Hockey RPF fic: The Things They Always Do (Tim Thomas/Carey Price, NC-17)
Title: The Things They Always Do
Author: athenejen
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Pairing: Tim Thomas/Carey Price
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2300
Disclaimer: So very, very fictional.
Warnings: None as far as I can tell.
Summary: Several things they always do, and a few new things, too.
Notes: Written for pass_shoot_porn and the prompt tradition. Also posted on AO3 here.
Tim can't really remember any more why or how they started doing this.
After all, beer is universal, and it should be pretty fucking obvious to anyone who drinks that Price would be fun to drink with. The post-drinking part... well, the fun in that ought to be pretty fucking obvious, too, and the why or how seems insignificant when you think about the fact that they do it at all.
Not that he does think about it much. Some things are for doing, not for thinking about. As long as you do them as well as you can, it's enough.
This is something he enjoys doing well.
They always go to the same bar in Montreal, not too far from the hotel the Bruins stay at and just this side of divey. They always drink the same type of beer, though whether it's a little or a lot depends on the night. They always play a round of pool and the loser picks up the tab.
They always go back to Carey's place.
It's February, this time, and stingingly cold; Carey blasts the heat as soon as he starts the truck, but it still takes a while for their breaths to stop pluming white. Tim fiddles with the radio, cycles through all the presets twice before ending up back on the country music station.
Carey picks up where he left off -- halfway through the story of the first time he tried to rope a steer from horseback -- and that lasts them the entire short drive across the river. Tim's leaning back in the passenger seat, head thrown back, laughing, when Carey pulls into the garage to park.
"C'mon," says Carey, and reaches across to give Tim's scarf a sharp tug before getting out of the truck.
Once inside, Tim starts shedding layers while Carey messes with the alarm and then the thermostat. Gloves off, then hat, then scarf. He drops it all onto the bench in the entryway, then sits to quickly yank off his boots and toss them in the laundry room. He's finished unbuttoning his thick wool coat and is about to shrug out of it when he hears a odd clatter a few feet away.
Carey's managed to strip himself of all his winter gear twice as fast as Tim; his gloves and scarf and hat and coat and socks are scattered all around the entryway and his boots are still sitting on the hardwood floor right next to him. His hair is standing straight up in a staticky dark jumble that Tim's hands itch to mess up even more. And the clatter -- the clatter was the sound of his belt hitting the floor in a heap, the heavy buckle knocking against the wood.
As Tim watches, Carey unbuttons the plaid shirt he's wearing, yanks it out of his jeans and then down his arms and off. The black tee he has on underneath gets pulled over his head and off, too. Carey slows down a little when he gets to his jeans, unzipping with care before shoving them down to his ankles and stepping out of them. His black boxer-briefs are already starting to tent in front as he walks toward Tim.
Tim doesn't even realize he's staring until he hears Carey laugh, right in front of him. Tim shifts his gaze up to Carey's face, and they grin at each other for a moment before Carey sets his hands on Tim's shoulders and starts pushing his forgotten coat down his arms. Tim twists around to help him get it off, and as soon as they get it off Tim and onto the floor, Carey's got him pressed back against the door to the garage, looming over him.
Maybe it should annoy him that the kid's got that handspan of inches on him, but what's the point of letting things you can't control bug you? Instead he slides a hand into the hair at the nape of Carey's neck and drags him down for a kiss.
As they kiss, rough and biting and open-mouthed, Tim uses his other hand to rub circles into Carey's hip. The noise Carey makes when Tim's hand gets to his dick is gratifying, and puts Carey just enough off-balance to let Tim flip them, Carey's back hitting the door with a thump.
"Fuck," Carey breathes, staring hazily as Tim gets a good grip on his hips to lower himself carefully to his knees. They both groan when Tim leans in to mouth at Carey's dick through the thin, hot fabric of his underwear.
"Here, let me--" he hears Carey say above him, and he pulls back just long enough watch Carey clumsily push the boxer-briefs off his hips and down to his thighs. Tim drags them the rest of the way off and then tosses them over his shoulder, sitting back on his heels for a second to admire his work.
Carey's completely naked now, cock standing at such eager attention it almost brushes his stomach as he breathes, chest flushed and knuckles white as his fingers clench around the edge of the doorframe while he waits.
