the way we look like animals | 30k | max/daniel | chapters 4/4
Max looks almost perpetually confused, eyes downturned and planes of his face unmoving. Daniel finds it hard to read him.
He desperately wants to find out what makes this kid tick.
my cowboy au! an ode to brokeback mountain/gods own country/my own private idaho (movies that make me unwell)
(pov i am your coworker and you are having a casual conversation with me) you know, that reminds me of something that hurts so much to remember that i actually can’t even mention it at all
sometimes a fanbase can be so earnest and chill they organically endear you to a team you didn’t care in the least. in the other hand, sometimes a team’s fanbase will be so damn annoying they’ll get you to loathe a team you didn’t have any issues with.
galex post-hook-up off-season (nsfw like sort of...)
Alex had been smoking again. George could smell it on him, the acrid tang that stuck in a layer of film over his skin, clinging to him like a codependent, parasitic growth. His cologne lay overtop, a hasty application, and the two scents mixed together in a way that shouldn’t have worked but did, because it was Alex; because he was George; because he was George smelling Alex.
He chewed over his words for a moment. Alex had made a beeline for the fridge and the line of his back was tense; George watched the sinuous relationships of the muscles in his back; there, the divot where his mouth had been just last night. It was baffling in the light of day, how that patch of skin could’ve seemed so all-encompassing, how it had filled each one of his senses, his gaze, his mouth, every breath. Now, it was innocuous, sitting just above the curve of Alex’s lower back, a dimple of muscle and skin. Something in George’s stomach ached like hunger, starvation,famine; he’d had his pre-subscribed meal of oatmeal-and-fruit that morning.
Alex unscrewed a cold bottle of water and turned toward the kitchen island, throwing his head back to chug at it; the line of his undulating throat caught the early-morning light filtering through the double-glazed windows. George looked away. His mouth was dry.
“Now what would Patrick say about that.” He said, lightly, nodding toward the balcony. To anyone else that might have been confusing, a sideways approach to a conversation, a mental leap to the topic at hand.
Alex took one last gulp from the bottle and sat it down on the counter with a sharp clack. Half-empty.
“Patrick wouldn’t give a shit.” He smiled, a blunted edge to the sharpness of his voice. “It’s the off-season. I can fuck my body up as much as I want.” Harsh breathing and the vulgar noise of skin slapping against skin, sweat, damp, musk. George blinked. Alex was still talking.
“Besides,” he continued, looking away. He hadn’t noticed George’s lapse in concentration. “It’s not like we’re free-divers or something. My stamina’s alright– and it’s not like I’m an idiot. Everything in moderation, I only let myself have one every couple weeks.”
“Lucky me.” George said. He was so conscious of his body, the way he was lying faux-casual on the couch, looking up at Alex; his leg was flung over the armrest.
Alex was looking at him again. His eyes trailed languidly down the length of his body; it was a physical thing, a white sheet dragged down over his body. George shivered. Alex stepped forward, stepped forward again. He had that look in his eyes, the one he got when he had his relentless fingers inside of him, the one he got when he had levered himself above George and his forearms were caging him in, the one he got behind the dark visor of his helmet with an overtake in his sights.
The way their bodies crashed together was an inevitability. Alex fit just-so on top of him on the couch; George hadn’t realised he’d been waiting for him this whole time, the divots of space left for his arm, his knee, his mouth on top of his own.
“What are–” he gasped out, mouth free as Alex tilted his head to suck-nibble-kiss wetly along his neck. He seemed obsessed with a tendon that George had there, the way it would stick up and out when he was tense; the way it jutted out of his skin now. “What are you doing today–?”
Alex’s voice was a reverberation against the delicate hot skin of his pulse point; he could feel each thumping surge of blood rocketing from his heart up to his brain. He imagined Alex biting down, the gushing liquid, the slowing of his heartbeat, the fuzzy blackness that would encroach at the edges of his vision; his wet mouth, crimson shocking against the whiteness of his teeth; Alex had choked him last night. He’d liked it, more than he could admit.
“I’m seeing Lily later,” he said, sharply biting at George’s earlobe, licking up the shell of his ear; he sucked in a breath and Alex mercilessly hooked two of his fingers inside his mouth, pressed down on his tongue, the soft inside of his cheek. George’s cock was hard against the zipper of his jeans, a hot, throbbing line of heat. “But you already knew that.”
George had already known. They’d shared their google calendars with each other– years ago he couldn’t even remember when, or why. Another fact of life, another facet of George-and-Alex as an indomitable pair. He checked it every day. He didn’t know how often Alex looked. Enough that he knew George’s routine, but that wasn’t hard. George was a creature of habit; Alex was the spontaneous one. He’d seen it, the telltale green block, date w/ lily (legado ?). Before that, a stretching blue block– me time :). In George’s, a division of gym and lunch and a physiotherapy appointment. He’d already cancelled it.
“She’ll like Legado,” he said, around Alex’s fingers; a confession. “Trendy, isn’t it?”
“Stop it.” Alex said. He shifted. His palm was warm, and wet against the side of George’s neck. He peeled his mouth away from his skin to look down at him, face so close that their noses were almost brushing; his words were hot puffs of air against George’s lips. “You told me to take her. You said it was good. So she’ll like it.”
“Right.” George licked his lips, just to see Alex’s eyes flick down, back up again; quick reaction time. Patrick would be happy his exercises were put to good use. “Congratulate her from me. On the tournament.”
“Sure,” said Alex. He was already shimmying down the couch. “Are we good to fuck here? Or do you want to move it to the bed.”
“I get a cleaner.” George said. He was already pulling his shirt up and off his head; his hands were trembling, like a blood sugar crash, a starving man with a feast laid in front of him. There was an endless heat-fire-want caving in his stomach. Alex grinned.
