with her nose stuck in a book

"Fucking showoffs, all of 'em," Dew complains over the din of bar chatter. He takes a sip of his beer, frown permanently in place since they lost the game this evening. "They won by one point. One!"

Aether blows an amused laugh between his lips. "Put up hell of a fight though. Think I have a bruise on my ass. And my arm."

"Yeah, the fuck was that all about?"

Aether shrugs. "S'what happens, man. Probably couldn't stand that killer assist I got right under their skates." His face lights up, and he mimes the movement of his stick with his hand, swooshing it around his whiskey glass and flicking it at the gap between it and Dew's beer. He makes a swish sound and pretends to roar like the crowd.

Dew snorts. "You're a dork."

"You're the one that bought me a nasty tequila shot to start the night, you knew what the consequences were."

Dew rolls his eyes, taking another sip. "You can't hold your liquor."

"Just don't buy me another one, 'cause I'll end up at the karaoke machine."

"Aethe, no—"

"Well, well, look who's here to celebrate." Mountain's voice cuts through their casual chatter. Their goalie's tone—slightly disappointed and wholly unamused—makes Dew straighten, spine stiff as he and Aether turn their attention to the door.

It'd be hard to miss them, their boisterous voices filtering in from outside as almost the entire opposing team makes their way inside the crowded bar. Some of them have their home jerseys on over sweatshirts or long-sleeves (Dew guesses they must be rookies soaking in the win), but most of them have changed into street clothes.

That, of course, does not stop Dew from recognizing his face.

Apart from the new chip in one of his front teeth, Swiss looks uncharacteristically unmarred. He's got a different hairstyle this season, not the rows of braids Dew's seen way too many times for his own liking. Instead, it's half pulled back, dark hair separated into neat, thin strands. Dew squints; he thinks they might be twists, but it's hard to tell in the dark lighting—nevermind the fact he doesn't know if that's the right term anyway.

All he knows is they compliment the stupid shape of his face far too well, and he wasn't exactly planning on seeing it anywhere but the rink tonight.

He's trying to keep his blood pressure down, thank you.

"'Course they'd bring him," Dew mutters, turning back towards the others. His rings clink against the glass as he grips it harder than necessary, tipping back the rest of his beer in one gulp.

"Location known for fights and foul language? He was probably born in a bar."

Aether coughs into his drink. "Damn, Mount," he half-laughs, half-splutters.

"What? Not like I get to say much from the goal line, y'know."

Dew signals the bartender for another bottle. She's quick to grab the empty, wiping up stray condensation on the bartop before she brings him another. She pops the cap off in one easy motion and sets it down in front of him.

"Anything else for ya, hun?" she asks, tucking the bottle opener back into her cinched-tight apron.

"Get him a shot, too. On me."

The charm, thick as syrup, is palpable even as Swiss near-yells over his shoulder. Dew side-eyes the man as he squeezes in beside him and rests an elbow on the bar. Swiss flashes him a dazzling smile, chipped tooth on full display. Dew fights the urge to grimace.

"Shot of what, darlin'?"

Swiss turns to him, face one inch closer than civil. "How drunk do you wanna be, spitfire?"

Dew pointedly does not look at him. "Now? Very." Aether shoots him a look that he also ignores.

Swiss turns back to the bartender, slinging an arm around the back of Dew's chair. "Get him a fireball. Lemon drop for me. Vodka for my boys." Swiss points over to Mountain, Aether, and their two other teammates who tagged along for the night. "And how about some cherry bombs for these fellas?"

"Card and ID, hun, and I'll get those goin' for ya."

"Aw, c'mon, Lulu. You really gonna keep asking after all this time?"

"The law don't care about you battin' your eyelashes at me, Swiss!"

He just laughs, fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. He flashes his ID at her, then hands over his card for a tab.

Mercifully, he shuts his mouth as she busies herself with the drinks. Dew shifts a little in his seat, separating his body from the backrest and putting distance between himself and Swiss' hand.

