seen before, not from anyone. He doesn’t know what to think about it, but he’s pretty sure he likes it, and he wants it.

They meet in the middle for a fervent kiss, amongst the cat-calls of their teammates. Somewhere, PK yells “I knew it!”

Stefan leads John to his room, smiling all the way. Their movements are slowed down and carefully thought out, just the way John likes it.

Stefan pushes John back onto the bed, crawling over him and covering his lips with his own. The kiss is slower and more tender than most they’ve shared before, Stefan propping himself up on one arm as John’s hand rests in the small of his back.

Stefan sits up, straddling John, and pulls his jersey off, throwing it to the other side of the room. He pushes John’s up, hinting that he should do the same. They manoeuvre it off and it joins Stefan’s on the floor.

Stefan leans forward again, pushing John’s chin up with a kiss and starts to plant slow, wet kisses to John’s neck and collar bones, his hands roaming up and down over John’s ribcage. Their lips meet again as John puts a hand on the back of Stefan’s head, pulling him in.

John’s hands move to trail down Stefan’s defined torso, coming to rest at his hips. As the kiss gets faster, more urgent, his hands go for Stefan’s belt buckle, then the button and zipper of his jeans.

Stefan pulls back, “Are you sure?”, but John cuts him off with another lustful kiss, pushing at the waistband of his pants.

Stefan rolls off and adds those to the pile on the floor, watching as John takes the incentive to remove his own as well. John turns to get on top of Stefan, pushing his boxers down as he kisses him, their tongues battling wildly.

Soon they are both naked and they lie entangled with each other, grinding against each other in their own rhythm. John looks at Stefan, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes shut tight. He lifts a hand to Stefan’s face, willing him to open his eyes.

“Do you want to?”

Stefan blushes and reaches down to the floor for his pants, fishing a condom out of the pocket. John laughs lightly and takes it from him, tearing it open and rolling it on to Stefan’s hardened cock, massaging it gently with his hand.

He rolls onto his back and Stefan positions himself, ready. “Go easy,” John says with a smile- Stefan just leans down to kiss him.

The pace is almost agonizingly slow but John knows this is how it’s supposed to feel. He didn’t know, before, why people would want to do this, but he gets it now. He’s already thinking, maybe Stefan is as good as it gets.

It feels like Stefan goes deeper every time and all John wants is more, more, as much as he can get. “F-faster,” he stutters, and Stefan does his best to do as he says.

Stefan deep inside him and a hand on him pumping in time, and a big gold medal still hanging from his neck, this is as good as it gets.

They’re both gassed from the game but they don’t feel as tired as they should. John gasps sharply as Stefan finds the perfect angle, his senses reeling with every thrust. Stefan’s eyes are wired shut, sweat dripping down the side of his face from his hair, and John closes his eyes, too, letting the moment overtake him.

John wishes this could go on forever but he knows he isn’t going to last nearly that long, and judging by the shakiness of Stefan’s timing, neither is he. He feels his stomach tightening as he lets out a loud moan with his release, “Fuck, Stefan!”, and he falls limp, exhausted.

Stefan groans and stutters out John’s name, shuddering before he collapses on top of John’s chest, glistening with sweat.

The two boys lie in complete bliss, breathing heavily. Though the room is quiet, their ears are still ringing from the day’s events, and they fall into a comfortable silence.

When John summons up the strength to move and speak again, he turns to Stefan, beaming, and asks, “What does gold feel like?”

Stefan kisses him once more, maybe for luck.

---
Thanks for reading.
GO TEAM CANADA.
The Drive for Five is complete, and so is my life.

xo. Drop a line.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-12-12T23:31:00

2008-12-13T06:37:14Z

Title: A Hotter Touch
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Jordan Staal/Sidney Crosby
Rating: R
Summary: Sweetie, you had me.
Notes: This is a present for nefarious1729, because I love her and she asked for it. It's inspired by Panic At The Disco's Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Is it still me that makes you sweat?
Am I who you think about in bed?
When the lights are dim and your hands are shaking as you're sliding off your dress?
Then think of what you did
And how I hope to God he was worth it.
When the lights are dim and your heart is racing as your fingers touch his skin.
I've got more wit, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck
Than any boy you'll ever meet, sweetie you had me
Girl I was it, look past the sweat, a better love deserving of
Exchanging body heat in the passenger seat?
No, no, no, you know it will always just be me.

A Hotter Touch.
694 words.

Sid awoke to a dark room and an empty bed, a cold sweat slicked across his forehead. Another sleepless night, another early morning. Another day of regret, another day without him.

He sighed, reaching out in the dark to rub his hand along the cold fabric on the other side of the bed. His hands shook as he was once again met with the realization of what he’d done.

Fuck, I’m sorry.

---

The club’s music pounded relentlessly in Sid’s ears, his hips swaying in time with the beat as if possessed. He had a body pressed against his from every side, but it was the one directly in front of him to which he gave his full attention.

The body was much smaller than he was used to- his size, almost. The hair much longer, much darker. The hips smaller, slimmer, more coordinated. Very different, but still... familiar.

---

Jordan jumped awake, disturbed by the insistent buzzing of his phone on the bedside table. He fumbled in the dark sleepily, not even half awake. He groaned into his pillow, groping blindly until he felt the cool technology under his fingers. He squinted at the bright screen, frowning at the caller I.D., then glanced at the glowing red numbers of his alarm clock. He clenched his jaw and hit the talk button.

“Fuck off, Crosby.”

---

The flash of the strobe lights gave the illusion that time had slowed to a near stop. Sid had long since closed his eyes, letting his other senses guide him. He felt the other man’s lips drag across his neck up to his earlobe, a lush French accent filling his ears, smooth as silk.

“Take me home.”

---

Sid watched him from across the locker room, talking to TK in a hushed voice. His eyes darted up every so often, shooting daggers towards a group of three in the corner, speaking animatedly in rapid French. Fleur was gesturing wildly as Max looked on and Tanger sat, unresponsive, staring at the crest on the floor. Sid looked for some even ground and tried to meet Whits’ eyes, but he was in a deep conversation with Orpik and Goligoski and could not be bothered with his distressed Captain. Syky and Geno were trying to have a conversation to his right, and he was utterly alone.

---

“I don’t know if this is a good idea...”

“Just go with it. Pour ce soir.”

---

Jordan looked past Tyler’s ear to the quiet Frenchman sitting between Fleur and Max. Dark, attractive, and entirely in his own head, fighting himself and his decisions. He narrowed his eyes, focusing in on him- by now he was sure that Tyler could tell he wasn’t listening.

He looked over at Sidney, grinding his teeth. As if he could tell he was being watched, Sid’s eyes rose to meet Jordan’s- scared, regretful, guilty. Their eyes locked momentarily before a disturbance rocked the room like an earthquake.

“Crisse! Casse-toi!”

Jordan looked up to see Kris storming out of the locker room, obviously having lost that mental battle. He hesitated for a moment before clenching his fists and following his teammate out of the room.

---

The bare skin of Sid’s back pressed flush against the leather seat of his Range Rover, the other man’s hands roaming his chest and sides. Skilled lips assaulted his neck, and he was drunk enough not to care.

“More...”

“Let’s get out of here.”

---

Sid watched Jordan leave the room and jumped up to give chase. He ran out into the hallway in time to see him rounding the corner after Kris.

“Jordan, wait!” He called out, jogging to catch up with him.

Jordan stopped and turned to look at him with cold, accusing eyes. “What do you want.”

“I just- Jordan, I’m sorry. If I could take it back, I would.”

Jordan furrowed his brow and studied Sid’s face, as if trying to grade how sincere he was. But his face never softened.

“You had me. And you never will again,” he spat, stepping away. “I hope he was fucking worth it, Sid.”

Sid could only watch as Jordan walked away.

He wasn’t.

---

“We shouldn’t.”

“We can.”

---
Drop a line. XO.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-12-03T00:20:00

2008-12-03T07:23:24Z

Title: Homecoming
Author:heartandmindxx
Characters: Stefan Legein, John Tavares
Rating: G
Notes: Inspired by This.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Homecoming.
224 words.

John stared intently at his computer screen, studying the article carefully, the glow cast upon his face the only light source in the room.

He read everything twice over, making sure not to miss a word. He couldn’t.

Is this for real?

He glanced at his alarm clock. 1:58 AM. The red numbers stood out like a siren, a stop sign, a warning. Don’t.

He glanced at his cell phone, sitting lifeless and quiet on his bedside table. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before reaching for it, ignoring whatever his clock was trying to convince him of, and scrolled down to the name that had been ricocheting off the walls of his mind for months.

Lege.

He listened to the ringing, four rings, five rings, six- I’ll wait until the eighth, ninth- before a groggy voice came over the line.

“Hello?”

“Stef?”

“...John?”

He took a deep breath. “Yea.”

There was a long pause, a pause that spoke of all the time missed between friends, all the time missed on the ice and in NHL arenas.

“Is it true?” He said, finally.

A sigh. “Yea.”

John let out a breath of relief. He raked his mind for something to say, but couldn’t think of anything that needed to be said.

He heard Stefan yawn and smiled. “Hey, Stefan?”

“Yea, John?”

“Welcome home.”

---
Welcome back, Stefan. I love you.
Drop a line.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-11-08T01:07:00

2008-11-08T08:13:19Z

Title: Golden Boys
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Ales Hemsky/Ladislav Smid [Edmonton Oilers]
Rating: PG, one cuss.
Summary: "I just don’t know if I’m as good as they think I am."
Notes: Inspired by Ales and Ladi in this video.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Golden Boys.
1673 words.

A dim glow from the streetlights outside seeps in through the blinds. The room is quiet but for the whirring of the ceiling fan. Maybe because neither wants to talk about the game, maybe because Ales has already fallen asleep. Ladi holds him close under the covers, rubbing circles into the bare skin between his shoulder blades, sighing quietly as he dips his head to press a kiss to the scars on Ales’ neck.

“That won’t make them go away.”

Ladi is startled to hear Ales’ voice, but he doesn’t show it. He kisses each one again, his lips lingering on the last one, breathing against his skin.

“Do you want them to?”

Ales shifts closer to Ladi, his eyes pressed against his collarbone. “I don’t want to forget the past,” he whispers through the dark. Ales raises his head to kiss Ladi’s lips, so light that Ladi can hardly feel if they’re actually touching.

And for a second, Ladi wonders if he’s good enough. He wonders, because he knows Ales keeps to himself to a point that it’s almost reclusive. Because he knows that Ales hardly even speaks to his family, anymore. Because he knows that Ales is a good teammate, but outside of the rink, that doesn’t translate to friend. Because of the fact that he knows Ales at all and he’s not sure what he did to deserve this privilege, and he’s still not even sure if Ales is going to wake up one day and realize that he’s not worth his time.

He wonders because, when Ales says that he doesn’t want to forget the past, he’s not sure if that means it’s because he remembers something better.

Ales must feel Ladi still because he presses his lips to Ladi’s more firmly. A reassurance, because somehow, he just knows. That’s just how he is.

“Stop thinking,” he whispers against Ladi’s lips.

So he does, and kisses Ales back, because there’s just something about Ales that makes you want to believe everything he says, because Ales is sincere about everything, and Ladi has never once heard him tell a lie. And because Ladi doesn’t want to think about life without Ales next to him.

Ladi can feel sleep claiming him, and his eyes fall closed, a small smile on his lips. He is disturbed not long after, the body next to him stirring restlessly.

Ales turns in Ladi’s arms and sighs quietly. Ladi knows he can’t sleep, and knows why, knows because he saw Ales make the hole in the wall and because he’s seen him quietly pay countless hotel managers for the damage, away from the eyes of their coaches and teammates.

People think Ales is quiet and complacent, and he is. But they also think that he doesn’t care, or that he doesn’t try, or that he doesn’t have a love for the game. They haven’t seen the way he is once in the seclusion of his hotel room or his home, the way he pounds the walls into submission after a bad game, with no regard for how much his hands are worth. They haven’t seen the way the nightmares tear through his mind as he sleeps, raked with the pressure of living up to the expectations placed on him by the coaches, the fans, the media.

They didn’t know just how seriously Ales took the game. They didn’t know how after that night in Pardubice, when an errant bottle from the hands of a drunken stranger almost took the game and so much more away from him, he’d sworn to never take a single thing for granted ever again.

Ladi has seen a side of Ales that his critics would never see, could never see, because Ales declined almost every interview. Ales wanted his play to speak for itself, and most often, it did- and when it didn’t, he was the first to admit it. Ladi understood that Ales shied away from the media better than anyone ever could. Ladi knew he’d only been on the team the previous season because Shelly went down, and that his days were probably numbered this season, too. And even still, last season, he’d given more game-day interviews than Ales had. A glorified call-up getting more face time than the star forward.

Ladi kisses the nape of Ales’ neck and follows Ales’ arms down to his hands to entwine their fingers.

“Stop worrying,” Ladi says quietly, “the goals will come. They always do.” Ales’ body relaxes and Ladi smiles. “You realize that a slow start for me and I don’t make the team, but a slow start for you is 8 assists?”

Ales sighs again. His words are barely audible, but Ladi hears them.

“I just don’t know if I’m as good as they think I am.”

Ladi frowns, propping himself up on his elbow and turns Ales so he can look at his face. “You’re not, Ales,” he says firmly, running his knuckles softly down Ales’ cheek. Ales, his golden boy, his love. “You’re better.”

He leans down and kisses Ales softly. “You’re perfect.”

---

Ales knows that while Ladi only has a few NHL fights under his belt, his knuckles are scarred from far more than the on-ice bouts. People often saw Ladi with a smile for everyone and a twinkle in his eye- Ales had seen him teeth bared and eyes burning with rage as he squared off in a dingy pub in Chicago. He’d seen him break a jaw in Prague and hand out black eyes like merit badges in Los Angeles. He’s seen him take down a guy who looked at him the wrong way in Atlanta, and tackle a guy who looked at Ales the wrong way in Pittsburgh.

Ladi had a dark side that would come out after a loss, after a few drinks. A goal against was a shot to the ribs, two was a punch to his cheekbone. A knee to the face for going -3.

After a 3-1 loss in Nashville, Ales watches Ladi slam his glass down on the bar and challenge someone for making fun of his accent.

“At least I don’t sound like I fuck my sister,” Ladi spits back. Ales stands and grabs him by the elbow and puts a few bills on the bar, trying to pull Ladi away.

“Ladislav, přestaň,” Ales warns, gripping tighter onto Ladi’s arm.

“No, Ales,” Ladi says, trying to shake him off.

“Alice? Better listen to your girlfriend, you Euro trash,” the man says, smirking as he takes a sip of his cheap, American beer.

Ales lets Ladi have one punch.

Later, as they walk down the street back to the hotel, Ales takes Ladi’s hand and squeezes it tightly.

“You don’t have to do that,” Ales states, simply. “Nothing good comes out of it.”

Ladi turns to him and smiles, bringing his hand up to his lips to kiss Ales’ knuckles. “You don’t have to make holes in the walls.”

“I’m not hurting anyone,” Ales points out, dropping Ladi’s hand and moving to rub the small of his back.

Ladi stops and turns to Ales. His eyes are bloodshot, still, but Ales can tell that he’s been sobering up for a while now. His face is etched with concern.

“What?” Ales says, looking up at him. “Co je to mýlil?”

“Do you think... that I would hurt you?”

“No,” Ales says quickly- because he doesn’t. Ladi is sometimes a loose cannon, but above all, he is fiercely loyal. He blushes lightly, “I know you wouldn’t.”

Ladi studies him for a moment before leaning down to kiss him. It is quick, but Ales can feel the passion behind it- he’s always felt that actions speak louder than words.

Ales has never been in love. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed feel like. He’s positive that it exists but he hasn’t worked out what the feeling in his stomach is, not yet. Ales has never been good with people, and he’s never been the best at having friends. He doesn’t like talking and he prefers to be alone. These are things that he knows to be true about himself, but are negated when he’s around Ladi. He doesn’t know what this is, with Ladi. But he knows that Ladi is safety. Ladi is warmth. Ladi is home.

Three days later, in Philadelphia, a mere three games into the road trip from hell, Ales has two goals and Ladi assists on both of them. After the second goal, Ladi skates up to Ales, and Ales expects the usual- a high-five and a one-armed hug. But instead, Ladi takes him by the helmet and makes Ales look into his eyes.

“I told you they would come, Ales.”

Ales smiles, and Ladi brings his head to his chest in a warm embrace. Ales is almost taken aback, because he’s never seen Ladi this tender, this gentle. He’s seen Ladi use his hands for a lot of things, but they’ve never felt like this.

He feels breath on his ear as Ladi kisses it discreetly.

“Miluji tě,” he whispers, audible only to Ales. Ales looks up into Ladi’s shining eyes and before he can say anything, the moment is over and Ladi is skating towards the bench.

But somehow, Ales feels different. It’s like he’s floating but he knows his skates are still on the ice. Maybe it’s the two goals, his first two of the season. Ales shakes off this idea, because he’s had two-goal games before and they never felt like this. It’s pride, and it’s warmth, and it’s love and it’s Ladi, and he doesn’t want to let this feeling go.

Ladi knows him like no one else does. He knows a side of Ladi that no one else has ever seen. He knows that if anyone ever looked at their relationship, if anyone knew, they’d see Ales first, the star, but he doesn’t feel that way, at all.

Ladi is his backbone. His security. His golden boy, his love.

He’s perfect.

---
Drop a line, please. Thank you for reading.
xo.
K

heartandmindxx @ 2008-11-06T03:16:00

2008-11-06T10:20:34Z

Title: Sophomore Slump
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Sam Gagner/Robert Nilsson [Edmonton Oilers]
Rating: PG
Summary: Sam is feeling the pressure
Notes: This is for voldemortistxx. I love you, Sammy.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Sophomore Slump.
455 words.

Robert finds Sam face-down on a bed in the hotel room he shares with Andrew. The curtains are pulled shut and the room is littered with telling signs of what had taken place before Sam’s body, and mind, had given up.

There is a small dent in the wall next to the mirror. Robert follows an invisible trail down to the ground to see the smashed remains of the TV’s remote control. The lamp is tipped against the wall, the lampshade tilted awkwardly, and one of Sam’s hockey sticks is broken into three pieces next to the door to the bathroom.

Sam lies motionless on the bed, breathing lightly. Robert wants to make a joke, go up and pretend to check for a pulse, but decides that it’s not really the right time for joking.

“Please, dude, you have to go in there.” Andrew had pleaded. “You always make him feel better. He really lost it this time.”

Another day, another missed shot, another interview and another feature on the sophomore slump. Robert sighs- so is the life of Sam Gagner. Robert knew as well as anybody that it wasn’t fair- it was only 12 games into the season. There was no need for alarm quite yet. And as much as Sam would tell the media that it wasn’t the end of the world, Robert knows that it was the opposite of what he felt.

Robert sits down on the edge of the bed, next to Sam, and places a comforting hand on Sam’s back.

“Hey,” Robert says quietly. Sam is unresponsive, but Robert continues. “Det är jag, Robert. Lyssna.”

Sam stirs and turns his head to look at Robert. He makes no move to speak, but Robert knows he’s gotten his attention. He would always calm down when Robert spoke to him in Swedish.

“You’re better than this, Sammy. Don’t get down on yourself. No one on this team, no one who matters is getting down on you about this. Let the press say what they want- we know how good you are,” he pauses, rubbing slow circles between Sam’s shoulder blades. “I know how good you are. We will make it through this, as a team. We love you, okay?”

Sam sighs, turning his face back into the pillow- but Robert knows he’s gotten through. He smiles, standing to leave.

“You’ll pull through,” he says, bending to place a kiss on the top of Sam’s head. “Jag älskar dig,” he whispers into the mess of hair.

“I love you too,” he hears Sam whisper back as he turns to leave. “Stay?”

Robert smiles and turns back to lie down on the bed with Sam, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close.

“Yes.”

---

I know, it's short and pointless, but that's ok. I just hope someone is actually telling this to Sam. Drop a line.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-10-27T15:39:00

2008-10-27T21:50:08Z

Title: Eventually
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Ales Hemsky/Lubomir Visnovsky [Edmonton Oilers]
Rating: PG
Notes: This was written specifically for thekatcameback, I know it's not exactly what you asked for but I hope you like it anyway.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Eventually.
1589 words.

When Lubomir first hears that he’s been traded, he is absolutely positive that he will hate Edmonton and everything about it.

What he eventually learns is that a) he hates the Kings organization a little more for what they did and b) Edmonton really isn’t all that bad.

When he first arrives in Edmonton, the first thing he is asked to do is call Marian Hossa, which he wonders about, because, a) is it really all that credible for him to be talking up an organization he is barely apart of? and b) didn’t they have anyone else who could do this?

He eventually learns that the answer to both questions is no.

When he first speaks to Ales Hemsky, Ales says little more than “Ahoj” and acknowledges him with little more than a raised eyebrow and a handshake, before turning back to his stall to prepare in silence.

What he eventually learns is that the shortness of the initial greeting is not on account of rudeness or a superiority complex, but based on the fact that if Ales could choose between silence or speaking, silence would win out every time.

---

Lubo learns shortly after he is assigned a room with Ales that he is replacing Marty Reasoner as a roommate, and only hopes that he can be as entertaining as he hears the man before him was.

