"Dude, it's not working."
"It's literally fine, Z."
Zayne thrashes against you for a second, kicking your hand away. That's fine, your fingers were beginning to cramp up inside of him anyways. When you pull them out, he tries to clench up around you, drag you back in, but he's weak. Been weak. You've been at it for a good... you wanna say an hour but understand that that's probably stretching the truth.
"It's not fine." He snaps, flopping back onto the hotel pillows. His body tenses, softens, tenses. A rippling effect of the muscles as he buries face in palms. "I wanna come, man."
"Maybe you just haven't drank enough water today," you reason, poking at his stomach. As you turn to find the tissues and get your fingers wiped off. He did a good job douching. You appreciate that. You usually appreciate what he does for you, how well he takes it. You appreciate it this time, even though he's been bundled up in nerves and has been on the brink for a good awhile. You came long enough ago that you could get it up (but not follow through) again. Not that you want to. You'd rather get him off, send him back to his room, fall asleep with the sound of his moans and the smell of his breath fresh in your mind. Spit carried on exhales, spit that you want to suck out from between his lips. You don't know why you do it-- this, don't wish to know why.
"Weegs, come on." He wraps an ankle around your hip, tries to draw you closer. Pushing his tongue against his lip, he whines. Near-whines, not quite a real one. You probably wouldn't catch him dead genuinely begging for something. He was raised by polite, normal people so you're not sure what happened along the way to make him like this. Maybe someone got to him first, unraveling back and back to before you would've ever had the chance. You shouldn't think about that kind of thing.
"What do you want me to do? I've been nailing you for like twenty minutes now."
"You're doing it on purpose!"
That makes your jaw tick. You poke him again, less playful this time. "Why would I do that?"
He has no relay, and no ground to stand on so hah. Instead he turns over, shows his stomach, spreads his legs. Between them is his dick, wet from your mouth, red from the strain. It has to hurt, you mean-- you've been there before. Blueballed by a girlfriend or a pick-up who ended up too drunk to do anything with you. Which is all fine, you're not a monster. Maybe once or twice you've been left that way by a teammate who didn't understand just what either of you were doing.
It sucks, sometimes, to think about. If you're being honest, really and brutally honest: you feel for Zayne. You also had a bitchwaisted faggot body. Is that a bad thing to say? Maybe. But it's true, you've been told enough. And you've heard enough for the guys, not your guys but other guys, guys on the ice playing in different rags. He's a sissy, he's a faggot, he has a bitchwaist and a bitchbutt and DSL and etc. All the shit you've heard clawing your way to the middle of the top.
That's why you do this. If you get right down to it. You're trying to-- it's for him. It's to get him ready for the guys who won't be so nice to him, who really will leave him like this. He's had it in the O, he's told you himself. So he trusts you. He entrusts you with his body in vulnerable positions. So you squeeze his hip, tell him to stop complaining.
"Can you fuck me again?" He asks when you get a hand wrapped around him, aided by spit and whatever is left on your hand from stretching him open. You get a little twitch of interest from yourself. But the answer is no. "I'm asking really, really nicely."
He's not.
