Work Text:
The Atlanta Hawks were terrible.
It was one reason why Justin didn"t want to be here. Another one was his half drunk teammates leaning over to needlessly shout in his ear, "Did you see that basket?" Justin loves playing for the Flames but couldn"t they have a better NBA team?
There"s a big crowd and Justin is sandwiched between Hanifin and Ward, their metal folding chairs scraping and hitting each other when they jump up to yell. Ward looks ridiculous in a fucking belted sweater and muttonchops. Hanifin is just dressed as provocatively as possible.
Staal is siting Hanifin"s other side, his legs spread as obnoxiously as possible, big hands draped over the orange fabric stretched over his thighs.
Leighton comes back over holding beers, his penance for grabbing the end of the row seat and dropping the gloves with Cam way back in juniors, his wide collared shirt already stained with beer. It sloshes as its passed over and Justin is quick to gulp it down so he can get drunk already and Hanifin won"t try to snatch it from him like the shit he is.
But Hanifin does anyway, giving Justin a look, his lids half covering those blue eyes, as he drinks from the plastic cup.
"Thank you Justin," Hanifin purrs his name and licks at his pink lips, pressing in close his half open shirt falling down even more and the medallion he stole from Justin"s locker dangling in the light.
Justin is not amused and snatches the cup back from him.
The flirting does not help. It"s only been two days since the breakup.
The last reason Justin didn"t want to be here. All he wanted to do was drink his own shitty beer in his apartment, sitting on his plaid couch and watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
But Ward had called him a moping mess and said he needed to get out his apartment and his ass.
So here he is, watching a sport he was never really into, surrounded by his "friends" who are unfairly more drunk than he is.
Staal looks over at Justin, a supremely smug look on his face as he says, "What"s wrong Faulk don"t want to share?" Clapping his meaty hands on Hanifin"s knee. Hanifin gives a little laugh, probably fluttering his lashes. Staal stands up, patting his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
Hanifin looks back over at Justin, giving him what he probably thinks is a sultry smile. "Sure you can"t spare another sip?"
Justin wrinkles his nose at Hanifin who just keeps giving him that same look.
"I"m going to take a piss," Hanifin announces, walking past Justin just to shove his ass in his face. He practically preens, flipping the blond hair curled right above the collar of his shirt as he goes like Justin doesn"t know he"s sneaking off to smoke and impress Staal.
At least he left to go puff smoke unlike everyone else. The bright lights of the arena are bouncing off the smoke lingering around the crowd, leaving everything hazy and smelling of nicotine. It burns his nose. Justin slouches in his chair and takes another sip of the beer that he feels on his tongue more than he tastes it.
He yells at Leighton to get him another, but he never shows up again. Ward clucks his tongue.
"Guess I should go look for him," Ward says absently, eyes sliding over to someone sitting behind them. One of the rookies if Justin knows him. And he"s played with him for six years. Ward gets up, but Justin doesn"t bother seeing who he drags off to his lair.
The players he didn"t bother to learn the names of are shouting as they run around but Justin just watches listlessly, abandoned by his so called teammates who dragged him here in the first place. Hanifin and Staal gone to hump in his Stutz Blackhawk, probably getting rug burn from that shag carpeting Staal never shuts up about, Ward off to fuck God knows who, and Leighton finding someplace he can snort something, he won"t have to look far.
He doesn"t know where half the other guys went, all the kids probably halfway across Atlanta in some dive bar to guzzle beer somewhere where it isn"t muggy and hazy from all the people squashed together. For a split second Justin wishes she was here, but he quickly finishes the rest of his beer, pushing the thought away. There"s still a lot of game left.
There"s a pause in the play and the coach sends out a guy Justin didn"t see before, but suddenly he"s much more interested in the game. The new guy is shorter than most of the other players but thicker and the ridiculous shorts he"s wearing strain over his round ass.
Leaning forward in his seat he watches him run around on the court, his shoes squeaking on the floor as he jumps and Justin can"t help but notice how his hands span across the ball. Every time he moves the shorts ride a little higher and its only the will of God keeping the seams from bursting around his thighs.
He slaps the ball away from some guy who"s so spindly he looks like bare tree limbs in winter and runs down the court, sinking the ball into the net. One of his teammates throws an arm around him, slapping his corded bicep.