It's not that he and Swiss are sworn enemies. The dude doesn't disgust him so much as get under his skin with his commitment to playful (albeit crude) rivalry. But the way he manages to rile Dew up just right every time their teams face off . . . it's becoming a thing. A dangerously addictive thing.

What started off as pure adrenaline and animosity fizzled into a game all its own. How much can they get away with on the ice while the promise of what comes after hangs between them as heavy as their gear? How hard do they have to slam into one another to hide the far more impassioned bruises they'll leave later? What can Swiss say that'll get Dew hard behind his pads before his skates even leave the ice?

Dew thought he'd get away from the guy for once. Have a beer or two, help lug the lightweights back to their hotel rooms, then jerk off to the way Swiss had pinned him flat against the plexi-glass as they fought for control of the puck.

Should pin you down like this more often—you'd love to try and keep me off your cock, huh, sweetheart?

He throbs a little just thinking about it.

"You here after every home game, 7?" Aether's voice snaps him back to the present.

"Win, lose, rain, or shine, captain!" Swiss offers a salute. "Especially wins. Lulu knows." He winks as said bartender returns with the first of many shots.

"Oh, darlin', do I!"

Dew senses some veiled annoyance as the words exit her red-lined lips—he can only imagine the things she's seen just from Swiss, let alone the rest of his team. But there is a genuine rapport between the two of them, and Dew wonders briefly if Swiss just has a thing for blondes.

"Bottoms up, 13," Swiss goads, sliding the shot in front of him. "Hope you like it hot."

Dew rolls his eyes. Like you wouldn't know. "Cheers." He clinks his shot glass against Swiss' and downs it in one smooth motion. It stings his throat, but the burn is good. "Thanks," he adds for pleasantries sake.

"Sure, man. I'll go shot for shot if you're, y'know—" Swiss turns his back to the bar but leans in sideways, mouth close to Dew's ear. He smells like sweat, leather, and peppery cologne. "—feelin' frisky."

Dew clenches his jaw. "Don't—"

Swiss' teammate picks that exact moment barge in, so Dew doesn't get very far in his protest. There's a boisterous exchange between the two of them, complete with unintelligible hoots and hollers and punctuated by claps on the back.

"Alright, alright, take the shots to the boys, Fritter—you're buyin' next."

"Damn, I shouldn't've come over here!"

Swiss chuckles, ushering him along. He turns back to Dew and the rest of the opposing team along the bar. He motions for them to raise their shots, encouraging them to drink. "C'mon boys, have a little fun—had a good game tonight. Even if you did lose."

Swiss clicks his tongue and walks away.

"One. Fucking. Point," Dew seethes.

"We can go if you want," Aether offers, jabbing his thumb towards the back door. "Watch some trash TV instead. Trade the bar nachos for some room service pizza?"

Dew shakes his head. "Hell no, I'm not giving them any kind of extra satisfaction. We were here first."

"And I'm not compromising on the bar nachos," Mountain pipes up.

Aether holds his hands up in mock defense, putting a buffer between Dew's hot-headed stubbornness and Mountain's sober, bystander amusement. "Hey, hey, hey, fine—we're not on the ice, I'm not callin' the shots!"

"Not calling them," Mountain motions to the cherry bomb in front of Aether, "and you should probably wait to take that one, cap."

"Pfft, okay, Mom."

"I'd prefer Mommy, thank you."

"Oh my godddd, leave me alone."

Dew shakes his head and starts on his second beer. The fireball shot sits warm in his belly now, which, despite the benefits of forcing him to relax, does not bode well for the rest of the evening.

Thankfully, it's not as bad as he anticipates, but it is on the rowdier side. He spends the latter half of it teetering the line between really tipsy and too drunk, straddling it with all his might. In between the conversations and mutual shit-talk across teams, Swiss somehow managed to get another shot in him. Threatened to call him a little pussy if he didn't.

I know you still got fight in you, fireball, Swiss goaded. But you're prettier if you loosen up.

Oh, so you're still a rude fucker off the ice, too?

Only for you sweetheart.

Fuck you. The insult was lost in his throat when Swiss guided his hand and tipped it back for him. And Dew just. Let him.