They stare at each other for several seconds, until Carey opens his mouth to speak and Tim shakes his head sharply, just once, and Carey snaps his mouth shut again. Then Tim reaches out with both hands and runs his palms up Carey's thighs, taking his time, feeling the tension and power coiled up tight within them. He kneels up, and uses one hand to press Carey's hips back against the door, leaning in with his forearm for additional leverage. His other hand, he curls around the back of Carey's thigh, digs his fingers into the hamstring until he can feel it tremble.
He flicks a glance up to meet Carey's eyes, then very deliberately leans in and sets his mouth ever-so-gently at the base of Carey's shaft and kisses it. He moves a half-inch up, kisses it again, and then again. With each kiss, his eyes flutter shut of their own accord, but when he opens them between kisses, Carey's eyes are always still trained on his face, watching him. When he gets to the tip, he makes sure to keep his eyes open as he tongues the slit, to see Carey's eyes close in pleasure and then open again, waiting for his next move.
He means to keep going slowly, he does. But when he sucks the head of Carey's cock into his mouth and Carey moans, he just kind of loses it. He doesn't really come back to himself until he's swallowing and swallowing and swallowing, eyes clinched shut, and Carey's gasping so hard it almost sounds like he's choking, and pushing at Tim's shoulder until he pulls off so they can both breathe.
Tim struggles to his feet and sets to work on the button of his jeans; his dick is kind of really pissed off that they didn't manage this step before he made Carey make all of those amazing sounds. After a few seconds, Carey pushes his hands away and helps with the zipper, and together they manage to get him naked without either of them falling over, so that's pretty much a win.
Tim goes to press Carey back against the door and kiss him again, but Carey stops him with a hand on his chest.
"Bedroom, yeah?"
It takes Tim a couple of seconds to parse the question, but after he does the answer's easy.
"Okay, yeah," he agrees, then turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the bedroom, kicking Carey's boots toward the wall as he goes, because otherwise he knows one of them will end up tripping on them later.
He sprawls out on the bed, knees splayed -- usually this is when Carey opts to crawl in between them and return the favor.
But when Carey reaches the doorway, he sort of... hovers for a moment before closing the door behind him and coming over to stand next to the bed. He clears his throat, then opens the top drawer of the nightstand and peers inside it.
"Listen, I was thinking..." he says, rummaging around in the drawer. He pulls out a couple of objects and drops them on the bed next to Tim's hand. "You know, if you want?"
Well, that's new. Tim stares at the foil-wrapped condom and half-empty bottle of lube sitting on comforter next to his hand, and sits up abruptly. He reaches out, grabs the bottle of lube, weighs it in his hand.
"You've done this before?" he asks, meeting Carey's eyes.
"Just a few times," Carey shrugs. "Mostly, uh, I use it on myself."
He makes an unmistakable gesture with his fingers, and Tim almost swallows his tongue before he manages to say, voice hoarse, "Show me."
They trade places, and Tim standing at the side of the bed and Carey kneeling on top of the bedspread, facing the headboard with one hand clutching it for balance. Tim pops the top on the lube, and when Carey holds out his other hand, pours the lube over his fingers.
Carey takes a deep breath, then lets it out, his eyes sliding shut as he exhales. He reaches around behind himself and rubs the lube around some, then slowly, slowly pushes in a finger.
"F-fuck," he hisses, and Tim reaches out to steady him, clasping his shoulder tight.
Carey opens himself up with what to Tim seems like agonizing slowness, movements careful and deliberate. He's up to two fingers, scissoring and spreading, when something he does clearly brushes his prostate and makes his whole body jerk; if Tim hadn't been holding onto him he probably would've fallen over.
"Jesus," Tim yelps, and holds onto him even harder. The third or fourth time it happens, Tim decides enough is enough. Carey's practically shaking with the effort of holding himself steady, and watching the little movements of his hips in time with the twisting of his fingers is basically driving Tim insane.
"Okay, okay, stop." Tim pushes at Carey's wrist, and Carey gently draws his fingers out of his body. "My turn now. Flip over."
Tim helps Carey get settled on his back, a pillow under his shoulders and head for support. He pours a generous amount of lube onto his own fingers, then catches Carey's eyes to ask, "You're sure about this?"
Carey smacks him on the shoulder, growls, "Yes, fucker, now hurry up."
Which, okay, sounds like a yes. It's been a while since Tim did this, though. Years, really. So he goes slow, too, and enjoys the look on Carey's face, like he's not sure if he should be blissed-out or frustrated.
One finger, then two, then stretching and searching, until--
"Ah, there it is," he grins.
"You don't have to sound so smug about it," Carey grumbles, and Tim smiles even wider.