Justin has to meet this guy.
The Hawks lose.
Justin doesn"t bother seeing by how much.
But he"s an athlete he knows where the guys slip off to and how they avoid fans. He plays in the same arena as them for fuck"s sake.
He waits in a smaller back hallway with only the buzz and soft light from a vending machine, rolling a cigarette he has no intention of smoking between his fingers. He tugs on his turtleneck absently, and scratches at his mustache thinking about shaving it off.
He almost doesn"t notice someone walking his way, with a garment bag thrown over his shoulder. The guy pauses when he sees Justin, stopping under one of the lights dangling from the ceiling. The light glints off his neck and Justin notices a gold chain on his neck.
"You a fan?" The guy asks and Justin pauses at his accent. It"s thick and curls around his words, almost like he"s Russian. But the guy is looking at him expectantly.
So Justin shakes his head and says, "Nah just trying to get away from some of the noise," the corner of his mouth turning up a little.
The guy laughs and tells Justin that"s hard around here, offering him a black lighter.
Justin just shrugs, "I don"t smoke you can have it."
He takes it with a grin and lights it up himself, Justin staring at how his lips curl around the cigarette. A thin curl of smoke rises from it and he blows it out.
Justin tries not to make a face, "What"s your name?"
"Jiri," the guy"s blue eyes bore into Justin"s as his cheeks hollow around the cigarette, the paisley collar of his shirt gaping to show off the beginnings of his chest. "You?"
"Justin, where are you from?" He can"t stop staring at the pants he"s wearing, curving perfectly with his ass.
"Just a little place I ran from," Jiri finishes the cigarette, flicking it into a trashcan. Stepping in closer he traces a finger down the chain of Justin"s necklace.
"I saw you staring."
Justin flushes and opens his mouth to deny it, but Jiri is too fast for him. "I didn"t mind."
Before Justin can fully process what"s happening Jiri has a hand fisted in his jacket and is dragging him somewhere.
Stumbling a little to keep up Justin manages to ask, "Where are we going?"
"Just to grab a burger across the street I"m not going to take advantage of you I promise." Jiri sends Justin a wink that only make Justin"s face turn more red.
The place Jiri takes him to is small and smells like grease. Suddenly Justin"s mouth is watering.
They sit down and Justin tries not to just order the biggest steak he can. Jiri doesn"t seem to have any qualms and gets a burger heaping with bacon and onions.
"You can"t get food like this in Czechoslovakia," Jiri says after he"s stolen the fifth fry from Justin"s plate.
"That"s where you"re from?"
"Yeah its a soviet country. It"s hard to get bread much less bread, beef, bacon, and potatoes."
Justin is curious, but he"s distracted by Jiri swiping the ketchup from his lips with his pink tongue. Jiri notices and slides his tongue across his lips again, making a soft noise. Justin clutches his knife until his knuckles shake, his pants starting to get uncomfortably tight. The smug look on Jiri"s face grows and he steals another fry.
The steak is juicy and soft as butter but Justin almost chokes on it when he feels something soft brush against his ankle. It"s Jiri"s socked foot slowly sliding up his leg under his pants.
"We should go," Justin manages to say, flagging down the waitress. Jiri gives an impish smile and says, "What"s the hurry? I haven"t even finished yet."
But as he talks his foot creeps higher and higher sliding up to Justin"s thigh.
Justin makes a strangled whimper just as the waitress brings their check. Justin slaps some bills down and jumps up, grabbing Jiri"s hand.
This time Jiri doesn"t protest and leads Justin to his Ford Thunderbird.
Maybe Justin shouldn"t get into the car of a man he barely knows but he"s too hard to think right now, just wanting to rip off Jiri"s ridiculous purple paisley shirt.
Jiri pulls up to his small house, yanking Justin inside and pushing his jacket off before he even closes the door. Justin is impatient, pushing his mouth against Jiri"s. His mustache rubs against the smooth skin of Jiri"s face and Justin shoves him against the grainy door.
They fumble around in their kiss Justin kicking his shoes off and his feet sinking into the shag carpeting. Jiri has his arms hooked around Justin"s broad shoulders moaning in some language, his tongue moving in Justin"s mouth as he speaks.
Eventually they have to break for air and Justin stares at the red marks his mustache has left on Jiri. It makes Jiri smirk again and he licks at his lips with an exaggerated moan.