"Boys—" Aether's voice pulls him out of his fuzzy thoughts. "—I think it is time," he says sagely.

Dew turns to him, instantly recognizing the look on his face: a shit-eating grin with an inebriated twinkle in his eyes. He groans. "Oh, jesus christ—"

"Karaoke babyyy!"

Aether bounds towards the back of the bar where a few other patrons have started to gather. He yanks one of their rookies by the arm, a semi-lanky goth who has no business bringing attention to himself in the way Aether's about to, and drags him along, too.

Dew takes his chance and slides off the bar stool, nearly breaking his ankle on the little ledge where the bar meets the floor. As much as he loves Aether, his drunken vocals can be truly torturous.

"'M going to smoke," he calls in Mountain's general direction. The goalie holds up a few fingers in acknowledgement, unbothered.

Dew makes his way towards the back hallway. His boots are loud in the empty corridor, footsteps heavy. He passes the entry to the kitchen, then the pair of bathrooms off to the side. He pulls the lighter out from his front jacket pocket, flicking it once out of habit. Behind him, the thump of a familiar 80s glam rock song starts playing over the karaoke speakers. The squeak of a door hinge drowns it out a little, but Dew still smiles to himself. Like Aether would pick any other song.

He's about to fish out the cigarette from his pocket as well, but before his fingers can even grasp the filter, a strong pair of arms grabs him and drags him backwards. The alcohol in his veins renders him clumsy to respond. By the time he can find his footing—and his voice—he's been dragged into the bathroom and locked in a stall with his captor.

"What the . . . fucking shit," Dew spits, back hitting the stall door as he wrenches himself free. "Who the fuck do you think you—"

"Shut. Up."

Dew blinks hard. "Oh. You."

Swiss smirks over his forearm, which is now loosely pinned to Dew's chest. His hazel eyes are round with mischief. "Hey, doll. Miss me?"

"Don't fuckin' call me that."

Swiss smiles. "Aw, c'mon, spitfire. That's the thanks I get after buying you drinks and letting you have some fun with your boys before—"

"Before what, you got me drunk and assaulted me?"

Swiss barks out a laugh. If Dew didn't know him well enough after all these seasons, he'd say it sounded cruel. Sleazy. The wrong side of predatory. Instead, the tone of it goes right to his dick, blood starting to grow hot with interest instead of inebriation.

"Harsh." Swiss slides a hand down the front of his torso until he reaches Dew's belt. "I haven't assaulted you a day in your life. You've wanted it. Every. Single. Time. Huh, baby?"

"Don't . . . don't do that," Dew says weakly, watching Swiss' hand fiddle with his buckle.

"Do wha'? Tell the truth?" He tsks. His mouth gets closer, and his voice goes softer. "You're really 'bout to tell me you haven't been thinkin' about me tonight?"

Dew's face gets hot. "Not everything's about you, bastard."

Swiss tilts his head. One finger slips past the waistband of his jeans, tickling his skin. "Aw. But I've been thinkin' about you, is that what you wanted to hear? Caught my attention as soon as I walked in that door."

"Attention of your dick, maybe—"

Swiss slams his hands against the stall door on either side of Dew's face. "I needed my mouth on you five minutes ago," Swiss says gruffly. His eyes land squarely on Dew's mouth, and his tongue darts out to wet his own.

"You should try asking nicely," Dew says quietly. Electricity hums between them.

"Dew." Swiss' voice honeys. "Would you," he puts his hands back on Dew's body, "pretty please," a thigh slots between his legs, muscle pressing against his hard-on, "with a cherry bomb on top," lips ghost across his own, "get off with me in this bar bathroom stall?"

Dew grabs at Swiss' shirt. "Fuck."

Swiss grins as he closes the distance. "Atta girl."

The moment they kiss, Dew can't hold back his groan. Swiss' mouth is warm, addicting. It's rare that they kiss like this, too busy shucking clothes while trying to keep quiet so neither of their teams catch them fucking. But the few times they had the privilege to kiss, to indulge in actual foreplay, Dew felt engulfed by him, consumed. Like Swiss was cataloguing their movements, taking note of exactly what made Dew tick. Learning him inside and out at a speed he almost couldn't keep up with.

