[Hockey RPS - Free-Fall - Chris Osgood/Kris Draper - NC-17 - Kink Bingo]

[annabeth.livejournal.com]

Free-Fall
Hockey RPS/Detroit Red Wings. | Kris Draper/Chris Osgood. Chris Osgood/Nicklas Lidström implied. | slash. consent play. language. | NC-17. | 2069 [heh] words. | written for kink_bingo. | unbeta'd except by me, which means I should probably warn for the possibility of OOC.


Free-Fall

It's an open secret on the team, that Chris and Drapes sometimes... experiment. Not that anyone else will cop to knowing about it, but there are road games—like this one—where Chris will request a room with Draper instead of Nick. And even though Nick is captain and therefore indirectly responsible for any shenanigans, he's quiet and serene and never comments; he never seems to feel bad that this time, Chris has chosen to room with Draper over him.

And there's a reason for that... as a goalie, Chris is used to being the last line of defence, being in control of whether the puck goes in, being the solid wall of emotional intensity that his team feeds on.

He stands in the middle of the room, still dressed in black turtleneck and tight, worn jeans; he's got a red short-sleeved shirt on over his long-sleeved turtleneck and he's not wearing any underwear. His dick, already slightly swelled with the knowledge of what's to come, chafes against the inner seam of the denim.

And that's when Drapes walks out of the bathroom, wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt and boxers. He gives Ozzie a smile, and walks towards him; he puts one hand on Chris's left shoulder and the other on the small of his back.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he says, softly, breath a whisper over Oz's lips. Chris nods, obediently closes his eyes.

Because this is the game: Chris gets a safeword, even though what they do isn't particularly kinky; he gets one because Drapes is allowed all of the control. Chris needs this sometimes. Needs Drapes like he needs to practise every day or stretch before he takes his place in goal.

"It's not your choice," Drapes murmurs, and closes his lips over Ozzie's. He kisses him slow, close-mouthed, just a soft, gentle rubbing of their lips together. His stubble scratches the soft skin of Ozzie's jaw. He pulls away, but Oz keeps his eyes closed, knows that's what's expected of him. "You're not allowed to kiss back," Drapes says. And then Chris can feel his breath tickle over his lips again before Drapes's lips find his again. Chris opens his mouth, because he's supposed to; Drapes licks through the inside of his mouth, against each sharp edge of his teeth, across his own tongue, but Chris holds still, caged and bracketed by the embrace—it's not confining, Drapes isn't holding him in place, but Chris holds himself as though he couldn't move.

Chris wants to follow the travels of Draper's tongue, wants to touch and taste and experience, but he's not allowed. He knows this, and it's what he wants—intrinsically, anyway. Oz tips his head back just slightly, mouth parting on a breath, a moan into the open, wet press of Draper's lips; Drapes digs his fingers into Ozzie's back, just this side of pain. It stops Chris's breath, makes him go instantly quiet and motionless, and Drapes makes an approving noise and touches his tongue to Chris's in reward.

It's the hottest thing, seriously, that Chris has ever done. Just a kiss that he's not allowed to vie for control over, and the pleasure of the reward of Drapes's tongue coming into contact with his has his dick hardening up even more; he knows Drapes can feel it, but Drapes makes no move to cup it; he doesn't slide his hand down over Chris's chest, doesn't move his other hand from the the indent of Chris's lower back, just above the swell of his ass.

There's something impossibly erotic about being kissed while being this passive, and Chris knows that Draper feels it too. His friend is hard as stone against his belly, but he doesn't touch his own dick, either. He doesn't even rub against Ozzie, not yet.

"You're mine," Drapes says, and for these few stolen moments, he is. He has no recourse. Even his safeword is lost to him, somewhere in the hazy annals of his memory, drowned out by a shocking yet tender kiss.

Drapes curls his hand into the fabric of Ozzie's t-shirt at the shoulder, then slowly grinds hips in a circle, working his own cock against the hard, taut muscle of Ozzie's belly.

It's a fucking kiss, a little bump and grind that Chris isn't allowed to reciprocate, and it tips the scales towards something uncomfortably like giving up every last iota of control, so that Drapes could hurt him if he wanted.

And that's the thing: the thrill of it, never knowing if this will be the time that Drapes hurts him, squeezes his cock too tight or bites his neck to draw blood. The thrill of knowing that only his safeword can stop it—of knowing that he's not allowed to use his safeword.

It's terrifying. It's liberating. It's everything Chris has ever needed, wrapped up in Chris's best friend, strong enough to wrestle him to the bed and hold him there if he wants, and Ozzie can't say no. Isn't allowed to say no.

This is just a game they play, one that Chris only trusts Drapes to play, one that Nick would never understand, and that's why he's here right now, Drapes's mouth sliding wet over his own. Why they're in a hotel room together.

Drapes pulls back; his hands drop away. Chris opens his eyes.

"Strip," Kris says. "Slow."

Chris already feels exposed, raw, as if every nerve has been touched and abraded. He's exposed and vulnerable in this already; being naked will almost certainly send him over the edge into humiliation, but Drapes ordered it and Chris has no choice.

There's a little shiver, a trill of pleasure that trips along his spine, tingles in his fingertips, as he slowly raises his arms and pulls the red shirt over his head.

Drapes is just standing, arms loose at his sides, staring intently. It makes goose pimples break out over Chris's skin; it flushes his face red. Chris knows how dark crimson he must be, the stain of the flush against his extremely pale, porcelain skin.