He hears from Ethan- or “Chopper”, as he is told to call him- that Marty and Ales had been close, if only for the reason that Marty could make Ales laugh as easily as he could anyone else, and Lubo wishes he was outgoing enough to see this as a challenge, but instead it becomes something that makes him nervous every time he and Ales are in the same room together.

The first night that they stay together on the road, Lubo gathers up the courage to make a joke, telling one of the only English jokes he knows- a knock-knock joke that fails miserably.

When Ales doesn’t laugh, Lubo frowns. “Ha-ha? Did I say wrong?” he says, wondering frantically whether or not Ales thinks him to be stupid.

Ales looks at him blankly before cracking a small smile. “You’re funny,” he says, and that is the end of the conversation.

---

Eventually Lubo begins to learn that the media in Edmonton is relentless, and that there is no escaping an interview, even if he claims beforehand that his English skills need work. There is always someone who wants to talk to him, whether it be about how he is fitting in or perhaps about the goal he may have scored the previous night.

The first time he talks to Ales about it, he is watching one of his interviews on TV for the second time that night. He turns to Ales in the next bed and says, exasperated, “How do you deal with the media in Canada?” in the form, somewhat, of an exclamation instead of a question.

Ales rests his copy of Příliš Hlučná Samota on his chest and looks up at the TV before turning to Lubo.

“I don’t,” he says simply, and goes back to his book.

---

Eventually he learns that, rooming with Ales, being entertaining is not as big of a virtue as being quiet, because Ales likes to sleep. A lot. For a long time. He also hates to be woken up, even though sometimes, you just need to.

The first time he wakes Ales up also coincides with the first night they lose a game in the young season, after a three-to-nothing shut-out loss to the Chicago Blackhawks. Neither Ales nor Lubo had played a particularly good game, but Lubo has a feeling Ales takes the losses harder than anyone might know.

He has the TV on mute, watching highlights from around the league, when he hears it- the quick, low, whimpering coming from across the room. He puts the remote down and stands up, moving slowly to get closer to Ales who is almost shaking under the covers.

“Ales?” He says quietly, before freezing in place as he realizes that Ales is having a nightmare.

“Prosím, prosím- Není to moje chyba... přestaň...” Ales’ brow is clenched as the fears slip off his lips in his native tongue, and Lubo sighs sadly. Not all of the words are the same in Slovak, but he understands.

He gently shakes Ales awake, and Ales flips around sharply to look up into Lubo’s concerned face, with tears in the corners of his eyes. And Lubo doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so young.

“Lubomir?” Ales asks, as if unsure if he’s truly awake.

Lubo nods, and before he knows what’s going on, he’s pulled down to the bed and Ales is curled up tightly against his muscled chest.

Lubo skips the mental battle and wraps an arm around Ales’ body, his words ringing in his head.

It’s not my fault.

---

Eventually Lubo learns that while Ales is quiet, he is not boring, and while he likes to be alone, he still knows how to have fun. And maybe, above all, while he is shy, if you gain his trust, you will see a very different side of him.

Lubo is new to Edmonton, and even though he insists to everyone that he’s changed his mind about the city and tells everyone how beautiful it is, he still knows very little about the city at all. Aside from the drive to the arena every day, he really hasn’t seen anything.

Ales has been in the city for 6 years now, and Lubo wonders why maybe he wasn’t the one to call Hossa, because if anyone can make a person want to live in Edmonton, it’s Ales. From what he hears, Ales made it clear he wanted to stay there by signing a long-term deal well before he needed to. Lubo thinks this is a big deal because, he signed a long-term contract with Los Angeles, but he’s 7 years older than Ales.

The first time he mentions it to Ales, he’s changing in the locker room after practice, and he says in passing that he hasn’t seen much of Edmonton- and he can hardly get his shoes on before Ales is dragging him out of the arena, talking a mile-a-minute about all the places they need to go.

Ales has a sportscar, a pretty young thing that makes Lubo feel much older than he actually is, but regardless of what age he’s feeling that day, he still grips tightly onto anything he can get his hands on. What he’s learned is that Ales drives fast, and every police officer in the city knows who he is, and he can often get away with an autograph.

Ales takes them for a brief in-and-out trip of West Edmonton Mall (which can only be brief to someone who actually lives in Edmonton, because, really, who can fly-by that many stores? And a dragon? And a pirate ship!), shows him Hawrelak Park and where their reclusive owner lives, and then drives him down Whyte Ave, pointing out where to get the best coffee, ice cream, and haircuts.

The tour stops at a cliff near Ales’ place where some houses apparently fell into the river some years back, and Ales explains this as he drives right over the grass and parks a few meters from the edge.

“I think it’s pretty solid now.” Ales says, noticing the worried look on Lubo’s face as he looks over.

“You think?” Lubo says, but Ales doesn’t reply, he just gets out of the car and climbs over the hood to sit on the roof.

“Come up here,” Ales says, but to Lubo it sounds like a demand and he doesn’t think he has an option.

“You want me to- do I put my shoes? On the car?” Lubo says, glancing at Ales’ shoeprint on the windshield incredulously.

“Whatever,” Ales says nonchalantly, patting the spot beside him.

Lubo climbs up, trying not to worry about the dirt, and the weight, and the cliff, but as he sits down and looks out over the ravine, and Ales rests his hand on top of his, he sort of forgets what he was worried about.

---

Everything Ales does at the rink is carefully thought out and meticulously executed, from the dressing room to the ice and back, from the way he laces his skates to each pass that leaves his stick. But what Lubo learns is that sometimes, Ales can do the opposite of what is expected of him, and can be completely spontaneous when the time calls for it.

So it comes as a complete surprise to him when, one night, after he and Ales both score and Ales has three points, Ales comes out of the hotel bathroom and walks over to him as he stands at the dresser and kisses him lightly, pulling back with a wide, gap-toothed grin. Ales takes one look at the blank expression on Lubo’s face and laughs. “You’re funny,” he says, before he turns and crawls into his bed, switching off the lamp.

It is not one of Lubo’s finest moments, as it takes him a full 30 seconds to register what’s just happened. He brings his fingers to his lips and touches them gently. By the time he’s figured everything out and stammered out a barely-audible “...what?”, Ales appears to be already sleeping.

And Lubo realizes he still has a lot to learn about Ales Hemsky.

---

Please, drop a line. xo

heartandmindxx @ 2008-10-17T06:16:00

2008-10-17T12:32:07Z

10 Short Stories Inspired by Songs
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Robert Nilsson/Sam Gagner [Edmonton Oilers]
Rating: 14A
Notes: It's currently 6:20AM and I have yet to sleep tonight. This was to pass the time. Play 10 songs on random, write until the song ends.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don't claim anything except the story. It's fiction.

Now It’s Done – Straylight Run
[129]

Robert took a deep drag of his cigarette, his mind wandering far from what his father would do to him if he ever found out he smoked. In fact, his father was not even close to boarding his train of thought. Instead he thought of a 19-year-old fucking kid who’d somehow managed to infiltrate his life and single-handedly ruin it. He tilted his head back and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into the brisk night air. In his head, his heart, he knew it couldn’t last. Sam was young, free, careless. Robert had known from the start that it was just fucking, just sex, and that there were others. Hell, there were others for Robert, too- maybe he wasn’t losing anything. But somehow... he’d never lost so much.

Woe – Say Anything
[151]

Everything Sam said was so calculated, mapped-out from here to next week. In every interview, there was never a word off, not a word spoken off the cuff. Robert wondered if he’d taken a class somewhere, or if he’d just grown up watching so much hockey that these answers were wired into his brain. Back in Sweden, Robert had never had a problem with running his mouth. People wanted to hear him talk, he was fucking Mini-Magic, and girls were throwing themselves at him no matter what he said (though most likely because of his father, not because of his mind). Sometimes, though, Robert wished he could be a little more like Sam, especially in the situation he was in now, standing in front of the aforementioned Sam Gagner, whose grey eyes were open wide as the words Robert had just said registered in his brain. “You... you want to what?”

Worst December – Sugarcult
[151]

Sam sat on his bed, his cellphone to his ear. Silent, motionless. He could hear breathing on the other end of the line, but nothing else. The rush of December had come and gone, the season a memory, but the short playoff run, though months ago, was a fresh wound. Sam had been a mess since the final buzzer- he’d never experienced a feeling as terrible as that loss. He’d hated losing for his entire life, but he never thought a loss could feel like getting your heart ripped out and thrown to the cold, mangled ice. And that loss was only magnified by the one that came on July 1st. Things had gone so well for Sam in the past that the idea of so much pain coming at once was a complete and utter shock to him. Eventually, he choked out a strangled sob. “I miss you so much.”

Say Anything – Mariana’s Trench
[133]

Though there were similarities between them, the differences were too plain to be ignored. Even though both of their fathers played in the NHL they were raised very differently. Dave taught his son to be humble and down-to-earth, Kent had told his son to be proud and to raise his head high, to know he was a Nilsson. On their draft days, Sam was heralded as a franchise player, and Robert was torn apart by a bitter commentator. Robert had toughed it out in two different pro-leagues before making it to the show, while Sam had made the seemingly easy step from Major Junior right to the NHL. Robert was outgoing and obnoxious, Sam was quiet and shy, always choosing his words carefully. But there was something to be said about opposites attracting.

24 Hours – The Sounds
[73]

Robert burst into the room unceremoniously, wasting no time in jumping on the bed, startling Sam into dropping his book.

“24 hours.”

“24 hours for what?”

“I don’t care. I’m yours, the world is ours.”

Sam went back to his book.

“Sammy, I’m sorry. I love you, let me prove it.”

Sam glanced up. “Is it going to be different this time?”

Robert smiled, pulling Sam off the bed. “I knew you’d agree.”

Too Much Of Not Enough – Silverchair
[110]

Sam averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at the man in front of him. Robert tightened his grip on Sam’s hands, a silent plea. Sam just sighed. “I was blind,” he said quietly, “and shallow, too.” He tried to drop his hands, but Robert still held on. Sam looked up at him sadly. “You’ll never stop needing. You always want something and I’m not able to give it to you.” Robert opened his mouth to speak but no sound escaped. Finally, Sam pulled his hands away and stepped back, his eyes dropping to the floor once again. “It’s just not enough anymore.” Robert could only watch as he walked away.

The Year Summer Ended in June – Misery Signals
[121]

Sam woke up blearily, nearly blinded by the bright white lights.

Was this... heaven?

As things came into focus, he realized that no, it wasn’t- it was much closer to hell.

As a child he’d sat in his grandfather’s hospital room thinking about how much he hated how white everything had been. Was white the colour of purity, or sickness?

It was strange how that memory came to him before the next. His hands clenched at the sheets as he remembered. Everything.

Crash.

Lights- no, darkness- screeching tires- no, metal- scraping and- no, screaming- gasping, choking, choking- the bridge- glass flying, glass in his mouth- cracking, the water- gasping- yellow? a jacket? another person, there was- the water- blood, glass- Robert.

At The Bottom Of Everything – Bright Eyes
[140]

Sam woke up on the morning of his 19th birthday feeling no different than he had the night before, just more tired. So this was getting older. He got out of bed, stretched, and carefully made his way down the stairs so to not slip on the hardwood. His parents had already left for work and his sisters were no doubt doing something annoying elsewhere, so the house was quiet and still. On the kitchen table was a package and a note that said “Happy Birthday Sam! This came in the mail for you. –Mom and Dad”. He sat at the table and began to open the nondescript cardboard box. Inside the box, amidst a plethora of packaging peanuts, was an autographed head shot of Robert Nilsson. Attached was a yellow sticky note that read “Because everyone needs one. –Bobby”.

I Mostly Copy Other People – The Almost
[133]

Sam danced around the living room, a lampshade on his head and a bed sheet tied around his neck as a makeshift cape. He air-guitared wildly to the song on the stereo, a beer still clutched tightly in his left hand. Robert stumbled across the room to join him, grabbing the stand of the lamp and singing into it loudly as if it were a microphone. His accent had become so thick that the words were completely unintelligible, but were assumed to be the words to the song. Sam danced around Robert, eventually tripping on his cape and sending them both crashing to the ground, where they promptly started to make out.

“Ain’t it a shame that they won’t remember all of this?” Andrew laughed as he leaned into a hysterical Tom Gilbert.

The Exit – Forgive Durden
[93]

Robert had heard it from enough coaches to know of the heavy expectations placed upon him.

“Why can’t you be more like your father?”

The problem with that was, he didn’t want to be his father; he just wanted to be Bobby.

He sighed, leaning back to stare at the white stucco ceiling of his hotel room. “Why can’t I live up to my family name?” He muttered, wondering aloud.

A hand began to unsystematically trace light patterns into the pale skin of his bare stomach. “I’m not the right person to ask.”

---
Please drop a line. xo.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-09-13T03:04:00

2008-09-13T09:11:03Z

Title: Wish You Wouldn't
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Jack Johnson/Andrew Cogliano [Michigan Wolverines] [Los Angeles Kings/Edmonton Oilers], mentions of Sidney Crosby [Pittsburgh Penguins, but you knew that already.]
Rating: 14A, mature content.
Notes: This story is completely and totally for nefarious1729, because she wrote something for me and this is the best I could do to pay her back. The story itself is her idea, even me writing it was her idea, because I had a dream about Jack and she thought I should write something. (This has nothing to do with the dream.)
Disclaimer: Don't kid yourself, this is 100% fabricated.

Wish You Wouldn't.
2394 words.

Jack found it hard to think of himself in a context without Sidney Crosby. After years of friendship, and every time their names would be mentioned in the same breath in every media report, Jack just sort of got used to it. Jack and Sid. Johnson and Crosby. Jack motherfucking Johnson and Sidney fucking Crosby. Friends forever (‘til death do us part).

But when Jack went to Michigan and Sid moved on to the Penguins, something changed in the dynamic of their relationship and if Jack was being honest with himself, he didn’t like it. And if he was being really fucking honest with himself, he really fucking hated it.

Talking every day turned to every week turned to twice a month turned to whenever-Sid-had-time-for-it, and being glad to see Sid in the paper turned to being angry when he couldn’t get away from their names put together turned to hating seeing Sid’s name anywhere, on billboards, in magazines, in the newspaper, on the TV.

He hated how the college experience was supposed to be about meeting new people, but every person he met only wanted to know What Sidney Crosby Is Really Like. It soon became his least favourite topic, and it soon became evident that he would never escape it, and that other people couldn’t look at him in a context without Sidney, either. After a while, he wasn’t even sure if he knew What Sidney Crosby was Really Like, and in his spite he almost forgot that he and Sid had been best friends. Were still best friends. Still, in spite of, whatever.

The thing was, Jack probably only hated talking about Sidney on account of being crazy in love with him. Sid was Jack’s first love, his only love- none of the girls or fuckbuddies or classmates and teammates came even remotely close. Jack had loved Sid since before he really knew what Love was. Since before he knew what the feeling in his stomach really meant.

Things in their relationship had self-destructed at the draft, sharing a hotel room in Ottawa. Cameras had been in an out of their room all throughout draft day, documenting their friendship and watching them get ready, but it was the next day, after the draft and away from the cameras, when Jack summed up the courage to tell Sid just how he felt.

Sid had stared at his shoes, all lined-up against the wall, expressionless as Jack spilled his soul onto the floor. In retrospect, he didn’t really know what he was thinking, what he’d expected. Sidney Crosby didn’t have time for love, didn’t have time for silly Jack and his silly crush.

Sid had looked into Jack’s eyes when he’d finished, staring at him almost sadly, before whispering “Jack, no,” and leaving the room without another word.

They’d barely spoken since.

Sid wouldn’t return his calls or e-mails, and if it weren’t for the highlights at the end of every night, Jack would have had a hard time believing he was still alive. Not a word.

When rejected, Jack found, the best thing to do was to be bitter. Hating someone was always easier than loving them when they didn’t love you back.

Before the draft, he’d been happy to have newspaper articles that talked about the two of them, something fun to look over with his best friend as they sat at his parent’s kitchen table during the summer. But now, he wanted to burn all of them, every single one in that box that his mother still kept under his bed.

Andrew was the only person brave enough to talk to him when things got really bad. It started the day he’d gotten Sid’s answering machine again and taken that kid the fuck out, the one from Ferris State. That night, he felt like he did back at the World Juniors, in Canada, where he got booed every time he touched the puck. Back when he and Sid were still friends even though Sid had moved on to other things too, like kids named Patrice. He felt hated. He felt wrong. And he kind of liked it. But Andrew came to him after the game and asked him if he was alright. He seemed to be the only person on the team who knew that the hit wasn’t just a result of misguided aggression, wasn’t just ‘getting caught up in the game’.

Jack had growled that he was fine, gritting his teeth, his hands white-knuckling the bench in the locker room. Andrew had given him this look, and Jack couldn’t really explain it, but it made him want to break down and tell Andrew everything. A look that said I know you’re not ok, a look that said I want to be there for you.

Andrew was different than everybody else he’d met in college. He was one of those Canadian kids who inexplicably chose college over Major Junior, and Jack knew for sure that it wasn’t because he wasn’t good enough. Andrew never asked about Sid, not once, never talked about him unless Jack wanted to vent, almost like he knew not to. They talked about their classes and teachers and the games over burritos in the parking lot of a sketchy Taco Bell.

Andrew let Jack forget about Sid. If, that is, by forget he really meant he could push Sid to the back of his mind for a few hours while he was with him.

The best thing about Andrew, maybe, was that he was so remarkably unlike Sid. They were both Canadian but it was in the way that you couldn’t really say someone from Texas and someone from Illinois were really the same. Andrew had smooth, olive skin and a perfect smile, straight dark hair and this inexplicable accent that was a little Toronto and a little Italian and a little bit sexy, too. He didn’t have that Atlantic Canada twang that he was used to hearing, didn’t have that breathy, choking laughter, and didn’t have those bee-stung lips that drove all the girls crazy.

Jack probably heard about Jordan sometime during Sid’s second season, from a friend of a friend, on the internet, whisperings on forums of Sidney Crosby fansites that he definitely never went to. Hey, did you hear Crosby is fucking that new hot blonde center, the new Canadian wunderkind, the Rookie King of shorthanded goals, that fucking Staal?

It was the night that the new hot blonde center added Youngest to Ever Score a Hattrick that Jack really lost it, seeing on National Fucking Television the way that Sid looked at the kid, the way he embraced him after that overtime goal.

That night he felt like either killing someone or killing himself, so he figured he’d reach out to the one person who he knew would come save him, the one person who he knew would never let him down.

It fucking killed him to realize that that person wasn’t Sid, not anymore.

In hindsight, the mirror probably didn’t deserve it, but Andrew didn’t ask questions, Jack knew he wouldn’t ask questions, he just picked the glass out of Jack’s fingers with some needle nose pliers as they sat on the bed, silently, only glancing up at Jack’s face every once in a while. He’d bandaged Jack’s hand and said, so disappointed, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Jack had maybe, probably had a few drinks, a few shots of whiskey, a few shots of anything that he could find before Andrew had shown up. Clearly, in his cloudy state-of-mind, the best way to thank Andrew for everything he’d done was to lift his bandaged hand to Andrew’s face, then leaning in to kiss him, gently at first, but more roughly as he tried not to cry. The kiss was desperate and Jack’s part, and left them both gasping for air. Jack expected Andrew’s dark eyes to be wide with surprise, but was more shocked to see Andrew looking like he’d expected it.

He took Andrew’s lack of surprise as an invitation to push Andrew down onto the bed, covering his lips with his own once more, his fingers wandering under the hem of Andrew’s Wolverines shirt. His hands roamed across the smooth, foreign skin of Andrew’s hips and stomach.

“Jack…”

He shifted to get better access to Andrew’s neck, feeling the vibrations of his voicebox as he spoke, only then realizing that Andrew was trying to tell him something.

“Jack… stop.”

He was in the process of lifting off Andrew’s shirt, when he registered what Andrew said, but only after he’d said it a third time.

“Jack, seriously,” Andrew said, pushing Jack back and pulling his shirt back down, “don’t.”

“But, I… Why?” Jack said dumbly as Andrew stood up.

Andrew shook his head. He wasn’t angry- but Andrew never got angry. Jack figured this was as close as he’d see him.

“Don’t fuck up our friendship because of Sidney Fucking Crosby. Don’t use me like that.”

Andrew began to walk to the door, bending to put his shoes on.

“Hey, Cogs, c’mon,” Jack said, standing up, “I’m not using you.”

Andrew shot him a glare- Jack was still amazed at how much Andrew could say without uttering a word.

“Fine,” Jack said, his anger picking back up. He ripped his alarm clock out of the wall socket and threw it across the room. “Fuck you. Get the fuck out, I don’t want you here.”

Andrew shook his head sadly- he was already on his way out the door.

After Andrew had left, Jack crushed his face to his pillow, slamming his fists into his mattress in frustration.

For weeks after the incident, Andrew would never be caught alone in the same room as Jack, and almost always came late to their classes together in what seemed to be an effort to avoid sitting anywhere near him. On the ice, it was more of the same- when the team would score, they said nothing to each other, Andrew making a clear statement by not going near him, by not touching him.

Time without Andrew to distract him left Jack’s head swimming with thoughts, though admittedly less of Sid and more of the quiet Italian kid from Woodbridge with whom he’d fucked things up quite royally.

