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Oct. 18th, 2011 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cathybitesstitch a seam across the eye
[hockey rps, guy boucher/vincent lecavalier, nc-17, 1042 words]
because Vinny is hot, and his coach is damn hot. and sometimes power imbalances can be fun. written originally over email to Rachel because she's an enabler.
title from "Ramalama (Bang bang)" by Roisin Murphy.
There was a time in his life when Vinny delighted in playing the little shithead, playing the hotshot just because he could. He's grown out of it now, but sometimes…sometimes when he's tired and aggravated, he can't help falling into those old habits.
Today is one of those times, another practice after another aggravating loss. The season hasn't started well, and it's affecting everyone. Boucher snaps at the players, and every word sharpens the prickly spikes of annoyance growing in Vinny. He's berating them for their lack of discipline, and Vinny mutters under his breath, nothing strong, nothing damning, just a quiet envoye, envoye.
It's not meant for anyone's ears but his own, but Boucher's head snaps towards him, eyes narrowed. Vinny bites down on his mouthguard and stares back.
"Fine, everyone, go the fuck home," Boucher says. Vinny turns with everyone else, starts for the locker room, and Boucher says, "No, not you, Vinny. My office. Now."
The rest of the team glances back at that, and Vinny goes hot with embarrassment and anger. He skates past everyone and heads straight into Boucher's office, throwing his helmet at the wall.
Boucher is right behind him, and when the door slams shut, he's immediately in Vinny's face. "The fuck was that? Are you trying to undermine me?"
Vinny snarls back. "You think we don't know what our record is? You think we're too stupid to see?"
He towers over Boucher, especially with his skates still on, but Boucher just steps closer, unafraid and fierce. "The way everyone played last night, I'm starting to think that. This team has a problem with discipline, and you're not helping a damn bit."
Boucher's not yelling - his voice is low, words pronounced carefully - but Vinny can feel the anger. It simmers in Boucher's tones, a red-hot heat that leaves an imprint on Vinny's skin. Boucher takes another step forward, and Vinny realizes he's backed against the desk, edge of it digging into the back of his thighs.
He also realizes that he's hard, achingly so, from the subtle heat of Boucher's voice and the intensity of his stare. Vinny isn't blind - he's indulged in a fantasy or two about his coach - but he's never felt the attraction this intently. He swallows, silently wills Boucher to back away.
But Boucher is so sharp, so fucking observant. Vinny doesn't know what gives him away, but Boucher leans in a little, eyes searching. Vinny meets them, feeling like he has no choice, and the next thing he knows, Boucher reaches up and his fist is in Vinny's hair.
Vinny's reaction is pure instinct and emotion. He can't stop himself from moaning and sliding off the desk, onto his knees. Boucher's crotch is right there; Vinny can see the stiffening line of his cock, and he swallows heavily.
He glances up, just for a moment, uncertain. It's not that he doesn't know what he's doing, but it's a little surreal, and he wants reassurance, some affirmative sign that this is what Boucher actually wants.
All he gets - and, really, all he needs - is Boucher's fist tightening in his hair, and Vinny lists forward, mouthing at the hard line of Boucher's cock. Boucher sucks in a sharp breath above him, tugging at his hair, and Vinny hurries to shake his gloves off, impatient to get his hands on Boucher. He yanks and unbuckles the belt, shoving trousers and shorts out of the way. Boucher's cock is free for only a second before Vinny swallows it down.
His scalp burns from where Guy's fist is anchored, still pulling tightly. There's an urgency there, but Vinny slows down, tries to draw it out. He wraps one hand around the base of the shaft, holds it steady as he works his tongue along the vein on the underside, the flare of the crown, the slit at the tip. He laps up the precome there, teasing. He wants to taste Boucher, savor him, memorize the weight of him on his tongue.
But it seems like Boucher has different ideas. He bats away Vinny's hand, and gets both of his hands on Vinny's head, anchoring him in place, holding tight, holding Vinny still. The thrusts start slowly at first, testing the way. The speed picks up, faster and faster, until Boucher is fucking Vinny's face. All Vinny can do is get his hands on Boucher's hips, try to hold on.
Boucher's cock is hot and hard, bruising his lips as it moves in and out. Vinny tightens his mouth, sucks his cheeks in, and Boucher swears, pushes in deeper and deeper, until Vinny is swallowing convulsively around the head, until his nose is pressed into the wiry thatch of Boucher's pubic hair. Boucher takes a step forward, two steps, and Vinny has to lean back. The backs of his skates dig into his hockey pants, and he feels the desk against the back of his head. He's trapped, with Boucher bent over him, watching, that familiar, fiery look in his eyes, and Vinny moans around his cock. He can feel Boucher's pulse against his tongue, the stutter-throb and swelling flesh that heralds that Boucher is about to come.
He pulls out before he does, though, and Vinny has just enough time to suck in a breath before Boucher is coming on his face, bitter salt spattering him, falling into his open mouth.
Vinny coughs, his throat raw, and stares at the floor. The only sounds he can hear are the pounding of his heart and his own harsh breathing. Boucher is as silent as ever, and when Vinny looks up, he's buckling his belt, looking completely pulled together. Vinny feels wrecked, though, and he's sure he looks the same: swollen mouth, glassy eyes, jizz dripping down his chin. He's so hard it hurts, cock pressed uncomfortably against his cup. His legs are shaking, and he's not sure if he could get up on his own.
He looks back at Boucher, who only gives him a quick once-over before turning to the door. "Go home, Vinny," he says as he walks out. "Be ready to bust your ass tomorrow."
Vinny isn't sure if that's a threat or a promise. He's not sure which he would prefer.
