Title: Laughter
Pairing: Spot/Race
Author: Lynx18
Rating: R
A/N: This is my first Newsies fic. please enjoy.
The fact that Race's surfboard is still leashed to his ankle is making it more difficult than usual to get his wetsuit off. Spot's hands are pushjerkpulling at it, trying to skin it down Race's arms and chest without the benefit of undoing the zip. Unfortunately, Spot's waging a one handed battle with Race's surfboard at the same time, which keeps floating up with every incoming wavelet, apparently intent upon knocking one or both of them senseless.
In spite of the achingly hard erection trapped in his wetsuit (and Spot's matching erection, pressing down against his with sweetly heated friction), Race is fighting down the urge to laugh (a bad idea).
They are still below the tide line, the ocean is so cold Race suspects ice may be forming between his toes, they are being attacked by Race's board (Spot seems to think it has malicious intent, in fact, and snarls "Get the fuck off," at it, shoving it away yet again), and the zipper (which Spot seems to finally have located with his one-handed groping beneath Race) of his wetsuit seems dead set on not budging one centimeter in the foreseeable future. In spite of the erections, the whole thing just tickles Race's funny bone. In spite of very real desire, the whole idea that they are seriously attempting sex under these conditions -- evil surfboard, stuck zipper, water the same temperature that penguins find comfortable -- is just... funny.
Race is resisting outright laughter by pure force of will. He doesn't want Spot to stop what he's doing (the grinding down against Race bit, anyhow; he figures he could really do without the part where Spot is using one hand to fight a losing battle with the zipper of Race's wetsuit and the other to continue with what can only be called a 'holding action' against Race's malicious board), so laughing outright would be bad. He knows this. But when Spot barks: "You cock-sucking, mother fucking bastard!" (either to the zipper or the board, Race can't tell) the absurdity of cursing the sexual preferences, morality and possible illegitimacy of inanimate objects is just too much for Race.
He snickers.
Spot looks down at him, eyes narrowed. "Something funny, Race?" he queries.
Uh oh. "Err," Race says, and Spot's eyes narrow even further, into glittering, steely slits.
"What," Spot says, voice silky and calm (such a very bad sign), "is funny, Race?"
"Uh," Race says, and -- since there is no right answer to the question -- props himself up on his elbows to kiss Spot. He tastes like waxy lipbalm and sea water, and forgetting about amusement is fairly easy (thank God) with Spot's tongue in his mouth and Spot's hips rocking skillfully against his. Race forgets about anything at all even remotely amusing until seawater whooshes up around them again (his balls are starting to feel like ice cubes now, and he has no idea how this is not effecting his erection) and Spot squeaks into Race's mouth. It is not funny. The water is cold. Race is freezing his ass off, in fact. But that squeak is so damned girly, and it just seems so wrong, considering the weight of Spot's body on top of his and the feel of Spot's cock -- not girly in the slightest -- sliding against his cock.
He suppresses the laughter ruthlessly, but he can still feel it, bubbling somewhere in his throat, and Race knows if he lets it get away from him, he can forget about getting laid any time in the near future. Spot has pulled back and wedged both hands under Race's back, apparently having decided to concentrate the persuasive opening power of all ten of his fingers on the zip. Race is intimately familiar with the persuasive opening power of Spot's fingers (though not all ten at once, three is really quite enough, thanks), and has every confidence that Spot will succeed. That's good, because accidentally laughing (still a very bad idea) will be much less likely with one or both of them naked, even if the ocean is sucking all the heat out of Race's balls.
Satan's surfboard chooses that moment to sidle up beside them. It's in stealth mode, or something. Spot doesn't seem to notice it, and Race knows if opens his mouth to warn him, he is going to start laughing, and since that is not an option, he doesn't say anything.
And Satan's surfboard sneak attacks.
It bumps gently against Spot's elbow (hi there, nothing to be afraid of, just a friendly surfboard here). Spot jerks one hand out from under Race and bats at it, but either aims poorly or the surfboard dodges just enough that Spot's hand sort of glances off the edge, and the thing flips up and whacks Spot (thonk!) right in the head.
"Why you... you...!" Spot gasps, eyes wide and amazed (oh shit, Race thinks, trying to keep a straight face) as Spot clutches at his forehead, blinking rapidly. He looks at Race, still stunned and clearly offended (offended at the apparently sentient malevolence of a surfboard for God's sake) and it's a lost cause. There is no help for it.
Race laughs.