After the last game of the season, a few weeks later, Jack finally managed to corner Andrew outside of the locker room, knowing that Andrew had been hanging around until everyone else had left to avoid being alone with him. Jack hated this- it wasn’t like he was going to rape him- or at least he hoped that wasn’t what Andrew was thinking. He wasn’t that crazy, not yet.

Andrew stepped out of the locker room, jumping a little as he saw Jack waiting for him. Jack could see Andrew’s eyes dart around, looking for an escape route.

“Look, Andrew, I just want to talk to you…” Jack trailed off. “I miss talking to you.” He let out a long breath before taking the plunge, “Do you want to grab a coffee?”

Andrew looked noticeably calmer, though still on edge. “…Okay.” He said after a moment’s hesitation.

The coffee shop was warmly lit and decorated with paintings from local artists. An acoustic duo played slow jazz quietly in the corner opposite from their table.

Andrew stared at the steam floating up from his latte, his fingers running up and down the sides of the mug. “So… was there something in particular that you wanted to talk about?”

Jack sighed, leaning back. “I guess I just wanted to apologize,” he ran his fingers through his hair, spiking a portion up at an odd angle, “for what I did that night. It was out of line, I was frustrated… I just should not have done it, and I’d love to blame the alcohol but I know it’s not a good excuse.”

Andrew didn’t look up, taking a slow mouthful of his coffee. After a moment, he spoke.

“I think I owe you an apology, too. I’ve been really cold these past few weeks and I guess it kind of sucks because I know you’re going through a kind of rough time. I should’ve been there for you.”

Jack laughed softly, “I would’ve told me to fuck off. You don’t need to apologize.”

Andrew smiled, still staring distantly, eyes tracing the pattern of the booth seats. They sat in silence, sipping their drinks every so often before Andrew took a deep breath.

“I guess I was just scared.”

Jack furrowed his brow, “Scared of what? I wasn’t going to rape you, or anything. I didn’t mean to come off so crazy and desperate.”

Andrew shook his head, “No, no, nothing like that. I guess I… I was just,” he tried to collect his thoughts. He looked up into Jack’s eyes. “I was scared because I wanted it but I knew that you didn’t, not really. I didn’t want our first time- our first experience together, to be like that, to be because of Crosby, with you pretty drunk, with me picking shit out of your mangled hand. It just… it wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

Andrew’s cheeks were flushed red as he finished, averting his eyes, looking anywhere but at Jack.

Jack sat dumbfounded, his mouth slightly ajar as he tried to take in what he’d just been told. Did… Andrew just told him that he liked him, right? That’s what he said?

“Look, you don’t have to say anything, because I know about the whole Crosby thing, I just thought you should know why I’ve been trying to stay away from you…” he trailed off, putting his coffee down and moved to stand up, “I’m just- I’m gonna go now.”

Jack reached out and grabbed Andrew’s arm as he stood, pulling him back down to sit. He slid his hand down Andrew’s forearm and took his hand in his own slightly larger and freshly scarred one. Andrew looked up into his eyes, searching for some sort of emotion to take a hold of.

Jack smiled warmly. “I think we should try again,” he said after a moment, “with a new, improved situation.”

Andrew grinned goofily. “You mean, you…”

Jack laughed softly and smirked, squeezing Andrew’s hand lightly. “Yea, I do.”

Andrew looked at their hands and smiled, squeezing back. “Do you wanna…”

Jack laughed and started to stand up, not letting go of Andrew’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

---
Drop a line! Let me know what you think- I know it's weird to see JJ with anyone who isn't Crosby.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-09-09T02:04:00

2008-09-09T08:20:52Z

Title: 5 Things Linus Omark Thinks He Knows About Robert Nilsson
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Robert Nilsson/Linus Omark [Edmonton Oilers/Luleå HF]
Rating: This is pretty tame. Just some swearing.
Notes: Ok,I took quite a few liberties with this one. Linus is an Oilers prospect who currently plays in Sweden and was scouted for us by Robert's father Kent. He won't be on the team for at least another year because he's still under contract in Sweden. I think they'd be great together so I made this take place a couple years down the line when I assume Linus will be playing for us. But hey, it's fiction, I can do whatever I want. It's pretty AU.
Disclaimer: Don't kid yourself, this is entirely 100% fabricated.

5 Things Linus Omark Thinks He Knows About Robert Nilsson.
2333 words.

Linus liked to think that he was a pretty smart guy. He’d paid attention in school, and he knew how to treat a muscle strain or a dislocated shoulder. And while he wasn’t exactly a nuclear physicist, he’d probably travelled enough to know a thing or two about the world. But if there was one thing that he really prided himself on, it was his limited knowledge on the enigma that was Robert Åke Nilsson.

---

First, Robert wasn’t exactly the type of guy who liked to fuck around before getting down to business- especially not when fucking around was the business, which, as Linus quickly learned, it often was.

In fact, he learned this before he learned just about anything else about Robert, aside from his name, which, admittedly, took him a little too long.

For the first minute that they spoke, Linus had been extremely irritated with this stranger in front of him, wearing tight-fitting jeans and a Team Sweden jogger. “Linus,” he’d said as Linus passed, grabbing a hold of his arm. Linus looked at him, tracking his face for recognition.

“Who are you?”

“My dad told me to come check you out,” he’d said, leaning back against the wall in the hallway to the Luleå dressing room, a smirk dancing across his lips.

Linus was exhausted, having just come off the ice from a long pre-season practice, and was not in the mood for the games that this annoying, albeit very sexy and somewhat familiar man seemed to be interested in playing. He rolled his eyes.

“Who’s your dad?”

“Kent,” he’d replied, still toying, still waiting for Linus’ thought process to kick in.

“Listen,” Linus had remarked rudely, frustrated, “is there a point to this, because I have other things to do.” He’d turned away, a shower the only thing on his mind.

A laugh had echoed through the hallway as he took a few wobbly steps, “Kent Nilsson.”

He’d stopped dead in his tracks and turned around wide-eyed. “Oh, shit,” he said, recognition washing over his face, “Robert, right? I’m so sorry, I thought you were- fuck, sorry,” he took his glove off and walked back to Robert to take his hand in a handshake. “I- could you just let me- I need to take a shower and I’ll be right out, is that okay?”

Robert had just leaned back and laughed, winking when he caught Linus’ eyes. “Take all the time you need, Linus.”

As far as Linus could remember, there wasn’t too much time in between this conversation and being on his knees in the handicapped stall of a public washroom at Coop Arena, Robert’s hand playing with his short hair, urging him on with a low growl from the back of his throat. Not too much time in between “Nice to meet you,” and “Fuck, just like that.” And for some reason, in the back of his head all he could think about was how this was probably not what Kent had in mind when he’d told his son to “check him out”.

---

Another thing was that, while Robert was definitely his father’s son and often took advantage of that fact, he hated being compared to him, and Linus could see it on Robert’s face every time it was mentioned.

Obviously, living in Sweden, even up North in Luleå or Övertorneå, Linus knew of the legendary Kent Nilsson, the legendary Magic Man and his legendary skills. Never once did he think he’d be scouted by the same man he was told bedtime stories about, and never, never did he think he’d have this kind of relationship with “Mini-Magic”, whose legend in Sweden was less about his skills and more about his lineage and his partying.

“You have to work harder.”

Linus watched discreetly from across the locker room as MacTavish spoke to Robert sternly. Robert’s usually happy face was expressionless and cold- Mac’s was that of a disappointed father.

“Your last shift tonight was forgettable. I don’t care how many goals you score or how many points you get. If you’re slacking in your defensive zone, I don’t want you on the ice. I know you’re better than that, Bobby.”

Linus frowned, ducking his head as he saw Mac start to walk away, not wanting Robert to know that he’d been watching the exchange. He held back a cringe as he heard Mac’s parting words.

“You’re just like your father, sometimes.”

Linus knew he didn’t mean it in a good way. He glanced up to see Robert’s reaction. His face that had been unresponsive throughout the entire confrontation was now decorated with tell-tale signs of anger, his brow furrowed and his teeth clenched.

Robert looked up from his skates and made eye contact with Linus, his eyes darkened with fury. Linus flushed and looked away as quickly as possible, returning to taking his equipment off. He stood up and turned to face his stall to make sure there were no more chances for their eyes to meet. Robert was always so positive and cheerful that seeing him angry just frightened him.

He removed his shoulder pads and hung them up, trying to avoid looking over his shoulder to see the other man. He froze, biting back a yelp as he felt hands unexpectedly come to rest on either side of his waist.

“We’re not going out tonight,” Robert whispered darkly in his ear.

Linus could do nothing but nod, not wanting to protest. His eyes widened as Robert’s teeth brushed against his neck.

“Instead,” Robert continued, “I’m taking you home and fucking you so hard you won’t be able to skate ‘til next week.”

The words “Because it’s something my father would never do,” hung unsaid in the air, but Linus knew what he’d meant.

---

The next thing was something that he probably should have picked up on a little faster, but something that didn’t quite click, that didn’t quite register in his mind until he got to Edmonton.

For some reason, even after that first encounter in Luleå, Linus never thought of Robert as a slut. Linus himself was confident, talented, and sexy, and why wouldn’t another confident, talented, and sexy individual want to mix with him? It was only when he reached Edmonton that he realized that Robert’s conquests extended much further than just him.

Knowing glances in the locker room, winks to players on other teams, girls in clubs who all recognized him for more than his celebrity, and subtle touches with different people that all pointed to something beyond being ‘friendly’. Linus didn’t really have a problem with this, not really, because, hey, he was all for a meaningless romp here and there, just not with the same frequency that Robert seemed to enjoy.

“No, Sammy, you can’t come.”

Linus laughed as Sam Gagner looked between the two of them, lips turned up in an accidental pout. Robert had a huge grin on his face, trying not to laugh as he winked at Linus.

“C’mon Bobby, why not?”

“Because, lite en, you’re not legal here,” Robert laughed as he clapped a hand down on Sam’s shoulder, “besides, we don’t need any wingmen, nej,” he said, glancing over at a snickering Linus. “Right, Limpan?”

Linus grinned back, shaking his head. “Nej, sorry Sam.”

“You guys could get me in though, come on. Nils, you used to get me into that one place in Vancouver all the time!” Sam complained.

Robert shook his head, “I need to spend some time with my main man, over here,” he said, sending a sideways glance in Linus’ direction.

Linus smiled coyly and felt his cheeks start to burn, hoping it didn’t show.

“You’re too good looking, anyway. All the girls will go for you instead,” Robert said with a smirk, then leaned in and whispered something low into Sam’s ear. Linus watched, flicking his tongue over his teeth, as Robert’s lips brushed against Sam’s earlobe with every word that was spoken. Sam’s pout turned into a wide grin.

“Fine,” Sam said, folding his arms as Robert leaned back. “But I’m coming when we’re back home.”

“Sure thing, Sammy,” Robert said as he turned away. He brushed his hand over Linus’ hip and started to walk, “Let’s go, Limpan, we don’t have all night.”

---

From the countless nights they spent together, and their constant bar-hopping, Linus learned that Robert Nilsson loved to go out, and he never, ever went home alone.

Be it a man or a woman, a blonde or a brunette, a fan or a fellow player, Robert always had somebody, and Linus didn't think he was particularly picky, either.

Linus watched from across the bar as Robert flirted with whoever happened to cross his path. He tried not to keep a running total of how many drinks he'd been bought in the past half-hour. This was not to say that Linus hadn't been bought drinks by a number of attractive individuals, but if he was being honest with himself, he'd admit that he was more interested in watching Robert play his game.

He knew what Robert was doing, he'd seen him do it before, and hell, he'd taught Linus how to do it himself.

He could see Robert's tongue dart out to wet his lips as he spoke- a subtle, yet failsafe way to draw attention to his perfect mouth, to make the person he was speaking to really pay attention to the movements of his lips, but maybe not so much to the words coming out of them.

He watched as Robert leaned in a little further to listen, pretending he couldn't hear- a way to really get into their space, to let them take in just how good he smells, maybe even get the scent of his hair. He looked on as Robert "accidentally" bumped their shoulders together, lifting a hand to the same spot in an apology, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary for courtesy.

Robert's eyes were always one of the most expressive things about him, and Linus could tell, even from a distance, that he was extending the time it took for him to blink, his eyelashes dusting against his cheeks, leaning a little against the bar to allow himself to look up at his prey through them to appear sexier, more mysterious.

Linus turned away momentarily, distracted by a brown-haired girl who was by all means conventionally attractive but not quite his type- not quite tall enough, Swedish enough, shoulders a little too rounded and all-in-all not quite Robert enough. After making polite small talk with her, he turned back to the place his friend had been standing before, only to see that he'd disappeared, probably gone off to the dancefloor, or maybe he’d even skipped that part and-

"Hey,"

Linus jumped at the sudden intrusion before turning to see Robert's smirking face, bent down to whisper in his ear.

"You wanna get out of here?"

Linus grinned and nodded, going along as Robert kissed his ear and took him by the hand, leading him out of the crowded club.

---

There was one thing that Linus learned about Robert, one of the only things about Robert that he so desperately wished he could change, and that was the fact that Robert was never happy with just one person.

Sadly, and quite pathetically, it was something that Linus had grown accustomed to, and something he’d learned to accept. Besides, he could still sort of have Robert almost to himself at least some of the time, or at least he could pretend.

Linus sat back on Robert’s new Ikea loveseat, rubbing his hands absently over the smooth black leather as he switched on the NHL network. They’d just returned from dinner with some of the guys, and Linus had headed straight for the couch. He could hear the clinking of glasses and the cracking of ice from the kitchen behind him, assuming Robert was fixing drinks.

“You know what I like, right?”

“Of course I do, baby,” Linus didn’t need to look at Robert to know that the sentence was accompanied by a wink and a wicked grin, but he turned his head and flashed a smile anyway. “Absolut, pride of Sweden,” Robert continued.

Linus grinned, nodding his head. “Hej, do you want to go out tonight?” Linus called as highlights from the night’s games started to play, “Meet some girls?”

“Maybe...” Robert replied in a non-committal tone.

“Well, Nicky is going to be in town tomorrow, nej? Are we going to meet up? You know, catch up?” Linus asked suggestively. He knew that Robert and Nicklas had been close after playing on the same line in the World Championships a couple years before, and Nicklas and himself had played at the World Juniors together. He found that meetings between the three of them always ended in a very enjoyable way.

“Probably, I guess,” Robert flat-lined, seemingly distracted.

Linus frowned, muting the TV as highlights from their last game started to play. “Should we invite Sammy over? He was saying earlier that-”

Robert hopped over the back of the sofa and swung his leg around Linus’ waist to straddle him, fisting his shirt in both hands, and silenced him with a hard kiss.

“Linus, would you shut up?” Robert said as he pulled back. Linus looked up at him, his blue eyes opened wide and his mouth parted in shock. Robert leaned down and pressed his lips to the other man’s once more, gentler than before. “I just want to be with you right now.”

Maybe it was the drinks he’d had at dinner, or it could just have been the effect of Robert’s lips on his neck, but Linus couldn’t quite grasp exactly what was going on.

---

The last thing that Linus really learned, lying in Robert’s bed the next morning with his arms around him, was that, thankfully, he might not know as much about Robert Åke Nilsson as he’d thought.

---

Drop a line, let me know what you think. Ask me questions about Linus!

heartandmindxx @ 2008-08-02T01:03:00

2008-08-02T07:32:28Z

Ok. I really enjoyed writing this because it wasn't like my other stories, it wasn't about my fancy word choice or trying to be poetic, it wasn't about sex or physicality, but it was really just about two boys and their relationship with eachother.

With that out of the way, lets take a further look into everything that happened in this story. In order. (If you haven't read it yet, read it FIRST. Seriously, what are you thinking?)

---

Ok, so Sam was with the World Championship team in Quebec City. That's pretty self explanitory.

Sam's Minor Midget team was the Toronto '89 Marlboros (Marlies), and he played on a team with John. This will be revisited later.

---

Sam's dad, Dave Gagner, has a company called Custom Ice inc. and they make refrigerated backyard rinks starting at about $25,000. The one Sam had in his backyard is especially famous, partially because of the company he had while playing on it.

Sam and John were best friends growing up and would spend 30-40 hours a week in Sam's backyard, playing one-on-one. Here are some articles about them.

The move John is trying to do is this one that Sam perfected and used many times in the OHL.

---

Sam and John played together on the Provincial Championship winning Toronto '89 Marlies in 2004-2005.

Sam went to the USHL Sioux City Musketeers the next year.

---

Karl Alzner and Sam played together at the World Juniors in 2007 and then at the ADT Canada/Russia Super Series in September 2007, where Sam was named series MVP. They were both Alternate Captains.

Karl was named Captain of Team Canada when the team was in Austria for camp and some exhibition games.

Sam was out of the line up on January 2nd, 3rd, and 5th of 2008, the first game as a healthy scratch and then the next two with the flu. The Oilers had declined to release him to the World Juniors team.

Team Canada became known as "the Kissing Canadians" because they frequently kissed eachother on the cheek, head, helmet, or face mask to celebrate goals, or at the end, the gold medal.

A quote from John Tavares after the kiss that started it all, when Wayne Simmonds grabbed John by the head and kissed him on the mask: "He told me if I wasn't wearing a cage," Tavares said of Simmonds, "he would have kissed me right on the lips."

Stamkos and Tavares have both admitted to holding hands on the bench in the final minute of regulation during the Gold Medal game vs. Sweden. I took that my own way.

---

The movie I had in mind was the Notebook. So sue me. "Jess" is Sam's younger sister, Jessica Gagner.

---

Power Play is Sam's new training facility in London, Ontario. The website is, fittingly, www.powerplay89.com. Cody Hodgson, Yann Sauve, and Steve Bernier all train there, as do the London Knights, who Sam is training with during the off season. The Blade Skating Treadmill is the main feature of the facility. Here is a video of Sam, Steve, Cody, and Mark Mancari (Buffalo Sabres) using the machine.

---

Patrick Lee of the Erie Otters took Sam out for a handful of games with this hit after Sam scored his 30th goal of the season. It was reported that he'd separated his shoulder and had a severe concussion, though he said he was lucky that his shoulder and his head took and equal split of the impact, or he would have had either one of them more severely injured.

John didn't have a game that night.

---

...yea, a little over-researched, but I love these boys.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-08-02T00:44:00

2008-08-02T07:03:34Z

Title: Erosion
Author:heartandmindxx/xsavedbygracex/delay_of_game
Pairing: Sam Gagner/John Tavares [Edmonton Oilers/Oshawa Generals], mentioned Sam Gagner/Patrick Kane [Chicago Blackhawks] and John Tavares/Steven Stamkos [Tampa Bay Lightning/Sarnia Sting]
Also featuring: Karl Alzner [Calgary Hitmen/Washington Capitals], Jessica Gagner [Bluewater Hawks], Dave Gagner, Cody Hodgson [Brampton Battalion/Vancouver Canucks], Yann Sauve [Saint John Sea Dogs/Vancouver Canucks] and Steve Bernier [Vancouver Canucks], with brief mention of Sergei Kostitsyn [Montreal Canadiens].
Rating: 14+, swearing and the like.
Summary: Snapshots of a relationship as it changes over time.
Notes: Christ, I think this one might be a little over-researched, but for anyone who is interested, additional/extensive notes on the story can be found HERE. The only thing you need to know before you read is that Sam has a training facility called Power Play, and it features the Blade Skating Treadmill as its main attraction.
Disclaimer: My god. I don't own anything, and while most of these events happened or had the potential for happening, I don't claim that they happened the way I say they happened... ok?

Erosion.
5025 words.

Sam was tired.

The combination of long flights (Quebec City to Montreal to Toronto to Edmonton, Edmonton to Calgary back to Toronto the next day, and who was booking these flights for him anyway? Ever heard of a direct flight?), followed by a long drive (Toronto to London, two and a half hours, maybe more because his mother insisted on driving), preceded by a long season (although somehow not quite long enough- but there’s always next year) and a long tournament (which ended in disappointment but Christ, what an experience) had left him just shy of being completely burnt-the-fuck-out.

Upon finally returning to his family’s London home, he dragged his suitcase up the stairs to his room (“Sam, you’re going to ruin the hardwood!”) and exhaustedly collapsed face-first onto his bed, passing out almost immediately.

He woke an hour later, nearly smothered in his pillow. He turned his head to the side to face the wall, taking a deep breath. He drew a hand up to rub the sleep away- he was still as fuckin’ tired as he was before he’d fallen asleep. He opened his eyes, blinking a few times as he squinted to see one of his hockey cards from minor midget tacked onto the smooth surface of the wall. He smiled to himself subconsciously. It had been vandalized hastily with almost illegible writing, the trail of the black sharpie running off the corner of the glossy card.

JT was here

---

“Hurry up, Tavares, I’m cold.” Sam whined, rubbing his hands together as he shed his cold skates on the back doorstep.

“Hang on, I need to get this move down. Just a couple more tries.” John remained on the ice, trying to thread the puck through his legs like he’d seen Sam do a half-hour before.

“It’s ok that I’m better than you, yanno. You’ll get there,” Sam said with a grin. “Seriously John, it’s freezing. I’m not taking care of you if you get hypothermia.”

