Hockey RPS/Detroit Red Wings. | Chris Osgood/Kris Draper. Chris Osgood/Jenna Osgood. | crossdressing. explicit sexual content. boys looking preeetty. explicit language. | NC-17. | 9379 words. | sort-of kind-of beta'd by shades_of_hades and mistokath13. | written for Jen's birthday, which was, shamefully, July 31st so I am incredibly late. In my defence, however, the fic turned into bigbang length?
According to Plan
Chris is pretty sure—really pretty sure—that the red thong with the winged wheel emblazoned on it inside his locker is a prank.
Though that might be due to the fact that he really doesn't want to think about what it means if it's not a prank.
It's the sort of thing Drapes would do. Or Helm, if he'd been suitably impressed by Drapes's cleverness to take it upon himself to make it happen.
Problem is, the thong, when he holds it up furtively, kinda looks like it would fit. And again, there's a little shiver of unease that thrums through him.
He balls it up and shoves it back into his locker, vowing to give it to his wife or something the first chance he gets.
But for Chris Osgood, things rarely go as planned.
Weeks pass, and Chris finds himself carting the damn thing everywhere. He tries to keep it hidden, but since it's now a fixture in his locker, it travels with him on road games. He has to be extra careful to make sure the trainers don't see it.
It began as a novelty, but the very existence of the thing creeps into his subconscious like carpenter ants do in the summertime, and before he knows it, he's lying in a hotel room in the dark, eyes wide open, acutely aware that the Red Wings thong is stuffed into the pocket of his suitcase and that Nick, snoring like a lion in the other bed, doesn't know that Chris has womens' underwear hidden in his baggage.
Why me, Chris wonders a little helplessly. Because he can't get to sleep. Because he wants to get up and dig out the thong and sneak into the bathroom and just... see if it fits.
Nick gives a particularly loud, grating snore, so Chris slips out of bed, rummages through his bag until he finds it, and locks himself in the bathroom.
"I'm ridiculous," he tells his reflection five minutes later, the thong low on his hips, the winged wheel bulging outwards from the positioning of his dick behind it. "And stupid," he adds.
He moves, just slightly, intending to take it off, and even though it's just simple cotton—it's not even some silky, frothy thing, for crying out loud!—it shifts across the stretch of his dick and he stiffens.
And by stiffens, he's referring not to the sudden tension in his body, but the beginnings of a sudden erection that is further straining the red cotton fabric.
"I gotta take this off," he says to his mirror-twin, face flushed with two bright spots of embarrassment.
This is not assisted by the knock on the door, Nick's sleepy-hoarse voice coming through the wood, "Ozzie? Are you all right?"
How long has he been locked in the bathroom? How long has Nick actually been awake? He flushes all over with anxiety.
"I'm... fine," he gets out, throat feeling choked. "I'll be right out."
"Okay," Nick replies, and his footfalls retreat. Chris immediately shoves the panties down his thighs and off. There's the tiniest damp splotch towards the waistband, where his dick apparently leaked a little.
He balls them up in his fist, crams himself back into his sweatpants as quickly as he can, then stares at the incriminating red wad of cotton. For a lack of anyplace better, they wind up precariously hidden inside his pants.
The fact that he's not wearing any other kind of underwear makes it especially difficult to keep them concealed, but he cautiously unlocks the door and peeks out.
Nick is lying back in his bed, half on his side, one arm slung out, eyes closed, snoring resumed.
Chris hurries over to his bag, buries the thong deep inside it, and throws himself into his bed, yanking the covers up because he can still feel the embarrassment heating his skin.
Sleep still does not come easy, and in the back of his mind, an itch takes up residence.
How much farther will this go? Chris is asking himself—afraid he knows the answer already.
"I just thought it was a stupid prank," Chris says; flails. Jenna nods sympathetically, though he can see the glitter of amusement in her eyes.
"I'm sure it is, honey," she murmurs soothingly. She touches his bare arm, and it brings back a shiver of pleasure he gets every single time she touches him.
All these years of marriage, and he still thrills to the feel of her skin against his.
"I wore it!" Chris wails, and Jenna covers his mouth with her hand.