"You know, I could just stop," Tim says, and crooks his fingers again.
"No, no, that's okay," Carey gasps. "Be smug. Be whatever you want. Just -- fuck -- hurry up."
"Fine," says Tim, and adds a third finger. Carey groans his approval, and spreads his legs even wider, hooking a hand behind each knee to hold his legs up and open. Eventually, Tim pulls his fingers out and grabs the condom from the nightstand.
It feels like he's been hard for-fucking-ever, and just looking at Carey like this, flushed and panting and spread open for him, makes his dick twitch and his vision blur.
"Fuck," he mumbles as he lines up and starts to push in. He looks up the line of Carey's body, locks eyes with him, and neither of them looks away until he's all the way in, as deep as he can go and trembling with the effort of holding still until he feels Carey adjust.
At some point his eyes close, and then Carey growls at him, "Move."
So he does. He moves. Slowly at first, tentative little jerks of his hips, until those grow into longer strokes, smoother and stronger and just, more, and Carey's head is thrown back and his nails are digging into his own flesh as he hauls his legs even higher, and that must do something to the angle because he fucking cries out, gasps, "Fuck, Tim, please, there, please, Timmy, fuck," and Tim does, and somehow he gets his hand on Carey's dick, and he's pretty sure one of them comes first and then the other, but he has no idea which way around it was and he doesn't care, because holy shit. Holy shit.
He pulls out slowly and ties off the condom, tossing it in the direction of the trash can before collapsing face down next to Carey.
"Fuck, Carey, that was--" he mumbles into the pillow. He can't think of a good enough word for what that was.
"Yeah," Carey agrees. "It was."
After a while, Carey's breathing evens out, and Tim knows his does, too, and he can feel the sleep monster coming to get him, which means it's time to go.
He pushes himself up and says, "I guess I should--"
"No," interrupts Carey. He reaches out and grabs Tim's wrist. "Stay."
"I..." This is new, too.
"Seriously," Carey says, and tugs at him until he lays back down. "Stay."
"...Okay," Tim says, and kisses Carey's shoulder once before falling asleep.
Early the next morning, before Tim has to get back to the hotel so he can catch the plane with the team, Carey makes coffee and Tim makes pancakes, and Tim thinks that maybe breakfast is something else they should always do.
Author: athenejen
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Pairing: Tim Thomas/Carey Price
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2300
Disclaimer: So very, very fictional.
Warnings: None as far as I can tell.
Summary: Several things they always do, and a few new things, too.
Notes: Written for pass_shoot_porn and the prompt tradition. Also posted on AO3 here.
Tim can't really remember any more why or how they started doing this.
After all, beer is universal, and it should be pretty fucking obvious to anyone who drinks that Price would be fun to drink with. The post-drinking part... well, the fun in that ought to be pretty fucking obvious, too, and the why or how seems insignificant when you think about the fact that they do it at all.
Not that he does think about it much. Some things are for doing, not for thinking about. As long as you do them as well as you can, it's enough.
This is something he enjoys doing well.
They always go to the same bar in Montreal, not too far from the hotel the Bruins stay at and just this side of divey. They always drink the same type of beer, though whether it's a little or a lot depends on the night. They always play a round of pool and the loser picks up the tab.
They always go back to Carey's place.
It's February, this time, and stingingly cold; Carey blasts the heat as soon as he starts the truck, but it still takes a while for their breaths to stop pluming white. Tim fiddles with the radio, cycles through all the presets twice before ending up back on the country music station.
Carey picks up where he left off -- halfway through the story of the first time he tried to rope a steer from horseback -- and that lasts them the entire short drive across the river. Tim's leaning back in the passenger seat, head thrown back, laughing, when Carey pulls into the garage to park.
"C'mon," says Carey, and reaches across to give Tim's scarf a sharp tug before getting out of the truck.
Once inside, Tim starts shedding layers while Carey messes with the alarm and then the thermostat. Gloves off, then hat, then scarf. He drops it all onto the bench in the entryway, then sits to quickly yank off his boots and toss them in the laundry room. He's finished unbuttoning his thick wool coat and is about to shrug out of it when he hears a odd clatter a few feet away.
Carey's managed to strip himself of all his winter gear twice as fast as Tim; his gloves and scarf and hat and coat and socks are scattered all around the entryway and his boots are still sitting on the hardwood floor right next to him. His hair is standing straight up in a staticky dark jumble that Tim's hands itch to mess up even more. And the clatter -- the clatter was the sound of his belt hitting the floor in a heap, the heavy buckle knocking against the wood.