“Yea, you will. It’s not so bad on the ice, anyways,” John said, nearly tripping over his stick. “Besides, what’s gonna happen if we get drafted by Buffalo or Edmonton or something? It’s way colder there.”

Sam rolled his eyes, “I’m turning off the lights in like five seconds.”

John laughed and bent over to pick up the frozen piece of black rubber. “Alright, alright. I’m coming, Mr. Impatient.”

Sam shook his head. “Cold and hungry are the two worst feelings in the world, and when they’re combined...”

“You and your stomach,” the younger of the two joked as he stepped off the ice and wobbled through the backyard to the deck. He tucked one of his gloves under his arm and bent to drag his bare finger through the snow.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothin’.”

Sam glanced over. He laughed and rolled his eyes again. “You’re such a loser.”

“But you love me anyway.” John grinned as he continued to the door and sat to unlace his skates.

“Yea, you’re a lucky guy.”

---

Sam rolled onto his back and pulled out his cellphone, flipping it open. He scrolled down to the desired number and put his finger lightly over the ‘select’ button, deliberating his next move (risk vs. reward?). Finally, he sighed and began to tap away at the keys.

guess where i am

He held his breath, waiting for a reply. At this point, he didn’t know if one would come. After a few moments, his phone buzzed an alert.

how mny guesses

Sam gave a sigh of relief and typed in a 3 before hitting send. He stretched his body out, cracking his back and neck and closed his eyes for a few moments waiting for the next message.

get ur ass ovr here

Sam smiled in spite of himself, then yawned, im tired, then before a reply could come, fine.

---

“Fuck, I’m tired.” John said as he flopped down on Sam’s bed, his 14-year-old stomach full of pizza and coke, and half a Canadian that Sam swiped out of the fridge for them to share.

Sam threw his gear on the floor and laughed, still gripping his plaque in one hand. He jumped onto the bed, landing half on John who groaned and pushed him off, rolling towards the wall. “Yea, but we’re winners.”

John rolled back to face Sam and propped himself up on his elbow. “That’s never gonna get old, is it.”

“Never.” Sam ruffled his best friend’s thick brown locks and kissed him on the top of the head. “Fuckin’, never. Let’s keep doing this, ok?”

“But we won’t be on the same team anymore. I’m going to have to kick your ass.” John said, looking up at Sam.

“In your dreams, Tavares.”

“Like you’d be in my dreams.”

“Only every night, baby,” Sam said playfully, tickling John right under the ribs. John flailed, knocking his head off the wall and kicking Sam in the knee, curling into the fetal position in an attempt to escape the torture. After a few minutes of wrestling, they found themselves sprawled out on the bed, overlapping and tangling.

“Now I’m tired and my head hurts.” John complained, rubbing his palm over the tender spot on his head.

“Poor kid,” Sam teased. He leaned over and kissed the spot, patting it after. “All better, yea?”

John closed his eyes, “I should get a new best friend.”

“Hey, you know I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt you,” Sam said, plopping down to use John’s bicep as a pillow.

“A less abusive best friend.” After a pause, “yea, I know.”

“I mean it. I’m never going to let anyone get to you, no one is ever gonna touch you,” Sam said, seriously.

“You’ve never been in a fight in your life.”

“I fought James what’s-his-name in grade 5.”

“Doesn’t count. You lost, anyway. Might as well ignore that one.” John said with a crooked grin. He took a deep breath. “Thanks, though... I like that about you.”

“You like what?”

“That you’re really my best friend,” John said after a moment, “like, really.”

---

They hadn’t talked all that much since the World Juniors, when Sam called to congratulate everyone (No matter how weird of a feeling it was, not playing with them. 6 months before, he’d fully expected to be there, but he was playing in the Show now, and juniors seemed a long ways away). He’d been wearing his old Team Canada jersey all day and the guys had seemed happy to talk to him.

It had been an awkward conversation (to the say the least) and it hadn’t ended well (“Yea, well... hello? Hello? John?”). Sam figured they were good enough friends (friends?) at this point that they could deal with it without talking about it (ever, ever again).

“Hey mom, going to Oakville,” Sam called out as he jumped down the stairs two at a time, grabbing his keys off the ledge next to the door.

“Drive safely, dear.”

---

hey captn canada, congrats Sam texted from his Vancouver hotel room

i feel like it should b u, Karl texted back, a world away, thx tho.

shut up u deserve it Sam scolded his ever-modest friend. They’d become close at the tournament the year before, and had been reunited at the Super Series that summer as Alternate Captains.

k but u have 2 help me

do not

Then, to John: hope ur having fun in austria

To Karl: take care of jt

To John: but not 2 much fun

From Karl: john can take care of himself

From John: cant b 2 much fun if ur not here

To Karl: well at least look out 4 him

To John: miss u, good luck

From Karl: u worry 2 much

From John: miss u 2

To Karl: i know

To John: i know

Early January was not kind to Sam- he had to watch the Juniors play without him, and he had to watch the Oilers play without him, too, as a healthy scratch. Then, with the flu.

Not to mention, he had to watch John Tavares get kissed by a bunch of guys (some he knew and some he didn’t) on TV.

It’s not like he and John were Dating (capital D), but maybe they were sort of kind of maybe dating (lowercase d) (sort of, kind of, maybe). They had what Sam figured to be some sort of unspoken bond, some kind of relationship without labels, but maybe John didn’t see it the same way.

tell the guys how it gets windier as u go higher up the mountain but the view will b worth it Sam sent the day of the Semi-Finals.

hey do u no about jt and stammer was all that was sent back.

...no what

I dunno but they seem like i dunno

like what kar

like there holding hands alot n stuff

stuff?

i dunno

i guess its rly not my bis

but rnt u guys like...

i dunno

well what about pat

...i dunno

---

Sam drove through London, down familiar streets and past familiar landmarks. Places where he’d spent a lot of time with friends, on dates, on dates with friends. Past the theatre where he’d had his first kiss (with John) and received his first blowjob (with Patrick), and the rink where he, Patrick, and Sergei had lit up the OHL on so many nights the season before.

If the World Juniors didn’t end his relationship with John, it did something, and who knew if things could go back to the way they had been, before bigger and better (or, smaller and a little more obnoxious) things had gotten in the way.

Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, trying to keep his eyes on the road.

r u here yet

Sam smiled to himself and switched on the radio.

soon

---

“Jesus, Sam, could you have picked a sadder movie?” John said, shoving his hands in his pockets as they stepped out into the night air.

“Well I didn’t know, Jess said it was good,” Sam said, looking up at the stars. He looked over at his companion, “...John? Are you crying?”

John blinked harshly and shook his head. “No man, it was just that guy with the cigarette.”

“What guy? Nobody was-”

“Shut up. It kinda makes me want a summer romance, you know?” John said dreamily.

Sam laughed, “hey buddy, you goin’ soft on me?” he said, pushing him lightly.

John brushed his hand away and stopped walking. Sam walked a few more steps before stopping and turning around. “C’mon, John, I have to get you home.”

John took his hands out of his pockets and took a step towards Sam. He took his hand into his own, already larger one, staring at it for a moment as if trying to decide what to do next.

“...John?” Sam said, taking a grip on John’s hand. John raised his head and met Sam’s eyes, then closed the distance between them and kissed him gently on the lips.

“...Oh,” was all Sam said before he broke out into a shit-eating-grin.

---

An hour and a half later, Sam pulled up into the driveway of the Tavares household, only a minute or two from his old place. He wondered absently if the (now famous) backyard rink (of dreams) was still there.

He got out of the car and trotted up the steps to the front door, taking a deep breath before pressing the bell. From inside, he could hear heavy steps stampeding down the staircase and through the house (the kid always had a habit of walking like an elephant).

Sam smiled as the door swung open and there he was, John Tavares, all 6 feet of his 17-year-old wonder-boy frame, with a crooked smile plastered onto his face.

“Hey,” he said as he stepped out of the house and onto the doorstep with Sam, “it’s good to see you.”

“Yea,” Sam said, smiling back, “you too.”

Sam stood on the front porch of John’s house, quietly freaking out at the fact that this was definitely not the way that best friends (friends?) normally greeted each other. In an effort to stave off the awkwardness, he wrapped an arm around John’s body in what turned out to be the most awkward hug he’d ever experienced.

Things had changed.

---

“What was that?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow as they stepped into the house.

“What was what?” John replied, throwing his bag to the side.

“That handshake. What kind of greeting is that?” Sam said, grabbing John’s hand as he was walking towards the kitchen.

“I dunno,” John shrugged, “all the guys were there.”

Sam dropped John’s hand, offended. “You won’t even give your best friend a hug when ‘the guys’ are around?” He folded his arms, “they don’t need to know any more than that. I come all this way to see you, and you shake my hand? I could be somewhere else right now.”

“Who else would want you?” John laughed and pulled Sam in by his slim hips, “besides, you’re needed here.”

Sam leaned back from the waist up, “doesn’t feel like it.”

John moved his hands up Sam’s back and pulled him back, “Sam, it’s not like I’m ashamed of you.” He leaned forward to peck him lightly on the lips. “I just don’t know what you want us to be. In front of other people.”

Sam smiled coyly, “I want you to not be afraid to hug me,” he said, fitting his arms around John’s waist, “I want you to not be afraid to hug me, or touch me,” he leaned in closer, their faces just centimetres apart, his eyes falling to John’s lips, “...no matter where we are.”

John smiled warmly, “I think m’okay with that.”

Sam closed the distance between them.

---

John led Sam to the familiar Tavares living room, where he had a game of NHL 08 on pause. They jumped over the back of the couch like it was a line change and each grabbed a controller, Sam turning his on and switching himself into the game.

“Way to run up the score on me before I even get here,” Sam said jokingly, noting the lopsided score on the screen (John’s Oshawa Generals super-team versus a very weakly created London Knights team).

John laughed but was already absorbed in the game.

They played for a while, quiet except for the occasional whoop or dejected groan (“That’s a big goal! A Big. Goal.”). Eventually, Sam cleared his throat and dropped the bomb.

“So, how’s Steven?” He said, sounding a lot more accusatory than he’d planned.

“How’s Kane?” John replied without missing a beat.

Sam huffed, “at least you knew about Pat.”

John rolled his eyes, still focused on the game, “the entire NHL knows about you and him.”

---

Sam and Patrick leaned against each other as they walked through the parking lot after a win against the Generals, joking and laughing loudly. Sam’s eyes were focused on the boy beside him as if he’d hung the moon.

Patrick was different than anyone he’d ever met, not only as a hockey player, but as a person, too. He was confident to the point of cockiness and brash to the point of rudeness, though he never seemed to cross any lines. No matter what kind of shit he pulled, it always seemed to be viewed as an endearing feature about him. Everyone loved Patrick Kane, and everybody wanted a piece of him.

Patrick laughed back at Sam, his vibrant smile cutting through the darkening night. Patrick turned his head to face the car they were headed to, his smile dropping slightly at the figure leaned up against it. He slowed his step, his laughter fading to a breath.

Sam looked to see what had caused the reaction, his own laughter being cut off short. Patrick stopped walking as Sam stepped closer to approach the figure.

“Hey, John,” he said with a smile, “good game, it’s good to see you.”

“Yea,” John flatlined, “you too.”

Sam frowned, “what’s wrong?”

John said nothing, though his eyes darted to the boy behind Sam.

Sam lowered his voice, taking a hold of John’s hand. “Look, Johnny, I wanted to tell you...”

John looked into Sam’s eyes, coldly. “Tell me what?”

Then, as smoothly as if he were still on the ice, John rolled off the car and walked briskly away into the night.

---

Sam paused the game and tossed away his controller.

“Look, you know it was always you first and everyone else second,” he snapped, “you knew that.”

John huffed, “yea, that’s what it always felt like.”

“You were my best friend,” Sam said, frustrated, “you are my best friend. I told you everything, from the start.”

“Except for that,” John said quietly.

“I didn’t tell you that because it was nothing. It’s still nothing!” Sam said, his voice rising.

---

Sam pressed his ear to the phone, listening to the ring for the umpteenth time.

“Hey, this is JT. If I’m not picking up, it’s probably for a reason. Leave a message.”

“John, it’s me again. I need to talk to you. Call me, text me, fuckin’ answer your phone. If you’re screening my calls, just pick up. Please.”

He snapped his phone shut again, exasperated. “This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, flipping his phone open again and pressing the redial button.

The phone rang four times, and he prepared himself to leave another message. He’d flood the inbox if he needed to.

“What.”

“John? Hey! You answered.”

“What do you want, Sam?”

Sam sighed, “I just need to talk to you about the other night.”

“What about it.”

“About me and Patrick, listen, we’re just friends.”

“So are we. What does that matter to me?”

Sam took a deep breath, “That’s the thing, though. To me, we’re not just friends. We’re best friends, we’re more than best friends,” a sort of strangled pause, “a lot more.”

“...What are you saying.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I guess I’m saying I...” Sam trailed off as he hesitated, “I guess I kind of, you know...”

---

“Nothing is ever nothing with you,” John said, rubbing his eyes, “it’s always something and you just pretend it’s nothing. “

“Not with you!” Sam exclaimed, “What, you think I don’t care?” He shook his head, “you think I don’t... you think I don’t love you?”

John became almost offended. “You don’t know. You don’t know anything.” He gritted his teeth. “I’m fucking seventeen years old and I know more about love than you do.”

“What are-”

“No, Sam, listen to me,” John said, turning to look at Sam, his dark eyes burning, “if you think love is fucking around with your best friend and whatever other fucking guy or girl or whoever shows any interest, if you think that’s love, then I feel sorry for you.”

“That’s not what it’s like, John,” Sam said, his voice lowering, “it’s not like that at all.”

“Well, from here, that’s a lot what it’s like,” John said darkly, dropping his eyes, his one hand clenching around his controller tightly.

“You’re wrong,” Sam said abruptly, “you’re just wrong. You’re my best friend and I love you. More than anything. More than Stamkos ever could, more than anyone ever could.” He reached his arm out to touch John’s arm lightly, “I need you, ok? As anything. I won’t lose you to anyone.”

John turned sharply, jerking away from Sam’s touch. His jaw set and his eyes narrowed, he said in a near growl, “well, maybe I don’t need you.”

Sam withdrew his hand, leaning back in shock. His features softened and he nodded, then stood up and walked to the door, leaving without another word.

---

“Hello?”

“Hey, John! Congratulations!”

“Fuck, Sam, this is the best feeling in the world. You have no idea how awesome this is.”

Sam laughed. “Actually, I do. I was there last year, remember?”

“Yea, yea, whatever-” John broke off his sentence to let out a loud whoop with whoever it was that was passing him at that moment, “so how’s Edmonton?” he asked almost hesitantly, “I hear you haven’t been playing lately. You sick?”

“Yea, well, I got scratched and then I got sick, so yea. Not the best time down here. I’m playing tonight though, finally. Hopefully I can get back into it alright.”

“Yea, Sam, that’s really good.”

Sam smiled, listening to the celebration that was going on in the background. “Listen, I’ll let you get back to the guys but there’s something I gotta ask you first.”

“Yea, what’s that?” John said, the noise in the background dimming. Sam figured he’d stepped out of the room for a moment.

“I’ve been talking to Karl and he says...” he paused, debating how to word his next sentence, “he said you and Stammer have a thing going on.”

John was quiet. “So?”

“Well, is it true?”

“It might be,” John started to grow irritated, “what does it matter?”

“Well, I’d like to know who my boyfriend has on the side,” Sam said, finding the conversation getting out of hand.

“I’m your boyfriend now? I wasn’t aware of that,” John scoffed. “What does Kane think about that?”

“If you’re not that, you’re my best friend, I think I deserve to know!” Sam exclaimed, his hands clenching.

“That’s what you think, is it?” John said angrily.

“Yea, it is. And for the last time, Patrick and I are just friends!”

“Yea, you keep telling me that.”

“Yea, well... hello?” Sam said as he heard the line go dead, “Hello? John?”

---

Sam leaned back in his chair in the office at Power Play. It had been almost three weeks (17 days, 2 hours, 31 minutes...) since he’d last seen or talked to John. This was the longest he’d gone without talking to him since they were kids, when Sam’s dad had taken the whole family on a Florida vacation (did it count as a vacation if Sam still remembered living there?) and they hadn’t been able to talk for a whole 25 days, before the internet and cell phones ruled their lives. Even when Sam made the team in Edmonton, for good, they still talked once a week for the whole season, just to check up on each other. They never forgot.

I should be training right now, Sam thought, running his hand through his hair. He could hear the Blade treadmill working a few rooms down, its loud motor drowning out the yelling of the trainer and the numerous players that were taking turns using it.

Sam hadn’t had his heart in anything in the last couple weeks, not since he left it on the couch in John’s house. Nothing felt right, knowing that John was mad at him, knowing that John didn’t want to talk to him (possibly ever, if his consistency in refusing to answer his phone said anything about that).

The thing, Sam had realized, was that he really did sort of love John Tavares, and they were just kids, but Sam had already fucked up so many things throughout the course of their relationship (friends?) that he wasn’t sure if it really counted anymore at all.

Patrick had called earlier in the week (“Hey Sam, listen, I’m going to be in London later this month...”), all sly comments and innuendos, and Sam had felt so guilty even talking to him that he’d faked an excuse and hung up the phone (“Hey, that’s great dude, but, I gotta- there’s this thing, I gotta go.”)

Sam closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, taking a deep breath. He slid his hands off, pulling down his features almost comically, before standing up and stepping out of the office to get some work done.

He walked through the main part of the gym to the Blade area, observing as Cody and Yann took turns, noticing Steve Bernier standing off to the side. They nodded at each other in acknowledgement, then continued to analyze the stride and strength of the young players.

Sam was in a daze, his body focused on the scene in front of him but only one thing on his mind.

”Maybe I don’t need you.”

He didn’t think there was anything else John could have said that would have hurt more. Their relationship, ever since they were kids, was always based on the fact that they had a mutual dependence on each other. Sam had felt the need to protect John ever since he’d met him- older and wiser, though, as time passed John needed less and less protection, his body growing up and filling out.

Sam always wanted to be there for John (alwaysalwaysalwaysalways) and in his head he’d thought that John would always need him to be there. Life without John just didn’t exist. It wasn’t even an option. John was a full-time job and there was no way he was going to join the ranks of unemployment.

He was snapped out of his trance by his sister tapping him on the shoulder. He turned his head to look at her.

“Hey, Jess, what’s up?”

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said, a smile playing on her face.

---

”Hey buddy,”

Sam opened his eyes to see (three, maybe four versions of) his father peering over him. “How are you feeling?”

He tried to shift his position, wincing, “Hurts.”

“Well kiddo, that’s to be expected. That was quite a hit you took,” his dad said, patting him on his good shoulder and ruffling his hair. “You have a visitor, I’ll bring him in.”

Sam nodded and closed his eyes.

He found himself drifting off almost instantly, feeling the effect of the pain meds. Things had begun to fade as the door was swung open and an obnoxiously loud 16-year-old barged into the hospital room.

“Sam? Holy shit, Sam, are you ok?” John said, at his bedside in a second flat, “I’ll kill that motherfucker.”

Sam laughed, opening his eyes slowly, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came as soon as I saw. Was watching the game. Didn’t have a game tonight. Are you ok? What hurts? What did the doctor say?” John said, talking a mile a minute.

Sam closed his eyes in pain, “you’re talking way too fast. I don’t even know what happened.”

“You scored, your 30th, congratulations by the way, and that fucker Patrick fucking Lee gave you a late hit and you went pretty hard into the boards,” John said, brushing Sam’s hair off of his face.”You don’t remember? You went off on a stretcher, I was so scared.”

Sam opened his eyes, smiling weakly. “That explains the concussion, then.”

John was furious. “He gave you a concussion!? Now I’m really gonna kill him.”

Sam sighed. “I think I heard that my shoulder could be separated, too. It hurts a lot.”

John manoeuvred himself onto the bed with Sam. “Seriously, he’d better watch his fuckin’ back next time he plays us.”

Sam scooted over, clenching his teeth at the pain. “Well,” he said, leaning his head on John’s broad shoulder, “at least you’re here now.”

“Yea, I’m here. Just rest, don’t worry. I’ll still be here.” John kissed the older boy on the top of the head, mumbling into his hair, “I’ll always be here.”

---

Sam turned around fully, his breath hitching as John fucking Tavares stepped out from behind the corner.

“...John.”

Sam had planned a speech for the next time he’d see John (“Dear John. I understand that I am in the wrong and I sincerely apologize for my actions, and would you please, please please holy fucking please take me back seriously I’ll never hurt you again ever ever ever it’ll be me and you and that’s it until the end of time and oh my god John I love you, please...”) but he’d assumed that it would be on his own terms. John wasn’t supposed to come to him, he was supposed to be prepared for their next meeting, he was supposed to have some sort of romantic scheme to sweep John off his feet and into his arms and oh, God, what the hell was he doing here?

“Hey, Sam,” John said quietly, neither of them making any move to step closer to each other.

Sam looked John up and down, almost surprised at how little he’d changed in the last two and a half weeks, as if he’d expected him to be completely different post-fight, post-Sam.

John looked around, bringing his hand up to scratch the back of his head. “Nice place.”

“Um, thanks.”

