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There was a reason you left the city to go live in the middle of nowhere. Crowds? Noise? Confusion? Fucking people? Absolutely not your thing.
Yet there you were, in the middle of a crowd, dodging sloshed drinks and bits of popcorn, trying not to cover your ears as the mass of bodies around you roared. Something had happened out on the field, you surmised, but what that thing was you hadn’t the foggiest.
Here’s what you did know, though: you’d never seen Shane look so happy.
He was why you were there, of course. You wouldn’t hop on a bus to a gridball game on your own. But he’d been so excited when he asked you, and to be honest you were thrilled to be spending time with him, so all in all it was an easy yes.
“What just happened?” You had to yell for Shane to hear you over the crowd.
“The Tunnelers just dominated that maul! They’ve got possession and-“ he broke off his explanation in a roar of delight, surging with the crowd as something happened out on the field.
You assumed it was something good.
You didn’t know the first thing about gridball, but that was alright - you’d rather spectate Shane. You knew he played when he was younger, was quite good, even, and you wondered if this was how he looked on the field: eyes bright, body loose and moving, quick and alert and reactive and so, so different from the man he was just a month ago.
It was dizzying, sometimes, the change in him. Overwhelming to consider what could have been, if things had gone differently. If you hadn’t been there that day on the cliff. If you’d kept buying him beers. If Jas hadn’t burst into tears. You knew that version of Shane was still there, just under the surface. You don’t shake off years (a lifetime?) of depression and self-loathing after one good month. But Yoba, watching him do the work, watching him change, grow, embrace the terrifying uncertainty of life?
Well. It didn’t help the crush that’d been stewing since the moment he’d first slouched by you on the street.
No slouching now, though. You could see the athlete coming out: feet wide, knees bent, chin up, grinning as he bounced from foot to foot. He looked so happy.
The crowd roared again. “What? What?” you asked, flapping your hand against Shane’s side in excitement.
“They’re getting aggressive, watch, watch!” Shane didn’t seem to notice that he’d grabbed your hand, but you sure did. He was warm, his palm slightly rough, fingers thick and strong as he used your hand to gesture out to the field.
You were about to interlace your fingers with his when he dropped away. He was jumping now, jumping with the crowd, hands on either side of his mouth, yelling something in time with the people around him. A chant, growing in volume and losing intelligibility as one of the teams (you thought it was the one you were cheering for, but you weren’t entirely sure) made a run towards one end of the pitch.
Seconds later, you wished you’d brought ear protection.
The Tunnelers had scored. You didn’t know much, but that you could tell. The crowd was erupting, and you found yourself caught up in the energy, laughing and shouting along with them, jumping, bumping into Shane as he lept beside you. You stumbled, but he caught you, a hand under your elbow, the other around your back, and then suddenly his lips were on yours.
The kiss was brief, rough, full of jubilant energy and the scrape of stubble. It was over before you could register it, before you could respond, and Shane was backing away looking horrified.
“Sorry, sorry, shit, I’m sorry. I got carried away there.” His hands were up in front of him, he was cringing back into himself a bit, and that was absolutely not what you wanted.
“I like when you get carried away,” you shouted, then you grabbed him by the collar of his jersey, yanked him over, and kissed him back.
He froze for a second, but then he was returning the kiss with all the intensity of the stadium around you. Hand around the back of your neck, pulling you in towards his mouth, open, tongue working in, hot and wet and with just a hint of desperation. You could taste the cola he’d been drinking, sweet, and feel the rumble of his groan as he drew you closer. You imagined, for a moment, that the crowd was responding to the two of you, their cheers and chants an unstoppable reaction to the outpouring of joy and desire and tension and relief cascading between your mouths.
It was a very good kiss.
“Fuck,” Shane said as you both gasped and broke apart. Your hand was still clenched around his collar. “Really? Are you… really?”
“Really,” you said. “How long does the game have left?”
“Dunno, maybe an hour?” Shane looked confused for a moment, but then he grinned. “Why, you wanna get out of here?”
“Yeah, I think I do.” You were grinning too, standing close to him there in the crowd, bumping up against his chest, his hand spread on your back, keeping you there.
“Fuck,” he said again. “Okay. Okay. If you mean it, come with me.”
You absolutely meant it, so it was easy to let him grab your hand, pull you through the crowd, down into the stadium. Shane picked up his pace as the press of bodies thinned, and soon you both were almost running past the bathrooms, past the concession stands, past the merch shop, down the stairs, through a set of double doors. It was even quieter there, the roar of the crowd muted, and as his pace slowed you couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Where are we?” you said.
