
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/312999.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      D3:_The_Mighty_Ducks_(1996), Mighty_Ducks_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Dean_Portman/Fulton_Reed
  Additional Tags:
      Shower_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-04 Words: 2455
****** Plainer to My Sight ******
by carolinecrane
Summary
     Shower porn.
His pads hit the metal locker with a resounding clang – it's not all that
satisfying, but it helps burn off a little extra energy. He shouldn't really
have any energy to burn off after the way Coach Orion drilled them, but there's
a lot to be said for righteous indignation. And he bets Coach would have a
heart attack if he found out Fulton knew words like 'righteous' and
'indignation' – considers saying them just to see if he can get the old man to
keel over, but instead he scowls a little harder and yanks his jersey over his
head.
It's not that he hates Coach Orion. He doesn't…he just liked him a lot better
before Portman showed up. And okay, maybe he and Portman have been showing off
on the ice a little, but they've only been back together for a few weeks and
people expect certain things from the Bash Brothers. So he doesn't get why
Coach rides them so hard about showboating when they're just doing their jobs.
More pads hit his locker, the sound of clashing metal ringing in his ears and
he feels a little better now.
He shivers when he yanks his undershirt off, cool air hitting sweat-slick skin
and now he just wants to get in the shower, under hot water where he can warm
up. They've been out on the ice for what feels like forever – more like a few
hours, but it's long enough to make him feel the cold way down in his bones.
Portman didn't even wait long enough to get back to his locker and strip out of
his gear – he headed straight for the showers, and Fulton can hear the water
running as he wraps a towel around his waist and heads to the back of the
locker room.
When he gets there there's a pile of gear right in front of the showers, and
Fulton shivers as he pictures Portman peeling it off as he storms through the
locker room. He pushes those thoughts as far back in his mind as they'll go,
averting his eyes as he drops his towel and heading for the shower farthest
away from Portman. The last thing he needs is to get hard while he's in the
shower with his roommate, because that means turning off the hot water and the
thought of a cold shower right now makes him want to cry.
He doesn't even look at the other boy as he turns on his own shower, hot water
making his cold skin ache for a second until he gets used to it. Slowly he
eases himself under the spray, letting it soak his hair and his sore muscles.
His eyes are closed, whole body focused on pretending he's not standing naked
just a few feet away from Portman, so he doesn't hear the other boy until it's
too late.
"Hey, man. You're gonna drown if you stand there with your mouth open like
that."
Instantly Fulton's eyes snap open, water stinging them and he reaches up to
wipe it away, blinking Portman into focus. He glances over at the shower
Portman abandoned, then back at his roommate and…wow, that's a bad idea,
because Portman's even hotter when he's wet. "What?"
Portman just smirks and Fulton's positive he looks like an idiot, but at least
he can blame his blush on the scalding heat from the shower. He turns his back
to the other boy as much as he dares, reaching for the soap and there's a joke
in there somewhere that he's not going to think about, because he's got a plan.
It's a simple plan, really – soap up, rinse off, get the hell out of the shower
before he does anything stupid. Like look at Portman. Or even think about
looking at Portman. In fact, breathing is probably a pretty bad idea at this
point, because he might accidentally smell Portman, and if he does that it's
all over.
"You looked pretty good out there today."
"What?" And hey, he's down to a one-word vocabulary. His father always said
he'd prove himself to be a complete idiot someday; it's just too bad he's not
here to witness it.
"I said you looked good out there today," Portman says again, still smirking
and yeah, it's still a bad idea to look at him.
"Orion didn't think so."
"Fuck him," Portman says, his smirk twisting into a scowl and Fulton doesn't
have to look to know Portman's hot when he's angry, too. "What's his problem,
anyway?"
He could answer that, could tell Portman that Orion's not like Bombay, that
he's not the 'win at all costs' type and he's not going to put up with their
shit. He wants a professional-looking team, one he can be proud of. He's a
former pro, after all, and he loves the game, but he loves kids even more.
Charlie explained it all to him one time, but Fulton knows exactly what Portman
would say if he told him any of that, so instead he just runs his hands through
his hair and reaches for the soap again. "Beats me."
And this is taking too long – Portman's been in here even longer than him, and
so far all Fulton can figure is that he's just standing there…watching.
Watching Fulton, and that's enough to make him blush all over as he soaps up as
much of his back as he can reach.
"You want some help with that?"
He catches himself just before he says 'what?' again, because there's stupid,
and then there's redundant. Another word that would shock Orion, but that
thought barely registers because he can feel Portman's gaze on him and he can't
help it, he has to look. It feels like he's moving in slow motion, like this is
one of those movies, the ones guys aren't supposed to like, but finally he's
face to face with Portman.
Portman who's looking at him with those dark eyes, golden skin slick and Fulton
glances down long enough to see that he's hard. "Dude, what…?"
There goes that smirk again, and as soon as Fulton realizes what he said he
blushes, face so hot he can't remember ever being cold. He wants to run, to get
the hell out of there before he does anything he can't take back, but even if
he did take off it's too late, because he's hard and it's not like Portman's
going to miss a detail like that.
"It's no big deal," Portman says, then he shrugs…shrugs, like coming on to
Fulton in the showers happens every day. Except that it doesn't happen ever,
and Fulton wants to pinch himself but he can't do it without looking like even
more of an idiot. "Looks like we're in the same boat, is all."
He's heard about stuff like this, but he always thought it only happened in bad
porn. Not that he's seen a lot of porn, but none of his friends have ever come
on to him and he always figured guys didn't really do this sort of stuff. Not
straight guys, anyway, which means that either he was wrong about…well,
everything, or Portman's not as straight as he thought.