They stood in an awkward silence for what seemed, to Sam, like an eternity (one Mississippi, two Mississippi...). Suddenly, John shook his head, ending what appeared to be an internal battle, and stepped quickly towards Sam.

For a second, Sam was sure that John was going to hit him.

Instead, John placed one hand on Sam’s hip and the other on his cheek and pulled him in for a deep, earth-shattering kiss, his eyes clenched shut as Sam’s were wide open in shock. Once the initial surprise wore off, Sam relaxed, bringing one hand up to John’s shoulder.

When they broke apart, Sam’s heart racing, he snapped back into reality to feel the eyes of Cody, Yann, half the London Knights, his sister, and Steve Bernier (and, oh my God, was that his dad who had just walked in?) all on him and the boy in front of him.

Sam looked like he was having a heart attack, while John gave him a calm smile.

“I changed my mind,” he whispered, their foreheads touching lightly, “I think I do need you.”

Sam smiled gleefully, barely able to suppress tears of joy. Yea, things had changed.

But maybe not everything.

-----

Please, drop a line or two, it would make me really, really happy.

heartandmindxx @ 2008-05-04T02:00:00

2008-05-04T08:11:53Z

Title: Hattrick
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews/Sam Gagner
Rating: NC-17, for reals.
Summary: After the last game of the season for the Chicago Blackhawks.
Disclaimer: Yea, I wish.

Hattrick.
2694 words.

The last game of the season. Detroit Red Wings. 4-1 Loss. A fitting end to what so many saw as another failed season.

Patrick sighed as he stepped off the ice. It wasn’t so bad. You’d be hard pressed to find someone who would argue against the fact that the Blackhawks were on the upswing. They’d brought the fans back. They were the renaissance. Things looked good for him, too. He’d officially won the rookie scoring title, and finished with over 20 goals. The way he saw it, the fans had a lot to look forward to. There was plenty of time for playoffs and cup wins.

As he entered the dressing room, he felt a gloved hand run down his back to rest on his ass. A light squeeze. A whisper in his ear:

“I’ve got a surprise for you when we get back to the hotel.”

Ah, yes. And there was Jonny.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder to see Jonathan, his lips turned up in a mischievous grin. “Mr. Scoring Leader,” Jonny added, winking slyly and turning to his stall.

Patrick smiled widely and hurried to undress.

Yea, things were looking pretty good.

--

Patrick scrambled to put his keycard in the slot of his hotel room door- a task that would have been much easier had his boyfriend not been nipping and teasing at his neck while his hand groped him through the front of his suit pants.

“Hurry up.”

“I’m- Christ- I’m trying,” Patrick stammered as Jonathan ground his hips into Patrick’s ass. Finally the light turned green and he swung the door open. Jonathan immediately slammed him against the wall, kicking the door shut, and attacked Patrick’s lips with his own. Patrick opened his mouth to Jonathan’s tongue without hesitation as he gripped at the taller boy’s shirt.

Jonny’s hands rose up, one to cup Patrick’s cheek as the other tangled in his curly hair, tugging lightly. Patrick moaned into his lover’s mouth, his hands moving down to unbuckle Jonathan’s belt. Once the belt was unfastened he moved to take off Jonathan’s suit jacket, attempting to slip it off his shoulders, but Jonathan had other ideas.

Patrick tugged at Jonny’s bottom lip with his teeth as he pulled away, leaving Patrick with a somewhat stunned look on his face.

“What-”

Jonathan raised a finger to Patrick’s lips. “Shh,” he whispered as he leaned forward to kiss Patrick gently, “wait here.”

And with that, Jonathan left Patrick panting against the wall and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Patrick composed himself and sighed, then went to sit on the bed. He kicked off his shoes and undid his tie, slipped off his jacket, and opened a couple buttons at the top of his shirt. As much as he loved surprises, that kind of teasing was just uncalled for.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait for long as the bathroom door soon reopened. Patrick was almost giddy at the thought of what Jonathan could possibly have planned.

His heart began to race as Jonathan stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a full police uniform, complete with aviator sunglasses. His shirt was halfway undone, revealing his toned chest, and Patrick knew there was no way a cop could ever get away with pants that tight.

“My God, Jonny...” Patrick whispered, leaning back.

“You have the right to remain sexy.” Jonathan said, biting back laughter. Patrick’s smile was starting to hurt his cheeks.

Jonathan regained his composure and fell back into character. “Alright. Against the wall,” he said gruffly, grabbing Patrick roughly and jerking him towards the wall. “Spread ‘em.”

Patrick gleefully outstretched his arms to place his palms against the wall, and spread his legs open. Jonathan came up behind him and began to run his hands sensually along Patrick’s arms, tickling at his neck and massaging his tight shoulders. He reached around Patrick to unbutton his shirt from behind, slipping his hands through the opening, his fingers roaming across Patrick’s bare skin.

Patrick shuddered as Jonathan’s hands brushed across his nipples, one hand stopping to tweak at the sensitive skin as the other continued to move down his smooth stomach, fingers dancing along the waistband of his pants. He undid Patrick’s belt and slid it out of the loops, cracking it against the wall like a whip.

“Jonny, I-” Patrick started, but Jonathan quickly cut him off.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” Jonathan whispered into Patrick’s ear, his tongue flicking out to touch his ear lobe. He kissed down Patrick’s neck as he slid his open shirt off his shoulders, throwing it into a corner of the room. He kissed a trail down Patrick’s back as he sunk to his knees. A chill ran down Patrick’s spine with every touch of Jonathan’s lips.

Jonathan ran his hands down the sides of Patrick’s legs to his ankles. He rubbed at each one, as if checking for weapons hidden in his socks, and continued to stroke up Patrick’s calves, then up to his thigh. His hands worked skilfully as he trailed his hands up and down Patrick’s ass and thighs, making sure not to touch Patrick’s growing erection.

After what seemed to Patrick like an eternity of teasing, one of Jonathan’s hands moved to cup him through his pants.

“Uh oh,” Jonathan said grimly. Patrick turned his head to look behind him at Jonny, who stood up and took a step back. He pressed a button on a two-way radio near his shoulder that

Patrick hadn’t noticed before and spoke into it.

“This is 019 calling for immediate back up, 089 do you copy? I’ve found a package. Over.”

A crackling voice came over the radio. Patrick hadn’t even thought it was real.

“019, this is 089. Copy that, I’m on my way. Over.”

Almost instantly, there was a knock at the hotel room door. Patrick stood still against the wall, not sure exactly what was going on, but more excited than he’d ever been in his entire life.

Jonathan smirked and walked over to the door and opened it.

Patrick’s mouth dropped open.

“Sam?”

“Officer Gagner, glad you could make it,” Jonathan said, pulling Sam in for a quick kiss on the cheek. Patrick watched as their eyes met and Sam smiled with that grin that was so familiar to him before leaning in to kiss Jonathan more fully on the lips. Patrick watched as Jonny’s mouth opened, their tongues becoming visible between their lips. Patrick moaned, one hand reaching down to unzip his pants. This had to be the best thing he’d ever had the pleasure of viewing.

“It’s been too long, Officer Toews,” Sam said quietly as he pulled away. “What’s the situation?” He said, clad in the same outfit that Jonathan wore, as he peered at Patrick over his own dark aviators. He sent him a wink, and Patrick had to stop his knees from buckling. The power that Sam still had over him was incredible.

“Well, he definitely wasn’t resisting arrest,” Jonathan said as he walked over to Patrick, “but he’s been shooting all season long and has become quite a threat,” he jerked Patrick’s pants down and reached around to grab at his crotch, “and he’s got a potentially dangerous package that needs to be taken care of.”

Sam smirked and removed his sunglasses, tossing them across the room. “Well, let me have a look.” He walked over and grabbed Patrick by the shoulders and spun him around, then slammed him against the wall. He took Patrick by the back of the head and crashed their lips together, kissing him hungrily. Patrick moaned loudly, throwing his head back from the kiss as Sam’s nimble fingers reached down to stroke Patrick through his boxers. Sam bent his head to suck at Patrick’s exposed throat as he slid down Patrick’s body to kneel before him.

“Ok. I’m going in.” Sam said, looking back at Jonathan and nodding his head before glancing back up to Patrick.

Patrick’s head was still thrown back in arousal and his knees were shaking, his hands and arms braced tightly against the wall. Sam grinned to himself and pulled down Patrick’s boxers, exposing his now painfully hard cock. Sam wasted no time in going to work.

Patrick remembered from their days in Junior that Sam’s skill with his tongue had matched the skill of his hands with the puck- and he realized now that as Sam’s skill on the ice had grown, so had his other skillset. He could only wonder who he’d been practicing with now. Sam started by licking a trail from the base of Patrick’s cock to the tip, where he swirled his tongue before taking the head into his mouth. Patrick cried out in pleasure as he sucked gently, his cheeks hollowing.

“Tell me how it feels,” Patrick heard Jonathan say, causing his eyes to shoot open in realization that he’d almost forgotten Jonny was in the room with him. It was like every time Sam entered a room, he was all Patrick could focus on- and he was pretty sure Jonathan was aware of this fact. He saw Jonathan leaning back on the bed, his shirt now unbuttoned all the way- Patrick couldn’t tell where his pants had gone.

“It’s- you wouldn’t- Christ- you wouldn’t believe how good-” Patrick said, struggling to find his words.

“Oh, believe me,” Jonathan laughed, “I know.”

Patrick looked at Jonathan, confused. Jonathan laughed again.

“Let’s just say that in Canada, we pay our dues when we make it to World Juniors teams at 17,” he said, reaching forward to ruffle Sam’s hair. Sam laughed around Patrick’s cock, the vibrations causing Patrick to groan loudly once more. “I’m sure Cogs knows what I’m talking about, eh Sam?”

Sam just rolled his eyes and started to deep throat, gripping Patrick’s hip with one hand and cupping his balls with the other. Patrick began to gasp audibly, his arms almost flailing against the wall for something to hold on to.

“Oh my god, Sam,” Patrick cried out as one of his hands finally settled in Sam’s hair, “I’m going to- oh, fuck.” With a few more thrusts into Sam’s mouth, he came hard, crying out his former lover’s name. Sam swallowed everything Patrick gave him with ease, licking his lips as he rose to his feet. He kissed Patrick’s panting mouth tenderly.

Patrick took a deep breath and sighed contentedly, his head resting back on the wall as he regained his composure. “I should win the rookie scoring race more often,” he said, looking at Jonny under half-lidded eyes.

Jonathan just laughed and shook his head. “You’re crazy if you think we’ve finished with you.”

Patrick grinned excitedly and mentally prepared himself for round two. Sam smirked as he started to undress.

Jonny stood up, his now fully-erect cock bobbing up against his stomach. He started to walk towards Patrick, slowing slightly to drag a hand across Sam’s exposed shoulder blades, kissing him softly on the back of the neck. He leaned in to whisper something into Sam’s ear. Patrick watched as Sam’s smile grew as he turned his head to Jonny and nodded vehemently. Sam then went to lie down on the other bed, propping himself up with one elbow as he stroked himself lazily with the other.

Jonny stepped towards Patrick and placed his hands on his boyfriend’s slender hips. He leaned in to kiss Patrick deeply, his tongue granted immediate access to the familiar mouth. He broke away and growled into Patrick’s ear.

“Tell me how much you want me,” he said as his hand slipped down between Patrick’s legs, coaxing his dick back into hardness.

Patrick gasped at the touch, “...M-more than anything.”

“More than the Calder trophy?” Jonny said, starting to nip at Patrick’s jaw.

Patrick moaned softly, “yes, anything.”

Jonny smirked. “On the bed. All fours.”

Patrick scrambled to get onto the bed like Jonny had demanded, glancing quickly at Sam, who gave him another wink. He grinned from ear to ear and waited as Jonathan prepared himself, grabbing a condom and lube from the top of the dresser.

Finally, he felt Jonny kneel behind him, his fingers teasing at Patrick’s entrance. He gasped as Jonathan pushed the first finger in, then a second in immediate succession. He scissored inside of Patrick before adding a third finger, and Patrick had had enough.

“F-fuck Jonny, please!”

“I wouldn’t make you beg,” Jonathan said with a chuckle, removing his fingers before positioning himself at Patrick’s ass, and pushed in, slowly at first, until he was buried to the hilt. Patrick groaned loudly, urging Jonathan to continue.

Jonny pulled his hips back slowly before slamming back into Patrick, then started to build up a steady pace. He thrusted into Patrick, testing out different angles, before finally nailing Patrick’s spot, drawing a scream of a moan from the young forward.

“Fucking Christ, right there,” Patrick exclaimed breathily, throwing his head back. Jonathan continued to pound into Patrick’s prostate, their grunts and moans filling the dimly lit room. Patrick caught sight of Sam out of the corner of his eye, his head dipped low as one hand pumped around his cock in time with Jonathan’s thrusts, the other buried three fingers deep in his ass.

Just as Patrick’s hand flew to his throbbing dick, Jonathan pulled out and got off the bed. “Mother of fuck, Jonny-” Patrick began to protest, turning his head towards where Jonathan now stood. But his eyes lit up when he understood what was going on.

“I think we all know how bad Sam wants your cock right now,” Jonathan said as he kissed Sam on the throat, tossing a condom packet in Patrick’s direction, “and who are we to deny the player fifth in rookie scoring?”

“Mmm...” Sam hummed, “it’s still not as good as third,” he said as he pulled Jonny in for a hard kiss. He pulled away and got onto the bed with Patrick. “And I consider it an honour to be fucked by the first.”

Patrick grinned as Sam lay down on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows and turning his head back to look at Patrick the best he could. “Fuck me good and hard, Patrick, I’ve been waiting all damn season for this.”

Patrick wasted no time in obeying Sam’s command, pushing in roughly. They both moaned loudly at the sudden feeling of pleasure.

“God, I’ve missed your ass,” Patrick commented as he started to build up a rhythm.

“I missed your- your... oh God.” Sam said through gasping breaths, his eyes wired shut. “Jesus mother-fucking shit-fuck...”

“That’s quite the mouth you’ve got there, Gagner,” Jonny laughed as he joined them on the bed, shifting into a comfortable position in front of Sam’s face, “now let’s see you put it to good use.”

Sam eagerly took Jonny’s waiting cock into his mouth and began to bob up and down. Jonathan moaned and tangled his fingers into Sam’s unruly hair. Patrick dipped his head low, panting, and wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist to fist his fingers around Sam’s dick.

It did not take long for the three of them to be brought to the edge, starting with Jonny who removed his hand from Sam’s hair and began to claw at the bed sheets.

“God, Sam, you’re- I’m gonna-” he managed before coming hard down Sam’s throat. Sam swallowed it all with ease as Jonny collapsed against the headboard.

It seemed like a chain reaction as the sight caused Patrick’s rhythm to become sloppy and uneven, and with a few final thrusts and a few mumbled expletives, he emptied into the condom, riding out his orgasm in Sam’s ass. Completely spent, he focused his efforts on Sam, jerking him off hard until Sam came with a loud groan, spilling over the hotel bed sheets.

As they all collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed, curling in to one another, Patrick laughed airily and sighed.

“And here was me thinking none of us scored a hattrick this year.”

---
Drop a line!

heartandmindxx @ 2008-01-28T23:18:00

2008-01-29T06:23:12Z

Title: NHL 08
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Sam Gagner/Patrick Kane[Edmonton Oilers/Chicago Blackhawks]
Rating: PG, for an innuendo.
Summary: The boys play NHL 08.
Disclaimer: Sadly, these boys own themselves... and EA Sports owns NHL 08.

NHL 08.
132 words.

“Fuck,” Patrick curses, “get out of my end.”

Sam flicks his controller, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration. He smiles triumphantly and pumps his fist in the air as his Horcoff slides the puck past Patrick’s Khabibulin. Patrick leans back, tossing his controller down, defeated. Stupid overtime.

Sam laughs. “I win, again.”

Patrick waves his hand at him, a gesture that says ‘fluke’- just like all the other times.

“Pfft…” Sam says as he hits the ‘rematch’ selection, “get used to it.”

Patrick laughs and shakes his head, preparing himself for the next bout.

“Besides,” Sam says, glancing over at the teenager next to him, “you love it when I’m in your end.”

Patrick blushes furiously and sinks further down in his seat. Sam grins to himself, victorious again.

---
Drop a line.
(Sorry to the people who expect bandslash from me, but you won't be getting it for a while =P)

heartandmindxx @ 2007-09-19T21:57:00

2007-09-20T04:39:34Z

Title: Blood & Iron
Author:heartandmindxx
Pairing: Jon Walker/Brendon Urie [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex and Violence! ^_^
Summary: Brendon doesn’t quite remember how this started. He knows it was more than looking at him the wrong way, but less than sleeping with his girlfriend. He knows he didn’t throw the first punch, or the second. But, above all, he knows that he’s in a fight with Jonathan Jacob Walker, and he’s pretty damn sure that he’s losing.
Notes: I’ve been on an involuntary hiatus for a while and this is my return to writing. Let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction. Title belongs to... Otto Von Bismarck. Certain notable influences from Chuck Palahniuk/David Fincher's Fight Club.

Blood & Iron.
2240 words.

It’s a quiet afternoon and the bus is idle at a rest stop on their way to God-knows-where. Brendon can hear birds chirping nearby as a swift jab meets his eye-socket, filling the air with the dull pack of a fist on flesh. He returns it blindly, and the feeling of the connection is so satisfying that he almost smiles.

Brendon doesn’t quite remember how this started. He knows it was more than looking at him the wrong way, but less than sleeping with his girlfriend. He knows he didn’t throw the first punch, or the second. But, above all, he knows that he’s in a fight with Jonathan Jacob Walker, and he’s pretty damn sure that he’s losing.

Brendon has zero fighting experience, unless you count the time he watched Fight Club with Ryan, three times in one day. It didn’t hurt as much, then. When Tyler and the Narrator had fought, it had seemed more glamorous. It had been the rush of watching someone fight. Something intangible. It wasn’t like Jon Walker punching him square in the mouth, almost knocking him off his feet. Not like the metallic taste of blood, so real on his tongue.

Jon throws him into the broad side of the bus and punches him hard between his cheekbone and jaw. Then, a powerful right hook to his rib cage, followed by another body shot to the stomach, just below his sternum.

He doubles over, the wind knocked out of him. Luckily he’s still aware enough to see Jon’s knee coming towards his face- he blocks it with his hands, throwing it down, then tackles Jon around the middle.

They fall in a heap on the dirty asphalt of the parking lot, and Brendon scrambles to climb over Jon to straddle him. Jon struggles to get him off, but Brendon lands a solid punch to Jon’s face. He feels a tooth dislodge under his knuckles and it’s the most rewarding sensation he’s ever felt. Blood falls from his own nose as he leans over Jon, falls in slow motion onto the collar of his t-shirt to leave a dark stain. For a second, he worries about Spencer throwing a fit over their dirty clothes.

Brendon hits him again, and again, alternating between his left and right hand, and almost forgets how much of a weight advantage his opponent has until Jon grabs him by the waist and throws him off. He jumps to his feet and grabs Brendon by the fabric of his t-shirt, hauling him up. As soon as Brendon is on his feet again, Jon hits him back to the ground. His body curls in as Jon lands a kick to his ribs.

“Brendon, wha- Jon! What the fuck!” Spencer exclaims as he steps off the bus. The scene in front of him is telling- Jon stands over Brendon, spitting a gob of blood and the tooth that had been knocked out, while Brendon is in the fetal position on the ground.

Ryan follows on Spencer’s heels, his eyes widening in horror as Brendon gets to his feet, hunched over in pain. A bruise is darkening around his left eye, and his already plump lower lip juts out as blood trickles down his chin.

Jon is in no better shape. A steady stream of blood flows from an empty space in his mouth where a tooth should be, and he spits blood every few seconds. More blood drips from his nose from a particularly good hit on Brendon’s part, and there is a greenish bruise coming to the surface on his jaw.

Ryan covers his mouth- Brendon isn’t sure if it’s in shock or if he’s going to throw up. He hears him whisper an “Oh my God”, right before Spencer goes apeshit.

“What the fuck are you two thinking?”

Ouch, Brendon thinks, dumbly.

“How fucking stupid do you have to be to attack one of your bandmates at a fucking rest stop? How fucking stupid?!” Spencer flails his arms dramatically. “You guys look like… how are we going to explain this? What if someone saw you? We have to go on stage tonight and you guys are- Christ, even Ryan can’t do make-up that well!” He smacks his hand to his forehead and looks to the sky, as if looking for an answer. “What are you two even fighting about?!”

Brendon looks to Jon, confused, then back to Spencer.

“I…” Don’t know, he wants to finish, but doesn’t. Spencer would want to hurt him more than Jon ever could.

“He…” Jon sighs and trails off. “He insulted my... my manhood.”

“He what?!” Spencer says, half-furious, half-amused. Ryan’s eyes widen as a blush creeps up his neck, his cheeks flushing.

“He- he was talking about how I could never… please anyone, Cassie… He…” Jon seems to come to the realization of how stupid it was to start a fight over it- it had been a typical Brendon joke.

Brendon remembers the exchange and cuts in. “He told me that no one would ever want me!”

Spencer and Ryan stand there, dumbstruck. “That’s it?” Ryan asks, bewildered. Brendon and Jon are silent, ashamed. “You guys beat the shit out of each other because of that?”