"I'm sure you did," she says, "but can you keep it down so that the girls don't find out?"
Chris pauses in his hysterical breakdown—what? this totally deserves a hysterical breakdown—and stares at his wife.
"...how did you know I would wear it?"
For the first time, he catches sight of something else, buried deep in her eyes. Mischief. He groans and throws his head back, imploring the ceiling to intervene.
"Oh, it was just—"
"You planted it in my stuff?" Chris says, still glaring at the ceiling in the kitchen. He hears Jenna slide the cup of coffee out of the way on the table, and then she's even closer, her breath sweet and warm on his skin.
"Don't be upset, love," she says. "Someone asked me to do it."
Chris tilts his head back down to eye her warily. "Who?"
"He likes you an awful lot," Jenna continues, "but you never seem to notice."
"If you mean Drapes," Chris says, "you already know that's not true."
"Maybe not precisely the way you expect," Jenna says. "I know you two have something special—"
"Jenna," he interrupts, "what are you saying?"
"I'm saying, we have an agreement, and your friend wants something more from you."
"I know about the agreement," Chris says mulishly, "but Drapes doesn't ever respond to me."
"Honey, you flirt with anything that walks. Drapes doesn't realise it's any different when you do it with him. But I know how you can prove it."
Okay, now things have gotten not only interesting, but curious. He suspects that his wife has a few more tricks up her sleeve beyond just planting a team-oriented thong in his things.
"How?" he asks, eyes narrowed. She grins. Uh-oh.
"Oh, you'll see," she says, and promise is rich in her voice like honey.
Why, Chris asks himself, does he get the feeling that whatever she's planning is directly related to his doom?
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Chris says, giving his wife the hairy eyeball. But she's got the expression on her face that lets him know she's going to get her way, no matter what; of course, he's used to that, but for some reason he still puts up a token protest.
"You can't put that on without going all the way," Jenna says. Chris tries to plead his case with a dose of puppy-eyes, but Jenna holds the dress out of his reach and hangs it up on the bathroom door. "On the toilet seat, come on now," she says.
"You do want to make Draper happy, don't you?"
"You stab me right through my heart," Chris says, and plops down on the closed toilet lid. He stretches out one leg and balances his foot on the side of the bathtub.
"Oh, stop it," Jenna says. "And relax, this is not going to be as bad as you think it is."
"I am watching my masculinity be washed down the bathtub drain," Chris mumbles. Jenna smacks his thigh.
"You're being melodramatic now, and it's ridiculous. Though fitting if you're going to be a drag queen, I suppose. Besides, don't you already shave your armpits?"
"I do not!" Chris knows he probably looks guilty, so he quickly goes on, "I still don't see why this part is necessary."
"Because when Drapes gets you out of that dress, he's going to want to run his hands up your smooth legs," Jenna explains.
Put like that, Chris has trouble controlling his reaction. His mind wanders to thoughts of that, and he almost doesn't notice the cool shaving cream his wife is spreading over his legs.
But 'almost' is the operative word, because it's very, very hard not to feel the shaving cream. It feels strange on his legs—he's used to it on his face, but this is a way different sensation.
"Pay attention," Jenna mutters, and Chris focuses on her, on the way her hair falls on either side of her face and reveals the nape of her neck.
He wants to kiss up the beautiful slope of her neck, but then he remembers he's supposed to be paying attention.
"I am," he says, even though, of course he wasn't. Jenna gets to her feet and turns on the faucets, rinsing the shaving cream from her hands. He's still staring at her when she hands him the razor. He feels his face shine pink.
Probably the same colour of the razor she's just given him, because it's one of hers.
"Start at your ankle," she instructs, "and shave upwards."
"I probably could've figured that out," Chris mumbles, and then he gives Jenna a sidelong look again.
"Yes," she confirms his unspoken question, "my mother taught me how to shave my legs, and someday I'm going to teach our daughters. So it's nothing to be ashamed of."
Chris points towards her, brandishing the razor. "The way things are going," he says sardonically, "I'll be the one showing Mackenzie how to shave her legs, taking her to buy her first bra—"
"Oh, we already did that," Jenna interrupts, almost too casually. Chris's leg, previously balanced on the side of the tub, jerks and his foot hits the floor hard.
