PLEASURE FIENDS

 

The night isn't young anymore; it's deepened and ripened, and anticipation has faded to smoke and gloss. Now is the time for everyone to show their hand. In? Or out? Do they have what it takes? Or do they fold, and back off with tentative steps, unwilling to commit? And those who are still in, do they know what they are really in for? Do they know what they really want?

*****

Pavel Bure stumbles into his bedroom, admirer in tow. The giggling is indistinct, heard through the filter of a very fine Cabernet, and most of it is his companion's, but some of it is Pavel's. Their kisses makes his lips even fuller, more luscious, and so red with life that they're mesmerizing; nobody could gaze on them and say no. Especially not someone who's felt those lips slide over his cock before.

"Pasch," he gasps, lust stealing his breath. "I want -"

But Pavel cuts him off. It's not about what he wants, it's about what Pavel wants. That's the way he works. Because when you start thinking about what the other person wants, it starts you down a slippery slope. You wonder about how he feels and if you're hurting him or if you're making him happy. You worry about dates that would otherwise be blissfully meaningless without him: anniversaries, birthdays, vacations.

But Pavel isn't remotely near that slope, because he shouldn't care at all.

*****

Peter Forsberg smiles in acknowledgment. He doesn't have to give anything to get what he wants. It's just so fucking beautiful because this boy just hopes and wishes and loves, but will bend over at his command. Things can't get more perfect than that, can they?

It's not just this boy, it's the hordes he can pick and choose from: sullen ones, cheerful ones, outward cynics, inward saps. Money and fame open a portal to a world within the world, of flesh and hunger and ease, and Peter visits often.

But this boy is different. He's part of that world too, but he's reduced to being a beggar, trying to sift affection from lust. If Peter ever thought about it, he'd smirk and chuckle, and maybe even feel a little sorry for him.

It doesn't matter; Peter never thinks about it at all.

*****

Jason Arnott slams him into the wall and he just grins. He pulls Jason to him for a hungry, feverish kiss and unbuttons his shirt, then sheds the hindrance. Chest to chest, they press and pinch, sweat slicking their bodies, smooth and strong. They're eye to eye, but Jason knows he's stronger, and his muscles bulge as he proves it.

They already know how they'll feel tomorrow: bruised, battered and sore. They also know how exquisitely pleasurable treading that path will be, and they want to savour every single moment. Jason grunts with impatience, but the man pinned against the wall has him just as trapped. His way is better, and Jason's been taught this lesson many times.

Jason's exhilarated; his body is in control, and his mind is under control. But this is just one of the flavours he samples night after night. He enjoys them all, the taste of desperation, the scent of self-loathing, and the smooth texture of deceit. The man before him doesn't fuck anyone else, or seem to want anyone else, and gives him indecipherable looks at times.

Jason doesn't think this is anything special at all.

*****

Pavel Bure sighs.

Peter Forsberg moans.

Jason Arnott grunts.

The night wants more.

*****

Pavel Bure is getting closer to heaven, one thrust at a time. No music is playing, but he feels like he's wrapped up in his favourite soundtrack. He feels nothing; he feels good. When he feels, there's pain, regret, unrequited love, wishing for the stars, eating the dirt and a myriad of other things that scrape at his soul. Feeling nothing is a sweet dessert.

Alexei Kovalev kisses him wrong; the touch is too light, and there is no tongue, no desire, no lust, no carnality. Pavel frowns, chiding him without words. A Russian should understand that this is a mistake, that asking for too much gets you in trouble. They are already spoiled beyond imagination, rocking against each other in bed, blocking out everything that wounds. They are in a bubble of pleasure; it ripples through the air, through them, and they are supremely fortunate.

Yet ... yet Alexei's eyes are kind and generous, and Pavel knows that he gives all he has to give. Pavel consumes bodies every night, eager for oblivion, and Alexei should be just another body, another fuck. But maybe Alexei deserves more than that, and for once, Pavel starts to wonder if he should care.

*****

Peter Forsberg is a man possessed, compelled, consumed, and driven by desire. He sees the man writhing beneath him and he sees nothing but a source of pleasure. He believes this is what it means to be high on life, and that this natural rush is the biggest loophole of all: a drug without addiction, pleasure without a price, a gift from an otherwise stingy heaven.

Dan Hinote goes from low whispers to frenzied howls, and his words are "love", "need" and "please". Peter has always filtered them out like the noise they are. They're impurities that flaw the experience, and he doesn't care for their pollution. Firm flesh and eager movements more than make up for his failings, and Peter strains as Dan bucks beneath him.

So many nights have come and gone, and tonight is the night that Peter slips up, that Dan's devotion is finally noticed and considered. And he wonders if there's something that he's missing, because the look in Dan's eyes is intriguing. Peter's mind drifts and it's not clear if he wants his own eyes to shine like that.

*****

Jason Arnott is grabbing on to hips with enough force to bruise, fighting to control the body riding him. It's not that he objects to the rhythm, or the pace, or to anything at all. It's just that the struggle is as much a part of the pleasure as anything else when he's fucking this man. Everyone has their fancies and fetishes, and these two happen to have the same one. It's almost special.

Mike Modano smirks at Jason, resisting the hands that attempt to manipulate his motion. They are both breathing hard from exertion, and they exchange smiles as often as they exchange dominance. As soon as one gains the upper hand, the other strikes back with extra fervour, and neither ever really wins. They like it this way.

He's nothing like the endless stream of faceless bodies that drift in and out of Jason's life. They're just units of pleasure, meant to be consumed, enjoyed, and discarded when finished. Mike is different; he's a mystery behind a simple facade. Jason frowns and his hands relax as he wonders if he should try to unravel that mystery.

*****

Pavel Bure pauses.

Peter Forsberg pauses.

Jason Arnott pauses.

The night freezes.

*****

Pavel Bure shakes his head. Peter Forsberg blinks. Jason Arnott's grip tightens. Hesitation has passed and pleasure engulfs them again. They smile, and their chests relax, and the tension leaves their hearts. Because the night isn't about affection or tenderness or the hint of love. It's about soothing the pain of the day, and applying a balm to heal its wounds. It's about reveling in a time set aside for simplicity and sweat.

It's not about folding, or staying in. If you think it is, you're playing the wrong game.

*****

Pavel Bure groans.

Peter Forsberg growls.

Jason Arnott roars.

And the night goes on.

 

THE END