“Just, you know,” Jon tries to explain, “stress. We’re all stressed.”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “You guys are so fucking stupid.” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “Get on the goddamn bus.”

Spencer leaves them with Ryan in the back lounge to clean up, far too angry to be taking care of them. They find alcohol swabs and gauze in a first-aid kit at the front of the bus, and Ryan sets to work.

The surface cuts and the nosebleeds he handles just fine. It’s only when he has Jon open his mouth, that’s when his weak stomach gets the best of him. The socket of the tooth Brendon knocked out continues to leak blood, and still, small fragments of tooth remain lodged in his gums. Ryan slaps a hand over his mouth and turns away, then mutters a ‘sorry’ and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Jon and Brendon are left in a thick, awkward silence.

“So, um…” Brendon starts, trailing off as he meets Jon’s eyes.

“…I’m sorry.” Jon says, quickly. “I know it was just a joke, I…”

“Hey, no, me too. I’m sorry too.” Brendon replies, looking down at his hands. “It was out of line, I’m sorry.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Jon rips open another alcohol swab and raises it to Brendon’s eyebrow. Brendon flinches as the cold wipe makes contact with his skin. Jon notices and smiles.

“Ryan missed a spot, is all.”

Brendon nods slowly- acutely aware of how close Jon’s face is to his. Jon throws the wipe in the trash can next to them that Ryan had moved from the bathroom, then returns his fingers to the same spot, brushing his fingers lightly over the tender skin.

Brendon, he swears something must have changed during the fight- something about Jon, something about Jon’s touch, and the way that it’s making him feel. A shiver runs all the way up his spine as a feeling of lust boils up inside of him. He exhales shakily- Jon notices this and pulls his hand away.

Brendon looks up into Jon’s eyes, runs a finger along Jon’s swollen lip, pressing lightly at the place where it had been split by Brendon’s fist mere minutes before. He can tell by the way that Jon’s eyes flutter closed that he’s feeling the same way.

Brendon slides closer to Jon and swings one of his legs over his hips to straddle him. The position, the rush, the intensity; everything is eerily reminiscent of the fight before.

Jon sucks in a deep breath as Brendon leans forward to blow lightly on the same cut. He flicks his tongue over it, the taste of blood not unfamiliar to his tongue.

Jon looks at Brendon and with some sort of wordless mutual agreement, he pushes forward and closes the distance between their mouths, kissing him roughly.

Brendon clutches Jon’s shirt tightly, wasting no time in forcing his tongue into Jon’s mouth. The taste of Jon’s blood seems so distinct, different from his own, and he’s excited just thinking about the way the tastes swirl inside of his mouth.

He grinds his hips down and takes Jon’s lip between his teeth. Jon gasps out, his hands sliding down Brendon’s hips, coming to rest on his ass. His mouth travels down Brendon’s neck, leaving a wet trail of kisses as he pulls Brendon even closer.

Brendon tugs at the hem of Jon’s blood-stained shirt. Jon takes the hint and helps Brendon in pulling his shirt off. He returns his hands to Brendon’s ass and squeezes as Brendon sets to work nipping and licking at Jon’s collarbone.

Jon moans softly. “Mm. Brendon…” He slides his hands up the back of Brendon’s shirt, his calloused fingers roaming over the smooth skin. He brings his hands around to the front and Brendon sits back, pulling his shirt over his head, revealing bruises from Jon’s shots to his ribs. Jon kisses Brendon’s throat and brushes his hands over each darkening bruise.

Brendon groans, throwing his head back. “God, Jon, please.”

Jon smirks into Brendon’s skin and clutches his ass tightly, standing up. Brendon wraps his legs around Jon’s waist and their lips connect once more in a fierce, animalistic kiss. Jon slams Brendon against the door and releases his hands, letting Brendon’s legs fall into the standing position. Brendon winces as the impact sends a rush of pain through his entire sore body.

Without breaking the kiss, Brendon’s hands go to work at Jon’s belt buckle, sliding it free and undoing the button and zipper of his pants. He pushes Jon’s boxers down with his pants and Jon steps out of them, kicking them out of the way.

Jon breaks the kiss to strip off Brendon’s pants, then his brightly coloured underwear. He kisses Brendon harshly one more time before flipping him around to face the door. Brendon stretches his arms out to brace himself.

Jon leans forward to press his mouth to Brendon’s ear. “I’m going to show you,” he says huskily, “just how capable I am of pleasing someone.”

Brendon moans out, more turned on than he ever thought possible. Jon’s hard cock presses against his ass as Jon reaches forward and probes at Brendon’s mouth with three fingers. Brendon eagerly takes them into his mouth, sucking hard and coating them with saliva. Jon kisses his nape and withdraws his fingers from his mouth, and before Brendon can register it, one of the fingers is pushed into his entrance.

Brendon groans loudly, shifting. “God, Jon...” He inhales deeply. “More, fuck.”

Jon adds another finger, and then another, twisting them. Brendon jerks as a finger brushes against his prostate. “Shit, fuck, get in me.”

“Always the romantic.” Jon grunts, pulling his fingers out and lining up his cock. He hesitates none in pushing in.

Brendon almost screams out, but bites down on his swollen lip. However, he has a feeling that even if he doesn’t scream now, Spencer and Ryan will inevitably become aware of what’s going on, anyway.

“Christ, Brendon, you feel… fuck, so good.” Jon growls.

He runs a hand up Brendon’s chest and teases his nipple- Brendon pants out “Fuck, move,” and Jon happily complies.

Jon grabs hold of Brendon’s hips tightly and begins his rhythm. He pulls out slowly before harshly burying himself to the hilt. Brendon groans loudly before Jon continues at this pace, Brendon gasping with every thrust.

It doesn’t take Jon long to find Brendon’s prostate- at which point Brendon completely forgets all notions of staying relatively quiet.

“Oh, fuck, Jon, right… rightfuckingthere.”

Jon picks up speed, pounding into Brendon with all the force he can muster. He digs his fingers deeper into the flesh of Brendon’s hips and laughs breathily to himself- Brendon is going to have a lot more bruises than he started with.

A bead of sweat drips down the back of Brendon’s neck and Jon kisses it away. The salty droplet stings the cut on his lip and he closes his eyes at the sensation of all that is Brendon, his blood and spit, his sweat. He is nearly pushed to the edge, just at the realization of exactly how much of Brendon he is getting.

Jon keeps one hand tight on Brendon’s hip while the other curls around to Brendon’s front to wrap around Brendon’s painfully hard cock. He begins to jerk him off in time with his thrusts.

Brendon, overwhelmed with pleasure, releases a throaty moan that seems to echo throughout the room. Jon kisses at his shoulder and drags his tongue up to Brendon’s ear.

“Cum for me, Brendon.”

Brendon shakes as his body tenses up and with one last jerk, he cums hard over the door in front of him.

Jon lets out an “unnngh” and releases into Brendon as he continues to thrust, riding out his orgasm. Brendon’s elbows buckle and he leans into the door, exhausted and sore. Jon falls with him, gasping for breath. He kisses Brendon’s neck between breaths and sighs, sated, pulling out.

Brendon, still heaving, laughs breathily and whispers, “We should do this again sometime.”

---
Drop a line. XO.

heartandmindxx @ 2007-04-26T21:15:00

2007-04-27T03:23:47Z

Title: Boy, You Got a Real Pretty Face… It’s Too Bad I Want to Break It [13-XX/13]
Author:xsavedbygracex [Katt] and prescott_iv [Steff]
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie, esteemed and respected editors of Harlequin Magazine. They put eachother through the fires of hell- but could there be room for something else?
Notes: THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER! Thank you to everyone who read and commented on this story. We never would have finished without you.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. We don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Previous Chapters: 00|01|02|03|04|05|06|07|08|09|10|11|12

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Brendon awoke to the kind of headache God would smite you with in the Old Testament. He opened his eyes to the sunlight pouring in through the window. He blinked furiously and groaned as he pulled the blankets over his head. Between the drugs and the alcohol and the shopping, he hadn’t slept in 4 days and he’d be damned if he let the sun ruin it now.

Then he remembered something.

Ryan.

He ripped the blankets off his body and turned over, expecting Ryan to be sleeping peacefully beside him. But Ryan wasn’t there.

Brendon immediately assumed the worst.

Oh my God. He thought. He… the son of a bitch fucking ditched me!

Brendon shouted. “That mother f-“

“Morning.”

“Fucker!” Brendon jumped and screamed, clonking his head off of the headboard.

Ryan chuckled from the doorway. “Something wrong?”

“You scared the fuck out of me and I have a headache.” Brendon sulked, running his hand through his dark hair.

Ryan walked over to the bed, sat on the corner, and faced Brendon.

“You’re really fucking heavy.” Ryan said. Brendon just groaned in response and laid back down on the bed. Ryan had fucking carried him to bed. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah… I’ll be fine. I’m disappointed you didn’t make me coffee, though.” Brendon pouted.

Ryan smiled. “I was thinking of going to get some… but… I didn’t want to be gone when you woke up.”

Brendon sat up. “How long have you been waiting?” He asked.

“I’ve been up for a couple hours.” Ryan shrugged. “I cleaned all the bottles out of your living room.”

“Oh…” Brendon said- a weight of guilt landing on his shoulders.

“You’ve been drinking a lot, huh.”

Brendon shrugged.

Ryan got up and moved over to sit next to Brendon. He tilted forward to look at his face.

“You sure you’re okay?” Ryan asked again.

Brendon sighed and nodded. Not looking at Ryan he bit his bottom lip and looked in the other direction.

“Brendon?”

Brendon’s eyes darted to Ryan momentarily before returning to the other side of the room.

“What?” He asked the painting on his wall.

“Brendon, can you look at me and tell me what’s wrong?”

“No.” Brendon shook his head “I’m… fine… I just feel horrible- not like, sick…well, I do feel sick, but… no, I’m okay.”

Ryan put his hand on Brendon’s shoulder, automatically causing Brendon’s head to turn. Brendon looked at Ryan and exhaled.

“You waited for me…” Brendon started. “I woke up this morning and automatically assumed that you’d run off…”

“And…” Ryan urged Brendon, softly massaging his shoulder.

Brendon could feel tears build up behind his eyes and the lump growing in his throat.

“And… I just… I just really love the fact that you stayed… you have no idea”

“Of course.” Ryan smiled. “I couldn’t just leave you.”

“But I did.” Brendon said. “I totally fucking… I fucked you and walked away as if you were nothing. And you’re not nothing… And I’m sorry… I’m a total fucking douche bag.”

“Brendon,” Ryan sighed and inched closer to Brendon. “It’s okay. I mean, yes you were a total fucking douche bag, but… that doesn’t matter. None of that matters. I’ve missed you.”

They both went silent. Ryan wrapped his arm completely around Brendon, who rested his head on Ryan’s shoulder. They sat there breathing silently together for the first time in complete contentment.

“Thanks for taking care of me.” Brendon whispered, wiping the dampness from around his eyes.

Ryan shifted from sitting beside Brendon to in front of him. He put each of his arms on either side of Brendon and kneeled in front of his crossed legs. He stared intensely into Brendon’s eyes and spoke.

“Don’t scare me like that anymore, please? Promise.” Ryan pleaded.

“Promise.” Brendon repeated.

Ryan smirked and leaned in to kiss Brendon. Brendon fitted his hand behind Ryan’s neck and pulled him in closer, sliding his tongue into Ryan’s mouth.

One of Ryan’s hands that had been supporting his body started to travel southward. It landed in the center of Brendon’s crossed legs and started to rub his crotch. Brendon gasped and bit down gently on Ryan’s lip as Ryan continued to work him.

While Brendon was still only wearing the pants he sported the previous night, Ryan was still nearly fully clothed. So, Brendon’s hands got to work at removing the bothersome garments that layered Ryan’s body.

Ryan moaned as Brendon reached his pants, purposely applying a bit of pressure to his erection. Brendon smiled into the kiss and continued removing Ryan’s pants.

Once each of them was fully disrobed, Ryan broke the kiss. He looked down at Brendon and breathed heavily. Brendon lay still for a moment, then leaned up and wrapped his arm around Ryan’s waist and turned them around.

Brendon, now above Ryan, leaned in closer to him and kissed him softly on the lips. Ryan continued to kiss delicately around Brendon’s jaw and neck as Brendon positioned himself.

Brendon paced himself slowly in a way that was so unfamiliar to Ryan. Brendon’s motions were soft… almost delicate compared to the previous fast paced and rough encounters.

Just as Ryan was starting to get used to the feel of Brendon being gentle, Brendon started to pick up the pace. With the sudden rush, Ryan started to gasp and moan at the peak of every thrust, causing Brendon to smirk at his actions.

Ryan’s hands slid up Brendon’s chest and over his neck. His fingers laced themselves in Brendon’s already untidy hair. He pulled Brendon down closer to him, and Brendon’s lips immediately locked themselves onto Ryan’s. They kissed deeply while Brendon’s hand tenderly clawed at the skin on Ryan’s stomach.

Ryan smirked at the return of Brendon’s nails on his skin. He returned the favor by biting down softly on Brendon’s lower lip. Brendon’s eyes were closed as he moaned and lowered his head down even father. He continued to thrust at an even pace, causing Ryan whimper in pleasure as he licked and littered kisses on Ryan’s neck.

Brendon’s ear was now right beside Ryan’s lips, which Ryan used to his advantage. He nipped at the cartilage and licked it delicately before whispering short phrases with his breathy, uneven voice.

“I wanna fuck you.” Ryan breathed.

Brendon stopped and lifted his head. He breathed in deep and swallowed hard. The sweat was starting to glisten on his chest and back; proof that he was getting tired.

He smirked at Ryan. “You wanna what?” He asked, a deviant smile growing across his face.

Ryan licked his lips and pulled himself up to Brendon’s level.

“I wanna fuck you.” Ryan repeated, gaining on Brendon.

Brendon pulled Ryan up the rest of the way and kissed him roughly. He continued to kiss up Ryan’s jaw line to his ear.

“Fuck me.” He demanded in a whisper.

With that, Ryan started to force Brendon backwards. Their feet were now facing the pillows. Ryan’s hand played with Brendon a little before Ryan finally found the perfect position and pushed forward into Brendon.

Brendon kept his eyes closed and let out a low moan. He blindly felt for Ryan’s body to pull him closer. Brendon’s hands pressed hard into Ryan’s back before he started to claw again.

Ryan cried out quietly at the pure lust taking over his senses. He looked down at Brendon breathing heavily below him. He’d never seen Brendon in such a state of ecstasy, and he’d never thought Brendon looked as good as he did right then.

Ryan was pretty sure that he’d never get over that moment.

Just then, Brendon’s back arched and his fingers clenched into Ryan’s skin. He let out a loud whimper as he bit down on his lip. Ryan leant down to kiss him, continue to push into him.

Brendon continued to whimper and moan as he tightened the fingers of his one hand into his own hair and clenched his teeth down.

“Fuck… oh, God… fuckin’ harder, Ryan.” Brendon commanded, pushing himself up to meet Ryan’s movements.

A smirk crept onto Ryan’s face as he obeyed Brendon’s order and thrust into him as hard as he could, causing Brendon, and himself, to moan loudly.

Ryan then felt a sudden sensation run through his body. He started to breathe harder and thrust even faster.

“Oh, Brendon…. Christ!” Ryan cried out as he came. He swallowed hard and pulled out. He slid his hand down Brendon’s chest to his cock and started to stroke hastily.

Within no time, Brendon’s stomach started to contract as he let out a string of profanities.

“Fuck…. Fuck, ohmygod… ugh, Ryan… fuck, I… fuck.” Brendon groaned and bit down on his lip.

They collapsed onto each other in exhaustion, panting heavily as the rush wore off. Ryan gave a long exhale and pulled out of Brendon, rolling off.

“Well, that was great. I’ll see you around then?”

Brendon’s jaw dropped in shock and anger. “You’re leaving? Are you fucking serious? Fuck you!”

Ryan laughed and grabbed his shirt off the floor, tossing it onto Brendon’s face. “Fuck you. I was just kidding.” He laughed.

“You motherfucker.” Brendon growled. “C’mere.” He lurched forward, grabbing Ryan’s arm and pulling him back onto the bed, tangling their bodies in the sheets.

Ryan wound up on top of Brendon, one arm resting on his shoulder, the other propping himself up on the bed, bent at the elbow. He looked down into Brendon’s eyes fondly.

Brendon smiled, a small one at first- but it grew until the lines on his cheek stood out against his faintly tanned skin.

“What.” Brendon said, brushing a piece of Ryan’s hair out of his eyes, only to have it fall back into place immediately.

“Brendon Urie, I think I lo-”

“Dooon’t say it.”

Ryan frowned. “Why the fuck not?”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Because we just had sex. Are you that much of a woman?” Ryan narrowed his eyes and made to roll off of him. “Hey-” Brendon said, holding him tighter so he couldn’t move. “You also don’t need to.”

Ryan pouted. “You got to say it.”

Brendon raised an eyebrow. “I was plastered. And on drugs.”

“That explains the passing out on me.”

“Shut up, I’m charming.”

Ryan leant down to kiss Brendon’s full lips once more. “Guess what.”

“Mmm. Tell me what.” Brendon said absently, catching his lover’s lips.

“Iloveyou.”

“Ross! You fuckin’ ruined it!”

Ryan smiled and kissed Brendon hard, forcing his tongue into Brendon’s mouth. Brendon pushed his hand to the back of Ryan’s head, pulling them closer together and deepening the kiss even further.

Ryan broke away, pulling Brendon’s bottom lip softly between his teeth.

“So,” Ryan said, resting his head on Brendon’s chest, “looking for a job?”

---

EPILOGUE.

“Oh please, that word isn’t even used in the correct context.”

“Don’t talk to me about context, dickhead.”

Ryan grabbed a pencil off of his desk and threw it across the room in Brendon’s direction.

“Are you boys arguing in here?”

Both turned their heads in the direction of the door- Pete and Jared stood in the opening, hand-in-hand, grinning.

“We’re not going to tolerate any fighting.” Jared said, moving his hand to the small of Pete’s back.

“Plus, that’s a new fuckin’ table.” Pete said, leering.

“That’s enough out of you.” Brendon said, pointing a finger in Pete’s direction.

Pete laughed. “Anyway- we’re going to head out. You guys should go home soon, it’s been a long day at the office. You could use some… relaxation.”

“Which is exactly what we’re going to do. Have a good one, kids.” Jared said, pulling Pete away from the door and waving with his free hand.

Once they had left, Ryan saved his work and shut down his computer. “Let’s go, then.”

“I’m down with that.” Brendon laughed, turning off his desk lamp. “What’re you making tonight?”

“Fuck you, I am not cooking again. It’s your turn!”

“C’mon baby,” Brendon said, sauntering over to Ryan’s desk, “you know I can’t cook.”

Brendon offered his hand to Ryan- who rolled his eyes, then took it to stand up.

“How the hell did you ever live on your own?”

“How the hell did I ever live before you?” Brendon said, smiling sweetly.

“Shut the fuck up.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “We’re eating out.”

---
There you have it, the end of Boy, You Got A Real Pretty Face... It's Too Bad I Want to Break It. It's been fun. Drop a line, tell us what you thought of the story, it would mean a lot. It is with deepest gratitude that we thank you for reading this.

xoxoxoxoxo.
-Katt and Steff.

heartandmindxx @ 2007-04-15T01:32:00

2007-04-15T07:35:51Z

Title: Boy, You Got a Real Pretty Face… It’s Too Bad I Want to Break It [12]
Author:xsavedbygracex [Katt] and prescott_iv [Steff]
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: R.
Summary: “Been hogging all my glory? Living off of my work? Getting credit for everything I’ve done, decided or thought of? Yeah I know. I read the magazine, you cock sucker.”
Notes: Second to last chapter, looks like. Thank you all.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. We don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Previous Chapters: 00|01|02|03|04|05|06|07|08|09|10|11

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Ryan jogged up the stairs to Brendon’s luxury apartment. With a coffee in each hand, he breathed heavily as he reached the top of the flight.

Ryan knocked at the door with his foot. He waited a few moments in silence, and then again. No one answered and Ryan began to wonder if Brendon was even home- that’d explain why he didn’t answer the phone and all. However, Ryan decided to give it one more try and kicked again, this time harder and more deliberate.

Ryan was starting to become impatient and annoyed at Brendon. He’d come all this way, and he even had to turn around and go back to the office as he realized he didn’t even know where Brendon lived. He had bought him coffee. He was even somewhat considering forgiving him for everything that happened.

Just when Ryan was ready to turn around and storm back down the stairs, the door in front of him swung open. In the doorway appeared Brendon Urie.

Brendon squinted at Ryan.

“Ryan?”

“….Hey, Brendon.” Ryan said hesitantly. He noted Brendon’s un-kempt hair and his tired, red eyes. But most of all, he noticed his bare chest, and his dangerously low pants.

“’The fuck are you doing here?” Brendon snapped.

“Uhh… coffee?” Ryan offered, holding out one of the cups.

Brendon cocked an eyebrow.

“I… I called… to say I was coming… I guess you-“

“I was sleeping.” Brendon interrupted, snatching the coffee from Ryan’s outstretched hand. He started to close the door, ushering Ryan to completely enter the room.