It's how he feels now, pressed against the stall door, caged in by Swiss' arms. It still feels private and intense, despite the fact that they're holed away in the back of a bar bathroom. Even with the privacy, Dew's essentially laid himself bare, once again letting Swiss past his carefully constructed guard.

Swiss grabs both sides of Dew's face, holding him exactly where he wants. His tongue goes further past his lips. Licking along the back of his teeth. "God," he groans, "d'you always taste this good?"

Dew nudges his tongue, taking his turn to taste and taunt. "Would've tasted better if you didn't yank me away from my fuckin' cigarette," he grunts into Swiss' mouth.

"Waste of time to let ya," he answers easily. "Wouldn't you rather be doing this?" Swiss smooths his hand down Dew's torso, not stopping until his palm is pressed flush to the heat of him. "Feels like you would."

Dew gasps at the pressure. He rocks into his hand and tightens his grip on the lapels of Swiss' jacket. It's not only to to bring him closer; it's also to keep himself steady as his limbs continue to loosen under the influence of arousal and alcohol.

"Touch me," he slurs against his mouth. "Right fucking now."

"Yeah?" Swiss pulls at Dew's belt, loosening it easily with one hand and popping the button on his jeans. "C'mon, let's see how hot you are for me, baby." He deepens the kiss while his hand slips all the way into Dew's pants, pushing past the waistband of his boxers and going right for his prize.

"Ch-rist—"

"Mmph-fuck," Swiss groans appreciatively. Dew can't help but throb at his touch. Immediately, Swiss wraps his hand around him, stroking from base to tip in what can only be described as the most filthy start to a handjob he's probably ever received. "Like that?"

"Yeah," Dew says stupidly. "Get yours out. Wanna . . ." He trails off, lost in the tight grip of Swiss' fist. Dew hates that he loses it so easily when he's with him, drunk or not. It's like his body has programmed itself to pliancy whenever Swiss gets his hands on him in those intimately familiar ways. The hatred boils off and leaves behind a dull annoyance that's too easily smoothed over by Swiss' permanent charm.

"Wanna what, sweetheart?"

"Rub on it. Feel your dick on mine," Dew rasps, hands moving to paw at Swiss' pants. "Take it out." It comes out more like a whine instead of the intended growl, but it still gets the job done. Swiss aids him with one hand, making quick work of pulling himself out of his pants without losing any grip on Dew.

"Fuck, help me—yeah."

Dew gets his jeans down too, tipping his hips closer until the hot length of Swiss' cock meets his. Swiss' hand wraps so easily around them both that it makes Dew dizzy. The heated gasp they share is the last catalyst they need, a fire igniting that sets them off in a frenzy of moving hands and insistent kisses.

"God, that's good," Swiss growls.

"Oh yeah—"

"Look at that. Look. At. That."

Swiss squeezes them hard from base to tip, milking out twin pearls of pre from both of their cocks. Dew swears his feet go a little numb. He can't help himself from touching too, rubbing his thumb through their arousal. Polishing each head until they're slick and shiny.

Swiss groans, fucking up against Dew's fingertips. "Fuck, baby," he says, sweeter than before. Almost like a thought that shouldn't have escaped his mouth. That moment of sweetness quickly dissolves, though, replaced with the usual salt and spice as Swiss moves in close again.

"'S good," Dew breathes against his mouth. Doesn't really know what else to say.

"Really good," Swiss echoes. "You like my hand on your dick? Huh?" He switches his grip, palm against Dew's shaft now. "Like when our cocks kiss?"

"Shut—mmpf—"

"So fuckin' hard," Swiss hisses into his ear, stubble scratching at his jaw. A quick kiss to Dew's earlobe and he's back to his mouth, teasing at his tongue. "Thought about how hard you'd be pressed up against—ow."