[hockey rps, guy boucher/vincent lecavalier, nc-17, 1042 words]
because Vinny is hot, and his coach is damn hot. and sometimes power imbalances can be fun. written originally over email to Rachel because she's an enabler.
title from "Ramalama (Bang bang)" by Roisin Murphy.
There was a time in his life when Vinny delighted in playing the little shithead, playing the hotshot just because he could. He's grown out of it now, but sometimes…sometimes when he's tired and aggravated, he can't help falling into those old habits.
Today is one of those times, another practice after another aggravating loss. The season hasn't started well, and it's affecting everyone. Boucher snaps at the players, and every word sharpens the prickly spikes of annoyance growing in Vinny. He's berating them for their lack of discipline, and Vinny mutters under his breath, nothing strong, nothing damning, just a quiet envoye, envoye.
It's not meant for anyone's ears but his own, but Boucher's head snaps towards him, eyes narrowed. Vinny bites down on his mouthguard and stares back.
"Fine, everyone, go the fuck home," Boucher says. Vinny turns with everyone else, starts for the locker room, and Boucher says, "No, not you, Vinny. My office. Now."
The rest of the team glances back at that, and Vinny goes hot with embarrassment and anger. He skates past everyone and heads straight into Boucher's office, throwing his helmet at the wall.
Boucher is right behind him, and when the door slams shut, he's immediately in Vinny's face. "The fuck was that? Are you trying to undermine me?"
Vinny snarls back. "You think we don't know what our record is? You think we're too stupid to see?"
He towers over Boucher, especially with his skates still on, but Boucher just steps closer, unafraid and fierce. "The way everyone played last night, I'm starting to think that. This team has a problem with discipline, and you're not helping a damn bit."
Boucher's not yelling - his voice is low, words pronounced carefully - but Vinny can feel the anger. It simmers in Boucher's tones, a red-hot heat that leaves an imprint on Vinny's skin. Boucher takes another step forward, and Vinny realizes he's backed against the desk, edge of it digging into the back of his thighs.
He also realizes that he's hard, achingly so, from the subtle heat of Boucher's voice and the intensity of his stare. Vinny isn't blind - he's indulged in a fantasy or two about his coach - but he's never felt the attraction this intently. He swallows, silently wills Boucher to back away.
But Boucher is so sharp, so fucking observant. Vinny doesn't know what gives him away, but Boucher leans in a little, eyes searching. Vinny meets them, feeling like he has no choice, and the next thing he knows, Boucher reaches up and his fist is in Vinny's hair.
Vinny's reaction is pure instinct and emotion. He can't stop himself from moaning and sliding off the desk, onto his knees. Boucher's crotch is right there; Vinny can see the stiffening line of his cock, and he swallows heavily.
He glances up, just for a moment, uncertain. It's not that he doesn't know what he's doing, but it's a little surreal, and he wants reassurance, some affirmative sign that this is what Boucher actually wants.
All he gets - and, really, all he needs - is Boucher's fist tightening in his hair, and Vinny lists forward, mouthing at the hard line of Boucher's cock. Boucher sucks in a sharp breath above him, tugging at his hair, and Vinny hurries to shake his gloves off, impatient to get his hands on Boucher. He yanks and unbuckles the belt, shoving trousers and shorts out of the way. Boucher's cock is free for only a second before Vinny swallows it down.
His scalp burns from where Guy's fist is anchored, still pulling tightly. There's an urgency there, but Vinny slows down, tries to draw it out. He wraps one hand around the base of the shaft, holds it steady as he works his tongue along the vein on the underside, the flare of the crown, the slit at the tip. He laps up the precome there, teasing. He wants to taste Boucher, savor him, memorize the weight of him on his tongue.
But it seems like Boucher has different ideas. He bats away Vinny's hand, and gets both of his hands on Vinny's head, anchoring him in place, holding tight, holding Vinny still. The thrusts start slowly at first, testing the way. The speed picks up, faster and faster, until Boucher is fucking Vinny's face. All Vinny can do is get his hands on Boucher's hips, try to hold on.
Boucher's cock is hot and hard, bruising his lips as it moves in and out. Vinny tightens his mouth, sucks his cheeks in, and Boucher swears, pushes in deeper and deeper, until Vinny is swallowing convulsively around the head, until his nose is pressed into the wiry thatch of Boucher's pubic hair. Boucher takes a step forward, two steps, and Vinny has to lean back. The backs of his skates dig into his hockey pants, and he feels the desk against the back of his head. He's trapped, with Boucher bent over him, watching, that familiar, fiery look in his eyes, and Vinny moans around his cock. He can feel Boucher's pulse against his tongue, the stutter-throb and swelling flesh that heralds that Boucher is about to come.
He pulls out before he does, though, and Vinny has just enough time to suck in a breath before Boucher is coming on his face, bitter salt spattering him, falling into his open mouth.
Vinny coughs, his throat raw, and stares at the floor. The only sounds he can hear are the pounding of his heart and his own harsh breathing. Boucher is as silent as ever, and when Vinny looks up, he's buckling his belt, looking completely pulled together. Vinny feels wrecked, though, and he's sure he looks the same: swollen mouth, glassy eyes, jizz dripping down his chin. He's so hard it hurts, cock pressed uncomfortably against his cup. His legs are shaking, and he's not sure if he could get up on his own.
He looks back at Boucher, who only gives him a quick once-over before turning to the door. "Go home, Vinny," he says as he walks out. "Be ready to bust your ass tomorrow."
Vinny isn't sure if that's a threat or a promise. He's not sure which he would prefer.
