Page 10 of Game Misconduct

“What ifIdon’t want this?” Danny said. It was a lie. It was obvious he wanted it. He could feel the frisson of desire spark along his spine. The electric burn of it, cutting through the dull haze of his days and nights. Feel his dick straining against his pants. It was dumb as hell, again, with the shaded windows of the hotel looking down over them, scrubby little trees that didn’t provide any cover at all, and he didn’tcare. It was dark enough and he wanted—

“You do,” Sato said. “You definitely fucking do.” So cocky and sure of himself, and Danny was helpless in the face of it.

Not that he could say anything, his mouth had gone so dry. He probably looked stupid as hell, his eyes wild, fixed on Sato and the promise of his mouth. Danny swallowed hard and unbuckled his belt. Sato watched him do it. His face was unreadable, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stand. Just watched as Danny slowly and deliberately exposed himself, exhaled when he saw.

“God,” Sato muttered, half to himself, reaching out to take Danny in hand.

Danny looked down at the tattooed fingers wrapped around him. Sato’s hands, like the rest of him, were covered in black ink, except for some of the skin on the back of his left hand. The knuckles on that hand saidS I C K. He forgot to look at the rest of them when Sato slid his dry, calloused hand up, when he leaned forward and took Danny in his mouth.

Sato gave head exactly the way he played. Aggressive, like this was a contest to be won. Too rough, but somehow Danny was already breathless. As Sato worked his mouth lower down the shaft, he moved his hands to Danny’s thighs, his fingers digging painfully into the muscle. Into the yellow-green bruise left behind when Danny had blocked a shot a few games ago. Danny couldn’t focus on either sensation: the pain in his legs or the hot, slick pleasure of Sato’s tongue and the vacuum of his mouth. Before he could think about what he was doing, he had his fingers around the back of Sato’s head, over his barely there hair, pulling him forward.

Sato choked but didn’t pull away. His eyes watered.

“Fuck,” Danny groaned. “Goddamn, fuck, yourmouth.”

Sato wrenched himself and his mouth away and said, a little snottily, “That’s the general fucking idea, Garcia, try to keep up.”

Danny didn’t know whether to laugh or not, so he settled for slapping him, a hand sharp against his right cheek. Not as hard as he could have but nowhere near easy either, and he was rewarded by Sato’s eyes widening and the kid shutting himself up, practically choking in his haste to suck Danny down again. It wasn’t like Danny could relax into the sensation because that wasn’t the way things were with them. It was on the wrong side of too many teeth, a little too hard, almost painful. It was one of the best things he’d ever felt in his life, right behind the first time he’d been seriously injured and the Percs had taken the pain away. It was only a supreme act of self-control that he wasn’t babbling more idiotic things, that he wasn’t begging Sato to keep going, to take it deeper, not to stop.

It was too much. Sato’s hand tugging at his balls, the suction of his mouth, the picture of him, on his knees but still looking up with his eyes open and furious, like he was daring Danny to say anything. Danny wrapped his fingers in Sato’s hair again and closed his eyes and that was the end.

He was still shivering a minute later, hauling Sato up to his feet.

For a minute, those big dark eyes were wide and uncertain, like he didn’t know what to expect. Like he wasn’t sure if they were going to fight again. Maybe they were. But when Danny spat in his hand, shoved it down Sato’s jeans, and grabbed his erection, his head fell forward against Danny’s chest. Hit it hard, almost like a headbutt, except it felt like a surrender. Sato said,“Ah,”his hands fumbling with his belt. Freeing Danny’s hands to move.

Sato kept his head down and resting on Danny’s chest, like he couldn’t bear to look at him while Danny’s fingers were in such an intimate spot, gripping him so tightly. There were still a few inches of space between their bodies, and Danny jerked him off angrily, because this was Sato’s idea, because Sato couldn’t leave him alone, because he didn’t want Sato to leave him alone. His other hand pressed against Sato’s chest, digging in. Sato was making those noises again; the whimpering fucking groans that almost had Danny’s spent dick trying to make a repeat performance.

But Sato was so keyed up by it—by fighting Danny, by going down on him—that he didn’t last long. Sato laughed, a choked-off little groan, and pressed his entire body up against Danny’s. Sato’s teeth dug into his shoulder as he came, spurting hot on the exposed strip of Danny’s stomach.

Jesus Christ, what a mess.

They stood like that for a second, Sato shaking against him, before he came to his senses and pulled away. He looked like someone had fucked him up. Like someone had fucked him. Swollen lips and hair in disarray, a red mark on the side of his face where Danny had hit him, his fathomless dark eyes huge. A beautiful mess.

“I—” he started, his voice rough. “This was a fucking mistake. Jesus Christ. I—” And before Danny could reply, he was fumbling with his pants and trying to beat a retreat all at the same time.

Danny watched him go. His stomach felt cold and sticky. Itwasa mistake. And strangely, it was the best he’d felt all week, even if he also felt like someone had slammed him in the head with a sledgehammer. That was Sato in a nutshell.

Danny looked down at his stomach and sighed. Prepared for the walk of shame back to a hotel he hadn’t even slept in yet.

And the rest of the night, alone.

It was a good thing Bee had gone home with Mäkelä after the game, because that way, Mike had the apartment to share with himself and his nervous breakdown. Hewantedto break every dish in the goddamn house.

He didn’t.

He went into the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror for a long time. His hair had been getting a little long for his liking in the preseason—he normally kept it buzzed or completely shaved—but he’d been toying with the idea of leaving it alone and letting it grow in more. Now whenever he looked at it all he could think about, all he could feel, was Garcia’s fingers in it, yanking him to his feet.

It took him about ten minutes to buzz it all off again and wipe out the sink. He could still taste Garcia, so he brushed his teeth until the only thing left was mint. It didn’t help. He could still feel Garcia’s hands on his dick, the muscle of Garcia’s chest against his forehead.

What the fuck was wrong with him? His brain kept replaying everything. Going down on his knees. He didn’t know why the fuck he’d done that. Why he’d said that. Like: he didn’t like owing people, it was true. But Garcia was an asshole and Mike didn’t have to...

It had been really fucking good, and that was worse. He felt like he was going to rip his entire fucking skin off and he didn’t know why.

He’d fucked guys before. He’d fucked guys he hadn’t particularly liked before. He didn’t understand why fucking Garcia made him feel like this. He couldn’t explain it.

Even thinking about doing it again was crazy. Garcia was an asshole, he was a Hornet, they were barely ever even in the same city.

He didn’t ever want to do it again.