As Tim watches, Carey unbuttons the plaid shirt he's wearing, yanks it out of his jeans and then down his arms and off. The black tee he has on underneath gets pulled over his head and off, too. Carey slows down a little when he gets to his jeans, unzipping with care before shoving them down to his ankles and stepping out of them. His black boxer-briefs are already starting to tent in front as he walks toward Tim.
Tim doesn't even realize he's staring until he hears Carey laugh, right in front of him. Tim shifts his gaze up to Carey's face, and they grin at each other for a moment before Carey sets his hands on Tim's shoulders and starts pushing his forgotten coat down his arms. Tim twists around to help him get it off, and as soon as they get it off Tim and onto the floor, Carey's got him pressed back against the door to the garage, looming over him.
Maybe it should annoy him that the kid's got that handspan of inches on him, but what's the point of letting things you can't control bug you? Instead he slides a hand into the hair at the nape of Carey's neck and drags him down for a kiss.
As they kiss, rough and biting and open-mouthed, Tim uses his other hand to rub circles into Carey's hip. The noise Carey makes when Tim's hand gets to his dick is gratifying, and puts Carey just enough off-balance to let Tim flip them, Carey's back hitting the door with a thump.
"Fuck," Carey breathes, staring hazily as Tim gets a good grip on his hips to lower himself carefully to his knees. They both groan when Tim leans in to mouth at Carey's dick through the thin, hot fabric of his underwear.
"Here, let me--" he hears Carey say above him, and he pulls back just long enough watch Carey clumsily push the boxer-briefs off his hips and down to his thighs. Tim drags them the rest of the way off and then tosses them over his shoulder, sitting back on his heels for a second to admire his work.
Carey's completely naked now, cock standing at such eager attention it almost brushes his stomach as he breathes, chest flushed and knuckles white as his fingers clench around the edge of the doorframe while he waits.
They stare at each other for several seconds, until Carey opens his mouth to speak and Tim shakes his head sharply, just once, and Carey snaps his mouth shut again. Then Tim reaches out with both hands and runs his palms up Carey's thighs, taking his time, feeling the tension and power coiled up tight within them. He kneels up, and uses one hand to press Carey's hips back against the door, leaning in with his forearm for additional leverage. His other hand, he curls around the back of Carey's thigh, digs his fingers into the hamstring until he can feel it tremble.
He flicks a glance up to meet Carey's eyes, then very deliberately leans in and sets his mouth ever-so-gently at the base of Carey's shaft and kisses it. He moves a half-inch up, kisses it again, and then again. With each kiss, his eyes flutter shut of their own accord, but when he opens them between kisses, Carey's eyes are always still trained on his face, watching him. When he gets to the tip, he makes sure to keep his eyes open as he tongues the slit, to see Carey's eyes close in pleasure and then open again, waiting for his next move.
He means to keep going slowly, he does. But when he sucks the head of Carey's cock into his mouth and Carey moans, he just kind of loses it. He doesn't really come back to himself until he's swallowing and swallowing and swallowing, eyes clinched shut, and Carey's gasping so hard it almost sounds like he's choking, and pushing at Tim's shoulder until he pulls off so they can both breathe.
Tim struggles to his feet and sets to work on the button of his jeans; his dick is kind of really pissed off that they didn't manage this step before he made Carey make all of those amazing sounds. After a few seconds, Carey pushes his hands away and helps with the zipper, and together they manage to get him naked without either of them falling over, so that's pretty much a win.
Tim goes to press Carey back against the door and kiss him again, but Carey stops him with a hand on his chest.
"Bedroom, yeah?"
It takes Tim a couple of seconds to parse the question, but after he does the answer's easy.
"Okay, yeah," he agrees, then turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the bedroom, kicking Carey's boots toward the wall as he goes, because otherwise he knows one of them will end up tripping on them later.
He sprawls out on the bed, knees splayed -- usually this is when Carey opts to crawl in between them and return the favor.
But when Carey reaches the doorway, he sort of... hovers for a moment before closing the door behind him and coming over to stand next to the bed. He clears his throat, then opens the top drawer of the nightstand and peers inside it.
"Listen, I was thinking..." he says, rummaging around in the drawer. He pulls out a couple of objects and drops them on the bed next to Tim's hand. "You know, if you want?"