But it works and Justin hisses, "Where"s your bed?"
The room Jiri takes him to has wood paneling on the walls and a bed covered in mustard yellow sheets. The ceiling slants dramatically in the middle of the room and Justin has to duck a little when he steps over to bed.
Jiri has newspaper clippings pinned to the wall of various basketball players. Most of them have USSR across their chest, some with a crowned lion. Justin doesn"t get a good look before he"s pushed down onto the thin mattress.
Jiri"s mouth is hot and wet and Justin barely manages to think straight enough to get those damn tiny buttons on Jiri"s shirt undone. Jiri breaks the kiss to yank Justin"s sweater off, purring down at him. Jiri runs a light finger down the thin gold chain of Justin"s medallion feeling his chest hair as he goes.
Ducking his head down Jiri nuzzles his cheek against the hair and says, "Fuck Justin I want you to smother me." Jiri can feel the growl Justin makes, vibrating from his chest. Justin grabs Jiri"s hips and flips them hovering over Jiri.
"Do you have any lotion?" Justin says, yanking his pants and underwear down. Jiri nods and flings his arm out to grab a bottle tossing it to Justin.
Justin doesn"t bother being patient, pressing two fingers into him at once and grunting at how his perfect ass feels, warm and tight around his fingers. It"s messy the lotion dripping onto the sheets and Jiri"s thighs as Justin opens him roughly, squeezing more lotion onto his fingers.
Jiri shouts and drags his nails down Justin"s back when his fingers hit that spot inside of him. His toes dig into the sheets about to yank them out and he pants out in that same language from before, telling Justin how he needs to be fucked now.
"Be patient," Justin grunts, not even sure what the words mean but well aware of the tugs to his long hair. It only encourages Jiri and Justin has to slap his ass, feeling the skin give under his fingers and the red mark it leaves.
Justin can"t wait anymore. He pauses to pull his fingers out, coating his cock in lotion getting both of them dirtier. He grabs Jiri"s hips and slides into him. Justin starts out slow, making Jiri feel every inch as he pushes into him. Jiri hisses and wraps his legs around Justin"s waist trying to urge him on.
"Don"t be so greedy, baby," Justin presses a mocking kiss against Jiri"s lips. "Next time don"t be such a tease."
Jiri narrows his eyes and says, "We"ll see." He squeezes around Justin and grinds back against him meeting his thrusts.
Justin pins his hips down, "You better behave Jiri." His fingers slip in the lotion on Jiri"s hips and he has to bear down on him with all his body weight. But Jiri starts to beg, panting out and touching himself, running his fingers down his flushed dick. The sight is enough for Justin"s hips to twitch and he jerks roughly into Jiri. Jiri doesn"t let up.
Finally Justin snaps his hips hard and Jiri shouts his name, arching his back and throwing his head back.
"Fuck Justin faster potřebuji tě." Jiri can barely remember his English, biting and sucking kisses on Justin"s neck as he"s fucked.
The pain only makes Justin more wild and he loses all rhythm the closer he gets. His hair falling out of place and into his face, the pendant around his neck bouncing as he moves. The bed creaks dangerously under them but neither notice.
Justin is leaving his own marks, his facial hair scraping against Jiri"s soft skin. He"s getting close to the edge digging his nails into the sheets next to Jiri"s shoulders. Jiri is scratching Justin"s back bloody but Justin barely notices and just wraps a hand around him and jerks him off roughly.
Jiri practically wails when he comes, covering Justin in his come. It sets Justin off and he isn"t much further behind, pumping his hips as he empties into Jiri.
After he"s done he lets go and pulls out, falling down next to Jiri with a gasp, trying to catch his breath. Jiri presses a kiss to his shoulder and says, "Wow," his voice soft.
A smile curls on Justin"s lips and he says, "Thanks," slapping Jiri"s arm just like his teammate did.
They"re both covered in come and lotion and Justin eventually drags himself up to the nearby bathroom, grabbing something to wipe off with.
Jiri looks surprised when Justin cleans him up too. He props himself on his elbows watching Justin. "Thanks."
Justin shrugs and says, "We should do this again."
This time Jiri"s smile isn"t so smug, "Yeah we should." Pulling Justin down for a kiss Jiri smiles even more, "As long as you don"t shave."