Shane grinned back at you and raised his eyebrows. “Below the stadium. Come on.”
You imagined he’d spent time here, at one point. He seemed familiar with the turns of the hallway, knew which door to push through to reach an even quieter hall, and then there was an innocuous brown door that opened to a storage room. Racks of gridballs, training equipment that seemed ragged and well-used, a pile of mats, and Shane, backing you up against the wall, smiling in disbelief as his hands found your hips.
“You sure knew where to go,” you said, a little breathless. “Do you bring all your girls here?”
Shane snorted. “You know me, drowning in pussy.”
“Is that a request?”
Shane groaned, pressed his hips up against yours. You felt something twitch there, start to grow. “Fuck,” he breathed. “I can’t… are you sure you want…”
You could sense a spiral starting. Better nip that in the bud. “Kiss me,” you said, and he did. Soft and breathy at first, not insisting. You figured he was giving you a chance to change your mind, to align yourself to the part of his brain that made him feel unworthy of anything good in his life. You were going to smother that voice in him, deprive it of oxygen with your mouth and your body and your words, and so you kissed him back hard, opened your mouth, let your tongue brush against his lips.
Bingo.
The wall was flush against your back now, Shane’s hands cupping either side of your head as his tongue delved. You whimpered as it stroked in, felt him shudder, loved the way you could feel him hardening against your pelvis. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulled him in as close as you could, felt him leaning against you, pressing you back, until you were caught between the warmth of his heavy body and the cold concrete behind you.
You let your hands wander as you kissed, pressed them up under the back of his shirt, felt the soft skin of his lower back. He groaned as you very, very gently scratched your nails up his spine. His hands were moving now too, gripping at your hips as he kissed you, then running up your sides, thumbs spread out. He shuddered as they pressed into the sides of your breasts, shifted, and then he was cupping them fully. You didn’t even try to hold back the mewl the contact caused, broke the kiss to arch your back into him, letting your posture communicate “yes,” communicate “more.”
And it worked because Shane was squeezing you harder now, exhilaratingly rough, pressing your breasts together and up, dropping his face to where they mounded above your neckline, kissing and sucking and groaning as he squeezed. His stubble scratched at your skin, one of his hands shifted to roll a nipple between two fingers. You were caught up in it, an onslaught of sensation that had you gasping out his name.
“You are so fucking hot,” Shane gasped, drawing back and looking at the press of his hands on your chest. “How the fuck is this happening?”
“I know what you mean.” And you did. You’d always been drawn to his physique, soft around the middle, thighs thick and sturdy, an inch or two taller than you but so, so much stronger. You had no doubt he could hold you up against the wall if he had a mind to, couldn’t help but clench at the thought of how heavy and good his body would feel on top of you.
“Liar,” Shane murmured, one hand dropping to rest on your stomach, the other bracing above your head.
“No I’m not. I can prove it.”
“Yeah?” His forehead was pressing against yours, his inhales short and noisy. The hand on your stomach pressed into you, just a little.
“Yeah,” you said, and grabbed his wrist. You locked your gaze with his as you pushed his hand down. His eyes were even darker than usual, contrasting with his flushed skin. He kept them open as you guided him beneath your waistband, below your underwear, but they fell closed as the tip of his finger brushed against your folds.
“Yoba, you’re so wet,” he breathed. You gasped as his finger slid down, parting you gently, the skimming touch sending sparks flying through your core. “For me? Really?”
“Yes for you, you goose.” you said.
“You’re the goose,” he replied, and then he was kissing you again, rough and bruising as he pressed his finger inside of you.
You groaned into his mouth at the feeling, the stretch of his thick finger. His mouth was moving fast and hot on you, but his finger was slow, pushing in inch by inch, filling you up until you were moaning and shaking and grasping at his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he whispered as you squeezed around him. “This cannot be real.”
“Shane,” you said, as his finger stayed maddeningly still inside of you. “This is real. And I really, really need you to move.”
He smiled. “Like this?” he said, slowly drawing his finger out of you.
You whined at the loss. “More,” you said. “I need more.”
Shane groaned, pressed his mouth into the side of your neck. “I’ve got more for you.” His voice was a little lower, a little raspier than you were used to hearing. He pressed back in, two fingers this time, broad and solid and moving, thank Yoba, they were moving, pressing up and down, gentle but filling, working against your walls with growing speed as you clung to his neck.