"You what? Already?"
"Calm down and try not to get shaving cream all over everything," Jenna scolds.
Chris plops his foot back down on the bathtub-edge and, starting at his ankle, draws the razor upwards towards his knee.
It feels funny. And actually, part of the problem is that, by 'feels funny', he means it actually feels kind of sexy to know that he's shaving the hair away, leaving smooth skin in the razor's wake.
"Do your thighs too, honey," Jenna says. She's now bent over the sink, applying eyeliner in the mirror. Chris pauses, razor almost dripping shaving cream and hair onto the floor, before he collects himself and rinses it under the faucet.
"I didn't realise—" he says.
"It's not always necessary," Jenna explains, "and it can be done less often than the lower leg, but yes, a lot of women shave all the way up. We're just more ninja about keeping it from the men we sleep with. But you definitely need to."
Chris follows her advice, carefully drawing the razor up his leg and thigh, following the remaining streaks of shaving cream until there's none left. He repeats the action on his other leg, and when he's done there, he stands up and Jenna takes the razor and makes certain he got all of the hair on the backs of his thighs.
When Chris steps into the tub to rinse away the shaving cream, she gets in behind him, standing so close he can smell her hair—apples—and her skin—spicy notes.
"You're going to be a beautiful, sexy woman," Jenna says huskily, and Chris, bucket of water in his hands, pauses and glances over his shoulder at her. She sounds way too invested in the outcome of this.
He pours the water over his legs and then turns, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her in close, till her tummy rests right against his, breasts squashed to his chest.
"I think you like the idea of sleeping with a girl," he says softly, touching her silky hair.
Jenna picks up the bucket and splashes water down his backside, over his thighs. "If you think so," she says, awfully coyly, if he's not mistaken.
She grabs one of their fluffy towels and begins to wipe down Chris's legs.
"You're getting a crash course in this," Jenna says, "because it's Draper's birthday and I don't have time to really show you everything. Though you already sway your hips like a woman when you walk," she adds, laughing.
When she gets him out of the tub, she tortures him with the tweezers, beginning with his thighs—"Ow!"—and then kissing up the backs of his thighs when she's finished.
And then she comes towards his face and Chris flushes, from on-board with this to completely-weirded-out in moments—because she's holding the tweezers and reaching towards his eyebrows and he doesn't really want to admit that he already touches them up.
A lot of the guys do it, although they all try to keep it a secret from one another.
But Jenna seems to have other plans in mind, and she also seems to think that his eyebrows could use more shaping.
"On the toilet lid again," she orders, "and close your eyes and hold still."
Standing awkwardly in heels, Jenna smoothing away wrinkles in the red dress, Chris feels supremely silly, not sexy at all.
Possibly because beneath the dress—which sweeps upward on one side, exposing an awful lot of thigh—he's wearing that thong that started this whole mess.
"I called Drapes," Jenna says, still fiddling with his clothes and hair. "He's going to be waiting for you at the steakhouse, though all he knows is he's meeting someone. I told him it was a birthday surprise. Julie already knows, of course, so there's no conflict there."
It might add to the discomfort that he's wearing a bra, gel inserts and all, and has a wig covering his short hair, giving him long, wavy locks.
A glance in the mirror and he can see how obscene his ass looks, round swell covered by clinging, shimmery red fabric and not a panty line in sight.
Jenna showed him just how to tuck his cock to keep it out of sight, and turning, he acknowledges that he really does pass for a woman: long, coal-black lashes; perfect bow to lips sheened with tinted gloss; liner underneath his eyes and sweeping up at the corners.
"I—" Chris gulps. "Am I really that feminine-looking?" he asks, noting the slope of his shoulders, the attributes that he never noticed were softened and feminine until he found himself standing in front of a mirror in a dress.
"You're gorgeous," Jenna affirms, possibly to reassure, though he's not entirely sure he trusts that, if the gleam in her eyes is any indication. "Drapes won't even know what hit him. Okay, baby, time for you to go. The reservation is at seven."
"I feel ridiculous," he says, and Jenna gives him a quick kiss, careful not to smudge any of his makeup.