Dew bites at Swiss' bottom lip, probably a little too hard. He tastes copper the next time their lips meet. "Kiss me. Stop talking."

Swiss huffs a laugh, the edges of it sharpened with mischief. Suddenly, his free hand shoots out and makes contact with the underside of Dew's jaw, palm against his neck and fingers forcing his head to crane back until it hits the stall door.

"Uh—"

"Maybe I like it," Swiss says huskily. Dew's throat bobs against his hand, saliva running dry. "Maybe I like when you spit back at me. Maybe I like when you have something to bite at."

Swiss twists his fist—too fast, too dirty, too perfect. Over and over, rendering Dew frustratingly speechless. The other man tsks, cocking his head. Eye contact strong and steady even as his hand works them over.

"Who's quiet now?" His hand tightens, just enough to make Dew's veins buzz. "Someone like that?"

The pressure makes him woozy, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling as his world—this bathroom stall and this horribly hot man with his hand on his dick—tilts.

Swiss loosens. "Hey, hey don't go dark on me now, spitfire." Beer-soaked blood rushes back to his brain, and a shock of cold, cruel realization floods his chest when his gaze meets Swiss' once more.

His cock throbs. His thigh muscles twitch. His toes flex and curl in his boots, and suddenly Dew is nothing but pretty putty in Swiss' hands.

"'M gonna cum," Dew strains.

Swiss grins, gleeful and full of teeth. "Yeah?"

Dew nods stiffly, gaze dropping to where his cock is surrounded by Swiss in every way that matters. He clenches his jaw against the feeling that swoops up to his chest and whines.

"C'mon, then," Swiss grunts, speeding his hand, "give it to me—"

It doesn't take much more than that, not like this. There's no tingling preamble, no leisurely buildup like when he's sober and alone. It hits him like a rogue puck, right in the gut, just like it always does when Swiss is involved.

"Fuck . . !" Dew grabs the top of the stall wall and bucks his hips so hard he momentarily feels like the hand on his throat is the only thing keeping him upright. Eyes squeezed tight, he can only feel the way his cock spits over Swiss' fingers. Staccato, each spurt paired with a grunt he can't control.

Swiss hums approvingly. "Yeah, just like that."

"Oh . . . jesus christ . . ."

"Mm-hm." Swiss slows his hand, milking him with long and luxurious strokes until his cock kicks dry. "Nice job, doll."

Dew's eyes roll back into focus. Euphoria crashing right down to the grimy, cracked tile under their feet. "I said don' call me that," Dew protests weakly, muscles un-tensing.

Swiss chuckles, releasing Dew's neck in favor of yanking a few squares of toilet paper off the roll. "I heard you the first time." He shakes his head, still laughing a little, and wipes off Dew's spend. "You would have done something about it already, if ya actually meant it."

His heart beats loud in his ears. Dew doesn't have a rebuttal for that. He hisses when Swiss drags the toilet paper across his slit, sensitive nerves stinging.

Swiss finishes cleaning him up and tosses the wad of toilet paper into the toilet. He sighs and gives himself a squeeze, angling his cock pointedly towards Dew with a raised eyebrow.

Dew tucks himself back into his pants. "Don't think 'm coming back to the bar with you after this."

"'Course not, sweetheart." He licks a stray streak of cum off the back of his other hand and winks.

Dew flips his hair over his shoulder with a half-exasperated sigh, fishing in his pocket for something to keep it back. He's about to drop his knees down on the toes of Swiss' boots when the other man stops him.

"Ah, ah, ah—" Swiss tsks, tapping the bottom of Dew's chin with one finger. "You're not comin' back to the bar with me," he starts, tucking his hard cock back into his underwear and adjusting it to sit behind the fly of his pants, "'cause I'm not goin' there either. But you are gonna have a smoke—"

Swiss plucks the cigarette from his breast pocket and nestles it between Dew's kiss-bitten lips, already reaching across his body for the stall latch near his hip. Swiss keeps his lips close to Dew's ear and presses the ridge of his clothed cock against him.

"—and finish me off in the back of the alley."