“At 6:45 at night?” Ryan asked, inspecting the apartment.

“Uh… yeah.” Brendon answered, shifting his eyes as he noticed Ryan surveying his space. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m not looking for anything, I’m just… looking.” Ryan sighed as he realized that soon Brendon would probably have to pack up all his stuff, and give up this luxury apartment to settle for a more affordable, smaller complex.

“Right… did you come here for a reason?” Brendon asked, taking a sip of the coffee.

“Sort of… I guess. I just… you know, since you’ve left I’ve-“

“Been hogging all my glory? Living off of my work? Getting credit for everything I’ve done, decided or thought of? Yeah I know. I read the magazine, you cock sucker.” Brendon snapped again as he picked up the copy of Harlequin with a sarcastic grin, before dropping it back down on the table.

“Listen, Brendon… I know you’re mad, and I don’t blame you… I’m not here to ostracize you, or rub it in your face, I just…” Ryan stopped immediately as he caught his eye on the coffee table.

“What?” Brendon said.

Ryan’s eyes just stared past Brendon. He opened his mouth to say something, but was too speechless to talk.

Brendon, confused, turned around to see what Ryan was staring at.

“Oh…” Brendon said, with a smirk. “Right.”

“Brendon…” Ryan started as he stepped closer to the table slowly. “Is… is that… cocaine?”

Brendon brushed past Ryan and sat on the couch in front of his small mound of white powder. He looked up at Ryan, who was still standing still with his wide eyes fixated on the substance.

“Yes, Ryan darling, its cocaine.” Brendon said as he cut another line- using his maxed out credit card to create the perfect rail.

Ryan tried to object, but nothing came out. He just stood with wide eyes and an open mouth as he watched Brendon roll up a one dollar bill.

Finally Ryan managed to muster something. “Ugh, you’re going to have so many diseases.”

Brendon chuckled as he leaned over the table, then snorted.

Ryan cringed.

Brendon fell back into his couch and sniffed as he rubbed his nose. “Want some?” He asked, looking up at Ryan.

Ryan’s face turned suddenly from shock to utter disgust.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He yelled.

“Whoa, calm down.” Brendon said softly.

“No! This is ridiculous, Brendon! This is fucking ridiculous! You’ve been out of work for 3 weeks and you’ve already decided that drugs are the best answer?!” Ryan stepped over to Brendon.

“You know, this never would’ve happened if it wasn’t for you! This is actually all your fault anyways!” Brendon jumped up and motioned his arms wildly.

“What the fuck are you talking about? It’s my fault that you’re a coke addict?” Ryan fumed.

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten fired!”

Ryan scoffed at Brendon’s accusation. “Excuse me? I do remember it was you who threw me through the coffee table.”

“Shut up!” Brendon argued and sat back down on the couch.

“You’re ridiculous, Brendon. You’re preposterous.”

“Shut up!” Brendon said again as he smothered his face in his hands.

“You can blame me for as much as you want to, Brendon, but you brought this upon yourself. You did this to yourself….”

Brendon moved his hands to his ears and started to sway back and forth, repeating the same two words over and over.

“If you weren’t so self-obsessed, everything would’ve been a lot easier. Actually, if you weren’t so fucking conceited and vain, we probably could’ve been a lot better. We could’ve been something.”

“I hate you.” Brendon cried and a few tears rolled down his cheeks.

Ryan scoffed. He tried his best to not feel sorry for that piece of shit.

Ryan repeated himself. “You’re ridiculous, Brendon Urie. You’re pathetic.” He whispered to Brendon.

“I fucking hate you!” Brendon cried as he jumped up from the couched to tackle Ryan.

They fell to the floor; Brendon had his knees on either side of Ryan’s hips. A flash of the taxi-cab incident months ago flashed into Brendon’s head as he punched Ryan in the ribs.

But Brendon was immediately taken over by grief. His fists turned suddenly limp, and his body just hung- wilted over Ryan’s body. He just gave up and started to cry even harder.

Ryan winced at the pain in his rib cage as he started to slide upright. He wrapped his arm around Brendon, who instantly dropped his head onto Ryan’s chest.

Ryan breathed deeply and brushed his fingers through Brendon’s untamed hair, hushing him. Brendon cried into Ryan’s shirt.

“Oh, Brendon…” Ryan whispered.

Brendon raised his head, his red, glossy eyes peering into Ryan’s.

“I’m sorry.” Brendon said.

Ryan chuckled.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry.”

Brendon raised himself a little higher. “I... I don’t really hate you, Ryan. I… I really love you.”

Ryan smiled. It may have been the drugs talking, but something told him that this was as genuine as Brendon had ever been. “I know… I know.”

Brendon leaned in and kissed Ryan softly.

“I’m really tired…” Brendon whispered as his eyes fluttered rapidly.

Before Ryan could reply, Brendon’s head fell onto his shoulder.

--
Since we've taken so long to update recently, you get two in two days. That's a new fuckin' record, right there.
Take care. XO
Drop a line.

heartandmindxx @ 2007-04-14T00:05:00

2007-04-14T06:08:02Z

Title: Boy, You Got a Real Pretty Face… It’s Too Bad I Want to Break It [11]
Author:xsavedbygracex [Katt] and prescott_iv [Steff]
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: R
Summary: “Do you… Do you miss Brendon?”
Notes: Awww you missed it. I know you did. Sorry bout the wait, hope you haven't forgotten about us. XO.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. We don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Previous Chapters: 00|01|02|03|04|05|06|07|08|09|10

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Ryan sat at his desk fiddling with a pencil. This was a boredom that he had not experienced since he began working at Harlequin. Something was missing.

And he knew exactly what it was.

He imagined the quiet, empty, and completely over-sized office to have a gaping wound right in the middle of it. But he seemed to be the only one unable to ignore it.

Brendon’s name plate on the door had been gone within hours and his desk had been removed. There was a new coffee table in the office. It was like Brendon had never existed.

The building operated without a hitch, almost as if nothing had happened. Pete and Jared’s laughter could be heard in the next room- something Ryan had never heard over the cutting voice of another.

The magazine had debuted a few days previously- it was almost instantly declared a success all over the country. It had gone to newsstands without any trace of Brendon’s name.

Ryan sighed and laid his head down on his desk. For some reason, he felt bad about what had happened.

For some reason, he missed Brendon Urie.

Like hell.

---

A Letter from the Editor

I am overcome with relief. The past few months have been hectic as everyone has been working incredibly hard to get this first issue to the best it could possibly be. I just hope that you all love it and embrace it as much as everyone here at Harlequin has. It has been truly a golden experience for all those involved.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the two most important people in the creation of this magazine, Mr. Jared Leto, former head of Fever Magazine, and Mr. Peter Wentz, former head of Sensationalist Magazine. It was their brilliant vision for this magazine that allowed all of this to be possible. Without them, none of this would have ever started at all.

However, I’m somewhat saddened at the loss of one important member of our team. He brought a lot to this issue, and his departure was abrupt, but I wish all the best to wherever his future takes him. To me, it just shows how sometimes, one must take a necessary loss to be successful. The loss of two magnificent magazines to form one; the loss of a colleague to move forward.

As for as my future at Harlequin, I’m looking forward to continuing my time here- for this has become my one true love and pride. I love everyone in the building, and I am eternally grateful for all the labor they’ve put into every aspect of each page. I trust that every subsequent issue will be just as astonishing and stimulating as this one; on account of the extraordinary and unique team we have behind us.

I still cannot fully express how excited and proud I am of this. You have to trust me; this is a good one.

Enjoy.
- G. Ryan Ross, Editor

Brendon threw down the magazine in disgust. “Somewhat saddened,” he spat.

“His departure was abrupt.” He fumed, clenching his fists.

“I wish all the best to wherever his future brings him.” He mocked, rolling his eyes. “Wish me all the best, my ass.”

Brendon had bought the magazine while out maxing his credit card. (But he liked to call it retail therapy.) He’d seen it on a newsstand and was intrigued; curious. He’d still wanted to admire his work.

His name appeared nowhere in the magazine. The closest thing he’d gotten to recognition was Ryan using him as some sort of fucking moral-of-the-story. This was an outrage. He’d poured everything he had into that magazine, and what did he get out of it? Nothing but a couple fucks from his partner.

That Ryan Ross was something else. That bastard, he’d been the reason for Brendon’s downfall. He’d taken everything away from him. His job. He’d loved nothing more than his job. His job was his life.

Ryan had everything, and Brendon wanted everything.

And for some reason, Brendon wanted Ryan.

Maybe it was that attitude, or the intelligence. Maybe it was the tight ass.

Maybe it was just the drugs talking.

Brendon cut another line and bent over the table, pressing one finger to his left nostril and inhaling sharply.

That fucking asshole had destroyed everything. He’d ruined Brendon’s life and he needed to know it.

Brendon sat up and wiped his nose- then he grabbed the phone and dialed a familiar number.

“Good evening, you’ve reached Harlequin Mag-”

“Put me through to Ross’ office.” Brendon said, rudely.

“Mr. Ross has gone home for the day, shall I take a message?”

“Put me through to his office and I’ll leave my own.” Brendon rolled his eyes.

“May I ask who is calling?”

“This is Brendon fucking Urie. Now put me through to Ross’ fucking office!”

---

“Hey Ross, it’s your old pal Brendon Urie. Nice magazine you son of a bitch. Hope you’re enjoying my fucking glory…”

Ryan sat the phone back down on the receiver. He couldn’t have imagined any of this happening. Sure, there had always been hatred between Brendon and himself, but on the other hand, there was always respect. Ryan wouldn’t have ever asked for Brendon’s departure, not even after what had happened.

Ryan put his head in his bandaged hands and sighed. Not only was the office more boring without Brendon, but now, everything was on him. There was no division of labour, there was no consulting. There were no heated make-out sessions over desks.

Tears began to slip from his eyes- he willed them to stop immediately. He was wiping his eyes desperately when Pete walked in.

“Hey, Ry- something wrong?”

Ryan looked up, startled, then sniffled.

“Oh- no, no. There’s just a lot of pollen in the air. Hay fever, you know how it is.”

Pete sighed and walked over to Ryan’s desk, sitting down on the corner. He sat there in silence for a minute before he spoke.

“Ry…” He hesitated. “Do you… Do you miss Brendon?”

Ryan wiped at his eyes once more. “What? Do I miss Brendon? Of course I don’t miss Brendon.”

Ryan searched around his desk for something to change the subject with. His eyes landed on his empty Starbucks cup.

“I like coffee.”

Pete raised his eyebrows, then shook his head. He patted Ryan on the shoulder.

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“Talking to who? Brendon? Of course not, I…” He trailed off as he met Pete’s eyes. They were looking at him with a sincere sadness. “I… he left a message, but I didn’t listen to all of it. He doesn’t sound very happy, if that’s what you want to know.”

Pete sighed. “If you want him back here, just say the word. I’ll try to convince Jared…”

Ryan paused. Of course he didn’t want Brendon back in the building. He’d thrown him through a fucking glass table. He’d assaulted him. He was a stubborn prick, an asshole that was leaving threatening messages on his voicemail. Brendon had destroyed everything. He’d taken away his confidence and replaced it with an extreme paranoia. There was no way in hell.

“…I’ll think about it.”

The words slipped out of Ryan’s mouth without his permission- he had thought about it. The answer was no.

And yet, he still refrained from stopping Pete as he smiled softly and left the room.

Ryan sat as his desk, motionless. He didn’t really want Brendon to come back. He didn’t really miss him. Maybe he just missed the company. The big office was just lonely, is all.

Ryan hesitantly picked up the phone.

“Hey, Brendon… I guess you’re not in right now. I got your message… Ha. I… Hey, I’m going to come over when I get off work… We’ll have some coffee, I just want to… We can just talk. Right. Well, I’ll see you in a bit. Right. Bye then.”

--
This story will be finishing up very, very soon. Thanks to all of you who have been reading this. Seriously- without you there would be no motivation to write. Thank you.
XO

heartandmindxx @ 2007-03-17T22:06:00

2007-03-18T04:08:28Z

Title: Boy, You Got a Real Pretty Face… It’s Too Bad I Want to Break It [10]
Author:xsavedbygracex [Katt] and prescott_iv [Steff]
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: Around an R.
Summary: “Maybe you just can’t admit that you just want to be with me.”
Notes: Shorter wait on this one. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. We don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Previous Chapters: 00|01|02|03|04|05|06|07|08|09

CHAPTER TEN.

hBrendon stayed in the office for another hour after Ryan had left for graphics. He’d been working on one of the music articles that Ryan had deemed his area. He’d just rolled his eyes and snatched the papers away.

He looked at the clock and realized it was nearly 7, and it was due time he was heading home. He looked across the room to Ryan’s still glowing computer screen, his jacket draped across the chair. He hadn’t returned yet.

Brendon shrugged and shut down his computer. He grabbed his things off of the new imported glass coffee table in the middle of the office. Pete and Jared had seen to it that they got some new furniture in the office, since they were spending so much time there. Included in this plan was the coffee table, and four low-rise black leather chairs. Brendon had laughed- he didn’t really want to feel that ‘at home’ in the office.

He decided he’d check out the situation in graphics before he left. After all, he had as much a say in things as Ryan did.

He took the elevator down to the third floor and stepped out of the box. He’d never been on this floor. He frowned, realizing that Ryan had really been doing a better job of keeping up with everyone.

He had to admit it, Ryan Ross was something special. Not only was he an amazing writer, photographer, and editor, he was also a great fuck and a fantastic kisser. Maybe, Brendon thought, maybe Ryan Ross wasn’t that bad after all.

He frowned. He was still a huge fucking asshole.

He walked down the hall, reading the plates on the doors. Near the end of the hall he found the right door and placed his hand on the doorknob, ready to open it, when there came a noise from inside.

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan.

He cracked open the door and peered in. There was Ryan, leaning back against the desk, facing him- his hand fisted in Spencer Smith’s hair. Smith, on his knees, continued working and didn’t notice the intrusion.

Brendon opened the door fully and stood there, his mouth open and eyebrow raised in shock. This is what he’d getting paid time-and-a-half for? He clenched his jaw and glared at Ryan.

Ryan smirked and let out an exaggerated moan, throwing his head back and putting on a show for Brendon.

“Just like that. Mmm.” He said, looking Brendon straight in the eye.

Brendon was fuming. He huffed and slammed the door.

“Mmph, who was that?”

“Nobody. Keep going.”

---

Brendon sat motionless staring at his computer screen, jaw set. Ryan typed away busily across from him.

He hadn’t been able to look the other man in the eye since the previous night. It was one thing when Ryan was bending over for him. It was one thing when he was the one on his knees for Ryan. But God, how many people was he fooling around with?

He could have a fucking STD for christssake.

He looked up at Ryan. Slut.

His death glare was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in.” Ryan called. Brendon jerked his head back to his work, lifting his eyes back up a little to see who was at the door.

The door opened and Jon Walker poked his head in, looking at Ryan.

“Hey, Mr. Ross, I finished that… thing. That you asked me to work on. So. If you wanted to come by later and uh, get it, that’s cool, er- that’ll be good. Yea.” He cleared his throat. “Yea, I’m just going to get back to work now.” He glanced over to Brendon. “Good morning Mr. Urie.”

Brendon nodded his head in acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Jon, I’ll be down to see you later.” Ryan said, smiling warmly.

Jon smiled back and left, closing the door behind him.

Ryan went about his business as Brendon continued to watch him. He gathered some papers and got up for a visit to the filing cabinet that stood by the wall next to the Fever bookcase.

Brendon got up silently and walked over to where Ryan was standing, opening the top drawer. He reached around Ryan to grab his crotch, grinding into his ass. He kissed the back of his neck lightly before leaning into his ear.

“Are you fucking everybody in this building?”

Ryan chuckled, flipping himself around to face Brendon. Brendon pushed him back against the filing cabinet, pressing their bodies close, his lips nipping at the pale skin of Ryan’s throat.

“How is that any of your business?” Ryan replied, his fingers at play with the hem of Brendon’s shirt.

Brendon began to bite more harshly. “It’s my business.”

“Is it now?” Ryan winced.

Brendon threw him up against the adjacent wall. Papers fluttered down off of the bulletin board.

“Maybe I’m just curious.”

“Are you?” Ryan said, Brendon’s nails digging into his biceps, “Or are you jealous?”

Brendon growled and slammed Ryan against the wall again. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Ryan gasped sharply. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you might actually like me.”

Brendon rolled his eyes and further tightened his grip on Ryan’s arms. “How many people are you fucking?” He said slowly.

Ryan leaned up to kiss Brendon’s full lips. “None as good as you, baby.”

Brendon glared daggers at Ryan. “Answer the fucking question.”

Ryan sighed dramatically. “Why does it matter? I always make time for you, sweetheart.”

Brendon pulled Ryan away from the wall and pushed him into the middle of the room, advancing on him threateningly.

“Maybe you just can’t admit that you just want to be with me.”

Ryan was scared. Brendon looked like he was going to kill him. Hatred burned in his dark eyes as he grabbed Ryan by the shirt collar.

“Are you saying that you want to be with me?” Ryan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Brendon narrowed his eyes and released Ryan’s shirt and threw him back into the glass table. It shattered beneath the force.

Ryan cried out, arching his back off the glass covered floor before noticing his blood covered hands as he brought them to his face. He looked up at Brendon with confused eyes.

Brendon just took deep breaths, in and out.

Footsteps pounded down the hall and the door swung open.

“Brendon, Ryan, what’s- what the fuck is going on here!” Leto exclaimed furiously.

“Ryan, oh my god.” Pete gasped as he jumped to Ryan’s aid.

“I’m okay.” Ryan gasped. “Just help me up…”

“Brendon! What’s the meaning of this!” Jared yelled, gesturing wildly with his arms.

Brendon had nothing to say.

“You know what, I don’t even fucking care right now.” Jared said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Brendon, you’re one of my closest friends and you know I hate to do this…”

Brendon held his breath.

“Gather your things. You no longer work at Harlequin.”

---
omg.
Drop a line.
XO
And a big fuckin' thank you to everyone who reads this.

heartandmindxx @ 2007-03-07T23:04:00

2007-03-08T06:11:17Z

Title: Boy, You Got a Real Pretty Face… It’s Too Bad I Want to Break It [09]
Author:xsavedbygracex [Katt] and prescott_iv [Steff]
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I’ll fucking sue you for sexual harassment, you cocksucker!"
Notes: Well this took a really fuckin' long time. Sorry! We'll try not to take so long next time. And we swear that things will actually start happening soon.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. We don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Previous Chapters: 00|01|02|03|04|05|06|07|08

CHAPTER NINE.

“I have to go photocopy something.”

Ryan stood up and walked past Brendon’s desk, waving loose papers at him. Brendon was slouched over his desk with his head rested on one arm, writing with the other.

He let out an incoherent groan to let Ryan know he’d heard him. Ryan smiled and left, whistling contently.

Brendon sat up and frowned at the open door. All day, he’d been so embarrassed about what Ryan pulled. All day. He couldn’t even look at him. In a meeting with coffee stained pants and a boner. How mortifying. Like a bad nightmare.

Ryan, however, seemed to think this was the perfect day to strike up conversation whenever he could.

“Enjoying the weather, Brendon?”

“What do you think of this layout, Brendon?”

“Do you have that article finished, Brendon?”

Every time that Ryan said anything, Brendon would just respond with nothing but a nod, groan or shrug before turning away.

Then, of course, he’d hear Ryan’s stifled laugh.

Brendon shook his head and stood up. No way was he going to let Ryan win.

He walked out of their office and down the hall towards the elevators so he could go down to the copy room. He pressed the button for the elevator and waited for the doors to open. As soon as they did, Pete rushed up behind him. Brendon automatically blushed and panicked.

“Going down?” Pete asked.

Brendon blinked.

“Uh, oh, no… I think it’s a good day to use the stairs. See you around, Pete.” Brendon stuttered, turning on his heel to head towards the stairs.

“See you around!” Pete called back to him.

“Are you going down?” Brendon mocked, shuffling down the stairs. He mumbled, “Yes, I’m going down. I like going down. I’ll go down-”

Just then Brendon noticed a distinct pair of snake skin boots right in front of his face. He jerked his head up to see Ryan holding the papers he’d left to copy.

Ryan cocked an eyebrow.

“What’re you doing?”

“Are you finished already?” Brendon asked quickly, slyly running his fingers through his hair. Ryan chewed his bottom lip before answering.

“I forgot some sheets upstairs.” His eyes flickered across Brendon’s body. “What are you doing?” He repeated.

“Uh…” Brendon started, as he frantically searched for an answer. “I finished my work… I was coming to see if you… needed help.”

They both stood still and silent for a moment, although Brendon’s head was aching to scream something, anything. But something was holding him back.

Finally, Ryan sighed and brushed past Brendon. Brendon’s eyes followed Ryan as he passed.

“I’m gonna go get those papers… then you can help me.” Ryan smiled coyly. Ryan’s boots cuffed the steps as he continued to ascend the stairs. Brendon waited until he heard the door above him open and close before turning around to dash up the steps.

Brendon rushed down the hall, subconciously looking out for Pete or Leto. He stopped at the door to their office, composing himself before stepping in and closing the door quietly behind him.