"Since when do you like guys?" he blurts out, wishing he could take back the
words as soon as they're out of his mouth, because Portman's coming on to him
and he's blowing it. Only he's not sure this is such a good idea, because if he
goes through with this and it's a one-time only deal, he'll die. He'll have to
go back to Minneapolis, back to District Five and public school and his old
man, because there's no way he'll be able to look Portman in the face ever
again.
"You know what, Fulton?" Portman says, and Fulton's not sure when it happened
exactly, but suddenly they're a lot closer than they were a minute ago.
"No," Fulton says, because there's no way in hell he's going to say 'what'
again.
"You talk too much."
He opens his mouth to answer, to say something smart about all the trash-
talking Portman's done since they met and who's got the biggest mouth around
here, but before he gets a chance that mouth is pressed against his. And it's
hard to tell whose mouth is actually bigger even when they're pressed right up
against each other, but it doesn't matter because Portman's kissing him.
Portman. Kissing him. And this definitely isn't one of those things guys do
just because it's convenient – he's pretty sure there's no making out in the
Straight Guy handbook, and he's positive there's no wrapping arms around waists
and pulling bodies close together and just kind of…holding each other. That's
exactly what Portman's doing, one hand stroking up and down Fulton's back and
the other one in his hair, tilting his head just so until they're just sort of
breathing against each other.
He manages to put enough distance between them to look at Portman, taking in
swollen lips and dark eyes, his cock twitching at the sight and he's going to
die of embarrassment before he ever gets to come. "What if Coach…?"
"He had to go pick up his kid," Portman answers, fingers digging into Fulton's
hip like he's working hard to keep himself under control, "I heard him on the
phone."
Fulton wants to ask when, but he can't because Portman's kissing him again,
harder this time, like he's trying to prove a point. He doesn't know what
Portman's trying to prove, but he doesn't really care because strong hands are
on his hips, gripping hard and moving them together. Somebody moans, the sound
echoing off the shower walls and God, they're going to get caught. He's sure of
it, but he can't make himself stop, because nobody's ever touched him before
and he never thought the first time this happened would be with Portman.
The last time, maybe, because Portman would kill him just for thinking about
it. Only he's the one who started it, and he's the one licking drops of water
off Fulton's neck. Dean Portman's licking him, and Fulton's pretty sure he
could come from that alone. He's dangerously close to doing just that, and he
knows if he doesn't put some distance between them he's going to embarrass
himself. But he doesn't want to stop, because it feels way too good and he
can't stop this now even if he wanted to.
Almost as though he can read Fulton's mind Portman stops, dragging his mouth
away from Fulton's skin to look at him. And Fulton's not sure what he's
thinking, but whatever it is launches a thousand butterflies in his stomach.
"Turn around."
He doesn't say it – doesn't ask why or any other 'w' word. He wants to, but he
wants to come even more so he just nods once and turns around. Hands braced
against the blue tile wall and Portman's arm slides around his waist, fingers
splayed against his stomach possessively, like he's trying to claim Fulton.
Portman's chest is pressed against his back, cock hard and when he shifts just
so Portman slips a little closer, cock nestled…oh, God, right there.
And he's so not ready for that, but before he can panic Portman's hand closes
around his cock, stroking slowly and Fulton can't help moving with him. He
relaxes a little when Portman doesn't try to push inside, thrusting against him
and whenever his balls press against Fulton's hole he's not so sure he doesn't
want to try that. Eventually. Maybe after a weekend trip home to steal some
beer from his dad, but the thought makes him shudder a little and the pressure
of Portman grinding against him is kind of…hot.
He's thrusting harder into the circle of Portman's fist, eyes closed and he
doesn't even care anymore if anybody walks in on them, because he's never felt
so good in his life and he never wants it to end. He wants to stay just like
this forever, hot water rushing over them and hard muscle holding him up,
Portman's free hand wrapped around his chest to stroke over wet skin and tiny
little grunts of pleasure escaping his throat with each thrust.
He fights it as long as he can, holding back and holding back because he wants
this to last in case it never happens again. Portman's thumb strokes over his
nipple and he shudders, whole body clenching and Portman groans low in his ear.
He does it again just to see what will happen, gets a convulsive squeeze and a
wild thrust of Portman's hips for his efforts. The thrust hits him just right,
making him gasp and press back into the other boy. And if it feels that good
just to press on that spot, he can't imagine what it would feel like to press
inside.
The second he pictures Portman pushing a finger inside him he's coming, wet
heat hitting the tile and Portman's fingers. It's all he can do to hold himself
up as Portman groans and thrusts against him, again and again and Fulton loses
count by the time he finally comes. They're both breathing heavy and his arms
are sore from holding them up – Portman's not exactly light, after all – but
he's never felt better in his life.
He's never come like that, either, and he's terrified to turn around because as
soon as he does he'll know whether or not Portman's ever planning to let this
happen again. He thinks about just staying right here until Portman gets bored
and goes away, but when hands start moving on his skin again he realizes
Portman's not going to make it that easy for him.
He straightens up with an effort, knees wobbling a little and he doesn't
register the fact that Portman's turning him until they're face to face. Or
maybe he turned Portman, because he's still facing the wall, only Portman's
leaning against the tile now, grinning at him like they just won the Stanley
Cup.
"Coach doesn't know what he's talking about. You've got great moves," Portman
says, and Fulton can't help laughing because it's gotta be the corniest line he
could have come up with.
Before he has a chance to get nervous again Portman's pulling him forward,
hands sliding down his back and Fulton moans against his mouth when Portman's
hands ghost across his ass. And if this is the way every late practice is going
to end, Fulton's happy to stay and run drills after the rest of the team's long
gone. In fact, he can't think of a single thing he'd rather do.
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