Page 13 of Speak in Fever
Percy strips his cock furiously, picturing the hot, damp clench of Rath’s perfect ass around him. He wants to fill him up, shove him full of spit and lube and come and plug it up with his cock, make him feel Percy for days after.
It’s that image–Rath filthy, sweaty and dripping his come–that shoves Percy over the edge.
He lays there, panting, trying to come back down to earth.
Fuck, what just happened?
"Fuck," Percy repeats to his empty house.
Chapter 4
Watching Percy all of the time means that Rath notices when Percy is watching him back.
It's become a habit he can't seem to break, this careful cataloguing of Percy's movements, his expressions, the way he holds himself during different situations. Rath tells himself it's professional awareness—knowing where your captain is, understanding his moods, being ready for whatever leadership moment might be coming. But the truth is more complicated than that, wrapped up in attraction and fascination and the kind of wanting that makes his chest tight whenever Percy looks in his direction.
So he's not unaware when he glances up from post-practice stretches and Percy is looking at him. Percy's got that focused look in his eyes that usually means Rath is about to get feedback on his positioning or his defensive zone coverage, the kind of intense attention that makes Rath feel like he's under a microscope. So it's not exactly the kind of "watching" he wisheswas going on, but at least Percy isn't frowning at him like he's pissed in his wheaties.
There's something different about this particular look, though. Less analytical, more... thoughtful. Like Percy is working through a problem that involves Rath in some capacity, and Rath isn't sure if that's good news or terrible news for his already precarious position on the team.
He's half expecting it when Percy approaches his stall as the locker room starts emptying out, but it doesn't mean he doesn't stiffen a little when he sees him out of the corner of his eye. Percy moves with that unconscious confidence that Rath has always found both intimidating and attractive, all controlled power and quiet authority.
"Platts," Percy says, settling his gear bag on the bench with a quiet thud. "Got a minute?"
Rath glances up from unlacing his skates and does his best job at unraveling Percy's complicated expression. He looks as serious as ever, but not annoyed, which is generally a good sign for Rath's continued existence on this team. Percy's practice jersey is clinging to his chest, damp with sweat and outlining muscle definition that he built up over the summer, and Rath's attention stays resolutely focused on Percy's face.
"Sure. What's up?"
Percy sits down on the bench across from him, and the casual gesture brings them closer to eye level.
"I've been thinking about our chemistry on the ice," Percy begins, and Rath anticipates a lecture about his attitude or his defensive positioning or any of a dozen ways he's apparently been disappointing his captain lately. But instead Percy continues, "I'd like to work on it."
Rath stares at him, taken aback. It's not like he's unaware of the fact that they don't work well together—their timing is off, their communication is stilted, and they have a tendency to getin each other's way during crucial plays. He knows Percy is well aware of that fact too, but he'd expected Percy to just casually dismiss him from important lines rather than actively work on repairing their teamwork.
The admission that it's something worth fixing feels significant in ways Rath doesn't want to examine too closely.
"I was wondering if you'd be interested in staying after practice tomorrow," Percy continues, his voice careful and professional. "Work on some drills together, see if we can build on what we have."
The invitation and the open admission that their on-ice relationship is a shortcoming for both of them feels like something physical hanging in the air between them. One-on-one time with Percy is not something he's had a lot of, and of course he's always greedy for more. An hour of having Percy's complete attention, of working together without the distraction of nineteen other players, sounds almost too good to be true.
It also sounds dangerous in ways that Rath tries not to think about. Because spending time alone with Percy when he's already having trouble maintaining professional boundaries around the man seems like asking for trouble. But the alternative—saying no, missing the chance to actually improve their working relationship—isn't really an option.
"Really?" Rath asks, because he needs to make sure he heard correctly.
"Yeah, if you don't have plans." Percy's tone is casual, but there's something in his expression that suggests this matters to him more than he's letting on.
Rath almost laughs at the question. His evenings usually consist of Netflix, leftover takeout, and trying not to think about how isolated he feels in a city where he still doesn't have many friends outside the team. The idea that he might have plansimportant enough to turn down ice time with Percy Killinger is absurd.
"I don't have plans. That sounds good, Cap."
Percy's shoulders relax slightly, like he was expecting a fight out of this, and Rath feels momentarily guilty for always goading him into scrap after scrap. This is probably why they don't trust each other on the ice—because they spend so much time locked in verbal sparring matches that they've forgotten how to actually work together. If they're going to win games, it's definitely something they need to work on sooner rather than later, especially if Rath is going to be a bigger part of the team than he was last year.
"Good," Percy says, and when he smiles, it's small but genuine. "I'll see you tomorrow then."
He stands to leave, shouldering his gear bag with practiced ease, and Rath watches the way his practice shorts hug his thighs, the casual strength in his movements. When Percy glances back at him before leaving, Rath is definitely not staring at his ass, and Percy definitely doesn't catch him looking.
Probably.
The next day's practice feels endless. Every drill stretches like torture because all Rath can think about is the hour of private ice time waiting afterward. He catches himself watching Percy more than usual, noting the way he communicates with sharp hand gestures, the authoritative tilt of his head when he's processing Coach's instructions, the unconscious confidence in every movement.