Ryan’s back was facing him, his hands busy rummaging through sheets and folders. Ryan flinched slightly when the door clicked shut, but he didn’t look back.

Without making a sound, Brendon’s feet moved swiftly across the floor until he was directly behind Ryan, who still hadn’t noticed him.

Unaware of Brendon’s presence, Ryan found his papers and quickly swung around.

“Fucking shit! Brendon! Jesus!” Ryan shrieked as his arms flailed and all of his papers flew out of his hands.

“You fucking dick, don’t do that!” Ryan breathed as he bent over to pick up the fallen sheets.

Brendon reached out, gripped his fingers into Ryan’s shoulders tightly and pulled him back up, then into a kiss. Brendon stepped forward again, pressing his body right up against Ryan’s.

Ryan turned his face away from Brendon’s and raised his arms as far as he could with Brendon’s grip still tight, and tried to push him away. Brendon stood his ground, pushed harder against Ryan’s body and trapped the weaker man between himself and the desk.

“Brendon, fuck off!” Ryan said, as he forced the palms of his hands into Brendon’s chest. The position was hurting every part of Ryan’s arms, but he didn’t care.

Brendon laughed and made sure his grip on Ryan wasn’t loose enough that he could get away, causing Ryan to flinch in pain.

“Brendon, I’ll fucking scream! Get the fuck off me! Do you want to get fired!? I’ll fucking sue you for sexual harassment, you cocksucker!” Ryan’s voice started to get quicker and more panicked as he started to struggle in an attempt to escape Brendon’s grasp.

By this time Brendon’s grin had grown prominent and he started to laugh louder. Ryan stopped struggling and stared furiously directly into Brendon’s eyes.

“Just what the fuck is so funny?!” He demanded.

Brendon stared back lustfully into Ryan’s eyes. “You’re really fucking sexy when you’re pissed off.”

Ryan stayed still, surprised for a moment, his lips partially separated and a burning sensation growing painfully worse in his biceps.

Without responding, Ryan pushed his lips forward, connecting them with Brendon’s. His palms pressed against Brendon’s chest quickly transformed into a fist, tightly clenching at Brendon’s shirt.

Brendon lost his footing shortly before regaining his composure as he viciously kissed Ryan back, letting go of Ryan’s arms. Ryan immediately began to fumble with Brendon’s belt buckle as he bit and kissed roughly anywhere he could find bare skin.

Before doing anything else, Ryan stepped out of Brendon’s reach quickly and got round to the other side of the desk.

“… The fuck are you doing?” Brendon asked, furrowing his brow.

Ryan didn’t respond. He opened his desk drawer, rummaged through more papers, more folders and more papers to finally find what he was searching for. He pulled out a condom and slammed the drawer shut.

“I’m not going through that fucking pain again.” Ryan affirmed.

Brendon scoffed and walked around to Ryan. “You keep condoms in you desk? You’re such a little whore.”

“Fuck off.” Ryan groaned.

Brendon slid one hand down Ryan’s chest and rubbed forcefully against Ryan’s skintight jeans. Ryan breathed sharply and started to move impatiently as Brendon continued to stroke him. Momentarily, Brendon stopped teasing and undid Ryan’s jeans.

Brendon moved behind Ryan and wrapped his arm around, pulling him as close as they were moments before. Ryan turned his head to face Brendon the best he could. He held up the condom between two fingers and Brendon snatched it immediately, rolling his eyes.

Brendon pushed his own pants to the floor and rolled on the condom before pulling Ryan’s pants down forcefully. Brendon pressed his body against Ryan’s and pushed into him. Ryan planted his hands down on his desk as his eyes clenched shut. He let out a quiet moan.

Brendon grabbed onto Ryan’s hips, applying as much pressure to his bones as he’d done earlier to his biceps. However, this time, Ryan didn’t mind.

Brendon thrust in hard, Ryan grinding his teeth with every movement. They were only a few minutes in and Ryan knew that the condom he was relying on wasn’t going to help with the aftermath. This was Brendon’s revenge, and he was making sure Ryan felt that.

Not that Ryan really cared that much.

The harder and faster Brendon moved, the better Ryan felt. The pain afterwards was worth it. Brendon, on the other hand, was focused only on getting off. Hurting Ryan was only an upside.

Ryan’s joints had started to stiffen up, and he tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position. As soon as he moved, Brendon laced his arms tightly around Ryan’s torso like an anaconda, then pulled Ryan’s head up towards his own.

“Do you want me to stop?” He threatened as he breathed hotly into Ryan’s ear.

Ryan hesitated

“No.” He swallowed, breathing in deep.

Brendon let go of Ryan briefly before thrusting harshly into him again. Ryan winced and pulled back against Brendon’s bare chest.

Brendon bit down onto Ryan’s collar bone and raised his hands while brushing them lightly up Ryan’s chest. He breathed sharply into Ryan’s ear, causing Ryan’s head to spin. With his eyes shut tight, Ryan’s fingers felt their way up Brendon’s neck and into the back of his hair. With his other hand, Ryan’s fingers felt their way down his torso to his cock.

While Brendon was still thrusting, he pushed Ryan back over the desk- making sure not to push him right over. Brendon started thrusting harder and faster, using Ryan’s hips as leverage. He moaned loudly, but bit back his tongue quickly as he noted that he was still in an office.

Ryan bit his lip harshly and whimpered in pleasure at Brendon’s quick paced motions. Ryan could hear Brendon’s breathing become more and more uneven and more like gasps. Then the fingertips embedded in Ryan’s hip started to sting like the bite marks on his neck a few weeks before.

Ryan heard Brendon breathe his name, and as soon as the thrusts stopped, he felt Brendon’s face against his back briefly before the heat escaped and Brendon was already putting his pants back on.

Ryan turned around slowly to face Brendon who was fixing his buckle. Brendon looked up over the rim of his glasses. He smirked at Ryan who was still breathing deeply with sweat glistening on his forehead.

“You just gonna walk out on me now?” Ryan asked.

Brendon stepped up to Ryan with his face only an inch or so away.

”I should.” He responded.

Brendon laced his fingers in the back of Ryan’s hair before pulling him into a kiss. Ryan’s tongue briefly brushed against Brendon’s before Brendon’s lips moved down. Brendon bit at Ryan’s neck, then he got down on his knees.

Ryan chuckled and leaned up against his desk. Brendon licked his lips, and then wrapped them around Ryan’s cock. Ryan responded by smirking as he let out another chuckle and closed his eyes.

Ryan was already so close to coming- so he immediately started to shiver and twitch when Brendon’s tongue brushed over certain sensitive areas.

“I’m close, Brendon…” Ryan whispered as his chest began to rise and fall rapidly. His hand that wasn’t clenching Brendon’s shoulder was pulling at his own hair as he waited impatiently for his orgasm.

Brendon’s mouth moved swiftly over Ryan, as he made sure to tend to the more sensitive areas. Brendon looked up to see Ryan biting his lip with his eyes closed shut, and the grip he had on his shoulder told Brendon that Ryan was seconds away.

“Oh, God… Fuck!” Ryan exclaimed as he came.

Brendon took in all of Ryan’s fluids and stood up. Ryan watched as Brendon moved to the edge of the desk and spat into the garbage can. Ryan rolled his eyes.

“What?” Brendon scowled.

“Nothing.” Ryan shrugged and reached down to pull up his pants.

“I just fucked you and sucked your dick, don’t give me fucking attitude.” Brendon growled.

“I wasn’t!” Ryan scoffed.

“Whatever.” Brendon said and sat back down over at his desk. Ryan watched him for a moment before a ding came from his desktop.

Ryan shook his head a Brendon and focused on his computer.

“I’ve got mail.” Ryan said.

“What?” Brendon yawned.

“Mail. It’s from Jon and Spence down in Graphics. They probably want uh… something. I gotta jet.”

Brendon chuckled and twirled in his chair as he watched Ryan gather together all his papers and folders. Ryan shot a smirk in Brendon’s direction as he headed towards the hall.

“Have a good night.” Brendon smiled as Ryan walked out the door.

---
Again sorry this took so long. Drop a line, please, if anyone still remembers this story.
Like was said previously- things will start happening soon. Hang in there.
XO.

heartandmindxx @ 2007-02-13T22:09:00

2007-02-14T05:13:21Z

Title: Boy, You Got a Real Pretty Face… It’s Too Bad I Want to Break It [08]
Author:xsavedbygracex [Katt] and prescott_iv [Steff]
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: Around an R.
Summary: “Maybe I can make it up to you.”
Notes: This is the second co-write we’ve done together. Hope you like it. Don’t be afraid to friend the journal =).
Disclaimer: You know the deal. We don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Previous Chapters: 00|01|02|03|04|05|06|07

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Ryan was sure he’d never felt such hatred for another human being in his entire life. Not even everyone he’d ever hated put together.

Brendon Urie was a menace. And it was Ryan’s turn to fight back.

He’d been getting the shit end of everything, every minute since he’d known that Urie bastard. He was sick of it.

He walked in to work the next day determined to get Brendon back for what he’d done in the bathroom. Seriously, that was low.

He’d dressed down to Brendon’s tastes- skintight dark blue jeans and a tight black v-neck shirt, revealing the flawlessly smooth skin of his chest. His eyes were lined expertly in black, accentuating his golden brown eyes. Dressed down, but dressed to kill.

He’d stopped by Starbucks and gotten coffee for himself and Brendon. He’d been working with Brendon to know exactly what he liked- Grande low-fat Vanilla Latte. He’d gotten a Peppermint Mocha for himself and continued on to the office.

He checked himself out in the mirrored walls of the elevator on his way up to the eighth floor. He smirked at his reflection- stunning.

He walked briskly past Pete and Jared’s office, nodding his head with a smile to the two. Jared sat on the corner of Pete’s desk, leaning back on one hand. He waved with the other.

“Oh, Ry,” Pete called after him as he passed, “meeting in fifteen.”

“Will do, boss.” Ryan answered, smiling.

He pushed open the door to his and Brendon’s office to see Brendon sitting at his desk, staring intently at his computer screen. His red-framed glasses were slid down his nose, and he blinked hard. He was tired.

Ryan placed his own coffee down on his desk, then walked across the room to Brendon’s, holding it in front of his face.

“Brought you coffee.” He said, sitting on the corner of Brendon’s desk and smiling sweetly.

Brendon looked up at him suspiciously. “Poisoned?”

“Should have thought of that.” Ryan said, rolling his eyes playfully. “Just take it.”

Brendon raised an eyebrow and brought up his hand to take it. Ryan released the cup just a little early, and it fell into Brendon’s lap. The lid didn’t come off, but still coffee leaked out of the hole and onto the crotch of Brendon’s jeans.

“Motherfucker!” Brendon yelled, grabbing the cup and turning it upright.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I thought you had it.” Ryan said, grabbing tissues from the box on Brendon’s desk. “Let me just… get that for you.”

He leaned across the desk and began to rub at Brendon’s crotch, slowly and deliberately. He looked up seductively into Brendon’s wide eyes. He could hear the rhythm of his breathing become jumpy and uneven. He tossed the tissues into the nearby garbage, and returned his hand to Brendon’s crotch.

“Maybe I can make it up to you.” He purred.

He crawled across the desk and onto Brendon, straddling his waist before pushing their lips together.

Brendon’s hands quickly found a spot on the exposed skin of Ryan’s lower back, rubbing slow circles as Ryan ground their hips together. He could feel Brendon getting excited beneath him.

Ryan took Brendon’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking a little before biting down harshly. Brendon let out a loud moan against his mouth- Ryan was thankful that he’d closed the door behind him.

He moved his lips to Brendon’s neck, licking a trail up his throat and blowing on it lightly. Brendon shuddered beneath him and leaned forward again to catch Ryan’s lips.

Their tongues battled for dominance of the kiss. Ryan wouldn’t give up, and eventually Brendon let him win control. He pushed Brendon back in the chair, his hands running down Brendon’s chest, resting on his crotch and stroking his hard cock through the denim of his jeans.

He pulled away, just a little, smiling against Brendon’s lips. He may have been an asshole but he was still a fantastic kisser. He pecked him lightly once more before leaning in to his ear.

“We’ll finish this later.”

Brendon leaned back with a contented sigh. “Why not now?” He whined, placing his hands on Ryan’s ass and pulling him closer, attaching his lips to Ryan’s neck.

Ryan laughed and pulled up Brendon’s chin. He kissed him roughly before finally pulling away. “Because, sugar, we’ve got a meeting to go to in a minute.”
Brendon froze. Ryan smirked and stood up, smoothing out his shirt before walking across to his desk. He grabbed his coffee and left for the conference room, swaying his hips as he walked out.

Brendon let out a groan of anger and distress. This problem was not going to go away in “a minute”.

He stood up and tried to pull his shirt down over his crotch. That was not going to work. He sighed and waddled out of the room and down the hall.

The meeting was about to begin as Brendon walked in. The reps of all of the different departments were already there, and all eyes went to him as he opened the door. Most notable out of the crowd were Ryan’s mocking ones, taunting him as he shuffled over to the seat across from him. He glared at Ryan angrily and took his seat next to Jared.

“Well now that everyone’s here, I’d just like to remind all of the departments that the issue needs to be together by the 15th, so you’ve about a week left.” Jared started. “I’ll hand the reigns over to our esteemed editors, Mr. Ross and Mr. Urie, and they-” he paused, looking at Brendon. “Hey, you’ve got a little blood there.” He said, pointing to his lip.

Brendon’s hand shot up to his mouth, pressing against his lips. He pulled it away and, of course, his fingers were reddened with blood.

He frowned as his tongue darted out to lick the blood away. He glared at Ryan as he stood up.

“First and foremost,” Ryan started, “I’d like to sincerely express my gratitude towards every individual here for their continued efforts to ensure that this issue comes together. Everyone has been doing a remarkable job and, honestly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.” Brendon watched the skin of Ryan’s stomach and hips peek out from underneath his shirt periodically. It was really not helping with his problem. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“And a very special thanks to our graphics team.” Ryan said, gesturing to two men near the middle of the long table. Jon Walker and Spencer Smith. Brendon hadn’t spoken much to them but he knew they were very talented. The two of them both raised their hands in a small salute to Ryan, who beamed back at them. “Both Jon and Spencer have been working exceptionally hard to get our very first cover together…”

Brendon tuned out the rest of Ryan’s speech, clapping with the rest when Ryan flicked on the overhead to display the cover against the projector screen. He hardly paid attention- he’d seen it, anyways.

That son of a bitch Ryan Ross had left him in one of the most uncomfortable positions of his life. He could hardly move, the fabric of his jeans rubbing against his erection was almost too much. Asshole. He slumped down in his chair, resting his chin on his hand and rubbing his thumb along his stinging lip. That son of a bitch Ryan Ross. That sexy son of a bitch.

“Brendon?”

Brendon snapped out of his daze. “What?”

“Did you have anything to add?” Ryan said, looking down at him expectedly.

He shook his head. “Uh, no.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and looked up to address the staff. “Alright, that’s everything then. And please, if everyone could make sure that your pieces are in our inboxes by Tuesday afternoon, that would be wonderful. Have a great rest of your day.”

That son of a bitch Ryan Ross.

---
Really sorry this took so long. Katty's internet broke.
Drop a line. XO.

heartandmindxx @ 2007-02-01T19:28:00

2007-02-02T02:30:53Z

Title: Boy, You Got a Real Pretty Face… It’s Too Bad I Want to Break It [07]
Author:xsavedbygracex [Katt] and prescott_iv [Steff]
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross [Panic! At the Disco]
Rating: Around an R.
Summary: “What took you so long?”
Notes: This is the second co-write we’ve done together. Hope you like it. Don’t be afraid to friend the journal =). You reviewers are awesome, thank you.
Disclaimer: You know the deal. We don’t claim anything except the story. It’s fiction.

Previous Chapters: 00|01|02|03|04|05|06

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The following week passed quite uneventfully.

Aside from the occasional snide remark, Brendon and Ryan had begun to act somewhat civil towards each other. They’d finally agreed on and finalized the Perinetti story, but as soon as they’d proclaimed it to be complete, Leto and Wentz came out with another project.

Decide on the cover layout of Harlequin.

“You have graphic design team doing it, of course. But it’s up to you two to pick and choose what you think is best.” Pete said as he held out a small folder filled with pages and pages of different fonts, colors and sizes, and waited for either of the men to take it.

Brendon hesitantly reached for the folder- looking at it as if it were a plate of foreign diseases. Ryan too glanced at it as though it were crawling with a filthy infection.

Brendon looked back up to Pete. “Don’t you think that the graphic team should maybe do this, too? I mean-”

“We’re just the editors.” Ryan interrupted.

“Yeah, we’re not… I mean we have nothing to do with the cover, anyways.”

Ryan nodded furiously.

Pete chuckled and planted one hand firmly down on Brendon’s shoulder.

“No, no. You boys need something to do for a few days, and the guys down in graphics need a day off. They’ve been busting their asses trying to get these designs done for you. Do us all a favor and work something out.” He smiled again before turning around and sitting back at his desk.

“Yeah… you got it, Mr. Wentz.” Brendon sighed, stepping out of the office. Ryan quickly followed.

---

A few hours passed and they still hadn’t gotten anywhere. Falling back on old routines, neither of them was willing to settle.

“Which color do you like the best?”

“Teal.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Fuck you, what did you have in mind?”

“I like this autumn orange.”

“…That’s fucking gross.”

“You asked for my opinion!”

“Your opinion sucks!”

“As if yours is any more relevant.”

By four-thirty, Ryan could hardly bear to argue any longer. They’d disagreed on almost everything- but in the end, Brendon had always succumbed to Ryan’s demands. Ryan was almost uneasy at this thought- he knew Brendon had the veto power and was just itching to use it.

“I’m going to the washroom.” Brendon said as he slid off of Ryan’s desk. The two were in the middle of a heated discussion over the font choice for the logo.

Ryan protested. “You went not twenty minutes ago!”

“Yeah…” He nodded with a sly smile. “And now, I’m going to go again.”

Ryan groaned as he rubbed his eyes harshly, leaving black kohl smudges on his fingers.

“Can you at least tell me the name of a font you like before you go? A size, a color… anything!” Ryan called to Brendon’s back as he left the room.

Brendon poked his head back into view. “What’s the font you wanted to use, again?”

Ryan turned around. “Baskerville Old Fa-“

“I like Agency.” And with that, Brendon disappeared down the hall.

Furious and just all together agitated with his ‘associate’s’ antics, Ryan jumped up to follow Brendon- not really knowing exactly what he was going to say or do when he caught up to him.

Ryan pushed hurriedly past other employees, who for the most part were just getting off work and heading towards the elevators. He moved past the emptying offices until he finally hit the washrooms at the end of the hall.

He pushed the heavy metal door open and immediately noticed the color change. Last weeks lavender white had been changed to a subtle olive green. He chuckled lightly- Jared had been serious.

Ryan blinked and remembered why he’d gone to the washroom in the first place. Brendon.

No sooner than he’d thought this, he felt a sudden impact against his side that slammed him up against the tile wall.

Ryan groaned at the aching pain in his back.

“What took you so long?” Brendon smiled before attacking Ryan’s lips in a kiss.

Ryan pulled away harshly. “Brendon, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“I think we both need a break.” Brendon purred as Ryan looked around the room, panic-stricken. “Don’t worry about it. No one is in here. You’re safe.” He pushed his mouth back onto Ryan’s- who was obviously still enraged, yet was not quite objecting.

With a little more movement of Brendon’s soft lips against his, Ryan completely gave in and started to return Brendon’s advances. One hand crept up to cradle Brendon’s cheek, the other taking a grip on the front of his green polo.

Brendon’s somewhat tender kisses soon gave-way to the more aggressive bites and licks Ryan was all-too familiar with. Ryan countered these without hesitation, moving his hands to leave scratches on Brendon’s neck and shoulder blades through the material as he desperately grasped for something to keep his balance.

Brendon’s hands found their way up Ryan’s shirt, causing Ryan to gasp at the sudden stinging of nails that had replaced the ache in his back.

Both were breathing heavily, kissing hungrily, and paying no attention to the burning new marks on their bodies- only to the ecstasy that they were causing.

Brendon moved his mouth to the pale skin of Ryan’s neck, still marked in some places from their previous encounter. He bit at it lustfully, with Ryan moaning loudly in pleasure- glad that the rest of the employees had left the floor. Brendon worked at the buttons of Ryan’s dress shirt, exposing more skin to be marked.

Before to long, Ryan’s hand made its way to Brendon’s shoulder, pushing down lightly. Brendon took the hint.

Nearly on his knees with his hands at the small of Ryan’s back, he kissed and nipped at the skin of Ryan’s stomach. He ran his tongue across the protruding bone of Ryan’s hip as Ryan began to hastily undo his belt buckle.

As Ryan fingered the clasp, Brendon laughed to himself and stood up, leaning close to Ryan’s ear.

“What now?” Ryan breathed, panting lightly.

Brendon stepped back. Ryan’s shirt dropped to reveal his pallid skin striped with red. He chuckled again as he ran his fingers through his hair to tame it.

“What!” Ryan repeated.

Brendon stepped back and leered, biting his lip playfully.

“Veto’d.”

He winked and left the room without another word, leaving Ryan shirtless and panting against the wall.

---
Drop a line, we love you. XO