The room was quiet, the roar of the stadium muted enough that you could hear each other breathe, gasp. You could even hear the wet sound of Shane’s fingers in you, growing louder the faster he moved. He pressed kisses to you as he worked, to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw, your ear. He held the lobe gently between his teeth, breath loud, augmenting the cacophony of sensations running through you, drawing you up. He was getting even faster now, rougher, pressing the pads of his fingers into you perfectly. The sound of the stadium swelled as you did - they must have scored, you thought dimly. Shane’s fingers changed their angle, just a little, just enough to push you over the edge. You gasped his name as you came, the sound ragged and broken in the quiet room, and Shane groaned as he worked you through it.
“Yoba, you’re good at that,” you managed as your soul settled back into your body.
“Nice to know I’m good for something,” Shane said into your neck. You were about to chastise him for the self-deprecation, but his fingers were moving, finding your clit. “Got another one for me?”
For him? Always. And you would have told him that, but he wasn’t waiting for an answer. His fingertips moved on you, three together, rubbing soft and steady on the side of your nub, and all you could get out was a squeak. He made a satisfied sound as his lips found your neck again.
He shifted as his fingers worked, pressed his pelvis into the side of your hips. You could feel his cock against you, stiff, hot, and he groaned as you reached down to grasp it. The proof of his arousal, that he wanted this every bit as much as you wanted him, tightened something in your core, made you cry out as a second climax ripped through you.
You sagged. Shane caught you, pulling your side against his chest. His cock was still in your hand. You squeezed it gently. He made a choked little sound.
You wondered if he’d make the same sound if you squeezed when he was inside of you.
“I have a condom in my bag,” you said.
He made the sound again. “You’re not saying…”
And he was kissing you again, hand on the side of your face, pushing you back up against the wall with one of those big thighs between your legs. You rubbed against it, could feel his cock even harder now. His hands were frenetic, moving over you fast and random, each squeeze and stroke and touch a conduit for the anxious energy that seemed to be bottling up inside of him.
“I am absolutely saying,” you gasped as you pulled back. Or at least tried to. His mouth wouldn’t leave yours, pressing, demanding, tongue stroking as he shuddered, and you worried he might fall apart completely. “Unless you don’t want to,” you added into his mouth.
“Of course I fucking want to.” He was pulling on the collar of your shirt now, baring your shoulder, leaving kisses and just a hint of teeth behind. “I’ve wanted to from the moment I first saw you.”
Now that was an interesting fact, but one that would have to be mulled over later, because he was still talking. “There’s just no way you could possibly be asking me to fuck you next to a pile of moldy tackle bags.”
”Shane, you could fuck me on top of the moldy tackle bags and I would still have the time of my life. Now stop stalling and let me grab my bag.”
You enjoyed the broken way he said “Yoba,” extricated yourself from atop his thigh, and bent to rummage in your bag. You’d grabbed it as Shane had hauled you from the stands, dropped it unceremoniously as he’d pushed you against the wall, and now its contents were somewhat strewn over the floor.
It took you a second to scoop everything back in, to find the square of foil. You made a triumphant sound, held it up to show Shane.
He was watching you with a stricken expression.
Well shit.
“Uh-uh,” you said. “Stay with me.”
“I am with you,” he said, letting you put your arms around him, “and it makes no fucking sense.”
“Does it need to?” You heard him sigh, press his face into your shoulder. You pressed a kiss to his temple.
“Maybe it doesn’t.” His voice was quiet. You heard the soft, distant roar of the crowd somewhere above you. “Every time you’re around I feel like I’m in a dream. I keep expecting to wake up.”
“Want me to pinch you?”
He snorted. “Depends on where.”
That felt like a good sign. You cupped a hand over his ass, then gave him a playful pinch. ”Awake now?”
“I guess.” His voice was low. He kept his face to your shoulder. “You sure you want this?”
You knew what he meant. Did you want him, and all the baggage that came with it? He was giving you an out, still seemed to think you were looking for an excuse to leave gracefully.
The only way you were going to leave him was kicking and screaming.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” You hugged him around the middle, staggered just a little as he leaned into you.
“You have terrible taste,” he said.
“Yet you continue to put up with me.”
You could feel him smile. “It’s okay, I’m used to slumming it.” He dropped a kiss onto your shoulder, then turned the both of you so your back was against the wall again. His hands stayed on your waist as he kissed you, gentler this time, slow and soft. You let him set the pace, let him work himself back up, growing bolder as you responded with gasps and moans and nails digging though his shirt.