The black shirt follows the red, slowly pulled over his head, exposing inch by inch of skin also marred by the splotchy blush that Chris knows spreads from his neck down.

He flicks the button open on his jeans, shifts awkwardly on one foot, and even though he's been here before, naked dick on display, this feeling of shyness, of the virgin undressing for the first time, never goes away. It's actually part of the appeal.

It's Draper's eyes on him, scorching, searching; Chris takes the tab of the zipper in between his finger and thumb and slowly tugs, separating the teeth and exposing the pale blond curls at the base of his dick.

Drapes is staring at him like he's some sort of celebrity that everyone wants to see naked; staring as if this is the most incredible thing he's ever seen.

And it ratchets up that feeling of extreme nakedness. Of being completely owned by Drapes—his stare is possessive and hot, and Chris finally folds the flaps of his jeans open, his cock jutting out, fully hard now, and shimmies the jeans down his hips, down to his ankles, and Drapes says,

"Stop."

Chris lets himself go still, every muscle twitching and held, waiting, even his breath stopped in his lungs.

He's so very naked. He wonders what it looks like to Drapes, this blind obedience, the way his dick is flushed just as blood-rich as his face.

Drapes closes the few inches between them again. He looks right into Chris's eyes, and Chris can't read whatever's lurking in that gaze.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks. "Do you want me to fuck you, Oz? Do you think I will?"

Oz gasps, that indrawn breath expelled on a rush of arousal that makes every extremity tingle fiercely. "I want whatever you want," he says breathlessly.

"I want to fuck you, Ozzie," Drapes says, voice low and smooth like fine whiskey. "I want to fuck you, whether you want me to or not."

Chris feels his body tremble. He goes hot and cold all over at the words; he's at his friend's mercy now. Drapes can fuck him fast and dry and Oz isn't allowed to complain.

It's a river of conflicting emotions flooding his body. Arousal, sharp and pointed in every pore, tempered by that feeling of helplessness, of being completely out-of-control and unable to grab hold of anything to anchor himself.

It's the most powerful, liberating sensation. It's like free-falling from an airplane without a parachute, and this is what Oz needs most sometimes, someone to take over and push him out of the airplane, nothing to stop him from plunging to the ground.

It's that euphoria, that adrenaline pumping through every vein, that makes Chris's head loll back, mouth parted, and makes his dick jerk against the palm suddenly pressing against him.

"Do you wanna come?" Drapes says, mouth suddenly against his ear. The words spin out of all sense in Chris's brain. He's lost in the sensation of his body, arousal pitched high, tongue thick in his mouth.

"Oz," Drapes says, and he reaches between Chris's legs, shoves a blunt fingertip inside of him without any sort of prep, without anything to ease the way, even a little bit of spit.

It's just one finger, so it doesn't really hurt, even though Drapes's fingers are thicker than his wife's. Chris pants, body both arching into the touch and reeling from the sudden invasion.

"Do you wanna stop," Drapes says. "You gotta tell me—your safeword, Oz. Are you okay?"

And he's perfect, flying so high he'll never come down, crashing towards the earth at a bone-shattering speed, mind blank with the fog of every exquisite, piercing pulse of arousal.

"Come down," Drapes says. "Come down, Oz. Come for me."

Even now he has no choice. His breath is lodged in his lungs. Drapes quirks his finger and it starts up a burn in his lower body. It sets him off like a firecracker, and he spurts over his belly and Draper's hand, with barely a caress to help him through it.

"Crease," Chris breathes out heavily. He falls forward against Draper's solid body, exhausted, wrung out. "Crease," he repeats, and just like that Draper is helping him to the bed, arranging him on it, pressing kisses to his overheated skin.

Chris opens his eyes, sweaty and spent, his hair soaked and flattened to his skull with perspiration.

"I want you to kiss me," he says. And maybe this wouldn't seem kinky to anyone else, to be held and pushed and pushed until he careens over the edge, but sometimes, sometimes, Chris just can't get there on his own. "I wanna kiss you back."

Drapes slides over on the bed, puts one hand on the side of Ozzie's face, over his sweaty temple and his cheekbone, and tilts his head just slightly.

It's over, now. Chris gets to ask for what he wants now, gets to reassert himself. Freed of that caged feeling that locks up his lungs and his heart and makes him panicky until he gets this release, the chance to dissolve that knot of tension in his body.

They kiss now, lazy and searching. Chris lets his tongue wander freely, sucks at Draper's lower lip, at the tip of his tongue.

Drapes eventually breaks the kiss, both of them out-of-breath, and Draper's pupils are blown wide.

"You're a terrible kisser," Drapes says. "Once you get off, you totally suck at being a good lover."

"That's not what Nick says," Chris retorts. Drapes gives him a crooked smile. "Is that so? Does Nick like it when you come first, and then make demands?"

"Nick likes watching me come," Ozzie says. Draper flops onto his back, but he keeps one hand in Chris's hair.

"You have the stupidest safeword ever," he mutters, other hand on his dick, jacking himself without regard for Chris.

Chris works up the energy to sit up, then leans over, knees digging into the mattress, chest pressed to Draper's thigh, hands on each of Drapes's hips, and looks up under his lashes, grinning at Drapes.

And then he opens his mouth and goes down.

That shuts Drapes up real fast.

end.