Well, that's new. Tim stares at the foil-wrapped condom and half-empty bottle of lube sitting on comforter next to his hand, and sits up abruptly. He reaches out, grabs the bottle of lube, weighs it in his hand.
"You've done this before?" he asks, meeting Carey's eyes.
"Just a few times," Carey shrugs. "Mostly, uh, I use it on myself."
He makes an unmistakable gesture with his fingers, and Tim almost swallows his tongue before he manages to say, voice hoarse, "Show me."
They trade places, and Tim standing at the side of the bed and Carey kneeling on top of the bedspread, facing the headboard with one hand clutching it for balance. Tim pops the top on the lube, and when Carey holds out his other hand, pours the lube over his fingers.
Carey takes a deep breath, then lets it out, his eyes sliding shut as he exhales. He reaches around behind himself and rubs the lube around some, then slowly, slowly pushes in a finger.
"F-fuck," he hisses, and Tim reaches out to steady him, clasping his shoulder tight.
Carey opens himself up with what to Tim seems like agonizing slowness, movements careful and deliberate. He's up to two fingers, scissoring and spreading, when something he does clearly brushes his prostate and makes his whole body jerk; if Tim hadn't been holding onto him he probably would've fallen over.
"Jesus," Tim yelps, and holds onto him even harder. The third or fourth time it happens, Tim decides enough is enough. Carey's practically shaking with the effort of holding himself steady, and watching the little movements of his hips in time with the twisting of his fingers is basically driving Tim insane.
"Okay, okay, stop." Tim pushes at Carey's wrist, and Carey gently draws his fingers out of his body. "My turn now. Flip over."
Tim helps Carey get settled on his back, a pillow under his shoulders and head for support. He pours a generous amount of lube onto his own fingers, then catches Carey's eyes to ask, "You're sure about this?"
Carey smacks him on the shoulder, growls, "Yes, fucker, now hurry up."
Which, okay, sounds like a yes. It's been a while since Tim did this, though. Years, really. So he goes slow, too, and enjoys the look on Carey's face, like he's not sure if he should be blissed-out or frustrated.
One finger, then two, then stretching and searching, until--
"Ah, there it is," he grins.
"You don't have to sound so smug about it," Carey grumbles, and Tim smiles even wider.
"You know, I could just stop," Tim says, and crooks his fingers again.
"No, no, that's okay," Carey gasps. "Be smug. Be whatever you want. Just -- fuck -- hurry up."
"Fine," says Tim, and adds a third finger. Carey groans his approval, and spreads his legs even wider, hooking a hand behind each knee to hold his legs up and open. Eventually, Tim pulls his fingers out and grabs the condom from the nightstand.
It feels like he's been hard for-fucking-ever, and just looking at Carey like this, flushed and panting and spread open for him, makes his dick twitch and his vision blur.
"Fuck," he mumbles as he lines up and starts to push in. He looks up the line of Carey's body, locks eyes with him, and neither of them looks away until he's all the way in, as deep as he can go and trembling with the effort of holding still until he feels Carey adjust.
At some point his eyes close, and then Carey growls at him, "Move."
So he does. He moves. Slowly at first, tentative little jerks of his hips, until those grow into longer strokes, smoother and stronger and just, more, and Carey's head is thrown back and his nails are digging into his own flesh as he hauls his legs even higher, and that must do something to the angle because he fucking cries out, gasps, "Fuck, Tim, please, there, please, Timmy, fuck," and Tim does, and somehow he gets his hand on Carey's dick, and he's pretty sure one of them comes first and then the other, but he has no idea which way around it was and he doesn't care, because holy shit. Holy shit.
He pulls out slowly and ties off the condom, tossing it in the direction of the trash can before collapsing face down next to Carey.
"Fuck, Carey, that was--" he mumbles into the pillow. He can't think of a good enough word for what that was.
"Yeah," Carey agrees. "It was."
After a while, Carey's breathing evens out, and Tim knows his does, too, and he can feel the sleep monster coming to get him, which means it's time to go.
He pushes himself up and says, "I guess I should--"
"No," interrupts Carey. He reaches out and grabs Tim's wrist. "Stay."
"I..." This is new, too.
"Seriously," Carey says, and tugs at him until he lays back down. "Stay."
"...Okay," Tim says, and kisses Carey's shoulder once before falling asleep.
Early the next morning, before Tim has to get back to the hotel so he can catch the plane with the team, Carey makes coffee and Tim makes pancakes, and Tim thinks that maybe breakfast is something else they should always do.