He seemed a little lost in it, caught up in the kiss, the contact, and you would have been just peachy with letting it go on as long as he wanted it to, but you had to be pragmatic. Shane was in fact not dreaming. The two of you were in a storage room in a very well-attended stadium, and if you wanted to achieve your goals here without being discovered you’d need to get moving.
“Shane,” you gasped, breaking away, “if we want to fulfil my lifelong dream of getting fucked next to a pile of moldy tackle bags, we should probably get a move-on.”
His response was one last slow, deep, shuddering kiss, then his hands were on the waistband of your leggings, pulling down, and you were pulling at his belt, his zipper, and you’d kicked off a shoe somewhere, one leg bare, one with a pile of fabric around the ankle, and then Shane’s cock was out. You made a note to take some time with it later, get to know it with your hands and your mouth, but for now Shane was too quick with getting the condom on to give you much of an impression outside of “deliciously thick.”
He still didn’t say anything as he hitched one of your legs up over his hip, braced it with a thigh, let his fingers dig into the side of your ass. You pressed yourself up on the ball of your other foot, and it was just the right height to rub yourself over his cock.
That, finally, got him to say something, a long, gasping “fuck.” He hauled you up closer, and you put your arms around his neck, letting him support you as you ground against him.
“Fuck,” he said again as you moved. He felt incredible against you, the base of his cock providing the perfect spot to rub your clit. You wondered if with a little more time you could make yourself come like this, all slick and heat and his body beneath you and the sounds he was making as you moved.
But no, time was short and you had a goal now. You slowed, grasped his shaft (Yoba, he was thick), and circled his tip around your entrance. You both gasped at that, Shane’s hips stuttering. He pressed his face back against your shoulder.
“All good?” you asked him.
“It’s been a minute since I’ve done this, so don’t expect much of a performance. Keep your expectations low.” He was using that voice, the one he used to use when he’d ask you if you had work to do. The one that made you think of a porcupine bristling, sharp and spiked to protect the softness underneath.
“Says the man who already made me come twice,” you said, pleased with how coherent you sounded despite how distractingly incredible his cock was feeling all pressed up against your core. “You don’t have a damn thing to worry about.”
“You’re… fuck, okay. Okay. Yoba. Okay.” He was shifting, and you were too, aligning him with your entrance, sighing as his hips pressed forward, as he slid inside you, slow and steady, just like his fingers but so, so much thicker, so much more overwhelming, stretching you and filling you in a way that had you groaning, clutching at his back, whispering his name.
“Fuck, baby,” he said in that low, wrecked voice. “You feel so fucking perfect.” You didn’t know if it was the tone, the praise, or the endearment, but you were starting to lose it a little. It was your turn to press your face into his shoulder, to whimper, to let your body shudder and squeeze around the delectable fullness in your core. “You good?” he asked. “Need me to stop?”
“I’m good,” you whispered. “Just needed a second. Go ahead and move.”
And move he did, pressing you back against the wall, bracing with his thigh, hips thrusting. He could only move an inch or two in this position, but that was all you needed. All you could take, most likely, with how full you felt and how fast he was moving, pistoning into you now, hands grasping hard at your ass, grunting soft near your ear with each thrust.
The concrete wall was cold against your back, a little rough where your shirt had ridden up a bit, but the sensation was inconsequential compared to the feeling of Shane in you. Finally was the word that came to mind. Finally there, finally with you, finally touching you, finally letting his guard down, finally letting you reach him, finally inside of you, closer than close, quills plucked, sharp edges smoothed, armor gone, just pliant and moving and perfect and real. Just the person you knew he was, just the person you could see in him from the moment you’d first passed on the street. Just Shane.
“You’re doing so good,” you whispered. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.”
Shane groaned, his thrusts losing rhythm. You wanted to keep talking, shower him with praise, keep feeding the part of his mind that let him enjoy the world as he should, but his mouth was over yours, the kiss wild and unrefined, and he was moaning into you, moaning as he moved, as he tensed up, hips making little jerks, until he froze, climaxing, making that choked sound again. He fell forward, plastering you to the wall, limbs heavy and relaxed. He still held your leg over his thigh.
“So is that how gridball games usually go?” you asked after a moment.
Shane let out a long, deep breath. And then he laughed. “Only the good ones.”
You couldn’t fix him. You knew that. But as you rode home on the bus later that evening, Shane’s head resting on your shoulder, his fingers interlaced with yours, you wondered if that was besides the point. Whatever the days ahead brought, you knew who he could be.
For now, that was more than enough.