"But you look fine. Confidence," she advises. "I know you have it. Own it, and be the awesome, awesome woman I know you can be."
Chris is, again, a little concerned with how much she seems to like this, but he shrugs, gives one last once-over to his appearance, and takes a deep breath.
Drapes is sitting all by himself at a table lit by candlelight. He's balling up his linen napkin, and he seems nervous.
Chris has a feeling it's because Drapes wasn't expecting an allegedly beautiful woman to come walking up to his table.
And he has no idea where the throaty voice comes from when he opens his mouth and says, "May I sit with you?"
"I'm not sure that—" Drapes stops in mid-sentence, jaw dropping. "Ozzie?" he asks, incredulously, but quietly, as if he knows how bad it would be to out Chris in a dress.
"Yeah," he says, the same throaty voice in evidence, and he finagles himself into a sitting position, trying not to let the dress ride up.
Jenna suggested he could wear stockings, too, but she also said the bare-legs look was sexy, so he opted for that.
"I don't—what are you doing?" Drapes asks, still under his breath.
"Happy birthday," Chris says, and leans forward so that the dress gapes a little over his chest. Jenna assured him that his pecs made up for not having real cleavage.
"Did my wife put you up to this?" Drapes asks, though his eyes are glassy and distracted, fixed on the bare skin of Chris's plunging neckline.
"My wife put me up to this," Chris says ruefully. "Besides, you apparently asked her to do something for you."
From the shifty expression on his friend's face, Chris knows that he was, indeed, behind the women's underwear.
"People are going to start rumours," Drapes says, changing the subject. Chris decides to let him do so.
"Then we'll just have to be extra careful." Chris leans back and unfolds his napkin, carefully arranging it on his lap. He lines up his silverware and sips at the glass of water at his place setting.
"I'm in a restaurant with a woman who's not my wife," Drapes hisses; it's his turn to lean forward.
There's not much that Chris can say to that, so he decides to avoid a subject he doesn't like, as well.
"Surprised?" he asks, the husky timbre of his voice still in evidence. Drapes gives him a momentary look of confusion, then it clears.
"Please tell me that—"
"Oh yes," Chris returns. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
Drapes flushes, but he nods mutely. Apparently faced with his greatest fantasy—and Chris thinks it's more the thong than the dress—he's actually rendered speechless.
Chris files away that little piece of information; when is Drapes ever without a barrage of ready words?
He's about to say something else, but he forgets what it is when the waitress comes over and smiles cheerily at them. Her nametag reads 'Daisy' and she has blonde hair that flips up at the ends. Drapes barely glances at her, but she doesn't seem to mind.
"Hi! My name is Daisy, and I will be your server for this evening. May I start you off with some appetisers, or something to drink?"
"Another glass of wine," Chris says, gesturing to Drapes's half-empty goblet. "And one for me as well."
"I'm just going to have the steak," Drapes says, still sounding half-stunned.
Daisy writes this down, and to her credit, if she's recognised them—or Drapes, rather, since Chris is pretty unrecognisable at the moment—she doesn't give any indication.
Daisy smiles at them, pockets the order sheet and says, "I'll be right back with your drinks."
"I don't think she knows who you are," Chris murmurs, balancing his elbows on the table, chin in hand. "You see? Nothing to worry about."
"If anyone asks," Drapes says urgently, "I am meeting with you about some type of fundraiser."
"Clever," Chris says in admiration. "Still thinking with your upstairs brain? I might have to do something about that."
"Ozzie," Drapes hisses, "don't."
"What type of fundraiser? Maybe something for the 'It Gets Better' campaign? After all, you are sitting at a table with—"
"Trust me," Drapes interjects, "it's not obvious." He lifts his glass and takes a healthy swallow of his wine.
Chris smiles, then licks his lower lip very deliberately. From the glassy sheen to Drapes's eyes, he's got this flirting thing down.
Under the table, Chris begins the slow, arduous process of sliding his foot, heel and all, up the length of Drapes's leg. It's really only arduous because Chris wants to get right to the point, but he remembers all the times Jenna did this to him when they were dating, and even though she could have, she never went right for the treasure—not at first.
Drapes has an expression of terror on his face. It's as if he knows he's not going to be able to dissuade Chris, and things could get quite out of hand if anyone were to start asking questions.
Chris doesn't think Julie ever did this to Drapes way back when. Or recently, for that matter; his best friend is way too caught-up, his eyes wide, his cheeks leached of colour; should their waitress, for example, look closely at him, she might realise that he seems to be trapped in the lights of a speeding train, unable to move.
Chris slides his heel further up, tracing the inner swell of Drapes's knee, then begins to massage his thigh little by little.
"Good God, Ozzie, stop it," Drapes grits out. "It is bad enough that—"
"You need to loosen up," Chris returns slyly, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, gently pressing his teeth against it. "So many lectures. Don't you ever get tired of lecturing?"
"Some people need it," Drapes says with a raised eyebrow.
"I can't imagine what you mean," Chris replies archly. He's about to say something else—and Drapes is probably terrified of whatever might come out of his mouth at the moment—when Daisy comes back with their wine.
"Here you are," she say with a twinkle. "The best wine in the house." She winks at them and sashays off, and Chris swallows thickly.
"Great," Drapes mutters. "I think she figured out who we are."
"Or you, at least," Chris points out.
"Consider yourself lucky," Drapes says, just as Chris insinuates his foot into the juncture of Drapes's thigh and his groin.
The flat part of his shoe is now pressed against the burgeoning swell of Drapes's dick, which he can feel through the thin sole.
"If you keep that up—" Drapes warns, and Chris widens his eyes innocently.
"Keep what up?" he asks, and nudges Drapes's cock with his heel. Drapes colours, mouth very red in the candlelight, and Chris finds that he likes the sight very much.
"I mean it, O—" but he cuts himself off as Daisy brings his steak. She glances at Chris curiously.
"Not eating, sweetie?"
"Oh, I already ate," he says, realising he forgot to order. Not that he thinks he could get anything down right now anyway; he's that nervous.
"You two make such a cute couple," she says happily. "It's not often I see people as much in love as you are."
Chris shoots Drapes a pointed look. Maybe she doesn't know who they are.
"But this is such a romantic restaurant," Chris says, turning his eyes, still widened with faux innocence, onto her.
"Oh, but couples come in so often and the husband forgot to run the dishwasher, or the wife has been spending too much time with the electrician—I actually heard that one once, isn't that odd?—and by the time they leave it's an argument and separate sleeping arrangements. I think sometimes the atmosphere actually makes couples more likely to snipe at each other."
As if realising suddenly that she's been rambling while Drapes cuts his steak into ever smaller pieces, she smiles, biting her lip.
"Have a nice dinner. And don't lose that romantic glow you have," she says, with a long once-over for Drapes.
Drapes's cock is almost fully-hard against Chris's sole. He figures that glow is less love and more lust, but of course he doesn't correct her. She walks away again, and Drapes begins to shovel the steak into his mouth as quickly as possible.
Then again, that steak looks pretty good... Chris revises his opinion of his anxiety and, grabbing his own fork, he snags a bite of Drapes's steak, which earns him a worse glare than simply the one he's been getting for stimulating Drapes under the table.
Drapes crams one last bite into his mouth and gives Chris a desperate look.
"I—" Drapes is flushed in the soft light. "We should get out of here."
"Yeah," Chris says, and carefully gets to his feet again. He holds up a keycard. "And I know just where we should go."
"Do me a favour," Drapes says. "Go up to the hotel room by yourself and I will meet you there after I pay for dinner. There isn't any need to make this more conspicuous than it already is."
"I will see you soon," Chris says, and once more his voice is throaty and low, and he slides out of the booth. He can feel the dress has caught upwards on the swell of his ass a little, so he tries to be sneaky and wiggle his hips to get it to slip down.
The sharp indrawn breath behind him reminds him that he's doing this to turn Drapes on—and it's definitely working.
He remembers how their waitress appeared as she left their table and copies the sashay of her hips as he makes his way to the exit.
He wonders how long it will take Drapes to force down his erection enough to leave the steakhouse. And whether it will involve picturing his grandmother naked.